Life goes on

 

Benji resting by my desk

If you asked me how I feel today, I would probably say sluggish. Maybe tired. I have bouts of energy and then periods of fatigue. I tell myself I’ve had two major blows within a little over a month—the loss of my only brother and last blood relative and the loss of the dog I’d loved for almost thirteen years. It’s neither sacrilegious nor silly to say that I am not weighing one against the other—both have been real blows. Most of my life I have been known for a sort of “carry on no matter what” attitude—that’s gotten me into trouble when I ignored some physical symptoms until they became major problems. I think maybe this time I am listening to my body. I sleep well part of the night and then toss and turn, but boy do I sleep soundly at naptime. I’ve been taking two naps—my usual afternoon one (I slept two and a half hours today) and another about 8:30 or 9:00 at night, after which I get up and work. It’s a schedule that seems to suit me for now. A couple of small medical problems are not helping my frame of mind—the malignant place on my scalp is healing and itches like fury, but of course I can’t scratch, I am hoping next week I’ll hear that I can stop putting Vaseline on it—who wants Vaseline combed into their hair? But I have weeks to go with the medicine that is intended to stimulate the immune system and kill cancer cells—and it is the real cause of the itching storm. Also next week, I have a swallow test which I dread less because I’m worried about the outcome than because I am worried about swallowing the barium. I’m sure they have techniques for helping queasy people, and I tell myself it will be over quickly. But it looms. So that’s my sad story.

On the positive side, today marks one week that Benji has been with us, and he’s done a remarkable job of adjusting. So, I would modestly say, have I. This week he is apparently feeling enough at home to be a bit naughty—yesterday morning I found one of my shoes in the doorway to the patio. I showed it to him while repeating “No!” in the sternest tone I could muster. He looked appropriately chastised, whatever that means. A few minutes later, Jordan came in carrying the other shoe which she had found in the back yard. Since my hip surgery and broken ankle, my feet are so fat and swollen that I don’t have the usual wardrobe of shoes—this was my only pair of black. Stretchy, wide, easy to get on. I am keeping the closet door closed. I also caught Benji digging at the base of one of my new plants of muhly grass, and that’s got to be a no-no. He frolics among the grass, and I tap on the window each time and call his name. He’s so good he comes running to see if I really want him.

But he does not beg for food, even when we have appetizers on the coffee table—Sophie would have decimated that in nothing flat. And he puts himself to bed in his crate about ten o’clock, and stays there quietly until I get up, usually about eight in the morning. He’s responsive to his name and seems eager to please. When he’s outside, he frequently comes to the doorway to check on me. And, though he is right now barking, he’s toned that down a lot. With his wild energy, he is like having a teenager in the house—you know if you can just wait through this period, there’s a great person in there. Adjustment is a slow process for both of us, and Benji is distracted by all the people who love and fuss over him bigtime—and then go away. I’m here for the 24-hour long haul. He  seems to understand that—he follows me to the bathroom, lies by my desk at night when I’m working. He’s going to be a good dog.

I had a spectacular kitchen fail last night that was also a great learning lesson. It taught me how to make a good red wine sauce for hamburger steak, and it also taught me a lesson I should know: don’t multi-task when cooking. I was making sirloin patties with red wine sauce, but I was also trying to finish up some computer work. And I wanted to make sure Jordan’s pattie was not pink in the middle, because she does not like pink meat. So I let the patties brown too long, but gosh they had a nice crisp crust! Then the wine reduced about three times as fast as usual—it usually takes forever, especially if you watch it, but this time, I turned my back. Added the beef broth and it did the same thing, so by the time we served, there was little sauce. And the patties were surely not pink in the middle. Christian’s mom liked meat cooked to a fare-thee-well, so he once told me her salmon patties were like hockey pucks. He could have said the same thing about my patties last night, though he kept reassuring me they had a great flavor. I tried to steam one for lunch today and threw it out. I swear I’m going to try again next week—if I get it right, I’ll share what I did.

I have had my evening nap, and I’m feeling better, over my pity party. When I was young, my mom had migraines and would take to her bed for a day. But never longer. So I learned to say, “She’ll be all right tomorrow,” if someone asked about her. So that’s my motto tonight: I’ll be all right tomorrow. Thanks for letting me whine. Good night, you all. Good night, Benji!

Superbowl and thoughts on sleep

 

No, the two aren’t really connected, though I do find the Superbowl broadcast overwhelmingly noisy which tends to make me want to retreat to my bed. I am not a football fan, and it is immaterial to me which team wins—except this year I want the Chiefs to win simply because I’ve heard too much hype about Taylor and Travis and I want them to enjoy their moment. I think what they have right now is true love, the kind that lifts you off your feet and takes you to a new stratosphere. Some people never know that in their whole lives, so I‘m delighted for Travis and Taylor, Whether it lasts or not, let them have it now.

But the fact that much of the Superbowl makes me want to retreat to my bed reminds me that I’ve been thinking about sleep patterns and age lately. You know those obnoxious people who spring out of bed at six in the morning, alert, bright, and ready to take on the day? I used to be one of them. I always said I did my best work, writing, whatever in the morning. Not anymore.

And you know how teenagers can sleep until noon? I never could do that. My internal clock woke me at seven, and If I stayed in bed, I got a headache, tossed and turned, and found it easier to get up rather than pretend I was sleeping late. Not anymore.

My internal clock has shifted. It happened gradually, but these days I find myself up and working at my computer until midnight. And I can happily sleep until nine in the morning—once in a while, nine-thirty, though I haven’t made it to noon yet. Sophie gets me up at seven or seven-thirty for her breakfast, but I can go back to bed and go sound asleep until she wakes me again for her second breakfast (the two-step breakfast is another subject and has to do with her diabetes).

