Judy Alter's Blog, page 26

A boring, lonely weekend

 

Sophie hoping someone, anyone would come visit
so I would have someone else to talk to.
With Jordan and Christian atthe golf tournament and Jacob celebrating the end of the school year, Sophieand I have found it a sort of lonely, boring weekend. At least we have eachother to talk to, though the conversation is pretty much one-sided. Shecontributes by cocking her head and looking at me as if to say, “Really?” I dohave work on my desk, but sometimes I just don’t feel like doing it onweekends. So I piddle a bit and read a lot.

I did spend much of the day ondomestic chores—hanging up clothes, putting away groceries, generallystraightening things, and making a batch of my pea salad because I like it alot. Contrary to most recipes, I do not put bacon in it, and I grate cheddarinstead of cubing it. Last night I asked Jacob to get me a ream of paper fromthe corner where we store such supplies, and he asked, “What’s a ream?” Iexplained, he looked, said he didn’t see any such. This morning, Christian foundan unopened box of three reams. I had already ordered three, so I’ll return thepackage that arrived today. Poor Jacob—he had no reason to know that’s howpaper comes, but I’ll tell him so he can add it to his knowledge bank. Whoknows? Someday he may work in an office.

I do have a slight domesticdilemma. The electric teakettle that Mary Dulle handed down to me several yearsago gave up the ghost. The switch refused to work, and while I know thosethings can be fixed, it’s usually less expensive and easier to order a new one.That does, however, leave me with the guilt about the footprint I’m leaving onthe earth. But I ordered a new one, partly because I don’t know anyone who doessuch repair. And for once, I read the instructions and warnings. One of thelatter was: do not immerse. Okay but I always wash a new appliance before usingit. Can I use a soapy dishrag on it and then rinse without immersing?

Good dinner tonight: since I wascooking for myself tonight, and Jordan was picking up my grocery order atCentral Market, I included a quarter lb. filet of Dover sole. First problem: ahalf lb. is too much, since I don’t really like leftover fish the next day, buta quarter lb. is too skimpy. Second problem is I can only occasionally sautésole in one piece—it usually turns to hash when I try to flip it, as it didtonight, even with a fish spatula. The delicate flavor, however, is so good, Idon’t mind the hash. And even though I didn’t get the crispy brown crust Ilike, it was so tasty that I forgot to put lemon on it. What I did do, however,was to sprinkle it with a bit of the lava salt Jordan brought home fromIceland. Really enhanced the flavor without making it too salty. I do need,however to learn to use a lighter hand with the black salt. To go with it, Imade a big batch of English pea salad which is a favorite of mine. Thinking ofpeople who don’t like English peas—Christian, Barbara Ashcraft, and Jean, who oncesaid she didn’t like pea salad and then ate two helpings. Mine has no bacon andno little lumps of processed cheese—I grate some good cheddar. We always buyTillamook cheddar from Oregon but today Jordan wasn’t watching, picked upLucerne, which is I think the Albertson’s house brand, and then was so mad at herself.I am sure it will be fine.Not an appealing picture--too monochromatic. I am
obviously not a food photographer, but I was trying to
show the black lava salt on the fish. Honest this
tasted a lot better than it looks.

My political brains iswhirring happily tonight with the vote of the Texas House to impeach Ken Paxton.I may despise Texas politics, but I have to admit it is interesting, and I’llwait to see what the state Senate does. Maybe tomorrow my further thoughts onpolitics. Tonight I have a new issue of Bon Appetit to read.

Sweet dreams, y’all.

 

A day of good stuff ��� and some trivia, some of it not so trivial

 

Fireman getting ready to load the trailer.
Three cheers for mysister-in-law, Cindy Azuma Peckham! She drove their pickup with a trailer toFort Worth from Tolar, maybe forty-five miles, much of it heavily trafficked.She was picking up the electric wheelchair, and the pickup caused a brief flurryof activity at the cottage. I have written about our indecision about how toload the heavy thing. Turns out John and Cindy have a neighbor who���s with theFort Worth Fire Department, and he offered to come and bring three firemen toload it. They arrived in a fire truck, which may have caused a bit of aneighborhood stir, and it was done before I could blink. John���s neighbor,David, simply rode the chair through the patio and back yard, down thedriveway, and across the street to where Cindy had parked the truck. Thefiremen tied it down securely in the trailer, and Cindy took off for home. Andtherein is my admiration���I was a good driver in my day, but a pickup with atrailer and a wheelchair would have intimidated me. My tribute to Cindy: ���Shemay be small, but she is mighty.���

And three more cheers forMorgan Helene Alter, who graduated today from Tomball Memorial High School. Inwhat I thought was a lovely innovation, the ceremony was live-streamed, so Igot a much better view of her walking across the stage than I would have if I���dbeen in been in that crowded auditorium. She had a sweet, cute smile on herface, even though the principal or whoever called her Morgan Helen when hername is Morgan Helene. So proud of her. She will go to Texas Tech next year.Morgan, inducted into National Honor Society.

