Judy Alter's Blog, page 22

Happy Weekend

 

This is why I am not blogging this weekend.
Have a great one, everybody!

Confusion—and a new phone

 

I really miss the days of the littles.
Why is nothing ever simple? Christianfound time today to go get me a new phone. Of course, he ran into troublebecause he wasn’t listed on my account, but they finally agreed to deal withhim since he had the password and all. Next, the old phone had no value.Meantime, my computer reminded me that Rosa was coming to cut my hair at two o’clock.I hadn’t heard from her in the weeks since we made that appointment, so Ireached for my phone to call and confirm. Oops! No phone. Rosa meantime was textingto tell me she’d be late. So Christian was trying to read her text, email me,and get it all straightened out. He emailed me that she was coming, but whenshe hadn’t gotten here by two-thirty I decided she’d run into trouble of somekind and wasn’t coming. I was ready for a nap. Rosa meantime was texting thatthe gate was closed, and Christian was emailing to tell me to open the gate—it wasalready open, and I never did figure out what that was about.

Long story short: tonight Ihave a new haircut and a new phone. I’m not sure if Christian has linked thehearing aids to the hone or not—that was the whole point of this. And some appshaven’t downloaded yet, though I suspect they are apps that we recentlyeliminated. I had a whole lot of junk on there I never use.

Next confusion: Subie and Philarrived for happy hour earlier than I thought they were coming, so I was scramblingto get out appetizers. And Sophie decided if there was company, it must be timefor her supper—and began to bark incessantly. Phil has recently developed areal sensitivity to her barking, so I was trying to quiet her, fix the food,serve the appetizers, and hang on to my own sanity. Yes, she is spoiled. Jordanwalked into the middle of all that and began to talk about multitasking. Iconsidered smacking her.

We have discovered a new bitof Sophie magic. She is bad about barking when there is company. It’s partly toget attention, but she also wants treats. I maintain she has learned that if shebarks, she gets a treat to quiet her—I attribute this partly to Jordan whothreatens to leave if the barking continues, a threat Phil now echoes. Imaintain I can’t keep giving her treats. Ever since her diagnosis of diabetes, Sophieis ravenous all the time and that’s not her fault, not anything to scold herfor—Jean tells me it’s that infinitesimal bit of prednisone she takes daily. Byaccident one night recently, I discovered that when she’s in a barking spell,if I put her leash on her, she settles down and is fairly docile. So I did thattonight, and she spent a bit of time curled up on the sofa next to Subie.Meanwhile, Phil’s seeing-eye dog wanted to stay in the yard, wouldn’t come in.Jordan’s theory was that he was on a work break. Christian tried to entice himin and said the dog looked at him like, “I don’t have to mind you.” When Philcalled him, he came right in.

In other news around thecottage, Jacob has been playing in a golf tournament this week. Monday, his teetime was early which was a blessing, but today it was eleven o’clock whichwould put him on the course in the hottest part of the day. His whole teamwithdrew from the tournament. Good for them! I know the tournament was probablyscheduled long before this unbearable heat was on the horizon, but one wondersthat the entire thing wasn’t cancelled Monday.

I read tonight that a coolfront will arrive Friday evening. It didn’t say how cool but indicatedtemperatures would be close to normal. That sounds like a relief to me. Andperfect timing. The whole family is arriving Friday, and there will be fifteenof us for dinner on the patio at Joe T.’s. Pray any possible thunderstorms holdoff. I am as one would expect greatly excited about having all of us together—wewill be missing Maddie, the oldest grandchild, who couldn’t get off work becauseshe had just taken time off to go to Italy for a wedding. I can understand herpriorities but am really sorry she won’t be with us. It will still be aglorious occasion.

The grands are all big now,with the youngest at sixteen and the oldest, twenty-three. I do miss the dayswhen we had all those littles around us, as the picture above testifies. Itpopped up on my computer this morning, and I remember distinctly it was amid-summer get-together when the Burtons lived on Mesa Drive and had a lovely,kid-friendly backyard—must have been about 2008. When the grands were littleand I lived in the main house, I could sleep everyone here (except the Burtonswho had their own house nearby), what with the cottage, which was then a guestapartment, the playroom in the back of the house, and a proper guest room. Nowthey will scatter to motels and getting them back together in the morning willbe like herding cats. But we will have a wonderful weekend.

Oops. I just looked up thatcool front—Saturday the temperature will be in the high nineties and then backup over a hundred. One relatively hot day, as compared to blisteringly hot, isnot much relief. Stay cool folks and drink that water.

