Judy Alter's Blog, page 301

Old friends are gold

I can't leave Hawaii behind on the blog without a tip of the hat to the people who lured us to the islands, Martha and Dick Andersen. Fifty years ago last fall Martha and I were English majors together at Truman State University in Kirkville, Missouri, she an undergraduate and me working on a Masters. We had a big something in common--her father was the the president of the osteopathic college in Kirksville; mine was president of the one in Chicago. I don't think it was that that drew us together so much as an affinity for each other. Martha would marry that December, and I married the next year. The four of us did a lot together, creating some fond memories. Over the years and through crises in both families, we've kept in touch. They've come to Texas four times at least, and when my children were young we all went to Omaha to see them. When they lived in Singapore, they urged me to come visit but I wasn't quite brave enough to make the long and complicated trip alone. One year on a visit to Texas, they took me to Santa Fe--wonderful experience. It's truly golden to have friends who remain close and caring after all those years, and I feel blessed by their continuing friendship and support. They are one of the most comfortable couples I know...I don't think I can pay them a greater compliment.
And they've welcomed Jordan heartily. We had great visits on the lanai, fun fixing suppers (and the perfect martini), and sightseeing on Kauai. Because of them, I have an experience I will always treasure.
Sunset above the clouds as we headed homeAs wonderful as our trip had been, we were ready to come home, and it's good to be back. Now I'm trying to get in the groove of work. I have books to write, lunches to share with friends, books to read, a lot to do. And it's all good.

Maui

We had an entirely different experience on Maui than we did on Kauai. I think it was because we stayed in a resort hotel rather than a private residence. We were tourists among throngs of fellow tourists. I learned a lot on Maui, and some of it is negative. I learned that I don’t really like life at a resort hotel and while I always appreciate good food I am not fond of eating all meals in high-priced restaurants.
The day we landed we had lunch at a seaside place called Mama’s Fish House that Jordan had found online. A beautiful experience—window table, ocean right in front of us, a sophisticated menu. I had lobster guacamole and oysters on the half shell, with a glass of wine. Loved it…and nearly fainted when they brought the bill.
We stayed at the Hyatt Regency at Ka’annapoli Beach, an inspiring place with a fully planted open atrium and the customary rooms around it. I was much relieved that our room was in another wing and I didn’t have to do those glass elevators and balcony walks to get there. Heights bother me, and I once had a miserable stay on the 11th floor of a Hyatt with three young children; the oldest, three, could have climbed that balcony wall in a flash.
Once settled in our room, we fell quickly into a pattern. Jordan got up early and went to the spa ever morning, while I dozed, watched the news, and drank my coffee. One breakfast in the hotel dining room was enough—we neither needed to eat that much nor spend that much. But it was a lovely experience—the restaurant was open to a pond with a waterfall and a swan that swam right up to our table. Sparrows flew all over the dining room, often landing to pick up snacks from discarded plates. After that, we breakfasted in our room.
Jordan had arranged to visit other hotels at lunchtime, so we dined at the Ritz Carlton one day and the Four Seasons the next—both magnificent, elegant places where I felt slightly under-dressed and out of place. But beach-front lunches were good…and always there was the ocean. At the Four Seasons, we had our best whale sighting ever when one jumped out and then dove back into the water right in front of us. These visits gave us a chance to drive both directions from our hotel and see a bit of the island which is, as you’d expect, beautiful. Much of it is “developed” and manicured but there’s still plenty in its natural state. We were particularly aware here of green ocean fronts and barren, brown hills.
Afternoons, Jordan sunned by the pool while I read and napped in our room, which had an ocean view if you sat on the balcony and looked just the right way. Or maybe I should say ocean glimpse. Although we had a car, Jordan didn’t want to drive at night so we dined at the hotel and quickly found our favorite spot: Japengo, a sushi/steakhouse. We claimed a table on the patio bar area with a wonderful ocean view—and more whale sightings.
One night we had the fun of visiting with William Nikkel, an author published by my publisher, Turquoise Morning Press, 6and his wife Karen; theylive on Maui. We sat at “our” table and shared a pupu platter, along with tales of writing mysteries. Jordan said when we talked about various guns and their capabilities and people who “needed killing” the lady at the next table was alarmed and kept watching us with caution.
We spent a long day waiting to fly home--lunch at a nice place on the coast and long hours in a bar at the airport where we watched a small drama. Fur men took forever to load a large dog crate into the cargo hold of a plane. They turned it sideways and ever which way and I worried about the dog, but we could see them talk to it and put their hands in to pet the animal. The finally got it loaded and upright. Five minutes later they came back, unloaded it, and drove away. Did they put it on the wrong plane? We'll never know. Finally our plane took off and we flew most of the night to get home. Glad to be back.

