The three-o’clock-in-the-morning blues

 

My brother and me at his ranch.

Several years ago my brother and I were having a deep conversation—I can’t imagine what about, since we aren’t given to such conversations, especially since politics is the elephant in the room for us. But I distinctly remember that he said sometimes, lying awake at three o’clock, he had the recurring thought, “Oops. Wish I hadn’t done that one.” Those words have stayed in my mind.

Three o’clock seems to be the witching hour, when all kinds of unwelcome thoughts occur. Not exactly night terrors, but along that line. Lately, I’ve found myself fighting what I call the three-o’clock blues, trying to make my mind accept that everything looks worse at three o’clock. An image that truly scares me may lodge in my imagination, like people trapped in a rapidly sinking car or someone in a cable car dangling in the air. Sometimes I am obsessed by something I’m planning, like a meal I’m cooking for company or maybe an evening out with friends. I get not an earworm (oh, I do get those—I may have mentioned that it took me days to clear “We’ve a story to tell to the nations” our of my brain), but a brainworm—an obsessive thought I can’t get rid of that keeps me awake.  Sometimes it’s a memory, either good or bad, but even a trip to the bathroom doesn’t break the cycle. I get back in bed and my brain picks up where it left off. I will admit that sometimes I write brilliant scenes for whatever I’m working on, or I plan out a blog—but those don’t often stay with me after my early morning “second sleep.”

What I am a past master at is manufacturing illness in the night. At three o’clock, I am a raging hypochondriac. I have had heartburn that I thought was a heart attack (In my defense, I’d never had heartburn before.) A cough and upset stomach turns into a severe case of covid; a headache is a sure brain tumor; the call of the bathroom indicates an obstruction; if the bathroom doesn’t call, I am convinced my kidneys are failing again. You can see I have to give myself a stern talking to.

This is particularly relevant today, because I’ve just come from the doctor’s office where I was told, “You sound wonderful!” He couldn’t find a thing wrong, and I had no problems to report. I simply wanted—and got—a flu shot (yes, my arm is sore, even though I thought I relaxed the muscles just before the shot). Sure, I have some chronic conditions, but they are controlled. I couldn’t run a 1K race if I had to, and as I just said to someone, I doubt I could ride a bike anymore.

But I am counting my blessings—for my age and history, I am in good health. And all those three-o’clock problems? They’re mostly in my imagination.

This has been a doctor day. Jordan had an appointment just before mine, because she has developed a peculiar rash (we’re hoping it has nothing to do with her new kitty, Charlie). And while we were at the doctors’ office (she sees a different doctor than I do), Jacob texted a picture of a swollen, puffy hand. Instant telephone diagnosis was a bug bite, but I haven’t heard what his pediatrician said. But “doctoring,” as I call it, does take a chunk out of your day and kind of gets you off schedule. I’m not sure I’ve gotten back on yet today.

Watch me develop all the symptoms of the flu at three o’clock tomorrow morning. It doesn’t matter—they’ll be gone by morning (knock on wood).

Gratitude, blessings, and tragedy

 

Thinking tonight about the many blessings so many of us enjoy. We’ve been eating high on the hog around here lately—a ribeye steak dinner with sour cream mashed potatoes one night, a delicious squash casserole another because someone brought me fresh squash from a farmer’s market, tonight a carefully made BLT—it still fell apart but did better than many I’ve made, and it was so good.

And while much of the world is sweltering going about their business in days that are 107 and 108, I am comfortable and happy in my cottage, never sticking my nose out in the heat. Oh, it gets a bit warm in the late afternoon, but it’s not bad. And Sophie sleeps contentedly in whatever room I choose to be in. She sleeps on her side, which is supposed to be a relaxed position indicating she feels perfectly safe.

So here we are, with our petty First World problems. And then I think of the people of Lahaina. Like many of you, I have been there. In truth, it wasn’t my favorite place in Hawaii—Jordan and I had come from Kauai, which I thought was magical. Lahaina, to me, was T-shirt shops and restaurants all with the same food, and a resort hotel indistinguishable from others.

