There is definitely a spot on the moon.

 

It’s been a day of small wrongs for me. Oh, it started out well enough, if a dental visit can ever be called well enough. As I said to the hygienist today, I like her a lot but I just don’t like what she does. She said I was a much better-behaved patient today, and we got through the session just fine. Trouble is when I’m nervous or uncomfortable, I like to chatter—in fact, I probably run my mouth way too much. But with someone working inside your mouth, you can’t do that. So I grin and bear it.

But when I got home and back to my desk, the day started to unravel. I was adding some recipes to the back of the book of the forthcoming Irene Deep in Texas Trouble. One of the recipes I wanted was already on my computer in the draft of the Helen Corbitt manuscript—the original Texas Caviar, with all its simplicity and not a marinated bean salad disguised. So I thought I’d just copy and paste from there. In the process I managed to erase the Texas caviar recipe and insert into the Corbitt draft not once but three times the recipes for Lobster Newburg and Gougeres, which belong in the Irene manuscript. Fortunately, I had the cloud backup for Texas caviar—and of course all would not have been lost, because it’s all over the internet—but still it was comforting to be able to replace it. I pulled all the intruders out of Corbitt and decided it was time for a nap.

Late this afternoon I tried to pay some bills. The landscape company that does our yard sends out a bill that shows the amount for the year—it’s hefty, but there is a way to pay just the monthly fee. In trying to do that, I clicked on the wrong button and paid for the entire year, which would be a blow to my monthly budget. They’re fast, those people at Discover—I called right away, was told there was no payment in the pipeline, got disconnected, called back, and it was in pending and beyond cancellation. They recommended I call the payee, which I did. He’s a friend and easy to work with—said in eighteen years he’s had to do one refund but he will research it and do it tomorrow.

I was still steaming over that when Jordan and a friend arrived with my Central Market order. First thing I unpacked was bananas, which I had not ordered. My thought was “How did Jordan add to my order?” But as I unpacked I realized I had gotten someone else’s groceries—a summer squash and a zucchini, a generous lemon-marinated salmon filet, some blackberries, a hefty bunch of boneless chicken breasts, Brussel sprouts, apples. A gift from the gods. I called Central Market, and they will deliver my groceries tomorrow. Meantime they told me to keep what I had—they would just throw it out if it came back to them. So I will send some into the house, keep the salmon filet for a guest tomorrow night and also make a casserole with the squash. Split the bananas between Jordan and me, and I had scrambled eggs, a banana, and a chocolate chip cookie for supper. Not too shabby.

Tonight I watched a Zoom panel on working with book bloggers—very informative and gave me some things to do tomorrow to get the new Irene on calendars. These panels are sponsored by various chapters of Sister in Crime and are a great, free gift to the mystery community. But they inevitably begin with way too much introduction, chapter business, etc. It was thirty minutes tonight. I cancelled the video so they wouldn’t know I wasn’t sitting spellbound at my desk and went off to make my supper. You’d think writers would know about capturing and holding people’s attention.

Which brings me to the book I’m reading—a cozy mystery by one of the leading names in the cozy community. In the past I have loved this series, eagerly read each new book. Now I’m finding the book overloaded with literary allusions and way too much description all of which slow down the action. I will read on because I’m told it’s one of that author’s best—but I am doubtful. Recently my mentor seemed to imply that my writing has matured. Do you suppose my reading taste has also matured? I think that would make me a really late bloomer.

Stay safe everyone. In North Texas, severe storms are predicted for tonight, but so far nothing. I hope there’s no tornado when I’m sound asleep.

 

Crying Wolf!

 

Me in the dentist's chair

Years ago, when I was young and green, I dated a man who used to tell me he was “trying to take a cold.” I always wanted to tell him not to try so hard, and maybe he wouldn’t get that cold. Today I have to eat those words: I am trying to develop a toothache, or maybe what I want to say is I’m hoping a toothache won’t develop.

I woke this morning with a swollen jaw in the lower part of the left side of my face. Nothing hurt, but it felt stiff. Over the morning the stiffness went away but I have a tender spot on my jawbone, and if I make a moue just right, I feel a twinge or tightness (see, I’ve spent too much time with Irene, and I’m now sprinkling my language with French). So the dentist is on my list for tomorrow, first thing in the morning.

