Lazy hazy days of summer

With August winding down and kids now one week into school, I tend to think it’s nearly fall. Nor in Texas. As I write, in the late afternoon, my outdoor thermometer says 103 and there is not even a whisper of air stirring. Still I have the patio doors open, and it’s quite comfortable.

Last night a neighbor sent pictures of her son Hayes and Jacob at the Japanese Palace, always one of my favorite restaurants. The last time I took Jacob to a Japanese restaurant, he behaved badly—ordered edamame salad, which he disliked, and fussed and squirmed and ruined our meal. So I wrote Amber I hoped the boys were enjoying—the grins on their faces certainly indicated that—and behaving. She replied they were being angels (maybe she’d had a glass of wine which blurred her vision?).

Jacob spent the night with Hayes, but when he came home today he came out to visit I asked about the dinner, and he seemed most impressed that they sat at a table where you actually sit on the floor and your legs dangle in the space under the table—don’t guess I can do those anymore. He liked it that you could learn your elbows—wait for it!—on the floor. What did he order? Shrimp?  Well, no wonder he liked it.

I’m slowly proofreading my cookbook—a chapter at a time. Wow! Sure different from proofing a novel. I’m finding lots—maybe I have changed my mind about this dish or that. And in some recipes, the instructions were left out—I’ve had to go back and reconstruct. Slow, tedious work which is why I do it a section at a time.

To relieve my boredom, I’ been reading fiction-today a cozy novel about a Renaissance Faire. Well, I was reading it until I gave up—I do not need to read one more description of a deep green gown with ribbons fluttering or hear in my head one more line of Faire-speak, “Prithee, kind sir!”. Way overdone. I wanted to get on with the action. And there is some bad dialog—suspecting a woman might be abused, one character moans, “Why do I care?” and is told, “Because you’re a woman. We all care.” I’m leaving the world of Renaissance Faires (really, I’ve read some good books on that theme) for the blood-and-guts world of English horse racing in a Dick Francis I discovered I’ve not read.

And no, I will divulge neither the title nor author of the cozy, but I will say that out of 114 reviews on Amazon, 67% are favorable. Those cozy fans are a diehard bunch, and maybe that’s why I hesitate a bit before jumping into writing another. I’m still waiting for inspiration to strike me, and perhaps it soon will.

And speaking of reviews, Murder at the Bus Depot garnered a nice one on Amazon: "Murder at the Bus Depot" is another entertaining episode in Judy Alter's Blue Plate Cafe series, and a welcome addition to the family. Alter's characters are likable and believable, and the plot twists keep you guessing. It's amazing that so much drama can go on in such a small East Texas town.”

Haircuts, “the” wedding, and a golf tournament

My youngest grandchild, Kegan David, got a hair cut today. Normally a boy’s haircut is a big step in his initiation from toddler to childhood, but not so with Kegan. He’s twelve, and he’s worn his hair shoulder-length for a couple of years now. When I was in the rehab facility, he came to see me, and an attendant asked if he was my granddaughter. I said no, my grandson, but his dad assured me it was okay. Kegan was used to the confusion, and it didn’t bother him.

The thing is, Kegan’s is a super soccer player. He’s small for his age, but he makes that up in determination, and he’s a tiger on the soccer field. At the age of ten, he was invited to play with a team of twelve-year-olds. His goal became getting his hair long enough to wear a man-bun, like the European soccer players, and he achieved that. But it seems the school he attends harbored some suspicions about long hair and exerted pressure to have him cut it.

Two weeks ago or so, he cut a couple inches off, but this weekend, when he was up here visiting, he still had that shoulder length, fine, blonde hair. His dad said today, back home, Kegan announced, “It’s time.” I’m so pleased that his parents let him be the one to make that decision. His mom says he likes his new haircut and grins all the time. I’m waiting for a report when he makes his debut with his new look at school tomorrow. Mom Lisa just happens to teach at the same school he attends.

Other than that, a lazy day. I guess I’m still recovering from the heady events and lack of sleep of the first part of the weekend. If I’m that tired, just think how Harry and Meghan must feel. I’ve read more about the new Duchess of Suffolk in the last day—she is much more than an American movie star. She’s known for being an activist, particularly for feminist causes, and apparently, she and Harry may take royal public service to a whole new level. I’m cheering for them. They sure are a stylish couple, and who but a strong woman would walk down the aisle alone, trailed by those adorable bridesmaids. I’ve also read much about her mother, Doria Ragland, and come to a great admiration for that woman who sat alone in great composure during the ceremony. Surely, she passed some of her strength on to her daughter.

