A Different Kind of Reading

 

“Come to bed! It’s after midnight.”

“Soon. I promise! I’ve only got fifty more pages.”

Maybe you can guess. I have book club in the morning and no way, no way I’m going to sleep before I’ve finished the book. Happens almost every month.

I’m a big reader. Such a big reader that when I made a New Year’s resolution to read more, my daughter smiled. No, she didn’t laugh at me, but almost. “Mom, you already read more than anyone I know. How can you want to read more?”

I don’t know. But I do.

There are different kinds of reading. There’s fun reading snuggled now under the down comforter on a cold night or stretched out on the couch on a rainy day. There’s serious research reading; I keep my notebook by my hand (or my notepad). I underline. I reread. And don’t bother me. There are magazines—the ever growing stack of magazines—and the two newspapers a day. Lots of reading. But nothing quite like book club reading.

First off, often it’s something I’d never chose to read if I were making the calls, but I’m not. It’s on the list; I read the book. Second, I read carefully, after all, I’m going to have to talk about this. Third, I finish—nothing like deadline.

It’s not just book club reading that I relish. I like the book club itself. No matter how meticulously I’ve read, someone catches something I’ve missed entirely. Occasionally, I’m the catcher and amaze someone with what I’ve picked up. Other times, I’ve read something one way and, to my amazement, others take it quite another way. Exhilarating! I don’t need the coffee and cookies.

I’d been missing the book club experience. I was lonely for book club buddies. About four years ago we moved back to Houston after a ‘temporary’ stay of over twenty years in a small town in Georgia. Some things I badly missed about city life, something I liked about small town living, and one thing I loved—my book club. It was an old (founded in 1929), somewhat tradition-bound organization. (Great controversy when someone served refreshments ‘after’ instead of before.) But twenty-five intelligent, thoughtful women gathered every two weeks. The best two days of the month!

I miss my Georgia book club--always will, but
I'm relishing my three new ones. Count 'em, 3!

            When we gave Houston a probationary year, I went on leave. But when we put the house on the market, sadly, I put my resignation in the mail. It wasn’t fair to keep another woman from enjoying what I had loved. But now here I was in Houston, and no book club. I missed it, missed it, missed it.

            So in 2012, when I resolved to read more, I also resolved to find a book club. No one was going to call me up and invite me aboard, so I’d better find my own. Resolution fulfilled! I have three, and I’m thinking about a fourth.  They couldn’t be more different. Once a month I go to my nearby indy mystery book store, Murder by the Book, we read to a theme. This month we’ll read two first novels, both set in England but very different, one is cozy beyond cozy (Wicked Autumn) while the other is dark, dark, dark (The Hollow Man). Every Sunday morning—my family doesn’t believe I’m doing this—I hike over to the nearby Unitarian Church where they welcome new readers—church member or not—into their book discussion group of serious philosophical and historical works. In fact,  next month I’m the leader for the over 800-page From Dawn to Decadence: 1500 to the Present by Jacques Barzun. I’ll be reading very carefully; you can bet on it. (It’s going to take us several weeks to do this one.)

            Finally and where I think I’ve found my book club ‘home’ is at the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston where I am a volunteer. The Guild book club takes on a book a month and then we go to lunch. Last we discussed Carvaggio: A Life Sacred and Profane. It’s the book that gave rise to the “Come to bed!” conversation. I thought it interesting but difficult going in, but I came out so excited that I returned to the museum after lunch to look at some familiar works in a whole new way.

            I’ll remember 2012 as a banner year—I kept two resolutions. That may be a record. I’m in three book clubs and, smile if you will, Daughter, I’m reading more.

             (A version of this entry appears at http://storycirclenetwork.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=2983&action=edit&message=1)

Almost there, I'm almost there

Whew! I’m done. That’s what I thought as I drifted off last night. I did the mental list in my head—yep! A book for everyone. (And you can just guess what I’m giving myself.) Then, this morning after my walk and before I got to work, I checked out Amazon . Suddenly, I remembered my (hope my kids aren’t reading this) tradition of giving them The Best American Short Stories and The Best American Essays of the year. I’d totally forgotten, and I’d already bought them (they are all grown after all) ‘way too much. So I compromised and ordered copies of The Best American Nonrequired Reading of 2012. They both have enough things they have to do, and this sounds like fun. So I’m lurking around the front door waiting for the mail carrier—again. 

You'll never guess what's in every package!

            Now my big question. Do I dare go to Murder by the Book (one of the best indie bookstores I’ve ever set foot in) this Saturday for the Christmas Party? Surely, I can listen to good music, share some holiday goodie and not buy a book. (Has anyone read Louise Penny? I haven’t but I’ve been thinking. . .) Nope think I’ll stay home.

