Notes from the home front

Some people like Fall best, but Spring is my favorite time in Texas, with flowers blooming and soft pleasant temperatures. Sure, we could use more rain, and we're due to get it this coming week I believe. But meantime it has been perfect weather for driving with the top down on the car and for sitting on the deck at night with a book on my iPad and a glass of wine. Sophie keeps me company and defends me by occasionally running off to bark at I don't know what threat.
It was not a peaceful morning here. I have acquired a phone stalker--now you need to realize that my younger son, Jamie, is the ultimate prank phone caller. The other day he woke me from a nap, using a voice I didn't recognize, asked what I was doing, and said, "Oh, I called the wrong number. I meant to call Jean (he named a friend of mine). I'll just call her and call  you back later." Anxious to catch a bit more sleep before I had to get Jacob I said fine, and he said, "Mom, I really got you that time!"
So a few days later when the phone rang during nap time and a man I didn't recognize said,, "Mrs. Alt-air?" I assumed it was Jamie, told him if he didn't stop talking that way I'd hang up on him. I don't remember what he said, but I kept waiting for him to say, "Mom, I didn't get you this time." It didn't happen. The man asked how I was and such inanities. Finally I hung up and he called right back. Still no admission that it was Jamie, so I said, "Call me back at four," and he agreed. Later that night I emailed Jamie to ask what happened to "I'll call you back at four." Not unusual there was no answer.
Well, this morning at 6:10 the same voice called to say "Good morning, Mrs. Alt-air. How are you?" I mumbled "Good morning and goodbye" and hung up. It didn't wake Jacob but it sure brought me awake because I knew it wasn't Jamie. Later, I looked on the phone for the name and area code--876. Looked it up, and it's Jamaica--comes with a warning about scam calls. I'm hoping my "friend" doesn't call back.
Jacob got up before I did--I wanted to linger in that half-sleep of a morning when I didn't need to pop out of bed. Sophie would have none of it. She barked and barked at me until I got up. Nope, she didn't need to go outside--she just wanted me up and moving about the house. She knows she is allowed on two pieces of furniture--Jacob's bed and the overstuffed chair in my office--once clean duck, not dirty gray. So last night, Jacob had her up in my bed with him, and today on the couch. I said "I have two spoiled babies," and Jacob replied, "Yes,  you do."
For years, like my father before me, I've fought the squirrel/bird feeder battle. The last few years I've had a caged bird feeder with traps that close up when anything heavy lands on the little perches. Small birds are just heavy enough to open the traps and release seed. Sorry, doves and mockingbirds--eat what falls on the ground. But tonight I found a squirrel on there--three times. I'd bang on the grate on the indoor greenhouse window, and he'd scurry away--only to come back, perch in the tree and glare at me. We did this about  three or four times before he finally gave up. I don't think he was getting any bird seed anyway.
In spite of prank callers and squirrels, life is sure sweet with children, dogs, birds, and lovely weather.

Spring in Texas--and a new deck

Elizabeth's garden

It's beginning to get a tad warm in North Texas these days--92 today. But we have had some absolutely perfect days, with temperatures in the eighties and just enough breeze, flowers blooming, the kind of weather that draws you outdoors. Spring and fall here are wonderful.
I have long said my big front porch is the reason I bought this house twenty years ago, and I've entertained out there a lot....or just sat by myself with a glass of wine and a book. But lately we've been spending more time in the back yard. Having Elizabeth in the guest house has many benefits but an unexpected one is the way she has perked up the yard. When I moved here, I had three large male dogs--my sons moved away and left their dogs, and I had a collie. Once the city tore up the back of the yard and replaced the photinas with small plants they assured me would grow. The dogs peed on the baby photinas and killed them. I pretty much gave up the space as a dog yard, kept it mowed, trees trimmed, cleaned, and that was it.
But Elizabeth has hung bird feeders in several of the trees and a petunia on one tree limb, plus she's put flowering plants and small statues all around the corner of her apartment and recently we hung a needle fern from the corner of her house.
Jordan contributed an old glass-topped table, and I found four of those ubiquitous plastic chairs in the garage, so now we often have happy hour in the yard. The table is in the back of the yard, under the trees, which makes it nice and shaded. But because of the bird feeders and trees, the table and chairs get nasty quickly. If company is coming, somebody has to clean. If it's just us, we kind of brush off the chairs and sit anyway. It's a pain to think of carrying dinner down the stairs and across the lawn, so we don't do it. I did serve appetizers out there one day, and Sophie ate a large piece of goat cheese with wasabi--fortunately no stomach issues followed.
Today I gave the contractor the go-ahead to build a 10x12 deck right outside the back door--it's a thought that long lingered in my mind, at first even a possibility for another owner. But the more we used the back yard, the better I liked the idea It will be out of that permanently finished wood which does not weather to gray and will have large rails so I can put pots on them. I know it will be sunny much of the day and not pleasant in summer, but in early mornings and late evenings it should be wonderful. And in spring and fall I can easily serve four people out there. I'm really excited about it.
A big bonus to being in the backyard. Sophie-dog can be with us and enjoy our company. We can watch while Jacob throws the ball for her. If we dine on the front porch, someone would have to hold her leash all the time--I'm paranoid about how excited she gets in the outside world, poor sheltered baby.
All in all I think this will be a positive addition to my property. Now I want it built tomorrow, but that isn't going to happen. They can't begin work until school is out, because they have such a hard time getting trucks in and out of the driveway with all the school parking. I'm impatient.

A miscellany

I haven’t posted much on my blog lately and I’m feeling guilty about it. Not sure if I don’t have anything significant to say (always a possibility) or if I want to avoid discussing my doctor visits which have absorbed a lot of my time and thought (all good news).

