A big, busy day

The Jim Clark exhibit at Trinity Terrace

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thoughts on a dull evening

 

Summer storm in downtown Fort Worth

Storms are predicted for tonight, and barring tornadoes, North Texas will welcome them. We need the rain desperately. And I for one enjoy a good storm. My dog, not so much. But something popped up somewhere online today asking whether or not you enjoy storms, and that question took my mind back a lot of years.

When I was growing up, my family had a cottage on a high dune overlooking Lake Michigan at the very foot on the lake, in the Indiana dunes. Storms would roll down that lake from the north, churning the water into wild whitecaps. We were of course forbidden to swim on those days, but I loved watching those storms come in, and I felt secure in our little cottage with the lake to the front and the woods behind us. My brother and I both credit our mother for teaching us to enjoy rather than fear storms.

I enjoy them to this day, much to Jacob’s bewilderment when he was little and scared. One night when he was with me, a storm took the roof off a business down the street form us, and I did think maybe he was right. I should have been more concerned.

Another night, we watched large hail pelting us from the sky—and then we went to bed. At the time, the house was being re-roofed, and I didn’t realize that only a temporary tarp had been put over the flat-roofed add-on at the back of the house that served as a family room. In the morning when I woke up, the house smelled of rain and water. I nudged Jacob, because I wanted company, even if it was only a seven-year-old, and holding hands we walked through the kitchen to the back room. It was two or three inches deep in water. All my cookbooks were ruined, plus all the y/a books I’d written that we had put out for a special sale for parents and teachers from the school across the street. In no time, we had neighbors, our contractor, and the roofing company owner on their hands and knees mopping and sponging up water. Jordan, whose birthday it was, spent the day sorting books to see which could be salvaged. I was by then having severe hip problems and could do little except wring my hands.

But the storm memory that most remains in my memory is the night Jacob insisted we go to the long, walk-in closet in my bedroom. He had outfitted it with a chair, a flashlight, my book, and a glass of wine for me. For him, a puzzle or something, blankets and a pillow, and a sippy cup full of I don’t know what. I can’t remember how long we sat there until I finally convinced him the danger was past. Such sweet memories to treasure. I hope now, at almost sixteen, he enjoys storm as much as I do, but it’s not a subject you ask a teen about.

It's been a stressful week, and the odd thing is that it’s not just me. I’ve heard it from others, some in far parts of the country. The leaked draft of Justice Alito’s papers on the Roe case have profoundly shaken most of us, sending the abortion question to the states where in too many instances laws will be written without exemptions for life-threatening conditions, rape, incest, or a non-viable fetus (such as an ectopic pregnancy where the fetus lodges in a Fallopian tube and not the uterus). And these laws will be made by mostly white men with absolutely no medical background but a fiercely self-righteous piousness.

The Ukraine invasion wages on, and though we admire the Ukrainian bravery and resolve, there is no way to avoid horror at the butchery and barbarism. And closer to home, the wildfires of the West blaze on. The Hermit’s Peak/Calf Canyon fire has now burned something like 160,000 acres. That’s a lot of people displaced, and a lot of animals, both wild and domestic, either killed or traumatized.

The good news around here is that I, all by myself, fixed my hearing aids by re-pairing them to the phone. Directions are online. It just took me a bit yesterday to remember that. And Sophie seems some better. Sje refused to eat this morning but ate tonight and took her pills. Pill pockets seem to do the trick. She still has some ferocious coughing fits, but they seem less frequent. And she was chasing squirrels today—always a good sign. Maybe we’re slowly working our way out of the smaller traumas at our house.

Rain would help. So join me, please, in praying for a benevolent storm tonight. The last couple of nights I’ve seen lightening about three in the morning but have gone back to sleep too quickly to know if it rained or not. Both mornings, though, the streets were wet.

Sweet dreams of rain, everyone! And may it rain heavily in New Mexico.

Remember taking tests?

