Judy Alter's Blog, page 13

The scary world of doing business online

 

Sophie needs to learn to brush her teeth.
This morning the sun wasshining, and all seemed brighter with the world than yesterday when I woke to adull, gray day. And the day proceeded to live up to that description. First Igot five puzzling emails from DIL Lisa, though I finally figured out that shewas giving me the Christmas hints I had asked for. Trouble was, I already hadher gift ordered. But that was a minor bump in the road compared to what camenext—an email thanking me for signing up for a $700 contract with iStock, with thefirst payment of $75.78 charged to my Discover card. And sure enough, therethat charge was, dated yesterday. Yikes ! At Christmas when I’m trying to live economicallyin light of holiday expenses and taxes.

I panicked and calledDiscover, swearing I’d never signed up for such (this is going to be a lessonin reading the fine print). I bounced from one customer service rep to anotheruntil I was finally directed to the fraud division—now that sounded awfully seriousto me. But the lady talked me through it—and the most direct result was that myDiscover account was closed and a new account opened, with the new card due inthe mail sometime next week. That means I can’t order gifts, etc., online untilI get the new card. Of course, immediately I got a notice from our localnewspaper that they couldn’t access my payment information and did I need toupdate my account. I began a list of accounts that will need updating when Iget the new card. Tonight I realized I can’t even order groceries—so had to borrowa Burton credit card, because Colin has scared me about using my debit cardonline, even with a company I trust like Central Market.

Meantime, back to yesterdaymorning—something was nagging at me, a thought that I’d done something wrong.So I called Colin, my solution to all financial problems. Methodical personthat he is, he had me forward the emails to him. Then he explored online,called me and made a joint call to Getty, which owns iStock. First time we gotsome medical solutions groups which really sounded like a phishing operation.Colin insisted we try one more time, and this time we got a Getty representativewho looked at records, said I had signed up for a free trial whichautomatically became a contract if not cancelled—but they never warned me itwas time to cancel, which I think is fraud in itself. I had, after callingDiscover, written Getty to protest I had never signed a contract and request arefund of what they had billed me for (It was still pending, so I doubt it wentthrough). Someone in their outfit had acknowledged my email, though I’m stillwaiting for action. The rep assured me I would hear, and cancellation is noproblem. I’m still waiting, and meantime I’m really hampered without a creditcard since I do so much shopping online. Sheer frustration.

To top the day off, I got atext from the North Texas Tollway folks, saying I had a ticket and had instructionsfor entering my license number and something else. I am by now so leery that Ididn’t know if this was phishing or if Jordan or Christian had possibly drivenmy VW on the tollway. Christian said that might have happened and he’d checktheir bills—though how would they have a bill if it’s in my name? Anyway I haveheard no more about that either, and despite his advice to ignore and not letit worry me, I do worry.

To me, it’s sad that at thisseason of love and hope, most of us worry about finances. I have for years paidquarterly income taxes (I’m not sure why, but some accountant way back set itup that way), so I have a bill in January, right after Christmas. And propertytaxes are due in January, plus our lawn people have advised me I truly need toget a professional arborist to trim my trees. And Sophie’s teeth need cleaning.It all hits in December.

Today, thank goodness, I havemy groove back, and the world doesn’t look so grim to me. It’s amazing whatsunny weather can do for you—and maybe a good night’s sleep. But I learned somelessons yesterday, mostly about reading the fine print and being carefulonline. I have always thought I was careful, but now I know it wasn’t enough. Iknow I’m impatient and sometimes I zip through emails when I should stop andread carefully. MY day yesterday is also a demonstration of how easy it is forthe unwary to get into tangled and ultimately disastrous financial situations.I am fortunate, as a single, elderly person, that I have my son to protect me.Not all are as lucky.

I tell you all this as an objectlesson. And also to get it out of my brain.

An old Fort Worth scandal revisited

Downtown Fort Worth, 1940
A city with a high-dollar underside
In 1940, Dial Press published a novel titled The Inheritors,written by James Young Phillips under the pseudonym of Phillip Atlee. Thestory had echoes of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, a tale ofthe daily life of over-privileged, over-indulged young men of the country clubset as they drank, chasing women, and openly scorning the capitalistic, empty lifestylethey were about to inherit. Trouble was, it is a thinly veiled picture of FortWorth and, as one reviewer claims, the River Crest Country Club crowd.

