Judy Alter's Blog, page 12

Feeling pensive

Image by Freepik.com
It rained in Texas today! Not thedownpours that residents feel in the Northwest or the storms that sometimes delugethe eastern coast, but it was wet, and in Texas we are grateful. But it wasalso dark and dreary, the kind of day that can encourage deep thoughts.

My church recently was rockedby the tragic deaths of a prominent member, active in church affairs and thecity of Fort Worth, known and admired by many, and his two children. They werekilled in a horrendous accident on Thanksgiving Eve. The mother, badly injured,survived. The funeral was today, and the church expected an overflow crowd. Izoomed from home. I did not know this family—I know the older generation by sightand reputation, had never heard of the branch of the family involved in theaccident. But I went because I know they are good people—it makes you think ofthe now-old book, When Bad Things Happen to Good People, by Harold Kushner.I went because even without knowing them I felt surrounded by grief, by theimpact of this tragedy on our community. As a now-retired minister once said tome when I asked about a tsunami, “Shit happens.” Faith helps us sort out thatshit, and that’s part of why I went today—call it curiosity. And finally, I wentbecause at my age I need reassurance about life and death. Like many people, Iam still trying to sort out my belief, even as I feel the time for doing thatis shortening. Was it John Donne who wrote, “But at my back I always hear/Time’swinged chariot hurrying near”? At the polar opposite of that thought is thefact that two children died in this accident, and our minister acknowledgedthat there is something particularly heartbreaking when we lose children withso much of their life ahead of them.

The service brought tears, nodoubt about it. I grieved for the brother who gave the eulogy and had an obviouslydifficult time getting through it, though he managed occasional bits of humor.And I grieved for the visiting minister, the father’s college roommate, whocontinually wiped his eyes as our minister spoke words of comfort. I grievedfor our minister, who had been close friends with this family and had lovingstories to tell about all three. I grieved for the surviving widow/mother, whosat in the front row, flanked by the two grandmothers and holding hands withthem.

The message of hope that ourminister delivered was that God is always with us, in good times and in tragedy—perhapsyou must be of my Protestant faith to accept that. But what I came away withtoday is that we must live with vitality, with a positive attitude. Grief doesn’tgo away. It is always there, waiting to overwhelm, to trip us up. I think thesame is true of doubt. But it is up to us to live past it and through it. Boththe brother who gave the eulogy and the minister talked about grief being with usevery day, if we let it in. It’s up to us to shut that gate.

What I’m trying to talk aboutin these meandering thoughts is the importance of a positive attitude. And that’swhat was reinforced for me today in the memorial service. I know it will be along time before that extended family can move through and beyond grief, but itis up to us to surround them with love and encourage them as they move forward.And it is up to us to live beyond and through our doubts and temporaryproblems. I am a big believer in the power of positive thinking. Who wrote thatbook? Norman Vincent Peale, of course.

I had other deep thoughtstoday, probably about rain or maybe about list-making, but somehow now, after aglass of wine and an offbeat but good dinner—smoked salmon, cream cheese, andsome frozen spanakopita—they don’t seem so dark to me. I have been making listsfor a couple of weeks—I am not one to let Christmas sneak up on me, and thisyear I will have my whole family around me. So you can tell lists are needed—food,gifts, things to do. Perhaps attending today’s service, which had sort ofloomed over me much of the week, reaffirmed my faith and freed me to move on toholiday planning. I hope it will help me too to remember the true nature of theholiday I celebrate as a Christian and not get lost in the lists and the giftsand the food.

How does the holiday seasonaffect you? Have you made lists? Have you looked at your darkest thoughts? It’sa tough time of the year, despite it being the season of hope and joy.

The virtues of Texas, some book news, and a new word for the day

 

Downtown Fort Worth, taken from a country road about twenty-two miles away.
Photo by Mason Scott 
Texas has been getting a badrap lately, thanks to Ken Paxton and his barbaric handling of the case of KateCox, the young Dallas mother of two who was pregnant with a fetus that wouldnot live and would endanger her future fertility and possibly her life. Paxtonruled that she had not shown sufficient evidence of danger to her life towarrant an abortion and threatened any hospitals and physicians who performedthe procedure. His horrific judgment, which he was in no way qualified to make,was backed up by the Texas Supreme Court. All this is known not only to mostTexans but across the country, where Texas is being scorned as the armpit ofthe world, a place most would never move, etc.

