Snow PTSD and arthritis of the soul

 

The one thing I wish for in the cottage is a fireplace.
Meantime, this will have to do.

There’s a pot of chili on the stove, the little artificial fireplace is blazing away—no heat, but the image is warming, and I am at my desk with a blanket over my knees. The trouble with that comes when you have to get up and move around—your legs, accustomed to warmth, freeze. The words cozy and cottage seem to go together, but as I learned in Snowmageddon and am learning all over again today, so do chilly and cottage.

A friend said recently that Texans have PTSD from Snowmageddon. Mention the possibility of below-freezing temperatures and that dreaded wintry mix, and our nervous minds jump back to loss of power and days spent shivering under a pile of blankets, to say nothing of over two hundred people who died. We relive the ice storm of 2021, and we are convinced the grid has not been fixed, the power will go out, the pipes will freeze, and we’ll be cold, hungry, thirsty, and miserable. All week there’s been a sense of dread in the air as folks prepared for the cold—outdoor faucets were covered, pot plants came inside, grocery stores were mobbed. Folks in my area turned out in good numbers to get blankets and beds to shelter animals and hay to areas where stray dogs and feral cats are known to hang out.

What I hate most, even more than the discomfort, is the sense of ennui that comes with a severe cold spell. It’s too easy to think, “I can’t do that now—or this—or whatever, because it’s too cold.” And I feel more isolated, although Jordan has already been out to the cottage three times. The psychological effects of severe weather are almost as bad as the physical.

Sophie, however, is undaunted by the cold. She had been out three times by ten o’clock in the morning, and when I refused a fourth trip she barked at me in frustration. I explained to her carefully that she would freeze her little tuchus off, but she only cocked her head an looked at me quizzically. When I finally let her out about lunchtime, she wandered around as though it were a spring day. No squirrels to chase today and few birds to catch her eye. She looked hopefully at the main house, perhaps for a glimpse of Charlie the kitten, and then she reluctantly came in. She has not, however, learned to close the door behind herself, so each time she pushes the door open, I have to dislodge my lap blanket and get up to close the door. She is now ensconced in the wing chair, snoring softly. It’s a comforting sound.

If the phrase “Snow PTSD” got my attention, so did the title of this morning’s sermon: “Arthritis of the soul.” Russ Peterman preached, to a very sparse crowd, about forgiveness. Somewhere in there was the thought that God forgives all of us—and in this day and world, my thoughts immediately go to trump and Greg Abbott. How can God forgive them when they show no remorse, no repentance, no sign of changing their ways. In fact, they seem bent on doubling down. But, according to the sermon, there are some things that forgiveness is not: condoning—you don’t have to approve of the action, whatever is t; forgetting—you don’t have to forget that the offense happened; reconciling—you don’t necessarily have to hug and make up, things may never be the same again; and, justice—if justice is called for, forgiveness doesn’t alter that. That made a lot of sense to me.

Stressing that if we cling to resentment, it eats away at us, he quoted Ann Lamott’s familiar line: “It’s like eating rat poison and waiting for the rat to die.” It gives you arthritis of the soul. It was a sermon I needed to hear, not only because of the cruelty of men like trump and Abbott—they are such public figures, for better or worse, that we are painfully aware of their transgressions. But the truth is that the world is too full of people like that. But an even bigger truth, to me: I don’t know about you, but there are a  couple of people in my personal life that I need to forgive. I’m working on it, and the sermon helped.

In this cold weather, it’s easy, especially for those of us in our “golden” years, to be more aware of arthritis. For some, it is a crippling thing, but for many of us it’s a lot of little aches and pains that grow worse with cold weather. So it is with arthritis of the soul. The isolation and depression of an extreme cold spell makes it easy to fan the flames of resentment and exacerbate arthritis of the soul. Letting go is hard, but none of us want to be that guy down the street who is crippled with anger and hate.

Stay warm and safe my friends.

 

Taking the night off

Sophie, my companion in isolation

No blog tonight. This morning, Jordan and I tested positive for covid. We’re both okay, just lethargic and not at all hungry. I think I live such a reclusive life back here in my cottage, but it was amazing this morning how many people I had to notify, appointments to cancel. I think I got everyone, and now I’m getting you, my blog friends.

One thing I learned today and am passing along in case it will help someone else. We’ve all heard that if you get covid, you should start Paxlovid right away—it keeps the disease from turning severe. So I was ready to send someone to the drugstore, but Jordan wisely said, “Let’s call the doctor first.” I see a physician and she sees a PA in the same clinic (which is where we think we were exposed, through no fault of theirs). We saw the PA virtually, and she said I cannot take Paxlovid because I am on a blood thinner.

So my warning is twofold—if you get covid, be sure to check with your physician before you rush off to self-medicate, and if you are on a blood thinner, do not take Paxlovid.

We are to isolate for five days—as Jordan said, it’s good we can hang out together—and then mask in public for five days. So if I don’t blog, you’ll understand, I hope.

A Sunday miscellany

The first thing I do in the morning is check my email on my phone—even before I brush my teeth, make my tea, and put away last night’s dishes. This morning, there was no email in either of my accounts. That never happens, so I checked the phone—no Wifi connection. If my computer still worked, that wouldn’t be a problem. So by-passing teeth and tea, I booted the computer. No connection. This upset me because I am totally incommunicado (or so I thought—Christian told me tonight I could still have used the phone, which I didn’t realize). It worries me because I fear falling, as so many my age do, and not being able to either get up or call for help.

So, this morning, I wanted some way to tell Jordan I needed help reconnecting the router. I put SOS on a piece of paper and taped it to the window by my desk. But then I saw her come out with the dogs, so I called to her. She was one minute out of bed, not inclined to deal with a problem she didn’t understand, and not amused by my sign. Her advice: Read a book. After she disappeared, I thought if I could call her back, I’d ask for her phone and call Colin. But I had no way of doing that—or so I thought.

