An outstanding day from my point of view

 

This is Pete the Gecko (I just named him and have no idea why I thought Pete was appropriate). Pete was made by mosaic artist Susan Swaim, an old friend, and is part of my drive to have art in the cottage with some meaning to me—often, because it was done by artists I care about. Suzi used to babysit my kids when they were young, tonight we decided it was pre-school. In recent years I’ve seen her mosaic art online, and when I saw the first few geckos she did I thought vaguely that I wished I could have one. This year, as my birthday approached, I realized there was no good reason I couldn’t give myself one as a birthday present—and I commissioned it. The neat thing is that Suzi incorporated a bit of my jewelry that I sent her—can you find the rose on Pete’s back? Came from a necklace I no longer wear, and a couple of other pieces came from things I had. Pete will hang just to the right of my desk—there’s a nice blank piece of wall waiting for him.

Look at Suzi’s work at Facebook She calls her studio my mosaic mojo.

Suzi delivered Pete in person tonight. I probably haven’t seen her in over thirty years, so it was a great catch-up time. Her mom was a friend of mine way back in TCU days and came from three generations of a family deeply involved with TCU, so we talked a lot about her mom and being in the eighties and TCU and just lots of stuff. Went to Lucile’s, which is a favorite of mine, and I got the lobster roll I’d been wanting. A thoroughly enjoyable evening with lots of laughter.

It was a rare out-of-the-cottage day for me. Christian and I went to church this morning. Russ’ sermon was on the parable of Jesus telling the lame man to pick up his bed and be healed, and the sermon dwelt on the question Jesus asked the man: “Do you really want to be healed?” The point was that a lot of us cling to our problems, imperfections, even illnesses because they are comfortable. Much as we rail against them, we know how to deal with them. Being “healed,” represents a great unknown. Russ finally asked the question, “Do you want to move out of your comfort zone?” and I wanted to say, “I’m here, aren’t i? I’m in church and not watching in the cottage.”

Two outings in one day was a big deal for me, although that makes my life sound constricted, which is not the way I feel about it at all. I am always torn between a conscience that prods me to get out in the world and the lure of the comfort of my cottage. I used to have such an active, busy life, and now I’m so content in my cottage that I have to gear myself up to go out. Once I do, however, I’m glad to have done it. So thanks to Christian and Suzi for getting me out of my comfort zone. I think this whole recluse business crept up on me with pandemic and quarantine. And then I think about how many lives were forever changed by that traumatic period. Not just the illness and death, but the social changes, the work-from-home changes, the stay-at-home dinners instead of patronizing favorite restaurants. I think in many ways we are still reeling from the results of that social upheaval. And now, here comes another onslaught of covid

On the bright side, it is cool tonight, eighty as I write about nine-thirty. There was a good shower to the south of us, but we’ve had no rain so far. Still, the air smells like rain, and I am ever hopeful. I know the nineties is hot but compared to what we’ve had, it will seem pleasant. Let us count our blessings as we sail into a new week.

The best-laid plans

 

My social life got in the way of my creative goals today, but it made it a good day. The weather was perfect for patio entertaining, which made it even better.

My day began with a message from Linda, a dear friend who moved to Taos last year—from Granbury, so it’s not like I saw her frequently, but still I knew she was fairly close and would occasionally come by. She’s only a medium communicator, so there are long stretches when we’re not in touch, and I was delighted today to have a chance to catch up. Moving is always hard, and she’s feeling that—three major real estate transactions in one year. Her first winter in Taos, although she’s spent many summers there. I expect after a year, she’ll be totally happy and acclimated, but the change is hard. She misses her Texas friends, and we miss her.

Linda’s covid report was most interesting. She is appalled at the absence of masking in Texas. In Taos, she cannot make a dinner reservation without including proof of vaccination. She also has to show that at most public events, and she says you never ever go to church or the grocery without your mask. She keeps one on her wrist most of the time and says it is off and on several times a day. From the start of pandemic, New Mexico has always been stricter than Texas. But then, so have many states. Our county alone had over 7,000 new cases (it doesn’t say what period that covers, but the spread level is a red alert high).