Tonight there is just trivia on my mind. For one thing, at two, Sophie still jumps on all of us to get attention. The other night I invited my good friend Betty into the back yard for a glass of wine, and Sophie was such a pest, Betty said, “Maybe we should go to the front porch.” Last night, she jumped a lot on Elizabeth who can handle it but said she and her ex trained their dogs not to jump, as puppies, by using a little squirt of water. So today I got a squirt bottle, used it twice, and haven’t been jumped on. When she wanted to go out tonight, Sophie sat next to me and “talked.” I responded quickly, with lots of praise. Can’t believe it was that easy. We’ll see. Betty is now outraged that I’ve hurt the poor dear’s feelings. I think Sophie knows she’s loved.

Today I went to a birthday luncheon/reception for a friend’s father who is turning ninety. He’s lively, good company, active, still driving, always up for a good time—except sometimes he likes his routine. He tells wonderful, funny stories, and I admire him a lot. I want to be like that. Didn’t know three other people at the reception besides the family, so I talked at some length with the two I did know and ducked out early. Kind of proud of myself for going alone, because I really don’t like to go to that kind of event alone. I once had a good gay friend who made a wonderful escort—and I miss him to this day, though he’s been gone twenty years.

And finally, there’s my new cause—unprocessed foods. I’m outraged at Monsanto, and I saw a list of brands that Monsanto owns that nearly undid me. I thought I bought healthy foods but Campbell’s is on there, as is Nabisco (the fruit/health bars I buy for Jacob), and Hellman’s, which I always thought was the best mayonnaise and like now because they make a version with olive oil. But who knows what else? I doubt I’ll go so far as to make my own mayo but I will substitute homemade white sauce for Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup in casseroles, etc. And I’ve learned to read the code on vegetables so I know which are naturally grown, which organic, and which genetically altered—and I watch what I buy. Don’t get me started on what’s happening to our food supply.

It’s June, and I can hear fireworks in the distance. Not sure if it’s Concerts in the Park or what but I kind of like it.

More neighborhood notes

Jacob, his mom, and Sophie

I'm still thinking about my neighborhood. Late this afternoon Jacob went to the neighbors behind me to play. When I went to pick him up and get him ready for his baseball game, they were all down the block, looking across the street. A blue heron was perched in another neighbors' shrub, standing tall and erect, almost like one of the statues they have on their porch railing. I drove in that driveway (on a separate errand) but the bird never moved, never flinched. Jacob thought it was cool. It's not everywhere that people, and children, get so excited about a rare bird.
Tonight, while he was at his game, I saw on the porch and read--so peaceful and quiet, except for lots of birdsong. Wish I was better about identifying various birds and their songs. Lots of walkers, many with dogs, went by, along with bikers. Lately I've noticed an unusual number of men riding bikes with baby carriages--those little cocoon-like things--attached to the back. Today I saw one brave soul with one of those plus a toddler strapped to a child's seat directly behind him. Brave soul! I said as much aloud, and Jacob asked, "Why is he brave?"
Jacob is still at his Little League game, something I have mixed feelings about. Last night, his dad had to interrupt his planned evening to take him to a game; tonight another boy's grandmother picked him up, because his parents are both busy and my knee is not up to tramping around a baseball field--I'm not sure my psyche is either; tomorrow his parents will take him to an evening game. Three games in three nights? There goes the weekend. And tonight he'll be sweaty and dirty; if he's going to church with me, he needs a shower. He's used to baths--at home--so this will be an adventure.
I don't think Jacob knows his neighbors at home or has playmates on the street, so that's another plus about the neighborhood. He's getting a sense of neighborhood and friends. Jay and Susan next door pay a lot of attention to him, and he has Sam and his little brother behind us for playmates (I swear I want a gate between the yards). But it's one of the things I'm glad I can offer him.
And the other, a big one, is that I've taught him to love dogs. When Sophie was tiny, she bit and jumped so much, as puppies do, that he didn't like her, so he turned to my Aussie, Scooby. We lost Scooby last summer, and Jacob and Sophie are not almost inseparable. They spend hours outside, running, wrestling, playing fetch. From being afraid of dogs, he's gone to being a dog lover.
Life is good. Sorry I've rambled but that's the way my mind is working tonight.

Dogs are so funny!

Sophie with a favorite bone

Sometimes Sophie seems to know exactly what's going on and what we're saying to her. Other times she's clueless--or ignores us. This morning Jordan came in after taking Jacob to school, and Sophie, rope toy in her mouth, attacked, all but demanding, "Play with me, play with me!" Jordan declined because she didn't want to be jumped on in good work clothes. When she left, Sophie was the picture of dejection, rope toy still in her mouth. She stood looking out the window toward Jordan's car as if saying, "I can't believe she left me." When she heard the motor start, she dropped the toy. I'm sure she was saying to herself, "Well, there goes that."
A bit later, when I went to change so I could run some errands, she watched me anxiously. She knows what it means when I make the bed, take off pjs and put on jeans and a shirt. She slunk into her crate. I thought it was nice enough for her to be out since it was to be cold later but she clearly objected, so she stayed in her crate while I was gone.
Last night, she caused me some embarrassment. She's not a bad barker and certainly not one of those who barks to hear herself, but when she's in a frenzy over some critter, she has a high, shrill bark. I went to bring her in, but she was jumping at the back fence; obviously there was something up there. I don't remember hearing her bark, but I do know she ignored me when I called her. Then the neighbor behind us called and mentioned gently that they were trying to go to sleep early and Sophie was disturbing them. I went out, used my sternest voice and a chew stick as temptation, and got her in. This morning I sent off an apologetic email and got a pleasant reply, saying Sophie doesn't usually bother them.
Right now, Sophie is curled up at my feet, under my desk, good as gold, and we're both happy campers. She reminds me of the little girl with the curl: "And when she was good, she was very good/And when she was bad, she was horrid." I cannot imagine life without a dog--especially without Sophie who long ago worked her way into my heart..

