The scary world of doing business online

 

Sophie needs to learn to brush her teeth.

This morning the sun was shining, and all seemed brighter with the world than yesterday when I woke to a dull, gray day. And the day proceeded to live up to that description. First I got five puzzling emails from DIL Lisa, though I finally figured out that she was giving me the Christmas hints I had asked for. Trouble was, I already had her gift ordered. But that was a minor bump in the road compared to what came next—an email thanking me for signing up for a $700 contract with iStock, with the first payment of $75.78 charged to my Discover card. And sure enough, there that charge was, dated yesterday. Yikes ! At Christmas when I’m trying to live economically in light of holiday expenses and taxes.

I panicked and called Discover, swearing I’d never signed up for such (this is going to be a lesson in reading the fine print). I bounced from one customer service rep to another until I was finally directed to the fraud division—now that sounded awfully serious to me. But the lady talked me through it—and the most direct result was that my Discover account was closed and a new account opened, with the new card due in the mail sometime next week. That means I can’t order gifts, etc., online until I get the new card. Of course, immediately I got a notice from our local newspaper that they couldn’t access my payment information and did I need to update my account. I began a list of accounts that will need updating when I get the new card. Tonight I realized I can’t even order groceries—so had to borrow a Burton credit card, because Colin has scared me about using my debit card online, even with a company I trust like Central Market.

Meantime, back to yesterday morning—something was nagging at me, a thought that I’d done something wrong. So I called Colin, my solution to all financial problems. Methodical person that he is, he had me forward the emails to him. Then he explored online, called me and made a joint call to Getty, which owns iStock. First time we got some medical solutions groups which really sounded like a phishing operation. Colin insisted we try one more time, and this time we got a Getty representative who looked at records, said I had signed up for a free trial which automatically became a contract if not cancelled—but they never warned me it was time to cancel, which I think is fraud in itself. I had, after calling Discover, written Getty to protest I had never signed a contract and request a refund of what they had billed me for (It was still pending, so I doubt it went through). Someone in their outfit had acknowledged my email, though I’m still waiting for action. The rep assured me I would hear, and cancellation is no problem. I’m still waiting, and meantime I’m really hampered without a credit card since I do so much shopping online. Sheer frustration.

To top the day off, I got a text from the North Texas Tollway folks, saying I had a ticket and had instructions for entering my license number and something else. I am by now so leery that I didn’t know if this was phishing or if Jordan or Christian had possibly driven my VW on the tollway. Christian said that might have happened and he’d check their bills—though how would they have a bill if it’s in my name? Anyway I have heard no more about that either, and despite his advice to ignore and not let it worry me, I do worry.

To me, it’s sad that at this season of love and hope, most of us worry about finances. I have for years paid quarterly income taxes (I’m not sure why, but some accountant way back set it up that way), so I have a bill in January, right after Christmas. And property taxes are due in January, plus our lawn people have advised me I truly need to get a professional arborist to trim my trees. And Sophie’s teeth need cleaning. It all hits in December.

Today, thank goodness, I have my groove back, and the world doesn’t look so grim to me. It’s amazing what sunny weather can do for you—and maybe a good night’s sleep. But I learned some lessons yesterday, mostly about reading the fine print and being careful online. I have always thought I was careful, but now I know it wasn’t enough. I know I’m impatient and sometimes I zip through emails when I should stop and read carefully. MY day yesterday is also a demonstration of how easy it is for the unwary to get into tangled and ultimately disastrous financial situations. I am fortunate, as a single, elderly person, that I have my son to protect me. Not all are as lucky.

I tell you all this as an object lesson. And also to get it out of my brain.

From good company to Covid and Mac and Cheese

 

Colin taking a break from all my chores.

It’s been an intense two days. My oldest son, Colin, has been here to work on “boy chores,” my financial status and a trust, and cleaning up what he sees as messes on my computer. Okay, yes, I did have three iPads and an email account I haven’t looked at in years and other such eccentricities. Tonight, when I thought he was through, I closed out a bunch of windows so I could place my weekly grocery order with Central Market. Wrong thing to do. It brought forth great groans and moans. So I’m not sure what problems I will be left with when he leaves tomorrow. The work on the trust, however, has been fascinating—an interview with the lawyer who did Colin’s trust and that of his wife opened my eyes to a lot of financial quirks I had never thought about. The business end of the visit has been worthwhile and reassuring.

But I am, as always, overjoyed to have him here and enjoy his company. My way of showing it, of course, is to kill the fatted cat, so I had emailed him to ask if he wanted meatloaf or tamale pie. He chose meatloaf, and I worked hard to get it ready before a scheduled Zoom appointment last night. Timing was perfect, and meatloaf was ready when the call was over. But guess what got the raves? Not my meatloaf but Louella’s rice which Jordan threw together at the last minute. Tonight I fixed tamale pie with polenta. When Colin smelled the sauce, he said, “I’ve had this before,” and I agreed he probably had. Turns out he was not anticipating liking the polenta part but loved it and had a huge second helping. Then Jordan confessed she and Christian don’t really like polenta, but they eat it because I “fix it good.” My cooking ego has taken a bit of a bruising.

Yesterday I read an article that I think was by a faculty member at West Virginia University, where they are considering discontinuing all humanities courses. One line in his writing particularly struck me: “I am angry because we seem to be turning everything that celebrates our shared humanity into a business.” The attitude today is if it doesn’t make a profit, get rid of it. As an English major and occasional classroom teacher, I grieve for this in education. We will lose our common heritage, the ties that bind us together, if we lose art and history and literature and dance. I think it’s particularly scary as AI surges in use and misuse. Magazines are beset by submissions that are AI generated, novels are no doubt being written the same way. And I have read a lot about college faculty taking precautions to weed out AI-generated reports. If the world of Orwell’s 1984 is not to become a reality, we must embrace and support the humanities, not throw them aside.

