Benji has a fan club

My brother John and his puppy

Benji is so grateful for all the welcoming comments and praise for his good looks. He is especially grateful to one anonymous fan who sent him a gift—wonderful health bar treats in a variety of flavors and a chew toy he has not been parted with. I wish I had a name so I could thank the donor, but I hope he or she reads this and knows how tickled we were to receive this bounty and how grateful. Benji has found himself a special place in the yard, by a tree, where he hollowed out a hidey hole and stashed his favorites, such as the most ragged rope chew thing you ever saw. Now the new bacon-flavored bone is there too, after banging its way around the cottage while I napped. On the whole, Benji is really good about my naps—he puts himself to bed in his crate.

The barking is getting somewhat better. At least, I think so though I may be grasping at straws. He spent periods quietly outside today. I think that advice that he needs to get used to the neighborhood is spot on. In his previous home, as good as they were to him, he did not spend much time outdoors. Now he’s outside every minute he can be, although he frequently comes to the door to check and see that I’m still in here. If his barking gets to be too much, I simply bring him inside, and he takes this with good grace, going immediately to his crate. But he will emerge to lie on the floor by my desk, and this evening, I could hear him and his bone in the bedroom. Knock on wood, but so far he has not bothered one thing he shouldn’t, and his food manners are good. He’s not a beggar.

I had a chance to test my own food manners last night when Carol Roark picked me up for dinner at the Blue Spire, the upscale dining area at Trinity Terrace, the high-rise retirement community where so many of my friends live. It was one thing for Carol to invite me, but another much bigger one for her to have to leave TT to pick me up and deliver me after dinner. And on top of that to wheel me in the transport chair because it is a very long walk from the front door to the elevator in the newest tower which houses the Blue Spire. So I am most grateful. We had a delicious dinner—veal piccata for me (Christian fixes chicken piccata frequently but I never splurge and buy veal) and stroganoff for Carol. Beter yet, Carol and I had a good visit. We don’t have get a one-on-one visit—we are part of a group of four who dine together. But last night, it was just us, and I got a slide tour of her recent trip to New Zealand (all those exotic birds and plants whose names I can’t pronounce!) and she listened about Benji and the goings on of my family and even my cooking. A lovely evening.

Tonight, my heart is heavy. My 92-year-old big brother is in the hospital—again! —and not doing well. He has always, since I was small, been my protector, and as we raised our children, he filled the roll of patriarch with admirable grace—my kids and his know their table manners to this day! John and I have had our differences—politics! —but in the last year plus, we have again become close, talking on the phone every four or five days. And we have so many rich, good memories that they outweigh the differences in our views and sometimes our lifestyle. I am not rushing to his bedside, because I think that would be extremely difficult for both of us—we are the last of our family on the side of our mother, my father, and his father. His wife said she would she would ask what he wants, but I suspect he will tell me not to come. And so I wait on tenterhooks. Prayers for peace and acceptance are welcomed.

A day in limbo

 

Sophie waiting for company on the patio.
We had our first patio gathering tonight.

This morning before I was even out of bed, the vet called with not-so-good news. Sophie’s kidneys were failing. He didn’t sound hopeful, but he said we would give her the morning and see how she did. He’d call back mid-day. So I piddled—read emails, read Facebook, answered a bit of correspondence, but all thoughts of creative work fled. I was watching the clock and wondering what his idea of mid-day was. I think I was a case study in suspended animation.

My kids rallied around, as they always do when I need them. Colin, skiing with his family in Wolf Creek, Colorado, has called three times and been very supportive. I guess the best thing he said to me was, “You’re always tough about the big things.” And this, I agreed, was a big thing. Megan, packing up her family in Tahoe to head home, called, and Jamie called from Denver and tried to cheer me with made-up Biblical quotes. I love them for trying, but talking to them made me teary. I was better off when I didn’t talk about Sophie.

Dr. Burney called around two o’clock. No change. She was still lethargic, not interested in food, not interested in peeing, kind of mentally sluggish as well as physically. But he didn’t sound ready to give up. When I said, “She was my miracle baby,” he said, “Oh, I know. Mine two.” So we decided to give her the afternoon. He called about five-thirty, and we agreed to give her until morning. Are we postponing the inevitable? Maybe. One thought I had was that whether or not Soph took advantage of the day, it had been a help to me, allowed me a chance to collect myself and face what lies ahead. I sent her a telepathic message this morning, told her it was up to her—she either had to turn it around or shut it down, but she had to save me from making the decision. Dr. Burney said he was sure she got the message, but he would repeat it to her. I love that man.

So we are still in limbo. I think tomorrow morning, no matter which way it goes, Jordan and I will go to the veterinary clinic and see her. When she was so sick a year ago, Dr. Burney warned me that she would be mad at me, because she thought whatever happened to her was my doing. And boy, was he right. She wouldn’t come near me. So that worries me a bit about going to see her. Jordan thinks seeing us will give her a boost. I am not sure.

And to pile complication on complication: Jacob has tested positive for Covid. He’s just home from a three-day fishing/swimming/hanging out trip to Oklahoma with three buddies. Called his mom at lunch and said he couldn’t taste his Chick Filet. (In my opinion that’s a good thing—I boycott Chick Filet, but he loves it and I can’t appeal to his teenage hunger on moral grounds). So when he got home, he tested positive. So now he’s bummed, because he can’t hang out with his buddies during his senior year spring break, and he can’t work to earn money.

But there is family good news. My brother, who is pretty much bedridden, has been in the hospital for two or three weeks, but it looks like he can go home tomorrow. I’m so grateful for small slivers of hope.

Tonight Subie and Phil came for a drink. She said she watched all day for a message telling them not to come, but I would have wanted them here no matter which way things went with Sophie. They are longtime friends, the kind who are a comfort, and they were tonight. It was the first time Subie drove over our new, nicely flat driveway, and she was full of raves about it.

I am deeply grateful to all of you who have sent hugs and prayers and good wishes. You help me as I wait in limbo, and I’m sure. If she knew, Sophie would be grateful too. She always did love to be the center of attention.

Testing the family culinary limits, progress on the bucket list, and 8,000 words.

