An outstanding day from my point of view

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The amaryllis story continues—and a bit of cabin fever

 

My amaryllis today
on my messy desk

My amaryllis is glorious today and a great source of cheer during this snap of winter in Texas, although today was sunny and bright. Subie’s amaryllis story is not so happy, although I understand she has a second plant. Jordan and I gave her one for Christmas (she is hard because her birthday is just before Christmas, and I am sometimes stretched to choose two imaginative gifts). So we saw amaryllis on sale in November, and I thought it was perfect for one or the other of those occasions.

Subie's amaryllis

Recently she told me when she opened it, it had already bloomed—in the box. There were stubs at the stalk where the blooms had been and died. I was embarrassed to say the least, but she saw the bright side—the plant was growing a new plant. She plans to leave it in the pot and see what it does. I’ve never heard of one doing that before.

And on the subject of plants, the orchid Subie brought me went into the house today to what I consider Christian’s orchid hospital. He has a remarkable record of getting them to bloom a second and third time. This one had a lovely striated cream-colored petal with a dark purple center. The thing is I sometimes have to remind him that a certain plant that is reblooming needs to come back to the cottage. The main house has two west-facing greenhouse windows in the kitchen, and orchids love it there.

Cabin fever got me yesterday. These are the things I did not do: write my daily quota on my work-in-progress; get dressed; make my bed; cook my supper; do my exercises. These are the things I did do: spent the day in the clothes I slept in (Jordan would frown); took a long nap; reheated frozen leftovers for my supper; spent way too much time on Facebook; started reading a new mystery, the eighteenth Coffee House Mystery by the husband/wife team who write as Cleo Coyle. (Reading for an author can always be justified as continuing education.)

Today is a much better day. As twilight sets in, I have gotten dressed and made my bed, fixed a good lunch, and planned dinner for all of us—we’re still quarantining, so we’ll transport part of it from cottage to the house. I’ve written a bit more than my thousand words for the day and am writing my blog earlier than usual, and I’ve put away clean linen and done some other household chores, including watering my plants.

The world outside this evening reminds me of Chicago or Missouri—the snow is melting, so what’s left is dirty, gray, sparse. My patio looks like a swamp, awash with dirty water. But because we are north-facing my front steps are still iced, and there’s a patch of ice on the driveway and snow outside my desk window. My mom used to complain long and loud about the gray snow in Chicago, because when I was young so many households, including ours, heated with coal. And it’s true—clean white snow was dirty gray almost as soon as it fell.

I remember the same when I was in school in northeast Missouri. I was in a relatively small town, Kirksville (12,000 population not counting students at the two colleges in town). Most people heated with coal, and snow stayed on the ground forever. They don’t call that northeast corner of the state an icebox for no reason. I remember getting up morning after morning and seeing a dirty gray world. And I drove a VW bug which didn’t fit the ruts in the roads, so getting to and from school and work was an adventure. I really longed for spring. The nice thing about Texas (except last year) is that we are pretty sure the snow will disappear in a day or two.

A friend said to me today she doesn’t understand how I can stay in the cottage day after day, because she was stir-crazy being in for two days. I think one reason is that, with my walker and because I no longer drive, getting out is a bit more complicated. And when Covid was new and a much bigger threat, I got used to staying in. In fact, I kind of liked it, and most days I still do. I have lots to do and a comfortable pattern to my days. When it’s six and I pour myself a glass of wine, I think, “Well, there goes another day.” That’s a bit of a mixed bag, because at my age I don’t want to wish the days away, but on the other hand it’s good to come to the end of a day and feel satisfied about it. Can you tell I’m feeling a bit defensive?

Learning to count my blessings

 

The resident papa cardinal in my back yard just flew down to the railing around the deck, sat there a moment surveying his world, then flew to the sidewalk, pecked at a few things, and flew away. I love sighting him and was so relieved to see him and “mama” again this spring. Cardinals are not travelers. They generally stay within one yard, so I am indignant if I see mine in the yard behind me. They say when you see a cardinal on your property, it means someone in Heaven is thinking of you. I always think it’s my dad, a great gardener and bird lover. When Jacob was little, I taught him about cardinals, and he would say excitedly, “Look, Juju, the red bird.”  I don’t suppose he’d let himself get excited today, but I do.

