A day lost to technology—or was it?

 

Jacob working on assembling the composter

The finished assembly

You have no idea what a triumph those two pictures represent. It’s not just that Jacob put the composter together and got it set up out in the driveway—though that in itself is a victory. But the big deal is that I took those pictures with my phone and was finally able to send them to my computer, so that I could use them in a blog. Actually, I meant to use them several days ago when I blogged about the compost tumbler as part of the finally disappearing chaos at the cottage. But my phone wouldn’t cooperate.

Two weeks ago tomorrow, in the car coming back from Santa Fe, I noticed that I wasn’t getting any emails through my TCU account. Strange, because I always get at least 50 a day. The next day, home and settled, with my computer set up on my desk, I found a bunch of emails waiting on that account. And when I tried to send photos from my phone to my computer, nothing happened (which hampered my blogging a whole lot—my theory is a blog without pictures is mostly ignored).

Colin and I tried countless fixes over the phone—he in Tomball and me here at home. Nothing worked. If I have a computer problem, he takes over my computer and generally fixes it, but with the phone, he couldn’t see what was happening. He said I needed to get a Burton out here to Facetime with him and show him my phone, but it was a busy weekend, and I never found a tactful time to ask for that help. I told him I’d call the Help Desk at TCU—but I had to wait until Monday and TCU’s re-opening.

Monday came and went, Tuesday a doctor’s appointment took up too much of the day—I was stalling, because I was afraid trying to correct the problem would involve a long, long phone call with TCU and my inept computer skills would be revealed—and it was just something I dreaded. I was getting by because I still got emails on the computer, but the photo business really stymied me.

So this morning I called, and I got a lovely, understanding service tech named Cathleen. She walked me through re-installing the program (at some point I had deleted it from the phone)—something I had to do three times before I got it right, but she was patient, kept reassuring me. When it was all done, I had incoming mail on my phone and could send outgoing messages—but not photos.

Early afternoon Cathleen and I talked again, but by then I had on my own discovered a work-around: I’m not sure what you’d call the method I’d been using for years, but I activated Outlook on the phone and discovered I could send photos through that app. Hence, the photos you see.

An unrelated problem: in trying to make a call the other day, my thumb slid across the screen and suddenly the phone stopped speaking to my hearing aids. I could hear on different settings but not as clearly, and if someone called me, it went to the aids and was fine. Magically, this afternoon that corrected itself. Mine not to question, but I am pretty sure somewhere in all my dealings with TCU I turned the phone off and back on again, and I suspect the hearing aid program reset itself when I did that.

As you may tell, I have strong technology insecurities, so today was a long, trying day. (Okay, yes I had a nap—I told Cathleen I would be “out of pocket” or a couple of hours!). Still, it is always a relief to me to have all my technological things—computer, phone, hearing aids—working smoothly so I don’t have to worry about them.

And it’s also a relief when your cardiologist says, “See you in a year!” Thanks to Christian for taking me all the way to Harris Southwest for the appointment.

Things are looking up. Now if I can just get a handle on this cookbook/memoir about the Fifties.

Sweet dreams, y’all.

Baking a cake amid chaos

 

I baked a cake today. It’s probably the first time in twenty years or more that I’ve done that. I love to cook, but I am not a baker. Baking requires precision—the recipe I followed today advised measuring ingredients. I dutifully hauled out my kitchen scale and measured the bittersweet chocolate bits--three ounces is a lot more bits than I thought. But measure flour? Naw, not me. There are too many other things to be done. But I did try hard to follow the directions step by step and not succumb to my usual slapdash method of thinking I could outsmart the recipe. The thing that got me into this is that I have been intrigued by the idea of olive oil cakes--I expect them to be flourless cakes. Time will tell, because this cake is for dinner guests tomorrow night, and I have done no more than sniff the finished product and satisfy myself that it smells quite chocolatey. It’s also a cake in a springform pan—I even bought a new such because my old one is warped and unusable—it leaks. I didn’t exactly buy the pan to make this one cake—I frequently find recipes that call for a springform and I’ve been ignoring them. But in a way, this cake is why I bought it right now. What I really needed was another good-sized pan to fit into my oh-so-limited cupboard space.

Baking this cake weighed on my mind all day. I was on the phone with Colin today, discussing business things and trying to figure out why my phone won’t talk to my TCU email account—or why the account suddenly cut off my phone. We were both frustrated—he because he couldn’t see what I was doing on my phone, and me because baking the cake hovered over me. No one else gave me that deadline—it was self-imposed, but it might as well be cast in stone.

Truth is, we are still not settled in after the chaos of Christmas. Take, for instance, the new composter. Jacob came out at noon today to unpack it, but it proved more of a chore than either of us anticipated. It has, according to his estimate, a thousand screws. And he got the frame mostly put together before he announced the parts were wrong and it wouldn’t work—and oh yes he had something to do at one o’clock. He left, with parts of the tumbler spread all over the couch and the coffee table. I looked at the frame for a long time, and I suspect he has one part in the wrong place. I was prepared to ask Katie, my dinner guest, to help me shove it all on to the couch, but Jordan came out and did it. I could have left the thing in the box where it would have taken up a lot of room in the cottage, but school starts next week, and I thought if I didn’t get us started on it, the composter would still be in its box come Spring. Besides I cooked a lot this week and was struck by how much I put in the garbage that could have been compost. Lots of vegetable scraps—peelings from onions and garlic, almost half a head of lettuce that had been in the fridge too long, some cabbage, and so on.

The composter isn’t the only problem. Tonight I finally got the computer cords so that I can recharge my remote keyboard and mouse—but I need help to connect them. This cord business is a real puzzle—we re-hooked the computer after I was away at Thanksgiving, and all was in order; got to Santa Fe at Christmas and I didn’t have the right cords. Once home, they are nowhere to be found, and the cords I have don’t fit. Colin told me what to order, and that’s what came today. They fit—but the back of the computer is in the same narrow space as Sophie’s crate, so my walker and I can’t get in there. I will pounce on the first person who comes out here tomorrow.