Then there are naps. I have always been a napper, grew up in a family where everyone napped, made my children nap until they were way beyond the point where most kids take naps. I would tell them to take a “body rest” if they didn’t sleep. But like most responsible adults, I had a nine-to-five job and couldn’t nap during the week. On the weekends, it was an indulgence. But now that I’m retired, it has become a necessity. I get unbearably sleepy about after lunch, and I’m good for a nap of anywhere from one to two hours. Some days I sleep deeply, with wild dreams (I’m one of those who often remember dreams, at least for a while); other timrd I think I’m not sleeping but realize when I get up that I’ve been off somewhere else. More frequently these days, waking up to reality is difficult—I’m grumpy. Yesterday I’d had a good and productive morning but woke from my nap with the feeling that I was sick somehow. I wasn’t. It just took me a while to get back to myself. That’s a new thing too. Please note: don’t call me between about one-thirty and four-thirty. Give me a bit of flexibility

And then there are what a friend calls pajama days—those days when all you want to do is go back to bed. They don’t happen often, but when they do, I give in to them. I may nap off and on all day. It seems to be what my body needs. I’m not sick, not sad, not depressed—just sleepy. I never think I can plead I’m tired or overworked because mine is not a demanding daily schedule.

The National Institute on Aging says the elderly (isn’t it strange to apply that term to yourself?) need the same amount of sleep—seven to nine hours—and lists causes for lack of sleep, from pain to medications, and results—irritability, memory loss, more falls. Other sites say the elderly spend more time in bed but experience a deterioration in quantity and quality of sleep—I can testify to that because I wake frequently during the night. The result, the National Library of Medicine says, is more daytime napping, on purpose and unintentionally. But the Institute on Aging refers to “senior fatigue,” which they say is a real thing—and begins in your thirties. Makes me think of my mom. I clearly remember one day when we were in the garage and she was going to drive me to school. ‘I wake up wondering how soon I can go back to bed,” she said, and she must have been in her fifties. Strange how moments like that stay forever clear in one’s memory.

My own conclusion is that the changes I’m experiencing are a normal part of aging, and I am blessed to only occasionally suffer from insomnia. Most of the time I sleep deeply and satisfyingly—and sometimes with wonderful dreams that I am reluctant to leave.

Sweet dreams—and how well do you sleep?

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.

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.

 

 

Circadian rhythms, or my clock is broken

 

Cold salmon supper

What to have on Saturday night when you’re home alone for dinner: cold canned salmon with seasoned crème fraiche (lemon and horseradish), cherry tomatoes, and baby cucumbers. I would have added an avocado but I let it sit too long and it went bad. You could add a hard boiled egg to it, or maybe some green beans. I just used what I had. This was my mom’s favorite summertime supper, though now I’m trying to remember if she served it to Dad or saved it for nights when he wasn’t home. Daddy was an Anglophile, strictly a beef (or lamb) and potatoes man. Fish not so much.

I must admit I had a chance to go to Joe T.’s for dinner tonight. Jordan and Christian were going with two couples I’m fond of (both boys she went to school with from middle school on—it tickles me that their social life is still so filled with Jordan’s high school friends). At any rate, I debated: if I have an opportunity to go out and don’t take it, I feel guilty for not putting forth the effort, for daily becoming more reclusive in my cottage. On the other hand, I’ve just been to Joe T.’s and while a bean chalupa and sitting on the patio sounded good, I didn’t want to have to wash my hair, dress in real clothes, get there and wish I was at home. And I had lots to do on my desk.

Besides, my Circadian rhythms are out of whack. Just in case you don’t know, those are the rhythms that regulate daily life. Think of them as your internal clock, although this twenty-four hour cycle is something we share with plants and animals. For humans, we think of this clock in terms of sleep. The average adult needs seven to nine hours of sleep a night, and some authorities says it is most important to get sleep between ten at night and two in the morning.

The most common circadian rhythm disorder is delayed sleep/wake. If you go to bed later than you are used to, you may find it hard to wake up in the morning. In a reverse pattern, you may fall asleep early, like six p.m., and wake at two in the morning. Your sleep patterns are mostly governed by light and dark but also by melatonin in your system and by social behavior and physical activity. Circadian rhythm disorders may be caused by changes in your shift at work, brain injury, even jet lag.

What I’ve noticed in myself lately is a tendency to work late into the night—often getting to bed just before midnight—and sleep later in the morning. That’s a complete reversal for me, because I was always up early and usually asleep by ten. Even as a teen, when all my friends were sleeping till noon, I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at eight in the morning. Now, I thought the change was due to aging, but as I read about circadian rhythms, it may be due to a lack of physical activity. Dependent on a walker, I don’t get much exercise, and exercise is one of the clues by which your internal clock cues your body.

I think there’s another factor though—and it’s my dog. Last night, Sophie had to go out at three and again at four (she too is aging). I usually don’t have any trouble going back to sleep after these interruptions or if I wake myself to go to the bathroom. But they do interrupt my sleep pattern. And this morning I had to get up at six-thirty and feed Sophie, so she could have her insulin shot at seven when the dogsitter came. (Explanation: we have decided for various reasons that I will not give her a shot—the reasons range from the tremor in my left hand to letting her associate me with a needle; as it is, she is shunning me right now because I put drops in her ears, and you know how painful that is—NOT). So I was up from 6:30 until about 7:15, but with the distinct feeling that I hadn’t gotten my sleep out. So I went back to sleep until about 8:45. But all day I still felt that lack of sleep (did the overcast day have anything to do with it?). By noon, I was nearly asleep at my desk, but when I went to nap at two, I wasn’t sleepy. Go figure!

This is a daily problem for me, because Sophie usually wakes me at seven for her breakfast and to go outside, and I almost always feel that I haven’t gotten my sleep out. I usually go back to bed for what some call second sleep, and I find myself really anticipating that bit of deep sleep.

The study of circadian rhythms is called chronobiology. I’m convinced, however, that those who study these rhythms and disorders have not met Sophie nor taken her determination into account.

I bet fireworks can also cause disruption. Don’t forget to keep your pets—and any sensitive friends or family—safe during the holiday weekend. Happy Fourth!