I went to the audiologist at TCU’s Miller Speech and Hearing Clinic today. Not because I was having unusual problems, but because I volunteered to be part of a clinical study. Turns out the study is the honors project of a senior student—sort of like an undergraduate thesis. And it’s really complicated, so hats off to her and to TCU (and audiologist Tracy Burger) for providing this great learning experience.

I’ve been seeing Tracy for four or five years and consider her a friend, though I never see her outside the clinic. But she’s helpful, knowledgeable, and lots of fun. Still I went with trepidation. Do you remember taking tests in high school and college and fearing you’d failed? That’s how I feel about the audiologist and the ophthalmologist.

Today I was hooked up to some machines and had to listen to a series of beeps, raising my hand whenever I heard the beep. Okay, except that sometimes I thought maybe I was imagining the beep, and Tracy and Sarah would think I was foolish for raising my hand. My other problem was that it was a tad boring, and my mind tended to wander, so then with a start I’d come back to the present and think, “Was that a beep?” Maybe you remember trying to psych out the pattern on machine-generated tests—didn’t we call them bubble tests? Anyway I tried the same thing, looking through the mirror at Sarah, watching her reactions, noting when she stopped to write something. I don’t think it helped one bit. I was sure I failed.

We progressed to listening for what Tracy called “Shush” sounds—I told her I missed some, because I didn’t recognize that they were a “shush”—one sounded more like low-key trilling to me. That made Tracy self-conscious about the words she used to describe the sounds, and I in turn apologized. Some adjustment of my hearing aids followed and then we did the shush sounds again. By now, pleasant company aside, I was getting antsy. I never said I’m a patient person.

The last exercise was repeating words. A disembodied voice said, “You will say dog,” and I was to say “dog.” I think it would be easier if he just said, “Dog,” and omitted the “You will say.” There were a bunch of words that I felt fairly confident about, but then a static background came in, and my confidence disappeared. The test revealed what I already know—background noise dramatically wipes out my hearing. Without the static, I scored 76% (truly I thought I did 100%); with the static it dropped to 50-something. One reason I am uncomfortable in many restaurants.

Hearing difficulties can’t be solved by just turning up the volume. Somehow the brain is linked in there. In many instances, I hear a word clearly, but it just doesn’t register with my brain. It’s like it’s a foreign language—and then I’ll find out it’s a simple word like “vacation.” I miss a lot in sermons and lectures because of this. If I don’t “plug in” at the beginning of a talk, I’m liable to be lost all the way through.

The upshot of today’s testing is that my hearing is no better, no worse. And I left with instructions to play a mind game (with a musical background) on my phone for 40 minutes a week for the next two months and email a screen shot of the results to Sarah every week. (I had to be taught about screen shots too—such a Luddite.) I can do this, and I’m glad to be part of an educational experiment.

Next week: an ophthalmologist’s appointment. Now that one really makes me nervous. When they say, “Which is better, one or two?” I always want to ask, “Who’s grading this test?” Yikes.

Sunshine and problem solving

My romaine harvest

Loving this bright, sunny day even if it is still cold enough that I have my woolly gray sweater around my shoulders and my prayer shawl over my knees. Sophie, feeling better than she has in a couple of weeks, is out enjoying the sunshine instead of sleeping in a chair. Her day got off to a better start than mine—she ate the biscuit I had put out to defrost for my breakfast.

My day got better though. I woke in the night worried about three things—hearing aids, my herb garden, and the novel I think I’m writing. You know how sometimes in the night your brain gets wired, and no matter how hard you try to think of other things your mind always goes back to what’s bothering you? That’s where I was at two-thirty this morning.

I am having hearing-aid-battery troubles—one ear keeps going dead, which I could stand except that, because my aids are hooked to my phone, the phone quits when the battery goes out. The other day I picked Jacob up from a sleepover. Not wanting to disturb people I didn’t know early on a Saturday, I parked at the curb and called him. The phone rang once and disconnected. About that time, I realized that right aid had died, but I didn’t connect the two. Kept trying to call—I’d hear him say, “Juuu” and then nothing. When he finally came out, I asked why he didn’t answer and he said, “I did. You called so often I thought you were butt dialing me.” Later that day when I went on an errand by myself, I had to choose which was more important—the hearing aids or the phone. I chose the phone.

