Heretics and Lovers

For years I had said, I want to write. Then a friend, tired of listening said, "What's stopping you?"

Sadly, the answer was me.

I needed a topic. I came across the Leroy Ladurie's book Montaillou which chronicled the village of Montaillou from 1294-1324. The priest Jacques Fournier, later Pope Benedict XII, held an inquisition because the area had been infected by the Cathar heresy. He had stored the meticulous transcripts in the Vatican.

The book gave me everything I needed. All the characters and events that was just waiting for my words. The main characters would be.

• Pierre Clergue: the priest who played the Catholics against the Cathar.
• Bernard Clergue: Pierre's brother who ran the tiny village.
• Beatrice: The chatelaine of the castle (see photo below) and was the priest's lover (among others for both of them).
• Jacques Fournier: The inquisitor who suffered from OCD.
• The Authie brothers: heretical "good men" who roamed the countryside converting people from the church.

Although the book had the main pillars of the novel that I wanted to write, I needed to visit Montaillou, high up in the Pyrenees for the color. Landing in Paris, I trained to Carcassonne, found a hotel and started my research, complicated by my lack of French.

I realized the problem with the rental car when the gas gauge was up and down not sideways and I wasn't sure if the tank was full or empty. The garageist must have thought I was crazy as I tried to find out mimicking filling it up and then looking questioning. The gas tank was full.

The drive up the mountain to Montaillou was full of twists and turns with few barriers. On each turn, I could see the tops of trees from the turn before. I prayed I would meet no one going down.

Up and up and up. I wondered how anyone could discover the heretics if they hadn't wanted to be discovered even though I knew the 14th century residents descended to Parmiers and Foix for commercial reasons.

Montaillou, itself, was not particularly friendly. Scowls came from villagers as I walked around taking pictures. I had gotten the color I wanted. The castle (photo above) was smaller than I thought. I found the church where Cathar Madame Clergue was buried, much to the disgust of those that were still Catholic.

It was dark when I started back down the mountain and the twists and turns scared me even more. I pulled over when I passed a field where I debated sleeping. The number of sheep that were there made the idea not pleasant. Instead, I spent the night in the cramped car surrounded by the sheep.

For the rest of the research, I went to Foix where Fournier held his inquisition was and Carcassonne where the Authiés were burned as heretics. I went through the château where Béatrice was married. In a book store, I met a man who took me to lunch and gave me background on the Cathars.

It took a year to write and rewrite Heretics and Lovers and many more years of rejection. I was told that history novels weren't all that marketable. After entering the book in the Hemingway Literary Festival, I was surprised to be a finalist. Still more rejections despite the recognition, which gave me hope.

I was still in the can-I-really-write stage.

I put the manuscript in a drawer, went on to write Chickpea Lovers: Not a Cookbook, The Card, Family Value and Running from the Puppet Master. I earned a masters in creative writing from the University of Glamorgan in Wales.

When I began my Third Culture Kid mystery series, I always put in a historical component. Dusting off Heretics and Lovers, I used the story of Jacques Fournier's years in Paris as the historical part for Murder in Paris. These were mainly fictionalized but were based on what I could glean of Fournier's character from the Ladurie book.

Last year, Rick and I were in Avignon at the Palace des Papes. There was a room with the portraits. I showed him Jacques Fournier's.

I've been back to Montaillou with others who've read Ladurie's book. The feeling is no longer hostile, but it is still tiny with a population of 18. Until 2014 the mayor was named Jean Clergue. There were no Cathar heretics or so I think.

The Dream Part 2

So...I had a stake in my dream house in Southern, France...what could go wrong?

Financially, I wasn't able to spend as much time there as I wanted, although my Stepmom, Llara and I had a wonderful Easter week.

No matter that my Stepmom, caught a horrible cold and also fell downstairs. What a trooper she was. When we went to the doctor, she thought it would be interesting to visit a doctor where she didn't share a language.

We laughed when I tried to act out what tissues were at the drugstore. The druggist brought them and said, "By the way, I speak English."

"Why didn't you say so?"

"You were so entertaining."

She loved the Catalan carolers, the statues being marched around the church for the Easter service.

During the summer we went over for a holiday, my daughter, my two housemates and Dan and Barbara, the proprietors of the house. She came back from Africa where she was doing research: he went from Boston.

