The church battles and tornadoes

Sunday morning Jacob ate his breakfast--always chocolate chip waffles at my house--and then plunked himself on the couch with the iPad, deliberately ignoring me. I came into the living room at 10:15, fully dressed for church, and announced that I'd put his toothbrush and mouthwash out and it was time to get ready for church.
Jacob (absolutely incredulous): We're going to church? (He looked out the window as though the Lord maybe had sent one of the thunderstorms promised for this weekend, but the Lord had not cooperated.)
Me: Yes.
So he took care of his oral hygiene and came back to my office.
Jacob: Juju, my stomach really hurts.
Me: Jacob, your stomach hurts every Sunday morning just before church. Get dressed.
Jacob: I didn't say that just so I wouldn't have to go to church. I just wanted you to know.
Me: I'm really sorry your stomach hurts.
I never heard another word about his stomach. We went to church, and there were baptisms (my church dunks). He likes to watch that, and I figure it's good preparation for him. All else went well--he bows his head in prayer, and he recites the Lord's prayer. I was glad we went, and I hope he was too. We're going next week too.
On the way home:
Jacob: I'm not afraid of tornadoes any more.
Me, thinking a little healthy fear was good: Where would we go if there was one?
Jacob: Your closet or the bathroom.
Me: Who would be there?
Jacob: You and me.
Me: What about Sophie?
Jacob: Oh, yeah, we'd take her. Unless of course she was already dead.
I did not explore any more.

Has your child hugged you today?

My friend Katie Sherrod recently shared on article on Facebook about people requesting kisses from children—not predatory people, just ordinary friendly people reacting to a cute child. But the point was that this affection-on-cue teaches our children to please others and to observe social ritual without taking into account what they want. Katie herself wrote how she hates to be asked for a hug or a smile—they are hers to give and there are times she doesn’t have a hug or a smile. True for all of us.

The post made me think about Jacob, who is always told to give me a hug and a kiss before he leaves. And, I confess, if he doesn’t, I sometimes say in a joking tone, “Jacob Burton, you come give me a hug!” Kegan, my youngest grandchild, resisted my kisses and hugs for a long time until it became a game—now he comes to me, apparently reluctantly, but with a sly and shy grin on his face (see the toothless picture above). Nine-year-old Sawyer on the other hand is the most enthusiastic kisser I’ve ever met—he throws his arms around you and plants a big one.

I made a pact with Jacob this past weekend—and I will make it with other grandchildren—that if he wants to hug me, I would be delighted and would hug back; if he wants to give me a kiss, I’d be over the moon (I come from a family of mouth kissers—none of that cheek business for a lot of them, though Jacob gives cheek kisses if I have lipstick on). But he doesn’t have to. He thought that sounded pretty good.

So this morning, in my driveway, as he headed to school, his father said, “Give Juju a hug.” Jacob gave me what I call a passive hug—he leaned against me and let me hug him. His dad objected, and I said, “No, it’s okay. We have a deal.” So Dad looked around, sensitive to seven-year-old egos, and said, “There’s no one around, for Pete’s sake.” I told him that wasn’t the point, and he said, “Well, you’re far more lenient with him than I am.” (I suspect that’s true in a lot of instances—grandmother’s privilege.)

Act Two: this afternoon, Jacob’s mom comes to pick him up, and I repeat the conversation. Her take on it was totally different, though she would probably agree about adults out of the family asking for kisses. But, with Jacob listening intently, she said, “Giving a hug is how we say thank you and show our love for our grandmother.” That, too, made sense to me.

Result? The kid went off to baseball without so much as a backward glance at me. There’s no winning.

Thought on Aging

I’ve been accusing my children, probably falsely, of pushing me into old age. I appreciate that they are so protective, but I figure they more they tell me I can’t do, the faster I’ll age. It’s all well meaning: Jordan is panicky about my contracting West Nile Virus (mosquitoes don’t even particularly like me) and warns me that I’m in a dangerous age bracket—makes me feel like an endangered species. Colin has forbidden (there’s a shoe on the opposite foot) me to stand on a stool and get the crockpot down from its high shelf—I must ask Elizabeth to do it (and she concurs).

I was talking with dear friends about this recently at supper—she’s seven years younger than I, and he’s somewhere in between. She said that each new phase of aging is like brand new territory for which we have no road map, no clue, yet our children expect us to have cumulative knowledge that guides us through this new land.

As I did the dishes, I thought about that and decided, for me, the flaw in her reasoning is that I don’t ever feel like I’ve moved into a new phase. In many ways, I feel the same as I did twenty years ago. Granted, there are some new physical problems, and my feet are shot, but frequent yoga keeps much of the pain and stiffness at bay. So I still feel I can do things I did twenty years ago, although I recognize that my balance, never good, is worse these days. And I was never graceful, so I’ve taken some falls recently.

I don’t want to start questioning myself—can I take this heavy garbage cart down to the curb or should I ask for help (I did it myself).  Can I stand on a stool and explore what’s in that cupboard over the fridge (nothing as heavy as the crockpot.) Seems to me it would be so easy to slip into old age by saying, “I’m too old. I’ll have to ask someone to do that for me.”

Colin says it’s a question of making good choices, and he’s probably right. There are some things I couldn’t have done twenty years ago and ought not try now. I can’t garden—it kills my low back. But I can keep a pot garden on the front porch and the deck. I can and will continue to cook and throw big parties. And I’ll continue to enjoy life.

A confession: I notice I become much more dependant when my children are around. One day before school was out, Jamie was here and went with me to get Jacob. I clung to him crossing the street. Shoot! I cross that street every day by myself just fine. I’m really watching that kind of stuff.

I’m editing a book now for someone else about a blind man who is really touchy about asking for help and downright angry when people offer help he doesn’t need. I’m taking a hint from him—I’ll ask for help when I need it, and do as darn much as I can for myself.

