Politeness and Rand Paul

Rand Paul suggested the other day that a minority congresswoman go visit Somalia so she would appreciate the US more. Never mind the idea that by identifying problems so maybe a solution can be found is a good thing. Doing that is not unAmerican nor does it show a hatred for the country.

I have mixed feelings about Paul. Almost everything he believes in or at least votes for is exactly opposite to my beliefs. 

Yet, I was part of an Anti-FATCA lawsuit with him, which I appreciate. We both appeared before Congress to make Congress aware the damage FATCA was doing to American expats.

I stayed as far away from him as possible. I could have thanked him for his help but I really would have liked to tell him what I really think, but it was neither the time nor the situation.

When the leader of Republican Overseas Committee and driving force in the law suit and our congressional onslaught grabbed me and dragged me over for a one on one photo with Paul. 

There was no way to decline. I stood there. The photo was taken and I walked away. My grandmother would be proud of my being polite. 

I do not have nor do I want a copy of the photo.

Jealousy

I was six when I met my Uncle Pat. My dad was sick and my uncle came to West Virginia, where we lived at the time, to oversee my father's typewriter franchise until my dad recovered.

After dinner, my uncle and I would walk to a nearby store. Pat would hold his two fingers out: I'd latch on. He bought me a Donald Duck comic book on one of those walks. Another time it might be a candy.

Uncle Pat was a tease. My mother thought it lacked class to put a milk bottle on the table instead of in a pitcher. Pat made sure that bottle was on the table each morning. I loved the joke.

The next time I saw Pat, I was 20. Just married.

My ex and I were in D.C. where he was at the Naval School of Music. Pat and my Aunt Alma lived in nearby Falls Church. He loaned us an Army blanket that I didn't return. Decades later he was still teasing me about it.

My parents divorce was not pretty. I didn't see my father for years, but in my twenties we developed a wonderful relationship.

Uncle Pat and Aunt Alma retired to Englewood, FL along with my dad, stepmom and several other aunts and uncle. I would be the visiting princess going from house to house being plied with this apple pie, that special dinner. Uncle Pat's house was my favorite.

I discovered the Boston condo I bought had been one of the first flats my aunt and uncle had lived in when they were newlyweds.

I adored my dad. I knew he loved me when he gave me his tamale, his most favorite food, from his lobster, even though I had my own. When I visited we played gin rummy, went out to eat, talked until the early hours of the morning, had running alligator jokes funny only to ourselves. When he came up to Boston, we saw as much of each other as possible.



On a business trip to Miami, I drove over to see my dad. Of course, Pat and Alma were part of the visit.

Both men decided that my beaten up briefcase was not proper for a budding executive. According to my stepmom, the two men teamed up to buy one that was much more distinguished. Neither man liked shopping, but took days to find just the right one for me. They presented it to me, like a jeweled crown.

Uncle Pat had a major heart attack on the tennis court, a fitting place for a game he loved. My father had a major heart attack after his best round of golf ever. Both died almost instantly leaving a huge gap in my life.

Years later when I was visiting my stepmom, she told me that my father was jealous of my relationship with Pat. He was afraid I loved Pat more than him. Never had he shown it to anyone, confessing it only to my stepmom. Good woman that she was, she reassured him, that that was not the case, love did not have limits, etc.

I would never have done anything deliberately to hurt my dad. I was always the one who signed off telephone calls with "I love you." He would answer "Me too." I never said, "I love you to Pat" although I did. It was different. He was my uncle and my dad was my dad. I shared different things with each of them.

Knowing how wise my stepmom was, I'm sure she put his mind at ease. She was the one who insisted he try to reestablish our relationship when I was a college student. Thanks to her, he overcame his fear of rejection. We discussed that in detail.

After learning about my dad's jealousy, I try to think how my actions may be perceived by others. I will never stop showing my affection for those I care for, but I want to make sure that those I love, know I love them for who they are and why. I know that jealousy is the cross that the person creates themselves. My father would never have burdened me with his doubts. I am just glad that my stepmom knew what to say.

Why?

Because I loved him. No need for jealousy.

Updates

Dear Microsoft:

I am a COW (Crankly Old Woman). I use Microsoft.

My cowness is not a constant but goes into full force when the word "update" appears on my computer screen.

I just lost an entire morning when the computer decided to update. Or should I say some engineer in your office a half a planet away decided now was the time to make my life miserable. My feelings toward him, I assume it to be a him, border between firing and castration.

I am still annoyed at the last update. Now when I bring the screen up there's information about a search engine that I will never use. I only use www,duckduckgo.com because they say they do not retain my data. Maybe they lie, but for now I trust them. Also they are not American so I doubt that my information, however boring, will not end up in some government file.

