Judy Alter's Blog, page 18

The urge to purge, disappointment, and surprise

 

Just because I really like this picture.
My gang and me in front of Tiffany elevator doors in Chicago's Palmer House.
That trip was seven years ago right about now.
This morning dawned drearyagain, and I thought we were in for a day of rain. Wishful thinking. I knew theBurtons had plans most of the day—Jacob’s golf tournament, a football gametonight, etc., and I had no plans, so it promised to be a long day. I wasn’teven sure what I wanted to work on. Drifting, you might call it.

I’m not sure what changed the moodof the day, but I found myself purging files. I have a rack of file folders onthe credenza (a much fancier word for what it is) by my desk. It’s overcrowdedand messy, and somehow, I found myself pulling folders, sorting old papers. Ihad a file labeled “Pending” where I stuck everything I didn’t know what to dowith. As a result, there were receipts from 2019 and precious little that Ineeded to save today. Several files could go to the “inactive” file—a disorganizeddrawer in the bottom of a cabinet beyond the pretentious credenza. No, I didnot alphabetize—I just stuck them in wherever they would fit. That’s one thingthe kids will someday have to deal with—I can’t get down on the floor to beorderly about it.

And then there are recipes—fourfolders of them, though I sent one folder, labeled something like “Lean andGreen” into the house for Jordan. And I sorted through the others, some withrecipes I’ve kept since the seventies when the kids were little. It wasn’t theold recipes I purged—they are like treasures—but the countless new ones I printon impulse and then later realize I will never cook. I have now filled twowastebaskets, mostly with culled recipes.

While I sorted and discarded,I had the TV on, watching for a Paxton verdict. When it came, it was at firstagonizingly slow—for each article of impeachment, a clerk read off the way eachsenator voted. Call me Pollyanna, because I honestly thought the vote might goagainst him. But as the words, “the Senate cleared him” came up more often, Ilost heart. At first, I thought maybe the more serious charges would come later,but no. That bunch of cowards acquitted him on all counts, when it is clear toanyone who’s been following the proceedings that he is guilty as sin. Onenational news source called him “impressively corrupt.” Let me right now give ashout-out to my senator, Kelly Hancock of North Richland Hills, one of only twoRepublicans who consistently voted to find him guilty. I quickly wrote Hancocka note of appreciation.

There’s not much consolationto be had, and I won’t rehash Paxton’s corrupt career nor the proceedings,though I thought it impudent and imprudent of Dan Patrick, at the end of proceedings,to blame it all on the House who should have not impeached in the first place.Talk about impartiality.

I am angry. I am furious. I amdismayed that I live in a state where corruption and greed rule. I don’t intendto be silent, but I feel helpless, and I don’t like it.

My day was brightened,however, about two o’clock when the phone rang—a number I didn’t recognize so Ididn’t answer. It quit ringing, but whoever it was called right back, and I sawthat it was a call from Omaha. Normally the origin of the call doesn’t meanmuch, but I answered just in case. And it was one of the people in this world Imost treasure: Martha Andersen, who I’ve known since the early Sixties.

We were in graduate school,working on master's degrees, at Kirksville State Teachers College (now TrumanState University) in Missouri. Our fathers knew each other, which was ourinitial contact. Her fiancé and my soon-to-be husband hit it off, and the fourof us spent a lot of time together, until they left as Dick’s work took him toKansas and then Nebraska and we moved to Texas. But we kept up, and theyvisited. After my divorce, I spent a lot of time on the phone with Martha, andin later years the three of us went to Santa Fe and they made a couple of tripsto Fort Worth. When they sublet a condo in Hawaii, Jordan and I flew out tospend days with them.

It was and always has been onof those friendships that just clicked. We can go weeks, months without talkingand then pick up right where we left off. She is sometimes a beta reader forsomething I’ve written, and she’s good—I take her ideas and comments seriously.Today we talked about my kids and hers and where they are today. For mostpeople, that’s idle conversation, but we really care. She talked aboutgratitude after all we’ve both been through—and I had to stop and think for a moment.I worry about her health, but I don’t think of myself as having been through alot. But then there was divorce and cancer surgery years ago and in recentyears the hip, and I realized she has always been there for me.

Bittersweet: neither of ustravel these days, so I doubt we’ll ever hug again. Makes that phoneconversation all the more precious. I have her number in my computer, and Iintend now to all often and a lot. Email isn’t enough.

It’s the little things

 

A much younger Jacob 
The timer on my toaster ovenstarted going off about seven minutes before the time was up—and it went offalmost continually for those seven minutes. Sophie does not like the toasteroven, and when it goes off, she barks—incessantly. I tried the chat functionwith Breville, where after a long wait someone said they were referring me tothe proper department—and apparently hung up, because the chat went dead. Iknew I should call, but for over a week I’ve been avoiding it. I think I onlyused the oven two or three times, and nights when we had a skillet supper, likelast night, it was easy to put it out of my mind. But it was on my calendar,and the computer kept reminding me it was days overdue.

