Me and Joe Biden

 

I would never presume to compare myself to President Biden, but we do have one thing in common: we are old. I am distressed though by the current controversy over whether or not he is too old to run for office in 2024. Everyone seems to be trying to make up his mind for him. Signs are that he very much wants to, but even some in his own party question the wisdom of trying for a second term. And of course Republicans are all over the “sleepy Joe image.” I even read somewhere that Dr. Jill Biden is pressuring him not to run, going so far as to threaten to leave him if he announces. I suspect that’s someone’s fabrication—whether a MAGA person or a Russian bot—because it is so out of character with what we see of her almost daily on TV. The ostensible reason is that she does not want to see him humiliated by a defeat. To my mind, Joe Biden right now is a victim of America’s preoccupation with ageism.

The president has just had a physical and been pronounced fit and healthy, a “vigorous eighty-year-old man.” In two years, much of it in the face of a Senate controlled by the opposition, he has set a course for America which differs dramatically from that of his predecessor, and he’s making progress in bringing his vision to reality. Whether you ike his vision for the country or not, he’s clearly a man who’s hit his stride. So why quit now because of something that might happen? Sure, he might develop a life-threatening illness or dementia, but elect a fifty-year-old president and they could develop a disease, be the victim of an assassination. Nobody know what’s around the corner, but age is relative. I don’t think we should look at the number of years, but at the individual—how they act and speak and think. Vigorous isn’t just an empty word.

Let’s banish two images: the first is that of “sleepy Joe,” one of trump’s famous derogatory nicknames. Joe Biden is not sleepy, but his style is understated, calm, and slow, in contrast to the loud, dramatic rants of trump. While some criticize him, Biden goes quietly about doing what he thinks is right, getting the job done. The other is that he misspeaks—every time Biden stumbles over a word, Republicans are fast on it. The man continues to battle a lifelong stuttering problem, and his speaking ability is to be admired, not derided. He fights to get each word out. Did you hear him stutter during his State of the Union? I didn’t.

I am particularly interested in what seems to be the Biden age dilemma, because I am two years older than he is. When people express amazement that I’m still writing—with an emphasis on still—I want to say, “What else would I be doing? Watching TV all day?” I’m in good health, knock on wood, and my mind is clear (don’t ask my kids!). I like what I do, the life I’m living. Should I look ahead at the calendar and say, “Wow! Next year I’ll be 85. I guess I better quit writing?” I don’t think so.

Why we write came up as a discussion topic in a small online writing group I belong to, and the best reason I heard was, “Because sometimes the words fly onto the page.” But there is more—I don’t know any other way to live. Watching TV was a joke, but I seriously don’t know what I would do if I didn’t write and didn’t have my involvement with the writing community. And there are things I still want to write—that memoir I talk about, another Irene book (having just finished one that will be out in the spring, I already have the opening scene for the next one), the Helen Corbitt project I keep procrastinating about. I’ve always thought it would be fun to write a short book titled, Dogs I Have Loved.

So I get Joe Biden’s dilemma, or at least I think I do. I tried to keep this post non-partisan but, clearly, I think Biden is doing a good job at moving us back from the brink of authoritarianism, back to what America is supposed to be—but not back into the times of racial and gender discrimination, banned books and illegal abortions. I’ll vote for him again, given the chance—the alternatives so far are pretty awful.

Now about that book about dogs …..

Feeling sophisticated

 

Dinner in the Blue Spire, Trinity Terrace

Last night, Jordan, Christian, and I were treated to dinner at Trinity Terrace by Jean, who moved to the high-rise retirement center in October. I had been to her apartment and dined in the Blue Spire, the more formal dining area, a couple of times, but the Burtons were most curious. For me, it was being transported to a world that I’ve long since left behind. A wonderful menu, good wine, white linen—all the trappings of fine dining.

