Another Halloween in the books

 

Jordan and I have taken the same picture for several Halloweens now. In truth, I think I look better this year than in some previous years (well, maybe not--I just looked again), but she always makes an adorable witch. We live in an older neighborhood with sidewalks, big houses (ours is not), and generous people—which means that hordes of people come trick-or-treating in our neighborhood. There are traffic jams, cars parked end to end in every available spot, and a steady stream of children—and adults—coming to the front porch carrying everything from pumpkin shaped containers to pillowcases. Some of the tricksters are so young, they can barely toddle up the walk, and I said I think a few must be wondering, “Why are my parents doing this to me? I want to be home in my bed.” Nonetheless, it’s all festive and fun.

Christian claims Halloween as one of his favorite holidays, and he decorates inside and out lavishly. The front yard has skeletons and tombstones and scary spiders, none of which the kids pay much attention to. But he and Jordan both are in their element handing our candy to kids, and some of the kids are irresistible.

I spent some time tonight talking to one of Jordan’s high school friends—he was her very first boyfriend and is still family—and he said, “It wasn’t like this when we were kids.” But he grew up in another neighborhood. The kids and I lived in Berkeley for two years when I was first a single mom, and I don’t remember the crowds either. But when we moved back in 1992, they were here and have been every year since. After my kids were grown and gone, some years I turned out all the lights and hid in my study (the light from the computer gave me away, but most people were respectful). A few years I was in Austin for Texas Book Festival and handed out treats at Megan’s house—in those years Jordan generally came to man the front porch at my house. Other years I turned out the lights and went next door to the neighbors’, where Susan served beef stew and, artist that she is, provided grocery sack costumes for each of us. Yes, Halloween has pleasant memories even if it is not my favorite holiday.

Sophie did not like it at all tonight. She knew I was going into the big house—her instinct for that is unerring—and she is immediately insistent that she go too. Tonight, Jacob came to get me (I need help on the stairs to the deck) and locked her in the bathroom until I was safely inside. Then he let her out but kept her locked in the cottage. She’s one of the reasons I came back out early. I don’t mind leaving her alone when I go out to dinner or something, but I feel guilty when she knows I’m on the property and she’s not allowed.

Now that I’m back, she’s in the yard, but she just started barking, so I tricked her into coming inside. I am definitely over-protective of her, but Halloween is one of those nights when I feel it best to keep dogs and cats—and rabbits and whatever you have—inside. You never know. Sophie neither understands nor likes my logic and is itching to go outside.

Jordan fixed her usual delicious spread of veggies and dip, and various guests brought potato salad, dip and chips, etc. I contributed green bean salad, one of my favorite new recipes  (who needs a recipe for bean salad, but you’d be surprised by this one), and Christian grilled hamburgers. But a little after seven, he had just started the grill, and with thirteen people on the porch, plus the crowd on the street, it was getting so noisy I couldn’t hear. Jordan walked me back to the cottage and about seven-forty-five brought me a plate of supper. So good! But I was glad to be back in my quiet cottage.

By nine, nine-thirty or so, the crowds melt into the darkness, and Halloween is over for another year. And I’m always a bit glad. So the decorations will go down, and the world will return to normal. Next up, Thanksgiving, and think how fast it’s coming!

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

A day of forgetfulness

 

Cheating: This is a picture of me and Mary
at last year's dinner.
No pictures this year--darn!

This morning, Mary picked me up for a trip to the nursery to restock my herb garden. During the horrible hot dry spell, everything had died. Recently a couple of stalwart green onions peeked their heads through the dirt, but my wonderful, raised garden was pretty much barren. We chose thyme and oregano and basil and parsley and a couple of other things. At checkout Mary handled the transactions for me since I was in the transport chair and couldn’t reach. That may be where my problem began.

Next we went to Trader Joe’s. I don’t get there often at all. In fact, Jean usually shops for things for me, like the bread I love for sandwiches. I went without a list and without really needing anything, so it was fun to browse. I saw many things I wished I needed—baby zucchini for one—but I refrained. Came away with two more herbs, a small container of chicken salad, and a wedge of cheese that blended three English cheeses—it will be nice for happy hour one day. Mary found a frozen, ready to eat dinner of scallops and mushrooms in a wine sauce. Sounded so good we each bought one and then agreed we would forego lunch plans to get the scallops home to the freezer.

