An ordinary day

I waited all day for the rains that were supposed to come, but we got just one slight shower in early afternoon, accompanied by just enough distant thunder to make Sophie nervous. In contrast, Megan reports that in Austin it dumped all day.

I wanted rain for my garden that is beginning to look really good. Last week, the yard guys planted an amazing number of pentas along the front of the deck, where no grass will grow. I had thought one flat of pentas was a reasonable cost and, yes, I knew there’s be a bit of labor involved. But it’s something I can’t do myself, and Christian cannot either. Besides his interest is in filling the front porch with beauty, and he does a tremendous job of it.

Still I was surprised by a crew of three, some heavy equipment, and at least thee flats of pentas. And then I was surprised by the bill. But they look great, and they are right where I can look out the window by my desk and enjoy them. They should bloom all summer.

The other blooming plant—a bush really—that I’m much enjoying is the oak leaf hydrangea. There is one directly under the window by my desk. When we had regular hydrangea there, they never grew tall enough for me to see, and I only enjoyed them when I went in or out the driveway. But the oak leaf blossoms have grown tall enough that they peek over the windowsill.

The true beauty though is an oak leaf that is by the back fence—I can see it distantly from my desk through the patio door, but I really enjoy looking at it when we have happy hour on the patio. We haven’t done that in a couple days—busy schedules,                                                                                                      and I’m not much for sitting out there myself. I need a little help getting my walker over the high lintel—when we built this cottage, we had no idea I’d need a walker. All that aside, the plant is magnificent. Next to it, a turks cap, once tall and glorious, is now a ground plant struggling to gain some height. I don’t know what happened to it, but I used to love the tall red blossoms.

Other than admiring my plants, it was an ordinary day—work at my desk, leftovers for supper (sometimes a very good thing—tonight a salmon cake, corn pudding, and a bit of guacamole). But these days, I am aware of what a blessing an ordinary day is, when we are surrounded by such gloomy predictions.

I would not say Dr. Fauci was gloomy at the hearings today. He was, instead, knowledgeable and realistic, but the picture he painted of what happens if the world opens too soon was grim. I am appalled at Rand Paul’s rudeness to him and much impressed by the good doctor’s grace in handling that rudeness. There’s been a lot on the net today about class, since McConnell brought it up in reference to President Obama’s comments on the handling of the novel coronavirus. Dr. Fauci gave a lesson in class. I’m sure it went over McConnell’s head.

Ah, me, what days we live in.

A Mother’s Day surprise and thoughts on a pandemic

Had a special treat last night. A neighbor family came to serenade me for Mother’s Day. Prudence Zavala told me it is a custom in the Mexican community. Standing at a good distance in the driveway (now a basketball court), the dad strummed a guitarron, a large base instrument of Hispanic origin; one daughter had a vilhuela,a Spanish stringed instrument shaped like a guitar but tuned like a lute--Prudence called it a rhythmic guitar,  and the other daughter was on a violin. Mom took pictures, while two younger children danced and jigged in the background, giving their own spontaneous performance. It was absolutely delightful. Jordan and I watched from the doorway of my cottage, and I was so flattered they wanted to do it.

After a long weekend with no attention to my novel, I was back to work this morning. For me, it was a long workday—you can tell nine to five is not on my horizon. But I proofed my spring newsletter (if you want to read it, email me at j.alter@tcu.edu), checked the world’s goings on in the news, on Facebook, my email, including two listservs to which I belong. All that takes a long time, so it was eleven before I started on the novel, but I got my thousand words (my minimum goal) and ended at a good spot to both end a chapter and take the action in a new direction.

About three I was ready for a nap. Just crawled into bed when the yard guys arrived, which sends Sophie into a hysterical fit of barking. I have learned that no amount of chastising, shouting, or pleading will quiet her, so I just waited it out for a long fifteen or twenty minutes. And then they were gone. I fell into a surprisingly deep and long sleep. Dreamt old friends were moving back to North Texas. So overjoyed I was sorry to wake up.

