View from the cottage

The view from inside my house 
in the days when I had a houseful of littles.

I’ve been writing this blog now for seventeen years, a record which frankly astounds me. Way back in 2006 my daughter-in-law, Melanie, suggested I start a blog. Blogging was then fairly new, and I complained I had nothing to write about. “Yes, you do,” she replied. “Write about writing and cooking and grandmothering, the things you do. And call it Judy’s Stew, a stew of those things.” So that’s what happened. In those early days, I had no idea how to attach a photo, so I would write a post, send it to my computer at work, and have Melinda, the production manager, add the photo and post it. I’ve gotten a lot better since those days, thank goodness. And over the years, the number of people who read my blog and sometimes respond has grown steadily. You may never know how grateful I am to you for letting me share my thoughts and doings, some serious, a lot silly. Blogging is my form of journaling.

Six years ago, I moved into the cottage—I cannot believe it’s been that long. But I immediately recognized that my view of the world, sheltered in the back of the property, was distinctly different. And I wanted to rename the blog, “View from the Cottage.” I was discouraged from that by wiser heads, but I still keep old posts in a file with that title.

Today I was struck again by the difference in my view. As long as I lived in the main house, one of my great pleasures was to sit on the porch and watch the schoolchildren arrive in the morning for the elementary school across the street and leave in the afternoon. For six of those years, Jacob was one of those children. He stopped a my house each morning for a hug, and, most of the time, I was the one who walked across the street to get him at three o’clock (wreaked havoc on my nap time!). These days, my view of the street and the school is obstructed.

Ever since Jacob’s catalytic converter was stolen, the Burtons have parked three cars inside the electric gate—my VW which Jordan drives, Christian’s Lexus, and Jacob’s van (I have been chastised for calling it a van—it is a Toyota Sequoia, but it looks a lot like the van I drove in the late seventies). I can see around the two cars, but not Jacob’s, so my view is of a tiny sliver through an iron gate. And only if I go to the kitchen window. From my desk, I cannot see the street.

This morning was half-price day during spring break at the zoo, a day when our neighborhood is notoriously brought to its knees by zoogoers and lines of cars parked on both sides of the street, and others in a long line waiting to get to the zoo. It’s frustrating and dangerous—emergency vehicles couldn’t get in if they had to. This year new extreme measures have been instituted, and I wanted to see if they were working. I wanted to look out and see if there were bumper-to-bumper cars on the street. But I couldn’t see.

I mentioned the other day that a new building has gone up, unnoticed by me, on the neighbor’s property behind me and one lot over. I kept waiting to tell Jordan about it, but when I did, she said, “I know. I see it every day.” When Jamie and I went to the grocery Monday, we both saw it, looming over the single-story garage next door, and were amazed. Jordan made me realize it was clearly visible all along—except from my limited view from the cottage. I had wondered for weeks why I heard so much hammering—including a nail gun that seemed to ratchet up just when I wanted to nap. Now I know.

But if my view is limited, it also has advantages. You know those tacky people who leave Christmas lights up all year? Count me as one. When Mary Dulle moved, she gifted us with a live tree, about four feet tall, strung with Christmas lights. Now, in March, it still shines brightly outside my French doors. And one year Jordan bought a light that throws tiny specks of green lights on the wall of the neighbor’s casita (guest house). I love it.

When the yard is in bloom, I have a wonderful view from my desk. Last year, the pentas were pitiful, but most years they are lush and gorgeous, and in fall bright yellow mums line the front edge of the deck. This year, my new native plant bed is showing great signs of growth, and I am anxious to see it when it’s had time to fill out. It’s also showing great signs of weeds.

This morning I saw that June Bug, the youngest of the Burtons’ two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, was walking better. Several years ago, she was given months to live, but she defied predictions. Not without several lapses when we thought for sure she was going. Somehow, she rallied. This past weekend, her hind legs gave out on her until she was literally on her last legs—the dogsitter had to hold her up so she could pee. We thought it was the Rainbow Bridge for Junie. But this morning, I watched fascinated as she walked almost straight down the sidewalk. Marvelous recovery. We are calling her Kitty from now on.

Such is the view from my cottage—limited but oh so rewarding.

View from my desk window

 

 

 

 

 

 

Watching Junie walk better

Changing of the guard, words, and mushrooms

 

Jamie and his guitar

The Burtons are home tonight, and Jamie left for Frisco in mid-afternoon. While I am glad to have my “regular” local family home, I was sorry to see Jamie go. Had a wonderful almost-forty-eight hours with him. We had more deep discussions today, some about marriage (his parents in particular) and the virtues/pitfalls of staying together “for the children.” But the best part of the morning was when I followed odds and ends on my computer and Jamie sat and softly played his guitar. Even Sophie was mesmerized.

