A non-event day

Here’s a touch of lightness for a non-event day. As I posted the other day, I finally, reluctantly got rid of Sophie’s chair which just didn’t fit in the cottage. Jordan’s friend (and mine), Chandry, had some of the men at her business pick it up. I asked if anyone was going to use it, and she said, “Yes, me. I’m going to put it in the cabana for the dogs.” So, here’s Lulu, sitting in Sophie’s chair (note on dirty it is). Shh. Don’t tell Soph. Without her chair, Sophie has taken to sleeping on my bed, which is okay with me Once I get in bed, she doesn’t stay long. Except she seems to sense the times I really want to go right to sleep, and then she’s desperate for affection, nuzzling me, squirming up close, persistently begging for affection Dogs, how can you help but love them?

Nice breakfast today with my Book Ladies group that meets monthly. They are all women whose lives have had to do with books—librarians, teachers, bookstore owners, a couple of authors. Most of us are retired now, but we still talk books…or politics…or families. It’s a loose group to say the least. I look forward to it in part because it’s the once-a-month time I allow myself potatoes for breakfast. Thanks to Carol Roark for faithfully hauling me to the Grill for these meetings. I will be so glad when I can drive again, but that’s still a bit away.

I always have a problem hearing at that crowded table—twelve or more women this morning. To compound my difficulties, I forgot my hearing aids. And found I could hear about as well without them as with them.

A couple of exciting things today, well—exciting for me. I got the revised cover for the novella, plus the editor’s comments and suggestions. Her structural suggestions were really helpful—scenes that left the reader hanging, an unsatisfactory conclusion, and the like. Introducing a guard dog and then not involving him in the story is like introducing a gun and never shooting it, she said. So now the dog is part of the action.

But I spent a lot of time today laboriously adding all those commas I left out. Don’t get me wrong—I’m a huge fan of the Oxford comma, but sometimes I forget even that one. Glad it was a novella and not a full-length novel. At this rate, I’m on track to publish in late June. Will send to the formatter as soon as I give it one more reading. Help me spread the word—another Kelly O’Connell Mystery on the way. Watch for it, please.

Panic and other moments in the day

Sophie decided to go walkabout this afternoon. After my obligatory afternoon nap, I let her out as I always do. Oops. About two minutes later I noticed the yard gate and driveway gate were both open…and no Sophie in the yard. She never misses a chance. Bless Jordan. I called her and she was out the door with a leash and a treat. After stopping traffic as Sophie ran across the street, Jordan finally cornered her and brought her home, nonetheless the worse for wear. I cannot describe the panic I feel each time a dog, any dog, is missing. In this case, I feared a car hit though I also worry about dognappers. I have become a little calmer because Sophie consistently returns unscathed and joyful about her outing, but that worry is always there.

Sophie had a hard day anyway. The plumber and upholsterer were both here today. The plumber required many trips outside to see what was going on; for the upholsterer, the plumber—by now a good friend—locked her out in the yard, which caused her great frustration. She recovered by napping on the couch.

I now have three newly re-upholstered chairs. I’ve thwarted Sophie’s tendency to sleep in the wing chair by putting a cushion in it. She eyes the barrel chairs, but I’ve only seen her in one once.

The couch seems an obvious choice. The chair she’d slept in all her life was so stained and dirty that I’m ashamed—a friend is putting it in her cabana for a dog chair (appropriate). And I’m reconsidering Sophie’s bath and grooming schedule. That thick doodle coat is too much for me and I send her to the groomers, but I think now it must be more often.

Years ago, a neighbor and good friend needlepointed a pillow for me with the Blue Willow pattern on it. I have my mom’s Blue Willow china plus some that my ex gave me. My kids grew up on it, and now that I’ve downsized by distributing all the other china sets I had to my family, Blue Willow is both my daily china and my entertaining choice.

The pillow, however, has gotten worn and dirty over the years. Jordan wanted to get rid of it, but I wouldn’t hear of it. The upholsterer took it today and will use leftover material from the chairs to back it.