As someone whose whole careerhas revolved around the history and literature of Texas, I feel compelled tojump to my state’s defense. Yes, I’m a transplant, but I’ve lived here overfifty-five years and feel pretty much at home, have no desire to go elsewhere.The picture above shows just one fascinating aspect of the Texas landscape—theflat open space. But I thought it spoke of Texas as a special place. Texaspeople are friendly and good, the history is rich, the landscape varied andsometimes spectacular, and the food terrific, whether you want beans andbarbecue or a Michelin-rated upscale experience

We have several new high-endrestaurants in Fort Worth, from French to Italian to seafood, and yet we treasureour hole-in-the-wall places where you can get the best chicken-fried steak or chiliin the world. Our Stockyards National Historic District attracts tourists fromall over the world, and it’s not unusual to hear the babble of foreign voiceson the brick-paved streets.

What’s not to love aboutTexas? The politicians, and we’re working on that.

Kate Cox’s tragiccircumstances have held much of my attention in the last days, but today a newbookish threat grabbed my mind. It’s called review-bombing. A debut author,first book, a sci-fi novel, scheduled for release next spring, began leavingone-star reviews of competitors on Goodreads, Amazon’s book review web site.Not only did this author trash other debut others, particularly people ofcolor, but in each review, she praised her own forthcoming book. Dumb, dumber,and dumbest. What a giveaway. The guilty author was found out, of course, andher contract with Penguin/Random House cancelled. So her book will not becoming out in the spring. She did apologize, blaming it all on addiction andnow declaring she is sober. I’m not sure that’s enough.

Do you check reviews whenconsidering a book? If you do, I’d advise ignoring one-star reviews. They aremost often revenge-motivated or written by someone who has not read the book. Somepeople delight in being negative and destructive. My philosophy is that if Ican’t leave at least three stars, I simply don’t review. Why ruin an author’shopes? On Goodreads daily emails, I’ve noticed one author who gets on a run ofreading a particular author’s works—recently, it was Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfemysteries—but she almost never gives more than three stars. And I want toscream, “If you don’t like the books any better than that, quit reading them.Choose a new author. Quit damaging this author, though Rex Stout probably won’tsuffer much from his posthumous reviews.

Still I wish readers would bea bit more sensitive to the author’s feelings and reputations. If you like abook, say so on Amazon.com or Goodreads.com. A review doesn’t have to be longand deep. Two or three sentences that say, “I liked this book” will thrill mostauthors. And it doesn’t take that many positive reviews to boost an author’sratings. If you can’t find much good to say about it, leave it alone. Readerswill assess their own and reach their own ratings.

And my new word for the day:elitch, which means ghostly or weird. I read it in a review of a WWI noveltitled, The Warm Hands of Ghosts—a very favorable review, by the bye.But I thought it an odd word. It doesn’t even sound like an adjective.

Okay. Lesson over for the day!

Losing track of the individual

Mother and children
My oldest daughter, Megan, and her boys
Everyone and their brother hasvoiced an opinion about the appalling case of Dallasite Kate Cox, pregnant witha badly deformed fetus that will probably not survive the pregnancy and couldconceivably cause severe illness, infertility, and possible death for themother. I have tried in my nightly blog to stay away from hot-button politicalissues and to ruminate on other aspects of life, without sinking to boring accountsof my day. But tonight, I feel compelled to speak out about this case.

I have yet to hear an opinionthat supports Ken Paxton’s cruel challenge of the lower court order. It’sapparent that he, newly having scraped by an impeachment hearing, is gloryingin his newly affirmed power, appealing to what he thinks is his base (he mayhave misjudged that one), and perhaps inadvertently displaying contempt forwomen. Today’s Supreme Court decision denying permission for an abortion was asurprise to me, as I’m sure to many, and perhaps it’s too soon to hear nationalreaction. I am relieved to hear that Mrs. Cox will seek treatment outsideTexas, and I am hoping against hope that Paxton, relishing his iron sword, doesnot go after her or whoever drove her to the airport. That would add unthinkablecruelty to a situation that is already outrageous.

I did a bit of searching,spurred on by my indignation. To my surprise, three of the nine justices on theTexas Supreme Court are women. Perhaps it is old-fashioned thinking on my part,but I would have thought women would have more sympathy for Mrs. Cox as an individual, would understand the heartacheof a pregnancy gone bad, the fear of losing your fertility—and possibly yourlife, with two young children at home. But alas, the women either did not havethe compassion I expected or were not able to prevail over six white men. (Isay white, because I think that is part of the Texas problem—and maybe the U.S.—weare ruled by mostly old white men). Significantly I found no way for us tocontact these exalted beings to express our concern, so they are isolated intheir ivory tower, free to interpret the law however. They are all Republicans.

