My news of the day

 

Friends, I have something to share. If you look inside my fridge tonight, you will not find the usual leftovers from a family dinner nor the half-full bottle of chardonnay. Instead you will find yogurt, applesauce, chocolate protein drinks, and some non-alcoholic wine. A lifetime of drinking wine has come home to roost, and I am facing a fight against a small throat cancer. Not to worry: we caught it early, and the cure rate is high. The next couple of months will be difficult—a soft diet, lots of specialists to see, six weeks of radiation, but after that I am confident of taking up my life again. At this point, beyond a definitive biopsy, I will not need chemo or surgery. I will always be at my computer, and I plan soon to be back in the kitchen.

In fact, I’ve been making a list of foods that go down easily. My list can get pretty imaginative—smoked salmon with cream cheese, chopped liver from Carshon’s Deli, polenta, tuna salad, egg salad, a loaded baked potato without the bacon. Tonight Jean brought pasta with a marinara sauce—she very considerately asked what I thought about meat and mushrooms, and I opted for the marinara—it was rich and tomato-y and absolutely delicious. She had simmered it for over two hours until it was thick and wonderful. Another friend has offered to host me the next time her retirement community has a creamy soup entrée. I have lost a few pounds because I was not swallowing solids, but now I see my way forward to some quite good meals. And I’m hungry.

I can not ever again have an alcoholic drink. Oh, wait! The doctor said maybe on my birthday. But my days of enjoying a couple of glasses of chardonnay in the evening are over. This has been controversial, with several friends saying they never heard of alcohol causing such tumors. But the new doctor, an ENT specialist that I like and respect, was quite firm, and I will follow his orders. Statistics on survival really support his position, and I want to be around yet for years to come. Yes, I know hundreds of people who drink more heavily than I ever did and never develop tumors. Good for them—but it happened to me.

Benji is a great comfort. I think he senses something is wrong, because last night he was all over me—in my lap (for which he is too long and leggy), head resting on my leg, lying on the floor watching me. When I went to bed, he ostentatiously lay on the floor next to the bed. Tonight he has not been quite so attentive—he got into his fascination with the motion-activated garbage can and then he paced the cottage. He is confined to quarters because he barked so much, but he is quietly lying in his crate on the other side of my desk. I find his presence a comfort.

Jordan and Christian have been tremendous support, and doctors’ visits have become family affairs. Jordan makes lists of doctors I have to see and things that must be done, and she supervises what I eat—why won’t that child let me have chopped barbecue? Christian has run so many many errands—returning this that I ordered, picking up prescriptions, scouting out a new pharmacy since ours is closing. This weekend my other three children will be here for an event marking Jacob’s high school graduation—but also to rally around their mom. I couldn’t be more blessed and more grateful.

So, my friends, if I’m here again and gone again, more irregular than usual in posting blogs, I ask you to bear with me. Minor and temporary lifestyle adjustments coming up, but all will be well. Prayers are of course appreciated.

PS Please note that I still have a new Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery, Irene in a Ghost Kitchen, coming out in late June. It's not on Amazon yet but will be soon. Watch for it--it's got family secrets, French food (and lots of recipes), one bad dude, and enough mayhem to make you turn the pages (I hope). Given the direction my writing has taken of late, it's fitting that I frame my current situation in the context of foods I can eat, don't you think?

Image by Freepik

Somehow Monday morning I found myself, accompanied by Jordan, in the ER at Harris Methodist Hospital Downtown. A long stretch in the ER told us that my inability to swallow all my meds had messed up my Afib so I was on a drip to fix that and had a CT scan which confirmed a growth on my epiglottis. All of this was handled professionally and courteously by really pleasant people, and I felt I was in good hands. Naturally, I was a bit letdown when they said I had to stay overnight to stabilize my heart rate. Turned out to be a good thing. Jordan, bless her, stayed with me and was treated to sleep broken by interruptions—vital signs, an IV that pulled loose and had to be reinserted—a long and painful process.

I think in the past, in my novels, someone has been in the hospital. Irene, for instance, was hospitalized after she was kidnapped (Irene in Danger) and you never know when she or another character will end there, so it was good for me to have a refresher learning experience. Hospitals have changed since the last time I was in one.

When you go cold into the ER (I went with a referral from my family doctor who immediately left the picture), you suddenly have a whole new bunch of doctors—two hospitalists, a cardiologist, a radiologist, the ER admitting doctor, the consulting head and neck surgeon. It’s sort of a case of the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing and who’s on first. Thank goodness for the nurses, particularly one named Becky, (fourth floor, Heart Center) who coordinated everything.

