The joy of tradition

 

Colin carving

Don’t be fooled by the picture of Colin carving in his starched white shirt and Santa Claus tie. The bottom half was navy blue shorts, bare legs, and sandals. Reminded me of Covid days when men I know worked remotely from home, dressed just that way.

The happy table

This year Thanksgiving in Tomball was a lovely, low-key family day, filled to the brim with tradition. For me, it was turkey, a good book, and a nap. For some of the others, it was football, with special appreciation for Dolly Parton and the half-time show. And for still others, it was a day for a complicated, thousand-word puzzle. And our meal was traditional as it comes—ham, smoked turkey, dressing, gravy, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, truffle mac ‘n cheese (that was never a traditional dish for me until my kids began to demand it—I still have a hard time associating it with holiday meals), rolls with cinnamon butter, pumpkin pie, and apple pie. Couldn’t get more traditional, and I loved it. Of course, everyone was too full after a two-o’clock meal for the pies, so we had them for second supper in the evening.

I had a lovely nap between first and second supper and spent most of the evening reading a mystery I had just started. Lisa and her mom spent a good four hours on the jigsaw puzzle—they still have a long way to go.

Lisa and Torhild working on the puzzle.

To top the day off, I slept hard for ten hours and woke feeling sleep-logged. Sophie slept all night, though she wandered about the bedroom a bit in the wee hours. At six, when Colin appeared in the kitchen, she was more than ready to go out.

Yesterday was chilly, damp with a bit of drizzle—not a day to encourage sitting by the lake. This morning is sunny and pretty, but Lisa tells me there is a chilly breeze. Maybe later, with the fire pit and a heater, we can sit by the water, one of my favorite spots. Meantime, I’m at my computer, enjoying the view from inside, with a cozy heater at my feet, basking in the laziness of the day after.

 

Father’s Day thoughts

 

Jacob, right, with longtime friend Colin
Hosts at Joe T.'s

Across the country today, Americans celebrated Father’s Day. Regardless of what you think of the commercialization of parenthood (think of Mother’s Day which is Father’s Day on steroids), this is traditionally a day to celebrate all things masculine, mostly with food: steak, potatoes, and the grill. Not if you’re a Burton though: like many holidays throughout the year, Father’s Day calls for dinner at Joe T. Garcia’s.

For those not from Fort Worth, the restaurant is commonly called Joe T.’s and is Fort Worth’s classic Mexican restaurant, the place where every celebrity that comes to town dines. Joe and Jessie Garcia began the business in 1935 with sixteen tables. Over the years it has grown, expanding on the original small space until today sprawling patios lush with plants and several dining areas can seat over a thousand. But the menu remains the same. It also remains very much a family business.

Signs were evident though that the children the Burton men are growing up. We went for lunch rather than dinner because Jacob’s host shift at Joe T.’s began at two-thirty and his cousin, Ariceli, had to be back in Denton at seven to work in an ice cream parlor. Times, they are a-changing.

Some sixteen years ago Christian waited tables at Joe T.’s. Since then, he and Jordan have been back often, hosted events there, and generally kept in touch. So for Jacob to go to work there this week was like following a family tradition. (Besides, all four of my children worked in food service when they were in school.) Going to Joe T.’s with Jordan and Christian makes you feel you are in the company of celebrities—the management staff, wait staff, lots of people come hug them, chat about what’s going on, and this time, to tease and fuss over Jacob who bore it all with extremely good grace. Christian sometimes seems to still work there, popping up to get a napkin or look at Jacob’s schedule or some such.

The occasion called for me to push my mobility limits and ultimately gave me cause to brag. We took my transport chair and Jordan pushed me up the long ramp to the patio only to find because of the heat we were seated inside. This meant, with Christian’s help, I walked up three steps, across an entry way, up another step, and then down three steps. Between the up and down I got parked out of the way of traffic and found myself next to a table where someone was finishing a meal. The woman seated there looked at me and said, “You can do this.” I joked about something, but I want to thank her for giving me a boost in confidence. After I got down the stairs, I turned to give her a thumbs up and she returned the sign. Finally we were at the table. Fortunately, we went out through the original restaurant, now a tiny reception area, where Christian could push me right down a ramp—no stairs to conquer. I was uncertain about his joke that if he let go I would go sailing right down. Not a funny thought!

