Watching the world go by

 

Obviously a picture from a previous year with colder temperatures

My neighbors and I in Fort Worth’s Berkeley neighborhood were virtually housebound this weekend with a double whammy of events which closed our streets. Saturday was sunny and beautiful, with temperatures in the high seventies or low eighties. I think half the families in Tarrant County decided it was a great day to visit the world-class Fort Worth Zoo, which is on the edge of our neighborhood. Traffic on my street, Park Place Avenue, was backed up for four blocks—we do have the world’s longest red light at the corner before the road descends to the zoo. And by afternoon, cars were parked for blocks along many of our streets. This routinely happens over Spring Break, especially at half-price day at the zoo, and the Fort Worth Police do a good job of planning their strategy and keeping traffic moving as best they can. But who expects zoo weather in late February? Another sign of climate change, and one we should all take seriously. The traffic is not just an annoyance for those of us in the neighborhood: it’s a real problem if emergency vehicles such as an ambulance or fire truck are needed. Christian wanted to go to the store and could go out by going the opposite direction from the zoo, but he was afraid he could never get back home.

I was proud of my neighbors though—several posted on the neighborhood Buzz how good it was to see happy families enjoying the zoo and the fine weather. Said one, “It’s a happy day in the neighborhood,” with a hat tip to Mr. Rogers. There have been suggestions about a parking garage, which I don't think would fit the neighborhood ambiance at all, and a few other remedies, but the general mood is that we're happy to have the zoo and have people enjoy it. The only thing niggling in my mind is the off chance of the need of an emergency vehicle.

Today one of Fort Worth’s major events hit our neighborhood: the Cowtown Marathon, which attracts almost thirty thousand runners for the marathon and associated races—half marathon, ultramarathon, 10K, children’s races. The regular marathon goes right through Berkeley and then down one of our main access roads. The halfway point for the full marathon is approximately in front of our house, so we get to watch the runners go by. When I was in the main house, I used to sit on the porch and, silently to myself, assess the style and form of each runner. Now, from the cottage, I can only see them at a distance, if I peer down the driveway and through the iron gate.

Back when the marathon began in 1978 my then-husband was one of the founders, and I was on the publicity committee. The group from what was then the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine met in my living room for months, talking about health and fitness and planning the marathon. I laughed each Sunday, because after the meeting, another girl and I served them fantastically rich desserts—and that ate every bite. Come race day, I woke my four children, ranging from nine to three, at five in the morning, and we headed for the Stockyards District where the race then began and ended. And I abandoned the children so I could help with whatever needed to be done (I remember a TV station had a van on site, and I periodically updated them). I can’t believe now that I turned the children loose, but I did. They reported in when they were hungry, but otherwise they joined other “race orphans” and roamed the area. They uniformly recall it as one of the really fun times of their childhood. This went on for two or three years until my husband and I divorced. But like my children I have mostly fond memories of the marathon, so race day is always a bit nostalgic for me.

The night before that first race, we were sitting in our home office when we heard it—and my husband said, “Sleet! I didn’t want sleet!” Actually he didn’t say it that politely. Next morning the streets were ice-covered. Unfortunately I don’t remember the temperature, but today it is sunny and clear and 80 at one o’clock—far too hot for marathoners. By now, as I write, all but the stragglers have made it to the finish line. It’s five hours after the start. And the zoo traffic is less, but it will pick up again when the zoo closes.

The weekend events are but another reasons I’m glad to live in Berkeley.

Totally content—well, almost

 

Home from the hospital.

As I write tonight, Jamie is sitting on the patio strumming his guitar to soothe Sophie, and it works—she is sound asleep. I would love to have him inside, but who would interrupt a man playing guitar for a sick and miserable dog. And for me, it’s a joy just to know he’s right there—I can hear the guitar faintly, and I can see him through the French doors.

Sophie may be home, but the news is not good. She apparently has a mass in her stomach. There is some chance that it is a foreign object she ate and has been unable to pass, but it is more likely a tumor. Colin quickly reminded me not all tumors are malignant. Sophie had the poor timing to get sick, twice now, over a long holiday weekend, so it will be Tuesday before we know what’s next. It will be a long weekend.

Meantime, Jordan is taking extraordinary care of her, doing all the things I can’t get down on the ground to do. The vet’s office gave her instructions on how to feed with a syringe (Soph is not at all interested in food, this dog who used to steal whatever she could off counters). Jordan also successfully gave an insulin shot tonight—the only agonized reaction was from Jamie. Soph didn’t seem to mind. She’s terribly lethargic, and I miss my wild, mischievous child, but we can all tell she is glad to be home. And we are glad to have her. Jordan plans to sleep on my couch tonight, so she can listen for her.

Junie among the flowers.

It's a doggie-down weekend. June Bug, one of the Burtons’ Cavalier Spaniels, outlived her life expectancy—and a heart attack and stroke—several years ago. Poor baby has been on her last legs for a long time, but today she has taken a downhill turn. Her back legs aren’t working right, and Junie, who is always ravenous and loves to steal Sophie’s food, wouldn’t eat her own dinner tonight. So Christian is on watch in the house while Jordan is out in the cottage.

Suppertime in the
cottage.

It's always a joy to have Jamie come to visit. I benefited from his guitar this afternoon and thought how soothing it was to sit and listen to him. He is frustrated that I don’t recognize even songs I know and love—I have a tin ear, and I can tell him it’s Joan Baez, but I can’t tell him it’s “Diamonds and Rust” until I hear the lyrics. We had planned to go out for supper but, of course, could not leave Sophie, so we ordered in. Jamie ordered Mama’s Pizza (his favorite since high school) while Jordan, Christian, and I had dinners from Pacific Table.

We’ve talked of kids—my grandkids—and, with Christmas fresh in our minds, started planning for Christmas 2023 which will be an Alter Family Christmas. We’ve talked about food and fun times in the past, and Jamie’s disappointment that the idea of taking me for a train trip won’t work—the bedrooms, he says, are not what they appear in the pictures but are small with bunk beds. He keeps saying, “But you love trains, and I like them too.” I told him it’s true, I do love a train trip, but like many things, train trips are among the memories I treasure. It’s hard to make someone fifty years of age understand that in my eighties there are many things I know I can’t or won’t do again, but it’s okay because I have the wonderful memories. Train trips among them—and my memories start when I was a very young child, and my parents used to take me on Pullman sleepers from Chicago to Toronto to see the Canadian relatives. But I am touched by Jamie’s determination—he is now working on Plan B. He says he wants to give an experience, not material goods.

