A sort of nothing weekend

 

Usually I plan ahead and see that there are good things on my calendar for weekends, but this weekend? Nothing! It’s a bit of vanity to realize that one reason was that I couldn’t wash my hair. Sounds silly and frivolous but I think it’s true. I had that thingie removed from my scalp on Friday, and the doctor said to wait two days to shampoo. That was Friday late morning, so does Friday count as one of the days? I decided to err on the side of caution and wait until Monday. But my hair had Vaseline in it from the procedure and was generally a mess, and I was self-conscious about it. Tomorrow I am going to wash it first thing in the morning, and I expect the world to be a lot better.

We hoped to hear about the new dog we are interested in today—hear as in an invitation to greet and meet. But it didn’t happen. The wheels of dog adoption, like a lot of other wheels, move slowly. Having adopted four children, I should not be surprised at this slow procedure, but I guess I expected pet adoption to be easier. It’s probably a good thing for pets that it is not. The foster said she wasn’t able to get approval of my application today, so we wait (I am already conditionally approved). I was afraid that the poor boy was so attached to his foster that he wouldn’t want to be uprooted, but Jordan found out that agencies rotate dogs, not letting them stay too long with any foster for just that reason. I suppose that also cuts down on foster fail, where fosters fall so in love with the dog, they decide to be the permanent adoptive family. We did hear that the boy we have our eye on has been in foster care for two years, which makes me so sad I want to rescue him immediately. But we have also heard that he is afraid of “everything,” and that gives me pause. I had an experience with a fearful dog at Christmas when my granddaughter’s dog was afraid of my walker. And I want a dog with some spirit. So I am uncertain.

Weekends are usually good cooking times for me but that too went awry this weekend. I planned last night to make cod in a butter/lemon sauce, so with my grocery order I requested a lb. of cod. I got a quarter lb.—enough for no one else but me. We had garlicky chicken thighs in an anchovy/lemon sauce. Good, but I wanted to cook the fish, partly because I like fish and partly because I’d like to add more of it to our diet. Jacob has been wanting spaghetti, so tonight I made a recipe called Weeknight Bolognese. I can’t recommend it. I chose to make it on Sunday so I could cook all day, but the recipe really didn’t take that long—except for browning two-and-a-half lbs. of ground meat (beef and Italian sausage). I got wide pappardelle noodles, but the sauce wasn’t as rich and thick as I wanted. In fact, it was thin. Good flavor, but not what I want in an Italian sauce. And I thought it was way too much meat in proportion to the sauce. Jacob didn’t say anything, but I noticed he didn’t eat much. I’m going to plan soon to make an old-fashioned, Italian nonna kind of Sunday soup that cooks all day. Honest we could have used the bottled Rao marinara sauce Jordan bought, and it would have made me happier.

It's ten o’clock, and I have just had my second nap of the day. I relish my afternoon nap—it’s become a part of my routine, and I think it healthy. But when I fall asleep at my computer at eight-thirty, it’s a clear sign that I am not engaged in what I’m doing. So that too will have to change. I find I almost never want to go back and pick up where I left off—clearly I abandoned them because I wasn’t that interested. So I’m on a mission to find a book that absorbs my attention and calls me back.

All of this leaves me with a lot of resolves to kick up my interest in life. Fortunately, I understand that these dull, down periods are a part of life and are regularly more than balanced by periods of high activity and engagement. It’s up to me, so I resolve to be a new person (again!) starting tomorrow. Now who’s got plans for next weekend?

 

 

Fall temperatures—and influencers

 

A picture for the algorithms.
Jacob, much younger, and Sophie (pink collar).
What you do when there's no school and you're bored.
One of my favorite pictures.

These nice, lower temperatures we’re having the last few days seem to energize people. I’ve heard from several who are rejoicing in how refreshed they fell, celebrating because it’s finally soup weather, anticipating fall after the horrendous summer we have. Somehow though, it has the opposite effect on me. All I want to do is curl up in my bed and doze. I even turned on the heat, but shhh! Don’t tell Jordan.

Yesterday I took two naps—long ones, one in the afternoon and another for almost two hours after supper. Each time I slept heavily, and when I woke, I had to force myself to get out of bed. Once up and about I was fine, though aware that I was tired. Longtime friends came for happy hour, and I was energized by their company. But after they left, I kept thinking about a nap—ate leftovers, wrote my blog, and went back to bed. Somehow, I stayed up from ten to midnight, and then slept soundly until Soph wakened me at seven this morning.

Today I didn’t feel as tired, but I still didn’t want to leave my bed. I fed Sophie at seven, went back to bed, fed her again at her insistence at 8:45 (she usually gets a two-stage breakfast so we can time her insulin shot), and went back to bed for an unprecedented third time. After about half an hour, my old-fashioned work ethic dragged me out of bed, and I got going for the day. But by two o’clock I was back in bed for another nap.  Surely by now I’m caught up on sleep, but I can’t guarantee it.

What a quandary! I really don’t like summer’s high temperatures, but I perhaps dislike even more the extreme cold we’ve been getting in winter the last few years—I think that’s my Chicago background showing. But I do like the “in-between” seasons, so I hope I adjust soon so I can enjoy these balmy days.

