View from the cottage

The view from inside my house 
in the days when I had a houseful of littles.

I’ve been writing this blog now for seventeen years, a record which frankly astounds me. Way back in 2006 my daughter-in-law, Melanie, suggested I start a blog. Blogging was then fairly new, and I complained I had nothing to write about. “Yes, you do,” she replied. “Write about writing and cooking and grandmothering, the things you do. And call it Judy’s Stew, a stew of those things.” So that’s what happened. In those early days, I had no idea how to attach a photo, so I would write a post, send it to my computer at work, and have Melinda, the production manager, add the photo and post it. I’ve gotten a lot better since those days, thank goodness. And over the years, the number of people who read my blog and sometimes respond has grown steadily. You may never know how grateful I am to you for letting me share my thoughts and doings, some serious, a lot silly. Blogging is my form of journaling.

Six years ago, I moved into the cottage—I cannot believe it’s been that long. But I immediately recognized that my view of the world, sheltered in the back of the property, was distinctly different. And I wanted to rename the blog, “View from the Cottage.” I was discouraged from that by wiser heads, but I still keep old posts in a file with that title.

Today I was struck again by the difference in my view. As long as I lived in the main house, one of my great pleasures was to sit on the porch and watch the schoolchildren arrive in the morning for the elementary school across the street and leave in the afternoon. For six of those years, Jacob was one of those children. He stopped a my house each morning for a hug, and, most of the time, I was the one who walked across the street to get him at three o’clock (wreaked havoc on my nap time!). These days, my view of the street and the school is obstructed.

Ever since Jacob’s catalytic converter was stolen, the Burtons have parked three cars inside the electric gate—my VW which Jordan drives, Christian’s Lexus, and Jacob’s van (I have been chastised for calling it a van—it is a Toyota Sequoia, but it looks a lot like the van I drove in the late seventies). I can see around the two cars, but not Jacob’s, so my view is of a tiny sliver through an iron gate. And only if I go to the kitchen window. From my desk, I cannot see the street.

This morning was half-price day during spring break at the zoo, a day when our neighborhood is notoriously brought to its knees by zoogoers and lines of cars parked on both sides of the street, and others in a long line waiting to get to the zoo. It’s frustrating and dangerous—emergency vehicles couldn’t get in if they had to. This year new extreme measures have been instituted, and I wanted to see if they were working. I wanted to look out and see if there were bumper-to-bumper cars on the street. But I couldn’t see.

I mentioned the other day that a new building has gone up, unnoticed by me, on the neighbor’s property behind me and one lot over. I kept waiting to tell Jordan about it, but when I did, she said, “I know. I see it every day.” When Jamie and I went to the grocery Monday, we both saw it, looming over the single-story garage next door, and were amazed. Jordan made me realize it was clearly visible all along—except from my limited view from the cottage. I had wondered for weeks why I heard so much hammering—including a nail gun that seemed to ratchet up just when I wanted to nap. Now I know.

But if my view is limited, it also has advantages. You know those tacky people who leave Christmas lights up all year? Count me as one. When Mary Dulle moved, she gifted us with a live tree, about four feet tall, strung with Christmas lights. Now, in March, it still shines brightly outside my French doors. And one year Jordan bought a light that throws tiny specks of green lights on the wall of the neighbor’s casita (guest house). I love it.

When the yard is in bloom, I have a wonderful view from my desk. Last year, the pentas were pitiful, but most years they are lush and gorgeous, and in fall bright yellow mums line the front edge of the deck. This year, my new native plant bed is showing great signs of growth, and I am anxious to see it when it’s had time to fill out. It’s also showing great signs of weeds.

This morning I saw that June Bug, the youngest of the Burtons’ two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, was walking better. Several years ago, she was given months to live, but she defied predictions. Not without several lapses when we thought for sure she was going. Somehow, she rallied. This past weekend, her hind legs gave out on her until she was literally on her last legs—the dogsitter had to hold her up so she could pee. We thought it was the Rainbow Bridge for Junie. But this morning, I watched fascinated as she walked almost straight down the sidewalk. Marvelous recovery. We are calling her Kitty from now on.

Such is the view from my cottage—limited but oh so rewarding.

View from my desk window

 

 

 

 

 

 

Watching Junie walk better

A blog for a day with nothing much to say

I love finding new words, so here are two to increase your vocabulary:

Ever feel like tearing your hair out? There’s a word for that: trichotillomania. And here’s a word that I think is appropriate for so much around us: jackasseries—the actions of jackasses.

Which brings me to a topic that has been much on my mind and was a major point of discussion at happy hour tonight, with a surgeon chiming in: mask wearing for kids in schools. I have five grandkids going to public school in Texas this fall, and I am indignant, furious, beyond angry at Governor Abbott’s decree (as though he were king) that schools cannot mandate masks. I know teenagers well enough to know that if other kids in the classroom aren’t wearing masks, they won’t either. If they were mandated, no problem. Most would comply, and those that didn’t would be disciplined accordingly. It’s not rocket science, Greg—it’s logical medical science, and if you put your mind to it, instead of concentrating on your political career, you’d see that.

