A somber day of remembrance

Reminders of 9/11 have been everywhere today—on the TV and radio, in the newspapers, on Facebook, and in our hearts. As if we could ever forget, we have seen a barrage of photos of the horror and heard again first-person survivor accounts. In some ways I think the most eloquent tribute came from a friend who said she would post no pictures of planes or towers but simply say that the best way to honor those who died is to vow to respond in love, not hate, and to build bridges, not bombs. We will never forget.

But we have forgotten the sense of unity that brought the country together in the aftermath of that horrible, unbelievable day. People sensed that we were all in this together, and they reached out to each other. Since then, we have become, perhaps more than in decades, a people divided by race, religion, gender, origin. We have been manipulated by fear, instead of, as we did that day, vowing to stand up for our country and our fellow countrymen. We have forgotten that America is a melting pot. I pray to God that we can recover that sense and work together in brotherhood.

Son-in-law Christian came in tonight for a glass of wine with Jordan, me, and a neighbor. He proposed a toast to all who had lost their lives that day and we observed a moment of silence.

Although I have had enough of those fear-inspiring pictures, I have to say that my favorite picture of the day was of the sixteen-year-old Labrador, the oldest surviving rescue dog who participated in the mission to save people at the World Trade Towers. I hear he was treated to a plane ride, a limousine, a suite, and a hot dog for dinner. Love it!

My favorite story to come out of the horror came from a flight attendant on a plane headed to the US when they were told air space was closed and to land at the nearest airfield. They landed at Gander, Newfoundland, along with over 50 other planes. Gander, a town of 10,000 some, suddenly had an equal number of refugees on their hands. Towns within a radius of 75 kilometers opened schools and other public building for shelters; the elderly were housed in private homes, as was one very pregnant woman who was in a home directly across from a medical clinic. The people cooked for their guests and took them on tours. By the time, the passengers were able to leave Gander, they had bonded into one big family. And it was all amazingly organized—all passengers returned to their correct planes.

Those are wonderful stories to come out of a horrific event. Let’s all take them to heart and practice the same kind of humanity in our daily lives—especially in this contentious election season.

Blessings to all.

Nine-year-olds, school, and clearing out for remodeling

Today started off brilliantly as I sailed into the ophthalmologist’s office for my 9:30 appointment. Only trouble is the appointment is at 8:40 tomorrow. Subie had dropped me off so I wouldn’t have to drive home with dilated eyes—when I called her she laughed aloud and said the cleaning she went to pick up wasn’t ready either. “I hope this isn’t an omen for the day.” It wasn’t for me, except that I forgot to take my purse off my shoulder before unfastening my seat belt to get out of the car and got thoroughly tangled.

This afternoon I had not four but two nine-year-olds—much easier. They spent their time outside decimating the reptile population. Caught a lizard, a gecko and a small snake. Baird, our guest, apparently knows a lot about nature, so it was a good learning experience for Jacob. Baird has a brother and lives on a street with lots of kids, so he spends his afternoons outdoors compared to Jacob who, unless he brings someone home, has no one around and comes in and does homework and watches TV. So it was a good afternoon. Baird took the snake home, and Jacob kept the gecko and lizard in a plastic bag with grass and stuff, with air holes punched in it. His mom said via phone that no, it was staying at Juju’s which caused me some indignation. But a few minutes ago, Jacob told me he let the creatures go, and I praised him. Baird apparently has terrariums for his finds, and Jacob is welcome to go visit them.

I talked to another mother from Jacob’s class about the flipped classroom. My daughter-in-law, Lisa, explained this to me—she teaches 7^th grade math. The kids take home a video which is essentially the lecture the teacher would have given. Then the next day they do the homework resulting from that video, with the teacher right there to explain, correct, and help. Sounds like a wonderful plan to me.