Jamie and his fire

Jamie lit a fire in the pit on my patio, and he, Jordan, and I sat out there. Jordan provided me with my insulated jacket (some forty years old), a blanket for my legs, and a heater. Jame built a fire that, as I told him, would have made Jack Boyd, his old Boy Scout leader, proud. Sophie lay on the patio, the small evergreen tree was festooned with Christmas lights, and that light system Jordan put up sprayed tiny green lights on the trees, my children’s faces, and the wall of the neighbor’s casita on the other side of my yard. It was an absolutely idyllic moment, and I kept telling myself to relax and enjoy. It doesn’t get much better. And I am still making memories.

Mellow moods don’t come easily to me, but tonight has put me in a mellow mood, grateful for the blessings of my life, for children who care so much about me and my dog and who I love so much. I am optimistic about 2023.

Sadness and Safety

 

Hiding from the world
behind a book.

I was horrified a day or so ago to learn that a seventeen-year-old and a five-year-old had died and an eighteen-month-old was wounded in a daytime drive-by shooting in a peaceful neighborhood. Then this morning I read of two more shooting death of males seventeen years old. Put aside the fact that I have four grands who are close to or at that age in my family, I am saddened. My first thought was, “We are shooting our children.” Today I read of a twelve-year-old in California who shot a classmate.

I am so weary of those who proclaim loudly if we outlaw guns, only the bad guys will have guns. Or laws don’t matter. It won’t work. It works in other countries, and it can work here. We have got to get guns out of the hands of young people and the mentally ill. There’s absolutely no excuse for the horrific statistics of gun deaths in this country—so many of them our children. I don’t even know what to say about the greed that perpetuates this killing—congressmen who pocket gun lobby money, gun manufacturers who are making enormous profits. They are all stepping on the broken bodies, slopping through the blood of dead children.

Today I answered a political questionnaire—I usually don’t do that because they always end being a guise for asking for money. This though was from Sarah Longwell, founder of Republicans Against Trump. I respect her common sense, and I knew I wouldn’t feel guilty about not giving money to Republicans, even good ones, so I answered. It was straightforward, asking what party if any I identified with, how I voted in 2020, how I intend to vote in November. Then I was stumped: what one issue was most important to me. I wavered between gun violence and abortion. Ultimately, I chose abortion and now I’m second-guessing myself. The conservative stance on both issues is immoral, selfish, cruel—I could go on and on.

But as most things are circular, that brings me to Greg Abbott. Beto warned us Abbott would dump a lot of money into advertising, and now we’re seeing it. I’ve seen the same ad countless time—a casual Abbott in a sport shirt is sitting in a restaurant. Plastic dispensers for ketchup and mustard are at his elbow. You know—good guy, one of us, eats ketchup on his burger. But one thing is wrong: the restaurant is totally empty except for Abbott. If it were Beto sitting at that table, he’d be chatting with someone, the restaurant would be noisily full, people everywhere, some waving Beto signs.

Consistently I’ve noticed the Abbott keeps his distance. He’s on stage, above the audience, sometimes alone. Beto on the other hand is in the midst of the throngs of people who come to see him. He really is one of us. Abbott is not. Mean, little man. Who favors guns and letting women die from toxic pregnancies. Who knows nothing about medicine, the female body, or the female reproductive process, but oh boy, can he make laws. Why require seventeen-year-olds to take gun safety courses or be licensed? Might hurt Abbott’s big business buddies. Just like fixing the grid would.

Okay, Judith, stop. You’re rambling and getting carried away. It’s easy to do.

Distant thunder rumbled late this afternoon but, alas, no rain. Mary Dulle is back from almost a month at Chautauqua, so we had a happy hour visit, caught up on news. Then she and Joe went off to supper, Jordan and Christian went to a concert, and I heated leftover spaghetti. A thoroughly pleasant evening. Tonight I’ll do some menu planning and then settle down with a cozy mystery. No sign of that rain.

It's nice to feel safe from the world. Maybe that’s fooling myself, and none of us ever are really safe, but for now it’s nice to retreat into a fictional world when reality seems to much with us, from national and local politics to drive-by shootings.

The school book wars

 

The school book wars raging across the country are particularly divisive in Texas. This morning in the Star-Telegram Ryan Rusak, opinions editor, implied the controversy between parents and school boards is a fuss over nothing. I would agree it’s a fuss over nothing, but I do not think those threatening, bullying parents are merely “passionate constituents engaging with the elected officials.” They are totally out of line, and I need to put my thoughts in writing, even if in this blog I am preaching to the choir

From what I read, I gather most of those parents who are fighting are not highly educated and operate from blind belief or perhaps political affiliation. I doubt they’ve read many of the books. By contrast, library acquisition is done by educated, trained professionals with great care and awareness of the content of the books they are acquiring. They do not buy books by the cover or the jacket blurb.

Yes, parents have a right to monitor what their children read, but they have no right at all to dictate what books entire school systems can shelve. I don’t want the reading of my grandchildren restricted by someone else’s fear or religion or political stance. If a parent disapproves of a certain selection, they can discuss a specific title with the teacher and ask that their child be assigned another title. (Many of the titles, on Rep, Matt Krause’s list of 850 suspect books, for example, are not assigned but are available for free reading; on the other hand, some classics on the list are often found on SAT and other tests important to a child’s future.) If they disapprove of the entire curriculum, parents do not have the right in public education to alter the curriculum. They may withdraw their child(ren) to enroll in private school, where their demands may or may not be more effective, or they may home-school.

Threatening teachers and school board members and their families is absolutely not a choice. Anyone who issues such a threat should be immediately charged. Passion is no more acceptable in a school board meeting than it is in a murder trial—it is not an excuse.

