A prophetic dream?

Weird but intense dream last night, prompted I’m sure by all the allegations of sexual misconduct flying in the air these days. I was working in a hospital (not unusual—I did in high school and college). There had been incidents with predators, and I was terrified. Everyone was on alert, and watches were increased. A young man was arrested for repeatedly patting a girl in the tush. He was bewildered, and then frightened, as what seemed a slight incident morphed into a criminal charge and a possible jail sentence. Calls to his dad and a lawyer didn’t help, and this young man saw his future crashing. The girl he’d “offended” never came forward to say anything about the incident, but everyone in the hospital was crying for the young man’s head on a platter.

I think this dream reflects my personal feelings about the many allegations we’re seeing these days. A post or two on Facebook reminds that a “person is innocent until proven guilty,” but that’s not the case here. An accusation becomes widespread rumor and is soon accepted publicly as fact. Protestations of innocence fall on deaf ears, and lives and careers are ruined by innuendo.

The really scary thing is that each of us tend to make individual judgments, often independent of the facts even if we know reported facts. I’m as guilty as anyone, for I’ll quickly say that I think Alabama Judge Moore did what the woman claimed he did when she was fourteen, and he should get out of the race and so-called public service. He’s been called down from the judicial bench twice in his own state for judgments based not on the law but on his own belief system, which seems pretty warped. He’s a racist and a bigot on record, and to my mind a piece of slime. And I’m appalled at the prominent Alabama Republican leader who excused him by saying that Mary was fourteen and Joseph much older.

On the other hand, why make a fuss about slight incidents ascribed to former President George H. W. Bush. There was absolutely no sexual intimacy involved, no force, nothing but a casual pat on the behind. Bush has apologized, and many have pointed out it’s hard to see an old man in a wheelchair as a sexual predator. He gave good service to the country, and we should not repay him by shaming him in his last years over incidents that, to me, seem trivial. Others will disagree, and I understand that.

I think it all proves that nothing is black and white. I applaud the openness that our society now is experiencing. I think it will make would-be predators think before they act on base instincts, and I hope it will punish some severe offenders. But there’s no logic, no equality in the handling of each accusation, and I’m afraid some good lives will be ruined by falsehood.

Then again, I have no concern for Judge Moore. I’d hang him out in the wind any day.

The Confession No Author Likes to Make

Texas author Robert Flynn once said to me that having a book out of print is like having a child that you never see (this was long before digital publishing kept books in print forever). I think that’s sort of how many authors feel about their books—they’re children we’ve sent out in the world to make their way, with our help via marketing.. And when they don’t find success, you grieve for them.

My latest novel, Pigface and the Perfect Dog, isn’t finding the love that I thought it would. I worked really hard to promote this book in advance—guest blogs all over the place, a Facebook campaign, etc. Big launch party, which was lots of fun and accounted for a good portion of the sales to date. It’s been out two months and has one review each on Amazon and Goodreads. Its sales are nothing to brag about, although people who’ve read it tell me they really enjoyed it. No, I’m not whining, nor am I asking you to rush out, read it, and review. I’m trying to analyze why it isn’t doing as well as some of my other books.

Pigface is second in a series, so it’s not the difficulty of engaging readers in a new series. The first book, The Perfect Coed, did quite well, thank you. And I really like the cover of Pigface, especially the display type. It has a cute puppy on the cover, and animals supposedly always attract readers. So there’s a double boost—a dog in the title and a dog on the cover.

I’ve concluded the title is misleading. If I had to categorize Pigface, I’d call it a dark cozy. It still fits the cozy genre pretty much, though one review pointed out that the language is a tad stronger than most cozies. There’s no gruesome violence, though there is an on-scene non-fatal shooting, and there are one or two quick glimpses into a personal relationship before the bedroom door closes. Still, it’s much more cozy than thriller.

I thought the title was so clever when it came to me one day like a bolt out of the blue. One of the bad guys, unknown to him, earns the nickname Pigface, and dogs, two of them, are prominent in the story. The title also fit in with the use of the word “perfect,” established in the first book, so it gave the series some continuity. But I fear that people think it’s a kid’s book. The Pigface term is misleading and may conjure up everything from Animal Farm to Babe. It apparently doesn’t conjure up visions of a mystery about open-carry protestors and darker matters. My bad.

