The importance of neighbors and a big anniversary for me

 

I'm going home!

This morning I was in that delicious space between thinking about getting up and actually doing it, when my phone rang. Not a familiar number, so I ignored it, although it nagged at me. When I turned on my computer, I found that neighbor Polly Hooper had called because Marissa Shuffield on Weatherbe Street had posted on her neighborhood listserv (next neighborhood over from ours) that a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel had wandered into her back yard. Polly was checking on Jordan’s dogs.

I couldn’t see how “the girls” could have gotten out, but I texted and called, left a message. No response, and I figured since we were snowed in, they were sleeping late. Wrong! Jordan finally called. Their front door blew open in the night (that alone scares me) and the dogs had wandered. Cricket on her little, short legs had gone over two long blocks in the cold, on snow-covered ice. When she called, Jordan had JuneBug and Christian had gone to retrieve Cricket. We are so grateful to Marissa and Polly—“the girls” are tiny and elderly and things could have been a lot worse without neighborly intervention.

"The girls," with Cricket on the left, JuneBug on the right

It was that kind of a week. I almost had a triple whammy—isolation due to covid exposure, ice and snow, and no internet. I had been “talking” to ATT all week, as I posted, and I got truly tired of that mechanical voice telling me to go to the web site when I had just told him I had no connection! Finally, twice, I talked to a real person: first one was a girl who said she cleared the connection, and it should be fine; it was briefly, and then out again. Finally a gentleman believed me that Smart Home Manager, for a monthly fee, was not going to do it. He would send a new router. Meantime, I had no Wi-Fi. It’s one thing to be isolated but quite another to be cut off from what is a rather active internet life. I was even afraid to write much because my computer gave me dire warnings about not being able to save. Who want to labor over a scene and then have it disappear into thin air?

An old trick surfaced in my mind, and I did a hard boot. Magic! It has worked ever since with a few brief interruptions that I was able to fix. I decided a hard boot is like a kick in the pants to the computer.

The ice and snow were pretty, even if I did feel trapped in a white world. We did not lose power, but I hear as many as fifty thousand households across Texas did. When I let Soph out Thursday morning, she left no footprints, so I knew it was ice and sleet. The snow came mid-morning, beginning with large, wet flakes and then becoming tiny, wind-blown ones. I’d eyeball it and say we got an inch. Sophie seemed to like it and spent some time lying on her belly on the patio—I’d have thought she be freezing, but apparently not.

I bet half the households in Texas had chili for supper last night. Christian made a big pot—his chili is always delicious, though he’s constantly looking for new ways to do it. And Jordan made chocolate chip cookies, so we ate well. The night before Christian was to be gone, so I planned to make scratch mushroom soup. But when Jordan heard mushrooms, she asked for stuffed mushrooms the way her grandmother used to do them. So that’s what she and I had for supper. I’m sure Jacob fed himself something else. So now I have a half pound of mushrooms left—trying to decide between a really tiny batch of soup or a frittata. Hemm. There’s that broccoli in the fridge ….

This is an important anniversary for me: five years ago today I got to come home from the rehab unit where I’d gone after my extensive hip surgery. My hip problem was unorthodox—I don’t think the surgeon had seen it before, and he had to invent his repair technic. When a nurse wheeled me down the hall people would look and say, “Oh, you’re ‘the hip.’ Nice to have any kind of fame, I guess. There was some doubt about the extent of recovery. So I am grateful to Dr. Jeffrey McGowan, and to the rehab people for all the progress I made, and I am beyond thankful that I am as mobile as I am (I do need assistance to walk, and I refer to my walker as my chariot). The people at the rehab facility were skilled and kind, but I felt like I was in a nursing home like my grandmother was in when I was a child. I was desperate to be home. So it was a happy day for me.

Chuckle for the day: why would someone post a comment on my blog that is a sales pitch for girls’ hoverboards. Do I look like I would ever get on a hoverboard? I remember one Christmas when all the grandkids got them, and we adults were in danger of being run down by an out-of-control hoverboard. But that was years ago, and I’ve heard nothing about them for a long time.

