So far, a good week

Sophie does not care about elections like I do.

Maybe Tuesday evening is too soon to call it a good week, but this one is starting out well (hear that sound? It’s me, knocking on wood). Last night, Jordan, Christian, and I went to visit friends Subie and Phil Green in their new apartment at Trinity Terrace and were so impressed by how spacious it is, how well laid out, and how comfortable. Windows on the south and west provide a great view—well, okay to the west, it’s the parking lot but the city is beyond and to the south it’s mostly the roof of First Presbyterian. Their patio is the first one in that complex I’ve thought I would venture out on, because it’s only the third floor. Deliver me from Jean’s seventeenth floor balcony! I told Subie if they’d find me a ground floor apartment with an attached dog yard, I might move. I wouldn’t really, but it was good to see them so happily settled.

Most interesting part of the evening: their neighbor in the building is a man who grew up in the house where I lived for twenty-five years and where Jordan, Christian, and Jacob now live. Christian even found a place where he had carved his name—Kenneth Jones—into the cement in our now-crumbling driveway. Kenneth was born in the house next door to the west, moved to our house when he was five, and lived here until he married, at which time he and his bride moved to the house next door to the east. “We were working out way down the block,” he said. He had memories of when there was no Forest Park Boulevard and University Drive stopped at the river. Fascinating evening, and I certainly hope to see more of him.

Tonight was Mary Dulle’s happy hour night, but she brought longtime friend Sharon Benge with her. It was great to catch up with Sharon and particularly to hear her report on her oldest son. Years ago, Sharon and I lived in the same close-knit neighborhood, and I can still remember her and Bill sitting in our dining room and announcing they were expecting their third child. Fun memories. Sharon’s late husband always used to call to check on me, and I truly appreciated him. There are no friends like old friends.

Tonight I made a retro appetizer—stuffed celery. I tried hard to string it but didn’t get all the strings. Still I liked it a lot, better apparently than any of my guests. I used pub cheese that comes in a carton but spiced it up with a recipe I found.

During the day so far I have made my goal of a thousand words a day—that’s purely a goal I set for myself, but I figure it’s a way to keep up the momentum. If I don’t do something like that, I’ll never get this book written. I am reminded of the saying of Ivan Doig—I think that’s the author—who said writing is like driving when you can only see as far as the headlights. Certainly true for me with this book—my mind is usually only one scene ahead of where my writing is. I have no idea how the silly thing is going to end—but that’s good, because you as reader will not be able to guess the end. At least that’s my hope.

I’ve also dealt with a host of business/housekeeping details this week—a bill for last year’s mammogram that was settled in April, but in October the insurance company asked the provider for (and got) a refund which then became a balance for me to pay—can they do that? I will file yet another protest. The upholstery cleaners I like so much are coming by to pick up a newly cleaned cushion which has a new stain—and Sophie is going to the vet so maybe we can figure out why we’re getting these small puddles. I had to reschedule my dentist appointment, since my covid cough is almost gone, and call an arborist because our lawn guy says our trees really, really need professional trimming. It’s always something. My to-do list included a book to order, a curbside menu to check up on, all the little stuff that makes up daily living. And I’ve talked to my brother each day—he’s still in the hospital, and yesterday his voice was strong. Today he’s been sleeping off some pain medication that made him crazy (in the words of his wife). It reassures me to talk to him each day.

It's election night across the country, and I am curiously hopeful. One column I follow—Wake Up to Politics—said not to pay too much attention to off-year results, but I think they will give us an indication of which way the political winds are blowing. I can’t believe some of the statistics I read online—like trump, who seems more deranged daily is leading in five key swing states. It’s too early to be alarmed by such, but I would feel better if we had some strong progressive victories tonight—like enshrining abortion in some states.

Sweet dreams, all. Think positive thoughts.

 

 

The dog in my life

The good and the bad, and the in between

The good news today, for many of us, is that the election has been called in favor of Joe Biden and Kamala Harris. More of our countrymen—and the international community—are rejoicing tonight than not, but I know that there are many who are disappointed, angry, and convinced the world—or America—is going to socialist/communist/whatever hell in a handbasket. To them, I say I’m sorry. I know their disappointment. I felt it sharply four years ago, and I have lived with it ever since then.