Part of my cowness also is to never, never, ever buy an ad that pops up on Facebook in response to something I wrote.

As for updates. I set up the computer the way I want it. Now leave me alone.

Not Lovingly,
The COW

Triple Decker, etc.

I find it hard to believe that Triple Decker is finally published.

It was a long time coming. I began writing the novel during the Iraqi war adding events as they happened.

It isn't a war story, but about a Boston Irish Catholic family living in a triple decker. For non-Bostonians, the wooden triple deckers have an apartment on each floor. In the case of my fictional family, the elder Flanagans own the building and rent the two other flats to their daughters and their families.

The matriarch Bridget supplements income as a seamstress. Daughter Peggy, a widow and mother of two sons, has been let go of her long-time job after a bank merger. Katie and her husband on the ground own a plumbing business. He would like to move to Florida. Katie doesn't want to move out of the old neighborhood.

The family has Sunday dinners together, cheer the Patriots and do the things most families do. In other words, their lives are relatively normal.That is until Peggy's son is killed in Iraq and after that nothing is the same.

When I was writing it, I had two versions one in American English, one in English-English. There was plenty of arguments with my agent over wording, especially in the American version. I acquiesced on the English-English.

Eventually, I just put it away and wrote the Third Culture Kids Mystery Series.  
The heroine Annie became my friend as I helped her solve mysteries in Paris, Geneva, Insel Poel, Ely, Schweiz, Caleb's Landing and Argelès. She was a part time translator so she could follow her passion, historical research. She had the misfortune to trip over bodies wherever she went. I saw her marry a French police chief and have a daughter. One more Annie book will be out next year, Murder in Edinburgh. I wish her a happy life.

Then I went on a mission to make legislators realize that although abortion is sad, nothing will stop it. I wrote Coat Hangers and Knitting Needles, which I self published. My daughter is sending copies to those who might have a say. It tells the history of abortion throughout history but concentrates on the United States prior to Roe v. Wade.

After listening to the horror stories of what women went through I was unable to write for several months except for blogs.

Then I was going through my computer and I came across the Triple Decker document.

I reread it. Then I rewrote it.

The publication is a thrill. My regular cover designer Deirdre Wait captured the feeling of a triple decker house from a photograph by William Jordan. For years I had wanted art work in my novels. This time I won with a sketch of a triple decker by Lori de Boer.

Giving birth of a book, is a bit like giving birth to a child. One puts so much energy into the relationships. And after the final proofing, sends it off into the world to fend for itself.

Fête des Vignerons

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2rl80GO-Cec&fbclid=IwAR29hX4JjQgeEvtOZTVjIh25VfzfUCQX01M-G1ZPvf_V_iv7oDvO2ySXtms

"Why do you want me to buy tickets?" Rick asked. He was at a conference in Florida. I was home in Geneva. It was December and he had our credit card with him. I had just seen that tickets had gone on sale.

He usually needs to know why I want to do something rather than just waiting for all to become clear.

"It's the Fête des Vignerons. It happens only once every twenty years. It matches the Olympic opening ceremony." I had seen the one last time and was gobsmacked. Not only did I not want to miss the 2019 one, I wanted him to have the experience. Chances are we won't be around for the 2039.

He bought the tickets.

We were one of the 20,000 people in the specially built stadium. Behind us were the Alps. In front of us was Lake Léman. Ours was second night's performance. The Fête will run until late August, with similar crowds appearing.

Whether it was the fairy flying overhead, the 5,000 performers along with goats, horses and cows, the costumes, the lake or the Alps it was even better than the one before. 

The Fête des Vignerons has been taking place in Vevey, Switzerland since 1797 and is limited to five times in an century.

We find that Vevey is full of activity with people in costume, stands for food and drink. Bands in various uniforms march buy and mini concerts add music. We watch the TV broadcast for the evening news be recorded and end up at a restaurant for a drink and a snack.

Then it is time.

We are shown to our seats by giant birds. The sun is still hot but beginning to set. We watch the light fade on the stadium and the mountains in front of us.

A voice encourages people to take their seats.

There is a hush and and a giant "oooo" from the crowd as a fairy flies over the stadium dipping and rising as she goes. For the next two hours 5,000 singers, dancers and actors move in and out of the stadium performing songs and dances. The stage floor is changed technically through a variety of styles. A garden can become a school girl's slate with her notes in chalk or a banner or, or, or... The floor can open up and a regiment of soldiers in period costumes march in with light poles. Life size playing cards take their turn. At different times, goats, cows and horse-drawn carriages appeared.

It is two hours of magic.

Vienna

The last time I was in Vienna, the Danube was frozen. This time there are record high temperatures.

