Judy Alter's Blog, page 321

A wasted day saved by a great dinner

Today was an absolutely wasted day --or at least the morning was and after that I just gave up and decided not to try to be brilliant today. I arrived at the doctor's office at 9:55 for a 10:10 appointment--being a physician's daughter, I was taught to be prompt. And 10:10 is such a precise time that it indicated efficient scheduling to me. Not so. Ten-thirty came and went, people who had come in long after I had were ushered back--to see different doctors, I suppose. One other woman waited as long or longer than I did--she as there when I arrived. Waiting is not something I do gracefully, even though I had my iPhone and my iPad. I inquired once a little after 10:30 and was told I was next--then, oops, sorry, there's one more patient ahead of you. At eleven, they announced that my doctor was running  late--it would be at least another hour. I went to the desk and they asked if I wanted to go have lunch and come back. No, I emphatically did not! The doctor's next appointment would be July 31, so I rescheduled to see the P.A. on June 14--specifically asked for and got the first appointment of the morning.
Next stop--after a necessary potty stop at my former office--was the bank to look for some papers in my safe deposit box. It seems the bank no longer staffs the safe deposit desk, so I would have to sign in and wait for a bank officer to admit me--once again there was one person ahead of me. But I could see no bank person rushing to help, and I got the sinking feeling that one person ahead of me had been waiting a long time. I left, saying I'd try again tomorrow. What I didn't add was, "When my mood is better."
A whole morning wasted Came home, had lunch, checked emails, and napped--time to get Jacob.
Tonight Jeannie, Betty and I went to a reception to get a farewell hug from a favorite minister who's leaving the churchfor new opportunities. A bittersweet moment. Then we went to Piola for dinner--we meant to sit on the patio until the waitress asked, "Are you sure?" It was pretty hot and steamy and we stayed inside for a wonderful meal. Betty had Chilean sea bass; Jeannie had penne Bolognese, and I had veal piccata with asparagus risotto. I swore I wouldn't eat much risotto--so fattening, you know. I ate almost every bite, and it was a generous serving. The whole wasted day was swept away with that meal and a good glass of chadonnay.
Yeah, maybe I'll work a bit tonight.

Hayrides

Well, darn. I was going to post a video tonight for your watching pleasure but I don't know how to do that. Can't get it from email to my picture file, so you'll have to take my word that it's charming.But what strikes me about it is the wonderful experience all these city kids--my grandchildren and their cousins--are having.
When I was a kid, probably in high school, we went on hay rides. My memory is that we went to someone's enclosed field (probably in the midst of the South Side of Chicago), loaded up in a wagon, and talked, sang, and who knows what else--I'm not telling!--while horses plodded around and around a square field.
Not so the hayride of a couple of weeks ago. All my children and grandchildren, their cousins and aunts and uncles piled on a flatbed trailer loaded in the center with bales of hay and, yes thank you, ringed with railings so no one fell off, though at least one of my grandsons discovered the fun of jumping off the rear end and then running to catch up and jump back on. My brother drove a tractor to pull the trailer. The route wound through his ranch on beautiful land above the Brazos River. I'm not sure the kids appreciated the scenery, but I did--the land is lush this spring, due to plentiful rain (though we're running low again). A big contrast to last year. Wildflowers were out in abundance, and the hay wagon stopped so children could pick them--I became caretaker of the bouquet that one grandniece picked for her mom for Mother's Day It also stopped to look for sign of Bigfoot, with excited cries from children who claimed they smelled him. And when they found his tracks at the edge of a stock tank--where he went in and where he went out--oh, my! Such excitement. There's also a funny shot of one of my grandsons following that time-old tradition of boys and taking a leak in the bushes--except he was in full view of everyone.
I admit that during all this hilarity I was comfortably in the chase vehicle with the video camera operator and her "driver." (He's also her significant other.) It truly was a wonderful day, and I'm sorry you can't see the video.
When I think back to my childhood, I hope these kids will grow up to realize what a rich experience Uncle John offered them with homing pigeons (not sure they were there this time), chickens, a horse, and a  miniature donkey, a Longhorn bull lounging in a pasture next to the house, and all God's world to run and play in. It was a case of the modern present being better than the good old days.
And my hat's off to my brother and his wife, Cindy, for pulling it together. He summed it up when he watched the kids following  Bigfoot tracks and said, "Well, that makes the day." Here they all are, searching the edge of the tank.
And here's Jacob when he first saw the tracks and turned around to Uncle John. Yeah, it made the day. Sorry I can't show you the video.

