Eclipse awe and the Rapture blues

 

While everyone else was rushing outside to stare at the sun (with protective glasses, we hope), I was sitting at my desk with the patio door open to a quiet and calm backyard. I wasn’t so interested in seeing the aura around the sun—heaven knows there’ve been enough pictures online and in the news media. I was more interested in watching the world go from light to dark and back again. The darkening was a slow thing, and the air took on a funny color, like it sometimes does before a Texas storm. Out my door and over the neighbor’s roof I could watch a patch of high clouds to the southwest without danger of looking at the sun. The dappling on the clouds changed slowly and was fun to watch. I didn’t see the crescent-shaped shadows that many others reported. I was surprised at how slowly the darkness moved in.

Then in Fort Worth we had two minutes and twenty-four seconds of darkness. While others have reported the wind kicked up, I didn’t notice that. I did notice the quiet—no birds, no squirrels. It seemed forever, and in the midst of it I wondered what would happen if the lights forgot to come back on. But then the light came back, I thought more rapidly than it had left. Totality was at 1:40 and well before two o’clock we were back in full sunshine with those high clouds that let some people see the sun and made others along the path miss it. Later, I would see people describe that silent dark time as everything from holy to creepy. I was sort of in between—it made me think how everything in our world works together, and most of it for our benefit. We knew the light would come back. I read somewhere this week that those science deniers on the extreme right see themselves as forced to choose between their faith and God or science, and they choose faith. What’s sad is that they cannot reconcile the two in their minds. That’s what the dark moment was to me—a convergence of science and faith.

The mood across the country was much less solemn and more celebratory, with news programs showing people whooping and hollering, and it struck me as significant that when nature went silent, mankinwas at its noisiest. I’m not sure yet why the joy in the eclipse—was it science? Faith? Survival?

Then, of course, there was the whole Rapture business that got wrapped into the eclipse. A friend, who bemoaned that it had missed him again, helpfully advised that if you missed your rapture today, you can catch another in 18 months. But if you miss that, it’s something like 350 years. In truth there are several total eclipses throughout the world each year, so I suppose rapture followers could just get the schedule and follow them-good excuse for travel. Some posts about the Rapture were hysterical—I saw someone who offered Rapture protection. Don’t want to be snatched up? Just call him, though I don’t know if his work was guaranteed or not. Another entrepreneur was offering pet care—if you are swept up in the Rapture, he will care for your pets (what? They can’t go with you?). Of course, his work was prepaid, no refunds. And there were several posts about leaving random clothes scattered around so it would look like you’d been raptured (does it required nudity? I’m shocked!)  My mystery mind can see several great plots around the Rapture—someone who wants to disappear can leave that clothing trail, or perhaps if you are into paranormal, someone is presumed to be raptured, until his or her body is found, the victim of murder.

A couple of serious notes: I hope we’ll hear about observatory studies of animals during the eclipse. A reporter in Fort Worth was assigned to zoo duty, studying the reaction of animals. That becomes a bit personal to me, because I’d been thinking about how I’d protect Sophie during the eclipse, though I had no idea if It would bother her or not. The thunderstorms predicted for later tonight would probably have bothered her more. Just one more thing to remind me of the hole in my heart.

Another serious note: if you want to recycle your eclipse glasses, there will be an eclipse in South America in August, and schoolchildren need glasses to be able to watch it. There’s a link on my Facebook page about how you can contribute your used glasses.

The excitement is over, and I for one am ready to move on. I was beginning to tire of the eclipse hype. So here’s to the rest of the week—may it be whatever you want it to be. In full sunshine!

A sort of nothing weekend

 

Usually I plan ahead and see that there are good things on my calendar for weekends, but this weekend? Nothing! It’s a bit of vanity to realize that one reason was that I couldn’t wash my hair. Sounds silly and frivolous but I think it’s true. I had that thingie removed from my scalp on Friday, and the doctor said to wait two days to shampoo. That was Friday late morning, so does Friday count as one of the days? I decided to err on the side of caution and wait until Monday. But my hair had Vaseline in it from the procedure and was generally a mess, and I was self-conscious about it. Tomorrow I am going to wash it first thing in the morning, and I expect the world to be a lot better.

