The sounds of spring

 

I am beset with the noise of high-school athletics. In the house behind me (and my cottage, grandfathered in, sits on the property line), a young man bounces a basketball incessantly. In my own driveway, my grandson whacks golf balls against a new target. I find these sounds comforting—those boys are at home where they belong on a school night. Now dusk has faded into dark, and the neighbor’s dog is barking incessantly (I like that word), the bark of a lonely dog who wants attention and wants to be let in. I wonder if they’ve gone out because the dog doesn’t often bark like that. I’m comforted though that it is not Sophie whose barking is upsetting the neighborhood. Sophie saves her barks for those pesky squirrels who invade her yard, though today she roused herself from a nap long enough to tell the yard guys exactly what she thinks of them.

For all its isolated location, the cottage is a noisy place. All day long, I hear birds singing. Too often, I hear planes and helicopters--we are in the flight path for the city's municipal airport and close to the hospital, so we get air ambulances overhead. And in a strange twist, I often think in the mornings that I hear voices—no, no, it’s not my mind slipping. Today I realized that there were workmen at the house directly behind me (the basketball house) and one of them must have had a radio. They are sometimes just barely outside my back wall, so it’s no wonder it sounds as if they are in the cottage with me. I keep thinking they will finish that major project—building a cabana, pool, and new back porch. But they seem to come back frequently.

It finally seems to be spring in North Texas—but don’t count on it. We’ve had several false starts this spring. Last night we had a good, old-fashioned thunderstorm with heavy rain which we much needed. It soaked the new sod we’d just had put down in the front and back yards, and the herbs in my portable garden got a good watering.  Things are greening up—the pecan that shades my patio is showing it’s first few leaves, and so is the unknown tree by the side of the main house. Every year I think it’s dead, but I’ve learned that if I am patient, it will leaf out.

This spring has apparently brought a full-blown allergy season. The vet tells me that it is at level five, whatever that means. Sophie has been plagued with long, drawn-out, hard coughing spells. She sounds like she’s trying to clear her throat and can’t. This morning, Jordan came to the cottage for something in the midst of one of those spells and said, “Call the vet.” Tonight Sophie has had a shot that is supposed to last twelve weeks, which should she us out of the season. She is still coughing but not as long and hard, and she slept most of the afternoon. At least she’s stopped eating grass. Christian tells me his allergies have been off the charts.

Today was a nice, at-home day for me. The days this week have been marked by distractions—an interview on Monday which didn’t distract much but still was there on my calendar; a dental appointment Tuesday, which I dreaded and which turned out to be much easier than anticipated. Tomorrow, a big chunk of the morning will be taken up when I go with friends to get our second boosters. We have appointments half an hour apart, but I cannot imagine it will take all that time. Still, it breaks up the morning. Friday I am looking forward to fixing a light supper for friends, and Saturday will be taken up with cooking for Easter—I am to make potato salad and a marinated vegetable salad. Both easy, but the chopping requires time. Oh, and I’m making matzoh crack for dessert.

The reason all these small distractions matter to me is that I can’t settle down to work on my novel unless I have a chunk of time. Granted, sometimes I surprise myself and write more in a half hour than I would in three hours. But I always feel I need that block of time set aside. And now I am so near the end of the first draft that I can practically recite from memory what I intend to write—of course, it never works out that way.

Tonight was dinner on my own. Jordan and Christian are at a meeting—plans for Cowtown Ball are gearing up already, months ahead of the event, and Jacob, I was told, had his own dinner. I always translate that as “Jacob doesn’t really want what you cook.” And tonight he would not have. I scrambled a couple of eggs with butter, sliced green onion, diced tomato, and chopped smoked salmon—an old favorite of mine. Makes me wonder why I don’t keep smoked salmon in the fridge all the time.

Too sleepy to work on those last pages of Finding Irene, so I think I’ll spend the evening reading Cynthia Kuhn’s How to Book a Murder, which I am thoroughly enjoying.

Sweet dreams, y’all.

Food, dogs, weather—and a serious thought

 

Big Mac Salad

Food, dogs, weather—and a serious thought

No one will be surprised that I devour food web pages, including the New York Times. Frequently the NYT column is full of recipes and ingredients that don’t reach out to me. It’s not that I’m not willing to experiment, but I most often cook for a family of four with conservative tastes, and I find myself leaning more and more into exploring American cooking, which is of course a hodge podge of dishes from other countries, But there is a core menu of dishes that have been adapted, become part of our tradition, and typify American cooking. In the Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries, that’s the kind of food that Henny cooks on her “Recipes from my mom’s kitchen” TV show. Yes, tuna casserole, and Sloppy Joe, potato salad and green chili rice casserole.

