Benji has a fan club

My brother John and his puppy

Benji is so grateful for all the welcoming comments and praise for his good looks. He is especially grateful to one anonymous fan who sent him a gift—wonderful health bar treats in a variety of flavors and a chew toy he has not been parted with. I wish I had a name so I could thank the donor, but I hope he or she reads this and knows how tickled we were to receive this bounty and how grateful. Benji has found himself a special place in the yard, by a tree, where he hollowed out a hidey hole and stashed his favorites, such as the most ragged rope chew thing you ever saw. Now the new bacon-flavored bone is there too, after banging its way around the cottage while I napped. On the whole, Benji is really good about my naps—he puts himself to bed in his crate.

The barking is getting somewhat better. At least, I think so though I may be grasping at straws. He spent periods quietly outside today. I think that advice that he needs to get used to the neighborhood is spot on. In his previous home, as good as they were to him, he did not spend much time outdoors. Now he’s outside every minute he can be, although he frequently comes to the door to check and see that I’m still in here. If his barking gets to be too much, I simply bring him inside, and he takes this with good grace, going immediately to his crate. But he will emerge to lie on the floor by my desk, and this evening, I could hear him and his bone in the bedroom. Knock on wood, but so far he has not bothered one thing he shouldn’t, and his food manners are good. He’s not a beggar.

I had a chance to test my own food manners last night when Carol Roark picked me up for dinner at the Blue Spire, the upscale dining area at Trinity Terrace, the high-rise retirement community where so many of my friends live. It was one thing for Carol to invite me, but another much bigger one for her to have to leave TT to pick me up and deliver me after dinner. And on top of that to wheel me in the transport chair because it is a very long walk from the front door to the elevator in the newest tower which houses the Blue Spire. So I am most grateful. We had a delicious dinner—veal piccata for me (Christian fixes chicken piccata frequently but I never splurge and buy veal) and stroganoff for Carol. Beter yet, Carol and I had a good visit. We don’t have get a one-on-one visit—we are part of a group of four who dine together. But last night, it was just us, and I got a slide tour of her recent trip to New Zealand (all those exotic birds and plants whose names I can’t pronounce!) and she listened about Benji and the goings on of my family and even my cooking. A lovely evening.

Tonight, my heart is heavy. My 92-year-old big brother is in the hospital—again! —and not doing well. He has always, since I was small, been my protector, and as we raised our children, he filled the roll of patriarch with admirable grace—my kids and his know their table manners to this day! John and I have had our differences—politics! —but in the last year plus, we have again become close, talking on the phone every four or five days. And we have so many rich, good memories that they outweigh the differences in our views and sometimes our lifestyle. I am not rushing to his bedside, because I think that would be extremely difficult for both of us—we are the last of our family on the side of our mother, my father, and his father. His wife said she would she would ask what he wants, but I suspect he will tell me not to come. And so I wait on tenterhooks. Prayers for peace and acceptance are welcomed.

The guard has changed

 

Me and Megan at Don Artemio.
I should have taken pictures of the food.

The Burtons are home, exhilarated but a wee bit fatigued, Megan is on her way to Austin, and routine has settled over our compound. I’m about to fix tuna salad for lunch—what could be more routine?

My week of kids ended with a dining adventure last night. Megan and I went to Don Artemio, the new, upscale steakhouse and tequila bar that has Fort Worth agog. I am by no means knowledgeable enough to critique food from central Mexico (the only other Don Artemio is in Saltillo, near San Miguel), but I can tell you what I liked and what I was uncertain about.

Megan was absolutely fascinated by the décor and the “feel” of the restaurant, especially the thousands of hand-made Saltillo bricks that make up walls, deliberately just a kilter off. The industrial ceiling with its ducts is dark gray, and the colors throughout are muted, perfect foil for the blue-and-white molcajete that several dishes are served in. At one end of the large space, sound is baffled by an intriguing installation of yarn and wood that looks a little like one loom after another.