We hoped to hear about the new dog we are interested in today—hear as in an invitation to greet and meet. But it didn’t happen. The wheels of dog adoption, like a lot of other wheels, move slowly. Having adopted four children, I should not be surprised at this slow procedure, but I guess I expected pet adoption to be easier. It’s probably a good thing for pets that it is not. The foster said she wasn’t able to get approval of my application today, so we wait (I am already conditionally approved). I was afraid that the poor boy was so attached to his foster that he wouldn’t want to be uprooted, but Jordan found out that agencies rotate dogs, not letting them stay too long with any foster for just that reason. I suppose that also cuts down on foster fail, where fosters fall so in love with the dog, they decide to be the permanent adoptive family. We did hear that the boy we have our eye on has been in foster care for two years, which makes me so sad I want to rescue him immediately. But we have also heard that he is afraid of “everything,” and that gives me pause. I had an experience with a fearful dog at Christmas when my granddaughter’s dog was afraid of my walker. And I want a dog with some spirit. So I am uncertain.

Weekends are usually good cooking times for me but that too went awry this weekend. I planned last night to make cod in a butter/lemon sauce, so with my grocery order I requested a lb. of cod. I got a quarter lb.—enough for no one else but me. We had garlicky chicken thighs in an anchovy/lemon sauce. Good, but I wanted to cook the fish, partly because I like fish and partly because I’d like to add more of it to our diet. Jacob has been wanting spaghetti, so tonight I made a recipe called Weeknight Bolognese. I can’t recommend it. I chose to make it on Sunday so I could cook all day, but the recipe really didn’t take that long—except for browning two-and-a-half lbs. of ground meat (beef and Italian sausage). I got wide pappardelle noodles, but the sauce wasn’t as rich and thick as I wanted. In fact, it was thin. Good flavor, but not what I want in an Italian sauce. And I thought it was way too much meat in proportion to the sauce. Jacob didn’t say anything, but I noticed he didn’t eat much. I’m going to plan soon to make an old-fashioned, Italian nonna kind of Sunday soup that cooks all day. Honest we could have used the bottled Rao marinara sauce Jordan bought, and it would have made me happier.

It's ten o’clock, and I have just had my second nap of the day. I relish my afternoon nap—it’s become a part of my routine, and I think it healthy. But when I fall asleep at my computer at eight-thirty, it’s a clear sign that I am not engaged in what I’m doing. So that too will have to change. I find I almost never want to go back and pick up where I left off—clearly I abandoned them because I wasn’t that interested. So I’m on a mission to find a book that absorbs my attention and calls me back.

All of this leaves me with a lot of resolves to kick up my interest in life. Fortunately, I understand that these dull, down periods are a part of life and are regularly more than balanced by periods of high activity and engagement. It’s up to me, so I resolve to be a new person (again!) starting tomorrow. Now who’s got plans for next weekend?

 

 

The search continues

Some time ago a good friend brought me this plant holder with a poinsettia in it.
I named her Serenity because I hope that was what she would bring me.
Nor she's abloom with spring flowers, and I think she's serene, a model for me.

I spent too much of today on my ongoing search for the perfect dog to fill the hole left in my heart and my life by Sophie. Don’t get me wrong—the perfect dog is the offbeat rescue, the slightly different one, the one that maybe no one else will want. I leafed through pages of Petfinder (they have 226 pages of adoptable dogs), and tonight Jordan and I looked at many. We laughed over a dog named Juju, since that is my grandmotherly name. “It would get confusing,” Jordan said, “which Juju would we be calling?” Another dog was named Panic, and Jordan said she could hear what happened if at three o’clock in the morning I opened my door to call, “Panic! Panic!” She thinks the emergency squad would be here immediately.

I had found one dog that really interested me. His name is Oreo, an Aussie mix, four or five years old, house- and crate-trained, and billed as a perfect gentleman. But another dog, with the unlikely name of Merle Haggard, stuck in my mind. He’s about two years old, a black dog, the same weight as Sophie (which is perfect for us), house- and crate-trained. So many of the dogs that interest me need canine companions or lots of exercise because they are high energy breeds. Merle Haggard’s description says he will adapt to my energy level, and he likes to chase squirrels, which was Sophie’s main occupation. Jordan and Christian are enthusiastic about Merle Haggard, so I put him first on my list and Oreo second. We would love either one.