But in the days since the fire, I have learned of other sides of that iconic town—it was home for many, and now those homes and all in them are gone. Beyond that Lahaina has a storied history as the capital of the kingdom of Hawaii. As one scholar said, “It is a place where the past is always present.” Hawaiian kings and queens are buried there, and buildings along Front Street, some 150 years old, traced the history of the kingdom. But they are destroyed or severely damaged now. The banyan tree, planted to commemorate the establishment of the first mission on Maui (perhaps a dubious reason for celebration considering much of Hawaii’s history) is now burnt and stark, though we are told the roots survive, and the famous tree will flourish again. As of tonight, fifty-nine people are dead and untold numbers are missing.

One thing that strikes me about this catastrophic tragedy is that it shouldn’t have happened. We don’t expect a fire to wipe out a city in this day and age. Somehow, I have the comforting thought that modern firefighting techniques and dedicated firefighters will be able to stop any fire before it destroys an entire town. And yet, a few years back, we saw towns in West Texas wiped out by wildfires. The Lahaina fire was fanned by high winds, a phenomenon that we, for all our technology, cannot control. Such destruction should make us realize we are still vulnerable, still not in control. It should humble us.

The pictures of the devastation, the individual stories of survivors, the pleas of families who cannot locate loved ones are heartbreaking. And the online postings asking for help are compelling. It’s nice to know that Jeff Bezos has pledged $100 million to the recovery, but as posts make clear, any and all donations, however small, are solicited.

And that brings me to a point that has bothered me for some time. My instinct is to write the biggest check I can (after checking to differentiate true Maui rescue groups from scams), but the truth is I am besieged by so many needy causes. Every picture of a hungry child or an abused dog tears at my heartstrings. The pictures of people trying to flee some African countries in boats bring me to tears. So many worthy causes present someone like me, with limited ability to give, with a dilemma: is it better to choose one cause and donate a significant amount or to donate a bit here and a bit there.

When my father died, we discovered he had been sending $5 a month to countless charities and political causes, many of which we had never heard of. So far, I follow a moderated form of his giving, but oh to have Bezos’ funds at hand.

Politicians beg us for just $5 or even just $3 (though then the giving screen often shows $25 as the lowest gift, which is sort of a come-on). But I have the same problem with politicians as I do with charities—I have a list, relatively long, of moderate to liberal politicians who I think would make real contributions to the country should they be elected. But how do I choose? For instance, almost every Democratic senatorial candidate will tell you keeping the Senate depends on their race. How do we know? A friend who is a political consultant advised me to give to lesser-known races and not California where, he assured me, there is plenty of money. But I sure would like to see McCarthy defeated.

Politics aside, may God bless the people of Maui, both those in Lahaina and the other areas affected by wildfires. Recovery will be slow, but pray it will be steady, with Federal help already promised. And perhaps the banyan tree as an enduring symbol for hope.

Yet another day older

 

 My drawn-out birthday kind of hit its peak yesterday with the arrival of my four children, four of my seven grands (I had all the boys and none of the girls), and a wonderful b’day dinner last night. We had all talked all week about chores, and I had a list of things that needed doing around the cottage—the bulb replaced in the outdoor light, the filters in my a/c cleaned, some computer things. All got done, plus lots of visiting.

Ford, Kegan, Eden, Sawyer, and Jacob

The four boys—all so different in character and interests—enjoy being together, and when I see them trooping in and out of the house, in single file, I am reminded of that classic picture, much imitated, of the Beatles crossing the street. When not out doing whatever boys do once they have a car, they closet themselves in the back TV room at the house and spend but a bare few minutes with adults. Last night they went to a late movie, came home and turned on another movie. Jordan found couch spots for all four, and Colin and Lisa got Jacob’s bed. Here’s a picture of the boys, with their cousin Eden, taken a year ago. They’ve grown in so many ways in that one year, including taller.

My friends Jean and Renee joined us for dinner and were a hit with my four kids, who described them later as “interesting” and “good friends for you.” The menu was what I used to request as a kid: cold turkey (smoked, although I grew up on fresh), marinated vegetables, and potato salad. Poor Jordan labored long and hard over the potato salad Friday night—the first batch she’d ever made—and she nailed it. Her version of County Line potato salad was perfection. I did the vegetables (much easier than potato salad), and Christian got the turkey. For dessert? My favorite has moved from Black Forest Cake to chocolate mousse cake. Rich, but oh so good.