Titles are hard. I’ve always thought they came to you, as this one did, unexpectedly, sort of an instinct thing, and then you better, by gosh, stick with it. Apparently, I need more research. There are several online sites with good, solid advice on picking a title, with many warning it’s the most important marketing decision you make. Oh gosh! It’s too late to change the title, although I did read about an author whose book title was Astro-Logical Love; she did a bit of editing and changed the title to How to Satisfy a Woman Every Time. Sales tripled. I think this is a case where I say, “Oh well,” and plow ahead, marketing as I can. Next time I’ll be more thoughtful about a title.

Wintry weather

Cold and wet, a day for soup and chili. I had both today—what a treat. Neighbors Margaret and Dennis took me to the deli for lunch—we all had soup and shared a bottle of wine. Lovely treat at lunch. Good company, soothing food—I was a happy camper and came home to take a nice nap, while Dennis kindly included my groceries on his planned run to Central Market.

Jordan’s back had been bothering her for several days, but she finished it off with a real wrench last night and was incapacitated this morning, to put it mildly. She slowly got better as the day went on but she announced chicken soup or chili would be good for supper, and finally decided on chili. I rescheduled dinner plans and checked my pantry, pulling out two cans of diced tomatoes—only one turned out to be tomato sauce, so I had sauce aplenty but not much tomato (as I reread the recipe I realize it didn’t call for diced tomatoes and I was mentally mixing in my ubiquitous recipe for Doris’ Casserole). Chili is forgiving, and it was good anyway. Margaret and I talked about what we put in chili, and I forgot to tell her the essential ingredient: beer.

Not too many years ago, I wrote a book on chili, its history, the chili festivals—the big ones were held just last week in Terlingua, and lots of recipes ranging from the ridiculous to the really hot and complicated. I included my own recipe, which is also in my memoir/cookbook, Cooking My Way Through Life with Kids and Books.

I call my chili Judy’s mild and tentative chili—no chiles, etc. but you can embellish it as you wish. And, yes, I put beans in my chili. Heresy, I know. Here’s the basic recipe.

Judy’s mild and tentative chili

1 lb. ground beef

Enough oil to sauté onion, garlic and beef

1 medium onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, chopped

1 8-oz. can tomato sauce

1 cup beer

4 tsp. chili powder or to taste

½ tsp. Tabasco (optional)

2 tsp. salt

2 c. canned beans, rinsed (I prefer pintos)

Note: the diced tomatoes didn’t hurt; go ahead and add them if you wish.

Brown onion and garlic; add hamburger and cook until all pink is gone. Add everything else except beans and simmer for 60 to 90 minutes. Stir occasionally, and add more beer as needed (you’ve got that open warm beer anyway). Taste and add more chili powder as needed. Add beans and heat just before serving.

My family likes to top it with crushed saltines (in your hand, of course), chopped purple onion, and grated cheddar.

Should you be interested, here are some handy buy links (I’m operating on the theory that one should never miss an opportunity to hawk one’s books).

Texas is Chili Country, https://www.amazon.com/Texas-Chili-Country-History-Recipes/dp/089672946X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1510193157&sr=1-1&keywords=Texas+is+Chili+Country+Alter&dpID=617midHQgsL&preST=_SX218_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_&dpSrc=srch

Cooking My Way Through Life with Kids and Books, https://www.amazon.com/Cooking-through-Books-Stars-Texas/dp/1933337338/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1510193215&sr=1-1&keywords=Cooking+My+Way+Through+Life+with+Kids+and+Books&dpID=51CkxYqaq0L&preST=_SX218_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_&dpSrc=srch

Cold and blah

My day started off badly as you may have read in an earlier post. I got up at 5:15 by mistake. I washed my hair and did some other stuff and waited for the 7:00 news, which turned out to be the 6:00 news. What a bummer. I’m pleased to say I did read a project I was reading for someone else and made good use of the time, but I was still out of sorts—and by lunchtime I was sleepy. At least now, thanks to Christian, the clocks in my cottage are all fixed. Probably tomorrow I’ll wake up, look at the clock, and think it’s an hour ahead—then I’ll go back to bed and be an hour late with everything all day!

