A late summer mini-vacation

Kind neighbors gave us free rein of their house at Lake Weatherford while they were away on a family matter, so Jordan and Jacob were there for five days, and Christian and I had two or three (two nights). Jacob had a buddy for three days and yesterday a friend of Jordan’s spent much of the day here.

My lake house office

While everyone else was on the dock—sunning or swimming, and Jacob was whizzing around the lake on a jet-ski, I was inside, perched at the dining table with my computer and a marvelous view of the lake. Having had sunstroke as a child and sunburning easily, one of the things I least want to do is lie out in the sun. It makes me fuzzy-headed, and I can’t focus to read. I always says I don’t’ want to be in or on the water, but I love looking at it—part of my Lake Michigan heritage that carries over to Texas’ small lakes.

In the evenings, we had happy hour on the screened in porch where, although it was blistering hot outside, there was usually a pleasant breeze. Jordan fixed us some great meals—spaghetti one evening, a Big Mac salad another night, a chocolate-chip Bundt cake. Jacob complained this morning that the trouble with vacation is that you eat too much.

We had all three dogs with us. They are never allowed outside except on leashes, so they don’t really get “the lake effect” but they like the constant companionship. Dog-walking falls primarily to Jacob, though Jordan does some of it, especially first thing in the morning.

Two boys and a dog

It’s a lazy life, good for a few days. I have my computer but not my monitor, so much is hard to me to read on the small laptop screen. And I don’t feel I can really come to grips with some of my projects—somehow, I have to be home at my desk to dig in. So I spent much of the time reading a mysteries series that I’ve only recently discovered and am thoroughly, laugh-out-loud enjoying.

It’s Julie Mulhern’s Country Club Murders. I started with Killer Queen, either the eleventh or twelfth in the series and then went back to pick up The Deep End, the first. Narrator is Ellison, a mid-life woman of privilege who lives the country club life—bridge, golf, gossip—but sees it all with a jaundiced eye and a wild sense of humor. Ellison has a domineering mother like none you’ve ever seen and an unfortunate habit of finding dead bodies. IN the first book, one of those bodies belong to her husband, a nasty philanderer. Early on she tangles with a detective with the improbably name of Anarchy Jones, and the fun begins. (Hmmm—I digressed from our mini-vacation, didn’t I?)

We did have a tragic bit of excitement yesterday—while everyone was on the dock, a boat exploded at the marina across the lake. They heard a boom and then watched horrified as black smoke pillared up in the air and the flashing lights of emergency vehicles swarmed the scene. I was napping and didn’t hear a thing. Later we learned that four people, including a two-year-old, had been taken to hospitals by Care Flight and two others by ground ambulance. This morning it appears all will survive, but what a horrible end to their summer. When you see a tragedy like that you vicariously become part of it. If we’d been home and read about it, we’d have said, “Too bad” and put it aside. But being here, seeing it, everyone was anxious for any news last night and this morning.

Fitting end to our stay: a good rain last night. We enjoyed it from the screened-in porch, smelling the rain and watching the way it mottled the lake’s surface. The temperature dropped an astonishing twenty degrees in just a few minutes. But today it was back up to hot—something like 102.

We are so blessed to have friends who open their house to us. Grateful is not strong enough to express our appreciation.

A big dose of family, a birthday, and a dog

The Alter en masse

Catching up with UncleMark

We had a glorious family reunion this weekend at my oldest son’s house in Tomball to celebrate his 50^th birthday. Twenty-four of us—my clan of sixteen; the New York Alters which includes Uncle Mark and Aunt Amy, two daughters, and three grandchildren young enough to still care about hunting for Easter eggs; and my children’s half-sister from California. High times as we caught up and repeated family stories, all the while sitting on an arbor-covered patio by a small lake.

Colin’s house is a little bit of heaven—a mid-century modern structure set on two-plus acres tucked away down a bumpy dirt road, with lots of trees, including some fruit-bearing, and either the smallest lake or biggest pond in Texas. The barn is used for storage, and the riding arena for basketball and other non-arena activities (there is a riding stable next door) but both can be re-purposed someday.. I think my favorite spot in the world these days is in a rocker by the lake at twiligh

Fishing was a big thing. Jacob abandoned his cousins (several are all about the same age) to stand alone on the lake’s bank, casting his lure. His California aunt, Dylan, joined him frequently, and he was as excited as anybody when she reeled in the catch of the day—what appeared to be about a four-pound bass. He came running and posed for a picture with her, but he also caught some good-sized ones on his own. Three boy cousins and one girl spent the night on an enclosed trampoline. They’ve tried this two or three times before, and something always chased them inside, but last night they stayed and slept until six in the morning. Yes, Jacob slept part of the way home.