This morning the wonderful Tracy Burger at TCU’s Miller Speech and Hearing Clinic told me I can use disposable batteries until the rechargeable one on order comes in, so I feel relieved about that.

And the equally wonderful Zenaida who cleans my cottage every other week was able to undo

The out of control mustard

the extension on the arm of my herb garden, so now the light is back down low, directly on the seedlings. Last night Christian and I transplanted the basil, which is semi-flourishing, to a separate pot, and I started seedlings in the herb garden, having figured out that mix and match wasn’t a good idea. If you do three of the same things, they grow at the same rate, and you aren’t raising the arm for one plant and thereby depriving of the warmth and light it needs. I worried about not being able to raise and lower the light not just because I didn’t want to waste seedlings but also because I didn’t want to be a failure at indoor herb gardening, after my son had given me the garden.

So far I’ve harvested romaine—made a salad—and mustard greens, which I added to a salad I served a friend the other night. The plant had grown tall—taller than the highest extension of the light arm—and had flowered, which to me indicated harvest time. It was good but there wasn’t enough to make a real difference in the salad.

And I’m working on that novel, putting into play all the notes I made yesterday, trying to get to know the characters better, figuring out their backgrounds. Usually I get the first line and just sail into a story, but it wasn’t working this time. I didn’t feel I knew the characters well enough. I’m slowly getting a handle on it. Thirty-six hundred words; only sixty-seven hundred to go!

Enjoyed my weekly Tuesday night happy hour with neighbor Mary Dulle tonight, and then had sauerkraut and potatoes for dinner. I intended to add meatloaf, but the vegetables looked so good I just stuck to them. So glad I don’t have to watch a political speech tonight. I didn’t want to watch trump last night but kept it on in case coverage switched to Beto. It didn’t on the channel I was watching.

Interesting and horrifying times we live in.

Tying up those loose ends

          

  All my loose ends seem to be tying themselves up in neat little bows.

I got my car back. To my untrained eye, that fifteen-year-old Beetle convertible looks like new. To the wonderful guy who worked on it, it has a way to go. He says most of the work is done but we’ll keep fixing this, that, and the other until we get it where we (read he) wants it. This is a young man who has his own shop, builds and restores cars, only takes on jobs like mine if somebody he knows recommends it. Fortunately, a neighbor who’s a real car buff recommended me.

Kyle found three squirrel nests—in the fenders and evidence they tried to get into the hood—and something you don’t want to know about in the back seat. The black spots on the finish, he tells me, were fungus working its way into the paint—he’s gotten rid of the fungus and put on a clear protective coating that lasts five years. He’s educated me—what they use on the interior in most car washes deteriorates the leatherette or plastic, so I will not run it through an automatic wash—I’d stopped that anyway because I figured those brushes weren’t good for the top.

My car has wheel locks—who knew? And of course, I haven’t a clue where the key is. With a VW you have to get everything from the dealership, so I will buy new non-locking lugs from them. But Kyle will find a bar to remove the old locks without my leaving a hundred-dollar deposit at the dealership.

This car detail wasn’t cheap—but it, like the repairs I had done a year ago, beats buying a new car. I’ve thought about this and decided that for people like my kids, who trade cars every five years or so, such detailed care isn’t necessary. But it is if I want to baby an elderly car along until, someday, it will be a collector’s item. VW is apparently not going to make any more of the Beetle convertibles.

Our electric gate across the driveway is fixed, and I now know where the reset button is if it gets stuck (I’ve only had it fifteen years or so). I feel much more secure at night with that gate closed, and I’m grateful to Lewis Bundock, who has kept my house in good shape for twenty-five years. He fixed the gate in five seconds first thing this morning.

I picked up new pills for Sophie from the vet. She still sounds like she has a stuffy nose, but I don’t hear the wet breathing I did. The pill loosened up things apparently, with some side effects that created cleaning chores for me.

I retrieved my debit card from the restaurant without incident.