Talking to Yourself

A recent thread on the Sisters in Crime list was sparked by a study announcing that women speak about 20,000 words a day, while men speak only a paltry 10,000. The implications for women writers were many—if we write all day and don’t speak those words to people, then we should be able to write a book in, say, a week and a half (not guaranteeing the quality of the manuscript)—thereby far outdistancing our male rivals, if that’s what they are. But the one idea that got me the most was a comment that it is hard to spend all day alone, with no one to talk to, as many writers do. Writing is essentially a solitary experience. The writer said she used to call her widowed brother in the late morning, and he would have to clear his throat because he hadn’t yet spoken to anyone that day. As a writer who lives alone, I identify with that.

Usually, during the week, I have lunch and/or dinner engagements with friends, and on school days, I have Jacob bounding in for a snack and homework. Then his mom comes to pick him up, and I get to visit with her. But on weekends, I often spend long days talking to no other human except perhaps a grocery-store clerk. And I admit it often makes for blue, introspective days.

I have plenty to do—always. Writing projects, marketing, all the things that go with being a writer plus bills, e-mail, Facebook, all the things that go with living in todays  world and keeping a house and a life going. And in advance of every weekend, I tell myself I have lots to read. But I miss the human interaction that energizes me. And in truth all I can think is, “How much worse would it be if I didn’t write? If I didn’t have that to keep me busy?” I can’t imagine it.

The writer cited above did say it’s perfectly acceptable to talk to animals, and I surely was relieved to hear that. I talk to my dog all the time—and she talks back though unfortunately I don’t speak her language. She’s so expressive! I am desperate to know what she means and wants. When she was a pup, I hired a trainer who came to the house. He helped a lot, but he also told me not to talk to my dog unless I was giving a command. Well, I just couldn’t do that. I have a dog for companionship, and I am by golly going to talk to her.  I aim long monologues at her, particularly when we sit on the floor together just before she goes to bed.  I do think she may lose patience when I sing “Good Night, Irene” as I put her in her crate—where, by the by, she goes willingly for the night. It’s her safe place. And it makes me stop singing.

Aside from talking to the dog, one of my tricks for brightening the weekend is to invite company for Sunday supper. But this Sunday everyone wants to watch the Oscars, which bore me, so that doesn’t work. I am going to make a huge pot of Bolognese spaghetti sauce—if I freeze it, so be it. I’ll have a good supper Sunday night—and curl up with all those cooking magazines that arrived yesterday and I haven’t read yet.

How about you? Do you relish solitary days or find them a bit uncomfortable?

Chaos

My house is quiet right now, althugh a certain dog tension lingers in the air. I have as guests four extra adults, four extra children (plus Jacob), and two extra dogs. My house is honestly not that big. The dogs are the big problem: Megan's dog, mostly mini poo, is docile, loving and goes with the flow. Sophie is out of her mind with excitement over people and dogs, wants to play with everyone and jump all over them (Megan made the mistake of sitting on the floor and was floored by Sophie jumping on her--I explained that if you're on the floor, you're fair game). Colin's new dog, Gracie (Sofia Grace when she's in trouble) is the big problem. A large German shepherd mix that had a litter when she was put in the shelter, growled, snapped and acted like she wanted to eat Sophie alive; pretty soon she decided Eddie was just as bad. So now, oh peace, she is crated, Sophie is fed and outside, and Eddie is wandering around.
Everyone has gone to the rodeo, and I pray it's a long one, so I can do some of the stuff I had in mind to do tonight, like write my thousand words and make a meatloaf to stick in the freezer. When they are here, much as I love them, they all talk at once, and I have to either yell over them to announce I have something to say or corner the one I need to talk to. But we had a few pleasant, fairly quiet moments in front of the fireplace.
I had all kinds of sandwich makings so they could snack--they ate chips and salsa, and a little bit of cheese ball. Only Colin ate a sandwich, so I foresee a lot of lunch meat in my future. The two grown girls, after dressing their children warmly, left for the rodeo  in clothes that were more cowgirl glitzy than warm--and it's cold tonight.
In spite of all that, I am of course delighted to have them home, sorry my youngest son and his family will only be here for the day tomorrow, heartbroken for Jordan who is still in bed with the flu and now feeling well enough to be bored out of her gourd. They are all lovely adults, as glad to see me as I am to see them, and the chldren are a delight. My oldest grandson is the one who greets me with big kisses, but he's also the one who cannot keep his hands off things--the pens on my desk would make great projectiles (I didn't ask what he intended to project), the paper clips fascinate him, an empty decorative jar has to be opened and closed several times. When I explained that my desk is strictly off limits, he said, "But there are so many interesting things with so many possibilities." I'm used to Jacob who sees a pen as something that requires a blank piece of paper (usually a discarded piece with typing on the other side). Tomorrow my two oldest granddaughters will arrive but for now Morgan is the only girl--she does a credible job of holding her own. They all want to be in and out of doors, and no amount of warning them Sophie will bolt does any good so now I look the doors and hide the keys. Sort of like a fortress.
No doubt, Jacob will want to spend the night with his cousins, and no doubt, since we're short on sleeping space, he'll end up in my bed. But I'll do that just to have as much of my family as possible under my roof. It's a delightful feeling to know when I go to sleep my children and grandchildren are nearby.
I confess in a weak moment I called Jordan and offered to trade her sickbed for my place, but I didn't really mean it. And she knew it. She's really tired of watching old movies.