Jamie is what I would call a spontaneous eater—doesn’t plan ahead, does what appeals to him at the moment. So at first today he wanted to go to the Flying Fish for lunch, which I suggested would be crowded. And truth be told, I didn’t want to dress and go out. Finally he settled on Great Outdoors sandwiches and ordered them through Door Dash, which he uses several times a week and I never use, wouldn’t know how to go about it.

Jamie was even present in spirit when I ate a splendid, solitary supper. Yesterday in addition to the roast, he bought pinwheel steak—beef wrapped around spinach and feta, a terrific combination of flavors. I said this morning I’d freeze it, and he objected it would not taste as good. Besides, it wasn’t big enough for the four of us. So tonight I pan fried it in butter and olive oil and fixed a green salad with Parmesan and vinaigrette—I confess it was all so good, I made myself small second helpings of both.

Burtons had a great trip to Fayetteville which they report is a charming town with good restaurants. Christian described the campus, pointed out some milestones in their history—lots of governors went there, and the Clintons were on the faculty for a while. I had just read that the school has been recognized as a research university, which is a coup. So it was a successful trip but only the first of several. Jacob apparently liked it a lot, but I suspect he will like almost every campus he visits.

More of my trivia: I love hearing new words, but today one popped up on my Facebook memories that I’d forgotten about: embiggen. It was coined for a Simpsons episode but has now been accepted into the language either by Oxford or Websters, I don’t remember which. Frankly, I always though enlarge was a good enough word, but embiggen has a charm of its own.

And I read a piece about the origin of “posh”: in the glory days of the British Empire, many Brits went by steamship from England to Egypt. Because of the position of the sun, the elegant, spoiled ones requested a room on the port side on the voyage to Egypt and one of the starboard for the return trip. Ticket agents called it Port out, starboard home and soon shortened it to the acronym posh. I have no idea if that’s authentic, but it’s a charming story.

Yesterday when Jamie and I were in Central Market, we saw an island of mushrooms. They have a fascinating display of various kinds, but what caught my eye was the morels for, gulp, $79/lb. So I went looking at recipes to see how much you need: the most common way to serve them is apparently fried, and you’ll need the full pound for a dinner for two. Wow! That better be some special occasion! You can get away with anywhere from an ounce to half a pound if you’re making a pasta sauce.

The other expensive fungus was black trumpet mushrooms, also $79/lb. When I looked up recipes for those, I found you can use 3 oz. in a cream cheese spread, 4 oz. in a pasta sauce, or 3 oz. in a souffle, all of which I think would mask the mushroom flavor. I may stick with bella, but some of the others on display were clamshell, blue oyster, hen of the woods (only $30/lb.), and chanterelle.

I’m thinking my approach to mushrooms is pretty pedestrian. I sauté them in butter, maybe add a splash of wine and a drop or two of Worcestershire and serve them on toast—Jordan and I love it, but the boys won’t touch them. I see recipes for mushroom lasagna or mushroom pot pie and drool, but I can’t do I here. Maybe I’ll try to enlarge my repertoire.

Cold front coming: into the thirties Thursday. I’m glad I stuck by the Farmer’s Almanac wisdom that cites March 15 as the last date for a freeze. Thursday will be the sixteenth. Waiting a bit to renew my herb garden.

 

Distracting myself with trivia

 

Burtons on campus of University of Arkansas
Looks like a cold day!

We have some heavy stuff going on in our families right now, so I’ve been distracting myself with trivia (as for the heavy stuff, I’ll post when appropriate). The Burtons are in Fayetteville, Arkansas tonight where they got a tour of the University of Arkansas campus, where Jacob thinks he might like to go to college. From Jordan’s email, the campus looks lovely, with buildings old enough to have some character and history. The institution is nearly 150 years old—somehow, I find comfort in academic institutions with a long history. Newcomers make me a tad nervous.

My Jamie came to stay with me for the two nights the Burtons are gone, and I am enjoying his company thoroughly. Jamie is one I don’t hear from often enough, and that frustrates me. But when I do hear from him, I get long discussions of deep subjects—tonight it started with the afterlife and ended as a discussion of comparative religions. This morning, he took me to Central Market, and tonight he fixed dinner—a chuck roast in the crockpot all afternoon, loaded baked potatoes, and sauteed spinach. Now he is in the house on the telephone, but he has promised to come back and strum some Joan Baez songs on his guitar for me. His father and I at one time owned five LP records—all Baez. Jamie grew up hearing her music and loves it as much as I do.

