Diets…and education

Okay, friends and followers, I find that some of you need a bit of education. A good friend was bringing me lunch today, and she called to confirm. She was bringing split pea soup, one of my favorites and something I would never make for myself. So when she called, I told her I was really looking forward to it and asked her to just be sure there was no dairy anywhere in it. I felt safe about that—how could there be dairy in split pea soup?

Dairy? She asked. “I thought it was gluten you couldn’t eat.” It’s a common misconception, too common. The gluten-free diet has become almost a fashion trend in recent years. For a while it seemed to me every third person I met was on a gluten-free diet. For a while, a good friend lived in my garage apartment who was gluten- and dairy-free. Cooking for her was a challenge but I often did it because I enjoyed the fellowship. I remained a skeptic, and it does amuse me that today she has let go of those dietary restrictions and seems no worse for it.

But in the meantime I developed food intolerances and have gone from skeptic to firm believer. So here it is: gluten is a protein found in wheat and related products. There are of course many theories about why more people today are gluten-sensitive but one that makes sense to me is that wheat etc. today has been super-bred to make the wheat stronger and more durable…and hence more people are sensitive. I on the other hand can eat wheat with freedom-problem there is I’m not a bread eater.

Lactose on the other hand is a product of dairy, though I can’t explain the complicated chain of chemistry. But it affects people who are intolerant in a variety of ways—in my case, about six hours later it causes galloping diarrhea. You can imagine I’m anxious to avoid it. And I’m still learning: last night a waiter cautioned me against fried chicken because they dip it in buttermilk. The dairy-free taco soup a friend brought? It had Hidden Valley ranch dressing—dehydrated dairy products. You never know where you’ll find dairy lurking, and it’s a continuing education project.

Meantime, I grieve for blue cheese, cottage cheese, Manchego, all the things I loved. Do you suppose I o.d. on them, as I did thirty years ago on shrimp? Or is it simply, as my doctor says, an aging thing—as we grow older, our gut grows less tolerant. There it is again—that aging thing!

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Where’s your safety pin?

I had been searching in my mind for some clever internet campaign that would contribute to the idea of countering hatred with love and kindness—and along came the safety pin campaign. I wish I’d thought of it, because it’s a terrific idea.

If you wear a safety pin, you say without words to people you meet, “I’m here for you. You’re safe with me.” A lot of Americans are living in terror right now, bone-shaking, gut-clenching terror that makes them cower and dread. Muslims, Jews, women, gays, African-Americans, Latinos—any of the target groups of Trump-style hatred. I hear for instance that the director of immigration—whatever his correct title—is preparing plans to begin deportations the first day of the Trump presidency. Imagine for a moment you’re a Latino born in this country but your aged parents are illegal, though they’ve paid taxes and been contributing citizens for years. That my friends is terror. Or the Saudi who was beaten to death because his skin was the wrong color…or the gay beaten within an inch of his life. Remember that poem, “First they came for the socialists….” It seems unbelievable but it can happen to any of us.

So wear your safety pins. Show those living in fear that you support them and are there for them. It’s not your call whether or not you think the fear is justified. To those suffering from it, it’s very reeal.

I like the story behind this current safety pin campaign. It originated in the Netherlands during Nazi occupation when people did not dare speak up. Instead they wore safety pins—men tucked them under the collar, while women generally pinned them on the inside of their hems. I suppose at the right moment they flashed these surreptitiously to give reassurance and comfort.

We can do no less. A small step but an important one.

Mashed Potatoes for Breakfast? Of course

Jordan takes great pride in her mashed potatoes. She loads them with butter, sour cream, goat cheese, until you hardly know there’s any potato there. But this year, in preparation for Thanksgiving, she’s experimenting with lactose-free mashed potatoes so I can eat them. Smart Balance for butter, Greek Gods original plain yogurt for the sour cream. Result was so good I enjoyed some for breakfast this morning—heated them on my induction burner and felt like a pioneer of some sort.

(Note: my doctor tells me Greek Gods yogurt is probiotic, lactose-free, and safe for me to eat. I’ve eaten the strawberry flavored for breakfast without a problem.)      