When you go to the ER, you try to look your best—at least I do: hair shampooed, attractive yet comfortable outfit, clean underwear, etc. I saw some in robes, pajamas, and slippers, but that’s not my style. I wanted to look presentable. At the end of the long day, I had given up that vanity and did not care how I looked. I ended up in a hospital gown, rumpled pj bottoms from home, and hospital footlets. I did manage to brush my teeth that evening but gave it up the next morning, thinking I’d go home any moment. Jordan had to comb my hair because I sailed into the day without a thought about it. By the time I went home, about three o’clock in the afternoon, I didn’t give a fig how I looked. At least I had street clothes back on, with the pj bottoms.

Being in the hospital ages you ten years but thank goodness it’s reversible. Probably because I felt so bad, I became helpless. I asked Jordan for every little thing—“hand me this,” “where’s the remote?” “Can you get me that?” I kept missing meals (not that I could eat much) so she was my emissary to the cafeteria where she got yogurt and to ask the nurse for cups of steaming hot broth. I found I would get scrunched down in bed, and need help pulling myself up. And go to the bathroom alone? Don’t even think about it. It’s against the rules. So I worried about going home, but once in the cottage I fell right back into the routine of taking care of myself. An amazing reversible, though I did worry as I snuggled down for the night about what would happen if I couldn’t get out of bed. I could—a gentle, cold, and wet nose on my elbow this morning convinced me to get out of bed and let Benji out. He had been tremendously patient while I overslept.

So this morning I am back at work at my desk. I kept up, mostly with emails, in the hospital but still have much to deal with, some of it medical. How do you get to be my age and still be so involved in the world? I am not knocking it. I think it’s a good thing.

Tomorrow I have (I think) a biopsy to determine why I can’t swallow. Prayers are appreciated, and thanks for following my adventures in and out of the medical world.

Graduation parties and a rainy Mothers’ Day

 

Jacob has had a great weekend—at least I assume he did, since I haven’t seen him yet. But last night was senior prom for Paschall High School, and he and several of his buddies were all spiffy in tuxes, with lovely girls in gowns on their arms. Jacob does not have a steady girlfriend, so he took a girl who is a good friend—you know how that works. I was pleased to see the picture and note how modest her gown was, and Christian said all the girls at the photo shoot had long gowns—none of those skimpy mini-things. Of course, prom itself is sort of anticlimactic—they don’t stay long, and the after-parties are the big deal. My behind-the-fence neighbor wrote that her son would be hosting an after-party in their pool and cabana and she had reminded them of noise control. I never heard a sound, and when I went to the bathroom at three o’clock, all was dark and quiet.

Golf seniors

Today the moms of the seniors on the Paschal gold team hosted a party with a gambling theme. Jordan has a lovely entertainment area in her office, with freedom to use it, so that was the site. Christian reports it was a great success.

Other than a golf party, today was not a huge success. It was dark and thunder rolled, rain fell for much of the day. Usually I rather enjoy a day like that, but today I did not feel well, so that darkened my mood. Benji too was a bit of a worry—rain doesn’t bother him, and he appears to enjoy mud. But then he comes in and decides the upholstered furniture is there for his comfort. I have upended the cushions on his two favorite chairs, so when I called him in tonight, he took his wet muddy self to his crate. Score one for me.

My Jamie arrived late last night—later than he intended because his rental was an electric car, and he didn’t realize how long it took to charge. When he arrived, coming from Frisco, he had only charged it for seventy miles, so he charged it overnight and hoped it took. It struck me that it was like the early days of gasoline engines—at first people were bumfuzzled by maintenance, but they got used to it. We will all eventually get used to electric cars—maybe just before cars themselves are phased out.

It was of course a delight to have Jamie here. He is, and I don’t think he’ll mind me saying this,

Hamburgers in the cottage

the poorest of my children at keeping in touch frequently. But when he’s here, he is, as Jordan says, totally into the moment. He gives great massages, sometimes painful as he zeroes in on every spasm in your back, but he’s tireless and dedicated. And he discovered last night what may be the cause of my lethargy and lack of appetite—swollen glands in my neck. Though he didn’t have time this weekend, he has been known to lull me to sleep with his acoustic guitar. Christian grilled hamburgers late last night, and they ate in my cottage—though I, already not feeling well, stuck to yogurt.  After the Burtons went inside, Jame and I had a long talk for which I was most grateful. His life has been turned upside down in the last year, and I was glad to hear him talk about it.

This morning, Jamie went for a run and was gone longer than he meant to be because he so enjoyed running through old, familiar neighborhoods. Then it was a rush for him to shower and get out the door for his plane back to Denver, where he is now living. But I have something to look forward to: he, his older sister, and older brother will all be here, again briefly, for a party that Jordan and I are hosting for Jacob—well, in truth, she is hosting and my name is on the invitation.

