Ford family

My grandmother was known as the Woman with the Ford in our town of Reading, MA. She was the only woman driving. I am not sure of the year.

Florence Stockbridge Sargent, the woman with the Ford.

I thought of it today when my daughter wrote me telling she was looking at used car from Bonnell Motors in Winchester, MA. I was amused because she lives in Malden, not Winchester. She had found the dealership our family always used.

My Dad was a salesman so he put a lot of mileage on his car. My mother kept her cars longer because her mileage was lot lower. 

At least every two years, we would pile into my Dad's old car and go over to Bonnell to talk to Mac. He was tall and a bit egg-shaped, but he greeted us as long-lost friends, remarked on my and my brother's growth, checked in on family news.

With a week, the new car would be in the driveway.

I don't think we were a Ford family for any particular reason. After my parents divorce my father switched to Pontiac's than Cadillac's and when he retired Buick's. Both my mother and my stepmom drove Mustangs. My sister loaned one brand-new Mustang to a friend who had a painful meeting with a tree. My mother loved her Mustang.

Last night she said she found the right car. Fortunately she lives where she can get to the T for public transportation. In Five years she only drove her last car about 13,000 miles.  During the transition she has left her car with her nephew so he can practice on it.

As for me...I proudly didn't need a car for 20 years. Now we have one. We always choose a used one, we always pay cash. And we don't buy from Bonnell because we live on another continent.ac would be long gone anyway.

Jimmy

Can you miss someone for 37 years?

Yes!

I still miss my dad, whom I called Jimmy. It is not the new grief where your breath is painful, but more of the I-wish-I-could-tell-him this or that such as I am a published writer. I would love to see him playing golf with my husband. I know he would love Rick II as much as I do.

I never knew he disapproved of Rick I until after the divorce and Rick I had remarried. Then he felt it was safe. We would not be getting back together.

I knew how much he loved me when he shared his tamalley, the green stuff in lobster, with me. He adored it as much as I do.

When I arrived in the ICU unit in Florida after his heart attack, the nurses knew all about me. One even said, "You are the one that flies in a helicopter."

Because of my parents divorce, I did not see my father from the time I was 13 until I was 20. He showed up at my university, afraid I'd reject him, but pushed by my stepmom who knew how much he wanted a relationship with me.

Maybe our relationship as adult to adult was better than it would have been had he been there during my teen years although I wasn't a difficult teen. We can't go back. I do know he was always there for me from the time we reconnected.

Always.

Always.

He cheered me on, even when he disagreed with me.

He never told me what I should do, but would ask, "Have you thought of..." Whatever he mentioned happened. I learned not just to think of whatever he suggested, but to act on it. It was easier than digging myself out of whatever hole, I would have dug myself into.

I am grateful that I never had to tell him I gave up my American nationality. He would have accepted that I had my reasons, but since he was so proud of being American it would still have hurt him.

He had had heart problems. His 69th birthday celebration included the best game of golf ever. That night there was a party with a cake showing a golfer. Because his birthday was immediately after Christmas, many of his birthdays had gone unnoticed. His fatal heart attack was the next day.

I cannot look at a Scrabble board, think of bridge, hear someone mention rare roast beef, or eat tamalley without him popping into my mind. That and a thousand and one other tiny things.

In Argelès where I have my second home, there is man who has my father's face. My daughter agreed. The man agreed after I showed him a photo of Jimmy. In a strange way it is comforting.

I am well passed the age my father died. He loved life. I am trying to live life for both of us. That he would have loved.

An interesting trip. My brother had not seen his father from the time he was 

5 until he was 27. He asked me to introduce them so we flew to Florida together. 

This is the only picture I have of the three of us.

Truth and Integrity

Joe Crain lost his job as a weatherman on a Sinclair owned television station in Springfield, IL. His offense was to tell his viewers that he was forced to issue Code Red Days for bad weather that was normal bad weather. In other words he said his company wanted him to lie, not tell the truth.