I made an astounding discovery today—there is a new, two-story building almost right outside my bathroom window. The wonderful Zenaida was here to clean today and put up the shade to let some sunshine into my rather dark bathroom. I happened to glance out the back and saw, one house to the east, a large structure that hadn’t been there before. For a couple of weeks I’ve heard pounding and hammering—sometimes the rat-a-tatt that I was sure was a nail gun. It didn’t bother me, except when they revved it up about the time I wanted to nap. I meant to ask the neighbor directly behind me but never did. So now I know. I’ve still written to ask for details. Like what they did about a kitchen, since I am still struggling along with my kitchen that is restricted by zoning codes.

Speaking of naps, today was National Nap Day, begun in the late 1990s. The couple who founded it chose this date because they figured on the first Monday after the switch to daylight savings time, people needed a nap. I certainly did. Some people can’t sleep in the daytime, others say it makes them too groggy the rest of the day, and finally there are those who scorn daytime naps as some kind of weakness. I am happy to claim my everyday daytime nap. If somebody calls me between two and four (the hours are a bit flexible), I know they don’t know me well.

I’m judging a blog contest for a writing organization, and today I read a blog about the fragility of friendship. I thought the writer titled it all wrong, but friendship is what it was really about. A woman recalled a friendship so close, so enduring that it was like they were sisters. And then, suddenly one day, it ended. Her reaching out brought tepid responses at best and finally she sort of put the problem of “What happened?” on the back burner. But then, with pandemic and other troubles all around her, she thought it time to confront her former friend. So, gathering her courage, she went to the other woman’s home—only to be confronted with a bare lot. The home had been demolished, and the woman left no trail.

I was moved by this, because I have a friend who suddenly dropped out of my life. Distance is not the problem—he still lives about ten minutes away, and his wife and I are still cordial. But the couple of times I’ve talked to him, I can sense something in his voice, a distance, a chasm he doesn’t want to jump. Apparently, I have offended, but I have no clue as to why or how. I miss the casual camaraderie, the delicatessen lunches, the friendship. I too have been tempted to confrontation, but I have finally decided to let it go.

I read somewhere long ago that when someone disappears from your life it means their part in your story is over. Over the years I’ve lost and gained friendships as interests change and life moves on in different directions. More important, some friendships have kept constant, despite distance and time, and these are the friendships that I hold close to my heart—my BFF from high school who lives in Mississippi and who I haven’t seen in years and likely may not see again; friends from my days in Missouri, who keep in touch though visits are years apart; two or three friends of forty or fifty years to whom I am still close.

I have always insisted friendships are like gardens—they require constant attention.

As for you who read my blog, I thank you for your cyberspace friendship, and I value each and every one of you.

Mesmerized by a squirrel

Sue Lyon Springfield
New US citizen, new US voter

This morning I sat and stared at a squirrel for the longest time. He perched on the half wall outside my French door and appeared to be staring at me, though I know he couldn’t see me. But he was motionless, and the longer he stayed, the more I was mesmerized. Both of us stared, as though frozen in time and space. And then, with a sudden flip of his tail, he was gone. They are, I admit reluctantly, such cute little creatures. I wish they weren’t so numerous and so destructive.

It was a lovely day today, harbinger of spring just around the corner. In the low eighties with bright, sunny skies, and that pale green of new buds on the trees. The redbuds are beginning to bud, and tonight I saw a dogwood with faint blossoms. Our Chinese pistache is slow to bloom, but Christian scraped a piece of bark, found green, and pronounced it healthy. It’s still early March, and I cling to the almanac wisdom that says March 15 is the first date it’s safe to plant without fear of frost. Jordan and I need to make lists of herbs for my moveable garden and plants for the pots—fountain grass in two, but we may try some other things too. I’d like sweet potato vine in the two urns outside my door, with something in the middle—but what? Choosing plants is half the fun this season.

Tonight Jordan, Christian, and I went to a party—a rare occurrence these days for me. The occasion was a celebration of my Canadian daughter’s US citizenship. (I’ve explained that relationship many times, but here goes again: her mom is in Ottawa, Ontario, so I am her FW mom, because every girl needs a mom close by.) Sue, Canadian by birth, never showed much interest in changing her citizenship, or so I thought. When I’d bemoan the fact that she couldn’t vote, she’d say something like, “It’s hard to give up your country” or “I’m still Canadian at heart.” She has probably lived here close to twenty-five years.

So I was surprised this winter when she announced she was studying to take the citizenship test. Apparently, there are some hundred study questions. And then one day, she took her test, which turned out to be an oral interview where she was asked ten questions. I am quite sure she now knows more about our constitution than I ever will. She passed, of course, although she admitted to more nervousness than expected.

Then it was some time before the swearing-in ceremony which she shared with a hundred or so others. Sue, who is not a sentimental person, was quite moved by the ceremony.