We split the guacamole with chicharrones of ribeye, and it was wonderful. Megan loves hot, spicy things; me, not so much. In fact, not at all. So for me the guacamole was perfect—creamy, smooth, and flavorful without a bite but a perfect contrast in texture and taste to the tiny bits of delicious steak. I am also always cautious about ceviche because it often contains shrimp, and I’m allergic. But this was salmon and whitefish in pungent lime sauce. Tasty, but the fish was diced so fine! I’d like the pieces a bit larger.

Megan had a salad of grilled hearts of palm, tomato, avocado, and panela cheese, which proved to be a solid block of a mild cheese—all with a chili vinaigrette. Most people scorn tongue, but I grew up eating it and like it, though my acquaintance is almost entirely with corned beef tongue, as served in our local deli. The menu last night offered tongue tacos (Taco de Lengua) with salsa verde and tequila-cured tomato, onion, and cilantro. I asked the server about the dish, and she said it was one of their most popular. Belatedly, it occurred to me that was probably a clever way for her to encourage me to order it. At any rate I did, and it was superb—rich tasting. The meat had been braised overnight. The salsa was too hot for me, but I put some of the tomato on one of my three tacos and later wished I’d put it inside.

A most satisfying experience. We were too full to even consider tres leches cake or ice cream, but I had a second glass of good chardonnay and Megan had another margarita. Then we drove around the Monticello neighborhood a bit, with Megan remarking that she knew the part of Fort Worth she grew up in and the area around her high school, but there are large chunks of the city that are strange to her. We had planned to do a quick drive to Mule Alley because she wanted to see the Drover Hotel and other developments in the stockyards, but we ran out of time. Megan’s a lawyer and got stuck on a call so we barely made it to the restaurant for our reservation. I told her that tour is a good reason for her to come back soon.

The Burtons were here when we got home, demanding to know why we’d been out so late (nine o’clock). They were full of stories of Cabo with a crowd of birthday celebrants. Megan and Jordan pored over pictures (I figure I’ll see them later) and laughed as they always do when they’re together. Christian gave up and went inside, and I soon announced I was going to bed. This morning there was no sign of life from the house—oh I did see Christian let a dog out—until ten o’clock when Megan came out. The two sisters had sat on the front porch and finished the bottle of wine Megan brought.

Happy times—and now I hear Helen Corbitt calling me.

Soph says goodnight.
A girl needs a pillow for her head.

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?

Taking part in life

Busy days

I knew it was a busy week, but I didn’t realize quite how bad until I got up one morning and discovered the breakfast dishes from the day before still in the sink! And then there was the day I took a nap, woke with a start and wondered, “Why am I in bed? Did I forget to get up this morning?” Some weeks go by without my feeling that I am engaged with the world. This week was definitely the opposite, and I loved it.

Part of what kept me busy and distracted, of course, was the impeachment hearings. I wouldn’t say I was glued to every word—I tend to wait for summaries I trust. But I kept it on, watched the way people talked and held themselves, and listened intently only occasionally. I am in awe of the quiet, calm professionalism of the career people from the state department, and I am mightily impressed that women made such a strong showing. Maria Yovanovitch, Jennifer Williams, Laura Cooper, and Fiona Hill were unflappable, knowledgeable, self-confident, quite a contrast to the sloppy posture and presentation of their Republican antagonists. I saw a cartoon depicting Devin Nunes as Dopey, Gym Jordan (somebody buy him a jacket!) as Sleazy, and Castor, the Republican lawyer, as Sleepy—he was slouched so far down in his chair, he was almost horizontal. Not a pose that bespeaks alert intelligence. In fact, I read somewhere that he elicited damning information, on trump, from people he questioned.

