It’s always something

 

This morning  I was washing up a few dishes, but when I stepped away from the sink, I realized I was standing in wet socks in a puddle of water. Foot neuropathy is why I didn’t realize my feet were wet, but that was the least of my problems. There was standing water on my hardwood floor and water dripping from the cabinet under the sink, where everything was wet. I got lots of bath towels, soaked up what I could, and called for help. There was no way I could get on hands and knees and drag all that wet stuff out. Christian, as usual, was sweet about it, mopping up towels, moving racks of things and boxes—you’d be amazed at how much I can cram under a sink.  Finally, it was all cleaned up, the cabinet just damp but we left the doors open for air. At suppertime, Christian replaced the things that were sitting outside drying. I marked my calendar for first thing tomorrow morning to call the plumber.

It was the spray nozzle, which was leaking back down the cord into the cabinet. The nozzle is a Delta product, which is supposed to be good, but this is the third time I have had this problem. Delta must have recognized the problem, because it has given up free replacement and now charges—last time it was $10, but with inflation who knows? I am less concerned with cost than I am with inconvenience. Trying to use the sink while keeping the sprayer down in the sink is inconvenient at best and offers a free shower at the worst. I soldiered through fixing a pot of soup for supper. But then, would you believe it, I lost all common sense, forgot about it, washed the soup bowls, and flooded the cabinet again. It’s late evening, and I didn’t dare call Christian again, so I got the one remaining bath towel, sopped it all up with my feet—a mobility handicap is teaching me to have ambidextrous feet—and looped the towel onto the cabinet so it would, I hoped, stop dripping onto the floor. Tomorrow, the wonderful Zenaida will be here and I’ll ask her to deal with the mess. Makes me feel bad, because the whole reason I did the dishes—after Jordan and Christian decided to rinse and leave for Zenaida, was that I have several extra-duty chores on her list for tomorrow. Oh well, I’m sure she’ll appreciate good intentions.

Most of today was spent going to livestream church—I went to the Ten:10 alternative service out of curiosity. It’s informal, casual, and yet very welcoming. I could see that people were milling around, greeting each other. There was a baby dedication, much like the ones at the traditional service, and a word from a new outreach minister--but his mic was either not on or so low I couldn’t hear it, even with my hearing aids turned up. I am looking forward to getting to know him, especially because I hear he once trained as a chef. Yes, I’m not too proud to live vicariously through the experience of others. The Ten:10 has a remarkable young woman who plays guitar and sings with more gusto than I am used to in church. She is a force for good, and I may go back again just to hear her. But I admit, for a traditionalist like me, the service lacked something, so I tuned in to the first part of the traditional service at eleven. I am well churched today.

Jordan did a lot of grocery planning for Christmas—several days with lots of hungry teenagers—and the only other thing I did today was to make a pot of chicken/wild rice soup. So good. All the family liked it, which is a good thing because I think they’ll get it again tomorrow night, perhaps with a salad. This was a new recipe for me, and I followed it carefully because I haven’t cooked much with wild rice. But as part of my ongoing effort to eat out of the freezer, it did clear out a one lb. package of skinless, boneless chicken thighs—and it was pretty good.

A generally good reflective Sunday. But watch out, world, at least those of us who celebrate Christmas. It’s about to get frantic time! And that’s all part of the fun. For me, it has to balance with a deep recognition of what we celebrate. Merry Christmas.

An outstanding day from my point of view

 

This is Pete the Gecko (I just named him and have no idea why I thought Pete was appropriate). Pete was made by mosaic artist Susan Swaim, an old friend, and is part of my drive to have art in the cottage with some meaning to me—often, because it was done by artists I care about. Suzi used to babysit my kids when they were young, tonight we decided it was pre-school. In recent years I’ve seen her mosaic art online, and when I saw the first few geckos she did I thought vaguely that I wished I could have one. This year, as my birthday approached, I realized there was no good reason I couldn’t give myself one as a birthday present—and I commissioned it. The neat thing is that Suzi incorporated a bit of my jewelry that I sent her—can you find the rose on Pete’s back? Came from a necklace I no longer wear, and a couple of other pieces came from things I had. Pete will hang just to the right of my desk—there’s a nice blank piece of wall waiting for him.

Look at Suzi’s work at Facebook She calls her studio my mosaic mojo.

Suzi delivered Pete in person tonight. I probably haven’t seen her in over thirty years, so it was a great catch-up time. Her mom was a friend of mine way back in TCU days and came from three generations of a family deeply involved with TCU, so we talked a lot about her mom and being in the eighties and TCU and just lots of stuff. Went to Lucile’s, which is a favorite of mine, and I got the lobster roll I’d been wanting. A thoroughly enjoyable evening with lots of laughter.

It was a rare out-of-the-cottage day for me. Christian and I went to church this morning. Russ’ sermon was on the parable of Jesus telling the lame man to pick up his bed and be healed, and the sermon dwelt on the question Jesus asked the man: “Do you really want to be healed?” The point was that a lot of us cling to our problems, imperfections, even illnesses because they are comfortable. Much as we rail against them, we know how to deal with them. Being “healed,” represents a great unknown. Russ finally asked the question, “Do you want to move out of your comfort zone?” and I wanted to say, “I’m here, aren’t i? I’m in church and not watching in the cottage.”

Two outings in one day was a big deal for me, although that makes my life sound constricted, which is not the way I feel about it at all. I am always torn between a conscience that prods me to get out in the world and the lure of the comfort of my cottage. I used to have such an active, busy life, and now I’m so content in my cottage that I have to gear myself up to go out. Once I do, however, I’m glad to have done it. So thanks to Christian and Suzi for getting me out of my comfort zone. I think this whole recluse business crept up on me with pandemic and quarantine. And then I think about how many lives were forever changed by that traumatic period. Not just the illness and death, but the social changes, the work-from-home changes, the stay-at-home dinners instead of patronizing favorite restaurants. I think in many ways we are still reeling from the results of that social upheaval. And now, here comes another onslaught of covid

On the bright side, it is cool tonight, eighty as I write about nine-thirty. There was a good shower to the south of us, but we’ve had no rain so far. Still, the air smells like rain, and I am ever hopeful. I know the nineties is hot but compared to what we’ve had, it will seem pleasant. Let us count our blessings as we sail into a new week.