San Ysidro High Valedictorian Nataly Buhr diverted from her approved address. At first she did the traditional thing of thanking her parents, friends and some select teachers.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=beyLLbnfY2ohttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=beyLLbnfY2o Her speech began the way most valedictorian addresses begin: She thanked her parents for their love and support, her friends for the memories she will cherish, and a few select teachers for helping her achieve success. Then she told about the negative parts, the counselor that didn't council, the teacher that was drunk. The result was shock. What was shocking that she spoke the truth and the truth had been allowed to function.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PUobmpH74Bk Another valedictorian went against the common wisdom. Her mike was shut off.

Sarah Huckabee Sanders, the retiring current press secretary, has told many proven lies.

A third high school valedictorian's mike was shut off when she went against the approved mantra.

Julian Assange is in an extradition hearing for revealing U.S. war crimes.

Edward Snowdon told America they were being spied on and for that he is now a permanent resident in Russia, not for ideological reasons, but he got caught there when the U.S. cancelled his passport. Evo Morales, president of Boliva, had his plane grounded because the U.S. thought Snowdon might be on board.

I know big pharma has lied about their medicines. However, one big pharma CEO told the truth when he said, Valeant Pharmaceuticals chief, Michael Pearson claimed on CNBC, that his company’s responsibility was to shareholders and not customers. I am not sure that makes me feel any better, because he will sell the company's remedies without any sense of responsibility to the lives of those that take his pills. Does that mean lying about trials and effectiveness?

The U.S. lied about WMD and Iraq. It resulted in thousands and thousands of death. Should I believe that grainy video that "proves" Iran his those tankers? The video was shown a day after news about how easy it was to make fake videos was all over social media.

What is wrong with telling the truth? 

 

The dream begins

 This is first in a series of blogs about what it took to move to Europe on a permanent basis.

During the 80s in February my housemate and I took a few days away from Boston to go to Ocean Grove, NJ, an unincorporated one-square mile town that developed from a Christian camp meeting beginning in 1869 when a group of Methodists ministers camped there.

Over the years it developed into a year-round community. Residents didn't own their land, but their homes and those not following the rules were expected to leave the land. 

For many years no cars were allowed to be visible on Sundays, giving a lovely sense of peace as one strolled the streets to the boardwalk past well kept postage-stamp sized gardens.

My housemate's grandparents had left it to her parents who in turn would leave it to my housemate.

Our new Japanese chin pups, Albert and Vixen were with us. We were joined by our Boston neighbors, both anthropologists, who were attending a nearby conference.

As we walked along the boardwalk with the pups, we said how we would love to live in France. It was one of my dreams to be able to live their part time and write then return to the States to work to afford the writing time.

The conversation continued when we returned to the house.

Our anthropologist friend was being offered a golden handshake from Boston University. We figured if we pooled our resources, we could afford to buy a place. We wanted something near mountains and sea.

The non-retiring anthropologist was continuing her research on music and the Lobi tribe in Upper Volta, later to become Burkina Fasso. She would leave in a couple of months. On the way, she and her husband would go through France to search for a place.

In June they departed with their camper and hopes. In those pre-internet days, expensive telephone calls went back and forth as they described different houses. I kept saying "buy" and finally they decided.

She continued on to Africa for her research, he returned to Boston. Later in the summer he and I went to France to sign the papers.

The French have a phrase "Coup de foudre" love at first sight. I fell in love with the village, then mainly French and Catalan people. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker all fulfilled my fantasy. I saw myself writing in the kitchen next to the original fireplace. The house was at least 300 years old.

I even loved the washing machine that took half a lifetime to wash a half of an American-sized load.

What could possible go wrong?

Spenser and me

The writer of the Spenser novels, Robert B. Parker, spoke at the Simmons Writers Conference back in the 80s.

Only later did I become a mystery writer myself.

What I loved about the Spenser novels, besides the story and characters, was how he portrayed Boston.

One Sunday, I had walked my Japanese chins, Albert and Amadeus around the pond across from my condo, came home, picked up the current Spenser novel. The action was at the same pond.

