A milestone and some trivia

 

Would you believe I am still getting over pandemic? As I have written before, pandemic and quarantine made it so easy for me to stay home in the cottage and not take my mobility challenges out into the world. Oh, occasionally I have gone out to dinner with friends, but pretty much I invite people to the cottage for happy hour or supper. And I haven’t been to church since March 2020. I was a faithful virtual attendant, signing in on my computer almost every Sunday. But I missed the physical feeling of being in the sanctuary, (University Christian in Fort Worth is a beautiful sanctuary), being surrounded by music, being part of the community.

The Burtons also never got back into the habit of weekly church. My minister friend Renee tells me the church recognizes that having once broken the church habit, it is hard to resume. This spring Christian began to really agitate for going to church. The three Burtons went one Sunday, but I opted to stay home. Then this past week, I had four restaurant meals and somehow got a big boost to my confidence. So I said I’d like to go this Sunday. It was the last day of a five-sermon series Renee was preaching.

Christian and I went to church. What made it work is that he willingly pushed me in my transport chair. I think much of my hesitation was based on insecurity about walking with a walker—I can’t go far without getting breathless. Today, being in the transport chair was easy, and he agreed, proud that just the two of us handled it.

After church, several members came up to greet me, which made me feel really welcome. I asked one if she still lived out in the country, quite a drive from church, and she said she did. “It’s my little piece of heaven,” she said. I remember when the church organist, asked about the long hours she spends practicing at the organ, said, “It’s my happy spot.” My church friend had found her happy spot in the country. I realized that my happy spot is at my desk, not necessarily with my computer on, but at my desk where I am in charge of my world. I think—and hope—each of us has a happy spot.

It's Sunday night, and I am getting ready to dine alone. Going to marinate some cucumber (I am never again buying those tiny cucumbers—they taste different, and they go bad five minutes after  you buy them—I have heard that you should wrap cucumbers in paper towel to keep them from spoiling; some say to add a silver spoon—just sayin’.) I’ll have a leftover salmon patty and maybe a bit of blue cheese salad. A nice evening.

Trivia: I saw an ad today for mink eyelashes! No kidding! I thought of all the animal lovers (me included these days) who shun fur coats and wondered who is vain enough to want mink eyelashes. Maybe I misunderstood. No, they are all over the internet. A bit pricey, as much as $95. There is an internet warning that you are killing these cute little critters. Do you suppose vain women care?

And get ready: I read somewhere that stores are preparing to display their Halloween offerings. We’re sweltering in the midst of summer, school hasn’t even started yet, and merchants want us to think ahead to Halloween. I don’t guess so.

I saw a book title that I thought was funny—until I read the description. There’s apparently a short story titled, “Namaste Trump” which is the title story of a collection about broken lives in small towns. I guess that’s appropriate if trump supporters can see themselves clearly, which I seriously doubt. And then there is a book by that title designed for journaling and described as a gag gift for trump supporters. Wish we could see sales figures on that one. And finally there really is a MAGA journal titled An Enlightened Trump Meditation.

I have no words. I am going to go quietly and eat my supper. Y’all have a  good evening.

Long day, cozy evening

 

It’s cozy in the cottage—the Christmas tree and its lights are at last gone, but my electric candles burn bravely on the coffee table, my tiny fake fireplace offers an orange glow. The bulb in the one lamp that burns night and day was once harsh white, but I have replaced it with one with a soft, rosy glow. With the overhead lights off, the feeling is one of coziness, as though I’m snug in my comfort place.

The family is out for the night. Jacob doing whatever sixteen-year-old boys do when they’re not doing homework—I don’t ask anymore—and his parents gone to the rodeo for Bulls Night Out. When my children were little and then later when the grands were little, going to the rodeo was a family annual big event. We’d tour the barns in the day and then go to the carnival grounds for the kids to ride the rides. I can still see Jacob bravely coming down a huge slide all alone, while the others had a parent with them. Dinner at the sort of mess hall place that Coulter’s Catering always offered, and then the rodeo. And late at night we’d take home sleepy children.

I loved those days, but somewhere along the way I lost my taste for rodeo. First it was the bull riding. I heard one too many stories about young men killed or permanently disabled by riding a bull, and I just flat did not want to see it. With the rest of the family happily in their bleacher seats, I’d slip out and wait in the concourse. But that aversion to bull riding gradually spread and became an aversion to all the rodeo contests, while I decided the inter-act entertainment wasn’t really that entertaining. By then, the family schedules were too busy for them to come to Fort Worth for the weekend, and the tradition sort of fell apart.