Back-to-school Sunday

Our country—or the advertising industry—seems to have a special name for every day: Chocolate Chip Cookie Day, Love Your Dog Day, Eat More Vegetables Day, and so on. Churches have special days too, besides holy holidays, like Youth Sunday and Reformation Sunday, but I recognized one today and wondered if churches consciously name the last Sunday before school Back-to-School Sunday. The whole service had a different feel about it, an anticipatory vibrancy.

In my family I’m very aware of what our minister called the energy and buzz that surrounds the opening of school. Jacob heads into his senior year in high school, Morgan begins college at Texas Tech, and the rest continue their educational path without milestones. I am so proud of each of them and so excited to watch their progress this year. But a part of me is a bit frightened, and I pray for my family. The church service this morning brought that home to me.

At our church after summer absences, we had most ministers back and an almost full choir, a sure sign that the new year begins. The service was highlighted by dozens of youngsters, maybe pre-K to third grade, who crowded the chancel steps and the floor in front, most with their backpacks, to be blessed. Perhaps this should be called Backpack Sunday.

There they were, with a few anxious parents hovering about.  Be still my heart! It has been ten or twelve years since Jacob was in that crowd, but it seems like yesterday. And those children looked so young and innocent and vulnerable.

It suddenly hit me about those sweet youngsters—and my grands. They may not only be nervous, which the minister acknowledged, but they may be downright scared. Is this the year a shooter will visit their school? Will they survive the year? Texas has done nothing significant to protect them or control guns since the massacre at Uvalde. You can stil buy an assault rifle at eighteen with no license, no training, and only a cursory background check. Schools will have armed personnel, which may well lead to more deaths, not fewer. I suspect more than a few schools, desperate to conform to the law, are hiring untrained personnel. And more guns just mean more shooting and more chance of accidents.

There has been one special session of the legislature, at Abbott’s call, to deal with taxes, and apparently, he will call another to try once more to push through his pet idea of school vouchers, which will render public education more ineffective than ever. But no special session on guns. Legislators were busy during regular session banning books and outlawing drag queens. The argument, of course, is that we must protect our precious children. But don’t dare come for the parents’ guns! Somehow too many Texans don’t feel their children are threatened by guns, despite the numerous school shootings our state has seen under Abbott’s governance.

Abbott, whose firm hand controls what goes on in this state, is not a man known for his compassion. And he makes no exception for children. In addition to nearly turning a blind eye to school shootings, he is allowing children to be killed at the border by razor wire and by neglect on buses illegally transporting asylum seekers to “safe” cities. He has issued not one word of regret about the child’s body found floating in the Rio Grande nor about the infant that died on a bus to Chicago. He may, however, have gotten too big for his britches: assaulting asylum seekers violates the Geneva Convention, which theoretically could leave him liable for charges from the World Court at The Hague. And now, Texas twin politician brothers, the Castros, are asking President Joe Biden to halt Abbott’s forced bus trips. Abbott’s entire handling of the border violates Federal law and is now in the courts, but for asylum-seeking parents with young children, the courts move way too slowly.

You may think it’s a leap from those earnest little kids on the chancel steps this morning—some did look a bit bored—to immigrant children dying at Texas’ hands, but it’s really not. Those deaths—and pray there are not more—speak to what kind of state we live in, what kind of people we are, because we tolerate them. We elect the men and women who pass harsh laws without a trace of humanitarianism, who tolerate the far-right demands for guns, including assault rifles which no civilian needs. If we want to protect the kids at my church, where my grandson was not too many years ago, we have to protect all children. We have to extend our love.

“Three things remain: faith, hope, and love, and of these love is the greatest.”

A milestone and some trivia

 

Would you believe I am still getting over pandemic? As I have written before, pandemic and quarantine made it so easy for me to stay home in the cottage and not take my mobility challenges out into the world. Oh, occasionally I have gone out to dinner with friends, but pretty much I invite people to the cottage for happy hour or supper. And I haven’t been to church since March 2020. I was a faithful virtual attendant, signing in on my computer almost every Sunday. But I missed the physical feeling of being in the sanctuary, (University Christian in Fort Worth is a beautiful sanctuary), being surrounded by music, being part of the community.

The Burtons also never got back into the habit of weekly church. My minister friend Renee tells me the church recognizes that having once broken the church habit, it is hard to resume. This spring Christian began to really agitate for going to church. The three Burtons went one Sunday, but I opted to stay home. Then this past week, I had four restaurant meals and somehow got a big boost to my confidence. So I said I’d like to go this Sunday. It was the last day of a five-sermon series Renee was preaching.

Christian and I went to church. What made it work is that he willingly pushed me in my transport chair. I think much of my hesitation was based on insecurity about walking with a walker—I can’t go far without getting breathless. Today, being in the transport chair was easy, and he agreed, proud that just the two of us handled it.

After church, several members came up to greet me, which made me feel really welcome. I asked one if she still lived out in the country, quite a drive from church, and she said she did. “It’s my little piece of heaven,” she said. I remember when the church organist, asked about the long hours she spends practicing at the organ, said, “It’s my happy spot.” My church friend had found her happy spot in the country. I realized that my happy spot is at my desk, not necessarily with my computer on, but at my desk where I am in charge of my world. I think—and hope—each of us has a happy spot.

It's Sunday night, and I am getting ready to dine alone. Going to marinate some cucumber (I am never again buying those tiny cucumbers—they taste different, and they go bad five minutes after  you buy them—I have heard that you should wrap cucumbers in paper towel to keep them from spoiling; some say to add a silver spoon—just sayin’.) I’ll have a leftover salmon patty and maybe a bit of blue cheese salad. A nice evening.

Trivia: I saw an ad today for mink eyelashes! No kidding! I thought of all the animal lovers (me included these days) who shun fur coats and wondered who is vain enough to want mink eyelashes. Maybe I misunderstood. No, they are all over the internet. A bit pricey, as much as $95. There is an internet warning that you are killing these cute little critters. Do you suppose vain women care?

And get ready: I read somewhere that stores are preparing to display their Halloween offerings. We’re sweltering in the midst of summer, school hasn’t even started yet, and merchants want us to think ahead to Halloween. I don’t guess so.

I saw a book title that I thought was funny—until I read the description. There’s apparently a short story titled, “Namaste Trump” which is the title story of a collection about broken lives in small towns. I guess that’s appropriate if trump supporters can see themselves clearly, which I seriously doubt. And then there is a book by that title designed for journaling and described as a gag gift for trump supporters. Wish we could see sales figures on that one. And finally there really is a MAGA journal titled An Enlightened Trump Meditation.

