My World is Changing

For years, the Texas Book Festival, traditionally held in late October, was a highlight of my professional year. Melinda and I developed a tradition--we left about ten Friday for Austin, stopped someplace interesting for lunch, picked up her good friend (and now mine) KK in Austin, and went to Z Tejas for happy hour. Then we set up the booth--she swears I never did, but I know I did. Sometimes my Megan joined us for a drink; other times she just picked me up. I divided the weekend, spending one long day being professional at the festival--manning our booth, visiting with friends, greeting authors, all those things I thought were my responsibility as director of TCU Press. The other day, usually Sunday, I spent with Megan, Brandon, and my two Austin grandsons. On Monday, Melinda and I had breakfast with our beloved designer, Barbara Whitehead, and then headed home.
For several years, we had lunch at a Christian commune near Elm Mott, Texas. The food was marvelous, and we enjoyed the gift shop and a couple of times toured the various workshops--weaving, woodworking, pottery, etc. But then a scandal about the place and child abuse erupted, and we never went back. Last year, we lunched at a lovely bistro in Waco (no, that's not an oxymoron). This year, Melinda, who wrote a book on Texas wineries, wanted to stop at the Rising Star Winery in Salado. Enjoyed wine and a cheese and fruit platter, but we were hungry by the time we got to Z Tejas and split a spinach/mushroom quesadilla.
Megan and I meant to go to the festival Saturday but I made lunch plans with old friends, and she was expecting a crowd for supper and to watch the TCU/UT game. One of the friends I had lunch with had spent the morning at festival presentations and was looking forward to going back for the afternoon. But the programs--panels and readings, etc.--never drew me much. I liked mingling with the crowds, talking this book and that to potential buyers, visiting with colleagues.
Megan and I went to the festival Sunday. She was offended because she saw a huge display of books for $5 and under and decided it was too commercial. I walked through several tents, saw nothing of interest and not the one booth I was looking for. Finally we ran into friends and figured out where TCU Press and the A&M Consortium were. Went there--but few of the people I wanted to see were there. And during all my wanderings, I saw no familiar faces, nobody I could hug and say "Gosh, haven't seen you in a while. How are you? What are you writing." It just wasn't the same world. After forty-five minutes, I told Megan I was done, and as we walked away I said, "I don't need to come back next year." Oh, I'll ride to Austin with Melinda and visit my family, but I don't need the festival.
Maybe it's that all my friends, like me, are aging, and they don't feel the festival is as important. Maybe it's that younger people are manning the booths and filling the role I used to fill. But it was no longer my world.
It's okay. I'm happy in my world of mysteries--and family and friends.

Feeling my own mortality

I’ve lost four friends, of varying histories and degrees, in the last two weeks, and it’s making me feel my mortality and how quickly life can change. One was a man who, young and “finding himself,” lived with my family. If he didn’t work that day, he got no dinner that night; if he stayed up reading all night (and drinking wine), no dinner; we had “pick on Alan” nights, but it was all loving. He was the son of an older lady who had been good to me—always called me on each of my children’s birthdays, a remarkable act of memory and kindness. Later in our lives, Alan helped me through a rough patch—divorce and the selling of my dream house, but then we drifted apart and I hadn’t seen him in years until my oldest child married and I wanted to invite Alan’s mother to the reception we had in Fort Worth. I invited him because I knew she couldn’t come alone. We had a great time catching up. When his mom died, he called me the night before the obituary appeared to tell me and say, “I didn’t want you to read it in the paper.” So RIP Alan Burk. You will always have a corner of my heart.

Carolyn Bilyea was the wife of one of my ex’s surgical partners, and probably one of the most cheerful women I’ve ever known. David died many years ago, but Carolyn lived happily by herself and then in an assisted living facility. She called often and sent Christmas cards, which I don’t much do. So last Christmas, after the holiday, I made repeated attempts to call her—the switchboard put me through to her phone, I left messages, but nothing happened. I tried without success to talk to the switchboard people, and upshot was I never talked to Carolyn. I regret it to this day and regret that I didn’t do more to stay in touch with her.

I didn’t know Leah Flowers well, but we were in a Sunday school class together, and I can still see her singing with the choir at church, one of the things she most loved to do and was known for. I knew her husband, a professor of religion at TCU, through church and because I helped him with some publication questions and problems. And it seems like no more than six months ago but must have been longer that I had a lovely lunch with both of them. Alzheimer’s took Leah at a relatively young age, but from what I read on Caring Bridge hers was a peaceful decline—Ron let her sleep as much as she wanted—and she was surrounded by family and loving friends. Her death leaves a big hole in University Christian Church and TCU, where she worked for many years.

And then there was Jean Flynn, one of the wittiest, brightest, most caring women I ever met. Her husband and I worked together on several projects that he published with TCU Press, and I came to feel that he and Jean were family. She was always full of jokes and stories about what she had to put up with being married to her irrepressible husband. A respected writer in her own name, she always put Bob’s career ahead of hers. She wrote for young readers because, having been a school librarian, she felt there were not enough good and interesting books for young readers. But the funniest thing I ever saw of hers was a piece describing a camping trip they took to Alaska--decidedly unromantic from Jean's point of view. Rest in peace and rise in glory, Jean—you have left a vast empty space in many hearts.

Jean died about three weeks after an automobile accident which at first seemed not so serious, and we were reassured. All the writing community in Texas who loved her soon learned it was indeed serious. That she died in an accident—or as a result of—has brought home to me the fragility of life, the suddenness with which it can turn in a minute and be forever changed.

I’m quickly approaching my 75^th birthday—in a little less than two weeks—and I have a friend, now in his eighties, who said his 75^th was the hardest. I’m determined not to let it be hard on me, to go my way, aches, pains, deafness, lack of balance notwithstanding and continue to enjoy life, my family and grandchildren, my work, my dog and my house and be grateful to be in good health..