When we first parked at the grocery, I asked Mary to go in and drive out one of their motorized carts. Pretty soon she came with a store employee driving the cart, and I wondered if Mary, who is never intimidated, was a bit unsure about the cart. Trader’s has nice wide aisles, and I did not hit any people, knock down any displays—I did skirt a big stack of large jugs of apple cider at a great distance. When I was settled back in the car, Mary drove the cart back inside, and I thought maybe she said to herself, “I can do this.” I think they’re fun to drive, though I’ve had some minor accidents.

When we got home, I had the gate opener but could not find my keys. We both remembered me locking the door, and the keys were not hanging in the door. We searched everywhere—each of us emptying my purse, Mary searching her car. Nothing. Neither Jordan nor Christian were home, so a lot of phone calls ensued (not all happy); Jacob came out with two keys that obviously didn’t fit; Christian told Jordan where there was a key, she relayed the information, Mary went into the main house to get it, and Jacob came out with the key. Sort of a circus, but I got into the cottage where Sophie was so glad to see us. I’ve called the nursery and Trader Joe’s, but so far, no keys.

Tonight was the adults-only dinner for our neighborhood, held in Mary and Joe’s spacious yard for the second year. A bit bittersweet since they plan to move during the winter (Joe has lived in that house fifty-one years). A nice event—about a hundred people, barbecue provided by a neighbor who’s an expert and gave us really good food. With a five-year gap in the late eighties and early nineties, I’ve lived in this neighborhood for forty years, and I have edited the newsletter for maybe ten or more. So I knew a few people. I was pleased that several came up to talk and some commented on how long it had been since they’d seen me. And sometimes I heard, “You look really good!” I may be oversensitive, but I think now that I need a walker and I don’t get out much, they must think I have shriveled into old age. Not so (I hope!).

Since Jordan and Christian had other plans tonight, Greg and Jaimie Smith took me. Jaimie, as social chair, had to be there early and stay late, but Greg picked me up, helped struggle me up the four stairs into the yard, and sat with me. We had a happy table of neighbors I very much like, but both Greg and I are a bit hearing challenged, and we often exchanged whispered asides. He’s good company, and it was fun.

So I got home without a problem—had the gate opener and the keys. Got settled, went to get my phone out of my purse, and it wasn’t there. I had it on the table during dinner and remembered thinking I must be sure to put it in my purse. But I didn’t remember actually doing it. So in a panic, I emailed Mary that I’d left it on the table—after all, I could neither text nor call.

As I was brushing my teeth, I thought I should take one more deep dive into that purse. I did—and there it was. I was red-faced over a false alarm, but I was also grateful. I really don’t want to be in the cottage alone, especially at night, without a way to call for help if I need it (which is most unlikely, except if I don’t have a phone which is when the odds go up dramatically). Email is not effective—who reads email at three in the morning?

So it was a lovely day, one I enjoyed a lot, glad to get out, but one in which I feared for a bit I was losing my mind. Not yet, I guess.

Sweet dreams, everyone. Keep you phones handy.

A lovely night I the neighborhood

 

Halloween is a big deal for Christian
and he decorates accordingly

Makes me think of Mr. Rogers and his neighborhood, but it was that kind of evening in Berkeley tonight, even if we did only have a couple of parties of trick-or-treaters. It was the Berkeley Fall Festival, a pre-Halloween event especially for kids in the neighborhood. But more than that, it was for kids with various disabilities, physical and social. It was the night MedStar brings two kids, either on stretchers or in wheelchairs, to trick-or-treat on a specially chosen block—a real thrill for kids who wouldn’t otherwise get the be part of the fun. And for the families, who are included and treated like royalty.

