Who says woke?

This illustration has absolutely nothing to do with tonight's post, 
but it is another chance for me to show off my forthcoming mystery. 
And who could find a picture of woke?

Pardon my absence from blogging—I’ve been consumed with proofing, one more time, the manuscript for Irene Deep in Texas Trouble, before I send it to the formatter. But now that’s off my desk and sort of off my mind. What’s still on my mind are some current terms that we hear all the time—terms that are new to our culture in the last few years.

You may guess that “woke” is first I’m thinking about. Gov. Ronald DeSantis gave a speech recently in which he talked about the woke invasion. Everything was in aggressive military terms which struck me immediately. As he drew a verbal picture of an invading army, I couldn’t help think how wrong that was—whatever woke is, it is not tangible and to cast it as an army is ridiculous.

Have you ever noticed that the only people who talk about woke are right-wing conservatives. If the rest of us use the term, it is in defense. DeSantis would tell you that it is an acronym that stands for the Stop the Wrongs to Our Kids and Employees (Stop WOKE) Act—they really had to stretch to get a title which would make an acronym. But the real origin is so ironic as to bring forth laughter from progressives—and no doubt from the Black community. The word came into use among progressive Black Americans in the nineties—one essay I read refers to it as Black slang. It meant to be informed, educated, and socially aware, particularly of injustice and racial inequality. Exactly the opposite of the meaning conservatives have attached to the word. To them, in their incorrect use, it denotes anything they don’t approve of, which turns out to be anyone who is not white, straight, male, and Christian, or any idea that displeases that narrow segment of the population. It is quite possibly the most ridiculous misappropriation of a word that I can remember. Yet hundreds of Americans bitterly decry the woke invasion. Ask them to explain what it means, and nine out of ten are stymied. What a way to fight a war.

Another term that has been bothering me is cancel culture, and I’ve only recently gotten a glimmer of what it means. With current moves to ban classic books like some of Mark Twain or To Kill a Mockingbird and rewrite such classics as Roald Dahl’s children’s literature, I always assumed that the phrase meant the right is out to cancel our historic culture until we end up like an Orwellian society with no past. Not so! It means we are becoming (or already are) a culture that cancels out that which doesn’t fit our ideal vision. Wait! What I mean is that Republicans cancel out (marginalize is a big word these days) whatever doesn’t fit their ideal of America, from LGBTQ citizens to the history of slavery. Makes you a bit uncomfortable? We’ll just cancel it, write a law against it, silence those who disagree with us. The result is we are in danger of raising an entire generation with no accurate knowledge of history, no understanding of anyone who differs from them, no grasp of the great literary traditions in world literature and American literature. Ron DeSantis is not, I suppose, a stupid man—he has degrees from Yale and Harvard (I used to hear that I relation to the second Bush and I didn’t buy it then and I don’t buy I now). Yet DeSantis seems to overlook the maxim that he who doesn’t know history is doomed to repeat its mistakes.

And therein is a dilemma: is DeSantis truly ignoring history or is he using that as a political tactic to play to the amorphous group called “the base” and skyrocket his political aspirations. Does he really believe what he says or is he simply saying whatever he thinks will boost him?

These terms, woke and cancel culture, are matters of language, and it is the uneducated who are easily swayed by this manipulation of our language. And that is exactly where DeSantis would have America headed—by taking over public college curricula, banning books, fining those who speak out, DeSantis is dumbing down if not America yet, at lest his own corner of the country. And he has ambitions to move beyond that. It is a frightening prospect, truly frightening.

Please note that if a law being considered in Florida now passes and if I lived and wrote in Florida, I would probably be under fire for having blogged about the governor. The only saving grace for me would be that I am not paid for blogging. IF I were paid, I would be subject to a $2500 fine. Trust me, few bloggers make that kind of money.

PS Just tonight I read Heather Cox Richardson’s Letter from an American about President Biden’s significant visit to the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama on the anniversary of Bloody Sunday and the voting protest march from Selma to Montgomery. (read it here: March 5, 2023 (Sunday) - by Heather Cox Richardson (substack.com) This is exactly the kind of history DeSantis and his ilk would suppress—brutality against people of color. We must not let them succeed.

 

 

A day of little things, some not so good

 

A foggy, damp and gray morning kind of set the tone for the day to come. We’re expecting rain, but so far just the dampness—and what it does to the spirits.