But not for Christian and Jordan—Christian often entertains clients at the rodeo, and Jordan goes with him some of the time.

For me, it’s been a long day of intense work on my Helen Corbitt manuscript. I am re-reading, chapter by chapter, looking for errors and places to expand. I’m actually enjoying the process a great deal, and I hope the enthusiasm continues. Last night, working late into the night, I uncovered the names, birth and death dates of her parents, and death date and lifetime residence of her only brother. The State of New York has an odd way of classifying communities according to the governmental body that administers social services—so they have hamlets, villages, towns, etc. I discovered that some of the places the Corbitt family lived were unincorporated hamlets within villages or towns, so that accounts for confusing information about that town they were in. I am now up to a chapter that moves temporarily away from Helen to the food trends of the fifties and sixties—material I find fascinating, because I still like to cook those dishes.

I’ve also been collecting trivia as I go through the day. This morning, a banner on the TV screen alerted me that the TODAY show was featuring dinners with five simple ingredients. I was all prepared to be excited, but the first meal began with a ribeye steak. Well, shoot! I could cook five-ingredient gourmet meals every night of the week if my budget allowed for ribeye steaks for four. As it is, I ordered cube steak for four today and was blown away by the price. Hesitated, but finally purchased it. Central Market disappointed however by sending me phyllo for puff pastry—I do not want to mess with buttering layers of phyllo dough—and a huge Napa cabbage instead of bok choy. I’ll split the cabbage with a friend.

When I wrote a few days ago about the Missouri Legislature passing a bill requiring women to wear long sleeves and blazers or cardigans or some other kind of second layers, a friend in Missouri wrote that he was quite sure it wouldn’t pass. His senator was, he said, doing a good job of controlling the extreme right. Oops! They passed it buried in their rules bill. It’s an affront to women and an early step toward the kind of authoritarian control of women that is being so bravely confronted in Iran.

For cozy mystery readers, another outrageous note: I saw a mystery with an intriguing title: Of Mushrooms and Matrimony, featuring sleuth Tish Tarragon. Okay, the sleuth’s name is a bit too clever, but I thought I’d order sample pages—until I saw that the Kindle version of the book is $25.00. What is that author thinking?

Finally, my favorite online columnist wrote last night that it was a quiet day and she was going to sign off without a column in order to gather strength for whatever is coming. That was the way I felt last night too and also tonight, so I’m signing off. These dedicated workdays don’t provide a lot to chat about. Know that when I don’t post, I miss talking to you.

 

The eloquence of companionable silence

 

The other night my visiting daughter, Megan, and I were in the cottage, each absorbed in whatever we were reading. We had about chatted ourselves out, catching up on what’s going on in the family, what’s happening with my Austin grands (the younger of the two got a job hosting in one of my favorite cafes—I can’t wait to go there again!), talking about recipes which we can do endlessly. But we had settled into silence. About nine-thirty, she came for a hug and said, “I think I’ll go inside and get ready for bed. It’s not as though we are talking to each other.” I protested, “But I was enjoying your company, even If we weren’t talking.”

It made me think of a favorite poem, “Speech after long silence,” by W. B. Yeats, so I looked it up and printed it out. Only when I reread it did I realize it didn’t really apply to a mother and daughter—it’s obviously two older lovers—but I have always thought it spoke to the eloquence of a shared silence. I printed it out for Meg, but she is not much given to poetry, I don’t think, and was busy with other things. So I’ll share it with you. Yeats having died in 1939 and the poem being all over the internet, I’m pretty sure it’s in the public domain:

Speech after long silence; it is right,

All other lovers being estranged or dead,

Unfriendly lamplight hid under its shade,

The curtains drawn upon unfriendly night,

 That we descant and yet again descant

 Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song:

 Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young

We loved each other and were ignorant.

That resonates with me on so many levels, so I hope it may with you too and bring you some comfort on this almost-rainy night, whether you have companionship for your silence or, like me, memories.

Yes, rain—almost but not quite. Last night we had an impressive serenade of thunder. Sophie took it seriously enough that she was right by my side. But we probably didn’t get more than two minutes of scattered drops. Tonight the sky to the northeast is dark and blue, which is strange because our weather usually comes from the west/northwest. I understand downtown they got a brief shower and much farther east, they got some good rain. Not us.