When I think of Vienna I think of Mozart, the Danube, horse drawn carriages, coffee houses, beautiful churches and John Irving, who made Vienna part of many of his novels.

However, I also think of Vienna where my writing mate lives in a beautiful house. When we were both learning our craft and worked in buildings across from each other in Geneva, we would exchange almost every thing we wrote. The critiques sped up our identifying our weak spots.

There were humorous times, like when I needed to kill off a character and I had a copy of the Anarchist Cookbook. We were sitting in the cafeteria where many of our international colleagues chose to eat. We discussed the best way to kill off the poor man. We aren't sure, but from then on, many of those same colleagues who passed us that day gave us strange looks. I do wish she would forget that I put a book she loaned me through the washing machine. Or maybe not. It is memories like that which build friendship if not repeated too often. 

And there was the time we went for champagne. We'd both received rejections, not an uncommon occurrence, but the editor had been so complimentary that it gave us hope to continue to try and market the writings.

Rick had wanted to see Vienna. Earlier plans had fallen through due to health and scheduling issues. This time everything fell in place.

In a short visit it is impossible to see everything in a great city. What we did see gave him a feel for Vienna and confirmed to me there was more that I would like to see. Since I have slowed or stopped writing Murder in (fill in the city), third culture kid mysteries, my heroine Annie probably won't be doing any sleuthing in this beautiful place. It doesn't mean I might not use it as a backdrop for other  writing.

Beyond being a tourist, is the richness of talking with my writing mate, sitting in her garden as we eat dinner and the day cools to comfortable and just sharing time. No longer can we run across the street to check out a writing problem, but we know the other is just on the other end of the computer if needed. We don't "need" each other like we once did and that was because we were there when we were "needed."  Still a note with a "Do you want to look at this for me, mate?" appearing in our email will always be treated with an appreciation of the honesty we have always shared.

Having experienced Vienna in the heat and cold, maybe we should try for normal temperatures. But the weather doesn't matter with an old friendship. It is just a detail.

Ageing

The Shock of Ageing

I was carded in a bar the last time when I was 30. I was thrilled. Throughout my life I have been told I looked young for my age.

Earlier, I didn't appreciate looking young. 

At 16 when I was a cub reporter, looking 11 built my confidence as I had to argue, I was a real reporter and my editor would kill me if they didn't let me in or answer my questions. Afterwards, I would go back to my car and cry, which I guess not many grown-up reporters do.

I had to convince a policeman I was the legal owner of the driver's license that I had just handed him. There were no photos then.

This continued throughout much of my adult life probably for two reasons.

1. I was undertall and thin
2. Thanks to my genes, my skin remained smooth.

However, all good things come to an end. 

I used to be a redhead (Oréal 666 no comments on the number please.) After chemo, I was thrilled to discover my hair was white and gray as I had wished for years. 

Although I still thought of myself as young-looking for my ages, a few wrinkles began creeping in.

What can I expect when I will be 77 tomorrow? Still, I do not like those wrinkles but vanity continues with age. I've made my husband promise if he ever puts me in an old-age home, he is to make sure my underwear and clothes are color-coordinated.

Still I tried to continue to think of myself as young looking (relatively--say 10 years younger than the number of my birth year subtracted from the current year).

Then three things happened. 

A person offered me his place on a bus. I took it. It balanced when I offered older people my place. But did I look old enough to need it?

At the Fête des Vignerons as I was walking downstairs of the stadium quite gingerly, one of the ushers dressed in the bird costume, took my hand and guided me down.

I admit since chemo, when nerves in my feet were tampered with, I am smarter to take my time when walking especially on stairs or anything uneven. It is better than rolling around in the street, which is ever so embarrassing. But that could be a problem under the same circumstances with someone who had chemo at any age.

The third incident happened as I was going through security at Cointrin, the Geneva airport. Just as I was about to lift my small suitcase, which is decorated in teddy bears, onto the conveyor belt, the woman behind the belt burst out and did it for me. Didn't the teddy bears scream youth? Or maybe she thought it was my granddaughter's suitcase.

In all three cases I said merci but realized in my mind, I think younger than I look. I know in choosing my clothes I try to settle somewhere between mutton dressed as lamb and old fart. 

Ageing is better than the alternative...

May I never be too old to jump on a trampoline.

3D glasses

I will I am a minimalist. I hate having extra things in my house. Five water glasses are fine 6 mugs, etc. Enough dishes to serve eight people.

When I lived in a studio lack of space helped immensely in not having stuff. However, my husband and I live in a two-bedroom flat and more things have crept in than I want around.For example I would prefer that the only basket/shopping bags we own would be my rainbow basket and the one where I stash the ironing. Three sets of towels are enough and one for the dog. Two sets of sheets for one bed, one set for the other.

