Rain and company and dogs

 

Kegan (left) and Colin in Fayetteville, Arkansas.
Kegan is visiting the University of Arkansas.
I love the angle of this picture--and the view.

Rain gauges all over the city probably varied, but I heard we got anywhere from three to five inches of rain yesterday. It was, to my delight, an all-day, rolling thunder kind of rain—sometimes fairly heavy, sometimes slower so that it would soak in. The sun never peeked at us, and sometimes it was as dark as evening. I wouldn’t want a steady diet, don’t think I could live in the Pacific Northwest, but occasionally, such a day is a welcome break. The wonderful Zenaida cleaned my cottage, I did some cooking, and had a great nap—rainy days inspire naps! Yesterday, I outdid myself—my afternoon nap was followed by a long evening nap, from nine to eleven. I then spent over an hour looking at dog pictures and went to bed at twelve-thirty. Had the best, soundest sleep in forever.

About five-thirty yesterday my friend Katie made her way up the soggy driveway, reporting that traffic was a mess, she was wearing her old clothes and no make-up, and she was wet. It’s lovely to have friends who know they can come to your home without fussing over their appearance. I didn’t invite Katie to look at her and how she was dressed, but to talk to her and pick her mind. And pick I did the minute she walked in. She’s knowledgeable about plants so I thought she could tell me what my great yellow wildflowers are. She said she thought—wait a minute? Thought? She wasn’t certain? —they were cosmos. We looked at cosmos online, and it comes in many forms, so it’s easy to say that’s what I have. That’s my story from now on. I had already identified the coreopsis tucked in next to the taller cosmos.

Our talk was not limited to gardening, though we did touch on composting—which her grandson is doing. I said I don’t care if we ever use my compost as fertilizer—I’m just glad not to be throwing all those scraps into the trash and eventually the landfill. It’s remarkable to me how much composting is lessening my footprint on the earth. Speaking of fertilizer, though, I did read a neat hint today: when potting a new plant, put a raw egg on a small bed of dirt in the bottom of the pot. It will disintegrate and is wonderful fertilizer. Also save the water when you boil eggs—it’s rich in calcium and good for your plants.

As usual, Katie and I caught up on grandchildren and talked a lot about dogs and some about the Episcopalian church in Fort Worth—she is the assistant to the bishop. Katie is also an activist, so we did discuss politics, especially local—there’s one onerous Republican official whose ears should have been burning. Somehow, we missed the news of the day which seems historic to me now: the bipartisan passage in the House of the three separate foreign aid bills. It’s almost like Speaker Mike Johnson, who had been castigated by many for refusing to bring such a bill to the floor, pulled a rabbit out of a hat and became a magician. However he did it, my hat’s off to him, although I know we have vast political differences. Like most of us, I was anxious to get supplies and help to Ukraine, though I have my doubts about how much we should continue to support Israel, and I know little of the Taiwanese situation, less about TikTok. I do know however that the bipartisan effort was significant and a resounding defeat for trump and his MAGA supporters of Putin.

It being the weekend, I did cook: last night we had a combination of chopped chicken, mushrooms, green onion, and cream cheese baked in crescent roll dough and served with a tossed salad, with a store-bought blueberry pie for dessert—the latter was a sudden impulse buy and now I’m left wondering what to do with all that pie. Tonight I made a baked goat cheese dip—so rich and so good—when dear friend Betty and her daughter, Dana, came for an early happy hour. Another joyous visit, this with a lot of cooking talk, with Dana paying tribute to her mom for all she taught her. Later in the evening, Christian grilled his terrific hamburgers for us. Are we spoiled?

Much of my weekend has been devoted to the study of dogs. Colin and Lisa went to meet the dog I thought sounded just right and reported that he was calm, sweet, easy with new people—all good, but they sensed health problems. I texted the owners that if they met certain conditions—a health certificate, long overdue neutering—I would take the dog. I have not heard from them, so I guess that’s a no, and I am back to looking at endless pictures of available dogs. Picked out a couple to call about tomorrow. This dog business is a huge problem for me, and I want to settle with a new companion. Patience is not my strong suit, and I do not like being without a dog. For one thing, I’ve taken to setting my alarm system at night.

Another week, and I have much I want to get done. I bet you do too. Sweet dreams.

Back at work, mostly

 

 

 

Quarantine’s over! Not that I’m rushing out into the world—or even inviting Christian to the cottage for supper (tonight’s supper was not very good anyway—delicious gravy, but the meat was tough—I got tired of chewing.) Our doctor’s advice was to mask for five days after quarantine, and I will take that literally. Disinvited the friend who was to come for happy hour tonight and the one who was coming for supper tonight.

I‘m having trouble sorting out the sleep/wake/work thing. Today I crashed about one o’clock, too early for my usual nap. I think a rainy day contributed, plus the fact I had cleared the decks for writing—and was maybe intimidated by that. It’s the old Irma Bomback syndrome—she once wrote she’d rather scrub floor than look at a blank piece of paper in the typewriter—Irma’s day, of course, predated computers.

I had a good nap, woke up and wrote a thousand words on the Irene-in-progress, now titled Irene in a Ghost Kitchen, because the old title, Missing Irene, no longer was appropriate—she was only missing for the first thousand words at most. I think the ghost kitchen will remain relevant, but you never know—stories have a way of taking on a life of their own, no matter what the author plans.

For two nights now, since our stomachs felt better, Jordan and I have been eating supper in the cottage together, because it’s the one place we don’t have to mask. What are we going to do? Give covid to each other? Last night was green noodles (watch for tomorrow’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate column). Tonight she liked the idea of cube steaks in gravy. I recently cooked cube steaks and got them tender, but not tonight. Will have to keep working on that. I’ve been getting really good frozen green beans from Central Market so I pulled those out of the freezer. They had subbed microwave green beans for the ones I usually get, which wasn’t helpful because I don’t have a microwave. I cooked them the old-fashioned way, and they were okay—but uncut and difficult to eat. I am increasingly leery of any subs made by CM shoppers.

We’ve had slow rain for most of two days—lovely, but it makes me sleepy—and tonight it has just stopped coming down rather steadily. I saw one report of four inches in our neighborhood—the poster made it sound like a challenge to see if anyone could beat him. Sophie is made very nervous by the occasional thunder and follows me everywhere. Since we think she has pretty much lost her eyesight, I speak to her, “Now we’re going to the bathroom to brush my teeth,” or “Now we’re going to my desk.” She follows along and camps wherever I am. Her presence has the advantage of making me follow one piece of advice always given to writers: Putt your butt in the chair and keep it there.