“But at my back, I always hear/Times winged chariot hurrying near.” Seventy-five is a good age…and a scary one.

 

Home for the holidays

As the holidays approach, I get sort of sentimental about Christmases gone by. I remember the days when I automatically expected my grown children home for Christmas. Sure, when they married, we alternated years with in-laws and frequently we went to Santa Fe, but still they sometimes had Thanksgiving and/or Christmas in my house. Those days are gone—my family has grown too large to fit comfortably in my house; their houses are larger, and I admit dinner for sixteen is an effort for me. It’s all part of changing family dynamics that have been on my mind lately.

I raised four children, as a single parent from the time they ranged in age from six to twelve—those years I call the “casserole years” when I was in the car chauffeuring more than I was out, years when I was still at the core of their world and I knew almost everything they did (okay, there were some stories I heard years later that singed my hair).

I remember what a great shock it was to me when I realized that my children, now scattered across Texas, were communicating with each other without going through me. One would tell me the other was traveling, and I would bristle: why hadn’t they told me? Or some such similar thing. I thought I was Telephone Central, just as I thought I was Holiday Central. But I’ve learned, sometimes the hard way, that they have their own families and their own loyalties—they love me, but I am not at the center of the universe.

Today I have seven grandchildren. Each in his or her own way shows me affection, but I know it’s not the same as when my children were those ages and I was the center of their world. I remember babysitting Jacob one night when he was maybe eight months old. He woke with a bad dream, so I rocked him and he clung to my chest tightly and eventually went to sleep there. I hadn’t had a baby sleep on my chest and so look to me for comfort in years and it brought tears of joy. But if his mommy had been there, he would have gone to her—no question about it. And I know as much time as I spend with Jacob and as much as he loves me, his parents are the center of his world. He’ll ask, “When are my mommy and daddy coming?” I can never nor would I ever intrude on that relationship. I’ve had my day and it was wonderful. Now I’m grateful that I am still so much a part of the family and still so loved by my children and grandchildren.

IF you ask me my priorities in life, I’ll tell you always I’m a mom and a grandmom first, then I’m an author, and my third role (in order of significance) used to be that I was a publisher. Today I’m grateful I have an independent life that doesn’t depend totally on my family—I rather imagine they’re grateful for that too.

Labor Day

Hot and humid, but we celebrated Labor Day with a porch party tonight--my local children and grandchild and neighbors. I created a hot dog bar with little cards detailing the toppings for different kinds of dogs--Mexican, Chicago, German, Franks and Beans, Coney Dogs. Watch Potluck with Judy next week for more details. But hot as it was, it was pleasant to sit on the porch and trade banter. Jacob was bored beause there were no other kids and finally retreated to the TV--he'd had a long day and played hard with his cousins in Coppell. The rest of us were lazy and tired, full and content. Wine was drunk, beer was sipped, and too much food eaten.
But I am struck with the fragility of life tonight. My friend who's in the midst of a life change is staying in my garage apartment. I am so glad I can offer this help and a place of refuge, and I'm grateful for the company, but I grieve for the changes she's going through. No matter how the current crisis comes out, her life will never again be the same. She's strong, and she'll be fine--but I feel like this is happening to one of my own children. My neighbor Jay is just back from Vermont where he went for a family conference about his father's health--apparently all seven children met. His dad knows he has problems, knows therapy and rehab work will prolong his life, but won't do it. He goes home today or tomorrow with full-time medical care--a good situation but one with an inevitable outcome. A neighbor who was supposed to join us tonight couldn't because of health. And Christian's grandmother died last night in a rehab facility, two days shy of her 95th birthday. I hope her family can take comfort in the fact that she was probably just done, just tired. A lifelong friend is close to marking the one-year anniversay of the death of her husband--a true love match if I ever saw one, and he was too young to leave us. So much sadness.
I sense that change and a certain inevitability are all around us. I'm not depressed by it in the way of thinking that my turn is next, but I am saddened by what happens to people. Not sure how to say this, but some people obsess over the smallest changes in their lives. Sort of "Don't park in my parking space" when there are such larger life changes all around us. Seeing those larger changes makes you--or should make you--put life in perspective.
I guess I pray for all of us tonight a sense of life's beauty...and its fragility. My hope, for myself and others, is to learn to treasure the glory of the moment, the day, and give thanks. I always liked the saying, "Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first." Maybe that sums up what I'm thinking.
Awk! I'm no good at philosphizing, but there's a certain blue mood around me tonight, in spite of the pleasant time and good company.

Back to school

Sweet Lily B. (Lily B. Clayton Elementary), Jacob's school

We went to meet Jacob's new first-grade teacher tonight, and I was drawn back in years . I don't remember visiting classrooms before the first day of school, nor do I remember that the classrooms were so thoroughly prepared for my children. Jacob's desk is assigned, with his name on it and a ruler of some sort; his name is on the "behavior board"--when I pointed that out to him, he said, "I know, I know." There was a packet on the desk with information to be filled out, and an important part of the whole event was for parents to indicate how the child woud be picked up. That was why I was there--so the teacher would recognize me when I came to get Jacob. But it was all so ready and so tailored to each individual child--I was truly impressed. Jacob was excited. He will have at least two good buddies in his class this year, and it's nice that it's a different mix from last year--he'll make new friends.
There was a "social hour" in the cafeteria and I found myself in a whole new part of the school that never existed when my youngest, Jacob's mother, went there--classrooms and the cafeteria. The cafeteria I remember was where the school library is now...and where they seem to be having big-time foundation problems or something. There have been backhoes and all sorts of equipment working at the school for a month or so and huge areas are still marked off with danger tape--not a good way to begin the year.
But sitting in the cafeteria, watching my daughter "work the room," hugging this one and that, I was again grateful that part of raising children is long behind me. Jordan is going to be active in PTA this year (or is it PTO these days?) and they'll attend all the events. I'll go only when Jacob is performing in one capacity or another. And I'm glad, nay delighted, I don't have to do any more school carnivals and the like.When they have their neighborhood walk in September I'll sit on my porch and wave. I think all that is a benefit of aging.
After the meet-and-greet, we went with two other families to the Neighborhood Grill for dinner--the children had their own table and were delighted and wild. Fun times, but I was glad to be home. As we left, one of the dads said, "I bet everyone in there was glad to see us leave." I agreed.
Gosh! Am I getting curmudgeonly? Don't want to do that!

