How to answer a grandson, an episode with Sophie, and my compulsive nature

When a grandchild comes to you and says, “I need a favor,” the proper answer is not, “What?” or “Why?” or “How much?” When Jacob made that announcement this morning, I said, “Okay.”

“Stand up,” he commanded. “I’m going to take your picture.” And he did, saying it was for school. I never got more clarity than that. When he showed it to me, my thought was that, except for the quarantine haircut, I don’t look like I’m suffering in this life of isolation. And then I remembered a time way back, when he was maybe five, that he insisted on taking a picture of me. So here are Jacob’s two pictures. I’m considerably younger in the early one but maybe not quite as full of smiles.

The problem with Sophie, I decided today, is that while I think of her as a medium-sized dog—thirty pounds—when excited, she has the shrill bark of a small dog. And she was excited today: the yard guys came. She always barks, and it didn’t used to be a huge problem, because they came in the late afternoon, and I just kept her in the cottage and endured the barking for twenty or thirty minutes. But now they come right when I want to nap.

Today I had a brilliant idea: I locked her in the bedroom with me. Fail! That just meant that I was confined with a barking dog in a small room that acted as an echo chamber. Then she decided she could best protect me if she got on the bed, which was okay for a few minutes because she was still. But when a slight noise alarmed her, she stood on the bed and barked, which rocked the whole bed. Then for a blessed short while, she lay quietly on my feet, and I dared not move.

I was dozing, happily plotting a scene in my mind (napping is when I do my best thinking about whatever I’m writing). Then she came unglued again I gave up and let her out of the bedroom. She proceeded to bark frantically for about twenty minutes.

Suddenly there was quiet. I tried to recapture the plotting moment, but it didn’t work. Got up reluctantly and began a different kind of plotting—grocery lists with Jordan.

Tonight a good friend of Jordan’s, someone I’m fond of, came for a distanced happy hour, but I begged off, pleading that I had promised to make German potato salad (Christian’s favorite) to go with our burgers tonight and I had a lot to do.

That sense of having so much to do has only come over me recently, but I find it puzzling. Yes, I am working on a new mystery, but I have no deadline. I am in every sense self-employed. But today I wanted to finish up my newsletter, do grocery lists with Jordan, write a blog, make the potato salad, and, I wish, make progress on the novel. None of it must be done today—except that in my old compulsive mind it does.

Jordan wanted to talk grocery lists this morning, and I put her off with the explanation that I was doing something I really wanted to do. It occurred to me that, yes, the urgency is in my own mind, but it’s not because I’m compulsive. It’s because I have it in my head where these projects are going, what I want to say, and I want to commit it to the computer before it leaves my brain. Could I call it inspiraton?

A lot of people would still say I’m compulsive. Writers will understand.

Waking up to a bright new world

It’s a fairly well-known fact that I take a nap every afternoon. I’m religious about it. Friends and family know not to call or come by between two and four. I’ve read a lot about research supporting the healthful aspects of napping, and I’m certainly not one of those who claim to feel worse after a nap then before. It’s a lifelong habit, inherited from my father, and now that I’m retired, I’m free to indulge every afternoon.

By the time two o’clock rolled around today, I was more than ready to sleep. The plumbing saga continued, with a crew of professional diggers who belied the heritage of the gravedigger in Hamlet. These were cheerful fellows—at least four of them—who pushed countless wheelbarrows filled with rock to a waiting truck. But they seemed to laugh and joke among themselves  while they worked. They were not impressed by Sophie, though, and I had to keep her in the house, despite her protests.

The wonderful woman who twice a month cleans my cottage texted to say she had to wait for repairmen at her own home. Jordan and I sort of gave up hope, but a little after one she showed up. I asked for a quick cleaning—laundry, bed linen, vacuum, etc.—but she was two steps ahead of me. She was going to do those things and clean the bedroom, then close me in the bedroom to nap while she cleaned the rest of the cottage. She took it in stride when I said she could not flush the commode but was undone when the plumbers cut off the water. “I can’t clean bathrooms,” she complained.

So that was the state of things when I went to sleep—a dirty house, an unflushed, stopped up commode, and no water. By then, the diggers had finished, and the plumbers had started their repair, which they promised me they could get done today. Sophie was wandering around, still wanting to go outside, a bit bewildered by all that was going on.

I woke up to a new world. Zenaida was gone, but the cottage sparkled and smelled clean and good. The bathroom was clean, the commode had been flushed and cleaned, and the plumbers were gone. I texted my thanks to Zenaida and called the plumbing company, where they said they weren’t quite through—all the dirt they took out has to be replaced and the area cleaned up. But the important repair was done, and Sophie was happily surveying her kingdom in the back yard. I felt like a new person.

