Judy Alter's Blog, page 326

A bit in the doldrums

It may have been the stormy weather--and falling barometer--but I was a bit in the doldrums today. Maybe it was too much of my own company. Who knows? But I looked it up on the web--it means, as you might suspect, a period of inactivity, stagnation, listlessness. The phrase is thought to come from an archaic word dol meaning "stupid" with the suffix of "rum" as in "tantrum." Oh, good!
The doldrums has a maritime meaning--it's an area in both the Pacific and Atlantic oceans near the equator where the winds are so high in the atmosphere that the water is perfectly still--reflecting the sky. Think of "The Ancient Mariner": "As idle as a painted ship/Upon a painted sea."
That was me, hanging on a painted sea. However, I'm a firm believer that you have to get yourself out of the doldrums or you'll malinger there forever--don't think I can carrythe maritime analogy any further, though there was something about the horse latitudes. But, after retreating to my bed for a bit, I got myself together, did some chores that needed doing such as feeding the dogs, and went to dinner at the Old Neighborhood Grill. Our neighborhood evening was three ladies for most of the time and girl talk, until one husband joined us. He had just come from a church meeting, and since we all go to the same church, talk turned to church affairs. All interesting, and got me out of myself.
Tomorrow will be brighter, though I understand there are showers in the future. At least not downpours!

Dogs, dog people, and the afterlife

It's hard to take a picture of a black dog, so I proudly present two pictures of Sophie in which you can almost see what she looks like. Patty Pressley brought her some bullysticks today, and at one point Sophie looked like she had a stogie sticking out of her mouth. Sorry I didn't get a picture of that. But Scooby, not Sophie, is the dog on my mind tonight.
I just read and shared a touching post on Facebook about the letter a four-year-old girl dictated to her mom to be sent to God after her dog died.She included a picture so God wold recognize the dog. And some kind postal worker replied to her with a lovely message, sending the picture back since in Heaven we have no bodies and he had no place to keep it. The picture showed the little sprite hugging what appears to be a black lab.
Not all kids are that firm in their faith of an afterlife for dogs. Jacob believes, but when I said I was worried about Scooby today, he said, "Probably he's dying and he'll go to Heaven." Wonder if that's how he'll dismiss me someday. He did tell me once solemnly that he knew I would die because I'm old.
I remember still, with dismay, when I worked with the wife of a student at the Baptist Seminary. She was telling how her 13-year-old daughter took their dog's face in her hands and said, "Now, Fido (or whatever the dog's name was),  you've got to stop eating so much or you'll get fat and die. And  you can't go to heaven." Instinctively I said, "What an awful thing for a child to say to an animal." The mother calmly replied that it was true: because dogs don't have souls, they can't go to heaven. I managed to mutter, "They can to my heaven." Besides, who believes that dogs don't have souls? Dog people know better.
I've thought a lot about dog people lately--those who are and whose who aren't. I don't know how you explain it, but "liking dogs" doesn't make you a dog person. Dog people recognize dogs as individual beings with feelings, fear, love, hunger, al the same things that make us human. And they reach out to them in a way that non-dog people don't. Dogs are companions, not creatures to be kept for your convenience. I need to refine that thought a bit.
Jacob is right in that I've been worried about Scooby. He hasn't eaten since he came home from the vet Thursday night. Tonight he ate about half a cup of dry food after I stirred the juices from roasting chicken into it--but he daintily ate around his pain pill. I didn't even try the antibiotic. I do think I see improvement, though he walks with a definite tilt to the left, the direction in which his head is permanently cocked. (As a sympathy gesture--I guess--I've developed a horrible crick in my neck, on the left side, of course). But he's livelier, tries to play with Sophie, comes when I call him. I'll call the vet in the morning about meds and food--can't be roasting chicken all the time for him. But I'm sure not ready to give up on him, poor baby. I know he's still scared, but he soldiers on.

