Trilla

Slam! Bam! The garbage can! Our Trashy Story

2012-02-07T10:08:00.001-05:00

Crash! Bam! The garbage can!

Not out! Run! Run! No time! Damn!

We missed the truck—again.

I posted this haiku on Facebook this morning. But there’s more to the story.

The community cans.

We live in an involuntary garbage commune, sharing the three garbage cans behind our rented house with the two guys who live in the garage apartments over the garage. (We share that as well.) We’ve never discussed garbage rules, we all three just do it. Somehow the full cans get down to the street late Sunday night (usually Michael) or early, early Monday morning (usually either Bob or me). After the truck comes, and we must be the first stop, someone goes down and fetches them. Works well.

Except yesterday. Sunday night both the apartment fellows were gone. We had dinner guests. Certainly, no can down before they came. After they left, two sleepy people did most of the clean-up—lots of trips out to the cans, but not to the curb.

I've rooted celery.
Why not a turnip?

Monday morning, as usual I was up at dawn. Cans, thought I, must get them down to the curb—in a little while. I read the thin-as-usual Houston Chronicle, picked up a little more, got the dinner linens into the washer, and was contemplating rooting a left-over turnip when I heard the truck gobbling garbage down the street and heading our way. Now!

The can next door---
they made it.

“Bob, the trash! Hurry! They’re coming! Now!” I yelled at Bob who was at his computer waking up as I headed for the back door. I’m glad we don’t have a picture of that. I was in my fuzzy black house shoes, my pando, excuse me, panda pajamas, and a University of Houston Cougar sweatshirt. Bob was similarly stylishly clad. We ran. We did not make it. We stood and surveyed our neighbors’ empty cans. It was going to be an interesting (and smelly) week behind our house.

But clever Bob. Clever, clever Bob saved the day. Later in the morning when we headed out for our walk and a stop at the grocery store (I’m lucky—four in walking distance.) Bob noticed the truck hadn’t been across the street yet. He also noticed that the supposed-to-open-soon yoga studio across the street had failed to put out their can as well. Frisky as a squirrel, Bob fetched our can, rolled it across the street and saved the day.

MY HERO!

Mission accomplished.

Not Just Any Day, January 20

2012-01-20T17:52:00.000-05:00

Look at the calendar—it’s January 20, Friday—just another day with a long to-do list and a party tonight. But wait, January 20, the date rings a bell. Think. Yes. It’s Inaugural Day. Well, some years it’s Inaugural Day, and suddenly a couple of quick snapshots pop into my mind as I regard the calendar.

In 2008 I lived deep in the south of a deeper than Deep South state so red (Georgia) that you might consider it a pre-primary color. While, even there, a few others shared our feelings, we mostly headed the 40 or so miles south to the friendlier environs of Tallahassee. After all, Tally is a state capital and has two major universities—what else would you expect? We had a women’s (we didn’t ask if they were ladies—didn’t matter) lunch group that could grow quite rabid. One of my good friends and fellow club members gave me a call a few days before Inauguration Day. Come on down for lunch and a glass of wine to watch the ceremonies. I got there early.

When the time came we gathered around the huge screen, silent. Picture the group—all women of a “certain age.” Some of them certainly of a “certain age.” Except for me, all were native north Floridians, most from families of substance, families who had settled the land in the early 1820s, doubtless slaveholders. These women had grown up accustomed to African American servants, the traditional southern way of living.

And now they clustered around the huge screen, glasses of red wine clutched in their hands, ready for the moment. The President-elect, soon to be President, strode up the steps. One woman burst into tears. She stood up, glass in hand.

“I never thought I’d see the day!” She raised her glass. The rest of us rose and joined the toast to our new leader. Certainly a day to be proud!

Go back, way back, 49 years to a young housewife/part-time student thinking about cleaning the kitchen. She was always thinking about cleaning the kitchen; lots more than she ever cleaned the kitchen. She poured another cup from the electric peculator and settled down at the kitchen table—really just the table, in this tiny house, there was no dining room. Her barely-two-year-old thundered up and down the hallway on the tiny tricycle he’d gotten for his birthday a couple of weeks before. It was too cold on the blustery plains of the Texas Panhandle for him to go outside. Why not? She asked herself. It’s a historic day. She flipped on the TV, and as she would so many more times began to watch a President-elect with a lovely family mount to the platform.

Sometimes he rode
a pony instead of
a trike.

“Ask not what you can do for your country. . .”

She grabbed the child as he whirled by and held him fast on her lap. “You are watching history!”

During the campaign she’d been a vocal campaigner, even if she didn’t vote for Jack Kennedy—she was too young, wouldn’t hit 21 until that July. But that didn’t hold her back. When Kennedy made a five minute layover at the Amarillo Airport she’d gone with her equally ardent granddad and had been at the front of the handshaking line, child in her arms. She sported a bumper sticker on the clunker of the white Studebaker Scotsman that the young family tried to get around in. (Sometimes it preferred to take a nap.) That sticker had gotten her in trouble.

The family usually joined her mother for services at the First Presbyterian Church and then, along with a chunk of the congregation, for dinner at the Silver Grill. As they stood in line one of the church dowagers came up to her.

“Honey, I know you’re young and probably haven’t thought about it, but you really shouldn’t have that sticker on your car and park in the church parking lot. Really, dear, you shouldn’t have that sticker at all. You know,” she lowered her voice, “that man’s a Catholic.” In case the point was missed, she said it again. “A Catholic.”

The young woman (you know who she is) almost bit a hole in her lower lip. She was too good a daughter to be rude in front of her mother. But the next day, the Studebaker had two bumper stickers.

Birthdays and Diapers

2012-01-07T17:23:00.000-05:00

Earlier this week my older son celebrated his birthday. . Well did I remember, just as most mothers do, that January morning many (for both my son’s and my sake, we’ll leave it at many) years ago. The joy of my husband and parents, and the panic this nineteen-year-old new mom felt when the nurse plopped him in my arms. What next? I asked myself. I don’t know anything about babies. He was the first new baby I’d ever held.

The brave littlest cowboy. His mom
is the "bush" under the pony.

ur A picture I found when I was sorting through old photographs reminded me of what next. The brave littlest cowboy perched on the back of a door-to-door pony. “Lady,” the fellow at the door had asked, “you got a kid who’d like a picture on my pony?” You don’t say no to an opportunity like that. After all, we lived high in the Texas Panhandle in Amarillo. Cowboying was part of our culture.

I asked how little a kid could be, mine was still not too steady a sitter. “Not a problem. You get behind the pony and hold him on.”

“But I’ll be in the picture too,” I protested. “No’m, you won’t. I’ll scratch you out of the negative. You’ll look like a bush.” He sounded slightly desperate. Chris and I were spending the afternoon at my mother’s house that was in an older neighborhood with very few children. The poor chap hadn’t had many takers that day, but he was in luck now, Mother and I bought a bundle.

Now, looking at the picture I remember more. I remember that the cowboy hat and bandana made him look like a little man, but the rest of the outfit didn’t—diapers. Ah, I remember the diapers. Mostly I remember washing the diapers, and I remember drying them.

We were student-poor. Bob was still in college, days and working the 4 to midnight shift at the telephone company. I’d stopped going to classes when I began to “show.” In those long-ago days we tried to hide the coming event—thank goodness, not the case now! I stayed home day and night with the baby and took one evening class on Tuesday while the entranced grandparents watched the baby.

Not much money, translated to not many diapers—cloth naturally. Almost every day I washed diapers. My mother assured me how lucky I was to have a washer; she remembered doing them in the bathtub and stirring them around with a plumber’s helper. But I was not all that lucky; I didn’t have a dryer. I was the dryer. I lugged the laundry basket into the back yard and pinned the diapers (and all the other family laundry) on the seemingly endless clothes line. Then I lugged them back in. Okay. No big deal, and in windy Amarillo they dried so quickly in the summer that usually I could go back and start the take down as soon as I’d finished hanging them.

\ Not so in the winter when frigid air swept down across the plains straight from the Rocky Mountains. The first time I tried hanging them out—this would have been when the baby was about a week old—I ran into the house and called my mother after I went out and discovered that the diapers were frozen. Had I ruined them? We didn’t have money for more. Should I put them in the bathtub to thaw and then hang them a couple at a time on a chair near the floor furnace (my usual emergency drying spot)? I couldn’t hang them on the shower rod. This tiny house didn’t have a shower in its one bathroom. She calmed me down.

“Lay them on the bed and forget about them for an hour or so, they are dry; they’re just frozen.” I followed her instructions except for two I put by the floor furnace, because there were no more clean ones and the babe was begging for a change. As usual, Mother was right. The next time we went to visit her, she had a surprise for me—a rack that fit over the furnace. I thought I was in the lap of luxury. I didn’t own a dryer until the third child was almost a year old—I didn’t know anything could make me so happy.

Not only did the picture of the little cowboy remind me of these memories. I recently read a fine book Just Beyond Harmony by Gaydell Collier. (I’ll post a review soon.) She recounts her family’s adventure in the 1960’s when they lived in a log cabin in Wyoming for several years—Collier, her husband, and their four children. They had limited electricity and only enough running water for a tiny stream from the kitchen sink. For this time not only did she hang out the wash—she did it in a washtub with water she’d dragged from the nearby Big Laramie River. All year, and Wyoming winters are mighty cold. More than cold. Cold and snowy, and windy. When she told of bringing in the frozen laundry, I smiled and remembered my little cowboy’s diapers again. How lucky I had been with just one babe and a Panhandle winter, not Wyoming one. And I hadn’t known it.

Great minds

2012-01-02T23:06:00.000-05:00

Sure, we had blackeyed peas yesterday. Along with a fine coleslaw. I didn’t make mustard greens—their color supposedly guarantees a prosperous New Year, but I did toss some bright green cilantro in the slaw—I trust that’ll count.

We almost didn’t get the blackeyes—well, we almost didn’t get the blackeyes on New Year’s Eve. No way was I going without, even if I bought canned ones at the 24-hour Walgreen’s. That afternoon our cooking son and his wife invited us last minute to their house for beef tenderloin if we’d bring our own potatoes and lobster tails. Happily we complied and stopped off, at their suggestion, at Central Market, our upscale, upscale store (like Whole Foods with more cheese). Lobster tails, no problem. Baking potatoes, right there. Blackeyed peas, a problem. The produce department had a huge display of fresh hulled peas, but they were purple hulls not blackeyes. I ask an employee; she grinned. They’d run out by noon; “but these taste just like them.” Clearly, she didn’t understand blackeyes. Up in the all organic department they had some little bitty cartons—looked like about four ounces for $4. Good luck or not, I wasn’t going to spend $12 to get one good bowl of blackeyes, and since the clock was ticking toward dinner time and those potatoes had to bake, I wasn’t about the venture into the maze of aisles to look for dry ones.

We arrived, greeted, I played “Bobba” with our grandson, and Bob headed around the corner to Foodarama, a supermarket at the other end of the spectrum from Central Market where he snagged a bag of dried peas. Disaster averted. I even remembered to put them in to soak before I went to bed in the early hours of 2012.

Now, while they simmered nicely over a low gas flame and the coleslaw soaked up its tangy dressing, I got ready for our last traditional dish—the cornbread. For many years I made cornbread from scratch using my farmer Grandmother Nordyke’s recipe—only cornmeal, no sugar, lots of bacon fat, but lately I’ve gotten lazy and reached for the cornbread mix. Which I did now. Oops. No cornbread mix. No! I was not going to the store on New Year’s Day for cornbread mix; I would make it from scratch. But how? The cookbook with her recipe is back in Georgia. Quick, to the computer to search. I couldn’t find a recipe with only cornmeal; so I adapted one. I did use the cooking oil it called for instead of bacon fat. I remembered to oil the cast iron skillet and put it in my hot oven for a couple of minutes before pouring in the batter.

It worked, but the creative cook in me began the critique. Too crumbly; next time I’ll put a little flour in next time to get it to hold together, and clearly it need bacon fat. It really needs bacon fat. One thing was totally clear though—no more cornbread mix. Not that much trouble and so very, very good.

Here’s my amended recipe:

1 egg

1 cup milk (Grandmother N. would have used buttermilk)

1 tablespoon cooking oil

1 1/2 tablespoon bacon drippings

2 cups yellow cornmeal

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

So good! The cast iron gives a gorgeous golden crust.

Beat egg milk and cooking oil together, and then add the meal, baking powder and salt. Melt the drippings in an 8 inch cast iron skillet. Pour the hot grease into the batter, stir, and immediately put batter into the hot skillet (Grandmother N’s technique). Bake (check often) for about 30 minutes at 350 degrees.

Not the end of the story! Here’s the great minds part. I don’t take the daily New York Times, but I do get it online. I also get lots of notices about subjects I’m interested in—like cooking. So I sit down at the computer this morning and check out “My Alerts: recipes.” What’s there? A recipe for cornbread using only cornmeal, lots (more than I would) of bacon fat, and heating the cast iron skillet. It’s almost my recipe! It even goes on to say that if you are not using fresh rough ground cornmeal (Grandmother N. ground her own [or had one of the seven kids do it] in the barn behind the Texas farmhouse), then substitute a bit of flour for some of the cornmeal.

Great minds!

If you’d like to check out the NYTimes recipe, here’s the link.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/12/28/dining/husk-cornbread-recipe.html?_r=1&emc=tnt&tntemail1=y

Tradition! Tradition! Meow!

2011-12-01T14:45:00.001-05:00

Fresh, free-range turkey
right from the oven.

The hit of Thanksgiving Dinner--home
made butter.

I’m beginning to think it’s a family Thanksgiving tradition.Not having turkey (yes, we did that with son Chris as chef and mighty good itwas, not to mention the homemade butter). No, taking in lonely cats threatensto become a habit.

