Judy Alter's Blog, page 24

Is there a better name for aging?

Some time ago the seniorminister at our church announced a series of sermons titled, “Life Comes at YouFast.” He intended to explore four ages: childhood, adolescence, adulthood,and, according to the announcement, old adulthood. I howled in protest that Idid not want to be called an “old adult,” and Russ Peterman, our minister,confessed that was a typo: it should have read “older adulthood.” Not much ofan improvement in my mind. Later, he wrote that at one church he’d served, theseniors called themselves Third Agers. I thought that sounded a lot better, butthen, a few days later, I saw a reference to the “chronologically-enhancedpopulation.” Whoever wrote that admitted the phrase does not trip lightly offthe tongue. But it’s pretty expressive, and Russ used it in his sermon thismorning.

He talked about someclosely-held ideas in America, one of them being a fear of aging. We all knowthat the media bombards us with glorification of youth and rarely has much goodto say about age. Similarly, one person talked of the so-called golden years asa time of being, not doing. You’ve worked hard all your life, doing, so now youcan let others do, and you can just be. Not an attitude that Russ endorsed.Instead, if I got his meaning, he spoke of our older years as a time of freedom—kidsare grown, family is probably more stable financially, career is over orslowing down—but he emphasized that we cannot sit back. We in our seventies,eighties, and beyond have accumulated wisdom to share with the world. Itbehooves us to share our wisdom, to use our new leisure time to better theworld somehow. A wealth of volunteer opportunities are open to older adults. WhatI got out of today’s words—and I hope I’m not distorting—is that we should usethe hard-earned lessons of the past to move forward. We are never too old to participatein life.

That struck home to me becausethe other night I was talking to a friend, a minister, and said I fearedbecoming irrelevant. This was partly prompted by the fact that more and morewhen I go out, I want to be pushed in the transport chair rather than walk withmy walker. I’m not sure if it’s a return of my fear of open spaces (I sort of suspectthat) or a sign of growing weaker. My friend said it was not a sign ofweakness. “You are engaged,” she said, and that made me feel a lot better. Andmaybe that’s what Russ was saying: as we grow older, we must continue to beengaged, bringing with us the wisdom of the past as we move into the future. Hequoted former U.N. Secretary General Dag Hammarskjöld: “For allthat has been, Thanks. To allthat shall be, Yes.”

Last night I had a lovelydinner in the Blue Spire, the formal dining room at the Trinity Terrace retirementcommunity. Friends Carol and Lon have been there about two months, and theyinvited me and Jean (who already lives there) to join them. The dining room ison the twelfth floor, and I tried to take a picture of the view, but it didn’tcome out. Me, who goes weak in the knees at height, loves to be inside lookingout from that height. Jean lives on the seventeenth floor, and I’m not sure I’dbe comfortable with that. Carol and Lon are on the fifth floor in a differenttower, and I was at ease with that. When Subie and Phil get there next month,they will be on the third floor, easy for Phil and his seeing-eye dog tonavigate.

Much of the conversationwas about Trinity Terrace, what goes on there from food service to programs, andwho lives there. It struck me that someone said, “Has memory problems” aboutevery second person whose name came up. Is it in the atmosphere? Something that’scatching? Then it dawned on me: these people are in their seventies andeighties (and a few nineties)—of course they have memory problems. It’s part ofaging and doesn’t necessarily lead to Alzheimer’s or dementia. I have memoryproblems all the time, mostly people’s names that I can’t grasp. After a fewminutes, the name comes to me, and I go on my way. I think I’ve been doing thatsince I was, maybe, forty? Where I wonder, does one draw the line, and what isthe line anyway? I am reminded of me friend and once teacher Fred who moved,with his wife, to an apartment complex filled with friends of Jordan. When I pointedout he is old and the other occupants were all young, he said, “Precisely.”Maybe he too was afraid it was catching.

One final thought from thesermon: we take with us into old age the attitudes we’ve had all our lives. Ihope your attitude is on health and happiness.

Thunder gods, congressional flubs, and a good book

 

Thethunder gods bowled and had a party over my house this afternoon. I haven’theard such sustained thunder in a while. It brought lightning but no hail and anice, fairly gentle rain. My Canadian daughter, who came for supper, said ather house—less than two miles away—they got heavy rain and winds, and Jordan,who was maybe two miles in a different direction, saw two trees that lookedlike they were split by lightning. We talked about how funny it is that welives so close to each other and still get such different storm experiences,and how glad we are to be so close to each other.

Itseems to me that rain often is all around us but skips, as though it deliberatelyavoids our property. All week we’ve had promises, only to have them dwindle tonothing. And all week, I’ve been home, safely in the cottage. So wouldn’t youknow that this morning, when I needed to go out for an appointment, it began torain. By the time we headed out—Christian taking me for a Covid vaccine—it hadslowed to a drizzle.

