Meet Benji

 

With great enthusiasm and unbounded energy, Benji has taken up residence on Park Place in Berkeley. He thinks his person is Juju, but he’s not sure because then there are Jordan and Christian—and then those three high-school boys who came and rough-housed with him this afternoon. And that woman who came for happy hour and loved on him a lot. It’s a dog’s life, learning to go in and out of the flexible screen, running in the yard tossing his string toy for himself if no one else was around, even resting while Juju napped—though ever on the alert and occasionally letting out an ear-piercing howl. Who needs to eat? Life here is too exciting. He’s not sure about sleeping tonight, though Juju wants to put him in a crate, which is where he’s used too sleeping. Here are some pictures of his first day. And the facts: Benji is a two-year-old border collie mix, black with brown socks and white on his chest. He was rescued from a shelter as a pup, but now his first family must move to an apartment and couldn’t take him with them.

PS from Juju: I am so grateful for the love and support I have gotten from my blog community during this emotional dog journey I have been on. You all are the best, and I love you.

The end of the story—and so much gratitude

 

Sophie crossed the Rainbow Bridge late this morning, helped by our longtime family vet who made a house call, for which we are eternally grateful. It was more peaceful than I could have imagined, and we are now picking up the pieces of our lives, assured that she is chasing squirrels with all her friends in doggie heaven.

I am overwhelmed and so thankful for the outpouring of response from family, friends, and most of all, you—my online community. Sophie played to a wide audience and would be gratified at how many loved her. My gratitude runs deep, and I, for once, am almost at a loss for words. Bless you, one and all.

I can never replace Soph—she was one of a kind, with her joy in life, her stubborn belief the world was her oyster, her need for tummy rubs and lots of love, her loyalty not only to me but to the family and friends she knew well. I will get another dog, because having a dog fills out my life. I think the longest I have gone without one since grade school is six months. My theory about choosing a dog is like that about houses and cars—the right one will present itself at the right time.

Meantime, my heartfelt thanks. I’ll be back tomorrow and in succeeding days with reports on Irene’s doings, recipes from the Fifties and beyond, my own thoughts on our tumultuous politics, the sometimes horrifying international scene, and, I hope, lighthearted moments. And someday soon, I may really write that book that’s been floating around in my mind: Dogs I Have Known and Loved.

For the moment, thank you and goodnight.

Updates and thoughts on passion—no, not that kind!

 

Sophie in her donut collar. 
She is now old and mostly blind, and it shows in
her expression which clearly says
"Why are you doing this to me?"
I have no idea how to tell her it is for her health.

Update on Sophie: she is docile about the donut collar, and the shot-givers have all learned to avoid the tender areas, so no more snapping. Her cellulitis bump is going down, and she sleeps through the night. Praise be!

Update on the plumbing crisis: my native plant bed is totally destroyed, filled with large rocks—who knows where they came from? No hole in the floor yet, but the handyman is prepared should that happen. And it goes on. Today, Saturday, there is one man here working. I have no idea what he’s doing.

Update on Judith: I am faced with chores I dislike—my tax organizer arrived, so did a multi-page questionnaire to complete before a ophthalmology appointment next week, my miscellany holder on the desk badly needs sorting, and I need to check the Discover bill.  The great American novel will have to wait, though I have yet to figure out the resolution, so maybe that’s a good thing.

I’ve been chewing on the concept of gratitude lately. I try to make it a part of my life because I truly feel blessed. I was born white (not racist to say that’s worked in my favor), fairly intelligent with a comfortable life and a loving family. My refrigerator and freezer are overflowing, and I sink into a comfortable bed with a secure roof over my head each night. I am, I think, the epitome of privilege. It could have been so different; I could be an immigrant at the southern border, desperate for a new life in America, or a child hiding in a makeshift shelter next to my dead sibling in Gaza, or a farmer in Ukraine, or a nonbinary teen in Oklahoma. And somehow I think gratitude accounts for what Christian called my passion for my beliefs. It is simply because I am not that teen in Oklahoma that my blood boils when I hear a legislator refer to them as “filth” and proclaim, “We are a Christian state.” (Ironic for someone in a state with a high native American population and for someone who proclaims himself a Christian.) Gratitude is why I despise Greg Abbott’s cruelty with his cursed razor wire at the border—because I am not that pregnant woman who got entangle and died. I know life doesn’t have to be like it is for those and millions of others throughout the world.

There’s not a lot I can do from a walker in a cottage in Fort Worth, Texas, living on a fixed income. I can’t walk the block or go to rallies; my financial contributions are so small as to be insignificant, even though one of my favorite candidates insists $3 helps. Were I wealthy beyond measure, the list of politicians and charities I would support would be long. Progressive politicians like Katie Porter in California or John Tester in Montana or our own Colin Allred here in Texas. Add to that environmental organizations, wildlife and animal welfare causes, women’s rights, and others. Someone said to me that money rules the world (I think greed was implied), and I reluctantly agreed. When I protested that some people use wealth for good causes and cited Joe Biden, Christian immediately said, “He’s a millionaire.” But that, I countered, is not the operative thing about him. His life is shaped by his passion for democracy. I believe the same is true of Obama or Beto O’Rourke and was true of Ghandi, Mother Theresa. We have role models in this world. It’s just that too many of us ignore them.