The cardinal is one of many things that makes think I should count my blessings, on this a day when I’m really feeling sort of whiny about several things, including the small health hiccups of age. Frequently you see a question asking people if they age would they rather keep their mind or their physical well-bring. Having seen my mom sink into dementia as the result of several small strokes, or TIAs, my answer is unequivocally that I want to keep my mind lively. It’s one reason I continue to write (aside from the pleasure I find in writing).

But for the last couple of weeks, I’ve been struggling with swollen legs and feet—puffy is the word for my feet. I’ve contacted the cardiologist, and he has prescribed more physical therapy, which is okay but sort of a nuisance because it’s a repeat of what we did not a month ago and what, since then, I do every day myself, though not as often as the therapist would like. They don’t want to give me a prescription because of my recent bout with a kidney injury, so I’m sleeping with my feet in the air—above my heart—and trying compression stockings. Not sure the latter was a success today.

I have exercises to do—chair yoga and five loops around the small circle from living area to bedroom to bath in the cottage. The PT figures it’s about 100 feet total if I do it five times But I have a problem: Sophie goes bat-shit crazy, especially over the chair yoga, though she follows me, barking furiously, when I do the walking. She can easily tell the difference between me just walking from desk to bedroom or bathroom and me doing the exercise walking. On nice days I can lock her outside, though she protests, but on rainy days, there’s no such out. In the past when she stayed outside for long periods of time, I longed for her to come in—guess that’s come home to bite me.

At any rate, with all this going on I fight the temptation to think of myself as an invalid. It’s part of my worry over being a recluse—it’s so easy to stay home and not make that extra effort to get ready to go out, especially when I don’t know the accessibility of my destination. I have ordered myself an upright walker, hoping that will relieve some of the pressure on my arms and shoulders and entice me to get out in the world more.

I thought that was so smart, until I read an email from a friend who said her husband ended in the hospital for two nights because he took a hard fall off his—yeah, you guessed it—upright walker. She thinks, however, there were extenuating circumstances.

Tonight, neighbor Prudence had a meet-and-greet for a run-off candidate for the city council election scheduled for June 2. Jordan sort of co-hosted, and I wanted to go because I wanted to meet the young candidate. I am really impressed by how he organized a neighborhood that had lost its sense of neighborliness and helped earn it the Best Neighborhood of the Year award. But because of my swollen legs and not being sure of access to Pru’s and not wanting to burden Jordan and Christian with looking after me, I elected to stay home. I think it was the right decision, but it’s also the decision that makes me worry that I’m becoming—or have become—a recluse.

After days of rain, it was lovely, sunny, and almost hot today. Tomorrow will apparently be sunny also but then more rain Friday. Of course, it’s the Colonial Gol Tournament (which has a better name) that is attracting all the rain. Happens every year.

Stay safe and dry.

Peonies

My topsy-turvy world is right-side-up again, My world is in order again, which is mostly good though a tad bittersweet. Megan and Ford left Saturday mid-day to return to Austin. I do so love to have them here—Megan and I had some good visits, Ford and Jacob picked up their close buddy relationship without a pause, Christian came out to the cottage several times to visit with Megan, she and I both got some work done—all wonderful. Friday night we took both boys to Pacific Table, and I was proud as I could be to have my two grandsons with me. Meant to get a picture but didn’t.

Last evening, Jordan came home in time for supper, and dug right in helping me make a giant stuffed hamburger for dinner and one of her classic tossed salads. The hamburger is the size of a pie, with traditional bread stuffing between two layers of hamburger meat. We put it in a grill basket, and Christian cooked it on the grill. So good. 

