Food, nostalgia, a new word, and a book about Chicago--or is it about girls and women?

Not to brag, but I just had the best dinner! It’s been a day when Sophie and I were out here alone—no visitors, no human contact except by phone and computer. Jordan breezed in for two minutes, so frustrated with her busy business that she breezed right out again. But dinner made up for it. A piece of salmon filet with chimichurri sauce, a boiled potato with lots of plant-based butter, and a green salad. Chimichurri is my new favorite thing. When we went out to supper Saturday, I had salmon with chimichurri (no, I’ll not tire of it) and came home with a small container which goes a long way. I roasted the salmon with salt, pepper, and olive oil. And not too long in the oven—I love the glass door in my new toaster oven, because I could see the salmon lighten as it cooked.

This is a nostalgia day for me. Fifty-eight years ago, I married one Joel Alter. Some good came of it—four wonderful kids and a liking for Jewish food. Beyond that, it was pretty much a wash. From my point of view, we were happy for fifteen years, and then miserable for two after he went crazy. Were he still walking this earth, I’m sure he’d have a different tale to tell.

More significant now to me is that eleven years ago today, Megan, Colin, and I were in Edinburgh, the start of our wonderful week-long exploration of Scotland. It was a trip that will forever be one of my best memories. I’d love to go back to Scotland, but since that seems unlikely, I cling to these memories. The picture is Megan and me at Edinburgh Castle.

One more bit of nostalgia: I watched an interesting program tonight, an interview with Dawn Turner, author of Three Girls from Bronzeville: A Uniquely American Memoir of Race, Fate, and Sisterhood. Bronzeville, a neighborhood on Chicago’s South Side, was in my childhood a Black neighborhood. Growing up in Kenwood at 51^st Street, I knew 47^th Street was the dividing line, but I never heard the name Bronzeville. When I was very young my family attended St. James Methodist Church at 4611 S. Ellis, clearly in Bronzeville and not Kenwood. (Today the church is being converted into apartments and community work space—nice to see the very traditional limestone building being preserved.) The program tonight was interesting, but whereas Turner talked about the universality of her growing up experience (her best friend and her sister had much more difficult adulthoods than she, a respected and successful journalist), I wanted to hear specifics about those two adjacent neighborhoods. In my young years I thought 47^th Street was a gulf as wide as a moat, and I wanted to know how that affected her because I know how it affected me. She touched lightly on it but not in depth. Still, the book goes on my TBR list.

My new word for the day: hegemonic masculinity. (Okay, it’s two words.) It means a society dominated by men. I ran across it online today but thought it so appropriate when old white men (and one young white woman) are trying to tell women what to do with their bodies. Like the majority of Americans, I continue to be distressed about Justice Alito’s draft, with all the holes in its logic and support and the utter lack of medical knowledge or consideration. But I read an encouraging post today from Wendy Davis—remember her? Thirteen-hour filibuster in the Texas legislature against an anti-abortion bill which was later passed anyway. Davis has not given up the fight, and she wrote that there is a way to win if control goes to the states. I’m not sure I have this right, and now I can’t find the reference—but there is a way. It has to do with amending the state constitution so that the decision will be in the hands of voters at the ballot box, rather than the state legislature. It’s early days yet, but there is a movement to that effect in several states (Michigan for one, I believe) and we must be alert here in Texas for the first opportunity to work toward that goal. We’re fortunate to have Davis to guide us.

Monday, and a whole week ahead. So far I seem to be lazing through it. Hope it’s a good one for you.

Some thoughts on marriage

 

Jordan and Christian
married seventeen years tonight

I have not been married for some forty years, so I am not of the school that thinks a woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle (I once said that to a man only to see him slam his fist on the counter in front of us and say, “Right!”—five minutes later, he came back and sheepishly said, “I just got it.”) At any rate, my personal thoughts on marriage aside, it is a delight tonight to offer congratulations to Jordan and Christian on their seventeenth anniversary. As I said on them on a card today, they make marriage look good.