Kauai, the Garden Island

The view from the lanaiMy favorite place in Kauai was the lanai (or patio). It’s maybe a hundred yards from bushes, beyond which are lava rocks and the ocean. We sat there endlessly—breakfast, lunch, happy hour—talking, catching up, reliving old times, watching for whales. I think I was first to see spouts but Jordan got better at it than I was. The birds came right in front of us to eat bread that Martha provided, the wind blew, and occasional rain splattered us. My idea of heaven—especially with a book. When I said I could spend all day there, Dick said, “I do. A lot.”
Spouting HornBut we were there to see the sights, and Dick and Martha showed them to us. Martha took us souvenir shopping for things to bring back home—a trip that would have bored Dick utterly. She also showed us some of the local sights around Po’ipu Beach (means crashing waves), including Spouting Horn, a phenomenon where incoming ocean water spouts up between rocks—not sure what causes it. And the wind blew and blew.


Wimea Canyon
One day we all went to Wimea Canyon, which involved a trip along the south and west coasts of the island and then angling inward, up twisting, turning mountain roads to a canyon that is a miniature of the Grand Canyon and spectacular in its own right. I wimped out and didn’t climb to the observation point, which Jordan said I would not have enjoyed—but I got enough glimpses as we sped along those roads to know how impressive it is. We went further into the mountains to a state park where we picnicked on a grassy meadow and fed the most spectacular chickens. They are wild and colorful descendants of chickens brought by the Japanese but very tame because they’re used to being fed. I noticed that neither Mama nor Papa were much concerned about feeding the babies and would grab the crumbs we flung before the little ones could get them. On the way back we stopped at the Kauai Chocolate Company—talk about temptation! That night we had dinner at Brennecke’s, a seaside table at an open-air restaurant with a great view of the sunset.


Anni Beach
The next day we went to the north end of the island. High point of that trip for me was seeing Anni Beach where South Pacific was filmed. Now we have to watch the movie again. The landscape was a bit different, and the houses reminded me more of Galveston. We did go by the hotel—now the St. Regis but then something different—where my oldest daughter and her husband honeymooned.
Hawaiians seem to live with one eye on the weather. One day we heard sirens, and Martha was worried—they have been through two tsunami alerts which meant they had to drive inland, once spending the night in their car in a shopping mall parking lot. This time it was merely the noon sirens. On the way to Princeville we went over a wooden bridge that she said they close when it rains hard.
I loved our time on Kauai and would go back in a heartbeat.
Frustration: some of my pictures are in my camera, but I discovered when I went to download them that someone had chewed the cord that connects the camera to the computer—I suspect a certain dog. Monday: a trip to Sony to get a new cord. Jordan got some great pictures that I didn’t, but images from her cell phone won’t download to my phone, computer, anything. I may be posting images for weeks when I finally get them. Tomorrow or Monday, impressions of Maui.