For one who was raised to take a positive attitude toward health, I have in recent years suffered more than my share of the joys of aging—a hip joint that simply disappeared, atrial fibrillation, an implanted lens that broke loose and wandered around my eye, kidney failure. In each instance, I waited so long to say I thought something was wrong that the problem became much worse, and my Stoic attitude became the subject of concern from my doctor and my family. My brother spoke to me about it, said my kids had spoken to him.

“But you know why I’m that way,” I said. “Mom raised us not to complain over little things.” He agreed it was true but faulted my failure to distinguish little things from major problems. She taught us the story of the little boy who cried “Wolf!” so often that when he did spy a wolf, no one believed him. As a doctor’s wife, Mom knew how impatient doctors get with people who take every small pain as a reason to run to the doctor. Being doctors’ kids, we were expected to do better. Mom’s philosophy was, “It will be better in the morning,” and I grew up believing that.

Today, we are torn by two contradictory philosophies: the school that advocates patient responsibility urges us to question our physicians, not to accept treatment or prognosis blindly, seek a second opinion when necessary. Ultimately, we are responsible for our own health. Ah, but then, today we have the folks—particularly politicians—who think they know as much as doctors, most of whom have had a minimum of eight years medical training.

This is of course particularly evident with the anti-vaxx people who distrust the vaccine despite lengthy lab trials followed by clinical trials and now by apparently successful use in a huge segment of the population. These same people, with what some call a Facebook medical degree, believe in hydroxychloroquine or ivermectin. Some believe in the medial impossibility of the implantation of tracking devices, cameras, etc. through that tiny needle. But there are also those who deny the medical realities of the abortion debate and, presumably, believe all pregnancies left to complete the nine-month term naturally result in a happy baby and a healthy mother. They brush aside medical complications that are too frequent and of great concern.

We all know people who seem to “doctor up,” spending much of their lives in doctor’s offices. Where do you draw that line? When can you treat yourself and when do you need medical advice? How do you know when the doctor is right? Is your questioning based on an intellectual need to know or a blind belief from your childhood, your church, your uncle who always knew best?

I’ll be darned if I know, but I do know I’m calling the dentist in the morning.

 

The fun of communal cooking

 

Our fancy--and oh so rich!--pasta dinner

Jordan and I team-cooked supper tonight and had such a good time. I think it’s a particularly blessing of the mother/daughter relationship. Christian announced he had a work event and would at the least be late and perhaps not home for supper at all. While we love him dearly and miss him on these nights, we welcome the occasional evening when we can cook things he doesn’t like. Last night we were going over recipes, and he happened to look at the one we planned for tonight—pasta with artichokes hearts and goat cheese. He looked alarmed, “It has no meat! And it has artichoke hearts!” See why we like occasional “just us” meals?

The recipe was rich—farfelle, a bit of green onion and garlic, a lot of pasta water, cream cheese, goat cheese, mozzarella, French fried onions (I thought that odd—they were stirred into the sauce—but they turned out to be a good addition). Dill, parsley, salt and pepper, red pepper (which we omitted—the black pepper gave it just the right pep). When you combined it all in a casserole dish, you topped it with more onion rings and Parmesan and served it sprinkled with green onion tops. See what I mean about rich? All those cheeses. But so very good. In truth, though, it was a bit complicated, and I'm not sure I would have done it if left alone.

It’s been a pleasant if unremarkable couple of days. I survived the dental appointment yesterday and even came away with praise for taking good care of my teeth. I certainly had worked myself into a snit of worry by the time I got to the office, but as I later explained to Jordan, dentistry when I was a kid was a much different thing, and I had bad teeth—lots of cavities so I suffered a lot with the old, slow, bumbling dental drills. The teeth are thanks, I think, to my dad from whom I inherited that little problem. After the appointment, Jordan and I went to far west Fort Worth to pick up Jacob, and it was a treat for me to be out driving around—see what pandemic has done?

Yesterday evening our Tuesday night happy hour celebrated Mary Dulle’s forthcoming birthday with flowers, snacks, Prosecco, and, of course, cupcakes—strawberry because that’s her favorite. Forgot to take pictures, but it was lovely to sit on the patio in such pleasant weather and such good company. We are blessed with neighbors.

We were all worried about Sophie though—she clearly was not herself. So lethargic, and as I explained to the vet tech this morning via phone she is not by nature a lethargic dog. She didn’t walk to the gate to greet people nor escort them out; when Christian came out, she stayed on the deck instead of jumping wildly off it and racing to beat him to the cottage as she usually does. Finally, when he called, she came hesitantly down the steps, which led him to say, “I’ve never seen her use the steps before.” She also did not get up in her favorite chair to sleep, which made me think she had tweaked a muscle. When the vet called today, that was his diagnosis.

