Judy Alter's Blog, page 300

The US and WWII--and some good books

You can catch fascinating interiews on NPR. I happened yesterday to tune to a segment of "Fresh Air" for an interview with historian Lynne Olson, author of Those Angry Days: Roosevelt, Lindbergh, and America's Fight over World War II, 1939-1941. I was too young (three in 1941) to know any of this, but I'd read a little in other books, and I want to read this one. The disagreements between interventionists, led by Roosevelt, and isolationists, with Lindbergh as spokesman, were bitter, loud, and long. Basically it ended with Pearl Harbor, but Olson told some fascinating bits about deception on both sides, LIndbergh's personal life, things I've never known.
In recent months, I've read three novels about that period but both set either in England or Europe. The first, Mr. Churchill's Secretary, is about a young woman denied entry into higher mathematics programs. So she becomes a typist in the pool sheltered underground in London. Somehow Churchill's eye falls on her, and she is soon taking all his dictation...and is privy to his inside thoughts. Eventually she ends up spying for him. All this is set against the background of the Blitz, the quarrels between Churchill and Chamberlain, and Hitler's unstoppable march across Europe. Author Susan Ella MacNeal followed that one with Princess Elizabeth's Spy in which the same girl, Maggie Hope, is charged with protecting the princess. Good books much enhanced by the history they present.
The other novel is Jack 1939,  by Francine Mathews, in which Churchill sends a young JFK, son of the then-ambassador to England, to spy across Europe and find out what the Germans are planning. Kennedy has a series of close calls and wild adventures. Did it happen? Never, but it makes fascinating reading and, again, the history behind the story is well researched.
If Olson's books tellus abouit the controversey in this country, the others above details conflicts in England, including increasing resentment of America's refusal to leap into the fray, the efforts of the IRA to distract England, and what Winston Churchill famously called "the gathering storm." Books about World War II could fill endless shelves, even entire bookstores, but until recently I haven't been aware of much focus on what was for America the "pre-war" period.
Find Olson's book at http://www.amazon.com/Those-Angry-Days-Roosevelt-Lindbergh/dp/1400069742/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1364404264&sr=1-1&keywords=Those+Angry+Days

Are you your own best advocate?

A very minor office surgical procedure taught me a good lesson these last couple of days. I had a white bump on my scalp for some time, kept meaning to ask the doctor but forgot because I didn't think it was serious. But it began to grow, and then last weekend it suddenly became tender and felt like a scab trying to come off--only it was the wrong color. So I called the doctor's office, explained I have a history of skin cancer, and I was afraid this would come off before they could biospy it. They gave me an appointment in two-and-a-half weeks. Me: "What do I do if it comes off before that?" Answer: "Call us immediately." That seemed like locking the barn after the horse was gone.
My doctor's office has a terrific web page, with a patient log-in where you can write messages to the doctor, nurses, etc. So I emailed the nurse I usually see, and she was concerned enough to forward my message to the doctor. Upshot: come in today so we can get a biopsy. (All this took several emails back and forth). So in I went, and twenty minutes later I walked out with my "alien" gone. Pathology report in a week, but I'm just relieved it's gone and I don't have to worry about it coming off during the night or when I shampoo or brush my hair.
I know it's a fine line--problem patients are the bane of a medical office, but at the same time, you have to stand up for yourself. I was pleased that I'd taken action and followed up, pushing my case.
I know people who just assume the doctor knows best, don't ask questions, don't understand whatever treatment they're receiving, and also take the word of the receptionist who is a gatekeeper. My advice is to educate yourself (okay, the web can be misleading), ask questions, know what you're talking about and how you're being treated. And when in doubt, follow your instincts.
It worked for me!

