Judy Alter's Blog, page 311

When did first grade get so hard? And church so easy?

Jacob and I worked on homework from three o'clock, right after school, until almost five and then again for about 45 minutes after supper. He did so well on the spelling test last week (lots of drilling by all of us) that he got bumped up to a harder list this week--words like rapid, limit, spinner that aren't normaly in his vocabulary. And he had to use each word in a sentence so he needed a lot of coaching and encouragement--and sometimes flat-out help. He got so he'd say, "You go first," when we were thinking up sentences, but I said, "No, it's your homework." Took forever but we got it done. And the reading book was harder for him today--for some reason, he could not keep the name "Anita" in his mind, kept wanting to make it into a more complicated Spanish name.We labored through it twice this afternoon and the third, required time after supper. And then we worked on spelling--I had him copy the words and say them, and then I read them to him and he wrote them down--sort of. He surely did not get a 100 but we have the rest of the week to go. He actually wanted to do the spelling words three times--thinks it's fun. But how do you explain that picnic doesn't have a "k"  but "quick" does? God bless the English language. Frankly, I'm exhuasted tonight.
I've been a churchgoer all my life but often a sporadic one--there were long spells, during my marriage for instance and another time when anxiety was really bothering me--when I didn't go, and in recent years I attended only occasionally because I didn't like going alone--or that's what I told myself. Jordan and Christian were determined that Jacob grow up with a church background--she never had that, which makes me feel guilty to this day. So now they go to church every Sunday, and I go because once when I didn't Jacob was most upset about it. I looked at him during  the service yesterday and thought, "This is the child that led us all back to church." I know it's not for everyone, but for me it feels good to be worshipping regularly. And so I am thankful for Jacob for yet another reason.
And now when I welcome visitors by phone and tell them how glad we are they worshipped with us on Sunday, I don't feel like a hypocrit!
Still have to get Jacob settled in bed and convince him that he has school tomorrow and so cannot watch TV until he falls asleep. Life with a six-year-old is a challenge but such fun!

Garage sale day and a visit to a retirement center

Last night my house was full of junk--it was piled high in the living room, covering all the furniture. Kitchen counters held preparations for breakfast and various other unidentifiable things--Jordan is nothing if not efficient. It wasn't the orderly house I'm used to and somehow it discommoded me, though long after everyone else went to bed I stayed up and worked. But I was well aware that I was tired, and I think it was from confusion. This morning, Jordan and Christian were up at five but quiet as mice. I never heard a thing and slept until 7:30 and woke up tired--maybe it was  that falling barometric pressure again..
The garage sale was not nearly as painful as I feared--somehow I had visions of money-hungry people who would try to cheat the kids and stomp all over my property. None of that happened. Most people who came to look were friendly, cheerful, and polite--all things which Jordan and Christian are good at too. I wandered between my office and the porch--read the paper on the porch while watching the goings on, ate lunch out there, and sort of enjoyed the day. It was a perfect day--nice temperature, nice breeze, cloud cover.
Jacob was bored, so I took him with me to the grocery. When we drove up to Central Market, he said, "No, Juju . I don't want to go here. How about we go to WalMart?/" My classy grandson. He soon got bored at Central Market too--soothed a bit by a cake and two kiwi, which he swore he loves.
But when I found myself drinking wine at 2:30 on the porch with neighbor Jay, garage apt. dweller Elizabeth, Jordan and Christian, I realized I was still exhuasted and went to sleep. Kudos to my daughter because when I woke up my house was in perfect shape--you'd never know all that stuff had been here.
This evening friends had invited me to have dinner at the Stayton, the high-rise, upscale retirement community that they moved into a year ago. It's beyond nice--a compact but comfortable two-bedroom apartment,  with such amenties as a huge walk-in closet, an efficient kitchen big enough to really cook in, a bathroom almost as big as the second bedroom. Their furniture fits well, and they are really happy there. Dinner was delicious--I had heard the food was outstanding, and it was--I had lamb chops, with creamed spinach and half of Margie's baked potato. Dining room, with white linen cloths, is on the 11th floor, with a spectacular fiew of downtown at night. The food was outdone only by the visit as we all three caught up on doings and talked dogs a lot--they brought theier two dogs with them to the apartment. Also at dinner, several retired TCU faculty came over to say hello. A pleasant evening. Am I ready to move in? Nope. At least not yet. I need space. I need to be able to open the back door and let the dog out. I need an accessible place for friends and family. But I can see many advantages and I'm happy that Margie and Jack are so well settled. Maybe someday.