This whole business is frustrating because you apply and … nothing. I did get a response from Saving Hope that I was conditionally approved, but once I specified a dog, I heard nothing. Poor Merle Haggard has been in their care for almost two years, and I think that’s partly because it’s hard to place black dogs. After Sophie I have a soft spot in my heart for black dogs (okay she was sort of mottled with silver—he is almost totally black). Anyway, you’d think the agency would act quickly on an expression of interest in a dog that had been there a long time, but not so. I’m told by those who know that the problem is volunteer help. I find that’s cold comfort.

Otherwise it was a lazy Saturday—Zenaida came to clean the cottage, and we had several teary moments remembering how much Sophie loved Zenaida and how she used to follow her around. I got some desk work done, read a lot of political updates, made the dough for a snack for Monday morning company, and had a long nap.

We would have had dinner at a decent hour tonight, except Jordan joined me in looking at dog profiles. Then Christian came along. He had spent the day enjoying the Fort Worth Food and Wine Festival (you can interpret that as you will) and he wanted to talk more about Merle Haggard. So it was after seven when I finally started cooking and near eight when we had dinner: chicken thighs in a garlic/anchovy/caper sauce. Delicious, but so greasy. One of those recipes that has you start it on the stove, then whisk the skillet into the oven. I can’t do that, so I winged it in a bit, but it turned out to be delicious.

While Jordan and Christian waited for supper, they sat on the patio.
and she took this of my honeysuckle in bloom. 
A pesty plant but so pretty when it blooms.

I finished out the evening with a long conversation with an old friend who lost her husband this week. I know that it’s the age I am—I lose friends, my friends lose loved ones, and it’s what life is. The best I can do is listen, and I’ve been trying hard to do that. But every time I am called on for comfort, it reminds me of my own mortality. But more than that, it reminds me how lucky I am to be as active and healthy and engaged as I am.

So it’s certainly been a mixed bag of a day. But as always, I am grateful. Sweet dreams, everyone.

 

A lost day

 

image from Freepik.com

I didn’t expect a minor dermatological procedure to cost me a whole day,  abut it did. When I get home a little before noon, I felt fine, spent an hour or so clearing up emails and the like while eating lunch and took my regular nap. It was when I woke up that my world was changed—the topical anesthetic was wearing off, and my scalp and head hurt. Fortunately, a glass of wine helped with that. We had no dinner plan, but Christian offered to bring subs from our favorite sandwich shop, and Jordan and I wrestled with getting into a certain website that kept rejected our log-in. I had great and ambitious plans for the evening for what I would do—but I have done none of it. I lost my starch. It wasn’t that my head hurt anymore, but I was aware, in a strange way of the affected area. And I had no energy. I resigned myself to frittering away the evening surfing the net, looking at adoptable dogs, reading Facebook, and the like. Never even got to the novel I’m reading.

My mother came to my mind. When I was young, she suffered from migraines that would send her to bed for a day. When someone asked me about her, I would cheerily reply, “She’ll be all right in the morning.” And she always was. So that’s my story: I’ll be all right in the morning.

Two things interest me about my lost day. One is, as a child of osteopathic medicine (not only was my father an osteopathic physician, so were many uncles and cousins and today my brother, one nephew and one niece carry on the family tradition), I was reminded again of osteopathic theory. No one part of the body is isolated, so the procedure, beneficial and necessary as it was (and let me stress it was minor), was an insult not just to my head but to my entire system. My dragginess was my body taking its energy to get back to normal after the insult. Yes, I expect my head will still be sore and tender for several days, but I also expect I’ll have my starch or oomph or whatever back tomorrow.

The other lesson today is one that it’s taken me years to learn: I gave myself permission to check out for the day, to fritter the day away. In my world, there’s nothing so urgent that must be done today, and there’s no need to push myself when I don’t feel good. Granted, there’s a thin line there, and it would be easy to abuse that rationale, retreat into “I don’t feel good” and never do anything, but I don’t think I will. My compulsion to write, to be involved with the world will draw me back to business, and there are several things on my calendar tomorrow—phone calls I have promised to make, a fish dinner I want to cook for the Burtons (I’ve ordered groceries to be delivered tomorrow, and if we are  going to have fish, I like to fix it the day it comes from the market).