It was also a night for children who might be overwhelmed by the crush and confusion of real Halloween in our neighborhood—the autistic child who is frightened by crowds yet wants to be part of the fun, the child with severe food allergies who must pick carefully from any candy offered, the child who is just plain shy.

Sophie wanted to be part of the fun too

For me, it was also a bit of a nostalgic night. The trick-or-treating was advertised from five to seven, so Jordan, Christian, Jean, and I gathered on the porch. But the Berkeley map sent out ahead of time showed only two other houses on our block that were participating. In the inner neighborhood (we are on the fringe), there were clusters of houses passing out treats. So we got only one family—good friends—while we sat there. But then Christian grilled, and Jordan served dinner on the porch—kofta, tzatziki, hummus, and a green salad. With brownies, chocolate chip cookies, and gingersnap—such a wealth of sweets.

And then, about seven, Jordan’s friends, all people I’m fond of, began to arrive. I got lots of good hugs and saw people I’d missed for a long time. I’m tempted to call them young people, as that’s how I always think of them, but they are now nearing fifty. Not so young but still lively.

Twenty years ago when Jordan and Christian first got together, Jordan and I were in a

Jordan makes such a cute witch!

phase of giving porch parties. They were potluck, generally Mexican themed, and BYOB. And they were happy, warm occasions, part of the fond memories that I carry with me today. Some of the people who came in those days have drifted away—we watched some romances flame and then sputter out and others take hold and burn with a steady flame. But there were many there tonight who had been at those long-ago parties, so it was like a reunion, and it made my heart glad.

Being the old lady in the crowd, I left before eight—too many conversations confused my hearing aids, and I couldn’t hear anyone. Sophie was by then out in the cottage alone, and I used the excuse that she was lonely. The truth is I enjoy those parties a great deal, but the time comes early when I am ready to sneak back to my own quiet place of comfort.

Tomorrow night will be a madhouse if history holds true. Our streets will be packed with cars, our sidewalks crowded with families with young kids. It’s always nice to notice that politeness and good manners prevail—in many cases, as a child takes a treat, a parent says, “Did you say thank you?” It’s reassuring that not everything in this world or this country has gone amuck these days.

And tonight was sort of like a return to kinder, gentler times. I loved it, and I applaud Jordan and Christian for hosting.

 

Looking out for your neighbors … and yourself

I live in a pleasant, older neighborhood. Some houses have been here almost a hundred year. Some are two-story, some are single-story Craftsman. Yards are mowed, gardens tended. We have an active neighborhood association and lots of traditions. Our community attracts people who are looking for the inner-city experience, where you know your neighbors and feel part of things going on.

One of our traditions is our annual Fourth of July Parade. Everyone turns out—families dress their kids up, drape bikes and trikes with red- white- and-blue streamers. Parents walk along next to their kids, and non-marching residents line the streets of the route to cheer. The parade ends at our local elementary school, the capstone that holds our neighborhood together, where there are various activities for children—face painting, bounce houses, and lots of treats for everyone!

It’s going to be all different this year. The social co-chairs planned a variation of the usual route, with proper social distancing, and issued an edict that masks would be required. The city approved the amended plan. But then the spike hit our county, along with most of Texas, and the ladies went back to the planning board.

The results? We’ll have a parade of motorized vehicles only—sort of like those drive-by birthday parties everyone is having these days. No motorized scooters, no bikes, none of the wagons with baby brother getting a free ride. Nope, not even the dogs we’re used to. And the generous neighbors who always had a post-parade Bloody Mary and Budweiser stand? Postponed.

The parade will wind through internal streets of the neighborhood, so many folks can cheer from their own front yards. And the usual celebration at the end? With a totally different route, the parade will end in a cul-de-sac where residents can take their turn, at a distance of course, at an ice-cream truck. Yes, masks required.

The reason I’m telling you all this is that I am so impressed by the resilience our neighborhood shows. Everyone recognizes that things are not what we want them to be. But instead of throwing our hands up in despair and retreating into our homes, we have a new plan. We will still have fun and celebrated our nation’s birth, but we will be looking out for our neighbors … and ourselves.

