Monday all day long

You kno that Facebook thread "View from my window"
People add their lovely, scenic views that are seeing them through quarantine
So I thought I'd add the view from my kitchen window today
Rest assured the view from my desk windows is a flower-filled delight

At the Alter-Burton compound, Monday started early Sunday morning, like three a.m. I thought I heard wind but dismissed the thought—surely not in July, with no storms predicted. All we had was oppressively hot and humid weather. I did think, as I went from bathroom back to bed, that the patio umbrella was down, but I reasoned it could wait until morning. Back to bed.

Next morning, I saw more destruction. Jacob’s basketball hoop and golf net were down in a tangled mess in the driveway, and a hydrangea from the deck had landed plop! In the bed of pintas. The basketball hoop was a particular concern—it’s really heavy on its own, but it had also been weighted with concrete blocks to keep it from blowing over. So much for that. The saving grace was that it fell straight forward, narrowly missing the cottage, the fence, and my car, which it would have gotten had it gone in any other direction. Tonight, it’s still on the ground—awaiting its fate, I do believe.

So this morning Jordan took Sophie for her annual checkup. Soph, thinking she was going for a joyous walk, bolted out the door, nearly dragging Jordan down and succeeding in making her drop her mega-size glass of ice water all over my kitchen floor. So while I held Sophie’s leash, Jordan was on the floor, mopping up water and ice cubes with my hair-washing towel. It’s best at moments like that to keep quiet, and I did.

In the car, Soph must have figured out that she was going to the vet and not for the anticipated walk, because she pooped—I won’t get graphic except to say it was not easily cleaned up. Sophie never ever does that, so conditions were extreme. At the vet, they didn’t have a room ready, so Jordan had to wait outside with a poopy-bottomed dog. When they did let her in, they were wonderful about cleaning Sophie and giving Jordan stuff to clean the car. When all was said and done, I get back a very subdued dog but with a good health report. Oh, except they couldn’t get a urine sample, probably because she’s peed from nervousness twice while waiting outside. So they sent Jordan home with a kit to take a sample. She says she might be ready to think about that in two days.

So tonight I was going to cook steak fingers like I used to fix for my kids—cube or minute steaks cut into fingers, coated with flour, salt, and pepper, and sautéed, served with lemon juice. I decided I should not crowd the skillet but would do it in two batches, keeping the first batch warm in the toaster oven. So I lost my mind, turned on the skillet, and started the oven heating. And the lights went off, the hot plate and oven both went dead. The breaker box is where I cannot get to it, so I had to call for Jordan. She couldn’t fix it. Thinking we’d solve first things first, I asked if she’d take the meat inside and sauté it. With a sigh she agreed.

She was almost instantly back. “The plastic bag you sent?” she said. “It has no form.” I begged her pardon and said I didn’t have any idea what she was talking about. “It’s not pieces of meat like you said. It’s one big lump, and it looks like brains.” I assured her it was pieces—I had cut them myself this morning, while the meat was still partially frozen—makes easier cutting. “How many pieces?” she demanded. I had to confess that I didn’t count.

Finally she got the breaker fixed and my kitchen was once again active. She brought the meat back out, and I cooked the pieces—in two batches. And made drippings out of the crusty brown parts left in the skillet. It was a good dinner—the meat was flavorful, the potatoes good and better with pan drippings on them, and the salad, as always, wonderful—she has a way with salad.

Okay, I figure we’ve survived Monday and should be home free. But tomorrow she takes my car for its inspection sticker. I don’t even want to think about what could go wrong.

Sweet dreams, y’all.

Cover reveal

If anyone asks me what I did during quarantine, my snappy answer is that I wrote a mystery. Watch for it in September in both print and ebook form.

Flies, mosquitoes, and fun on the patio

So glad to have these two on the patio

Last night, Jamie, my third child and second son, came from Frisco bring Maddie, my oldest grandchild. At twenty-one, she is a rising senior at Colorado University in Boulder. To say that I was delighted to see them is an understatement. Maddie, on crutches after a recent hip surgery, came over to me and asked, “Am I allowed to hug you? I’ve been quarantining.” Who could say no to a question like that? Hugs all around were most welcome.