 

 

Finding footing in a shifting landscape

 

As some of you may be aware, I’vebeen sort of floundering lately. For a while, I called it the doldrums, but I’mnot sure that’s the right term. And I’m really not sure what’s going on, but Iknow that I am searching, seeking, trying to be patient until all things comefull circle. I think what feels like a shifting landscape to me results fromaging, which brings with it the recognition that my career as an author iswinding down. Oh I still want to write, but the passion isn’t as strong as it oncewas. On the other hand, I’ve begun to realize that some of what I write isirrelevant in this fraught world, perhaps light and entertaining but withoutsignificance.

In trying to work myself outof this swamp, I’ve come up with several ideas and sort of carried them toextreme. I was finally going to write that memoir, this one dealing with thelast seven years when I have lived in the cottage. With pandemic and the false claimsthat the 2020 election was stolen, it’s been a fraught time. For me,personally, it’s been a time of change, much of it overdue, some of it relatedto aging, most of it making me happy. I want to explore that, so I announced tothe world I was writing a memoir, having learned, belatedly, the differencebetween autobiography and memoir.

Then I got sidetracked, hadsome “inspired” (well, maybe) thoughts on a fifth book in my Irene in ChicagoCulinary Mysteries. So I burrowed down that rabbit hole for a while, until Ifound what I thought was a clear road ahead was actually hidden in a fog.

Now I have yet another newidea—you know, don’t you, about those people who always have a “million-dollaridea” and then nothing comes of it? I’m afraid of sounding like that, so I’mnot sharing the new idea I’m exploring. But the fact that I have several,varied ideas indicates how shifting and unstable the land is.

Today, though, I had an ego boostI hadn’t anticipated. I had asked Colin, my accountant son, to see if he could findlifetime sales numbers on the books I had sold through Amazon. He sent me somesurprising numbers that while not indicative of a best-selling title anywherewere evidence that I’ve had a successful career as an author. My ego is happy,if not my pocketbook.

One thing that struck me isthat I sold more books prior to retirement than before. A couple ofexplanations may follow: most of the books I’ve published since retirement areindie published mysteries, and I suffer from the lack of marketing skills andmoney that comes with traditional publishing—granted that source has shrunk inrecent years, but I maintain it makes a significant difference for most of us.And there are always the possibilities that my writing is not as good or thesubjects of my books not as compelling. All of that is part of the shiftinglandscape, which viewed from that vantage may have to do with the enormouschanges in the publishing world.

I’m not complaining. I’ve hada good run, with lots of nice five-star reviews, flattering reviews in goodplaces (okay, I made the New York Times once) and personal comments thatI treasure. I don’t have any statistics, but I suspect I’ve had a career—withmore awards and honors—than most authors have a right to expect. It’s just thatmost of that came over twenty years ago when I was writing about women in theAmerican West. Maybe there’s a landscape hint there.

The here and now is much moreon my mind than the cause and effect of my record as an author, and I hope forthe time being I can explore a new idea while keeping it under wraps.

I will indulge in one statisticalbrag: Mattie, my first novel for adults and the one that won me a SpurAward from Western Writers of America, has lifetime sales of over 91K. For sometime, it sold on Amazon for ninety-nine cents, and there may be a marketing lessonin that. These days, Mattie is only available in print from TwoDot.Believe me, none of my other works come anywhere near that record. But it’s anice thought for me to sleep on tonight.

What’s on your reading list?Please go buy a banned book, read it, and write a glowing review.

Keep a cheerful heart

 

Tuna and rice bowl with furikake
All hidden under wonderful crisp watercress.
With all that’s wrong with ourworld, from the suddenly very frightening increase in climate change to Russia’scontinuing aggression in Ukraine to the divisive political situation in ourcountry and the crazies who are trying to run things, you’d think we don’t needanything more to worry about. Especially those of us who are in the third stageof life and hoping for a lot of peace and quiet, good times with the worries ofthe world behind us. It is not to be so.

My mom lived into her late eighties(since I’m approaching her years, I take heart from that). But I remember hersaying to me that the trouble with living so long was that all your friendswere gone. I can count many people, once big parts of my life, who have passedon, and I miss them. But lately my thoughts are less on those who died thanthose with serious health problems that cause me to worry about them a greatdeal. Right now I can count two broken shoulders, three serious falls (when Isaid that Jordan added two more older relatives of a friend who had both justtaken bad falls), two cases of dizziness, a hip replacement in recovery, a caseof unexplained weakness. It’s tempting to say none of these are life-threatening,but the truth is when you get to your eighties, anything can be life threatening.In recent months, for instance, I have learned how serious—and sometime fatal—aUTI is. They call pneumonia “the old man’s friend” for obvious reasons, but itseems to me that any number of conditions can fit that moniker.

