Life goes on

 

Benji resting by my desk

If you asked me how I feel today, I would probably say sluggish. Maybe tired. I have bouts of energy and then periods of fatigue. I tell myself I’ve had two major blows within a little over a month—the loss of my only brother and last blood relative and the loss of the dog I’d loved for almost thirteen years. It’s neither sacrilegious nor silly to say that I am not weighing one against the other—both have been real blows. Most of my life I have been known for a sort of “carry on no matter what” attitude—that’s gotten me into trouble when I ignored some physical symptoms until they became major problems. I think maybe this time I am listening to my body. I sleep well part of the night and then toss and turn, but boy do I sleep soundly at naptime. I’ve been taking two naps—my usual afternoon one (I slept two and a half hours today) and another about 8:30 or 9:00 at night, after which I get up and work. It’s a schedule that seems to suit me for now. A couple of small medical problems are not helping my frame of mind—the malignant place on my scalp is healing and itches like fury, but of course I can’t scratch, I am hoping next week I’ll hear that I can stop putting Vaseline on it—who wants Vaseline combed into their hair? But I have weeks to go with the medicine that is intended to stimulate the immune system and kill cancer cells—and it is the real cause of the itching storm. Also next week, I have a swallow test which I dread less because I’m worried about the outcome than because I am worried about swallowing the barium. I’m sure they have techniques for helping queasy people, and I tell myself it will be over quickly. But it looms. So that’s my sad story.

On the positive side, today marks one week that Benji has been with us, and he’s done a remarkable job of adjusting. So, I would modestly say, have I. This week he is apparently feeling enough at home to be a bit naughty—yesterday morning I found one of my shoes in the doorway to the patio. I showed it to him while repeating “No!” in the sternest tone I could muster. He looked appropriately chastised, whatever that means. A few minutes later, Jordan came in carrying the other shoe which she had found in the back yard. Since my hip surgery and broken ankle, my feet are so fat and swollen that I don’t have the usual wardrobe of shoes—this was my only pair of black. Stretchy, wide, easy to get on. I am keeping the closet door closed. I also caught Benji digging at the base of one of my new plants of muhly grass, and that’s got to be a no-no. He frolics among the grass, and I tap on the window each time and call his name. He’s so good he comes running to see if I really want him.

But he does not beg for food, even when we have appetizers on the coffee table—Sophie would have decimated that in nothing flat. And he puts himself to bed in his crate about ten o’clock, and stays there quietly until I get up, usually about eight in the morning. He’s responsive to his name and seems eager to please. When he’s outside, he frequently comes to the doorway to check on me. And, though he is right now barking, he’s toned that down a lot. With his wild energy, he is like having a teenager in the house—you know if you can just wait through this period, there’s a great person in there. Adjustment is a slow process for both of us, and Benji is distracted by all the people who love and fuss over him bigtime—and then go away. I’m here for the 24-hour long haul. He  seems to understand that—he follows me to the bathroom, lies by my desk at night when I’m working. He’s going to be a good dog.

I had a spectacular kitchen fail last night that was also a great learning lesson. It taught me how to make a good red wine sauce for hamburger steak, and it also taught me a lesson I should know: don’t multi-task when cooking. I was making sirloin patties with red wine sauce, but I was also trying to finish up some computer work. And I wanted to make sure Jordan’s pattie was not pink in the middle, because she does not like pink meat. So I let the patties brown too long, but gosh they had a nice crisp crust! Then the wine reduced about three times as fast as usual—it usually takes forever, especially if you watch it, but this time, I turned my back. Added the beef broth and it did the same thing, so by the time we served, there was little sauce. And the patties were surely not pink in the middle. Christian’s mom liked meat cooked to a fare-thee-well, so he once told me her salmon patties were like hockey pucks. He could have said the same thing about my patties last night, though he kept reassuring me they had a great flavor. I tried to steam one for lunch today and threw it out. I swear I’m going to try again next week—if I get it right, I’ll share what I did.

I have had my evening nap, and I’m feeling better, over my pity party. When I was young, my mom had migraines and would take to her bed for a day. But never longer. So I learned to say, “She’ll be all right tomorrow,” if someone asked about her. So that’s my motto tonight: I’ll be all right tomorrow. Thanks for letting me whine. Good night, you all. Good night, Benji!

All the news that fits to print—or is it?

 

Watching the nightly news on TV or reading your morning paper can be disheartening. The world, clearly, is in a mess. The former president’s outrageous behavior at his current federal trial dominates the news, but Iran and Israel sniping at each other is a close second. I don’t understand why the media refer to Iran’s “unprecedented” attack on Israel. Didn’t Israel start it by taking out a consulate and killing several of Iran’s leading either diplomats or generals. That seems a bit of provocation to me. And whoever is at fault first, their conflict could escalate tensions in the Middle East. And then we read that famine is about to be declared in Gaza where half the citizens are in danger of starvation—where does starvation legally become famine? Is there some kind of line of statistic? Ukraine desperately needs tangible support—including arms and ammunition—from  the US but the MAGA caucus in the House seems to support Russia’s position in annexing Ukraine. They have voted against several bipartisan foreign aid bills, and hotheads like MTG are calling for us to withdraw from NATO—shortsighted if not outright stupid. Speaker Mike Johnson’s position is in jeopardy, but his removal could once again throw the House into confusion. So far they have accomplished less than any other House in any term.

Closer to home, some conservative states continue to pass draconian anti-abortion laws and voter suppression measures. Inflation continues, but few will believe that it is not government-inspired but due to greedy corporations that are making extraordinary profits. The disaster clock, driven by climate change, continues to click dangerously close to doom for the earth, and yet many don’t believe that either. We are told that if trump wins he November election, he will “Drill, baby, drill” and roll back all climate regulations. The southern border continues to be a mess, with MAGA folk blaming the increase in crossings on Biden, who is supposedly rubbing his hands with glee (please note not all immigrants are illegal—most have legal status pending asylum hearings—the only illegals are those that sneak across the border instead of crossing at checkpoints). Yet the House refused to support a bipartisan immigration reform bill.

