It’s always something

 

This pictue of my beautiful boys popped up on my computer today.
Jacob with Scooby, the dog that taught him to love dogs.
Scooby was a sweetheart but wild at the core. 
He has a huge place in my heart still.

Today was one of those days. It began early, though I was blissfully unaware of the confusion in front of the house. A couple of days ago I emailed Jordan and Christian, reminding them the tree trimming guys would be here between eight and nine this morning and please have all cars out of the driveway—except my VW which has been dead for weeks and sits in the drive like a permanent piece of sculpture, albeit bad sculpture. Moving the cars was complicated because we live across from an elementary school that starts classes at eight—so the car moving, school dropoff, and arrival of the really big tree company equipment all collided. Sophie and I slept on.

I had fed Soph about seven and let her out, but I knew she would want to go again after her second breakfast. By then, however, the gates were all open—I learned my lesson about that yesterday. She was really good, and when Jordan came to give her a shot, she walked her on the leash. The rest of the day Sophie was good as gold, and the tree crew closed the gate for me when they went to lunch.

Meanwhile, the temperature was slowly rising. I checked throughout the morning, hoping it would get enough about freezing to defrost my tankless hot water heater. That may have thawed slowly, but the faucet on the deck of the main house thawed rapidly. I’m still not sure I got it right, but Jordan rushed out here about one o’clock and demanded I get on our neighborhood email and ask for someone to come turn off the water at the curb—it was, she said, gushing. I suggested she ask the tree guys who were eating lunch in their trucks. That didn’t please her, but she did—invading their lunch hour, she said—and they got it turned off. She was not exactly calm about the whole thing. Turned out there was something broken—never did find out for sure what—so she called the plumber, who said it would be Friday before they got here. I have to admit I paled at the thought of two days without water, because disregarding all advice, we hadn’t prepared for it. I had a bit of extra water in the teakettle, and I think there’s a gallon jug in my closet. And that’s it.

Action shifted to the spigot on the deck, where we’d had trouble before. A pipe below the deck burst. It dawned on me, not a happy thought, that if they turned water off at the curb, I wouldn’t have it either—somehow I had thought, “Well, that’s their problem. At least I have cold water, and the can use my water.” Fooling myself.

Next I knew neighbor Jay was on the deck with Jordan. They looked and fiddled and talked for a long time—and then went away, leaving me in suspense. Just before I napped, Jordan texted that all was okay for the time being. I tried the hot water faucet, and it had a trickle. I went to sleep,

When I woke, I had hot water! First thing I did was wash my hair. Next thing was to ask about the pipe, and it seems Jay is going to Home Depot tomorrow and will get the needed part. Good neighbors are priceless, and I wish the story ended there, but about six, Jay’s wife texted that she thought we should know that their yard was littered with dead branches and they were throwing them all into our yard. Jay had talked to the crew, and they assured him they would clean it up.

Finally, about 7:30 Jordan and I had a calm supper of crab cakes, salad with my favorite buttermilk dressing, and marinated cucumbers that I made today because I had cukes that needed to be used. A good end to a fretful day.

Tomorrow peace and calm. Fingers crossed. But another cold spell is due in a couple of days. It’s a thing called climate change.

 

A hodgepodge Saturday

 

 

My herb garden, varnished and ready to go.
We have the liner, pebbles for drainage, and dirt, plus
four small plants. I had a vision of winter lettuce, but apparently
there is no such thing. I'll plant seeds in anticipation of
early spring lettuce. 

Bricklayers, I have learned, are quiet—until they are noisy. Yesterday they quietly laid brick all day on the new guesthouse/cabana that neighbors are building, with my blessing, directly behind my cottage. There was one incident at noon when it sounded like they were banging on a kettle drum—I thought maybe they were mixing mortar, but what do I know about what bricklayers do? Otherwise, it was quiet, even though the neighbor warned me there might be construction noise. My one request was: no loud music in the afternoons when I like to sleep.

This morning, being Saturday I was sure they would not work. So wrong. They began hammering and pounding at seven-thirty. What do bricklayers do that requires hammering? Anyway, it’s been fun to watch that wall of green insulation with wires protruding everywhere turn into a smooth brick wall.

