Judy Alter's Blog, page 2

A wonderful weekend

 

Megan, who loves dogs but does not like to be licked;
Benji, who loves to lick.
Four grown children, one terrificson-in-law, one grandson, a new dog, and fifty or sixty people that one way oranother make my world go around. What more could I ask for? Sunday, Jordan andChristian did their usual great job of hosting and invited family and friends tocelebrate Jacob’s high school graduation. These days at such events I getparked in the living room, but there was a visitor’s chair next to me, and Ihad a constant stream of guests to talk with. I like to take a bit of creditfor Jordan’s hostess skills—after all I did throw those huge Christmas partiesfor years, and she was at my elbow helping every minute. She knows how to set apretty table, decorate the house, and, most of all, make everyone feel they arethe special guest of the day. There was lots of picture-taking, a TV basketballgame for folks to watch, visiting on the front porch. The party started at three—Ithink the last guest departed about ten-thirty, though I had long sinceretreated to the cottage. Next morning, Jordan said to me, “Was that not thebest part we’ve ever done?” and I agreed.

Special entertainment at theparty was a trip to the back yard to watch Benji, who knew he had an audienceand tossed his rope toy with class and a lot of little leaps. General consensuswas that he is a great dog. The family certainly approves, and Colin keptoffering to take him home and keep him for a while, an offer I declined.

Of course a bonus for me washaving my other three kids home. Colin slept on the couch in the cottage fortwo nights, which I loved even though it meant he made my cottage cold as ameat locker. Megan was on the front couch in the house and Jamie in Jacob’sroom since Jacob sleeps in the TV room these days. Talk about musical beds!Once my kids were grown and began to scatter, it was always special to me to havethem all four once again under my roof. For a while, when the grands wereyounger, I could even accommodate most of the young families. But in recentyears as our numbers have grown and we’ve absorbed a couple of boyfriends,there’s no way. The kids generally find nearby hotel accommodations. So it wasa real treat to have my four all under my roof again—I am not sure why thatpleases me so much, because if anybody is protecting or looking out forsomeone, it’s a reversal from childhood. When they are here, they wait on myhand and foot. But still I guess it’s the feeling that I know where they areand they are all safe for the night. We missed some spouses and the othergrands, but it was still a highlight weekend.

Saturday we had take-outRailhead barbecue—Megan questioned why we weren’t going to Angelo’s, the shrineshe remembers from childhood, and I answered proximity—Railhead is blocks awaywhile Angelo’s is across town. And we’ve come to think Railhead is just asgood. Since I’m supposed to eat soft food that goes down easily, there was somequestion, but I convinced them that I could eat a chopped sandwich. I did, noproblem, and enjoyed it thoroughly. Still catering to my cravings, Colin wentto Carshon’s Deli Monday before he left and got me the chopped liver I had beenwanting—full of protein and soft so it goes down easily (he also got himself aRebecca, his favorite sandwich, for his long drive back to Tomball).

The happy weekend ended with acrash. Sunday morning, early, Christian’s father texted that he was in thehospital with gall bladder troubles. We presume he drove himself to thehospital, which scares everybody. Surgery was scheduled for last night, butthey postponed it until this morning—I am always in favor of morning surgerywhen both doctor and patient are well rested (we hope).

Monday afternoon Megan rushedme off to an unexpected appointment with an oral surgeon, only to find I willhave four molars pulled before the radiation treatment. To me, that proceduremay be the worst part of the whole ordeal. I am, to be honest, a dental phobic,a carryover from my long-ago childhood when dental work on a pre-teen with badteeth was pretty brutal.

By early afternoon Monday, thechildren were gone—Jamie had flown back to Denver on a standby basis lateSunday night and, fortunately, got on the flight. Colin left after his Carshon’srun, and Megan headed to Austin after the dental appointment. So we are back toreality. The next two weeks will be filled with appointments, not a peasant prospect.But I also have lots of work on my desk, which is a good thing. Today I hope towrap up the neighborhood newsletter for June, and then I have proofingcorrections to key in for Irene in a Ghost Kitchen. I still have my eyeon that late June publication date. I am counting my blessings and saying myprayers.

My news of the day

 

Friends, I have something toshare. If you look inside my fridge tonight, you will not find the usualleftovers from a family dinner nor the half-full bottle of chardonnay. Instead youwill find yogurt, applesauce, chocolate protein drinks, and some non-alcoholicwine. A lifetime of drinking wine has come home to roost, and I am facing a fightagainst a small throat cancer. Not to worry: we caught it early, and the curerate is high. The next couple of months will be difficult—a soft diet, lots ofspecialists to see, six weeks of radiation, but after that I am confident oftaking up my life again. At this point, beyond a definitive biopsy, I will notneed chemo or surgery. I will always be at my computer, and I plan soon to beback in the kitchen.

