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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Joy of Things Going Right

Chicken soup for the soul--and the body

We all have them, days when nothing goes right. In spite of a positive doctor’s appointment, yesterday was one of those days for me. My hearing aid, newly repaired, wouldn’t hold a charge; my computer didn’t recognize me, and every time I clicked on a link it flipped me to a “Guest” screen from which I could not escape; I was having trouble wrapping my mind around putting a photo log together, and some photos I wanted were held in copyright by what appeared to be a mammoth commercial enterprise rather than the nice academic archives I’m used to dealing with. And Jordan was still sick, suffering from “the flu that I not the flu.”

Today the world looks much brighter. After a long overnight charge, the hearing aid appears to be working fine, and I am hearing a balanced world again, instead of all in my right ear. Makes a difference in phone conversations especially.

This morning I called the IT help desk at TCU and they did their magic thing where they can take over my computer. Knock on wood, I haven’t seen that guest screen since. I’ve begun to figure out the photo log, saved some photos, ordered others—it’s like taking two steps forward and one backward, slow and discouraging but I am gradually moving forward. I called the commercial repository of newspaper photo and talked to a most helpful young woman, so I sent in my request. No answer yet but I am hopeful.

Kind, sweet neighbor Mary was here for happy hour last night and went home and made Jordan chicken soup in her InstaPot, delivered it today, and I think Jordan is already feeling better. Perhaps cheered by the kindness of others.

At any rate, the world looks better to me, and I think there’s a moral there, though I haven’t for sure figured it out. Maybe it has do with patience—if you avoid a tizzy and wait patiently, most things will right themselves. But then again, I am not a believer in passivity—I think you have to nudge things into going right, which I did today with phone calls and some calm, rational (I hope) thinking about the mechanics of a photo log.

Did I really have to this old before I learned about photo logs? An archivist friend says she can’t believe I didn’t work with photo logs during my long years at TCU Press, but I was editing text and wasn’t in production. Authors brought us their photos, and the production person (mostly my good friend Melinda) dealt with them. I do remember though one author who brought us boxes of unlabeled photos with no indication of where in the book they should go. Those were different days, pre-computer I’m pretty sure.  The late Jerry Flemmons, a travel writer and essayist of great skill, brought us a box of clippings from which we cobbled a book of essays—the work included keying in the text, because nobody had digital files back then. Computer technology has brought us a long way and made life easier—if you can figure out how to harness it. I’m a medium—fairly literate about computers but woefully under-utilizing them.

I have let my mind wander to the business of the encounter between Covington Catholic School boys and the indigenous people. I have seen clips, read interpretations, and kicked myself for being gullible and not following my instinctive belief that the kids were at fault as well as some of their antagonists—but not Mr. Phillips who was trying in his own way to defuse the situation. Today I watched a clip of Nicholas Sandmann on the TODAY show, and I want to reassure Savannah Guthrie—not that she, a consummate professional, needs my reassurance. But she’s been criticized for being too soft on Sandmann; had she been harsher, she’d have been criticized for bullying a youngster.

My impression was that someone had taken that young man out behind the wood shed and given him a good thrashing—figuratively, of course. Gone was the supercilious smirk, and missing was his red hat and the jocular support of his fellow students. Not that I think his parents had anything to do with this transformation—they simply hired a public relations firm. And I think that’s the answer—the experts coached him carefully, so that he appeared as every mother wants her so to appear—respectful, thoughtful, honest. Racism, he said with a straight face, is not tolerated at his school. Not what I read elsewhere.

I am not for a minute convinced. But I agree with many who have said that if they had been in his situation and responded as he did, they’d have gotten a walloping or been grounded until they were twenty-five. There’s a moral there too—spare the rod and, well you know the rest.

Before. After, and … you judge

Sophie and I both had haircuts this week, so I thought I’d show before and after pictures. Plus I had a professional phototaken, and I need feedback on a couple of photos. So here goes.

Shaggy Sophie

After haircut

And me--with  long (for me) hair and shorter (with good friend Phil Green).

Looking at these, I'm not sure there's not that much difference, either for Sophie or me. But in person, it's big, believe me.

Neighborhood photographer Polly Hooper was practicing her portrait shots, asked for volunteers, and I jumped at the opportunity. My last head shot, also taken by Polly, was at least six or seven years ago, and I am amazed at the difference. I believe it's called aging! But here are the three shots Polly and I liked--including the one on the left above.

  So which one would you choose? I'd really like your opinion...and yours and yours.

 I had terrible problems formatting this as maybe you can

tell, so I won't be chatty. Just give me your opinon, 1, 2 or 3.