Photography

I'm reading After Emily, about the woman who was first to edit Emily Dickinson's poems. There are many black and white photos.

Besides the story, the photos intrigued me. Naturally they were black and white, both because of the time they were taken and the printing process.

Fashion of other periods can tell us a lot about the period. The long, modest dresses, the frou-frous, the hats, etc. all speak to a different time. What I would like to see is the color, impossible in retrospect.

I have photos of me in at various stages in childhood. I remember that the Easter outfit with the blue jacket, the red t-shirt and red-plaid shorts, etc. although the photos are black and white.

Photography has come a long way. We've gone through Polaroid's instant photographs in color or black and white, depending on the film used. There have been high-end cameras used by professionals to Kodak Brownies.

As a cub reporter I was given a Graflex to use. At 85 pounds, I had trouble holding the camera still so the paper bought me a Minolta Autocord.

It looked like a Brownie, and one person who I photographed complained to my editor, that they had sent a kid with a Kodak and he was a busy man. He asked for extra copies and original when the photo appeared on the front page. My editor, who didn't like his cubs being insulted, forgot to fill the request.

Taking photos for the paper scared me until the contact sheet was printed in case I failed. Only in later life did I start taking a camera everywhere and taking tons of photos. I never take people staring at the camera, but look for story photos and things other people wouldn't take--sometimes this is good, sometimes the photos can be as boring as those people staring at a camera or worse staring at a camera in front of a monument.

When my camera was stolen, I replaced it with a middle scale Nikon. It lasted ten days before the shutter jammed and I finally, finally, finally, switched to my phone camera. Since the problem with the Nikon isn't covered by warranty, I plan to send it to the CEO of Nikon and point out that that level of service is not satisfactory and I want it replaced. A camera should last more than 10 days. I will point out that people are not buying cameras and using phones in their place. I doubt if I will go back to carrying a camera regardless of what the CEO does.

In place of the staid black and white photos where people had to hold poses for what seemed like forever, our new cameras/phones take multiple photos in seconds, capturing a story. We can play with the images getting different effects. Where once people were paid to paint photos for color, we now have all the color imaginable available.

I still want to know the color of the dresses in those long-ago photos.

Lunch

Our approach to lunch is my husband and I take turns being responsible. We do want to make sure that is at least the one meal we eat together and share not just our daily bread, but the details of our lives and interests.

Sometimes we present an elaborate meal complete with music. Other times it is more casual. Then there are the days when one of us will say, "I'm cooking at La Noisette today." That is the restaurant at the end of our street in Argelès.

We are in Geneva for several months, but almost every day, Franck, one of the owners of Bisous Bisous the dress store across from La Noisette has been posting the menu du jour. So often we see the photos and think I'd rather eat there than cook. However, the eight hour drive from Geneva to Argelès makes it impractical.

Plan B today was Marronier near our home in Geneva where over the years we've consumer countless meals.

There is another difference: At La Noisette we often sit outside, watching people walk by. Today at Marrionier we gazed at the falling snow out the window.

One advantage of both. No one has any dishes to do after the meal.

Little things

I know it is a first world problem. The fact that I dislike boring gray, black and white things, and I don't care if its a 100,000$ automobile, they are boring to look at. Nothing to catch you eye and make your spirit soar with color and shape.

Thus as much as I loved my new laptop IT WAS BORING TO LOOK AT. I wanted a laptop that made my eyes happy. It already made my mind happy with all it could do, faster than the old one.

I decided to decorate it with butterfly stickers.

My husband wasn't sure that they would last, so, just in case he bought me Plan B--another kind of sticker.

Thus I can continue on my mission to bring color and spirit into my life just as I did with my new boots, another thing that is often BORING black.

Yes, Robert Frost wrote a poem about a road not taken.

Sometimes, a road not taken is done by accident.

My husband and I were riding through the French countryside on our way back to Geneva after a great hike in the Jura with our dog Sherlock. We took a wrong turn.

How wonderful that wrong turn was. We saw the most unusual cloud formation in an otherwise blue, blue sky, resembling a charcoal drawing of a bridge, bird, mountain, etc.