Something that’s been on my mind lately: how do you get to be an influencer? I’m not even sure what an influencer is, but I think they are mostly on TikTok, with maybe some on Substack, Patreon, and other online subscription newsletter services. I have friends on Substack and a couple of columns I follow though I don’t know the writers—are they influencers? I’m not sure. Heather Cox Richardson is a columnist whose newsletter, Letters from an American, I read every day, but I wouldn’t call her an influencer. To me, she’s giving us history lessons that help us understand today’s political turmoil. And my friend Susan Wittig Albert writes about life in the Hill Country, nature, herbs, and aging—what she does not do, and I’m thankful, is try to influence you to buy her books (I’ll put in a plug—her China Bayles mysteries, now up to #27, are terrific reading). I also follow Ruth Reichl, the food writer, who offers recipes, memories of meals, old menus—all good fun, but I’m not sure she influences people as much as she interests and entertains them—and makes me want to be a better cook. Stephanie Raffelock also writes about aging and women’s issues and finding your core—good stuff, but it doesn’t influence me to rush out and do something dramatic.

I think true influencers mention, even push brand names. They have sponsors—I’m not understanding this enough even to cite an example. But I did read today about an influencer who did a heinous thing—she adopted an Asian child with special needs and then decided, two or three year later, to re-home him, as you should not do even to a puppy, let alone a child. The influencer part of that horrible story that interests me is that she lost all of her sponsors and her income dropped dramatically. But what did she, an apparently quite shallow person, do to get to that high-income pinnacle and to have those sponsors in the first place?

I gather it’s a bit more complicated than saying one day, “I want to be an influencer.” You have to have a field where you have some kind of expertise. That’s a stumbling block—I have a bit of skill at cooking and a lot of political opinions, but I don’t think either of those qualify me to be an influencer. I probably know some more than most about women in the literature of the nineteenth-century American West, but who would I influence? Three or four interested readers—among other things, I don’t see any income in that, not that income is my major goal at this point.

Maybe because I post on my blog more nights than not, I am already an influencer and just need to flaunt the title. But what am I influencing readers about? Sophie’s latest antics? What I’m cooking and eating? What I’m reading. I find this entire online world confusing to say the least, and for the time being I have decided to stay where I am: a non-influencer blogging most nights about some of life’s significant moments and a lot more about the trivia. Seems where I belong.

Now, I feel another nap coming on.

Celebrating and thoughts on resting

 

Jamie, Jordan, and Sophie

It’s a big anniversary in the cottage tonight. Twelve years ago today Jordan, Jacob, and I along with all the Frisco Alters—Jamie, Mel, Maddie, and Eden—went to Safari Kennels outside McKinney to look at labradoodle pups. The labradoodles, only six weeks and too young to take from their mom, were sleepy and a bit disappointing, but the kennel owner said

Maddie and Sophie

she had one eight-week-old bordoodle (border collie/poodle) left. Sophie came charging into the room, full of love and kisses and curiosity and mischief and just plain joy in life. She was a wild puppy and still has her wild moments, but she has brought all of us so much love and laughter. I’m so glad you’re ours, sweet girl. After a close call this winter, she seems pretty feisty for an “elderly” lady. Makes the two of us old ladies together.

On our way home

Everyone is back where they belong. Jacob, home from two weeks at camp in Colorado, which he said was awesome, and Jordan, home from several days in Key Largo at the home of the parents of one of her good friends. It’s good to have them home and be in our routine, although Christian and I (and the dogs) survived nicely. Christian went over and above as a caretaker. I have mixed thoughts on caretaking but will save them for another time, because once again this morning’s sermon is on my mind.

Last week, Reverend Renee Hoke talked about the Sabbath and gave us one practice word for the week, “Delight.” We should delight in God’s presence in our lives, on the Sabbath and throughout the week. It involves, she said, detaching from the world around us, from the need to take control. Her example? One was watching a hummng bird feed.

This week, the word was “Rest,” from the commandments and word that on the seventh day God rested. Rev. Hoke pointed out that rest is not just sleeping. There are those moments during the day when we all need to unplug from what’s going on around us and in our lives. I am not good at unplugging, and that is sometimes a worry to me. My mind is always restless. I don’t for instance, watch TV or listen to podcasts because I need the visual to keep my mind focused. I’ve been known to scroll through emails while listening to something on the phone, and those “live chats” online with their excruciating slowness are painful for me. A colleague once said to me, “Your motor is always running too fast.” I chastise myself for this, feeling it’s a character deficiency that I can’t, say, meditate for half an hour and keep my thoughts focused. Rev. Hoke talked about retreats she attended where that was expected, and she stressed that it is hard work. I’m still working on it, still working on focused prayer.

But there is one way I can “rest.” When I was a kid, my family had a cabin, really rustic, on a high dune in Indiana, at the very foot of Lake Michigan. I liked nothing better than to watch a storm come roaring down that lake, stirring up the lake into ferocious whitecaps. There was one spot, halfway up the dune, a small outcropping, where I would go and sit, my arm around the wild collie mix we had then. At sunset, if I looked at just the right spot across the lake to the west, I could see the sun going down behind the buildings of Chicago, which looked like dots or at best toothpicks. For most of my adult life, when I needed to unplug, that is where I went in my mind. Today, I may also go to the rocking chair at the edge of the water by the tiny lake/large pond at Colin’s house. But going to those places in my mind is the closest I come to unplugging.

Lately though I’ve been thinking about another aspect to rest—and that’s my daily nap. I do my best thinking, especially about planning what I’m writing, when I nap. I frequently lie down with a specific problem in my head, and when I wake, I have an idea of the path forward. Sometimes it takes a few days, but it eventually works out. And I find that I write scenes in my head several times before I commit them to the computer—same with a lot of blogs.