My hearing aid is fixed, sort of, and I have had a lesson in cleaning. I had that lesson before, but the aids were new, and I guess it was all too much to take in. Now I’ll be better about it. We’re experimenting with batteries and chargers to try to determine why one aid kept losing its charge. I’ve had hearing aids for years, but the big thing about these is that the phone talks directly to them, so I can stop saying, “Pardon me?” Too often I lapsed into “Huh?”

I succeeded in renting a huge house in the Hill Country for my family of sixteen for next Christmas. We’ll all be under one roof with things like a pool table and foosball to keep kids from getting bored. And maybe, just maybe, the adults can take side trips to some wineries.

I promise (I think) no more health reports but this last one. Yesterday I got the report on blood work done the week before, and my anemia has improved greatly which almost certainly erases the threat of the underlying disease the hematologist was scaring me with and the possibility of an unpleasant procedure. Since I feel better than I have in years, I did not take kindly to her comment that if I had what she suspected I wouldn’t know it. I think she needs to work on her bedside manner. I hereby declare myself healthy.

Tonight, German hot potato salad—Christian’s favorite—with a new brand of sausage (called kiolbasa). Christian waxed eloquent about the fact that I’ve been fixing this dinner for him for almost twenty years. It’s a recipe I fiddled with to “improve” it. I had sauerkraut with my potato salad—I’d seasoned it with caramelized onions, brown sugar, and white wine. So good, but neither Jordan nor Christian would try it, although he admitted it smelled good. I tried to point out that he tried sugar snap peas for the first time recently and liked them and maybe the same would be true. No sale.

Happy weekend everyone!

Loose ends—or as my professor/friend calls them, “brush fires,”—kept me busy all day. I was dealing with transferring some funds to a more conservative site which meant talking to Colin frequently and to the broker, hashing out details, reminding the broker that I have four beneficiaries, not three, and my estate is all planned. Then I had to set up an online account with the brokerage company—a nice young lady talked me through that.

Next on my list was what to do with my mother’s dressing table. Doesn’t sound like a big problem, does it—but it is. My brother has it, decided it doesn’t fit in their house, put it in the garage, but is reluctant to sell it. Yikes! Of course, I don’t want to sell it—it matches my bed and the marble-topped buffet squeezed into my bedroom. But there’s no room in the cottage—or wait. Is there? If I moved Mom’s sewing cabinet to storage and my childhood rocker, maybe it could go next to my bed. But it might crowd the room visually. I called and asked Cindy to measure it, having previously asked her to send a picture so I could share with the kids. She laughs at all this, but I don’t think she understands how serious we all are about my mom’s stuff. So, having done all that, Colin calls and says he might take it. That meant I had to figure out why I had the wrong email address for my oldest child—and re-send the pictures.

Besides, I had another problem on my mind to share with him, and he had momentous news of his own. More on all that later.

As I sat at my desk checking emails, etc., this morning, I was aware that I could hear Sophie breathing. You know that wet sound when a child is all stuffed up? That’s how she sounded. I went back and forth, trying to catch the vet between patients. Finally got him, and he prescribed a new medication that I will pick up tomorrow. Meanwhile Sophie seems some better, but I have seen these temporary resurgences before. I’ll get the medicine tomorrow.

My car is in the shop, mostly for cosmetic repair which really turned out to be repair of damage done by the environment, by commercial car washes, etc.  The shop owner who was detailing it called this morning and said he had to rotate the tires and get an oil filter for it. Then he called this afternoon to say the car has wheel locks and where is the key? I should know? I didn’t even know what wheel locks are, and I sure don’t have a key. Spent some time on the phone tracking down a solution but, as always with a VW, I landed back at the dealership. They will sell me equipment for removing the locked lugs and replacing them. “You can do it yourself,” a cheery voice said. Did she know she was talking to an eighty-year-old woman on a walker? But when I investigated further, asking about having them change out the lugs and rotate the tires, she began to talk about labor charges. Volkswagen is notorious for their labor charges, plus I would have to wait at least an hour and a half while the work is done, since I’m not mobile enough for their shuttle. I opted to pick up the parts and have the same mechanic do it. Please pray that I do not have a flat between now and then.