Letting go

A small spell of anxiety yesterday led me to understand that I'd let things get under my skin. It was a bad week--foot surgery, seriously ill dog, a family upset about which no more needs to be said, a manuscript that I obsessed over getting done because it wasn't coming together as I wanted--or the editor and I weren't in agreement. On top of all that, I reviewed a book about agoraphobia. Now why was I dumb enough to do that--that's like bringing all those old ghosts right up here in front.
Today I woke up with that old feeling--will it happen again? This time I took charge, went happily about my errands, did stuff at home. I decided not to obsess about  that incomplete manuscript? I'll get to it, at a leisurely pace, when I can. I'm supposed to be reading galleys of my 2002 novel, Sundance, Butch and Me, but I put a new cozy mysery on my Kindle--it's my treat for tonight. My choice was Lorraine Bartlett's The Walled Flower. Had a "picnic" on the porch with Jacob, took a long nap, and am relaxing about things. Jacob is with me from noon today until two or three tomorrow. He had such a hilarioius good time at the party last night I thought he'd be bored with me, but he woke me from my nap by saying, "I love you, Juju" (okay, truth was he wanted company while he used the potty) and tonight he said, "This has been the best day." Why am I so lucky?
Yes, I'm still worried about my dog--he isn't eating and therefore isn't getting his pain pills or antibiotics. But I've put all the rest behind me. Sure will be glad, however, when I can do yoga again.
Anybody who struggles with anxiety--and I know there are many of us--will understand. I wish all of you peace and comfort.
Happy St. Patrick's Day to all the Irish from one with just a bit of Orange Irish in her Scottish bloodstream.

A moment to savor

Jacob is telling Maddie, my oldest grandchild, some secret--from the way he looked at me, I know it had to do with me, but the picture is so cute I'll forgive him if he was saying, once again, "she's old."
Jordan invited a few friends over tonight for drinks and snacks on my porch to celebrate her birthday tomorrow--my St. Patrick's Day baby. But Jordan's small parties always turn large, and there were probably 25 here, including quite a few children who ran and played on the front lawn and had a high old time. Two episodes of beach balls going into the street--one meant David, Jordan's first-ever boyfriend and still so dear to us, walked over a block to get the ball that kept rolling and rolling. The second time, a ball that is apparently beloved by four-year-old Abby next door sailed down the street, crossed the street, jumped the curb and tumbled down the incline into the parking lot behind the school--I watched its path in awe because the ball seemed to have a life of its own, twisting and turning as it would. Abby and her mother drove to get it because Abby was distraught. I'm always glad to see Jordan's friends, most of whom are dear to me. Lacey decided I should not be on my feet (well, I said the doctor said that) so every time I sat down she was in front of me with a stool or chair for me to put my foot up. And when I tried to clean the kitchen, she  yelled at me--she confessed that to Jordan. But she and Amy did yeoman's work cleaning up, and I have only a few things to attend to tomorrow. My heartfelt thanks to them.
Jamie and his family arrived long after I'd given up on them coming--traffic from Dallas was awful, as usual. But after most people had left, the grandchldren entertained us. Jacob is a great showman, and he did his hip hop moves for us--he's really pretty good. Then Edie did the splits and the  yoga pose, crow, and Maddie demonstrated how seventh graders dance these days. Great hilarity.
The moment to treasure came at the end of the evening when Jamie dragged out the old box of family photos that's behind the chair in my room--some of the kids have gone through and taken their childhood pictures but not all. He delighted in going throiugh the pictures, exclaiming about this person and that place and remembering instances and toys and people from their childhood. It made me happy to realize once again what a good childhood they had and how fondly they remember it and the people and dogs involved--there were a lot of dogs. Jame was particularly interested in how old people were and, of course, in many pictures his father and I were younger than he is now by quite a bit. That astounded him. He saw pictures of his brother as a toddler with one foot in the commode, pictures of himself as a fifth grader (dig that hair!), pictures of his older sister at what he called "an  unfortunate period of her life" (bad hair, bad glasses) and getting ready for her senior prom, and a picture of his baby sister crawling through the space left in a multi-paned swinging door after he kicked out one panel accidentally. All those memories--such good times. It occurs to me that today we don't save boxes of photos--they're all digital. I wonder how, forty years from now, the grandchildren will be able to go through them and say, "Remember? That was Aunt Jordan's birthday party on the porch!" And maybe Jacob will remember how he always told me I was old when I wasn't!
Anyone want leftover chili/cheese dip?