The main character is George Bellamy Jimble, III,supposedly based on Phillips himself. Phillips came from one of the staid,moneyed families who lived in a mansion by one of River Crest’s golf greens. Hisfather, Edwin Sr., made a good living as a lawyer, housed his family in thatmansion, and belonged, of course, to the country club. But he died just beforeBlack Friday, and his widow lost their fortune in the crash of 1929. She wentto work for the school district, but James and his brothers were forced into adifficult situation where they had little money and yet tried to keep up withthe lifestyle of their neighbors. It was apparently enough to jade the youngman about what was called the “dollar aristocracy” of Fort Worth—mostly the bigoil money.

Fort Worth high society erupted in indignation at the book—andtook their revenge, buying up every available copy of the book. By the time Iwas at TCU Press, few had ever heard of it. Cissy Stewart Lale, the indomitablesociety editor of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, told me I should read itand the press should reprint it. That never came about, but I had someinteresting correspondence with a brother of Phillips, who was deceased bythen. If I remember right, the brother was Olcutt Phillips or somethingsimilar. By then, you could hardly find a copy of the book—I think Cissy loanedme hers. I read it and wasn’t that impressed, but then I was not of the societybeing pilloried in it. I simply found all that debauchery pointless. Today, theFort Worth Public Library and TCU’s Special Collections hold copies which mayonly be read on site. I’m sure there are probably a few copies squirreled awayin some Fort Worth attics, but it is hard to find.

Phillips always claimed Fort Worth ruined his buddingwriting career, and, indeed, his career never achieved what might be seen as thepromise of that first book. He served in the Air Force in the war, lived inMexico, Burma, and the Canary Islands, did some work in Hollywood, died in 1991in Corpus Christi, and remained forever bitter about Fort Worth.

In a way, the book fared better than its author. It isincluded in selections of the best books about Texas and Fort Worth: GeorgeSessions Perry’s Roundup Time: A Collection of Southwestern Writers, A.C. Greene’s Fifty Best TexasBooks, Literary Fort Worth, thecollection that James Ward Lee and I put together.

FortWorth author E. R. Bills knows a lot more about Phllips/Atlee than I do. Indeedmuch of the above is taken from an article he wrote for Fort Worth Weekly. He points out that The Inheritors had a long tail, reachinginto many aspects of Fort Worth life, citing the Cullen Davis shootings and theLegion of Doom from Paschal High School as evidence that the aristocracycontinues. There’s much more to the story behind The Inheritors and its effect on Fort Worththan I have sketched here.

Saturday,December 2, you have a chance to hear Bills talk about the book, its author,and its city. Bills will present a program, cosponsored by the Fort WorthPublic Library and the Center for Texas Studies at TCU, at 10:30 at the SouthwestRegional Library. For more information, contact Linda Barrett (linda.barrett@fortworthtexas.gov). Seating is limited and on a first-come basis. The programwill also be available on Zoom, and Linda can give you instructions forregistering for that.

There’s a postscript to this story. In1984 a novel titled Lords of the Earth, by Patrick Anderson, has almostthe same effect. It too revealed the underside of Fort Worth’s moneyedcommunity. Heiress and artist Electra Waggoner Biggs called me late one nightto rant about “that awful book.” It seems that Fort Worth never will run out ofstories to be told—and scorned. I’m going to be glued to my computer Saturdayto hear what Mr. Bills says.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas

 

My cottage is now cozy with softChristmas lights. Jordan has done an amazing job of decorating with all my favoritethings—the tree (okay it’s fake, and I don’t love that, but I bow toconvenience). The fake tree is redeemed by Scottish ornaments sent by dear friendsin Omaha. And Santa Mac—a very Scottish Santa complete with bagpipes, gift fromJeannie Chaffee—dominates the coffee table. On the bookcase is a lighted glassblock given to me years ago by a friend of Christian. It sits next to the JimShores Kris Kringle I bought myself as a treat when my friend Linda carried JimShores works in her store in Granbury. Like the cottage as a whole, each piecehas a meaningful story. Santa Mac

What I love most is theoverall effect—the sometimes-harsh ceiling lights stay off, and the Christmaslights, including the electric candles Jean gave me, give a soft glow to thewhole living area. It’s a cozy cottage look. And on my desk is the small fauxfireplace Jamie gave me. For safety’s sake, we have it turned so that it givesalmost no heat, but the flames inspire warmth.