Golf, closed roads, and traffic

I'm a back roads person. If there are side streets, park roads, whatever that will get me where I'm going, that's my route. I remember years ago an older friend said to me, rather primly, that she always believed a straight line was the shortest distance between two points. Not me. I'll ramble, curve, backtrack, anything to avoid main thoroughfares with lots of traffic and stoplights and angry drivers.
But this time of year, one of my favorite scenic paths through park, along a golf course, and through a lovely residential district gets messed up. I saw it happen today. Cars parked on the front lawns of expensive homes; foot lanes marked with cones on the side of the road. Some roads blocked--no matter, I can go another way, at least for the time being. But soon roads will be blocked, and I'll have to go another way.What's the sense of having a convertible on a gorgeous day if you can't drive under trees? Who wants to drive through a business district?
It's time for the Crowne Plaza International Colonial Golf Tournament--in the day it was the Colonial N.I.T. and I've never gotten over calling it that. Whereas my Fort Worth kids eagerly anticipate it every year, I dread it. They like the partying, the people watching; I hate the traffic.
When the children were little, I used to drive by the tournament, saying to them, "Look at the silly people following the little white ball." Once their father and I took them to the tournament--disaster. We were  neither one smart enough about golf to tell them to be quiet, and we got dirty looks.
Would you believe my oldest son is now the accountant for a series of golf clubs and one of the highlights of his year is the Shell Tournament in Houston. Traitor. I wonder if the people in that neighborhood feel as I do?
I realize that in Fort Worth the Colonial has a big place in our civic history. Novels have been set there, and Priscilla and Cullen Davis cemented the tournament's significance as a people-watching place. Our golf tournament has, I suppose, helped create famous sports writers like Dan Jenkins. I like Dan but remain unimpressed, with a secret wish that some year they'd just cancel it.
I sound like a curmudgeon, don't I? Maybe I am. At least about golf. I've never undertood why people are so fanatical about it.

The fun of book signings

This has been a weekend of book signings, and it carried over into Monday night. It began with the Mystery Month Event at Barnes & Noble Friday night and carried over into two signings at the Old Neighborhood Grill--a real neighborhood hangout with good food. Saturday morning Jordan and I were there at seven, and several friends were equally prompt, meeting for breakfast and to get signed books. I sold 24 books, which I think is a really respectable number, especially that early in the morning, and beyond that I had a good time visiting with friends. Most people who came to buy a book stayed to eat breakfast.
Not so tonight for another signing, back at the Grill. People who came to buy the book lingered and visited over a glass of wine, which was fun and pleasant. Tonight was not as busy as the Monday night signing for the first book, but I wonder if that isn't usual with the second in a series. People will read it but don't feel as obliged to be in on the "big" event. Several people have said to me that they're liking the second book even better than the first. And tonight I got some "walk up" traffic--people who came to the Grill for supper and stopped to chat. Several bought books, and one went away with a bookmark, saying she'd get it later--maybe she will and maybe she won't. One friend I hadn't seen in a long time said she's heard a lot about this book and wanted her book group to read it--great news!
Both signings were family affairs. Jordan has appointed herself my goodwill ambassador, cashier, and, most recently, publicist, though she did ask "As your publicist, what would I do?" Hmmm. Stumped us both. Jacob was a willing salesman and, if nothing else, charmed people. He tallied a long list of figures that, far as I could tell, had nothing to do with anything and announced I could give him either $1, $100 or $1,000--which would I choose? Hmm, life's hard decisions.
Christian arrived, and we stayed for supper. Even sold a book unexpectedly as we were about to leave.
The third book is written, and I have about 2500 words on the fourth--though it went in a totally unexpected direction this morning. Now what do I do with that, other than bask in the glow of these good signings?

