Thoughts on a rainy Memorial Day

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

    That mark our place; and in the sky

    The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

                from "In Flanders Fields," by John McCrae

                McCrae, a Canadian teacher, served in WWI and died January 1918

The all-day rain probably ruined a lot of Memorial Day picnic plans—but then maybe it saved some people from crowd exposure they didn’t need. Whichever, I found it a delightful day. Too wet to even stick my nose out of the cottage, so I wrote an amazing (for me) 1800 words.

Sophie was not so taken with the rain, though she did sleep until I woke her. But even with the patio door open, she refused to go out in the rain. Finally about eleven, she began to bark at me, and I had the distinct impression that she was telling me to make it stop raining, so she could go pee. My explanations fell on deaf ears. She finally did go out, took care of business, and came right back in.

Later, I watched Christian and Jacob try to get June Bug to go out. Jacob came and closed my door so there would be no repeat of last night’s horrendous peeing accident on my floor. June Bug took one step out the door and stopped dead still. Christian patter her on the behind, urging her to go on. As if to say, “Nope,” she turned to go back in the house, only to find her way blocked. Finally Jacob had to pick her up and carry her down to the grass. Gave me a good laugh for the day.

Like most of America, I take Memorial Day seriously as a day to pay tribute, something more significant than just a day for a picnic. Many who post on this day come from a military background, which I always think makes the impact of the day on them heavier. I do not come from such a tradition, although now it sounds unreal to say that my father fought in World War I. By the time I came along, the war to end all wars was twenty years into his memory, and he rarely talked about it. Althought Dad fought for the Canadian Army, not American, I suppose he could still be called a doughboy--the nickame given to soldiers at that time. Books I’ve read about that time—and the wonderful work of the war poets--have made me realize that as a foot soldier he probably endured some pretty tough times. He was subject to chest colds, which was attributed to having been mustard gassed. And when jet planes began crossing our skies, every time one whined by—the really did whine in those days—Dad would duck for the garage if he was outdoors. It sounded like incoming artillery to him.

If any of my uncles were in the military, I don’t know about it, though I do know my brother’s father was in WWI and had shrapnel in his face. The decision at the time was to leave it, but Russell Peckham died in 1934 of meningitis, an infection from the shrapnel. My brother was a Navy pilot in the days just after the Korean War. For much of his service, he was in Corpus Christi, and when I finally visited there, I felt like I already knew the city from his descriptions.

We had our Memorial Day picnic on Saturday—hot dogs and macaroni salad—and I had another picnic yesterday when the Zavalas sent me a bounteous feast. So tonight, I will try to rescue a pasta/tomato dish that didn’t work, add a chicken breast left from yesterday, and a bit of the corn dip that Jordan took with her tonight. A nice satisfying meal. I have some editing to do on what I wrote today and then a culinary mystery to settle down with. I’m not hooked yet, but then I’m not far into it. It is set in Santa Fe, in an upscale Austrian restaurant (really? In Santa Fe? Is this an exercise in the absurd?) so it has some compensations.

Sweet dreams amid the rain.

Highlights of an ordinary day

General Tso's chicken with a lettuce wrap

Ordinary days are pretty common during quarantine, and this started out to be one of them. I have noticed that the weather affects my mood more in quarantine than usual, and this morning I felt draggy, a bit lethargic, not bursting with enthusiasm. Of course, I did—it was predicted to be rainy day, although the sun shone all morning. In the late afternoon, a friend who lives maybe three blocks away emailed they got 20 minutes of rain. I was looking at dry sidewalks. One of us has our stories mixed.

Highlight of the day should be Christian’s dinner. He really looked forward to cooking for us. General Tso’s chicken, a dish I’ve heard about a lot and never tried. But more about that later.

The day began with church, after I fiddled with email and the news of the day which was as it often is pretty discouraging. But church was good. I am continually amazed at the creativity and passion that my church brings to online services. Today, the photography particularly impressed me. And the way they involve lay members in the service—children participating in the call to worship, a member reading Scripture. And an inspirational message from Dr. Russ Peterman on the current theme of “Now, what?” So we’ve had Easter and we have the resurrection, but how does that help us live our daily lives on this planet—and in this sorely divided country? His answer? To remember that all of us, no matter our beliefs on politics and the virus, are children of God. That’s an oversimplification, but ….