Today was an appointment with the retina specialist. Every new office insists on doing the full eye exam like you haven’t seen two other doctors in the last two weeks. If anyone comes near me wanting to dilate my eyes, I will probably throw a screaming fit and collapse in a puddle on the floor. Nothing new today, although I liked the doctor and felt confident about him. Long story short is the same old story—I will have surgery, but I don’t know when.

Ever since I’ve been old enough to go to the eye doctor, I’ve dreaded it. Mostly, the doctors I’ve seen have been knowledgeable and kind; one is even an old friend. So I don’t know why I dread it—dilation? Could be. Anyway, an appointment drains me and I’m off kilter for the rest of the day. Today, the combination of too-early-to-rise and the eye appointment really got me, and I slept for two hours in the afternoon. Brightened for happy hour company, a jolly gathering, but still feel sort of out of sorts. Fragile? Not how I like to think of myself.

I am cheered by early voting returns—it appears that the governorships of Virginia and New Jersey have both gone to Democrats. In Virginia, that seems to demonstrate that racist propaganda doesn’t cut it with the voters. What a comforting thought in these times that one minister referred to as our period of darkness.

It’s really not that cold tonight, though I have the heat on. Tomorrow the high will be in the forties. Now that’s winter in Texas. It’s 51 and falling out right now. I view this with mixed feelings—I love keeping the patio door open and bringing the outdoors into the cottage, but honestly, folks, it’s time to get rid of this head.

‘Night. Sweet dream, sleep tight. I’m going to crawl under the comforter with a good book.

Adjusting to standard time

Don’t count me as among those grateful for another hour of sleep. Even as a teenager, I never could sleep late. Nine o’clock was a record for me, and when I had teenage kids of my own I was astounded that they could and did sleep till noon. These days I never set an alarm clock, but I’m almost always up by eight.

Last night Megan spent the night on the couch—her boys were all in the house. She pulls every blind on every window and turns out all lights. The result is that the cottage is a dark cave, even when the sun comes up. I was acutely aware of not wanting to disturb her, so I managed to doze until 7:45 the new time. But then I’d had it. I crept around, making a cup of tea as quietly as I could and turning on my computer. Finally, one of her boys came out to ask something and woke her. Then the world started to turn as it should.

We had biscuits and sausage gravy for brunch—delicious, though Jacob passed on the gravy and wanted honey. His two cousins thought he was crazy. Then everyone sat and talked for a while, and the Hudgeons family was off to Austin by eleven. At one point, Jordan said, “It’s only ten o’clock. I’m loving this.”

I came back to the cottage and worked a bit, but I was off my stride, and my body had definitely not adjusted. At one o’clock—which would have been two o’clock, I was unbearably sleepy. Napped, but that meant I got up with a long afternoon ahead of me. Somehow, lying there, I scolded myself for being lazy and unmotivated, so boy have I gotten a lot done.

Hung up several days accumulation of clothes, tried on some shoes I ordered and discovered as I suspected they were narrow, not the extra wide my feet have demanded since surgery (sob, the days of thin feet and trim ankles are forever gone). Took me the better part of an hour to arrange the exchange, print out the label, and package up the shoes for return. Washed dishes. Talked to the son of an old friend about a complicated family matter for a long time. And wrote my requisite thousand words for the day. I’m beginning to feel my way slowly with a new novel—very slowly.

The world goes on its shaky way—the shooting in Texas has everyone horrified, and I’m with those who are tired of prayers and hugs. We need action, but most of all we need to overcome the divisions in our nation, the sanction that’s been given to hate and anger. Who knows what makes people snap, but who can doubt that the uncertainty of our world contributes.

I was scolding one of my grandsons for talking about hating someone, and Brandon popped up with, “I hate Donald Trump, and I’m enjoying it.” I said that was like drinking a cup of poison and expecting Trump to die, but he denied it. Said his insides were not in a turmoil—he was just enjoying the hate. I doubt that’s a fair assessment. My brother said tonight a friend had said, “Oh, woe is me. I just found out one of my sons is a liberal.” When I asked how anyone could be anything else these days, he cut the conversation off. My sneaking suspicion is he won’t talk about Trump and Republicans because he knows how cruel and wrong they are.