A bit of Cowtown Marathon nostalgia

One Sunday, runners in the full marathon will go right past my house, and I'll sit on the front porch much of the morning and cheer them on. My daughter says she'll put signs in my yard.
I've heard various stories in recent years about who started the marathon. I was always told the idea was hatched in my living room. A group from the Institute for Human Fitness--all men, no women--met every Sunday to discuss the programs of the institute, a project of TCOM (now UNTHSC) devoted to helping people achieve wellness through physical fitness--an appropriate osteopathic concept. While they discussed fitness, a friend and I were in the kitchen fixing the richest, most sinful desserts we could imagine--I particularly remember Italian Cream Cake. And those fitness gurus ate every bite. But I was told the marathon idea sprang out of those meetings and my then-husband, Joel Alter, was one of the founders, along with Charles Ogilvie. Joel claimed the once-classic symbol of the race, Cowtown Charlie, was him, and it could have been with the big moustache. But I always thought it was Charlie Ogilvie.
The night before the first marathon we sat in the house and heard sleet. "@#$%! I didn't want sleet" was Joel's response. He left in the wee hours in the morning, and still early, I bundled up four children (one of them probably three at most) and drove over ice and snow to Fort Worth's Historic National Stockyards Discrict. In those days I worked in the Communications Office of TCOM and was doing publicity for the marathon. When we got there, I turned the children loose and spent the day doing whatever pr people do, including popping in occasionally to the RV that a local radio station had brought to the site and giving live on-air reports.
Now, I am horrified that I turned my very young children loose on the North Side, but they have assured me they were always with a huge bunch of kids. And they all survived, so I guess I should banish it from my long list of motherly guilts. They looked forward to race day every year, and, frankly, so did I. After Joel and I split, I did publicity one more year--I think to prove to him and to myself that I coiuld do it. And then I bowed out.
Charlie continued to run well into his eighties and always took first in his age group--no surprise there. Sometimes he'd take me to the carb-loading pasta dinner the night before, and I loved seeing old friends. I made a couple of really good friends through the marathon.
Today, of course, the race is a far different thing, a mega race with a full-time, year-round paid staff, probably ten times the number of runners we ever dreamed of, so many side events it makes my head spin, and this year, so I read, an exposition for runners, complete with demonstrataions of osteopathic soft-tissue maniuplation. The Institute for Human Fitness, a great concept, is long gone.
Tomorrow when those runners go by, a host of memories will flood me. Those were good days, another lifetime ago.

 

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.

Learning to Swim

I"m reading Anna Quindlen's memoir, Plenty of Cake, Lots of Candles, a series of reflections on what she's learned over the thirty years since she began her New Yurk Times column on life in your thirties. In a chapter on parenting, she decries the tendency of today's mothers to micromanage their children's lives, never allowing them to experience failure or disappointment which, she suggests, makes them ill-prepared to face life in the real world. It doesn't allow them to possess their own triumphs--or failures.
Reading that I thought of Jacob and the swimming pool. He has hated water--even at his own birthday parties, he would dabble his feet at the edge of the pool while his cousins swam and frolicked. This spring he said to me, "My daddy says I have to learn the water, but I'm not going to." Then his summer day care program put a life jacket on him and as he told his father, he "lost the fear."
This weekend at his cousin's eighth birthday party, I saw him standing at the edge of the pool, watching the "big" kids swim freely. I surmised he was too embarrassed to put on a life jacket when all those older kids were strong swimmers. Later when I looked, he was sitting alone in the hot tub shallow portion, looking fairly lonely and forlorn. But then for some reason he put on the life jacket and joined the fray. We couldn't get him out of the pool the rest of the weekend. In the middle of the deep end? Not a problem--he just dog paddled wherever he wanted to go and shouted, "Look, Juju, I"m swimming." We could have rescued him, pitied him, etc. but we didn't, and he figured it out on his own.
Quindlen claims to have raised three perfectly fine adults without planning every minute of their existence, a sentiment that echoes my own. I was the single parent of four children and getting them to school, Scouts, etc., was all I could manage. Who thought about play dates? I remember once the mother of one of Megan's friends called to ask if Megan was free a week from Thursday. How the heck did I know? Quindlen had three children so she'd never have to play board games; worked pretty much the same way for me. Once, looking for a pre-school for Meg (her birthday just missed the cutoff date for the TCU school Colin attended), I went to one where they believed in free play--it was pandemonium and I decided she got plenty of that at home.
Like Quindlen, I have wonderful adult children--they are close to each other and all of them seem to love me. They are contributing citizens with good jobs, and best of all, they're great parents.  I always thought it was sheer damn good luck. Now I wonder if it was benign neglect. Whatever, they survived and so did I--without many play dates!