It's a circuitous route but cutting out the humanities ultimately increases the power of the one percent, because it diminishes those who are more interested in creativity than profit. By eliminating the humanities, the way is left open for “business and entrepreneurship” to sweep the field.

I did not watch the Republican candidates debate this week, but the critiques I heard were all over the board, with some reassuring that we were hearing more traditional conservative voices than MAGA. But I was horrified when a local columnist, with whom I frequently disagree, called Ron DeSantis strong on education. There again, we’re back to wiping out the humanities which he has done in Florida with book banning and censorship. He who claims education is not about indoctrination, has managed to be the most indoctrinaire ever.

And the same concern, that profit overrules everything else, applies to environmental concerns. We need to fight the big corporations that are drilling and mining and shipping in areas that endanger the environment. I saw a meme today that said, “There is no profit on a dead planet.”

Moving right along, we are apparently being visited by a surge in a Covid virus that is a variant of omicron and is particularly resistant to vaccines. A new vaccine is being developed, and I will be among the first in line to get it. But I am aware we will fight the vaccine wars all over again with extremists on the right (led by Robert Kennedy, Jr). Those people with their flagrant disregard of science endanger the health of the rest of us. A friend was coming to dinner last week but emailed that she had been exposed. Reluctantly, I cancelled. If it’s going to take more isolation, I’m ready.

The good news I can think of tonight is that there is a new restaurant chain with a strange but intriguing name: I Heart Mac & Cheese. Yep, they have varieites of Mac & Cheese (lobster always intrigues me) and several kinds of grilled cheese. The menu fascinates me, mostly because I’m a cheese fan, but it presents an old dilemma to someone like me who cooks: why get so excited about a new chain when it features things you can easily fix at home? On the other hand, would you fix a grilled cheese with pulled pork, ham, Swiss cheese, and dill pickle? I don’t think so.

Stay cool everyone, and cross your fingers that relief is in sight.

PS This was my Friday night blog but between Colin, me, and changing default emails, I lost the ability to post to the blog. Another intense computer session, and I'm back. Colin is headed home to Tomball, so if I find more problems, I'm out of luck!

Monday all day long

 

A thoroughly unremarkable day, even with the presence of Colin. He worked remotely all day from the dining table in the main house, appearing only when he let Cricket out briefly. He even ate the sandwich—an Anthony?—that he brought in the grocery store while sitting at his computer. I have no idea what an Anthony sandwich is and can’t remember what he said, except that he thought they were only available in Houston. Turns out he bought two—so much for leftovers, including the salmon patty I saved for him.

And more leftovers—for some reason we had an unusual amount of leftover carnitas meat last night. We’d had a little problem with it for which I take half the blame—it just didn’t look like enough water, so I added a bit more than called for. And I should have started it earlier because it takes a long time for two cups of water or more to evaporate. That’s my part of the blame—the other goes to Jordan and Christian who tried to hurry it up by raising the heat, which brought the water to a boil. So the meat began to stick. It was tender and the flavor was great, but it didn’t have that crisp crust we all like. Lesson learned: next time I will start it earlier and not add water.

Tonight I simply put the leftover meat in a skillet with some olive oil and browned it to get the crust. So if it was good last night, it was better tonight. And I put out all the trimmings—grated Monterrey Jack, chopped red onion, chopped cilantro, guac, sour cream—a veritable feat. And then I ate too much!

The day was considerably brightened by Phil and Subie who came by to visit with Colin. We had a lively, delightful happy hour. Now, Colin is back at his computer, Jacob is at the driving range, and I am getting sleepy.

One other bright note, I guess, is the firing of Tucker Carlson by Fox News. But I view that as a blessing that might backfire. Carlson will only find another platform, probably sooner rather than later, and continue to spread his evil. The comeuppance is nice but won’t last. When Jacob came in for supper tonight, he was laughing about having heard someone say Carlson would make a great candidate for vice president. Heaven help us all. It was amazing how quickly his “parting of the ways” dominated all news sources. Which only makes me think it’s a bad indicator of where we are that someone of his ilk can command so much news space.

Which also reminds me that today when I replied to a friend’s comment online that I can’t understand why some Democrats are wishy-washy in their support of President Biden, the friend replied, “Lazy news media.” I hope that’s the answer, because I think he’s done great things and his policies are making America better. I know some are afraid of his age, but that offends me. I am eight years older than Biden, and I hope no one is betting that I’ll die in the next four years. I might, but so might any of us. Have a little faith, folks. I am pleased that the Democratic Governors Associaton has declared their wholehearted support for the president.

Yawn. On that note, I’m going to bed. Yes, it was Monday all day long.

Houseguest, dogs, spills, and happy days

 

Nothing better than a houseguest who sends me flowers, especially when that guest is one of my sons. I’m enjoying a couple days’ visit from Jamie, and today when I woke up from a nap, there was an arrangement of spring flowers on my desk with a note he thought I’d enjoy them in the cottage. When he comes out for supper, I’ll tell him I like the flowers but what I really enjoy is him in the cottage.

Jamie makes these visits periodically, and I treasure them. We cross paths briefly in the morning and then each go our own way. He is international sales manager for a large toy manufacturer (talk about a guy who found his niche—he’s a natural at both toys and sales!) and works from home. When he’s here, he finds a quiet corner in the house to work, and I work at my desk.

