Sunday evening supper and tears near the surface

 

One of my favorite pictures. 
John and I enjoying a happy time at his ranch.

Renee came for Sunday supper tonight, and we had a high old time talking about everything from Jacob’s upcoming prom to osteopathic medicine. Sunday supper is a longstanding tradition in my family, the sense that it should be just a little bit better, a little bit different from ordinary supper. When I was living at home and my brother gone to college or the Navy, Mom rolled her tea cart into the living room, in front of the fireplace, and we had a casual, light supper—a souffle or cheese strata. Today, Sunday supper is still special—we try to have everyone home and the menu is carefully chosen. Tonight Christian cooked an Asian beef and green bean stir fry, and, mixing cultures a bit, I fixed a Lebanese potato salad. Christian didn’t think the two would go together but admitted tonight they did complement each other

But tonight it was the Sunday suppers of my children’s high school years that were much on my mind. My big brother, the patriarch of our family, died yesterday morning at the age of ninety-two. He was my last surviving blood relative and the man I knew all my life would protect me. Everyone asks how I am, and the answer is “fine, but teary.” John and I have lived in close proximity probably more than not—as children, of course. He went to boarding school as a high school junior and was never home again, but in 1961, he declared I needed to get out on my own and took me off to Kirksville, Missouri where he was studying osteopathic medicine and his wife was working on a master’s in English. I too worked on that master’s. That move set the course for my life, including marriage to an osteopathic student and a doctorate in English. I moved to Texas in 1965, and he to Colorado in 1966. In 1980, he moved to Fort Worth to join the faculty of the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine.

In the early 1980s, John and I found ourselves both single with six teen-agers between us. Sunday suppers became an institution. We gathered at my house each week, inviting stray people we thought needed to join us—the parents of my goddaughter often, a good friend recently divorced several times, the kids’ friends. I fed anywhere from ten to fifteen those nights. Presence was required for the kids unless they had a job obligation, which some did. John presided over the table, led us in grace, and ceremoniously served the meal. Table manners were strictly monitored,  mostly by John, and I’m proud to say today all six of those kids have great table manners.

I loved cooking those dinners. Mostly they were a success, though sometimes not. I remember a turkey Wellington recipe which I have long since lost to my regret, and I distinctly remember one night I did a marinated butterflied leg of lamb (I must have thought I was a rich woman). Sometimes we had a turkey or a casserole or whatever I chose. One night, when my office was working on a regional cookbook, I fixed a cornbread/hamburger casserole I’d found the recipe for. John took one bite, looked at me, and asked, “Sis, is the budget the problem?”

Probably though the kids most remember the conversation. John went around the table, asking each person perhaps what they were grateful for or what they had done that week. No one was allowed to shrug it off—you had to have a cogent, intelligent answer. The classic that everyone laughs about to this day is the time we were asked what we were grateful for. Megan had brought a new beau to dinner (in retrospect quite brave of her) and the young man stood (his first mistake—none of the rest of us stood) and said, “I am grateful for Megan and her beauty.” The adults managed straight faces, but the teens couldn’t handle it. To this day, everyone laughs about this.

Today, Sunday dinner is served around the coffee table in my cottage, a far cry from that crowded, formal dining room on Winslow Avenue. But John will always be at my dinner table—and in my heart. We had our differences, particularly political—how he grew up in a staunch FDR/Mayon Richard Daley household and turned out a conservative is beyond me. But we learned, especially in our golden years, to put those aside in favor of our strong bond. We loved to talk, for instance, about the Indiana Dunes where our family had a cottage or Chicago, about which these days I am more nostalgic than he was.

John was sick, mostly bedridden for over a year, and our togetherness, such as it was, was always by phone—he lived south of Granbury on his ranch. We talked every few days, and I always ended the conversation with, “I love you.” It was hard for him, and he’d say, “Back at ya.” So here’s back at you John!

Benji has a fan club

My brother John and his puppy

Benji is so grateful for all the welcoming comments and praise for his good looks. He is especially grateful to one anonymous fan who sent him a gift—wonderful health bar treats in a variety of flavors and a chew toy he has not been parted with. I wish I had a name so I could thank the donor, but I hope he or she reads this and knows how tickled we were to receive this bounty and how grateful. Benji has found himself a special place in the yard, by a tree, where he hollowed out a hidey hole and stashed his favorites, such as the most ragged rope chew thing you ever saw. Now the new bacon-flavored bone is there too, after banging its way around the cottage while I napped. On the whole, Benji is really good about my naps—he puts himself to bed in his crate.

The barking is getting somewhat better. At least, I think so though I may be grasping at straws. He spent periods quietly outside today. I think that advice that he needs to get used to the neighborhood is spot on. In his previous home, as good as they were to him, he did not spend much time outdoors. Now he’s outside every minute he can be, although he frequently comes to the door to check and see that I’m still in here. If his barking gets to be too much, I simply bring him inside, and he takes this with good grace, going immediately to his crate. But he will emerge to lie on the floor by my desk, and this evening, I could hear him and his bone in the bedroom. Knock on wood, but so far he has not bothered one thing he shouldn’t, and his food manners are good. He’s not a beggar.