Even though it was blistering hot, the patio was comfortable—fan and bug zapper going, shaded all day long so it never really heats up. We sat out there quite a while, catching up and laughing a lot. Remember that thing on Facebook where a dress was shown and some saw it as gold, while others saw it as blue. Jamie had never heard of it, so Maddie pulled it up and a lively discussion followed with some yelling “Blue” and others contending “Gold.” Jamie decided it was a conspiracy on our part to make him look silly.

The flies and mosquitoes finally drove us inside. Mosquitoes don’t much bother me, but apparently Jamie is a target. But we have a horrible fly problem this summer, and as Jordan says there’s not that much dog poop in the yard. Christian ordered some fly traps that are very effective—bottles that attract the flies. But they stink to high heaven, so you have to move them if you want to sit outside. I did order some wine tops to cover our glasses—I was tired of throwing out wine because a fly drowned in it.

We ordered chicken enchiladas from Enchiladas Olé and ended up with a banquet—beans, rice, the best queso I’ve had maybe ever, and Jordan’s freshly made brownies for dessert. Jamie and Maddie stayed until almost ten, and it was a thoroughly fun evening.

Yesterday was a big day for two of my grandsons. Sawyer, sixteen and in Austin, got his braces off. Sorry I couldn’t grab the picture from Facebook, but last night we had a big controversy over whether he looks like his mom or his dad. As a toddler, he was the image of his mom, but as he’s grown and lost that pre-puberty weight, he looks more and more like his dad—to me. Jamie held out for his sister, saying Sawyer looks like Megan.

Cousins! She used to change his diaper
When did he grow taller than her?

Jacob got his first debit card and went through the procedure of calling into validate it, with his mom monitoring every moment. He is off today for a week in Colorado with neighbors who have two daughters his age. They’ll be in a house with a swimming pool and then one with a fishing river in the back yard. Jacob was at loose ends—what high school kid isn’t these days?—so it’s good for him to get away.

Me? I’m still working on my lectures about creating a chef. Wrote a brief—really brief—history of American cuisine in the twentieth century yesterday and today worked on a supplemental reading list. Enjoying this project a lot.

Tonight I’m dining alone. Jordan and Christian are eating leftovers, but I decided to do myself a lamb chop that was in the freezer and use that zucchini languishing in the vegetable drawer for a casserole. It’s cooking right now, and the cottage smells of butter and melted parmesan—so good.

Looking forward to an evening with the book I’m reading—Deadlines, the first novella in Susan Wittig Albert’s Enterprise trilogy. Mystery fans may know Susan as the author of the longstanding China Bayles series. The trilogies—this is the second—put some of the secondary characters from China’s books front and center. Entertaining reading.

The New Me and the Old Sophie

I am a new person today—I went to the dentist yesterday and got my hair cut today. Makes such a difference in my attitude. As you may have picked up, I’ve been chewing on the dentist problem since April—that was when my appointment for a cleaning was. I cancelled, because of quarantine. But I worried, afraid to go, afraid not to go. The last time I missed going for several months, due to surgery, I had to have a lot of dental work done, and I didn’t want a repeat of that. (Yes, I am more than a little dental phobic!)

Finally in June I made this appointment—you know how easy it is to commit to something that’s a ways in the future. But then came the surge of virus cases, and I began to have doubts. I admit that my doubts were exaggerated by my general dislike of going to the dentist’s office. My hygienist is a really nice person and I like her a lot, just don’t like what she does, as I told her yesterday. I called and inquired about precautions—sounded good, and I was ready to go. But then I began hearing about people who were hesitant. Finally day before yesterday I thought, “I have to go and get it off my mind.”

Turned out to be a pleasant surprise. I saw exactly three people—two in the reception area and the hygienist. They were all masked. I used a clean pen to sign in and when I tried to hand it back the receptionist held out a piece of paper for me to set it on. They take your temperature and ask you if you’ve been exposed, etc. The hygienist explained that she can’t use the electric pick because it sprays water and they are avoiding aerosol contamination. I told her I was delighted because I hate that thing—reminds me of the drill.