And the bright idea of the day: a high school in Arkansas has installed a vending machine—it dispenses books. A local bookstore keeps it stocked. When the battle lines over books in schools are so clear, I find this truly cheering.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hoverboard on blog

 

Pictures: five years ago, day pass and home from rehab my beautiful girls

Not my finest day

 

When by late morning the only thing you can say you accomplished is refilling soap dispensers, you have a pretty good indication that this isn’t going to be your finest day. Actually, it did get better for a bit, but there was discouraging news too. The press that I had hoped would jump at the idea of my Helen Corbitt manuscript rejected it—kindly but firmly. The director wrote that he didn’t see a market for it since the updated cookbook is available and people are more interested in recipes than her life. I know you’re not supposed to protest, but I did gently, telling him the point was not her life but her importance in the culinary and retail history of our country. But a no is a no, and I must move on.

The question is what my next project will be. Seems to me I have two options: researching presses that are interested in women’s studies and/or culinary history or writing that memoir I keep babbling about but doing little on. Today I decided it would not be a cohesive narrative but rather a series of connected essays. For a start, I labeled a section, “A Life with Dogs,” and listed all the dogs I’ve had in my life. Quite a list, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten some. And then I did a bit on the overall picture—but just a bit. Maybe I’ll work on that tomorrow, though I managed to fritter away much of today—you know, filling soap dispenser and the like.

On a more positive note, Carol, my favorite historical consultant, sent back my Sue McCafferty sketch for the Handbook of Texas with just a few suggestions—that lady knows how to ferret out long-buried facts that I never can find. As always, she improved the profile a lot, and I have now sent it off to the editors. Carol still has the profile of Charlie McCafferty, but I expect it in a few days.

We had leftovers for dinner—always welcome when they’re good, and these were—Doris’ casserole, our family favorite, and a big, tossed salad. So that was another bright spot. And so was menu planning with Jordan, a process I always enjoy. We even settled on a Mother’s Day menu, since they will host Christian’s family which means ten people of varying gastronomic tastes. Shhh! I won’t divulge the menu, lest someone object with “I don’t eat that!” But I will say I have committed to make a big potato salad. When I was a kid, cold turkey and potato salad were always my requests for my July birthday.  

The weather has not exactly brightened the day. It’s been dull and overcast all day, although so far the rain has held off. Still, we expect storms tonight, with more likelihood tomorrow. Temperature is warm, but happy hour plans are on hold. Our usual Tuesday night guests both cancelled, which led me to wonder if I had offended them.

I’ve been trying to track down my good friend Betty, who fell, broke her hip, and had surgery last Thursday. The only reports I’ve gotten are from ministers at the church, where she was music director for over forty years. Phone calls went unanswered, and then I found out I had the wrong cell phone number. No one responded to repeat messages left on the landline at their house, but I know Betty’s husband does not like to talk on the phone. Tonight, I finally learned that she was transferred yesterday from the hospital to a rehab facility, and I’ve gotten the correct (I think) phone number. So perhaps tomorrow I can talk with her. When I told a friend I’d heard Betty had considerable pain, she said, “Hips are bad things.” I couldn’t help but chuckle and say, “Tell me about it.” It has been slightly over four years now since my hip revision surgery (that’s different from replacement). So I hope I can be encouraging to Betty. And I’m glad to be past the frustration of wondering where she is, what’s going on.

I’m going to go to sleep and wake up with more ambition. One rejection won’t stop me on a story I feel needs to be told.

Munching my way through the weekend

Sixth grad cotillion boys

Trouble times ten

Note the cute kid far left front row

I know I’ve been behind in blogging. Friends from Nebraska even wrote to gently prod me this afternoon. Truth is, though I could come up with several excuses, when I look back at the last two or three days, my memories are of food. I have been eating high on that proverbial hog.