Flying cockroaches, a shaving cream war, and a memorial of sorts

A shaving cream war at its height

Years go I had a dear friend, a generation older than myself, whose son had divorced. She remained fond of his ex-wife and her family, so she called them her outlaw family. This weekend my kids and I had a joyous reunion with my outlaw family--the New York Alters, with their indomitable (?) patriach, Uncle Mark. In the 30 years since Joel Alter and I divorced, I have seen Mark and Amy twice--in 1997 at Jamie and Mel's wedding and again in 2004 when Jordan and Christian married. We have emailed sporadically, though always warmly and with fond feelings--still there was a distance. My children have seen more of them--a few at their children's weddings, Jamie on business trips to New York, all of them on a couple of visits to Joel in the years before he died. But this was a full-blown family reunion--with their oldest daughter, Jordana, her husband Don and 15-mos. daughter Ayla, and their youngest daughter, Emily. (We were missing their son Jeremy and his wife, but hey! they have three-month-old twins and a three-year-old--would you bring that crew from Baltimore to Houston?) We gathered in Houston for two days that went by way too quickly. And there was not for one minute that awkward, "How are you?" "Well, fine, how are you?" It was instant warmth and hugs.
I've always noticed that when my children are together, the grandkids almost don't have individual parents--it's sort of like a commune, where everyone takes equal care of all the children, from handing out treats to soothing skinned knees (several, including one child run over by a bike who said he now understand why his parents tell him to be careful of cars), blackened eyes (we had one), and hurt feelings (lots of those inevitable). But Mark remarked that Ayla was immediately adopted by the children especially Maddie and Eden, both old enough to care for her. My family just absorbed these new people and went on with their usual rowdiness. And they can be overwhelming at times.
Saturday night there was a kickball game in the cul de sac, enlivened by the fact that we spectators were sitting near the strangest sewer I've ever seen--it was in someone's yard, with a concrete base and the usual sewer top. The trouble was that cockroaches (Mark called them cockaroaches--you can always tell a New Yorker!) kept crawling out of them. All the girls went hysterical and were alarmed that I, sitting nearest the sewer in a folding chair, didn't seem alarmed until one crawled up my dress and Megan nearly hit me with my walking stick in her zeal to get it off. Worst of all, these were flying cockroaches, all headed for one tree which we decided was the mating tree. They buzzed right at the girls who screamed and laughed by turns.The children of course made sport of squashing them (I wasn't sure about the bloodlust here) but the street was soon littered with dead cockroaches. Brandon went in the garage, got some insecticide and sprayed it into the sewer, so then we had double reason to warn the children away.
When Mark has been to Fort Worth for those weddings, he wanted, almost demanded, Angelo's BBQ, so Sunday lunch we went to Tin Roof in Kingwood, the closest we could come. They told us they'll be on "Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives" this week. We had an entire section to ourselves and all ate too much. The owner obligingly took a group picture, but I don't have it yet. The highlight of the day, however, was the shaving cream war. Colin spread black plastic on the grass, Lisa provided cans of shaving cream, and the kids--plus Uncle Mark--went at it. He was the only adult game enough, and I intend to warn him that Brandon put a video on YouTube and people are bound to ask "Why is that old guy in there with all those kids?" It was wild good times at their best, and we spectators--at a safe distance--thoroughly enjoyed. Afterwards, of course, there was the hosing off.

Way too soon it was late Sunday night and time for goodbye, which took forever. Don, Jordana's husband, got himself a beer, sat on the couch, and said philosophically, "I figure this will take a while." It did, and it was bittersweet but there are plans for an Alter family cruise (I hate cruises!) and more get-togethers. I hope they come true.

This was Memorial Day, and in my thoughts I honored those who have given their lives for our country. But for Mark, Amy, me and my children, it was a different kind of memorial day, a time to rehash memories, good and bad, to patch up the years that circumstances had kept us too far apart, to reaffirm our love for each other and our families. For me, personally, it was eye-opening, a bit disturbing in some things I learned, but a good experience in sharing with someone who understood some things that I had kept to myself. I feel a bit like I've been to an alternate world and it's hard to get back to my daily routine. This is me and Mark, my new-found outlaw brother-in-law who kept referring to me as his sister-in-law and gave me wonderful compliment that I'm keeping to myself.

Hayrides

Well, darn. I was going to post a video tonight for your watching pleasure but I don't know how to do that. Can't get it from email to my picture file, so you'll have to take my word that it's charming.But what strikes me about it is the wonderful experience all these city kids--my grandchildren and their cousins--are having.
When I was a kid, probably in high school, we went on hay rides. My memory is that we went to someone's enclosed field (probably in the midst of the South Side of Chicago), loaded up in a wagon, and talked, sang, and who knows what else--I'm not telling!--while horses plodded around and around a square field.
Not so the hayride of a couple of weeks ago. All my children and grandchildren, their cousins and aunts and uncles piled on a flatbed trailer loaded in the center with bales of hay and, yes thank you, ringed with railings so no one fell off, though at least one of my grandsons discovered the fun of jumping off the rear end and then running to catch up and jump back on. My brother drove a tractor to pull the trailer. The route wound through his ranch on beautiful land above the Brazos River. I'm not sure the kids appreciated the scenery, but I did--the land is lush this spring, due to plentiful rain (though we're running low again). A big contrast to last year. Wildflowers were out in abundance, and the hay wagon stopped so children could pick them--I became caretaker of the bouquet that one grandniece picked for her mom for Mother's Day It also stopped to look for sign of Bigfoot, with excited cries from children who claimed they smelled him. And when they found his tracks at the edge of a stock tank--where he went in and where he went out--oh, my! Such excitement. There's also a funny shot of one of my grandsons following that time-old tradition of boys and taking a leak in the bushes--except he was in full view of everyone.
I admit that during all this hilarity I was comfortably in the chase vehicle with the video camera operator and her "driver." (He's also her significant other.) It truly was a wonderful day, and I'm sorry you can't see the video.
When I think back to my childhood, I hope these kids will grow up to realize what a rich experience Uncle John offered them with homing pigeons (not sure they were there this time), chickens, a horse, and a  miniature donkey, a Longhorn bull lounging in a pasture next to the house, and all God's world to run and play in. It was a case of the modern present being better than the good old days.
And my hat's off to my brother and his wife, Cindy, for pulling it together. He summed it up when he watched the kids following  Bigfoot tracks and said, "Well, that makes the day." Here they all are, searching the edge of the tank.

And here's Jacob when he first saw the tracks and turned around to Uncle John.

Yeah, it made the day. Sorry I can't show you the video.