 

Plaque certifying that our house is a hundred years old

It’s been a good week. My family has decided, a bit belatedly, that they ate too much over the holidays. So to avoid more Keto stuff and Whole 30 meals, I have started serving what I call light suppers, often meatless. These are the kind of meals that my mom used to fix on Sunday nights for us to dine in front of the fireplace in the living room. Since it’s acknowledged that I cook for some picky eaters, I approached this with some trepidation. A couple of nights ago I fixed Welsh Rarebit, a thick cheese sauce served on toast and fancied up with pickled onions and micro greens. My mom fixed Welsh Rarebit, but as I recall it was mostly melted sharp cheddar over saltines—once when I served it for supper, Colin said, “This is dinner?” No wonder I was nervous. This time, following a recipe, I served it on English muffins, and it seemed to be a hit. Christian praised the flavor of the cheese. Great! One down.

Last night supper was scrambled eggs with a ranchero sauce and (canned) refried beans on the side. The beans were, to me, a disappointment (I want Joe T’s refritos) but the ranchero sauce, heavy with chopped bacon, was another hit. Even Jacob ate with us, and Christian commandeered the leftover sauce for his eggs this morning. My light meals may not be exactly diet food, but I think people eat less in quantity than they do if we have a casserole or a meat-and-potatoes dish. Tonight, for a guest, I served creamed mushrooms on an English muffin (I’m really into that muffin business) and a marinated beet and feta salad. So good, and so colorful on the plate. Once again, I blew it and should have taken a picture. A digression: Central Market sent me the biggest beet I have ever seen. I ordered two, cooked the smaller one twice as long as should have, cooked the superhumongous one even longer, and I’m still not sure it’s done. The smaller one made plenty for me and my dinner guest.

This week also marked progress on my bucket lists of maintenance chores. Jacob put my compost tumbler together, but it had far too many screws left over. Christian said he’d take it in the house and deal with it when he had time, but he was noticeably not enthusiastic about the chore. I called a handyman who advertises in the neighborhood newsletter and was recommended by a friend. He installed our brass hundred-year-plaque on the front of the house and fixed the tumbler, using almost all the screws. He said the instructions for the tumbler were totally inadequate and it was no wonder a highschooler didn’t get it right. So now I’m happily saving all those vegetable scraps and making a list of other chores that need a handyman. My walker and I have really dinged up the woodwork in the cottage, and I would like to have it touched up, repainted. whatever it needs.

It's been a great week for me in that I wrote 8,000 words on my novel-in-progress, tentatively titled, Irene in a Ghost Kitchen and fifth in my Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries. I had, as I may have said here before, put the manuscript aside at about 30,000 words. I’m not sure why I abandoned it except that I was in that muddle in the middle—halfway through and couldn’t see clear to the end. Ivan Doig once said writing is like driving in the dark—you can only see as far ahead as the headlights. And my headlights weren’t working very well. But at an informal gathering of publishing people someone praised Irene as a fascinating character, and that somehow was all I needed to hear to move ahead. So now I’m trying to write as much as I can. And I’m grateful to the former colleague who said that.

Big goof last night: Sophie wanted to go out at 5:30 in the morning. Somehow I set the burglar alarm off and didn’t get it cancelled in time to satisfy the security company’s automatic system. So there I was trying to talk to this recorded voice and unable to answer Subie’s call. Finally got it solved, only to have Jordan call, ask what was going on, and say Subie was on her way over here, which made me feel guilty. Got it all solved and went back to bed, with appropriate apologies to Jordan and Subie. But thanks to Subie for true friendship! And to Jordan and Christian for patience.

Baking a cake amid chaos

 

I baked a cake today. It’s probably the first time in twenty years or more that I’ve done that. I love to cook, but I am not a baker. Baking requires precision—the recipe I followed today advised measuring ingredients. I dutifully hauled out my kitchen scale and measured the bittersweet chocolate bits--three ounces is a lot more bits than I thought. But measure flour? Naw, not me. There are too many other things to be done. But I did try hard to follow the directions step by step and not succumb to my usual slapdash method of thinking I could outsmart the recipe. The thing that got me into this is that I have been intrigued by the idea of olive oil cakes--I expect them to be flourless cakes. Time will tell, because this cake is for dinner guests tomorrow night, and I have done no more than sniff the finished product and satisfy myself that it smells quite chocolatey. It’s also a cake in a springform pan—I even bought a new such because my old one is warped and unusable—it leaks. I didn’t exactly buy the pan to make this one cake—I frequently find recipes that call for a springform and I’ve been ignoring them. But in a way, this cake is why I bought it right now. What I really needed was another good-sized pan to fit into my oh-so-limited cupboard space.

Baking this cake weighed on my mind all day. I was on the phone with Colin today, discussing business things and trying to figure out why my phone won’t talk to my TCU email account—or why the account suddenly cut off my phone. We were both frustrated—he because he couldn’t see what I was doing on my phone, and me because baking the cake hovered over me. No one else gave me that deadline—it was self-imposed, but it might as well be cast in stone.

Truth is, we are still not settled in after the chaos of Christmas. Take, for instance, the new composter. Jacob came out at noon today to unpack it, but it proved more of a chore than either of us anticipated. It has, according to his estimate, a thousand screws. And he got the frame mostly put together before he announced the parts were wrong and it wouldn’t work—and oh yes he had something to do at one o’clock. He left, with parts of the tumbler spread all over the couch and the coffee table. I looked at the frame for a long time, and I suspect he has one part in the wrong place. I was prepared to ask Katie, my dinner guest, to help me shove it all on to the couch, but Jordan came out and did it. I could have left the thing in the box where it would have taken up a lot of room in the cottage, but school starts next week, and I thought if I didn’t get us started on it, the composter would still be in its box come Spring. Besides I cooked a lot this week and was struck by how much I put in the garbage that could have been compost. Lots of vegetable scraps—peelings from onions and garlic, almost half a head of lettuce that had been in the fridge too long, some cabbage, and so on.

The composter isn’t the only problem. Tonight I finally got the computer cords so that I can recharge my remote keyboard and mouse—but I need help to connect them. This cord business is a real puzzle—we re-hooked the computer after I was away at Thanksgiving, and all was in order; got to Santa Fe at Christmas and I didn’t have the right cords. Once home, they are nowhere to be found, and the cords I have don’t fit. Colin told me what to order, and that’s what came today. They fit—but the back of the computer is in the same narrow space as Sophie’s crate, so my walker and I can’t get in there. I will pounce on the first person who comes out here tomorrow.

Then there’s the problem of canned dog food. I am out. For days Amazon has been warning me they couldn’t fill the standing order. But they said they’d send my first-choice substitute. Apparently, they forgot that part because I’ve had only a notice chicken and wild rice is unavailable; no notice of shipping a substitute. Cricket’s supply is out too. Jordan bought one can today at the grocery. Sophie is not fussy and wolfed down her evening supper. But tomorrow will come—and I shudder to think of my strong-willed dog if she doesn’t get her meat for supper. Kibble is not going to do it.