Then there’s the problem of canned dog food. I am out. For days Amazon has been warning me they couldn’t fill the standing order. But they said they’d send my first-choice substitute. Apparently, they forgot that part because I’ve had only a notice chicken and wild rice is unavailable; no notice of shipping a substitute. Cricket’s supply is out too. Jordan bought one can today at the grocery. Sophie is not fussy and wolfed down her evening supper. But tomorrow will come—and I shudder to think of my strong-willed dog if she doesn’t get her meat for supper. Kibble is not going to do it.

My sense of chaos was lightened by friend Katie who came to dinner. Her late husband, a man I thought was wonderful, was a cook; Katie is not. So she’s always pleased with my dinners. I told her I thought I was in a rut, serving her casserole and salad, but she pointed out she’s never complained. And she went home with a baggie of tuna casserole. Katie and I have kids and grandkids about the same age, and we share an outlook on life—including on national and Texas politics. So we always have lots to talk about. It’s good to share, though her outlook on the upcoming elections is not quite as optimistic as mine. Still, I am grateful to her for good company and for taking in stride the chaos and making it, in my mind, a little less urgent. Besides, she Is a Sophie fan.

Friends are, always, a permanent blessing; chaos is temporary. Thanks be to God.

Sunshine following storms

 

Controlling the kitchen? Well, maybe

Everyone has their story after last night’s terrific storms swept across Texas and moved on east. Our story is one of incredible gratitude. Texans tend to get a bit blasé about storm warnings—we get them a lot and often they peter out. But there was something different yesterday—a more threatening note. Even the governor began damage control before the storm. TV weatherman tracked it minute by minute, and as it approached we were urged not to wait but to go to a safe spot.

Jordan wanted me to come into the house, especially after she heard that two eighteen-wheeleers had been blown off the highway at Weatherford. I declined, saying I could go to my closet if necessary. “How will you know?” she asked, and I said I’d keep listening to the TV weather reports and I’d look out the window. Because they said to stay away from west-facing windows, I pulled the shades down on the French doors and one window on that side of the cottage. I think the doors are plexiglass and not glass—ought to check on that.

What I didn’t count on and should have was the power outage. The storm hit at 6:00 p.m. and the power went off at 6:01. With the shades pulled, it suddenly got very dark. For a moment, I thought I was trapped in the bathroom, because the walker kept hitting an immoveable object. The flashlight on my phone told me I was trying to plow into the plumbing pipes under the sink!

So there I was, back at my desk—no light, no computer. What does a writer do in that situation? Well, I tried meditating, but I’ve never been very good at that—my mind jumps from subject to subject. Finally I decided I’d crawl into my bed. You guessed it—I fell sound asleep, only to be awakened suddenly when the electricity came on about seven and the cottage lit up. I guess Jordan had turned on all the lights before the storm. We finished the dinner that was in the slow cooker and praised the Lord for no damage.

This morning the sun shone brightly and you’d have never known there was a storm unless you turned on the TV. Reports of extensive damage, but blessedly little loss of life, have come in all day. I am particularly distressed for a mom-and-pop greenery whose greenhouses, full of carefully nurtured seedlings, were destroyed.

For me, it was a day of computer troubles. It all started because I couldn’t get into Central Market online to place my grocery order. I called Colin and ended taking way too much of his morning—fortunately he was working at home. He finally installed a new VPN and it seemed to fix the problem, once we minimized the connection map. But it was about two and a half hours of frustration, when I had a lot of work waiting for me. I told myself the situation was beyond my control (and my ability to fix it) and it wasn’t the end of the world. That self-lecture worked—to some extent.

Tonight I have my groceries (Jordan even boned two Rotisserie chickens for me), my computer is working, I’ve made a stab at organizing my tax information, and all seems well with the world. Tonight I’ll proofread—or sort tax receipts.

Some days the world seems so out of control, with partisanship divides in our government, book bans and curriculum censorship, state laws criminalizing abortion (and now drag shows), drug deaths among teens—the list is endless. Yet I found a news brief with a quote that encouraged me. Raghavan Iyer is a cookbook author and teacher who has brought the food of India to thousands of Americans. Now he has been diagnosed with metastatic cancer, and he is using his time to encourage people about comfort food no matter what cuisine it comes from. In an interview, he said, “If I can control the kitchen, I can control my life.” I think I will make it my mantra.

Hope everyone is safe and was as fortunate as we were last night. It’s spring in Texas—sometimes wonderful, sometimes terrifying, always unpredictable.

Missing church, a frustrating day, and a fun dinner

 

Brinner

For the first time in forever, I didn’t make online church this morning, and I suppose it wasn’t even for a very good reason. I hope the Lord understands. I was frustrated with the computer world.

All day yesterday I tried to order online from Central Market and always got an “Access Denied” response with security cited as the issue. I’ve had this problem before and customer service has been responsive and quick. Not so today. I think the lady lost patience with me because I told her I was hard of hearing and elderly—so she thought “dementia.” She was helpful but not very. So then I called son Colin who took over my computer and spent an hour figuring things out. Finally, he made Central Market a trusted site, and I was in.

But meantime I ordered by phone, which has its own perils. Dealt with a nice woman who really tried, but now I have God’s quantity of ground rosemary—don’t ask!—and an equal amount of dried parsley flakes, which I will eventually use if I live long enough. I got most of what I want, but ground turkey instead of beef—oh well, turkey burgers will be good one night.

In fixing Central Market, Colin left other problems, a couple of which I finally solved. But there was a huge blank white screen in the middle of my screen saver and I couldn’t get into Twitter, which I know should not be a huge problem these days when people are bowing out of Twitter in droves. But there are some left-leaning columnists I like—David Corn, David Frum, Rick Wilson. Tonight, after yet another session with Colin these seem to be solved. Wish all of life’s problems were so easily fixed. But the whole things left me exhausted.

Tonight we had brinner—breakfast for dinner, a potluck affair with three sets of friends. We used to do this more often before pandemic, so it was fun to rehook. And we had an amazing supper—sausage and cheese on a biscuit, potato casserole, baked egg casserole, bacon and sausage, French toast casserole. Not the meal if you’re struggling with your waistline. Conversation tended to be mostly about food, both cooking it at home and restaurants. At one point, neighbor Jay (the good looking one) asked, “After we’ve had such an amazing meal, why are we talking about where to eat next?” But in a big way, it was talk about keeping up with how much our city has changed and grown, even since pandemic.