When I see people who make such a scene when confronted with a mask requirement—the woman who threw all the groceries out of her cart at a check-out, flinging food hither and yon; the man who had a huge poster saying, “I will not sacrifice my freedom for your health.”—I am appalled. I would like to say I’d invite these self-centered people to my neighborhood to see how people care about each other, but no, I don’t want them and their germs—or their attitude—here.

A friend of mine was in a grocery store with one-way aisles (best idea grocers have come up with yet), when she saw a mask-less woman coming toward her. Not being a shrinking violet, she asked, “Where is your mask?” The woman said something, and my friend said, “My mask protects you. Your mask would protect me.” The woman looked at her and said, “Oh, honey, God will protect you.” Maybe that’s why all those choir members in Dallas sang for Pence without masks. And did you hear that in Oklahoma, post the trump rally, they are getting 100% positive tests. God gave us masks and social distancing; we can’t expect magic from a deity.

Since I don’t go out of my cottage very often—I’ve been off the property three times since last March—I rarely wear a mask. So I’m the first to admit they’re a pain—hot, itchy, uncomfortable. With my hearing problems, I find it difficult to understand a person wearing a mask—I’ve noticed this with a couple of repairmen who have come to the house. But it is what it is, and it’s better than getting COVID-19.

Our numbers are up again today in Tarrant County—605 new cases, and I forgot how many deaths. I notice with satisfaction that more and more people across the nation who at first resisted are now wearing masks. I mean, really, if Mitch McConnell says it’s absolutely essential that everyone wear one, that’s a huge step. Now if only the squatting president would get on board. And then we have to work on the hordes who want to spend the day at the beach or tubing on the Guadalupe or marching in a protest, though a lot of the latter are properly masked.

Do you wear your mask every time you leave your home? For sure?

Big doings in the neighborhood

I thought of Mister Rogers tonight: “It’s a lovely day in the neighborhood.” I am fortunate to live in a close-knit neighborhood with a lot of community pride. In fact, I I live across from the community elementary school. And tonight that provided one of those special neighborhood moments, though I only heard it distantly.

At Lily B. Clayton Elementary, known locally as “Sweet Lily B.,” there’s a tradition of “clapping out” the graduating fifth graders. The students parade down a long hall as families, friends, and faculty line the hall and rhythmically clap. It’s a moment to bring tears to your eyes—I know because I was there for the clapping out of Jacob and also, earlier, of my Canadian daughter Sue’s son, Hunter.

This year there would be no clapping-out ceremony due to social distancing, quarantining, whatever you call it. But school administrators arranged for a clap-out on the street in front of the building tonight. We were in the back yard with socially distanced happy hour guests, but we heard and enjoyed the hoopla. Police cars and fire department vehicles led the parade with horns and sirens blaring someone played "Pomp and Cirumstance" on a car radio, and kids hung out of cars, waving at the people on the street. A perfect show of neighborhood joy for these young kids who have accomplished so much and yet not been able to celebrate as they expected.. Jordan snuck out to the front porch and took the picture above.

We had a company happy hour  with two couples who are longtime friends of mine. Jordan worried and worked a lot to arrange it so seven people could sit with appropriate distancing. In spite of rain threats during the day, it was a lovely evening, perfect temperature, and the garden looked pretty. Everyone brought their own drinks, glasses, snacks, and even napkins. I wonder if this is the entertaining of the future. Guess it is, at least for the foreseeable future. But we were certainly glad to see these friends, and there was much lively discussion, even if it did seem to focus on true crime stories such as the Cullen Davis mansion murders. Not sure how we got on such a topic.

I had prepped dinner tonight, knowing we wouldn’t have a lot of cooking time. Jordan went to Central Market this morning, intending to go inside first thing when it opened instead of using curbside pick-up as we usually do. Seemed to me a perfect time for us to have a seafood supper, so she came home with a pound of bay scallops, plus shrimp for Jacob—he adores shrimp but we all doubted he would try scallops.