But I worry about the children caught in the middle. What of the eight-year-old girl whose Uncle Tom, Dick, or Harry wants her to bounce on his lap. In a book she may learn that this is not okay, and it is not her fault. The fourteen-year-old boy who has strange feelings for a male classmate? He would find that a same-sex crush is a common part of the maturation journey through puberty. The seventeen-year-old girl who is being flattered online by an older man. Books can help her learn about pedophiles and grooming. Children often are reluctant to talk to their parents about sexual questions. If they find information om books, they can, in good circumstances, feel free to take the book to a parent or teacher. The book can spark a much-needed discussion. Children who are kept ignorant of life’s darker side are unprepared to deal with it. And children who are not challenged by books do not grow intellectually or emotionally.

It's an old trope that those who do not know history are doomed to repeat its mistakes. We are seeing that now in banning books and talk of book bonfires and in increased racism. An uneducated society is prey to authoritarian rule—was it not trump who said he loves poorly educated people? Was it not the Nazis who burned books?

 

Mother’s Day is a wrap

And a lovely Mother’s Day it was. On this day each year, I think of many women—my own mother of course who raised me with love and laughter and taught me to love cooking. She’s been gone thirty years, and I still think of her every day, hear her laughter at some of life’s absurdities, miss the constant presence she was in my life. For years after I lost her I talked to her, and I still wish she was on the other end of the phone so I could say, “How do you cook this?” or “Who is that person in this picture?” or “Remember when….”

I think of course of my daughters and daughters-in-law, mothers of seven children between them, each with her own style but each doing a terrific job raising my grandchildren. I am grateful for them, grateful for their love and the open way they admit me into their families.

And I think of the biological mothers of my four children, women who were brave enough to carry their pregnancies to term and loving enough to give their children to others who would, they hoped, be able to raise them better. I hope I have fulfilled their wishes. I worry about them—do they think about their babies on Mother’s Day? Christmas? Birthdays? I know just a smidgen about each, but a part of me wishes I could reach out and reassure them. Another part of me though is fierce about the fact that the children are mine!

Then there’s Bobbie, who came into my life late for both of us. Thirteen years older than I, she was half soulmate, half mother. We “got” each other like not many do, a wonderful relationship. Hard to believe but Bobbie has been gone probably eighteen years.

It was a lovely day—I talked to each of my three distant children, went to church with Jordan and family, and had an enjoyable supper with Christian’s parents and his sister and family. Bummers were a flat tire on Jordan’s SUV this morning and leaving my leftovers in the restaurant—I had looked forward to meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans tomorrow, but alas, no!

Sometimes I think I am an accidental parent. Oh, of course I played with dolls as a child, but I never really thought about having children, even when I first married. I thought God took care of those things, and if babies came along, fine; if not, that was okay too. But I had the great good fortune to marry a man who desperately wanted children, and babies did not come. Long story short, we adopted the four, and they have been the center and focus of my life for fifty years now. I have always known that writing and publishing came in a distant second to motherhood. One thing I won’t say, though, is that my children are my whole life. I hear other women say that, and I think it places a horrible burden on the children.

I get a fair amount of praise on the job I did of raising four mostly as a single parent. They turned out to be wonderful people—fun, kind, caring, good citizens, great parents (oh, okay none perfect but nothing worth talking about). But I turn the praise aside with the comment that it was the luck of the draw—or sheer dumb good luck. I really don’t think I can take credit for them, but I can and do bask in their love. And as I age, I am so grateful for their care and concern. In some ways our roles have reversed, and I rely on them for advice and guidance. Lord knows, Jordan does much more—all the little pieces of living that I can’t master from a walker.

I am one damn lucky woman.

Reflective moments

My dinner companions

Dinner last night with two old and dear friends—both, like me, former doctors’ wives, one divorced, as I am, and one widowed. We talked of ex-husbands and good times and people we knew and now wonder about and those halcyon days when we thought we had the world on a strong. It’s been a long fifty years since we met, and our paths have diverged, but I am so grateful that we can still remember and laugh and mourn together—and toast our good fortune. The talk got me reflecting back on my life and marriage—when my husband left, I was devastated, afraid I could not raise four children on my own. But he gave me the greatest gift, besides giving me the four children. I found out I could do it and with some degree of success—they are all happy with good careers and families of their own, and I am so proud of them and so sorry he never shared in the joy of watching them mature and never was part of the “family” we became. And I am grateful that he freed me to pursue a career of my own, instead of focusing my life on being a doctor’s wife. I may not have hit the bestseller list or overseen publication of a work that shook the halls of academia, but it’s been a good and rewarding career.

Another reflective moment: Jacob was an acolyte at church today, probably his last stint in

that role. He’s aged out. Generally, children do it in fifth or sixth grade or through their twelfth year, which means he could do it until spring. But I think he’s done, so it was a bittersweet moment—and a different experience since the church was set up for the Boar’s Head Festival and he had to improvise a bit on the candle lighting and snuffing. In honor of the occasion, lots of pictures, including one with the senior minister. But I like the one with his grandmother best.

And tonight, a small gathering of people I care about for Twelfth Night. When I was a kid, my neighbor/adopted aunt always had a Twelfth Night ceremony whereby you threw a branch of the tree into the fire and made a wish. The kids and I have continued the tradition for years. With Jordan, it’s grown beyond family to something we share with others. She did her usual magic job of entertaining tonight, with a happy hour spread and plentiful wine. The night was slightly chilly but we all gathered around the fire pit to throw our greens and make our wishes and enjoy the warmth of the fire. Christian had gotten some pinion to burn with the firewood, and it smelled wonderful, even if smoke did get into our eyes and hair. One of those moments when I felt so blessed. And no, I’m not telling what my

wish was—that would ruin the whole thing.

Now I’m inside, hearing voice from Jordan, Christian, and a friend who lingered and seeing the flames. Next year we need Graham crackers and Hershey bars and marshmallows.

Making war on children

Today on Facebook I saw a picture of an eight-year-old Palestinian boy surrounded by five or six big, burly Israeli soldiers, one pointing a machine gun at the child from perhaps two feet away (actually, if he’d discharged it, he’d probably have killed several of his fellows as well as the poor child). The image of that tear-streaked, terrified face will haunt me forever. The problem of what we as adults do to children is not confined to the southern border of the States.