She also instantly became an enthusiastic voter and is excited about getting to vote in local elections this spring. In a heavy political discussion one evening she asked me if I thought there was corruption at polling places, and I said it was always possible. And that I thought in some cases there was voter intimidation. She sort of jumped to the defense of those who work voter registration, reminded me they are all volunteers, and said when she goes to vote she’s going to thank every one of them personally. I think maybe all of us should take the citizenship class and test over again, just to remind us of the importance and privilege of voting. Sue sure gets it right.

The party was lots of fun, with doors wide open to the yard on this spring-like night and a duo playing mostly soft jazz in the back yard. I hadn’t seen the yard in a while—last time I was there it was winter and dark and I couldn’t see outside. But it is lovely with a small pool, a fire pit, a huge dining table, and lots of paving around a center patch of grass. I did what none of us should do at a party, visited with those I usually see frequently, though I hadn’t seen Subie and Phil in a long time—she had knee surgery and couldn’t drive, and I couldn’t drive to them. And Renee has been out of town. I did greet some neighbors and people I knew and met some new folk, including a couple who were devoted Elmer Kelton fans and raved about his classic novel, The Time It Never Rained. My kind of reader, since Elmer, as an author and as a friend, was a favorite of mine. I guess Sue must have told them.

All in all, it was a lovely evening, lovely party, and nice to be out among folk.

Is next week spring break for you and yours?  Plans? I’ll be right here, watching the traffic as people from all over head to our world-class zoo. Most of the year I love living down the street from the zoo, but during spring break, especially on half-price day, we are virtually prisoners in our own house. I’m trying hard to be a good sport and think of all those kid who are going to have the joy of a day at the zoo.

Life is good.

Looking ahead, looking back

Linda and me--who knows what Christmas!

 

This is one of those evenings—no thoughts for a blog because it seems to me not much happened today. Yet I feel I haven’t been good about blogging this week, and I tell myself surely I can come up with something significant to say. Ah, there’s the rub: significant. Sometimes when I start a blog without knowing where I’m going, words suddenly come tumbling out. Not so sure that will happen tonight.

Not off to a good start. Just tried to place my Central Market order for curbside delivery tomorrow and just before I clicked “Place my order,” I noticed that it said “Pick Up Austin North Lamar.” I’d love a trip to Austin, but that’s not in the cards for tomorrow. We are busy planning ahead for spring break.

When you live in the Berkeley neighborhood of Fort Worth, as we do, spring break is a mixed blessing. Zoo traffic is unbearable and clogs our streets until we cannot get out to go about our business nor, once out, can we easily get home. Each year the FW Police work with neighborhood officers to plan way to handle the traffic, but there is apparently no ideal solution. This year we have placards to place in our cars that will, theoretically, allow us entrance to the neighborhood on a street closed to the public (Shh! I’ll never tell which street) and also allow us to park on the street, though we are encouraged to park in our driveways. When your driveway was built in 1922 to accommodate cars of that era, getting three cars in is not easy. None of this bothers me, because I don’t drive any more, but it is a hardship on the rest of the Alter/Burton compound.

I am planning ahead in another way. Sunday the Burtons will drive to Fayetteville and tour the University of Arkansas campus with Jacob. And son Jamie will come from Frisco to stay with me. Jamie will bring his guitar, and I’ll hear lots of Joan Baez. And I’ll do what I often do—cook something for him that he’ll enjoy but the Burtons would not eat. On my Sunday night supper menu are corned beef, twice-baked colcannon potatoes, and roasted carrots—yes, I’m rushing St. Pat’s Day a bit, but I particularly want to fix the colcannon. I’ve never had it but have read about it with longing. And Jamie loves cooked cabbage. I used to sauté it with butter and sour cream for him.

For those of you with no Irish roots, colcannon is a mix of cooked cabbage and, usually, mashed potatoes. The recipe for a baked potato is the first I’ve seen, but I figure I can get them stuffed and ready to go in the morning and reheat before dinner. Not sure yet when I’ll roast the carrots. My hot plate/toaster oven kitchen is a major problem with menus like this, because I can only cook one thing at a time. If both the hot plate and the toaster oven are on simultaneously, the circuit breaker for the entire cottage goes. And I can’t get out there to fix it. Cooking will be a nice Sunday project, with time out for church on the internet.

Looking back instead of ahead, this was a week of renewing ties. On Tuesday, Melinda, who was production manager when I was at TCU Press, came for lunch. I fixed a chicken casserole that I really love (see yesterday’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog) and we had a good visit, catching up on family news. But publishing gets in your system I guess, because we talked a lot about books we’d worked on, people we’d worked with, and the press itself.