How Did I Get Here, Part 2

My talented, beautiful and intelligent daughter-n-law, Melanie (I have two daughters-in-law who fit that description, so I have to specify) wrote that she gave up two things she loved to do--writing and ballet--because she couldn't make a living at either.http://raggedymadness.com/2012/02/24/lean-in/  Young, I had no such practical ideas. In college, I majored in English because I liked to read. A career? Pouf! I was a daughter of the fifties. Some man was going to marry me and take care of me, presumably while I read Silver Screen and ate bonbons. Soon I found myself with a Ph.D. in English and no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. Oh, there was a man to take care of me, but that went awry after nearly twenty years.
I had always written, starting with short stories as a ten-year-old and progressing to stories of teen-age angst that Seventeen, that bible of young girls, rejected without hesitation. I found myself doing pr and editing a medical journal and an alumni newspaper--paste-up and all in the old days, though I'd had no journalism training. Once I had that Ph.D. and children and was a stay-at-home wife and mom, with a nanny thank-you-very-much, I settled down to write. There were literally days when I thought I'd write if I only knew what to write. Unlike some senior citizens who become successful authors almost by accident (See Radine Nehring's excellent post on the subject at http://madisonjohns11.wordpress.com/2012/03/01/im-a-late-bloomer-radine-trees-nehring/), I was always dead set on a career. I had banished that girl who wanted to read and eat bonbons.
Flash forward forty years. No blatant self promotion, but I have over sixty published books--fiction for adults, fiction for young adults, a lot of nonfiction for young readers, some miscellaneous titles such as a literary biography and a cookbook, and now mysteries. I also have some rather nice awards, including a Lifetime Achievement Award from Western Writers of America. I'm neither rich nor famous, but it's a respectable record for a writer. Still it was never enough. I wanted more. Once a woman who was my sister in spirit suggested I'd had as much success as I could expect and I ought to quit worrying about it--she was always forthright. But that wasn't my way.
I had as many rejections as acceptances--or more--over the years, and I have every author's stack of rejected manuscripts that will never go anywhere except to my archive at the Southwest Writers Collection at Texas State University-San Marcos. Bantam/Doubleday stayed with me for much of 1990s. amd several childrens' publishers and book packagers were steady clients in the late '90s and early in 2000 until the market changed, so they said. I never had a secure long-term publishing home with enough faith in me to work out a career plan.. 
Today my mystery career is off to a great start--the first Kelly O'Connell Mystery published, another due in April, another in August, the start of a second series in January, and a fourth as-yet unwritten and unscheduled Kelly O'Connell Mystery due in 2013. There's a lingering question in my mind about why I had to be in my seventies for this sudden roll I'm on, just as I wonder why I wasn't at thirty the woman I am now. My brother says he sees it as me re-inventing myself once again, which he believes I've done a few times before. He wanted credit for that statement, and I am glad to give it because I take it as a compliment. I think the capacity to re-invent yourself, if that's what I've done, comes with age and perhaps as a close friend suggested grace.
My new blooming career is thanks to Turquoise Morning Press. I'm a big believer in the small press movement that, along with self-publishing digitally, is changing the publishing world forever. But I doubt I would have been swept up in this movement thirty years ago. I wasn't ready, and neither was my writing. Almost certainly, retirement had something to do with this, freeing me to focus on my writing and also freeing me of a lot of stress. I'm also a fan of retirement, although all those years I would have told you I had the ideal job as director of a small academic press. And what I learned all those years on the "other side" of publishing stands me in good stead. Yet I'm a poster child for retirement, and a fan, if somewhat reluctantly, of aging. Just joined a Facebook page called Spunky Seniors--you gotta love it.

Family, family, family

My two sons have a running "thing" about who is my favorite. Colin will call me with "Hi, Ma, it's me, your favorite son" and Jamie will post on Facebook, "Mom, I know you love me a lot but we have to remember you have another son and we don't want to hurt his feelings." So I got two shirts that said, "Mom likes me best" and made them open them simultaneously. They thought I had scored, so thanks to friend Sally for finding these.
Have you ever slept on an air mattress? One with a leak? We air it up before I got to bed but it gets quite soft during the night--then it's hard to move in the bed because it seems to envelop me, and it's hard to get up. I can't get the support to stand up. I finally decided it's best to roll off, get on all fours, and stand up from there. But the corker came this afternoon when I took up a nap. I had pushed the mattress close to the bookcase and put the phone on a shelf so I could check the time. Rolled over to do that and the whole mattress came with me, standing on its side. I was trapped by the covers. After two tries I extricated myself but I had visions of having to call the children, which would have a) made them laugh, and b) convinced them I need a keeper.
The funny thing about all this is that my grown kids are on a protective kick about me. Yesterday, as I took rolls out of the lower oven, my hand brushed the rack and got a tiny burn, momentary discomfort. Meantime Megan demanded that I let go of the pan--she was sure I was falling and about to put my hand on the oven door. In truth, I only needed someone to push the rolls back onto the rimless cookies sheet. But it was "Mom, after this, let us get things out of the lower oven!"  My reaction was a vehement "No! I'm capable." I've had a cold, the kind that makes you snort and snuff in the morning and leaves a lingering cough. So I've dealt with threats to take me to an ER clinic in spite of my protests that feel fine and it's just a cold.
I'm protesting that if they keep this up, they'll make me old before my time. Their argument--mostly Colin--is that I'm of an age where a fall can have serious consequences (didn't tell them I tripped on bed clothes yesterday and took a hard fall) and pneumonia can be serious, etc. Compromise: I will call my doctor's office tomorrow.
A Christmas Eve photo that I find beond sweet: They're staring at the reindeeer food they put out, waiting for reindeer to appear. Unfortunately it rained and as someone said the reindeer food turned to oatmeal. Still, the hopefulness of children is so much a part of Christmas and its joy. I've read posts that say "Okay, we're done with Christmas. Let's move on." I'm not ready to let go of the spirit. The first child left today, a whole family will be leaving in a few minutes, but we've had three glorious days together.