Like most Americans, I am horrified by ongoing news about the corona virus. Not just the spread, not even the rising death numbers, though unlike our squatting president I don’t consider that a victory. I am worried—okay terrified—by the fact that the virus apparently keeps changing. Doctors are finding new symptoms, new organs that It attacks, new ways that it destroys the body. And now, it’s hitting kids—after we though they were safe.

This morning, Jordan reported that Jacob had an upset stomach. The rational part of me knew that he does that from time to time—his digestion seems to be a weak point. We all have them—anxiety has long been mine. But the irrational part of me immediately leapt to the fact that gastrointestinal problems are one symptom. Not a part of the early classic pattern of symptoms, but now recognized. Of course, later in the morning, Jordan reported that he was fine and considering what he ate this weekend when his cousin was here, it’s no wonder his stomach was upset.

I vacillate between hope and despair. With the ever-changing nature of the virus, the ease of contagion, and the lack of cooperation by a large segment of our population, plus the denial of our leader, I sometimes think it will kill us all. But then the hopeful part of me reminds that scientists all over the world are working to decipher the nature of this monster disease and to find treatments and vaccines. Surely, they’ll solve it soon, though it’s fairly awful that the US is not cooperating with other countries and has ordered a halt to research in this country. Research, like testing, must make us look bad, and above all, we must open up the economy..

How about you? Are you full of hope, despair, or somewhere in between?

Mother’s Day and a minor catastrophe

Such a joy to have both my daughters in my cottage this morning. The girls made an early run to the Dollar General—no Lysol, but they scored Clorox wipes. Then we “went” to the early service of church. The sermon was “What About My Family,” and a theme was families aren’t perfect; they are the source of our greatest joy and too often our greatest pain. I reflected on how fortunate my family is—lots of the joy and very little of the pain.

Afterward settled down, each occupied with our own things—me checking Facebook, Megan choosing things like towel racks and the like for her new house (they hope to move in at the end of the month). Every once in a while, the conversation drifted to food and recipes, and Jordan and I even laid out a dinner plan for the week. Tomorrow I’ll try first thing in the morning to get an early slot for pickup at Central Market.

We had our Mother’s Day celebration last night. Kudos to Christian Burton for a marvelous meal. He grilled steak and lobster, diced and seasoned potatoes to roast. Jordan made a big salad, and Megan made an herb sauce that we like but that is labor intensive. She has more patience than I for all that mincing. Jordan set a fine table with chargers and her best china, goblets, candles. We dined in style and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Good dinner table conversation afterward until I announced I had to nap—again.

Before dinner, our good friends the Greens came for a distanced happy hour on the patio. With the world opening up and the new case count still going up, it’s almost harder to tell what to do about distance visits. We have decided that people that have not been to restaurants, salons, and other gatherings are welcome for outside, distanced visiting. We’re not let letting people into the house or the cottage yet. I am comfortable with taking it slow, though I sure would like a haircut. I am befuddled by those who are rushing out to restaurants and going about life as normal or what they wish was normal.

Now Megan and Ford have left for Austin, the Burtons are headed to Coppell to see Christian’s parents, and I shall take a nap and then fix myself one of my favorite summer meals—a cold salmon platter.

Oh yes, our minor catastrophe: I get around my cottage, cooking and going about my daily business, seated on my rollator which clearly says, “Do not sit while in motion.” But if I adhered to that I could hardly care for myself—cooking, carrying things, particularly food and drink, from one room to another. But because I stress the rollator in ways not meant to be, I’ve had bad luck with seats that break. After I bought too many replacement seats, Lewis Bundock, who has done everything large and small for my house for twenty-five years, built me a thick, sturdier seat. Yesterday for the second time, it nearly threw me—one time the screws worked loose, and yesterday one of the plastic grips holding it split. Both times I was quick enough that I didn’t fall off the chair, but it was a true hazard—and scared my daughters more than me. They did a temporary fix, and we have ordered a new chair. I am also trying to make it a point to walk whenever possible and scoot as little as possible.

Stay safe and well, everyone.

Megan and sophie

Taking a vacation from vacationing

My older daughter and her thirteen-year-old son arrived last night from Austin, where they’ve been strictly quarantining to assure that they did not bring the virus with them. We are observing distance and other precautions—no hugs, only air kisses. Still it is a joy to have them here, and the girls and I stayed up too late last night talking about everything and nothing.