A confession, Hawaii—and my daughter

To those who read this regularly, an apology. When I said I was taking a break, I didn’t tell the full story. Two years ago, my two oldest children took me on a wonderful trip to Scotland. Last week, my youngest daughter took me for a week in Hawaii (we landed at five a.m. this morning!). All the kids know I’m an uncertain traveler at best. I’ve gotten much calmer about flying, but I am anxious in airports, on escalators, going through security, etc. They manage a nice balance of taking care of me without letting me become dependant—which I try not to do but sometimes I am overwhelmed and reach out for a steadying arm.
Jordan is a travel agent and, by extension, a professional traveler. She knows the ins and outs of airports, security check-in, off-site parking, car rental, all that rigmarole that confuses me utterly. We had a seamless trip with four plane boardings, a rented car, off-site parking at the DFW airport. I was mightily impressed by her knowledge of everything from what to tip to what to look for in a hotel and by the way she uses that old saying my mom taught me (and I suppose her): you catch more flies with a teaspoon of sugar than a cup or vinegar. Jordan charms her way through life. And as she said to me once after the two of us took a one-day necessary trip to Houston and back, “It’s a good thing we like each other.”
Scotland was always my dream destination; Hawaii never entered my consideration. We went because dear but distant friends of fifty years (gulp!) have a condo on Kauai and invited us, so we spent four nights there and three on Maui so Jordan could explore some sites for future clients and familiarize herself with the islands. And we had quite an education.
I suppose you see a place in context of what you know. Jordan said Hawaii with its lush shores and sometimes bare mountains reminded her of northern California; small communities nestled in the foothills of some of those mountains spoke to me of Colorado. I was attracted to the simple design of houses on South Kauai and then realized they reminded me of the Craftsman architecture about which I write. I suppose in reality they reflect the simple taste of the missionaries who “civilized” the islands.
But Hawaii truly is a unique paradise as it’s billed. The people are warm and friendly and when they say “Aloha” or Mahalo,” they mean it. They are conscious of their environment—you don’t see trash along highways at all; wide bike lanes provide safety for riders; people often pull off the road to park, even camp, at small strips of beach; hotels and other public buildings are open air—no doors or windows in lobbies, etc. (I almost wished it would rain hard so I could see how they cope). Hawaiians are, however, conscious of their privacy, and a lot of houses I would like to have seen were hidden by the privacy of a concrete block wall (erected since a bad hurricane) or thick foliage.
Flowers everywhere, and trees I’d never seen—one I can’t name in which the leaves branched out from the trunk in horizontal planes. The wiliwili or twisted tree is an indigenous and endangered flowering tree now the subject of a strong conservation effort. And firs and pines abound, along of course with the ubiquitous palm trees. Yes, we got leis—some authentic ones from our friends (below) that I can’t describe and at the hotel on Maui, the orchid leis.
The things I liked best: chocolate covered macadamia nuts, wonderfully sweet fruit, the abundance of fresh fish—some such as ono which I’d never heard of, the constantly changing landscape, and of course the ocean. Okay, it did remind me of Lake Michigan, but the ocean had whales! Big difference.
If you can bear with me in the next couple of days I’ll sketch our adventures in Kauai and Maui. It was a wonderful adventure but, as always, I’m glad to be home and to be greeted by an exuberantly enthusiastic dog—nice to be missed.

Ready for a break

I'm at loose ends tonight. I've finished the rough draft of a novel, won't do more until I hear from my critique reader, and not ready to jump into another novel so soon; I'm caught up on various other chores, even got my income tax information to the accountant. And I'm flat out of blogging ideas. So I'm taking a break for a week. No writing, no blogging, minimal email and Facebook. I've got six books on my iPad, and I'm going to read ad laugh and dance and play, eat fine meals and sleep a lot.
So please mark your calendar and check back...oh, next Friday or Saturday, and I'll be back with more Judy's Stew and Potluck with Judy. Until then, see 'ya!

The women's movement redux

Watching a fascinating PBS documentary tonight on the women's movement. A lot of terms and events come flooding back to me--Katherine Switzer who in the late '60s outraged the running world by entering and completing the Boston Marathon, a male race for seventy years; NOW--the National Organization for Women; "consciousness raising" groups; Women's Liberation; the sit-in at Ladies Home Journal; Roe vs Wade; ERA and Phyllis Schafly. I lived through those years but there was much I wasn't aware of. I knew there'd been a split in the movement, but I didn't understand it until hearing Gloria Steinem's words tonight that Betty Freidan wanted women to have new lives in society as it exists, but Steinem and younger women wanted to transform society. And I didn't realize that  women of color early on saw women's liberation as a cause for white women; they didn't believe it would do anything for them. It took work and time for all women to come together. Because I was raised by a doctor I was aware of the problems of abortion and later, married to a doctor, of both abortion and the pill, so I kind of had a sideways knowledge of the sexual revolution. Still, it was eye-opening to hear Sarah Weddington talk about Roe vs Wade.
I graduated from high school in the mid-fifties, part of the generation who expected to marry, raise children, and live happily ever after. I majored in English because some man was going to take care of me, and I wouldn't have to worry about making a living (that didn't quite work out and I raised four children as a single parent, but that's another story). My then-husband and I were just "conscioiusness raised" enough that we were considered the slightly amusing, on-the-edge young couple by the medical society in which we moved. We adopted children, incuding a mixed race baby; I was the first to wear a denim suit (wish it fit me today--from Neiman's and really good looking); I had ambitions to write and Joel supported me. I remember one doctor, new to town, who introduced me to his wife, saying, "She's a woman's libber."
Yet watching tonight I realize how much I was on the fringe, benefiting from what women of greater courage and nerve accomplished for all of us. Hearing Freidan, Steinem, Letty Cottin Pogebrin, Susan Brownmiller, Judy Blume, Sarah Weddington, Bella Abzug, Hillary Clinton, and others showed me the intensity of the ongoing movement. That I raised four children alone and had a good career in publishing is due to those women whose shoulders I stand on. An eye-opening documentary. Hope they rerun it.