In fact, I’ve been making alist of foods that go down easily. My list can get pretty imaginative—smoked salmonwith cream cheese, chopped liver from Carshon’s Deli, polenta, tuna salad, eggsalad, a loaded baked potato without the bacon. Tonight Jean brought pasta witha marinara sauce—she very considerately asked what I thought about meat andmushrooms, and I opted for the marinara—it was rich and tomato-y and absolutelydelicious. She had simmered it for over two hours until it was thick and wonderful.Another friend has offered to host me the next time her retirement communityhas a creamy soup entrée. I have lost a few pounds because I was not swallowingsolids, but now I see my way forward to some quite good meals. And I’m hungry.

I can not ever again have analcoholic drink. Oh, wait! The doctor said maybe on my birthday. But my days ofenjoying a couple of glasses of chardonnay in the evening are over. This has beencontroversial, with several friends saying they never heard of alcohol causingsuch tumors. But the new doctor, an ENT specialist that I like and respect, wasquite firm, and I will follow his orders. Statistics on survival really supporthis position, and I want to be around yet for years to come. Yes, I knowhundreds of people who drink more heavily than I ever did and never developtumors. Good for them—but it happened to me.

Benji is a great comfort. Ithink he senses something is wrong, because last night he was all over me—in mylap (for which he is too long and leggy), head resting on my leg, lying on thefloor watching me. When I went to bed, he ostentatiously lay on the floor nextto the bed. Tonight he has not been quite so attentive—he got into hisfascination with the motion-activated garbage can and then he paced thecottage. He is confined to quarters because he barked so much, but he is quietlylying in his crate on the other side of my desk. I find his presence a comfort.

Jordan and Christian have beentremendous support, and doctors’ visits have become family affairs. Jordanmakes lists of doctors I have to see and things that must be done, and shesupervises what I eat—why won’t that child let me have chopped barbecue?Christian has run so many many errands—returning this that I ordered, pickingup prescriptions, scouting out a new pharmacy since ours is closing. Thisweekend my other three children will be here for an event marking Jacob’s highschool graduation—but also to rally around their mom. I couldn’t be more blessedand more grateful.

So, my friends, if I’m hereagain and gone again, more irregular than usual in posting blogs, I ask you tobear with me. Minor and temporary lifestyle adjustments coming up, but all willbe well. Prayers are of course appreciated.

PS Please note that I still have a new Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery, Irene in a Ghost Kitchen, coming out in late June. It's not on Amazon yet but will be soon. Watch for it--it's got family secrets, French food (and lots of recipes), one bad dude, and enough mayhem to make you turn the pages (I hope). Given the direction my writing has taken of late, it's fitting that I frame my current situation in the context of foods I can eat, don't you think?

Image by FreepikSomehow Monday morning I foundmyself, acc...

Image by Freepik

Somehow Monday morning I foundmyself, accompanied by Jordan, in the ER at Harris Methodist Hospital Downtown.A long stretch in the ER told us that my inability to swallow all my meds hadmessed up my Afib so I was on a drip to fix that and had a CT scan whichconfirmed a growth on my epiglottis. All of this was handled professionally andcourteously by really pleasant people, and I felt I was in good hands.Naturally, I was a bit letdown when they said I had to stay overnight tostabilize my heart rate. Turned out to be a good thing. Jordan, bless her,stayed with me and was treated to sleep broken by interruptions—vital signs, anIV that pulled loose and had to be reinserted—a long and painful process.

I think in the past, in mynovels, someone has been in the hospital. Irene, for instance, was hospitalizedafter she was kidnapped (Irene in Danger) and you never know when she oranother character will end there, so it was good for me to have a refresherlearning experience. Hospitals have changed since the last time I was in one.

When you go cold into the ER(I went with a referral from my family doctor who immediately left thepicture), you suddenly have a whole new bunch of doctors—two hospitalists, acardiologist, a radiologist, the ER admitting doctor, the consulting head andneck surgeon. It’s sort of a case of the left hand not knowing what the righthand is doing and who’s on first. Thank goodness for the nurses, particularlyone named Becky, (fourth floor, Heart Center) who coordinated everything.

When you go to the ER, you tryto look your best—at least I do: hair shampooed, attractive yet comfortableoutfit, clean underwear, etc. I saw some in robes, pajamas, and slippers, butthat’s not my style. I wanted to look presentable. At the end of the long day,I had given up that vanity and did not care how I looked. I ended up in ahospital gown, rumpled pj bottoms from home, and hospital footlets. I didmanage to brush my teeth that evening but gave it up the next morning, thinkingI’d go home any moment. Jordan had to comb my hair because I sailed into theday without a thought about it. By the time I went home, about three o’clock inthe afternoon, I didn’t give a fig how I looked. At least I had street clothesback on, with the pj bottoms.