I have no words. I am going to go quietly and eat my supper. Y’all have a  good evening.

My non-cooking cooking weekend and a doggy discovery

 

Panzanella (Italian salad)

Shh! Don’t tell Jean, but that dinner I was too tired to cook for her last night—white bean soup and panzanella salad—was delicious tonight. Like my mom’s migraines, my ennui of yesterday was a one-day affair, and while I won’t say I bounced back, I think I sort of hopped—awkwardly. And thanks to Jean, I had a loaded baked potato for lunch—the one she brought from Jason’s last night was huge, and I was not yet ready to eat heartily then. Today I was ravenous. (I just took a picture of the panzanella and sent it from my phone to my computer—it arrived with the captions, “pan smells.”

Slept late this morning, went to church online, made croutons for the salad (not as difficult as I anticipated, but the crust on Central Market sourdough is so good but so tough), and made the soup. Then I had to have a nap, but that’s not unusual for me.

Church was interesting. Russ Peterman has been preaching sermons based on various hymns, which delighted me because I can still recite the word of the old hymns I remember from childhood and in my mind I can hear the melody (somehow it doesn’t come out well when I try to sing, and I am in awe of choir members my age who lift their voices in praise). Today’s hymn was “How Great is Thy Faithfulness,” which I don’t remember but I learned today is a beautiful, soaring piece of music. The sermon dwelt on the fact that we are not promised eternal happiness on earth, but we are sure of God’s faithful love when tragedy strikes.

I remembered a tsunami that killed thousands one year in this century. A friend who was a nonbeliever asked me how I could believe in a good god who let such happen, and I posed the question to our then-minister. He said, “Shit happens, but when it does, God is there to help us.” That was essentially this morning’s message, and since this year a lot of “sh*t” has happened to those I love, I found it meaningful.

Just as I finished making the soup this morning, my induction hot plate began to sing to me—an ominous sign. It had gone berserk. In the six years since I have relied on one, this is the second to fall apart. It leaves me without a way to cook, except the toaster oven. Fortunately tonight Jordan took the soup pot inside and heated it. I have ordered a new hot plate—it should arrive Tuesday. I understand a good friend is already pledged to bring us dinner tomorrow night—good timing.

Tonight I discovered a dog rescue group I didn’t know existed: Doodle Rock Rescue intrigued me. It seems to me yesterday but I am sure is a lot longer that labradoodles were new to the dog world, expensive and rare. Now they and all the designer variations have become so common that they are a glut on the market and many need rescue. It speaks to a lot of things to me—prime among them owners who do not take dog ownership seriously, not recognizing dogs a living beings who love, hunger, know pain and fear.

Of course I would love another doodle—Sophie is a bordoodle, a deliberate cross of a border collie and a miniature poodle. I don’t think she would take well to another dog, and after the recent expensive adventure with her health, I don’t think I can afford another dog right now. But I am so glad there is an active rescue organization for these dogs. This overbreeding, if that’s what it is, has apparently not affected the price of kennel-bred dogs—I just checked the kennel where I got Sophie eleven years ago, and the price has tripled—it was high enough then.

My good friends Sue and Teddy got a Bernadoodle (Bernese mountain dog/standard poodle) about a year ago. Mina is a lovely girl, full of energy, happy, and loving. Just this week, looking for a buddy or Mina, they rescued a labradoodle, almost a year old, a male who has the same high energy and loving disposition. He was raised in a loving home but the owner was unable to care for him because of illness. Sue, Teddy, and Mina are over the moon with joy and I’m a wee bit jealous.

Springfield doodles

Changing of the guard—again

 

With Megan. Not my best picture,
but my new tortoise-shell glasses are cool!

Colin left around noon, and Megan arrived about four. I am the most spoiled mom in town. Burtons will be home tomorrow night, but Megan will stay until early Tuesday morning. We have lots of great plans—dinner at Pacific Table, organizing my freezer (she did it not long ago, and it made such a difference!), a drive to the Stockyards because Megan wants to see the new restaurants and hotel on Mule Alley, and I just want to get out. She has promised Sophie a walk around the block—a rare treat. But we both have work to do, so we’ll see what plays out.

I am eating well during this week of kids. Megan and I collaborated tonight on a recipe new to me: Light Chinese Chicken Salad with Hoisin Sauce. I knew Megan likes salads, Asian food, and light suppers. It was a perfect choice, though Christian may think I’m invading his territory. He’s the Asian cook in the household, though less inclined to make salads than more complicated Asian dishes. When I once suggested a chop suey recipe, he informed me that the chop suey of my childhood is today’s stir fry. He gets a bonus from tonight’s dinner, because he didn’t have hoisin sauce in his armament of Asian condiments, and now he does. I bought it for the salad.

At any rate, the salad was good—a vinaigrette with sesame oil, hoisin sauce, rice vinegar, soy; salad was cabbage—do you know how much Napa cabbage costs? I didn’t use it. Used shredded cole slaw mix, shredded cabbage, scallions, bean sprouts, chicken. We topped each serving with chow mein noodles, though Megan points out slivered almonds would add the same crunch and are healthier.

In addition to my children, I have been helped several times by the pet sitter here to take care of the Burtons’ two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. The girls are old and a bit of a challenge, but Andrea has gone about it, five times a day in this heat, with good grace and a smile. And she has gone above and beyond to help me with kids locked out of the house, packages on the porch, keeping June Bug out of my cottage (her house manners are unreliable) and other small things. If you ever need a pet sitter, I recommend Andrea Rutledge highly. Email or call me for contact info.

Colin stayed to go to virtual church with me this morning, which was a treat, but he chided me for not paying close attention to the readings. I did pay better attention to the sermon, which was about the role of doubt in faith and the wrongness (is that the right word) of being certain you are right about faith and that yours is superior. We “attended” early church and after that, I got a lot more reading done on Helen Corbitt

Now Megan is looking at her phone, and I am going to read. I’m still reading the mystery series by Helen Currie Foster, and to my delight, the current one, Ghost Dagger, takes Alice to Scotland, so as I read, I’m reliving my own visit to the land of my ancestors—and loving it.

We’re to be cooler this week—in the nineties. Six months ago we would not have thought that sounded like relief, but it does now. Enjoy the break everyone and pray for those threatened by fire.