Scaring myself and an impromptu dinner

 

Curried chicken salad
before running it under broiler to melt cheese

Last night I had a scary experience that brought home to me the isolation of living alone in your eighties. I am not given to nightmares, and I don’t think that is what happened. But I woke up slightly before four in the morning and was suddenly convinced that I could not roll over in bed to get up. In retrospect, I think maybe I was so soundly asleep and woke so suddenly that I somehow hadn’t “collected” myself. But I remember thinking that I must not panic and then, inch by inch struggling to turn over. I sleep, out of deep habit, on my left side, with my back to the cottage.

I don’t know if you’ve ever thought about how you get out of bed, but today I can tell you that I swing my legs over to the right and that momentum carries my body until I find myself sitting on the edge of the bed. Some time ago I learned of a physician’s advice to sit a bit rather than springing right up, and that made sense to me, so I do that. The advice also included lying there a minute when you wake up to adjust—I don’t do that all the time, and that may be where I got in trouble last night. Anyway, after that scary moment, there I was sitting on the edge of the bed, just like any other night. I went to the bathroom, came back and got in bed, and spent the next hour getting in and out of bed just to prove to myself I could do it. Four o’clock in the morning is not a good time for rational thoughts!

But a lot of things beyond the moment scared me—or at least worried me. If I couldn’t turn over, I couldn’t get to my phone which is always on the seat of my walker. I couldn’t reach to bang my Apple watch against something hard and alert the alarm system. I was just there. Naturally I thought of all the horror stories I know: a friend who fell out of bed and lay there for twenty-four hours before her son realized that she wasn’t answering her phone—she was safely locked into her house, which meant fireman had to be called to break in. Ironically she fell right by her telephone stand and the telephone was just above her, but she never thought to pull it down and call for help. Another friend told me her mother had pretty much the same experience—my friend wished her mom had had some sort of alarm to call for help but instead lay on the floor or a ong time. A friend of my brother fell and couldn’t get up—his wife was out of town and he lay there for twenty-four hours until she came home. The medical consequences have been long-lasting.

I realize the time may come when I cannot get into bed by myself, let alone get out, and I want to be proactive about this. But I’m not sure how. In the meantime, my panic died down in the cold light of day, and I was still in bed, making up for lost sleep, when Jordan came to give Sophie her insulin shot. I’m comfortable about going to sleep tonight, but I’m also aware I want to find a future plan.

As if to counteract the above, which to me had a lot to do with aging, I proved myself still pretty capable tonight. Christian and I had agreed on some menus—he was to fix stir fry tonight (I had gotten some interesting vegetables—baby corns, baby bok choy, matchstick carrots, bean sprouts, etc. But Christian had to go deal with the tire shop that was installing two new tires on Jacob’s SUV—the Burtons have had a rash of flat tires all at once, so much so that Jordan commented tonight that it’s really bad when you greet the tow truck driver as an old friend. “Hey, hi! How are you?”

So Christian and I traded—I had ingredients for a curried chicken salad with a crispy potato chip/cheese topping. I would fix that tonight, and he’ll do the stir fry tomorrow night, which is great because that’s when Mary Dulle comes for happy hour. So I rushed around, poached the chicken, cut up an enormous amount of celery, and got the chicken salad made by six-thirty. Thing is it has to be cold, so I shoved it into the fridge and cooked some asparagus that really needed to be eaten. Close to seven-thirty, we pulled the salad out, topped it with the cheese and chip mixture and ran it under the broiler. You really need CorningWare to do this! Recipe maybe coming in Thursday’s Gourmet blog.

But all was worth it when Christian took seconds and said, “Great dinner for spur of the moment.”

So tonight, I’ll hope to sleep the night through and not scare myself. Hope you do too.

Taking a day out

 

I read the other day that if you drink chardonnay (I do), you are becoming your mother. If you put ice in your chardonnay (I don’t), you are your mother. In truth, if someone told me I was becoming my mother, I would take it as a great compliment.

Today I became my mother. When I was young, Mom had migraines, and she would periodically take to her bed for a day. If someone said, “How is your mother?” or “I hope your mother is better,” I would cheerfully respond, “Oh, she’ll be all right tomorrow.” And she always was. Her days out were always one-day affairs.

I took a day out today. I didn’t sleep well last night and woke determined to feed Sophie and go back to bed. So I got up three times to deal with Sophie matters and ultimately slept until 9:30, unheard of for me., But by 11:30, I was exhausted and my bed was calling to me. Sophie and I essentially slept the day away. I have a friend who calls these “pajama days,” and says we all need one every so often.

Tonight, it is 8:30 and my bed is calling again, but Soph has other ideas. But I still don’t feel I’ve got all my sleep out. There’s been a lot of stress in our household/compound (two households=a compound?) what with the death of Christian’s mom, the planning for various memorial services, my brother’s illness, and the illness of various friends, including the death of one longtime friend. As someone said to me today, the only bright spot is that Sophie is happy, healthy, and active.

Who knows why I was so tired today—maybe it was nothing more than something I ate yesterday. At any rate, like my mother, I will be better tomorrow.

Jean came for supper tonight. I had planned a lovely supper—white bean soup with pickled celery and an Italian panzanella (bread) salad. Instead, she picked up supper at Jason’s Deli—a loaded baked potato for me and a Mediterranean salad for her. They were good, but my supper would have been better. Oh well tomorrow is another day.

See you tomorrow.

 

Singing the blues

 

This dismal, damp day is a perfect reflection of the way I feel. I don’t know how long it’s been since I had a good, old-fashioned common cold, but one of the upper respiratory type has hit me. For several days I passed it off as allergies, but clearly it is not. I’m coughing, my throat feels tight, and I’m hoarse—I won’t get any more clinical than that. I was emailing with Sue, my Canadian daughter, this morning, and she wrote, “How in the world did you catch cold? You never go anywhere?” That startled me. Do you have to go somewhere? I actually have been out a couple of times, and people come to see me. And who knows how you catch cold? Maybe it’s just airborne. I’m not sure scientists know. It just happens, and then you have to live with it for a week or ten days.