Eating high on the hog today—Jordan made her tuna salad for me last night, and I’ll have a sandwich for lunch—with a glass of wine. Anticipating it already, at ten in the morning. As you may have gathered, I’m a tuna aficionado. So far I know two different salads that I like. Jordan’s tends to be chunky with lots of lemon; Betty’s is smooth in texture with pickle and no lemon. It’s been a good week for tuna—Betty made me lunch Wednesday, and I ended up having the leftover for dinner. To make me healthy while she ate potato chips, she brought me red grapes—which is how I discovered that fructose needs to join lactose on my do-not-eat list. It’s like all my favorite foods are being pulled away—I can give up strawberries but I grieve for blueberries and raspberries.

An unrelated kitchen note: I lost my skillet the other day. I knew when I got up it was in the sink for me to wash, but in the morning, it was gone. How do you lose a skillet in a 4x6 kitchen? I looked in the fridge and freezer, under the sink, and with the dog food. Finally, I asked Jordan, who collapsed in laughter at the idea of me looking in the freezer: she had taken it in the house to wash.

These fall mornings my cozy cottage is not cozy-in fact it’s darn chilly. I sit here in a sweater, while Jordan comes out in a tank top. I have those things that heat and cool cheaply. They were great at cooling but not so good at heating, and I’ll have to pull out the space heaters soon.

Jordan is preparing for Christmas a bit ahead, but she wants everything done in advance of the family’s arrival next week. So my cottage is now Christmas-y—Santa Mac sits atop my tall skinny bookcase, with three poinsettia candles; a tree glows with lights on a side table (though there is an unlit strip in the middle), and pictures of my gramdkids with Santa—including the classic screaming ones—are atop the legal bookcase. Right now, a Christmas basket with yarn and other seasonal items decorates the coffee table, though I don’t know if it will stay or not. Merry Christmas, y’all!

And so it begins…

Jacob and his overnight guests cleaning up after some girls teepee-ed the house. It’s a n innocent, if annoying, prank that kids have been doing for years. Jordan and the boys intended to retaliate last night but all fell asleep, and we all slept with lights ablaze all night.

Some not so innocent pranks are going on. I hear rumors of Trump followers attacking minorities, and Trump opponents protesting, though peacefully as far as I know. Facebook has poignant posts from people who have been unfriended by longtime friends and are hurt, angry, puzzled. All over politics. At this time, when the nation needs to come together in unity, the division is getting more sharp.

I had my own minor experience. A friend I’d known and shared confidences with,  encouraged her publication hopes, cheered for her over the last few years, sent me an email saying her opinion was good enough to elect a president, and I needed to stop thinking that my opinion was the only one that matters. Their sanctimonious attitude defeated the Democrats, and I needed to get off my high horse. I was stunned, and naïve as I am, thought she’d been hacked. Not so. Politics, she said, has nothing to do with friendship.

I’m not so sure about that, not sure I separate the threads of my friendships so easily. And I am saddened that someone has that opinion of me. Beyond that, there were several ways I could have responded, the most obvious being to retort with comments about Trump and rudeness and compassion.

I didn’t. Because I believe that message is exactly the kind of thinking we need to eradicate, the pitting of one side against the other. I wrote instead that I was stunned, sorry, apologetic. It was my step into my new world of love, forgiveness and unity. I truly believe in these troubled, contentious times the only hope for America is for us all to come together as Americans—not Trump followers, not Trump protestors, not black, white, gay, straight, Muslim, whatever—just Americans. And work together to build unity in our country.

Begin with that safety pin that says you welcome and will protect people of whatever persuasion. But don’t attack those who differ with you, and don’t bemoan the incoming president’s election. It is what it is—now what can you do to make it better?

I almost didn’t post this story. My friend will read it and she will be angry and I’m sorry. But I truly believe the larger message is more important.

Let us put differences aside and remember that we are all Americans, with a glorious heritage and, if we will work for it, a bright future.

Hallucinations…or goodbye to the good times

The lovely 19^th-century people no longer party and mingle and linger in my back yard in the middle of the night. Nor does the magnificent wild dog lie next to the wall and survey his peaceable kingdom. My hallucinations are gone.

