Really, it only seems like winter

 

Our new Chinese Pistache tree
They tell us the stakes must remain for a year and a half

You’d think a kid from Chicago would find temperatures in the fifties balmy. And a little rain? Pfft—nothing to bother about. But it’s not true. I’ve been a Texan for over fifty-five years, and my blood has thinned. Tonight, I’m huddled in the cottage, whining about the cold wet chill. Even Sophie didn’t want to stay outside as long as usual. And for happy hour, when Mary came to visit, we had our first fire of the evening. Okay. It was in my tabletop artificial fireplace, but it added atmosphere.

My fireplace

And just before the rain hit this morning, we finally got our new tree, a Chinese Pistache, planted. I expected a professional crew; we got one man who worked alone but was most knowledgeable about trees and trimmed out all the dead on one in our back yard in addition to planting the new one. Yesterday’s confusion was due to one digit off on a phone number. When I called, polite but firm, I was told they’d tried to call me all weekend and couldn’t leave a message because my mailbox was full. I held firm, told them I had no record of attempted calls and my mailbox is never full. Turned out to be the mistaken phone number.

At happy hour Mary and Jordan both vented about their bad days—Mary with plumbing problems and Jordan who spent well over an hour looking for her lost keys. Tonight, she stood by my desk, talking about those keys, when she suddenly said, “I think they’re under your toaster oven.” And they were. When we came home this morning, she unlocked the door and threw the keys on the counter where they slid under the oven.

In contrast, I had a good day despite having to go for blood work, a trip I had come to dread after I was in the hospital and had to go every other week. Now, it’s been three months and didn’t seem so arduous. I am also fortunate and suffering no after-effects from my booster shot yesterday. Even the injection site is barely tender, and only twinges me occasionally.

Leftovers are so good!

Tonight, Jordan and I had girls’ dinner in the cottage. Christian was feeling punk from the booster, and Jacob was asleep, so we got the leftovers of last night’s Norwegian hamburgers and a salad. Such a good meal.

Rainy days are generally unremarkable. Life seems to go on at a quieter pace, with nothing interesting to report. I am still seeing praise for Gary Patterson who apparently showed up for work Monday morning because he had promised to help with the transition and he had the plans he had made for Saturday’s game against Baylor (I am not sure at this point how the Baylor fan in our house feels about that game). But, to me, that attitude speaks volumes: Patterson is a class act. I’ve also read reports about how he put his players’ education first—standing outside a classroom door at eight o’clock to make sure one or the other was in class, and calling to wake them if they overslept. I think what he taught those kids, beyond football, was integrity.

Voting reports trickling in are not making me jump for joy There are some Democratic victories—mayors of good-sized cities—but the turnout in Virginia is low, and that’s always a bad sign for Democrats. With the revelations that have come out in recent days about the organized effort, led by trump, to overthrow our government, I cannot fathom why anyone votes for any of his appointed candidates. But then, there is apparently a crowd in Dealey Plaza in Dallas waiting for the return of John F Kennedy, Jr.—yep, he who died in 1998—because they believe he is not dead, will return, will serve as vice-president under trump after the 2024 election, and then will be president. No one has apparently reminded them that Kennedys are Democrats. The number of people who believe such outlandish things is frightening, as is the number who still believe Biden stole the election. MY belief? Trump is certifiably mentally unbalanced and should be in an institution, though I’d love to see him serve the prison time he deserves for treason. Back in the day, I think we shot or hung traitors. He’s walking a thin line.

Supposed to stop raining mid-day tomorrow, so maybe the world will brighten up. Sweet dreams, y’all.

 

Another day, but not another dollar

 

That phrase, in its proper form—another day, another dollar—is one of resignation, an acceptance that tomorrow is going to be just as unrewarding as today. Not at all a reflection of my feelings, except about today. The phrase comes from the nineteenth century when sailors were paid a dollar a day. Joseph Conrad publicized it in his seafaring novel, Narcissus.

And as long as I’m adding to your trivial knowledge, thanks to Prudence Zavala for a word that is totally new to me: drupes. It means a fruit with a large pit or stone, like an apricot or a peach. Good thing Jordan went grocery shopping with Pru this morning or I never would have known it.