TCU lost a valuable employee, many of us lost a good friend, and I lost a blog follower yesterday when Tracy Thompson was found dead in her home. Tracy was for as long as memory serves the liaison between retirees and TCU, and she was unfailingly cheerful, polite, and helpful in a role that surely would strain the best of dispositions. We were friends—not close, but friends. For a while we both belonged to a group that lunched together, and I think Tracy came to one of the memoir-writing classes I taught. I know she followed my blog and commented sometimes, and I was always glad to hear from her. I think the last time I heard she said she was anxious to try my salmon croquette recipe because her late mom had made those, and she missed them. Rest in peace, Tracy. I know your smile is brightening Heaven, even as many of us are left with a hole in our hearts at your sudden and unexpected leavetaking.

Dull, rainy days are good for proofreading, and I managed to get through another seventy-five pages today, so that I have only fifty to go. I have sudden anxiety attacks that I haven’t saved all my work, but every page seems to have a correction, so I guess that’s okay. Good friend Carol said she would help me proof if she weren’t snowed under with her own projects, but I told her, truthfully, it is something I need to do myself. I am making notes for whoever deals with my corrections. And I’m appalled that I didn’t remember how stormy the Custer marriage was—or how stormy I made it in my novel, which was based heavily on primary sources.

Jordan and I had another “girls night in” dinner tonight, as Christian had an office event. We chose scallops for dinner. Christian said last night at dinner he would eat scallops at Saint Emilion,, the fanciest, French-est restaurant in Fort Wowrth, but not anyplace else. I raised my hand, and he hastily said he would eat them if I cooked them. Jordan explained to our dinner guest that Christian has a big appetite and scallops are expensive—we save them for when it is the two of us.

Tonight, we made them in a au gratin sauce, which I kind of think is a poor man’s or lazy man’s version of coquilles St. Jacques—the sauce had butter, crème fraiche, white wine, lemon zest, and pinches of cayenne and salt. All would have been fine, except that the spoon overbalanced in the dish, splashed out, and I had sauce all over me, the butcher block, and the floor—Sophie took care of the latter, with an apologetic look at me.

We ran into cooking problems that I think we’re caused by trying to use a toaster/oven instead of a regular one. I usually don’t have a problem with that, but tonight Jordan, who has a horror of rare/raw meat or seafood, kept saying they weren’t cooked, even though we left them longer than called for. I have to give her credit—when we finally ate them, they were perfect—soft, not rubbery, and yet cooked through. Contrary to the recipe I topped them with some panko and pecorino. A good ladies dinner.

Seems like there were other things on my mind today, but I cannot think of them. I’m off to read a mystery. Have a good weekend, everyone.

 

A long day, a lazy day…and some political naivete

 

Sophie, listening to what I have to say

Yesterday was a long day. Jordan’s allergy were severe, and she took the day off and stayed in bed. I’m spoiled—used to her popping in and out periodically during the day. Gave me great empathy for those who live truly alone and went through long days of quarantine with no human contact. I had just a smidgeon—Jordan came out in the morning to tell me she was taking the day off, Jacob came out in the late afternoon chasing a dog who, with inadequate bathroom manners, is not supposed to be in the cottage, and Christian came out about seven bringing me the dinner he brought from King Tut. Other than that, it was me and Sophie—so glad to have her to talk to.

Last night was long too but not unpleasant. One of life’s many pleasures to me is lying in your bed, all cozy and comfortable and safe, listening to thunder roll overhead and a steady rain come down. I understand some parts of the Metroplex got hail and damage and I am so sorry about that, but here it was just rain—no wind, not much lightning that I knew. Just that thunder. As my mom used to say, “The gods were bowling.” Sophie was not nearly as pleased as I was.

Today all I wanted to do was sleep—maybe it was being awake so much in the night, but I kept trying to sneak a nap and Sophie kept demanding I get up. I got distracted from my morning routine making a “night-before” salad this morning that I should have made last night. Threw my whole schedule off, and I did no proofreading today. As a result, my conscience is suffering a bit. Not badly, though. I think I’m ahead of schedule.