So I bit the bullet andcalled. Got a woman with an indeterminate accent—not good for my old ears.Apparently not good for her comprehension either. I relayed what was happening,and I guess tried too hard to be cute, because I added, “My dog barks at itconstantly, and it’s really annoying.” She replied, “I don’t understand. Youhave a dog ….?” I finally had to say, “Forget the dog!” Wonder of wonders, shemade two suggestions: stop using the bake function when I should be using roastand unplug the oven for two hours so the timer can reset itself. That’s one ofthose simplistic solutions that leaves you wondering why you didn’t just dothat in the first place. I unplugged, and it apparently fixed the problem. Ifeel like a combination of a ninny and a success.

Rain is not a little thing—exceptwhen it comes in a drizzle as it did today. The morning was dark and damp and drizzly,and I worried about Jacob who was playing in a high school golf tournament (52area schools). Apparently, the rain didn’t stop it, and he did a good job,Meanwhile at home the rain was creating small miracles. The lantana isblooming, and the hyacinth vine on the fence by my desk window is sending out afew tentative blooms. Those plants have been dormant all summer, doing theirbest to survive. Now, they won’t bloom for long, but I’ll take what I can get.

I went to the podiatrist today.The doctor’s wife/receptionist asked about my VW bug and when I told her it istwenty years old, she said, “Oh, and I remember when you got it!” We decided weare both aging, but I thought it was nice that I’ve had that established relationshipwith them for that long and that she remembers personal details when I am oneof many, many patients. I like them both a lot but dislike their building: thehandicap ramp has a really coarse pebbled surface. I got about halfway down,clutching the railing, and suddenly sat in my walker, told Christian I wasgiving up. He, kind soul, pushed me to the car.

No cooking tonight. We hadtake-out sandwiches from our favorite sub place. It was sort of nice to realizein the late afternoon that I didn’t have to cook. Mostly I enjoy it but a nightoff every once in a while is welcome. Now I find I won’t cook for the next twonights either, except for myself, so I may be ready to cook a fine meal comeMonday. Tomorrow is a football game, and Sunday the Burtons will go to hissister’s for her birthday

Tonight I’m checking on thewhereabouts of my other children. I thought Colin was in Montreal for work, butmy “Find Friends” tells me he’s home in Tomball. Megan and Brandon are inTelluride for a music festival, both in awe of a singer (country/western, I presume)that I never heard of. At least I’ve heard of Pearl Jam, though when I sawpictures of the audience bathed in red lights, I was really glad not to bethere. Jamie is apparently back in Frisco after a quick, one-day trip to Miami.I always feel a tiny bit better when they are all tucked in where they belong.Shh! Don’t tell them I track them.

And that’s my day of littlethings. Life is really sweet.

A ho-hum day

 

Pearl Jam--still a big deal, thirty years later
Do you ever have days that youlook back on and wonder what you did? That was sort of mine today. What I calla ho-hum day. Didn’t sleep well last night—you know how three o’clock-in-the-morning-thoughtscan look so dramatically awful and the next morning you wonder what ever wasthe matter with you? At three, I thought I was having a heart attack; at five,I decided since I hadn’t yet died, I should go back to sleep. At seven I decidedit was just a muscle spasm, and I scrapped plans to email my doctor firstthing. Then Sophie, once fed, let me sleep until nine o’clock. Once up andaround, I was fine, but it’s amazing how short the morning is when I don’t getto my desk until 9:30!

Email takes up so much of mytime these days because there’s so much I don’t want to miss, what with thePaxton trial in Texas and Kevin McCarthy’s foolish announcement of animpeachment investigation. There’s some really interesting commentary online,but there is also a lot of alarmist nonsense. I guess my contacts have winnowedthemselves, but I don’t get much from the “other” side of politics. But my ownside can be silly enough—twenty-four hours after McCarthy’s announcement, postsare still headlining, “Breaking News!” when by then it’s old news. It never wasnews really anyway.

There are some news columns Iread religiously every day. Probably the most important is Heather CoxRichardson’s Letters from an American. A professor of history, Richardson soaptly blends today’s events with the historical trail behind them. It’s eye-opening.Then there’s Gabe Fleisher’s Wake Up from Politics—I’m impressed becauseFleisher has been doing his column for ten years, and he’s only now a junior atGeorge Mason University (I think that’s right) in DC. I’m not as enamored ofhis column as I was—in his attempt to be even handed, I think he bends a bit farto the right. But that may be me. A new compilation of news I’ve recently startedreading is atAdvocacy News which is openly liberal, pulls no punches, andsometimes makes me laugh out loud. We all need a good laugh these days.