How many times in life do we make a mistake and between what we learn from it and how we correct it, the next step in our life is richer, smarter, funnier, whatever. We won't always say, how wonderful our mistake was as we did about that wrong turn in the Jura, but sometimes we will. To quote Frost...

AND THAT HAS MADE ALL THE DIFFERENCE. It did that day giving us even more pleasure than we already had.

The Road Not Taken

By Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Golf

As part of playing in hickory golf tournaments, 

one dresses as in the days of yore.

My husband, a golf fanatic, can spot a golf course many miles away. He looks at rolling countrysides and deem them worthy of a nine or 18-hole course.

Two years ago while staying in Scotland, he played Musselburgh golf course (generally considered one of the oldest courses in the world) and learned of hickory golf clubs. That is the wood used for the shafts before being replaced by metal. He came home from the experience eyes all aglow. 

He delved into the history of the game, popular since the 1400s especially the development of hickory clubs and was hooked. 

To Saint Gallen we had to go to meet Joe Lauber.

He is now the proud owner of a set of hand-made hickory clubs by Lauber. 

He also has learned of, has played in, and will play in hickory tournaments around Europe. He has made contact with many of the hickory golf associations around the world. He is a happier puppy than our dog Sherlock at dinner time.

This is great for me, because I go too. I can happily lounge around Davos at a hotel that hosted world leaders while he is out on the links or investigate another city, another country. And we will be heading to Ireland in June for another tournament.

My history of golf is different. I was born into a golfing family. As a kid I was forced, yes forced, to take golf lessons on Saturday mornings when the cartoons were much more interesting. If we played as a family my father would get frustrated that I wandered off to pick blueberries or look at tadpoles in one of the ponds along the course.

As an adult I did play a few times, enjoyed it, but not enough to do regularly. Still, I am thrilled at my husband's pleasure.

In writing this blog, I've thought back to my teacher, Tex McReynolds, a lanky bald Texan with a fringe of red hair and patience beyond what should be expected of mortals towards nine-year olds that didn't want a lesson. I was never fresh (my parents would not condone that) and he did make the lessons fun.

My husband has commented the few times we have played together, that I seem to know what I'm doing, thank you Tex. Also when he comes home to talk about his birdie, his wedge, etc. I know what he is talking about...this is great sharing without having to go out on the course.

I was curious about Tex and looked him up on the internet and found this about him. It is too late to thank him for his patience.

'NEW ENGLAND PROFESSIONAL GOLFERS’ ASSOCIATION HALL OF FAME 1999 A native of Abilene, Texas, “Tex” didn’t take up golf until he went into the service during World War II. After the war, Tex started as assistant professional at Brae Burn Country Club in Newton, Massachusetts. Four years later he became head professional at Meadowbrook Country Club in Reading, Massachusetts and served there until assuming the head professional position at the prestigious Winchester Country Club in Arlington, Massachusetts in 1955. Tex remained at Winchester until his retirement, enjoying a thirty-one year long, and highly successful tenure. Tex was recognized as a “teacher of teachers”, one of the finest the great game of golf had to offer. He was a great player of the game too, winning the NEPGA Championship in 1950 and 1960 and the New Hampshire Open in 1953, among other championship events. Tex was a mentor to many upcoming NEPGA professionals and his training and advice helped them to go on to achieve highly successful careers in the golf industry. Tex was affectionately called “the master” by those who learned the great game of golf from him. Tex is remembered as an exemplary golf professional and a man of the highest ideals and integrity.'

So, although I may never have the passion for the sport, I appreciate it: I appreciate what Tex taught me about attitude and I appreciate my husband's love of it.

Writing, writers

A Sunday morning.

My husband, dog and I lazed in bed, reading...well, the dog was napping.

"You use commas, strangely," my husband said. Last night he'd been line editing my new novel Daycare.

"I know, Gordon (my other editor) said the same thing.

"Also colons and semicolons."

"When I was first writing, I didn't use them at all."

"I know," he said.

This is reason 3,152 why I adore my husband. He is a writer too. It leads to some enjoyable exchanges.

If you have time, please visit my website www.donnalanenelson.com

Sherlock not reading in bed with us.