I have had a political epiphany. It now seems I was incredibly naïve to think that once Joe Biden was president and trump gone, things would work themselves out. Not so. I cannot wrap my mind around the lies most Republicans are telling themselves about everything from who was responsible for the January 6 insurrection (no, it clearly was not Antifa and BLM) to the Big Lie that trump won the election in a landslide and it was stolen from him. They apparently can’t do the math that ties a raise in the minimum wage to the exponential rise in the cost of living, and they are opposed to COVID-relief, for reasons I yet cannot understand except that they, who gave the 1% huge tax cuts, claim we can’t afford to help those who work for hourly wages. They blithely ignore the record in some states where a raise in minimum wage has had widespread economic benefit. They also ignore that small businesses, about which they profess so much worry, suffer when people have no pocket money to spend.

If you read Heather Cox Richardon’s daily column, which I recommend you do (Find it on Facebook among other places), you learn that Biden’s approval numbers are astoundingly good. He’s doing the things America wants—vaccinations, legislation to help those who are struggling to feed family and pay rent, restoring environmental protections, the list is endless. Most Republicans, on the other hand, seem to have a death wish for their party and have dug in their heels as the literal opposition party. They have no plan, no platform, except they are opposed to Biden and Democrats.

The big trouble with Republican gaslighting is that the gullible among them believe what old white men like Ron Johnson, Louie Gohmert, Rand Paul and others say. And I’m not even talking about the extremists, though I did hear the other day about someone who claimed Biden has been dead for years and what we see is a clone who will be replaced March 4 when trump is inaugurated again. Oh, and they want to blow up the Capitol Building during the as-yet-unscheduled State of the Union Address.

Whatever will become of our beloved country?

An ode to Saturdays

    

Kitchen sink soup in the pot

I’ve said this before, but I cannot figure out why Saturdays feel different from the rest of the week when you’re quarantining and practically a recluse. I stay home all the time, so why does Saturday seem a different day? And yet it really does. It’s not a workday, like Monday through Friday, and Sunday is its own day because, at least in this household, we attend online church and we make Sunday dinner a more formal, special meal than weeknights when we might scrape by on leftovers. Nope, Saturday is definitely its own day.

In reverence to that feeling, I did not much today. Spent a lot of time on social media this morning. I will be so glad when the election is over because I expect the posts and controversies and things I absolutely must read will quiet down. That may, however, be a fool’s dream. I also expect confusion, chaos, even civil disobedience, no matter who wins the election. I have gotten to the point that I don’t want to read polls and prognostications and predictions—I simply can’t bear it.

So today I did eventually get back to proofreading my novel, Jessie. I had started over last night, because I didn’t feel I was in the rhythm of the thing when I first went through it. Today I got to page 125, finding new errors along the way but eventually reaching a point where I thought I had done the best I could. I sent it back to the publisher, figuring anything else would amount to chewing it to death. Glad to have it off my desk, and I’m ready to move on next week to the audio version of Saving Irene. I admit I’ve been stalling because I’m a bit intimidated—I’ve never done an audio book before.

Compared to yesterday, today was lovely, bright and sunny, but it was still most chilly. A soup day. I fished six icebox dishes out of the freezer to defrost—not sure what was in them all, though I did recognize the remnants of short ribs and the gravy from them. There was something with a lot of hamburger and spaghetti—Stroganoff? As I assured Christian tonight, none of it was anything he hadn’t already eaten. I dumped it all in my big pot, added a can of tomatoes, a cup of beef broth, some fresh green beans I have to find something to do with, and some frozen corn. Voila! Soup! It smelled so good as it simmered that I was impatient for dinner. Christian ate two helpings, and Jordan ate most of Jacob’s. I’ll eat it again tomorrow for lunch.

Like most of us, I have been horrified by the fires in Colorado—two huge fires only ten miles apart with the threat of them meeting and combining. Estes Park completely under mandatory evacuation. For some dumb reason—maybe because fires always seem remote—I didn’t think to worry about my oldest granddaughter who is in school in Boulder. But today I read that fires in Boulder County were almost under control. Oops! I texted her instantly, but she reports she is safe, although the fires came quite close. And she sent pictures of the smoke. In the one below, it seems to me there is a great contrast between the comfort of the beautiful sunset and the dark cloud of billowing smoke.

Tomorrow we in the DFW Metroplex are due for a sunny, pleasant day with temperatures in the seventies. Christian will cook a roast, and Jordan and I plan an artichoke appetizer because we were gifted with two fresh artichokes. We will have a proper Sunday dinner, the kind my dad would have approved. But then it’s going to turn cold. Patio weather is gone, and that makes me sad.

