Far-fetched musings on the soul and some snowbound games

My snow bunnies

I’ve been pondering why I feel such a sense of unease, disquiet about the demolition of the house in Austin. As Brandon said, I didn’t live with its creaky bones and failing sewer system. Although when he said if I lived in a house as old as that, I’d understand, and I had to remind him I have always lived in houses about thirty years older than that one. And maybe that’s part of it—I have an affinity for old houses.

It’s not just preservation, though I am a devoted believer in the importance of that, and I am distressed to see in Fort Worth modest bungalows from the ‘50s and’60s coming down to be replaced by condos and town houses and stealth dorms. We are losing a part of our history, and it grieves me.

But beyond that, I arrived at the notion that a house has a soul, at least a house that has been happily lived in does. By serendipity, I started tonight to read The Soul of America: The Battle for our Better Angels, by James Meacham. He quotes everyone from Jesus to MLK about the nature of the soul, but the line that grabbed me was, “the soul is a central and self-evident truth, what makes us us.” Some of us, maybe those like me with an overdose of imagination, talk about the ”feel” of a house. When I first walked into my cottage, I said it felt like a happy place—and so it has proven to be. But I have been in dark and dreary homes without soul, with nothing about them to speak of love and joy and happiness.

The house in Austin was not a particularly spectacular one, nor was it large, but it was comfortable. And when the kids moved in, it had a cold,unloved feel to it—perhaps it was the built-in furniture, a disastrous but thankfully short-lived fad. But my kids brought to the house two baby boys, a brand new marvelous kitchen, and hordes of family and friends for parties and good times. Those are the things that give a house a soul. And so now, it’s a bit sad to me to see it become an empty shell.

Oh, I know. The new house will be wonderful and exciting, and I can’t wait for that first-floor guest room—how many times did I climb that scary spiral staircase, something I no longer can do and never could with a suitcase. I’ll love the new house, but for now I’m a bit sad. But I tell myself, as I do about my long life, that I have good memories.

Another branch of my family is snowed in at Wolf Creek—22 inches last night. They occupied themselves playing in the snow, shoveling it off cars, making a giant snowman, something they couldn’t ever do in Texas.

You couldn't build a snowman this big

in Texas ever!

And me? I worked on edits to the Alamo book all day, except for a laughingly happy lunch with old friends at the Black Rooster. One of them brought me a rotisserie chicken breast, because she’d heard me complain once too often about wanting just the breast and not the whole bony chicken. Thanks for supper, Linda. Another good day.

A demolition report and a day with lots of irons in the fire

It’s really nice to have a son-in-law who pays attention o my books. Brandon sent this demolition picture with the explanation that they found a dead space next to grandson Sawyer’s closet but, alas, there was no skeleton. Some may remember that my first mystery was Skeleton in a Dead Space; that dead space, like the one in my house, was in the kitchen. Haven’t read it? I think it’s one of my best mysteries. And I love that Brandon saw the connection.

Megan reported about five that grandson Ford and friends were having fun tearing out walls, and she was going home to join them. So demolition proceeds but apparently won’t be total for a couple of weeks. Meantime, what excitement for teen boys.

And the local teen is fishing with his grandfather. He called to ask if the tanks on his uncle’s ranch are stocked. The answer is yes, years ago, but the only way to find out if there are still fish is to go fishing. Jacob said we’d plan a day at the ranch, but then he said, “Juju, when you say tanks, do you mean the ponds?” I told him tank is Texas-speak for pond, and he would have to work on his vocabulary.

For me, a busy day, which I like. When I was in my late teens, I was my father’s secretary—he was administrator of a hospital. I always swore that experience made me a perfect executive secretary, though heaven forbid we should refer to a woman that way today. But I can clear a desk of lots of projects in one big sweep. And I like it that way.

Today I met with a co-conspirator about forming a local group of Better Angels, the national organization that brings together people of opposing political opinions for moderated discussions—no arguing, no proselytizing, just learning from one another. I pretty much secured our church as a meeting place and began to compile a list of interested participants—if you’re interested, please let me know. I set in motion a blog tour for my cookbook, Gourmet on a Hot Plate, and committed to write five blogs by early April. I emailed my accountant that I had finished my tax organizer and was ready to turn it over to him. I straightened out some prescription confusion--always a time-consuming chore as you get left on hold. But the biggie was that I got the edits back on the Alamo manuscript, which means I have a lot to do immediately—dealing with edits, adding some new material, and compiling a complete list of photos. I actually love waking up in the morning and knowing that projects like this are waiting for me.

