The Daily-ness of Life

Are those not guilty looks?

I’m struck by the daily-ness of life in these perilous times, as the fate of our country literally hangs on one man’s testimony tomorrow. In truth, I don’t expect it to be as earth-shaking as the media seems to expect. I’ve already heard three or four times about “Breaking news”—Comey said Trump told him, “I expect loyalty.” Pressure, yes. Obstruction of justice? Probably not. Comey has already said he will not say Trumpf tried to obstruct justice. I will watch tomorrow’s hearing, at least for a bit, but I don’t expect any “real” breaking news. Would be nice if I’m wrong. For those who remember Watergate what we need today is another Deep Throat with a source and an Alexander Haig to hold things together. Trumpf does not have a Haig around him.

But what I’m struck by is that with all this drama in the background, we all go about our daily lives. Today was an ordinary day for me—desk work, dinner with Betty at a fairly new Italian place. Really good food but limited and pricey menu. Highlight of my food day: I made myself a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch and didn’t burn it. My hot plate that operates by magnetic force is great for low, slow cooking—or fast and hot that burns things.

I’m editing the sequel to The Perfect Coed. The new book will almost for sure be titled, Pigface and the Perfect Dog. Someone pointed out that could be a children’s book, but it will have a subtitle: An Oak Grove Mystery. And I’m thinking about cover art. I liked the cover of The Perfect Coed. Today I tracked down the designer and queried to see if she’s interested in doing the new cover. I’d like to use her for a consistent look. A small accomplishment but one that makes me happy.

Thanks to a hint from friend Mary Dulle, I am taking small practice walks holding on to someone but not using the walker. I’m awkward, and Christian says it’s obvious I put more weight on my right leg, but I’m doing it. We figure I just have to practice every day and eventually I’ll make it.

Off to bed to read. What a delicious part of the day.

 

Grandson Ford is a happy and loyal TCU fan

Why I Speak Out

June 6, 2017

Today is D-Day, the anniversary of the Allied invasion to free Europe from Nazi control. To my dismay, there seems to be little attention paid in social media to the commemoration of a day on which thousands of troops went ashore in France and too many lost their lives on the beaches of Normandy. The invasion was successful, but at terrible cost to the Allies.

It seems appropriate then, today, to tell you why I speak out on current political matters. My local son-in-law claims I’m outspoken, and I guess I have to own it. I am, because I feel passionately about what I speak out on: resistance, as it is current today. I am weary of people who say they’ve shut off the news and Facebook because of the dissension, or prudishly claim they never discuss politics because it’s fruitless. I agree it’s an uphill battle to change the mind of someone who claims I can survive Trump because they survived Obama. My instinct is to shout. “What was to survive? He did so much good. Not a saint, but a great man.”

And how can people still follow Trump blindly, when mounting evidence suggests he is seriously mentally disturbed, in addition to being a filthy womanizer, a racist, a narcissistic individual incapable of governing, a poor judge of character who surrounds himself with sycophants? The man’s approval ratings in this country are in the weeds, and don’t even begin to ask foreign countries how they feel about him. Today I read that Republicans are growing uneasy, and my response is to ask if they’ve had their heads in the sand. They have been complicit in promoting his dangerous agenda.

Do I believe Trump is trying to turn America over to Russia, with himself installed as the puppet dictator? Jury’s out on that one, might come in Thursday with Comey’s testimony. Do I believe Trump is in bed with Putin? You bet! Perhaps it’s a case of a schoolboy crush, but I think he’s bedazzled. Do I think Trump would sell America for another million dollars? Yes.

I truly believe that our country is headed toward a dictatorship that will destroy the poor, the infirm, the elderly, and the very young—witness GOP repeated efforts, at great expense, to repeal the ACA and replace it with a thinly disguised heartless and cruel policy that will kill millions of our fellow citizens—maybe me. After all, I fit easily into the senior citizen category. I also believe the current policies are destroying the environment and cancelling hard-won gains of recent years. The Trump administration is cutting environmental funding, disbanding the EPA, polluting our air and rivers, tearing up our land, even selling historic and protected sacred lands to commercial enterprise. Need I go on?