I had a chance to test my own food manners last night when Carol Roark picked me up for dinner at the Blue Spire, the upscale dining area at Trinity Terrace, the high-rise retirement community where so many of my friends live. It was one thing for Carol to invite me, but another much bigger one for her to have to leave TT to pick me up and deliver me after dinner. And on top of that to wheel me in the transport chair because it is a very long walk from the front door to the elevator in the newest tower which houses the Blue Spire. So I am most grateful. We had a delicious dinner—veal piccata for me (Christian fixes chicken piccata frequently but I never splurge and buy veal) and stroganoff for Carol. Beter yet, Carol and I had a good visit. We don’t have get a one-on-one visit—we are part of a group of four who dine together. But last night, it was just us, and I got a slide tour of her recent trip to New Zealand (all those exotic birds and plants whose names I can’t pronounce!) and she listened about Benji and the goings on of my family and even my cooking. A lovely evening.

Tonight, my heart is heavy. My 92-year-old big brother is in the hospital—again! —and not doing well. He has always, since I was small, been my protector, and as we raised our children, he filled the roll of patriarch with admirable grace—my kids and his know their table manners to this day! John and I have had our differences—politics! —but in the last year plus, we have again become close, talking on the phone every four or five days. And we have so many rich, good memories that they outweigh the differences in our views and sometimes our lifestyle. I am not rushing to his bedside, because I think that would be extremely difficult for both of us—we are the last of our family on the side of our mother, my father, and his father. His wife said she would she would ask what he wants, but I suspect he will tell me not to come. And so I wait on tenterhooks. Prayers for peace and acceptance are welcomed.

The butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker

 

Only in my case it would be the veterinarian, the plumber, and the HVAC guy—doesn’t have quite the same ring, does it? Trust me, it has more pain to the pocketbook. Yesterday, Sophie spent several hours at the vet for treatment of an abscess—I won’t go into detail, but it involved several procedures, none of which are cheap. Now, she’s home, with medication, and snapping at those who give

The old house we all love but which is now
causing us maintenance problems

her an insulin shot (Jordan and Christian). And also yesterday, for the Burtons, they took their new-ish male kitten to be neutered. A traumatic pet day all around. And, my older brother was hospitalized. It was a medically oriented day.

But things are never dull around the Burton/Alter compound. Today it was plumbing and air conditioning. The plumbing problem seemed simple enough—the bobber on my toilet wouldn’t bob, and it was running all the time. The plumber I have sworn by for almost twenty-five years has retired, so I called a new company, recommended in our neighborhood list of vendors. The main house had a leaking sewage problem, but we planned to call a contract company about that. Then I suggested we ask the plumbers to look since they were on site. They diagnosed a severe problem, with water gushing out of a leaky sewage pipe. After an early afternoon call, they left, and said they’d be back either late afternoon or tomorrow. They came back late afternoon with the smallest, thinnest guy in their crew because part of the problem is that the deck is built over the sewage pipe. At first they said they’d have to shut the water off overnight, but then they recanted—after Jordan and Christian had filled pitchers and ice buckets and everything they could think of. The plumbers got the gushing slowed to a trickle, said they wanted to sleep on the solution, and went away.

Before I bought this property thirty years ago, an addition had been added on to the back and that’s apparently where the problem is—what should be two separate pipes for water and sewage is not (no, that does not mean we’ve been drinking sewage water—I don’t quite understand the whole thing, but the reason they didn’t cut the water at the curb is that they were afraid of backflow when it came back on). I had happily been thinking if the main house didn’t have water, they could have access to mine. Another no: it’s all one pipe which it shouldn’t be.

All of this meant Jordan and Christian were in and out of the cottage every five minutes around five o’clock, just when Donald from Rhinefort A/C was working to fix my heating/cooling units. He got them working and promptly got it so cool I needed a sweater. So there I was, wearing my sweater, trying to write my thousand words for a day with Jordan, Christian, and Donald coming and going and giving me updates. Proud to say that I did it.

But it’s not over. The plumbers had to cut a larger hole in the deck for their small guy to get down into that gosh-awful mess. Now they think they will have to come inside to the add-on back room, move the washer and dryer, cut the floor under them and locate the pipe that should have a Y and doesn’t. I told Jordan to ask for an estimate; she did, and the guy apparently in charge said, “I have no idea.” Not words to lull me to sleep tonight. And as plumbers, they won’t be repairing the floor where the washer and dryer go. Christian pointed out we will be without laundry services for a while, and I asked how he feels about the laundromat. If there was anything that made me grateful to be a homeowner, all those years ago, it was giving up the laundromat.