So imagine my surprise when prowling through the NYT column and then the Kitchn web site (more about that in another post) when I found the following: fried catfish with spaghetti, chicken with pears, and sausage and grapes. I like to think I have some sense about pairing of foods, and, truthfully, these pairings sound awful. Not everyone likes fried catfish, but I do—wth a healthy bit of lemon and maybe a dab of tartar sauce. But with spaghetti with a traditional red sauce (that was what the illustration showed)? Or take the chicken and pears—take them somewhere, because I can’t cook that here. Some of us don’t like cooked fruit; I like it in many circumstances, but this pairing seems odd. Maybe it’s because I am never sure what to do with pears anywhere. And sausage and grapes? Just plain no. Grapes belong in chicken salad, and sausages should get sauerkraut or at the very least mustard. Call me traditional.

Fortunately, tonight we had a truly American dish: Big Mac salad. Take all the ingredients of a Big Mac—ground beef, lettuce, tomato, cheese, onion, pickle, dressing—and toss them together in a salad. We had a heavy dinner last night—pork chops, potatoes, and asparagus—so we were ready for this lighter meal tonight. Jordan made the salad, but I have to add that I made the Thousand Island dressing from scratch. Bottled dressings generally have a taste I don’t like—maybe the preservatives? Anyway, it was a good dinner.

We had a bit of excitement tonight. Mary came for happy hour. No, wait, that’s not the excitement! We had left the driveway gate partially open for her, and she thought she slammed the inner gate when she came in. But all of a sudden, she, who was sitting facing that gate, got a horrible look on her face and said that the wind had blown it open and she didn’t know where Sophie was. We called, but she didn’t respond. Of course, my heart jumped right up into my throat, though the rational side of me said she hadn’t gotten far, and they would find her. When Soph was young, she was an escape artist, always ready to explore. We had to ease out of doors, etc., and there were several chases throughout the neighborhood where we learned to drive a car, because if you opened the door, she’d jump right in.

Tonight, Jordan ran, came back for her phone, but didn’t stop for a leash or car keys. Fortunately, Sophie was across the street in the neighbor’s yard, and Jordan corralled her without trouble. Jordan may have been tired, but Sophie was unfazed by her adventure.

So tonight storms are predicted from three to six in the morning—the kind of storms with heavy wind, hail, and possible tornadoes. We get a lot of such predictions, and it’s easy to get complacent, but we stay on alert. Jordan has brought in the fragile plants, sheltered my herb garden and a few others under the eaves, taken down the patio umbrellas. I often sleep through such storms, but then again, I’m a fitful sleeper and will likely waken. Sophie, so blasé about storms as a pup, is now terrified, and will be by my side in the night. She hasn’t sensed storm yet and is lounging on the patio.

I try for a variety of reasons to avoid politics in this blog, but I have some thoughts I can’t avoid, mostly about when trump and his cohorts will be charged with treason. He apparently said that he has no choice but to run for president in 2024—God help us all. Meantime, we are hearing increasingly solid evidence that he and several Republican Congresspeople were heavily involved in what was supposed to look like a spontaneous insurrection. I am so confused about where the American people weigh in on this. Maybe by tomorrow, I’ll collect my thoughts.

Stay safe, all of you, especially those in the storm’s path, whether here, in California, or the East Coast. Mother Nature s on a rampage tonight. Is she trying to tell us something?

 

Of storms, trees, and happy hour

 

We just had a lovely storm come through my little corner of the world, the kind with no hail, no wind, little lightning, but dark skies, lots of thunder, and a gentle rain. I have the patio doors open and thoroughly enjoyed that fresh, wet smell. And the temperature, which had been in the low nineties, cooled down about twenty degrees. A neighbor emailed that she’s like Sophie—nervous about the thunder.

And that triggered a memory for me. When I was a kid, we had a cabin, really primitive, in the Indiana dunes. No electricity, no plumbing—we carried drinking water up three flights from the beach, used cistern water from a pump to wash dishes and then scalded them (probably not as sanitary as my mom thought at the time), and used an outhouse for private needs.

The cabin sat on a high dune at the very foot of Lake Michigan, and one of the joys of our summer times there was to watch a storm roll down the length of the lake, stirring up giant whitecaps in the water and turning the sky black. Bless my mom, for she taught us way back then to relish a storm and never be afraid. To this day I love a good storm, though I admit in Texas the possibility of tornados and hail make me nervous. And I have lived through a few storms that caused major damage, like one that took out my entire cookbook collection because the roof leaked.

After the storm passed tonight, the sky lightened, and for a while it had that eerie glow, a sort of greenish cast, that the atmosphere sometimes gets after a storm. I do understand that once again there was damage to the north of us, and I pray there were no injuries.

