The little red trike

A little fuzzy--they must have been speeding

A picture popped up today on the memories Microsoft or whoever send you that tugged at my heart—it’s Jacob riding the little red trike that was so much a fixture of my grandchildren’s young years, with his cousin Morgan trying to dislodge him. There’s a story behind that trike. It was given to my children when they were very little by my ex’s senior partner, a man I came to rely on and one who always had my back when times got rough. He was probably in his sixties at the time, maybe seventies—he’s been gone a long time—but he told me he had that trike as a child. We figure it's now at least a hundred years old.

It had obviously been repainted with “loving hands” and there was a big hole in the solid rubber front tire. Maddie riding it one day looked down and intoned in a true Texas accent, “There’s a hole in my tire.” It almost sounded like a line from a c/w song. The hole never stopped the action, and for years the trike lived in what was then a playroom in my house. The room was eventually stripped of hobbyhorse and trike and all other childish things and converted to a TV room.

But the trike went to my oldest son and resides somewhere at his house now, waiting for the next generation to fight over it. It brings sentimental tears to my eyes to think of all seven grands, only seven years apart, playing together in my house, always underfoot in the kitchen and fighting over that trike. Good times, good memories.

Nature is showing off for me today. This morning, when I first woke up, the adobe house across my yard was bathed in a rosy glow, and I thought it meant a sunny day. Not so. But the first time I looked out the window by my desk, my eyes landed on two gorgeous blue jays, their colors bright and vivid. They pecked around in the flower bed for a while and then took off—I couldn’t even tell which one was mama and which papa because they were both so colorful. So much for the drab female!

Tonight, the sky to the north was a blend of soft peach and blue-gray, colorful and pretty, but to the west it was a dramatic fiery orange—breathtaking. I tried taking a picture with my phone, but it didn’t capture the colors at all.

Otherwise, President’s Day was pretty much an ordinary day, with lots of catch-up details on my desk. I didn’t cook a lot over the weekend but did make a really good chicken dish last night. Jordan had been out of town for the weekend, so I thought to make a dish with one of her favorite ingredients—cream cheese. Of course, I missed up the order of things and forgot to sauté the onions and garlic before I deglazed the pan with white wine. So I let the wine cook down, added the onions, and swished them around—and they took on the most wonderful deep golden tone, mostly from the browned bits of chicken on the pan. I think I’ll do it that way from now on. Chicken broth, a bit of Dijon, and cream cheese made a creamy rich sauce—really good. Jordan is always on the lookout for dishes that Jacob likes, so she requested I put that one into our rotation. It’s a bit of work, but not too much. And the leftovers were so good today.

I’m excited that I have the cover for Irene Deep in Texas Trouble. Ta da! Watch this space for a cover reveal tomorrow!

Yet another day older

 

 My drawn-out birthday kind of hit its peak yesterday with the arrival of my four children, four of my seven grands (I had all the boys and none of the girls), and a wonderful b’day dinner last night. We had all talked all week about chores, and I had a list of things that needed doing around the cottage—the bulb replaced in the outdoor light, the filters in my a/c cleaned, some computer things. All got done, plus lots of visiting.

Ford, Kegan, Eden, Sawyer, and Jacob

The four boys—all so different in character and interests—enjoy being together, and when I see them trooping in and out of the house, in single file, I am reminded of that classic picture, much imitated, of the Beatles crossing the street. When not out doing whatever boys do once they have a car, they closet themselves in the back TV room at the house and spend but a bare few minutes with adults. Last night they went to a late movie, came home and turned on another movie. Jordan found couch spots for all four, and Colin and Lisa got Jacob’s bed. Here’s a picture of the boys, with their cousin Eden, taken a year ago. They’ve grown in so many ways in that one year, including taller.

My friends Jean and Renee joined us for dinner and were a hit with my four kids, who described them later as “interesting” and “good friends for you.” The menu was what I used to request as a kid: cold turkey (smoked, although I grew up on fresh), marinated vegetables, and potato salad. Poor Jordan labored long and hard over the potato salad Friday night—the first batch she’d ever made—and she nailed it. Her version of County Line potato salad was perfection. I did the vegetables (much easier than potato salad), and Christian got the turkey. For dessert? My favorite has moved from Black Forest Cake to chocolate mousse cake. Rich, but oh so good.

We lingered over cake, just as they all say, “hanging out.” About ten o’clock, I decided it was time for Sophie and me to go to the cottage. I intended to read a bit after I brushed my teeth and got into pjs, but there came Jordan, Megan, and Lisa, wine in hand. So we had a late-night girls’ talk. Lovely way to end a lovely day.

But my determination to count my blessings took a real hit during the night. Sophie does not go out during the night. She may get me up early in the morning, but she hasn’t needed to go out in the middle of the night for some time. I can tell the difference between, “I want to go out and chase squirrels and play,” and “I need to use the restroom now.” At two-thirty, her dance of clicking nails told me it was the latter, and I let her out. She disappeared into the shadows and was gone—for twenty-five minutes. I called and did everything I know except venturing into the dark overgrown strip between our house and the neighbors. Finally, I called Colin—no answer. Then I called Christian, then Jordan, and finally Colin again. He said, “Just a minute,” and hung up. Of course, that’s when Sophie came trotting onto the patio.

