snapshots of my current life in Boulder

losing my best cashmere jumper for three days, thinking it's gone forever, and then finding it being used as a doll's underblanket

Cece sitting on the downstairs loo down the corridor shouting out, a propos of nothing: "I love you, Sue!"

the pedicurist telling me she likes my socks and my responding that I bought them at McGuckins (a well-known Boulder independent hardware shop) and feeling like a local

wondering why the baked potatoes aren't cooking at 200 degrees, and Isaac reminding me that they cook in Fahrenheit over here, not Centigrade

seeing a bobcat in the garden - halfway in size between a domestic cat and a labrador - and finding out they are vicious, eat deer as well as rodents, should be avoided as urgently as one would avoid a bear (which I saw in the garden last year) and that animal control should immediately be alerted

playing game after game after game after game of Guess Who (fortunately I like Guess Who)

eating the tastiest Christmas turkey I have had in years

seeing seven deer calmly grazing in the garden (on a different day from the bobcat's visit)

mastering the vast washer, the immense dryer, the dishwasher, learning which day the weekly milk is delivered and where to store it, but failing to realise that the temperature one cooks things at should be not only in Fahrenheit, but also altered for the higher altitude 

loving the way the children say "aminals" not "animals" and hoping this continues for another couple of years

being so pleased at a delivery of ready made food from a friend of Isaac and Wendy's and then when warming it up, managing to burn it (though the majority of it was edible); oh dear, it seems that anything to do with cooking over here has been my Achilles heel

taking an afternoon walk in crisp air under a blue sky with a view of the mountains, wearing my sunglasses 

being so delighted at learning how to use the complicated television controls that I do a victory dance, waving my arms around and puncturing the paper lampshade with the remote 

watching the Ellen DeGeneres show (during the aforementioned pedicure) where a novice screenwriter is picked up in a Starbucks and asked by Ellen to say what the screenplay is about in three words, and thinking OMG a one sentence logline was hard enough, and watching enviously as she is invited onto the show to have a scene acted out by Ellen and Tom Hanks, and then when they ham it up, feeling grateful it's not my screenplay they are massacring

drinking wine during the pedicure and moving on to a Mexican restaurant with Isaac and Wendy and getting sozzled on just one margarita and wondering if alcohol makes you drunker quicker at higher altitudes (Boulder is a mile high)

realising with some dismay (at my insularity?) that the kids telly programmes I enjoy the most are either English or Irish....oooh,  oooh, apart from Paw Patrol

Wishing you all a Happy New Year from Boulder!
  

Reading

There's been some slack in my schedule this week so I've managed to finish Margaret Drabble's latest book The Dark Flood Rises. I found the book rambling, with no apparent structure and no plot to speak of, and yet it was strangely gripping. I skimmed some of the numerous paragraphs about the art, architecture and cultural history of the Canaries as i found them boring (you know very well I'm lowbrow) but I enjoyed Drabble's style, I loved her characters, but most of all I was interested in her themes - aging and death. It sounds gloomy, but  it wasn't; I'm not sure, though, that a reader younger than 65 would enjoy it. For me, there were a lot of aha moments.

Next up is Patchett's Commonwealth, a wonderful present from Isaac and Wendy.

Thankful

This feels like the first quiet lie-in I have had for months, but in fact it's been less than two weeks. We had a wonderful Christmas Day at Wendy's mother's house, which backs onto a lake, 65 miles north of Boulder. Look at that fabulous sky over the frozen lake...

There was a lot of noise, excitement and fun. Here is Lux with the large panda she asked Father Christmas to bring.

It was sweet to share a Christmas with people who are still believers, Tate and Gil having long grown out of this. Did you know you can even track Santa's progress round the world on your iPhone?

We even had snow yesterday...

It's quiet here in Boulder because the children stayed over for a sleepover with their cousins, while Isaac, Wendy and I drove home to a quiet house. So this morning I have been lying in bed listening to BBC Radio's The Listening Project undisturbed, fetching mugs of tea, coming back to bed to write emails, and now I even have time to blog. This will not last. Lux and Cece arrive home later (with delicious leftover turkey - hooray!) and normal activities and energy levels will resume, theirs and mine. This week Isaac isn't out at work: a huge boon for everyone.

All photographs by Isaac.

Christmas bulletin from Boulder

I have wanted to blog before now but have not had clarity of mind at the same time as energy at the same time as opportunity. Now I am snatching a moment to say:

Wendy is up and about and feeling much better - which is wonderful.


There is no time to write anything else. The hordes will return in a minute. 

Happy Christmas to you all from Boulder! 

Fun with yoghurt pots

Will post from Boulder when I have a minute. In the meantime, here is something we played earlier.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GsboWyHNVNA

Change of plan

There's been a change of plan. 