Ginger--once upon a time

Almost fiveyears ago a cat appeared on our porch in Southwest Georgia.For months I told him, “Shoo, scat, cat.” He didn’t. He told me firmly speakingin a squeaky cat-ese, that this was his home and we are (yes, are) his family.Finally, on Thanksgiving day, 2007 I gave him a handful of cat food. Therest—history. I wrote about it in this blog in January, 2008 GentlingGinger I. I’ve updated now and again, and now it’s history repeats herself.

Ginger,named for his ginger coat, quickly managed to make himself the lead family cat.He even made the move with us to Houstonwhere he now feels right at home.

Ginger now--surveying
his domain,

New cat on the block

But lastMarch, complications. Douglas appeared. Now Douglas wears a tag that says he lives a block away.That’s what they think. Douglas thinks helives right in my yard where we’re sharing him with our neighbor Michael.

Mac and Arthur, or is it Arthur and Mac?

(Check out my March 15 and 17, 2011 entries here.) Not only did Douglas appear. He brought two “nephews,” Mac and Arthur.The boys remain happy to eat outside and run. But Douglas?Douglas tells us plaintively (he tells Michael the same thing, and he’s as soft a touch as I am.), "I'm a house cat. I love you."

And now—instantreplay. Thanksgiving morning, I felt mellow, generous, loving and one moretime—I opened the door. Immediately, Douglasaccepted. That was a week ago. Now Douglashas made himself right at home—and with Ginger’s grudging permission. When willthis end?

No, Mac!

No, Arthur!

Well, not until next Thanksgiving. Maybe.

Maybe too much at home!

Douglas makes himself at home.

Once upon a time

2011-08-30T09:38:00.001-04:00

I know where I was 53 years ago today—in my family backyard, renamed ‘the garden’ for the occasion. At precisely 9:30 in the morning, my friend Carol Brown started working her way through Handel’s Largo, I took my father’s arm and all of eighteen (for a whole month) I floated down the stairs into married life.

Bob stood at the alter shifting from one foot to the other; such a mature man. He was nineteen. The garden alter was lovely draped in ivy and white chrysanthemums. Forty-eight hours earlier, it had still been the big swing set made of three-inch pipe and set in concrete. Mother didn’t want any tipping over. Swings down, flowers up. Instant alter. Years later, I watched my children hang by their knees on the spot where we made our vows. That’s the side of the ‘alter’ to my right in the picture.

I didn’t feel nervous. I didn’t think I was nervous, but the minute we got to where Bob, our fine and understanding minister, Burnette Dowler, stood waiting and Daddy released my arm, I started shaking. It was the first time. It was the last time. I felt and probably looked like a fern in the water. The something deep in me was yelling, “Watch out.”

We proceeded. When the time came to take Bob’s hand, I was fine. The fern found her roots. Rings changed, cake eaten, clothes changed, hop in my folks car (they later drove ‘our’ well-decorated Plymouth down Polk Street, Amarillo’s main drag) and off for our romantic honeymoon.

August 30, 1958

Been a long, long road with ups, downs, curves and even a few detours, but we’re still on it looking for new adventures, old books, and fun.

Bob and Trilla, 2011

Fun: When Bob saw the wedding picture for the first time in a few years, he asked why I was holding hands with Buddy Holly. What do you think?

Good reading weather

2011-08-28T19:01:00.001-04:00

August in Houston--the best thing to do is stay home with a
good book and a mammoth glass of iced tea.

Wow it’s hot in Houston. Yesterday, Whitey the 10, maybe 11, year old Jeep complained about it. It’s an old man in Jeep years, and never, not once, no, never had his thermometer rolled around to 110 degrees. “Hey,” he yelped in Jeepanese, “I didn’t know I could go that high. Now cut it out or get me air conditioning.”

We haven’t managed the air conditioning, but we do have a nice shady carport. Whitey’s been spending lots of time there, because it’s also too hot for me. I’m not out running around; I’m in the nice, cool house reading. It’s been a reading summer.

Since I’ve gone off on my history of the New Deal—more about that in an entry soon, it’s a major project—I’ve been reading lots of history and fiction from that period. But the last couple of weeks, I’ve been reading for fun, and fun it is.

I got an e-mail teaser from Amazon about The Call, about a small town New England veterinarian and his family. I don’t remember now why it appealed to me, except maybe that New England is cool; I ordered it. I’m in love. In love with the story and with the writing of Yannick Murphy. I was totally unfamiliar with her. Now I have one of her children’s stories for darling Dasha, my granddaughter and her novel about Mata Hari on order. Good, good reading.

David Appleton is the vet. He puts me in mind of Steinbeck’s description of “Doc” Ricketts in Cannery Row, "Doc has the hands of a brain surgeon, and a cool warm mind. Doc tips his hat to dogs as he drives by and the dogs look up and smile at him. He can kill anything for need but he could not even hurt a feeling for pleasure.”

In the unusual format of a call log (hence, The Call) David brought me into his family, in to sympathy with his long suffering writer wife Jen (Murphy is married to a New England vet—hmmmm, I wonder?), into the family.

It’s a book I recommend. Man, do I recommend it.

Here’s a link to my review on Amazon--http://www.amazon.com/Call-Novel-Yannick-Murphy/product-reviews/0062023144/ref=dp_top_cm_cr_acr_txt?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1

Check it out. And, say, if you like it, mark the box. (Thanks.)

This should be up on the Story Circle Book Reviews in a few days as well.

Now I’m off to read my next fun book—Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgiveness by Alexandra Fuller. I read her Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight. It’s a trip to Africa. If you need me, I’ll be in Rhodesia this evening.

In print--again

2011-08-24T15:36:00.002-04:00

Wow, I’m happy. I’ve hit print again in Houston History. This time I’m telling a little bit about Houston's fascinating but often overlooked Fifth Ward.

The historic ward system of Houston went away over a century ago, but residents of the former fifth ward cling both to their neighborhoods and to their nickname—The Nickel. The Nickel was rough and tough, a place you thought twice, or maybe three or four times, about going into at night—even the late afternoon. But the Nickel was also the home of active churches and stable families. A girlchild of the Fifth grew up to be a national heroine—Barbara Jordan; while an almost bad boy grew into an Olympic champion, George Foreman.

Want to know more about the Fifth? You can read the article at

http://houstonhistorymagazine.org/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/Fifth-Ward.pdf

And while you’re there, check out my piece on the Fourth Ward and it’s two heavily contrasting neighborhoods.

http://houstonhistorymagazine.org/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/pando-fourh-ward.pdf

Someone's in the kitchen

2011-07-30T08:49:00.000-04:00

This book confused me. Not too many pages in, and I didn’t know what to do. Turn on the light as evening fell, skip dinner and keep on reading? Go to the kitchen, roll up my sleeves, pull out the pans and start cooking (oh! that garlic sauce on page 126)? Or head for the computer to order Mastering the Art of French Cooking, maybe with overnight delivery?

I read.

But the next day, I cooked and ordered. Glad I am that I did all three.

On first glance the book seems like a simple enough approach—a compilation of letters between two friends as their individual and interesting lives unfold an ocean apart. But, the two friends are Julia Child and Avis Devoto, both gifted writers. The letters alone zing off the page as they offer not only reports of their personal lives, but a study of a growing, rich and deep friendship, commentaries on the confusing world of the 1950s, the even more confusing world of book publishing, and, naturally, cooking, eating, parties, planning, more cooking, cooking , cooking. I ate it all up.

In 1951, a young American living in Paris read Bernard DeVoto’s column in Harper’s. He lamented being unable to find a kitchen knife that an American housewife “can cut something with.” The American, Julia Child, knew about knives and where to get exactly what he sought. Off she went, bought a knife, put it in the mail.

DeVoto, a busy man and popular author didn’t respond. His equally busy and talented wife Avis did with a more-or-less routine thank you note. Julia answered Avis. Avis wrote back to Julia. Years of writing and friendship began.

Here’s an aside concerning the DeVoto family. It’s a familiar name to me. My dad about whom I’m blogging (http://toucthepast.blogspot.com/ more about that another time—another time soon) was a journalist-historian of Texas and the Southwest. He greatly admired Bernard DeVoto and owned many of his books. I grew up with The Year of Decision, 1846 and Across the Wide Missouri. I never, until now knew or even wondered much about the author—just another famous writer. And I never thought to wonder about his wife although I knew my dad would never have enjoyed the career he had as a writer without the support, help (writing and otherwise), hard work of my mom. This was the case in the DeVoto household. Avis was a writer/reviewer in her own right; plus, she acted as the business manager, the personal secretary, the proof-reader, and, I suspect, sometimes co-author. I have a new heroine.

More than a half-century after they wrote the letters I’m grateful that both women were not only fine writers and dependable correspondents, but that they both kept things. I recently came into possession of box full of my father’s letters to my mom. She kept things. Apparently he didn’t. Now I ache for her letters to him. Three cheers for Avis and Julia.

As their friendship grew, so did the range of the letters. Of course, there was lots of cooking, and entertaining. Together they wrestled around with a perennial hostess problem—how to throw an elegant dinner party without help and without the hostess being held hostage in the kitchen by the demands of a “serve immediately” menu. They’ve got some dandy solution—some show up in Mastering the Art. Politics took up lots of space coming to a peak during the outrageous and outraging McCarthy hearings. And, naturally, they spend lots of time discussing the perennial “what happens next in my life?” The friends are candid and engaging. Avis knew the ins and outs, the snarls and the pitfalls of publishing. She gave Julia more than just advice on writing and managing unruly co-authors, she shepherded Master the Art of French Cooking across the decade, yes, I said the decade, until its triumphant publication in 1962.

The friendship was not always in letters. Exchanging over 100 letters, the nw fast and best friends met. The friendship deepened and became not only between the women, but between the families. It continued as long as both lived.

Lamb with garlic sauce. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

A great story, a great friendship, a great book, two great lives, and lots and lots of good times and food. My two word review: Read it.

Bouncing with anticipation

2011-07-26T13:11:00.000-04:00

I clearly am still a little girl. And I have no plans for growing up. I am as excited now that my birthday is tomorrow as I was maybe, no maybe about it, 65 years ago—yep 65—waiting to be six—finally old enough to go to school. Bounce, bounce.

And already—I’m bouncing because the greetings are beginning to roll in. And a box arrived from Oklahoma yesterday. I’ve got two cards from Alaska—they are all on the mantel. No peeking ‘til the big day. BUT

I got a wonderful card via e-mail. It’s so fine, I must share—right now! No waiting.

Thanks go to Linda Clayton Hicks of Amarillo—where else?—in the growing up years and now of Massachusetts. Creative person? Just a little bit! She sent another draft—and I can’t decide between them.

Linda knows my writing love/anguish. I'm posting this one over my worktable.

Linda is an artist, quilter, beader, friend par excellence! Lucky me! Lucky you getting to visit Linda's quilting blog--

http://lindadrawingtime.blogspot.com/

and her website--outta sight!

http://web.me.com/lindahicks/Paintings__Linda_Clayton_Hicks/Welcome.html

A Honey of a Patriot--Happy July 4th

2011-07-04T07:27:00.000-04:00

It’s the glorious Forth of July, celebrate, eat hot dogs and peach ice cream, and take time on this happy day to fly the flag and remember some of our early patriots—and, remember, we have American heroes and American heroines. One of my favorites is Nancy Hart who was - -

A Honey of a Patriot

Up in Wilkes County, around Washington, Georgia, things were rough ‘way back in 1780. It looked like the English and their loyalist supporters (the Tories) were about to win the war and force Georgia to resume her role as a colony.

But the woods held many American patriots who didn’t agree. They kept fighting the battle for freedom whenever a chance came along. According to legend and folk history, one young patriot was galloping along with several Tories in hot pursuit. Then, suddenly, he disappeared--vanished into nowhere.

A few days later, six Tories retraced their steps and stopped at the cabin of Nancy and Benjamin Hart. Nancy and her daughter Sukey were tending Nancy’s herb garden, while Ben and the boys labored in the field.

A tall woman, some say over six feet, and rough, Nancy told them straight out, yes, she’d helped that poor lad. When he came up to the cabin, she’d thrown open both doors so that he could gallop right through and disappear into the swamp.

Her story outraged the men. But they didn’t shoot her. Instead, they shot her turkey—the last one scratching around the cabin yard—and insisted she cook it for them. Nancy put the bird on the fire, then she offered her unwelcome guests a tot or two of Ben’s homemade whiskey.

Meanwhile, with a wink, she told Sukey fetch some spring water so she could make hoecakes to serve with honeycomb alongside the turkey. Sukey, a patriot herself, ran not for the spring, but for the conch shell the family used to call the men in from the field; then she brought her Mom the water. The Tories, getting relaxed, stacked their guns up and enjoyed another round or two.

Nancy served the turkey and hoecake and sent Sukey back outside. While the men ate, Nancy slipped over to the stacked guns and began passing them through a chink in the cabin wall to Sukey. When a couple of the fellows noticed and demanded that Nancy quit, she raised a gun and told them she’d kill the first one who moved.

This concerned them all, because, the story goes, Nancy was crossed-eyed and they could not be sure exactly who she was looking at. She spoke to them in no uncertain terms—she was known for her salty language. No matter.

One of them moved.

Nancy shot him.

No one else moved until Ben, the boys and some men from the neighborhood appeared. They decided to shoot the other five Tories. But Nancy shook her head. “Too good for a Tory,” she decreed. They ought to be hung.

And they were, the legend continues. The last thing they heard was Nancy singing “Yankee Doodle.”

In later years, some folks said this was a good story, but that was all. Nancy never lived, and no six Tories ever died. But in 1912, workmen constructing the Elberton and Eastern Railroad found a grave near the Hart cabin site. In it—the remains of six human skeletons.

Folklore recounts that Nancy’s neighbors held her in awe. One man said she was “a honey of a patriot, but a devil of a wife.” Her Cherokee neighbors called her “Wahatchee”—“War Woman.” A creek by her old cabin bears this name.