One of the things I’m grateful for is that I have a church home where I am comfortable—and challenged to do what I can to make the world better. I like the Jewish concept of Tikkun olam, literally “repairing the world.” And I think it’s precisely because I am so blessed that I am bound to do what I can to repair our obviously broken world. And so I speak out. I don’t hide what Christian calls my passionate beliefs. Some have asked if I worry about alienating readers, and my answer is not at all. (Besides my career is winding down).

I’ll end this rant by quoting Martin Niemöller, “Then they came for me/And there was no one left/To speak out for me.” (see the complete poem here:  Holocaust Memorial Day Trust | First They Came – by Pastor Martin Niemöller (hmd.org.uk)

A new friend and two words of wisdom

 

A truly worthwhile book by my friend, Stephanie

Sometimes serendipity can lead to the nicest things. Several months ago, the neighborhood newsletter that I edit did an article about Ann Darr, the neighborhood representative to the Fort Worth ISD board. I stressed to the writer that it had to be apolitical, following the guidelines for the newsletter, and it came back raving about what a good school board member she is. I sent it back, explained again about no politics, and got an article Ii thought usable (yes, I got some criticism, but not much). A few weeks later, Ann Darr contacted me and asked if we could meet. We had confusion finding a date, and I had to explain I could not easily meet her someplace for a happy hour drink but I would welcome her to the cottage.

Tonight, finally, was our happy hour meeting. I made a tuna spread—not very original, but it was good and she seemed to like it. We chattered like magpies for over an hour and a half. Found out we go to the same church, one of her children is in Jacob’s class at the high school, and one of her sons is at U of Arkansas where Jacob will go next year. We are politically in sync, though her position, like my newsletter, is apolitical. We chattered about education today—charter schools, home schooling, book bans, intrusive parents (she says that has peaked and died down), the necessity of trade school programs, financing, Abbott’s sitting on funds allocated for teachers because he didn’t get his way on vouchers, and on and on.

I have friends I see often and simply adore but familiarity sometimes results in fairly stagnant conversations (I can hear them now—“Does she mean me? Surely she doesn’t mean me!”). I think we tend to know what our close friends think and not dive deep in conversation. But when you meet someone new, in the process of getting to know them, you go deeper—at least that’s what I found tonight. I hope Ann Darr will come back to the cottage, and we can develop a friendship. PS She’s a dog person, so what’s not to love. After welcoming her with frantic barking, Sophie was as good as gold all evening, pretty much stayed on the patio.

Two words of wisdom for the day: resilience and gratitude. My friend, Stephanie Raffelock, posted in her Substack column this morning about her goals to reach by the age of eighty. I misread and thought she was referring to her seventies as her last decade, so I hastened to send a rebuttal from my advanced age of eighty-five. She called to say I had misread and her goals are to prepare herself to live into her eighties and nineties. We talked about aging, and she mentioned a book that is meaningful to her: Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. A Jewish psychiatrist, Frankl spent four years in various Nazi concentration camps, and he came to believe that the will for meaning was the single most important factor in survival. He got so he could look at fellow prisoners and almost predict who would survive and who wouldn’t. I probably won’t read it simply because I refuse to read about Nazi cruelty. I find it too upsetting to realize such evil exists in the world. But I like the theory.

Stephanie had written that it was a goal to be pain-free, and I told her that was a pipe dream—as we age we all suffer minor aches and pains. The goal is not to let them grow so big in your mind that they become major. I mentioned that as a doctor’s child, I was taught to be brave about health problems and pain. Doctors, my mom told me, laugh at those who magnify problems or pain. I took it so far that my brother once said he thought I was taking Mom’s advice too seriously. But once when I was in the hospital with a fairly serous health problem, I said to a resident physician that I guessed this would change my life, and she replied, “Oh, I don’t know. You seem to be fairly resilient.” So that, for me, is why resilience is important—bouncing back from major or minor upsets.

Stephanie had just been reading about gratitude, and she proposed that as a factor in aging well. Gratitude takes us beyond ourselves. If you can give up moaning and whining about your present state—or about the state of our country or the world—and look for the positive, your whole attitude toward life will change, and you will be healthier and happier. I try, every night, to thank the Lord for the blessings of my day and those of my life in general. I find I have lots to talk about.

Resilience and gratitude: Try them for a week

A new word, gratitude, and hot water

 

Sometimes my experiments go awry. This is salmon with horseradish sauce.
I did not save the recipe. Enough said.