Jacob, my picky eater, had two hot dogs, two helpings of chips, an entire broccoli crown, and a chocolate brownie for supper. I asked if I could check to see if his leg is hollow, and he replied, “At least I ate.” Find the things that kid likes, and he eats a ton. He came home from camp telling me proudly he’d learned to eat hamburgers—but I’ve seen no evidence of it since.

The evening settled down into spelling and reading, and I began work on the bathroom. At least I have a better grasp of what I need to do, but it is work best done in the early morning when my back feels good. I did make a start on the medicine chest and sort of line up what needs to be done in my mind. Not many free mornings to work on it between now and the dismantling. I’m beginning to see the enormity of this whole thing.

A Kick in the Pants

Bathroom as it looks today
Not tided up for a picture
Note the wonderful beveled mirror--it stays

Sometimes we need a kick in the pants to jolt us out of our self-absorption. Just got the call I’ve been waiting for—they will start tearing out my bathroom next week. Means I’ll spend the weekend hauling stuff out, sorting and purging, putting what I need in the small half/bath. I’ll have to learn to go to that bath in the middle of the night, adjust my whole pattern. Then, when they tear the kitchen apart, I won’t be able to cook, etc. The contractors, Bundock Construction, have kept this house running for over twenty years, and the assure me we're not doing this for resale value--we're doing it to give me a safe bathroom. Tub goes away, and I'll have a walk-in shower.

We are keeping the built-ins
so typical of a house the age of mine

Suddenly I feel all this will energize me, push me out of my lingering depression over my foot and leg. I spend too much time wondering if I hurt because I don’t walk or I don’t walk because I hurt. I know many have much more severe pain and worse problems than I can even imagine, and I’m looking forward to a doctor’s appointment Monday, hoping for diagnostic as well as therapeutic effects. But meantime, this has given me a great sense of optimism.

Big problem: keeping the dog safely corralled with all the workmen coming in and out of the house—and keeping the house reasonably clean as they cart out tile and spread dust everywhere. It’s going to be an experience and a challenge, just what I need.

Also keeping the wonderful old
medicine chest and
the relatively new sink

I’ve heard that rats don’t like commotion. In fact, I read a post that said to just bang on the ceiling if you hear rats in your attic. I think I have them—again!—because Sophie stands in the hallway and barks at the ceiling. So I’m counting on the construction commotion top chase them away. A side benefit you might say.

I probably won’t get much writing done, but who knows? With all the commotion, I may just retreat to my office, and with the renewed energy, write an entire novel while they redo my bathroom. But how will I get my afternoon nap?

For distraction this afternoon, I had four screaming nine-year-old boys—chaos! They didn’t want snacks, just wanted water, and I left them in the family room (or whatever we’re calling it these days) with frequent trips to check. At one point, Jacob told me, “Juju, we’re having a boy talk.” I asked if that meant I should leave and he said yes. Of course, when Jordan got here, they were starving—ended up eating cheese toast and hot dogs.

Ended the day with a nice supper with Betty at Fixture—we split nachos with brie and cranberry salsa and truffle mac and cheese—an odd combination but good. Because there seemed to be a breeze, we ate outside (much easier on my ears) which was pleasant. Then the rain came, at first gentle and then fairly steady, and everything turned steamy and hot.

They promise a cold front tonight—I thought it was last night.

Ho, hum! Just another day

Ho, hum! The day after Labor Day and not much is new. A huge crowd greeted Kim Davis when she got out of jail, hailing her as a martyr for religious freedom. To me, the most interesting thing about that is that both Mike Huckabee and Ted Cruz were on hand to greet her, and Huckabee managed to body block Cruz out of the publicity. No small trick that. One of the Republican candidates (who can keep them straight?) is saying that the killing of a Houston-area law enforcement officer is directly the fault of President Obama. Why not? He’s been blamed for everything else. Dick Cheney is pushing for war with Iran but meanwhile some country is about to indict him—and Halliburton—for bribery. Donald Trump claims his prestigious prep school was every bit as hard as Vietnam—that ought to win him the veteran vote. See? Nothing changes.