And when physical problems hitus elderly—there, I said the word! —they seem to hit in clusters. An email frommy best friend in high school and beyond tells me she fell, broke her shoulder,came home, and began experiencing dizzy spells to the point she couldn’tnavigate in her own house alone. I am glad to report that she is better. My ownbrother a while back was in rehab after surgery on a knee, caught Covid, followedby pneumonia, followed by am array of ills including dizziness when he stood. Iam so happy to report that he too seems to be doing better but it is after along spell of being bedridden.

It’s as though there’s amonster out there, lurking, waiting for that one sign of weakness, which willbe a signal to attack with an array of problems. I guess our option is to votefor health, watch for tiny symptoms before they turn into big problems, andkeep a cheerful heart. Proverbs 17:22 tells us, “A cheerful heart is goodmedicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.” It’s a philosophy I try tolive by, but I think no matter how hard we try, each of us falls off thatcheerful wagon from time to time.

I did have a healthy, cheerfuldinner guest tonight. My friend, Mary V., who is a retired political science professor.We get into spirited political discussions, but of course we are both on almostthe same page—I am a bit more enthusiastic about another term for Biden thanshe is, but she agrees that he has done remarkable things and that hisexpertise particularly on the international front is amazing. She is one of myfriends who scorns Facebook—how I wish I could tell them to pick and choose andtake advantage of the good stuff and the fun stuff! Anyway I was able toenlighten her on a couple of things I saw: one was a new name for Moms forLiberty (forgive my language): Assholes with casseroles! The other was JamesComer’s whistleblower—the MAGA chair of the Oversight Committee has beencrowing about a witness who would totally unmask the Biden crime family. Turnsout the guy has been indicted on several counts, including acting as anunregistered foreign agent for China, and has skipped bail and is now a fugitiveat large. I do love it when these out-of-control Republicans end with egg ontheir face.

Another experimental dinnertonight. Mary is one of the people for whom I can try out new things, and sheinevitably likes them. Tonight was a rice bowl with tuna, flavored with soy andsesame oil and sparked up with watercress and furikake, a Japanese seasoningmade with dried seaweed, dried fish, dried herbs, etc. I didn’t taste it much,but it did make the dish look pretty.

Now it’s late, I’ve been workingon my neighborhood newsletter, and I’m ready to close out the day by reading abit.

Sweet dreams to all, and staycool, drink water, keep a cheerful heart—please! I already have enough peopleto worry about.

Some days turn out just fine

 

Even images of rain make us feel better
during this awful hot spell.
The real thing was a blessing today.

If things went amuckyesterday, today turned out just fine. In the midst of the horrendous heatspell we’ve been living under, who can complain about temperatures in theeighties and a thunderstorm, however brief. This morning I gave in to the urgeto keep going back to sleep every time Sophie wakened me. So we were up atsix-fifteen for a trip outside and a bite of cheese; at seven-fifteen for ahalf breakfast; at eight-fifteen for the other half of breakfast. Finally whenChristian came at nine-fifteen to give her a shot, I forced myself out of bed.But I don’t think my conversation with him made much sense. I should explain Sophieneeds an insulin shot, morning and night, within a half hour to an hour aftershe eats—not before those time limits, not after. With the kids giving theshots, it’s been a real problem. They don’t really want to get up at quarter toeight on the weekend to give her a shot. So every weekend it a new adventure—thisone went pretty well.

The morning was dark andpretty soon I heard thunder. Next thing I noticed was that Sophie would notleave my side. I nearly tripped over her trying to use the bathroom. The rainwhen it came was glorious, but too short. Still better than nothing, and I amgrateful, as are we all.

Christian and I discussed dinneroptions, and he chose steak and asparagus, which he would grill in his new,round grilling baskets. That left me a whole day with no cooking, nothing on myschedule except church. I tuned in at eleven as I always do, but it was specialbecause this was the third Sunday my good friend Renee Hoke was preaching aboutkeeping sabbath. And there in the front row were my Canadian daughter, Sue, herhusband Teddy, and their neighbor Sally. They are all Renee’s neighbors, and I knowshe was pleased to see them in the congregation. Christian and I had goodintentions, but they fell apart. I “went to church” on my computer.

