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 bit of borrowed wisdom and some kitchen fails

 

Sharon's happy hour

An online friend, one of those I’ve never met in person but consider a good friend, had a birthday recently, and for her birthday resolve she vowed to follow her mother’s advice to “look up and out” rather than look “down and in.” If you look up and out, you focus on the world outside yourself and what you can do to make it better. If you look down and in, you are focusing on yourself. Such focus leads to self-absorption as opposed to a lively interest in the world around you. I can think of lots of reasons to avoid self-absorption—the people I know that spend their days looking down and in tend to be boring, unhappy with their lot in life, obsessed often by minor illnesses. On the other hand, have you recently met someone who seemed genuinely glad to meet you, interested to know who you are and to share thoughts with you? That person is looking up and out. I thought it was such a perfect way of encapsulating attitudes toward life that I wanted to share.

But I must admit I’ve been looking down and in a bit lately. One of the ways I define myself is as a pretty good cook. I may not write recipes and I may be challenged by such things as crispy tofu in lemon-tahini sauce (really?) but I can tackle most basic dishes, even some fancy ones—okay I do really want to try Beef  Wellington. I can even often fiddle with a problematic recipe and make it work out. And I enjoy doing all that. So kitchen fails upset me more than I should allow them to.

Friday night I was dining alone and decided to treat myself to a piece of salmon. I’d seen a recipe for roast salmon filet with a horseradish glaze—I like horseradish as well as the next Englishman (perhaps an inheritance from my dad) so I tried it. Probably the recipe was a mistake in judgment on my part in the first place. The recipe was for four servings, and I was adjusting it to one. Plus the lovely piece of salmon I had was the tail end of what had apparently been a whole half—rather thin, so I adjusted the amount of glaze and the roasting time. Even so, I ended up with a piece of slightly underdone fish with a thick sauce. I dislike overdone, dry fish and I love sashimi, but this piece was just thick enough I wanted it done more. And the sauce didn’t make things better. Fail #1.

The next night I was expecting three people for supper—Jean, who often has supper with me, and Greg and Jaimie, who usually come for happy hour. I went all out—made an overnight salad the night before, spent a bit of time that day making broccoli/cheese soup according to a Southern Living recipe. Jaimie, who is an excellent cook, brought a spinach/artichoke dip, and I immediately sensed one problem. I should have provided the appetizer, so that the total menu had a plan. As it was, we had a lot of vegetables. As Greg suggested, a lot of roughage that might have consequences. And everybody ate so much of the dip, they weren’t hungry for dinner. Especially Jean,, who didn’t try the soup at all. Then it turned out Greg can’t abide broccoli. I said the soup had a lot of cheese, and he said he’d try it. But he didn’t. Jaimie and I were the only ones who ate it, and she took a baggie home for lunch, but I think she did that to make me feel better. Anybody want broccoli/cheese soup? I have it in the fridge, and I’m kind of soured on it now. It used to be my Jamie’s favorite, and I’d long been thinking I’d like some but hadn’t cooked it because Christian, like Greg, abhors it, can’t even stand to be in the house when it’s cooked. Jacob loves broccoli, but he’s not been around much for me to try it on him.

So tonight I sort of redeemed myself. Tuesday night is the night Mary comes for happy hour, and tonight we included longtime friend Sharon in honor of her birthday tomorrow. I stuffed mushrooms with my mom’s cheese mixture, made a spread with a cream cheese/curry base topped with cranberry chutney and garnished with green onions, and trotted out the rest of the ranch dip I’d served last night. I think Sharon felt well feted, and I felt redeemed a bit. The mushrooms were really good, but one problem with ordering your groceries is that you don’t get to choose the mushrooms—I have never stuffed such tiny “shrooms.”

Anyway I feel better about things now, maybe for having gotten this off my chest. Tomorrow, I think I’ll pitch the soup (my mom would be so horrified at the waste) and make the family spaghetti for supper. And maybe tonight I’ll dream of Beef Wellington.

That edgy period before the holidays

 

Porter, content in my closet

Subie and Phil came for happy hour tonight, bringing Porter, his seeing-eye dog. Porter usually goes out in the backyard and ignores us, a behavior that puzzles Sophie who laps up company attention all she can. Today, however, the yard guys, with noisy lawnmowers and blowers, arrived about the same time the Greens did. The difference in dog reactions was remarkable. Sophie, as she always does, turned tail for the house and once safely inside, barked ferociously. Porter, on the other hand, was not going to let some guys with stupid equipment force him out of the yard, and Subie had to go out and almost literally shove hm into the cottage. Then he wandered down the hall to my closet and spent the entire time there. I was glad Subie got him inside, because some of the crew seem to be afraid of dogs, and I thought a dog his size would really keep them out of the yard.

Meanwhile, Sophie is barking in fits and stops but especially when they come close to the cottage with their blowers. So Phil decides he has to leave because of the barking. It took three of us to convince him it wouldn’t last long, and, no, he couldn’t get down the driveway right now, because they had blown the leaves into big piles—an obstacle course. Our oak trees are shedding heavily and yet still have an abundance of leaves. The pecan by the patio is through, but now the oak leaves migrate to the patio, so Sophie brings them in. I sweep every day. Phil stayed, Sophie quieted, and we had a jolly visit. Except for Porter, who remained in the closet.

In a strange way, a week before the holiday, I seem to get over the sociability part of the holiday. Tonight was not a holiday celebration—no gift exchange, no fancy appetizers nor special holiday drinks. I had warned them: leftover appetizers, which turned out to be ends of this cheese and that. Jordan cut them up and made a nice display. Just good friends getting together in a relaxed visit. At least for me.

This is the edgy time, when I’ve pretty much done all I can for the holidays, and I think, “Now, what?” Some wrapping and cooking details require Jordan’s attention, but for her it’s the busy time. She is, however, a dedicated list maker and has long lists of groceries from various stores. And truth to tell, she has a lot more responsibilities than I do. I remember those days. In fact, I remember when we celebrated Hannukah and Christmas—with four children. I had spread sheets of who got what on what day.