The week that was

What a week it's been, between my dog and my foot. I'm pleased to report that my foot is almost without pain. The shoe is a nuisance--perhaps you read my Facbook post about what Jacob said when he saw it: "That's new. When are you getting a wheelchair?" But it's a minor problem, and I go back to the doctor for a new and smaller bandage--and permission to take a shower, thank goodness.
And tonight Scooby is home from the vet after spending two nights there because of idiopathic (means we don't know what the heck caused this) vestibular disorder. The vet put it in clear terms for me: it was like Scooby was on a big drunk. He had no balance, was confused, unsteady, couldn't focus. And of course he was scared to death. Such episodes are not unsual in older dogs and usually pass in two or three days. He is much better tonight but still wobbly and he has a head tilt, which they tell me may be permanent. I think it's kind of cute. I went out back to play with both dogs--and really to love on Scooby--tonight but Miss Jealous Puppy would have none of that. Scooby really tried toi play with her, barking, snapping, turning to get her--she is of course way too fast for him, but he was game. Now he's in his most favorite place ever, his bed, and the puppy is sort of amusing herself in my office, every once in a while jumping on me to entice me to play with her. In a bit I'll play okay--with the grooming brush.
When my kids were of an age where they came and went, even overnight, I was always so glad when all four were under my roof. Tonight I feel that way about my dogs. Of course, it would be nice to have the children too, but....
Working on m chili manuscript for two days untl my brain is fried--endnotes attributions, picture inserts, all the details that aren't nearly as much fun as the writing. But it's given me a taste for chili--espeicially since I had the sloppy joe I made and froze a week ago for supper and, yep! It tasted scorched. Not sure my skillet has recovered yet. Jordan has invited some people for a porch party tomorrow night, so I'll make that standby:Velveeta and Wolf Brand chili. So good.

A book review: Agorafabulous, by Sara Benincasa

Sarah Benincasae is a stand-up comedian, writer, blogger, and podcast host plus she has a one-woman show, titled appropriately enough Agorafabulous. She is also agoraphobic, and if you have a hard time putting those facts together in one person, so do I. I am agoraphobic, but I prefer alternate terrms such as "recoering agoraphobic" or, even better, anxiety disorder. Early in the book, Benincasa defines agoraphobia up to a point: "agora" from the Greek for market place; "phobia" from the Greek for fear. It is indeed a fear of the market place, of crowds. But it becomes fear of fear. If you have a panic attack, say, driving a car, you aren't about to drive a car again for fear of that heart-pounding, breathless fight-or-flight reaction, the sure conviction that you're dying. "Fear built on fear," she writes, "begets all kinds of little falsehoods."
Benincasa lists the things that, at her worst, she was afraid of: leaving home, having a wet head, driving, being a passenger in a car, New York City, Lincoln and Holland tunnels, flying (Oh, do I know that one!), taking the bus or subway, vomiting, sex, being pregnant, having an abortion, and God. She reached her low point in her senior year in college when she was literally afraid to leave her bed, forgoing needs for food and personal hygiene (take that one where you will). Through parental intervention, therapy and meds, she clawed her way back to a normal life, though she followed several blind ends before she ends up finding her life work--as a comedian. It's the classic story: you have to reach the low point before you can begin to recover.   
Much of the book is devoted to her recovery and the blind alleys--a commune run by an enraged spiritual guru, a stint at a community-service oriented college in North Carolina, a teaching spell in Texas, a try at graduate school. Recover she does, and I am happy for her, though she admits late in the book that anxiety can rear its ugly head at any time you don't expect it. What I had a problem with in this book is attitude, though it's a strange thing for an agoraphobic to have and a most natural one for a stand-up comedian. It's not the constant use of the F-word--or maybe it is; after all I"m of a far different generation. But more than that she turns this debilitating condition into the subject of comedy. That works well for her, but not for the misunderstood thousands of people in our society who suffer from varioius forms of anxiety and are often told by well-meaning family, friends and colleagues: "Get over it." The book jacket describes the content as "hilarious" and I find that a poor choice of words. Anxiety is rarely hilarious.
Near the end of the book she somehow gets into a conversation with a New York cabbie who had a panic attack the day before.He thought he was dying of a heart attack and went to the emergency rooom. He wanted reassurance that the doctors were right, and Benincasa talked to him about the fear, the voices in your head, the shame, "about recovery, management, setback. And pills." She thinks she convinced him that panic attacks were real and the doctors has diagnosed him correctly. It's her moment of compassion, and I applaud her for it.
If someone ever tells you they can't drive on the highway, go up an escalator or walk across a huge empty parking lot alone, listen to them. Their fears are very real. I know, because those are some of the things I don't do to this day. Like Benincasa, I'm very lucky. My anxiety was never as severe as hers, though at one point I had a hard time leaving home, and through therapy, education, a few meds, and a lot of good luck, I've conquered most of it. I live a full happy life, with occasional reminderes. . But I never joke about anxiety--or agoraphobia.
Sara Benincasa's memoir is Agorafabulous: Dispatches from My Bedroom (William Morrow and Co.).