Ihave a new hero. Ever since trump’s first impeachment hearing, I have been afan of Adam Schiff. The more trump mocked him, the better I liked him. But now,after Republicans in the House maliciously censured and falsely him, he is mynew hero because of the grace and humor with which he bore what was meant to bea devastating put-down and turned out to be nothing more than a bad joke. Schiff’sentire speech is well worth reading, but here are his opening words: “To my Republican colleagues who introduced thisresolution, I thank you,” he said. “You honor me with your enmity. You flatterme with this falsehood. You, who are the authors of a big lie about the lastelection, must condemn the truth-tellers and I stand proudly before you. Yourwords tell me that I have been effective in the defense of our democracy, and Iam grateful.” No anger, just the right amount of humor, and a lot ofgrace. What a man, or they say in his faith, a true mensch.

Schiffshowed his dedication to truth in another instance this week when he questionedJohn Durham before Gym Jordan’s committee to uncover weaponization of thegovernment, whatever that is. Durham had been appointed by Bill Barr five long yearsago to investigate the “false” allegations that trump accepted Russian help andconspired with Russians in the 2015 campaign. This despite the Mueller reportwhich resulted in legal charges, some convictions, and definite indications ofthat collusion.

TheRepublican-led committee had egg on its face after Schiff and others questionedDurham, who seemed unable to come up answers more definitive than, “It wouldseem so,” and “I would call it ill advised.” He had obviously not read theMueller Report, and there was some doubt he was familiar with his own committee’sreport. Gosh, Gym Jordan, tell us who’s next? I’m breathless with anticipation.

It'snot been a good year so far for Republicans who control the House. So far they’vehad two men come to fisticuffs—Mike Rogers and Matt Gaetz, both Republicans,during the long, drawn-out voting for speaker. Now two female representativeshave had a catfight on the House floor—no need to guess. It was Marjorie TaylorGreene and Lauren Boebbert, both wanting credit—wait for it—for the motion toimpeach Biden. Greene even managed to call Boebbert “a little bitch.” In thebackground a man, perhaps spineless Kevin, can be heard saying, “Take if offthe floor, ladies.” Such a lack of class in our elected officials reallytroubles me.

Buta part of me wants to laugh too. The custom in the House is to refer to a malemember as “the gentleman from ????” and a female member as “the gentle ladyfrom ????” But the spectacle of McCarthy calling on Greene with, “Does thegentle lady from Georgia wish to speak?” sends me into giggles. She is neithergentle nor a lady. Still I mourn for our country.

Andit seems though the House has sent several bills forward, they have all died inthe Senate. So now, they have taken one concrete step: to censure Adam Schiffon the basis of facts already long ago disproven (shhh! don’t tell them—maybethey think it’s a secret). And they are building toward another ludicrous pieceof legislature: impeach Joe Biden. What rock do these people live under?

Nowonder with all this idiocy dominating the news, I’m glad to retreat to theworld of fiction. I’m reading and enjoying, Murder at a Scottish Wedding, byTraci Hall. Lots of wonderful Scottish brogue (dialect, not shoes), someunexpected characters who don’t follow the guidelines of the cozy formula, andromance that doesn’t end all tied with a bow. I like the unexpected!

Takecare out there—wicked storms are afoot tonight, and hot weather will be in manylocations at least trough the first of the week. Sweet dreams!   

An epiphany

My sweet Sophie
Several years ago I had afriend who had an epiphany every other day. No, not the religious meaningassociated with Christianity, but the simpler definition of a suddenrealization of momentous importance to your life. Such realizations often comein a very ordinary moment, like doing the dishes or mopping the floor. I’m notsure what I was doing—maybe napping because I seem to do a lot of that lately.But I suddenly realized that I have been in a funk without knowing it. I need,as they say, to get my groove back.

It began with my inability tosettle down and read any book through to the end. Nothing grabbed me, spoke tome. For the last two weeks, I’ve started and abandoned maybe ten books, everythingfrom mysteries to food-oriented nonfiction, some well-reviewed, others byauthors I usually enjoy. I really did begin to worry that I was becoming adilettante.

Then I realized I have notsettled down to one writing project since the publication two months ago of IreneDeep in Texas Danger. I’ve dabbled with a memoir, though now I do have 6,000words, but it is slow going, bouncing from my blog to remind myself whathappened and back to the memoir to fit events and feelings into the story. Ialso started a new Irene story, Missing Irene, and wrote 4700 wordsbefore I put it aside. I’ve even been a bit lackadaisical about blogging.Perhaps the only thing I follow through on is cooking meals for family andfriends.