Best bonus of all—my teeth were in better shape than any previous visit, and she said if I keep taking such good care of them, she can avoid the electric thing. And my blood pressure was extraordinarily good. Win, win!

The haircut is a win too. Last time, I told Rosa how I wanted it cut—my own fault I spent five weeks looking dutchy, literally. So today I asked her to ignore me and cut it the way she thought best. Now it’s short, has some shape, and I keep feeling the back of my head because it feels good to have the hair trimmed back there. I am blessed that Rosa comes to the cottage on her way to the salon. And she takes every precaution—even swept the floor and then wiped down the broom.

Sophie, however, is not a new dog—she’s up to old tricks. The other night she got me up at 1:30 because she wanted to go out. She’s so well housebroken that when she does that, I assume she needs to pee. Wrong! She went out, laid on the deck, and stared at me—insolently. No matter how I called, pleaded, bribed, she remained unmoved. This went on for at least 45 minutes—and I’d been sleeping so soundly. I can’t go back to bed when she’s out at night. I think she’s big enough (30 lbs.) to avoid predators—except the human kind. Our neighborhood has night-time visitors who try car doors to find an unlocked car. What if one came up our driveway, saw this cute dog, and decided to take her? The electric gate is no barrier for people with bad intentions. Usually I give her some serious talk about coming right back in, but I was too sleepy. Learned my lesson. Right now she’s crawled into her crate, on her own, and is sleeping the sleep of the innocent. I know better.

Just had my favorite sandwich for lunch—chicken, mayo and blue cheese on rye bread. Cannot be beat. Something I learned in school in rural Iowa of all places.

Happy Friday, folks!

A better day

No, I did not eat this much

You know the feeling you get from a really productive day? That was mine today, and I rejoice in it. I began by tackling some things that had been niggling in my mind, things I’d chewed on for days with no decision. So today I took definite action. I had a professional favor to ask from a fellow mystery writer, asked, explained, and got a favorable response. I determined to go ahead and keep my dental appointment tomorrow—my impression is that they keep you very safe and isolated, and I want to stop worrying about whether I should go or let my teeth could to rot and ruin—well, it wasn’t quite that bad, but still….

And there was a social gathering that weighed on my mind: I had issued the invitation but then I began to feel uncomfortable about it, and Jordan reinforced my discomfort. So I flat out cancelled it, and everybody understood. Finally, I worried a bit about my fat leg. Jordan looked at it last night after her several days away and pronounced it no less swollen and red in the lower part of the leg. So I emailed the doctor. I have heard nothing but am assuming that no news is good news.

Oh, and I nudged the graphic designer who is doing cover design for Saving Irene, my forthcoming mystery. Watch for a cover reveal in my blog and elsewhere in the next couple of days. I’m excited about it.

I may have mentioned that I’m to teach an online course in creating a fictional chef this fall, for a subdivision of Romance Writers of America. That, too, has been weighing on my mind. I am to have twelve “lectures”—about 600 words each. Today I roughed out the first two lectures—one introducing me, and one presenting the questions I thought a writer needs to ask him/herself before creating this chef. It was a lot of work, but I was pleased with it—except that I had earlier outlined the twelve lectures and today, in two lessons, I used up the first four topics. I may run out of material. Still, pulling all this material together has been fun for me, and it syncs beautifully with my first truly “culinary” mystery, coming in September. So tonight I am feeling productive, proud, and self-righteous.

Of course there’s always a cloud on the horizon. I tried to attend a Zoom meeting of a church book club discussing Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance. I have not yet mastered Zoom, but I managed to log in. The group greeted me cordially—but the trouble was I couldn’t see me. They assured me they could. About halfway through I decided to log out and log back in—that worked, and now I could see me, except I was sideways. They all said I was sideways on their screens too, but my friend Renee, who was moderating, said it was okay because it made me distinctive. I’ve got to figure out how to do that.