Dogs are so funny!

Sophie with a favorite boneSometimes Sophie seems to know exactly what's going on and what we're saying to her. Other times she's clueless--or ignores us. This morning Jordan came in after taking Jacob to school, and Sophie, rope toy in her mouth, attacked, all but demanding, "Play with me, play with me!" Jordan declined because she didn't want to be jumped on in good work clothes. When she left, Sophie was the picture of dejection, rope toy still in her mouth. She stood looking out the window toward Jordan's car as if saying, "I can't believe she left me." When she heard the motor start, she dropped the toy. I'm sure she was saying to herself, "Well, there goes that."
A bit later, when I went to change so I could run some errands, she watched me anxiously. She knows what it means when I make the bed, take off pjs and put on jeans and a shirt. She slunk into her crate. I thought it was nice enough for her to be out since it was to be cold later but she clearly objected, so she stayed in her crate while I was gone.
Last night, she caused me some embarrassment. She's not a bad barker and certainly not one of those who barks to hear herself, but when she's in a frenzy over some critter, she has a high, shrill bark. I went to bring her in, but she was jumping at the back fence; obviously there was something up there. I don't remember hearing her bark, but I do know she ignored me when I called her. Then the neighbor behind us called and mentioned gently that they were trying to go to sleep early and Sophie was disturbing them. I went out, used my sternest voice and a chew stick as temptation, and got her in. This morning I sent off an apologetic email and got a pleasant reply, saying Sophie doesn't usually bother them.
Right now, Sophie is curled up at my feet, under my desk, good as gold, and we're both happy campers. She reminds me of the little girl with the curl: "And when she was good, she was very good/And when she was bad, she was horrid." I cannot imagine life without a dog--especially without Sophie who long ago worked her way into my heart..

A bit of Cowtown Marathon nostalgia

One Sunday, runners in the full marathon will go right past my house, and I'll sit on the front porch much of the morning and cheer them on. My daughter says she'll put signs in my yard.
I've heard various stories in recent years about who started the marathon. I was always told the idea was hatched in my living room. A group from the Institute for Human Fitness--all men, no women--met every Sunday to discuss the programs of the institute, a project of TCOM (now UNTHSC) devoted to helping people achieve wellness through physical fitness--an appropriate osteopathic concept. While they discussed fitness, a friend and I were in the kitchen fixing the richest, most sinful desserts we could imagine--I particularly remember Italian Cream Cake. And those fitness gurus ate every bite. But I was told the marathon idea sprang out of those meetings and my then-husband, Joel Alter, was one of the founders, along with Charles Ogilvie. Joel claimed the once-classic symbol of the race, Cowtown Charlie, was him, and it could have been with the big moustache. But I always thought it was Charlie Ogilvie.
The night before the first marathon we sat in the house and heard sleet. "@#$%! I didn't want sleet" was Joel's response. He left in the wee hours in the morning, and still early, I bundled up four children (one of them probably three at most) and drove over ice and snow to Fort Worth's Historic National Stockyards Discrict. In those days I worked in the Communications Office of TCOM and was doing publicity for the marathon. When we got there, I turned the children loose and spent the day doing whatever pr people do, including popping in occasionally to the RV that a local radio station had brought to the site and giving live on-air reports.
Now, I am horrified that I turned my very young children loose on the North Side, but they have assured me they were always with a huge bunch of kids. And they all survived, so I guess I should banish it from my long list of motherly guilts. They looked forward to race day every year, and, frankly, so did I. After Joel and I split, I did publicity one more year--I think to prove to him and to myself that I coiuld do it. And then I bowed out.
Charlie continued to run well into his eighties and always took first in his age group--no surprise there. Sometimes he'd take me to the carb-loading pasta dinner the night before, and I loved seeing old friends. I made a couple of really good friends through the marathon.
Today, of course, the race is a far different thing, a mega race with a full-time, year-round paid staff, probably ten times the number of runners we ever dreamed of, so many side events it makes my head spin, and this year, so I read, an exposition for runners, complete with demonstrataions of osteopathic soft-tissue maniuplation. The Institute for Human Fitness, a great concept, is long gone.
Tomorrow when those runners go by, a host of memories will flood me. Those were good days, another lifetime ago.

