The drama of a dropped phone, becoming a writing counselor, and a banned books club

 

And now he's thinking ahead to college?
I can't believe it.

This morning, after I fed Sophie her second breakfast—don’t ask!—I wasn’t ready to get up, so I crawled back in bed for a few minutes. But first I emailed Christian to say Sophie had her food and would be ready for a shot within an hour. When I got up for the third time, I dropped my phone, and it slid under the bed. No big deal! I could see it from my walker, so I got the broom. But each swipe with the broom only moved the thing farther from me. Put the broom up and got my grabber. That also just pushed it farther beyond my reach. I considered moving the bedside stand to see if I could sit at the very top if the mattress and reach it—decided that was not wise. To my credit, I never seriously considered getting down on the floor, crawling under the bedside stand, and grabbing it. Not only would I not be able to get up, I would earn the everlasting wrath of my daughter.

But there I was—no phone, no texting, no way to communicate except email, and I doubted anyone would read their email at 9:30 on Labor Day. Plus the window between Sophie’s breakfast and the time for her shot was running out. And I could not even make it to the house from my cottage alone—three steps up to the deck mean I need help. Although I felt isolated and alone, I told myself I was okay and I could simply give Sophie a snack whenever someone came out.

Fortunately, Christian came just before Sophie’s window closed, gave her a shot, and retrieved my phone. But it’s a lesson learned. The incident made me realize how important my phone is to my independence. Six years ago, post-surgery, a physical therapist warned me to always take my phone with me wherever I went in my cottage. I have pretty much taken those words to heart, especially on middle of the night bathroom trips, but now I am aware to be ever so much more careful of the phone itself.

I have a new calling of sorts—writing counselor. A friend, a highly educated, much published man, has asked me to help him consider what he should do with his rather large body of work, some published, some unpublished, So I’ve been playing pick and hunt, and I’ve come up with some ideas for him. I have no idea if they are workable or what he wants. To me, it’s a heavy responsibility to ask someone, “What do you want from these works,” and have them say, “I don’t know. I want you to tell me.” It’s also a heady feeling to think I have some knowledge that might be useful to someone whose intellect, I suspect, far outweighs mine.

And in that vein, maybe at the other end of the scale, I was talking with seventeen-year-old Jacob today about this personal essay for his college application. We discarded something about the two significant deaths in the family in the last six months—his other grandmother and a family dog—because it might look like an excuse. So we settled on something to do with his devotion to golf and achievements on the varsity team. It was fun to prod and poke and see him come to grips with the subject. When I asked how golf made him a better person, he hemmed, hawed, grinned, and said he didn’t really think it did. But when I pushed a bit, he said yes, golf had taught him focus and discipline. After we talked, I texted him with a couple of other things for him to think about, and I’m waiting to see what he comes up with. I will be happy if I can prod him into a bit of deeper thinking, not an easy thing for a seventeen-year-old. And a bonus: this is the child that spent almost half his young life with me. These days, with school, golf, a girlfriend, and a part-time job, he’s too busy and I almost never see him. I relished these few minutes when I had his full attention (I think).

Finally, a wild idea I had today. I was reading a friend’s post about book banning, and she mentioned that she belonged to a Controversial Book Club. Why, I thought, not organize a Banned Books Club. There are a lot of books on the various banned books lists that I have heard of but not read and others that I simply should read before I rush into battle. I have no idea of the mechanics of such a venture, but I envision something online and maybe just a book a month. But it occurs to me we are better prepared to battle the ignorance and narrow minds behind censored books if we have some knowledge of the books. A lot of us have read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer or To Kill a Mockingbird, but how many of us have read Gender Queer, one of the most frequently banned books and yet one that could help teens with gender uncertainty. Just a thought, but I’ll be interested in opinions.

And now, holiday weekend over, it’s back to work tomorrow. As someone said, Labor Day brings with it a sense of settling back into the year and getting to work. Happy days, all!

 

An interrupted blog

Superman became a senior in high school today..

This is the blog I was writing last night when news about the Georgia indictments broke, and of course then I was glued to the TV. The blog isn’t anything that meaningful—it won’t make you day or improve your life. Mostly, it’s just a chance for me to show off how adorable my grandson was at three and whine about my awful computer problem yesterday morning, with a grateful nod to my son, Colin for this patience with me. But what happened in Georgia may change all our lives. It may, probably will lead to difficult days, perhaps even the oft-threatened violence, but I am convinced we will come out better on the other side, and that the tensions and divisions that have beleaguered our nation since 2016 will begin to heal. I think as a country, a democracy, we had no choice but to prosecute our former president and his colleagues to the full extent of the law. And as Fani Willis emphasized, they are presumed innocent by the courts, something that they would deny others. Today is a day to be proud of America.

Hard for me to believe that the kid who ran around my kitchen in a Superman cape is now a senior in high school, but he is, all concerned with which class he should drop and which class he should sign up for. Wish I understood the process—if he didn’t want the class and didn’t need it for credits, how did he get signed up in the first place? He regaled us at supper with tales of the first day, and it sounded as expected—pretty much chaos.

Jacob headed out.

I put out a call on our neighborhood email list for back-to-school pictures of neighborhood children for the next issue of the newsletter, which as you may know I edit. I have been inundated with pictures—which is a good thing. Mostly I get pictures of elementary school children, but I have a few middle and high school. I know, however, there are a lot more high school students in our neighborhood. Perhaps, like Jacob, they don’t want their pictures published. Jacob will be chagrined to be the oldest one in the next newsletter—shh! Don’t tell him. I never intended to tell him about the Superman picture, but his mom couldn’t resist.

I was the one who needed to go back to school today. I had just barely begun work at my computer, when the cursor froze—and then disappeared. Totally. Gone. In a panic, I called my Colin. He spent an hour and a half on the phone with me, saying scroll here with the number key, hit this key, tab there. Do you have any idea how hard it is to naviage a computer without a cursor. Poor Colin was supposed to be preparing for two business phone calls this afternoon and instead he was helping his idiot mother. There would be gaps in our conversation, silences so long that I sometimes asked if he was still there. Other times I could hear the clack of his keyboard as he searched for a solution, I presume. I finally suggested we give it up, he prepare for and take his afternoon phone calls, and we’d reconnect in the evening.

