The Grandsons' Kisses

Two of my grandsons have decided to make a game out of not kissing Juju. Kegan, the youngest, was always a bit shy so I would send messages that I was saving up lots of kisses for the next time I saw him. He was patient and a bit stoic when I bestowed those kisses. The last time his family was here, as they prepared to leave, his mom and sister came and hugged me. Kegan stood by the desk with that sly grin he has and asked, “What?” He knew perfectly well we were all waiting for him to give me a hug and a kiss. I bluffed through it and got my love.

Jacob is another matter. When he was young, he would kiss anybody and everybody on the mouth. But he’s a fourth-grader now, doesn’t even like to be hugged in public. He hugs me when he comes in and when he leaves—often sort of a passive hug. But a kiss? Never. If I do score one on his cheek, he wipes it off with his hand.

The other day his other grandparents were here. Nana asked for a kiss, and he kissed her on the mouth. I said, “Jacob Burton!” and he came over, put an arm around me, and said, “You’re mad, aren’t you?” I said, “No, not mad. Just jealous.” He was quite affectionate the rest of the day and late that night when they were going home, I asked for a kiss and he kissed me on the mouth—didn’t even wipe it off. We joked about it with his dad, and I opened my arms and said, “Come here and let me hug you”-no kisses.

His older cousin, Sawyer, has always been a great kisser and at eleven continues to be. Sawyer’s younger brother, Ford, settles for hugs.

I don’t want my grandchildren kissing Coxey’s Army but I think it’s sad that somewhere along the way they lose that natural affection.  I think it’s because they become so conscious of what others are thinking. I was going to write that I thought perhaps we taught young boys ideas of masculinity that excluded affection, but I’m not sure that’s it. My granddaughters all give tight, loving hugs but they don’t kiss.

I guess it’s a function of growing up, not gender roles, but doesn’t fourth grade sound a little early? I’m always threatening to put a brick on their heads to keep them from growing. It earns me puzzled looks. I am so proud of the way all seven are growing and becoming, but a small part of me wants them to be toddlers forever.

Sorting through my life

Not my best photo, but this is how I spent much of the afternoon—sorting through boxes of clippings of book reviews and magazines articles I wrote in the ‘70s and ‘80s. Hungry to be a writer, I wrote about everything and anything. My bent for western history was evident in the book reviews, mostly for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram when Leonard “Sandy” Sanders was book editor—a glorious period of book reviews now long gone. My reviews are on crumbling yellow newsprint, but interestingly enough I attached my copy of the typewritten review to each—on a thin, onion-skin paper.

Then there were articles for a wide variety of publications—the Dallas Morning News had its own Sunday supplement called Scene, and I wrote often for them; many articles for the American Osteopathic Association magazines for lay readers called Health; a few for American Baby Magazine and some for a now defunct publication called Fort Worth Women. I was nothing if not eclectic.

These things will go to my archive at the Southwest Writers Collection, Texas State University-San Marcos. I wrote Steve Davis, curator, to say, “Are you sure you really want this stuff?” and he assured me they did. So when Jordan and I go to Austin in March, we’ll take them that far and arrange for pick-up. Maybe they’ll be an object lesson for some future writers. I am always surprise that the archive thinks I’m important enough to have my papers.

What surprises me about this collection is how wide-ranging my nonfiction was, how many publications I wrote for on what a variety of articles. It was my salad days and I guess I was anxious for any publication, but I think the training stood me in good stead and built the foundation for my later career.

I checked each magazine, discarding duplicates, being sure that I could find something I’d written. I gave Jordan one thick magazine and asked her to check for an article by me—she tired of it and went back to her phone. But she carried out the trash we discarded and loaded up two boxes for the archive. And she kept me company and served me wine. It was an eye-opening afternoon, revisiting things I’d almost forgotten.

And on a bright note, Jordan took this picture of my Valentine roses, which were delivered early for last night’s happy hour.

Big day for the Burton/Alter household

Christian, holding his award,
and a very proud Jacob

It’s been a secret for three weeks—especially from Christian—but today the Fort Worth Board of Realtors named him Affiliate of the Year at their annual awards luncheon. It essentially means that he has gone above and beyond to aid realtors, bring in speakers, offer events, and assist them in any way he could.