Hope the mothers among us—and that takes many shapes and forms—were well celebrated today. I know for many it is a hard day, and I reach out to them. For what a good friend would term a less saccharine, Hallmark version of the history of Mothers’ Day, read here: (69) May 11, 2024 - by Heather Cox Richardson (substack.com)                               

Obituaries, a vet visit, and a good dinner

Haute cuisine in the cottage

Not too long ago, the obituary writer was a respected member of any newspaper’s staff. It takes talent, skill, and practice to condense a life into a few, meaningful paragraphs. These days, obituaries are syndicated, expensive, and in some cases a scam that can trap you into an endless cycle of intrusive emails. I learned these lessons the hard way. To begin with, the obit for my brother, John Peckham, in the Star-Telegram cost almost $3/word. We shortened and shortened, leaving out what we thought were some of his major accomplishments as well as some of the tidbits that made him a fascinating person. It seems you don’t really contract with your local paper but with a national company called Legacy, Inc. Since we were writing it ourselves, I never explored the options for help from either the newspaper or the national company.

The first problem came when we wanted an estimate. My niece, burdened with much on her mind, asked if I would get that. The only way to do it was to fill out the form, so pretty soon it looked like before they gave me an estimate I would have to guarantee payment. I couldn’t do it in her name because I didn’t know if she subscribes to the paper and that’s apparently a requirement. I did finally get a rough cost, and she took over. The obituary appeared as scheduled and looked fine—a bit bare bones and short, but okay. Jenn had added at the bottom the location of a small celebration of life.

Days later I wanted to verify the proper name of that location to share with a friend. Couldn’t find the obituary, so I clicked on one of those “find anyone” sites that came up when I asked to find an obit, filled in John’s information, and waited. I never did get the information, but I was somehow signed up for something called Truth Finder which offered, for a fee, to dig up all kinds of information about John, including previous arrests for assault and similar unsavory tidbits. He was by no means an angel all his life, but I thought that was stretching it a bit.

That site never did find what I needed, and I found it elsewhere. But now I get constant reminders, two at a time—Am I still looking for John? Would I like to bring John back into my life? And similar inanities. These “reminders” appear, large, in the corner of my screen so they cannot be ignored. You must click on them and then close out to get them to go away. There is no unsubscribe button, which I suspect is illegal. They’re not on Facebook, so I can’t block them, and I’m not tech savvy enough to know how to make them go away. Among other reasons why it’s so wrong, it’s an insult to grieving families.

While I’m at it, another internet complaint: this is aimed at various Democratic fund-raising branches. Republicans are probably just as bad, but I only occasionally hear from them, and I respond with an instant, “Stop!” or unsubscribe. But Democrats complain all the time that I have not confirmed I will vote for Biden—when clearly I have. There is apparently little or no coordination between sites—even though Act Blue is supposed to be a clearinghouse. They appoint me to focus groups and choose me as one of a select group to represent my city or county or they beg for m valuable input on a poll. Turns out the poll questions could be answered by a five-year-old with good sense, and inevitably they lead to a plea for me to pledge a good-sized monthly amount. I think one reason they don’t well in polling is because so many, like me, get turned off by these inane, repetitious emails and refuse to answer. Somewhere, someone smart about marketing, must think this works, but it beats me. I long for the days of Lincoln, when campaigning was considered beneath a candidate.

On a brighter note, Benji went to the vet yesterday. He, who is wild Indian and totally untrained on the leash, behaved like an angel and captivated the vet’s staff. He had been to his Humane Society vet (because he was a rescue) just a couple of weeks before we got him, but we wanted the family vet to know him—we have been taking dogs to University Animal Hospital since the mid- to late sixties. Dr. Minnerly pronounced him fit, said he is smart, and suggested some training ideas. Of the barking which worries me, he said, “At the end of the day, he’s a dog, and dogs bark.”

And last night, despite my curtailed eating habits, I fixed a smashing dinner for Mary V.: sour cream, smoked salmon, pickled cucumbers and onion, and capers on puff pastry. The pastry puffed so high I almost didn’t know what to do with it and ended poking the air out of it with a fork before adding the toppings. We enjoyed it, and I had my leftovers for lunch today. Smoked salmon goes on the list of foods I can eat with ease.

Happy Friday, everyone. Hope you have big plans for the weekend, if that suits you, or else look forward to a quiet day with a book and a chair in the sun. It’s supposed to be sunny, comfortable temperature, and pleasant in North Texas. Hope for you too, wherever you are.

 

Too much information!