Got my fried chicken craving satisfied today. My generous and bountiful neighbor, Prudence, emailed that her husband was going to pick up fried chicken from Drew’s Place and what did we want. My good friend Carol and I used to go to Buttons for lunch occasionally, just to have the good, bone-in fried chicken with mashed potatoes and green beans, which were, I’m sure, seasoned with fatback. But then Keith Hix, chef at Buttons, moved on. I blogged about this a few days ago when Christian, Jacob, and I had a pale imitation for dinner one night. When pandemic hit, Carol and I had already made a date to go to Drew’s Place, source of the best fried chicken on this side of Fort Worth. Of course, that had to be cancelled. So I was overjoyed today to munch—down to the bone—on a thigh and eat green beans. I have enough green beans to feed Coxie’s Army or, as I told Pru, her family of six. So generous, so good.

So, yeah, it’s been a good day. I hope yours has been too.

Home again, dinner, and back in the routine

My version of Cobb salad

Jordan is home again, and we’re glad to have her back. I fixed her a welcome-home supper—well, sort of. Before she left, she suggested a salad or something easy would be good so she wouldn’t have to cook. So I made Cobb salad—well, at least I prepped the ingredients: boned a rotisserie chicken, boiled some small new potatoes, and hard-boiled some eggs.

When she came home, I said dinner was all ready. We just had to peel the potatoes and eggs and fry the bacon. Plus cut up avocado and hearts of palm, and wash and put out cherry tomatoes. She looked at me and said, “That’s a lot of work.”

Tonight was our regular Tuesday night happy hour with neighbors Mary and Prudence, and Jordan regaled them with her story of her welcome-home dinner and how much remained to be done. But when it came suppertime, I peeled the potatoes, shelled the eggs, and fried the bacon. Got everything out of the fridge but asked her to plate it (we decided on individual Cobb salads rather than one big platter) because she knows what her boys will eat and what they won’t.

She confessed she was just making jokes and really likes to cook with me. We’re a good team in my tiny kitchen, though she constantly warns me not to run over her toes with my walker, and she sometimes banishes me because I get in her way. I tell her she should wear better shoes than flip-flops.

She is home for sure. Immediately rearranged the patio to suit her, rearranged things in my kitchen, took stock of what I need from the grocery, and generally told me what’s what. I am so grateful. And I imagine she did that inside her house tonight. So now, Jordan is taking care of all of us, the world is back in its orbit, and all is well. I assured her that Christian took good care of me, which amounts to seeing that I did not lack for company in the evenings and checking on me in the mornings. All the evenings she was gone but one, he and Jacob came out for supper, and the remaining night he came out to visit.

I am having the great dentist debate. I usually get my teeth cleaned every three months, because I have “that kind” of teeth. I should have gone in April but cancelled due to the virus. Now I have an appointment in two days, and I am waffling. I called the dentist’s office, and they detailed their precautions, which sounded good. But then Jordan said how uncertain some of her friends are. Then my neighbor said her physician-husband went to the dentist and found the precautions highly reassuring. So do I go or not? I will have to make up my mind overnight, because if I don’t go, I owe them the courtesy of 24 hours’ notice.

As everyone knows, cases in Texas are surging, and Fort Worth/Tarrant County, which had a relatively low daily new case count for a long time, is also seeing a surge. It’s mostly young people, which makes me wonder if they are the ones ignoring masks and eating in restaurants and not following strict guidelines. I meanwhile am going overboard perhaps, but I take this seriously. What a dilemma!

Rain all around us last night and today, but not a drop for us. I was so hoping it would dump on my new grass. This morning a neighbor assured me it was going to rain tonight, and I took it as gospel. Unfortunately, nothing happened, although Jordan said the ground was moist this afternoon. At any rate, the grass still looks good, and I am still praying for rain.

Sweet dreams, everyone.

One of those days

The view from Jordan's window

Final pictures from Blanco. Jordan comes home tomorrow, and life will resume its normal pace. Thanks to Christian, who has done a great job of seeing that I have company each day and pretty much tending to supper. Tonight was designated a leftovers night, and I had some in the fridge, but I opted to make tuna salad and have it with cottage cheese—my favorite combination. Maybe it was because Sam Sifton’s New York Times cooking column this morning said this was a week for tuna salad.