Jamie comes accompanied by Kosmo, his two-and-a-half-year-old Pomeranian who, I must say,

Kosmo

is a bit spoiled. He seems to eat only what Jame hand feeds him, but Jamie points out that tiny dog can run 15 miles with him. Jamie went from a big, old chocolate lab, perhaps the sweetest dog I’ve ever known, a dog that practically raised Jamie and Mel’s daughters for them, to this little feisty dog. When I asked why, he explained it was the closest he could come to a cat without the litter box. Go figure! Sophie takes it well, because Kosmo seems to recognize that she rules this corner of the world. So now, she has three dogs to keep in line—the two Cavaliers and Kosmo. She is up to the responsibility.

For me, one of the benefits of having Jamie visit is I get to cook some things that he will eat with me and the resident family will not. Last night, we had Chicken Divan, a recipe I haven’t made in years—while Jacob loves broccoli, his parents have an aversion. But that rich wine sauce—bon appetit! Tonight, in honor of St. Patrick’s Day, we’re having corned beef and cabbage, though we will chop the cabbage and sauté it in butter and sour cream rather than boil it. If you’re Irish and offended by that, please try to look away. I think tomorrow night Jame wants to go out to supper, so I am thinking about safe places with large patios. Will call about safety restrictions before we go.

Meantime, I am a mess. I have twice knocked over wine on the credenza where I keep the files I refer to often—finally figured out that if I swing my desk chair around, the arms can catch a wine glass just right. I banished wine from the desk because I ruined my last computer buy letting it sit in an undiscovered pool of wine.

As if wine isn’t enough, there’s a meat juice problem. I dislike meat encased in cryovac—which the corned beef was. Naturally, I dripped juice on my pants. I sponged it off with wet paper towels, but Jamie was quick to tell me that if he had done that as a kid, I’d have sent him to change immediately. Then I had a nosebleed on my clean T-shirt. So now, I’m “dressed” for supper, and I plan to ask him to carve the corner beef. Like too many other things, it was a curbside misunderstanding—I was delighted to find a one-lb. corned beef for $9.99, perfect for two people, and ordered it. What I got was three lbs. for $30, but just now when I chunked some potatoes into it, I noticed it had shrunk remarkably.

I think Mother Nature is fooling us into thinking Spring has arrived. For the past few days I’ve kept the French doors open—Sophie can come and go as she pleases. Of course, June Bug does too, which is a problem because her house manners are not reliable, and she ignores me, with a befuddled look, when I tell her to go home. She constantly looks like Winston Churchill, asking, “What fresh hell is this?” Only maybe she’s saying, “Why is that old woman yelling at me?”

Anyway, I know March 15 is the traditional Texas date beyond which you don’t expect a freeze, but I never trust it. And while the days are pleasant, a chill creeps into the air once the sun is gone. Nope, it’s not true Spring yet. But the kale in the garden has grown long and leggy, the dried grasses need something (not sure what), and I’m waiting for the ground cover to perk up. As someone said, it’s still a brown season. Storms possible tonight. Stay safe, my friends.

A Welcome Visitor

Jamie, Kosmo, and Sophie

An extra special treat – my younger son, Jamie, arrived yesterday afternoon and is staying through supper tonight. Much to Sophie’s delight, he is accompanied by Kosmo, a Pomeranian who never leaves Jamie’s side. We’ve laughed and talked and caught up, debated over what to eat, complained about politics, worried about lost money, and had a really good time.

Jamie was not much intrigued by the dishes I offered to cook for him—maybe his childhood memories are too much for him. So last night, we had dinner from Righteous Foods—salmon tacos for me, beef fajitas and meatballs and guac for Jamie. Then we watched the last night of the DNC together. Jame and I are on the same page about politics and our national crisis—our complaints are solely about how this country is being destroyed, and we tend to echo each other. But neither of us can refrain from commenting, so there is a lot of conversation, even as we listened to what we agreed was a powerhouse speech by Joe Biden.

Today, Jamie has done some chores—often things I didn’t know needed doing. He dismantled and cleaned the a/c unit in the living room. I’m never sure what to call it but I think a ductless split system describes it—it hangs up near the ceiling and functions as needed to heat and cool. Jamie found mold, though he assured me it wasn’t black mold—there are grades of mold? He’s emptied garbage, reached things I can’t on the shelf, and stepped in to give Jordan and Christian a break from taking care of me.

I never like to think of myself as needing a caretaker. That reminds me of a meme I saw yesterday that said, “It’s weird being the same age as old people.” That’s how I feel about it, and I would bristle at those who might suggest I need a caretaker or can’t take care of myself. But the truth is that being mobility challenged and needing a walker, there are things I can’t do—like reaching something from the top shelf of a kitchen cabinet or making a bed that’s, by space necessity, shoved against a wall. I can cook and, do a fair job of cleaning, but I can’t take my laundry into the house where the washing machines are—no space in the cottage. I realize more each day how dependent I am. So I am daily grateful for Jordan, Christian, and Jacob—and for occasional visits from Colin, Megan, and Jamie. Besides I enjoy their company so much.

So I’m grateful to have Jamie here—and Sophie is grateful to have Kosmo, although he doesn’t play as much as she would wish. Tiny as he is, he thinks he’s a cat and walks around on tables, sleeps on the back of the cough. Sophie, who cannot get to any of those places, is a bit frustrated. And I cannot help thinking how horrified my germ-conscious father would be were he with us.

