Fierce winds, a jealous dog, and a couple of good books

 

Meet Chloe, the therapy dog

Benji didn’t even know it was time to get up this morning, because it was so dark outside. Texas continues to have fierce storms—more are due tonight. But this morning, the darkness and the heavy rain gave me a nice reminder of my mom. I could practically hear her voice saying, “Rain before seven, clear by eleven.” And sure enough, by eleven or a little after it was a lovely sunny day with blessed temperatures in the eighties. And it’s to stay that cool all week.

Benji had a spell of jealousy this evening, though he was, as he always is, good natured about it. The medical office where I had an appointment today had a therapy dog. That’s Chloe above—a lovely (and calm) two-year-old Aussiedoodle. At one point we heard a scratching at the exam room door, and the woman with us asked, “Do you like dogs?” Jordan and I assured her we do, so she opened the door, and in came Chloe with a ball in her mouth ready for us to throw. With the door closed and no place to throw the ball Chloe allowed us to love on her a bit and then lay down for a nice nap. Quite a contrast to Benji who jumped about wildly when we came home and then, a few minutes later, when Mary arrived.

Benji obviously smelled Chloe on me  and gave me such a thorough washing with his tongue that I nearly had to shower before I could fix my supper. Now he’s trying to get me to take an old artificial bone he loves. But I notice how rough it is, and I wonder if that means he’s chewing off particles, and we should take it away from him. At eight-thirty, it’s the hour when he settles down and lies next to my desk—unless something outside intrigues him. It’s probably my favorite time of the day—the soft lamp is on, along with the colored lights Jordan long ago put on a collection of pussy willow. They may look like Christmas, but I find them warm and comforting in the evening.

I read an interesting column today about reading habits and mental decline, the latter being a subject of much discussion today with our two aging presidential candidates. I have my own opinions on who is in mental decline and who isn’t—I bet you can guess!—but I won’t go into that. The suggestion in the column was that a switch from fiction to nonfiction might indicate a slowing of brain function. Fiction, the theory goes, requires active participation by the reader, using the imagination to engage with the plot and events of a story. Nonfiction on the other hand lays out facts that the mind can more easily grasp.

I would have thought the opposite. Recently I started the new Erik Larson book, The Demon of Unrest, about the period between the election of President Abraham Lincoln and the Confederate firing on Fort Sumter, South Carolina, which signaled the beginning of the Civil War. It was then a period when our democracy was as fraught and threatened as it is now. Larson’s research is superb, his writing clear and compelling. I found the tension of the foreword—waiting for the Confederate guns to bark out—almost unbearable. Nonfiction at its very best.

But it was not what I need right now. My mind has enough tension and suspense of its own—I don’t need to grapple with history.. Raher, I need escape, so I turned to an unread book on my Kindle; A Big, Fat Greek Murder, by Kate Collins. It’s a cozy, no deep dark problems (except murder) and it distracted me from my own situation. What I’m trying to say is that I found—and often find—fiction easier to read than nonfiction, less demanding on my brain. How about you? What kind of reading is easier, more relaxing for you?

Thanks to Kait Carson, who writes thrillers, often about deep sea diving, for bringing up this subject.

A workday and a happy happy hour

 

Have I mentioned I have a new Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery coming out at the end of the month? Just joking, because I know I have. It’s easy to think by now it’s all done, and I am idle, but that is not the case. Today I fired off two guest blogs to tell the cozy world about Irene in a Ghost Kitchen and tonight I’ll try to post on some cozy mystery groups web sites. I still have to proof the final version, when the formatter sends it, and get it up and available on Amazon, decide who gets comp copies, etc. A lot of details to wrap up, and so that’s where much of my day went today.

Jean and Jeannie Chaffee came for happy hour tonight, bringing with them a bountiful feast of dips and quesadillas and all sorts of good things. Despite our best efforts, they wouldn’t take any of it home with them, so I have a loaded refrigerator. Jeannie also brought Benji a bag of new toys, and he took an instant shine to her, plopping his slobbery tennis balls in her lap, crawling over others to get to her. I haven’t seen as much of Jeannie in recent times, so it was fun to reminisce about the days we shared office space—well, the administration didn’t know it, but that was what it amounted to. We had glorious funny lunches and all kinds of adventures. It was a good life, and we will always treasure those memories.

Those two ladies are getting ready to set off on an adventure—they leave this week for London for a couple of days and then a ferry across the Channel to France. June 6, D Day, will find them on the beaches at Normandy, with a crowd of at least thousands, marking the 80^th anniversary of that event. It gives me goosebumps to think of them crossing in a ferry, replicating that journey taken by all those men, many of whom never returned. I know the trip will be fun, and I suppose they’ll have lots of rich experiences—they will, for instance, spend a half day with the Bayonne Tapestry. They will probably also eat some really good, country French food, the food of the villages and not Paris—I offered Irene’s menu advice, but so far they have not taken me up on it. But it will also be a somber trip, commemorating a day when many lives were lost. It seems significant that we mark today the men and women who died for democracy when democracy itself is so challenged. A part of me will be with my friends as they make this journey.

Tomorrow, the world gets back to business, and I have a list of phone calls to make, questions to ask. We are supposed to have a cold front (lower eighties, which is just fine, thank you) coming in, with possible storms tonight. I will be glad if the world is a bit cooler, although the heat hadn’t struck me until late this afternoon when I opened the patio door for Benji and a blast of hot, wet air hit me.