But she had to go out again at three-thirty and at four-thirty, so I thought she caught whatever stomach bug Cricket has had. Both times though she came right away after doing her business. And then she slept until I got up at 8:45. She didn’t ask for breakfast, and I didn’t offer it, figuring her stomach needed to settle. She's subdued today, and I'll call the vet first thing in the morning.

Pitiful Sophie

I decided in retrospect that the blessing was that at eighty-four I am fit and able enough to take care of a dog who needs to go out three times in the wee hours. When Sawyer came in this morning, he asked if I felt a year older and I told him, “No difference. And that’s good thing.” And the blessings are my family, my friends, my dog, my work, my health--even if sometimes the latter seems a bit iffy to others.

Have a happy week everyone.

An absolutely nothing day

My first "outrageous cozy."

It didn’t start well, but it started early. By two o’clock this morning, I had been in bed maybe two hours and was sleeping soundly. Sophie woke me, clicking her nails on the wood floor and doing the dance she does when she needs to go outside. As I let her out, I lectured her on coming right back in—but she never does. While I waited, I booted the computer and checked something that had been on my mind. Then I sat in the doorway, hoping she’d come to me.

Instead, Christian appeared. After we both said, “What are you doing up at this hour,” we straightened out that I was up because Sophie was out, and he was up because he heard Sophie’s distinctive bark and thought something was wrong if she was out at two o’clock. Then he looked out the window, saw me at my computer, and thought that was definitely wrong. He brought Soph inside, and we all went back to our beds.

Only Sophie was desperate to go out again at four o’clock, five-twenty, and six-thirty. One time I watched to see if she really had a problem—and she did. She tried hard to throw up. Another time, knowing she gets out and won’t come to me, I put her on her leash and sat in the doorway holding the leash. Of course, she just stood there looking bewildered.

After the six-thirty adventure, we both slept until almost nine. But she is clearly not feeling well. She's turned down both turkey and Velveeta, the things I use to sneak a Benadryl into her. Although she’s not snuffling as much as sometimes, I think it must be her allergies. She’s been eating grass for a couple of days and hasn’t eaten her food. Guess who’s calling the vet in the morning. And meanwhile hoping for a good sleep tonight.

With a late start, I was just a bit “off” all day. Wrote almost a thousand words, but they weren’t my best words, did odds and ends, put on my activist hat in a couple of instances—truth is I can’t tell you exactly what I did with the day.

Jordan came out to have a companionable glass of wine while we watched the evening news. Christian was in Dallas at a get-together of his high school friends, and she was going out to a business dinner. We talked about what Jacob would eat since he would not have the tuna casserole I was fixing for myself. With homemade chicken broth and white wine and topped with crushed potato chips, it was so good I ate too much. As I was cooking, Jacob came in trying for casual and said, “Hey, what are you doing for dinner tonight?” When I said I had already offered to share my tuna, he laughed and shook his head. Pretty soon he was back, asking nicely if he could have my credit card to order a hamburger. He came in a minute ago, handed me the card, and announced he had ordered McDonald’s. I told him he’s a real class act.

The good news is that surgeons were able to align grandson Kegan’s broken leg today, under anesthesia, cast it, and secure it with pins. No surgery necessary—surgery is difficult in a fifteen-year-old because the insertion of a rod would mess with the growth plate. So Kegan is lucky, and we are all relieved. In hospital pictures, he’s got kind of a wry smile but at least it’s a smile.

And last night out of the blue I had a chatty call from my oldest grandchild—Maddie, in Denver. She’s working at an Apple genius bar and preparing for nursing school which she will start in June and which preparation is more complicated than I realized. She called just to say hello and check in. Be still my heart!

So now I’m going to tackle a few more words on that mystery. If they’re not my best words, at least they are something on paper, and I can change, edit, etc. later. I am calling the Irene in Chicago culinary novels “outrageous cozies.” Want to read my thoughts on this sub-genre I may have named if not invented? I talked about it on a guest blog today. Here’s a link: https://saraheglenn.blogspot.com/.../judy-alter...

Sweet dreams, y’all!

Nostalgia all over the place

 

A small blowout

My youngest grandson, Kegan David, broke his leg in a “hard soccer collision” yesterday. It will, we’re told, require surgery, and his soccer season is over—just when it was ending anyway. Kegan is an athlete—lean and tall at fifteen (a birthday in a week), he’s too slight for football but is in demand because he’s a terrific kicker; even when he was tiny for his size, he was asked to play on teams of boys three and four years older than he was; a year or so ago, he decided to take up track as well and was no slouch at the pole vault. This is his second broken bone—if he is to keep up with his father’s early teen record, he has two more to go. At this point, however, he is tied with his Austin cousin, Sawyer, who broke his femur skiing and smashed an elbow doing some kind of trick bike riding. I have suggested that the boys should take up golf or swimming. Actually, Sawyer’s favorite sport is playing his guitar, so he’s less likely to break bones these days.

A much younger Kegan,
but look at that attitude!