A friend, someone I genuinely like, urges us to give Trump a chance because he’s genuinely trying to help America. It makes me want to scream, but in reality, it causes me, out of conscience and concern for my grandchildren and yours, to speak out against what is happening. Less I rant forever, please memorize the following poem.

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

Martin Niemöller

Bits of Nostalgia

My Tomball family—Colin, Lisa, Morgan, and Kegan—brought me an early and surprise birthday gift: two of my treasured childhood toys, refurbished. They are Bobbie, my baby doll that I played with in the ‘40s until probably an older age than many girls played with dolls, and an unnamed raggedy dog that I loved. Perhaps he once had a name, but I don’t remember it.

Bobbie was a mess—head cracked in two body filthy and limp, clothes gone. My children and grandchildren declared the doll gave them the willies and more than once urged me to throw her out. I refused. The dog had lost all his stuffing and sat forlornly on a small chest of drawers in my bedroom, dripping sawdust every time you even looked at him. He’d lost so much that he looked as flat as a pancake.

Soccer star grandson Kegan

I had made overtures to one or two doll hospitals, but how do you know the quality of their work? Two were too busy for years to come, though one woman suggested I call her in three months. Colin and Lisa found a woman in Spring, Texas who took them right away and kept them so long I began to badger Colin to be sure they weren’t lost forever. (Even as I did that, worried about my toys, it occurred to me the kids might be planning to surprise me.)

When they came this weekend for the graduation festivities in Frisco, they brought them. Breathtaking. They tell me the doll repair expert said Bobbie was a good quality doll, made in the 1920s which means someone a generation older than me had her. I wish I knew the trail of ownership. She has eyes that open and close and a mechanism embedded in her chest that says “Mama.” Both were broken, of course, but have now been restored. The name of the maker is embossed at the base of her skull.

Less was said about the dog, and I don’t remember much about him except that I loved him. Not sure of their permanent homes but for now they are on a bookcase in my living room. Grandson Ford was here over the weekend for a TCU baseball game (while I was in Frisco—so sorry to miss him), and he said Bobbie still gives him the creeps. When Jordan sent him out this morning to give my dog water, he said he was afraid the doll would have moved. In retelling that, Jordan laughed and said she wished she’d thought of it.

A different bit of nostalgia: last night when I was all ready to crawl in bed, both of my sons ended in my bedroom, Jamie softly picking out Joan Baez and Neil Diamond tunes on his guitar. My three oldest children were raised on the music of Baez, Diamond, and Judy Collins for the first five or so years of their lives. We took a lot of cross-country trips to visit family in North Carolina and Colorado, and the folk music played in the car the whole time. Last night, Colin said, “We like the music for what it is but also for what it has meant to us.” That led to a talk that went everywhere—childhood, today’s grandchildren, their work philosophies, I can’t begin to tell you what all it covered.

But I sat there and thought how blessed I was to have these two in my life. Their recollection of childhood made me realize again what a full and interesting life I’ve led. It was one of those moments life hands you that you are meant to treasure forever. So next time you hear “Play Me” or “Diamonds and Rust” think of me, with two men in their forties recalling their childhood to those tunes.

The Best Kind of Day

Had half my family together today to celebrate Maddie’s graduation from Wakeland High School. We began the day with a sumptuous brunch at a Frisco spot that specializes in local and organic food. Eggs Florentine turned out not to be quite what I expected—baby spinach, but somehow I expected it to be cooked, and I really must learn that unless I ask my eggs will be harder than I like. The day was saved by a large side order of the best fried potatoes I’ve had in forever. Another surprise: I asked for green tea, and it came iced!