I argued with my neighbor tonight. Nothing new. We argue all the time—he’s a conservative, and I’m a liberal. I like to say I’m a social liberal and a fiscal conservative, but the two may be incompatible. Tonight’s topic was Stephen Colbert. I contend that when government, FCC in this case, investigates social media for unfavorable comments about our presumptive president, we are on a steep, slippery slope. Jay argued that it was profane. I dislike profanity, in fact I’m pretty much a prude on the subject. But I think the level of comment doesn’t affect my basic idea—censorship is censorship, and it leads to dictatorship. Anybody want to weigh in?

Travel, sort of, and food

I was in Paris on a photojournalism internship. I wandered the city, finding charming homes and picturesque old business buildings to photograph. I marveled at the cleanliness of the city (true or not) and remarked on an article about their careful treatment of the disabled. I was just ready to write my essay on the week and grieved as my sojourn came to an end. And then I woke up!

Meanwhile, back in the reality of Fort Worth and my kitchen, it was a food weekend. It began with Friday lunch. Jordan ad I have developed the habit of getting lunch from our favorite take-out, Local Foods Kitchen. This week, she said she didn’t need anything, but I said let’s go because they might have salmon cakes (a mutual favorite). We came home with a salmon cake each (I thought mine dry and made it into salad—so good), ceviche, egg salad, and a Hello, Dolly dessert (which my daughter declines to eat and I parcel out through the weekend). In addition, our neighbor sent over some roast duck. What a lunch! Friday night I had dinner with a group of interesting people at the Kimball Museum buffet—delicious quiche, salad, a wonderful cucumber/spinach vichyssoise.

Then Saturday, it was back to my kitchen. I spent much of Saturday cooking, following a New York Times recipe for spring lamb and a snap pea salad. I should have known the recipe called for cooking the meat too long—what they called “tender” I call overdone. I love beef and lamb medium rare, and after an hour, these lamb cubes were well done, like stew meat. Good flavor, but not what I expected when I sprang for that expensive meat. The salad was good and a learning experience—I have long wanted to shave cheese, and vegetable peelers just didn’t work. I found that my mom’s old square grater does a perfect job—we had shaved pecorino. I also let the mint for the salad wilt and it didn’t refresh in ice water. The salad called for thinly sliced fennel—I’ve never used fennel, thought I didn’t like it because of the licorice taste. I loved it—crunchy and crisp, with the licorice taste barely a hint. Phil, one of my guests, thought it was a new kind of onion; I said no, fennel, and he said, “Fennel onion?” My summation: I probably won’t use those recipes again, but the cooking was fun, I learned some things, and an evening with old and good friends was priceless.

Today I volunteered to make Doris’ casserole, a family favorite, since Jordan, Christian and Jacob were out of town until late afternoon. The casserole has a tomato/hamburger layer (seasoned only with garlic, salt and sugar); an egg noodle layer with cream cheese, sour cream, and scallions, and a top layer of grated cheddar. It’s irresistible. It's also in my cookbook, Cooking My Way Through Life With Kids and Books.

However, it’s 8:00 and I’m still waiting for dinner—which has to be cooked in the house since I have no oven. Jordan has gone to a friend’s to borrow jewelry, a bit of a disappointment because I thought we would sit and have family dinner together. Win some, lose some. I’m still hungry, but it will be worth waiting for. And once again, it was a lovely happy hour on the patio.

Help Me Decide

Two cover choices for my novella, “The Color of Fear.” I have asked my family and a few friends. Their reaction has almost always been for cover B, but when I explain my thinking, they usually agree. I want your opinion.

Cover B is obviously more eye-catching, quivering with tension. It makes my stomach knot. But it is not me. I write cozies. I’m afraid someone would buy the novella and be disappointed (it is about the kidnapping of an infant, hence the booties in Cover A and the bassinet in B). The novella will be in the Kelly O’Connell Mysteries series, and I think this cover matches others in the series and picks up the Craftsman architecture theme nicely. I love Cover B but a book-savvy friend said she dislikes monochromatic covers, because they tend to fade into the background.