I’m going to take a glance at Facebook and go back to bed. Thanks for all the good wishes. I truly appreciate them.

It’s the little things

 

A much younger Jacob 

The timer on my toaster oven started going off about seven minutes before the time was up—and it went off almost continually for those seven minutes. Sophie does not like the toaster oven, and when it goes off, she barks—incessantly. I tried the chat function with Breville, where after a long wait someone said they were referring me to the proper department—and apparently hung up, because the chat went dead. I knew I should call, but for over a week I’ve been avoiding it. I think I only used the oven two or three times, and nights when we had a skillet supper, like last night, it was easy to put it out of my mind. But it was on my calendar, and the computer kept reminding me it was days overdue.

So I bit the bullet and called. Got a woman with an indeterminate accent—not good for my old ears. Apparently not good for her comprehension either. I relayed what was happening, and I guess tried too hard to be cute, because I added, “My dog barks at it constantly, and it’s really annoying.” She replied, “I don’t understand. You have a dog ….?” I finally had to say, “Forget the dog!” Wonder of wonders, she made two suggestions: stop using the bake function when I should be using roast and unplug the oven for two hours so the timer can reset itself. That’s one of those simplistic solutions that leaves you wondering why you didn’t just do that in the first place. I unplugged, and it apparently fixed the problem. I feel like a combination of a ninny and a success.

Rain is not a little thing—except when it comes in a drizzle as it did today. The morning was dark and damp and drizzly, and I worried about Jacob who was playing in a high school golf tournament (52 area schools). Apparently, the rain didn’t stop it, and he did a good job, Meanwhile at home the rain was creating small miracles. The lantana is blooming, and the hyacinth vine on the fence by my desk window is sending out a few tentative blooms. Those plants have been dormant all summer, doing their best to survive. Now, they won’t bloom for long, but I’ll take what I can get.

I went to the podiatrist today. The doctor’s wife/receptionist asked about my VW bug and when I told her it is twenty years old, she said, “Oh, and I remember when you got it!” We decided we are both aging, but I thought it was nice that I’ve had that established relationship with them for that long and that she remembers personal details when I am one of many, many patients. I like them both a lot but dislike their building: the handicap ramp has a really coarse pebbled surface. I got about halfway down, clutching the railing, and suddenly sat in my walker, told Christian I was giving up. He, kind soul, pushed me to the car.

No cooking tonight. We had take-out sandwiches from our favorite sub place. It was sort of nice to realize in the late afternoon that I didn’t have to cook. Mostly I enjoy it but a night off every once in a while is welcome. Now I find I won’t cook for the next two nights either, except for myself, so I may be ready to cook a fine meal come Monday. Tomorrow is a football game, and Sunday the Burtons will go to his sister’s for her birthday

Tonight I’m checking on the whereabouts of my other children. I thought Colin was in Montreal for work, but my “Find Friends” tells me he’s home in Tomball. Megan and Brandon are in Telluride for a music festival, both in awe of a singer (country/western, I presume) that I never heard of. At least I’ve heard of Pearl Jam, though when I saw pictures of the audience bathed in red lights, I was really glad not to be there. Jamie is apparently back in Frisco after a quick, one-day trip to Miami. I always feel a tiny bit better when they are all tucked in where they belong. Shh! Don’t tell them I track them.

And that’s my day of little things. Life is really sweet.

A ho-hum day

 

Pearl Jam--still a big deal, thirty years later

Do you ever have days that you look back on and wonder what you did? That was sort of mine today. What I call a ho-hum day. Didn’t sleep well last night—you know how three o’clock-in-the-morning-thoughts can look so dramatically awful and the next morning you wonder what ever was the matter with you? At three, I thought I was having a heart attack; at five, I decided since I hadn’t yet died, I should go back to sleep. At seven I decided it was just a muscle spasm, and I scrapped plans to email my doctor first thing. Then Sophie, once fed, let me sleep until nine o’clock. Once up and around, I was fine, but it’s amazing how short the morning is when I don’t get to my desk until 9:30!

Email takes up so much of my time these days because there’s so much I don’t want to miss, what with the Paxton trial in Texas and Kevin McCarthy’s foolish announcement of an impeachment investigation. There’s some really interesting commentary online, but there is also a lot of alarmist nonsense. I guess my contacts have winnowed themselves, but I don’t get much from the “other” side of politics. But my own side can be silly enough—twenty-four hours after McCarthy’s announcement, posts are still headlining, “Breaking News!” when by then it’s old news. It never was news really anyway.

There are some news columns I read religiously every day. Probably the most important is Heather Cox Richardson’s Letters from an American. A professor of history, Richardson so aptly blends today’s events with the historical trail behind them. It’s eye-opening. Then there’s Gabe Fleisher’s Wake Up from Politics—I’m impressed because Fleisher has been doing his column for ten years, and he’s only now a junior at George Mason University (I think that’s right) in DC. I’m not as enamored of his column as I was—in his attempt to be even handed, I think he bends a bit far to the right. But that may be me. A new compilation of news I’ve recently started reading is atAdvocacy News which is openly liberal, pulls no punches, and sometimes makes me laugh out loud. We all need a good laugh these days.

Despite a late start and reading all my “morning stuff,” I did get some new words down on my first draft of “Missing Irene.” It’s fun to be back with Irene and Henny and the folks, though strangely this time I find Irene is sinking into the background. Main characters are Henny and Chance (If you haven’t read the books, this will not mean much to you). But it’s fun for me.

I’m feeling old tonight, and it’s all because of entertainers and bands. A few days ago Mark Wahlberg was pouring tequila at Joe T.’s. I had not a clue who Wahlberg was, but all three Burtons were excited about going, though Jordan and Christian eventually decided against it. But Jacob picked up his girlfriend and headed there, only to be confronted by a long line. And the guy who said he’d hold a table couldn’t. So they left and had supper at—wait for it—Chipotle for a change. I could not believe, however, that for two nights running our dinnertime conversation was about this Wahlberg person whoever he is, was, whatever.