Being in the hospital ages youten years but thank goodness it’s reversible. Probably because I felt so bad, Ibecame helpless. I asked Jordan for every little thing—“hand me this,” “where’sthe remote?” “Can you get me that?” I kept missing meals (not that I could eatmuch) so she was my emissary to the cafeteria where she got yogurt and to askthe nurse for cups of steaming hot broth. I found I would get scrunched down inbed, and need help pulling myself up. And go to the bathroom alone? Don’t eventhink about it. It’s against the rules. So I worried about going home, but oncein the cottage I fell right back into the routine of taking care of myself. Anamazing reversible, though I did worry as I snuggled down for the night aboutwhat would happen if I couldn’t get out of bed. I could—a gentle, cold, and wetnose on my elbow this morning convinced me to get out of bed and let Benji out.He had been tremendously patient while I overslept.

So this morning I am back atwork at my desk. I kept up, mostly with emails, in the hospital but still havemuch to deal with, some of it medical. How do you get to be my age and still beso involved in the world? I am not knocking it. I think it’s a good thing.

Tomorrow I have (I think) abiopsy to determine why I can’t swallow. Prayers are appreciated, and thanksfor following my adventures in and out of the medical world.

Graduation parties and a rainy Mothers’ Day

 

Jacob has had a great weekend—atleast I assume he did, since I haven’t seen him yet. But last night was seniorprom for Paschall High School, and he and several of his buddies were allspiffy in tuxes, with lovely girls in gowns on their arms. Jacob does not havea steady girlfriend, so he took a girl who is a good friend—you know how thatworks. I was pleased to see the picture and note how modest her gown was, and Christiansaid all the girls at the photo shoot had long gowns—none of those skimpymini-things. Of course, prom itself is sort of anticlimactic—they don’t staylong, and the after-parties are the big deal. My behind-the-fence neighborwrote that her son would be hosting an after-party in their pool and cabana andshe had reminded them of noise control. I never heard a sound, and when I wentto the bathroom at three o’clock, all was dark and quiet.

Golf seniors
Today the moms of the seniorson the Paschal gold team hosted a party with a gambling theme. Jordan has alovely entertainment area in her office, with freedom to use it, so that wasthe site. Christian reports it was a great success.

Other than a golf party, todaywas not a huge success. It was dark and thunder rolled, rain fell for much ofthe day. Usually I rather enjoy a day like that, but today I did not feel well,so that darkened my mood. Benji too was a bit of a worry—rain doesn’t botherhim, and he appears to enjoy mud. But then he comes in and decides theupholstered furniture is there for his comfort. I have upended the cushions on histwo favorite chairs, so when I called him in tonight, he took his wet muddyself to his crate. Score one for me.

My Jamie arrived late lastnight—later than he intended because his rental was an electric car, and hedidn’t realize how long it took to charge. When he arrived, coming from Frisco,he had only charged it for seventy miles, so he charged it overnight and hopedit took. It struck me that it was like the early days of gasoline engines—at firstpeople were bumfuzzled by maintenance, but they got used to it. We will alleventually get used to electric cars—maybe just before cars themselves arephased out.

It was of course a delight tohave Jamie here. He is, and I don’t think he’ll mind me saying this,Hamburgers in the cottage
thepoorest of my children at keeping in touch frequently. But when he’s here, heis, as Jordan says, totally into the moment. He gives great massages, sometimespainful as he zeroes in on every spasm in your back, but he’s tireless anddedicated. And he discovered last night what may be the cause of my lethargyand lack of appetite—swollen glands in my neck. Though he didn’t have time thisweekend, he has been known to lull me to sleep with his acoustic guitar.Christian grilled hamburgers late last night, and they ate in my cottage—thoughI, already not feeling well, stuck to yogurt. After the Burtons went inside, Jame and I had a long talk for which Iwas most grateful. His life has been turned upside down in the last year, and Iwas glad to hear him talk about it.

This morning, Jamie went for arun and was gone longer than he meant to be because he so enjoyed runningthrough old, familiar neighborhoods. Then it was a rush for him to shower andget out the door for his plane back to Denver, where he is now living. But Ihave something to look forward to: he, his older sister, and older brother willall be here, again briefly, for a party that Jordan and I are hosting for Jacob—well,in truth, she is hosting and my name is on the invitation.

Hope the mothers among us—and thattakes many shapes and forms—were well celebrated today. I know for many it is ahard day, and I reach out to them. For what a good friend would term a lesssaccharine, Hallmark version of the history of Mothers’ Day, read here: (69) May 11,2024 - by Heather Cox Richardson (substack.com)                               

Obituaries, a vet visit, and a good dinner

Haute cuisine in the cottage
Not too long ago, the obituarywriter was a respected member of any newspaper’s staff. It takes talent, skill,and practice to condense a life into a few, meaningful paragraphs. These days,obituaries are syndicated, expensive, and in some cases a scam that can trapyou into an endless cycle of intrusive emails. I learned these lessons the hardway. To begin with, the obit for my brother, John Peckham, in the Star-Telegramcost almost $3/word. We shortened and shortened, leaving out what wethought were some of his major accomplishments as well as some of the tidbitsthat made him a fascinating person. It seems you don’t really contract withyour local paper but with a national company called Legacy, Inc. Since we werewriting it ourselves, I never explored the options for help from either thenewspaper or the national company.