A quiet day for me, spent mostly at my computer. I said to Jordan it was awfully cold, but she replied, “Not as bad as the other day.” A friend pointed out, however, that what we in Texas are feeling now is Rocky Mountain northern cold, not the southern cold we are used to—a distinction I’d never thought about (and am still not sure I get). But when Sophie comes in leaving the door open, it feels cold to me, southern or northern be darned. I had let up on my “really cold weather” precautions and taken the extra cover off the bed. So of course in the middle of the night I had to get up and prowl in the closet for my mom’s crochet afghan. And this morning, I decided I’d wash my hair just to be safe if the hot water goes out again. There was—eventually—hot water, but it sputtered and spit and never came on in a strong steam, which gives me cause to worry. Tonight, though, I could scald my hands washing dishes if not careful.

I heard from friends in Omaha today, which gave me a bit of misguided schadenfreude—they are buried in snow and have had temperatures well below zero and wind chill factors down to -40^o. Even while I am rejoicing that I am not there, I do worry about them. They both have had Covid over Christmas, he a fairly heavy case and she a milder case but fearing complications due to some ongoing health problems. It shows me once again that I must be grateful for the blessings of my life which include fairly good health for a woman of my age.

My small online writing circle uses Fridays to “brag” about how we spent the week. The woman who starts us off on Friday, my friend Stephanie, used today to talk about what we are grateful for, and I used that prompt to think about gratitude and my life. I’ve been a bit out of sorts, maybe due to the restrictions of cold weather and related problems, about all the things that haven’t been done—starting to use my new composter (my kitchen sink cannister is officially full tonight and a bit smelly), my new battery-powered electric blanket isn’t hooked up, my new cuckoo clock needs to be hung and started—it plays bird songs, so I have to get into the instructions and  see if I can figure out how to choose a song. I’m not optimistic about my ability, and I am woefully ignorant about recognizing bird songs, so I figure this will give me an education. I think my mattress needs to be turned—remember when your mom did that at least once a month and all by herself? Amazes me yet. But there is a deep hole where I sit every day to change clothes. Colin told me to Google it, and I did—found the mattress is supposed to inflate. I sent him a picture of the hole, hoping he’ll find a magic solution from a distance.

These delayed chores or whatever depressed me. So did the fact that Zenaida, who cheerfully cleans the cottage and does my laundry every two weeks, hasn’t been here since before Christmas, and I am expecting company three nights this coming week—to a house that badly needs the thorough cleaning I can’t do. I had a little pity party, feeling frustrated because I am so dependent on others. But Stephanie’s reminder jogged me into gratitude. I think for a woman of eighty-five who needs assistance walking, I manage quite a lot on my own. Some days I want to make a list so I can say to Jordan, “Look what I did all by self (a phrase from my kids childhood) today!” I will have to continue to send myself that message—and be grateful for hot water and other blessings.

My new word: my youngest grandson had surgery two days ago for a torn shoulder (this is the third time soccer has gotten him—two earlier broken bones). We sent him Tiff Treats (ice cream and cookies) and when he texted his thanks, he wrote, “Thank you, shawties.” Well, of course that sent me to the online dictionary. It’s slang term of generalized affection, African American in origin. But sometimes it’s more specific, referring to a beautiful young woman. Was that sweet boy being sarcastic with his aunt and grandmother? If so, he’s a sly one. I was impressed one way or another that he knew the word, although I can’t figure a way to work it into my conversation or my writing. I guess for the nonce sharing it with you will have to do.

Good night, shawties! Sleep tight, sweet dreams.

 

Assisted Living

       

No, I’m not moving to a facility! But I’ve been thinking a lot lately about independence, and I have a bold confession: I could not at this point in my life live independently. Oh, I love to tell people that I live alone and in some sense I do. I can live alone for, say, twenty-four hours or maybe a bit longer. But a week? Nah. Not comfortably.

This was driven home to me last week when both Jordan and Jacob were out of town. I thought it was Christian and me, but I soon realized that it was Christian taking care of me. And that’s another thing—that word caretaker. I don’t like to think I need a caretaker—it sounds so helpless, so dependent. Jordan has long referred to herself as my caretaker, and she’s right. It’s “Can you get another roll of toilet paper down from that high shelf?” “Can you put these cans up on the top shelf?” “See that shirt I got halfway down? I can’t get it the rest of the way. Could you get it for me.” “Would you get such-and-such at the grocery.” But I digress.

Last week, it seemed I had a crisis for Christian every day—in just one day I needed wine, cheese slices for Sophie, and Drano because my kitchen sink was stopped up. I’m sure anyone who’s kept house knows what a pain that is—I could wash two or three dishes at a time, then let it drain, and move on to the next. I ate off paper plates and used the same spoon for everything. But Christian brought all three things I needed and handled my crises with grace. And that’s how my life is, because I don’t drive any more, can’t reach things—there’s a whole lot I can’t do. But somebody does it for me. Yes, it makes me feel worthless in a way.