Feeling My Age

I too often say, boastfully, that I don't feel my 70+ years  at all, and some kindly say I don't look that old. But yesterday and today I felt them. With my family coming and going at odd times this weekend, I went to two grocery stores yesterday--Central Market for meat and a few other things, then Albertson's for general supplies and canned goods. By the time I went to one, came home and unpacked the groceries, then went to the second and unpacked plus watered my abundant porch plants, it took me three hours, and I was really ready for lunch and to get off my feet. Worked a bit, napped, and by 4:30, I was back in the kitchen cooking steak fingers, green beans vinaigrette, and oven-fried potatoes for Jacob, Christian and Susan--Jordan's colleague who lives with them. That took me an hour and a half, and then after a quick dinner, I had to do dishes.
It occurred to me that I used to cook meals like last night's every night for four kids, and on weeekend I shopped and sometimes cooked for 15-20 on Sunday evening. I don't know that I coiuld do that these days. I'd like to think that it's just the habit of laziness, but much as I love to cook after an hour and a half my back tells me to sit down, even if only for a few minutes.
This morning I spent almost two hours in the kitchen making a huge casserole--I planned to make a double one, but as plans got more vague, I cut back to one and froze the extra ground meat. Still, I had visions of a lovely family dinner--two of my sons and one of my daughters, all with their families. Didn't happen. Jordan, Christian, Jacob and I ate together, though Jacob said he wasn't hungry, agreed to eat broccoli and blueberries, and then ate chicken nuggets, more blueberries but refused the cauliflower (I didn't have more broccoli and Jordan's attempt to pass cauliflower off as white broccoli was unsuccessful). So now I have this huge, rich, fattening, delicious casserole left. Maybe someone will nibble on it over the weekend; I foresee that Jordan and her family and I will be eating it next weekend. Hmmm--one of my overnight guests Tuesday night said they wanted leftovers, I had planned an elegant meal of sea bass in papilotte but you know, hamburger, onion, mushroom, cheese casserole might just sound good. Maybe I can do an exotic dessert.
So here I sit at 8 p.m., the house empty, waiting for Jamie and family who stopped to eat at the Mexican Inn (don't ask for my comment!) and Colin and family, who didn't get off from Houston until almost five and then had car trouble. Not exactly the evening I planned, but it occurred to me that a few years ago that would have sent me into a frenzy. Now I'm quite philosophical about it.
It will still be good to have my family around me, however briefly, this weekend.
Oops. I forgot. I have to go back to the kitchen to make a double recipe of corn/Rotel dip for Jacob's birthday party tomorrow. Woman's work is never done.

How will you age?

My friend Charles is 92. A year ago he was running the streets of his Fort Worth neighborhood and riding his bike, although he hung up his car keys voluntarily a couple of years ago. Today he spends much of his time in a nursing home bed, but he gets out--oh, boy, does he get out. He goes to the Unitarian church, and friends pick him up; then they all go to lunch afterward. He goes to lunch on Wednesdays at the Black-Eyed Pea with a church group, and today he and his youngest son had lunch at the Swiss Pastry Shop which he loves. Tonight I took him to a local bistro that serves mussels, which he remembers eating as a very young child. He told me several times how much he was looking forward to the evening, and enjoy he did.. He ate a small serving (looked pretty big to me) of mussels in Italian sauce (wine, cream and pesto)--I tried my first mussel and thought it was neither good nor bad but not something I'd order. Then he had a crab cake, and I could tell he was only avoiding dessert because of my diet, so we finally compromised on chocolate mousse with two spoons. He ate 3/4 of it, while I happily took a few bites and ate the raspberries. When I asked if he was going to have wine, he said, "Oh, yes, that's part of the meal I'm looking forward to." He savored every bite, eating slowly and enjoying--something I should learn to do. I should mention that he arrived with his mouth set for crab cakes but they weren't on the menu--I too wanted crab cakes but the waitress said they had only one left from yesterday, so I gave it to him. I ate Caesar salad and steak tartare. We had a lovely evening, teasing each other as longtime friends will do, and when I took him back to the retirement center he guarnteed me he'd be asleep in an hour. I enjoyed the evening, doubly because he enjoyed it so much. But it made me thinnk--I want to age like Charles. Even though he now uses a walker, confesses that he's gotten clumsier, and refers to himself as disabled, he has an absolute zest for life and thoroughly enjoys the string of visitors who come and go from his room. Obviously they enjoy him too, and except for moments of forgetfulness--he called me last night to ask if we'd missed our date and I explained it was tonight--he's as lucid and brilliant as he always was, one of the smartest men I ever knew. I want to age like Charles.
Funny thing, but when I go to the retirement home to see him I keep running into some old acquaintances who now live there. One said tonight, "I wish we could get you down here,"and I said, "I enjoy my house too much." I guess I made a faux pas because when I walked in I saw a woman I know, we spoke, and I asked if she was working there. "No," she said, "I live here now." Charles laughed when I told him the story.
But on a sad note, we lost a good friend who died last night, a surgeon who had been my ex-husband's senior partner and who, when I was left alone with four children, kept a close watch to see that we were all okay. We've remained friends over all those years, and I lunched frequently with his wife. She was the one who called this morning to give me the news. Charles says he wants to go to the memorial service, so I'll go pick him up Monday morning.
I realize, with some shock, that all that is not that far away for me--twenty years, and I'll be Charles' age. I truly hope to do it gracefully, as a joy to my family and not a burden. But I know it ain't easy.