So tonight, Jacob is laboring over his essay for his college application—he just brought me the opening paragraph, and I was favorably impressed, which he pronounced “awesome.” But his parents were invited to a Pearl Jam concert. Okay, I’ve heard of Pearl Jam but have no interest in them. Saw a picture of what I guess is the lead singer and thought he looked sweaty and dirty and his outfit was, to say the least, unremarkable. To Jordan and Christian, those are the musicians of their youth. Christian said to me this morning, with real awe, “Those guys must be at least in their sixties.” It was not the time to remind him he’s in his fifties, not that far behind them. Christian is a media junkie—movies, bands, etc. He knows them all. Me? I’m still back there with Joan Baez, Neil Diamond, Joan Collins, and their ilk. I don’t even get Asleep at the Wheel.

My activity tonight was to make a turkey/bacon/avocado sandwich (got to say that was good) and then wolf it down so I wouldn’t be eating while tuning in to a neighborhood association zoom meeting. Got my nose out of joint and signed out early. So next on my agenda: reading a manuscript that a friend of a friend sent. Yes, it takes time, but that’s what I have lots of. And helping wannabe writers is my way of paying it forward.

Jacob just came in wearing a hoodie which astonished me, but when I asked, he said, “It’s raining. It’s been raining for a while.” And I missed it! Hope you got rain, wherever you are.

Some days turn out just fine

 

Even images of rain make us feel better
during this awful hot spell.
The real thing was a blessing today.

If things went amuck yesterday, today turned out just fine. In the midst of the horrendous heat spell we’ve been living under, who can complain about temperatures in the eighties and a thunderstorm, however brief. This morning I gave in to the urge to keep going back to sleep every time Sophie wakened me. So we were up at six-fifteen for a trip outside and a bite of cheese; at seven-fifteen for a half breakfast; at eight-fifteen for the other half of breakfast. Finally when Christian came at nine-fifteen to give her a shot, I forced myself out of bed. But I don’t think my conversation with him made much sense. I should explain Sophie needs an insulin shot, morning and night, within a half hour to an hour after she eats—not before those time limits, not after. With the kids giving the shots, it’s been a real problem. They don’t really want to get up at quarter to eight on the weekend to give her a shot. So every weekend it a new adventure—this one went pretty well.

The morning was dark and pretty soon I heard thunder. Next thing I noticed was that Sophie would not leave my side. I nearly tripped over her trying to use the bathroom. The rain when it came was glorious, but too short. Still better than nothing, and I am grateful, as are we all.

Christian and I discussed dinner options, and he chose steak and asparagus, which he would grill in his new, round grilling baskets. That left me a whole day with no cooking, nothing on my schedule except church. I tuned in at eleven as I always do, but it was special because this was the third Sunday my good friend Renee Hoke was preaching about keeping sabbath. And there in the front row were my Canadian daughter, Sue, her husband Teddy, and their neighbor Sally. They are all Renee’s neighbors, and I know she was pleased to see them in the congregation. Christian and I had good intentions, but they fell apart. I “went to church” on my computer.

The rest of the day I took to heart Renee’s advice in last week’s sermon to make the sabbath a day of rest. I piddled, prowled on Facebook far too long, dipped my toe into a couple of new books, read emails, and can say the only constructive thing I did was to come up with a title for the cookbook I’m thinking of doing: Cooking in the Cottage. I like the ring of it. My food blog, Gourmet on a Hot Plate, which appears on Thursdays, has a good audience, and I want to compile select columns into a kind of informal cookbook—as much conversation as it is recipes. I’m thinking of odd possibilities—like a grilling chapter from Christian, and maybe something for non-cooks. All loose ideas floating around in my brain.

There’s not much better than a steak and asparagus dinner from the grill, and Christian as usual did a masterful job. I’m not much of a steak person—can’t remember having it as a child, so I’m only now in old age learning about cuts, etc. But I had seen top sirloin on sale and asked Christian, and he said to get it. So that’s what we had. More recently I found ribeye on sale, two for one, and ordered it, because I know I like the fatty marbling of a ribeye. But tonight’s dinner was really good, and we had a pleasant chat. I so enjoy our dinners in the cottage. And most of the time I enjoy cooking them, but it’s nice to have a night off sometimes.

So there it was—a day of rest. And I enjoyed it thoroughly. Tomorrow I must get serious if I’m going to do that cookbook. But today was a good day. I hope yours was too.

 

 

My interesting life

 

Some of my friends almost visibly wring their hands over me, spending my days at my computer, sometimes not leaving the property for days (I do have plenty of company). Several years ago Jacob asked one of his parents, “What does she do all day out there? Play on Facebook?” He should read this post. It’s true, some days are a bit boring—like when I’m bogged down in a manuscript that isn’t going at all the way I think it should. But today, I’ve been amused by the variety of projects that came across my desk.

Yes, there’s politics—if you know me at all, you know I speak out at injustice, and these days I see a lot of it. Hot topics with me today are the school voucher bill about to be considered in the Texas Senate and the appalling reaction of Texas leaders to two mass shooting within a week. So yes, I wrote to my state representative about the bill some legislator introduced to give trauma training to third graders and install bleed stations in third-grade classrooms. Third graders? I cannot abide the acceptance of violence with no effort at prevention. And tonight I’ll write my state senator protesting the school voucher bill which, to me, is a sop to the rich and part of Abbott’s program to undermine public education, which it will effectively accomplish. The proposed stipend will not enable many more families to choose private education, and unless things are changed, there’s no accountability for how the money is spent.

A year or so ago, I did the basic writing for twelve tile plaques to be placed on the exterior walls of the Will Rogers Memorial Center, chronicling Texas history. Since then, the text for those plaques has been rewritten, edited, amended, and whatever by a variety of hands including those of my good friend Carol Roark who knows far more about Texas history than I do. Today those captions came back to me once again (I think this is the second time), now in final form. Perfect. Would I just check punctuation. So I did, found lots of capitalization problems and a couple of sentences that just didn’t make sense. If you cut out extraneous stuff and take a sentence down to subject, verb, and object, nonsense jumps out at you. So back they went.

And then a newbie writer sent me a copy of her work-in-progress, a historical mystery set in Chicago. I forgot I had volunteered to be a beta reader because I’m always interested in Chicago history. I’m glad to do it, though—along the way others have helped me, and I’m glad to pay it forward.

I also had on my to-do list for today an evaluation of a manuscript under consideration at a university press, so I wrote up my notes, filled out the forms, and sent it off.

