Soft foods and a silly dog

This may be a repeat, but some time ago when I asked my primary care doctor if we needed to talk about my weight—in my happy wine-drinking, chocolate gorging days I weighed more than I ever had. He replied, a bit righteously, “We do not encourage the elderly to lose weight.” Now I know why: when major illness hits, we overweight people have a cushion to rely on. I don’t think this is exactly a license for gluttony, but I did continue on my merry way, loving the strip of fat on a good steak, a lot of butter on my toast—you get the picture. Now I know what he was talking about.

Limited pretty much to soft foods, I have lost a few pounds—not the way I wanted to. And I’m hungry, and a bit tired of soft foods. So I welcome any suggestions. (Maybe I’ve said that before too—I lose track of things these days). But then again, things aren’t all bad. In the picture above, I am enjoying tiramisu for dessert, having just had smoked salmon and good deli-rich cream cheese on toast as my entrée. Tomorrow I think I’ll dice some of that salmon into scrambled eggs with a bit of onion and tomato. But then, the prospect for breakfast is a dark chocolate protein drink. At least it’s easy.

Today was another day of doctors’ appointments and tests, this an out-patient biopsy that confirmed what doctors suspected I was dealing with and emphasized the message that it is curable. So rough ride ahead, but I’ll come out all right, albeit no doubt dramatically changed by the experience.

Meantime my kids, especially Jordan, continue to be amazing support. She was with me at the out-patient surgical facility all morning—would you believe we got home earlier than we expected? Medical matters never work that way! We were both touchy at first, but after all, it was five-thirty in the morning. But we sweetened up as the morning wore along, and she promptly appeared in the recovery room, full of good reports and good cheer. Her siblings are studying how they can best rotate being of help, but the scheduling, which is a mess, all falls on Jordan, with meager help from me.

Benji ready for tea

Benji continues to cement his way into our hearts. The other day, Renee came by, and Benji jumped into the chair next to her, looking for all the world like he too would like to have afternoon tea. “And two lumps of sugar, please.” Moments later I caught what I thought was an aristocratic look—turns out his attention was fixed on a fly on the ceiling. He is in and out of the flexible screen all day long, which means he inevitably brings some insects in with him. But he is also sensitive—he knows something is wrong and sticks close to me when inside, following me to the bathroom, sleeping by my desk while I work, settling by my bed when I sleep—though he doesn’t stay there long and prefers his crate. It’s amazing to me to have a dog who only has to be told once, “Go to your crate for a treat,” and he does. No attempt to bolt outside for one last bark at the moon. He was just now growling at something in the oh-so-dark back yard, and I pay attention, 

Focusing on a fly

Me? Wouldn’t you know I have a desk full of work—guest blogs to write about Irene and her ghost kitchen, a revision of my brother’s obituary to reflect his importance in osteopathic medicine (if you knew him, you’ll understand that and his “magic hands,”) and yes, Irene is tapping me on the shoulder telling me she doesn’t think her story is over. And then there’s that book about dogs. I welcome all this these days even if it does make me feel harried and hurried.

And politics to keep up with: my current indignation is about the amount of corruption all around us. As a friend said recently, it is incomprehensible that a justice on the Supreme Court flew a flag of rebellion and wasn’t run out of town on a rail. Made me think of the days when they tarred and feathered people for far less serious transgressions. And then there’s Judge Cannon in Florida, so obviously unqualified and biased that it leaves one breathless. And those are just the big names, supported by an unbelievable web of evil. Some days I just want to weep for my country.

That aside, I am working hard to make my days cheerful.

 

A wonderful weekend

 

Megan, who loves dogs but does not like to be licked;
Benji, who loves to lick.

Four grown children, one terrific son-in-law, one grandson, a new dog, and fifty or sixty people that one way or another make my world go around. What more could I ask for? Sunday, Jordan and Christian did their usual great job of hosting and invited family and friends to celebrate Jacob’s high school graduation. These days at such events I get parked in the living room, but there was a visitor’s chair next to me, and I had a constant stream of guests to talk with. I like to take a bit of credit for Jordan’s hostess skills—after all I did throw those huge Christmas parties for years, and she was at my elbow helping every minute. She knows how to set a pretty table, decorate the house, and, most of all, make everyone feel they are the special guest of the day. There was lots of picture-taking, a TV basketball game for folks to watch, visiting on the front porch. The party started at three—I think the last guest departed about ten-thirty, though I had long since retreated to the cottage. Next morning, Jordan said to me, “Was that not the best part we’ve ever done?” and I agreed.

Special entertainment at the party was a trip to the back yard to watch Benji, who knew he had an audience and tossed his rope toy with class and a lot of little leaps. General consensus was that he is a great dog. The family certainly approves, and Colin kept offering to take him home and keep him for a while, an offer I declined.

Of course a bonus for me was having my other three kids home. Colin slept on the couch in the cottage for two nights, which I loved even though it meant he made my cottage cold as a meat locker. Megan was on the front couch in the house and Jamie in Jacob’s room since Jacob sleeps in the TV room these days. Talk about musical beds! Once my kids were grown and began to scatter, it was always special to me to have them all four once again under my roof. For a while, when the grands were younger, I could even accommodate most of the young families. But in recent years as our numbers have grown and we’ve absorbed a couple of boyfriends, there’s no way. The kids generally find nearby hotel accommodations. So it was a real treat to have my four all under my roof again—I am not sure why that pleases me so much, because if anybody is protecting or looking out for someone, it’s a reversal from childhood. When they are here, they wait on my hand and foot. But still I guess it’s the feeling that I know where they are and they are all safe for the night. We missed some spouses and the other grands, but it was still a highlight weekend.