I have been beset by enough “business” problems to distract me from the holiday planning. Not the business of being a writer, but that of daily living. It’s the time of year for quarterly taxes and property taxes, and I need to have the trees trimmed by a real arborist (I’m already signed on for that). Now I need to wait for the plumber to fix the kitchen sink and pray that he doesn’t have to wait for a part—that suspicion lingers in my mind, but then I am given to worrying. I need to make a couple of doctor appointments, not for anything urgent but for check-ups. I figure a woman my age who spends as much time at the computer as I do ought to have her eyes checked regularly. And then, for a blue-eyed blonde, there are always skin checks. But those are the things you put off until “after the holidays” so that now they just hover in my mind. I must pursue that free offer I signed up for which suddenly committed me to a year-long, expensive contract, but I did find out today the reason the nephrologist didn’t get my check is that it never cleared the bank. So I had to stop payment and issue a new check. It’s all little stuff, details, but a pain. It’s perhaps like weaving with many strands and constantly feeling you’ve lost one or two.

With family gathering looming, I don’t feel I can dig into the Irene manuscript I’m working on nor the food of the fifties book that is turning out to be a tribute to my mom. So far, each day has kept me busy with those little details, but I figure the closer we get to Christmas the edgier I’ll get, and I am giving myself stern lectures about anticipation anxiety and all that kind of gobbledy-gook.

The plain truth of it is that I love Christmas, love the lights and the music and the fellowship and the food, but I get all keyed up waiting for it. This year, I resolve to stay calm and live in each moment, enjoying it for what it is. And then, there will come that blessed moment when all my family is together. And we can watch the midnight candlelight service and welcome the hope that the idea of the holy baby brings, whether  you believe in him or not. He brings hope for all of us.

A silly dog dream, a couple of politic laughs, and a nice happy hour

 

This morning, Sophie woke with the devil in her. She wanted to run and bark at squirrels and generally be out of control. A little after seven, I fed her, let her out, had to call her name and offer “Cheese!” several times before she came back in. But she did, and I went back to bed. That was my valued time for an hour of “second sleep.” Usually it works; this morning it did not. I barely got scrunched down in the covers, all comfy and warm, when she began that little dance by my bed, clicking her nails on the hardwood floor. I explained gently; didn’t work. So then I got a bit more stern; still made no impression. Finally—I am ashamed to admit this—I yelled at her. She went to her crate, and I was left with guilt—what if she really needed to pee or there was some compelling reason for her to be outside? 

I have heard and read that dogs abandoned in shelters cry, great tears running down their faces. So when I went back to sleep, I dreamt that Sophie was not just crying, but lying on the floor sobbing. Like a two-year-old when Mom has hurt the feelings. And then I was on the floor, holding her, reassuring her that I loved her, and so on. About that time, she came happily bouncing up to the bed and began her little dance again. We’ve had a frosty relationship all day, though I think it’s beginning to mend. Dogs do not forget, but then, neither do I.

Most mornings, I am dismayed by the news, these days particularly the genocide taking place in Gaza. But the Republicans, bless their hearts, are always good for a bit of a laugh, even if it is a bitter one. Texas’ impeached AG, Ken Paxton, has sued Pfizer for misleading the public about their COVID vaccine. His complaint: It didn’t end the pandemic as quickly as they promised it would. Even I can see the hole in this argument: wasn’t it Paxton and his good pal, the guv, who loosened restrictions on masks and vaccination requirements. Of course, the pandemic didn’t end. And it may well come again, since there is now a state law that businesses cannot require masks and vaccinations.

And then there’s Marjorie Taylor Greene, who is complaining about low unemployment in the country. What? Low unemployment is one of the signature accomplishments of the Biden administration as it avoided a recession. It’s a good thing. People are back at work after the pandemic. That’s democracy functioning as it should. Yes, it’s harder for employers to find good help, because not everyone is desperate for a job these days. But Greene, in her own benighted way, knows what the problem is: not enough women are spitting out enough babies to fill those jobs. Never mind that there’s at least an eighteen-year gap before those babies could fill the jobs. Or that Republican reproductive restrictions have made the idea of pregnancy scary for most women. Or that just maybe population growth is one of the world’s major problems. Greene marches to a drummer the rest of us hope never to hear.

Finally there’s the Florida couple, he the GOP chairman for the state and she, a co-founder of the extremist Moms for Liberty who fight against LGBTQ and sexual content of any kind in schools. They ban books with abandonment. Except, oops, on the side, out of sight, they have engaged in a little menage a trois activity, and he has now been accused of rape. Yep, those, good, upright, morally responsible Republicans. Maybe we should just assume everyone has their little peccadilloes? I don’t think so.

Nice happy hour tonight with a relatively new friend. We talked about publishing and the Texas Book Festival and book people we know in Texas—and the state of the world. Then Jordan and I made a supper of Hassebrock kielbasa and green bean casserole. A lovely, relaxing evening. And I think I’m beginning to get a handle on Christmas. Today I got the new Discover card I needed after my account was closed because of possible fraud. I am still bothered by that and want to be assured that iStock really understands I am cancelling a $700 contract I had no idea I signed. But at least I can finish my online shopping. And then there’s the text telling me I have a ticket on the North Tollway Express—since I haven’t driven in over three years, that’s a bit impossible. I think the text is phishing, but Christian has promised to help me sort it out. I hate loose ends, unsolved problems.

Still, this is the season of great good will and lots of hope. I hope you feel that.

 

That fleeting moment of tranquility

 

Sunset at the lake in Tomball

When I was young, I had a favorite spot in the Indiana dunes where I would go in the early evening to watch the sun go down. It was a pathway, halfway up the high dune where our cottage was on the ridge at the top. I could sit, accompanied by my wild collie mix named Timmy, and stare at the lake, smell the dune grass (and perhaps chew on a blade) and listen to the water either lap gently on the shore or crash, depending on the mood of Lake Michigan. I love the lake in all its moods, but I used to be fascinated by the whitecaps when it was roiled up. I was in awe of the power in that mighty body of water.

