Ready for a break

I'm at loose ends tonight. I've finished the rough draft of a novel, won't do more until I hear from my critique reader, and not ready to jump into another novel so soon; I'm caught up on various other chores, even got my income tax information to the accountant. And I'm flat out of blogging ideas. So I'm taking a break for a week. No writing, no blogging, minimal email and Facebook. I've got six books on my iPad, and I'm going to read ad laugh and dance and play, eat fine meals and sleep a lot.
So please mark your calendar and check back...oh, next Friday or Saturday, and I'll be back with more Judy's Stew and Potluck with Judy. Until then, see 'ya!

The women's movement redux

Watching a fascinating PBS documentary tonight on the women's movement. A lot of terms and events come flooding back to me--Katherine Switzer who in the late '60s outraged the running world by entering and completing the Boston Marathon, a male race for seventy years; NOW--the National Organization for Women; "consciousness raising" groups; Women's Liberation; the sit-in at Ladies Home Journal; Roe vs Wade; ERA and Phyllis Schafly. I lived through those years but there was much I wasn't aware of. I knew there'd been a split in the movement, but I didn't understand it until hearing Gloria Steinem's words tonight that Betty Freidan wanted women to have new lives in society as it exists, but Steinem and younger women wanted to transform society. And I didn't realize that  women of color early on saw women's liberation as a cause for white women; they didn't believe it would do anything for them. It took work and time for all women to come together. Because I was raised by a doctor I was aware of the problems of abortion and later, married to a doctor, of both abortion and the pill, so I kind of had a sideways knowledge of the sexual revolution. Still, it was eye-opening to hear Sarah Weddington talk about Roe vs Wade.
I graduated from high school in the mid-fifties, part of the generation who expected to marry, raise children, and live happily ever after. I majored in English because some man was going to take care of me, and I wouldn't have to worry about making a living (that didn't quite work out and I raised four children as a single parent, but that's another story). My then-husband and I were just "conscioiusness raised" enough that we were considered the slightly amusing, on-the-edge young couple by the medical society in which we moved. We adopted children, incuding a mixed race baby; I was the first to wear a denim suit (wish it fit me today--from Neiman's and really good looking); I had ambitions to write and Joel supported me. I remember one doctor, new to town, who introduced me to his wife, saying, "She's a woman's libber."
Yet watching tonight I realize how much I was on the fringe, benefiting from what women of greater courage and nerve accomplished for all of us. Hearing Freidan, Steinem, Letty Cottin Pogebrin, Susan Brownmiller, Judy Blume, Sarah Weddington, Bella Abzug, Hillary Clinton, and others showed me the intensity of the ongoing movement. That I raised four children alone and had a good career in publishing is due to those women whose shoulders I stand on. An eye-opening documentary. Hope they rerun it.

Dogs are so funny!

Sophie with a favorite bone

Sometimes Sophie seems to know exactly what's going on and what we're saying to her. Other times she's clueless--or ignores us. This morning Jordan came in after taking Jacob to school, and Sophie, rope toy in her mouth, attacked, all but demanding, "Play with me, play with me!" Jordan declined because she didn't want to be jumped on in good work clothes. When she left, Sophie was the picture of dejection, rope toy still in her mouth. She stood looking out the window toward Jordan's car as if saying, "I can't believe she left me." When she heard the motor start, she dropped the toy. I'm sure she was saying to herself, "Well, there goes that."
A bit later, when I went to change so I could run some errands, she watched me anxiously. She knows what it means when I make the bed, take off pjs and put on jeans and a shirt. She slunk into her crate. I thought it was nice enough for her to be out since it was to be cold later but she clearly objected, so she stayed in her crate while I was gone.
Last night, she caused me some embarrassment. She's not a bad barker and certainly not one of those who barks to hear herself, but when she's in a frenzy over some critter, she has a high, shrill bark. I went to bring her in, but she was jumping at the back fence; obviously there was something up there. I don't remember hearing her bark, but I do know she ignored me when I called her. Then the neighbor behind us called and mentioned gently that they were trying to go to sleep early and Sophie was disturbing them. I went out, used my sternest voice and a chew stick as temptation, and got her in. This morning I sent off an apologetic email and got a pleasant reply, saying Sophie doesn't usually bother them.
Right now, Sophie is curled up at my feet, under my desk, good as gold, and we're both happy campers. She reminds me of the little girl with the curl: "And when she was good, she was very good/And when she was bad, she was horrid." I cannot imagine life without a dog--especially without Sophie who long ago worked her way into my heart..