Nancy’s stories gained wide circulation as early as 1825 when the Milledgeville Southern Record told of her bravery. (However, this account says the meat was venison.) A later account, embellished a bit, and with the number of Tories reduced to five, appeared in the famous women’s magazine, Godey’s Ladies Book.

Nancy is more than a legend. The Daughters of the American Revolution recognize her as an American Patriot. Some DAR members trace themselves as Nancy’s lineal descendent rather than following the more usual pattern of tracing back to a male revolutionary.

The State of Georgia acknowledges this brave daughter. In 1853, the state created a new county from portions of Franklin and Elbert Counties—Hart County. Writing in 1919, Rebecca Latimer Felton (later the first U.S. woman senator) lamented “True it is, she married a Hart, yet it was Nancy who captured Tories. . . Hart County should have been called Nancy Hart County.”

Nancy’s full name appeared on the marker when, on November 11, 1931, in Hartwell, Hart County, Georgia, Senator Richard Russell retold the story of Nancy Hart and dedicated the Nancy Hart Highway, which begins in Hartwell and runs though the entire state. It is the first highway in the United States dedicated to a woman. In 1997, Georgia recognized Nancy Morgan Hart as a Georgia Woman of Achievement. Her portrait hangs in the Georgia State Capitol in Atlanta. (She looks considerably calmer and more cleaned up than she probably did the afternoon she captured the Tories.)

Nancy’s life went on for a good while after the Revolution. She and Ben pulled up stakes and moved to near Brunswick, where Ben died. Nancy then went to live with her son John in Clarke County. About 1803 the family moved to Henderson County, Kentucky. Nancy lived there until her death in 1830. She is buried on John’s farm in a grave marked by a monument erected by the Daughters of the American Revolution.

After all the excitement on that eventful afternoon, it would not surprise me to learn that Nancy grabbed the leftover turkey, sent Sukey to the garden for tomatoes and greens, then whipped up supper. I’ve substituted canned broth and tomatoes and bagged frozen vegetables.

Revolutionary stew—in honor of Nancy Morgan Hart

1 tablespoon vegetable oil

1 cup diced onions

2 cloves minced garlic

2 cups peeled and diced sweet potatoes

1 cup corn kernels

15 ounce can diced tomatoes, undrained

1 quart chicken stock

3 cups diced turkey (or ham or chicken)

salt to taste

2 teaspoons poultry seasoning (or fresh rosemary and thyme to taste)

1 generous cup frozen collard or turnip greens

Cook the onions and garlic in the vegetable oil until soft. Add the remaining ingredients and simmer for thirty minutes, stirring occasionally. Taste for seasoning, and serve.

Nancy probably offered leftover hoecakes. I made corn muffins.

There are many stories about Nancy Morgan Hart. I’ve told only a few here. If you’d like the references to learn about her, or if you have some stories to share, please get in touch.

A longer version of Nancy Hart’s story appeared in my food and history column, “Stirring Up Memories” in the Bainbridge, Georgia Post-Searchlight January14, 2004

Hey! I'm in print

2011-06-30T12:18:00.000-04:00

A little late with this--but hey! May an old hen crow? Sure!

I'm in print at Houston History Magazine, and you can read it here--http://houstonhistorymagazine.org/2011/04/two-worlds-a-mile-apart-a-brief-history-of-the-fourth-ward/

Poems of Awakening

2011-06-28T09:40:00.000-04:00

Poems of Awakening

I'm still busily reading and reviewing for Story Circle Book Review--and sometimes other places. Here's my latest. It a great nature-based poetry anthology. Read it under a tree or by a river. Watch out folks with birthdays coming up!

Poems of Awakening: An International Anthology of Spiritual Poetry

Betsy Small

Outskirts Press, 2011

Early in the morning, late at night, in quiet times and busy ones—there is a poem for the moment. Betsy Small, a practicing yoga as well as a professional musician has combined her skills and talents to bring together an array of works from across the globe and across time. Her well-accomplished goal she tells us in the introduction is to offer the works of poets who share their “experiences of living joyfully in the moment. . .”

The selection of authors speaks to Small’s arduous efforts to reflect the world: generally know names like Mary Oliver, Sara Teasdale , May Sarton, and e.e. cummings join the less familiar Dogen Zenji, Uvanuk, and Zagajewski. Despite the variety, each selection speaks to a moment.

Reflecting the author’s yoga background and designed by her to be used as part of yoga practice (savasana), the anthology will have a broader appeal. Any person who relishes her life, her days, will find moments to appreciate and to identify with from the majesty of the earth and her creatures (Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese,” Wendell Berry’s “Sabbath Poem”) to the mundane busyness of daily life, finding glory in washing a wine glass, seeing crockery as a mandala, or letting in a cat to dine and share a bed (May Sarton’s “New Year Resolve”).

Small suggests that while a “reader can savor poems individually, as integral elements of sets, or as part of the entire collection, which can be read in one sitting as a poetic essay consisting of linked sets.” I chose to do the latter, grabbing my book and heading for a nearby park where I could sit on the ground beneath an old oak tree.

I recommend the experience. The intertwining of the emotions of the selections is powerful. But once, or, at least, once in a while, is probably enough. For the most part, I plan to keep the book on my reading table where I can often reach out for a poem that allows me to find joy in the moment at hand.

Or, you can read it on line at http://www.storycirclebookreviews.org/reviews/poemsofawakening.shtml

Shopping Around

2011-06-26T18:48:00.001-04:00

Brand new Whole Foods Market

VERSUS

It's good old Fiesta

No question about it. Fiesta is my store. Friendly, nice people. Friendly, nice customers. Great produce and fish. Interesting cuts of meat. Fun to go. When that enormous, monster HEB that’s going up across the street on Dunlevy opens, I’m going to do my best (I’m not taking bets) not to even walk through the HEB door. And I’m not the only one who feels that way.

Fiesta is definitely my store, but still! When a new Whole Foods opens less than two miles from my front door, and when it’s not just any old Whole Foods (if there is an “any old Whole Food”), but a state-of-the-culinary-art Whole Foods, a Whole Foods that is so state-of-the artsy that the Houston Chronicle food section runs a long, many pictured article about it—don’t know what the other advertiser thought of that—what’s a body to do?

Well, go on Day 2. Bob, grandson Hunter and I made it our weekly adventure. We’d case the place, fill up on free samples—the article promised lots and lots—and each pick out dinner our own dinner. Lots of fun.

Gee! WF has everything--even
vending machines with original art.

Enough chocolate? Maybe.

And enough salad.

Yummy samples on every aisle.

Not to mention the wine and beer
bar--just to get you in the mood.

"I know it'll be pizza,
but which one?

Finally, we get to go home and eat.

Yummy pizza.
Yummy mac and cheese (what else?)
Yummy ribs with the fixin's.

I ask, "Who knows about food?"
The firefighter from nearby Station 16 say,
"FIESTA!!"

Y’know? Maybe once in a while. But Fiesta is still my store!

Surprise Dad! Let's Eat!

2011-06-21T16:51:00.001-04:00

Before we do Father's Day lets flashback to Mother’s Day. A great day. A superlative family brunch.

“Would have been perfect,” I told daughter Katy, if only you’d been there. No comment—for a few days, and then I got an e-mail:

You said something that hit a chord with me ... I'm thinking maybe I'll fly in Saturday before Father's Day and fly out Monday. It's a cheap ticket - $160!

I would have just seen you guys, but that makes it all the more fun. I was thinking I could Taxi it from Hobby to Spanish Village, where you will tell Bob you want a late lunch (or anywhere you'd like and only if you guys are free) and when you get there, or I get there, we'll surprise him. Flight lands at noon, so I could be there by 1 at the latest.

What do you think? Can you keep the secret?

Could I ever? Not real easy, but I did.

Plans for Spanish Village, the world-class enchilada capital of Houston and site of many happy memories from Katy’s kidhood. Everything was right on track. Late the week before she clued her brother Chris. Yes, he and his crew would join us. What a surprise.

You said it. Saturday morning, Katy e-mails, “Flight delayed.” I cook up a ruse, “Chris and Nancy are running late. . .” He buys it. Finally, it’s cheese enchiladas at around 2, with no Katy and four people trying not to spill the beans. Bob is mildly curious why we’re having lunch today when we’re doing Father’s Day tomorrow. “We got to talking about enchiladas. . .”

Home again. Text from Katy, “Cancelled. New flight leaves at 3.’

Text from Katy, “On tarmac.”

Text from Katy. “No crew, back in terminal.”

Finally around 5 she’s on the plane. A call, “I don’t want to come to the house. No fun. Meet me at the West Alabama Ice House.” That’s our down-the-street refuge for beer and good, easy goin’ company. “Don’t know how I’ll pull that off, but I will!”

Call just before 7, “I’m waiting for a cab.” Bob’s curious again. “Katy’s bored.” I explain.

Then a few minutes later, “After those enchiladas, we won’t want supper, but I’ve gotta get out of here. Let’s go down to the W. Alabama.” Bob never has to be urged. We’re in the car and headed down the street. If it weren’t over 100 degrees we’d walk.

We walk up to the bar, when a woman touches Bob’s arm, “Sir, may I offer you a beer!”

Surprised? Just a little bit!

The Ice House welcomes all.
It's a friendly place!

Spanish Village--Just as good
the second time around.

Bob models a favorite gift.

The whole crew--Jim and Nancy, Trilla,
Chris, Bob, Katy, Hunter in front.

Bob and his babies
Hunter, Chris, and Katy

Silly family, silly family

Next morning papers and the wait for noon and a family Feast at Feast, another, but newer favorite. The whole gang—this time, Katy included. Feast is a "snout to tail" adventure.

Yummy!

Bob declared he’d never eat again, but by evening—off to another of Katy’s kiddy favorites—the Hobbit Café. The restaurant has moved but the menu is the same, so we indulged in Gandalph and Bilbo sandwiches.

My Gandalph. It's a "slim." Jut
imagine a "classic"!

Monday morning, thank goodness, this time right on schedule, Katy heads back to Atlanta. A happy lass leaving a mighty happy dad!

Bye, Daddy. I love you.

Fiddlin' Around A Father's Day Tribute

2011-06-18T17:19:00.000-04:00

In honor of Father’s Day, here’s a tribute to a fine, fiddling, farming Texas Dad—my grandfather, Charles T. Nordyke, husband of Narrie (see my entry about Narrie on May 8, Mother’s Day), and father of my dad, Lewis T. Nordyke. This entry is at both www.trillap.blogspot.com and www.touchthepast.blogspot.com. I don’t overlap often, but today, I do.

Fiddlin’ around

All of his life Charlie was fiddlin' for friend, family

and party-line pals.

Charlie couldn’t remember when he didn’t have a fiddle in his hand. Everyone in his family did, or a guitar, or banjo, maybe a mandolin. About the proudest day of his life was when he was 12. He got his own violin. No more borrowing or waiting his turn. His own violin! It was beat up and old when he got it but he treasured it and played for the next 75 years, but not every day, he’d promised his mother he’d never play on Sunday until he was 80. (I remember many joyous Sunday evenings listening to “Turkey in the Straw, “The Soldier’s Joy,” and, of course, “Listen to the Mockingbird” after that awaited birthday.) The violin was always Charlie’s proudest possession.

Born in Missouri, Charlie and his family followed the bumper sticker dictum and got to Texas just as fast as they could. When he was only four, he rode a gray mare tied behind his family’s wagon as the wagon train wound its way to Texas. Once there Charlie’s branch of the family bid good bye to friends and some family in Callahan County and headed south to Limestone County, where Charlie grew up, hating farming and loving his fiddle.

Narrie and Charlie Nordyke

married December 24, 1899

When he was a young man he determined to live by the fiddle and not the plow. He headed to Ft. Worth where he ended up in the red-light district. He could handle that, but not the requirement that he work on Sunday. He headed back to Limestone County. But he didn’t give up his quest. He decided to set off fo Alaska and the Klondike, but first a trip to Callahan to say good-bye to the Nordyke kin. That changed everything.

One of those dratted mules.

Young Nancy Narcissus Coffey (Narrie) flat stole his heart. There went the Klondike, here came the wedding bells. On December 24, 1899 Charlie and Narrie married. For the next 50 years Charlie farmed by day, cussin’ mules, hauling cotton, hating it, but in the evenings—ah! Out came the fiddle, here came the neighbors. Right through seven children, Haley’s Comet, two world wars, the great depression, Charlie fiddled, thumped his foot and was happy.

So were the neighbors who came from all over for their fiddle fix. Lewis, his middle child and my dad, speculated that the Nordyke family may have set up the country’s first network when they figured out that if Charlie fiddled into the telephone, all their party-line friends could join in.

The family gathered, probably for Narrie's sixtieth birthday

in April, 1934. Standing behind their parents

Alda, Clarence, Bessie, Lewis, Elsie, Noel, and Peaches. The

live-giving windmill towers over them.

Lewis didn't grow up to be a fiddler; he grew up to be a writer, and, in 1960, he wrote a piece about his fiddlin’ father for the Saturday Evening Post. You can read about it and download the article athttp://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2010/07/29/archives/retrospective/power-music-fiddler-hope-alive-1920s-texas.html. Perfect reading for Father’s Day afternoon

Here’s to Charlie, Lewis and all the great dads celebrating their day.

June Morning

2011-06-14T16:41:00.000-04:00

Just about every morning I step out the front door, squint down the street this way, squint down the street that way, stop, eyes shut and decide. Where shall I go? I have several routes, and, then sometimes, I just meander.

This morning I decided on a “directed meander”—I didn’t know how I was going to get there, but I knew where I’d end up.

Come stroll along.

Ginger prefers watching to
walking as a morning activity

Usually I walk alone—Ginger-the-Cat refuses leashhood (there is one cat in the neighborhood that trots along nicely, but her owners told me they started working on it when she was about five weeks old). Sometimes Bob comes along for companionship and chatting, but this is my quiet time, my thinking time and so I walk almost alone.