My sense of chaos was lightened by friend Katie who came to dinner. Her late husband, a man I thought was wonderful, was a cook; Katie is not. So she’s always pleased with my dinners. I told her I thought I was in a rut, serving her casserole and salad, but she pointed out she’s never complained. And she went home with a baggie of tuna casserole. Katie and I have kids and grandkids about the same age, and we share an outlook on life—including on national and Texas politics. So we always have lots to talk about. It’s good to share, though her outlook on the upcoming elections is not quite as optimistic as mine. Still, I am grateful to her for good company and for taking in stride the chaos and making it, in my mind, a little less urgent. Besides, she Is a Sophie fan.

Friends are, always, a permanent blessing; chaos is temporary. Thanks be to God.

My friendship garden

 

These three are among the many friends I treasure

I didn’t do much work today. Instead, I spent much of the day emailing back and forth with friends, or, as I came to think of it, tending my friendship garden. I have long likened friendships to a garden—you have to work to maintain them. I know people who have few if any friends and people who have only their friends of the immediate moment but have lost contact with those from the past. I think that’s sad. I am blessed with friends from my childhood forward—many these days by email, but some still in person. But I work at it. And I think as I age, keeping my friendships alive and healthy becomes more and more important to me.

Today many of my emails had to do with the loss of a friend of fifty years or more. Bill Benge’s death put me in touch with friends from Colorado to New York City who wanted to know how to contact Sharon, when was the service, where should they send memorial donations. I think I said recently that my mom said one of the saddest parts of growing old was that your friends died all around you. That’s true, but I hadn’t thought through to the fact that a death puts you in touch with others who also held the deceased dear. I wouldn’t say it’s been a benefit, but it has helped to share the grief and the admiration for a life well lived.

But then there were also emails about the yard and work that needs to be done, my hearing aid which suddenly went dead, the menu for a guest who’s coming tomorrow night and insists that I have fed her enough and she will bring dinner—I have willingly agreed to that because I’m still a bit gob smacked and the menu I planned, an asparagus tart, suddenly sounded overwhelming. It was the kind of day when I had to stop and think, “Now who was I going to email next?”

A few professional emails worked their way in—one about an upcoming review of my new book, another to send off a guest post, and one in response to my newsletter which just went out yesterday. (Didn’t get yours? Just let me know at j.alter@tcu.edu and I’ll see that it gets in the mail.) And there were a couple of emails that tied to the TCU community.

All of this emailing was a welcome activity because I am, as I’ve said, between projects and faced with deciding what I’m going to work on next. Ideas for a new Irene are rattling in my brain but not solid enough for action yet, and there is always Helen Corbitt … but I keep procrastinating. Perhaps if I reread what I have, I’d regain my enthusiasm.

But I digress, because I really wanted to talk about friendship and communities. My webmaster who is profoundly deaf wrote me that she hopes to move from Long Island to Rochester, NY where there is a large deaf community. I asked if it is a close-knit community, and she said it is and she already has friends and connections there. And that got me to thinking about the various communities in which we all live.

These days I think mine are the mystery writing community and my church community plus maybe the close-knit neighborhood I live in is a community. When I was younger, the world of osteopathic medicine was also a community for me. When my husband and I first traveled, in so many U.S. cities there was usually a D.O. who I had known as child, several of whom I called uncle. And then for thirty years, there was the TCU community where I spent some of the happies—and some of the most difficult—years of my career. Facebook is a critter of a different nature and yet, a community of its own. I find I have many Facebook friends that I have met online, never met in person and probably never will. But they are important to me.

Communities, I am convinced, shape our lives, but they are not mutually exclusive—a mistaken notion held by many. It is possible to move easily between communities and, as we age, to move from one to another. For instance, my mystery writing and Facebook communities have lots of overlap. But my point about friendship is that you can still maintain contact with some from a community that is no longer a part of your life. That is the case for me and the osteopathic community and, in many ways, for the TCU community. Life brings change, and change usually is growth—but you don’t have to leave behind the people you have treasured.

I may have been wandering in a field of words here, but I think what I’m trying to say is that as we move through life—for me from childhood to golden years—we meet a lot of people, many of whom will pass out of our lives. Their part in our story is done. But there are some in each community or group or aspect of our lives, that we treasure and keep with us as friends. Those friendships don’t automatically survive without attention. You have to tend to your friendship garden.

In an apropos metaphor, I plan to go nursery shopping this week to tend to my springtime garden. A different kind of garden but also important.

Distracting myself with trivia

 

Burtons on campus of University of Arkansas
Looks like a cold day!

We have some heavy stuff going on in our families right now, so I’ve been distracting myself with trivia (as for the heavy stuff, I’ll post when appropriate). The Burtons are in Fayetteville, Arkansas tonight where they got a tour of the University of Arkansas campus, where Jacob thinks he might like to go to college. From Jordan’s email, the campus looks lovely, with buildings old enough to have some character and history. The institution is nearly 150 years old—somehow, I find comfort in academic institutions with a long history. Newcomers make me a tad nervous.

My Jamie came to stay with me for the two nights the Burtons are gone, and I am enjoying his company thoroughly. Jamie is one I don’t hear from often enough, and that frustrates me. But when I do hear from him, I get long discussions of deep subjects—tonight it started with the afterlife and ended as a discussion of comparative religions. This morning, he took me to Central Market, and tonight he fixed dinner—a chuck roast in the crockpot all afternoon, loaded baked potatoes, and sauteed spinach. Now he is in the house on the telephone, but he has promised to come back and strum some Joan Baez songs on his guitar for me. His father and I at one time owned five LP records—all Baez. Jamie grew up hearing her music and loves it as much as I do.

I made an astounding discovery today—there is a new, two-story building almost right outside my bathroom window. The wonderful Zenaida was here to clean today and put up the shade to let some sunshine into my rather dark bathroom. I happened to glance out the back and saw, one house to the east, a large structure that hadn’t been there before. For a couple of weeks I’ve heard pounding and hammering—sometimes the rat-a-tatt that I was sure was a nail gun. It didn’t bother me, except when they revved it up about the time I wanted to nap. I meant to ask the neighbor directly behind me but never did. So now I know. I’ve still written to ask for details. Like what they did about a kitchen, since I am still struggling along with my kitchen that is restricted by zoning codes.