And finally, this evening I go an email from the Southwest Writers Collection containing the unpublished manuscript of a young-adult novel I wrote years ago. It had to do with the house of a childhood friend where life, at the time, seemed much more exciting than my staid household. The friend I wrote it for died several years ago, but her older sister wants to read it. So I’ve sent it off and saved a copy for myself, which I’ll read when I get to it.

With all that reading stacking up my project tonight is to finish the mystery I’m reading so I can clear the decks and review the forthcoming mystery by a friend, which I’ve promised to put in this blog, and read that Chicago novel. The mystery is a thriller, which is not my usual fare—I don’t like to be scared or depressed when I read. But this is absorbing. When it gets tense, I just take a break.

The Burtons are at the Paschal golf team’s end-of-year dinner tonight, so I’m on my own. While they eat Italian food, I’m thinking about what I can do with a can of sardines. I have plenty because for a bit every time I put anchovies on the grocery list, Jordan came home with sardines.

Not a bad day. Not boring at all. In fact, a lovely way to spend a rainy day. We had a slow drizzle much of the day—perfect for those new plants that were put in yesterday. Not so perfect for Sophie who has declined to go out except for one quick and desperate trip.

Rain, busy squirrels, and a lot of good food

 

We had lots of thunder again tonight and only a brief gentle rain. Better than nothing, even to dampen things. Dallas is getting deluges, and we are getting gentle showers. I’d love something in between, but I am getting weary of non-productive thunder. So much promise, so little show.

We have another kind of rain however—showers of pecans. The squirrels in the tree above my patio are really busy. The eat half a nut and then throw it, sometimes with pretty good force, on the patio—or the roof or wherever they land. I sat here and listened to strange noises until I figured it out—took me a full day. The cottage is full of noises anyway. Sometimes in the dark of night I think it’s a critter banging into the walls, and occasionally it sounds like there’s one in the bedroom with me or in my closet. I figure Sophie would sound the alert. I’ve gotten kind of used to the noises, though like anyone who has ever lived in an older house, I am ever on the alert for the sound of running water.

We’ve had some domestic tragedies of late—the Burtons refrigerator quit, so now mine is extraordinarily full. Thanks to Mary for reminding me that a full refrigerator is an efficient one. I am less concerned about efficiency than I am being able to find what I want. I keep trying to eat up leftovers and clear out some of the icebox dishes, but I think they are procreating in there in the dark of the night. This morning Christian came out to get eggs to cook for their breakfast, and I accused him of taking my eggs. He patiently showed me which were his and which mine. We started out confining their things to the top two shelves and mine to the bottom, but that didn’t last long, and they are now comingled. I really didn’t care if he ate my eggs, so I’m not sure why I jumped him. A symptom of frustration, I guess.

Saturday, he announced that there was a leak under the deck. Turned out that raw sewage was flowing out of the crawl space under the house. It stopped, they decided it was the older bathroom, and they wouldn’t use it since it was a holiday and our plumber didn’t respond. But then Sunday, sewage flowed again, and no one had used that front bathroom. Christian did say tonight that they had all showered, and I know Jacob for one takes a long shower. My suggestion about few showers and scant if any apparently fell on deaf ears. So I’ve left a message for Keith, the wonderful plumber who has kept our house together for twenty-five years or more.

As usual, it was a weekend of good food. Saturday night was a Baylor game, and the Burtons watched, with company. Christian grilled pork tenderloins and roasted tiny diced potatoes; I contributed asparagus. I’m not fond of pork tenderloins, usually too dry, but these were moist and flavorful, and the potatoes were outstanding. Of course, he couldn’t quite tell me precisely what he did.

Last night being Labor Day I staged a faux picnic. Memorial Day and the Fourth of July don’t bring out the picnic idea in me, but Labor Day does. So I enlisted Jean and Renee. After that I realized my picnic options were limited by my cooking equipment. Couldn’t grill hamburgers, and skillet burgers didn’t seem quite the same; wasn’t willing to go through the process of frying chicken, though I honestly did consider it. In the end, I steamed hot dogs over kraut, bought some potato salad (how unlike me!), and made a spinach casserole with cream cheese and Pecorino (maybe the best thing about the meal). Jean brought a crudities platter and deviled eggs, and Renee brought some faux madeleines that were cake on top and brownie on the bottom. We feasted, and today I had the best lunch leftovers.

And tonight, we ordered in—Asian. We haven’t done that in forever, and I loved it. I grew up in a household where you never ordered in, and you never had what was then Chinese food. I didn’t know about all those little white cartons, but my ex-husband did. His mother talked about going to eat at the Chinks, which offended me because our third child is half Chinese. “Can’t we teach her a new word?” I asked. But tonight I enjoyed all of it, though I had forgotten how rich it can be. We had crab Rangoon and cashew chicken and chicken fried rice and a chicken I couldn’t identify but it was good.

My sons used to have a beloved Boy Scout counselor who, after a big dinner, would chant, “I am full enough!” That’s how I feel tonight.

And so back to regular workdays. Have a good week, everyone.

Rain, rain, and more rain

 

Photo by Jean Walbridge

If you live in the Fort Worth/Dallas area, you know the news. And truly, wherever you live in the lower forty-eight, you have probably heard the news: we have had historic flooding in our area. When the drought broke, it did so with force. Tonight, flooding in Dallas was the first subject on the NBC Nightly News, with pictures of stranded cars, rescues, high water, and even water in homes.

As usual—and so wrong—Fort Worth was overshadowed by Dallas. But the situation was pretty impressive here. It started to rain last night maybe about eight or nine. I know it thundered mightily—Sophie will tell you—and I went to sleep about 11:30 to the sound of rain, woke up this morning to more rain. I assume it had been raining throughout the night, and it kept up until early afternoon. Steady, medium rain; then a light sprinkle; and then back to that steady rain.

The official measurement at DFW airport was nine inches and something. In my neighborhood, some gauges showed slightly over ten inches in twenty-four hours. As one newspaper reporter wrote, we got a whole summer’s worth of rain in one 24-hour period. There were something like 130-plus calls for high-water rescues and an astounding number of auto accidents. Familiar streets, including that in front of my former office, were chest deep in water, major thoroughfares closed. Fortunately, there are no reports of death or serious injury—a mirace.