Linda came at three when the patio was warm and sunny. In fact, the sun was so strong I had to look the other way or shield my eyes. By happy hour when Mary and Prudence came, the sun had sunk below the neighbor’s garage, but the evening did not bring on as much chill as I expected. We were quite comfortable sitting out there and had a wide-ranging discussion on everything from omicron, schools, politics, and books. Love it when we talk about ideas and not always things or people.

My bit of trivia for the day—which turned out not to be so trivial. Someone posted on Facebook about the dark ages’ custom of two sleeps. Apparently until the Middle Ages, people had two sleeps—one in the evening, and one in the morning. The custom stems, according to the poster, from the days of cave dwellers when someone always had to be awake to tend the fires and to ward of any predatory beasts that might be after food, animals, or even humans. I thought the fact was interesting if irrelevant in today’s world until I read some responses. People wrote to say they were relieved to find that they were not insomniacs but were simply following ancient body clocks when they were awake from 2:00 to 4:00 am or thereabouts. Pru said tonight she is usually awake form 2:00 until almost 5:00, just gets back to sleep when it’s time for her husband to get up—I remember that from the days I too was married to a surgeon. I generally sleep soundly until 5:00, even 6:00 but then I am semi-alert for Sophie to need to go outside. After she does and I entice her back in with a bit of cheese, I can go back to sleep for an hour or so, and I find myself really looking forward to that second sleep.

When we talked about this tonight, Mary said she sleeps about five hours a night (I would be a walking zombie) and cannot nap during the day. It makes her fuzzy headed. I on the other hand can sleep a solid two hours in the afternoon, and often do. Linda and I talked touched on napping when we talked about routine. She said that was one of the things she had to learn. She thinks I have long known it in my career, whereas she was in retail for what? Thirty or forty years. Whatever, the reason, we found that these days our routines are similar: in the mornings, she paints, and I hope to write; afternoons, we rest, though I suspect I am more devoted to a daily nap than she is. She often uses afternoons to read. But evenings we part company—she says dark comes so early in New Mexico, she has to force herself to stay awake until nine, and she is up early. I find myself at my computer often until midnight, but I am sleeping later and later in the mornings. My routine also includes regular meals—something for breakfast but not much, usually around nine-thirty; lunch near twelve-thirty, and supper at seven or seven-thirty. The late evening hour is an accommodation to the Burtons’ schedule that I have learned to make—sometimes I get a bit hungry and snack.

But I am a big believer in routine—and today, mine got thrown off, which is why now, at eight-thirty, I am about to start my thousand words for today on Irene Keeps a Secret. Wish me luck--or unexpected inspiration.

A Bookish Day

This is the blog I was too tired to write last night. Honestly, how can I be tired after a day of doing not much? The truth is I was reading a mystery I didn’t want to put down, and that sort of speaks for my day yesterday. It was bookish. So as you read, pretend it is last night.

After the heavy go of reading about Churchill and WWII I really longed for a good cozy (not cute!) in whose pages I could get lost. Thanks to Susan Van Kirk for A Death at Tippitt Pond. I did indeed get lost in the world of this novel and was reluctant to stop turning digital pages. The plot is not new: a young woman (in this case, forty-seven, not so young) finds out she was adopted as an infant and has now inherited a fortune from her biological family. The story opens with her having traveled from NYC to the mansion in the small, Illinois town where, apparently, she was born. And, no surprise—she is attracted to the single-again chief of police. Before you yawn and say, “Been there, read that,” let me tell you that Van Kirk takes these familiar elements and creates a compelling mystery. Did Beth Russell’s biological father really kill her mother that summer day at Tippitt Pond all those years ago? Why does someone keep breaking into the house, and how do they get in? Why is a stranger watching her house from the woods across the street?

Beth Russell, an independent researcher, is just insecure enough that you like her. Yet she’s bright and holds her own in a town where most people want her to go back to NYC. Other characters are equally believable, from Kyle the police chief, to the senator who looks to me like the bad guy. I haven’t finished this book yet, but I did stay up way too late last night reading it.

