Mishmash Saturday

I didn’t blog last night because it would have been a repeat of the previous night’s “Out and About.” I went on a quick grocery run with Jordan and otherwise spent the day at my computer and managed my thousand words.

Dinner last night with friends Subie and Phil was a treat. We went to Piatello at the relatively new Riverside shopping center. Sat on the deck and as Phil said, it was an absolutely perfect evening, reminiscent of evenings in Santa Fe. The restaurant’s deck is partitioned off with planters, but beyond them is open deck and beyond that, apartments with a huge green area and some funky sculpture. There was a TCU tent on the green, undoubtedly building interest in today’s game (which TCU won, thank you very much). Kids ran wild on the deck and the green, and dogs were plentiful—I particularly enjoyed watching a young German shepherd, maybe six months at the most. Well behaved for the most part, but there were moments when he was clearly saying, “But, Dad, I’ve got to go investigate,” and Dad was saying no. There was also a gorgeous Labradoodle (soft spot in my heart for doodle dogs, of course), and beneath my feet Phil’s guide dog occasionally stirred, making me think Subie was kicking me.

Fall is in the air—I had a wonderful panzanella salad with fall vegetables—roasted beets, apple slices, raisins, and something I wasn’t sure about—squash I think—with greens and wafer thin cheese. Subie and Phil shared a Caesar salad and each had chicken saltimbocca—I got tastes of each, and they were really good.

But what made the evening was sitting outside with all that vitality and life going on around us. Great cure for my encroaching cabin fever.

Today I’ve been housebound again—writing and reading. Sophie has been my companion and I looked at her tonight as her eyes clearly told me she wanted her dinner—and I realized that she, like my children, has known me all her memory (doubt she remembers much before eight weeks when I got her) and has relied on me for food and love and care. No wonder she is a “Mama’s dog.”

I had the dubious pleasure today of being labeled on Facebook by a friend (former friend?) as an over-educated white female who wants to be a field Negro—a statement that to me reveals racism and a misogynist attitude. Welcome to contemporary America. I have not worried about speaking out on Facebook. In fact, I think it’s imperative for each of us, in these perilous times, to speak out against the chipping away of our rights, the destruction of the environment, the spread of racism—see there I go again, preaching. If I have lost readers over that, I am sorry, but my integrity is more important than book sales. But to have someone I considered a friend call me that—okay I called him a racist, maybe tit for tat—appalled and surprised me.

Excuse me now. I’m going to slink off and fix some supper. Sorry, no, it won’t be greens and cornbread. Pasta with pesto and grated cheese, I think. Over-educated? Really?  Want to be a field Negro? Doubt that.

Out and About

My dinner pal, Betty, and I went out to dinner tonight—first time I’ve been off the “compound” since last weekend when I went for two short drives with Jordan. We ended up with Jacob as a companion tonight—his parents were going out, something I found only at the last minute. That governs where we go. I had actually picked out a local wine bistro—I want to try their tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich. Talk about retro.

But I couldn’t see that Jacob would be comfortable there or find much he wanted on the menu, so we went to the Tavern where he likes the mac and cheese. He’s at the age where he always has an objection first to everything. This time it was that it’s always so cold in that restaurant—and I will agree with him. But then he said, “No, it’s fine,” and we gave up asking about other options, etc. It wasn’t as cold as usual, though my suggestion we eat on the patio fell on deaf ears.

Betty and I waffled from hamburger (they are soooo good there) to steak salad and ended with fried chicken, which turned out to be like chicken-fried chicken—two pieces of breast meat, so we split it. Good, but it might better have had cream gravy on it.

Dinner with an eleven-year-old is interesting. I am grateful that cell phones weren’t yet in use when my kids were that age. Betty has been eating supper with Jacob since the days when he, still a baby, spoke gibberish. He had the inflection of sentences down, but the sounds made no sense. I’d answer in perfectly normal English, and he’s reply in his own secret language. He obviously had a lot to tell. It sent Betty into hysterics.