So I started thinking aboutwhy. That’s how my mind works—I want to know why, what’s behind something. I’mnot depressed so why am I not settling down to what I consider my work. Well,these are, as we all know, troubled times, and I feel obliged to keep up withwhat’s happening and, more than keeping informed, often comment on it. I thinkthat’s the conscience of my father speaking through me. But if Greg Abbottsigns a bill wiping out the water break requirement for construction workers, Ithink the voting public needs to know about it. And if Justice Sam Alito jetsoff to luxurious resorts with a rich businessman who has business before theSupreme Court and then denies knowing the man, I think we need to know aboutit. Right now I’m in suspenseful agony worrying about those people in that lostsubmersible (I once went in one, though it hovered just below the surface—my childrenthought at the time I was extraordinarily brave but in retrospect I think itwas those Carribbean rum drinks). Never again. But I am appalled at theheartless attitude some people are taking. My prayers are with those fivesouls.

And emails—I get 150-200emails a day. Last night my friend Mary told me she was cleaning out heremails. She had a backlog of something like 250,000. I was absolutely appalled.I never go to bed with an unread email, and once I read it, I either answer,discard, or file. I deal with it. Back in the day when business was transactedon paper, the mantra was if you pick up a piece of paper, never just put itback down: deal with it. The same applies to emails, to me, though I realizenot everyone is as compulsive as I am. My emails keep me in touch with friends,other writers, blogs, and miscellaneous pieces of news. I enjoy them.

But my point here is that ittakes me most of every morning to deal with what’s come in on my computerovernight, and by the time I do I am often distressed, tired, angry, whatever.And then I turn to my writing. I need to reverse things: write first, socialmedia later, but old habits are hard to break. Maybe I turn first to emailsbecause I’m expecting something wonderful, like a letter from “The Millionaire.”(His money wouldn’t go very far today).

And then, it’s been a rough yearfor my family. We’ve lost Christian’s mother and for a while I was afraid oflosing my brother. His recovery, if it is that, is slow, and I am still worriedabout him. I spent a difficult two months thinking every day with my belovedSophie might be the last. She is doing so much better now, but there areongoing medical concerns. And the Burtons had to say goodbye to one of their dogs.Maybe I’m just reeling from family trauma. And now it’s summer in Texas, hotand uninspiring.

I don’t think, however,pinning a label on anything fixes it. It’s up to me to dig myself out of thishole. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again. So watch for me, I hope, tobe more dedicated about my work, to take fewer really long naps, to get my act ingear.

Oops, it’s time to cook dinnerfor the family. But I think I feel better already. Thanks for listening.

 

See you around the ‘hood

 

The main entrance to Lily B. "Sweet Lily B." Clayton Elementary School
Oh, how many times I've climbed those stairs!
Neighborhoods are on my mindtonight. Today was the absolute, drop-dead deadline for the July issue of the Poobah,the newsletter for the Berkeley neighborhood which I edit. (There’s a storyabout that name, a clear reference to Gilbert & Sullivan’s The Mikado wherethe Poobah is a self-important person—the name was first a joke for the newsletter,but then it stuck.) Tonight was also the quarterly Berkeley Place Associationzoon meeting. So neighborhood has sort of taken up my day.

Fort Worth is, to me, awonderful city, a wonderful place to live. But I am struck by the diversity ofneighborhoods, the way each neighborhood has something to distinguish it. Weall come together as citizens of the city, but many of us also have strongbonds to the neighborhood in which we live.

I first moved to Berkeley inthe early ‘80s, fresh from a divorce, with four children. We lived in anabsolutely charming house on Warner Road, with such Mediterranean touches aarched doorways and parquet floors. Never mind that there was no closet—I askedthe seller where he would put the vacuum if he lived there—and only one livingroom. The kids and I couldn’t both have friends at the same time. I was asingle mom in a neighborhood of “typical” families—Mom, Dad, and two kids. WhileI never felt ostracized, I never felt at home either.

We moved to a larger, ranch-stylehouse in Westcliff, a neighborhood designed in the fifties to break thestereotypes of straight streets and small bungalows. Our sprawling house was ona curved street that wound through a neighborhood of similar houses. My brotherlived down the street, close friends a block away in a different direction. I didn’tdiscover the importance of neighborhoods then either.

But in 1992, a sprawling housewas too big as the kids started to move out on their own. We moved back toBerkeley, to the property Jordan, Christian, Jacob and I still occupy. By thenI had friends in the neighborhood, and within a few years, I found myself editingthe newsletter, a job handed down by good friend Mary Dulle. I began to learnwhat neighborhood is really about.

Editing the Poobah is probono work. I’m a firm believer in giving back to society in whatever way you can,and this volunteer job is the perfect way to use what skills I’ve developedover a thirty-plus-year career in publishing and as an author. It is my way ofgiving back. But it has many rewards. After who knows how many years I feel fullyintegrated into the neighborhood. I don’t know everyone in our 604 houses, butI know a lot of them. And I am friends with many. I get emails fromcontributors who obviously think they know me and want to chat about thenewsletter, the neighborhood, whatever. Oh, sure, I get some complaints—once someonesuggested I should include more city business and fewer recipes, but we getcity news through our syndicated newspaper, the Star-Telegram, and moreeffectively through our independent newspaper, the Fort Worth Report. Thereare a lot of good cooks in this neighborhood and a lot of families to be fed—I figurebringing them together is a service of the newsletter.