Tonight at happy hour we celebrated Mary’s birthday—it’s one of the big ones, and she will  be in New York on the actual day, so we partied a bit ahead with a spread of cheese, pickled herring, blue cheese dip, and hummus. Prudence made chocolate dipped strawberries and strawberry buttercream frosting, which Jordan put on chocolate cupcakes. Can you guess that the birthday girl’s favorites are chocolate and strawberry?

A happy day, though it ended with Jordan and me searching Amazon for the N95 masks recommended when—not if, according to the CDC—the corona virus erupts here. Many affordable versions are “currently not available,” which tells you we are late to the party. But we did order four masks. I have this twisted logic, that I hope is true—if we spend money on the masks, we won’t need them. Still I worry ahead about quarantines and our country’s lack of preparedness.

Of mowers, mosquitos, and churros

Yesterday I really needed a nap. I hadn’t slept well the night before and thought one of those deep afternoon naps would fix me up. But just as I settled my head on the pillow, I began to hear mowers and blowers and yard equipment. At first the shrub crew, who were to clean out beds, etc., worked at the patio end of the cottage. Granted the cottage is not big, so that’s not far away, but I convinced myself that I could consider their racket white noise and go to sleep. But then the equipment suddenly sounded like it was in the bedroom at the head of my bed. It wasn’t, of course—it was in the driveway right up next to the house.

But sleep I did—because I woke up from some bizarre dream to find a quiet and neatly trimmed yard. The patio was clear of leaves—a condition that would last half a day. My pecan tree, which shades the patio, is dropping leaves early and at an amazing rate this year.

When Linda from Granbury arrived for a catch-up visit—she was in New Mexico all summer—we decided to have a sip of wine on the patio. It was a lovely late afternoon. But the mosquitos drove us inside within minutes. They don’t bother me—must be too old and stringy for them—but Linda was getting bitten. And I’d just read that some extraordinary number of mosquitos in Fort Worth or Tarrant County tested positive for West Nile virus. So in we came.

We dined at Righteous Foods on Seventh. For those who don’t know, this small but classy restaurant once served upscale food based on the cuisine of the interior of Mexico. Then the owner became health conscious. The menu offers detox drinks, grain dishes, salads, and the like. I am not much on grains—Linda had risotto which had been toasted. She loved it and insisted I take a taste—just not my dish. But I can always find something I like—last night it was a smoked salmon tartlet (actually smoked salmon toast with surprise diced beets, which I happen to like a lot). For dessert we split an order of churros, maybe my new favorite food. We each ate one churro and I brought the third home for my breakfast today, but it didn’t last that long. I ate it last night.

Speaking of landscaping, I love that around Righteous Foods—lots of decorative grasses and a big bed or prickly pear cactus. I wondered if the cactus also appeared on the menu or if the restaurant purchased pads that were younger and more tender. I bet the latter.

A fun meal and a good evening. And here’s the trivia for the day: did you hear about the couple, devoted to hiking, who set off in the mountains of Colorado. He proposed, she accepted, and then they got lost.

Or there’s the runaway horse in France who galloped into a bar. Seriously.

What a start to the day.

The value of napping

I cannot meditate. Oh, I’ve tried. I used to sit in a big, comfy chair, now gone due to space limitations, and do a relaxing exercise where you focus on letting go in each part of your body. I think I was fairly successful at that, and then I’d let my mind wander to where it wanted to go. That’s my version of meditating. I doubt that’s what Buddhists mean.

But these days I know if I sit at my desk and say, “Okay, I’m going to meditate now,” it won’t work. I won’t keep myself from fiddling with things on my desk or glancing at the computer. I won’t focus. It’s why when I have company, I move away from the computer, so I won’t be tempted to be rude and check the email, etc.

Today it occurred to me that I meditate when I nap. I’ve written before that napping is the time I get some of my best plotting ideas, but today I realized it’s also a time for meditation. Yes, sometimes I sleep, but when I don’t, I let my mind wander where it will. That sort of tells me what’s on my subconscious, what’s worrying or preoccupying me. Today I do think I dozed off but then Sophie barked, just once but enough to jolt me back to reality. So I lay there, halfway between sleep and wakefulness, and it occurred to me that was as close as I’ll come to meditation. I think it’s because I actually get in the bed, all comfy under the covers (of course that means I have to make the bed twice a day).I don’t think I’m capable of clearing my mind in the way that I think, in my ignorance, true meditation requires. But I think my method is healthy. And, no, I don’t let my mind rant about Donald Trump and his follies. I mostly think peaceful thoughts.