It seems to me Kate Cox islost in this whole mess, although she has been a vocal and sympathetic presence.Still in their rush to—what? Judgment? Discipline? Punishment? —neither KenPaxton nor apparently the justices considered Kate Cox as a living breathinghuman being, an individual who loves and hopes and grieves, who has twochildren at home undoubtedly affected by this trauma. Nope. They forged aheadfollowing a bizarre set of laws that most of us resent.

My question is what happenswhen the letter of the law clashes with the wellbeing of an individual? We allknow that if you hear of a thousand deaths in a bombing, it’s hard to wrap yourmind around the horror. But give us a close-up story of one individual, and itsuddenly all becomes real. To me, Kate Cox made this whole abortion mess seemup close and personal. I instantly decided I do not want any of my threegranddaughters to settle in Texas, much as I would love to have them all nextdoor to me.

In a way I see Kate Cox aspart of a bigger and most unfortunate trend in America. We have lost theindividual in a maze of laws and rules and restrictions. I had occasion todayto call my bank with a problem where I thought if they looked at the record,they would see that maybe they could bend their rules. I have been a customer/clientat this bank at least since the early eighties. I may not have a lot of money,but I have been steady, never bounced checks, kept a good balance in checking andsavings. When we remodeled the house and renovated the cottage, a personalbanker saw me through the process. But today when I called to ask forreasonable reconsideration of a banking decision, I was met with first arun-around, from one person to another, and ultimately someone who gave me alot of corporate-speak. I understand that banks have rigid rules, that theydepend on credit ratings, etc., but I thought they could take background andrecord into consideration. Not so.

And that’s what I see as aproblem in our society—rules dominate over individuals. I’m not asking for theday when a handshake was good for a deal, but I am saying not all cases orsituations fit into one rigid mold. Somewhere there has to be room for compassion,empathy, concern for the individual.

That’s what is missing fromthe Kate Cox case. I wish her Godspeed. May she have a successful abortion,come home (I wouldn’t be surprised if her family leaves Texas), and have as manymore healthy babies as she wants. Texas has done itself no favors in this case,but it has given us all something to think about.

Silence and simplicity

 

Such a lovely evening lastnight. I thought it would be colder than it was, so I made a pot of chili. Agood friend came to share it—plenty left over for tonight. She is the kind offriend who lets me dump about what’s on my mind, from personal problems I know won’ttravel any farther to the political thoughts—and outrage today about the Texasabortion case—that we both share. She brought the gorgeous poinsettia above. I’venever seen one like it and am particularly fascinated by the one white leafwith the red splotch in the middle.

But late last night, when allwas still, Sophie was asleep in her crate by my desk (her favorite place) and Icould hear her gently breathing, the Christmas lights still on, I sat with aglass of wine reading the Truman book that has me so interested. And I thoughtto myself it was one of life’s rare moments of real contentment.

I haven’t been writing lately,except blogs and business letters to take care of all kinds of loose financialends, but it occurred to me this morning that I was being lazy, and I reallyshould get back to the work-in-progress, another Irene episode. Just when I wasscolding myself for slacking off, I went to virtual church, and our minister,Russ Peterman, preached about silence and simplicity and how we get so franticat this holiday season that we miss the real meaning of whatever holiday wecelebrate. We need, he said, to create space in our lives to pause and take abreath, space for stillness. And I thought, “Wow! That’s what I’ve been doing.It’s okay.”

I had originally thought, whenI backed off from keeping a compulsive schedule, that I’d pick things back upafter the holidays. Now I’m back to that thought. My family will all betogether—between fifteen and eighteen of us—and there are things I need to do,lists I need to make. But there are also a world of things I want to read,including that Truman book, and now I feel at ease to do them. This morning Islept late, really late, and about the only thing I did that might be called constructivewas to make a batch of chutney, which is not turning out as it should.Otherwise, I’m reheating the chili and going to spend the evening with good oldHarry.

This may be the new me. But sofar, I’m liking it. Have you taken time to create a space in you life?

A history lesson—and an absorbing book

 

From time to time, someone onFacebook asks about everyone’s earliest memory of a public event. I am notquite old enough to remember Pearl Harbor, but I’ve been told about the momentmy family knew so often that I almost feel I remember. I would have been three,and I was playing on the kitchen floor while Mom worked in the kitchen. Dad, aveteran of WWI, stuck his head in the door and said, “We are at war.” It was amomentous thing, and my parents told the story over and over.