Sophie and I survived the first night of standard time. She slept until six, daylight savings time, which means she ate at five, which she often does. I had dreaded the thought of a four o’clock demand for food. (Why do we do that? For a few days after a time change, we measure everything against the time it “should have been”—five o’clock a.m. is really six o’clock, etc.) I also survived—slept until 8:15 (new time, with several interruptions), had a good nap, but now I’m so sleepy.

The week ahead brings a dinner guest, a doctor’s appointment, and, I hope, a lot of time for Irene’s adventures. I keep living them in my head, particularly when I sleep, so I really need to get them on paper.

What about you? How are you handing the switch from daylight to standard time?

Not my favorite day

 

Oh, Texas was sunny and pretty enough today, and the temperature just a bit on the chilly side. A perfect day for football, and the Frogs did it again—beat Tech to add to their unbroken streak. I’m not particularly a football fan—in fact, I am known for resenting TCU football because of all the money it gets while my poor publishing division was constantly threatened with closure to save money. I know all the conventional arguments, so that’s neither here nor there.

But I had a total, at best, of five minutes of human contact today: two driveway visits with the dog groomer while we discussed how long the fur on the top of Sophie’s head should be. I thought shortening it a bit might cut down on her tendency to look like a poodle, and Nathan agreed. Tonight, it’s shorter, but she still looks like a poodle. And Jordan blew in and out of the cottage about five o’clock, so rapidly I hardly knew she was here. Sophie and I had some long discussions, if somewhat one-sided.

The computer world didn’t like me either today. I need to place an order for Central Market—Jordan will go to Albertson’s tomorrow, but there are some things I can only get from CM. Every time I try it tells me “Access Denied” for security reasons. It’s done this before and eventually rights itself, but I can’t wait too long. Jacob can go get groceries tomorrow or Monday afternoon, and I’d like to have them for a guest Monday night.

I am not a big contributor to political campaigns, but as is evident, I am pretty desperate about the mid-terms. Pleas from Raphael Warnock, John Fetterman, and Tim Ryan have especially gotten to me. So I decided to send each a small amount. But Act Blue greets me with FORIDDEN. And I’ve gotten twenty-eleven appeals to renew my Democratic membership, which I did five times until I gave up. I’m still getting those begging emails.

Tonight I was on my own for supper, so I decided to defrost a chicken thigh that’s been in the freezer too long. I used to season thighs with soy and pepper and lemon and roast them until they were cooked through and the skin was crisp for the kids. To my dismay when I defrosted this one it was boneless and skinless. Since I’m such an advocate of bone-in, skin-on chicken, I can’t imagine I ordered that. But I decided to roast it with salt, pepper, and a couple of pieces of onion—good flavor. Then I made it into chicken salad.

There are two schools of thought about chicken salad: chunks of chicken or flaked meat. I often do chunks just out of laziness, but tonight I flaked it, added lemon, green onion, and some celery for crunch. Then just enough mayo and sour cream to bind. It was okay but not great. My takeaway: white meat makes better salad. But there was also something watery about this that I haven’t figured out yet.

Tonight is the night all dog owners dread—the switch back to central standard time. Sophie woke me at five this morning, so I assume she’ll wake me at four tomorrow. How do I explain to her that even though her stomach tells her she’s hungry (when isn’t she?), it’s too early. I am not hopeful, and this transition always takes days.

I read today that in ancient times people slept in shorter periods. After four hours or so, they’d awaken, put wood on the fire, use the restroom, do whatever and then go back to bed where, refreshed after their earlier sleeip, they would make babies—honest, that’s what the source said—and then sleep for another four hours. They called it First and Second Sleep. So, if you routinely wake at four, it’s not insomnia—your body is following an ancient rhythm. And I actually find that my Second Sleep is often deeper and more satisfying. What you do with the interval is up to you!

An interesting note I found today: An eclipse on election night will result in a blood-red moon all across the country for a brief time. Before you take that as an omen, you should know that history or legend tells us that feminine power surges with the blood-red moon. So, ladies, use your power! Get out and vote!

Thoughts on aging, independence, and who knows what

 

My generation has grown old

A friend complained to me the other night about ageism, and I thought to myself I rarely feel that. When feminism had us ladies all up at arms, I rarely felt that I was discriminated against. Maybe I’m just insensitive, but I remember Karen Perkins, founder of the Women’s Center and a real dynamo for women’s rights. I once heard her say she didn’t mind bringing the potato salad as long as she had a seat at the table. And that was me—I almost always felt I had a seat at the table. Oh, sure, at the university, some tried to pat me on the head (thank goodness not elsewhere) and tell me I was a good girl, but I knew how to use that.

But as if to spite me ageism came up the very next night after my friend brought it up. I was frustrated with a computer access problem. To this minute, I remain convinced that it was a problem of the slight tremor in my hands (Facebook wanted to photograph my i.d. card and each try resulted in the command to retake) and not of my computer understanding, but somehow my whole family got involved, it became a big issue (via telephone), and I was advised to read a book and go to sleep. My computer guru son-in-law would fix it in the morning. Let me say it outright: I was offended, probably out of proportion because my frustration level was so high. Contrary to everyone’s loving advice, I did not go to sleep. I tossed and turned and fretted well into the wee hours of the morning.

Brandon did fix it, though bless him, it took about an hour out of his workday and a long phone call. But all is well, and I am back in Facebook’s good graces—don’t judge, it’s an important part of my day. But the incident got me to thinking about independence. As Jean, who dines with me often, will testify, I’m pretty firm about not wanting help in the kitchen. I remind myself of my kids when they were little: “I do it by self!” But to me, it’s part of showing that I’m still capable—in the kitchen, at the computer.

If I need help, I ask for it. And I often do. I can’t get that bowl that is stored high in my closet, nor can my walker and I get around the coffee table to straighten the pillows Sophie has dislodged on the couch. Little stuff, but the things I can’t do. Someone asked recently if I was getting the care I need, and my response was, “Care? I don’t need much care. I just need someone to check that I’ve not fallen (I almost always have my phone with me, especially in the night on a bathroom trip) and to make sure I didn’t die in my sleep. A longtime friend recently was home alone for several days. When his wife returned from a trip, she found him on the floor, unable to get up. Best guess is that he had a stroke, fell and hit his head, and lay there for 24 hours. When you get to be my age, such is always a possibility, so I am grateful that Jordan looks out every morning to be sure I have raised the blind in my kitchen door.