If I was happy to see Megan and Ford, Sophie was ecstatic. She has a wide circle of admirers among my family and friends, but she somehow senses which ones are family, and she is wildly crazy about each of my four kids. She could not stop jumping on Megan, begging for her attention. Then she pulled her Border Collie trick of running in circles at top speed. It’s what those energetic dogs do sometimes to work off steam—and joy. When she was a puppy, Soph ran endless wide circles in the back yard. Now, we have put in ground cover and some beds, and the area for her to circle is smaller, but she has found that she can run a loop in the cottage—down the bathroom hall, through the bedrom, and back through the kitchen, out the patio door, and then do it all over again and again and . . . all at top speed. Middle age in dog life has now slowed her down. Woe to anyone who gets in her way!

They didn’t arrive until we, out of hunger, had gone ahead with dinner. Jordan and I planned an experimental menu—corn pudding, which I don’t think I’ve ever made before, and Indian-ish nachos, a recipe from Sam Sifton at the New York Times. It turned out to be sort of complicated, so we roped Christian in on what turned out to be a truly collaborative meal. Afterward, I thought what fun it is for me to cook with both of them, and how fortunate I am to be quarantined with them.

The nachos were a double layer of chips, smashed black beans, chopped tomato, red onion, and shredded cheddar. It was the sauces that made it complicated—a chutney made of cilantro, chillies, lime juice, sugar and salt; a tamarind sauce for which we were instructed to add a bit of lime juice to maple syprup; and a chhonk—olive oil heated with cumin and red pepper. These were drizzled over the nachos after baking, in the order given. Once we did it, it didn’t seem so complicated, and I’m sure we’ll keep the recipe—like a lot of things, the prep, chopping, was the time-consuming part. I tasted an occasional bit of sweet, but I am not sure the sauces were distinctive enough to add a whole lot. Then again, the entire thing was delicious and might well have fallen flat without sauce. The corn pudding was generous—four cans of corn—rich, and delicious. A great meal.

I am taking a vacation while they’re here—pretty good trick during quarantine. It’s like taking a vacation from a vacation. Megan, a lawyer who works from home these days, had to spend her day at her computer, so I had my day to myself. But knowing she’s here altered my sense of schedule. I caught up on emails, spent too long reading about various political developments—don’t ask, today I feel like the bad guys are winning—and finished the book I was reading about American culinary figures in France and their changing attitudes, a la 1970, toward French and American cooking. Enjoyed it thoroughly and learned a lot. I did not work on my novel. I think anything I do now would be sporadic, so I’m on vacation until Monday, when I will focus again.

Happy days, everyone!

How will our lives change?

The food truck from Heim Barbecue ended up parked across the street from our house tonight. Expecting to have two teenage boys this weekend instead of one (my oldest daughter and her youngest son will be here), Jordan went out to stock up on meat and found herself seeing lots of neighbors, all staying respectfully six feet apart. But it sparked a thought in me about our changing society.

I can’t remember the name of the prophet who in the seventies or eighties predicted the end of print and books. The academic world was in an indignant uproar. Then with the advent of cell technology, predictions came about the isolation of society. We would all be locked into our technological worlds, with little if any human contact.  Now with the pandemic and quarantine, we’re beginning to see some of it.

Will we ever feel really comfortable eating in restaurants again? I have a daughter-in-law who swears she will never eat in a buffet again. Of course, I also have a daughter who wouldn’t eat in them anyway unless she was the first to go through the line. But is take-out, like food trucks, going to be the coming way of life? Get your food and retreat into your house. No  shared lunches or dinners. Are we going to get so used to the isolation of quarantine that it becomes a way of life? Predictions are that there will be continuing waves of the virus—more illness, more deaths. I remain convinced we are social animals and will emerge from this perhaps more cautious, having figured out safe ways to gather. But it may be the end of gigantic crowds, not all a bad thing in my mind.