The first problem came when wewanted an estimate. My niece, burdened with much on her mind, asked if I wouldget that. The only way to do it was to fill out the form, so pretty soon itlooked like before they gave me an estimate I would have to guarantee payment.I couldn’t do it in her name because I didn’t know if she subscribes to thepaper and that’s apparently a requirement. I did finally get a rough cost, andshe took over. The obituary appeared as scheduled and looked fine—a bit barebones and short, but okay. Jenn had added at the bottom the location of a smallcelebration of life.

Days later I wanted to verifythe proper name of that location to share with a friend. Couldn’t find theobituary, so I clicked on one of those “find anyone” sites that came up when Iasked to find an obit, filled in John’s information, and waited. I never didget the information, but I was somehow signed up for something called TruthFinder which offered, for a fee, to dig up all kinds of information about John,including previous arrests for assault and similar unsavory tidbits. He was by nomeans an angel all his life, but I thought that was stretching it a bit.

That site never did find whatI needed, and I found it elsewhere. But now I get constant reminders, two at atime—Am I still looking for John? Would I like to bring John back into my life?And similar inanities. These “reminders” appear, large, in the corner of myscreen so they cannot be ignored. You must click on them and then close out toget them to go away. There is no unsubscribe button, which I suspect isillegal. They’re not on Facebook, so I can’t block them, and I’m not tech savvyenough to know how to make them go away. Among other reasons why it’s so wrong,it’s an insult to grieving families.

While I’m at it, another internetcomplaint: this is aimed at various Democratic fund-raising branches.Republicans are probably just as bad, but I only occasionally hear from them,and I respond with an instant, “Stop!” or unsubscribe. But Democrats complainall the time that I have not confirmed I will vote for Biden—when clearly Ihave. There is apparently little or no coordination between sites—even thoughAct Blue is supposed to be a clearinghouse. They appoint me to focus groups andchoose me as one of a select group to represent my city or county or they begfor m valuable input on a poll. Turns out the poll questions could be answeredby a five-year-old with good sense, and inevitably they lead to a plea for me topledge a good-sized monthly amount. I think one reason they don’t well inpolling is because so many, like me, get turned off by these inane, repetitiousemails and refuse to answer. Somewhere, someone smart about marketing, mustthink this works, but it beats me. I long for the days of Lincoln, whencampaigning was considered beneath a candidate.

On a brighter note, Benji wentto the vet yesterday. He, who is wild Indian and totally untrained on theleash, behaved like an angel and captivated the vet’s staff. He had been to hisHumane Society vet (because he was a rescue) just a couple of weeks before wegot him, but we wanted the family vet to know him—we have been taking dogs to UniversityAnimal Hospital since the mid- to late sixties. Dr. Minnerly pronounced him fit,said he is smart, and suggested some training ideas. Of the barking whichworries me, he said, “At the end of the day, he’s a dog, and dogs bark.”

And last night, despite my curtailedeating habits, I fixed a smashing dinner for Mary V.: sour cream, smokedsalmon, pickled cucumbers and onion, and capers on puff pastry. The pastrypuffed so high I almost didn’t know what to do with it and ended poking the airout of it with a fork before adding the toppings. We enjoyed it, and I had my leftoversfor lunch today. Smoked salmon goes on the list of foods I can eat with ease.

Happy Friday, everyone. Hope youhave big plans for the weekend, if that suits you, or else look forward to a quietday with a book and a chair in the sun. It’s supposed to be sunny, comfortabletemperature, and pleasant in North Texas. Hope for you too, wherever you are.

 

Too much information!

TMI! That’s what my kids willsay if they read this post. But I had a medical adventure today, and it taughtme something about modern medicine—or maybe the exception to modern medicine. Fora little over a month, I’ve had trouble swallowing the handful of pills I takemorning and evening. When I mentioned it to my doctor, he immediately said, “Youneed a swallow test.” The way he described it, it was no big deal—you drink alittle barium and they x-ray it going down. He seemed quite sure they’d find astricture, easily fixed, so he said, with a minor surgical procedure.

There was about a three-weeklapse between his order and the actual procedure, and during that lapse Imanaged to work myself into a snit, imagining all kinds of horrors. I wasn’tsure if I was more afraid of the test or the results, but I suspected it wasthe test. I nearly convinced myself that the whole things was due to allergies(it feels like I have a sore throat)—or may the stress of grieving my brotherand my dog. By today I had also convinced myself that swallowing a couple ofswigs of barium wasn’t that bad—Jean told me these days it’s vanilla flavored.I will discuss that with her later because when I said that to the tech, shesaid, “I wish!”