Speaking of naps, today was National Nap Day, begun in the late 1990s. The couple who founded it chose this date because they figured on the first Monday after the switch to daylight savings time, people needed a nap. I certainly did. Some people can’t sleep in the daytime, others say it makes them too groggy the rest of the day, and finally there are those who scorn daytime naps as some kind of weakness. I am happy to claim my everyday daytime nap. If somebody calls me between two and four (the hours are a bit flexible), I know they don’t know me well.

I’m judging a blog contest for a writing organization, and today I read a blog about the fragility of friendship. I thought the writer titled it all wrong, but friendship is what it was really about. A woman recalled a friendship so close, so enduring that it was like they were sisters. And then, suddenly one day, it ended. Her reaching out brought tepid responses at best and finally she sort of put the problem of “What happened?” on the back burner. But then, with pandemic and other troubles all around her, she thought it time to confront her former friend. So, gathering her courage, she went to the other woman’s home—only to be confronted with a bare lot. The home had been demolished, and the woman left no trail.

I was moved by this, because I have a friend who suddenly dropped out of my life. Distance is not the problem—he still lives about ten minutes away, and his wife and I are still cordial. But the couple of times I’ve talked to him, I can sense something in his voice, a distance, a chasm he doesn’t want to jump. Apparently, I have offended, but I have no clue as to why or how. I miss the casual camaraderie, the delicatessen lunches, the friendship. I too have been tempted to confrontation, but I have finally decided to let it go.

I read somewhere long ago that when someone disappears from your life it means their part in your story is over. Over the years I’ve lost and gained friendships as interests change and life moves on in different directions. More important, some friendships have kept constant, despite distance and time, and these are the friendships that I hold close to my heart—my BFF from high school who lives in Mississippi and who I haven’t seen in years and likely may not see again; friends from my days in Missouri, who keep in touch though visits are years apart; two or three friends of forty or fifty years to whom I am still close.

I have always insisted friendships are like gardens—they require constant attention.

As for you who read my blog, I thank you for your cyberspace friendship, and I value each and every one of you.

Looking ahead, looking back

Linda and me--who knows what Christmas!

 

This is one of those evenings—no thoughts for a blog because it seems to me not much happened today. Yet I feel I haven’t been good about blogging this week, and I tell myself surely I can come up with something significant to say. Ah, there’s the rub: significant. Sometimes when I start a blog without knowing where I’m going, words suddenly come tumbling out. Not so sure that will happen tonight.

Not off to a good start. Just tried to place my Central Market order for curbside delivery tomorrow and just before I clicked “Place my order,” I noticed that it said “Pick Up Austin North Lamar.” I’d love a trip to Austin, but that’s not in the cards for tomorrow. We are busy planning ahead for spring break.

When you live in the Berkeley neighborhood of Fort Worth, as we do, spring break is a mixed blessing. Zoo traffic is unbearable and clogs our streets until we cannot get out to go about our business nor, once out, can we easily get home. Each year the FW Police work with neighborhood officers to plan way to handle the traffic, but there is apparently no ideal solution. This year we have placards to place in our cars that will, theoretically, allow us entrance to the neighborhood on a street closed to the public (Shh! I’ll never tell which street) and also allow us to park on the street, though we are encouraged to park in our driveways. When your driveway was built in 1922 to accommodate cars of that era, getting three cars in is not easy. None of this bothers me, because I don’t drive any more, but it is a hardship on the rest of the Alter/Burton compound.

I am planning ahead in another way. Sunday the Burtons will drive to Fayetteville and tour the University of Arkansas campus with Jacob. And son Jamie will come from Frisco to stay with me. Jamie will bring his guitar, and I’ll hear lots of Joan Baez. And I’ll do what I often do—cook something for him that he’ll enjoy but the Burtons would not eat. On my Sunday night supper menu are corned beef, twice-baked colcannon potatoes, and roasted carrots—yes, I’m rushing St. Pat’s Day a bit, but I particularly want to fix the colcannon. I’ve never had it but have read about it with longing. And Jamie loves cooked cabbage. I used to sauté it with butter and sour cream for him.

For those of you with no Irish roots, colcannon is a mix of cooked cabbage and, usually, mashed potatoes. The recipe for a baked potato is the first I’ve seen, but I figure I can get them stuffed and ready to go in the morning and reheat before dinner. Not sure yet when I’ll roast the carrots. My hot plate/toaster oven kitchen is a major problem with menus like this, because I can only cook one thing at a time. If both the hot plate and the toaster oven are on simultaneously, the circuit breaker for the entire cottage goes. And I can’t get out there to fix it. Cooking will be a nice Sunday project, with time out for church on the internet.

Looking back instead of ahead, this was a week of renewing ties. On Tuesday, Melinda, who was production manager when I was at TCU Press, came for lunch. I fixed a chicken casserole that I really love (see yesterday’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog) and we had a good visit, catching up on family news. But publishing gets in your system I guess, because we talked a lot about books we’d worked on, people we’d worked with, and the press itself.

Then Thursday a friend of some forty or more years came for lunch and brought both the new man in her life and the lunch. Both were delightful. I’m sure Dave Wasserman was a bit bored when Linda and I caught up on old friends and family, but he was most gracious. And when we got off on other subjects, I thorough enjoyed talking to him. Linda moved to Taos a year or so ago, and, as I pointed out, is not a good communicator, so I go too long without hearing from her. Dave is said to be a better communicator, so I suggested he and I exchange emails and he could catch me up on Linda’s doings.

Old friends are truly treasures—so much life we have shared. I am big on communicating—I keep saying friendships are like gardens: they need constant tending. So I’m grateful, for instance for Martha and Dick in Omaha who I haven’t seen for several years but who I hear from almost weekly. Or Barbara, my high school BFF who follows my blog, occasionally comments and emails from Mississippi. So many whose friendship I valued have dropped away because of distance, and I miss them. Someone once said, when someone disappears from your life, that means their part in your story is over. In a very few cases, that’s a relief; in many more, it makes me sad.

Happy weekend everyone—and happy Spring Break. Stay safe.

 

A cozy Sunday evening

 

Roast sweet potatoes and spinach

Oh, the weather outside is frightful—well, not really, but it’s darn chilly. So here it is, Sunday evening, and I am warm and cozy in my cottage, with The Sound of Music on the TV. A bit of salmon salad on Ritz crackers for supper, followed by some chocolate truffles from Central Market. What could be more blissful?

Today I had a lovely visit with friend Linda, who left Texas a year or so ago for Taos. Linda and I have known each other for close to fifty years—a history and friendship that encompasses divorce and death, lots of struggles and lots of joy. We have children the exact same age—if Jamie turned fifty this year, I knew her Melanie did too. She has wonderful stories about when the children were little, like Megan walking into her house and making a beeline for her make-up dresser. Apparently, I was deficient in such matters.

