Losing my cool!

 

My mailbox is full! It takes half my day to sort the chaff from the wheat and clean it out. My friends write me ten, twelve, fifteen times a day. I hear from Mark and Val, John and Beto, Charlie and Tim and lately Catherine in Nevada. Each one of them tells me that their race is the key to the future of our country—most of those claims comes from senatorial candidates who insist if they lose, the Senate will go red. I’m not sure how each one knows that, but I read and consider.

Nancy sends me countless texts a day, and I’m not adept at texts so I find this a problem. I also occasionally hear from Chuck and Barrack and today it was actors like Martin Sheen and Julia Louis-Dreyfus. I’m so flattered that these busy people have time to write me so often. I don’t know how they get anything else done. I certainly don’t, because I’m busy reading their emails.

Of course, occasionally I hear from Ron or Gym or Mehmet, even Don Jr., and I’m quick to find the unsubscribe button. They’re so clever that it’s sometimes hard to find. But those folks are not friends of mine. A great puzzlement: I haven’t heard from Herschel yet. I’m waiting breathlessly.

Sometimes the messages from my friends are contradictory. They are often a pessimistic bunch, and they send such dramatic messages as, “Packing it up. Going home,” or “It’s over. We’ve lost,” or “We’re out of money. Broke.” Of course we all know that’s not true, so I really wish they’d stop the dramatics. An “It’s over,” message may be almost immediately followed by, “We’re crying tears of joy.” Hard to keep up.

Most people understand that a) polls are at best good guesses, and b) two or three points is within the margin of error. Yet these emails crow over the difference of one point—above or behind. I figure they must like the drama of an uncertain life—or campaign.

I also hear from the Democratic Party or some branch, like the DCCC (Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee). They all beg me to renew my party membership. Here’s the thing: I’ve renewed it four times, each time with a modest donation, but that doesn’t seem to register with them.

Of course, let’s be realistic: I get these messages because from time to time, as my means permit, I send modest checks to one specific campaign or another. There’s no plan behind how I choose—I just think when someone seems really to need help, my twenty-five dollars might be well spent. I’ve recently donated to John Fetterman in Pennsylvania on that basis, and the only monthly contribution I make is to Beto because I am really passionate about getting Greg Abbott out of office. But sometimes when I make these random donations, that Blue Action central headquarters pops up with a stern warning that says, “Forbidden!” Naturally I thought it was my fault, so I followed the fine print that says if you have trouble write us here.

Their solution was that I should erase the history on my computer, something I was not eager to do. Since then, sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. I have decided the problem is on their end.

Don’t get me wrong: I am a lifelong Democrat, for a lot of reasons, many of which have to do with compassion and honesty and integrity. On a thread tonight extolling Ken Paxton’s virtues—really?--someone advised me to vote red. I replied that a decade or so ago, I might have considered it in select cases, but today I would never vote for a Republican, except Liz Cheney or Adam Kinzinger, because I consider them all traitors held in thrall by the former guy, and each day it becomes more clear that he is a traitor. Besides, who would vote for a party that continues to push Herschel Walker for the Senate.

My point with this silliness is that I will vote Democratic, and I will do my darndest to convince anyone within earshot of me to do the same. And I know national campaigns are complex and present amazing challenges to control digitized information, but I sure wish the Democratic Party and all its branches could organize a little better. And I wish my friends would settle for maybe one email a day. It would leave them lots of time to walk the block, knock on doors, etc.

Y’all get out and vote Blue!

 

Is it midnight yet?

 

Jacob at three
but the cookbook has some 
of my favorite reciipes

Ever have those nights when you feel at eight o’clock that it surely must be midnight already? That’s how I feel. Although I am constantly trying to rid myself of obsessive schedules, I’m pretty much tied to my own routine. I don’t want to go to bed at eight or nine, because I don’t want to wake, sleepless, in the middle of the night. I try to sleep from eleven to eight, the Lord and Sophie willing. But tonight I’m sleepy, worn out by some conflicts swirling around me. I tell myself—and others—I don’t want to be involved in intrigue, but sometimes I can’t remain aloof. And so it is tonight.