Do you talk to your dog

Sophie the irrepressible Bordoodle turned one year old Friday. She actually has calmed down a lot, but now people are saying, "Wait till she's two!" Well, darn, I thought I would have her tamed and reasonable by one. Training Sophie--hmmm, is that the title of a book?--has been a long and sometimes difficult process. For economy, I took her to the PetSmart training classes rather than hiring the personal trainer I used with Scooby. PetSmart training works really well for some people, er, dogs. Not Sophie. I suppose I wasn't consistent about doing it at home, and getting her there got to be a problem--she's so wild once she gets off my property that I am afraid of being pulled down. Sophie will not be getting long outdoor walks, unless Jordan gives them to her.
Eventually I gave up on PetSmart, but she retains a lot of good manners from that training--sit, down, drop it, leave it, etc. But I called Kenny, of Home Dog Training, for larger issues such as jumping--my left arm is always a mess of scratches and marks where she jumps when I'm at my desk. Kenny's big dictum is "Don't talk to your dog while you're training. Only commands." Come on, I want to carry on conversations, tell her she's being adorable, ridiculous, spoiled, whatever. Yesterday, our third and apparently last lesson, he finally got through to me by asking if I saw how she listened to him but not me. "She tunes you out, because she hears you  talk all the time." Made sense, and I'm trying hard, though I have ocasional lapses. I am allowed to say "Good girl," so I do that often. And I play with her and love on her--just no cooing, please.
The first picture is Sophie loving having a new toy; the second is Sophie busily destroying said toy which no longer squeaks.
We're working on stay and come--she did "stay" beautifully with Kenny here; not so much with me. If I hold the leash, she does well; If I let go of the leash, she stays while I walk away, then bolts when I start toward her. I haven't tried "come" on my own yet--she's tired of Pupparoni, and Kenny suggests a tiny tiny pieces of cheese, so I'll buy those awful Kraft slicees. But I figure we have to master "stay" first. What with Jacob, both dogs, yoga, plants to water, and other chores, plus training Sophie, it's no wonder I hardly have time to write.
I hard a small part in a nice dog story this weekend. Two Facebook friends are dog rescuers--they post heartbreaking pictures of dogs that must be rescued or they will be put down. Yesterday there was a miniature schnauzer--surrounded by newspapers, so that I wondered if he'd been destroying them. I shared the photo on Facebook as I do with many rescue dog pictures, and friends of mine saw it and decided they wanted him. He had to be "tagged" by seven this morning, so they emailed, got word late last night they could pick him up today, although they were warned he'd been there so long because he was "unpredictable." They picked him up, named him Jasper, and took him home to a menagerie of dogs and cats where he happily fit right in. I am so grateful to have had a small part in this rescue, and I hope to keep up with Jasper.
[image error]