TMI! That’s what my kids will say if they read this post. But I had a medical adventure today, and it taught me something about modern medicine—or maybe the exception to modern medicine. For a little over a month, I’ve had trouble swallowing the handful of pills I take morning and evening. When I mentioned it to my doctor, he immediately said, “You need a swallow test.” The way he described it, it was no big deal—you drink a little barium and they x-ray it going down. He seemed quite sure they’d find a stricture, easily fixed, so he said, with a minor surgical procedure.

There was about a three-week lapse between his order and the actual procedure, and during that lapse I managed to work myself into a snit, imagining all kinds of horrors. I wasn’t sure if I was more afraid of the test or the results, but I suspected it was the test. I nearly convinced myself that the whole things was due to allergies (it feels like I have a sore throat)—or may the stress of grieving my brother and my dog. By today I had also convinced myself that swallowing a couple of swigs of barium wasn’t that bad—Jean told me these days it’s vanilla flavored. I will discuss that with her later because when I said that to the tech, she said, “I wish!”

When the tech ushered us into a changing room (first alarm bell went off in my head—why was I changing?) and began firing questions at me, all that hard-won assurance flew out the window. “Could I stand for ten minutes?” Yes, if I had something to hold on to. Could I lie on my stomach? Yes, I suppose so. Could I drink on my stomach? If there was a straw. She kept saying during the questions things like, “The doctor is not going to like this, or “The doctor can stop it at any time.” Jordan encouraged me not to back out after we’ve anticipated this for so long.

We went into the room with the machine, and I visibly paled. It was a flat, upright panel to which the tech attached two handles for me to hold on to. I would have to hold on with one hand and take a drink with the other. Not sounding good. Then it turned out with me standing flat against it, the table would slowly move into a horizontal position—and then minutes later back up to standing. I’ve got enough phobias that gave me real qualms. The tech disappeared, saying she would talk to the doctor. By this time, I was envisioning an ogre of a man, quick to anger.

He emerged from wherever, a perfectly nice, reasonable man. He asked questions, we chatted, and when he asked if I wanted to cancel, I said “Yes.” But then he said, “Let’s try something. Let’s see if we can lower the camera enough to do the studies with you seated.” And that’s what he did—me in my transport chair, which he twisted and turned to get the views he wanted. And the stuff to drink? Not great, but not that bad. I got it all down, and it was only two or three sips of each kind of contrast medium. He was emphatic that he could not see nor study the esophagus, but we were both quite sure the problem is in my throat. And it is: he pinpointed it and recommended further studies.

But what I saw in this physician was adaptability—and I think that’s rare in most medical offices today. He was willing to adjust his methods to meet my needs, and in the end, we got what we wanted—an informative set of x-rays. I thanked both him and the tech profusely as we left. And I, who often long for the olden, golden days of medicine, was comforted.

I wish my brother were here. He’d love this story. That was the kind of medicine he practiced—people-oriented.

 

Big doings and lots of rain

 

Colman and Marge and their daughter, Eva.
Jacob, Jordan, and Christian

Big doings around our house this weekend. Yesterday, close friends of Jordan and Christian gave a mid-day celebration for Jacob and one other graduate, Eva, whom he’s known almost this entire life. In fact—shhh! Don’t say I told you!—they used to bathe together. As they went to separate schools they saw less of each other over the years, but they were always together for Easter Egg Hunts and brunch at my house, a tradition that continues to this day, except for the egg-hunting part. Now, by serendipity they are both off to the University of Arkansas where, for a brief time, it even looked like they might end up on the same floor in one dormitory—I’m not sure how that worked out.

The pictures and reports from the brunch were wonderful. It was apparently a gala, happy affair. I was feeling  a bit under the weather and decided to stay home, so I was sorry to miss all the gaiety, but as Jacob assured me today, there will be other opportunities to celebrate. Meanwhile I enjoyed a  quiet day alone at home, with Benji for company—slept a lot, ate very carefully, and felt better than I had toward the end of the week. Now I guess I’ve got my groove back. A medical appointment looms Tuesday which I’m dreading a bit, but which should provide some reassuring answers.

Jordan and Christian went straight from the graduation celebration to a huge Kentucky Derby Party, given as a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society. Christian is once again co-chair of the annual Cowtown Ball, a major fundraiser (it’s his fourth or fifth year so I think, despite protestations, he likes doing it). Yesterday’s Derby party was a fundraiser for the Cowtown Ball, so both he and Jordan were heavily involved. They report it was a success, with about 150 people gathered to watch the run for the roses.

I am not a horse racing fun and am of fact in the school that thinks it’s cruel to push horses to their extreme limit – the 2023 Derby was run in the middle of a disastrous two-week period marked by multiple race-track horse deaths. This year, however, the 250th running of the race, went off smoothly. I do like to watch the parade of horses to the gate, though I never pick a favorite. I was surprised to learn that several friends “research” the horses before the race. Whether or not they placed bets, and whether or not they won anything, I don’t know. The actual race goes by so fast I can never tell who’s winning.