Jordan and Christian predictably chose steak—and I forget what Jean had—but I had the tenderloin in a crème fraiche sauce with noodles (and will have the rest tonight). What really made the meal for me was my appetizer—fried oysters that were crispy on the outside and soft and succulent inside. A rare treat. I used to love them raw but am now a bit afraid. We even indulged in dessert—bread pudding for Jean and chocolate mousse for the rest of us. I had eaten so much, but I cannot ever pass up mousse. I don’t think Jordan had ever tasted bread pudding and she was surprised and pleased with the one bite she tried.

Because the kids asked, Jean explained the advantages—and disadvantages—of living there, plus all the things she had considered in visiting various retirement communities. Jordan listened so avidly and asked so many questions that I said, “Don’t even think it!” She replied, “I’m not thinking about you! I’m moving in.” When I had said to Christian way beforehand not to think they could move me there, he said, “We know better than that, Juju.”

After a two-hour dinner, punctuated by a lot of laughter and a lot of pointing out this building and that from what would be the thirteenth floor (only they don’t call it that), we went up to the seventeenth to Jean’s apartment. Her reupholstered furniture was now in place, things arranged as she wanted them, much different from when I first saw  it. Her late husband was a craft artist, and one whole wall of lighted bookcases displays much of his work, with weathervanes marching across the top. The view from the floor-to-ceiling windows is spectacular. The kids went out on the balcony but, seventeen floors up? No way. I stayed clear across the room. But the whole place is sort of a wonderful blend of artsy, modern, and cozy, one of the most striking apartments in all three buildings, I’m sure.

Jean is happy there, at home, and comfortable. Communal living doesn’t attract me—I didn’t even like dorm life, for goodness’ sake! With an innate fear of height and a dislike of self-service elevators, I want to be able to step out my door onto the good earth, and I very much want to be able to just open a door and let my dog out. (A good friend, Jeannie, has the apartment next to Jean, and she has to take her dog down seventeen floors to pee.) Christian said if he lived there—and I could see he liked the idea some twenty or more years on—he wouldn’t have a dog, but I replied, “I don’t want to live without a dog.”

Dogs in Trinity Terrace are a funny story. They are not to walk on the carpet in hallways or on the elevator, so Jeannie takes her small poodle in what looks like a baby carriage. I reported this to other friends who are seriously thinking of moving to Trinity Terrace. Phil has a seeing-eye dog, a lab, and I can’t quite picture him in a carriage or even a little red wagon. I’m sure there are exceptions for service dogs.

Between the church, the university, and just Fort Worth in general, we all know a lot of people who live in Trinity Terrace. In that way it would be welcoming. There’s a wide buffet of activities every day—Jean is looking forward to a patio jazz concert this weekend—but there are some people who hide in their apartments. I am so accustomed to my daytime solitude, I don’t know if I’d do that or not.

Any way you look at it, it was a lovely and informative evening. At one point when one of us said how much we enjoyed the elegant meal, Jean said it gets kind of routine. She, a good cook, is thinking about fixing more meals in her apartment. I meantime am counting my blessings because I think I have the perfect set-up. Close but not too close to one branch of my family, comfortable quarters, a great patio and small backyard—enough for Sophie—and a place to work.

Retirement is different for everyone. I’ve found my niche, and so has Jean.

When are you going to quit writing?

 

One of my often overlooked books 
and the only collection of short stories I have
Available on Kindle for ninety-nine cents.

The question startled me. It came from my son’s friend, a man in his early fifties who retired two years ago. After a long minute, I replied, “I don’t think much about that.” I suppose turnabout is fair play because I had asked him what he was doing these days. My thought, which probably showed, was that fifty is far too young to bow out of the working world. His response was, “If I was working, I couldn’t do what I’m doing.” I didn’t pursue it, but I’ve thought a lot since about his question. When am I going to quite writing?

I’ve been writing since I was about eight and wrote my first short stories on a small pad of lined paper. In high school, I submitted a short story to Seventeen, but it came back so rapidly that, as the late Texas author Elmer Kelton would have said, “it must have had a rubber band on it.” When I was out of graduate school and home with babies, my song was, “I’d write if I knew what to write.” I did some free-lance pieces and even scored one in McCall’s about adoption. My first novel was published as young-adult fiction in 1978 and for too many years I was pigeon-holed as a y/a author.