Colin’s wife, Lisa, had done a might work of preparing for this weekend. We were well-fed, with fajitas Friday night and barbecue Saturday night, plus chips, veggies, dips, and the like out all during the day. We dined at three long picnic tables pushed together down by the lake, and the tables were decorated with mason jars holding on spikes pictures from Colin’s life—mostly his childhood. Colin on his Shetland, Charlie Brown; Colin with his cousins; Colin in the North Carolina snow wearing plastic bags on his feet (age two) because he didn’t own boots; an adult Colin just after finishing a half-marathon. For me, each picture brought a twinge of memory—a bit of missing for all the good days gone by, in spite of the wonderful present.

It was also a dog weekend. A stray came up to the patio for the second day in a row. I thought he was a pit bull but wiser heads said he’s an American bulldog. Uncle Mark swore he materialized out of the lake and was an evil spirit. In truth, he was a very young and lonely dog hungry for affection. Colin soon gave up attempts to shoo him away, and Dylan reached out to him until he lost his scared. Our family predicts the Tomball Alters will have a second dog. Jordan named him John Doe, which may or may not get changed to Johnboy or J.D. Colin’s dog, Gracie, was not entirely happy about this intruder.

We are all home now, and the weekend is but a happy memory, but we’ll each treasure that memory. Sophie was ecstatic to see us come home, and for all the fun I had, I was glad to be with her again.

Just realized this post has no picture of the birthday boy, so here he is with his dog, Gracie.

Gourmet vs. Gourmand

The young doctor who lives next door brought me this rose

from his garden; it opened so much lovelier than

a lot of florist roses. Note my bud vase--a LaCroix can.

Happy Ides of March, everyone. Unlike Caesar, we do not (probably) need to fear the Ides, but some of us old folks remember when this was the day taxes were due.

Are you a gourmet or a gourmand? I worked with an editor once who refused to apply the word “gourmand” to a person. I think it conjured in her mind a picture of fat old men with huge bellies who sat around swilling ale after a huge dinner—someone from Dickens or perhaps Samuel Johnson himself.

Truth be told, a gourmand is defined as one who enjoys eating—and sometimes eats too much. I have been a gourmand lately. Last night at the Old Neighborhood Grill I had a breaded pork cutlet, mashed potatoes, and green beans—all preceded by a generous helping of artichoke/jalapeno dip. Today for lunch a friend served me a wonderful (and beautiful) salad plate topped by a large piece of salmon—and preceded by far too much pimiento cheese. I ate every bite of my lunch. Tonight, I could hardly face supper and brought home potatoes Dauphinoise and marinated asparagus for lunch tomorrow. Also a large Hello Dolly bar which I have not touched and won’t tonight.

I am hungry at lot lately, particularly just before meals. I’ve tried eating breakfast later to get past the pre-lunch hunger, but it doesn’t seem to work. In the late afternoon, I drink a cup of tea sweetened with honey—better than starting on the wine too early. But none of it really helps. I watch the clock, waiting for it to be a decent hour to eat. I’m not sure if this hunger is an effort to make up the weight I lost in recent months (I don’t really want to weigh that much again) or it’s a symptom of boredom with my writing. If the latter, I’m in trouble.

To switch subjects, growing up on Lake Michigan I loved looking at the water. But I was never much for being in it or on it. I think early training in the dangers of getting in over your head or rip tides had a lifelong influence on me. Today, at my friends’ house for lunch, I was struck by how central to their lives a body of water is. They are both waterbugs, as she said (she is a native of Florida) and they live on Lake Worth, with a view of the water that would mesmerize me all day. But their life in part revolves around boats—sailboats and others. Me? I found it delightful to eat that great lunch while staring at the water and seeing baby geese swimming by the dock.

But I came home gratefully to my cottage. Nice to be so happy with where you live. Home, they say, is where your heart is...or maybe where your dog is.

I am surrounded by good and caring neighbors

Daffodils from one; fresh from Florida oranges from another

I have no idea what these letters below are but I can't make them go away. Sorry.

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