So is presenting pups fromrescue services who are in need of a forever home. I try to feature a pup eachmonth, but of course I want to bring each one of them home (shh! Don’t tell Sophie!).The July Poobah will have a budget report, a breakdown of how manyhouses have paid dues, an article about the goals of Fort Worth Report, aletter from our association president, advice from a local vet about pets andTexas heat, and a review of a new grocery/restaurant. My goal is to make it amix of neighborhood news, like cheers to residents who have done somethingspecial, and city news—restaurant reviews, zoning disputes (oh that endlessshort-term rental business) and similar things.

Each neighborhood in our cityis distinguished by something—perhaps a fairly homogenous group lives there orthe architecture is all the same or there are landmarks and a fascinatinghistory. I think Berkeley is distinguished because, like Park Hill, it sitsabove the zoo (which causes us horrendous traffic problems every spring break)and by it’s elementary school—Lily B. Clayton, one of the city’s most diverseand forward-looking, successful elementary school with a rich history,including its architecture. It also has a fiercely loyal group ofparents/fundraisers (we share the school with the Mistletoe neighborhood).

If you want to know more aboutFort Worth’s neighborhoods, I suggest you read the Fort Worth Report onMondays. Each week, they feature a resident from a specific neighborhood,writing about why they love living where they do.

Me? I’m rooted in Berkeley, inmy little, cozy cottage. What’s special about your neighborhood?

 

Father’s Day thoughts

 

Jacob, right, with longtime friend Colin
Hosts at Joe T.'s
Acrossthe country today, Americans celebrated Father’s Day. Regardless of what youthink of the commercialization of parenthood (think of Mother’s Day which isFather’s Day on steroids), this is traditionally a day to celebrate all thingsmasculine, mostly with food: steak, potatoes, and the grill. Not if you’re aBurton though: like many holidays throughout the year, Father’s Day calls fordinner at Joe T. Garcia’s.

Forthose not from Fort Worth, the restaurant is commonly called Joe T.’s and isFort Worth’s classic Mexican restaurant, the place where every celebrity thatcomes to town dines. Joe and Jessie Garcia began the business in 1935 withsixteen tables. Over the years it has grown, expanding on the original small spaceuntil today sprawling patios lush with plants and several dining areas can seatover a thousand. But the menu remains the same. It also remains very much afamily business.

Signswere evident though that the children the Burton men are growing up. We wentfor lunch rather than dinner because Jacob’s host shift at Joe T.’s began at two-thirtyand his cousin, Ariceli, had to be back in Denton at seven to work in an icecream parlor. Times, they are a-changing.

Somesixteen years ago Christian waited tables at Joe T.’s. Since then, he andJordan have been back often, hosted events there, and generally kept in touch.So for Jacob to go to work there this week was like following a familytradition. (Besides, all four of my children worked in food service when theywere in school.) Going to Joe T.’s with Jordan and Christian makes you feel youare in the company of celebrities—the management staff, wait staff, lots ofpeople come hug them, chat about what’s going on, and this time, to tease andfuss over Jacob who bore it all with extremely good grace. Christian sometimesseems to still work there, popping up to get a napkin or look at Jacob’sschedule or some such.

Theoccasion called for me to push my mobility limits and ultimately gave me causeto brag. We took my transport chair and Jordan pushed me up the long ramp tothe patio only to find because of the heat we were seated inside. This meant,with Christian’s help, I walked up three steps, across an entry way, up anotherstep, and then down three steps. Between the up and down I got parked out ofthe way of traffic and found myself next to a table where someone was finishinga meal. The woman seated there looked at me and said, “You can do this.” Ijoked about something, but I want to thank her for giving me a boost inconfidence. After I got down the stairs, I turned to give her a thumbs up andshe returned the sign. Finally we were at the table. Fortunately, we went outthrough the original restaurant, now a tiny reception area, where Christian couldpush me right down a ramp—no stairs to conquer. I was uncertain about his jokethat if he let go I would go sailing right down. Not a funny thought!

At JoeT.’s at night, the menus is limited: you get fajitas (either chicken or beef)or “the dinner” which consists of mini tacos, enchiladas, beans, rice, guacamole,and tortillas—always too much for me. But at lunch there’s a wider choice—I wastorn between bean chalupas and tortilla soup, which Christian pointed out weretwo very different items. I went with two chalupas—full but not uncomfortablyso. And wine, while others were having the world-famous margaritas.

Lunch atJoe T.’s for me is subtitled, “How to kill an entire day.” This morning I didabout a half hour real work on the memoir I’m struggling with—taking notes fromblogs during the appropriate time period. Then I “went” to church on thecomputer—Christian and Jacob went in person and though I searched the computerscreen, I didn’t see them.