If I looked at an angle to the left, I could see the buildings of Chicago, looking like tiny sticks. Sometimes the sun was a crimson ball outlining those little black sticks. It was a moment of tranquility. Of course, at eight or ten I was too young to know I needed moments of tranquility, but late in life I often went back to that spot in my mind when life seemed to press on me.

Around the heater at the lake

In recent years, I’ve found another spot—on the edge of the tiny lake at my son’s house in Tomball. Four properties ring this lake—I wish I could guess at the size, but it’s bigger than a stock tank, smaller than a lake. Colin and Lisa have several seating areas between the house and the lake, and late yesterday afternoon we took drinks and snacks and went to watch the day disappear in shadows.
They have recently gotten a mushroom outdoor heater that is most effective, and the day had warmed enough that we were quite comfortable. As I sat staring at the lake for just a moment, I thought, “It doesn’t get much better than this.” I didn’t really grasp my moment of tranquility because there was conversation around me—Colin and Lisa, my two teen grands, and two dogs. But it was enough for me to get a much-needed feeling of peace.

Morgan and Ginger

My moment of peace

Lisa's mother's house on the lake

Today, Colin drove me to Waco where we met Jordan and Christian who brought me the rest of the way home. We had ordered fast food from a chain I thought was nationally ranked but now can cross off my bucket list. Fortunately, because we had Sophie with us, we ordered take-out—the restaurant was a loud, noisy zoo, and we would have been unhappy eating there. Instead, we took our food to a charming little park on the Brazos River—Christian went to Baylor in Waco and so knows all the little places like that. I thought our picnic was a lovely cap on a trip that I enjoyed.

The Brazos in Waco
A neat little park by the river

I have confessed here to not being a confident traveler and to feeling like a bother, but this trip put both those qualms to rest. I enjoyed all of it—from the long drive on Tuesday where I talked Colin’s ears off and made myself hoarse to the picnic today and all that came in between. I have so much to be thankful for, most of all my family who watch out for me and help me with the things I can’t do alone.  Nope, it doesn’t get much better.

It’s that time of year again

 

Although it seems a bit early to me, articles are now appearing, at least in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, about the Kennedy assassination, now some sixty years ago if you can believe that. It boggles my mind that so much of our population was not alive then, doesn’t remember the date or the event. They vaguely know about it from history classes if it’s not something that’s been censored. For me, that terrible weekend is still too raw a memory. I don’t want to read the recollections of journalists who were there, the stories about people who knew Lee Harvey Oswald, on the spot reports from the hospital about Kennedy’s medical condition. I remember too well driving down the main street of Kirksville, MO, on my way back to my office after lunch. The local radio station seemed to have lost it—the guys on the mic fumbled and mumbled, there was much shuffling of papers, and I, who did an occasional interview at the station, was thoroughly impatient with their incompetence—until I heard what was upsetting them. I went back to my office and told my boss, who immediately thought only of the president of the osteopathic college where we both worked.

That was the beginning of a long, dark weekend. Another of my vivid memories is my brother calling on Sunday morning to say tersely, “You better turn on your TV.” Lee Harvey Oswald had just been shot by Jack Ruby. I don’t remember doing anything else those few days besides watching TV.

When my then-husband and I moved to Texas, I brought with me memories of that weekend. The first time we went to Dallas and would drive by the site of the assassination, I almost had an anxiety attack. I didn’t think I could bear to see it. No, the memories are still strong, and I don’t want to read more about it, but I wonder if the nation would react today as it did then. Gun violence was a rare thing in the 1960s. Have we now become so indifferent to it, to patriotism, to true loyalty to our country (and not the faux patriotism of Christian nationalists) that we would shrug it off? I hope not. This year, the anniversary of the assassination falls on Thanksgiving Day. Will we give thanks for the example that JFK set for us, for his vision of Camelot? I hope so.

I have a new goal: I want to be a super-ager. With ageism so strong across our nation, it’s comforting to know that researchers have identified people over eighty whose cognitive powers remain at least thirty years younger. They are people who live an active life, continually challenging themselves mentally as well as physically; they are surrounded by people, and they indulge in some of life’s pleasures. So, no, isolating yourself and swearing off drink and rich foods isn’t necessarily the key to staying young. Apparently the big key is mental activity—learn to play a musical instrument or speak a new language. I’m wondering if improving my computer skills might quality.

Are super-agers born that way, influenced by genetics, or are there things you can do to achieve that status? Apparently both. We’ve all heard that working crossword puzzles can keep your brain active. So can other word games and puzzles, taking online or in-person classes, learning a new craft-want to take up crocheting? Go for it.

I have a friend who is on the plus side of eighty, a prolific writer with many novels to her credit. She has decided she’s through with long projects and had created a whole new outlet for herself on Substack, the online platform for writers. It’s not just a matter of saying, “Okay, now I want to write on Substack.” It involves learning how to increase your audience, how to use Substack’s tools to further your reach, how to plan and schedule your entries, how to interact with other writers on the platform.

My son-in-law, Brandon, is writing country western music (he’s far too young to be a super-ager) and has had one song included on an artist’s album. So when I talked to him about lyrics (I understand words if not the music), he said we must write a song together when the family gathers for Christmas. A whole new challenge for me, and I’m excited about it.

One bit of advice sometimes given to the aging is, “Get ready to be uncomfortable.” Uncomfortable as you stretch and reach to learn new things and keep your brain active. As I look around me, I realize that’s what the most interesting people I know are doing. Maybe even cooking a new recipe counts. Ya’ think?

The boys—Christian, Jacob, and several of Jacob’s friends, are off at the U. of Arkansas for a football weekend. So Jordan and I had a delightful happy hour with neighbors Jaimie and Gregg tonight with bountiful snacks, except I didn’t think my crab dip was a success. I need to taste it tomorrow, but my impression was too much lemon, and I maybe should give up substituting faux crab (Krab) for the real thing. It just wasn’t right. I guess even aspiring super-agers are entitled to a cooking fail or two.

Happy weekend!