Christian staged their anniversary evening carefully—they went to the Amber Room, that secretive cave for cocktails at Wishbone & Flynt. Then it was home where he cooked lobster, shaved Brussel sprouts, and mashed potatoes. In what I thought was a really sweet approach to family, they included Jacob in their dinner, down to the lobster tail (that kid who can be a fairly picky eater loves lobster, crab, and shrimp—he’s not a cheap date!). Meanwhile Jean and I ate chicken hash and artichoke hearts in a sauce, and I didn’t think either were my best successes. But they were okay, and we had lots to talk about and catch up on.

But the day’s events have made me think about love, marriage, and loneliness. My friend Babette Hale is facing her first Christmas alone after the death of her husband, beloved Texas columnist Leon Hale who died at ninety-nine last spring. She posted a column today about being alone and yet not really being lonely (The Book in the Drawer (bookcracker.blogspot.com) and, as I wrote her, it spoke directly to me, even though I am not a grieving widow. My ex-husband died some eight years ago, and while I mourned because of a lot of good memories, it was a far cry from losing someone you’d lived with and loved up to the moment.

I am of course at the age where a lot of my women friends, both close and personal and online, are being widowed. And I am watching how some handle grief. I admire those who can clearly grieve and yet carry on with life without a lot of dramatics. Jean has always been clear about that—she loved Jim deeply, she wishes he had not gotten Alzheimer’s and that life had taken them in a different course but given the reality she will carry on. And as she said to me tonight, she feels he is always with her. That is a kind of devotion that makes me almost envious, though there is one man from my past that I think is always with me—as I am with him.

Today I talked to an old friend who lost her husband recently. We have been distant since pandemic, okay really since trump’s election, but I felt the need to call her and voice my support, let her know I had been thinking of her. To my surprise—relief? —she sounded upbeat, hearty, laughed at a few things. She said, “I miss him desperately,” but she was carrying on with life, has already moved into a condo in the building where her daughter and son-in-law live. My admiration is great, and I am hoping we can renew a forty-year friendship.

Some women bleed all over the internet about their grief. I wish I could comfort them. I even wish I could understand them. I want to preach: get ahold of yourself, move on, treasure the memories but have some respect for yourself. Truth is, I am not in a position to do that, because while I have loved more than one man, some deeply, some on the surface, I have never lost a true love to death.

But loneliness I know about, even though I have the most supportive family network any woman could wish for—four children, their spouses, seven grandchildren. We spend Thanksgiving, Christmas, Mother’s Day, usually Easter together, and without their support, I would not be living independently in my cottage (hats off to Jordan who really makes it possible). But still, like Babette, I know that I am alone, that I am responsible for myself. It’s a strange time of life, and one in which I think each of us makes that choice: I will be happy, or I will be sad.

I remember my mom in her eighties (which I where I am now) saying, “All my friends have died.” I’m not quite in that sad a place, but it’s a problem for me to grapple with. And sooner or later, for most of us.

Becoming my mother and thoughts on someone else’s long marriage….

They say we women all become our mothers as we age. When my mom got older, she had a series of strokes which affected her ability to think clearly. One little result of that bothered me a lot—her clothes were always spotted. You could tell what Mom had for lunch by looking at her outfit. I swore I would never get there, but today I happened to look down at the T-shirt I sleep in. You can count how many times I’ve brushed my teeth by the drips of toothpaste! And then there’s that spot of marinara.

Another clothing faux pas. I wore what I thought was a cute, coordinated outfit to church this morning. As a matter of fact I also wore it to dinner last night. A turquoise-and-gray top, with gray pants and gray shoes. Imagine my surprise when we got home at noon and I looked down in broad, full daylight only to discover that my pants, far from gray, were blue. I asked Jordan why she didn’t tell me, and she said she didn’t notice. Maybe no one else did either.

Tonight I went to a dinner party and managed, I think, to wear an appropriate outfit—okay, that turquoise top again but with gray pants this time—and not to dribble food on my shirt, though we were in a Mexican restaurant with plenty of opportunity for dribbling salsa and pico de gallo. I gathered with some fifty other people to celebrate the fortieth anniversary of friends Carol Roark and Lon Burnam. We celebrated our friends and clapped when Lon made a short speech about their first meeting.