Growing Old Quickly

I can't resist posting one more piciture of some of my grandkids--but this is them at their angelic best, which only lasts for moments. Front to back are Kegan (turns 3 in April), Jacob (turns 4 in June), and Morgan (turns 5 in August--can it be?).  Having most but not all of my grandchildren around last weekend brought home a big realization to me--how fast they outgrow childhood. Maddie, at ten, is truly a tween, more grown-up than child and a real mother to the little ones. She'll go to middle school next year, which I find unbelievable--and worrisome, with all kinds of new social threats out there. Even with Edie turning seven this week, their mom says there are no more dolls in their house--they've outgrown that phase. Although Maddie did call and ask me to send the teddy bear she left behind. And I think that phase passed too quickly--I'm still getting American Girl catalogs urging me to buy dolls, and for a while an outfit for her American Girl doll was a real treat to Maddie. But I can't complain--now it's books, and I love it that she's a reader. Her sister is an artist, but headed also toward veterinary medicine--she loves animals.

Kegan is the baby of them all, and yet look at him--grown up, independent, stubborn. Sure, he and Jacob still have their crying fits occasionally, but they're well on their way to becoming self-contained individuals.

Morgan seems to lapse into tears less often and is over, pretty much, the possessiveness about toys.
But if they're growing older so fast, what's happening to us as adults? I can't believe I'm 71, although I did "use" it today. The Fed Ex man came with a package I'd been waiting for since yesterday morning--a manuscript I'm editing with a tight deadline--but by the time I got to the door, he was driving away and had left what I thought was an attempted delivery notice. I immediately called Fed Ex and among my whiny complaints was the fact that I'm  71 and it takes me a bit to get to the door (which isn't true, but it's like having a doctorate--I only use it on desperate occasions). Turns out I had to eat crow--he had left the package, just not where I saw it instantly.
But I also can't believe that my oldest child is 40, almost 41, and my youngest now in her mid-thirties. Where did the time go. They were babies last time I looked. True, they're wonderful adults, and I adore their company, but I miss the days of childhood--and I miss the days of having baby grandchildren. We have no one in diapers now (except at night), which tells you something.
I truly believe that old saying--time flies when you're having fun. But at this rate, I'll be in my eighties before I know it. And my grandchildren will be grown. What a weird feeling.

Thoughts on Aging--and some busy days

I have a friend who has an epiphany about every seven days--you know, one of those bright flashes of insight that changes your life. Most of us are fortunate if we have three or four in our lifetime, but this friend is always reinventing her life--which actually might be kind of fun. But I had an epiphany--or a semi-one anyway--the other day. I was thinking how my bad balance problems began oh, maybe two weeks before my birthday. And it dawned on my--I didn't turn seventy quite as easily as I let on to the world. I laughed and joked about it, had a huge and wonderful b'day party--one of the highlights of my life--and joked about after I turned seventy everything was recalled, from my car to my colon. But I think I was dancing to fool the devil. I think turning seventy shook me--Jim, who is 6 months from 78, said to me today, "Of course it shakes you." But I truly do find it hard to think of myself as 70. That sounds old, and I don't feel old, walking stick or no. I think I've mentioned on this blog before my belief that we each have an age where we perpetually see ourselves and mine is about 35--I was happily married, my kids were young and wonderful (of course, they are still wonderful), but I don't know if that's it or if it's that I still see the world as I did at 35. Jim said his "lifetime" age is 18, not because it was a happy time in his life but because that's how he sees the world.
Anyway, now that I've taken off the rose-colored glasses and most of my car and medical problems have been dealt with, maybe I can really come to grips with no longer being able to use the euphemism "late middle age" and learn to understand that I truly am a senior citizen.
I don't want to push this, saying this "epiphany" improved my balance, but it is getting better. Jean noticed it when we went shopping the other day, and Melinda saw it when we went to lunch. And today I went alone to the country club for a luncheon and had to park--oh, half a block from the entrance. The walk was made difficult not by fear of open spaces but by the heavy heavy book bag and purse I had on my bad shoulder. Now that is something I can deal with in practical terms. A friend told me tonight she has a manuscript carrier on wheels, like an small overnight case only even smaller.
It has been a busy couple of days. Yesterday we had a long but productive (and fun) meeting about a book we're doing of the work of the photographer who chronicled the black community in Fort Worth during the last half or more of the 20th century. He took pictures of everyone from school children to world leaders, and the journalist who's working on the essays for it has had a wonderful time trying to identify people in the pictures, tracking down stories, etc. Yesterday we sorted photos and matched them to categories in his essays.
Today I took my car to be inspected--it was only three weeks overdue, had an advisory council meeting (only three people showed up but we zipped through my brief agenda and came up with great ideas), went to a luncheon for past presidents of Friends of the Library, and went to dinner with Betty--plus did a lot of work at home. I'm working on a proposal for the mystery--an agency that requires a long and complicated proposal with a cover sheet, a "sell sheet," a biography, a synopsis, a market analysis, an author marketing plan, a history of the manuscript (where it's been submitted), and a 30-page synopsis. I figure getting all that together will be good for me, even if the agency says "Thanks, but no thanks."

Grandchildren--and more thought son aging

Here's the latest picture of Morgan and Kegan, and one of them with their Houston cousins, Braden and Ryan. The latest cute thing said by one of my grandchildren. Megan: Ford, do you have poop in your pants? Ford (20 months) Yes, No, Maybe so.