It was certainly a salad day for me—one of my favorites for lunch: tomatoes, avocado, hearts of palm, and blue cheese, all doused with straight lemon juice, no oil. So good. If I’d had watercress, I would have added it for a pungent taste.

Otherwise, I’d almost write the day off. I spend most of my days and evenings at my computer—it’s where I work, eat, read, “talk” to friends. And today I wanted to throw the darn thing through a window. I tried to log into an online organization—they had recently completely redone their web site, and I guess there are some bugs not yet worked out. The password I had carefully copied, pasted, and saved wouldn’t work. The webmaster got me by that, and I have a new password—still not a sensible combination of letters and numbers that I can remember. So I cut and pasted again.

Over the weekend, I read voraciously to finish a book for review, and last night I wrote the review, remembering a thousand-word deadline. Today when I got into the site, I read the directions—500 words. I cut mercilessly, really butchered my golden prose—and got it down to 840 words. An unusual problem for me, since I usually write short.

I filled out the form for book review submission, but it would not accept the ISBN (international standard book number)—the form had it spaced a way that the number didn’t fit. Back to the webmaster, though I was sure by this time, she thought I was incurably tech-challenged. Not at all—others had the same problem. So I got around that one too, and the book is officially reviewed. Will be up on the Story Circle Network site tomorrow or the next day.

Then I turned to my entry on Helen Corbitt for the Handbook of Texas and discovered that several of the editor’s questions were beyond me. I ended answering questions with questions, which made me feel totally inadequate. I realized that’s why I write fiction—I’m not a dive-deep researcher, as is my good friend who is editing these entries. More frustration.

I think I’ll spend the rest of the evening with a good, cozy mystery and escape all this worrying. Tomorrow, back to editing on my own cozy mystery. So glad and grateful that I have meaningful work to do in retirement. Makes me a happy camper and, I hope, keeps my brain active and me young.

This morning, after that lovely six o’clock rain, weather people forecast wild storms today. Nothing. By tonight, when Jean came by for a glass of wine, she reported that there was no rain in the foreseeable future—but suddenly, the sky has that funny cast to it. I wouldn’t be surprised if we have a storm headed our way. Stay safe, everyone.

Shopping on the square in Blanco

Jordan says they only got ice and soft drinks

No browsing in t he stores

and they are nicely masked. Good girls.

A Sunday miscellany

We continue to get photos from Jordan from the Hill Country which make us glad she’s enjoying but wish we were too. The latest is the sky just before sunset. Meanwhile, back at home, things remain calm.

Church this morning was a treat. The church began a series on Broadway shows and how they reflect our current values. First up this morning was the hit, “Hamilton.” The service opened with an actor, apparently a former TCU student, providing a striking rendition of the opening song. Russ’ sermon gave a lot of background on both Lin Manuel-Miranda, who wrote the musical, and the actual history of Founding Father Alexander Hamilton. Doesn’t sound like church? Well, it was, because the sermon ended by posing several questions that hit home with me. Apparently, Hamilton was obsessed with contributing something to make the world better—he did a whole lot—and with having someone to tell his story. His wife outlived him by fifty years and spent them telling his story, building his reputation, publishing his voluminous writing. So, Russ challenged us: who will tell your story? What is your story? What I have done to make the world a better place is a frequent question for me, and I was comforted that Russ confessed it is for him too.

The actor who played the lead in the opening Broadway show used to gather the cast for prayer before each performance, and his challenge to them was that they make each person in the audience grow during the performance, go away from it having learned something that changed them, made them a better person. It’s what I’ve always said about books. I’m seeing lots of links here between Broadway and literature and religion. Lots to think about, and lots of history to explore.

I watched the nine o’clock service, but then to my surprise Christian and Jacob came out to watch the eleven o’clock with me, so I’ve been to church twice today. We’ll see if it makes me a better person.