After about fifteen minutes, the connection was magically restored. Well, not magic at all. Apparently, there’s a wire that goes under the sill at the back door, and if you step just right, it cuts the connection. Go back and step again, and it restarts it. Makes me a bit nervous, and I think an electrician should be called. Meantime, I guess the answer is for me to just call and say, “Please go step on the back door sill.” It’s kind of like the mornings my TV tells me there are too many TVs on. I have to call and ask them to turn one off, so mine will turn on. Somehow in this day of modern technology, I don’t think we should be having these problems.

Connection restored and computer up and running, I went to church online this morning. The sermon was about disagreement—I won’t quote text, but essentially the message I got was that even people of the same faith can see things differently. Russ used the example of two people reading the same book and coming away with such vastly different interpretations that it’s a wonder they read the same book. We each see things through the filter not only of our faith but of our life experiences. The final message I got--see how tentative I’m being here because someone else may have gotten a totally different message—is that it’s okay to disagree because we are all children of God and he loves all of us.

That’s a message I hear frequently from the pulpit at University Christian Church, and each time I hear it a mental picture of Donald trump flashes into my mind, and I want to question, “Really?” I know the Milton theology (better than biblical unfortunately) about angels turning away from God, but I have a hard time wrapping my head around the idea that God loves a man so obviously corrupt, selfish, dishonest—well, you name the adjectives. According to Milton, God never creates fallen angels—they are the ones that turn away from God.

Sometimes there are reassuring signs that evil is not rampant in our world, and we certainly saw one from Martha’s Vineyard in the last few days. The way that community turned out to care for the sudden, unannounced arrival of migrants was nothing short of a miracle and certainly proof that there are a lot of good people in this world. The migrants now have been moved to a military facility on the mainland that has been used before to house people suddenly in need of shelter. Tucker Carlson says that transporting the migrants from the island just demonstrates the hypocrisy of liberals who really don’t want to have to deal with people in need. Makes me so angry, because he’s supposed to be a journalist. If he were worth half a penny, he’d know that the Martha’s Vineyard community simply didn’t have the facilities to help so many immigrants for more than an overnight stay.

Meantime, in my mind—your filter may be different—I think DeSantis lost this one bigtime and came off looking not only inhumane but a bit stupid in his misunderstanding of immigration policies past and present. He joins Gregg Abbott and apparently Ducey of Arizona.

There are good people in our world. May their numbers increase, and may karma strike some of the others, even if God loves them. As I write this, I’m hearing in my mind the ritual response to the Scripture reading in my church: “Thanks be to God.” Others may have a different filter, and that’s okay. We’re still friends.

The importance of neighbors and a big anniversary for me

 

I'm going home!

This morning I was in that delicious space between thinking about getting up and actually doing it, when my phone rang. Not a familiar number, so I ignored it, although it nagged at me. When I turned on my computer, I found that neighbor Polly Hooper had called because Marissa Shuffield on Weatherbe Street had posted on her neighborhood listserv (next neighborhood over from ours) that a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel had wandered into her back yard. Polly was checking on Jordan’s dogs.

I couldn’t see how “the girls” could have gotten out, but I texted and called, left a message. No response, and I figured since we were snowed in, they were sleeping late. Wrong! Jordan finally called. Their front door blew open in the night (that alone scares me) and the dogs had wandered. Cricket on her little, short legs had gone over two long blocks in the cold, on snow-covered ice. When she called, Jordan had JuneBug and Christian had gone to retrieve Cricket. We are so grateful to Marissa and Polly—“the girls” are tiny and elderly and things could have been a lot worse without neighborly intervention.

"The girls," with Cricket on the left, JuneBug on the right

It was that kind of a week. I almost had a triple whammy—isolation due to covid exposure, ice and snow, and no internet. I had been “talking” to ATT all week, as I posted, and I got truly tired of that mechanical voice telling me to go to the web site when I had just told him I had no connection! Finally, twice, I talked to a real person: first one was a girl who said she cleared the connection, and it should be fine; it was briefly, and then out again. Finally a gentleman believed me that Smart Home Manager, for a monthly fee, was not going to do it. He would send a new router. Meantime, I had no Wi-Fi. It’s one thing to be isolated but quite another to be cut off from what is a rather active internet life. I was even afraid to write much because my computer gave me dire warnings about not being able to save. Who want to labor over a scene and then have it disappear into thin air?

An old trick surfaced in my mind, and I did a hard boot. Magic! It has worked ever since with a few brief interruptions that I was able to fix. I decided a hard boot is like a kick in the pants to the computer.

The ice and snow were pretty, even if I did feel trapped in a white world. We did not lose power, but I hear as many as fifty thousand households across Texas did. When I let Soph out Thursday morning, she left no footprints, so I knew it was ice and sleet. The snow came mid-morning, beginning with large, wet flakes and then becoming tiny, wind-blown ones. I’d eyeball it and say we got an inch. Sophie seemed to like it and spent some time lying on her belly on the patio—I’d have thought she be freezing, but apparently not.

I bet half the households in Texas had chili for supper last night. Christian made a big pot—his chili is always delicious, though he’s constantly looking for new ways to do it. And Jordan made chocolate chip cookies, so we ate well. The night before Christian was to be gone, so I planned to make scratch mushroom soup. But when Jordan heard mushrooms, she asked for stuffed mushrooms the way her grandmother used to do them. So that’s what she and I had for supper. I’m sure Jacob fed himself something else. So now I have a half pound of mushrooms left—trying to decide between a really tiny batch of soup or a frittata. Hemm. There’s that broccoli in the fridge ….

This is an important anniversary for me: five years ago today I got to come home from the rehab unit where I’d gone after my extensive hip surgery. My hip problem was unorthodox—I don’t think the surgeon had seen it before, and he had to invent his repair technic. When a nurse wheeled me down the hall people would look and say, “Oh, you’re ‘the hip.’ Nice to have any kind of fame, I guess. There was some doubt about the extent of recovery. So I am grateful to Dr. Jeffrey McGowan, and to the rehab people for all the progress I made, and I am beyond thankful that I am as mobile as I am (I do need assistance to walk, and I refer to my walker as my chariot). The people at the rehab facility were skilled and kind, but I felt like I was in a nursing home like my grandmother was in when I was a child. I was desperate to be home. So it was a happy day for me.