Today was an example how we get bogged down with stuff.

We went to see the Lion King in 3D and it was wonderful. We bought two 3D glasses. The last time I used 3D glasses was before I was in Junior High. I will be 77 this month. We doubt if we will ever use them again.

It would have been so easy to take them home and put them some place.

NO!!!!!

We put them outside the entrance to the movie. We quickly found people who wanted them. I don't have to worry about having two more items in the house that I have no use for.

It is the slow creep of things, a pen here, something pretty there and before one knows it, we live in clutter. Yuck.

DNA and the 1%

I am part of the 1%. No, not the billionaire class or the millionaire class. Financially I belong to the 99%. Let me explain.

Before we did our dog's DNA, my husband and I had ours done. There was no surprises for him, but I was amazed to find I was 1% Norwegian

Now how did that happen? I like to imagine, a Viking, one of those Norse seafarers who raided and traded with my Anglo-Saxon ancestors, was the donated of the genes.

In my imagination, I pictured him as tall, until I discovered Vikings weren't much taller than five foot nine. From my five foot one, that would make him tall, but my undertallness descends more from the French side of the family. With some of my relatives, I might be considered if not tall at least taller.

Now did my ancestor come storming through a village raping and pillaging? Or did he see a pretty maiden and decide to settle down as a farmer, having grown tired of life on the sea. Maybe he had been prone to seasickness as I am.

As a writer, I imagine what the object of his sperm might have worn. Supposedly from my research her clothing could have been on linen. Maybe there was fur linings for winter. She might have held the dress together with a brooch. Would her Viking lover/rapist have snatched it or would he have given it to her as a symbol of his affection?

They might be pagans or been toying with the new Christianity. At least, they would have been able to keep their feasts around the solstices, since the new church borrowed heavily from the pagans.

What would his name have been? I like Bard, although it didn't refer to a poet but means battle against peace. Boy, would that work with some of our crazy world leaders today. Not Garth, which is still used in the UK today. The Norse name Jerk has too many connotations for today. I would reject Roscoe. A friend has a dog named that.

Other names like Frode, Hemming, etc. are names still in use today and are carried by some of our Danish friends.

Maybe he would have been named Maceo, God's present. That implies the romantic story of his falling in love with my ancestor and them living happily ever after.

I haven't thought much about my female ancestor. I can picture her cooking over the fire with the smoke going out the hole in the roof or salting down meat from a hunt to keep it from spoiling.

Oh, how I wish, I knew more about those two people that came together be it for a quickie or a life.

Of course, they would never suspect that centuries and centuries later, the progeny of that act would be sitting at a computer and trying to guess what they were like.

Meanwhile my 1% remains as allusive as my chances of being part of the 1% billionaire class.

What makes an American

If you asked my mother her nationality, she would say "English." The last relative from England was a woman named Elizabeth who settled in Maine in 1636.

She thought of my father as a foreigner, a Frenchman. His family had migrated from Canada in the early 1920s. He took citizenship in 1925. At that point he was considered a British national as were all Canadians.

His ancestor, Michel Boudreau, migrated from La Rochelle in 1740. Once in Nova Scotia, he produced 11 children and became a general. John Sargent on my mother's side was only a common soldier in the Revolutionary War.

I was raised with the concept that being English was superior to every other nationality possible.

I grew up in a very white New England community. The only blacks were Viv, who owned the Chevron gas station, and Celtics star Bill Russell.

Even if my mother looked down on anyone not of English ancestry (French, Germans, Irish, Italians) for her the blacks were fine. As for other nationalities there were too few for her to feel superior to. Catholics were also a no-no and Jews? Well, they were good business people and ran a good grocery store in town.

For the short time we lived in West Virginia, she looked at our black staff as equal. The neighbors criticized her for sitting at the same table and sharing a cup of tea with them.

She had experienced some level of prejudiced there. When she called in our grocery order, she could hear people in the background saying things like, "You take it. I can't understand a word that damned Yankee says." She took it as a compliment that she spoke superior English.

She kept her maiden name Sargent as a middle name on everything, including her newspaper byline and all documents requiring a signature to offset the stigma of the Boudreau name. If I had kept my maiden name instead of my married name (to match my daughter's and to save having to go to the work of change) I would be much more in tune where I've spent the most part of my adult life (France and French-speaking Switzerland). Technically in France my last name is Boudreau, because women retain their maiden name even if using their spouse's. More than once, when people don't find me under N, I tell them to look under B.

As a staunch Republican I suspect she may have been a Trump fan were she still alive. She certainly believed in Joseph McCarthy. My father, so proud of being American, was more analytical. He still voted Republican more often than not. If asked what he was, he would not say French, Canadian or British. He was American.