I haven’t seen much of “In Flanders Field” by John McCrae this year, so here’s the final verse. It amounts to a challenge to Americans to fly the flag high and remembers those who gave all on June 6, 1944.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

 

 

 

The food around here is getting better

 

Dover sole unintentional hash

Tonight, Christian is in Coppell, with his dad who is not doing well after surgery, Jacob is off being a high school graduate, and Jordan and I looked at each other and said, “Wha’s for dinner.” Then she added, “I’m probably not going to eat what you eat,” and truth is she wouldn’t have; I planned to use that smoked salmon in scrambled eggs. But then, just in time to order from Central Market, she called and asked, “Fish?” I ordered filets of Dover sole, one large baking potato, and a few other things we needed. We feasted on a shared potato and generpid helpings of sole. (Note to self: a quarter pound filet is enough for one, unless maybe it’s Christian.) I must explain the picture above—that fish is hash not because I need small bites but I have rarely been capable of cooking sole filets that hold together. Now I know why it’s so expensive in restaurants. But, to justify myself a bit, Jordan got her helping out in one fairly good piece, and here’s a picture of the two left-over small filets that I cooked after we

Almost pefect filets

ate. I think maybe size is one clue. And also maybe it’s like that first piece of pie that never comes out of the pie pan whole—but the rest do fine. At any rate, it was a good dinner and satisfied my craving for solid food. In a bit, when I’m not quite so full, I’ll go get the tiny bit of tiramisu left from last night.

Otherwise it’s been a day at the computer—organizing our schedules, which seem to change with every email from a doctor’s office. But I also caught up on my own work. For the first time I am putting an AI disclaimer on the copyright page of a book—makes me wonder about the future. And I carefully, I hope, compiled a list of French foods with the accents where they should be. Involved cutting, pasting, and guessing.

Today I heard from an old friend who has always maintained an apartment in Chicago but lived there part time and in Florida the rest of the time. Politics and climate have driven him out of Florida, so he’ll be in Chicago more. I jokingly said I’d write him into the next Irene book, and he revealed that one of the first projects he worked on years ago at the University of Chicago Press was a book titled, The Hows and Whys of French Cooking, by Alma Lach (1977). A plot idea immediately sprung into my mind—can’t you see Irene working with a real editor and harassing him near to death. In fact, I warned my friend, the editor might meet an untimely end. Am I committing myself to another Irene book. Heaven help me!

Hot still weather has come to Texas early, not a good sign. At eight-thirty, it’s 85^o and the air is eerily still. Possible thunderstorms tonight and several days during the week. And 100^o tomorrow. Too soon, too soon. I am glad Benji and I have the cool cottage. Now he’s lying by my desk but earlier something was disturbing him, and I think it was more than the flies he was chasing. He paced our tiny space, and when he paces his nails click on the wood floors. At night, he moves silently as a cat, but the earlier clicking brought me close to screaming. Another good thing about him—he has never eaten people food not even scraps. And he doesn’t associate my cooking with food. Oh, sure, he’ll come sniff at the butcher block (which is just above his nose, fortunately) but then he turns away. Even tonight when it was raw fish. That dog gets better daily.

You know what I think I’ll do tonight? Read a book and go to sleep early. Sounds like a winner. How about you?

Graduation parties and a rainy Mothers’ Day

 

Jacob has had a great weekend—at least I assume he did, since I haven’t seen him yet. But last night was senior prom for Paschall High School, and he and several of his buddies were all spiffy in tuxes, with lovely girls in gowns on their arms. Jacob does not have a steady girlfriend, so he took a girl who is a good friend—you know how that works. I was pleased to see the picture and note how modest her gown was, and Christian said all the girls at the photo shoot had long gowns—none of those skimpy mini-things. Of course, prom itself is sort of anticlimactic—they don’t stay long, and the after-parties are the big deal. My behind-the-fence neighbor wrote that her son would be hosting an after-party in their pool and cabana and she had reminded them of noise control. I never heard a sound, and when I went to the bathroom at three o’clock, all was dark and quiet.

Golf seniors

Today the moms of the seniors on the Paschal gold team hosted a party with a gambling theme. Jordan has a lovely entertainment area in her office, with freedom to use it, so that was the site. Christian reports it was a great success.

Other than a golf party, today was not a huge success. It was dark and thunder rolled, rain fell for much of the day. Usually I rather enjoy a day like that, but today I did not feel well, so that darkened my mood. Benji too was a bit of a worry—rain doesn’t bother him, and he appears to enjoy mud. But then he comes in and decides the upholstered furniture is there for his comfort. I have upended the cushions on his two favorite chairs, so when I called him in tonight, he took his wet muddy self to his crate. Score one for me.

My Jamie arrived late last night—later than he intended because his rental was an electric car, and he didn’t realize how long it took to charge. When he arrived, coming from Frisco, he had only charged it for seventy miles, so he charged it overnight and hoped it took. It struck me that it was like the early days of gasoline engines—at first people were bumfuzzled by maintenance, but they got used to it. We will all eventually get used to electric cars—maybe just before cars themselves are phased out.

It was of course a delight to have Jamie here. He is, and I don’t think he’ll mind me saying this,

Hamburgers in the cottage

the poorest of my children at keeping in touch frequently. But when he’s here, he is, as Jordan says, totally into the moment. He gives great massages, sometimes painful as he zeroes in on every spasm in your back, but he’s tireless and dedicated. And he discovered last night what may be the cause of my lethargy and lack of appetite—swollen glands in my neck. Though he didn’t have time this weekend, he has been known to lull me to sleep with his acoustic guitar. Christian grilled hamburgers late last night, and they ate in my cottage—though I, already not feeling well, stuck to yogurt.  After the Burtons went inside, Jame and I had a long talk for which I was most grateful. His life has been turned upside down in the last year, and I was glad to hear him talk about it.

This morning, Jamie went for a run and was gone longer than he meant to be because he so enjoyed running through old, familiar neighborhoods. Then it was a rush for him to shower and get out the door for his plane back to Denver, where he is now living. But I have something to look forward to: he, his older sister, and older brother will all be here, again briefly, for a party that Jordan and I are hosting for Jacob—well, in truth, she is hosting and my name is on the invitation.

Hope the mothers among us—and that takes many shapes and forms—were well celebrated today. I know for many it is a hard day, and I reach out to them. For what a good friend would term a less saccharine, Hallmark version of the history of Mothers’ Day, read here: (69) May 11, 2024 - by Heather Cox Richardson (substack.com)                               

Obituaries, a vet visit, and a good dinner

Haute cuisine in the cottage

Not too long ago, the obituary writer was a respected member of any newspaper’s staff. It takes talent, skill, and practice to condense a life into a few, meaningful paragraphs. These days, obituaries are syndicated, expensive, and in some cases a scam that can trap you into an endless cycle of intrusive emails. I learned these lessons the hard way. To begin with, the obit for my brother, John Peckham, in the Star-Telegram cost almost $3/word. We shortened and shortened, leaving out what we thought were some of his major accomplishments as well as some of the tidbits that made him a fascinating person. It seems you don’t really contract with your local paper but with a national company called Legacy, Inc. Since we were writing it ourselves, I never explored the options for help from either the newspaper or the national company.