The rest of the day I took toheart Renee’s advice in last week’s sermon to make the sabbath a day of rest. Ipiddled, prowled on Facebook far too long, dipped my toe into a couple of newbooks, read emails, and can say the only constructive thing I did was to comeup with a title for the cookbook I’m thinking of doing: Cooking in the Cottage.I like the ring of it. My food blog, Gourmet on a Hot Plate, which appears onThursdays, has a good audience, and I want to compile select columns into akind of informal cookbook—as much conversation as it is recipes. I’m thinkingof odd possibilities—like a grilling chapter from Christian, and maybesomething for non-cooks. All loose ideas floating around in my brain.

There’s not much better than asteak and asparagus dinner from the grill, and Christian as usual did a masterfuljob. I’m not much of a steak person—can’t remember having it as a child, so I’monly now in old age learning about cuts, etc. But I had seen top sirloin onsale and asked Christian, and he said to get it. So that’s what we had. More recentlyI found ribeye on sale, two for one, and ordered it, because I know I like thefatty marbling of a ribeye. But tonight’s dinner was really good, and we had apleasant chat. I so enjoy our dinners in the cottage. And most of the time Ienjoy cooking them, but it’s nice to have a night off sometimes.

So there it was—a day of rest.And I enjoyed it thoroughly. Tomorrow I must get serious if I’m going to dothat cookbook. But today was a good day. I hope yours was too.

 

 

A day gone amuck chases away the doldrums

 

If a day could go amuck, this one did. I could have happilylingered in bed this morning. Sophie was asleep and not desperate for food, andI was comfortable, trying to recapture a pleasant dream. But I had things to do—grocerieswould be delivered at ten, company was coming for happy hour and supper. Andthere was a to-do list on my desk.

Along about nine-thirty I realized I’d never gotten aconfirmation from Central Market nor the cheery email which says, “We’reworking on it.” Checked my computer and twenty-seven items were still in my cart.Rescheduled the order for late afternoon.

Then Jean emailed that she had picked up some kind of bugand would not be leaving her apartment today. I was sorry but of coursegrateful she didn’t bring us whatever it was. Then the happy hour guestscancelled—a long story, but it meant I had to quick cancel one errand I’d askedChristian to include on his morning run.

And finally, Jordan came out and said she and Christian hadn’tcommunicated well and they wouldn’t be eating with me tonight because goodfriends were having a birthday dinner party for their daughters. There went myplans for good appetizers and crab nachos for supper. I hastily refroze thecrab. Maybe we’ll have it tomorrow, maybe we won’t. I should learn that I amalone in my compulsion to plan ahead!

So what do you do when you’re home alone for dinner on Saturdaynight? You fix a cold salad plate with a small can of salmon. And use some ofthat huge container of guacamole I ordered this morning.

And so is the fact that I wrote 800 words this morning, maydo more tonight. I’m not sure if the day going amuck chased away the doldrumsor not, but I wrote those words in less than an hour. Of course, I’ve notre-read them. They may all need to be deleted, but for the time they moved thestory ahead.

I’ve been thinking a lot about writing today, and I’vedecided I’m a bit defensive about my writing. On a small writers’ listserv thatI really value there’s been a thread about magical realism, one of thoseliterary terms I never can quite grasp (I don’t think anyone talked about itwhen I was in grad school). A couple of posts really helped me grasp it,especially one linking the movement to the spirit world of Latina culture andciting Gabriel Garcia Marquez. So this morning I was all primed to enter my twocents worth, as the author of cozy mysteries, but overnight the thread hadtaken a deep turn into mythology, Greek and Norse and other, and Jungianarchetypes and the like. Here’s a confession: that stuff is too deep for me.

I may have dealt more seriously with history when I waswriting about women of the American West, but these days I am a storyteller. Iwrite to give readers a good story, something to engage, amuse, puzzle them,and something to distract them briefly from the daily grind. Entertainmentwriting. I make no claim to plumbing the depths of the human psyche or tracingthe origins of certain behaviors, or changing a reader’s life. That is not tosay that a good mystery can’t weave in elements of the spirit life or insightsinto humanity—it should, but that’s not the reason for the story.