Most people worry about trees being damaged in our Texas spring storm. No such worries for us, because a huge branch—I mean huge!—fell off the old elm tree in front of the house this afternoon, well before the storm. No reason, except maybe age. It just fell. Since it is in the boulevard—the strip between sidewalk and street—it is the city’s tree, so I called the forestry department of Parks and Recreation. They made sure it isn’t blocking a sidewalk or a street (it isn’t) and said they will come look. We’ve lost big branches from that tree before, and each time I call the city I am afraid they’ll just take the whole tree down. It is probably a hundred years old—the age my house will be next year. I’m sure the house—and my daughter and her family who live in it now—would feel naked and exposed without that big tree which somehow seems to anchor us to our world. Then again, it does cross my mind that the whole tree could fall in the direction of the house. An arborist once explained to me that they are in the business of saving trees, not cutting them down, so I will wait to see what happens with this one.

A friend whose company I much enjoy came for happy hour tonight, and we timed it just perfectly. It was pleasant and lovely, and we caught up on each other—it had been too long. First we were waiting for vaccines, and then the weather was not patio weather, and then once we could be inside, she was sick, so tonight was a treat even though she had to leave for a meeting and I had a Zoom event, which it turned out I couldn’t log into because I had an invalid i.d. But just as we decided we had to go inside, I felt the first drops of rain hit my face. Good timing.

A good day. I wrote 1200 words and felt like I still have some momentum on my new project. And I heard from the editor to whom I sent my Helen Corbitt project—he assured me they would give it serious consideration and said nice things about my stature as a Texas writer. Everybody loves ego strokes, and I’m no exception.

Storm watch until eleven, so I’m going to lock up for the night, get in my jammies, and read the mystery I’m enjoying—Susan Van Kirk’s Death Takes No Bribes. Stay safe, everyone.

A long day, a lazy day…and some political naivete

 

Sophie, listening to what I have to say

Yesterday was a long day. Jordan’s allergy were severe, and she took the day off and stayed in bed. I’m spoiled—used to her popping in and out periodically during the day. Gave me great empathy for those who live truly alone and went through long days of quarantine with no human contact. I had just a smidgeon—Jordan came out in the morning to tell me she was taking the day off, Jacob came out in the late afternoon chasing a dog who, with inadequate bathroom manners, is not supposed to be in the cottage, and Christian came out about seven bringing me the dinner he brought from King Tut. Other than that, it was me and Sophie—so glad to have her to talk to.

Last night was long too but not unpleasant. One of life’s many pleasures to me is lying in your bed, all cozy and comfortable and safe, listening to thunder roll overhead and a steady rain come down. I understand some parts of the Metroplex got hail and damage and I am so sorry about that, but here it was just rain—no wind, not much lightning that I knew. Just that thunder. As my mom used to say, “The gods were bowling.” Sophie was not nearly as pleased as I was.

Today all I wanted to do was sleep—maybe it was being awake so much in the night, but I kept trying to sneak a nap and Sophie kept demanding I get up. I got distracted from my morning routine making a “night-before” salad this morning that I should have made last night. Threw my whole schedule off, and I did no proofreading today. As a result, my conscience is suffering a bit. Not badly, though. I think I’m ahead of schedule.

I have had a political epiphany. It now seems I was incredibly naïve to think that once Joe Biden was president and trump gone, things would work themselves out. Not so. I cannot wrap my mind around the lies most Republicans are telling themselves about everything from who was responsible for the January 6 insurrection (no, it clearly was not Antifa and BLM) to the Big Lie that trump won the election in a landslide and it was stolen from him. They apparently can’t do the math that ties a raise in the minimum wage to the exponential rise in the cost of living, and they are opposed to COVID-relief, for reasons I yet cannot understand except that they, who gave the 1% huge tax cuts, claim we can’t afford to help those who work for hourly wages. They blithely ignore the record in some states where a raise in minimum wage has had widespread economic benefit. They also ignore that small businesses, about which they profess so much worry, suffer when people have no pocket money to spend.

If you read Heather Cox Richardon’s daily column, which I recommend you do (Find it on Facebook among other places), you learn that Biden’s approval numbers are astoundingly good. He’s doing the things America wants—vaccinations, legislation to help those who are struggling to feed family and pay rent, restoring environmental protections, the list is endless. Most Republicans, on the other hand, seem to have a death wish for their party and have dug in their heels as the literal opposition party. They have no plan, no platform, except they are opposed to Biden and Democrats.

The big trouble with Republican gaslighting is that the gullible among them believe what old white men like Ron Johnson, Louie Gohmert, Rand Paul and others say. And I’m not even talking about the extremists, though I did hear the other day about someone who claimed Biden has been dead for years and what we see is a clone who will be replaced March 4 when trump is inaugurated again. Oh, and they want to blow up the Capitol Building during the as-yet-unscheduled State of the Union Address.