Creative Writing on a cold day

Bone-chilling is the only way to describe today's cold in Fort Worth. Now at eight in the evening, I'm wearing  a T-shirt and sweater and am still wrapped in a warm shawl, wishing I had another shawl for my knees. The fire in the fireplace just doesn't seem to reach into my office. Supposed to be this way most of the week. Sophie has decided her mission in life is to jump and finally hurl herself at me in an attempt to get my attention. Her vocal range is absurd, barks, growls, yelps, yowls; my vocal range is pretty limited to one harsh word, "No!"
Today I spoke to the Creative Writing club at the Woman's Club. I was told to expect twelve women, but I think there were at least sixteen, and we sat around a long table which made for a nice, informal gathering. I decided to encourage them to write a mystery--choose their heroine, setting, etc. Didn't work. One or two were obviously experienced writers--one knew so much about publishing on Amazon that I should have let her lead the session. But most just looked at me when I prodded them to think of heroines and the like, but they took copious notes so they must have felt they were learning something. I'll try that format again when I speak at a retirement community later this month. I sold two books and when I got home couldn't remember what I'd done with the money and check--but I found them.
Betty went with me to the program--because I don't like the Woman's Club parking lot--and we had lunch beforehand at Z's Cafe--meatballs (more like meat cakes) with mushroom gravy, potatoes au gratin and steamed vegetables. We split an order, and it was plenty. So good. As owner Janet Capua said, "It's comfort food, ladies." She topped it with a tiny serving of snickerdoodle ice cream--yum!
All in all a good day, but I can't wait to crawl into my warm bed.

Do you live in an old house?

 

My house, cozy and snug in a 2011 snowstorm

The decorative dentil molding over the porch gave way to age several years ago

My house was built in 1922. It wears its age proudly and well. Over its ninety years, it has softened and gentled until it wraps itself around me in a way new houses never do. More than a house, it's home and has been for twenty years. The floors are scuffed and scraped—you can see where my Aussie slept every warm night, preferring the wood floor to his bed. I guess the oil from his coat gradually wore away the finish. Same thing in the spot in the office, where he always slept at my feet. And under my rolling chair—and I do roll from desk to credenza to get this, that or the other—the floor is similarly scraped. Some previous owners weren’t smart about water damage from plants, and there are some huge circular stains in the dining room. Even the new floor that was put in the add-on family room ten years ago shows stress and strain by the back door to the yard—too many muddy dogs and children have gone in and out.  When one of my daughters suggested I have the floors redone, my answer was ready: too difficult to live through, too expensive, and shiny would floors would make this grand old lady (the house, not me) uncomfortable. The next occupant will have to redo the floors—but I hope that’s a long way down the road.

When something breaks in an old house, it really breaks. It seems like I have a water leak somewhere all the time which means high water bills and even higher plumbing bills. Commodes are big offenders—they leak, they run, they periodically re-flush themselves even if you’re not in the room. The plumber explained that one to me and it sort of made sense. Most recently the commode in the guest apartment sprang a leak—and warped the wood floor so that several boards had to be placed. I could not live in my old house without Bundock Construction—brothers Lewis and Jim. They did some major remodeling in 2000, taking out a partial wall and putting in French doors, redirecting duct work, giving me a new attic staircase because they said the old one would kill me, and finishing with a much needed paint job. When they finished, they said “Call us. You’re one of ours now.” I’m sure they’ve lived to regret those words, because I call almost every week, for everything from a light bulb high above the kitchen soffet to a broken bird feeder.

I’m convinced old houses get dirty faster than new ones—they have cracks and crevices through which dirt sifts, windows don’t fit tightly (vines have been known to grow in those little windows over the bookcases that flank my Art Deco fireplace). There’s a crack between tile floor (those old tiny octagonal tiles) and baseboard behind the bathroom sink, and most mornings a gecko comes through to visit with me. I wait for him and welcome him. Thanks to Socorro Escobar who keeps my house clean. Love old houses, hate to clean them.

At night I lie in bed and look at a ceiling with so many cracks that it looks like a road map. I listen to my house creak and groan and it settles a tiny bit. Occasionally there’s a loud, unidentified noise, but I figure if the dog isn’t alarmed, I won’t be either. I’m home, safe, and comfortable.

A grandson is different from a son

Sometimes spending a lot of time with a six-year-old is wearing--I love him, but my string gets short. Tonight he was playing with Sophie in the kitchen while I was trying to fix supper. Jacob gets excited and his voice goes to a high pitch and he runs at Sophie. I'm sure deep down she knows he loves her, but she sometimes wants refuge, so she gets between me and the cupboards where I'm standing. Then Jacob comes after her. Upshot is I'm caught between a dog and a child, one of whom is screaming, and I'm liable to trip over both of them. Yes, I lost my patience.
One of the great advantages of my temporary tenant--she happened in to do some laundry and invited Jacob out to the apartment for a visit. He was there a half hour, and Sophie and I enjoyed a peaceful time in my office.
But back in the house, even after his mom arrived, Jacob still wanted to play roughly with Sophie and still raised his voice in excitement. And then he got his feelings hurt, which always makes me immediately contrite.
Elizabeth and I talked about it, and when I said, "I feel so bad when he gets his feelings hurt," she asked if I was that way with my children. I thought about it and said no, I didn't think so. Your children are yours, they love you through thick and thin--for my children, particularly, I was the only security they had. Grandchildren don't automatically love their grandparents. I didn't love my maternal grandmother. I didn't even know her except as a grim, silent woman who sat in a dark house and later as a woman with dementia, though I didn't know the term at the time. I want Jacob to love me and associate me with laughter and fun--but I am the disciplinarian who makes him do homework and scolds when he yells and.... oh,  you name it!
Yesterday he told me "on accident" (my kids always said that too) that the bird feeder fell down. Truth turned out to be he swung a stick at it. The bottom fell off, all the seed fell out, and he came to get me. So I set him to cleaning up with a broom, dustpan and garbage bag. When he asked, "Are you going to help me?" I said, "No. I didn't break it." "Well, it's not fair!" was his reply, but he dutifully cleaned up the fallen bird seed, more with his hand then the broom. I figure he has to learn that actions have consequences, but it's a hard lesson to teach--hard on me. My good friend Betty thought I was so doing the right  thing, but I worry lately that I am always on his case and rarely the "fun grandmother." Where do you draw the line?
I want to be fun, but I can't let him get away with inappropriate behavior (one of his favorite phrases). I hate to be always disciplining, but he so often plain doesn't listen until the fifth time I say something and by then my patience has run out.
I guess the bottom line is I never worried about my children loving me. I worried about feeding them and clothing them and teaching them and, yes, loving them, but maybe I ws too harried to worry about them loving me--or maybe I assumed they did. I worry about it with my grandchildren, maybe even more with those I don't see daily. Or, then again, maybe more with the one I do see. Oh, my, you can see I'm confused.