And another three cheers forJacob Burton who is as of yesterday a senior in high school. He and friendscelebrated by helping or officiating or something at a Powder Puff game andthen, just as I was about to serve supper, seven hungry boys landed in Jordan���sliving room. I told her and Christian they are blessed that Jacob has such goodfriends and that he is comfortable bringing them home. Jordan scurried aroundto find something to feed them. New seniors, on the last day of school.

Not so trivial: Amanda Gorman wrote yesterdayabout the banning of her inaugural poem, ���The Hill We Climb,��� in Dade County(Florida) elementary schools. I thought her words were eloquent: "I wrote 'The Hill We Climb' so that all youngpeople could see themselves in a historical moment. Ever since, I've receivedcountless letters and videos from children inspired by 'The Hill We Climb' towrite their own poems. Robbing children of the chance to find their voices inliterature is a violation of their right to free thought and free speech.���Today I learned that the lone woman who complained about the poem is anotorious bigot who has protested countless things before and���get this���shehasn���t yet read the poem in its entirety. And then I read somewhere that thenational banning of books is due to eleven narrow-minded people. It���s not achorus objecting to certain titles���it���s eleven lousy people. And look at thefuror they���ve caused, the damage they���ve done. Why is this country letting afew extreme voices control our daily lives, from books to abortion to guns?

Speaking of book banning itamused me yesterday that Goodreads��� list of books on sale at Amazon included LadyChatterley���s Lover, by D. H. Lawrence. I���m old enough that my first memoryof censorship has to do with that book when it was published in the US and theUK, years after Lawrence wrote it. I haven���t one back to read it, but I wonderif it wouldn���t seem tame today. If you want to check it out, go to Amazon. Don���ttell DeSantis.

Trivial to everyone but me: theother morning, with coffee-hour company, I watched out the French doors while asquirrel had the time of his life at our new bird feeder. I know, they areGod���s creatures too and have to eat, but do they have to eat when we put outfor the birds? Today, I was much happier when I saw Mama Cardinal at thefeeder. We have a cardinal couple who have come to our back yard for severalyears now.

Special days: Yesterday wasNational Wine Day. Jordan and I did our best to honor it appropriately. Ithought today was the day to wear orange to protest gun violence and dutifullyput on my one, raggedy, stained orange shirt���turns out it���s next week.

Tonight, Jorda is at a concert ifDallas with a busload of neighbors. Of course she is���John Mayer is performing.Christian, having no interest in John Mayer, is probably still at Colonial, andJacob is who knows where. Once again, I followed a recipe for something I know perfectlywell how to make from scratch���salmon patties. The recipe was from SouthernLiving, which I think is reliable. They were tasty but once again fellapart when I tried to turn them. Followed a new, quick salad dressingsuggestions���a bit tart, even for me. Now to do my Central Market order and thensettle down with a mystery.

As you grill your hot dogs andeat your potato salad this weekend, pause for a moment to remember those who servedour country and never made it home again. God bless.

A day of good stuff … and some trivia, some of it not so trivial

 

Fireman getting ready to load the trailer.
Three cheers for mysister-in-law, Cindy Azuma Peckham! She drove their pickup with a trailer toFort Worth from Tolar, maybe forty-five miles, much of it heavily trafficked.She was picking up the electric wheelchair, and the pickup caused a brief flurryof activity at the cottage. I have written about our indecision about how toload the heavy thing. Turns out John and Cindy have a neighbor who’s with theFort Worth Fire Department, and he offered to come and bring three firemen toload it. They arrived in a fire truck, which may have caused a bit of aneighborhood stir, and it was done before I could blink. John’s neighbor,David, simply rode the chair through the patio and back yard, down thedriveway, and across the street to where Cindy had parked the truck. Thefiremen tied it down securely in the trailer, and Cindy took off for home. Andtherein is my admiration—I was a good driver in my day, but a pickup with atrailer and a wheelchair would have intimidated me. My tribute to Cindy: “Shemay be small, but she is mighty.”

And three more cheers forMorgan Helene Alter, who graduated today from Tomball Memorial High School. Inwhat I thought was a lovely innovation, the ceremony was live-streamed, so Igot a much better view of her walking across the stage than I would have if I’dbeen in been in that crowded auditorium. She had a sweet, cute smile on herface, even though the principal or whoever called her Morgan Helen when hername is Morgan Helene. So proud of her. She will go to Texas Tech next year.Morgan, inducted into National Honor Society.