Christian had no idea the award was coming, let alone that his family would appear. But when the award was announced, Jordan, Jacob and Christian’s parents were ushered in. Jacob had on his brand new first blazer and was so proud. Christian said something about, “And there’s my family….and my son. What are you doing out of school?”

We had a celebration happy hour tonight—about 20 people. Jordan worked herself half to death but there were flowers and candles throughout the house and wonderful food—sandwich tray, tortilla roll-ups, cheese, veggies and hummus, and a gorgeous chocolate cake. We had toasts and cheers and pictures.

It was one of those days you get all geared up for and suddenly it’s over. As I write one couple and their daughter linger in the kitchen, but Jordan has it almost all cleaned up. As people left, they thanked me for hosting and I replied that it was all Jordan.

I do feel already like we live in a shared household—we are making the mental and emotional change gradually. People ask me if I’ve moved out back yet, and I’m astounded. The Bundocks are going to make their first sally to the city for a permit this week, the roofs aren’t repaired yet, and no construction has begun. Plus we have tons of sorting to do in the main house. Nope, folks, it will be a while. But I can feel things slowly working their way out, and I’m glad we can do this gradually.

Are you a feminist?

I thought I’d skip the blog tonight. An ordinary day, no news. All I did mostly was work on taxes. Moved ahead a bit on the big redo—the contractor will take the plans to the city this week and the bank verbally approved the loan when I have an estimate. A tech came to fix the alarm system which has persistently insisted that the back door is open when it’s not. Turns out rats have chewed on the wires. Worst part: the wires are under the flat roof, so there’s no way to get to them. The alarm tech has it all solved and will be back to fix it. And that’s how my day went.

Except I’m intrigued about all the sudden buzz about feminism and Hillary’s campaign and Madeleine Albright and someone else telling women they must vote for Hillary. I am really sorry we’re still fighting this battle fifty or more years after Betty Freidan’s breakthrough book. And yet I know we are. Some people are upset because Albright or someone in her camp was described as “scolding” women. The cry was that men never scold—it’s a diminutive applied only to women. On the other hand, Hillary has been criticized for her shrill, harsh voice. How’s the poor girl to win anything?

I like Hillary and will probably vote for her, but I resent being told I have to vote for someone on the grounds of gender. Does that mean if I were Republican I’d have to vote for Fiorina (a horrifying thought in my mind)? I’d like to see a woman as president, especially one as capable and experienced as Hillary, but I still think it’s important to vote for the person best qualified to lead the country. Gender isn’t the great qualifier. And I don’t like that it’s raising such an ugly head in this election. I don't think being a feminist--and I probably am, means I have to vote for a woman.

If we as women want equality, we have to show ourselves as being as capable as men.  I think in many instances women have done that and more. And we’ve come a long way, baby, since the early days of my adulthood and professional life—I know I have. But being female doesn’t make me qualified to be president. Vote your conscience folks, gender aside.

I can’t resist a snarky comment here: one of the main problems I see with the Republican clown car is that they all tend to marginalize women. Not what I want in a leader either.

What a lovely morning

 This morning, on a Sunday when I usually look forward to lounging and reading the paper, I was up at 7:00, ready to go at 8:15. Jacob was an acolyte in early church; friends were going to join us at church and then brunch. I decided it was all too important to miss by lounging in bed.

Jacob was solemn as he walked down the aisle with his—whatever you call the thing that lights the candles. But when the congregation stood for the recitation of the blessing, he looked at me, I smiled, and he smiled back. A wonderful Sunday morning gift. The rest of the service he had his solemn look on.

The friends with us were a longtime friend of Jordan’s, her fiancé, and her mother. We went to a local bistro, and I had a half order of delicious Eggs Florentine—the whole order is two eggs, but that was too much. And we had a great treat--beignets. Made me think of rice cakes I used to let “rise” with yeast on the counter overnight and then fry. I guess because they’re both New Orleans specials.

