It’s the little things

 

A much younger Jacob 

The timer on my toaster oven started going off about seven minutes before the time was up—and it went off almost continually for those seven minutes. Sophie does not like the toaster oven, and when it goes off, she barks—incessantly. I tried the chat function with Breville, where after a long wait someone said they were referring me to the proper department—and apparently hung up, because the chat went dead. I knew I should call, but for over a week I’ve been avoiding it. I think I only used the oven two or three times, and nights when we had a skillet supper, like last night, it was easy to put it out of my mind. But it was on my calendar, and the computer kept reminding me it was days overdue.

So I bit the bullet and called. Got a woman with an indeterminate accent—not good for my old ears. Apparently not good for her comprehension either. I relayed what was happening, and I guess tried too hard to be cute, because I added, “My dog barks at it constantly, and it’s really annoying.” She replied, “I don’t understand. You have a dog ….?” I finally had to say, “Forget the dog!” Wonder of wonders, she made two suggestions: stop using the bake function when I should be using roast and unplug the oven for two hours so the timer can reset itself. That’s one of those simplistic solutions that leaves you wondering why you didn’t just do that in the first place. I unplugged, and it apparently fixed the problem. I feel like a combination of a ninny and a success.

Rain is not a little thing—except when it comes in a drizzle as it did today. The morning was dark and damp and drizzly, and I worried about Jacob who was playing in a high school golf tournament (52 area schools). Apparently, the rain didn’t stop it, and he did a good job, Meanwhile at home the rain was creating small miracles. The lantana is blooming, and the hyacinth vine on the fence by my desk window is sending out a few tentative blooms. Those plants have been dormant all summer, doing their best to survive. Now, they won’t bloom for long, but I’ll take what I can get.

I went to the podiatrist today. The doctor’s wife/receptionist asked about my VW bug and when I told her it is twenty years old, she said, “Oh, and I remember when you got it!” We decided we are both aging, but I thought it was nice that I’ve had that established relationship with them for that long and that she remembers personal details when I am one of many, many patients. I like them both a lot but dislike their building: the handicap ramp has a really coarse pebbled surface. I got about halfway down, clutching the railing, and suddenly sat in my walker, told Christian I was giving up. He, kind soul, pushed me to the car.

No cooking tonight. We had take-out sandwiches from our favorite sub place. It was sort of nice to realize in the late afternoon that I didn’t have to cook. Mostly I enjoy it but a night off every once in a while is welcome. Now I find I won’t cook for the next two nights either, except for myself, so I may be ready to cook a fine meal come Monday. Tomorrow is a football game, and Sunday the Burtons will go to his sister’s for her birthday

Tonight I’m checking on the whereabouts of my other children. I thought Colin was in Montreal for work, but my “Find Friends” tells me he’s home in Tomball. Megan and Brandon are in Telluride for a music festival, both in awe of a singer (country/western, I presume) that I never heard of. At least I’ve heard of Pearl Jam, though when I saw pictures of the audience bathed in red lights, I was really glad not to be there. Jamie is apparently back in Frisco after a quick, one-day trip to Miami. I always feel a tiny bit better when they are all tucked in where they belong. Shh! Don’t tell them I track them.

And that’s my day of little things. Life is really sweet.

A strange weekend

A spatch-cocked chicken with vegetables
The vegetables cook in chicken grease and are delectable

North Texas was at its absolute best tonight. A lovely evening, with just enough breeze to keep the mosquitoes away and make you forget the temperature was in the high ‘80s. The breeze ruffled the trees, the garden is beginning to grow, the pentas are showing first blooms. Neighbors Greg and Jaimie Smith came for happy hour, and we all forgot about itme—spent two hours having such a good visit.

Greg once was my lawn and garden guru, and he gave me hints tonight—like deadhead the coleus and mow those ornamental grasses that aren’t at all ornamental. We talked of kids and grandkids and college and fear, of schoolrooms (Jaimie is a retired teacher and was consulting in a small-town district this week—a hard week, she said). We talked of aging, though they are almost a generation younger than me, and we talked of dogs and cats because we are all animal lovers. I relish evenings like this. I gave them crab canapes from the freezer.