The whole gathering was like a mini-meeting of the Tarrant County Democratic Party, and we were all energized, even before the news went around the room that Nancy Pelosi had lunch in Fort Worth today with a couple who were in the very room with us.

For me, the party was a chance to see friends I hadn’t seen in a while and sort of catch up, though the noise level was extreme and half the time I couldn’t hear what someone was saying to me. Still, I managed to re-hook with a friend that I thought had moved out of my life and to garner a speaking arrangement for spring, after my Alamo book comes out. So it was fun, with an extra layer of good for me.

Lon is a former Texas legislator and now a consultant for causes he cares passionately about, like world peace and nuclear waste and the environment. Carol, a historian and librarian, retired as director of the Texas Collection at the Dallas Public Library and now pursues independent projects she cares about, like digitalizing records of the local black genealogy society. She also writes books and has edited some of mine. They travel frequently, sometimes together but often not. Seeing a couple like Lon and Carol, with a long marriage but yet degrees of independence, makes me think of those wonderful words from Robert Browning’s “Rabbi Ben Ezra”:

Grow Old with me,

                The best is yet to be,

The last of life, for which the first was made . . . .

They fill me with admiration for what they have accomplished, because I know the forty years haven’t always been easy, but as a survivor of a marriage gone terribly wrong, I also admit o a twinge of jealousy. Happy longevity is something not many achieve. God bless them.

           

Reflective moments

My dinner companions

Dinner last night with two old and dear friends—both, like me, former doctors’ wives, one divorced, as I am, and one widowed. We talked of ex-husbands and good times and people we knew and now wonder about and those halcyon days when we thought we had the world on a strong. It’s been a long fifty years since we met, and our paths have diverged, but I am so grateful that we can still remember and laugh and mourn together—and toast our good fortune. The talk got me reflecting back on my life and marriage—when my husband left, I was devastated, afraid I could not raise four children on my own. But he gave me the greatest gift, besides giving me the four children. I found out I could do it and with some degree of success—they are all happy with good careers and families of their own, and I am so proud of them and so sorry he never shared in the joy of watching them mature and never was part of the “family” we became. And I am grateful that he freed me to pursue a career of my own, instead of focusing my life on being a doctor’s wife. I may not have hit the bestseller list or overseen publication of a work that shook the halls of academia, but it’s been a good and rewarding career.

Another reflective moment: Jacob was an acolyte at church today, probably his last stint in

that role. He’s aged out. Generally, children do it in fifth or sixth grade or through their twelfth year, which means he could do it until spring. But I think he’s done, so it was a bittersweet moment—and a different experience since the church was set up for the Boar’s Head Festival and he had to improvise a bit on the candle lighting and snuffing. In honor of the occasion, lots of pictures, including one with the senior minister. But I like the one with his grandmother best.

And tonight, a small gathering of people I care about for Twelfth Night. When I was a kid, my neighbor/adopted aunt always had a Twelfth Night ceremony whereby you threw a branch of the tree into the fire and made a wish. The kids and I have continued the tradition for years. With Jordan, it’s grown beyond family to something we share with others. She did her usual magic job of entertaining tonight, with a happy hour spread and plentiful wine. The night was slightly chilly but we all gathered around the fire pit to throw our greens and make our wishes and enjoy the warmth of the fire. Christian had gotten some pinion to burn with the firewood, and it smelled wonderful, even if smoke did get into our eyes and hair. One of those moments when I felt so blessed. And no, I’m not telling what my

wish was—that would ruin the whole thing.

Now I’m inside, hearing voice from Jordan, Christian, and a friend who lingered and seeing the flames. Next year we need Graham crackers and Hershey bars and marshmallows.

Gratitude for a marriage gone awry

Fifty-three years ago today I stood in a garden on Osteopathy Avenue in Kirksville, Missouri and exchanged vows with the late Joel Alter. We didn’t care that only a thin line of bushes separated us from the goat pens nor that the music was a rented tiny organ—I don’t even remember what was played. A friend had made my dress, and I kept it for many years before giving it away. We honeymooned, with good friends, one night at the local Holiday Inn.