My left hearing aid won’t keep a charge. I’ve been experimenting with it for days, hoping to pinpoint the problem. I was to see the audiologist at 12:45 tomorrow—until I found out I wouldn’t have my car. I asked to reschedule. Then I found out I would have the car, albeit without tires rotated. I reinstated the appointment. And the hearing aid quit about one o’clock.

To cap the day off, I went to dinner with friends. The Tavern has absolutely the best hamburgers I’ve had in forever, and I enjoyed my meal and the companionship, though it was noisy. Until I realized I came home without my debit card. So add that to my errands for tomorrow.

My brain is still whirling, and I’m tired. No wonder.

The Joy of Things Going Right

Chicken soup for the soul--and the body

We all have them, days when nothing goes right. In spite of a positive doctor’s appointment, yesterday was one of those days for me. My hearing aid, newly repaired, wouldn’t hold a charge; my computer didn’t recognize me, and every time I clicked on a link it flipped me to a “Guest” screen from which I could not escape; I was having trouble wrapping my mind around putting a photo log together, and some photos I wanted were held in copyright by what appeared to be a mammoth commercial enterprise rather than the nice academic archives I’m used to dealing with. And Jordan was still sick, suffering from “the flu that I not the flu.”

Today the world looks much brighter. After a long overnight charge, the hearing aid appears to be working fine, and I am hearing a balanced world again, instead of all in my right ear. Makes a difference in phone conversations especially.

This morning I called the IT help desk at TCU and they did their magic thing where they can take over my computer. Knock on wood, I haven’t seen that guest screen since. I’ve begun to figure out the photo log, saved some photos, ordered others—it’s like taking two steps forward and one backward, slow and discouraging but I am gradually moving forward. I called the commercial repository of newspaper photo and talked to a most helpful young woman, so I sent in my request. No answer yet but I am hopeful.

Kind, sweet neighbor Mary was here for happy hour last night and went home and made Jordan chicken soup in her InstaPot, delivered it today, and I think Jordan is already feeling better. Perhaps cheered by the kindness of others.

At any rate, the world looks better to me, and I think there’s a moral there, though I haven’t for sure figured it out. Maybe it has do with patience—if you avoid a tizzy and wait patiently, most things will right themselves. But then again, I am not a believer in passivity—I think you have to nudge things into going right, which I did today with phone calls and some calm, rational (I hope) thinking about the mechanics of a photo log.

Did I really have to this old before I learned about photo logs? An archivist friend says she can’t believe I didn’t work with photo logs during my long years at TCU Press, but I was editing text and wasn’t in production. Authors brought us their photos, and the production person (mostly my good friend Melinda) dealt with them. I do remember though one author who brought us boxes of unlabeled photos with no indication of where in the book they should go. Those were different days, pre-computer I’m pretty sure.  The late Jerry Flemmons, a travel writer and essayist of great skill, brought us a box of clippings from which we cobbled a book of essays—the work included keying in the text, because nobody had digital files back then. Computer technology has brought us a long way and made life easier—if you can figure out how to harness it. I’m a medium—fairly literate about computers but woefully under-utilizing them.

I have let my mind wander to the business of the encounter between Covington Catholic School boys and the indigenous people. I have seen clips, read interpretations, and kicked myself for being gullible and not following my instinctive belief that the kids were at fault as well as some of their antagonists—but not Mr. Phillips who was trying in his own way to defuse the situation. Today I watched a clip of Nicholas Sandmann on the TODAY show, and I want to reassure Savannah Guthrie—not that she, a consummate professional, needs my reassurance. But she’s been criticized for being too soft on Sandmann; had she been harsher, she’d have been criticized for bullying a youngster.