            I’ve wrapped all the books I have to give, and they’re under the Christmas poinsettia (no tree at the Pandos this year—we’re going to my daughter’s.) Time to bake and maybe make some decadent chocolate truffles. They’re as tempting as a new mystery.

BUT wait! I’m not through. I was book shopping again this morning. I got an appeal from one of my favorite local charities. Yes, I’m a soft-touch. It offers housing to families in transition. Translation—going from homeless to somewhere permanent. There are lots of these families in the big city of Houston. Besides offering temporary housing, they do all they can to make the children’s lives happy like kids’ lives ought to be. One thing they are developing is a library of children’s books, and yes, they need donations. Moreover, they want donations to give as Christmas books. What can I do?

            When we did the great book purge I told you about last spring, I gave away most of my kiddo books. So now, I’m off for books. I picked up three this morning when I bought gift wrap at the dollar store, but soon as I finish this, I’m off for Half-Price Books and maybe a couple of the nearby resale shops.

            See if there’s a project like this near you. There’s nothing like Christmas, a child and a book.

            Remember the wise Sherlock Holmes. “It is a great thing to start life with a small number of really good books which are your very own.”

Soon, someone's going to love each of these!

(Another version of this entry appears at http://storycirclenetwork.wordpress.com/)

No, no, no

No, no, no, no!

No, no, no, no! It hasn’t been almost a year!

Yes, yes, yes, yes! It has.

I’ll avoid the trite time flies and simply accept that I let other things get in the way. Blogging has been for me an ‘after I do this’ and ‘after I do that’ activity.

Supposing we live tomorrow after whatever it is that is supposed to happen tonight does or doesn’t happen, then there will be a new entry tomorrow and every two and maybe one weeks thereafter until the next apocalypse or something else comes up.

Sorta promise. 

February 14--years ago

Valentine Day—oh, that brings back school day memories. Mother was a procrastinator, so we’d spend the afternoon of the thirteenth dashing from H&Y Drugstore ownered by those cute Hansard twins' daddy, to Goeslin’s (later TG&Y) on a frantic search for Valentines. Then, after supper, we’d sit around the breakfast table and address them. I was a scrawly writer, so she helped. One for each kid in the class. That was the rule. Miss Copeland had sent home the list two weeks ago, and the rule, “one for everyone or none at all.”

            This followed the first grade disaster. It was Miss Harper’s (name disguised to protect the guilty) first year to teach. She later swore they didn’t teach her this at Texas Women’s. We spent a couple of days of our art period (ahh, we did have art every day in those good old days) building and decorating our “Valentine Post Office.” Then the big day came. One at a time, we went and played postman filling the boxes. Then in reverse order we took the sack we’d brought our Valentines in and collected our mail.

            Disaster. Jerry, who couldn’t learn to read and nobody liked didn’t get but two and the one Miss Harper gave him. Thank goodness for my sweet mother, mine was one of the two. Several other kids only got a few. And Julia W. and Betty A. got one from everyone and two from some of the boys. I did okay. But I can still remember some of the kids I didn’t get one from. Never again.

            One for all and all for one!

            That’s not my biggest February 14^th memory though. That one has nothing to do with Valentines other than the date. We lived in Amarillo, in the middle of the wind-swept Panhandle of Texas. Often we got the gift (?) of ‘blue northers’ from the icy Rocky Mountains, swept across the plains by a ferocious North wind, the blizzards could be blinding. Mother hated them. February was usually the worst month. Dorothy, the eternal optimist, declared that because spring was around the corner, on February 14 it was appropriate to wear a new spring cotton dress. She spent much of January and early February making dress for my sister and me. (Sewing was not her long suite, but she hung in and did it.) No more heavy jumpers and sweaters.

One year we were mid-snow storm. I despaired about my new dress. I certainly couldn’t wear it in the snow. Not a problem. After I put it on, Mother pulled my Sunday wool jumper over my head, declaring that the green in the jumper matched the green in the leaves of the daisies she’d embroidered around the neck. Off I went to Wolflin School through the snow with my bag of Valentines feeling smart, stylish and very springish. 

Slam! Bam! The garbage can! Our Trashy Story

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

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

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

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!

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 it was, not to mention the homemade butter). No, taking in lonely cats threatens to become a habit.

Ginger--once upon a time

            Almost five years 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 speaking in 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. The rest—history. I wrote about it in this blog in January, 2008 Gentling Ginger 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 Houston where he now feels right at home.

Ginger now--surveying
his domain,

New cat on the block

            But last March, complications. Douglas appeared. Now Douglas wears a tag that says he lives a block away. That’s what they think. Douglas thinks he lives 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—instant replay. Thanksgiving morning, I felt mellow, generous, loving and one more time—I opened the door. Immediately, Douglas accepted. That was a week ago. Now Douglas has made himself right at home—and with Ginger’s grudging permission. When will this 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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/