Today, Jacob doesn’t have that much to tell. Left alone, he’ll ignore us and stare at his phone—who knows what games he was looking at. But when we once engaged him in conversation he was polite and talkative about where he wants to go to high school and college. Then Betty asked something about math, and he was off asking us about improper fractions. Say what? I proved to be a total failure at converting them to numbers. (First he had to remind me what an improper fraction is.) I am so glad I’m not in school and having to take math classes. After a bit I think he decided we were hopeless and went back to his phone. I suspect he’s not allowed to bring his phone to the table at home, but if I enforced that in a restaurant he’d be bored to tears by the things Betty and I talk about.

All in all, it was a pleasant evening, and I was delighted to be out and about in the world, but also glad to get home to the book I’m reading.

I tried a couple of experimental steps today without the walker and without holding on to anything. The good news is I didn’t fall; the not-so-good, my hip seemed to buckle, as it did when I first could put full weight on the walker. Guess I have to keep at it.

Political confession coming up

I have too often been accused of being a fervent member of the Democratic party, and I am always taken back to my dad, who used to say he voted for the best man (not many women ran for office when I was a kid). The best man just always turned out to be a Democrat. I’ll admit that’s true for me too. I was raised in a household where FDR was a god, and Truman not too far behind him. My dad even cooperated with Richard Daley, Democratic mayor/boss in Chicago. I have rarely if ever voted for a Republican candidate.

But it goes beyond that. In the past if I thought a Republican was the best candidate, I would have voted that way. No longer true today. I am openly, honestly anti-Republican. People ask how I deal with Republican friends, and I must admit that I have few to none. The people I chose to spend my time with are those with values and concerns like mine—compassion for others, leading the list. I have a few Republican acquaintances that I like, and one brother that I adore who refuses to even enter an open discussion of politics with me. My suggestion that open discussion benefits everyone falls on deaf ears.

This hard-core stance has been strengthened, confirmed, whatever, by the Republican reaction to the Las Vegas massacre. This, they uniformly declare, is not the time to discuss gun control; it’s a time for mourning. Hogwash! If there ever was a time to discuss America’s disgraceful record of gun deaths, it’s now. We cannot avoid the uncomfortable statistics that America leads the world in gun deaths, and certainly is way out in front of developed countries. I have found fascinating and frightening statistics on Facebook and shared most of them.

One I particularly like is a long list of things that are regulated—women’s bodies, leads the way, but there are others—liquor sales, driving, school bake sales, home improvements, driving a car, owning and caring for a dog, cutting hair for a living. The list goes on with endless trivia—but guns are not on it.

The administration recently made it easier for people with mental health issues to buy guns—anyone remember Newton? And there’s a bill before the House now to legalize silencers. It includes a rider or whatever to permit bullets that can pierce body armor. Who is the wide world needs to pierce body armor? Who needs an assault rifle? The NRA and they own the Republicans, bought and paid for. Speaker Ryan, with great sensitivity, has tabled the bill, which simply means he’ll wait for the public furor over Las Vegas to die down and then introduce it.

The lack of compassion is evident in other matters: Republicans just let CHIP insurance for nine million children expire, yet the House has passed a strict—and probably unconstitutional law—covering abortions after 20 weeks. Just when a woman finds out her baby may have serious, life-threatening deformities. Ah yes, compassion. They care more about unborn children than those that are here, sick, starving, uneducated. They now want to re-establish CHIP (how many desperately ill children have died during this lapse) and extend help to children in Puerto Rico but they’ll salve their consciences by cutting Medicare—which isn’t theirs to cut.

The list goes on. I write to my senators, yes I do, but they are both hard-core Republicans and send me platitudes in response. In general, with few exceptions, I find Republicans to be dishonest, devious, greedy, self-serving, and lacking in compassion. They value dollars in their pocket over human life, even in the face of a tragedy that killed 59 and wounded well over 500.

Yes, I’m anti-Republican. And I will do everything in my power to defeat the party in upcoming elections. We as a country are caught in the grip of a party that thinks more of its donors than of its constituents. It’s way past time for a change.

We must not let the memory of Las Vegas die, as we did the outrage of Newton. Take as a slogan, "If not now, when?" and keep the anguish, the horror, the indignation alive. And above all, vote those sobs out of office.