The mystery I’ve been doodling along goes to one side, though I did make enough notes that I would know where to pick it up. A good day, and I’m a happy camper.

To sleep, perchance to dream. …

Exhausted, I tell you, simply exhausted. That’s how I woke up this morning. No, it wasn’t the change to daylight savings that did me in, although Sophie did not sleep as late as I’d hoped. No, it was the dream.

You see, my daughter Megan’s house will be demolished tomorrow, to make room for a new house on the same spot. Preparation for this day has been intense—sorting out twenty-some years of accumulations, deciding what to keep and what goes, planning for life n a two-room guest apartment for her, her husband, and their two teen sons. It’s going to be tight, and as of Saturday there was still some furniture in the house, though a cabinet-maker had dismantled kitchen cabinets and granite. She assured me they were almost ready and would be by Monday morning.

A part of me feels I should be in Austin with her—for moral support. The sensible part of me knows I would be in the way and just be one more thing for Megan to worry about. So early this morning I was in Austin in my dreams—oh, those early-morning dreams! Most of the family was there, and the house still held way too much, including some of my best pottery (which I don’t have anymore anyway). Dogs and a goat were underfoot (they have one dog and no goast), and I was badgering son-in-law Brandon (me? badger?) for value estimates of some items so that I could file my income tax (a problem that has nothing to do with Brandon and everything to do with another of my brood).

Then I had to go find Scooby (poor Scoob crossed the Rainbow Bridge some seven years ago so I have no idea what he was doing in Austin). Jamie went with me, and we met with bankers and lawyers (back to the tax question, I guess) and all my old anxiety disorders came back to haunt me.

And then Sophie barked at me in a demanding tone, and I was back in my cottage bedroom. Got to call Austin today and check on them.

I just learned tonight that the demolition tomorrow will not be the great dramatic event I expected. I asked if they would bulldoze or implode, and Megan said neither. They will take it down piece by piece to save the foundation. The contractor has done a great job of protecting trees, etc.

For some reason I feel very sentimental about this demolition—there go twenty years of memories. Megan said tonight after all the work they’ve done to empty the house, she’s more than ready. She’s not as sentimental.

After my exhausting sleep, I really needed a nap this afternoon. Settled down, and not ten minutes later Sophie barked at me. I sat straight up in bed and in my meanest voice said, “No! Absolutely no way!” For good measure I shook my finger at her (can’t you just see the mean old lady?). She left, but turned around to look at me with an expression that clearly said, “Don’t you think your reaction was a little over the top?” Yeah, it was. These are tense times. Isn’t it great that I have no bigger problems in my life?

It is, in spite of all else, Sunday night. Dinner was steak hache with porcini butter and salsa verde, tiny oven-roasted potatoes with rosemary, and salad with blue cheese dressing. A collaborative effort--I did all the prep, Jordan watched over the potatoes as they roasted, and Christian cooked the steak patties. I worried a bit about this great and complicated experiment, but it turned out great.

First this, then that—a couple of full days

Yesterday kept happening so late into the evening that I didn’t get to blog. Too much going on in the Alter family.

Daughter Megan called to announce that her Austin home will be bulldozed March 11.  That’s right—demolished in one day. Then construction begins—a new house on the existing foundation. They like their lot, like the location, and didn’t find anything on the market they liked as well. This family of four will live in their two-room garage apartment for the duration of construction, which could be a year. No, they’re not completely ready but they will be. A measure of Megan’s confidence: she and Brandon are in Utah skiing, while his parents stay in the house with the boys. Hope they’re not feeling like they’re camping out.

Granddaughter Eden turned sixteen yesterday and, of course, went straight for her driving test. After her friends took her to breakfast (do these kids not go to school?) She and her mom were at the DPS station for six hours—at first, it was crowded, and then the DPS system broke down and they had to do things the old-fashioned way. But she has her driver’s license—and her cute little Mini Cooper. A sign of growing up—she told me she didn’t want the traditional birthday party. Her parents were taking her to dinner. (Good heavens! Jordan still wants a party!)

