Helen Reddy RIP

 

                                                                 Helen Reddy 1941-2020

My housemate and I would have my three-year old daughter sing "I am Woman" before we left for day care and work. 

It was the height of the woman's movement and we wanted to make sure she would become a strong woman.

Strength was also in my daughter's DNA for the past three generations.

My grandmother, although a housewife, did what she wanted when she wanted. She was known in our town as "The Woman with the Ford," the only woman driver at the time. She may have followed convention, but only those she believed in.

My mother didn't see the need for the feminist movement. That was because when she was denied something because of her gender, she found another way to accomplish it. 

Couldn't get a job? Start a business. 

Later as a journalist there was no story she couldn't get.

My daughter had not just the examples of myself and Susan, my housemate. Susan indoctrinated many other young women as a teacher of women's studies. We read the research, the books, did the demonstrations and built careers that would have been next to impossible a decade before.

And there were my friends like Barbara the anthropologist? Doesn't every woman go live in Africa and try to become a one-woman peace corp? With three daughters and divorce papers she started university and ended up with a Ph.D.

Were we successful? My daughter is a strong woman.

The most important thing all of the women mentioned is that we followed our dreams, reworked our failures (see the words of "I am Women" below) but most importantly we are true to ourselves despite pressure by society to be otherwise.

Oh, and we also sang "Candy Man" and marched around the dining area while breakfast sat on the table.

I am woman, hear me roar
In numbers too big to ignore
And I know too much to go back an' pretend
'Cause I've heard it all before
And I've been down there on the floor
No one's ever gonna keep me down again

Oh yes, I am wise
But it's wisdom born of pain
Yes, I've paid the price
But look how much I gained
If I have to, I can do anything
I am strong
(Strong)
I am invincible
(Invincible)
I am woman

Who can take a sunrise, sprinkle it with dew
Cover it with choc'late and a miracle or two
The Candy Man, oh the Candy Man can
The Candy Man can 'cause he mixes it with love and makes the world taste good

Who can take a rainbow, wrap it in a sigh
Soak it in the sun and make a groovy lemon pie
The Candy Man, the Candy Man can
The Candy Man can 'cause he mixes it with love and makes the world taste good

The Candy Man makes everything he bakes satisfying and delicious
Now you talk about your childhood wishes, you can even eat the dishes

Oh, who can take tomorrow, dip it in a dream
Separate the sorrow and collect up all the cream
The Candy Man, oh the Candy Man can
The Candy Man can 'cause he mixes it with love and makes the world taste good

The Candy Man makes everything he bakes satisfying and delicious
Talk about your childhood wishes, you can even eat the dishes

Yeah, yeah, yeah
Who can take tomorrow, dip it in a dream
Separate the sorrow and collect up all the cream
The Candy Man, the Candy Man can
The Candy Man can 'cause he mixes it with love and makes the world taste good
Yes, the Candy Man can 'cause he mixes it with love and makes the world taste good
a-Candy Man, a-Candy Man, a-Candy Man
Candy Man, a-Candy Man, a-Candy Man

 

 

Motherless Child

 

                                                  https://watchmotherless.wordpress.com/

These are the faces of victims of abortion. All of them lost their mothers who thought they had no alternative but to abort a baby which they felt they could never take care of. 

This documentary shows the other side of abortion. Not the fetus that never developed but the children already here.Their mothers were so desperate they submitted to backroom abortionists. And died.

In the documentary a soulful sax plays "Sometimes I feel like a motherless child." Those people in the photo didn't just feel it...they were motherless...

It didn't have to be that way.

If abortion is made illegal there will be more motherless children.

There seldom is a good solution to an unwanted pregnancy. Some women will continue to chose abortion. Women with means will travel to where it is legal. Where it is illegal, they will do anything to stop the pregnancy.

Please watch the film.

It took a year of research to write this book. I make no money but send it to pro-choice and pro-life groups if you contact me. Or order today and share, please.  

https://www.amazon.com/Coat-Hangers-Knitting-Needles-Tragedies-ebook/dp/B07DHYJ26L/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=coat+hangers+and+knitting+needles+nelson&qid=1601376332&sr=8-1

 

 

 

Triple Decker

 

The Flanagan family are a typical Boston Irish Catholic family with Patrick and Bridget as patriarch and matriarch. They live on the top floor of the triple decker they bought years before.

Daughter Peggy, a widow, lives on the middle floor. She has two sons, one that gives her many problems. Peggy is extremely timid not wanting to venture far until she loses her much-loved job in a bank combined with a personal tragedy. She becomes politically active stepping out of her tiny comfort zone much to her own surprise.