My impression was that someone had taken that young man out behind the wood shed and given him a good thrashing—figuratively, of course. Gone was the supercilious smirk, and missing was his red hat and the jocular support of his fellow students. Not that I think his parents had anything to do with this transformation—they simply hired a public relations firm. And I think that’s the answer—the experts coached him carefully, so that he appeared as every mother wants her so to appear—respectful, thoughtful, honest. Racism, he said with a straight face, is not tolerated at his school. Not what I read elsewhere.

I am not for a minute convinced. But I agree with many who have said that if they had been in his situation and responded as he did, they’d have gotten a walloping or been grounded until they were twenty-five. There’s a moral there too—spare the rod and, well you know the rest.

World Kindness Day

Green shakshuka

"How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a weary world." William Shakespeare

It’s a little late in the day to remind you, but today is World Kindness Day, an international marking of the importance of creating a kinder world by celebrating and promoting good deeds. Can you think of something you did to make someone else’s day better?

All I can think of that I did today that might count was to cook dinner for a treasured old friend. We had a jolly happy hour with Jordan, my neighbor Mary, and dinner guest Nancy. After the first two left, I fixed Green Shakshuka. Shakshuka is a Mediterranean dish of eggs poached in a sauce of tomatoes, chili peppers, and onions, commonly spiced with cumin, paprika and cayenne pepper.  I have made and enjoyed traditional shakshuka, with the tomato sauce, but tonight it was a green sauce.

Of course, I fiddled with the recipe a little. The recipe called for Swiss chard, but I’m not particularly fond of chard so I used spinach, which I like a  lot. Worked well—and Nancy commented on how good the spinach was—but I think the chard wouldn’t have wilted down so much. Another time I might simply use more spinach. I followed the directions and sautéed onion and garlic, but I’m wondering if green onions might not have been a good idea. When the spinach wilted, I added a bit of cream, and then made four nests—to hold four eggs that poached in the sauce (in a skillet with the lid on).

The toppings for serving were almost as much trouble as cooking the dish. Cotija cheese—but I used goat cheese; sliced avocado; sliced jalapeno (I fixed it for Nancy but passed for myself); chopped cilantro; lime wedges. I do have to say it was pretty good—the lime really finished it nicely..

Even made dessert tonight. An apple crisp that was so easy and delicious—when my Gourmet on a Hot Plate page is up and running (http://www.gourmetonahotplate.blogspot.com ), that’s one of the first recipes I’ll include. Since I had the cream I’d used for the shakshuka, I offered cream with the apple crisp. A satisfying meal.

My other notable accomplishment of the day: an appointment with the audiologist. I now know how to make a phone call and leave the phone of my desk, while the sound goes directly into my hearing aids. Jacob accidentally discovered it last night playing a video he did when he was about five, and it nearly blasted me out of my seat. Today, with more control, I played it again and thought nostalgically about how cute he was, singing, “I’m uphappy today,”—his own arrangement and creation.

It’s not too late—go do something kind for someone. This tired old world needs every act of kindness we can give.

Whoosh! What a day

My day started early with an appointment to be fitted for new hearing aids. I’m excited about this, especially since I have a difficult time hearing on my cell phone. I don’t even want to talk about how old the ones I have are, but the new ones will be about a third the weight and half the size. Sound quality is dramatically better, and I’m told I will be able to talk on the phone without holding it to my ear. Noisy restaurant? No problem. I’ll just put my phone in front of you, and then both the phone and my aids will transmit. Can’t wait.

And after all the fuss I made about getting my car back, I don’t get to drive it often, so it was a treat to go all by myself to the hearing clinic. Made me feel like a grown-up girl. Also made me sad, because even close to our neighborhood I discovered new houses, new condos, buildings that have sprung up overnight. Development is destroying what was a neighborhood of modest charming bungalows, particularly around the university, and replacing them with condos and the dreaded stealth dorms. I am so dedicated to preserving the inner city that this destruction hurts.

After that, the day was a mess, though mostly in a good way, I guess. The mowers who couldn’t come last week because of rain came today and plowed through about five inches of weed growth—fungus killed much of our grass. What excites me is that they leveled off the ground cover, so now it should grow thicker instead of leggier. But they were noisy folk. And then the air conditioner guy came and was here for two hours. Don’t get me wrong—I’m as grateful as can be, but it was my nap time. 