These are good neighbors. They came to me for an easement or whatever it’s called before they ever started this project, and they have been careful to keep me informed and be sure I didn’t have any problems with what was going on. Philip Newburn, the architect who designed my cottage, designed this structure too, and he put the windows facing my cottage high up so that they provide light in the new cabana but do not invade my privacy. I call that Texas neighborliness.

I once had a friend who claimed she could be perfectly content watching paint dry. That is so not me, so I had to move on beyond watching them lay brick. Still, it is Saturday, and I fiddled and piddled more than usual, once again drawn into posts about what I am now calling Abbott’s Law—may it go down in history as an example of evil in government.

But I did manage to read the last two chapters of Irene in Danger, checking for typos. And I had fun, as I did yesterday, putting together recipes for the back of the book. So far I have gougères (little cheese-y puff pastries), gibelotte (a rabbit stew—not to worry, I have other suggestions), salade niçoise, Henny’s Mom’s ranch beans, and Henny’s Mom’s potato salad. A nice mix of French and Texas, representative of the food to be served at the wedding of Henny and Patrick—that is, if they ever get to hold that wedding. Wait! Did I just give away a bit of the plot?

Emails kept me involved for a while, especially an exchange with Carol about my updated Handbook of Texas entry on the Waggoner Ranch. Carol is my friend who is an archivist, research librarian, and a walking encyclopedia of Texas history. I was delighted to be able to tell her a few things about the Waggoner family homes that she didn’t know. The Most Land, the Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas launches October 1. I need to be doing more advance publicity and checking on what the publisher is doing.

And tonight, Jean and I had our regular Saturday night supper. We usually choose Saturday because the Burtons have other plans, but it has become a running joke that she finds them at home, their plans having changed or cancelled. Almost happened again today when the pool party they thought they were going to was cancelled. But tonight, they are at the seasoner opener for TCU football. TCU is playing DuQuesne, and Jean and I had to look it up to see where the school is located—Pittsburgh, PA. Jean was guessing East Coast, while I thought Davenport, Iowa. Nine minutes into the first quarter TCU was ahead 7-0; too early to predict much.

On tonight’s menu was blonde puttanesca. Puttanesca is commonly known as the whore’s spaghetti. Usually a red sauce, it has the strong flavors of onion, garlic, anchovies, red pepper, and capers—the ladies of the night made it from what they had on hand. I avoid it because it is too spicy, but I thought this blonde version, with tuna, would be good. It was, but it was a bit fishy—a combination of the anchovy and capers. Lemon cut it a bit, but I probably won’t try it again. Jean happily went home with a serving for her lunch tomorrow.

And I’m ready to spend the evening reading. Sleep well and have happy dreams, my friends.

 

Another cold day—and a tale for Texas secessionists

 

Our house on the second day of snowmageddon

So many are in so much worse condition than I am that I wouldn’t think of complaining. I have power and water—cold, but not hot. But I have devised a dish-washing method—heating water in the electric kettle and using my mixing bowl as a dishpan. Cold rinses are a shock; so is brushing my teeth and washing my hands; a shampoo is out of the question, and I am beginning to feel as bedraggled as I did after six days in the hospital.

My house is cold in the mornings—50 this morning, which was seven degrees better than yesterday. But the space heaters bring it up to the recommended 68. Of course, I turn them off at night. And I worry about Sophie—she won’t sleep on the bed next to me. Last night I found her curled into a cold little ball on the sofa. Tonight, she was cuddled closer to the space heater than I was comfortable with. I had soup tonight—a thick, rich white bean and sausage soup in my freezer, given by a friend some time ago. I thought it was thawed, but when I went to spoon it out, it obviously was not—a big spoonful flew onto the floor. Sophie loved it, and I loved the hot bowl I had.

I’ve never seen rescue measures in Texas like we are seeing tonight—warming shelters, the convention center and several churches open for overnight guests, the Presbyterian Night Shelter flooded (I hope) with donated pbj sandwiches, Jeep owners ready to rescue stranded people. In a crunch like this, the good in people comes out, and it’s really heartening. In my little neighborhood, people are running errands for each other, offering to shovel snow, loaning a desperately need shop vac. They find all kinds of ways to help.