My Beautiful Black Dog

I missed Black Dog Day a couple of days ago. Can’t remember what was on my mind Sunday—probably not much. But last night, like all our nation, my mind was on the massacre in Las Vegas. I haven’t put that tragedy aside, but first I want to pay tribute to Sophie, my black Bordoodle (deliberate cross of a miniature poodle and a border collie). Why she came out of that cross black, or really black tipped with gray, I’ll never know.

At six, Sophie is into middle age but has lost none of her enthusiasm for chasing squirrels and other creatures that might invade her yard. She’s also enthusiastic about visitors, making her welcome plain. Woe betide the occasional strange she doesn’t take to—I am immediately suspicious of that person. In short, Soph has a zest for life that is a joy to see. And affection? She demands to be first in line, in front of the other two dogs.

Sophie has gotten more protective as she ages. If I go in the main house for dinner, she goes for a bit but then wants to come outside, where she stands guard at the cottage door until I return. Generally, she starts out the night by my bed, though during the night she migrates to the couch or her favorite chair. She’s had a little problem the last two nights. Colin has slept on her couch. When I got up in the middle of the night last night, she quickly appropriated the spot in the bed I’d vacated and expected to return to. It took a little coaxing to move her, and at that I had barely enough space to keep from thinking I would momentarily fall out of bed. But I had a warm body pressing against my legs.

Tonight, Jordan and I sat outside with the three dogs. Lovely evening, but every time Sophie chased a squirrel, Cricket, the older of the two Cavaliers, tagged along with a look on her face that said, “What? What should I do now?” June Bug, the one who’s been under the weather, just ignored them both.

A bonus to our evening happy hour—two blue jays flitted back and forth from the edge of the roof to branches of the oak tree above them. I know they don’t have a nest this time of year, so we were curious. And, oh rare occasion, we saw a hummingbird flitting about the hibiscus. Now if only the cardinal would come back.

I cannot get Las Vegas out of my mind—nor should any of us. I was appalled today to read that this was the 273^rd shooting this year, albeit much more spectacular (sorry, can’t verify the statistic, but it sounds reasonable).. Stephen Paddock earned himself the dubious distinction of being responsible for the largest mass shooting in American history, even surpassing the slaughter of Lakota Sioux at Wounded Knee. I worry now about who will set out to beat that record—a grisly thought.

Republicans have uniformly deflected calls for tighter gun control by saying, “Not now. This is not the time. This is a time for mourning.” My indignation knows no bounds. If not now, when? It’s appalling to me that these men and women callously ignore the rate of gun deaths in this country compared to other developed (and most undeveloped) countries. It is beyond acceptance with a shrug. We must vote these people out of office, make gun control a major issue in the upcoming congressional elections. The callousness of the Republican response baffles me. They seem, as a collective group, to be totally without compassion.

Even Stephen Scalise did not come forward, he who was critically wounded by an out-of-control gunman last spring. It’s like they never learn, they never sense the mood of the public. Makes me think more about where I want to live next—Canada? All those health benefits, tight gun control (no machine guns). Looks increasingly attractive.

Hmmm. Do you think I could get my family to go with me?

Another Day of Infamy

By now, I doubt there’s an American who has not heard the news: 512 people shot, 58 killed, by a single gunman. We don’t know his motive, probably never will. It seems likely that he was severely emotionally or psychologically damaged, although his family seems unaware of any such history. His father was once on the FBI Most Wanted list—what, if anything, does that have to do with today’s horrific event?

On Facebook today, the mood of the country seemed resigned to “This is the kind of country we live in.” The only developed country that has such mass shootings—though never this large before—on a regular basis: we average two a month. And citizens feel we can do nothing to change it. I reject that thinking. We can and must change it.

Ten days after the shooting of school children in Newton, Connecticut, support for stricter gun control began to fade as the horror of that massacre faded from the public mind. We seem to have short memories for that which is unpleasant or uncomfortable. By ten days later, a CNN poll showed that 52% of Americans opposed stricter gun control.