In 2010 I retired as director of TCU Press. Over my working years I had produced a fairly respectable body of work in terms of quantity if not quality. I wrote fiction and nonfiction for adults and young adults, book reviews, a couple of columns with short runs, books for school libraries, short stories. I wrote whatever would pay. I didn’t really retire eleven years ago—I just sort of switched focus and became a full-time author.

It didn’t take long to establish a routine that still shapes my days—I work at my desk from about eight until around two. Then it’s nap time and my real working day is pretty much over. In the late afternoon, I play on social media and frequently cook dinner for my family. After dinner, I may read, write a blog, or just explore on the computer. It’s a daily routine that makes me happy.

I write because I cannot not write. Writing, they tell us, is a business, and we must treat it as such. But it is to me more than a job. It’s a way of life. It’s not only what I do but who I am. No, I never made the bestseller lists and truth be told all I earned was “walking around money,” but I have people who write me that they enjoyed my books, countless notes from schoolchildren, enough feedback to make me feel that I am contributing something to the world (that’s something I worry about a lot). Writing gives me purpose in life (raising four kids definitely did that too! I have always said my tombstone should read that I was a mother, an author, and a publisher—in that order.).

I have enough projects on my desk and in my mind to keep me busy for two or three years. Whenever I get near the point of wondering, “What shall I write next,” I revert to worrying about a memoir. I have lots of stories to tell, but sometimes I think I’m overwhelmed by the idea of organizing them. There are days when I think I’ll cherry pick from blogs I’ve done over the past fifteen years and compile them into a memoir. But then I’d have to choose a theme—personal life and children, writing, cooking?

I suppose the day will come when the words I put on paper don’t make sense—or at least don’t carry as much impact as I hope they do now. And I may well be too tired to sit at a desk for six hours. I already notice that I am much less driven than I was ten years ago, and I think not writing will come as a slow progression rather than a sudden stop on a pre-announced day. But I don’t spend much time thinking about it. I’ve got writing to do.

Figuring out retirement

The kidnapping crew wakening Jacob for breakfast

Yesterday started out rainy, wet, and gray—a perfect day to linger in bed, read a book and be lazy. Of course for Jordan and Jacob, it started with a bang at 7 a.m. when several of Jacob’s friends came to kidnap him for a breakfast birthday party. One brave mother took 18 fifth-grade boys to Ol’ South. Jacob reported sleepily later in the morning that it was fun, but the most fun was being so rudely awakened.

The day turned sunny, so rain and gloom weren’t any longer excuses for malingering. I did some desk work, getting two Kelly O’Connell Mysteries posted to several e-book platforms—Danger comes Home and Deception in Strange Places.. But somewhere along the line, today or yesterday, it occurred to me that I have made some momentous changes in my life.

Not just the move to the cottage, though they may all be associated. But I let go of the notion that I had to labor under deadlines to produce three mysteries a year, and I decided to focus on a memoir. I’m still exploring that, but to me, you don’t sit down and write, “I was born in….” Pieces of my memoir come to me, and I write about them, but I don’t worry if none come to the front of my mind for a few days..

The big benefit of all this is that I have now given myself permission to read. All my life, reading has been my greatest pleasure, but I always felt guilty taking time for pleasure. Talk about a Puritan work ethic. But when I had deadlines, etc., I was focused on them and rarely stole time for reading, let alone the relaxed kind of reading I like to do.

Susan Wittig Albert banished my guilt. Reading, she said, is part of our work. So now I’m happily reading Pancakes in Paris, by Craig Carlson, founder of threerestaurant Breakfast in America diners in Paris. Talk about overcoming a dysfunctional childhood and jumping into the entrepreneurial role! After that, I intend to read The Mercer Girls, about young women brought to Seattle in the early 20^th century to bring culture to that city. Mercer was the gentleman in charge of this venture.

