Judy Alter's Blog, page 323
April 27, 2012
Lush spring growth and a lazzy day.
The huge elm in front of my house is fully leafed out, except for one cluster of branches at the very top that is bare. I called the city about it--it's their tree, not mine--but I always call with trepidation, afraid they'll say it's old and they'll just cut it down. I figure since my house is ninety years old this year, the tree probably is too. The woman at the city forestry services assured me they are all about saving trees, not cutting them down. This was two weeks or so ago, so I think they have decided it the dead spot is too high and too insignificant to do anything about. Over the years branches, some of them large, have fallen off--I live in terror that one will fall on school children walking by or that, some fierce night, the entire tree will crash into my house. But I love that tree. It anchors my house to the street.
Tonight I took wine and my Kindle and sat on the porch, but mostly I stared at the tree, watching its branches wave in the spring breeze. It's a lovely evening--just the right temperature (I have no idea what) and not so humid I was aware of it. My herbs are growing beautifully. I've let my green onions sit in the soil too long, and they're developing bulbs--I used several of them tonight in some cooking. The rest of my gutter garden is pretty much a waste--some seeds didn't come up at all, others produced scraggly plants you wouldn't want in your salad, and the cilantro has already gone to flower. Greg says that it's too hot for such a shallow planter and maybe I can use it in the fall. The onions, meantime, flourish. I tried an experiment tonight. I've read somewhere that if you put the root end of a green onion in water, it will sprout. I'm skeptical but trying. I've also read that about the base of celery--if the onions work, I may try the celery next.
I keep celery on hand mostly to make ham salad, which I love. I buy a thick slice of Black Forest ham--between a quarter and half inch--at the deli counter at Central Market, shred it in the blender, add a bit of mustard, celery, onion, and mayo to bind. Makes a great lunch for several days.
My stay-at-home day was lovely. At 9:30 this morning, I thought it loomed before me; by noon, I wondered where the morning had gone. But I sent off a guest blog post, made notes for a ten-minute talk in a week or so, did some work for my memoir class, proofread and sent off to the designer new copy for my web page, and proofread my Kelly O'Connell short story. Soon I'll offer it to you in pdf form, free of charge.
And tonight? I'm reading The Scarlet Pepper a White House mystery by Dorothy St. James. Yes, I've got work to do--papers to critique, a novel to revise--but I'm being lazy.
Tonight I took wine and my Kindle and sat on the porch, but mostly I stared at the tree, watching its branches wave in the spring breeze. It's a lovely evening--just the right temperature (I have no idea what) and not so humid I was aware of it. My herbs are growing beautifully. I've let my green onions sit in the soil too long, and they're developing bulbs--I used several of them tonight in some cooking. The rest of my gutter garden is pretty much a waste--some seeds didn't come up at all, others produced scraggly plants you wouldn't want in your salad, and the cilantro has already gone to flower. Greg says that it's too hot for such a shallow planter and maybe I can use it in the fall. The onions, meantime, flourish. I tried an experiment tonight. I've read somewhere that if you put the root end of a green onion in water, it will sprout. I'm skeptical but trying. I've also read that about the base of celery--if the onions work, I may try the celery next.
I keep celery on hand mostly to make ham salad, which I love. I buy a thick slice of Black Forest ham--between a quarter and half inch--at the deli counter at Central Market, shred it in the blender, add a bit of mustard, celery, onion, and mayo to bind. Makes a great lunch for several days.
My stay-at-home day was lovely. At 9:30 this morning, I thought it loomed before me; by noon, I wondered where the morning had gone. But I sent off a guest blog post, made notes for a ten-minute talk in a week or so, did some work for my memoir class, proofread and sent off to the designer new copy for my web page, and proofread my Kelly O'Connell short story. Soon I'll offer it to you in pdf form, free of charge.
And tonight? I'm reading The Scarlet Pepper a White House mystery by Dorothy St. James. Yes, I've got work to do--papers to critique, a novel to revise--but I'm being lazy.