To soothe my soul, I began to do some menu planning, always an activity I enjoy. For instance, I found a recipe tonight for rosemary pot roast. Between now and the holidays, the calendars around here are full, and I foresee meals on the at-home evenings of leftovers or heavy hors d’oevres. But it’s never too early to stash things away in my “never tried” file, which is bulging. Periodically, I go through it and firmly say to myself, “It sounds great, but you’ll never fix it” or “You like this, but your family wouldn’t.” And, plop, it goes in the trash. I waste a lot of printer ink and paper that way, but I haven’t gotten sophisticated enough to keep my recipe collection online. And if I did, I’d just have to print each recipe out as I cooked it. As it is, I do that with recipes from the manuscripts of my cookbooks. But I foresee rosemary pot roast on the January menu—see how I’m jumping ahead?

Tonight, looking through appetizer recipes for our neighborhood ladies very small happy hour next week (Jordan wants to make my salmon dip), I came across my mom’s pickled shrimp. She always said it would keep a week in the fridge. In early adulthood I developed an allergy to shrimp—made me break out, so I was afraid to try it for fear the next time would be anaphylactic shock. Allergies come and go, and I might well be able to eat shrimp now, but the fear lingers. Still, for nostalgia’s sake, I’d like to fix that. We do still as a family treasure Mom’s cheeseball recipe. This year, sixteen-year-old Morgan said she would make it, although she pointedly said she would not eat it.

Funny what one person will eat and another won’t. For our four-person neighborhood event, I said I would buy a small jar of pickled herring—one of the ladies and I both love it; the other and Jordan turned up their noses. But when Jordan suggested goat cheese log with wasabi, the pickled-herring friend said, “I don’t eat wasabi.” I’ll probably make it pesto instead of wasabi, but it’s good quick appetizer. Just split a log, small or large, of goat cheese lengthwise, put wasabi (be cautious, not too much—a wavy “S” pattern) or pesto down the middle, put the two sides together again, and roll the log in toasted sesame seeds. So good. Are you like me and have to toast two batches of sesame seeds because you always burn the first one?

This morning I was productive. I’m trying to clear the decks as it were as I prepare for the holidays and try to focus more on my writing projects. The trouble is that I’m programmed—there it is again, that routine I can’t let go of. I do this every year, get so efficient about Christmas and all my projects that by about December 10 or 12, my desk is clear and I wonder what I should do next. Too close to Christmas to start a new project—but I have old ones in limbo I can work on.

At any rate, back to clearing the decks. Yesterday I wrote my December column for Lone Star Literary Life. The schedule is changing so I’m not sure when it will appear, nor when the January column will. But today I wrote the January column—I was on a roll, with good material, and it flowed easily. So I wrote the publisher and said I’d just written the most interesting column I’d ever sent her. And then I said I’d send it in a few days, which made her laugh. But it was fun—two women who team up to write fiction, and a woman who decided she didn’t need a super sleuth but needed a team. If you don’t subscribe to this weekly free literary newsletter, you might consider it. Just go to Lone Star Literary Life

Enough. I’m written out. Going to calm myself with a book. Sweet dreams of sugar plums and all thinks good.

My busy day

 

In recognition of National Sons Day,
here are the two main men in my life. 
Can't believe I've known them fifty years.
With apologies to Christian, Brandon, and my four grandsons
all of whom I love dearly.

Somehow I, who has weeks with no daytime plans, overbooked myself for today. I started the day with a ten o’clock doctor’s appointment for a wellness check. I have reached this advanced age without a wellness check, though my good friend Jean proudly reported a couple of weeks ago that she had passed her cognitive test (she’s probably seven or eight years younger than I). I had the fleeting thought that I hoped no one gave me that test, and then I forgot to worry about it.

But today, in the doctor’s office, I was confronted by it. The nurse, now an old friend after many years, administered it, and we had some good laughs along the way. The test was a series of questions she asked, ranging from “Are you depressed?” to “Can you dress yourself?” and “Are you eating well?” Because of what I had just weighed, I wanted to say, “Yes, apparently too well.” But the memory part was the intimidating thing. She read off a name and address, asked me to repeat it several times, and then said she would ask me a series of questions and would then, five minutes later, ask me to repeat the name and address. For the life of me, I can’t remember what questions came in between but they were innocuous, and I passed. And then I correctly repeated the name and address. The nurse and Jordan declared I made an A+. Then came the questions about my ability to care for myself—those are always frustrating because you only get to say “yes” or “no,” and I always want to say, “Wait! Let me explain!” Anyway, I passed, and the doctor seemed to think I was doing okay too. So a flu shot and a stick for bloodwork, and we were out of there.

