The tax man cometh

 

Not my picture
but isn't he adorable

For some reason today, the saying that kept repeating in my mind was, “The Lord loveth a happy heart.” Well, I qualify! My heart is happy tonight because I spent much of the day organizing my tax information so that when my accountant sends his annual questionnaire I have it (almost) all ready to go.

I suppose everyone’s tax information seems complicated, but mine always has for years because as a free lance writer I have income—none of it large, mid you—from several sources. And then I must keep track of all the expenses that qualify for deduction, and I end up with ridiculous questions for my accountant, like “Can I deduct the new tree I bought as property improvement?” Maybe I could detect the value of the hundred-year-old tree that had to be replaced. OH, oops! If you count depreciation, I guess a hundred-year-old tree has lost all its value. But losing it was such a traumatic thing for us and made us so sad, I really think we should be compensated for sentimental value. I doubt the IRS would see it that way, and I’m not about to tempt them.

The tree is sort of like my car—a 2004 VW convertible bug—which is now back in the driveway after spending months in a repair shop of Christian’s choosing. Christian kept telling me this was a good guy, but I began to have my doubts after the car was gone so long. Was the guy driving it himself? Selling it? All is well, because one day it just reappeared in the driveway, in much better shape than when it went away. Jordan and Christian want to keep it for an alternative for a while, because both their cars are old, and Jordan’s needs some work. Meantime, Jordan and I ran an errand in it the other day, and I realized it is so much easier for me to get in and out of than climbing into her SUV. I have requested that we take the VW to all future doctor appointments, etc. But the truth is my little pale-yellow bug has much more sentimental value than actual worth. Like the tree.

And I am headed into a series of routine doctor appointments that I rescheduled when omicron was rampant. I hate it, because now I have all these visits breaking into my work schedule. And I’m always a bit hesitant about some doctors—will the cardiologist find something wrong? Will the dentist find a cavity? How about the eye doctor? I’ve had enough eye trauma to last a lifetime. Probably I’m not so worried about the ones I should be worried about.

My heart is also happy tonight because Jordan and I had a good visit with my neighbors who usually come for happy hour on Tuesday, as long as everyone’s schedule permits. We talked of plumbing problems—Mary has major work being done, so much so that she and Joe are staying in a hotel. And we talked of kids, primarily Jacob’s triumph at a golf tournament today—five schools, and he came in at 77, third place, two strokes behind the winner. I am so proud of that boy. And of course we talked of food and recipes.

After the ladies left, I ate a quick bowl of leftover chicken soup and tuned into a Zoom program sponsored by the Chicagoland chapter of Sisters in Crime on social media. I prepared myself to learn a lot, but what I learned is I am probably doing it all right with a visible presence on Facebook, a less active presence on Twitter (I mostly retweet and must learn to post original content), and some presence on BookBub and Goodreads. The one I’ve left slide is Pinterest, and I went exploring tonight, made a little progress, but need a tutor. And I really need a tutor for Instagram—hmmm, I’m wondering if Jacob can help.

Enough. I’ve had a full day, and I’m going to take my happy heart to sleep and pray for the people of Ukraine. That situation scares the bejabbers out of me—which I guess is what Mr. Putin wants.

Monday blues on Valentine’s Day

 

A reconstructed apartment in The Tenement Museum
Photo from the Tenement Museum

What an oxymoron! They just shouldn’t schedule Valentine’s Day on a Monday. In fact, I may become an activist for rescheduling all those Monday holidays. I know, what I don’t need is another cause when I have Texas politics (and national), banned books, dogs … let’s see, what else?

I didn’t so much have the blues today as the blahs, and or no reason. The day was sunny and almost warm, though the temperature drop between four and six this afternoon was dramatic. Sophie did get me up early—twice, so I missed my morning doze. But my work went well, and I got my thousand words written, though they were what I would call transitional words, trying to get the characters from one problem to another. Now I’ve left them at a dinner party—can’t wait to see what will come out of that dinner, and Henny is nervous about it. She’s serving her homemade pasta, which is definitely not one of her signature dishes.