April 26, 2012
Jacob's thoughts on my mortality--and some other thoughts
Last night at supper I recounted Jacob's latest comment about my impending death--"I want to live with you the rest of your life, but then I won't have long, because you won't live long." Betty's reply was that he's really obsessed with that and she thought he's afraid of losing me. So this afternoon, I sat him down and explained that I had been to the doctor yesterday, who said I'm in perfect health. I went on to say that yes Jacob can run farther and faster and jump higher than me, but there are some things I can do he can't--I was prepared to demonstrate with yoga poses, but he asked if I could do a cartwheel. Never could in my entire life, but I didn't tell him that--just said, "No, I can't." He demonstrated his version of a cartwheel, and I said, "I think I could do that." (It's not very graceful!) I admitted I have aches and pains that come with age but told him I planned to be around for a long time, long enough to see him graduate from college. When I used that age-old line,"Of course, I could get hit by a truck tomorrow," he said, "Well, I worry about you when I'm at school." Bless his little heart. I assured him I'm very careful. I did not say stuff like "None of us know" or "Anybody can get sick and die"--didn't want to scare him. I think he's reassured, but he ended with, "Okay, but when you say you have an ache or a pain, I'm going to call you 'Old Lady,'" which he does frequently. His parents think it's a sign of disrespect, but I know better--it's love. I told him he could please stop talking about when I go to Heaven.
An apology to some of you: today Blogger told me I had something like 54 unmoderated comments, so I published them all. Many looked familiar, and I think Blogger has goofed somehow and I'd already posted them. But please know that I love and welcome your comments, and if I failed to respond, it's because I didn't know the comment was there. They've changed the system, but I'll try to keep on top of it.
And last but not least, here's the newest doggie member of our large family, Eddie Hudgeons of Austin, a 3-year-old, seven lb. poodle. Megan reports that he's sweet, perfectly housebroken, loves the boys, sleeps quietly in his crate in the boys' room at night. But he's agressive toward other dogs--at 7 lbs? He was attacked in the pound and that apparently soured him, but such aggression may limit his family visits for a while. I'm anxious to meet him. Not sure at that weight what variety of poodle he is--too big for a teacup, too small for a miniature. Sophie will look like a giant next to him.
An apology to some of you: today Blogger told me I had something like 54 unmoderated comments, so I published them all. Many looked familiar, and I think Blogger has goofed somehow and I'd already posted them. But please know that I love and welcome your comments, and if I failed to respond, it's because I didn't know the comment was there. They've changed the system, but I'll try to keep on top of it.
And last but not least, here's the newest doggie member of our large family, Eddie Hudgeons of Austin, a 3-year-old, seven lb. poodle. Megan reports that he's sweet, perfectly housebroken, loves the boys, sleeps quietly in his crate in the boys' room at night. But he's agressive toward other dogs--at 7 lbs? He was attacked in the pound and that apparently soured him, but such aggression may limit his family visits for a while. I'm anxious to meet him. Not sure at that weight what variety of poodle he is--too big for a teacup, too small for a miniature. Sophie will look like a giant next to him.
April 25, 2012
Good day, lazy, happy evening
My friend Betty and I have lots of adventures on our weekly dining trips, but tonight was an old favorite--Pappadeaux. But with a twist. We split the Greek salad for one, as usual--so good, but so large--and then ordered oysters. We split the Oyster Duo with Rockefeller and a Romano Parmesan sauce--three of each. But we liked the cheese ones so much we ordered another half dozen. Lots of laughs and lots of good food--and a bit of nice chardonnay. After dinner, Betty swung by her house to show off her garden, which truly is lush and lovely--I love the use of all kinds of ferns. She of course can name them but was stumped when I asked her to name the yellow flowering bush in my yard. Greg has told me the name, but I don't seem to be able to hold it in my brain. I'll ask again when he comes Friday. I came home and went out on the porch to read but was antsy--not unusual--about what waited for me on my desk. So I came in, fed the dogs, changed clothes, and settled down to write this blog and the guest blog I should have written two days ago.
But it was a nice end to a good day. Maybe it was the peanut butter toast that started it out right. (I admit many mornings when I only have cottage cheese, I'm hungry well before lunch.) At a routine doctor's appointment, the doctor confirmed that no carbs might indeed by making me cranky. He said the trick is low carb, not no carb. I finally unhooked that ugly old, really old TV in my bedroom and gave it to Booker, the crossing guard, who says his grandkids will use it for video games. And I returned the U-Verse equipment from that set to AT&T at the UPS store that I didn't even know existed downtown. The kind of little things that you're glad to get done and off your conscience.
So now on to a blog about whether or not a serial killer fits into a cozy mystery--sure hope I can make a case for it, since that's the main plot point of No Neighborhood for Old Women.
And then? The luxury of reading someone else's cozy--just finished The Last Word by Ellery Adams and thoroughly enjoyed it. I recommend it highly. Now starting The Scarlet Pepper by Dorothy St. James, one of her White House gardener series.
A good day.