At Joe T.’s at night, the menus is limited: you get fajitas (either chicken or beef) or “the dinner” which consists of mini tacos, enchiladas, beans, rice, guacamole, and tortillas—always too much for me. But at lunch there’s a wider choice—I was torn between bean chalupas and tortilla soup, which Christian pointed out were two very different items. I went with two chalupas—full but not uncomfortably so. And wine, while others were having the world-famous margaritas.

Lunch at Joe T.’s for me is subtitled, “How to kill an entire day.” This morning I did about a half hour real work on the memoir I’m struggling with—taking notes from blogs during the appropriate time period. Then I “went” to church on the computer—Christian and Jacob went in person and though I searched the computer screen, I didn’t see them.

There was a moving baby dedication for Father’s Day—two gay men presented the daughter they have adopted, an Asian girl who looked to be maybe three months. She was alert and curious, and as the minister said, loving being the center of attention. Her two dads stood in front of the congregation beaming. Really proud of my church, proud to be a member of an inclusive congregation.

We went to Joe T.’s at 1:30, got home after 3:30, and I ran, not walked, to take a nap. Day drinking may have been okay in my past, but it does me in now. I dozed from about four until five-fifteen when Sophie asked very politely for her dinner. Couldn’t resist—I went back to bed and next thing I knew it was six-fifteen and Megan was on the phone.

So now the dilemma after a Joe T.’s lunch: I’m full but a bit hungry, I want to eat but I don’t know what I want to eat.

Hope all who celebrated had a good Father’s Day. We can always grill something another time.

Lost my oomph

 

Christian's porch plants

Somehow, today, I lost my oomph. Not all that unusual on a Sunday. Sometimes my body seems to say, “Nope, it’s Sunday. The day of rest. I’m not gonna do that, no matter how you nag.” And my brain follows right along. So I fiddled the day away, browsing on the net, napping, reading.

I did a couple of good things—sent off a critique to an as-yet unpublished author. She replied that she was taken aback by some of my comments, and I admit I was brutally honest. But the manuscript didn’t engage me, and I saw some clear ways to fix it. I was honest about the fact that I only read fifty pages—because I was bored, though I didn’t say that—and she of course said if I’d read further, I might have been more engaged. I replied that if most readers have to go fifty pages into a book, they just won’t do it. Ideally, you should capture the reader on the first page. I have lingering regret over the whole thing—it will teach me not to volunteer to critique. But I couldn’t see encouraging a writer about a manuscript that, in my best judgment, has no market appeal. At least, I was honest, and it’s off my desk.

And after a bit of difficulty I sent the neighborhood monthly newsletter to the designer, so that too if off my desk. But it will come right back in the form of proof tomorrow.

Jean came for supper, and Christian fixed his delicious hamburgers. I made smashed potatoes to go with them, something I’ve just learned to do. The first time I asked Christian to get tiny Yukon Gold potatoes, he got about four times the number I thought I needed. So tonight I cooked what was left. In duck fat. Jordan and Jean really like the potatoes but would like to call the fat something else. When Megan first told me she cooked these, she said she had chicken fat. I refrained from asking if it was kosher schmalz, but I don’t think the girls would like this any better. The first time I used duck fat, I thought it instantly made my tiny kitchen small like Thanksgiving. It makes terrific potatoes.

The big accomplishment of the day belongs to Christian and Jordan: tonight they pulled the electric wheelchair to the middle of my closet, located the charger, found that the chair still turned on, and plugged it in to charge overnight. My brother goes home from rehab tomorrow, so the timing is good. Now we have to get the chair from Fort Worth to Tolar and all is well. Except of course that the chair is in the middle of my closet—no way my walker and I can get in for clean clothes, laundry, etc. Zenaida comes tomorrow, and the first thing she does is start a load of my laundry in the house. Not tomorrow. I am telling myself none of it is the end of the world.