Right now I’m reading an older Murder, She Wrote, subtitledHighland Fling. I picked it up because of the Scottish setting. Turnsout the setting involves a lot about the history and punishment of witches inScotland—surely an element of the spiritual life (if a negative one) and mythologyof its own, when you think back to the sixteenth century and the brutalpunishments inflicted on suspected witches (specifically in this book, apitchfork through the heart and a cross carved into the throat—pretty brutalfor a Jessica Fletcher’s story). When a contemporary murder imitates that, Jessicamust find the villain (if you’ve read any of the books, you’ll know thepattern.) To me, it’s crackling good reading, with just enough history,Scottish culture and landscape, food and brogue to lighten the mystery, and it’sfun. When I finish this blog, I’ll go back to it.

One of my core beliefs is that we each must leave the worlda bit better than we found it, and sometimes that worries me in relation to mywriting. I think of it as light stuff, not world-changing, and maybe I shouldbe putting whatever skills I have to better use. My friend, Susan WittigAlbert, a prolific and popular writer, assures me that by bringing readerspleasure, I am contributing to the well-being of the world. Her China Baylesmysteries always have an underlying social theme, whereas my Irene stories don’t.But I’m working on that.

Enough rambling. I want my salmon supper and then I’llsettle down with Jessica. Wonder what tomorrow will bring?

Stay happy and cool. Sweet dreams.

 

The summer doldrums

 

A place where I can lost the summer doldrums
Colin's lake in Tomball. Note Sophie next to me. 
It’s hot, and I’m in thedoldrums. Or am I just lazy? Or is age creeping up on me? I have a friend,slightly younger than me, who says she no longer has the focus for longprojects--like novels--and she is considering other ways to keep writing. Maybethat’s what’s wrong with me, but Missing Irene, the fifth adventure formy diva chef, is dragging along. For a while, it was going great, and I couldsee the road ahead for some distance. But now it’s ground to a crawl, and theroad is murky. Oh, I know what’s going to happen, but I’m having troublegetting there. And I’ve only just begun.

I think if you’ve been writinglong enough, you know when your writing sings—and you know when it doesn’t.Years ago, my then-agent asked me to do a proposal for a publisher who wanted ayoung-adult book about a girl in the American West. I wrote what I thought wasan acceptable proposal and sent it off. It came back with one devastatingcomment from the publisher: “Frankly, we find Mrs. Alter’s writing pedestrian.”Pedestrian! What a devastating word! But it probably was spot on, and I wasyoung and green enough not to recognize it. But now, with a long career behindme—forty-plus years and over a hundred books of various types, plus articles,reviews, columns, etc.—I am very aware when my writing “feels” pedestrian. Andthat’s where I’ve been the last couple of days.

Lately on a writing listserv Ifollow, there’s been a thread about how to tell a budding author what’s wrongwith a manuscript, especially if everything’s wrong from syntax to plot to character.I remember once submitting a sixty-page manuscript, on assignment, to apamphlet series about western authors. It came back with the first twelve pagesso heavily edited I could hardly find my own words amidst the red pen notes. Itwas absolutely the best writing lesson I have ever had and much of it has stoodme in good stead over the years. So maybe that’s what I need now—a heavy redpencil.

I know the best thing to dowhen a project seems stalled is walk away from it and let it sit for days, evenweeks. Then go back to it with new eyes. But when I do that, I feel guilty fornot writing, even though I set my own deadlines. No one else is telling me I mustwrite a certain number of words a day or produce a finished manuscript by acertain date. It’s one of the big reasons I am an indie-published author.

I can put it aside because Ihave other interests and projects, principally cooking. With this hot weather,Jordan has challenged me to cook light meals, and I’ve been happy with myresults. Like the open-faced sandwich (see last night’s “Gourmet on a Hot Plate”)or the old-fashioned layer salad I made last night and had for lunch today (probablysee next Thursday’s “Gourmet on a Hot Plate”).

I so enjoy meal planning thatmy grocery bill is out of sight, but I have figured something out. I buygroceries for happy hour snacks (I limit happy hour these days to a few closefriends who I know haven’t been traveling—call me cautious, but the cases ofCovid I’ve known have almost all been people who’ve been traveling). And I buygroceries for dinner for the three of us—Jacob is now working at Joe T.s almostevery night, so I don’t figure him in. That’s a lot of groceries, betweenCentral Market and Albertson’s, but the thing I don’t do is go out to eat. Ifigure I save a whole bunch of money by cooking at home. Of course, because Iexperiment, I buy things I wouldn’t ordinarily, which increases my bill (I justordered furikake—look it up if you’re puzzled).