I spent a restless night worrying about her, getting up to check on her. Each time, her tail drooped, and she looked at me with big, pitiful eyes—talk about “Be still my heart.” It was a reminder to me of how much our lives are entwined with our animals—I really, in a bizarre moment, wondered what I would do if she died in her sleep.

Of course, she didn’t—and she seems much better today. Her tail is up over her back most of the time, she forgot she couldn’t jump and got on the couch in anger at the dog behind us, and she generally seems happier. Still slept a lot. I’ll check in with the vet again tomorrow.

And tonight I am in a spanking clean cottage. So glad to have the wonderful Zenaida come and reach all those corners, high up and down low, that I can’t. She makes the bed better than anyone I ever met, and her visits brighten my days. So I’m a happy camper tonight. And a busy one—proofreading 302 pages of my 1995 novel, Libbie (about Elizabeth Bacon Custer). The reprint will be out in June. More about that another time.

We’re in for a “cold front”—in the upper fifties. After last week, that is laughable, but it’s also supposed to bring welcome rain. No patio weather for a while, but that’s okay.  I have work to do—which is a good feeling.

Stay safe, everyone.

 

 

The New Me and the Old Sophie

I am a new person today—I went to the dentist yesterday and got my hair cut today. Makes such a difference in my attitude. As you may have picked up, I’ve been chewing on the dentist problem since April—that was when my appointment for a cleaning was. I cancelled, because of quarantine. But I worried, afraid to go, afraid not to go. The last time I missed going for several months, due to surgery, I had to have a lot of dental work done, and I didn’t want a repeat of that. (Yes, I am more than a little dental phobic!)

Finally in June I made this appointment—you know how easy it is to commit to something that’s a ways in the future. But then came the surge of virus cases, and I began to have doubts. I admit that my doubts were exaggerated by my general dislike of going to the dentist’s office. My hygienist is a really nice person and I like her a lot, just don’t like what she does, as I told her yesterday. I called and inquired about precautions—sounded good, and I was ready to go. But then I began hearing about people who were hesitant. Finally day before yesterday I thought, “I have to go and get it off my mind.”

Turned out to be a pleasant surprise. I saw exactly three people—two in the reception area and the hygienist. They were all masked. I used a clean pen to sign in and when I tried to hand it back the receptionist held out a piece of paper for me to set it on. They take your temperature and ask you if you’ve been exposed, etc. The hygienist explained that she can’t use the electric pick because it sprays water and they are avoiding aerosol contamination. I told her I was delighted because I hate that thing—reminds me of the drill.

Best bonus of all—my teeth were in better shape than any previous visit, and she said if I keep taking such good care of them, she can avoid the electric thing. And my blood pressure was extraordinarily good. Win, win!

The haircut is a win too. Last time, I told Rosa how I wanted it cut—my own fault I spent five weeks looking dutchy, literally. So today I asked her to ignore me and cut it the way she thought best. Now it’s short, has some shape, and I keep feeling the back of my head because it feels good to have the hair trimmed back there. I am blessed that Rosa comes to the cottage on her way to the salon. And she takes every precaution—even swept the floor and then wiped down the broom.

Sophie, however, is not a new dog—she’s up to old tricks. The other night she got me up at 1:30 because she wanted to go out. She’s so well housebroken that when she does that, I assume she needs to pee. Wrong! She went out, laid on the deck, and stared at me—insolently. No matter how I called, pleaded, bribed, she remained unmoved. This went on for at least 45 minutes—and I’d been sleeping so soundly. I can’t go back to bed when she’s out at night. I think she’s big enough (30 lbs.) to avoid predators—except the human kind. Our neighborhood has night-time visitors who try car doors to find an unlocked car. What if one came up our driveway, saw this cute dog, and decided to take her? The electric gate is no barrier for people with bad intentions. Usually I give her some serious talk about coming right back in, but I was too sleepy. Learned my lesson. Right now she’s crawled into her crate, on her own, and is sleeping the sleep of the innocent. I know better.

Just had my favorite sandwich for lunch—chicken, mayo and blue cheese on rye bread. Cannot be beat. Something I learned in school in rural Iowa of all places.

Happy Friday, folks!