This dog is not a poodle

Let me be very clear about this: I have nothing against poodles, but Sophie is not a poodle. She's a cross between a border collie and a miniature poodle. Her black coat, lightly tipped with silver, is rough but not as curly as a boodle. It is the typical doodle non-shed coat, and I keep it trimmed at about a half inch, longer on the face, tail, and ears.
But tonight she looks like a poodle again, and I'm frustrating. I've spoken to the groomers, and today I took them specific instructions: hair on the head to be twice as long as the coat and not shorter any place. They shaved part of her face, leaving her that shelf across the top of her head. I know, I know, it will grow out, but I'm frustrated. I've used the same grooming parlor for years and will now be making a change. In the interest of making easy for me, I'll use the groomers who come to your house. (Sophie gets so enthusiastic and excited on trips that I'm truly afraid of being draged to the ground--or losing control on a busy street.
At home, with me, Sophie is playful but calm. She spends a lot of time sleeping at my feet, as she is now--tuckered by her day away. She knows sit, stay, drop it, leave it. She ignores "Come" when she's outside until I close the door and walk away, which causes her to bolt for the door. She is also bad about jumping when she wants attention. But hey, she's just a teenager--sixteen months.
But she is not a poodle.

Herding cats

Lots of pictures, but this is part of my wonderful family.

I've just spent twenty-four hours with my two sons and their families. Colin and all drove up from Houston to see Jamie's new house in Frisco, and good friends Elizabeth and Weldon drove me to Frisco (gave my little car a much-needed road trip) and stayed for several hours to visit. My sons are men I'm proud of and their families are wonderful--wives are busy career women, terrific moms, fun to be with, and the children are all happy, enthusiastic,  well-mannered and, above all, loving.
Last night we were headed out for dinner at six. It was seven before we got everyone together and out the door. Herding cats! We went to a sushi restaurant in The Shops at Legacy (Plano, TX), a place I'd heard about but never been. Charming restaurant/shopping area. But the sushi place was crowded by 7:30 on a Saturday night--an hour and a half wait to eat inside, half an hour outside. We opted for outside but waited inside where the noise level was deafening. When we finally were seated, there was a bit of a breeze and it wasn't bad at all. Hard to converse with nine at a long table, but  I had Jamie and Mel on either side of me and we talked some. Salmon sashimi was good, and I had a great salad with a soy/ginger vinaigrette.
This morning Mel announced she was going to take the kids to the park while it was cool--this was about nine. I declined to go. By the time they left, with a cooler full of water bottles, it was almost eleven--herding cats again. Jamie came in from his run and also declined to go, so he and I had a good visit. But he began to worry that he hadn't heard from Mel--turns out Maddie (thirteen) had heat exhuastion. Mel took her to the ER clinic while Colin brought everyone else home. The patient is fine--had an IV and was ordered to stay out of the heat and sun for at least 24 hours. No basketball, no swimming, nada. But a bit scary for us.
Colin intended to leave at 1:00--we left at 2:15. Herding cats again. But the Houston Alters were so good to bring me home on their way to Houston--way out of the way, but otherwise I wouldn't have gotten to spend the night there and see them.
Got home to a peaceful, quiet house. Moksha, who looks after my animals, had the dogs in their beds so they'd be out of the afternoon heat. Scoob got really excited by the children but settled down. I realized that even a one-night respite from caring for him was great. I slept nine hours last night. Woke at 7:45 without hearing a dog snort and lick and whine. I'll always take good care of him--but the vacation was nice.
Even nicer was being with my family. Such a blessing.