At least, as the sun goes down tonight, the dog and cat are healthy, my toilet isn’t running and my a/c works. The huge shadow looming over us is the plumbing problem. Wonder what tomorrow will bring. My brother is still in the hospital, and he has one thing in common with our plumbing: they aren’t sure what’s wrong (except maybe age—he’s almost 92 and our plumbing is a hundred in some parts of the house) and they don’t have a plan. He remains in fairly good spirits and his mind is sharp for which we are grateful. I do so much appreciate those of you who have sent good thoughts for his treatment.

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe it’s true that trouble always goes in threes. People caution that old houses are maintenance problems, but todays’ trouble spots are in mhy cottage which is a new construction except for the shell. I’m waiting for the plumber—the bobber in my toilet doesn’t bob, which means the toilet softly and gently runs all the time! Plumbers are never inexpensive—and the main house has a major sewage problem we’ll ask them to look at and give an estimate (that’s an old house problem, although that kitchen was redone less than ten years ago). And I’m also waiting for Donald, the faithful HVAC repairman. I discovered late last night that neither of my ceiling-hung units will open to operate. When I use the remote a light goes on and the thing beeps, but nothing else happens. It’s a lovely day today and will be okay, but it was stuffy and hot at midnight last night.

A useless day—or a day when I was useless

My brother and me, in happier days

Truth is, probably no day is totally worthless; each has some redeeming quality. But I am hard put to find much good about today. No, it was not a bad day. It was just a day, a plain day, one when I didn’t know what I wanted to do and did almost nothing. I checked emails in the morning and made chicken salad for our dinner, so it could cool and blend its flavors in the fridge all afternoon. And then I fiddled, manufacturing things to do, avoiding what I’d set as my goal for the week.

You see, I’m almost at the end of the first draft of Irene in a Ghost Kitchen. I have the end—the climactic scenes, if you will—in mind, and I think I know how they should go. But I am avoiding putting the words on paper. I think in part I’m afraid to ever call the silly, short book finished, and in another part I’m afraid the end won’t work out as I intend it to. With Irene, one never knows. The entire cast of characters could take off in their own direction and spoil what I think are my plans. So I piddled.

And I didn’t know what to blog about. It’s been a different day—my brother is in the hospital again, just down the street from us. I knew last night they had requested transport from Granbury to Fort Worth where his cardiologist is but there were no beds at the hospital. And then all day today, I knew nothing and was afraid to call, maybe because I didn’t want to intrude or interrupt and maybe because I feared bad news. Finally at six o’clock, I called, he answered, and we had a short but semi-reassuring conversation. When I asked if we should come visit him, he said his dance card was already pretty full. And then he said it was complicated to get there, and I thought he was thinking of me in my transport chair. I have found in the past that hospital has a lot of twists and turns, and you can get lost if you don’t know where you are going. So we will talk again tomorrow.

Also today, Jordan’s new cat went to be neutered, which didn’t affect me much but did throw a monkey wrench in scheduling. They took him eight and were to pick him up at three. Then I called Sophie’s vet because we discovered an abscess on the back of her neck. I had a faint hope he would prescribe antibiotics over the phone, but no—he wanted to see her. Diabetes complicates infection. Jordan took her at eleven and, to my dismay, they kept her. Then they called and said she could go home at three. Schedule conflict! No way the kids could have the dog and cat in the car at the same time. It all worked out: they got the cat, Jordan and the cat came home, and Christian got Sophie about four. She is home, has some antibiotics, and my wallet is a lot lighter. But I am grateful she didn’t spend the night.

Last night we had a farewell happy hour for my Canadian daughter and her husband—I fixed a spread instead of just a light snack, because I knew they would have packed their kitchen and couldn’t cook. Pigs in a blanket, devilled eggs, veggies with a dip, olives, pickles, cherry tomatoes, etc. We had a pleasant evening, and I worked to avoid topics on which we disagree, but somehow the subject of money ruling the world came up. Reluctantly I realize it’s true, but I hate it; she accepts it with a degree of cynicism that frustrates me. When Sue said she as always proven right, I didn’t remind her that she had absolutely guaranteed that trump would win in 2020 because money rules—and he didn’t. But I hated that a touchy subject came up when who knows when we will see them again.

So maybe all that baggage was on my mind tonight and kept me from writing or, until now when it is almost midnight, from blogging. Who knows how creativity works? Tonight, because I as so at loose ends, I took a nap about eight-thirty and that was when I really came to grips with how out of sorts I felt. So I got up, came to the computer, and deliberately wrote three sentences. And I felt the muse kick in, I knew where I was going. It was too late to keep at it, but now I’m fired about tomorrow. I had promised myself I’d write a blog post first thing in the morning, so I turned to the book I’m currently reading. And then it occurred to me that if I wrote the blog tonight, I could go right to the novel in the morning. And sort of what I wanted to say flitted around in my mind. So that’s why these cobbled together thoughts on creativity and indolence.

Sweet dreams all. I hope I dream of Irene wrapping up that story in her usual fine style.