I had made a new dish for supper last night and fed Linda leftovers because I had them, but more than that it was the kind of food she likes—roast sweet potatoes and spinach with green onions and feta. Oops, forgot the jalapenos. The recipe called for sprinkling juice from a jar of preserved jalapenos over the sweet potatoes. Last night I did that—cautiously—and added a bit more today. But it also called for sprinkling the finished dish minced jalapenos. Last night, Jean took one bite of the minced to see if she wanted them on her dinner and madly reached for the baguette slices I had put out, followed by a glass of water. When at last she could speak, she managed to say, “Too hot!” Linda said she ate one slice today, but, yes, they were hot! Otherwise, the dish was a keeper. Jean thought maybe it needed a grain element, and I wondered about something crisp.

A friend gave me a package of Tours mix, and I thought that might be good, though I didn’t try it today. You have to have lived in Fort Worth for years to know Tours mix—Tours was a lovely restaurant at Seventh and Monticello, and their signature salad was sprinkled with this crunch mix of seeds and nuts. You can buy it now at Vending Nut Company. And if you go down the street to Michael’s Restaurant, you can buy a jar of the original Mac’s Salad Dressing, from now long-gone Mac’s House. It’s great with Tours mix.

Anyway back to my visit with Linda. I’ve used to not seeing her often, because she has lived in Granbury almost her entire life, but now that she has pulled up stakes for Taos, I feel the distance. So today we caught up on each other, families, friends, all the things we share. At one time, we were both married to osteopathic surgeons (they were briefly partners) so that’s a whole world, now mostly lost to us, that we talk about. But today it never came up—have we let go of that part of the past? I thought Linda moved to Taos principally because she had an art teacher there that she really liked, but she told me today the pervasive MAGA politics drove her from her hometown. She’s not the first person I know who has moved out of Texas because of politics. Texas has a great and glorious history—well, with some myth-busting—and I hate to see the rigid ideology of Abbott and his cohorts drive my friends away.

Politics aside—and how I wish we could just brush it away—the holidays are a great time to catch up with old friends, reach out to new, share the sense of hope that the season brings. I’m hoping for a couple more visits like that, though it’s a busy season for all of us. One friend has already reluctantly cancelled a planned girls visit in favor of an unexpected chance to see her son and his family, and I certainly applaud that. This morning the sermon at church was about the importance of friendship, of having someone with whom we can share our deepest secrets, our hopes, our triumphs and our disappointments. I am blessed in that respect.

So what does Christmas week hold for you? I’ve got cranberries on my mind—some chutney and a cranberry cake. And friends and visiting and happy times. Hope you do too.

I just have to add, no matter how many times you’ve seen it, The Sound of Music is a tearjerker. And even now I cannot watch the cemetery scene!

What’s your idea of adventure?

 

Kudos to Jean Walbridge for shepherding me yesterday. First we went to my appointment with the hand surgeon. Because I’d never been there before, we took the transport chair, and it was a good thing. We whipped into the first open handicapped spot and proceeded to the doors only to find we were at the locked service entrance and had to go halfway around the large square building to get to the main entrance with its fancy porte cochere. Why aren’t entrances marked more plainly or, better yet, in the front of the building where they belong?

Then we found ourselves in an enormous medical office and we, of course, chose the exact wrong end of the waiting room. When they called us, we had to travel the whole long length. If I’d been using the walker, it would have taken me forever, and I’d arrived winded. So bless Jean for pushing me. She wasn’t used to it and commented that she seemed to be trying to amputate my feet. At one point I was sort of wedged under a desk and wondered how I’d get out of there.

From the doctor’s office we went to Trader Joe’s which has quite possibly the world’s worst parking lot in town—too small, too crowded, two-way traffic when there isn’t room. Not good for an impatient person like myself. If Jean had been alone, there were any number of spots she could have whipped into, but we had to wait—and wait we did—for a handicapped with space on the passenger side for the motorized cart for handicapped shoppers. At long last we got one. Jean went into the store to ask someone on staff to drive the cart out for me—no way she was going to try that herself.

Shopping was smooth except when Jean said, “You’re on your own,” I had to point out that I couldn’t reach most of the things I wanted. So we shopped in tandem. I did not hit any customers nor take down any displays, but I sure was nervous in the wine section. Trader Joe’s is like Central Market in that you can’t do all your shopping there—not toilet paper, etc.—but it’s great for unusual items. And I had a list, from ice cream cones to white chicken chili (which I didn’t find).

Jean went to a checkout station right by the exit, which was great because I could just wheel straight out. A couple of times before I had nearly come to grief trying to turn a tight corner from the checkout stand to the door.

At last we were in the car, headed home, having safely handed the cart over to a staff member. Jean sighed and said, “I’ve had quite an adventure. Thank you.” My first thought was maybe her life lacks adventure, despite the fact that I know she’s busy, but my better thought was, “Wow! If it’s that much of an adventure, it much be that much trouble, and I am really really grateful to her for having spent her morning with me, pushing my wheelchair, hauling my mobility devices in and out of the car, reaching for groceries for me. I am so blessed with friends and so grateful.

Today was a catch-up day and therefore I have nothing much to post about, unless I lapse into one of my rants about the state of our country. So I’ll just quit while I’m sort of ahead. I did get a lot done today, and I’m going to sleep early because I have to be up way too early for a dental appointment.

I will say, it’s a bit of a thrill to find an email in my box from Martin Sheen that begins, “Hi, Judy.” Yes, I know it’s computer generated, but I can still hardly resist replying to say, “Hi, Martin. Thanks for writing.”

Night, y’all.

Politics, but maybe not as usual

 

Tonight was the only debate there will be between Texas gubernatorial candidates, Governor Greg Abbott and Democratic challenger Beto O’Rourke. Abbott decreed there would be only one debate and no audience, so questions came from three political journalists, plus a few call-in ones from across the state. There was some concern, at least on my part, that Beto’s temper might get the better of him, but he was good—calm, controlled, knowledgeable, sincere, and sharp. Sure, he responded a couple of times when it wasn’t his turn but nothing bad or obvious. Abbott was as he always is calm, cold. self-assured—and blaming everything on President Biden or accusing Beto of twisting the truth.

I could tell when Abbott was dodging, dissembling, and glossing over only because I’ve made a point of educating myself. He totally dodged a question about whether he had become extremely right-wing, and he blew it on abortion, saying Beto favored it up until the first breath. Clearly, Abbott doesn’t understand medical considerations or the Hippocratic Oath—doctors are bound by their oath and by law to do their best to save all patients. So they would resuscitate a baby about to take its first breath or one that survived an abortion procedure. I truly thought Beto came off much better, but I am prejudiced.