Creeks have turned into raging rivers. Someone posted a picture of a tiny creek that runs off near the zoo (close to our house): it was a churning, swift-flowing torrent. I read where homes in the northeast portion of the city were evacuated because a stream left its banks, and there was water in some houses.

Jean, who lives in a retirement community downtown, on the 17th floor, overlooking the Trinity, sent pictures. The river was way out of its banks, over the walking path and the road next to it, with a lone pickup sitting askew in the water. I wonder if that driver knows how lucky he or she is to be alive.

Every year, there are people who don’t listen to “Don’t drown, turn around.” They think they can make it through standing water. They can’t. I read today that two feet is enough to sweep a car or SUV away. We tried hard to tell Jacob that at dinner. When I asked if he knew what to do when confront with water on the roadway, he said, “Go slow?” His mother and I both yelled, “No!”

It's a relief of course to have the long, hot drought broken. The temperature tonight at nine is 76, and highs in the low eighties are predicted for the next few days. Such a relief, though I must admit staying in as much as I do, I felt the extreme heat less than others. Still, as an Austin friend wrote, it felt like a fever had finally broken.

At first, I was tempted to say, rather poetically, “See? The earth heals itself.” But I don’t really believe that. These floods, like the drought, are part of climate change or, to put it more succinctly, climate disaster that man has wrought upon the earth. We have covered the world with concrete, destroying habitats that maintained the balance of nature, the vegetation that holds moisture for the earth. Our oil and gas and industries and luxuries and concrete heat up the environment, so there is no moisture. But today I read that because of the heat, the atmosphere holds more moisture, so that when it unleashes itself, we get torrential rain. I don’t pretend to be a meteorologist or to understand this thoroughly, but I wish someone with more wisdom would explain it. Meantime I know without a doubt that the weather in our world—hurricanes, floods, drought, long spells of extreme heat and then extreme cold, is getting worse, and it’s due to man-made climate disaster.

The bill that President Biden just signed is the first significant step toward fighting climate disaster. Still some states merrily burn fossil fuels as if there were no tomorrow. Yes, I’m thinking of Texas where Abbott has not seriously addressed the grid problem, despite his assurances. And West Virginia, though I don’t understand Manchin’s recent move where he may have turned tables on coal interests.

Like so much of our world, I wish for clarity so I could understand. Until then, I’m doing an ongoing rain dance. But I don’t want our new tree to get too much water so that its roots are standing in water. I am reminded of Elmer Kelton, the late, beloved Texas novelist whose The Time It Never Rained has been hailed as one of the few classic American novels to come out of the twentieth century. Some years ago, Elmer wrote an article entitled, “The Time It Always Rained.” He pointed out that too much rans brings problems, just as too little does.

This, that, and—what was I thinking?

 

I’m just going to start this and see where it goes, because there are several things on my mind tonight, none of them earth-shattering but a few that I really want to give voice too. So here goes.

My day got off to a rocky start. I got up early (for me) and was dressed, had my tea, and was ready to go by 8:45 for a 9:00 p.m. appointment to have my teeth cleaned. The dentist’s office rejected me! I had to call Jordan and tell her to turn around and come get me. And it was all my fault: the dentist had given me a prescription for amoxycillin, which I somehow thought was in case I had a tooth flare-up. But when I got home and read the label, I saw that it clearly said to take one an hour before a dental appointment. I know they used to make patients with metal parts (like my hip) take antibiotics before teeth cleaning, but my surgeon had signed off saying I didn’t need it. Apparently five years later, the dentist has decided I do. I guess caution is best, so I rescheduled the appointment.

I’m upset about censorship these days. Sarasota County in Florida has issued strict guidelines for what teachers can and can’t do—and it’s mostly what they can’t do. Order books from Scholastic—how can they blanketly condemn one of the best publishers of children’s books? Teachers may not read to students or give them books to read without specific approval of the book. No gifts related to books. No books may be ordered, not book fairs scheduled. Remember how excited your kids were on book fair day? Gone. And the list goes on. Talk about Big Brother.

Closer to home, the Keller school district has pulled from school shelves every book to which there was even one objection last year. That includes the Bible, Ann Frank’s Diary (the graphic version), Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye, and a long list of, I’d say, fifty titles. Many were unfamiliar to me, but some not. I can see (but not approve) where small, closed minds would want to ban a book titled Gender Queer, but school authorities, charged with educating our young people, should understand that many teens are struggling with their sexual identity right now. They would find comfort and help in reading the thoughts and experiences of others. One woman posted that she questioned banning all the books except the Bible—she could understand that. I told her that meant she supported censorship, and maybe if it bothered her, she should just not read the Bible. But what bothers me most is that these insane objections to good books are robbing children of the richness of life lived through books. Books have been my whole life, my career, my comfort. I am appalled. Small comfort: kids with inquiring minds will rush to read the books on the published lists.

I’m a proud Texan (transplant), but I think Texas and Florida may be the worst states in which to live, let alone raise children these days. One post online said we can’t let them read the Bible (where the worst line is probably “Abraham knew his wife”) but we can subject them to shooter drills and expect ten-year-olds to carry and deliver babies. What kind of a world have we stumbled into?

While I’m on a rant: I saw a TV ad last night for some magic cure for erectile dysfunction. The ad was full of hype—buy now, this sale ends soon, end your worry, etc. And it made me instantly angry. Women cannot have the protection of abortion in cases of rape, incest, or medical emergency, but let’s enhance men’s sexual ability. I call on Governor Abbott to immediately ban all medications for erectile dysfunction. Let’s see how that sits with his base. (I tried to post my comment on Mothers Against Greg Abbott and Facebook rejected it--at least they didn't put me in Facebook jail.)

It is actually raining as I write! Glory be, Hallelujah! The temperature is down to  90 and falling, thunder is crashing all around (and Sophie is cowering on my feet under my desk). The air smells like rain. It’s wonderful! I know one rain won’t restore our decimated gardens, but it’s a step in the right direction.

I can’t remember all the other things that were on my mind. Maybe they had to do with what a good run President Biden has had in the last week and a half or what a bad week it was for trump. Or maybe it had to do with the fact that people like Beto and John Fetterman and Val Demings and Liz Cheney make me optimistic. If anything I had to say seems significant, surely it will come back to me.

Meantime, if you’re in North Texas, enjoy the rain. How lovely to go to sleep with thunder rolling overhead. The gods are bowling again!