Friday, Megan was here for the day, and we three—my two daughters and I—went early to Central Market to avoid the crowd. The girls insisted on the wheelchair, because with my one eye temporarily out of commission, I have a depth perception problem. They were afraid to let me drive a cart for fear I’d go careening into things. Central Market is always a treat for me, and we came away laden with goodies, including wonderful chocolate bars.

Friday afternoon Megan met some college sorority sisters for lunch, and they all went to visitation for a good friend’s father. When she came home, she wanted to drive around and see the changes. Mostly we drove the TCU neighborhood and campus and discovered a whole host of buildings I didn’t know existed, especially in the Greek area. We also saw the rows and rows of attached condos that line streets once home to modest one-story houses. I know it’s efficient housing in a college area, but it makes me sad to see the whole character of a neighborhood so changed.

Friday night we went to Chadra for supper. I had the buffet, because it had lamb on it. Jordan piled my plate so high, in anticipation of taking some home, that when Nahme, the owner, saw it, he immediately said, “We don’t give take-out boxes anymore.” He visited at length, and we all had lots of laughs. It was good to be out in the world.

Saturday night, Christian grilled steaks for Jordan, two friends of theirs that I am close to, and me. He has a knack of getting my steak just as rare as I like it. Delicious! With mashed potatoes and salad. Stayed up too late being sociable to blog. Today, he sent out the little bit of steak I left on my plate, plus two other pieces. I thought that would be lunch at least today and tomorrow, but I ate the whole thing today.

Tonight I’m cooking carnitas for tacos. Jordan’s friends are coming back for Superbowl, although we’re not big football fans. This recipe is interesting. I’ve done it before when you cook cubed pork butt in water until the water evaporates and the pork crisps. It’s much tastier than it sounds. But I found a recipe that calls for a lot of seasoning, including orange peel and cinnamon sticks, in the water. Only it’s not cooking off as fast as I’d like. Hope we get to eat supper before the game is over.

My eye is healing, though it’s hard to tell progress. I guess that’s another reason I haven’t blogged. But I’ve gotten back to business today and done some editing, and I have a desk full of work to begin the week. I’m gradually putting the surgery behind me and getting on with my life, but I’ll be happier when I can see better and when the eye doesn’t look so awful. Patience is not my strong suit.

Hope everyone had a good weekend.

Setting the pattern for 2018

It’s here! The clean slate! The untouched year for which we each hope we can set our own course. Very deliberately today, I did three things I enjoy, three things I want to do a lot of in the coming year.

First on my list was to write. I have been haphazard, unscheduled about writing time in the last few months, and I want to get back to committing words to paper in a regular, daily I hope, fashion. I’ve changed my thinking from a daily word count to a scene a day—it actually comes out about the same, but somehow it’s better to think in scenes—I certainly wouldn’t quit in the middle of a scene just because I’d reached my word count. It’s also easier to plan ahead in terms of scenes. The current work-in-progress, is a Kelly O’Connell novel, as yet untitled.

The second thing on my bucket list was to read. I was nearing the end of Honeymoon with Murder, one of Carolyn Hart’s Death on Demand bookstore mysteries. I am a devoted fan of that series and not sure how I missed this one, but I apparently did. Enjoyed it immensely and was both glad and reluctant to finish it today. I always leave the world of a good mystery somewhat reluctantly, because I’ve become fond of the people in that world and felt at home there. But now I’m moving on to Death Come Quickly, the 22^nd (can you imagine that?) China Bayles Mystery by Susan Wittig Albert. So much to read, to little time to do it.

And the third thing was cooking. First thing this morning, before my cup of tea, before reading emails and Facebook, I started a pot of black-eyed peas. I asked for a ham hock when Christian went to the store yesterday, but he reported they were sold out and bought salt pork. So I cut the hunk of salt pork into smaller chunks (too lazy to really dice it) and browned them with the diced onion and garlic in the pot. Then I put in dried peas and water and let it simmer all morning—okay, it boiled once, but it’s not like pintos where if you let them boil they’ll give you gas. Peas are smaller and cook faster, so by noon they were done. The only seasoning I’d added, late in the cooking, was a half teaspoon each of black pepper and allspice. Turned them off, let them cool a bit, and refrigerated.