Saturday we had take-out Railhead barbecue—Megan questioned why we weren’t going to Angelo’s, the shrine she remembers from childhood, and I answered proximity—Railhead is blocks away while Angelo’s is across town. And we’ve come to think Railhead is just as good. Since I’m supposed to eat soft food that goes down easily, there was some question, but I convinced them that I could eat a chopped sandwich. I did, no problem, and enjoyed it thoroughly. Still catering to my cravings, Colin went to Carshon’s Deli Monday before he left and got me the chopped liver I had been wanting—full of protein and soft so it goes down easily (he also got himself a Rebecca, his favorite sandwich, for his long drive back to Tomball).

The happy weekend ended with a crash. Sunday morning, early, Christian’s father texted that he was in the hospital with gall bladder troubles. We presume he drove himself to the hospital, which scares everybody. Surgery was scheduled for last night, but they postponed it until this morning—I am always in favor of morning surgery when both doctor and patient are well rested (we hope).

Monday afternoon Megan rushed me off to an unexpected appointment with an oral surgeon, only to find I will have four molars pulled before the radiation treatment. To me, that procedure may be the worst part of the whole ordeal. I am, to be honest, a dental phobic, a carryover from my long-ago childhood when dental work on a pre-teen with bad teeth was pretty brutal.

By early afternoon Monday, the children were gone—Jamie had flown back to Denver on a standby basis late Sunday night and, fortunately, got on the flight. Colin left after his Carshon’s run, and Megan headed to Austin after the dental appointment. So we are back to reality. The next two weeks will be filled with appointments, not a peasant prospect. But I also have lots of work on my desk, which is a good thing. Today I hope to wrap up the neighborhood newsletter for June, and then I have proofing corrections to key in for Irene in a Ghost Kitchen. I still have my eye on that late June publication date. I am counting my blessings and saying my prayers.

Sunday evening supper and tears near the surface

 

One of my favorite pictures. 
John and I enjoying a happy time at his ranch.

Renee came for Sunday supper tonight, and we had a high old time talking about everything from Jacob’s upcoming prom to osteopathic medicine. Sunday supper is a longstanding tradition in my family, the sense that it should be just a little bit better, a little bit different from ordinary supper. When I was living at home and my brother gone to college or the Navy, Mom rolled her tea cart into the living room, in front of the fireplace, and we had a casual, light supper—a souffle or cheese strata. Today, Sunday supper is still special—we try to have everyone home and the menu is carefully chosen. Tonight Christian cooked an Asian beef and green bean stir fry, and, mixing cultures a bit, I fixed a Lebanese potato salad. Christian didn’t think the two would go together but admitted tonight they did complement each other

But tonight it was the Sunday suppers of my children’s high school years that were much on my mind. My big brother, the patriarch of our family, died yesterday morning at the age of ninety-two. He was my last surviving blood relative and the man I knew all my life would protect me. Everyone asks how I am, and the answer is “fine, but teary.” John and I have lived in close proximity probably more than not—as children, of course. He went to boarding school as a high school junior and was never home again, but in 1961, he declared I needed to get out on my own and took me off to Kirksville, Missouri where he was studying osteopathic medicine and his wife was working on a master’s in English. I too worked on that master’s. That move set the course for my life, including marriage to an osteopathic student and a doctorate in English. I moved to Texas in 1965, and he to Colorado in 1966. In 1980, he moved to Fort Worth to join the faculty of the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine.

In the early 1980s, John and I found ourselves both single with six teen-agers between us. Sunday suppers became an institution. We gathered at my house each week, inviting stray people we thought needed to join us—the parents of my goddaughter often, a good friend recently divorced several times, the kids’ friends. I fed anywhere from ten to fifteen those nights. Presence was required for the kids unless they had a job obligation, which some did. John presided over the table, led us in grace, and ceremoniously served the meal. Table manners were strictly monitored,  mostly by John, and I’m proud to say today all six of those kids have great table manners.

I loved cooking those dinners. Mostly they were a success, though sometimes not. I remember a turkey Wellington recipe which I have long since lost to my regret, and I distinctly remember one night I did a marinated butterflied leg of lamb (I must have thought I was a rich woman). Sometimes we had a turkey or a casserole or whatever I chose. One night, when my office was working on a regional cookbook, I fixed a cornbread/hamburger casserole I’d found the recipe for. John took one bite, looked at me, and asked, “Sis, is the budget the problem?”

Probably though the kids most remember the conversation. John went around the table, asking each person perhaps what they were grateful for or what they had done that week. No one was allowed to shrug it off—you had to have a cogent, intelligent answer. The classic that everyone laughs about to this day is the time we were asked what we were grateful for. Megan had brought a new beau to dinner (in retrospect quite brave of her) and the young man stood (his first mistake—none of the rest of us stood) and said, “I am grateful for Megan and her beauty.” The adults managed straight faces, but the teens couldn’t handle it. To this day, everyone laughs about this.

Today, Sunday dinner is served around the coffee table in my cottage, a far cry from that crowded, formal dining room on Winslow Avenue. But John will always be at my dinner table—and in my heart. We had our differences, particularly political—how he grew up in a staunch FDR/Mayon Richard Daley household and turned out a conservative is beyond me. But we learned, especially in our golden years, to put those aside in favor of our strong bond. We loved to talk, for instance, about the Indiana Dunes where our family had a cottage or Chicago, about which these days I am more nostalgic than he was.

John was sick, mostly bedridden for over a year, and our togetherness, such as it was, was always by phone—he lived south of Granbury on his ranch. We talked every few days, and I always ended the conversation with, “I love you.” It was hard for him, and he’d say, “Back at ya.” So here’s back at you John!