Usually I cook a lot on weekends, but this has been a strange weekend. The Charles Schwab Invitational PGA tournament is in town at Colonial Country Club—our end of town. Jordan and Christian and Jacob have been there all day for three or four days, so I filled my social calendar with others. Jordan was home Thursday, and on Friday Jean came to eat chicken salad and fresh green beans with me.

I had cooked a terrific sheet pan chicken for the family Thursday night. I am in love with this recipe. I thought I had written about it on my Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog, but tonight I couldn’t find it, so it will be up online Thursday this coming week. But let me just say that I am a huge fan of sweet onion sauteed—in butter, in chicken drippings, in whatever. I’d probably love them cooked in water. Watch for that recipe because it’s too good to miss.

Last night I made chicken salad out of what was left of the spatch-cocked chicken. It was traditional, simple chicken salad—chicken, green onions, celery, salt and pepper, lemon juice, and mayonnaise. Jean enjoyed it, and I have to say it was delicious. I am not a fan of grapes and nuts in chicken salad. And there’s just enough left for me to have some tonight.

I am trying hard to blog about something other than the Uvalde massacre—and that last word fits what it is. That tragedy has occupied my thoughts this past week, and it’s hard for me to think beyond all the things I want to say. I am both grieved and furious, but I figure I can’t wear readers out with that. I know my own anger—at the needless loss of life, the law enforcement failure, the doublespeak of Governor Abbott will not go away soon, nor do I want it to. I want to keep my anger up—and yours—and that of all reasonable people of voting age, because I desperately want the Democratic Party to score a lot of victories in the mid-terms. Conventional wisdom is that Republicans will triumph—in light of the abortion wars and the Uvalde school shooting, it’s time to throw conventional wisdom to the winds.

Meantime, here are a couple of literary diversions. I guess this is still political, but it’s such a delicious story. In a collaboration between author Margaret Atwood and Penguin Randon House publishers, there is now a flameproof copy of The Handmaid’s Tale. A wonderful picture shows Atwood aiming a flame thrower at the book which remains untouched. So much for the rabid book banners and book burners who infest our culture. The Handmaid’s Tale is set in a dystopian future where the seventeenth-century Puritanical restrictions on society pale in comparison. It is where we are headed with abortion bans, likely to be followed by bans on contraception, interracial marriage, trans marriage, etc. All those personal freedoms, gone.

On a somewhat lighter note, although murder is never a lighthearted subject: a romance novelist has been convicted of murdering her husband. The kicker? She wrote a column several years ago on “How to Murder Your Husband.” It’s a case of fiction becoming reality, but in her case, the dry run didn’t work out. Will the wacky world never cease to provide us with bizarre humor?

Peace to all. This is a difficult time, but I am still sure we will get through it, and democracy will triumph.

 

Whining about a pity party and an honest look at myself

Confession: I’ve been feeling sorry for myself because I’ve mostly been home alone for days while my family was at the Fort Worth International PGA Golf Tournament, what we always referred to casually as “the Colonial.”

Several rational thoughts indicate I should not feel sorry for myself. In truth, I got out for supper one night, the grocery store with a good friend another day, and had company last night. If the kids weren’t at the golf tournament, I probably wouldn’t see much more of them than I am right now---just knowing they’re out of pocket makes a psychological difference. I have projects to keep me busy at home—first edits on a manuscript that I’m slowly working through, a book I’m enjoying, blogs to write, all that cooking I did. And, were I offered a chance to go to the tournament, I’d decline in a flash—sun and heat are not my friends, and I’ve never seen much point to golf, though my mother loved it, both of my sons have played at one time or another.

So this morning, I took a long hard look at myself and came to a conclusion. It has to do with aging. Jordan and Christian and my other children are in the midst of life—in their forties, they’re in the midst of careers (and career change for some), an active social life, the joy of children. And I’m on the edges of life.

Don’t get me wrong. My kids, as regular readers of this blog know, are unbelievably good to me. Jordan always goes out of her way to include me in things. For a few summers, they used to have Friday night potluck open house, and I was always invited. Their friends were (and are) my friends; one even said to a stranger who queried my attending these parties, “Are you kidding? She’s the star.” An exaggeration, but it made me feel good. But that was then—they lived about 20 minutes away, and I drove my car out there, could drive myself home whenever. All that has changed.