Home again, dinner, and back in the routine

My version of Cobb salad

Jordan is home again, and we’re glad to have her back. I fixed her a welcome-home supper—well, sort of. Before she left, she suggested a salad or something easy would be good so she wouldn’t have to cook. So I made Cobb salad—well, at least I prepped the ingredients: boned a rotisserie chicken, boiled some small new potatoes, and hard-boiled some eggs.

When she came home, I said dinner was all ready. We just had to peel the potatoes and eggs and fry the bacon. Plus cut up avocado and hearts of palm, and wash and put out cherry tomatoes. She looked at me and said, “That’s a lot of work.”

Tonight was our regular Tuesday night happy hour with neighbors Mary and Prudence, and Jordan regaled them with her story of her welcome-home dinner and how much remained to be done. But when it came suppertime, I peeled the potatoes, shelled the eggs, and fried the bacon. Got everything out of the fridge but asked her to plate it (we decided on individual Cobb salads rather than one big platter) because she knows what her boys will eat and what they won’t.

She confessed she was just making jokes and really likes to cook with me. We’re a good team in my tiny kitchen, though she constantly warns me not to run over her toes with my walker, and she sometimes banishes me because I get in her way. I tell her she should wear better shoes than flip-flops.

She is home for sure. Immediately rearranged the patio to suit her, rearranged things in my kitchen, took stock of what I need from the grocery, and generally told me what’s what. I am so grateful. And I imagine she did that inside her house tonight. So now, Jordan is taking care of all of us, the world is back in its orbit, and all is well. I assured her that Christian took good care of me, which amounts to seeing that I did not lack for company in the evenings and checking on me in the mornings. All the evenings she was gone but one, he and Jacob came out for supper, and the remaining night he came out to visit.

I am having the great dentist debate. I usually get my teeth cleaned every three months, because I have “that kind” of teeth. I should have gone in April but cancelled due to the virus. Now I have an appointment in two days, and I am waffling. I called the dentist’s office, and they detailed their precautions, which sounded good. But then Jordan said how uncertain some of her friends are. Then my neighbor said her physician-husband went to the dentist and found the precautions highly reassuring. So do I go or not? I will have to make up my mind overnight, because if I don’t go, I owe them the courtesy of 24 hours’ notice.

As everyone knows, cases in Texas are surging, and Fort Worth/Tarrant County, which had a relatively low daily new case count for a long time, is also seeing a surge. It’s mostly young people, which makes me wonder if they are the ones ignoring masks and eating in restaurants and not following strict guidelines. I meanwhile am going overboard perhaps, but I take this seriously. What a dilemma!

Rain all around us last night and today, but not a drop for us. I was so hoping it would dump on my new grass. This morning a neighbor assured me it was going to rain tonight, and I took it as gospel. Unfortunately, nothing happened, although Jordan said the ground was moist this afternoon. At any rate, the grass still looks good, and I am still praying for rain.

Sweet dreams, everyone.

With a dental appointment behind me….

Relief. That’s what I feel every single time I walk out of the dentist’s office, secure in the knowledge that I don’t have to go back for four months. The thought that four months will go by quickly is briefly vanished from my mind. I know some of you only go ever six months or perhaps once a year, and I am jealous. But I am plagued with plaque, and I find it easiest to go along with more frequent cleanings for the reward of not having more extensive work done.

Since I know myself to have some phobias—acro- and claustrophobia, primarily—I would say that I have a dental phobia, mild but still there. I trace it back to my youth—and to my dad, who had lots of trouble with his teeth.

When I was just barely a teen, I developed a mouth full of cavities and spent lots of time in the dentist’s chair. Our dentist was a close family friend, so close that I knew him as Uncle Walt. I have no doubt he was skilled, because I think I carry some of his gold to this day. But he was a taciturn man, and as he worked he rarely spoke. Being young, I took taciturn for gruff and was slightly afraid. I also harbored the conviction that he liked my brother a lot better than me, and indeed he and John were close friends until Uncle Walt’s death.

Besides that, dental techniques have changed so much in the last sixty years that there’s no comparison. I do not remember Novocain at all, and the drill was a clumsy, loud, and slow thing. So dental appointments were long, quiet, and painful—and all too frequent.

Years later, as an adult, I discovered that Uncle Walt and his nurse/receptionist/wife, Aunt Kaffe, were delightful, charming people who indeed cared a lot about me and mine. They dined at my table in Texas one night when I was newly a single parent, and they were supportive and bright conversationalists. We laughed a lot. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe he didn’t have on his classic white jacket.