This morning I started with my usual path by the Menil Park and Menil Collection, took a short-cut through the Collection grounds to West Main, a lovely, leafy residential street.

Good morning, neighbors.
'Bye, neighbors.

Those lovely yards need tender,
loving care. Plus, it's a good
time to catch up on phoning.

Did I say I walk alone? Well, only sort of. I have regular friends. Some just pass and wave, but occasionally I pick up a companion for a while. No one has ever come along with me for more than half a block—they seem to know where their territory ends.

Let's go take a walk. Haven't seen
you in several days.

After sufficient distance and deep thinking, (How did I get here? Sometimes I wonder. Hope I watched for cars!) I head for—well, more often than not—Fiesta, my favorite, favorite grocery store for one little item.

Why Fiesta? Like its name says—it’s fun. And I like their attitude. No mean electrical barrier to keep the carts on the lot. The folks at Fiesta know not all of their customers have cars, so company policy: buy all you want. You are welcome to push it home in a cart. They even keep a pick-up that drives the neighborhood picking up carts.

Talk about good neighbors! Wish they'd
ask us to dinner!

Need more evidence of Fiesta being great—well, consider their customers. Who knows good food? Why our local heroes, the firefighters of Station 16 in Houston. Always makes me feel great to join them in shopping. I tell ‘em “thanks!” when I get the chance.

And so down W. Alabama and home again.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmm. Wonder where I’ll go tomorrow?

Family, Fun, and the Future

2011-06-08T11:42:00.000-04:00

We’re all still grinning after a fabulous family weekend with our fabulous family in and about Charlottesville, Virginia. Did I mention feasting as well?

Nothing like a good McDonald's
biscuit at 6 AM

Shhhhhhhh!

We left here; we're going there.

Bob, grandson Hunter and I hopped (well, stumbled) on to a 6A.M. flight after fueling up at McDonalds. It was doze-time for awhile, but we perked up and enjoyed the flight. We got to C’ville just a few minutes after daughter Katy. We quickly added our honored graduating senior Taite and the rest of the gang including Patrick (dad of the grad) who winged in from London. Here’s the crew, plus a couple of friends who kindly served as photographers.

Patrick, Trilla, Hunter, Bob, Forrest
Taite, Katy, Jack

We took over the Rooster Inn B&B and had a real reunion.

(Rooster Inn is great. We could gather our own eggs, and if we didn’t, the owners delivered some every evening. I could get used to this.) Forrest served as chef extraordinaire producing a stunning breakfast.

That wasn’t all the feasting we did. We started at Blue Ridge Brewery a lovely view of the Blue Ridge Mountains, wonderful pizza and treats for most of us who are ‘of age.’

Happy Bob, Happy Bob

Mighty happy Katy. Patrick and Taite
share her glee.

Yummy. Taite, Patrick, Katy,
Forrest and friend Zaynal

Friday--Bob, Hunter and I slipped away for Hunter’s first visit to Monticello. Beautiful—the flower and vegetable gardens ran riot. He’ll never forget!

Saturday—the big day—and, of course, the graduate gets to pick our pre-ceremony lunch spot. No one was surprised that he chose wings. He’s been the family champion chewer for years. (And no, he did not get a spot on that spiffy white shirt.) Then off for graduation and home to the Rooster for a party with the Virginia contingent of Taite’s clan.

Jack, Taite and Forrest anticipate
wings.

Bob (barely). Patrick, friend Sam, Jack,
Taite and Forrest indulge.

Taite Patrick Pando, Albemarle High, 2011

Next morning, after hugs and kisses, up, up and away back to Houston.

Pomp and Circumstance

Sudden memories

2011-05-30T15:37:00.000-04:00

Grandmother and Grandfather Nordyke on the
Callahan County, Texas farm. The grey Chevy
is parked under the cottonwood in front.

Have you ever been reading a book and suddenly swept up by it, you land right in the middle of your own memories? That’s what happened when I read the first chapter of The Sound of Windmills by Jackie Woolley. She so described life on a hard scrabble Texas farm in the 1940s that all of a sudden I was back in the grey Chevy going to visit my grandparents on that on-the-edge farm where my dad grew up.

Here’s the review I wrote of this book for Story Circle Book Reviews. ( You can read my review at http://storycirclebookreviews.org/reviews/windmills.shtml.

The Sound of Windmills

Jackie Woolley

The trip to see Grandmother and Grandfather on their family farm on the semi-arid, windy, and lonely edge of west Texas delighted this little girl. As we drove up the dirt road in our old gray Chevrolet, I bounced all over my side of the back seat knowing I was going to have so much fun--gathering eggs, watching Grandmother milk the cow, walking down to Greenbriar Creek to gather dewberries, not to mention gobbling up the dewberry cobbler that came out of the woodstove just a little later. All of this played out to the background serenade of the whirring windmill. It was lots of fun for a city girl, but not so much for the couple who wrestled their living from these 287 acres for most of their adult lives. It remains a memory I treasure: not only for the fun but, now, for the character and good natures of these two strong people.

All these memories and many more, came rushing back as I read Jackie Woolley's multigenerational saga of the Taylor family. Myra and Joel Taylor live with their daughters, Marilyn and Rugene on a working farm, much like my grandparents', near the fictional town of Langor, Texas. It's a hard life, and Woolley has an excellent eye and ear for it. I do not know exactly how much of this story is autobiographical; I suspect, quite a bit.

The hardness of farm life is made even harder for the Taylor family because as the story opens, Joel, a polio victim, is dying. Myra, who has done most of the farming and managing for years, expects to carry on with the help of her daughters and a trusted hand, but after Joel's death, their long-time landlord (they are sharecroppers) mercilessly tosses them out within days. Stricken, Myra lands on her feet, and begins to form a new life for the three. This is the true beginning of the long story.

The focus is primarily on the younger daughter Rugene, a strong spirit and sometimes lonely bookworm. She is determined to go the college and find a life for herself but not in Langor. At the same time she is determined that "I'll be back someday. I'm going back to buy the old farm.” Rugene manages to live much of her dream. Meanwhile, Marilyn and Myra also struggle with their own lives and as well as with holding the three of them together as a family.

Because the novel spans several decades, it might have been confusing to a reader. What is happening to whom and when? Woolley handles this problem skillfully by working historic happenings into her story without being obtrusive. The book is no one-night read. It is a rather daunting 545 pages, and is full of twists and turns; however, the main story moves nicely along holding the reader's interest. By the time it comes to a close most of its issues are resolved and three strong women are at peace with themselves and with each other.

Towed! or Whitey's big adventure

2011-05-11T13:52:00.000-04:00

A good day, a busy day, we both thought we deserved a treat as we headed for home up Houston's lower Westheimer. That’s easy to accomplish. Lower Westheimer is a food Mecca. Where? What kind? French, Italian, Italian, Italian, Indian, eat-the-whole pig, middle Eastern, eat! Eat! Eat.

And so we decided to grab a bit. We picked a favorite, wheeled around the corner to the parking lot, but wait! A lovely spring evening, a gentle breeze, big trees gently waving, twilight falling in. "Know what, let's park around the block on the street and stroll around. And so we did.

Bet you can guess the rest of this story.

We saw cars parked curbside in the beautiful 300 block of Avondale. Looked good. "Oops," said Bob, pointing at a dim barely visible sign. "No parking from here to the corner." So we backed up and found a nice place midblock. After our pleasant saunter, we sat by a window to watch the cars go by and ordered rissoto with sauted sow belly. Lovely, but small.

We been so good lately, we decided, let's indulge. "One nutella sundae and two spoons please." The waiter was prompt, friendly, and full of chat. We enjoyed, and then headed back through the pleasant evening to the car.

Just as we turned the corner Bob stopped, frozen his posture that of a fox who has just heard the first bay of the hounds. I could feel the fur rising on his back.

"The Jeep is being towed! I just saw it go down the street." It was one of those moments lost in time, never ending.

"A Jeep is being towed. You know it's not ours. We didn't do anything to get it towed," says the chipper eternal optimist—me.

"A Jeep with a luggage rack and a bike rack on the back?"

We both broke in to the trot of two foxes when the hounds are getting close. We turned the corner.

No Whitey. (Not a really original name for a white Jeep, but there you are.)

That's when we read the sign more closely. True, it said no parking to the corner, but it also warned that cars parked between the signs (yes, there was another one) without a resident permit would be towed. It meant it.

Fortunately, the restaurant is only about a mile from our house, so, after I warned Bob that I was not in walking shoes and no more sprinting, we headed home. Bob remembered that there is a neighborhood Houston Police Station on the way. Guilty as can be, we might as well 'fess up and find out how to find Whitey. What a nice policeman!

First, he told us that every time he works that station seemed like someone comes in and complained about getting towed off Avondale. Then, he asked us our license number. Dumbstruck. We both were dumbstruck. We looked at each other. I did a mental struggle and came up with the first three letters. The fellow laughed.

"Looks like she expects you to finish it." Bob shrugged.

"Well, you'll need the license number or the vehicle identification number to get it back." Oh yeah. Then he went on, "I can't remember mine either, so I took a picture of it on my I-phone." Good idea, after the fact.

As soon as we walked in, took off our shoes, and had a drink of water, Bob grabbed the "paid bill folder" and started flipping. Before long he had it--the license renewal form with both numbers. 'Course neither of us will ever forget that license number again. After some deacceleration, our hearts were still pounding, off to bed. Even with the license number the nice woman on the phone told Bob after a 10 minute wait and a scare when she said Whitey wasn't in the system, it's four hours before they can tell you where the car is.

We found him. Not to far, but too far to walk. As soon as rush hour was over, Bob called a cab and set off on the rescue mission. There was Whitey, lonely among the other cars with miscreant owner. A mere $238 (that's not counting the taxi) later, Whitey brought the penitent Bob home.

Whitey's now happy in the driveway and Bob and I are resigned to valet parking and separating our strolling from our dining.

Happy Mother's Day, Grandmother Nordyke

2011-05-08T18:55:00.000-04:00

Nancy Narcissus Coffey Nordyke--Happy Mother's Day!

In honor of Mother’s Day a few words about my grandmother, Narrie Coffey Nordyke, mother of my dad, Lewis Nordyke.

I was always a little in awe of Grandmother, not just because she could wring a chicken’s neck without ruffling her starchy newly ironed apron, but because she had been a pioneer.

Narrie (Nancy Narcissus Coffey) was born in 1874 in Dalton, Georgia to Molly (Mary Catherine—Katy, my Catherine is partly named for her) Ferrington and E.N. Coffey, a Confederate veteran of the Battle of Chickamauga. When Narrie was small the Coffeys pulled up their Georgia stakes—land was scarce and mostly farmed out—and headed forTexas. As a kid I envisioned the covered wagon, the campfires, the winding road, until one day I asked Grandmother, “What was it like to be on a covered wagon?”

“I have no idea!” She pulled herself up to her full six feet and said with her usual dignity, “We came on the train.” My vision changed. White gloves were Grandmother’s thing. She wore them to the beauty shop in Baird, to the café downtown; almost anything was worth putting on her good suit and white gloves. Now I saw a parlor car with a little girl in white gloves and a Sunday dress walking down the aisle. Later, I learned they came on an immigrant train sharing a boxcar with their livestock, household goods, and several other families. I can only guess that they wished for the open trail and a campfire.

I think about Molly, getting onto the train with her youngsters knowing full well that while there would be many letters (wish I could find them) sent with love, likely she would never see her family again. Far as I can tell, she didn’t.

Narrie grew up in Callahan County, Texas surrounded by Georgia family and friends. But when it came time to fall in love, she picked a sort-of Yankee fiddler from Limestone County who’d come to visit relatives before heading for fiddling jobs in the saloons of Alaska.

Nancy Narcissus Coffey and Charles T. Nordyke
Married in Callahan County, Texas, December 24, 1899.

On December 24, 1899 Narrie and Charlie Nordyke married. After a brief stint inLimestone County, and, yes, this time they did go in a covered wagon, they lived and farmed in Callahan County the rest of their long lives. Lewis was the middle child and middle boy in the family of seven.

On the farm, probably in the late 1920s.

At the 50th wedding anniversary celebration.
I'm the imp in the jumper planning mischief with
my cousin Charles Reid. (Can't you tell?)
Poor little Paul Gene--the likely victim--is

Thanks for the memory

2011-05-02T16:16:00.003-04:00

I promise. This won't be sad. But. . .

Twenty-four years ago today, my mother died. I'm not going to tell that tale. Rather, I'll share a favorite story.

We'd moved to Houston. Mother lived in our family home on Lipscomb Street in Amarillo. We or, at least, the three kids and I made the right-at 800 mile drive every summer for a couple of weeks of fun--memories they treasure. (I looked on one of the guy's Facebook profile and found he was claiming Amarillo instead of Houston as his home town. Hmmmmm.)

Mother came to see us as well, but it was rarely for fun. Usually she'd dropped what she was doing, walked away from her desk at the Amarillo Globe-Times just as soon as she could find someone to cover for her in reponse to my cry for help. One time a kid had been a terrible accident, I needed to be at the hospital, who would keep the other babies? Mother. That was but one.

This time was different. She'd come as part of my birthday present. I got a sitter for the day and she and I set out for a day of grown-up fun. She'd lived in Houston as a bride. We found the duplex where they lived. Ever the reporter she hopped out of the white Studebaker and sprinted to the front window. She came back with a funny look on her face.

"What is it?"

"It's the same furniture!"

Now it was time for the real fun--shopping downtown. Hard to believe, but this was pre-Galleria Houston. The fine stores were all downtown. This was a special trip. I suspect now that Mother had engineered the whole thing. Almost all of my birthday presents had been money. Not just Mother, but Bob, my grandparents, even my sister, who was on as tight a young-family budget as I was managed five bucks. Mother told me that it was time I had a good dress. Not something I'd made myself, and not, not, not that cut down maternity dress.