But it was a nice end to a good day. Maybe it was the peanut butter toast that started it out right. (I admit many mornings when I only have cottage cheese, I'm hungry well before lunch.) At a routine doctor's appointment, the doctor confirmed that no carbs might indeed by making me cranky. He said the trick is low carb, not no carb. I finally unhooked that ugly old, really old TV in my bedroom and gave it to Booker, the crossing guard, who says his grandkids will use it for video games. And I returned the U-Verse equipment from that set to AT&T at the UPS store that I didn't even know existed downtown. The kind of little things that you're glad to get done and off your conscience.
So now on to a blog about whether or not a serial killer fits into a cozy mystery--sure hope I can make a case for it, since that's the main plot point of No Neighborhood for Old Women.
And then? The luxury of reading someone else's cozy--just finished The Last Word by Ellery Adams and thoroughly enjoyed it. I recommend it highly. Now starting The Scarlet Pepper by Dorothy St. James, one of her White House gardener series.
A good day.
April 24, 2012
Brightening my mood
I've had a case of the blahs lately. I thought it was because I'd had such a busy time there for a bit, with big events, and then I settled down to the ordinary--although today I met with a book club that I thoroughly enjoyed. A lively, wonderful group of women who were full of questions and weren't afraid to suggest what they saw as flaws in Skeleton in a Dead Space. On the whole, though, they were enthusiastic about the book, and those that read the second book said they thought Kelly was better in that one. Growing into your characters or letting your characters grow or whatever--it was nice to hear.
But this afternoon Jordan and I each had different agendas, and she said I was cross and curmudgeonly lately--why is it me, when she's determined to stick to her agenda, which was wine with the girl next door at whose house Jacob was playing. Anyway, we made nice, went over the recipes I wanted her to look at, and she went off to have wine. I declined because Sue was coming for wine shortly, and I figured it didn't become me to sip my way through the afternoon.
But I've also been put out with my oldest son because he planned a big family reunion for Memorial Day--and forgot to tell me. Oh, I knew it was a possibility that the New York Alters would come visit, but no one told me there were definite plans for them to come to Houston, not Fort Worth. My nose was out of joint, and I considered cutting him out of my will. Well, not really.
But Sue and I were talking about diet, and she said she gets crabby when she cuts out carbs--I haven't had bread since I overindulged when the Canterbury Choir boys were here. Sue ate a slice of peanut butter toast this morning and said she immediately felt better. Hmmm--something for me to think about.
I had a good visit with Sue. She's only a tiny bit older than my oldest, and she calls me her Fort Worth mom, but we are also good friends. So we talked about everything from kids to parents to food--you name it. I chide her about some things, and she's not afraid to tell me when I'm wrong. When she left I went off to the Grill to have my weekly meatloaf fix with the neighbors, most of whom had already finished their suppers, so I righteously ate only half my meatloaf and brought the other half home. But their conversation, along with Sue's took me out of my funk. If you will, it took me out of myself.
I have a routine doctor's appointment tomorrow, but I'm going to ask about carbs (honest, I've lost four lbs.).
Meantime I think I'll have peanut butter toast for breakfast.
But this afternoon Jordan and I each had different agendas, and she said I was cross and curmudgeonly lately--why is it me, when she's determined to stick to her agenda, which was wine with the girl next door at whose house Jacob was playing. Anyway, we made nice, went over the recipes I wanted her to look at, and she went off to have wine. I declined because Sue was coming for wine shortly, and I figured it didn't become me to sip my way through the afternoon.
But I've also been put out with my oldest son because he planned a big family reunion for Memorial Day--and forgot to tell me. Oh, I knew it was a possibility that the New York Alters would come visit, but no one told me there were definite plans for them to come to Houston, not Fort Worth. My nose was out of joint, and I considered cutting him out of my will. Well, not really.
But Sue and I were talking about diet, and she said she gets crabby when she cuts out carbs--I haven't had bread since I overindulged when the Canterbury Choir boys were here. Sue ate a slice of peanut butter toast this morning and said she immediately felt better. Hmmm--something for me to think about.
I had a good visit with Sue. She's only a tiny bit older than my oldest, and she calls me her Fort Worth mom, but we are also good friends. So we talked about everything from kids to parents to food--you name it. I chide her about some things, and she's not afraid to tell me when I'm wrong. When she left I went off to the Grill to have my weekly meatloaf fix with the neighbors, most of whom had already finished their suppers, so I righteously ate only half my meatloaf and brought the other half home. But their conversation, along with Sue's took me out of my funk. If you will, it took me out of myself.
I have a routine doctor's appointment tomorrow, but I'm going to ask about carbs (honest, I've lost four lbs.).