Chuckle for the day: why would someone post a comment on my blog that is a sales pitch for girls’ hoverboards. Do I look like I would ever get on a hoverboard? I remember one Christmas when all the grandkids got them, and we adults were in danger of being run down by an out-of-control hoverboard. But that was years ago, and I’ve heard nothing about them for a long time.

And the bright idea of the day: a high school in Arkansas has installed a vending machine—it dispenses books. A local bookstore keeps it stocked. When the battle lines over books in schools are so clear, I find this truly cheering.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hoverboard on blog

 

Pictures: five years ago, day pass and home from rehab my beautiful girls

A reflection on pandemic

 

The last few afternoons have been sunny, if chilly, and in the late afternoon, just before dusk, the living area of my cottage—office and “company” couch and chairs—have been flooded with warm, bright sunshine. The room has windows on the south, west, and north, which make it bright but not always warm. But this week it cheered me just to walk into the room, filled me with gratitude for all the comforts I enjoy—a comfortable shelter, plenty of food, and, usually, plenty of companionship. I like to think of myself as a grateful person.

But re-reading some of my recent blogs startled me into the recognition that I have bee anything but grateful. Story Circle Network is having a blog competition, looking for the best blog post on the subject of growth. When I got that notice today, I thought, “Why not?” As I ate my lunch, I scrolled through some recent past entries in “Judy’s Stew.” I did not find growth, no gratitude either; I found a lot of anger and a lot about isolation. I think my blog—and me—is in a rut.

As many of you know I have been sort of quarantining since the New Year for reasons that have to do both with exposure and caution.  What I found today was that lots of my Lots of my posts were about isolation and anger. Isolation because my family is out and about, exposed at high-risk events, and my friends are cautious. For a while, patio entertaining was fine, but it turned cold and is supposed to do that again this week. We developed a transport system between the main house and my cottage. Mostly it consists of a grocery sack left on the step by my kitchen door, sort of in the same manner you raise a flag for service at a Brazilian steakhouse or at Pancho’s. Jordan makes many trips from back door to back door, especially since one or the other of us cooks dinner for everybody. Transporting dinner without spilling or letting it get cold has proved tricky. I posted about Jordan’s brief, two-minute masked visits to do this or that I needed, about wishing Sophie could talk about books and menus, about Sophie knowing something is different and acting out like a two-year-old. About gloomy, gray days when I could seem to get warm. About the day I just decided to write the world off and keep going back to bed—which left me wakeful during the night. Not a good solution.

And anger. I was angry at the Covid virus in all its mutations, angry at the rodeo (I tried not to be angry at my family because they, after all, have lives to lead and are not as much at risk as I am because of age and health), angry at a world where half the people doubt science and refuse to take precautions to protect others—those people who fuss about their rights and won’t get vaccinated or who swear masks don’t work and won’t wear one. Angry at Governor Abbott and his cavalier attitude about the pandemic while pursuing his own dreams of glory, at “the former guy” who let it get out of control (I’m always angry at him anyway). Angry at the world because I eat alone most nights instead of with my family gathered around my coffee table, angry because we didn’t have our annual Twelfth Night celebration, because … because … because

There were of course highlights—a visit from a dear friend back in Texas briefly after a move to Taos, patio visits from the neighbor ladies, lunch on the patio with my Canadian daughter; some good meals that I enjoyed cooking, despite transport difficulties. I’m grateful for some good writing sessions and a lot more reading than I usually have time for. But what re-reading these blog posts taught me, beyond that I need to change my attitude, is the Covid is re-shaping our lives and making us into people we sometimes don’t recognize. You can’t see the shift day-to-day, but pandemic has made us angry and cautious, suspicious of our neighbors. Who knows4 who might be asymptomatic and a carrier, even a super-spreader? And so we do, as I have done, hide in our houses, become lonely and angry. I’m wondering what the effects will be five years from now.

A wonderful visit tonight with old friends Phil and Subie brightened my spirits immensely. We met in the cottage, unmasked but with the patio door wide open. Conversation was lively, wine generous, and I felt more alive than I have for days. But I still say it’s true that pandemic has changed us as a society. I’d love to hear your opinions.

 

Cooking cheers me

Ravioli dinner with
pear/radish/blue cheese salad
One of my few truly gourmet meals

A friend posted recently that after a spell of illness and no energy, she was now back to cooking again and surprised at how much better and more energetic she felt. I think that’s true for me. Cooking renews me.

A confession: I had a pity party yesterday. It had been three days since I had seen another human being, except for two minutes when Jordan, masked, whisked in to deposit grocery bags and once when she came to stand on the patio and talk across the distance, which doesn’t make for easy conversation. It’s clear to all who read my blog that I adore my dog, but her company is not the same as seeing another human, talking with someone. Plainly, I had cabin fever. I was mad at Covid, mad at the cold weather which keeps patio guests away, mad at the rodeo which exposes my family (or so I’m convinced) to omicron, mad at the world in general.

And I wasn’t cooking. I was tired of “pick up” dinners—scrambled eggs, leftover soup from the freezer, a salmon platter. Those things are okay for lunch, but I want a proper dinner. The last good dinner I cooked was meatballs and gravy for the family last Sunday—I kept a portion for me, sent most of it into the main house, and got back enough for leftovers for Monday lunch. I have to say they were extraordinarily good.

It all changed today. In the early afternoon, Jordan and Jacob, masked, brought out the toaster oven/air fryer the children gave me for Christmas. While they unpacked and installed, Jordan made me sit far across the room. The Breville (that’s the brand)  now sits in splendid glory on my counter, unused, because I haven’t had time to read the directions. But the first thing I will fix is lemony chicken drumettes. I can hardly wait. But first I have to read and digest the directions.