I am angrily amused at the right-wingers who blame Texas troubles on Biden and his green energy plan. Do they read? Do they think? Biden has been in office three weeks, give or take, and no energy bill has been presented, let alone accepted and acted upon. Yet they are sure that he has targeted Texas for special pain. Texas, the state that has proposed legislation to withdraw from the union. In truth, when Governor Abbott, who eschews Federal aid in Medicare, etc., asked for FEMA relief, Biden immediately granted it. He didn’t care that Texas voted red; he did care that people were suffering and in danger of dying. He is a president for all the people, not just those who voted for him.

Speaking of secession, if Texas did, God forbid, act on that legislation, it wouldn’t be the first time. In 1867, during Reconstruction, Van Zandt County in East Texas seceded and drew up a document similar to the Declaration of Independence. General Phil Sheridan sent troops to quell the rebellion, but while Sheridan’s troops marched in orderly file up the road, the men of Van Zandt County hid in the trees and picked off the soldiers with well-aimed shots. The troops retreated, and the Van Zandt County men went into town to celebrate victory with a huge bonfire and more than one jug of whiskey. After a while, the troops came back, quietly surrounded and arrested them. Many of the rebels spent a long, cold winter in a stockade. When spring rains came, the logs of the stockade could easily be pushed apart in the mud, and one by one the men of Van Zandt disappeared into the night. Some never returned to the county; none were prosecuted.

I’m not sure if this is an object lesson for today’s Texans or not, but I can’t resist a bit of blatant self-promotion. One of my early novels was about that war—Luke and the Van Zandt County War. Recently I wrote about spending time at a guest ranch in East Texas—it was in Van Zandt County. Love these odd bits of history.

 

Old friends, good times

I love these ladies! We have been friends for at least forty years, probably more. Three of us are the divorced ex-wives of osteopathic physicians. In one of life’s little ironies, two of those men are deceased, while we party merrily on. The fourth woman is the widow of a physician all of us loved. We have gone our separate ways, sometimes for long periods of time, but then one or two at a time, we come back together again. For the last year or two all four of us have come together for dinner every couple of months. When one of them thanked me for once again organizing a get-together, I repeated what I often say: Friendships are like gardens. You have to tend to them and cultivate them.

We caught up on children and grandchildren. We rejoiced with one who has just had a major surgery and reassured another who faces surgery soon—signs of aging, I guess. We oohed and aahed over one whose son was moving back close to her and lamented other children far away. We talked of people we knew and missed. When one name came up of someone who’d dropped from our radar due to personal and health problems, someone said, “She should know that we still care about her.” Most names brought us happy memories, though there were a few snarky comments about some of the people in our shared past. All in all it was a joyful, happy evening.

We met at Ellerbe’s, where the service and the food are both fine. When they started to seat us on their second level, I suggested as politely as I could that their ramp was a bit steep for my walker. It took a little fiddling, but they found us a table downstairs. Our waiter was charming, took this picture of us, and let us linger over three courses of dinner—I never ever eat an appetizer, an entrée, and a dessert, but I did tonight. Actually I had two appetizers—one when others had their salad and one as an entrée. And  brownie as dessert. Result is that I am almost uncomfortable tonight—too rich, too good. One of those lovely evenings that leaves me happy with my life.

Speaking of tending friendships like gardens, there was gardening going on at our place this morning. Our neighbor had a mountain of mulch dumped in his driveway. After he had, as he said, mulched everything on his property twice, he asked what we wanted. The picture below is the best I

could do through my office window of the neighbor and Jordan mulching the bed under my window, under Jacob’s supervision (sorry about the green lamp in the foreground). Jacob did work harder at other times—I saw him spreading mulch and shoveling it into the wheelbarrow. That stuff smells so good—like the best parts of a barnyard. Far as I can tell, there’s still a mountain of mulch in the driveway next door—and the wife’s car is in the back yard, hemmed in by the mulch. Which I guess is all right because she is staying home with a two-week-old beautiful baby girl.

Menu items that recently struck me: last night on the menu at the Italian place where we dined, chocolate salami was on the menu. And today I saw an ad for kale candy canes—I don’t even like kale in salads, but I love salami. Not chocolate though. Two food adventures I’ll be skipping.

Blessed Sunday ahead, everyone.