Tonight, I fished out the salt pork and threw it away; by then Christian had brought ham, which I cut into bite-size pieces and added to the pot. Lots of folks think collards should be added for optimum luck, but I don’t like collards, so I put in a can of cut green beans. No objections from any of my dinner guest—my immediate family of three. Served the peas with pot likker over rice. So good, and now we will feel lucky all year.

Another note on cooking: Christian made enough King Ranch chicken last night to feed the multitudes: two 9x13 pans, one for a family where there had been a death, another for the house, and a small one for me without bell pepper (isn’t he a good son-in-law?). Sometimes I think he makes cooking twice as hard as I do—I’ve never followed a recipe for King Ranch, let alone added bell pepper and cumin. I just cut up tortillas, diced onion and chicken sort of, and layered it in a casserole dish. Then I mixed cream of mushroom and cream of chicken soups and Rotel original tomatoes to taste, poured it over, and topped it with grated cheese. Christian read several recipes, added the cumin and peppers, and diced it all move finely than I ever had patience for. His stroke of genius? Since he left the peppers out of the smaller one, he added corn—great addition, so appropriate to the casserole, and so good with the other ingredients. Why didn’t I ever think of that?

So there you have it—the way I hope to spend my year: writing, reading, cooking. The only negative that I hope isn’t a pattern is that I am developing a head cold. I sneezed a lot the last few days. Today the sneezes are mostly gone, replaced by a lot of coughing, a slightly scratchy throat, and a runny nose. I don’t feel bad—maybe a little tired—but I’m not sure what these annoying symptoms will do to my eye surgery scheduled for Thursday. I’ll call the doctor’s office tomorrow. I’d hate to cough or sneeze in the middle of delicate eye surgery. A part of me is glad for another reason to postpone, but the logical part of me desperately wants to get it over with.

Sitting at my desk, looking at my curtain of sparkly green lights beyond the French doors. That’s how I want my year to be—sparkly with bright lights. I hope your year is too.

Skiing—and this Business of Walking

I bought some new skis. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve never skied in my life and am not likely to start at this age and in my current physical state. For one thing, I’m the opposite of naturally athletic; for another, I’m afraid of height. I cannot imagine myself at the top of a mountain slope, preparing to take off downward on a couple of pieces of wood with poles that would probably be useless in my terrified hands.

No, I bought skis for the back legs of my walker. Previously I had to move the walker ahead by lifting it slightly after a couple of steps because while the front legs rolled, the back were plain and either balked or squawked. Now it glides, even going easily from one surface to another, and enables me to walk normally, one foot after the other, without unnatural pauses, I think ultimately the skis will help me improve my walking strength.

Monday will be five months since my surgery, and I’m still not walking unassisted. I do great on my walker and can go lots of places, which has allowed me to resume a semi-normal life going to church, shopping a bit, out to lunch and dinner. About a month ago a neighbor with whom I had lunch and who had hip surgery about three months before I did, emphasized that I was making progress and full function comes at different times for different folk. She was back-pedaling from her statement that by four months post-op she had given up her walker. And I have a neighbor close by who has had two hips operated and; his wife tells me he was off the walker quickly, and I remember him offering to do a dance at supper one night. I feel slow, retarded, lazy, inadequate—you name it.

And I fear I’ll never walk again. My brother brought me a brochure yesterday about a fancy, very stable, very expensive walker he thought I should consider. When I said I hoped not to need a walker forever, he warned that I might not but I will probably never have much stamina again. I didn’t tell him, but I was crushed. In my dreams, I walk freely and confidently.

My surgeon warned against comparing myself to anyone else because he said he’d never seen a hip in the shape mine was in. (I’ll spare you the gory details.) But don’t each of us think our situation is the most dramatic, the most extreme? For me, the comparisons are inevitable. I see both him and my family doctor next month, and I’m anxious to hear what they have to say.