When the tech ushered us intoa changing room (first alarm bell went off in my head—why was I changing?) andbegan firing questions at me, all that hard-won assurance flew out the window. “CouldI stand for ten minutes?” Yes, if I had something to hold on to. Could I lie onmy stomach? Yes, I suppose so. Could I drink on my stomach? If there was astraw. She kept saying during the questions things like, “The doctor is notgoing to like this, or “The doctor can stop it at any time.” Jordan encouragedme not to back out after we’ve anticipated this for so long.

We went into the room with themachine, and I visibly paled. It was a flat, upright panel to which the techattached two handles for me to hold on to. I would have to hold on with onehand and take a drink with the other. Not sounding good. Then it turned outwith me standing flat against it, the table would slowly move into a horizontalposition—and then minutes later back up to standing. I’ve got enough phobiasthat gave me real qualms. The tech disappeared, saying she would talk to thedoctor. By this time, I was envisioning an ogre of a man, quick to anger.

He emerged from wherever, aperfectly nice, reasonable man. He asked questions, we chatted, and when heasked if I wanted to cancel, I said “Yes.” But then he said, “Let’s trysomething. Let’s see if we can lower the camera enough to do the studies with youseated.” And that’s what he did—me in my transport chair, which he twisted andturned to get the views he wanted. And the stuff to drink? Not great, but notthat bad. I got it all down, and it was only two or three sips of each kind ofcontrast medium. He was emphatic that he could not see nor study the esophagus,but we were both quite sure the problem is in my throat. And it is: hepinpointed it and recommended further studies.

But what I saw in thisphysician was adaptability—and I think that’s rare in most medical officestoday. He was willing to adjust his methods to meet my needs, and in the end, wegot what we wanted—an informative set of x-rays. I thanked both him and thetech profusely as we left. And I, who often long for the olden, golden days ofmedicine, was comforted.

I wish my brother were here.He’d love this story. That was the kind of medicine he practiced—people-oriented.

 

Big doings and lots of rain

 

Colman and Marge and their daughter, Eva.
Jacob, Jordan, and Christian
Big doings around our housethis weekend. Yesterday, close friends of Jordan and Christian gave a mid-day celebrationfor Jacob and one other graduate, Eva, whom he’s known almost this entire life.In fact—shhh! Don’t say I told you!—they used to bathe together. As they wentto separate schools they saw less of each other over the years, but they werealways together for Easter Egg Hunts and brunch at my house, a tradition thatcontinues to this day, except for the egg-hunting part. Now, by serendipity theyare both off to the University of Arkansas where, for a brief time, it evenlooked like they might end up on the same floor in one dormitory—I’m not surehow that worked out.

The pictures and reports fromthe brunch were wonderful. It was apparently a gala, happy affair. I was feeling a bit under the weather and decided tostay home, so I was sorry to miss all the gaiety, but as Jacob assured metoday, there will be other opportunities to celebrate. Meanwhile I enjoyed a  quiet day alone at home, with Benji forcompany—slept a lot, ate very carefully, and felt better than I had toward theend of the week. Now I guess I’ve got my groove back. A medical appointmentlooms Tuesday which I’m dreading a bit, but which should provide somereassuring answers.

Jordan and Christian wentstraight from the graduation celebration to a huge Kentucky Derby Party, givenas a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society. Christian is once againco-chair of the annual Cowtown Ball, a major fundraiser (it’s his fourth orfifth year so I think, despite protestations, he likes doing it). Yesterday’s Derbyparty was a fundraiser for the Cowtown Ball, so both he and Jordan were heavilyinvolved. They report it was a success, with about 150 people gathered to watchthe run for the roses.

I am not a horse racing funand am of fact in the school that thinks it’s cruel to push horses to theirextreme limit – the 2023 Derby was run in the middle of a disastrous two-week periodmarked by multiple race-track horse deaths. This year, however, the 250thrunning of the race, went off smoothly. I do like to watch the parade of horsesto the gate, though I never pick a favorite. I was surprised to learn thatseveral friends “research” the horses before the race. Whether or not they placedbets, and whether or not they won anything, I don’t know. The actual race goesby so fast I can never tell who’s winning.

Because I’m kind of a nut fortraditions and ceremonies, I always like the award presentation ceremony withthe wreath of roses around the horse’s neck, but I am annoyed by all thefolderol and filling of time between the race and the ceremony. This year, Ihad the TV on but only glanced at it from time to time—and must have missed theceremony. After more than an hour of commercials and other stuff, I turned itoff.