Because I’m kind of a nut for traditions and ceremonies, I always like the award presentation ceremony with the wreath of roses around the horse’s neck, but I am annoyed by all the folderol and filling of time between the race and the ceremony. This year, I had the TV on but only glanced at it from time to time—and must have missed the ceremony. After more than an hour of commercials and other stuff, I turned it off.

Nobody will be surprised that the food traditionally associated with the Derby interests me. I almost never drink hard liquor (wine is my choice) but I do love a good bourbon, so yesterday I had a bit of longing for a mint julep. I remember once going to a derby party years ago, drinking two mint juleps, and being home in bed by six o’clock, so it was perhaps best I didn’t have the makings. I’ve made Kentucky Hot Brown sandwiches for the family, and we liked them a lot—I may do it again soon. And pecan pie with bourbon is not to be missed. Pimiento cheese tea sandwiches and devilled eggs sound pretty good too. Then there’s something called a Benedictine spread—cream cheese, sour cream, green onions, and cucumber. I’m going to have to try that soon. Meantime, with all that glorious food, I was home eating a baked egg with toast and cheese!

Seems every morning lately Benji and I have awakened to a wet world. For different reasons, we both love it. He is not at all afraid of storms, and he loves to dig in the mud—to my dismay when he comes in and jumps on my upholstered furniture.  I enjoy a rainy day and am particularly grateful for the sake of our gardens. My cosmos and coreopsis get beaten down with all this heavy rain. Even the oak leaf hydrangea bends under the pounding. They work their way back up but never quite as tall and upright. It’s okay—come late July, we’ll be so grateful for whatever moisture remains in the ground.

I’m going to spend this evening reading a book I just started: The Paris Novel, by food critic Ruth Reichl. So far, it fulfills its promise of lush Paris scenes, odd characters, and lots of French food. I’ll feel Irene looking over my shoulder.

Hope the upcoming week is good to everyone.

An invitation I’d love and trying to sort things out

 

Image courtesy Freekpik.com

 I keep seeing Facebook posts urging me to apply to have ice cream at Rehoboth Beach with Uncle Joe and Jill—now there’s an invitation I’d love to get. IF I hadn’t vowed I’m not going to fly any more, and IF I were sure I would be absolutely tongue-tied if I ever really met them. I have a fondness for beaches, and they sound like such nice, genuine people—they love dogs, don’t they? The invitation to the Chicago convention doesn’t intrigue me—I remember too clearly, as a Chicago native, the Democratic convention of 1968, and it sounds like crowds and possible violence and noise—and everything I don’t want now. But a barefoot walk in the sand with Uncle Joe? So enticing. (Never mind that my walker would not do well on a beach!)

The continuing coverage of the student protests and law enforcement response overshadows what should be the center of the story—ongoing negotiations between Zionists and Hamas. Efforts in this country, especially the GOP bill that seems to outlaw anti-semitism and curb free speech and serve as a redundant repetition of laws already on the books, only serve to make matters more cloudy. If nothing else, I have been trying to figure it out in my own mind. Here’s what I’ve thought, sort of: Israel has every right to their territory (I’m not sure about the Palestinian land which they keep absorbing). The US recognizes Israel and that’s right because it is an established legitimate government. We do not recognize Palestine because Hamas, a terrorist organization, is in charge. We support Israel in its attempts to recover hostages (many of whom have died in captivity) and to eradicate Hamas—but we should not support the genocide of an entire people, and despite denials that seems to be Netanyahu’s final goal. It’s a fine line that President Biden and Secretary Blinken are trying hard to walk.

Look at the statistics: 1200 Israelis died or were taken hostage on October 7 (estimate down from 1400). Many died horrific, excruciating deaths, and there is no denying the brutality of Hamas, the absolute disregard for human life. But balance that against 35,000 Palestinians who have died since, including 13,000 children. We have no idea how many Hamas are included in that number, but the victims were inevitably mostly innocent civilians—especially the children. I know war and death have no balance sheets—you can’t claim, “You killed this many of my people, so I will kill twice that many of yours.” But still it seems out of proportion to me—overkill, if you’ll allow a bad pun about an awful situation.

One thing no one talks about is that if you look at a map of the Arab world, Israel is but a tiny dot in a vast sea of Arab countries. I would think that would make them more inclined toward negotiation than force, knowing that the entire Arab world could rise up against them. I think the US is an enormous stabilizing force in that regard, but Netanyahu does not seem inclined to listen to US advice that doesn’t go his way.