We lingered over cake, just as they all say, “hanging out.” About ten o’clock, I decided it was time for Sophie and me to go to the cottage. I intended to read a bit after I brushed my teeth and got into pjs, but there came Jordan, Megan, and Lisa, wine in hand. So we had a late-night girls’ talk. Lovely way to end a lovely day.

But my determination to count my blessings took a real hit during the night. Sophie does not go out during the night. She may get me up early in the morning, but she hasn’t needed to go out in the middle of the night for some time. I can tell the difference between, “I want to go out and chase squirrels and play,” and “I need to use the restroom now.” At two-thirty, her dance of clicking nails told me it was the latter, and I let her out. She disappeared into the shadows and was gone—for twenty-five minutes. I called and did everything I know except venturing into the dark overgrown strip between our house and the neighbors. Finally, I called Colin—no answer. Then I called Christian, then Jordan, and finally Colin again. He said, “Just a minute,” and hung up. Of course, that’s when Sophie came trotting onto the patio.

But she had to go out again at three-thirty and at four-thirty, so I thought she caught whatever stomach bug Cricket has had. Both times though she came right away after doing her business. And then she slept until I got up at 8:45. She didn’t ask for breakfast, and I didn’t offer it, figuring her stomach needed to settle. She's subdued today, and I'll call the vet first thing in the morning.

Pitiful Sophie

I decided in retrospect that the blessing was that at eighty-four I am fit and able enough to take care of a dog who needs to go out three times in the wee hours. When Sawyer came in this morning, he asked if I felt a year older and I told him, “No difference. And that’s good thing.” And the blessings are my family, my friends, my dog, my work, my health--even if sometimes the latter seems a bit iffy to others.

Have a happy week everyone.

The folly of a pity party

There some wisdom going around the internet to the effect that if you’re complaining about the high price of gas or having to wear a mask in your favorite grocery store, you need to be grateful that you have food on the table, are sleeping in your bed and not in an underground bomb shelter, and aren’t sewing your children’s blood type into their clothes before sending them off to school.

That certainly hit home with me yesterday when I had myself a little pity party, mostly because I have an infected tooth (no, it doesn’t hurt, thank you), I had a bloody nose (while eating lunch—lots of fun), Sophie threw up on the living room rug, and the few words I did write were uninspired and will be deleted later today. And on a weekend, when I usually have fun cooking, I was eating leftovers. The world seemed pretty bleak to me, and I guess I was determined not to see all my many blessings.

The saving grace of the day was that Jordan and Christian both came out for happy hour on the patio, and while we studied calendars and planned menus, we had several good laughs. And last night I finished a book that I much enjoyed—The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valraux, by French chef Samantha Verant. You can read my review here: The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux by Samantha Verant | Goodreads or here: Amazon.com: Customer reviews: The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux.

Yesterday brought one other highlight (see? I’m getting better already at looking on the positive side). Every day I faithfully read “Letters from an American,” the column by Boston University history professor Heather Cox Richardson. If you don’t already know her, I recommend it. Yesterday I came across a one-on-one interview she did on February 25 with President Joe Biden. It was a momentous day: Russia invaded Ukraine, and President Biden nominated Ketanji Brown Jackson to be the first Black woman on the Supreme Court.

Biden spoke naturally but without hesitation, displaying a deep knowledge of American history and politics and a passionate belief in the ordinary people of our society. He is dedicated to maintaining democracy and to opposing those who would replace it with autocracy. (Side note: he pointed out there are fewer democracies in the world today than there were some years ago.) Already a fan of both Richardson and Biden, I was tremendously impressed. You can watch it here: Historian Heather Cox Richardson interviews President Joe Biden February 25, 2022 - Bing video

My instincts are not peaceful. I want to take every person who rails about Biden being weak or senile or not a leader, strap them in a chair, and force them to watch this. I know, I know, force is not the way to change minds. But there is a definite smear campaign against a man who was bold enough to take on the presidency in a time of unprecedented crises—pandemic, supply chain, rampant racism, cratering economy with high unemployment, climate crisis, etc. And now Putin has added the Ukraine invasion to the international scene. The campaign against Biden makes me angry to an extent my mom would have told me was unladylike.