Jordan has pulled the dead herbs from my wooden garden and the petunias from the pots by the door. You wouldn’t think that is cheery, but I am relieved not to look at dead, brown plants. The pentas are still struggling, and nothing has bloomed—not the pentas which were so tall and colorful last year nor the magnificent oakleaf hydrangeas. It’s a brown, sad world. But the bright note is that at seven-thirty, my computer tells me the temperature is only 85.

Trivia for the day: I really appreciate the man who took the time to write me about my You-Tube page, what is wrong with it, what he would do to make it vibrant and attract customers. Trouble is, I don’t have a You-Tube page. I think he may be worse than all those men who write to tell me how beautiful my smile is and how impressed they are with my posts and how they’d love to be friends but they’ve tried a couple of times and the requests didn’t go through. Would I please respond so that we could correspond. My first thought as I hit “Delete” is, do they know how old I am? Second is, how dumb do they think I am?

And I found out the name for cottage: it’s an “Accessory Dwelling Unit,” ADU for short. I shouldn’t joke because I read that in a moving article about a challenged adult whose family built an ADU so he could be close and still get personal care. For me, I like “cottage” a lot better. Granny-pod is maybe okay, though those are often simply a bedroom in a separate building. For heaven’s sake, I want to do more than sleep out here in the back forty. Just fixed myself a dinner of salmon patties, leftover cooked carrots (which I adore and no one else eats), and leftover oven potatoes with gravy—too full to eat the potatoes, so they went back in the fridge.

A good, productive day—I wrote maybe 800 words on Helen Corbitt and a thousand on Irene’s latest adventure. I think I’m entitled to spend the rest of the evenin with a book—in companionable silence with myself.

Stay cool and pray you get wet. If it rains, walk right out into it and raise your arms in glory!

Simplify your life and other trivia

 

Irene's in trouble again and definitely needs saving,
if I can only get that second book written.

Thanks to Susan Wittig Albert’s blog, “All About Thyme,” for alerting me that this is National Simplify Your Life Week. My first thought is that through quarantine I simplified my life about as much as it can stand—got it down to bare bones. Eat, sleep, write, and read. What else do I need? But as I read farther, I realized that there are many hints that I automatically follow—and still my desk is a mess and household chores still overwhelm me. I won’t quote Susan’s list, which in truth she borrowed from someone else. But if you want to see it, here’s a link: https://susanalbert.com/all-about-thy...

A couple of Susan’s suggestions struck home with me, and immodestly I admit they are practices I try to follow. One is “Have a To-Do List.” How many times have you wracked your brain trying to remember what it was that you meant to do, who you meant to email, and so on? A list makes it so easy to tick those items off. Every time something crosses your mind that you should do, write it down on that list, whether you keep the list on your phone, a piece of paper, or your computer. I recently bought a desk-size whiteboard, with erasable pen, for a friend for a birthday gift. I figured it would be a great way to keep your to-do list. As it is, mine is too often on scattered bits of paper all over my desk.

Related is the advice to plan each day the night before: make that list of what you need/want to do. For novelists, I find it so important to note each night where the novel is going the next day. I am a pantser, which means I write without an outline, but if I don’t have some idea of what’s next, I’m liable to stare at the screen all morning. But it doesn’t all have to be about writing. First thing on my to-do list for tomorrow? Make refrigerator pickles. I found a really easy recipe, and I have some cucumber that need to be used.

A piece of desk advice: only handle a piece of paper once. When you pick it up, deal with it; don’t put it aside with, “I’ll deal with that later.” I’d add to that: once you open an email, deal with it—answer if you need to, jot a note on a calendar if that’s what’s required, or delete. I have known people who had a hundred emails stashed in their inbox—it would infuriate me if I’d written that person, got no answer, and knew that I was among a hundred being postponed or ignored. I usually keep my inbox empty; if it has five items to be dealt with, that’s unusual…and a big deal for me.

All that about efficiency leads me to add that I have been terribly inefficient today. I messed up sending some publicity materials to an online newsletter for readers, I botched up trying to advertise my forthcoming non-fiction title (thanks for asking: it is The Most Land, the Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas, about the largest ranch under one fence in this country and the legendary family who built it, enjoyed it, and ultimately sold it. A bittersweet tale.) A big goof of the day: I love cottage cheese and can do lots with it, but somehow I managed to order five containers from Central Market today. Guess what I’ll be having for breakfast for days…and days. Jordan is still laughing at me.