And another three cheers forJacob Burton who is as of yesterday a senior in high school. He and friendscelebrated by helping or officiating or something at a Powder Puff game andthen, just as I was about to serve supper, seven hungry boys landed in Jordan’sliving room. I told her and Christian they are blessed that Jacob has such goodfriends and that he is comfortable bringing them home. Jordan scurried aroundto find something to feed them. New seniors, on the last day of school.

Not so trivial: Amanda Gorman wrote yesterdayabout the banning of her inaugural poem, “The Hill We Climb,” in Dade County(Florida) elementary schools. I thought her words were eloquent: "I wrote 'The Hill We Climb' so that all youngpeople could see themselves in a historical moment. Ever since, I've receivedcountless letters and videos from children inspired by 'The Hill We Climb' towrite their own poems. Robbing children of the chance to find their voices inliterature is a violation of their right to free thought and free speech.”Today I learned that the lone woman who complained about the poem is anotorious bigot who has protested countless things before and—get this—shehasn’t yet read the poem in its entirety. And then I read somewhere that thenational banning of books is due to eleven narrow-minded people. It’s not achorus objecting to certain titles—it’s eleven lousy people. And look at thefuror they’ve caused, the damage they’ve done. Why is this country letting afew extreme voices control our daily lives, from books to abortion to guns?

Speaking of book banning itamused me yesterday that Goodreads’ list of books on sale at Amazon included LadyChatterley’s Lover, by D. H. Lawrence. I’m old enough that my first memoryof censorship has to do with that book when it was published in the US and theUK, years after Lawrence wrote it. I haven’t one back to read it, but I wonderif it wouldn’t seem tame today. If you want to check it out, go to Amazon. Don’ttell DeSantis.

Trivial to everyone but me: theother morning, with coffee-hour company, I watched out the French doors while asquirrel had the time of his life at our new bird feeder. I know, they areGod’s creatures too and have to eat, but do they have to eat when we put outfor the birds? Today, I was much happier when I saw Mama Cardinal at thefeeder. We have a cardinal couple who have come to our back yard for severalyears now.

Special days: Yesterday wasNational Wine Day. Jordan and I did our best to honor it appropriately. Ithought today was the day to wear orange to protest gun violence and dutifullyput on my one, raggedy, stained orange shirt—turns out it’s next week.

Tonight, Jorda is at a concert ifDallas with a busload of neighbors. Of course she is—John Mayer is performing.Christian, having no interest in John Mayer, is probably still at Colonial, andJacob is who knows where. Once again, I followed a recipe for something I know perfectlywell how to make from scratch—salmon patties. The recipe was from SouthernLiving, which I think is reliable. They were tasty but once again fellapart when I tried to turn them. Followed a new, quick salad dressingsuggestions—a bit tart, even for me. Now to do my Central Market order and thensettle down with a mystery.

As you grill your hot dogs andeat your potato salad this weekend, pause for a moment to remember those who servedour country and never made it home again. God bless.

A mixed-up kind of a day

 

Sophie and Jacob
a long time ago when both were puppies
Even before daybreak, it wasan odd day. I woke twice in the night to find Sophie standing by my bed. If she’dbeen lying down, I wouldn’t have thought much about it, but she was standing. Ithought that was a bit eery, a bit worrisome. I of course was afraid of anotherdiabetic incident, etc. When I asked if she was all right, she gave me a soulfullook and came for some loving. I looked outside and sure enough, it rained, butI didn’t hear thunder. Apparently, as I learned today, I must have slept throughit, because there were several reports of thunder and lightning, no none that Isaw in my immediate area. Even if it wasn’t much here, Sophie would have sensedit. This morning she was back in her crate, sleeping peacefully.

My brother called early aboutthe wheelchair. He said Cindy would come get it, and I protested she could nothandle it alone. He said she’d drive the truck with a trailer and a ramp andcould just drive it up the ramp—that sounded a bit like going on a rollercoaster to me. Could she strap it down, I asked, and he said no, but her sister’spartner could. He’d check schedules with Ralph and get back to me. After aseries of phone calls and texts—I simply don’t text well and images completelythrow me—I have heard nothing more and seen nothing of either Cindy or Ralph. Christianestimates that the chair weighs between fifty and seventy-five pounds, and itwill take three grown men to lift it. Guess I’ll call again in the morning. Iwant to get the chair out of my closet and the standing walker out of mybedroom, and more than that I want John to have them if they will help him. Ionce threatened to open a store for used disability devices—if John takes thosetwo, my inventory will go down appreciably. Though someone returned the pottychair yesterday—at least it can go in the attic.