I am all set for the season.

Jim Shores Santa

I didn’t feel so Christmas-ythis morning, however. I usually get up about seven, feed Sophie her firstbreakfast and let her out. By now, she knows I have a piece of cheese waitingfor her, so she doesn’t stay long. Once she’s safely back in the cottage, I goback to bed for my second sleep. Well, this morning I totally missed my secondsleep because I had to get ready for a nine o’clock dental appointment.

I won’t say I’m a dentalphobic—although my dentist might say that. But as a young teen, around twelve,I had to have extensive dental work, and back then, in the Dark Ages, it wasnot as smooth, fast, and painless as it is today. The drill was clumsy andslow, the noise in my ears horrible. Our dentist was a non-relative uncle, aman I greatly appreciated when I was grown but who terrified me as a kid. Tosay he was taciturn is an understatement. So I had a bad introduction to dentistry.My desktop fireplace
not on my desktop here but you get the idea

I have been with the samedentist now for fifteen years, and what I have learned about caring for myteeth is amazing. I wish I’d known all this years ago. Even in fifteen years,it’s been interesting to watch the developments in dentistry—tiny cameras thatget way back in your mouth, video screens that display an x-ray as soon as it’staken, a computer program so complicated I couldn’t begin to master it. I dohave a standing deal with my hygienist that if I continue to take such goodcare of my teeth, she will not use the hydroelectric thing to clean off stains.It wakens every old memory I have.

So cheers to Dr. Peter Ku andto my hygienist, Stephanie.  Got a cleanbill of health along with some cautions about being proactive. And that’s overbut only for another three months!

Going to the dentist pretty muchshoots the day for me—it’s not so much the time it takes (maybe two hours outof the cottage) as the disruption in routine. But tonight Mary came for happyhour and brought some cranberry relish she’d made—we put it over cream cheese,and it was delicious. Then I fixed Mongolian hamburger and snow peas for dinner—Jordangot busy on a work call, so Christian and I had dinner and a lovely discussionthat covered everything from Hunter Biden and Donald trump to Dante’s TheInferno and Milton’s Paradise Lost. I am really delighted to havesomeone to have such discussions with. Besides, he washed the dishes.

Life is really good.

Marshall Field and Company

 

The iconic clock on the Marshall Field & Co. flagship store
Corner of State Street and Washington Street, Chicago
Sandwiches for supper turnedinto a trip down memory lane for me. It wasn’t just any sandwich—it was aclassic Marshall Field Turkey Sandwich that actually resembles “classic”sandwiches served in many places. I remember having something similar atColonial Country Club in Fort Worth. An open-faced sandwich with rye topped byturkey, Swiss cheese, and Thousand Island dressing and decorated with tomato,sliced egg, bacon and olive—shh! don’t tell Christian because I didn’t offerhim an olive, which he loves.

Anyway, the sandwich startedme thinking about my many ties and trips to the flagship Marshall Field store indowntown Chicago. Those excursions started when I was very young. My father, anosteopathic physician, had an office on the seventeenth floor of the MarshallField Annex, and Mom would end shopping trips by taking me to the bargain basement where, hidden away in acorner, was a snack bar that far as I can remember only served hot dogs andfrozen malts. I loved it. Then, nearby, was a secret door (I just thought it wasa secret—it really wasn’t) that opened to a staircase. Go up one floor andthrough the door and, like magic, we were in the lobby of the annex without havingto go out of the building and cross the downtown street. We’d take the elevatorto the seventeenth floor. That was in the day when there was a white-gloved,uniformed operator in every elevator.

By the time I was old enoughto be turned loose in the store, I knew every inch of every floor.  I could take you to household goods or teenclothes. I knew we came in by the glove counter, and on that pillared first floorwere the hosiery and jewelry counters. On the sixth floor you could choose fromseveral restaurants. The Walnut Room, a bit staid and dignified, was the maindining area, but Mom and I always liked The Verandah, decorated as though it werepart of a southern mansion. In fact, I bet I had the classic sandwich there.And I know at least once, when Mom was nowhere around, my friend Eleanor Leeand I rode up the down escalator and down the up, to the consternation of storeemployees no doubt. Today I’m uncertain of my footing on escalators and avoidthem when I can, so I look back on that adventure with awe.