But if insisting on doing what I can is part of the picture, so is accepting what I cannot do. Someone recently said unhappily that she could no longer walk a half mile—since from here to the main house stretches my abilities, I wasn’t as sympathetic as I perhaps could have been. But my philosophy these days is that in my 80+ years I have lived a full life, had a lot of wonderful experiences, and now the time is for me to treasure those memories, perhaps live on them. Oh, sure, in my dreams I am sometimes once again fleet of foot, but that’s a dream, not a reality. I probably cannot take that cross-country railroad trip I’d love to take, though Jamie insists he and I can do it, and I may or may not ever get to Santa Fe again (jury’s out on that one). I probably won’t fly again, mostly because I’m not an easy flyer and there’s no place I want to go badly enough to get on a plane. Chicago is a possible exception, especially since I’m now writing books set there. But my whole point is that I’m not going to kvetch (a great Yiddish word for complain) about what I can’t do but stress what I can do. And enjoy.

Last night, Jordan had a group of friends at the house to pick up their travel documents. They are all going to Cabo together to celebrate Christian’s 50^th (other kids will babysit me and at first, I was a bit unsure about needing babysitters, but our friend’s fall has me grateful they will be here). As the party was dwindling inside, some five or six of them came out to say hello. We laughed and joked and for ten minutes or so, the cottage was the happiest place you can imagine. Jordan (and I) have known these folks since their high school days. All I could think was how lucky I am that all these years later, they still want to come see Juju, share their excitement, show a little love (no hugging—covid lurks). I am blessed, and that’s what I will continue to focus on.

A staycation day

 

How I spent my staycation day

In his column this morning, New York Times food editor Sam Sifton wrote that everyone needs a day away in these troubled times. We are in the third year of the pandemic and the third week of Russia’s brutal, bloody invasion of Ukraine. Be kind to yourself. Take a day to lie on the couch (notice I said lie, not lay) and read a book.

For me, it was a lazy day to begin with because we got a late start on it, due to daylight savings, which I welcome wholeheartedly. I know a lot of people moan and groan, but I love sleeping a bit later in the morning, and I love the long, light evenings when we can sit outside, barring mosquitoes, until eight or nine. Some people claim they’d be happy if the government would just choose one or the other, but I would be devastated if they chose central time. All those dark depressing days when it gets dark before supper.

On my agenda today was—not much. Virtual church, check my email, that’s about it. Christian is cooking chicken piccata, and my only responsibility is green beans. I’m trying a new, easy cook method I read about—toss with olive oil, lemon, salt and pepper and bake at 325 for 25 minutes. Supposed to come out crisp as French fries. I’ll let you know. (They weren’t crisp, and Jordan had a texture problem; I thought they were okay but nothing to write home about.)

So I spent much of the day reading Bitter Roots by Ellen Cosby, the latest in her mysteries set in the wine country of northern Virginia. It is hands down the most expensive Kindle book I’ve ever read. I guess the publisher was counting on avid readers like me to throw budget to the wind. I am savoring every word at that price and hoping it ends being worth the cost. I have never been comfortable reading in a prone position, so I read sitting at my desk, with the text on my screen. My place of comfort.

Tonight I did have an inspiration for getting my novel out of the corner I’d written myself into, but again I could not get my computer to hold a WiFi connection. Last night I gave up and went to bed, but I really wanted to get this scene down tonight. A hard boot seems to have done it. I couldn’t even contact ATT technical service because I had no service. Fingers crossed please that this connection lasts. But I really need to call AT&T, a conversation I dread. It’s never their fault, and the fix will cost you bigtime.

A meme I saw today that hit home with me: someone wrote that their morning routine these days is, “Get up. Check on Zelensky. Make coffee.” That’s how I feel too. I am so afraid for that heroic man—he needs not to be a martyr but to continue to inspire and lead his countrymen. If Kyiv falls, as it looks like it will, I hope they get him out. I’m sure he won’t leave Ukraine, but he might be persuaded to leave Kyiv. The world is too much with us.

On a lighter note: I looked at the box of Ritz crackers I used last night for the crumb-topped fish and thought of my mom. Salmon croquettes was one of her favorite dishes and remains mine, but she always insisted you must use saltine crumbs and nothing else. These days I use Ritz—they are richer and much easier to crush. Make such good salmon patties. And for just a moment there, I wanted to make Mom my salmon patties. She’s been gone over thirty years, but you never get over missing. And wanting to call and say, “Mom, do you know how I’ve learned to cook salmon croquettes?”

Blessed Sunday everyone as we head into a new week. May it bring peace and health to the world—and joy to all of us. We need a bit of that.

The importance of neighbors and a big anniversary for me

 

I'm going home!

This morning I was in that delicious space between thinking about getting up and actually doing it, when my phone rang. Not a familiar number, so I ignored it, although it nagged at me. When I turned on my computer, I found that neighbor Polly Hooper had called because Marissa Shuffield on Weatherbe Street had posted on her neighborhood listserv (next neighborhood over from ours) that a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel had wandered into her back yard. Polly was checking on Jordan’s dogs.

I couldn’t see how “the girls” could have gotten out, but I texted and called, left a message. No response, and I figured since we were snowed in, they were sleeping late. Wrong! Jordan finally called. Their front door blew open in the night (that alone scares me) and the dogs had wandered. Cricket on her little, short legs had gone over two long blocks in the cold, on snow-covered ice. When she called, Jordan had JuneBug and Christian had gone to retrieve Cricket. We are so grateful to Marissa and Polly—“the girls” are tiny and elderly and things could have been a lot worse without neighborly intervention.