The first problem came when we wanted an estimate. My niece, burdened with much on her mind, asked if I would get that. The only way to do it was to fill out the form, so pretty soon it looked like before they gave me an estimate I would have to guarantee payment. I couldn’t do it in her name because I didn’t know if she subscribes to the paper and that’s apparently a requirement. I did finally get a rough cost, and she took over. The obituary appeared as scheduled and looked fine—a bit bare bones and short, but okay. Jenn had added at the bottom the location of a small celebration of life.

Days later I wanted to verify the proper name of that location to share with a friend. Couldn’t find the obituary, so I clicked on one of those “find anyone” sites that came up when I asked to find an obit, filled in John’s information, and waited. I never did get the information, but I was somehow signed up for something called Truth Finder which offered, for a fee, to dig up all kinds of information about John, including previous arrests for assault and similar unsavory tidbits. He was by no means an angel all his life, but I thought that was stretching it a bit.

That site never did find what I needed, and I found it elsewhere. But now I get constant reminders, two at a time—Am I still looking for John? Would I like to bring John back into my life? And similar inanities. These “reminders” appear, large, in the corner of my screen so they cannot be ignored. You must click on them and then close out to get them to go away. There is no unsubscribe button, which I suspect is illegal. They’re not on Facebook, so I can’t block them, and I’m not tech savvy enough to know how to make them go away. Among other reasons why it’s so wrong, it’s an insult to grieving families.

While I’m at it, another internet complaint: this is aimed at various Democratic fund-raising branches. Republicans are probably just as bad, but I only occasionally hear from them, and I respond with an instant, “Stop!” or unsubscribe. But Democrats complain all the time that I have not confirmed I will vote for Biden—when clearly I have. There is apparently little or no coordination between sites—even though Act Blue is supposed to be a clearinghouse. They appoint me to focus groups and choose me as one of a select group to represent my city or county or they beg for m valuable input on a poll. Turns out the poll questions could be answered by a five-year-old with good sense, and inevitably they lead to a plea for me to pledge a good-sized monthly amount. I think one reason they don’t well in polling is because so many, like me, get turned off by these inane, repetitious emails and refuse to answer. Somewhere, someone smart about marketing, must think this works, but it beats me. I long for the days of Lincoln, when campaigning was considered beneath a candidate.

On a brighter note, Benji went to the vet yesterday. He, who is wild Indian and totally untrained on the leash, behaved like an angel and captivated the vet’s staff. He had been to his Humane Society vet (because he was a rescue) just a couple of weeks before we got him, but we wanted the family vet to know him—we have been taking dogs to University Animal Hospital since the mid- to late sixties. Dr. Minnerly pronounced him fit, said he is smart, and suggested some training ideas. Of the barking which worries me, he said, “At the end of the day, he’s a dog, and dogs bark.”

And last night, despite my curtailed eating habits, I fixed a smashing dinner for Mary V.: sour cream, smoked salmon, pickled cucumbers and onion, and capers on puff pastry. The pastry puffed so high I almost didn’t know what to do with it and ended poking the air out of it with a fork before adding the toppings. We enjoyed it, and I had my leftovers for lunch today. Smoked salmon goes on the list of foods I can eat with ease.

Happy Friday, everyone. Hope you have big plans for the weekend, if that suits you, or else look forward to a quiet day with a book and a chair in the sun. It’s supposed to be sunny, comfortable temperature, and pleasant in North Texas. Hope for you too, wherever you are.

 

Odd inconveniences, a good dinner, and Omigosh! What are Republicans doing to poor Ukraine

 

This morning I woke to a gray, dull day that seemed to threaten rain at any moment. Stretching and lying in bed enjoying the moment, I thought a day of reading and napping sounded just perfect. Of course, that’s not what happened. Jordan and I were out the door at 9:15 for a doctor’s appointment for me. All is well, and I got a good report, including praise for doing all the things I should—vaccinations, mammograms, etc. But I will have to take a swallow test because I’ve been having difficulty swallowing large pills lately, pills that I’ve taken for years with no problem. My doctor explained I would drink barium and they would x-ray it going down—yuck! It’s been over thirty years since I had to drink barium and I still have not-so-pleasant memories. What struck this osteopathic child was that my doctor did not palpate my throat (he said if it were thyroid there’d be a big and visible mass) and he didn’t look down my throat. He knew, without touching me, what the problem was—almost certainly not serious—and how to deal with it. But I grew up in the old days when a doctor laid hands on. I guess, like many things, I have to learn to adapt. He did come in physical contact to listen to hear and lungs and examine the healing lesion on my scalp.

When we left the doctor’s office, the sun was peeking out, and the day ultimately turned out to be pretty. I meant to get someone to take pictures of my wildflowers but didn’t get it done. But we came home to no water—it’s not as though the whole block was cut off. It was just our house. Christian called the water department, and they said it was probably a problem with our meter. They would have someone out to fix it today. Fortunately, I had leftovers in the fridge for lunch, but it was a bit frustrating to leave the unrinsed decision in the sink. To say nothing of not flushing the toilet. My nap came in handy because when I woke up, the water was back on. I don’t say this often, so here’s a cheer for the Fort Worth Water Department.

Christian fixed chicken piccata tonight following a Southern Living recipe and I made cheese grits from the same source, plus we had the cucumber salad I made earlier in the week. A really good dinner, if a bit lemony. After all these years, Southern Living is still my go-to.