Then Thursday a friend of some forty or more years came for lunch and brought both the new man in her life and the lunch. Both were delightful. I’m sure Dave Wasserman was a bit bored when Linda and I caught up on old friends and family, but he was most gracious. And when we got off on other subjects, I thorough enjoyed talking to him. Linda moved to Taos a year or so ago, and, as I pointed out, is not a good communicator, so I go too long without hearing from her. Dave is said to be a better communicator, so I suggested he and I exchange emails and he could catch me up on Linda’s doings.

Old friends are truly treasures—so much life we have shared. I am big on communicating—I keep saying friendships are like gardens: they need constant tending. So I’m grateful, for instance for Martha and Dick in Omaha who I haven’t seen for several years but who I hear from almost weekly. Or Barbara, my high school BFF who follows my blog, occasionally comments and emails from Mississippi. So many whose friendship I valued have dropped away because of distance, and I miss them. Someone once said, when someone disappears from your life, that means their part in your story is over. In a very few cases, that’s a relief; in many more, it makes me sad.

Happy weekend everyone—and happy Spring Break. Stay safe.

 

Dreaming of food

 

Boeuf Bourguignonne
The book I'm reading about France opens with a mouth-watering
description of a simmering pot of 
boeuf bourguignonne

With the newest Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery not yet in print—almost, watch for it, please, in mid-April—my mind is already turning to the next book in the series. At least that’s what I inferred from my dream last night. I dream often and vividly, and it’s not unusual for me to remember a dream, so that part wasn’t significant. What stayed with me today was the question the dream posed about food habits. There will, of course, definitely be food in the next Irene book—after all they are culinary mysteries. But what direction will that take? I don’t know.

In my dream, I was someplace with an old friend, and she told me she didn’t drink much water because there’s bad stuff in it. I squelched my impulse to preach on the importance of drinking a lot of water. I was also reminded of Jacob when he was about six and we used to go to the Neighborhood Grill every Tuesday night for supper with a group of neighbors. The custom unfortunately phased out due to my hip surgery, pandemic, and Jacob ageing out to the point he didn’t think his elders were that interesting anymore. But one night, before all that, when I asked what he wanted, he looked at me like I was so dumb and asked for his usual: grilled cheese. When I asked if he wanted fries, he said yes. When everyone was almost through eating, I noticed he hadn’t eaten his fries. “Jacob, aren’t you going to eat your fries?” He shook his head. “They’re bad for you.” Pause. “Can I have a cupcake?”

What I did say to my waterless friend was, “You could get hit by a truck tomorrow. Enjoy the present moment.” And therein, to me, lies the description of two culinary camps: deny yourself some pleasures to be safe or indulge to enjoy life. With my passion for chocolate and wine, I surely fall in the latter category. And so do the foodies in my books.

So perhaps the next Irene mystery (tentatively titled Missing Irene) will pit Irene (and Henny, inevitably) against someone with extreme health concern regarding food—as one of my sons once said to me, “too granola.” All I know is that the next Irene begins in a French-style café in Chicago.

As background I’m reading Murder Visits a French Village by Susan Shea. It’s the story of a young Manhattan widow who decides to go to France and renovate the decrepit, abandoned chateau her husband bought as a surprise for her. So far, no murder but the story is loaded with the atmosphere of a small village and with plenty of French phrases thrown in. Shea skillfully eaves the translations into her narrative, something I try to do with the Irene books. I studied French one year in high school (Latin two years but it is long forgotten) and had to pass a fluency test in graduate school. I can now barely stumble through the basics, but it’s fun. I’m wondering if Henny will ever follow Irene to France—I think my limited knowledge will preclude that.

Switching subjects, but still thinking about food, Sophie has the most amazing internal time clock. I’ve noticed the last few days that if she wakes at say, 6:45, she’ll go out and when she comes in, I’ll reward her with a tiny snippet of cheese. Then she’ll let me nap until about 8:00. But if she sleeps until 8:00, as she did this morning, she refuses to go out no matter how wide I open the door. She’s waiting for her full breakfast.

In the afternoons, both of us nap, but promptly at four o’clock, give or take a couple of minutes, she’s at my bedside reminding me it’s time for her snack of kibble.

And by 5:30, she’s asking for dinner—that kibble doesn’t stay with her long. If I’m alone in the cottage, she’ll lie on the floor and look at me long and hard as though she can stare me into action. But if Jordan comes in, she’s sure it’s past dinner time and begins to bark and demand. Similarly, if there is happy hour company, she makes her wishes known early, like 5:00 or 5:30.

And finally, she likes to end the day outside, but at eleven o’clock, she comes in. I guess all us girls need a routine. I know I do. How about you?

Bon appetit! je te souhaite bonne nuit.