A great session with an Alzheimer's Support Group

Tag! You're It! Toight it's Lisa Haselton who's working on a wonderful time-travel novel that will take her back to her grandparents' story, via a trunk in the attic of the house generations of her famiy have lived in. Rad about it at
http://lisahaseltonsreviewsandinterviews.blogspot.com/2012/10/tag-im-it-look-at-work-in-progress.html
 I’m laughing at the variety of my speeches, Yesterday I spoke to realtors about mystery; today I spoke to an Alzheimer’s Support Group about memoir. I was a bit—okay, a lot--worried about this, because if I simply had to talk about writing a memoir I could probably say all I know in ten minutes. The group was two hours. I was afraid these people would not participate, not offer memories, etc., because Alzheimer’s patients often have a hard time collecting and organizing their thoughts. I began by talking about reasons for writing a memoir—to capture your life for yourself, so you can relive fond memories; to capture your story for your children. But I stressed that memoir doesn’t have to be shared. The facility coordinator talked about the importance of old photographs in sparking memories and suggested scrapbooking. But when the talk turned to their memories, I was in for a pleasant surprise. They volunteered memories. Several had grown up on a farm, and one, a dear friend, said, “I can smell the barn even now.” He told a funny story about his brother mistaking Ex-Lax for candy, which led to a discussion of our experiences with outhouses. Yes, even city girl that I am, I have used an outhouse a lot more than once. A woman I knew had owned a bookstore, which I’d visited one wonderful weekend—so we had fun reminiscing about that. Another man had experience in both city and corporate politics and talked about his career. Then we got on the subject of travel—from New Zealand to San Miguel de Allende, from Spain to Scotland. They talked—with me prodding and telling a few stories—for almost an hour and a half, and the friend who asked me to do this said the thinks they really enjoyed it.
Yes, once one said, in mid-sentence, “I’m losing it,” and another said, “What did I just say? It went right over my head.” But everyone just laughed and the talk went on. I so admire the people who are battling this disease, and the caretakers who are with them usually 24/7. 
I ended by passing out a sheet of questions and suggesting that memoir doesn’t have to be a written narrative: it can be a journal of notes; you could tell your stories to someone else who would write them for you; you could dictate them into a tape recorder, but I noticed that many people did take notes. One woman said she’d been keeping a journal since she was a child.
I had a rare and much enjoyed treat—lunch with my brother and sister-in-law who were in town mostly I gather because she wanted corned beef and cabbage, which the deli serves on Fridays. I had a half a tongue sandwich and John had lox and bagels, which he pronounced better than usual. Nice visit with them, and then it was time for a quick nap, pick up Jacob, fiddle around, and I went to a small but most pleasant cocktail party. Wonderful food, fun to meet new people since I only knew one man at the party.
Now home to a house full of junk. Jordan and Christian are having a garage sale in my front yard tomorrow. Aaargh! Do you know how much I hate that? But if you’re in Fort Worth, come by Berkeley—it’s the neighborhood garage sale, and we have a really good deal on a couch. “Night!