"The girls," with Cricket on the left, JuneBug on the right

It was that kind of a week. I almost had a triple whammy—isolation due to covid exposure, ice and snow, and no internet. I had been “talking” to ATT all week, as I posted, and I got truly tired of that mechanical voice telling me to go to the web site when I had just told him I had no connection! Finally, twice, I talked to a real person: first one was a girl who said she cleared the connection, and it should be fine; it was briefly, and then out again. Finally a gentleman believed me that Smart Home Manager, for a monthly fee, was not going to do it. He would send a new router. Meantime, I had no Wi-Fi. It’s one thing to be isolated but quite another to be cut off from what is a rather active internet life. I was even afraid to write much because my computer gave me dire warnings about not being able to save. Who want to labor over a scene and then have it disappear into thin air?

An old trick surfaced in my mind, and I did a hard boot. Magic! It has worked ever since with a few brief interruptions that I was able to fix. I decided a hard boot is like a kick in the pants to the computer.

The ice and snow were pretty, even if I did feel trapped in a white world. We did not lose power, but I hear as many as fifty thousand households across Texas did. When I let Soph out Thursday morning, she left no footprints, so I knew it was ice and sleet. The snow came mid-morning, beginning with large, wet flakes and then becoming tiny, wind-blown ones. I’d eyeball it and say we got an inch. Sophie seemed to like it and spent some time lying on her belly on the patio—I’d have thought she be freezing, but apparently not.

I bet half the households in Texas had chili for supper last night. Christian made a big pot—his chili is always delicious, though he’s constantly looking for new ways to do it. And Jordan made chocolate chip cookies, so we ate well. The night before Christian was to be gone, so I planned to make scratch mushroom soup. But when Jordan heard mushrooms, she asked for stuffed mushrooms the way her grandmother used to do them. So that’s what she and I had for supper. I’m sure Jacob fed himself something else. So now I have a half pound of mushrooms left—trying to decide between a really tiny batch of soup or a frittata. Hemm. There’s that broccoli in the fridge ….

This is an important anniversary for me: five years ago today I got to come home from the rehab unit where I’d gone after my extensive hip surgery. My hip problem was unorthodox—I don’t think the surgeon had seen it before, and he had to invent his repair technic. When a nurse wheeled me down the hall people would look and say, “Oh, you’re ‘the hip.’ Nice to have any kind of fame, I guess. There was some doubt about the extent of recovery. So I am grateful to Dr. Jeffrey McGowan, and to the rehab people for all the progress I made, and I am beyond thankful that I am as mobile as I am (I do need assistance to walk, and I refer to my walker as my chariot). The people at the rehab facility were skilled and kind, but I felt like I was in a nursing home like my grandmother was in when I was a child. I was desperate to be home. So it was a happy day for me.

Chuckle for the day: why would someone post a comment on my blog that is a sales pitch for girls’ hoverboards. Do I look like I would ever get on a hoverboard? I remember one Christmas when all the grandkids got them, and we adults were in danger of being run down by an out-of-control hoverboard. But that was years ago, and I’ve heard nothing about them for a long time.

And the bright idea of the day: a high school in Arkansas has installed a vending machine—it dispenses books. A local bookstore keeps it stocked. When the battle lines over books in schools are so clear, I find this truly cheering.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hoverboard on blog

 

Pictures: five years ago, day pass and home from rehab my beautiful girls

Chronicle of an amaryllis

 

My amaryllis this morning
Note the metal ring holding the second stalk
Ignore the junky desk--at least it's near a window

Because of Christmas in Austin and then, on return, covid and quarantine and who knows what else, I was late in starting the Christmas amaryllis I was given. But once I started it, it took off bigtime. Last night, Subie and Phil were here, and I was bemoaning my need for another dowel road since the plant is growing so fast. Today Subie brought me one that is a metal rod with a loop to gently hold the blooming stalk. I swear the plant has burst out more this evening than this morning, but I couldn’t capture the growth on camera.

Coincidentally, Jordan and I had given Subie an amaryllis for Christmas. True confession: it was one we happened on early in the shopping season. To my embarrassment, she said last night that when she opened it, it had already bloomed without growing a stalk. I wish she had taken a picture, but she said there was a cluster of blooms at the base. And now it has sprouted on entirely new plant, which she is nursing along.

I found the almost-blooming amaryllis a cheerful portent on this partly cloudy day with the threat of all of winter’s worst weapons hanging over us. But my day was compromised again by computer stuff. This morning, after one or two false starts, the Wi-Fi connection held all morning, so I put off calling AT&T so I could work while I had the connection. But this afternoon, it went on, off, on, off—as fast as I could blink. So I called. Had to call the automated man who three times told me he could fix it, and all I had to do was subscribe to something for seven more dollars a month. He would say just go to this website, and I ended up screaming, “I can’t, because I don’t have a connection.” I also screamed, “Talk to a person.”

Finally in a brief moment of connectivity I found a different 800 number and called. Best call I’ve ever had with AT&T, a company that generally raises my blood pressure fifteen notches. A young lady in whatever country—I had to ask her to speak up and slowly—said if I would be patient, she could clear the connection, whatever that means. And that’s where I was, being patient, when Mary came for happy hour.

The first fix the young lady tried didn’t work but the second seemed to, and so far I have Wi-Fi. So happy. It’s really impossible to do almost anything without it.

Mary and I had a good visit with lots of talk about cooking and plentiful advice from her about using my new air fryer. I’m about ready to try the marinated chicken drumettes I have in the freezer. She also watered the poinsettia that’s in a corner by the couch where I can’t get to it and found two books on my shelves that she wants to read.

And another piece of good news today—my car came home! I looked out this afternoon, and there it was in the driveway. Made me sad and nostalgic for a moment. It has been at a repair shop Christian uses for months—I got really suspicious. Was the guy driving it? Selling it for parts? What could possibly be taking that long? And how much would it cost me? Christian tried to reassure me, but I was a nag about it. So today, it’s home, the bill is reasonable, and Jordan wants to drive it from time to time. I thought we were going to sell it, but if she needs it—her car too is old and not always reliable—that’s okay. At least I have it where I can see it.

In a day of good omens, I reached the 20K mark on my novel-in-progress. Well, okay, it’s really 19, 967 so I am thirty-three words short, but, hey! I‘ll make those up tomorrow. The big deal to me is that I now have one-third of a novel. Still plugging along, wondering where it is going to take me next, what Irene has up her sleeve.