Jordan brought a West Texas cactus for my coffee table arrangement

 My computer woes are fixed, but it was a long two days with spotty, unreliable Wi-Fi connections. I called Jamie Saturday morning, and he told me to run diagnostics. I did and it told me the problem was fixed. Well, sort of—it just got a bit better. Then Megan called Brandon who has a degree in computer software. He said it was router trouble. Megan had unplugged the router and re-plugged it but apparently it needed a hard boot. Saturday afternoon the connection was again timely and worked perfectly. Saturday night I was up too late, getting my neighborhood newsletter together so I could send it to the designer. This morning it is proofed and finished and off to the printer—off my mind for another month. 

Christian went to a friend’s party Saturday night, had such a good time he stayed longer than he planned. When he came home, he came out to the cottage and we had a good visit, once again talking about local politics which seems to be a frequent topic. I’ll be glad June 1 when the run-off is settled.

While he was often partying, I had a guest for supper, a minister from church whom I’ve come to count as a good friend. As usual I fixed something the kids won’t eat: tuna Florentine. Jordan doesn’t like cooked tuna, Christian doesn’t like tuna period, and neither of them like cooked spinach, though he is more adamant than she. It was so good, and I sent a piece home with Renee. The rain kept us inside—so nice these days not to feel you have to be distanced on the patio. We visited about everything from grandchildren to theology, and of course we solved the world’s problems. If only Biden and Netanyahu and a few others would listen to us! 

I had a lesson this weekend in the dangers of my joking about being a recluse. People take me too seriously. One good friend thought I am still staying in because of Covid. I’m not. I’m fully vaccinated, most of my friends are, and I’m comfortable going out, especially to restaurants where they are careful. If I find myself in a crowd, I’ll wear a mask—always have one in my purse. But quarantine made me lazy. I’m not used to the extra effort it takes to get me and my walker out, and sometimes it just seems easier to stay home. I’m perfectly happy in the cottage, especially when I have a lot of desk work and friends to visit. It’s a tempting trap, and I’m working to avoid it because I’ve always thought of myself as a people person. One of my goals: to get Jordan to take me to Central Market to browse. We do curbside pickup once a week, but I want to go inside, up and down the aisles. 

So here we are, at the foot of another week, wondering what lies ahead. Even with my own little world back in order, it sometimes seems to me chaos is all around—from international happenings to local. What I take from church most Sundays is that we must love each other, and we are all in this together. I cling to those beliefs.

A last look at West Texas

Temptations of the reclusive life

 

Tonight, there is a “meet-and-greet” for Jared Sloane, the city council candidate from my district in Fort Worth who I have chosen to vote for and support. Some may remember reading about his visit to me last week. After great debate with myself, I am not going to the event. Christian asked last night if he’s taking me, and I said, “No, you’re representing me.”

My inner debate was about getting out and resuming my life vs. comfort. The reception is on a front porch in my neighborhood; one of the hosts assured me it was two steps up to the porch or up the slanted driveway. When I thought about it, I realized that maneuvering my walker up even two steps would be awkward and, briefly, attention getting. I could imagine conversation stopping while Christian and I labored to get me up those steps. Then on a porch, people would undoubtedly be standing, visiting, as they do at a cocktail party. I can’t stand that long, so I’d sit in my walker and, as a friend said, I could talk to everyone’s navel. It all sounded awkward.

But there is of course a larger issue. I am too comfortable, too content at home. I lecture myself—and then I wonder if I’m okay with it, why is It wrong to want to stay home? I am fortunate that my isolation is broken not only by family but by guests. I keep busy writing, reading, and cooking. Oh yes, I’d like to eat in restaurants, but I’m still cautious about that, preferring patio seating, not ready for a restaurant with a hundred per cent occupancy. And I guess I’ll get back to in-person church, but it’s so easy to go to church at home in comfortable clothes. But otherwise, the wider world doesn’t call to me, and I can’t figure out if it’s my need for mobility assistance or an increasing tendency to be a recluse.

The very word “recluse” has a negative connotation for me, with echoes of Miss Havisham from Great Expectations. When I think of recluses, I think of women (why not men?) who withdraw from the world and become embittered and lonely—and I don’t think that’s who I am. I have a lively (some would say too lively) interest in the world, especially politics. I enjoy all my online connections—well, most of them—and, with a nod to all who slam Facebook, checking it every morning is one of the ways I start my day.