Tonight I shared Dan Rather’s daily column on my Facebook page. I hope you’ll take time to read it. Rather, whom I admire a great deal, points out that by stalling aid to Ukraine Republicans in the House are fulfilling Putin’s every wish. Ukraine, which has already suffered so badly in the name of democracy for all of us, is losing territory (and men) in the eastern part of the country. MAGA Republicans don’t seem to get it through their thick heads that the freedom of Europe is a stake, and if Europe falls America is at best isolated, at the worst without trade partners and vulnerable to miliary takeover. To me, it’s as simple as teaching math to a first grader—two plus two equals Russia steamrolls across Europe. Marjorie Taylor Greene, the dimmest bulb in Congress, says Putin claims he wants no more land, just Ukraine, and she believes him. I have a bridge in Arizona to sell her. As Rather says, men like Mike Johnson are playing politics with people’s lives. Is Johnson stalling because he’s afraid of losing his speakership? I cannot tell. It’s too late to hold his caucus together—that ship sailed long ago. I suspect his motivation lies in his recent trips to Mar-a-Largo, and the idea that trump is pulling political strings to get back in the presidency, as the cost of man’s lives on the battlefield, is so abhorrent I’m speechless. And I can’t even begin to contemplate what would happen to poor Ukraine if trump weaseled his way back into the Whie House.

Please do whatever you can—write your congressman, your senator, anyone who can put pressure on Johnson. I suspect Democrats will swallow hard and support him because they simply don’t want the upheaval of having to choose another speaker, poor choice though he is. Without saying that, maybe reassure him. We’ve got to raise our voices and get the off dead center. It’s unconscionable.

Seems rather silly after that to say, “Sweet Dreams,” but that’s my wish for you. And maybe positive thoughts about the world situation.

A topsy turvy day

 

My UCLA granddaughter many years ago.

Truly we have had an upside-down day today. I thought I would report that Cricket, the Burtons fifteen-year-old Cavalier Spaniel, had been helped over the rainbow bridge. Jordan and Christian went to the vet for what sounded like a final decision and last visit, but Jordan insisted she wanted to see Cricket out of the oxygen tent and in an exam room. So they spent an hour watching Cricket walk in circles (she does that all the time), asking to be loved, not coughing, seeming fine. The vet shrugged and said, “Take her home.” So she’s home tonight, and the Burtons are keeping vigil over her. Jordan is exhausted, and even I am tired after being keyed up for the inevitable which turned out not to be after all.

There was sad news today though. I got word that an author who befriended me early in my career, became a good friend as well as a mentor, has died in Arizona. Jeanne Williams, prolific author of over eighty books under a variety of names, was a prominent and active member of Western Writers of America when I joined in the 1970s. Although I knew her principally as the author of historicals set in the American West, she also wrote fiction set in the United Kingdom. As for westerns, she was a pioneer in making women center in western fiction. She served as president of WWA, was an activist for animal rights, and a member of the survival team in her Chiricahua Mountain town of Portal, Arizona. Jeanne stopped actively publishing some ten or fifteen years ago but her books remain on sale from Amazon and other outlets. In a sad way, her passing reminds me how fleeting literary fame can be. She deserved more recognition than she got. I had not been much in touch with her in recent years—her letters had become infrequent and sometimes confusing. A widow, she had lost both her grown children tragically, and I was glad to hear that she was surrounded by love when she passed peacefully. Perhaps her best known title is Harvest of Fury, part of her post-Civil War trilogy set in Arizona.

For me, today was also an upside-down day in the world of taking care of business. For some time, I have been trying to figure out dental insurance. Until two years ago, TCU provided such for retirees; when that stopped, I took out a totally inadequate policy from a company I was told was respectable. I suffered through the first year when policies often pay little, but in the second year I expected better: they paid $73 on a $521 bill. Combine that with what I paid in monthly fees, and I was clearly upside down. But the world of insurance is a bewildering place for the lay person, and I was lost. Colin sent me a list of policies recommended for seniors. First on the list was a company underwritten by the very company I’d had trouble with—no, thanks. But second was Humana, and I have had Humana Medicare since I retired, so I called them. Turns out I have had dental insurance under my general health policy for years. Problem solved so easily I can hardly believe it! Then in an ironic PS I read today in the retirees' newsletter that TCU is about to offer a policy for retirees. When it rains, it pours.

But there’s a downside to my financial day: turns out that when I paid for the tree trimming, I only paid part of the bill, and I still owe a goodly amount for tree removal.

And in puzzling news, someone has twice charged Door Dash deliveries of shakes to my debit card. So I had to cancel the card, and the bank will credit my account and issue a new card. But how in the world did someone get my card number, especially since I rarely use it. I guess I’m lucky whoever used it wasn’t more extravagant.

I’m ready for an early bedtime after the “excitements” of today. Another bonus: It was a beautiful, sunny day in Texas, although a bit chilly. And my granddaughter at UCLA reports she is safe and dry. I’m feeling blessed.

 

Waiting for a storm, a dog crisis, and a nice restaurant dinner

 

Jacob with June Bug and Cricket the day they brought them home.

There is something strange about the period before a storm. In Texas we get frequent forecasts of severe thunderstorms, possible hail or tornadoes, flooding, etc. Half the time, it doesn’t happen. But you never now, and so there’s that period of anticipation. Not nail-biting, nervous anticipation but a wary caution. I can always tell a storm is coming when Sophie turns into a Velcro dog and won’t leave my side. Tonight she is staying nearby but right on top of me. She does not, however, want to go outside. So I do think there’s a storm coming.

We’re in a dog crisis at our little compound. The Burton’s King Charles Cavalier Spaniel, Cricket, is in doggie ICU. Cricket is fifteen years old and has been frail for quite a while. She even went with us to Santa Fe because Jordan felt better—and thought Cricket would—being with us than being home alone between pet sitter visits. Jordan, Christian, and Jacob got Cricket and her younger sister, June Bug, ten or eleven years ago. June Bug, who was two years younger, had a heart attack several years ago. At the time, they were told she might live anywhere from six to eighteen months. She outlasted that by a long time, but by the time she died she was deaf, blind, and incontinent.. Now we’re in limbo about Cricket. Hope for a vet recommendation tomorrow.