Occasionally, the news is more puzzling than frightening. I read that Russian hackers have attacked the water tower in Muleshoe, Texas. Muleshoe is a town of about 5,000 out near Lubbock. Why in heaven’s name would Russian hackers be interested in its water tower? Did their girls basketball team just win a championship? Is Muleshoe the home of a hidden, secret spy group for the US.? Is there something special about the water tower. I’m sorry for the discomfort to Muleshoe’s citizens, but that almost made me laugh aloud. Most of the news does not do that.

So how can anyone, with all this and more, be an optimist? I can be and am. This morning I read a post by an author I know who said every morning she resolves to look for one occasion of joy in the world. As I look out my desk window, I look at those wonderful yellow wildflowers I posted about yesterday. Now they are about to be hidden by the oak leaf hydrangea growing tall and laden with blooms right by my window. Trite to begin with flowers, I know, but they truly do give me joy every time I look out the window at them.

But there are bigger victories: a panel of the 5^th court of appeals has refused to lift an earlier court order that bars Texas from enforcing a ridiculous book law that would have required every vendor to check every page of every book for explicitly sexual images and references before selling to a school district—this would have put many small vendors out of business, besides reinforcing our states already ridiculous book banning laws. A victory for reason.

A new federal order allows the Bureau of Land Management to protect 4200 acres of tribal-owned land from drilling and mining for the next 50 years—a huge victory for conservation. More college loans have been forgiven—not the principal but the outrageous interest rates which had people paying long after they repaid the principal. The economy is on track to best China’s economy for the first time in years, and unemployment has remained at a record-setting low for 50 years.

See? My wildflowers look pretty good. And there’s reason for joy in the world. Now I’ve got another reason—leftover meatloaf and I’m going to go ea my supper. Please remember to look for the joy in your life. It occurs to me that in focusing on national and international things, I have forgotten to mention the joy I get daily from family and friends. Never discount that.

 

Taking stock and moving on

 

June among the flowers

Weekends, I often think, are a time to sit back and reassess, look at what the past week has brought, and think about what the next week will bring. For us in the Alter/Burton compound, today seems a time to reassess all of what 2023 has brought us. (I really like the idea of calling the way we live a compound, and last night a friend used that phrase too, so now I’m officially adopting it).

Yesterday was the celebration of life for Sandra Burton, Christian’s mother, who left us mid-March. The service and a reception were in Coppell. I did not attend because the kids didn’t need to worry about me and my walker when they had so many other responsibilities. Jacob tells me it was a beautiful service, and his dad delivered a lovely eulogy. From the program, I know that Sandra and I shared a love of old hymns—the music was “Into the Garden,” “Just as I am,” and “Amazing Grace.”

Last night there was a small gathering of friends here to show love and support for Christian. What started out as just nibbles and a few people turned into a crowd with a lavish table as people arrived with food and wine. Friends of mine joined friends of Jordan and Christian—many of the latter are like family to me, so there were lots of hugs. A really supportive evening just when one was needed.

Sophie enjoyed the gathering too. She senses when there are guests in the house and would have had one ballistic fit if left alone in the cottage. So I took her on a leash, and various people took turns holding the leash. Of course, all her favorites were there, and she literally lunged to get to each one.

We’ve had a rough year getting to this point—it started at Christmas when both Sophie and June Bug sickened. Junie, the younger of the Burton King Charles Cavalier spaniels, had a heart attack over six years ago and was given a year to live. She proved to have the nine lives of a cat and each time we thought we’d lose her, she bounced back. But not this time, when her back legs had given out on her, and she was barely eating. On Thursday, the vet helped her to the Rainbow Bridge, with her family—including her sister dog—around her for love. A double whammy for the Burtons. Sophie meanwhile recovered and, on insulin twice a day, is doing just fine.

Sandra’s health suddenly declined dramatically in early February, so her illness and death have consumed Christian and his family for two months, with decisions to be made about facilities, etc. Ultimately she died peacefully at home, under hospice care, with her family around her.

About the same time, my older and only brother fell, broke his kneecap and had surgery. In rehab he caught Covid, which was followed by pneumonia and a variety of other problems. He was briefly in hospice but rallied enough to go to a skilled nursing center with the goal of building his strength enough to go into PT. This morning, I learned he is back in the hospital with a new variety of problems. So perhaps the Lord isn’t quite through with us with.

In my contemplative moments today, I think life is a roller coaster—some days you’re up, some you’re down. But sometimes it isn’t just a bad day—it’s a whole bunch of bad days piled on top of each other until you think life is coming at you too fast and hard. But it’s like I’ve always believed about household problems such as plumbing snafus and appliance breakdowns—they come in threes, and then they are over. And I truly do have faith that the good days outnumber the bad. So now I have faith that we of the Alter/Burton compound (do you suppose Christian would say Burton/Alter?) are due for some good days. And that includes healing for my brother.

I sort of want to say, “Thank you, Lord. That’s enough now.” Prayers are appreciated.

 

 

 

Living your best life

 

Morgan and her parents

My small writing circle has been exploring the question of why so many of us, as senior citizens (a euphemism if I ever hard one), continue to write, and most of us concluded that we write because we cannot not write. As one said, “To breathe is to write” or was it “To write is to breathe?” Anyway you get the point. My contribution was that given my age and where I am physically, I’m living my best life.

When I think of someone living their best life, I think of my youngest granddaughter. Morgan is a senior in high school, getting good grades, accepted into the National Honor Society, active in her outstanding and highly competitive marching band, already accepted to the university her boyfriend attends this year. And she’s a good cook. When her mom posts pictures of her, Morgan fairly glows—she is indeed living her best life for where she is in life now.