Meantime I think I'll have peanut butter toast for breakfast.
April 23, 2012
Dogs on my mind
Sophie, my Bordoodle pup now almost a year old, has been a morning brat lately. She greets the day, full of energy, with lots of barking, and unfortunately she has the small-dog yippy bark. Mostly she barks at Scooby, to get him to play with her--and he barks back, the hoarse bark of an aging dog. But squirrels, a car in the driveway, the neighbors' dogs--anything can excite her. I'm grateful for tolerant neighbors. By mid-morning, she's calmed down, and we don't hear much out of her the rest of the day. Sometimes I want to say to her, "Look how lucky you are to have a good, loving home. Why can't you act like you appreciate it?"
Those of you who know me know I'm a dog person. Oh, I had cats for the kids when they were growing up. Jamie in particular was a cat lover--he claims their last cat has cured him of that. But almost twenty years ago he brought home a gray kitten, part Maine Coon, one of the world's loveliest and sweetest cats. When Jamie left home, I insisted on keeping Wywy (don't ask), but we lost him to old age last fall.
Still its dogs that capture my heart.There's a difference between liking dogs and being a dog person, though the former don't always underestand that. I'll tread lightly here, so as not to step on toes, for I've had this discussion with one of my sons-in-law who indignantly protests that he likes dogs. A true dog person can't imagine living without a dog, regardless that, if well cared for, they're expensive and take a lot of time--probably more time than I give mine. I've had dogs, big dogs, all my life, except for a spell when I had Cairn terriers. I'm finding again with Sophie what I found with the Cairns--little dogs are stubborn. I'm sorry in some ways I let my brother convince me I don't need a big dog at my age. I admit, however, I don't walk either of mine for fear of being pulled down--Sophie has too much wild enthusiasm for the outside world, and Scooby never got over his instinct to herd buses, strollers, trucks, whatever moves. Both my sons are dog people; my daughters not so much, though Jordan and Sophie are crazy about each other. If I get hit by a truck tomorrow, Jordan will take her.
Don't get me wrong about Sophie: I love her. She is like the little girl with the curl--and when she's good and sweet, she's irresistible. And she's reliably housebroken--something I haven't always accomplished with dogs. She's probably got another year of growing up to do.
If you follow me on Facebook you may have noticed that I repost a lot of pictures of abandoned, endangered dogs, some on the EU list at varioius shelters. Breaks my heart, and I want to go rescue each of them--but I have my hands more than full, thank you. Confession: I'm sort of selective. I repost the collie, lab, shepherd, border collie mixes that appeal to me, some of them, like Sophie, the ragamuffins of the dog world. Not so much the pit bulls and similar breeds.
But I've noticed a high number of pit bull mixes on Facebook lately. I'm wondering if that's because people are breeding them for fighting or just why so many need loving homes. I know pit bull fanciers will jump all over this, but there are some breeds I'm leery of--pit bulls, Rottweilers (Colin had to give up one he could neither trust nor control) and, to a lesser extent, Dobermans.
Idle thoughts, but now that my mind is on dogs, watch for another post about some dogs I've known and loved. I think just as we're all meant to have one or two real loves in our lives, the same is true of dogs. We have one or two that are soulmates. I've been lucky with both kinds of loves, and I count my blessings. Sophie? She's an adorable, irresistible brat-child.
Those of you who know me know I'm a dog person. Oh, I had cats for the kids when they were growing up. Jamie in particular was a cat lover--he claims their last cat has cured him of that. But almost twenty years ago he brought home a gray kitten, part Maine Coon, one of the world's loveliest and sweetest cats. When Jamie left home, I insisted on keeping Wywy (don't ask), but we lost him to old age last fall.
Still its dogs that capture my heart.There's a difference between liking dogs and being a dog person, though the former don't always underestand that. I'll tread lightly here, so as not to step on toes, for I've had this discussion with one of my sons-in-law who indignantly protests that he likes dogs. A true dog person can't imagine living without a dog, regardless that, if well cared for, they're expensive and take a lot of time--probably more time than I give mine. I've had dogs, big dogs, all my life, except for a spell when I had Cairn terriers. I'm finding again with Sophie what I found with the Cairns--little dogs are stubborn. I'm sorry in some ways I let my brother convince me I don't need a big dog at my age. I admit, however, I don't walk either of mine for fear of being pulled down--Sophie has too much wild enthusiasm for the outside world, and Scooby never got over his instinct to herd buses, strollers, trucks, whatever moves. Both my sons are dog people; my daughters not so much, though Jordan and Sophie are crazy about each other. If I get hit by a truck tomorrow, Jordan will take her.