So the student protests? How do they fit in? The first thing that comes to my mind is that our country is quick to forget lessons learned. Someone pointed out to me that today’s leaders were mere children in the sixties, and the Vietnam protests didn’t register with them. Greg Abbott, for instance, was twelve years old when troops shot Kent State students. But he could read history, couldn’t he? Today’s situation is proof of that old saying, “Those who don’t know history are doomed to repeat its mistakes.” I am terrified that we are headed toward another Kent State type of tragedy. I know there is a lot of bitter anger on both sides, but I have also read that Palestinian and Israeli student groups have been meeting together on some campuses. And I know a few university administrations have reached out to students, invited them to talk. So much more reasonable than calling out troops in riot gear. The riot troops signify, to me, the conversative mindset: force, not reason.

A gentleman has posted elsewhere on my wall giving a reasoned history of Israel and why it must defend itself—cold hard facts, historical dates, reason. But what is missing is compassion. He keeps asking me in negotiation what I would suggest Israel give up to Hamas. I have no idea. I am not a schooled diplomat. But I know this—for Hamas/Israel negotiations, for the student protests, for most of the crises life faces us with: sitting down together at a table and talking is the solution. Not knee-jerk violence and punishment. We want to prevent more violence, not encourage it.

There are a lot of memes online about love and faith and one universal god—you and I dismiss most of them as trite and hackneyed and rightly so. But there is one thought I think worth repeating: we are all one people. We are all walking each other home—Jew, Arab, Christian, whoever. Humanity is or should be a lot bigger than religious or cultural lines.

When my children's half-sister was in high school, she signed up to work at a camp in Colorado that brought together Jewish and Palestinian women for conversation. One of her distant relatives said to her, "You can't do that! You're Jewish!" (She was half Jewish and not observant.) I thought that was such a negative incident that I've carried it in my heart for years.

Now about that ice cream … the thought takes me back to the Indiana Dunes of my childhood. Maybe Uncle Joe and Jill will join me there, in my I imagination. And we will have kind, caring conversations, with our dogs at our feet. Maybe I’ll blog about the Dunes soon.

Happy May Day, a baby tarantula, and a fascinating garbage can—just another day at the cottage

Here you go--an AI image, courtesy Freepik.com

Happy May Day! Have you ever danced around a maypole? I picture young girls in Scandinavian costumes merrily twining colorful ribbons around a tall pole. I’m told in real life it is neither that colorful nor that easy—it takes practice and skill to turn out a beautiful pole and not just a tangle of ribbons. Thanks to author and botanist Susan Tweit for reminding me May Day is also Beltane on the Celtic calendar, a day for celebrating the high peak of spring when things are greening and growing and our world is turning toward summer, a long day as we stretch toward those lovely summer evenings. I for one love daylight savings time and will be crushed if it is ever done away with. I love long, light evenings and dislike those shortened days when winter closes you in darkness as early as four or five in the afternoon. So go celebrate Beltrane and dance around your own imaginary maypole.

An ordinary, dull day at the cottage, but Jacob provided a bit of excitement. Jordan and I were watching the news and having a bit of wine when he came running out looking frazzled and said, “There’s a huge problem.” In literal terms, it turned out not to be huge but rather small—he’d found a baby tarantula in his bed. Mother and son tore out of here like the house was on fire, with me futilely calling after them, “They don’t bite.” I was so afraid in their panic they would smush the poor baby. Jordan is quite squeamish about bugs and critters, and she’s pretty much passed that on to Jacob. To my relief the tarantula was on a shirt, and they simply folded the shirt around it and rushed it outdoors. Score one for Mother Nature1\

I was reminded of the welcoming ceremony for my youngest son Jamie—because my husband was Jewish and I Protestant, our children were welcomed into the concerned community at a Unitarian church. When it was Jamie’s turn, a friend brought him a gift—a live tarantula in what I think was a cottage cheese container. If I remember correctly, the creature went to Colorado on a plane with my sister-in-law’s brother. And that wasn’t the most unusual welcoming ceremony: at another, I think for Megan, when parents were asked to bring their children to the front, a man brought his dog. The minister didn’t know what to do, so he simply asked the man, as he had asked other parents, “How do you call your dog?” Substituting dog for child was his only concession to the strange request. My brother loved to tell that story.

Benji has a new fascination—the motion-activate automatic garbage can. He will stand and stare at it, waiting for action, for hours. Once or twice he has gotten his nose close enough to the sensor that he has triggered it open—his nose is just the right height. Then he jumps back in alarm. Sometimes when I am cooking, I am tempted to open it just to give him a thrill.

