The urge to purge, disappointment, and surprise

 

Just because I really like this picture.
My gang and me in front of Tiffany elevator doors in Chicago's Palmer House.
That trip was seven years ago right about now.

This morning dawned dreary again, and I thought we were in for a day of rain. Wishful thinking. I knew the Burtons had plans most of the day—Jacob’s golf tournament, a football game tonight, etc., and I had no plans, so it promised to be a long day. I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to work on. Drifting, you might call it.

I’m not sure what changed the mood of the day, but I found myself purging files. I have a rack of file folders on the credenza (a much fancier word for what it is) by my desk. It’s overcrowded and messy, and somehow, I found myself pulling folders, sorting old papers. I had a file labeled “Pending” where I stuck everything I didn’t know what to do with. As a result, there were receipts from 2019 and precious little that I needed to save today. Several files could go to the “inactive” file—a disorganized drawer in the bottom of a cabinet beyond the pretentious credenza. No, I did not alphabetize—I just stuck them in wherever they would fit. That’s one thing the kids will someday have to deal with—I can’t get down on the floor to be orderly about it.

And then there are recipes—four folders of them, though I sent one folder, labeled something like “Lean and Green” into the house for Jordan. And I sorted through the others, some with recipes I’ve kept since the seventies when the kids were little. It wasn’t the old recipes I purged—they are like treasures—but the countless new ones I print on impulse and then later realize I will never cook. I have now filled two wastebaskets, mostly with culled recipes.

While I sorted and discarded, I had the TV on, watching for a Paxton verdict. When it came, it was at first agonizingly slow—for each article of impeachment, a clerk read off the way each senator voted. Call me Pollyanna, because I honestly thought the vote might go against him. But as the words, “the Senate cleared him” came up more often, I lost heart. At first, I thought maybe the more serious charges would come later, but no. That bunch of cowards acquitted him on all counts, when it is clear to anyone who’s been following the proceedings that he is guilty as sin. One national news source called him “impressively corrupt.” Let me right now give a shout-out to my senator, Kelly Hancock of North Richland Hills, one of only two Republicans who consistently voted to find him guilty. I quickly wrote Hancock a note of appreciation.

There’s not much consolation to be had, and I won’t rehash Paxton’s corrupt career nor the proceedings, though I thought it impudent and imprudent of Dan Patrick, at the end of proceedings, to blame it all on the House who should have not impeached in the first place. Talk about impartiality.

I am angry. I am furious. I am dismayed that I live in a state where corruption and greed rule. I don’t intend to be silent, but I feel helpless, and I don’t like it.

My day was brightened, however, about two o’clock when the phone rang—a number I didn’t recognize so I didn’t answer. It quit ringing, but whoever it was called right back, and I saw that it was a call from Omaha. Normally the origin of the call doesn’t mean much, but I answered just in case. And it was one of the people in this world I most treasure: Martha Andersen, who I’ve known since the early Sixties.

We were in graduate school, working on master's degrees, at Kirksville State Teachers College (now Truman State University) in Missouri. Our fathers knew each other, which was our initial contact. Her fiancé and my soon-to-be husband hit it off, and the four of us spent a lot of time together, until they left as Dick’s work took him to Kansas and then Nebraska and we moved to Texas. But we kept up, and they visited. After my divorce, I spent a lot of time on the phone with Martha, and in later years the three of us went to Santa Fe and they made a couple of trips to Fort Worth. When they sublet a condo in Hawaii, Jordan and I flew out to spend days with them.

It was and always has been on of those friendships that just clicked. We can go weeks, months without talking and then pick up right where we left off. She is sometimes a beta reader for something I’ve written, and she’s good—I take her ideas and comments seriously. Today we talked about my kids and hers and where they are today. For most people, that’s idle conversation, but we really care. She talked about gratitude after all we’ve both been through—and I had to stop and think for a moment. I worry about her health, but I don’t think of myself as having been through a lot. But then there was divorce and cancer surgery years ago and in recent years the hip, and I realized she has always been there for me.

Bittersweet: neither of us travel these days, so I doubt we’ll ever hug again. Makes that phone conversation all the more precious. I have her number in my computer, and I intend now to all often and a lot. Email isn’t enough.

From Feast to Famine

Jordan and her girls at the rodeo

Not sure what roadhouse is--new since my day

Yesterday was such a high day, full of sociability and good food, that today is a bit of a shock. A dull gray day when the sun never did shine. I’ve been home, working, all day. Tonight Christian is out at a business event, Jacob is home, not feeling well and stewing in front of the TV, and Jordan has gone to the rodeo with her girlfriends.

This afternoon, when she said they had rodeo tickets for tonight, I had a momentary longing to go with them, to be one of the girls. I quickly came to my senses: I don’t really want to go. Years ago, I swore off watching the bull riding because I didn’t want to see man or animal hurt. I used to leave the arena when that event started. Besides, not walking without assistance, I couldn’t navigate the coliseum or the stands well, and I knew they didn’t have a box. I have in the day been privileged to sit in a box a few times, and it is sure up close and personal to the action. Much better than the Backstage Club perched high above the arena.

But it dawned on me what was really making me a bit nostalgic. I wanted to be forty again and in the frame of mind to go to the rodeo. I wanted to recapture the past.