I ache for Jordan who is taking this hard, because I know how I felt a year ago when I thought Sophie was dying. She however, younger than Cricket and perhaps hardier, has bounced back in a remarkable way. The vet sees her regularly to check on her diabetic status, and says she’s being effectively maintained on insulin. I don’t think she sees much, perhaps shapes but no detail. She does need her teeth cleaned, and I am always more than a bit terrified by that prospect.

On a more cheerful note, Christian and I had a good dinner with Subie and Phil last night at a new and very popular Chinese restaurant (Jordan was too upset about Cricket to join us). I am always reminded of the time, when my Jamie was an infant, that my ex- and late-mother-in-law said to us over the phone from New York, “Wo we ate at the chink’s.” I asked her son if he could please teach her a better word since she now had a grandson who is half Chinese. I don’t think the lesson ever took. The restaurant where we went last night has made a big splash for its dumplings. I don’t think I had ever had Chinese dumplings, so I was particularly interested in them. I had the combo—pork, chicken, and vegetable, and liked them a lot. In fact, they would probably have been almost enough for me for dinner, but everyone else ordered an entrée, so I asked for beef and broccoli. Everyone loved their meal—but I honestly think Christian does beef and broccoli better at home. The meat was tender but not as flavorful.

Tonight, a lovely happy hour with close friends who will move to South Carolina at the end of this month. They are excited, but there’s a tinge of sadness. She calls herself my Canadian daughter because her mom is in Ottawa, Canada, and when she moved next door to me, almost twenty years ago, she was a young divorcee wth two young kids. Now those kids are grown and gone, and she’s remarried to a really terrific guy. I’ll miss them, but tonight we had a lively discussion about the wonders of the Carolinas. They will be less than twenty miles from where my parents retired, a part of the country where I enjoyed many vacations and thought I was in God’s country.

No storm yet. About bedtime, they say. Meantime, Sophie is calm enough to lie on the patio with her bare stomach on that hard, cold, wet cement. Sure doesn’t look comfortable to me. Batten down the hatches, just in case.

 

A new word, gratitude, and hot water

 

Sometimes my experiments go awry. This is salmon with horseradish sauce.
I did not save the recipe. Enough said.

A quiet day for me, spent mostly at my computer. I said to Jordan it was awfully cold, but she replied, “Not as bad as the other day.” A friend pointed out, however, that what we in Texas are feeling now is Rocky Mountain northern cold, not the southern cold we are used to—a distinction I’d never thought about (and am still not sure I get). But when Sophie comes in leaving the door open, it feels cold to me, southern or northern be darned. I had let up on my “really cold weather” precautions and taken the extra cover off the bed. So of course in the middle of the night I had to get up and prowl in the closet for my mom’s crochet afghan. And this morning, I decided I’d wash my hair just to be safe if the hot water goes out again. There was—eventually—hot water, but it sputtered and spit and never came on in a strong steam, which gives me cause to worry. Tonight, though, I could scald my hands washing dishes if not careful.

I heard from friends in Omaha today, which gave me a bit of misguided schadenfreude—they are buried in snow and have had temperatures well below zero and wind chill factors down to -40^o. Even while I am rejoicing that I am not there, I do worry about them. They both have had Covid over Christmas, he a fairly heavy case and she a milder case but fearing complications due to some ongoing health problems. It shows me once again that I must be grateful for the blessings of my life which include fairly good health for a woman of my age.

My small online writing circle uses Fridays to “brag” about how we spent the week. The woman who starts us off on Friday, my friend Stephanie, used today to talk about what we are grateful for, and I used that prompt to think about gratitude and my life. I’ve been a bit out of sorts, maybe due to the restrictions of cold weather and related problems, about all the things that haven’t been done—starting to use my new composter (my kitchen sink cannister is officially full tonight and a bit smelly), my new battery-powered electric blanket isn’t hooked up, my new cuckoo clock needs to be hung and started—it plays bird songs, so I have to get into the instructions and  see if I can figure out how to choose a song. I’m not optimistic about my ability, and I am woefully ignorant about recognizing bird songs, so I figure this will give me an education. I think my mattress needs to be turned—remember when your mom did that at least once a month and all by herself? Amazes me yet. But there is a deep hole where I sit every day to change clothes. Colin told me to Google it, and I did—found the mattress is supposed to inflate. I sent him a picture of the hole, hoping he’ll find a magic solution from a distance.

These delayed chores or whatever depressed me. So did the fact that Zenaida, who cheerfully cleans the cottage and does my laundry every two weeks, hasn’t been here since before Christmas, and I am expecting company three nights this coming week—to a house that badly needs the thorough cleaning I can’t do. I had a little pity party, feeling frustrated because I am so dependent on others. But Stephanie’s reminder jogged me into gratitude. I think for a woman of eighty-five who needs assistance walking, I manage quite a lot on my own. Some days I want to make a list so I can say to Jordan, “Look what I did all by self (a phrase from my kids childhood) today!” I will have to continue to send myself that message—and be grateful for hot water and other blessings.

My new word: my youngest grandson had surgery two days ago for a torn shoulder (this is the third time soccer has gotten him—two earlier broken bones). We sent him Tiff Treats (ice cream and cookies) and when he texted his thanks, he wrote, “Thank you, shawties.” Well, of course that sent me to the online dictionary. It’s slang term of generalized affection, African American in origin. But sometimes it’s more specific, referring to a beautiful young woman. Was that sweet boy being sarcastic with his aunt and grandmother? If so, he’s a sly one. I was impressed one way or another that he knew the word, although I can’t figure a way to work it into my conversation or my writing. I guess for the nonce sharing it with you will have to do.

Good night, shawties! Sleep tight, sweet dreams.

 

Sophie’s adventure

 

Sophie is home again, after a brief adventure.

Sophie went walkabout this afternoon. Scared me to death.

This morning I saw an article that proclaimed your dog should always have a collar tag with name and address, even if microchipped. I remember thinking that I was so glad that Sophie had grown old enough she was no longer anxious to explore the great world beyond our fence. Besides, I told myself, she never has a chance to escape.