Off we went to Neiman Marcus for lunch. This was the start of a great tradition. For the next twenty or so years, every time Mother made a non-emergency Houston visit, we alway had lunch at Neiman Marcus--downtown, then Galleria, finally the now long-gone Neiman's in Town and Country near our house.

"We'll look for that dress here," Mother told me.

"No. Let's go to Foley's. I can get two for what one will cost here."

"Let's at least look. It's so much fun." We hopped on the escalator.

The prices in the dress department knocked me out. "Let's go."

"Oh, try on a couple." Mother pulled a dress off the rack. "This one's not too expensive, and there are so many thing you can do with a black dress. Dress it down for church, dress it up with a pin for those company parties." She gave me that look. I'd had an almost lecture over afternoon coffed the day before about a wife's responsibility to make her husband proud, or, at least not embarrass him with a made-over maternity dress.

Just to hush her, I agreed. It was my money; I was going to buy two dresses at Foley's. The saleswoman acted like I was the most important customer she'd had in two weeks. Was this dressing room fine? Would we like a cup of tea? What else could she do?

I wanted to cry. I'd never looked so good in my life. Not even in the wedding dress I'd bought on sale. I turned, I looked this way and that in the three-way mirror. Another mirror on the other wall showed my back. I looked good all the way around.

"Just imagine it with your pearls." Mother had given me and my sister pearls for high school graduation.

I could. Time to finish this before I wavered. Just as I reached for the zipper, the saleswoman reappeared.

"Can I bring something else."

Mother smiled brightly. "She'll take it."

"Wonderful choice."

I waited until she left with the dress before I started. Mother held up her hand.

"Listen to me. You are worth it. That's why we all gave you money. So you'd have a dress worthy of you."

I hushed. I also wore that dress until it was a thread and loved every minute of it. I still love it's memory.

Thanks Mother.

So what to do today to honor her memory. I can't drive 800 miles to put flowers on her grave. I could make a donation, but no.

I'm going to buy a new outfit and make her proud.

Unpredictable--those cats

2011-04-24T18:16:00.000-04:00

More on our ongoing and everlasting cat drama.

I’ve spent considerable time on two activities—keeping one cat, Douglas, out, and keeping one cat, Ginger, in. More than once I thought why fight it? I’m only making all three of us unhappy. Just open the door and see what happens. But no, I didn’t.

Until one day last week, oops. I didn’t do it on purpose. I brought in the mail and got so busy looking at that I didn’t notice I left the front door wide open. Oh, no!

Oh, yes! No Ginger! I went through the house rattling a bowl of cat food—my never-fail way of calling Ging. Nothing. Then I went outside.

“Here, Ginger.”

Douglas came. Ginger didn’t.

Happy (sort of) to be home.

I confessed to Bob. “I left the door open, Ginger is gone.”

He consoled me and predicted Ginger would be back in 30 minutes. The minutes came and went. No Ginger. We had to run an errand that took a couple of hours. I tried not to think about Ginger.

When we pulled up who do think was sitting on the porch, complaining about the door being shut. That’s right. Since then there hasn’t been nearly so much door sniffing and meowing—from the inside.

Easter Morning nap on the porch.

But Douglas has taken up steady residence on the front porch. He likes breakfast early then a nap. Sometimes Mac and Arthur come. Sometimes not. Last night, we heard Douglas’s good-night meow. Suddenly Bob mellowed. Was it the Easter spirit?

“Let’s let Douglas in,” says old not-in-my-lifetime Bob.

Now it’s, “Here, Douglas.”

There is no figuring out cats. After months of begging and sticking his nose in the door, Douglas declined. So back to where we started. We have an inside cat and an outside cat, by their own choices. I’ve quit worrying about it.

Weekend fun--whereever

2011-04-13T16:29:00.000-04:00

On March 28, I shared out fun experience of heading to Houston’s downtown oasis, Discovery Green Park where we found new friends and fun with the Egyptian community, happily celebrating new freedoms coming to the country. Lots of city fun.

When I checked Katy’s Facebook page that day, I found she’d managed to have fun too. Not city fun in Atlanta, where she lives. But little town fun! And that may be better.

After careful planning, she presented herself in her once-upon-a-time hometown of Blakley, Georgia, the self-proclaimed Peanut World Capital, on the best day of the year to visit. She took in the Peanut Parade with old cars, politicians, beauty queens, marching bands and lots, and lots, and lots of peanuts.

Weekends are great, and another one is just around the corner. What adventures await?

Bluebonnet Baby

2011-04-08T07:11:00.004-04:00

Bluebonnet Baby

Another baby! Yea! And, maybe, maybe this time a girl? Not that I really cared, but for several months all liquid that entered my body, even at parties, came via my pink mug. I got a handbag big enough to carry it everywhere.

But that wasn’t what really bothered me. What bothered me was that we lived in Oklahoma. This wouldn’t do. I might have a girl (I hope, I hope, I hope) or a boy (fine by me) but by gosh or by golly, I was going to have a Texan. My plan? About a month ahead, visit my mother in Amarillo and refuse to leave.

Then, a bolt from the blue! Bob was transferred to Houston. Off we went in the big Chevy wagon—Daddy, Mother, the four-year-old, and Mr. 17-months, and Daffodil the part-cocker. That was in March.

April 8—we welcomed our bluebonnet baby, our bluebonnet girl, born in the peak of bluebonnet season! Katy joined the clan. (Daffy didn't make the picture.)

She was a joy then, and a joy (and lots of laughs) along the way. She became a lovely young woman.

And a fantastic daughter. I can say that—last July my birthday gift was a ticket to Atlanta and a ticket to a Joan Baez concert. Here we are sharing that splendid evening.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KATY P, MY BLUEBONNET GIRL.

St. Urban's Day 2 Tales of 2 Cities

2011-04-02T14:46:00.001-04:00

In honor of St. Urban’s Day here’s a happy tale of two cities.

Yes, we moved from quiet country tranquility to city hustle. Yes, sometimes there are downside—fire trucks whooooooooooooeeeing down the street, strange (but also interesting) folk strolling by—we live on a major street, no telling what we’ll see, but we can also walk to the best food in town. “No,” to the valet, “we walked.”

Last Wednesday was our day for grandson fun. We were running a bit late. As the Jeep hurried up Mandell a couple of blocks north of Westheimer, we past a jaunty, sporty red Toyota being pushed and steered by a comely young African American with dreadlocks to dream about.

“If we weren’t late, I’d help him,” sez Bob.

“Yeah” sez I.

Then we looked at each other and, on her own, the Jeep turned around.

We figured out, after introduction—our new friend was Ashley—that the cars fit and we could push him. This was a relief to Ashley since the garage had told him to be there by six. He didn’t know if he could make it; it was about 4:30. Bump, slide down the street. Then at busy, busy Westheimer, two of the fully uniformed valets at a major eatery saw us and came to consult. So there we were—two over-the-hill white folk, one articulate and well-coiffed African American, and two uniformed Hispanics all trying to figure out what to do.

Continuing pushing was the unanimous vote and off we went.

Not too many minutes later, Ashley rolled into the garage; we took off for Bobba and Bob duty. I opened the window and waved; Ashley waved back and yelled “Thanks.”

End of story?

NO.

At exactly the same time in Atlanta—well let daughter Katy tell you via Facebook.

So, Petey, the PT, blew a hose on the way home. I had to call a wrecker to return him to the garage that worked on him yesterday and lo and behold, a neighbor saw my EAV (East Atlanta Village) bumper sticker and offered me a ride back home. Silver linings to all stories everywhere!

Meanwhile, I didn’t (darn it) get a picture of Ashley, so here one of Katy and her mom enjoying Mom’s birthday gift last summer at a Joan Baez concert in the middle of Atlanta.

At-lan-ta, At-lan-ta, it’s my kind of town.

I’d do Houston, but the syllables don’t fit.

If you want to know more about St. Urban--

http://bit.ly/cesKUh

Rabbit, Rabbit? Rabbit?

2011-03-31T12:36:00.000-04:00

Somewhere along the line years and years, well yes, and years ago, son Patrick came home from school on the last day of some month seriously informing us we must say “Rabbit” the next morning before we said anything else.

We questioned “why?” I’m not sure he knew. Was it to bring luck? Avoid bad luck? Why?

Didn’t matter. We had to do it. Period. (Maybe he’ll read this and comment on what he remembers.)

In all those years it has been a challenge. If I remember (and I’ll do it in just a minute) I e-mail Patrick and siblings a few days ahead a terse one word message, “Rabbit.” Sometimes, I remember midday on the first. Sometimes, the next week. Sometimes, not at all.

I’ve met a few people who also do it. A few insist it must be “Rabbit, Rabbit.” And recently I learned that proper form is “Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit.” Okay. It is according to one account properly done on the first day of the lunar month making it even easier to remember. It is a salute to Nature’s sacred critter, not a rabbit but looks like one, whose name may not be spoken.

It might be that the last word on the last day of the month is “Hare.” I think that is pushing it.

Here are a link that explain it more, http://www.guardian.co.uk/theguardian/2010/jul/21/rabbits-hares-first-of-month

The source is the UK because, apparently, England is where the tradition began, and in some sort of poetic justice, or quirk of luck, Patrick now makes his home in jolly old

England.

Since this is the year of the Rabbit, seems more appropriate than ever to follow the practice.

So tomorrow morning--Rabbit! Rabbit! Rabbit.

Celebrating with new Egyptian Friends

2011-03-28T11:02:00.000-04:00

I love days that just happen—like yesterday. We’d had a busy-ish week so we made on-purpose no plans for Saturday. Just hang out and see what happens.

Of course, even on a planless Saturday, there are errands. That’s why Bob was in the Office Deport parking lot when he saw two young women in head wraps in a car sporting a bumper sticker celebrating the new freedom in

Egypt

. Ever the friendly (and nosy) Texan he went over and knocked on the window. He said they were so young he didn’t know if they understood his “roll down” hand motion.

The must have, because the window came down. He asked—knowing the answer from the sticker—how they felt about the recent events. “Elated!” (No political commentary about the future is appropriate here.) They shared their enthusiasm for a few minutes, and then told him they were headed down to Discovery Green to join a celebration for Houston’s Egyptian community.

“Why don’t you come?” One of them handed Bob an invitation.

Planless Saturday, planless no longer.

Around 7:00 we hopped in the Jeep and headed downtown to Houston’s wonderful downtown gathering spot, Discovery Green where we joined many, many celebrating Egyptian families and friends. Quite a crowd. The men mostly wore Western clothes, the women ranged from full burqas, through light robes, scarves, right on to barely anything. The dancing girls on the stage were in full, and lovely, sequined costumes and interesting moves.

Of course, I bought a tee shirt. Then we enjoyed the sunset over the city.

Where to have dinner after such an adventure? Why Aladdin (http://www.aladdinhouston.com/ )is on our way home at the corner of Montrose and Westheimer. We saluted Egypt and our new Egyptian friends with lamb shanks, tabouli, mushroom salad, fresh hot bread and the best cauliflower in the world.

What have I unleashed?

2011-03-17T10:44:00.000-04:00

What have I unleashed? Or is unleashed even a word to use when discussing cats? (Note the plural.)

I opened the breakfast bar for Douglas this morning, not quite as early as he thought appropriate. He’d requested early service when Bob went out for the paper around six.

Douglas munched his fill. Dinner from M. must have been glorious, for for all the meowing pleases, he didn’t eat much. For the leftovers, he invited not one but two (!) friends.

So what to name them? Since they are Douglas’s friends, I’ve dubbed the Mac and Arthur. But which is which?

While Mac and Arthur chowed down, Douglas sat by the backdoor regally maintaining that he is too an inside cat.

My problem now? What to name the next one. . .Suggestions?

Douglas? Here, Douglas! Here, Douglas!

2011-03-15T18:29:00.000-04:00

Bob, Ginger and I discussed it at length. I still thought it would show hospitality to invite our new friend in from time to time. The fellows voted together, and voted emphatically, “NO!” Bob cited fleas, cat hair and vet bills. Ginger just said, “NO!” We compromised on the breakfast bar.

I the next morning around six when I opened the back door, Douglas was on the top step. Talk about kitty intuition. This worked fine for several days. Douglas and I got friendlier and friendlier. He even let me brush him and cut out some really knarly hair wads.

One afternoon I was giving him an illicit snack, when my neighbor from the garage apartment behind our house strolled by. M. and I discussed our mutual friend. Turns out M. doesn’t have the compunctions of Bob and Ginger, he’s been inviting Douglas in. What’s more, M. is a waiter at a good restaurant and allowed that most nights he checks with the chef about leftovers. Douglas may be having dry cat food for breakfast, but he dines well at night. M. and I left it that Douglas is a community cat. We even talked about getting him a lion cut to take care of the remaining hair wads.

Then last Saturday, Douglas disappeared. “Douglas? Here, Douglas!” “Here, Douglas!” Nothing. Several times I strolled around the block to see if he’d wandered back to his old digs. “Here, Douglas!” Nothing. Oh, dear. I hoped for the best and feared the worst.

I still looked out every morning. This morning, there he was, nose pressed against the backdoor, looking aggravated that I was a little late with breakfast. I brought an extra helping. That was good, because Douglas invited a friend. (More about the local covey of feral cats another time.) M. is at work now and has promised an extra special dinner.

Ginger still maintains the breakfast bar is fine, but he is and always will be the one and only cat of the house. Sorry! King of the house.

Gentle Ginger and Determined Douglas

2011-03-03T13:47:00.000-05:00

In the very early days in Georgia

‘Way back early in this blog, I shared how Ginger came to our house in South Georgia and declared it his homestead—or perhaps, he declared us his people. (Check out the ‘Gentling Ginger’ entries.) For the house is still in Georgia, but Ginger, Bob and I are growing happier and happier being more and more Texas.

Here Ginger! Here Ginger!