Football in summer temperatures

My two gorgeous TCU daughters

My family has gone a-footballing. The TCU/UT game started at 6:15, but they left the house about 2:00, intent on finding several different friends they wanted to tailgate with. As Megan said, “It’s going to be a long day.” But they love it.

My thermometer tells me the temperature outside is 80, hardly football weather. I remember when I first moved to Texas. The last college football games I had gone to were in Iowa, and we bundled up—it was cold. When we first arrived in Texas, my new husband was a surgical resident, and the staff physicians often took us to TCU football games. I bundled up, because that’s what I thought one did for football games. And I ended up being miserably hot. I ad a full-length red coat that I had to hold or carry the whole night. I also remember that back then folks dressed for the game—no torn jeans and T-shirts, thank you. The ladies wore suits and dresses, and the men wore suits. TCU never won a game in those days, back in the mid-sixties, so I wondered why we went—my blood was not then purple. Thank goodness, that’s different today and they are winning many more than they are losing.

And grandsons--the one on the left looking serious is a dedicated TCU fan,

the one on the right, grinning, doesn't much care,

and I don't know what was going on with Jacob in the middle

Note the orange sleeve to the right--it's my son-in-law

See above that my daughter wore lots of purple--a divided family

I’m not a football fan. As I’ve said, I can never figure out what’s happening on the field. I used to go for the camaraderie. Now, for lots of reasons, it’s beyond me, but out of loyalty I keep it on the TV, muted. But every time I look up, hoping to see a score, they screen flashes scores of other games. I think it’s near the end of the second quarter, and I have no idea who’s winning. Oh, well. I suppose they’ll all come home and tell me, probably in the morning because I’m sure I’ll be asleep by the time they make it home tonight. A friend emailed to say it’s an exciting game—thanks a lot. I’m missing all the excitement.

Nice day. Went to Ol’ South with Megan and family and then to TCU bookstore, where Ford chose as his birthday present a T-shirt, face stickers, a football, and a pop socket. Jacob got a basketball, for which he swears he’ll pay me. Difference in kids—Sawyer happily went with his dad to look at books. Jacob and Ford ran loose like wild Indians. We finally corralled everyone, dropped all those males at the house, and went to Central Market.

I planned a good meal for myself tonight, but like many, it wasn’t quite right. I did a chicken thigh with soy, salt, pepper, and garlic powder in the toaster oven—and all that crisp skin, the best part, stuck to the foil I’d used to line the pan. Next time, I’ll grease the foil. The zucchini just didn’t taste right, but the ear of corn was delicious and so was the chocolate for dessert. Win some, lose some. I’ll have to try that chicken technique again.

Army desertion, sexual harassment—and thank goodness for family.

One of my mom’s favorite sayings was, “Never judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his moccasins.” She even had it framed, written in what was supposed to be a Native American style decorated with, yeah, moccasins, feathers, etc. It strikes me as particularly appropriate today when a military court has handed down a sentence for Bowe Bergdahl.

The sitting (or screaming) president was quick to yell that anything short of life in prison was a disgrace to our military. Yep, he who got five deferments for bone spurs that kept him out of Vietnam but apparently not off the golf course.

I am not condoning what Bergdahl did, nor am I even buying that defense story about his deprived childhood. If everyone in this country who had a deprived childhood acted out, we would be in a sorry mess. But I will suggest that none of us know how we’d behave when our life is in danger—unless we’ve been there. Personally, I’m occasionally given to panic attacks that cause me to act irrationally, and I doubt I’d have ever been good in the military. Who knows except Bergdahl what really happened and why.

I think it is fitting that he was tried and sentenced by a military court. We should respect their considered conclusions and judgement and move on with our own lives. I find it less seemly that he is judged by a draft dodger. And don’t think that Bergdahl has or is getting off scot-free. He paid a dear price during his years of captivity, and he is now a branded man in this country. He has made clear on the stand the daily guilt and torment he lives with. My prayer for him is that he can find someone to love him and can build a life, but I know it will be tough. We should all leave him alone to gather what strength he can. From now on, he’s not our business.