Immigrants

Over 1500 people were at the conference and the discussion was banking for legal and illegal immigrants in the United States.

There was a gasp of disbelief when I stood and said, I'd been an illegal immigrant.

I spoke perfect English, had a masters, was a journalist and published author. I was in my 50s. I was American.

In my attempts to move to Europe I lived in France beyond my VISA. Only after something like 800 resumes did I find a job and become legal not in France but in Switzerland where I later became a citizen.

A couple of decades later my daughter was jailed for trying to enter a Schengen country. She had not been aware of the Schengen limitations of 90 days and had stayed with me in Switzerland, where I was now a citizen for nine months. She saw me through surgery and my wedding.

We had been fined 500 Swiss Francs. What we didn't know, she had been banned from all Schengen countries for two years.

Together we tried to enter Barcelona for a family Christmas a few months later. As a Swiss citizen I had no problem. She was stopped and taken to a cell. It was a battle to find her. The U.S. Consulate said they couldn't do anything, but finally an employee at least was able to tell me where she was taken. Holiday spirit and all that.

My daughter holds a master degree and is in middle management.

It took a few days to free her.

I was a lucky illegal immigrant. I had not been bombed out of my home, terrorized by local gangs, suffered from poverty, earthquakes or other natural disasters. My choice was simply to move for a better social contract and a bit less violence having had two friends murdered in the Boston area.

I traveled in economy class to other countries, not small boats in danger of capsizing. I did not have to walk miles through many countries in horrendous weather conditions. The reason I had it easier, but not easy, was an accident of birth, of being born into a middle class American family.

If I had this trouble, if my adult child was taken away from me and jailed, if I had resources at my disposal, I can only imagine what all the refugees be it from whatever they are running from.

Refugees are brave people, risking their lives for a chance at a normal life. I won't say my experience even begins to match the horrors they have gone through. I will say, my heart is with them and I have nothing buy admiration for their bravery.

Angel unaware

I always knew my husband was special.  When I was going through chemo, the nurses suggested he give a good husband course after they witnessed his loving care of me as well as his consideration of them. I suspect the flowers and chocolate for the staff helped their opinion.

And people who know him find him kind, generous, warm, sharing.

He always wanted to know his blood type and when he needed a routine blood check was called for he asked that he be sent the type.

B (RH Negative)

I know nothing about blood types. I do remember years ago when dating a pediatrician, going with him with him while he transfused a baby that had RH factor problems. Since it was so long ago, I only know that his blood was incompatible with his mother's. One was positive, one was negative.

The internet provided a lot of information but the one that interested me the most was the possibility that he might be of a "parallel human race."https://newspunch.com/rhesus-negative-blood-you-may-belong-to-the-nephilim-a-parallel-human-race/

"If you have rhesus (RH) negative blood you may belong to the Nephilim - a parallel race to us humans. Recent studies have shown that this rare blood group may indicate non-human traits in your makeup which set you apart from the conventional DNA of homo sapiens." 

Experts (?) can’t agree about where the origin of this side order of humans may have originated, citing fallen angels Nephilium or aliens as possible sources, but they do agree on the characteristics which can include:

I went to the newspunch website and saw the characteristics my fallen angel mate might have:

• Higher than average IQ- check
• More sensitive vision and other senses.- if you count spotting a golf course at several miles
• Lower body temperature -check
• Higher blood pressure
• Increased occurrence of psychic/intuitive abilities - semi check
• Predominantly blue, green, or hazel eyes - checkish
• Red or reddish hair - silver
• Increased sensitivity to heat and sunlight check - he absorbs it and loves it. Can't be hot enough.
• Cannot be cloned - never tried
• Extra vertebra -  never looked

Fallen angels aren't necessarily the highest quality. In fact some things I read makes them downright evil.

Of course over the centuries the DNA of Nephilium can be diluted. In my husband's case maybe the good parts of his angel DNA overrode the bad. Or maybe he is an ordinary mortal.

I did mention to him, his new nickname could be Neph. 

Neph/Rick has a dueling blog http://lovinglifeineurope.blogspot.com

French wars

I have been fighting French since university. For three semesters I had a prof who talked only about himself. We only covered ten pages in 18 months.