That is not to say that equally haunting images don’t come from the “camps” into which ICE and Homeland Security have forced “alien” children (no child is alien, for Pete’s sake)—the young boy, about six, clinging to the wire cage while his face is distorted with tears, the terrified children being yanked from their mothers’ arms.

Man’s inhumane cruelty to his fellow man is as old as civilization. Unfortunately, we have not progressed beyond wars, fought mostly for religion and/or greed. I grieve over what men and women do to each other and have done throughout history.

But never in modern history, as far a I know, have adults been so callous in their attitude toward children. And, of course, what’s happening on the Mexico/Texas border is more in our face than the Israeli/ Palestinian conflict, which is in itself an atrocity—don’t get me started on it. My rage for the time is pointed at Trump, Sessions, and ICE.

I am sick to death of people who blithely say, “The law is the law. We are a nation of laws.” Or who argue those “illegal” immigrants could stay in Mexico, where, of course, they would not really be safe from the long arm of gangs and terror from their own countries, let alone those in Mexico. Helpless and penniless, they are easy prey for cartels. Some may have relatives in our country who would shelter them—currently their children, taken from them, are often sent to such relatives.

As for a nation of laws, don’t tell me that when our temporary president flaunts every law written and does so with impunity, supported by the weak spines in the Republican party. We are a nation of laws when it suits the leaders to apply the law; otherwise forget it. Surely, somewhere, someone is compiling a list of laws that Trump has flown in the face of, the lawsuits pending against him. A nation of laws? Led by such a corrupt man? We used to be a nation of laws.

Today AG Beauregard Jeffrey Sessions quoted the Bible to justify taking children from their parents. Of course, the Bible doesn’t address that subject directly—the passage he quoted was about obeying the law, which is a circular argument (or non-argument) because it refers to a flawed interpretation of the law.

I often wonder how ICE enforcers can do what they do—breaking up families, ruining lives. But I guess you look at the Gestapo, and you get a sense of the blind following of a dictator’s rulings. We are too close to that, and I am appalled.

And what is lacking in this whole scenario? Human compassion. What has happened to people that they no longer care about other people, let alone about children. Go ahead, call me a bleeding-heart liberal. I admit it. (I’m also a tree hugger.)

I’m afraid to go to sleep tonight, for fear I’ll see that Palestinian child’s face. He speaks for so many terrified children. What a world.

Mostly about food

No blog last night because at eleven o’clock I found myself making an overnight salad. No, not a congealed salad nor what you think of as a layered salad—remember those, with layers of lettuce, peas, cheese, tomatoes, and so on, and a top layer of mayo that you let sit overnight? This is a lettuce salad with a vinaigrette dressing—you put the vinaigrette in the bottom of a 9x13 glass dish, with avocadoes, stir the whole thing; then, without stirring, layer lettuce on top, and finish it off with Parmesan. Cover with clear plastic wrap and then foil, let it sit overnight, and stir just before serving. Delicious. Got raves at the dinner table tonight.

But last night, as I chopped garlic and scallions, washed lettuce, and so on, a blog was the farthest thing from my mind. Yes, with some trepidation I used romaine, but I washed it thoroughly using a trick my mom taught me—dousing it in salt water, then rinsing thoroughly and drying. Couldn’t use the wonderful soft lettuce from my garden because this salad needs something with crunch.

Blatant cookbook promotion: the recipe will be in my new cookbook, available next fall. With a thank you to my neighbor Amy Brown who first served it to me.

Now that I’m working seriously on “Gourmet on a Hot Plate,” I’m having fun rediscovering recipes. Made tuna-stuffed zucchini for my supper last night and had the leftover tuna stuffing for lunch today. One day this past week I intended to make an avocado and cucumber salad for Jordan and me—turned out the avocadoes were too hard (they ended up in tonight’s salad). But a salad of cuke and tomatoes and scallions, dressed with lemon and lime juice, is nothing to sneer at.

Megan and her boys arrived just in time for happy hour before supper tonight, a quick visit for Mothers’ Day, but I don’t mind quick because she and her whole family were here for a long weekend two weeks ago. Blessed to spend so much time with them. Even after two weeks we have lots to catch up on—a new pair of shoes I want her to see, an upright walker I want her to look at, exciting new developments in her career and in the growth of one of her sons. Life is full and wonderful.

Right now, after a great supper of hamburgers and salad, Megan and Jordan are off to say hello to a school chum of Jordan’s. I, who always want to be included, begged off. I think the main reason is that I fear they’ll stay longer than I would want to, in spite of their protests. And truth be told, I’m reading a book that I really enjoy.

So now I’m off to brush my teeth, get a glass of wine, and settle down with my book. Happy Mothers’ Day to all out there—there are all kinds of mothering, and the gratitude of the day should go to many more than actual mothers. Then again, I think there should be a Children’s Day, honoring all the richness children have brought to our lives. I know they have mine. Of the many hats I’ve worn in life, I have always said being a mother was the most important and the most rewarding.

What Goes Around Comes Around, including chicken thighs

Dog night in the cottage. Can you spot the little black dog?

The youngest of my two sons had a birthday last week—not saying which, because it dates me as well as him. But he emailed in response to my birthday message today and recalled the time when he was maybe twelve and I told him I didn’t feel any different than the coeds walking across campus every day. Jamie fell apart laughing.

Recently he was walking on campus in Boulder with his freshman daughter, and he said he thought he fit in pretty well with the college crowd. Her response was apparently much like what he’d given me years earlier. He acknowledged that what goes around, comes around.

A pleasant Sunday today. Jordan was still a bit under the weather, so Christian, Jacob, and I went to church. The sermon was on prayer, and the minister quoted Ann Lamott who suggested the three most important prayers you’ll ever say are, “Help!” “Thanks!” and “Wow!” I really liked that.

Had a good nap this afternoon and slept soundly. First time in over a week that my cough hasn’t kept me awake, so may that cold is leaving.