While he was working, I was struggling with computer problems, one of which I finally resolved but not to my total satisfaction. The other, an email glitch that keeps me from communicating with two groups I value, continues to plague me. Most frustrating.

A bad day too because it started with Jordan delivering the news of a neighborhood tragedy, a family who lost a grown daughter in a wreck. Later in the morning I heard her ordering a large sandwich tray, fruit bowl, tea, etc. and I asked who we were feeding. It was of course for the bereaved family. It struck me that the custom now of assigning different nights to different people to provide a full meal in such a situation is a good solution, but I was raised to believe you cooked for the bereaved. I have made and delivered a lot of casseroles in my day, and somehow the idea of “store-bought” food seems a little less personal. You used to take a ham, or a big bowl of potato salad, or a cake. I remember once taking a batch of blueberry muffins (homemade of course) in a pretty basket. The times, they are a-changing.

A non-event day

Here’s a touch of lightness for a non-event day. As I posted the other day, I finally, reluctantly got rid of Sophie’s chair which just didn’t fit in the cottage. Jordan’s friend (and mine), Chandry, had some of the men at her business pick it up. I asked if anyone was going to use it, and she said, “Yes, me. I’m going to put it in the cabana for the dogs.” So, here’s Lulu, sitting in Sophie’s chair (note on dirty it is). Shh. Don’t tell Soph. Without her chair, Sophie has taken to sleeping on my bed, which is okay with me Once I get in bed, she doesn’t stay long. Except she seems to sense the times I really want to go right to sleep, and then she’s desperate for affection, nuzzling me, squirming up close, persistently begging for affection Dogs, how can you help but love them?

Nice breakfast today with my Book Ladies group that meets monthly. They are all women whose lives have had to do with books—librarians, teachers, bookstore owners, a couple of authors. Most of us are retired now, but we still talk books…or politics…or families. It’s a loose group to say the least. I look forward to it in part because it’s the once-a-month time I allow myself potatoes for breakfast. Thanks to Carol Roark for faithfully hauling me to the Grill for these meetings. I will be so glad when I can drive again, but that’s still a bit away.

I always have a problem hearing at that crowded table—twelve or more women this morning. To compound my difficulties, I forgot my hearing aids. And found I could hear about as well without them as with them.

A couple of exciting things today, well—exciting for me. I got the revised cover for the novella, plus the editor’s comments and suggestions. Her structural suggestions were really helpful—scenes that left the reader hanging, an unsatisfactory conclusion, and the like. Introducing a guard dog and then not involving him in the story is like introducing a gun and never shooting it, she said. So now the dog is part of the action.

But I spent a lot of time today laboriously adding all those commas I left out. Don’t get me wrong—I’m a huge fan of the Oxford comma, but sometimes I forget even that one. Glad it was a novella and not a full-length novel. At this rate, I’m on track to publish in late June. Will send to the formatter as soon as I give it one more reading. Help me spread the word—another Kelly O’Connell Mystery on the way. Watch for it, please.

A fella's 10th birthday is a big deal

 

Jacob turned ten on Monday, appropriately feted with a kids party at Main Event on Saturday and a huge dinner party at Joe T.’s on his actual birthday. I could not go to Joe T.’s—we thought about it, decided it would be too much trouble to get me in and out, and I’d get too tired sitting in the heat for a couple of hours—makes me sound like a wimp, doesn’t it, but there were extenuating circumstances. After Joe T.’s a small group came back here and Jacob got his big present—an RC car.

There’s a whole RC world out there I didn’t know about, and cars are apparently a big deal. Marc, stepfather to Jacob’s good friend Hayes, is an RC hobbyist and will be giving Jacob lessons etc. He and Hayes painted a second shell for Jacob’s car in Baylor colors—Jacob’s favorite. My grandson was thrilled. RC technicalities, etc., were the talk of the evening; Amber, Hayes’ mother, said she can’t even park her car in the garage because the RC cars are on her spot.