Soph was part of the mixed-upday. She had an 11:30 vet appointment, and Christian was to take her. He toldme before he’d be running close on time, would be teaching a real estate classuntil eleven. By the time he got here at 11:20 I was in the doorway, with Sophon a leash ready to hand him. He asked me to call the vet and say he wasrunning late.

Called the vet clinic, andthey said they showed no appt. for today and our vet and his team were not inthe clinic. The kind receptionist wanted to keep talking about it, but I wantedto get her off the phone so I could call Christian and tell him to come home.Now, tomorrow, I must call and ask the questions I meant to send with Christiantoday. Meantime, Christian was glad to come home and eat lunch, and Sophie hada nice outing in the car.

Mixed up again tonight. Jordanhad told me yesterday that she had a happy hour tonight, her first event as themother of a high school senior. Apparently an unofficial group of mothers wasgetting together—she expected to be a bit tearful. Christian said he’d be home,so I promised to make the German potato salad I didn’t make last night. Butthen just before five Jordan came out and said there was to be a dinner, withdads and boys, following the happy hour so no one would be home for supper.

I put the German potato saladoff one more night and made a recipe I’d been wanting to try—scrambled eggswith pinto beans and cotija cheese.  Ican tell you—don’t bother. Admittedly it called for jalapenos, which I leftout, but it was kind of just there. The cotija was the best part. I filed therecipe in the wastebasket.

So it was that kind of day,when life gets in the way of what you have planned. Best to be as resilient aspossible.

A day of visiting and a dinner that wasn’t

 

This morning I had company formorning coffee, something I rarely do because such a visit cuts into my workschedule. But when I mentioned happy hour or supper, Priscilla said she nolonger drives in the evening, so I impulsively suggested a morning visit.Priscilla is in some ways a Facebook friend—oh, we’ve known each other foryears, mostly professionally, never close, not even crossing paths frequently,,A few years ago a mutual friend set up a series of monthly lunches thatPriscilla and I both attended, but neither of us got to talk much.

In recent times, though,Priscilla has been one of my most faithful followers on Facebook, commentingwhen she particularly liked a post. She is evidence of what I continually say:for all its critics, Facebook has a lot of advantages. One is that youoccasionally make new, good friends.

This was Priscilla’s secondvisit to the cottage, and it was such fun to see her walk in and immediatelygreet Sophie by name and talk directly to her. We talked about our lives, aboutwanting space and yet not wanting to be lonely, about TCU friends—we know sofew people there now! She is off for her annual four or five months at her seashorehome in Maine (yes, I’m sort of jealous, but in other ways I’m not—Priscilla,however, loves it). It was a good time, and an hour flew by. As for my work?Hey, nobody but me cares if I get behind.

Tonight, as usual on Tuesdays,Mary came for happy hour. She and I share German heritage, so I had a specialtreat for her—a roll of Braunschweiger. She said she’d had that brand before,and it was good. Indeed it was! Buttery and soft and mild—I loved it. Sent halfthe leftover home with Mary, but now I intend to put it on my shopping list.

Once again a pleasant visitwith conversation ranging over a bit of everything—the neighborhood (Marymisses her old house and was dismayed when, out of habit, she drove by it andsaw that the lawn desperately needs mowing); summer plans; food—we can alwaystalk groceries and recipes. Jordan joined us, so the talk was also much abouttravel and Jacob’s summer and other odd bits. Once again, an hour flew by.

Jordan had a consultant fromher office coming to work with her at seven, and I was to feed the boys. I hopethat wasn’t the reason Mary hurried away because dinner fizzled. I planned tomake Christian’s favorite hot German salad, but he came home and fell asleep onthe couch, Jordan wouldn’t be eating, and who knows where Jacob was. Story ofmy dinner planning. I put everything away to cook for tomorrow night. I’d eatenenough Braunschweiger that I really didn’t need dinner—I was just on the edgeof wanting more. So I ate the last few pigs in a blanket and called it a day.

The Colonial Golf Tournamentstarts tomorrow, so the rest of the week is at best  uncertain. Christian says he’ll be home forsupper tomorrow, and I will play the remaining evenings by ear. I know nobodywill be here Sunday, the final day. So I’m going to do some single-serving mealplanning tonight.

I’m happy to report that mybrother is safely at home at his ranch. He said today that he watched thesunrise from his sunporch, and his daughter sent a picture of him in as she putit, “real clothes,” instead of a hospital gown. Big progress. Now to get thewheelchair from here to there!

Life is good.