But for the rest of us, there is a much-needed sense of joy. Joy has been absent in the current presidency. Many pictures of trump and Melania show a dour-looking couple, bored, unhappy, wishing they were someplace else. Pictures of Joe Biden and Dr. Jill Biden are filled with laughter, secret smiles shared, gestures of affection—and dogs. Donald Trump has apparently never had a dog and considers pets low-class, at least that’s what I hear he said to the Pences, who have pets. I remember a meme on Facebook that showed trump at the podium saying he would have a dog, but he didn’t have time. Below it was a picture of a small dog in a prayerful position, with the caption, “Thank you, Jesus.” The White House will now have dogs—two big German Shepherds.

This isn’t as insignificant as it seems. You can tell much about a man’s soul by the way he treats animals. Loving an animal, to me, shows an ability to reach out beyond yourself, to have empathy, to care even about the helpless among us. You can tell a lot about a man by his reaction to a dog, but you can tell even more by the dog’s reaction to the man. I have always trusted a dog’s instincts.

There is also something—a whole lot—to be said for a man (or woman) who lives life with joy. I think joy bespeaks a certain comfort in your own skin, again an ability to reach beyond yourself. In this administration, joy has been lacking in the White House—there have been no arts performances such as we’ve seen with previous administrations, few if any state dinners (maybe a few ostensibly welcoming foreign dignitaries), no welcoming people into what is supposed to be the people’s house, no seeming enjoyment of the role of leader of a major nation. A president should bring us more than health and wealth. He (and someday she) should bring us art, literature, music, crafts, the best of man’s creative and imaginative minds. I hope to see that restored.

Our country made history today with the confirmation of the first woman to be vice-president. We are, however, way behind the world. Several countries have women at the helm—Germany’s Chancellor Angela Merkel, New Zealand’s Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern (who successfully controlled the corona virus in her country), Iceland’s Prime Minister Katrín Jakobsdóttir. Finland, Denmark, Norway and Taiwan are all led by women. I have great faith that Kamala Harris will one day take her rightful place on that stage and show us that the twenty-first century is the era of women coming into their own.

In the midst of celebrating, I had an “Aha!” moment: that toothache I’ve been nursing is not a toothache at all—I have the shingles. I should have known—the characteristic skin lesion on my chin, the intermittent shooting pains, the fact that pain skittered from throat to mouth to ear. My mom had this in her eighties and was miserable for a month or better. I am grateful that my case seems to be milder. Still it is one of those diseases that caught early can be wiped out by medication. I did not catch it early and am now five or six days in.

Jordan is concerned (that’s a mild word for it) about contagion. Shingles results from having had chicken pox sometime in the past—I did as a child; she never did. The skin lesion is the key to contagion—once it is dry and crusty, you are no longer contagious. So I will stop putting hot cloths on my chin immediately. Still, I am sort of ostracized out here in my cottage. I am, however, optimistic and relieved to know what it is. Also relieved I’m not facing extensive dental work—at least, I hope. I have had the first shingles vaccine several years ago, and I wonder if that is not making mine a milder case.

And the in between: I was looking forward to a writers’ conference tonight, the highly  respected Crime Bake usually held in New England. I signed up for this year’s Zoom version and set aside the hours six to eight for it. But when I tried to “zoom” in, the program told me the host was already hosting another meeting. I think I just hit one of the glitches about Zoom. So I’m reading and waiting for President-Elect Biden to speak

Happy dreams, all. Tonight, may you dream of joy and good times and dogs and health and democracy triumphing.

 

A radio interview, self-control, and forgetfulness

For me, the highlight of this dull and cold day was a live radio interview. Thanks to Priscilla Leder of San Marcos for hosting me on her show on the San Marcos radio station. The show was an hour, with station breaks every fifteen minutes. Having been on the interviewing end of things a time or two, I was worried about having enough to say. But Priscilla sent me three pages of notes of things she wanted to talk about, and the hour flew by. We chatted a lot about Saving Irene, but also about mysteries in general, Chicago, food, and a few of my other books. It was a thoroughly enjoyable hour, and I’m grateful to her for hosting me. Bonus: I didn’t have to put on make-up, make sure my hair was okay, put on something besides my T-shirt and tights. Radio is sometimes a nice relief from Zoom. I will be getting a link to the program if anyone wants to listen.