This afternoon at about four, I let her out, waited a bit, and called her—she likes being out in the cold, but it still worries me.  She didn’t come despite my call of “Cheese!” I went to get the cheese, happened to look out the kitchen window, and saw that both gates were open and Jacob’s Suburban was in the drive with the back hatch open. Hate to admit it, but I panicked and jumped to a conclusion. Called Jordan and when a male voice answered, I thought it was Jacob and yelled about Sophie is gone  and you left the gate open and …..!!!! It was not my finest moment.

Christian yelled back: “I just got home, and I didn’t leave the gate open.” Then he and Jordan began to yell at each other. In retrospect I realize I had started a family mini riot. Christian did come back on to say, “We’ll get her. We’re leaving right now.” In a minute, Jordan came out to the cottage to get bribery treats and told me firmly I should have looked at the gates before I let her out. Not the time to argue.

I live in one of those wonderful neighborhoods with an active email list. People are always posting about seeing a stray dog or a dog that got out and then you see the posts telling you the dog is safely home. I was on my way to the computer to post a notice when I saw Jacob leading Sophie out the back door.

She had gone all the way to the front yard. A bit anticlimactic. When Jacob called her, she trotted right up to him and followed him in the house. He left her in the yard, gate shut, and Jordan came up the driveway still carrying the treats, which she gave to Soph, who couldn’t understand all the fuss.

All’s well that ends well, but I can’t begin to describe my panic. I apologized to Christian, Mary came for happy hour, Jordan and Jacob went, with separate parties, to Bull’s Night Out at the rodeo, Christian and I had corned beef hash for supper, and life goes on.

When Sophie was younger, she escaped a lot. Smaller, she could slip through under the gate and other places. She was also poised to run every time we opened the front door. She seemed to have a burning desire to see Canada. Once poor Christian chased her for blocks—she would let him get just close enough and then bolt, and the border collie in her gave her greater speed than he ever thought of having. Another time, a janitor from the school across the street rang the doorbell, with Soph under his arm. “They told me she lives here,” he said. Indelibly imprinted in my memory is the time, when she was still tiny and wore a leash all the time, that she ran merrily down the driveway, dragging her leash. I swear I could see a smile on her face.

She’s older now, and wiser, and it’s cold out. I think she knows where her dinner and her bed are, but finding her gone, on one of the coldest nights of the year, still makes my heart stand still. Right now, she’s peacefully asleep in her crate. She has no idea how fortunate she is, and I am, that the whole family loves her so much.

It’s still cold—17 degrees—and I still have no hot water, which seems such a first world problem that I feel guilty whining about it. But I would really like to wash my hair, and my hands are weary of washing dishes in ice cold water. Tomorrow, so they say, a thaw. I remember Chicago winters and am grateful that this doesn’t happen to us often.

Stay warm and safe and don’t let the dogs out!

The joy of tradition

 

Colin carving

Don’t be fooled by the picture of Colin carving in his starched white shirt and Santa Claus tie. The bottom half was navy blue shorts, bare legs, and sandals. Reminded me of Covid days when men I know worked remotely from home, dressed just that way.

The happy table

This year Thanksgiving in Tomball was a lovely, low-key family day, filled to the brim with tradition. For me, it was turkey, a good book, and a nap. For some of the others, it was football, with special appreciation for Dolly Parton and the half-time show. And for still others, it was a day for a complicated, thousand-word puzzle. And our meal was traditional as it comes—ham, smoked turkey, dressing, gravy, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, truffle mac ‘n cheese (that was never a traditional dish for me until my kids began to demand it—I still have a hard time associating it with holiday meals), rolls with cinnamon butter, pumpkin pie, and apple pie. Couldn’t get more traditional, and I loved it. Of course, everyone was too full after a two-o’clock meal for the pies, so we had them for second supper in the evening.

I had a lovely nap between first and second supper and spent most of the evening reading a mystery I had just started. Lisa and her mom spent a good four hours on the jigsaw puzzle—they still have a long way to go.

Lisa and Torhild working on the puzzle.

To top the day off, I slept hard for ten hours and woke feeling sleep-logged. Sophie slept all night, though she wandered about the bedroom a bit in the wee hours. At six, when Colin appeared in the kitchen, she was more than ready to go out.

Yesterday was chilly, damp with a bit of drizzle—not a day to encourage sitting by the lake. This morning is sunny and pretty, but Lisa tells me there is a chilly breeze. Maybe later, with the fire pit and a heater, we can sit by the water, one of my favorite spots. Meantime, I’m at my computer, enjoying the view from inside, with a cozy heater at my feet, basking in the laziness of the day after.

 

An outstanding day from my point of view

 

This is Pete the Gecko (I just named him and have no idea why I thought Pete was appropriate). Pete was made by mosaic artist Susan Swaim, an old friend, and is part of my drive to have art in the cottage with some meaning to me—often, because it was done by artists I care about. Suzi used to babysit my kids when they were young, tonight we decided it was pre-school. In recent years I’ve seen her mosaic art online, and when I saw the first few geckos she did I thought vaguely that I wished I could have one. This year, as my birthday approached, I realized there was no good reason I couldn’t give myself one as a birthday present—and I commissioned it. The neat thing is that Suzi incorporated a bit of my jewelry that I sent her—can you find the rose on Pete’s back? Came from a necklace I no longer wear, and a couple of other pieces came from things I had. Pete will hang just to the right of my desk—there’s a nice blank piece of wall waiting for him.

Look at Suzi’s work at Facebook She calls her studio my mosaic mojo.

Suzi delivered Pete in person tonight. I probably haven’t seen her in over thirty years, so it was a great catch-up time. Her mom was a friend of mine way back in TCU days and came from three generations of a family deeply involved with TCU, so we talked a lot about her mom and being in the eighties and TCU and just lots of stuff. Went to Lucile’s, which is a favorite of mine, and I got the lobster roll I’d been wanting. A thoroughly enjoyable evening with lots of laughter.

It was a rare out-of-the-cottage day for me. Christian and I went to church this morning. Russ’ sermon was on the parable of Jesus telling the lame man to pick up his bed and be healed, and the sermon dwelt on the question Jesus asked the man: “Do you really want to be healed?” The point was that a lot of us cling to our problems, imperfections, even illnesses because they are comfortable. Much as we rail against them, we know how to deal with them. Being “healed,” represents a great unknown. Russ finally asked the question, “Do you want to move out of your comfort zone?” and I wanted to say, “I’m here, aren’t i? I’m in church and not watching in the cottage.”