My cup runneth over--and so did my eyes

I left my daughter's house this afternoon about 1:30 with my vision blurred by tears that kept leaking out--tears of joy, happiness, overwhelming love. I had such a good morning with all my children and grandchildren. Jordan fixed a huge brunch, and people ate whenever they wandered in. Gorgeous day so we sat  on the patio, while the kids played in the yard. There was, of course, the occasional accidental injury and the one who tattled on another, but they were so happy and were having such a good weekend. I had b'day presents for all those with April and May birthdays I'd missed or would miss, and after those were opened, my wonderful children surprised me with an iPad.
Of course, I had just finished putting my foot in my mouth by announcing that I had really decided that I would get myself a Kindle Fire. An iPad, I proclaimed knowingly, wouldn't fit in my purse (it will, 'cause I carry big purses). So there was much teasing, but they were all so excited to give it to me and get me started with it, telling me over and over how much I'll use it. And I will--I'm thrilled with it already, though some of the things Jamie taught me have already leaked out of my brain. But I want to put more blogs on my reading list and add more magazines--cooking magazines--to my bookshelf.
Not sure if it was the iPad, the hugs and love (more likely) or the culmination of the glorious family weekend we've had that caused those tears to leak out, but they did. I am so thankful for my family.
Of course they all partied and hung out until after four. I would have stayed but they should not give me wine at eleven o'clock in the morning. I went into this hectic, exciting weekend already tired and am now thoroughly exhuasted but in oh such a good way.
I came home, thinking I'd get my dogs fed, Jamie et al would come for their stuff, and I'd get a good long nap. Foiled on all counts. Jamie's dog was in the backyard, so I could hardly feed Scooby out there. Mozby is such a love though and so anxious to please that I eventually brought both my dogs in and gave Mozby treats for good behavior. Should have taken my nap when I got home--it was five before the Frisco Alters got here to pack up belongings and dogs, and five-thirty before I got my nap, so naturally it was an abbreviated one.
Early to bed tonight. I say that and then I got involved in something, and it's as late as always. Last night it was eleven-thirty, but my Austin grandsons wake up bright and early and noisy--no amount of shushing convinces them about indoor voices, so I was up at six-forty-five and making cinnamon pull-apart bread shortly after that.
Mother's Day thoughts--about my mom, the moms of others, and myself as a mom have been rattling around in my mind all week but I'll save them for a belated post-Mother's Day blog tomorrow. Meantime, I am counting my blessings, four wonderful children who married equally wonderful people and produced seven lovely grandchildren. And then there's that larger family with whom we spent yesterday and who are equally a blessing. Hope I can live up to all this.
Here's a picture from yesterday of my Houston kids and grandkids--last night I thought I'd lost it on the computer but I found it this morning. They're gorgeous, all of them. Kegan, my youngest grandchld, will suffer himself to be hugged but he does little to cooperate. Must be hard being the youngest in such a bunch.  Morgan is much more affectionate, having overcome some shyness she felt as a younger child.

Dogs, dog people, and the afterlife

It's hard to take a picture of a black dog, so I proudly present two pictures of Sophie in which you can almost see what she looks like. Patty Pressley brought her some bullysticks today, and at one point Sophie looked like she had a stogie sticking out of her mouth. Sorry I didn't get a picture of that. But Scooby, not Sophie, is the dog on my mind tonight.
I just read and shared a touching post on Facebook about the letter a four-year-old girl dictated to her mom to be sent to God after her dog died.She included a picture so God wold recognize the dog. And some kind postal worker replied to her with a lovely message, sending the picture back since in Heaven we have no bodies and he had no place to keep it. The picture showed the little sprite hugging what appears to be a black lab.
Not all kids are that firm in their faith of an afterlife for dogs. Jacob believes, but when I said I was worried about Scooby today, he said, "Probably he's dying and he'll go to Heaven." Wonder if that's how he'll dismiss me someday. He did tell me once solemnly that he knew I would die because I'm old.
I remember still, with dismay, when I worked with the wife of a student at the Baptist Seminary. She was telling how her 13-year-old daughter took their dog's face in her hands and said, "Now, Fido (or whatever the dog's name was),  you've got to stop eating so much or you'll get fat and die. And  you can't go to heaven." Instinctively I said, "What an awful thing for a child to say to an animal." The mother calmly replied that it was true: because dogs don't have souls, they can't go to heaven. I managed to mutter, "They can to my heaven." Besides, who believes that dogs don't have souls? Dog people know better.
I've thought a lot about dog people lately--those who are and whose who aren't. I don't know how you explain it, but "liking dogs" doesn't make you a dog person. Dog people recognize dogs as individual beings with feelings, fear, love, hunger, al the same things that make us human. And they reach out to them in a way that non-dog people don't. Dogs are companions, not creatures to be kept for your convenience. I need to refine that thought a bit.
Jacob is right in that I've been worried about Scooby. He hasn't eaten since he came home from the vet Thursday night. Tonight he ate about half a cup of dry food after I stirred the juices from roasting chicken into it--but he daintily ate around his pain pill. I didn't even try the antibiotic. I do think I see improvement, though he walks with a definite tilt to the left, the direction in which his head is permanently cocked. (As a sympathy gesture--I guess--I've developed a horrible crick in my neck, on the left side, of course). But he's livelier, tries to play with Sophie, comes when I call him. I'll call the vet in the morning about meds and food--can't be roasting chicken all the time for him. But I'm sure not ready to give up on him, poor baby. I know he's still scared, but he soldiers on.