Dressing up on a stormy weekend

There must have been some kind of bug in the air this past weekend. All my kids were in costumes. The top picture is youngest daughter Jordan and her husband, Christian, who reverted to the ‘80s—or was that the ‘70s?—complete with wigs. They report they had a blast at the annual Lily B. Clayton PTA Auction, which raises money for extras at the school, such as a laptop lab.
And below are my other three, two with spouses, one member of the extended family and my oldest grandchild. Aren’t teenagers wonderful? The look on her face clearly says, “I don’t know these people, don’t know why I’m with them, don’t know why I’m dressed like them.” It was probably about 6:30 a.m. Sunday at Fair Park in Dallas, and the temperature, so they tell me, was 38 and the wind at 45 mph. The Rock ‘n Roll half marathon began at seven, and they all finished it, though I’ve had no word on times. Megan, my oldest daughter who was responsible for the matching pajamas, ran with my granddaughter, Maddie, and says they mostly ran but walked a little—due to Megan’s knee and Maddie’s ankle. Maddie is a superb athlete and star basketball player—lives and breathes the game, though she’s no slouch on the soccer field either. I remember not too many years ago going to either a basketball or volleyball game when most of the girls stood and watched the ball without moving. She’s grown up in a lot of ways, and I am so proud of her. And love her sense of humor—you can see the smile in her eyes in this picture.
Meantime I was snug in my bed—well, sort of. There was this six-year-old who kept kicking me. A clap of loud thunder followed by lightning about eleven Saturday night sent him running to tell me it was time for me to go to bed and he was sleeping in my bed, not his. I regaled him with stories about how much I loved storms on Lake Michigan when I was his age, and his astounded reply was “Why?”
Texas has taught me to be respectful of storms, but as a kid I did love them. We had a summer cottage at the foot of Lake Michigan, high on a dune two long staircases above the beach, and we could watch storms roll down the lake from the north, with dark clouds, roaring winds, whitecaps crashing on the beach, and torrential rains. Snug in the cottage, I thought it was thrilling. I’d still like storms if someone could assure me there would be no tornado and no serious damage, but I’ve seen too many pictures of wind damage in Texas. Jacob and I discussed where to go if there was a tornado, and I asked, “You would remember the dog, wouldn’t you?”
Sophie, the Bordoodle, was unfazed by the storm, though I have had dogs who were terrified. Scooby, the Aussie I lost last summer, was so frightened when I first got him that I tried giving him tranquilizers. Trouble was by the time I realized a storm was coming and gave him the pill, it was too late. It took hours for the pill to kick in, and the storm had passed but the dog was a zombie by then.
I remember my mom telling me that thunder was the gods rolling bowling balls around in heaven. Mom was a good Christian, but she mixed a little Greek mythology in and had many gods up there bowling. I found the idea comforting. I’ll try it on Jacob, though I know he’d correct me and tell me there is only one God.

A short but good trip

Five grandchildren ready for pizza--aren't they lovely?Sometimes brief visits are best. I'm just back from a quick overnight trip to Frisco where I saw three of my children and five of my seven grandchildren. As always it was noisy, happy and joyful. Where else does someone light the grill at eleven o'clock to grill the perfect rare steak, then slice it thin and distribute slices, even to his sister who swears she won't eat "pink meat." (She closed her eyes, ate it, and admitted it was pretty good). Where else do four children have a wild basketball game in your bedroom while you're trying to do your nightly toilette? I had to keep dodging the ball and kept saying, "Be careful of the grandmother." Where else would I eat eggs, bacon, a mini-sausage in a roll, fruit, and a blueberry muffin for breakfast and then, less than three hours later, eat three pieces of pizza--me who eats a modest third cup cottage cheese for breakfast and never touches pizza! 'Nough said--we had a good time, and it is a delight to see how well the cousins play together, how much they love each other.
Jordan, Jacob and I came home this afternoon. She and Christian had a big school auction to go to tonight, and in Frisco six adults and one teenager will run a half marathon in the morning. Then most will go straight home. I could have stayed and helped Melanie watch and feeed the six children left behind, but it seemed better this way. Tomorrow Jacob and I will go to Palm Sunday services, and Sophie is glad to have us home tonight. We had supper at the Star Cafe and then I let Jacob wander through the tourist-y emporium next door. I had made him promise not to ask me to buy anything, and he didn't, but he'd look at the price on everything and then ask, "Juju, did you bring that much money with you? I saw a twenty in your purse." I assured him I as not using the twenty for any of that stuff, especially the fake guns that he kept asking me if they were real..
It's always sweet to be home, be the trip long or short.

A blog after long silence

Kauai at its lush, green bestOkay, the title of this blog is a silly take-off on the W. B. Yeats' poem, "Speech After Long Silence," a poem I remember writing a paper on in graduate school, fabricating a whole scene of a married couple who hadn't spoken to each other for years because they had nothing to say. That's sort of where I was with the blog this week: I had nothing much to say.
It’s been back to routine around here—Hawaii too far behind me, Jacob back in school so we’re doing homework every afternoon. What I thought would be a long week of stay-home-and-work days turned out not to be so. Lunches with three friends, and dinner at the Old Neighborhood Grill two nights in a row—ate a turkey burger each night. Think that craving is squelched for a while. Tonight I fixed chicken with a yogurt sauce for the Burtons and everyone had their own veggie—broccoli for Jacob because he loves it (or did until tonight), leftover zucchini for me, a salad for Jordan, and either salad or green beans for Christian. But Christian didn’t show up until it was time to be off to the school for Jacob’s first-grade program. He had one line, which he delivered masterfully. We just wished he would have smiled more the whole time. Sent dinner home with Christian.Speaking of zucchini, it’s funny how a vacation can make you forget your routine. Once back, I bought zucchini when I grocery shopped. Rattling around in my mind was the notion that I’d found a way to cook it that I really liked—I just couldn’t remember what it was, so the zucchini sat. I was about to get out my file of vegetable recipes when I remembered: grate it, sauté in butter briefly, add salt and pepper. So easy and so good.
Today I downloaded the rest of the Hawaii pictures from my camera. When I got home, I got out the cord that connects camera to computer and found it had been chewed—who could have done that? Sophie isn’t talking. So, at a cost of $50-plus, I ordered a new one. It came yesterday and I retrieved the pictures. What I’d had so far were from my phone or Jordan’s phone.
Spent a good part of this week buried in a book—Faith Bass Darling’s Last Garage Sale. Look for the review on Story Circle Book Reviews soon, and I’ll try to post a review on Goodreads. I loved this book. It will make you laugh, look at your own life, and cry for Faith and her loved ones.
Next project: edits on the second Blue Plate Mystery, tentatively titled Murder at Tremont House. Catch up on Kate Chambers’ adventures from the beginning by reading Murder at the Blue Plate Café.
Let the good times roll!