Therewas a moving baby dedication for Father’s Day—two gay men presented thedaughter they have adopted, an Asian girl who looked to be maybe three months.She was alert and curious, and as the minister said, loving being the center ofattention. Her two dads stood in front of the congregation beaming. Reallyproud of my church, proud to be a member of an inclusive congregation.

Wewent to Joe T.’s at 1:30, got home after 3:30, and I ran, not walked, to take anap. Day drinking may have been okay in my past, but it does me in now. I dozedfrom about four until five-fifteen when Sophie asked very politely for herdinner. Couldn’t resist—I went back to bed and next thing I knew it was six-fifteenand Megan was on the phone.

So nowthe dilemma after a Joe T.’s lunch: I’m full but a bit hungry, I want to eatbut I don’t know what I want to eat.

Hopeall who celebrated had a good Father’s Day. We can always grill somethinganother time.

A book recommendation, recognition of a literary icon, and the search or an absorbing read

 

Some time ago I wrote aboutoutrageous cozy mysteries—those that require the reader to suspend disbeliefbecause nothing so far-fetched, improbable, outrageous could happen in reallife. If these stories were onstage, they might be called slapstick. I cited LoisWinston’s Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun, first in her Anastasia PollockCrafting Mysteries. Amateur sleuth Anastasia learns her husband, supposedly ona business trip, dropped dead at the tables in Las Vegas, having lost everypenny they had and with a mobster after him for gambling debts. Anastasiainherits the threatening mobster, her mother-in-law who is a card-carrying,outspoken Communist, and a parrot that quotes Shakespeare. An editor at acrafting magazine, she finds a body in her office chair, firmly attached byglue from a hot glue gun. See what I mean by outrageous? (Of course I includedmy own Saving Irene in the list.)

This week I read the latest ofAnastasia’s adventures, A Crafty Collage of Crime, published today. Twelfthin the series, the book takes her on a honeymoon to Tennessee’s wine country whereshe and her superhero (really, he can almost stop bullets) husband stay at awinery owned by three whacky sisters who are true-crime addicts. When thesisters’ husbands start turning up dead, the local sheriff welcomes Anastasia’shelp—seems everyone knows about her because of a true-crime podcast featuringher. Anastasia is the only one who doesn’t know about the podcast. What followsis a hilarious mix of tourists, wineries, an ex-con, crooked real estate deals,a corrupt politician, kidnappings, and cryptocurrency. It’s a wild and improbablepace and lots of fun. The action is sprinkled with Winston’s talent for thecomedic. For instance, she refers to her first husband as “the Dead Louse of aSpouse.”

If some days it seems theworld is too much with you, I suggest you read A Crafty Collage of Crime. You’llprobably want to go back and read the rest of the series. Anastasia isirresistible. 

In other book news, no one whofollows the news, particularly in Texas, can have missed that Cormac McCarthydied this week. Texas Monthly solicited statements of praise from tenauthors, everyone from Stephen King to Annie Proulx (author of Brokeback Mountain).He was a Texas icon whose literary reputation stands with our greats—Larry McMurtry,John Graves, even J. Frank Dobie. If Dobie established southwestern literatureas a genre, McCarthy took it in a new and dark direction. McCarthy’s prose is amazing,his landscape passages breath-taking, and I know his reputation will endure. Someonewho knows Texas literarature well once speculated on what Texas authors will stillbe read a hundred years from now—he didn’t mention McCarthy, but I’d add hisname to the slim list.

All that said, I never read oneof his books through. McCarthy saw a darkness in humanity that was too much forme. Violence, corruption, and always the shadow of mortality hung over hisworks. Perhaps the violence of his vision accounted for his reclusive lifestyle.I am glad to recognize his importance in the canon of Texas literature (and earlierthat of Appalachia) and I regret his death, but I cannot call myself a fan.

Obviously, from the recommendationabove, I like lighter reading. Yet this week, I’ve had a hard time settlingdown with a new book this past week. Perhaps I’m picky. One stretched thelimits of satire too far for me, another was too slow for even a cozy mystery,still another threatened to delve into Nazi brutality and, like McCarthy’s darkvision, I can’t go there. And then there was one that quoted Gertrude Stein (anapron is an apron is an apron) and waxed eloquent on the sensuality of cuttinginto a pumpkin. No thanks. I’m prowling my Kindle for all those books I haven’tyet read.

What are you reading?

A red-letter day and some random thoughts

 

Eureka! I have a new keyboard,just like the one that bit that dust. I installed it in five minutes with noproblems, and, knock on wood, it’s working great. This may sound neurotic, butthe last few days I’ve noticed my back and shoulders hurt after a morning atthe computer. I’m wondering if it’s not from trying to use the laptop keyboard.Either way, I’m delighted to have my new keyboard. Kudos to son Jamie who orderedit, tracked it, and made sure I got it.