The eloquence of companionable silence

 

The other night my visiting daughter, Megan, and I were in the cottage, each absorbed in whatever we were reading. We had about chatted ourselves out, catching up on what’s going on in the family, what’s happening with my Austin grands (the younger of the two got a job hosting in one of my favorite cafes—I can’t wait to go there again!), talking about recipes which we can do endlessly. But we had settled into silence. About nine-thirty, she came for a hug and said, “I think I’ll go inside and get ready for bed. It’s not as though we are talking to each other.” I protested, “But I was enjoying your company, even If we weren’t talking.”

It made me think of a favorite poem, “Speech after long silence,” by W. B. Yeats, so I looked it up and printed it out. Only when I reread it did I realize it didn’t really apply to a mother and daughter—it’s obviously two older lovers—but I have always thought it spoke to the eloquence of a shared silence. I printed it out for Meg, but she is not much given to poetry, I don’t think, and was busy with other things. So I’ll share it with you. Yeats having died in 1939 and the poem being all over the internet, I’m pretty sure it’s in the public domain:

Speech after long silence; it is right,

All other lovers being estranged or dead,

Unfriendly lamplight hid under its shade,

The curtains drawn upon unfriendly night,

 That we descant and yet again descant

 Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song:

 Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young

We loved each other and were ignorant.

That resonates with me on so many levels, so I hope it may with you too and bring you some comfort on this almost-rainy night, whether you have companionship for your silence or, like me, memories.

Yes, rain—almost but not quite. Last night we had an impressive serenade of thunder. Sophie took it seriously enough that she was right by my side. But we probably didn’t get more than two minutes of scattered drops. Tonight the sky to the northeast is dark and blue, which is strange because our weather usually comes from the west/northwest. I understand downtown they got a brief shower and much farther east, they got some good rain. Not us.

Jordan has pulled the dead herbs from my wooden garden and the petunias from the pots by the door. You wouldn’t think that is cheery, but I am relieved not to look at dead, brown plants. The pentas are still struggling, and nothing has bloomed—not the pentas which were so tall and colorful last year nor the magnificent oakleaf hydrangeas. It’s a brown, sad world. But the bright note is that at seven-thirty, my computer tells me the temperature is only 85.

Trivia for the day: I really appreciate the man who took the time to write me about my You-Tube page, what is wrong with it, what he would do to make it vibrant and attract customers. Trouble is, I don’t have a You-Tube page. I think he may be worse than all those men who write to tell me how beautiful my smile is and how impressed they are with my posts and how they’d love to be friends but they’ve tried a couple of times and the requests didn’t go through. Would I please respond so that we could correspond. My first thought as I hit “Delete” is, do they know how old I am? Second is, how dumb do they think I am?

And I found out the name for cottage: it’s an “Accessory Dwelling Unit,” ADU for short. I shouldn’t joke because I read that in a moving article about a challenged adult whose family built an ADU so he could be close and still get personal care. For me, I like “cottage” a lot better. Granny-pod is maybe okay, though those are often simply a bedroom in a separate building. For heaven’s sake, I want to do more than sleep out here in the back forty. Just fixed myself a dinner of salmon patties, leftover cooked carrots (which I adore and no one else eats), and leftover oven potatoes with gravy—too full to eat the potatoes, so they went back in the fridge.

A good, productive day—I wrote maybe 800 words on Helen Corbitt and a thousand on Irene’s latest adventure. I think I’m entitled to spend the rest of the evenin with a book—in companionable silence with myself.

Stay cool and pray you get wet. If it rains, walk right out into it and raise your arms in glory!

Anger must surpass grief

 

     

That old cliché, “’Twas a dark and stormy night,” applies tonight. It is depressingly dark early, and I hear distant thunder. Sophie refuses to leave my side. We need the rain so badly that I would welcome a good storm, if I could add certain conditions: no hail, no tornadoes, just rain—preferably steady and not too heavy. As it is I fear it will once again pass over. I think tonight of the people of southern Ontario where a terrific storm swept across the land, moving from Toronto to Ottawa, where it flattened many old, sturdy hardwood trees. One forester said Ottawa’s tree canopy was forever changed. Some used the term derecho, so I’ll add that to my conditions, no derecho.

The dark night seems to reflect the national mood tonight. We are once again grieving a mass shooting, this another horrific targeting of young children. What kind of a madman shoots innocent young children? We will never know for sure because the shooter at Robb Elementary in Uvalde, Texas, was killed on the spot. But for many of us, the images of Sandy Hook have come roaring back with unbelievable tenacity.

President Biden spoke for many of us tonight in his brief words from the White House. At first, his grief rendered him almost speechless, but then grief turned to anger as he lashed out at the fact that we are the only country to suffer such mass shootings. Other countries have angry people, mentally disturbed people, but they do not have mass shootings. It is of course because we have gun control that is ineffective and almost non-existent. The president called for lawmakers to get a backbone and do what we all know needs to be done.

I can add nothing to the words that are flying across the internet tonight. Except to say that many of our gun aficionados on Facebook are downright scary people. They range from the woman who told me her husband needs an assault rifle to hunt the wild hogs that infest much of the South and Southwest to those who told me their guns are protection: if the Russians attack, they are ready. I can almost understand the wild hog argument—my brother has a ranch, and the hogs are so destructive as to be beyond description. They are also tough and numerous—if you hunt with a rifle, you get one at a time. If you hunt with an assault weapon, your stats are better—and that matters to ranchers whose livelihood is threatened; many of whom hunt almost nightly as a means of self-preservation. The flaw in that argument is that if assault weapons are legal for a small group of people, they will inevitably work their way into the hands of those who should not have them.

The self-protection people are more scary. They truly believe they could stand off a Russian invasion, completely overlooking the selfish patriotism, long years of organized training and preparation that have gone into Ukraine’s ability to counter the Russian invasion. Some believe that their guns are protection against their own government. And too many speak of the coming civil war. These folks always overlook the part of the Second Amendment that calls for an organized militia. In fact, they overlook the entire working of the amendment, bending it to their will and refusing to see the difference between weapons in the eighteenth century and today.

Gun folks never mention the mass shootings but they talk about all the illegal criminals Biden is letting in (actually he is under court order to turn immigrants away and most aren’t criminals, but that’s another topic for another day). They claim only criminals will have guns. Their arguments are almost desperate, and often semi-literate. They scare me. And they are rude. I have been criticized, insulted, dismissed as both naïve and an idiot by people who have no rational answers. If you question their statements or logic, they shut down and don’t answer.