Saga of a grandmother--and a neat recipe

It's been a while since I cooked a big dinner on a weeknight for family and then got a six-year-old ready for bed, with full directions on what to do the next three mornings. But Jacob is with me for three nights--his parents are off to Mexico to celebrate his father's big 40 birthday. I will send him to day camp (right across the street from me) tomorrow and Thursday, with full instructions about packing lunches, what time he has to be there, all that good stuff. Sheesh! You'd think I've never done this before. Friday, his paternal grandparents will take him for the weekend. I'm actually excited about having him for three days and have arranged a full social schedule--tomorrow night I'll fix spaghetti for friends (much younger) who have a four-year-old who Jacob adores. And an 18-month old, which means we have to clean up all the tiny Leggos, etc. Thursday night my good friend and Jacob's Aunt Betty will come by and we'll go out for dinner. Jacob has chosen Mexican. But that night we also have to pack, bathe, etc.
I don't use the crockpot as much as I should but early (really early!) this morning I followed a recipe (which turned out to be more complicated than I thought) and put pork chops on to cook all day. A trick I learned: when they're through cooking, strain the broth off and put the solid things (minus bay leaves but mostly sliced onion) in the blender and puree. Then add to the broth and thicken with cornstarch. The onions gave the gravy a sweet taste. Had lots left over so I froze it for a soup base this winter.
But I also fixed Louella's Rice, of which Christian ate three helpings and declared he'd rather have that than birthday cake. Simplest recipe in the world. Mix:
1 can cream of celery soup
1 cup minute rice
1 cup sour cream
1 cup grated sharp cheddar
1 4 oz. can green chiles
Bake @ 350 until bubbly
In between all those chores, I had breakfast with a friend, wrote 2,000 words, did my yoga routine, partially carried a 55 lb. dog up and down the two steps to the yard twice--and got a much-needed nap. What happened to the simple life, living alone and peacefully writing?
I am worried about Scooby. He keeps his balance pretty well in the back yard because he can get traction on the ground. But his legs splay out on my hardwood floors, and I have to hoist his back end up. And he is terrified of those steps--begins to shake when he gets near them. It's a week and a half since his "incident" and they tell me it will get better. He is better, but not nearly as much as I'd hoped. Yet obviously tonight, he wanted to come in--did not want to be left out. And he plays with the little dog when he's outside. Not ready to call it quits.

Yoga in two parts

Yesterdy morning I did about half my yoga routine and had to stop, for reasons totally unrelated to yoga. I finally finished the routine about six last night, and I'm wondering if a divided routine does you as much good as a complete one. But that's sort of how my week has gone.
Monday is usually my stay-at-home-and-get-lots-done day, but this Monday I was out the door early to transfer Scooby to his own vet--not only did it take a chunk of time, it set a less-than-efficient tone for my day. Scooby is still dozing and snoozing--eating, drinking, peeing and pooping but he has to be carried to the appropriate place for the last two, although he does stand to do them. No way I can carry a 55 lb. dog up and down even the two stairs to the backyard. I went to see him last night, and he struggled to get up for me, so maybe visiting is not a good idea, though I did stay and love on him. They say sometimes it takes a week for the disorientation to go away--much as I love Scooby, dollar signs are swimming in my brain.
Then Tuesday and Wednesday were routine doctor appointments for me (if you can ever call having your eyes dilated routine!). Both were just checkups, but they broke the rhythm of my days.
And then there were pleasant dinners with friends, occasions I wouldn't miss though once again they took me from my computer. I'm not sure I can justify calling myself a writer.
Finally yesterday I got to stay home all afternoon and evening at my desk--editing someone else's manuscript. Years ago when I started editing, I marked up hard copy, sent it to the author, whose responsibility it was to create a new manuscript incorporating my suggestions and return it. I had to compare the two versions, make sure no new errors crept in next to the corrections--that happened a lot. Well, today we have "Track Changes" which makes it so much easier--and so much harder. I am forever getting tangled up in that program--deleting things I don't mean to, creating little blue "fix this" lines that are unfixable as far as I can tell. This time, somehow I lost all the formatting on the manuscript. Fortunately the managing editor of Turquoise Morning Pres is a lot smarter than I am and could tell me what to do. Now, I hope, I'm on the home stretch--and a bonus: I've learned to make marginal comments.
I'm itching to finish this manuscript--but first there's the post office, the bank, the cleaners, early voting, and lunch with a friend. Sigh. But I've done my yoga.
I'm a writer--honest, I am!

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.

Jacob's thoughts on my mortality--and some other thoughts

Last night at supper I recounted Jacob's latest comment about my impending death--"I want to  live with you the rest of your life, but then I won't have long, because you won't live long." Betty's reply was that he's really obsessed with that and she thought he's afraid of losing me. So this afternoon, I sat him down and explained that I had been to the doctor yesterday, who said I'm in perfect health. I went on to say that yes Jacob can run farther and faster and jump higher than me, but there are some things I can do he can't--I was prepared to demonstrate with yoga poses, but he asked if I could do a cartwheel. Never could in my entire life, but I didn't tell him that--just said, "No, I can't." He demonstrated his version of a cartwheel, and I said, "I think I could do that." (It's not very graceful!) I admitted I have aches and pains that come with age but told him I planned to be around for a long time, long enough to see him graduate from college. When I used that age-old line,"Of course, I could get hit by a truck tomorrow," he said, "Well, I worry about you when I'm at school." Bless his little heart. I assured him I'm very careful. I did not say stuff like "None of us know" or "Anybody can get sick and die"--didn't want to scare him. I think he's reassured, but he ended with, "Okay, but when you say you have an ache or a pain, I'm going to call you 'Old Lady,'" which he does frequently. His parents think it's a sign of disrespect, but I know better--it's love. I told him he could please stop talking about when I go to Heaven.
An apology to some of you: today Blogger told me I had something like 54 unmoderated comments, so I published them all. Many looked familiar, and I think Blogger has goofed somehow and I'd already posted them. But please know that I love and welcome your comments, and if I failed to respond, it's because I didn't know the comment was there. They've changed the system, but I'll try to keep on top of it.

And last but not least, here's the newest doggie member of our large family, Eddie Hudgeons of Austin, a 3-year-old, seven lb. poodle. Megan reports that he's sweet, perfectly housebroken, loves the  boys, sleeps quietly in his crate in the boys' room at night. But he's agressive toward other dogs--at 7 lbs? He was attacked in the pound and that apparently soured him, but such aggression may limit his family visits for a while. I'm anxious to meet him. Not sure at that weight what variety of poodle he is--too big for a teacup, too small for a miniature. Sophie will look like a giant next to him.