I had a hilarious conversation with Christian tonight—because I thought I was talking to Colin. Too detailed to tell all, but the voice said he would need make and model number of the wheelchair to check the battery location, and I said, “Sweetheart, I sent it to you days ago.” The voice, incredulous: “You did? I don’t remember seeing it.” When I asked when he thought he might come look at the chair (mind you, this was, in my mind, Colin who is four hours away in Tomball), he said, “Well, tonight when I come out for supper.” That was my clue I was talking to the wrong person.

The fact that they were able to charge the chair is good news/bad news. It means there is no excuse to get Colin up here to do chores, and as I freely admit I will use any excuse to get any of my children to come visit. “Want a deli sandwich from Carshon’s. Colin? I’ll buy!” But I don’t want him to drive all this way if he doesn’t need to.

One of the things that the voice said to me in that misbegotten phone call was, “I’ve been out all day planting.” Didn’t sound like Colin to me—he is more likely to spend the day building or repairing something big. But who am I to ask. It was of course Christian, and he was busy with the pots on the front porch. Christian is a pot gardener (no, not that kind!), and each year the front porch is amazing. I’m letting a couple of his photos carry the weight of this blog tonight.

Hope everyone has their oomph in place as we approach this new week, the last for most pubic school kids in Texas. Who knows what the schools

will look like in the fall, after this legislative session is over. Fingers crossed, prayers said.

Taking time off

 

Haven't read the Irene books yet?
Here's the first in the series.

My great good news is that my longtime mentor wrote me today that the forthcoming Irene in Chicago Culinary Adventure is, in his opinion, the best of the Irene series. I laughed a bit—he seemed to think my writing is maturing. If so, it’s about time. But I am pleased, so watch for Irene Deep in Texas Trouble this spring. Take a diva faux French chef and set her down in the midst of Cowtown—what could possibly go wrong? A wedding supper interrupted by murder, kidnapping, a runaway couple—and Irene is in the middle of all of it, the prime suspect in the murder. Once again, Henny and Patrick must save Irene.

Having sent that manuscript off, I’m taking a break and have been social—until today when I reverted to recluse status. Wednesday, in all that rain and fog we had in North Texas, friend Carol and I drove to Dallas for lunch with Fran Vick, our longtime good pal on the Texas publishing scene. It was a great reunion—Fran was one of the world’s good people, and I am happy now to be able to envision her in her new setting, a retirement community in Dallas. We had lunch, met one of her friends, and gabbed about good times and old days. Fran can always make me laugh, and she is as full of good spirits as ever, in spite of hard times. I will admit being on the freeway in the rain made me a bit nervous, but Carol is a cautious and careful driver who goes to Dallas at least once a week and knows the city. Where I would have been hopelessly lost, she delivered us on time to the front door of Fran’s building. Fran was waiting with a transport chair for me—only trouble was it had no footrest, so while Carol pushed, I had to hold my legs straight out in front of me. Fran said she hoped my legs were a lot stronger than hers. But it really worked out okay.

Lesson learned: I have truly become addicted to my routine. The trip to Dallas didn’t disturb it all that much—I did a little work before we left, got my nap when we came home, but the truth is I did not do much else the entire day, unless fixing dinner for the family counts.

Thursday I broke my routine again but for another delightful social hour: my friend Subie had knee surgery, and her sister Diana came to help for a few days. Thursday morning Diana walked over to my house for tea, and we talked and laughed and had a good time. Subie and I have been close friends for years (like forty?) but I never knew Diana well. Just before our awful ice storm—was it ’20 or ’21? —Diana was here for a visit, and she and Subie took me to Arlington where I gave a talk to a women’s group. That somehow sparked a friendship, so now when she visits, I find we have lots in common. She and her husband live in a cottage (converted garage) on the property of one of their children, just as I do. So we have on-site grandparenting and tiny houses and all kinds of things to talk about. Such fun. Again, my routine went out the window, but both days it was well worth it. I probably should do that more often.