Daughter Katie lives with her husband Bill and law student daughter Jess on the ground floor. Katie is not happy with the idea that Bill would like to live in the suburbs. When she is not undermining the idea of a move, she worries about Jess's virginity (too late) and relationship with Aidan, a Boston Globe journalist who actively supports Jess's fight against the Iraq war.

To buy an e-book or hard copy Barnes & Nobel, Apple bppks, tolino, overdrive, 24 symbols, bibliotheca, hoopla and amazon.

 

 

 

Abortion is unstoppable

 "

"Almost half of American Women have terminated at least one pregnancy and millions more Americans of both sexes have helped them, as partners, parents, health care workers, counselors, friends." Katha Pollitt The Atlantic May 1997.

A woman who can't find a safe way to get an abortion will try anything. Here's some of the ways used throughout history

Blood letting

Climbing

Heated coconut on the stomach

Diving

Fasting

Girdle Tightening

Hot water on or in the abdomen

Jumping up and down touching the buttock with the heels

Sitting on a pot of steam

Candles shoved up the cervix

Any pointed devise shoved into the uterus.

Liquids of any type some of which have burned the vagina beyond recognition.

Oral abortifacients used

Birthwort

Cyprus

Lead mixed with plant juices

Dill  

Ergot a fungus found on rye

Galen

Gin

Hellebore white and black

Iron cloride

Iron Sulfate

Italian catnip

Lavender

Opium

Pennyroyal

Potassium permangarnate tablets

Rue

Sage

Savin (juniper)

Savory

Scarmony

Soapwart

Slippery elm

Spanish fly

Squirting cucumber

Tansy

Tea marjoram

Thyme

Trupentine

Watercress seed

Worm fern or prostitute root

Black tailed deer dissolved in fat

Camel saliva

Crushed ants

 

Arm candy

 

At a restaurant table near where I was eating a hamburger, there was a couple. This was a few years ago.

He was probably in his 50s, she in her late 20s. They had matching rings on their right hands, so I doubted they were father and daughter.

His full head of gray hair was manicured. I suspected every hair was in place when he got out of bed in the morning. His clothes included a perfectly ironed baby-blue shirt, khakis pressed to where a wrinkle would not dare to mar the surface and a white tennis sweater tied around his neck. His loafers were polished to mirror quality. He looked bored and avoided the woman's eyes. She talked, he said nothing.

She wore expensive mommy clothes, a high-ticket brand name sweat suit and sneakers that would need a loan to pay for if one was of a normal income family. I suspected the Mercedes outside was theirs. 

She wasn't bored. She was trying to keep a whiny two-ish-old happy. It wasn't working. 

My writer imagination went wild as I concocted a story for them. 

He was a successful executive who had worked his way up or the owner/CEO of a successful company (fill in the type of company in the edit). 

At Harvard he had met his wife who helped him get his MBA. They had had four children and she'd decided not to pursue a career to raise the family and support him in his climb to success. Of course she had gained some weight.

Five years before, the woman, I'll call her Amy, went to work as his personal assistant. 

He would watch her and think she was everything his wife wasn't. She laughed, wasn't uptight about the children and when they were on a business trip when he insisted she come along, discovered she had no stretch marks. 

She made him feel young again. 

The inevitable happened and he left his wife and family and bristled when he overheard people calling her his "arm candy." 

Within six months of his remarriage, she became pregnant and refused to get an abortion. He thought what the kid was in university he would be in his seventies. He had had enough of diapers, sleepovers, PTA meetings, badly-played school concerts, a wife too tired to pay attention to him. But that was what he saw. 

His future matched his past.

His arm candy developed stretch marks.

Why...a dozen reasons

 

 

A Dozen Reasons Why

 Why do women seek an abortion? In the year I spent researching abortion before Roe v Wade I came up with a list of the most common reasons.

An unwanted pregnancy has no good solutions. A woman determined to end the pregnancy will find a way. If she has money she can travel to where it is safe. If she's poor she will find a way, many that will kill her or leave her unable to have children.

1. She has more children than she can support financially, emotionally or both.

2. There are physical problems.

3. Her family will disown her

4. It is not her husband's child.

5. It will ruin her chances for an education or a job.

6. There is an inherited disease in the family.

7. She has been told by a doctor it will be fatal for her to carry the child.

8. She was raped.

9. She is not sure who the father is,

10. Her husband is having an affair.

11. Her husband or the baby's father has left her.

12. She believed the man who said he would love and marry her and then left her.

Patrimony

Merriman-Webster defines patrimony as anything derived from one's father or ancestors: heritage.

One of the joy of living in Europe is the pleasure in seeing the traditions handed down for generations. When I went "home" after my first day of working in Switzerland,  I took my dogs for a walk. All the fountains were decorated. People were singing. There was a band playing. This did not seem normal.