Bringing Mom into the Cottage

For all the years of my growing up, there were two chairs on either side of the Italian marble fireplace in our Chicago brownstone. On the left was Dad’s chair, overstuffed, beige, comfortable, but not exactly a stylish piece of furniture. On the right was Mom’s wingchair, more delicate and ladylike, upholstered in turquoise because it was her favorite color. There they sat most evenings after supper, reading silently but often reading to each other. One would say, “Listen to this,” and read some passage, and pretty soon the other would respond similarly. Their minds were so in sync that they couldn’t resist sharing passages. Sometimes that sharing resulted in their reading aloud to each other. I distinctly remember that they went through all the volumes of Will and Ariel Durant’s The Story of Civilization that way.

Fast forward down the years, and Mom’s wing chair ended in whatever house I lived in. It was reupholstered several times, the latest being when I moved to the cottage and chose a light, whimsical patterned fabric. But then where to put it? Neither the living area nor the bedroom were spacious and there seemed no place. Still, I would not get rid of it because, well, it was Mom’s. For several years it has been shoved into a corner in front of my desk, with a dog crate making it inaccessible to all except Sophie who climbs on it when she needs to see out the window to the driveway and check on who is coming and going.

Yesterday, upholstery cleaners came. The couch and both barrel chairs that flank it needed cleaning. Over the phone, the owner of the company had asked if the fabric was washable or needed dry cleaning, and I said I had no idea. So two affable gentlemen came to look and do a fabric test. Their conclusion was that the colors could run. The furniture needed dry cleaning which meant they had to take it to their shop where ventilation allowed safer use of the strong chemicals involved (I hope they don’t come back smelling like cleaning fluid).

The absence of those two chairs left the living area looking barren, so tonight, before company came, Jordan rearranged and put the wing chair on the right side of the couch. I love it in that position. Not only does it look good, it seems to bring a bit of Mom into the cottage. As it happens, I am doing some work on a project that involves my mom and her cooking and recipes, so it is doubly fitting that her chair is in the living room. Not that I’m sure she would enjoy all conversations that go on in my cottage—I can see that chin go up in the air and the eyes go out the window.

But with the chair there, I think I can and will talk to Mom more. Like, “Why did you like this recipe?” and “Where did you learn to cook this?” I am delighted.

Yesterday, with no chairs, a young friend (she’s the age of my children) from the TCU library came for an early happy hour. When she settled on the couch with no chairs around it, I asked what she wanted to drink and offered my two easy choices: wine or water.

Reluctantly she said that she felt dehydrated from the heat and a lot of hauling and schlepping she’d done that day (librarians do not get the luxury of sitting behind a counter all day), and she’d prefer ice water. I already had my water, so I joined her. We laughed and gossiped and caught up on each other and TCU news for over an hour, and when she left, she said, “I’m sorry I didn’t make it a happier happy hour. Wine next time.” I assured her it was plenty happy without the wine. And that’s what struck me as important about it: I am so used to serving wine at happy hour that it was a delight to know that jolliness comes with ice water too. I look forward to a repeat.

My trivial note for the day: do you know what the latest TikTok self-care topic is: bed-rotting. Awful name, isn’t it? It means taking an extended period of time out by lying in bed, not sleeping but doing other activities. My first question was: how much else can you do? Okay, there’s the obvious quick answer, but get past that. I for one do not like to eat or read in bed, though I have been known to lie in bed, sort of half-conscious, for hours at a time, if I’m not quite right with the world. In fact, I claim I nap because some of my best ideas come in that twilight, almost-asleep period. But bed-rotting? It’s an awful term.

Sleep tight, pleasant dreams—but no rotting. (Do you know how hard I’m resisting a play on words here?)                                                                                     

Older but no wiser

 

My almost disaster dinner.

Recently I saw a Snoopy cartoon that advised, “Don’t worry about getting older. You’ll still do dumb stuff. Only slower.” I must have felt obligated to prove it true last night while cooking supper. Jordan and I decided on salmon patties and a marinated bean salad. I had seen a “fancy” recipe for salmon patties but at Jordan’s request went with the old and plain way my mom did them. But one new trick I learned (hat tip to Mary Kay Hughes) is that they hold together better if you chill them before frying. So I used two small cans of salmon and made six patties. Put them on a plate in the fridge to chill. (Another tip, this from my mom: throw a handful of instant tapioca into meatloaf or salmon patties or anything you want to hold together—you’ll never know it’s there, but it works magic.)

The bean salad was already in the fridge “blending its flavors,” but I remembered I hadn’t put in the lime juice, so I got it out. And there I sat, bowl of salad in my hands, as I watched in awe as the plate with the patties sailed out of the fridge in a perfect arc and then curved downward to land upside down at my feet. I felt like I was watching something in slow motion and absolutely incapable of doing anything about it.

For a second, I tried for the three-second rule: it hasn’t been on the floor long enough. Jordan was indignant: “I will not eat off the floor, and I will not allow you to.” I knew she was right. If it had been bread or biscuits or something, I’d have been okay. But not uncooked patties. We shooed Sophie away—she seemed to understand the gravity of the situation and did not try to sneak a bite—and Jordan swept it up and threw it away. Jordan got two more cans of salmon out of the closet (my extended pantry), and I did it all over again. I guess, being my mother’s child, what bothered me most was the waste: I used four cans of salmon (it’s not cheap) to get five salmon patties. They were good though, and the bean salad was terrific.

About bean salad: my cooking hint for the day is substitute honey for sugar and cut way back on the amount. The recipe I followed called for two Tbsp each oil, vinegar, and sugar. Whoa! I used 1 tsp. honey, and it was just right. My three-bean salad recipe also calls for a bit of honey, and though I was skeptical, I have to say it’s great.

I demonstrated my age another way one day not long ago. My oldest son and his family—wife and two grandkids—were going to Gatlinburg, TN and Dollywood for a week. Don’t ask my why. Dollywood is not and never would be on my bucket list, though I admire Dolly a great deal. I have been to Gatlinburg years ago and remember it as crowded and touristy but with good crafts. I once bought  a dinner set of good, heavy crockery in Gatlinburg. It went to whoever in the family when I downsized.