Will that happen again? Americans right now are stunned horrified. There will undoubtedly be a call for stricter gun control. But will it last? It seems to me we face a choice: Do you want to take a knee with the NFL or do you want to shrug in resignation when a man shoots over 500 people. For me, today’s event dramatizes the choice in characters that faces our nation. While this massacre was not racially motivated, or so we assume, it demonstrates the unleashed violence of our culture, the violence that football players are peacefully protesting.

Change begins at the local level, with each one of us. Will you stand silently by and shrug or will you take a knee?

October Sunday

Hard to believe that it’s October already but the signs are all around us—Halloween decorations. Someone posted on Facebook that she’d seen Christmas in some stores and it was too early. Shoot! I thought it was too early for Halloween when Jordan brought home pumpkins last week. But tonight her house is awash with skeletons and Halloween drapes that are, I suppose, meant to look like Spanish moss or something creepy. There are Halloween cocktail napkins in the container on my coffee table, a lit pumpkin (no candles, thank you—a plastic pumpkin with electric lights—what is the world coming to?) outside my patio doors, and a lit ghost by my front door. I guess the whole month will be dedicated to the ghostly tradition.

Lazy day today, writing in the morning with a side trip to Central Market. Still looking for a house plant. I appreciate the suggestion of Mike’s Garden Shop or whatever—I’ve been there and like it, but Jordan is not likely to take on an errand that far out of our beaten path. I’m still looking, but came away with some smoked salmon and pickled herring—prizes from Central Market! Also a beautiful, full white mum for a pot outside the front door. I love to shop there—Jordan not so much so, but she was pleased with the mums..

The big day brightener today was the arrival of my oldest child, Colin David. He’s here on business for two days but will take time to visit with us—he’s sleeping on my couch as I write—and to solve a couple of my financial dilemmas. We had a jolly dinner—chicken enchiladas and a new corn recipe with sour cream, cilantro, and red onion.

Welcoming a child home no matter their age is always a special treat, and I am delighted to have him here. I looked forward to long, heartfelt talks—but he retreated to his bed early and declared he’s not much good after 8:30 at night. A child half my age, who wears out before I do! Still I’m delighted to have him here. Every once in a while, I glance over to make sure he’s really here.

I wrote a good bit today—almost but not quite up to my daily goal. Resolve (once again): new routine tomorrow. Exercise followed by desk chores followed by writing. One thing I’m aware that I really need to work on is being more active. Pushing the rollator around the cottage instead of sitting in it is a good start.

Have a happy week everyone.

Happy days are here again

It’s true—the sun was shining today, and it was an absolutely gorgeous day. Jordan asked if I wanted to run errands with her and after first declining so I could stay home and write, I changed my mind and went. We went to Calloway’s looking for a small, low house plant for one that died from lack of water and for mums or something to put in a pot outside my front door. She had gotten gorgeous mums at Central Market for $14.00. At Calloway’s, surprise, they were almost a third again of that amount. And the smallest mums were $14.00. Houseplants were all succulents. We gave up and moved on.

I did some odds and ends on my desk—a couple of people I needed to get in touch with, an unexpected vote-by-mail ballot that I needed to figure out (still haven’t), but I did write 1100 words today and hope to do the same tomorrow.

My cooking experiment was pasta with anchovies and crisp bread crumbs. Since the recipe served four I had to cut it down, and I’m not sure I got the proportions right. I love anchovies but this was a bit much. The idea of crisp breadcrumbs on pasta is great though, and I’ll find other uses for it. Meanwhile, I’ll have to refine the pasta with anchovies before I share it

I cleaned out two shelves in the freezer and found, among other things, a large piece of chocolate Bundt cake. Shared it with Jacob, but it was too much even for both of us and a good-sized piece went back into the freezer.

But if you caught the reference to the Democratic Party celebration song in the title of this post, happy days are not here again. Certainly not for the people of Puerto Rico. I read a post tonight about all the aid the sitting president has dispatched to that island, but I find it hard to reconcile with his increasingly vile tweets about the territory, its leaders, and its people. His scorn for the suffering and death there, while he plays golf at one of his estates, is beyond anything Americans ever envisioned in their nightmares. Apparently, his anger can be traced back to a failed investment, a case wherein he left the island territory a debt of something like $32 million.Like many others, I think San Juan’s mayor is a hero(ine?).