We were in the doctor’s office longer than expected, and I was in a yank to get home because Melinda, who worked with me at TCU, was bringing lunch. I had ordered sandwiches from a local shop, and she picked them up on her way from a dental appointment. The visit was great, the sandwiches a disappointment. The bread on her veggie sandwich was swimming in so much grease, she couldn’t eat it and only picked at the ingredients; my salmon croquette was slathered with sauce and in what I thought was a ciabatta roll—really hard to pick up. I ended up eating the croquette with a fork. Cole slaw was crisp and fresh but not particularly flavorful.

The visit on the other hand was great. It’s been well over a year since we got together, and we caught up on families and friends and almost ignored the subject of TCU Press, our common stomping grounds, except for a bit of gossip. Fun.

But I practically rushed her out the door because I needed a nap before a four o’clock taping of the radio show I mentioned yesterday. There was an equipment snafu at the beginning, but the show overall went well. I could say most of what I wanted to say, mainly that The Most Land, the Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas, is less a history of the ranch, for which I am sure many records survive, down to the penny, but a history of the Waggoner family, for which few authentic records survive, and some of them are closed to research at the family request. They are in the Red River Vally Museum in Vernon, Texas. Beyond anecdotal evidence, many things are left to supposition, like why Electra Waggoner Biggs was so anxious to sell the ranch that she wouldn’t wait to divide it between herself and the other direct heir—Bucky Wharton, grandson of the first Electra. Lots of unanswered questions remain. But I am moving on.

To my chagrin, my busy day ended with a whimper and not a bang. I had signed up to register voters, via my computer, from 5:30 to 8:30. I admit I was dreading it a bit—I don’t like working phone banks, but this seemed different, urging people to vote without treading on the delicate subject of who they would vote for. I logged on to the site but the brief training session was complicated enough that it went by me in a flash, and I gave up. It is, however, a cool program that offers you a script. For instance, if you ask if a person is registered, the screen flashes a panel of buttons for you to choose from to reflect the answer: Not registered, yes registered, not sure, want to register, etc. You click the appropriate answer and move on to the next segment of conversation. I’m sure once you knew what you were doing, it would be fine.

But, tonight, I didn’t know. I think a huge part of the blame—and, yes, I feel guilty—is that I am really tired after a long, intense day. As I write this, I feel myself starting to doze off. So maybe it’s best I backed out, but I really wanted to be part of the effort for fair elections, and I saw this as a much better opportunity than the redistricting the Republicans want to do. So I wrote and apologized. Don’t know if I’ll try again on a calmer night or not.

And that was my busy day. As I’m falling asleep over the keyboard, I’m off to bed.

Fun Friday in Funkytown

Jordan and me getting ready for the party

I should have subtitled this “Fun leads to fatigue,” because I was flat out too tired to blog last night after the signing. But for those who couldn’t make it, I’m sorry you missed a good time. For those who joined us, my deep thanks for being part of what turned out to be a really special evening. We sold a fair enough number of books, but that wasn’t the point. What mattered was that people came, lingered, laughed, and appeared to have a riotous good time. Folks who hadn’t known each other before hooked up, friends who hadn’t connected in a long time visited, and newcomers found new friends. The atmosphere was happy and welcoming.

Various writers’ blogs and online discussions often suggest that blogs have passed their usefulness, they don’t promote your career, they don’t sell books, they don’t enlarge your audience Not so! There was at least three people there last night who came to meet me because they follow my blog. Turned out they had things in common, and they ended up visiting with each other. Warms the cockles of my heart.

I’d like to list everyone who came and why they’re special but that’s beyond me. Still, thanks to Randy for whom getting there was a real effort—I’m so glad he went above and beyond to be there. And Elaine, who brought that darling granddaughter I’ve been wanting to meet. And two friends—Sharon and Gretchen—each of whom was just back from long and arduous trips and who should have been resting at home. I’m flattered by all these and more.