In my old-fashioned idea of a family vacation, you get up ungodly early, jump into the car, eat a sweet roll for breakfast while traveling, and drive s far as you can until evening. So I thought I’d just check the “Find a Friend” function on my phone and see if they’d gotten an early start. They were at Houston International Airport—no driving for them! Maybe it’s because I don’t like to fly, but flying and family vacation is an oxymoron to me.

No summer trip for me. Having had my riotous birthday weekend, I am once again content in the cottage and welcoming friends for happy hour. Neighbors Greg and Jaimie came up tonight. I had invited them to walk up (about a long block uphill) but they admitted they drove because it’s so hot. I love it when they come for a drink because we always laugh a lot. And we did tonight, over everything from Jordan’s teenage stories (she was with us and shared them) to neighborhood gossip. Sophie loves it because Greg was one of her early loves—when she was a pup, he came once a week to mow our yard and visited with both Sophie and me. Jaimie often brings an appetizer—she’s the source of the good baked goat cheese recipe—but tonight I fixed pigs in a blanket, which ended up being my supper.

Christian is at a “guys only” birthday evening, Jordan has gone off to watch a movie, and I, happy and content, am going to read. Sweet dreams, everyone.

Reviving happy hour

 

Jrdan's charcuteries

It’s been almost seven years since I moved into the cottage. At first, everyone was curious to see my digs. The idea of living in a converted garage full time was new, and friends were curious. We live in a neighborhood where many older homes, like mine, had guest cottages that were really converted servants’ quarters. Oh sure, some people fixed them up as rental property—which led to my kitchen facilities being limited by a zoning ordinance, but that’s another story. Still, I think the idea that I would move out of my three-bedroom house into a 600 square foot cottage was a bit surprising. So it was like Field of Dreams—if you build it, they will come.

And come they did, every night. Jordan and I fixed elaborate finger food, often charcuterie but sometimes other offerings such as tea sandwiches or dip and chips or whatever. It challenged my kitchen creativity, and I enjoyed it. But happy hour began to take a toll on my work time, and the wine bill was pretty high. So we began to cut back. These days, I may put out a bowl of chips or a wedge of cheese, but that’s it, and many “regulars” bring their own drinks, partly because they know my wine cellar and liquor cabinet are extremely limited and partly to help my budget. It all works out.

Tonight, however, we went back to a full charcuterie board. Subie and Phil are preparing to move to Trinity Terrace, and Subie’s sister Cynthia and her husband from Colorado Springs are here to help pack. We calculated tonight that Subie and I have known each other at least forty-five years. I didn’t think in all that time I’d ever met Cynthia, although she said tonight she thought maybe we’d met many years ago. Whatever, I was delighted to have them all for happy hour.

I spent some time debating appetizers and finally settled on a charcuterie board, over crab bites or some other favorites. I thought that would be plenty for the seven of us. Then I spent time deciding what to include—a couple of things I had in the fridge, like a really nice jar of marinated artichoke hearts and a tub of pub cheese. I bought the slightest amount of three meats from Central Market and splurged on olives because Christian loves them. In fact, I had so much I ruled out some items—like a sliced apple and honey to go with the blue cheese (too hard to serve and sticky). Jordan ruled out some leftover horseradish/crème fraiche sauce which would have been good with ham but, again, was too hard to serve. I ordered a baguette—and forgot to ask to have it sliced, a mistake I won’t make again. And somehow my grocery order included some odd chips I never ordered—they got saved for another time.

Faced with all that, I wondered how to arrange it. Jordan to the rescue—she took charge and created a beautiful arrangement. Together we make a pretty darn good team.

So there we were—seven people in the cottage (which pushes my seating capacity) on one of the hottest nights of the year. We turned on both a/c units and shut the door I usually keep open. Given the temperature, Phil did not bring his dog, Porter, but Sophie was inside with us the entire time.

Sophie getting sympathy

Soph has been a happy hour problem—bad habits have overtaken us. She has learned that if she barks enough she’ll get a treat to silence her. I’ve been trying to break the cycle, but it requires enduring the barking—eventually she runs out and settles down. Tonight we tried something new—her leash. I put it on her and kept her near me—and she lay quietly. When we finally took it off, she jumped up on the couch, apparently to tell the out-of-town visitors what a hard life she has, and they responded with appropriate sympathy.

It was a jolly evening, with Subie and me reciting for Cynthia how we’d met and some of our shared adventures over the years—the time the three of us went to the Caribbean for Christmas because my oldest child was there, or the time the Burtons and I visited the cabin in New Mexico that Subie and her sisters share. Lots of good times in our history, and I’m hoping they’ll continue after they move into the retirement community.

serious talk on jolly evening

I think our move into more elaborate happy hours is a one-time thing, although Subie has another sister who will be here soon. Got to get my thinking cap on. But Mary is coming for her regular Tuesday night visit tomorrow—I’ll pull out what’s left from tonight, and she will bring what’s left from a Zoom cooking class she did today on front porch entertaining. Leftovers are part of the fun.

If you’re in Texas—or reading the newspapers anywhere else—you know it’s hot. Ninety-five at ten o’clock as I write, and they say it will last all week. Knock on wood, the cottage is blessedly comfortable, and Sophie and I stay inside and go about our business. But the yard guys came tonight at five o’clock, and I thought what a long, hot day it has been for them. I love living in Texas—most of the time—but it does sometimes test one’s patience.

Stay cool and safe, please.

Christian cooks dinner

 

The kitchen when Christian cooks Asian

When he has the time, Christian is a terrific cook who loves to experiment. He particularly likes to cook Asian dishes, so this week I ordered a lot of stir-fry vegetables—snap peas, bean sprouts, matchstick carrots, baby sweet corns, baby bok choy. I figured if Christian didn’t have time or didn’t want to cook, I’d do it, though my results would not be as spectacular. Two things about Christian’s cooking: he follows a recipe, maybe with side trips but he has to have a recipe to begin with, and he is slow. Even when he starts early, as he did today at about four-thirty or five, dinner is a bit delayed. I often think though that I should take a lesson from him and recipes—I try to do a familiar dish off the top of my head, and I usually regret the outcome.