It’s apparently an expensive hobby. Lewis, contractor for our renovation, told me his brother had RC planes and thousands of dollars invested. One day one of the planes just kept going, in spite of Jim’s frantic signals to it to come back.  Nobody ever saw it again, and Jim got out of that hobby soon after. I fear Jacob is on the road to an expensive hobby, with Marc and Hayes as co-conspirators.

Other news from the home front: Sophie got a haircut today, and I didn’t realize it was a new person. I told Jordan to tell her just the usual but this new lady didn’t know what the usual was. Result: too close on the head and face, so now she looks like a sad cocker spaniel instead of a perky bordoodle. So hard to get groomers to do the right cut on these dogs. But the saving grace is that it will grow out in a month.

And my woes continue: this morning one of my hearing aids simply refused to connect. I tried several batteries and nada. I can limp by with one but it’s awkward. These days I see the audiologist at TCU—and with school out, she’s on vacation until at least mid-August. Will ask Amy to take it back to the place where I bought it. I thought maybe it was still under warranty but I got them in 2011. Who can believe?

A very social day today. Kathie came for lunch, bringing pea soup (which she knows is my favorite), wonderful turkey, white cheddar, and Granny Smith sandwiches with honey mustard, and small berry cobblers. She stayed for a good long visit, and it brightened my day. Betty, who faithfully comes on Wednesdays, brought lasagna for supper, and we too had a good visit.

An occupational therapist came, put me through a series of easy physical tests and kept saying “Excellent!” I guess I passed because he isn’t coming back for two months. Home health is great, but they are in your face every day. I had to cancel an LVN for tomorrow because the used book salesman is coming. The nurse visits every week, so we have to squeeze her visit in tomorrow or Friday. Jordan worries about my not having social contacts—not true is home health has anything to say about it!

Huh? The world of the hearing challenged

I had an appointment with a new and very helpful audiologist today. I've been "hearing challenged" for twenty years or so, many of them spent in denial. Not me, I said. I never listened to loud music much. I didn't fly in a lot of airplanes. I finally got over my denial when I read that women who had been given a certain combination of hormone therapy were experiencing early hearing loss. My family pushed, shoved, and threatened not to talk to me if I didn't do something about it. The first EENT doctor I went to said I needed an aid in at least one ear, he didn't care which one, and had his audiologist hand me a pair to take home and try on. No testing, no fitting, no directions. I declined, went to a commercial audiologist and was tested, fitted with aids, and seen every three months. Three pairs of hearing aids later (and they are not cheap!) my hearing is still a problem.
In really noisy restaurants, I might as well rudely pull out my cell phone and occupy myself because I can't hear a word; church is difficult but I catch most of it; even a gathering of six for happy hour in my own home was difficult for me today. I kept waving my hands and saying what we say to the grandchildren, "Inside voices! Inside voices!" The phone is impossible and particularly difficult with my brother who gets upset when I can't hear and don't tell him. And this morning Jordan was trying to say "warm, wet washrag" to me and she might as well have been speaking Greek. I had to hand the phone to Jacob. Sometimes, you can hear the person talking clearly but the comprehension just isn't there. As a result, I'm probably really rude to telephone solicitors, and every once in a while I come close to missing an important call because I don't understand what's being said.
Today I learned that I haven't had my hearing tested in four years; nor have my hearing aids been adjusted to my changing needs. I was tested (actually improved a bit), the aids adjusted. I learned how to hold the cell phone so that the speaker is directly over the receiver of my aid instead of squarely in my ear. I was challenged to wear my aids all day every day so my brain wouldn't have to keep trying to adjust. Other hints included sitting as far from loudspeakers as possible in restaurants, and sitting with my back to the noise. There's more to be done, but I feel encouraged tonight. When I came home at lunch, even the domestic sounds of rattling around in the kitchen sounded loud.
Hearing loss, as I've learned, can isolate you, even from friends you care about, and it frustrates those around you. I'm going to keep working at this. And if you're in denial, as I was, go do something about it. You'll be glad.