Last night for our regular Tuesday night happy hour we had “Hot Dog Happy Hour.” Mary’s husband doesn’t eat hot dogs, and good German girl that she is, she occasionally craves a hot dog with relish and kraut. Always a good meal to me, so Jordan served us and included some Bush’s Original Baked Beans. A great meal, but hallway through I couldn’t eat. I think it was my cold. Took a moment and finished most of my dinner, but the episode upset me.

Then I had an angry phone call about the neighborhood newsletter I edit. I am really upset with myself that I ended up raising my voice in an effort to stop my critic from talking over me. Didn’t help and worsened my hoarseness and sore throat. Looking back, I should have put the phone on speaker, let her rave, and ignored it. But I was blindsided by the call. Next time!

Unfortunately I took those two incidents to bed with me and dreamt about them. But I slept ten and a half hours which I figure I needed. Sleep for me is never continuous—I am up to use the restroom (a curse of aging, I think) and in the wee hours, up to feed Sophie, then up an hour later to let her out. But still, I had plenty of good long sleep.

This morning I cancelled my dinner plans, a good move since I feel lethargic, and my cough is now to the point where it might alarm other restaurant patrons. I actually did a lot of work this morning, but then took a long nap. When Sophie first woke me, I thought I had written a long blog, but the details blurred as I got going.

My dream blog had to do with a company re-introducing Dorothy Gray cologne—you have to be really old to remember that, but it was the fragrance my mother always wore. In an effort to imitate that, I have worn Jean Naté for years—nothing else, just the one scent. Once in a car going who knows where one of my granddaughters held my hand and then said, “You smell like your house.” “Maybe,” I suggested, “my house smells like me.” The idea must have intrigued me because the rest of the dream had to do with a log cabin that smelled like Dorothy Gray.

At lunchtime I got ambitious and made myself some chicken salad, though I ate very little. I’m in the mood for “invalid food” though not quite to the point of my mom’s milk toast. Her crackers and butter in milk were pretty good, though, and my stock favorite was a can of tomatoes (they didn’t come diced in the day, and in my childhood, they were often home canned) with crushed saltines and lots of butter. But tonight, I think a “Tom Sawyer”—poached egg on a raft of cheddar cheese and toast. What’s your favorite comfort food?

Nostalgia on the Fourth

Probably a sign of aging, but holidays now seem to call forth memories of holidays past. Tonight, for instance, I am thinking of my teen years, when the Fourth always meant the stock car races at Soldiers’ Field in Chicago, followed by what was then the most magnificent fireworks display we could imagine—today it would seem tame. I’m not sure, but I think I must have gone with a well-chaperoned church group because I can’t imagine my parents allowing such an outing otherwise.

And then there was the year in the early ‘80s that my shirttail brother and I took my children to the Lancaster Bridge in Fort Worth. Midway through the show I had a panic attack—from realizing how high off the ground we were (heights are a big thing for me)—and it turned out to be catching. Uncle Bob panicked too, and my kids, still very young, had to lead these two doddering adults off the bridge.

One of my best memories was the time friends and I went to the historic Oakwood Cemetery (I belonged to the North Fort Worth Historical Society which sponsored the event). We sat in folding chairs on the riverbank and had the best view of the city display.

There were nights in someone’s back yard when I was afraid a child would lose an eye to a sparkler and nights watching from the twelfth floor of the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine, when my ex as still a faculty member and still with us. Nights at Colonial Country Club, when the fireworks exploded right over us and made me think my heart had stopped

Now I’m content to stay home and hear the fireworks in the distance. Jean came over tonight, and we had the supper you must have—hot dogs (we both like ours with sauerkraut), beans (why did I only have vegetarian in the cupboard?), and potato salad that she made. Delicious. And patriotic.

I think it’s sad, though, that on this day when we celebrate our nation, I’m acutely aware of gun violence. Eight people were shot, many innocent bystanders, on an incident in a nearby neighborhood; a golf pro was shot on the course at a club in Georgia; twenty-plus shots were fired into the home of an Alabama state senator (apparently not politically motivated); and in South Carolina, two boys, ages eight and nine, were arrested for shooting and killing a farmer as he worked on his tractor. They were just randomly firing, apparently not thinking about consequences. What in heaven’s name are kids that age doing with rifles? Every day, it’s at least one shooting in our city, usually more. Folks, this is not what the Second Amendment meant at all. My neighbor, who is a gun aficionado and Second Amendment advocate, claims it means you can protect your home, not that you can randomly go out and shoot guns anywhere, anytime. Hmmm. Guess Governor Abbott needs to read the amendments again.

Nostalgia may come with age but so, I have decided, do altered sleep patterns. Last night about nine o’clock I got so sleepy I could hardly stand it, so I lay down for a quick nap. I woke from a sound sleep at 10:45, feeling refreshed and ready to do a day’s work. I didn’t quite do that, but it was 12:30 before I went back to bed. Now I’m wondering what will happen tonight, because it’s 8:30, and I’m feeling sleepy. Maybe fireworks will keep me awake. Sophie does not appear to be bothered by them at all.

My email program has started doing something spooky—it anticipates what I’m going to say and types it ahead of my fingers. Sometimes it’s right, sometimes not. What I’m afraid of is that I will change what I meant to say to fit what the computer thinks I should say. Yikes! I think it’s something called Smart Keys, but I have no idea how to turn it off. Technology is ahead of me again.

Good night, sweet folks. Enjoy the fireworks, be they near, far, or televised. And remember this can be a great country. We are, as President Biden says, at a crossroads, and it’s up to each and everyone of us to reclaim our country. Do not be afraid.

Resting on the Sabbath – maybe

Sundays always just “feel” different to me. Maybe it’s because even in quarantine I know I’m going to church. This morning, Jordan wanted to “attend” the nine o’clock service because she wanted to spend mid-day at a neighbor’s pool. So I was barely up and into my morning routine when we put everything on hold for church. Another inspiring service, with Russ Peterman’s theme of “What Now?” After Easter, what now? What lasting impact does the Easter miracle have on our lives?