Both parents knew American history and understood the Constitution. Voting was a duty and a privilege.

I do not know how or why I escaped prejudice. To me it didn't make sense when my friend, who came from all kinds of backgrounds,were nice people. I couldn't accept that they were less than I was or at least less than the 50% English side. I felt I had no national identity. I couldn't step dance like the Irish and although my mother made great spaghetti sauce, it wasn't the same at the Italian kids' mothers.

Only when I left the states and made my grandmother's Boston Baked Beans in my great grandmother's pot did I feel I had an identity and that was more New England Yankee than American. This makes me to better or worse than anyone else. DNA is not a predictor of national goodness or badness.

After Brexit, in France, I've been told to go home. Locals, probably not unlike my mother, see me as English, especially when I speak French.

I am thrilled that the Swiss accepted me as a citizen. I think my new country works about as well as any country can, which means it is not perfect. But having lived in other countries and gathering habits and tastes from them all, I think of myself as an international-Swiss-New England Yankee. I do not think of myself as superior having arrived at this combination because of a series of life's accidents. It just makes me another human.

The current bruhaha of Trump's attacks on immigrants takes my mother's attitude to a disgusting new low. It is trying to be superior by making others inferior. Once it involves the safety and freedom of those disparaged, than it becomes dangerous.

Nationalism, when it means the country where someone lives can do not wrong, is equally dangerous because it perpetuates the faults that they will not see. When those that want to correct those faults are reviled, the danger zone burns hotter and hotter.

A lost list

My father and step mom's conversation was often peppered with those that they had lost. They lived in a Florida retirement community and someone, if they hadn't died, was fighting cancer or recovering from a heart attack. The best things were hip of knee replacements. Conversations could be depressing, but it was important for my folks to share the information.

In my age group then, these occurrences were rare. Yes, a classmate had died in an auto accident shortly after graduation and another succumbed to cancer in her 40s. Vietnam took another schoolhood friend. Mostly, we all seemed eternal. This included family gatherings with all the aunts, uncles and cousins.

I do remember thinking once when on a bus, in 100 years we will all be dead. A100 years seemed very far away.

With the arrogance of youth, I said, I would never be like my parents when I was old reciting the death and dying lists to my children.

Now I am old.

Within the past few days, the daughter of one my friends had died. I lost the friend a few years back. Then another friend is recovering from heart surgery. I told my daughter about the daughter's death. She knew her from when we were all much younger. No need to mention the man with the heart attack. My daughter never met him. I am becoming my parents partially.

I think of all the people I have lost starting with grandparents, parents, stepmom, step sister. I am lucky that out of a plethora of cousins, we've only lost three. Former housemates parents that were more than just housemate parents and a former housemate. A sister of a former housemate, whom I knew from telephone calls and whom I wished I had known in person. My best of friend of 50+ years and another of 40+ years.

Having people you care about die sucks. The expressions passed, gone to better things, promoted to glory and for loved animals, crossed the rainbow bridge...don't help.

We live down the street from a 13th century church. At least once or twice a week there is funeral. The bells toll mournfully. The condolence book is outside and people line up to sign it.

Many of my friends are in their 60s, 70s and 80s. I realize that I may not have them forever. The friend's daughter was in her 50s.

I no longer think in a 100 years we might all be dead. It could tomorrow, next week, next month, next year. It is a reminder to be nice to them.

We have today.

We should treasure it.

DNA

 Rick and I had our DNA done. No surprises for him.

I didn't expect many. I knew John Sargent, an ancestor, fought in the Revolutionary War (not as a pilot) and Michel Boudreau left La Rochelle for Nova Scotia in 1740. What I am sorry about, is I have only a name, dates of birth and death. In Michel's case, I know he fathered 11 children. What I would love to know is more of what they were like, their day-to-day lives.

I was wrong about not being surprised, though.

I discovered I was 1% Norwegian, Since the discovery, I picture some Viking either raping some Anglo Saxon girl or even settling down in what would become the UK to live with her happily ever after. I certainly didn't inherit any tall Viking genes or so I thought. Later I checked and Vikings weren't tall like their Norwegian descendants. They ran 5 foot 6, 7, 8, on average. That is still taller than my 5 foot 1.

When the SPA gave us Sherlock, a three-month bundle of adorable, they told us he was half Yorkie through his mother, something from his Griffon father and maybe other things.

We decided to have his DNA done too. 

His mother was the first surprise. Only 25% of his DNA came from her.

What else was he?

Miniature Pincher 12.5%? Hmm...that means he is distantly related (very) to his friend Falco, who lives at Mille et Un, the tea room down the street.