Note my fancy new fish spatula

I made scallops Provenҫal—tossed the scallops with salt, pepper, and flour and sautéed them in butter; added chopped shallots, garlic, and parsley to the skillet and cooked a bit longer. Then added white wine and cooked gently until the sauce just thickened a bit. Christian, who apparently wasn’t sure he liked scallops, said he wanted his well done. I explained that well done scallops were rubbery, and besides, they would all be done in one skillet—they were after all, the small bay scallops, and it wasn’t like putting steaks on the grill and assigning each to a person. Apparently, I got it right, because he said he now realized he likes them. Such fun enlarging his taste—he joked that I had made a salmon eater out of him, and now a scallop eater   Hmm, maybe I'll go for mushrooms next.

Another pleasant evening. We all agreed that the days go by quickly, even without scheduled things to do, without lunches and dinners out, without haircuts and doctor appointments and shopping trips and travel. It’s strange to be so comfortable in such difficult times, although at least for me personal comfort doesn’t keep me from worrying about the state of the country. I pray for our nation daily, because I think we are in perilous times.

Gratitude

After two years of not being able to drive and another six months of “supervised” driving while the kids made sure I still knew how to do it, it’s a great joy to take off on my own and run errands—and save Jordan some bothersome trips on my behalf. Today I went to the podiatrist—seems like every time I go to the doctor there’s some new wrinkle, something “that is concerning” or “we just have to check it out.” So it was a delight to go to a doctor who said, “You’re doing so much better than so many people I see.” When asked if my shoes were okay, he countered with “Are they comfortable.” I said yes, and he said “Then wear them. All you need is something to cushion the bottom of your feet.” What a lovely man!

Next, I went to the only gas station around that does full service. I’m sure the attendant thought I was a dotty old lady—I couldn’t find full service, and when I did it had a cone in front of it. So I pulled up to the cone, and this nice young man said, “Ma’am, you’re going to have to pull up farther—the hose won’t reach your gas tank.” I said, “But the cone,” and he advised me to pull up next to it. By then I guess I was a bit flustered—he had to patiently ask me to turn off the engine, unlock the gas cap. I didn’t really need gas, but I got it, so I could get my tires checked which someone told me looked soft. The attendant gently said, “Just so you know, ma’am, we have a $20 minimum on full service.” I assured him I’d pay $20 for my $15 worth of gas, tire check, and clean windshield, but he brushed it away. Next time I go back there, I’ll be much smarter about the protocol.

Finally, I went to pick up a sweater at the cleaners. The owner himself brought it out and said, “Hey, Mrs. Alter. Written any new books lately?” So we talked a bit. He went to school with my oldest son.

So my gratitude is for people who are so kind about my wanting curbside service and for living in a neighborhood where people are so friendly. How lucky am I!

Finally baked that gingerbread today and learned a toaster-oven lesson—things with baking soda that rise don’t do well. The gingerbread rose beautifully—and burned the top. But we cut away the burned and doused it with the ginger/brown sugar whipping cream I’d made—delicious. And not too hard. Because I get mixed up on ordering spices by weight, however, I now have a lifetime supply of ground ginger. Anybody?

Neighbor Mary Dulle brought fresh homemade applesauce tonight, and I discovered that it too goes wonderfully with gingerbread—complimentary flavors. And she brought dried morel mushrooms—I will have to research to find out what to do with them.

And should you want to watch an interview with me, here’s a link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ndFlUpusk88 .  This was done this fall by the marketing manager at TCU Press—she came to the cottage, and I cleared my desk, as you can see.

Sometimes a day is just about right

That’s what I was thinking this morning—that the day was just about right. It was warm but not unbearable, and the cottage still held its nighttime cool. I had the patio door open, and as I sat at my desk I almost felt like I was sitting in that dappled sunshine on the patio. Easy to daydream and forget to work, but I managed to write my thousand words for the day and get other chores done.

It amazes people who don’t know to learn that writing a book involves so much more than getting the story down on paper. If you’re an independent publisher as I am, you have to buy ISBN (International Standard Book Numbers) for each book and register them, so your book will end up in Books in Print. You have to edit, edit, edit, and proof, proof, proof. You send it to someone to format, so it won’t look amateurish. You have a designer do the cover. You write blurbs and pitches. If you have a web page, and every author should, you have to either post the new book there yourself or hire someone to do it. You mount the book on various digital platforms and, if you so choose, post to a service that will create print. The details are endless, and I’m in the midst of all of them---and having so much fun doing them.