Meantime, a patio disaster. My patio is shaded by a beautiful, spreading, sprawling pecan tree. It provides lovely shade and a wonderful home for birds such as the pair of cardinals who have taken up residence. But it has drawbacks—those pesky yellow tassels—worms, Jordan calls them—at some times of the year, and recently we had to have it trimmed away from the power lines before Oncor came to do it. And now a new problem: for the first time that I can remember the tree has pecans—and the squirrels are going wild, cracking nuts and dropping the shells. I can sit and my desk and hear the ping, ping, ping as they hit. And the patio is a mess, littered with shells. Maybe Jamie will blow it tonight, though it will probably be littered again immediately.

And low water pressure problems popped up today—the sprinkler system is not working efficiently, and one patch of grass is turning brown.

The worries of a homeowner are many and seldom solved all at once. It’s always something.

Earth Day and someone special at 50 or thereabouts

Colin with his birthday present from his mom--a Leatherman

I'm afraid he gave his son that haircut, and I may have to chastise him soundly

Hard to believe that only fifty years ago paying attention to the environment was such a new and innovative idea. Sad to say we haven’t made a lot of progress in those fifty years at being stewards of the earth, especially not with recent rollbacks of regulations meant to protect our world. I do find it remarkably interesting that social distancing, which has kept people at home across the globe, has resulted in dramatic cleansing of our air and water. We have fewer cars on the road, planes in the air, factories spewing out garbage—and the world is responding. I love that nature has come back in the form of wildlife to our national parks and even to some urban areas, as well as cleaner air and purer water. Clear proof that man is the polluter.

But I always celebrate Earth Day for a different reason. If that holiday is fifty years old, my oldest son is fifty-one today—he was just a year ahead of time. Of course I didn’t meet Colin David Alter until eight days later when the adoption agency called to ask if we minded that he might have red hair. Mind? We were ecstatic. Of course, his hair was never red, but he was perfect in every other way and has brought me so much joy over the years. He is also the one I rely on to keep my world in order—from my finances to my family relationships. He is truly the oldest child who will be the patriarch of the family and acts in that capacity already, keeping us all in line and in love with each other.

Colin has the unique ability to calm me and set me straight when I’m headed in the wrong direction. He is ever peaceful and patient. I remember once getting so frustrated at a driver who cut him off, and he said, “Look at you. Why are you getting so upset.” Other times, he has said to me, “Mom, I don’t know how I drive a car when you’re not there to help me.” I love that boy so much.

April 22 is another bittersweet memory. It is the birthday of my younger sister, born in 1942 and dead at the age of six months. I was always told she died of a heart defect, but I sometimes wonder if it was not SIDS that was just not recognized. I remember little about Isabel Jean MacBain, but I vividly remember the day she was brought home from the hospital. My brother John and I quarreled over who would get to pull the blanket off her face—I got the face, and John got the feet end of the bassinet. I also remember sitting on the couch, very still, so I could hold her (I was four at the time). But I remember nothing of her death, nor does my brother. I do remember my mom took to her bed one day a year with a migraine and it had to do with Jeannie, but I don’t know if it was the anniversary of her birth or her death.

Watching my two daughters now, I sometimes long for the sister I almost had. When they were in high school, my girls were geat enemies, but they are the closest of friends ow, and I am so grateful for that relationship for them. But a bit of me wishes I too had it. Would Jeannie and I have been good friends? I am quite confident we woud.

Happy Hour from Jay's perspective

We thought Earth Day was going to show us the power of Mother Nature today, with strong storms and possible tornadoes predicted. Nothing happened. We had a bright, sunny day, with pleasant temperatures. We sat outside in the evening and had a socially distanced happy hour with neighbor Jay, whom we have come to call “the man behind the screen.” The breeze was gentle and wonderful.

Also had a near-catastrophe tonight. The screws holding the seat on my walker to the frame came apart. I thought It moved a little a couple of times today but wasn’t alarmed—until it nearly dumped me on the floor. I’m not sure if it was plain instinct or I saw her coming out of the corner of my eye, but I yelled, “Jordan!” She, bless her, came running and did her best to fix it, but she has neither the tools nor the skill. I have asked neighbor Jay if he can look at it tomorrow. Meantime I am being very careful and only sitting in it when absolutely necessary. Jordan has long been after me to walk more and scoot less, but there are simply a lot of things I cannot do without rolling around on the seat—like all

Jordan repairing my walker

the cooking I do.

Sweet dreams, everyone. W need them, we need all the joy we can find in life.

The Gift of a Day

This is last night’s blog but perhaps you’ll understand why I didn’t get it written. Jamie, my third child and second son, called about 8:30 yesterday morning from downtown Fort Worth. I knew there was a possibility he’d come from Frisco for supper that night, but I didn’t expect him so early. I scrambled to get dressed and cancel a morning appointment, because downtown is only ten or fifteen minutes from the house. Jamie can take longer to get from point A to point B than anyone I know—it was a good 30 minutes, because he stopped to make a business call.

But there he was! We went to Ol’ South for breakfast--he loves the German pancake, and when I was first recuperating from surgery, we shared many breakfasts there. I think he was a bit disappointed that I ordered a blueberry waffle instead of the corned beef has which has long been a part of our tradition. But I’ve noticed my tastes changing lately. I never had a sweet tooth, except for chocolate, but lately I want more sweet things, especially at breakfast.

Jamie brought his laptop and his guitar—and barely left his dog at home. He was all set for the day, and his business lunch never materialized, so we spent the day in the cottage. There is going to sound awfully “mother-ly,” but it’s a joy for me to see him hunched over the coffee table, buried in papers, working (he owns a toy manufacturer’s representatives’ company). I sat at my computer working, though I admit I was so glad to have him around I never fully focused on my work.