The men were no less remarkable—confident, knowledgeable, unshakeable. Bill Taylor got most of the accolades, but I was impressed by David Holmes. He seemed almost amused by and a little disdainful of some of his interrogators. All in all, it was quite a show. The question is now, what next? Republicans are crowing that they will never abandon trump—they apparently recognize his guilt but don’t care. Will they hold firm when push comes to shove? Will they take into account the various signs that indicate trump and his cronies are Russian puppets, the abandonment of the Kurds being he most blatant. The Ukraine affair may easily be tied to Russia too—just listen again to Dr. Hill’s testimony.

My week beyond watching TV was one of sociability—lunches at Black Rooster and Nonna Tata, where I discovered that my favorite dish, braseola, is still available if no longer on the menu; dinner at the Tavern, where I discovered my good friend Betty does not eat artichokes, even grilled and slathered in butter and lemon. Last night, while Jordan went to a work event in Dallas, Christian and I went to a Connections Dinner at church. The point is to get members to dine and visit with new faces. At our table there was only one face new to me, but the others were people I rarely talk to more than to say “Good morning” on Sundays, so it was fun. The food was delicious, prepared by Louise Lamensdorf, formerly of Bistro Louise (there are perks to belonging to UCC and Louise’s occasional dinners are one of them). It was a beef stew kind of dish but with distinctive seasoning, a little bit sweet and sour, and a wonderful vegetable and white bean soup. I believe she said the dishes were Tuscan.

So today, chilly and wet in the morning, was a perfect day to stay home and regroup. I did odds and ends at my desk—how did I get so many of them? And began to get things together to go to Tomball for Thanksgiving. I’ll go Sunday and be gone most of the week, leaving behind Jordan and Christian to host their first big holiday meal. Oops, no—I remember that we had Alter Christmas at their house  in Hulen Bend one year, but it was a long time ago.

And tonight, it’s me, a copy of Food & Wine, and a new cozy mystery. Life is good.

Little Annoyances

Sometimes life just seems full of little annoyances. Nothing big. Nothing that matters in the long run. But still, things that are annoying. Like yesterday, when my computer wouldn’t turn on. I pushed the button. Several times. Then I pushed it and held it. Nothing. Many folks would shrug and move on to do something else, but I spend a large portion of my day at the computer. On days I’m home all day, it’s my lifeline to the world. It’s where all my work is stored. I made my way around the desk to where it’s plugged in—yes, to a surge protector but nothing is guaranteed. Unplugged it, waited a minute, plugged it back in. Power! I was connected.

An archive sent me three photos I had purchased for the Alamo book. I can’t open them to add to my photo log and write captions.

My dog has allergies. I can hear her when she breathes. Sometimes it sounds the way a child does with a stuffy nose; other times it sounded like air going through a damp sponge. The vet and I treated it by phone, because there’s no way I can get her to the car to bring her in. She’d get better; then she’d get worse; then she’d throw up. I thought of pneumonia. I wrung my hands. I worried a lot. Tonight, she’s much better.

Went to the Wine Haus last night about five with Jordan, Christian, and good friend Nancy. Delightful evening. Lots of laughter. Got in the car this morning to go to the grocery—no sunglasses. They were at the Wine Haus, which is closed until three. Of course, what started out to be a gray day this morning turned sunny and bright. I squinted.

The cold snap we’re having, however, is more than an annoyance. It’s definitely the next step up the scale of problems. My cottage is chilly. I never feel quite warm enough. I now work wearing my gray all-purpose sweater that gets me through the winter, and on days like today I drape my prayer shawl across my knees. And I added an extra blanket to the bed. I still think I may never really feel warm again until the temperature reaches 80 and stays there. None of this 80 one day and in the twenties the next, thank you.

Jordan thought 22^o was too cold to shop early in the morning. “I don’t want to get you out in that temperature.” I didn’t remind her that I’ve lived in Chicago and northeastern Missouri—I don’t like cold, but I can handle it. She’s the Texas-born baby. We went about ten o’clock, and the car was so warm I had to turn the heat down a bit.

Now they say there’s the possibility of sleet this evening. I plan to go to dinner with friends, but I don’t think me and my walker will do well on sleet-slick handicapped ramps.