Two outings in one day was a big deal for me, although that makes my life sound constricted, which is not the way I feel about it at all. I am always torn between a conscience that prods me to get out in the world and the lure of the comfort of my cottage. I used to have such an active, busy life, and now I’m so content in my cottage that I have to gear myself up to go out. Once I do, however, I’m glad to have done it. So thanks to Christian and Suzi for getting me out of my comfort zone. I think this whole recluse business crept up on me with pandemic and quarantine. And then I think about how many lives were forever changed by that traumatic period. Not just the illness and death, but the social changes, the work-from-home changes, the stay-at-home dinners instead of patronizing favorite restaurants. I think in many ways we are still reeling from the results of that social upheaval. And now, here comes another onslaught of covid

On the bright side, it is cool tonight, eighty as I write about nine-thirty. There was a good shower to the south of us, but we’ve had no rain so far. Still, the air smells like rain, and I am ever hopeful. I know the nineties is hot but compared to what we’ve had, it will seem pleasant. Let us count our blessings as we sail into a new week.

An interrupted blog

Superman became a senior in high school today..

This is the blog I was writing last night when news about the Georgia indictments broke, and of course then I was glued to the TV. The blog isn’t anything that meaningful—it won’t make you day or improve your life. Mostly, it’s just a chance for me to show off how adorable my grandson was at three and whine about my awful computer problem yesterday morning, with a grateful nod to my son, Colin for this patience with me. But what happened in Georgia may change all our lives. It may, probably will lead to difficult days, perhaps even the oft-threatened violence, but I am convinced we will come out better on the other side, and that the tensions and divisions that have beleaguered our nation since 2016 will begin to heal. I think as a country, a democracy, we had no choice but to prosecute our former president and his colleagues to the full extent of the law. And as Fani Willis emphasized, they are presumed innocent by the courts, something that they would deny others. Today is a day to be proud of America.

Hard for me to believe that the kid who ran around my kitchen in a Superman cape is now a senior in high school, but he is, all concerned with which class he should drop and which class he should sign up for. Wish I understood the process—if he didn’t want the class and didn’t need it for credits, how did he get signed up in the first place? He regaled us at supper with tales of the first day, and it sounded as expected—pretty much chaos.

Jacob headed out.

I put out a call on our neighborhood email list for back-to-school pictures of neighborhood children for the next issue of the newsletter, which as you may know I edit. I have been inundated with pictures—which is a good thing. Mostly I get pictures of elementary school children, but I have a few middle and high school. I know, however, there are a lot more high school students in our neighborhood. Perhaps, like Jacob, they don’t want their pictures published. Jacob will be chagrined to be the oldest one in the next newsletter—shh! Don’t tell him. I never intended to tell him about the Superman picture, but his mom couldn’t resist.

I was the one who needed to go back to school today. I had just barely begun work at my computer, when the cursor froze—and then disappeared. Totally. Gone. In a panic, I called my Colin. He spent an hour and a half on the phone with me, saying scroll here with the number key, hit this key, tab there. Do you have any idea how hard it is to naviage a computer without a cursor. Poor Colin was supposed to be preparing for two business phone calls this afternoon and instead he was helping his idiot mother. There would be gaps in our conversation, silences so long that I sometimes asked if he was still there. Other times I could hear the clack of his keyboard as he searched for a solution, I presume. I finally suggested we give it up, he prepare for and take his afternoon phone calls, and we’d reconnect in the evening.

He agreed but emailed a few minutes later with one more instruction. I tried it and eureka! The cursor reappeared. I cannot tell you how devastated I was at the prospect of a day without a computer. Call it an unhealthy addiction if you will, but I had no idea what I’d do all day—even the book I am reading is on my computer. By the by, airplane mode was the culprit and turning it off for half an hour or more part of the solution. Just turning it off and on again apparently doesn’t work. I have always said computers, like people, need time to collect themselves after a crisis.

North Texas is basking in a cool front. Tonight at ten o’clock, when it has been in the upper nineties most evenings, it is eighty-five—and a low of the mid-seventies is predicted. It’s not supposed to last long—a couple of days—and it apparently brings none of the rain we so badly need. But this brief cool front, like the indictments, is so welcome.

Have a great day everyone. Be proud that we live in America.

Confusion—and a new phone

 

I really miss the days of the littles.

Why is nothing ever simple? Christian found time today to go get me a new phone. Of course, he ran into trouble because he wasn’t listed on my account, but they finally agreed to deal with him since he had the password and all. Next, the old phone had no value. Meantime, my computer reminded me that Rosa was coming to cut my hair at two o’clock. I hadn’t heard from her in the weeks since we made that appointment, so I reached for my phone to call and confirm. Oops! No phone. Rosa meantime was texting to tell me she’d be late. So Christian was trying to read her text, email me, and get it all straightened out. He emailed me that she was coming, but when she hadn’t gotten here by two-thirty I decided she’d run into trouble of some kind and wasn’t coming. I was ready for a nap. Rosa meantime was texting that the gate was closed, and Christian was emailing to tell me to open the gate—it was already open, and I never did figure out what that was about.

Long story short: tonight I have a new haircut and a new phone. I’m not sure if Christian has linked the hearing aids to the hone or not—that was the whole point of this. And some apps haven’t downloaded yet, though I suspect they are apps that we recently eliminated. I had a whole lot of junk on there I never use.

Next confusion: Subie and Phil arrived for happy hour earlier than I thought they were coming, so I was scrambling to get out appetizers. And Sophie decided if there was company, it must be time for her supper—and began to bark incessantly. Phil has recently developed a real sensitivity to her barking, so I was trying to quiet her, fix the food, serve the appetizers, and hang on to my own sanity. Yes, she is spoiled. Jordan walked into the middle of all that and began to talk about multitasking. I considered smacking her.