The neighbors--Susan and Jay, plus Sue, and Jordan and Jacob--came for dinner last night. I fixed leg of lamb as a treat to myself and a thank-you to Jay for taking Scooby for his summer haircut. We visited the garage apt.--everyone approved heartily of the redo--and after dinner we lingered briefly on the porch, because it was so pleasant. Jacob has an enormous crush on Jay, who he calls B. for no known reason, so he was delighted with the company last night, so delighted that he had to go to "Time Out" for jumping on the furniture after he'd been warned several times. He got into his impish, show-off mood, and Jordan came near the end of her wits. I realized though how unbashed kids are about their crushes--they don't know to be self-conscious and embarrassed. I wish we could avoid teaching them. I'm sure Jay is flattered by the attention, and he receives it gracefully.

Jay and Susan stayed on after the others had left, and I asked about his father who was critically ill in the hospital not long ago. His father is better but neither parent is able to care for the other one, and together they are unable to fix their meals, which has led to family upheaval. They are both about 77 and were active and leading their own lives two or three years ago. That frightened me because they're not that much older than I am. We talked about how you stay healthy and active, all talking about what we already know--you have to stay active, physically and mentally, and stay involved with the world. My brother, who may not appreciate my revealing his age, is 76 (I think--he once gave himself an extra year by mistake and it's hard for me to be sure now) and he's active and busy all the time. He owns a small ranch, and he and his wife do almost all the work on it themselves. I have another friend who is 77 and out and about all the time. We tease about the string of women in his life. And then of course there's Charles who at 90 rides his bike ten miles and is excited about going to a week-long fitness camp in the Davis Mountains. I certainly have good examples around me, and I know you don't have to sink into helplessness but I suspect it takes work and will power--and maybe having no one to wait on you so you have to do it yourself.

I recently read a blog that quoted an author--I want to say Sara Paretsky, since she's one of my heroes, but I may be wrong. Anyway, whoever it was said that the years late in life are "a chance to sing." Her advice: "Bee ballsy, make a point, have an interest." I think that's dead on.

Being post-fifty and post- everything else

Today I replaced the cyclamen in my planter boxes. Cyclamen does beautifully through the winter, with bright blooms, but it doesn't like Texas summers. I bought caladium, though to me they are sort of ho-hum ordinary. I couldn't come up with anything more creative that would grow in my shade-only boxes, and really the caladium look pretty. Don't you think? I also bought more basil for a pot in which basil flourished two years ago and died last summer, And tonight Jean brought me cut flowers from their garden, so I'm surrounded by lovely things. Here are Jean's flowers and one of my planter boxes.

It was a dark and stormy night . . . not a great way to begin a novel, but it sure describes what's happening here tonight. Our hundred degree temperature plunged to 71 when the wind came up about 6:30. My dinner guests and I had abandoned the porch as too hot, and I kind of wished we'd go out there to dine, but then it was too windy. Then just about eight, they all left hurriedly fearing the coming storm. I brought in the dog--a big fraidy-cat--and then walked out on the porch to enjoy the storm winds. I love a good storm. Charles rushed home because his daughter, only a few years younger than me, is visiting, and he wanted to be there when she came home from dinner--she's frightened by storms. I would have sent him anyway because he doesn't need to be driving on a dark, stormy night.

All this talk on the Sisters in Crime listserv about post-menopausal women and life after 50 keeps reverberating in my head. One woman, now 71, wrote that in the last twenty years everything about her life has been better than ever. And I wrote to agree with her. I think I'm happier and more content than I ever was but I also have more confidence that I can do what I want to accomplish (write and publish that mystery!) and that most of the time my instincts are dead on (I recognize that's a dangerous presumption). I like my life--my family, my own work, my job work, my house, everything.

Which reminds me that I recently saw a query about "Has your life turned out like you thought?" Not at all. A child of the fifties, I expected to get married and some man would take care of me. That obviously did not work out well at all. I had as my model Browning's wonderful line from Rabbi Ben Ezra: "Grow old along with me/The best of life is yet to be/The last for which the first was made." Do I regret being single at 70? Minimally. Sometimes I'd like someone to go to dinner, exhibits, things that I mostly skip now because I don't like going alone. And yeah, sometimes I'd like that comforting hug that only comes from a long-term partner. But being alone has its compensations, and I've made the most of them without much regret. Children? I never really thought about them, but they've been so central to my life. They are the core of everything I am. Grandchildren are icing on that cake. Career? Although I read The Feminine Mystique cover to cover, I didn't think about a career. And in this enlightened age, I'm ashamed to say I didn't think about it until I was divorced. But I've had a wonderful dual career as a publisher and an author--and its far from over just because I'm turning 70. No, my life didn't turn out like I thought it would--just much better!

Since I'm being so profound, I have another thought--people often aren't what you imagine them to be before you meet them. An author came to town last week--we'd e-mailed and talked on the phone but never met. She was so incredibly businesslike and efficient that I expected someone sleek and intimidating--and here came this motherly, warm woman with a twinkling sense of humor in her eyes and a great willingness to be friends. We met with the provost and the director of TCU's Energy Institue, and I loved it that she kept calling them "Guys." After the meeting we went to lunch and found ourselves sharing stories of our past marriages and lives. What a neat experience.

The rain has come, but it's not a storm. Thunder is rumbling in the distance, but the rain is a nice soaking one. Hope it lasts all night. We should be so lucky! Texas is once again worrying through a dry season.