Would you believe I have two granddaughters out of high school? One recently graduated from Colorado University and I’m not sure what she’ll do this year—she’s contemplating a career in nursing. The other, her sister, is off to UCLA and said to me this weekend, “Juju, when you see me next, I’ll be a California girl.” Ha! I told her not to get carried away with the idea, but the truth is she will fit in California perfectly, and like her Colorado sister, I’m afraid she’ll never come back to Texas for more than an occasional brief visit.

But I digress. I am worried about the remaining five: they are all old enough to be vaccinated, thank goodness, but as the current surge continues, I’m afraid we’ll be back to quarantine conditions. This will hamper both their educational and social experiences, and I worry about it a lot. The FWISD, where Jacob is enrolled, reported a major drop in scholastic achievement after last year’s remote schooling. This year, so far, all the kids have to be present in the classroom, but there can be no mask requirement.

Blessings on the Houston mayor who has issued a mask mandate in defiance of Governor Abbott. Let’s see what the guv does about that.

I do realize there are other things going on in the world at large—like the Olympics, and three cheers for Simone Biles who returned to win a bronze today. I saw someplace where she said, “I had to go out there for me.” Best reason ever.

There are also things going on in my small, constricted world. Like I wrote another thousand-plus words today on the novel-in-progress and can suddenly see how it’s going to work out. A criticism I’ve heard of several of my mysteries is that the ending seems rushed, so I’m trying hard to avoid that. But I can see the plot structure—and, for me, a pantser who never outlines, that’s a great plus. What I do, often, after a day of writing is make notes on what it’s occurred to me will happen next.

Tonight neighbors came for happy hour—they had been to El Paso with their four children this weekend for the first communion of their third child, a daughter. Having lived in El Paso for many years, they were full of stories of reunions and good times. Jordan and I on the other hand shared stories of our weekend in Austin. So it was jolly—until we got to the subject of masks.

Jordan had said we would have dinner on our own tonight, so I ordered Dover sole with yesterday’s Central Market order. Cooked it tonight, and guess who ate half with me—Miss Jordan. Jacob, who had his second Covid vaccine yesterday, was asleep, and Christian was at a happy hour. Fish was good and will be the subject of my Gourmet blog this Thursday. Sort of all things fish because I have lots of fishy stories.

But tonight—back to that Diane Mott Davidson mystery that I haven’t gotten to for almost a week. Good times ahead, folks. Wear your masks and be happy.

Stormy weather

 

Where is Lena Horne when we need her? Supposedly we had stormy weather last night, though I didn’t hear it. I do know we had rain, and now we are due a few days of respite before the next round of storms hits. It was one year ago today that the Central Texas town of Wimberley flooded so badly, sweeping homes and people away. Today, southern Texas is getting it again with record amounts of rain in the Houston area and flooding in Austin. My oldest son in Tomball reported that some of the school children had to spend the night at the school---they couldn’t get home, and their parents couldn’t get to them.

Colin reported it was so bad he came home mid-day yesterday and had to find this road and that to avoid water—you know the world is ending when Colin comes home early from work. Their lake is as high as he’s ever seen it, but I want pictures—he assures me the house is well away from it, but they’ve only lived there two years. How does he know how high it can get? It is probably flooding the stables next door, which means the water is badly polluted. He  will tell you I’m doing what I do best—worrying about my children.

I wonder when Texans will learn the lesson about not driving into standing water. We hear it preached every spring—and every spring people are lost because they thought they could drive through that puddle. There have been several lives lost in the flooded part of the state, and several high-water rescues. Colin and his family were going out around noon to have lunch and do errands, and I heard myself repeat it: Don’t drive into standing water. It didn’t earn me the exasperated sigh it should have—he is one well-rooted person with a lot of common sense, and I know he would never put his wife and kids in danger.

Meantime in soggy Fort Worth I spent the day inside at my computer, where I am perhaps happiest. I sit here working and think I can do anything. But when I got up to fix some lunch and put wet rags in the dryer, I had only energy enough for the lunch. Jordan came and made me a wonderful pasta salad for my supper—spinach noodles, mushrooms, hearts of palm, lots of butter and lemon. She knew I am getting tired of tuna (is there a title there? A song title: “Tired of Tuna” Maybe we could apply it to Tuna, Texas).

Although they didn’t go today, the Burtons have been busy with the Dean & DeLuca Golf Tournament (which we all call the Colonial); tomorrow they will  take Jacob, whose pretty much a fan of almost any sport. The other night I called him to my office, and he stood across the room, that bored stance and expression that says, “What do you want now?” I told him Baylor had fired Art Briles and Ken Starr, and he perked to attention, all nonchalance gone. Then he called his dad, and I didn’t hear much of the conversation except this line, “Yes, Dad, I know what rape is.” Oh my, what a world we live in.