I think I’ve gone through life feeling that I was living my best life most of the time. Of course there were bumps in the road—some pretty big ones, like the failure of my marriage, the deaths of my parents, some surgeries I’d have avoided if possible, a couple of loves lost and a couple of friends who inexplicably cut me out of their lives. But mostly my mantra has been, “How blessed I am.” The years that brought bumps also brought four wonderful children, seven grandchildren, a career that I loved and had moderate success at, a wide and fascinating circle of friends, and an active social life. Sure, I might have wished for a couple of things—a lasting intimate relationship, a New York Times bestseller, even less anxiety and better balance. But I have so much more than so many people that I really think it’s my obligation to do whatever I can to make the world a little better—for one person, for groups of people (I am staying away from politics in this post).

Today there’s no denying I am what the world calls elderly (ageism is another topic for another day but it is currently one of my hot-button issues). But unlike many my age, I have a comfortable home where I am semi-independent, family that I love and that are so good to me, a smaller circle of friends than once but still friendships that I treasure (shoot, I even have a few reading fans and blog followers), and a dog I adore. I am active, still writing, still enjoying cooking, and I can buy the few things I want. Unlike many of my friends, I have no wish to wander and roam—I’m comfortable at home (forgive the accidental rhyme).

A friend once suggested people should keep gratitude jars—any big, old jar will do. Each day, on a slip of paper, write something that you’re grateful for that day. Forget what’s troubling you or what you wish was different—write what you’re grateful for. I tried but kept forgetting to write something. I do try, however, to thank the Lord each night for the things in my life for which I’m grateful.

My daily question to a young neighbor is, “Are you walking on the sunny side of the street today?” Amazing what a difference it makes.

How about you? Are you walking on the sunny side? Are you living your best life?

Politics, but maybe not as usual

 

Tonight was the only debate there will be between Texas gubernatorial candidates, Governor Greg Abbott and Democratic challenger Beto O’Rourke. Abbott decreed there would be only one debate and no audience, so questions came from three political journalists, plus a few call-in ones from across the state. There was some concern, at least on my part, that Beto’s temper might get the better of him, but he was good—calm, controlled, knowledgeable, sincere, and sharp. Sure, he responded a couple of times when it wasn’t his turn but nothing bad or obvious. Abbott was as he always is calm, cold. self-assured—and blaming everything on President Biden or accusing Beto of twisting the truth.

I could tell when Abbott was dodging, dissembling, and glossing over only because I’ve made a point of educating myself. He totally dodged a question about whether he had become extremely right-wing, and he blew it on abortion, saying Beto favored it up until the first breath. Clearly, Abbott doesn’t understand medical considerations or the Hippocratic Oath—doctors are bound by their oath and by law to do their best to save all patients. So they would resuscitate a baby about to take its first breath or one that survived an abortion procedure. I truly thought Beto came off much better, but I am prejudiced.

To put it in context: I had an interesting visitor tonight, a longtime friend (forty years or more) who I haven’t seen in several years. We caught up on families and old friends in common—mostly who had died, which is discouraging. But we have been estranged since 2015 over her support of trump. She apparently didn’t realize it and shrugged it off saying she had to vote with her late husband—but that’s another story. It came up easily in conversation, so I addressed the elephant in the room with us, and she asked me to explain my beliefs. So I talked about immigration and the unequal distribution of wealth under Republicans for the last forty years, among other topics. I thought maybe I had made a convert, but it turns out I flattered myself.

She asked how I knew all this, and I replied that I make it a point to be well informed. She said she has access to the New York Times and the Washington Post, but I couldn’t tell that she reads either. So I promised to send her some links. But as she left, she said, “I’m just not that interested in politics.” I replied that she should be because the future of our country is at stake, and she said, “I think the country’s doing just fine, no matter who’s in charge.” That, I thought, is it: voter apathy. I cannot tell you how discouraged I was. But now the debate has energized me again.

I’m anxious to read the analyses from political reporters. Guess I’ll go prowling on the web.

And that’s it for tonight, because my focus today was on the debate, though I will brag that I’ve written two thousand words in the last two days. And my puzzlement for the day: UPS has sent me a bill, with a return envelope, for three cents. I seriously thought of taping three pennies to the bill and returning it, but I’m not sure I could scrounge up three pennies—you never see them in circulation anymore. And I remember reading somewhere that it costs seven dollars to write and process a check. And they want me to write a check for three cents?

I did get rid of a bit of my corporate anger today. Cigna sent me a reminder that my six-month dental checkup is around the corner and in a separate email a reminder that my account was past due. This from the company that wrote me in September they had cancelled my insurance July 31? When I called, they said they still had an active account for me. I told them to cancel it because there was no way I would ever deal with Cigna again. Told them I had called simply because I thought they should know how poor their customer relations are but if they wanted to send me a gold-plated apology that, too, would be appropriate. I can’t remember which one of us hung up first, but they were profuse in their apologies.

And so the world goes on. Putin’s nuclear saber-rattling is the most troublesome thing I can think of tonight, and I am tempted to reread Faulkner’s 1950 Nobel Prize Speech: “I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail.” Putin has gone from claiming Ukraine was aggressive to blaming the western world, and one analyst has suggested we are already fighting World War III—on Ukrainian territory. That’s an awful thought to sign off on.

Live in the present moment: it’s fall, a time when life seems to pick up the pace again, another year begins with all its opportunities. I am tempted to quote the words with which the mother of a good friend from my childhood days used to waken us in the morning: “God has made another new day. Think! Shall we let it slip useless away?” Well, God has made another school year. We won’t let it slip useless away. Sweet dreams.

 

An off week, to say the least

 

Jacob and my brother
Looking for jackrabbits
at the ranch

It’s not been a week for blogging. I have started several times, even wrote a longish blog about what I feel is ludicrous objections to any sort of gun control. But then I thought who am I to preach on a subject so well covered in the media? Or is it?