We all carry so-called baggage from our childhood, and dental fear is packed into my baggage. The hygienist I see these days is cheerful and talkative and makes me as comfortable as she can. She knows how impatient I get and that there is sort of a time limit on my patience in the chair. I am always relieved when she starts to polish, because I know the appointment is nearly over. So today when she started to polish, early in the appointment, she said, “Don’t get excited. I’m working in quadrants today.”

I was only there an hour, and it wasn’t painful or scary or anything, but I still left with that blessed feeling of relief.

Want to laugh about the dentist? Here’s a link to the classic sketch, “The Dentist,” starring Tim Conway, from the Carol Burnett Show. Have a good laugh.   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9IUSM4EKcRI                                                                                                                                                        

                                                                                                                                                                                             

Flotsam and jetsam

It’s pretty much been a shipwreck kind of a week. But the high point is Jacob’s birthday—tomorrow, his thirteenth. He turns into a teen. But. he got his “Juju” present early because who can disguise a fishing pole when it comes in a long, skinny box. Yes, he has other poles, but this was a special one that he was excited about. He brought the package out to the cottage to open, and I’m sorry to say that I wasn’t quick enough to grab the phone and capture a picture as he pulled the pole (protected in a fabric sheath) out of the box. The happiness on his face was magical. He took it fishing that day and caught one small fish.

Today he came out to the cottage to ask, “Did I tell you I caught a fish with he pole you got me?” I assured him he had. I am so delighted with his absorption with fishing—it gets him out in the great outdoors and away from TV, iPad, and phone. I haven’t heard a word about “Fortnight” in months. But as Christian pointed out to me, fishing is not an aerobic exercise.

Otherwise it’s been a week of checking things off the to-do bucket list. The pest control people sprayed the back yard with what they assure me is an organic mixture, mostly eucalyptus and rosemary. It’s the remaining ingredients I should have asked about, but the deed is done and supposedly good for ninety days.

Next to check off the lists was the dentist. The hygienist cleaned my teeth and turned to her computer to write up her notes, but her keyboard was dead. She protested she’d just put a battery in it the day before, but it was clearly dead. I came home, booted up my computer—and my keyboard was dead. I called the dentist’s office and asked them to tell Stephanie, the hygienist, that she’s a jinx. Then I ordered a new keyboard. I have no idea what Stephanie did.

Jacob and I went to pick up dog food at the vet’s, with him pointing out one-way streets to me and prodding me to go the second a light turned green. I finally told him I am sure he’ll be a good driver because he’s had so much experience telling me what to do. “It doesn’t seem very complicated,” he replied with assurance.

Tomorrow, before the birthday celebrations begin, he will help me take Sophie to the vet for her annual checkup and then we’ll scoot out to Central Market to pick up groceries for dinner. He’s requested shrimp, mashed potatoes, and asparagus. No cake, though his mother baked one. “We have to have a cake for us,” Christian explained.

A week of storms too. Unexpected, unpredicted rain on Monday, a sprinkle on Tuesday when we were told it would be clear and dry all day, and then a thunder-rumbling storm in the night that had Sophie cuddled as close to me as she could get. Tonight they predicted violent storms with large hail—so far, sunny blue skies.

I’ve gotten a bit of work done, an anonymous mystery synopsis and sample critiqued for a program of Sisters in Crime and a manuscript read and recommendations submitted to an academic press. I missed some blogs because of the keyboard problem, although tonight, knock on wood, I find I can do pretty well on the laptop keyboard. Every once in a while, for no reason, it wipes out whatever I’ve just done. I need to get back to my major work in progress, but I am waiting—and hoping—for inspiration to strike. Perhaps I’ve just let it sit idle for too long.

It’s also been a week of ethnic meals—sushi for lunch at my favorite Japanese place the other day and, tonight, enchiladas at a Mexican place I’ve never been to. I was impressed that when we asked for boxes, the waiter not only boxed our leftovers but brought clean flatware to transfer it. And he worked hard to clean the floor under a table near us where teenagers had made a holy mess with chips.

All in all, an odd week but not really a bad one.

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.

Random thoughts on a day stolen by the dentist….

The airwaves and the internet have us all holding our collective breath until the last man is rescued from the cave in Thailand. And yet, some have asked, “If we have that much concern about a soccer team trapped in a cave, why don’t we care equally about 3,000 (or however many—the number keeps changing from anywhere between 3,000 and 10,000) children in cages? I think it’s the wrong question.