Left to my own devices for dinner tonight, I decided to do smothered chicken with those thighs from last night. Yes, I had to adjust the recipe a lot, but it worked well. Only Jordan and Christian came to visit, and I thought it rude to cook while they were here. They’d been to Joe T.’s for a four o’clock dinner with his family and were home about the time I was cooking my supper. Finally, they said I should go ahead and cook. So I did. The chicken was great, but I sent the leftover noodles in for Jacob. They didn’t work as well as I thought with the gravy. Still that’s a suggestion I’ll put in the cookbook, though I’d probably do it with a chicken breast instead of thighs—it was just that I had those thighs.

Christian and I had heated political discussions, Jordan and I discussed social schedules, and I was delighted to have their company for the better part of two hours. At one point, as you can see above, Jordan had all three dogs on the couch with her.

Could life get any better? I doubt it.

Finding Joy at Church

Some people go to church for inspiration, others for instruction, meditation, some out of a sense of obligation, and a few, reluctantly. I go because I want to learn how to be a better person in this world we live in today, not so much to learn ancient biblical history. Today I also went because Jacob was an acolyte—he is the cutest acolyte! But what I left the church with was a sense of joy.

One of our associate ministers, Shannon Moore, simply bursts with enthusiasm. When he welcomes the congregation from the chancel steps, you know he means each and every individual. Even his prayers are joyful. At the communion table, he told a story about how as a young boy he’d hidden from his family while they searched every room in the house. When they found him and asked why he was silent, he said, “I thought I was lost.” It was, of course, an invitation not to be lost but to come to the table. And Shannon wore the most wonderful, cheery bright green socks.

Our new minister is a joyful person too. Today was the first time I had a chance to meet him and shake his hand, and when I said, “We’re glad you’re here,” his smile was broad as he replied, “I’m thrilled.” He really meant it. His sermon this morning, based on the Scripture where Jesus, as a young boy, educates the temple scholars, was titled, “Always Wear Clean Underwear.” He talked about the lists that all parents see equipped with, a list that includes “always wear clean underwear” and “never speak to your mother in that tone.” His point was that we are all the beloved children of God.

One poignant moment: at the end of the service, a family of four—mom, dad, and two young girls, joined the congregation. The younger of the girls, probably no more than three, looked very apprehensive as her family went to stand before the congregation. Gradually she backed away until she was back at the transept pew, where she stood watching. Attempts to approach her didn’t work—her parents tried, two ministers tried, a woman in the pew sat down on the floor to talk to her, and, in the most touching moment, her big sister, maybe five years old, came to put her arms around her and try to drag her to their parents. Nothing worked. Those of us who could see this little drama watched with amusement and concern for the obviously frightened child. As soon as the formalities were over, the dad picked her up and carried her in his arms, where she looked quite concerned. It was a perfect follow-up to Shannon's story of being a lost child. We are all lost in some ways.

I carried that sense of joy with me throughout the day. One of the things I look forward to as I get more mobile is being able to be more active in the church again. I once was. When my friend Betty was the organist and music director, I swore every time she had an odd chore to be done, she said, “Judy will do it.”

And a shout-out to neighbors Greg and Jamie: their son, his wife, and infant daughter were the Holy Family in the annual Boar’s Head Festival today. I am sure it was a thrill for them.

The geese are getting fat

Halloween’s gone, but the memories linger. Here are two pictures from last night that tickled me.

But it’s time to think about turkeys, unless your family does something innovative like prime rib or enchiladas. My family is strictly traditional—they want turkey, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, lots of gravy, don’t care so much for the pies. This is the Thanksgiving that the kids go to their “other” families (we’ll all be together at Christmas), but I am fortunate that I’ll probably spend the holiday with Colin and his family, here or there.

I didn’t post last night because unexpectedly Colin came to spend the night. He’s been working in Addison and had to be in Tyler this morning. That child keeps weird hours—stayed up late for him (10:00) and was up at 5:00, out the door at 6:30. Last night, we visited on the front porch with the trick-or-treat people for a while and then went to the Old Neighborhood Grill where Colin had what he said was the best dinner he’d had in a long time—chicken fried steak, fried green beans, and broccoli rice casserole. I enjoyed my dinner, but enjoyed the visit more. When you have a large family, as I do, it’s wonderful to have them all together, but it’s also a rare treat to have one-on-one time with just one child. I heard all about his new job, his two great children, and his volunteer work with his church—they’re active in the foster children ministry in the Houston area. Lovely evening. I’m really proud of him, but then, I’m prejudiced.

Today was not such a lovely day. I had a 9:00 a.m. appointment in Arlington with a cornea specialist. I thought she would just take a look at my problem eye and schedule surgery. Nothing so simple. They did the full eye exam, much of which I’d just had two weeks ago but there were some tests I’d never had before. I was there from nine to almost noon. Bless Christian for taking me and staying with me, all with great good cheer. We treated ourselves to decadent hot dogs on the way home.

Long story short, I’m facing a two-stage eye surgery in the near future. Meantime, my vision in my right eye is blurred, and oh my! The halos I see around lights. Driving at night, even as a passenger, is almost painful.

I will be glad to get this over with, though I will probably have to have a second surgery two to three months later. Still, this is the third thing—my hip, the hospital spell with a fib, and now my eyes. That’s it, folks—I’m done with health problems. Some things that bothered me a year ago seem to have resolved themselves, and I hope maybe some of this will. I’m a big believer in thinking positive and am working hard to practice what I preach right now.

Meantime, there’s that turkey to contemplate. And yet, who can think about a huge turkey dinner when it’s going to be 90 tomorrow? So glad there’s no such thing as climate change😊

Gratitude for a marriage gone awry

Fifty-three years ago today I stood in a garden on Osteopathy Avenue in Kirksville, Missouri and exchanged vows with the late Joel Alter. We didn’t care that only a thin line of bushes separated us from the goat pens nor that the music was a rented tiny organ—I don’t even remember what was played. A friend had made my dress, and I kept it for many years before giving it away. We honeymooned, with good friends, one night at the local Holiday Inn.

We were happy for fifteen years. He built his career as a surgeon, bought us my “doctor’s wife” house, drove fancy cars, and, best of all, adopted four children. I often think of those as my golden years. They were followed by two miserable years while the marriage was crumbling. A failed marriage is never a one-way street, and I’m not writing tonight about recriminations (oh, yes, I have a long list but, probably, so did he). We divorced in 1982.