So, it’s been a good day. I’m afraid my feelings of optimist may get beaten down by rain, ice, sleet, and snow, but I hope to stay cozy in the cottage and keep on keeping on. I have lots of food—and Jordan will do a curbside pickup tomorrow. We have menus planned for the next few days, and we’ll be fine. I have a novel to write and lots of good books to read.

Y’all stay safe and warm. Take care of animals, and plants, and yourselves. Watch out for the elderly in your neighborhood. Arctic storms are one of those times when we all need to look out for each other.

 

 

My pity party

Feeling like whining tonight. I, who have crowed about not minding quarantine and maybe becoming a recluse, have to eat humble pie. Isolation 24/7 with just a dog—okay she’s sweet and responsive but she can’t discuss books or menus—is wearing on me. Since my family went to New Orleans, we all decided they should quarantine away from me for five days—and then mask for five more days. See the irony there? They got a trip, and I got the isolation, while the three of them are together in the house. Plus friends that ordinarily would come to visit are staying home for reasons that range from caution to possible exposure. So here Sophie and I are, and she’s not taking it any better than I am.

Yesterday, we were busy with emails and package exchange. Jordan or Jacob would bring a package and set it on the step by my kitchen door. I’d retrieve it, and then replace it with the bag of stuff I had to go into the house. At one point I suggested using a small stool—with packages on the step I had to lean so far down from my seat in the walker that I was in danger of tumbling out headfirst. The stool was a big help. Today there was not as much traffic, but I did get a package from Amazon I was anxious to have—a new electric toothbrush since mine died. And tonight Jordan came out to retrieve a half red onion and a small can of green chilies. When she wrote that request, she said, “I hate this.”

My cottage needs her. The remnants of the party that never was are still taking up space in my work area. Most of them go back in the house, and I have no space to store them, so they wait until she can take them. The buffet that serves as a chest of drawers in my bedroom is covered with Christmas stuff, and I need her help to put it away.

Although it seems like forever, we’ve only been at this two days, and I admit I’ve gotten lazy. My bed is pulled up but not really made, and, yes, at nine o’clock at night I am still in last night’s jammies. I did put away the contents of several packages that arrived. The toothbrush interior package turned out to have been opened—someone had zipped of the perforated strip that held the top together and then closed the gap with clear tape. Makes me think the package had previously gone to someone who returned it, but I’m sorry—I don’t want a toothbrush that’s been examined by other hands. I’m returning it. And I cleaned out some files, started a grocery bag (my very efficient method I’’ve used for years) for 2021 tax stuff, and put new files in the rack by my desk for 2022. And today I sent a proposal for my Helen Corbitt project to a publisher who I really hope will be interested. By the time I got it all together, the proposal was, in my eyes, a thoroughly professional piece of work. So I’m not totally lazy, but there’s a strong drift in that direction.

Computer woes of the minor variety have chosen this time to visit me. I read a Facebook post I thought well-put and shared it, only to have Facebook tell me such content violated their community standards. Wait! If that were true, why was it on there for me to share? Last night I tried to respond to an email on a list on which I’m active—and the message bounced back several times. I respond on that site all the time without a problem. Tried my other email account—same thing. The president of the writers’ group suggested another avenue, which I tried with success, but it bugs me that my usual  way didn’t work.

And then Amazon book reviews! The Most Land, The Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas has five-star reviews except for one three-star, which dragged my average down considerably. So I wanted to see who objected and why, but it is a well-kept secret. I can’t find that one review anywhere.

It’s no wonder that I recently realized that I frown a lot. Actually I realized it over the holidays when family took pictures. There I am in too many of them with that furrow above my eyes. And since I’v become so aware of it, I can feel myself doing it all the time. Then I make a conscious effort to relax those muscles. I wonder if there are yoga-like exercises for facial muscles. I already do them for my feet and recently discovered some exercises to relax and strengthen the hands, which I really need. Why not the face?

Enough. I’m going to have a glass of wine and read about what Barbara Pym ate. Tomorrow will be a better day.

Putting out brush fires

 

My favorite graduate school professor, who became a lifelong friend, used to tell me when he was chair of the English department, that he spent his time putting out brush fires. That’s how this week has made me feel about the holiday season. When so many added chores and concerns are on our to-do lists, from Christmas shopping and wrapping to meal planning, everything else, all the little details of daily life, seem to demand more attention.

It is, for instance, the open enrollment period for changing your insurance if you’re on Medicare. Normally I ignore the deluge of mail from various companies that arrives during this period. But my retirement plan gives me access to a site that does cost/benefits comparisons, and they alerted me to a plan that might save me money. The website was complicated—what ones aren’t?—so I called to talk to a real live person. After an hour on hold, I had sort of figured out how to access the information I wanted, but changing insurance providers is a pretty momentous decision. I wanted some back up and called Colin, my oldest son.

He had installed something on my computer called Microsoft Teams which would allow him to see me and my computer. We tried to secure the link for over an hour last night, until he said, “Maybe we should do this in the morning.” I have too often found that walking away from a computer problem only to come back the next day is a great solution.

So this morning we tried again. Went through all the tricks to link us, and then I went through the lengthy process on the website to get to the comparisons—and my connection was broken (this happens a lot, but did it have to happen just then?)—twice. I think we worked on this for over an hour, until Colin said the plans were really pretty comparable, and changing probably wasn’t worth it. Whew!

He did prove to me last weekend that my scanner works, so I can submit bills for reimbursement without the laborious print process I’d been using. So now I have to wait for Jean to show me how to do that.

And then there’s the doctor’s office that billed me twice, and Sisters in Crime which thinks I haven’t renewed when I think I have—they were right, but it took some research to find that out. A grocery list to compile, recipes to choose for a couple of special occasions, the dog groomer appointment, book sales to check, and on and on. No, I did not write one original word today, except this blog, and I don’t think I had one original thought about a project. Irene, poor dear, has faded into the background for a bit.

I did however check on audio sales of Saving Irene, and they are dismal, certainly not worth the money I paid to have it recorded. So I have a sincere question: how many of you listen to audio books? I much prefer to read either print or online, and though I see a lot about how audio is gaining in importance, I don’t see it happening to my experimental book. I don’t think it’s a genre problem because I know of mysteries that do well, and it seems to me mystery more than anything else other than romance should do well in audio. But it would take something major to make me format Irene in Danger for audio. Meantime, remember if you belong to Kindle Unlimited, you can order either Irene book free.