So tonight Christian said he looked up stir-fry recipes but was disappointed—at most they called for soy sauce but no other Asian ingredients. So then he looked up chop suey, which I thought was something that came in a can when I was little and no one served anymore. Except Christian who found such a good recipe he decided he had to make fried rice to go with it. Dinner was, as he said, delayed. Jordan came out laughing sometime during that happy hour. It would, she said, take two days to clean the kitchen. Christian is not one who cleans as he cooks—maybe that’s one place where I outshine him.

Mary Dulle came for our regular Tuesday night happy hour, so we laughed and chatted while Christian cooked away inside the house. Somehow much of our talk was about Alter family tales, crazy things that happened when I was raising four teenagers. I guess that was partly because today’s big news was that Jacob got his first job—he interviewed this morning at Joe T.’s (Joe T. Garcia’s, a world-famous Mexican restaurant for those of you not from Fort Worth). His first shift as host is Friday, and a childhood friend will be showing him the ropes. We are all excited for him—I think it’s going to make such a difference in him—a big step toward maturity. An interesting note: Jordan said he had to sign a confidentiality agreement. Joe T’s gets almost every celebrity who comes to Fort Worth, and the staff is forbidden to take pictures. I know from experience that the wait staff will use our camera to take a picture of all of us, but that doesn’t count: we are not celebrities.

And, of course, this job puts Jacob squarely in family tradition. All four of my children worked in restaurants as teenagers. My friend used to tease me about being a generous tipper and I said it came from having my children work in hospitality. There was hardly at the time a restaurant in Fort Worth that I routinely went to where one of mine hadn’t worked. And when Jacob was an infant, his dad waited tables at Joe T.’s, while working in the title business during the day. I’m enthusiastic about Jacob’s job, and since he has his parents’ people skills, he’ll do fine.

Back to our dinner—Jordan and Christian carried it out to the cottage about seven forty-five, and I have to say it was worth waiting for. Vegetables were delicious, and Christian had “velveted” the chicken which made it tender. Best stir fry/chop suey I remember having—ever! And leftovers for lunch tomorrow.

Christian's chop suey

This morning I would have told you today as Monday all over again—I had a hard time getting myself in gear after sleeping late. I was up at six and seven-thirty with Sophie and couldn’t resist going back for one last dream. Mary calls that second sleep, and I find I’ve gotten to count on it, now that Soph and I seem on a fairly settled schedule. Of course today I had to have the TV on to watch the doings in Miami, though there wasn’t much to see. Still, as Christian said tonight, the commentary was interesting. So many predictions, countless interpretations, statistics you can’t trust, and wild opinions about trump’s indictment, it leaves my head in a whirl. I have lots of opinions—no surprise there—but they are for another day, another blog. Meantime, I did manage to write a thousand words this morning—no small achievement. These days, reading the political news takes way too much of my time and cuts into my working time.

Today will stand out in my memory for a while as the day Christian made the good stir fry and the day Jacob got his first job. It’s enough.

Sophie got the zoomies

 

My kitchen floor after Sophie's zoomies

Sophie and I pretty much have a morning routine. If she wakes too much before seven, I placate with a snippet of cheese and tell her to go back to sleep. Inevitably, she wakes me again right at seven. I feed her and let her out, and by the time I’ve gone to the bathroom myself, she is back in, waiting for another piece of cheese. Then we both goi back to sleep. This morning, that all went haywire. She did not come back in. I looked out, and she was racing along one side of the yard at top speed—and top speed for Sophie is darn fast. It’s the Australian shepherd in her.

My calls of “Cheese” went unheeded. She’d run from one end to the other and then freeze, as though she thought she was a hunting dog on point. Only her tail would move, and it would wag vigorously. I went outside with the piece of cheese. Nothing. So, I went outside with the leash, having sunk so low that I was willing to pretend she was going somewhere. She ignored me. Since it was Sunday morning and my neighbors—and my family—were probably trying to sleep, I was grateful she didn’t bark much. When she did, it was high-pitched, almost a squeak—from excitement.

Finally I did what goes against my every principle: I left the door ajar and went back to bed. But I didn’t sleep. Every fifteen minutes or so, I got up to check on her. She was still running. Finally a little after nine I got up and started on my day. To get her in for her morning shot, I had to call Christian—of course she came to him right away. He gave her a shot, and I confined her to the cottage.

I had warned Christian not to leave water in her dish, but he thought she’d already splashed a bit and that was the end of it. Little did he know. She was mad at me, especially when barking to tell me she wanted to go out had no effect. She banged the food dishes around a bit and then, in her anger, flipped the water bowl and walked in it. You see above a picture of the results. I triple-mopped the floor, and it still needs to be done professionally.

One advantage—during all those fifteen-minute dozes, I did really good work in my head. Noted the next scene in the novel-in-progress and came up with a plan—and titles—for the first four chapters of pieces of my cottage memoir. When I finally got to my computer, I made notes of all that had been racing through my brain.

Apparently, however, Soph was not through with the zoomies—or at least the squirrels. I let her out a bit after noon, and she went right back to running and barking. Veterinary experts tell us the zoomies are natural to all dogs and result from pent-up energy. Zoomies are not bad for dogs—in fact, they look like they’re having a barrel of fun when they’re running. But there is always the danger that running so fast they will injure themselves. Once, before we got rid of deconstructed granite in some flower beds, Soph tore the pads on her paws badly and was off her feet for several days while we treated with salves and ointments. And let’s be realistic—she is twelve years old and has a chronic condition and six months ago was at death’s door. I worried a lot about her this morning.

The squirrels are to blame, of course. They know exactly what they are doing when they tease her, and she falls for it every time. What they say about dogs having the thought processes of a two-year-old is so true!