Whatever will become of our beloved country?

All those things I don’t do well

I can figure my way around a paragraph or a page of prose and I’m pretty much okay in the kitchen, but outside those areas I’m at a loss. Several years ago when I was director of TCU Press, the editor was a man who could fix—or jerry-rig—most things. I have forgotten what the occasion was, but I will always remember him saying to someone, “She’s not exactly handy.” The result is that when I do the slightest mechanical thing, I tend to be inordinately proud of myself.

In the last couple of days, I have “fixed” three things, and I am bursting with pride. Never mind that one of them just involved deliberately leaving the thing alone. The commode in my cottage wouldn’t flush. Since I do not have two bathrooms in my small quarters, that’s a real problem. It not only wouldn’t flush, it wasn’t making plumbing noises like it was working on something. So I left it alone. Two hours later, it flushed perfectly! Deliberately ignoring a problem is part of my tool kit.

The light in the panel in my refrigerator door that goes on when you get water or ice? It suddenly was on and stayed on. Now in my small quarters, nothing is far apart, and that light bothered me at night when I slept. I finally got so I pulled the pocket door between bedroom and kitchen partly closed. I meant to ask Christian about it—until I discovered a light bulb image on the control panel.  Pushed it, and voila! The light went out. See how handy I am.

The third thing—and these things always come in threes—that broke was my Apple watch. I put it on the charger and saw that instead of the usual panel of numbers, I saw just the corner of one big number. After it charged, it was the same. My phone does that sometimes and I simply reboot it. Not an option with the watch. There’s only one button you can push on the phone, and I pushed it. Nothing. So I called the genius granddaughter who works at an Apple Genius Bar in Boulder. She said we’d zoom the next day. Meantime I remembered what she told me—the watch is nothing by itself. It needs the cell phone, which is essentially its switchboard. So I opened the watch app on the phone—I wish I could tell you what I hit after that, but I just kind of touched buttons. I think it was “complications” which sounded logical to me. Anyway, suddenly the phone was back to normal.

I wrote that to genius granddaughter but told her I’d still like a zoom call to see her pretty face. Still waiting tonight, though she said she’d’ call sometime after she got out of class.

So that’s three things I have fixed—or ignored while they fixed themselves: the toilet, the light on the fridge, and my watch. Color me proud, and let’s not talk about the fact that Christian had to show me tonight how to use a pill cutter.

Apparently there are horrendous storms headed this way. Thunder is rolling in the distance and I see lightning flashes. Reports from a friend who is about forty miles to the west at a local lake is that it is like a hurricane. Sophie is in, and I have given her a Benadryl, just because. I enjoy a good storm, but I’m aware of the dangers. When Jacob came out with word of it, I asked him to check on us after it passes.

Be safe, stay inside, and hide under the covers until the storm passes.

A not-so-minor explosion

June Bug enjoying happy hour on the patio

You know that big storm we had last night? The one that came up in two minutes flat, turned daylight to immediate dark, and blew so hard I feared for my lovely old oaks? Yes, that one. It was nothing compared to the explosion in the cottage this afternoon.

Let me back up. My younger son, Jamie, is coming over from Frisco this week. Knowing he’s partial to Diet Coke (which makes his mother frown because of the aspartame), Jordan bought a twelve-pack and stocked my fridge. Four cans left over, so I put them on the butcher block and this afternoon was busily transferring them to the bottom shelf.

I dropped one! I’m not sure how, perhaps my hand was wet and slippery. But it fell at my feet, puncturing a hole in the surprisingly fragile can and sending sticky sweet liquid everywhere. I resigned myself to mopping the floor and wiping down some of the other things on the bottom shelf.

Just then Jordan walked in, looked at my desk  (probably five or six feet from the kitchen) and asked, “What happened? It’s all wet?” The more she looked, the more frustrated she became. Long story short, she mopped the floor three times, washed down cabinets and walls, appliances and the fridge and sink, muttering all the while about a forthcoming invasion of ants. She found it in my bedroom (next to the kitchen) and at the other end of the cottage on the coffee table. She was hot and frustrated, and I sat helplessly by. I know better than to get in her way. Worst of it is she had spent an hour and a half yesterday thoroughly cleaning the cottage.

Sophie observed all this with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. She watched from the bedroom doorway and then tried to investigate what was on the floor when Jordan pulled out the butcher block. Jordan kept saying, “Out from under my feet!”

Order is restored, and I’m going to cook one of Jordan’s favorite dinners—spinach fettucine with mushrooms, artichoke hearts, green onion, pesto, and lots of lemon and butter. The boys can fend for themselves since they don’t eat mushrooms or artichoke hearts.