All these brush fires faded last night when friends Jean and Jeannie took Betty and me to The Blue Spire, the upscale dining room in the Trinity Terrace retirement complex. Outstanding service, white linen tablecloths and napkins, crystal wine glasses, and a great menu. I had a Caesar salad, four lollipop lamb chops, roasted carrots (I can never fix those at home), and spinach. I couldn’t live or eat that way every night, but it sure was grand for a treat. Lots of talking and catching up.

To get from the visitor parking to the dining floor is a long, long walk so Jean pushed me in a transport chair (no footrests so I had to stick my feet straight out—good exercise for those muscles). As she was pushing me on the way home, she asked, “Why are we so fortunate?” and I could only echo the question. I feel so blessed and so determined to help the less fortunate, frustrated that I can do so little except some puny financial support for a few causes and politicians and preaching it from my Facebook pulpit.

How about you? Are you passionate about some causes?

A topsy-turvey day

 

Not sure I saw this exact display, 
but something close.
A wonderland of fresh fruit and vegetables,
meat and seafood

This morning, for the first time since the beginning of quarantine, I went to a grocery store. I cannot tell you how much fun that was. Lots of people moan and groan about grocery shopping, but I love it. I am sorely tempted to put about half the store in my basket, and I love browsing the shelves, studying the possibilities. This morning, Mary Dulle took me—it was a belated birthday present—and we went to Whole Foods because I have never been there since the store opened in Fort Worth. Had been once to the downtown Whole Foods in Austin, but it was so big it seemed a jumble. The Fort Worth store was just right.

Because I had a gift certificate, I was determined to splurge—and I did. On a boneless, butterflied leg of lamb. Brought it home and froze it, but some Sunday night when we want to have a special family dinner, I’ll either marinate and ask Christian to grill it or stuff and roll it. Either way sounds wonderful.

Other than that, I bought chicken and pork chops for our dinners this week, vegetables—and buttermilk. Can’t remember now what I plan to cook with it, but I got a quart because I love to drink it.

Bonus was that Mary and I had fun talking groceries and food. I drove one of those handicapped carts and had a ball—been so long since I’d done that, I was afraid I’d lost me skills, but I’m still a good driver.

The downside of the day has to do with printers and computers. My printer has been printing four-color in all yellow. So I called the chat thing at Hewlett Packard and they connected me with a service technician. Obviously outsourced, heavy accent, hard for me to understand. After taking over my computer and doing a bunch of exploring (all of which I was watching most carefully), he announced my printer is fine, but the problem was with my computer. I had a trojan that took control of my computer, and I needed network security—i.e. a firewall, which this guy would install. At that point, I became really wary—I wanted him to fix my printer, not mess with my computer. And I couldn’t ever be sure what he was saying, because of his accent and my poor hearing.

I discontinued the call and called Brandon, the son-in-law who is a software consultant. He said bluntly the computer tech was either a scammer or a moron—the more I told him, the more he leaned toward the latter. I do not need a firewall; I have an active one. There is no way a computer problem would make a printer go yellow.

Big problem, the “moron” had uninstalled the printer with assurances he would re-install, which he didn’t do. So Brandon took control of my computer, and we worked an hour and a half. He finally said, re-boot the computer and see if it works. It didn’t. So tomorrow we start all over again. The printer is obviously functional, it just doesn’t talk to the computer.

By the time we called it quits, Mary and Prudence were here for our regular happy hour, and I was more than ready for a glass of wine. We had a lavish spread—I particulary enjoyed some smoky Swiss Mary brought me and some marinated goat cheese she’d done for a continuing education class on drinks and front-porch snacks.

And then I cooked chicken thighs for supper—a garlicky lime version which took longer to prepare than I thought. It was eight o’clock before we ate supper. Pardon me if I’m worn out tonight.

A good day but a difficult one. Topsy-turvey indeed. Hope yours was right-side-up all day!

It’s the little things

 

The Cavaliers - Cricket on the left, and June Bug on the righ

A couple of days ago the yard men of the world seemed organized against me. I had barely settled at my desk in the morning when I saw two strange workmen in the yard—on the neighbor’s side. I should mention there is a gate from his property to ours—we did that to avoid have an ugly six-foot cyclone fence. So here were these men, putting a ladder up against his casita (that’s what he calls it). I did the logical things—hurried to close the door so Sophie wouldn’t join them and wander off our property. Only as I did I saw that she was already outside, wagging her tail, ready and willing to help them. I called but she was too entranced. One of the men sort of shooed her toward me. But they were there all darn morning, and though Sophie explained to me several times that she wanted to go outside, I was adamant. I gambled that she didn’t need to go, she just wanted to.

Then an early lunch and nap because I was going to a really early dinner—like leaving at 4:15. The crew that mows on yard on Mondays must be psychic. They almost always arrive about two o’clock, just when I want to nap. So Monday, they arrived at one o’clock. Their presence of course required lots of barking. Finally, all was peace and quiet, and our yard looks great. The tree that grows over the neighbor’s roof is now really really trimmed back, and the sun will be in our eyes during happy hour!

Grammar is on my lists of little things that annoy me. Someone wrote into a neighborhood listserv saying, “Me and my wife just moved here.” He wouldn’t have said, “Me just moved here,” would he? I always told students to check the pronoun by making it singular. I have a friend who repeatedly says, “He talked to Susie and I.” She wouldn’t say, “He talked to I,” would she? We hope not.

The grammatical lapse that is as annoying as fingernails on a blackboard is the confusion between lay and lie. Pretty much, that distinction is lost these days. People lay everywhere. “I’m going to lay out by the pool.” Lie, folks, lie. A childhood friend of mine says her father always said, “People lie; hens lay.” Yet a professional writer penned an email the other day about a dog laying in the road. Excuse me while I scream.

The last couple of days I’ve been frustrated by computer alerts and password rejections. The morning after the great Facebook outage, I got a possible hacking notice saying someone had tried to access my account at three in the morning. I read this when about four—I often check during the night because I’m a sound but fitful sleeper, so in the morning dark I panicked, but not enough to get out of bed and deal with it. Turns out the webmaster who handles my home page and other matters works late into the night and sleeps all morning. But something is going on because sites that usually store my username and password are now asking me for total ID.—I cannot get into Nextdoor Neighbor, for example. I installed a password protection program, but it’s so effective that I can’t get into it either. I’m waiting for tech support and also calling my son a lot.