This morning he talked about anxiety and said his family decided they didn’t yet have enough stress and anxiety in quarantine, so they adopted a border collie puppy. He showed clips, and she is adorable but energetic with both puppy playfulness and border collie unquenchable enthusiasm for life. The clip showed her deviling the family’s older dog—biting at her ear, her collar, her face. The older dog’s look, according to Dr. Peterman, said, “Are you just going to sit there and let her do this?”

I could identify because Sophie is half border collie. Now, at nine, she is more sedate but she was wildness on wheels as a puppy. Dr. Peterman said it was actually a good time for a puppy because everyone was home and could train her. I remembered that I didn’t get Sophie until I was retired and home 24/7 with her. And I remembered my  scratched and bitten arms. One Sunday Jordan was so embarrassed by them she urged me to wear long sleeves to church.

After church, I piddled. I decided I would not work. I would take a rest from my novel. So I dawdled on Facebvook and read the entirety of the New York Times Community Cooking page. Then the Sisters in Crime posts, and truly whatever. But I knew in the back of my mind that I was avoiding the novel because my mind was in turmoil about where it should go next.

So I reviewed the notes I had made, and almost before I knew it, I was writing. I didn’t add much but it got me off dead center, and I went back and plugged some holes in the plot consistency, added some motivation.

But when I took my usual afternoon nap, I couldn’t sleep because I was still writing that novel. Woke with notes of things I must plug in tomorrow. I fear I am at the point where the novel is with me night and day. When I told Jordan it was costing me sleep, she said that’s the time you take a vacation from it. She’s right, and I should have done it today.

So chalk up one more day of distancing. Twelve of Jacob’s friends went to lunch today, and he was uncertain what to tell them about why he didn’t go. Jordan suggested, “I didn’t go because I don’t want to kill my grandmother.” I appreciated that. Much as I don’t like the idea, I can see two years of mostly being quarantined. Infections and deaths are already spiking where re-opening is happening, and I look with horror at people shown on TV eating on patios, shopping, going to the beach—all without maks. But we are also hearing that some of the most adamant protestors—a pastor, a bar owner, etc..—who decried the isolation policy are dying. I’ll stay home, thank you, and I am grateful that my family is protecting me—and themselves.

Restoring my topsy-turvy world

Impressive presentation of great-tasting food

An unexpected Texas treat—waking up this morning to a cloudy, rainy world with fairly moderate temperatures. It even smells like rain. Heavenly!

I’ve spent the morning trying to bring order to my world—specifically to move back into my bedroom, now that the floor is done. It’s still a work in progress, so I’m not showing pictures. Waiting for some muscle from the house to do things that I can’t and that kind of hold up the process.

Last night Christian enlisted Jacob and two buddies to carry bags of things back out to the cottage. Jacob lay down on my bed and, as I’ve asked him not to, fooled with the bed position. He got the foot of the mattress into its highest position—and stuck. It took at least fifteen minutes of Christian working with the remote and me envisioning another night on the couch to get to the point where the remote told us, ”the bed is flattening.” Christian told me firmly, “Don’t touch anything!” I told Jacob just as firmly that I had dire consequences in mind for him. His response? “You should sleep on it that way. It’s comfortable.”

Truth be told, while I’d said I was okay on the couch, I was really glad to sleep in my bed last night. Slept soundly and an hour later than I ever do. Slow start but I began to unload sacks of things I’d taken out of my drawers—treasures such as some jewelry I had forgotten I had, small jewelry boxes that have significance for me—lovely hand-carved small box a boy gave me in grade school and ruined by impressing my initials in the top with a lead pencil, my mother’s jewelry box, that small oil painting with a rip that I never got repaired. On the mundane side—a whole sack of socks, my winter sweatpants, and odds and ends of gift wrapping paper.

Lovely break from my topsy-turvy world last night—dinner with friend Carol at Café Modern. We had a table by the window and the water, which I always love. I’d looked up the current menu online and wasn’t wildly enthusiastic about it, but to my delight it had nothing to do with the menu we were given when seated. I chose scallops with veggies—squash, sugared carrots, micro planed cilantro, ad tiny bits of radish. It was all wonderful except for the bed of edamame hummus on which it sat. I am not an edamame fan! Tried this, in the interest of trying all new things and thinking maybe it would be better in hummus form--still didn’t like it. Blueberry tart for dessert. Great meal.

Watching the Food Network with half an eye this morning and am interested that the chef (don’t know who she is) creates zucchini boas of uncooked zucchini. I always parboil them first and they tend to fall apart Will try this next. Stuffed zucchini is a summertime treat, though I can’t convince my family. Another thing this chef does: separates whites and yoks when frying eggs--starts the whites first and then carefully places the yolk on the partially cooked whites. I think it would give you nice, crisp whites.

Of dogs and floors

Sophie would like her many friends to know that she had a perfectly awful day. From nine in the morning until four in the afternoon, she was locked in her crate. She got two potty breaks, but she was so distraught that all she did when let out was stand at the door with a quizzical look that clearly said, “Why are you doing this to me? What have I done wrong?” I slipped her tiny bits of cheese several times and tried to get her to drink water—she willingly took the cheese but did not want the water. When she was finally released, the first thing she did was go directly to her water dish, which had been returned to its usual place, and drink a pint of water. Then she made a brief trip outdoors but came in to lie on the floor. I think she is depressed.

The problem is that the floor guys were finally here. They were in and out a lot and didn’t need to watch out for a dog, not did they need her supervision while they worked. The only thing I could think of to do was get her crate out of the attic. Christian got it down Saturday so she would have a few days to get accustomed to it. We left the door open, and she voluntarily slept in it at night and some during the day. Being forced to stay in it was whole another thing.

In truth, for as rambunctious as she can be, she was really good today and spent much of her confinement sleeping. I tried to tell her how good she was—hope she got the message.