Don't get me wrong about Sophie: I love her. She is like the little girl with the curl--and when she's good and sweet, she's irresistible. And she's reliably housebroken--something I haven't always accomplished with dogs. She's probably got another year of growing up to do.
If you follow me on Facebook you may have noticed that I repost a lot of pictures of abandoned, endangered dogs, some on the EU list at varioius shelters. Breaks my heart, and I want to go rescue each of them--but I have my hands more than full, thank you. Confession: I'm sort of selective. I repost the collie, lab, shepherd, border collie mixes that appeal to me, some of them, like Sophie, the ragamuffins of the dog world. Not so much the pit bulls and similar breeds.
But I've noticed a high number of pit bull mixes on Facebook lately. I'm wondering if that's because people are breeding them for fighting or just why so many need loving homes. I know pit bull fanciers will jump all over this, but there are some breeds I'm leery of--pit bulls, Rottweilers (Colin had to give up one he could neither trust nor control) and, to a lesser extent, Dobermans.
Idle thoughts, but now that my mind is on dogs, watch for another post about some dogs I've known and loved. I think just as we're all meant to have one or two real loves in our lives, the same is true of dogs. We have one or two that are soulmates. I've been lucky with both kinds of loves, and I count my blessings. Sophie? She's an adorable, irresistible brat-child.
April 22, 2012
Life's Milestones
My oldest son, Colin David Alter, is 43 today. How did that happen, since I'm only 35? (They say there's an age where you always feel you are in your soul--mine is 35; my thirties were great.) I remember clearly so much about his entry into our lives. (The picture is Colin with his children, and two nephews, taken about four years ago.)We had applied with the Edna Gladney Home, a maternity home/adoption agency, about a month earlier and were expecting a long wait. But there came this call: could the caseworker make a home visit the next day? Of course she could. In retrospect, I see that this lovely woman named Marie dropped hints that I was too dumb to catch. Me: I haven't gotten the curtains up in the nursery yet. Marie: The baby won't care. Galvanized by this visit, we rushed around to friends, borrowing crib, changing table and lots of tiny clothes that made me cry as I washed and folded them.
The very next day they called to say we had a baby boy, but there was one problem: he might have red hair. I laughed aloud. I'm blonde; my then-husband was dark and mostly bald. I drove to the hospital where he was a surgical resident, and ran across the parking lot shouting "We have a baby!"
I called my parents, but only Dad was at home. When I told him the baby was born on April 22--who knew it would be Earth Day?--he said, "That's Jeannie's birthday." Jeannie was my baby sister who died at six months. I was always told she had a congenital heart problem, but I wonder now if it wasn't SIDS. But each year on Colin's birthday, I say a small prayer for Jeannie--and for my parents who were so devastated by her loss. She would be 68 or 69 today, but I'm beyond imagining that.
I knew nothing about babies, hadn't read any books, had no idea what to do. Joel dropped us at home and went off to do a varicose vein surgery (not sure why I remember the type of surgery so clearly). A friend parked her 18-month-old with her mom and came to be with me. Together, we managed to feed him undiluted formula, which promptly gave him diarrhea--the worst sign in a newborn (he was eight days old). I called the pediatrician who was a friend and mother-figure to me, and she said she'd meet me at the hospital. Then, "No, wait, I'll come pick you up." He was fine, no weight loss, and we finally figured out the problem. But to this day, he says that's why he has Crohn's disease.
I'm not sure how women who give birth do it, but I was exhausted that first week. People came and went all hours of the day (by the fourth baby, that didn't faze me at all). To top it off, friends had to be out of their house for some reason and came to stay with us, bringing a toddler. That set the pattern for our lives--three more babies, always a houseful of people, more food served than I can now imagine. I did it all and loved it, but I look back at myself with amazement.
Colin David, I sure am glad you came into our lives. I love you a lot.
To the rest of you, thanks for letting me take this nostalgic trip. Forty-three? Can't be. It was only yesterday we brought him home, and yet it was a long time ago because so much has changed.
April 20, 2012
The Single Life--and Food
I pretty much enjoy my single life. With an empty nest, I've gotten used to the independence and freedom. I've built myself a good life, full of friends, and I have a family so close I can't imagine introducing a new person into that circle. At home, I can keep my own hours, do with my house what I want, fill my closets and not worry about keeping them neat. I'm not sure there's room for a man in this house--or in my life. Oh, sure, sometimes I'd like to have a companion to go to an ocasional theater or music thing (I'm not devoted to either), but I have an active enough social life.