My new toaster oven/air fryer
Hoping it ups my cooking game

Tonight, Jean came for dinner, and I got to cook. For some reason I had a dozen wild mushroom/truffle ravioli in the freezer—Christian won’t eat mushrooms, and Jordan’s diet doesn’t allow pasta. Jean got the brunt of my experimenting again. After much online exploration, I decided to serve them with brown butter, something I’d never made before. My report is that if you brown it slowly, as I did, it takes a long time and a lot of stirring, but I was leery of burning it. My big mistake: I added the garlic, didn’t have the tiny bit of spinach suggested, though it would have been good, didn’t want the chopped walnuts (to me they would have been the wrong texture), and—big goof! —forgot the rubbed sage that should have gone in the butter. Still, it was really good, although I could have cooked the ravioli just a tad longer. We ate six, so I have six to cook another time and add the sage.

I accompanied this with a salad of sliced pears, sliced radishes, and blue cheese in a lemon/olive oil dressing and garnished with watercress. I did that particularly for Christian because he loves radishes. I thought it was terrific. Waiting for Christian’s verdict, since I sent some into the house for them.

But I was energized, enjoyed Jean’s company, felt good about the evening.

I have set myself a goal of a thousand words a day on the third Irene story that I’m working on. That, of course, depends on whether or not I have a thousand words worth of inspiration. Today, with having to proof the 28-page neighborhood newsletter and keep up with emails, I managed 991 words. I don’t think I’ll agonize over those last nine words. Maybe tomorrow I can do 1009. Then again, I have set myself another goal—clean out those two out-of-control drawers in my closet. And sometime, I have to do my tax stuff.

Tomorrow, per request, I’m going to cook a beef stew. I am now a convert to an air fryer, but don’t talk to me about InstaPot. I have no room for it, and no patience for the learning curve. I will cook the stew the old-fashioned way—long and slow, all day. I’ll use a recipe I adapted from a popular mystery series set in a coffee house. Yes, it calls for marinating the beef in coffee. Since I don’t drink or make coffee these days, I’ll have to have the Burtons run two cups out to me. But I made this last year and remember that it was good.

I wouldn’t say the world looks better to me tonight. I have a lot of loud opinions on the political scene in America—and the crimes. I may feel I need to rant someday soon but meantime I suggest all of you who are on Facebook read the columns of Heather Cox Richardson, a historian from Boston University. Her last three columns will make you realize how close we came to a coup, how extensive the planning for that was (no, it was not at all spontaneous), and—wait for it—what a roaring success Biden’s first year has been. I can’t repeat that too often!

And me? I’ll be making stew. Long and slow.

Observations from isolation

On a Zoom call the other day, someone reminded me of the distance between anecdotal evidence and proven scientific fact. It’s one of those things you know but so easily forget about. So when someone says, “Masks don’t work because my second cousin once removed wore one all the time, and he got Covid,” or “Every rich person I know will vote for trump for president again … my ex-husband’s mother’s third husband said so,” you believe it, at least on some level. Now that it’s been brought to the front of my sometimes-illogical mind, I am seeing anecdotal evidence in every little thing—like a dog who just discovered how good bones are! I find this both encouraging and discouraging, but it helps me discount some scary posts. I’ve decided anecdotal evidence and extremism go hand in hand.

Meantime, when I’m not leaping on obscure facts, life in semi-isolation is getting a bit better. I can, after all, see most folks, just not my family who’ve been to the rodeo. So Tuesday night Mary came for happy hour and brought crackers, cheese, and fig jam—so good. As I write, I’m having the rest of the jam on what I think was meant to be a slider for breakfast.

Wednesday evening Jean came so I could fix her a birthday supper—can you believe she is thirty-eight😊 I fixed Tuna Florentine—I’ve decided it’s one of my signature dishes, which would send my kids off into gales of laughter. After all, who fixes tuna as a signature dish? But it is one of my favorite recipes. We had mini chocolate-dipped ice cream cones for dessert and felt very festive.

Thursday Sue brought lunch from Carshon’s, and we ate on the patio on that gloriously beautiful day (with me still in pajamas). She set a precedent, and Jordan ate lunch with me on the patio yesterday. Unfortunately the cold front put an end to patio days for a while—and blew over one of the patio umbrellas as well as Jacob’s practice screen for golf.

One thing that has made life seem a bit more normal is that I am cooking again. We have a transport system between the house and the cottage—it mostly involves Jordan coming and going, but it works. One night recently Christian fixed chicken piccata—one of his best, with plenty of sauce—and another night I fixed German potato salad, one of Christian’s favorites. It’s based on a recipe that over the years I’ve altered and made my own, but it was originally called Polka Dot Salad because you chunked up hot dogs with the potatoes and made it a one-dish meal. I don’t do that for the family—traditionalists to the core, they want their hot dogs in buns. But I did mine that way—made it a whole different dish, but still very good. Last night I fixed a pork sausage/hash browns/egg/cheese casserole and found it meh, but that’s probably because I didn’t follow the directions on the hash browns. Tonight, crab cakes (on sale at Central Market), asparagus, and salad.

Yesterday it had been five days since the Burtons went to the rodeo, so they could come out here masked—and Jordan did. But then she went to the rodeo with her girlfriends last night—an annual outing—so we start the five days all over again. Meantime maybe Christian will come have a drink with me—he says he’s not going to the rodeo again until Wednesday. I need to report—this is a bit of self-justification because I know some think I’m being too strict about this and missing life--my doctor says five days isolation after high-risk events (that would be a crowded, dusty rodeo) and then five days masked. So if the Burtons aren’t isolating, I am. They do self-test frequently.

I’ve been lollygagging somewhat. Some of you will have noticed I’ve not blogged quite as regularly as usual. I have done other work—answering interview questions, answering lots of emails, etc.—but I haven’t touched the Irene novel I claim to be working on. And that finally has hit my conscience. I woke up this morning determined to write last night’s blog and then move on to Irene Keeps a Secret. I’m so out of touch I’m not sure what her secret is or if it’s worth a whole book, but I will persevere.

Stay safe and warm—it’s wicked windy out there today!