The highlight of the morning came when Julia’s fiancé said to Jacob: “I need two things. I need a cake guard, and I need an usher. Will you do those?” Jacob readily agreed, and I think he was pleased. At the June wedding, I’ll be sure my grandson escorts me down the aisle. As for guarding the cake, it struck me at first as asking the fox to guard the henhouse. But I know Jacob better than that. Given a responsibility he will do it.

Speaking of predators, there’s a lot of Facebook buzz about bobcats and coyotes in our area. I didn’t leave Sophie out long at all tonight. And may have to start standing guard when she is out. A friend lost a large feral cat to a bobcat, and I’ve been leery ever since.

Had a long nap until Soph decided it was time to wake me. She’d napped at the foot of the bed herself. But I was too warm and cozy to get up for a long time. I had planned an Italian tuna sandwich, complete with flavors I love such as pesto, anchovies, and capers—but suddenly it sounded, well, wrong. I wanted the comfort of creamed tuna. And oh my it was good. I once suggested Jordan make a white sauce and she fixed me with a withering look. But here’s how I did it for one:

Sauté a couple of scallions in one Tbsp. butter (I would have added celery but I didn’t have any). Add a Tbsp. of flour and stir to make a roux. Thin with white wine and a good dollop of sour cream. Add ½ a 7 oz. can of good white albacore tuna (maybe the other half will be that sandwich tomorrow). Salt and pepper to taste and serve on toast. I used the wonderful Parmesan bread I get from Central Market but its cheesy goodness got lost in the other flavors. An afterthought: I should have put in some frozen petite peas. But it was good.

Did some taxes this afternoon and can’t bear anymore. Am reading. Taxes tomorrow. Think I’m getting lazy.

Having fun with income taxes

Well, not really. I’ve spent the last two days sorting out information for my accountant. I know some people just dump it all on the accountant and let him/her do it, but I am too Scottish for that. I figure I save money by having it organized enough to complete the tax organizer. I also figure some things need explanation, and I keep track of those as I go along.

My taxes aren’t all that complicated, but there’s enough I can’t just file a short form. I have income from several sources—mostly small checks from various publishers, though a couple of distributors were pleasant surprises this year. I keep track of business expenses having to do with my writing and household expenses, because I have for years taken a home office deduction. It’s all too much for me to figure but I can organize—though I’m sure I miss some deductions here and there.

Today I did my business account. Did I really spend $216 for supplies at Staples in one trip? Turns out it was computer repair. And there was a check to a press I’d never heard of—found the invoice showing it was for a blog tour. This year I became an indie publisher and discovered, as many have, that I simply can’t do it all—so I hired an editor, formatter, webmaster, etc. And I began to do more advertising—found I spent an inordinate amount on Facebook ads which most authors say are useless. Must change the ceiling on my ads—though then you limit the people reached. I think it’s a pay-per-click system, so if you pay more it means more people clicked on your ad.

There are puzzling questions—what do I do with royalties that are below the level where the IRS requires a payer to file a 1099? I’m reporting them, but I generally just send the 1099s to the account to figure my royalties. And then there are odd expenses that fit nowhere—why did I spend $26 with Just Answer? And how did my hearing test get in with business expenses?

I’m not done by any means but I can see light at the end of the tunnel. Still, I quit for the night. Going to read some more of The Storied Life of A . J. Fikry and go to bed early—going to first church tomorrow.

Sweet dreams, everyone.

 

Food and trivia

I seem to go on food kicks from time to time. There are times when nothing appeals, and I really don’t want to eat. Unfortunately, there are also times when everything appeals, and I have to watch what I choose. Lately I’ve been eating high on the hog. Tonight I sautéed three sea scallops—good big fat ones—for myself and did it better than I ever have. I got a mix of butter and olive oil really hot in the skillet, put the scallops in, and didn’t disturb them for perhaps three or four minutes. Then flipped them and turned the heat down just a bit. Result was scallops with a wonderful brown crust on either side and still soft and tender inside. Perfection. My side dish was a salad of chopped tomato, avocado, and blue cheese, dressed with just a bit of lemon juice.

Yesterday I had lunch at Nonna Tata, a tiny restaurant (six tables plus outdoor seating) specializing in country Italian. It’s one of the places where I always order the same thing—brasaola, the beef version of prosciutto. It served with greens and grated grana cheese, all dressed in a light lemony sauce. So good.