Today I was back in my routine but taking it slow and easy, with no deadline pressure. I lingered over the online news of the day, cobbled together lunch and dinner from whatever was on hand. We are overdue on groceries—I thought I placed a Central Market order yesterday, but when Jacob went to pick it up, they didn’t have it. It was still sitting in my computer. I have an explanation, but I’m sure my children will whisper about the onset of senility. Tonight, I pretty much confronted an empty refrigerator, but scrambled eggs are always good. Somehow, with the current panic about eggs, I have two dozen in my fridge. Egg salad, anyone? Tonight, I will read a bit.  

How will you spend Super Bowl Sunday? I plan to look for the Puppy Bowl in the early afternoon and in the evening, I’ll channel surf looking for a Souper Bowl. Was it PBS that used to have those programs opposite the football thing? I read tonight that Chef Gordon Ramsey will have a new competition show with amateur chefs immediately following the game, but I’m thinking that may be a little late to watch a cooking show. At any rate, I am not one to watch the whole game, which interests me not at all, just to see the commercials, though I always love the Clydesdales. I remember some fairly raucous Super Bowl parties way back when and look back in wonder—was I really part of that? These days I’m so glad to be home with my books and maybe my TV.

Golf, A moving moment, a buffet, and a sort of lazy Sunday

 

Jordan and Jacob at the golf tournament

This weekend has been the Charles Schwab International PGA Golf Tournament at Colonial Country Club, as I mentioned before, and my family have been missing in action all weekend. Tonight, it’s over, the winner declared—a name I’ve never heard, but hey! I’m not much of a golf fan except to cheer for my Jacob. So congratulations to Sam Burns, whoever he may be. Good job well done.

One of Jordan's crazy angled
pictures at the 
tournament

I meantime stayed home, went to church remotely, and entertained friends for supper. I doubt many in the audience were moved to tears at the NRA convention when trump read off the names of the victims of the Uvalde shooting—and then ended his talk with a totally inappropriate dance. But I was teary this morning when one of the ministers at my church read the names of those children just before the ministerial prayer. Made me think that context matters a whole lot. Senior minister Russ Peterman has been preaching on women of the Bible, and today his text was the story of the Canaanite woman who begged Jesus to heal her daughter who was possessed by a demon. It was a good segue into the events of the past week and the mothers who stood outside Robb Elementary begging law enforcement to go in and save their children. The law enforcement mistakes made that day are appalling and heart-wrenching. Russ ended the sermon with a plea that no mother ever again has to beg for her child’s life.

There was a thread on Facebook this week about a topic that comes up every so often: if churches get into politics, they should be taxed. I have long said it would be hard to draw the line between political churches and those that are apolitic. This week I went beyond that to suggest that some topics are too easily labeled political when, in truth, they are moral issues. And gun control, to me, is a moral issue. I sense that Russ will take a hard line on moral issues in the Sundays to come, and I am grateful.

Switching gears: for years, Betty Boles and I went to dinner every Wednesday night. In recent years, we included Jean Walbridge. But the custom had begun to fall apart when pandemic delivered the coup de gras. Jean and I were virtually quarantined in our own homes, but we felt safe because we had little exposure; she was one of the few people I saw during the height of pandemic. Betty and her husband, on the other hand, continued to go to the restaurant they owned—where none of the staff were vaccinated or wore masks. Since the threat has eased, I’ve seen Betty a few times, but our lives have changed, and it’s not always easy to pick up an old relationship.

Tonight I cooked supper for Betty and Jean, a sort of tribute to old times. Remembering that Betty liked smoked salmon, I fixed Jamie Oliver’s smoked salmon and potato salad—a showy dish if I do say so. I served it with salt and vinegar cucumbers—an experiment I undertook because I like to keep marinated cucumbers in the fridge in summer. And a tossed green salad and baguette slices. Served buffet style. It made a lovely display, and thanks to Jean for a good photo. We had a good time playing catch-up, but as soon as she finished her supper, Betty was up and on her way home to check on her husband.

My  buffet tonight

Other than that, it was a nice lazy day—reading a book for an online discussion that begins tomorrow, a few household chores (I don’t do many of those these days), a nice nap. Last night my neighbor Greg talked about how good it is not to have any obligations. He said we’re not rich, but we’re not poor, we can pay our bills and live comfortably—how lucky are we! And it’s true. I feel truly blessed, but as some have said this week, I also feel some survivor’s guilt.  Thoughts and prayers are not enough—that’s become almost a hackneyed joke—but I work daily to think what I can do besides donating when and where I can and voicing my opinions on social media. As Oprah said in a recent essay, “Doing nothing is not an option.”

