Reading out loud

Do you have any idea how hard it is to read your own writing aloud? Some people do it with easy grace, but I am not one of them. I’m to do a radio interview tomorrow that includes at least ten minutes of me reading from Pigface and the Perfect Dog. I’ve chosen two passages—one the opening scene and the other a chase scene, sort of—and printed out the passages in large type. And I’ve practiced three times—each time, I stumble in a new and different place. I’ve decided I’ll just have to laugh off the stumbles. I’ve practiced breathing at appropriate intervals. I’m not sure what else to do in preparation except be nervous.

Years ago, I remember when a Texas college was going to pay me handsomely to read an entire, long short story (oxymoron) to an audience. Shyness and anxiety overcame me, but I practiced on a friend who had a theater background. Her important advice was to slow down, way down. When we read too fast, the pitch of our voices can become unpleasantly high. So that’s another thing I kept in mind in my practice sessions.

My track record with radio shows is not great. The last one, I forgot about the time difference between Texas and Florida and was late, very late, in calling in. They graciously put me on in the second half of the show, but there was so much static on the line I couldn’t understand the questions and managed bumbling answers at best. I checked the time of this show carefully, and the instruction sheet says 11 a.m. CDT, 9 a.m. PDT, which makes me think the show is in California. Wish me luck, please.

This was the first day of my new, take-it-easy policy, and I felt like I was malingering. I was not rushed in checking emails and Facebook this morning, fixing myself some breakfast, taking my time. I caught up on some banking information—really keeping track of tax information. I practiced reading, and I dealt with a few odds and ends that landed on my desk. And I napped this afternoon with no sense of urgency to wake up and get back to work.

I’ve decided for the time being to limit myself to one outing a day—so I cancelled my dermatology appointment and went to dinner with Betty. No problem guessing where my priorities are. We ate at a wine bistro and shared appetizers—deviled eggs and mac and cheese with truffles. Good and small portions, even if the mac and cheese was rich.

Now to spend the rest of the evening reading. This lazy life might become a habit.

Breakfast, Lunch, and Oops—the doctor’s office

When my friend Carol picked me up for breakfast this morning, she sagely announced that when I’m worried about my health, my blog is about me; when I’m feeling confident and good, I branch out. It was her way of complimenting me on recovering rapidly from my recent stint in the hospital. I’ve been blogging about people who annoy me, computer woes, the suspense of waiting for Irma to strike, and so on. I’m about to trash all Carol’s praise. Today was an ill health day.

I enjoyed breakfast with Carol—we went to the Book Ladies, a group of women who have been meeting for breakfast the first Tuesday of the month for at least twenty years and maybe thirty. I was one of the founders of the group, but I can’t tell you for sure when it started, only that it was mostly women from TCU. We decided to welcome anyone who’s life calling focused on books—librarians, teacher, authors, booksellers. It’s a compatible group, all progressives politically. Years ago, we unintentionally ran off the one conservative, a bookseller I really liked. I enjoyed breakfast this morning, even if I did indulge in hash browns with lots of ketchup.

Jean picked me up for lunch on the TCU campus. We had to park a bit away from the entrance, so I had a long (for me) walk, up a medium incline. I had to sit and rest partway there, and again when we reached the room where the retirees luncheon was. Jean had to leave early, and we agreed we’d see who would take me home. But I got so winded, I decided I wanted to leave when Jean did—home was right on her way to her appointment. I missed a speaker I would have enjoyed, someone I know from the Texas literary scene. But I came home and collapsed in a fit of depression and dark thoughts.

Upshot was Jordan took me to our doctor’s office. He was reassuring. Those finger meters don’t work with a fib, so I should stop being worried about my low heart rate. Okay, yes, I was worried. And my body will take a while to adjust to the new normal of a fib, so I will be tired and that’s okay. I of course with my strong Puritan streak thought being tired a week out of the hospital was self-indulgent malingering. He gave me permission to be tired, and I came home and slept the rest of the afternoon.

Long story short, I am much reassured tonight. I think being a novelist has something to do with my anxiety—I give in to my imagination too easily. I used to know a man who said to me, “Go on, bring that bridge right on up here so you can jump it.” He had a point.

I shall now spend my days reading Silver Screen (is it even published today?) and eating bonbons. That used to be our phrase that epitomized the self-indulgent, lazy life.