 

Strange times

Patio art--just in case!

Yard art has become a thing. One of my friends questioned recently in exasperation why all her friends had suddenly grown cheap Mexican tin art in their yards. I confess guilt. I have two flamingos, a peacock, an elephant plant holder and a VW one, a daisy, a pot with faux mums, and an oversize cockroach. The critters have even moved inside where a chihuahua and a wise old owl often decorate my coffee table. Once you indicate a liking for this yard art, your family inundates you.

Last night Jordan got the potty chair out of the attic, hosed it down, and set it on the patio, awaiting pickup by a friend who is facing back surgery. It struck me as the weirdest piece of yard art yet, and I couldn’t resist a picture. We had company last night, and I wondered what our guest thought as Jordan led her past that potty chair.

It also has struck me that there are some weird things in the news lately that, in this time of ugly feelings, provide at least a smile or two at the absurdity. It’s not really funny that a car plowed into the Czech Stop in West—but it provoked some wonderful comments. West is a Czech town, and the Czech Stop on the highway is a huge tourist attraction, offering sausages, kolaches, home baked goods, some pretty good sandwiches, along with a sampling of the junk you would find at Buccees. Yesterday, a driver put the car in drive instead of reverse, and drove right into the main area of the store. For Texans who commute between DFW and Austin, it was like desecrating a shrine. A man who went to school with my kids tweeted, “The end of the world as we know it.” Fortunately, there were no major injures and no structural damage and the bakery end of the business was up and running again today. Bakery reopens after car crashes through Czech Stop in West (wacotrib.com) We can stop for kolaches the next time we go to Austin.

IN other news, the Missouri legislature, never a forward-looking bunch, is considering an extreme version of Ron DeSantis’ “Don’t Say Gay” bill. One legislator, usually conservatively but also gay, took it upon himself to quiz the bill’s author on why teachers could no longer mention Martha Washington in the classroom if the bill passes. He was clever; she was not. Missouri Lawmaker Holds Fellow Republican's Feet To The Fire Over Anti-LGBTQ Bill | HuffPost Latest News

Despite crazy news, it has not been a happy few days for me. My big (and only) brother has been in the hospital and not doing well, with a variety of problems including the old man’s friend, pneumonia. Yesterday, he was put in ICU though today he is out again, which is a good sign. Worry has meant that I alternate between crying (softly, I hope) and optimism. My friends have been very supportive, and I have prayer partners from my church praying with me.

I read something recently about someone who felt adrift, and that’s how I felt. “Adrift” resonated for another reason: I read elsewhere that people like me who are afraid of height have that phobia because they need something strong and tangible to hold on to. The two go together in my mind. My kids have been so supportive when I call them with bulletins about Uncle John, that it has come home to me that they are my way of holding on and avoiding feeling totally adrift.

It has not been a good start to 2023, and now that we are almost a third of the way into the year, I am worrying about how it will work out. I nearly lost my dog, and now I am in danger of losing my brother; Christian’s mother took a turn for the worse, though she now seems settled into a routine of home health care. Friends close to me have had knee surgery, a mastectomy, a mycobacterium infection. Friends I am not so close to but still value have had massive infections, Covid, and several have died. I keep saying there’s a spot on the moon, but I am beginning to feel like Typhoid Mary. I am grateful that I am healthy, but oh so ready for a break in this string. Prayers, please.

My wish for each of you tonight is for good health and much happiness. And laughter at the silly things in life.

Who says woke?

This illustration has absolutely nothing to do with tonight's post, 
but it is another chance for me to show off my forthcoming mystery. 
And who could find a picture of woke?

Pardon my absence from blogging—I’ve been consumed with proofing, one more time, the manuscript for Irene Deep in Texas Trouble, before I send it to the formatter. But now that’s off my desk and sort of off my mind. What’s still on my mind are some current terms that we hear all the time—terms that are new to our culture in the last few years.

You may guess that “woke” is first I’m thinking about. Gov. Ronald DeSantis gave a speech recently in which he talked about the woke invasion. Everything was in aggressive military terms which struck me immediately. As he drew a verbal picture of an invading army, I couldn’t help think how wrong that was—whatever woke is, it is not tangible and to cast it as an army is ridiculous.