And I’m on the trail of a mysterious cookbook that a friend told me about. Catherine Morro, daughter of a TCU prof, herself a student until eye strain forced her to quit, apparently was known for chicken sandwiches which she sold from a now-disappeared local pharmacy. Here’s the strange part: in 1980, University Christian Church published a collection of her recipes. That’s my church, but so far, I haven’t found anyone who knows anything about it. And a church publishing an individual’s cookbook? I can imagine a collection of recipes from women in the congregation, but not one cook. I’m partly curious because Morro apparently made congealed salads, so popular in the day, by cooking in a water bath instead of using gelatin as I do. Thanks to Anne Kane for putting me on this trail.

And, finally, a nice find yesterday—a woman I knew several years ago as an administrator at TCU has retired from academic life and is writing a private investigator series of mysteries set in Harlem. I wrote her a note, she wrote back, and we exchanged a few emails, friended each other on Facebook. I hope to keep in touch with Delia Pitts. Check out her Ross Agency Mysteries. Brand new title is The Prince and the Pauper in Harlem.

Discovering Delia (does that sound like a book  title?) gave me a stray thought for these quarantine days. Maybe I should check in on Kelly O’Connell and see how she and Mike, Keisha and the girls are handling the pandemic. (That’s for you, Elaine Williams Gray!)

A blessed Palm Sunday to everyone.

The old lady in the mirror

Mushroom soup

Routine mammogram the other day. As usual, they sat me in  tiny dressing room to wait my turn, and the tech gave me the simple instructions all ladies have heard countless times. After she left, I turned to Jordan who was with me and said, “There’s an old lady in that mirror.” She laughed and said, “You were staring at the mirror the whole time that woman was talking to you.”

Indeed I was—staring in horror. I have always prided myself, vainly perhaps, on neither looking nor feeling my advanced age. But there I was staring at this woman with thinning gray hair plastered to her head—where was my comb and what happened to blond me? I had great bags under my eyes and sort of sallow skin. Plus of course, those wrinkles.

“I look like my Aunt Alice,” I wailed, which set Jordan to giggling again.

“It’s a fake mirror, designed to make you look old. Maybe I should see how I look.” She stood up, back to me, and stared in the mirror for a long time. Then, with an impish grin, she turned around and said, “I look pretty good.”

Thereafter ever time she caught me looking, she’d giggle and offer to change seats with me. Truly, there was no other place for me to look. The blasted mirror was about four feet in front of me in that small room.

I swore I didn’t look like that when I left the cottage, and I vowed to go home and check my mirror. At home, I did look better, but the lighting is different, softer. Now I worry about how I really look to others in the daylight. Maybe I’ll just wear dark glasses all the time. The pouches truly are hereditary from my dad’s side of the family.

To top it off, the tech was too solicitous. In truth, she was pleasant, talkative, and concerned. But she repeated things in a deliberate loud, slow voice and kept reassuring me I did fine. What’s to do wrong in a mammogram? Maybe she took a clue from the receptionist who checked us in and talked almost exclusively to Jordan after I confessed that I didn’t remember to bring my insurance card. And some money fell out of my purse, which led Jordan to ask why I had loose money in my purse, and I replied I didn’t have a clue. Guess I was marked as doddering right then and there.

Tonight I redeemed myself, I hope, by fixing dinner for a friend—a goat cheese/pesto appetizer, homemade mushroom soup, small dinner salads. So good. The soup was an experiment and involved both my small food processor and my immersion blender, but I finally got it close to the velvety texture the recipe specified. For dessert, I offered Trader Joe’s cookie butter. When I read about it, I asked Jordan what you ate it with, and she replied, “A spoon.” Tonight my friend tried it on a baguette slice and said it was much like peanut butter. I gave the rest of the jar to Jordan.