I do think my mobility problems complicate the issue. I finished a round of physical therapy today, and the therapist complimented me on my progress. The problem is not mechanical—my new hip works well, my legs are strong enough for a woman my age. No, it’s atrial fibrillation—my heart doesn’t get enough oxygen to my muscles, and I get winded easily. Four weeks ago, walking sixty feet did me in. Today I can walk about a hundred—but that’s not even a city block. And I must go slow and take such deep breaths I sound like the puffing of the little engine that could. It’s no wonder sitting at my desk is easier. And going places is a lot of work.

Now that quarantine restrictions are breaking down, another aspect of my life is changing. Jordan, Christian, and Jacob are all resuming the busy social lives they had before Covid confined us to quarters. I have been spoiled having them here for dinner almost every night, but I sense that changing. Many nights when they are gone, I invite a friend to visit, sometimes for happy hour, sometimes for supper. In fact, this week my calendar is full every night (including a Zoom lecture I want to hear—Zoom has been a blessing during quarantine).

I am grateful that I am, as I advised a friend, walking on the sunny side of the street. Instead of complaining about being desperate to get out, as some of my friends did for months, I’m grateful for the comfort of my cottage and the good things about my life. But my mental picture of Miss Havisham still nags at the back of my mind.

A recluse in pandemic

Jordan brought me these gorgeous roses today
as a reward for good medical appointments all week
Aren't they a magnificent color?

People are increasingly restless with the restrictions of pandemic. They want to go to restaurants and concerts and museums, they want to travel and see families and hug loved ones. I want to become a recluse.

The mood came upon me this week, probably because I had to leave my cottage and go somewhere every day. All I could think about was how much I wanted to stay home. With my computer and my dog. Of course, I don’t stay home alone—I have Jordan, Jacob, and Christian in and out of the cottage which makes a huge difference, one I am much appreciative of.

But I have no taste right now for dressing up, putting on make-up, and getting out in the world. I look back on all the years I did that and wonder if it was some different person.

It’s not that I have an all-consuming project on my desk. I am nearly through with the edits I’ve been reviewing, and I’m at loose ends about what I’ll take up next. But I have faith if I’m quiet and listen to myself, something will come before me that I really want to do. Meantime there are books to read, dishes to cook, naps to take.

Ah, the naps. I may still be getting my strength back, but I napped for an hour today before Sophie wanted to go out. Let her out but she came barging back in rather quickly, so I shut the door behind her and went back to bed for another long nap.

It’s not that I’m anti-social. I welcome friends, two at a time, who are also quarantining. In pleasant weather, we visit on the patio, masked and socially distanced, and I find the company refreshing. I’d soon get tired of my own voice and thoughts.

I’m reading Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, that in-depth exploration of Savannah that is now several years old. I decided it was time I read some of the books “everyone” has already read, and I’m enjoying it. Another plus for the recluse life.

I have a friend who says she goes nowhere, sees no one not because she’s afraid of getting the virus (though I admit I am—statistically it would not be a good thing for me) but because she doesn’t want to give it to anyone else. Valid reasoning, and yet another reason to stick to home.

So for the time being, I’m pulling up the drawbridge and letting the world go by. I’m sure this is a temporary phase. I’m too much of a people person to become a permanent recluse. It just sounds good for the nonce.

 

Chilly day, heart-warming book

           

Today was another gray, chilly one. Yes, it stopped raining mid-day as the wetness moved east of us, but everything remained soggy. Apparently, parts of North Texas had bad flooding, which tells you how much rain we had. For me, it was another day to hunker down and stay at home.

I made a good start on a talk I will give next month to a woman’s club, and I dealt with some odds and ends. One of the luxuries of my retirement life is that when the weather is uninviting, I can simply elect to stay in. I did that tonight. My Wednesday night dinner pal, Betty, didn’t check in until four o’clock, by which time I had talked myself out of going to dinner. She sounded equally reluctant, mentioning more than once how cold it is outside. So we decided to wait until next week and then try a specific restaurant noted for reasonable and good appetizers. That’s all we need for dinner.