Moving on, this was an absolutely gorgeous day but, for me, otherwise unremarkable. I started the day with 3000 words on my current WIP, decided they were all wrong, and started over again. So now I have 650 words on the new version, and I’m still not sure where I’m going, though I think this new version is more promising. For mystery readers, here’s a puzzle: how soon into a book do you expect a murder to happen? The old wisdom was that it had to be in the first chapter, preferably on the first page. I think that’s a bit extreme, because I think a reader often needs to know the background and surrounding circumstances to appreciate the full impact of a murder. But I once got a murder into the first sentence. Here’s the opening paragraph from The Perfect Coed:

Susan Hogan drove around Oak Grove, Texas, for two days before she realized there was a dead body in the trunk of her car. And it was another three days before she knew that someone was trying to kill her.

Sorry to say such lines don’t often spring to mind, and I am struggling with this new manuscript. Since I declare myself a pantser, I should be able to jump in and just begin telling the story. I sort of know who’s going to be murdered, but I’m not sure. And I’m not sure how to get there. Thoughts about a cold case are flitting through my mind. I think the advice I offer others in a lot of situations is apropos here, and I should take it: quit over-thinking, and just jump in and do it. Maybe tomorrow (hear that procrastination?).

The young man who I supported in the city council race came by this morning. I had written to sympathize and tell him I thought he was gracious in defeat—with emails and Facebook postings. Told him I’d be interested in his future plans. So we had a pleasant visit, some about politics, some about everything from mutual acquaintances and what a small town Fort Worth basically is to discussions of children and puppies. A pleasant interlude in my morning, and I hope he’ll continue to come back occasionally.

I did laugh. He referred to another candidate as “so very young” and I wondered how young someone had to be to be young from his point of view. He’s late thirties; the candidate he referred to, who made the runoff, is late twenties. It all sounds long ago and far away to me.

 We are waiting for the city to come take down the tree. They said this week, though Christian doubts we can count on that. He once watched a tree that had the X of doom marked on it for months before it was finally cut down. I hope that doesn’t happen, because every spring storm that comes along is going to make me nervous now. A domestic problem of less severity but more immediate annoyance has popped up: my kitchen faucet emits a high-pitched whine when in use. Annoying is probably too mild a word. Jordan has threatened to stop doing dinner dishes as long as this continues. I will call the plumber tomorrow but hope they can counsel over the phone, and I can avoid a high-priced house call.

And so ends another day. Tomorrow should be brighter and better. Maybe a bit warmer, but it couldn’t be much sunnier. And that is always cheering.

 

Farewell to a tree

 

Not my tree but close
I couldn't find an image of my tree. 

Almost thirty years ago I bought our house because I loved the spacious front porch and had visions of entertaining on it. And entertain I did—from dinner for one or two to pot-luck Mexican parties for Jordan and a whole crowd of her friends. In fact, the front porch is where I watched the romance between Jordan and Christian blossom. But always, what anchored the house and the porch to the neighborhood, indeed to the earth, was the huge old elm at the curb next to the driveway.

We treasured that tree, watched birds nest in it and squirrels chase each other. Once when someone told me vines would kill it, I tore down all the vines that were creeping up the trunk—not an easy job and hard on my hands. Periodically, it lost branches—large branches. Once a neighbor charged me sixty dollars to rush down and trim a branch which he declared was a hazard to children coming and going to the school across the street. Another time, I came home from my oldest son’s wedding in the Caymans to find tree branches covering the whole front yard.

It took me years to figure out that because it was in the boulevard it was the city’s responsibility not mine. When I finally realized that I could save a whole lot of money by calling the city when the tree had a problem, I had a new worry: would they cut it down? I had friends who went on vacation and came home to find a huge tree that had been in front of their house gone. Such is the stuff of nightmares when you live in an older neighborhood with huge trees that arch across the street to form a canopy. It’s one of the things I love about my neighborhood. Finally, one city arborist said to me, “Lady, we are in the business of saving trees, not tearing them down.” Still I knew that the tree was old and would become a danger. Today, I suspect that it’s almost a hundred years old—that’s how old the house will be next year, and I imagine the tree was planted when the house was built.