The American people made it plain loud and clear that we care desperately about the caged children. World leaders have joined the outcry. But those boys in the cave are in a life-or-death situation, one with a terrible immediacy about it. At any hour, monsoons could wipe out their escape route, dooming them. The escape itself is full of dangers, even with skilled divers to guide them. Their window of opportunity is short. Pray God they all escape safely and can go on with their soccer game and their lives.

The caged children, on the other hand, face long term consequences from their forced separation from their parents. Even when and if—and for someit’s a big “if”—they are reunited. Some may come out unscathed, but most will suffer the results of this cruel treatment the rest of their lives. They will require our continued support, and as Americans, the country that imprisoned them, I think we will owe them that.

But I also think as Americans we’re capable of both kinds of compassion. Worrying about one group doesn’t cancel our worry about another. We are Americans. Our compassion is not a finite pie with a certain number of pre-cut pieces—it is infinite, unlimited. It expands as needed. As crisis after crisis arises, I am struck by how many good people there are in this country. In fact, in moments of hope, I think this current debacle may ultimately cause us to right wrongs that belong not just to this administration but to generations before.

A specific incident concerning the separated families sticks in my mind. By now you’ve probably seen the video clip—it’s gone viral—of the well-dressed woman, self-identified as a concerned grandmother, who went to a detention center, as part of a demonstration, her arms filled with toys and stuffed animals to comfort the children being held. Not only was she turned away, her gifts confiscated, she was taken away in handcuffs for refusing to step back a few feet. As far as I could tell, she did not resist the officers, she was not angry, dangerous, any of the things you might expect. She was compliant, even submissive, so what was her crime? Is that the point we’ve reached, where people are arrested for caring, for trying to be kind?

And that leads me to another question: how do the police officers who cuffed this woman feel about their duty? How about the ICE deportation officers? Are we back to the My Lai defense of “I was only following orders”? Who is giving those orders? I know God’s eye is on the sparrow, but Mr. Trump’s eye is far too busy with a golf ball to have time to reach so far down in the ranks as to command the arrest of a grandmother bringing toys to hostage children. Is it Jeff Sessions? I doubt he has the time either. How far down the chain of command does this infestation (I used Mr. Trump’s word deliberately) extend?

As for the dentist, yeah, the day was shot. Ten o’clock appointment, so I didn’t get anything done before because I was getting ready physically and emotionally. Two and a half stressful hours later, I walked out of the office, had lunch with a kind friend, came home and slept for another two and a half hours. It really did take up the whole day. Dental phobia dating back to my 1940s childhood when the drill was slow and bumbling. So glad this day is behind me.

Haircuts and a spoiled dog

March didn’t exactly roar in like a lion, but neither was it lamblike. Today, while sunny and pretty, was still quite chilly. I was glad to bundle up when I went out. Started the day with a haircut, which is always a nice thing. Makes me feel bouncy somehow. Many thanks to Rosa Estrada who makes house calls for me until I get back on my feet—or at least in my car. She’s been cutting my hair for about sixteen years now and is a dear and valued friend. She gives such a good haircut that one day a woman stopped me in a restaurant, said she used to do haircuts, and it was really difficult to do one like mine well. Whoever cut my hair, she said, had done an excellent job. So, hat’s off to Rosa. Besides, she just ran the full Cowtown, and I’m impressed.

Not so pleasant was my appointment to have my teeth cleaned. I really like my hygienist, Stephanie in the office of Dr. Peter Ku, but I harbor a childhood fear of dental appointments. When I was a kid—all those long years ago—dental techniques were pretty rough, and the drill was laborious and slow. And painful. And I had bad teeth, so I had a lot of dental work. The dentist was a close family friend, close enough that I knew him as an uncle, but he was also a taciturn man, given neither to comfort nor small talk. As an adult, I became very fond of him; as a child, I was frightened, and those memories linger even today. Stephanie did make it painless, and all my dread was for naught.

And I had visitors today, always a welcome break from routine. Jean came for coffee after her yoga workout this morning, and Phil and Subie came for wine this evening. Enjoyed all the visiting, but Sophie was a brat. She loves company, but she wants their attention and mine. This morning, she kept barking and growling at me (not serious growling) and then she jumped at my arm to get my attention—I finally pulled the walker in front of me as a barricade. She wanted a treat, which she does not get in the morning. Jean and I ignored her, though it’s hard to talk over her barking. But finally she settled down, lay on the floor with her paws crossed in a most ladylike manner, and gave us both baleful looks.