Nobody will be surprised thatthe food traditionally associated with the Derby interests me. I almost neverdrink hard liquor (wine is my choice) but I do love a good bourbon, soyesterday I had a bit of longing for a mint julep. I remember once going to aderby party years ago, drinking two mint juleps, and being home in bed by six o’clock,so it was perhaps best I didn’t have the makings. I’ve made Kentucky Hot Brownsandwiches for the family, and we liked them a lot—I may do it again soon. Andpecan pie with bourbon is not to be missed. Pimiento cheese tea sandwiches anddevilled eggs sound pretty good too. Then there’s something called aBenedictine spread—cream cheese, sour cream, green onions, and cucumber. I’mgoing to have to try that soon. Meantime, with all that glorious food, I washome eating a baked egg with toast and cheese!

Seems every morning latelyBenji and I have awakened to a wet world. For different reasons, we both loveit. He is not at all afraid of storms, and he loves to dig in the mud—to my dismaywhen he comes in and jumps on my upholstered furniture.  I enjoy a rainy day and am particularlygrateful for the sake of our gardens. My cosmos and coreopsis get beaten downwith all this heavy rain. Even the oak leaf hydrangea bends under the pounding.They work their way back up but never quite as tall and upright. It’s okay—comelate July, we’ll be so grateful for whatever moisture remains in the ground.

I’m going to spend thisevening reading a book I just started: The Paris Novel, by food criticRuth Reichl. So far, it fulfills its promise of lush Paris scenes, oddcharacters, and lots of French food. I’ll feel Irene looking over my shoulder.

Hope the upcoming week is goodto everyone.

An invitation I’d love and trying to sort things out

 

Image courtesy Freekpik.com
 

I keep seeing Facebook postsurging me to apply to have ice cream at Rehoboth Beach with Uncle Joe andJill—now there’s an invitation I’d love to get. IF I hadn’t vowed I’m not goingto fly any more, and IF I were sure I would be absolutely tongue-tied if I everreally met them. I have a fondness for beaches, and they sound like such nice,genuine people—they love dogs, don’t they? The invitation to the Chicagoconvention doesn’t intrigue me—I remember too clearly, as a Chicago native, theDemocratic convention of 1968, and it sounds like crowds and possible violenceand noise—and everything I don’t want now. But a barefoot walk in the sand withUncle Joe? So enticing. (Never mind that my walker would not do well on abeach!)

The continuing coverage of thestudent protests and law enforcement response overshadows what should be thecenter of the story—ongoing negotiations between Zionists and Hamas. Efforts inthis country, especially the GOP bill that seems to outlaw anti-semitism andcurb free speech and serve as a redundant repetition of laws already on thebooks, only serve to make matters more cloudy. If nothing else, I have beentrying to figure it out in my own mind. Here’s what I’ve thought, sort of:Israel has every right to their territory (I’m not sure about the Palestinianland which they keep absorbing). The US recognizes Israel and that’s rightbecause it is an established legitimate government. We do not recognizePalestine because Hamas, a terrorist organization, is in charge. We supportIsrael in its attempts to recover hostages (many of whom have died incaptivity) and to eradicate Hamas—but we should not support the genocide of anentire people, and despite denials that seems to be Netanyahu’s final goal.It’s a fine line that President Biden and Secretary Blinken are trying hard towalk.

Look at the statistics: 1200Israelis died or were taken hostage on October 7 (estimate down from 1400).Many died horrific, excruciating deaths, and there is no denying the brutalityof Hamas, the absolute disregard for human life. But balance that against35,000 Palestinians who have died since, including 13,000 children. We have noidea how many Hamas are included in that number, but the victims wereinevitably mostly innocent civilians—especially the children. I know war anddeath have no balance sheets—you can’t claim, “You killed this many of mypeople, so I will kill twice that many of yours.” But still it seems out ofproportion to me—overkill, if you’ll allow a bad pun about an awful situation.

One thing no one talks aboutis that if you look at a map of the Arab world, Israel is but a tiny dot in avast sea of Arab countries. I would think that would make them more inclinedtoward negotiation than force, knowing that the entire Arab world could rise upagainst them. I think the US is an enormous stabilizing force in that regard,but Netanyahu does not seem inclined to listen to US advice that doesn’t go hisway.

So the student protests? Howdo they fit in? The first thing that comes to my mind is that our country isquick to forget lessons learned. Someone pointed out to me that today’s leaderswere mere children in the sixties, and the Vietnam protests didn’t registerwith them. Greg Abbott, for instance, was twelve years old when troops shotKent State students. But he could read history, couldn’t he? Today’s situationis proof of that old saying, “Those who don’t know history are doomed to repeatits mistakes.” I am terrified that we are headed toward another Kent State typeof tragedy. I know there is a lot of bitter anger on both sides, but I havealso read that Palestinian and Israeli student groups have been meetingtogether on some campuses. And I know a few university administrations havereached out to students, invited them to talk. So much more reasonable thancalling out troops in riot gear. The riot troops signify, to me, theconversative mindset: force, not reason.

