A wild start to the day

 

Everyone in the Metroplex has a similar story, except maybe for the complication of the dog. My security system began sending off shrill messages at 7:45 this morning, waking me from a sound sleep. Lest you think I’m a slug abed, I was up at 4:30 and 6:30 with Sophie, the latter for half an hour. The system so rarely goes off that at first I thought it was an Amber Alert. Gradually though I realized what it was. Still, it took me three or four trips to figure out how to silence it, and then the thing went off twice more. Sophie stuck so close I nearly tripped over her.

I wasn’t inspired to stay up, especially not in the closet, but Jordan urged me to at least give it half an hour—sirens were going off, the sky was that ominous yellow/green, and to the west I could see clouds boiling in the kind of sky that can spit out a tornado. Still I could see that the storm causing the concern was a good bit north of us. Then I lost signals to the TV and computer. Rain pelted down, and the wind was wild, blowing most of the last leaves off the trees. About 8:30 the color of the sky changed, the rain slowed just a bit, and I went back to sleep. It was too dark, and I was too sleepy to stay up.

By mid-afternoon, the sun was shining, and it was a beautiful day. Ah, Texas. But for me, the day was off to a slow start—and late. I never did get as much done as I intended. The wind blew so many leaves down that the yard guys, who had blown the yard clean yesterday, were back this afternoon. Most of the trees are bare enough but the two big oaks have some leaves that are stubbornly clinging. When they blew yesterday, a whole green lawn emerged—they had seeded winter rye a couple of weeks ago. Such a beautiful green.

The storms, however, were no laughing matter. There was severe damage in several small towns to the north. Some homes are probably beyond repair, which is an awful thing just before Christmas. To think of having your life ripped apart in that way is to horrible. I have not heard of serious injuries or fatalities, which is a blessing.

Now it’s evening. Jordan is wrapping Christmas gifts at my coffee table, Jacob is studying for finals (he had pre-calculus today which he says is his worst subject and would be worse than that for me), and Christian is lingering on the couch—I fear I have given him my cold. At his request, I’m cooking onions and kielbasa for supper—I’ll augment mine with a bit of sauerkraut. Had a nice dinner invitation tonight—a chance to see Mary and Joe’s new apartment and have fried chicken at a favorite restaurant--but I still don’t have the energy, and Jordan feels she should be home in case Jacob needs something. Joe also has come down with a cold—I’m beginning to feel like Typhoid Mary, except that I know the cold is widespread and they are out in the world more than I am, so they caught it somewhere else.

Congratulations to Sue Lyon Springfield, “my Canadian daughter,” who was sworn in as a U.S. citizen today. She studied hard and passed the test a couple of weeks ago, though she, usually so composed, confessed to nerves. It was an oral exam, and she answered all ten questions correctly. She had to study a hundred questions and tripped me up on one or two. No one was allowed into the ceremony, so husband Teddy took this picture outside.

Apparently, our storms are over, but cold weather is scheduled fo this weekend, with possibly our first freeze.

Singing the blues

 

This dismal, damp day is a perfect reflection of the way I feel. I don’t know how long it’s been since I had a good, old-fashioned common cold, but one of the upper respiratory type has hit me. For several days I passed it off as allergies, but clearly it is not. I’m coughing, my throat feels tight, and I’m hoarse—I won’t get any more clinical than that. I was emailing with Sue, my Canadian daughter, this morning, and she wrote, “How in the world did you catch cold? You never go anywhere?” That startled me. Do you have to go somewhere? I actually have been out a couple of times, and people come to see me. And who knows how you catch cold? Maybe it’s just airborne. I’m not sure scientists know. It just happens, and then you have to live with it for a week or ten days.

Last night for our regular Tuesday night happy hour we had “Hot Dog Happy Hour.” Mary’s husband doesn’t eat hot dogs, and good German girl that she is, she occasionally craves a hot dog with relish and kraut. Always a good meal to me, so Jordan served us and included some Bush’s Original Baked Beans. A great meal, but hallway through I couldn’t eat. I think it was my cold. Took a moment and finished most of my dinner, but the episode upset me.

Then I had an angry phone call about the neighborhood newsletter I edit. I am really upset with myself that I ended up raising my voice in an effort to stop my critic from talking over me. Didn’t help and worsened my hoarseness and sore throat. Looking back, I should have put the phone on speaker, let her rave, and ignored it. But I was blindsided by the call. Next time!

Unfortunately I took those two incidents to bed with me and dreamt about them. But I slept ten and a half hours which I figure I needed. Sleep for me is never continuous—I am up to use the restroom (a curse of aging, I think) and in the wee hours, up to feed Sophie, then up an hour later to let her out. But still, I had plenty of good long sleep.

This morning I cancelled my dinner plans, a good move since I feel lethargic, and my cough is now to the point where it might alarm other restaurant patrons. I actually did a lot of work this morning, but then took a long nap. When Sophie first woke me, I thought I had written a long blog, but the details blurred as I got going.

My dream blog had to do with a company re-introducing Dorothy Gray cologne—you have to be really old to remember that, but it was the fragrance my mother always wore. In an effort to imitate that, I have worn Jean Naté for years—nothing else, just the one scent. Once in a car going who knows where one of my granddaughters held my hand and then said, “You smell like your house.” “Maybe,” I suggested, “my house smells like me.” The idea must have intrigued me because the rest of the dream had to do with a log cabin that smelled like Dorothy Gray.

At lunchtime I got ambitious and made myself some chicken salad, though I ate very little. I’m in the mood for “invalid food” though not quite to the point of my mom’s milk toast. Her crackers and butter in milk were pretty good, though, and my stock favorite was a can of tomatoes (they didn’t come diced in the day, and in my childhood, they were often home canned) with crushed saltines and lots of butter. But tonight, I think a “Tom Sawyer”—poached egg on a raft of cheddar cheese and toast. What’s your favorite comfort food?