One Early Easter Morning

As I dressed in the dark this morning, I began to think that I had been so preoccupied with the logistics of the day--sunrise service, Easter egg hunt and breakfast for six adults and two kids, then a respite and then mid-day dinner for eight--that I hadn't stopped to meditate on the significance of the day, to let the wonder of God's love sink in. The service was lovely, and the minister--a young man I didn't know--said jut the right words, said that some rejoiced that Jesus was risen but others were fearful, even doubting, which he said is okay. I very much needed to hear that message. The service was highlighted for me by the offertory--"One Early Easter Morning," which I've blogged about before. I sang it in choir at the age of 10, 12, I don't know. But it has bounced around in my head ever since, and I was so grateful to our music director for scheduling it. A quartet, with one acting as soloist, sang it a capalla. We had all groaned about sunrise and early getting up (5:30) but we decided it was inspirational and we'll do it again next year. It's lovely to go to church, outdoors in a courtyard, in the dark and watch the sky turn pink and then blue. As though God were reaching down to say, "It is true. He is Risen." (As our breakfasts guests left, the dad said, "He Lives!" and Jacob asked, "Who lives?" Oh well, he'll learn!).
Ultimately the day was mostly about kids. Jacob began the day at 5 a.m., waking his parents because he had a bonus morning, both the Easter bunny and the tooth fairy visited during the night. That tooth has been hanging for weeks, but he wouldn't let anyone touch it. A stray elbow in a bouncy house at a birthday party yesterday did the trick.

Jacob and his friend/sister, Eva, had a great time hunting eggs, and then we all had sausages, eggs, fruit, and hot cross buns--which I love but nobody else seemed to much like. Nice gathering, good way to start the day. And easy kitchen clean-up. After they left, I got a short nap, and then it was time to get ready for 3:00 p.m. dinner.

Most of the dinner was ready--a sliced ham waiting to be put in the oven, potato salad, fruit salad with just a little more cutting needed, green beans snapped and ready to roast--but the deviled eggs were still empty half eggs, although the filling was made, I was dragging my heels, hoping Jordan would stuff them. Well, now I know the trick--my ten-year-old granddaughter is a pro. I always spoon the filling in, recognizing that it doesn't looks as good. Edie cut a corner in a baggie and piped it in with the precision that characterizes everything she does. They looked beautiful. We had as always a noisy happy hour and a joyous dinner.
What's my lesson from this Easter? Well, I always wait to be blown away by the certainty of my faith, but much as I believe, little doubts creep in, sort of "What ifs?" in the back of my mind. Today I learned that those little doubts are okay and that's it's also okay for me to focus on family, friends, and food even, and maybe especially, on high holy days. And now I wish I could sing with the quartet the last stanza of "One Early Easter Morning," particularly approriate for a sunrise service:

At last the dawn came streaming

Across the Eatern sky.

Thank God for Easter morning

When Christ the Lord rides by.

Spring is here

My gardeners at work

It wasn't cold this morning for the first time, and tonight Elizabeth and I had the first dinner of the year on the front porch, so I'm sure spring is here. But the biggest sign: Greg, the neighbor who cares for my lawn and garden, took Jacob and me to the nursery shopping today. We got herbs, a hanging basket, another lantana--that on one side of the front steps is looking sad, fountain grass, sweet potato vines, parsley, a flowering blue plant whose name I can't remember, and a dusty miller. Jacob pointed to the dusty miller, and Greg said, "No, we're not getting that." Jacob asked why not, and Greg said, "Cause it's an ugly plant." But Jacob liked it, so we bought one for him and put it in a pot where it can't do much damage. We forgot sage (mine died) and a cherry tomato plant, which I really want. Jacob piped up and said he loves them, so I'll go back, maybe next weekend.
Then Greg put him to work planting, loosening old soil in pots, etc. Jacob loved it--so much better than an out-of-school morning spent watching TV. And my porch is beginning to look like spring again.
Elizabeth is gradually sprucing up the back yard, which I've pretty much left a dog yard all these years. She's added statues, including a Buddha, and bird feeders (she now fills the one I had too) and plans pots and hanging baskets. Let's hope Sophie behaves. We've also put a table (on extended loan from Jordan) and four chairs (from my storeroom) out there. Greg griped and moaned but admitted he can move them ever week to mow. I'm seriously considering a small deck at the back door.
Earlier in the day, Jacob and I went to get my hair cut. Out of the blue he asked, "Juju, when are you going to get married again?" Me: "I don't think I'm going to." Jacob: "Why not?" My first reply was inappropriate: "Well, I tried it once and it wasn't much fun." When he said "What?" I amended it to, "Don't you think I'm kind of old?" Matter-of-factly he said, "Yeah, you are old." Thanks, Jacob. Then later he picked up the stylus I used with my iPhone if I want to send a wordy text and said, "Can I take this home?" I said no, and he asked, "Can I have it when you die?" Little ghoul!
But it was a good day.