A special shout-out to daughter Jordan who engineered the whole thing, did the running around I can’t do these days. She arranged for the place, ordered the food, got the money to make change, made the sales, and kept track of the money. She is a jewel beyond measure and I rely on her every day, but asking her to put together a signing party seems like an unexpected burden. She did it beautifully.

  The Wine Haus was the perfect place for the party--there was an article in the paper recently about how Fort Worth got the Funkytown label (in addition to Cowtown) and this wine bar is the best of everything funky implies. It's odd mismatch of décor and furniture is irresistible and makes everyone comfortable whether wearing stiletto heels or jeans and boots. Y'all come. Thanks to Chadra for a great spread of snacks. 

Food from Chadra

Lots else going on in the world—John McCain’s decisive announcement that he can’t support Graham/Cassidy (yay for an elder statesman!); ongoing rescue efforts in the Caribbean and Mexico—Mother Nature has inflicted so much damage on our hemisphere, you know she’s pissed, and yet the powers that be seem oblivious—the secretary of the interior wants to return some national lands to what he calls their original purpose of mining—huh? North Korea is still rattling its bombs and increasing the war of words (honestly, Trump and Kim-Jo Yun or whoever are like two five-year-olds in a sandbox, except that they hold the lives of millions in their hands. So much to worry about in our world, and sometimes in our own small private worlds, but as Jordan said to me today, we could put it aside last night and simply enjoy ourselves. Praise be to God.

My T-shirt got lots of comments

Time out

Do you ever just step back from your world for a day and recharge? I did that today—didn’t sleep too late, maybe eight, but was slow and lazy about getting going, didn’t event think about going to church. Lunch and dinner of leftovers—I’d cooked so much last week, I swore I wasn’t going to cook today. I piddled and fiddled at my computer, did odds and ends of business, wrote some personal emails, and spent way too much time on Facebook.

One thing that was fun for me: a neighbor and her family are going to Scotland Tuesday, and I sent her a bit of information about the MacBain Clan and our memorial park, plus sites I enjoyed when I was there. Just writing about it made me want to go again. I probably sent more about Culloden and Urquhart and Dore and the Clearances than she ever wanted to know, but writing it was fun for me. That Scottish novel beckons.

And, the big indicator to me that I needed to recharge: I slept two hours this afternoon. I usually take a nap in the afternoon, often as short as 30 minutes and just as often lying still with my eyes closed but not sleeping. But yesterday I slept an hour and a half, and then two hours today. All those birthday festivities and all that cooking of the last week wore me out.

I have always told myself I didn’t not get worn out by things. I thought I had an inexhaustible supply of energy. I’m terribly afraid my fatigue this weekend is a sign of age, but I’m too tired to battle it.

Starting a fresh week tomorrow. How about you?

Another Frabjulous Day

I'm going home

I can’t tell you when I’ve been happier or had more fun than at lunch today. I am going home from the rehab facility tomorrow, and this morning both my daughters came to meet with staff about my discharge and pack up the things I had here. All seems in order about the discharge, and though the staff wishes I’d stay longer, they seem okay with my leaving, and we’ve gone over such practical matters as exercises, daily activities like getting in and out of bed or to the toilet, and medications.

Then the girls dressed me—literally, they hold clothes up to each other and say, “This is cute” and similar things and talk about me as if I were a three-year-old: “Doesn’t she look cute?” I ended up in a fairly heavy sweatshirt type top in avocado green, heather white pants, and an off-white shawl. The girls kept warning that it was truly cold outside, and I ended up uncomfortably warm.

We headed for a new restaurant in a new mall area sort of near the rehab center. I’ve been wanting to go to Piatello, but if the Jordan had listened to my directions, we never would have gotten there. The whole development of southwest Fort Worth has me befuddled, and apparently the rehab place is farther south than I thought. I’d have had us in Cleburne before we found Piatello. Good lunch—split the meatball appetizer and each had a different salad. I had a small small serving of wine—first in two months, and it made me unbearably sleepy.

With my beautiful girls

The girls went off to go to the rodeo, and I went to sleep. Tonight I still can’t shake my lethargy. Six hours later it’s not the wine; tt may be lack of sleep because various medications have had me up and down too often during the night: it may be relaxation that I’m finally going home after two weeks. Whatever, I’m uncharacteristically sleepy and looking forward to reading it bed.