A bit of Cowtown Marathon nostalgia

One Sunday, runners in the full marathon will go right past my house, and I'll sit on the front porch much of the morning and cheer them on. My daughter says she'll put signs in my yard.
I've heard various stories in recent years about who started the marathon. I was always told the idea was hatched in my living room. A group from the Institute for Human Fitness--all men, no women--met every Sunday to discuss the programs of the institute, a project of TCOM (now UNTHSC) devoted to helping people achieve wellness through physical fitness--an appropriate osteopathic concept. While they discussed fitness, a friend and I were in the kitchen fixing the richest, most sinful desserts we could imagine--I particularly remember Italian Cream Cake. And those fitness gurus ate every bite. But I was told the marathon idea sprang out of those meetings and my then-husband, Joel Alter, was one of the founders, along with Charles Ogilvie. Joel claimed the once-classic symbol of the race, Cowtown Charlie, was him, and it could have been with the big moustache. But I always thought it was Charlie Ogilvie.
The night before the first marathon we sat in the house and heard sleet. "@#$%! I didn't want sleet" was Joel's response. He left in the wee hours in the morning, and still early, I bundled up four children (one of them probably three at most) and drove over ice and snow to Fort Worth's Historic National Stockyards Discrict. In those days I worked in the Communications Office of TCOM and was doing publicity for the marathon. When we got there, I turned the children loose and spent the day doing whatever pr people do, including popping in occasionally to the RV that a local radio station had brought to the site and giving live on-air reports.
Now, I am horrified that I turned my very young children loose on the North Side, but they have assured me they were always with a huge bunch of kids. And they all survived, so I guess I should banish it from my long list of motherly guilts. They looked forward to race day every year, and, frankly, so did I. After Joel and I split, I did publicity one more year--I think to prove to him and to myself that I coiuld do it. And then I bowed out.
Charlie continued to run well into his eighties and always took first in his age group--no surprise there. Sometimes he'd take me to the carb-loading pasta dinner the night before, and I loved seeing old friends. I made a couple of really good friends through the marathon.
Today, of course, the race is a far different thing, a mega race with a full-time, year-round paid staff, probably ten times the number of runners we ever dreamed of, so many side events it makes my head spin, and this year, so I read, an exposition for runners, complete with demonstrataions of osteopathic soft-tissue maniuplation. The Institute for Human Fitness, a great concept, is long gone.
Tomorrow when those runners go by, a host of memories will flood me. Those were good days, another lifetime ago.

 

Talking to Yourself

A recent thread on the Sisters in Crime list was sparked by a study announcing that women speak about 20,000 words a day, while men speak only a paltry 10,000. The implications for women writers were many—if we write all day and don’t speak those words to people, then we should be able to write a book in, say, a week and a half (not guaranteeing the quality of the manuscript)—thereby far outdistancing our male rivals, if that’s what they are. But the one idea that got me the most was a comment that it is hard to spend all day alone, with no one to talk to, as many writers do. Writing is essentially a solitary experience. The writer said she used to call her widowed brother in the late morning, and he would have to clear his throat because he hadn’t yet spoken to anyone that day. As a writer who lives alone, I identify with that.

Usually, during the week, I have lunch and/or dinner engagements with friends, and on school days, I have Jacob bounding in for a snack and homework. Then his mom comes to pick him up, and I get to visit with her. But on weekends, I often spend long days talking to no other human except perhaps a grocery-store clerk. And I admit it often makes for blue, introspective days.

I have plenty to do—always. Writing projects, marketing, all the things that go with being a writer plus bills, e-mail, Facebook, all the things that go with living in todays  world and keeping a house and a life going. And in advance of every weekend, I tell myself I have lots to read. But I miss the human interaction that energizes me. And in truth all I can think is, “How much worse would it be if I didn’t write? If I didn’t have that to keep me busy?” I can’t imagine it.

