Rain, writing, and food, always food

Weathermen (and women) will tell us this is not the wettest spring in Fort Worth, and of course I believe them. But it seems the threat of rain hangs over us all the time. Today it was sunny and lovely—until occasional clouds came. But no rain. Still we are to expect it tomorrow. Sure puts a crimp in Jacob’s fishing plans.

I got busy about my new project today and wrote—whoohoo!—a big 443 words. No, folks, that’s not a good show for a writer for a day’s work. I usually aim for a minimum of a thousand words. But these were the first words on paper (except for the prologue, and that’s another story) and they came slowly, with hard work, and are still not right. It’s like I have to find the rhythm of the book before I can really get into it, and I haven’t gotten that yet. So I have books spread out on my desk and internet sites open, and I’m struggling. It will come, and I am not yet panicky. It is, as my mentor says, early days.

I did admit defeat. I spent yesterday trying to clean up the formatting problem embedded in a manuscript by the conversion form PDF to Word. I could do most but not all of it. At the end of a very long day, I had semi-cleaned up three chapters and still had spots I would have to ask the professional formatter to fix. I simply decided it was not worth my frustration, and by the time I finished I would still not have a perfect product. So I sent that entire reprint to my favorite formatter and started on a new project—and it went slowly.

Otherwise, no excitement in my day. Friend and neighbor, Mary, came for happy hour. I always enjoy exchanging news with her and, particularly, cooking news and ideas. She is a devotee of InstaPot and air fryer, while I am a resistant Luddite. We discussed a recipe I love which involves boiling two chickens. She said it can be done in the InstaPot in an hour or something. Skeptically I asked if it made broth, and she assured me it did. I remain convinced that I will boil an old hen to make my chicken loaf, a recipe I was given a long time ago. I am trying not to cook so much, because I have writing projects to concentrate on. But I don’t think that will be a successful resolve for long.

Tonight I had leftover steak and potato salad—the County Line Barbecue recipe. Look it up on the internet. It’s delicious. I halved the recipe Sunday, and it still made a ton. Next, I want to try some recipes with cabbage, and tonight with my Imperfect Produce I got a large head of cabbage. Ready to experiment.

As always, the international news fascinates me. I am appalled by the number of deaths among climber of climbers on Mount Everest, and the reports of climbers who said they had to step over bodies. Pictures show them waiting in line as though they were in a grocery store. Does that not give them pause? Not being an adventuresome soul myself, I can’t imagine why anyone would continue the climb in the face of these tragedies.

And then there are the deaths in Fiji and the Caribbean. Food poisoning? Why are these happening so close together? I think I read tonight of three in the Caribbean and a couple on Fiji. I’ve been to the Caribbean—when your son works there, you go—but I am thankful that he is back stateside, and I have no need to go again. I am, I fear, not a traveler. Home is so comfortable for me.

And, of course, our traveling squatting president is all over the news today. Poor guy—I don’t think he could do a thing right to please the media if he tried—which he doesn’t. He brings all his grief upon himself, from minor gaffes with royal protocol (did he really haul his entire family and staff over there at our expense?) to big things like his attacks on the mayor of London. I would say we should keep him at home, but then he issues all those disastrous executive orders. What’s a country to do? I know—impeach. But it won’t work.

Happy times. In 2020, we’ll be singing “Happy Days are Here Again!” Just hang on. And vote.

When I grow old, I shall wear purple...and red!

I did not make it to church this morning. There was uncertainty in the household about how Jordan’s 3:30 a.m. departure for a business trip would affect everyone’s sleep, so I elected not to scurry around and get ready for church only to hear at ten in the morning that my escorts were not going. I attended church via live streaming, which is a blessing.

And I was so glad I did. The sermon was about asking the bigger questions, such as if I am to love my neighbor, who is my neighbor. But the takeaway for me came when Russ Peterman quote Scott Colglazier, who was the UCC minister for eleven years (and married Jordan and Christian). Scott said there are two kinds of churches: answer churches and journey churches. Answer churches have a prepared answer for every question you ask—I would assume that encompasses their bans on abortion and gay marriage, among other issues. But at journey churches, we seek together to find the answers to question that arise. I love that approach, because I have always thought I go to church not to study ancient Biblical texts but to find the answer to how I can better live my life today. That’s a journey, and I am happy to be on that journey with my church.

My second philosophical moment came when I discovered an article by Mary Pipher, author of the forthcoming Women Rowing North: Navigating Life’s Currents and Flourishing as We Age. Pipher’s thesis is that women in their seventies and above are happier, more fulfilled than at any other stage in their lives. In our seventies and beyond, we are marginalized—something I am very aware of on my walker. But most of us consider ourselves vibrant and happy. We have learned not to expect too much but to find happiness in what we have. We have learned how to make our own happiness, how to create a good day.

This resonates with me because, after a series of fairly devastating health problems, I am feeling better, healthier, and happier than perhaps I ever have in my life, except maybe when my babies were little. There are some things I miss about my earlier life—the social involvement, the sense of being part of something important (In my case, publishing), the possibility of romance. But like magic, those concerns have disappeared. What matters to me these days is love of family and friends, and I have that in abundance. I have meaningful work and the avocation of cooking. My days are full and busy.

Happiness comes from small things—like a discussion tonight of family genetics with Jacob who was truly engaged and interested—and not from the most exciting party, the latest love of my life, the thrill of professional recognition. I make my own happiness these days.

I know all this could be swept away in an instance. A friend, much younger than I, died in her sleep recently, and the threat of a dread disease hangs over me. But I will not cross my bridges until I come to them, and I will not let the world spoil the extraordinary physical and emotional well-being I am enjoying.

Not over seventy? Not female? No matter. I suggest you read the article anyway. And the book, due out January 15—uh-oh, tax day for those of us who pay quarterly—is on my TBR list Find the article at https://www.nytimes.com/2019/01/12/opinion/sunday/women-older-happiness.html?fbclid=IwAR0QCKRtOjiyIwwFnx21EEXmC7uCpTQ4_twX4TXvg-CLH6nsjlyAd_CGHqU

Happy week ahead, everyone!