The other morning when Christian came out to give Sophie her insulin shot, I said I had a new crisis. He didn’t exactly roll his eyes, but he may have hesitated a second. When I said I had dropped a roll of toilet paper behind the toilet and couldn’t reach it, he laughed and said, “That’s the kind of crisis I can handle easily.” But for me it was still really a crisis because I couldn’t reach it and my grabber wouldn’t get it.

So while I laugh and moan about all my friends being in Trinity Terrace, I realize I am not eligible for their life. Because I need help. The alternatives are not pretty, and every time I think about it I am doubly grateful to Jordan and Christian for making the life I lead possible.

Tonight we had guests for happy hour—Subie and Phil and her sister Diana and her husband John. I had fixed crab bites and baked goat cheese—two of my favorite appetizers—and they were well received. But it kept Jordan busy—refilling wine glasses, heating more crab bites. It seemed she was back and forth to the kitchen (a distance of maybe three feet) all evening. If she hadn’t been here, could I have done it? Of course, but it would have been more awkward and slower. Because she took over, it was a seamless social occasion—and a rowdy, happy one full of laughter.

But that is sort of the other side of the coin. What I can do for myself and others is cook, and I do it a lot. I fix dinner for four three or four nights a week—well, now that school’s out, make that dinner for three. Jacob is often out with his friends. But I can and do fix a wide array of meals—chicken hash, hamburger sliders, casseroles and salads that make a meal.  And many experimental meals—like this week, crab nachos maybe and open-raced beef and horseradish sandwiches. That, to me, sort of compensates for my dependence in other areas of life. It lets me contribute to the daily routine of living in what I have come to think of as our compound.

Yes, I have the best of both worlds—independence and caretakers. I know I am fortunate, and I am forever grateful. Subie and Phil have just moved into Trinity Terrace, and when I whined about being the only one of my friends who does not live there, Subie said, “If I lived this close to Jordan and Christian, I wouldn’t be moving either.”

The other thought that lingers, fortunately only in the back of my mind, is that time’s winged chariot is always hurrying near (with apologies to playwright Michael Powell and his play, A Matter of Life and Death—I just learned something; I thought that line came from Shakespeare or John Donne or one of the major English poets of the Romantic period.) I don’t know how long I will be able to do the things I do now for myself. I find that so depressing that I refuse to think about it. But I suppose change comes slowly, and we adjust. Meantime, I intend to practice what independence I can to the hilt so that I don’t lose it. I want to stay in my beloved cottage. Thinking ahead too far can be scary. I’ll live in the moment and enjoy it. Carpe diem!

Good news and gratitude

       

This will be brief because I am having computer problems tonight, but I wanted to shout out a big dose of gratitude to the many who read my blog and have expressed concern, good wishes, and prayers for my Sophie. Today, Sophie saw a doggie internist who diagnosed her problem as diabetes to which she has not responded as most dogs do. She will be spending a few days at the doggie hospital, and we are all hopeful of a full recovery, though she will have to have insulin injections twice a day for the rest of her life.

     Last night, we had about given up all hope and were preparing ourselves for the inevitable. But Jordan wanted to take her to the specialist who sees their Cavalier spaniels for cardiac problems. Thanks to Jordan and Christian, who are well known at the clinic, we were able to get an appointment. Jamie came over from Frisco and drove Jordan, Sophie, and me to the appointment--dogs are obviously family members for us and severe illness is a family affair. I am so grateful.

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!

Thanksgiving in the rearview mirror

 

Our long table

We are home again after three days and nights in Tomball celebrating with all the Alters, minus one. It was a plentiful, wonderful, be-grateful Thanksgiving. Moments that made my heart glad: a long table for all of us and a guest, plus Lisa’s mom who took Maddie’s place as the sixteenth Alter; my oldest son asking the grace and composing it as he went; my granddaughter making yeast-rising rolls and coffee cakes from my mom’s recipe; my grown children talking about all the awful things I fed them as children—liver and turnips and tongue; a sandwich from the Czech Stop in West; one evening of beautiful weather, sitting by the fire on the new deck, looking at the lake.

The weather was beautiful Wednesday night when we got there, then rainy, foggy, and chilly for two days with heavy rain last night. But today dawned bright and sunny, and we were grateful for clear weather on the drive home.

Our trip was a lesson in highway driving for Jacob, who drove from Reisel (outside Waco) to Tomball and back from Tomball to Hearne, all under the watchful eye of his mom. It went as smoothly as could be expected—I did hear comments about two hands on the wheel answered by my wrist gets tired. He willingly surrendered the wheel to Jordan in Hearne. We made our way through two traffic jams on the way there and two on the way back today—fortunately none of major proportions, though pity people going south on I-35 because an accident caused a backup several miles long. Jamie reported an accident with an eight-wheeler meant it was three a.m. before they got to their motel in Cypress (next door to Tomball).