It seems to me this country bounces from one crisis to another. Right now, there are three huge balls in the air, and we cannot afford to drop any of them. Public furor was high over the carnage at Uvalde—until Thursday night, when the first public hearing of the January 6 committee captured everyone’s attention. Well, not everyone, but some twenty million of us plus who knows how many who watched it after the fact or livestreamed it, as I did. And, of course, the third big ball in the air is women’s reproductive rights, which sort ol leads to a fourth ball—how in heaven’s name did we end up with such a mess in the Supreme Court as the Constitution seems to be being overridden in favor of personal beliefs.

I guess at my age it’s good to feel passionate about anything, but I feel passionate—and helpless—about those three problems. I cannot weigh one more heavily than the other, and I have done what I criticize in others: I’ve become an extremist, thinking the claims of the far right are ludicrous (that seems to be a favorite word of mine recently).

At any rate, with our country beset by such complex problems, it seemed a bit lighthearted to write anything like, “Guess what I cooked for supper tonight?” or “Know how many words I wrote today?” The one constant I hold to is that I am an optimist. My mom used to say to me, “All things work to some good.” I wish she were here now to say that, because sometimes it’s hard to see. Yet, maybe it’s my faith that tells me fascism and authoritarianism won’t win, that we will have effective gun control laws, that trump and company will be not only exposed but appropriately punished, that women will always have access to good reproductive health care.

When I expressed outrage on a Facebook post (yes, I’m out there and vocal—I can’t walk the block, host campaign parties, etc., but I can sure speak out), someone who basically agreed with me wrote that she avoided outrage because she thought it put bad stuff into her system. It probably does, but in this case, I think it’s necessary. If we aren’t outraged enough to fight for our way of life, we’ll lose it. And the absurdity of some on the right causes my outrage—charging a woman with murder because she miscarried (what the medical profession calls a spontaneous abortion and what, to my mind, indicates that God and our biological systems know best), the congressman who said banally that he was sorry Uvalde happened but it didn’t change his mind (how could it not?), the cultists who deny the facts presented by the January 6 committee and call it partisan even though the co-chair is a Republican (isn’t she tough?)—it all outrages me, makes me fighting mad, and maybe that’s been what’s stifled me. I have no place to go with my anger, but I don’t want to foist it on others.

There have been pleasant moments this week. One morning I watched Mama Cardinal hopping around on the deck. To my disappointment, Papa didn’t join her this time. I guess I was looking for the comfort of thinking two from the other side are sending me messages. Another day the most magnificent blue jay hopped among the pentas, which are just now blooming. I watched him in fascination for a long time. Yeah, it was not a week when I got a lot of writing done, but I did start proofreading Finding Florence.

Posting two pictures with this because they are pictures that make me feel good. Maybe they will you too. They reflect, to me, the fact that our peaceful world of home, families, and friends goes on despite those who would destroy our way of life.

The most spectacular orchid
in its second bloom

It’s not Monday anymore, is it?

 

Y

Yesterday I had every intention of writing a blog but somehow the evening got away from me. But I would have begun by saying that I love Mondays. They always seem like a bright new beginning to me, and I am curious to see what good news they will bring. Mondays are almost always busy email days too, and I sometimes get 200 messages. It’s as though everyone else, like me, discovers that there’s a whole world of work out there to be done. Since I like being busy, following up on things, responding, etc. I am a happy camper.

I have a morning ritual. I start the day with emails, which include some columns I subscribe to—some writerly, some politic, a few about food—and I read those, plus personal emails and click through all those that pretend to be personal. I especially dislike the ones that pose as polls when all they want is your money. These days I get a lot from the Republican National Party asking how I like Biden and Harris—I know exactly what they hope for, but I always say I like them a lot. Then I get some that ask if I’m leaving the Republican party, and when I answer Yes—no need to tell them I can’t leave what I never joined—it flips me right to their fund-raising site, with pictures of trump all over.

Moving on to junk mail—I check it daily, usually 30-some emails, many I can click right through but some I move to my inbox—National Memo, Wake Up to Politics (written by a college sophomore who’s been doing this for ten years and is an impressive, mostly impartial, common-sense voice), and my very favorite, Kitchn, where I mine a treasure trove of recipes.

Then comes the separate email account I keep for writing organizations. Having two accounts is confusing, and sometimes I goof and write to family or a close friend on this account and they write back in alarm to ask if that’s a new address. I don’t respond to every email in this account, naturally, but enough that I keep my voice active. It’s good for me image as a writer and for my ego.

Yesterday it took me until noon to get this far, although in all fairness I admit some new “brush fires” came up, especially dealing with my neighborhood newsletter. But the last thing on my morning list—and really sometimes I am through it by ten—is Facebook. I don’t read new postings until late in the day, but I do check notifications and respond where appropriate. See why I don’t have time for the great American novel?

Tonight, I just meant to throw in a few comments about Monday mornings and move on to quarantine, but I got carried away (as I too often do). Quarantine is much on my mind. A close friend wrote to say she hated to see me spend the rest of my natural-born days in isolation. I responded that I’d hate to cut my natural-born days short by risking infection. And there you have it—those who will risk and those who won’t. I have discovered that the ones who will go on about life as usual are middle-aged (my kids' generation) or my grandchildren’s age. My contemporaries are like me—cautious, quarantining, sheltering in place. We’re too old to risk it—we don’t have as much time to recover, and statistics are not in our favor. Many of us have chronic conditions which would complicate an infection. And perhaps we’re a bit more susceptible, though I have a great deal of confidence in the vaccines. I did contact my doctor, and he advised me to follow the program I am. Which means I don’t see family except glimpses through the window or masked talks across an open patio as long as they attend high-risk events (the stock show).

So when I whine about isolation, bear with me and know that it is my own choice. I’d rather be safe than sorry. Tonight, friend Mary, who has not been any place except the optometrist, came for happy hour. We masked but gave it up in favor of eating and sipping wine. In a few days, my Canadian daughter (the one who was concerned about my natural-born days) will bring me lunch and we’ll eat on the patio. A friend is coming for supper tomorrow, but I know she too has been quarantining. I will continue to pick and choose who I see.