I’ve been thinking, while mynovel lingers in the doldrums, of doing another cookbook. I’ve learned a lot,found a lot of new dishes in the five years since Gourmet on a Hot Plate. AndI have a thick file now of what I call “keepers.” I’d love any feedback onwhether it would be a good idea or not to combine my food blogs into a book.

There’s one more thing thatkeeps me occupied, and that’s what I see as the state of our country and theneed to speak out. I could blog about that every night, but I figure I’d beginto sound shrill and would become one of those with lots of indignation and nosolutions. So I save such blogs for only occasionally, and only specific topicsI consider crucial—hard to define that because so many are crucial.

And that’s where I am in thedoldrums. I will appreciate any cheering words, advice, suggestions, jokes, andthe like. This too shall pass, and I know it, but friends are gootd to havewhen you’re in the doldrums.

And now, I’m off to read anold Jessica Fletcher mystery set in my heart’s country, Scotland. I missed itthe first time around. Stay cool.

Some days are discouraging

 

Tonight we brightened the endof the day with an open-faced roast beef sandwich with mayo/horseradish sauce,blue cheese, good peppery watercress, diced beets, and a bit of vinaigrette.Jordan added avocado. It was pretty and delicious, and the day neededbrightening, because I thought overall it was a discouraging day.

Some days I read the newsonline and hear it on TV, and I think the good guys are winning. Today was notone of those days. As we all know, this summer climate change has becomeuncomfortably real, and we read daily of heat domes and heat records set notjust in our Southwest but across the globe. It has made people more aware, butwill it have any effect on the politicians who cling to their profits fromfossil fuels?

I read today of somethingcalled legal vigilantism. Basically, if I understand it correctly, it empowersordinary citizens to enforce laws. The precedent is the Texas bill which allowscitizens to collect a reward for turning in people who have had or try to haveor arrange an abortion. It echoes the nineteenth century fugitive slave law,when citizens were rewarded for returning runaway slaves. Authoritarian leadersuse legal vigilantism to sow distrust and to use citizens against each other toenforce laws. Think Nazi Germany.

The Republican Party, once thedefenders of law and order and, above all, the military, are now attacking themilitary, the Department of Justice, and the FBI. Senator Tommy Turberville ofAlabama has put a hold on all military promotions until the military rescindsits policy of granting paid leave and providing transportation for travel, whentravel is necessary for an abortion. The result is crucial leadership posts areleft vacant, many officers are serving at the rank and pay below what they’veearned, morale is down, and some are leaving the military. Way to defend yourcountry, senator!

Much of this—the attacks onthe DOJ and FBI, etc.—is done with the unspoken goal of protecting trump whofaces ever-increasing legal woes, as well he should. None of it is done withthe idea of advancing or supporting America or its international position. MAGARepublicans, for instance, want to stop aid to Ukraine and may make that abargaining chip when the debt ceiling rolls around again. President Biden haswisely said that Ukraine should not be admitted to NATO until the current waris over, because such admission would put America at war with Russia. But hesends weapon and support to fight what could turn into Russia’s march acrossmuch of Europe. Do Republicans care? Apparently not many of them.

A couple of things baffle meabout this. I am reluctant to elieve that these people care nothing about theircountry. I understand that they don’t care about us as individuals. They aremore interested in their own greed and power than in equal opportunity,individual rights, and the like. They have made it plain with laws thatsuppress individual rights, from voting to abortion. But can they really wantto betray their country for the sake of one man who most believe is a crookwithout conscience, probably a traitor, certainly an unsavory, unreliableperson?

The other thing that puzzlesme is how many of these extremists who support trump are there? Some reliablearticles call if a fringe, but others point out that his rallies draw largecrowds and he is by a good margin the top-running candidate for the Republicannomination for president. Is it all blind, loyal followers or are there stillpoliticians who are afraid of his power, afraid to cross him? 

So I got to thinking todayabout what my ideal for our country and the world would look like. If I couldwave a magic wand today trump would be in prison, Abbott would no longer begovernor of Texas, and Biden would be a shoo-in for the presidency—yes, hemakes gaffes but overall his political wisdom and maneuverings amaze me. Russiawould be defeated, Ukraine would be rebuilding (Putin might even fall out of awindow). There would be no stockpile of lethal weapons in the world. Peoplewould drive electric cars recharged by solar and/or wind power. The EPA wouldhave limitless power to enforce laws to ensure clean air and water, ban foreverchemicals, and ensure the safety of our environment. That all surely won’thappen in my lifetime, but I welcome the small steps toward progress that Isee.