Zenaida was here this morning, so the cottage is sparkling and clean. Other than her cheery presence, there wasn’t a highlight to the day. I tried to create one by watching a Zoom special on love in the tenements. I follow the Tenement Museum at 97 Orchard Steet in Manhattan’s Lower East Side (I’m pretty sure I’ve blogged about it before, so if you find this repetitive, please bear with me). The building housed waves of immigrants from the 1860s through the 1930s—the Irish fleeing the potato famine Lutherans from Germany, Jewish people escaping the violence of eastern Europe, eventually Italians and Hispanics. The immigrants did not mingle—one wave followed another, so that for a time the building was almost exclusively Irish, then Jewish, etc. It’s like a mini-history of New York City. Rescued from demolition in the late 1980s, 97 Orchard Street is slowly being refurbished, and “model” apartments are stark reminders of the shabbiness of poverty and the lack of amenities.

Tonight’s program featured just a few couples in love and probed the question of how you find out about love in history. The part about a Jewish couple featured quite a bit about traditional matchmaker and the decline of their business early in the twentieth century.The pictures were fascinating, along with interesting chat comments. But I so want the museum to do some training of their presenters. Tonight there were two—a woman who was so animated as to be almost frenetic; she talked too fast so that she was hard to understand; her constant playing with her long hair was distracting. (Yes, I had my hearing aids in and my auxiliary speaker turned on—still not good.) She was partnered with a young man who was just the opposite—laid back, soft spoken, lacking her obvious spark. I don’t know which is better—or worse. A side note: each was identified by name and pronoun preference. She preferred she/her, and he identified as he/him. But I thought it interesting that they felt it important to include that information.

One of my colleagues on a writers’ listserv just recorded some demo work hoping to get voice-over assignments, and she shared the demos with the group today. I was impressed by the range and variety of her voice and by the fact that whether she was doing a voice for an animation segment or one for a corporate presentation, her speech was clear and understandable. I want her to run up to NYC and teach the Tenement Museum staff. I know they operate on a shoestring and the staff may even be volunteer, but I think if they upped the quality of the programming, they’d get more contributions.

My recommendation, if you’re interested in this history, is to read the book, 97 Orchard: An Edible History of Five Families in One Tenement, by Jane Ziegelman. Or check out the website: the tenement museum - Search (bing.com)

Christian is fixing a new version of carnitas for Valentine’s Day, and I’m being reclusive—I guess the blahs have made me lazy. I declined an invitation to dine in the house—they can have a candlelit dinner. I’m waiting for a plate of food.

Tomorrow is a new day!

Christian's carnitas
Just delivered and delicious!

Souper Bowl Sunday

 

Here it is once again, the biggest Sunday of the football year. Not being a football fan, it leaves me apathetic to say the least. Perhaps bored would be a better description—or maybe a bit angry at the extravagance of a sporting event.

I remember several years ago when PBS had Souper Bowl programming. I think it was a series of programs devoted to soup in a play on words—and perhaps a reaction to all the junk food that is eaten at watch parties. Which reminds me—did everyone see that because of drug cartel violence, the US cut off all import of avocados from Mexico as of last night. On the eve of the biggest avocado sale day of the year, because everyone is making guacamole.

I discovered tonight that there is an organization that shares my concern it should be turned to a better cause. Project Care sponsors the Souper Bowl of Caring, couched in football terms for church groups, youth ministries, any kind of non-profit group. First down, they say, is to organize your team. Second down: what do you want—food donations? Cash donations? They talk about virtual food shopping, fundraising, food drives, and other ways to “make a touchdown.” Third down is to register your project with them and fourth to use their resources. I have no idea about the legitimacy of this program, but I would like to believe in them. It’s a neat idea.

On the other hand, it sounds like a whole lot of work, and I had my hands full today just making a pot of chicken soup. The recipe calls it crack chicken soup. It has all the things you’d expect—onion, carrot, celery, chicken, and broth (I had two cups of really good homemade broth in the freezer). But then it has the unexpected—a packet of ranch dressing mix, a can of cream of chicken soup, half and half, a half-pound of spaghetti, grated cheddar. Two friends came to share it with me, and if I do say so, it was excellent. One friend brought delicious cornbread, and so we feasted. A problem with pasta in soup—it tends to soak up all the liquid. The soup was thick tonight; by tomorrow, I imagine I’ll have to add more broth to the leftovers. Easily done.

The soup and the company soothed me at the end of a difficult day in which, ultimately, I proved myself a bad doggie mother. There’s a doggie devil that occasionally takes over Sophie, especially in the early morning. When she goes out for that morning pee, she runs madly from one end of the yard to the other, chasing squirrels, barking, squeaking in excitement. When she’s in that zone, I might as well talk to myself. I bundle up, go out with leash (to fool her into thinking she’s getting a trip) and cheese, her usual treat. I call, beg, plead, and cajole. She doesn’t even look at me.