Would I love to have you come whisk me away to Wishbone and Flynt or the new Fitzgerald (in the old Café Aspen spot I loved so much)? You bet! Am I tired of my own cooking? Yeah, that too, a bit. But I’m okay, almost content, and optimistic enough to think this surge will pass, and I can get out again. Thanks for understanding. And I think I speak for a lot of old folks.

Snippets of a happy holiday

The calendar is really getting down to the deadline—it’s the 22^nd already. Have you done all your Christmas shopping? I have been parceling out packages for days and think I have most distributed, except for my brother who lives an hour away—too close to mail, too fair to drive. We’ll have an extended Christmas after I get back from Tomball.

Tomorrow Colin, my oldest, will come from Tomball to pick me up and then we’ll go to Jamie’s office in North Dallas/Plano/somewhere along I-35 for a foosball table—I am beginning to wonder which is more important to Colin: me or the foosball table. That’s not really fair, because he has told me he likes being the kid who gets responsibility for me on the off years for Alter Christmases. And I’m looking forward to time in Tomball, especially time with the two grandchildren there—Morgan and Kegan. And some writing time—yeah, of course I’m taking my computer.

My days have been a happy mess of Christmas things—a grocery store trip on which I already felt the need to deal with the ham and black-eyed pea menu for New Year’s. Jordan responded that they are having friends in to watch whatever bowl game and she’s serving sausage balls which are a lot cheaper. I thought she missed the point. Then she said, “IF you want a ham, go ahead and get one.” Then I knew she’d really missed the point. Who gets a ham for one person?

Lunch yesterday with a friend I don’t see often enough. We had so much to talk about—the business of writing, whether or not you can write to someone’s textbook plan or just have to let it flow, grandsons. I mean we really chattered, and I loved it.

Then happy hour with an old and dear friend, talking about Christmas plans and gossiping about people we knew in our previous existence—like me, she is the ex-wife of an osteopathic physician and now, both our husbands are dead. But we have a lot of memories in common and a lot of old friends.

Tonight, I went to a cocktail party at the home of my Canadian daughter—her parents, dear friends, were there. Often, I miss them at Christmas because I travel just when they are here, so tonight it was a joy to visit with both of them. Lovely party, delicious food, plentiful wine—but so noisy I couldn’t really have a conversation with anyone, even with my new hearing aids.

Today I’ve been packing and organizing—Sophie will go with me to Tomball tomorrow, and you’d be amazed at what it takes to pack for a dog—food, probiotics, Benedryl, fake cheese slices, chew treats, her very own dog bowl. That done, I packed some things for me and have a really organized list of what needs to be packed tomorrow, plus another list of what needs to come out of the freezer and refrigerator at the last minute. Sometimes I scare myself because I’m so organized.

As we head into the holy season, I feel optimistic. I think our long national ordeal is coming to an end—the death throes may bring increased pain, fear, panic, and financial instability, but I believe as a country we’ll rise above it and restore our democracy. I am well aware that calling this the holy season leaves out Hanukah, Kwanza, and other religions which mark the winter solstice, and I don’t mean to be exclusionary. I simply approach the season—and the nation’s problems—from my own Christian perspective.

So holiday blessings on all of you, no matter what or how you celebrate. It’s the love in our hearts that matters much more than the shape of our faith. Be happy, my friends.

Being a good girl

“Reading gives us someplace to go when we have to stay home.” That quote sings to me tonight, because its what I’m doing. As they tell us to do when sneezing and coughing, I am staying home so as not to share the blessing with anyone else. So far, the only one I’ve shared this unpleasantness with is Sophie, who seems to have post-nasal drip problems. I treated her with Benedryl, ad she’s better. She’s been my companion, company, sounding board for two days now.

I don’t get sick. Really, I don’t. And I don’t feel bad. I just can’t stop coughing and sneezing. It’s annoying, and frankly I’m getting more than a touch of cabin fever. I’ve written, I’ve read, I’m caught up and then some on Facebook, I’ve watched the news (not designed to relieve cabin fever or any other angst). Tonight, I’ll dig into my 2017 taxes to get stuff ready for the accountant.

Another downside to these sniffles: my eye surgery, scheduled for today, has been rescheduled for February 1. I didn’t think they’d want me spreading this infection or whatever in the surgery suite. Nor was I intrigued by the prospect of sneezing in the middle of delicate eye surgery. The doctor’s surgery coordinator quickly agreed with me. But it’s like the cold—the eye doesn’t really bother me. I just know it needs to be fixed.

And I just know this cold needs to go away. And it’s on its way.

Enough whining. The weather’s warming up—I’m going to look on the bright side. And no, this is not a bad omen for the new year. Cheers, y’all!

Let’s hear a chorus of “The Star Spangled Banner”

For the first time since the November election, I feel a surge of hope. The groundswell of opposition to Trump’s policies grows louder every day, with more voices joining in. I think the sitting president underestimated the American people. America will be sorely tried and tested in coming days and months, but as President Obama predicted, we’ll be all right. We’ll come through with heads held high.

What encourages me? The judge who issued the stay order on the deportations, the lawyers who rushed to airports to represent those being detained, the crowds who went to airports just to see how they can help, the general air of optimism in posts on Facebook tonight . It sounds dramatic, but history is unfolding before us, and we each must find the part we can play, the role where we can best serve.

As I sit here in the oh-so-still rehab facility on a Sunday night I wonder what I can do from a wheelchair. Joining the chorus on Facebook is one way to contribute. I’m through writing Texas senators—they pay no attention to anything except the party line. But I will try to reach Democratic leaders.

I still wonder why we hear so little from progressive leaders. We need every senator who has not been ground down by Trump, Ryan and the Republican party to speak up—veto those atrocious appointments, be the obstructionists that the Republicans have been for eight years. speak out as a unified body in opposition to what is being done in and to our country.