So my reluctant conclusion is that logic will do not good. Neither will grief nor appeals to their better selves. We need anger, active anger on the part of all of us. And we need new legislators and a new SCOTUS.

The town of Uvalde, the state of Texas, and the whole country grieve tonight. I cannot imagine the families who sent their children off to school this morning, only to learn that they’ll never see them again. My heart breaks. But we must move on to the anger part. This is a call to arms. We’ve had those calls before—too many of them. What is it going to take to break this pattern? (Note: the NRA is meeting this week in Hoston; trump and Abbott will speak.)

And on a good note for the night: we are getting a nice soaking rain. It didn’t last long enough, but it was lovely while it did. One big clap of thunder sent Sophie scurring to her hidey hole between the couch and the coffee table—she thinks she is invisible when she’s there.

Rain? Always hopeful

 

Rain all weekend, they said, and we all rejoiced. But then they said, “Maybe a little on Saturday, but for sure on Sunday.” Sunday was indeed gray, like it could rain soon. Christian worried that Jacob wouldn’t get his practice golf game it, but he did with no problems. By late afternoon, I was sitting at my desk, French doors to the patio open, marveling at how still the world was. Still waiting for rain.

All of a sudden, a whisp of cool air, and the wind was ruffling the trees. The sky darkened, and I thought, “Here it comes for sure.” Pretty soon, though, it was still again. Now an hour later there is the lightest breeze moving the trees, it is still too gray for the time of day, and the air definitely feels cooler. But rain? Not yet.

My family has gone to a John Mayer concert in Dallas. Jordan got home at three-something on the Vonlane bus from Austin, and they were all out the door at four-thirty to ride the train to Dallas. Made me, just awake from a deep nap tired, but then I am not a John Mayer fan, though I admit if I were ever to go to a concert, his is probably one I’d like better than a lot of others. I think the boys in the family deserve credit for being willing to make the mom happy—Christian bought expensive tickets not because he’s wild about Mayer but because he’s wild about Jordan who is wild about Mayer. And Jacob? I doubt it’s his kind of music, but he got to take a buddy, and he’ll enjoy the outing. And if Sawyer, the hard rock musician in the family, could go last week and enjoy, so can Jacob and his friend.

Meanwhile I sit home and wait for rain. In a few minutes I’ll fix myself a loin lamb chop and a salad. I’ve written the last line of the first draft of Finding Florence, the third of my Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries. No, I didn’t rush it off to the printer. There’s lots of work ahead—editing on my part which means at least two more pass throughs, sending the mss. to beta readers, and considering their suggestions and questions, sending it to my longtime mentor if he is still ready to read, then sending it to a professional editor who works with cozy mysteries. Finally, I’ll send it to a graphic designer for formatting, cover design. One more proofing, and then she’ll post it to Amazon. Yep, it’s a months-long project.

But I’ve been thinking about what happens when you write a novel. One thing that’s come to my mind is that at the end of that first draft is you know your characters a lot better. That means, for me, that now as I go back and start over, I have to tweak the characters to let the reader know them better. I must fill our not only descriptions but actions and words by which they reveal themselves.

And another thing I found tonight just going over three chapters is that as I went through that first draft, I was putting words on paper—but sometimes they contradicted each other, or left holes in the plot, or raised questions, “Why did so-and-so do that?” or “Would she really have said that?”

I won’t read more chapters tonight because I want to do this slowly with focused concentration. After a bit, my focus wanders. So I’ll spend the rest of the evening reading that Diane Mott Davidson novel I’m deep into—Dark Tort. A good mystery with lots of food talk and recipes.

Have a great week everyone!

A ho-hum day

 

Even in quarantine, there’s usually something to distinguish one day from another—a patio visit from a friend, a new recipe, a Zoom meeting. Something to break the monotony of the day. Today there was none. And once again a rainy, chilly, dull morning greeted me.

I piddled, spent too long on Facebook, which I find I do a lot these days because of the political news—no, not the opinion pieces, but the hard news sources that report on there. Of course I am frustrated by the paywalls on the New York Times, the Washingto Post, and our local Star-Telegram. I should subscribe to one national paper that I respect, but I find I don’t like to read newspapers on line. My difficulty in getting print copies is a whole different story, and I won’t go into it now.

But the result today, as in many days recently, is too much time spent browsing the web for news, election updates, etc. It’s self-defeating, because all it does is increase my anxiety—and believe me, I see physical signs of anxiety in me. I explained to Jordan that I probably wouldn’t be much good for the next week, and she promptly said I need a new project. Huh, me? With too many projects on my desk already? She had in mind cooking desserts. I will take that under consideration, but meantime she has an array of meals laid out for me to cook.

I did listen to four chapters of the audio version of Saving Irene, and I’m gradually getting ahead of that project. I am now well over halfway through the book. I did some good email business—a letter of recommendation for a friend, some marketing posts for Saving Irene—have you tried the hamburger Stroganoff recipe? Emails to a couple of old friends, including some in Omaha where trump left his followers in frigid weather with no transportation. Such a caring man!

But overall, I accomplished little. I napped, of course, and when I woke up, I thought since we were not having family dinner—leftovers, and we were each eating on our own—I’d just stay in my jammies. But a voice in the back of my mind said to get dressed—for my own sake, not for the family. I do usually work in jammies until after I nap and then I “freshen” myself ad put on new clothes. So today I did that anyway—Jordan who came out for happy hour was the only beneficiary of my spiffed-up self.

With leftovers for dinner, I didn’t even have cooking to pull me out of my doldrums. But Jordan did—last night she undertook what she thought would be a huge process and found out it wasn’t that big a deal—she made pesto out of the large bunch of basil neighbor Mary had given us. So now we have a bunch of basil in the fridge, and Jordan is planning spaghetti with basil sauce and chicken for election night supper.

I think she is already beyond cooking that night. I am beyond worried about how to make the night pass—a lot of wine and early to bed? In truth, I may be less anxious about election night than the days the immediately follow

I did find an event outside my cottage tonight—a Zoom meeting of our neighborhood association. I haven’t attended meetings because, in truth, I don’t want to get out after supper, especially when they moved the meeting to eight. But now it’s back at seven and I could go from the comfort of my desk, so I was a wiling participant, though all I did was listen. I hope they keepe the Zoom meetings even after we don’t have to quarantine.