For the fourth semester I took a modern French drama course. I couldn't stand the waste of time with the same prof. A good friend, who had French as her maternal tongue, loaned me her notes.

I translated them word for word as I did the readings. All went well until I had to write exam answers in French,

"WHAT are you DOING in this class?" the teacher asked.

I couldn't say, "I couldn't face another semester with the idiot professor. He was her friend.

She let me write in English and graded me on my knowledge. It was a good grade.

I then ignored French until I was in my late 40s. I spent 3 weeks in at the Académie Francaise in Toulouse and the wonderful teenager where I was staying with kept drilling me even making up additional lessons. But I had to return to the States where French was not a priority while my mother was dying.

I was lucky enough to get a job in Switzerland and my clients would be at least bilingual in English. The staff not only were mainly anglophone but also came from several countries with strange words for the same thing. I spoke French for the next 16 years with two gentlemen friends not at the same time, took lessons and was functional enough to get my Swiss nationality.

My boss at the company that hired me said I was too old to become fluent in French, something that made me want to do it all the more. When we met at a company reunion, he conceded I had done better than he expected.

In 2012, I remet the American who would become my husband. He is now fighting with French lessons and I feel his pain.

Still there are times I am totally flummoxed. At my hairdresser's we were chatting away in French when he started talking about Sankjay.

Sankjay?

Sankjay?

And it could be hazardous to my health.

I asked him to spell it.

5G. Cinq for five and the pronunciation of the letter G in French which is said J.

French will always leave me humble.

Not quite on target

I know unless I live in a cave with no grid connections, I have no privacy. 

Just let me look up a hotel in Toulouse, and suddenly Facebook is offering me all kinds of wonderful deals for hotels and activities in Toulouse. Good thing I like that city having lived there a few decades ago, still have friends there, never mind my landlord.

Years ago when direct mail stuffed my mailbox when I ordered something by direct mail, I would change my middle initial. That way I could trace who sold my name. I had a chart. It amused me.

Sometimes, now I'll do a search on something I care diddly damn about to see what pops up on my screen.

However, this morning I had to laugh at this missive from Lincoln.

Hmmm do I know Llara Nelson?

Is that the same Llara Nelson who burst from my womb on her father's birthday?

The one who I rushed to the hospital with too many times until we found out why she was vomiting?

The one who played Little Red Riding Hood at Living and Learning Day Care?

The one who passed the test for Boston Latin and graduated six years later?

The one who went to university in Mannheim Germany, Boston MA and Edinburgh Scotland?

The one who visits me in France when she can and invites me and her stepfather for Christmas in Boston?

The one who messages me regularly and we chat about our lives?

The one whom I have laughed with, cried with, talked with, shared Murder She Wrote and popcorn with?

If it is that one, yes I know her.

It's my beloved daughter.

memories

So many of my ideas, plans and memories come in the shower. This morning was no exception.

My three biggies and best are the:

• Birth of my daughter
• My marriage to Rick 2
• Becoming Swiss

Each could be a blog or a book unto themselves. But then there are a lot of little ones. The good ones. I suppose I could do another blog on the bad memories, but I won't. I lived them once, learned from them and put them away. Here are this morning's damp memories.

• Seeing reindeer hoof prints outside my bedroom on the slanted roof (I suspect now my Dad was responsible).
• Picking enough violets from the side of the hill at my house to fill a several inch pewter pitcher. The color against the frosted pewter was beautiful.
• Seeing the happiness on my grandmother's face at my university graduation. She hadn't been able to finish high school, but was one of the smartest women I knew. Her pride in me was as big a gift as the diploma.
• Living in Boston. There was a certain feeling just walking down the street.
• Having my own condo in Boston and walking through the rooms, my rooms.
• Setting foot in LeHavre, France as a new bride--a lifelong dream to go live in Europe--and getting off the boat although a luxury was not my favorite travel way.
• Moving to Switzerland in my forties.
• Buying my studio in France that fulfilled the dream of living in a small loft with all that I needed and not a thing more. Living there made many new memories.
• The first time someone said I spoke good French, though I suspect a lie. At least he understood me. 
• Each cancer check that says no cancer.