It’s a joy to me to prepare such a meal for a friend, and even the fixing is a joy—okay, maybe not chopping the onion and garlic—but the rest of it, making it come out right even if I have to use blender and processor (I have hand washed a lot of dishes tonight), planning the menu, finding I had hearts of palm to add to the salad, deciding to add a dollop of sour cream to the soup when serving. It’s all fun and gives me a sense of accomplishment.

Tonight I cooked for a friend of over forty years. Our ex-husbands were colleagues in medicine, and we stayed in touch, sporadically, over the years after our respective divorces. Though she’s recently had major surgery, she remains a person of happy disposition with a good sense of humor, and I thoroughly enjoy her company. We differ on our opinions about trump, but I tried to soft-peddle it when it came up tonight. That means I was not my usual vociferous self. Where, I wonder, do I draw the line between passionate loyalty to our beleaguered country and friendship of long standing.

This old lady in the mirror is signing off. Sweet dreams, everyone.

A golden day

Make New Friends, but Keep the Old

Those are Silver, These are Gold

I had a golden day today. An old friend came to visit. Carole was in town for the weekend and slated herself to spend the morning with me and stay for lunch. I met Carole in the early eighties when she moved to Fort Worth to head our city’s sesquicentennial celebration. The way she tells it I was at an event where she spoke, and I went up to her afterward to ask if she’d like to have Sunday supper with my family. She said she’d love it.

Husband-to-be Bill joined her shortly afterward, and their daughter—my godchild—was born here. They were regulars at my Sunday dinner table--which is a whole other long story. Thanks go to their daughter Kate for the nickname Juju by which all my grandchildren and half the world knows me. As a toddler, Kate couldn’t say Judy.

But in 1995, Bill’s work took them to the Chicago area, then Atlanta, and finally the D.C. area where they still live. Visits were scarce—they came once when Kate was a teenager, and I visited them in Atlanta for an afternoon once on my way home from the Caymans—a long story. They missed the Alter family occasions, though they almost came to Jordan’s wedding. And then, a few years ago, Carole and Bill came for a visit. We had dinner on the deck and talked of old times. I have to say this: Carole is not a good communicator—she doesn’t write, and she doesn’t do Facebook—though I did find out today she sometimes reads my blog.

There is a W. B. Yeats poem entitled, “Speech After Long Silence,” and that’s sort of how I felt today. She was no more in the door than she was on her knees, burying her face in Sophie’s coat and loving her. Once we settled with cups of tea, we talked non-stop, catching each other up. I heard about Kate’s boyfriend and her travels, and about Carole’s mother’s death (at ninety-nine, I believe) and its impact on Carole, which I understand thoroughly because after thirty years I still want to call my mom with a question about cooking or an unidentified person in a photo. Carole, having known my mom, brought all that back. And I heard about their travels and their dog—a Wheaten terrier, which is sort of a ragamuffin dog like Sophie.

Carole asked for a rundown on each of my kids and their families, and I was glad to oblige. She was on the spot for their growing up years—all those Sunday dinners and all the stories they spawned, We talked about people we’d been close to twenty-five years ago and where they are now—alas, some gone. The subject of my health came up, and she said she’s been worried but will now stop worrying—and I’m glad. We talked a lot of politics—Carole and I have always agreed, and we do to this day. She said she and Bill talk about politics a lot, and she can speak for him. And she promised to come back soon and bring him.

I served a smoked salmon and potato salad for lunch, and she took the recipe and vowed to make it this weekend. You can watch for it Thursday on my Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog—because I took a great picture of it. Dessert was sacher torte parfaits that I picked up at La Madelaine. Decadent and good.

Carole left at one, saying in advance that by then I would be tired of talking and so would she. And I think I was. But I wished she was just a jump away and not half way across the country. I hope she comes back soon.

And, yes, Carole, I took my nap—in a golden haze of memories and friendship.

A tornado rush and the beginning of the Christmas rush

The last day of November already! Tomorrow Jacob and I can start the Advent Calendar. He reminded me of it the other day. This year the one I bought is set in Edinburgh so I’m hoping for lots of bagpipe music, which always thrills my Scottish bones. It’s installed on my computer and ready for that first click. I know Jacob’s at that in-between age—too old and yet not old enough, but he seems willing to do the calendar with me, and I’m delighted.