With my new approach to life, I find myself more relaxed. If I wake and want to lounger in bed, I do that—I doze, I think about projects, I play with the dog. I’m less impatient with Jacob, and I enjoy the visits of company more because my mind is not always rushing ahead to a new project.

How much of this is due to the cottage? I have no idea? After seven years though, I think it’s time I figured out retirement—and maybe I’ve done it.

What is the core of your life?

I read somewhere recently that we make a mistake by letting our job be the core of who we really are—I think it was by food critic/food writer Ruth Reichel whose works I devour. She discovered, after the abrupt dissolution of Gourmet Magazine, which she edited, that for a time she didn’t know who she was. Without her job, what was she to do?

I didn’t retire until well into my seventies for much the same reason. I worried about waking up and thinking, in a panic, “What will I do today?” Unpleasant circumstances—okay, call a spade a spade—personality conflicts drove me from a job that I loved, made it so unbearable that I was having anxiety attacks daily.

My brother once said that I continually reinvented myself—through divorce, the empty nest, all those major life marks—and that’s what I did with retirement. I made myself into a prolific mystery writer, kept myself busy 24/7—well not quite. I do enjoy a good night’s sleep. But I was for a brief few years producing three books a year.

I have mixed feelings about this. I think my continuing involvement in the writing and specifically mystery worlds has kept my mind active and young (right now my body doesn’t seem to be cooperating but I hope that will get better). It would be disaster for me to spend das watching TV: reading would be better but much as I love to read, I couldn’t do it all day every day. No, writing has given me a reason to get up and move on with the day.

On the other hand, I don’t think writing is the core of who I am. I think at heart I’m a mom and grandmom. I used to always say I wanted my obituary to read, in this order, that I was a mom, a writer, and a publisher. I’ve always known how important my family is to me, but in recent months, when some health problems reared their heads, I’ve realized even more how important that is to me. My children’s care, support, and love has kept me optimistic, involved in improving my health. Writing can’t do that.

So, yes, I wake up every morning, anxious to get to my computer…and sometimes I wonder if my unwillingness to do household chores, etc., is simply an unfortunate computer addiction. But it keeps me in touch with the world. So I think I’ve figured out it’s not the core of who I really am, but it’s an important part.

Being a mother, a family member, is the core. And, hurray! My oldest daughter just told me tonight they’ll be here Friday for supper and to spend the night. The change in me? I’m not rushing to plan a meal—we’ll go out or bring something in. You know what? I’m happy with who I am, don’t mind I’m not a New York Times best-selling author. I had dinner plans Friday night, but I willingly cancelled them to be with family. That’s what matters.

Totaling up the day—or being compulsive

Do you ever feel the need to sum up your day, figure out what you’ve accomplished? I feel that way all the time. Today would get a medium—I’d been calling a doctor’s office for days with no answer, so today I went out there. Seems they’d changed their phone number but had not notified any patients. Cancelled my upcoming appointment—but that’s another subject. Did a fairly big grocery shopping and got new ink cartridges to have on hand since I replaced them all last night. I’d been fighting with my printer—and losing. It told me low ink, then it told me damaged cartridge, counterfeit cartridge, and previously used cartridge. Finally when I got them all replaced, it seemed content and purred away, but I want to have more on hand for the next time it pitches a fit. Ink cartridges are not cheap…and my printer requires five or six.

Came home and sorted out all the papers from the signing last night—my dining table was lined with different piles of paper. Fortunately that was easy to deal with. Tonight I have to tally up. And then it’s a quiet, early evening with a book—I am so sleepy and tired. Had an early dinner with a friend—but neither of us had much appetite nor much to talk about.  Can’t blame it on the weather—it was a beautiful day, though I could feel the cool in the air.

I wonder about this compulsion to feel I’ve accomplished something every day. What would happen if there was a day I did nothing but watch TV (not my style—it would bore me) or read a book or frittered away the day with lunch with friends and a long nap? (I’m not a good shopper, so that too would bore me.) I doubt the world would end. Hey, I’m retired. I should do those things. And yet, I always feel the need to have meaningful work—mostly on my desk, as I ignore that laundry that should be done and the like.