Do you want to walk a mile in those moccasins? If not, please stop trying him all over again on Facebook.

I’m struck by Facebook mentality tonight anyway, as more and more men are accused of harassing women and other men. It’s like an epidemic that’s sweeping the nation. I’m afraid harassment has indeed reached epidemic proportions in our country, but I am also afraid there’s a wannabe factor to this rash of accusation. It will take years and dollars to sort out the truth, and some innocent people may be damaged.

And nobody goes after the Number One Groper, the admitted sexual predator. What a world we live in.

As I write about these gloomy subjects, I am waiting for my Austin daughter, her husband, and two sons. We’ll go to supper at Pacific Table, and tomorrow we’ll do some shopping—the TCU Bookstore, Central Market—and then they, with the Burtons, will spend a good portion of the day tailgating and at the game. Megan, a loyal graduate, will cheer for TCU and so will eleven-year-old Ford, our baseball player who wants to go to TCU; Brandon and thirteen-year-old Sawyer will be solidly on the UT side. We’ll have much of Sunday together, and I am relishing the visit in anticipation.

Be kind to each other, my friends. Love not hate. I am struck by the anger with which a man I don’t know replied to a question I asked of someone else on Facebook. Ah, Facebook. It seems to foster anger. Let’s make it foster kind feelings.

DQ and nostalgia

When I was about twelve, my mom took me to buy a new dog, the collie I’d longed for ever since reading Albert Payson Terhune. My memory is not clear, but I know we went to a kennel in the country (maybe even Indiana from Chicago), and I clearly remember we stopped at a Dairy Queen and I had my first Soft-Serv. I thought it was wonderful. We went on and got an adorable pup. Mom was horrified that the kennel owners said they didn’t feed on Sundays—they didn’t do any of their other chores, so they didn’t feed the dogs. Poor dogs. Sophie would never stand for that. Mom’s gone now, so I can’t ask her why we named that sweet puppy Sister, but we did, and she was the delight of my folks’ life in retirement, long after I had left home and moved on.

But DQ, not dogs, is my subject tonight. When I left home, I lived in a small college town in Missouri, and I remember we were delighted when a DQ came to the outskirts of town. We went not just for Soft-Serv but for hamburgers when we couldn’t afford anything better. I have wonderful memories of visits to the DQ.

Now a major DQ franchisee is closing several stores, I think twenty in small Texas towns. It makes me sad. Oh, I know those towns have What-a-Burger and maybe even Chick-Fil-A, but it’s like another chink in the passing of a way of life. I didn’t want to live in a small town, but I enjoyed it while I was there, and I hate to see towns across Texas change. Maybe it’s inevitable, and my sadness is yet another sign of aging. The franchisee blames it on poor oil prices, because the sites are in oil country. Who knows?

I think I’d like a Soft-Serve cone right now!

There are other things I regret as I age. Cursive handwriting is one of them. My summer campaign to get Jacob and his cousin writing and reading cursive faded to naught, and once school started there was no parental concern.

Maybe I’m just being nostalgic tonight, but I even had a throw-back-in-time supper. My mom fixed a lot of things on toast—asparagus, mushrooms, never beans which I understand is a Texas thing. I think vegetables on toast is quite British, so it would make sense that my German mom fixed it to please my Canadian father, who was very much an Anglophile.

Anyway, tonight I had mushrooms sautéed in butter, with a shake of garlic powder, a few drops of Worcestershire, and a splash of white wine. Put them on toasted sourdough bread—so good I was too full to eat the leftover beet salad from last night. But it made me think of my mom.

Nostalgia is, I think, a good thing. It reminds us of the richness of our lives.

So pleasant out tonight that Jordan and I sat on the patio with wine and had a good visit. Not exactly nostalgic, but still treasured.

The geese are getting fat

Halloween’s gone, but the memories linger. Here are two pictures from last night that tickled me.

But it’s time to think about turkeys, unless your family does something innovative like prime rib or enchiladas. My family is strictly traditional—they want turkey, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, lots of gravy, don’t care so much for the pies. This is the Thanksgiving that the kids go to their “other” families (we’ll all be together at Christmas), but I am fortunate that I’ll probably spend the holiday with Colin and his family, here or there.