Later this evening: no sleet, and a delightful dinner at Righteous Foods. Salmon tacos, wonderful black beans, and churros for dessert. Good company. Satisfying end to an annoying day. Got my sunglasses back. My editor opened the mystery file of images. All is well in m world.

Happy weekend, everyone.

Bringing the outdoors inside

June 7, 2018

Even though the temperature hovers in the upper nineties, I live with my French doors to the patio wide open. (With the air conditioner working, it stays comfortable for me, too hot for many; and no, I’m not breaking the budget. With my wall-mounted self-contained HVAC unit, cooling does not cost astronomically as it does with traditional unites.)

Sophie spent this morning running from one end of the yard to the other, happily and busily going about her primary job of keeping squirrels off the property. She leapt to the top of the driveway fence, ran back and forth to the rear of the yard, then momentarily collapsed on the ground, tongue lolling out of her mouth like a great red fly-catcher. Periodically she ran into the cottage to have a cool drink of water, and then she was back out.

I thought how wonderful it was she was having such a good time—until I looked at my hardwood floors. The sprinkler system went off early this morning, so the ground was muddy, and she brought mud and tree worms in by the bucketful. I had to sweep and mop, not chores on my usual list.

I love having the door open, not just for Sophie but because it feels like I’m bringing the outdoors inside. I can smell the honeysuckle that hides the ugly back hurricane fence, and the pecan tree seems to spread its sheltering boughs over my desk. The simple act of opening that glass door makes everything more immediate, as though I could reach out and touch the trees, flowers, ground cover.

From my bathroom window I can see the four chickens behind me. Never thought I was a chicken lover, but I am growing quite fond of them, and I admit I sometimes linger too long just watching them peck at the ground or huddle together on a crossbar. Who know that chickens were so group minded that they huddle in the hottest weather? And those good-sized birds like to perch on that tiny piece of wood.

The other day, Amy, my neighbor, opened the pen so they could have a bit of free ranging. Then she strode across the lawn—literally, a very purposeful, deliberate, and brisk pace, and the chickens, as though one unit, scurried along behind her. They know who feeds them. Two are gray, one a striking black and white, and the last a lovely gold.

Yesterday I happened to glimpse a different bit of nature. I saw something move across a branch in one of the trees that towers over the chicken pen. I decided it was a baby squirrel, but then it flopped, and a large head with two piercing eyes appeared behind it. Those two eyes stared directly at me (my imagination, I’m sure) until I broke the connection. I’m afraid a cat had killed a baby squirrel. When I went back minutes later, it was gone. But this morning I saw a tiny squirrel jumping in the branches of that tree, so I think there’s a family there.

And this afternoon I saw the predator again. I decided it was a large cat, a small bobcat, or an owl. Went back again and decided it’s a large cat. Gold in color. It may be the neighbors’ cat.

Nature seems so calm and safe but in truth it’s no more a peaceable kingdom than the world of man. Meantime, I’ve been enjoying the best of the citified world too, eating out three nights this week. Tonight, I had dinner with friends at the Sanford House in Arlington, a B&B, spa, events center, and restaurant. The main building looks like an elegant older home but is really 1990s construction. Inside though you’d swear you were back in the late 1800s. Wonderful menu, elegant surrounding, pleasant service—a truly special evening. I had crab cakes and white cheddar/jalopeno grits, plus a lovely chardonnay. I’m a happy camper.

Testing My Faith

Church this morning was a test of my faith. I attend an established, traditional church, a Disciples of Christ congregation. I like to think our theology is liberal, even if our congregation is fairly gray-haired, older, and conservative. This morning, we sat toward the front, in front of the pulpit. A young, Middle Eastern man slipped into the pew directly in front of us. He was cleanshaven but wildly curling black hair poked out from an unusual knitted wool cap that was a cross between a beret and a sac and totally inappropriate on a June day. Thin and a bit rumpled, he carried a backpack that he set on the floor and immediately rummaged in, pulling out what appeared to be a worn Bible. Was it my imagination or was he breathing hard? Was his cotton shirt sweat-soaked as it looked? My nose thought it answered the last question, but maybe he’d ridden a bike to church. When he turned a bit, I saw huge dark eyes, wide open.