More Chronicles of Sophie

Sophie had a bath, trim, nails cut, the whole nine yards today. She's fluffy and cute and doesn't look like a poodle (my constant worry). Cheers to Whisker Washers and a nice guy named Kirk who took time to comb some mats out of her.
My "puppy" is just two months shy of her second birthday, and she is so much calmer. She's taken to sleeping at my feet, under my desk, though sometimes she just goes and crawls happily into her crate. I guess this afternoon I wakened her before she was ready, because she clearly didn't want to come out. She follows me from room to room. The other day she lost me and suddenly came bounding into the bathroom, pushing the door open, as if to say, "There you are! I found you!" She still has her moments--goes crazy bonkers over Jordan and anyone new, like the dog groomer this morning. Also Greg who does the lawn, Lewis who keeps my house running. Last night, with ten adults and three children for dinner, I had to tell Jacob emphatically that no, he could not let her in. But she's finally growing into a well-behaved dog. Home alone with me, she's calm, quiet, sometimes begs for attention but we've pretty much reached an agreement on our lifestyle.
Every morning when I open her crate, she puts her head in my lap and we have a little loving session, although sometimes it's clear she's more anxious for a drink and a path of grass than love. Every night, when I turn out my desk lamp, she picks up a toy, trying to tempt me to play, but I can bribe her with a treat. Then before she crawls into her crate, I get down on the floor, she climbs in my lap, and we sit and love and I talk to her. Sometimes she twists around to lick my face and other times she contents herself with licking my hands or ankles. But when I make a move in the direction of the crate, she goes willingly. I've developed the habit of singing the first lines of "Good night, Irene," to her. Tried to substitute Sophie for Irene (should work--two syllables) but I can't do it. I have no idea if she likes this or finds it an irritation.
I also talk to her a lot--we discuss whatever's on my mind, from what to fix for supper to whether or not I'm going to leave her long when I put her outside. More and more, she prefers to be in the house, but for some inexplicable reason, she is loathe to come in at night. I cajole, command, threaten and tempt--eventually something works. And then she gets her one chew bone of the day.
Sophie's good company, and she's worth every ounce of frustration that went into her first year--and most of the destruction too. I cannot imagine ever living without a dog.

A Mexican St. Patrick's day birthday

I feel like I’ve been in a whirlwind. There were ten adults and three children here for Jordan’s birthday dinner tonight. I cut up fruit this morning, grated cheese, had the table all set with extra leaves in it (that kills my back), thought I was all ready. Jordan arrived an hour before the guests and went into frantic mode making cheese enchiladas and queso. I was the sous chef, which meant cleaning up as she went along because I can’t bear to let a mess accumulate. Made me appreciate my lazy pace of the rest of the day.
Then the guests began to arrive. These are all people I love, but oh my! when they all talk at once it’s so much noise I can’t make out what any one person is saying. Still it was a jolly affair, with lots of laughter, children shouting, all the trappings of a family celebration. And good food—chips and queso, cheese enchiladas, beans, a huge fruit salad, and chocolate cake. What more could anyone ask?
Jordan and Christian are so good about cleaning up my kitchen. Tonight it got to be eight o’clock, time to get Jacob home to bed, and they apologized for the mess they left. I approached it with a certain amount of dread but it wasn’t bad at all. I’ve left two enchilada pans soaking, but everything else is done. Tomorrow I’ll do a big kitchen wash—towels, napkins, etc.
And tonight I’m happy but tired. I think my St. Patrick’s Day baby, the youngest of my children, had a good birthday.