As for being 12.5% Russell terrier we really didn't want a Jack, not that we didn't like the breed. I had a lovely relationship with a Jack names Phoenix, belonging to a co-worker. Even dog sat for him. One of the smartest dogs, I've ever met. We just thought that breed was a bit too stubborn and too energetic. I need to tell Fi and Jen, Jack fans, about Sherlock. As for Nelly, Fi's Jack, her heart still belongs to Paddy, another breed entirely although she is happy to play with Sherlock too.

He is also 12.5% Prague Ratter.

What is a Prague Ratter????????? we wondered.

We looked it up to discover they are rare outside Czech. Mystery of how some of a home-staying Prague Ratter's genes worked its way through our dog's ancestry. The description of them as a lap lover certainly fits. Sherlock lets no lap go empty. That breed also resembles Falco.

Some of the breed characteristics show up in Sherlock. What his family background doesn't matter. We are still bonkers about him.

Insomnia and writing

I fall asleep quickly and deeply. Put me in a car and my eyes close. Try and read mid-afternoon? Sheep, who want to be counted, are not needed.

So why am I writing about insomnia?

Because many nights between two and four I wake and stay awake at least two hours. Sometimes I read, but mostly I write in my head.

I am currently working on a book called Day Care about four single mothers who support each other through misc. problems. The narrator is a journalist who is writing about the four mothers.

My characters move into my bedroom those sleepless times and tell me about their lives.

Sally describes her mother, whom she used to think of as delicate, as diminished. Her relationship to her mother going forward? Maybe Sally will come back soon and tell me.

Maura, after finally having her daughter diagnosed with a rare form of epilepsy, is struggling to pay off huge medical bills and despite increased opportunities with her company is still faced with the same misogynistic boss.

Ashley, dating for the first time since her husband died, isn't sure she has time for a new man in her life even though he is nice. As lawyers, they share a client, a victim of domestic abuse who murdered her husband.

Anne-Marie turns to Sally for help. Should she let the feckless lover Sean back in her life, continue working as a professor in a field she loves and stay in the US where she is on a hard-found tenure track. Her alternative? Return to Paris where her husband insists their twin daughters stay?

In my xxxxth twist and turn last night, I decided the last chapter should be written by Brenda, the chronicler of the women's lives. Brenda, has learned to care about all four women and their daughters. I decided my last line of the book: "It's called life."

This morning, I put notes on the manuscript, which I won't get to writing for much too long.

Why?

I need to finish final corrections on Triple Deckers to be released shortly.

There are so many summer people here in Argelès to see and tonight is the Correfoc, fire runners. Men dressed as devils in asbestos suits shoot fireworks off their bodies to the beat of drums. It is my favorite fête bringing up all the latent pagan urges in my DNA.

This week we are going to a Rodin/Maillol with Swiss friends we see too little of.

I need to update the manuals about the house and dog for our dog sitter while we go home to Geneva. There we need to:

• Check out our flood damaged flat
• Attend the once in 20 year Fête des Vignerons
• Spend four days in Vienna (as the cliché goes--a dirty job but someone has to do it) with my former writing mate
• Catch up on bills/paperwork
• Have a tooth implant
• Check in with my dermatologist.
• Get a certified copy of our marriage certificate
• Hopefully attend a family of choice get together
• Celebrate the Swiss National Day

All this slows down the writing on Day Care. No matter how many times my characters sit on my bed, telling me what they want to do, chores, friends, slow down my word production. Some things can't be given up such as keeping creditors happy. Other things such as time with friends, I don't want to give up.

As Brenda says in my book, "It's called life."  Or at least she will say it when I get to that last chapter.

What is with men and sex

They say a male snake will mate with any female snake dead or alive. With each new sex scandal it seems if big-shot men can be the same as that male snake.

When Eliot Spritzer paid $5000 to a call girl, I wondered what could be worth that amount of money. It had to be the Royal Oak, Rollex watches of sex. The Ferrari of fu--ing.

Despite my age, I still think sex is wonderful. Making love is even better.

I understand wanting an orgasm. I understand enjoying one or many.

I never saw marriage as being the only place to have sex, which is good considering I was single most of my adult life. My mother said a man wouldn't buy a cow if he could get the milk for free. I was watched much more closely when I replied, "They test drive cars." Virginity isn't as important now as it was then. This is good. Sex is a natural act that humans have cloaked in all sorts of rules and regulations that have little to do with nature.

I understand looking at someone who isn't your partner and thinking hmmm. Maybe once the hmmm would be returned but I doubt if any hunk on the beach, would hmmm me today.

What I don't understand is the feeling that because one is in a powerful position they can use that power to subjugate others.

The Epsteins, Weinsteins and their ilk are just one gag-producing of the male-snake phenomena. That a powerful, talented man has sex with women should not be criteria for their professional lives. If they are abusing women or children with their power, it should be.