So now I’m cozy in the cottage and will soon go back to bed for—what? The fourth time today? It’s okay. I’ll be fine tomorrow. I hope you will too.

Questions about a dark figure

 

The tranquility trump has stolen from our lives.

Why is everyone afraid of trump, handling him with kid gloves? He truly is the Teflon® man on whom nothing sticks. It’s beginning to look like even the 91 indictments won’t stick. Right now, I am indignant and furious over the image he posted of a hog-tied President Biden in the bed of a pickup. It is the most disturbing thing I’ve seen in a long time. Contrary to what trump spokesman Stephen Cheung claims, it was not just a pickup going down the road somewhere. It was an image posted by trump on his Truth Social network—and that makes him directly responsible for not only disrespecting the office of U. S. President but for threatening the current occupant. And that, my friends, is illegal, according to the constitution. Why is the country, at least the sane half of it, not up at arms, angrily calling for action? Has trump so blinded us to his violence and outrageous lies that we simply shrug and go on?

Cheung, in a kind of “All’s fair in love and war” aboutism, said that Biden has weaponized the DOJ against trump. We all know that’s not true. President Biden has deliberately distanced himself from any of the litigation involving the former president. If a sitting president did use the DOJ against a political rival, I doubt they would do so with an unbelievable 91 indictments, many of them felony. One or two strong cases should do the trick. trump earned every one of those indictments over a long career of grifting, cheating, and lying for personal gain.

Last night, I saw a clip on FB of a pickup truck with the entire back gate an image of trump—in an orange jumpsuit, clutching prison bars and staring angrily out at the world. For a millisecond, I thought about fair play, and I wished some anti-trump patriot hadn’t sunk so low (I still wish that). But I realized there’s no comparison—the image of Biden threatens unlawful violence, and it was posted by one person to threaten the duly elected president; the image of trump behind bars hopes for justice and Biden had nothing to do with it. In fact, we don’t know whose truck that was on or anything about it, but I assume the trump people haven’t found it yet or they’d be crowing about it.

One thing about this pickup controversy: it shows the power of AI and social media. Frightening.

This morning, Heather Cox Richardson’s perceptive column, Letters from an American, details how trump is conducting shadow foreign policy. He is pulling the strings behind Mike Johnson’s refusal to bring aid to Ukraine to the House, presumably because trump wants to weaken Ukraine to please Putin. The former president also has an “envoy” traveling the world on his behalf, meeting with dictators that trump wants to court because once in office, he intends to ally himself with Putin, Erdogan, and others—and break our alliances with democratic countries. This too is against the law, specified in the constitution. (Read Richardson’s column here for the extent of trump’s treason: (55) April 2, 2024 - by Heather Cox Richardson )(substack.com)

Last week, trump was under deadline and court to come up with $470-plus million in bond money or foreclosure on some of his property would begin while he appeals his gigantic fraud conviction. We all know what happened—the braggart billionaire couldn’t come up with the cash (no bank trusts him anymore). But the courts gave him grace and lowered the amount drastically. Would that have happened to any other billionaire? I doubt it. Why does he get special treatment? He’s not some saintly figure—he’s been convicted of fraud, he escaped conviction of sexual assault but was convicted of defamation, he was twice impeached, once for trying to blackmail a foreign leader, most of his cohorts have served or are serving prison time—and so much more.

Judge Juan Merchan has extended the boundaries of his gag order after trump threatened him and his daughter. Will the judge enforce that order? Will the threat to President Biden fall under it?

Then there’s the question of trump’s mental health. Is he sane? Is he suffering from progressive dementia as many health professionals claim? Senile? Psychopathic? I have never seen a man so full of anger and hate, so ready to lash out, at the same time he grossly twists facts, lies, and rants and raves—it’s all part of his threatening demeanor. Consider his impulsive behavior, his out-of-control mouth—do we want a man like that leading our country, making decisions about our welfare, negotiating with other countries. Is no one going to demand extensive testing? Are we all going to sit back and shrug and say we can do nothing about it while a severely disturbed (mild interpretation) man gets the nuclear codes again? We lucked out last time, but I have no confidence that we will again.

Where is America? Donald trump is playing America for the fool, and we are letting him do it. Why aren’t we speaking out? The world we leave for our grandchildren is at stake as it’s never been before.