Tonight, when she barked, I thought, “Okay, it’s dinner time.” So I gave her a treat; she still barked. I gave her a bowl of dog food, which usually she stares at and doesn’t eat until much later. She ate every bit and barked; I gave her another bowl. Subie and Phil both loved on her, but nothing would quiet her. By some good fortune, I enticed her outside and closed the door firmly. She stood looking like, “Aren’t you going to let me in?”

I think I have a spoiled dog and am going to have to exert my authority. I’m trying, I’m trying. But even if I didn’t write today, I accomplished things—like the haircut and the dentist and some good reading.’

The dentist, flood news, and good friends

KIds, big and little, are finding some joy in the midst of

closed schools and offices and even flood waters

Not my best day. Two hours at the dentist this morning. No gory details, but one tiny filling that I thought was no big deal took an hour and while not painful was hard on my nerves. Second hour was deep cleaning, and not as bad. As I suspected though, they didn’t get it all done, and I have to go back to have the left side of my mouth cleaned. Should be much easier. As a survivor of dentistry in the ‘40s, when I was young and had lots of cavities and techniques and the drill were pretty old-fashioned, I am a dental phobic. I thought I was pretty calm about hip surgery, but this morning I felt like my heart was going to pound right out of my chest.

Pretty day here, pleasant temperatures, but still humid. When I walked with Teddy, I was breathless. Teddy, always encouraging, said you can’t expect to be at your best after a long dental appointment. It saps your energy.

Not much work done today—again! After the dentist, I needed a nap; then walking. Then Subie and Phil came for happy hour. Sophie was so demanding that we locked her outside; of course, Phil's seeing-eye dog wanted to go too, but both dogs stood at the door, looking pitiful in exile.

Pitiful exiled dogs

When Subie and Phil left; they crossed paths with Mary Dulle who came for the second shift happy hour. She’s been gone much of the summer, so it was good to visit with her. I can’t complain about nobody visiting me in the cottage!

Still watching flood news with one eye. A family Colin and Lisa are close to was finally able to leave their house today and is safe. Various rumors about evacuations in Sugar Land, where Lisa’s parents are. Missed the news tonight, due to extreme sociability, so I’m not sure if it’s raining or not. Last I heard rain was heavy but moving slightly eastward.

It would be easy to sigh and think it’s over, the storm is moving on. But of course that’s foolish thinking. The storm will not be gone for those affected for months, years. I finally decided where to make my first donations—made modest contribution to the food bank here in North Texas, because Fort Worth is going to get a lot of evacuees, and sent a second donation to the animal shelter in Conroe, where my kids got their dog. I figure they were boots on the ground. The news is confusing—some posts list goods that are needed; others say, don’t send goods, send money. I think this weekend we’ll try to get together a care package. Christian’s office is collecting items needed at local shelters.

Sleep tight, stay dry and safe, and pray for those being evacuated, those still stranded, those whose lives have been shattered.

A Whirlwind day

I swear a whirlwind went through my house today. I got up early—6:30, thank you very much—for an 8:40 dentist appointment. Dentist appointments always make me anxious, even though I really like the hygienist. So I geared myself up for the appointment, got in my car, and realized that Christian’s car was still behind mine. He took Jacob to school at 8 but usually was gone within five minutes. He came back, after his reading group with the kids that I didn’t know he had, at 8:30. My appointment was at 8:40, at least 20 minutes away. I had already called and they wanted to reschedule because my favorite hygienist had a full schedule. So now my teeth won’t be cleaned until the end of December.

It worked well though because I had been worried about being back in time for the TCU retirees’ luncheon. Obviously I was ready when friend Jeannie came to pick me up—and I’d gotten a lot of work done. The luncheon was fun—always nice to see old friends—and I gave out name tags, which I liked. I would always prefer to have a job at events like that. Bud Kennedy of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram was the speaker, talking about his TCU days and his early—and sometimes amazing—experiences in journalism. Thoroughly enjoyable.

Went home to a peaceful house until four, when Jacob, Jordan and Jay arrived. Jordan made another start on my closet, then moved her organizational skills to my pantry, where the disorganization bothers her a great deal. Jay installed the new monitor box on my kitchen TV which had just arrived.

And then it was all flurry to get Jacob and Jordan off to the school for his fourth-grade program. This is the first one I’ve missed, and I felt bad about it but just didn’t want to stumble around in the dark to get there. I promised him I’ll go next year, for his final performance at this school.

And then, when they came back, it was another flurry of showing videos of the performance, eating celebratory ice cream, and getting out the door for home. Fun and lovely to have them here, but it tires me out. I’m ready for bed.