Tonight is our annual Alter family rodeo night—but this year it is a bust. Traditionally, we go to the rodeo on Friday night, tour the grounds and Midway Saturday, and go to dinner Sat. night. I long ago gave up rodeo—I just don’t enjoy it anymore. The Frisco don’t like rodeo and don’t go, so their absence is not unusual. But half of Colin’s family—Lisa and Morgan—are not here, and the Austin branch is leaving at 7:00 a.m. because both boys have “can’t miss” activities. I’m grateful for my time with the girls today. Colin will spend time tomorrow, and I’ll see Jamie next week, but it’s not the big family gathering I anticipated. Still I’m glad the rodeo brought everyone to town.

Ah, Texas spring weather

March is not going out like a lamb. Today started out drizzly and gray but ended on a note of bright, late-evening sunshine. In between, we had massive storm warnings and some pretty severe weather, mostly I think to the south of me. I just got a good steady rain, the kind spring gardens need. Jordan arrived to work on the garage sale items but one look at the TV weather coverage convinced her she wanted to get home and put her car in the garage.
Jacob came to me and asked with real concern, “Is your car in the garage?” I assured him it was, and he said, “Okay. But stay in.” Then he let me kiss him (yeah, you read that right) and they were gone.

I did a bit of book sorting today—four piles turned into seven—books I want, antique children’s books, cookbooks I want, books I don’t want, books that are water damaged beyond hope (only three), and books for the garage sale—I have it in my head browsers will want cookbooks and non-historical children’s books. I may be all wet—like many of my books. I did photocopy one recipe for ranchero sauce that I wanted from a pretty worn cookbook, but I’m keeping my battered copy (my mom’s really) of the Good Housekeeping cookbook. So good for basics. Also my first edition Joy of Cooking.

Good news: we’re making progress on storm recovery. An AT&T man was here for a good two hours this morning and—yay!—the huge new TV in the sunroom works. I think that drying equipment Blackmon Mooring used was really powerful. I washed the last of the mop-up rugs. The floor people will start either Friday or Monday. The adjustor was worried about remaining dampness in the insulation but Lewis is sure the drying equipment got it all—and the restoration company’s sophisticated equipment showed that it did. Tomorrow the exterminator comes because the adjustor saw that huge rat in the attic.

And I think the contractor is ready to go to the city for a permit for the cottage. All these big money transactions make me very nervous.

I did a good bit of proof-reading today on the pre-print The Gilded Cage and have so far found nothing of concern. Need to keep getting review copies out.

Cancelled my usual Wednesday night dinner because both Betty and I were tired and we feared being caught in a storm. I’m getting a bit tired of tuna and cottage cheese! Maybe egg salad is next.

More baby steps and another rant

All is quiet at my house tonight. The restoration company, Blackmon Mooring, has taken their roaring, drying, and dehumidifying equipment out of the sunroom. And the roofers have finished so no more banging above my head. I have to say everyone I have dealt with, from Blackmon Mooring to Glenco Roofing, has been extremely courteous, kind and conscientious. I won’t say it’s been a pleasure, but under the circumstances they’ve made it the best they could. Now we wait for the insurance adjustor who will come a week from today—seems like a long time, but I’m sure they’re overwhelmed with damage in this area.

Now my rant, a rant that so many people have posted about that mine is redundant. But I can’t believe that Mitch McConnell said the NRA would have to approve any SCOTUS appointment. Did I blink and we elected LaPierre to office? It’s a blatant admission that the NRA is filling McConnell’s pockets. I cannot believe the United States people were dumb enough to keep re-electing this man. Living in Texas is bad enough politically, but I am grateful I don’t live in Kentucky and have to bear this shame. I saw today a post that said McConnell doesn’t realize the box that President Obama is building around him, and I think that’s true. Another post said something to the effect that, not to diminish the president, but outsmarting McConnell is not much of an accomplishment. What I like is the president’s patience waiting for his trap to spring. McConnell is like the rat who goes after the cheese. I shudder to think how his name will go down in history.

Blatant politicking: it’s another reason to vote blue this fall. I think we all have to pay close attention to what’s happening in the campaign and to get out and vote.