Locally the big news is an expected wet cold front. I may wait up until two a.m. to see if it really arrives. Early September is soon for a permanent cool down but a little relief will be nice.

Busy day—breakfast with the Book Ladies, who sometimes talk about books and lots of the time don’t. They’ve been doing that for at least twenty years, probably more, and I look forward to those monthly meetings—and treating myself to an egg on buttered toast. Supposed to go to lunch with my former colleague and now good friend Melinda, but she was overwhelmed with a project—so I offered her lunch at home. Nice to know I can whip together a pretty, ladylike luncheon with little planning. We had chilled salmon (out of the can but that good kind I order from the Northwest) on a bed of lettuce, with cherry tomatoes and hard-boiled eggs, potato salad from last night, and cantaloupe and raspberries. Looked pretty and tasted delicious. For supper, I went to pick up Phil and his dog, since Subie wasn’t going, and we met the neighbors at the Grill. I had my heart set on a loaded baked potato—but they didn’t have any! So I ordered cheese grits—who knew they had peppers in them? The conversation and laughter made up for my lightweight dinner—which was probably good for me.

Jordan and Christian are down to one car again, so she will take mine in the morning. A good plan because it forces me to stay home and work.

A friends asked me the other day what I was looking forward to—a trip, a special event? I said not really anything—Christmas is too far away to think about. Maybe that’s why today seems humdrum—I need some anticipation!

Sweet dreams, y’all!

The Treasure of Neighbors

My close circle of neighbors celebrated Labor Day today with the traditional potluck cookout. Turned out to be a farewell party for my grill, which the gentlemen—who did the grilling—declared was on its last legs. I told Jay I wanted my hamburger rare, and he said he didn’t think they could do it any other way. Failing or not, the grill—and the men gathered around it—produced some mighty tasty burgers. We had cole slaw, ranch beans, potato salad, all the fixings for burgers, and rich brownies for dessert. A fitting end to summer.

But more important we were all gathered together. I love these people and feel so supported and loved by them. We are a motley crew, ranging in age from nine-year-old Jacob—who goes off and does his own thing—to David Halbower who is in his nineties. Although not neighbors, my daughter, son-in-law and Jacob are always included in the group, as is a former neighbor and her partner—new since the days she lived next door to me. The group includes Jay, who calls himself my other son because neither of my sons live here and he’s the one I call on often to do boy chores; Greg, who keeps my yard and lawn respectable and has a fine sense about plants—to Greg, you never pull a plant out as long as its green; if it’s a weed, it becomes compost. His wife, Jaimie, a wonderful cook, complains that he thinks everything becomes compost. Christian is always ready to do small chores, and I realize I can no longer do big groups without Jordan’s help.  She’s the most efficient hostess I know—but, hey, look where she learned. Subie and Phil are longtime friends returned to FW after a 20-year absence, and I am so glad to have them back and in the neighborhood. Sophie is glad when they visit, because they bring two labs—Phil’s relatively new seeing-eye dog and the one who retired last winter. Santiago is too old to play but wants constant tummy rubs; Porter will run and play with Sophie, and she ends up exhausted. Sue calls me her Fort Worth mom since her mom lives in Ottawa, Canada, and I have fallen in love with Teddy, her love. These people help me keep my house running and my spirits up, all with a lighthearted banter and teasing—and sometimes more household advice than I need.
When they’re all together, I can’t hear any conversation, and I sort of sit back and smile at them, like a benevolent old lady—good gravy! Is that what I’ve become?

I realized again tonight the benefits of potluck—I only had to make potato salad, put out plastic plates and flatware and glasses—yes, we recycle. Everyone takes their own dishes home. Easy peasy, especially with Jordan keeping up with the kitchen as she goes. Kudos to Jay for seasoning the hamburgers and to Christian for cooking them. A lovely evening.

And thanks to all these wonderful people for keeping me in their midst. I’m in awe of my blessings.