 

A bright (if dreary) new day

Someone lit a fire under me today. I have no idea who or why, but I suddenly got down to business with a vigor, despite the fact that I’m still isolated, it was another dreary dull day, and I find the sight of frostbitten plants outside my window particularly depressing. All that aside, I got to work.

A writer friend had put out a call for blog posts about writing process, wanting to hear from different people how they go about writing. I put it aside, as I did most things in the last few weeks, but I did recently rough out some answers. Today I buckled down, edited it, re-read it twice, and sent it off. My punishment for dillydallying was that she wrote a most apologetic note saying she had been flooded with responses, and at this point mine is scheduled for Summer 2023. Unless there’s a cancellation, in which case I’d be on the waiting list. But I assume many others are also on the waiting list. It’s a good lesson to act while—what’s the saying—the fire is hot? Not procrastinating. It’s also a good illustration of what I’ve often said: a writer’s life involves a lot of waiting.

But then I got busy and pretty much roughed out a newsletter. Discovered that I hadn’t done one since September, which maybe isn’t too bad since I try to do them quarterly. So September was Fall, and this is Winter, and I do promise readers that they are only occasionally—I don’t want them to fear I’ll show up in their inbox monthly. But still in that hiatus I published two books—you’d think I’d want to tell readers about that. My newsletter has fallen into a pretty standard form—news about my writing, a glance ahead (provided I know anything to glance ahead about), an annotated listing of books I’ve read that I think might interest others, some recipes, and maybe a personal picture or two. This time I will also offer a give-away—I have a nice piece of swag that I will offer. More details later, because I’m hoping some of my blog readers will want to sign up for my “Only Occasional” newsletter.

And I seemed to get more emails than usual that required somewhat lengthy attention—some about my neighborhood association, one from a friend who is having a really hard time personally, one from a man who has begun writing me about his family history—it’s fascinating and good historical stuff, but I am hard put knowing what to tell him to do with it. He would like me to write it, but I have two big projects on my desk that won’t be put aside.

I am still in isolation though tonight I sent my doctor a query, explaining all the real and possible exposures and asked for his advice. I expect I’ll hear tomorrow. Meantime, it was another solitary day, and I was at a loss about what to cook. Yesterday I washed a large head of leaf lettuce, and then had so much else in my salad that I used only one big leaf. So I asked Jordan to make a big salad tonight, and she did. But I had to put out a grocery sack with the lettuce, apple cider vinegar, dry mustard, and garlic, because those are all the things she didn’t have in her kitchen. She usually makes the salad in my kitchen and had initially said she’d come out and make a salad. But I told her I wasn’t sure we were quite ready for that. I made salmon cakes to go with my salad and experimented a bit—put some mayonnaise and a dab of mustard in them. The flavor was good, but they were a bit loose because of the mayo—guess I needed more cracker crumbs. Earlier today I made egg salad for my lunch—finally after all these years, I have found a recipe I love. It doesn’t have onion or celery or any of that in it. Just mayo, mustard, pickle relish—and eggs of course.

And Sophie must have sensed my frustration because she was very demanding tonight—which only made me more frustrated until I spoke harshly to her, and then I felt guilty. She wanted her dinner at 4:30, and I figured if I fed her that early, she’d keep wanting it earlier and earlier. My explanation about it being too early fell on deaf ears. When I finally fed her and gave her a treat, she then demanded a second helping and a second treat. And then fresh water. And then she wanted to go outside. The one time my tirade got her attention was when she pawed at my arm—it hurt, and I yelled, and she slunk away. More guilt. Now, she’s in her crate, but I will have to make amends.

See how this works? The dog misbehaves, and I make amends. The Burtons go to crowded functions, and I isolate. Something is out of whack here. Oh well, tomorrow I’ll finish the newsletter and then maybe write some more on Irene Keeps a Secret or Irene Stumbles into Trouble or whatever I decide to call it.

Sweet dreams, everyone. Stay safe and mask up!

A bit of company, a dreary day, and some work

 

These may not be my salad days,
but tonight was a salad supper night

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. Today was gray and dark, as most of you know. Not a day to inspire great joy. But, yay! I got a bit of a break in my isolation. Jordan came out this morning, masked, and I quickly put on my N95 mask. She only stayed ten or fifteen minutes—I guess I’d hoped for an hour of conversation or some such—but she did many of the small chores I can’t reach to do. Putting things on high shelves, retrieving mailing envelopes from behind the couch where my walker and I cannot go. Christmas is still up, and she said since it will be for a few more days, I might as well go ahead, light the lights, and enjoy it. I was delighted for her company. And she came back out tonight, all dressed in her cowgirls duds, to show me her outfit as they headed out for the Grand Entry of the rodeo.

Burtons a Rodeo 2022

And there’s the rub. I figure if they go to the Grand Entry—I presume Christian’s company has a box—with 14,000 other folks, they’re going to be exposed to the omicron variant. Christian has said he won’t change his lifestyle, and he figures everyone is going to get it. In my early eighties, I don’t subscribe to that philosophy. I feel quite healthy, but I know I have a couple of chronic conditions—age being one of them—that could compromise my survival of even this mild variant. I do not want to risk it, and if most people are going to get it, I am determined not to be one of them.

So I guess we are back to five days of isolation, asking them to test, etc. In some ways I am almost getting used to it; other moments, I am full of despair. Woke up this morning with a real feeling of dread—of what I don’t know, perhaps a dream. It soon disappeared.

Sophie had a bad night too—at 5:30 this morning she had a prolonged spell of coughing and snorting from her allergies. She wanted to go out, but I resisted that fearing she stay out, and I’d have to fetch her in the morning damp. Gave her a Benadryl instead—magic! She slept until 8:15. Early this afternoon, she had another bad spell, and I gave her another Benadryl—more magic! She took a longer nap than I did. I know about those people who overmedicate their dogs—and children—for their convenience, and I promise to resist. But oh my, it did work well.

Late this morning, I attended a Zoom session on plotting your mystery, taught by Hallie Ephron, who is a renowned mystery writer and teacher in her own right and the sister of the late and perhaps more famous Nora Ephron. It was good—not much I didn’t already know, but it’s good to hear some things again. As a result, I totally revised my thoughts on my work-in-progress and set about tonight reworking the paltry 5,000 words I have. Instead of losing words, I gained. Yay me!