The night before I split a crab cake sandwich with dining pal Betty—wonderful though a bit hard to eat so we both resorted to knife and fork. Jacob was with us and ordered his usual noodles and cheese at the Tavern. He had complained that much as he liked it, the serving wasn’t large enough, so I ordered a side of black beans, which he usually loves. No surprise—the mac and cheese filled him up, and I have the beans in the fridge. I told my brother he must be on my mind because when I mean to say, “Let’s go to the Tavern,” I often say, “Let’s go to the ranch.”

And the day before that, Subie and I had a fancy lunch at Ellerbe’s—a gorganzola and wild mushroom quiche with a salad of I don’t know what kind of greens, but they had a great dressing.

Enough of my gastronomical tour. Today I made real progress on my taxes, which made me feel good enough to be lazy tonight. What I had anticipated as a day alone at home didn’t turn out that way—Socorro Escobar was here cleaning the house and chattering about how dirty it was after our weekend cleaning: Jordan came by and we went to Central Market.

The grandmother of one of Jordan’s longtime friends died Wednesday. Jordan and the granddaughter have been friends at least since middle school, and that family considers Jordan a part of them. So tonight she was involved in taking her friend’s sons to the visitation, then bringing them back here, then taking all the boys to the family dinner. Every time she popped in (three times I believe) we had a glass of wine. I shall have to go to bed early. She will be involved with the funeral, graveside ceremony, and family gatherings all day tomorrow, but I won’t be surprised to see her pop in. That’s how my life goes, and I couldn’t enjoy it more.

Tomorrow more income tax work, but at least I see the light at the end of the tunnel.

 

Family ties

My brother and sister-in-law came today to pick up the things we found that he should have from all the things we sorted out last weekend. It was another moment of family bonding. My brother is six-and-a-half years older than me, and we share the same mother but his father died when he was two. Still we grew up together. My memory of him when I was young was that he was always my protector. Woe to any kid who tried to pick on me. John went away to military school in high school, then to college and a career in the Navy. We really didn’t reconnect until he went to osteopathic medical school in Kirksville MO and declared that I, living at home and recovering from a broken heart, needed to get out of our childhood home. I went to live with him and his then-wife in Kirksville. In retrospect that says to me that he was still looking after me.

Flash forward maybe fifteen years and we were both in Fort Worth TX, both married, and both heavily involved in the osteopathic community. Then he divorced, followed by me, and our lives took different paths, and we had what I would call a testy relationship for a few years—close but with undercurrents. Now, in our “golden” years (he says we’re fragile), we are close. We don’t see each other often but we talk. Today was a special occasion—they came to visit in my house, drink wine, and prowl through our memories.

We had put aside Blue Willow china for him—he ended up taking it for my niece and for himself the heavy Appalachian pottery my kids didn’t want. He took, at my suggestion, a painting that hung over the fireplace in our childhood home, a couple of cookbooks Cindy wanted, and a framed quote from Owen Wister: “The West is dead, my friend. . . .” I think the things he most treasured were battered small photos of our maternal grandparents—he remembers them and I don’t, a small journal our mother kept when he was a toddler and his father died. He kept saying, “I’m very pleased” and “Thank you.” If I’d known how happy these things would make him, I would have given them earlier—then again I didn’t even know that Mom’s journal was in the attic.

Two articles remain in limbo—the tea table given to my folks when they married and a wonderful small wooden footstool. My kids love the sit on the low stool in front of the fire, and the tea table is an occasional table in my living room. Mom used to roll it into the living room, in front of the fire, for casual Sunday suppers.

We had a lovely visit. Jacob is in awe of Uncle John and even let him treat his injured wrist—must have worked because Jacob left the brace behind when he went home.

I am glad to share these things with family who will treasure them, but I am going to live with gaping holes on my walls where art work has disappeared. If I entertain, it will be with my everyday china, because other sets of china are gone. I am ready to move into my new quarters and let the Burton branch of the family move into the main house. We are making progress-got the architect’s elevations two days ago. It’s exciting to be moving ahead, bit by tiny bit.

But still, it’s all an emotional time.