The first public memory I haveis of the death of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. We lived on a park, and I wasoutside playing, probably with neighbor children. I had been raised in ahousehold where FDR was a minor god, and I assumed everyone loved him as muchas my parents did. Not so. This day a woman jumped out of her car and shouted, “Hooray!Hooray! Roosevelt is dead.” I went home and told my mom, who said, “Don’t talklike that.” Soon enough, she found out it was true.

Now a book recommended by afriend is bringing back all those memories and more. The book is TheAccidental President: Harry S. Truman and the Four Months that Changed theWorld, by A. J. Baime. From the blurb to the book: “The first four months of Truman’s administration sawthe founding of the United Nations, the fall of Berlin, victory at Okinawa,firebombings in Tokyo, the first atomic explosion, the Nazi surrender, theliberation of concentration camps, the mass starvation in Europe, the PotsdamConference, the controversial decision to bomb Hiroshima and Nagasaki, thesurrender of imperial Japan, and finally, the end of World War II and the riseof the Cold War. No other president had ever faced so much in such a short periodof time.”

Trumanwas the most unlikely man—accidental is a good term—to deal with suchchallenges. Small, bespectacled, from a poor family, and until he was in histhirties and assumed a military command, a failure at almost everything hetried. The only thing he didn’t fail at was his courtship of Bess Wallace, andit took him years to convince her to marry him--and then more years before hefelt he could support her. Even then, he moved into her family’s home and livedunder the disapproving eye of his mother-in-law. He lost the first election hetried, but won later ones, and with the help of Kansas City political boss TomPrendergast, found himself vice-president of the United States.

Rooseveltalmost didn’t know who he was, never involved him in the policies and problemsof government. He had little to do, as vice president, besides preside overSenate meetings. All that changed on April 12, 1945, when FDR died. It was asudden death but should not have been a surprise—the president had been in failinghealth for some time.

ForTruman it all happened in a whirl—the call to the White House, the swearing in,and then he went back to the modest apartment he shared with his wife anddaughter, Margaret (he called her Margie, with a hard “g”). The telling of allthis is full of names that now I remember, whether from the actual time or fromthe history books-- Alben Barkley, Dwight Eisenhower as a general and not a president,General George C. Marshall, Frances Perkins, the labor secretary and firstfemale member of the Cabinet, Generals Omar Bradley and George Patton. And itfills in m knowledge of those crucial days—the apparent collapse of the Nazi regime,the discovery of the first concentration camp, the conference between Stalin,Churchill, and FDR at Yalta.

Thereis one object lesson here that I wish today’s Republicans could take to heartas they resist funding Ukraine in its efforts to stop Russia from greedilyabsorbing more and more territory, as it has done with Crimea. After theagreement at Yalta, Stalin backtracked on all that he had promised, such asaccess for international troops to Poland and other Russian-occupiedterritories. Russia could not be trusted then, and it cannot be trusted today.

HistorianHeather Cox Richardson writes an amazing daily column, “Letters from anAmerican,” in which she uses history to help readers understand today’s world, withall its conflicts, and the importance of our democracy. Her work is a livingembodiment of the familiar caution that he who does not know history is doomedto repeat its mistakes. Another reason to fear the rampant censorship of whatis taught in our schools today. Baime, in this book, also uses history to helpus understand leadership and international relations—and, yes, that endangered conceptknown as democracy. And he gives us an intimate portrait of a period in thelife and presidency of a man some have named among our greatest presidents andothers among our worst. You read it and decide.

A silly dog dream, a couple of politic laughs, and a nice happy hour

 

This morning, Sophie woke withthe devil in her. She wanted to run and bark at squirrels and generally be outof control. A little after seven, I fed her, let her out, had to call her nameand offer “Cheese!” several times before she came back in. But she did, and Iwent back to bed. That was my valued time for an hour of “second sleep.”Usually it works; this morning it did not. I barely got scrunched down in thecovers, all comfy and warm, when she began that little dance by my bed,clicking her nails on the hardwood floor. I explained gently; didn’t work. Sothen I got a bit more stern; still made no impression. Finally—I am ashamed toadmit this—I yelled at her. She went to her crate, and I was left with guilt—whatif she really needed to pee or there was some compelling reason for her to beoutside? 

I have heard and read thatdogs abandoned in shelters cry, great tears running down their faces. So when Iwent back to sleep, I dreamt that Sophie was not just crying, but lying on thefloor sobbing. Like a two-year-old when Mom has hurt the feelings. And then Iwas on the floor, holding her, reassuring her that I loved her, and so on.About that time, she came happily bouncing up to the bed and began her littledance again. We’ve had a frosty relationship all day, though I think it’sbeginning to mend. Dogs do not forget, but then, neither do I.

