What my imagination does to a bit of excitement

 

North Texas was under severe storm alerts this afternoon and evening. Predictions called for hail the size of ping pong balls and strong winds. So far, we’ve had one nice spell of rain—medium heavy with thunder rolling. I’ve said this before—my mom told me thunder was the gods bowling. A recent article for our neighborhood newsletter, which I edit, came from a neighbor with thirty years with the National Weather Service. His description of thunder is that it’s a warning of bad things to come.

The nice folks behind me are tearing out their back porch and replacing it with a screened-in porch and putting in a pool and a cabana/guest house. All this will take time—I’m guessing the whole summer—and will entail a lot of construction noise. But they are good neighbors and have done their best to see that I am not disturbed (my cottage is right at the property line at the back of our property, so close to whatever they’re doing).

Today the young man called to tell Jordan workers digging at the back of their lot detected a strong smell of gas near my tankless water heater. Of course, Jordan semi-panicked, came running out to the cottage, and I called our plumber. They said they’d send Lonnie, who is more than familiar with the house and cottage—I’ve used the same plumbing company for over 25 years.

But before Lonnie could get here, the sky darkened and the thunder rolled, and my imagination conjured up a vision of lightning striking near leaking gas and an explosion taking out my cottage—and me. Seriously, the thought flitted across my mind that this could be the day I die. On the other hand, I was concerned that this foolishness would interrupt my nap. Oh, the trivia we choose to worry about. Fortunately, Lonnie arrived.

He sniffed and smelled—nothing. The ground was wet, but he saw no bubbles which would indicate a leak. He saw a sewer line that the cap had come off, and said if you’re not a plumber, you might not recognize the difference between dangerous gas and sewer gas. And if you stand near the tankless heater when it kicks in, you get an odor—fumes, not gas. He assured me I was perfectly safe but just to err on the side of caution I should call the gas company. Am I the only customer to whom the plumber says, “You have a good day now, sweetheart”?

The gas company is beyond efficient, but they can scare the daylights out of you. They have an obvious prepared list of cautions: leave the area at once, do not use your phone again, do not move a vehicle, no open flames, etc. l told the woman I would go to the opposite end of the house and nap—no need to tell her how small the cottage is—and she laughed.

So all is well that ends well. The Atmos guy said it was no doubt the start-up fumes from the tankless water heater, and he saw no problem. The only problem I see is that now I’ll get another plumbing bill, and they are never modest.

And our storms? They’re due to be over in fifteen minutes, and the sky does not look at all threatening. I’m grateful there was no hail, but darn! I’d have loved a good rain. I guess I’ll sleep well tonight—no gas leak, no storms.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

A still, silent world

The severe thunderstorm warning has expired without more than a few drops hitting us, though it was all around us. I could hear thunder to the north and to the south, which makes sense since the two systems were to collide right about over us. Right now, everything outside is perfectly still and silent—almost eerily so, in that quiet that may precede a storm. Nothing moves, no birds sing—well, of course not: it’s night. Sophie is staying close to me. There is still a tornado alert until 2:00 a.m.

Nice working weekend, when I got good things done on my manuscript. I’m at the point of plugging in bits of information and catching inconsistencies, repetitions, etc. Woke in the night last night with the realization that something was off. A young man in the family I’m studying died at twenty-five after marrying an astounding eight times. But in my manuscript, he was born in 1902 and died in 1922. Now no matter how profligate, I don’t think any man could manage eight marriages by the age of twenty. So I had to go back and do some digging—turns out he died in 1928. Still a pretty amazing record and not exactly an admirable one.

Had several things on my mind this morning—things I had to do at my desk—and so went to church on the computer. It’s so easy to get out of the habit of physically going to church. Jacob had an overnight guest—a good friend whose parents were out of town—so Christian said he was busy cooking them breakfast. We vowed we will go to church next weekend—and then found out today Megan and her family are coming then for the TCU/UT game. Grandson Ford is a die-hard TCU fan, which really tests loyalty since they are not winning this year. I think several stellar seasons have lulled TCU fans into complacency, so this season comes as a real blow.

Sunday supper tonight—I fixed hamburger Stroganoff, being too cheap to buy tenderloin for real Stroganoff. It was good but took longer to fix and was more work than I had anticipated. Maybe that’s because, contrary to my usual habit, I followed the directions step by step. While I cooked, Jordan got a bee in her bonnet and cleaned the junk drawer in my office file cabinet, occasionally muttering about what deep trouble I am in. It’s one of those drawers everyone has—pens, pencils, note paper, Scotch tape (six rolls), stamps, batteries, skis for my walker, non-slip caps or the canes I never use. Her goal, which she achieved, was to put extra printer paper where I could easily get at it—it’s been in a bookcase, behind several boxes, and inaccessible to me—I had to wait until someone came along to get paper for me. She started on my paper drawer—scads of old manuscripts which made drawing paper (on the back side) when Jacob was young but are hardly used now, greeting cards without matching envelopes, legal pads—who knows what else. I imagine she’ll discover some odd things when she gets back to it.