Just stole a quick after-supper nap. Delightful to lie in bed and listen to the thunder rumble. We are under a tornado watch until midnight, but Jordan said the rain would miss us which set me to wondering if you can have a tornado without rain, Now I notice the deck and the sidewalks are wet—rain apparently but not much of it. Sophie jumped up on the bed for a snuggle—she senses when I’m getting up and waits until that moment to come for a bit of doggy love.

I can already tell Christmas is coming. The traffic is horrible. Jordan and I went to the grocery this morning, and the congestion on Hulen was enough to make you turn around and go home. We took longer than usual at the store, because I had a longer list—the price one pays (literally) for cooking more. And then we were running late and were in a rush at the liquor store and the take-out place for lunch. I came away with chicken salad and a beet-and-orange salad for my lunch and a shepherd’s pie for supper. All delicious. Hats off to Local Foods Kitchen.

Tonight, without rushing, we went for a glass of wine with a friend of many years—the kind of friend where we each remember when the other’s children were toddlers. And now those children are in their forties, pushing fifty. It’s fun to see Jordan develop a relationship with her as an adult. Nancy has more Christmas decorations than anyone I ever met—nutcrackers and angels and ceramic Santas, pillows and an iron Christmas tree with ornaments hung on it. Her cozy apartment was warm with holiday atmosphere, and we laughed and talked, shared good news and worries. And then we hurried home again.

Tomorrow Jacob takes the SAT in a program to see how randomly selected seventh graders do taking the test that all high schoolers fear. What a shock to think he’s anywhere near ready for that. And here I was going to ask him to do mundane things like empty the garbage. I think it’s fun though that he doesn’t worry beforehand, doesn’t have to study—can just walk in and take it. I haven’t had a chance to ask him if he thinks it’s fun or not. Probably not.

Disappointing rain

Thunder rumbled all around us this most of the late afternoon, and Sophie stuck right by my side, both things giving me hope that good storm was on the way. No such luck. I suspect it did rain everywhere but on us—it may even have rained next door. But our poor thirsty back yard remained bone dry.

Jordan, Christian, and Jacob have been gone all week, so it was nice to welcome them home today. Only four days, but of course I had a list of things to talk to them about. They took Jacob and a friend to Lost Pines, a resort near Bastrop or Smithville or somewhere in Central Texas. Said the boys had a blast. I gather the adults did too.

My big adventure of the day was driving to the doctor. Jordan insists I have someone come out to walk me in and, when I’m finished, walk me out. Last night, after a severe and very public episode of nausea I thought I couldn’t drive myself, but I did just fine. The doctor thinks my ongoing nausea is a medication problem, drew bloodwork, adjusted some meds, and said I should be better by Monday. There go my weekend plans for dinner with friends—I still can’t face the thought of much food, though I think I feel better tonight just knowing that help is on the way and that I'm not wasting away--I've gained four lbs. through determination to eat in spite of this. Had fruit and wine for dinner.

And just now I answered the phone to hear the familiar and dear voice of an old friend that I’ve been missing for several years. He and I both have hearing aids now, so we weren’t much good on cell phones, but I did bring him up to speed on my kids and their families. I’d been trying to contact him by email for some time but got this strange little “I can’t answer right now” and had about given up. So nice to catch up with him!

My spirits are up—maybe it’s feeling better, maybe it’s the friend, God willing maybe it’s the rain. But I feel quite optimistic tonight. Time to get seriously back to work. Why do I keep thinking this is Friday night?

Pray for rain, folks. And for peace.

Some things that made me happy today

Here’s something that made me happy today: did you know there is a fellowship in the name of Erma Bombeck and Anna Lefler? It annually awards two recipients with a two-week retreat at the hotel of the University of Dayton and a slot at the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop. The university sponsors the program. Dayton is the late humorist’s hometown.