Today I read of two groupsthat give me a bit of hope—one, called Win It Back, is running anti-trump ads.The group is tied to the Koch network and is ultra-right. I probably wouldn’tlike many if any of them, but I applaud the ads. Much more to my liking is MamaBears, a group with international chapters, founded by a Christian Evangelisthousewife with the intent and purpose of supporting the LGBTQ community andseeing that LGBTQ citizens have all the rights and opportunities of everyoneelse. That lone woman demonstrates to me the power of one person’s voice andencourages all of us to be active citizens.

Okay, lecture over. Tomorrowmaybe a lighter subject—and a light dinner again. Tis summer after all, and tomorrow the news may be all good.

Assisted Living

       

No, I’m not moving to a facility!But I’ve been thinking a lot lately about independence, and I have a boldconfession: I could not at this point in my life live independently. Oh, I loveto tell people that I live alone and in some sense I do. I can live alone for,say, twenty-four hours or maybe a bit longer. But a week? Nah. Not comfortably.

This was driven home to melast week when both Jordan and Jacob were out of town. I thought it wasChristian and me, but I soon realized that it was Christian taking care of me.And that’s another thing—that word caretaker. I don’t like to think I need acaretaker—it sounds so helpless, so dependent. Jordan has long referred toherself as my caretaker, and she’s right. It’s “Can you get another roll oftoilet paper down from that high shelf?” “Can you put these cans up on the topshelf?” “See that shirt I got halfway down? I can’t get it the rest of the way.Could you get it for me.” “Would you get such-and-such at the grocery.” But I digress.

Last week, it seemed I had a crisisfor Christian every day—in just one day I needed wine, cheese slices forSophie, and Drano because my kitchen sink was stopped up. I’m sure anyone who’skept house knows what a pain that is—I could wash two or three dishes at atime, then let it drain, and move on to the next. I ate off paper plates andused the same spoon for everything. But Christian brought all three things Ineeded and handled my crises with grace. And that’s how my life is, because Idon’t drive any more, can’t reach things—there’s a whole lot I can’t do. But somebodydoes it for me. Yes, it makes me feel worthless in a way.

The other morning whenChristian came out to give Sophie her insulin shot, I said I had a new crisis.He didn’t exactly roll his eyes, but he may have hesitated a second. When Isaid I had dropped a roll of toilet paper behind the toilet and couldn’t reachit, he laughed and said, “That’s the kind of crisis I can handle easily.” But forme it was still really a crisis because I couldn’t reach it and my grabberwouldn’t get it.

So while I laugh and moanabout all my friends being in Trinity Terrace, I realize I am not eligible fortheir life. Because I need help. The alternatives are not pretty, and everytime I think about it I am doubly grateful to Jordan and Christian for makingthe life I lead possible.

Tonight we had guests forhappy hour—Subie and Phil and her sister Diana and her husband John. I hadfixed crab bites and baked goat cheese—two of my favorite appetizers—and theywere well received. But it kept Jordan busy—refilling wine glasses, heating morecrab bites. It seemed she was back and forth to the kitchen (a distance ofmaybe three feet) all evening. If she hadn’t been here, could I have done it?Of course, but it would have been more awkward and slower. Because she tookover, it was a seamless social occasion—and a rowdy, happy one full oflaughter.

But that is sort of the otherside of the coin. What I can do for myself and others is cook, and I do it alot. I fix dinner for four three or four nights a week—well, now that school’sout, make that dinner for three. Jacob is often out with his friends. But I canand do fix a wide array of meals—chicken hash, hamburger sliders, casserolesand salads that make a meal.  And manyexperimental meals—like this week, crab nachos maybe and open-raced beef and horseradishsandwiches. That, to me, sort of compensates for my dependence in other areasof life. It lets me contribute to the daily routine of living in what I havecome to think of as our compound.

Yes, I have the best of bothworlds—independence and caretakers. I know I am fortunate, and I am forevergrateful. Subie and Phil have just moved into Trinity Terrace, and when Iwhined about being the only one of my friends who does not live there, Subiesaid, “If I lived this close to Jordan and Christian, I wouldn’t be movingeither.”

