Omigosh! I look like a MacBain!

The MacBean Clan Plaid

 

Don't get me wrong. I'm inordinately proud of my Scottish heritage and my membership in Clan MacBean. My house is dotted with Scottish items--a rug in the clan plaid, two hangings featuring the clan crest, a picture of Gillys MacBean who was a hero/martyr at the Battle of Culloden in the 18th century. But my aunts and grandmother had a definite MacBain look, and while I loved them dearly, they were not particularly attractive women--their faces long, with bags under the eyes. An air of sadness or resignation hung over them and showed on their faces. They'd had hard lives--my grandmother gave birth to five children, saw four survive to adulthood; an Anglican minister's wife, she moved her family from one parsonage to another every two years and probably they were as poor as church mice. I have few memories of one aunt, but warm and wonderful ones of the other two--one was crippled in her twenties by rheumatoid arthritis and lived a pain-filled life, a spinster until probably her sixties when she married the widower next door who helped her turn faucets and jar lids that her disfigured hands couldn't handle. I spent more time with the third aunt--I called her Ha, though I don't know why. Ha took a cynical attitude from her difficult childhood but she married a sophisticated fun-loving man, enjoyed life, and one summer when I stayed with her for two weeks, treated me more as a friend than a child.
That MacBain look worked well on my dad--a man of great moral certainty, a leader with great self confidence, strong liberal leanings, and an inbred sense of right and wrong. Even the jowls looked okay on him. But I didn't want the MacBain look and yet I find it on my face more often as I age.
This all came up today because I was trying to take a picture of Jacob and his anteater project with my new iPhone 5s that I don't really understand. He took it from me and took about twelve videos of himself, which I managed to erase. But the phone was stuck on that mode where it tried to take a picture of me, rather than what I was looking at. If the phone is just below your face, it's not an attractive look.
Jacob and I practically fought over the phone, with him assuring me he knew how to fix it--he didn't. I finally wrested it from him, switched its focus, and got a good picture of him with his project. It really is impressive, depicting the habitats of anteaters--forests, swamps, and grasslands.

Hard to settle down to homework after all the hilarity with the camera. No, I'm now showing those pictures.

Families are funny things

Jacob, between his mom, left, and his Aunt Dylan

I know families where siblings don't get along, where sometimes one person or another is totally estranged from the family. It breaks my heart, even in Ann Landers column, to read about children who are estranged from their parents--to me, that is a tie that binds. I am so blessed that my four children love me, care for me, and love each other. They jump at every opportunity to be together, and their children, my grandchildren, are growing up to think all families are loud, rowdy and lots of fun. They love it. And nobody ever leaves me out of the fun.
But I am blessed in another way. Divorce often muddies the water and complicates things, as it did in my life. When my ex left, he remarried and fathered a daughter, Dylan, who somebody told me is now twenty-nine. I can't believe that. But since she was a teen, Dylan and I have had a good relationship--she liked the fact that I am a writer; I like the fact that she has from an early age been interested in liberal causes and talked intelligently about them. A lawyer, she always works for non-profits (where she is probably almost non-profit) and does pro bono work. She cooks, and she grows vegetables on the family acreage. She loves to hear stories of her siblings.
Dylan arrived this evening, with her Aunt Karan, whom I've known forever--married to Dylan's mother's brother. I wish I could remember the convoluted way Karan once described our relationship because it was hysterical--something about her second husband being the brother of my ex's second wife, only more complicated. Today Karan hurried back to her home in the suburbs, and Dylan, Jordan, and I had a drink in the back yard with Jacob and Sophie running around. A good, happy time, talking about all kinds of things from dogs (Dylan is as much a softie as I am and helped medicate Sophie's scratched cornea) to cooking to stories about her dad. I think it's healthy that we can both talk about him without acrimony, and that we hug and tell each other, "It's good to see you."
I remember Dylan as a child. One night my children and I were all in Dallas--the kids to have dinner with their dad and me for a book event. When they picked me up, the kids asked if Dylan could come home with us for the night. I said of course, and in the car that child, who was maybe six, said, "I've been waiting all my life to do this!"
I'm not sure how to describe my relationship to her, except that she's my children's half-sister, but I know that our friendship is yet another blessing of my life. And Jacob adores his Aunt Dylan, was so excited about her visit. She has promised to sleep in his bed tonight--I tried to warn her but she just laughed.
Thanks, Dylan, for being who you are.