A gentleman has postedelsewhere on my wall giving a reasoned history of Israel and why it must defenditself—cold hard facts, historical dates, reason. But what is missing iscompassion. He keeps asking me in negotiation what I would suggest Israel giveup to Hamas. I have no idea. I am not a schooled diplomat. But I know this—forHamas/Israel negotiations, for the student protests, for most of the crises lifefaces us with: sitting down together at a table and talking is the solution.Not knee-jerk violence and punishment. We want to prevent more violence, notencourage it.

There are a lot of memesonline about love and faith and one universal god—you and I dismiss most ofthem as trite and hackneyed and rightly so. But there is one thought I thinkworth repeating: we are all one people. We are all walking each other home—Jew,Arab, Christian, whoever. Humanity is or should be a lot bigger than religiousor cultural lines.

When my children's half-sister was in high school, she signed up to work at a camp in Colorado that brought together Jewish and Palestinian women for conversation. One of her distant relatives said to her, "You can't do that! You're Jewish!" (She was half Jewish and not observant.) I thought that was such a negative incident that I've carried it in my heart for years.

Now about that ice cream … thethought takes me back to the Indiana Dunes of my childhood. Maybe Uncle Joe andJill will join me there, in my I imagination. And we will have kind, caringconversations, with our dogs at our feet. Maybe I’ll blog about the Dunes soon.

Happy May Day, a baby tarantula, and a fascinating garbage can—just another day at the cottage

Here you go--an AI image, courtesy Freepik.com
Happy May Day! Have you everdanced around a maypole? I picture young girls in Scandinavian costumes merrilytwining colorful ribbons around a tall pole. I’m told in real life it isneither that colorful nor that easy—it takes practice and skill to turn out abeautiful pole and not just a tangle of ribbons. Thanks to author and botanistSusan Tweit for reminding me May Day is also Beltane on the Celtic calendar, aday for celebrating the high peak of spring when things are greening andgrowing and our world is turning toward summer, a long day as we stretch towardthose lovely summer evenings. I for one love daylight savings time and will becrushed if it is ever done away with. I love long, light evenings and dislikethose shortened days when winter closes you in darkness as early as four orfive in the afternoon. So go celebrate Beltrane and dance around your ownimaginary maypole.

An ordinary, dull day at thecottage, but Jacob provided a bit of excitement. Jordan and I were watching thenews and having a bit of wine when he came running out looking frazzled andsaid, “There’s a huge problem.” In literal terms, it turned out not to be hugebut rather small—he’d found a baby tarantula in his bed. Mother and son toreout of here like the house was on fire, with me futilely calling after them, “Theydon’t bite.” I was so afraid in their panic they would smush the poor baby. Jordanis quite squeamish about bugs and critters, and she’s pretty much passed that onto Jacob. To my relief the tarantula was on a shirt, and they simply folded theshirt around it and rushed it outdoors. Score one for Mother Nature1\

I was reminded of the welcomingceremony for my youngest son Jamie—because my husband was Jewish and IProtestant, our children were welcomed into the concerned community at aUnitarian church. When it was Jamie’s turn, a friend brought him a gift—a livetarantula in what I think was a cottage cheese container. If I remembercorrectly, the creature went to Colorado on a plane with my sister-in-law’sbrother. And that wasn’t the most unusual welcoming ceremony: at another, Ithink for Megan, when parents were asked to bring their children to the front,a man brought his dog. The minister didn’t know what to do, so he simply askedthe man, as he had asked other parents, “How do you call your dog?” Substitutingdog for child was his only concession to the strange request. My brother lovedto tell that story.

Benji has a new fascination—themotion-activate automatic garbage can. He will stand and stare at it, waitingfor action, for hours. Once or twice he has gotten his nose close enough to thesensor that he has triggered it open—his nose is just the right height. Then hejumps back in alarm. Sometimes when I am cooking, I am tempted to open it justto give him a thrill.

I am disturbed these days bythe protests—and the official reaction to them—on campuses across the country.Tonight I worry particularly about UCLA because I have a granddaughter there. Iremember the sixties and Kent State too clearly. Instead of a knee-jerkreaction with law enforcement in riot gear, I think university officials shouldmeet with protest leaders, listen to them. I read an eloquent statement by aJewish student from New York who said pro-Palestinian and pro-Israel groups wereworking together, trying to find common ground. Why can’t the so-calledgrown-ups do this too? I have not read of much violence on protestors part, thoughthere has been some, but I have read of at least two faculty members  badly injured by those heavily armed troops.And I think that’s a crying shame in America. There is another side to thestory: Senator John Cornyn of Texas said today that a high percentage of thosearrested at  UT/Austin had no connectionto the university. If Cornyn is correct—he’s not one of my favorite people, soI’m not sure I always trust him—that means outside agitators are stirring upthe trouble on campuses. Even so, I think administrations should meet withstudent leaders and listen and negotiate. As bombs rain down on Palestinianswho have taken refuge, as told to, in Rafah, How do you tall people to takerefuge somewhere and then bomb that place and threaten to send troops in? I amnot at all certain of the US position of absolute support for Netanyahu.Israel? Yes. Netanyahu and Zionism, not so much.