He agreed but emailed a few minutes later with one more instruction. I tried it and eureka! The cursor reappeared. I cannot tell you how devastated I was at the prospect of a day without a computer. Call it an unhealthy addiction if you will, but I had no idea what I’d do all day—even the book I am reading is on my computer. By the by, airplane mode was the culprit and turning it off for half an hour or more part of the solution. Just turning it off and on again apparently doesn’t work. I have always said computers, like people, need time to collect themselves after a crisis.

North Texas is basking in a cool front. Tonight at ten o’clock, when it has been in the upper nineties most evenings, it is eighty-five—and a low of the mid-seventies is predicted. It’s not supposed to last long—a couple of days—and it apparently brings none of the rain we so badly need. But this brief cool front, like the indictments, is so welcome.

Have a great day everyone. Be proud that we live in America.

Father’s Day thoughts

 

Jacob, right, with longtime friend Colin
Hosts at Joe T.'s

Across the country today, Americans celebrated Father’s Day. Regardless of what you think of the commercialization of parenthood (think of Mother’s Day which is Father’s Day on steroids), this is traditionally a day to celebrate all things masculine, mostly with food: steak, potatoes, and the grill. Not if you’re a Burton though: like many holidays throughout the year, Father’s Day calls for dinner at Joe T. Garcia’s.

For those not from Fort Worth, the restaurant is commonly called Joe T.’s and is Fort Worth’s classic Mexican restaurant, the place where every celebrity that comes to town dines. Joe and Jessie Garcia began the business in 1935 with sixteen tables. Over the years it has grown, expanding on the original small space until today sprawling patios lush with plants and several dining areas can seat over a thousand. But the menu remains the same. It also remains very much a family business.

Signs were evident though that the children the Burton men are growing up. We went for lunch rather than dinner because Jacob’s host shift at Joe T.’s began at two-thirty and his cousin, Ariceli, had to be back in Denton at seven to work in an ice cream parlor. Times, they are a-changing.

Some sixteen years ago Christian waited tables at Joe T.’s. Since then, he and Jordan have been back often, hosted events there, and generally kept in touch. So for Jacob to go to work there this week was like following a family tradition. (Besides, all four of my children worked in food service when they were in school.) Going to Joe T.’s with Jordan and Christian makes you feel you are in the company of celebrities—the management staff, wait staff, lots of people come hug them, chat about what’s going on, and this time, to tease and fuss over Jacob who bore it all with extremely good grace. Christian sometimes seems to still work there, popping up to get a napkin or look at Jacob’s schedule or some such.

The occasion called for me to push my mobility limits and ultimately gave me cause to brag. We took my transport chair and Jordan pushed me up the long ramp to the patio only to find because of the heat we were seated inside. This meant, with Christian’s help, I walked up three steps, across an entry way, up another step, and then down three steps. Between the up and down I got parked out of the way of traffic and found myself next to a table where someone was finishing a meal. The woman seated there looked at me and said, “You can do this.” I joked about something, but I want to thank her for giving me a boost in confidence. After I got down the stairs, I turned to give her a thumbs up and she returned the sign. Finally we were at the table. Fortunately, we went out through the original restaurant, now a tiny reception area, where Christian could push me right down a ramp—no stairs to conquer. I was uncertain about his joke that if he let go I would go sailing right down. Not a funny thought!

At Joe T.’s at night, the menus is limited: you get fajitas (either chicken or beef) or “the dinner” which consists of mini tacos, enchiladas, beans, rice, guacamole, and tortillas—always too much for me. But at lunch there’s a wider choice—I was torn between bean chalupas and tortilla soup, which Christian pointed out were two very different items. I went with two chalupas—full but not uncomfortably so. And wine, while others were having the world-famous margaritas.

Lunch at Joe T.’s for me is subtitled, “How to kill an entire day.” This morning I did about a half hour real work on the memoir I’m struggling with—taking notes from blogs during the appropriate time period. Then I “went” to church on the computer—Christian and Jacob went in person and though I searched the computer screen, I didn’t see them.

There was a moving baby dedication for Father’s Day—two gay men presented the daughter they have adopted, an Asian girl who looked to be maybe three months. She was alert and curious, and as the minister said, loving being the center of attention. Her two dads stood in front of the congregation beaming. Really proud of my church, proud to be a member of an inclusive congregation.

We went to Joe T.’s at 1:30, got home after 3:30, and I ran, not walked, to take a nap. Day drinking may have been okay in my past, but it does me in now. I dozed from about four until five-fifteen when Sophie asked very politely for her dinner. Couldn’t resist—I went back to bed and next thing I knew it was six-fifteen and Megan was on the phone.

So now the dilemma after a Joe T.’s lunch: I’m full but a bit hungry, I want to eat but I don’t know what I want to eat.

Hope all who celebrated had a good Father’s Day. We can always grill something another time.

A big, busy day

The Jim Clark exhibit at Trinity Terrace

Last fall the audiologist I saw and I agreed—it was time for new hearing aids. And not the ones newly available over the counter. But life interfered—and her duties in the speech and hearing clinic at TCU. This spring I began to inquire again, and she assured me she had them, would schedule me as soon as she could. Then volunteer clinical work to her to—wait for it!—Kathmandu. Today, we f finally connected in her office, and tonight I have new hearing aids.

Getting new aids at TCU’s Miller Speech and Hearing Clinic is not just a matter of walking in and picking them up. First, Tracy Burger tested my hearing. I dread these tests almost but not quite as much as I do vision tests: I have to repeat two-syllable words after her (she is off in another room reading them into a speaker which alternately gets higher and then lower) and then she plays a series of beeps, different pitches and levels of sound, and I have to raise my hand whenever I hear a beep. I admit my mind wanders, and I may have missed a beep or two. But the verdict was I have lost a bit of hearing in my right ear but gained some in my left. I hope it all balances out.

Tracy told me to keep my old aids as back-up which meant she had to upgrade them and then configure the new ones to match my hearing needs. All this took time, and I was afraid my chauffeur—one Jacob Burton—would get impatient, but he didn’t. And he turned out to be a great iPhone consultant. Tracy hs a android phone, and I am just not smart about iPhones, despite the fact that I’ve had one for several years, so once the new aids were paired to the phone, he was most helpful in settings, disabling the old ones, etc.