Pickles and Pineapple

 

Or what do we do with the leftover ham after Easter?

We had a really good ham for Easter this year—flavorful but mild, the kind that doesn’t need mustard or horseradish sauce or any disguise. But even with twelve people, we had a ton left over. Jordan has been telling me she doesn’t like ham, which cuts me out of ham dishes on our menus. But now, trying to avoid carbs, she and I are both eating ham for lunch. Still a bunch leftover. I can make myself ham salad, which I like a lot—it makes terrific sandwiches. And tonight I made a ham cheeseball, which was pretty good. Online recipes sources are full of ways to use that ham, but most just don’t intrigue me. Like mac and cheese with ham—I’m just not a mac and cheese person. Scalloped potatoes with ham sounds a lot better to me, but if Jordan wants a cleansing diet, she’s not going to eat that. I will end up freezing some of my portion of the leftovers.

Another thing online recipes sources are full of lately is pineapple. The controversy over pineapple topping on pizza has been around for a while, but it seems to have taken on new life lately. I’m not a pizza fan and definitely not a pineapple pizza fan. But the recipe that most puzzles me is pineapple casserole, which is all over the place this season. I cannot fathom it, so today I look at the Southern Living version, because I really have confidence in that magazine’s recipes. What I found was basically a white sauce made with pineapple juice instead of milk or cream, added sugar (in case, heaven help us, the pineapple wasn’t sweet enough) and grated cheddar, because according to the recipe the strength of cheddar will “hold up against” the sweetness of the pineapple. I remain unconvinced. I do remember, with pleasure, that my mom made a Jell-O salad—that scourge of the fifties—with pineapple, julienned carrots, pineapple chunks, and orange Jell-O. It wasn’t half as bad as it sounds. I also remember upside down cakes with pineapple that came out on the top. Think I liked those. Mom also occasionally cooked a ham steak—a good bargain I’ve learned these days—with a sauce of pineapple juice, brown sugar, and maybe onion or bacon. It was pretty good, though I feel no urgency to try it again.

I’m not sure what pickled pickles have to do with Easter except that watermelon pickles seem common on some tables. My mom used to fix a pickle/vegetable tray for big dinners—celery sticks, carrots, etc.—but nine times out of ten she found it, after the meal, still in the back porch cooler where she’d stashed it. But, pickles too have been all over the internet. I recently started getting emails from a web site called Olive My Pickle. They not only try to sell their products, they try to educate on the benefits of fermented food. Apparently there was an article in Time Magazine recently about fermented foods as probiotics. and this site was recommended. They sell not only pickles but an array of olives, kimchi, etc. Fort Worth is home to Best Maid Pickles, and that company has opened a retail store, the Best Maid Pickle Emporium, on Vickery Boulevard where they sell  pickles, pickle juice (supposedly great for brining chicken), Bloody Mary mix, condiments and even T-shirts. I confess I want to go there just to browse. I grew up thinking I didn’t like pickles—it took marriage to a Jewish man and kosher dills to teach me how good they are. My mom grew up hating sauerkraut—in a German household she had to eat it, so I never tasted that either until I was grown. But now I love it. For some reason, I’ve shied away from kimchi, though it is the kind of thing I usually like. Have you tried it?

And perhaps the ultimate pickle news: the Clausson folks, who make great pickles, have introduced a pickle jelly bean. Where are you, Ronald Reagan?

The popularity of pineapple and pickles is testimony to the power of social media. I’m quite sure we would not pay inordinate attention to these two foods if we weren’t bombarded with them on the net. Then again, maybe I’m just more aware because I’m a foodie and spend time every day on food sites.

If you try a pineapple casserole, please let me know about it.

Thunder and lightening

 

As I write this, the gods have begun bowling in the sky. All day we’ve heard predictions of severe storms tonight, with the possible threat of hail and tornadoes. Jordan planned for us to eat early, because Christian was going to grill and didn’t want to be standing over the grill in the rain. But the prediction moved a little bit later, and we ate as usual about seven-fifteen. So far, the thunder has not brought rain, but I am hopeful. Jacob had a golf tournament today, and I am thankful the weather held off until that was over.