A day of visiting and a dinner that wasn���t

 

This morning I had company formorning coffee, something I rarely do because such a visit cuts into my workschedule. But when I mentioned happy hour or supper, Priscilla said she nolonger drives in the evening, so I impulsively suggested a morning visit.Priscilla is in some ways a Facebook friend���oh, we���ve known each other foryears, mostly professionally, never close, not even crossing paths frequently,,A few years ago a mutual friend set up a series of monthly lunches thatPriscilla and I both attended, but neither of us got to talk much.

In recent times, though,Priscilla has been one of my most faithful followers on Facebook, commentingwhen she particularly liked a post. She is evidence of what I continually say:for all its critics, Facebook has a lot of advantages. One is that youoccasionally make new, good friends.

This was Priscilla���s secondvisit to the cottage, and it was such fun to see her walk in and immediatelygreet Sophie by name and talk directly to her. We talked about our lives, aboutwanting space and yet not wanting to be lonely, about TCU friends���we know sofew people there now! She is off for her annual four or five months at her seashorehome in Maine (yes, I���m sort of jealous, but in other ways I���m not���Priscilla,however, loves it). It was a good time, and an hour flew by. As for my work?Hey, nobody but me cares if I get behind.

Tonight, as usual on Tuesdays,Mary came for happy hour. She and I share German heritage, so I had a specialtreat for her���a roll of Braunschweiger. She said she���d had that brand before,and it was good. Indeed it was! Buttery and soft and mild���I loved it. Sent halfthe leftover home with Mary, but now I intend to put it on my shopping list.

Once again a pleasant visitwith conversation ranging over a bit of everything���the neighborhood (Marymisses her old house and was dismayed when, out of habit, she drove by it andsaw that the lawn desperately needs mowing); summer plans; food���we can alwaystalk groceries and recipes. Jordan joined us, so the talk was also much abouttravel and Jacob���s summer and other odd bits. Once again, an hour flew by.

Jordan had a consultant fromher office coming to work with her at seven, and I was to feed the boys. I hopethat wasn���t the reason Mary hurried away because dinner fizzled. I planned tomake Christian���s favorite hot German salad, but he came home and fell asleep onthe couch, Jordan wouldn���t be eating, and who knows where Jacob was. Story ofmy dinner planning. I put everything away to cook for tomorrow night. I���d eatenenough Braunschweiger that I really didn���t need dinner���I was just on the edgeof wanting more. So I ate the last few pigs in a blanket and called it a day.

The Colonial Golf Tournamentstarts tomorrow, so the rest of the week is at best  uncertain. Christian says he���ll be home forsupper tomorrow, and I will play the remaining evenings by ear. I know nobodywill be here Sunday, the final day. So I���m going to do some single-serving mealplanning tonight.

I���m happy to report that mybrother is safely at home at his ranch. He said today that he watched thesunrise from his sunporch, and his daughter sent a picture of him in as she putit, ���real clothes,��� instead of a hospital gown. Big progress. Now to get thewheelchair from here to there!

Life is good.

Lost my oomph

 

Christian's porch plants
Somehow, today, I lost myoomph. Not all that unusual on a Sunday. Sometimes my body seems to say, “Nope,it’s Sunday. The day of rest. I’m not gonna do that, no matter how you nag.” And my brain follows right along. SoI fiddled the day away, browsing on the net, napping, reading.

I did a couple of good things—sentoff a critique to an as-yet unpublished author. She replied that she was takenaback by some of my comments, and I admit I was brutally honest. But themanuscript didn’t engage me, and I saw some clear ways to fix it. I was honestabout the fact that I only read fifty pages—because I was bored, though I didn’tsay that—and she of course said if I’d read further, I might have been moreengaged. I replied that if most readers have to go fifty pages into a book,they just won’t do it. Ideally, you should capture the reader on the firstpage. I have lingering regret over the whole thing—it will teach me not to volunteerto critique. But I couldn’t see encouraging a writer about a manuscript that,in my best judgment, has no market appeal. At least, I was honest, and it’s offmy desk.

And after a bit of difficulty Isent the neighborhood monthly newsletter to the designer, so that too if off mydesk. But it will come right back in the form of proof tomorrow.

Jean came for supper, andChristian fixed his delicious hamburgers. I made smashed potatoes to go withthem, something I’ve just learned to do. The first time I asked Christian toget tiny Yukon Gold potatoes, he got about four times the number I thought Ineeded. So tonight I cooked what was left. In duck fat. Jordan and Jean reallylike the potatoes but would like to call the fat something else. When Meganfirst told me she cooked these, she said she had chicken fat. I refrained fromasking if it was kosher schmalz, but I don’t think the girls would like thisany better. The first time I used duck fat, I thought it instantly made my tinykitchen small like Thanksgiving. It makes terrific potatoes.