We are grateful that everyone is back in place tonight, and two families report they rushed out and got their Christmas trees today. Jordan and Christian retrieved the Christmas decorations from the storage locker and will get a tree tomorrow. (When you have no garage and limited attic space, a storge lock is an annoying necessity.)

Lonely Sophie

The Tomball Alters have a wonderful Aussie/collie mix, Ginger—I tried to bring her home but couldn’t get away with it. She has that Aussie sweetness. But granddaughter Morgan and her boyfriend share a seven-month old pup of undetermined lineage, and Morgan was babysitting while Clayton was out of town. So we had Blue, who takes a long time to cotton to strangers but is otherwise puppy-crazy. I recount all this because it meant I had to leave Sophie in Fort Worth with the dog sitter, who is efficient and wonderful and kind. But it was harder on me than on Soph to leave her behind. Here is a picture of lonely Sophie.

A lesson I guess I knew but learned more firmly this trip: I function much better, with my walker, in my own environment. I have visited Tomball many times since I needed a walker, and it’s always a challenge—it is a multi-level house. The result is I have to ask for everything—from my morning cup of tea to my dinner plate and yes, please, another glass of wine. And I cannot pitch in and help, as all the other females present do. It’s sort of an emotional or mental problem for me—I feel guilty, am hesitant to ask, etc. I do try to avoid pouting or getting in a sour mood, but you’ll have to ask the others if I succeed. The Tomball grands—Morgan, seventeen and a high school senior, and Kegan, fifteen and a freshman (I think)—are both terrific about asking, “You need anything, Juju?” Kegan surrendered his bedroom to me and went across the pasture to his grandmother’s house (in Tomball I call myself the other grandmother).

And so it begins again—the hectic, happy holiday season. I am resolved to get back to serious writing Monday morning, but please don’t check on me. The best-laid plans gang oft agley. The next month will be filled with planning and partying, music and joy, and for too many, a bit of sadness or loneliness. Let’s all reach out to those not as fortunate as we are.

My favorite spot in Tomball
Note Sophie in the foreground and Grace in the back
(Grace is now playing on the rainbow bridge--this
was a few years ago)

Twas the Night before … Thanksgiving!

 

Me and Jordan, thanksgiving 2022

The family is still scattered, but all headed our way. There’s a great break in tradition this year—for the first time one of the grandchildren will not be present when the whole family gathers. Madison, the oldest, has to work. We will miss her and her boyfriend Trevor, but I am sure it is an omen of times to come. We had them all for twenty-two years, and kids do grow up and move on.

Meantime, busy schedules and rainy weather combined to slow some of travelers, but we will gather in full force tomorrow or turkey and all the trimmings. Meantime, much of the “prep” work for the big meal is done. Some time ago, Jordan announced she would make two cheeseballs—one for Thanksgiving and one for Christmas. Then she announced she would make them in my cottage. So yesterday was the day—a day I planned to work on the outline of what I’m calling Irene in Texas for lack of a better title.

When the time came, Jordan was called away by a domestic crisis—someone had decorated Jacob’s fan with ketchup, mustard, and just a bit of mayo. Christian said it smelled like What-a-Burger! Jacob had to wash it in the driveway and then take it to a car wash for a final cleansing. Jordan felt obligated to get the clean-up started.

So I found myself cutting up  cream cheese—a messy proposition if there ever was one—and Velveeta and dumping blue cheese in a bowl. Bless Jordan—she arrived in time to chop onion, pecans, and parsley. And she did the mixing, which was part of the process I dreaded. We truly proved that many hands make light work.

Tonight granddaughter Morgan is making the dough for my mother’s rolls. I have offered to answer any questions, but her only one was what the word scant means. I’m so delighted that she’s such a natural cook, and my children will be delighted that they once again have Grandmother’s rolls. Shhh—Morgan added some spices. We’ll see what’s said.

We’ll enjoy the traditional dinner tomorrow and a brisket supper Friday. On Saturday, everyone will scatter for their homes, so please don’t look for a blog until then. Know however, that I wish each and everyone of you a blessed holiday. Among the many gratitudes in my life I am grateful for each of the many of you who read my blog and comment on it. I am grateful for your opinions and knowledge, and you make me feel that my little musings are sometimes worthwhile.

Happy thanksgiving. No matter what trouble us, I bet each of us can find things in our life to be grateful for. I know I have a long list.

For contrast, Thanksgiving 2012
What ten years hath wrought

Living your best life

 

Morgan and her parents

My small writing circle has been exploring the question of why so many of us, as senior citizens (a euphemism if I ever hard one), continue to write, and most of us concluded that we write because we cannot not write. As one said, “To breathe is to write” or was it “To write is to breathe?” Anyway you get the point. My contribution was that given my age and where I am physically, I’m living my best life.