Maybe tomorrow I will dredge up new good memories in the shower or plan the next chapter in the novel I am writing or even think of the chicken Rick will bring home for lunch.

I do know, how lucky I am that so many of my days are filled with little things that if I put them on bits of paper and then into a jar, I would have a warehouse with shelves filled top to bottom with stuffed jars.

Nothing special

We were supposed to go to dinner with friends tonight, but the woman doesn't feel well. Postponement leaves us with a quiet evening at home. We can look forward to it.

Today was just that all around--a quiet day but eventful in its quietness.

No rush to get up this morning, puttering around, playing with Sherlock. We later took him to the Reserve and the ruin of the Château where he sniffed and dug and lifted his leg. As usual we ooohed and ahhed over the Jura to the right and the Alps to the left, chatted with other walkers, stopped at the bakery for fresh bread.

Sherlock is "cooked" the expression we use when he's run himself into a needed nap. Rick is going through papers and I need to decide to whether to write or continue to read Inside the O'Briens which captures my loved Boston right down to the words "wicked" and "packie" or maybe both.

It is possible we may have ice cream later or popcorn. We might watch TV or Netflix. Or not. It doesn't matter. Whatever will be fine.

I was single so long I wondered about couples who did things together. How could they still enjoy each other's company? I still don't know about the other couples, but I so like the ease of just being with Rick. It will be eight years in May and I feel as if our relationship is new each day. It is more than his bringing a cup of Yorkshire tea and a warmed brownie in bed this morning.  He is here, all is right with my world if we go out, if we stay home, if we play with the dog, if we each do our own thing.

It just feels good.

Nancy vs. Donald

Is it a farce or drama or both?

I get so tired of both political parties making huge waves about what the other party does until their party does it, then it becomes fine.

An example: It was okay for the president to mock a cripple. It wasn't okay for Nancy to tear up his speech. That is just one of hundred of examples which I won't bother to list.

I wonder how someone reacts to a bully? Fighting back or being sweeter. In the movies sweeter usually wins. In real life not so much.

I don't want Republicans or Democrats in Congress. I want Americans that care and work for the American people.

Brownies

J makes the world's best brownies. When I lived with her and I was writing in my room and she was baking the smell would waft upstairs. Pavlov's dog never salivated like I did.

So imagine my joy, when I received a box with two layers of brownies. The reason it isn't full in the photo was that both Rick and I needed to sample a couple before getting my camera.

J doesn't share the recipe, although she does share others. I doubt if she is as resolute as the women who have had the recipes engraved on their tombstones after saying only would they share "over my dead body." In any case, it is so much nicer to have them baked for you and given to you.

Telephone

The day I got my driver's license was in August 1956. I picked up the phone and told the operator the number of the friend I wanted to tell.

"Did you get it?" Joan said. She was the operator but also had been in my driver-ed class.

 It wasn't too long after that dial phones were introduced and a friendly operator was no longer on the other end of the line. We got one and eventually we upgraded to a princess phones. 

Many years, I received a special very Christmas gift was a Snoopy phone -- the idea was to keep me from taking myself too seriously.

When I moved to Europe I had a normal portable and eventually a dumb phone which I used more or less until this year. Phones were annoying things that interrupted whatever I was doing and I was in no hurry to upgrade to a smart phone.

My husband insisted I get a smart phone. I hate the idea of staring at it all the time. I don't want anybody to call me except for an emergency. It has come in handy (which is the German word for a mobile) as a camera. 

And yes I am on Whatsapp but again, I don't want to be bothered with interruptions. Very seldom do I need to check anything on the internet until I get home. I want to look at what is around me, not the tiny screen. I will keep it with me because it is handy if we HAVE TO REACH EACH OTHER for an emergency. When I am out I want to be left in peace. When I am home, I still hate phone interruptions.

We do have a landline. I like the pleasure of just picking it up and dialing or saying hello not going through all the junk on my phone.

Since going through chemo my fingers don't work well and typing is a challenge.