While I’m on my not-so-peaceful instincts, I want to mention Margery Taylor Green and Lauren Boebert. Their behavior at the State of the Union confirmed what we all already knew: they are not fit to represent the American people. Uneducated, unknowledgeable, lacking class let alone grace and common sense, they need to be silenced. I truly don’t understand why at the least Speaker Pelosi has not moved to sanction them. If I knew how and who to ask I would.

I hope there’s a point to this rambling post. I think it is that if you look back on a day, it’s not quite as dismal as it seemed. We in this country are so blessed, and we need to fight for our way of life. Today I am over my pity party. Not exactly full of enthusiasm, but I’m getting there. Now to cut those unsatisfactory words out of Irene Keeps a Secret and get back to Irene’s misadventures—and murder.

Putting out brush fires

 

My favorite graduate school professor, who became a lifelong friend, used to tell me when he was chair of the English department, that he spent his time putting out brush fires. That’s how this week has made me feel about the holiday season. When so many added chores and concerns are on our to-do lists, from Christmas shopping and wrapping to meal planning, everything else, all the little details of daily life, seem to demand more attention.

It is, for instance, the open enrollment period for changing your insurance if you’re on Medicare. Normally I ignore the deluge of mail from various companies that arrives during this period. But my retirement plan gives me access to a site that does cost/benefits comparisons, and they alerted me to a plan that might save me money. The website was complicated—what ones aren’t?—so I called to talk to a real live person. After an hour on hold, I had sort of figured out how to access the information I wanted, but changing insurance providers is a pretty momentous decision. I wanted some back up and called Colin, my oldest son.

He had installed something on my computer called Microsoft Teams which would allow him to see me and my computer. We tried to secure the link for over an hour last night, until he said, “Maybe we should do this in the morning.” I have too often found that walking away from a computer problem only to come back the next day is a great solution.

So this morning we tried again. Went through all the tricks to link us, and then I went through the lengthy process on the website to get to the comparisons—and my connection was broken (this happens a lot, but did it have to happen just then?)—twice. I think we worked on this for over an hour, until Colin said the plans were really pretty comparable, and changing probably wasn’t worth it. Whew!

He did prove to me last weekend that my scanner works, so I can submit bills for reimbursement without the laborious print process I’d been using. So now I have to wait for Jean to show me how to do that.

And then there’s the doctor’s office that billed me twice, and Sisters in Crime which thinks I haven’t renewed when I think I have—they were right, but it took some research to find that out. A grocery list to compile, recipes to choose for a couple of special occasions, the dog groomer appointment, book sales to check, and on and on. No, I did not write one original word today, except this blog, and I don’t think I had one original thought about a project. Irene, poor dear, has faded into the background for a bit.

I did however check on audio sales of Saving Irene, and they are dismal, certainly not worth the money I paid to have it recorded. So I have a sincere question: how many of you listen to audio books? I much prefer to read either print or online, and though I see a lot about how audio is gaining in importance, I don’t see it happening to my experimental book. I don’t think it’s a genre problem because I know of mysteries that do well, and it seems to me mystery more than anything else other than romance should do well in audio. But it would take something major to make me format Irene in Danger for audio. Meantime, remember if you belong to Kindle Unlimited, you can order either Irene book free.

All these brush fires faded last night when friends Jean and Jeannie took Betty and me to The Blue Spire, the upscale dining room in the Trinity Terrace retirement complex. Outstanding service, white linen tablecloths and napkins, crystal wine glasses, and a great menu. I had a Caesar salad, four lollipop lamb chops, roasted carrots (I can never fix those at home), and spinach. I couldn’t live or eat that way every night, but it sure was grand for a treat. Lots of talking and catching up.

To get from the visitor parking to the dining floor is a long, long walk so Jean pushed me in a transport chair (no footrests so I had to stick my feet straight out—good exercise for those muscles). As she was pushing me on the way home, she asked, “Why are we so fortunate?” and I could only echo the question. I feel so blessed and so determined to help the less fortunate, frustrated that I can do so little except some puny financial support for a few causes and politicians and preaching it from my Facebook pulpit.

How about you? Are you passionate about some causes?

Figuring out the distance

I recently wrote in correspondence about feeling disconnected from reality, and a friend asked me to expand on the thought. For many, it’s a heightened sensitivity to the despair and grief in the world today. For me, it’s almost the opposite.