Cooking on a sad weekend

 

Life has revolved around Sophie this weekend. She was her bright sunny self Friday night, soaking up love and affection from Jordan’s friends Chandry and Marj, who said they came to see me, but I think they really came to check on Soph. Saturday morning, Sophie enjoyed the activity around the cottage—Zenaida was cleaning, and Climmy Reynolds hung a new flexible screen door on my patio door. But Saturday evening, Sophie was again lethargic and disinterested in food. We gave her the “I didn’t eat my supper” dose of insulin which seemed to perk her up. We fed her, including bits of hamburger and some canned green beans, which she loves. Turned out that was not such a good idea.

During the night, she wanted out at three but went into a far corner of the yar and ignored my pleas to come in. So I woke poor Christian. When she wanted to go out again at five, I held firm and crated her. This morning when I went to let her out, she was almost catatonic and had thrown up in her crate. She has gone downhill a bit all day—wandering with no idea where she’s going or what she wants, collapsing into the grass in the yard (I can only think it’s soft and comfortable for her). We’ve had great debates about what to do—I called the emergency clinic but when they said they might hospitalize her overnight, I decided she’d be more comfortable at home. She hates the clinic. I will call the vet first thing, but I suspect we’ll help her over the Rainbow Bridge tomorrow. The best thing we have done today is to surround her with love. We talk to her frequently, love on her, but it’s hard to tell what she understands.

House made
corned beef hash

As usual, despite the trauma with Sophie, a weekend means cooking. I posted before about my cooking fail—the St. Patrick’s Day corned beef that was tough, good flavor but tough. Christian minced the meat and brough me about half a cup. I diced a medium Yukon Gold potato and boiled it until tender, sauteed onion, and made my own hash. Having grown up on canned hash, I recently found a version from Nueske’s Applewood Smoked Meat in Wisconsin and realized how superior it is to canned. But it’s pricey. So, however, is good corned beef—I had splurged on our St. Pat’s piece because it was uncured (I had to look that up but it means no artificial preservatives—just natural herbs and salts as opposed to chemical). My house made hash was, however, delicious, and I’ll do it again.

Aunt Amy's 
giant hamburger

Saturday night Renee came for supper. I was rather proud of the meal—Aunt Amy’s Giant hamburger, Louella’s rice, and house-made refried beans (okay, they were canned but it was a new technique, and we thought it worked well). Jordan, Christian, Renee, and I laughed and talked until after ten-thirty, but we always had one eye on Soph. That was when she seemed to rally, but I knew deep down she was off a bit. Still, we had a lovely evening, trading stories and talking about everything and nothing.

Tonight, I had prepped a roasting hen—Christian spatchcocked it for me, and I spread herb butter under the skin and set it in the fridge to dry a bit. I roasted it on a bed of potato, carrot, and onion. The vegetables were sweet and wonderful, the chicken tender and flavorful. At one point I questioned whether or not I should cook the chicken, but Christian said, “We have to eat.” And we three ate heartily—Jacob was off practicing his golf, with a tournament tomorrow. Christian is like me—very few things can deter us from thinking we have to have breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I like an orderly day.

Tomorrow will be a difficult day, but I think Sophie has given us a sign. I’m at peace, though awfully sad. I feel she has gone to a place where I can’t reach her, though she does respond to her name. And for a bit on the patio with us tonight, she looked around with interest, reminding me of all the evenings she has been so excited for happy hour on the patio, particularly if there were guests. She has been the funniest, silliest, smartest dog I ever had (and that’s a long list of dogs). She’s been stubborn, demanding, difficult, affectionate, and absolutely adorable. And she’s had a good dog’s life, almost her every wish fulfilled. An easy traveler and ready to adjust to almost any situation. I will miss her terribly and will be flooded with memories. But what I’ve said before holds true here—I am blessed with happy memories. There will be tears at first, but they will mellow into remembering all the fun and loyalty.

Pray for us, please. The whole family is devastated, and Jordan and Christian have once again been wonderful.

Sophie’s adventure

 

Sophie is home again, after a brief adventure.

Sophie went walkabout this afternoon. Scared me to death.

This morning I saw an article that proclaimed your dog should always have a collar tag with name and address, even if microchipped. I remember thinking that I was so glad that Sophie had grown old enough she was no longer anxious to explore the great world beyond our fence. Besides, I told myself, she never has a chance to escape.

This afternoon at about four, I let her out, waited a bit, and called her—she likes being out in the cold, but it still worries me.  She didn’t come despite my call of “Cheese!” I went to get the cheese, happened to look out the kitchen window, and saw that both gates were open and Jacob’s Suburban was in the drive with the back hatch open. Hate to admit it, but I panicked and jumped to a conclusion. Called Jordan and when a male voice answered, I thought it was Jacob and yelled about Sophie is gone  and you left the gate open and …..!!!! It was not my finest moment.

Christian yelled back: “I just got home, and I didn’t leave the gate open.” Then he and Jordan began to yell at each other. In retrospect I realize I had started a family mini riot. Christian did come back on to say, “We’ll get her. We’re leaving right now.” In a minute, Jordan came out to the cottage to get bribery treats and told me firmly I should have looked at the gates before I let her out. Not the time to argue.

I live in one of those wonderful neighborhoods with an active email list. People are always posting about seeing a stray dog or a dog that got out and then you see the posts telling you the dog is safely home. I was on my way to the computer to post a notice when I saw Jacob leading Sophie out the back door.

She had gone all the way to the front yard. A bit anticlimactic. When Jacob called her, she trotted right up to him and followed him in the house. He left her in the yard, gate shut, and Jordan came up the driveway still carrying the treats, which she gave to Soph, who couldn’t understand all the fuss.