My musings after a musical church service

 

Church has been iffy for me of late, even though I consider myself a regular churchgoer. For several reasons, some good, some not so much so, we have not gotten into the habit of physically going to church since quarantine, though I livestream the service almost every Sunday. Even that became iffy for a bit because the church had sound problems and listening intently became a strain. Now those problems are solved, and this morning I “attended.” A wonderful Sunday to be in church either physically or virtually.

The rituals of the service were interjected between movements of Vivaldi’s Gloria, which was, as our minister said jokingly, the best sermon he preached all year. It filled the entire worship hour. As a violin drop-out (when I was seven my parents recognized I had neither the ear nor the talent for it), I still am transported by stringed music, and what Vivaldi does with strings is beyond glorious. The choir out-sang themselves, and the entire experience was transforming. And thought-provoking.

The ministerial prayer focused on the terrible storms that have devastated many states and the solace that God can bring, in churchgoer’s eyes, to the victims. Once, a friend asked me how I could believe in a God who lets such devastation happen (after a terrible tsunami), so I asked our then-minister how to respond, and he said bluntly, “Shit happens.” But he went on to say that it is when shit happens that God is there for us.

This morning on Facebook, someone posted, “We can do nothing about these storms,” and I wanted to shout “Oh, but we can. We can take climate control seriously. We can pass the Build Back Better legislation. We can become caretakers of the earth instead of exploiters.” Science has demonstrated that climate change has intensified the severity and frequency of devastating storms. So it’s not simply a matter of faith. There are practical steps we can and must take. Remember when in Sunday school they talked about being God’s helpers? Not just for little kids.

And from there, of course, my happy little liberal mind went straight to politics, and I mixed politics and religion. If God (insert the deity of your choice) is our savior, he/she will not let the bad guys win. I know the world today is full of skeptics, yet there is no reason I should feel naïve or apologetic about saying, “I believe,” so here it is: I believe God will not let insurrectionists and fascists and perverted religion take over our world again as they tried to do in the Holocaust. That’s not to say we can sit back and say, “God will take care of it.” We have a big, huge role to play (think God’s helpers) but in the end, as we are taught, love will triumph. Not cruelty, nor punishment, nor greed for wealth and power.

Meanwhile, in Texas, it is clear that a whole lot of Texans despise our governor, lt. governor, and attorney general. I’ve seen estimates that if all who are inclined to vote blue turned out, we could defeat them despite voter suppression and gerrymandering. But pundits, who supposedly know whereof they speak, say that Republicans will retain control in Texas and retake the country in 2022. They cite the pattern for mid-term elections, blah, blah, blah. I am tired of politics as it always is. I want to see something unheard of and wonderful happen as people turn out in droves to speak for equality, diversity, kindness, and, yes, love. We simply must not dismiss what’s happening with a shrug and, “That’s politics.”

I don’t often write about religion—it’s a purely personal thing for me. But this morning’s service moved me in several ways. I’ll step down from my private pulpit now.

On a more ordinary note: we (Jordan and Christian and I) were expecting guests tonight for a birthday happy hour, and we planned a wonderful charcuterie. Then one of our guests reported in ill. A disappointment, but we had our own happy hour—nice family time in front of their almost-decorated tree, lots of catching up. Good food, but I’m going to scramble a couple of eggs in a bit. A comfortable Sunday night.

Where is your camel, or lessons from the pandemic

 

My physical therapist and I were discussing how much we are each willing to break quarantine, now that we, like many others, are fully vaccinated. He, more willing to get out and about than I, had been to in-person church at Easter, while I stuck with virtual. His parting words were, “You got to get out more. God’s got you.” A few days later a friend wrote that she agreed with me and ended her message with what I presume is an old Arabic proverb: “Trust God, but tie your camel to a tree.” To me, that says it all. I’ve spent a lot of time tying my camel to trees.

In truth, I tie that camel (okay, I’ll quit with that image) because I’m confused. We are inundated with news of how wonderfully well President Biden’s vaccine roll-out is going—way ahead of the schedule he predicted for his first hundred days. And I am among the first to clap loudest and longest. But that statistic that now one out of five is fully vaccinated? Try putting the word “Only” in front of it: it means that four out of five people are walking around without full protection. Apparently one-third of our population has had one shot—I wonder how many never get that second one.

And I’m assuming we still can’t hug, unless the huggee is also vaccinated. Which calls into question all those newly vaccinated grandparents who are finally hugging grandchildren after a year (call me guilty—I hugged one because she had covid a month earlier and, as she said to me, was “full of antibodies”). Aside from the rare case where a vaccinated person gets sick, if we hug unvaccinated grands, are we putting them in danger? They are almost all, at least in my family, too young to have been vaccinated. I haven’t heard a definitive answer about the vaccinated as carriers of the virus. And how long is the vaccine good? Six months? A year? So much still to be determined.

We get advice from several sources, and I’m never sure what the CDC is saying. Apparently, it’s all right to gather indoors with a small group of vaccinated people but we should avoid large groups in enclosed spaces. Yet domestic travel is safe—but they just ruled out planes, trains, and cars. And we should avoid bars and restaurants that are open to full capacity (hello, Texas!).

The most sensible restaurant advice I’ve heard came from local journalist Bud Kennedy who recommends eating on a patio or in a well-ventilated indoor restaurant where they only seat every other table, staff is masked, and customers are masked except when eating. Of course, that means you either check it out as you walk in the door or call ahead and ask their mask and social distancing policy. And in Fort Worth, and I imagine other cities, patios are a problem because many of them are enclosed with ugly plastic to ward off the winter chill. The result is no moving air and a space without ambiance. I suppose in summer they’ll be enclosed for coolness. I’m on a search for open-air patios with distanced seating. Suggestions welcome.

This morning our minister talked about how emotional many people felt when they worshipped in the sanctuary once again, the first time in 54 Sundays. And I have read posts from many people who cried in relief when they got their second vaccination. It’s like the vaccination wipes away all the tension and frustration of the past year. But as Dr. Fauci cautions, we must not get complacent too soon. There is hope on the horizon, but we have to hold on.

Here comes that camel again. Now where’s the nearest tree?

A familiar anthem—so welcome!

 

This morning Sophie got me up early (like 5:30) with one of her snophalophagus attacks. I got up to give her a Benadryl, went to the bathroom, and saw an email from my high school BFF—she quoted these lines to me:

One early Easter morning,

I wakened with the birds,

And all around me lay silence,

Too deep for earthly words.