Happiness

Before the sun was up my husband bought me a cup of tea and a heart-shaped, chocolate-frosted biscuit. He kissed me and left for the golf course.

I finished the book Change of Heart, only a few pages, when Sherlock decided to be ultra affectionate. Because it was still cool I took him for a walk, or I let him wander wherever he wanted to go, having him sniff to his heart's greatest wish.

The birds were singing. Petals from different flowering plants had colored the sidewalk pink, white and purple depending on the flower. I don't know the names. I just know looking at them makes my eyes happy.

Back home, a shower was followed by indecision on what to make for breakfast.

The solution?

Wander down to La Noisette at the corner of my street for tea, apple juice and a croissant, a chat with Amadine, the owner. I took my latest copy of The New Yorker and read about Macron and the problems of ballet companies that lose their choreographers.

The sky was overcast making it cooler. From time to time I watched people walk by, and then I realized the church across the street was preparing for a funeral. Some of the funeral traditions are different which may be another blog. The ringing of the bells always reminds me of the song Trois Cloches by Edith Piaf. There was also a pleasant memory of watching a movie about her life with my friend from Long Island running through my mind.

I bought a Christmas present for my daughter, picked up a watch that I had left at the jewelers for a new battery, grateful that everything I want and need are within a small block.

At home, my husband had returned. We chatted about his game.

A friend stopped by.

It was my day to cook. Since I had a dream about Chinese noodles, I suggested I "cook" at the Chinese buffet.

The car was pleasant with its air conditioning.

The restaurant was closed.

We decided to try the Chinese buffet in Perpignan. It too was closed, but, but, but Casablanca was open and the couscous was great.

Back home it was time to do some writing. 

How I revel in my life.

50 years ago

As a little girl, I read the Ladies Home Journal's section on events 50 years before. The world of my grandmother, the world of ancient history.

Now when I see 50 years ago, it almost seems like yesterday. In 1969 my daughter was born, Woodstock happened, Richard Nixon was inaugurated, man walked on the moon. The cost of living was different (see the end of the blog).

Then came the 70s, 80, 90s. If I think I back, they still seem daily real to me, definitely not ancient history.

It seems as if I could still walk into the condo on The Riverway in Boston,  and it would be just the same. I sold it in 1989.

On Facebook there are photos of things with the caption,"do you know what this is?" I do and am surprised they are no longer common items.

Equally surprising is when a friend had a bump, that bump is now out of college and may have a bump of their own.

I could ask where does the time go?

The answer is in living day by day. Most of those days were good days. A tragedy or two did make me appreciate the happy days. 50 years ago I had many lessons ahead of me. Now I am reaping the rewards of those lessons.

Cost of Living 1969

How Much things cost in 1969

Yearly Inflation Rate USA 5.46 %

Yearly Inflation Rate UK 5.6%

Year End Close Dow Jones Industrial Average 800

Average Cost of new house $15,550.00

Average Income per year $8,550.00

Average Monthly Rent $135.00

Average Cost New Car $3,270.00

Toyota Corona $1,950.00

Gas per Gallon 35 cents

Alarm Clock from Westclox $9.98

Mad Magazine

What me worry?

The demise of Mad was a bit of a shock, although it shouldn't be. Almost everything I grew up with is gone. Some of that is good, other things, not so much. And print publications are beginning to look more and more like the dodo.

Mad was part of my teenage years. My ex and I would laugh at the issues together even as adults.

After I moved to Europe in 1990 I never saw it and didn't miss it. And I barely thought about it, unless some comment jarred my memory.

However, when an American came back into my life and mentioned it to my daughter, her reaction was -- AHA, something I can  him. She regularly sends him copies. I suspect she reads them first. The issues end up in our bathroom reading rack along with The New Yorker.

A high school friend wrote on Facebook to buy up all the copies possible. In a few years they can be sold with the profit large enough to put grand kids through university. 

Merriman Webster defines satire.

1 : a literary work holding up human vices and follies to ridicule or scorn

2 : trenchant wit, irony, or sarcasm used to expose and discredit vice or folly

 

Mad was the epitome of satire. In today's scary world, a bit of humor is needed to give one the strength to face what we need to worry about. There is a sadness in its demise.

 

Gaff or ignorance

Nary an airplane in sight

I was walking down the congressional building in D.C. with Solomon Yue of the Republican Oversees Committee. I was one of the few Democrats there to talk to various Republican congressmen on the damage FATCA was doing to American expats. It was shortly after my filmed testimony was presented to the committee looking into the issue.

