A thousand points of light

You probably know about trump dissing on Former President George H. W. Bush’s program that he dubbed, “A Thousand Points of Light.” The sitting president said he never got that, but Bush’s granddaughter, Jenna Bush Hager, sure did, and she let trump know in clear terms that it referred to people volunteering, people caring for others. So important at this time in our history.

I see stories and hear them of people caring, taking the extra step, going out of their way to help other people. Look how the world has responded to the saga of the children in cages and the trapped soccer team in Thailand. It reassures me to hear these stories, just as it reassures me when people step back and hold the door for me and my walker. There really are good people in this world, and I believe they will triumph

I like to think of President Bush when I look at my own thousand points of light. When I was out of town for Thanksgiving last fall, Jordan worked hard to make a fairyland of the backyard I look out on every day and night. She festooned the deck and driveway fence with lights. But the biggest thing, to me, was the device she put on the half-wall outside my patio doors. It projects at least a thousand tiny points of green light. Last winter, when the trees were bare, the lights landed on the wall of the guest house next door, though our neighbor said some jumped the single-story building and mysteriously showed up on the other side.

Now that it’s summer, though, these lights cluster on a small herb just beside the projector and then land in q wonderful random pattern on the leaves of the pecan tree that shelters the patio. Someone a few red dots are sprinkled in with the green. It’s all truly magical, and I wish I could take a picture of the scene. I never remember to turn the lights on, but they have a mind of their own and come on at dusk. I have to remember to turn them off before I go to bed. If I forget and wake in the night, I can see them clearly from my bedroom. Cool beans, as the saying goes. And yes, Mr. President, I get it.

So tired of everything looking droopy in the yard. We water and water, but it’s an uphill battle. I worried about the fig tree, so Christian put a donut sprinkler on it, and it looks better. Tonight, the turk’s cap looks droopy, and the basil is a lost cause—planted from seed, and I think the weather got hot before the plant got strong enough. At any rate, as Christian says, it’s committing suicide.

Report on the Irish coddle: really good, except that the ring sausage we bought had red pepper in it and is too spicy for me. We also made enough for Coxie’s Army—will be eating it forever. But we have voted the recipe a keeper.

It’s dusk, and my thousand points of light just came on. Sweet dreams, everyone.

Twas a dark and stormy night

In North Central Texas, we've had welcome predictions of rain all week--but nothing. Tonight it finally materialized. Predicted for six o'clock, which made Jordan rush home at five to be sure her car was in the garage and she wasn't driving in a storm. Nothing at my house (maybe 20 minutes away) until seven, when there were a few rounds of thunder and some drizzle. And then the heavens opened--not a storm but just a nice heavy rain. We can use it, although we've been blessed with rain quite a bit lately--something like nine inches opposed to a comparable period last year with three inches. Our lakes are filling up. But it will take more to end the drought in West Texas, and I worry about California--though I can't worry too much until they stop letting Nestle (a foreign-owned company) export bottled water under a contract that expired several years ago.
I see by the TV that the threat of severe storms has already moved east of us, and I can hear the rain slowing to a gentle drizzle. It's a wonderful night to be safely at home, tucked in with my Sophie, and about to write what  I hope is the last scene in Murder at the Mansion, the book I seem to have been working on forever. Wonder if I could work in the phrase, "Twas a dark and stormy night"? Naw, too corny.
When I was a kid, we had a summer cabin high on a dune at the very foot of Lake Michigan, and I used to love watching storms roll down the lake, with the water dark and roiling with huge whitecaps and the sky almost equally dark. I never feared storms--somehow my mom convinced me tornadoes didn't hit cities near water, and since we lived in Chicago we were safe. Now, of course, I know that's not true.
But I learned to fear tornadoes in Texas. I remember once when the sky turned green and my ex and I were running errands, with all four children at home with the nanny. At the time, we lived in one of those rare Texas houses with a basement. So I called and asked, "You do know what to do if there's a tornado, don't you?"
"Oh yes, ma'am." Long pause. "What?"
We hurried home.
The closest I ever came to a tornado was one night when restaurant adventurer Betty and I were having dinner at Pappadeaux. The sky turned black and then green, and rain poured down. So though we'd finished our meal, we ordered more wine. Later her husband would say "I can't believe the two of you just sat there and drank wine." What were we supposed to do? Go out in it? It turned out the great tornado of 2000 which leveled parts of Fort Worth and even damaged the downtown area had passed less than a mile from where we sat. I was sort of surprised the restaurant didn't tell us to take shelter under tables or something, but there was no change in pace.
When I got home, the phone was ringing. Jordan was living with me at the time, and she said, "I'm okay." Far cry from tonight when she has already emailed to see if I'm all right and warned me to charge my phone, get out candles, matches and flashlight.
Just while I wrote this, the rain has stopped and the thunder is distant. I wouldn't be sorry if it rained all night--thunder and lightning allowed but no tornadoes, please.