Authors often talk about writing only as far ahead as you can see in the headlights. E, L. Doctorow is credited with saying, ““Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” This weekend, the headlights gave out on me on the current Irene story, and I was stymied, but tonight after resting on it more than once, I think I see the road again. Yep, rest is not only curative but creative.

 

How about you? Do you have a special safe spot where your mind can go, even if your body can’t follow? Do you find rest creative or curative? Can you unplug?

 

 

An amazing supper, computer woes, and naps

 

Christian's amazing chop suey.
I love how colorful it is with beans, carrots, and baby corns.

Christian outdid himself tonight with chicken chop suey. We were supposed to have it for dinner last night, and I was supposed to fix it since it was my idea, but life intervened. For reasons too complicated to explain, Jordan’s purse ended up at a car rental agency at DFW Airport. So after happy hour with guests, Jordan and Christian were off to the airport. I was secretly relieved. The last couple of times I’ve volunteered to cook Asian, it’s ended up I did the prep work and Christian did the cooking. And we agreed on that tonight. He has the wok, and I’m not sure even my largest skillet would be big enough to do it on my hot plate. But I get ahead of my story: they did not get home until almost nine, by which time I had eaten my oh-so-good open-faced sardine sandwich. The purse, however, was retrieved with credit cars and license intact. A blessing.

So this afternoon I assembled all the ingredients for the chop suey. Side note: Christian pointed out that my childhood chop suey is really today’s stir fry. At any rate I cut the chicken thighs into strips snapped green beans into bite size, assembled a can of baby corn, onion, baby carrots, bok choy—and sent it all inside. I had given Christian the recipe last night, but I neglected to notice that it made two servings. There were to be six tonight. He had to adjust, plus he was late getting home. Dinner was delayed, but it was worth waiting for. And since he plated his dinner and mine and brought them out to the cottage while Jordan and her work colleagues ate inside, I had no dishes to do. Two forks. That’s it. A win-win situation.

I did not win today, however, with computer technology. Oh, I did some. I’ve been prowling through the entries on Helen Corbitt in the Portal to Texas History, an unbelievably rich research source. I swear with every nonfiction title I write I learn more about using my computer—if I could live to 120, I might really be a master. But this time, I have learned to drill down on entries and zoom to read the fine print in old newspapers. It can be tedious work but then I come across a nugget—something really reveling, and I am rewarded. My friend Carol, an archivist, has given me directions for narrowing my search so I don’t have to scroll through all 134 pages the listing pulls up.

So today I wrote, maybe close to a thousand words, patching in some new information in the existing text and writing new text about Corbitt’s travels across Texas to promote her first cookbook, all material I’d found in the portal. I felt it was a real step forward.

But then I turned, as I do once a day, to Facebook, to scroll through notifications and read new postings. Big problem: every time I tried to “Like” a post, Facebook popped up with a message that I had been blocked perhaps because I went too fast. What that meant, I had no idea. But the next line said that if I felt the message did not violate community standards, I should click here and report it. How, I wondered, could someone’s belated birthday wish or a post about a recipe violate community standards. So I reported it, and to my surprise, about half an hour later, it was fixed, and I could like posts again. But I missed a lot, like some birthday wishes, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get a chance to go back and acknowledge them. Frustrating as it was, I have to credit Facebook with prompt action. And, yes, before I reported it, I did reboot the computer which often cures a world of ills. Not this one.

Yesterday I took my usual daytime nap—I think most of the world knows not to contact me between 2:00 and 4:00—and woke up quickly. Since naps are a great time for letting my mind wander and plotting what I’m going to write next, I thought I’d just lie there and think about a blog on the value of napping. I woke again at 4:30 with guests due at 5:00 and appetizers still to make. I dressed in a flurry, made those pickle appetizers, and was still at it when Subie and Phil arrived. And now I can’t remember all that I thought about napping, so it will have to wait for another day. But there are some interesting statistics out there—napping is good for you, and I feel justified. Those of you who claim you can’t sleep in the daytime might want to reconsider.

Stay cool and safe. I hear slightly lower temperatures might be coming for just a couple of days. Not a big break but better than nothing.

Sunday—some good, some not so good

 

My Tomball family on the way to the slopes at Wolf Creek
Colin driving, Lisa, with Kegan peeking around his mom, and Morgan

A Sunday omen that I thought was good—this morning I saw a cardinal and a blue jay in my yard. The blue jay is only an occasional visitor, but all Fall we had a mama and a papa cardinal. They tend to choose one locale and stay there, and I was so pleased that these chose our yard. They also mate for life, apparently doing a lot better at it than many humans. But then came that terrible spell of sub-freezing weather, and I hadn’t seen them since. Today it was papa, but mama must be nearby. You do know the legend, don’t you—if a cardinal visits, it means someone from Heaven is thinking of you.

My church is gearing up to return to in-person services, starting with Palm Sunday. I have about decided I will continue to attend virtually, especially on Easter when all the once-a-year visitors attend. (I have a friend whose husband calls it Amateur Sunday.) I just don’t think I’m ready for the combination of a crowd, even well-spaced out, and my walker. So this morning I went to virtual church alone because Jordan was busy. The minister touched on the Church’s (as he said, “Big C, the over-arching church) obsession with things that don’t really matter and the attempts to force decisions on those things on church members. Okay, he used sex as an example—the church is overly interested in who’s sleeping with who, and where, and how, and when. Such obsessions, he claimed, are driving people, especially young people, away from the Church.