Some people annoy me

I like to think I’m fairly accepting about people, but lately I’ve noticed some people want to complain about something all the time. I think they work hard to find new things to complain about. For instance, the people who want Hillary Clinton to quietly fold her tents and go away, and for gosh sake, don’t publish that book. Why shouldn’t she speak her mind? She’s been the victim of unbelievable negative scams, accusations, conspiracies—you name it. I’m not at all convinced she lost the last election fair and square—in fact, I think she probably didn’t. And I wish daily she were the first woman president of our country.

But she’s not. Still she has opinions to express, opinions that come from a wide and deep knowledge base. I truly believe some people think she should shush because she’s a woman, she’s been un-womanly all along, and why won’t she learn her lesson. God bless her for persevering. Others want her to fade into the wallpaper because she might hurt the chance for progressives to carry the 2018 election and the all-important 2020 one. I think what she has to say might help progressives, might expose some of the unfair tactics used against her. Preach it, Hillary!

And then there are people who criticize the journalists who brought us on-the-spot reports from the middle of Harvey and Irma. I think particularly of one image of a young man in blue fighting the powerful winds of Irma and being blown back. Some say that was grandstanding, entertainment for the masses. Really? Who finds a storm of that magnitude, with all its destruction, entertaining? I worried, instead, that the man should have a guy rope to keep him from being blown helplessly away. I admire journalists who take those chances--many of their colleagues lost their lives in dangerous situations, and they know it. But they do their job, bringing us news up front instead of from behind a desk.

What have you found to complain about today? On this day of national remembrance, we should all be grateful that our nation survived the 9/11 attacks, albeit not without loss of life that grieves us to this day. But as a nation, we were not crushed, as our enemies hoped. We will come back from these devastating storms too, dragging all those complainers with us.

My mom taught me we each have a choice between happiness and unhappiness. I would add a third choice in there—anger. Which have you chosen? I know which choice calls me.

Y’all have a blessed night. In North Texas, the temperature is in the 70s, though I hear the cicadas, which I always think mean hot weather. While much of the country suffers through storms, we are blessed with wonderful weather. It almost makes a person feel guilty—oops, no, that’s a word I’m erasing from my vocabulary.

No patience for computer woes

I woke up this morning prepared to stare at the TV and the hurricane devastation. I was not prepared for the computer troubles that descended on me. Actually, they began yesterday when Microsoft suddenly declared my Office subscription had expire.s—you’d think they’d give you a little warning. That froze Word and Outlook, two programs without which I cannot operate. I thought I had solved it—used my credit card to renew, but every time I tried to open either program I got the same reactivate message.

This I bungled through, going to whatever web sites I was directed to, changing passwords so often that I am hopelessly confused. Finally, I “chatted” with a tech who informed me the payment had not gone through—no idea whose fault that was. I asked if she would guarantee me a refund if I paid again and it turned out I was double charged. She promised—how much authority do you think she has?

After about two hours, I seemed to have it straightened out, and I could access Word. Outlook no longer gave me the reactivate message, but it wouldn’t download messages which I knew from my iPhone were waiting. Why does Outlook still work on my phone but not my computer—another puzzlement. This time, I ended up, I’m not sure how, talking live to a woman with a heavy accent. By now I was out of patience and not as polite as I usually like to think I am. I asked for a native English speaker; she sounded offended and promised to talk slowly, which of course she forgot in the heat of conversation.

Picture this: technologically challenged, hearing challenged me trying oh so hard to understand a woman speaking rapid, heavily accented English (either Philippines or India, I’m not sure which). It was getting us nowhere very slowly, and what patience I had left was ebbing. We made a little progress, and she assured me everything was all right; I assured her it wasn’t because the program wasn’t downloading messages. Finally, I gave up. I tried to be polite about having taken too much of her time, but she said oh no, she could spend more time. I couldn’t, and I said a firm thank you and goodbye.

Then it dawned on me in my willy-nilly changing of passwords I had probably changed the TCU password ineffectively and I wasn’t sure what the old one was because I’d already corrected the file. So I went into the TCU Password site, made the change, and lo and behold! It worked. It was now 12:30—a whole morning gone.

I caught up with myself, roughed out a guest blog, picked out a passage to read on a radio interview and practiced it, wrote a review on Amazon of the book I just finished—Marry in Haste, by Susan Van Kirk (I really liked the way she wove history into a contemporary mystery). Napped—needed it by then. Fixed BLT sandwiches for me and Jacob. And there went the rest of the day

Jacob’s parents have been in Missouri for a wedding, but we were both glad to welcome them home tonight. I did enjoy however having that sweet boy sleep on my couch. I am often sad that he’s past that wonderfully cuddly young boy stage—too much a young man these days.

My goof: somehow in last night’s blog I called the storm José Jake—must have been thinking of Jacob, who hates to be called Jake.