I vowed I would get back to writing on Irene in Danger today after a three-day holiday away from it, but I had so much email and trivia to deal with that I didn’t before I left the computer at two for a nap. Proud to say though, that while I was waiting for Christian to grill salmon, I wrote 900+ words. Yay for me. The salmon was delicious

So back to daily work. Vacations, even long weekends, are nice, but it’s good to be back in routine. Sweet dreams, everyone.

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.

 

Recovery and trivia

I’ve spent the last two days recovering from my birthday. Yesterday I was on fire. By noon, I had been to a doctor’s appointment, written a thousand words, finished the novel I was reading, and, best of all, eaten my Christmas dinner leftovers. Today not so much fire.

It was a day to keep the TV on, even though I was working. I’m no good at focusing on the TV alone, so I was working with one eye on it. I saw a man who is methodical, soft-spoken, controlled, and absolutely thorough. I think some of my persuasion wanted sudden fire and brimstone, dramatics and passion, but that’s not who Mueller is, was, or ever will be. Nitpickers can call dementia and slipping and vague and all the other things I read on Facebook today, but I think he delivered what we need. People also expect instant results, but it will take a few days—or much longer—for this to shake out. But I believe we are on the road to outing a corrupt administration and an equally corrupt political party. And this country owes Robert Mueller a huge debt of gratitude for speaking honestly without fear. Would that others would do that.

So I did a bit of research on my current project, got involved in answering editorial queries on the Alamo book, and yes, keeping up with the social niceties—answering messages to friends, sending notes where I should—a thank you for fresh tomatoes, a note of support where there is illness in the family. A thoroughly satisfying day.

The weather has been so mild for July that I’ve worked with the French doors open. Last night friends of Jordan’s came by for happy hour, and we considered the patio but thought it a pain to transport Jordan’s wonderful array of snacks, so we visited with the door open.

Tonight Betty and I went back to the Tavern for supper. We liked what we had so much last week that we had it all over again--sole piccata or meuniere (whichever—I think they are about the same) with good, buttery mashed potatoes and sautéed spinach.

Some trivia that I like;

Jordan’s brother-from-another-mother brought me a delightful birthday card. It had a definition of ‘Framily”—friends who are more like family. That’s definitely what David Barnes is to the Alters.

A billboard outside a church: “Too hot to change the billboard. Sin bad, Jesus good. Details inside.”

There’s your laugh for the day. May all your days be filled with laughter and joy, and your troubles few and far between.

A Whole Bunch of Nothing

This morning, as I do every morning, I turned on m computer and the TV. The TV flashed a warning that there was no signal—so I turned off the computer. Go figure. It was not an auspicious start to the day.

Lewis Bundock, who keeps my house and property in running order, came by to put a support in the middle of a newly installed long gutter. As we talked, I mentioned that I’d just had fried mush for breakfast—the plate of syrup on my desk was testimony. “Mush?” he asked. “What’s that?” When I said fancy people today call it polenta, he said he knew that, and he’d call what I just ate “johnny cakes.” Goes to show what I miss as a northerner even though I’ve lived here over fifty years. As a student of western history, I thought I was well-schooled in regional foods, and Lord knows I’ve heard of johnny cakes—also called hoe cakes—but I guess I never made the connection. I thought they were a pancake of some kind. But now I know. I’m going to practice telling people I had johnny cakes for breakfast. Whatever they’re called, they sure are good, but you sure feel like everything is sticky after you eat them.

And that’s kind of how the day went. I did some serious and good work on the book proposal I’m struggling with, and I did some reading—finished a novella. I’ve done more reading lately and recently finished a book called Bayou City Burning. Cast as a P.I. detective novel featuring a young girl (another go figure), it’s the little known story about the machinations behind LBJ’s 1961 efforts to secure the NASA manned space center for the Houston area and the mob efforts to prevent that. A good fast read if you’re a fan of P.I. novels or a history buff interested in twentieth century urban history. You’ll be charmed by Dizzy Lark, the twelve-year-old, and her efforts to prove that a man didn’t really die in a train wreck in Cleburne, Texas. It’s sort of a retro read but well researched and absorbing. Watch for it to be available on various platforms June 1.