I worried about Sophie getting needy or demanding during the hour, but she was good as gold. Almost the minute I hung up, she was at my elbow with that soft growl-like noise that means, “Feed me. And I want my chew!” She got both. We have both been house-rats today—weather is too nasty for going outside. I have both heaters going (the kind that hang from the ceiling) and still a sweater around my shoulders. So glad Christian is fixing a post of chili tonight.

I’m patting myself on the back. The current sermon series at our church stresses that we are all in this together, listen to the other person instead of reacting with argument, etc. It’s a struggle for me because I feel so strongly about the sins and corruption of the current administration. Sometimes I can’t keep my mouth shut when people praise trump or Cornyn. Today, a friend posted a note of congratulations to Amy Coney Barrett on her appointment, and I penned a quick retort: Congratulations for what? Hypocrisy? Breaking tradition about distance between the courts and the president? Succumbing to a wannabe authoritarian who sometimes can’t think his way out of a paper bag? Being a political tool? And then I deleted it! The same friend posted a video celebrating our lovely first lady. It took will power but I scrolled right on past without comment.

I saw a post today, in reference to attacks on Joe Biden’s mental acuity, that when a young person is occasionally forgetful, no one pays attention, but when an older person forgets something, it’s seen as the first sign of senility. We all forget things from time to time. I found great comfort in that. Sunday night I placed a grocery order, and Monday I sent Jordan to get it. She came back empty-handed and reported they had no record of my order. When I investigated, I found all the items still in my cart—I had forgotten to finalize the order.

Last night I was making that tourtiere I mentioned and Christian’s green beans, which require bacon and vinegar—like wilted lettuce, if your mom ever did that. It was after five before I remembered that I had defrosted the ground meat but not the bacon or the pie shell—yes, I confess, I used a pre-made shell, and it wasn’t as good as made from scratch. But I just can’t imagine rolling out dough in my tiny kitchen. Besides, at that point, it was my memory I was more worried about than the quality of the food, although the tourtiere was quite good and Christian’s beans are always welcome.

My closing thought on this chilly night: I think Biden will win a fair election, but I am terrified that the Republicans will steal it through voter suppression or the courts they’ve stacked. It is a fight, as Biden and others have said, for the soul of our country. What kind of country are we? What kind do we want to be going forward? Please vote if you haven’t already.

 

An ode to Saturdays

    

Kitchen sink soup in the pot

I’ve said this before, but I cannot figure out why Saturdays feel different from the rest of the week when you’re quarantining and practically a recluse. I stay home all the time, so why does Saturday seem a different day? And yet it really does. It’s not a workday, like Monday through Friday, and Sunday is its own day because, at least in this household, we attend online church and we make Sunday dinner a more formal, special meal than weeknights when we might scrape by on leftovers. Nope, Saturday is definitely its own day.

In reverence to that feeling, I did not much today. Spent a lot of time on social media this morning. I will be so glad when the election is over because I expect the posts and controversies and things I absolutely must read will quiet down. That may, however, be a fool’s dream. I also expect confusion, chaos, even civil disobedience, no matter who wins the election. I have gotten to the point that I don’t want to read polls and prognostications and predictions—I simply can’t bear it.

So today I did eventually get back to proofreading my novel, Jessie. I had started over last night, because I didn’t feel I was in the rhythm of the thing when I first went through it. Today I got to page 125, finding new errors along the way but eventually reaching a point where I thought I had done the best I could. I sent it back to the publisher, figuring anything else would amount to chewing it to death. Glad to have it off my desk, and I’m ready to move on next week to the audio version of Saving Irene. I admit I’ve been stalling because I’m a bit intimidated—I’ve never done an audio book before.

Compared to yesterday, today was lovely, bright and sunny, but it was still most chilly. A soup day. I fished six icebox dishes out of the freezer to defrost—not sure what was in them all, though I did recognize the remnants of short ribs and the gravy from them. There was something with a lot of hamburger and spaghetti—Stroganoff? As I assured Christian tonight, none of it was anything he hadn’t already eaten. I dumped it all in my big pot, added a can of tomatoes, a cup of beef broth, some fresh green beans I have to find something to do with, and some frozen corn. Voila! Soup! It smelled so good as it simmered that I was impatient for dinner. Christian ate two helpings, and Jordan ate most of Jacob’s. I’ll eat it again tomorrow for lunch.