Despite a late start andreading all my “morning stuff,” I did get some new words down on my first draftof “Missing Irene.” It’s fun to be back with Irene and Henny and the folks,though strangely this time I find Irene is sinking into the background. Maincharacters are Henny and Chance (If you haven’t read the books, this will notmean much to you). But it’s fun for me.

I’m feeling old tonight, andit’s all because of entertainers and bands. A few days ago Mark Wahlberg waspouring tequila at Joe T.’s. I had not a clue who Wahlberg was, but all threeBurtons were excited about going, though Jordan and Christian eventuallydecided against it. But Jacob picked up his girlfriend and headed there, onlyto be confronted by a long line. And the guy who said he’d hold a table couldn’t.So they left and had supper at—wait for it—Chipotle for a change. I could notbelieve, however, that for two nights running our dinnertime conversation wasabout this Wahlberg person whoever he is, was, whatever.

So tonight, Jacob is laboringover his essay for his college application—he just brought me the openingparagraph, and I was favorably impressed, which he pronounced “awesome.” Buthis parents were invited to a Pearl Jam concert. Okay, I’ve heard of Pearl Jambut have no interest in them. Saw a picture of what I guess is the lead singerand thought he looked sweaty and dirty and his outfit was, to say the least,unremarkable. To Jordan and Christian, those are the musicians of their youth.Christian said to me this morning, with real awe, “Those guys must be at leastin their sixties.” It was not the time to remind him he’s in his fifties, notthat far behind them. Christian is a media junkie—movies, bands, etc. He knowsthem all. Me? I’m still back there with Joan Baez, Neil Diamond, Joan Collins,and their ilk. I don’t even get Asleep at the Wheel.

My activity tonight was tomake a turkey/bacon/avocado sandwich (got to say that was good) and then wolfit down so I wouldn’t be eating while tuning in to a neighborhood associationzoom meeting. Got my nose out of joint and signed out early. So next on myagenda: reading a manuscript that a friend of a friend sent. Yes, it takestime, but that’s what I have lots of. And helping wannabe writers is my way ofpaying it forward.

Jacob just came in wearing ahoodie which astonished me, but when I asked, he said, “It’s raining. It’s beenraining for a while.” And I missed it! Hope you got rain, wherever you are.

Of gardens and change and aging

 

A corner of my yard two years ago
Microsoft or whatever genielives inside my computer decided today to show me pictures of the garden twoyears ago when it was lush and green. It was particularly inappropriate todaybecause John, the lawn guy, came this morning to walk the yard, talk about whatwas hopeless, what might come back, what to do through the winter. The newrosemary is toast, the honeysuckle needs to be cut way back and should bepulled—you know it was hot if it killed honeysuckle. The lantana might make it.And so it goes. Of course, in this uncertain world, the weather is one of themost uncertain—he said if we have an early killer frost, as we did last year,it will be a double whammy some plants might not survive. But our new grass isstrong and good—a bright spot.

This focus on change came on aday when I read two blogs about aging and change. The first, “More Than a ShoePart” by John Clark on the Maine Crime Writers blog, talked about “lasts.” Whenwas the last time you did something that you know you will never do again in yourlifetime—rode a rollercoaster, went fishing on slippery rocks, climbed amountain or hiked ten miles. He had a friend who went hunting and had to usehis rifle as a cane to get home—you know that was a last.

Susan Witting Albert, writingSenior Chronicle #2 in her Place and Thyme column on Substack, also talked ofthe things she no longer does, though she suggested that we now have more powerwith the things we do. On her list of lasts were a brisk two-mile hike everymorning, foreign travel, driving around the country on book tours, intensegardening. But Susan points out that technology now enables us to do much ofthat virtually—an author may not tour bookstores but through social media can stayin touch with readers, we may not travel but we can visit far-off lands virtually(I love videos about Scotland). We need not be confined by age; it’s simplydifferent.

On my list of lasts, things Iknow I won’t do again are another trip to Scotland, probably another trip hometo Chicago where I grew up (my urge to go these places is overridden by mydislike of flying these days). Sitting on a dune in the Indiana Dunes watchingthe sun set over Chicago and Lake Michigan. Giving a big old party for sixty ofmy nearest and dearest. Briskly walking my neighborhood and studying the ever-presentchanges—a walker makes that difficult. Driving a car, though I must say I don’tmiss that so much. I adore my little VW convertible Bug, but I don’t want todrive her again.

But there are so many things Ido daily that bring me joy—keeping in touch with children and grands, reading andwriting, visiting with friends, cooking for my family, studying recipes, keepingup with the news and voicing my opinion. My days are full and happy and, I’vesaid this a hundred times before, what I can no longer do is balanced by mywonderful memories of doing so much of it.