My landlord invited me into a tent for fondue and wine.  Although I spoke almost no French, he explained to me it was the Fête de Fountains. So much for the warning that the Swiss were unfriendly and I would never be able to integrate as he introduced me my neighbors in this small village of 600 souls.

The fête celebrated that on 12 September 1814 of the Federal Diet accepted Neuchâtel into Switzerland. Môtiers where I lived was part of that canton. Each year, on the afternoon of the 12th people from the houses near the fountain decorate them. Some are simple, some are elaborate. Amazingly enough it just happens without formal overall planning.

Although we had planned to go to the desalapages, the parade of cows coming down from pasture, the villages did not want the normal crowd of tourists because of the virus. The locals did turn out. We watched it on television. It's held the last Saturday of September. The cows are washed and decorated with flowers. The herders are dressed in native costumes before they head for their winter digs.

When we are in Argelès, the pride of the Catalans goes beyond amusing the tourists. Dancing the Sardane in costume happens are the drop of the instrument that whines out the music. Across the border in Spain, the Franco regime forbid the dance as well as the Catalan language. Both have come roaring back.

The correfoc or fire runners is celebrated on both sides of the Spanish border. Dressed as devils and with fireproof clothing, they dance to drums as they shoot fireworks from their body.

I was  a new bride in the 1960s married to a man in a U.S. Army band based in Stuttgart, Germany that was primarily a PR unit. We attended Fashings and Fests almost every night. The biggie was Rosenmontag which is the climax of the Karnival season that started at 11 minutes past the eleventh hour on 11 November.

I have no idea how many fêtes there are around Europe. Probably thousands. The ones I've mentioned are those I've attended and loved. The past joining the present as we wait for the future.

 

 

 

Terror

If you are not terrified, you're not paying attention, Columnist Tom Friedman said. The full interview is here. www.realclearpolitics.com/video/2020/09/25/thomas_friedman_im_terrified_covering_americas_potential_second_civil_war_i_shudder_at_four_more_years.html

Rick's snoring had jarred me awake. If I'm in Argelès, I can go to the "snore" room. In Switzerland, I turn on the TV as a counterbalance, which is what brought me to Friedman's sentence, the first sentence I heard.

Over the years I've been upset at things that America has done, the lies I've been told. Never, never have I felt so afraid.

I don't think of myself as intellectual, but I do know I've been and am well read. As I age and with easy access to international media, the realization of the dirty underbelly of world politics has increased. 

So many times in the past I felt I knew what was happening when people told me I didn't know what I was talking about. And then time proved me right.

I knew there was no good reason for Vietnam, something McNamara admitted in a book long after the last American soldier had left.

I knew that there were no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq long before it was admitted.

I knew and know that Americans lost the right to habeas corpus in the Patriot Act and no one seems upset. It has never been restored.

Even before Edward Snowdon, I suspected the government were spying on its citizens. I knew they'd spied on anti-ATM groups under Nixon.

Among the many channels from several countries, I watch CNN and Fox. Fox says Hillary says Biden shouldn't concede the election. CNN added the rest of the quote which said on the night of the election. This manipulation of news by taking things out of context is not limited to one station. Words have meaning and weight and how they are used paint different pictures. All those pictures are bleak today.

Already the lower courts have been packed in the U.S. Some 300 new judges, 100 of which should have been appointed under Obama, swing a balance that is disheartening at best and scary at the worse. With the change in the Supreme Court, America risks losing all the social progress made from my childhood after WWII. It risks losing the Constitution if Trump steals the election. 

With the hatred, vitriol, the inequality, the racism, lies and violence that exists and adding the guns and the ignorance, the country is ripe for civil war.

Like Tom Friedman, I am terrified.

 

 

Autumn? Fall?

 

The Brits call it autumn.

The Americans call it fall.

I call it "thank god I survived another summer." Heat and I are not friends.

Autumn/Fall is my favorite season for three reasons.

1. Cool air

2. Leaves change color (not like New England but still beautiful)

3. There's a sense of it being a new year from years of starting school either myself or my daughter. As a PR/Marketing professional we knew September was a good time to start new programs.

When Rick took Sherlock for a walk this morning, a whiff of cool air entered the flat.

Leaves have covered the patio and have hidden the grass in the garden. Earlier in the week, the gardener had removed every one. Next week he'll remove the leaves that are there now and will have fallen over the weekend.

Rick said that the falling leaves sound like rain. 

We will probably head to Argelès from Geneva mid-October.

There is one tree in the garden that turns the most brilliant red. I hope it changes before we leave, but then again we might wait a little longer to see it.