Graduation took up most of the day. We left the house at one and returned at seven, all tired out except for the sweet girl graduate who has gone on to parties. It’s no small feat to graduate 600 or so seniors, and Wakeland did a good job of it. They marched in, an endless procession, to “Pomp and Circumstance” which right away had me reaching for a Kleenex. Speeches were admirably short, and it was on to the business of presenting diplomas. There was no lagging in line, and it moved as fast as could be expected. Maddie was something like fourteenth, and after that I read on my iPhone. I’m sure her parents watched for all the kids they know, but I knew not a soul. The family sat up a level from the ground floor but thanks to Colin for keeping me company in the handicapped section.

Family

The waitress snuck in. Do you know which one she is?

Afterwards there was the expected confusion of people milling around trying to find “their” graduate. We had taken my transport chair, which I almost never use anymore, because we figured there’d be a lot of standing around—and there was. I was constantly afraid that someone would back up into me and land in my lap. It didn’t happen. We did find Maddie and did some picture taking.

We started the day with food and ended it that way. An early supper at Babe’s, where I ate myself silly and I imagine the others did too. I kept thinking I don’t often get an opportunity to indulge that freely in bad-for-you but oh-so-good down-home cooking.

With her did and sister

It’s evening, Maddie has gone partying, and the rest of us are lazy and tired. The house is quieting down after a thoroughly good day.

And a note of pride: most graduates wore collars and ribbons of varying colors, each with some significance. I never did get an explanation of Maddie’s, but she graduated cum laude with special recognition for her achievements in sign language for the hearing impaired and a couple of other things, indicated by ribbons. She also had a heavy medal around her neck, but I never did hear what it’s for.

Her parents don’t face an empty nest though. Mel and Jamie will start high school all over again when fourteen-year-old Eden enters ninth grade. And, as daughter-in-law Lisa said to me today, “One grandchild down, six to go.”

Graduation day

         

   Graduation weekend for some of my grands. Jacob graduated this morning from 5^th grade at Lily B. Clayton Elementary, Eden from Cobb Middle School 8^th grade in Frisco (is she excited about high school? Just a bit!), and Madison graduates from high school in Frisco tomorrow. I’ll be there for that one.

I was sorry to miss ceremonies for Eden and Jacob, Edie because of distance, Jacob because of my mobility problems. Jordan had planned to get me to the school, but I knew it would be horrifically crowded, couldn’t decide which would be best—walker of transport chair, and didn’t want her to have to be worrying about me when she should be rejoicing in her child’s accomplishments. So I sat home, envisioned him walking down the hall, and as I told him last night, sent him telepathic messages.

The end of Jacob’s elementary school experience is particularly nostalgic for me. For five of his six years at the school across the street, I was his “school person.” I gave him a hug when his parents brought him to school in the morning (okay, he outgrew that and didn’t want me to hug him publicly), picked him up from school, and labored through homework with him. I remember third grade as particularly tough. He acknowledged last night that we were a duo for much of his schooling, and I thought we would both cry.

Probably first or second grade

a morning hug

Jacob tells me at some schools fifth graders’ last day is an ordinary day, spent in the classroom without much education, maybe playing on their iPads, but at the end of the day someone wishes them well, and that’s it. Not at Sweet Lily B. Family, faculty, and students “clap” them out, lining the halls and rhythmically clapping as the graduates walk by. It’s a tear jerker, and when we thought I’d go, I was prepared to take an entire box of Kleenex. I get teary just writing about it. I went with friend Sue several years ago when her son Hunter graduated.

lots of sentimental tears at graduation

Then, according to Jacob, there was a ceremony that includes several musical selections and probably a short talk—he was a little vague on those details. “Clap out” is the big deal.

When I was in school long ago and in another place, we went to one school K-8 and then had an 8^th grade ceremony. I remember marching to the auditorium, with its battered wooden seats, to the strains of “Pomp and Circumstance.” At Kenwood Elementary, we had our own lyrics: “Goodbye to you, Kenwood/We will remember you/For you’ve led us onward/To the halls of Fame.” For my mom and me, “Pomp and Circumstance” was forever marred; we couldn’t hear it with the Kenwood lyrics going through our minds.

So to all graduates this weekend, I wish you pomp and circumstance. And, Jacob, I love you a lot, and you should know my summer project is to teach you to read cursive.