A leftover day

That's the kind of day it was--leftover from rodeo, stock show, Joe T.'s, leftovers for supper, leftover work--plenty of the latter.
Nobody got moving quickly at this house. It was 9:30 before the gang from the apartment came in; meantime Sawyer and Ford asked every ten minutes when Jacob would come inside. I explained he sleeps later than they do--they're really early birds. I puttered and was ready for the day when everybody came in and Christian joined us. Big, lazy, late breakfast of eggs and bacon and, for some kids, chocolate chip waffles. By noon, they were all gone, kitchen was cleaned, house was picked up and I was at my desk.
Had lunch (?) about three--cottage cheese--a nap about four but couldn't sleep, so got up and took a much-needed shower and fed the dogs. Dinner was leftovers--two dabs of potato salad, one dab of egg salad, baked beans (cold), and, for some reason, hummus--an odd combination but good. For any out there who may be expecting Potluck with Judy on Sunday nights, I have decided that trying to post that every Wednesday and Sunday is too rigid. I don't always have a good food topic to write about, and sometimes there are other things to blog. I will post it sporadically, although I just now thought of a topic. I will always welcome contributions, so email me at j.alter@tcu.edu.
I have not heard much from my children in California except a bit second-hand from Brandon, Mel, and Christian when they talked to their spouses. The weekend went well and my kids had a good time, partied hard which they father would have applauded, had fun with their Califiornia sister. Today they spread their father's ashes on his land, as he requested, and Megan sent a picture of herself flinging some in the air. I know that was a significant occasion for them. Anxious to get fuller reports.
And a word about my "other adopted children," Lisa (who couldn't join us but wanted to), Brandon, Melanie, and Christian. I know they came for the stock show, but I feel incredibly blessed that with their spouses (my kids) out of town, they want to spend the weekend with me. It'a a  real tribute to the kind of people they are. And yes, as I lost my stamina (and therefore my balance) at the stock show, they took incredibly good care of me. I am blessed.

As a farewell to the annual stock show, here's Jacob with his dad and the cow he, his dad, and his mom created for his school project. I thought it was pretty cool. You can't tell from the picture, but it's three-dimensional. Kindergarten gets so complicated these days! Jacob is wearing the cowboy shirt that my good friend, his Aunt Betty, gave him. Christian has convinced me he wouldn't wear a cowboy hat if we got it.

Working through it

I'm still trying to process the death of my ex, Joel. That's him above, I think after a marathon. Although in a wheelchair for a decade or more, he was once a dedicated runner. I've gotten an outpouring of love and understanding today from friends old and new. They all seem to understand that it's not nearly as simple as saying, "Oh, well, I haven't been married to him for thirty years, so it doesn't matter to me." It does matter, probably made more of an impact on me than on our children. I've heard so much today about good Joel/bad Joel that my head is spinning. For years, I've wondered how to explain to people why I married him, but a friend summed it up so well today when she wrote, "In the old days he had a charisma that was charming and an enthusiasm for life that was infectious." There you have it--that's why I married him, and that's the man I grieve for. I remember too a few years ago when a friend from early on and I stood on my front porch talking about Joel. With us was her son, named Joel, then about thirty. Finally he exploded, "Wait a minute! If he's such a bad guy, why am I named after him?" His mother looked at him and said simply, "Because we all loved him back then." Funny and complicated stuff.
It looks like the service will be this weekend in Santa Rosa on their farm--Joel told me it is the former Jack London homestead. Not sure about that, but it makes a good story. My four children will go together, along I think, with Joel's brother, the Uncle Mark to whom they are all close. They will not take spouses or children. But there goes our rodeo/stock show weekend, which I had been looking forward to. A petty thought at this point.
Meantime life goes on. I was slow getting going this morning--slept late and overwhelmed by emails--but finally did the cleaners, post office, Williams Sonoma (fruitless trip), Origins (expensive trip) and Central Market. Came home and finished laundry, cryovaced the meat I bought (my doctor told me to eat more read meat while a friend told me her doctor said not to eat red meat--go figure!), and fixed some curry/chutney/chicken salad for my supper. It ws okay but probably not a recipe I'll keep or repeat.
I am reading galleys on my second Kelly O'Connell mystery, No Neighborhood for Old Women, but because of distractions I'm moving slowly. The editor would like to have them back early in the week but that's looking less and less likely. I'm plugging away though.
Can't say enough about my wonderful children--the solidarity they've shown through this, the support for me (they seem less emotional than I am), their willingness to pay their respects to a father who was distant from them. Regardless of all else, I have a wonderful family and am so blessed.
And say what I might about Joel--he brought a lot of pain and grief into my life but earlier he brought great joy and love and laughter. That's what I choose to remember.

Kindergarten homework

Jacob and I have had a rough two days, mostly clashing over homework. He uses any excuse to put it off and I end up feeling like a bully for ordering him to do it after his snack. Today I decided I would try extra hard to make it a more pleasant day than yesterday, so even before we left the school I said I thought a cold rainy day called for hot cocoa. He agreed and ended up dumping semi-sweet minimorsels into it. Then he had a Twinkie (long story why I bought them and won't again) and went off to visit the dogs, who were in their beds because of the rain. I distinctly told him not to let the puppy out of her crate. Next  thing I knew Sophie came bounding into my office. His explanation? He wanted to try his sunglasses on her. That did NOT get us off to a good start.
But we turned to the homework.  Jacob's approach is to guess. One problem had five chickens. If you take two away how many are left? He looked at me brightly and suggested "Five?" Now this is not a slow child--he figures things out way beyond his years when he wants to. He just plain doesn't want to do his homework. We struggled through that math work, counting on fingers and counting animals on the page. Once he gets the hang of it, he whips through it in no time and generally is pretty proud of himself. That didn't happen today--I almost felt he was playing with me, and my string grew shorter and shorter.
Next we moved on to the new batch of reading words he'd brought home. The guessing was much worse. He'd look at "this" and I'd sound out "th" and "iss" and he'd say happily, "Green!" Then he wanted to love the dog; next he was distracted by the pictures on my computer screen. I got read of all distractions. We finally muddled through, and as he finally got each word I made him study it. Told his mom they should go over the words with him again tonight. Bet he doesn't remember them.
We parted friends. I got three kisses, a huge hug, and an agreement that tomorrow will be better. But Mom was quite strict about listening to Juju's dog instructions or losing his dog privileges.
I hate the way this whole business makes me feel, like it's ruining all the fun we usually have together. And I hate it when he says, "You're so mean. All  you care about is homework." I tell him "No, all I care about is you."
I honestly don't think my kids had homework in kindergarten, and I'm too old for this!
Rant over.