The big accomplishment of theday belongs to Christian and Jordan: tonight they pulled the electricwheelchair to the middle of my closet, located the charger, found that thechair still turned on, and plugged it in to charge overnight. My brother goeshome from rehab tomorrow, so the timing is good. Now we have to get the chairfrom Fort Worth to Tolar and all is well. Except of course that the chair is inthe middle of my closet—no way my walker and I can get in for clean clothes,laundry, etc. Zenaida comes tomorrow, and the first thing she does is start aload of my laundry in the house. Not tomorrow. I am telling myself none of itis the end of the world.

I had a hilarious conversationwith Christian tonight—because I thought I was talking to Colin. Too detailed totell all, but the voice said he would need make and model number of the wheelchairto check the battery location, and I said, “Sweetheart, I sent it to you daysago.” The voice, incredulous: “You did? I don’t remember seeing it.” When I askedwhen he thought he might come look at the chair (mind you, this was, in mymind, Colin who is four hours away in Tomball), he said, “Well, tonight when Icome out for supper.” That was my clue I was talking to the wrong person.

The fact that they were ableto charge the chair is good news/bad news. It means there is no excuse to getColin up here to do chores, and as I freely admit I will use any excuse to getany of my children to come visit. “Want a deli sandwich from Carshon’s. Colin?I’ll buy!” But I don’t want him to drive all this way if he doesn’t need to.

One of the things that thevoice said to me in that misbegotten phone call was, “I’ve been out all dayplanting.” Didn’t sound like Colin to me—he is more likely to spend the daybuilding or repairing something big. But who am I to ask. It was of course Christian,and he was busy with the pots on the front porch. Christian is a pot gardener(no, not that kind!), and each year the front porch is amazing. I’m letting acouple of his photos carry the weight of this blog tonight.

Hope everyone has their oomphin place as we approach this new week, the last for most pubic school kids inTexas. Who knows what the schools

will look like in the fall, after thislegislative session is over. Fingers crossed, prayers said.

Memories of Scotland

Megan and me at Culloden,
Can't you just feel the wet cold on that vast battlefield?
If you know me, you know I’m nota traveler. I’m just too content tucked away in my cottage with good friendscoming to visit me. Oh, maybe before quarantine, I was a bit more inclined toget out, but quarantine worked a number on me when I saw how easy it was tostay home. But there’s another side to me—and that’s my ferocious love for Scotland.Believe me, in my younger years I traveled enough to see a lot of Americathough never Europe, and I loved many places. But the trip of a lifetime, forme, was 2012 when I went to Scotland with Colin and Megan, my two oldestchildren.

I don’t care what 23 And Mesays about my having no Scottish blood about—I am a member of Clan MacBean, aswas my father. And I’m proud that I have been to the MacBean Memorial Park aboveLoch Ness and that I have signed the clan registry at the Inn of Dores. In thefifties, Hughston MacBain, chairman of the board of Marshall Field & Company,was the MacBain of MacBain, and he used to call Dad and talk about how theywere related. My dad loved every minute of it—and I love inheriting thattradition.

So in 2012 we flew toEdinburgh (the only time I stepped foot in England at Heathrow, which had toomany escalators for my comfort). We spent a day in Edinburgh, including awonderful bus tour of the city in a double decker. And then the next day wedrove to Inverness, with a stop at Stirling to see the castle and hear thestory of William Wallace, hero of the Battle of Stirling (and yes, I atehaggis). What impressed me was the contrast between the intellectual atmosphereof Edinburgh with the university that was the cradle of so much intellectualadvancement in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century and the bloodyhistory of Stirling. They don’t call if bloody Scotland for nothing.

What brings this all up now isthat it was mid-May when we traveled, and now my computer is spitting uppictures of Scotland every day. I would repeat that trip in a heartbeat. Butwhat dismays me is that many of the images on my computer are not jpegs butsomething called JSON which I can’t reproduce. So there are wonderful pictures,I can share with you—Megan and me in the door to the Inn of Dores, forinstance.

But I can show you the two ofus at Culloden, scene of the decisive battle between the forces of England andthe followers of Bonnie Prince Charlie who sought autonomy for Scotland. TheScot were technologically outdoor, armed with claymores (swords) while theBrits had rifles and an amazing technique—they lined up three men at a time: onelay flat on the ground, the next knelt, and the third stood and they all firedat the Scots—the guy on the bottom knew not to raise his head or he’d be shot. TheScots had amazing heart and bravery but no rifles.