Lazy Sunday—and a PS on aging

 

“And on the seventh day, God rested.” I took full advantage today of God’s designation of Sunday as a day of rest. For some reason last night I couldn’t get to sleep—almost never a problem for me. So this morning I felt justified in sleeping a bit past nine o’clock. But if I thought I slept late, the Burtons outdid me—except for Jacob who was up and out the door about ten to go host at Joe T.’s. It was well after eleven before I heard a peep out of his parents, which meant Sophie did not get her shot this morning. The vet said it’s okay to miss once in a while but don’t do it too often. So this was once in a while.

That start to the day threw my whole schedule off. I had intended to cook this morning, but I needed some dishes from the house—and some bourbon. So I did an extraordinary thing: I cancelled Sunday dinner. I was going to make sheet pan chicken with potatoes and carrots, but I knew the Burtons had big dinners (they went to two separate dinner parties) last night and were out late, and I had a vision of fixing that only to hear, “I’m not really hungry.” Plus I wanted to do the cooking that I hadn’t done in the morning. I was making two appetizers for a celebration happy hour tomorrow night, and once I decide when something is to be done, I am a bit compulsive about it. I wanted to cook today, so that I could work at my desk tomorrow. Besides, Zenaida will be here cleaning, and I can’t cook when she’s here—the cottage just isn’t big enough. I hide at my desk while she cleans.

Last night Jean came for supper, and I splurged. I had intended to make tuna casserole—I have a standard recipe I’ve used for years but somewhere found a new one I thought I’d try. When Central Market had halibut on sale, they hooked me. I fixed roast halibut with crumb topping and creamed spinach—Jean liked it so well she insisted we split the tiny bit left in the pans. And I agree—it was a really good dinner. Topped off by chocolate bonbons.

I need to add a PS to my thoughts on aging, posted in this blog last night. Not that I want to talk about me and my health a lot, but I have several chronic conditions—A Fib, hypertension, and chronic kidney disease, once advanced but now moderate. Plus I cannot walk without assistance. But I am determined not to let those conditions dominate my life. I will not go to the doctor constantly to have my blood levels checked, my heart studied on an echocardiogram, and so on. I go dutifully when scheduled, and, praise be, I get a clean bill of health on those visits. But those conditions are not front and center in my daily thoughts. In fact, I rarely think about them. I feel healthy, pretty energetic, and I am determined to live life as normally as I can for as long as I can.

I did talk to my brother tonight, for whom health is more of a problem. He’s pretty much bedridden—weak as a kitten as he tells it. When I had hip surgery, someone convinced my children I would need an electric wheelchair and should get it with Medicare aid while I could. It sat as a great obstacle in my closet for several years, but about six months ago we got it transferred to John at the ranch, and he gets up to sit in it for a while most days. Today we had a great conversation with lots of laughter, and I thought how wonderful it is that he, in his condition, has an intact sense of humor.

And then I realized again: it’s because of our mother. She taught us to be tough doctors’ children, never to cry “Wolf,” to soldier through whatever happens, to pay attention to our health but never take it too seriously. And until dementia took her mind, she had a marvelous sense of humor. My dad’s family, by contrast, went into a panic if he sneezed, and I think she was trying to counterbalance that. Bless you and thanks, Mom.

It all comes back to positive thinking, at least in my mind. Sweet dreams and positive thoughts to each of you!

So far, a good week

Sophie does not care about elections like I do.

Maybe Tuesday evening is too soon to call it a good week, but this one is starting out well (hear that sound? It’s me, knocking on wood). Last night, Jordan, Christian, and I went to visit friends Subie and Phil Green in their new apartment at Trinity Terrace and were so impressed by how spacious it is, how well laid out, and how comfortable. Windows on the south and west provide a great view—well, okay to the west, it’s the parking lot but the city is beyond and to the south it’s mostly the roof of First Presbyterian. Their patio is the first one in that complex I’ve thought I would venture out on, because it’s only the third floor. Deliver me from Jean’s seventeenth floor balcony! I told Subie if they’d find me a ground floor apartment with an attached dog yard, I might move. I wouldn’t really, but it was good to see them so happily settled.

Most interesting part of the evening: their neighbor in the building is a man who grew up in the house where I lived for twenty-five years and where Jordan, Christian, and Jacob now live. Christian even found a place where he had carved his name—Kenneth Jones—into the cement in our now-crumbling driveway. Kenneth was born in the house next door to the west, moved to our house when he was five, and lived here until he married, at which time he and his bride moved to the house next door to the east. “We were working out way down the block,” he said. He had memories of when there was no Forest Park Boulevard and University Drive stopped at the river. Fascinating evening, and I certainly hope to see more of him.

Tonight was Mary Dulle’s happy hour night, but she brought longtime friend Sharon Benge with her. It was great to catch up with Sharon and particularly to hear her report on her oldest son. Years ago, Sharon and I lived in the same close-knit neighborhood, and I can still remember her and Bill sitting in our dining room and announcing they were expecting their third child. Fun memories. Sharon’s late husband always used to call to check on me, and I truly appreciated him. There are no friends like old friends.