But I digress because what I really wanted to mention was my fascination with the organist. For these virtual services, the camera shows us what we would never see sitting in a pew—including the organist’s intricate footwork on those myriad pedals, even while playing the keyboard. I once took pottery classes, and while I could work on an electric wheel, I never mastered working on a manual. I had to focus either on what my feet were doing or my hands, but I couldn’t do both. Sort of like patting your head while rubbing your stomach—try it. And yet our organists make it seem so effortless, even when you know there are years of study and hours of practice behind the performance. Fascinates me every Sunday.

The bad part of this Sunday is that everything in the cottage is broken—well, not everything but some essential things. You know they say trouble comes in threes—my Apple watch was acting wonky (seems to have fixed itself), my Windows program has lost all the quick access icons and I have no idea how to get them back plus it won’t keep programs open so I can go back and forth, and my TV screen has a snowstorm with the message, “Weak or no signal.” Now I go hours without looking at the TV, but I like to have it on—and without it today, the cottage is so quiet. I can’t get to the reset button—a problem of furniture in the way of my walker—so am waiting for some helpful soul to come along. Fortunately, my Jamie is coming tomorrow—he can fix the computer. But for a bit there this morning, it seemed all my communication methods were out of order. Fortunately, the cell phone still works.

And how did everyone fare losing an hour of sleep? I didn’t sleep well last night, partly I guess because I was aware of that different time pattern, though I always welcome Daylight Savings Time. Love that extra daylight in the evening. I had seen a Facebook post last night, on my wall, about how Biden could never have rolled out the vaccine if trump hadn’t had the Warp Speed program and pushed to get the vaccine invented—that is so wrong that I lay awake framing my reply to the sender, who is the son of old friends. We have an ongoing political discussion, approaching the subject from opposite ends of the spectrum, and it baffles me how he can believe what he does. Finally, Sophie didn’t sleep well because of her doggie version of post-nasal drip—I gave her Benadryl about six in the morning, and we both finally slept until almost nine the new time. Still, I’m sleepy and ready for an afternoon nap. How about you? Needing that nap today?

The winter doldrums

 

January and February are, to me, the months of the winter doldrums. I love the way that word sounds like what it means—a period of calm, depression. It’s a seagoing term, from an area near the equator where the winds sometimes stop, marooning wind-powered sailboats for days, even weeks. It’s as though the world comes to a stop.

And that’s sometimes the way life feels in these winter months, even here in sunnier climes. Today for instance though chilly was sunny and pretty, enough to cheer the soul. But still I felt becalmed.

In the doldrums I sleep a lot—long winter naps that are both addictive and refreshing. Today, for instance, I got up, let Sophie out at her request, and when she came back inside, crawled back to my bed for another hour. I didn’t sleep, but I dozed. To my great joy, I had the glimmer of a few ideas.

I’ve read several posts from writers in recent days complaining about writer’s block, the inability to make themselves write—anything. The traditional cure of course is to write—anything, something, just write. It is of course easier said than done. But recently I’ve seen other advice which essentially advises “get yourself out of the way.” The more you worry about what to write, the less likely you are to have a clue. If you relax, stop fixing your mind frantically on the problem, and get out of the way, you might just find ideas coming your way. I think that’s part of the virtue of napping and dozing a lot—you kind of turn off your mind and thereby open it to ideas.

Not that I’m had a brainstorm—just a glimmer. But it’s enough to make me face the coming week with a tad more enthusiasm. Perhaps I can take that glimmer and twist and turn it into a plot—oh, oops, there I go again, getting in my own way.

In the cycle of life, I’m sure the doldrums have a purpose. They are not aimless, drifting, empty periods, but times of life designed to help us pull back, regroup, refresh. All that napping is healing, curative, ultimately stimulating.

It’s easy to feel guilt about doing nothing. I’m a past master at that. IF I’m not doing something productive what am I doing? And yet that very thought is as self-defeating as getting in your own way.

I guess it all comes back to those naps, that ability to be becalmed and accept it because it is a phase that will pass. The best advice is to get out of the way.

A recluse in pandemic

Jordan brought me these gorgeous roses today
as a reward for good medical appointments all week
Aren't they a magnificent color?

People are increasingly restless with the restrictions of pandemic. They want to go to restaurants and concerts and museums, they want to travel and see families and hug loved ones. I want to become a recluse.

The mood came upon me this week, probably because I had to leave my cottage and go somewhere every day. All I could think about was how much I wanted to stay home. With my computer and my dog. Of course, I don’t stay home alone—I have Jordan, Jacob, and Christian in and out of the cottage which makes a huge difference, one I am much appreciative of.

But I have no taste right now for dressing up, putting on make-up, and getting out in the world. I look back on all the years I did that and wonder if it was some different person.

It’s not that I have an all-consuming project on my desk. I am nearly through with the edits I’ve been reviewing, and I’m at loose ends about what I’ll take up next. But I have faith if I’m quiet and listen to myself, something will come before me that I really want to do. Meantime there are books to read, dishes to cook, naps to take.

Ah, the naps. I may still be getting my strength back, but I napped for an hour today before Sophie wanted to go out. Let her out but she came barging back in rather quickly, so I shut the door behind her and went back to bed for another long nap.