Tomorrow is Monday, and I am ready for a clean slate, a fresh start to a new week.

Please keep Houston and the surrounding area in your prayers, as well as all of the southeastern states. For too many of those people the dramatic moments are over or nearly so, but I fear the worst is to come. TV people will pack up their cameras, the devastation will fade from the news, but untold thousands will be dealing with recovery for months, perhaps a lifetime. Pray God’s comfort for them.

Holding my breath

Like much of the country, I’m holding my breath and praying for the people of Florida and the southeastern part of our country. Who knows what direction Irma will finally take? The maps with a hundred lines leave one confused, but the Caribbean took a hit and probably the Keys too. I think of the woman who curates the Hemingway house on Key West and stayed behind with all those cats. Last word was it undoubtedly was damaged. I know tomorrow I’ll keep the TV on, sometimes muted, to keep up with reports.

Such scary times, for those of us with the wits to be scared—fire and flood, storms and inevitable pestilence. The wildfires in our northwest have been overlooked, overshadowed by the hurricanes. But they too deliver unbelievable destruction. People lose their homes. I read today that authorities are recommending people bring their pets in at night and leave buckets of water for wild animals fleeing the fires They will be scared, hungry and thirsty.

An earthquake in Mexico, accompanied almost simultaneously by hurricane Katia. So much tragedy, so much loss of life and property. And, always, I worry about the animals, both domesticated and wild. Scary is way too mild a word for the western hemisphere these days. If you don’t believe in climate change, please go immediately to buy property in Key West.

Back in Texas, life is almost normal, though we can’t forget that many, too many people have lost their homes or are still unable to go back to them. Floodwaters of that magnitude recede slowly, leaving overwhelming destruction, and it will be a long time before Houston and the surrounding towns dry out. A friend wrote that family was going through the detritus of her home, searching for memorabilia, before the bulldozers struck—somehow the bulldozers stuck in my mind. I hadn’t thought of that.

Pray for our country, our hemisphere. Pray for the world. I sometimes feel that we in America have sent off a negative chain reaction. In truth, we are in part the architects of our own doom. We have ignored flood plains and drainage studies in our wild push to build—more business complexes, more housing developments, more shopping malls--the earth will adjust. No, it won’t. The earth doesn’t need concrete covering such large portions of its surfaces. It needs to breath. And now we have a president who willy-nilly tears down the protections for our earth, allowing pollution of our rivers and streams, rolling back building codes designed to erect structures resistant to destruction, ignoring EPA warnings and disbanding that unit of government, showing no respect for the earth that nurtures us. We cannot build pipelines across sacred native lands, and we cannot defile wetlands by drilling for oil. We must learn to respect the earth. Pray that it is not too late. Harvey, Irma, Jake, Katia—all are a wake-up call, albeit it a late and disastrous one. Who is listening?

Launch day for Pigface and the Perfect Dog

Launch day for Pigface and the Perfect Dog

There’s something unsettling about launching a new book. It’s both satisfying and anticlimactic. It is, after all, the culmination of all your work for at least a year, often much longer. At last you can present that perfect (well, maybe close) baby to the world, and we all hope to do so with pride. I am indeed proud of Pigface. It’s the first full novel since my hip surgery, although I had written close to half of it before I gave up writing due to pain and confusion, months before the surgery. It was a joy, during recovery, to go back read what I’d written, and think, “Hey! This isn’t half bad.” At that point, the final half seemed to come easily. So this book is special in a way some others of mine aren’t.

But launch day is also anticlimactic. The universe appears unchanged by the big event in my own personal universe. I’ve been sharing the cover, writing advance guest blog posts, doing the things you’re supposed to do to announce your book. So what is different today, except that folks can now go online to order the book? I am not one of those authors who checks sales or author rank or any of that stuff hourly or daily, but I do hope for some sales.

And speaking of online sales, if you live in the Fort Worth area you might want to hold off. There will be a launch party, celebration, signing, whatever you want to call it—on September 21, from 5-7 p.m., at the Wine Haus, 1628 Park Place Avenue. There will be a cash bar, but snacks will be served, and I expect a lot of hilarity. Nope, no giveaways, no cutesy contest, no gimmicks—just come celebrate with me, enjoy a glass of wine, and snack on some great hummus and pita. Mark your calendar, though you can rest assured that I’ll remind you.