I think I’m hearing better, though I had a hard time hearing my brother on the phone tonight, and he had a hard time hearing me. The acid test will come when I next see friend Phil who is soft spoken and loses patience with me when I can’t hear him. Lately every time I see him, he demands, “Have you got  your new hearing aids yet?” So now, the answer is yes, I do.

Jacob and I went from there to the grocery store. He asked if he couldn’t just run in and I said no, because I did not want to be left sitting in the car in that parking lot. I know of two women who were mugged there! The other reason—and I was fairly open about this—is that I don’t think he knows enough about grocery shopping to choose the right brands. Turned out it was an cooperative venture for both of us—he reached items for me that I couldn’t, and I think I taught him about about brands and packaging and prices. Bonus was that I whizzed around the store on one of their handicap carts and never hit a thing! Last time the two of us went together I took down three dumps—I blamed it on the store for crowding their aisles. This time the aisles were mostly clear. I think I figured out why Jacob wanted to leave me in the car.

It's an unusual day for me to be out of the cottage and away from my desk—and my dog—for four hours as I was this morning. But the day wasn’t over: tonight Jordan, Christian, and I had dinner at Trinity Terrace with Jean. We went to see the display of some of the work of her late husband, Jim Clark, a folk artist of enormous talent. His work, ranging from wood to silver to clay, is on display in showcases in the lobby. Looking at it again, I was impressed by the variety of media—and by his unlimited imagination. Someone asked me the other day if he was a free spirit, and I had to say, “Ah…no.” He was a Air Force pilot and an engineer, with an engineer’s mind for precision and order. Yet there was this tremendously whimsical side of him that created everything from articulated wooden pull toys to weather vanes and a wonderful bench that seems to have people already seated on it.

After viewing the exhibit, we had dinner in the Blue Spire on the thirteenth floor. As always, the four of us had lots to talk about, from taxes and real estate to churches. And dinner was delicious—who can go wrong with lamb lollipops, a Caesar salad, and an enormous baked potato. And the view is so lovely. A thoroughly pleasant evening. And I’m exhausted.

Milestone day for the Burtons

 

Tonight, as I write, Jacob is at his first prom—the Nolan High School Junior/Senior prom. He and two friends left for Keller (a northern suburb) at 3:30, which I found astounding. I had thought they were leaving at 5:30, so about four I reminded Christian pictures would be nice, but I’d like a quick, in-person glimpse. He replied that I was already too late—they left while I was napping. Doubt I can get Jacob to model the tux again, so I will settle for the pictures.

But I guess there was picture taking in Keller, followed by a dinner, followed by the prom which was somewhere in Keller rather than at the school in East Fort Worth. Then there was to be an after-party back in Fort Worth, not far from here. Big excitement, several trips to the tux rental store, etc. I asked his parents and finally Jacob about the girl who invited him and was rewarded with “She’s a girl I know.” Glad it’s not a stranger! The only other comment he offered was, “I’m really excited about it.” I’m anxious to hear a

report tomorrow, though I don’t know that he’ll be any more loquacious.

By serendipity I was reading some old blogs tonight and of course Jacob was prominent in many of them—the New Year’s Eves we shared, dinners that were memorable and/or disasters, storms we weathered. In one, I came across this picture of him ready for his first Cotillion. If he ever sees I’ve posted it, he will undoubtedly not be pleased. It’s easier for me to accept that my other grands have grown and changed, because I didn’t see as much of them when they were younger. Jacob I saw every day, so the change was gradual but when I contrast today with six, seven or eight years ago, it’s pretty dramatic—and calls up a bit of nostalgia.

Otherwise, it’s been a quiet day—I wrote a book review of All Stirred Up, by Brianne Moore, a culinary novel set in Edinburgh and involving a tangled romantic relationship but much more—Edinburgh daily life, the high-end restaurant scene, and lots of food. A really good read. I answered emails, sent some out, corresponded with an editor—nothing remarkable.

Tonight, I was planning to have a leftover salmon burger for supper, having already had one for lunch. Then I decided I really had a taste for barbecue, but Jordan and Christian were going out. So then I decided I wanted spinach and scrambled eggs—in the interest of efficiency, I tried to bake them together. An awful experiment. One of my worst—and I’d put so much good butter into it. My dinner, after a few bites of that, was cheese toast and salted caramels.

My new word for the day: frumious. It means very angry and when I saw it online it was used in the context of someone who is always frumious. Comes, not unexpectedly, from Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky.” I can’t wait to ask someone, “Why are you always so frumious?”

Happy Saturday night. I’m off to read Mastering the Art of French Murder.

A dog, a cat, and a grandson

 

Sophie on the mend.
She looks pretty raggedy, poor sweet baby.

Update on Sophie: as of this morning, her pancreatic enzymes are down though not yet normal. She is better but still has a long way to go, and truthfully, she looked pretty pitiful and sad when I visited her this afternoon. I think partly she just doesn’t feel good but partly she wants to be home—she headed for the door several times. The tech said she is a good patient, sweet and docile during baths (she had three today because of a pee problem). I did tell Sophie she had a whole internet army praying for her. I am so grateful for all the prayers, concern, and care you have sent. Christian said, “Having a sick pet is like having a sick child,” and he’s so right. Sophie’s health problems have turned my life topsy-turvy.

The diagnosis is pancreatitis, and the vet is guardedly optimistic. If I got what he said right, dogs recover from pancreatitis better than people do. There is a strong possibility she is also diabetic and may have to be on insulin—we’ll cross that bridge when and if we come to it. Meantime, Soph is to stay at the vet’s clinic until Friday. As I told her today, “Only two more sleeps.”

I guess I’m pet minded today, but I discover treasures when Windows or Microsoft or whoever pops up my memories daily. Today those invisible forces sent a picture of Wynona Judley, the only cat I have ever loved. Wywy was a stray kitten on a Minnesota country road when Jamie found her—don’t ask, he was in college, selling encyclopedias door to door. He carried Wywy around in his truck all summer and brought her home—at least we assumed it was a she until the vet corrected us. Sometime during Wywy’s reign at our house, Jamie moved out, married, and moved on. I insisted on keeping the cat and had him until he was nineteen years old and had to be put down for his own sake. He was gentle, sweet in nature, beautiful, and a true gentleman. We think he had a bit of Maine Coon in him, because of his size, coat, and disposition. I might have another cat if I could be sure it would be like Wywy.