We were happy for fifteen years. He built his career as a surgeon, bought us my “doctor’s wife” house, drove fancy cars, and, best of all, adopted four children. I often think of those as my golden years. They were followed by two miserable years while the marriage was crumbling. A failed marriage is never a one-way street, and I’m not writing tonight about recriminations (oh, yes, I have a long list but, probably, so did he). We divorced in 1982.

This is not a letter about blame. It’s about gratitude. If I hadn’t married Joel, I wouldn’t have the four wonderful children I have. I wouldn’t be in Texas, where I’ve been for 52 years. And I wouldn’t be eating kosher food, which I love. Joel taught me a lot of things but probably none more important than an exuberant joy in life. He loved to dance; I was a lousy dancer, but I could dance with him. He loved animals, and I caught his love, particularly of dogs. He cared about people, and I am more open and concerned about others than I might have been if he were not in my life.

A friend looked at me today and said in pure astonishment, “If he hadn’t brought you to Texas, we never would have known each other”

But the biggest thing Joel ever did for me was to leave me after 17 years of marriage, 20 years together. He reduced me to tears one night shortly before by telling me he’d take the kids, the house, everything but me. Of course, I wouldn’t give up my children. At the time, I didn’t see his leaving as a gift. I was in my early 40s, with four children ages 12-6, and I was scared, no terrified, about the future. It turned out just fine, thank you.

I have come to appreciate that great gift. If he had stayed, my children probably wouldn’t be the well-balanced, happy people they are, family people, contributing to their world. I wouldn’t have had the career I did nor would I have become the writer I call myself today. And I wouldn’t have built the wonderful life I have—friends, church, a secure home, great memories of the last thirty-plus years.

So thanks to Joel, though he didn’t intend his leaving as a gift, and his life didn’t turn out to be the happy days he expected. I have carried Joel with me, all these years, in a small place in my heart, in too many dreams, in some of the better ways I react to people and the world.

When people moan about divorce or how hard it is on the children or some such nonsense, I just smile and say, “Not always.”

Thanks, Joel.

Klutz in the Kitchen

May 16, 2016

I distinguished myself in the kitchen the last couple of days. Yesterday, I let an iron skillet sit on a warm burner to dry—only it was on a high burner. By the time I smelled it at the other end of the house, the skillet was pretty much ruined, and I will order a new one.

This morning, I hand washed the glassware left from yesterday—and managed to reach for a towel and knock one of the small carafes onto my unforgiving stone floor. Glass shattered though not in too wide a range—couldn’t find the dust pan until I unloaded the whole utility closet. Not a happy camper.

At noon, trying to open a box of wine—don’t judge!—I got into a fight with the spigot and got wine all over the floor. Threw a junk towel over it to soak it up, which proved to be a good move because a few minutes later I took a box of blueberries—most of them eaten and the few left wrinkled enough that I knew they’d be sour—out of the fridge and set it on the counter. Somehow, maybe in putting the box of wine in the fridge, I dumped the blueberries on the kitchen floor—and stomped some before I realized it. But as luck would have it, most of them landed on the towel I’d put down, so I picked up the others, threw them on the towel, and emptied the whole thing into the sink. From there I took them to the trash. I was about through with the kitchen for the day.

But tonight I redeemed myself with the one-person meal I cooked. Linguine with brown butter, sage and Parmesan. Honestly, I couldn’t taste the sage but the brown butter and Parmesan combination was wonderful. I’ll do that again, maybe with more sage since my plant seems to be flourishing. Really good supper.

Maybe I’ll venture into the kitchen again, but not tomorrow. I have lunch and dinner plans, providing the weather cooperates. Storms are predicted. Spring in Texas is always unpredictable but more so this year. Yet we should feel blessed—I heard from people in the Northeast who woke to temperatures in the 40s and 50s.

A wild thought just occurred to me. Fifty-two years ago today I married Joel Alter, the father of our adoptive children. We divorced in 1981 or 1982, and he died three and a half years ago. I felt sad when he died because I remembered the good Joel I married and not the man he became, but no regrets. I’ve had a good life, raised four children as a single parent, forged a career for myself—all things I wouldn’t have done if I were still married to him. And the kids turned out to be wonderful people—another outcome I’m not sure about if he’d still been involved. The Lord looks out for us in various ways.