In the late afternoon, Jordan came out, and we shared wine while Jamie demonstrated his new guitar—a Taylor, as if I knew the significance of that, but he was proud of it—and showed us the improvement in his playing. Then Jacob came out, and they were off discussing fishing. I had to get quite firm to get us out the door for supper, because we were meeting Jean, and I didn’t want to leave her sitting alone in a restaurant. Sushi and good conversation for supper. I was glad Jean got a chance to know Jamie because Lord knows she and other friends listen to me blather on about my children often enough.

Jamie got caught up in his work again when we came back to the cottage, and I had to gently remind him it was eight o’clock…eight-thirty. Finally, he was out the door about nine, happily carrying the Black Forest cake and coconut chiffon pie he’d bought at Swiss Pastry, the pie a special gift for his wife.

My intention, writing this blog, was not to chronicle every minute of the day, which I somehow ended up doing, but to say what a wonderful gift Jamie gave me—a day of his time. I have read elsewhere that when looking for gifts for an older person (I will not call myself elderly, though my kids do!) who has everything they need, you should consider a gift of yourself—the time for a cup of coffee, a visit, a meal.

From a motherly perspective, there’s another point. I have four children, and I treasure all of them equally (in spite of their squabbles about who I love best), but any chance to have time alone with one of them is a gift. We talk about our lives, our hopes and plans, in ways that we don’t on those joyous occasions when we’re all together.

Yes, yesterday was a gift. Thank you, Jamie.

Procrastination—who me?

Procrastination: the action of delaying or postponing something. Yep, that’s me. I procrastinated for two days—and it’s so unlike me. I am usually compulsive about doing whatever needs to be done right away. I long ago took to heart the wisdom that you should only touch a piece of paper on your desk once—deal with it then.  Don’t put it in a stack and think, “I’ll worry about that later.” Never the words of Scarlet O’Hara, “I’ll think of it tomorrow,” or “After all,  tomorrow is another day.”

But those are all the things I did for two days. I spent too much time on Facebook and outlets with political news, reading every new opinion, pondering every new development; I spent lots of time paging through Bon Appetit and Southern Living, clipping recipes and planning elaborate dishes I may never cook.

Colin, my oldest child, was my biggest—and nicest—distraction. He arrived Monday in time for dinner, so I spent a good chunk of Monday fixing his favorite casserole. Tuesday morning, I fixed him breakfast—I had several choices for him. And he chose lox and cream cheese. Then we window-shopped Apple watches in the Apple store and had an early lunch at Carshon’s deli. He grew up eating there and now thinks no Fort Worth trip is complete unless he gets one of their Rebecca sandwiches.

By 12:30 Tuesday, he was off to an appointment and then headed home to Tomball. And I procrastinated some more—and napped.

This morning I got up with fire in my belly. I was going to work. And I did—900 words on the Alamo book, mostly about Alamo movies and particularly the classic one John Wayne made in 1959. I am learning such fascinating stuff with this project!

Tonight, a nice dinner with friends Betty and Jean at a restaurant called Righteous Foods, which I think is a terrible name for a restaurant. But the food is good. It’s all “righteous” foods, heavy on grains and vegetables and juices and smoothies. But also their version of a BLT (with a fried egg, of course), a hamburger, and several kinds of tacos. We split an order of salmon tacos, but they were so good I don’t think I’ll share next time. And churros for dessert. A wonderful meal.

Tonight I’ll procrastinate some more—and read. But tomorrow I’ll tackle the subject of books about the Alamo. Life is good. I hope for you too.

Last Day of School, and dogs and cars

Maddie's selfie at lunch

Remember when you were a kid what a big deal the last day of school was each year? It made me a bit nostalgic today. Jacob and his buddies got out early and had a pool party. Then there was an after-party at another house. Ah, to be twelve and have life be a series of parties. We’re raising those kids in a bubble I fear.

For my part, it was a lovely day. Jamie and Maddie came to visit. Maddie is my oldest grandchild, just finished with her freshman year at Colorado University. They are the only two people I know who can take two hours to drive from Frisco to Fort Worth (he forgot his wallet, started back home, changed his mind and came on) and then half an hour to get out of their car once it was in the driveway (he was on a business call). But we had a lovely day.

Surprise! They brought a new puppy with them—a nine-week-old Pomeranian named Cosmo. Jamie had the dog that was probably the canine love of his life—Mosby, a chocolate lab. Mosby was a wonderful dog—loyal to Jamie, following him on the cross-country runs he did, but also a family dog who let the girls, when little, roll all over him. Sweet beyond measure, but as he aged he grew arthritic and anxious. Finally, maybe a month ago, they reluctantly helped him cross the rainbow bridge.

Cosmo

But I never thought Jame would get a small dog—they already have one four-pound Smorkie (Yorkie and I forget what else). Jamie explained that it’s a cat thing—he loves cats but won’t have another because of the litter box issue, so having a small dog is like having a cat (not sure I follow that logic, but I’d take the dog any day). All puppies that age are cute, but this one really is adorable. And I was so proud of Sophie—she played with him but after her initial enthusiastic curiosity was gentle. Of course, we gave her lots of extra love and praise,

I confess I had a Jamie list—when I told him that yesterday, he said I didn’t have to fix anything special for him. I told him he misunderstood—it was a “honey do” list—lower my walker, find out why my phone won’t take messages, give Soph her medications, and help me get my car to a place I thought my fix the top.