The writer cited above did say it’s perfectly acceptable to talk to animals, and I surely was relieved to hear that. I talk to my dog all the time—and she talks back though unfortunately I don’t speak her language. She’s so expressive! I am desperate to know what she means and wants. When she was a pup, I hired a trainer who came to the house. He helped a lot, but he also told me not to talk to my dog unless I was giving a command. Well, I just couldn’t do that. I have a dog for companionship, and I am by golly going to talk to her.  I aim long monologues at her, particularly when we sit on the floor together just before she goes to bed.  I do think she may lose patience when I sing “Good Night, Irene” as I put her in her crate—where, by the by, she goes willingly for the night. It’s her safe place. And it makes me stop singing.

Aside from talking to the dog, one of my tricks for brightening the weekend is to invite company for Sunday supper. But this Sunday everyone wants to watch the Oscars, which bore me, so that doesn’t work. I am going to make a huge pot of Bolognese spaghetti sauce—if I freeze it, so be it. I’ll have a good supper Sunday night—and curl up with all those cooking magazines that arrived yesterday and I haven’t read yet.

How about you? Do you relish solitary days or find them a bit uncomfortable?

National Sticky Bun Day

Today is National Sticky Bun Day, and it just so happens that sticky buns are the breakfast house specialty at the Blue Plate Café in my new mystery series. Kate arrives at six-thirty every morning to make them, and I like to think she makes them the way my mom used to. Here’s Mom’s recipe for roll dough and then directions for turning it into sticky buns. I’m sure Kate makes the basic dough every night before she closes the café and then she’s ready to go in the morning and have sticky buns hot and fresh when the café opens at seven.

Basic roll dough

2 pkg. granular yeast

½ c. warm water

Pinch of sugar

1 12-oz. can evaporated milk, plus enough water to make 4 cups

1 scant c. vegetable oil

1 c. sugar

Dissolve yeast in water (add just a pinch of sugar to help the yeast work) and let it rise about five minutes. Mix milk and water, oil, and sugar. Add dissolved yeast. Stir in enough flour to make a thin batter, the consistency of cake batter. Let this rise in a warm place until bubbles appear on the surface (probably 1 hour—check it at 30 minutes).

Separately, mix

1 c. flour

1 tsp. salt (or less)

1 heaping tsp. baking powder

1 level tsp. baking soda

Sift seasoned flour into first mixture. Keep adding more flour until it is too stiff to stir with a spoon. Knead well. Don't let the dough get stiff with too much flour, or your rolls will be heavy. This dough will keep a week or so in the refrigerator.

To make good, gooey pecan rolls for breakfast, roll the dough out to a flat rectangle. Sprinkle with cinnamon and brown sugar and dab with butter. Roll up into a tube and slice into pieces of about 2 inches. Grease the bottom of an 8x8 pan thoroughly and then cover it with Karo white syrup and pecan halves. Place rounds of dough, cut side down, on the Karo/pecan mixture. Bake these at 350^o until brown and center rolls appear cooked. Be sure to turn out of the pan immediately, while still warm. Cold cooked syrup turns to concrete. Rinse the pan immediately with very hot water.

 

 

 

Roses to brighten a dull day

It's been wet, dreary, and bone-chilling cold today. I know, if I lived in Bismarck I would think 47 degrees was spring, but I don't--I live in Texas, and I'm spoiled by the warm days we've had. Today was the first day all winter that I've gotten out my warm winter coat. And it felt good.
A good friend and I exchange "Flowers of the Month" gifts at Christmas--it's a program sponsored by the local AAUW I believe whereby we go to the designated florist and show our certificate each month and get a small bouquet or plant. It also gives us a good chance for lunch and a catch-up visit. Today, to our delight, the flowers were the small roses pictured above. The florist said they were the last shipment of their Valentine's order, though I think--and hope--she said they had just come in. We'll see how long they last, but they are nice tight buds today. We also used the occasion to have hearty bowls of soup at the local deli--Jean had split pea and I had bean and barley. And catch up we did.
Then this evening Betty, my weekly dinner pal, and I ate at the Cat City Grill--I had lobster bites and she had blackened scallops and shrimp in a cherry sauce. We split tempura asparagus. Lot of batter but it was all soooo good. We considered dessert but discarded the idea. And once again, we had a good visit and lots of laughs.
Tonight they say we're supposed to have fierce storms in the early morning--just about the time Jacob goes to school--but I don't think it will be so cold. That's the thing about Texas weather--you can stand it because it rarely lasts long. And friends and flowers can help you through the dreariest of days.