And I baked the cranberry cake I’ve been wanting to make for days. It’s so simple, and so good, although a piece after dinner made me think it needed more oven time, and I baked it a bit more. I’ll try again in a bit.

And that was day—what? Seven of my isolation. An indication I’m ready for it to be over—I have a list of restaurants, new and old, that I want to go to. How soon, O Lord, how soon?

Stay safe, everyone. I hear reports from that great big world outside my cottage that few people are masking. Whatever is wrong with them? Please get your N95 masks and war them! Think of it as a kindness to your neighbor, if nothing else. We are all in this boat together.

My pity party

Feeling like whining tonight. I, who have crowed about not minding quarantine and maybe becoming a recluse, have to eat humble pie. Isolation 24/7 with just a dog—okay she’s sweet and responsive but she can’t discuss books or menus—is wearing on me. Since my family went to New Orleans, we all decided they should quarantine away from me for five days—and then mask for five more days. See the irony there? They got a trip, and I got the isolation, while the three of them are together in the house. Plus friends that ordinarily would come to visit are staying home for reasons that range from caution to possible exposure. So here Sophie and I are, and she’s not taking it any better than I am.

Yesterday, we were busy with emails and package exchange. Jordan or Jacob would bring a package and set it on the step by my kitchen door. I’d retrieve it, and then replace it with the bag of stuff I had to go into the house. At one point I suggested using a small stool—with packages on the step I had to lean so far down from my seat in the walker that I was in danger of tumbling out headfirst. The stool was a big help. Today there was not as much traffic, but I did get a package from Amazon I was anxious to have—a new electric toothbrush since mine died. And tonight Jordan came out to retrieve a half red onion and a small can of green chilies. When she wrote that request, she said, “I hate this.”

My cottage needs her. The remnants of the party that never was are still taking up space in my work area. Most of them go back in the house, and I have no space to store them, so they wait until she can take them. The buffet that serves as a chest of drawers in my bedroom is covered with Christmas stuff, and I need her help to put it away.

Although it seems like forever, we’ve only been at this two days, and I admit I’ve gotten lazy. My bed is pulled up but not really made, and, yes, at nine o’clock at night I am still in last night’s jammies. I did put away the contents of several packages that arrived. The toothbrush interior package turned out to have been opened—someone had zipped of the perforated strip that held the top together and then closed the gap with clear tape. Makes me think the package had previously gone to someone who returned it, but I’m sorry—I don’t want a toothbrush that’s been examined by other hands. I’m returning it. And I cleaned out some files, started a grocery bag (my very efficient method I’’ve used for years) for 2021 tax stuff, and put new files in the rack by my desk for 2022. And today I sent a proposal for my Helen Corbitt project to a publisher who I really hope will be interested. By the time I got it all together, the proposal was, in my eyes, a thoroughly professional piece of work. So I’m not totally lazy, but there’s a strong drift in that direction.

Computer woes of the minor variety have chosen this time to visit me. I read a Facebook post I thought well-put and shared it, only to have Facebook tell me such content violated their community standards. Wait! If that were true, why was it on there for me to share? Last night I tried to respond to an email on a list on which I’m active—and the message bounced back several times. I respond on that site all the time without a problem. Tried my other email account—same thing. The president of the writers’ group suggested another avenue, which I tried with success, but it bugs me that my usual  way didn’t work.

And then Amazon book reviews! The Most Land, The Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas has five-star reviews except for one three-star, which dragged my average down considerably. So I wanted to see who objected and why, but it is a well-kept secret. I can’t find that one review anywhere.

It’s no wonder that I recently realized that I frown a lot. Actually I realized it over the holidays when family took pictures. There I am in too many of them with that furrow above my eyes. And since I’v become so aware of it, I can feel myself doing it all the time. Then I make a conscious effort to relax those muscles. I wonder if there are yoga-like exercises for facial muscles. I already do them for my feet and recently discovered some exercises to relax and strengthen the hands, which I really need. Why not the face?

Enough. I’m going to have a glass of wine and read about what Barbara Pym ate. Tomorrow will be a better day.

A perfectly rosy day

 

   

 That’s the kind of day I’ve had—a perfectly rosy day. This morning, the sun shone so brightly that I thought I might have to wear sunglasses inside. And though I thought the prediction was for low seventies, the temperature soon climbed near eighty. Balmy and gorgeous with a slight breeze.

The main event today was a visit from my longtime friend, Linda. We’ve probably known each other over forty years, with the friendship increasing as we grew older. We’ve seen each other through bad times and good, and we can laugh together about ex-husbands (mine) and deceased husbands (hers). We have old friends in common and feel close to each other’s kids.

Linda lives in Granbury. If you shopped the square a few years ago and went into an upscale gift store called Almost Heaven, that was Linda’s store. After too many years, she got out of retail and, like me, is now retired. Having grown up in Granbury and lived there most but not all of her adult life, she hates Texas summers and bought herself a tiny condo in Taos. And though I encouraged her to write—she’s good at it—she found her passion in painting, probably because of one teacher in Taos. So anyway, between distance to Granbury and her long absences in Taos, we don’t get together nearly as much as we’d like. Pandemic complicates things. We were masked at first and socially distanced this afternoon. One thing Linda said resonated with me. She talked about how lucky we are that each of us has our passion—her painting and my writing. Our passions keep us young.

I fixed tuna salad—ubiquitous at my cottage—and Jordan served the three of us lovely salad plates with tuna, cottage cheese, a pickle, hearts of palm, and a scone to top it off. She laughed that she still has her waiting skills—she can hand carry several dishes at once. We loved it and have already decided on the menu for our next get-together—salmon croquettes (I’ll fix those) and salad with blue cheese dressing (Jordan’s specialty).

Sophie is an important part of my patio entertainment. She wanders from person to person, only occasionally venturing beyond the patio to scold an errant squirrel or investigate something. The patio is her territory, and she is most happy there.