Tonight, friends Sue and Teddy came for a glass of wine. They are full of plans for their June 9 wedding, and it’s a joy to see them so happy. We laughed a bit today about the early days of their relationship, when he was in California and she here in Texas, and I listened a lot in my living room and on my front porch. She went to California a lot, but now he’s a confirmed Texan. Of course, I got carried away and told them stories of my children’s weddings—Jamie had the entire wedding part giggling during the ceremony, and Jordan had the most touching moment when both her brothers walked her down the aisle and kissed her on the cheek before handing her to her father. Good to recall those happy memories while anticipating the next happy event.

Tomorrow, Murder at the Blue Plate Café launches, and I’ll tell you more about the origin of that Blue Plate Café series. It’s a neat story. Please stay tuned.

Meantime, sleep well and enjoy TGIF.

Napping after a frustrating morning

When I napped this afternoon, I had the clear sense that I was in my childhood bedroom in the house in Chicago. My mom and brother were talking softly downstairs, because sound carried in that small row house. Downstairs were living, dining, and kitchen; upstairs, three bedrooms and the house’s lone bath. The house was only sixteen feet wide, though as a kid I thought it large. Delicious feeling to be back there again, even in my dreams. I’m sure Mom had cookies waiting downstairs.

The most frustrating morning today. I decided I could do advance reading copies through Amazon’s Create Space program without hiring an expensive designer or formatter. But I ran into problems, which I thought I could solve with a quick call to Amazon. Hah! There is no such thing as a quick call to Amazon, though their support service is willing and hepful. Still, I spent almost the entire morning on the phone, being bounced between techs at Kindle Direct Publishing and Create Space. By eleven, still in my pajamas, I reluctantly cancelled my lunch arrangements. I finally got it done and ordered the copies that were really needed last week, but it’s not a lovely professional job, good enough I hope for advance copies.

The market for mysteries these days is heavily skewed toward ebooks, and I honestly don’t sell many print. I’m old-fashioned enough that I want a print copy in my hands, but I’m also a realist—and today I made myself be a financial realist, balancing the advantages of print against the cost. When the book, Murder at the Bus Depot, comes out in May, it will be available in print, but I might advise for the ebook, which will be available on several platforms, not just Amazon.

I’ve been accomplishing a lot this week, and my other triumph for the day is that I finished the novel I’m editing for friend and fellow author Cindy Bonner. Cindy published several good novels in the nineties, until life called her to other occupations. Now she’s back to writing, and I’m delighted. The novel follows a Texas boy to England where he flies for the RAF in WWII, meets a Canadian female pilot, eventually flies for the USAAF. It’s compelling well done, accurate and convincing about the business of flying and life in England at the time. I look forward to seeing it in print. Meantime, though, Cindy’s agent advises it’s too long, and I’m charged with the task of helping her cut a whole lot of words. Yikes!

Tonight I’m allowing myself the fun of playing with recipes. French onion panade, anyone? Perhaps Fettucine Alfredo is a bit more accessible.

The art of napping

I think I have almost perfected the art of napping. I was born into a famly of nappers. My father, a college president, walked home from his office every day for lunch--a mile or more--and then took a twenty-minute nap. My brother naps--in fact, during periods in his life, I knew him to take two naps before noon. He's too busy for that these days, but he gets in his afternoon nap.
And I feel downright deprived if I don't get a nap of at least an hour. These days my friends know I love to visit over lunch--but I want to go early, so that I cn get my nap in before I pick up my grandson after school and facing the daunting challenge of first-grade homework. Yes, I put on an old t-shirt and crawl into the covers--none of this napping fully dressed on top of the bed for me. I actually go to bed.
Some days my soundest sleep is at nap time. Like today when I went to sleep at about one-thirty and woke about ten after two, totally disoriented. I thought it was two in the morning, but then why was it daylight? Was it Saturday? No, couldn't be because I didn't remember going to the grocery in the morning. Sometimes in my rush to orient myself I run into the kitchen to check the clock there and make sure it says the same thing as the bedroom clock--though what that would tell me, I don't know. At last it dawned on me that it was Friday and, yes, I had to pick up Jacob. So I went back to bed until the alarm went off at a quarter to three. I have also perfected the art of throwing my clothes back on and getting out the door to get him but , after all, his school is just across the street.
If Jacob is here on weekends, I tell him firmly not to wake me unless the house is on fire. So he tugs the blanket to bring me out of a sound sleep for something like,, "The TV isn't working," or "I'm hungry." Like all children his age, he's given up napping unless sleep overcomes him while he watches TV--it happens.
Sometimes I think Saturdays are my favorite days--no school, no pressing things to do that evening (on Sundays, I'm often cooking for company), and if Jacob's not here, I sometimes nap and doze for two hours. Oh yes, I can sleep for an hour, and then drift in that netherland between sleep and wakefulness for an hour.
I've read that napping is good for your health, and I'm ready to believe it. How about you?