Clearly, Trumpf or tRump, whichever you prefer, has committed many impeachable offenses, and there is an increasing level of outrage across the country. But where is the Congressional outrage, even concern? I find it hard to believe that these two bodies of men and women, elected to serve their country, have not risen up in protest against the slow but steady dismantling of everything we stand for. The Republicans control Congress, and he is their problem because he is the titular head of the party.

Are they so blinded by privilege, power, and bribes that they are willing to sit back and watch our country fall apart under their watch? Is there not a backbone among them except for Senator John McCain, that venerable hero, and two or three women? (Hours after McCain told an interviewer that he is probably dying, Trump ridiculed him for going back on his health care promises—what McCain promised was to work for the best solution for the American people, not to support one heartless bill after another, all born of desperation.) I simply cannot believe I live in a country governed by a system of checks and balances and yet this man, whom many believe to be mentally ill, runs rampant and unchecked.

In my rosy, ideal world, Congress would put country above party. On that note, sweet dreams everyone

A funny kind of a day

I accomplished absolutely nothing useful today, but strangely enough I feel better and happier tonight than I have in days, even weeks. Woke to rain, yet another dreary day, and while I knew I should be grateful for the moisture, my only thought was that I really wanted a sunny day to help me improve my disposition. It didn’t happen—either the sun or the improvement. A friend cancelled a longstanding date, and Jordan was not pleased when I told her about yet another doctor appointment. She’s glad to take me, usually wants to be there, but when I first tell her it’s like another chore added on to the many she already has. And there have been too many appointments lately. And where I thought we would have lunch together, I found she had other arrangements—as well she should. She can’t babysit her mom all the time, when I don’t need it except for sociability reasons.

We had joint appointments for facials at Origins, the store where I’ve bought make-up and skin products for at least a decade, probably longer. The ladies who did them were cheerful and fun, and my mood brightened a bit, though I was baffled by the products used on my face. I think maybe I’ve had one facial in my whole life before. Truth is that when Alicia finished, my face did feel better, fresher. But the mood didn’t last, and I was on the edge of tears on the way home.

But the day began to turn around. Black bean soup for lunch tasted really good. I took care of a few details on my desk and then two a solid two-hour nap. Woke feeling like a new person. Not a mysterious turn-around. I had contacted my doctor to report feeling lethargic with no interest in food and a slight feeling of nausea. As I suspected, he suggested I needed to cut back on one medication, and I think the change kicked in today.

Jordan and I have shared a couple of experimental meals since Christian has had other obligations. We do that to try the things we know he wouldn’t like. Last night’s meal was a bust, maybe partly due to my own ambivalence about food, but I’m delighted to report that tonight’s meal was a success, and I loved every bite.

I fixed scallops in a lemon/basic sauce. Got the scallops just right, with a nice brown on the outside and still tender on the inside. The sauce was butter, white wine, lemon peel and lemon juice, and chopped basil, thickened with cornstarch in a tiny bit of water. I sliced a couple of mushroom that needed to be used and threw them into the mix. Jordan made a salad of leftover canned artichoke hearts, diced Roma tomatoes, avocado, and blue cheese, with lemon juice instead of dressing. You’d have eaten every bite too.  Those recipes are keepers, though the salad, I confess, is an off-the-top-of-my-head one remembered from a salad served me probably fifty years ago at a ranch in the Texas Panhandle—watercress and tomato in lemon juice. I just added blue cheese and avocado.

I have scenes in my mind for the novel I’m working on, and they will be my priority tomorrow. In the last week, I accomplished only 1500 words, but now things are looking up.

I’m a happy (happier?) camper tonight. I feel like I’ve come back from someplace far away.

Another blessed rainy day

Apparently, it rained a lot during the night, because it was wet and humid this morning, but blessedly cool. Don’t laugh—I put a shawl over my shoulders while I worked at my desk this morning. And I loved it. The kind of day you want to curl up with a good book—or with your computer.