Ginger’s changed lots since he was sliding under the house and reluctant to be touched. He’s now a lap cat (this is new) and it appears is becoming something of a computer expert!

About those attachments!

Naptime

Meanwhile. . . outside our leased house another drama unfolds. We met Douglas last summer when he’d drop by all well-groomed and wearing a collar with his name. One day when I was walking around the block, I met his owners.

But things have changed. Douglas isn’t combed and groomed. In fact, he’s matted and miserable looking, missing his collar. And he’s hungry. One of our neighbors speculates the owners moved and Douglas didn’t.

Ouch.

And here's Douglas

So, no, Douglas is not going to come in. (He’s surely a charmer, though!) But we will open a breakfast bar by the back door.

We’ll see how this unfolds.

Should I? Could I?

2011-02-28T18:41:00.000-05:00

Maybe Fabiano and I should open our own food truck. He can cook. I'll drive and market.
'

Eat, eat, eat

2011-02-26T17:43:00.000-05:00

Probably time to get serious about joining a gym. Doing my Wii Fit, learning to run again, and possibly having my mouth wired shut!

Another food trunk lunch! That's three in a row. Bad girl! Good food!

No Borders is taking up Wednesday through Saturday residence in the Menil Parking lot less than a block from our house. Enchiladas--best in town-yesterday. Today, elote (corn on the cob) and turkey torta (sandwich). Excellent.

During the morning I had a moment of rising sap and went to the garage to get my hand gardening tools. My garage apartment neighbor Fabiano was smoking chicken. I admired. About midway through the tortas the doorbell rang. Fabiano was standing there with a plate--not only chicken quarters, but ribs and sausage--no food truck tomorrow. That's for sure.

I'll add a picture of that bounty tomorrow. It's sealed up in the fridge right now--waiting.

I love my neighborhood--it is so tasty!

H-Streats for lunch--the good life

2011-02-24T14:30:00.000-05:00

Great lunch at H-Town Streats parked on Montrose by Inversion Coffee. Super food, wonderful company, beautiful blue sky! Beat that.

Avocado taco—ever had deep-fried avocado slices? I recommend them. A kobe dog and a chicken-fried steak sandwich. And of course fries.

What’s the quotation I just read? "Are we slowly dying, or are we beginning to live?"

This is definitely beginning to live!

Grandson fun!

2011-02-23T16:35:00.001-05:00

Dogs play, bark, wag, run, fetch. Enjoy the sun. Love being free without a leash or harsh word.

Boys are much the same. Running is fun.

Try it out someday with a grandson on the banks of beautiful Buffalo Bayou (thank you City of Houston!).

Enjoy life and the transcendent sculptures of Jaume Plensa.

Lovely afternoon.

http://www.jaumeplensa.com/

Another Sunday

2011-02-16T21:31:00.000-05:00

Oh! Last Sunday was wonderful in Menil Park.

For folks in the brrrr-cold part of the country, Houstonians seem like such wimps. We whine about the temperature being in the twenties. But, hey! Remember that we don’t have heavy coats; some of us don’t have gloves and Walgreen’s runs out of hats and sweatshirts in minutes. The houses are ready either. When the wind blows—well, at least in this old house—Come on in!

So on Sunday, just like folks who’d had to dig out of snow banks and ice, folks who’d regarded thermometers showing below zero, we headed outside. I sure did.

In one review of the Montrose neighborhood, Menil Park lying between the Menil Collection and Rothko Chapel was called the neighborhood’s front yard. Certainly on Sunday, that is what it looked like. I brought my book for a sunny read. Families picnicked. Couples cooed. A couple of folks snoozed.

Others made new friends and enjoyed old ones.

Most popular of all—The Red Swing. I even got a turn.

Then a new friend, maybe three, told me, “I can’t get up by myself.”

“Shall I help you?” She nodded.

“I don’t know how to swing myself.”

“Shall I push you?” She nodded.

We parted fast friends.

Sunday in the city--January style

2011-01-30T15:56:00.000-05:00

Sunday sauntering

Sun kisses azaleas

Breeze tosses my hair.

Ginger Ascendant

2011-01-23T15:32:00.001-05:00

Simplicity is coming to our household. Especially to our mantel. My great grandmother’s precious cranberry glass pitcher—in the bookcase. My prized anniversary gift, crystal Frank Lloyd Wright candlesticks—waaaay back in the bookcase. Just about every thing that might possibly break—tucked away in a safe place.

Why?

Because Ginger is ascendant. He’s taken up residence on the mantel, and he doesn’t always land there exactly where he planned. (He leaps from the tv stand or the library steps.) And why the sudden change in roosting place?

Cold day comfort. At the urging of our daughter (nagging?) we have installed gas logs to warm up the chilly living room and, we hope, help with astronomical power bills. The room isn’t all that warms up. The fireplace bricks soak up heat and make the mantel “just right.” At least Ginger thinks so.

I’ve left some few hard-to-break items. An Indonesian wooden head, the FLW chiming clock, a heavy (too heavy I hope) Chinese lamp, and Kuan Yin deep in the corner. She used to be on a lamp base, but Ginger decided that she’d be better freestanding—that was when she lived on an end table. She’s the goddess of compassion, so surely she’ll take pity and let me keep my possessions unbroken.

Brighter days ahead

2011-01-20T12:38:00.000-05:00

I’m setting out to follow one New Year’s resolution. I’m going to shoot for blogging here a minimum of twice a week. I’ve promised myself and, much more important, I’ve promised my pal Linda. I cross my fingers.
January 20 seems like a bit late to be commencing on a resolution, but I’ve got cause. I’ve been sick with the-cold-from-hell. From New Year’s Day until last weekend I could do nothing but whine, sleep, and read—only now I can barely remember what I read! Now I’m in recovery, but not well yet. The Sunday beef soup was my first cooking effort of the year; I think it helped.
I know I’m not the only one to be laid low by this. My England-based son had it so bad that he perforated an eardrum. He reports that about everyone one in England and across Europe (he travels lots) is recovering or still suffering.
Linda, who lives in Massachusetts had it late in December. To think I thought—oh! right—when she said she’d been sick over two weeks. She was probably being conservative! Linda is an artist, an artisan, a craftswoman, lots of wonderful things. One, she quilts and then share her work on her blog. The squares become a visual journal. Here’s how she felt when she began to get well. She says it for me exactly! And she said I could post it here.

See it on her blog at
http://lindadrawingtime.blogspot.com/2011/01/after-plague-journal-quilt.html , and then check out some of her other creations--all wonderful!

Now, for me, I’m on to brighter days and frequently blogging.

Local cooking, city style

2011-01-16T21:45:00.004-05:00

Winter in Houston doesn’t mean piles of snow, trees full of ice, frozen roads. It means panic in the face of below 30 degrees F. and deep mourning over frostbitten plants. I’m no exception, but, hey!, every cloud has a silver or, at least, a yummy lining.

Last summer, was so proud of turning a parking lot front yard of a leased house into if not a bower at least a colorful, flowery place. No longer.

One day last week, I dragged my super-cold infected body to the front porch. Oh! Pain! And not from the cold. Into my clothes and out the door. I had to save my poor ornamental sweet potatoes. Harvest those tubers and root them for next year’s even better bower.

What a crop! I can’t root that many, and they look just like the potatoes at the market. Hmmm. Never heard that merely because they are called ‘ornamental’ they can’t be eaten too.

I’ve lived to tell the tasty tale. I concocted a fine kettle of soup using my city lot crop of sweet potato and rosemary, mixed with some beef, broth and noodles and served, appropriately enough in our winter snowman soup cups.

Local cooking, city style!

PS Help! How do I move pictures around in my text?

Into the New Year

2010-12-29T13:24:00.005-05:00

As we head into the new year--it is certainly a time for reflection and contemplation. Here Zen Ginger is deep in meditation! Gentle Ginger indeed.

OH! That cake!

2010-12-01T10:32:00.003-05:00

The cake was a hit! Not much left although it joined three tasty pies—cherry, pecan, and pumpkin. Think about it, there were only five of us. We did major damage.

Enough, two, folks have asked for the Tres Leche Flan Chocolate Cake recipe that here goes.

First, the easy way. Go buy the wonderful book I found it in. The Tex-Mex Cookbook: A History in Recipes and Photos, by Robb Walsh. The recipes are all as yummy as the cake and the pictures and stories are enchanting. My daughter, who is an occasional cook and then not Tex-Mex, has about worn out her copy just reading it and dreaming! Great give for Tex-Mex lovers, Texans (former, present, and wannabe). The recipe for the cake is on page 151.

Robb calls for a 7 quart Bundt pan.

I’ve never even seen Bundt pan that big. I either cook two (doesn’t hurt either the cake or the flan to wait bit) or several individual Bundts—my little ones hold about a cup.

First get ready. See if your story had goat’s milk Cajeta, of course, my Fiesta market is loaded. If you can’t find the cajeta or if you want to have some fun, make your own dulce de leche. Robb has the recipe, but I’ve done it for years. It’s fun and sort of an adventure waiting to see if the can explodes. It doesn’t.

Take the label from one can of sweetened condensed milk. Sink it into a pot of boiling water. Make sure it’s completely covered. You may need to add more boiling water later to keep it this way. Reduce the heat and keep it barely boiling for 3 hours. Remove with tongs and let it cool before opening. Maybe you should do two because it’s so good you’ll be tempted to gobble up the first one.

Cajeta Flan Cake

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Put a large baking pan in the oven and water to come up about 2 inches on a Bundt pan. Make a chocolate cake from a good mix following the package directions.

Make the flan by combining one 14 or so ounce sweetened condensed milk, 1 14 or so can evaporated milk, a scant cup of whole milk, 8 ounces of cream cheese (not low fat—go all the way) 1 teaspoon real vanilla and 8 large eggs. Combine well with a mixer or food processor. Don’t think about calories.

Grease and flour a Bundt (about 2+ quarts) pan (you could use an angel food pan, but I haven’t tried it—let me know). Pour about half a cup of cajeta or dulce de leche into the pan cover as much of the surface as possible. Pour in half the cake mix, and then pour the flan mixtures slowly around the top of the cake. Cover the pan with foil and put into the pan of water in the oven. Start testing with a toothpick after 45 minutes. Mine took about 55 minutes. My individual cakes were done in about 20 minutes. If you go for one BIG one, give it more like 2 hours, but test often.

When the cake is done, let it cool in the pan for about an hour (individuals less long). Put a plate on top of the pan and turn over.

IT’S MAGIC!

The flan has moved from the top of the pan to the top of the cake—without picking up even a cake crumb. Wonderful.

Refrigerate until ready to serve.

Oh! M’gosh it’s good.

For Christmas I’m going to make it with a spice cake instead of chocolate, but with extra ginger. Or maybe, I’m brave—Gingerbread! I’ll let you know.

The pie recipes are easier: Go to Three Brothers Bakery on Braeswood (or your favorite) and get in line. You can't make 'em like this at home. Especially the cherry. The crust, oh! the crust!

Last Day of November in the Post Office Parking Lot on Richmond

2010-11-30T17:50:00.003-05:00

Clouds scudding away

Cold west wind blows the sky clear.

Get out the sweaters

Sarah comes to our neighborhood

2010-11-29T13:50:00.003-05:00

Ahhh! Just home from a walk the not quite mile and a half down to Borders where we gawked the crowd standing in line to get Sarah Palin’s autograph. Very docile bunch of folks. Not nearly the crowd we hear about at the neighborhood Barnes and Noble for Dubya, but then, he’s a local boy—sort of. There were plenty of cops and more than plenty media trucks. Much ado about. . .

Funny, W. and Sarah both making stops within a couple of miles of our house, and neither one of them dropped by for coffee. Dang it!

On the way home we walked by our “club.” But even for these two old Texans 11 a.m. is a bit early for a brew. We did pick up a couple of tacos from the Taco Caliente wagon for lunch. Never too early for one of their tacos!

Ginger the Magnificent

2010-11-28T17:34:00.003-05:00

It’s the week to be thankful. I’m giving it a try.

Three years ago Thanksgiving Day, I got soft hearted and fed the feral cat that had been hanging around for almost a year. He’d put up with a diet of squirrel (I found the leavings) and Bob taking shots, never hitting him, with the BB gun. He wouldn’t go away. He wanted to be our cat. (You can read about him in some of this blogs "Gentling Ginger" but beware the dates are messed up; he came to us in 2007.)

One little pile of cat food. A “here Kittie, Kittie, Kittie,” and now who’s First Cat (and only cat—Dollie moved in with Bainbridge friends and lives the life of luxury) around here?

King Ginger! Ginger the Magnificent!

And I’m mighty thankful for that tenderhearted moment! I think Ginger is as well!

Getting ready for Thanksgiving

2010-11-24T17:55:00.001-05:00

Chocolate cake bakes

Smells of anticipation

Thanksgiving joy. Joy!

'Morning glory

2010-11-02T10:35:00.006-04:00

‘Morning Glory! We had a glorious start to the next-to-the-last month. Isn’t it (or is it?) surprising how many things we can find to do outside on a day like this? Our morning included a pleasant walk through the neighborhood, the rewarding experience of taking the pedestrian bridge across I59—getting to look down and watch all the cars zipping their drivers to ‘something important’ while we enjoyed the sun and soft air.

Wasn’t just folks enjoying the day. These morning glories greeted us from a yard along the way. The yellow posies waved hello in the breeze. Wish I knew their names.

Today is different, it's raining. Better to stay home! I know it's election day, but I voted early--staying home is fine.

Morning rain, cars race

Everyone going somewhere

I'm glad I'm home.

August haiku

2010-08-26T14:29:00.004-04:00

Early, very early, this morning when I stepped out to get the morning Houston Chronicle, I stopped, and stepped back inside to fetch the camera. The almost full moon in the before dawn western sky, soft, cool (for Houston in August) breeze let me know. Haiku time.