 

Talking to Yourself

A recent thread on the Sisters in Crime list was sparked by a study announcing that women speak about 20,000 words a day, while men speak only a paltry 10,000. The implications for women writers were many—if we write all day and don’t speak those words to people, then we should be able to write a book in, say, a week and a half (not guaranteeing the quality of the manuscript)—thereby far outdistancing our male rivals, if that’s what they are. But the one idea that got me the most was a comment that it is hard to spend all day alone, with no one to talk to, as many writers do. Writing is essentially a solitary experience. The writer said she used to call her widowed brother in the late morning, and he would have to clear his throat because he hadn’t yet spoken to anyone that day. As a writer who lives alone, I identify with that.
Usually, during the week, I have lunch and/or dinner engagements with friends, and on school days, I have Jacob bounding in for a snack and homework. Then his mom comes to pick him up, and I get to visit with her. But on weekends, I often spend long days talking to no other human except perhaps a grocery-store clerk. And I admit it often makes for blue, introspective days.
I have plenty to do—always. Writing projects, marketing, all the things that go with being a writer plus bills, e-mail, Facebook, all the things that go with living in todays  world and keeping a house and a life going. And in advance of every weekend, I tell myself I have lots to read. But I miss the human interaction that energizes me. And in truth all I can think is, “How much worse would it be if I didn’t write? If I didn’t have that to keep me busy?” I can’t imagine it.
The writer cited above did say it’s perfectly acceptable to talk to animals, and I surely was relieved to hear that. I talk to my dog all the time—and she talks back though unfortunately I don’t speak her language. She’s so expressive! I am desperate to know what she means and wants. When she was a pup, I hired a trainer who came to the house. He helped a lot, but he also told me not to talk to my dog unless I was giving a command. Well, I just couldn’t do that. I have a dog for companionship, and I am by golly going to talk to her.  I aim long monologues at her, particularly when we sit on the floor together just before she goes to bed.  I do think she may lose patience when I sing “Good Night, Irene” as I put her in her crate—where, by the by, she goes willingly for the night. It’s her safe place. And it makes me stop singing.
Aside from talking to the dog, one of my tricks for brightening the weekend is to invite company for Sunday supper. But this Sunday everyone wants to watch the Oscars, which bore me, so that doesn’t work. I am going to make a huge pot of Bolognese spaghetti sauce—if I freeze it, so be it. I’ll have a good supper Sunday night—and curl up with all those cooking magazines that arrived yesterday and I haven’t read yet.
How about you? Do you relish solitary days or find them a bit uncomfortable?

National Sticky Bun Day

Today is National Sticky Bun Day, and it just so happens that sticky buns are the breakfast house specialty at the Blue Plate Café in my new mystery series. Kate arrives at six-thirty every morning to make them, and I like to think she makes them the way my mom used to. Here’s Mom’s recipe for roll dough and then directions for turning it into sticky buns. I’m sure Kate makes the basic dough every night before she closes the café and then she’s ready to go in the morning and have sticky buns hot and fresh when the café opens at seven.
Basic roll dough
2 pkg. granular yeast
½ c. warm water
Pinch of sugar
1 12-oz. can evaporated milk, plus enough water to make 4 cups
1 scant c. vegetable oil
1 c. sugar
Dissolve yeast in water (add just a pinch of sugar to help the yeast work) and let it rise about five minutes. Mix milk and water, oil, and sugar. Add dissolved yeast. Stir in enough flour to make a thin batter, the consistency of cake batter. Let this rise in a warm place until bubbles appear on the surface (probably 1 hour—check it at 30 minutes).
Separately, mix
1 c. flour
1 tsp. salt (or less)
1 heaping tsp. baking powder
1 level tsp. baking soda
Sift seasoned flour into first mixture. Keep adding more flour until it is too stiff to stir with a spoon. Knead well. Don't let the dough get stiff with too much flour, or your rolls will be heavy. This dough will keep a week or so in the refrigerator.To make good, gooey pecan rolls for breakfast, roll the dough out to a flat rectangle. Sprinkle with cinnamon and brown sugar and dab with butter. Roll up into a tube and slice into pieces of about 2 inches. Grease the bottom of an 8x8 pan thoroughly and then cover it with Karo white syrup and pecan halves. Place rounds of dough, cut side down, on the Karo/pecan mixture. Bake these at 350o until brown and center rolls appear cooked. Be sure to turn out of the pan immediately, while still warm. Cold cooked syrup turns to concrete. Rinse the pan immediately with very hot water.