But today I lingered over a small, slim book that I’d been hearing about. Notices on various places, like an online newsletter for booksellers, had intrigued me about a book called,
The Boy, the mole, the fox and the Horse. Then a writer friend raved about it, and I was hooked. Not that it swayed me, but Amazon shows over 2300 reviews, 93% of them five stars. What I wouldn’t give for ratings like that!

I have so little bookshelf space, and friend Mary and I had only recently cleaned, sorted, straightened—and, yes, sigh, eliminated some books. So I tell myself I read online to save trees and to save space in the cottage. But there are some books you just need to have on the shelf so that you can revisit them from time to time. I sensed this would be one of them and ordered it from Amazon.

Created by Charles Mackery and dedicated to his mum and his dog, the book has text all in script, written with a thick point so that sometimes it’s hard to decipher. But the script is an accompaniment to wonderful line drawings that are open, free, and expressive. In many ways, including its folk wisdom, this book took me back to Winnie the Pooh.

The Boy is lonely, the mole thinks mostly about cake, the fox doesn’t speak, and the Horse is wise and kind.

When the boy first finds the mole, the mole says, “I am so small,” and the boy assures him, “But you make a huge difference.” When the boy asks him if he has a favorite saying, the mole says, “Yes. If at first you don’t succeed, have some cake.”

They meet fox, whose foot is caught in a trap. He immediately tells mole that if he weren’t caught, he would eat him. But mole chews through the trap to free him. They become a threesome. Lots of wisdom comes from the mole: “Being kind to yourself is one of the greatest kindnesses.”

“Sometimes I feel lost,” said the boy. “Me too,” said the mole, “but we love you and love brings you home.”... “I think everyone is just trying to get home,” said the mole.

They meet the horse, who says, “Everyone is a bit scared. But we are less scared together.”

I could go on and on quoting passages from this book, but I want you to discover it for yourself. Aside from the charm of the text, it is a beautifully put together book—years in publishing have taught me to appreciate a finely crafted book, and this is one. Good quality paper, careful reproduction, a solid binding, and endsheets of a musical score with the boy, the mole, the fox, and the horse racing through the lines. A note says it is to be “lively and in strict time.”.

If I ever could meet Charles Mackery, I’d shake his hand and tell him I agree about the importance of kindness. It’s a timely message for our country these days. But until that fictional meeting, I’m going to sleep soundly tonight and hear the wise words of the mole in my dreams.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” “Kind,” the boy answers.

“What do you think success is?” asked the boy. “To love,” the mole replied.

Penny wise and pound foolish

I had dinner with a good friend tonight who wishes to remain anonymous—you’ll see why in a minute. Whereas I’ll order a chardonnay label that I like, she will often choose whatever is on the happy hour menu—often not a chardonnay. Tonight she asked the wait person what the house wine was and ordered that. Thinking I wouldn’t be a complete pain about it I agreed. She took one sip, looked at me, and said, “This isn’t very good chardonnay.” I told her I was never trusting her about the house wine again. When the bill came, we found out why it was the house choice: $3.75 a glass.

Reminded me of another friend who travels frequently and extensively, domestically and abroad. When we met for dinner recently, she insisted we had to go early enough for happy hour prices. And when we asked where everyone had parked, she revealed that she had refused a place almost in front of the restaurant because you had to pay there—so she walked a couple of blocks.

Excuse me, folks. I’m not rich, but I am old enough that I want a good glass of chardonnay and a convenient parking place. Call me extravagant if you want.

This has been a quiet week. Last week was full of social occasions—dinners out, guests at the cottage. This week, I have been home for four days, and for three of them Jordan’s sporadic appearances provided my only adult company. It’s okay because I have worked—my neighborhood newsletter took a lot of time!—and read and kept up with the unbelievable politics of our country. Enough to keep anyone occupied, but I was glad to go to supper tonight with someone whose company I really enjoy (bad wine or not).