We were talking about Trump and Yue was pleased Trump was keeping his promises. (The promises could be the subject for another blog, but I won't write it) I asked him if he had read the transcript of a speech Trump gave. He had not. I pointed out it bordered on incoherent. My opinion, unqualified but from observation, was the man was either demented or suffering from Alzheimer's. Yue changed the subject.

On July 4, 2019, another example taken from Rolling Stone, even more frightening  happened. (I also listened to the video to verify what appeared).

“In June of 1775 the Continental Congress created a unified Army out of the Revolutionary Forces encamped around Boston and New York, and named after the great George Washington, commander-in-chief. The Continental Army suffered a bitter winter of Valley Forge, found glory across the waters of the Delaware and seized victory from Cornwallis of Yorktown.” Trump said.

“Our Army manned the air, it rammed (?) the ramparts, it took over airports, it did everything it had to do. And at Fort McHenry, under the rockets’ red glare, had nothing but victory. When dawn came, the star-spangled banner waved defiant.”

Even if an ignorant speech writer wrote that, the president of the United States, any president of the United States, should know that airplanes were non-existent. Fort McHenry was several decades later during the war of 1812.

This is the person who has the power to destroy the world in many different ways.

I tell my friends, when I see the American Flag these days, I feel fear...fear of what the US is going to do next and to whom.

Now I am no longer afraid.

I am terrified.

Ideas, research and writing.

Ideas for novels come from strange places.

Murder on Insel Poel was born on a trip from Geneva to the Baltic island to retrieve a painting for my then housemate. The ride had been full of sightseeing and adventures such as being the only two non-police at a hotel where a police training seminar was being held and seeing former Communist watch towers. We also reduced our checklist of German foods we wanted to eat on route.

The staff at the museum that was showing the painting welcomed us. In one of those serendipity moments, we found ourselves making paper Christmas decorations with them and drinking coffee.

As I wandered around the museum, I saw a model of a ship--the Cap Arcona. I asked about it and was told at the end of WWII, the Germans had loaded the former luxury ship with prisoners from concentration camps. Their intent was to sink it in the Baltic. The British, thinking it was full of German officers on vacation sank it first. Some of the camp survivors were able to make it to the Insel Poel shore.

Suddenly, I had the historical part of my next novel, but I needed a modern part.

The idea of sex trafficking and child abuse came from CNN specials.

The third plot for the book would be about the air force pilot that bombed the ship and his romance with a vicar's daughter.

Research on some of the topics was readily available, but I needed more for authenticity.

My housemate, always up for an adventure, was more than willing to return to Insel Poel to get more information. This time we stopped at the Neuengamme Concentration Camp. I spent a painful few hours listening to oral histories from former prisoners.

Back in Insel Poel, we checked more off our German favorite's checklist and explored the island, which reminded me of a lobster claw. 

I found a boat which triggered the idea for a scene where Annie, my heroine, would be held prisoner.

The cemetery and phone book provided names for local characters.

My housemate’s German was the biggest help. She wandered off and came back with a slew of information that I could never have gleaned on my own.

.

As for the English part, at my late friend’s bookstore in Argelès, I met an English air force veteran, not quite from the war, but enough to fill me with technical information the reinforced or added to what I found on the Internet.

It was time to write using my research. During the entire research period, plot ideas were popping up in my head. There are writers that map out everything they are planning. I am not one of those writers. Often, I will sit down with one idea and I veer of in a direction that is a total surprise to me. In Murder in Caleb's Landing, I reached the end and realized the person I'd taped as the killer, couldn't possibly have done it. When I went back to do the necessary foreshadowing, it was already written.

I wish I could say how I built each character. I can't.

Admittedly, I do know some general things such age, profession and general As I write, they develop their inner characters until they are as real to me as friends I see regularly. They dictate to me what they would do. My fingers seem to know when I type a thought or action, that they would never do. In the past characters have almost gone on strike.

How does that happen?

As I write the scene, I feel an uncontrollable urge to go clean the bathroom, iron, rearrange anything even pay bills. It is as if they are telling me I am on the wrong track.

When I write a book, I live a double life…one that everyone sees and one in my head, where I am in whatever world I am writing about.

In the novel I am currently writing Day Care, in the middle of night when I can't sleep, Anne-Marie has long talks with me as to whether she should return to her husband; Maureen worries that they won't discover why her daughter has uncontrollable bouts of vomiting; Ashley is happy that her adopted daughter’s birth mother is doing well in medical school, and Sally knows she will never reunite with her parents. As for Brenda, she wasn’t even supposed to be in the novel, but she shoved her way in as a journalist writing a book and is constantly giving me insights into the other women.
That happened in Caleb's Landing as well when a walk-on role by a neighbor turned into a major plot twist with a dynamic woman that I wished was real.

They say reading lets you live other lives, but then, so does writing fiction.