Then my neighbors, Pru and Victor Zavala, surprised me with a feast for lunch. They hurried to grill before the rain came and sent a plate of corn on the cob, chicken thighs, sausage, and beans, with strawberry sweet bread for dessert. Absolutely delicious. I believe Victor has a career as a pit master should he ever want to give up surgery. Oh, and a sweet strawberry bread topped with turbinado sugar which gave it a slight crunchiness.

So I settled down to nap and then work at my computer while awaiting Christian’s dinner. But June Bug, one of the Burton Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, had a special treat for me. Junie is nine or ten, deaf, has had a heart attack, and—there’s no getting around it—senile. Sweet as she is, her elevator does not go all the way to the top. She likes to come in the cottage because she thinks she can snitch some of Sophie’s food. But tonight she got right in front of me, squatted, and peed a lake on my wood floor (fortunately she missed the rug, but she did highlight the uneven floor of my cottage—everything runs downhill to the north, so pee ran into corners and under the desk). I called Jordan. She came out, justifiably furious, and began a lengthy cleanup process, assisted by Jacob. I was shoved out of the way, but I couldn’t tell which smelled worse—the pee or the cleaning/disinfecting products. Finally, I poured two glasses of wine and we went to the patio. Jordan even jokingly offered Jacob a glass, but he laughingly declined. More turmoil than any of us needed on an ordinary day. June Bug is banned from the cottage, but that means someone has to either tell me she’s out or shut my door—sometimes she sneaks in and I don’t know it until she comes from the bedroom, having gone the long way around.

But we got past that bit of trauma and had a great dinner. I sat on the front porch with Jordan so I could see the pugs that a neighbor walks every evening about 7:30--cute dogs and a friendly neighbor. Then General Tso’s chicken--fried chicken pieces in a sweet/sour sauce—so good. And Christian made lettuce wraps with ground turkey because he couldn’t find chicken. At dinner, he said, “I have a confession,” and we waited breathlessly for what would come—but it was that the filling for the wraps was turkey, not chicken.

Also at the dinner table, we discussed long-range plans if the pandemic continues for a year or more. Where would we go to get away? Perhaps building plans in the air, but it’s a thought to consider. If staying healthy is still a primary concern in the future, how and where will we live? I’m too old to think about it, but I recognize in myself the signs of becoming a recluse. I need to work on that. More about it at another time.

All in all, another satisfying day in quarantine—with unexpected highlights. And a lot to think about.

What’s wrong with America?

Don’t get me wrong. I love my country, and I’m proud to be an American. This pandemic has brought out the very best in some Americans—I see it in my neighbors reaching out to each other, I read about random acts of kindness, and hear stories thata reinforce my belief that most of humanity is basically good, kind, and caring.

But it’s hard during an unprecedented crisis to see so many people picketing and protesting because their rights are being infringed upon. They demand their freedom! They want to get a haircut, sit in a restaurant or a bar, go to the theatre, live life as they’ve always known it. They don’t seem to recognize that these are not normal times and all of us have to make some adjustments.

I am in full sympathy with those who call for re-opening businesses, because they cannot survive economically without a paycheck. We have to recognize how many American live paycheck-to-paycheck. But in my mind, staging protests is not the way to accomplish that goal. And as we gradually re-open (too fast for me), workers lose all my sympathy (not that they care) if they do not wear masks and take other safety precautions in this time of plague. It’s called being a good citizen, a good American.

Those who protest that masks infringe on their rights and do so while armed with assault weapons are beyond contempt. I want to say to them, “Get over yourself.” That is the most selfish act I can imagine, because they not only assert their so-called independence and reveal their inner weakness, they endanger the rest of us and put an extra burden on front-line workers. And that's not the kind of America the armed forces we will honor on Memorial day fought and died for.