Tonight I made a retro appetizer—stuffed celery. I tried hard to string it but didn’t get all the strings. Still I liked it a lot, better apparently than any of my guests. I used pub cheese that comes in a carton but spiced it up with a recipe I found.

During the day so far I have made my goal of a thousand words a day—that’s purely a goal I set for myself, but I figure it’s a way to keep up the momentum. If I don’t do something like that, I’ll never get this book written. I am reminded of the saying of Ivan Doig—I think that’s the author—who said writing is like driving when you can only see as far as the headlights. Certainly true for me with this book—my mind is usually only one scene ahead of where my writing is. I have no idea how the silly thing is going to end—but that’s good, because you as reader will not be able to guess the end. At least that’s my hope.

I’ve also dealt with a host of business/housekeeping details this week—a bill for last year’s mammogram that was settled in April, but in October the insurance company asked the provider for (and got) a refund which then became a balance for me to pay—can they do that? I will file yet another protest. The upholstery cleaners I like so much are coming by to pick up a newly cleaned cushion which has a new stain—and Sophie is going to the vet so maybe we can figure out why we’re getting these small puddles. I had to reschedule my dentist appointment, since my covid cough is almost gone, and call an arborist because our lawn guy says our trees really, really need professional trimming. It’s always something. My to-do list included a book to order, a curbside menu to check up on, all the little stuff that makes up daily living. And I’ve talked to my brother each day—he’s still in the hospital, and yesterday his voice was strong. Today he’s been sleeping off some pain medication that made him crazy (in the words of his wife). It reassures me to talk to him each day.

It's election night across the country, and I am curiously hopeful. One column I follow—Wake Up to Politics—said not to pay too much attention to off-year results, but I think they will give us an indication of which way the political winds are blowing. I can’t believe some of the statistics I read online—like trump, who seems more deranged daily is leading in five key swing states. It’s too early to be alarmed by such, but I would feel better if we had some strong progressive victories tonight—like enshrining abortion in some states.

Sweet dreams, all. Think positive thoughts.

 

You can sort of go home again

My older brother, John Peckham, called last night to say Sunday he will be moving from a rehab facility where’s he’s been doing PT back to his ranch outside Tolar. He will need the big, clumsy electric wheelchair that is taking up way too much space in my closet, and I am delighted to give it to him. Christian determined make and model last night, and I called Colin who is smart about these things so he could look online about new battery, etc. As a bonus, Christian found all the original paperwork in a pocket on the back of the chair, but he reported when not turned on, the chair is dead weight. Moving it will be a problem, and we are still working on that.

But it was much on my mind when I went to bed last night, and so, of course, I dreamed about it. We (not sure who we was) were at John’s, waiting for word to come get the chair in a truck, but John said first he wanted to go to the Dunes. A word of explanation: when we were growing up our family had a time-share on a rustic (operative word) cottage in the Indiana Dunes State Park. Dad and a colleague had owned it years before in their bachelor days. At some point, the State of Indiana exercised eminent domain and took over the cottage, but every year Dad got a rental contract for the season. He said each year he held his breath until that contract came.

The cottage really was rustic. On a high dune, three flights of stairs above the beach, it had a commanding view of the length of Lake Michigan to the front (I loved to watch storms roll down that lake and to this day I trace my love of a good storm, sans tornadoes, to the Dunes) and a dense forest to the back. It also had no running water (a cistern pump) and no electricity. There was an outhouse down the hill in the woods, and at night you went to bed early because Dad was paranoid about burning the mantle in the Aladdin lamps. It was too dark to read. And you didn’t just drive up to the cottage—you had to pack in your clothes and groceries, either a mile down the beach (too hot) or through the woods (our preferred route).

So in my dream we were talking about going back to the Dunes. John and I and my ex-husband went in the late sixties and had not been back since. When I went to Chicago with my children six years ago or so, they scheduled a morning trip to the Dunes followed by lunch at a North Side restaurant. I had to explain that the time schedule did not work, but their intentions were the best: they knew how big a place the Dunes hold in my heart.

But suddenly, in my dream, it dawned on me that I couldn’t go back to the Dunes. There is no way to maneuver a walker either through the woods or down the beach and up all those stairs. That made such a huge impression on me that I sat bolt upright in bed.

My rational mind has known for a long time that neither John nor I are very mobile. We haven’t had a contest, but in a walker race, I think I would win. Besides there is no there at the Dunes for us anymore. Sometime around 1969, the state stopped renting cottages to long-term leaseholders, rented them to weekenders for a while, and then tore them all down. So I guess in some deep way that aha! moment I had was sort of a Thomas Wolfe You Can’t Go Home Again bit of reality, a recognition that John and I are older and different, and we can’t ever recapture the past. We can remember, but we can’t relive.