At first I thought they were simply middle of the night flights of fancy. Then I thought they made an amusing story. Neither my family nor my doctor were amused, and the latter expressed his opinion in one word: hallucinations.

It’s not a bad thing that they’re gone, at least from my point of view. I no longer wonder where I am when I wake up. One morning I’m sure I scared Jordan by asking if I was truly in my own space. Then I sat up in bed and pointed to the foot of the bed—the baby? I asked. She moved a pile of clothes and showed me there was no baby there.

Other mornings—and one afternoon—I thought I was in neighbors’ houses. I remember when Subie let herself in by the deck doors—my first thought was, “Subie, do you know these people well enough to walk into their home without knocking?” Of course, it was my home, and yes she knows to come and go without knocking. Other mornings I woke up in a purple and lavender bedroom—not my style, I assure you. I soon learned that if I closed my eyes and waited the bedroom would once again be a soft yellow.

So, amusement benefits aside, it was a disquieting experience and a huge lesson in the power of modern medicine. Bless my physician, Dr. Richwine, who knew right away what was going on. And my advice? Don’t accept strange behavior as just something that happens—ask your doctor. Amazing what those trained professionals know!

Obviously, I can’t find a picture to go with this. Wish I could. Some of those night scenes were truly lovely. So instead here's a new picture of Sophie.

Do we go forward or backward?

My friend Devorah Winegarten had a really good take on Trump’s election and what it means for the country. I posted her comments on my Facebook wall if you want to look; otherwise I’m going to paraphrase her here, with credit freely given.

We’re all moaning that so many people voted for Trump, though it’s worth pointing out that he did not win the popular vote. Still his campaign exposed an ugly underbelly in American society. And the people who followed him all voted or so it would seem. They are people who are threatened by change and progress, at a time, particularly under President Obama, when our country is moving toward inclusion, diversity, recognition of different faiths, lifestyle, beliefs and the fact that we can all be one diversified society.

Trump followers feel they are losing their way of life, their future. They cling to the life they know, with all its hate and prejudice and bigotry because it’s familiar. It makes them feel safe, better than the next guy, to have those beliefs. In his campaign Trump played to those fears, though I will say he’s sounded a bit more mellow in recent days.

It is time, Debra says, for us not to wring our hands and moan about a future we can’t control but to move forward positively. It is a pivotal moment in our history that calls for us to say, “No more.” We won’t be governed by hate and prejudice, small minds and violence. We will live in an America that values and embraces differences. What Trump does with the presidency remains to be seen but it is beyond our control. We need to start with what we can do.

I don’t think the mass protests we’ve seen across the country are at all helpful. They emphasize the division in the country when we should be concentrating on bringing the country together. We are, after all, Americans—not gays, straights, women, Muslims, and other isolated populations.

I read a post by the mother of a teenager in a private school in New York. One of his classmates is a Muslim girl who wears a hajib. He planned to go to school this morning, give her a hug, and tell her he had her back. That’s the kind of thing we can do to overcome hate.

So many people are swept up with gloom and doom right now. I urge them to adopt Debra’s attitude and look at this as an opportunity to be part of change and progress.

Besides, as someone pointed out, the Republicans now own it. They have the White House and both houses of Congress. Whatever goes wrong, they have no one else to blame.

Some glimpses from the cottage

Most of the views from the cottage these days are unfortunately political, but I do love this picture of my youngest grandson, nine-year-old Kegan, focusing on his soccer game. He’s small for his age but makes up for it in skill and dedication. His ambition has been to get his hair long enough for a man bun and now he’s made it—or, as his mom says, a boy bun. This is one of a series of pictures and at first I thought Kegan’s  sister has started playing soccer but there’s no mistaking that boy. So proud of him. Last I knew he had been invited to play on a team of older boys.

We did sort of have a watch party last night. My friend Linda came from Granbury and reminded me the last time she came to a watch party, everyone left by eight—George W. Bush swept the election, which didn’t please my liberal friends. As the evening wore on last night, I assured her I’d never invite her again, and she retorted that if invited she wasn’t coming.