Jasper before rescue

The Writerly LIfe

I'm feeling like a writer today, a feeling I don't always have. Some days I think I'm pretending, and someone will catch me in my hoax. But yesterday, my editor, Ayla, sent the third Kelly manuscript back for one last read--which she wanted today or tomorrow morning at the latest. I panicked, said I had too much else to do, etc., but of course I did it. By the time I went to bed late last night, bleary-eyed, I had read sixteen chapters. Finished the last three at lunchtime today and sent it off. The whole point was for me to cut down descriptions of food--more about that in a minute--and find typos. In the best of circumstances, I can't find typos in my own work--and I'm not terrific at it in other people's writing. But in my own writing, I know what it's supposed to say and that's what I see
Ayla is constantly after me to cut down on the descriptions of food, but I maintain that what we eat says a lot about who we are and what kind of person. My good friend Jim Lee, folklorist par excellence, once wrote, "One of the lessons that we have learned--or are beginning to learn--from the study of folklore is the importance of food and eating customs in unravelling the history of a people. . . . The foods we eat, the way we eat them, and the imagination we bestow upon their preparation will tell [much about us] to historians, folklorists, and anthropologists of Buck Roger's twenty-fifth century." I sent that quote to Ayla today. Not sure of her response. Kelly O'Connell of my mysteries is a so-so cook, often so busy that she takes her girls out or orders pizza. But  she tries, and I include her disasters (creamed tuna on toast, a spur-of-the-moment hamburger casserole that sort of came out like soup) and her triumphs--a baked ham with potato salad, a perfectly roasted chicken. I think that--and her restaurant meals, from puttanesca to a reuben--tell us a lot about Kelly. Of course, Mike, the man in her life, is terrific at cooking on the grill--that doesn't help Kelly's cooking ego at all.
May is Mystery Month, and tonight I signed books, with four other mystery authors--Laurie Moore, Paula LaRocque, Carole Nelson Douglas, and Wendy Lyn Watson--at Barnes and Noble. The community relations manager had a list of questions, and the discussion was pretty interesting. We all had a good time and signed a few books. Plus we left stacks of signed books behind.
A nice evening, but I'm yawning. Have to be up at six tomorrow morning for a seven o'clock signing. Peter at the Old Neighborhood Grill says that's when his Saturday readers come for breakfast, and it worked well for Skeleton in a Dead Space, so I'll try it again tomorrow for No Neighborhood for Old Women. My sweet daughter Jordan will meet me at the restaurant at seven--that's above and beyond, even for a daughter, and I'm grateful. Going to do a raffle for a three free copies of the third Kelly O'Connell novel, due out in August--Trouble in a Big Box.

That first awful page

Yesterday was the day I was to start on the fourth Kelly O'Connell novel, tentatively (very tentatively) titled Ghost in a Four-Square. It's always hard for me to start a novel. I'm capable of procrastinating a lot, what I've been doing for several weeks now. This has been a week with an empty slate, so Monday I cleaned my desk of this and that odd chore--a bit of marketing, some personal emails to answer, that sort of thing. And then of course there were Facebook and Pinterest, and oh! I don't know where the day went. But it did. Including  finishing the Claudia Bishop novel, Dread on Arrival, that I was enjoying.
But yesterday, that was the day that I'd begin. But there was one bit of information I needed about the neighborhood where Kelly lives and works as a realtor/rennovator. I had to talk to one woman--or so I told myself (procrastination comes in many forms). I couldn't reach her,so I did other things and had a really restless day, at odds with myself. I knew I was putting off getting that first sentence down.
Finally last night, late, on the spur of the moment, I wrote bout 400 words--not a brilliant start, but I think I'm headed in the right direction. I do have a synopsis, but a lot more complications will have to develop before that synopsis becomes a 70,000-word novel. And it hasn't begun to flow yet, still feels stiff and awkward.
The funniest thing I discovered tonight when I went back to re-read was that I'd written it in the third person. The Kelly O'Connell novels are all first person, and just today a reviewer praised the way I make readers care about Kelly. That of course is due to the first person. In fact, I don't think I've ever written a third person novel--oh, I tried, but then switched back to first person. The classic wisdom is that you write your first novel in the first person and then "graduate." I once asked a book editor good friend what would happen if I never "graduated" and he said, "I'd think Judy Alter has found her voice." So what was I doing in third person? To me, that was an indication I hadn't connected with the story.
I rewrote those 400 words tonight and maybe added another hundred. I'm no farther ahead, and it still doesn't feel right. I think this is the point at which you put your bottom in the chair, keep it there, and get words, any words, on that computer page. But not tonight. It's late. And tomorrow is a dog-training session, right in the middle of what would be work time. Once I get this thing flowing though, I'll use small and odd bits of time well.
Wish me luck!