Old cats and old people

My cat, Wywy is an old man at 17, almost 18. Wywy is a shortened version of Wynona (after Wynona Judd--Jamie's idea) but it's led to complications. Wynona is a male, and over the years we've vacillated between "he," "she" and "he, she, it." I've known he was failing, as they say--the vet told me in January he had the beginnings of kidney failure, and he'd lost half a pound. But, essentially, he got a clean bill of health. The last couple of weeks, though, I thought he looked thinner, and he began to lose coat, so I took him back to the vet. Putting him in a cat carrier and taking him to the vet is almost on a level with the dentist in things I don't want to do, so I was most proud of myself today. Expensive, but probably not a mistake. All his blood work was "borderline"--not bad but on the edge of being bad. His kidney function was a little bit off, so they gave him IV fluids, and they sent him home with vitamins and antibiotics, the latter in anticipation of cleaning his teeth and gums next week. He's not a happy camper tonight--doesn't think I've fed him. I really have, but if he won't eat it, I can't do much about that. And I put the antibiotics in the food! I know he won't be with me for a long, long time, but I'd like to make his final years as comfortable and graceful as I can. But now I have to put him in the carrier again next week--yikes!
I'm afraid I'm less successful with my cousin in Canada. She's 74 and bipolar, has been institutionalized most of her adult life and in trouble when she wasn't. I'm now her only living relative and so responsible for her, with power of attorney. She has gotten so difficult that the assisted living lodge where she's been has decided it's time for her to go to a nursing home. In Canada they're all provincially owned, but so far two have rejected her for behavioral problems (she can't share a room--it wouldn't be fair to the roomie). But what came as a great lesson to me today is that the second home rejected her because they don't allow smoking and have no services to deal with people with "that addiction." Of course, it makes perfect sense. If you had nursing home patients smoking willy nilly, you'd have fires all over the place. I just hadn't thought of it. I know we can't get Jennifer to quit smoking at this point, but beyond that I'm bumfuzzled--my being in Texas and her being in Toronto doesn't help, but I really don't want to have to go to Toronto to straighten it out. Strikes me as a futile trip. She does know who I am and is grateful I'm handling her finances, but I have visions of her anger if I told her to quite smoking! Another reason to give up the filthy weed.
I'm writing my mystery, averaging about four pages at a time--sometimes I'm very pleased with it and other times I think it's trash. I'm not querying, because the editor to whom I sent it suggested I wait a while. I will, but then I'll query him again if it gets to be too long. I've decided the thing to do is complete the second novel and then move on to a different series. I'm amazed at the number of unpublished books some of the unpublished writers on the Sisters in Crime AgentQuest listserv have written--and the science they make of querying. I think they spend much more of their time at that than writing. I'm also finding that quite a few of the published ones are ebooks only, small publishers, etc. The writer who makes it with a NY publisher, even a mass market house, is rare. And today's listserve messages made it clear that the writer who earns as much as $12,000 a year is also rare. The consensus on the listswerv was that we do it for our own enjoyment, which which I would agree, except that writing without an eye on publication seems pretty fruitless--and publication to me still means print media. Maybe I'm a Luddite (took me a long time to learn the meaning of that!).

How old are you?

I've been reading page proofs on a collecton of profiles written by a journalist friend. In one, she writes about an older woman who was a dear friend. In her late eighties, the woman asked Mary if she knew the secret to staying young. Mary of course didn't, and the woman said, "Pick the age at which you were happy and choose to stay that age forever." She was, she said, 35, though some days she felt 40. Mary has chosen 43. But I think I choose 33--I had two children, a happy marriage, and a life that seemed to offer endless possibilities. Still, the possibilities my life offered turned out not at all to be the ones I expected, but there were some pretty good ones. And I do still feel about 33. I noticed in Austin that I felt younger and my aches and pains disappeared. Can't figure that one out. Can't believe work makes me feel older--it's supposed to keep you younger.
Today I went to the Carter Museum with a friend to see the exhibit on the Fort Worth Circle of Artists and another on snapshots. The Carter is a building that makes me anxious--steep terrazo stairs, high open balconies, the kinds of things I don't like. And the friend I was with has knee problems and walks with a cane, very slowly, so I got uncertain on my feet just trying to slow down to her pace--I need to build up a head of steam and then I can charge right along. So it all made me more than a bit uncomfortable, but I found the exhibits interesting. After a bit (four rooms), the Fort Worth Circle got repetitive, and the snapshots were interesting, mostly for what they illustrated about the change in cameras over the years. The snapshots themselves were fun for a while, but ultimately they don't mean much if you don't know the people. Apparently though it's a big deal--there's a large and impressive book from Princeton University Press to accompany the exhibit.
Back to Scotland. I've about decided to draft an article on Scots in Texas and run it by the state magazine I sometimes write for. Maybe that's a step toward a book. I'm feeling my way here. Meantime I have a list of chores--with deadheading the iris and planning the garden at the top of the list, followed by laundry and other less interesting chores.
I've ordered a book from Sisters in Crime called Breaking and Entering about breaking into the mystery market. I'm not giving up on that project.