All’s well that ends well, but I can’t begin to describe my panic. I apologized to Christian, Mary came for happy hour, Jordan and Jacob went, with separate parties, to Bull’s Night Out at the rodeo, Christian and I had corned beef hash for supper, and life goes on.

When Sophie was younger, she escaped a lot. Smaller, she could slip through under the gate and other places. She was also poised to run every time we opened the front door. She seemed to have a burning desire to see Canada. Once poor Christian chased her for blocks—she would let him get just close enough and then bolt, and the border collie in her gave her greater speed than he ever thought of having. Another time, a janitor from the school across the street rang the doorbell, with Soph under his arm. “They told me she lives here,” he said. Indelibly imprinted in my memory is the time, when she was still tiny and wore a leash all the time, that she ran merrily down the driveway, dragging her leash. I swear I could see a smile on her face.

She’s older now, and wiser, and it’s cold out. I think she knows where her dinner and her bed are, but finding her gone, on one of the coldest nights of the year, still makes my heart stand still. Right now, she’s peacefully asleep in her crate. She has no idea how fortunate she is, and I am, that the whole family loves her so much.

It’s still cold—17 degrees—and I still have no hot water, which seems such a first world problem that I feel guilty whining about it. But I would really like to wash my hair, and my hands are weary of washing dishes in ice cold water. Tomorrow, so they say, a thaw. I remember Chicago winters and am grateful that this doesn’t happen to us often.

Stay warm and safe and don’t let the dogs out!

That fleeting moment of tranquility

 

Sunset at the lake in Tomball

When I was young, I had a favorite spot in the Indiana dunes where I would go in the early evening to watch the sun go down. It was a pathway, halfway up the high dune where our cottage was on the ridge at the top. I could sit, accompanied by my wild collie mix named Timmy, and stare at the lake, smell the dune grass (and perhaps chew on a blade) and listen to the water either lap gently on the shore or crash, depending on the mood of Lake Michigan. I love the lake in all its moods, but I used to be fascinated by the whitecaps when it was roiled up. I was in awe of the power in that mighty body of water.

If I looked at an angle to the left, I could see the buildings of Chicago, looking like tiny sticks. Sometimes the sun was a crimson ball outlining those little black sticks. It was a moment of tranquility. Of course, at eight or ten I was too young to know I needed moments of tranquility, but late in life I often went back to that spot in my mind when life seemed to press on me.

Around the heater at the lake

In recent years, I’ve found another spot—on the edge of the tiny lake at my son’s house in Tomball. Four properties ring this lake—I wish I could guess at the size, but it’s bigger than a stock tank, smaller than a lake. Colin and Lisa have several seating areas between the house and the lake, and late yesterday afternoon we took drinks and snacks and went to watch the day disappear in shadows.
They have recently gotten a mushroom outdoor heater that is most effective, and the day had warmed enough that we were quite comfortable. As I sat staring at the lake for just a moment, I thought, “It doesn’t get much better than this.” I didn’t really grasp my moment of tranquility because there was conversation around me—Colin and Lisa, my two teen grands, and two dogs. But it was enough for me to get a much-needed feeling of peace.

Morgan and Ginger

My moment of peace

Lisa's mother's house on the lake

Today, Colin drove me to Waco where we met Jordan and Christian who brought me the rest of the way home. We had ordered fast food from a chain I thought was nationally ranked but now can cross off my bucket list. Fortunately, because we had Sophie with us, we ordered take-out—the restaurant was a loud, noisy zoo, and we would have been unhappy eating there. Instead, we took our food to a charming little park on the Brazos River—Christian went to Baylor in Waco and so knows all the little places like that. I thought our picnic was a lovely cap on a trip that I enjoyed.

The Brazos in Waco
A neat little park by the river

I have confessed here to not being a confident traveler and to feeling like a bother, but this trip put both those qualms to rest. I enjoyed all of it—from the long drive on Tuesday where I talked Colin’s ears off and made myself hoarse to the picnic today and all that came in between. I have so much to be thankful for, most of all my family who watch out for me and help me with the things I can’t do alone.  Nope, it doesn’t get much better.

A twenty-four hour vacation

 

Megan and Jacob at Walloon's

Well, maybe it was a staycation, but what made the last twenty-four hours so special was that Megan, my Austin daughter, came to visit. Confession: coming to see me was not her primary motive in coming to Fort Worth. She came to go to the TCU/UT football game Saturday night with her special TCU girls—those she was close friends and Tri Delt sisters with—gulp!—some thirty years ago. She did it all and had a blast—staying up late drinking wine and catching up, margaritas at Joe T.’s, a walk around Mule Alley, and, of course, tailgating and the game. Even though TCU lost, all agreed it was a great game.

Megan, who never plans far ahead, planned ahead for this one. She drove up with two girls, Veronica and Rachel, who live in Austin. But Sunday she sent them on without her so she could spend the day with me. Bonus: I got long overdue hugs from Rachel and Veronica. And then I had Megan all to myself—sort of. While I took my Sunday afternoon nap, she went of and drank champagne with Amy, who she went to school with since kindergarten—by the time they both got to UT law school, they were roommates.

For twenty-four hours, I didn’t get much if any of my own desk work done. I was glad to forego it for Megan’s company. Sunday night, we had dinner with Christian and Jacob at Walloon’s, the nifty new seafood place on Magnolia. Lots of fun and good food, though poor Jacob ordered barbecued shrimp, and it turned out to be an appetizer. Skimpy fare for a seventeen-year-old boy. I had the oysters Rockefeller which were good except the spinach was really heavy with garlic. Christian had a steak salad and said the dressing was oh so tart! I had done that the other night—made a dressing so tart I couldn’t eat it, so I sympathized.