The glories of rain in a Texas summer

Normally in North Texas we have rain in April, maybe May, but we didn't get much this spring, not enough to do any good. But this week, we've had glorious rain, almost unprecedented in a Texas summer. Yesterday it was gentle steady rain all morning. I took a nap and woke up to a sunny afternoon. This morning was sunny, and I thought they were fooling about rain, but this time when I woke from my nap, it was storming (did I mention I come from a napping family?). And I mean storming big time. Some thunder and lightning but not a lot--apparently in surrounding areas there was a lot of lightning. But oh, my, did it rain in sheets and blow--I watched my old elm tree, which anchors my property in front, and it swayed but held firm. Friends nearby have two limbs down in their backyard. And it kept raining--I can't remember the last time it rained that hard for that long. Apparently we got about two-and-a-half inches. And they say there's more to come in the next two days.
About forty miles from us, the level of a lake rose five feet overnight--of course with the damn system they'll release some of that, but it was so sad to see piers and docks sitting on bare ground and boats dry-docked. I hope they keep enough water for water sports this summer. I doubt this has broken the back of our drought but it's sure a help.
My week started off peacefully but has gotten complicated for the next few days. Jacob is visiting his grandparents in Coppell and I miss him a lot--suppose I have to share. He's still is afraid of storms, so I hope he's safe and happy tonight. On the other hand, I enjoy a good storm, though I am leery if tornados are possible (they weren't mentioned today).
When I was growing up my family had a cabin high on a dune (three flights of stairs above the beach--from which we got our pure drinking water). It sat right at the bottom tip of Lake Michigan, and one of my fondest memories is of watching storms roll down the lake bringing dark and thunder and enormous whitecaps on the lake. I guess that's why I still enjoy storms, and I sat and watched the one this afternoon in awe. Then I went in my backroom to do my yoga workout--something lovely about doing yoga with the wind and rain blowing outside a wall of windows.
Glory and praise for the rain be to God.

Twas a dark and stormy night....

That classic first line of a bad novel is true in North Texas. We're surrounded by tornado warnings, though ours has just expired. My daughter had hail at her house, while I relished about five minutes of steady, medium rain--the good kind of rain, just not enough of it for our drought. All evening lightning has flashed around the sky and thunder rolled over us. As my Mom used to tell me, the gods are bowling. As long as the sky doesn't turn green and no rotating clouds are reported, I enjoy a good storm. Tonight we're being warned to stay away from drafts because of lightning--otherwise I'd throw open my greenhouse windows and let some of that rain-freshened air in the house. It's cooled nicely outside but is still stuffy inside.
Once when my four children were little, we left them with a nanny for an afternoon. When the sky turned green, I called the nanny and said, "You do know what to do with the children in a bad storm, don't you?" We had a house with a basement. "Oh yes, ma'am," she said. "What?" Now I have no basement, but Sophie and I will go to the big closet in my bedroom, though I've never had to do that in twenty years.
When I was a kid, we had a cabin in the Indiana Dunes State Park, at the very food of Lake Michigan, high up on a dune--three flights of stairs from the beach. One of my great delights was to watch a storm roll down the entire length of that huge lake, cresting in wild whitecaps as it reached the beach and bringing with it rain, lightning and thunder. Maybe I didn't know enough to be fearful, and I'm thankful to my parents for not teaching me that fear.
Jacob on the other hand is fearful of storms. The other night he saw three lightning flashes, and I suggested he go to the back door because Sophie would want to come in. He insisted I go with him, explaining, "You know how lightning frightens me." Once there he stood inside the open door and called, "Come in, Sophie. It's lightning." About a lot of things he's fearless and brave, but storms get him.
Me? I'm actually hoping for more storms--my new plants need the rain. Just not violent winds or tornadoes, please.