Speaking of restaurants, my food-loving friends in Fort Worth will be sad to know that Terra on Crockett closed, a longtime Mediterranean restaurant. The couple of times I had dinner there were okay but not great, but at lunch they had an outstanding Mediterranean buffet—pricey, but really good. The turnover of restaurants on Crockett is amazing—and includes Patrizio’s which I still mourn though it’s been gone a while.

On the home front, Sophie had a spa day today. Bless WhiskerWashers who bring their portable salon to the house. Sophie’s special groomer is a man I know as Bobo. When I once told him we had to be careful because she’ll run given the chance, he—a large man and not young—said, “Then we’ll have to be really careful, because I can’t chase her.” Sophie is always excited to see him, and I have to say his kind manner brightens my day. As for Sophie running, yeah, she’d take a clear chance if she got it, but she’s less interested and less devious these days. Maybe as she ages, she realizes she has a darn good deal here. Tonight, her coat is soft, and she smells clean and wonderful. Won’t last, but it’s nice now.

I am having a great time on the NYTimes Cooking Community Facebook page—recipes, queries, comments, even such odd questions as “What’s your guilty pleasure in food?” See my Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog tomorrow for my answer to that. But I am delighted that I feel comfortable enough on the Facebook page to contribute—like the woman who asked what she could do with several tins of anchovies. My answer: make spaghetti sauce, make Caesar salad, put them in everything you can think of—they add an earthy flavor, and no one says, “Yuck! They’re anchovies in this.” They can’t tell.

My takeaway line from that page today: Bay leaves are the dryer sheets of the kitchen. Seriously, have you ever left them out of a stew? And did you notice a difference? I doubt it. I think they’re often so stale they do little for flavor. My anonymous dinner companion tonight pointed out that they do keep bugs out of your flour if you tape them inside the container.

Rain tomorrow. What joy! I hope it really happens.

The second battle of the Alamo

I was a recluse today. Just me, Sophie, and that pesky squirrel on the patio. If I had to choose a day to be a recluse, this was a good one. Dark, rainy, stormy this morning. We had those proverbial sheets of blowing rain. Not much thunder, but enough to keep Sophie close to me. This afternoon, the rain stopped, and I even saw sunshine briefly. But there’s more rain tomorrow and then a severe drop in temperature.

I made good use of my day at home alone, worked hard most of the day except for a mid-day break. Spent the day at the Alamo, and I guess it’s time to explain that. In June, a friend was diagnosed with metastatic cancer—someone I knew basically through a close-knit online group of writers but had had one really good in-person visit with. She had a contract with a New York publisher and was working on a book on the second battle of the Alamo. But Debra, the Energizer Bunny, had several other projects going on all the time, and I became part of the squad cheering her on to work on the Alamo book. I knew the story of the second battle, and it’s the kind of history that fascinates me.

When she was hospitalized, she called me one day. “Deb, what can I do for you?” I asked, and she replied, “Write the Alamo book.” I would never ever have wanted that assignment under these circumstances, but it was a project I took on willingly, partly to honor her and partly because it intrigues me. It was the end of summer before the editor, Deb’s partner and literary executor, and I could all reach an agreement. We had danced around the subject as long as Debra was with us. But when she died, we tackled it.

And I have been working on it for about a month now. I’ve sent a draft of the first bit to the editor and gotten back an incredibly helpful critique. Since I’ve written fiction for so long, it’s almost a new experience for me to work with an editor this closely in a back and forth manner, and I’m loving it. I spent most of today putting together a chapter she wants that hadn’t even occurred to me. But it’s all the history I love, and I’m having fun. Problem is, unlike my own fiction, I have a deadline—it was February, but it’s been pushed to May. I think I can do it, but I feel the pressure. So today was a long day at the keyboard.

Tonight, I’m going to continue re-reading a novel about this second battle. TCU Press published it some twenty years ago, and I edited it. But that’s a long time. So far, just barely into it, I’m finding it enormously helpful for atmosphere and period details.