I tried the routine thing again this morning. No laundry to fold and hang and put away, but it was still almost 10:30 before I settled down to the Work-in-Progress. Maybe I shaved a little off yesterday’s time, but not much.  I timed how long it takes to do my exercises at the grab bar—and I’m embarrassed to tell you what a small portion of my day it takes. No excuse for not doing them every day.

Once again, my radio program jinx proved true. I was scheduled to be on a Red River Radio (blog talk radio) show today from 5:00-7:00 p.m. Having goofed once before on time zones, I studied the directions carefully—clearly CDT was different from EDT. So at four I settled down at my computer to get a few odds and ends done before the show—only to discover an email from the host asking where I was. I hastily called in. It worked out okay—there was already one other guest author that I knew would be there plus two more I wasn’t expecting. I’m wondering if they weren’t call-in guests. One of them read a poignant piece about the death of a child, but I wasn’t sure if it was fiction or memoir. Moving, nonetheless. Coming late to the party, I never was sure if the one of the others was a poet or novelist and didn’t learn much about the author who I knew would be featured.

I did read a passage from The Color of Fear, and I got to talk a bit about my mysteries, so all was not lost. But I’m still embarrassed about being late.

Christian wasn’t home for supper tonight, so Jordan and I experimented with a dinner we thought he wouldn’t like. We didn’t much like it either. It was a crab/artichoke hearts/mayonnaise spread on bread, topped with tomato slices and sliced Monterrey Jack and broiled. I instantly knew several ways I’d improve it—toast the bread first was a no-brainer. But it was rich, without a real taste of crab, and not really worth the trouble. Not going in that cookbook I keep talking about.

I did write my thousand words for the day this morning and felt good about them. A sudden twist to the story jumped into my mind last night. I sometimes fear that the novel will be all one sudden twist after another. I shall read carefully to make sure those twists all hold together and are headed someplace.

Now time to read someone else’s writing.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

Quiet, wet, and rainy

What do you do on a totally unremarkable day, except worry about the state of the world and pray for the people of Puerto Rico? I tried to follow my new regime this morning. Read email and Facebook over a cup of tea, put away a mountain of clean clothes, got myself dressed and ready for the day, did the standing half of my exercises, took care of a few odds and ends on my desk—and it was 10:30 before I could turn my attention to my writing. I had to quit and finish fixing lunch for a guest at 11:15. Yes, I made a little progress, but not enough to brag.

Lunch was the high point of my day. My friend Heather, who is a chef, came for lunch. I always feel obliged to fix a special, creative meal for her, and I learn while doing it. Today as you might have guessed from last night’s blog, it was black bean soup and Italian style tuna sandwiches made with homemade pesto. Good, but as always, I find things I could have done better.

Spilling some of the juice from the beans made for a really stiff soup, though still flavorful. Then I could have sworn I had sour cream but couldn’t find it—soup would have tasted so much better. Jordan confessed to having borrowed it and not yet returned it. The eggs for the sandwich didn’t get quite hard boiled (got to figure out that new hot plate), though Heather, bless her, said that’s how she likes them. And the sandwiches, terrific in flavor, were hard to hold together.

Still we had a good visit. We talk food and restaurants and likes and dislikes. Heather is a former student of mine, an English major gone astray, but since she strayed into food service, who can blame her? She cooks at the Museum of Modern Art and teaches at Sur le Table.

In the afternoon, the sky darkened and the rain came, gently and softly. But then, as I was about to nap, there were two big bursts of thunder, which set Sophie to barking ferociously. Then, protecting me, she even sat in the bathroom while I used the facilities. No more thunder, so no more barking, and it was lovely to nap with rain drumming on the roof.

Tonight I had dinner with Jordan and two boys—a frequent overnight guest whose parents travel a lot. His father is a Congressman, and he has interesting stories to tell about his summers in D.C. Jacob of course invited himself to visit this summer.

For a day in which I didn’t accomplish much, I sure am tired tonight.