In some ways the changes to our lives may be good—or they may be quickly erased once the restrictions are loosened. For a while there, the air cleared, the world restored itself, nature and wildlife flourished. I welcomed that, and I will hate to see our highways clogged again, our skies crisscrossed with planes. I hope we learn a lesson from this about how destructive mankind has been to the world.

Meantime, I’m going to enjoy that barbecue.

The only other excitement of the day was the arrival of the a/c repairman. He’s worked on this house for twenty years and is a trusted person, but you never know who can be a silent carrier. So the minute the poor man went out the front door, Jordan came in the side door, Lysol spray in hand. But tonight, the a/c in my bedroom is once again quiet and smooth. So now it’s a nice  cool evening, and I don’t need the a/c.

Tomorrow will be a more exciting day. My older daughter and her youngest son (one of Jacob’s best buddies) will arrive for the weekend. Like us, they have been strictly quarantining, and she has promised no potty stops between here and Austin, Jordan has  been laying out a set of semi-quarantine rules for them, and together we have been planning menus. I’m very much looking forward to the visit.

My quandry: how can you see one of your children and grandchildren for the first time in months and not hug them?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

Another day, but not another dollar

It's what's for supper:

White bean and roasted tomato stew

Even for a quarantine day, this one started off badly. For one thing I got up an hour earlier than I meant to and that makes for a long day. I’ve never figured out how to set the clock next to my bed, so I always have to calculate that if it says it’s 6:57, it’s really 7:57. This morning I must have misread 5:57 for 6:57. (I must get Christian of Jacob to fix that for me—Jordan can’t figure it out either.) I did think it was unusually dark outside, but I saw the patio was wet and reasoned it was cloudy.

So there I was up, reading the day’s news and mail while drinking my tea, when the eight o’clock segment of TODAY came on. Wait a minute! It should have been the third hour, the one that starts at nine. Nope, my computer confirmed that it was only eight.

Then our new neighbor decided to power wash something, presumably the large deck in his back yard. Only he didn’t have one of those hand-held power washers like we have which only spit out a small stream. He rented some kind of commercial thing that came with a separate remote generator. I left out the key adjective—it was a noisy generator. And it went on for about an hour. Annoying is the word that comes to mind.

Then I was trying to send my monthly column to Lone Star Literary Life. Took me three times before I remembered to attach the darn thing after I wrote an email. If you don’t subscribe to that, you might want to look into it. A free newsletter about Texas and books.

The good thing that happened was I discovered what I was doing wrong about Blogger.com. I thought they had changed the format, and if I’d known who to complain to, I would have. Last night I could not figure out how to post my blog. Finally, nearing midnight I gave up and went to bed. This morning, first thing, I found a link that said, “Return to conventional Blogger.” And there it was—the screen I am familiar with.

So by nine o’clock, I had posted my blog for the night before, gotten past the glitches of the early morning and had the whole day before me. So what did I do? I wasted the time. I was like Alice following all those rabbit holes. Eleven came and went, and I still hadn’t done my thousand words for the day. I won’t labor you with details, but I did finally write my words.

I also came to a conclusion. I have not been carving out enough time to read. Perhaps it’s my ongoing feeling that I must speak out about the situation in our country or maybe my relatively new obsession with writing the novel I’m working on. Then again, it may be just sheer laziness and the need to nap. At any rate, my TBR (to be read) list is growing out of bounds. I resolved to make more time. Right now I’m reading Provence 1970 by Luke Barr, nephew of food writer MFK Fisher. It is about the year when major figures in American cookery—Julia Child, MFK Fisher, Richard Olney, editor Judith Jones, James Beard, and others--came together in Provence and realized that they must turn their sights from France to America, from the old traditional to new ways with food. It was time to look at American food. I’m enjoying it, and today I’ve spent quite a bit of time reading.

And this evening, I spent time cooking a recipe I’ve wanted to try for some time, a stew of roasted tomatoes and cannelloni or white kidney beans. I ate in solitary splendor, as the Burtons had gone to a front-lawn, distanced supper with neighbors. My dinner was good—the first time I’d fixed it, and next time I’d cut back a bit on garlic and salt (both may be the problem of halving a recipe) and I might add grated Pecorino or Parmesan over the top. But It was good, and I enjoyed it. I have enough left over for lunch, and then the remains will go into the freezer for a soup pot.