This morning, after an hour, Jordan, who likes to sleep late on weekends, came out and went after Soph—something I can’t do when she’s back in the bushes. Jordan’s concern was that running on the ground cover and gravel in a couple of small beds, tears up Sophie’s feet. She finally brought Soph inside, but my sweet dog was not happy about it. She barked at me continually, until I went from scolding to yelling. I was not going to let her out to repeat that performance. About noon, when Jordan came to bring me something, Sophie slipped out and took the longest pee ever. Poor thing—she’d just been trying to tell me she needed to pee. She promptly went to her crate and fell asleep, either out of exhaustion or relief about the peeing—or resentment of me. We did not speak until suppertime.

But when Renee and Jean arrived, she got lots of love to make up for her cruel mistreatment earlier in the day. As of this writing, I think we’re friends again. This morning was the second in a week in which she got in that wild zone, so I’m a bit apprehensive about tomorrow. And, honest, I don’t want to get up at seven in the morning. I’m retired, after all.

It's a new week, and the world is getting back to normal. I hope everyone has a good week.

Winter returns … a day for reflection

 

My favorite weather forecaster-
See those eyes?
She's not letting me out of her sight in scary weather

Yesterday was a tantalizing touch of spring—close to eighty degrees and sunny in the afternoon, though by six-thirty, when we came in from the patio, there was a definite chill in the air. Still, last night I was full of optimism—the rodeo is over and gone, my family seems for now free of the virus, and for the first time in over a month Jordan sat in the cottage and visited and then stayed on the patio to join friend Renee and me in talking about dogs and kids and friends and all the things that make life so good. I wrote Jordan this morning to tell her what a pleasure it is to have her back in my life, after all those masked, five-minute visits. Reminds me of a Snoopy cartoon I saw today, where Snoopy is carried on the shoulders of his friends, and he says how glad he is that friendship is free, because he could never afford all the wonderful people in his life.

Maybe it was last night’s conversation or maybe Snoopy this morning, but I’ve been reflecting on the nature of friendship—some are long-lasting, some transitory, and some change in nature. Today is the birthday of a colleague to whom I was once close—we plotted and planned books and programs, we had lunch together several times a week, we were good friends. Today I almost never hear from him; when I do it’s because I reach out to be sure he’s okay—eight years older than I (can you believe that?), he’s been hiding in his house from omicron. I told him I miss him, but really what I miss is the old friendship. We can’t go back to that.

I have other friends and colleagues who have dropped out of my life, and it always pains me a bit. I think it’s Ann Lamott who wrote that when someone drops out of your life, it means their part in your story is over. A woman I used to travel with to meetings of everyone from Western Writers of America to the Texas State Historical Association and the Texas Institute of Letters—I sent her a birthday card just before Christmas but had no response. I’ve always had the feeling I somehow offended her, though I would never have done that intentionally. Then there’s the woman who’s a great correspondent just after we visit, but then it tapers off and I rarely hear from her. I guess it’s time for another visit. And at my age, inevitably, I’ve lost people I really card about to death. Another colleague wrote me recently that of the five people he felt close to, two had died and one had moved across the country. Circumstances over which we have little control change our friendships, and it’s often sad.

I have new friendships—neighbors that I’ve come to know, acquaintances that have moved out of that casual category to become true friends, and I value them all. I talked yesterday to my associate provost to whom I reported at the university. We are the same age, and when I said I felt we are fortunate—meaning fortunate to be as healthy and involved in life as we are—he said, “Life continues to unfold.” I thought it was well put. As for those whose part in my story is over, I have lots of wonderful memories to hold close. On the birthday card I sent today I recalled a birthday when twelve women, all part of his fan club, took this man to our favorite café for lunch. A good memory.

I knew during the night that the weather was changing. Sophie slept right by me, instead of in her spot across the room. And when I woke and moved around about seven this morning, she didn’t show any interest in going aside. Her instincts about weather are always several hours ahead of mine, but when I finally got up this morning, I was greeted by a gray day that probably feels chillier than it is. Even Jordan, my child with hot Mediterranean blood, is complaining of cold this morning. So much for our plan for lunch on a patio somewhere. That will have to wait.