I did a bit of creative cooking earlier today. Made gazpacho from a recipe by Texas food and travel writer and cook extraordinaire June Naylor Harris, only I halved it and made it my own by substituting green onion for a red onion and leaving out the serrano chile. I am just not a chile person—I guess it’s because way back when, over fifty-five years ago, I was a northerner, and I’ve just never learned to like spicy. I’m letting it chill until tomorrow, but it smells wonderful.

It was a joy tonight to sit on the patio comfortably. The air is not cool but not oppressively hot, and we had the fan on. Loved being out there again and not cooped up behind closed doors. I wish spring and fall in Texas lasted all year.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

A do-nothing day

Sophie watching me at my desk

See those eyes?

Sometimes I have a do-nothing day. I think it’s therapeutic, because it usually signals the start of an intense work period the next day. So today I had one of those days, partly because my plans for yesterday and today fell through and left me at loose ends. I’m not sure why that’s an excuse, but it is.

So I got off to a slow start this morning and didn’t worry about it. Lingered over the morning’s email and political news, spent far too long on Facebook answering messages and inserting my two cents much more often than it was called for. Then I decided I had to study all the unread titles on my Kindle. A friend mentioned Gabrielle Hamilton’s memoir, Blood, Bones, and Butter, and I had read the free sample last night. But in the cold light of day I convinced myself to read something I had already bought before moving on to that one. So I decided on The Chilbury Ladies Choir, mostly because it reminds me a bit of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society—how English citizens coped with World War II.

But before reading, I moved on to a delightful hour going through recipes I’ve put aside to try. Doing this is productive because I make myself take a long look at each one and admit with about half that I’ll never fix them. So the folder grows thinner. And I planned some good suppers for myself—tonight, a potato and wurst skillet, tomorrow salmon—King salmon is on sale this week, and I think I’ll make cucumber soup to go with it. Had a great debate with myself—decided I wanted lamb, but did I want a loin chop or ground lamb for burgers? Decided on the burgers because then I’ll have them all week.

Finally, after a lunch of cottage cheese over cucumber, chopped tomato, and sliced scallion, I settled down to re-read an article online that is pertinent to the book I’m working on. I’ve read it before, but now, with much research and background behind me, I find new meaning in it, new facts that take on significance.

And then about two, the day suddenly and unexpectedly darkened, the sky turned gray, and the wind blew hard. Well, of course, nothing would do but that Sophie and I curl up in the bed for a nap. First time in a long while that she’s actually stayed on the bed, pretty much motionless—a blessing. Even now, with the day brighter and the rain seemingly stopped, she is reluctant to let me out of her sight. If I go to the bathroom, she accompanies me; if I do something in the kitchen, she lies in the bedroom doorway where she is close.

Guess it’s time for me to fix that supper of knockwurst, potato—I’ll add a bit of kraut for good measure.

A scrambled beginning to a calm day

       

As everyone in Fort Worth knows, the heavens let loose last night. I sat at my desk and watched sheets of water blow across the deck—and deluge from the new gutter installed only yesterday. And therein lies the beginning of my tale of today.

Jordan and Christian both separately treated me to their opinion of the new gutter, and though now they both disclaim this, I got the distinct impression that they held me personally responsible for installing an inferior product. Today all is smoothed over—five inches of rain in a really short period of time is more than any gutter could handle. The couple of remaining small leaks can be fixed. As my contractor said this morning, “I’m not going to think about the gutter anymore.” Well, that turned out not to be true…but close.

I let Sophie out rather early this morning, because she seemed to feel it was urgent. But within minutes, she was barking so franticly that she drew Jordan and Jacob out on the deck. Jordan turned, went into the house, and returned with a broom, which confirmed my suspicion that Sophie had cornered something. A lizard, I thought, or possibly a small snake. Not so. It was a baby possum. She trapped it under the patio table and only gave up when Jordan swatted her once, gently, with the broom and then dragged her inside.

That solves another mystery though. Something has been digging dirt up out of the tiny strip between the house and the sidewalk by the deck. In all the time three dogs have lived here, none have ever done that, and we were puzzled. Besides Jordan was tired of sweeping the dirt back where it belongs.  So now we know that it’s the mama possum, though we’re not sure why she’s digging there.

Fortunately Jordan has listened to my lecture about possums being our friends, and she treated the baby gently and seems glad we are hosting a mama and her babies. After all, they eat thousands of bad insects a day—mosquitoes, which are a problem in our yard, as well as ticks and fleas which threaten our dogs.