After the luxurious meal yesterday, we had burgers tonight. But not just any burgers---lamb. I mentioned to Jordan tonight that I now have four or five recipes for lamb burgers, and I haven’t kept track of which ones we liked best. But tonight’s version had two Tbsp. of Worcestershire and were delicious. And that marked a culinary milestone for me: I actually used up a bottle of Lea & Perrin’s Worcestershire (is there any other label worth using?) and had to open the new one waiting in my pantry. It made me think of that old saw about a housewife will never use up a bottle of Tabasco. Times have changed, and I guess for a while cooks, male and female, went through Siracha at a rapid rate, but it seems to have fallen out of favor now. At any rate, I’m going to put five stars on tonight’s recipe. And I have one and a half burgers for lunches this week.

Yesterday’s meal—and a couple of mid-day glasses of wine—sent me to napping, but when I woke up I surprised myself by working at my desk for five straight hours. I drafted a newsletter, wrote a blog, and finished the book I was reading to the point I was ready to review it and move on. It is One Way Back, Christina Blasey-Ford’s memoir of her experience testifying at the confirmation hearings for then-SCOTUS nominee Brett Kavanaugh. Of necessity in telling her story, Blasey-Ford delves back into her high school years when his assault on her happened. When Kavanaugh’s nomination became public, she thought she could just tell someone her story and that would be it, but of course the whole thing snowballed. Ultimately, at great personal cost (she still needs security details) she exposed what Kavanaugh did to her as a high school student, but more than that what kind of man he is today—a whining, sniveling, angry man who was nonetheless confirmed to a lifetime appointment on our highest court. I agree with her in uncertainty that the initial incident warranted the weight it was given—I suspect such happens in homes all over America all the time. But the revelation of his beer-loving character today was significant, and I applaud Blasey-Ford. A PS; she is a surfer, and the phrase, “One way back,” is surfing terminology. It’s a good book, and I recommend it.

Now it is raining—steady, fairly hard but not destructive.

I’ve spent some time today searching for the right new dog—it’s a good cure for missing Sophie, and I hope she would understand. Tonight, with the thunder, I remember how scared she always was, curling up right by me, and when I was cooking, I remembered how she stationed herself right by me in my tiny kitchen lest I drop a morsel. The dog that interests me is named Oreo (can you change a rescue dog’s name?). He is an Aussie mix, crate trained, housebroken, a true gentleman who loves to cuddle (don’t all gentlemen?). I have asked how to arrange a meet-and-greet, and I think Jordan and Christian are with me on this one. I’ve seen several dogs online that entice me, but many rescues, especially Aussies, stress that they are wary in new circumstances and, too often, afraid of men. I’ve got two men here—Christian and Jacob—who are ready to love a new dog. It’s called moving on.

Already the rain has slowed, but I expect we’re in for a spell of it. I hope it keeps up until I go to bed, so I can lie in bed, cozy and comfortable, and listen to the thunder.

Stay safe, everyone.

One early Easter morning

 

 

Recreating an annual picture.

I had a lovely start to Easter this morning. You know how girls talk about the BFF? Mine really is—Barbara Ashcraft has been my BFF probably for over seventy years. This morning, I wakened to her email which was a quote from music we sang in choir when we were about ten or twelve: “One early Easter morning, I wakened with the birds.” I answered with the next line: “And all around lay silence/Too deep for earthly words.” No need to say anymore.

Easter is a glorious day of hope—but it can also be exhausting. By mid-afternoon, I was exhausted and felt the day was over. But such a wonderful day. We went to the nine o’clock service—more crowded than usual but not bad. The music was glorious. I said I’d go to church just for the processional, “Jesus Christ is Risen, Alleluia!” and the benediction, which was the “Hallelujah Chorus.” But it was good to be there in person and hear the inspiration of the service and sense the fellowship. At one point Christian and I thought we heard a dog panting, but no one else believes us.

I really noticed some differences between being present and attending through Zoom. It is impressive and comforting to be in that gorgeous sanctuary and nothing can compare with hearing the music live—they had brass as well as our terrific choir. I hold my breath at the high notes of the “Hallelujah Chorus” every time, but they made them. But you don’t get that up-close view—I couldn’t see the brass at all, not could I see the expressions on faces. I like in-person better, but I feel so fortunate to have the alternative on “ordinary” Sundays.

Girls version
I felt like the queen bee, because everyone
came to have their picture taken with me.

