Things I hate

One of the things I hate is technological problems. I want all my Tvs, my phones, my computer all to work without my having to worry about them. I watch the TV in my office a lot, even keep it on, muted, when I'm working. But last night I tried to change it to the food channel--my favorite--and it refused. I pushed all the right buttons and ended up with snow. Looked at the Dish receiver in the family room, and the TV 2 light wasn't on. Unfairly, I accused Jordan of doing something when she hooked up the DVD player for Jacob, though she swore innocence. I spent at least 45 minutes on the phone this afternoon with a technician, who had me running from one TV to the other. Finally got TV 2 back working.. But tonight it won't change channels--I'm stuck with NBC which isn't too bad since it's the one I watch most--but it's frustrating. I called again, did some more "experiments," and they're sending me a new remote. I guess those things can go suddenly blink--anyway that's what this one seems to have done.
On a happier electronic note, I'm slowly mastering the digital camera that Melanie and Jamie gave me for Christmas. I've taken a few pictures and last night, after a lesson from Jordan, I sent a picture of Jacob to Jamie. He had been afraid I'd just put the camera aside and not learn how to use it, so he was pleased. But as I told Jordan tonight, when I'm home alone there's not a lot to shoot. She suggested Scooby, but he's so goosey that if I even shift in my chair, he's up and in my face--not a photo op.
Another thing I hate: rats. I walked into the bathroom tonight to find Wywy the cat hovering over a dead baby rat--now, if I had not turned on the light and stepped carelessly--let's not even go there. Once again, there was no one else around to dispose of it, so I did--with copious paper towels, followed by much hand washing. That makes one dead adult rat in the yard, either two dead babies or one twice also in the yard, and two in the house. My neighbors and I are having the "rat tree" cut down Friday.
I'm still struggling with a cold and it occurred to me that I rarely have colds and I've had a lot of them this year. Then it occurred to me that I have an 18-mos. grandson whom I see quite a bit. Bingo!

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.

On Becoming a Recluse

Today, I thought it too tempting to become a recluse. My head cold still bothered me. I woke in the early hours, and though my eyes wanted to sleep, my nose didn't. At one point I heard an alarming noise outside--I guess I had dozed off--and then realized it was just my breathing. I couldn't breathe easily and when I could, it was a noisy business. No wonder Scooby went outside early. When I finally got going, I had to force myself to make my two grocery store trips--if I hadn't needed things from each store so badly, I'd have curled up at home. But once home, I felt better and did a lot of chores--even including scooping up the poop pile in the back yard and finally getting rid of that dead baby rat. But I realized I could too easily return to being housebound--which I once was--and I really need to keep making myself go places. Tomorrow morning I'll go to brunch with Betty and then Jordan, Christian and Jacob will come for Twelfth Night dinner.
Tonight I'm watching the presidential debates on the theory that I'm so confused I ought to do everything I can to educate myself--but the programming is so filled with media padding that you don't often hear that much from the candidates. A sort of discouraging thing. Would Iowa and New Hampshire be that important if TV and newspapers had other things to focus on?
Speaking of newspapers, I wrote a letter to the editor recently, and they called yesterday to verify that I'd written it, so I expect it will appear in a day or two. Our local newspaper keeps shrinking--the paper claims that the print form is losing money and they'll focus on the internet. I think the print version is losing money because it gets slimmer and slimmer--less hard news, lots of fluff like a silly section called "Blab!" They have "rolled together" several sections--arts and lifestyle on Sundays, food and lifestyle on Wednesday. There go two of my favorite parts of the paper! I'm sorry, but I really like to linger over the paper with a cup of coffee, particularly on Sunday, and I find it increasingly dissatisfying.
Fixed myself a good dinner tonight. Last night I braised three chicken thighs in a chicken broth/white wine sauce, but that's really the kind of dish that's much better the next day--and it was. My neighbor Sue's parents are Canadian snowbirds--they winter on the Texas Gulf Coast every year and always spend several weeks at Sue's house. One night when they invited me to dinner, her mom fixed a casserole of artichoke hearts and Brussell sprouts--delicious. She used frozen Brussell sprouts but tonight I roasted fresh ones--so good! The casserole sauce for 1 pkg. Brussell sprouts (or equivalent fresh) and 1 can quartered artichoke hearts is 1/2 c. mayonnaise, 1/4 cup melted butter, and 1/4 cup Parmesan. Brussell sprouts always make me think of my nephew, Russell--when he was little we called them Russell sprouts. They're an under-rated vegetable--true, boiled, they're kind of boring, maybe even unpleasant. But try roasting them--trim, cut in half, drizzle with olive oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper and toss with your hands. Then bake at 450 for 15-20 minutes, turning frequently--they carmelize and turn a lovely brown, but you don't want them to burn.