I didn’t post last night because unexpectedly Colin came to spend the night. He’s been working in Addison and had to be in Tyler this morning. That child keeps weird hours—stayed up late for him (10:00) and was up at 5:00, out the door at 6:30. Last night, we visited on the front porch with the trick-or-treat people for a while and then went to the Old Neighborhood Grill where Colin had what he said was the best dinner he’d had in a long time—chicken fried steak, fried green beans, and broccoli rice casserole. I enjoyed my dinner, but enjoyed the visit more. When you have a large family, as I do, it’s wonderful to have them all together, but it’s also a rare treat to have one-on-one time with just one child. I heard all about his new job, his two great children, and his volunteer work with his church—they’re active in the foster children ministry in the Houston area. Lovely evening. I’m really proud of him, but then, I’m prejudiced.

Today was not such a lovely day. I had a 9:00 a.m. appointment in Arlington with a cornea specialist. I thought she would just take a look at my problem eye and schedule surgery. Nothing so simple. They did the full eye exam, much of which I’d just had two weeks ago but there were some tests I’d never had before. I was there from nine to almost noon. Bless Christian for taking me and staying with me, all with great good cheer. We treated ourselves to decadent hot dogs on the way home.

Long story short, I’m facing a two-stage eye surgery in the near future. Meantime, my vision in my right eye is blurred, and oh my! The halos I see around lights. Driving at night, even as a passenger, is almost painful.

I will be glad to get this over with, though I will probably have to have a second surgery two to three months later. Still, this is the third thing—my hip, the hospital spell with a fib, and now my eyes. That’s it, folks—I’m done with health problems. Some things that bothered me a year ago seem to have resolved themselves, and I hope maybe some of this will. I’m a big believer in thinking positive and am working hard to practice what I preach right now.

Meantime, there’s that turkey to contemplate. And yet, who can think about a huge turkey dinner when it’s going to be 90 tomorrow? So glad there’s no such thing as climate change😊

Halloween, dinner parties, and breaking news

Didn’t get this finished last night, so it’s first on my morning agenda. There was a pumpkin carving party on the front porch last night. The kids were funny and squeamish about cleaning out the inside of the pumpkins, and, sad to say, no one thought about saving the seeds to toast. But the breeze came up and after the sun went down, it was cool. I didn’t last to see the finished jack-o-lanterns. Tonight is to be rainy and cool, so I think I’ll stay cozy in the cottage.

My cooking over the weekend was moderately successful, enough so that I’ll keep trying. But it was with a touch of sadness that I read a New York Times cooking column recently on giving dinner parties. I have no dinner table around which people can gather—only a wonderful coffee table made out of a cut-down old oak kitchen table. It’s hard to imagine people bending over a coffee table set with your finest china (I gave it all to the kids anyway) and crystal. So I’m reluctantly admitting that those days are over. No prime rib with au jus gravy, no whole roasted duck, not even a whole roasted chicken, let alone turkey.

And when we gather for family Thanksgiving, the girls banish me from the kitchen—except when it’s time to pull the liver and gizzard from the bird. They’re all too squeamish to do that. Some of my traditional dishes have been replaced by their versions, and no one will eat my cranberry sauce. The girls who married into the family cling to that shimmering jelly stuff sliced from a can. Jordan does make great mashed potatoes, and Megan’s apple pie is killer.

So I guess I’ll stick to happy hour entertaining, or dinners for two or three. And, hey, cooking for one is sometimes rewarding!

I didn’t get a lot done yesterday—who can pull their eyes from the television or their nose from Facebook? Fascinated, I watched and read about the unfolding scene caused by Mr. Mueller’s revelations and indictments and had the sense that I’m watching real history. I remember Watergate, of course, but I wasn’t as intense about politics then. I was more occupied with changing diapers and the like. Today as I remember my mom’s intense dislike of Nixon, I wonder if intensity doesn’t come with age, with a sense we’ve got to get this world right for our grandchildren. Now I’m waiting for the next shoe to fall, the next sealed indictment to be opened. But I have work to do. As my mentor always says, onward and upward!

Mr. Casual