And the Republicans? How long are they going to let this idiocy they have thrust upon the American people continue? Is there not a man or woman among them with common sense, a conscience, a concern for their own children and grandchildren—and the courage to speak out? Or are they so busy protecting their careers? Which comes first—country or career?

I am assured that organized movements will emerge from the women’s march (which was about human issues, not just women’s) and the more recent protests. But I still get the feeling that the loyal opposition is fragmented. I am besieged daily with numerous pleas to sign this or that petition—and then send money. I am sending no more money until I see an organized, unified plan.

It’s scary but exciting times—and its early days yet. I may well be wishing for premature action when cooler and wiser heads are carefully planning. While we wait for those cooler heads to prevail, let’s abandon such comments as “We are doomed” and make optimism our slogan. Come on, let’s hear it: “O say can you see….

Back to school blues

Something about the first day of school makes me nostalgic, as I suppose it does a lot of parents and grandparents. Because I live across from Lily B. Clayton Elementary Schoo, when Jacob was still a toddler, we used to sit and watch the kids go to school or leave in the afternoon. When he was about three, he took good friend Linda by the hand, led her across the street, and said, “This is where I’m going to go to school.” He didn’t live in the district but he got to go there because I was the day care person of record. This year his parents live in my house, and he’s fully legit.

He’s also sad—seems impossible, but this is his last year at Lily B. Next year he goes to middle school. This morning he hunkered by the front door and watched people arriving. Then he was off to school, where his parents took the traditional picture of him standing by the steps. They have taken that picture every year, in the same spot, and charting his growth is really interesting.

Today he went off looking spic and span. Here is what he and his buddies looked like after school when it rained. As his father keeps telling me, “Boys will be boys.”

Ford, an Austin grandson, went off wearing a TCU T-shirt. His mom says he wears something TCU almost every day. They will be up here this weekend so Ford and Jacob can go to “Meet the Frogs.”

Facebook this morning was full of proud parents’ back-to-school pictures—such fun to see, especially the kids who are starting kindergarten. They have such a long haul ahead of them, but I don’t think they see it that way. They see it as a new adventure, and I hope for each and every one it is that.

It’s a new start for me, too, as I prepare to move into my cottage this weekend. It’s a new start on a new year and a new adventure, and it always makes me optimistic

Let the good times roll

Watch for it in print on Amazon soon--I hope

 For a lot of people I know, 2015 has not been a good year. Everything from deaths in the family, job problems to health and financial worries. For me, it’s been a year of poor health, principally problems with my low back and left leg and, of course, my balance. I began to think it was the year in which I suddenly become an old lady. With physical problems and the associated pain—believe me I did hurt some of the time—came depression, and I felt like I was becoming an old lady with a sour disposition. I had no energy and no ambition to do laundry, household chores, things around the house. In addition, my publisher went out of business, and all my mysteries disappeared from Amazon and other sources. So on both a professional and personal level, I’m glad to put 2015 behind me.

2016 is going to be a much better year. My neighbor, who has just started a new job, and I agree on that. I felt my depression lifting about a month ago, and now feel I’m back to being cheerful which is my normal state. A dear friend from out of town visited in early December and said, “Well, you seem just fine.” Jay, the neighbor, said, “You should have been around here the last four months!” But to me it’s like a whole new world.

I don’t hurt, and I’m going back to physical therapy next week, to restore my self-confidence and balance. I’m working on getting my last book on Amazon in print—proofing is taking me an extraordinary amount of time but the holidays do bring distractions. Then I plan to put the rest of the mysteries up as e-books, one every month so I’ll have something to crow about in publicity. And I will publish my historical novel about the Gilded Age in Chicago in the spring. It’s a heavy work load, but I can do it. Watch for news about The Gilded Cage—it’s a departure for me and a book I’m really excited about.

This year will also bring major changes in housing—the merging of the Burtons household with mine. So Jordan and I will spend many afternoons downsizing my belongings, and then I’ll live through construction.

Busy hands make happy hearts, and I expect to be busy and happy in 2016. In fact, I think something wonderful will happen, and I will live in anticipation.

I hope 2016 brings each of you magical good things.

 

A big right turn in my life

I turned a big corner today. My nine-year-old grandson came in early for school, and his mom said he had something to tell me.

“I’m looking at my new house,” he said with a huge grin.

When I asked if he was pleased, he said, “Yes, ma’am.”

So I guess that makes it official: I’m moving to the guest apartment, once we get it remodeled and a kitchenette added, and Jacob and his parents are moving into the main house—probably it will take us a year to get it all done, but we have great plans.

If you follow this blog, you will know I’ve had increased mobility problems, now walk with a cane all the time, and have made an arrangement with a neighbor to go with me on errands. All this has occupied a lot of my time, particularly my “worry” time. In addition, I have known this big move was coming for a while. Last Friday I woke up with the clear thought that I should move into the apartment, not Jordan and Christian who planned to use it as a master bedroom suite. All this has and will continue to keep me distracted. Probably the turmoil in my life is why I sometimes feel I should play pin the tail on the donkey to see which of several projects I complete. So far, the result has been that I done precious little except to start two new projects, about 500 words each—a long, long way from a completed book.

My children are anxious to be reassured that I don’t feel like the little old lady being shoved out to the back house—I guess we’re going to call it the cottage. In truth, I’m kind of excited about it. I mostly live in my office (which I’ll keep at least at first), the kitchen and my bedroom. The living room is mostly used for happy hour, and the dining room for small dinner parties, to which the Burtons are included. So not much will change—we will entertain together, though I have told some friends they’ll have to learn to open the electronic gate and come down the driveway to me. I expect I’ll eat supper in the main house and maybe lunch.

Today I announced I want the sheets that are on the double bunk beds out there—blue and yellow plaid and pattern, mixed. That’s going to be my color scheme. The bunk beds will come inside for Jacob, who said, “I can start bringing stuff over here.” We assured him it was a little early.