I am not happy to confess that my radar went up. Throughout the service, he read his Bible, ignoring what was going on in worship. He didn’t pray; he didn’t take communion. Why was he amongst us?

A bigger question I asked myself was if I’d have had the same reaction were he blonde with pale skin. I think the answer is that I would still be concerned, but perhaps to a lesser degree. My thoughts raged from faith to instinctive caution. As a liberal progressive, I despise racial profiling and like to think I accept people individually based on who they are. But this young man set off something instinctive in me, a fear I could not deny. In our church, all are welcome at the table, and we believe God teaches us to love all his children, no matter skin color, clothing, whatever. And the other hand, as a woman, I’ve been carefully taught to pay attention to my instincts. If I sense something is wrong, I’m urged to take action to protect myself.

Nothing happened in church, of course. The young man may well have been lost, lonely, and afraid. When the hour of greeting arrived, I shook his hand and welcomed him, and he nodded appreciatively, those wild (honest, they were) eyes looking directly at me.

I’m left wondering what God thought of my dilemma, and, more importantly, what I think about it. Conscience or caution? I still don’t know the answer. I do know that for a moment there I was reminded of the first lines of a novel I just finished writing, “Susan Hogan thought she was going to meet her maker that March day. Her first thought was irreverent. ‘Really, God? In a grocery store in Oak Grove? Haven’t you got this wrong somehow?’” My thought was, “Really, God? In church on Sunday morning?” But I also felt strangely safe, as though I knew it would all be all right.. Perhaps our lives are going to be filled with that dichotomy in these fear-ridden, uncertain times. Fear certainly is a catching disease.

The day didn’t get immediately better. Washing dishes and my favorite cup, the one I drink tea from every morning, slipped out of my soapy hands; the handle broke off, so now it’s relegated to being a small vase. It was given to me by a close friend who has since died, so it has sentimental value, making the loss that much worse.

Dinner with friends tonight soothed my troubled soul. One of my wimpy friends and her gentleman friend ate on a patio, because it’s in the 80s with a nice breeze. Not sure I would have prevailed, but apparently, he gets cold easily too. Eggplant parmigiana that was delicious. And I thoroughly enjoyed the atmosphere. Thanks to Kathie and Morris for a lovely evening.

I gave myself a holiday from writing today. Piddled at my desk with this, that and the other, even made notes for the novel, but didn’t actively work on it. Pleasant, but I didn’t get as much reading done as I expected. Tomorrow, back to work. And another week begins.

Dinner with wimpy friends

Every month or so, I have dinner with three ladies I’ve known a long time. Tonight, we had reservations at a restaurant that has a lovely, shaded patio with lots of fans. I love patio dining and had lobbied for that tonight. I lost. One has bad allergies and doesn’t like the heat; another is adamant to the extreme about heat (I think 70 is her cutoff); the third agreed the temperature on the patio was fine but the whirring of the fans bothered her. Honestly, ladies! Really?

We ate inside, but the patio was a great joke. I had emailed them earlier to suggest that I am as uncomfortable in air conditioning as some of them are in heat. They sort of got the message, enough that when I ostentatiously draped a wrap around my shoulder they laughed. And made jokes about patio dining and the like. Finally, one said, “I can tell we’re going to end up in the blog tonight.” So here you are my wimpy friends. Note that I am kind enough to omit your names.