Okay, off my soapbox.

My only other comment is to say that I am still so tired. I think it must be an emotional aspect to the hail disaster. Jordan said the other day her eye was twitching—a stress sign for her; one of my eyelids is broken out and swollen—a stress sign for me. We will be fine, but it’s baby steps. She doesn’t want me to go into the back room with its uneven flooring, so she’s doing the laundry. Tomorrow, I’m going to get out in the world—PT in the morning, a lunch date, and dinner with neighbors. So glad for sociability.

How's your energy level, Grandma?

This is a post for my colleagues--those beleaguered grandparents across the nation. Yesterday afternoon, eight-year-old Jacob and his classmates finished two days of the SPAAR tests. Jordan left work early to get them at school and bring five little boys here for treats. You could almost reach out and touch the energy in that room as they ate, drank bottled water, joked, screamed, laughed. Jacob got so excited he choked on who knows what. Jordan took it all in stride, laughing with them, joking, encouraging them to remember manners. There were all good boys--I've known them for four years now or most of them, and they're generally polite and well behaved. But they were on an energy high.
I stood in the doorway and watched them, admiring my daughter's patience. Okay, I raised four children, all close in age--been there, done that. But now, I don't know I have the energy or patience for it. Jordan loaded them all into her car and took them to Central Market where there's a wonderful playground, and the moms can sit and order wine. She reported they had a blast. I took a nap after they left, before I went out to dinner.
The night before I took Jacob to a happy hour. The group that regularly dines at the Old Neighborhood Grill had been invited to one couple's new condo for wine before dinner. It just so happens that Jacob really really likes the guy with the new condo, so he was excited about going, cancelled baseball for himself, and brought his favorite new shirt to wear. He was charming during the happy hour and afterward at the Grill--talkative but not too much, fairly informed on what he was talking about--school testing, etc. Quiet, well-behaved, the perfect gentleman.
I on the other hand was out of sorts--long story--but when we got home, all of Jacob's pent-up energy burst loose. He sang, he shouted, he danced, all while he was supposed to be doing a bit of homework and getting ready for bed early. His joy was not a good combination with my irritability--I didn't have the energy for patience. But we got it together, and he went to bed at nine. Earlier than I can ever get him down. Then at 9:20 he was back--the neighbors' party was keeping him awake. So he danced around, doing silly imitations of the people at the party. By then, he made me laugh. Finally both the party and the child quieted down, and when I went to bed he was sound asleep.
This afternoon I mentioned to Jordan that I was tired--I had been to physical therapy, which tires not only your muscles but your brain and emotions as it challenges you to ever more difficult tasks. That was close to an hour and a half. Then I did a huge grocery shopping--we had apparently run out of every cleaning product we use--and I hauled it all in and unpacked it. And you know what my daughter said when I mentioned I was tired? "We have to work on getting your energy level up."
So, come on grandparents, speak up! How's your energy with grandkids under ten? Not what it was forty years ago when you were raising their parents? I'm sort of proud at my energy level at my age, and I took offense. I think I'm doing pretty darn good. How about you?

Teacher let the monkeys out!

 

Lily B. Clayton, "Sweet Lily B."

Photo by Polly Hooper

 

Remember that old ditty we used to sing as kids? "School's out, school's out/Teacher let the monkeys out!" I remember it was the most exiting day, so I was surprised that Jacob didn't seem to think it was out of the ordinary. As I've said he attends the public elementary school across the street from my house, a wonderful, historic building where one kindergarten classroom even has a fishpond and a mural of fairy tale figures. And he loves it. He told me yesterday he wasn't excited because he'd like first grade so much. Thank you, Sara Filarowicz, for being a teacher who made him love school.

I on the other hand was excited that school is out--no more homework for two months, late afternoon naps for me, maybe more work done.

Jacob will go to Clayton Yes!, an independent summer program housed at the school. His mom will take him and pick him up, but I hope they'll stop often for a visit.

Meantime it must have hit me this afternoon. I'd had an hour nap before I went to get him, but when Jacob and his mom left at four, headed for a pool party, I went back to bed and slept soundly for another hour, woke up feeling loggy and dumb. Took me a while to realize that I was finally wide awake and hungry.

Probably I'll be really glad when school starts again in August.