But I'm an admitted foodie--and that's where I miss a man or, even more, the family I used to cook for daily. As I posted on Facebook, yesterday was a red-letter day because both Bon Appetit and Southern Living arrived in the same day. I spent a goodly amount of time poring over them--a first-time run-through, because I'll go back, more slowly, and savor. Some months not much grabs my taste buds, but this month both were full of things I want to try, notably a lot of varieties of chicken salad. It's not that I eat a lot--I'm currently on a small portion, no carb kick, which means I ordered a cheeseburger without a bun tonight. But I want to cook these dishes, and I can't eat them all myself.
Then, tonight, I went through my miscellaneous recipe file which includes breakfast recipes--I keep my appalling collection of recipes in separate files for Entrees Tried, Entrees Not Tried, Vegetables, Appetizers, and Desserts. This miscellaneous file is mostly breakfast foods and soups. I was looking for ideas for Jordan who will entertain the whole family, 16 of us, on Mother's Day for breakfast. And once again I found all these scrumptious recipes that serve 6, 8, 12. I simply can't cook them all.
Yes, I do entertain fairly frequently, and Jordan said tonight, "Call me. Christian often has evening events, and I'd love to have supper." So I guess I'll do that. I'm always afraid my friends get worn out with my dinner invitations.
Stuffed pull-apart bread anyone? It has bacon, scallions, and cheese in it--okay I leave out the olives. Or how about a breakfast strudel with eggs, onions, ham, chives, cream cheese, and o.j. (Once again, I cater to my tastes and leave out the bell pepper--I don't like them and neither does my stomach.) Cooking does for me what meditation does for others.
But I'm an admitted foodie--and that's where I miss a man or, even more, the family I used to cook for daily. As I posted on Facebook, yesterday was a red-letter day because both Bon Appetit and Southern Living arrived in the same day. I spent a goodly amount of time poring over them--a first-time run-through, because I'll go back, more slowly, and savor. Some months not much grabs my taste buds, but this month both were full of things I want to try, notably a lot of varieties of chicken salad. It's not that I eat a lot--I'm currently on a small portion, no carb kick, which means I ordered a cheeseburger without a bun tonight. But I want to cook these dishes, and I can't eat them all myself.
Then, tonight, I went through my miscellaneous recipe file which includes breakfast recipes--I keep my appalling collection of recipes in separate files for Entrees Tried, Entrees Not Tried, Vegetables, Appetizers, and Desserts. This miscellaneous file is mostly breakfast foods and soups. I was looking for ideas for Jordan who will entertain the whole family, 16 of us, on Mother's Day for breakfast. And once again I found all these scrumptious recipes that serve 6, 8, 12. I simply can't cook them all.
Yes, I do entertain fairly frequently, and Jordan said tonight, "Call me. Christian often has evening events, and I'd love to have supper." So I guess I'll do that. I'm always afraid my friends get worn out with my dinner invitations.
Stuffed pull-apart bread anyone? It has bacon, scallions, and cheese in it--okay I leave out the olives. Or how about a breakfast strudel with eggs, onions, ham, chives, cream cheese, and o.j. (Once again, I cater to my tastes and leave out the bell pepper--I don't like them and neither does my stomach.) Cooking does for me what meditation does for others.
April 19, 2012
School daze
If you have children, five or older, this picture is familiar to you. You've been there, done that. Some parents thrive on school programs and carnivals. I was never one of those parents, and I confess to a certain amount of relief when my youngest child left elementary school--no more carnivals, programs, PTA. Okay, I could have, should have, but I didn't. Once they got to middle school my children didn't seem to care about my involvement, and I was the single wowrking mother of four. It was one burden off my back (I still had Scouts, etc.). Tonight I found myself back in a familiar auditorium, where I'd been years before, watching the kind of program I'd seen countless times. The kindergarten and pre-k put on the PTA program tonight at Jacob's school, and, yes, the children were adorable--lively, happy, animated. They'd memorized lyrics to seven songs--no small feat. I enjoyed the program and was proud of Jacob--he was one of many who held signs for the "Sight Word Song." The woman who teaches them has patience and skill, and she did a good job. I was glad I went. But I did have that deja vu feeling and I wondered how many programs I will go to in the coming years. No carnivals--I draw the line there.Jacob always gets a smiley face for the day at school--I think he's gotten a frown twice. Yesterday he got his third, or as he says, he "pulled a tab." Not quite sure about the lingo, but he was punished for wrestling on the playground. His story was that he tried to stop a fight, and one of the boys jumped on him and began fighting him. This morning, a teacher corroborated that story, and I truly think Jacob got a bum rap--but then I'm a prejudiced grandmother. The lesson I hope he learned--and we talked about it this afternoon--is that fighting is one instance where it's okay to tattle. You go tell a responsible adult, but you don't try to break it up yourself. Poor kid--he was lectured by the principal, who came out to the playground; he was in trouble with his teacher, and big trouble with his parents. But today, I guess everyone sees Jacob's view of the event, and the nice thing is kids are resilient. They bounce back nicely and easily.
