From Feast to Famine

Jordan and her girls at the rodeo

Not sure what roadhouse is--new since my day

Yesterday was such a high day, full of sociability and good food, that today is a bit of a shock. A dull gray day when the sun never did shine. I’ve been home, working, all day. Tonight Christian is out at a business event, Jacob is home, not feeling well and stewing in front of the TV, and Jordan has gone to the rodeo with her girlfriends.

This afternoon, when she said they had rodeo tickets for tonight, I had a momentary longing to go with them, to be one of the girls. I quickly came to my senses: I don’t really want to go. Years ago, I swore off watching the bull riding because I didn’t want to see man or animal hurt. I used to leave the arena when that event started. Besides, not walking without assistance, I couldn’t navigate the coliseum or the stands well, and I knew they didn’t have a box. I have in the day been privileged to sit in a box a few times, and it is sure up close and personal to the action. Much better than the Backstage Club perched high above the arena.

But it dawned on me what was really making me a bit nostalgic. I wanted to be forty again and in the frame of mind to go to the rodeo. I wanted to recapture the past.

Rodeo night was a rite of passage in our household. We always went with another family, had dinner in the cafeteria, and went to the show, back in the day when they had class entertainment acts. Each child waited anxiously to be deemed old enough to go to the rodeo and not be left behind with a sitter. By the time they were all of an age, there were four adults and eight children in our party, all dressed in our best western gear, all excited for this annual event. Back in those days, I stayed for the bull riding.

A lot of things are different now. The rodeo is different, my consciousness about animals is different—yes, I know the animals are well cared for and tended to, but I still don’t want to see calf roping. I am not of the ranch life born, in spite of all the time I’ve spent writing about the western life. And I am, alas, older. No, the rodeo is not for me.

So here I sit, another exciting weekend at the Fort Worth Alter/Burton compound. Jacob came out for me to heat his soup, and I explained he waited so long that I was heating my own dinner and he’d have to wait. I can’t turn on the hot plate and the toaster oven at the same time. So he took his can of chicken noodle soup inside to heat in the microwave. He says he’ll come back and visit, and I hope so. I’d like a little company, though Sophie is being quite companionable. I don’t mean to sound pitiful, because I’m not. But I just wish for a bit more company on this dreary evening.

My unattributed quote for the day: “The only normal people are those you don’t know very well.”

“Night, all.

This, that, and the Democratic Debate

I have so enjoyed the three-day weekend. Stayed home all three days, slept late (Sophie has developed the habit of jumping on the bed and getting in my face when she thinks I’ve slept long enough), did a bit of cooking, and got lots of desk work done. The trouble with that is the more you do, the more there is to do. Writing is an uncertain life—one day you may think your desk is relatively clear, and the next you’re inundated with a thousand small projects. That’s where I am now—inundated.

I think I’m becoming a piscatarian—one who eats fish but not other flesh. Saturday I had salmon for dinner; Sunday for lunch I defrosted a tuna pasty; for dinner I had marinated tuna; today I made salmon salad for lunch because Jordan was coming on her lunch hour, and tonight I finished the marinated tuna. Tomorrow I’ll finish the salmon salad for lunch, but then by time for dinner at the Grill, I’ll be ready for beef or turkey.

Tonight good friends were coming for happy hour. I started a fire, put out three wine glasses, even put on lipstick…and then went to my computer to find they had to cancel because he’s had health issues. Disappointing but I have enough on my desk to keep me busy—and a book I’m really enjoying.

If you read this blog much you know I am a dedicated progressive, liberal, Democrat—whatever term you want to use, whether or not it’s a pejorative to you. I watched the debate last night, and frankly I was disappointed. I had hoped the Democrats would continue a collegial discussion of issues that concern us all. But instead Hillary Clinton went on the attack against Bernie Sanders.  They weren’t as ugly and angry as the Republicans (frankly I don’t watch those debates because of the anger level and the lack of concern for the common good). Occasionally both Clinton and Sanders managed smiles and chuckles, but there was an acrimonious tone to the debate that dismayed me. Poor O’Malley was left sort of off-stage, but I do like him, think he's a voice of common sense. I guess conventional wisdom is that he’s in this for a vice-presidential spot—and that would please me.

Which of the two forerunners am I going to vote for? I’m still not decided. Friends in politics tell me Sanders can’t win a national election, but didn’t they say that about Obama? And doesn’t his campaign echo Obama’s 2008 campaign? I know Hillary has the experience and the knowledge to do the job, but sometimes a bit of mistrust creeps into my mind. And an occasional photographer manages to catch her with a cold, unpleasant look on her face.

I don’t know, but if Trump wins (which I sincerely doubt but am afraid to say out loud), I’ll begin to make plans to move. Now he’s taking credit for the release of the Iranian hostages, claiming they were freed because Iran is afraid of him. So much for President Obama and diplomatic negotiations. As a good friend would say, “Give me a break!”