I am always too absorbed inwhat’s going on in our country these days (too absorbed is my own judgment becauseI spend too much time reading about politics when I should be writing). But thelast couple of days I’ve been worse than ever. I haven’t put my thoughtstogether in any cohesive order but here are some random reactions.

I am delighted to know tonightthat the House failed in its vote to censure Adam Schiff for his efforts toimpeach trump. Not only censure him, but fine him $16 million. Some 200Republicans voted for the measure but enough sided with the Democrats that itfailed. Talk about revenge politics! Schiff wrote that the woman who proposedthe measure came up to him afterward to say that it would be filed again nextweek and would pass this time. I think—and hope—that she’s lost her momentum.

But at the same time I amappalled at how many Republicans, from office holders to ordinary voters, thinkthe trump indictment was a move on Biden’s part to undercut his primaryopponent. I read somewhere that few if any of those Republicans have read theindictments through. If they would, I think they would change their minds—okay,not Gym Jordan and his ilk but some of them.

Tonight on PBS I saw ajournalist with a focus group in Iowa. To a man (and woman) they blame Bidenfor the indictment and think it was politically motivated. They think trump hadevery right to keep those documents and to declassify them—do these people readat all? I doubt it. If trump is convicted that will only increase their supportfor him. They distrust the FBI, the CIA, and all those alphabet groups. Theythink Hilary should be in prison. It’s amazing to me how our country has cometo this.

Meanwhile I read today thatthe orange man has a new excuse for keeping the boxes of files: he thought someof his shirts and shoes were in them, and he just hasn’t had time to go throughthem. As if he himself would go searching through boxes looking for shirts andshoes. And as if the boxes weren’t clearly full of documents If nothing else Hissupporters should  realize that the manis making way too many excuses—the sure sign of guilt.

I also read today that hiscurrent lawyer is a real estate lawyer from Miami with no criminal experience.One almost feels sorry for the poor innocent lamb who has wandered into a fightthat is way over her capabilities. Apparently, no reputable lawyer will takethe case, mostly because the client is so difficult to control. I heard the newlawyer speak outside the courthouse yesterday, and she repeated old, disprovenideas. Even I could have easily beaten her arguments.

I simply cannot understand howone group of voters can see so clearly the enormity of what trump is chargedwith—actions that could easily lead to the destruction of our country, militaryattacks, cyber attacks, biological warfare (we may have yet to see the falloutand we’ll never know who he sold secrets to). Yet another group thinks it’s allfabrication. So much has been written about it that I can add nothing more.

Local politics in Texas arenot much better. The Tarrant County GOP is going to vote to censure or condemnor whatever the impeachment of Attorney General Ken Paxton, who’s been gettingaway with awful stuff for years in Austin. What business is it of a countryparty when the case is before the Senate—and his fraud trials are now confirmedto be tried in Houston (It’s about time). What happened to the idea of letting justiceplay out in the courts?

Mine is definitely a biasedpoint of view, but I am not apologetic. It seems to me that the Republicanparty today operates on a theory of reactive or revenge politics. The offer nomeaningful policy—witness dramatic tax cuts to the wealthy just days after theymoaned and whined about cutting expenses—but their principal business isattacking Democrats. In that light Joe Biden and his administration have followedthe best course of action: they have kept quiet about all the meaningless dramaand let the Republicans fight among themselves, while they go quietly about thebusiness of the country, including major restoration of the economy.

I am definitely a Joe Bidenfan. But that’s no surprise to anyone.

Christian cooks dinner

 

The kitchen when Christian cooks Asian
Whenhe has the time, Christian is a terrific cook who loves to experiment. Heparticularly likes to cook Asian dishes, so this week I ordered a lot ofstir-fry vegetables—snap peas, bean sprouts, matchstick carrots, baby sweetcorns, baby bok choy. I figured if Christian didn’t have time or didn’t want tocook, I’d do it, though my results would not be as spectacular. Two thingsabout Christian’s cooking: he follows a recipe, maybe with side trips but hehas to have a recipe to begin with, and he is slow. Even when he starts early,as he did today at about four-thirty or five, dinner is a bit delayed. I oftenthink though that I should take a lesson from him and recipes—I try to do a familiardish off the top of my head, and I usually regret the outcome.

Sotonight Christian said he looked up stir-fry recipes but was disappointed—at mostthey called for soy sauce but no other Asian ingredients. So then he looked upchop suey, which I thought was something that came in a can when I was littleand no one served anymore. Except Christian who found such a good recipe hedecided he had to make fried rice to go with it. Dinner was, as he said,delayed. Jordan came out laughing sometime during that happy hour. It would,she said, take two days to clean the kitchen. Christian is not one who cleans ashe cooks—maybe that’s one place where I outshine him.