But today the vet told me Sophie does not like cats. One wandered close to her cage at the clinic, and she went ballistic. I don’t think she’s ever been around a cat that I know of. And I’ve had her since she was eight weeks old.

Kegan chatting with George Mitchell

My grandchildren are pretty cute too. The Tomball Alters spent a day in a nature reserve in The Woodlands (Houston suburb, a planned community, for those of you outside Texas). Along the way they came to a statue of George Mitchell, and Kegan, my youngest grand at fifteen, decided to have a chat with him. Kegan’s mom sent me the picture. Immediately I had to find out who George Mitchell was, so I went online. The first entry by that name was a two-time senator from the State of Maine who held several other government positions. Didn’t seem likely there would be a statue in Texas. But then I came across a George P. Mitchell, who had much to do with improving fracking (as an opponent of fracking, I’m not a lot impressed by that). But he was also apparently the force behind the development of The Woodlands. He had ten children, so the children on the bench with him are some of those ten. Kegan hasn’t yet commented on what they talked about.

We’re done with turkey! Oh, there’s enough in the freezer for soup, including the broth that Christian made from the carcass. Jordan is put off by the idea of cooking a carcass, so the soup will wait until late January when she travels. I’ll fix it for Christian, Jacob and me. (Not sure where she thinks the meat comes from if not the carcass, but I won’t pursue that!). Much as I love the traditional turkey holiday dinner, I am glad to move on. Last night we had a pork tenderloin that I was only medium happy with—if I could find a recipe I really liked, I’d be a happy camper. It just doesn’t have enough fat to make gravy, and yet I find sliced tenderloin dry and a bit bland.

Tonight we had sockeye salmon—the deeper orange color is a real contrast to Coho or King salmon, but then so is the price. So we had sockeye, with an herb topping, which I didn’t think was much, but Jordan and Christian raved about. Central Market didn’t have watercress which I think is the basis of a good herb sauce, so this one had too much basil. I made a cucumber salad but discovered one cucumber made a skimpy salad, so we added halved cherry tomatoes and artichoke hearts, with a yogurt/lemon dressing. That was really good!

My fixation now is on caviar—but more about that in tomorrow’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate column.

Again, my deepest thanks to all who have expressed concern for my Sophiedog!

Justice, computers, cozy mysteries, and sloppy Joe

 

Sloppy Joe

Count me among the many who rejoice today that we now have Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson (why can I not get beyond wanting to spell it Kenanjti?). When Biden first announced, way back before the South Carolina primary which gave him such a boost, that he would appoint a Black woman, I cringed—not because I didn’t think there was a qualified Black woman but because I thought he had boxed himself into a corner where he could have been accused of a kind of reverse racism—not considering qualified Anglo candidates. That is not, of course, what opponents overtly objected to, though it may well have been the underlying thought. On the surface it was that she was too progressive, too lenient on pornography, too this, too that. They tried to trick her with everything from “Do you attend church?” to “Can you define a woman?” They were rude and insolent and demeaning.

Through it all Judge/now Justice Jackson was cool, calm, and clever. She never fell into the verbal traps. Her answers were intelligent, straightforward, and respectful. I have seen a chart that indicates she brings more professional credentials to the nation’s highest court than any of those now sitting.

She shifts a balance—white men will now be in the majority, and she will be one of four women sitting on the Supreme Court. Conventional wisdom is she will not be able to do much in the face of the “originalists” who dominate, but I somehow have faith in this woman. I think she will have a major impact. And I rejoice, not because she’s Black, not even because she’s a woman, but because she’s highly qualified, which is a pleasant change from the last three appointees. No, I’m not afraid to name them: Gorsuch, Kavanaugh, and Bartlett. A packed court, but Justice Jackson may make some cracks in that originalist wall.

I realized today, with a gulp, that she is the same age as my oldest daughter, coincidentally a lawyer.

Yet another computer problem day. This afternoon for several hours, I could not establish a Wi-Fi connection. I am trying to determine whether it’s just our property, just me, or a neighborhood problem. But when I don’t have Wi-Fi there’s not much I can do—not even save Word files, nor print. Just read a book, as long as I have one downloaded. No Facebook, no email, none of that. It’s a huge frustration. I can get most of that on my phone, but I don’t like the small screen or keyboard. If I get desperate, I boot up my iPad but I don’t keep it charged.

Not quite ready to broadcast it about, but the last couple of evenings, I’ve been exploring posting to Pinterest. I think when I gave it up several years ago, I was simply a consumer and not using it to market my own books. I was using it like Jordan who searches it for recipes. Besides, when it was new and wildly popular, I created boards like a madwoman with no sense of organization, so now I am working on eliminating irrelevant boards and organizing posts. But I did get a board up for Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries. And I did write more yesterday and today, so I’m creeping toward the conclusion of the third mystery in that series.

On a mystery listserv, we’ve been discussing cozy mysteries. One point that came up was whether it is a convention of the genre to have justice served in the end. I always remember Texas novelist Elmer Kelton who said life is not tied up in pretty packages with a bow and plots should not be either. But many see that as a criterion of the genre. I think a lot about that as I work toward the end of Finding Florence.

Ona lighter note, Jacob and I were alone for dinner tonight. Days ago he rejected my idea of sloppy Joe, but I’d been waiting for a chance to cook my own special recipe (posted on Gourmet on a Hot Plate last October) and I was not to be deterred. Tonight, when push came to shove, he was hungry and asked for a sandwich. His verdict was, “Pretty good.” I asked if I can now put it back in the menu rotation and he said yes. It was awfully good—if I hadn’t burned my bun. I was more careful with his. For those who are interested, Sloppy Joe is thought to have begun in the 1930s as a "loose meat" sandwich in Iowa served by a cook named Joe. References to it began to appear in print in the 1940s. You can still get loose meat sandwiches at restaurants in the Maid-Rite chain.

 Burtons will be out for dinner again tomorrow, and I know Jacob won’t like my plan: an old-fashioned, seven-layer salad. Now that’s what I call good eating!