So today a forestry crew from the city parks and recreation department came to clear away the fallen branch. And they delivered bad news: the tree is rotten and a danger. They will come back this week to take it totally down. So we are left with dilemmas. Will they plant a new tree? Even so, it won’t grow appreciably in my lifetime. Will they take away the stump? Christian thinks probably not. What about the roots that extend gosh knows how far? Today I assured a neighbor who lives a block away that the roots probably reach to her house—they certainly reach nearly to our house on the far side of our yard.

I am heartbroken, but I know I would be more so if the tree fell and hurt someone. We were lucky yesterday that the branch fell at two o’clock and not three, when children were on their way home from school. And there’s that old possibility that I always worried about—the tree could fall on the house. It’s spring, the season of violent storms in North Texas, and it could happen any day.

I wish now they would come take it away first thing in the morning. It has begun to seem to me like anticipating surgery—you just really want to get it over with. I have not gone out to the curb—not easy for me to do—but a part of me thinks I should go thank the tree for shading us, for giving us a sense of place and stability all these years. I don’t want it to go without a grateful farewell.

And there’s that nakedness that the house will feel. The kids sit out on the porch a lot, especially late at night, with a glass of wine when they can talk about the day. I am selfishly glad that I am back in my cottage, where I sit on the patio and don’t go to the front of the house that often. I can put it out of my mind. But then again, that doesn’t seem quite fair to the tree.

Maybe I need to call up the spirit of Joyce Kilmer.

Christmas is blooming at the Burtons.

The Burton Christmas tree is done! Huzzah! Every year, Christian spends days and nights meticulously putting lights on each and every branch. No casual flinging of strands for him. Only when it is done to his satisfaction can Jordan and Jacob come in and decorate the tree. The bows, including the big one at the top, are saved from their wedding.

Those wedding bows are particularly fitting as they celebrate their sixteenth wedding anniversary tonight. A romantic evening, with filets done on the grill, twice-baked potatoes, lobster tail. Jacob and I ate hot dogs and beans in the cottage. But, the disparity in dinners aside, it made me teary—happy tears—to remember that wonderful evening sixteen years ago. A large wedding at our church with the full choir singing. For me, the shining moment was when both Jordan’s brothers walked her down the aisle and, just before handing her to their father who was mobility impaired, kissed her on each cheek. As one of my more cynical friends said, “Be still my heart.”

But then it was dancing and dining at the Fort Worth Club, with almost all the people we care about, including most of the New York Alters. Uncle Mark managed to lead a late-night version of havah niglia, and Maddie, then only six or seven, was the belle of the ball. Such good memories.

But on to Christmas. Jordan has done a mighty job on the front of the house. She doesn’t like this picture—says it’s not clear enough—but I think it shows how spectacular the lights are. She learned some unforgettable lessons about holly bushes in the process of lighting up the house.

I stay in the back in my cottage, where inside and out, it is festively lit, but it’s a joy for me to see these “front of the house” decorations. I will, of course, get into the main house several times between now and Christmas. Jordan has even suggested one night soon we sip eggnog (yep, the kind with nog in it) in front of the fire while enjoying the glow of the tree. And at least one night we’re going to go chasing Christmas lights in the city, something I did years ago with the children.

It goes without saying that this has been a hard year for everyone, between pandemic and the worst, drawn-out election battle that none of us ever imagined would happen. There is good news on the latter front tonight in that the Supreme Court has refused to hear Ken Paxton’s frivolous suit against the major states that went for Biden. But still, trump will keep appealing wherever he can, stirring up trouble among his most rabid followers, and the threat of violence lingers. And our friends, neighbors, relatives are dying at an alarming rate.

In the face of all that, it would be easy to give up, throw our hands up in the air, and cancel the holiday season. I can’t speak for Hanukkah and Kwanza and other seasonal holidays, but I can say that is strictly counter to the meaning of Christmas, which brings us hope in the darkest of winters. And this year there is hope—a vaccine, a new presidential administration.

I am proud of Jordan for her determination to keep the spirit of Christmas, to make it festive for all of us. And I am doing my darndest to keep up with her spirit. I hear people all around me say they just can’t quite get the spirit this year, and, even though I was known to say it myself, I think how wrong that is. We need Christmas this year more than most years. Rejoice!