Slowly clouds puff past

Breezes float in silent air

Soft moon’s morning glow

City Kitty

2010-08-22T16:09:00.003-04:00

City Kitty

If you look back at some of the early entries of this blog you’ll see a fairly scraggly, definitely wild feral cat with a taste for squirrel transform himself (with a little help from his friends) in to the Gentle Ginger we have today. He did not lose his taste for the outdoors though. Not until we came to Houston. Of course, Ginger packed his kitty bags and made the move with us. We live on a busy street and outdoors is no place for a cat. Took a while, but the versatile Ginger has made the transition, he’s now a fine city kitty.

He hasn’t lost his taste for the outdoors, but now he’s willing just to watch from inside. That is from inside the blinds and up against the window.

Of course, getting there is half the fun.

And we're off!

2010-06-21T12:40:00.002-04:00

And we're off on our Alaskan adventure. Katy is already in the air between Atlanta and Houston. We hop on the same plane and the adventure begins. Join us! We are at http://trilla-pandosvisitalaska.blogspot.com/

A bloomin' difference

2010-06-18T12:06:00.000-04:00

A year ago my yard was a parking lot--a dirt parking lot. (We followed 4 students who all parked in the front yard.)

It's a different story today! Thanks to containers, Cornelius Nursery, and lots and lots of water!

Rothko Chapel Morning

2010-06-14T17:31:00.004-04:00

Early June morning at Rothko Chapel. The egret and I relish the peace of a new day.

Ssssummer fun

2010-06-10T09:24:00.003-04:00

Summer fun!

Start with a grandson and a pancake breakfast--then head to the Houston zoo for make-believe dinasaurs and real lions, the new baby elephant and, of course, a few ssssssssnakes!

Earth Day

2010-04-22T16:19:00.003-04:00

Earth Day--let's celebrate our planet. Here are two lovely views of my favorite doth on our globe the Lone Star State--especially the Bayou City.

The field of bluebonnets is near Enchanted Rock. (Thanks to brother-in-law Bill for the shot.) The city shot is on White Oak Bayou looking at downtown Houston.

Glorious Texas

2010-04-01T07:06:00.003-04:00

It's glorious time in Texas again. Even in the city. I captured this beauty in the heart of Montrose. I'm setting off this morning on more glory hunting. Stay posted.

And what will the birdies do then, the poor things?

2010-03-22T19:37:00.003-04:00

We dashed off to Dallas for a weekend of visiting and for me to attend a gathering of Veteran Feminists. Talk about wonderful women—including Sissy Farenthold and Gloria Steinhem. Made me proud to have been a foot soldier way back then!

We thought we’d officially welcome spring just after noon on Saturday, but Persephone decided not to make her appearance. Winter persisted (P.’s here now—Houston is glorious, more in days to come). We took shelter in our room with books, and one poor pigeon must have thought we were having fun—she hopped right onto our 10th floor window sill and spent the afternoon. If it had been an opening window, I would have invited her in.

Saturday night we went to a party with new and old Dallas and Houston friends. We drove back to the hotel in a snow flurry, but we woke to lots more. Brrrrrrrrrrr.

Spring in the park

2010-03-15T11:20:00.005-04:00

Spring comes early in Houston. This year we had a couple of false starts, but the blossom goddess has definitely come to call. After a (for Houstonians) cold, wet winter, folks all over want to witness her handiwork.
Saturday, tranquil Menil Park, my neighborhood’s front yard, transformed into a festival at the annual Community Day. Strollers, picnics, posters and a clothesline art show—all part of the fun.

Welcome, Year of the Tiger

2010-02-28T18:22:00.003-05:00

Here's a lovely close to the celebration of the New Year of the Tiger. The Houston-style Chinese banquet benefiting the Gee Family Scholarship was great fun. A huge amount of food, good company and one heck of a dragon dance, which an only slightly out of focus Trilla and Bob enjoyed greatly. Bob especially since he's a Tiger. Click those chopsticks to a bright and fine New Year!

It's been a long, long time!

2010-02-22T23:21:00.006-05:00

It’s George Washington’s birthday! My mother always baked a cherry pie and delivered it to the supper table with vanilla ice cream and a lecture on telling the truth. “Always the best policy,” she declaimed.
Here’s my February 22, 2010 truth. I’ve been gone from this blog a long, long time, and on about half of those many intervening days, I’ve told myself tomorrow, or maybe next week. Today, I thought Now!
So, a quick 21 months and few days update. Ginger is gentled. Heck, Ginger is a housecat par excellence! Here he is gazing out the Houston living room window and posing for his Valentine portrait.
Houston? Yes! I say “Houston!” For we now are for the most part (still have the house in Georgia) far from the glories of southern Georgia small town living, and in the heart of the exciting city I’ve felt was my home from the time I first visited in 1965 right through my long (20 plus years) sojourn away. We call a leased house in Montrose (the artsy, eclectic fun part of the city) home.
Thanks to my friend Linda who revved up her first blog yesterday—check her out here, http://lindadrawingtime.blogspot.com/ . I realize it’s time to get back. Ginger agrees.

And enjoy a view of Houston February glory--although it may snow a little tomorrow night.

Finally!

2008-05-10T14:51:00.003-04:00

Finally! And for a couple of reasons.

First, I’m back on the blog. No promises, but here I am today after a hectic six or so weeks since my last visit.

Second, maybe more important, the gentling Ginger gender mystery is resolved. No more gender guessing. No more Thomas or Thelma?

Thursday, we managed to coerce, force, drug her/him into a cat carrier and make the long overdue visit to the vet for a check-up, shots and the final answer. But no, at least, not at once. “Well?” I demanded. My vet friend looked chagrined. He couldn't tell either. Ginger wasn’t being gentle. He/she was not going into this examination routine without a bit of help from some anesthesia.

Later in the day, after some medical adventures of my own, I called the vet for the results.

Why was it so hard to determine? The vet’s best guess is that Ginger had been caught in a feral cat round-up, neutered, and set free. The ear notch is most likely a mark declaring “Don’t round me up again, you’ve had me once!”

Ginger isn’t completely gentled yet, but feral is no longer an appropirate description.

Please welcome, finally. . .Thomas Jefferson Pando!

Gentling Ginger VII First Cat

2008-03-31T11:16:00.002-04:00

The first cat is getting a bit fed up with all this Ginger gentling and has asked, firmly asked that I speak on her behalf.

Dolley Mae Madison Pando declares that she was here first and that makes her definitely First Cat. Besides her indecisive owners can't even decide if Ginger is Thomas or Thelma. People!

[Editor's note: Dolley M. is mostly right. She was first cat in the house, but Ginger was hunkering under the azaleas when she arrived. (See Gentling Ginger I.) That was before the editor had a change of heart.]

Dolley M. continues that not only has she been working hard as First Cat, she keeps the editor's head warm at night by stretching out across her hair. She has also spent long hours serving as Bob's muse as he finishes his disseratation. (See entries for March 3, 2006 and February 26, 2008.) She adds that he is defending this afternoon, and while she is unable to attend she'll be sending good thoughts and hope you will as well.

Meanwhile, she finds this entire Ginger thing rather boring.

White Iris

2008-03-30T15:03:00.002-04:00

Spring is beautiful all over. I can't leave my house here in Bainbridge without slinging a camera over my shoulder. It's not just my garden (call it a jungle!) that's over the top. It's the whole town. I'll share some of this glory in the next few days.

One of my favorite stops is my neighbor around a corner and down the street. I exclaimed so much that's she's told me to prowl around and take all the pictures I want. That's great, 'cause she's one of the town's premier gardeners.

On my last foray, I captured some of her breath taking white iris. It made me thing of my mother and grandmother's gardens. How they treasured the iris. They bloomed later--deep into April or early May. The wait made them all the more welcome.

When I returned home and checked a few of my favorite blogs--no surprise! I'm not the only one who loves white iris. Share some Texas hill country beauties from Susan Albert's Lifescapes. If you haven't been there, plan to spend a little time (or more). She take you on a tour of her home, and then let you join her own blogtour. She's at http://susanalbert.typepad.com/

Gentling Ginger VI Thomas or Thelma?

2008-03-26T08:11:00.006-04:00

Oh dear. Here we've been married almost 50 years and have three children. You'd think one of us could figure out if a cat is a boy or a girl, but. . .Our initial diagnosis (guess) about Ginger is back in question. He/she's coming in the house now--Dolley M. puts up with it--and allows petting, but no, absolutely no, picking up or cuddling which make the exam difficult. And so next week it'll be off to the vet for the verdict. Whatever the outcome, we'll do the socially responsible thing.

Meanwhile, is it Thomas Jefferson or Thelma Ryan? Here she/he enjoys a little time in the house.

Busy days, blazing spring

2008-03-25T13:10:00.003-04:00

The Georgia State Flower, the Cherokee Rose, flourishes on the ancient fence in front of our house. There's a lovely legend about the rose--I'll tell it soon. Maybe too, I'll tell the story of a neighbor who took it upon himself to take down our almost eighty-year-old fence. I taught him what "it's my fence" means!

I've been busy. We've been busy. Bob's almost through! Let me catch up. Following an involuntary retirement, Bob decided to fulfill one of his forever dreams and go to graduate school. (Fatherhood at 20 had precluded it almost 50 years ago.) Once he got started, he couldn't stop. After he got an MA at Florida State, the history department asked him to stay. See the March 3, 2006 entry for some background (how can it have been 2 years?). He turned in his dissertation last Monday. Now he's doing all the finishing touches before he defends next Monday. I've been helper doing all the things that are legitimate for the nonauthor to do. (My rule of thumb--if he could have paid someone to do it, then I will.) I've proofread 'til my eyes swim, checked footnotes and taught myself to do tables on the computer, while he's done the heavy thinking, writing, and editing. Neither one of us has thought or talked about much else.

With all my good intentions, the blog has suffered.

So here I am in my third March blogging, and I can't help myself. It's too beautiful. So one more time share a blazing Bainbridge spring! Dogwoods float around the cypress (our Christmas tree about 20 years ago). Azaleas planted in 1933 thrive on the side of the house. It's a good time to be here!

Maybe more on Ginger tomorrow. There's a serious question. She may not be Thelma.

Gentling Ginger V It's a girl!

2008-02-26T11:45:00.004-05:00

Bob's been in much closer communication with Ginger, and we can now say with confidence--Miss Ginger. Maybe considering her beat-up appearance we should say Ms. Ginger.

Now a new dilemma--an official name? For reasons, or nonreasons, I'll go into later, we use presidential and first lady names for our pets. We've had Eleanor and Frankie D. (Also Miss Lucy Mercer--but, again, a story for another day). The current ruling feline is Dolley Madison Pando--sometimes known as Dolley Mae. A fella cat was going to be easy--Thomas Jefferson, but a chick cat?

We have two choices--going for the nickname, we can dub her Elizabeth Virginia Truman, or going for the red-headed angle, there's Thelma Catherine Ryan Nixon. (She named herself Patricia when she started college.) I'm leaning toward Thelma Ryan (Ginger) Pando. She quiet, a bit aloof, and from the looks of her left ear, able to endure adversity. Seems like a natural. Besides, do you think that there's ever been a cat named after our 34th first lady?

Here's Thelma. I'll try to get a close-up of that right ear.

Gentling Ginger IV More Contact!

2008-02-22T13:47:00.006-05:00

We did it! Rather Bob did it. While I was out roaming Texas, hanging out with friends, generally having a good time, he was back here in Georgia bringing out food three or four times a day and crooning, "Here, Gingie, Gingie, Gingi."

I'm not the only one to be wowed by his sweet words. Ginger is now definitely his cat. I don't speak kitty very well, but I can translate the plaintive meow I hear when I try to be the bearer of good food. "Where's my fellow? He's the one who feeds me."

Ginger has (except for some of our recent rainy days) abandoned under the house and taken up permanent residence on the kitchen porch. Bob made a bed from the rug that used to live in front of the sink.

Moon over Bainbridge

2008-02-21T09:11:00.002-05:00

Thank goodness my daughter called. All day I'd thought about the lunar elipse, and then I forgot.

Sometimes I love living in a little, tiny town almost in the country, and then, other times, I ache for city lights and more to do in the evening than be a political junkie on MSNBC or a zombie watching Law and Order reruns for the fourth time. Last night, the dark skies of the Georgia countryside won hands down.

Notes from the Road

2008-02-12T14:15:00.001-05:00

Home again. I’m still relishing the heady excitement of Stories from the Heart and wonderful visits later in Austin and Houston—a great balance to my usual quiet small town living; although Bainbridge is beginning to share its early spring glories. (We all run around warning each other that we’re likely to have another frost.) More about this on Valentine’s Day.
Meanwhile, I’ll share a few more conference and Austin memories. At the conference, we gathered for panel discussions and writing practice sessions. Nancy Aronie’s presentation was inspiring—someday I’m going to one of her workshop. We ended the Conference on a true high note. At the closing luncheon, Austin singer/performer sang and chanted, and then, she had everyone in the room on their feet singing and chanting joyfully. What a sendoff!

Fellow board member Joyce, and I stayed over for the Monday night board meeting. What to do? Books! Of course, as if we hadn’t had enough of the written word. Sunday afternoon we headed to the legendary Austin book store, Book People and loaded up. Monday afternoon, tired and with time on our hands, we took our books and notebooks and headed for Jo’s Coffee, a hangout on South Congress. The view from the table included the legendary Austin Motel and in the distance the State Capitol.

We enjoyed books, each other, new friends and some balmy Austin weather.

In Austin with Stories from the Heart

2008-02-01T22:58:00.000-05:00

I've left Bob to tend to Ginger--the votes are coming in for her in the her/him mystery--the adopted tree and all the Bainbridge doings, while I'm in Austin at the Story Circle Network's Stories from the Heart Conference. I wouldn't miss it. Women from all over, this year 17 states and Canada, gather to tell and listen to our life stories.