Dogs and feet--not my best day

My foot surgery yesterday was so painless, I thought I was home free--no pain until I got up in the middle of the night and realized it dinged at me a bit. Today, it hurts to walk--not excruciating, just annoying. Aspirin doesn't seem to help, and I don't want anything stronger.
But last night my old dog, Scooby, kept collapsing when I tried to bring him in. He had no balance, and his legs, especially the back ones, kept giving out. I had to call the pet sitter to come take him to the vet this morning. When I woke at four, I couldn't go back to sleep--sure that the vet would say to put him down. She didn't--she said give it a day or two. She did say since both the dog and I were lame, it would be best if they kept him so we didn't trip each other--a sensible notion. Sometimes these things pass, and he did seem a bit better by the time I left the clinic. Scoob is lounging in the "luxury site" at the vet's, but the report this afternoon was "no better, no worse." I bet he'd rather be home in his own bed, which he loves.  They reported that when they took him out to pee this afternoon, they rigged a sling to keep his back end upright. I'm apprehensive about this. I thought Scooby was eleven-and-a-half, but it turns out I was a  year shy--he'll be thirteen in August. I'd been railing at the gods that he should have a couple of good years left. Now I'm somewhat mollified, but I still don't want to lose him.
Scoob is a gorgeous blue merle Australian shepherd. I got him at three-and-a-half from the Humane Society. He had been abused and has never lost some characteristics of that--the sweetest dog in the world tried serously to bite the vet tech today over rectal temperature-taking. Grabbing hold of his collar scares him, and I have to keep him by me because his house manners are not reliable if I'm not watching. But he has a way of looking at me with adoration that just breaks my heart. This morning, when I was getting ready to leave the clinic, he clearly didn't want to leave my side. Made me teary. We do get so invested in our animals.
Sophie, the puppy who jumps on Scoob's rear end and doesn't help matters at all, doesn't seem to miss him as much as I thought she would. Played outside by herself quite happily for a good portion of the day and is now asleep by me.
My day got a lot better when my brother came to get me for lunch, with his wife and mother-in-law in tow. We met Cindy's sister and her significant other at Carshon's and had a high old time, mostly planning an Alter/Peckham/Azuma reunion for May. Aunt Patty is the one who has taken that particular bull by the horns and done a great job of organizing people, etc. (I'm resisting mixed metaphors or I'd talk about herding cats, which is what getting all those people to agree on a date amounts to.) Today we decided a scavenger hunt for the kids would be great fun--they will range in age from almost two to thirteen. Lots of laughter lifted me out of the doldrums, and tonight I look forward to dinner with my neighbors at the Old Neighborhood Grill.
So, bad, distrubing things, even minor pain, aside, I am blessed with family and friends and oh so grateful.

New Life for Old Books

In the early 1990s, I wanted to break my fiction out into a "big" book, rather than the short fiction I'd been doing for Doubleday's western fiction series. I told then-edtor Greg Tobin I wanted to write a fictional biography of Libbie Custer's years with General George Armstrong Custer. After all, theirs was the "Great Romance of the Western Frontier." Greg coughed, hemmed, hawed and said he'd have to see a hundred pages before he offered a contract. Long story short, it was published and did better than any other book I've published. Not the big breakout book, but nice respectable sales. Of course it went out of print, and in those days who knew to save digital files? Even if I had done so they'd be on a diskette and difficult to access today. So I have paid a company to scan all 300+ pages. Just finished proofing the galleys, and it should be available for e-readers soon.
I suspect I'm as proud of this book as any I've done. I wrote it with Libbie's journals spread out before me, and yet I tried to give her a voice that was real to me, not the public voice she assumed in her zeal to make sure Autie went down in history as a hero. Read an except here http://www.judyalter.com/e-books.
In proofing this book, I was surprised at how much of me there is in Libbie and how much of my attitude toward my marriage, then some ten years in the past. And I was also surprised at the change in my writing style. Libbie is not clumsy, don't get me wrong, and when I began to read it, I thought, "Darn, this is better than I thought." But I also noticed some slight changes in style--I've learned not to repeat similar words too close together; I've learned to avoid what I now think is that awkward construction, "It was then that ...." I've learned to omit unnecessary words to a greater extent.
Don't let me discourage you from reading this. I got some nice comments on Facebook about it, and I still think it's the most human approach to what I see as Libbie's dilemma--marriage to Custer was not al happy romps across the prairie, and I tried to capture that realistically. This is BSP--blatant self-promotion: I think you'll like Libbie if you haven't read it before. I'll post on Facebook when it's live and available to order.
Watch next for Sundance, Butch and Me, my take on Etta Place's life with the Hole In The Wall Gang and her romance with The Sundance Kid. It's no accident that in the title, Butch Cassidy comes between Sundance and Etta. Fiction after all can suppose, imagine, and take liberties. Want a preview of my approach? Read the short story, "Reunion," in Sue Ellen Learns to Dance and Other Stories, available as an e-book for 99 cents. http://www.amazon.com/Ellen-Learns-Dance-Other-Stories/dp/0977179737/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1331599197&sr=1-2
Enough bragging, but I'm excited to see these older works available to readers once again. Hmmm, twenty years is older? My, how time flies.