Today is one for a cut of tea, a blanket, and a good book.

 

Just call me Charlie

 

How would you feel about reading a chapter of a novel and then waiting a week—or even a month—for the new chapter? That’s what people in Victorian England did, as Charles Dickens wrote his way to fame in weekly or monthly installments, starting with his first novel, The Pickwick Papers (1836). For Dickens, the advantages were several: first among them, a more regular income, which he needed to support his wife and family. But he could also change characters, directions, etc. according to public reaction to the installments. When his wife’s physician expressed displeasure with the way Miss Mowcher (David Copperfield) reflected her disabilities in her personality, Dickens strengthened the character and gave her a more positive outlook. Often, he wove contemporary events into his narrative.

Here are some novels that were serially published over the years: Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Crime and Punishment, Treasure Island, The War of the Worlds, Heart of Darkness, Ulysses, A Farewell to Arms, In Cold Blood. (Here’s a literary test: how many authors can you pair with the above titles?) Contemporary authors who have used the form include Stephen King nd Michael Wolfe.

In 1986, in celebration of the Texas Sesquicentennial, the Fort Worth Star-Telegram commissioned me to write a novel in honor of the celebration. Installments appeared twice a week, and in between I wrote frantically. Like many who write by the seat of their pants, I didn’t really know where the novel was going until I wrote that last installment. Someone said to me, “You do like the sentimental ending, don’t you?” Too late to change that. Sesquicentennial ended; so did the novel, and I never thought more about it.

Today serial publication is back in vogue, especially with genre fiction—mystery, romance, and science fiction. The idea is that you can read on the fly—a chapter in the dental office waiting room, another chapter on the subway to work, still another waiting to pick your child up from school. Several platforms let you download installments to your iPad or phone.

Today, I joined the authors at KISS Crazy Maple Studios with the launch of the first in my Blue Plate Café Mysteries, Murder at the Blue Plate Café. Crazy Maple has contracted for the other three books in the series: Murder at Tremont House, Murder at Peacock Mansion, and Murder at the Blue Plate Café.

Here's the blurb for Murder at the Blue Plate Café:  Small towns are supposed to be idyllic and peaceful, but when Kate Chambers returns to her hometown of Wheeler, Texas, she soon learns it is not the comfortable place it was when she grew up. First there’s Gram’s sudden death, which leaves her suspicious, and then the death of her married sister’s lover. Kate runs Gram’s restaurant, the Blue Plate Café, but she must defend her sister against a murder charge, solve the murders to keep her business open, and figure out where the café’s profits are going. Gram guides Kate through it all, though Kate’s never quite sure she’s hearing Gram—and sometimes Gram’s guidance is really off the wall.

You have to subscribe to the KISS app on iTunes ( IOS Android) and then when you open the app a search button appears in the upper right corner. Just type in author’s name or book title, and it will take you right to it. Here’s a link right to the book, but I think it’s for browsing only if you haven’t subscribed: direct link to your story.

Bear with me. This is all new territory for me, and I am not an app user, don’t use iTunes (although some of my books are for sale there), and don’t use my iPad, except in computer downtimes, and my phone only for phone calls and texting. You can clearly see that I am a Luddite so it’s exciting for me to have my work part of this new—or new-again—technology.

To celebrate this publication Kiss gives me 20 gold coins to give away to readers. So I will send the redemption code to the first four who tell me my dog’s name.

Why do I feel that I’m treading in water over my head?

Bragging on a grand and some good writing

 

Morgan Alter on the left

So proud of Morgan Alter, my Tomball granddaughter. She and her team placed first in the food innovation regional competition of FCCLA (Family, Career, and Community Leaders of America). Now they go to the state competition. They had to prepare a lunchbox meal modeled on such delivered-to-your-door dinners as Hello Fresh. They came up with their own recipes, did taste tests, and did marketing research. Morgan, a high school junior, has been cooking for years, a big help to both Mom and Dad. On Father’s Day, she always fixes Colin’s dinner—last year was Beef Wellington. She’s more ambitious than I am, but I’m so glad to see a grand take up my foodie interests. Proud of her.

My own cooking was only so-so over the weekend. Last night Jean came over for an early supper, and I made my very first frittata—broccoli and mushroom. Between us, Jean and I cooked it too long. The flavor was good, but the texture should have been softer. Lesson learned. I tried to interest Jordan, because she likes her eggs cooked like concrete, but she didn’t want it for her lunch.