A colleague posted a memory about WWII when the world, principally England, lived in blackouts. No sliver of light could show as a target for Nazi bombers. America had blackouts too, though fortunately without bombers. I was a very young child in Chicago during the war—let me emphasize very young—but I remember my uncle was a warden, and I used to go with him to be sure people were complying with the blackout and to warn those who weren’t. Today, some selfish souls would claim the blackout infringed on their rights, and whoever warned them would be at risk of being shot. Bring on those bombers!

I just finished reading The Day the World Came to Town, by Jim DeFede. It’s an account of 9/11 in Gander, Newfoundland, when thirty-eight jetliners, carrying thousands of passengers, were marooned there by the shutdown of American air space. The people of Gander put their own lives on hold and willingly shared their homes, their clothes, their linens, their food, and their goodwill with people from all over the world. They loaned their cars, bought toys for the children, cared for the animals who had been on board. They counseled with distraught parents, worried about the children from whom they were separated in what was a scary time for both adults and children. World tension was at a high, but you’d never have known it in Gander and surrounding small towns.

Nobody protested, nobody talked about their rights, nobody scorned the passengers as “foreigners”—one African American woman was probably the only black person on the island, and she drew attention less because of the color of her skin than because she was a tall and commanding figure and her hair touched the small of her back.

Friendships were forged, some to last a lifetime. One woman discovered that the daughter of a host family lived in the same town in the American South as her own daughter. Thousands of miles away, the two daughters got together, and the Newfoundler was able to reassure the American daughter about her parents’ safety.

Among the stranded passengers was an internationally known European fashion designer, Werner Baldessarini. When a Saudi prince offered to send a private jet to rescue him, Baldessarini turned it down. He did not feel he should be given special treatment, and he had made friends among the other passengers. He wrote:

There was no hatred. No anger. No fear in Gander. Only the spirit of community. Here, everyone was equal, everyone was treated the same. Here, the basic humanity of man wasn’t just surviving but thriving.

Those words echoed in my mind long after I finished the book. I wish every American, but especially the minority who are making themselves so prominent, could read them. And then again, I’d say, “Get over yourself. We are all in this together.”

PS: The events at Gander are the basis for the successful Broadway play, Come from Away.

The weekend the world changed

On the Vonlane bus to San Antonio

Tomorrow marks eleven weeks of social isolation for me and my local family. I asked Jordan tonight about individually wrapped Clorox wraps and she said she was able to get plenty the weekend we went to San Antonio. Since then, she’s never found them in stores. As we talked I realized that was the weekend the world changed.

We went the weekend of March 7 because I had a chance to sign The Second Battle of the Alamo at the annual meeting of the Alamo Society. Jordan, Jacob, and I took the Vonlane “executive” bus to Austin. That part of the trip was like other times I’ve ridden that bus—nice lunch service, friendly attendant, nothing remarkable.

In Austin we picked up Megan and her son, Ford, and drove on to San Antonio. At that time, San Antonio had a few cases of COVID-19 and the proactive mayor had declared an emergency. So we went with hesitation. An email to the president of the society beforehand assured me that many from the group were already there and everything was fine. Armed with wipes, sprays, and what-have-you, we ventured forth.

We stayed at the historic Menger Hotel—a two-room suite for me and my girls, a separate room for the cousins (they were thrilled). Jordan sprayed every inch of those rooms every time we went into them. She harangued us about washing our hands frequently. She was vigilante.

But life in San Antonio seemed to go on as usual—we walked crowded streets, mingled with the tourists at the Alamo, ate in some really good restaurants, took Ubers around the city, and had a fine time. Come Sunday, we drove back to Austin, ate at a Mexican restaurant, and then the three of us boarded a Vonlane for Fort Worth. And that’s when I saw the changes.

The girls left me to nap while they took the boys to the River Walk.

It was a ruse--they went to drink margaritas.

Over the weekend, Vonlane had really upgraded their sanitary measures. No masks, but the attendant wore gloves and frequently offered us sanitary wipes. She used tongs to hand us baggies of chips and Styrofoam containers of supper. We did have a catastrophe—the driver braked suddenly, and my salad flew across my trail table, sailed across the aisle, and landed upside down under the driver’s seat. The attendant, wearing her gloves was unflappable and cleaned it all up easily. But I was struck by the difference in sanitary measures from Friday to Sunday. That marked, for me, the beginning of the change in our lives.