Dave is going to have an OFF Christmas here, and I am flying to Boulder to be with our family there. Things are tough for them right now, and I'm going over to try to help.  Amongst other things, this will involve driving on the wrong side of the road in snowy weather in an automatic car. Eeek. 

When things aren't quite so frantic remind me to tell you about the time I drove out of San Francisco on my own all the way to Yosemite and back ON MY OWN: one of my proudest achievements. I'll see you when I see you, or rather, you'll read me when you read me.

Happy Christmas!

The tree

The first thing to say is that Wendy is doing OK. She hopes to be home by tomorrow. The second thing to say is thank you for all your good wishes and prayers. We appreciate them so much.

Yesterday, after a few weeks break, I had a sax lesson. I was feeling worn down with worrying about our Colorado family, and people keep saying to me "You're looking tired, Sue," but seeing Mel for a lesson is great therapy in so many ways.

Me: "I haven't practised, Mel. Isaac and family were here for a week, I was ill for a week, and now I'm a bit...."

Mel: "Do you like Christmas music?"

Me: "Great idea!"

So we played some old standards together and had a lot of fun - Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree, Chestnuts roasting round an open fire, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, and Santa Baby. Mel is even cheeesier about Christmas than I am. 

Having said that, I'd been wondering about whether to bother with a Christmas tree this year, even though it's an ON Christmas. The family aren't here on Christmas Day - I'm going to Zoe's house - and it feels like a huge indulgence, with so many people (even in the UK) with not enough to eat, never mind not being able to afford Christmas presents for their kids. Some of our family have charity donations instead of presents; maybe the next step was giving up the tree and making decorations from stuff in the garden? Was it OK to buy a tree just for my pleasure? Last year's tree that I planted in the garden after Christmas has not survived.

Mel persuaded me it was. I was worth it.  I bought one and loved it even before it was decorated. That is how much I love the tree. 

Bring in a tree, a young Norwegian spruce,

Bring hyacinths that rooted in the cold.

Bring winter jasmine as its buds unfold -

Bring the Christmas life into this house. 

The quote above is from a poem by Wendy Cope called The Christmas Life. I don't have permission to publish it, but you can read it here. I love this poem. Do read it.

Update

everyday post

Some news for regular readers -  Wendy has her surgery tomorrow - Wednesday. She is having a  double mastectomy and reconstruction. (This is not private information, oh sibs who think I sometimes overstep the mark.) 

Here she is with the girls at the weekend:

We hold her in our hearts. 

The second thing to say is - thank you for all your book suggestions. I now have a list I can refer to in the coming weeks. I've started on William Trevor's Love and Summer and then I'll move on to Our Spoons Came from Woolworths by Barbara Comyns. Commonwealth by Ann Patchett doesn't come out in paperback till next May, sadly, so that will have to wait. 

Thirdly, I am better from the virus. 

Yesterday I went for a long walk on my own, setting off from the house. It was very healing. I climbed up to the top of Longstone Edge which runs behind the village.  It was raw and very misty, but also bright. Even at midday the frost was still sharp where the sun couldn't reach.

I met no-one on the top, and no-one on the descent and it was wonderful. But I realised I should have taken my mobile phone with me, because if I'd fallen, I might not have been found until Dave alerted the search and rescue helicopter. That would have been bloggable.

Here's a view from the top. The bright spot in the lower part of the photo is the sun reflected in a dewpond.

I moan about living here in the winter, but on still days when there is even a smidge of sunshine, it's heaven. 

S.O.S.

I would love some suggestions as to what to read. 

I want a novel that:

is set now or in the last 100 years;

is beautifully written in simple prose;

has a fair amount of dialogue, and no descriptive passages of more than two pages at a time;

is not experimental, magic realism, crime, or SciFi; 

is not violent, and does not contain references to child abuse;

has a compelling story.

It can be serious or comic, but I don't want anything lightweight.

Does anyone have any suggestions?

Sometimes

Crap

I am still laid low by this God-awful virus, and we still don't have a date for Wendy's op.

Added to all of this, I have been trying to work out a blog post about friendship and it won't come together. So I am going to rant instead. 

I came across a C S Lewis quote about friendship two days ago that I profoundly disagreed with. Here it is. It's bollocks.

This is not how I see friendship. Is this how you see friendship? I feel sorry for C S Lewis that he thought this is what friendship is.

I'm not going to deconstruct it today and say why it's bollocks, I don't feel well enough. My sinuses are full of snot and it's leaked into my brain. 

But here's another thing. I hate it when people misattribute quotes. It drives me nuts. Have you noticed that all witty quotes - whatever the voice - are ascribed to Oscar Wilde? And how many wise and profound quotes are ascribed to C S Lewis? I was looking on the net to find out who came out with the wonderful "A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words" and guess what? People were saying the author was C S don't-understand-friendship Lewis. I ask you.

It was not him. The origin is unknown/unverified.