Quotes, cousins, and a quandry

A quote I like: Rosemary grows in the garden of a strong woman. I want to believe it's true, because I have two huge rosemary bushes in my front flower beds. The neighbors come and help themselves often, though I always tell them to take sprigs from the top just in case a stray dog has been by. My oregano is growing out of hand, and cutting it back may be a project for the weekend. The basil is thriving and growing large, and I still have pesto in the freezer from last year! But my cilantro has done a funny thing--it was a small, not tiny, normal looking cilantro when I got it but now all the cilantro leaves have fallen off and it has sprouted all these tall stems with fernlike leaves and tiny white flowers. Jay keeps telling me not to cut them back because they are seeding themselves. Meanwhile, it looks half pretty, half weird, and I buy cilantro when I want need to use it.

Wednesday a friend gave me flowers cut from her magnolia bush--I didn't know they were anything but trees, but Greg, my great yard man, said he wanted to look at them and see what kind of magnolia they are (I didn't know there were different kinds either). I keep wanting to plant something along the hurricane fence of the dog yard, where it will get plenty of sun. But I know better than to let honeysuckle get a hold.

My cousin in Canada, for whom I am the only living relative and hold power of attorney, was moved today from a private retirement home to a provincial nursing home. She is apparently difficult and had gotten too hard for the retirement folks to handle, plus this will slow the drain on her resources--she is now living off the principal and not the income of her trust, though she doesn't understand this and keeps writing checks, some good sized, to animal welfare groups. I am hoping this will be a move for the better, but I know it will be difficult--she won't understand and will be angry. The people at the new home that I've talked to are lovely and friendly but amazed when they ask when I last saw Jenny and I say I was about 14. Jenny's been bipolar--I don't know the specific diagnosis--since her late teens (she's just that much older than I). She hasn't had a happy life, and it makes me sad. But without me, she would have no one looking after her welfare or finances, and I remember my dad when I was a teenager saying, "You will look after Jenny, won't you?" So I'm fulfilling the promise as best I can long distance. I cannot understand Jenny on the phone, but I will call the nurses' station tonight and ask how the transfer went. And I asked everyone to assure her that I thought this was for the best.

My quandry: a man called me today who had been referred by one of the writers for Fort Worth's Star-Telegram. He has written a book about the rush to produce nuclear weapons during the Cold War and its effect on the people who worked to make them. My understanding was that he wanted me to edit and write a blurb, so I asked if he objected to $20 an hour, which is less than I would normally charge. He said "Just to read it?" But it's 650 pages about a subject on which I have no expertise. I think that will be one of the perils of retirement--people will think I have all that free time and won't mind reading their manuscripts, etc. But careful reading of 650 pages would take a big chunk out of my time. And I do want to free lance, not give away whatever talents I have. But the man sounded so astounded that I am feeling a bit guilty--or greedy.

It's Friday night, which usually means Jacob is here. I can hear him playing in his bed though he's not singing tonight. We had hot dogs for dinner--chicken for him and lowfat Hebrew National for me, but he had a small new potato with nonfat yogurt, which I didn't have, and when he didn't eat it, I found myself taking bites. Surely I don't have to count those on Weight Watchers! I also snatched some blueberries off his plate because he didn't seem interested. The last few days, after the debacle of the cooking class, I have done really well on my Weight Watchers points. Monday will tell if I've lost weight or gained--oh my! You're only supposed to weigh once a week. Sometimes the suspense is too much.