Easter baskets and the masculine ego

I guess guys develop that sense of masculinity at an early age--no I'm not going into a discussion of what our culture teaches boys vs. girls. Just a story about an Easter basket. A little after eight this morning, Jordan called in frantic mode. She'd forgotten to send Jacob's Easter basket with him. Did I have a stray one around the house (what grandmother doesn't?) and would I take it across the street to the school? I found it and called back. "It's pink. He isn't going to like that." (Actually it was kind of lilac.) She said it would have to do. In truth I didn't feel well this morning--I'd been awake since 2:30 with a deep, thick cough and I was mostly suffering from lack of sleep. But I got myself stirring and dutifully went across the street, Easter basket in hand, dreading handing it to Jacob. (I'd tried to pass the job off on Elizabeth when we met in the driveway but she declined.) In the school, I could see the kids all out in a courtyard two levels below me, and I had no idea how to get there. Fortunately a young mom came along--she turned out to be someone I'd known as a child, and she promised to deliver it, even with my warning about it being pink. Mission accomplished, I went on my way.
When I picked Jacob up at school, he had his Easter goodies in a plastic bag, looking like a poor, neglected kid whose parents didn't care. I asked the teacher if she got the basket, and she said it was still on her desk. Jacob said he'd never seen it, didn't know who it belonged to, wouldn't carry it. It was the pink that did it.
By then, I'd had a good two-hour nap and felt some better, but as soon as Jacob's mom picked him up, I was back in bed. Hoping to sleep soundsly tonight.

The US and WWII--and some good books

You can catch fascinating interiews on NPR. I happened yesterday to tune to a segment of "Fresh Air" for an interview with historian Lynne Olson, author of Those Angry Days: Roosevelt, Lindbergh, and America's Fight over World War II, 1939-1941. I was too young (three in 1941) to know any of this, but I'd read a little in other books, and I want to read this one. The disagreements between interventionists, led by Roosevelt, and isolationists, with Lindbergh as spokesman, were bitter, loud, and long. Basically it ended with Pearl Harbor, but Olson told some fascinating bits about deception on both sides, LIndbergh's personal life, things I've never known.
In recent months, I've read three novels about that period but both set either in England or Europe. The first, Mr. Churchill's Secretary, is about a young woman denied entry into higher mathematics programs. So she becomes a typist in the pool sheltered underground in London. Somehow Churchill's eye falls on her, and she is soon taking all his dictation...and is privy to his inside thoughts. Eventually she ends up spying for him. All this is set against the background of the Blitz, the quarrels between Churchill and Chamberlain, and Hitler's unstoppable march across Europe. Author Susan Ella MacNeal followed that one with Princess Elizabeth's Spy in which the same girl, Maggie Hope, is charged with protecting the princess. Good books much enhanced by the history they present.
The other novel is Jack 1939,  by Francine Mathews, in which Churchill sends a young JFK, son of the then-ambassador to England, to spy across Europe and find out what the Germans are planning. Kennedy has a series of close calls and wild adventures. Did it happen? Never, but it makes fascinating reading and, again, the history behind the story is well researched.
If Olson's books tellus abouit the controversey in this country, the others above details conflicts in England, including increasing resentment of America's refusal to leap into the fray, the efforts of the IRA to distract England, and what Winston Churchill famously called "the gathering storm." Books about World War II could fill endless shelves, even entire bookstores, but until recently I haven't been aware of much focus on what was for America the "pre-war" period.
Find Olson's book at http://www.amazon.com/Those-Angry-Days-Roosevelt-Lindbergh/dp/1400069742/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1364404264&sr=1-1&keywords=Those+Angry+Days

Are you your own best advocate?