It’s not that I’m anti-social. I welcome friends, two at a time, who are also quarantining. In pleasant weather, we visit on the patio, masked and socially distanced, and I find the company refreshing. I’d soon get tired of my own voice and thoughts.

I’m reading Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, that in-depth exploration of Savannah that is now several years old. I decided it was time I read some of the books “everyone” has already read, and I’m enjoying it. Another plus for the recluse life.

I have a friend who says she goes nowhere, sees no one not because she’s afraid of getting the virus (though I admit I am—statistically it would not be a good thing for me) but because she doesn’t want to give it to anyone else. Valid reasoning, and yet another reason to stick to home.

So for the time being, I’m pulling up the drawbridge and letting the world go by. I’m sure this is a temporary phase. I’m too much of a people person to become a permanent recluse. It just sounds good for the nonce.

 

A terrific weekend

           

Megan, the queen of stirring

What a terrific weekend. Daughter Megan came up from Austin with her two sons, Sawyer and Ford, for the rodeo. I got a quick visit Friday night before they left for Dickies Arena, but my rodeo days are long over. I don’t feel too sad about that. When I had young children and again when I had young grandchildren, the Fort Worth Stock Show (I know that’s not the proper name) and Rodeo were annual highlights. But I don’t think these days I could bear to see man or beast injured—despite the arguments that the men (and women) are there by choice. The beasts, of course, are not. And the bleachers are beyond me. I stayed home, took a nap, and got another visit when they came home.

Saturday morning the three young boys (one fifteen and two thirteen) went to the TCU basketball game, and my daughters and I had a ladies’ lunch at Lili’s—treated ourselves to lunchtime wine. So decadent.

I came home—another nap—and the girls took their sons to the midway. Another annual trip I’m glad to give up. I think I now appreciate rodeo mostly because it brings my family to town.

Saturday night we had a mini-family reunion—younger son Jamie and Mel came for supper; Megan’s law school roommate dropped in for an overdue visit, and some neighbors joined us. We had snacks aplenty, barbecue for supper, and a good time. I excused myself about nine, and Jamie came out to the cottage with me. So I had a good thirty-minute visit with him. Although he lives close, he’s so busy I don’t see him often. I had intended to take a quick nap, but never did. (I know—it sounds like I take a lot of naps, but Sophie lately has been getting me up in the night and again early in the morning, though I explain to her that I need my sleep!). The girls came out for a quick glass wine and a rehash of the evening.

Lazy day today. After Sophie got me up at eight, I put together my supper for company tonight—a casserole and chocolate mousse for dessert. The mousse was an experiment out of the New York Times—just melted bittersweet chocolate with water that you beat by hand until it forms mousse consistency. My daughters were both skeptics, so they came to “watch,” but it ended up with Megan making it. Since she was a little kid, she has liked to stir things. She used to drive me wild when I’d put rice on with a lid to steam, and she’d take the lid off and stir. Today she admitted she still does that and then said, “I’m not very good at cooking rice.”

So this recipe was right up her alley. She stirred as the chocolate melted into the water, and then when we whisked it to a ice water bath, she stirred vigorously—for a long time. Her bulletins went from “It’s not working” to “It’s beginning to thicken” to “It’s mousse.” But she admitted her arm was tired, and I’m not sure I have the arm strength to do it. Anyway, it was good, though it hardened when refrigerated and might have been better served at room temperature.

Otherwise, my dinner was good—almost. A chicken/artichoke heart/mushroom casserole that had too much liquid, though I think I know how to fix it another time; a salad, a good loaf of artisan bread; herbed goat cheese and crackers for appetizer. My guests were one of the ministers from my church with whom I’ve formed a friendship and her mother who was in town. Really interesting and lively company and I thought it a lovely evening. Now, at a little after eight, the dishes are done, and I am sleepy.

And tomorrow I face a desk piled high. Life is good, and I am blessed.

The beauty of an afternoon nap

If you know me at all, you know that I nap every afternoon about two o’clock. It’s almost a religious ritual, and very few things can keep me from my nap. Tell me there’s an event at two o’clock, and I’m likely to send my regrets. Sometimes I feel a bit guilty about it or self-indulgent, but I have decided to conquer those feelings.

I come from a family of nappers. My dad, a physician and hospital administrator, walked a mile home for lunch every day and then took a twenty-minute power nap. When my brother, also a physician, first retired he took three or four naps a day, and I still hesitate to call him between one and five, because his nap time is more fluid than mine.

When my kids were little, I required afternoon naps almost until they went to school. Some were good nappers and slept soundly; others not so much, but they were required to take a “body rest.” Sometimes they fell asleep in spite of themselves.

When I worked full time, my naps were confined to weekends, but I was still faithful about them. In the eleven years I’ve been retired, I’ve missed very few naps. I work hard in the mornings—it’s my best time—and about two I begin to get unbearably sleepy.

Sleep researchers generally agree on the importance of naps, though several various reasons are offered. One study shows that a nap restores alertness, prevents burnout, heightens sensory perception, reduces the risk of heart disease, and makes you more productive. Another suggests it increases your patience and lowers blood pressure. For me, I know that I often just drowse and do some of my best thinking when I’m napping. Ideas come, and when I get up, I’m refreshed and ready to write.