This is not a letter about blame. It’s about gratitude. If I hadn’t married Joel, I wouldn’t have the four wonderful children I have. I wouldn’t be in Texas, where I’ve been for 52 years. And I wouldn’t be eating kosher food, which I love. Joel taught me a lot of things but probably none more important than an exuberant joy in life. He loved to dance; I was a lousy dancer, but I could dance with him. He loved animals, and I caught his love, particularly of dogs. He cared about people, and I am more open and concerned about others than I might have been if he were not in my life.

A friend looked at me today and said in pure astonishment, “If he hadn’t brought you to Texas, we never would have known each other”

But the biggest thing Joel ever did for me was to leave me after 17 years of marriage, 20 years together. He reduced me to tears one night shortly before by telling me he’d take the kids, the house, everything but me. Of course, I wouldn’t give up my children. At the time, I didn’t see his leaving as a gift. I was in my early 40s, with four children ages 12-6, and I was scared, no terrified, about the future. It turned out just fine, thank you.

I have come to appreciate that great gift. If he had stayed, my children probably wouldn’t be the well-balanced, happy people they are, family people, contributing to their world. I wouldn’t have had the career I did nor would I have become the writer I call myself today. And I wouldn’t have built the wonderful life I have—friends, church, a secure home, great memories of the last thirty-plus years.

So thanks to Joel, though he didn’t intend his leaving as a gift, and his life didn’t turn out to be the happy days he expected. I have carried Joel with me, all these years, in a small place in my heart, in too many dreams, in some of the better ways I react to people and the world.

When people moan about divorce or how hard it is on the children or some such nonsense, I just smile and say, “Not always.”

Thanks, Joel.

Life’s Milestones and Other Matters

A milestone in Jacob’s life tonight: his first Cotillion. I’m not sure he recognized the significance and I hear it was “great” from his mom, but I am waiting for a full report. All week he groused about going but above he looks pretty happy or pleased with his new clothes. His aunt, uncles, and mom went to Cotillion. Colin hated it, used every excuse to sneak out early, etc. There as some problem about making sure Megan was included—I don’t remember what and she did go but it was another instance when I was inept as a mother (when we went to Santa Fe and they wanted to ski, I had no idea how to make that work—the kids had to figure out about renting skis, ,etc.). But if all her friends were going to Cotillion, there was no way Megan was going to miss it. Jamie was in his element at Cotillion and came home one night referring to himself as the “party animal.”

Jacob’s buddies were also all going tonight so I’ll be curious to hear if they banded together or circulated nicely. Do you suppose Jacob will dance with me?

I went to the hospital for pre-op pre-admission today. They have all this down to a science and sometimes ask the most minute questions—very thorough. But it’s a smooth process. We saw an admissions clerk and two nurses and were at the hospital an hour and a half.  So far the personnel we’ve met have all been extremely friendly and helpful. The hospital is new—it was privately built, went into bankruptcy and was bought by Teas Health; if I understand orrectly it is an orthopedic hospital. It’s all open and sleek and thoroughly modern but with clearly Texan touches—one area was partitioned off by a panel of upright untreated tree branches bound together, like fences you see around jacals in South Texas. I’m not anxious to have this surgery, but Clearfork seems a good place for it. I feel I’ll be comfortable and in caring hands.

Tonight an old friend came for supper—my idea of entertaining is sending her to pick up sandwiches at a local upscale bakery. We both had croissants with turkey, goat cheese and vinaigrette. Good and really filling. We topped them off with huge chocolate chip cookies. Nancy and I have known each other over forty-five years although we lost touch for many of those years. Today, the nice thing when we get together is that we don’t dwell on our past lives (both married to physicians) but talk about our lives, our city, and our kids today. We both have rich and full lives, and I much appreciate that we don’t dwell on the past.

A long, lazy weekend stretches ahead of me, after a week that has been filled with doctor and hospital visits. I hope to make real progress on my novel—and to do some pleasure reading. Looking forward to it. My life is neither busy nor hectic, so it strikes me as funny that I am glad for a lazy weekend.

Tidbits from the Day

 

I did diddly squat today. Honest, I don’t think I accomplished one things, except to inquire how to get a mechanical (back cover, spine and front cover) all in one file for The Gilded Cage. The contractors came by, and we talked about the difficulty of dealing with the city over permits for the garage remodel. Then Greg came by and we talked gardening and a thousand other things for a long time. He has suddenly decided he wants to take out a big bushy youpon smack dab in the middle of the front of the house. “All you see is this busy green,” he said. “We’ll find an evergreen that will work there.” Sounds good to me. My house gets strictly northern exposure in front—no sun. So except in early spring it tends to look all green, and I always wish for color to brighten it. By the time they were all gone, it was almost my early lunch time.

I did stuff at the computer which seemed to occupy a lot of time—or maybe I was moving slowly but I was content and under no pressure.

Three nice things: last night I got a terrific email compliment on the excerpt I posted from The Gilded Cage (see the excerpt at http://www.judyalter.com if you missed it) and then a friend and Megan both forwarded Amazon emails which had apparently gone to everyone who ever bought one of my books.  It highlighted The Gilded Cage, now available for pre-order (http://www.amazon.com/Gilded-Cage-Novel-Chicago-ebook/dp/B01C348KTS/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1456968092&sr=1-1&keywords=the+gilded+cage+judy+alter) Please note if you search for it: there are a lot of novels named The Gilded cage (my bad) and you’ll find it if you add my name after the title.

And the third thing: I got my first pre-order, from a bookstore in Wisconsin which cheers me because it’s in the right part of the country. Pretty heady stuff for a newcomer to indie publishing.

My niece came to pick up a set of my mom’s china I had set aside for her. My heart danced when she said, “I’m thrilled to have something that belonged to Grandmother.” I’m sure she was remembering, as I was, Sunday night dinners at Grandmother’s house when we ate off that china. Jenn brought her two beautiful daughters, and I got nice hugs. But the older girl-Emory, in second grade, has been dog bitten twice and was afraid of Sophie. So when the younger one wanted to pet Soph (we’d locked her in the office), I saw the look of alarm in Emory’s eyes. Asked her to sit on the couch by me and assured her I would keep her safe. She snuggled right in. I don’t see much of these girls, so it’s a joy now that they feel they know me well enough to hug.