We had a nice, lazy lunch, and the major outing was to take my car to a trim shop. The back window is loose from its moorings. The VW place recommended an auto glass place they said would repair it in my driveway. Not so. The auto glass place recommended a trim shop in—wait for it! —south Euless, a long way from here. But I dutifully called them and over the phone, sight unseen, a rather brusque woman said I’d need an entire new top. Yikes! Expense plus terrible inconvenience of getting there.

Fortunately, a friend who reads the blog suggested a local detailing shop, and the owner in turn suggested a local trim shop, told me to use his name. So today we saw Joe at Westside Trim, after trying hard to navigate the construction on White Settlement. It’s nearly impossible to get to this place. The verdict is iffy. I can have it repaired at a much-reduced cost, but it probably won’t hold. Still I think that’s what I’ll do.

Nothing would do but we stop at Omaha Army Surplus—a childhood dream place for Jame—and then at Autobahn to investigate a new VW, which I don’t need and can’t afford. Jamie thought I could lease a new one and cover it by the trade-in on mine, but mine though lower mileage, is twelve years old. The salesman said, “I can’t do a trade in. I don’t want to insult you, but ... . “

Now, Jamie and Maddie have gone home, I’ve had a sandwich and washed the dishes, and am ready to read. A great day with people I adore. The only downside? I didn’t get my nap today!

Tornadoes and memories

I hope it’s an omen that May came in with such gorgeous weather. The spring storms we were threatened with never did hit us, though they did great damage east of Dallas. That area around Canton, which was so heavily hit, is one dear to my heart. I had good friends, both now gone, who had a guest ranch in Ben Wheeler. My family and I spent many happy days and nights there. Mostly we enjoyed Aunt Reva’s cooking, eating on the porch of their house which overlooked one of the large stock tanks/small lakes on the property.

But sometimes we went to the neighboring town of Edom to eat at The Shed, a down-home café which had become sort of an institution. They featured fried catfish on Saturday nights, and often had lemon meringue pie. I remember Charles (uncle to my children) telling me there were no calories because it was all air. And when I told him he was overlooking the custard part, he said, “Shut up, Judy.” The Shed inspired the Blue Plate Café of my mystery series by that name.

I’ve lost touch with that family now that the parents are gone, except one daughter who faithfully called me when she was in Fort Worth, and we had lunch. Marsha had been blind from diabetes since about the age of twenty, yet she went on to get a graduate degree in anthropology (with the help of her radiologist father), and I much admired her. I got word recently that she had died unexpectedly, and I felt at a loss because I didn’t know who to contact to express my sympathy. It got me to thinking once again about how things change and life moves on, and we go with the flow. It’s no good being stuck in the past, but I grieve for her.

Today, however, life seemed to stand still. For me, it was a no make-up, no shampoo day when I was in my jammies until four o’clock. Not that I didn’t work—I cleared up all kinds of things: a bill paid to the wrong health care providers (I’ve now paid the right ones, and I want a refund from the other); Amazon accounts—it appears I had five, and now I have only one. That kind of busy-ness can wear you out. I did some odd but creative (I hope) marketing for my books, and finished reading The Last Chance Olive Ranch by Susan Wittig Albert. Great book that kept me spellbound—and also taught me a lot about olive oil.

I didn’t intend to be so lazy today. I thought son Jamie was coming for the day, and I was looking forward to our traditional breakfast at Ol’ South Pancake House. He has a Dutch baby and I have corned beef hash. When I emailed last night to ask if I was still expecting him, he said no, it was always Tuesday. Now, I know that child (45, but he’s still my child) is wrong. I have Monday on my calendar and in my head, but he was adamant. So that gives me one more day of nice anticipation. And I did make good use of the day.

An Ode to Saturday and to my oldest child

Colin and his family

probably four years ago at least

Why are Saturdays so delightfully lazy? There’s something about the nature of the day. My schedule isn’t much different on a Saturday than any other day of the week, except for Sunday and church. I get up when I want, spend the day at my computer, reading, cooking, and napping—all on my own schedule.

But somehow, emotionally, I feel a difference. This morning I slept late, stayed in those magic pajamas, scrambled some eggs instead of wolfing down a bowl of cereal, decided my hair doesn’t really need washing nor do I need make-up. Some Saturdays I have social somethings planned but not today.

I don’t even feel compelled to work, though I’m sure before the day is over I’ll edit that third chapter, maybe explore those blogs I want to mine for a possible memoir about my journey of the last year. The great thing about my work is that it’s all things I want to do, goals I set for myself. The world will not stop in its orbit if I never do any of it.

I spent way too long on Facebook this morning, following this lead, clicking on that bit of information. Facebook rarely returns you to where you clicked away, but starts you all over again at the beginning and the posts are always different—tells you how many posts we never see. I feel compelled to keep reading because I never know what gem I’ll miss.

For instance, a colleague mentioned her short story, “The Night They Burned Ms. Dixie’s Place,” (featured in the current edition of Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine—Debra Goldstein is the author). That reminded me of the Joan Baez song I loved, “That Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” and sent me in search of the history of the song. I could fiddle my day away following trails like that.

Today my oldest child, Colin, turns forty-eight. I can’t believe it. Poor boy suffered from all I didn’t know about babies, and raising children, and being a single parent. He survived it all, explored life on his own terms (sojourns to California and the Caribbean) and turned into one of the loveliest adults I know. A good citizen, a hard worker, a loving husband and firm but loving father, a caring son, a man still close to his siblings (not all are so lucky and loyal). The Lord blessed me the day the adoption agency called and said those magic words, “You have a son.” They said he might have red hair and did we mind? What? We were going to say, “No, thank you,” because of red hair? His hair is brown but his beard, when he lets it grow, has a touch of red—and now gray. I love you so much, Colin David Alter.