Another family day

 

Jacob and his mom

Totally out of my routine today—no church, no work, no cooking. Usually, the weekend finds me deep in a new recipe to try for an unsuspecting guest. Not so today, and, truly, it was nice to take a break.

After a leisurely cup of tea and a scroll through emails, my daughters both came out with coffee cups. We visited for a while, they picked out “go to brunch” clothes for me (sure way to forestall wardrobe criticisms), and we finished planting herbs in the raised garden—mostly

Gardening with Megan

I shook them out of their little containers, and Megan dug the holes for them But it looked pretty good when we were through. Jordan supervised. She will get the chore of keeping them watered.

Poor Meg. When she’s here, she’s kind of torn between being in the house with her sister or in the cottage with me, but she does an admirable job of balancing, so I had her company for much of the morning. But by noon we were dressed and ready to go to brunch. Jacob even went with us, which was a treat. We went to Pacific Table, sat in that way-back, hidden table they have.

Christian, who is careful about what he eats, finally confessed that he had tried an artichoke and liked it, after years of scorning them. So nothing would do but we had the charred artichokes! So good but so greasy and messy to eat. At one point, Christian seemed puzzled about what to do about the heart, so Jordan reached over to cut it for him. I couldn’t resist taking a picture. I’m in a rut at Pacific Table and had the Caesar again, though this time with scallops instead of oysters. Megan and Jordan had sea bass, and Jacob had sushi and French fries—an odd combination to me. Christian stuck to his hamburger.

Christian's artichoke

After brunch/lunch we split—the girls to Trader Joe’s and who know where else, Jacob and Christian to shop for jeans for Jacob, and me to spend some computer time and then nap.

But today was a big deal (shh! Don’t say I put it that way) in the Burton family. Jacob had been invited to a Canwick dance by a girl he went through grade school with—Canwick is a girls’ dance/social club. I don’t remember as much about it as I do Cotillion, which I think my kids attended. Anyway, since this was a girl-invite-boy affair I asked if it was Daisy Mae and Jacob said blankly, “I don’t know what that is.” Of course, I got Lil Abner mixed up—I meant a Sadie Hawkins dance. Jacob still wouldn’t have known. Anyway, it was apparently as big a deal in other households as well because an army of boys and girls gathered on the lawn of Colonial Country Club for a photo shoot. Of course, Jordan, Christian, and Megan had to be there to watch and take photos. Then the kids were off to dinner and the dance.

Jacob and his buddies
ready to dance
my, how times have changed

The weary adults in my family went to get take-out at Joe T.’s and brought it home. By the time they got here—after 7:00 p.m.—everyone was tired. We sort of sat around looking at each other, until I was reminded of that old joke, “Must be twenty minutes after.” (Did I just give my age away?)

Now it’s nine, and they’ve all gone to bed, except Jordan who will sit up and wait for Jacob to come home. The first, I’m sure, of many such nights. I remember them well. I laughed to myself because tonight it seemed such a big deal that the boy-child had a date with a  girl, but in a year it will be routine. And gradually he’ll be out later, and eventually Jordan will stop waiting up, though if she’s like me, she'll never sleep soundly until he comes in.

And so another week begins, for me a busy one with something planned every evening. All good stuff. And work to do during the day. Life is good. I hope for you too.

The inevitability of birthdays

 

Birthday happy hour at the cottage
left to right, me, Pru, Victor, and Jordan
Photo by Mary Dulle
I thought I was off-camera, hence no big smile.

You know that old quip about growing older being better than the alternative? That’s kind of how I feel tonight. Friends and family seem determined to mark that I am about to begin yet another journey around the sun, and I am having a long, drawn-out birthday. A pre-celebration weekend at the lake was followed by a neighbors’ happy hour tonight where I was feted (love that word!) with a bountiful charcuterie, plenty of wine, crème brulee, and lots of good discussion. “The girls” as we call them turned our regular happy hour into a truly festive occasion—and Pru’s husband, Victor, joined us so we weren’t all gossipy girls.

This happy hour has a history. Several years ago—I’d say six, seven or eight—Mary Dulle and I used to go on Tuesday night to join several neighbors at the Old Neighborhood Grill. Mary’s husband played—and still does—tennis on Tuesdays. When Jacob was quite young, he joined us, and I have funny stories from those times: like the time I asked if he wanted fries with his grilled cheese and he said yes. But later when I asked if he was going to eat them, he said, “No, they’re bad for you.” Pause. “May I have a cupcake?” He was quite the hit of the table.

There was a regular group—the Alan Barrs, the Paul Harrals, Lyn Willis, and sometimes others drifted by. Of course, at the Grill, you always saw other neighbors you knew, and I was pleased that Tuesday was always meatloaf night. The staff knew and welcomed us, and we all visited. One big neighborhood family.

Somehow it fell apart—I’m not sure of the chronology. With severe hip pain, pre-surgery, it was increasingly difficult for me to get out; Peter sold the Grill; Jacob grew up. Mary and I fell into the habit of having happy hour at my cottage, either inside or, depending on the weather, on the patio. Two or three years ago (who keeps track of these things?), Prudence and her family moved down the block from Mary. There was some unpleasant controversy over a fence, zoning regulations, and flaring tempers. I reached out to Prudence to squelch the unpleasantness and welcome her and her family—four children—to the neighborhood. She came to happy hour one night, and boom! She was a regular. And Jordan began to join us.

Now we are a close-knit group, sharing joys, successes, worries, and more. During pandemic, the others shopped for each other—whoever found Lysol shared it with the group. We celebrate birthdays and other special occasions, but most Tuesday nights we just gather for an hour of talk about whatever. I like it best when we can sit on the patio, and truth be told, it’s cool enough these days, but some of the others are more sensitive—or attractive—to mosquitoes than I am. So tonight, we were indoors.

I am blessed and grateful to have these women as friends who care enough to celebrate with me.

And a good day in other ways: Jacob played in a high school golf tournament today and scored a 77. Pretty darn good for a fifteen-year-old, if you ask me who knows nothing about golf. But even he, who is reluctant to ever say he had a good day on the course, acknowledged it was pretty good and looked pleased when we congratulated him.