So this week, try to think of one thing you can do to save our democracy from religious zealots who have transformed the Christian message into something sinister, one thing beyond thoughts and prayers and donations. There’s a challenge for you. Have a great week.

A truly lazy day—or was it

 

A sweet picture of Colin
even if it is our backsides.

By early afternoon I would have told you today was a truly lazy day. I was thinking about clever lines for the blog, like what I used to say my kids would put on my tombstone: either “Hurry on, now” or “Go on now, I’m busy.” But times have changed, and I have learned to putz (Yiddish for piddling and doing nothing). I once wrote an article entitled, “Learning to Putz,” but the word also denotes a part of the male anatomy in Yiddish, and the editor changed it to piddling. Nonetheless I didn’t learn the lesson until the last few years.

But today I would have told you my accomplishments for the day were:

--sleeping late and getting going slowly

--going to church remotely

--reheating last night’s polenta for lunch

--refilling the soap containers in the kitchen and the bathroom

--lingering over Facebook, reading posts I would normally ignore

           But then in the late afternoon, everything happened at once. To begin with, Colin called, took remote control of my computer, and walked me through storing my passwords in a password protection program. After my recent scare about the dark web and compromised passwords, I was delighted to finally get this done. Jamie and I had installed it but neither of us knew what to do once it was installed. As I suspected, it’s like any other computer program—once you do it, it’s straightforward. So now, bit by bit, I have to load my passwords. Besides, it was a bonus to see my child on Zoom and talk to his face rather than the phone—I dislike Facetime because I always look like an old hag, but Zoom is not quite so bad.

Another sweet picture of Colin
even if I do look like that glass of wine
wasn't my first
Note his T-shirt

Then when I settled back to scrolling through Facebook notifications, I got an email from the reviewer who will interview me Tuesday about The Most Land, The Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas, which launches this coming Friday. She had lots of good questions, and I jotted down some answers, hoping as we talk, I’ll expand on some. The key point to me is that the book is not so much a ranch history as the story of a family. The reviewer, Priscilla Leder, out of San Marcos, Texas said she found the story fascinating but sad. That’s kind of how I feel about it too. Way back when, I had a bit of a personal connection to the Waggoners or at least to sculptor Electra Waggoner Biggs, and that story is woven into this book.

Then Jordan came home from her weekend away and we visited and kind of caught up.

So there went my laziness. It’s going to be a busy week.

 

How Christmas Eve should be

If I were to desig the perfect Christmas Eve, I think today would be the design model. The household was slow to get going. I got up late, expecting to find a quiet, sleeping house, but two adults and two kids were up and going, and others gradually drifted into the living area. We dawdled and visited, finally had a catch-as-can breakfast, and got ready for the day. Two groups went grocery shopping and were gone forever. I stayed behind to wrap gifts, but fourteen-year-old Eden, who is the precise wrapper I will never be, took over She wrapped, I added yarn and tags, and we got it all done. And I treasured the one-on-one time which I don’t always get when we’re all together.

Lunch was grilled hamburgers, and dinner, chili. It has become a family tradition that Megan’s husband, Brandon, makes chili for Christmas Eve. He tones it down a bit in respect to some of us, including me, but it is hearty and good. Can’t resist a plug—want the recipe? Find it in Texas is Chili Country, a compilation by guess who.

 As I write a rousing poker game occupies four adults and four children and competes in noise with Christmas carols. Good itmes. But wonderful as having the whole family together is, there are adjustments to be made. They have no sense of time, and their stomachs certainly don’t follow the same clock mine does. We had breakfast at ten-thirty, lunch at two-thirty, and it’s yet to be known when we’ll eat that chili. If you know me, you know that taking my daily nap at four is completely off my schedule.