Like most of us, I have been horrified by the fires in Colorado—two huge fires only ten miles apart with the threat of them meeting and combining. Estes Park completely under mandatory evacuation. For some dumb reason—maybe because fires always seem remote—I didn’t think to worry about my oldest granddaughter who is in school in Boulder. But today I read that fires in Boulder County were almost under control. Oops! I texted her instantly, but she reports she is safe, although the fires came quite close. And she sent pictures of the smoke. In the one below, it seems to me there is a great contrast between the comfort of the beautiful sunset and the dark cloud of billowing smoke.

Tomorrow we in the DFW Metroplex are due for a sunny, pleasant day with temperatures in the seventies. Christian will cook a roast, and Jordan and I plan an artichoke appetizer because we were gifted with two fresh artichokes. We will have a proper Sunday dinner, the kind my dad would have approved. But then it’s going to turn cold. Patio weather is gone, and that makes me sad.

Some Saturday musings

 

The death of RBG is one of those events—after the news flooded the internet, the airwaves, and print journalism, there’s not much left to say. On the other hand, if you write an (almost) daily blog, as I try to do, you can’t just not mention it or prattle on as though it had never happened. My only original thought is that all today I have not heard any criticism of her, no negative comments. People have either been sincere in their respect and admiration—or they’ve been silent.

Even trump, who she openly disliked, a disaffection that was mutual, apparently  said, “Wow! She was an amazing woman.” Although he requested flags be at half-staff, I have not heard a formal announcement of either respect and honor or loss. Similarly, Mitch McConnell has said nothing about RBG, although he was quick to talk publicly about replacing her, not long after she had drawn her last breath.

There has, of course, been much speculation about what her death means to the country and specifically to the election. That now-empty court seat will surely be an election issue as much as COVID-19. I leave it to wiser heads than mine to predict and prognosticate. Specifically I’d recommend reading Heather Cox Richardson’s column tonight—her column last night was an eloquent tracing of RBG’s life, career, and importance. Perhaps tonight she’ll take on the consequences. Meantime, I of course hope that the eventual outcome will be a balanced court, but I am probably dreaming. McConnell has spent trump’s entire term packing the courts, and there’s little reason to think that this opportunity isn’t the stuff of his dreams.

Interesting to me and that I didn’t know is that after the Depression President Franklin D. Roosevelt packed with Supreme Court with liberals. Much more to my liking, but I recognize that what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander or whatever (does that go the other way around?) Eventually, balance was restored, and that will happen again someday. Meanwhile, the question of women’s rights looms large.

We were kind of off our feed—or at least our schedule—last night, which is why I missed Richardson’s column. Christian had planned to grill—steaks for them and a lamb chop for me. But he got home so late that the idea had little appeal and we ordered take-out from Chadra. I have not been really happy with almost any take-out we’ve had, but I have to say last night was great. Chadra’s spaghetti with meat sauce isi a favorite, and I am glad to have leftovers in my fridge.

I may have to give up my daily nap, because I’ve been having bad dreams. Today it was people chasing a dog to kill it—supposedly a vicious dog, but nonetheless a living, terrified creature. I couldn’t bear to stay on the front porch, so I grabbed my dog and went inside. Only I went from the porch of our house in Fort Worth inside to my childhood home. A Freudian psychologist might have a field day with that.

Why bad dreams? I have a friend who almost came undone with the news of RBG’s death and explained that it was just too much on top of the political uproar already whirling around us. I think that’s the tension I’m feeling. Quarantine hasn’t been hard for me, mostly because Jordan has seen to it that I am secure in my bubble, but nothing keeps me from the computer and from political news. I know many people have sworn off Facebook, for instance, because politics is so virulent these days that it upsets them. I think that’s a self-indulgent luxury we can’t allow ourselves. I think we must continue to speak out, to fight for democracy.

And I was going to write an apolitical blog! Apologies to any who do not see things the way I do.