I have almost decided on Cover A with some modifications, but I could be persuaded otherwise. Let me know what you think. And there’s a third possibility—I can ask for a third rough sketch. I’m looking forward to hearing from you.

On a totally different note, I watched an old friend leave the house today. Men came to pick up an overstuffed chair I’ve had for over forty years. It was big, soft, comfy—big enough for two, and back in the day, when we were all young and had big parties, I watched more than one romance begin and flourish in that chair.

It’s clearly too big for the cottage, but I moved it out here because it had become “Sophie’s chair”—where she slept day and night. As a puppy, locked in the office with me and the chair, she ruined the upholstery with her chewing. These days she’s in and out of the backyard frequentlyWhat a wonderful post, Judy. A lovely insight about your younger self's wisdom, and how you have grown as a writer. It's great that you are continuing to allow that book to reflect the growth, and to keep reaching readers. Clearly it's a story that resonates. Thanks for sharing this.
 and has stained the chair with mud, leaves, and general dirt. The dilemma: where will she choose to sleep now that her chair is gone. One of my newly upholstered chairs will go in its place, but I am scheming about ways to minimize her damage without hurting her feelings.

Oh, the things we do for our dogs.

Fictionalizing your life, or how autobiographical is your fiction?

I’ve been proofing Mattie, the first adult novel I ever wrote and winner of the 1988 Western Writers of America Spur Award for best traditional novel. It’s been available on Kindle forever and done well at 99 centers--#64 today in Kindle ebooks, Genre Fiction, Medical. I’m going to post it to other platforms and thought after almost thirty years it deserved another proofing.

Mattie’s story is loosely based on the life of Georgia Arbuckle Fix, a pioneer woman physician in western Nebraska at the turn of the twentieth century. I didn’t know at the time that Mari Sandoz had also fictionalized Fix’s life in Miss Morissa, and the comparison by loyal Sandoz devotees was not kind to me.

It’s intimidating to re-read something I wrote all those years back. My style is different—the 167-page book is all long chapters and lots of space breaks, and did I really begin every other sentence with “So”? I’m correcting only egregious errors; why mess with success?

The content is more interesting though. I was seven or eight years out of a marriage that started wonderfully and eventually disintegrated. Mattie goes through the same experience two-thirds of the way through the novel; her once-passionate marriage is gradually chipped away until she and her husband, Em Jones, can barely stand each other. Mattie’s retrospective wisdom about the situation struck me—I didn’t realize that I had learned that much from my own marriage, but, darn, sometimes Mattie really seems to understand life. Wish I’d put that knowledge to work years ago

At the time I wrote, I was raising teen-age daughters, with all the angst that involves. The angst is reflected in Mattie’s rebellious daughter, Nora. Only Nora never reaches the wonderful reconciliation my girls did—they are now best friends with each other and with me. When I wrote, we hadn’t reached that reconciliation either, and the angst was much too familiar.

Late in the book, Mattie takes into her home and bed a drifter named Eli, skilled carpenter, a good man, but not one to settle down. I took a week off from work to write the last chapter. The words came in a rush as though someone was channeling me who knew the story. Eli simply rides off after a while, moving on as is his nature, leaving Mattie devastated again—and puzzled. At the time, I was seeing a man I liked well enough to envision a future with him—he liked my kids and wasn’t scared of them, rare in suitors. He was gentle, kind and fun. But as I wrote those last pages, I had a flash of clarity: he too would be moving on. He was no longer going to be a part of my life story. We were together that night—celebrating our joint birthdays, I recall—and I was sad. But I couldn’t tell him why.

Scary thought, especially for mystery writers, if your writing not only reflects your past but predicts your future.

Happy Cinco de Mayo, everyone.