Jordan cooked dinner tonight—well, she put the finishing touches on something I started. I found. a recipe for lettuce wraps using ground chicken, but it called for a lot of things I didn’t have like mint and cilantro—the latter would have been really good. So I cooked the chicken the other night and added chopped red onion and scallions, along with a healthy dose of soy. I sort of decided we could use the chicken as a base. Jordan reheated it in wine, added part of a can of green chilis, salt and pepper, diced tomatoes, chunks of avocado, and lots of feta. Trouble was I was reluctant to buy head lettuce, so I thought we could use the leaf lettuce I like so much better. Leaf lettuce doesn’t wrap, so we had sot of a salad with a ground chicken base—pretty and delicious, but not what the New York Times cooking column suggested. Still, I’ll do it again and may experiment with the sesonings.Cumin, anyone? I told Jordan the end result was sort of Mexican/Oriental/Greek.

A good day I’m off to read another novella. Happy times, y’all.

Of mowers, mosquitos, and churros

Yesterday I really needed a nap. I hadn’t slept well the night before and thought one of those deep afternoon naps would fix me up. But just as I settled my head on the pillow, I began to hear mowers and blowers and yard equipment. At first the shrub crew, who were to clean out beds, etc., worked at the patio end of the cottage. Granted the cottage is not big, so that’s not far away, but I convinced myself that I could consider their racket white noise and go to sleep. But then the equipment suddenly sounded like it was in the bedroom at the head of my bed. It wasn’t, of course—it was in the driveway right up next to the house.

But sleep I did—because I woke up from some bizarre dream to find a quiet and neatly trimmed yard. The patio was clear of leaves—a condition that would last half a day. My pecan tree, which shades the patio, is dropping leaves early and at an amazing rate this year.

When Linda from Granbury arrived for a catch-up visit—she was in New Mexico all summer—we decided to have a sip of wine on the patio. It was a lovely late afternoon. But the mosquitos drove us inside within minutes. They don’t bother me—must be too old and stringy for them—but Linda was getting bitten. And I’d just read that some extraordinary number of mosquitos in Fort Worth or Tarrant County tested positive for West Nile virus. So in we came.

We dined at Righteous Foods on Seventh. For those who don’t know, this small but classy restaurant once served upscale food based on the cuisine of the interior of Mexico. Then the owner became health conscious. The menu offers detox drinks, grain dishes, salads, and the like. I am not much on grains—Linda had risotto which had been toasted. She loved it and insisted I take a taste—just not my dish. But I can always find something I like—last night it was a smoked salmon tartlet (actually smoked salmon toast with surprise diced beets, which I happen to like a lot). For dessert we split an order of churros, maybe my new favorite food. We each ate one churro and I brought the third home for my breakfast today, but it didn’t last that long. I ate it last night.

Speaking of landscaping, I love that around Righteous Foods—lots of decorative grasses and a big bed or prickly pear cactus. I wondered if the cactus also appeared on the menu or if the restaurant purchased pads that were younger and more tender. I bet the latter.

A fun meal and a good evening. And here’s the trivia for the day: did you hear about the couple, devoted to hiking, who set off in the mountains of Colorado. He proposed, she accepted, and then they got lost.

Or there’s the runaway horse in France who galloped into a bar. Seriously.

What a start to the day.

A birthday and a bag of trivia

Sorry I’ve been erratic about my blog but friends and family are gathering to help me celebrate my birthday this weekend, and I’ve been too tired from the festivities too post much. I am feeling the love and will post some pictures Sunday night—or more probably Monday morning.

Everyone knows it’s hot, so I won’t belabor the point except to say that I don’t know that I’ve ever seen honeysuckle wilt before. My poor fig tree, destined to come out someday anyway, is also drooping. We may lose it before we mean to.

Trivia knowledge for the day: Did you know that Mrs. Grundy is a common term used to denote a person who has conventional moral standards? I kept seeing references to Mrs. Grundy in the book on the Gilded Age that I’m studying, so I looked it up. No note as to whether or not she was ever a real person but feel free to drop her name casually in conversation. 

Quote for the day that really speaks for me: “I live at the intersection of politics and religion…. My faith impels me into the public square.” Sister of Social Services Simone Campbell, quoted in Richard Rohr’s daily meditation from the Center for Action and Contemplation.  

Lesson for the day learned the hard way: A daughter may be a daughter all of her life, but she won’t help you bone and dice the chicken. You’re on your own, Mom.