Eventually I could go downtownby myself, riding the IC or Illinois Central commuter train. And mostly I wentto Marshall Field’s though I did give a bit of business to rival Carson, Pirie& Scott just a block down State Street. I remember once paying twentydollars for a blouse and thinking I was terribly extravagant. By then, Dad hadclosed his downtown office and was full time president of the Chicago Collegeof Osteopathy and administrator of the adjacent hospital, so I had no downtownrefuge.

The last time I was at Field’swas in the nineties, when I visited with a Texas friend who had grown up in anorthwest Chicago suburb. We had lunch in the Walnut Room, and it was a bitshabby. We both felt the magic we remembered from our childhood was gone. Butmy connection to Field’s doesn’t end there.

I can’t remember which camefirst—the book I read or the one I wrote. The one I read was What the Lady Wants:A Novel of Marshall Field and the Gilded Age, by Renée Rosen, which perhapsinspired both the title and subject of my The Gilded Cage: A Novel of Chicago.My novel focused on Bertha (Cissy) Palmer, wife of hotelier Potter Palmerwho built the Palmer House. Marshall Field played a large part in that story,for he and Potter Palmer were prominent among Chicago’s Robber Barons, alongwith Gustavus Swift, Philip Armour, George Pullman and others. Cissy Palmerinterested me because she was the first (or one of them) woman philanthropistand most probably the first marred to a Robber Baron. The fictionalized versionof her life covers Chicago history from the 1840s through the 1893 Columbian Exposition,including the Great Fire, labor troubles, the Civil War, and the Haymarket Riot.You can read a bit more about Cissy and her world here: TheGilded Cage: A Novel of Chicago - Kindle edition by Alter, Judy. Literature& Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com. (That’s called blatant selfpromoton or BSP.)

Last night, Christian likedthe Marshall Field sandwich so much he voted to keep it on the rotation ofdishes we frequently have. I agreed, because not only did I like it, it broughtback happy memories. There has never been another store like Field’s—not even NeimanMarcus—and I miss it. At least you can still get their much-praised Frango Mintsonline.

 

That fleeting moment of tranquility

 

Sunset at the lake in Tomball

When I was young, I had afavorite spot in the Indiana dunes where I would go in the early evening towatch the sun go down. It was a pathway, halfway up the high dune where ourcottage was on the ridge at the top. I could sit, accompanied by my wild colliemix named Timmy, and stare at the lake, smell the dune grass (and perhaps chewon a blade) and listen to the water either lap gently on the shore or crash,depending on the mood of Lake Michigan. I love the lake in all its moods, but Iused to be fascinated by the whitecaps when it was roiled up. I was in awe ofthe power in that mighty body of water.

If I looked at an angle to theleft, I could see the buildings of Chicago, looking like tiny sticks. Sometimesthe sun was a crimson ball outlining those little black sticks. It was a momentof tranquility. Of course, at eight or ten I was too young to know I neededmoments of tranquility, but late in life I often went back to that spot in mymind when life seemed to press on me.

Around the heater at the lakeIn recent years, I’ve foundanother spot—on the edge of the tiny lake at my son’s house in Tomball. Fourproperties ring this lake—I wish I could guess at the size, but it’s biggerthan a stock tank, smaller than a lake. Colin and Lisa have several seatingareas between the house and the lake, and late yesterday afternoon we tookdrinks and snacks and went to watch the day disappear in shadows.
They haverecently gotten a mushroom outdoor heater that is most effective, and the dayhad warmed enough that we were quite comfortable. As I sat staring at the lakefor just a moment, I thought, “It doesn’t get much better than this.” I didn’treally grasp my moment of tranquility because there was conversation around me—Colinand Lisa, my two teen grands, and two dogs. But it was enough for me to get amuch-needed feeling of peace.

Morgan and Ginger

My moment of peace

Lisa's mother's house on the lake

Today, Colin drove me to Wacowhere we met Jordan and Christian who brought me the rest of the way home. Wehad ordered fast food from a chain I thought was nationally ranked but now cancross off my bucket list. Fortunately, because we had Sophie with us, we orderedtake-out—the restaurant was a loud, noisy zoo, and we would have been unhappyeating there. Instead, we took our food to a charming little park on the BrazosRiver—Christian went to Baylor in Waco and so knows all the little places likethat. I thought our picnic was a lovely cap on a trip that I enjoyed.