The long road to publication

I’ve spent the last two days proofing two formatted electronic versions of Saving Irene, all with an eye to getting it posted asap on Amazon and various other web sites for advance orders. It will officially launch September 16, and I’ve been trying to do as much advance publicity as I know how—not a chore I excel at. In fact, Jamie, my salesman extraordinaire son, gave me lectures on salesmanship when he was here and recommended I get on Instagram. I’ve always avoided it because I thought it was all pictures, and I didn’t have that many. But a look at my various picture files convinces me maybe I’ve been underestimating myself.

But Instagram remains a mystery to me. I started a new account—Instagram had forgotten the username and password Jacob set up for me long ago—and got it installed on my computer. But then a tutorial (yes, Jamie sent it to me) is focused on using Instagram on your cell phone. I’m not that good at cell phone navigation, so I’m waiting for Jacob to give me lessons.

Meantime what I found with my new account is a list of people—none of whom I know—that I can invite to follow me. That doesn’t seem efficient or profitable to me, and I have no idea where to go next.

Yes, I am an old lady trying to figure out millennial technology, and it ain’t going well.

Back to proofreading. Before I sent the manuscript to my graphic designer for formatting, I read it so carefully. And yet I found all kinds of errors—Howard was called Harold at one point; in another instance I talked about a great cap when I meant a great gap. It’s really true—the eye sees what the mind wants it too. I have now read the entire thing, carefully, twice in the last two days, and I feel that I could recite it from memory.

The road to publication is indeed long. And I even shortened it a bit with this mystery, because a year or more ago I wrote 19,000 words before abandoning it for historical projects. So when I turned my attention back to it, in mid-April, I had a head start. I wrote steadily, at least a thousand words a day, until I had a final manuscript of about 65,000 words. More importantly, I wrote steadily until the story worked itself out—who did what and how the characters would react.

Next, I sent it to an editor, who made extensive comments, sent it to me, and I dealt with the comments. Then it went back to the editor for a final review. Meantime, I was looking for guest posts on blogs and make extensive notes about marketing, soliciting blurbs, and generally going about letting the world know that I have written a brilliant cozy mystery.

The graphic artist was the next step, and she required two weeks or more to work on it between more urgent projects, while I sat biting my nails. Now I think we’re moving toward the final step, and it will soon be available.

Will this book make me rich and famous? Almost definitely not. After more than a hundred books, from young-adult titles to historical fiction to mysteries and a scattering of nonfiction, I know better than to expect such a miracle. But that’s not why I write. I write because I cannot not write, because I enjoy the process (though sometimes I want to tear my hair out), and because I love the satisfaction of having written—yes, I’m like Mark Twain in that respect.

I accept that I am a third-tier author in the mystery field (I had much more credibility in the field of western American lit, and I’m not abandoning that). And it’s okay. Writing is a wonderful way to spend my retirement. It keeps me busy, actively engaged, and, I hope, young in spirit.

I hope, of course, you’ll read Saving Irene and then let me know what you think  about it. A review on Amazon, however brief, is always appreciated. But you know what, if only ten people read it, that’s okay too.

And if you have hints about Instagram, I’m open to anything.

A nice break

With Jamie and Eden

Fun day today. My son Jamie and granddaughter Eden—a relatively new driver—came from Frisco for the day—well, Jamie’s definition of the day, because they didn’t get here until three in the afternoon. Jordan and Christian were busy elsewhere, so Jamie took Eden and Jacob to Top Golf—imagine that! I turned down an invitation to accompany them in favor of taking a nap. They went from golf to go-karts, a first for Jacob who complained he got a defective kart that had no speed. His uncle and cousin lapped him twice.

We went to Chadra for supper. My first ride in Eden’s car—a Mini Cooper. She’s a good

driver, confident, but careful, and she came close to mastering backing out of our driveway—a test that several adults I know failed and refuse to try again. At dinner Jamie proceeded to give Jacob a lesson in extracting meat from crab legs—our picky eater loves shellfish. Crab was on the buffet, and I’m afraid my boys really got their money’s worth out of that buffet tonight. Eden, who’s vegetarian, had the penne with vodka, and I had an eggplant and ground sirloin dish that was delicious. Eden and I both came home with leftovers, so I will have a good lunch tomorrow.