It's been a wonderful, and busy, day. First everyone pitched in with the set-up. All must be ready and bright and shining when registration opened at noon.

Next, Story Circle founder and President Emerita Susan Wittag Albert led an all-too-short pre-conference workshop on writing about place, "Mapping Our Stories." We did lots more than write. We all had crayons and traced our lives out on a map, and then drew maps of our personal community. The air was alive, you could about hear the popping of insights.

The evening closed with an energy-filled presentation (speech doesn't do it justice) by Nancy Aronie, author of Writing from the Heart: Tapping the Power of Your Inner Voice. Here she is with Story Circle Executive Director Peggy Moody. Nancy is on the right.

This hotel if full of fingers itching for tomorrow to come so we can grab our pens and write, write, write.

Gentling Ginger III Contact!

2008-01-31T09:40:00.002-05:00

Contact!

We did it. Ginger was pussyfooting in the door, out the door, couldn’t make up his/her mind. I got down and enticed—to no avail, but then Buddy Bob gave her a chance. It only lasted about 5 seconds—long enough for a picture. But we’ve made contact. This kitty is about to trust us.

Adopt a tree

2008-01-30T19:26:00.000-05:00

Several years ago, I journeyed up to the botanical gardens in Atlanta to take a class on drawing trees. It was a wonderful experience. I didn’t produce a masterpiece, but I had a wonderful day outside. Plus, I learned lots about looking. There are many ways to see a tree.

The instructor suggested we adopt a tree for a year. She didn’t mean we should dig up a tree and take it home. No, she suggested we pick a tree in our own yard or somewhere that we were regularly and study it. Draw it. Look at it from all directions and different times of day for the year.

Know the tree.

I propose to do that only with photographs instead of drawing. I’ve picked my tree. I didn’t choose one of our towering pines—more about them another time, nor did I choose a fine live oak. I’ve picked a little tree near the curb in my front yard. A persimmon tree.

When we first moved in, I had no idea what the somewhat scrawny tree was. The first year we were here it produced exactly one persimmon, and a bird ate it. Now twenty years later we had a hugely abundant harvest. We gave fruit away, we mailed fruit across the country to friends. We munched on persimmons for breakfast and dinner. What bounty. Now that we have had some frost the fruit is gone. What we did not pick to eat or share, the birds made sure did not go to waste. This afternoon the tree was bare save for one lonely, last piece of fruit.

Gentling Ginger II

2008-01-30T18:14:00.001-05:00

Ginger is coming along. She’s let Bob touch her. It was brief, but it was a touch. We’re encouraged. We enticed her into the back door with the lure of breakfast and warm after a cold night, but mostly she/he (we still haven’t solved that mystery) keeps her distance watching us from the edge of the porch or from under the Jeep.

She explored around the sunroom for a little while and then encountered the resident cat, Dolley. A spat ensued, but Ginger retreated outside and Dolley recovered nicely on her favorite resting place, the sheepskin.

I’d worried about Ginger on the cold nights, and then I discovered that her pal Bob had moved some bricks. She’s been warm and cozy under the house.

I’m leaving tomorrow for about ten days in Texas. I expect by the time I return that Ginger and Bob will be best buddies.

Gentling Ginger I

2008-01-27T17:30:00.002-05:00

For a year, maybe more, this orange (I call it ginger) cat has been hanging around our house. It (we haven’t settled the he/she issue) strolled the front porch, peaked in the kitchen window, hid under the Jeep (scary) and meowed pitifully from under the azaleas.

We agreed on one thing. No more cats. Resident cat Dolly felt strongly about this.

“Shoo! Scat! You go on home where you belong.” Each time we saw it, we ran him/her off. It came back. We ran it off. It came back.

Around Thanksgiving, I don’t know, maybe it was the holiday spirit, I began to mellow. I sneaked a little dry cat food out under the azaleas. I didn’t tell Bob or Dolley. The next morning it was gone. Then I sneaked a little more. Bob caught me.

I didn’t stop. Bob gave up, next thing you know he’s joined the campaign.

“Here, Ginger, Ginger, Ginger. Want a little snack?” Once you name an animal there’s no going back.

Ginger will come up on the porch to eat, even meow to call for his/her breakfast if we aren't early enough. But there's no touching. She/he's had a hard life, it's clear from the chewed-on ear and the darting eyes. I suspect that human treatment hasn't been much better than what's come from other cats and few dogs. Now we're determined, we will gentle Ginger and bring a new member to our family. (It's hard to avoid those pronouns.)

Here’s Dolley regarding Ginger through the kitchen window. She’s not on the welcome committee--yet!

I'll keep you posted on the gentling of Ginger.

Blooming Bainbridge

2008-01-27T15:21:00.000-05:00

It’s warmer today and Sunday, a perfect day for an after-lunch-and-too-many-political shows walk. Here at the end of January after a week unseasonably cold weather, guess what?
Bainbridge is in bloom! Here are some examples. Trees like this first one must blossom all over America. They flourish in front of houses with high school scholars inside. (That’s a Bainbridge Bearcat sign in the background.) Here are the toilet paper flowers on a “wrapped” tree after a couple of days of rain.
It looks lots like this natural beauty. A nearby Japanese magnolia(on the right) has bravely put out its natural and much more beautiful blossoms. I don’t know how they survived the 27 degrees we had the other night. I’m mighty glad they did! Made me smile to see these trees looking so much alike from a distance and so different close up. Like a lot of things in life
This nearby fruit tree (I think it’s a cherry) adds color to the January day.

Cold winter day

2008-01-26T15:42:00.000-05:00

Count me wrong. That sabbatical stretched way out beyond the trip to Texas, right on through the summer, the fall, the holidays, and now, here I am back again.
Midwinter in South Georgia. Usually we’re bragging about blooming camellias like these, mild days, walks in the park.

Not this year, we are cold, and today we’re wet. You’ll hear no complaints around here. After the driest year in ages, we welcome every drop—warm, cold. We’d love it if it were white.
Not much chance. In twenty-one years, we’ve seen snow about four times. Came close the other morning, though. With the thoughtlessness that accompanies a frost-free life, we forgot to turn off our sprinkler system the night last week that the temperature fell to 27 degrees. Brrrrr. We woke to white stuff. Although it wasn’t the ‘real thing,’ it was fun.
Now today is cold, tonight is forecast to be colder. (We’ll be sure to turn off the water.) It’s a good day to stay in and read, or revisit a long neglected blog.
I’ll willing to bet I’ll be back. I’ve got a great incentive. Next week is the fourth Stories from the Heart conference sponsored by Story Circle Network in Austin. I’m on the panel that’s discussing blogging—and I haven’t since May. Oh! Oh Dear! I’m going to make up for lost time this week. Then, I hope, I’ll be back in the habit. I have a project in mind that will get me on once a week. More about that tomorrow.
Meanwhile, learn more about the conference by visiting http://www.storycircle.org.

Welcome back to South Georgia.

return from sabbatical

2007-05-27T16:17:00.000-04:00

After a spell, a long spell, I'm back. Enough said without saying anything about the absence. 'Cept I've been on the road a lot since that last post. Since this is supposed (I thought) to be about small town living, I didn't have much to say. Since January I've been to Texas twice (driving both ways), Mexico (Copper Canyon, wow!) and Abilene, Kansas (more interesting than you'd think), plus Atlanta a couple of times. Now we're hitting the road for 3 weeks in Texas again tomorrow.

It occurs to me that since I'm not living much in this little town, I can't write much about it, but I can share being on the road--oh Jack, oh Jack where are you?

I'll be putting post up from along the way, fresh and frisky from the sabbatical.

It's good to be back.

What fun

2007-01-06T22:49:00.000-05:00

In my last post, I mentioned our Christmas Eve plans of going to a Falcons game at the Georgia Dome in Atlanta. We did. Great fun even if we did lose rather badly. Most fun of all was our Christmas gift from our daughter--the in thing for Falcon Fans--jerseys--our's have our names and numbers--our birth years! Now 60,000 folks know how old we are. Here we are modeling them at a pregame party.

Oh what fun it is

2006-12-23T06:05:00.000-05:00

Fun and busy, that’s been December—a some time preceding it. I’ve been working with some great folks at The Bainbridge Post-Searchlight put some of my columns about the great folks of Southwest Georgia into a book.
We got it done!
Now is the real fun!
Last Thursday night was Downtown Christmas in Bainbridge. We all took a step back in time to the days when we met our neighbors on the Square to visit and to shop together. The weather was mellow and so were we.
Especially over in the “Book Nook” where Jim and Faye had great refreshments and lots of folks dropped by to share some memories as I signed my book, Stirring up memories all the times.
What made me smile the most was when the families who have generously shared their stories with me came by to pick up copies for the children and grandchildren.
If you’d like to share the fun of life in years gone by in Southwest Georgia, you can visit the Book Nook online and drop Jim an e-mail. He’ll be happy to send you the book. http://www.bainbridgebooknook.com

If you’d rather contact The Post-Searchlight or me. The links are on this page. One way or the other, I’ll make sure you get a copy. Let me know how you like it!
Later today, we hit the road along with so much of America. The granddog (he's been spending his Christmas holidays with us and his favorite cat), Dotty-the-cat, the gifts, the wonderful smoked pork butt I bought from the FFA at the high school, a poinsettia or two, Bob and--will there be room for me? will head north to Atlanta. We're putting a new twist on Christmas Eve. We're looking for Santa at a Falcons game! Going to be more fun!

Harvesting and sowing

2006-12-22T15:39:00.000-05:00

The first day of winter. A year ago I watched the season in England as I welcomed my new granddaughter. Today I am home in South Georgia enjoying a mild December. We’ve had a touch of frost—enough to take away the summer annuals, but the camellias continue to flourish as does our kumquat crop.
When I grew up in Amarillo, kumquats were a Christmas treat. Santa always left them—just a few piled into a pint strawberry basket with a few dried up leaves. What a joy to have a tree full to share with our friends.
I love to harvest them on the first day of winter. Then I plant poppy seeds that will burst in to bloom in May. What a treat—harvesting and sowing on the first day to grow long. The poppy seeds enjoy extra luck this year! Within five minutes of the time they entered the ground a soft and gentle rain began. That's a rose in bloom at my feet! A good way to spend the opening day of the season.

Back home

2006-12-22T15:08:00.000-05:00

Lost. Been so long since I’ve posted that I feel like this little lost puppy. She showed up outside my study door in the late afternoon. She was all dressed up for Christmas; she had to belong to someone, but she surely wanted to stay at our house.
The next morning, the puppy was at the door. Bob made a sign to let passersby know we had a lost puppy. With the help of a friend she was now temporarily named Noel. No owner called but the newspaper publisher did. He asked for a picture—Noel made the front page of the webpage. We took her to the Animal Shelter (with the proviso that we’d find her a home if the owner didn’t appear). The owner did. Noel is home for Christmas.
And I am glad to be back here!

November welcomes flowers

2006-11-03T06:04:00.000-05:00

In South Georgia we are never without flowers. Our calendar fills with blossoms.

I stepped into my yard yesterday, November 2, to find that we've welcomed the Thanksgiving month with a special blossom. The first camellia of the season. This bush is well over seventy years old. It was planted by Mr. Elcan many years ago when he was the garden's guardian. (See my early post about him.)

My kitchen garden has been ablaze with cassia for a couple of weeks. What a welcoming sight on a chilly morning. I hope it blazes away until Thanksgiving when my Houston band arrives.

I've been on the run lately, so few postings. No. No postings. I'm heading out to Austin for Story Circle affairs this morning. It's hard to leave the garden.

Harvest in Georgia

2006-10-10T23:15:00.000-04:00

Did you look at at the huge moon floating above us last weekend? The harvest moon, the full moon closest to the autumnal equinox, is aptly named in our part of the world. Two of our largest and most spectacular crops are at full harvest time right now. The roads are fill with tractors and trucks hauling trailers full of peanuts and the air is full of the tangy aroma. Yummy! And those boiled peanuts are being sold on just about every corner.
Fields that aren't loaded with peanuts are ladened with cotton. Shining in the sunshine, a field of cotton is lovely indeed.
A few years ago, there was not a boll of cotton in our county. Now it's one of our largest crops. Here's a nearby field I snapped on the day of the Harvest Moon.

Be still, my heart

2006-10-04T14:53:00.000-04:00

I've been roaming around Tallahassee getting the lay of the land and the sense of the neighborhood. On a morning walk this sign grabbed my attention and for just a minute, my heart.
If anything were ever true!!!
Daughter Katy who is old enough to know her own mind (But that's been true since she was 5!) bought a motorcycle not to very long. And there is a long story about it that is not mine to tell. I enjoy hearing about her adventures, and, maybe, I have bragged a little bit about my daughter's bravery and independence.
Still and all, there's lots of truth in this sign. Think I should frame this picture for her Christmas present?

Grayness

2006-09-14T18:51:00.000-04:00

Fog gauzes my vision encasing me in solitude. There is no dawn, yet light does come. I am not alone. Sister Spider emerges from grayness, my neighbor and my friend.

Ahh! Success

2006-09-11T20:31:00.000-04:00

Ahhh! This time it worked. I've posted the pictures I couldn't get up on Friday. The cluttered bed shows the chaos I got into when I decided to clean the closet and take all my usable extras to the Swap-o-rama in Tallahassee. It was worth the mess and effort. I brought my big box, plus some garments on hangers just as others were arriving. We sorted the clothes--tops, pants, dresses, etc. In a big adjacent room, volunteers had lined up sewing machines, cutting tables and craft centers. It was wonderful. I dropped by at the end of the day, almost all of the clothes had gone to a new home. It was great to wake up on Sunday morning thinking about some of my old friends going to church or out to lunch all spiffed with their new owners. Check the links in my last post if you want to learn more about this super concept of helping each other.

The woodpecker is a frequent guest just outside my kitchen door. Right now the salvia and bottlebrush are loaded with hummingbirds filling up for their trips south. It's great to be outside right now!