Back home, Megan and I had more visiting, talked about family and holiday plans and all manner of things. This morning we had just a brief visit before she left to take the eleven o’clock executive bus back to Austin. But she snapped this selfie before she left. When I think back on the girls’ teen years, I am so grateful that we are such good friends today. I am truly blessed by my children.

Megan's selfie

I’ve said it before and will say it again—with four children, it is pure bliss to have them all together at once, with their families. When the grandkids were young and it didn’t seem like there were so many of us, I used to think one of my happiest moments was when they were all asleep under my roof. But there’s a reverse to that—it’s such a delight to have one-on-one time with any one of them. And that’s what I had with Megan today. So my cup runneth over.

Tonight I had a five o’clock Zoom meeting with a small group of writers, mostly one-book beginners. I was to talk to them about newsletters, blogs, and Substack. Not that I’m an expert on any of those subjects, but from their responses I apparently held my own. It’s a real jolt to feel, even briefly, that you have knowledge to share that will help others. And that’s what I came away with tonight after that meeting.

That Zoom event ended about 6:20, and I hastily reheated the cube steaks in gravy from the other night, cut up a salad, and ate dinner, trying to finish before the 7:00 HOA meeting. I didn’t quite make it and ended eating my salad on camera—not the best look in the world. Christian came out, got the rest of the cube steak dinner and salad but couldn’t be convinced to stay for the meeting.  Now I feel like whoosh—all the air has gone out of me, and I will sleep happily and well tonight.

Sweet dreams, y’all!

Family and friends--and who we are

 

 

Sophie, because she too, deserves
that moment of consideration from me.

This morning a friend posted a story on Facebook. She went into the bathroom only to find an empty toilet paper roll and a new roll of paper sitting on the windowsill. Obviously, her husband had put the roll there but hadn’t taken time to put it on the dispense. What would your reaction have been? I admit I would probably have been angry, at least briefly. Well, I like to think the me who I am today wouldn’t have been, but I can tell you for sure the me who was married long years ago would have been angry. Ranting that he couldn’t even take time to install the paper on the holder. But Brandy, my friend, said she thought to herself, “He’s so busy, and he has so much on his mind, how thoughtful of him to make sure I had a new roll.” Wow! Learning lesson there.

I’ve been thinking all week about how we live with each other and how we treat each other. About being on autopilot with knee jerk reactions or stopping for that brief second before we speak to think through a situation. I fall down a lot of the time. Although I am not married any longer, I live in close proximity to my daughter and her husband, And there are lots of times I should keep my mouth shut or investigate before I speak. Tonight, me: “I never did get my dishwasher detergent back after it went into your house.”

Jordan: “I put it back. Did you look?”

Me: “Not for a few days.” I was acting on old information. At the very least I could have framed it as a question: “Did you ever bring my dish detergent back?”

This morning in church the sermon was about the sinful woman who washed Jesus’ feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. A difficult scene for us today to understand, believers or not, but it has nothing to do with washing feet and everything to do with how we perceive people. The Pharisee, in whose home Jesus was at the time, saw only a sinner. Jesus saw a woman who repented of her sins and who grieved. He saw an individual, not a stereotype.

I know from my own life how easy it is to look at a person but not see them—the difficult spouse, the impatient child, the cranky colleague, the annoying neighbor. We just don’t want to take time to find out who they really are, why they are annoying or cranky or difficult. In a surprise ending, after urging us to really look at others in his sermon this morning, Dr. Peterman urged us to take a deep to take a deep look at ourselves. Are we really who we like to think we are—or is there room for change.

I think a lot of it comes down to how we treat other people. Consideration means many things—It means checking our reactions before acting impulsively, it mean thinking about the other person and not just ourselves. It even means accepting help gratefully rather than resenting what is not done. It means putting others first at times—not all the time. Nobody is that perfect and self-sacrificing, but if you watch, you’ll find the instances when you should put that difficult spouse, the impatient child, the cranky colleague, the annoying neighbor first, at least for a minute or two.

One of my favorites of Jordan’s friends is the mom of a lovely, seventeen-year-old daughter, sweet, polite, accomplished. But the mom says sometimes she wants to say,
“Get over yourself.” It’s become one of my favorite pieces of advice, for me, and for those to whom I am close enough to say it.

What a weekend!

 

Brunch at Carshons'

The cottage is strangely quiet and empty. Sophie and I had long naps, and I know she is disappointed that all her favorite people disappeared. But such a great weekend we had with family, friends, fun, music, laughter, and maybe just a bit of wine … okay more than a bit.

The family met at Joe T.’s for dinner Friday night—some worried about the heat but we didn’t eat until eight o’clock, and between the fans and a nice breeze, it was a lovely night to sit on the patio. We came home, sat around the cottage, talking—the teenagers left us, of course—and about eleven-thirty I kicked them all out. Next day I learned that some of them stayed up until three, and Jordan and Jamie were up until four-thirty, listening to his guitar, talking, laughing.

This weekend was an eating marathon, as we went to all the kids’ favorite places. Saturday lunch found us at Carshon’s Deli, where the kids have been eating since they were infants. Mary accommodated twelve of us—grandson Kegan loves matzo ball soup, and Jamie ordered that too. For my kids, it’s mostly a chance to have food they never get anywhere else. I had lox and cream cheese but no bagel—toasted rye for me.