Tonight, I’m going to experiment—you’d think I’d learn that is not a good idea. Jordan brought me some smoked salmon, which I adore, and I’m going to try a pasta with a creamy sauce of cream cheese and sour cream, some green onions, maybe those hearts of palm in the fridge. I’ll get all that cooked and only then add the salmon because cooking it changes the taste and texture to me.

Tomorrow night I’ll get back to cooking for the family—baked cod with a buttery crumb topping. I think I’ll make a lemon sauce recipe I found on my favorite new food website—Kitchn. (Note there is no “e” in that!)

The snow has melted, the sun was bright today, and I’m just sure this will be a better week. I made good progress last week on the mystery I’m writing and yesterday I realized I was almost but not quite to the point of having half a novel. I was also to the point where I was about to go off the rails and needed to stop before I just kept adding words. (I swore this time I wasn’t going to write by word count, but it’s a hard habit to break.) So today I started reading at the beginning, filling in descriptions and other bits, correcting typos but that was only incidental. I am more concerned now with the structure of the story. And as I read each chapter, I construct an outline. I’m calling it a retrospective outline.

There's been a long thread about structure on a listserv I follow, with many people advocating various approaches, including one nice summary of the classic hero’s journey. But to my mind it all comes down to the basic Shakespearean plan—an instigating event, rising action (takes you into Act IV), climax—the high point where thing cannot get any worse or more complicated, and then the denouement, with its sharp drop-off in tension, the resolution of whatever has happened.

So far, I’ve only gotten three chapters into my manuscript, but I am pleased to see the complicating factors that I’ve scattered along the way. I may be ready to send it to one of my beta readers for an early look-through.

I guess my grad school studies are showing with my reference to Shakespeare. Last night I complained to Jean that I had to memorize Beowulf in grad school. She countered that she had to memorize it in high school and could still recite. Whereupon she began, “Whan that Aprilles with his shoures suite ….”

“That’s Chaucer,” I said. “Canterbury Tales.”

She decided she’s never read Beowulf, and I told her she was lucky.

I was distracted a bit today when at my desk because the yard guys came to take out all the dead stuff in the back yard—I left the front for Christian. It’s his domain. But they took the dead hyacinth grape vines off the fence (I really hated tooking at that), cut back the oak leaf hydrangea, pulled up the dead fountain grass, and took out the mums that were so gorgeous in the fall. It’s still a bare, brown winter landscape, but it’s not as straggly. And I figure it’s a step toward spring.

“If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?”—Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Okay, this English major is signing off.

The amaryllis story continues—and a bit of cabin fever

 

My amaryllis today
on my messy desk

My amaryllis is glorious today and a great source of cheer during this snap of winter in Texas, although today was sunny and bright. Subie’s amaryllis story is not so happy, although I understand she has a second plant. Jordan and I gave her one for Christmas (she is hard because her birthday is just before Christmas, and I am sometimes stretched to choose two imaginative gifts). So we saw amaryllis on sale in November, and I thought it was perfect for one or the other of those occasions.

Subie's amaryllis

Recently she told me when she opened it, it had already bloomed—in the box. There were stubs at the stalk where the blooms had been and died. I was embarrassed to say the least, but she saw the bright side—the plant was growing a new plant. She plans to leave it in the pot and see what it does. I’ve never heard of one doing that before.

And on the subject of plants, the orchid Subie brought me went into the house today to what I consider Christian’s orchid hospital. He has a remarkable record of getting them to bloom a second and third time. This one had a lovely striated cream-colored petal with a dark purple center. The thing is I sometimes have to remind him that a certain plant that is reblooming needs to come back to the cottage. The main house has two west-facing greenhouse windows in the kitchen, and orchids love it there.

Cabin fever got me yesterday. These are the things I did not do: write my daily quota on my work-in-progress; get dressed; make my bed; cook my supper; do my exercises. These are the things I did do: spent the day in the clothes I slept in (Jordan would frown); took a long nap; reheated frozen leftovers for my supper; spent way too much time on Facebook; started reading a new mystery, the eighteenth Coffee House Mystery by the husband/wife team who write as Cleo Coyle. (Reading for an author can always be justified as continuing education.)

Today is a much better day. As twilight sets in, I have gotten dressed and made my bed, fixed a good lunch, and planned dinner for all of us—we’re still quarantining, so we’ll transport part of it from cottage to the house. I’ve written a bit more than my thousand words for the day and am writing my blog earlier than usual, and I’ve put away clean linen and done some other household chores, including watering my plants.