Inside/outside controversies aside, we had a lovely evening. They are interesting ladies—two are docents and one is knowledgeable about museum quality art, which sometimes leaves me in the dust in the conversation. I went armed tonight with a report on the Netherlands art investigator who thinks he can solve the Gardner Museum thefts and return the art work undamaged. Never had a chance to throw my knowledge into the discussion, but we talked about cruises—one had just been on a cruise and was at best medium enthusiastic; the other is getting ready to go and taking lots of books. I, who have never cruised and hope not to, recommended sitting on her private deck or patio, watching the ocean go by, and reading. Of course, I’d have my computer with me.

Lunch today was a different story but equally lovely. One of the joys of my work at TCU Press was that I often made friends with authors. Chloe Webb is one of those. Her book, The Sacred Harp Legacy, was one that touched my soul, and she and I became good friends, occasionally going to lunch at the deli where we both ordered egg salad sandwiches. Chloe’s husband is in iffy health, though doing well right now. But she has suffered a great loss and been in a dark tunnel of her own, probably darker than the one I’ve just emerged from. I hadn’t seen her in a while so it was good to connect when she came to the cottage for lunch today. I had lunch at the deli earlier in the week and brought home egg salad for her as a surprise. With sliced fruit and a pickle (odd combination but it worked), it made a delightful lunch. And the conversation was interesting, reassuring, thoughtful. We share a strong faith that has carried us through our tunnels.

So tonight I am grateful for friends who sustain me—old friends and new, those who share my tribulations and my joys. Thanks, y’all.

Leftovers for lunch, dogs and Neanderthals

Leftovers may be the best lunch. Today I had half a turkey burger (minus the bottom half of the bun which I somehow left in the restaurant last night), a small bit of egg salad, some green beans, and some shaved Brussel sprouts in Caesar dressing—thanks, but I’d rather have romaine with my Caesar dressing.But it was a good lunch—better if I hadn’t followed it with a chocolate bar or at least a good portion of one. Help! I need self-discipline.

If you want a mixed-bag experience, take two eleven-year-old boys for dinner. They’re buried in their phones and iPads. We went to the Star Café, which friend Betty and her husband own. Boys ordered fries, didn’t eat them; dessert—one ate his, the other said he doesn’t like spiced apples. Why did he order apple pie? They wanted to wander around the Stockyards, which I wasn’t comfortable with. But when prompted they were good with please and thank you.

Why I sometimes don't make my bed

Sorry for the fuzzy picture, but she's so cute

I read somewhere that your dog is the mirror of your soul. Since my Sophie is sweet, lovable, loyal, sometimes cuddly, I like that idea. But except for a rare instance or two when my children were tiny, I’ve never had the unquenchable urge to run away and explore the world that besets her. Indeed, I’m known as an anomaly among my friends because I don’t really care to travel just for travel’s sake. There are places I want to go—the cities where my children live, Scotland of course, maybe Alaska—but it’s the destination, not the journey. Sophie on the other hand wants to take of willy-nilly and see the wide, wide world. And I’ve never barked at the toaster.

Since 23andme told me I have a high number of Neanderthal markers, I decided I should look into Neanderthals. My thought was that perhaps they’ve gotten a bad rap. Indeed, they have! The best site I found on the net was titled, “Neanderthals are People.” Thanks to popular literature and comics, we envision them as short, stocky, beastly caricatures with lots of hair and dark complexions. They may have looked ape-like but evidence of intelligent behavior has been uncovered by scientists.

Neanderthals lived in families, took care of the sick and elderly, buried their dead. They controlled fire and had primitive tools such as axes, picks and cleavers. Yes, they frequently lived in caves, but they had rituals, made jewelry, and mixed paints for their faces and bodies—actions which indicate a world view beyond their immediate knowledge. Although not demonstrated conclusively, it’s possible they had language and some constructed sea-worthy boats.

So, to the gentleman who posted on my wall that he knew all along liberals were Neanderthals, I’ll claim the label. It’s not an insult.

My Neanderthal ancestors account for only four percent of my overall DNA but they may be the cause of my straight hair and relatively sparse hair on the back of my head. Do you suppose I could blame them for my tendency to weigh seven percent more than normal?