Elections--and rats

What an odd combination for a column title. No, I mean no connection between politicians and rats. But today being the Iowa caucuses, I feel the sense of suspense, as though we were tonight letting a tiny number of people elect the next president--and we may well be doing that. As long as I can stay awake, I'll watch the results. As a dedicated Democrat, that's the race I'm most interested in naturally, but I honestly don't know how I'd vote if I were in Iowa tonight--and yet I would feel obligated to vote. I could easily acceept any of the top three candidates--and I really like Bill Richardson. As for the Republicans, Mike Huckabee scares me but I can't see that he'd be elected--hey, I've said that before and look what happened! Eight long years of George Bush. I like Romney--he's smooth, polished, professional, knowledgeable--but he stands for a lot of things I don't like--continuing the war in Iraq, outlawing abortion, and so on. What a muddle.
Today has been the day of the rat for me. I think I recounted on this space that I found a large dead rat in the yard some time ago and then a dead mouse in the house earlier this week--in retrospect, I think it was a dead baby rat. I found another of those in the yard yesterday (though it had vanished by today when I wanted to show it to the exterminator--I do NOT wish to consider what happened to it!). The exterminator said he wouldn't guess that I have a herd in the attic, but he either saw four rats or one rat four times. Mostly they were small and young, so there's a nest up there. He was interesting, because he can smell them--a talent I am grateful not to have. He doesn't rush in and blanket treat but carefully studies where they are, what he thinks are their paths through the house, etc.--and then that's where he treats.
My neighbors and I are going to have the dead tree between our houses taken down--it's thickly covered with ivy and we think rats are nesting up there. Pat, the Cowtown Bugstomper, said it's possible, but when the tree comes down, more rats are likely to seek refuge in my house. So he'll come back next week to check the baits, etc.
And tonight, standing in the kitchen, I distinctly heard clawing in the wall behind the wine rack. I knocked on the wall and it went away. Yuck!

The pink Christmas tree

When I was a child, I had neighbors who, childless, adopted me as their own. I called them Auntie E. and Uncle Jack, and they probably provided most of the clothes I wore as a child. They spoiled me rotten, took me to the country club where, one night when I ordered fish, she, a devout Catholic, said, "You don't have to eat fish, dear. It's not Friday." They also took me to a fancy dinner club at the Chicago stockyards, where I remember branding my own steak. I was as much at home in their house as my own, and I adored them. In the dark streets of Chicago, Uncle Jack never allowed me to go two doors from their house to mine--he escorted me.
Auntie E. had a Twelfth Night custom that I've never heard of before or since--she would light a fire, and each of us in turn would throw in a small piece of the Christmas tree, making a silent wish as we did so. I thought it was charming, and I've carried on the custom with my children, though these days it's down to Jordan, Christian and me.
But I haven't had a tree in years. I used to cruise the streets, find one that had been set out, and furtively clip some branches. But each year more and more people go to artificial trees. I called Jordan tonight and asked if she had any live greens. She said, "Nope. That's your problem. It has been for 32 years (all of her life)." I told her this morning as I drove by a new house that stands out like a sore thumb in our neighborhood of charming old houses, I saw they had put out a pink Christmas tree. "I refuse," I said, "to clip a pink Christmas tree." Her reply was, "You may have to." I guess tomorrow I'll take clippers and drive the streets, looking for a green tree--or maybe a flocked white one would be okay. Pink is definitely out! Funny how those traditions get ingrained--if I don't have three small twigs, I'll feel really bereft. Then again, maybe it's silly to think of making a selfish wish on a night meant to comemmorate the arrival of the three wise men with their gifts for the Baby Jesus. The secular and the sacred.