When we came home, Jordan and Christian took Jacob to Broken Bow in Oklahoma to fish for spring break. It was a good choice, as they saw almost no people. I don’t remember what I did most of the week, but I clearly remember that good friend Subie and her sister Diana took me to the Arlington Women’s Club where I talked to a group about my life as a writer. It was a speaking engagement I had worried and fretted about and wished I’d never accepted, but as usually happens, it went well. I just need to get over the anxiety beforehand.

That evening, Carol and I went to Lucille’s for super and remarked that it was less crowded than usual. We wondered if people were staying home because of the novel corona virus. The date was March 12, and I have been out of the house only once since them—to ride with Jordan when she picked up to-go food. That weekend, the stay-at-home directives came down, but for me the world really changed the weekend before.

What stories my grandchildren will have to tell their children.

Grandsons at the signing

Social life in the time of corona

Tonight dear friends were to come for a distanced happy hour. While I have been quite content working away in quarantine, I have missed my friends who used to come frequently for happy hour. I’m sort of a shy person but also one who feeds on people, and prolonged solitude is hard for me. Thank goodness for Jordan and her family

It’s a long, tangled story but the people who were to come tonight are special. She is like another of my children, albeit just a couple of years older—she calls herself my Canadian daughter. And she is married to a wonderful man I adore. They had wanted to come earlier, but when we found out they had been to a restaurant, we cancelled and rescheduled. I guess knowing everyone else’s doings is one of the problems of social media. She did explain they were twelve feet from anyone else and the waiter wore mask and gloves.

So tonight  we were all spiffed up. I was not in my usual T-shirt and leggings, Jordan rearranged the patio for distanced seating, and Christian came home early. And there we sat—5:30, 6:00, 6:30—enjoying each other’s company. We went inside—and let me mention the patio was uncomfortably warm tonight, first time this spring for that. At any rate, I emailed and got a quick answer. There had been a mix-up. She didn’t think I had confirmed, and she knew we were nervous about visitors and could we reschedule.

One of the downsides of the evening was that Jordan and I had planned carefully and had a dinner that could be served quickly after guests left. We opened a prepared jar of spaghetti sauce—shhh!—and doctored it with olive oil, garlic, herbs, and anchovy  paste. It seemed a shame to waste it on a night when we could have easily cooked. But it was good, and we enjoyed it served over buttered linguine with lots of parmesan.

But the evening points up the difficulty of entertaining these days. Much as we love and trust our friends, we are not ready to invite them into either the main house or the cottage with some screening. It’s a truism that just because we have known them for years and love them does not mean that they could not be silent, asymptomatic carriers of the virus. And yet, isn’t it awful to screen your friends? Another friend was to come Thursday night to the patio but wrote to say her sister would be arriving that day and was it okay to bring her. The note came with assurance that if we said no, she’d understand. And we did reluctantly say, “Let’s reschedule.” The sister would undoubtedly be flying in, and we aren’t ready for that second-hand exposure.

We have been waiting to have several other friends over, though Jordan says we can only have two at a time—space doesn’t allow distancing for more. She and Christian have had a few friends over for happy hour on the front porch, but that only works if the guests are willing to respect the distancing rules. Before all this, Christian entertained clients at happy hour several times a week, and he has now tried to move a bit of taht to the porch at a much reduced rate.

Through all of this, Jordan is most protective of me. Her reasoning is that her mom is eighty-one and vulnerable and she isn’t taking chances. I am beyond grateful for all she does to allow me to stay in solitary comfort and safety. I know some think we are being over-protective, but it’s what we are comfortable with.

A dear friend said to me, via telephone, the other day that she has lived a good life and is not afraid to die. She is close to my age though not quite as old. Good heavens, I’m beginning to think few are as old. Anyway, my response was that I am not  sure if I am afraid to die or not, but I know two things: I am enjoying my life as it is so much that I am not willing to risk it, and I definitely do not want to risk the agonies of an extreme case of COVID-19. Yes, some cases are mild, but others are excruciating, and we have all read or heard the stories. Take, for instance, Chris Cuomo’s account of his long and difficult battle.