When I think of someone living their best life, I think of my youngest granddaughter. Morgan is a senior in high school, getting good grades, accepted into the National Honor Society, active in her outstanding and highly competitive marching band, already accepted to the university her boyfriend attends this year. And she’s a good cook. When her mom posts pictures of her, Morgan fairly glows—she is indeed living her best life for where she is in life now.

I think I’ve gone through life feeling that I was living my best life most of the time. Of course there were bumps in the road—some pretty big ones, like the failure of my marriage, the deaths of my parents, some surgeries I’d have avoided if possible, a couple of loves lost and a couple of friends who inexplicably cut me out of their lives. But mostly my mantra has been, “How blessed I am.” The years that brought bumps also brought four wonderful children, seven grandchildren, a career that I loved and had moderate success at, a wide and fascinating circle of friends, and an active social life. Sure, I might have wished for a couple of things—a lasting intimate relationship, a New York Times bestseller, even less anxiety and better balance. But I have so much more than so many people that I really think it’s my obligation to do whatever I can to make the world a little better—for one person, for groups of people (I am staying away from politics in this post).

Today there’s no denying I am what the world calls elderly (ageism is another topic for another day but it is currently one of my hot-button issues). But unlike many my age, I have a comfortable home where I am semi-independent, family that I love and that are so good to me, a smaller circle of friends than once but still friendships that I treasure (shoot, I even have a few reading fans and blog followers), and a dog I adore. I am active, still writing, still enjoying cooking, and I can buy the few things I want. Unlike many of my friends, I have no wish to wander and roam—I’m comfortable at home (forgive the accidental rhyme).

A friend once suggested people should keep gratitude jars—any big, old jar will do. Each day, on a slip of paper, write something that you’re grateful for that day. Forget what’s troubling you or what you wish was different—write what you’re grateful for. I tried but kept forgetting to write something. I do try, however, to thank the Lord each night for the things in my life for which I’m grateful.

My daily question to a young neighbor is, “Are you walking on the sunny side of the street today?” Amazing what a difference it makes.

How about you? Are you walking on the sunny side? Are you living your best life?

What’s your idea of adventure?

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Night, y’all.

Lessons in gratitude

 

Sophie and me with new haircuts

Each day I am more convinced that we make our own happiness. It’s up to us to decide if we’re going to be happy or sad, full of joy or full of regrets and “what if” dreams. Oh, sure, everybody has down days, but I’m talking about overall general attitude.

And I think that starts with the daily-ness of life. So here are the things I’m grateful for today: A beautiful spring day, with lots of sunshine and lovely temperatures, plants showing their spring glory all around. The ground cover in the back yard went so suddenly from dull brown to brilliant green, and the big oak trees that make my driveway a known hazard seemed to leaf out in less than a week. I’m particularly glad to see the oak-leaf hydrangea coming back, and the bed is cleared for this season’s crop of pentas to be planted. Some questions remain—like most of the shrubs on the north-facing front of the house, including the big rosemary bushes. And I don’t get up to the front daily so I’m not sure what the lantana is doing but my understanding is you can’t kill that stuff if you want to so it should survive a freeze. And like trees all over town, my redbud is blooming.

Sophie and I both have new haircuts, though I must say she wears hers better than I do. I’m working on getting her to look directly at me for a good picture—do you have any idea how hard it is to photograph a black dog?

Jordan and I got some errands done today—mailed some give-away books, went to the pharmacy and to the delicatessen to get matzoh so I can make matzoh crack for Easter. I thought it only fitting to have a Passover dessert with what will be a rather odd menu for friends Subie and Phil and me—home-cured gravlax, Russian potato salad, egg butter that Subie learned to make in Finland, and asparagus. A midsummer’s feast.

My cottage is shining clean. Zenaida got into all the nooks and crannies this morning, and I have clean clothes, a sparkling kitchen, wooden floors without puppy tracks on them. And the whole place smells so good.

Things I’m a little less grateful for: it is impossible to reach the county tax office. You must appear in person, notarized form in hand, to renew a handicapped parking tag. So we went out there today only to find it locked tight—apparently they closed for lunch without advance notice. But I am uncertain if we need an appointment and if I have to appear or Jordan can go in and get it. Their phone messages is left over from February. Tried to call the main office, mis-dialed and got the weather forecast. Most frustrating! Anybody remember when you could call an 844 # and get the weather? Well, the tax office is 884, and I mixed the two up and was indignant when I got a weather forecast.

Just got the email receipt for Sophie’s new haircut. She looks gorgeous, but I am going to be a dog groomer in my next life—costs way more for her to get a haircut than it does me, and I’m fairly sure she’s as well behaved as I am. This writing business is fun and challenging, but it does not quite make one rich.