A new week ahead. Hope it’s a good one for everyone.

‘Twas dark and dreary.. . .

I think those are the first words of a song, probably a Scottish ballad. I can hear them and the voice in my mind. Is it Alex Beaton? Perhaps singing about Glencoe when the Campbells wiped out the Clan of MacDonald? At any rate, the words perfectly describe the day in Fort Worth today, one of the darkest (literally) that I remember. Between bouts of welcome rain, the world has cowered under a thick pad of grey clouds.

It’s the kind of day when your bed calls you back, and if you have the luxury of returning there, you lie still, without moving a muscle, and realize how perfectly comfortable you are. You almost wish you had to pee for that would force you up and out of the bed. It’s the kind of day for reading in bed—if only I had once ever learned to get comfortable reading in bed—it seems my neck is always at the wrong angle.

Same song, 35^th boring verse, but after a weekend of not feeling good, I really do think I’m on the mend this time. Can’t tell for sure, because who feels energetic and full of optimism on a dark and dreary day?

My uncertain stomach has kept me from cooking much, but yesterday I made my first-ever galette. I’m calling it a “cottage galette” because the size of my oven and the instruments limited its size, which is fine. I meant to use nectarines and blueberries but realized I had bought nice firm peaches. They made every bit as fine a dish.

Jordan refuses to eat cooked fruit—no fruit compote, no pies nor shortcake with peaches and cream, none of that good stuff. There’s something wrong with the way I raised my daughter. She won’t eat cooked fruit; her sister doesn’t eat “white” things—no mayo, cream cheese, goat cheese, and so on. When I tell her, she’s missing the good stuff, she sighs and says she knows it. She really wants to like goat cheese because people that do are so crazy about it.

Jordan is away on a business trip, so I thought it was time to use those good summer fruits. I asked Christian if he would eat a galette. When I ask him these questions, he always comes at the answer in a sideways manner. First, we talked about what a galette is. Then he carefully described to me the pies he does and doesn’t eat. No cherry, because the fruit gets sort of slimy—though he does eat the sauce. I wanted to demand what he thought made the cherries slimy? That very sauce he says he eats. Finally, he allowed as how blueberry and peach sounded pretty good. And last night he voted in favor of my galette. A small victory!

The weekend that wasn't meant to be

The weekend that I had anticipated with so much joy turned out to be a bust. Megan called this morning to say they weren’t coming. The game they wanted to see was rescheduled for three today, which they couldn’t make, and the weather forecast was frightening. She did not want to be on I35 with a nine-year-old in a hail storm. I of course wouldn’t want her to drive in those conditions, and I wasn’t really surprised. We have rescheduled for a weekend in May. But, yes, I was bummed.

Didn’t sleep well last night—scratchy throat, stuffy nose, aching leg, and of course terrible dark thoughts at three a.m. Turns out I didn’t feel much better this morning though I sis two loads of laundry, emptied the dishwasher and did sundry other household chores, without much enthusiasm. Jordan said she and Jacob were still coming for supper and we’d cook the salmon I bought for a celebratory feast. I thought I was feeling better until she arrived. I’m sure she wasn’t the trigger, but I began to cough and finally made a mad dash for the bathroom. After that I recovered a bit but thought how good it was Megan and Ford hadn’t come up.

We did not cook the salmon, froze it. I just didn’t feel up to either cooking or eating it, and Jordan plied me with water and gave me buttered rye toast. When I sat down next to Jacob at the table, he ostentatiously moved his plate and drink away and then said, “Well, Juju, you’re sick.”

Jordan and I unpacked and sorted some twenty cartons of books. Some went straight to the trash pile; others, damaged but still readable, will go to schools and women’s shelters. Some I will keep—they’re in good shape, and I’d like to have one copy of every book I’ve written. Jordan says she has a spread sheet. You can’t tell that we made progress, but we really did, and she feels much better about the books. Says we can whip through the remaining 20 boxes in a couple of nights—not so sure about that.

She also is keeping a spread sheet of costs and insurance reimbursements for the hail damage, and lectured me fairly severely for not telling her about the insurance check I deposited today. Nice to be in such capable hands.

Now they gone, leaving me with a glass of water and a diffuser with peppermint for nasal problems and lavender for soothing. Think I’ll read and go to bed early.

No rain yet. The rain blew up a while ago, showering Jacob as he watered porch plants that will be sheltered from the rain, but it seems to have died down again.