Setting your own deadlines--or OCD

My neighbors came for happy hour tonight, and Jay was telling me that Susan had trimmed back the ivy growing up my wall. I protested that Greg, who keeps my yard, could do that, but she shrugged and said, "I was already there." Jay said she was compulsive, and a bit later I confessed to something that indicated I too am compulsive--which I guess everyone who knows me is already aware of.
But my self-imposed deadlines struck me again tonight with a bit of humor. I had dreaded a long weekend with nothing to do. Happy hour took care of tonight, and I invited a friend for supper tomorrow. Then I decided I have to cook an Irish supper, so I'm doing a Reuben casserole (now there's an experiment!) and an Irish potato salad. This means two trips to two different groceries, which I had planned anyway, but the potato salad recipe says, "Best prepared the day before." Well, I can't do that, but I can cook it in the morning. That makes a very busy morning. I had planned to drop some things off at another friend's house, but I emailed her that my plate was full tomorrow and I'd get them to her next week--and that's when it struck me. My plate is indeed full, but with self-imposed deadlines. Nobody else cares. If I greeted my guest at the door tomorrow night and said, "I didn't cook. Let's go out," she'd say, "Fine. Where do you want to go?" But of course I won't do that. I'll have individual casseroles waiting and that blasted potato salad. And somewhere during the day I'll set out dishes for dinner for 12-13 on Sunday (I don't have to cook, just make a fruit salad--Jordan is making an enchilada casserole for her own birthday dinner).
My first thought is how silly is that to have filled my empty weekend to the point that I feel busy?. But I thought about it some more and realized there's an upside to this. A friend wrote me the other day saying she admired my energy and enthusiasm. Well, I think energy comes from doing the compulsive things I do, from keeping busy, reaching out to friends, loving the world around me. If I'd have left the weekend empty, I'd probably have a pity party of one. So tomorrow, much as I've enjoyed sleeping late with the time change, I'll probably pop out of bed and get to the store, so I can make the potato salad--and I'll fret because it hasn't really sat overnight. Being compulsive can get silly sometimes, but it ain't all bad.

People make a huge difference

Yesterday I was feeling a bit sorry for myself because a long day stretched before me without much if any human interaction. But Sophie and I were both overjoyed when Lewis Bundock, the man who keeps my house together, came to fix a balky door and visited. Today Greg, the man who makes my flowers and lawns look good, came and also stayed to visit--Sophie and I were again overjoyed.
Then I had lunch with good friend Jean at Tokyo Cafe--yakitori and a salad--and we went to get our flowers of the month (above). We had a great visit, catching up on everthing from my trip to Hawaii to her plans to go to Italy.
Tonight, good friend Kathie Lang Allen came from Arlington and we visited over a glass of wine and then went to Miso Fusion for supper. I had a plate of red, green, and white enchiladas--way too much for me to eat, but the spinach enchilada was the best I've ever had. And we too had a good visit.
I've long said that I feed on people. Being with others energizes me, and I am a much happier camper. Left alone, I tend to fall into introspection and the doldrums. So tonight I'm upbeat, happy with the world, and optimistic. Now if I could only settle down to work.
But I can't emphasize enough how important my friends are to me. I am blessed with many, and I hope each and every one realizes how much I value them.

Getting back to work

Getting back from a trip complicated by the switch to daylight savings time has made it hard for me to get back to routine. Though I have to protest--against a swarm of complaints about the switch to daylight savings time, I love it, love the extra light at night, the darker mornings. And then there was Jacob's sickness--he had a stomach bug over the weekend which really worked to my benefit: I had two delightful dinners at their house, though I was dismayed by how lethargic he was. Even woke in the night worrying about him--lethargy is generally not in Jacob's vocabulary. He was to go to his other grandparents Sunday but was too sick, so Monday, after a trip to the doctor, I got the fun (?) of getting 2 oz. of Pedialite down him every fifteen minutes to get fluid into his severely dehydrated little body. He was cross, cranky, stubborn, and sleepy. Not the best day for either of us. Tuesday he was much brighter, back to his talk-a-bunch self--we ran errands and he was pleased to go inside a post office for what he said was the first time in his life, he wanted to do yoga stretches, etc. We were back on track.
This morning, he went to his other grandparents, my tenant left at 3:20 a.m. for a long weekend trip, and I felt deserted with a long day stretching ahead of me. Not that I didn't have work to do; I just had no enthusiasm for any of it. But the day got better--the man who keeps my house running came to fix a balky door and we had a long visit, discussing among other things a possible deck off the back door. Then I ran the one errand I hadn't done yesterday and decided to treat myself at Central Market--bought a salmon cake and twice baked potato for supper, a meatloaf for sandwiches, and--oh, yes--some chocolate. Brightened my mood considerably.
And, yes, I've done some work since, including writing a guest blog I was a bit baffled about. My crab cake and potato were delicious, though following my new routine I only ate half of each.
I love it when I can get busy on a day that starts out gloomy and end the day cheerfully. I think it's always up to us, a matter of deciding how we'll spend the day. And I didn't want to spend it in a sulk. I'm thinking of the rest of the week as my spring vacation--even slept late this morning. But I admit I'll be glad when we're back in the routine next Monday, homework and all.