Some of you reading this aretoo young to think about lasts, but I know others my age or close to it read myblog. So what’s on your list of lasts and how do you feel about that? I used tothink ahead to retirement and worry about what I would do all day, how I wouldfeel about the things that slipped away from my life. What I’ve found is that’snot a problem at all—it’s lovely to look back at the memories, but it’s alsolovely to be in the present, to enjoy the now.

Sweet dreams—or not!

 

Pork tenderloin ready to roll into a log.
Too much stuffing for the meat, but oh! it was good!
The landscape was surreal.Snow covered a narrow valley, the road curved through pastures where anoccasional horse stood at the fence watching, stiff as though frozen. Thecraggy, almost hostile cliffs of the Rocky Mountains loomed over us. As theroad climbed, we sailed through one of those curves with nothing on the otherside, where you’re aware of how easy it would be just to fly off in space. Therewere children in the car, and we were looking for their mother. I have no ideawho was driving, but we were in a Volkswagen van, not a new one. When we cameto a side road, two dogs approached, one badly injured—a knife gash in its frontleg.

Suddenly I knew what we wouldfind at the end of that side road, and I didn’t want to go. It was like readinga bloody thriller novel or seeing a gory movie—I wanted to slam the book shut,run out of the theater. I wanted out of that dream.

I knew I was dreaming, and I toldmyself to fix my mind on some piece of reality, not the dream. It was Sundaymorning, so I held fast to the idea of church. Then I tod myself to throw thecovers back, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and sit up so I would knowI was in my cottage and not on some back road in the Rockies.. But I couldbarely move. My arms were sluggish, as though plowing through thick mud. Inchby inch I moved the covers, all the while telling myself not to panic. Andthen, suddenly, I could move my arms normally. I sat on the edge of the bed and“collected” myself, while Sophie came to see if I was okay.

I had just had an episode ofsleep paralysis. At first, I thought it was a nightmare, but when I read thedescription of nightmare, there was nothing about not being able to move. Somehow,I came across a reference to sleep paralysis, with the reassuring words, “Yourbody will wake up.” It doesn’t happen often, but your mind wakes before yourbody. This isn’t the first time I’ve experienced it, but it was one of the mostgraphic and frightening. There aren’t a lot fo studies or protocolsl fortreatment. Generally, such episodes are believed to be caused by stress. Sleepparalysis is said to occur more often in the second half of your sleep. Andthen there’s something called hypnagogic jerk, in which the sleeper jerks awakesuddenly. Most likely to happen as you fall asleep, it’s also something I’veexperienced and it’s also due to stress.

I would tell you I am notstressed. Except for the world picture, which is a biggy, there’s not a lot inmy oh-so-fortunate life to stress me. I would tell you I am blessed most nightswith the ability to sleep soundly. Even when natures calls, I can go right backto sleep. I have a regular sleep pattern, if idiosyncratic: up until aboutmidnight, sleep until eight or so, and a good long afternoon nap. Yes, anxietyhas been my lifelong friend. But I am rejecting the idea of stress or anxietyand taking comfort in the words I found today: Your body will wake up. I thinkthe next episode will be less scary.

On a more cheerful note, itwas a cooking weekend. Friday, I made a big batch of pimiento cheese, anacquired taste since I don’t think I ever had it as a kid. Is it a southernthing? Anyway, as one guest suggested, it was “house made.” Served it to guestsand ate so much it was my dinner. Saturday, I made turkey bundles in crescentrolls—my honest impression? The turkey and sauce (cream cheese, dill, a greenonion, celery salt, and sour cream) was delicious, but it lost something whenbaked. I’m still learning, after two years, to adjust to my oven which bakeshot, and I did them a bit too long.

But tonight, with help, Ioutdid myself; a stuffed pork tenderloin and fresh fruit salad. The tenderloinhas cream cheese (I blew through a lot of that this weekend) with fresh spinach,pesto, and bacon. Christian pounded the tenderloin flat for me, and Jordan tiedit into a roll—a family effort. It was delicious, though when Jordan tried toslice it, it “exploded,” and we didn’t get pretty slices. Still, it’sdefinitely a keeper recipe. As I studied it, I decided though the recipe saidtenderloin, it really meant pork loin. For example, it said to bake 60 to 90minutes. If you did that to a tenderloin, you’d have jerky. So I adapted. Andwas pleased with it. And a fruit salad was a pleasant change.

Going to sleep on a happy notetonight. Cheers for a good new week for everyone."Exploded" pork tenderloin plated with fruit salad

In the dark of the night

 

I had forgotten how black darkcan be until we lost power about eleven o’clock last night. All evening I heardreports of rain nearby, some of it heavy, but our immediate area seemed dry andclear. Until about ten o’clock when I heard that first clap of thunder and,suddenly, Sophie was under my desk at my feet.