And today I read that whatever you spent on hand sanitizers and masks is a tax deductible medical expense. Since thanks to trump’s great tax cut for the rich, all medical deductions were disallowed for 2020, who thought to save those receipts? Surely not me. Now they tell us!

On the whole just for today, I’d say the things I’m grateful for outweigh those I’m a bit hesitant about. I’ve known several people with various ways of recording their gratitude—one friend had a gratitude month, where she posted each day one thing for which she was grateful. Another friend kept a joy jar—every time something good happened she jotted it down on a piece of paper and stuck it in the jar. Said at the end of the year it was enlightening to read all those bits and scraps of paper. I haven’t gotten so organized as to follow either of those suggestions yet, but it seems to me stopping every once and a while to count your blessings moves you ahead on the road to joy.

Have a happy evening everyone.

 

Thankful Sunday

Mark and his brisket

So much to be thankful for this sunny Spring Sunday. First and foremost, the New York Alters—both Uncle Mark and Aunt Amy have had the corona virus but are recovered. Mark says nothing heals like a brisket from Angelo’s in Fort Worth—his nephew, my Colin, sent it. And we are all thankful and offer continued prayers for my niece, Emily, who is an R.N. at Lennox General in New York City. In recent years, she has worked on an orthopedic unit but now it has been converted to COVID-19 unit. That’s Emily in the picture above, the one in the foreground without her cap. Every night at 7 p.m. crowds gather in the streets outside the hospital to cheeer medical personnel as they leave their shift.

My mom used to tell me all things end in some good, and that’s generally the message we’re getting about the pandemic. We will never go back to normal as we knew it but will carve out a new normal, which most of us hope will be much improved. One of the encouraging signs pointing in that  direction is the renewal of the earth due to quarantine. Without so many people running around, driving cars, flying planes, the earth is restoring itself—the air is clearer, the waters purer, animals are returning to national parks and other areas where they had disappeared. Thanks to Regina Rosier for one of the most stunning pictures I’ve seen: Lake Michigan’s waters have turned clear revealing hundreds of wrecked ships on the lake floor. Having grown up almost on Lake Michigan’s shores, that’s especially meaningful to me.

A shipwreck on Lake Michigan's floor

Jordan and I “went” to church together, and once again I am super impressed by the creativity our church staff shows in these online services which combine pre-filmed segments—the senior minister preaching, other ministers leading us in prayer and thanksgiving and communion, a special message each week for children—with beautiful photography, sometimes of the sanctuary and other times of the natural earth. Today one scene carried me mentally back to the Smoky Mountains, though I don’t know for sure that’s where it was. For a hymn, they re-ran a segment from November 2018 of the entire congregation singing—for a moment  you felt like you were in the sanctuary again.

A neighbor, mother of one of Jordan’s grade school chums and today’s close friend, sent me a loaf of homemade bread. Jordan sliced it this morning, and we used it for communion for the online service. It smelled so good and reminded me of the bread my mom used to make. I can hardly wait for breakfast tomorrow when I will toast it and slather it with real butter. Jordan made herself a piece of toast at lunch, and the smell was wonderful.

This morning I read an article about how they deal with the elderly during the pandemic on the island of Sardinia in the Mediterranean. One village has had only one case of the corona virus—someone who returned from an overseas trip. The elderly live with their children, not in nursing homes which, as we’ve seen, are petri dishes for the virus. The grown children manage the household, feed the parents, minister to their needs, and visit with them to stave off boredom and depression. It struck me those are all the things Jordan does for me. I just didn’t have to move to Sardinia, and I am beyond grateful for not being in a nursing home—I watched my mother deteriorate rapidly in such a setting. I am sheltered and safe, blessed beyond belief, and eternally grateful.

Lots of gardening going on this afternoon. I think the Burtons are clearing out old supplies, shelves that collect junk, a plastic wading pool once used to house a lonely fish. Jordan has planted flowerpots along my patio, and this week the yard crew will deliver two fountain grass plants and will plant colorful penta in front of the deck. I love Spring in Texas.

Keeping busy

A post from the senior minister at our church this morning asked each of us to think about what we are grateful for in this time of stress. It hit home with me, because I have been thinking how blessed I am, so grateful for family, a safe and cozy cottage, plenty of food and wine, a dog to listen to me rant.

But there’s one more thing: I am, as I long have been, grateful that I’ve built my life around books and reading. That focus means that I am never alone in my cottage. I always have something to do, something to write.

I’ve read some memes lately about introverts and extroverts, suggestions that while introverts are doing well with social isolation, extroverts are not. Introverts should reach out and check on them, just as we should check on elderly neighbors alone. I worry about people whose whole life is built around the social contacts of work, eating out, going to the bar, etc. If they are following the guidelines, they must be very frustrated and lonely.