She didn’t have to say any more. I knew it meant she was thinking of me, and that in our faith, He is Risen, indeed! Long ago—really long ago—she and I were in a youth choir that sang that music on Easter morning, and it has stayed with both of us. So today, I went through the day with that melody playing in my head. One year, for a sunrise service, my church included it in the program—at my request. I was thrilled.

Good intentions gone awry—we were going to attend virtual nine o’clock church this morning but instead had Easter breakfast/brunch about 10:30 and then were ready for the eleven o’clock service (I think it was the same service, played over again). Brunch was a tater tot casserole that Jordan and Christian fiddled with—who really needs six cups of grated cheese? They cut it in half, substituted sausage for bacon, added eggs—and the result was so good.

Tater Tot casserole

Our church, Fort Worth’s University Christian, has really learned some innovative things about presenting virtual services, and this morning was a triumph. Easter services usually conclude with Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus—this morning various members of the congregation popped up from unlikely spots spelling out the lyrics to accompany the music. It was good-hearted, good fun, and wonderful. The sermon struck a chord with me too because I hear on Facebook from acquaintances who sing of doom because Biden is president—I can’t believe I am patient with them, but I am for various reasons. The gist of what I took away this morning is to never believe that the moment of gloom is the last word. God always gets the last word, and it is “Life,” though I might suggest that it is “Love.”

The Burtons went off to Denton to celebrate with Christian’s family, and I, after a nap, welcomed Subie and Phil. We had gravlax that I had cured—absolutely delicious, with a perfect sauce of yogurt, mayo, balsamic vinegar, lemon, and dill. I will definitely do that again. Russian salad, also new to me, was great—sort of a version of potato salad, but you dice everything fine, aiming for the size of green peas because it has peas, along with potatoes, carrots, cornichons, ham. Dressing is simply mayo mixed with cornichon brine. I think I was a bit timid about the brine, but I will use it with a freer hand next time. Subie brought egg butter, which she had learned to make in Finland—like deviled eggs but without the devil. The perfect accompaniment for gravlax. And dessert? In the interests of being ecumenical, it was matzoh crack.

Matzoh crack
So rich, so good

I have to say, for all I worried about the gravlax, the matzoh crack was the thing I struggled with the most—trying to avoid burning myself with the hot sugar mixture, juggling pans, quick spreading first toffee and then chocolate before it hardened past the point of spreading. Plus I had to do it in my small toaster oven, instead of a traditional one where I could have done more pieces of matzoh at one time. I made two batches—and I have a whole lot of matzoh left over, so I’ve been singing to Christian about the virtues of matzoh brie—just like the migas he loves. Funny how so many cultures have the same dish by different names.

All in all, it was not the traditional Easter I always long for—I still wish I’d been in church and then had a leg of lamb—but it was a great, non-traditional alternative, and I am counting my blessings tonight.

Two days ago, I looked at a tree that is always so slow to leaf out that each spring I am convinced it is dead—and I thought that after our terrible snowmageddon. But tonight I just happened to look—and it has leafed out in two days.

He is Risen, Indeed!

Sunday—some good, some not so good

 

My Tomball family on the way to the slopes at Wolf Creek
Colin driving, Lisa, with Kegan peeking around his mom, and Morgan

A Sunday omen that I thought was good—this morning I saw a cardinal and a blue jay in my yard. The blue jay is only an occasional visitor, but all Fall we had a mama and a papa cardinal. They tend to choose one locale and stay there, and I was so pleased that these chose our yard. They also mate for life, apparently doing a lot better at it than many humans. But then came that terrible spell of sub-freezing weather, and I hadn’t seen them since. Today it was papa, but mama must be nearby. You do know the legend, don’t you—if a cardinal visits, it means someone from Heaven is thinking of you.

My church is gearing up to return to in-person services, starting with Palm Sunday. I have about decided I will continue to attend virtually, especially on Easter when all the once-a-year visitors attend. (I have a friend whose husband calls it Amateur Sunday.) I just don’t think I’m ready for the combination of a crowd, even well-spaced out, and my walker. So this morning I went to virtual church alone because Jordan was busy. The minister touched on the Church’s (as he said, “Big C, the over-arching church) obsession with things that don’t really matter and the attempts to force decisions on those things on church members. Okay, he used sex as an example—the church is overly interested in who’s sleeping with who, and where, and how, and when. Such obsessions, he claimed, are driving people, especially young people, away from the Church.

But I digress because what I really wanted to mention was my fascination with the organist. For these virtual services, the camera shows us what we would never see sitting in a pew—including the organist’s intricate footwork on those myriad pedals, even while playing the keyboard. I once took pottery classes, and while I could work on an electric wheel, I never mastered working on a manual. I had to focus either on what my feet were doing or my hands, but I couldn’t do both. Sort of like patting your head while rubbing your stomach—try it. And yet our organists make it seem so effortless, even when you know there are years of study and hours of practice behind the performance. Fascinates me every Sunday.

The bad part of this Sunday is that everything in the cottage is broken—well, not everything but some essential things. You know they say trouble comes in threes—my Apple watch was acting wonky (seems to have fixed itself), my Windows program has lost all the quick access icons and I have no idea how to get them back plus it won’t keep programs open so I can go back and forth, and my TV screen has a snowstorm with the message, “Weak or no signal.” Now I go hours without looking at the TV, but I like to have it on—and without it today, the cottage is so quiet. I can’t get to the reset button—a problem of furniture in the way of my walker—so am waiting for some helpful soul to come along. Fortunately, my Jamie is coming tomorrow—he can fix the computer. But for a bit there this morning, it seemed all my communication methods were out of order. Fortunately, the cell phone still works.

And how did everyone fare losing an hour of sleep? I didn’t sleep well last night, partly I guess because I was aware of that different time pattern, though I always welcome Daylight Savings Time. Love that extra daylight in the evening. I had seen a Facebook post last night, on my wall, about how Biden could never have rolled out the vaccine if trump hadn’t had the Warp Speed program and pushed to get the vaccine invented—that is so wrong that I lay awake framing my reply to the sender, who is the son of old friends. We have an ongoing political discussion, approaching the subject from opposite ends of the spectrum, and it baffles me how he can believe what he does. Finally, Sophie didn’t sleep well because of her doggie version of post-nasal drip—I gave her Benadryl about six in the morning, and we both finally slept until almost nine the new time. Still, I’m sleepy and ready for an afternoon nap. How about you? Needing that nap today?