Two new Tag! entries and a great marketing experience

Two more blogs from the Tag! You're It! blog game are up: at
This morning I had a unique marketing opportunity. I talked briefly to a small group of realtors--highly appropriate since Kelly O'Connell, heroine of my series, is a fictional realtor working in the same communities these people do. My son-in-law Christian is marketing person for a local title office, and he had arranged a small breakfast for them and asked me to talk. (Christian even made an egg/cheese/green chili casserole to take to them--they had already cleaned the platter when I got there!) One of the realtors is a particuar fan of Kelly, so she whipped up enthusiasm. Christian introduced me, and I was able to surprise him with the news that the latest mystery, Trouble in a Big Box, is dedicated to him for his patience in teaching me about title searches and real estate. He didn't know because while Trouble is available in e-book, the print version isn't out yet. Then I briefly described cozy mysteries, why I chose to write about a realtor in the particular neighborhood I did, the three books in the series, and asked for questions--there were plenty. And I sold 17 books, passed out bookmarks and fact sheets, and garnered new names for my mailing list. I'd call that a success in 45 minutes. Four of the realtors even ordered my cookbook which I showed mostly because it has Jacob on the cover.
Christian now has big plans for similar breakfasts at other real state offices. Great marketing niche for me! And he doesn't even ask for a commission!

Blog stuff and a bit of nostalgia about a poem

Remember the Tag! You're It! blog game? Of the people I tagged, the first has posted her answers to ten questions about her work in progress. Read about Suzanne Barrett's first romantic suspense novel, after great success as the author romances set mostly in Ireland and some in California. Read it at httpp://www.suzannebarrett.com.And in case you missed it on Facebook, I have to repeat Bill Crider's kind assessment of Judy's Stew in the November 2012 issue of Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine: "Judy Alter is a Texan and an award-winning author of Western fiction, with sixty or so books to her credit. She also writes mysteries about Kelly O'Connell, a real estate agent who finds herself stumbling over bodies. Alter's blog is Judy's Stew (judys-stew.blogspot.com/). It's a personal blog rather than a review site. Sometimes Alter talks about her writing ("That Awful First Page") and sometimes about other things, like dogs and book signings and her family. Whatever the topic, Alter's always engaging and worth your reading time." I'm thrilled, so here's my ongoing attempt to be engaging:
The day there was no school, Jacob spent the afternoon playing with a friend. He was so excited about this that he was up at seven-thirty, dressed and ready to go. I had to tell him it would be after lunch. But that night I called to ask if he'd had fun, and he reported among other things that he blurted out that he and his friend had "made a tree." Before I knew it, the words out of my mouth were "Only God can make a tree." They had found acorns, dug a hole, spit on the acorns and covered them up...and they fully expect a tree to grow. Not sure about their time frame.
The next afternoon, while we were working on the interminable jigsaw puzzle--500 tiny pieces--I asked Elizabeth if she knew the poem and she, in her early forties, said no. So I decided it was a generational thing. That night at supper with a group of contemporaries I asked the same question and they all knew it. One man even quoted the last lines.
Of course I had to look up the entire text of Joyce Kilmer's poem which I'm sure I memorized in grade school. So here it is for those of you who want to take a memory trip.

I think that I shall never seeA poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.


       -- Joyce Kilmer
 

Some thoughts on friendship

Next week I expect houseguests, friends from Omaha that I first knew in a small Missouri town in the early 1960s. They moved north, I moved south, and there were great gaps in our friendship, times when we weren't much in touch. They came to Fort Worth when both our children and theirs were quite young--I remember the two dads took them all to Six Flags. When my ex-husband left me with four children to raise, I called these friends a lot. After that, we exchanged Christmas gifts and sporadic communications. There was a time when I almost flew to see them in Singapore where they were living, but, not being a good traveler, I lost my nerve. Then about eight years ago, they announced that they were coming to Fort Worth to pick me up and we'd all go to Santa Fe. We had a wonderful time, and I finally confessed that I was afraid the friendship wouldn't be the same and rejoiced that it was. They were astounded. Martha came to my youngest daughter's wedding, and there was always talk of another visit. Now they're finally coming, and I'm excited.
I'm still in touch with my two best friends from high school and even before, one in California and one in Mississippi. The latter used to visit with her husband and children on the way to see family in New Mexico, but then there were gaps in our communication. A few years ago, she and her husband came for a long weekend, and he complained as he always did that all we ever talked about was the past. Last year, now widowed, she and a friend came to visit--and it was like we saw each other every day. Now one of us will email, only to be told, "You've been on my mind." We think alike, all these years later.
These are friends I treasure, friendships that have weathered the test of time. I am saddened when I think about the people once friends who have slipped from my life. Some because they moved to far parts of the country and aren't communicators. When I retired, I lost people who had been part of my daily life--though I hold on to a few of them. I sense other friendships changing and becoming more distant, and I realize that I have a whole new set of friends. I've always prided myself that my friends all become friends with each other--and they do. But I notice now when I gather a close circle around me, there are few of the faces that I saw ten years ago. And I rarely see some friends with whom I used to have a weekly lunch.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this. I'm sad to lose the closesness with people I've treasured, but I am blessed by many good friends. And I am truly grateful for friends that I have kept over many years. What is it that say?