Saturday night, a very few close friends joined us for happy hour and then we had poor boy sandwiches and cake—lots of cake, several cakes, a plethora of cake. When Jamie went

Megam

home this morning he took with him leftover Joe T.’s plus one and a half cakes plus two German pancakes he stopped and got at Ol’ South. I was afraid he’d be on a sugar high by the time he got to Frisco. I admit that Saturday night I crashed, and I said to Jamie and Megan I thought I suddenly felt my age. But I think it was more that I hadn’t slept well the night before, it was a tiring if happy day, and we started happy hour at four. Even though I had tiny bits of wine, I think my glass was refilled too often.

After a good night’s sleep, I was fine this morning and ready for a trip to Ol’ South, next on the kids list. Once again twelve of us, and lots of memories.

In other things than food, Colin did some repairs around the house—pronounced my

Colin and Soiphie

automatic garbage can dead, and I have ordered a new one. He replaced the handle/lock mechanism on my bathroom door and promised to do a better job next time. To me, it works and doesn’t fall off the door, as it had been doing, so that was fine. He also did some computer work and paired my new phone to my watch. Christian had previously paired it to the telephone, so now I’m all set to go. Jamie, as always, did a lot for me, including feeding Sophie and giving her insulin shots. And Megan and I had long talks about everything, especially restaurants and food. I am so fortunate that my kids are my best friends—and have such a close relationship with each other. Sometimes I think Norman Rockefeller should come back to life and paint a picture of us. I guess the snaps from Joe T.’s and Carshon’s will have to do.

I am so grateful to Jordan who orchestrated the entire weekend, planning food, making lists,

Jordan and the cakes

putting out a happy hour spread followed by sandwich makings. She had everything under control and is the reason we all had such a good time. Christian helped so much and took lots of pictures on Saturday night. I am chagrined when I look at them, because I look bored, tired, whatever—I was none of those things. I enjoyed every minute. (I once had a dear friend who said it was too bad I didn’t look as good in pictures as I do in real life—I cling to that thought.) Megan worried at dinner Friday night that I was in the middle of the table, between two conversations and part of neither. She needn’t have worried. I like just seeing them all together.

And those teenagers. One friend, who has known my family forty years, said each of the teens stopped to speak to her. So grateful for their good manners. They are wildly different, but all good kids, and their joy at seeing each other was evident. Okay, they eventually looked bored at dinner Friday night, so

Jamie and Brandon, looking a bit cynical

Granddaughter Eden and
the flowers she brought me

much so we wanted to laugh. But they are a delight.

What can I say except that turning eighty-five (really? I can’t believe it!) is a breeze when you have all this happiness all around you.

Sophie’s going to have a hard time adjusting to the quiet in the cottage.

Taking stock and moving on

 

June among the flowers

Weekends, I often think, are a time to sit back and reassess, look at what the past week has brought, and think about what the next week will bring. For us in the Alter/Burton compound, today seems a time to reassess all of what 2023 has brought us. (I really like the idea of calling the way we live a compound, and last night a friend used that phrase too, so now I’m officially adopting it).

Yesterday was the celebration of life for Sandra Burton, Christian’s mother, who left us mid-March. The service and a reception were in Coppell. I did not attend because the kids didn’t need to worry about me and my walker when they had so many other responsibilities. Jacob tells me it was a beautiful service, and his dad delivered a lovely eulogy. From the program, I know that Sandra and I shared a love of old hymns—the music was “Into the Garden,” “Just as I am,” and “Amazing Grace.”

Last night there was a small gathering of friends here to show love and support for Christian. What started out as just nibbles and a few people turned into a crowd with a lavish table as people arrived with food and wine. Friends of mine joined friends of Jordan and Christian—many of the latter are like family to me, so there were lots of hugs. A really supportive evening just when one was needed.

Sophie enjoyed the gathering too. She senses when there are guests in the house and would have had one ballistic fit if left alone in the cottage. So I took her on a leash, and various people took turns holding the leash. Of course, all her favorites were there, and she literally lunged to get to each one.

We’ve had a rough year getting to this point—it started at Christmas when both Sophie and June Bug sickened. Junie, the younger of the Burton King Charles Cavalier spaniels, had a heart attack over six years ago and was given a year to live. She proved to have the nine lives of a cat and each time we thought we’d lose her, she bounced back. But not this time, when her back legs had given out on her, and she was barely eating. On Thursday, the vet helped her to the Rainbow Bridge, with her family—including her sister dog—around her for love. A double whammy for the Burtons. Sophie meanwhile recovered and, on insulin twice a day, is doing just fine.

Sandra’s health suddenly declined dramatically in early February, so her illness and death have consumed Christian and his family for two months, with decisions to be made about facilities, etc. Ultimately she died peacefully at home, under hospice care, with her family around her.

About the same time, my older and only brother fell, broke his kneecap and had surgery. In rehab he caught Covid, which was followed by pneumonia and a variety of other problems. He was briefly in hospice but rallied enough to go to a skilled nursing center with the goal of building his strength enough to go into PT. This morning, I learned he is back in the hospital with a new variety of problems. So perhaps the Lord isn’t quite through with us with.

In my contemplative moments today, I think life is a roller coaster—some days you’re up, some you’re down. But sometimes it isn’t just a bad day—it’s a whole bunch of bad days piled on top of each other until you think life is coming at you too fast and hard. But it’s like I’ve always believed about household problems such as plumbing snafus and appliance breakdowns—they come in threes, and then they are over. And I truly do have faith that the good days outnumber the bad. So now I have faith that we of the Alter/Burton compound (do you suppose Christian would say Burton/Alter?) are due for some good days. And that includes healing for my brother.

I sort of want to say, “Thank you, Lord. That’s enough now.” Prayers are appreciated.