The Brazos in Waco
A neat little park by the river

I have confessed here to notbeing a confident traveler and to feeling like a bother, but this trip put boththose qualms to rest. I enjoyed all of it—from the long drive on Tuesday where Italked Colin’s ears off and made myself hoarse to the picnic today and all thatcame in between. I have so much to be thankful for, most of all my family who watchout for me and help me with the things I can’t do alone.  Nope, it doesn’t get much better.

The joy of tradition

 

Colin carving
Don’t be fooled by the pictureof Colin carving in his starched white shirt and Santa Claus tie. The bottomhalf was navy blue shorts, bare legs, and sandals. Reminded me of Covid dayswhen men I know worked remotely from home, dressed just that way.

The happy tableThis year Thanksgiving inTomball was a lovely, low-key family day, filled to the brim with tradition.For me, it was turkey, a good book, and a nap. For some of the others, it wasfootball, with special appreciation for Dolly Parton and the half-time show.And for still others, it was a day for a complicated, thousand-word puzzle. Andour meal was traditional as it comes—ham, smoked turkey, dressing, gravy, greenbean casserole, mashed potatoes, truffle mac ‘n cheese (that was never a traditionaldish for me until my kids began to demand it—I still have a hard timeassociating it with holiday meals), rolls with cinnamon butter, pumpkin pie,and apple pie. Couldn’t get more traditional, and I loved it. Of course, everyonewas too full after a two-o’clock meal for the pies, so we had them for secondsupper in the evening.

I had a lovely nap between firstand second supper and spent most of the evening reading a mystery I had juststarted. Lisa and her mom spent a good four hours on the jigsaw puzzle—they stillhave a long way to go.Lisa and Torhild working on the puzzle.

To top the day off, I slepthard for ten hours and woke feeling sleep-logged. Sophie slept all night,though she wandered about the bedroom a bit in the wee hours. At six, whenColin appeared in the kitchen, she was more than ready to go out.

Yesterday was chilly, dampwith a bit of drizzle—not a day to encourage sitting by the lake. This morningis sunny and pretty, but Lisa tells me there is a chilly breeze. Maybe later,with the fire pit and a heater, we can sit by the water, one of my favoritespots. Meantime, I’m at my computer, enjoying the view from inside, with a cozyheater at my feet, basking in the laziness of the day after.

 

Tale of the difficult houseguests

 

 

 

Thanksgiving a day early
That’s us. Sophie and me. Weare the houseguests from hell.

Colin’s house is midcenturymodern with several levels. A wonderful house—unless you rely on a walker toget around. Then ordinary things become difficult. Last night it seemed all Idid was ask for help—and much of it had to do with Sophie. Could you feed her?And then I gave precise instructions for what she eats, in what order. Couldyou give her the insulin shot?  SomethingI don’t do at home. Could I have another glass of wine? Could you hook up mycomputer for me? Could I have a night light in the bedroom, but would you turnout the overhead light because there’s a heavy chair between me and the lightswitch. I’m cold—do you know where you put my jacket? Turns out it isapparently still in the car, and I am wearing a cozy sweater of Lisa’s. Colinand Lisa have stars in their crown, but I am feeling so dependent. I’m sure inaddition to my needs, they are tired of my apologies. At home, because I havethings arranged to suit me, I am much more independent.

The worst of it came in themiddle of the night. Sophie went out at eleven, just before we went to bed. Atone, I had to tell Colin she was really begging to go out. At two she began tobark again and paw at the bed. I tried loving and talking—I’d get a few minutesquiet and then she was back at it, bouncing her empty dish around infrustration. I gave her water from my tumbler, and she drank it gratefully, wasquiet for a while, and then began to bark again. Colin appeared, said he wastaking her outside and then sleeping in the front room with her.

(Lisa told me just now thatshe dreamed a duck was quacking and woke enough to ask Colin if he thought theduck would be okay!)

Colin took Sophie, closed thedoors to the front room and told her she was not leaving. But he said by thetime he got up at six, she was anxious to get back into my bedroom. And when Iwoke up at eight, there she was quiet as an angel. I’ve never seen her so agitated,even though she’s been here many times before. So wish us luck tonight. She hasappeared content and happy all day, so maybe she knows I’m not going away andleaving her with these strange people.