I've run out of rant. And just to give C S Lewis his due, I'd like to share something he DID say that I often find helpful:

I'd also like to share a photo from the generous Rosemary Mann. It was taken above Hawes in Wensleydale this last week:

Missing, but always here

I think about Mary every day. It's a fleeting thought. It's a - "I wish she was here to talk to, I wish she was here to tell about X, to ask what she thinks about Y, to share a laugh about such and such." She is like when I notice the moon coming up, or Venus appearing in the cold winter sky. I miss her and then move on. Or she is like someone walking briskly across a screen I am watching. She's like a bead on the thread of my day. There's no telling when she'll appear, but appear she does.

I am fortunate to have had such a friend. 

All that remains

Toys and books put away.

All that remains are the yoghurt cartons. (Is the yoghurt cartons?) 

I'll tackle those tomorrow.

Treatment plan

Fresh lemon juice and honey with Lemsip

Steaming head over menthol crystals

Warm bed

Olive Kitteridge

Gilmore Girls on iPad in bed

This is the third day: tomorrow I hope I'll be better.

Tweet of the day

All quiet on the eastern front

It is 12.35 p.m. I am sitting in bed in a silent house, reading the Guardian Review. I have a sore throat and a cold and I am short of sleep. Dave, never short of energy, is out on his bike. The Colorado Hepworths have just taken off from Heathrow, flying home.

Earlier, Dave and I watched murmurating starlings in the field across the road and I said "what a pity the girls aren't here to see them." This kind of observation will continue for a couple of days.

You know that expression "photo-bombing" don't you? ( Don't worry, Pete, I'll explain when you ring tomorrow.)

I feel as though I've been love-bombed, and it lasted a week.

They left at 6 a.m. This is me having a last minute cuddle with a sleepy Cece, en route to the car in her pyjamas.

Photo by Isaac..

Thanksgiving cum Bonfire Night

We celebrated Thanksgiving with our American family - the Colorado Hepworths - and with the family member who declines to be named, plus the newest member of the family - his lovely partner. We combined it with Bonfire Night, as Wendy has always wanted to be here for Bonfire Night and never managed it.

Celebrating anything against a background of breast cancer and mastectomy-talk was always going to be a tough gig, but I think it was a success. 

The fireworks were modest (and that's being kind) but the kids had fun. 

The bonfire was perfect ( thanks, Dave.)

We had Thanksgiving food and I even made a pumpkin cheesecake. I'm kicking myself I didn't take a picture of it to show you - it had homemade pumpkin seed brittle on the top and looked fantastic. ( Please forgive the boasting. I am no longer an enthusiastic cook and am impressed by minor triumphs.) But the kids disdained it. Cece preferred a homemade chocolate brownie. Lux had been baking oatcakes with Dave in the morning and she chose an oatcake spread with my lemon curd. 

Oh, these girls. They are such a joy.

Children by Isaac and Wendy.

Photographs by Isaac.

Current status

FULL ON

My American family arrived on Saturday, and yesterday everyone else came for tea (supper to you southerners). I worried in the morning about how I would seat the eleven of us round the table, but I had two glasses of wine at lunch, and after that, everything seemed possible.

It was noisy, chaotic, fun and fabulous, and Dave did the washing up.

This morning we got out our home-made two-room marble run. Forgive the blurry Cece. These kids don't stand still.

And here is yet another use of those pesky yoghurt cartons...

Thought for the day

Is it your cup of tea?

OK, I've written to my MP AGAIN about honouring the DUBS amendment and bringing all vulnerable refugee children over to the UK from the group that were in the Calais jungle. So far they have only brought over 300. It's deplorable. I have also signed this petition. Will you?

Now I can tell you about my trip to London on which I feel I grew up - I got my very first Oyster Card for travelling on the tube. 

You know that polite British expression "It wasn't my cup of tea" ? It's nowhere strong enough to describe my aversion to Wayne McGregor's new ballet Multiverse. My friend and I went to see three of his short ballets at the Royal Opera House on Wednesday. I enjoyed two of them, but for the first ten minutes of Multiverse, I sat with my fingers in my ears because the soundtrack was so punishing and objectionable. My friend did the same and so did other members of the audience. Others got up and left the theatre.  After it calmed down and changed to something recognisable as music, and we removed our fingers from our ears, we were so traumatised we couldn't concentrate on the dancing, and sat there rigid, waiting for the thing to end.

But I did like the other ballets, especially the first one, Chroma.

In the afternoon we went to see the Abstract Expressionists at the Royal Academy and I fell in love with Jackson Pollock. I have never seen his work before in a gallery. Wow! 

I also enjoyed the Mark Rothko.