Politics and other funny things

No need to go farther than the daily newspaper for a good chuckle. Yesterday, it was reported that the State of Missouri added Rush Limbaugh to its Hall of Famous Missourians--see they don't even get the title right. Shouldn't it be Missouri Hall of Fame? Anyway, they inducted Limbaugh and unveiled a bust of him in a secret ceremony from which reporters and Democrats were barred. It was kept secret until thirty minutes before the ceremony began. Now that's scary stuff--an abuse of power at least. Predictably, Democrats in the Missouri legislature are howling that the bust should not be displayed with others in this Hall of Fame. The governor of Missouri is apparently the consummate politician: he announced that jurisdiction or authority over the Hall of Fame was an "iffy" thing, which is a way of saying, "Don't put that ball in my court!" The Speaker of the House in Missouri blamed the secrecy on "radical liberals" who have no undertanding of forgiving past mistakes, referring apparently to the young woman Limbaugh derided as a slut and a prostitute. Ain't politics fun?
The presidential candidates spoke at commencements this weekend. President Obama preached to his base in this day of the so-called "war on women"--he addressed the 600 graduates of the all-women Barnard College, telling them to "Fight for your seat at the head of the table." Former governor Mitt Romney, on the other hand, tried to solidify his base by speaking to religious conservatives who had been cool toward him during much of the primary fight. At Liberty University, which boasts of a World Class Christian Education, he told graduates, "The welcoming spirit of Liberty is a tribute to the gracious Christian example of your founder." That would of course be Jerry Falwell. Because I didn't know a thing about Liberty U. I looked it up online--and the first thing to come up is the world's largest online university. Don't know if that's a branch of the physical university or not, but, Mitt, I think you lost this one.
And then there's the man in New York who has spent $60K suing his ex-girlfriend for custody of a dog she alleges he gave her as an outright gift. He appeared on the TODAY show this morning wearing orange pants and black-and-white striped socks--and he wants us to take him seriously?
Finally, there's a new book out called Weird Things Customers Say in Bookstores. The ad features this conversation: Customer: Who wrote the Bible? Customer's friend: Jesus.

Some thoughts on my mother

This is post-Mothers' Day but these thoughts on mothers--specifically my mother--have been rattling around in my head for a week now. If you follow this blog, you know my neighbor lost her mother a week ago. Although her mother was in a care facility, Susan devoted a good chunk of each day to caring for her mother, giving her the companionship and love that all of us crave. When I think of it, feelings of guilt about my mother's last couple of years wash over me.
My mother was a bright, intelligent, charming woman who had a fine sense of the ridiculous. She loved to tell the story about the time she signed her name Alice P. MacBread instead of MacBain (there's a story behind it) and when she once found herself in the back seat of the car between my two howling toddlers, she laughed and laughed. The louder they howled, the more she laughed. My dad drove like he didn't know any of us. My dad was the administrator of a hospital; the painter at the hospital did odd jobs at our house, and one night, wearing an old coat and tennis shoes, Mom went to pick Al up. A new switchboard operator asked, "Shall I tell him his wife is here?" Another story she loved to tell.
Mom was proud of the fact that she once worked for Robert Maynard Hutchins, chancellor of the University of Chicago and founder of the Great Books Program. Continuing education was real to her, and she read constantly, always improving her mind. She read the works of historians Will and Ariel Durant aloud to my father in the evenings.
Yet she was a devoted housewife who showered and changed daily before Dad got home. She set a fine table every night with white linen--we had napkin rings in those days--and balanced meals, though she was a devotee of Adele Davis' theories on healthy eating. But she also entertained graciously and seemingly effortless, and she taught me. When a friend once asked her how she could let me make such a mess in the kitchen, she said, "If I don't, she'll never learn to cook." By the time I was ten I was the sous chef--and the dishwasher--for her dinner parties. It's a gift I've carried throughout my life.
Mom was above all a lady--no bathroom humor allowed, and she let you know what was good taste and what wasn't with a firm hand. In later life, if she didn't like the conversation, the chin went up in the air and the eyes went out the window. You were put in your place. Relatives have said to me in the years since we lost her, "Your mom was the most gracious lady I ever knew."
I could go on and on about the woman who raised me with laughter and love, but all that went out the window in her early eighties when dementia, due to small strokes, began to creep in. I was the single parent of four; my brother was a single, practicing physician; neither of us could care for her but we couldn't leave her at home with just a daytime caretaker. She called John once in the middle of the night because she couldn't turn off the water in the sink--no plumbing problem. Her confusion.
Once she was in a nursing home, she went rapidly downhill. John and I both have our own private reasons for guilt, but I didn't spend enough time with her. I couldn't. I was raising those four kids and working full time. But beyond that, visits were unpleasant. I couldn't bear to see that wonderful woman lose every bit of grace she had and lapse into what she herself would have called unacceptable behavior. It broke my heart every day.
I know she was lonely and afraid, and I have a hard time getting past those awful days and back to Mom as I treasured for the first forty years of my life. I wasn't with her when she died, because I didn't realize how serious that episode was. A woman she loved, her caretaker for several years, held her hand in that last hour. Writing this down has enabled me to recall all the good of her long life and take another step forward to putting her last years behind me. For that, I am thankful.
She would have loved to see her great-grandchildren this weekend--nine out of the ten--as they roamed the ranch, played baseball, and hunted for Bigfoot's track. For years after Mom's death, I talked to her--and I still long to ask her to tell me about a certain person or consider a recipe with me or share a memory. I am who I am because of my mother.