We have discovered a new bit of Sophie magic. She is bad about barking when there is company. It’s partly to get attention, but she also wants treats. I maintain she has learned that if she barks, she gets a treat to quiet her—I attribute this partly to Jordan who threatens to leave if the barking continues, a threat Phil now echoes. I maintain I can’t keep giving her treats. Ever since her diagnosis of diabetes, Sophie is ravenous all the time and that’s not her fault, not anything to scold her for—Jean tells me it’s that infinitesimal bit of prednisone she takes daily. By accident one night recently, I discovered that when she’s in a barking spell, if I put her leash on her, she settles down and is fairly docile. So I did that tonight, and she spent a bit of time curled up on the sofa next to Subie. Meanwhile, Phil’s seeing-eye dog wanted to stay in the yard, wouldn’t come in. Jordan’s theory was that he was on a work break. Christian tried to entice him in and said the dog looked at him like, “I don’t have to mind you.” When Phil called him, he came right in.

In other news around the cottage, Jacob has been playing in a golf tournament this week. Monday, his tee time was early which was a blessing, but today it was eleven o’clock which would put him on the course in the hottest part of the day. His whole team withdrew from the tournament. Good for them! I know the tournament was probably scheduled long before this unbearable heat was on the horizon, but one wonders that the entire thing wasn’t cancelled Monday.

I read tonight that a cool front will arrive Friday evening. It didn’t say how cool but indicated temperatures would be close to normal. That sounds like a relief to me. And perfect timing. The whole family is arriving Friday, and there will be fifteen of us for dinner on the patio at Joe T.’s. Pray any possible thunderstorms hold off. I am as one would expect greatly excited about having all of us together—we will be missing Maddie, the oldest grandchild, who couldn’t get off work because she had just taken time off to go to Italy for a wedding. I can understand her priorities but am really sorry she won’t be with us. It will still be a glorious occasion.

The grands are all big now, with the youngest at sixteen and the oldest, twenty-three. I do miss the days when we had all those littles around us, as the picture above testifies. It popped up on my computer this morning, and I remember distinctly it was a mid-summer get-together when the Burtons lived on Mesa Drive and had a lovely, kid-friendly backyard—must have been about 2008. When the grands were little and I lived in the main house, I could sleep everyone here (except the Burtons who had their own house nearby), what with the cottage, which was then a guest apartment, the playroom in the back of the house, and a proper guest room. Now they will scatter to motels and getting them back together in the morning will be like herding cats. But we will have a wonderful weekend.

Oops. I just looked up that cool front—Saturday the temperature will be in the high nineties and then back up over a hundred. One relatively hot day, as compared to blisteringly hot, is not much relief. Stay cool folks and drink that water.

 

 

Sunday, ah Sunday!

 

My simplified Salade Nicoise
Sorry, Julia Child, no olives.

Somehow Sundays are do-nothing days. It’s not that my routine is any different than any other day, but something inside me knows it’s Sunday and doesn’t want to buckle down to any serious work. Today, I “went” to virtual church, cooked supper for myself, did a couple of small, list-making chores, and spent an incredible (and wasteful) amount of time playing on the web.

For instance, my son-in-law sent pictures of the Mahr Building in Telluride, once a bank and the very first bank that Butch Cassidy ever robbed. It’s been almost thirty years since my version of Butch’s story (really Etta’s story), Sundance, Butch, and Me, was published, and I really don’t need to do any more research on Butch who, in my view, was a Robin Hood character and did not die in Bolivia. Nonetheless, I followed that rabbit hole for a bit—that’s what Sundays are for: odd little bits of knowledge and investigation.

I have been reading or trying to and am beginning to worry about myself. I am a picky reader and I have tried four books and given up on all of them. One, set in 1947, had flashbacks to a female spy in WWI—she had been tortured and I didn’t want to read about that, although the main plot interested me. Another was a murder set in Provence, according to the title, but it proceeded at far too pastoral a pace; a third proposed to take cooking out of the realm of domesticity and make it a respected occupation. I opened it eagerly, only to find a series of short stream of consciousness entries about the physical sensations of cutting through a pumpkin. Scratch that. The final book, which I opened with enthusiasm, was almost a spoof on romance and cooking. It’s a popular book, one I’ve heard much about and thought I should read. At first, I read it with pleasure but then I began to wonder how long the author could sustain the literary conceit on which it was based—a very unlikely (and not particularly likeable character) in a kitchen. Not quite halfway through I decided I was done. So I am an author in search of a good book to read.

Sundays are also for napping, and I am one of those who remember vivid dreams. I’ve had a couple of doozies this weekend, both what I think experts would call Freudian. In one, I was cleaning out my VW (not far-fetched—it’s nineteen years old and Jordan still drives it), getting rid of a bunch of detritus an ex had left behind. I thought that man had moved out of my head a long time ago, so why was I still dreaming of getting rid of him? The other had to do with my office—everyone was going to Austin for a meeting that we all enjoyed annually, only they had all made plans to travel with others and nobody asked me, asked me where I was staying, acted like they planned for me to go. Even one of my sons, who never had any connection to my office. I’ve been thinking a lot about aging lately, and I think that dream was subconsciously reinforcing what I say every day I know: let go of the past and enjoy the good memories. In this case, let go of the job I loved so much and treasure the memory of all those book festivals and conferences. Makes me a bit nervous about going to sleep tonight.

I’ve been on my own, without company, for dinner two nights in a row, and I’ve taken advantage of that to fix a couple of things I really like. Last night I fixed brinner—breakfast for dinner, consisting of soft-scrambled eggs, smashed baby potatoes, and grape tomatoes. Tonight it was a modified Salade Niçoise with a good anchovy vinaigrette. Enough left for lunch tomorrow.

I think I’m glad tomorrow is Monday. I have some serious writing replaying itself in my head, and I need that new keyboard to get it done!

Maybe more thunderstorms tonight. I hope they are like the one we just had—gloriously loud and noisy, with lots of rain, but nothing destructive—no hail, no wind. Hope everyone else in the area was as fortunate. Sophie, of course, barked furiously as though she could intimidate the thunder. It didn’t work.

Brinner