But the broken leg made me nostalgic because I began to reflect on how my seven grands have grown—and, in truth, to miss the babies they were. I remember how the two older girls, Maddie and Edie, were always so anxious to nursemaid the little boys. When she was two or three, Edie talked incessantly about “Baby Sawyee.” And Maddie was always ready to play a game, change a diaper, do whatever the little boys wanted—well, almost. Somewhere on my computer are some adorable pictures. It’s true what they say—the time flies. My grands now include one college graduate, one college freshman, two high school rising seniors, a rising junior, and two rising sophomores. How did this happen?

Kegan this year

Then this morning in that banner MSN flashes across my Edge screen there was a feature about a beach-y national park just miles from Chicago. I knew instantly that meant the Indiana dunes. What I didn’t know is that there is now a national park adjacent to the Indiana Dunes State Park. I browsed with longing through pictures of beaches, carved into narrow strips by the encroaching water, and great blowouts—areas where no vegetations holds the sand and the wind has carved out saucer-shaped depressions or hollows, some quite large. Those are the scenes of my summer childhood.

My family had a cottage on a high dune, three long staircases above the beach. Mom used to tell us we were at the very foot of the lake as we watched storms roll in—I loved seeing the lake at its wildest, but for swimming I wanted calm ripples. The back of our cottage sat squarely in the woods, where the outhouse was—scary trip at night. We had no electricity, no running water (a cistern). Mom scalded dishes wit boiling water after she washed them, and our refrigerator was a three-shelf box that was lowered into a deep hole to sit on top of a huge ice block. You knew to always put milk in the bottom shelf where it stayed the coldest. When we finally got bottled gas, we thought we were really uptown.

The blowout pictures took me back to the time Mom made me and a friend hike all the way across a huge blowout, in the hot summer, so we could be dots in her picture—and that’s what we were: little black dots dwarfed by this huge, sandy landscape. And the beach pictures—when I was a kid, there were houses at the first level, kind of the top of the beach, where we got drinking water from a pump (and carried it up all those stairs!). Those houses, including one belonging to a family friend, have all long since washed into the lake. And speaking of drinking water, I will always remember the night we heard a plop—a mouse had fallen into the drinking water. We cried over a whole pail gone to waste, and Mom had to sterilize the pail.

When I was young, the beach was
three times this wide.

Today I was carried back to the past looking at the pictures. They say when you are troubled, you should go, in your mind, to a safe spot. My safe spot is a little knoll on the second level of the dune. Sitting there, with my arm around a wild collie mix female inappropriately named Timmy, I could look to the northeast at evening and see the round orange ball of the sun slowly sinking behind the skyscrapers of Chicago, which look like toothpicks from that distance. It is, for me, a serene spot. Somewhere there is a picture of that. Wish I could find it.

What about you? Is there your version of a comforting dune in your mind?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Believe It Or Not, This Beachy National Park Sits Just Outside Chicago (msn.com)

 

A mad woman in the kitchen … and some grandmotherly memories

 

And a few years later--Kegan, Jacob, Ford, and Morgan at Camp Tomball (my Tomball son's home)                                                                       

This popped  up on my computer today
Sawyer, Jacob, and Ford
Today they are seventeen and fifteen--unbelievable!

I am pretty much a by-the-recipe cook. Oh, sure, sometimes I take liberties with the recipe, adjust it this way and that, but I start with somebody else’s idea as a basic road map. Tonight, though, I flew on my own. (I think I’m mixing images there!).

We had a cut-up rotisserie chicken in the freezer, some egg noodles in the drawer, and a can of cream of chicken soup. Basic and easy. I told Jordan I’d make a chicken casserole, using the basic way I make tuna casserole. I assured her she’d eaten a lot of these as a youngster when I was trying to use up turkey left over from a holiday.

My method is pretty simple. I like egg noodles as the starch, but rice is just fine if you prefer that. Boil a cup of white wine (I used one of those airplane size bottles) with some dried herbs—a wild mix, if you want, of thyme, marjoram, oregano, summer savory, etc. Boil this a few minutes until the herbs turn black. Mix together diced meat—whatever you choose—some vegetables, a can of condensed cream of something soup, and the wine mixture.

Tonight I decided to get wildly creative, so I used a package of frozen, roasted Mexican-style corn Jean had brought me from Trader Joe’s. A digression here—I have found a daily cooking bulletin I really like, called Kitchn. I’m sure you can google it and sign up. They have cleaning hints, which I don’t much care about, but I like their recipes and product suggestions. They apparently have ties to Aldi, which they mention occasionally, and Trader Joe’s, which shows up much more often. So I kept a list of Trader Joe’s products I wanted, and one was this corn. I thought I could use half of it and keep the other half frozen, but not so—it had seasoning cubes and a cheese packet, so you were in for the whole thing. I now have half a packet of frozen corn in an icebox dish in the fridge. The other half went in the casserole.

Since the corn sort of set the tone, I only boiled oregano and black pepper in the wine. But I mixed diced chicken, corn, pre-cooked egg noodles, cream of chicken soup together and poured into a casserole dish. Topped with the cheese packet from the corn (cojita, I presume) and tortilla chips—much better suited than the Ritz crackers I had originally intended to use.

When Christian got here, he asked what was for supper, and I said, “An invented casserole.” But he and Jacob were persistent in wanting to know what was in it. Everybody liked it and had seconds. I also made a cucumber salad, with too much dressing—I saved the leftover dressing to put a fresh cucumber in tomorrow.

All in all, I’d declare my wild flight of fancy a success.