Cooking and cleaning

I've been cleaning again--the T-shirt drawer, the Christmas decorations, etc. I lost the things that are usually on the mantel and bookshelves--a lovely Eskimo granite mother and child and all those pictures of our large family at my brother's ranch and of my children and their spouses at Jordan's wedding. They're not that many hiding places in my house, so I was baffled--finally found the pictures on a closet shelf and the Eskimo statue hidden among winter clothes in the guest room chiffarobe. My cleaning is almost done. I still have one more drawer to do and my own closet--ouch!
Jordan and Jacob came for dinner Saturday. I realized that our Saturday night dinners, while Christian is working, give me a chance to cook for someone and yet not the big fuss of entertaining even informally. I defrosted a piece of salmon and sort of mixed a couple of recipes, so that we had baked salmon topped with a lemon zest/bread crumb/butter mixture. I had also splurged on haricots vert--$5/lb.!--and had the bright idea that I'd pan fry them, then add butter and lime zest, with just a bit of lime juice. Result? Tough green beans with great flavor. Jacob meanwhile dined elegantly on chicken nuggets, apple, avocado (he, like his cousin Sawyer, calls it go-go--don't ask. I don't have a clue) and little bits of our green salad. He generously offered me a piece of lettuce after he'd sucked the lemon/blue cheese dressing off of it. Maybe he's going to be a cosmopolitan diner--certainly he's going to be generous.
I do cook for myself, and tonight I had bay scallops in a wine/sour cream sauce (okay, not great) and fresh beets and greens, something my mother used to fix but that's rarely served these days. I forget each time what a mess beets make when you cook them--splatters of red juice and bits of red skin all over the kitchen! But they were good. And I did enough for Cox's Army.
Tonight I'm sort of working, sort of reading, and watching The Sound of Music on TV. I don't understand about that movie--most of us, having seen it a hundred times, still can't tear ourselves away.

Looking Back at Life

I've been reading memoirs--one book and two manuscripts. The book, The $64 Tomato, by William Alexander, is a charming, gracefully written, wry account of how one man's vegetable garden--albeit a huge one--took over his life. Alexander recounts battles with fungi and his slip and slide down the hill away from his dream of organic gardening, his battles with animals, including deer and a groundhog he eventually named SuperChuck. Not content to grow beefsteak or other common varieties of tomatoes, he grew antique varieties, such as Brandywine--and you guess it, when he totalled up his expenses, he figured one tomato cost him $64. A herniated disc--and possibly just general disenchantment after years of backbreaking labor--eventually put an end to his career as a major gardener. The book is both amusing and a cautionary tale--and that's what memoirs should be.
At TCU Press, my usual reaction when a memoir is submitted is to reassure the writer that I know he or she has had an interesing life and explain as gently as possible that memoirs by persons without fame are a drug on the market. I usually suggest self-publishing on the internet for family and friends. Yet occasionally a manuscrpt rises above that, mostly because it has a special hook. The first manuscript I read was "Lost in Austin," wherein the author, a minister, uses the sense of dislocation prompted by a move from the Pacific Northwest to Austin as a metaphor for the dislocation that many of us feel in our daily lives--I dare say all of us if we're at all introspective. I had expected heavy concentration on the spiritual life, but there is none--he was at the time of writing a non-practicing minister and the book is firmly grounded in Austin. It's a good candidate for our press, because of the Texas angle and because it's cleverly written, but the author has written under a pseudonym, and I will have to convince him to change that. How can he promote a book anonymously?
The second memoir, "Mrs. Ogg Played the Harp," is by a woman minister in her fifties who, tired of being assistant minister in a large city church, answered a call to be the only minister at a small church in Dewey, Arizona. This one has much more reflection on the spiritual life as the author tries to figure out her beliefs, her relationship to God, what she believes and what she can say to her congregation. Woven into the narrative are strains of infidelity (her husband had an affair) and death (several parishoners die, and finally, her husband succumbs to leukemia).
But what struck me about this memoir has to do with adoption. The author has apparently carried through life a sense of failure because she was barren; her two children are adopted, and her relationship with her daughter, a Native American, has been anything but good. As a teen, the girl was a runaway, involved with drugs, all your nightmares. Yet late in the book they seem to have reconciled and recognized how they value each other.
As the mother of four adopted children and as a woman who also apprently could not get pregnant, I identified with this part of her story . . . sort of. I have those four wonderful children, with beautiful personalities as adults, and seven grandchildren--how could I possibly feel barren? Honestly my failure to give birth rarely gets a second thought--and when it does, it's usually gratitude that I got my kids the easy way. One of my children is of mixed race, but he, like his siblings, has never shown the desperate need to find his birth family that the memoir writer's daughter felt. Since my son travels often to Hong Kong, the city of his birth mother, I once asked if he liked to meet her and his family. His reply? He'd like to see them from a distance, but he doesn't really want to meet them
Memoir writing is a fine art--and only few can do it successfully. I've written a memoir cookbook, to be published next fall, but that didn't quite require me to come to grips with my life. Sometimes I think I should try--I have not only the story of the happy side of adoption to tell, but that of a lifelong battle with an axiety disorder, the joys and tribulations of a single parent, a career as author and publisher that while it hasn't made me rich and famous has given me great rewards other than monetary. (My friend Bobbie, whom the kids said "always told it like it was," once said to me, "Have you considered that you've had more success than most writers and you ought to be content with that?"--a good thought to ponder.) I may try that memoir--I've made notes about it--but maybe I'm afraid some publisher would say to me, "Why don't you self-publish for family and friends, dear?"