To put it in context: I had an interesting visitor tonight, a longtime friend (forty years or more) who I haven’t seen in several years. We caught up on families and old friends in common—mostly who had died, which is discouraging. But we have been estranged since 2015 over her support of trump. She apparently didn’t realize it and shrugged it off saying she had to vote with her late husband—but that’s another story. It came up easily in conversation, so I addressed the elephant in the room with us, and she asked me to explain my beliefs. So I talked about immigration and the unequal distribution of wealth under Republicans for the last forty years, among other topics. I thought maybe I had made a convert, but it turns out I flattered myself.

She asked how I knew all this, and I replied that I make it a point to be well informed. She said she has access to the New York Times and the Washington Post, but I couldn’t tell that she reads either. So I promised to send her some links. But as she left, she said, “I’m just not that interested in politics.” I replied that she should be because the future of our country is at stake, and she said, “I think the country’s doing just fine, no matter who’s in charge.” That, I thought, is it: voter apathy. I cannot tell you how discouraged I was. But now the debate has energized me again.

I’m anxious to read the analyses from political reporters. Guess I’ll go prowling on the web.

And that’s it for tonight, because my focus today was on the debate, though I will brag that I’ve written two thousand words in the last two days. And my puzzlement for the day: UPS has sent me a bill, with a return envelope, for three cents. I seriously thought of taping three pennies to the bill and returning it, but I’m not sure I could scrounge up three pennies—you never see them in circulation anymore. And I remember reading somewhere that it costs seven dollars to write and process a check. And they want me to write a check for three cents?

I did get rid of a bit of my corporate anger today. Cigna sent me a reminder that my six-month dental checkup is around the corner and in a separate email a reminder that my account was past due. This from the company that wrote me in September they had cancelled my insurance July 31? When I called, they said they still had an active account for me. I told them to cancel it because there was no way I would ever deal with Cigna again. Told them I had called simply because I thought they should know how poor their customer relations are but if they wanted to send me a gold-plated apology that, too, would be appropriate. I can’t remember which one of us hung up first, but they were profuse in their apologies.

And so the world goes on. Putin’s nuclear saber-rattling is the most troublesome thing I can think of tonight, and I am tempted to reread Faulkner’s 1950 Nobel Prize Speech: “I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail.” Putin has gone from claiming Ukraine was aggressive to blaming the western world, and one analyst has suggested we are already fighting World War III—on Ukrainian territory. That’s an awful thought to sign off on.

Live in the present moment: it’s fall, a time when life seems to pick up the pace again, another year begins with all its opportunities. I am tempted to quote the words with which the mother of a good friend from my childhood days used to waken us in the morning: “God has made another new day. Think! Shall we let it slip useless away?” Well, God has made another school year. We won’t let it slip useless away. Sweet dreams.

 

Ladies night out—or in

 

The four of us at an earlier dinner.
Not sure when, but I think it was a Cajun restaurant that had been recommended.

For several years now, a group of four women (including me) has had dinner together once every month or so. We are—ahem! elderly, me more so than the others, and we are all interested in the arts. All three are old friends, though they didn’t all know each other until a few years ago. They claim they first met at my annual tree trimming Christmas parties, now a thing of the past much to my regret. Pandemic threw a huge monkey wrench into our dinner plans. We are all cautious, again me more so than the others. Each of us take masking and vaccines seriously—one because her partner is more elderly even than I, another because she is herself immune compromised, me because I’m an elderly scaredy cat.

We had managed a dinner just before the Delta variant swept us all up and again another in December for a birthday, just before omicron was a threat. And then we were all hiding in our homes again. Two ladies—Kathie and Subie—came to my aborted New Year’s Day party, but Carol stayed home out of an abundance of caution. She, however, was the one subsequently exposed to Covid, and although she tested positive, she was never sure she had it. Meanwhile I spent January alone in the cottage when first Jacob and then Jordan had mild cases.

Finally a week or so ago, Carol suggested we meet for pot-luck supper at my cottage—and joked about how bold she was being to invite people to my house. The usual juggling ensued as we tried to find a date that suited everyone. Tonight was our potluck dinner, and it brings aa couple of thoughts to mind. The obvious one is the good fortune of having four forty-plus year friendships—we literally have grown old together. The ties that bind have lasted, though we have each grown in different directions, developed new interests, etc. And yet, mostly, we blend and share.

The other is that potluck is an old-fashioned idea. As you know if you read this blog much at all, I am increasingly interested in so-called American food, the dishes that are considered passé now, the food of the fifties and sixties. And I’d sure put the concept of potluck right up there with those dishes, although I know it is much older and probably traces back through most of American history. Especially as we all get healthier and sanitation conscious due to covid, I wonder if both potluck and buffet lines aren't going the way of all good things.

As hostess, I felt it was incumbent on me to provide the entrée, so I fixed a chicken casserole, made with Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup. Cooking with canned soups is a hangover from my growing-up years, and yet I have recipes I treasure that call for mushroom, chicken, or celery soup. Lots of cooking snobs scorn such cooking, but not me. Our appetizers tonight were sort of retro—vegetables and dips, though the dips were not anything we thought of back in the day. There was a herb dip—really herbal and really green, a cheese spread spiced with pimiento, and a hummus with peppers (I avoided that). The crispy breads with Parmesan would not have appeared at my growing-up table (we never had bread with dinner). Salad was a tossed green salad—shades of my mom, though she never would have added sunflower seeds, blueberries, and apple. I can just see my dad’s face if he found a blueberry in his salad—he loved them, but all things in their proper place.

And finally there was dessert—a scrumptious fruit salad (with lots of raspberries which is always a plus for me) and good bakery cookies. What struck me about the meal was that it was a blending of the food from our young years with some more trendy dishes from today. And maybe that’s what’s to be treasured about our friendship—the best from the old days when we were young and full of plans blended with whatever wisdom age has brought us and surviving despite diverse interests.

Want that good, light chicken recipe? Look for the Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog tomorrow. I plan to post my two favorite chicken casseroles. Meantime I have taken two days from my novel—one to do taxes and today to make the casserole, straighten the cottage and get ready for company. I laugh at myself because in these tiny quarters I usually don’t do much to prepare for company—just ask a couple of regulars—but today seemed more like an occasion, and I couldn’t wrap my mind around much else. Tomorrow, back to the novel!