I was saddened to learn that actor Nick Cordero died today after fighting COVID-19 for ninety days. I never heard of him, not being up on such things, until he got sick, but his struggle and his wife’s determined faith have been much in the news. He underwent the amputation of a leg and was recently told he would need a double lung transplant. Perhaps had he lived he would have had no quality of life nor life expectancy, so maybe his death was God’s grace, but it is still a tragic story. Don’t even talk to me about how you don’t have to wear a mask!

I spent the day writing a review of a book about France, food, and World War II. Fascinating to immerse myself in the life of villages and the stories of what it was like to survive the war’s hardships. One woman reported they relished heated pork belly on toast, because when you have little, what you do have becomes a treat. There’s a moral there. Another slyly said, “We did not need to diet” and talked of evenings when there was one potato for a family of five. On the other hand, many French households today have really well-stocked larders, the reaction to the years they went without. The French eat a lot of seafood and a lot of rabbit—the latter a surprise to me. They are surprisingly unsentimental about eating the bunnies they raise. The book is Searching for Family and Traditions at the French Table, #Two by Carole Bumpus.

Tonight Subie and Phil came for happy hour, and we had a lively discussion—of the title business. They quizzed Christian on his work, what he did, how it affects home buyers. Educational and interesting. We managed some other conversation too, and as Subie said, it was good just to see people. Subie questioned how our patio can be so cool and comfortable when the rest of the world is sweltering, but it’s true—it really is a lovely place to be. Christian pointed out that it is tree covered and never gets sun—which is why there’s so much ground cover and no grass. But the new grass in the center of the yard is doing well, and Christian is faithfully watering. Jordan will be proud when she comes home.

Tonight, Chef Christian fixed sesame chicken, and I quick sautéed some asparagus. A good meal.

And so another week begins. I lose track as they roll one into the next, but I hope it is a good week for each of you. Stay safe and well.

A quiet and safe Fourth of July

Fireworks in Fort Worth

The pool in Blanco

It’s a quiet Fourth at the Alter/Burton compound. Jordan ahs gone off with her high school girlfriends for a weekend at a rental house in Blanco. The house they’ve rented has a wonderful view of the Hill Country and a smashing swimming pool, which would be important to them as they like to lie out. (My granddaughter recently said something to me about laying around, and I quickly corrected her that it’s lying around—but I can’t correct these girls.)

I truly admire Jordan and her friends for remaining so close in the years since high school. I won’t give away their ages, but trust me—they’ve seen more than one high school reunion. Yet these are the women she would turn to first in moments of joy or crisis. And I am most fond of each of them.

Meanwhile, back in Fort Worth, Christian, Jacob, and I are having a quiet but satisfactory time. Jordan charged Christian with taking care of me, and he’s most attentive. Lucky for him though I am over whatever bug I had and do not require as much attention or sympathy. Today I read most of the day, because I have a book I agreed to review, and I figured the best way to go after it was to get it done. So I devoted the day to it.

It’s a book about two women traveling through France, seeking the stories of women in various small cities and towns about food and family and how they survived World War II. I enjoyed it, especially the family stories and the recipes. One of a man who was separated from his mother as a child by the bombing of Paris and how that affected him as an adult. Another about a woman whose family had a farm. Of what they ate, she said, “We didn’t have to diet,” as she described sometimes having one potato for a family of five. Even in these difficult times in America, I don’t think we can truly grasp the hardship of Europeans during that war.

As for food, my comment is that the French sure ate a lot of rabbit—in rillettes (I think that’s a paté) and stews and other dishes. I have had rabbit once—chicken-fried—and liked it, but like many Americans I am leery of looking at a bunny and then finding it on the dinner table. The French apparently have no such compunctions, and I’m not sure why I do. We eat chicken, don’t we?

Back to the mundane. Christian and I decided on take-out fried chicken tonight. We chose a nearby restaurant, but friends told Christian the chicken was really spicy. He knows I don’t like that, so we settled for the Cook Shack—I had a good chicken sandwich and cole slaw but not the fried pickles I wanted. And I still have a craving for good, old-fashioned, bone-in fried chicken. When quarantine is over—will it ever end?—I’m going to Drew’s Place, where they serve soul food, including fried chicken with mashed potatoes and green beans. Meantime, this was good.