Back at the house, Jordan put together an incredible brunch for twelve and set a beautiful table with the gold-and-white Royal Doulton my mom got me when I was a teen, along with gold-washed flatware. It was potluck, and we had ham, “funeral potatoes” (that wonderful rich casserole) broccoli salad, fruit, and of course deviled eggs. My contribution was hot cross buns, but I note no one else likes them as much as I do. And wine. Of course we had wine. It was a noisy, happy laughter-filled event, everything Easter should be.

Jordan's table

Now I am marooned in the cottage, having left my phone in the house by mistake. I can’t ask for leftovers for my supper, can’t even adjust my hearing aids. Can’t check to see if my other kids are at their homes, let alone call them. I’ve emailed a bunch of friends asking them to call Jordan, but not many read their email on a holiday Sunday night. One friend reports she called and got voice mail, so I gave her Christian’s phone number. But I imagine they are both napping (which I did earlier), so I hope they check their messages when they wake up. And I’m watching like a hawk for Jacob to come home or for Jordan and Christian to bring the dog out to potty.

I started this post with a quote and will leave you with another that I really like. This is from John Roedel, who I’ve never heard of but now I intend to investigate—he has apparently published books about his conversations with God as he tries to figure out life, his faith, raising children, and so on. “A dozen angels have started living in the holes in my heart. They have put up hammocks and started growing roses—” There’s more, but now I can’t find it. I particularly like that opening image.

Does this look like mischief afoot?

Some small “writerly” triumphs

 

Flowerpot cake by Mary Dulle
Photo courtesy Mary Dulle

The Guppy (Going to be published) chapter of Sisters in Crime weekly opens the listserv to NPV (non-publishing victories) brags from members. I usually don’t respond because I don’t have a lot to brag about these days—published or not, I’ve been in a long dry spell, partly because I spent a lot of time on the Helen Corbitt book that never became a book. But today I do have some small victories.

One that I simply forgot to publicize because I put it aside to later make a “big” marketing effort, as if I knew how to do that, is that my one collection of short stories, Sue Ellen Learns to Dance and Other Stories, is now available on Amazon in audio version. It’s my second foray into audio publishing, but the first was not very successful, probably due to a lack of marketing. I vow to do better with this book. Short stories are hard for me—the idea has to hit me hard, and then I have to sit down and put it into words right away. I am in awe of people who write, “I am working on a short story.” I wonder how long it takes to write and polish 3,000 words. Yes, I go back and edit, but I almost never write a bit, put it aside, and go back and finish it.

Two of these stories, “Sue Ellen Learns to Dance” and “Fool Girl,” won Wrangler awards from the National Cowboy Museum and Hall of Fame, and one, “The Art of Dipping Candles,” brings me to tears every time I read it—a boastful things to say about one’s own writing, but it’s true. Try it.

Since my audio of Saving Irene was not the blockbuster I hoped, I had put aside the idea of audio, decided it wasn’t for me. But then Amazon made me an offer I couldn’t resist: a free audio version using AI. Now every author I know resists AI, fearful it will take over our creativity—and maybe our already published works. Plus it’s competition. AI can write a book much faster than the human brain can write, proof, edit, design, etc. Still, it was free. I tried it. Overall I thought the AI voice was acceptable—not great, but okay. In several instances, the inflection of a phrase or a word is not what I would have done, but I think the human ear may be less critical than the eye. The thing that most bothered me was the mispronunciation of Texas terms and place names. My AI “person” was clearly not a Texan. The town of Hereford became Her-e-ford, and the word cousie (for chuckwagon cook) was similarly butchered.

Since I’m blatantly marketing the book, here’s a link to the Amazon audio: Amazon.com: Sue Ellen Learns to Dance and Other Stories (Audible Audio Edition): Judy Alter, Alter Ego Publishing, Virtual Voice: Books It’s also available in Kindle and paperback editions, but the paperback has a different cover, a Dorothea Lange Depression photo that is a classic. I like it better than the updated cover, but I’m told it’s not as marketable. Really dislike that aspect of the writing business.