Somehow all of them, except maybe Jordan, missed the neatness bug that I have. I sat this afternoon and looked at a room semi-littered with paper cups, soft-drink cans, a few used paper plates. Back when I was mobile, I’d have “policed” that room in ten minutes. Today I had no choice. A big reminder that I’m no longer in charge, and my best option, to keep peace and happiness, is to sit back and let the good times roll.

I am certainly no longer in charge in the kitchen. In fact, Jordan shooed me out of there a few minutes ago, and then I heard someone imitating their grandmother who used to say to her dog, “Out of my kitchen, out of my kitchen!” The dog always went, tale between her legs. Thr four adult girls have taken over, and some of the adult males cook as well.

Life has certainly changed, but in many ways for the better. I am so blessed to have them around me, now for five full days together.

May Christmas Day bring you each the blessings of love and peace, the blessings of the day. Don’t forget to watch NORAD—they’re already tracking Santa. He dumped his entire sleigh at this house I think.

The Bountiful Feast

I’m not sure whether to say my family has done it to me again or I have fallen for it again. They were so sincere about that blasted hogshead we were to have for dinner, even sending me a picture of the grocery ad and telling me it was in the oven.  Colin said he’d never carved one before, and Kristi very seriously said she didn’t think it was that good a price considering all the bone you got with it.

They got me. I finally believed it, in spite of the long history of practical jokes my sons have played on me over the years. This time, Colin had enlisted his entire family, including sister-in-law Kristi. When the dishes began to appear on the table, I asked where the hogshead was, and Colin said, “Mom? What are you talking about? Why did you think there was a hogshead?” I was tempted to throw the entire platter of turkey at him but am glad I didn’t, because it was so good, moist, tender, and delicious.

We had all the usuals—turkey and gravy and mashed potatoes and dressing and rolls with real butter and green bean casserole, though Lisa makes a different green bean dish with sour cream and parmesan and corn flake topping. This year, for the first time, she used fresh green beans, and they were delicious. For dessert, an apple pie nicely seasoned with ample cinnamon. Kegan got a turkey leg that he much enjoyed but couldn’t finish, said he’d get to it tomorrow. A lovely feast with family, and I relished every minute.

Otherwise, a lazy day, reading and napping while others cooked. Chilly--Colin keeps the house cool--and I sat with a small heater blowing on my legs--so comforting. Long visits with Colin, which I enjoy though sometimes I think he takes a position contrary to mine just for the sake of it. We did some nice reminiscing, and he pulled up a lot of pictures from his phone that recalled a happy past. I think that’s a big part of what holidays are about—sharing the good memories.

I hope each and every one of you had a bountiful day, filled with food, love, and gratitude. We have so much to be thankful for, which only means to me we must work harder to preserve the way of life we treasure.

On to Christmas, with all its joy!

Tornadoes and memories

I hope it’s an omen that May came in with such gorgeous weather. The spring storms we were threatened with never did hit us, though they did great damage east of Dallas. That area around Canton, which was so heavily hit, is one dear to my heart. I had good friends, both now gone, who had a guest ranch in Ben Wheeler. My family and I spent many happy days and nights there. Mostly we enjoyed Aunt Reva’s cooking, eating on the porch of their house which overlooked one of the large stock tanks/small lakes on the property.

But sometimes we went to the neighboring town of Edom to eat at The Shed, a down-home café which had become sort of an institution. They featured fried catfish on Saturday nights, and often had lemon meringue pie. I remember Charles (uncle to my children) telling me there were no calories because it was all air. And when I told him he was overlooking the custard part, he said, “Shut up, Judy.” The Shed inspired the Blue Plate Café of my mystery series by that name.

I’ve lost touch with that family now that the parents are gone, except one daughter who faithfully called me when she was in Fort Worth, and we had lunch. Marsha had been blind from diabetes since about the age of twenty, yet she went on to get a graduate degree in anthropology (with the help of her radiologist father), and I much admired her. I got word recently that she had died unexpectedly, and I felt at a loss because I didn’t know who to contact to express my sympathy. It got me to thinking once again about how things change and life moves on, and we go with the flow. It’s no good being stuck in the past, but I grieve for her.