Christian is spending evenings watering my new grass. The rain we hoped for has not materialized and is now not predicted for a couple of days. Like taking care of me, watering the grass was one of the things Jordan charged him with while she is gone. Woe to him if she comes home and finds brown spots!

So ends an unusual Fourth. I found it hard to feel celebratory today. I’m too upset about where my country is, with a pandemic killing thousands of my fellow Americans and racial unrest being fueled by the man who is supposedly leading us. America today is not the country of my dreams—I pray that we will be able to reverse this and begin the long, slow climb back to greatness, a new kind of greatness that leaves behind some of the problems that got us where we are today. But we need a totally new administration to do that.

Welcome rains and the power of imagination

No sign of rain this evening, although “pop-up thunderstorms” are possible, according to the TV weathermen. Yesterday I had no idea it might rain—first brief shower came while I was napping. But then, when Jordan and I prepared to sit on the patio with wine, the world darkened, and the gods began their bowling. Didn’t see lightning, but the thunder was fierce. It scares Sophie, and she takes it out with sudden, ferocious barking. We had two good, heavy rains.

I just had new grass put down in the backyard—it’s not a large lawn, because much of it is in ground cover and patio, but it was more than enough to challenge my pocketbook. The lawn care crew put down zoysia sod Thursday, with directions to water daily, twice daily if needed. So the heavy rain was a blessing.

I have a bit under the weather, and that’s frightening in this time of COVID. Mostly stomach issues, which led me to believe that it was a virus of some sort. But at three o’clock in the morning, it’s so easy to imagine yourself into all the symptoms of COVID. I did have a rash on my leg and other symptoms that could have been it but weren’t—no sore throat, no unusual cough (I always cough a bit from blood pressure medication), no fever. Still I felt I had to ask my doctor, even though I felt a little foolish. He was kind and gentle, assured me it was a transitory virus, unrelated, and since I was a little better each day, I am not communicable. I love being able to “talk” with my doctor via email—one of the great perks of modern medicine.

So tonight with my stomach feeling better, I’m going to test it. Jordan has gone for a weekend with her high school girl friends to a rental house in Blanco, so I am alone with Christian and Jacob. I will give them hot dogs, baked beans, and the potato salad I made a couple of days ago. A real Fourth of July picnic meal, only eaten inside. It’s pretty steamy outside, and we have a bad fly problem on the patio. Christian is enthusiastic tonight about some non-toxic fly traps that are found on Amazon.

Back to that problem of imagination. I am capable of all kinds of wild thoughts at three in the morning. When we first went into this corona virus quarantine, I would wake convinced that we were all going to die. I’ve since modified that opinion. My brother says he has three o’clock thoughts of, “Wish I hadn’t done that one.” I too have regrets—sometimes I fix on a lost love or a book not written and feel great regret. Why is it that three o’clock thoughts are always disturbing?

On the other hand, I can wake at six, go back to a deep sleep filled with dreams, and wake at eight with happy feelings. Sometimes I quickly forget what I dreamt, but other mornings I carry the memory around with me all day. When I worked in the TCU Press office, I used to recount my dreams. One was that a possum made its way into our office, and our production manager picked it up to carry it outside—when it peed on her. Ever after, she would say, “I sure hated being peed on by that possum!”

I am blessed that for the most part I am a sound sleeper and almost never bothered by nightmares or night terrors. Sometimes I dream that dream-within-a-dream where you know what you’re experiencing is a dream, but you can’t wake. I do have tenacious dreams—I’ll wake from a dream I don’t like, go to the bathroom or something to kind of divert my brain, and go right back into that dream. It’s like I can’t get rid of it.

Sometimes I write great fiction in my dreams, but in the morning, I either can’t remember it or realize that it was an impossible fantasy that would never translate into good writing. Still, I am blessed not to be an insomniac!