Rodeo night was a rite of passage in our household. We always went with another family, had dinner in the cafeteria, and went to the show, back in the day when they had class entertainment acts. Each child waited anxiously to be deemed old enough to go to the rodeo and not be left behind with a sitter. By the time they were all of an age, there were four adults and eight children in our party, all dressed in our best western gear, all excited for this annual event. Back in those days, I stayed for the bull riding.

A lot of things are different now. The rodeo is different, my consciousness about animals is different—yes, I know the animals are well cared for and tended to, but I still don’t want to see calf roping. I am not of the ranch life born, in spite of all the time I’ve spent writing about the western life. And I am, alas, older. No, the rodeo is not for me.

So here I sit, another exciting weekend at the Fort Worth Alter/Burton compound. Jacob came out for me to heat his soup, and I explained he waited so long that I was heating my own dinner and he’d have to wait. I can’t turn on the hot plate and the toaster oven at the same time. So he took his can of chicken noodle soup inside to heat in the microwave. He says he’ll come back and visit, and I hope so. I’d like a little company, though Sophie is being quite companionable. I don’t mean to sound pitiful, because I’m not. But I just wish for a bit more company on this dreary evening.

My unattributed quote for the day: “The only normal people are those you don’t know very well.”

“Night, all.

A lazy day

March 4, 2017

            I didn’t sleep well last night—stomach issues--so it was lovely to do what the Brits call a lie-about—lie in bed way past the usual time my conscience gets me up. Being lazy was fun—the stomach issues not so much so. But my energy level didn’t improve as the day went along. I blame it on the weather—dreary all day. This afternoon I swear it was raining in my driveway but not in my back yard—crazy!

            Can you tell I'm reading a Deborah Crombie Scotland Yard novel? Lie-about for sleeping in. This morning, frustrated at something, I almost said, "Bugger!" Talk about getting into the world of what you're reading.

            I finally declared a vacation day—no writing. Determined to finish the novel. When I take a day off from writing ideas bubble in my brain, so it’s a good thing.

            Last night I had dinner with Subie and Phil at Local Foods Kitchen—I’d had takeout from there before but had never been there. There’s a small but pleasant seating area inside, and tables on the porch, where we sat—a little chilly by the time we left but pleasant. Watched the sky turn from rosy pink to gray. But the main attraction is a counter full of take-out food. I had a twice-baked potato and a beet-and-orange salad; my friends had crawfish/shrimp cakes, potatoes Dauphin, and a kale salad. (I can’t abide kale and am allergic to shrimp). Apparently the Kitchen is crowded and noisy at noon but was perfectly pleasant in the evening.

            Today I was ravenous at noon, so diced and fried a potato and had two sliders—should have saved one but I went ahead and ate it. Tonight, Nova Scotia fish cakes, cold roast beet pieces, and sautéed zucchini slices. The fish cakes were a recipe I found and wanted to try but when I got into it, I had second thoughts. You mash potatoes and let them cool; mix milk and fish and refrigerate; then heat, drain, and cool. Then mix all together and refrigerate Good golly Molly, should have started this at noon! It calls for cod or similar fish, but my go-to is my good canned tuna.

            The fish cakes, to my surprise, were good enough that I’ll try again. This time I really will start at noon, so I can finish before 8:30. I’m not one for fashionably late dining. Cleaning up? Time enough tomorrow.

Putting on a good face

I have spent much of today being determinedly cheerful. You see, my horoscope told me it was a good day to be cheerful and outgoing, and I might make important new contacts if I did that. Easier said than done on a rainy, dismal day when I didn't see anyone else until I got Jacob at three. And, of course, the Republican "rout" to overcome. Yes, I've read all the Facebook messages I got about why liberals lost--from President Obama to gerrymandering to the Democrats ongoing tendency not to support their own and, of course, voter apathy. What encourages me is that blame-seeking is done mostly in the sense of figuring out how things can be done differently in 2016. I am much encouraged by the many candidates who have said, "We're not through. We're not giving up the fight."
I have also been struck with the thought, expressed by several, that the conservatives wanted to control the government. Okay, now they've got it. Let's see what they do with it. I still have a sense of dread, and I did read and share a really scary forecast of what the future holds. But I'm determined to be optimistic.
I remember a friend who was distraught at the possible election of George W. Bush but finally decided that we had all dreaded Dwight Eisenhower's term of office and nothing bad happened. "How bad can it be?" he asked rhetorically. We all saw how that worked out--two unnecessary wars, tax cuts to the wealthy, and a monumental debt left to the country. So I'm a little afraid to say "How bad can it be?" But I remain hopeful that the country will survive and struggle onward to regain its once-great status in the world.
Betty and I went to Lili's tonight for supper--split crab cakes on wasabi mac and cheese. Really good. The cakes seemed to be all crab with no filler, crusty with sesame seeds and I don't know what else. And I guess it cheered us. When I asked how she felt about last night, she floored me by asking, "What was last night?" But then she said she knew it was coming all along. I guess I did too but I remained hopeful.
My good news is that a writing pal said, "The more you write, the more the ideas come," and it struck me that's why I have no ideas. So I wrote a thousand words on a new novel today. Yay for me!