Parenting and the cozy mystery

Several reviewers have questioned my choice of a single mother of two as the heroine of the Kelly O’Connell Mysteries. Kelly, a realtor/renovator, has two daughters, ages four and six, in the first book of the series, Skeleton in a Dead Space. By book six, Desperate for Death, the girls are a teen and pre-teen. Traditionally heroines of cozies are single women, often involved in a romance which provides a subplot. And they don’t have children. Some reviewers who objected to this change in the status quo found themselves liking the books, for which I am grateful.

Putting those girls in the novels was not a conscious decision. It just seemed to come naturally, perhaps because I was the single parent of four—and now am, though they’re all in the forties. My oldest daughter explained the book to her mother-in-law ass ‘highly autobiographical.”

This morning I sort of figured out why—parenting is what I’ve been doing my whole life and still am. Nine-year-old Jacob wasn’t awake five minutes before he complained that his stomach really hurt. I told him to move around and eat a banana. He did, but called his mother and said he felt worse than the time he had to cancel being an acolyte at church. She told him to lie on the couch for a bit.

All this on a day when I had gotten up extraordinarily early to get both of us out the door at eight o’clock. I had visions of cancelling my PT appointment and lunch date—the first of which would have relieved me and the second disappointed me. After lying not on the couch but on the big chair in my room, he declared he didn’t feel any better.

Me: Jacob, if you can’t go to school, no TV or iPad.

Jacob: I’m grounded from the iPad anyway.

After a pause, he asked: What would I do?

Me: I guess lie on the couch, read a book, and sleep.

Jacob, after another pause: Juju, I am going to school. I just may be a little late.

Me: No, darling. I have to leave at eight for an appointment.

Jacob, startled: I guess I better go get dressed.

He was soon dressed and out the door, probably ten minutes earlier than he’s ever gotten to school before. And with a cheerful disposition.

Tonight he’s sure he fractured his wrist. I told him probably not and gave him an ice pack.

See? That’s why I include children. I know how to weave them into a story. I hope you like Maggie and Em of the Kelly O’Connell Mysteries. I think they’re pretty darn cute and fun for their ages.

Iowa and politics

 I didn’t sleep well last night. I was in the midst of the Iowa caucus all night, though I have no idea what I was doing. But I have been fascinated by the rhetoric and conflict leading up to this evening’s vote…and just now I saw on TV that Hillary is ahead of Bernie by a close one point, too close to call, but Cruz, with much lower numbers, leads Trump by three points and is the projected Republican winner. Marco Rubio is in a close third. Those are the “big name” candidates, the competitions that matter. And while I’m scared to death of Ted Cruz, I’m not displeased with the Democratic numbers. I was prepared to support either one of the two leading candidates. And I really like Martin O’Malley, who only got 1% of the vote. He’s made a lot of sense in the debates. He is expected to end his campaign tonight.

I read posts on Facebook today from people who were sick to death of hearing about Iowa and some who said, boastfully, that they hadn’t watched a single debate or caucus. I find that sad, because I think it’s the duty of every responsible citizen to keep informed and vote. The person who hadn’t watched a single caucus obviously doesn’t understand that Iowa is the only state that caucuses and it’s not something you watch, like a debate. An uninformed, uninterested citizenry is why we have most of the inept people in government that we do—no names mentioned, but I have strong personal opinions. I don’t care however how you vote—please just vote. (Okay, I care, but that’s not the point here.)

I went to college in a small (read really small) town in Iowa for two years and went back to the University of Chicago and home because insularity and 3.2 beer were too much for me. The only good thing I took away from Iowa was the notion of turkey sandwiches and blue cheese. It strikes me as strange, after fifty years or so, that Iowa, with its rural culture, looms so large on the political scene. But maybe that’s the reason—Iowans still tend to be close to the earth people with simple needs. I like the farmer I heard saying on TV that Hillary’s emails didn’t matter one bit to him—he was interested in what she would do for the ordinary citizen like himself.

So here we go, folks, into a campaign that’s liable to be as bitter and vitriolic as any in memory. Keep your hats on and your judgment clear. And, please vote! In the last presidential election, almost two-thirds of the eligible population didn’t vote because “my vote doesn’t matter.” It does.