Have you ever noticed that the only people who talk about woke are right-wing conservatives. If the rest of us use the term, it is in defense. DeSantis would tell you that it is an acronym that stands for the Stop the Wrongs to Our Kids and Employees (Stop WOKE) Act—they really had to stretch to get a title which would make an acronym. But the real origin is so ironic as to bring forth laughter from progressives—and no doubt from the Black community. The word came into use among progressive Black Americans in the nineties—one essay I read refers to it as Black slang. It meant to be informed, educated, and socially aware, particularly of injustice and racial inequality. Exactly the opposite of the meaning conservatives have attached to the word. To them, in their incorrect use, it denotes anything they don’t approve of, which turns out to be anyone who is not white, straight, male, and Christian, or any idea that displeases that narrow segment of the population. It is quite possibly the most ridiculous misappropriation of a word that I can remember. Yet hundreds of Americans bitterly decry the woke invasion. Ask them to explain what it means, and nine out of ten are stymied. What a way to fight a war.

Another term that has been bothering me is cancel culture, and I’ve only recently gotten a glimmer of what it means. With current moves to ban classic books like some of Mark Twain or To Kill a Mockingbird and rewrite such classics as Roald Dahl’s children’s literature, I always assumed that the phrase meant the right is out to cancel our historic culture until we end up like an Orwellian society with no past. Not so! It means we are becoming (or already are) a culture that cancels out that which doesn’t fit our ideal vision. Wait! What I mean is that Republicans cancel out (marginalize is a big word these days) whatever doesn’t fit their ideal of America, from LGBTQ citizens to the history of slavery. Makes you a bit uncomfortable? We’ll just cancel it, write a law against it, silence those who disagree with us. The result is we are in danger of raising an entire generation with no accurate knowledge of history, no understanding of anyone who differs from them, no grasp of the great literary traditions in world literature and American literature. Ron DeSantis is not, I suppose, a stupid man—he has degrees from Yale and Harvard (I used to hear that I relation to the second Bush and I didn’t buy it then and I don’t buy I now). Yet DeSantis seems to overlook the maxim that he who doesn’t know history is doomed to repeat its mistakes.

And therein is a dilemma: is DeSantis truly ignoring history or is he using that as a political tactic to play to the amorphous group called “the base” and skyrocket his political aspirations. Does he really believe what he says or is he simply saying whatever he thinks will boost him?

These terms, woke and cancel culture, are matters of language, and it is the uneducated who are easily swayed by this manipulation of our language. And that is exactly where DeSantis would have America headed—by taking over public college curricula, banning books, fining those who speak out, DeSantis is dumbing down if not America yet, at lest his own corner of the country. And he has ambitions to move beyond that. It is a frightening prospect, truly frightening.

Please note that if a law being considered in Florida now passes and if I lived and wrote in Florida, I would probably be under fire for having blogged about the governor. The only saving grace for me would be that I am not paid for blogging. IF I were paid, I would be subject to a $2500 fine. Trust me, few bloggers make that kind of money.

PS Just tonight I read Heather Cox Richardson’s Letter from an American about President Biden’s significant visit to the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama on the anniversary of Bloody Sunday and the voting protest march from Selma to Montgomery. (read it here: March 5, 2023 (Sunday) - by Heather Cox Richardson (substack.com) This is exactly the kind of history DeSantis and his ilk would suppress—brutality against people of color. We must not let them succeed.

 

 

Sunshine following storms

 

Controlling the kitchen? Well, maybe

Everyone has their story after last night’s terrific storms swept across Texas and moved on east. Our story is one of incredible gratitude. Texans tend to get a bit blasé about storm warnings—we get them a lot and often they peter out. But there was something different yesterday—a more threatening note. Even the governor began damage control before the storm. TV weatherman tracked it minute by minute, and as it approached we were urged not to wait but to go to a safe spot.

Jordan wanted me to come into the house, especially after she heard that two eighteen-wheeleers had been blown off the highway at Weatherford. I declined, saying I could go to my closet if necessary. “How will you know?” she asked, and I said I’d keep listening to the TV weather reports and I’d look out the window. Because they said to stay away from west-facing windows, I pulled the shades down on the French doors and one window on that side of the cottage. I think the doors are plexiglass and not glass—ought to check on that.

What I didn’t count on and should have was the power outage. The storm hit at 6:00 p.m. and the power went off at 6:01. With the shades pulled, it suddenly got very dark. For a moment, I thought I was trapped in the bathroom, because the walker kept hitting an immoveable object. The flashlight on my phone told me I was trying to plow into the plumbing pipes under the sink!

So there I was, back at my desk—no light, no computer. What does a writer do in that situation? Well, I tried meditating, but I’ve never been very good at that—my mind jumps from subject to subject. Finally I decided I’d crawl into my bed. You guessed it—I fell sound asleep, only to be awakened suddenly when the electricity came on about seven and the cottage lit up. I guess Jordan had turned on all the lights before the storm. We finished the dinner that was in the slow cooker and praised the Lord for no damage.