A very minor office surgical procedure taught me a good lesson these last couple of days. I had a white bump on my scalp for some time, kept meaning to ask the doctor but forgot because I didn't think it was serious. But it began to grow, and then last weekend it suddenly became tender and felt like a scab trying to come off--only it was the wrong color. So I called the doctor's office, explained I have a history of skin cancer, and I was afraid this would come off before they could biospy it. They gave me an appointment in two-and-a-half weeks. Me: "What do I do if it comes off before that?" Answer: "Call us immediately." That seemed like locking the barn after the horse was gone.
My doctor's office has a terrific web page, with a patient log-in where you can write messages to the doctor, nurses, etc. So I emailed the nurse I usually see, and she was concerned enough to forward my message to the doctor. Upshot: come in today so we can get a biopsy. (All this took several emails back and forth). So in I went, and twenty minutes later I walked out with my "alien" gone. Pathology report in a week, but I'm just relieved it's gone and I don't have to worry about it coming off during the night or when I shampoo or brush my hair.
I know it's a fine line--problem patients are the bane of a medical office, but at the same time, you have to stand up for yourself. I was pleased that I'd taken action and followed up, pushing my case.
I know people who just assume the doctor knows best, don't ask questions, don't understand whatever treatment they're receiving, and also take the word of the receptionist who is a gatekeeper. My advice is to educate yourself (okay, the web can be misleading), ask questions, know what you're talking about and how you're being treated. And when in doubt, follow your instincts.
It worked for me!

Dressing up on a stormy weekend

There must have been some kind of bug in the air this past weekend. All my kids were in costumes. The top picture is youngest daughter Jordan and her husband, Christian, who reverted to the ‘80s—or was that the ‘70s?—complete with wigs. They report they had a blast at the annual Lily B. Clayton PTA Auction, which raises money for extras at the school, such as a laptop lab.

And below are my other three, two with spouses, one member of the extended family and my oldest grandchild. Aren’t teenagers wonderful? The look on her face clearly says, “I don’t know these people, don’t know why I’m with them, don’t know why I’m dressed like them.” It was probably about 6:30 a.m. Sunday at Fair Park in Dallas, and the temperature, so they tell me, was 38 and the wind at 45 mph. The Rock ‘n Roll half marathon began at seven, and they all finished it, though I’ve had no word on times. Megan, my oldest daughter who was responsible for the matching pajamas, ran with my granddaughter, Maddie, and says they mostly ran but walked a little—due to Megan’s knee and Maddie’s ankle. Maddie is a superb athlete and star basketball player—lives and breathes the game, though she’s no slouch on the soccer field either. I remember not too many years ago going to either a basketball or volleyball game when most of the girls stood and watched the ball without moving. She’s grown up in a lot of ways, and I am so proud of her. And love her sense of humor—you can see the smile in her eyes in this picture.

Meantime I was snug in my bed—well, sort of. There was this six-year-old who kept kicking me. A clap of loud thunder followed by lightning about eleven Saturday night sent him running to tell me it was time for me to go to bed and he was sleeping in my bed, not his. I regaled him with stories about how much I loved storms on Lake Michigan when I was his age, and his astounded reply was “Why?”

Texas has taught me to be respectful of storms, but as a kid I did love them. We had a summer cottage at the foot of Lake Michigan, high on a dune two long staircases above the beach, and we could watch storms roll down the lake from the north, with dark clouds, roaring winds, whitecaps crashing on the beach, and torrential rains. Snug in the cottage, I thought it was thrilling. I’d still like storms if someone could assure me there would be no tornado and no serious damage, but I’ve seen too many pictures of wind damage in Texas. Jacob and I discussed where to go if there was a tornado, and I asked, “You would remember the dog, wouldn’t you?”