Sorry, but we’re going to continue to be over-careful. If you’re close to me and want to visit, I hope you understand that I too long to see you, but I’m not taking chances. Someday this will pass, and I intend to be here, hale and hearty and looking forward to enjoying a glass of wine with you.
:

It’s a dog’s life

Bringing Sophie home

Sophie, my border collie/miniature poodle cross, is nine years told today. Getting on in middle age, almost an old lady, though she doesn’t seem to know it. She has celebrated most of the day by sleeping in several of  her favorite spots, with occasional forays into the yard to check on the squirrels.

That day nine years ago, we went as a family to a kennel outside McKinney to look at miniature golden doodle puppies—Jordan, Jacob, Jamie, Melanie, Maddie, Edie and me. The doodle babies were eight weeks old—four more weeks before they would be ready to go—and they were sleepy. The breeder said she had one bordoodle left and would we like to see her.

Sophie, tiny and black, charged into the room and took over. She was lively, full of mischief and licks and tiny puppy bites. She cuddled into whoever held her. We were charmed. And we brought her home, because she was twelve weeks and ready to go. Jordan, Jacob, and I spent the night in Frisco that night, and Sophie slept in the guest room with me. I crated her, but, yeah, she ended up in the bed. She woke me once and piddled on the carpet, something that sends Jamie into frantic spasms. I sopped it up, and he was never the wiser.

I had retired by then and was home all day every day with Sophie, which is probably why I did a better job of housebreaking than I ever have with any dog—and believe me, I have had a long line of dogs in my life. But I couldn’t control the teething—those sharp little teeth would chew on anything. She instantly destroyed stuffed toys, so we stopped getting them for her. She chewed the wood edge of the bottom of my bookcase, and to this day it is covered in duct tape. She clawed at my arms for attention, and I remember once I embarrassed Jordan by going to church in short sleeves, exposing all the little bloody marks on my arms. But there came a day, suddenly, when she was civilized—or as civilized as she was ever going to get.

Sophie today

Sophie does not like to be told what to do. If I tell her to come inside, she’s likely to stare at me. If someone tries to drag her somewhere, she’s likely to growl, though she’s not serious about her threat. She chases squirrels with gay abandon, barking furiously, and she considers the yard guys her personal enemies to which she must alert me by shrill barking the entire time they are here.

But she is a companionable soul who loves affection. When she is especially excited, she runs in wide circles at top speed. She used to do that in the yard, but we have planted so much of it that she now makes a circle in my cottage—down the hall, through the bedroom and then the kitchen, out the door to the patio, and all over again. She is deliriously happy when there’s a houseful of people and will go from one to the other, looking for attention. She particularly loves my children and grandchildren. In quiet moments—of which there really are many—she will lie and watch me intently. Thunderstorms scare her, and she won’t leave my side when they come. When I talk to her in long sentences, which I do—she’s often the only one around to talk to—she wags her tail tentatively, as if to say, “I’m not certain what you’re saying, but I trust you.”

Sophie shares our backyard world with her two cousins—the Burtons’ Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. They are half Sophie’s size, if that much, and have about a quarter of her energy. She buffaloes them, but at the same time she can’t do without them. If she senses they are out, she has to be out with them. She will take her discarded treats to the deck and leave them for Cricket, because she knows Cricket sometimes snatches them. She is constantly on the alert lest June Bug, who is always starving, eat her food. Sophie is inclined to be happy knowing it’s there but not necessarily gobbling it down—until Junie comes along.

In short, she is sweet, spoiled, smart, and I am completely besotted with her. So Happy Birthday to Sophie. Sorry, but no chocolate cake. Maybe an extra treat.

Cricket and June Bug

I call them Tweedledee and Tweedledum

Looking back down a long road

My family

Today I’ve been thinking about how life plays strange tricks on you and doesn’t turn out the way you expect. When I was in school, I never chose a career path because I thought some man would marry me and take care of me, and I would spend my days reading Silver Screen and eating bonbons. The closest I came to a future vision was maybe owning a small bookstore. Fate had other things in store.