Meantime, grateful for every invitation, I get out as often a I can—my goal is once daily either to go out or have someone in. I do my leg and shoulder exercises almost daily, and I walk, with help, down the driveway or in the backyard. And I dream of driving my cute VW convertible, doing my own grocery shopping, and running free again.

Launch Day for a New Book

Oh, happy day! Kelly O’Connell is back. Well, sort of. Keisha tells the story in my new novella, The Color of Fear. You can find it as an ebook on a wide variety of digital platforms—Kindle, Kobo, B&N, Sony, Apple and others. In print, it’s available from Amazon.

The Color of Fear marks my return to mystery fiction and the Kelly O’Connell series after an absence of more than a year. Some of you know that two major, traumatic events kept me from my computer: complicated hip surgery, which followed several months of undiagnosed but excruciating pain, and the move from my three-bedroom house to a 600 square-foot cottage. Surgery in January took away the pain, and I am feeling strong and healthy, but I can’t yet walk without a walker and am not allowed to drive a car. I remain highly optimistic that those things get a little closer every day.

The move to the cottage was my choice and remains my delight. I love my little hideaway and am almost perfectly comfortable with everything I need—living area, office, fancy bathroom, bedroom, and kitchen area. Only the kitchen leaves me wanting more. Because of zoning restrictions, I have neither stove nor oven, but I am learning to make do with an amazing magnetic hot plate—and the oven in the main house where my daughter and her husband and son now live.

As I told the doctor recently, I’m writing, I’m cooking, and I’m wearing make-up again. All sure signs of recovery. The Color of Fear is the first thing I’ve written from start to finish since the surgery, except for blogs.

The Color of Fear also marks a return for Kelly O’Connell, who took a year or more out to have a baby—Cynthia Grace Shandy. Keisha kept the real estate office running, so it’s only fitting that this time Keisha narrates the short tale wherein Kelly and her family live under the threat of infant Gracie’s kidnapping. The story serves as a reprise of many of the previous novels in the series, as Keisha, in her search for the kidnapper, recalls Kelly’s earlier adventures.

Keisha remains outspoken and independent and her voice is clear and strong as she balances her need to protect Kelly and her family with her love for new husband, José Thornberry. Some but not all of Kelly’s friends and foes from previous stories appear here, along with such new characters as Clyde, the guard dog, and Cowboy, the homeless guy with a soft heart.

I hope you’ll all welcome Kelly and her clan back into your hearts.

Next on my agenda? A sequel to The Perfect Coed. First draft is written, and I’m about to begin editing, aiming for publication in September.

To those of you who are my readers, thanks for sticking with me for my year out, probably one of the most difficult years of my life. I’m so glad to be back with you.

A Family Get-together

Anything is reason to get together in my family, so tonight the troops are gathering. Megan, oldest daughter, arrived in time for happy hour (no, I’m not drinking these days); Colin, oldest son, just left Tomball about six-thirty, hoping to be here by 10:30; Jamie, younger son, had a out-of-town client in town and a dinner meeting, so he’ll be here early in the morning. Jordan, of course, is here all the time—God bless her.

Tonight we had a beautiful and delicious dinner. I requested lobster salad and Jordan put together a Cobb salad. We were good and saved some for Colin.

Tomorrow we have to be at the hospital at 10:30, surgery at 1:30.  I will be glad when it’s tomorrow evening, and the surgery is behind me. Everyone says I will notice the dramatic lessening of pain immedately—I’m ready for that. Tomorrow night I will sit in a chair and eat my dinner—I can order from menu.

And then the work of rehab begins. Everyone I talk to stresses the importance of doing the exercises. I foresee a lot of hard work and being tired.

People have been so kind to me this week. I thank everyone for their good wishes, prayers, words of encouragement. I am blessed beyond measure and grateful for it.

Tomorrow night, the four kids will collaborate on Judy’s Stew and report on the surgery, so look for it if you’re interested.