A Day of Family Milestones

Madison Lane Alter, my oldest grandchild is eighteen today, and Megan Alter Hudgeons, my oldest daughter, celebrates a twenty-year anniversary of her graduation from law school this weekend. I am so proud of both I’m busting my buttons, buy a corner of me is crying, wanting to hold on to the past.

Maddie was a magical child, the first grandchild and adored by six aunts and uncles on my side of the family and an uncle on her mother’s side. We were all sure we’d never seen a more beautiful child. She was sweet and smart, more than a bit willful, but she knew how to enjoy life. We worried about how she would adjust to a sibling but when her sister, Eden, came along, they loved each other—and still do. Spats, yes, but I’ve never seen an outright fight, and I’ve seen lots of sharing. Eventually five cousins followed, some in a cluster, and Maddie was patient, loving and kind with them. They adored her, and it appeared mutual.

Always a good student, Maddie demonstrated several interests as she went through school—voice and guitar, theater, basketball. She learned sign language, and in her junior year in high school she earned her certificate as a Certified Nurses’ Assistant. She’ll go to Boulder, the University of Colorado, in the fall. No telling, but she’s likely to end in some form of health care—she has in the past expressed interest in working with children, particularly those who are hearing challenged.

Maddie drives a Jeep, works after school, has a busy social life, and is the all-around kid. We’re all excited for her future, which looks rosy.

Megan and Brandon

When Megan was a child, I told her she’d be a lawyer because she argued with everything I said. “Mom,” she’d protest, “don’t program me.” But my prediction came true After graduating with honors from TCU, she worked as an admin for a Texas legislator for a couple of sessions, and then enrolled in the UT Law School, where she met fellow student Brandon. This fall, she will mark twenty years with the international law firm, Norton Rose Fulbright and Jaworski.

We always say once a child gets in Austin, you can’t blast them out. Megan and Brandon live in Austin. They’re raising two fine sons, Sawyer and Ford, and are gradually redoing an older house.

Megan with her sister, Jordan

Like all my children and grandchildren, these two bring light and life to my days.

Random thoughts on a not-rainy storm day

Once again, severe storms were predicted, and we dodged the bullet but were blessed with about ten minutes of fairly heavy and steady rain. Just about the time a friend and I decided to reschedule our lunch plans. We should have waited ten minutes! But I had a good day, proofing the first novel I ever wrote. Mattie, a Spur Award winner from Western Writers of America, has been on Kindle for several years, and at 99 cents, it’s the best-selling title I have, still sells steadily and ranks well. Now I’m getting it ready for other platforms and decided it was time to proof again. The temptation to edit is strong, but why mess with success.

Several things I read online—yes, mostly Facebook—prompt me to comment. One was a statement by a physician that the ACA is not the problem, the insurance industry is. I think we all know that, but the Republicans in Congress refuse to admit it. The word de-regulation leaps into my mind. I am not a foe of regulation. In a free market insurance industry, greed trumps (an apt word) the health of individuals. Not gonna happen, and I know it.

I read again Joe Kennedy’s speech in Congress about health care, and his brilliant take-down of Ryan, comparing the versions of the Bible’s definition of mercy that he and Ryan had apparently read. Got me to thinking about the children of great leaders—so many of the children fade away into obscurity in the face of their parents’ great accomplishments. I think, for instance of FDR and Eleanor’s children, who weren’t wastrels by any means but didn’t carry on to the family tradition. In her own way, Margaret Truman walked proudly in her father’s footsteps, as does Caroline Kennedy. The Nixon girls chose obscurity deliberately, as apparently did the Johnson daughters.

But the Kennedy family has carried on a proud tradition of public service. Look at how many of them have entered the public service arena after Jack—Bobby, Ted, Patrick, Joe, Maria Schriver—I know I’m leaving some out. They have all accounted themselves admirably, showing real concern for their fellow man not often found in the children of privilege. Old Joe Kennedy, a reprobate from all reports, did something right—or maybe it was Rose. I share a birthday with her, a coincidence I really like. (No, this is not a comment on Ivanka or whatever her name is.)