Most mornings, I am dismayedby the news, these days particularly the genocide taking place in Gaza. But theRepublicans, bless their hearts, are always good for a bit of a laugh, even ifit is a bitter one. Texas’ impeached AG, Ken Paxton, has sued Pfizer formisleading the public about their COVID vaccine. His complaint: It didn’t endthe pandemic as quickly as they promised it would. Even I can see the hole inthis argument: wasn’t it Paxton and his good pal, the guv, who loosenedrestrictions on masks and vaccination requirements. Of course, the pandemicdidn’t end. And it may well come again, since there is now a state law thatbusinesses cannot require masks and vaccinations.

And then there’s MarjorieTaylor Greene, who is complaining about low unemployment in the country. What?Low unemployment is one of the signature accomplishments of the Bidenadministration as it avoided a recession. It’s a good thing. People are back atwork after the pandemic. That’s democracy functioning as it should. Yes, it’sharder for employers to find good help, because not everyone is desperate for ajob these days. But Greene, in her own benighted way, knows what the problemis: not enough women are spitting out enough babies to fill those jobs. Nevermind that there’s at least an eighteen-year gap before those babies could fillthe jobs. Or that Republican reproductive restrictions have made the idea ofpregnancy scary for most women. Or that just maybe population growth is one ofthe world’s major problems. Greene marches to a drummer the rest of us hopenever to hear.

Finally there’s the Floridacouple, he the GOP chairman for the state and she, a co-founder of theextremist Moms for Liberty who fight against LGBTQ and sexual content of anykind in schools. They ban books with abandonment. Except, oops, on the side,out of sight, they have engaged in a little menage a trois activity, and he hasnow been accused of rape. Yep, those, good, upright, morally responsibleRepublicans. Maybe we should just assume everyone has their little peccadilloes?I don’t think so.

Nice happy hour tonight with arelatively new friend. We talked about publishing and the Texas Book Festivaland book people we know in Texas—and the state of the world. Then Jordan and Imade a supper of Hassebrock kielbasa and green bean casserole. A lovely,relaxing evening. And I think I’m beginning to get a handle on Christmas. TodayI got the new Discover card I needed after my account was closed because ofpossible fraud. I am still bothered by that and want to be assured that iStockreally understands I am cancelling a $700 contract I had no idea I signed. Butat least I can finish my online shopping. And then there’s the text telling meI have a ticket on the North Tollway Express—since I haven’t driven in overthree years, that’s a bit impossible. I think the text is phishing, butChristian has promised to help me sort it out. I hate loose ends, unsolvedproblems.

Still, this is the season of greatgood will and lots of hope. I hope you feel that.

 

Life with a walker

 

Me in my purple walker, with a doggy friend
A silly instance with mywalker tonight got me to thinking about life with a walker. I was sitting onthe bed changing into pajamas, had one leg into the pajama bottoms when Irealized the other leg was entangled with the wheel of the walker, which wassitting in front of me. For a moment, I was puzzled--how could it possibly havewrapped itself around the wheel? Then I realized it would be a whole lot easierto deal with the situation if I were not attached to the pajamas. So I pulledmy leg out, lifted the walker a bit, and unwound the pants. But it reminded meof another instance recently—my transport chair, a much heavier thing thatrefuses to stand on its own when collapsed, lives at the foot of my bed, proppedagainst the high footboard of the antique bed. I went to put something on the dresser,and somehow the wheels of the two walkers were entangled, and the transportchair came crashing down. For a moment I was trapped, couldn’t move, and had afleeting thought of panic. But my cooler head—executive mind as one counselorcalls it—prevailed. I sat in a chair that was right there, untangled thewheels, and was free. When Jordan came out, I asked her to right the transportchair. A physical therapist once told me never to go anywhere, even in mycottage, without my cell phone—and I didn’t have it either of those times.Lesson reinforced

I’ve been using a walker forseven years now, ever since my hip revision (not replacement—there’s adifference). I call it my chariot, which dismays Jordan. But I sort of feelthat way. The walker gives me confidence that I never had before. All my life I’vehad poor balance—my mother bemoaned the fact that she’d never given me balletlessons, but I don’t think it would have made a difference. If you believe inagoraphobia (fear of open spaces), you might agree that’s what I have. I havealways been terrified by heights, had difficulty with stairs, walked around theedge of a parking lot rather than cutting across it. I read somewhere thatpeople who are afraid of height need something to hold on to—and that’s me, forsure. I was always grateful for a good railing on a staircase. And now, thewalker gives me something to hold on to. My doctor never uses the word agoraphobiabut says I am wired differently than most people.