So now I’m watching the second installment of the PBS special on the George W. Bush presidency. Tonight, with focus on the Iraq War, it brings up a whole lot of anger that I’d like to leave behind me.

A fireplace in summer

The granddaughter who just turned twenty-one

If you read this blog often, you know I love my tiny cottage. It has everything I’ve ever wanted—except a fireplace. There simply isn’t space in my 600 square feet. On cold mornings, I longed for the heat of a fireplace and the comfort of flickering flames.

Fast forward: today is my oldest granddaughter’s birthday. Sweet Maddie Moo is 21 today. With social distancing the family couldn’t gather to celebrate. And Maddie is in quarantine with her family in Frisco, so no celebrating with her friends at Colorado University. And though she planned to test out her new legal drinking age, she had to study for a remote final tomorrow. A grim way to celebrate your twenty-first, but she followed through with her usual cheerful attitude.

This afternoon Jordan and Jacob drove to Frisco to do a drive-by birthday celebration. They ended sitting on the front lawn, at appropriate distances, for about half an hour. When they came home, Jordan said, “Jamie sent  you a present.”

It turned out to be a desk fireplace! Just the thing I needed. It provides the image, and, should you want it—which I do not right now—it gives off some heat. In February, it will be great. I’m really excited about it—even as I turn on the air conditioner.

Other than that, it was an ordinary day. I laughed today when I saw a headline in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram that proclaimed tomorrow is Cinco de Mayo and urged readers to let them help plan the day. What’s to plan, I wondered? We’re quarantined, and one day blends into the next. No planning required. And that’s how my day went—1550 words on the work-in-progress, a nap, leftovers for supper. Chicken enchiladas and the remnants of a taco salad. So good—but a heaping plate that I forgot to take a picture of.

Tonight I’m watching a PBS special on the presidency of George W. Bush. I’ve been intrigued by Facebook threads since Bush made his statement last weekend urging the country to unite to fight the corona virus. “We are all in this together.” That release inspired a lot of comments. Many cannot and never will forgive him the disasters of his presidency—the Iraqi war, the devastating financial recession, the poor reaction to Katrina.

But others, and I am one of them, like Bush a lot better now that he is  not making bad decisions for the country. Perhaps it is that he has grown in character; perhaps it is that he is away from the malignant influence of Dick Cheney. He has taken up painting and done a series of portraits of wounded warriors, a series that exhibits compassion and caring. And it was not something that came easily to him—he worked at his art, he studied with artists.

Today, if you turn away from his presidency, he is usually regarded as a genuinely nice guy, comfortable, no pretense. His statement this past weekend demonstrated the man that he is today, who has perhaps put his political career behind him in retirement.

Here it comes: the story of “my encounter with a celebrity.” In this case, it’s Bush. At a Texas Book Festival in Austin, I attended a breakfast for authors in the governor’s mansion. I was at the time writing a book on strong Texas women and hoped to include Laura Bush. She was everything I expected—crisp, disciplined, organized (the profile of her never did work out). But she introduced me to her husband, who looked like he had just pulled his shirt out of the dryer and ducked his head shyly when he shook my hand.

Shows how our impressions of people change.

Note: This was supposed to be a Monday night post, but Blogger and I had a disagreement. "Twas late, and I was beyond figuroring it out, so I put it off until morning. Amazing how things that are complicated at midnight work out at eight in the morning.

Resting on the Sabbath – maybe

Sundays always just “feel” different to me. Maybe it’s because even in quarantine I know I’m going to church. This morning, Jordan wanted to “attend” the nine o’clock service because she wanted to spend mid-day at a neighbor’s pool. So I was barely up and into my morning routine when we put everything on hold for church. Another inspiring service, with Russ Peterman’s theme of “What Now?” After Easter, what now? What lasting impact does the Easter miracle have on our lives?

This morning he talked about anxiety and said his family decided they didn’t yet have enough stress and anxiety in quarantine, so they adopted a border collie puppy. He showed clips, and she is adorable but energetic with both puppy playfulness and border collie unquenchable enthusiasm for life. The clip showed her deviling the family’s older dog—biting at her ear, her collar, her face. The older dog’s look, according to Dr. Peterman, said, “Are you just going to sit there and let her do this?”