The Perfect Pajama Day

            The world cancelled today. A friend who was to come for coffee at 9:30 had to cancel. The friend who was going to lunch is down with sciatica. I stayed in my pjs all day, had a delightful day, and got lots done. Tuna for lunch, and a nap of course.

It amazes me that I learn so many new things daily, often simple things I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t know The other day I figured out how to order one box of tea from Amazon without subscribing to monthly deliveries—not rocket science. Today it was how to run a scan on my computer—the help desk at TCU told me that one, when I called about a suspicious email. I’ve had technical troubles anyway. Yesterday, the simple act of changing the battery in my remote mouse somehow discombobulated my entire computer. I think I loosened a connection, so I had to call Jacob to come out and crawl under my desk to check all the plugs. He fixed it. Today, I tried to print a short passage from my novella, and the printer insisted on printing the whole thing. I caught it after a few pages and cancelled it. But the silly machine had stored it and kept wanting to print it, no matter how many times I cancelled and turned off the printer. Each time I started, there came the last pages of the novella which meant it was going to print the whole thing. Finally, it corrected itself, but I wasted a whole lot of paper and ink.

Lovely dinner out tonight. It rained this afternoon, so the world was fresh and green and pretty. As we drove to dinner I saw one of the best rainbows I’ve ever seen. It went the complete arc from earth to earth and was full and distinct. I wanted to search for the pot of gold, which looked like it would be right at the location of our restaurant, but it wasn’t. Darn! We went to Cannon Chinese, which is in a tiny neighborhood of charming older houses that have survived urbanization.

Dinner with good friends Carol, Kathie, and Subie. Appetizers were wonderful, and I ate squid for the first time. But the entrees with five-spice seasoning got a bit spicy for me. It’s a place I’ll go back to but maybe order differently. And I truly enjoyed the company, a blend of old friends who have recently met each other.

Nice day. Busy weekend coming up with family here for Maddie’s graduation.

School daze coming to an end

As school winds down, my grandkids check in. These are my Tomball children with their mom, Lisa (Colin's family). So proud of them. They are fortunate to go to a school in Tomball where their mom teaches 7^th grade math. Morgan will be 12 over the summer and going into—oops, I’m not sure. Sixth grade, I think but maybe seventh. Kegan is ten, and going into fifth grade. Didn’t hear a report on Morgan’s grades, but Kegan made straight As and Es—I assume the latter is a behavior grade.

He’s my long-haired grandson. When I was in the rehab facility, he came to visit, and a nurse asked, “Is that your granddaughter?” (In addition to the long hair, he is slightly built and has fine, almost delicate features). I replied proudly that he is my grandson. Colin later said Kegan is used to that misidentification. He is a dedicated and talented soccer player and wanted to grow his hair out so he could have a man-bun, like the European soccer players.

Morgan hasn’t shown such dedicated interests, as far as I know, but she is great in the kitchen and apparently likes to cook. She’s a neat mix of half tomboy and half girlie-girlie. I’ll find out more about both kids this weekend, because that family will come up for Maddie’s graduation and take me to Frisco. I haven’t seen the Tomball Alters in quite some time, so I’m really excited about their visit.

I had my last physical therapy session today. Walked around the cottage—I can make a circle from my desk, down the hall to the bedroom, over to the kitchen, and back to my desk--it's not very far. I held on to the therapist’s hand, and she insisted on the cane. I can walk almost normally with the walker; without it my legs are stiff and awkward as though I had some muscular condition. Really frustrating, but I guess the only thing to do is keep at it. The therapist bragged on the progress I’ve made since she first saw me, and when I suggested it was due to her, she said, “It’s yours. Own it.” We had a sort of sentimental parting—the kind where neither of us were going to show how touched we were. Why do we do that to ourselves?