MaryDulle came for our regular Tuesday night happy hour, so we laughed and chattedwhile Christian cooked away inside the house. Somehow much of our talk wasabout Alter family tales, crazy things that happened when I was raising fourteenagers. I guess that was partly because today’s big news was that Jacob gothis first job—he interviewed this morning at Joe T.’s (Joe T. Garcia’s, a world-famousMexican restaurant for those of you not from Fort Worth). His first shift ashost is Friday, and a childhood friend will be showing him the ropes. We areall excited for him—I think it’s going to make such a difference in him—a bigstep toward maturity. An interesting note: Jordan said he had to sign aconfidentiality agreement. Joe T’s gets almost every celebrity who comes toFort Worth, and the staff is forbidden to take pictures. I know from experiencethat the wait staff will use our camera to take a picture of all of us, butthat doesn’t count: we are not celebrities.

And,of course, this job puts Jacob squarely in family tradition. All four of mychildren worked in restaurants as teenagers. My friend used to tease me aboutbeing a generous tipper and I said it came from having my children work in hospitality.There was hardly at the time a restaurant in Fort Worth that I routinely wentto where one of mine hadn’t worked. And when Jacob was an infant, his dadwaited tables at Joe T.’s, while working in the title business during the day.I’m enthusiastic about Jacob’s job, and since he has his parents’ people skills,he’ll do fine.

Backto our dinner—Jordan and Christian carried it out to the cottage about sevenforty-five, and I have to say it was worth waiting for. Vegetables were delicious,and Christian had “velveted” the chicken which made it tender. Best stirfry/chop suey I remember having—ever! And leftovers for lunch tomorrow.Christian's chop suey

Thismorning I would have told you today as Monday all over again—I had a hard timegetting myself in gear after sleeping late. I was up at six and seven-thirtywith Sophie and couldn’t resist going back for one last dream. Mary calls thatsecond sleep, and I find I’ve gotten to count on it, now that Soph and I seemon a fairly settled schedule. Of course today I had to have the TV on to watchthe doings in Miami, though there wasn’t much to see. Still, as Christian said tonight,the commentary was interesting. So many predictions, countless interpretations,statistics you can’t trust, and wild opinions about trump’s indictment, itleaves my head in a whirl. I have lots of opinions—no surprise there—but theyare for another day, another blog. Meantime, I did manage to write a thousandwords this morning—no small achievement. These days, reading the political newstakes way too much of my time and cuts into my working time.

Todaywill stand out in my memory for a while as the day Christian made the good stirfry and the day Jacob got his first job. It’s enough.

Scaring myself and an impromptu dinner

 

Curried chicken salad
before running it under broiler to melt cheese
Lastnight I had a scary experience that brought home to me the isolation of livingalone in your eighties. I am not given to nightmares, and I don’t think that iswhat happened. But I woke up slightly before four in the morning and wassuddenly convinced that I could not roll over in bed to get up. In retrospect,I think maybe I was so soundly asleep and woke so suddenly that I somehow hadn’t“collected” myself. But I remember thinking that I must not panic and then,inch by inch struggling to turn over. I sleep, out of deep habit, on my leftside, with my back to the cottage.

Idon’t know if you’ve ever thought about how you get out of bed, but today I cantell you that I swing my legs over to the right and that momentum carries mybody until I find myself sitting on the edge of the bed. Some time ago Ilearned of a physician’s advice to sit a bit rather than springing right up,and that made sense to me, so I do that. The advice also included lying there aminute when you wake up to adjust—I don’t do that all the time, and that may bewhere I got in trouble last night. Anyway, after that scary moment, there I wassitting on the edge of the bed, just like any other night. I went to thebathroom, came back and got in bed, and spent the next hour getting in and outof bed just to prove to myself I could do it. Four o’clock in the morning isnot a good time for rational thoughts!

Buta lot of things beyond the moment scared me—or at least worried me. If I couldn’tturn over, I couldn’t get to my phone which is always on the seat of my walker.I couldn’t reach to bang my Apple watch against something hard and alert thealarm system. I was just there. Naturally I thought of all the horror stories Iknow: a friend who fell out of bed and lay there for twenty-four hours beforeher son realized that she wasn’t answering her phone—she was safely locked intoher house, which meant fireman had to be called to break in. Ironically shefell right by her telephone stand and the telephone was just above her, but shenever thought to pull it down and call for help. Another friend told me hermother had pretty much the same experience—my friend wished her mom had had somesort of alarm to call for help but instead lay on the floor or a ong time. A friendof my brother fell and couldn’t get up—his wife was out of town and he laythere for twenty-four hours until she came home. The medical consequences havebeen long-lasting.

Irealize the time may come when I cannot get into bed by myself, let alone getout, and I want to be proactive about this. But I’m not sure how. In themeantime, my panic died down in the cold light of day, and I was still in bed,making up for lost sleep, when Jordan came to give Sophie her insulin shot. I’mcomfortable about going to sleep tonight, but I’m also aware I want to find afuture plan.