The big talk today was of the dead tarantula found in front of my house and duly transported to the school. I heard about it so many times, I began to feel guilty as though that dead tarantula was my fault. We went through "they won't hurt you, they're good for our gardens," etc. I think Jacob believed me but his father was still insisting, "If they don't come in the house."
School days--they're fun, and this is all making me a bit nostalgic. After the program Jordan sent Christian to take Jacob to the reception, and we hurried home to feed my dogs. Then we sat on the porch with glasses of wine and reminisced about her days at the same school. Good memories.
April 18, 2012
Anticipation
Anticipation is generally a good thing. It means you're looking forward to something joyful. But if you're an anxious person (that would be me) it can be just the opposite--it's the fear that grips you before an event of any significance. Last Monday, as you know, I spoke at Baylor University for their Celebration of Texas Literature, Music and Film. I did really well at not worrying about it--had a talk written and pretty much down in my mind that I thought was solid and good. No need to worry I told myself. But Sunday morning, it hit--maybe it was the dark black thunderclouds and heavy rain or the fact that the weather persuaded me to skip church--but anticipation, or dread, set in. I gave the speech to myself one more time (I used to have a cleaning lady who would say to the kids, "Your mother's in there talking to her papers.") but to me, my voice sounded quavery, not strong and sure, and I skipped or mispronounced a few things. By Monday morning, I was asking that eternal question, "Why did I ever agree to do this?" It's so easy to agree six months in advance!
Jamie wrote me "Butterflies keep you on your toes," and Christian cheerfully said, "It's the anticipation. It always happens before a presentation, but it makes you better." I wasn't convinced.
Of course, it all worked out. When I got to Baylor, I met wonderfully friendly people and soon found myself telling stories of Texas history and authors to our lunch group. Then we toured the libraries, which I really found interesting. And the setting for my talk was comfortable--a circular tiered classroom with a desk in the pit: I could sit.
When I actually delivered the talk, I felt comfortable, elaborated spontaneously on a couple of points, made a point of not reading but talking to the audience, swiveling my head from one side of the room to the other. They said it went well; in fact, they were highly complimentary, had lots of questions, thanked me for coming, and bought eleven books.
I had the same anticipatory dread about my recent foot surgery, almost going to the podiatry office in a daze. It turned out to be so easy and so painless.
Wonder if I'll ever learn or conquer this?
Jamie wrote me "Butterflies keep you on your toes," and Christian cheerfully said, "It's the anticipation. It always happens before a presentation, but it makes you better." I wasn't convinced.
Of course, it all worked out. When I got to Baylor, I met wonderfully friendly people and soon found myself telling stories of Texas history and authors to our lunch group. Then we toured the libraries, which I really found interesting. And the setting for my talk was comfortable--a circular tiered classroom with a desk in the pit: I could sit.
When I actually delivered the talk, I felt comfortable, elaborated spontaneously on a couple of points, made a point of not reading but talking to the audience, swiveling my head from one side of the room to the other. They said it went well; in fact, they were highly complimentary, had lots of questions, thanked me for coming, and bought eleven books.
I had the same anticipatory dread about my recent foot surgery, almost going to the podiatry office in a daze. It turned out to be so easy and so painless.
Wonder if I'll ever learn or conquer this?
April 17, 2012
A disastrous dog day
With the Canterbury Choir visitors safely on their way, much as I enjoyed them, and the Baylor speech behind me I thought my life this week would be full of peace and tranquility. Not so! I took the older dog to the vet for his annual shots. Had to lift him, almost piece by piece, into the car--front end first, then hoist the back end. When I got to the vet, I called for help, and the tech had to put a leash around his rear end to hold it up. We got him into the office where he seemed a bit better. I said I was worrying about getting him to the groomer for a much-needed summer haircut, and they told me the groomer we all use picks up from them. So we agreed on that, and I picked him up about four-thirty, looking so much better and walking pretty well. But he wouldn't get into the car--the owner and I did the hoisting bit again. Once home, on familiar territory, he was much better.