Over the years John and I have sometimes been close, sometimes almost estranged in recent years. There’s an elephant in the room with us—politics. But we have much more that binds us together—our Chicago background, our families past and present, osteopathic medicine, Texas (we both like dogs—he can have the cattle). We had grand, huge family celebrations, until both our families grew too large to do that. Since his health has taken a turn, I think, without ever talking about it, we are closer. We talk on the phone often, and I have taken all four grown children to see him. From his hospital bed, a wink or a look with a smile tells me he’s glad I am there, and we are still brother and sister. He is, after all, the one who used to protect me from all kinds of evil, like bad boys who teased me when I was little and very shy. And he is the one who said, “You need to get away from home” and took me to Missouri to graduate school. He had a hand in shaping my life, and I have always known he was there for me.

I think he will like this story. But now about that blasted wheelchair ….

Leftovers, from happiness to food

 

I was too busy to remember picures this week, 
so here, for the algorithms, is one of both my boys
on a race day, somewhere, sometime.

My wonderful week has ended. For a couple of days, I had both my sons sleeping under my roof—sort of. There’s no room in the cottage, so they slept in the house. But it’s still, by my definition, under my roof, and that has always been a sign of happiness for me—having grown children back home sleeping safely under my roof. They boys would tell you they were mom-sitting, but they were also enjoying time together, with long, deep talks about the business world.

Today is a leftovers day. Jamie went back to Frisco yesterday, and Colin left for Tomball late this morning. So I am savoring leftover memories of good times and eating leftovers—corned beef has for breakfast that Jame brought me from Ol’ South, because he knows I like it. And for lunch, the last of the cottage pie.

It was a full week that took me out of my routine. We visited one night with Subie and Phil who have known the kids all their lives, and another night with Renee who is a new friend. But she and Colin were in Kingwood at the same time, although they didn’t know it—I thought they would reminisce about that city, but the evening turned into a rousing discussion of politics, movies, and I don’t know what all. We went out to dinner one night—when I ate too much rich food, drank an extra glass of wine, and could tell the difference the next day. Lesson learned--again. For Colin, no trip to Fort Worth is complete without a Rebecca sandwich from Carshon's, so I got a tongue sandwich while Jamie went to Ernesto's for his lunch, and yet another night we had Railhead. Hitting all their favorites.

Colin spent much of his time in the house at the dining table on his computer. He resigned from a company months ago but was still doing consultant work, and this week brought some kind of big financial deadline, so he was busy. As Zenaida said, he was in there on this phone, “talking, talking, talking.” Jamie is happily between positions and spent some time, like

yesterday early afternoon, picking out Joan Baez’ “Love Song to a Stranger” on the guitar. I love working at my desk—even more, napping—while listening to his soft guitar music. So there were lots of nice moments like that. Of course, both boys never miss a chance to pick on their mom, from the way I dictate text messages (Jacob says my messages make absolutely no sense) to my left-leaning tendencies. All in good fun.

Sophie was in hog heaven--she has so many favorite friends, but she instinctively knows my four children and is ecstatic when they visit, dancing around their feet, sitting on their laps, even reaching out to give a kiss.

One night she got me up four times before I was ready to get up, and I'm sure it was because she knew Colin was in the house. When he came to give her a shot, I suggested he take her inside so I could sleep. This morning, she stood and looked mournfully down the driveway as Colin disappeared. Tonight I'm glad to have her back with me, even if I am second choice. 

A highlight of the week was a visit to my brother. John has been either in hospital or rehab since the first of February after a fall and broken kneecap, followed by Covid, followed by pneumonia and various other complications. His wife and son had both, until recently, advised me not to visit, but this week we all three went. To my joy, he looked fine, sounded fine. His mind was clear and his sense of humor intact. We all laughed so much I was afraid the staff would come in and tell us to tone it down.

Tonight, the Burtons are home. I fixed lamb sliders and Texas caviar for their supper, and they regaled me with tales of San Miguel while they ate. They apparently had a wonderful time, loved the place, the architecture, all the restaurants. Christian weighed the differences, pro and con, between a beach resort in Mexico and an inner city. For me, there would be no question—I’d want the inner city, but only if it was San Miguel, which he tells me is out of my reach because it’s not handicapped accessible with cobblestone streets and narrow sidewalks. That’s okay. I didn’t plan to go anyway, though it’s one of the places that has long been on my bucket list.

I am glad to have them back home, but we only get Jordan for half a day. Early afternoon tomorrow she leaves on a work trip to Paris and Reykjavik—poor thing. I will plan to cook things she doesn’t eat, so I foresee lots of pasta in our week’s menu. Life will be sort of more normal next week, but with her away, it will also be a lot different.

Meantime I have projects on my desk, and after having not gotten much done this week, I really need to pay attention to business. It’s all good.