And then there’s the dog. No, not my Sophie. Jordan and Christian have two aging Cavalier King Charles spaniels. The younger one is fragile—a heart attack survivor, almost blind, almost totally deaf. And almost totally oblivious to the world. Every time she comes out of the house she looks around in puzzlement, as though to ask, “What fresh hell is this?” Her bathroom habits are not exemplary, and she has twice relieved herself on my floor. Whenever she’s let out, she makes a beeline for the cottage because she thinks Sophie (or I) may have dropped some food. Then I yell, Sophie barks, and I try to herd her out with my walker. I’m sure it’s a sight, but it never fazes June Bug—she comes right back the next time.

Dogs, computer, yard men, grammar—if those were the only problems I had to worry about, I’d be a lucky person. But thanks for listening and letting me vent.

 

Peonies

My topsy-turvy world is right-side-up again, My world is in order again, which is mostly good though a tad bittersweet. Megan and Ford left Saturday mid-day to return to Austin. I do so love to have them here—Megan and I had some good visits, Ford and Jacob picked up their close buddy relationship without a pause, Christian came out to the cottage several times to visit with Megan, she and I both got some work done—all wonderful. Friday night we took both boys to Pacific Table, and I was proud as I could be to have my two grandsons with me. Meant to get a picture but didn’t.

Last evening, Jordan came home in time for supper, and dug right in helping me make a giant stuffed hamburger for dinner and one of her classic tossed salads. The hamburger is the size of a pie, with traditional bread stuffing between two layers of hamburger meat. We put it in a grill basket, and Christian cooked it on the grill. So good. 

Jordan brought a West Texas cactus for my coffee table arrangement

 My computer woes are fixed, but it was a long two days with spotty, unreliable Wi-Fi connections. I called Jamie Saturday morning, and he told me to run diagnostics. I did and it told me the problem was fixed. Well, sort of—it just got a bit better. Then Megan called Brandon who has a degree in computer software. He said it was router trouble. Megan had unplugged the router and re-plugged it but apparently it needed a hard boot. Saturday afternoon the connection was again timely and worked perfectly. Saturday night I was up too late, getting my neighborhood newsletter together so I could send it to the designer. This morning it is proofed and finished and off to the printer—off my mind for another month. 

Christian went to a friend’s party Saturday night, had such a good time he stayed longer than he planned. When he came home, he came out to the cottage and we had a good visit, once again talking about local politics which seems to be a frequent topic. I’ll be glad June 1 when the run-off is settled.

While he was often partying, I had a guest for supper, a minister from church whom I’ve come to count as a good friend. As usual I fixed something the kids won’t eat: tuna Florentine. Jordan doesn’t like cooked tuna, Christian doesn’t like tuna period, and neither of them like cooked spinach, though he is more adamant than she. It was so good, and I sent a piece home with Renee. The rain kept us inside—so nice these days not to feel you have to be distanced on the patio. We visited about everything from grandchildren to theology, and of course we solved the world’s problems. If only Biden and Netanyahu and a few others would listen to us! 

I had a lesson this weekend in the dangers of my joking about being a recluse. People take me too seriously. One good friend thought I am still staying in because of Covid. I’m not. I’m fully vaccinated, most of my friends are, and I’m comfortable going out, especially to restaurants where they are careful. If I find myself in a crowd, I’ll wear a mask—always have one in my purse. But quarantine made me lazy. I’m not used to the extra effort it takes to get me and my walker out, and sometimes it just seems easier to stay home. I’m perfectly happy in the cottage, especially when I have a lot of desk work and friends to visit. It’s a tempting trap, and I’m working to avoid it because I’ve always thought of myself as a people person. One of my goals: to get Jordan to take me to Central Market to browse. We do curbside pickup once a week, but I want to go inside, up and down the aisles. 

So here we are, at the foot of another week, wondering what lies ahead. Even with my own little world back in order, it sometimes seems to me chaos is all around—from international happenings to local. What I take from church most Sundays is that we must love each other, and we are all in this together. I cling to those beliefs.

A last look at West Texas

Topsy-turvy and out of kilter

 

That’s how things have been at my cottage the last few days, but mostly in a good way. Jordan is off in Fort Davis, with a group of girls, staying at the family home of one. While she’s away, Austin daughter Megan has come to visit, bringing along her youngest son, Ford. He and Jacob are only four months apart in age and are close buddies, so that’s a treat for both of them.

We’re a working group. Megan has her computer, though much of her work is by phone. She’s alternated between working in the main house and at my coffee table. Jacob of course has virtual school all day, while Ford, best as I know, is preparing for those standardized tests he will take next week. I have been trying to put together the June issue of the Poobah, our neighborhood newspaper, but my wifi connection has been slow to nonexistent. I’ve had a good lesson in how dependent I am on the internet—even editing articles when I want to look for illustrations, etc. Several of the information sites I rely on, including cooking sites, are so slow to load that I confess I lost patience. A frustrating day.

Last night Megan’s longtime friend, Amy, came for happy hour. The girls went to kindergarten together and then all through elementary, high school, and college. In law school, they were roommates. So they had lots of catching up to do. I visited with them for a bit and then came inside. By 8:30 I realized that I was really hungry, and we should feed two teen-age boys. I had fixed my current favorite casserole, Queso Chicken, and we ate a one-dish meal late at night and sat and talked until way too late.

Tonight, we took the boys to Pacific Table, one of Megan’s favorite restaurants. Lovely to sit on the patio with just enough breeze. Who cares about the noisy trains? Both boys ate sushi, an incredible amount for Ford and a chopsticks lesson for Jacob. We dined early, were home by seven o’clock and Megan asked, “What will we do now?” She cleaned and organized my freezer. Visiting daughters are so wonderful. And she gave my computer at least a temporary fix, so I am back in business and was able to clean up a lot of details from this morning.

The pictures I’m posting are from Jordan’s trip to West Texas. Such beautiful country. Makes me want to be there. I hope you enjoy them.