My get-up-and-go has went

I planned all along for a quiet day at home today. I talked to the Lord about it and asked his forgiveness for not going to church. I needed a day without challenges, a day when I could sit and my desk and work, not feeding people, not having to meet deadlines or the end of the school day or be somewhere at a certain time. A day when I could be me.

But even with that comforting plan in mind I was surprised at my lack of energy this morning. I told myself I’d water the plants later—it’s 9 p.m. and I haven’t done it yet. I did go out and get the Sunday paper—which no longer takes a satisfying hour to read. After the paper, Facebook and email, I planned to dig into the novel I have halfway written. I suddenly can see the overall arc of the story and some stunning (well, I think they are!) scenes to add.

Bt my day didn’t quite work out that way. Morning household chores took longer than I thought—though now I can’t even recall what they were except watering house plants and folding the cleaning rags I’d washed. Back at my desk, I finished uploading the formatted manuscript for Murder at Peacock Mansion to Amazon’s CreateSpace—the print division. That was a major accomplishment. Yesterday I’d spent too many hours on it, only to find out that CreateSpace doesn’t like Explorer and I had to do it in Google Chrome.

Then a friend asked if she could send me her manuscript to read for tense changes. I at first put her off because I couldn’t meet her deadline—this Friday. She stretched it a bit, and I said sure. She sent it immediately, and there went my day. I was absolutely hooked. I should say this is a writer with a major reputation for both cozy mysteries and historical fiction—I can’t tell you the project, because it is too far yet from publication, but I will when appropriate because I am absolutely engaged. I am also learning from her about the process of self-publishing like the big guys. I fear I have a long way to go, but in my defense I will say she has an agent and she doesn’t upload her own manuscripts—the agent does that for her.

Took time out during the day—in bits and spurts—to make potato salad for ten for tomorrow night’s potluck cookout with my neighbors. It will be here, of course, so I’m doubly grateful that Jordan is back from Alaska and will help me. I did get out plastic plates and flatware and napkins but other than the potato salad (which was a big chore) I have done nothing to prepare. Not sure what else I need to do.

A word about the potato salad—it’s the County Line recipe (all over the internet). I first tasted it at a relative’s wedding celebration and truthfully, I made a pig of myself I ate so many helpings. It has a ton of dill pickle relish in it, which I would tell you I don’t like, but it is so addictive. Look it up online. For an expected ten people, I made half a batch.

So that was my day—a pleasant one, my energy and enthusiasm returned, and I expect to be, as a good friend says, “back at myself” tomorrow. But it sure was a nice day—with good leftovers in the fridge for my lunch and supper.

I don't give a fig...or maybe I do

Another part of summer almost passed me by—the deliciousness of figs. There’s a bit of history here. When my parent retired to North Carolina, they had a huge row of fig bushes, so tall we used to put my oldest son on the top of our van too pick the fruit from the top. Mom served them many ways—I especially remember stewed—and I didn’t much think I cared for them.

I have a fig bush tucked away in a corner of the house in the back yard. For years, it bore a little fruit—not much but a little. And the birds and squirrels usually beat me to the figs before they ripened. One years it was an infestation of rats. My daughter was sitting on the deck, late at night, and asked, “Do you hear that squeaking?” I said I did, and she said, “It’s rats.” I dismissed it—what did she know about rats? Turned out she was right—they would boldly steal figs in front of us, or we’d see them running in the trees at night. My friend Elizabeth, who lived in the garage apartment for a while, would look out and see them frolicking in the yard in mid-day. Once one fell out of a tree and missed Elizabeth’s wine glass by inches. By the time I called an exterminator, the figs were gone. Now, the tree doesn’t bear—maybe it was the trim it got last year or the year before, and maybe it’s the fact that it’s tucked away in the shadiest corner and gets no sun. I stopped worrying—or thinking—about figs.

Until a few days ago the newspaper had a recipe for fig salad with gorgonzola toast. I decided to make it for a Saturday night dinner guest. The same night I found the recipe, my friend Gayla came to pick up her new dog and took me for an elegant dinner that included a fig and grilled plum salad—divine!