Make new friends
but keep the old.
One is silver,
The other is gold.

 

The Chronicles of Sophie....continued

I have a new name for Sophie: 'Stroyer, short for Destroyer. Yesterday was a particularly outstanding day for her. She snatched a handwoven coaster off my desk, didn't chew much but that one corner is probably enough to start it unraveling. Next she got one of my bras--no, it was not on the floor but hanging on a doorknob where I often put it. I thought she couldn't hurt it much. After all she wasn't going to tear great holes in fabric. But when I put it on I couldn't fasten it--she had destroyed the plastic hook--just hope it's not in her stomach.
 But the final insult was that she stole the last bite of my lunch sandwich--just reached up to the plate next to me on the desk and took it. I wasn't looking but when I turned back to the plate, I thought, "Wait a minte. I didn't eat it all." I'd been savoring that last bite in my mind. Then I saw her licking at something on the floor. This was no ordinary sandwich--I had combined mayonnaise, the last of a roast chicken, and crumbled blue cheese on rye bread. My all-time favorite sandwich.
I first ate this combination in the basement cafeteria of a department store in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, way back when I was in college. Brought the idea home to my mom, and she loved it as much as I did. We were--and I still am--big fans of Maytag blue cheese. One day Mom fixed me a sandwich to take to the hospital where I worked and also fixed one for the older single woman who was manning the gift shop that day. The other woman ate my sandwich, raved about it, and left me salami and cheese. A big enough disappointment that it stands out in memory even today.
Back to Sophie: last night I had dinner guests, he an Episcopalian priest who had done a blessing of the animals service that day on a ranch. Since Sophie is still too excitable to take to a blessing ceremony, I asked him to bless her. She is now blessed though it was quite informal--she was trying to jump in his lap and he said something quckly about blessing her and then named the whole family. Katie and Gayland were, however, lovely about welcoming Sophie, raved about her beauty (well, I think so), and loved on her. She behaved medium well, did sit when told to but quivered with excitement.
Today there was no school, so Jacob spent the night and was here until after lunch when he went to play with a friend. He went outside to play with Sophie and I took the picture above. He tells me she is his best friend, and today he said, "Sophie is a lover." When I agreed, he said, "I am a lover too. She gets it from me." Then he hastily added, "And from you too!"

Museum of the Americas

If you live in the Fort Worth area or anywhere near Weatherford, Texas, and haven't visited the Museum of the Americas, you're missing a real treat. It's a small, privately owned museum in an unimpressive building. The owner explained to me tonight that some of the display casese are hand-me-downs from the Kimbell Art Museum, SMU, and othr places with larger exhibits and budgets. But the collecton offers a vibrant display of the heritage of native cultures of North and South America--textiles, artifacts, folk art. The owners want to foster an understanding of the various cultures that have shaped the Americas and the hardships the various peoples have endured. An amazing collection of arrowheads arrived jumbled in boxes--Harold Lawrence painstakingly separated researched, catalogued and arranged signage for each one. The display blew my mind the first time I saw it. There are graphics from the plains Indians, carvings for the northwestern part of the States, a miniature Mexican village, santos, retablos, and costumes from many cultures.
Tonight was the opening party for an exhibit called "The Living Maya." For me, the textiles were the most striking part--above is a Guatamalan huipil or shirt. There were carved figures, arrows, dishes, artifacts I was completely ignorant of--a room filled with color and vibrancy. And, yes, there was a Mayan calendar which ends in 2012.
The gift shop in this museum is a real treasure in itself--the most wonderful greeting cards I've ever seen, dishes, books, small treasures. I came away with several gifts--a primitive angel, a colorful tortilla warmer, and a glass decorative hanging that is just perfect for a friend.
Weatherford these days has several really interesting small restaurants--not just the usual chains. So make a day of it and go visit. It's open Tuesday-Friday, 10-5, Saturday 11-4; closed Sundays, December 24-31, and the month of August. Admission is free. And it's right across the street from the Public market on the Fort Worth Highway after you cross the bridge into town
Go!