Memories of an old friend

An obituary in yesterday's paper alerted me to the death of an old friend, a man I hadn't seen in years and years, and it brought back some happy memories and some musings on life. The man's wife, S., was and is a good friend of mine for over forty years. Young, with infant children, we all hung out together a lot--we were neighbors in a small, upscale neighborhood (hey, I was married to a doctor), and we were involved in liberal causes. We partied. We had great lives.
But things change. Joel and I divorced and then a few years later so did S. and her husband--though they later remarried briefly and then finally terminated their relationship. S. worked at TCU as I did, but many years ago she moved to NYC to be near most of her children. We've kept in sporadic contact, had rare visits, but I think we both knew in the back of our minds that we were old friends with deep roots. I've emailed her since her ex's death and had warm replies.
I got to thinking about the two of us today, and the similarities struck me with force. Not just that we lived in the same neighborhood and worked at TCU. We were both married to men who, each in his own way was larger than life and lived outside what would be called the norms of society. I can't truly speak for her, but I suspect I know that when their marriage was good, it was very good. I know I have happy memories of my own life at that time. Four children, the happy domestic life. In a lot of ways I loved it; sometimes I chafed against it.
My ex and hers both were an enormous part of our lives and left indelible impressions, things that shaped us for the rest of our lives. But we each went on to build satisfying lives for ourselves--she as an artist and me as a writer. I'm not sure I'd go so far as to say those men gave us the strength to do that--I'd like to believe it came from our inner selves. But whatever, we did forge ahead, and we're both happy campers, close to our children, pleased with our lives. The parallels interest me.
S. wrote that she hoped she would now be free, and I wanted to tell her no, she'll never be free. My ex is still in my thoughts--and sometimes my dreams--a lot. Oh, yes, there were other men--some good, some disappointing--but none had the same impact on my life. I still don't know whether to damn him or thank him--but I think it's the latter.
Here's to the good old days, to all those golden memories softened by time. And to long-lasting friendships.

Musings on relationships

"Grow old along with me/The best is yet to be/ The last of life/For which the first was made"
                   from "Rabbi Ben Ezra," by Robert Browning

I guess that's what every young girl, at least of my generation, dreams of--that meeting of souls that lasts a lifetime. A complete, encompassing love that endures long after physical attraction and desperate sexual encounters. For me, it wasn't to be, and sometimes I'm a little sad about that.
I watched my brother and sister-in-law, unspoken, share a private joke (that I unintentionally initiated), and I thought that's the kind of close caring I miss in my life.
In truth, I know very few couples who have grown old together from the get-go. Almost all of my friends are on at least second marriages, and some of those on first marriages don't seem too happy about it. But I've seen close girlfriends develop that soul-mate relationship with new spouses, the kind that is indeed "till death do us part." My brother and Cindy have probably been together a little more that twenty years--which is about a fourth of his life. So not everyone walks happily from youth into the sunset together.
I would not want anyone to think that I am unhappy with my life. In thirty-plus years since divorce, I've been happier than ever...and I've many times blessed the woman who took my ex off my list of worries. I have four wonderful children, who love me I know, but they have their own families that come first. I have many good friends who love me and understand me. I've had a few soul mates along the way...male and female, some lasting and some not so...and I've had relationships with men that I can only thank God for saving me from. What was I thinking? When I was newly divorced, a much younger man told me he'd never date me because I had baggage--four children. Even then I would have been hesitant to introduce a new man into the family circle (did once and they loved him and he them but it wasn't meant to be). Even today I'd be hesitant to introduce someone new to our close family. If I married now, I'd end up being caretaker to some old man. (Years ago when my brother was single, two gay friends suggested I should open an home for old men and take care of both of them and my brother--no, thanks!) And, the kind of relationship I'm talking about doesn't develop in a week or a month--it takes years to build. Sort of how I feel about my relationship with the new dog I'm trying to civilize!
So I'll grow old surrounded by loving family and friends. I treasure the experiences I've had, the accomplishments I can count, the love of cooking my mom blessed me with, all the things that have made up my life and still do. But every one in a while, I see a couple holding hands and walking by the river, and I feel a twinge of jealousy.