And I worked hard this morning and early afternoon, getting my neighborhood newsletter almost done—now waiting on articles and reports from others—and got my Lone Star Literary Life column for August drafted. A lot of detail, intensified by several people who called with last-minute changes or corrections to their contributions. Answering emails kept me busy much of the day. Tomorrow will be a catch-up day as I finish details on the newsletter and edit the column. Plus a bit of cooking.

Life is good, and I am grateful to be growing yet another year older, because, yes, it is much better than the alternative. For the record, the birthday is Thursday, and I will be 83. I am so comforted by Wally Funk who rode Jeff Bezos’ rocket into space today—she’s 82. Of course, she had a lifelong ambition to travel to space, something that is the farthest thing from my mind. Different strokes for different folks.

I went to church in my nightshirt

 

We’ve been going to church in pajamas and whatever since quarantine began, so it’s not that unusual, but I decided early this morning my clothes would set the tone for the day. I’d had lots of excitement with Colin and his family here Friday night and part of yesterday, and today the Burtons were driving to East Texas to take Jacob ot camp. A chill day for me—I wouldn’t wash my hair, get dressed, etc.(My Puritan conscience kicked in—I did make the bed.)

But what I did do, even before church, was to empty the garbage, sort out laundry, put away the dishes from last night, and generally do a straightening job in the cottage. You wouldn’t know it, because laundry, in various piles, is strewn across my big coffee table, waiting for Jordan to return tonight.

But the other thing I did that pleases me is less tangible—I revised and rewrote a short essay that has been on my desk for a week. As my friend Fred says, the short pieces are the hardest. This one, which I will submit for a volume on Texas mysteries, has a limit of 1,500 words. I’d written it and sent it to Fred for review; to my surprise he rejected my thesis and suggested an alternative—well, he suggested I modify the piece. It all has to do with agrarian or rural literature vs city or urban. I have never in a long writing career disagreed with Fred—and he reads everything I write (except blogs!). But the more I chewed on it, the more I wanted to stick to my original point.

Today I reached sort of a compromise, and I wrote to the end—1,300+ words. Tomorrow I’ll read it again, edit as needed, and with some temerity send it to Fred again. I hope he’s not tired of reading it. He was the prof in graduate school who shepherded me through the Ph.D. program, championed me when I faltered, and has read my work since. He is also a treasured friend.

But I am ready for this to be off my desk, so I can move on to what I am now thinking of as the “novel in waiting.” So that’s my plan.

Meanwhile, Sophie and I have had a quiet, lazy day—long naps, a gentle rain this afternoon, and cool temperatures. If we can trust the weather forecast, I just found online, we are in for a week of cooler temperatures and rain! Hooray! I had leftover steak and squash casserole for lunch; my dinner menu is leftover steak and mashed potatoes.

The steak and mashed potatoes were a special celebratory, send-off meal for Jacob before his departure for camp. But he woke sick yesterday morning—temperature, sore throat, etc. Jordan took him to Urgent Care where they found nothing beyond the symptoms of a summer cold. But he slept most of the day away, including missing dinner, and I suspect that cured him. I also suspect it was allergies. But late last night, I saw him in the family room folding clothes, no doubt doing some last-minute packing. I am delighted to eat his leftovers.

Busy week ahead, but I’m looking forward to it. And a dental appointment I’m not looking forward to. Hope y’all have a good week planned.

 

A bit of gazpacho for breakfast

 

Obviously, it was a cooking weekend for me. Gazpacho was on the menu. Megan called from Austin and asked if I put bread crumbs in my gazpacho, and when I said yes she said she did too, but she’d never heard of that until recently. I hadn’t either, so this was a first for me. The gazpacho was probably my biggest success of the weekend.

I also made broiled wedge salads—I have not been a fan of charring everything, even romaine for Caesar salad. And don’t talk to me about burnt ends. But this sounded good, the slight brown on the leaves giving it a different taste and texture. Contrary to what I thought at first you don’t broil the whole salad—coat the wedge(s) with dressing and top with Parmesan. Broil that. Then add all the things you put on a wedge, along with more dressing. It was good.

Chickenburgers turned out nicely but proved hard to eat—buns, tomatoes, lettuce, all fell apart as you tried to eat. Part of the problem, I think, is that I cut the sandwich in half—unequally. And got a lot of meat in one half, not so much in the other.

The final item on my agenda was tzatziki potato salad. It was okay, but I have had potato salads I like better, such as daughter-in-law Lisa’s with lots of dill pickle or the lemon version I make with new potatoes. I am enjoying an online daily email from “Kitchn,” and yesterday it had a big headline about the one trick you need to know about potato salad: dress the potatoes while they are still hot. Credited to Bobby Flay. Well, good for Bobby but my mom learned that trick back in the fifties from the Italian cook who ruled the kitchen at my dad’s hospital. Trouble for me is that potatoes cooled in the fridge peel so much more easily. Anyway, don’t look for more tzatziki salad from me.

This morning the workermans (a granddaughter’s term) next door started hammering at seven o’clock, so I got up much earlier than I intended. And there was that leftover gazpacho and a half an avocado calling my name. Made a great breakfast.

Last night I had delightful company for dinner—a minister from our church and her mother. We talked about everything, from my books to her sermons and lots of talk about cooking and food. Sophie was on center stage and knew she had an audience—she played it to the hilt, with cute demands for more food and more attention.

Sophie is at the center of one big thing in my not-so-big life lately. She had her annual checkup. Despite my dire predictions, she is maybe just a little bit overweight. I kept accusing Jordan of overfeeding by indulging those demands for seconds. It’s a relief for me to get that vet visit over, though I really like our vet. And it’s nice to know that my nine-year-old dog/companion is healthy, from heart to teeth.

Yesterday was also a milestone in the Burton family: Jacob’s fifteenth birthday. Hard to believe. He had a rough year—spending his freshman high school year at a computer in his bedroom instead of in class with his buddies. After spring break, he got to go to classes three days a week, but it wasn’t the same. He handled it with grace and good humor. I enjoyed his company at dinner more nights than not—he was an interested participant in discussions of everything, especially politics, and I caught him trying to modify my tunnel vision on the subject. His Uncle Colin just cautioned me against becoming an angry old woman because I am so passionate about what’s wrong with Republicans—but everything I said he agreed with. Anyway, I’m proud of Jacob, his basic good nature, and his developing skill at golf.