Happy Birthday, Jamie.

James Andrew Alter turned forty today. I'm having a hard time with this. He's my second son, third child. Three now have hit the forty mark. I know all parents feel this way, but it seems only yesterday he was dragging a cat by the tail and saying, "This is muh pet." That cat remained "Muh Pet" the rest of her life and when she once scratched him, I asked, "What did you do to Muh Pet?" Reply: "I hammered her." HIs birthday has set me to thinking about incidents and sayings from all my child-rearing years, with all four children. Happy as I am with my life now, I sometimes long for those days.Yes, they were hectic and I was exhausted most of the time, but we were all five happy people.
When I said by email to Jamie today that I carry a lot of happy memories, he replied that he had a lot of his own. We'll share someday, but I know all my children have those memories. They love to play the game of "Remember the time . . .?"
In the picture above of my family, taklen at my 70th birthday, Jamie is on the far right with his hand on his daughter's shoulder. Colin is in the back on my left and Megan on my right; Jordan is kneeling in front.
We normally make a big deal of decade-changing birthdays but we were all together at Christmas and will be again in early February when everyone arrives for the rodeo and stock show. I'd love to have a gathering of the clan to celebrate Jamie this weekend, but we'll do it at stock show time. I remember one year cooking his favorite meal--prime rib--but there are so many of us now there's no way I could afford prime rib for sixteen. I bet we end up with barbecue or chicken-fried steak or, heaven forbid, tacos from Ernesto's when we do celebrate.
I remember better when my brother turned forty than I do when I did. He and his much younger wife were visiting, and I wrote "40" in shaving cream on every mirror in the house. He lost patience. I won't say how many years ago that was, for fear he'd lose patience again. But I think when I turned forty, it wasn't a happy time in my life. For Jamie, it's a happy, good time with a wonderful family, a good business, an active exercise life, and--always--a bit of trickery and fun. He can still prank call me successfully.
So tonight, I'll raise a glass of wine in toast to Jamie, and he'll raise his Diet Coke back at me from Frisco. And then I'll make a second toast to my three other wonderful children, one of whom thank goodness is still in her thirties--okay, late thirties, but we won't quibble. Oops, I'm getting sentimental here. 'Nuf said.

The wonderful world of adoption

A young couple I'm fairly close to (that translates to we're related by marriage and see each other at a lot of family gatherings and I like them a lot) has been fostering two little pre-school sisters of mixed race for 20 months. Today, the court finalized their adoption papers, and they are a family for sure. My daughter sent me a wonderful picture of all of them--including grandparents and the judge--taken after the ceremony. It made my day, and I've been going around with a  happy smile. As long as the children were under the jurisdiction of the Child Protective Service,  no one could take their picture, so it was moving to see them all together in a picture. Those are lucky parents--for over a year and a half they could have lost the children--and those are lucky little girls. They came from a background of abuse and neglect--the night, late, that they arrived at their new home they were dirty and hungry. Now they're happy, secure, well-fed and, yeah, a bit spoiled but only enough to be endearing. They are learning the limits of good behavior, something they never would have learned in their original environment.
I have been to court four times to finalize adoptions, and each time it was a thrilling moment. The same judge presided at three of the four proceedings--the legendary Honorable Scott Moore, who was known as the best child advocate in the county. But I had never had to contend with biological parents who wanted their children back, CPS, or any of the difficulties this young couple has faced. Still I identify with them.
I remember once at my house the mother said fiercely, "These are my kids now." I know just how she felt, and I'm not sure people outside the adoption experience understand the feeling. Mine are not my adopted children--they are my children, born of and in my heart if not of my flesh and blood. Oh, yes, sometimes the subject of adoption comes up in conversation, but they treat it casually and so do I. We are one of the closest families I know, and I love it. I don't quite know how to put it in words, but over the years I have heard remarks from others that you don't really have a child until you give birth or nurse or whatever. It's not true. For some reason, as a single parent, I have been lucky beyond belief--I have four kids who have grown to be substantial citizens and loving parents, while remaining loving children. A lot of biological families can't say that. I've heard people say they wouldn't adopt because you never know what you'd get--true of biological children too, though I've kept my tongue in my head. And others say no, they wouldn't feel the same about a child that didn't have their blood. I keep quiet then too and pity the speaker.
Do I want my children to find their biological parents? Honest answer, no. They are my children, they carry my values and training and shaping, if not my genes. I can't say it enough. They are mine! And none of them, now in their 30s and 40s, show any interest anyway.
When you adopt and are open about it, you find it's a small world--people say, "Oh, I'm adopted," or "My children are adopted" or whatever. There's a whole world of happy adoptive families out there, and I'm glad to welcome this couple into that circle. And so glad their uncertainty has come to an end. I don't feel at liberty to publish the picture of the new family, but here's a picture of my happy family. The young man next to me is my oldest son; the pretty blonde on the other side is the next in line; then there's Jamie, with the dark hair, at the far right of the picture; and my youngest daughter is kneeling in the front with her husband and son. Good-looking, aren't they?

Cookbook/memoir signing

My good friend Jeannie Chaffee had a signing party at her gorgeous home (circa 1920) this afternoon. Jeannie is a professional party giver, and every party she plans has great class. This was no exception--beautiful tiered trays of fruit, cheese and crackers, brownies, and little lemon cakes, white wine and lemonade. Not as many people as we'd hoped showed up but a nice sociable crowd and we had a good time. Several people bought more than one book, which pleased me, and some came all the way from Dallas. It was a lovely event. My longtime friend Mary Lu leafed through looking at pictures and said, "There's a lot of nostalgia there." She has known me and my family since 1970. Another friend was delighted to know that their were recipes in there from my friend Charles' late wife Reva, from the days we used to cook together. And Jeannie herself says she's reading for the story of my life and ignoring the recipes. I certainly do have a lot more of myself invested in this book than in many others I've done.