This afternoon, late, the sun came out a bit—an encouraging sign. And the temperature is to creep up the next few days until we reach Saturday which is to be pleasant and in the seventies. Maybe the world will be all right.

The joy of a rainy day in September

Waking up to a soggy, dark world on an early September morning is sheer joy after the heat of summer, even though this summer wasn’t as bad as some. It had rained hard last night, again probably during the night, and it did it again this morning. And today the high was only 82. I already have visions of fall—and a big pot of freezer soup. My freezer has way too many small icebox dishes of leftovers, just waiting to be made into soup. I asked Christian if he would eat freezer soup, and he said he’d have to know what’s in it. I laughed aloud and told him I wouldn’t know. I just dump all those tads and bits together, add a can of diced tomatoes and maybe some broth, and call it soup.

The bad thing about all that welcome rain is that is cancelled whatever slim social life I have during quarantine. Last night, we abandoned our weekly Tuesday happy hour with neighbors because the patio was soggy-wet. Much harder today was to call a longtime and very dear friend to cancel lunch—she was going to bring it so we could eat on the patio. I explained hesitantly that we were not yet inviting people into my cottage. She had been travelling, because of a death in the family, and mingling with people, and although she’d been masked, I didn’t want to break the practice we’d worked so hard to follow. It’s worked to far, and we’re sticking to it. That’s what’s golden about old friendships—people who love you understand. And she did.

The rain made it the kind of day to curl up with a good book, and I started the day with every intention of being lazy. But my conscience, well-tuned to the work ethic, dinged at me. I was leisurely about checking email and catching up on the news of the day—so much of it discouraging but a few bright spots. But then I turned to a partially finished lecture for the chef course—and, miracle of miracles, I finished it. I’m not excited about it, it’s probably the last important of the twelve lectures, but I’m happy enough with it to leave it alone and move on.

So then I did what struck me as a perfect rainy-day activity. In my past life, when I had a fair-sized house, cooked anything I wanted, and collected recipes like a madwoman, I had an entire drawer in an antique secretary filled with folders of recipes—all labeled as to what meal they were for and whether or not I had tried them. A few of those folders survive in a file cabinet in my closet that is hard to get to. In this life, I have a bulging—and I mean ridiculously bulging--file folder among several others in a wire rack next to my desk. It was clearly out of hand, so I sorted through it and discarded maybe half the recipes—things that given the restrictions of my cooking situation and my family’s rather limited tastes, I would probably never cook. I think I collected them before pandemic when I could still entertain occasionally. I did keep a few that nobody else in the family will eat but I couldn’t bear to give up. Like gravlax—I’m determined to make my own sometime.

My mom always told me the Lord works in mysterious ways. No sooner had I sorted the recipes than Jordan announced we had to do long-range meal planning. Oh my, was I Johnny-on-the-sport. So now we have a week’s worth of menus, things like cheesy grits with black beans, avocado, and radish or Grandma’s chicken or Frito pie. We’ll eat high on the hog. Tonight? Slow cooker pork chops and corn pudding. Yum! I’m hungry.

Tonight, the sun has come out, and the world is bright again, though apparently the rain is not over.

A late summer mini-vacation

Kind neighbors gave us free rein of their house at Lake Weatherford while they were away on a family matter, so Jordan and Jacob were there for five days, and Christian and I had two or three (two nights). Jacob had a buddy for three days and yesterday a friend of Jordan’s spent much of the day here.

My lake house office

While everyone else was on the dock—sunning or swimming, and Jacob was whizzing around the lake on a jet-ski, I was inside, perched at the dining table with my computer and a marvelous view of the lake. Having had sunstroke as a child and sunburning easily, one of the things I least want to do is lie out in the sun. It makes me fuzzy-headed, and I can’t focus to read. I always says I don’t’ want to be in or on the water, but I love looking at it—part of my Lake Michigan heritage that carries over to Texas’ small lakes.

In the evenings, we had happy hour on the screened in porch where, although it was blistering hot outside, there was usually a pleasant breeze. Jordan fixed us some great meals—spaghetti one evening, a Big Mac salad another night, a chocolate-chip Bundt cake. Jacob complained this morning that the trouble with vacation is that you eat too much.

We had all three dogs with us. They are never allowed outside except on leashes, so they don’t really get “the lake effect” but they like the constant companionship. Dog-walking falls primarily to Jacob, though Jordan does some of it, especially first thing in the morning.

Two boys and a dog

It’s a lazy life, good for a few days. I have my computer but not my monitor, so much is hard to me to read on the small laptop screen. And I don’t feel I can really come to grips with some of my projects—somehow, I have to be home at my desk to dig in. So I spent much of the time reading a mysteries series that I’ve only recently discovered and am thoroughly, laugh-out-loud enjoying.

It’s Julie Mulhern’s Country Club Murders. I started with Killer Queen, either the eleventh or twelfth in the series and then went back to pick up The Deep End, the first. Narrator is Ellison, a mid-life woman of privilege who lives the country club life—bridge, golf, gossip—but sees it all with a jaundiced eye and a wild sense of humor. Ellison has a domineering mother like none you’ve ever seen and an unfortunate habit of finding dead bodies. IN the first book, one of those bodies belong to her husband, a nasty philanderer. Early on she tangles with a detective with the improbably name of Anarchy Jones, and the fun begins. (Hmmm—I digressed from our mini-vacation, didn’t I?)

We did have a tragic bit of excitement yesterday—while everyone was on the dock, a boat exploded at the marina across the lake. They heard a boom and then watched horrified as black smoke pillared up in the air and the flashing lights of emergency vehicles swarmed the scene. I was napping and didn’t hear a thing. Later we learned that four people, including a two-year-old, had been taken to hospitals by Care Flight and two others by ground ambulance. This morning it appears all will survive, but what a horrible end to their summer. When you see a tragedy like that you vicariously become part of it. If we’d been home and read about it, we’d have said, “Too bad” and put it aside. But being here, seeing it, everyone was anxious for any news last night and this morning.

Fitting end to our stay: a good rain last night. We enjoyed it from the screened-in porch, smelling the rain and watching the way it mottled the lake’s surface. The temperature dropped an astonishing twenty degrees in just a few minutes. But today it was back up to hot—something like 102.

We are so blessed to have friends who open their house to us. Grateful is not strong enough to express our appreciation.