If you’re seeking an agent and a publisher, it’s a whole different game, one that usually involves sending out endless query letters and waiting patiently for that one reply that says someone wants to represent your book or, glory be, publish it. I’ve gotten those letters, and they make not just your day but your world.

Either way, being an author involves a lot of scut work. It’s a way of life, and I love it.

It’s been a while since I had dinner with the neighborhood group at the Old Neighborhood Grill. Tonight, friend Mary Dulle took me and was kind enough to take Jacob and a friend with us. The boys refused to sit at the same table as the adults, but for the most part they were well behaved. I ordered meatloaf which was my standard meal for a long time. This time I left enough to bring home for a lunch sandwich tomorrow. The fellowship at the table was good, though much of the talk was about hip replacement surgery and a new technique which has a recovery period of something an astounding like two weeks. Made me feel bad that here I am still on a walker after six months, but I know my hip was an unusual situation, and I wouldn’t have been eligible for this new technique. One more time when I have to learn to be who I am and accept what I can and can’t do and stop comparing myself to others.

So on this just right day, a lesson learned again that I should have learned a long time ago.

A joyful day

After a couple of woe-filled days, I’ve had a joyful day today. I truly live in a wonderful neighborhood, and one of the things that makes it so wonderful is the neighborhood spirit for Lily B. Clayton Elementary School, right across from my front porch. This morning they had their annual Walkathon—both a fund-raiser for PTO activities and a good exercise to prove that the kids, even little ones, can walk a mile. Christian walked with Jacob, as he has every year. Subie and Phil came from a few blocks away, and we had a watch party—complete with coffee and dogs. Neighbor Margaret Johnson came to get Sophie for a walk, but Sophie was so excited by all the turmoil, I was terrified she’d pull Margaret down. They had a good walk but Margaret confessed her arm was tired when she got back.

The high school band played, police cars blocked the streets, and tons of neighbors turned out to watch. Band players jived (is that the right word?), danced and kicked, and the atmosphere was truly festive. As Phil said, “I never realized so many children went to that school.” They kept coming and kept coming, but it was a joyful, exciting occasion. Each child was to wear a red Lily B. T-shirt. Jacob buried his under a green Baylor sweatshirt because he was cold—that child who’s always too hot. It was a lovely way to start the day. Subie and Phil left after the walkers had gotten underway, but I told them later the return was much less tightly packed, more loosely organized as kids seemed to scatter everywhere. Still, order came out of chaos, and I assume they spent the rest of the day being studious

At noon, my brother John and sister-in-law Cindy came to get me and we went to Carshon’s Deli where we met my niece Jenn and her youngest daughter, Maddie. Talk about a flirty-girty, beautiful charmer! I was absolutely entranced by that three-year-old child. Loved my lunch (half a tongue sandwich) and the company was even better. A real treat. John walked into my house announcing he wanted to see the killer dog—so he and Cindy waited until I got Luke calmed down and then came out on the porch. They did it just right—ignored him, though he got to the point he wanted to jump on them and came around to visit several times. Also sniffed their dogs’ smell on them.

Tonight Jordan is preparing for the garage sale of the century—in my front yard because there’s so much more traffic than in their neighborhood. I cannot begin to tell you what my house looks like except that I pray it will all be gone tomorrow. Cindy walked in and said, “Oh my God!” Christian has gone home so he can be back here at 5:30 a.m. I am hoping to sleep through much of this. Tonight I fixed them hamburger patties in a butter/shallot/red wine/beef broth/cognac sauce—so good but next time I’ll double the sauce. Baked potatoes and salad—great meal, even if the service wasn’t elegant, given the circumstances. A part of me hates to put a sour cream container on the table!

Now, Luke and I are hiding in my office while she prices things. Going to bed very early tonight and hiding all morning tomorrow. Life is good.