Blessing the students and other blessings

Jacob and Christian at Baylor, presumably on the stadium

After lollygagging for a couple of days, I got back to work today, which in itself is a small blessing. I blame my inertia on the heat, but the last couple of days I have conscientiously kept the outside doors closed and the a/c on 70, which made the cottage a bit chilly. Today I kicked it up to 72 and am comfortable, though my kids probably prefer the lower setting.

Wrote my summer newsletter today and found I had way more to say than I thought, plus I listed eight pictures to go in it. Waiting to hear from the webmaster who puts it together for me so I can send it off. Last I knew she had lost power, but that was from Hurricane Isiaih, a bit ago. Surely the power is back on.

If you do not get my newsletter and would like to receive it, please email me at j.alter@tcu.edu with your name and email. I promise it doesn’t come often, and I hope it’s interesting. If not, delete, delete, delete.

You know how churches occasionally have “Bless the animals” day? Everyone brings their pet to be blessed---I swear I heard of someone once bringing a skunk. It reminds me of when my children, as infants, were welcomed into the concerned community of the Unitarian Church (what I was doing at that church is a long and separate story). But when Jamie was to be welcomed, at around a year of age, someone brought their dog. The minister never missed a beat. After asking each set of parents, “How do you call your child?” he asked the dog owner, “How do you call your dog?” I forget the dog’s name, which may be the punch line of the story. I can remember clearly how both surprised and amused my brother was.

But I digress. Last night our church had a drive-through “Bless the students” evening to replace the usual school send-off event, now cancelled because of social distancing. I thought it was one more innovative way that the church is reaching out to keep us attached and involved until we can meet as a congregation again. Jordan took Jacob—they were only gone about ten minutes—and he came home with small gifts, including a leather key fob with his name on it. She said the youth minister chatted for a minute and then prayed with them—and she confessed she cried when he prayed about Jacob going to high school. He will be going to virtual school at least at first, as will my Austin sons. The Tomball two and Eden in Frisco will attend classes, so I am praying extra hard for their health. My Tomball daughter-in-law will also be in the classroom so she, too, has my prayers.

Tonight, the Burtons have gone to Baylor for supper—sounds like a long drive for supper, but Christian loves that campus and has passed that love on to Jacob. Jordan assured me the Baylor Club, where they have reservations, has a patio. I said it sounded awful hot to walk around the campus, but she says they’ll drive. When I said that I apparently gave away their surprise, because they hadn’t told Jacob about the outing yet. He perked up happily at the news. Meantime, Jean is coming for happy hour, and I’ll fix myself some leftover beef-and-bean and some squash, because they won’t eat squash. They’ll be home about dark.

Jacob and Jordan at a very empty Baylor Club

PS What I thought was a small zucchini, from my sister-in-law Cindy on the ranch, turned out to be a small cucumber. I had a larger very round squash—I don’t know the name—that I cooked with salt, pepper, panko and grated pecorino. Overcooked it, but it was delicious.

A Sunday miscellany

We continue to get photos from Jordan from the Hill Country which make us glad she’s enjoying but wish we were too. The latest is the sky just before sunset. Meanwhile, back at home, things remain calm.

Church this morning was a treat. The church began a series on Broadway shows and how they reflect our current values. First up this morning was the hit, “Hamilton.” The service opened with an actor, apparently a former TCU student, providing a striking rendition of the opening song. Russ’ sermon gave a lot of background on both Lin Manuel-Miranda, who wrote the musical, and the actual history of Founding Father Alexander Hamilton. Doesn’t sound like church? Well, it was, because the sermon ended by posing several questions that hit home with me. Apparently, Hamilton was obsessed with contributing something to make the world better—he did a whole lot—and with having someone to tell his story. His wife outlived him by fifty years and spent them telling his story, building his reputation, publishing his voluminous writing. So, Russ challenged us: who will tell your story? What is your story? What I have done to make the world a better place is a frequent question for me, and I was comforted that Russ confessed it is for him too.

The actor who played the lead in the opening Broadway show used to gather the cast for prayer before each performance, and his challenge to them was that they make each person in the audience grow during the performance, go away from it having learned something that changed them, made them a better person. It’s what I’ve always said about books. I’m seeing lots of links here between Broadway and literature and religion. Lots to think about, and lots of history to explore.

I watched the nine o’clock service, but then to my surprise Christian and Jacob came out to watch the eleven o’clock with me, so I’ve been to church twice today. We’ll see if it makes me a better person.

I was saddened to learn that actor Nick Cordero died today after fighting COVID-19 for ninety days. I never heard of him, not being up on such things, until he got sick, but his struggle and his wife’s determined faith have been much in the news. He underwent the amputation of a leg and was recently told he would need a double lung transplant. Perhaps had he lived he would have had no quality of life nor life expectancy, so maybe his death was God’s grace, but it is still a tragic story. Don’t even talk to me about how you don’t have to wear a mask!

I spent the day writing a review of a book about France, food, and World War II. Fascinating to immerse myself in the life of villages and the stories of what it was like to survive the war’s hardships. One woman reported they relished heated pork belly on toast, because when you have little, what you do have becomes a treat. There’s a moral there. Another slyly said, “We did not need to diet” and talked of evenings when there was one potato for a family of five. On the other hand, many French households today have really well-stocked larders, the reaction to the years they went without. The French eat a lot of seafood and a lot of rabbit—the latter a surprise to me. They are surprisingly unsentimental about eating the bunnies they raise. The book is Searching for Family and Traditions at the French Table, #Two by Carole Bumpus.

Tonight Subie and Phil came for happy hour, and we had a lively discussion—of the title business. They quizzed Christian on his work, what he did, how it affects home buyers. Educational and interesting. We managed some other conversation too, and as Subie said, it was good just to see people. Subie questioned how our patio can be so cool and comfortable when the rest of the world is sweltering, but it’s true—it really is a lovely place to be. Christian pointed out that it is tree covered and never gets sun—which is why there’s so much ground cover and no grass. But the new grass in the center of the yard is doing well, and Christian is faithfully watering. Jordan will be proud when she comes home.

Tonight, Chef Christian fixed sesame chicken, and I quick sautéed some asparagus. A good meal.