Whining again

Like many of us, my mood waxes and wanes (maybe with the moon), though I hope casual friends don’t sense it. Good friends do, and Betty kept giving me pep talks last night about not expecting to get back to the real me too quickly after the bout with the swollen foot (still swollen a bit) and the fall in the restaurant parking lot. She even brought my garbage cart up because she said I shouldn’t have to do it. One problem with me: I could succumb to that kind of pampering easily. But her reassurances that my funk wasn’t permanent were an enormous help, and I went to sleep last night determined to be happier and more confident today. It worked. I certainly walked better than I had all week.

I’m not sure what caused my funk beyond the lingering foot problems. Monday I was tied in knots when I went to a funeral at a church where I’m unfamiliar with both the building and the worship, but I had a good friend to sort of keep me on an even keel—she too knows me well enough to recognize when I’m tentative, and she cheerfully held out a hand when I stumbled in my self-confidence. Yesterday, when I was in the deepest funk, I stayed home, glued to my computer except for supper. And that may be a part of my problem—I like people around me. Today, however, was another event I dread—a dental cleaning. I need to back off and say I love the hygienist, she never hurts me, she’s cheerful and funny (and thinks I’m funny), and if I’m tentative she’ll walk me back and forth to my car. I came away with a clean bill of dental health—except for those blasted blueberry stains. She laughed aloud when I said blueberries were in season: “As if I couldn’t tell,” she said. I think a childhood fear of the dentist office lingers. Dental technology is so changed and improved, but it’s hard to erase those early memories.

Other people go to funerals and dentists without getting their panties all in a wad, or maybe they fight internal battles that I don’t see. But I wish anxiety would just go away, and then I think of all the people, even in my small world, whose problems are so much greater. I think I should just gut up and forget it.

I’m of two minds about anxiety—the more you think about overcoming it, the worse it gets; on the other hand, it takes a conscious effort to drag yourself to a more positive place. One thing I know: it waxes and wanes. I think it’s waning right now.

Tomorrow? A haircut,  always a cheering event.

My kind of day

Yesterday I was in a funk. I started the day with a teeth cleaning, which took a good chunk of my working time out of the morning. Then thing after thing piled on my desk--who knew I'd agreed to judge a contest? Why did people send me pdfs for the newsletter when I can't work with them (probably my basic program plus lack of computer expertise)? When am I going to read that book for my class? Homework with Jacob seemed interminable, and I had to firmly convince him that I had not made the deal he said I did--yes, he alphabetized those words. Even a belated birthday dinner at LaMadeleine with Jordan and Jacob didn't cheer me much, though it was good and fun (Jordan's great car wreck happened on my actual birthday). At the end of the day, knowing I'd written over 2000 words, I was still in a funk.  This morning Elizabeth offered an opinion that hit home: she said every time I go to the dentist, I'm in a funk for the entire day. Hope she hasn't jinxed me for future dental appointments. I really like the hygienist.
Today was much more to my liking--I had no obligations until I got Jacob at three. I wrote 1700 words, worked on the upcoming issue of the newsletter, did my yoga, and did a bit of reading on The Virginian for my class--it's been years since I've read it. Jacob's homework went smoothly, and the world seems in its place.
Sophie likes this kind of a day too, because she's inside with me, except for occasional trips to the back yard. This afternoon, she cuddled with Jacob while he sat in a big, comfy chair and played on the iPad for a few minutes. That dog is so spoiled--she doesn't realize what the world is like for many dogs. I think, though, she senses Elizabeth is leaving us because when we meet for wine at night, Sophie sits and stares into Elizabeth's face. "I'm so cute, how can you leave me?"
I've noticed a new pattern in my life: I like to eat lunch at home and have supper with friends because I get so much more desk work done that way. Tonight was dinner with Betty at the Blu Crab Café. We split Chilean Sea Bass with Potatoes Dauphinois, a stacked dish with some kind of tomato relish and microgreens on it. Good but rich--I couldn't have eaten the whole thing.
To top my day off, I got a birthday present from my brother and his wife today--there must be something about the full moon that calls out belated birthday celebrations. It was a package from Amazon and when I saw a gorgeous, oversize cookbook called Charcuterie my first reaction was, "I didn't order this but it sure would make a great present for John." Then I saw the note that it was from John and Cindy.
Later tonight I'll finish the day off with a glass of wine on the deck, while Elizabeth and I catch up on our days. Life is good.