So tonight I fixed the recipe—it called for making a dressing of figs with balsamic vinegar, olive oil, Dijon, salt and pepper—and water if it was too thick. Next time I think I’d forego the dressing and just use a light vinaigrette. But the combination of figs and gorgonzola toast was magic. We had also fixed ourselves a sort of chacuterie/antipasto platter—salami, cheese, chopped liver, deviled eggs. But I was full from the salad. Lots of leftovers for tomorrow.

I’m sad that figs are going out of season just when I discovered how wonderful they are.

Where Has Summer Gone?

Is it Indian summer yet? Somehow I can’t shed my summer afternoon sleepiness. The last two days, Jacob went home with buddies, and I came home, fresh from a nap, and promptly went back to bed. Today I slept at least another hour.

Somehow this summer I seem to have forgotten how to do Texas summers. Now that it’s almost over—Labor Day marks the unofficial end for most of us—I’m back in the swing of things. I’ve always, every summer, watered my porch plants first thing. This year, my coleus (I have a shady porch) spoke to me in no uncertain terms about its need for water. Jordan would come by in the late afternoon and stop to water before she came in the house. Finally, about the first of August, I got in the swing of things and watered every morning. Yesterday because of an appt. that required an early departure, I forgot. By evening one coleus in particular looked pitiful—though this morning when I went out to water it had perked up a bit.

Usually in summer, my front porch and the windows in the family room are alive with geckos. This summer, my theme song is “Where have all the geckos gone?” I did finally see on fat little translucent fellow on the window in the family room. When it’s dark and the outdoor lights are on, their little bodies are translucent. Once I had a gecko in my bathroom—every morning when I sat on the commode, he’d come out to visit. I miss him, and I can’t help wondering if the disappearance of geckos is like the threat to bees—due to all those pesticides we use.

Another summer thing I forgot—fruit salads, with all the wonderful summer fruits. I’m not much on watermelon but I love a good, sweet cantaloupe, with halved strawberries, sliced peaches, blueberries, and sliced bananas. Yet, it’s only been the last two or three weeks that I’ve made fruit salads, and I noticed this weekend that the blueberries were sometimes a little tart. I never put raspberries in salads because they’re fragile and tend to get overwhelmed—besides I hide them in the back of the fridge for myself. I don’t buy mango either, as it’s so hard to cut up and the already cut-up fruit in the grocery tends to be under-ripe. But I’ve let the best pf summer foods slip by except for corn on the cob.

In the spring it was usually too wet to be on the deck; then it was too hot. We’ve gotten no use out of it since early spring, and I’m hoping fall will bring deck weather. Jacob suggested tonight he’d like to get rid of the table and chairs so it could be a play deck. Not likely. Weather had also prevented me from putting the top down on my convertible, though that’s no unusual for Texas summers. Lately, I can tell summer is beginning to leave because if I have to go somewhere early, I drive with the top down—it has a lovely, soothing effect.

Will I miss summer? Not the heat, nor the drought that is back upon us. But the fruits and vegetables and the light summer meals? Those long afternoon naps and lazy days in which I still got a lot done? Yes, I’ll miss those.

But the October’s bright blue skies are pretty neat. And I have some fall flowers about to bloom in my front yard.

 

 

Happy Endings

Happy endings

September 3, 2015

My dog story from two days ago so far has a happy ending, though I’m waiting for the final word. My friend Gayla headed to Fort Worth from College Station Wed. afternoon, got about an hour out, and the dog’s owner called to say they’d made the decision to give up the dog in haste and she couldn’t go through with it. So Gayla headed back to CS, but half an hour later, the owner called back and said she’s talked to the vet, the trainer, and her husband, and they all agreed it was the right decision and she would just have to be brave.