 

 

 

In memory of Sandra Burton

 

Christian’s mother passed away in the wee hours of March 16, peacefully in her sleep, after a long bout with Alzheimer’s and a shorter fight with an infection that attacked her weakened system. It’s been a hard month for Christian, his dad, and sister, and, by extension, our household. After a hospital stint, then time in rehab, and back to the hospital, Sandra came home under the care of hospice nurses. Although they knew the inevitable, having her home allowed her children, Christian and Julie, to spend nights and days with her, and they and their dad were with her when she died. She was very much a family person, and Christian says he was pleased that her nuclear family was all with her. I hold firm to the belief that though she was unconscious, at some level she knew they were there.

Sandra and I were not close—in so many ways, we were of different backgrounds and had little in common, except family. She was from a small town in East Texas and brought to her city life many of those traits—the food she cooked for her family, her faith, her outlook on life. When I first met her, she was a real estate agent, but I’ve heard many stories about her years devoted to motherhood.

In the twenty years I’ve known her, Sandra was not only a devoted wife and mother but a grandmother, almost as besotted with her grandchildren as I am with mine. We of course shared one—Jacob. When Julie and her husband, Aaron, fostered and then adopted two little girls, Sandra welcomed them into not only her family but her heart. Of course, Sandra and I shared another love—Christian. I remember once when I tried to complement her on her son, saying he was so helpful in doing small chores for me. She said she only wished he’d do some of her chores. Christian told me later, with a laugh, that her chores were big—rebuild the cabin in East Texas, trim all the trees on the Coppell property, etc. After that, I tried in other ways to tell her how wonderful he is.

There will be a private burial in Pittsburg, Texas. Arrangements for a celebration of life in Coppell, where the Burtons have lived for many years, are pending. Rest in peace and rise in glory, Sandra. I hope you found those streets of gold.

Changing of the guard, words, and mushrooms

 

Jamie and his guitar

The Burtons are home tonight, and Jamie left for Frisco in mid-afternoon. While I am glad to have my “regular” local family home, I was sorry to see Jamie go. Had a wonderful almost-forty-eight hours with him. We had more deep discussions today, some about marriage (his parents in particular) and the virtues/pitfalls of staying together “for the children.” But the best part of the morning was when I followed odds and ends on my computer and Jamie sat and softly played his guitar. Even Sophie was mesmerized.

Jamie is what I would call a spontaneous eater—doesn’t plan ahead, does what appeals to him at the moment. So at first today he wanted to go to the Flying Fish for lunch, which I suggested would be crowded. And truth be told, I didn’t want to dress and go out. Finally he settled on Great Outdoors sandwiches and ordered them through Door Dash, which he uses several times a week and I never use, wouldn’t know how to go about it.

Jamie was even present in spirit when I ate a splendid, solitary supper. Yesterday in addition to the roast, he bought pinwheel steak—beef wrapped around spinach and feta, a terrific combination of flavors. I said this morning I’d freeze it, and he objected it would not taste as good. Besides, it wasn’t big enough for the four of us. So tonight I pan fried it in butter and olive oil and fixed a green salad with Parmesan and vinaigrette—I confess it was all so good, I made myself small second helpings of both.

Burtons had a great trip to Fayetteville which they report is a charming town with good restaurants. Christian described the campus, pointed out some milestones in their history—lots of governors went there, and the Clintons were on the faculty for a while. I had just read that the school has been recognized as a research university, which is a coup. So it was a successful trip but only the first of several. Jacob apparently liked it a lot, but I suspect he will like almost every campus he visits.

More of my trivia: I love hearing new words, but today one popped up on my Facebook memories that I’d forgotten about: embiggen. It was coined for a Simpsons episode but has now been accepted into the language either by Oxford or Websters, I don’t remember which. Frankly, I always though enlarge was a good enough word, but embiggen has a charm of its own.

And I read a piece about the origin of “posh”: in the glory days of the British Empire, many Brits went by steamship from England to Egypt. Because of the position of the sun, the elegant, spoiled ones requested a room on the port side on the voyage to Egypt and one of the starboard for the return trip. Ticket agents called it Port out, starboard home and soon shortened it to the acronym posh. I have no idea if that’s authentic, but it’s a charming story.

Yesterday when Jamie and I were in Central Market, we saw an island of mushrooms. They have a fascinating display of various kinds, but what caught my eye was the morels for, gulp, $79/lb. So I went looking at recipes to see how much you need: the most common way to serve them is apparently fried, and you’ll need the full pound for a dinner for two. Wow! That better be some special occasion! You can get away with anywhere from an ounce to half a pound if you’re making a pasta sauce.

The other expensive fungus was black trumpet mushrooms, also $79/lb. When I looked up recipes for those, I found you can use 3 oz. in a cream cheese spread, 4 oz. in a pasta sauce, or 3 oz. in a souffle, all of which I think would mask the mushroom flavor. I may stick with bella, but some of the others on display were clamshell, blue oyster, hen of the woods (only $30/lb.), and chanterelle.

I’m thinking my approach to mushrooms is pretty pedestrian. I sauté them in butter, maybe add a splash of wine and a drop or two of Worcestershire and serve them on toast—Jordan and I love it, but the boys won’t touch them. I see recipes for mushroom lasagna or mushroom pot pie and drool, but I can’t do I here. Maybe I’ll try to enlarge my repertoire.

Cold front coming: into the thirties Thursday. I’m glad I stuck by the Farmer’s Almanac wisdom that cites March 15 as the last date for a freeze. Thursday will be the sixteenth. Waiting a bit to renew my herb garden.

 

Twas the Night before … Thanksgiving!