Launch day brought out a funny story. A friend has just published a terrific memoir, Travels with Maggie, about her six-month odyssey in a RV with her dog. She knows it’s there, but she can’t find it on Amazon. Several of us suggested she add her name when she searches, and lo! There it was. I remember having that problem with The Gilded Cage, because, alas, there are several books with that title. Not to worry, there is not another book title beginning with the word “Pigface,” though the first few times I searched for it, Amazon offered to sell me a pigface T-shirt. I thought it might be funny to wear to the signing, but it was pretty ugly. I’m still thinking about that. I can always use another T-shirt to sleep in.

So there you have it—the book is out in the world and will now have to pretty much make its own way. I’ve done the best I can, and now it’s time for me to turn to the Blue Plate Café Mystery I’m working on, halfway through. As with Pigface, I put it aside for almost two weeks now, and I’m hoping inspiration will strike when I go back to it.

One small request: if you read Pigface and the Perfect Dog and like it, please leave a review on the Amazon page. Two sentences will do, anything, whatever you want to write. It is an enormous help to me. If you didn’t like it, I can only say I’m sorry. You don’t need to tell Amazon.

Goodness and Mercy

On the plaza outside Samford University’s Beeson Law Library in Birmingham, a statue depicts the relationship of justice and mercy. The Angel of Mercy is seen encouraging the blindfolded Lady of Justice. She is staying the sword of justice to keep it from being used too swiftly, tempering it with compassion. The sculptor is Glynn Acree from Roswell, Georgia who also created statues for Emory, Georgia Tech, Mercer, and the University of Georgia.

Justice is not about vengeance; neither is the law. Justice must be tempered with mercy, with compassion. And yet, there was our president/pretender today, warning 800,000 young people who have never known any other country to prepare to self-deport. How heartless and cruel.

I am not, never have been a fan of Republicans, let alone the man they have now chosen to lead the party. That’s well-known to any who know me. But this latest act strains my credulity, appalls me in ways I never thought possible. I won’t ask what the rush is to get everyone of Hispanic descent out of our country. I know only too well that it is blind, hate-filled racism.

 And I am full of fury at people who hide their hate behind the rule of law. If the rule of law were so damned important, why did the president/pretender pardon Joe Arpaio, an act done completely outside the law and the usual constraints of presidential pardons. People who ask why the Dreamers have not applied for citizenship reveal an appalling ignorance about the citizenship process and the archaic laws that govern the move from immigrant to citizen, a years-long process that can cause a person to leave the country for seven or eight years before returning. Do you realize what would happen to the life you’ve built for yourself and your family if you had to leave for eight years? What could you come back to?

Many of the Dreamers are in the midst of their education, well on their way to becoming solid citizens with strong contributions to make to this country. The dissolution of DACA could well send them into lives of poverty—and worse, robbing them of their golden dreams and us of their future contributions. Does anyone in this administration think beyond their long, pointy Pinocchio-like noses?

Congress can fix this. Will they? Will they have the guts to buck the president? They have on other matters, to my delight and surprise. But do they see this as deserving and important. I can only pray for guidance for them. Writing my senators is useless, and I have long ago given it up.

I weep for my country. I weep because I live in a country I once could be proud of and now am ashamed of its cruelty, inhumanity, lack of compassion. What if justice turns its blind eyes on you? How will you be sure it is tempered by mercy?

Please pray for the Dreamers…and for our country. May goodness and mercy follow us all the days of our lives.

I am my mother’s daughter

My brother and sister-in-law came to see me today to check on how I am doing—and he to reassure himself, for he brought his stethoscope, listened to my lungs and heart, declared lungs fine, heart strong but irregular. Lots of people live with irregular heartbeat, as the cardiologist told me, and I was not concerned, at least not more than I already am.

At one point Cindy commented that I was bright and happy for just getting out of the hospital, and I said, “It’s a choice we each have—we can be happy or we can choose to be unhappy.” At which point, my brother said, “Thank you, Mother.” And it’s true—that’s an approach to life that our other gave us in daily doses.

She was a wonderful woman who brought light, laughter and love to her world and often reached beyond it to those she deemed in need. I am forever grateful for all that she gave me, including a love of cooking. And reading.

Mom was passionate in her political dislikes.The mere appearance of Richard Nixon would transform my gentle, refined mother into a screaming harridan. I can hear her still, “Look at him! Look at his eyes! You can see how dishonest he is.” I shudder to think how she would react to the current pretender (I heard him referred to that way recently and thought it the perfect nomenclature).

But Mom was a nurturer. Stories abound of her taking care of others. She would be distressed today at the dissolution of DACA and wringing her hands over the fate of 800,000 Dreamers, worrying about their future, trying to figure out how she could help. Were she in Florida, she would be helping nail boards over windows, all the while making plans for how to feed storm refugees. The same if she were in Houston. And if she were still among us, she would wonder how she could help those in peril from the wildfires in our West and Northwest.