So Gayla arrived in Fort Worth and headed over there a little before six, with anxiety in her mind and worry in her heart. One of her parting comments was, “What if I don’t fall in love with him?” She was gone about an hour and came back to report that all was well. She asked lots of questions, they offered lots of information, and she even walked Uno on a leash. At one point the baby was crawling toward the dog’s tail, and Gayla scooped him up. She said both parents were alarmed, and it was clear the dog and baby couldn’t co-exist easily. Everyone would be on alert, and the baby wouldn’t get to crawl and explore as he should. And, yes, Gayla fell in love with Uno.

After she came back, we headed out for a fancy dinner at Clay Pigeon. I had my usual—bone marrow—accompanied by a terrific fig and grilled plum salad. So glad I decided to make fig salad for a guest this weekend. Gayla had grilled duck breast and shared a bit with me—wonderful. After declaring it was enough food for an army, she ate the whole thing. We felt full, happy, and just a bit sophisticated.

This morning she was off before eight to pick up Uno and drive to College Station, full of thoughts about separation anxiety and escape artist dogs and all the rest. I’m sure it will all be fine, but I am anxious for a report tonight. She plans to stay home from work at least through Monday to help Uno adjust—though she insists she may call him Frankie.

Report tonight is that Uno was a good traveler though a bit nervous, likes his new home especially because of all the wildlife--deer, squirrels, and other critters that he can watch through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He may have some adjustment time, probably will, but he's off to a good start. And so is Gayla.

Small world came to hit me today: the husband in the dog family went to school with at least two of my kids--both high school and TCU. And then I was talking to an officer at my bank about the best way to finance my remodeling, and it turns out her family lived just around the corner from us when my children were little, and she graduated high school with my oldest son. There’s no six degrees of separation in Fort Worth. Gayla said to me, “You really do live in a small neighborhood, don’t you?” and I agreed. It’s one of the blessings of my life. Of course, these people wouldn’t have known me if it weren’t for my children.

Gratitudes for small successes--or maybe not so small

Today was a different kind of day. That pesky “Check Engine” light on my car had been staring at me for a week, so I finally decided it wouldn’t go away by itself and took the car in. My local car repair shop couldn’t do anything, because the VW people have the computers and equipment to check, and of course they found several niggly naggly things—a purge clamp which necessitated resetting the engine, a headlight out with the harness also burnt out, and torn air pump mounts, whatever that means.

In the meantime I drove home in a 2015 4-door Volvo—lovely and comfortable, and I could probably get very used to it. But I couldn’t change the FM station (it was on a sports station) and when I got back in it, I couldn’t figure out how to increase the a/c fan. I was glad to get back into my bug late this afternoon, even if those niggly naggly things cost over $800. Yikes!

Jacob and I came home from one excitement to another—we went to interview a dog. Years ago my friend Gayla in College Station wanted a dog, and I knew of a collie that needed a home. She asked me to interview the dog—how do you do that? She came up, got the dog, and it was a love match made in heaven. Then Gayla’s neighbor died and she took in Jake, a collie/Aussie mix, who was equally beautiful, loved, and sweet. She lost Eppi a couple of years ago and Jake in May and is finally ready for a dog.

Serendipity: on the neighborhood email this morning, a family was reluctantly giving up their dog because he growled at their infant. He is otherwise the perfect dog—trained, sweet, up to date on shots and flea and tick medication, neutered, comes complete with crate and toys. Jacob, Jay and I went to visit this afternoon and fell in love with him—absolutely a sweetheart. Upshot of all this is Gayla will come tomorrow afternoon and hope to spend some time with Uno (so named because one ear flops and the other stands straight up), then we’ll go to supper, and Thursday morning she’ll take Uno back to College Station. I love stories that work out this way.

Dinner at the Old Neighborhood Grill with neighbors was almost anticlimactic, except Jacob forswore the grilled cheese for the first time ever in favor of a cheese quesadilla.

I read somewhere that having a positive attitude relies on gratitude, and we should practice a month of gratitude for the little things in our lives. I may try it—no I won’t burden you with each gratitude—but tonight I’m grateful for the story of Uno.