And so another week begins. I lose track as they roll one into the next, but I hope it is a good week for each of you. Stay safe and well.

Sunday, oh Sunday!

Went to church (euphemism for watching an online service) by myself this morning, since the family had gone to celebrate with friends who joined our church today—a momentous occasion for them, and Jordan made sure that it was well celebrated. I stayed home, made chicken salad for supper, and did a bit of writing. Leftovers for lunch.

This evening our neighbors down the block, Greg and Jaimie Smith, came for happy hour, and the man behind the screen (Jay) and his wife (Susan) joined us. Greg used to do my lawn, and Sophie adores him, so she was in heaven—and he paid her lots of attention. We were all sorry they didn’t bring Levon, their new English shepherd/doodle pup. It was good to see these neighbors we simply don’t see enough of.

Sophie has a sad story. After her morning of joyous and carefree abandon, she began to limp in the evening—Friday, this was. By Saturday morning, she was moving tentatively, like an old lady. Quite a contrast to the happy abandonment twenty-four hours earlier. I called the vet in a panic, but they were totally booked for the morning. I was distraught because I thought perhaps she got a sliver of glass from a broken wine glass, though we worked hard to clean up ever little bit, and also because she was clearly in such misery. I couldn’t bear the thought of her in pain all weekend. To my relief, the vet on duty volunteered to stay late to see her, and Jordan and Jacob whisked her up to the clinic.

Seems Sophie has been tearing up the pads on her paws for some time—she had old, healed cuts, and fresh new ones. Hearing this, I realized that ground cover is probably really hard on her paws, something I’d never thought of. She had a shot and came home with two kinds of medicine. Tonight she is almost back to her old self but sticking close to me, staying in the cottage, and not interested at all in running outside.

After our company left, we had chicken salad for supper, disguised for Christian’s benefit as a chicken casserole. It’s a cold salad that you top with cheese and crushed potato chips and run under the broiler briefly at the last moment. To my relief, he went back for a second helping. So I start the week with plentiful leftovers—a bit of tuna salad, some salmon, a small serving of potato casserole, and a generous helping of chicken salad. So good to have such delicious things to look forward to. I’m told chicken piccata is on the menu for supper one night, at Jacob’s request.

So, high ho, here we go—into what for us is the thirteenth week of quarantine. Yes, we’ve relaxed a bit but not much, and each little bit of relaxation, each new face we introduce makes me a bit nervous. I am still content, though watching the protests and the government response with tenacious—and sometimes indignant interest. For me, the week holds more writing—a short project, which wrote itself in my mind today and I must get on paper, and the novel, which is nearing the end and is more of a puzzle to me. I look forward to all of it. Sometimes I pinch myself about how blessed I am.

The sermon this morning was about hope, and I admit I have abundant hope for the future—for my family, for Texas, and for the country. For the long slow slog out of racial discrimination to begin finally, truly. The protestors will not be ignored—and good for them. As someone else said, “Hold on, folks. It’s gonna’ be a rough ride.” But a good one. I have faith in the American form of government and in the American people (most of them).

Have a good week, everyone. Stay well and stay safe.

Highlights of an ordinary day

General Tso's chicken with a lettuce wrap

Ordinary days are pretty common during quarantine, and this started out to be one of them. I have noticed that the weather affects my mood more in quarantine than usual, and this morning I felt draggy, a bit lethargic, not bursting with enthusiasm. Of course, I did—it was predicted to be rainy day, although the sun shone all morning. In the late afternoon, a friend who lives maybe three blocks away emailed they got 20 minutes of rain. I was looking at dry sidewalks. One of us has our stories mixed.

Highlight of the day should be Christian’s dinner. He really looked forward to cooking for us. General Tso’s chicken, a dish I’ve heard about a lot and never tried. But more about that later.

The day began with church, after I fiddled with email and the news of the day which was as it often is pretty discouraging. But church was good. I am continually amazed at the creativity and passion that my church brings to online services. Today, the photography particularly impressed me. And the way they involve lay members in the service—children participating in the call to worship, a member reading Scripture. And an inspirational message from Dr. Russ Peterman on the current theme of “Now, what?” So we’ve had Easter and we have the resurrection, but how does that help us live our daily lives on this planet—and in this sorely divided country? His answer? To remember that all of us, no matter our beliefs on politics and the virus, are children of God. That’s an oversimplification, but ….

Then my neighbors, Pru and Victor Zavala, surprised me with a feast for lunch. They hurried to grill before the rain came and sent a plate of corn on the cob, chicken thighs, sausage, and beans, with strawberry sweet bread for dessert. Absolutely delicious. I believe Victor has a career as a pit master should he ever want to give up surgery. Oh, and a sweet strawberry bread topped with turbinado sugar which gave it a slight crunchiness.

So I settled down to nap and then work at my computer while awaiting Christian’s dinner. But June Bug, one of the Burton Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, had a special treat for me. Junie is nine or ten, deaf, has had a heart attack, and—there’s no getting around it—senile. Sweet as she is, her elevator does not go all the way to the top. She likes to come in the cottage because she thinks she can snitch some of Sophie’s food. But tonight she got right in front of me, squatted, and peed a lake on my wood floor (fortunately she missed the rug, but she did highlight the uneven floor of my cottage—everything runs downhill to the north, so pee ran into corners and under the desk). I called Jordan. She came out, justifiably furious, and began a lengthy cleanup process, assisted by Jacob. I was shoved out of the way, but I couldn’t tell which smelled worse—the pee or the cleaning/disinfecting products. Finally, I poured two glasses of wine and we went to the patio. Jordan even jokingly offered Jacob a glass, but he laughingly declined. More turmoil than any of us needed on an ordinary day. June Bug is banned from the cottage, but that means someone has to either tell me she’s out or shut my door—sometimes she sneaks in and I don’t know it until she comes from the bedroom, having gone the long way around.

But we got past that bit of trauma and had a great dinner. I sat on the front porch with Jordan so I could see the pugs that a neighbor walks every evening about 7:30--cute dogs and a friendly neighbor. Then General Tso’s chicken--fried chicken pieces in a sweet/sour sauce—so good. And Christian made lettuce wraps with ground turkey because he couldn’t find chicken. At dinner, he said, “I have a confession,” and we waited breathlessly for what would come—but it was that the filling for the wraps was turkey, not chicken.