The display in the visitors’center at Culloden was amazing—we walked down a corridor, with audio tapes playingon both sides depicting the troops readying for battle: Scots on one side,Brits on the other. Men muttering around campfires as they talked the next day.Then we saw a demonstration of the rifle technique and saw a video thatabsolutely broke my heart as all those brave Scots rushed to their death. Heroof the battle? Gilles McBain, who killed fifteen or more of the enemy before hewas cut down. The Duke of Cumberland, British commander, was said to expressregret at the death of so brave a man.

The day we visited Culloden wascold and rainy, and we never ventured out to walk the battlefield, though I wouldmuch have liked to. Today it is a peaceful looking, grassy plain, but stonepillars serve as monuments to mark the battlefield. It gave me the shivers andmade an enormous impression on me. Note: I’ve heard Americans pronounce thename with equal emphasis on all three syllables, but the Scots emphasize thesecond: Cul loden.

If I were to travel again, I wouldgo back to Scotland. My heart truly is in the highlands but I am okay with thememories of one glorious trip: eating haggis in pubs in small villages, takinga ferry from the Isle of Skye to the mainland, visiting a different castleevery day including Urquhart which was blown up by its defenders to keep it outof the hands of the enemy (most dramatic end to a video I’ve ever seen), tastingScotch at ten in the morning at a distillery (I am not a Scotch drinker!). Itwas wonderful, every minute.

Sláinte!

You can sort of go home again

My older brother, JohnPeckham, called last night to say Sunday he will be moving from a rehabfacility where���s he���s been doing PT back to his ranch outside Tolar. He willneed the big, clumsy electric wheelchair that is taking up way too much spacein my closet, and I am delighted to give it to him. Christian determined makeand model last night, and I called Colin who is smart about these things so hecould look online about new battery, etc. As a bonus, Christian found all theoriginal paperwork in a pocket on the back of the chair, but he reported whennot turned on, the chair is dead weight. Moving it will be a problem, and weare still working on that.

But it was much on my mindwhen I went to bed last night, and so, of course, I dreamed about it. We (notsure who we was) were at John���s, waiting for word to come get the chair in atruck, but John said first he wanted to go to the Dunes. A word of explanation:when we were growing up our family had a time-share on a rustic (operativeword) cottage in the Indiana Dunes State Park. Dad and a colleague had owned ityears before in their bachelor days. At some point, the State of Indianaexercised eminent domain and took over the cottage, but every year Dad got arental contract for the season. He said each year he held his breath until thatcontract came.

The cottage really was rustic.On a high dune, three flights of stairs above the beach, it had a commandingview of the length of Lake Michigan to the front (I loved to watch storms rolldown that lake and to this day I trace my love of a good storm, sans tornadoes,to the Dunes) and a dense forest to the back. It also had no running water (acistern pump) and no electricity. There was an outhouse down the hill in thewoods, and at night you went to bed early because Dad was paranoid aboutburning the mantle in the Aladdin lamps. It was too dark to read. And youdidn���t just drive up to the cottage���you had to pack in your clothes andgroceries, either a mile down the beach (too hot) or through the woods (ourpreferred route).

So in my dream we were talkingabout going back to the Dunes. John and I and my ex-husband went in the latesixties and had not been back since. When I went to Chicago with my childrensix years ago or so, they scheduled a morning trip to the Dunes followed bylunch at a North Side restaurant. I had to explain that the time schedule didnot work, but their intentions were the best: they knew how big a place theDunes hold in my heart.

But suddenly, in my dream, itdawned on me that I couldn���t go back to the Dunes. There is no way to maneuvera walker either through the woods or down the beach and up all those stairs.That made such a huge impression on me that I sat bolt upright in bed.

My rational mind has known fora long time that neither John nor I are very mobile. We haven���t had a contest,but in a walker race, I think I would win. Besides there is no there at theDunes for us anymore. Sometime around 1969, the state stopped renting cottagesto long-term leaseholders, rented them to weekenders for a while, and then torethem all down. So I guess in some deep way that aha! moment I had was sort of aThomas Wolfe You Can���t Go Home Again bit of reality, a recognition thatJohn and I are older and different, and we can���t ever recapture the past. Wecan remember, but we can���t relive.

Over the years John and I havesometimes been close, sometimes almost estranged in recent years. There���s anelephant in the room with us���politics. But we have much more that binds us together���ourChicago background, our families past and present, osteopathic medicine, Texas(we both like dogs���he can have the cattle). We had grand, huge familycelebrations, until both our families grew too large to do that. Since hishealth has taken a turn, I think, without ever talking about it, we are closer.We talk on the phone often, and I have taken all four grown children to seehim. From his hospital bed, a wink or a look with a smile tells me he���s glad Iam there, and we are still brother and sister. He is, after all, the one whoused to protect me from all kinds of evil, like bad boys who teased me when Iwas little and very shy. And he is the one who said, ���You need to get away fromhome��� and took me to Missouri to graduate school. He had a hand in shaping mylife, and I have always known he was there for me.