Who knew how noisy floor men can be? They have drills or something that sound like the devil’s invention, and then there’s the non-rhythmic tapping and the zing of what sounds like an electric stapler.  But the three men were pleasant, polite, and helpful.

My partially finished new bedroomfloor

The owner had been here over an hour when Jordan came out to look, and he immediately began to explain something to her that he had not mentioned to me. Perhaps I am over-sensitive, but I took it as age discrimination. I wanted to assert myself and inform him I’m the one who will be living with that threshold and I am the one paying for it. But I contented myself by pointing out a threshold he installed three years ago which is difficult for me on the walker. I hate it when people assume I am not responsible or capable and immediately begin talking to Jordan. It happens a lot in doctor’s offices.

I did better than I expected sleeping on the couch last night—good thing, because it’s looking like I have two more nights there. Both Jacob and Megan have complained it is too short, but I, taller than they are, could straighten my legs. Yes, it’s a little narrow but not bad. When I once got up in the night, Sophie jumped up there but listened to a stern, “No you don’t.”

All in all, it was a long day, but I got quite a bit of writing and research done and even got a nap on the couch—lulled to sleep (?) by the floor noises. Tonight, I’m looking forward to a visit from neighbor Mary, and we’ll feast on bowls of that good cold soup I made over the weekend.

Sometimes—frequently for me—anticipation is worse than the event, and that’s the way with the installation of the wood floor. I’m glad to have it started and to find out it’s not the ordeal I thought it would be.

Insomnia

It’s happens to all of us. In fact, friends and I talked about it at dinner last night. Maybe that’s what jinxed me. More likely it was the fact that I went to bed much earlier than usual. Ten o’clock, and I slept soundly until one. But then there I was, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. One friend had said the worst thing you can do is think about things. But how do you turn your mind off? I have never been able to meditate or focus on my mantra—do I have one?—for that reason. My mind is a busy little critter that darts hither and yon.

I discovered last night that thinking about our country’s current political situation, with what I see as a huge move toward a police state—federal executions to resume, ICE can stop anyone anywhere and demand identification—is not a pathway to sleep. (That new ruling, expanding ICE powers, reminds me of a man I knew who grew up in Columbia, had lived in the States for many years, and was still terrified to leave his home without his identification—this long before trump’s insane deportation policies.)

So I thought about the manuscript I’m working on and the passage I hoped to write today. Medium good. But my thoughts drifted. I thought about the things I want to cook this weekend, and my grandson due home from camp tomorrow, and the dinner with friends I’d just had. I thought about a forthcoming trip to New Mexico and whether or not altitude would affect my A Fib, although two doctors’ offices have assured me it will not. As you can see, some of these are comforting subjects and some are not.

Finally about five o’clock I drifted into a restless sleep and dreamt that my youngest son had misbehaved badly. Poor thing—as far as I know he’s been a model of good behavior. Well, most of the time.

A 6:45 Sophie wanted to go out, and after she came in, I thought about trying to sleep but I knew it was useless. Jordan had said we’d go to the grocery at 8:30, and I needed to be ready. When she came out, she took one look at me and asked, “What’s wrong?” It’s bad enough to feel out of kilter but knowing it’s obvious to someone who knows you well only makes it worse.

You know that saying often associated with Hillary Clinton? “But nonetheless, she persisted”? Well, that’s what I did. I soldiered on. Went to the grocery. Spent too long on the phone with the public library trying to sort out a web access problem, less time but still too much trying to sort out a Central Market order—I have to say in both cases the people on the other end of the line were charming, helpful, and kind. Wrote the passage stored in my mind, tried to make pesto and figured out my counter-size processor won’t do it, poached chicken breasts because I’ve decided that’s easier than de-boning a rotisseries chicken, ate a salmon pattie for dinner and wondered when I would remember that the ones I make at home are much better than the ones I get even from a sophisticated take-out counter.

Yeah, It wasn’t a bad day, but I sure would like to sleep soundly tonight. I hope each and every one of you sleep hard and have pleasant dreams tonight.

Drums in the morning

This morning I was rudely awakened at 7:30 (after being up at 6:45 with Sophie) by what sounded like someone tapping the window in my front door. When I pulled myself to full consciousness, I realized it was the tat-tat-tat of drums, soon followed by the boom of bigger, deeper drums.

It was the annual walkathon at Sweet Lily B. Clayton, the elementary school across from my house. When Jacob was in school there, I thought the spirit activities preceding the walk were stirring and always watched from the front porch. Now that I’m tucked away in the cottage out of sight I find it less thrilling.

This afternoon, a happy and pleasant gentleman came to repair our gate. He assured me it was fixable and he wouldn’t need to bother me again—so I took a nap. However, fixing it involved some weird kind of machinery that whined at various pitches. It reminded me of having an MRI, listening to the sounds and try to make a pattern or some sense of them. I almost—but not quite—got up to see what he was doing. Whatever it was, stopped, and I did fall asleep. Presto! When I got up the gate was fixed.

For me to get annoyed at those two intrusions on my sleep tells me it’s either the falling barometer or I need to work on my negativity. I was bummed last night because I found my latest prescription for a blood thinner will cost over $400—I’m fortunate I can scrape that together, while I know many people couldn’t. But still it’s frustrating. I’m in the dreaded doughnut hole where I landed because of lots of very expensive eye drops earlier this year. Another reason to vote blue.

And when I went to pick up my prescription I got annoyed by all the construction around the east side of the university campus. All those cute, old bungalows—so typical of a major era in our history—are being swept away and replaced by townhouses and stealth dorms (buildings that skirt zoning laws by having one kitchen for several small apartments). The university has closed a couple of side streets and is generally complicit in changing the face of the neighborhood. I wish they’d take a course in urban preservation.

Hmmm—there was a third thing that irritated me, but I have to laugh at myself. I can’t think of it now. Tomorrow it is supposed to rain all day, so I’ll have to make a determined effort to brighten my mood. I’ll probably stay home and work on revisions of the Alamo book, which is what I did today. Intense work. Not exactly cheering but encouraging.