Oh, sure. There are things Iwant to do that are difficult to impractical with the walker, and I havelearned to adjust to that. And sometimes I dream that I am walking asconfidently as I did in my twenties. But for the most part, I am grateful forthe walker. My surgeons says never to say I can’t walk but always to say I canwalk with assistance. Too often I encounter people who really need assistanceand stubbornly let their pride get in the way. Makes me almost angry. So foolish.What I know, as a survivor of too many falls, is that my hip would not havebeen such a severe case had I not fallen so often (the surgeon had never seen onelike it and had to study to decide on his technique—I don’t mean to sound likethose people who brag about how rare their condition is, but that’s whathappened). In seven years since I’ve had the walker, I’ve fallen once, and thatwas because I fell asleep on the commode in the middle of the night and did aface plant on the bathroom floor.

At one point I had enoughdisability devices that I threatened to open my own store. Over time, I’vegotten that down to three things—the four-wheeled walker I use daily in thecottage, an extra which is still in a friend’s storage unit, and the transportchair I use almost every time I leave the cottage. I guess I’ve become a pro atdisability which is bittersweet. But I don’t think the walker has slowed downmy appreciation for life or my enjoyment of it. It is a pain for family andfriends to pack up the transport chair (it is so wonderful but so unwieldy),but I find most are willing. And I find people in general are anxious to behelpful, to hold a door, to stand back and let you pass. Being “disabled” (I don’tlike that word) gives you a whole new perspective on life.

So the next time you have afriend who stubbornly refuses to use a cane or a walker, send them my way. Why,I even got my brother to use a walker! A major accomplishment.

My thoughts on caviar--yes, caviar!

 

My caviar appetizer
For a long time now, I’ve beenwanting to do appetizers with caviar—no, not just because it’s ritzy and soundssophisticated. I genuinely like it. The New York Times occasionally hasrecipes for dishes with caviar, like a caviar and cream cheese sandwich. I don’tknow—that might be a bit much. I think caviar does best as an accent on a dish.But it’s expensive, even the cheap stuff—and my palate doesn’t know any better.But tonight, we were celebrating Subie’s birthday, so I tried something I’vebeen wanting to: potato chips with seasoned sour cream and a dab of caviar. Ihave to confess, that was my supper. I ate a lot more than anyone else, and myhonest assessment is that the flavors go together to well. The salty caviar isbalanced by the sour cream and the whole things tops a potato chip almostperfectly. Almost.

I laboriously sat in Jordan’skitchen, spooning sour cream onto potato chips— “Only unbroken ones,” shecautioned me, so I told Christian he could eat all the broken ones. I used mymarrow spoon for that—another sign of my supreme sophistication. I mean,really, how many people do you know who own a marrow spoon? For that matter,how many people do you know who will eat bone marrow? Back to the caviar: thewide end of the spoon worked well for the sour cream, and I switched to thetiny narrow end for the caviar. Now, I have never been known for steady hands,and age has brought a slight tremor. So, I used my “good” right hand—still, whatI intended as a neat small dollop of caviar ended up as a spray on the chip.And some ended on the counter—Christian scooped it up with a sponge, which Iconsidered a great waste. Someone with steadier hands could have made it look alot prettier. And the recipe said for the holiday season to use red salmon roe.That’s about twice as expensive as the low-grade black—I got black. Sometime I’dlike to taste really good caviar, just to see if I could tell the difference.

A marrow spoon

Subie and I loved the chips. I don’tthink Phil voiced an opinion, and I know Christian, who can sometimes thesedays be adventurous, was not so tonight and didn’t taste them. To my surprise,Jordan must have tried one, because she voiced what I had found: when you putthe sour cream on the chip twenty or thirty minutes before serving, the chipgets soggy, at least in the middle where the sour cream is. The ideal would besomehow to make it self-serve, with small pots of sour cream and caviar. I have some left over, anda friend who probably doesn’t mind leftovers is coming one night soon. I’llexperiment with technique. And I guess I’ll use the marrow spoon again.

Writing this has made me think ofmy caviar memories. I did not grow up eating it. I think my introduction came the night my parents took my newhusband and me to the Kungsholm in Chicago, over fifty years ago now. The Kungsholmwas one of my favorite restaurants—a true Swedish smorgasbord, generous withsuch wonders as caviar and smoked salmon and marinated herring and all thosethings I love. After dinner, guests were invited to a puppet theater whereminiature operas were performed. The puppets were on automated tracks, and I’mnot sure how they did the sound, but it was glorious. If you ask me how I knowabout Dr. Faustus, I’ll say the Kungsholm. Unfortunately, the restaurant closed years ago.