I could identify because Sophie is half border collie. Now, at nine, she is more sedate but she was wildness on wheels as a puppy. Dr. Peterman said it was actually a good time for a puppy because everyone was home and could train her. I remembered that I didn’t get Sophie until I was retired and home 24/7 with her. And I remembered my  scratched and bitten arms. One Sunday Jordan was so embarrassed by them she urged me to wear long sleeves to church.

After church, I piddled. I decided I would not work. I would take a rest from my novel. So I dawdled on Facebvook and read the entirety of the New York Times Community Cooking page. Then the Sisters in Crime posts, and truly whatever. But I knew in the back of my mind that I was avoiding the novel because my mind was in turmoil about where it should go next.

So I reviewed the notes I had made, and almost before I knew it, I was writing. I didn’t add much but it got me off dead center, and I went back and plugged some holes in the plot consistency, added some motivation.

But when I took my usual afternoon nap, I couldn’t sleep because I was still writing that novel. Woke with notes of things I must plug in tomorrow. I fear I am at the point where the novel is with me night and day. When I told Jordan it was costing me sleep, she said that’s the time you take a vacation from it. She’s right, and I should have done it today.

So chalk up one more day of distancing. Twelve of Jacob’s friends went to lunch today, and he was uncertain what to tell them about why he didn’t go. Jordan suggested, “I didn’t go because I don’t want to kill my grandmother.” I appreciated that. Much as I don’t like the idea, I can see two years of mostly being quarantined. Infections and deaths are already spiking where re-opening is happening, and I look with horror at people shown on TV eating on patios, shopping, going to the beach—all without maks. But we are also hearing that some of the most adamant protestors—a pastor, a bar owner, etc..—who decried the isolation policy are dying. I’ll stay home, thank you, and I am grateful that my family is protecting me—and themselves.

Photos trigger some nostalgia. . . and I learn a new word

The United Church of Hyde Park

A Presbyterian/ Congregational church

I grew up in the historic Hyde Park/Kenwood neighborhood on Chicago’s South Side. Think of it as home to the University of Chicago, several Frank Lloyd Wright homes, and a lot of diversity. It was a wonderful place to grow up—the threat of violence not included—and I treasure those memories. Today, the bulletin of the Hyde Park Historical Society included some pictures that sent me reeling back in time.

The first was of the United Church of Hyde Park. As a child of the city, I was fortunate to have the church and the YMCA as the centers of my teenage social life. Although my parents attended a different church, they allowed me to attend United after I was part of a Brownie troop there and made many friends, several of whom became lifelong friends. I sang in the youth choir, belonged to the youth group—strangely named Tuxus which I don’t understand to this day. We were a close-knit group, and we pretty much avoided the temptations that beckon to many city teens. When I think of parties, I think of pizza and chess games. The mother of one of my best friends was the church secretary, and we pretty much had the run of the church. I remember creaking floors in Fellowship Hall, serving as a waitress for church dinners (how I loved those dinners), and being in Girl Scout productions on the stage in that hall.

Today the church is in trouble. Church leaders hope to get a historical designation that will save the building, and they are working to come up with creative, yet acceptable non-worship uses of the building. Preservation Chicago is supporting their efforts.

Promontory Point

The lake picture is of Promontory Point, known simply at The Point. It is a finger of land that juts out into the lake at 55^th Street. There is indeed a shelter at the Point, a  roofed structure without walls but with all important restrooms. You could rent it for parties and picnics and the like. But our crowd didn’t care about the shelter. We spent long summer weekends on blankets thrown on the grass above the rock retaining walls that held the waters back. There was no beach, and the water was deep. Swimming required climbing down the rocks, chancy in itself, and then plunging into cold, deep water. Although I happily swam in Lake Michigan on the beach at our Indiana Dunes cottage, I never got in the water at the Point. One of the younger and shy kids, I was just anxious to be part of the crowd, so I lay on my blanket and pretended to have a good time.