Tonight there were thirteen ofus for dinner—Morgan’s longtime boyfriend and some of his family, withrelationships to tangled to mention. Plus three dogs who got along admirably. Lisa’smom, who grew up in Norway, cooked what we have come to know as Norwegianhamburgers, along with her special chicken recipe, and peas and carrots. I’vebeen the lucky recipient of Torhild’s meals before, looked forward to this, andenjoyed it thoroughly. Noisy, happy, long dinner table. As the evening woredown, Colin summed it up perfectly: It almost felt like tonight wasThanksgiving

So blessed to be here.Tomorrow it will just be the five of us, and I’m looking forward to that too. Lisaand Morgan are talking about first and second dinner—first is scheduled forone; second, at six, will be leftovers.
Best of both worlds.

Sweet dreams tonight of turkeyand dressing and cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie!

The reluctant traveler

 

My children on the steps of my childhood home.
1340 Madison Park, Hyde Park/Kenwood, Chicago.
For me, traveling is a bigdamn deal. I do not do it easily. I begin packing a week before departure, andI think of every possible thing I could need—along with every possiblecatastrophe that could happen. It’s amazing, but the older you get, the morestuff you have to take with you. By departure, I am a walking example of highanxiety. And of course I’m one of those who clutch the arm rests in a plane.And when I return home and sleep in my own bed, I breathe a huge sigh ofrelief.

That is not to say that I havenot had some wonderful trips in my long life. A highlight was the ten days thatColin, Megan, and I spent in Scotland. We visited the MacBain Memorial Park inDores (outside Inverness), we walked the Culloden battlefield (not very far—it waswet and cold much of the time we were there), we went to the Isle of Skye andtook a rinky-dink ferry back to the mainland, we visited a castle a day (atColin’s insistence). I ate haggis, though the kids refused to join me. The tripnow is a wonderful memory that I sometimes pull out and relive in my mind.Another highlight: taking all four of my children to Chicago to see where Igrew up—we stayed in a suite on the twelfth floor of the Drake Hotel (a symbolof high luxury when I was a child) with a marvelous view of Lake Michigan andthe North Shore. The kids cheered when we drove under a bridge bearing a signsaying, “Welcome to Hyde Park/Kenwood” and when we stopped in front of mychildhood home, there were astounded exclamations of “Mom!” They expected ashack and found an 1890’s Chicago version of a brownstone. We toured Hyde Parkwith its beautiful old houses and the University of Chicago, where I went toschool. And we ate—and ate—and ate, everything from Berghoff’s to the PalmerHouse, where we had a tour of the hotel and heard about its history. Another memoryI treasure.

I have been to most of the UnitedStates, Canada, two Hawaiian islands, and two island countries in theCaribbean. So it’s not that I haven’t traveled. There are still a few places onmy bucket list—the New England states (I have never been north of the ThousandIslands in New York), Alaska for the salmon. I’d like to go back to thefoothills in North Carolina, where my parents retired, and I’d like to go toChicago again. I’d like to go to New York City to see the New York Alters andhave one of their fabulous tours of the city. I don’t care much aboutCalifornia, except I haven’t been to San Francisco, and now that I have a childin Denver, I’d like to go there. I was once, briefly, in Mexico with a writers’group, but I have no desire to go back, unless I could go to San Miguel.

But now that I rely on awalker for mobility, travel is harder. Jamie wants to take me on across-country train trip, but I don’t think I could handle the physical aspectsof a train (I went to Canada by train a lot as a child and loved it). I get sonervous about flying, that I have pretty much decided I’m not going to flyagain. Besides flying is not the wonderful way to travel it once was, and firstclass is too expensive.

All that said, I am gettingready to travel: about a four-hour car trip to Tomball, Texas, to spendThanksgiving with my oldest son and his family. He, good boy that he is, willcome get me and Sophie tomorrow and bring us home Saturday. The Burtons willhave to hold down the fort alone. I talk to Colin at least once a week, but itwill be good to spend time in his company and I want to catch up with his wifeand two of my grands—Morgan is a freshman at Texas Tech and Kegan is a juniorin high school. And I want to sit by their tiny lake in the evening with aglass of wine and watch the sun set. I even have the spot in the “great room”where I set up my computer.