The dogs, however, thoroughly enjoyed watching—because all their people were here.

Jacob is doing homework out here tonight, having refused the good taco soup I had for him. He asks me questions, then flings himself on the couch in despair when I don’t know what he’s talking about. But really, he wanted a definition of deposition—but then he added the qualifier “science-wise.” First of all, science-wise is not a word and if used as one is bad usage. I had no idea what he was talking about.

The view from the cottage the last almost week has been a wet one. We’ve had an incredible amount of rain. The gutters on the back of the main house have a thousand holes, despite frequent and recent repairs, and I watch the water sluice off the roof in a marvelous imitation of Niagara Falls. I look at Christian’s new grass and think how happy it is with all this wet, and then I realize how happy Christian is that his grass is getting watered.

Jacob announced last night he was cheering for Trump-a definite change of attitude. I asked why, and he said because of the e-mails. I tried to explain that was a dead issue and he said stubbornly, “You don’t always know the truth.” It occurred to me that his understanding of that and other issues was about on the level of all those Americans who voted for Trump.

Of course I have thoughts on the election but I don’t know that they add to anyone else’s. I am hugely disappointed in the American people—and stunned by their collected voice. Many of my fellow liberals have chosen the route of gloom and doom, but I refuse to do so. Not because I have any confidence in the incoming administration but because I refuse to let my life be dominated by a demagogue filled with hate. I take the high road recommended this morning by President Obama and Secretary Clinton. Someone posted on Facebook that the Obama legacy is now shattered. I don’t think so. I think the class he brought to the presidency, the goals he set and the things he accomplished, the example his family set will not go away.

Be of good cheer, folks. America is still America.

Texas Honors Its Own

The Texas Literary Hall of Fame (Fort Worth Public Library) inducted a class of five on Friday, November 4, at the Botanic Garden Conservatory. Inductees were George Sessions Perry and Dorothy Scarborough, both honored posthumously with James Ward Lee accepting for them and beginning his comments with, “I speak for the dead.” Novelist Rick Riordan sent a young girl to accept in his place. Living and present were H. W. Brand, UT, a historian who brings history alive through individual characters; award-winning western writer Jane Pattie best known for her classic work on spurs; award-winning Latina poet Carmen Tafolla, (who  will now always be Carmen Tortilla in my mind); and folklorist, novelist, historian, rancher, naturalist, former teacher—I could go on and on with accolades—Joyce Gibson Roach, who can give the funnies after-dinner speeches you’ve ever heard.

Okay I went a little overboard about Joyce—I know some of the other inductees but Joyce and I have been writing buddies and traveling companions for years. We’ve traveled the West together, hitting every writers meeting that would have us and some that shuddered when we walked in. We knew the road from Fort Worth to Amarillo and beyond like the proverbial back of our hands, and we once took eight hours to drive from Amarillo to Decatur because we stopped at every small town, every junque store that caught our fancy. We’ve done our dog-and-pony show—she a fifth-generation Texan (and a bit stuck on herself because of it) and me, a newcomer, interloper, she never lets me forget—in front of bleary-eyed writers at 8 a.m. and before the selects guests at one of the TCU Chancellor’s luncheons. We’ve worked on books together and rejoiced in each other’s awards and commiserated in failures.

I am indebted to Joyce for help on many books. Once as we settled for the Amarillo/Fort Worth run, I announced we could use the time to plan my next juvenile book—and I numbered from 1-10 on a legal pad. “That’s all?” she asked. “That’s all you do, and you’ve got a book?” I explained that we still had to figure out what happened in each chapter, so she began making suggestions. I finally snapped. “Joyce, it’s my book.”

Another time I was writing a book based on the life of trick roper Lucille Mulhall, and I wanted to know every tiny detail about roping, preparing ropes, etc. Finally it was Joyce’s turn to snap: “Enough with the ropng, Judith Ann. Get on with the story.” She was so right.

Joyce has been honored many times in many ways—Western Writers of America, the Texas Institute of Letters, the Texas Historical Association and the Texas Historical Commission. But this hall of fame was a missing chunk in that awe-inspiring biography, and I am so glad to see it made right, even if belatedly. In her acceptance comments, Joyce said all she ever wanted was to stand tall enough for her hometown of Jacksboro and for the state of Texas. “I believe tonight,” she said, “I am tall enough.” Yes, Joyce. You are tall enough. You always have been, but we could never make you believe it.