How long should you nap? Some experts suggest that there are four kinds of naps—the short power nap that my dad took. The half hour nap that leaves you groggy. The hour-long “short” nap, and the ninety-minute one, where you get some good REM sleep and go from deep sleep to dreams. On a good day, I do sleep an hour and a half and dream wildly—but then I dream at night and remember those dreams. And if I sleep soundly in the afternoon, I don’t always leap right out of bed—I lie there and contemplate, unless Sophie insists she’s ready to go out.

All this is on my mind because I didn’t get a good nap today. The yard guys came right at two, which involves the noise of their machines plus Sophie’s indignant barking that they dare invade our property. So it was maybe two-thirty before I lay down. Then it sounded to me like planes at Carswell (okay I guess I mean LTV) were revving their engines. That was followed by the neighbors’ yard crew who always come early on Tuesday morning but broke their routine today. Their appearance requires more indignant barking from Sophie.

So a little after four I dragged myself out of bed—yes, I get in the bed, under the covers—knowing I hadn’t slept. The funny thing is that maybe I had slept and didn’t know it. I remember as a child telling my mom I lay awake all night, and she assured me that I slept and didn’t realize it. I also used to tell her I itched all over, and she’d tell me that was a sign I was about to fall asleep. Clever woman, my mom.

Back to this afternoon, I got up feeling tired and have had no ambition this evening. Good thing I had leftovers for dinner. I truly think that nap makes a difference. There’s a possibility though that it’s better not to try to nap than to try and get up frustrated. But I’ll keep trying.

Please don’t call me between two and four in the afternoon.

An unexpected day

June Bug, on the right

No writing. A day of the unexpected. Today got off to a hectic start at the Alter/Burton compound. We left at 8:20, dropped Jacob and a buddy at school, took June Bug to the vet, and made it only five minutes late to my cardiologist’s appt. Of course, we got lost in the hospital parking lot and had a couple of testy moments, but it all worked out. I worried bigtime over being late—doctors’ children are taught never to be late to a medical appointment. But it finally dawned on me that Jordan is also a doctor’s daughter, and she wasn’t nearly as upset about it as I was.

After all that worry which raised my blood pressure, we probably waited 45 minutes to see the doctor. Good appointment. The doctor seems to think I’m doing fine, explained a few things, reassured me. And as we left, the vet called and June Bug was ready to go home. It was almost eleven by the time we got home, and I spent the next hours catching up on email, etc.

About 2:30 I crawled into bed for a nap. Just closed my eyes when the phone rang. An old friend, a woman whose friendship I really value, was in town briefly and could she come now for a visit. I jumped up, made the bed, dressed—and waited 45 minutes for her to arrive. We had a great visit, lots of laughter, lots of worrying about the state of the nation. Now we’re Facebook friends, and I hope for an annual visit.

She was gone about 30 minutes when another dear friend arrived—I knew she was coming. She’s troubled and wanted to talk, a service I’m always glad to provide, though with a lot of self-doubt. We had a glass of wine and then she went to get us hamburgers from the Neighborhood Grill. Another good visit. Not sure how much help I was, but I tried…and she laughed a few times.

What this day has taught me is that I’m blessed with good friends, lasting friendships. That’s worth getting a day behind in writing any time. But, it has been a long day that began early and was without the nap time that I am almost addicted to. I’m sleepy tonight, and it’s chilly—supposed to go into the 40s. Not sure I’ll survive winter with grace. But for now, I have on wooly socks and flannel pjs and am considering wrapping the prayer shawl around my shoulders. Quite sure I’ll wake in the night too hot, but for now I’m cozy—and going to sleep early.

Time out

Do you ever just step back from your world for a day and recharge? I did that today—didn’t sleep too late, maybe eight, but was slow and lazy about getting going, didn’t event think about going to church. Lunch and dinner of leftovers—I’d cooked so much last week, I swore I wasn’t going to cook today. I piddled and fiddled at my computer, did odds and ends of business, wrote some personal emails, and spent way too much time on Facebook.

One thing that was fun for me: a neighbor and her family are going to Scotland Tuesday, and I sent her a bit of information about the MacBain Clan and our memorial park, plus sites I enjoyed when I was there. Just writing about it made me want to go again. I probably sent more about Culloden and Urquhart and Dore and the Clearances than she ever wanted to know, but writing it was fun for me. That Scottish novel beckons.

And, the big indicator to me that I needed to recharge: I slept two hours this afternoon. I usually take a nap in the afternoon, often as short as 30 minutes and just as often lying still with my eyes closed but not sleeping. But yesterday I slept an hour and a half, and then two hours today. All those birthday festivities and all that cooking of the last week wore me out.

I have always told myself I didn’t not get worn out by things. I thought I had an inexhaustible supply of energy. I’m terribly afraid my fatigue this weekend is a sign of age, but I’m too tired to battle it.

Starting a fresh week tomorrow. How about you?

My internal clock and a lazy day

How’s your internal clock? Mine is a pain. Woke me at six this morning, because I knew I wanted to be ready to go at 8:15, which meant having hair washed and pretty much dried (I don’t use a dryer these days). I was up a bit before 6:30, rarin’ to go. A nap in the afternoon didn’t forestall the sleepiness that I feel tonight.