I think I lovingly blame my father, who early on instilled a work ethic in me. Thanks, Dad, but now I’m trying to overcome it. At the same time I find myself wanting to instill it in grandchildren—homework before TV, etc. My oldest son got the work ethic so strongly that it worries me—he’s a workaholic; some of the other can fritter away hours. Reminds me of the time I was visiting my oldest daughter and at eight o’clock I asked what was for dinner. “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” she replied, which sent me scurrying to the cupboard and freezer to cobble together spaghetti sauce. I’d have had the menu in my mind for days.

Some habits die hard, but I’m trying.

The week in retrospect

I'm laughing at myself. I've cooked supper for four tonight--meatloaf, oven fried potatoes with rosemary, broccoli, marinated asparagus, and a blue cheese salad. Cooking was the focus of my day--a big deal! I realized though that for years I worked, wrote and cooked for four teenagers every night. It wasn't a big deal. Yes, I do cook fancy dinners for company now, but this is just an ordinary family meal and I should have done it without a thought. I also did manage lunch with a friend, a trip to the grocery, a bit of reading and a nap. This is a terrible thing for an author to say, but I'm not in the mood for writing. Guess what I did this week has to simmer in my brain.
I did make progress this week--I have 5500 words on the second Oak Grove novel, I've contracted to with a reader to do an audio version of my short story collection, the neighborhood newsletter is out the door, I only have one blog pending for someone else. And several of my personal blogs were written for me--by contributors to the Small Town Charm, Love and Mystery boxed set who were my guests.
The boxed set has been a learning experience. I've never had a book in a set before, and I know there's come controversy over them. Some writers believe it amounts to selling your book too cheaply, but eight books are 99 cents--some romance (sweet not sexy), some mystery, some funny, some serious. My publisher must have had great success with these before to keep doing them. We've been blogging and sharing on Facebook and Twitter, and if there's a person left who doesn't know about this set, I'm surprised.
I'm also scheduled autograph parties for what I consider my "big" book--The Perfect Coed, first in the Oak Grove Mysteries from Alter Ego Publishing (yeah, you can figure out who that is!). Watch for details in the next couple of weeks, and if you're in Fort Worth, mark your calendar--Saturday, Sept. 20, from 7:00-9:00 a.m. (that's right, early morning) and 5:00-9:00 p.m. Monday Sept. 22. Both at the Old Neighborhood Grill.
So it's been a busy week, including several lunches and dinners with friends, and tonight I'm going to enjoy dinner with my family and reading Loved Honor More by Sharon Wildwind. Halfway through and enjoying it.
Friends were talking the other night about retirement and suggested that too many people retire and want to talk about their past careers. They don't have a life in the present. A big compliment for me when they said I'm living in the present, not the past, with my writing, my family, my friends. Boy am I! Keeps me busy.
.

Looking at a previous life

A good friend came to visit and spend the night last night. Gayla is the marketing director of Texas A&M University Press, and we worked together and have been close friends for years. She had an event in Fort Worth last night, so it was ten before she got to the house...and midnight before we put away the wine and went to sleep. We caught up on families and all kinds of doings and started all over again with coffee on the deck followed by a lazy, late breakfast at the Old Neighborhood Grill.
Much of the talk was trade talk--about publishing, presses, people we knew professionally. It was good to hear about people I worked with and liked, but I was surprised at how removed I felt from that world and all the workaday problems of academic publishing. I've been retired three or four years (we couldn't decide which) but I've moved into a different world--still in publishing, but different--and I wouldn't go back for anything, much as I loved my work for thirty years. In truth, I love my life these days even more.
Because Gayla is a dog lover, Sophie was in heaven. Gayla said during the night (she's a light sleeper) Sophie would check on her and then run to check on me. We talked a lot about Gayla's dogs--the late and gorgeous Eppi, a mahogany collie that I was responsible for her getting. She told me she wanted  a dog; someone in my neighborhood knew of a collie that needed a home, and I sent the information to Gayla. She wrote to ask if I would "interview" the dog. Have you ever interviewed a dog? She had been shaved for the summer, so I couldn't tell what a beauty she would turn out to be but she seemed sweet and friendly. End of interview. Gayla came from College Station to get her and fell in love. Eppi was seven or eight, but they had four or five good years together. Meantime, one of Gayla's neighbors died and left behind Jake, who looks like a border collie mix to me but is apparently many things including adorable but not border collie. Jake, like Sophie, is an affection hog.
The whole visit made me think how glad I am to have longtime friends--even if our worlds have moved in different directions, they in some ways remain the same and our affection for each other remains unchanged. Good days.