Fifty-six years ago today I married the man I intended to spend the rest of my life with. He was not then nor ever the love of my life, but I thought I loved him, and he loved me. We married in my brother’s back yard in a small Missouri town, with a row of bushes separating us from the goat pens next door. Little did I know what lay ahead of me—graduate school, four beloved children, a career in publishing, a life as a writer—and divorce.

For many years, we were the charmed couple, younger than his medical colleagues, less conventional in our lifestyle, the perfect family in the dream “doctor’s wife” house with the children and the station wagon. Gradually, after fifteen years, it fell apart. It would be easy for me to blame him, as I know it was easy for hm to tell others how bad the marriage was, but the truth is divorce always has two participants.

At the age of forty-two I found myself the single parent of four, mistress of a large (and expensive) house, and unemployed. I was terrified, and I think the kids might have been too, though they were visibly relieved that the bickering and tension were gone from the house. Gradually, we put one foot ahead of the other and moved on.

I went into a career in academic publishing, work that I loved and, I think, was good at. My children each found their own ways, sometimes a crooked, jagged path, but today the oldest is a CPA, my oldest daughter a lawyer, the second son was owner of his own toy manufactures representative company and is now in charge of US sales for a larger firm, and the youngest a luxury travel advisor. All four are happily married, and they have given me seven terrific grandchildren. I laughed that after their childhood, crowded with noise and love and laughter after the divorce, none of them wanted more than two children. I could never make them understand that raising four is a whole lot easier than raising two. More expensive, but easier.

Today, we are a happy, strong family, always ready for the next family get-together. The children’s father no longer walks this earth, but when he did—at family wedding receptions—I think he recognized that we were a family unit without him. With joy, we have reached out and absorbed into the family his daughter from his second marriage.

When Joel left us, I remembered Robert Browning’s words in “Rabbi Ben Ezra”:

Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be,

The last of life, for which the first was made:

        I thought marriage was like a roller coaster, with ups and downs, and you rode it to the end. He didn’t seem to agree. But a few years after he left, I realized what an enormous favor he had done the children and me. We were healthy and happy. I never heard from them any bitter longing for the father they’d lost nor any wish to search for their biological parents—all four are adopted, but as I will tell you fiercely, they are mine.

God has truly blessed me, and I can tell you, fifty-six years later I am one happy camper. No, there’s no man in my life, but I have lovely memories. And I am content with the world I have now, even in quarantine. A tip of the hat to Jordan, who keeps me safe these days, and to the other three who are wildly supportive.

Who knew all those years ago what would happen?

The week that was

Dinner tonight

Black bean enchilada with fruit salad

During quarantine, one of the most common complaints I read on the three cooking-related lists I follow is that folks are burned out on cooking, out of ideas, done with it, so ready not to cook but not yet ready to venture to restaurants. I read an article today about Baltimore chef and artist Krystal Mack who hails the return of the community cookbook. You know, those spiral bound cookbooks from the Junior League or the church sewing circles or whatever. My first signed publication was in such a book, put out by the auxiliary at my father’s hospital. I contributed a garlicky cheese dip, and there it was in round, childish handwriting—my name, Judy MacBain.

Today we fall into the trap of thinking cookbooks should have glossy, four-color photographs and complicated new recipes that challenge cooking skills. Not so, says Mack, who compiled a five-dollar book that includes poetry and activities. Titled How to Take Care, the book’s proceeds support national organizations that fight domestic violence. The recipes, gathered from her fellow chefs and artists, are simple and inexpensive. Recipes, she says, that give power back to the people.

Makes me think that my Gourmet on a Hot Plate fits right into that category. Recipes for non-cooks, beginners, families. You don’t have to be confined to a hot plate to follow them, but they too are simple and inexpensive.

During quarantine, Jordan and I have planned meals a week at a time. Not a rigid schedule, but one that gives us some idea of what to fix. This morning I asked her what was for dinner tonight and suggested the one take-out we planned for the week.

“No,” she said. “I want to save that for the weekend.”