Me? I went to the dentist and yet again heard a doctor say, “Everything looks good. No problems.” I’m getting downright smug about all these clean bills of health. The dentist, however, did not give me the five years’ grace that the hip surgeon did—I have to go back for another cleaning in four months. But even with the dentist appointment I wrote my thousand words on the new novel.

Last night, a friend I met on Facebook came for happy hour in the cottage. As we exchanged posts and messages over time, we discovered that we go to the same church, and she, a mortgage banker, does some business with Christian’s title company. Plus, she works at a family-owned bank with the man who lives behind us. Small world. We chattered happily, and Christian came home in time to join us.

Then Jordan came out and we reviewed the day. By then, it was too late for that quick nap I sometimes sneak after dinner. I went to bed.

This morning I managed to multi-task. My chore was to organize notes for a talk I think I am to give next week on one of my books—gulp, I wrote Sundance, Butch, and Me twenty years ago, don’t have  electronic files or reviews or notes—nada. There are some seventy reviews on Amazon, and I reread them to refresh my memory. I had scribbled some notes yesterday, and today I got them into the computer in expanded form. But I did it with one eye and both ears on Michael Cohen’s testimony before the House Oversight Committee.

For those of you on Facebook, I have posted some comments two or three times as the hearings went on, so I will just add this note: I’m sure dedicated Republicans and trump followers came away with a totally different impression than I did, but I thought the Republicans exhibited rude, raw, blatant partisanship, attacking both Cohen and the Democratic Party. They had to really stretch to do that, but they complained the committee was wasting time listening to a liar when they should be helping solve the problems of America. Ironic, since most on the committee were in the House last term, the most do-nothing Congress in American history. Whey weren’t they hot to solve those problems until they saw trump in real jeopardy?

I sure didn’t ignore sustenance today. Jordan and I had a lovely lunch with a woman from Frost Bank who is now my go-to person. Of course, I was the one who messed up—heard the Mexican restaurant she specified but thought another in my mind. Jordan went to the correct one, while I waited at the wrong one. They both ended up coming where I was, though we joked they should have just forgotten me and eaten together. Leah is younger than Jordan, with small children, so they had a great time talking, and I mostly listened in.

Tonight, I went with friends Betty and Jean to Pappadeaux. Delicious crab cake, lots of good crusty bread, and nice wine. Their desserts are tempting, but I was too full.

The air has turned cold and a freezing drizzle is forecast for tomorrow, just when Jordan and I mean to go to the grocery. Betty complained bitterly about the cold tonight, and Jean and I, both children of the Midwest, tried to tell her it’s not really that cold. But it has been gray and damp and there’s a chill in the air. Down into the low twenties one night next week. I am so ready for spring, for warmer temperatures and sunshine and flowers and evenings on the patio.

Struggling for a thread

 Struggling to think of something to blog about tonight. It’s been an ordinary day—as days are ordinary lately, since I’m pretty much confined to the house and on a walker. Really, what can you think of new and different to report from that perspective.

Is it news that Louie Gohmert included gay couples on his proposed ark, not realizing they wouldn’t reproduce? Is it news that Hillary Clinton clinched the Democratic nomination? Well, yeah, it really is—first woman to be nominated by a major political party—but who doubted it anyway? And I don’t think she’ll be satisfied with that—it’s all the way or nothing. Is it news that Donald Trump verbally attacked the judge “of Mexican heritage”? Nah, I don’t think that’s news anymore.

News doesn’t get much more exciting closer to home—Jordan and I had wine on the deck and she made me the half-sandwich I thought sounded good—rye, cheddar, mayo, tomato, and diced green onion. Lovely to be outdoors on the deck—until she went into panic mode because a wasp was about to fly into the house. Thanks to her quick action, fueled by adrenaline, danger was averted.

Jacob apparently thinks we’re going to tear down the entire existing apartment—so not true. But he has asked to be the first to sling a sledgehammer in the demolition process. I bet Lewis can find a spot to mark with a big black X for Jacob to begin his demolition.

And so the day went—a guest blog about Chicago written, an evaluation of a novel for a contest, email, etc. At 11:30 I realized I was really tired, so made some lunch (not a success) and read Facebook; slept for longer than I care to admit. How much can be exciting when you’re on a walker and it hurts to put weight on the sore foot?

Looking forward to better days. Lord knows, I have enough work piled on my desk to keep me busy for two weeks, if I’d just buckle down and do it.