This, that, and a gullywasher

Cousins are your first and best friends forever!

For the second night in a row, the gods were bowling in the wee hours of the morning. Then came sheets of rain. About seven it cleared but remained dark, and just in time for the school rush across the street the heavens opened again. Jordan called for a big umbrella and I put it out; then she called wonderig what to do about her feet--she didnt want to spend the day with wet feet. She finally did what was for us a first: she let him out right by the door next to his classroom. Always the anxious grandmother, I asked if we should call and be sure he was in class. "Mom, I watched him go in the door, and then I watched to be sure no one carried him out." I suppose child-snatchers weren't out in the storm anyway.

This afternoon was my last day to pick Jacob up, and he's staying late, so I decided I had to do my yoga with him here. He suggested I do it in the front room so as not to disturb his TVwatching; I suggested he watch TV in my office so as not to disturb my yoga. That didn't please him, so he watched me do my yoga, imitated me some. When I was in the meditation phase at the end, he demanded, "Juju, are you doing yoga or are you just sleeping?" I'm going to miss him in the afternoons. Then again, maybe I won't have to watch any more Bigfoot videos.

I've been too social this week--Monday night playing catch-up from a weekend away, Tuesday night dinner with the neighbors at the Grill--a chunk out of the evening; Wed. night dinner with friends at a wine cafe--a bigger chunk out of the evening and my wallet both. Tonight I'm staying home, eating a BLT, and working. Was all ready to start tht next Kelly O'Connell novel, but I got final proofs for the third one today. Sigh. The weekend doesn't offer lots of work time. I imagine I'll be running errands, etc.

Retirement sure is fun!

The Week that Was

This has been the week that was--final edits, proofing a final draft, finding typos right and left, plus more major events like the death of my neighbor's mother--I devoted one day to cooking for that family. Then there was the book signing in Dallas, a luncheon speech (brief) today that was fun but took a chunk out of my day, my memoir class tonight, and I honestly can't remember what else. Tomorrow is the service for Susan's mother, and then I must make potato salad for 20-25 people--I'm a bit daunted by that task. And tonight I still have to empty the dishwasher, and early tomorrow start the laundry and run to Central Market. I feel like I'm on a treadmill.
Managed a half hour nap today between getting home from the luncheon and getting Jacob. Slept so soundly that I was really sleepy when the alarm went off. Got him home, fed him peanut butter and sparkling cider, homework done (didn't take long), and (Oh, guilty conscience) put him in front of the TV, his preferred place, and went back to bed until his mom came. She was in a hurry, so they rushed out the door--when I asked Jacob for a hug and a kiss, he said, "Kiss the top of my head." Indignantly, I said, "I will not." But they weren't out of the driveway until I was back in bed and stayed there until Linda came for supper.
Saturday is our big family reunion at my brother's ranch, Sunday brunch at Jordan's (I have to make a cinnamon pull-apart coffee cake), and then I guess they'll all head for home. I'll probably head for my bed.
Come Monday I'll tackle that growing "to be done" stack on my desk. Meantime, I look forward to the weekend so much. Just wish I didn't feel like my motor is running too fast. The hectic life is not for me!