A Day of Miracles

Well, actually it was a pretty quiet day. I let myself go into my slowest gear (people who know me will tell you that's not too slow). But I lingered over the paper and coffee, puttered around finishing cleaning up after last night, finished reading the parts of a manuscript I'd brought home--it ended abruptly and I found I was missing four chapters. No wonder it was abrupt! The kind of day where you never put on make-up and take a long nap. For lunch and dinner I had leftover cheese ball and caviar dip, though I tried to make dinner a bit healthier by adding some stir-fried zucchini and mushrooms.
The first miracle: after I did my yoga, I thought I would just try that washing machine one more time. It worked fine. I did a load of laundry that I'd meant to take out to Jordan's house and cancelled the repair appointment. Lesson learned--the machine does not like one heavy rug. Throws it off balance.
Second (maybe) miracle: Jamie called from meetings in Las Vegas where he thinks he made a contact for some writing assignments for me. Can't say more at the time but it would put me back to writing for young adults, which may be where I belong. Dang! Is that mystery going to go to waste?
Third miracle: While Jamie was on the phone, call waiting beeped--it was a distant cousin from Canada (her mother was my grandmother's sister--what does that make her to me?). She called to wish me Happy Holidays. She's 90, will be 91 on January 29 which is my father's birthday. She was born on his 21st b'day while he was away at WWI in Europe. Told me that's why she's named Norma--it was Dad's middle name but what all his family called him (his friends called him "Mac' and the students at the osteopathic college where he was president apparently called him "Black Mac," or at least some of them did.) Norma sounded sharp and clear, wanted to know about my family. She lives in the house she's lived in for 50 years. We had a delightful visit.
Later I had an email from Jamie and when I replied and explained about the call that caused me to cut him off, I told him to beware: I come from a line of women who live a long time.
I'm going to have a lazy evening watching junk TV and wrapping Christmas presents.

Old cats and old people

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

A long-lost relative, critters, and a good dinner

I had a wonderful phone call tonight. When I answered the phone, a very Canadian accent said, "This is your cousin Norma." Actually I think she's my father's cousin. She was born on his 21st b'day (in 1918) and is named after him. I've exchanged Christmas letters with her for years, but I can't tell you when I've talked to her. Perhaps when I was a young child--I remember of course always hearing about her, and in my long-ago memory either she or her mother took me to the five-and-dime in Oakville, Ontario. But she called tonight just to inquire how my family and I were getting along, and of course I was glad for news of her. She'll be 90 on January 29 (which would make my dad an astounding 111) and still lives alone in her house, which she says she'll do as long as she can manage the stairs. She sounds sprightly and lively and very "with it." We talked about the two relatives from my side of the family who still live in Toronto, and I forgot to ask about the McKnights, which I must do. She was thrilled that I'm going to Scotland to look for the MacBains this spring. Family is a wonderful thing, and it's particularly touching to me to be in touch with one so distant. I'll keep up the communication.
Another phone call was less cheering. I talked to my brother this morning, and he told me that a mutual friend's daughter died of breast cancer yesterday. She was probably in her late 40s. Our children are not supposed to die before us, and I'm sure this is a tragic blow. I've written a note. Other than that sad note, John and I, who disagree violently on politics, had a very interesting and non-angry talk about the outcome of the Iowa caucuses. When we both calm down and put down our guard, we agree on a great deal.
I'm having an exercise in critters. The exterminator told me he either saw four rats or one rat four times in my attic. Well I either saw two dead baby rats or one twice in the backyard--Scooby isn't talking. But I finally scooped up the critter with some other garbage. So if I find another one, I'll know it's a new one. I have heard no more noises in the wall but have begun to see those huge black flies that come when something dies. Swell! Tonight a less distrubing critter was in Scooby's water dish--a gecko was floating on the top. I assumed the poor thing was dead, but when I emptied out the old water, it scurried away to live again another day and catch more pests. Geckos are such good friends and so cute.
Jordan, Jacob and Christian came for supper today. I roasted a chicken with herbs and potatoes and shallots, and I made Jordan make the salad because she's been wanting to master the blue cheese dressing that I do in the bowl. She did very well. Jacob did not. He apparently still doesn't feel well and was fussy and needy--but it's okay. Everyone's entitled to a day like that. I've had more than my share lately.