Where is your camel, or lessons from the pandemic

 

My physical therapist and I were discussing how much we are each willing to break quarantine, now that we, like many others, are fully vaccinated. He, more willing to get out and about than I, had been to in-person church at Easter, while I stuck with virtual. His parting words were, “You got to get out more. God’s got you.” A few days later a friend wrote that she agreed with me and ended her message with what I presume is an old Arabic proverb: “Trust God, but tie your camel to a tree.” To me, that says it all. I’ve spent a lot of time tying my camel to trees.

In truth, I tie that camel (okay, I’ll quit with that image) because I’m confused. We are inundated with news of how wonderfully well President Biden’s vaccine roll-out is going—way ahead of the schedule he predicted for his first hundred days. And I am among the first to clap loudest and longest. But that statistic that now one out of five is fully vaccinated? Try putting the word “Only” in front of it: it means that four out of five people are walking around without full protection. Apparently one-third of our population has had one shot—I wonder how many never get that second one.

And I’m assuming we still can’t hug, unless the huggee is also vaccinated. Which calls into question all those newly vaccinated grandparents who are finally hugging grandchildren after a year (call me guilty—I hugged one because she had covid a month earlier and, as she said to me, was “full of antibodies”). Aside from the rare case where a vaccinated person gets sick, if we hug unvaccinated grands, are we putting them in danger? They are almost all, at least in my family, too young to have been vaccinated. I haven’t heard a definitive answer about the vaccinated as carriers of the virus. And how long is the vaccine good? Six months? A year? So much still to be determined.

We get advice from several sources, and I’m never sure what the CDC is saying. Apparently, it’s all right to gather indoors with a small group of vaccinated people but we should avoid large groups in enclosed spaces. Yet domestic travel is safe—but they just ruled out planes, trains, and cars. And we should avoid bars and restaurants that are open to full capacity (hello, Texas!).

The most sensible restaurant advice I’ve heard came from local journalist Bud Kennedy who recommends eating on a patio or in a well-ventilated indoor restaurant where they only seat every other table, staff is masked, and customers are masked except when eating. Of course, that means you either check it out as you walk in the door or call ahead and ask their mask and social distancing policy. And in Fort Worth, and I imagine other cities, patios are a problem because many of them are enclosed with ugly plastic to ward off the winter chill. The result is no moving air and a space without ambiance. I suppose in summer they’ll be enclosed for coolness. I’m on a search for open-air patios with distanced seating. Suggestions welcome.

This morning our minister talked about how emotional many people felt when they worshipped in the sanctuary once again, the first time in 54 Sundays. And I have read posts from many people who cried in relief when they got their second vaccination. It’s like the vaccination wipes away all the tension and frustration of the past year. But as Dr. Fauci cautions, we must not get complacent too soon. There is hope on the horizon, but we have to hold on.

Here comes that camel again. Now where’s the nearest tree?

Blessing the students and other blessings

Jacob and Christian at Baylor, presumably on the stadium

After lollygagging for a couple of days, I got back to work today, which in itself is a small blessing. I blame my inertia on the heat, but the last couple of days I have conscientiously kept the outside doors closed and the a/c on 70, which made the cottage a bit chilly. Today I kicked it up to 72 and am comfortable, though my kids probably prefer the lower setting.

Wrote my summer newsletter today and found I had way more to say than I thought, plus I listed eight pictures to go in it. Waiting to hear from the webmaster who puts it together for me so I can send it off. Last I knew she had lost power, but that was from Hurricane Isiaih, a bit ago. Surely the power is back on.

If you do not get my newsletter and would like to receive it, please email me at j.alter@tcu.edu with your name and email. I promise it doesn’t come often, and I hope it’s interesting. If not, delete, delete, delete.

You know how churches occasionally have “Bless the animals” day? Everyone brings their pet to be blessed---I swear I heard of someone once bringing a skunk. It reminds me of when my children, as infants, were welcomed into the concerned community of the Unitarian Church (what I was doing at that church is a long and separate story). But when Jamie was to be welcomed, at around a year of age, someone brought their dog. The minister never missed a beat. After asking each set of parents, “How do you call your child?” he asked the dog owner, “How do you call your dog?” I forget the dog’s name, which may be the punch line of the story. I can remember clearly how both surprised and amused my brother was.

But I digress. Last night our church had a drive-through “Bless the students” evening to replace the usual school send-off event, now cancelled because of social distancing. I thought it was one more innovative way that the church is reaching out to keep us attached and involved until we can meet as a congregation again. Jordan took Jacob—they were only gone about ten minutes—and he came home with small gifts, including a leather key fob with his name on it. She said the youth minister chatted for a minute and then prayed with them—and she confessed she cried when he prayed about Jacob going to high school. He will be going to virtual school at least at first, as will my Austin sons. The Tomball two and Eden in Frisco will attend classes, so I am praying extra hard for their health. My Tomball daughter-in-law will also be in the classroom so she, too, has my prayers.

Tonight, the Burtons have gone to Baylor for supper—sounds like a long drive for supper, but Christian loves that campus and has passed that love on to Jacob. Jordan assured me the Baylor Club, where they have reservations, has a patio. I said it sounded awful hot to walk around the campus, but she says they’ll drive. When I said that I apparently gave away their surprise, because they hadn’t told Jacob about the outing yet. He perked up happily at the news. Meantime, Jean is coming for happy hour, and I’ll fix myself some leftover beef-and-bean and some squash, because they won’t eat squash. They’ll be home about dark.