IF you’re in North Texas, stay warm and dry. It’s not only going to be wet, but I heard it’s going down to the forties by Monday.

On top of the world—almost

A beautiful, sunny morning in Fort Worth, if a tad chilly—57 is just a bit below my comfort zone, and I am at my desk wrapped in the comfort of my prayer shawl. Big contrast to yesterday when I woke to dark and dreary skies that eventually produced a good rain. Our ground is saturated. But the rain disappeared, and the day brightened

This morning I’ve been corresponding with my BFF from high school—so wonderful that we are still close. We’ve mutually agreed that some of the good times of our past aren’t going to come around again, but we have rich memories to call up and enjoy. Like days and nights at the Indiana Dunes (a comparison sparked by a friend’s photos from the Sahara) and the time Barbara and her sister dropped a window screen out of their third-floor window to the sidewalk below. Fortunately, they didn’t kill anybody.

I’ve also sent notes to several close friends with whom I had not checked in lately (I heard a complaint, which made me put them first on my to-do-list). So, I am feeling much surrounded with love this morning. A medical report which had me a tad worried came back normal yesterday, I had dinner at the Star Café—chicken-fried steak again—and I slept better last night than I have in several years. Sophie slept well too, except for one episode of wanting her water dish filled at 1:30. When she sleeps well, I do better.

This morning I’m going to sort through files relating to my current project—it’s a long story, and I’ll share it another time, but the files were compiled by a good friend, so for me it will be an exploratory journal. And I’ll definitely have the Senate hearing on the TV while I explore. Sure is a big box of papers—sigh.

No wonder I’m almost on top of the world. Hope you are too.

How did you sleep last night?

Did you sleep well, or did you wake frequently during the night? How long did it take you to fall asleep? Studies have found that older people often take longer to fall asleep and wake more frequently during the night. There are all sorts of answers out there—it’s a change in the brain, it’s not normal, oldsters need as much sleep as youngsters.

I’ve given up on the studies, but I know that I often wake during the night. Two solid hours of sleep for me is good, four hours is a bonus. I go to bed early because I get so tired, but then I wake early and know I can’t stay in bed longer. And it’s not just the siren call of the bathroom. My deepest sleep, the kind with memorable dreams, comes in the morning. And, contrary to many older people, I don’t wake up tired. I suspect that when I think I’m not sleeping, I’m really dozing.

I remember telling my mom when I was a kid, that I itched all over. “It’s a sign you’re about to go to sleep,” she’d say serenely. Wrong, Mom. I don’t itch these days, but I am often restless turning from this side to that.

The whole point of this diatribe on sleep is that I slept so well last night, went right back to sleep every time I woke up, and felt refreshed in the morning. I could have stayed in bed longer, dozing, but the home health care aide was due at 8:00 so I had to get out of bed. For a retired person, I am disappointed that often there are compelling reasons for me to get out of bed. The mornings when there aren’t and I could snooze are when I wake up unable to stay in bed longer. Go figure.

Somehow lately on Fridays I sense an approaching holiday and slack off. Today I worked some but not with the concentrated, sustained effort that is usual for me, and I distracted myself by cooking—a cucumber/avocado salad for lunch, a cheese spread for happy hour guests. And suddenly, as usual, I was terribly, overwhelmingly sleepy at two o’clock. It’s like there’s an alarm in my brain that goes off every afternoon at the same time.

When I first was recovering from surgery, I slept hard for an hour in the mornings and anywhere from one to two hours in the afternoon. I would literally fall asleep over my keyboard. Those days are gone, and I maybe sleep for 30 minutes in the afternoon—enough to banish that terrible sleepiness—and then maybe I linger for another half hour. I kind of miss those deep daytime sleeps, but recovery is so much better.

Today I am indebted to friends, as I often am: Betty did some grocery shopping for me, since Jordan and I didn’t do our weekly shopping (she was busy with the golf tournament). Tonight, Subie and Phil came to feed the dogs and take me to dinner. We ate my cobbled-together cheese spread and then went to Pacific Table for seafood. I love the Caesar salad with fried oysters. And we had a good visit. A thoroughly pleasant day.

Now I’m sleepy. And it’s not even ten o’clock yet.

Watching the sun come up—sort of

I have never been an early riser, although even as a teen I could not sleep the day away. Somewhere between 7 a.m. and 9 a.m. was good, preferably 9:00. But this surgery recuperation has thrown my clock off. Last night I was falling asleep at my desk at 7:30, so I went to bed. And didn’t, as I intended, get up in an hour.

As a result, 5:45 this morning found me at my desk. Lots of people, including one of my sons, tell me that it’s a wonderful time of day and I’m missing something by staying in bed. It was pitch dark as I sat down and began to browse the computer. My office faces the wrong way—no sunrise to be watched with pale pink slowly turning to a blue-gold but sunsets are terrific from my desk. are often more dramatic and brilliant. I planned to watch it go slowly from dark to light this morning even if I couldn’t actually see sunrise, but ultimately it happened too fast. One minute it was dark, the next pale daylight.

No birds this time of year but I looked for Jordan’s dogs on their early morning pit stop—too early for them. Yesterday when I let Sophie out, the girls had already been out and were back inside in their beds. Today Sophie went out in lonely darkness, begged to come back in, then changed her mind. Now she’s gone in the house with the girls.

I’d like to tell you I did something remarkable in that “found time” but it wouldn’t be true. I read email and Facebook—the latter is maybe righting itself or maybe it was just me. But I found more of general interest and a little less vitriol. That would be a welcome change.

What about you? Are you a morning person? Do you find it’s your best time? I know some writers who “sprint”—write fast for a brief period—in the morning and claim it keeps their work moving forward. Probably something I should try—not sure I will, but I sort of liked my early morning. Now I’m ready for a nap.