Sophie, the Bordoodle, was unfazed by the storm, though I have had dogs who were terrified. Scooby, the Aussie I lost last summer, was so frightened when I first got him that I tried giving him tranquilizers. Trouble was by the time I realized a storm was coming and gave him the pill, it was too late. It took hours for the pill to kick in, and the storm had passed but the dog was a zombie by then.

I remember my mom telling me that thunder was the gods rolling bowling balls around in heaven. Mom was a good Christian, but she mixed a little Greek mythology in and had many gods up there bowling. I found the idea comforting. I’ll try it on Jacob, though I know he’d correct me and tell me there is only one God.

A short but good trip

Five grandchildren ready for pizza--aren't they lovely?

Sometimes brief visits are best. I'm just back from a quick overnight trip to Frisco where I saw three of my children and five of my seven grandchildren. As always it was noisy, happy and joyful. Where else does someone light the grill at eleven o'clock to grill the perfect rare steak, then slice it thin and distribute slices, even to his sister who swears she won't eat "pink meat." (She closed her eyes, ate it, and admitted it was pretty good). Where else do four children have a wild basketball game in your bedroom while you're trying to do your nightly toilette? I had to keep dodging the ball and kept saying, "Be careful of the grandmother." Where else would I eat eggs, bacon, a mini-sausage in a roll, fruit, and a blueberry muffin for breakfast and then, less than three hours later, eat three pieces of pizza--me who eats a modest third cup cottage cheese for breakfast and never touches pizza! 'Nough said--we had a good time, and it is a delight to see how well the cousins play together, how much they love each other.
Jordan, Jacob and I came home this afternoon. She and Christian had a big school auction to go to tonight, and in Frisco six adults and one teenager will run a half marathon in the morning. Then most will go straight home. I could have stayed and helped Melanie watch and feeed the six children left behind, but it seemed better this way. Tomorrow Jacob and I will go to Palm Sunday services, and Sophie is glad to have us home tonight. We had supper at the Star Cafe and then I let Jacob wander through the tourist-y emporium next door. I had made him promise not to ask me to buy anything, and he didn't, but he'd look at the price on everything and then ask, "Juju, did you bring that much money with you? I saw a twenty in your purse." I assured him I as not using the twenty for any of that stuff, especially the fake guns that he kept asking me if they were real..
It's always sweet to be home, be the trip long or short.

A blog after long silence

Kauai at its lush, green best

Okay, the title of this blog is a silly take-off on the W. B. Yeats' poem, "Speech After Long Silence," a poem I remember writing a paper on in graduate school, fabricating a whole scene of a married couple who hadn't spoken to each other for years because they had nothing to say. That's sort of where I was with the blog this week: I had nothing much to say.

It’s been back to routine around here—Hawaii too far behind me, Jacob back in school so we’re doing homework every afternoon. What I thought would be a long week of stay-home-and-work days turned out not to be so. Lunches with three friends, and dinner at the Old Neighborhood Grill two nights in a row—ate a turkey burger each night. Think that craving is squelched for a while. Tonight I fixed chicken with a yogurt sauce for the Burtons and everyone had their own veggie—broccoli for Jacob because he loves it (or did until tonight), leftover zucchini for me, a salad for Jordan, and either salad or green beans for Christian. But Christian didn’t show up until it was time to be off to the school for Jacob’s first-grade program. He had one line, which he delivered masterfully. We just wished he would have smiled more the whole time. Sent dinner home with Christian.

Speaking of zucchini, it’s funny how a vacation can make you forget your routine. Once back, I bought zucchini when I grocery shopped. Rattling around in my mind was the notion that I’d found a way to cook it that I really liked—I just couldn’t remember what it was, so the zucchini sat. I was about to get out my file of vegetable recipes when I remembered: grate it, sauté in butter briefly, add salt and pepper. So easy and so good.
Today I downloaded the rest of the Hawaii pictures from my camera. When I got home, I got out the cord that connects camera to computer and found it had been chewed—who could have done that? Sophie isn’t talking. So, at a cost of $50-plus, I ordered a new one. It came yesterday and I retrieved the pictures. What I’d had so far were from my phone or Jordan’s phone.
Spent a good part of this week buried in a book—Faith Bass Darling’s Last Garage Sale. Look for the review on Story Circle Book Reviews soon, and I’ll try to post a review on Goodreads. I loved this book. It will make you laugh, look at your own life, and cry for Faith and her loved ones.
Next project: edits on the second Blue Plate Mystery, tentatively titled Murder at Tremont House. Catch up on Kate Chambers’ adventures from the beginning by reading Murder at the Blue Plate Café.