Dogs on my mind

Sophie, my Bordoodle pup now almost a year old, has been a morning brat lately. She greets the day, full of energy, with lots of barking, and unfortunately she has the small-dog yippy bark. Mostly she barks at Scooby, to get him to play with her--and he barks back, the hoarse bark of an aging dog. But squirrels, a car in the driveway, the neighbors' dogs--anything can excite her. I'm grateful for tolerant neighbors. By mid-morning, she's calmed down, and we don't hear much out of her the rest of the day. Sometimes I want to say to her, "Look how lucky you are to have a good, loving home. Why can't  you act like you appreciate it?"
Those of you who know me know I'm a dog person. Oh, I had cats for the kids when they were growing up. Jamie in particular was a cat lover--he claims their last cat has cured him of that. But almost twenty years ago he brought home a gray kitten, part Maine Coon, one of the world's loveliest and sweetest cats. When Jamie left home, I insisted on keeping Wywy (don't ask), but we lost him to old age last fall.
Still its dogs that capture my heart.There's a difference between liking dogs and being a dog person, though the former don't always underestand that. I'll tread lightly here, so as not to step on toes, for I've had this discussion with one of my sons-in-law who indignantly protests that he likes dogs. A true dog person can't imagine living without a dog, regardless that, if well cared for, they're expensive and take a lot of time--probably more time than I give mine. I've had dogs, big dogs, all my life, except for a spell when I had Cairn terriers. I'm finding again with Sophie what I found with the Cairns--little dogs are stubborn. I'm sorry in some ways I let my brother convince me I don't need a big dog at my age. I admit, however, I don't walk either of mine for fear of being pulled down--Sophie has too much wild enthusiasm for the outside world, and Scooby never got over his instinct to herd buses, strollers, trucks, whatever moves. Both my sons are dog people; my daughters not so much, though Jordan and Sophie are crazy about each other. If I get hit by a truck tomorrow, Jordan will take her.
Don't get me wrong about Sophie: I love her. She is like the little girl with the curl--and when she's good and sweet, she's irresistible. And she's reliably housebroken--something I haven't always accomplished with dogs. She's probably got another year of growing up to do.
If you follow me on Facebook you may have noticed that I repost a lot of pictures of abandoned, endangered dogs, some on the EU list at varioius shelters. Breaks my heart, and I want to go rescue each of them--but I have my hands more than full, thank you. Confession: I'm sort of selective. I repost the collie, lab, shepherd, border collie mixes that appeal to me, some of them, like Sophie, the ragamuffins of the dog world. Not so much the pit bulls and similar breeds.
But I've noticed a high number of pit bull mixes on Facebook lately. I'm wondering if that's because people are breeding them for fighting or just why so many need loving homes. I know pit bull fanciers will jump all over this, but there are some breeds I'm leery of--pit bulls, Rottweilers (Colin had to give up one he could neither trust nor control) and, to a lesser extent, Dobermans.
Idle thoughts, but now that my mind is on dogs, watch for another post about some dogs I've known and loved. I think just as we're all meant to have one or two real loves in our lives, the same is true of dogs. We have one or two that are soulmates. I've been lucky with both kinds of loves, and I count my blessings. Sophie? She's an adorable, irresistible brat-child.

A disastrous dog day

With the Canterbury Choir visitors safely on their way, much as I enjoyed them, and the Baylor speech behind me I  thought my life this week would be full of peace and tranquility. Not so! I took the older dog to the vet for his annual shots. Had to lift him, almost piece by piece, into the car--front end first, then hoist the back end. When I got to the vet, I called for help, and the tech had to put a leash around his rear end to hold it up. We got him into the office where he seemed a bit better. I said I was worrying about getting him to the groomer for a much-needed summer haircut, and they told me the groomer we all use picks up from them. So we agreed on that, and I picked him up about four-thirty, looking so much better and walking pretty well. But he wouldn't get into the car--the owner and I did the hoisting bit again. Once home, on familiar territory, he was much better.
Meantime, in the late morning I was happily working at my desk, thinking Sophie was safely in the backyard. Doorbell rang, and there stood a really nice gentleman--school custodian?--holding Sophie and asking, "Is this your dog? She was running in the street and schoolyard but she ran toward this house and I thought maybe she lived here." I have no idea how he managed to catch her, but I thanked him profusely. I had left the inner gate to the yard open, thinking I'd be straight back with Scooby while Sophie was in her crate inside. And then I forgot. With her new skinny body, minus all that fur, she can still slide under the electric gate.
So tonight, after the dogs were fed and so was I, I thought all was well. Went to let them in for the night--and the back door wouldn't open. Between 7:00 and 9:00 two boards in the floor had warped and jumped up, blocking it. Decided one gate would be better than two and tried the door in my bedroom--bolts were stuck, probably because I haven't used that door in the eighteen years I've been here. So I had to bring the dogs out two gates, in the dark, on leashes, to the front door. Let me tell  you that my dogs are sweethearts, fairly obedient, anxious to please--but they are not leash-trained because I don't walk them for fear they'll pull me down. It's my balance problem, not their behavior problem. Tonight may have been a wake-up call.
We made it--thank heaven for automatic gates, motion-sensitive lights and other conveniences. Both dogs are safely in the house, and Jordan has said to tell them not to pee until she gets here in the morning. Lewis, the life-saving contractor who keeps my house running, says he'll be over first thing in the morning.
I have the urge to say, "Why me, Lord?" but I know these are minor troubles, amusing in retrospect. Still when I did my yoga late this afternoon I thought how peaceful everything was and how thankful I was. Now, I'm grateful for all the people who allow me to lead the comfortable life I do--vet, groomer, contractor.Other days I add to that list the lady who cleans my house, the good friend who maintains my yard. If it weren't for these people I'd be in assisted living without dogs--a thought I can't bear.
And poor old Scooby? He definitely has a neurological problem in his back legs--the demonstration the vet gave me was revealing. Plus he still has balance problems--perhaps an inner ear thing, perhaps a stroke. But his spirit is strong, and he plays with Sopie when he can, scolds her when he thinks she needs it. I am not going for heroics, but I'll do all I can to make him happy and comfortable. as long as I can have him. Can't imagine life without dogs.