I am not a Luddite. I will use my Kindle much like the mobile. As for my phone, I almost would like to be back to the days when I pick up the phone, a Joan-like person would be on the other end with a cheery voice.

Molly

I think it is safe to write about this person. She was a friend of my mother's in the early 50s and I am sure shes has left the world. I have changed her name anyway.

To my nine year old eyes she was beautiful AND glamorous. Her blond hair was worn in an I-Love-Lucy style. I suspected she slept in perfect makeup and clothing. Probably her stocking seams stayed straight.

Along with her husband and four-year old son, she belonged to the same country club as my parents. We kids were allowed to go to the dress rehearsal of the club talent show. Molly sang a solo and it was mesmerizing.

I never visited her home, but I bet it too was spotless. Supporting my theory, was her son Tommy. His wardrobe would have done Little Lord Fauntleroy proud. No dirt was ever allowed on that kid. When other kids were running and playing, he sat quietly in a chair looking at books, doing puzzles and other quiet activity. His politeness was legendary.

Molly always referred to him as "Little Tommy" provoking another of my mother's friends to say, "I would like to be there the first time little Tommy says 'Shit!'." Little Tommy would be in his 70s now. I wonder what became of him.

The country club was aghast when Molly's husband killed himself.

My writer self believes there is possibly a novel with them as basic characters. If not a novel, a novella or long, short story.

Furry Friends

We have a debate whether our pup, Sherlock is pampered or spoiled.

When we are in France, he has friends that come by to take him for walks. Some have other dogs that are his buddies. But in Geneva, that doesn't happen.

We don't like leaving him alone for long periods of time. In Europe dogs can go in many places that they can't in the U.S. but even with that there are times he does have to stay.

We were delighted to find a service called Furry Friends. This is no ordinary dog walking service. Chris, the charming owner, takes whatever number of dogs for long walks. Lately they've been going up in the Jura to play in the snow.

Strangely, although Sherlock hates water, he adore snow. Yesterday, he had a wonderful time along with two other pups. We were able to accomplish everything we wanted to do as well. He wa delighted to see us when we picked him up.

Pampered or spoiled...you decide.

Sadness

One thing about growing old that sucks, is losing people.

Late last year, a good friend of decades, died a few days after his brother. Punch in the stomach pain followed by sadness of various levels.

Today I heard a high school friend with whom I have enjoyed much correspondence is in serious condition. I appreciate that he had his son notify me. He was one of the people I'd hoped to see at the 60th reunion in the fall.

So many of my friends are in their 80s and more. I now there will be more losses. I think of all the people from my childhood and young adulthood that are no more.

We lost classmates in Vietnam and car accidents. Some were felled by cancer when they were in their 30s and 40s, much too young.

We can't say in our late 70s we are much too young to die, but I agree with Dylan Thomas. Friends do not go gentle into that good night. I will rage, rage against the dying to the light.

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Internetless books

I am a reader. Last year I read over 30,000 pages in books alone. That doesn't count for each New Yorker nor all the newspapers, most of which are on line.

For the last seven days we've been without internet. Thanks to a good friend who gathered us in as internet refugees we were able to get on line to not get too far behind in work and emails.

Without the internet, I found myself reading, reading, reading. The number of pages is given in the chart.

Yesterday, my internet rescue friend gave me the book Emily and Einstein. I am to page 180 and expect to finish it before dawn.

 

Update: It has now been 13 days. The photo at the top shows what I've now read. 

This is not a complaint. I read a lot anyway. Reading allows me to enjoy a snow storm on a hot day or vice versa. I can propel myself to any time, and country. I can learn about things I never knew existed.

However, I still want my internet.

Communication

Although my husband and I are professional communicators, we often misunderstand each other, beyond the problem with my Bostonian R. He thought when I was visiting the woman who ran the knitting store I was with a Chinese Woman, Madame Yan, not Madame Yarn.

Then the other day I was fiddling around killing time. I thought he said we were to be there AT 11:30. What I hadn't heard was BEFORE 11:30. Boy did I move fast to get out of the house.