Mom would agree that in the face of such overwhelming tragedy widespread across our hemisphere, not to mention the floods around the world, North Korea’s ongoing threat, instability in Asian governments, the world sometimes looks a grim place. Petty disagreements, arguments between friends, colleagues, and lovers—all pale in the face of what faces the world now. Even the bathroom bill looks pretty silly in the face of these disasters.

Thanks, Mom, for arming me to live in these times.

Widening circles of concern

Taco party in my hospital room

Note my colorful outfit

Home again, home again, jiggety-jigg, from an adventure I don’t hope to repeat. What I thought was a routine doctor’s visit, mostly to have him reassure me that my breathlessness was simply from being out of shape, turned into a five-day stay in the hospital, complete with blood pressure taken at 3 a.m., countless needle sticks, a lung scan, and other indignities.

Not that my stay was without hilarity. Two of my children, Megan and Jamie, spent almost all the time with me, and my room soon became comedy central. There was always someone laughing and joking, like the time Jamie left a fake lizard for the head nurse to find. She jumped but was only fooled for a minute. And then there was an afternoon visit from friends Caro and Lon. We were all having such a good time that a voice from on high, sort of like God talking to you, admonished us that this is a quiet area.

Jamie even stayed in my room for a sleepover last night, a move I’m sure he regrets because there were two blood pressure readings, a blood sample draw, an x-ray, and one trip to the bathroom to interrupt our sleep. I however, was profoundly grateful for his presence—at 3 a.m. alone with beeping monitors, the darkest of thoughts can visit. I am so fortunate with kids—in addition to the two who waited on me hand and food, Christian and Jacob visited often, and we had a taco party in my room last night.

Kudos to Fort Worth’s Harris Hospital Southwest. I never saw a cross face. Everyone was cheerful, caring, and accommodating and, as I said, they mostly have a great sense of humor that I’m sure carries them through some grim days. I can’t say enough about the care I received.

I was worried about Sophie the whole time afraid she would feel I'd abandoned her, but she was living the life of Riley in the house with Christian and Jacob. Still, when Jordan came home after being away for five days and then when I came home she acted very happy to see both of us.

I’ve been thinking these last few days of widening circles. I was al caught up in the drama of room 3228 at Harris SW, with my racing, irregular heart and breathlessness. If you push the circle wider, Texans are focused on the ongoing catastrophe in southeast Texas. Beyond that we are in the midst of an ongoing national crisis of leadership and partisanship that manifests itself in racism, hate, discontent—and sometimes true patriotism and love.

And then there’s the global threat posed by a petty tyrant who relishes having the world focused on the possible destruction he can unleash on the world.

I’m not sure what those widening circles say about mankind, but I will be glad to be safely tucked into my cottage again. Lord deliver me from things that go beep in the night.

Gratitude

Deep and grateful thanks to all of you who sent wishes, prayers, and hugs. I am humbled but cheered by your concern. I am still in the hospital, with all signs and symptoms steadily improving, but I will be here another night. The cardiologist told me this morning I could go home only if I took the monitor and IV with me. Guess I’ll stay.

I have been worried about Sophie, who feels abandoned. When a friend went by the cottage to pick up some things for me, she said glared at her as if to say, “You’re not my mother. What have you done with my mother?” She was comforted by having Megan all night, and this evening Jacob took her in the main house for a while. But in the picture above, she still looks a little cautious.

Meanwhile, I’ve been treated to the best of medical care and can’t help thinking back to the fifties when I worked in what was then a state-of-the-art hospital. Yesterday, a technician did a scan of my lungs (no, not an x-ray), and told me it would go to Dallas to be read. Everything is digital and electronic I remember food service when there was one choice for dinner, and every patient was served around five. Now, there’s a menu, and you can order it twelve hours a day.

I had been thinking before all this happened about the goodness of people Some wonderful stories are coming out of Houston and the surrounding area. The owner who opened his furniture stores to evacuees, the marooned bakers who kept making pan dulce for twenty-four hours and used 4400 lbs of flour—the bread went to various shelters; the people who have welcomed evacuated horses—and their owners—to their ranches.

I’ve personally been touched by kindness the last twenty-four hours. When there is so much unfortunate focus on race in this country, I couldn’t help but reflect my caretakers have included two of apparent Arab descent, two of Asian background, and a handful each of Anglo and African American. There was no differentiation—they all work together in harmony and they were uniformly kind and caring to me. I have seen nothing but the best of Texans.