Tonight weekly dinner with Betty. Since we had Jacob in tow, we went to the Tavern where he likes the mac and cheese. Christian joined us, and we had a jolly dinner.  I now have half a cheeseburger in the fridge for tomorrow’s lunch—love cold cheeseburgers.

All in all, a nice, satisfying day. And I’m sleepy way early.

Nostalgia and the Cowtown Marathon

The Cowtown Marathon this weekend will bring back a lot of memories for me. My late friend, Charles Ogilvie, who ran in that race well into his eighties and took me to many carbo-loading dinners, used to say it began in my living room, and I think it did. My ex was part of a group from the Institute for Human Fitness, and several men met weekly on Sunday afternoons to discuss programming. The Institute, a part of what was then the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine, had a program to promote health through fitness and preventive medicine, rather than treating illness. What happened to that approach is sad and a bit stupid, but it’s a story for another day.

At the time Joel (my ex) and I had a friend, Anne, living with us. While the men talked fitness, Anne and I were out in the kitchen whipping up the richest desserts we could imagine. I particularly remember her Italian Cream Cake. And the men ate like there was no tomorrow. Fitness?

At any rate they came up with the plan of a marathon. This was back in the late 1970s—do the math: this is the 37^th running. It took months of planning, endless committee meeting, countless volunteers—I was coordinator of publicity and worked with my dear friend Melinda Mason from the Star-Telegram. I’m not sure why they chose a date in late February, but they did.

The night before the first race, we were sitting in our bedroom when we heard it—sleet! Joel spoke eloquently, “Shit! I didn’t want sleet.” Next morning the ground was covered with ice, snow and sleet. He left way early, and the four kids and I followed cautiously, not quite so early. What I can’t believe to this day is that I turned the kids loose in the Stockyards District while their dad and I worked—Jordan must have been really young at the time, but I guess she had her siblings to look after her. Still, I would no more do that today than I’d run a marathon myself. The kids loved it, looked forward to it each year, and have told me since there was always a huge group of kids they hung out with—yeah, where Marine Creek passes under buildings in dark tunnels and rocks anyone could trip on. I don’t like to think about it.

Having abandoned my parental responsibilities, I had a ball, talking on radio stations, taking care of this and that detail, arranging trophies, who knows what? At the end of the day, all four kids magically reappeared and all was well. It was one of the highlights of my year.

Joel never ran until the last year of our marriage which was really frayed by that time, so I didn’t get the joy of welcoming him across the finish line. After we divorced, I worked one or two races, but it wasn’t the same, and I gave it up.

This Sunday the full marathon will go by my house, and I’ll watch the runners, judging their style and timing, and my thoughts will be far back in the distant past.

Jordan will power walk the 5K, and Jacob will run it though he’s made it plain he won’t stay with his mom. He wants to run with his buddies. I’m not sure he even knows what role the grandfather he never knew had in starting the race. But I know, and I remember, and I offer a silent salute.

Parenting and the cozy mystery

Several reviewers have questioned my choice of a single mother of two as the heroine of the Kelly O’Connell Mysteries. Kelly, a realtor/renovator, has two daughters, ages four and six, in the first book of the series, Skeleton in a Dead Space. By book six, Desperate for Death, the girls are a teen and pre-teen. Traditionally heroines of cozies are single women, often involved in a romance which provides a subplot. And they don’t have children. Some reviewers who objected to this change in the status quo found themselves liking the books, for which I am grateful.

Putting those girls in the novels was not a conscious decision. It just seemed to come naturally, perhaps because I was the single parent of four—and now am, though they’re all in the forties. My oldest daughter explained the book to her mother-in-law ass ‘highly autobiographical.”

This morning I sort of figured out why—parenting is what I’ve been doing my whole life and still am. Nine-year-old Jacob wasn’t awake five minutes before he complained that his stomach really hurt. I told him to move around and eat a banana. He did, but called his mother and said he felt worse than the time he had to cancel being an acolyte at church. She told him to lie on the couch for a bit.

All this on a day when I had gotten up extraordinarily early to get both of us out the door at eight o’clock. I had visions of cancelling my PT appointment and lunch date—the first of which would have relieved me and the second disappointed me. After lying not on the couch but on the big chair in my room, he declared he didn’t feel any better.

Me: Jacob, if you can’t go to school, no TV or iPad.

Jacob: I’m grounded from the iPad anyway.

After a pause, he asked: What would I do?

Me: I guess lie on the couch, read a book, and sleep.

Jacob, after another pause: Juju, I am going to school. I just may be a little late.

Me: No, darling. I have to leave at eight for an appointment.

Jacob, startled: I guess I better go get dressed.

He was soon dressed and out the door, probably ten minutes earlier than he’s ever gotten to school before. And with a cheerful disposition.

Tonight he’s sure he fractured his wrist. I told him probably not and gave him an ice pack.

See? That’s why I include children. I know how to weave them into a story. I hope you like Maggie and Em of the Kelly O’Connell Mysteries. I think they’re pretty darn cute and fun for their ages.

Of children, dogs and fear

Having spent all of yesterday outside playing with grandchildren and an aging but still agile chocolate lab, Sophie is strangely quiet today and not interested in her food. But she reminds me of the things I fear these days. I guess I have always had fears. Lord knows, anxiety has been a constant companion. But these days I fear two things and both have to do with the extreme cruelty some people can show to the most helpless among us—children and animals.

Sex traffickers: I’m going to become a helicopter grandmom, just as my grands are at the age to be developing independence. I read a truly frightening account of an incident at one of our malls where, from the report, I truly believe that mom saved her children from traffickers stalking them. An older man, a woman, and a young Hispanic man sat near their table in the food court and kept staring at the children. The mom’s intuition kicked in and escalated when the threesome left when she and her sister and the children did. They called for security to escort them out but no security personnel were available; finally she went to her car alone, planning to pick the others up at the loading zone. In the parking lot she saw the three people in a van, with the sliding door open. When she drove away, they sped off. I’d call that a narrow escape.