The wind rose, thunder rolledoccasionally, and then we got one of those amazing light shows—spectacular towatch. But then one big strike, a loud noise, and the world went black. I wasalready securely locked in for the night, sitting at my desk with my “go tosleep” glass of wine, my hand on my phone. When I looked straight ahead, Icould see a little out the windows, but behind me, deep in the cottage, it wasall black, impenetrable.

Pretty soon Christian came outto check on me, so without a light I made it to the patio door and let him in.He put away the meat that was defrosting, fetched my flashlight from thebedroom, and settled on the floor to comfort Sophie who was not as all right asI was. I lit my electric candles, and we had a nice visit, talking mostly aboutpolitics. After a while Jordan called to say their beloved Cricket was freakingout and sleeping in her arms. She wanted Christian back in the house.

Sophie and I went to bed,though I slept fitfully. If I didn’t’ mind the dark so much, I minded the heata lot. It hadn’t occurred to me until Christian and I were talking that the a/cwould be off too. I shed blankets and layers, but I was still uncomfortable.

And then suddenly, about threeo’clock, power returned and the cottage was ablaze with lights. I turned offthe computer and lights, filled Sophie’s water dish, and went gratefully backto bed. At five-thirty, Sophie wanted to go out. At six-thirty, she thought itwas time for breakfast. I told her firmly it was too early. At seven-thirty,she insisted, so I gave her first breakfast, let her out, and once more wentback to bed with that feeling that I hadn’t had my full sleep. Praise be, weslept until nine o’clock.

But the dark blackness of thenight stayed on my mind because I’d been thinking how little most Texansunderstand about what is going on in our world. They are in the dark.  Start with the Paxton impeachment proceedings:his lawyers keep protesting that he is the people’s choice, they elected himknowing all the accusations against him. Truth is, he won by a slim majority,not the major turnout you would expect for an established Republicanofficeholder in Texas. And polls have shown most Texans had no idea that he hasbeen under indictment for fraud for seven years, that his own office staffreported him to the FBI for bribery and other irregularities, that he had anotorious extramarital affair. The information has always been public—butapparently Texans didn’t read, didn’t care. Maybe now they do.

In Fort Worth, some millionsof federal funding for pandemic recovery has gone unused, so the countycommissioners have decided to transfer the funds from encouragement of lowincome housing and other services to the underserved to boost law enforcement,including increased use of a private prison over a hundred miles away. Amongmany things wrong with that plan, like the wrongness of private prisons tobegin with, is that many families, counselors, and lawyers will find it difficultto travel that far to visit and serve inmates. As for low-income housing, onecommissioner brushed it off with slight regret and, “It is what it is.” Doesn’tsound pro-active to me, especially since homelessness is on the rise. But mostTexans don’t know this.

And then there’s Clearfork—theupscale shopping/residential/office area on the city’s southwest side. And I domean upscale. Neiman Marcus, Burberry, Gucci, Johnny Was, Louis Vitton,Tiffany—you get the idea. Restaurants match the shops, and who knows how muchthose upstairs housing units cost. The City of Fort Worth is getting ready tosink millions into an expansion of Clearfork, including an upscale automobiledealer. Without a nod to the need for low-income housing. But most FortWorthians, let alone most Texans, don’t realize this.

I have a feeling I’m preachingto the choir here, but I don’t know how much or what else I can do to getTexans to wake up and realize the importance of knowing what’s going on, indepth, in our city, our state, our country. We hear repeatedly that the atmospherein this country resembles the thirties in Nazi Germany, and I think it terms ofpublic apathy, ignorance, call it what you will, it’s an apt comparison.

Folks, the power’s not goingto come on magically. We have already seen drastic controls on voting, onwomen’s rights over their own bodies, on freedom to love who we want, on whatbooks our children read, what version of history they are taught.

Oops sorry. I got preachy. ButI am so appalled by the darkness. The literal darkness didn’t scare me; themetaphorical darkness scares the heebie-jeebies out of me. Please help mespread the word that we must all pay close attention—and not stay silent.

Enjoy this cooler weather.Only in Texas is it cooler in the upper eighties. I love living in free Texas.I hope you do too.

The power of women—and a note on influencers

 

I am so excited that Christianput up my yard sign for Mothers Against Greg Abbott. After it arrived in themail, I asked him if he would put up my MAGA sign, and he was horrified. “Juju,MAGA?” I laughed and told him, “No, not that one.” So he was glad to put thisup, saying, “I’m no fan of Greg Abbott.” Now I’ve seen another yard sign Iwant, though I’m not sure how Christian would feel about putting this one up: “Iam WOMAN. Hear me ROAR! Watch me VOTE!”