With the gutter problem solved and Sophie safely back inside, I thought the morning would calm down. Not so—today was garbage day, and the kids had put the bins out on the street last night because who wants to do that at seven in the morning. But this morning, they were gone and an inspection of the neighborhood all the way to the foot of the gentle slope that is our street did not turn them up. Jordan asked me to put the loss on the neighborhood email list, and all I learned was that half the neighborhood had lost their bins in the storm last night. Some collected at low spots and some just never turned up. Ours were so neatly aligned in front of the neighbors’ house that Christian thought they were the neighbors’ bins—until he saw them bring theirs down to the street. So another mystery solved.

For me, it was a stay-at-home and read day, so I punctuated it by fixing myself three good meals, instead of picking as I usually do. Scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast; a BLT for lunch, because I got organic tomatoes with my imperfect produce last night—and was that ever a good sandwich. Tonight I went all out—made a summer squash casserole and doused a chicken thigh with soy, salt, pepper, paprika and garlic powder, and baked it in the toaster oven. So good.

I expect to have another stay-at-home and get-lots-done day tomorrow, but I surely hope it gets off to a calmer start.

Thunder, lightning, and rain!

The weatherman said 40% chance of showers this afternoon, but I’ve lost all faith in him. As Christian says, when the TV says pop-up showers, they never pop up at our house. But about two o’clock, we had light rain and distant thunder that I found encouraging. Sure enough, soon this incredible thunder boomed, the kind that sounds like fireworks going off right in front of you and then is followed by silence and stillness so profound that you think the storm has sucked all the air out of the atmosphere. It makes you hold breath. Good heavy rain followed.

Sophie was a pain all morning. Our sprinklers had gone off, plus I suspected maybe a light rain, and I didn’t want her running hither and yon chasing squirrels and then bringing all the mud from the outdoors inside. But she was desperate to go outside, jumping up on the couch (no, I’m not a good disciplinarian) where she could look out one window at the squirrels and another at the chickens. I finally let her out thinking she would want to relieve herself before I went to lunch. Nope, she wanted to chase squirrels. Mary, who came to go to lunch with me, gamely went out into the yard waving a piece of Velveeta and calling Sophie. It probably took ten minutes to entice her into the house. I hated to reward bad behavior, but we had waved that cheese in front of her. She looked stunned with disappointment when we told her goodbye and left.

Mary took me to an early birthday lunch since she’ll be away when we celebrate. We both like Swiss Pastry Bakery because we like sausage and kraut—we do share German heritage. Delicious as always, though filling. I came home with potato salad and kraut and will probably have that with some salami for supper. The outing gave me yet another chance to drive my car.

None of the local critters enjoyed the storms. I looked at the chickens this afternoon, and they were all four perched on the crossbar in their pen, as though they didn’t want to get their feet in that mud. Didn’t know chickens were that finicky.

Tonight, after all that unsuccessful fiddling with Skype, I talked to a book club of teachers in Henderson, Texas via Facetime. We chatted for just under thirty minutes, and I think it went well. I just put aside m conviction that Facetime makes me look like an old hag. I tried to hold the phone as high as I could, as I’ve watched Jordan do with selfies, but that gets tiring. Pretty soon I quit worrying about my looks and enjoyed the conversation. I was pleased that some of them had read other books of mine than the one they read together. We chatted a bit about writing historical fiction and about everything from Chicago to my grandchildren. Readlly fun. I’d like to do more of that.

And here comes the weekend!

Not one of my better days

A wonderful thunderstorm last night, or so I'm told. I have a vague memory of hearing distant thunder, and I think I once heard the patter of rain, but what I really know is that Sophie spent the night on my bed, "protecting me." Today she seems reluctant to be away from me, and when I napped, she napped on the bed again.
I'm packing for a brief trip to see my oldest child and his family, and I think the bag I pack in makes her nervous. I tried to explain I'm leaving the Burtons behind to guard the fort, but I am most definitely taking her with me. I guess she's not yet reassured.
This day started out just fine--I spent the morning and early afternoon doing various chores at the computer, some of which were frustrating--like countless tries to put my next novel on Amazon for pre-order. The designer and I can't get the specs right and have concluded that Kindle Direct Publishing is picky. But in the afternoon, shortly after Sophie and I napped, I could not get into my email. Then, briefly, I could not get on the internet, nor could I save something I typed. My conclusion is that the TCU server, which hosts my email, is down. Of course by the time I figured that out, the whole university was closed for the evening. You'd think they'd leave someone on the switchboard to answer questions like mine!
Just before the computer quit, I found a calendar note that I was to do a distance radio interview at four--it was 4:10 by then, and I had no phone number for the podcast station. Panic ensued, and I frantically emailed the publicist who had arranged the interview, tried to find phone numbers--and finally thought to check my calendar. Sure enough, I'd double entered it because the real date is August 24, and all the information is in that entry. Be still, my over-beating heart.
Tonight, the Burtons have taken the two little boys to a Rangers game, so I'm left at home, which doesn't bother me, except that I'd really like to check my email, thank you.
I did fix myself a really good dinner--emptying out the vegetable drawer. That darn drawer freezes things, and I have yet to figure out how to raise the temperature. Asparagus is particularly susceptible to frost. I'll have to ask Christian, but anyway tonight I found about a third of a zucchini and some asparagus, half of which was frozen. I used the remaining half. Cooked a handful of spinach fettucine, rinsed it, added a bit of olive oil, and set it aside while I sautéed the asparagus and zucchini and some diced ham in butter. (Cooking on a hot plate, you cannot do the sauce while the pasta cooks because you only have one cooking surface; innovation is necessary.) Put the pasta in the pan to heat--and got it so hot I had to let it cool before I could eat it. But it was a great meal, and it occurs to me that pasta is a good way to use leftovers. You can fix any number of combinations. I topped my meal off with a bit of dark chocolate with sea salt, a gift from Megan.
Now I'm back at my computer, still wishing for email, but grateful for the internet connection. Next I'll try to save what I typed in Word. Life is always fun with computers--but some days my frustration tolerance is not good.