A much younger friend wrote about missing her life even as she expressed gratitude for blessings—she misses dinner dates with her husband, getting together with friends, travel, freedom. She bemoaned that people let themselves go (so glad we were not doing Facetime) and mentioned my “sunny-side-of-the-street thing.”

Daughter Jordan found a “coping calendar,” and she’s been using it to push us into family discussion in the hour before supper. The other night, my grandson said he was grateful for my positivity, and my son-in-law said he admired my resilience in isolation when he knows I’m a social being. They overestimate me, but I do try to be a positive person.

If I look back over my long life, I will tell you that I’ve been lucky and had few real traumas. But if I take a closer look, there was divorce, single parenthood (four wonderful teenagers), cancer, the loss of my parents, hip surgery that resulted in my needing assistance to walk, eye surgery that may have been the worst thing yet. It hasn’t all been easy, but always I knew I would come out on the other end. And I know that I and my family, friends, neighbors will come out on the end of this too. We will survive with grace.

So what’s the disconnect? I sit here in my cottage, going about my life much as usual—writing, reading, cooking. Thanks to Jordan, I am safe from the outside world. I feel like I’m in a cocoon, albeit one constructed of Lysol and Clorox. And yet I know there is, as one friend puts it, a world of hurt out there—disease, death, fear, grief. Am I Pollyanna because I feel disconnected from that? Insensitive? I know full well that we have to recognize and acknowledge fear and grief when they visit, but I’m not going to let them dominate my life.

I am doing what I can from where I am. I cook for my family, and I’ve stepped up my internet presence, checking on friends and family, especially those who are alone. Commenting on things I might normally pass, sharing recipes with those I know cook. In short trying to be more chatty than usual because I think in these times, we need warmth and comfort and friends.

I was tempted to tell my young friend what she doesn’t want to hear: have patience. Life will return to normal. Except I’m not of that “let’s get back to normal” school of thought. Obviously, normal wasn’t working for us. We all have to work together to create a new normal. Bill Gates perhaps said it best: “Whereas many see the Corona/ Covid-19 virus as a great disaster, I prefer to see it as a ‘great corrector.’
It is sent to remind us of the important lessons that we seem to have forgotten and it is up to us if we will learn them or not.”

Some good things happened today:

I wrote 500 words (my goal) on what may or may not be a new novel

I thought I lost a bunch of copy on my computer but found I had inadvertently copied a lot of unrelated stuff into it; I was able to delete and save the original.

Our grass was mowed, just before it got knee-high.

I started reading a new novel that shows promise.

Spring blessings

For Christians, Easter marks a season of hope and renewal. For many other faiths, holiday or holy day celebrations round the spring equinox provide the same kind of hope. So for all my friends, I wish you hope, joy, renewal and all the wonders of the season.

Blessings on each and every one of you.

Blessed are those who give

I don’t think that’s one of the Beatitudes, though the idea certainly fits. So proud of my nine-year-old grandson tonight. He lost a tooth last night—not a front one but one of those edging back toward molars. Up late from excitement. He wanted money from the tooth fairy—so he could buy church clothes for one of the two boys in a homeless family his own family has adopted for Christmas. (I must say the tooth fairy’s fees have gone up from my day when a quarter sufficed—Jacob got $5.) Jordan sent me the list of the two boys’ wishes, and I nearly cried when I read that the nine-year-old boy wants a bed, a pillow, and a blanket. The twelve-year-old wants lots of sports gear, principally Nike, which of course excites Jacob. But he said his mom cried about the bed and pillow too and is thinking of an air mattress. Jacob said he knows he has so much and it’s awful to think of children who has so many needs.

Tonight at dinner with friends Subie and Phil I bragged on him—and Phil gave him twenty dollars towards his stash for the boys. I too have promised to chip in. Jacob has about $50 as his total worth and wants to spend almost all of it on these boys. Call me one proud grandmother—and he is one sweet boy.

As we gather around our Thanksgiving tables, laden with food, may we all give thanks for the bounteous goods given us but also remember those less fortunate—yes, the Syrian refugees and others who flee terrorism but also the poor, hungry and homeless amongst us here at home. And may we pray for healing of our divided nation, cooling of the anger that divides us, and peace here and abroad.

I for one am one blessed woman, and I am eternally grateful.