 

Me and Jordan, thanksgiving 2022

The family is still scattered, but all headed our way. There’s a great break in tradition this year—for the first time one of the grandchildren will not be present when the whole family gathers. Madison, the oldest, has to work. We will miss her and her boyfriend Trevor, but I am sure it is an omen of times to come. We had them all for twenty-two years, and kids do grow up and move on.

Meantime, busy schedules and rainy weather combined to slow some of travelers, but we will gather in full force tomorrow or turkey and all the trimmings. Meantime, much of the “prep” work for the big meal is done. Some time ago, Jordan announced she would make two cheeseballs—one for Thanksgiving and one for Christmas. Then she announced she would make them in my cottage. So yesterday was the day—a day I planned to work on the outline of what I’m calling Irene in Texas for lack of a better title.

When the time came, Jordan was called away by a domestic crisis—someone had decorated Jacob’s fan with ketchup, mustard, and just a bit of mayo. Christian said it smelled like What-a-Burger! Jacob had to wash it in the driveway and then take it to a car wash for a final cleansing. Jordan felt obligated to get the clean-up started.

So I found myself cutting up  cream cheese—a messy proposition if there ever was one—and Velveeta and dumping blue cheese in a bowl. Bless Jordan—she arrived in time to chop onion, pecans, and parsley. And she did the mixing, which was part of the process I dreaded. We truly proved that many hands make light work.

Tonight granddaughter Morgan is making the dough for my mother’s rolls. I have offered to answer any questions, but her only one was what the word scant means. I’m so delighted that she’s such a natural cook, and my children will be delighted that they once again have Grandmother’s rolls. Shhh—Morgan added some spices. We’ll see what’s said.

We’ll enjoy the traditional dinner tomorrow and a brisket supper Friday. On Saturday, everyone will scatter for their homes, so please don’t look for a blog until then. Know however, that I wish each and everyone of you a blessed holiday. Among the many gratitudes in my life I am grateful for each of the many of you who read my blog and comment on it. I am grateful for your opinions and knowledge, and you make me feel that my little musings are sometimes worthwhile.

Happy thanksgiving. No matter what trouble us, I bet each of us can find things in our life to be grateful for. I know I have a long list.

For contrast, Thanksgiving 2012
What ten years hath wrought

National Adoption Day

For me, today is a bigger holiday than Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter rolled into one. It’s a day to celebrate my four blessings and to express my gratitude to the Edna Gladney Center. My babies are now in their late forties, early fifties, and adoption has changed a lot in those fifty years. Our story would not be possible today.

A confession: I never gave much thought to having children. I just figured it would happen, and when it didn’t, I wasn’t that upset. My ex-husband, now gone from this world, was desperate to be a daddy. So we applied for adoption, and we were an odd couple before we even got there—I was Protestant, not very active, and he a non-practicing Jew. We went to information sessions, etc., filled out the paperwork, and settled in for a long wait.

Less than thirty days later, the people at Gladney called to do a home visit. I stammered that I didn’t have curtains in the baby’s room yet, and the reply of “The baby won’t know” went right over my head. That night we rushed to borrow a crib and a changing table and some clothes from friends. The very casual inspection was the next day, and the day after that we had a baby—Colin David. Poor Colin—it’s a miracle he’s as wonderful as he is, because he landed with two people who knew zilch about babies. To this day he swears I caused his Crohn’s by feeding him undiluted formula.

Seventeen months later along came Megan who taught us more than we wanted to know about colic. Today she’s a healthy, vibrant woman, but you’d never have anticipated that from the baby who drew her little legs up and screamed in pain. Took lots of love and hours of walkng, walking, walking.

Gladney policy was that if you have one child, they would help you complete your family; at two, your family was complete. Joel and I tried to be active at Gladney—we invited residents for holiday dinners, and we often went to talk to groups of girls who wanted some idea about the people who would raise their babies. Joel, gregarious and generous, would say, “I don’t care what color your baby is. Give it to me, and I’ll love it.”

So one day when Megan was seventeen months (and much healthier), Gladney called and asked what I was doing. I said the usual—I wasn’t working, although I think I was writing, and I had two babies. They had a mixed-race baby—Eurasian (half Chinese, half Greek). I said the world’s dumbest thing: “We’ll come look at him,” kind of like, “Are the tomatoes fresh today?”

I know from Jamie’s wife and others that women of his age find him most attractive—he’s happy, playful, handsome, fit, all those good things. He was not a pretty baby. Skinny, forceps marks on his face, a straight Afro. I named him immediately, and he came home with us the day after we first saw him. By now, the two older ones knew where babies came from: you went to the adoption agency and brought home a baby. I had three under three and three in diapers. Those were the days

Gladney promised to round out our family with one more dark-headed baby (Colin and Megan were blonde, Jamie dark like Joel). It was three years before we brought home Jordan, who they told us was half Hispanic. Not until she was in her forties did she do the DNA thing and find out she is 98% northern European.

So there we were—a family of six. Today we are a family of sixteen, with seven grandchildren in the mix. To me, we are an example of how the joy of adoption spreads. No, none of the four have ever gone looking for their biological parents. I know accepting such is the modern attitude, but I am pretty fierce about the idea that they are, though grown and out in the world, my babies.

The big blessing is that they truly love each other—and me. They can’t wait for family get-togethers, so this weekend we are anticipating Thanksgiving. The Alters are known for being a bit rowdy when they’re together—somehow each of them married someone from a two-child family, so sometimes we catch spouses with a look on their faces that says, “How did I get here?”  And I have contemporaries who are a bit wary of the confusion, but I love every noisy minute of it.

Today, Edna Gladney’s mission is still the same—creating loving families—but their work is entirely different. I am so grateful to Gladney for letting us be one of their special families.