The world outside this evening reminds me of Chicago or Missouri—the snow is melting, so what’s left is dirty, gray, sparse. My patio looks like a swamp, awash with dirty water. But because we are north-facing my front steps are still iced, and there’s a patch of ice on the driveway and snow outside my desk window. My mom used to complain long and loud about the gray snow in Chicago, because when I was young so many households, including ours, heated with coal. And it’s true—clean white snow was dirty gray almost as soon as it fell.

I remember the same when I was in school in northeast Missouri. I was in a relatively small town, Kirksville (12,000 population not counting students at the two colleges in town). Most people heated with coal, and snow stayed on the ground forever. They don’t call that northeast corner of the state an icebox for no reason. I remember getting up morning after morning and seeing a dirty gray world. And I drove a VW bug which didn’t fit the ruts in the roads, so getting to and from school and work was an adventure. I really longed for spring. The nice thing about Texas (except last year) is that we are pretty sure the snow will disappear in a day or two.

A friend said to me today she doesn’t understand how I can stay in the cottage day after day, because she was stir-crazy being in for two days. I think one reason is that, with my walker and because I no longer drive, getting out is a bit more complicated. And when Covid was new and a much bigger threat, I got used to staying in. In fact, I kind of liked it, and most days I still do. I have lots to do and a comfortable pattern to my days. When it’s six and I pour myself a glass of wine, I think, “Well, there goes another day.” That’s a bit of a mixed bag, because at my age I don’t want to wish the days away, but on the other hand it’s good to come to the end of a day and feel satisfied about it. Can you tell I’m feeling a bit defensive?

The importance of neighbors and a big anniversary for me

 

I'm going home!

This morning I was in that delicious space between thinking about getting up and actually doing it, when my phone rang. Not a familiar number, so I ignored it, although it nagged at me. When I turned on my computer, I found that neighbor Polly Hooper had called because Marissa Shuffield on Weatherbe Street had posted on her neighborhood listserv (next neighborhood over from ours) that a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel had wandered into her back yard. Polly was checking on Jordan’s dogs.

I couldn’t see how “the girls” could have gotten out, but I texted and called, left a message. No response, and I figured since we were snowed in, they were sleeping late. Wrong! Jordan finally called. Their front door blew open in the night (that alone scares me) and the dogs had wandered. Cricket on her little, short legs had gone over two long blocks in the cold, on snow-covered ice. When she called, Jordan had JuneBug and Christian had gone to retrieve Cricket. We are so grateful to Marissa and Polly—“the girls” are tiny and elderly and things could have been a lot worse without neighborly intervention.

"The girls," with Cricket on the left, JuneBug on the right

It was that kind of a week. I almost had a triple whammy—isolation due to covid exposure, ice and snow, and no internet. I had been “talking” to ATT all week, as I posted, and I got truly tired of that mechanical voice telling me to go to the web site when I had just told him I had no connection! Finally, twice, I talked to a real person: first one was a girl who said she cleared the connection, and it should be fine; it was briefly, and then out again. Finally a gentleman believed me that Smart Home Manager, for a monthly fee, was not going to do it. He would send a new router. Meantime, I had no Wi-Fi. It’s one thing to be isolated but quite another to be cut off from what is a rather active internet life. I was even afraid to write much because my computer gave me dire warnings about not being able to save. Who want to labor over a scene and then have it disappear into thin air?

An old trick surfaced in my mind, and I did a hard boot. Magic! It has worked ever since with a few brief interruptions that I was able to fix. I decided a hard boot is like a kick in the pants to the computer.

The ice and snow were pretty, even if I did feel trapped in a white world. We did not lose power, but I hear as many as fifty thousand households across Texas did. When I let Soph out Thursday morning, she left no footprints, so I knew it was ice and sleet. The snow came mid-morning, beginning with large, wet flakes and then becoming tiny, wind-blown ones. I’d eyeball it and say we got an inch. Sophie seemed to like it and spent some time lying on her belly on the patio—I’d have thought she be freezing, but apparently not.