Our traveling days are behind us now as aging reaches out and grabs us. But those days are forever in my memory, and Joyce is forever one of the special people my life. Hush, Joyce, or I’ll tell everything I know about you and cooking and recipes and your mom.

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When Your Mind Plays Tricks on You, or Hallucinations

November6 6, 2016

One thing I learned in 75 years: ignore nightmares or hallucinations. I distinctly remember a nightmare when I was about five. I cowered in bed next to my mom. Every time I peeked another figure leered at me—George Washington, Donald Duck, and the like. But I kept peeking. Last night I didn’t look.

Having lost two nights’ sleep, I decided the best way to handle nightmares was to ignore them. So when my secret friends gathered in the yard, I took one long look—and went to the bathroom. The art du jour last night was sort of an impressionistic painting of a 19^th-century artist studio, perhaps in Manhattan. People mingle and visit and art lines the walls along with gold-framed mirrors. The colors are muted—blue and a sort of taupe, lots of beige and off-white. It reminds me of a Degas or the lines from the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock: In the room the women come and go talking of Michelangelo. It is an inviting scene, and I could linger. I don/t though--I will have a couple more chances during the night, but I ignore them too.

And when I wake in a purple and lavender bedroom, I sigh and close my eyes, knowing it will return to its lovely soft yellow. The result is that I wakened this morning refreshed and well aware of where I was, whereas the two previous mornings I was disoriented, sure that I’d been moved out of my cottage even though I saw it all around me.

A puzzlement: when I first saw the crowd in the artist’s studio, Sophie went crazy, barking to go out (I didn’t fall for it). It was the bark she uses to tell me she has to investigate our safety outside. Do you suppose she “sees” my hallucination?

An unsatisfcatory day...and a wild dog

There’s no other word for yesterday—unsatisfactory. I capped it off by falling as I stood up from my desk. My shoe had come off, and I didn’t realize how slippery the brace bottom is—it scooted out from under me, followed by the walker, and I was flat on my back. Christian and Jacob came to get me up and are my heroes—after several tries, and after I calmed a bit, we got me on my knees and then Christian seated me on the coffee table. I rested, caught my breath, and headed for the bathroom which is where I’d been going all along. No damage done but it’s disquieting to fall.

Earlier Jordan and I had a good visit with my family physician—at least mostly good. He took over my meds and became traffic director which is just what I wanted him to do. But it turned out that what I saw as lovely middle of the flights of imagination, he was as hallucinations and changed a prescription. It was because of the dog.

In the wee hours Thursday morning I looked out and saw what I presumed was a plastic bag flapping in the breeze. It looked like some large and majestic wild dog—or wolf. I stared for a long time, and of course the more I looked the more real it became. I was convinced there was a wild animal—peaceful for the time, but who knew?

I called Christian who is a sound sleeper (understatement) and said, “Okay. I won’t let the dogs out in the morning.”

Me: You don’t understand. We have to get it out of there. You collect yourself, and I’ll call 911.

Christian: do we have to deal with this right now? (hear plaintive tone).

Just as I was about to say we did, I saw a bit of bag flap in the breeze and confessed it was, after all, a trash bag. “But be sure to tell Jordan just in case.”

Christian: Oh I will. I undoubtedly will.

I think what he intended to tell her was that her mother was bat-shit crazy. In the morning she quizzed me, and I asked if she couldn’t see the dog—I still could. No, she couldn’t.

I had no idea this would come back to bite me at the doctor’s office, but it did, and my protests that I wrote fiction fell on deaf ears. So now the doctor probably has the same opinion of my sanity as Christian does, and I left the appointment feeling neurotic. (There’s a sequel to te story, but I’ll save it for another day.)

I truly think the doctor thought it was a medication problem, and he adjusted things for that. But like the fall, or not, crossing a street canbedsietig \ was disquieting.

The dog was there again last night. Shhh! Don’t tell.