Sophie gets a bath

Miserable Sophie

Sophie is twenty-one months old--almost a big girl. Everyone told me dogs settle down at two, but now they've backed off saying that, and I've realized I can't much longer excuse her behavior with "She's still a pup." But at heart she is. She will sit, lie down, drop it (sometimes), leave it, come (not if she's outside--then she deliberates whether she wants to come in or not). She's well housebroken and in general has manners. Two things she hasn't learned: "Off," which means don't jump on me, don't jump on guests. She goes absoutely bananas over visitors and adores Jordan so much that she goes into a frenzy every time she sees her. The other lack in her education is that she's not leash trained. She's too excited to be outdoors and, even at twenty-six pounds, she could pull me down. I just haven't pursued it. She gets her exercise chasing squirrels, which is her favorite pastime. And sometimes, from an excess of energy and happiness, she simply runs in circles in the yard, dashing around whoever is trying to catch her.
She is as sweet as can be, and every night before she goes in her crate, I get down on the floor, she climbs into my lap, and we have a love session. During the day, she follows me from room to room, checking on what I'm doing, and at night she'll sleep at my feet under the desk. But if I'm at the desk during thge day, she gets restless, wanders the house and finally begins to jump on me.

Patient Sophie

Sophie's been to the groomers several times but either they make her look like a poodle or they're so expensive I can't afford it often. So tonight she had what I think is her second bath in the tub. A friend who does some grooming came to do the deed. Sophie cooperated fairly well, though I helped hold her in the tub. She was semi-patient during the trim part and very good about having a "sanitary" trim. But we could not cut her nails--no way. And that was the thing that most needed doing.

Poodle mixes don't shed and don't have that doggy smell but tonight she smells sweet and looks fluffy and adorable. This is fluffy, clean, sweet-smelling Sophie.

First draft blues--or is it relief?

With the first Blue Plate Mystery, Murder at the Blue Plate Cafe, just uploaded as a digital book to various platforms, I just yesterday finished the first draft of the second in that series. So far I'm calling it Murder at Tremont House, but that's tentative. (Kelly O'Connell fans, don't worry: A Kelly O'Connell Mystery, titled Danger Comes Home, will come between the two in the new series, next July.)
Meantime I'm trying to analyze how I feel about finishing that draft, after many nights of lying awake with plot threads going through my mind. Most writers feel great joy but I didn't. I think the biggest feeling I had was relief, as if a weight was off my shoulders. I knew how it would work out--and it did. I think it's okay but such a decision is far down the road. I also feel a bit blue, like I'm saying goodbye to characters I've lived with for a long time. Of course, that's silly--I'll be going back to them a whole lot in the months to come. But it's a funny feeling, almost like I should start the third book in the series right away--which is of course the last thing I want to do.
Next step is to send it to my favorite beta reader. His critiques are thorough, to the point, and offered without mercy. He always finds the good, and then digs in and tells me what bothers him in a work. He's priceless. But he's out of town, so I can't whisk it right off to him.
Besides, I have one final scene in the epilogue to write--no, please don't get me involved in a discussion of whether there should be epilogues or not. I like to end the book on a fairly dramatic note and then tie up the loose ends. And I've done all but one "loose end"--it maybe the hardest scene to write because it will irrevocably change the direction of the next Blue Plate Mystery. At any rate, I find myself dragging my heels about the scene. Tonight, I've promised myself.
I read a Facebook post tonight by a writer who had cut her first draft from 115,000 words to 107,000 but still had scenes to write. She said she doesn't know how anyone writes a 65,000-word novel. I do. This one, in draft, will probably come out about 62,000 words. I long ago faced the fact that I write short. When others moan that 450 words isn't enough for a book review, I sometimes wonder whatever I can say to take up 450 words. Maybe it's a blessing. I've know writers who, when asked for four pages submit twenty and act wounded when you request cuts.
Meantime, the age-old question: what am I going to do with myself while waiting for the critique? Maybe go back to the book of blog posts that an editor suggested. It's my fall-back project, and I can't be without a project.
A TCU English major was assigned the duty of interviewing an author and her teacher suggested me. She came by tonight--a delightful young woman--and one of her questions was, "Why do you write?" My answer? "Because I can't not write."