Christmas in the rearview mirror

I woke to an unpleasant surprise--a dead mouse, with either a missing or mangled head, on the family room floor. Wynona the cat has been doing his duty, but I doubt mice come in singles. I suspect it's time to have the attic treated again. It was another case of "there's no one else around to ask to do it," so I disposed of the critter. Wywy had by then totally lost interest.
I spent much of today beginning the process of getting my house back to normal--put away all the things from my trip to Houston, began taking down Christmas decorations (only began!). Then I decided to throw organizing the house into the mix--so I cleaned out the junk drawer in the bathroom, throwing away out-of-date medications. Next came the dishtowel, hand towel cupboard (a mess--threw away a lot of wrinkled paper napkins, etc.), and finally the freezer. Things look much better, but my closet is still to come--and if I can do something about the bookshelves in my office, I'll be really triumphant.
A digital camera was among my Christmas gifts, so I'm facing a steep learning curve. But I can't get the instructional CD to play--sounds like an omen that I'm electronically challenged. The camera and a lot of my other gifts, from shoes to a wallet, was special for my trip to Scotland this spring. I can always get my oldest granddaughter to help me. She understands the new technology. I emailed her and her sister today. They each have their own email address, which delights me. What five-year-old gets email? Those girls are such a mix of traditional and new. Maddie, at 8, goes easily from her American Girl dolls, which she adores, to computer games, at which she excels. What a wonderful combination.
I sense a lazy, cozy evening comiong on--scrambled eggs with that leftover bit of broccoli, the last Roma tomato, and a bit of cheese, sounds like the perfect supper. And then, maybe a mystery.