Jamie brought his dog, Kosmo. I’m still getting used to Kosmo, because for years Jamie had a wonderful big chocolate lab named Mosby. When they lost Mosby to age, he got a Pomeranian—and I was astounded, because I thought Jamie was a big dog person. He, who had cats all his growing up years, explained that the Pom was as close as he could get to a cat. The last couple of cats he had frustrated him because their bathroom manners weren’t perfect, and Jamie got tired of litter boxes. So Kosmo is his compromise. It amuses me, because a lot of people are either dog people (me, for sure)

or cat people—Jamie is trying to land somewhere in the middle.

Kosmo, who is just over a year old, was nervous in new surroundings, but he gradually adjusted to Sophie—enough that he ate some of her food, and she, a good hostess, let him. Jamie has a soft-sided carrier, probably meant to be a cat carrier, that he uses to take Kosmo most places he goes. We could have taken Kosmo tonight to dinner if we were willing to sit on the not air-conditioned porch. We weren’t, so Kosmo stayed behind in his carrier, safely shut in my bedroom so Sophie couldn’t mess with him.

Now, it’s late, and I’m sleepy, but it sure was nice to have a break in routine. And I even got some work done today—finished the page proofs for the Alamo book, though I will give them one more run-through. And I also finished sorting, as best I could, the voluminous research material I inherited for that project. I will return it to Debra Winegarten’s partner—Debra was the author/friend who willed the project to me when she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Someday all those papers and books will be in the Debra Winegarten archive in the Woman’s Collection at Texas Woman’s University. Somehow that gives me a nice sense of being part of history. I hope Debra was reading proof over my shoulder and smiling. The Second Battle of the Alamo was her project, and I am honored to have finished it for her.

Jacob and the reluctant go-kart

Feeling Cranky—and more optimistic things

Do you ever feel cranky and not really know why or what’s going on? That was me last night. Definitely out of sorts. And that was the last thing I wanted to be. My oldest son, Colin, was here on business for two days, and I was so looking forward to visiting.

He didn’t get here until 10:30 Wednesday night, so we had a brief visit before we both went to sleep. He was up at 5:30—I managed to say good morning, and that was all, and he left for work at 7:30. A Fort Worth-based company has bought the one he works for—how lucky is that? —and he was here for meetings. Last night, we planned family dinner. I was going to make chicken in a creamy, sun-dried tomato sauce—doesn’t that sound yummy? A recipe I really want to try—but Christian had defrosted a post roast two days earlier, figured out no one would be around to eat it, and by Thursday said he had to cook it. So we had pot roast—a nice meal for a visiting son/brother/uncle.

Only Colin texted to say he had to go to dinner with a couple of guys from the office. He didn’t think he’d be late because he told them he wanted to hang out with his family. At nine he texted to say they’d just left the office for dinner, at a downtown Mexican restaurant he couldn’t name. (He’s a wonderful boy, but not always observant.) He got home at 10:30, and by then I was cranky and sleepy, for undiagnosed reasons. I sat and visited for a while, even managed to scold him for messing with my remote thermostat—a scolding he did not take gracefully. Then I went to bed, and left Colin to visit with his sister.

This morning, the world looked much brighter. About 6:30 I apologized to Colin, and he said he shouldn’t have been so sharp about the thermostat but he honestly did think he was capable of dealing with it. We both sat on the edge of my bed and had a good talk about family, faith, my recovery, when I can drive, all kinds of things. He is so good for my sanity…and for my soul.

A much better day. Jordan and I went to lunch with friend Subie, and Jordan enjoyed it, said she hoped we’d invite her again which we will. We had planned to go to the grocery, but she started her day off badly—strenuous workout on no breakfast and then the heat got her. She needed to come home and lie down. So that’s what we did. I feel like hanging a sign around my neck that says, “See how flexible I can be about groceries? Yay for me!”

Tonight I’m home still proofing that novel, but also playing with recipe ideas in my head. Instead of cooking, I cleaned out leftovers that needed to go, froze a bit of salmon loaf, and made a sandwich of last night’s roast. I love cold roast beef sandwiches, and this had great flavor—he cooked it with cream of mushroom soup and who knows what else.

Long weekend looms. Maybe it will all be great. Happy Fourth, everyone. I’m going to count my blessings and avoid crank moods.