Dinner tonight with Phil and Subie Green at The Rim. We went for the fried chicken—at least I did, because it’s the best I have ever had. A distinction I didn’t realize most people don’t know—chicken-friend chicken is boneless, skinless chicken, usually a breast, heavily battered and fried. It’s a whole different taste than fried chicken, which is bone-in, skin-on, and lightly battered. I don’t like chicken-fried chicken, but I love good fried chicken. Tonight, I asked for dark meat and got three thighs—a feast with leftovers. Accompanied by good, mashed potatoes and mushy green beans. If you’re gonna’ eat green beans with chicken, they should be mushy—none of this crisp vegetable stuff. But that’s only with fried chicken.

I am going to sleep a happy camper tonight. Hope you are too.

A moment of nostalgia, a visit, and a workday

 

Awful Waffles

Indulge me a moment, please. Jordan came across this picture of Jacob, and I couldn’t resist posting it. He will probably not be pleased, but….He loved waffles at that age, and when he asked for them, I jokingly asked if he wanted an “awful waffle.” He translated that into “waffle waffle,” and his parents couldn’t understand why he repeated the word twice. He was such a darn cute toddler—I told Jordan tonight we should have put a brick on his head. As it is, he is now a lanky teenager, taller than his dad and still growing, with this astoundingly deep voice.

Nice if brief visit from Colin, Lisa, Morgan, and Kegan at lunch today. They were on their way to ski in Colorado. Colin always, always wants lunch from the local deli where he’s been eating since he was a baby, but since we’re not ready yet to go into restaurants I suggested carry-out from Great Outdoors, our favorite sub shop. There was a mix-up in the order—they gave us five sandwiches when we ordered eight, but it was straightened out. Colin’s verdict was that it was good but not as good as the deli; my opinion is he ordered wrong—who orders a hot meatball sandwich from a sub shop? Should be meat and cheese and all the trimmings.

We have not seen them since July—thank you, pandemic—so it was a bonus to have even this brief visit. They are none of them vaccinated, though Lisa has had covid. They hugged us with masks on and assured me I didn’t need my mask—I put it on anyway, and we ate on the patio. They’ll come back through next Saturday—and we’ll get deli food.

Spent the rest of the day making notes to update my web page, something I should do more often—haven’t done it in a year. Many authors do their own pages, but I’m not that smart and have a wonderful young woman who does mine and can follow my squiggly notes of put this here and that there. This year, because of pandemic, there was slim pickings among new pictures to post—it seems we only take pictures when there’s company. I maybe need to deliberately take pictures of me at my desk, etc., but that would mean cleaning up the entire area. Next chore on my list: itemize my tax receipts etc. In Texas, we have an extension because of snowmageddon—until June 15. Still I am a little nervous I haven’t gotten the forms from my accountant yet.

Leftovers in the oven—last night’s dinner all over again tonight, even down to the blue cheese salad dressing. I didn’t think either the chicken casserole or the salad was that good—too bland—but Jordan has requested them again, so I tried to perk the salad dressing up with more vinegar and mustard. The chicken casserole simply needs salt and pepper. Win some, lose some. Lisa brought me a book titled Texas Tables, which I mistook for a book about table settings. Exploration proved it to be a Junior League Cookbook from Harris and Montgomery counties—lots of wonderful recipes for veal, lobster, lamb. Now I need the budget to go with it, but I did see some chicken recipes that looked good. I’ll be experimenting.

Busy week looms. Looking forward for a visit from Jamie and some happy hours with friends. Plus a desk full of chores. Life is good.

Little excitements

We had little excitements last night, little that is if you weren’t the visiting possum. I was at my desk, reading, about 8:30 when Sophie tore out the door and began barking frantically. Not a squirrel bark but something much more intense. I finally looked up just in time to see a possum scurry across the patio. I hurried to take my phone to the door for a picture but didn’t make it. The possum had taken shelter under a small table, and Sophie was gleefully dancing around the table, almost sticking her nose under it, barking all the while. If that possum had an ounce of courage, it would have taken a swipe at her nose.

What to do? I didn’t think it wise for me and my walker to charge out there, and I knew Jordan had gone with Jacob to the neighbors’ pool, because he wanted a swim. I called Christian, who sounded a tad reluctant, saying, “I’ll come, but I don’t know what I can do.” He came after several minutes, armed with—wait for it!—his phone.

By that time, Sophie had miraculously come bounding into the cottage, and I slammed the door. Sophie then was jumping around, wanting me to open the door, which I refused. Christian was taking pictures of the possum, and it beat a hasty retreat.

After a few minutes, Jordan came out, armed with—wait for it again!—a broom. I asked what she intended to do with it, and she replied she was just going to encourage the critter away. Fortunately, it was gone. We opened the door and Sophie bolted out to search the yard fruitlessly.

I had to explain to my two nature-loving protectors that possums are neither harmful nor vicious. They eat tons of all those bugs we want to get rid of—mosquitoes, chiggers, ticks. They are our friends, although I doubt if that particular friend will ever venture back into my yard.

I’d had a moment of excitement earlier, when Christian stood by my desk and said, “I can’t believe Jacob all of a sudden wants to go swimming.” I promise, I had my hearing aids in but what I heard was, “I can’t believe Jacob all of a sudden lost his sense of smell.” Panic! I managed to say it calmly, “I hope he doesn’t have the virus.” Christian looked at me as though he thought I had clearly gone round the bend this time.

I even had little excitements this morning. Either my computer or I have been saving files under the wrong name—this morning, when I opened a short biography I’d written for an essay submission, it turned out to be last night’s blog. Yesterday, I “lost” the entire text of my new novel—what popped up was the header and one sentence from a column in the neighborhood newsletter—both in Dropbox and on the pc. Fortunately I had sent it to the formatter, and she supplied a copy which I saved very carefully.  Lesson learned—I think I get in a rush and don’t notice that the computer is saving things under the title of whatever was last saved. Scared me though.

One other bit of bad excitement—my car wouldn’t start for Jacob last night. He is tasked with starting it occasionally and asked last night if he could back it up just a bit. It was dead, though it had been started last weekend. Jordan was all for selling it immediately, but with Christian’s advice, I ordered a car battery starter. It’s not parked so that we can put another car next to it and jump it.