The pictures above are obviously from the party. The one with the lovely blonde shows me and Jeannie and the table she set. And sorry but you simply have to turn your head to look at Jordan and me because I don't know how to turn the image. One of those computer image things I'll learn one day.

Megan called this morning and said she had planned to surprise me and drive up and then spend the night. But she got loaded down with work and couldn't do it. Then Jamie called. They were due back from DisneyWorld at 1 p.m. yesterday but didn't get home until midnight and he said there was no way they could do it. And Colin called tonight to say he really tried to figure a way to come from Houston but just couldn't, especially since Lisa had a mandatory teachers' workshop yesterday. But the kids all know they're a big part of the book and they wanted to be there for me.

Jordan bless her was there--taking pictures, helping Jeannie, and graciously greeting people. We were supposed to have dinner here afterward, then we were supposed to go to Joe T.'s, then we were back to having dinner here, and finally we ended up taking dinner out to her house where I cooked chicken and a wine/mushroom gravy, made a salad, and dished up some of the fruit from Jeannie's party. So it was a confusing but pleasant evening, and Jordan brought me home nice and early.

Sorry, but this blog is mostly pictures. I'm too tired for deep thoughts.

Mother's Day

Hope everyone had a good Mother's Day. Mine was long, lazy and pleasant. Jordan said we were all going to Joe T.'s but then Jacob got sick and plans changed. Everyone went to Jordan's house and Christian's father brought food from Joe T.'s but it was 6:45 before we ate. Christian didn't get home until about that time, but Mother's Day is always busy at Joe T's where he waits tables on weekends. For those not from Fort Worth who don't know it's sort of the classic Tex-Mex restaurant in town, best known for a huge sprawling and beautiful patio/garden dining area. There is a menu at Sunday brunch but otherwise your choices are two: fajitas or "the dinner" which consists of nachos, rice, two small tacos, two cheese enchiladas, guacamole and refried beans--definitely not on my diet. Now I have to sign on to Weight Watchers and see how much damage I did.
Otherwise I spent the day piddling, doing this odd chore and that, reading and napping. Heard from all the kids though never did talk to Jamie and family. On this day, my thoughts are with a good friend who lost her mother yesterday, a neighbor whose husband died Thursday, and four women I know little or nothing about--the biological mothers of my children. I wonder what their thoughts are and wish I could tell them what wonderful people those babies have grown to be. Giving up a child can never be easy, but I am sure each made that decision for the best of the baby and I want them to know it was a really good decision. I have wonderful children.

An Easter/Birthday celebration

I'm just back from Houston, where all of us celebrated the second b'day of Kegan, the youngest among us, and the upcoming 40th b'day of Colin David, my oldest child--no, I cannot believe I have a child of 40. With eight adults (ten one night) and seven children, it was controlled chaos and wonderful fun. I'm not much of a photographer, but I tried--the picture on the top left is Colin (and behind him his father-in-law John), next most of the children gathered around one table for two kinds of cake--Kegan's chocolate and Colin's favorite yellow cake (always drove me wild when he was a child--I want chocolate!), then Maddie, the oldest child, doing some Karioke--she has a charming voice, and I wish now I'd asked her to sing "Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore" And finally my four grandsons, ranging in age from a couple of months shy of five to the two-year-old, three towheads and Jacob with his dark, curly hair--and inability to stay still for more than two minutes. The children all play well together and are delighted to see each other--as I watched them digging in the huge sandpile yesterday or hunting from eggs (hidden in plain view, of course) in the rain this morning, I thought what rich memories they are growing up with. Maddie, at almost nine, is by far the oldest and is the self-appointed caretaker of babies--she cuddles and loves when they cry, changes their diapers when needed, puts them on the potty, dresses them, and seems to enjoy it all. And she and three-year-old Morgan sleep all in a tangle on the pull-out bed in the living room. And then, a thoroughly modern child, she is off to her hand-held computer games.

Lisa, Colin's wife, knocked herself out cooking, and we ate royally--eggs and sausage Sat. morning, grilled hot dogs Sat. noon, and Doris casserole (which I've mentioned here before) Sat. night--Colin's request. We also had Colin's queso: a note about that below. And this morning, sausage and Rotel quiches and that wonderful potato casserole made from frozen hash browns--everything in it you should not eat but oh! so good.

I had been a bit apprehensive about the trip--now I view that as babying myself, but I was so tired much of last week that I was afraid of getting tired. I went to bed early both nights, slept long, and got a two-hour nap Sat. Colin said he felt bad about putting his 70-year-old mom on an air mattress but there wasn't much choice. I had confined quarters in his already overcrowded study, and it was fine except that my hips discovered they really don't like air mattresses. For much of yesterday, one hip didn't seem to want to work right. But I still slept pretty well and am not nearly as exhausted tonight as I expected.

I noticed an interesting thing. Maybe because of my just-past pneumonia, but my kids are--well, careful of me. The boys, Colin and Jamie, are always there to see if I need an arm to lean on and almost always I say, "Thanks. I'm fine." And in passing each child gives me a pat on the shoulder, a quick rub on the back, some much appreciated gesture of affection, and I try to return them. I was always being urged to sit and rest, until I felt useless, and I was always given the stable good patio chair and not one of the collapsible ones--even if it meant moving a semi-protesting grandchild. I love the attention and the affection it reflects but I don't want them to start thinking of me as old--or letting me think that way. And that's why much of the time I say thanks but no thanks to the kind offer of an arm. Of course it was a bit much as we left today when I said I had to go back and get the muffins and water I'd left--Colin volunteered and came back waving the muffins and a bottle of white wine. "Is this what you wanted?"