May we find peace in our time,but not at the cost of liberty or democracy!

Life goes on

 

Benji resting by my desk
If you asked me how I feeltoday, I would probably say sluggish. Maybe tired. I have bouts of energy andthen periods of fatigue. I tell myself I’ve had two major blows within a littleover a month—the loss of my only brother and last blood relative and the lossof the dog I’d loved for almost thirteen years. It’s neither sacrilegious norsilly to say that I am not weighing one against the other—both have been realblows. Most of my life I have been known for a sort of “carry on no matter what”attitude—that’s gotten me into trouble when I ignored some physical symptomsuntil they became major problems. I think maybe this time I am listening to mybody. I sleep well part of the night and then toss and turn, but boy do I sleepsoundly at naptime. I’ve been taking two naps—my usual afternoon one (I slepttwo and a half hours today) and another about 8:30 or 9:00 at night, afterwhich I get up and work. It’s a schedule that seems to suit me for now. Acouple of small medical problems are not helping my frame of mind—the malignantplace on my scalp is healing and itches like fury, but of course I can’tscratch, I am hoping next week I’ll hear that I can stop putting Vaseline on it—whowants Vaseline combed into their hair? But I have weeks to go with the medicinethat is intended to stimulate the immune system and kill cancer cells—and it isthe real cause of the itching storm. Also next week, I have a swallow testwhich I dread less because I’m worried about the outcome than because I amworried about swallowing the barium. I’m sure they have techniques for helpingqueasy people, and I tell myself it will be over quickly. But it looms. So that’smy sad story.

On the positive side, todaymarks one week that Benji has been with us, and he’s done a remarkable job of adjusting.So, I would modestly say, have I. This week he is apparently feeling enough athome to be a bit naughty—yesterday morning I found one of my shoes in the doorwayto the patio. I showed it to him while repeating “No!” in the sternest tone Icould muster. He looked appropriately chastised, whatever that means. A fewminutes later, Jordan came in carrying the other shoe which she had found inthe back yard. Since my hip surgery and broken ankle, my feet are so fat andswollen that I don’t have the usual wardrobe of shoes—this was my only pair ofblack. Stretchy, wide, easy to get on. I am keeping the closet door closed. Ialso caught Benji digging at the base of one of my new plants of muhly grass,and that’s got to be a no-no. He frolics among the grass, and I tap on the windoweach time and call his name. He’s so good he comes running to see if I reallywant him.

But he does not beg for food,even when we have appetizers on the coffee table—Sophie would have decimatedthat in nothing flat. And he puts himself to bed in his crate about ten o’clock,and stays there quietly until I get up, usually about eight in the morning. He’sresponsive to his name and seems eager to please. When he’s outside, hefrequently comes to the doorway to check on me. And, though he is right nowbarking, he’s toned that down a lot. With his wild energy, he is like having ateenager in the house—you know if you can just wait through this period, there’sa great person in there. Adjustment is a slow process for both of us, and Benjiis distracted by all the people who love and fuss over him bigtime—and then goaway. I’m here for the 24-hour long haul. He  seems to understand that—he follows me to thebathroom, lies by my desk at night when I’m working. He’s going to be a gooddog.

I had a spectacular kitchenfail last night that was also a great learning lesson. It taught me how to makea good red wine sauce for hamburger steak, and it also taught me a lesson Ishould know: don’t multi-task when cooking. I was making sirloin patties withred wine sauce, but I was also trying to finish up some computer work. And Iwanted to make sure Jordan’s pattie was not pink in the middle, because shedoes not like pink meat. So I let the patties brown too long, but gosh they hada nice crisp crust! Then the wine reduced about three times as fast as usual—itusually takes forever, especially if you watch it, but this time, I turned myback. Added the beef broth and it did the same thing, so by the time we served,there was little sauce. And the patties were surely not pink in the middle.Christian’s mom liked meat cooked to a fare-thee-well, so he once told me hersalmon patties were like hockey pucks. He could have said the same thing aboutmy patties last night, though he kept reassuring me they had a great flavor. Itried to steam one for lunch today and threw it out. I swear I’m going to tryagain next week—if I get it right, I’ll share what I did.

I have had my evening nap, andI’m feeling better, over my pity party. When I was young, my mom had migrainesand would take to her bed for a day. But never longer. So I learned to say, “She’llbe all right tomorrow,” if someone asked about her. So that’s my motto tonight:I’ll be all right tomorrow. Thanks for letting me whine. Good night, you all.Good night, Benji!