My cup runneth over--and so did my eyes

[image error]I left my daughter's house this afternoon about 1:30 with my vision blurred by tears that kept leaking out--tears of joy, happiness, overwhelming love. I had such a good morning with all my children and grandchildren. Jordan fixed a huge brunch, and people ate whenever they wandered in. Gorgeous day so we sat  on the patio, while the kids played in the yard. There was, of course, the occasional accidental injury and the one who tattled on another, but they were so happy and were having such a good weekend. I had b'day presents for all those with April and May birthdays I'd missed or would miss, and after those were opened, my wonderful children surprised me with an iPad.
Of course, I had just finished putting my foot in my mouth by announcing that I had really decided that I would get myself a Kindle Fire. An iPad, I proclaimed knowingly, wouldn't fit in my purse (it will, 'cause I carry big purses). So there was much teasing, but they were all so excited to give it to me and get me started with it, telling me over and over how much I'll use it. And I will--I'm thrilled with it already, though some of the things Jamie taught me have already leaked out of my brain. But I want to put more blogs on my reading list and add more magazines--cooking magazines--to my bookshelf.
Not sure if it was the iPad, the hugs and love (more likely) or the culmination of the glorious family weekend we've had that caused those tears to leak out, but they did. I am so thankful for my family.
Of course they all partied and hung out until after four. I would have stayed but they should not give me wine at eleven o'clock in the morning. I went into this hectic, exciting weekend already tired and am now thoroughly exhuasted but in oh such a good way.
I came home, thinking I'd get my dogs fed, Jamie et al would come for their stuff, and I'd get a good long nap. Foiled on all counts. Jamie's dog was in the backyard, so I could hardly feed Scooby out there. Mozby is such a love though and so anxious to please that I eventually brought both my dogs in and gave Mozby treats for good behavior. Should have taken my nap when I got home--it was five before the Frisco Alters got here to pack up belongings and dogs, and five-thirty before I got my nap, so naturally it was an abbreviated one.
Early to bed tonight. I say that and then I got involved in something, and it's as late as always. Last night it was eleven-thirty, but my Austin grandsons wake up bright and early and noisy--no amount of shushing convinces them about indoor voices, so I was up at six-forty-five and making cinnamon pull-apart bread shortly after that.
Mother's Day thoughts--about my mom, the moms of others, and myself as a mom have been rattling around in my mind all week but I'll save them for a belated post-Mother's Day blog tomorrow. Meantime, I am counting my blessings, four wonderful children who married equally wonderful people and produced seven lovely grandchildren. And then there's that larger family with whom we spent yesterday and who are equally a blessing. Hope I can live up to all this.
Here's a picture from yesterday of my Houston kids and grandkids--last night I thought I'd lost it on the computer but I found it this morning. They're gorgeous, all of them. Kegan, my youngest grandchld, will suffer himself to be hugged but he does little to cooperate. Must be hard being the youngest in such a bunch.  Morgan is much more affectionate, having overcome some shyness she felt as a younger child.