Hooray for school spirit!

The elementary school across the street from my house held it's annual walkathon today, a fundraiser that to my mind far outshines selling candy bars or cookie dough. Drums began beating at 7:15 as the local high school marching band warmed up, police cars were everywhere. I sat on the porch and then on the steps by the sidewalk, enjoying the chaos. The police cars, with lights flashing, blocked streets; a balloon archway went up over a side street, marking the finish line; people in mostly red shirts (the official walkathon shirt was white by Lily B. shirts are red) hurried toward the school in record numbers; folks I knew waved at me. You could sense the happiness and excitement in the air, and I could certainy sense it in Jacob, as he prepared for his second walkathon with his dad accompanying him.
It seemed to take them a long time to get organized, so I snuck inside to dab on some makeup, or make the bed. Every time I went back out it still seemed chaos, so I'd go back in to do one more thing. The result of course was that I missed a chane to get a picture of  "my boys," but I got them in the driveway as they headed to the school, and I got one of the mass of people heading out through the neighborhood. Christian sent me the adorable one of Jacob's first-grade class in front of the school sign.
In my excitement at catching father and son in the driveway, I managed to get a terrific shot of Jacob's feet and a video no less of my feet walking. Jacob tells me sometimes, "Reading is just not my thing." Well, Jacob, photography is just no my thing. But I keep trying.
Jacob is blessed, as my kids were, to attend  neighborhood school with great spirit and great parent involvement--and his own parents are very involved. Tonight they will all three go to Spirit Night, an event with bounce houses, food, and other attractions. I'm glad those days are behind me, but I'm glad that Jacob and his family are enjoying them.
And I loved the excitement and chaos this morning.

The Art of Piddling

Have you perfected it? The art of being content doing absolutely nothing. I haven't though I'm getting better. When I used to be a study in constant motion, I had a friend who could happily watch paint dry. It drove me crazy. I put off retirement for six or seven years because I was terrified of waking up in the morning and wondering what I'd do all day.
Well, it turned out I retired to a whole new career as a fiction novelist, and much of the time that keeps me frantically busy. But I've noticed lately that I piddle more. I'm not so compulsive about doing something constructive every minute.
This morning was a perfect example. I was up at seven, but I knew I had all day to stay home and work (except for the time I worked with Jacob on his homework), so I dawdled, even though lmy goal was to write 2,500 words today. First it was emails--38 of them first thing in the morning, plus junk e-mail, which I clean out every morning. Then Facebook, which was equally busy--everyone commenting on last night's debate and,  yes,  I got my two cents in. Then some of the emails involved business that I needed to tend to, respond to and the like. And then there was the newspaper to read, although that doesn't take long thes days because the newspaper has shrunk to a shadow of  its former self--a fact that I much regret. The breakfast dishes and making the bed takes five minutes tops. Still no worry. I had plenty of time to write.
But I had to do my yoga--there goes thirty minutes. I try not to rush through my routine because I think that defeats the purpose, but I was beginning to worry about those 2,500 words, beginning to feel my compulsive behavior creep back in.
At ten o'clock I let the dog in and settled down to write. By lunchtime or shortly thereafter I was only 350 words shy of my goal--easy peasy. So this afternoon I piddled again--Jacob and I worked a jigsaw puzzle. Tonight I'll do those 350 words, then check some recipe magazines and read the novel I started.
Goal setting really is counter-productive to piddling, and I feel sort of torn between the two. But it will be nice to piddle a bit tonight. One thing I can't do: watch TV without doing something else. It makes me antsy. I guess my compulsive side is still winning. I wonder if age helps....