In many ways—the move, the mobility problems, the uncertainty about writing—seem signs of aging. Believe me, I’ve thought of that often. But I prefer not to see them that way. I heard the architect mention ramps, and I whirled and said, “I’m not in a wheelchair. And I intend to get better, not worse.” I think that’s how I feel about turning this corner in my life—it’s going to make a lot of things better.

A writing friend chooses a word for her life each year. I forget what 2015 was, but for 2016 she chose “fruition.” I asked if I could borrow it, because I think a lot of good things will come to fruition in the coming year.

Thanks for hanging in there with me.

Veterans’ Day and a new adventure

 This morning, in spite of high winds predicted, there was barely a breeze stirring, and the flags we all get through South Side Rotary hung rather limply. Still is was lovely to drive the streets of my neighborhood and see all those flags. Unlike many others, I didn’t post pictures of servicemen—in truth, I’m not sure which uncle served where and when. But I know my father was in the Canadian Army during WWI, that terrible war which produced horror tales of life in the trenches and yet also produced some profoundly beautiful literature, especially poetry. I know that my brother’s father (my mother’s first husband) died of an infection from shrapnel in his jaw or cheek, several years after the injury. Mom always said that a few years later, with the introduction of penicillin, he would have lived. I barely remember much about WWII, but I do remember the Korean War. My brother served as a Navy pilot in the lull just after that war. Like most people, I have a family background of service.

Today my new escort/companion/friend and I had our first adventure together. Amy is a delightful young woman, friendly, outgoing, and a joy to be with. And she’s very helpful to me. We went to the audiologist—a visit I’d been putting off because of getting from car to clinic. It’s amazing what they can do these days—they hang a gadget around my neck and can “read” my hearing aids—how many hours a day I average wearing them, what settings I use, and so on. And Tracy, the audiologist, can change all that from her computer. Amy was particularly fascinated because she is the youngest of four sisters, two of whom were born profoundly deaf. Talk about serendipity. Tomorrow we go to the grocery, another place that’s been hard for me (once I get my hands on a car, I can go like a mad woman), and then I’ll go alone to meet a friend for lunch at a place that’s easily accessible to me—thank heavens, because it’s the deli!

Tonight my regular Wednesday dinner with Betty—but Jacob and Christian joined us, and we had a lively table at the Tavern.

I am feeling more optimistic by the day. I think with Amy helping me, I’m going to get back my self-confidence and independence.

Pity Party Over

           This morning I woke depressed and scared. The MRI test that I was so sure would show nothing or at least something minor came back with a lot of words like stenosis, degenerative (okay, I’m 77—what wouldn’t be degenerative?), and bulging disk. I was sure my active life as I knew it was over, I was afraid to walk around the house, had to make myself make the bed and fix tea. In fact, when Jordan called I was near tears. All my children called, and Colin gave me sensible advice—take time to process this in your mind. What I knew was that I was in charge of whatever I make of the rest of my life.

So tonight I’m in a much better frame of mind. I won’t claim to have done much today—folded some laundry, emptied the dishwasher, fixed a sandwich for lunch and reheated the bbq my neighbors brought for supper (so good!). Did some work at my desk, found I didn’t have to cling to the furniture to walk from room to room. In short, it’s going to be okay, though I will heed Colin’s advice—don’t try big things when I’m home alone—and neighbor Jay’s words, “baby steps.” Will I ever cook big Sunday night dinners again? I hope so.

One of Colin’s pieces of wisdom (he really is a rock) is that we should start to think now of the future, so if, God forbid, something happens we don’t make decisions in haste. How did I raise such a smart kid? And how did I raise four such caring kids? I said I’d be lost without them, and Colin said, “We all would be lost without each other.” He reminded me that I’ve been a role model for them all these years, and now, that I seem to be turning a corner into old age, I continue to do that, to show them how to do it gracefully..

I won’t pretend I got a lot of work done today—lots of emails, read a really positive review of my forthcoming Murder at Peacock Mansion, began to register on new sites, and read a book for review, took a nap. It was neither the long day nor the bad day that I anticipated.

And now to read a bit and go to bed early to see what tomorrow brings. Nice to know that I can move myself out of depression and into optimism.

Meltdown!

I had a meltdown yesterday, something I rarely have and even more rarely admit to. But this was sort of an eye-opening experience for me—and a reassurance of what I forgot yesterday: this too shall pass.

I didn’t sleep well the night before and woke feeling sick to my stomach in the wee hours—when everything is much worse. Nothing like three o’clock in the morning blues. Yesterday I had no appetite, nothing appealed; I was exhausted; I was depressed, convinced that it was aging, and I would never again have the energy or ambition that I once enjoyed. At first I attributed it to perhaps an extra glass of wine out at dinner the night before and too much rich food—a cheese tray and a fried crab cake with aioli sauce. The best of the cheese was a brie with fig jam—yep, rich.

But when the malaise and stomach instability was still with me last night, I decided it was more. In retrospect, I think the stress of remodeling played into it, along perhaps with dehydration. Then I told myself over-analyzing was destructive, and I would be better today. Not sure myself believed me. Didn’t sleep well again last night—hip and back pain, leg cramps, insomnia. But my stomach seemed to have settled down. Cottage cheese, my comfort food, didn’t work for dinner but I eventually ate half a peach and a piece of chocolate.

Today I was much better—most importantly, my attitude was better. Stomach better but still no interested in food—tea with honey for breakfast, peanut butter toast for lunch. Tonight I thought a nice lean loin pork chop sounded good so I defrosted it—turned out I defrosted a quarter pound of ground pork. Had some lemon/chive pasta in the cupboard and had it with butter and parmesan—plus a banana, to combat the leg cramps I had last night.

So tonight I am convinced I will be “back at myself” tomorrow, with an appetite and an ambition to write and, barring back pain, my usual energy which, okay, isn’t what it was twenty years ago.