Also at the dinner table, we discussed long-range plans if the pandemic continues for a year or more. Where would we go to get away? Perhaps building plans in the air, but it’s a thought to consider. If staying healthy is still a primary concern in the future, how and where will we live? I’m too old to think about it, but I recognize in myself the signs of becoming a recluse. I need to work on that. More about it at another time.

All in all, another satisfying day in quarantine—with unexpected highlights. And a lot to think about.

Resting on the Sabbath – maybe

Sundays always just “feel” different to me. Maybe it’s because even in quarantine I know I’m going to church. This morning, Jordan wanted to “attend” the nine o’clock service because she wanted to spend mid-day at a neighbor’s pool. So I was barely up and into my morning routine when we put everything on hold for church. Another inspiring service, with Russ Peterman’s theme of “What Now?” After Easter, what now? What lasting impact does the Easter miracle have on our lives?

This morning he talked about anxiety and said his family decided they didn’t yet have enough stress and anxiety in quarantine, so they adopted a border collie puppy. He showed clips, and she is adorable but energetic with both puppy playfulness and border collie unquenchable enthusiasm for life. The clip showed her deviling the family’s older dog—biting at her ear, her collar, her face. The older dog’s look, according to Dr. Peterman, said, “Are you just going to sit there and let her do this?”

I could identify because Sophie is half border collie. Now, at nine, she is more sedate but she was wildness on wheels as a puppy. Dr. Peterman said it was actually a good time for a puppy because everyone was home and could train her. I remembered that I didn’t get Sophie until I was retired and home 24/7 with her. And I remembered my  scratched and bitten arms. One Sunday Jordan was so embarrassed by them she urged me to wear long sleeves to church.

After church, I piddled. I decided I would not work. I would take a rest from my novel. So I dawdled on Facebvook and read the entirety of the New York Times Community Cooking page. Then the Sisters in Crime posts, and truly whatever. But I knew in the back of my mind that I was avoiding the novel because my mind was in turmoil about where it should go next.

So I reviewed the notes I had made, and almost before I knew it, I was writing. I didn’t add much but it got me off dead center, and I went back and plugged some holes in the plot consistency, added some motivation.

But when I took my usual afternoon nap, I couldn’t sleep because I was still writing that novel. Woke with notes of things I must plug in tomorrow. I fear I am at the point where the novel is with me night and day. When I told Jordan it was costing me sleep, she said that’s the time you take a vacation from it. She’s right, and I should have done it today.

So chalk up one more day of distancing. Twelve of Jacob’s friends went to lunch today, and he was uncertain what to tell them about why he didn’t go. Jordan suggested, “I didn’t go because I don’t want to kill my grandmother.” I appreciated that. Much as I don’t like the idea, I can see two years of mostly being quarantined. Infections and deaths are already spiking where re-opening is happening, and I look with horror at people shown on TV eating on patios, shopping, going to the beach—all without maks. But we are also hearing that some of the most adamant protestors—a pastor, a bar owner, etc..—who decried the isolation policy are dying. I’ll stay home, thank you, and I am grateful that my family is protecting me—and themselves.

Earth Sunday

My patio during the hailstorm

Earth Sunday started with a bang in my small corner of the world. The last weather report I’d heard said showers would be gone by seven or eight in the morning, so I thought nothing of them. It was neither particularly sunny nor particularly gray—until about ten or so, when I suddenly began to hear distant thunder. Gradually, it got closer—and so did Sophie, who crept up to lie right behind my chair. Then came a heavy, steady rain. And then! A new noise. Took me a minute to realize, it was hail.

North Texas is notable for unpredictable weather, but we don’t get a lot of hail, especially not this late in the spring. Last I can remember was several years ago, in March, when I had a devastating roof leak. This was mostly small hail, maybe dime-size, but there were a few balls that approached quarter or even golf-ball size. They sure seemed to rattle against my south windows. A few minutes can seem like a long time, but it was over fairly quickly. And, praise be, no damage.

By the time we “went” to church, the sky was clear again. University Christian Church is doing such a terrific job with keeping us together as church during social distancing. Today, in recognition of Earth Sunday (Earth Day is Wednesday, April 22), the service was filmed outdoors, except for a few musical parts. Try as I might I couldn’t recognize the spot and will have to drive by the church to find it, but the service began with senior minister Russ Peterman, casually dressed, coming through an arbor with some kind of blooming spring vine all over it. Other segments were filmed in various spots, but the sense of God’s nature was strong.

Russ Peterman preaching, outdoors, without notes

Pretty impressive

Fittingly, the sermon was on the global reaction to the health crisis. Pointing out that the Chinese symbol for pandemic or health crisis has two symbols—one for disaster and one for opportunity—Dr. Peterman suggested that this is a time of deep awakening. Because social distancing, staying at home, with fewer factories operating, fewer cars on our roads and planes in our skies, has resulted in such dramatic dropping of dangerous gasses in the environment and in cleaner air and rivers, he suggested that we can either go back to what was normal—or we can move forward to a new and much better normal. It is up to us.

In a nostalgic note, I have to add that I loved the music. Various stanzas of “For the Beauty of the Earth” were interspersed, with different soloists, throughout the service. It is one of the old hymns from my childhood, and I can almost sing all verses without a hymnal. This morning, I hummed along with the music…and loved it.

We haven’t been doing much take-out for our meals. I guess it’s partly economical, partly li8king our own cooking, and partly leery of contact with the outside world. But last night we ordered from Enchiladas Olé which has recently opened a second location in our neighborhood. May be the best chicken enchiladas with sour cream sauce that I’ve ever had. Good guac, spicy beans, rice with each serving—and such generous portions. We’ll do that again.

So here we go—another week of quarantine. I’m craving, of all things, oysters Rockefeller—credit that to an article I read about oysters—and I’m missing good friends. One wrote me this evening that she is ready for shared glasses of wine, and I certainly am too. But I have work to do, and I’m content. Like many Americans, I am afraid that the president and some governors will open the world too quickly, and we’ll see great spikes in cases. I am also appalled at the protests, except that I have known we have ignorant protestors who are always looking for a cause and have now found a new one. A meme today said they are protesting because of “Muh freedums.” So apt. It both amuses and horrifies me that they feel it appropriate to carry rifles during their protests. Their ignorance and thoughtlessness is appalling, especially when you read about the severity of some cases of covid-19 and the desperate and lonely deaths of many victims. I hope common sense prevails. I know I for one am staying quarantined and am most grateful to be able to do that. I hope you can too.