I am disturbed these days by the protests—and the official reaction to them—on campuses across the country. Tonight I worry particularly about UCLA because I have a granddaughter there. I remember the sixties and Kent State too clearly. Instead of a knee-jerk reaction with law enforcement in riot gear, I think university officials should meet with protest leaders, listen to them. I read an eloquent statement by a Jewish student from New York who said pro-Palestinian and pro-Israel groups were working together, trying to find common ground. Why can’t the so-called grown-ups do this too? I have not read of much violence on protestors part, though there has been some, but I have read of at least two faculty members  badly injured by those heavily armed troops. And I think that’s a crying shame in America. There is another side to the story: Senator John Cornyn of Texas said today that a high percentage of those arrested at  UT/Austin had no connection to the university. If Cornyn is correct—he’s not one of my favorite people, so I’m not sure I always trust him—that means outside agitators are stirring up the trouble on campuses. Even so, I think administrations should meet with student leaders and listen and negotiate. As bombs rain down on Palestinians who have taken refuge, as told to, in Rafah, How do you tall people to take refuge somewhere and then bomb that place and threaten to send troops in? I am not at all certain of the US position of absolute support for Netanyahu. Israel? Yes. Netanyahu and Zionism, not so much.

May we find peace in our time, but not at the cost of liberty or democracy!

Life goes on

 

Benji resting by my desk

If you asked me how I feel today, I would probably say sluggish. Maybe tired. I have bouts of energy and then periods of fatigue. I tell myself I’ve had two major blows within a little over a month—the loss of my only brother and last blood relative and the loss of the dog I’d loved for almost thirteen years. It’s neither sacrilegious nor silly to say that I am not weighing one against the other—both have been real blows. Most of my life I have been known for a sort of “carry on no matter what” attitude—that’s gotten me into trouble when I ignored some physical symptoms until they became major problems. I think maybe this time I am listening to my body. I sleep well part of the night and then toss and turn, but boy do I sleep soundly at naptime. I’ve been taking two naps—my usual afternoon one (I slept two and a half hours today) and another about 8:30 or 9:00 at night, after which I get up and work. It’s a schedule that seems to suit me for now. A couple of small medical problems are not helping my frame of mind—the malignant place on my scalp is healing and itches like fury, but of course I can’t scratch, I am hoping next week I’ll hear that I can stop putting Vaseline on it—who wants Vaseline combed into their hair? But I have weeks to go with the medicine that is intended to stimulate the immune system and kill cancer cells—and it is the real cause of the itching storm. Also next week, I have a swallow test which I dread less because I’m worried about the outcome than because I am worried about swallowing the barium. I’m sure they have techniques for helping queasy people, and I tell myself it will be over quickly. But it looms. So that’s my sad story.

On the positive side, today marks one week that Benji has been with us, and he’s done a remarkable job of adjusting. So, I would modestly say, have I. This week he is apparently feeling enough at home to be a bit naughty—yesterday morning I found one of my shoes in the doorway to the patio. I showed it to him while repeating “No!” in the sternest tone I could muster. He looked appropriately chastised, whatever that means. A few minutes later, Jordan came in carrying the other shoe which she had found in the back yard. Since my hip surgery and broken ankle, my feet are so fat and swollen that I don’t have the usual wardrobe of shoes—this was my only pair of black. Stretchy, wide, easy to get on. I am keeping the closet door closed. I also caught Benji digging at the base of one of my new plants of muhly grass, and that’s got to be a no-no. He frolics among the grass, and I tap on the window each time and call his name. He’s so good he comes running to see if I really want him.

But he does not beg for food, even when we have appetizers on the coffee table—Sophie would have decimated that in nothing flat. And he puts himself to bed in his crate about ten o’clock, and stays there quietly until I get up, usually about eight in the morning. He’s responsive to his name and seems eager to please. When he’s outside, he frequently comes to the doorway to check on me. And, though he is right now barking, he’s toned that down a lot. With his wild energy, he is like having a teenager in the house—you know if you can just wait through this period, there’s a great person in there. Adjustment is a slow process for both of us, and Benji is distracted by all the people who love and fuss over him bigtime—and then go away. I’m here for the 24-hour long haul. He  seems to understand that—he follows me to the bathroom, lies by my desk at night when I’m working. He’s going to be a good dog.