They were discussing their divorce. Barbara was to get the Argelès house, Dan, the Boston one. It was one of the nicest divorces ever. Friends did not have to choose sides.

Even neutral, though I was worried about being part owner of a house, where my co-owner was living in the African bush. We found a friend, a fellow student of Barbara's, to buy out my portion.

I could still use the house, but I wanted my own. I wasn't sure how I was going to do it.

That is a story to come.

Speaking Boston

I left Boston 29 years ago in September. Boston has not left me. It is in my accent in English and French and confuses the Rosetta Stone German program.

My husband from upstate New York, still teases me that he had to discover that the Yan lady is not Chinese, but the woman who runs the yarn store. He even understands that Cahn't and Ahunt are real words.

He is used to cah, yahd, Havahd and many other words where an R melts into an H. Mostly now, after seven years, he understands, but from time-to-time, there is blank look on his face and I try and replace the missing R.

Last night we went to l'Hostalet as we do most nights. It is the coolest place in town, the owners are friendly, there wines, juices, teas and coffees are great.

Because of the heat and a desire to have a bit of time to ourselves, we left Sherlock at home. Also the night before, Sherlock voiced his constant displeasure that he had to share the place with their cat.

"We want a bahk free-night," I said to the owner. He had the I-don't-understand frown. "Bahk-Free."

Then I understood. I was speaking Boston. He was hearing English. "BaRk, woof, woof." 

He smiled. Misunderstanding solved.

Heat wave

How many days until autumn? Can't come soon enough, although I don't want to wish my life away. I am an autumn/winter/spring person. I hate summer heat.

I think back to the canicule (heat wave) of 2003 where 14,000 French died from heat-related causes.

Our offices were not air-conditioned, although the wooden blinds were shut making it a bit like being a mole. Water was brought to our desks regularly. At 3 each day the office was closed. We did have fans, although the first summer I worked there in 1993 there were none. The heat was nowhere near as bad then. My boss bought fans for our department and was criticized for doing so. Bless him. He didn't care. His staff was more comfortable.

Fortunately, ten years and management changes made them more human.

I lived a 20 minute or four-bus stop trip away. It was toss up. The buses were unbearable but walking home was also unbearable even with a water bottle to sip as I went.

My flat had two sides with big windows and a balcony. The wooden blinds were left down throughout the canicule. A cold shower before bed helped.

Now we are suffering another heat wave projected to be worse than 2003. Warnings on TV talk about drinking lots of water and checking on the elderly.

Children have gone to the headquarters of the Democratic National Committee to demand that climate change be added to the presidential debates. I hope they listen. If they don't they should remember that these are the voters of the future and they will pay. It is not just the US, but they are one of the worse for denying climate change. In Seattle, Republicans have run away rather than vote on a climate change bill. People still buy those gas-guzzling cars.

We all need to act.

Meanwhile, I can conjure up fantasies of red leaves, cheek-nibbling winds and snowflakes.

The animal saga

Rick and I play with stuffed animals, but since Sherlock came into our lives it has been less.

The game really started with my daughter who complained whatever went wrong in her life was because I'd never gotten her a Scooby Doo. She and a friend later scammed me into getting her one.

When she came to live with me for a short time as an adult, and whenever she went out, I had her Scooby do something: iron, bathe in the bidet, get kidnapped, etc.

Years later, Rick, Llara, Scooby, my housemate J and I were all together in Geneva and the game continued. J even took Scooby to the mountains where he cavorted with wooden St. Bernards.

Rick had brought me Petite Cougar because I am his cougar. Petite cougar fell in love with Scooby.

The result was Scooby II. He was a handful. Petite Cougar had a lot of work to keep him under control. His father refused child support, but did recognize him as his own when Scoob II went to Boston to meet his father and half brother.

On a later trip to Boston, Petite Cougar had a brief reunion with Scoob. The result was Giggles, also a handful.

On a trip to Montreal Petite Cougar met Slap and it was love at first site for him. She needed convincing, but eventually gave in, Their wedding was held on the church steps. Friends came and we had chocolate wedding cake and champagne. Slap has adopted both Scoob II and Giggles and is a great stepbeaver/father.