That’s enough excitement for one day. Peace, y’all, and be safe and well.

Protests in America

This is who we are

Not a land of violence and hate

I don’t think any of us can tiptoe around the topic of the protests, what they are doing to disrupt America, and what they mean. So here are a few of my scattered thoughts.

This past week has been a dramatic and intense learning lesson for Jacob. Perhaps because he’s scared (he wouldn’t admit that but then, we all are), perhaps because he never imagined anything like this, he wants to talk about it, explore it. Last night, Fort Worth saw a peaceful protest on the Seventh Street bridge into downtown go violent, and police used tear gas for the first time in this city in decades. Christian and Jacob drove down there on the road safely under the bridge, but Jacob later came and showed me pictures they had taken—what I could principally see was clouds of tear gas floating in the air.

Tonight, Jacob and a buddy wanted to go to Old Neighborhood Grill, just down the street, for burgers. They left a few minutes after seven, with our warnings to be home by eight ringing in their ears. But the grill closed at seven, so that people would be sure to get home. These are the stories those kids will tell their grandkids, but what will their interpretation be? They have no precedent in their memory: I on the other hand remember the night Martin Luther King, Jr., was shot and the riots that followed, and the beating of Rodney King and the burning of Watts. My memory is too full of these things, and I am afraid to hope that this time will be different. Yet it seems different to me, the violence longer lasting and more widespread.

We talked about it last night, and when I said I thought the looting went beyond simple acquisitiveness by poor blacks and was an attempt to create social discord by organized groups, Jacob said tentatively, “I agree with Juju.” Perhaps he’ll see that it is a racial issue, one that’s been simmering too long, but it is also a civil issue, a statement on democracy.

The sitting president spoke briefly on TV tonight. If you know me, you know it’s hard for me to listen to him with an open mind and unbiased ear, but I tried. I really did. I agree with the need to restore order and protect individuals and small businesses, with the lip-service he paid to the genuine protestors and the slight sympathy he showed for George Floyd’s family—he got the name wrong and called him Floyd George. Ah, well.

But when he talks about activating military troops, my hackles go up. And when he blames it all an antifa, I can barely keep from shouting. It’s clearly accepted that outside organized groups are causing much of the continuing disruption, but he has no proof that it’s antifa, a generic name for anti-fascists. He announced he was declaring that a terrorist group—but antifa is the name for a general resistance, not an organized group, so good luck with that. And local leaders, with their feet on the ground and not hiding in a bunker, indicate that much of the trouble comes from white supremacists and from several highly organized groups within that movement. We may never know the truth, but my hunch is that there is some antifa action and a whole lot more neo-Nazi, and at the base, now overshadowed, are the peaceful protestors who simply want to march and chant for  equal justice for all—long overdue in this country.

Will this end racism in this country? Probably not, but perhaps, finally, it is the wake-up call we needed. There is a long road ahead, and true equality won’t happen in my lifetime, but perhaps in Jacob’s.

Is this the end of the trump presidency, as many have suggested. I can only hope. But if it is, it’s a terrible price to pay to free us from an incompetent man who would be a dictator, who fosters hate and incites violence, and to whom 100,000 deaths from COVID-19 apparently mean nothing.

America tonight is in shambles—a pandemic, millions out of work, the economy on the brink of faltering, and riots from coast to coast. No, I don’t believe trump’s prediction that we are on the road to greatness. If we are to move ahead, it will be a long and difficult journey. But I believe, with new leadership, we can do it. I am hopeful.

How to answer a grandson, an episode with Sophie, and my compulsive nature

When a grandchild comes to you and says, “I need a favor,” the proper answer is not, “What?” or “Why?” or “How much?” When Jacob made that announcement this morning, I said, “Okay.”

“Stand up,” he commanded. “I’m going to take your picture.” And he did, saying it was for school. I never got more clarity than that. When he showed it to me, my thought was that, except for the quarantine haircut, I don’t look like I’m suffering in this life of isolation. And then I remembered a time way back, when he was maybe five, that he insisted on taking a picture of me. So here are Jacob’s two pictures. I’m considerably younger in the early one but maybe not quite as full of smiles.

The problem with Sophie, I decided today, is that while I think of her as a medium-sized dog—thirty pounds—when excited, she has the shrill bark of a small dog. And she was excited today: the yard guys came. She always barks, and it didn’t used to be a huge problem, because they came in the late afternoon, and I just kept her in the cottage and endured the barking for twenty or thirty minutes. But now they come right when I want to nap.

Today I had a brilliant idea: I locked her in the bedroom with me. Fail! That just meant that I was confined with a barking dog in a small room that acted as an echo chamber. Then she decided she could best protect me if she got on the bed, which was okay for a few minutes because she was still. But when a slight noise alarmed her, she stood on the bed and barked, which rocked the whole bed. Then for a blessed short while, she lay quietly on my feet, and I dared not move.

I was dozing, happily plotting a scene in my mind (napping is when I do my best thinking about whatever I’m writing). Then she came unglued again I gave up and let her out of the bedroom. She proceeded to bark frantically for about twenty minutes.

Suddenly there was quiet. I tried to recapture the plotting moment, but it didn’t work. Got up reluctantly and began a different kind of plotting—grocery lists with Jordan.

Tonight a good friend of Jordan’s, someone I’m fond of, came for a distanced happy hour, but I begged off, pleading that I had promised to make German potato salad (Christian’s favorite) to go with our burgers tonight and I had a lot to do.

That sense of having so much to do has only come over me recently, but I find it puzzling. Yes, I am working on a new mystery, but I have no deadline. I am in every sense self-employed. But today I wanted to finish up my newsletter, do grocery lists with Jordan, write a blog, make the potato salad, and, I wish, make progress on the novel. None of it must be done today—except that in my old compulsive mind it does.

Jordan wanted to talk grocery lists this morning, and I put her off with the explanation that I was doing something I really wanted to do. It occurred to me that, yes, the urgency is in my own mind, but it’s not because I’m compulsive. It’s because I have it in my head where these projects are going, what I want to say, and I want to commit it to the computer before it leaves my brain. Could I call it inspiraton?

A lot of people would still say I’m compulsive. Writers will understand.