Then the TV series staring Robert Urich and Avery Brooks appeared. 

Living in Boston, more than once I came across them filming and my drive home from work passed Urich's home. No, I wasn't stalking.

Urich also participated in the community and was kind to fans, although I never met him or even tried to.

The only problem I ever had watching, was when Spenser could find a three or four car-long parking place on Comm. Ave where parking places are a rarity matching 72 caret diamonds. Also, my image of Spenser from the novels was one ugly dude. Urich wasn't. My assistant ran into Urich's brother at the Cape and told him, "My boss would love to leave her shoes under your brother's bed."

I also caught a cab once from Logan Airport after a business trip to be told by the cabbie, his last passenger was Brooks.

Over the years, I read almost every thing Parker wrote. Sometimes, later in his career, I thought he was just putting words on paper to meet his publisher's deadline. Now I bonk Susan, Pearl the Wonder Dog greeted me over and over. When I read he died at his typewriter (what could be better for a writer?), I mourned: no more books, good to not so good for the genre.

At the Geneva English Library Sale in November, I picked up Kickback, with Robert B. Parker over the title. Only when I got it home did I realize that Parker's estate had hired Ace Atkins to carry on with Spenser.

My first reaction, was disappointment, until I started reading. Atkins totally captured Parker's characters but added the depth that had been in Parker's earlier work and then some. Although I guessed the reason behind the crime, because a similar thing had happened, there was just enough twist to say, good job.

I also learned somethings about my hometown -- like they had fixed the Longfellow Bridge, known as the Salt and Pepper Bridge.

As for Spenser for Hire, my husband bought me the complete series. Whenever I'm homesick for Boston, I watch an episode, even if he can find impossible parking places, and the Salt and Pepper bridge isn't as clean.

Carry on Ace.

Me and sports

I am the least sporty person you will ever meet. It is nothing new.

At recess I hated kickball, softball, volleyball, etc. I didn't care if my team won or lost because I had friends on both sides. I just wanted to get it over with.

My mandatory golf lessons spring, summer and fall were an annoyance.

Tennis...if I hit the ball, okay, if I missed okay. Who cared.

I can't swim, even after six months of weekly lessons. Probably my mother's terrified "Don't!" anytime I got close to water is too deeply implanted in my brain. Wading is okay.

It is not that I'm negative to sports. There are moments of pleasure.

I will admit liking watching my high school football team play. Part of it was our school color clothing, the hot dogs and the band.

In winter, I loved spending time ice skating pretending I was a speed skater. And watching ice skating was great. No desire to do it, knowing I was much too klutzy.

I loved the Celtics even after after embarrassing myself as a cub reporter photographing one of the best known players asking him how to spell his name and telling him I didn't know much about baseball (I later learned because part of my beat was covering Little League games).

Tickets to a Celtics/Lakers playoff from a vendor years ago were a treasure. We were so close we could see Larry Bird's sweat.

And a Federer anything match is a delight and again my lovely husband saw that we had tickets to see him in person when we were in London.

My considerate husband wanted to buy Red Sox tickets when we were in Boston. He is always trying to do nice things. I told him he could go, but please, please don't make me. We may try a Bruins or Celtics game at Christmas when we visit my daughter.

I am married to a passionate golfer and I revel in his pleasure. I even played nine holes with him when we were in Andora. I will enjoy following him to different hickory golf stick tournaments in different countries that he has planned.

We have new Canadian friends, lovely people and they play golf with Rick. I am happy at home reading, walking the dog, writing, having coffee in the local tea rooms. I am equally happy they are happy.

I don't consider my lack of interest in sports a failure, it is just me. And for those that are sporty, enjoy. Tell me about it. I enjoy your stories.

Cards

At least a dozen years ago, at Christmas, S gave me the purple card holder. Over the years the plastic sides split and needed to be reinforced with scotch tape. As it became more and more worn, I searched for another, but with no luck.

Then Rick found not the same thing, but functional and pretty. I've transferred the cards gratefully.

Hopefully, it will outlast me.