I’ll dance with each of you soon.

The Case of the Missing Tooth

I am missing a tooth tonight. Not just any tooth--the wisdom one on the upper right. It’s been with me over fifty years, and I don’t think many people keep their wisdom teeth (or wisdom) that long. Two of mine were impacted when I was in my twenties and resulted in an embarrassing late-night surgery during which I remember behaving badly. A distant relative (his sister married my ex--you figure out the relationship). He scared me badly, giving a deadline of 30 days before excruciating pain swept over me.I caved and had the tooth extracted.

Since then ‘ve had to fight to protect that last tooth occasionally. My dentist wasn’t as successful in scaring me. The tooth held on, though I was told it had decay and could became excruciating. I said I’d call when it did; he said he wouldn’t answer the phone on weekends. I thought it was all a bit light-hearted but I’ve learned in the last week many physicians are not light-hearted about much.

The looming hip replacement surgery finally doomed my tooth. It is a precept of replacement surgery that there be no infection in the body, and the tooth could introduce bacteria at surgery. Therre also has to be a certain amount of time elapse between dental procedures and surgery so today was the last day I could have the tooth pulled in time for a January 19 surgery. So I was literally rushed into it with less time than usual to build up my customary anxiety.

One of the things I tell myself when dreading a procedure is to think about the time when I’m on the other side of it. So now from the other side I’ll tell you so far the extraction hasn’t been a problem—no pain, no swelling, minimal drainage. And I would venture to say I was a good patient. Growing up in a doctor’ family, I was always told how important it was to b a “good” patient.

Tomorrow, an MRI—gosh will I be glad to be on the other side of that! Then a pre-op check-in, Christmas and ho ho! ho! It’s surgery time.

News from the home front

 If you heard a loud whoosh about 2:30 this afternoon, that was me letting out a long sigh of relief. I went to the trauma  reconstructive surgeon who said my ankle was beyond repair. There’s dead bone in there. No surgery. He will take the conservative approach and wait for it to heal which means keeping me off my foot for some time to come. I gather I may end up with a misshapen ankle or a limp or something less than ideal but my dancing days and days of vanity are long over and that doesn’t matter. I am relieved big time.

How did my ankle get in this shape without treatment? Probably the fact that I walked on it for two weeks, then walked on it in a boot for two more. My neuropathy became a big part of the discussion--it prevents me from feeling pain in my feet, and therefore pain doesn’t do its job of warning. Probably why today the foot doesn’t hurt.

We are looking into electric wheelchairs and knee scooters and the like. I suspect I’ll need the wheelchair and my walker occasionally if not always the rest of my life. That’s okay too.

This doctor comes highly recommended, and we—Jordan, my brother, and I—all liked him immensely. He’s calm, slightly funny, gives you a feeling that he’s very capable. Explained things fully and carefully. I go back in two weeks for new x-rays. Meantime the burden is on me to protect the ankle, not put weight on it, etc. At this point I could do further damage.

My brother watched me go from car to steps to wheelchair and was quite critical of the fact that I was weight-bearing even though I barely did a hop on the bad foot. There was no way around that little strip, although we’re working on ramps, etc. Meantime John further put the fear of the Lord in me. Actually I feel God has been good to me tonight—I talked to him this morning and said it was my turn for some good news. He listened.

The alternative is major surgery which I wouldn’t have wanted at any age but I sure don’t want at my age.  Plates and screws won’t do it—plates slip. He said they’d probably put a rod up through my heel. No thanks.

So on to bigger things. I guess I’ve lost my excuse for not getting serious about a new project. I have one loose end to wrap up and then I must begin to think ahead. At least the work that I love is something I can do while staying off my feet.

Jordan is staying tonight because we were fairly convinced I would be facing surgery and be a quivering mass of Jello. So now she says, “What are we going to do the rest of the evening.” She’s cooking bacon and eggs, and it smells delicious. Excuse me while I head for the kitchen, having told you all more than you ever wanted to know about ankles and surgeons.