 

A week of moments

Junie Bug amidst the flowers

Sophie woke up this morning—early, sigh!--full of the joy of life and energy, itching to go after the squirrels. She went out, did her business, came back in, and did a dance by my bed, clicking her nails on the wood floor. I watched for signs my neighbor was up before I let her out, but finally I couldn’t contain her. I gave her a stern and strict talking to that had to do with no barking. She stared at me, tail wagging, impatient. And so began her morning outdoors. She ran, top speed, from one end of the yard to the other, from one side to the other. Occasionally I’d see her tail, raised in joy, swing by my patio door so I knew she was all right. But she didn’t bark. Ever. She squeaked occasionally in excitement. But no barking. Finally I called her in about two o’clock, and she voluntarily went into her crate and slept soundly all afternoon. She is such good company—except early in the morning.

It has been a week of moments—we began to stretch the limits of our quarantine, ever so tentatively. A big moment for me—I got my hair cut. The wonderful stylist/friend who cuts it came to the house, masked and armed with all kinds of sanitizers. I told Jordan she looks careless next to the precautions Rosa took.

Then that same night, I left my own property for the second time since March 12. We went to friends for a distanced happy hour on their patio. As one said, it’s a whole new way of entertainment—everyone brings their own wine, glasses, ice, and snacks. The friends we visited, Phil and Green, have a large and beautiful yard. Highlight for me was a tree I’d never heard of—the Vitek. Two of them in fact. Also known as Abraham’s balm or a chaste tree, it is a bushy tree similar in shape to crape myrtles. But the Vitek has lush and plentiful lavender or white blooms with a slight fragrance.

One day my memorable moment was that I took a holiday from the novel I’m writing. I wrote a cooking blog, cleaned my desk and organized a pile of papers that had accumulated, indulged in the luxury of lingering over recipe magazines—Food & Wine and Southern Living. I’m a compulsive recipe clipper, but these days I am trying to be sensible about. With steely resolve, I pass by a lot of things that sound wonderful to me—things I know my family won’t eat (like wonderful summer fruit desserts), things that in another life I would have served to dinner guests. When the pandemic quiets down, if ever, I hope I can get back to entertaining.

In site of all this activity, I added 6400 words to the novel. It’s coming close to an end—I’ve got to tie up all the ends and figure out who did what.

The weekend looms and with it cooking, good meals, patio time, some company. Hard times but good times. I am grateful.

Scotland, Christmas, and me

            Those who know me recognize that I’m a bit fanatical about my Scottish blood (even though 23andMe says I have none—they’re wrong, wrong, wrong). This year is my Scottish Christmas. I ordered the new Jacqui Lawson Advent Calendar because it’s set in Edinburgh. When my grandkids were little, I got each family a wall-hanging advent calendar, with little pockets for each day and a collection of trinkets to match to the pockets. On the last day you put the Baby Jesus in his cradle or something like that. I doubt any of the families even still have those hangings—kids have grown beyond them.

But I told Jacob I’d ordered the computer calendar and asked if we could do it together. He agreed. The calendar arrived electronically and sat on my computer because it would be a sin to look at it before Dec. 1. About Thanksgiving, he said, “It’s almost time to do the calendar, Juju” which meant, to me, a bit of anticipation on his part. I was delighted. So far (three evenings) he’s come out to the cottage, so we could open it together.

The Dec. 1 scene was in a marvelous restaurant with a Tiffany-like dome where I have actually eaten—my favorite place in Edinburgh, probably my favorite restaurant in Scotland aside from some village pubs. I was thrilled, and Jacob seemed impressed.

Today a present from longtime friends arrived. They had told me to open it before Christmas, and I did—three wonderful Scottish ornaments for my tiny tree: a bagpipe, a thistle, and a shaggy Highland cow wearing plaid. I’ll ask Jacob to hang them on my table-top tree tonight.

The same friend acknowledged my thanks with some advice about Christmas food from Scotland—single malt Scotch is okay but avoid the haggis. I’ve actually voluntarily eaten haggis more than once—with neeps and tatties. But he got me thinking about Scottish food. I expected lots of trout, venison, lamb, and maybe kidneys on a grand British-style breakfast board. Never saw any of that, though I did try blood sausage. My favorite food, I think, was the Cumberland sausage, but it, like haggis, needed brown gravy.

And then there’s that three-ingredient fruitcake recipe that I got from a Scottish-themed website. But I’m saving that for a post on the Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog.

Sláinte, everyone!