But I have to be honest here: myparents were not exactly thrilled about my marriage to a Jewish boy from theBronx, one who had never been taught much about manners and society and all thethings that made my dad’s professional world go around. In Joel’s defense, he madecorrecting that a big project and quickly learned from Dad everything fromtable manners to gardening. But that night at the Kungsholm, he was delightedto have caviar. He kept going back for more until my mother said quite aloud, “I’venever seen anyone eat so much caviar.” Joel’s family were eastern Europeanimmigrants and poor, so I don’t know how much caviar he had as a child. But hehad similar foods, such as the herring and a marinated eggplant salad, etc.Anyway, that night is one of my fonder memories of him.

For over forty years, I threw ahuge Christmas party, inviting sometimes a hundred of my nearest and dearest.It started small in the sixties and kept growing, at first with Joel but afterhe left, I kept up the tradition, with new friends. And one of the dishes Iaways served had a seasoned cream cheese base with caviar, chopped onion, andchopped egg spread over it. Gosh, how I loved that. Today I don’t know if I caneven find the recipe—and I certainly have no occasion for a spread that big. ButI’d love to make it again.

I often talk about this last stageof life (the Third Stage, if you will) being filled with treasured memories.Tonight reminds me that caviar is one of those memories. And I’m not going togive it up. There’s more potato chips, sour cream, and caviar in my future. Yours?

Lazy Sunday—and a PS on aging

 

“And on the seventh day, Godrested.” I took full advantage today of God’s designation of Sunday as a day ofrest. For some reason last night I couldn’t get to sleep—almost never a problemfor me. So this morning I felt justified in sleeping a bit past nine o’clock.But if I thought I slept late, the Burtons outdid me—except for Jacob who was upand out the door about ten to go host at Joe T.’s. It was well after elevenbefore I heard a peep out of his parents, which meant Sophie did not get hershot this morning. The vet said it’s okay to miss once in a while but don’t doit too often. So this was once in a while.

That start to the day threw mywhole schedule off. I had intended to cook this morning, but I needed somedishes from the house—and some bourbon. So I did an extraordinary thing: I cancelledSunday dinner. I was going to make sheet pan chicken with potatoes and carrots,but I knew the Burtons had big dinners (they went to two separate dinnerparties) last night and were out late, and I had a vision of fixing that onlyto hear, “I’m not really hungry.” Plus I wanted to do the cooking that I hadn’tdone in the morning. I was making two appetizers for a celebration happy hour tomorrownight, and once I decide when something is to be done, I am a bit compulsiveabout it. I wanted to cook today, so that I could work at my desk tomorrow. Besides,Zenaida will be here cleaning, and I can’t cook when she’s here—the cottagejust isn’t big enough. I hide at my desk while she cleans.

Last night Jean came forsupper, and I splurged. I had intended to make tuna casserole—I have a standardrecipe I’ve used for years but somewhere found a new one I thought I’d try. WhenCentral Market had halibut on sale, they hooked me. I fixed roast halibut withcrumb topping and creamed spinach—Jean liked it so well she insisted we splitthe tiny bit left in the pans. And I agree—it was a really good dinner. Topped offby chocolate bonbons.

I need to add a PS to mythoughts on aging, posted in this blog last night. Not that I want to talkabout me and my health a lot, but I have several chronic conditions—A Fib,hypertension, and chronic kidney disease, once advanced but now moderate. Plus Icannot walk without assistance. But I am determined not to let those conditionsdominate my life. I will not go to the doctor constantly to have my bloodlevels checked, my heart studied on an echocardiogram, and so on. I godutifully when scheduled, and, praise be, I get a clean bill of health on thosevisits. But those conditions are not front and center in my daily thoughts. Infact, I rarely think about them. I feel healthy, pretty energetic, and I amdetermined to live life as normally as I can for as long as I can.

I did talk to my brothertonight, for whom health is more of a problem. He’s pretty much bedridden—weak asa kitten as he tells it. When I had hip surgery, someone convinced my childrenI would need an electric wheelchair and should get it with Medicare aid while Icould. It sat as a great obstacle in my closet for several years, but about sixmonths ago we got it transferred to John at the ranch, and he gets up to sit init for a while most days. Today we had a great conversation with lots oflaughter, and I thought how wonderful it is that he, in his condition, has anintact sense of humor.