Watch night and other matters

I’m sure the sale of Tums has gone up dramatically in the last twenty-four hours. I’ve heard from more people and seen more posts on Facebook about the anxiety this election has produced. One meme said last night was like a combination of Christmas Eve and the night before a colonoscopy, and I thought that was pretty apt.

I waited too long to make watch party arrangements and then got cold feet about going out. I’m in a hermit mood, still in the pjs I’ve worn all day. In spite of a neighbor’s nice offer to take me down the street to the Wine Haus, where there is no TV, I’ve elected to stay home alone. Perhaps Jacob will come out and watch the returns with me later. But for the time being, I’m keeping the TV muted. I don’t want to hear all those early predictions. I’m waiting for solid results—and praying a lot. Two years ago, for the presidential election, I went to sleep and left a good friend and Jordan in my living room watching. When I woke in the morning, they were both there again, and when they told me trump had won, I went back to bed, like an ostrich burying its head in the sand.

Meanwhile, I spent some time shopping online today and am so proud that I really whittled down my Christmas gift list. I try to give something to each of the fifteen family members, not big but something I hope they’ll like, and then there are assorted friends I am close to. A little creative online searching, and I think I came up with some good choices. I will have to have many of my family gifts wrapped to be delivered when we’re all together for Thanksgiving, since this is an Alter “off” year when the kids all celebrate with their spouse’s families.

Sophie provided a little diversion from the election-day tension today. She had a spa day a week or so ago and came home sporting that triangular scarf around her neck. Knowing that it would just get dirty, I suggested Jordan take it off one night when she was loving on Sophie. She eased it over the dog’s head, and Sophie backed off and literally glared at her. Jordan began apologizing, saying, “Mom told me to do it.” Finally, she put the scarf back on, and Sophie seemed satisfied.

This morning, there was a repeat performance with Zenaida who cleans my cottage for me. She sweet-talked Sophie and eased the scarf over her head. Soph immediately grabbed it in her teeth and began a game of tug o’ war. When Zenaida tried to ease her mouth open to get the scarf, Sophie gave her baleful looks. Finally, we decided to just let her carry it in her teeth until she tired of it.

She didn’t tire. Scarf in her mouth, she barked demandingly at Zenaida, who restored the scarf to its proper place around Sophie’s neck. And then my spoiled dog trotted away, perfectly satisfied. She won another round with those silly humans.

Let’s hear a chorus of “The Star Spangled Banner”

For the first time since the November election, I feel a surge of hope. The groundswell of opposition to Trump’s policies grows louder every day, with more voices joining in. I think the sitting president underestimated the American people. America will be sorely tried and tested in coming days and months, but as President Obama predicted, we’ll be all right. We’ll come through with heads held high.

What encourages me? The judge who issued the stay order on the deportations, the lawyers who rushed to airports to represent those being detained, the crowds who went to airports just to see how they can help, the general air of optimism in posts on Facebook tonight . It sounds dramatic, but history is unfolding before us, and we each must find the part we can play, the role where we can best serve.

As I sit here in the oh-so-still rehab facility on a Sunday night I wonder what I can do from a wheelchair. Joining the chorus on Facebook is one way to contribute. I’m through writing Texas senators—they pay no attention to anything except the party line. But I will try to reach Democratic leaders.

I still wonder why we hear so little from progressive leaders. We need every senator who has not been ground down by Trump, Ryan and the Republican party to speak up—veto those atrocious appointments, be the obstructionists that the Republicans have been for eight years. speak out as a unified body in opposition to what is being done in and to our country.

And the Republicans? How long are they going to let this idiocy they have thrust upon the American people continue? Is there not a man or woman among them with common sense, a conscience, a concern for their own children and grandchildren—and the courage to speak out? Or are they so busy protecting their careers? Which comes first—country or career?

I am assured that organized movements will emerge from the women’s march (which was about human issues, not just women’s) and the more recent protests. But I still get the feeling that the loyal opposition is fragmented. I am besieged daily with numerous pleas to sign this or that petition—and then send money. I am sending no more money until I see an organized, unified plan.

It’s scary but exciting times—and its early days yet. I may well be wishing for premature action when cooler and wiser heads are carefully planning. While we wait for those cooler heads to prevail, let’s abandon such comments as “We are doomed” and make optimism our slogan. Come on, let’s hear it: “O say can you see….