Maybe, I said to myself, I’m not accepting aging gracefully. But another part of my mind countered with the thought that if you don’t stay in the mid-stream of life, you wither and waste away. I could become a little old lady in a rocking chair—well, I hope not.

There’s got to be a middle ground, and some days I think I’ve found it; others, like this weekend, I indulge in a bit of self-pity. Maybe my mind is just unstable. And maybe I need to shut up and count my blessings, which are many.

Sometimes it’s risky to share moments of honesty with your grown children. You never know what the reaction will be. But this morning, when Jordan came out to say good morning (see what a good girl she is), I told her that I was feeling lonely and I thought maybe I was jealous. She asked for an explanation, and I told her the conclusion I’d reached.

Her response took me by surprise. “But you’ve done all that,” she said. Perhaps she thinks I should live on memories, of which I have many. But that’s not enough. I still want to be in the middle of life. Maybe that’s the eternal dilemma of aging.

Which brings me back to my car. Somehow, I think when I get it, fully repaired, and I am cleared to drive, I can plunge right back into the mainstream of life, even on a walker. May it be true.

Strange Requests, Free Books, and Golf

I go weeks without getting an email from a fan or stranger through my web page, but there must be a spot on the moon because today I got three. One was for help in tracking down a photo permission, and I’ve put out feelers about that. The second though was unusual, or so I thought. I guess this potential reader, a woman, read the blurb for the free Murder at the Blue Plate Café. She wrote, I have one question regarding the series Blue Plate Cafe Mystery. Is Kate really hearing her grandmother or is it all in her head? I'm only asking because I don't read books with any type of paranormal involvement in them. Thank you for your time.”

I wrote back that one never knows what is in an author’s mind, and sometimes the author doesn’t even know. She’d have to answer that question for herself. Her polite answer indicated she had indeed decided—that I meant voices from beyond, a touch of the paranormal. Referring me to a Biblical passage, she said that we all know the dead are dead and cannot communicate and therefore she’d try another of my series. Her view on faith is not mine, but I appreciated her candor and honesty and her willingness to try another series. I wrote and told her I hoped she enjoyed the books she tried, and she replied that she hoped so too.

The third email was an offer to list my free title on ebookdaily, a giveaway site. As of today, 5,652 people have taken me up on my free book offer on Amazon alone—I haven’t checked the other platforms. At the height of the free book craze, that would have been peanuts, but today I think it’s pretty good. Just think if a third of those people like the book well enough to move on through the series, my sales should look pretty good. I’ll probably leave the offer open another week and then shut it down.

I’m a golf orphan, which doesn’t have much effect on my routine except psychological. Jordan and Christian are involved, as spectators, in the annual PGA tournament at Colonial Country Club. I remember when it was just “the tournament” or “the Colonial.” In recent years, it’s had a lot of different sponsors and borne those names. This year, it’s sponsored by local donors and is the Fort Worth Invitational Tournament. It’s one of the highlights of the year for Jordan and Christian—for him, it’s partly work, entertaining clients, etc.; for her, it’s sociability, see and be seen which is always good for her growing clientele of travelers. They really won’t settle down at home again until Sunday night.

I’ve done my best to fill my schedule so I either get out of the cottage or have someone in each day. But there’s something different about knowing they’re beyond reach except in an emergency. I feel a little set adrift, though I’m really not. Glad I have projects to keep me busy.

Ended my day with a delightful dinner with Betty and Jean at the Star Café. Nothing better than savoring their chicken-fried steak with a view of the doings on Exchange Avenue.

The Alamo….and kids

 

Lily B. Clayton fifth graders at the Texas State Capitol

No, I have no idea where Jacob is in that sea of red shirts

What fun for them!

By a kind of cool coincidence two of my grandsons were at the Alamo today. Ford, youngest of the Austin two, was there on a fourth-grade field trip scheduled to be back in Austin by 4:00. Jacob, local grandchild, is on a fifth-grade overnight trip (with his dad as one of the chaperones), scheduled to stop at many places on the way to San Antonio, so I doubt the two boys crossed paths.It was probably later when Jacob got to the Alamo but I hope it wasn’t a rushed stop. Jacob asked if I couldn’t tell Aunt Megan and Ford to hang around a bit until he got there, but I explained they, like him, would be on a school bus. I haven’t yet heard reactions to the iconic Texas history site, but I am more than curious.