The Beauty of Storms

Around five this morning I was awakened by a furry black body leaping into my bed and pressing up close against me. Only then did I hear the thunder and lightning. Sophie does not like to be alone in storms. Her preference is to be as close as possible to me.

Apparently I missed a heck of a storm. Jordan said later that she too was wakened by dogs and told Christian, “I hope Mom is enjoying this.” I do love a good storm, a love that stems back to my childhood days. My brother tells me that our mother taught us to love the fierceness of storms rather than to be scared by them.

When I was a kid, my family had a cottage high on a dune in the Indiana Dunes State Park. The cottage literally sat at the foot of Lake Michigan, and we could watch storms roll down the lake toward us. When we saw one coming, great preparations would ensue. Dad would put the windows back in the frames---they came completely out to allow fresh air. Awnings would be pulled in. And I would sit mesmerized, looking at the clouds and whitecaps. Lake Michigan in fury is a powerful thing to behold.

When my parents allowed, I loved to be on the beach, with the wind whipping my hair, my feet digging into the sand to get a foothold against the wind. I wasn’t allowed on the beach alone if there was a storm, but I could go to a spot on the second level of the dunes that I had carved out as my own. A little sandy knoll stuck out among the grasses and weeds, and I would sit there forever with my dog, a female collie mix incongruously named Timmy. From that sot at sundown I could watch the sun go down behind the buildings of Chicago, which looks unbelievably small. Sometimes yoga or meditation instructors urge you to go to a quiet, peaceful spot in your mind, and to this day that knoll is the spot I go to.

The lake was powerful and tricky, and I was taught always to be careful. I had to swim parallel to the shore and to touch my foot on the bottom to make sure I hadn’t gotten in over my head. I still can’t swim in the deep end of a pool where I can’t touch my foot to the bottom. Riptide was a word I didn’t even want to hear.

There were more or less three levels of cottages at the dunes—ours on the high ridge, with windows on the back to the woods, which I thought was wonderful except when I needed to use the outhouse in the dark of night. Then I woke someone to go with me, but I refused at an early age to use the chamber pot.

The next mid-level row of cottages was where my secret spot was, and then there were those that nestled up on the high end of the beach, where the grasses began. Every year, one or more of them would just wash into the lake. Erosion was and is a real problem all along Lake Michigan’s shore.

You could not drive to our cottage. We parked in the woods, a mile away, and carried our clothes and food in; you could also walk the beach—which we rarely did—or, oh luxury!—have the park jeep drive you to the foot of your stairs, with all your belongings. This was not a luxury cabin—an outhouse, at first no gas, so the refrigerator as a kind of box on a pulley that we lowered into the cool ground. Once a week, the ice man cometh—to put a huge block of ice in the bottom of the hole. We put milk in the bottom shelf so it would stay cold.

Drinking water came from a pump on the beach and had to be carried up three flights of stairs. Drinking water as therefore precious, and I always remember the nigh we heard a splash—a mouse drowned in our drinking water, wasting a whole bucket. In the cottage we had only cistern water, so Mom would wash dishes and then scald them to rinse. No electricity—kerosene and Aladdin lamps. Dad was always saying, “Turn it down. You’ll burn the mantle.” I don’t know what we would have done in this age of computers and cell phone. The Dunes did not offer a luxury vacation but to this day a piece of my heart is there and I have fond memories.

My dad and some friends owned the cottage when the state of Indiana took it over under eminent domain. Thereafter Indiana leased it to my folks and one other couple until the year my folks retired to North Carolina. For a while the cottages were leased by the weekend, but I guess that proved too difficult because after a few years they tore down all the cottages.