Tonight, Jacob is spending the night. His sleepover makes a shambles of my comfortable living area, but he’s worth it. On the other hand, I have to consider that he shushes me if I turn on the TV or talk on the phone, though he talks freely on the phone.

From the lamb chops to hash…

My day was a study contrast when measured against yesterday. I started the day with breakfast with son Jamie at Ol’ South. It’s become a ritual we both enjoy on those rare days he can break away to visit me. He orders a Dutch baby, and I have corned beef hash—no egg, thank you, but lots of ketchup. On the way in we met a church friend—I introduced Jamie, and we chatted a minute. She told Jamie that yesterday I had eaten like a queen, referring to my blog post about my wonderful lamb chop lunch at the Modern Museum. That’s why I almost called this post “From the ridiculous to the sublime…”—I went from a sophisticated and gourmet-like lunch plate to hash for breakfast and loved them both.

Jamie had come to install my new computer, so when I left at almost eleven to go to my neighbor’s funeral with Christian and Jacob, I left him here.

David, Susan’s 93-year-old father, died suddenly last Thursday night. I haven’t been to my church much lately—transportation and mobility problems—but I went on the walker today, with Jacob and Christian. The service was lovely although the congregation was small—I realized that what my mother used to complain about was true of David: he had outlived most of his friends. Our neighborhood group was there though, and several people I knew. The homily was perfect, saying when people heard David died they said, “Why, I just saw him.” Making the point that he will always be with us, the minister said, “David sightings will continue.” The family had chosen two of my favorite hymns: “How Great Thou Art” and “Here I am, Lord.” I realized something that’s been creeping up on me—I can no longer sing the old hymns as robustly as I once did. I attribute this to my hearing aids which distort sound—my voice in my head sounds neither like I think it should nor like the hymn. Easter Sunday I’m going to take the aids out for the hymns and see what happens.

A nice touch: the family did not have the funeral home roll the casket out. The pallbearers—three sons-in-law and three grandsons—carried it. David’s three daughters, arms around each other, walked behind it. Hardly a dry eye in the congregation, certainly not mine.

The rest of the day was quiet—Jamie was busy with distance office work, and I was at my computer. He owns his own toy manufacturers’ representatives company and works from dawn to dark and beyond. It was evening before he worked on my computer and nine o’clock before he headed east to Frisco. He always apologizes for spending a day with me with his nose buried in his computer—or else on the phone—but like any mother, I am simply glad to have him here and grateful for the occasional bits of conversation and the visit over that ritual breakfast.

Tonight, for the first time since I committed to a thousand words a day, I didn’t get it done. I figure the new computer and Jamie’s company are worth it. Tomorrow I’ll get back to what seems to be my routine—my words written by noon, a nap and then odds and ends, and, after supper, reading—oh blessed luxury.

Jamie's girls--wife, Mel, daughters Eden and Maddie

 An almost-everything day

January 5, 2017

If yesterday was a nothing day, today was an almost everything day. About three this afternoon I looked at son Jamie who was here for the day and said, “I am a completely content person.” And I was. I enjoyed having him in the cottage even if he was making business calls some of the time. We talked of weighty matters while he installed two security cameras—they’re really cool. Activated by motion, they record picture and sound and show up on the cell phone of each of my four children.

Jamie brought me a late Christmas gift from his youngest daughter, Eden, almost fourteen. A desk organizer (Lord knows I need organizing) with a picture of Eden and her big sister, so now I get to look at those two

Jamie also fixed my fancy new Sleep Numbers bed and I had a nap on it--it was great, and I think it will help my extremely sore right shoulder.

Jordan and Jacob were also around much of the day, so the cottage as a busy place and I enjoy that. Somehow they inspired me, and I got more done than I have in a week recently. Figured out which books I still have to post in digital form. I have work to do—six books to post. Finally did a permanent chart so I can keep track of my digital books. And I started reading the manuscript I plan to finish next.

Tonight Kathie, Carol, Subie and I had our late Christmas dinner—very festive dinner at one of the more upscale restaurants in town. Wonderful to be out (yes, I don’t get out much lately), festive, in good company. A delicious meal, though I liked everything but my entrée—schnitzel (I think I was reading schnitzel and thinking spaetzle). Came with sautéed cabbage and apples—outstanding—and I had a mint-chocolate tartlet for dessert. Plus, splurge, a glass of wine. Now I’m unbearable sleepy.

I will crawl into my Sleep Number bed and dream sweet dreams. You do so, too.

+-

Welcome visitors

Me, Jamie and Madison

I guess I’m going to have to revise my life plan—I’ve been getting too tired to blog at night and sleeping late in the morning until there’s precious little work time left. I’m hoping I’ll fall back into my routine once in my cottage—about a week and a half away. Meantime, here’s the blog I didn’t write last night.

Jordan is off on a four-day holiday so Jamie, the younger of my two sons, has come to stay with me, bringing, to my delight, my 13-yeear-old granddaughter. I feared she’d be bored, but she has to finish reading The Hobbit for school, so she has a project. And Jamie can work from the dining table.

Last night we went out to dinner—late and ended up closing the restaurant. Got home at ten but had a wonderful visit over dinner. Lucille’s was having its annual Crabfest and Jamie ordered the whole crab. Took him a while to crack the shell and extract the meat, but oh my it was sweet and good. Much better than the lobster on my lobster roll—I could tell the meat had been frozen and thawed. Eden, a vegetarian for several years now, had the angel hair pasta.