Back in the day when I was talking to every and any book-related group that would have me, I had a prepared speech called, “Please, Mom, not the Alamo again.” It had to do with my love of Texas history that was not shared by my middle-school and older kids who were into Star Wars and the like.

Jamie once seriously explained to me how much more money I could be making if I abandoned this Texas history foolishness and wrote about intergalactic space, about which I know nothing and have less interest. I think today they understand, but in their salad days they were really tired of me dragging the to this and that historical site.

Meanwhile, back in Fort Worth it was a lovely day albeit one tending towards hot. A note on Facebook pointed out that our city this weekend is hosting both the Dean and DeLuca (Colonial) National Golf Championship and the Cliburn International Piano Competition. Pretty special city we live in.

It was a good day in my own little corner of the city. I had lunch at Carshon’s Delicatessen with Sharon Corcoran and Priscilla Tate, two friends I hope to get to know better. Sharon had knee surgery in November and understands about walkers and the like, and she is terrific about making sure I’m safe and making things easy for me. I thoroughly enjoyed the conversation—hadn’t seen Priscilla, retired from TCU as I am, in a long time, and we did some catching up. And I got a pickled herring fix.

Tonight, friends Sue and Teddy came for happy hour and were good enough to go into the house, get the Cavaliers, and bring them out to the cottage so I could feed them. Before they left, they took the girls back inside and crated them. We caught up on news of kids, jobs, and other urgent matters. Sue and her children lived next door to me for several years, and we remain close friends. When she brought Teddy around, I adopted him as family right away.

You’d think writing would be a full-time occupation, but at this point in my life I seem to do it between other things. It’s not bad. I am editing a novel, sequel to The Perfect Coed, and found myself really caught up in the story this afternoon. Now that’s a good thing.

My life is good—I hope yours is too.

God compensates

Reality is the leading cause of stress among those who are in touch with it.

—Lily Tomlin

The quote above is something I liked well enough that I wanted to share it. My mom would have liked it. She was fond of such sayings as “The mills of the gods grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly fine,” or “God works in mysterious ways his wonders to accomplish.” The latter is sort of what’s on my mind tonight.

Between Jordan and me, we have a fairly constant stream of visitors to this house, usually at happy hour. Since the discovery of my broken ankle, most of them make a beeline for me to ask, “How do you feel?” My answer is that every part of me feels perfectly fine except for my ankle which hurts like sixty. A month ago I would have cheerfully said I felt fine when I really didn’t, but now I do. I think it’s one of God’s mysterious ways.

As many of you know, I’ve struggled with anxiety, balance problems, fear of falling, even some insecurity. Now that there’s something in my body that actually hurts badly enough to focus all my energy, those neurotic (my term) ailments have all gone away. Sure, there are some logical explanations—I’m on a new anti-anxiety medication, and it works wonderfully, makes me feel like a new person. I’m also on my new bright red walker, and I have no fear of falling. I sleep well and pain free at night, and during the day I sit at my desk and think all is well and I can conquer bear. But when I stand up and walk, I am indeed in touch with the reality of pain. It’s as though God said, not unkindly, “You want something to worry about? Here’s a real something.”

The fracture, as I understand it, is not exactly a hairline but almost. No displacement of bones. If I’ve got it right I sprained the ankle, and the sprain pulled the ligaments apart until the bone broke. That’s why it hurts worse now than it did a few days after I fell. The fracture is at the bottom of the fibula, the lesser bone in the leg, and not weight-bearing.

So tomorrow I go in the morning to have my puffy hand x-rayed (it doesn’t hurt but has an ugly bruise) and to have a bone density test I should have had several years ago. Then I go to be fitted with a walking boot that I will wear night and day for at least four weeks. I hope that will lessen the pain by supporting the ankle better and also begin the healing process.

The Dean DeLuca Golf Tournament is this weekend (nobody in Fort Worth calls it anything but the Colonial) so Jordan and Christian will both be working. I’ll have Jacob at least one night but pretty much I’ll be home alone for four days. I can either mope and have a pity party or I can get a lot of work done. I have invited all the non-golf people I know to stop by for coffee or wine, so I’ll probably have visitors. Life ain’t so bad.