Jordan has told me of other incidents at other malls, even one in which kidnappers were apparently after an infant but the mom managed to escape with the baby. Apparently human trafficking is one of the fastest growing crimes, driven by Mexican cartels and national gangs. Main targets are teenage girls in their early teens—oh good, that fits two of my grands. But I worry about the younger ones and the boys too. I cannot bear the thought of them yanked from their safe and comfortable homes and subjected to things I don’t even want to think about.

Dog fighters: I’m active on Facebook posting pictures of lost and found dogs, but I hear too many stories about bait dogs. I used to think Sophiedoodle was safe because she’s only 30 lbs. but now I now that dog fight people will use small dogs and even cats as bait. That cruelty is beyond my comprehension. Facebook recovery stories only intensify my fear (maybe I should get off FB?). Now I hesitate to post pictures of found animals because men in dog fighting often send their innocent-looking girlfriends to claim animals. I do post lost dogs but I shudder when I hear of one stolen—who took it? Did it really just escape to explore? I understand dog fighters send people out to snatch dogs out of back yards; they leave the gate open so the owner will think the dog escaped.

My Sophie spends her days inside, which she prefers. When I let her out I watch her like a hawk. I have two locked gates. Unfortunately, she loves all people, and if she gets a chance to escape she runs like the wind. She doesn’t know my fear; all she knows is love.

Call me paranoid but these things truly frighten me. What is wrong with some people?

Over the river and through the woods....

Ahem!  Baylor fans. I can't help it. 

Well, it wasn’t quite that way but I did go over a river and through an endless but lovely part of Texas landscape to get to my brother’s for Thanksgiving. We used to always celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas together, but our families have gotten too big. This year my children were all with their in-laws, and I thought it a perfect time to invite myself to my brother’s ranch to join part of his family and extended family. My sister-in-law Cindy is the energizer bunny—I never saw her stop and sit down in the 24 hours I was there, but she served a wonderful dinner. My only contribution was a blue cheeseball and cranberry relish. My niece, Jenn, is not far behind Cindy in energy and made a wonderful sous chef for dinner and breakfast this morning. Cindy’s sister Patty watched after me with great care, so I didn’t have to walk much in strange surroundings. And Cindy’s Ralph drove me back and forth—Cindy in another car with her mom and the dogs—and Ralph and I had great conversations, mostly about how the landscape had changed with development from “back in the day.” It was a lovely warm 24 hours when I felt surrounded by people who love me and whom I love a lot—can’t ask for more.

Forgot to mention that Jenn and her husband Carlton have two absolutely gorgeous, mesmerizing daughters—Emory, the oldest, fixed perfect omelets for all of us (an art I’ve never mastered), and Maddie, the youngest at five, is a free spirit like you’ve never seen. Charming beguiling, and irresistible.

It was a lovely getaway, thunderstorms and cold notwithstanding. Last night we heard lightning strike so close that this morning John and Ralph went looking for damage but found none.

Now I’m home, warm and cozy, loving on Sophie who was glad to see me. But I’m worrying a bit about Jordan, Christian, and Jacob who are at the TCU/Baylor game.  It is 37 and rainy. Jordan, with divided loyalties, is with a TCU friend where she has access to indoor shelter. Her boys are in the visitors’ stands without such access. It is as she says a divided household. Christian is a loyal Baylor fan and has had an unfortunate influence on Jacob; Jordan, having grown up in the shadow of TCU, is divided in her loyalties. She threatened to wear green and purple to the game, but David, the old friend who was taking, her, said he wouldn’t go with her if she did that.

It was one of those holidays when I wasn’t with my children but was with family, talked to the kids, and felt warm and loved and happy. Hope you all had as happy a holiday.

As for TCU/Baylor, last time I looked they were tied. Who knows, but it’s liable to be a long, cold night for my babies and others at Amon Carter Stadium.

Meltdown!

I had a meltdown yesterday, something I rarely have and even more rarely admit to. But this was sort of an eye-opening experience for me—and a reassurance of what I forgot yesterday: this too shall pass.

I didn’t sleep well the night before and woke feeling sick to my stomach in the wee hours—when everything is much worse. Nothing like three o’clock in the morning blues. Yesterday I had no appetite, nothing appealed; I was exhausted; I was depressed, convinced that it was aging, and I would never again have the energy or ambition that I once enjoyed. At first I attributed it to perhaps an extra glass of wine out at dinner the night before and too much rich food—a cheese tray and a fried crab cake with aioli sauce. The best of the cheese was a brie with fig jam—yep, rich.

But when the malaise and stomach instability was still with me last night, I decided it was more. In retrospect, I think the stress of remodeling played into it, along perhaps with dehydration. Then I told myself over-analyzing was destructive, and I would be better today. Not sure myself believed me. Didn’t sleep well again last night—hip and back pain, leg cramps, insomnia. But my stomach seemed to have settled down. Cottage cheese, my comfort food, didn’t work for dinner but I eventually ate half a peach and a piece of chocolate.

Today I was much better—most importantly, my attitude was better. Stomach better but still no interested in food—tea with honey for breakfast, peanut butter toast for lunch. Tonight I thought a nice lean loin pork chop sounded good so I defrosted it—turned out I defrosted a quarter pound of ground pork. Had some lemon/chive pasta in the cupboard and had it with butter and parmesan—plus a banana, to combat the leg cramps I had last night.

So tonight I am convinced I will be “back at myself” tomorrow, with an appetite and an ambition to write and, barring back pain, my usual energy which, okay, isn’t what it was twenty years ago.

So what did I learn? This too shall pass is really true. No, I can’t do what I did twenty years ago. And, yes, I have to pay attention to my body—hydration, diet, wine consumption, sleep.

I am blessed with children who care. Jordan tried talking me through the depths, she practically poured lemon water down my throat, she called to see how I felt. My oldest son from Tomball called twice last night and once again tonight. How can I stay down in the dumps with such loving care?

I’m back to knowing that I am blessed and a bit embarrassed that I gave in to a meltdown so easily. But as son Colin said to me, “We all have days like that.” Probably true, so if this confession helps someone else, I’ll be glad.