I meantime am a happy camper. I am reading several books and websites for a proposed project—it hasn’t been officially approved yet, but I have strong indications that it will be. The reading, which has to do with food and mid-20^th century American culture, is interesting to me.

But better than that: I have a new project. Several years ago a university press director asked if I would be interested in editing my blogs into a book. Flattered, I made a stab at it, but it seemed an overwhelming task. I have been blogging since 2006, so it wasn’t simply a matter of compiling—it meant picking and choosing, and it meant settling on a theme. Writing is an obvious one—but I began to write almost thirty years before I began to blog—if this was going to turn into a memoir, there was a huge gap.

My brother urged me to collect the family-oriented blogs, and I still may do that. I would hope someday the next two generations would treasure such collections.

But for now I’ve decided on a collection of my thoughts as I tentatively journeyed toward writing mystery. I had already compiled a few blogs, and I’ve spent the last two days excerpting more—I am now through 2007, so you can see it will be a big project. And I realize once I get them together, I’ll have to edit and provide some running commentary. Will it work? Will it be publishable? I don’t know, but for now, it’s keeping me busy and happy.

The blog’s beginning in 2006 coincides with Jacob’s birth, and as I read, I find lots about what a happy, cheerful, sometimes rebellious kid he was. And there are darling passages about other grandkids, like Edie, who at the age of four called one morning, just to say, “I hope you have a lovely day.”. Or Sawyer, who was told to put on sunscreen and replied, “I’m going in the garage. There’s no sun in there.” Morgan who kept inching away in a family picture after the grandchildren were dedicated in church—she finally ended in a corner all by herself, and she has that independent spirit to this day. I may have to go back and do this culling all over again with a different criterion.

Dr. Anthony Fauci, director of the National Institute for Allergies and Infectious Diseases, says this epidemic could last eighteen months. I wonder if that is long enough for me to sort out my blogs. Maybe, like all of us, I shouldn’t look that far ahead but should take each day as it comes.

Adaptation

Happy hour by the lake

Sunny, clear, and gorgeous today, but the lake is not mirror-smooth like it was last night when Colin and I at out there with two dogs and watched dusk turn to dark. The wind is up today, and the surface of the lake is ruffled, the windmill (decorative only) spinning fast. Even the swimming pool has tiny waves. Lisa has suggested happy hour by the lake tonight, with a fire in the pit. We’ll see how that goes.

Sophie and I are adjusting to different schedules than we keep at home. In the cottage, I usually take a short after-dinner nap and then work until eleven or twelve. Here, I’m in bed at ten—and I’m the last one up in the house. I laugh at Sophie—having once been shut into the bedroom, she won’t go in there with me unless I bribe her with a treat. But about nine o’clock, she decides it’s bedtime and crawls into her crate. When I come into the room, she looks askance at me as if to ask, “Why are you up so late?” But after that first rocky night of being in strange surroundings, we both sleep soundly all night. And she no longer sits anxiously outside the closed door when I disappear into the bathroom—the first day we were here she didn’t want me out of her sight and seemed to think the bathroom was a black hole which would swallow me.

For me, adaptation is a bit more difficult. At home in my cottage, I can roll around on my Rollator and fix my meals, take care of myself; Sophie can come and go out the patio door at will. Here, the house is on many levels, so I pretty much live in the section that has the family room, bedroom I’m using, and bathroom. For morning tea, meals, and the like I have to depend on others—and it makes me feel like a bother, though all four Tomball Alters are sweet about taking care of me. And about walking Sophie—when she comes to me and barks, I have to call for someone to come take her outside on a leash. No fenced yard. It’s a learning lesson in gratitude—gratitude that this branch of my family cares enough to take care of me and my dog and cater to our needs, cares enough to have me visit them even though my visit entails inconveniences.

Adaptation has been good in another way. Everyone here is busy—Colin working from home, Lisa getting ready to feed a multitude tomorrow, the kids busy with whatever teens do, from phones to working out. Where at home I can distract myself with everything from cooking to Christmas shopping, here there are no distractions. I’ve gotten a lot of work done, some of it things I’d been putting off.

Dogs and people, I’ve decided, are adaptable creatures, if they want to be.

No happy hour by the lake. Clouds came out in the afternoon, and by five, it was almost full dark. And then we were off to Lisa’s parents house, with Morgan driving that short distance, carefully and slowly. It was fun to see the house—they just moved in last July after some family remodeling updated floors, counters, paint, and the like. Torhild, Lisa’s mom, is quite happy with it. Now, we’re home, bellies full of Norwegian hamburgers and noodles. It’s time to sleep.

‘Night all. I hope your Thanksgiving is filled with thanks for many blessings and brings you the kind of day you want—a turkey feast or a tofu turkey, a crowd or dinner for two. Make it your day!

Grandma and Grandpa's house across the field

Somehow   going there made me think of 

Over the river and through the woods

to Grandmaother's house we go