After Linda headed home, Sophie and I had a long and lovely nap. I slept so deeply!

Tonight, while we wait for whatever Christian will do with chicken, Jordan is in my tiny kitchen, making the cheeseball that has been a holiday tradition all her life and most of mine. I remember Christmas Eve when I was quite young—we went to friends of my parents for a huge buffet. Two items I remember are marinated shrimp (I’m now allergic and can’t eat those) and cheeseball made with blue cheese, cream cheese, and Old English, which they no longer sell. We use Velveeta—shhh! Add a few other ingredients, chill and serve with crackers. But it’s not easy to mix all those cheeses. I’m glad Jordan is doing it and not me.

I just turned on the news. Full of the horror of Covid19. Two terrible things are threatening our country, our people and our way of life—the virus and the political upheaval caused by trump’s attempt at a coup. In my cottage, I feel apart from all the turmoil sweeping the country. I won’t tempt fate by being smug about being isolated and safe, but I do feel like I’m in a bubble that allows me rosy days.

Just like old times – a dinner party!

 

The serious golfer on a Sunday morning

Jordan and Christian hosted a dinner party last night, and I was invited! Only two guests, both of whom Jordan knows are following the quarantine rules though one goes to an office. Best of all she knows they are two of her friends I’m most fond of—Amye Cole, who went to high school with her, and David Barnes, her “brother from another mother.” I had seen Amye once when we were at the lake but have not seen David since quarantine began. Missed his wife, Kelly, who was out of town.

We began with drinks on the patio, but the mosquitoes were fierce. Jordan had even done what I frown on and sprayed Yard Guard. Temperature was pleasant, but we soon headed inside. We talked a lot about food and a lot about dogs and skirted politics. One of the guests is Republican, though I suspect not a trumpian Republican. Still we avoided the issue until I got up to leave and Christian said, “I thought we were going to have a hot political discussion.”

Jordan planned with quarantine in mind—she put enough leaves in my old dining table to make it so long that it barely fit inside the dining room. David and Amye sat at the far end, while I was in my familiar place at the end near the kitchen. A nostalgic moment for me, because I’ve sat in that chair and presided over countless company dinners—close enough that I could run to the kitchen if necessary, back when I could run. Jordan calls it my “princess chair.”

Jordan fixed a family favorite. We call it Doris’ casserole, but I have friends who call it American lasagna. It’s a meat and tomato layer topped by noodles, cream cheese, sour cream, and chopped green onions. Then you top the whole thing with grated cheddar and bake. We serve it so often that I knew both Amye and David have had it before. In fact, David asked, “Tell me again how you knew Doris.” But it’s always wonderful—and there are leftovers for tonight. Accompanied by a green salad and  brownies for dessert. I was still full when I woke up this morning.

I am a Zoom failure. I tried to join the after-church Zoom discussion this morning, but I was sideways on the screen and didn’t know how to turn it. I didn’t try the audio because what I thought was  to be a church discussion was several people talking about Santa Fe. It was a bit hard to just jump in. I have to master this, though, because I am to be on a virtual panel at a book festival in early October. That makes two tech failures on my part—I still haven’t been able to untangle my Instagram account and use it.

Thinking and praying today for friends and a family member in California and up the coast. I truly cannot wrap my mind around the extent and size of those fires. Someone posted a picture of a small Oregon town that burned completely down—no more town. Just gone.

Len Leatherwood, a California writer and friend, recently posted a poem, “Curled Up,” in which she expressed a feeling of being curled up, protecting her inner self while watching a world that she distrusts. Waiting for the time that she can uncurl, for a sign that it is safe to come out and live again. She caught my feelings perfectly—these days I feel like I am watching life but not really a part of it, and I’m waiting until I can once again pick up the threads of a life now gone.

This morning, as we recited the Lord’s Prayer in our virtual prayer service, my mind clamped onto the phrase, “Deliver us from evil.” I guess that’ too is how I feel—that so much evil surrounds us. Disease and fire and riots and a scary election. Yes, Lord, please deliver us so that we can uncurl and live lives filled with love, not fear and anger and hate.

Sleeping in the sun

How will our lives change?

The food truck from Heim Barbecue ended up parked across the street from our house tonight. Expecting to have two teenage boys this weekend instead of one (my oldest daughter and her youngest son will be here), Jordan went out to stock up on meat and found herself seeing lots of neighbors, all staying respectfully six feet apart. But it sparked a thought in me about our changing society.

I can’t remember the name of the prophet who in the seventies or eighties predicted the end of print and books. The academic world was in an indignant uproar. Then with the advent of cell technology, predictions came about the isolation of society. We would all be locked into our technological worlds, with little if any human contact.  Now with the pandemic and quarantine, we’re beginning to see some of it.

Will we ever feel really comfortable eating in restaurants again? I have a daughter-in-law who swears she will never eat in a buffet again. Of course, I also have a daughter who wouldn’t eat in them anyway unless she was the first to go through the line. But is take-out, like food trucks, going to be the coming way of life? Get your food and retreat into your house. No  shared lunches or dinners. Are we going to get so used to the isolation of quarantine that it becomes a way of life? Predictions are that there will be continuing waves of the virus—more illness, more deaths. I remain convinced we are social animals and will emerge from this perhaps more cautious, having figured out safe ways to gather. But it may be the end of gigantic crowds, not all a bad thing in my mind.

In some ways the changes to our lives may be good—or they may be quickly erased once the restrictions are loosened. For a while there, the air cleared, the world restored itself, nature and wildlife flourished. I welcomed that, and I will hate to see our highways clogged again, our skies crisscrossed with planes. I hope we learn a lesson from this about how destructive mankind has been to the world.

Meantime, I’m going to enjoy that barbecue.

The only other excitement of the day was the arrival of the a/c repairman. He’s worked on this house for twenty years and is a trusted person, but you never know who can be a silent carrier. So the minute the poor man went out the front door, Jordan came in the side door, Lysol spray in hand. But tonight, the a/c in my bedroom is once again quiet and smooth. So now it’s a nice  cool evening, and I don’t need the a/c.