Oops. I’ve gone on so long I’ll have to be brief about my second small triumph: today was the second of Mary Dulle’s two-part class on the cooking of Helen Corbitt. Mary did a masterful job with such recipes as turkey mornay and flowerpot cakes (Ladybird’s favorite), and I got to talk about the seismic changes in American food culture during the fifties and a bit how that affects us today, the Greenhouse Spa (if you don’t remember it, google it—ultimate luxury in the sixties and seventies), and Corbitt’s books. She wrote five cookbooks, all of them still available today. The class was responsive, had people who really took part, and it was fun. I am still intrigued by the Corbitt story and hope to find other things to do with it in the future.

Meantime, tonight, back to editing Irene in a Ghost Kitchen.

From a flower-filled cottage, some thoughts on empathy

 

Sophie's white rose from our longtime vet

My cottage is in bloom! An Easter Lily, a small bouquet of roses tucked into an Easter bunny vase, a white rose in a bed of baby’s breath, a plant new to me called Orange Star, with stalks of just-about-to-open orange buds. This is just part of the outpouring of support I’ve gotten since I first posted about Sophie’s battle with diabetes—a short two weeks ago, though it seems an eternity. The internet has been full of supportive messages, a couple of friends have stopped by for hugs, others have called. And so many have said to me that they too had to make that hard decision about beloved family pets, and they understand what we have been going through. For me, empathy has been the key word of the week.

My computer defines empathy as the capacity to feel or understand what another person is experiencing. In other words, I feel what you feel. And in this case, my many friends feel and share my grief and sense of loss. Even before we saw that we were going to lose Sophie, I’d been thinking about empathy, because I read a blog on that subject.

The U. S. Army psychologist assigned to watch and study the defendants at the Nuremburg Trials wrote that he became very interested in the nature of evil, and after the trials he believed that the one thing that bound those heartless criminals together was a lack of empathy. They were unable to feel the experiences of their fellow men. He concluded that the lack of empathy defines evil in a person. The blog continued with two quotes from Reddit. One claimed that conservatives invent new derogatory words for empathy about ever fifteen years: “politically correct,” “bleeding heart,” and, the most recent, “woke.” The absence of empathy, the writer claimed, is a prerequisite for conservative ideology.

The second quote points out that the conservative point of view starts a lack of empathy, a viewpoint that is formed in one’s earliest years and is almost impossible to change in later years. “Many conservatives are beyond redemption.”

Now that our country is so horribly split, I think the lack of empathy in many conservative positions is clear. We know, from generally accepted accounts of trump’s childhood and the writings of his niece, Mary Trump, that the ex-president was raised in what might best be called unhealthy situations. He was taught to disregard others early on, repeating the family pattern of corruption set by his grandfather and father. They lived by takin advantage of others. There is no hope of changing him at this late stage of life. So he sets a horrible example, and he made it publicly all right in his administration to lack empathy. Joe Biden, a man who stoops to help a stuttering child or give a few dollars to a homeless man, a man who loves animals, is a man of empathy.

But it’s not just trump. We see that lack of empathy l around us—in the disregard for the lives of women with life-threatening pregnancies, the callous attitude toward immigrants at our southern border, even the willingness to stop free school lunch programs. It is an “every man for himself” attitude that boggles my mind. I don’t think we can dismiss it as politics. It is a moral issue, not political. For me, as a faithful Christian (not of the nationalism type(, it is a religious issue. If I follow in the steps of Jesus, I must recognize that his greatest command was to love each other. But that morality is not limited to Christianity—the care for others is found in all the world’s major religions, and—with a nod to critics of religion—I must say I find the world better for that teaching.

Sometimes empathy is hard. It makes you draw a moral line. I saw a news clip of the perpetrators of the Moscow mass killing bring brought into court. They had obviously been beaten so badly they could not walk upright and were dragged, and no matter how heinous their crime, I felt for their agony at that moment. No, I didn’t want to rescue them, and I knew I was powerless, but at that moment I felt their experience. To me, that is empathy.

I cling to the Pollyanna-like belief that most of the world is empathetic—there are good people out there who don’t want to let children go hungry, or immigrants drown in a river full of barbed wire. I believe, to alter Faulkner’s words a bit, that the good people will prevail. And this week, I’ve had a clear demonstration of that love. It has bolstered me, and as I keep saying, I’m grateful. And I’m okay. You know the thing that bothers me most? Looking at the empty spot where her crate was, where she loved to lie in her safe space.

Sweet dreams, everyone.