And then I realized again: it’sbecause of our mother. She taught us to be tough doctors’ children, never tocry “Wolf,” to soldier through whatever happens, to pay attention to our healthbut never take it too seriously. And until dementia took her mind, she had amarvelous sense of humor. My dad’s family, by contrast, went into a panic if hesneezed, and I think she was trying to counterbalance that. Bless you andthanks, Mom.

It all comes back to positivethinking, at least in my mind. Sweet dreams and positive thoughts to each ofyou!

Some thoughts on aging

 

Me and my big brother.
Both of us aging pretty well. Suppose it's the genes? 

This morning a friend of mineposted in her blog about what some experts are calling the Third Age of life—thatperiod after the kids are grown and gone and retirement has either come or islooming. Men and women are living longer now than they did fifty years ago. Theaverage life span is seventy-four for men and seventy-nine for woman in the UnitedStates. That’s up a lot over, say 1950, when it was sixty-eight for men, butthe figures dropped during Covid and still have not completely recovered.Still, Americans need to think about their plans for this new Third Age.Instead of seeing it as a time of declining powers, we have to approach thoseempty years with enthusiasm and a will to fill them with new activities. TheThird Age is a time for fulfillment of all that has gone before in anindividual life.

That whole concept struck mebecause it reinforced some things I think—like opportunities for growth in theThird Age. Retired now for twelve years, I have continued to write, although I’mnot sure I’d say I’ve done my best writing during this period. Pretty much, Ithink I approach my life now with enthusiasm and greet each day waiting for theopportunities it will bring. But I also think I’m a mixed bag of thoughts. Somedays, when I can’t do something or feel it isn’t working right---all writershave those days!—I think to myself, “It’s okay. You’re eighty-five. Cutyourself some slack.” I suspect that’s not a helpful—or healthy—attitude. I amthinking here of mental rather than actual physical health. Giving myself apass on a mental or intellectual problem because of my age is not okay—it’sjust a way to accelerate aging.

The Third Age is a time offreedom—free, mostly we hope, from the financial strain of raising andeducating children, perhaps from the mortgage for a too-big suburban house, fromthe pressure to succeed. For me, that means I’m free to fall down a lot ofrabbit holes—if something irrelevant to anything I’m doing interests me, I canfollow up on it. IF I read something about a historical incident I never knewbefore, I can do some online investigating; if a Ruth Reichl column inspiresme, I can look at the historical recipes she references. It’s sort of a will o’the wisp approach, but ten years ago I’d have scolded myself for wasting time.Not now. Every new fact I learn, every new thing that interests me keeps mybrain functioning.

Of course there are somethings I cannot do these days that ten years ago I could—walk withoutassistance, reach things above the first shelf on a kitchen cabinet, twist offsome jar and bottle caps, etc. It’s legitimate for me to ask for help on thosethings because I cannot physically do them—a weird hip replacement and tornrotator cuffs on both shoulders limit me. But I also tend to throw my hands upin the air at the slightest financial problem and refer it to my son before Itry to figure it out myself. Not cool. I need to watch daily that I do not letmy mind slip into laziness.

I know a lot of the elderly(yes, that’s me) focus on their health. Have you ever listened to old folkschat? Way too much of it is about symptoms and health problems, imagined orreal, limitations, and—yes, great sighs over what they cannot do. I haveavoided that by going to the other extreme and ignoring minor problems whichturned into major ones that I should have paid attention to (why I’m on awalker). I am, to my discredit, the opposite of the little boy who cried “Wolf!”too often. But I do not want to live the last trimester of my life spending mydays in one doctor’s office after another. I have a sort of innocent healththeory—if certain signs are okay, if my nails and hair are growing and I amregular, I figure my body is functioning, and I can pretty much ignore othersmall symptoms. Yes, I do all the preventive things—skin check, mammogram,cardiologist once a year, nephrologist once a year, etc. But child ofosteopathic medicine that I am, I prefer to think in terms of health ratherthan illness. On a wellness scale of one to ten, with ten being the highest, Iwould put myself at a seven because that’s the way I feel. My doctor mightdisagree, but that’s okay.

I think aging, like a lot ofother things, depends on that now-hackneyed phrase: positive thinking. If yougo into that Third Age with enthusiasm for what you can do rather than regretsabout what you can’t, with a determination to be as healthy as the good Lordpermits, with joy in the moment rather than regret for the past, the Third Agecan be a wonderful experience. In many ways, I am more content now than I haveever been in my life. I’ve known mountain peaks of happiness and passion,valleys of despair, the joy of young children, the satisfaction of professionalaccomplishment—and now those are all memories I treasure. But they are not thestuff of my daily life. And that’s okay. I’m eighty-five, alive and healthy andinvolved in life.