 

Birthday Brother

Happy Birthday to my big brother, who downplays his birthdays and said he wasn’t going to celebrate, but my sister-in-law might cook something special. He was, he said, amazed, surprised and very grateful to find himself 85 years old. His voice cracked this morning but he said that was because he hadn’t talked much yet and he was, as a matter of fact, feeling exceptionally healthy. It should happen to all of us at that age. And good gravy—if he’s that old, I can’t be too far behind. (Six-and-a-half years)

John was the big brother I adored as a child, the one who fought my battles for me. Once a neighbor boy teased me—John pantsed him (took his pants off and left him to go home without them—if I remember the story correctly). He was always my hero growing up. In elementary school, he was sent to private school, leaving me adrift in public school. In high school, he was sent to military school. I remember from those years that the few times he came home were thrilling experiences for me. And I connect dogs with his visits—one was my English cocker who apparently hated uniforms and lunged at him; another, earlier dog was one John got I know not where. I’ll ask, and he’ll say, “Gee, sis, I don’t remember.”

One incident became a family classic. He was trying to teach me to dance, but he yowled and complained loudly to Mom that I stepped on his foot. “He put his foot where I was going to step,” I said indignantly.

When I was in college in Iowa, he was in the Navy in California, I think, and would drive through my college town on his way home to Chicago. He took me to the local café, and I was so excited I had the shakes. He kept asking if I was cold—how do you explain that excitement to your brother when you’re trying to feel cool? Later on that trip, he needed to renew his drivers’ license so I went with him to the license office where they asked if a license drive brought him, and he said, “No, my sister brought me.” For some detail, he was denied the license and complained bitterly that the government trusted him to fly a plane but not to drive a car.

Even in those years, he looked out for me. I transferred from Iowa to the university at home and after I graduated I showed no signs of leaving the nest. John, by then married and with two stepchildren, announced that I was had to move on, so I followed his family to Kirksville, Missouri and enrolled in Kirksville State Teachers College (now Truman University) to work on a M.Ed. in English. That move determined much of the course of my life to come. John and my future husband were students at the Kirksville College of Osteopathic Medicine.

As adults, both divorced, John and I led different lives, our styles and concerns divergent, though we always remained close for holidays. In my recent years, he happily married and me happily single, we have been closer than ever, a bond strengthened by the closeness of our six children and, between us, thirteen grandchildren.

We have traveled a long and twisting road together, and we are both now nostalgic about our past, our families. We compare memories, and we share a love of many things learned as children. It’s a rich heritage, and I am so glad to share him to share it with. I do not like to hear his talk about aging and being fragile—I want my Bubba to be here as long as I am.

Happy Birthday, John, and thanks for being all that you are for me, including titular head of the family.

Family ties

My brother and sister-in-law came today to pick up the things we found that he should have from all the things we sorted out last weekend. It was another moment of family bonding. My brother is six-and-a-half years older than me, and we share the same mother but his father died when he was two. Still we grew up together. My memory of him when I was young was that he was always my protector. Woe to any kid who tried to pick on me. John went away to military school in high school, then to college and a career in the Navy. We really didn’t reconnect until he went to osteopathic medical school in Kirksville MO and declared that I, living at home and recovering from a broken heart, needed to get out of our childhood home. I went to live with him and his then-wife in Kirksville. In retrospect that says to me that he was still looking after me.

Flash forward maybe fifteen years and we were both in Fort Worth TX, both married, and both heavily involved in the osteopathic community. Then he divorced, followed by me, and our lives took different paths, and we had what I would call a testy relationship for a few years—close but with undercurrents. Now, in our “golden” years (he says we’re fragile), we are close. We don’t see each other often but we talk. Today was a special occasion—they came to visit in my house, drink wine, and prowl through our memories.

We had put aside Blue Willow china for him—he ended up taking it for my niece and for himself the heavy Appalachian pottery my kids didn’t want. He took, at my suggestion, a painting that hung over the fireplace in our childhood home, a couple of cookbooks Cindy wanted, and a framed quote from Owen Wister: “The West is dead, my friend. . . .” I think the things he most treasured were battered small photos of our maternal grandparents—he remembers them and I don’t, a small journal our mother kept when he was a toddler and his father died. He kept saying, “I’m very pleased” and “Thank you.” If I’d known how happy these things would make him, I would have given them earlier—then again I didn’t even know that Mom’s journal was in the attic.

Two articles remain in limbo—the tea table given to my folks when they married and a wonderful small wooden footstool. My kids love the sit on the low stool in front of the fire, and the tea table is an occasional table in my living room. Mom used to roll it into the living room, in front of the fire, for casual Sunday suppers.

We had a lovely visit. Jacob is in awe of Uncle John and even let him treat his injured wrist—must have worked because Jacob left the brace behind when he went home.

I am glad to share these things with family who will treasure them, but I am going to live with gaping holes on my walls where art work has disappeared. If I entertain, it will be with my everyday china, because other sets of china are gone. I am ready to move into my new quarters and let the Burton branch of the family move into the main house. We are making progress-got the architect’s elevations two days ago. It’s exciting to be moving ahead, bit by tiny bit.

But still, it’s all an emotional time.