Meantime, in the late morning I was happily working at my desk, thinking Sophie was safely in the backyard. Doorbell rang, and there stood a really nice gentleman--school custodian?--holding Sophie and asking, "Is this your dog? She was running in the street and schoolyard but she ran toward this house and I thought maybe she lived here." I have no idea how he managed to catch her, but I thanked him profusely. I had left the inner gate to the yard open, thinking I'd be straight back with Scooby while Sophie was in her crate inside. And then I forgot. With her new skinny body, minus all that fur, she can still slide under the electric gate.
So tonight, after the dogs were fed and so was I, I thought all was well. Went to let them in for the night--and the back door wouldn't open. Between 7:00 and 9:00 two boards in the floor had warped and jumped up, blocking it. Decided one gate would be better than two and tried the door in my bedroom--bolts were stuck, probably because I haven't used that door in the eighteen years I've been here. So I had to bring the dogs out two gates, in the dark, on leashes, to the front door. Let me tell you that my dogs are sweethearts, fairly obedient, anxious to please--but they are not leash-trained because I don't walk them for fear they'll pull me down. It's my balance problem, not their behavior problem. Tonight may have been a wake-up call.
We made it--thank heaven for automatic gates, motion-sensitive lights and other conveniences. Both dogs are safely in the house, and Jordan has said to tell them not to pee until she gets here in the morning. Lewis, the life-saving contractor who keeps my house running, says he'll be over first thing in the morning.
I have the urge to say, "Why me, Lord?" but I know these are minor troubles, amusing in retrospect. Still when I did my yoga late this afternoon I thought how peaceful everything was and how thankful I was. Now, I'm grateful for all the people who allow me to lead the comfortable life I do--vet, groomer, contractor.Other days I add to that list the lady who cleans my house, the good friend who maintains my yard. If it weren't for these people I'd be in assisted living without dogs--a thought I can't bear.
And poor old Scooby? He definitely has a neurological problem in his back legs--the demonstration the vet gave me was revealing. Plus he still has balance problems--perhaps an inner ear thing, perhaps a stroke. But his spirit is strong, and he plays with Sopie when he can, scolds her when he thinks she needs it. I am not going for heroics, but I'll do all I can to make him happy and comfortable. as long as I can have him. Can't imagine life without dogs.
Meantime, in the late morning I was happily working at my desk, thinking Sophie was safely in the backyard. Doorbell rang, and there stood a really nice gentleman--school custodian?--holding Sophie and asking, "Is this your dog? She was running in the street and schoolyard but she ran toward this house and I thought maybe she lived here." I have no idea how he managed to catch her, but I thanked him profusely. I had left the inner gate to the yard open, thinking I'd be straight back with Scooby while Sophie was in her crate inside. And then I forgot. With her new skinny body, minus all that fur, she can still slide under the electric gate.
So tonight, after the dogs were fed and so was I, I thought all was well. Went to let them in for the night--and the back door wouldn't open. Between 7:00 and 9:00 two boards in the floor had warped and jumped up, blocking it. Decided one gate would be better than two and tried the door in my bedroom--bolts were stuck, probably because I haven't used that door in the eighteen years I've been here. So I had to bring the dogs out two gates, in the dark, on leashes, to the front door. Let me tell you that my dogs are sweethearts, fairly obedient, anxious to please--but they are not leash-trained because I don't walk them for fear they'll pull me down. It's my balance problem, not their behavior problem. Tonight may have been a wake-up call.
We made it--thank heaven for automatic gates, motion-sensitive lights and other conveniences. Both dogs are safely in the house, and Jordan has said to tell them not to pee until she gets here in the morning. Lewis, the life-saving contractor who keeps my house running, says he'll be over first thing in the morning.
I have the urge to say, "Why me, Lord?" but I know these are minor troubles, amusing in retrospect. Still when I did my yoga late this afternoon I thought how peaceful everything was and how thankful I was. Now, I'm grateful for all the people who allow me to lead the comfortable life I do--vet, groomer, contractor.Other days I add to that list the lady who cleans my house, the good friend who maintains my yard. If it weren't for these people I'd be in assisted living without dogs--a thought I can't bear.
And poor old Scooby? He definitely has a neurological problem in his back legs--the demonstration the vet gave me was revealing. Plus he still has balance problems--perhaps an inner ear thing, perhaps a stroke. But his spirit is strong, and he plays with Sopie when he can, scolds her when he thinks she needs it. I am not going for heroics, but I'll do all I can to make him happy and comfortable. as long as I can have him. Can't imagine life without dogs.