It’s particularly fitting to remember Bombeck at this time of year because of her essay, “Where did Christmas go?” The humorist, who once said only a thin line separates laughter and pain, began that piece with, “There is nothing sadder in this world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child,” and ended it with, “Time, self-pity, apathy, bitterness and exhaustion can take the Christmas out of the child, but you cannot take the child out of Christmas.”

In these troubled times in our country, we need all we can get of Erma Bombeck—and of he spirit of Christmas, no matter the faith you follow.

Something else that made me happy today: lunch with an old friend. I can’t tell you how long I’ve known Jim Lee, but it’s a long time. When he was chair of English at the University of North Texas, he’d call me to announce he’d had a million-dollar idea, and I’d cringe because I knew it meant work for me. Later, he moved to Fort Worth and became a regular volunteer at TCU Press, serving, as the provost so clearly specified, “without compensation.” We worked together, we edited books together (Literary Fort Worth, Elmer Kelton: Essays and Memories, and probably others), he wrote at least one book under my tenure (Adventures of a Texas Humanist). We were partners in crime, frequent guests together at literary events, and constant lunch companions. When I retired and he tired of his unpaid position, we drifted apart, and I hadn’t seen him in several years

We do email occasionally, and recently I wrote and told him I didn’t like to let people who’d mattered to me slip out of my life. Would he come to lunch at the cottage? He would and did. We had a good time, catching up on people (how neat that he remembers all my kids and asked about them) and sharing stories old and new, commiserating about age and friends now gone. I hope we do it again.

And more happiness: Betty and I went to Pacific Table for our weekly dinner and split Trout Amandine. It came with a choice of zucchini or root vegetables. She wanted the root vegetables, but I hesitated when I heard parsnips, turnips, and rutabaga. Then I threw caution to the winds and deferred to her taste. The vegetables were good, the trout was wonderful, and it was a pleasant if quick dinner.

Too much happiness in my world to let Roy Moore and the likes dim it, though I will continue to speak out That’s how outraged I am about what is being done to our country. Oops, I forgot—happiness is the word of the day.

Good times shared, old times recalled

             Forty years ago I was happily married (or so I thought) with four young children. We had good friends, also happily married (so they thought) with three children about the ages of ours. Both husbands were doctors—I throw that in though I’m not sure what it tells.  The two families shared many dinners, pool parties, holidays—we were close friends.

Then, almost simultaneously, we both divorced. For a year or two, Nancy and I went out to dinner, but we mostly talked about what was wrong with our exes—we had neither one sought the divorce—and I guess that got to be burdensome. She was busy with her work as an OR nurse, eventually in charge of a large staff, and I was working and raising my babies. We drifted apart, and I didn’t hear from her for years. Thirty years we decided today.

A month or so I looked her up in the phone book, called, and she sounded delighted. But it didn’t work out for her to plan a get-together right then. Maybe early last week, she called, and we arranged to have dinner on Friday night. Then a bug of some kind got my stomach, and I had to cancel. So today we finally had lunch. She lives downtown but came to my part of town, and I thought of taking her to a small, quiet sandwich shop—but it was closed. So we went to Carshon’s, the deli where she said she hadn’t been in years. Apparently she had a hunger for corned beef, so all was good.

It was interesting to me that we didn’t do a lot of “Remember when” stuff. We talked about what we’re doing today, what and where our children are, how we like retirement. There was no regret for the past. I found Nancy to be as full of fun, wit and laughter as she always was. At one point she looked at me and said, “We’ve had interesting lives, haven’t we?” and I agreed. Some of our today stories are tinged with sadness, but for the most part we agreed that we are so much better off single and we are happy with our lives.

Yes, we have happy memories but also some unhappy ones, and I’m glad we’ve both put them behind us. Now that we’ve reconnected, I’m sure we’ll see each other again and more often. I told her one mutual friend sent love, and she said, “Oh, I’d love to see her.” So next time I cook for Linda, I’ll invite Nancy.

Reconnecting is really good. Got an old friend you haven’t heard from in years? Give him or her a call. Some people just aren’t good communicators, and whoever it is might be really glad to hear from you. I recommend it.