It's been a social week so far and promises to continue that way—lunch today with a longtime friend I don’t see often. We went to a restaurant on Magnolia, and I had lobster bites. Which meant I thought I shouldn’t have lobster sushi roll tonight at the Tokyo Café. Betty and I went. It has long been a favorite of ours, and we missed it when fire closed it. I have only been once since they re-opened, now several months ago, so it was good to be back. Food and service are always good, but the main dining area is high-ceilinged with lots of slick surfaces—hard to hear.

A good day but nothing spectacular to report. I’m working myself up to a blog on how I feel about all the people who saw 45 has irreparably damaged the country. Meantime, busy days and a family weekend are on my horizon. I’m filled with anticipation.

PS. Just after I wrote the above, Jordan, Christian, and three friends descended on me, with four dogs--Sophie, the two Cavaliers, and a 12-week golden retriever puppy. Sophie gets so excited she tears around the cottage frantically, and she and the pup barked and barked at each other. The pup kept barking at the Cavaliers, but as Jordan said, "They don't play." It was delightful pandemonium and brightened my evening.

A fine food day—and a big oops

Today was a fine food day. A friend and I were going to lunch, wanted some place casual, debated barbecue vs. Swiss Pastry and ended up going to Swiss Pastry, where I had my usual bratwurst, potato salad, and kraut. On the way home, we went through the drive-through at Railhead and I brought home bbq for supper. So good!

Jordan and I had our occasional food talk tonight and settled several thorny issues: what I will fix for a friend who had recent surgery, what we’ll have Sunday night if indeed we have Sunday night supper (may be a version of what I fix for the friend), what we’ll offer Monday when Elizabeth comes to visit—she wants to see a couple of the neighbors, so we’ll invite them for happy hour and then fix sloppy Joe for supper.

Elizabeth is a special friend. More years ago than I care to count—twenty-five, maybe? —she was a work-study student in my office. We clicked and remained friends after she finished her schooling. I saw her through a broken romance, several not-quite-right jobs, and a happy marriage that eventually went sour. After her divorce, she lived in my garage apartment for a year, fixed it up so it was quite cozy. And we had a wonderful year of parties and wine on the deck late at night and long talks about the meaning of life.

She has moved on to a new career and a new partner, happily settled with Brian in the outskirts of Philadelphia where she is a yoga and wellness instructor. But her family and her heart remain in Texas, and she comes back often, combining visits with teaching opportunities. We’re always happy when she fits in time for a visit here, and I think she feels it is a sort of homecoming. For Mother’s Day, she sent me a wonderful card that essentially said she knew I wasn’t her mother but without me she wouldn’t be a functioning human being. I hold that thought close to my heart—I care about her and am so glad I could be there when she needed someone.

So that was a food thing—how to handle Monday night. We’ll fix appetizers for a happy hour with the few neighbors she has asked to see and then sloppy Joe for dinner. It’s heavy for summer, but stretches and everyone likes it. Jordan will make a big salad.

So we settled all our menu things, I upgraded the grocery list and printed off the sloppy Joe recipe—mine uses red wine and is like no other, but that’s another story. Somehow, I saved the wrong file, the recipe instead of the grocery list, which I wiped out. So now I’m trying frantically to reconstruct it. I may not get another shot at groceries for a week and a half, so I’ve got to get it right.Darn.

A saving grace for my goof: I got not one but two food magazines in the mail today-Bon Appetit and Southern Living. Always a good day when I have recipes to prowl through.

Fort Worth: What a wonderful place to live

  Lunch downtown today with Nancy O’Shea (we go back more years than either of us want to talk about). It was a real treat. Nancy has lived downtown and now lives on the outer edges, so she is familiar and comfortable in what to me is often strange territory. First neat thing—Del Frisco’s has a “lift” for people like me. Like an elevator in a waist-high cage, it takes you from the foyer to the ground floor, where you can walk out to the outdoor tables.

I love eating outside there, looking at Sundance Square and all the people who daily take advantage of the benches, umbrellas, and wonderful views. It’s almost time for kids to be frolicking in the fountains, but still a bit cold. The square is surrounded by fascinating architecture, a blend of new, old, and faux old. There’s the building that houses Jamba (I’m sure it has a name), a tiny building dwarfed by its neighbors but made large by the cattle drive mural on its exterior. I can’t name all the others, but you need do no more than sit there and look up and around to realize that ours is a wonderful city.