So you might like to know about the second battle of the Alamo. I assume everyone knows about the first. The second was in the early 1900s when a part of the mission compound was in danger of being torn down and replaced by a glitzy hotel. Two women, members of the Daughters of the Republic of Texas, saved the iconic mission. But what began as a collegial relationship soon deteriorated into a definite difference of opinion about which parts of the mission were essential.

The story of the massacre at the Alamo is a man’s story, full of blood lust and courage—and all those qualities we associate with bold men. But the story of the Alamo does not end with that 1836 battle and defeat. Nor is it always a men’s story. The second battle of the Alamo was a women’s battle, fought with the same determination as shown by the original defenders but with different weapons—with words and money and sometimes with outrageous behavior.

Getting my game face on

Last night the happy hour folks at my house decided to go to the Mediterranean restaurant down the street. Did I want to go? I’m usually up for any company, any outing, but I heard myself say no. I wanted to stay home, make creamed chicken (that earned a few “Yuck” comments) and work at my desk. In retrospect it was a good/bad decision—they were gone almost three hours and I would have gotten antsy. My creamed chicken had too much wine and not enough milk—didn’t know I knew such a thing as too much wine, did you?

The larger issue, and one that concerns me, is that I’d been home, alone, at my desk, all day. I should have jumped at a chance to go somewhere with friends.

This morning, I woke at seven, perfectly rested—went to the restroom and crawled in bed to doze for an hour and a half. I didn’t need to do that. When I finally got up, my household—Jordan and two ten-year-olds—was in full swing. It dawned on me that the reason I’m lingering in bed these days is that nothing urgent, no projects on my desk, call to me.

As I’ve said before recently, I keep busy. When people ask what I’m writing, I tell them I’m managing my career—and that’s pretty much true. But I used to manage it and write, cook, etc. Cooking is hard, laundry is hard, and so I pretty much let a lot of things slide.

Late August, being the start of the school year, has always seemed like the start of a new year to me, much more than January 1. So my new-year resolution is to get my game face on, get more involved in the house, the move, new projects. I may not get it all done in one day, but I’ll do it. The path I’m on now leads to aging, and I don’t want that.

This week, I’ll start with packing personal belongings for Saturday’s big move. Company tonight brought an innovative supper—cheese, salami, smoked salmon and bread—and then they volunteered to help pack this week. I’ve got good friends.

Watch my dust! (Oops, I think I just mixed my metaphors).

 

On becoming a recluse...and cooking for others

I said to a friend tonight that I thought I was increasingly becoming a recluse. He asked if I liked to have people in my home, and I enthusiastically answered yes. Did I like being alone? No, sometimes I get bored. “Then you’re not a recluse,” he intoned.

So my problem is not being a recluse but the anxiety/mobility that makes it difficult for me to leave my house—been there, done that some forty years ago so I know I can overcome it again.

Meanwhile my reclusiveness was interrupted tonight by Subie and Phil, good friends just back from a long trip to Argentina. They called to ask if they could come for wine. Of course they could. Then Jordan and Jacob arrived, followed by Christian with much-needed dog food, and finally David who doesn’t come for visits often enough. David was Jordan’s first boyfriend, is now a close friend of both Christian and Jordan, and in his SuperDave cape takes Jacob to TCU ball games. He’s family around here.

I tried to get Subie and Phil to stay for supper but they wouldn’t, so the five of us ate on the deck. I fixed a super chicken dish I think I found in a NYTimes cooking column: spray a roasting pan with oil of some kind, cover the bottom with onion slices and sliced shallots, put chicken thighs on top. Season with salt and pepper and slide into a hot oven (I did 450 and it still took about an hour and a half). Layer croutons in a serving dish and arrange chicken on top and dump the roasting pan on top of it all. My only complaint--the croutons didn’t become as soggy as I expected. I served it with Christians’ green beans—cook some bacon and retain the grease, drain bacon and crumble. Dump green beans into grease, douse liberally with cider vinegar and, when serving, crumble in the bacon. That and one of Jordan’s good blue cheese salads was dinner. So good.