Tomorrow will be a more exciting day. My older daughter and her youngest son (one of Jacob’s best buddies) will arrive for the weekend. Like us, they have been strictly quarantining, and she has promised no potty stops between here and Austin, Jordan has  been laying out a set of semi-quarantine rules for them, and together we have been planning menus. I’m very much looking forward to the visit.

My quandry: how can you see one of your children and grandchildren for the first time in months and not hug them?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

Another sunny day

happy hour, 

Jacob's new activity center

Kind of hard to see the basketball hoop, but it's there

That’s the weather, not my disposition. Sunny and gorgeous all day, even venturing toward hot. I had the a/c on in the afternoon, and it was comfortable. Discovered last night the a/c in the bedroom is not working. I called today, and the repairman I’ve known for twenty years called back. Missed him so will call tomorrow, but I hope it’s something he can talk me through over the phone. Otherwise, it will have to wait. Much as I like and trust him, I am not ready to have a repairman in the house. Yesterday, we should have had Zenaida, who we are all crazy about, but as Jordan says, she’s been cleaning other houses and who knows what she’s been exposed to. I expect to pay her though for days missed.

The big news here today is that Jordan created an activities space in the driveway—moved the cars out and pulled Jacob’s basketball hoop and tetherball into the space left. Much consternation about weighting the basketball hoop down so it would be stable, but a trip to the hardware for sandbags was averted by using various pots and a couple of concrete blocks we had. Jacob has been out there several times today—I hear the “Thump, thump, thump,” and it makes me happy because I know he’s moving around and keeping busy. He’s strictly limited in activities away from the house and must observe the six-foot guideline, which most of his buddies are ignoring.

We had happy hour tonight on the patio, with our neighbor who is quarantined in his guest house just opposite the patio. He’s been traveling, and I guess he has to wait out fifteen days since his arrival back home. Nice to visit with Jay again, though it’s sometimes hard for me to hear him.

Otherwise, days are falling into a pattern. I remember years ago I knew a doctor’s wife who bred Cairn terriers—we had a couple of her dogs—and had a busy life. So I was astounded one day when she announced she was covering the switchboard at her husband’s hospital in a small town from three to eleven. When I asked why, she said, “I just find the more you have to do, the more you get done.”  I am now finding the reverse of that—with no deadlines and not much pressing me, I get very little done. I have lots of reading to do—some for pleasure, some for research—but every day I manage to fritter away the day without much reading.

Part of it is I am glued to news—on the TV and the computer both—keeping up with both politics and the pandemic. It becomes like an addiction. I am dismayed that the local news interrupts the daily White House press briefings—not because I want to hear trump but because I want to hear Fauci and even Pence. These days Dr. Fauci and Governor Cuomo are my heroes (I love the latter’s line, “My mother is not expendable, and neither is your mother.”) I also have increasing respect for Secretary Mnuchin because it sounds as if he really tried hard to reach a workable, negotiated settlement in Congress. Pooh on the Republicans who are now quibbling over minor details.

We have relatives in New York—the Bronx to be specific, though one daughter lives in Manhattan—and I am worried about them. Emailed with them today, and they are well, pretty much quarantined. But the Manhattan daughter, who has had to rethink her wedding plans, is an R.N. and her orthopedic unit has been converted to care for COVID-19 patients. That worries me a lot. My nephew, a physical therapist in Baltimore, has been cut back to half time with a corresponding cut in pay—and they have three young children. Hard times all around, and I am hiding away here in my cottage, grateful for my many blessings and especially for my Jordan.

Stay safe and well, my friends.

Everyone has a handicap—mine’s just obvious

I used to be depressed when I went to a certain assisted living facility in town. Everywhere I turned, people wandered the lobby and halls on walkers or oxygen. Not for me, I thought smugly. Now I’m on a walker.

Acquaintances who don’t know my story try to encourage me that I’ll eventually walk unassisted. “Baby steps,” said one friend recently. I’ve gotten so I bring the truth right up front: my surgeon says the walker is my friend for the rest of my life. My balance is not good, and he’d rather have me protected than risk another fall that might do irreparable damage. He tells me I don’t have to explain that my surgery was way different than an ordinary hip replacement, so I’ll spare you that tale. Just take my word for it, please.

Yes, it’s a nuisance. I can’t jump up from my desk and run to get something from the kitchen. At parties, I can’t mingle and meet. I’m relegated to a seat where I hope people will come to greet me. It leads to some wallflower moments. There are places that I cannot go because they are inaccessible, and some public bathrooms are a real problem with tiny stalls. If I get me and the walker in, then I can’t close the door.

I so far have not been allowed to drive, though I think that’s just around the corner. I did prove that I can go from house to car, stash the walker in the back seat, and get into the car. To prove to my kids that this is all okay, I’ll have to check in with the rehabilitative driving program at Baylor. But driving should free me of my dependence on others to some extent.

I don’t think I’m being over-sensitive when I say I notice a change in some people’s attitudes toward me. I have become the old lady who can’t get around much, who is content in her cottage. But I am blessed with friends and family who see me differently and, with the help of others, I have a fairly active social life. As a friend said to me the other night at a party when I said my piece about being on the walker forever, “At least you’re here.” I agree. It’s not the end of the world.

I can still keep y cottage fairly neat, dress myself, work at my desk, and cook—all big parts of my life. It’s not as though I retired to a recliner to watch TV all the livelong day.

Before this happened to me, I did not have good balance. Never. In my whole life. Steep stairs, for instance, made me nervous—now people kindly help me up and down them. Open spaces made me uncomfortable—now I have a cage around me, so I know I won’t lose my balance. In short, I don’t have to stretch myself to do things that bothered me before, though I do try to stretch just on general principles.

I don’t know how to explain it without sounding like a wimp, because I try never to trade on being “handicapped” and yet in some ways life is easier. I do try to be as independent as possible, but still….not sure where to go with this, so I’ll quit.

Just please don’t pity me. And don’t treat me differently. And don’t call me old. Thanks.