Duh. This is the weekend. We looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Where did the week go?” she asked.

The answer is I’m not sure. I have developed a schedule for these quarantine days. I sleep as long as Sophie will let me—usually about eight o’clock but sometimes, groan, much earlier. After fixing my tea, I settle at my desk to answer emails, check the world news, study the writing lists I belong to, and check out Facebook. Believe it or not, all that takes way too much time. Then I am free for my projects—these days it’s mostly writing the novel I’m working on, but it is also my neighborhood newsletter, which has gotten much busier with quarantine. I think more people have time on their hands and also more are doing good deeds for others—those reach me as contributions to a Cheers column. There are blogs to write, and I have some personal legal documents to study.

Sometime after noon, I break for  light lunch and work until two or three when I get unbearably sleepy. After nap I change clothes (having worked in pjs all day), put away any dishes in the kitchen, and once again catch up with what’s going on in the world, take care of emails that have popped up, and drink a glass of wine with Jordan. We watch the news and then take our wine to the patio.

Most evenings we eat in the cottage. After supper I take a really short nap—sort of like Grandpa who used to fall asleep on the couch--and then I work or read until midnight.

I think I am a creature of habit. Routine makes me comfortable and secure. So now, with a project I’m really enthusiastic about, the days seem to flow into one another, and, yes, the weeks go by quickly. Yesterday marked nine weeks since I have been out in the world. And I’m okay with that.

Online wedding

Well, the pandemic brings new experiences every day. This morning I went to an online wedding—not Zoom but an app called GoToMeeting. My niece, Emily Alter, and her fiancé. Max Krol, were married at 10:30—9:30 a.m. in Texas. They had planned an elaborate destination June wedding in Turks & Caicos, which made the Texas Alters rejoice. Colin and Lisa actually lived on Provo, one of the Turks & Caicos islands, and I visited them there. It would have been familiar territory.

But COVID-19 interfered. Air travel began to look more and more unwise, and they were unsure about the resort they were working with. Common sense prevailed, and they cancelled everything. Emily has been an R.N. on an orthopedic floor at Lennox General in Manhattan for several years, but with the pandemic, her unit was converted to care for COVID-19 patients. We are all extremely proud of her and more than a bit worried for her. Obviously, she had no time to plan a wedding.

Enter the City of New York. Mayor De Blasio and Corey Johnson, Speaker of the New York City Council, conceived of a plan they called Project Cupid, and Governor Cuomo signed it into law. The online marriage license program is a way of encouraging love during the time of pandemic. Previously New York residents had to appear in person to apply for a marriage license. Under this program, the whole thing can be done virtually—documents submitted, payments made under a secure electronic program. The signed marriage license is delivered electronically. The program is available in eleven languages and translation assistance is available if needed. One more wonderful example of the things being done by caring and kind people these days. They truly outweigh the outrageous rebellion and selfishness we see from some.

I was unsure what form the wedding would take, but by 9:30 Jordan, Jacob, and I were at my computer (Christian had a work appointment). Turns out the ceremony would be conducted by the family rabbi who married Emily’s older sister and brother. The rabbi estimated that, with quite a few households logged on, there were close to a hundred people in attendance. Lots of bantering back and forth preceded the ceremony. The bride’s father wore a white shirt and bow tie but joked he couldn’t stand up because he didn’t have pants on. My oldest son and his family were all spiffed up, Colin and Kegan in sport coats but I suspect they too had shorts on the bottom.

My Tomball family in their wedding finery

 Megan tuned in from their Austin apartment while Brandon logged on from his parents’ home in Midland where he was on a belated Mothers’ Day visit. The rabbi took center stage and joked that this was Uncle Mark’s way of avoiding the expense of a Caribbean wedding. But he turned solemn for the actual wedding, which included the ritual of exchange rings and the traditional stomping of a glass by the groom. Afterward, the bride and groom cut a cake, and one-by-one people chimed in with their congratulations.

It was a day for happy tears. Last night I was awake awhile in anticipation, but I expect to have sweet dreams tonight. And I’m still in a bit of wonder at what can be done with technology.

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.