Concern for one’s fellow man is much on my mind. In Chechen apparently they have not only imprisoned gay men but are calling their parents in to execute them—what an unbelievable horror. And a young woman who escaped North Korea talked about the awful conditions in that country, where a woman was executed for having watched a Hollywood movie. Apparently, and I didn’t know this, many North Koreans have escaped to China—where there Is a reparation policy. Young North Korean women are sold on the market for as little as $200.

A friend recently toured torture camps in Cambodia. Another person on her tour said to her, “Animals don’t do that to other animals.” I am deeply troubled, horrified, by man’s inhumanity to man and by his cruelty to animals—from big game hunting to killing bear cubs in their dens to dog fighting and other atrocities. I think God weeps. I know I do.

I seem to like the word “apparently” in this post. Please forgive. It’s late, and I don’t want to do it over.

A Visit from My Son

When he can make time, Jamie comes from Dallas to spend a day with me. He works at the coffee table while I work at my desk, and he often begins his day before first light at the curb. I always ask why he didn’t come in, and he says he’s all set up with his computer and phone in his car and he’s busy. This morning he snuck up to the front door of the house and left Jacob something; then, about seven, called Jacob to look on the porch. Jacob was grumpy about being wakened, but joyful when he found the spinners—I think that’s what they were, something that’s “hot” in the toy business right now.

A tradition that I like on the days Jamie spends with me: we go to breakfast at the Ol’ South Pancake House. He has a German pancake—today it was the smaller Dutch baby—and I have a side of corned beef hash, no egg, lots of ketchup. It’s the part of the day when we visit—he tells me about his work, we talk about family, conversations we don’t have when he gets busy at his computer.

We had another nice interlude today: a Joan Baez interlude. When my kids were little, their father and I loved the folk music of the 70s, so my children know Joan Collins, Neil Diamond and others. But Joan Baez is a particular favorite, and the children still know all the songs. Jamie has tracked down all the albums and bought them (probably in vinyl). He brought his guitar today—he’s just started playing and, with help from daughter Maddie, is picking out the chords and trying to play, “Diamonds and Rust.” It’s a difficult song, and I, known for my tin ear, didn’t recognize it. But then we called up some of her other songs on the computer and played them, including “Bachianas Brasileiras No. 5: Aria" which I have not been able to find for years.

Jamie stayed until happy hour guests arrived at six. These were neighbors who meet at the local Grill for supper every Tuesday, and they all wanted to see my cottage. I made a good cold artichoke dip (as opposed to those you bake) and gruyere toasts—must have been a hit because it all disappeared, along with a lot of wine that our guests brought. Jordan served as hostess as she so often does, and did a magnificent job of making everyone welcome.

Betty and I planned to go on to supper with the group but neither of us were hungry enough for the heavy food at the Grill, and Jordan and Jacob wanted to stay home. I ended the day with a bowl of cold cereal at my computer. Not at all a bad ending.

Tornadoes and memories

I hope it’s an omen that May came in with such gorgeous weather. The spring storms we were threatened with never did hit us, though they did great damage east of Dallas. That area around Canton, which was so heavily hit, is one dear to my heart. I had good friends, both now gone, who had a guest ranch in Ben Wheeler. My family and I spent many happy days and nights there. Mostly we enjoyed Aunt Reva’s cooking, eating on the porch of their house which overlooked one of the large stock tanks/small lakes on the property.

But sometimes we went to the neighboring town of Edom to eat at The Shed, a down-home café which had become sort of an institution. They featured fried catfish on Saturday nights, and often had lemon meringue pie. I remember Charles (uncle to my children) telling me there were no calories because it was all air. And when I told him he was overlooking the custard part, he said, “Shut up, Judy.” The Shed inspired the Blue Plate Café of my mystery series by that name.