But Ad Reinhardt's work was not my cup of tea. This was an artist who for the last ten years of his life painted nothing but black paintings. Not black and white. Black. And he specialised in square paintings of black: five feet by five feet. I don't understand his stuff but someone somewhere does. I am one of those ignoramuses who judges a painting by whether she would like to have it on her wall. Pollock and Rothko are welcome at Hepworth Towers any time. Reinhardt? Not so much.

domestics

I act as if stunned every morning. Dave has been up for hours and walks in the bedroom and asks how I am and I say "I feel awful, but I'll be OK." 

Now I'm OK. I've been awake for 2 hours. It takes that long. 

So anyway, I don't have time for a lengthy blog as I have to clean. The chundies are arriving on Saturday from Colorado for a week's stay. Woo-hoo!

Yesterday I sorted out the toys and books: first things first. Today it's cleaning. 

Tomorrow I go to London to the abstract expressionism  exhibition at the Royal Academy and then to the ballet at the Royal Opera House. How's that for an injection of culture? (For a republican - small r! small r! -  it occurs to me that I'll be spending an awful lot of time in Royal hangouts.) And I went for a garment from TOAST for those of you who are wondering. It's the kind of thing that will never date and is also fabulous.

Friday it's last minute shopping and cooking.

The busyness is why I am posting photographs today. They are all pictures taken at home or locally in the month of November, though not all this year. I hope you like them.

personnel photos by Isaac
the rest are mine

Resilience

You know that sketch I showed you recently in which a writer and three script editors walk into a bar? (Here's a link to remind you.) I've seen it several times and it makes me crack up every time. And my writer friends also think it's hilarious. How about you?

I ask, because Dave said it made him furious - that a creative person should be demolished in that way - and he launched into one of his rants. My brother said the sketch made him sad. 

The reason writers like it is because they recognise it as an exaggerated version of what they go through all the time. I think it was Matt Haig who said (something like) "You need a thin skin to write and a thick skin to sell your writing." Usually what happens is you tell the story and then you show it to other people and then they launch into all kinds of questions which attack your story or your telling of it. In the sketch, the script editors don't even let the writer get his story out.

Last week I was telling a friend my news and said "I got a lovely rejection for my children's picture book" and she laughed and said what a positive person I was. Other people, too, have laughed when I've said I got a nice rejection. They were not writers.  If you're an experienced writer you have had years of deconstructing the subtext of rejection  letters and have learned to tell the difference between a blank rejection - thank you, but no thank you, followed by phrases of flim-flam -
e.g.  I have read your material, but I did not feel it would be right for my list and therefore I am unable to offer you representation. I am sorry not to be writing with better news, but I hope this response will not discourage you and I wish you all the best with your writing.

and a rejection where it is clear that the person can see your work is good, but for some reason has decided they don't want to take it on.
e.g.We enjoyed your writing, but after extensive consideration, we do not feel that we are the right agency to represent your proposed material.
...followed by flim flam.

If, God forbid, you are the agent who wrote that last email to me, please DON'T contact me and tell me it was your version of a blank rejection. 

The point about all of the above is that writers develop a thick skin to cope with rejections. But life itself is a different matter. A friend and I agreed last week that we are less resilient to bad family news now than we used to be, and with age we become even less resilient. And it surprises me. I thought that as I went on and life threw more and more things at me, I'd become stronger and more able to absorb the blows. I don't, which means that I don't agree with the popular quotation: "Whatever doesn't kill you simply makes you stronger." 

Dark times

Twenty years ago, we had a bad year at Hepworth Towers. We were renting, trying to find somewhere to buy, and we had to move from our (lovely) temporary accommodation to a dark, dark cottage. Everything seemed grim. 

Then we got a letter from the removal firm that was storing 95% of our possessions. Their warehouse had burned down, and our things were gone. You can imagine our shock and our sadness.

Six weeks later I was told I had breast cancer. This was a shock too, but nowhere near as bad. I think now it's because I was still numb from losing so many irreplaceable things - the physical manifestation of 25 years of family life. 

In June, 52% of the British people voted for Brexit. For the 48% of the population - of which I was one - who wanted to stay in an imperfect Europe, with its cooperation, its care for human rights and equality, its inclusiveness, its care for the environment, the referendum result was a huge shock.

I woke today, forgetting about the US election, and padded down to the kitchen where Dave was already baking oatcakes. He turned to me and said grimly: "Trump's won."

Another huge shock. Strangely though, just as in 1996 in our own personal domestic annus horibilis, it did not hit me as hard as the first political shock this year - of Brexit. 

But it's terrible news. I am sad for America, but more than that, I am afraid for the world. These are dark times, and getting darker.

We can't do anything to change this result, nor apparently to make our own government behave with humanity. But as well as keeping up the pressure on our own government to do the right thing, we can act in our personal lives in a way that shows sanity, compassion, humanity and love. Think global, act local. Don't give in to despair, apathy or hatred.  

It is better to light one small candle than to curse the darkness.