Ankle Report

 If you’re interested, I think my ankle, foot, leg or whatever is gradually getting better. The foot is still swollen but not near as much and not as red. I can briefly put weight on it now without the excruciating pain of a week ago. Still can’t walk on it except maybe two steps holding on to something, so I scoot around the house on the seat of my walker, using my feet to propel. It’s awkward because the walker is designed to go the other direction, but I am getting pretty good at going through the house backward.

It’s not entirely foolproof. The chair can move a bit, and one night as I aimed for it getting out of bed, it moved and I was left hanging between bed and walker. Couldn’t pull myself up so I decided the only thing to do was go down and sit on the floor. If I had to call for help, so be it. Lo and behold, a major accomplishment—I got myself back up, even using my sore foot. I’ve learned to use the basket for all kinds of things—except drinks. Not only have I spilled two glasses of wine, but one morning I put my tea in the basket and it must have splashed, because I yelped and thought something had stung me. It was the hot tea.

We’ve developed a nice routine.  I’m home alone with Sophie during the day, though weekdays Lewis Bundock, the contractor, is in and out, and he lets Sophie out for me (today she didn’t go out until 5:00 p.m.). About 4:30 Jordan and Jacob arrive, and soon after I have anywhere from one or two other people to a houseful. Tonight there were three children and eight adults, including Jordan and me. These visits tire me out so that I usually sleep well.

No word on the MRI yet but when people ask how much longer I have to have the boot I say I suppose until I can walk on it. I’m afraid of getting addicted to the walker because I’ve noticed a lot of other small problems don’t worry me—my tremor isn’t as bad, I don’t fear falling (except off the walker).

I’ve both let a lot of housekeeping go and relied far too heavily on Jordan to do other chores. She’s arranged for a private duty care person to come and stand by while I shower twice a week. I admit it’s a great comfort to have someone there, handing me towels, etc.

I sleep a lot, but today I got high behind—sorted my entire appetizer folder of recipes (believe me it was thick) and read 190 pages of a book I’m reading for a competition. So it was a profitable day. Hope tomorrow turns out as well. 

I think I’ve been through depression and cabin fever and come out on the other side. Most of the time, I’m relatively content with my days—but I will be glad to be mobile again. Meantime, life is good.

Spring break

The Houston Alters ski Santa Fe

Jordan and Christian at Ruidoso

Spring break means different things at different phases of your life, I’ve found out.This year, for me, it means that none of my family are safely where they belong, a thought that sort of disquiets me. Colin and his family, above, are skiing in Santa Fe--not sure how they had the nerve to go to Santa Fe and leave me behind, but they did. Megan and her family are in Beaver Creek, Colorado, and Jamie and his family have gone to Seattle so Maddie can see the University of Washington (if you want to be cool, say U-Dub). and Jordan, Christian and Jacob have gone skiing in Ruidoso. The latter is a bit funny--Jordan does not ski, end of discussion; Jacob tried one day at Christmas and wasn't particularly enthralled, but maybe he'll do better this year. Christian loves to ski.

I worried about a long, empty week where work and no play would make Judy a dull girl, I filled my dance card too full and am having a really busy week. Yesterday I had lunch out and friends in for leftovers from Sunday night supper. Tonight I have had breakfast, lunch, and dinner out and am worrying about when I'll ever get my 1,000 words for the day written. Tomorrow I have a breakfast date but an otherwise empty calendar--except I think I should really run to the grocery store. And Thursday evening Colin and his family will stop overnight, bringing with them the friends they're traveling with, so I'l have a full house and a full guest house. Friday morning, we'll all go to Colin's favorite restaurant, Carshon's Deli, for breakfast. Then they'll be gone, Jordan will come by in the late afternoon, and Saturday I will cook for 16 people for Jordan's b'day.

Meantime, Sophie and I know how to relax. I'm sleeping later in the mornings--no Jacob to hug on his way to school in the mornings--and I'm getting nice, late, long naps in the afternoon--no Jacob to pick up and do homework with. Here' Sophie relaxing. I suspect she'd rather have Jacob and the activity he brings. She'll welcome Morgan and Kegan Thursday night.

 

The art of napping

I think I have almost perfected the art of napping. I was born into a famly of nappers. My father, a college president, walked home from his office every day for lunch--a mile or more--and then took a twenty-minute nap. My brother naps--in fact, during periods in his life, I knew him to take two naps before noon. He's too busy for that these days, but he gets in his afternoon nap.
And I feel downright deprived if I don't get a nap of at least an hour. These days my friends know I love to visit over lunch--but I want to go early, so that I cn get my nap in before I pick up my grandson after school and facing the daunting challenge of first-grade homework. Yes, I put on an old t-shirt and crawl into the covers--none of this napping fully dressed on top of the bed for me. I actually go to bed.
Some days my soundest sleep is at nap time. Like today when I went to sleep at about one-thirty and woke about ten after two, totally disoriented. I thought it was two in the morning, but then why was it daylight? Was it Saturday? No, couldn't be because I didn't remember going to the grocery in the morning. Sometimes in my rush to orient myself I run into the kitchen to check the clock there and make sure it says the same thing as the bedroom clock--though what that would tell me, I don't know. At last it dawned on me that it was Friday and, yes, I had to pick up Jacob. So I went back to bed until the alarm went off at a quarter to three. I have also perfected the art of throwing my clothes back on and getting out the door to get him but , after all, his school is just across the street.
If Jacob is here on weekends, I tell him firmly not to wake me unless the house is on fire. So he tugs the blanket to bring me out of a sound sleep for something like,, "The TV isn't working," or "I'm hungry." Like all children his age, he's given up napping unless sleep overcomes him while he watches TV--it happens.
Sometimes I think Saturdays are my favorite days--no school, no pressing things to do that evening (on Sundays, I'm often cooking for company), and if Jacob's not here, I sometimes nap and doze for two hours. Oh yes, I can sleep for an hour, and then drift in that netherland between sleep and wakefulness for an hour.
I've read that napping is good for your health, and I'm ready to believe it. How about you?