Fourth of July Memories

How do you celebrate the Fourth? With a barbecue, burgers and dogs and potato salad? Do you go someplace to watch fireworks?

I am spending a quiet day at home today, but the Fourth brings many memories from over the years. When I was a teenager in Chicago, I used to go with a group of friends to Soldiers Field where we watched stock car races (what that has to do with patriotism baffles me to this day) and then what we considered a spectacular display of fireworks. I suppose it would pale by today’s standards. In retrospect, it was unlike my parents to let me go to something like that with a group of friends, but they did.

My neighborhood has a parade which is pretty much a big deal—one family offers mimosas and bloody Marys at a curbside stand, but the focus is really all on the children.  Toddlers as young as two drive their foot-powered vehicles on the six-block route that ends at the local elementary school where there are snow cones and other goodies.

When my children were young—thirty years ago or more—they dressed in red, white and blue, pulled the red wagon, and were a proud part of the parade in the neighborhood where we then lived. One year Jamie made a striking Paul Revere, though I wonder to this day where we got a tri-cornered hat for him. He even had a brass bell to ring as he sounded the alarm. The kids would weave crepe paper banners into the spokes of their bikes. They never won a costume prize but that didn’t seem to faze them.

When my ex was still with us, we went to the top floor—twelfth?—of the Medical Education Building at TCOM. As a faculty member, he had access. Great view, luxury seating, but I only remember doing that a couple of times.

One year the kids and I went with their Uncle Bob (an adopted relative) to watch the city fireworks. For some reason we decided to go to the middle of a long high bridge over the Trinity. Uncle Bob, now long gone, was gay as a goose and afraid of many of the things that spook me. In the middle of the bridge, we simultaneously had panic attacks, and the kids had to lead us off. Not our best year.

Some years I went with friends to Oakwood Cemetery, a local historic landmark, for the tour of graves of famous characters and then to watch fireworks from the banks of the Trinity River. A few years we went to the Fort Worth Botanical Gardens for a concert followed by fireworks, and many years I went to local Colonial Country Club with friends—often Jordan’s friends. We sat on the ground directly under the fireworks, and I decided I didn’t really like the sensation of those loud explosions coming right at me—made me feel like I was having a heart attack. A couple of years I went with neighbors, and we watched from a second floor balcony—much more my style.

One problem with going somewhere to watch these displays is that they all end about the same time, and traffic snarls—it can take an hour or more to get home.

Tonight I’m spending the evening quietly at home—obviously since I can’t put weight on one foot and am in no shape to go anywhere. We had enough fireworks last night—loud, rolling thunder and great flashes of lightning. It got to Sophie who slept part of the night with me. Jordan reported this morning that at one point she had both her dogs, who were visiting, plus Sophie in bed with her.

The Fourth is the most dangerous holiday for dogs. One out of five dogs disappear. We used to have a collie who was desperate to get inside when fireworks went off. Before we realized this he destroyed an aluminum screen door—in a rent house, of course. Sophie, bothered by thunder, is not much aware of fireworks, but she’ll be inside.

Happy Fourth everybody.

Storms and mysteries

Last night's storm paled in the face of the onslaught we got tonight, brief though it was. High winds--did I really hear 60 mph?)--blowing heavy rain, thunder and lightning.  No hail, but a tornado watch, a few sighted quite far from us but nothing close. Jacob is here tonight, and he is terrified of storms, so we had a few tense moments. He was sure we were all--him, me and Sophie--going to die. I assured him not. Finally I went into the office bathroom with him because he felt secure there and better with my company. Sophie, who is not fazed by storms, went because she was curious. Jacob accused me of not caring, and I asked if he'd feel better if I went around wringing my hands, moaning and going into a panic. He said no. As such storms do, this one passed within--oh, fifteen or twenty minutes--though distant thunder and lightning could be heard a long while after. To me, the good news is that no trees went down, though I've heard reports of them down in various areas.
So now I worry a bit about my kids in Frisco, where it was headed, and my kids in Tomball. I saw where severe storms passed south of them but it looked like they got good rain. Their small lake/big pond is up so high it flooded the meditation spot on their property. Next time I'm down there, I'm going to look for the specific meditation spot--to me, just sitting by the water, under the trees, is blessing enough. I didn't know there was a specific place.
Meditation was not on my mind tonight, what with the storm and the fact that my back hurt and I was tired. I meant to get a head start on tomorrow night's dinner but just didn't do it. It took all my oomph to fix bacon and tomato sandwiches for us, clean the kitchen, and slink back to my desk. After the storm, as a reward for good behavior (?) I gave Jacob ice cream.
But I did manage my thousand words, plus a couple of emails, and I feel productive. And tired.