Winter returns … a day for reflection

 

My favorite weather forecaster-
See those eyes?
She's not letting me out of her sight in scary weather

Yesterday was a tantalizing touch of spring—close to eighty degrees and sunny in the afternoon, though by six-thirty, when we came in from the patio, there was a definite chill in the air. Still, last night I was full of optimism—the rodeo is over and gone, my family seems for now free of the virus, and for the first time in over a month Jordan sat in the cottage and visited and then stayed on the patio to join friend Renee and me in talking about dogs and kids and friends and all the things that make life so good. I wrote Jordan this morning to tell her what a pleasure it is to have her back in my life, after all those masked, five-minute visits. Reminds me of a Snoopy cartoon I saw today, where Snoopy is carried on the shoulders of his friends, and he says how glad he is that friendship is free, because he could never afford all the wonderful people in his life.

Maybe it was last night’s conversation or maybe Snoopy this morning, but I’ve been reflecting on the nature of friendship—some are long-lasting, some transitory, and some change in nature. Today is the birthday of a colleague to whom I was once close—we plotted and planned books and programs, we had lunch together several times a week, we were good friends. Today I almost never hear from him; when I do it’s because I reach out to be sure he’s okay—eight years older than I (can you believe that?), he’s been hiding in his house from omicron. I told him I miss him, but really what I miss is the old friendship. We can’t go back to that.

I have other friends and colleagues who have dropped out of my life, and it always pains me a bit. I think it’s Ann Lamott who wrote that when someone drops out of your life, it means their part in your story is over. A woman I used to travel with to meetings of everyone from Western Writers of America to the Texas State Historical Association and the Texas Institute of Letters—I sent her a birthday card just before Christmas but had no response. I’ve always had the feeling I somehow offended her, though I would never have done that intentionally. Then there’s the woman who’s a great correspondent just after we visit, but then it tapers off and I rarely hear from her. I guess it’s time for another visit. And at my age, inevitably, I’ve lost people I really card about to death. Another colleague wrote me recently that of the five people he felt close to, two had died and one had moved across the country. Circumstances over which we have little control change our friendships, and it’s often sad.

I have new friendships—neighbors that I’ve come to know, acquaintances that have moved out of that casual category to become true friends, and I value them all. I talked yesterday to my associate provost to whom I reported at the university. We are the same age, and when I said I felt we are fortunate—meaning fortunate to be as healthy and involved in life as we are—he said, “Life continues to unfold.” I thought it was well put. As for those whose part in my story is over, I have lots of wonderful memories to hold close. On the birthday card I sent today I recalled a birthday when twelve women, all part of his fan club, took this man to our favorite café for lunch. A good memory.

I knew during the night that the weather was changing. Sophie slept right by me, instead of in her spot across the room. And when I woke and moved around about seven this morning, she didn’t show any interest in going aside. Her instincts about weather are always several hours ahead of mine, but when I finally got up this morning, I was greeted by a gray day that probably feels chillier than it is. Even Jordan, my child with hot Mediterranean blood, is complaining of cold this morning. So much for our plan for lunch on a patio somewhere. That will have to wait.

Today is one for a cut of tea, a blanket, and a good book.

 

Make new friends but keep the old,

 

Surely you know the next line of the verse: Those are silver, these are gold. This morning I heard from the one person on earth who has known me the longest (except my brother). Judy Wieland Fleener lived next door when I was born. She was probably about two years old when I appeared. We were neighbors, playmates, and friends (despite our families’ political differences) until our twenties when we both married and moved away. I think it’s wonderful and remarkable that some eighty years later we are still friends. And popular as it is to diss on Facebook, our ongoing friendship is one of the things I credit to Facebook. Before social media, we were down to the yearly impersonal Christmas card. Now, I know a lot more about her life, and I warrant she does mine. She wrote this morning in response to my blog last night on memories of Chicago

Memes on Facebook frequently ask if you have long term friendships, and I’ve gathered it’s a rare thing. But I am blessed with several friends from thirty, forty, even fifty years ago. The woman today who understands me best is a friend I met in probably fifth or sixth grade. She married and moved to Mississippi; I moved to Texas. Our lives diverged and yet we share much—a strong sense of family (she has five children to my four and more greats than I will ever have). But as with Judy Fleener, much of what binds us together is our memories of Chicago.

But it is not only Chicago that holds me to friends. I treasure some who are Texans, a special couple who live in Nebraska, a family in Virginia. “My people” are scattered across the map.

I’ve accumulated “new” friends—many not so new—over the years. People I worked with at TCU, people from the literary community in Texas and writers whose books I published, more recently a few members of the Guppies chapter of Sisters in Crime and others in my writing circle in Story Circle Network—these ladies seem like true sisters. I am particularly grateful to Jean, mentioned often in this blog, for friendship that strengthened during pandemic. We were both careful about quarantine, and we were both alone (though I have my local family), and we found good times in sharing happy hour and supper. She is one of the few people who is almost always enthusiastic about my cooking experiments.

But I’ve also watched over the years as some once-friends drifted away, whether through diverging interests or changing lifestyles or what. There’s a man I once lunched with frequently who now, for some reason I don’t understand, has distanced himself from me. And I’ve lost common ground with a few women I was once really close to, some over what I consider moral differences during the trump presidency. During pandemic, it’s been too easy to lose friends because we were never sure who we could let into our hive, who was safe. I have a friend who is much out in the unvaccinated pubic, and I admitted to her the other day, by phone, that her exposure was the reason I was avoiding her. She said, “You’re right to do that.” Not everybody is that understanding.

I read once that when a person drifts out of your life it means they are no longer a part of your story, and I find that a comforting thought. The story goes on, just not the friendship. Though it sometimes feels that way, a lost friendship is not the end of the world. But I also insist that friendship is like a garden—you have to tend it and work it so that it will flourish. Again, hard to do during pandemic. But some people are just not good communicators, and they are the ones likely to drift out of your life and your story.

I am going tomorrow night to dinner with three long term friends. We try to have supper once a month, though that was sorely tested in the last year and a half. But we always manage to celebrate birthdays—and tomorrow night, admittedly late, we will celebrate an early September birthday. I find these friendships comforting in good times and troubled, like we live in now. But I do miss some of those who drifted out of my story.

Sweet dreams, everyone.

Monday's child

 

Tonight's light supper
copying my mom's salmon supper

Monday’s child may be fair of face, as the nursery rhyme tells us, but she also is hard at work, at least this one was. At least that’s the way it was around my cottage today. The wonderful Zenaida came to clean, do my laundry, and change the sheets; the yard guys came, and Sophie worked hard barking to warn them that she had their number and was on guard dog duty; and I spent most of the day working.