Easy and wonderful as all thatIs, I still have found for a week or so that travel is on my mind. I makelists, I pack a bit each day, I plan excessively. I tell myself I can’t writeanything significant because—hey!—I’m going on a trip. Once in Tomball, I’llforget all my anxiety, relax, and enjoy being there. And Saturday, when I’mhome again, I’ll be full of good memories and tell myself next time I won’t beso silly. But I will. It’s who I am.

It’s that time of year again

 

Although it seems a bit earlyto me, articles are now appearing, at least in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram,about the Kennedy assassination, now some sixty years ago if you can believethat. It boggles my mind that so much of our population was not alive then,doesn’t remember the date or the event. They vaguely know about it from historyclasses if it’s not something that’s been censored. For me, that terribleweekend is still too raw a memory. I don’t want to read the recollections ofjournalists who were there, the stories about people who knew Lee HarveyOswald, on the spot reports from the hospital about Kennedy’s medicalcondition. I remember too well driving down the main street of Kirksville, MO,on my way back to my office after lunch. The local radio station seemed to havelost it—the guys on the mic fumbled and mumbled, there was much shuffling ofpapers, and I, who did an occasional interview at the station, was thoroughly impatientwith their incompetence—until I heard what was upsetting them. I went back tomy office and told my boss, who immediately thought only of the president ofthe osteopathic college where we both worked.

That was the beginning of along, dark weekend. Another of my vivid memories is my brother calling onSunday morning to say tersely, “You better turn on your TV.” Lee Harvey Oswaldhad just been shot by Jack Ruby. I don’t remember doing anything else those fewdays besides watching TV.

When my then-husband and Imoved to Texas, I brought with me memories of that weekend. The first time wewent to Dallas and would drive by the site of the assassination, I almost hadan anxiety attack. I didn’t think I could bear to see it. No, the memories arestill strong, and I don’t want to read more about it, but I wonder if thenation would react today as it did then. Gun violence was a rare thing in the1960s. Have we now become so indifferent to it, to patriotism, to true loyaltyto our country (and not the faux patriotism of Christian nationalists) that wewould shrug it off? I hope not. This year, the anniversary of the assassinationfalls on Thanksgiving Day. Will we give thanks for the example that JFK set forus, for his vision of Camelot? I hope so.

I have a new goal: I want tobe a super-ager. With ageism so strong across our nation, it’s comforting toknow that researchers have identified people over eighty whose cognitive powersremain at least thirty years younger. They are people who live an active life,continually challenging themselves mentally as well as physically; they are surroundedby people, and they indulge in some of life’s pleasures. So, no, isolatingyourself and swearing off drink and rich foods isn’t necessarily the key tostaying young. Apparently the big key is mental activity—learn to play amusical instrument or speak a new language. I’m wondering if improving mycomputer skills might quality.

Are super-agers born that way,influenced by genetics, or are there things you can do to achieve that status?Apparently both. We’ve all heard that working crossword puzzles can keep yourbrain active. So can other word games and puzzles, taking online or in-personclasses, learning a new craft-want to take up crocheting? Go for it.

I have a friend who is on theplus side of eighty, a prolific writer with many novels to her credit. She hasdecided she’s through with long projects and had created a whole new outlet forherself on Substack, the online platform for writers. It’s not just a matter ofsaying, “Okay, now I want to write on Substack.” It involves learning how toincrease your audience, how to use Substack’s tools to further your reach, howto plan and schedule your entries, how to interact with other writers on theplatform.

My son-in-law, Brandon, iswriting country western music (he’s far too young to be a super-ager) and hashad one song included on an artist’s album. So when I talked to him about lyrics(I understand words if not the music), he said we must write a song togetherwhen the family gathers for Christmas. A whole new challenge for me, and I’m excitedabout it.

One bit of advice sometimesgiven to the aging is, “Get ready to be uncomfortable.” Uncomfortable as youstretch and reach to learn new things and keep your brain active. As I look aroundme, I realize that’s what the most interesting people I know are doing. Maybeeven cooking a new recipe counts. Ya’ think?

The boys—Christian, Jacob, andseveral of Jacob’s friends, are off at the U. of Arkansas for a footballweekend. So Jordan and I had a delightful happy hour with neighbors Jaimie andGregg tonight with bountiful snacks, except I didn’t think my crab dip was asuccess. I need to taste it tomorrow, but my impression was too much lemon, andI maybe should give up substituting faux crab (Krab) for the real thing. Itjust wasn’t right. I guess even aspiring super-agers are entitled to a cookingfail or two.