Jacob and Jordan at a very empty Baylor Club

PS What I thought was a small zucchini, from my sister-in-law Cindy on the ranch, turned out to be a small cucumber. I had a larger very round squash—I don’t know the name—that I cooked with salt, pepper, panko and grated pecorino. Overcooked it, but it was delicious.

Growing up—and bored—in the time of quarantine

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These pictures were on Facebook, with lots of comments about the difference a year makes, so it seems redundant for me to say that. Except to say Jacob also now has a deep voice—and a new mullet haircut that he really likes. For an only child, he’s been remarkably understanding about the quarantine. We got past “It’s annoying” rather quickly, and now he seems to grasp the importance, and he follows the rules. He and his parents have been playing card games late at night, going for walks and drives, and I truly think this has brought them closer together than if he had gone about the normal business of being a teenager. And I have to add that of the two pictures, I think Christian looks better in the new one—he’s lost a bit of weight, his color is better.

That said, I know nothing else to say about the day. I wondered this morning—and still do wonder—why if you’re self-isolating and self-employed Saturday seems any different than any other day. And yet it does. I woke with no ambition this morning, and it was almost noon before I got myself together to do much except piddle. I did finally buckle down and work on a newsletter to my fans—you know, all three of them—and was overwhelmed by how much work it took to pull it all together. What I have so far, late at night, is the roughest draft I’ve ever seen.

It’s that Puritan work ethic again—I think I should write and accomplish and achieve every day. That I don’t have to do that is a lesson I’m trying to learn from the pandemic. But it nags at me that I did not write word one on the new mystery today. Maybe the Lord or the fates or whoever is telling me I don’t quite have the next plot step in my mind, and I need to think more about it. I confess I do some of my best creative thinking in bed when I’m dozing—half awake, half asleep. The subconscious is a marvel not to be underestimated.

The Burton family is out tonight—dinner on the lawn with friends. Jordan assures me they will all stay six feet apart. So I fixed myself a good solitary supper—beans on toast and spinach. The beans were canned pintos left from the night we had taco salad—I didn’t do them quite right. I should have softened some butter to spread a thick layer on the rye toast. I thought sautéing the beans, with celery, onion, and garlic, would be enough, but that mixture soaked up all the butter and there wasn’t enough to soften the toast. Still the beans were delicious. The spinach—straight out of the can with a little salt and butter—was as good as always. It’s a throwback to my childhood, when my best friend and I waited for my folks to go out to dinner so we could split a can of Spaghetti-O’s and one of spinach.

Once, my parents took us on Dad’s business trip to Kalamazoo, Michigan (yeah, we hit all the high spots). Mom took my friend Eleanor and me to lunch in the hotel cafeteria, but she noticed Eleanor wasn’t eating her spinach. Knowing how much she liked it, Mom asked what was wrong. “I think it’s fresh,” Eleanor whispered.

I look back on those days with fondness. I had a good childhood, but I am not necessarily of the school that thinks kids today should be raised as we were so long ago. It’s a different world, with different opportunities and challenges. The thing I find most encouraging today is that young people, like my grandchildren, are listened to. They have more of a voice in family affairs and in their own lives. I don’t think we are necessarily setting a good example for them, but perhaps they will learn—especially from the pandemic.

But none of my kids or grandkids will eat canned spinach. Oh, well.

Lots of nothing—and maybe a lesson in political reconciliation

That’s the kind of week it’s been. Seems like there’s nothing going on, but really there’s been a lot.

Jacob went off to eighth grade Monday morning without notable enthusiasm for the prospect—he looked cute though. Temperature was forecast to be 102, so he wore his hoodie. Just in  case, I suppose. In Austin, grandsons Sawyer and Ford went back to school—eighth and seventh grades—and in Tomball, Kegan went to seventh and Morgan started her first year in high school. I tried to grab their first-day pictures from Facebook but couldn’t. In Frisco, Eden started her junior year in high school, while Maddie is junior at Colorado in Boulder. They’re growing so fast! I laughed at the friend who confessed she still thinks of Megan as a TCU student—only about twenty-eight years behind, but that friend moved away years ago and until recently didn’t keep in close touch. Nice to have her back in the fold.

School also started at Lily B. Clayton Elementary across the street from us and brought complications—the city has put up No Parking signs in front of our house, effective from 7:00-9:00 in the morning and 2:00-4:00 in the afternoon. For a three-car family, with a skinny 1920s driveway, that’s a real hardship. We also have new Stop signs, though thank goodness they are not in front of us. I don’t see how the No Parking is going to help—it should be down the street where the crossing guard is. An engineer from the city will meet with us “in the field” next week. Perhaps he’ll explain the logic.

Monday was much taken up by Jordan’s bad back and a doctor’s appointment. She has been referred to a specialist but won’t been seen until August 29. When you’re in the kind of pain she is, I’m sure that seems an eternity. There’s not much I can do to help, but I’m trying. Made Frito pie for everyone one night, and helped put together a big salad last night.