The Cook County Medical Examiners Office

An example of Brutalism in architecture

My mind was on Chicago today anyway, because of the novel I’m working on, and I learned a new term—Brutalism. I was trying to describe the Cook County Office of the Medical Examiner. It’s one of those concrete, stark, cold buildings with deeply recessed windows that seem to characterize municipal architecture from the Fifties and Sixties. I wrote to my friend Carol Roark, whose architectural knowledge far exceeds mine, and she wrote back to say it was called Modern, but she liked to call it Brutalism or Brutal architecture. I thought at first it was a term she invented to express her disdain for the style, but she provided a Wikipedia link. It is a real style that plagued (my term) much of the twentieth century. The city halls of both Dallas and Fort Worth are also examples.

Always a good day when you learn a new word. But probably those pictures of Chicagoland made my day. Hope yours was good and you are safely quarantined.

A banner day in quarantine

Preparing sack lunches for the homeless

As quarantine days go, yesterday was a banner day. It began when Jordan cut my hair in the morning. She didn’t really cut it, just trimmed. But it was not a decision I reached lightly. For one thing, she seemed too eager to try it. But the ends were getting wispy. I called Rosa, who has styled my hair for almost twenty years, and she encouraged me to do it. So we did. And  you know what? It looks pretty darn good. There’s one spot I want her to trim just a bit more. But I feel better.

In the afternoon, Jordan and Jacob packed 20 sack lunches to go to the Presbyterian Night Shelter, through University Christian Church. I had intended to be part of this project. The food was all stored in my closet—snacks, energy bars, sacks, napkins, etc.  (Anything Jordan doesn’t know where to put, she stores in my closet which is ample, but not that big!). Turkey and cheese were in my fridge. But Jordan thought it would be easiest if they laid it all out on the dining table in the house. And they wanted to do it just when I usually nap. So I hope the church and the homeless know that my heart was in it, even if my hands were part of the preparation.

In the evening, Polly Hooper came to take our porch portrait. Polly is a longtime Berkeley resident who told us, as of last night, she had done 52 such portraits—and she had four scheduled last night. She knows all the tricks about posing—one foot in front of the other, weight on the back foot. Lean in a little bit. Move forward some. We were obedient. It’s unsettling to be photographed with the Burtons, because they are all three very photogenic—and I am not. Haven’t seen the pictures yet.

Polly has what I think is a super plan—to get each family to write something about their pandemic experience and then publish photos and text as a book. Sort of “How one neighborhood experienced the pandemic.”

Today has been much less eventful. Jordan went to a friend’s garage to celebrate a birthday—the friend lives alone and is strictly self-isolating, but Jordan wanted her to have birthday company. So she took her own wine, and Amye set a chair out in the garage for her. Amye stayed in the house, and they were separated by a small space of lawn. I was mostly at my desk and dined alone--scrambled eggs with lox, tomato, and scallion. And raspberry chocolate for dessert. Decadent.

Texas began to open up today, though it didn’t make much difference in my little world. I have heard of offices that are opening on a rotating basis—employees who have been working from home are given time slots when they may come to the office, so not too many are there at any one time. And they must wear masks. Now that is sensible. Rushing off to the mall or one of the restaurants that opened is sheer folly to me. I won’t be going for a long time.

My moral outrage grows by the day. A picture on the internet shows a protestor yelling, his mouth open, his expression grossly angry, right in the face of a law enforcement officer in the Lansing (Michigan) capitol building. Fortunately, the officers were all wearing masks. But to think that this man would yell in someone’s face, knowing what we do about transmission, is beyond my understanding. It’s sub-human behavior. And all those assault weapons—if it weren’t such a depredation, I’d be laughing at those heavily armed men. They look ridiculous in the halls of state—scruffily  dressed but armed to fight a major battle they know they’re not going to get. I think it’s true that those big guns compensate for something small.

I am often a critic of police brutality, but in this case, I think the police should arrest them. They're domestic terrorists, but when push comes to shove, I doubt many would use their weapons. And if one protestor got shot, it might teach the others a lesson. These protests are about guns, not about freedom to live without safety precautions. And no, mr. trump, these are not “very good people.”

Oops. I got carried away on a rant.