A word about Colin's queso: a friend gave me this years ago (she has now forgotten it) but it is the best queso ever, heavy and hearty enough that I used to serve it to the kids for supper when they were in high school:

Brown 1 lb. hamb. and 1 lb. ground sausage, breaking up clumps as you go (your choice to use hot, mild, or regular sausage)

Put in crock pot with

1 lb. Velveeta

1 medium jar Pace Picante (again, your choice--choose hot, medium or mild)

1 can cream of mushroom soup

When melted and ingredients are blended, serve with corn chips. Enjoy!

A rainy Sundaya turns hectic

Rainy and cold this morning. I foresaw a quiet day at home but Colin wanted to go to Target and I wanted to go to Barnes & Noble, so we set off, leaving Lisa behind with the children. Had to sit in the mall for 15 minutes, waiting for B&N to open and had a good visit,

but we got our errands done--including a cursory examination of the new touch Blackberry. Jordan made terrific time down from Fort Worth and was here about 12:30.

Still thinking it was a quiet rainy day, I went up for a nap after lunch--and came down to pandemonium. Lisa's sister-in-law, Kristi, had brought her four-year-old nephew and twin 17-month nieces to join the fray. We had five adults and six kids, and everyone was constantly counting children's heads to make sure we had them all in sight. Colin had made two gingerbread houses and turned the kids loose to decorate--I fear more candy was consumed than went on the cakes. We had supper, and about 7:15 Kristi suddenly realized the time and that her nieces should have been in bed at 7 p.m. so they left in a flurry. We're trying a big experiment--Morgan has been sleeping on a pallet in the living room, and tonight we're going to see if Jacob will sleep next to her--he's still used to a pack-and-play when he travels. The picture above shows Aunt Lisa trying to quiet them down. Colin is being rather stern about "Get back on your pallets." Don't know if this will work or not. Jacob kept proclaiming he wanted to go home NOW.

I'm savoring the end of a lovely vacation but have that sense of returning to routine and wondering if I can take the relaxation and mellow mood with me. Meantime I'm get lots of hugs and kisses--and some "No!" retorts!

Pimiento cheese

Pimiento cheese is definitely a southern thing--I don't ever recall having it or knowing of it until I moved to Texas some forty-plus years ago. But, not being a pepper lover, I sort of avoided it. Then I tasted it tentatively, and now every once in a while I want some. I always buy it in the smallest possible container and end up throwing most of it away--one sandwich or a half sandwich and I'm done. I never served it to my children as they were growing up, and Jordan says to this day she doesn't like it, probably because so many of her friends' mothers tried to urge her to eat it.


The other day though in Southern Living I encountered a recipe that sounded really good and decided to try it. Of course, I doctored it a bit. It called for a jar of roasted red peppers--forget that! And by mistake I bought the smallest jar of pimiento, so I had half the amount specified for the amount of cheese I had. Where it called for chopped pickled jalopeno slices, I sort of guessed at the amount. I know Melinda in my office makes her spread really hot, and I always presumed she used quantities of Tabasco or chile powder, but the jalopenos sounded good. The recipe also called for cream cheese and just a touch of mayo, plus a mix of sharp and mild cheddar. It's hard to make because you end trying to process a really stiff ball of food. But I had a sandwich today for lunch, and it was really good--a much smoother texture than what you buy, and because there were more jalopenos than pimientos, it had a nice bite without the pepper taste. Of course, most who like jalopenos would say my spread is so mild that you'd barely know the jalopenos were there. I was sort of pleased with the result. I'll see if Jordan will taste a bite tonight. (She did, says she still didn't like it, but she really wants to like pimiento cheese--go figure!).



We took Jacob tonight when we took dinner to Jeannie and Jim and sit on the patio with a glass of wine--Jeannie's patio always has a breeze when no air is stirring anywhere else. To encourage Jacob about a car trip, Jordan kept saying, "We're going to Jeannie's!" So in the car he kept saying, "Jeannie's, Jeannie's." He was not the least disappointed. He thought Jeannie was wonderful, and he discovered porch swings for the first time--also thought that was wonderful.


I'm weary with mysteries tonight, thought I appreciate, Bebe Bahnsen, your comment--I did read tonight a lot about the serial killings of elderly ladies in Columbus, Georgia in the '70s. And I do think there will be a serial killer in the new novel. But the AgentyQuery list has me sort of discouraged. I may call a couple of old friends in publishing tomorrow and see what they say--one an editor of westerns and one an agent, with whom I long ago agreed to disagree. Wonder if he's forgiving? When I read and learn on these websites, I realize I was never very smart about "planning my long-range career." I just wrote and waited to see what would happen. Now, at this late stage, I must move beyond that. I would think I have a lot going for me--publication history, awards, memberships, etc.--but who knows in this world what that means. Meantime, I'm reading about Scotland.



My old cat got very finicky today. He wasn't eating, whereas he's usually after me every hour on the hour when I'm home to feed him. So of course I went from frustration at him to worry. I threw out the food in his bowl and put in fresh. No interest. Finally I gave him some straight "people" tuna, which is the worst thing you can give a cat with incipient kidney disease. He loved it, and after that he began to eat. So now I have this can of tuna in the fridge. Do I give it to him? Will he be spoiled and refuse to eat anything else? Do I throw it out? Owning a senile cat is not easy, folks! Here's a picture--not very good--of Wywy. Jacob adores him; Wywy hates Jacob. Wywy's name is Wynona--but after he'd had that name for quite a while, we discovered "she" is a he. To this day, I have a gender pronoun problem and often end up saying, "He, she, it." If I say "He," Jordan, who is so used to "She" says, "You know I hate it when you do that!" Actually, Wywy is a lot prettier than this picture. He has a huge, fluffy gray tail, and he can be very sweet.