Tonight we had happy hour with the neighbors directly behind us. Two or three years ago, they asked me to sign an easement waiver or whatever so they could build a cabana/guest house closer to the property line. My cottage also sits too close to the line, but it was obviously built before zoning restrictions. They are good neighbors, nice people (with sons about Jacob’s age), and I was glad to do it. They and their architect—who also designed the renovation of my cottage—were most considerate of my privacy. The new structure directly blocks the view from my bathroom window, but a fence covered in honeysuckle hides their pool equipment and, besides, who spends a lot of time staring out the bathroom window? Windows on my side of their cabana are for ventilation only and are up high—all they see is trees, which is pleasant for them and keeps my bathroom private.

So tonight we saw the finished project, and it is classy. The cabana matches the house and faces the new pool. The main, two-story house has a new screened-in porch on the first level and an open porch above which must be off their master bedroom. They’ve created a lovely oasis, and I was delighted to see it. Having grown up with a scrrened-in porch in Chicago, I am more than a bit jealous.

A nice end to an off day. I may have to take a nap before I go to bed. Sophie is now calm and angelic, and occasionally I think the look in her eyes says, “Will you forgive me?” Here comes a busy week. I’m looking forward to it. You?

The gods of small (and large) appliances

 

Our front yard has a mass of cone flowers I planted years ago.
Jordan brought me this bit of cut blooms. I love the color.
Some folks call them echinacea, but I like the simple name.

Somehow, I have displeased some mechanical gods. They say things break in threes, but I think I have already gone beyond that. Last night when I turned on the HVAC unit hanging from the ceiling in my living room, just before I went to sleep, it wouldn’t open its vents. The power light went on and all that, but no air came out. I finally resorted to the unit in the bedroom, which is sometimes noisy. I didn’t set it very low, and I think that helped keep it quiet. Plus the humidity was low—I think high humidity makes such things work harder. This morning the living room one worked like a charm. Electronic things sometimes need time out to collect themselves.

But last week, my electric teakettle quit. Switch wouldn’t turn on. I figured it wasn’t worth repairing, ordered a new one. The new one is fancy—clear glass, with blue LED lights that match the lights on my electric corkscrew—and my Blue Willow plates. I took seriously the instructions which said not to immerse, so I stewed over how to clean a new pot. Jordan finally rinsed it with hot water and pronounced it ready for use. So this morning, I filled my two-cup measure and dumped it in the pot. It worked for two seconds, flicked itself off and refused to do anything else. I retrieved the box, thinking it would have to go back to Amazon. Jordan came along, said it was all wet, dried it and let it sit. After a doctor’s appointment in the late morning, I tried it again, and it worked fine.

But tonight the electric can opener won’t work. It has to be plugged tightly into the wall—I’ve run into that before—but just to be sure, Jordan pushed it in. I tried it a few minutes later and nothing. So tonight I let it sit, unplugged, to collect itself.

Meantime, the touchless garbage can has been collecting itself for two weeks with no results. When you run your hand over the opening, the lights come on, but the lid doesn’t open. When you open it manually you can feel some tension it the lid—it’s not just limp and dead, but nothing automatic works. I found today that you can order parts, but I don’t think a new battery pack is what we need. Christian has promised to take a screwdriver to it so he can get inside to the working parts—or nonworking as the case may be.

Funny how dependent we get on these small appliances. I know my mother would scoff.

Not a good day. I don’t have panic attacks anymore, hardly ever, but I had a brief, mild one today. Jacob drove me to the podiatrist’s office. I really like him and his wife, who is his receptionist, assistant, and all good things. But I dislike the handicapped ramp going into the building. It’s steep and a rough texture. I especially feel like my walker will get away from me going down the ramp. Jacob was really good, holding on to the walker, but when we got to the bottom, he started to walk away while I was still struggling with the change from rough ramp to parking lot. I got into the parking lot, no more than five feet from the car, and had that irrational thought: I can’t do this. I called to him, and he, sweet boy, came instantly, held the walker so I could sit on it. I ended up back peddling to the far door of his SUV, which was probably much more dangerous than if I’d walked. When he put out the stool so I could climb in, he said, “I’ve got you,” and I told him climbing on a stool to swing into an SUV was a piece of cake. It was that open parking lot. Nobody ever said panic made sense.

That kind of finished my writing ambition for the day. I took a nap, and Mary came for happy hour. Jordan was under the weather and didn’t join us, but we had a good visit, though both of us were a bit boring, confessing that we really didn’t know much new. I fixed breakfast sandwiches for supper so I could use up the Canadian bacon in the fridge. I intended to put them on croissants, but Central Market sent me mini croissants with a sugar coating. Not the stuff of an egg and bacon sandwich. Luckily, I had English muffins in the freezer.

So tonight, in bits and pieces, waiting for the Burtons and then after supper, I wrote 500 words. The thing is when I went back to bed this morning after feeding Sophie, a long, complicated scene came clear in my mind, and I wanted to capture it. Now I’m hoping it will stay until tomorrow, when I have, I hope, a clear day of writing, followed by supper out with friends.

Life is sweet, but a bit complicated some days.

A day of visiting and a dinner that wasn’t

 

This morning I had company for morning coffee, something I rarely do because such a visit cuts into my work schedule. But when I mentioned happy hour or supper, Priscilla said she no longer drives in the evening, so I impulsively suggested a morning visit. Priscilla is in some ways a Facebook friend—oh, we’ve known each other for years, mostly professionally, never close, not even crossing paths frequently,, A few years ago a mutual friend set up a series of monthly lunches that Priscilla and I both attended, but neither of us got to talk much.

In recent times, though, Priscilla has been one of my most faithful followers on Facebook, commenting when she particularly liked a post. She is evidence of what I continually say: for all its critics, Facebook has a lot of advantages. One is that you occasionally make new, good friends.

This was Priscilla’s second visit to the cottage, and it was such fun to see her walk in and immediately greet Sophie by name and talk directly to her. We talked about our lives, about wanting space and yet not wanting to be lonely, about TCU friends—we know so few people there now! She is off for her annual four or five months at her seashore home in Maine (yes, I’m sort of jealous, but in other ways I’m not—Priscilla, however, loves it). It was a good time, and an hour flew by. As for my work? Hey, nobody but me cares if I get behind.