Breakfast with the Book Ladies, my group of women whose life work mostly has involved books—librarians, writers, booksellers, and the like. A few dedicated readers are in there too. Lots of talk about the movie Wonder Woman and how significant it is in this day when women’s status is once again threatened by a conservative (that’s putting it mildly) Federal and, in Texas, state government. But there was an upside for me: a good friend said she read my novella, The Color of Fear, and "wanted more." Someone else in the group had read The Gilded Cage and was interested enough to do some research about Potter and Cissy Palmer. She unearthed the fact that Potter’s will contained a strange codicil: to his wife’s second husband, should she remarry, he bequeathed a generous sum of money, with the explanation that the man “would need it.” Cissy Palmer never remarried.

I gave myself a vacation day today. Sorted through some clothing catalogs that had piled up on my desk and didn’t find anything I couldn’t live without, though I did find two choices for serviceable white pants for summer, something I need. Should I get loose and flowing or tight like leggings? Also went page-by-page through the most recent copy of Bon Appetit which had been sitting on my desk for some time. Found several recipes for my growing file.

I did odds and ends—finished a blog, did a couple of small things related to the next manuscript, but mostly I read—and had that nice long nap. I finished the novel I had up on my Kindle—Scheduled to Death by Mary Feliz. Enjoyed it—suspense picked up as I got into it and I was really hooked by the end. I have several titles in my online library yet to read—a plethora of blessings.

Tonight, a shower and then to read. Tomorrow I must get back to work again.

How did you sleep last night?

Did you sleep well, or did you wake frequently during the night? How long did it take you to fall asleep? Studies have found that older people often take longer to fall asleep and wake more frequently during the night. There are all sorts of answers out there—it’s a change in the brain, it’s not normal, oldsters need as much sleep as youngsters.

I’ve given up on the studies, but I know that I often wake during the night. Two solid hours of sleep for me is good, four hours is a bonus. I go to bed early because I get so tired, but then I wake early and know I can’t stay in bed longer. And it’s not just the siren call of the bathroom. My deepest sleep, the kind with memorable dreams, comes in the morning. And, contrary to many older people, I don’t wake up tired. I suspect that when I think I’m not sleeping, I’m really dozing.

I remember telling my mom when I was a kid, that I itched all over. “It’s a sign you’re about to go to sleep,” she’d say serenely. Wrong, Mom. I don’t itch these days, but I am often restless turning from this side to that.

The whole point of this diatribe on sleep is that I slept so well last night, went right back to sleep every time I woke up, and felt refreshed in the morning. I could have stayed in bed longer, dozing, but the home health care aide was due at 8:00 so I had to get out of bed. For a retired person, I am disappointed that often there are compelling reasons for me to get out of bed. The mornings when there aren’t and I could snooze are when I wake up unable to stay in bed longer. Go figure.

Somehow lately on Fridays I sense an approaching holiday and slack off. Today I worked some but not with the concentrated, sustained effort that is usual for me, and I distracted myself by cooking—a cucumber/avocado salad for lunch, a cheese spread for happy hour guests. And suddenly, as usual, I was terribly, overwhelmingly sleepy at two o’clock. It’s like there’s an alarm in my brain that goes off every afternoon at the same time.

When I first was recovering from surgery, I slept hard for an hour in the mornings and anywhere from one to two hours in the afternoon. I would literally fall asleep over my keyboard. Those days are gone, and I maybe sleep for 30 minutes in the afternoon—enough to banish that terrible sleepiness—and then maybe I linger for another half hour. I kind of miss those deep daytime sleeps, but recovery is so much better.

Today I am indebted to friends, as I often am: Betty did some grocery shopping for me, since Jordan and I didn’t do our weekly shopping (she was busy with the golf tournament). Tonight, Subie and Phil came to feed the dogs and take me to dinner. We ate my cobbled-together cheese spread and then went to Pacific Table for seafood. I love the Caesar salad with fried oysters. And we had a good visit. A thoroughly pleasant day.

Now I’m sleepy. And it’s not even ten o’clock yet.

Sometimes it’s good to have a routine

If all of life were lived by routines, it would be terribly dull. But sometimes I find routines comforting. Since Jordan is my primary caretaker, we’ve developed several routines. In the mornings, she’s at my cottage before I wake up and is waiting to hear me call her. I have tea, read my e-mail, wash my hair and drink Muscle Milk for breakfast—I’m partial to the chocolate, with its slight tinge of almond flavor. Most mornings we each do our own work—she for her travel agency and me whatever writing project is on my desk.

This morning, however we did menu planning. Jordan’s new resolve is to plan menus a week at a time, instead of clasping hand to head about 5:30 and thinking, “What will we have for dinner?” I’m not sure what all we settled on for the week, but I had lots of fun going through the food magazines that had accumulated on my desk. My theory is to have a big Sunday supper, something like a roast chicken or pot roast that will provide leftovers for lunches and the rest of the week. Not sure about tomorrow’s entrée—may be tourtiere, a hearty French meat pie. Jordan also must plan five days of lunchboxes for Jacob.

Another routine I’ve treasured since retirement: an afternoon nap, I used to nap on weekends before I retired but since then I’ve slept every afternoon-and I do mean slept, in the bed,at least an hour, complete with dreams.

Dinnertime brings a routine for the dogs: Jordan brings her two and their dishes our here. You should see them prance and dance when she heads this way with dog bowls. Sophie is waiting, and all three get a treat—sort of like happy hour for dogs. Sophie gets a rawhide chew but theyre too big for “the girls”—Cricket and June Bug. Each dog must wait until all three are through with the treats and then they get dinner. They know by now not to try to poach on someone else’s dinner. After dinner, they get a milk bone but they must sit to get it. So cute to watch them, especially when they’re anticipating dinner.