My take-away from the wedding, besides awe at the wonder of it: the word bespoke. I knew it before but was never sure of the meaning. Now I’ll never forget. Everything Meghan wore was bespoke—made especially for her for the occasion. I’m working on understanding the “quire” of a church. Dictionary doesn’t help much—it’s says a quire is four sheets of paper folded to form eight leaves. We used to call that f&gs back in the day in publishing—folded and gathered proofs, but not bound. Clearly not what was meant when the news reported that Prince Charles met Meghan at the quire of the chapel.

On the home front, Christian marinated and grilled salmon tonight, and we had a wonderful supper. Christian and Jordan will disappear this week, wrapped up in the events of the Fort Worth National Invitational Golf Tournament. I liked it best years ago when we could just call it “the Colonial,” but I’ve never been a fan. Who wants to walk around a hot golf course following men who are chasing a little white ball? For Jordan and Christian, it’s a big event.

Should be an interesting week. How about yours?

Jacob is Eleven

I think we all have a tendency on a child’s birthday to think back on the life, however short, calling up those golden memories. Today I remembered the first time in the hospital when I held Jacob. And the way we used to put him, in his Bumbo or whatever that early seat was, in the middle of the dining table as a centerpiece. He was always so happy, it made for happy dinner hours.

He walked early but didn’t talk for a while. Not that he didn’t have anything to say. He spoke volumes in gibberish. I used to talk back to him as though we were carrying on a conversation. His Aunt Betty thought it was hysterical when we’d go to dinner because Jacob got all the inflections of conversation right, just not the words. In Houston once, a distant cousin asked me seriously if Jacob spoke Chinese. Of course, the day came when we couldn’t shut him up.

The nights he slept on his bed in the family room, got scared, and came to sleep with me. Or the night, when he was about three, when he crawled into my bed and said, “My bed is wet.” Eventually he gave up his bed and slept with me. These days he wouldn’t dream of sleeping with me, and I miss that closeness.

There was the time he made up a tune and sang to me, “I’m uphappy today.” He broke the chorus with, “Juju made a booboo.” I had gotten hummus on something I shouldn’t have, and he thought it was so funny he worked it into his song. I still treasure the video, a selfie he did.

He and I shared many happy days—a New Year’s Eve when we toasted in the coming year with kid wine. Jordan worried that I’d post the picture, and people would think I’d given him wine. The nights when he used to think it was fun to go to dinner with Betty and me. Now he thinks we’re boring.

He came out to the cottage this this morning to open his gift—a new grip for his putter—and asked plaintively if we’d have family supper tonight. We did—but we three adults were at the dining table, and he and his overnight guest ate in the family room. Such togetherness. A childhood friend is spending the night, a girl a head taller than he is. She couldn’t go to the swimming party today because it was all boys. Right now, they’re giggling on my couch, fishing for something they’ve apparently dropped, and I’m suspicious.

Jordan had a trying day—16 boys playing basketball and then swimming. I meantime had a peaceful day working in the cottage and by evening was craving company. And so the day ends. Happy birthday, Jacob.

Lazy days aren’t just for summer

This morning I woke up, knew I had an 8:30 breakfast group—and rolled over and went back to sleep. I just didn’t want to get up and get going. Finally dragged myself out of bed just in time to hug Jacob before he went to school. Then this afternoon I slept two hours and lounged in bed another half hour, dozing, dreaming, and thinking. The only positive result that came out of that is I made notes for my new novel—the notes are probably 100 words, not an encouraging start on a 70,000-word novel. But it was a lovely day—took time this morning to make ham salad and devil an egg, so I had a wonderful lunch. And email kept me busy a lot of the day.

In line with my new program of improving my mobility, I put a note in the neighborhood e-mail list that I needed someone to do errands--what I didn’t specify is that I wanted someone to do errands in the mornings with me, not for me. A lovely lady, with two kids in middle and high school, responded, and we came to an agreement. But I was overwhelmed with offers, a few from people I didn’t know but many from friends. I thanked each but explained I wanted this to be a business arrangement and not Judy taking advantage of friends. We will have our first outing tomorrow—I made a long-delayed appointment with the audiologist at TCU. And Thursday we’ll go to the hardware and grocery and then, by myself, I’ll meet a friend for lunch. Life is on the upswing, but I am so grateful for the many offers. People are good.

Tonight was neighbors’ night at the Grill, and I was escorted by two young men, ages nine and ten. They were well behaved and did me proud. Full table, so that I didn’t even get to talk to the people at the other end until I went to say goodnight—and remind them of the signing next Tuesday night. Fun, but now it’s time for Jacob and me to go to bed.