Recently, I asked him to buy muesli and that I already had oatmeal. What I didn't realize, he didn't know what muesli was and he spent a long time trying to find oatmealless-muesli. Shows what a sweet guy he is. Below is Wikipedia's definition;

"Muesli s a cold oatmeal dish based on rolled oats and ingredients like grains, nuts, seeds and fresh or dried fruits. 

Developed around 1900 by Swiss physician Mayimilian Bircher-Benner for patients in his hospital, it is now eaten as a standard breakfast dish, and also in Switzerland and Germany as a light evening dish called Birchermüesli complet: muesli with Café complet (milk coffee, accompanied with bread, butter, and jam.)"

Maybe it will be a question in the interview when he goes for his Swiss nationality. Applicants have been known to be asked things like names of local cheeses. He is now prepared in the muesli category.

We aren't alone in the miscommunication category, although cross-cultures do make it more difficult. I did tell him about how the time my Ex and I were visiting a couple we met in Germany, then living in D.C. She was German. He was American.

Our husbands were going shopping. "I need Eye-axe," Rosi told the boys. They came back with everything but Eye-Axe. She sent them out again.

Again they came back empty handed.

Finally they admitted they didn't know what Eye-Axe was until she showed them her Ajax can. "I need to clean the zinks," she said.

Rick's and my muesli moment was like their Ajax moments.

When I mishear, I cannot blame a hearing problem. We have half kiddingly said we are going to have sign off forms that say, "I understood that you said ( xxxxxx)" with a signature date and time line.

Then on the other hand if we totally understand each other, we might laugh less at our misunderstandings.

The animals

It doesn’t matter that Rick’s and my combined ages are 146. We still play with stuffed animals, collecting them not just as souvenirs but as story fodder to stimulate our imaginations for other things we may be writing. More importantly we like to make the other one laugh. Here are our major characters.

Petite Cougar (PC) started it all. When Rick visited Argelès in the early days of our relationship he brought her as a gift, a token of my own status as a PC in our couple.

Scooby II: He is the illegitimate son of Petite Cougar and Scooby Do, the TV star, who was staying with D-L temporarily. Scooby Do had a complete history with Llara’s daughter, who returned with him to the States leaving PC carrying a torch as well as the pup. He constantly gets into mischief such as climbing the Christmas tree.

Giggles is the illegitimate daughter of PC and Scooby Do, the result of a brief reunion in the trunk of a rental car in Salem, MA. Rick and D-L were visiting Scooby Do and Llara. “We should never have left them alone,” D-L said. Despite Giggles’ sweet face, she has been known to store away when she was told to stay home. She idolizes her big half-brother.

Slap, the beaver, joined the crew in Montreal. Slap was named for the sound of his tale and his slap happy nature. It was love at first sight when he saw PC, but she was not ready for another romance. He begged Rick and D-L to take him back to Geneva. They did. Slowly he won PC’s affection with his kindness and his caring for her two children. He even was able to rein in some of Scooby II’s bad behavior. The couple were married on the steps of the Argelès 13^th century church with fuzzy and human friends looking on.

Shamrock, the transgender lobster, is a Bostonian. He came to Argelès on a visit with Llara and decided to remain. His biggest problem is staying out of a pot. In a restaurant where we eat frequently, the waiter took him to the chef, who returned him on a plate with lemon and parsley. Fortunately, he was unharmed.

Sanders The Bern Bear, became a member of our little clan when we were in Bern for one of my radiation treatments. He’d been living with other stuffed animals at a merchant’s who sold them at outdoor markets. He had been worried about being sold to a circus or even being assigned to the famous bear pit in Bern. At the moment, he is thinking of running for president despite the Constitution saying only native-born Americans can run.

Scowt is from Edinburgh, a midget representation of the famous Scottish cows. Sometimes he is homesick for the sound of bagpipes, but D-L will play a bagpipe version of “Amazing Grace” for him. Of all the animals, he is the calmest, a plodder, but the deepest thinker.

In Argelès, there are some stuffed rabbits that from time to time joining this group.

When Sherlock, our rescue mixed breed pup, became a member of the family, the animals stayed home more and more. Although they are bit jealous, they realize that Sherlock considers them shakable and chewable and the shelf is the safest place. Every now and then they do a get an outing.