The other thought thatlingers, fortunately only in the back of my mind, is that time’s winged chariotis always hurrying near (with apologies to playwright Michael Powell and hisplay, A Matter of Life and Death—I just learned something; I thoughtthat line came from Shakespeare or John Donne or one of the major English poetsof the Romantic period.) I don’t know how long I will be able to do the thingsI do now for myself. I find that so depressing that I refuse to think about it.But I suppose change comes slowly, and we adjust. Meantime, I intend to practicewhat independence I can to the hilt so that I don’t lose it. I want to stay inmy beloved cottage. Thinking ahead too far can be scary. I’ll live in themoment and enjoy it. Carpe diem!

Celebrating and thoughts on resting

 

Jamie, Jordan, and Sophie

It’s a big anniversary in thecottage tonight. Twelve years ago today Jordan, Jacob, and I along with all theFrisco Alters—Jamie, Mel, Maddie, and Eden—went to Safari Kennels outside McKinneyto look at labradoodle pups. The labradoodles, only six weeks and too young totake from their mom, were sleepy and a bit disappointing, but the kennel ownersaidMaddie and Sophie
she had one eight-week-old bordoodle (border collie/poodle) left. Sophiecame charging into the room, full of love and kisses and curiosity and mischiefand just plain joy in life. She was a wild puppy and still has her wildmoments, but she has brought all of us so much love and laughter. I’m so gladyou’re ours, sweet girl. After a close call this winter, she seems prettyfeisty for an “elderly” lady. Makes the two of us old ladies together.

On our way home
Everyone is back where theybelong. Jacob, home from two weeks at camp in Colorado, which he said wasawesome, and Jordan, home from several days in Key Largo at the home of theparents of one of her good friends. It’s good to have them home and be in ourroutine, although Christian and I (and the dogs) survived nicely. Christianwent over and above as a caretaker. I have mixed thoughts on caretaking butwill save them for another time, because once again this morning’s sermon is onmy mind.

Last week, Reverend Renee Hoketalked about the Sabbath and gave us one practice word for the week, “Delight.”We should delight in God’s presence in our lives, on the Sabbath and throughoutthe week. It involves, she said, detaching from the world around us, from theneed to take control. Her example? One was watching a hummng bird feed.

This week, the word was “Rest,”from the commandments and word that on the seventh day God rested. Rev. Hokepointed out that rest is not just sleeping. There are those moments during theday when we all need to unplug from what’s going on around us and in our lives.I am not good at unplugging, and that is sometimes a worry to me. My mind isalways restless. I don’t for instance, watch TV or listen to podcasts because Ineed the visual to keep my mind focused. I’ve been known to scroll throughemails while listening to something on the phone, and those “live chats” onlinewith their excruciating slowness are painful for me. A colleague once said tome, “Your motor is always running too fast.” I chastise myself for this,feeling it’s a character deficiency that I can’t, say, meditate for half anhour and keep my thoughts focused. Rev. Hoke talked about retreats she attendedwhere that was expected, and she stressed that it is hard work. I’m stillworking on it, still working on focused prayer.

But there is one way I can “rest.”When I was a kid, my family had a cabin, really rustic, on a high dune in Indiana,at the very foot of Lake Michigan. I liked nothing better than to watch a stormcome roaring down that lake, stirring up the lake into ferocious whitecaps.There was one spot, halfway up the dune, a small outcropping, where I would goand sit, my arm around the wild collie mix we had then. At sunset, if I lookedat just the right spot across the lake to the west, I could see the sun goingdown behind the buildings of Chicago, which looked like dots or at besttoothpicks. For most of my adult life, when I needed to unplug, that is where Iwent in my mind. Today, I may also go to the rocking chair at the edge of thewater by the tiny lake/large pond at Colin’s house. But going to those placesin my mind is the closest I come to unplugging.

Lately though I’ve beenthinking about another aspect to rest—and that’s my daily nap. I do my bestthinking, especially about planning what I’m writing, when I nap. I frequently liedown with a specific problem in my head, and when I wake, I have an idea of thepath forward. Sometimes it takes a few days, but it eventually works out. And Ifind that I write scenes in my head several times before I commit them to thecomputer—same with a lot of blogs.

Authors often talk about writing only as far ahead as you can seein the headlights. E, L. Doctorow is credited with saying, ““Writing is like driving atnight in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can makethe whole trip that way.” This weekend, the headlights gave out on me on thecurrent Irene story, and I was stymied, but tonight after resting on it morethan once, I think I see the road again. Yep, rest is not only curative butcreative.

 

How about you? Do you have aspecial safe spot where your mind can go, even if your body can’t follow? Doyou find rest creative or curative? Can you unplug?