Tonight, as usual on Tuesdays, Mary came for happy hour. She and I share German heritage, so I had a special treat for her—a roll of Braunschweiger. She said she’d had that brand before, and it was good. Indeed it was! Buttery and soft and mild—I loved it. Sent half the leftover home with Mary, but now I intend to put it on my shopping list.

Once again a pleasant visit with conversation ranging over a bit of everything—the neighborhood (Mary misses her old house and was dismayed when, out of habit, she drove by it and saw that the lawn desperately needs mowing); summer plans; food—we can always talk groceries and recipes. Jordan joined us, so the talk was also much about travel and Jacob’s summer and other odd bits. Once again, an hour flew by.

Jordan had a consultant from her office coming to work with her at seven, and I was to feed the boys. I hope that wasn’t the reason Mary hurried away because dinner fizzled. I planned to make Christian’s favorite hot German salad, but he came home and fell asleep on the couch, Jordan wouldn’t be eating, and who knows where Jacob was. Story of my dinner planning. I put everything away to cook for tomorrow night. I’d eaten enough Braunschweiger that I really didn’t need dinner—I was just on the edge of wanting more. So I ate the last few pigs in a blanket and called it a day.

The Colonial Golf Tournament starts tomorrow, so the rest of the week is at best  uncertain. Christian says he’ll be home for supper tomorrow, and I will play the remaining evenings by ear. I know nobody will be here Sunday, the final day. So I’m going to do some single-serving meal planning tonight.

I’m happy to report that my brother is safely at home at his ranch. He said today that he watched the sunrise from his sunporch, and his daughter sent a picture of him in as she put it, “real clothes,” instead of a hospital gown. Big progress. Now to get the wheelchair from here to there!

Life is good.

A strange sort of a day

 

Tonight a friend was coming for happy hour at five. He emailed this morning to confirm, and I wrote back that I would have the gate open and a snack ready. So at quarter to, I put out smoked salmon, cream cheese, and crackers. Jordan poured me a glass of wine, and I fiddled at my computer while I waited. Five-fifteen, five-thirty—nothing. At quarter of six I decided something must have come up, he wasn’t coming, and I put the food away—just as he walked up the driveway. Then we both fell all over each other apologizing—he insists that I said six when I confirmed. I can’t imagine that because I know he gets off work at TCU at five, and it’s two minutes from here. I may have made a typo, but I can’t find the email to find out. At any rate, we had a good visit about books and TCU and restaurants.

Christian had thought to join us, but Jacob’s car died in the high school parking lot today, so it was towed to the house and carefully backed into the driveway, with the tow truck driver holding the battery in place, so Christian could install a new battery. When James left, about seven fifteen, he, Jordan, and Christian had a good driveway visit. And I had a salmon and cream cheese sandwich for supper.

Today I finally cleared up the last of the busy-ness details that had burdened me this week. Got my Origins (cosmetics) account straightened out and was able to place an order. But it took three chat sessions over three days, which I consider a chunk of my time. Those chat options are great for me because when I get a tech in Indonesia, I can’t understand her or him, but the chat moves slowly and does take time. And often it’s over such silly small matters. But I feel good that by mid-week, I have those niggling little items off my desk and calendar.

A few days ago I wrote about my renewed conversation with the older sister of one of my best friends growing up—and mostly with the sister’s daughter. You may remember I sent them a manuscript titled, “I Wish I Lived at Eleanor Lee’s House.” Today, Leslie, the daughter, sent me a PDF of faded newspaper clippings about the daycare program Elizabeth, Eleanor Lee’s older sister, established in their back yard when she was twelve, and Eleanor Lee and I were probably eight or nine. I remember it well—they had maybe ten or twelve neighborhood kids, fed them snacks (probably Kool-Aid, yuck!), and played games with them. One summer my mother was gone a lot—her sister was dying—and I spent my days helping with the daycare children. We were all impressed that it made the newspaper, probably the Chicago Tribune, because the Harrisons were conservative. The Tribune was not allowed in my liberal household; we read the Chicago Sun-Times.

Those clippings triggered another memory. Liz and Eleanor Lee used to go around the neighborhood after Christmas, dragging home every discarded Christmas tree they could find. This was in the days before artificial trees so there were lots. They stashed them all in the backyard and made a forest. Great for playing hide-and-seek—until the fire department got wind of it and cleared out the forest as a fire hazard, which it really was. But you can see why I wanted to live at Eleanor Lee’s house! No such excitement at my house.

Today, as almost every day, I don’t know whether to weep or celebrate when I read the news. But today there are several disturbing developments—Ron DeSantis has absolutely gutted education, particularly higher education, in Florida. Public universities cannot teach DEI, nor anything that reflects a biased history, racism, etc. He even gets specifics about what pronouns are to be used, though I don’t see how he can enforce that. I hope the ACLU hops on this quickly. Many students at public universities in that state are people of color who cannot afford private or out-of-state schools, so they are being robbed of their only chance at a broad, liberal education which will help them advance in the world. And we will have a generation of people so uneducated that they are not qualified to be leaders in government, industry, health care, all the fields vital to advancing America. It is classic dictator tactics.

In Texas the gun news continues to be horrifying. You probably have heard of the Sonic employee killed in Keene, south of Fort Worth. A thirty-some-year-old man took a leak in the back of the Sonic parking lot. When the employee went out to talk to him, a twelve-year-old boy in the man's car grabbed an AR-15 which just happened to be handy and blew the Sonic employee away. Dear Governor Abbott: that is not a mental health problem; it is a problem of the availability of an assault weapon. I am not sure what the answer is, where we will find a solution, but I know that something like eighty-seven percent of Americans want better gun control. We do not have to live like this. And I am ashamed that Texas leads the way in killings.

On that note, be safe, everyone. And do whatever you can to protest. I’m thinking hard and long about it.