A friend who was here to talkabout writing this morning lived in Mexico for quite a few  years and keeps up with what’s happening inthat country. When I mentioned that Mexico’s Supreme Court just decriminalizedabortion throughout the country, he said that things get done in Mexico becausethe women know how to do things, The men strut, the women act. And, accordingto him, it looks as though Mexico may soon get a woman as president.

And that led into talk aboutwomen. He reminisced about women he’s known, reflecting that he can think ofseveral women, most of them elderly when he encountered them, who had a profoundinfluence on his life. Try as he might, he could not think of that many men.First and foremost was his grandmother, Ethel Yeager, whose writings hecollected and published as A Soul Housed Up, available on Amazon. Hebegan to reminisce about women who had influenced him at various times in hislife and career both as a scholar and an Episcopalian priest.

And I got to thinking aboutwomen today. We’re always hearing that women are in the ascendancy, the powerthat Gloria Steinem and Angela Davis worked for is coming to fruition in ourday and age. Today there are twelve women governors, twenty-five womensenators, 135 women in the House of Representatives, and 424 who are mayors ofcities with a population of over 30,000. But more than that, women’s movementsare active on the progressive scene: Mothers Against Greg Abbott, MothersAgainst Drunk Drivers, Red, Wine, & Blue powered by women, just to name afew. At the other extreme is Moms for Liberary, a far-right extremist group. Womenare influencers, though they often aren’t named as such.

And that thought, plus anarticle I read, made me think about what today we call influencers. I”ve neverbeen sure about that term—how does one get to be an influencer? Is it a job youapply for? Who hires you. I know TikTok has a lot to do with it, but I am not aTikTok user. Today an article in Texas Monthly answered those questions.

Writer Russell Gold saw an adfor tweets in support of Kenneth Paxton, our “Impressively corrupt” AG.Curious, Gold filled out a Google form, and posted two “middle-of-the-road”tweets—one a link to an article about key people in the impeachment proceedingsand the other a speculation of whether or not Paxton would be acquitted. Thisweek, he received a check for $100, even though the tweets did not directlysupport Paxton.

It seems that stirring upnoise about the case is enough to make Texas big money happy. The check camefrom Influenceable LLC and the payer was the wife of Brad Parscale, former headof digital operations for trump. The money apparently came from a wealthy Texannamed Dunn whose monehy is behind the campaign to exonerate Paxton. The thingthat amazed me is that there is thia enormous dark network or organization workingto spew out buzz or spin or whatever on behalf of Paxton. Gold, unwittingly,found himself a paid propagandist for Kenneth Paxton, a position he did notwant. To his credit, he donated the $100 to a charity and wrote the article toalert others to what’s going on. Read it here: MyBrief Career as a Paid Pro-Paxton Propagandist (texasmonthly.com) Not a TexasMonthly subscriber? You can log in as a guest.

So now I have a new goal: Iwant to be an influencer for the election of Joe Biden. Unfortunately, I don’tknow anyone who is paying for such work. Then again maybe I’m already doing itpro bono. Problem is I don’t know if I have any influence. How will I know whenI can call myself an influencer?

 

Just to be alive is a grand thing

 

I guess Agatha Christie hasbeen on my mind since I’ve just read a cozy mystery, Fatal Fascinators byJenn McKinley, set in a British castle on the weekend of a lavish wedding—and adouble murder. That was one of Christie’s signature plots—a variation on the closedroom mystery, where all the possible suspects are gathered in one spot so the detective’sjob is made a bit easier by the smaller numbers. With Christie it was often someone's country estate. As a side note, McKinley’slatest in her Hat Shoppe Mysteries combined the best of an American cozy and anAgatha Christie weekend in the country.

Christie has long been apuzzle for me. Of course, I’ve read several of her mysteries, but I never couldfinish Murder on the Orient Express (a shameful confession from one whoaspires to write mysteries), and I’m simply not a Christie scholar. I have readand enjoyed some of the books about Christie’s life and particularly the twoweeks when she disappeared from sight. Much of what I’ve read about herconvinces me she was not always a happy person, didn’t have that happy a life,let alone a happy childhood.

Yet here she is, proclaiminghow much she loves life. There’s an obvious lesson there about enjoying life asit is handed to you, making the best of what you have—and whatever otherplatitudes you can bring forth. But I think for those of us who are aging,there’s a deeper message. At the age of eighty-five, I am very much aware ofAndrew Marvell’s 17th century poem to “To His Coy Mistress”: “But atmy back, I always hear/Time’s Winged Chariot Hurrying Near.”