We have no evening routine except reading, writing. My days are comforting—it’s a good word for routine, but then I’m not an adventurous person, not one whose feet itch to travel. I’m so comfortable in the cottage.                    


On a completely unrelated note: my 43-year-old son-in-law just got carded trying to buy wine.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

Where Has Summer Gone?

Is it Indian summer yet? Somehow I can’t shed my summer afternoon sleepiness. The last two days, Jacob went home with buddies, and I came home, fresh from a nap, and promptly went back to bed. Today I slept at least another hour.

Somehow this summer I seem to have forgotten how to do Texas summers. Now that it’s almost over—Labor Day marks the unofficial end for most of us—I’m back in the swing of things. I’ve always, every summer, watered my porch plants first thing. This year, my coleus (I have a shady porch) spoke to me in no uncertain terms about its need for water. Jordan would come by in the late afternoon and stop to water before she came in the house. Finally, about the first of August, I got in the swing of things and watered every morning. Yesterday because of an appt. that required an early departure, I forgot. By evening one coleus in particular looked pitiful—though this morning when I went out to water it had perked up a bit.

Usually in summer, my front porch and the windows in the family room are alive with geckos. This summer, my theme song is “Where have all the geckos gone?” I did finally see on fat little translucent fellow on the window in the family room. When it’s dark and the outdoor lights are on, their little bodies are translucent. Once I had a gecko in my bathroom—every morning when I sat on the commode, he’d come out to visit. I miss him, and I can’t help wondering if the disappearance of geckos is like the threat to bees—due to all those pesticides we use.

Another summer thing I forgot—fruit salads, with all the wonderful summer fruits. I’m not much on watermelon but I love a good, sweet cantaloupe, with halved strawberries, sliced peaches, blueberries, and sliced bananas. Yet, it’s only been the last two or three weeks that I’ve made fruit salads, and I noticed this weekend that the blueberries were sometimes a little tart. I never put raspberries in salads because they’re fragile and tend to get overwhelmed—besides I hide them in the back of the fridge for myself. I don’t buy mango either, as it’s so hard to cut up and the already cut-up fruit in the grocery tends to be under-ripe. But I’ve let the best pf summer foods slip by except for corn on the cob.

In the spring it was usually too wet to be on the deck; then it was too hot. We’ve gotten no use out of it since early spring, and I’m hoping fall will bring deck weather. Jacob suggested tonight he’d like to get rid of the table and chairs so it could be a play deck. Not likely. Weather had also prevented me from putting the top down on my convertible, though that’s no unusual for Texas summers. Lately, I can tell summer is beginning to leave because if I have to go somewhere early, I drive with the top down—it has a lovely, soothing effect.

Will I miss summer? Not the heat, nor the drought that is back upon us. But the fruits and vegetables and the light summer meals? Those long afternoon naps and lazy days in which I still got a lot done? Yes, I’ll miss those.

But the October’s bright blue skies are pretty neat. And I have some fall flowers about to bloom in my front yard.

 

 

The geese are getting fat--and it's not even Thanksgiving yet!

I see all those cautions about not putting up Christmas decorations until after Thanksgiving, and this year I can only laugh apologetically. I have felt so rushed, ever since I found out that most but not all of my family will be here the weekend of Dec. 6. We may do Alter Alternative Christmas--at the least I'll send their presents home with them. So I've been in a frenzy of baking, wrapping and decorating--far earlier than I normally would have, though I'm pretty compulsive about getting things done ahead of time.
One morning last week I wrapped a lot of presents, and Friday night I baked a Bundt cake to freeze. Saturday I went to the grocery, came home and made two pans of Toll House bars--it wore me out. The batter is stiff and hard to work with and though I softened the butter, blending four sticks of butter into three cups of sugar (brown and white) with a hand mixer is a challenge at best--I had dough bits all over the kitchen. I told Jordan next time she orders those she'll have to do the mixing. After I got them made and baked--with one pan not done in the middle, no matter that I left it almost twice as long and the edges were getting crisp--I was exhausted.
I spent the rest of yesterday being lazy. Cool, grey day, comfortably warm house, good book to read--Maya Corrigan's By Cook or By Crook, which I thoroughly enjoyed--and a long nap. It ended up a self-indulgent day and did wonders for my soul.
But of course I woke at four in the morning with thoughts of all I had to do. So today I almost finished decorating the house, separated out things that didn't need to be done by Dec. 6 (principally gifts wrapped) and made cookie dough, though I just didn't have the oomph to roll out the cookies--the dough is in the fridge for tomorrow. I realized I needed to pay attention to the writing end of my life. So I sorted through chili pictures and worked on the neighborhood newsletter. Once again ready for a nap, though Sophie decided to bark frantically at the rats in the attic during my nap--not restful.
Jordan is in Italy on a business trip (poor girl) so Christian and Jacob came for supper. I made hamburger Stroganoff, which wasn't as good as it sounded, and a good salad plus broccoli for Jacob because he loves it and won't eat salad. Christian worked on the greens and lights for over the door, and we sat and visited by the fire. Pleasant evening.
I've about given up on the novel I'm working on until I get this Christmas thing--and all those fat geese--in hand. But tonight I will go back and correct one scene. Where was my brain when I had a man, two days post-op from being shot in the belly, demand chicken fried steak? Rethink that one!
Have a good week everyone.