Today, however, life seemed to stand still. For me, it was a no make-up, no shampoo day when I was in my jammies until four o’clock. Not that I didn’t work—I cleared up all kinds of things: a bill paid to the wrong health care providers (I’ve now paid the right ones, and I want a refund from the other); Amazon accounts—it appears I had five, and now I have only one. That kind of busy-ness can wear you out. I did some odd but creative (I hope) marketing for my books, and finished reading The Last Chance Olive Ranch by Susan Wittig Albert. Great book that kept me spellbound—and also taught me a lot about olive oil.

I didn’t intend to be so lazy today. I thought son Jamie was coming for the day, and I was looking forward to our traditional breakfast at Ol’ South Pancake House. He has a Dutch baby and I have corned beef hash. When I emailed last night to ask if I was still expecting him, he said no, it was always Tuesday. Now, I know that child (45, but he’s still my child) is wrong. I have Monday on my calendar and in my head, but he was adamant. So that gives me one more day of nice anticipation. And I did make good use of the day.

An almost perfect day

I should have written this last night but I guess I was worn out with pure happiness. My day Sunday was almost perfect for me, though it would probably bore others. I slept late and then went to my desk to read emails and linger long over Facebook—something I often feel too rushed to do. I try to avoid political posts but then one will catch my attention and demand that I comment. I know it’s fruitless. I’m not going to convert a single Trump supporter, but their arguments are so rooted in lies and untruths that I sometimes can’t resist. So there went the morning.

After lunch—I can’t even remember what I had—I read Julie Hyzy’s Grace Sees Red. Hyzy is one of my favorite cozy authors, and to feel free to just sit and read was a real treat. I read most of the rest of the day, though Jordan and Jacob were in and out.

Probably if I’d written this last night I’d be more eloquent about why it was such a special day. I remember euphoric thoughts but can’t quite capture them now.

 I’ve discovered—at a physician’s suggestion—a web page that takes a bit of my time. It’s Posit, a program designed to forestall dementia of various kinds. It’s apparently been scientifically approved and consists of brain exercises on the computer. They’re hard, and frankly I don’t feel I did very well. But I keep trying.  Look for it at http://www.brainhq.com.

Tell me if you feel smarter or worse after you try the sample exercises.

The only flaws in m almost perfect day were that Jordan came home with pink eye, and the doctor’s office confirmed conjunctivitis today. And my old trick—I kocked a glass of wine over right onto my keyboard. This keyboard is new, maybe a month old, because the old one stopped working. It was less than two years old so was covered under Staples warranty. But I wasn’t sure how they’d feel about another exchange to soon.

I grabbed the keyboard out of the wine puddling on the desk, wiped it off as best I could and shook the water out of it. Then talking to the Lord fast and furiously, I went to get towels Long story short, I tried the keyboard with bated breath—and it worked. The Lord was looking out for me on my almost perfect day.

Today wasn’t bad either. Life is good.

Calm and peaceful

Amidst the storm of Donald Trump’s outrageous rhetoric and the political speculations that followed, it’s nice to find a bit of calm. I’m watching a Celtic music program on PBS—I don’t care what anyone says, the bagpipes send a thrill through me. And those sweet female Celtic voices, some accompanied by a dancing violinist, mesmerize me. I tried violin as a small child—didn’t have the ear for it. But I can’t imagine dancing across a stage while playing a violin. It’s the proverbial question about rubbing your stomach and patting your head at the same time—I’m sure I can’t do it. So dancing and playing leaves me spellbound.

I don’t enter drawings on Facebook much, but tonight I entered my name in a drawing for a week for two in Scotland, with three nights on the luxury Royal Scot train. I know which child would go with me.

Physical therapy did a number on me yesterday—sore in the afternoon, uncomfortable in the night. But today I took a deep nap and woke up feeling more pain-free than in a while and also more optimistic. Tonight I did the prescribed exercises, including a still 15 minutes with the hot-pad on my low back. Almost lulled me into sleep right then.

Otherwise, it’s been a day of doing “stuff”—grocery, one Christmas gift bought, some presents wrapped. Yipped at Jacob this morning when I finally got him out of bed and he went right to his iPad instead of getting dressed. Laid down the law: from now on, no iPad until he’s dressed, fed, teeth brushed, backpack all ready to go. Of course then I had a red face—told him there were no waffles (though I sure I had some)—Jordan put them in the freezer door, where I never thought to look.