You don’t have to be a coymistress to get the meaning: death is always just around the corner, and younever know when its chariot is going to catch you. I think Marvell, centuriesago, and Christie, fifty years go or more, have the same message for us:enjoy life while you can and don’t anticipate death. It will come when itcomes. I fully understand Christie’s sentiment about having been miserable—haven’twe all been there one time or another, when we’ve lost a loved one, faced adisappointment in love, lost a job or a career—and yet the trick is to admitthat you love life overall. That may be the whole energy behind suicide hotlines.

My life right now is notexciting, but it is comfortable, and I am enjoying it. Until I am forced to, Iam not going to dwell on thoughts of illness and death. Jordan suggestedtonight that I talk about illness a lot—the illnesses of those around me that Icare about. And probably I do—my brother has been ill for a long time though he’sdoing better, a friend’s brother is battling cancer, another friend is havingmemory problems, and yet another had an unexplained blackout which is worryingboth her and her doctors. I suppose it’s inevitable that when you reach my age,you are surrounded by illness—and by the death of contemporaries. But I refuseto dwell on it.

What Christie is telling us isto move on, leave that behind, and treasure your life. I had a friend once whosaid she couldn’t bear that this table, that chair, and that painting wouldstill be here when she was gone. I find just the opposite—it reassures me thatlife will go on. And I think that’s basically because as Christie suggests, Ilove life.

And on to the mundane—so far,it’s been a busy week, with happy hour company every night. That, too, is partof what I love about my life. And of course, the cooking—Monday night we had hotdogs. It was, after all, Labor Day. So what if everyone went out last night,and I ate a leftover hot dog at home alone. Tonight we had Greek hamburgerswith marinated tomatoes and cucumbers. Pretty good stuff.

And so what if the days are abit long right now, because I’m not sure what I’m working on. That will resolveitself. Meantime, I can read emails and recipes online and keep up withnational politics and this week, the hullabaloo of the Austin impeachment trialof Kenneth Paxton.

Yep, Agatha, just to be aliveis certainly a grand thing.

The drama of a dropped phone, becoming a writing counselor, and a banned books club

 

And now he's thinking ahead to college?
I can't believe it.
This morning, after I fedSophie her second breakfast—don’t ask!—I wasn’t ready to get up, so I crawledback in bed for a few minutes. But first I emailed Christian to say Sophie hadher food and would be ready for a shot within an hour. When I got up for thethird time, I dropped my phone, and it slid under the bed. No big deal! I couldsee it from my walker, so I got the broom. But each swipe with the broom onlymoved the thing farther from me. Put the broom up and got my grabber. That alsojust pushed it farther beyond my reach. I considered moving the bedside standto see if I could sit at the very top if the mattress and reach it—decided thatwas not wise. To my credit, I never seriously considered getting down on thefloor, crawling under the bedside stand, and grabbing it. Not only would I notbe able to get up, I would earn the everlasting wrath of my daughter.

But there I was—no phone, notexting, no way to communicate except email, and I doubted anyone would readtheir email at 9:30 on Labor Day. Plus the window between Sophie’s breakfastand the time for her shot was running out. And I could not even make it to thehouse from my cottage alone—three steps up to the deck mean I need help.Although I felt isolated and alone, I told myself I was okay and I could simplygive Sophie a snack whenever someone came out.

Fortunately, Christian camejust before Sophie’s window closed, gave her a shot, and retrieved my phone.But it’s a lesson learned. The incident made me realize how important my phoneis to my independence. Six years ago, post-surgery, a physical therapist warnedme to always take my phone with me wherever I went in my cottage. I have prettymuch taken those words to heart, especially on middle of the night bathroomtrips, but now I am aware to be ever so much more careful of the phone itself.

I have a new calling of sorts—writingcounselor. A friend, a highly educated, much published man, has asked me tohelp him consider what he should do with his rather large body of work, somepublished, some unpublished, So I’ve been playing pick and hunt, and I’ve comeup with some ideas for him. I have no idea if they are workable or what hewants. To me, it’s a heavy responsibility to ask someone, “What do you wantfrom these works,” and have them say, “I don’t know. I want you to tell me.” It’salso a heady feeling to think I have some knowledge that might be useful tosomeone whose intellect, I suspect, far outweighs mine.

And in that vein, maybe at theother end of the scale, I was talking with seventeen-year-old Jacob today aboutthis personal essay for his college application. We discarded something aboutthe two significant deaths in the family in the last six months—his other grandmother and afamily dog—because it might look like an excuse. So we settled on something todo with his devotion to golf and achievements on the varsity team. It was funto prod and poke and see him come to grips with the subject. When I asked howgolf made him a better person, he hemmed, hawed, grinned, and said he didn’treally think it did. But when I pushed a bit, he said yes, golf had taught himfocus and discipline. After we talked, I texted him with a couple of otherthings for him to think about, and I’m waiting to see what he comes up with. Iwill be happy if I can prod him into a bit of deeper thinking, not an easything for a seventeen-year-old. And a bonus: this is the child that spentalmost half his young life with me. These days, with school, golf, a girlfriend,and a part-time job, he’s too busy and I almost never see him. I relished thesefew minutes when I had his full attention (I think).