I bet half the households in Texas had chili for supper last night. Christian made a big pot—his chili is always delicious, though he’s constantly looking for new ways to do it. And Jordan made chocolate chip cookies, so we ate well. The night before Christian was to be gone, so I planned to make scratch mushroom soup. But when Jordan heard mushrooms, she asked for stuffed mushrooms the way her grandmother used to do them. So that’s what she and I had for supper. I’m sure Jacob fed himself something else. So now I have a half pound of mushrooms left—trying to decide between a really tiny batch of soup or a frittata. Hemm. There’s that broccoli in the fridge ….

This is an important anniversary for me: five years ago today I got to come home from the rehab unit where I’d gone after my extensive hip surgery. My hip problem was unorthodox—I don’t think the surgeon had seen it before, and he had to invent his repair technic. When a nurse wheeled me down the hall people would look and say, “Oh, you’re ‘the hip.’ Nice to have any kind of fame, I guess. There was some doubt about the extent of recovery. So I am grateful to Dr. Jeffrey McGowan, and to the rehab people for all the progress I made, and I am beyond thankful that I am as mobile as I am (I do need assistance to walk, and I refer to my walker as my chariot). The people at the rehab facility were skilled and kind, but I felt like I was in a nursing home like my grandmother was in when I was a child. I was desperate to be home. So it was a happy day for me.

Chuckle for the day: why would someone post a comment on my blog that is a sales pitch for girls’ hoverboards. Do I look like I would ever get on a hoverboard? I remember one Christmas when all the grandkids got them, and we adults were in danger of being run down by an out-of-control hoverboard. But that was years ago, and I’ve heard nothing about them for a long time.

And the bright idea of the day: a high school in Arkansas has installed a vending machine—it dispenses books. A local bookstore keeps it stocked. When the battle lines over books in schools are so clear, I find this truly cheering.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hoverboard on blog

 

Pictures: five years ago, day pass and home from rehab my beautiful girls

Taking care of each other

 

My amaryllis twenty-four hours later
It gives me a lot of hope

If we merge mercy

With might, and

Might with right, then love

Becomes legendary.

  Amanda Gorman

Dumbstruck, still and forever, by the amount of hate in this world. Hate for people who are different--race, sexual orientation, religion, politics. The counter to hate, to me, is empathy. Instead of railing about illegal immigrants (someone once said no human being should ever be called illegal—call them undocumented if you must), why not think about that woman who walked three thousand miles carrying her possessions—and her young child—on her back? What had happened to her, her family? What made her so desperate? What did she hope to find? My mom was fond of the old saying, “Never judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes.” (Only she used a Native American version that substituted moccasins for shoes.)

I read recently of a man who had been a participant in some capacity at the Nuremburg trials of the Nazi war criminals. He said that after careful study he had concluded that the greatest definition of evil was lack of empathy. Makes sense to me, and I am sad that I see that trait all around us these days.

Here’s the dictionary definition: empathy is the ability to understand and share the feelings of another. Synonyms are: sympathy, pity, feeling, concern, considerateness, consideration, tenderness, tender-heartedness, kindness, kind-heartedness, sensitivity, insight, fellow feeling, brotherly love, neighborliness, decency · humanity · . Gentle words, aren’t they?

Practicing empathy is not easy. I am the first to admit that I too often jump the gun, figuring I know the situation. Not only that, but I am usually quite sure my point of view is the right one. I am trying to teach myself to slow down, find out everything about the situation, listen to the other point of view. Yesterday I talked to ATT five times, three of them to the mechanized voice; Today the Wi-Fi stopped working again, and I called. But I know the ropes now and how to get a real person, and when I did I made it a point to be as nice as I could. Yes, I told him my frustration, but not in accusatory tones. And I asked where he lived, thanked him for his attention. I got what I want: a new router is one the way.

Far too many times, when I try to post what I hope is reason about some of what’s going on in Texas—book banning, voter suppression, that damn wall—I get responses that tell me to go somewhere else, get out of Texas. I want to shout, “I may not be native, but I’ve been here fifty-five years, my family, my career, and my life are here. I’m not leaving.” But the angry voices on Facebook don’t care. They have no empathy.

Right now I think the elected officials who run our country—and most definitely our state—could practice a lot of empathy instead of extreme partisan politics. I think of Tip O’Neill who was Speaker of the House in the late Seventies and early Eighties. He was known for reaching across the aisle, and there was a spirit of collegiality in the House. President Biden, when he was a senator, was also known for collegiality. There is none of that today. Votes are almost strictly along partisan lines, with it seems to me, little thought about their effect on our citizens, and a lot of though about the politicians’ careers.