I think he will like thisstory. But now about that blasted wheelchair ���.

A strange sort of a day

 

Tonight a friend was coming forhappy hour at five. He emailed this morning to confirm, and I wrote back that Iwould have the gate open and a snack ready. So at quarter to, I put out smokedsalmon, cream cheese, and crackers. Jordan poured me a glass of wine, and I fiddledat my computer while I waited. Five-fifteen, five-thirty—nothing. At quarter ofsix I decided something must have come up, he wasn’t coming, and I put the foodaway—just as he walked up the driveway. Then we both fell all over each otherapologizing—he insists that I said six when I confirmed. I can’t imagine thatbecause I know he gets off work at TCU at five, and it’s two minutes from here.I may have made a typo, but I can’t find the email to find out. At any rate, wehad a good visit about books and TCU and restaurants.

Christian had thought to joinus, but Jacob’s car died in the high school parking lot today, so it was towedto the house and carefully backed into the driveway, with the tow truck driverholding the battery in place, so Christian could install a new battery. WhenJames left, about seven fifteen, he, Jordan, and Christian had a good driveway visit.And I had a salmon and cream cheese sandwich for supper.

Today I finally cleared up thelast of the busy-ness details that had burdened me this week. Got my Origins(cosmetics) account straightened out and was able to place an order. But ittook three chat sessions over three days, which I consider a chunk of my time.Those chat options are great for me because when I get a tech in Indonesia, Ican’t understand her or him, but the chat moves slowly and does take time. Andoften it’s over such silly small matters. But I feel good that by mid-week, Ihave those niggling little items off my desk and calendar.

A few days ago I wrote about myrenewed conversation with the older sister of one of my best friends growing up—andmostly with the sister’s daughter. You may remember I sent them a manuscripttitled, “I Wish I Lived at Eleanor Lee’s House.” Today, Leslie, the daughter, sentme a PDF of faded newspaper clippings about the daycare program Elizabeth,Eleanor Lee’s older sister, established in their back yard when she was twelve,and Eleanor Lee and I were probably eight or nine. I remember it well—they had maybeten or twelve neighborhood kids, fed them snacks (probably Kool-Aid, yuck!),and played games with them. One summer my mother was gone a lot—her sister wasdying—and I spent my days helping with the daycare children. We were all impressedthat it made the newspaper, probably the Chicago Tribune, because the Harrisonswere conservative. The Tribune was not allowed in my liberal household;we read the Chicago Sun-Times.

Those clippings triggeredanother memory. Liz and Eleanor Lee used to go around the neighborhood afterChristmas, dragging home every discarded Christmas tree they could find. Thiswas in the days before artificial trees so there were lots. They stashed them allin the backyard and made a forest. Great for playing hide-and-seek—until the firedepartment got wind of it and cleared out the forest as a fire hazard, which itreally was. But you can see why I wanted to live at Eleanor Lee’s house! Nosuch excitement at my house.

Today, as almost every day, Idon’t know whether to weep or celebrate when I read the news. But today there areseveral disturbing developments—Ron DeSantis has absolutely gutted education,particularly higher education, in Florida. Public universities cannot teachDEI, nor anything that reflects a biased history, racism, etc. He even getsspecifics about what pronouns are to be used, though I don’t see how he canenforce that. I hope the ACLU hops on this quickly. Many students at publicuniversities in that state are people of color who cannot afford private orout-of-state schools, so they are being robbed of their only chance at a broad,liberal education which will help them advance in the world. And we will have ageneration of people so uneducated that they are not qualified to be leaders ingovernment, industry, health care, all the fields vital to advancing America.It is classic dictator tactics.

In Texas the gun newscontinues to be horrifying. You probably have heard of the Sonic employeekilled in Keene, south of Fort Worth. A thirty-some-year-old man took a leak inthe back of the Sonic parking lot. When the employee went out to talk to him, atwelve-year-old boy in the man's car grabbed an AR-15 which just happened to be handy and blewthe Sonic employee away. Dear Governor Abbott: that is not a mental healthproblem; it is a problem of the availability of an assault weapon. I am notsure what the answer is, where we will find a solution, but I know thatsomething like eighty-seven percent of Americans want better gun control. We donot have to live like this. And I am ashamed that Texas leads the way inkillings.

On that note, be safe, everyone.And do whatever you can to protest. I’m thinking hard and long about it.