High old time of visiting and friends. Tomorrow I work. And maybe I won't be a recluse

Widening the Circle

Almost forty years ago I was housebound with phobic fear—technically called agoraphobia and sometimes defined as fear of fear. Today it’s often called chronic anxiety disorder. No matter the name, it leads to unease, anxiety, depression, and too often panic attacks. The end of the driveway was as far as I would go alone, and I wasn’t really comfortable out in the world with other people. I’m not sure what triggered it—perhaps my father’s death, perhaps a lifelong tendency toward fearfulness. A lot of group therapy helped me past that point, but I know too well it’s a question of pushing back on the circles of fear that enclose you.

So today, after a week and a half at home with various back troubles and a bad scare with my back—which isn’t as bad as I initially believed—I am once again beginning to push back the circles. Today was my first venture out in the world—a full day.

It began with a haircut person. Rosa, who has done my hair for at least fifteen years, promised to come out to the car to meet me. I was fiddling with my phone, trying to find her number, when I looked up and she was standing by the car. So I got a cute haircut (if I do say so), Rosa walked me back to my car, and I headed home.

Then I met an old friend I probably haven’t see in twenty-five years for lunch at Carshon’s. I have a favorite space to park there—easy for me to get into the deli—but I was uncertain of footing once in the restaurant. Enjoyed lunch immensely, my friend walked me to the door, and I was headed home again.

One more outing, for supper with friends Sue and Teddy. This time I was truly spoiled—Teddy picked me up, shepherded me when I was at their house, and brought me home, all the while praising the way I was moving about. That’s the kind of positive enforcement I need to hear. Sue fixed a delicious dinner, her teenage son joined us, and we enjoyed good food and great fellowship.

All in all, it was a big day and a giant push outward on those circles. Jordan said she saw great improvement over a week ago. So I’m feeling optimistic tonight. And tired. But, no, I don’t want to be a recluse.

My dancing shoes

These are my dancing shoes--well, not really. They're a pair of Inkka hightops that I told Jamie I wanted for Christmas and since we won't all be together this Christmas, he gave them to me early. I asked Jordan today if I could wear them, with black leggings and a really cool black top plus my squash blossom to a spiffy cocktail party tonight, and she said, "Go for it!" So I did.
First thing when I walked in, the hostess (who I have literally known all her life), said, "I love your shoes!" And in a few minutes someone behind me said, "Those shoes really make a statement." After that, my shoes were the talk of the evening, and the ham in me came out--I loved it. I even told people I wore the squash blossom to pick up the turquoise in the shoes. I do have to confess that I'm learning to tie shoes all over again--almost walked out of them in the grocery today. But tonight I felt camp, trendy, whatever. And since it was a party where I knew few people, the shoes were a wonderful conversation starter.
I realized today I have a split personality. It was a wet, sometimes rainy, chilly day, and a part of me kept saying what a nice night it would be for a book by the fire. I felt the same way before I went to a dinner party Wednesday night. A small part of me could easily become reclusive, spending all my time at home. In fact, recently I said to a friend that I spent a lot of time at home, and she replied, "Yes, but you bring people to you."
I can't count on that, however, and I always enjoy events when I get myself in gear and go out--I loved the dinner party a few nights ago, and I had a great time tonight. I recognize that the tendency toward being a recluse is neither healthy nor, in the long run, enjoyable. I need people in my life, and if I sat home and expected them to come to me, there are a whole lot of people that I really like but would never see.
Tonight, I saw a former neighbor, now married to the mother of one of Jordan's school chums, and I met new people. I'm learning to be so bold as to slip into the conversation the fact that I'm an author. The woman who'd first commented on my shoes said her husband was writing, and we had a bit of talk about that--as much as I could hear over the music.
It was a lovely evening with spectacular food, and I'm so glad I went. Thanks to friends who took me under their wing so I didn't have to go alone. Tomorrow is a breakfast party and guess what? I'm going to wear my dancing shoes!