Let the good times roll!

More Chronicles of Sophie

Sophie had a bath, trim, nails cut, the whole nine yards today. She's fluffy and cute and doesn't look like a poodle (my constant worry). Cheers to Whisker Washers and a nice guy named Kirk who took time to comb some mats out of her.
My "puppy" is just two months shy of her second birthday, and she is so much calmer. She's taken to sleeping at my feet, under my desk, though sometimes she just goes and crawls happily into her crate. I guess this afternoon I wakened her before she was ready, because she clearly didn't want to come out. She follows me from room to room. The other day she lost me and suddenly came bounding into the bathroom, pushing the door open, as if to say, "There you are! I found you!" She still has her moments--goes crazy bonkers over Jordan and anyone new, like the dog groomer this morning. Also Greg who does the lawn, Lewis who keeps my house running. Last night, with ten adults and three children for dinner, I had to tell Jacob emphatically that no, he could not let her in. But she's finally growing into a well-behaved dog. Home alone with me, she's calm, quiet, sometimes begs for attention but we've pretty much reached an agreement on our lifestyle.
Every morning when I open her crate, she puts her head in my lap and we have a little loving session, although sometimes it's clear she's more anxious for a drink and a path of grass than love. Every night, when I turn out my desk lamp, she picks up a toy, trying to tempt me to play, but I can bribe her with a treat. Then before she crawls into her crate, I get down on the floor, she climbs in my lap, and we sit and love and I talk to her. Sometimes she twists around to lick my face and other times she contents herself with licking my hands or ankles. But when I make a move in the direction of the crate, she goes willingly. I've developed the habit of singing the first lines of "Good night, Irene," to her. Tried to substitute Sophie for Irene (should work--two syllables) but I can't do it. I have no idea if she likes this or finds it an irritation.
I also talk to her a lot--we discuss whatever's on my mind, from what to fix for supper to whether or not I'm going to leave her long when I put her outside. More and more, she prefers to be in the house, but for some inexplicable reason, she is loathe to come in at night. I cajole, command, threaten and tempt--eventually something works. And then she gets her one chew bone of the day.
Sophie's good company, and she's worth every ounce of frustration that went into her first year--and most of the destruction too. I cannot imagine ever living without a dog.

A Mexican St. Patrick's day birthday

I feel like I’ve been in a whirlwind. There were ten adults and three children here for Jordan’s birthday dinner tonight. I cut up fruit this morning, grated cheese, had the table all set with extra leaves in it (that kills my back), thought I was all ready. Jordan arrived an hour before the guests and went into frantic mode making cheese enchiladas and queso. I was the sous chef, which meant cleaning up as she went along because I can’t bear to let a mess accumulate. Made me appreciate my lazy pace of the rest of the day.

Then the guests began to arrive. These are all people I love, but oh my! when they all talk at once it’s so much noise I can’t make out what any one person is saying. Still it was a jolly affair, with lots of laughter, children shouting, all the trappings of a family celebration. And good food—chips and queso, cheese enchiladas, beans, a huge fruit salad, and chocolate cake. What more could anyone ask?

Jordan and Christian are so good about cleaning up my kitchen. Tonight it got to be eight o’clock, time to get Jacob home to bed, and they apologized for the mess they left. I approached it with a certain amount of dread but it wasn’t bad at all. I’ve left two enchilada pans soaking, but everything else is done. Tomorrow I’ll do a big kitchen wash—towels, napkins, etc.

And tonight I’m happy but tired. I think my St. Patrick’s Day baby, the youngest of my children, had a good birthday.