This morning the sun shone brightly and you’d have never known there was a storm unless you turned on the TV. Reports of extensive damage, but blessedly little loss of life, have come in all day. I am particularly distressed for a mom-and-pop greenery whose greenhouses, full of carefully nurtured seedlings, were destroyed.

For me, it was a day of computer troubles. It all started because I couldn’t get into Central Market online to place my grocery order. I called Colin and ended taking way too much of his morning—fortunately he was working at home. He finally installed a new VPN and it seemed to fix the problem, once we minimized the connection map. But it was about two and a half hours of frustration, when I had a lot of work waiting for me. I told myself the situation was beyond my control (and my ability to fix it) and it wasn’t the end of the world. That self-lecture worked—to some extent.

Tonight I have my groceries (Jordan even boned two Rotisserie chickens for me), my computer is working, I’ve made a stab at organizing my tax information, and all seems well with the world. Tonight I’ll proofread—or sort tax receipts.

Some days the world seems so out of control, with partisanship divides in our government, book bans and curriculum censorship, state laws criminalizing abortion (and now drag shows), drug deaths among teens—the list is endless. Yet I found a news brief with a quote that encouraged me. Raghavan Iyer is a cookbook author and teacher who has brought the food of India to thousands of Americans. Now he has been diagnosed with metastatic cancer, and he is using his time to encourage people about comfort food no matter what cuisine it comes from. In an interview, he said, “If I can control the kitchen, I can control my life.” I think I will make it my mantra.

Hope everyone is safe and was as fortunate as we were last night. It’s spring in Texas—sometimes wonderful, sometimes terrifying, always unpredictable.

Looking out the window

Immediately to the right of my desk, there’s a large window that looks out to a corner of the yard toward the main house. It’s large and an odd size, because the cottage is old enough that none of the windows are standard size, and they vary wildly form this large one to a small one that seems crowded into a corner of the living room.

But I often stop and stare out my desk window. In summer, it is a happy view. I can see the blooming plants Christian puts on the patio, including a gorgeous bougainvillea, and the pentas blooming below it (except last year when our pentas took the prize for the most pitiful crop). I can also see the new native plant garden the yard guys planted for me last year.

Not so happy today. It’s one of those Texas days that can chill your bones even if the temperature is moderate. Damp, rainy, dull, and dark. Sophie woke me this morning just before seven to tell me that it was thundering outside, and she did NOT want to go potty. But she wanted to dance, clicking her nails on the wood floor by my bed, just to be sure I didn’t sleep through this danger from the gods of thunder.

It rained and thundered off and on during the morning—a nice gentle rain, but there was that thunder. A particularly loud crack would bring Soph off the couch frantically barking, and an occasional bolt of lightning startled me. But the view out the window was not inspiring. My pair of bluebirds haven’t been back in a couple of days, and I haven’t yet seen Mama and Papa Cardinal who summer here year after year. What I did see was a squirrel, industriously digging in the bed around my native plants. The plants themselves are bright green with spring growth, but I sure hope they fill out some.

It was a workday for me, and I made good progress with the editorial comments on the Irene/ Texas book. It feels like I’ve been with Irene in Texas forever, and I am ready to move on. But I want to do the best job possible with the manuscript, so I slog along. The editor catches remarkable small things that I never would, and I am so grateful, but I laugh a bit too. She is not, never has been a Texas girl. She wants to capitalize western as in western clothing; I will repeat to her my maxim learned in years of writing about the American West—the noun is capitalized; the adjective is not. People in the West wear western clothing. And since Longhorns were made a registered breed some years ago, the word is capitalized.

I wrote something about a norther sweeping cattle south as it roared down on Texas. She wrote that she looked norther up on Google and could not see that it had anything to do with cattle. Must I recount for her the story of the 1886-87 Big Die Up, when countless cattle were swept far south, trying to get ahead of the unbelievable blizzard. When they came to a fence, they stacked up and died. Ranchers lost cattle by the thousands. Not as bad these days, but cattle will still try to move ahead of a storm.

A word on my highly successful career: I got royalty notices today from some Amazon branches: Amazon Australia paid me twenty-two cents; Amazon Europe, eighty-nine. Will success spoil Judy Alter?

Something is alarming Sophie. She is barking and running from one end of the cottage to the other (not a far distance). Night before last, some low life kinds stole the catalytic converter from Jacob’s Toyota Sequoia, so now I’m a bit more cautious. We always knew that we have night-time visitors—folks who try the handles of the cars just in case. But now we’re on high alert—all cars will be behind the electric gate. And though I always lock the cottage and turn on the alarm at night, I have now started locking it when I nap in the afternoon. Jordan came out the other day and was frustrated that the door was locked. Sad that we live in such times.

If you’re in North Texas, stay safe tomorrow and be prepared to take shelter. Bad storms coming.