We took pictures of course and I realized I’ve gotten so used to going without makeup that I didn’t even put any on to go out to dinner. 

Wonderful father and daughter

This morning everyone was off to a slow start. A colleague from Texas A&M Press is coming for lunch. I hope she understands messy house syndrome, especially with the merge we’re doing (PS She understood and lectured me for worrying about productivity in the midst of chaos). Jordan has taken all clutter from her house and transferred it to mine so that they can show their house. It worked—they have rented their house. Things are moving pretty fast these days.

It's taken me two days to post one blog. Story of my life lately. My computer got a persistent error message. I tried letting it rest but finally had to ask Jamie for help. Now if you’ll excuse me I think I’ll read the morning paper that I haven’t gotten to yet.

Once a mother

Once, years ago, I was having lunch in a cafeteria with a man I cared a lot about when I looked at his plate--chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes with gravy. "You don't have anything green on your plate," I said accusingly. He sighed. "Once a mother, always a mother." I've laughed over that line a lot in the years since.
Today I wasn't laughing so much. A son is never too old for a mother to worry. My oldest son's wife alerted the family early this morning that he had an "episode" with his Crohn's and was at the hospital. Turns out he passed out twice in their bathroom, maybe hitting his head both times. He doesn't remember. So reports have trickled in all day, and texts have been flying amongst the family, but long story short--we don't know much. Both a neurologist and a gastroenterologist have seen him, scans are ordered, and we know he is to spend the night. He of course swears he's going home tomorrow. We're still waiting for some definitive word. We know the basics--he has Crohn's and it had bothered him the last few days, he lost blood, he fell. But we don't know a treatment plan and so on.
Colin loves to complain I gave him Crohn's because when he was but a week or so old I, knowing little to nothing about babies, gave him undiluted formula with the result that our lovely pediatrician, a friend, came by the house to take us to the hospital where it was found he was fine and I was the culprit. Truth is, of course, that these days research seems to indicate Crohn's is hereditary, but Colin, like all my children, is adopted and we have no parental health record beyond the time of his birth. And what good would it do to know that one of his biological parents had it? We'd still have to deal with it today. I keep thinking it's one of those diseases they're close to finding a cure for, but I fear the truth is that auto-immune disease continue to baffle the medical world.
I am as worried about his wife and children as I am him. I can only imagine what Lisa felt waking up to find him passed out on the bathroom floor, though now I laugh at her first reaction. She thought an intruder was in the house, so she grabbed a baseball bat and her phone. She's tough, and she would have gotten that intruder! Then she realized there was no one in the house and set about calling 911 and caring for Colin. Their youngest, six-year-old Kegan, saw his father on the floor in blood, which is bound to have traumatized him. This afternoon, Kegan and eight-year-old Morgan were at their father's bedside, reading to him. Lisa said she figured it was good for them to see him acting normal, even if he was in a hospital bed.
This is perhaps the third serious episode he's had since his diagnosis some 15 ears ago, but I suspect he just doesn't feel good a lot of the time. I know this is not a life-threatening episode, but I guess I, like all of us, live in fear of the next one for this son who is such a good guy (okay, Jamie, you're a good guy too), such a good husband and father, works out, faithful at church, good at his job as a controller. Colin is the one I turn to for financial advice, input on care of my disabled cousin, and, when he's under my roof, handyman repairs. He is a rock for me, and selfishly I don't want to worry about him. But more than that, I am so glad he has such a happy family life, happier than I've ever seen him, that I don't want to see him hurting. It's like he's a little child again, and I can soothe him by walking round and round with him in my arms as I did when he had an earache. That's really what I want to do.

Grandmothering in full swing

Jacob is with me for most of the weekend, and so far my efforts to be a creative grandmother have failed for one reason or another. He played with his Legos and then watched a movie his dad got him but we had to quit in the middle and couldn't get the pause button to work--tried resetting the remote, new batteries, nothing. Now, much later, he says, "It just doesn't work on movies. Can't you understand that?" Hmmm--not feeling too bright when a seven-year-old has to explain something to me. So I asked how much more there is of the movie he's watching and he said he didn't know. What happened to those wizardry skills?
We ate dinner at the Old Neighborhood Grill, his choice, but when Jacob asked, "What do you want to talk about?" we both drew blanks. It was a quiet dinner--but no phones, thank you. Came home, and Sue, my Canadian Fort Worth daughter, came for a glass of wine. Jacob was distracted from his boredom and talked a blue streak, so we had a lively time on the deck. Then it turns out most of the movies Christian brought are Blue Tooth and won't play on my TV. Ah me!
Tomorrow will be better. I have promised him breakfast at the Grill; then we'll grocery shop, and he has a baseball game in the afternoon--the Lord willing and the creek don't rise. We still have to write his letter to Elizabeth and he has to read Boxcar Children to me.
I admit I keep sneaking off to do my own work, but I'm trying here.
Went to run the washing machine tonight, and the door won't close tightly enough to let the machine turn on. I'm stymied.
Bright note: I had a lovely visit with my younger son tonight--if I miss him when he calls on his way home, I miss my chance, but tonight we connected and talked about lots of things--but not cabbages and kings.
Must be time to go to bed. No more editing tonight. I don't think my brain is bright enough. I've exhausted it trying to open the mind of a right winter on Facebook. Don't tell me to save my breath--this is really a sweet, nice guy but he's so misguided. I have this compulsion to make him see the truth--like Wendy Davis' main goal in politics is not to kill hundreds, even thousands, of babies willy nilly.