Austin--and grandsons

I'm in Austin, in a house with four adults, an almost-four-year-old, a 22 mos.and an 18 mos. Our days are pandemonium--screaming, yelling, squealing, giggling, tears--and the blessed quiet of nap time (quiet time for the oldest one and naptime for the grandmother). The boys play wonderfully well together, aside from pushing, shoving, grabbing,etc. Sawyer, the oldest, seems to delight in pushing Jacob in the swing, and Ford, the youngest, plays quietly and then suddenly belts out "Jacob!" At 6 p.m. they are fussy and hungry; by 7:30 they're hyperactive, fatigue coming out in silliness and screams; by 8 all is quiet and they're in their beds. It's a joy to see them together. And for me, it's a particular joy to get to know Sawyer and Ford better--and have them know me. At first Sawyer hung back,saying he wasn't ready to give me a hug, and Ford stared at Jordan and me curiously as though wondering who these interlopers were that were sitting in his front yard. (The fenced front yard is their playground with more than enough toys.) But then he looked at me and said, "Gaga." (That's the Austin boys name for me, while everyone else calls me Juju.) Then he looked at Jordan and said "Jojo." The ice was broken, and we were off to high good times. We don't get this kind of togetherness when the whole family is together,and while I miss the others, I value this.
In between I sneak up to the office,where I'm sleeping, to deal with emails and read on my Kindle. Megan scolded me for reading when I don't see my grandsons that often. So I'm trying to limit it.
Last night after we'd gone out for Mexican food at a riverfront restaurant, Jordan announced that after the boys were in bed, the parents were going to have an intervention with me. My first thought, of course, was "Hey, I like my white wine but I don't drink that much!" I asked if I had to move out of my house,quit my job, quit drinking. She said no, it was something good. But then when we got to it she began with, "We all love you a whole lot, but you can be controlling." I heard those as damning words, because I try so hard not to be controlling. It turns out though that ever since I turned my b'day celebration over to the kids--at their request--I've been bugging her about this person and that who knows it's my 70th b'day and wants to be included. She told her siblings I was driving her wild, and they decided to tell me so I could enjoy anticipation and she could have a littlel peace and quiet. They were in part feeling sorry that I missed Scotland and wanted to give me something to look forward to. So here I am, sort of controlling my b'day party and very excited about it.
But determined not to feel my age. When I woke up Sunday after my busy day with Maddie I was stiff and sore, I hurt and I was tired. Depression snuck in because I thought maybe I really was getting old. But the next day I was fine--and at the end of the drive to Austin I was less stiff than Jordan.Since I've been here I've done better on balance--even on uneven flagstone--and I've been free of aches and pains (well, mostly) in spite of sleeping on a mattress on the floor. I'm back to thinking it's in large part attitude.
Big on my mind: I need a writing project, and I want to find a way to market my mystery. But I'll think about that tomorrow.

Old friends

What's the saying? "Make new friends but keep the old, one is silver, the other gold"? Some old friends stopped for lunch today on their way through town--and I do mean old. They've been among my closest friends for forty years, and while we've shared many low points, from marriage troubles to serious illness, we've shared a lot more good times and some downright silly ones. We talked of our children and grandchildren, we talked a bit about the past and who was left in Fort Worth that they knew, we talked politics--we pretty much agree--and we talked about our lives today. They expressed what I feel--life at this age is good. Oh yes, the seventies bring aches and pains, but as Ray said, you just ignore them and go on. It was a real joy to see them and brightened me for days to come but especially on this rainy and cold day. (I was not brightened that they said "This is just what Scotland will be like in April!")
By serendippity, a local friend had sent me one of those emails that makes the rounds--you may have seen it--about the great freedom that comes with aging. The writer said that she (I'm just presuming it was a she) was for the first time in her life the person she always wanted to be--not the body of course, with it wrinkles and sags and scattered pains, but the person who is more kind and forgiving of herself. "I don't chide myself for eating that extra cookie, or for not making my bed, or for buying that silly cement gecko that I didn't need but looks so avante garde on my patio. I am entitled to a treat, to be messy, to be extravagant. . . . I like being old. It has set me free. I like the person I have become. I am not going to live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could have been, or worrying about what will be. And I shall eat dessert every single day (if I feel like it)." I like the philosophy!
Anticipation is high here tonight--not for weather as it was last night (turns out we didn't have much bad weather, but it was sure rainy, cold, and miserable today). Tonight it's the primary tomorrow. Jordan just called and I almost didn't answer because I've gotten so many political recorded messages. But the Democratic primary is so close that its nail-biting, and I feel the tension. I will be glued to the TV tomorrow night.
Just had a nice conversation with Jacob. On his part, it consisted mostly of "Juju" and "cook-y" (his mother had just given him a cookie). But it's fun to be able to talk to him.

Senior citizen menu, exercise, and Hal Holbrook

I took my good friend Charles to supper tonight. At 91, he's still running and plans to run the 5K in the Cowtown Marathon Saturday. I'm convinced his good health, mental and physical, is due to genetic makeup but also in part due to his diet. He's pretty careful, a light eater, says he goes and gets a salad most nights. Tonight we went to the Black-Eyed Pea for the veggie plate, and he ate a "heavy" dinner--black eyed peas, carrots, squash casserole, and corn. But when we walked in the hostess asked, "Two?" and I said "Yes, please," and she said--drum roll, please--"Would you like the senior menu?" Charles was laughing out loud, and I turned on him and said, "That's the first time I've ever been asked that!" Anyway, it was a good deal. On the senior menu you can order four veggies; on the regular it's five, and I can barely eat my way through four.
I'm back to my own exercise program--stretches (the ones I learned when I belonged to Curves, with weights added) and riding the stationary bike. I got my pulse up to 130 the other day--mine never goes very high because of hypertension medication, so I was surprised and didn't know whether to boast or be concerned. Then I discovered I'd forgotten to take my medication that morning. The next day, when I took the medication, my pulse hovered at 100 and wouldn't go any higher though I was working just as hard.
I heard tonight that Hal Holbrook died, and it saddened me. I once sat almost in the front row when he did his Mark Twain act at the university I was attending--I can see him yet sitting on the edge of the stage and dangling his feet. In a radio interview re-played tonight he said he always wanted to be an actor and was proud of new roles, but Mark Twain was always with him. He couldn't have picked a better companion. Holbrook's career, to me, illustrates someone who found--or developed--a good thing and stayed with it.
People are really reading my blog, and I'm delighted. I had two comments this morning on my trip to Meridian yesterday--one from a rancher in that area (how did he find me?) and one from a friend who said now she wants to go to Meridian. I told her I was ready to go back. Nice to think people read what I say--but kind of scary, since I have nothing more to add tonight and what I've already said isn't very significant. Either it was a not-much day or my brain has already gone to sleep. Going to take a shower and settle down with the manuscript I brought home from the office. 'Night.