Christmas as a memory

Where to begin? It seems Christmas becomes a memory too quickly--but such a nice memory. I had sort of staggered visits with my family. Last Sunday Jordan, Christian, Jacob, and I drove to Kingwood, north of Houston, to stay with Colin, Lisa, Morgan (28 mos.) and Kegan (8 mos.). We had a marvelous time, mostly watching Morgan and Jacob in their love/hate relationship--she being more verbal than he gave a lot of orders, some of which he took and some of which he answered in Jacobspeak. We had great food and good visits. Lisa's parents arrived for Christmas Eve and we had Norwegian hamburgers--a tradition in their family that the Alters all love! Christmas morning was so hectic that about 3/4 of the way through the packages everyone sort of gave up and forgot about them, to my great puzzlement. Lisa's brother, his wife, and two sons arrived shortly thereafter and we all had the traditional turkey dinner, which was delicious.
The kids decided to walk to "the bridge to feed the turtles." Feeling housebound I went too. Big mistakes. I went in shoes not really meant for walking, and they walked too fast. I woke in the night barely able to put weight on my right foot. It is much better by tonight, so I guess it was a sprain/strain. But I hate the creeping signs of old age--and that's one of them!
Yesterday, Megan and family and Jamie and family all arrived about 3 p.m. The kids played outside, then inside, and it was noisy and wonderful. We ate leftovers--plus a newly cooked turkey--and had another round of present openings. There's something about the Alter clan--this was much noisier and out of control, until the youngest ones were wandering about kind of dazed. Megan and her family went back to Austin last night--a fact that made me realize how much she wanted to be with her family at Christmas (they'd stayed home because Ford, their youngest one, had croup and we all learned it's contagious).
So there you have it--lots of memories of kids being goofy, silly and sweet, of adults saying and doing goofy things (did someone really have sixtuplets? or were the kids "board"?) but lots of wonderful memories. When Colin told Edie (5 years old) to smile for the camera, she ran over and hugged me tight, and I had to say, "Colin, she's over here smiling." I am amazed at my grandchldren--they are unique individuals but also carbons of their parents. Everyone kept asking if I thought Kegan at 8 mos. looks like Colin, his daddy. Of course he does. He's a mirror image, and the same sort of placid, happy disposition. Edie, lean and lank at five, mirrors her skinny, beautiful mom, and Maddie, who can play equally happily with dolls or computers, is clearly Jamie's daughter.
I really put my cares behind me this trip (though I would always tell you nothing troubles me). But I had no balance problems (except Christmas Eve when we went out in the dark to put out reindeer food) and no shoulder aches--I wasn't carrying a book bag around all the time.
Did we miss the spiritual signifcance of the holday? Yes, in a truly devout sense, we did. There was no recognition of the theology behind Christmas that is important to me. Jamie asked if we went to church--but he knew the answer. But in the sense that this holiday, more than any other, brings families together, no. We got the most out of it--and to me that's important.

Too Busy to Blog

I've been having a Christmas whirl. Doesn't seem to me that has happened in years, but it has this year. My Christmas party was followed by dinner for neighbors--8 adults and 4 children. They only ate half the huge casserole I made--someone described it as Mexican lasagne, and maybe that's what it is. So I sent everyone home with doggy bags and will serve the casserole again for lunch on Saturday to four of us. The next night my good friends Betty and Jeannie and I had our annual Christmas gift exchange and dinner--hors d'oevres at my house, though the presentatio of a dab of this and a bit of that leftover was abyssmal. Still it tasted pretty good; dinner was appetizers at a wonderful upscale restaurant that we save for special occasions, and dessert--homemade chocolate chiffon pie--at Betty's . A lovely evening. Tonight my neighbor's parents took us to dinner at a local bistro that I really like, and I had two of my favorite foods--pate and white anchovies. Can't live much higher on the hog than that. Now my whirl is over, and I must get myself together for a trip to Houston that could be six or seven days. But this week has really impressed me with the blessings of friendship, and I am most grateful. Now I'm looking forward to time with family.
Work? What's that? I've been going to the office and accomplishing things there, but at home I haven't the concentration for all the projects on my desk--even though my conscience prods at me. I figure it's good to put things aside. Today I made a couple of phone calls to move one project ahead, looked at notes about another, and resorted to reading my mystery. Maybe I will learn, after all, to do nothing for 40 seconds (that's a joke now with Melinda and Susan) but probably it's just the season. After I get back from Houston I know I'll hit the ground running and feel I have way too much to do. I have three projects on my desk--rewrites on passenger ships, finishing the Great Texas Chefs manuscript, and beginning from scratch on the young-adult book on surgery. Sometimes January brings the blahs--but I don't see that in my future this year.
Is it just me, or is there more of an atmosphere of hope in the air this holiday season? I am encouraged that there is so much emphasis on going green and on changing the political climate in this country. This week, there was a Democratic victory in our state district that has sent a Republican to Austin for 30 years--to me, it's less about which party wins than about changing the rigidity of the current administration, state and national. I follow the national campaigns fairly closely and today read the first editorial that made me think possibly Obama might be the right candidate (I've been fairly convinced about Hillary). This editorial suggested that people without a political background are less vulnerable to the slings and arrows a president must endure and that Obama does not ratchet up hostilities but restrains them. He detests anger as a motivating force, and that alone is enough to make me think twice.
How did I get into talking about politics? I'm going bck to my mystery--it's P.D.James, slow to get into but then quite absorbing.