Take Gov. Abbott’s deployment of troops to “secure” the border. They have had their lives disrupted—businesses closed, educations interrupted, families torn apart, while they sit in poorly equipped camps, bored, never seeing a migrant. But Gov. Abbott is making the former guy and their base happy. What’s a few discontent soldiers? What they are is human beings with lives and hopes and families and fears, not pawns in a game.

If I got a little preachy, I apologize, but empathy—the lack of it, the need for it, has been on my mind for a while. And it’s a hard subject to write about. Years ago, I titled my first novel, “A Year with no Summer,” but the New York publisher changed it to “After Pa Was Shot” because year and summer are intangibles. So is empathy, but we can make it real in our daily lives.

Chronicle of an amaryllis

 

My amaryllis this morning
Note the metal ring holding the second stalk
Ignore the junky desk--at least it's near a window

Because of Christmas in Austin and then, on return, covid and quarantine and who knows what else, I was late in starting the Christmas amaryllis I was given. But once I started it, it took off bigtime. Last night, Subie and Phil were here, and I was bemoaning my need for another dowel road since the plant is growing so fast. Today Subie brought me one that is a metal rod with a loop to gently hold the blooming stalk. I swear the plant has burst out more this evening than this morning, but I couldn’t capture the growth on camera.

Coincidentally, Jordan and I had given Subie an amaryllis for Christmas. True confession: it was one we happened on early in the shopping season. To my embarrassment, she said last night that when she opened it, it had already bloomed without growing a stalk. I wish she had taken a picture, but she said there was a cluster of blooms at the base. And now it has sprouted on entirely new plant, which she is nursing along.

I found the almost-blooming amaryllis a cheerful portent on this partly cloudy day with the threat of all of winter’s worst weapons hanging over us. But my day was compromised again by computer stuff. This morning, after one or two false starts, the Wi-Fi connection held all morning, so I put off calling AT&T so I could work while I had the connection. But this afternoon, it went on, off, on, off—as fast as I could blink. So I called. Had to call the automated man who three times told me he could fix it, and all I had to do was subscribe to something for seven more dollars a month. He would say just go to this website, and I ended up screaming, “I can’t, because I don’t have a connection.” I also screamed, “Talk to a person.”

Finally in a brief moment of connectivity I found a different 800 number and called. Best call I’ve ever had with AT&T, a company that generally raises my blood pressure fifteen notches. A young lady in whatever country—I had to ask her to speak up and slowly—said if I would be patient, she could clear the connection, whatever that means. And that’s where I was, being patient, when Mary came for happy hour.

The first fix the young lady tried didn’t work but the second seemed to, and so far I have Wi-Fi. So happy. It’s really impossible to do almost anything without it.

Mary and I had a good visit with lots of talk about cooking and plentiful advice from her about using my new air fryer. I’m about ready to try the marinated chicken drumettes I have in the freezer. She also watered the poinsettia that’s in a corner by the couch where I can’t get to it and found two books on my shelves that she wants to read.

And another piece of good news today—my car came home! I looked out this afternoon, and there it was in the driveway. Made me sad and nostalgic for a moment. It has been at a repair shop Christian uses for months—I got really suspicious. Was the guy driving it? Selling it for parts? What could possibly be taking that long? And how much would it cost me? Christian tried to reassure me, but I was a nag about it. So today, it’s home, the bill is reasonable, and Jordan wants to drive it from time to time. I thought we were going to sell it, but if she needs it—her car too is old and not always reliable—that’s okay. At least I have it where I can see it.

In a day of good omens, I reached the 20K mark on my novel-in-progress. Well, okay, it’s really 19, 967 so I am thirty-three words short, but, hey! I‘ll make those up tomorrow. The big deal to me is that I now have one-third of a novel. Still plugging along, wondering where it is going to take me next, what Irene has up her sleeve.

So, it’s been a good day. I’m afraid my feelings of optimist may get beaten down by rain, ice, sleet, and snow, but I hope to stay cozy in the cottage and keep on keeping on. I have lots of food—and Jordan will do a curbside pickup tomorrow. We have menus planned for the next few days, and we’ll be fine. I have a novel to write and lots of good books to read.

Y’all stay safe and warm. Take care of animals, and plants, and yourselves. Watch out for the elderly in your neighborhood. Arctic storms are one of those times when we all need to look out for each other.