I had a spectacular kitchen fail last night that was also a great learning lesson. It taught me how to make a good red wine sauce for hamburger steak, and it also taught me a lesson I should know: don’t multi-task when cooking. I was making sirloin patties with red wine sauce, but I was also trying to finish up some computer work. And I wanted to make sure Jordan’s pattie was not pink in the middle, because she does not like pink meat. So I let the patties brown too long, but gosh they had a nice crisp crust! Then the wine reduced about three times as fast as usual—it usually takes forever, especially if you watch it, but this time, I turned my back. Added the beef broth and it did the same thing, so by the time we served, there was little sauce. And the patties were surely not pink in the middle. Christian’s mom liked meat cooked to a fare-thee-well, so he once told me her salmon patties were like hockey pucks. He could have said the same thing about my patties last night, though he kept reassuring me they had a great flavor. I tried to steam one for lunch today and threw it out. I swear I’m going to try again next week—if I get it right, I’ll share what I did.

I have had my evening nap, and I’m feeling better, over my pity party. When I was young, my mom had migraines and would take to her bed for a day. But never longer. So I learned to say, “She’ll be all right tomorrow,” if someone asked about her. So that’s my motto tonight: I’ll be all right tomorrow. Thanks for letting me whine. Good night, you all. Good night, Benji!

Sunday evening supper and tears near the surface

 

One of my favorite pictures. 
John and I enjoying a happy time at his ranch.

Renee came for Sunday supper tonight, and we had a high old time talking about everything from Jacob’s upcoming prom to osteopathic medicine. Sunday supper is a longstanding tradition in my family, the sense that it should be just a little bit better, a little bit different from ordinary supper. When I was living at home and my brother gone to college or the Navy, Mom rolled her tea cart into the living room, in front of the fireplace, and we had a casual, light supper—a souffle or cheese strata. Today, Sunday supper is still special—we try to have everyone home and the menu is carefully chosen. Tonight Christian cooked an Asian beef and green bean stir fry, and, mixing cultures a bit, I fixed a Lebanese potato salad. Christian didn’t think the two would go together but admitted tonight they did complement each other

But tonight it was the Sunday suppers of my children’s high school years that were much on my mind. My big brother, the patriarch of our family, died yesterday morning at the age of ninety-two. He was my last surviving blood relative and the man I knew all my life would protect me. Everyone asks how I am, and the answer is “fine, but teary.” John and I have lived in close proximity probably more than not—as children, of course. He went to boarding school as a high school junior and was never home again, but in 1961, he declared I needed to get out on my own and took me off to Kirksville, Missouri where he was studying osteopathic medicine and his wife was working on a master’s in English. I too worked on that master’s. That move set the course for my life, including marriage to an osteopathic student and a doctorate in English. I moved to Texas in 1965, and he to Colorado in 1966. In 1980, he moved to Fort Worth to join the faculty of the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine.

In the early 1980s, John and I found ourselves both single with six teen-agers between us. Sunday suppers became an institution. We gathered at my house each week, inviting stray people we thought needed to join us—the parents of my goddaughter often, a good friend recently divorced several times, the kids’ friends. I fed anywhere from ten to fifteen those nights. Presence was required for the kids unless they had a job obligation, which some did. John presided over the table, led us in grace, and ceremoniously served the meal. Table manners were strictly monitored,  mostly by John, and I’m proud to say today all six of those kids have great table manners.

I loved cooking those dinners. Mostly they were a success, though sometimes not. I remember a turkey Wellington recipe which I have long since lost to my regret, and I distinctly remember one night I did a marinated butterflied leg of lamb (I must have thought I was a rich woman). Sometimes we had a turkey or a casserole or whatever I chose. One night, when my office was working on a regional cookbook, I fixed a cornbread/hamburger casserole I’d found the recipe for. John took one bite, looked at me, and asked, “Sis, is the budget the problem?”

Probably though the kids most remember the conversation. John went around the table, asking each person perhaps what they were grateful for or what they had done that week. No one was allowed to shrug it off—you had to have a cogent, intelligent answer. The classic that everyone laughs about to this day is the time we were asked what we were grateful for. Megan had brought a new beau to dinner (in retrospect quite brave of her) and the young man stood (his first mistake—none of the rest of us stood) and said, “I am grateful for Megan and her beauty.” The adults managed straight faces, but the teens couldn’t handle it. To this day, everyone laughs about this.

Today, Sunday dinner is served around the coffee table in my cottage, a far cry from that crowded, formal dining room on Winslow Avenue. But John will always be at my dinner table—and in my heart. We had our differences, particularly political—how he grew up in a staunch FDR/Mayon Richard Daley household and turned out a conservative is beyond me. But we learned, especially in our golden years, to put those aside in favor of our strong bond. We loved to talk, for instance, about the Indiana Dunes where our family had a cottage or Chicago, about which these days I am more nostalgic than he was.

John was sick, mostly bedridden for over a year, and our togetherness, such as it was, was always by phone—he lived south of Granbury on his ranch. We talked every few days, and I always ended the conversation with, “I love you.” It was hard for him, and he’d say, “Back at ya.” So here’s back at you John!