Last night, Sophie got into a run-and-chase game with her dog-cousin, Kosmo, Jamie’s three-month Pomeranian pup who is surprisingly fleet and was absolutely fascinated by Sophie’s bushy tail—he chased it, he chewed it, he couldn’t leave it alone. Everyone said, “She’ll sleep well tonight.” Not so. Instead of exhausted, she was energized. She went out twice after I came out to the cottage—the second time Jamie had to come out and entice her inside with his hamburger. But I no sooner got in bed than she began to bark to go out. I told myself she had no need—she just wanted to play.

I didn’t want to let her out because I’m not comfortable leaving her out unsupervised, especially in the dark, I can’t go chase her, and by then it was too late to ask anyone else to go get her. For thirty minutes, I swear, I ignored the barking. But finally, I erupted out of the covers and yelled at her more harshly than I ever have. She was astounded and stared at me in amazement, her tail wagging ever so slowly and ever so tentatively. She settled down—so I thought. But after a bit she started in again. Once when she’d been good for a while, I gave her a chew treat to occupy her. Worked for a bit.

At some point, when I just drifted off, something electronic beeped loudly, occasioning another round of barking. I thought it was the electricity saying goodbye, but when I looked the little light in the living room was still on. I think now it was my phone, sounded that close, and I wonder if it was an Amber Alert. No sign of it this morning.

We slept fitfully, and this morning she got me up at six-thirty. Now, bless her, she’s sleeping soundly, and we have sort of patched our differences.

Tonight, my extended family comes for barbecue. It’s been several years since we’ve had the family together. We will miss one niece and her family, but it will still be jolly.

First day of spring…and trivia

Things that struck me today: this is my parent’s 80^th wedding anniversary. Sure wish they were here to celebrate

In a column of funny obituaries today, I found this: “Ding dong, the witch is dead, but the memory of our mother lives on.” Shh. Don’t tell my kids.

I am a devotee of Sam Sifton’s column in the New York Times, “What to Cook Today.” But he may have gone too far this morning in suggesting putting a pot of oatmeal on overnight in your rice cooker or whatever. Then in the morning stir in some syrup and a shot of Scotch whiskey What a way to start the day!

Wonderful lunch today—friend Carol convinced me she was craving fried chicken, so we went to Buttons, a restaurant that advertises food and music for the soul. It was indeed soul food—the best fried chicken I’ve ever had, along with mashed potatoes and gravy and seasoned green beans. Brought one piece of chicken and some green beans home for supper, just added a deviled egg.

Absolutely beautiful day in Fort Worth today-what spring should be like. We sat on the patio with wine and planned the garden. I want to plant onions and lettuce this week, if we’re not already too late, for spring salads. My mouth is watering as I remember my mom’s wilted lettuce.

It’s going to be a good spring. Hope everyone enjoys it!

A mishmash

I’m not sure why but tonight I have the words of the old hymn stuck in my mind: “Fast falls the eventide…Lord with me abide.” Mostly what comes to mind tonight is a lot of little trivia.

Like the fact that Jordan put happy hour food on the deck and went back to find Sophie, all four feet on the table, munching on cheddar/jalapeño popcorn. Privately later Jordan warned me to watch for tummy troubles. Soph must have a cast-iron stomach, because nothing bad happened.  She was ready to eat more of it tonight, but we caught her in time.

Christian emptied my recycle bin at ten o’clock last night and was gone so long I told Jacob I was going to check on him. Jacob said no, he’d go check. Turns out Christian had somehow fought with the lid and the bin dumped before he got it to the cart. It was also the night that Jordan and I had decided to discard all the puzzles that have been sitting around for years and for which we were sure there were missing pieces. Result? Christian had puzzle pieces all over the ground.

This morning I left home without making my bed. Many will not realize what a trauma this is, but there was a nine-year-old boy with an iPad sitting in the bed, saying to me, “I will in just a minute. This video is almost over.” How many times have I heard that? When I was young my mom had a cleaning lady who swore you should never leave home without making your bed because you never know when they might have to bring you home and lay you out in it—and heaven forbid if it wasn’t made. I think that piece of folk wisdom has stayed permanently embedded in my mind all these years. Yes, Nora, I make my bed faithfully every morning, after letting it “air” for a while as my mom taught me. Only this morning I was late for a doctor’s appointment

On a more serious note, I have friends to pray for—one couple who has lost a much-loved daughter-in-law at far too early an age, and another couple where the man is facing heart surgery. Outcome and recovery are expected to be good, but it’s still worrisome. And he’s a bit older than me—I didn’t know anyone was. There are many people on my prayer list but these two couples head it right now. Lord, fast falls the eventide…abide with all of us.