Other animals joined us such as Scowt from Scotland. And Shamrock, the transgender lobster made his/her way from Boston.

A chef where we took Shamrock, grabbed him and returned him on a plate with a slice of lemon and a sprig of parsley.

And there was Sanders, the Bern bear. He joined us in the fun. And misc rabbits.

 

Meanwhile, besides taking the animals on trips such as to D.C, we thought up adventures for them at home.

Even our friend Lydia, played with them. See above. We got home just in time to rescue Shamrock and scold Sanders.

What has been fun is to see other people's reactions when we set up the photos. One woman as she watched Scoob withdraw money from a French ATM, asked in English, "Would you like to tell me about this?" and in D.C. as Giggles and Scoob II talked about the White House, a young man asked, "For you grandkids, right?" We gave him a short version. He may have been sorry he asked.

Waiters have been known to provide a beer with a straw: a musician sat Scoob at the piano (he doesn't play well).

What I love, is Rick or I (and people like J, Llara, Sofia, or Lydia, get a gleam in our/their eye and off the animals are to their next advantage.

As for me, growing up is not on my to-do list.

Complications

How often do we hear of something once and then maybe not for years after?

A few years back, my husband and I kept passing Franck Mueller's watch boutique with the sign "Master of Complications."  Since we had enough complications in our lives, we debated what it could have meant and did it mean solutions to problems.

I could stand it no more. We entered the store and politely asked the guard what it meant. It was his first day on the job. He didn't know, but he referred me to a woman somewhere in her thirties, dressed in black.

I am sure she knew we weren't clients in seconds. My five Euro watch bought on at a marché would have clued her in that we might not be potential clients for a six-figure timepiece. To make sure, I told her we weren't buying, we just wanted to understand what complications in the context of the sign meant.

She treated us as valued guests anyway, inviting us to sit and explaining with examples. A complication is each layer of complexity a watch offers such as the ability to set day/date displays, stopwatches, alarms, automatic winding. The Franck Muller Aeternitas Mega 4 has 36 complications, 1483 components and 1000-year calendar.

We thanked her.

I didn't give it much more thought. A complication went back to being things like double scheduling, a paper not found, a spice needed for a recipe not in the closet. Until yesterday, when I was reading The Grand Complication, bought at the English library sale in Geneva.

At first, I thought the complication was the speaker's French wife who disapproved of his second job, his impotence or his problems with his day job as a librarian. About 100 pages into it, a new "complication" arrived--the search for Marie Antoinette's watch. The meaning switched back to that day in Geneva when we talked with the woman in the watch boutique.

Whenever I know something not obvious to everyone, I suffer a smugness fit. Like the time I recognized a street in the old part of Damascus from a news cast where I'd been not once, but three times. I had a quick attack of smugness, but quickly recovered to get on with my daily life and get on with the complications of normal life such as Sherlock wanting to be walked when I was in the middle of something.

Mornings

"Sherlock, tu est beau." I couldn't see my pup. He had turned the corner. It was before 7 a.m. and I thought that we were the only people on the street, but Elisabeth was already setting out her fruits and veggies and complimenting Sherlock.

With Rick away, I was doing the first walks. There is a calm before 7 that will disappear quickly when the church bells ring, not just seven times but over 30. I don't know why, but it is reassuring.

Sometimes we hear the garbage trucks, sometimes we pass the Glutton cleaning up stray papers and dirt on the street, but not this morning.

The air was perfumed with the smell of baking bread from the many bakeries in town. This is France, so fresh baked bread is a necessity each day.

As we passed our favorite butcher, the smell of roasting chicken came through the door that was still locked. We buy most of our meat from this hard working couple, although sometimes we will patronize another.

After many cold mornings, it was nice to wear only a light sweatshirt.

Sherlock took his time, sniffing and leaving p-mails for his doggie friends and non friends. He finally found the right spot to donate more, which I scooped up with the black bag I carry for the purpose.

I heard a door open. The librarie (book store, news seller, etc.) rolled out his stand with the post and greeting cards. We nodded at each other.

I checked the movie theatre as we headed home to see if there was anything I wanted to see. There wasn't that day.

Another two corners to turn, and I was home. The smells of chicken and bread were still in the air.

Sherlock and I went back to bed for a snooze before breakfast.

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.