Running headlong into modern medicine

There are three things I swore I would never have: a torn rotator cuff, a root canal, and surgery on my feet or hands. My record is not very good. I tore my rotator cuff so long ago that by the time it was diagnosed the shoulder specialist said the muscles were atrophied and there was nothing to repair. That sound he heard was a long sigh of relief from me, because I've heard it's a horrible surgery. My shoulder works fine, and I keep it limber by doing yoga, etc., because I know a frozen shoulder requires treatment even worse than repairing the torn rotator cuff. No, I cannot lift a stack of plates onto a high shelf with my right arm--but my right arm can help my left arm, and we all get along just fine.
Then I had a bad toothache--root canal called for. All I can say is that it was one of the longest, most unpleasant mornings in my life, and the tooth is a tad sensitive to this day. I know better now than to swear I'll never have it again--but I am talking to the Lord about it a lot and asking his preventive help. I'm not sure dedicated dental hygiene helps--I think the need for root canals is just visited on  you willy-nilly.
But Monday I am having minor foot surgery--voluntarily. It's funny how once you commit to this, telling yourself it's no big deal, it's on your mind all the time. I found myself thinking about it a lot today, marking time by before and after. It truly is no big deal--arthoplasty on two hammer toes, and not major toes--the third and fourth. The podiatrist will do an office procedure under local anesthesia, and he says to think of it like having a tooth pulled. Not sure that is comforting. But I have heard horror stories of earlier repairs--a tourniquet around your leg, which subsequently causes serious blood clots,  breaking the adjoining toes to straighten all together, etc.My doctor assures me none of that is true today--he will pop out a bit of the joint; discomfort for a couple of days, an orthopedic shoe for a month--so fashionable. These toes have caused me a lot of pain and confined me to tennis shoes--talk about fashionable--for some time. And, as the doctor said, they're not getting magically better. It' time.
Ever faithful Betty will take me, Greg will clean the dog poop from the yard (he told me I put my request so delicately), several people will check on me, and I may just play this to the hilt. But still a bit--okay a large bit of me--is nervous about the actual procedure. I tell myself it will soon be over and I'll be on the other side.
I hope not to concentrate on it all day tomorrow. What can you do to help? Make me laugh, please.

Deborah Crombie's No Mark Upon Her--some thoughts

Not much I can say about Deborah Crombie's latest novel, No Mark Upon Her, that hasn't already been said--and better. Her capture of the King's English, as the Brits speak it, is convincing and consistent. I'm no expert, but it sounds right to me and others who know more have praised it highly. In this, her sixteenth Duncan Kincid/Gemma James novel, she takes on the world of competitive rowing and captures not only its special language but the passion rowers feel for their sport and some of the ins and outs of technique. Watch for her again on the Thames--she tried rowing for research but seems so taken by it that I wouldn't be surprised to see her in a single skull.
No Mark Upon Her is also suspense at its best, intricately plotted, and just when you think you have it figured out, Crombie is one step ahead and throws a curve into things.  Duncan takes on his "guv'nor" in this one, and the reader truly wonders if he'll come out of it unscathed. Gemma meanwhile is supposed to be ignoring police matters because it's still her turn to be home with three-year-old Charlotte, the child they've adopted who still shows many fears from losing her parents. But Gemma can't ignore cases tangential to this one.
Above all, however, what draws me to read each novel in this series as soon as I can after pubication is the way Crombie pulls the reader into the lives of Duncan and Gemma and their sons, Kit and Toby, and now little Charlotte. Scotland Yard detectives become human when you watch them deal with family and child-raising issues.
Finally, there's Deborah herself who as far as I can tell has not let success go to her head, though she clearly delights in it. She makes everyone, including me, feel like a friend, and she's likeable, down-to-earth, and wryly funny.
I recommend her books a lot, and I always say start with the first in the series--they're listed on the verso of the title page. But I have a list if you want to ask. This time I say start with the latest novel. In my opinion it's her finest so far. Read No Mark Upon Her and then go back to A Share in Death. You'll enjoy watching the relationship between Duncan and Gemma grow and change and watching Crombie's increased mastery of the form--and you'll get a cracking good mystery with each read. Oh, and a nice taste of England, with a bit of Scotland thrown in. What more could one want?
I'm not one of those who feels obliged to find some flaw with each book or author, so my recommendaiton is without qualification.