I’ve lost touch with that family now that the parents are gone, except one daughter who faithfully called me when she was in Fort Worth, and we had lunch. Marsha had been blind from diabetes since about the age of twenty, yet she went on to get a graduate degree in anthropology (with the help of her radiologist father), and I much admired her. I got word recently that she had died unexpectedly, and I felt at a loss because I didn’t know who to contact to express my sympathy. It got me to thinking once again about how things change and life moves on, and we go with the flow. It’s no good being stuck in the past, but I grieve for her.

Today, however, life seemed to stand still. For me, it was a no make-up, no shampoo day when I was in my jammies until four o’clock. Not that I didn’t work—I cleared up all kinds of things: a bill paid to the wrong health care providers (I’ve now paid the right ones, and I want a refund from the other); Amazon accounts—it appears I had five, and now I have only one. That kind of busy-ness can wear you out. I did some odd but creative (I hope) marketing for my books, and finished reading The Last Chance Olive Ranch by Susan Wittig Albert. Great book that kept me spellbound—and also taught me a lot about olive oil.

I didn’t intend to be so lazy today. I thought son Jamie was coming for the day, and I was looking forward to our traditional breakfast at Ol’ South Pancake House. He has a Dutch baby and I have corned beef hash. When I emailed last night to ask if I was still expecting him, he said no, it was always Tuesday. Now, I know that child (45, but he’s still my child) is wrong. I have Monday on my calendar and in my head, but he was adamant. So that gives me one more day of nice anticipation. And I did make good use of the day.

An Odd Mixture of a Day

Church, physical therapy, and a salmon dinner. That strikes me as an odd mixture, but it was a happy day. I’ve been going to church more and more interested in going lately, which seems to me yet another sign of recovery. Today it was an encouraging experience, because several people stopped me to comment on my progress, ask how I was, just generally check in. I got a couple of hugs and a lot of fellowship. Christian, trying to make our way to the exit, finally said, “You’re the most popular woman in church this morning.” Jacob was with us and was detailed to walk with me to the corner, while Christian went ahead for the car. I am here to tell you that the west wind was really cold. I have had the heat on in the cottage today.

My physical therapist came this afternoon. I was surprised when she scheduled a Sunday visit, but I think we both thought PT was over, the insurance wouldn’t approve the doctor’s latest request. After a two-week hiatus, they did, and here she was. She’d been making me walk on the cane, and I expected disappointment, even argument, when I said no more cane. The doctor said so! Instead, she readily agreed. She said if I’m uncomfortable with it, then we won’t do it. We’re concentrating on upper body strength. Nine visits left on this prescription.

Ellen, the PT, made my day when I asked her if I seemed different than when she first knew me, back in February. The question was prompted by all the people who say they see a remarkable difference in me. She put it in terms of my aura. When she came, she said, my aura said, “I’m sick. I’m old.” Today, she said it proclaims that I am healthy and younger—not young, but still I’ll take what I can get.

Twenty-five years ago, I had a good friend who called me his adopted sister. A gay man who would never have children of his own, he adored my children and taught them to drive and ride horseback. He was family. He was also, he was sure, a psychic, and he talked a lot about people’s auras, though it was always in terms of the color of their auras. Ellen didn’t mention that today. What do you think your aura says about you? What color is it?

Tonight, Christian fixed a wonderful salmon dinner. There’s a story there. He has always said he didn’t like salmon, but one night when I fixed it for Jordan and me (and steak for him), he tasted it and liked it. I had done it with anchovy butter. I tried to talk him into miso salmon but he was set on grilling and said miso doesn’t adhere to the surface well enough to grill. He did a marinade of soy, sugar, garlic and I guess oil, and he undercooked mine just the way I like it. With potatoes, corn, and salad, it was a scrumptious meal. I’m finding that Christian and I have fun talking about food, though I’m trying hard to educate both of them about such small things as why you buy corn in the full husk and not semi-husked in a cello packet, why you don’t buy generic honey or olive oil, etc. It’s sort of an uphill battle, makes Jordan defensive, though Christian is a bit more willing to listen.

I’m at a crucial point in the book I’m reading, so good night.