The little red trike

A little fuzzy--they must have been speeding

A picture popped up today on the memories Microsoft or whoever send you that tugged at my heart—it’s Jacob riding the little red trike that was so much a fixture of my grandchildren’s young years, with his cousin Morgan trying to dislodge him. There’s a story behind that trike. It was given to my children when they were very little by my ex’s senior partner, a man I came to rely on and one who always had my back when times got rough. He was probably in his sixties at the time, maybe seventies—he’s been gone a long time—but he told me he had that trike as a child. We figure it's now at least a hundred years old.

It had obviously been repainted with “loving hands” and there was a big hole in the solid rubber front tire. Maddie riding it one day looked down and intoned in a true Texas accent, “There’s a hole in my tire.” It almost sounded like a line from a c/w song. The hole never stopped the action, and for years the trike lived in what was then a playroom in my house. The room was eventually stripped of hobbyhorse and trike and all other childish things and converted to a TV room.

But the trike went to my oldest son and resides somewhere at his house now, waiting for the next generation to fight over it. It brings sentimental tears to my eyes to think of all seven grands, only seven years apart, playing together in my house, always underfoot in the kitchen and fighting over that trike. Good times, good memories.

Nature is showing off for me today. This morning, when I first woke up, the adobe house across my yard was bathed in a rosy glow, and I thought it meant a sunny day. Not so. But the first time I looked out the window by my desk, my eyes landed on two gorgeous blue jays, their colors bright and vivid. They pecked around in the flower bed for a while and then took off—I couldn’t even tell which one was mama and which papa because they were both so colorful. So much for the drab female!

Tonight, the sky to the north was a blend of soft peach and blue-gray, colorful and pretty, but to the west it was a dramatic fiery orange—breathtaking. I tried taking a picture with my phone, but it didn’t capture the colors at all.

Otherwise, President’s Day was pretty much an ordinary day, with lots of catch-up details on my desk. I didn’t cook a lot over the weekend but did make a really good chicken dish last night. Jordan had been out of town for the weekend, so I thought to make a dish with one of her favorite ingredients—cream cheese. Of course, I missed up the order of things and forgot to sauté the onions and garlic before I deglazed the pan with white wine. So I let the wine cook down, added the onions, and swished them around—and they took on the most wonderful deep golden tone, mostly from the browned bits of chicken on the pan. I think I’ll do it that way from now on. Chicken broth, a bit of Dijon, and cream cheese made a creamy rich sauce—really good. Jordan is always on the lookout for dishes that Jacob likes, so she requested I put that one into our rotation. It’s a bit of work, but not too much. And the leftovers were so good today.

I’m excited that I have the cover for Irene Deep in Texas Trouble. Ta da! Watch this space for a cover reveal tomorrow!

Going to the dogs

This is the blog I wrote tree days ago before computer problems . I'll update later.

When the possibility of hip surgery first loomed on my horizon, I was adamant: I was coming home from the hospital. No detour to rehab. No sir t’s just a question of lying around waiting your turn for fifteen minutes of attention, if that much. I repeated all the negatives I had heard.

My dog, Sophie…how to describe Soph? She’s a Bordoodle (deliberate mix of border collie (the bitch) and miniature poodle (the sire). She’s 30 lbs., charcoal grey tipped with silver, big brown eyes that invite you to the depth of her soul. And yes—energy and mischief galore. At five she should be a middle-aged matron but she hasn’t gotten the message. At the same time, she is one of the most affectionate dogs I’ve ever owned.

Sophie has also gotten protective of me. When I visit at Colin’s house, she rarely leaves my side; at home , if an aide comes to help me during the night, Sophie comes too. Until she got used to the wheelchair, she pitched a fit every time someone go it out because she knew it meant I was going somewhere. I think now she finally understands I will always come back for her, but I don’t want to be gone so long she forgets.

What, you may wonder, does the dog have to do with rehab? A whole lot. I am one of those foolish old ladies who sees her dog as almost as dear as my children and grandchildren—she is family, and I’m all she has. I didn’t want her to be lonely—or truth be told to transfer her affections elsewhere. Christian is taking good care of her, and she sleeps with him and their dogs in the main house. But still….

My surgeon and personal physician did not either one say I had to go to rehab; they did say I would get much better much more quickly if I did. My family doctor, Dr. Richwine, is a medical director at the rehab facility we’re looking at and I know he’s a dog person. So, I jokingly asked if I could take my dog. When he immediately said, “Absolutely,” it was a done deal. I cannot—and would not—keep here there but she can visit. My daughters went to the facility and said there were dogs all over, and there are enclosed courtyards where they can run and play.

So I am going to rehab today or tomorrow, probably at Stone Gate. But I have to be home by the first weekend in February—when all the kids and grandkids will be in town for rodeo. Gives me a good goal.

-

A Blue Day

January 12, 2017

I had a pity party today—my printer doesn’t work and I’ve tried everything, Yahoo forgot who I was and they’re not easy to remind, my hip hurt, my shoulders ached (from pushing up in the wheelchair), I’m tired of being so dependent I need help to go to the potty, I long for solitude and yet I want company, and I want to stand in my kitchen and cook. I could continue my list of causes for whining, but you get the idea. Pity parties are not attractive, even to the person throwing the party.

Pity parties are also contagious—mine spread to Jordan who began to have her own version of a bad day which included me calling her way too often because I had to use the bathroom, the crockpot wouldn’t heat after she got the dinner in it, and so on. Both of us off our game meant we weren’t efficient and cheerful with each other, though once she grasped the situation, Jordan really tried.

When I was young, my family spent part of each summer in a cottage at the Indiana Dunes. It sat at the crest of a high dune, with a sweeping view of Lake Michigan to the north and woods to the south. It was a place to eat, swim, and sleep—not read because Dad would never let us turn the Aladdin lamp up high enough.

About halfway down the dune, there was a path that led to the cabin of friends. Along that path a little bare spot of sand jutted out toward the lake. That was “my spot.” I’d sit there and listen to the gentle lap of waves when the lake was calm, the crashing when it was wild. At the end of the day the sun set a little to my left, and I could see tiny specks that were the skyscrapers of Chicago outlined against what was usually a bright red sun. I took our dog, Timmy, a collie mix, with me, and I’d go to that spot when I was troubled or lonely or content, thinking about how good life was.

I wish I were at the Dunes today and could sit and watch the sun go down. I’d take Sophie, and we’d sit and listen to the lake and all would be well with the world. It’s a comfort even now to go there in my mind—if I close my eyes, I can hear the waves.