Halloween and a delightfully soggy day

An angel and a wolf
Photos by Katherine Smith

Halloween in my neighborhood is amazing. I live in an inner city neighborhood in Fort Worth, Texas, and we get over a thousand trick-or-treaters. The streets are jammed with cars and pedestrians. Special ambulance crews bring disabled children to trick or treat, and I’ve heard that some churches bus students here.

My neighbors, Jay and Susan, have established a tradition of Halloween on their porch. They buy bags and bags of candy, invite a few neighbors, and serve delicious stew—this year ladled over colcannon, an Irish dish of mashed potatoes and cabbage. It was wonderful.

Kids—and adults—start coming about six o’clock, and usually we wrap it up about eight. I came home by 8:30 tonight, and I can still hear and see cars, so I’m sitting in my dark house with only the computer light on. In all the throngs of children, I rarely recognize any. Tonight I knew one boy, grandson of friends who were on the porch with us. Ours is a neighborhood focused on children, and I don’t know where and how the kids I know spend the evening—but the kids who come are from other neighborhoods.

The children are the wonderful thing about the evening—their expressions range from pure joy to cautious, but uniformly they are polite, take what is given them without grabbing for more, and say thank you. Parents are equally polite and grateful. Susan’s father and I are the senior citizens, so we are absolved from sitting on the step and giving out candy but everyone else takes a turn.

Otherwise, the day was pleasant—I began moving into the bathroom, moved everything out of the small bathroom and realized too late there is not yet a mirror in the new one for putting on makeup. Still it was good to get a start on the process. My brother and sister-in-law came about 1:30 so he could give me an osteopathic soft tissue treatment. He sure knows how to find the spots in spasm and release them—it hurts while he does it, but I am much better afterward. And I walk more confidently. Coming to treat me involves taking most of his day because he lives an hour and a half away—yes, I’m grateful beyond words. After they left, I had a bit of wine and a good long nap. Perfect way to spend a soggy day, although the rain was long gone in time for trick-or-treaters tonight.

Tomorrow is All Saints Day, the time we remember loved ones who have passed on. If you study the Mexican tradition of El Dia de los Muertos, you realize ours is a corrupted and watered down version of a rich tradition meant to honor the dead.

Cultivating Cheerfulness

A good friend told me today that my blogs of late have all been downers, complaints of one sort or another. Jordan chimed in with “I’ve tried to talk her out of her depression.” I have mixed feelings about this. Quite honestly, I admit I have whined a bit—my back hurt, my house is in chaos, I got a rejection—and I shared those things. I think each of us have periods of depression and discouragement, and if I’m going to do a personal blog—which mine is, particularly for this year that I’m hoping to compile them—then I think I should be honest about my feelings. Pollyanna isn’t always at home. 

On the other hand, a friend and I were going into a restaurant for lunch the other day, and I saw a woman with multiple physical handicaps pushing a small grocery cart (no matter she was pushing it away from the drive-in window of a liquor store). I looked at my friend and said, “I’m never going to complain again.” Guess I haven’t been good about keeping that resolution, though I know some of my posts have been thoughtful—i.e., the pope’s visit—and some joyful, like last night’s reunion with old friends.

Still, maybe being sure I post positively will help me improve my disposition as I go, and truthfully I’m a happier camper tonight. I think mainly it’s due to the ministrations of my brother, who did a lot of spasm relaxation techniques (lay person’s description) on my low back today—for an hour and a half or so. When he’s working to release your back, his hands may well be on your head, but it’s magic, to me, that he can say, “Yeah, it all goes to that one spot” and point to the place in my low back I knew hurt. I won’t fool—even his low impact techniques sometimes hurt like fury, but by the time I got off the treatment table my back was ever so much improved—pain free. John and Cindy, my sister-in-law, do a two-man technique that involves pushing legs straight in the air and gradually back toward my head. John said I tolerated it well, and Cindy said she couldn’t believe how flexible I was. Music to my ears.

We went to Carshon’s for lunch—best Reuben ever—and as we left, John observed that I was walking pretty well and that the fact I didn’t hurt so soon after treatment was a good sign. Tonight I do feel better than I have in a long time. A bonus; both during treatment and at lunch, I had a great visit with both of them. John asked about my tremor and I said I’d had it for a long time—it’s the reason I don’t take the juice in communion, because I can see grape juice all down the front of whatever I’m wearing. He laughed and laughed, but it’s true. I’ve always had shaky hands. It was that kind of a visit—we caught up on kids and other things.

It was a hectic day at my house with all kinds of workmen, loud saws, and noxious fumes. I can’t tell any progress in the bathroom, except they were under the house and there’s a big hole where the shower will be. But my kitchen counter went in, and I am thrilled with it—it’s going to make my kitchen looks so much lighter and brighter—and speckled as it is, it won’t show every spilled drop of everything like the old counter Formica, a dead, dull gray, did. I stop every time I go in there and admire it. No pictures—I don’t think pictures of vast empty counters tell you much. Lesson learned as I cleared the counters for this work—I have way too much junk in my kitchen. I will be judicious about what I put back.

So here I am, back to being a happy camper. Bear with me, please.