Tuesday I managed to get a whole lot done. Finished edits on my ranching history novel, and it has now gone back to the formatter for finishing touches. I’m excited about publishing it in September. And I put together what I think will be a huge issue of the Poohbah, Berkeley neighborhood newsletter. Lots of good stuff about who did what over the summer, back-to-school pictures, and marvelous photographs of the painted churches around Schulenburg plus the usual monthly features. Still tying up loose ends.

My former student, now a chef, came for lunch today and declared I had fixed the perfect light lunch. Always pleases me to get her culinary approval. Recipes will be on my cooking blog, http://www.gourmetonahotplate.blogspot.com, tomorrow. After lunch we had our own mini meeting of Better Angels, the group that tries to bring together people of opposing political views. I asked why she supports trump, and she said the economy is doing well. I fear that my protests that it’s not really healthy at all fell on deaf ears.

But on a lot of issues she agreed with me—the hilarious folly of this kerfuffle over buying Greenland, the unbelievable promise to the NRA’s LaPierre that background checks are off the table despite trump’s words at the times of the shootings in El Paso and Dayton. She’s not sure climate change is real and says there are two sides, doesn’t believe we could lose the earth, while I think it is desperate. We agree that we need health care reform and immigration reform—pre-existing conditions might be a deal-breaker for her, and she says trump is not the kind of person she’d ever sit down and have a beer with.  It astounds me that given that she still thinks he’s the person to run the country. We kept it light, but that is hard for me because I feel so intensely about the earth’s current situation. I did find that she was unaware of several things I mentioned—one of the reasons I keep posting on Facebook. We need an informed voting populace.

I have one other friend that I haven’t seen since trump took office because I can’t bear her support for him. I don’t know if I have the strength for reconciliation there, but today was a lesson for me.

Tonight, a relaxing dinner with Betty at the Tavern.

How much things have changed

A big dose of family, a birthday, and a dog

The Alter en masse

Catching up with UncleMark

We had a glorious family reunion this weekend at my oldest son’s house in Tomball to celebrate his 50^th birthday. Twenty-four of us—my clan of sixteen; the New York Alters which includes Uncle Mark and Aunt Amy, two daughters, and three grandchildren young enough to still care about hunting for Easter eggs; and my children’s half-sister from California. High times as we caught up and repeated family stories, all the while sitting on an arbor-covered patio by a small lake.

Colin’s house is a little bit of heaven—a mid-century modern structure set on two-plus acres tucked away down a bumpy dirt road, with lots of trees, including some fruit-bearing, and either the smallest lake or biggest pond in Texas. The barn is used for storage, and the riding arena for basketball and other non-arena activities (there is a riding stable next door) but both can be re-purposed someday.. I think my favorite spot in the world these days is in a rocker by the lake at twiligh

Fishing was a big thing. Jacob abandoned his cousins (several are all about the same age) to stand alone on the lake’s bank, casting his lure. His California aunt, Dylan, joined him frequently, and he was as excited as anybody when she reeled in the catch of the day—what appeared to be about a four-pound bass. He came running and posed for a picture with her, but he also caught some good-sized ones on his own. Three boy cousins and one girl spent the night on an enclosed trampoline. They’ve tried this two or three times before, and something always chased them inside, but last night they stayed and slept until six in the morning. Yes, Jacob slept part of the way home.

Colin’s wife, Lisa, had done a might work of preparing for this weekend. We were well-fed, with fajitas Friday night and barbecue Saturday night, plus chips, veggies, dips, and the like out all during the day. We dined at three long picnic tables pushed together down by the lake, and the tables were decorated with mason jars holding on spikes pictures from Colin’s life—mostly his childhood. Colin on his Shetland, Charlie Brown; Colin with his cousins; Colin in the North Carolina snow wearing plastic bags on his feet (age two) because he didn’t own boots; an adult Colin just after finishing a half-marathon. For me, each picture brought a twinge of memory—a bit of missing for all the good days gone by, in spite of the wonderful present.

It was also a dog weekend. A stray came up to the patio for the second day in a row. I thought he was a pit bull but wiser heads said he’s an American bulldog. Uncle Mark swore he materialized out of the lake and was an evil spirit. In truth, he was a very young and lonely dog hungry for affection. Colin soon gave up attempts to shoo him away, and Dylan reached out to him until he lost his scared. Our family predicts the Tomball Alters will have a second dog. Jordan named him John Doe, which may or may not get changed to Johnboy or J.D. Colin’s dog, Gracie, was not entirely happy about this intruder.

We are all home now, and the weekend is but a happy memory, but we’ll each treasure that memory. Sophie was ecstatic to see us come home, and for all the fun I had, I was glad to be with her again.

Just realized this post has no picture of the birthday boy, so here he is with his dog, Gracie.

How are your table manners?

Maybe it’s because I’ve been with all my grandkids fairly recently, but table manners are on my mind. We even talked about it in Tomball, and I was pleased that Colin is quick to praise his kids’ manners. Kegan caught me with elbows on the table the first night. In my defense, I had finished eating, but his reprimand started an ongoing thing, and I caught all of them with elbows on the table at one time or another.