Asif to counteract the above, which to me had a lot to do with aging, I provedmyself still pretty capable tonight. Christian and I had agreed on some menus—hewas to fix stir fry tonight (I had gotten some interesting vegetables—baby corns,baby bok choy, matchstick carrots, bean sprouts, etc. But Christian had to godeal with the tire shop that was installing two new tires on Jacob’s SUV—the Burtonshave had a rash of flat tires all at once, so much so that Jordan commentedtonight that it’s really bad when you greet the tow truck driver as an old friend.“Hey, hi! How are you?”

SoChristian and I traded—I had ingredients for a curried chicken salad with acrispy potato chip/cheese topping. I would fix that tonight, and he’ll do thestir fry tomorrow night, which is great because that’s when Mary Dulle comesfor happy hour. So I rushed around, poached the chicken, cut up an enormous amountof celery, and got the chicken salad made by six-thirty. Thing is it has to becold, so I shoved it into the fridge and cooked some asparagus that reallyneeded to be eaten. Close to seven-thirty, we pulled the salad out, topped itwith the cheese and chip mixture and ran it under the broiler. You really need CorningWareto do this! Recipe maybe coming in Thursday’s Gourmet blog.

Butall was worth it when Christian took seconds and said, “Great dinner for spurof the moment.”

Sotonight, I’ll hope to sleep the night through and not scare myself. Hope you dotoo.

Sunday, ah Sunday!

 

My simplified Salade Nicoise
Sorry, Julia Child, no olives.

Somehow Sundays are do-nothingdays. It’s not that my routine is any different than any other day, butsomething inside me knows it’s Sunday and doesn’t want to buckle down to anyserious work. Today, I “went” to virtual church, cooked supper for myself, dida couple of small, list-making chores, and spent an incredible (and wasteful)amount of time playing on the web.

For instance, my son-in-lawsent pictures of the Mahr Building in Telluride, once a bank and the very firstbank that Butch Cassidy ever robbed. It’s been almost thirty years since myversion of Butch’s story (really Etta’s story), Sundance, Butch, and Me, waspublished, and I really don’t need to do any more research on Butch who, in myview, was a Robin Hood character and did not die in Bolivia. Nonetheless, I followedthat rabbit hole for a bit—that’s what Sundays are for: odd little bits ofknowledge and investigation.

I have been reading or tryingto and am beginning to worry about myself. I am a picky reader and I have triedfour books and given up on all of them. One, set in 1947, had flashbacks to afemale spy in WWI—she had been tortured and I didn’t want to read about that,although the main plot interested me. Another was a murder set in Provence,according to the title, but it proceeded at far too pastoral a pace; a thirdproposed to take cooking out of the realm of domesticity and make it arespected occupation. I opened it eagerly, only to find a series of short streamof consciousness entries about the physical sensations of cutting through apumpkin. Scratch that. The final book, which I opened with enthusiasm, was almosta spoof on romance and cooking. It’s a popular book, one I’ve heard much aboutand thought I should read. At first, I read it with pleasure but then I beganto wonder how long the author could sustain the literary conceit on which itwas based—a very unlikely (and not particularly likeable character) in akitchen. Not quite halfway through I decided I was done. So I am an author insearch of a good book to read.

Sundays are also for napping,and I am one of those who remember vivid dreams. I’ve had a couple of dooziesthis weekend, both what I think experts would call Freudian. In one, I wascleaning out my VW (not far-fetched—it’s nineteen years old and Jordan still drivesit), getting rid of a bunch of detritus an ex had left behind. I thought thatman had moved out of my head a long time ago, so why was I still dreaming ofgetting rid of him? The other had to do with my office—everyone was going toAustin for a meeting that we all enjoyed annually, only they had all made plansto travel with others and nobody asked me, asked me where I was staying, actedlike they planned for me to go. Even one of my sons, who never had anyconnection to my office. I’ve been thinking a lot about aging lately, and Ithink that dream was subconsciously reinforcing what I say every day I know:let go of the past and enjoy the good memories. In this case, let go of the jobI loved so much and treasure the memory of all those book festivals and conferences.Makes me a bit nervous about going to sleep tonight.

I’ve been on my own, withoutcompany, for dinner two nights in a row, and I’ve taken advantage of that to fixa couple of things I really like. Last night I fixed brinner—breakfast for dinner,consisting of soft-scrambled eggs, smashed baby potatoes, and grape tomatoes. Tonightit was a modified Salade Niçoise with a good anchovy vinaigrette. Enough leftfor lunch tomorrow.

I think I’m glad tomorrow isMonday. I have some serious writing replaying itself in my head, and I needthat new keyboard to get it done!

Maybe more thunderstormstonight. I hope they are like the one we just had—gloriously loud and noisy,with lots of rain, but nothing destructive—no hail, no wind. Hope everyone elsein the area was as fortunate. Sophie, of course, barked furiously as though shecould intimidate the thunder. It didn’t work.Brinner