All in all, the kind of day each of us needs probably more than once in a while. I just let it happen—no “have to get this done,” no pressure, no deadlines. Busy days ahead, so this was a good day. It’s got me thinking about an early bedtime, though I have proofing to do. It will probably wait until tomorrow—or January. I may finally be learning how to retire.

 

A loverly day

This morning I woke up with a sense of euphoria--usually it takes me ten minutes to transition from whatever dream I was having to the real world (I dream deeply and usually remember them, at least for a while). But I felt optimistic, my hips didn't hurt as they have been, and I felt ready to take on the world. Except I didn't have to. Over the weekend I finished the third edits on a manuscript--it's ready to go to readers before I send it to my editor--and I finished the book I was reading, plus cooked Sunday dinner for six people, had a lovely lunch with friends, and had two other friends in for wine and cheese. Yeah, it was a good holiday weekend.
But today I'm an author without a project--I honestly don't know what project I want to do next, and I'm fairly compulsive (mild understatement) about having work on my desk. I read something about the difference in prayer between talking to God and listening to God. Perhaps I'm waiting for Him to tell me what to do...or waiting for inspiration to strike me--they both may be the same thing.
But I convinced myself today that I didn't have to do anything. So I spent a nice hour or so going through the accumulated food magazines on my desk--have to check them one more time for recipes I might want to try. I ran some errands. I cleaned up a few odds and ends.
And tonight I checked my books on Amazon. Some authors do that daily. I don't, haven't done it in a long time and was pleasantly surprised. I don't have a lot of reviews but the ones I have are so good they're liable to give me the big head. Maybe that's a clue to what I should do next--keep on doing what I've been doing.

I did have one surprise--an audio edition of one of my books that I didn't know existed. I swear I never signed a contract, never saw the cover art, never heard of the narrator, and never got a penny of royalties. I'll have to look into it, since it's probably been the best-selling book I ever wrote since I put it up on Amazon at a really low price...and it's gathered something like 130 reviews. I think it would make a great audio book, with the right narrator, but I'd like a piece of the action, thank you very much.
I expect to drift through tomorrow...and maybe the rest of the week in the same fashion--taking care of some aspects of my life I've ignored (four loads of laundry today) and reading and waiting for inspiration to strike.
And oh boy did I have a good nap today. The kind that really makes it hard to wake up.

Absorbing reading and other excuses

No blog tonight, because I've let myself spend the day reading Through the Evil Days, the newest Julia Spencer-Fleming mystery. There's an old philosophy about writing--back to Shakespeare maybe?--that a good story begins with the principle character[s] in a terribly complicated, dark, hopeless situation...and proceeds to get worse by the minute until it seems no solution is possible. Spencer-Fleming has mastered this technique in her Russ Van Allstyne/Clare Fergusson books, and her characters are complicated people drawn to each other by an irresistible attraction. No, this is far from a happy-ever-after love story--the universe throws one complication after another at them, and half the time they're irritated, irritable, irrational. A friend of mine put it well when she said what attracts her to the books is the moral dilemmas and complexities that Russ and Clare face.  Both are military veterans and the survival skills they learned on duty serve them well in the impossible physical situations they get into.
No, I'm not ready to write a review. I'm not even halfway through the book, but I find myself neglecting my own work, desperate to turn to the next page, the next impossibility. So there. That's an excuse for reading all day. It was a cold, cold day but under a brilliantly sunny sky. I ran one errand this morning--amazed at how the sun warmed my car--and then was content to stay in and read, eat a meatloaf sandwich, and nap. Surprised at how cool it was when I went to get Jacob. We did his homework--as usual, he unfocused and me harping (that's literally the word) on paying attention. We differed on the approach to one math problem (I know I am right) so we deferred it to his father.
Betty, Christian, Jacob and I ended the day with a wonderful dinner at a new Mexican restaurant--small, quiet, clean, and terrific food. Lots of fun. Fort Worthians, try Trevino's.