Happy weekend!

Potatoes, onions, and books—an odd combination

 

 

Feeling mellow and contenttonight, after a nice (and easy) supper, a good visit with Jean and Jordan. It’sbeen a lazy day. In fact, it’s been a lazy week. I read an article this morningentitled, “Ten Things You Can Do Around the House to Avoid Writing,” and I thoughtI didn’t even need that article. I’d been procrastinating nicely on my own. The article made me think of Erma Bombeck (remember her?) whofamously said when she rolled a blank sheet of paper into her typewriter, she’drather go mop floors than write. This article suggested making an elaborate recipe—Idid that tonight with--wait for it--marinated kale. More about that another time. Or folding laundry—I don’t do that so much. Walk your dog ispretty much out for me since I need the walker—I doubt Sophie would like that.Erma’s classic mop the floors is there, along with taking a nap. Now there’s adistraction I can agree with.

I do have a complaint though.Has anyone else noticed with dismay how big onions and potatoes are these days?Onions, even my beloved sweet onions, as big as a baseball. And the last coupleI’ve tried to slice or dice are hard a rock. And potatoes five or six incheslong. I tried to bake one for my supper last night. Used the British method andbaked it at 200 for two hours—did not faze that potato. I tried to split it,fluff to let the steam out, as the British do, and I could not begin to splitit. I upped the temperature and put it back twice, until it was nearly eight o’clock,and I was hungry. I could cut it, but it sure wasn’t fluffy and tender like youwant your baked potato. What I had for dinner was essentially toppings—sour cream,bacon, green onion, grated cheddar with an occasional bit of potato thrown in.Delicious, but not substantial and probably not very good for you. I was sodesperate to eat that my final trick was to try to bake just half the potato—didn’thelp at all. I told myself I’d bake the other half for lunch today, but I was sodisgusted I threw it out.

One problem is that ofnecessity I order most of my groceries delivered. I try to add a note that say,“Smallest onion you can, please—none of those humongous ones,” but it rarelydoes any good. It’s just not the same as picking out your groceries yourself. Itry if the timing is right to ask Jordan to get them on her occasional groceryruns. But I think someone—farmers, grocers, whoever—has gotten carried awaywith the idea that bigger is better.

While I’m whining, here’sanother complaint. I love seeing on the computer pictures of classic libraries.Some are old, with intricate railings around tiers and tiers of shelves, andyou can almost smell the books when you look at the picture. Other picturesshow elaborate home libraries, still tall with many tiers and a moveable ladderto get to the top ones. I hereby declare that much as I love books and reading,I do not want any book badly enough to climb one of those shaky ladders to getto it. I also love old things and ways as opposed to modern days witheverything machine and computer driven, but I’ll make an exception forlibraries, even ancient ones. Surely someone could devise an automated systemthat would deliver those books to you. It’s one instance where I’d exchange abit of the picturesque for practicality.

I admit to a lifelong fear ofheight—acrophobia. I read somewhere that people with a fear of height alwayswant something to hold on to. That wouldn’t do it for me. I wouldn’t climb aladder to the fifth tier of books, even though I could hold on to the ladder.Jean lives on the seventeenth floor of Trinity Terrace, and when I’m at herapartment I stay clear the other end of the room from the balcony, just in casesome magnetic force would pull me out to that open space. Friends Subie andPhil live on the third floor, and I’m much more comfortable there. I’ve oftenthought I wouldn’t sleep comfortably on the seventeenth floor, but then Iremember I have slept on floors that high or more in hotels. That’s another story,but I won’t go into it—a funny story about staying in a Hyatt with babies whocould climb. Suffice to say I like my feet—and my bed—firmly planted on theground.

On that note I’m going toretire to my comfortable bed in my comfortable cottage where I can open thedoor and let my dog out on good, green earth. A tree man was here the otherday, seeing what our trees need (don’t even ask!) but when he came into thecottage to report on what he’d seen, he looked around and said, “I really likeyour set-up here.” So do I. I thank the Lord every day for my cottage and mycomfortable life—and then I feel a bit guilty about all those throughout theworld who are living in horrendous conditions. Let us all pray for peace—in Ukraine,in Gaza, at our southern border, in many African nations where there isturmoil. Throughout the world.