Heigh, ho, to the groomers we go!

Don't know that you can tell the difference--it's hard to photograph a black dog, but Sophie belatedly got a hair cut today. Above is fuzzy Sophie, and to the right is new Sophie. Her border collie/poodle coat was out of control--and smelly to boot in spite of baths. I labored under the delusion (I do that a lot) that God gave dogs their coats for a purpose, and I shouldn't mess with it. But I finally wrote the breeder, who said a wise thing to me, "Doodles are man-made mutations, not dogs as God created them." Short answer: 1" all around, 1-1/2 to 2 inches on the face." She sent me a picture, and this morning Sophie and I happily went off to the groomers--well, I was happy. Bad news: she was so matted all they could do was shave her. "One inch?" I asked hopefully. "Nope, shave. She won't look anything like she does now. Be prepared." I begged for saving as much face and tail hair as they could, so tonight I have this skinny small dog with a bushy face and bushy tail. She'll grow out to the right length in six weeks or so. Doesn't seem to have bothered her at all, and she's the same irrepressible personality.
Scooby missed her. He barked all day. Greg, the lawn guy, was here, and he said "Scooby's barking to find out where she is. He's gotten used to her." Scooby did give her a thorough sniff-check out when she came home.
Usually I have Scoob cut back to one-inch for summer. Not sure about it this summer, whether his disliking the trip to the groomer would balance out his discomfort. Got to think on that one. Owning dogs is not cheap!

taking out the garbage on Saturday night

This was one of those long empty Saturdays. The fact that I was taking out the garbage at 7:30 on a Saturday night tells you something about my social life. On the other hand, it was a kind of pleasant day.
My old dog, with his permanent head tilt to the left, seems occasionally to hold his head straight. Coincidentally, the terrible crick in the left side of my neck is almost gone. Sympathy? Maybe that's the best answer. I wonder, though, since it lasted a week, if it wasn't a virus. Anyway, I think both of us are better. And eating better--but then, I never stopped eating!
If you have a rambunctious dog and haven't heard of bully sticks, run, don't walk, to Google and find them. They keep the dog occupied for hours. Thanks to Patty and Ralph for bringing them to me--they've been a godsend, and I've ordered a pack. Rationing them one a day, because they aren't cheap.
Some years ago I seemed to fall a lot. Colin, my oldest, asked, "Mom, have you ever considered that it's not your balance? It's just you don't watch where you're going." I have, knock on wood, gotten over the falling--maybe I watch better. But at the time he, with all good intentions, put double-faced tape at the corners of all the rugs on my hardwood floors--most of the rugs are kilim or dhurrie and I should have thought about consequences to the rugs, but there were none. Still, don't do it! The rugs and the tape soon part company, but the tape adheres tightly to the floor. I tried Glue Gone and I don't know what else. Finally someone told me WD40. I thought I'd gotten most of it, but when the dining room rug went out for cleaning and repair this week, I found lots of tape under it. The advice I got was a light coating of WD40--hah! I soaked those tapes, then let them sit for hours. Yesterday I spent painful hands-and-knees time scrubbing up tape. One piece left and I couldn't face it, so today about noon I sprayed it; when I finally went back to it about seven-thirty tonight it came right up. Now I'm afraid to have the living room rug cleaned for fear of more tape.
Yesterday was a celebration--I am out of the post-surgical shoe and into regular shoes. The doctor said to try but it's comfortable to me, and I'm careful not to bend the questionable toe--makes getting down on your hands and knees to scrape tape a real trick, but I did it. My gait, my balance, and my self-confidence are all improved--to say nothing of my stylish look(?). But it is the season for capri pants and leggings and they'd look awful with that huge shoe sticking out. I am also doing some  yoga--seated and standing--that doesn't endanger the foot. Slightly less than two weeks,which I thinks is great.
Grocery this morning and then the day was devoted to writing a new talk to deliver at Baylor, since I found the old one on what I've learned about writing mysteries was inappropriate--especially to the title of my talk. Bless Google Alerts--one came up today publicizing the Baylor Literary Festival in April and saying I would talk about "Exploring Women in the American West." Cozy, contemporary mysteries hardly fit that, so I shelved the ten pages I'd written and started over again. It's okay, because I wasn't thrilled with them, but I'll save them and steal bits and pieces here and there--who knows, some of it may turn up in a blog. Now I actually have a new ten pages roughed out plus a couple of ideas. But I quit for the night. Going to read Avery Aames' Clobbered by Camembert. Also did some odds and ends and a bit of cooking--made a Mexican cheese ball to take to supper at neighbors' tomorrow night. Cream cheee, cheddar, pepperjack, red pepper (I hate bell pepper but used pimientos--don't tell me, I know they're cured bell peppers), cilantro, chili powder, etc. Then made tuna cakes for supper--made four, have three left over. But they were pretty good. Want either recipe? Add the name Kraft and Google them, though I substituted ingredients--like panko for Stove-Top. I'm really trying to avoid processed foods.
And, that, folks is my trivia day. Not very exciting but satisfying.