Finally, a wild idea I hadtoday. I was reading a friend’s post about book banning, and she mentioned thatshe belonged to a Controversial Book Club. Why, I thought, not organize aBanned Books Club. There are a lot of books on the various banned books liststhat I have heard of but not read and others that I simply should read before Irush into battle. I have no idea of the mechanics of such a venture, but Ienvision something online and maybe just a book a month. But it occurs to me weare better prepared to battle the ignorance and narrow minds behind censoredbooks if we have some knowledge of the books. A lot of us have read TheAdventures of Tom Sawyer or To Kill a Mockingbird, but how many ofus have read Gender Queer, one of the most frequently banned books andyet one that could help teens with gender uncertainty. Just a thought, but I’llbe interested in opinions.

And now, holiday weekend over,it’s back to work tomorrow. As someone said, Labor Day brings with it a senseof settling back into the year and getting to work. Happy days, all!

 

A photograph, a short story, a novel, and the truth

 

In 1936, documentaryphotographer Dorothea Lange took a picture that has become the symbol of theDepression. The photograph, taken in Nipomo, California, shows a woman sittingin the back of a beat-up truck, holding an infant, with two other childrenhuddled close to her but turned from the camera, as though blocking it out. Thewoman stares into the distance, her face lined with fatigue, hunger, and anxiety.She and the children are dirty, their clothes obviously worn for days. It is apicture of abject poverty and hopelessness. Lange worked for the Farm SecurityAdministration and did not own rights to the photos she took; she was paid asalary and never profited directly from the immense popularity of this image.Nor did she get the subject’s name or permission. A few days later, thephotograph was published in the San Francisco News. The subject of thephoto remained anonymous.

In 1978, a woman namedFlorence Owens Thompson wrote to the Modesto Bee identifying herself asthe woman in the portrait. She and her family felt used by the photographer,disputed some of the facts that had grown up around the picture, and resentedbeing symbols of the Depression. Thompson, who was full Cherokee from Oklahoma,eventually had several husbands and partners and as many as nine children (therecord is a bit unclear). In 1983, her health failed, and her children askedfor donations to cover her medical care, collecting several thousand dollars.She died a few months later at the age of eighty.

Knowing none of the story, Ifirst saw the picture years ago and was struck by the anguish on Thompson’sface. What I wondered would bring some joy and hope into that life. I wrote ashort story, “Sue Ellen Learns to Dance,” in which I plucked her out of theDustbowl and gave her a new life. The story won a Wrangler (Western Heritage)Award from the National Cowboy Museum and a Spur from Western Writers ofAmerica.

This past week I read a novel,Mary Coin by Marisa Silver, also based on the life of Florence Thomson.Silver uses three voices to tell the story---that of Mary herself (Thompson), photographerVirginia Dare (Lange), and a college history professor named Walker Dodge whoappears to be the only purely fictional addition to the story. Silver lays outa plausible life for Mary Coin—more marriages, more children—that ends with herliving alone in a trailer, despite nicer accommodations arranged by her protectivechildren. The three voices speak interchangeably, and I was uncertain early on wherethe novel was headed, though I had a suspicion. The characters are portrayedsympathetically, and the entire work is a graphic account of the hardships ofthe lives of migrant farm workers in the 1930s. There is also a lot of angstand much introspective wandering in the minds of these three characters, buteventually it ends with a climactic plot twist that takes real liberties withtruth and possibility.

A friend and fellow novelistasked me what I thought about the differences between my story and Silver’snovel, and at first, I dismissed it as the romanticist (me, with a happyending) against the realist (with a heart-wrenching though contrived ending).But the more I thought on the question, the more I realized that Silver took aspecific woman and created a plausible, probable if grim life story for her.That is or should be historical fiction.

I saw the beleaguered woman assymbolic of the many migrant mothers and imagined a future rather than tryingto stick to reality. There were other threads in my story—a hint of Faulkner’s AsI Lay Dying (a dying grandmother is central to the resolution) and woven inis the theme often found in western stories about the good woman who cherishesmemories of an outlaw lover or a wild escapade in her past. Though it takesplace in the past, I see it as fiction without the historical qualifier.

I wonder if readers would seethe same difference I do. Anyway, I find it fascinating that almost ninetyyears later, that iconic photograph is still inspiring writers.

Sue Ellen Learns to Dance and Other Stories - Kindle edition by Alter, Judy. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.