I was raised by a father who was a strict disciplinarian when it came to the dinner table. None of this coming home and getting into comfortable clothes for him. He appeared at the table in a white shirt and tie, and my mother usually showered and put on a fresh dress for dinner. We ate on a white linen tablecloth, with linen napkins—and napkins rings so the napkins could be re-used. Napkin rings are now a thing of the past.

Dad was Canadian, and his concept of manners was British. Elbow on the table were a big no, of course, but other things were more difficult. “Do not butter your bread in the air. Put it on your plate to butter it.” Have you tried that? Awkward. The fork was another awkward thing that caused me grief. Most Americans cut food with the knife in the right hand and the fork in the left; then they switch the fork to the right to take a bite (if you’re left-handed none of this applies). Not so Europeans—no switching that fork to the right hand.

My brother, who rebelled against much of our upbringing, really bought the manners thing, and he enforced it with his kids and, at weekly family dinners, with mine. The result is they definitely know what fork to use. And, mostly, they have passed it on to their kids. Still, a couple of things bother me.

One is that excuse, “It’s just family.” Dad preached (he was really a preacher’s kid) that manners were to make other people comfortable dining with you and therefore, you used your best manners with your family, because they are the people that matter most.

Some of the boys in my family want to wear gimme caps to dinner—not at my table. I have a vision of my father writhing in agony at the thought. And cell phones? Dad never had to deal with that, but there’s no doubt what he would have thought.

Grazing is another thing that really bothers me. When I was a kid, we had a snack when we came home from school, but we could not eat after 4:30 because coming to the dinner table and saying, “I’m not hungry—I just ate,” was not tolerated. We dined together as a family—and no TV on.

Today a lot of kids seem to graze constantly, standing before cupboards and refrigerators, surveying the contents, looking for the next thing to eat. I think it’s born out of boredom—makes me want to suggest a good book--and is frankly an unhealthy habit. Even worse is the habit of picking at food out of the pan in the kitchen—my kids know if they’re guilty. When I used to fix Sunday dinner for fifteen to twenty, I always worried about there being enough, and to find people picking away at the food while it was still in the kitchen made me ballistic. Besides, I’m sure it’s not sanitary. Today, we have some who snatch bacon as quickly as it can be fried. Christian often fries the bacon for big family breakfasts, and he considers it a self-defeating task because it gets eaten as fast as he can fry it.

And finally, there’s consideration at the table. We had link sausages for Christmas breakfast and a fuss was made of how much Morgan loves them. But she only took two. When everyone had some, she took one more—but she left several in the bowl in case others wanted seconds. That’s consideration—and it matters most with family.

To me, good table manners are a password to advancement in the world—if you have them and practice them, you can go anywhere; if you don’t practice them, you’re stuck wherever you are. And family is the best place to start.

Okay, rant and lecture over. Thanks for hearing me out. I expect rebuttals from some of my kids. Will keep you posted.

Sugar, not vinegar

My mother was fond of aphorisms, and one of her favorites was, “You catch more flies with a teaspoon of sugar than you do with a cup of vinegar.” I’ve tried to live my life with that in mind, though I admit sometimes I’ve failed abysmally. Still, I think it’s a terrific guiding principle, and I am pleased my children seem to have gotten that message.

One of the things I’ve tried to teach my grandchildren—all seven of them, I’m proud to say—is to eliminate the word “hate” from their vocabularies. It’s a pretty strong, vulgar word, and I don’t see any need for them to say it ever. One smart sophist amongst them asked me if it wasn’t all right to say, “I hate it when my collar is too tight.” He knew full well and good I wanted him to eliminate the word in reference to people—and probably all living beings, even creepy crawlers.

I am disturbed at the level of hate in this country. Perhaps the white supremacists are the most outstanding public example, but I am particularly disturbed by the vitriol on Facebook about the Clintons and the Obamas. There’s also a swelling chorus aimed at 45, though it hasn’t reached choir proportions yet.

One friend posed the question of why, whenever something negative is posted about 45, someone chimes in with an accusation about Hillary or Obama. Why indeed? That has nothing to do with the subject at hand. If you are talking about 45’s behavior or decisions or tweets, accusing Obama of something is totally irrelevant. But such is the level of blind, unthinking hatred.

I shared a classy picture of Michelle Obama with a line that reminded that she is the most educated First Lady ever, with two degrees from Harvard and Princeton. Immediately someone responded, “Why is she so stupid?” Requests from me and several others to explain why the sender though Michelle was stupid went unanswered, leading us to believe the person didn’t really exist or was a troll or a bot (whatever the heck that is). But it all indicates a level of hate that I can’t imagine.

The people who hate—those who claim that Hillary is a criminal and should be locked up, that Obama was the worst president ever and ruined the country, the man who sees 45 as the Lord’s warrior (really?)—have no substance to back up their arguments. They just throw these statements into the mix and then accuse me of being a blind liberal. I have learned the hard way that it is senseless to argue with them, because facts mean nothing in their world. But it worries me that there are many in this country who harbor, even nurture, such emotions.

As for the level of hate on our streets, that too scares me. I remember the fear I knew as a child on the South Side of Chicago, and today I keep thinking how I’d feel if I were a black woman, watching my son, eighteen or twenty-eight, go out the front door at night and wondering if he’d come home alive. Will he be shot by an over-zealous law enforcement officer? Will he be the target of racial violence? As a female and a mother, I can understand fear a lot more than I can hate.