So what did I learn? This too shall pass is really true. No, I can’t do what I did twenty years ago. And, yes, I have to pay attention to my body—hydration, diet, wine consumption, sleep.

I am blessed with children who care. Jordan tried talking me through the depths, she practically poured lemon water down my throat, she called to see how I felt. My oldest son from Tomball called twice last night and once again tonight. How can I stay down in the dumps with such loving care?

I’m back to knowing that I am blessed and a bit embarrassed that I gave in to a meltdown so easily. But as son Colin said to me, “We all have days like that.” Probably true, so if this confession helps someone else, I’ll be glad.

Old times and memories--life is good

A friend of forty years was my houseguest last night. We had a gala dinner, with dining pal Betty, at Fixture--so good. I laughed--almost every table had those roasted beets on it. If you haven't tried them, you must.
But later, Linda and I sat in my study and talked--inevitably we talked about old times. We've seen each other through some rough patches--divorce and single parenthood for me, widowhood twice for her. I told her about the first love of my life, how devastated I was when we saw (well, he saw) it wasn't going to work out. But talking about it and reliving the good times and bad, I realized that what my mom always said was true: things work out as they are meant to. If I had married that first true love, I would never have had the life--nor the children--that I have now. And if my ex had not decided it was time "to take care of himself" (with four children under twelve?) I would never have developed into what I like to think of as the strong, independent woman I am today.
I belong to a writers' listserv that is made up mostly of women writing their memoirs. Lately there's been much conversation about exploring the deep, hidden, dark part of your life and the growth that comes from such examination. Sometimes I wonder if I'm Pollyanna or in deep denial, but I think I've already explored those parts--realizing that first love affair wouldn't have worked out, finding that the children and I were better off emotionally after their father left. Oh, yes, there are some blips along the way that I'd just as soon not think about, but they weren't life-changing. So I don't think memoir is in my future.
I could tell funny stories about my marriage and the break-up but I don't feel a need to do that. My ex did a lot of good for me--opening up my world--even if he hurt me badly. And that was all along time ago. I've had a good life, one I'm proud of and happy with. I have four wonderful children--such nice adults who enjoy my company (or so they say) and I love theirs. I have seven of the best grandchildren in the world.
There were days of course that you never could have told me that, but these days I really do feel the Lord works things out for the best--with our faltering help. I'm a sunny optimist about the future.

Sometimes I'm up, sometimes I'm down

I once read that there's a certain age where each of us remain in our minds. Mine is my early thirties--I had young babies and a happy marriage, or so I thought. Lately I've been coming to grips with the fact that no, I'm not thirty-three--I am about to turn seventy-seven. And at my back I do hear time's winged chariot. Not drawing too near I hope.
I think this awareness of my own mortality began with my fall in the driveway, a doctor's stern warning that I needed physical therapy lest I fall and severely injure myself. He was right and meant well, but his words planted fear in me (not hard to do) and I became even more uncertain about my walking.
His advice to get physical therapy, however, was right on the money. Ignoring his recommendation, I found a facility that specializes in teaching the elderly to avoid falls. I've lost track of how many sessions I have had, but I can certainly tell a difference--and so can the therapist who pointed out that he can tell I'm stronger because I do the exercises more slowly. When you have strength, he said, and are in control, you can do them more slowly. For weeks, he's been saying to me, "Slow down." And today I did.
Today was a good day. I woke up rested, feeling confident, and my success at the therapy session only confirmed my good feeling. Lunch with an old and valued friend, and I mentioned that I was walking better. As we left the restaurant he was behind me and said, "You are sailing right along." It was a day of errands, PT, lunch, nap, pick up Jacob, do odds and ends--and not one lick of work on the manuscript I'm checking edits on. Dinner at the Old Neighborhood Grill with neighbors was a happy occasion tonight, and even Jacob was mostly engaged and amused.
I wish all days could be like that, and maybe that's what I'm moving toward. But I do have down days when I feel shaky, uncertain, unhappy. I'm always looking for things to blame them on--falling barometric pressure, a chore or an errand I don't want to do, an extra glass of wine the night before. Maybe it's just the way the pendulum--or at least my pendulum--swings.
As I said in an earlier blog, my oldest son's statement that I may have ten good years left startled me. It could have given me a lot of down days, but I have decided to concentrate on up days--if only for ten years, so be it. Besides, I have so much work on my desk, it may take me ten years to get it all done.
So here's me--Pollyanna once again. Looking forward to the next ten years and not thinking beyond. (Oh don't worry, plans for my future are well in hand with my kids--we're not ignoring the future; I'm just not going to dwell on it.)

Anxiety is a funny critter

Anxiety is a funny critter. It creeps up on you for no reason and blindsides you when you’re not expecting it. Then it plants itself in your mind, so if you’re not actually aware of it, you’re asking yourself, “Am I anxious? Is it going to come back?” It’s like living in a state of anticipation, even if you keep telling yourself to live in the moment.

Currently I’m having a bout with anxiety though some of the symptoms seem to be getting better. The good thing is I know this too will pass—just as that critter snuck on me, one day soon it will slink away and I will go back to feeling I can conquer the world. So I hold on to that thought.

I once told a friend that I wished I could stop being so introspective, and she replied, “Oh, that’s what I like about you.” I don’t think she understood: yes, being introspective and taking stock of yourself, analyzing your reactions to people and events, is good. Hopefully it will make you a kinder, more gentle person. But constantly taking your emotional temperature is destructive, a habit to break.

I find that days at home are long and difficult, even though I have plenty of work on my desk. I need the diversion of people, so I am grateful for lunch and dinner appointments, sometimes even doctor appointments—though I’m not looking forward to the dentist in the morning.

A more cheerful report will follow, I promise—a promise I make to those of you who read my blog but more importantly to myself. Thanks for listening. I post this in part to express myself but also because in posting before about anxiety I’ve found several of you share the problem. Maybe my words will help all of us.