For years, Fort Worth’s slogan has been, “Cowboys and Culture.” Nancy said she read there’s a move afoot to take the cowboys out of it because they no longer reflect Fort Worth as it is. I really hope that doesn’t happen. Cowboy culture—trail drives, particularly—shaped our city and gave it is distinct heritage. Today, Fort Worth is made special by that surprisingly comfortable blend of contemporary sophistication with western history. You can go downtown for upscale dining and music, and you can go to the North Side for stockyards history and chicken-fried steak. No other city like that.

Scattered throughout our city are pockets and bits of history—homes and buildings that have been saved from demolition, neighborhoods that have been lovingly preserved, a sense of treasuring the past that made us what we are today. Yes, we have lost some important buildings to demotion and new construction, and yes, we are building new, so many apartments I wonder who can possibly fill them, but I understand 40 families a day move here. But overall I think we’ve done a better job than many cities of maintaining the balance.

Shhh. Do you think I could discourage some of those 40 families? I don’t want our city to reach 10 million y 2020, which is apparently where it’s headed. I want folks to live in bungalows set back from the street, with carefully tended gardens and neighborhood stores. For years in my neighborhood, I was greeted by name at the cleaners, the vet, the liquor store, the grocery, even several restaurants. It’s still true a bit, but it’s fast slipping away.

I don’t think I’m a luddite. I don’t want to cling to the past and ignore progress, but I do like a happy blend of the two.

Go downtown soon. Eat in one of the restaurants that offer patio space on Sundance Square, or bring your own picnic and feed the pigeons while you eat. Gaze around you. We do indeed live in a wonderful city.

Festivities and rainy clouds

With Maddie, her mom Mel, and sister Eden

Cloudy rainy day, the kind that’s good for a book and a long nap. It’s not cold—in the 70s—but I have felt chilled all day, and curling up in a comforter was a treat.

Last night the Burtons and I went to Frisco for granddaughter Maddie’s graduation party.  Love having even most of my family together—we were missing the Tomball Alters, but Megan, Brandon, Sawyer and Ford arrived there shortly after we did. Burgers by the pool, good company, and lots of happiness for Maddie who heads to Colorado University (Boulder) in the fall. This summer, she’ll work and do an internship.

I had been straightening and sorting files the other day and found one in which I had saved Maddie’s very early artwork—those scribbled pictures, first attempts at writing, “I love you, Juju,” and especially an essay she did for TAAS on why her grandmother was a role model for her. That folder was her graduation present, and she seemed pleased as she grinned and leafed through it, promised to study the contents more carefully when she had time. I’m afraid it’s the sort of thing you do for first grandchildren, and I don’t have similar folders for the six still to come along through high school.

Always so proud of my grandchildren—they really are wonderful. But boys will be boys—Ford and Jacob were throwing a baseball on the front lawn when Ford missed the ball, it hit a curbside brick mailbox, ricocheted and gave him a black left eye with considerable swelling. This morning it didn’t look as bad as we all anticipated, but it hurt him to open it. He wore sunglasses to brunch and, with his long, lank build and blonde hair, looked very much the incognito child movie star.

We had a late brunch at one of my favorite restaurants, but it was freezing cold. I had brought a jacket, but Meg went out to the car for a blanket to wrap around herself, and we think we saw a party leave without ordering because they were so cold. Wish restaurants would get that message. I know wait staff hurries and scurries and gets hot, but I think they’re about pleasing customers, aren’t they? The long season of cold restaurants is just about to begin.

Megan and family left for the drive back to Austin, Jordan and family went to the golf tournament, and I settled down for that book and nap. For dinner, I’ll sauté a lamb cop and some zucchini. A good day.

Tonight, a flag flies at the foot of my driveway, courtesy the Fort Worth South Side Rotary. Let us all stop our busy lives long enough to honor those who have given their lives for our country.