I don’t want to live in a country, a world where hate has such a strong presence, but I have no idea how to combat it. Hate is blind, unreasoning, the last weapon of the underdog. I pray for our country.

Parties and birthdays and oh the fun!

Today is a happy birthday for the oldest of my boy grandchildren—Sawyer Hudgeons (if I could remember all four of his names, I’d use them). My Austin hard-rock kid is thirteen today. Sawyer definitely marches to his own drummer….er, guitar. He’s been going to the Austin School of Rock for at least two years now, and shows real talent both on the guitar and singing, performs easily and happily. Besides that, he’s a happy, sweet boy. I can hardly believe it’s thirteen years since we all rushed to Austin to celebrate his arrival.

And today was Jacob’s belated—adult—party. In truth, Jordan used his birthday as the occasion for her first big party in my house. The house has a happy party record and over the last twenty-five years has been the scene of cocktail parties, baby showers, humongous birthday celebrations, and most of all—tree trimming parties. In recent years, they’ve been strictly no-tree tree-trimming parties, but they were as full of laughter and love and food and wine as ever.

Jordan once again showed herself the mistress of party giving. Tonight was potluck, with some really good contributions. Jordan and Christian provided beer and wine—we’re stocked for months to come—along with meatballs. And a sheet cake. Everyone gathered round to sing happy birthday to Jacob, and I looked at the people—a happy mix of people of all ages. Two of Jordan’s friends who are special to me brought significant others I’d not met before and was glad to meet tonight, though they need to come back when it’s a little quieter and we can visit. One of those longtime friends, David, has been like family since he was fifteen. As he left the cottage tonight he said, “Tell the blog world hello for me.” So there you have his greetings.

Some people drifted out to the cottage, and I had a separate party there but went inside for the cake-cutting. Lots of fun. Now there’s a group on the patio outside my door, and I’ll join them in a few minutes.

A bit of trivia: I wrote Jacob a note and gave it to him this morning--long, funny story but my point here is that he handed me the note and said, "I can't read cursive, Juju." I had to read it to him. I am horrified--and a bit angry--that this child completed fifth grade without reading cursive. I vaguely remember they studied it, maybe third grade, and practiced but apparently not long enough nor hard enough. How will he function in the world? How will he sign a check. Someone pointed out to me that today they don't sign checks. Cursive is irrelevant, but I read somewhere learning cursive fine tunes the brain, just as music does. I'm on the prowl for workbooks with the Palmer method.

And an odd new imaginative exercise: designing niche literature courses. For some reason last night, in that twilight between sleep and full wakefulness, I was designing a lit course around the theme of old men. I decided to start with King Lear and include Tuesdays with Morrie. Didn’t get much further, but the idea has great possibilities. Is it an indication I want to teach again? No way. I love my retirement life and my writing life.

Graduation day

         

   Graduation weekend for some of my grands. Jacob graduated this morning from 5^th grade at Lily B. Clayton Elementary, Eden from Cobb Middle School 8^th grade in Frisco (is she excited about high school? Just a bit!), and Madison graduates from high school in Frisco tomorrow. I’ll be there for that one.

I was sorry to miss ceremonies for Eden and Jacob, Edie because of distance, Jacob because of my mobility problems. Jordan had planned to get me to the school, but I knew it would be horrifically crowded, couldn’t decide which would be best—walker of transport chair, and didn’t want her to have to be worrying about me when she should be rejoicing in her child’s accomplishments. So I sat home, envisioned him walking down the hall, and as I told him last night, sent him telepathic messages.

The end of Jacob’s elementary school experience is particularly nostalgic for me. For five of his six years at the school across the street, I was his “school person.” I gave him a hug when his parents brought him to school in the morning (okay, he outgrew that and didn’t want me to hug him publicly), picked him up from school, and labored through homework with him. I remember third grade as particularly tough. He acknowledged last night that we were a duo for much of his schooling, and I thought we would both cry.

Probably first or second grade

a morning hug

Jacob tells me at some schools fifth graders’ last day is an ordinary day, spent in the classroom without much education, maybe playing on their iPads, but at the end of the day someone wishes them well, and that’s it. Not at Sweet Lily B. Family, faculty, and students “clap” them out, lining the halls and rhythmically clapping as the graduates walk by. It’s a tear jerker, and when we thought I’d go, I was prepared to take an entire box of Kleenex. I get teary just writing about it. I went with friend Sue several years ago when her son Hunter graduated.

lots of sentimental tears at graduation

Then, according to Jacob, there was a ceremony that includes several musical selections and probably a short talk—he was a little vague on those details. “Clap out” is the big deal.

When I was in school long ago and in another place, we went to one school K-8 and then had an 8^th grade ceremony. I remember marching to the auditorium, with its battered wooden seats, to the strains of “Pomp and Circumstance.” At Kenwood Elementary, we had our own lyrics: “Goodbye to you, Kenwood/We will remember you/For you’ve led us onward/To the halls of Fame.” For my mom and me, “Pomp and Circumstance” was forever marred; we couldn’t hear it with the Kenwood lyrics going through our minds.

So to all graduates this weekend, I wish you pomp and circumstance. And, Jacob, I love you a lot, and you should know my summer project is to teach you to read cursive.