My main task today was marketing chores for Irene in Danger—getting the ISBN (international standard book number) for print and digital editions, writing a blurb, and writing a news release. I had fun with the blurb and came up with two versions—I’d love to know which one you like best for the back of the print edition and for the page listing on Amazon and other sites. Here are the two:

Want a French recipe? Irene will teach you to make salad niçoise. Want murder and mayhem? Irene seems to attract both. With one week until her wedding, Henny James is convinced Irene’s arrival from France will ruin the biggest day of her life. One week to save Irene from the trouble she brings with her and save the wedding. Recipes included.

And,

Irene Foxglove is back in Chicago, Henny and Patrick are getting married in a week, there’s cocaine floating around, and someone wants to kill the diva chef. Once again, Irene brings murder and mayhem to those around her, and Henny must save her. Good thing she has Patrick for help.

I’m thinking the first will go on the back of the book and the second on a news release, but I’d love some reader input here.

Writing the news release, I got caught up in reading review of the first book, Saving Irene, and found a coupe of people for whom that was the first book of mine they’d read but they said it would not be the last. Music to my ears. And I found one reviewer who made me laugh:

Saving Irene was my first introduction to the work of Judy Alter and the fact that I found myself talking back to the characters (Sorry, Henny, but no legit Italian cook adds oil to pasta unless they're making aglia e olio) says a lot for how real they felt to me.

Since I am into book news this evening, here’s the big event of the week: after what seems like years, my book on the Waggoner ranch, The Most Land, the Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas, will launch this Friday. I was thrilled to get an endorsement from cowboy singer and entertainer par excellence Red Steagall. Here’s what he said,

The majesty and intrigue of a ranch is of course invested in the land and livestock. But the true soul of a ranching property rests with the humans involved, both staff and owners. Judy Alter has done a magnificent job of explaining and describing the amazing family of the world-famous Waggoner Ranch, all under one fence

Tomorrow, Tuesday, Priscilla Leder will do an hour-long interview with me at 4:00 o'clock about the book on Radio Station KZSM out of San Marcos TX. To tune in, click on https://kzsm.org/ and then click play. I hope I won’t stumble over my words.

Thanks for letting me quote and brag and get carried away with myself and my books. I promise to be more circumspect in future posts. Meantime, this evening, a nice surprise. My longtime friend, Subie, called and was at loose ends for supper. I thought, with a slight sinking, she wanted to go out whereas after a day at work in my pjs, I had decided against getting dressed and intended to fix myself a light supper. I offered her three choices—creamed tuna on toast (no groans, please), salmon croquettes, or a cold salmon platter. She said any of those sounded great—my kind of dinner guest! —and I fixed two small salmon platters with pickled cucumber, hearts of palm, avocado, tomato, and hard-boiled egg. After I talked to Subie, I quickly put the salmon in the fridge to chill, put two eggs on to boil, and, yes, I put on cargo pants and a T-shirt. Not much of an improvement but better than pjs.

We had a lovely evening, lots of girl talk that ranged from family and food to politics. I’m ready for an early bedtime. Tomorrow is shaping up to be twice as busy as today.

Is this our future?

 

I had a guest for happy hour tonight, a longtime friend of my oldest son. I’ve known him since they were in high school together and, later, tended bar at several restaurants. Back then, I prayed they would find themselves something out of food service, and eventually both did. I’m fond of this man, and when I found out he was in town—actually because left a gift of wine on my porch—I said he couldn’t be in Fort Worth without coming to see me. We settled on five o’clock tonight.

But then he texted, with great honesty, “I am unvaccinated.” I replied we would visit on the patio, socially distanced and masked. He asked if he could stand on the sidewalk and not wear a mask, but I said no. He’d have to stand so far away that I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I am beyond grateful that he cared enough to put on a mask to see me (he apparently never wears one). When he arrived, he reached out and said, “Can I hug you?” and I said, “No. No hugs.” So we sat and visited for almost two hours.

I had jokingly warned him that he would get my mask lecture, and at first, he said he’d submit. But then in a late message, he said, “I’m not looking forward to that lecture.” We visited for maybe twenty minutes until the subject came up, and I asked why he wasn’t vaccinated. He laughed and said, “Boy, you wait twenty minutes, and then boom! You’re right on it.”

Essentially his opinion is that it’s a virus and it’s going to be around forever, and it would do no good for him to vaccinate or mask. The virus he said will continue to mutate and we’ll never beat it. “Now they’re talking about a third shot. And then it will be the fourth. When will it end?”  He repeated what I consider the now a shop-worn line, “We all have to make a decision that’s best for us.” My plea that we vaccinate and mask for others, fell on deaf ears. So did my reminder that the virus mutates in victims, so the more unvaccinated people who get sick, the more opportunities for mutation.

He’s not a Trumper, although he is by no means the liberal that I am. But the vaccination issue for him wasn’t even political. It was just kind of a “it is what it is.” He’s angry about covid because his two sons lost a year and a half of schooling, and he believes that everything that comes along, from evictions to staffing shortage to what-have-you, gets blamed on covid, as though it’s an easy peg to hang all your troubles on. And he thinks the government is too much in our live--in Texas I would agree with him.

I admit I wimped out. I was prepared to go into full campaign mode, convince him, so that by the time he left he’d be headed for the nearest clinic to get vaccinated. It didn’t happen. No way. We had pleasant discussions about a lot of things, some reminiscences, nice talk. We agree about abortion (though he is a good Catholic), and we agree (I think) about Governor Abbott, Daniel Patrick, transgender students, and a lot of other hot-button issues. When we disagreed, it was amicable. The one topic I didn’t bring up was the border wall. He was born in Columbia and in his home, they still speak Spanish, so the Border Patrol was in many ways a logical career choice for him. I didn’t ask about it, didn’t ask what he thinks of the wall, though I wanted to.

I decided friendship and amicable relationships were more important, and in this instance, it was a good decision. But I see it as an omen for the future as we head into a second surge of covid. Are we going to choose our friends—and moderate our discussions—based on what others believe, especially when it goes counter to science or, in some cases, what I consider morality? It’s a hard call. If he had defended Abbott, would I have jumped into the fray? I have distanced myself from the very few friends who were/are ardent trump supporters. But is this dilemma, like his prediction for the virus, always going to be with us? I want peace and friendships, but on the other hand, I feel so desperate to have people follow the science and protect themselves to protect the rest of us. It’s a dilemma.

Your thoughts?