Autumn/Fall is walks in cool air, tea and/or hot chocolate after, wind tickling my cheeks. It's getting dark early and putting on PJs, crawling into bed with a book or settling down with a DVD, Netflix or a program. Of course, Sherlock and Rick are there and maybe ice cream or popcorn. We might do that in the summer, but it is not as cozy.

Autumn/Fall means preheating the bed and bringing out the mink and snuggling under it. The photo is another mink. It means when going to the bathroom in the middle of the night with my feet on cool tile floors and crawling back into the bed, turning over and seeing Rick and Sherlock asleep and I know all is right with my world.

 

 

Colonoscopy fun?

 

Colonoscopy again? 

I'd had a partial when I was in a French hospital with a colon infection on my birthday this past July. This one on Thursday will be my fourth over the course of many years. 

My doctor, to whom I brought the medical reports from France, suggested a complete colonoscopy as a double check.

In one way the procedure is a good thing to have to every few years to detect possible colon cancers. The procedure itself although not pleasant, is not horrible, although I would prefer a good piece of black chocolate. 

It's the preparation that is literally a PITA (Pain in the Ass).

In the Perpignan hospital where I was a patient, the nurses cleaned me out with what looked like two bags of Monsieur Propre (Mr. Clean) one the night before and one an hour before the procedure. Telling me to hold it as long as I could made me wonder for a second if I understood their French. 

I had.

Long as I could was très court, very short.

Back in Geneva, I've been given a the dreaded preparation powders to be added to litreS of water. Over the years the taste has improved to a point I prefer it to milk. Milk makes me gag on first swallow so it isn't saying much. I've learned to drink the orange/cherry flavored concoction in thirds with a few minutes in between.

The result was to develop an immediate, frequent and lengthy appreciation for my toilet. My recommendation to anyone in the same situation is to stay close and to put in good reading matter.

My doctor asked for a stool sample. In fact he wanted three. Little bottles and instructions in German which are not part of any German lesson I have ever had, gave me a chance to utilize my creativity. It did work.

Was I having fun yet?

No.

The colonoscopy/endoscopy themselves are simple. Today I reported for the procedure. 

After a philosophical discussion with my doctor (he speaks Italian, French, English equally well) his nurse interrupted us suggesting we start the procedures. 

"Il est très cultivé," she said when we were alone in the room where the procedure would take place.

She's right. I would much prefer to have discussions on any number of topics over espresso than have him delve into my inner regions.

I had worn a new outfit to cheer myself up, stripped, climbed up on the table. Despite my rolling veins, the nurse was able to insert the needle first time. I'd felt so sorry for her two days before when she failed four times. I didn't want her to feel badly, because my record for failed insertions is eight and that was at the best hospital in Geneva. 

It's my veins. They run away. The next visit I will take her some special chocolate to prove her human pin cushion doesn't hold her responsible.

The next thing I knew Rick was sitting at the bottom of the table. I had a gray fuzzy blanket over me much like the one we have for Sherlock. I dressed, chatted with the doctor some more and made an appointment for next week to follow up on lab tests.

In 2002 broadcaster Katie Curic had a colonoscopy on live television. She's lost her husband to colon cancer and was trying to call attention to prevention methods. www.youtube.com/watch?v=adMfyB-eHoI I don't know if U.S., French and Swiss methods are different, but she did it to encourage people to do the test.

Katie Curic's colon was on life TV.

My colon photos will remain private. I still encourage everyone to get the test. It is so much better than the disease.

 

Words, Love, History

 

As a wordsmith, there are three words I love more than most. 

"I love you?"

Nope not that, although those three words carry a lot of emotion. When my husband or daughter say that I melt.

The specials words are Plethora, Gobsmacked, Knackered. The last two I never used until my life had many Brits in it.

PLETHORA

Merriman-Webster defines it as an abundance or profusion. The sound rolls around in my mouth. When I hear it, what it applies to I see in greater numbers. A plethora of flowers in the garden and my imagination fills the garden with riotous color for as far as the eye can see. In my imagination, Plethora could be a Victorian girls name. Plethora would have blond curls under a straw bonnet. She would have a straw basket of flowers and a white frock also with flowers and an empire waist.

It goes back to 1536 and used to describe too much blood than evolved into meaning overfullness.

GOBSMACKED

Literally to be hit in the mouth. I've been told it is a lower class. Used to express surprise. I first it used when I worked with several Brits in Neuchâtel, Switzerland. My imagination for the word visualizes the surprise on a face. Sometimes I imagine a person being slapped in the mouth, there head reeling back. The hit isn't with a fist but an idea.

It first appeared in 1936 as British slang.

 KNACKERED 

Exhausted. To me knackered sounds much more tired than just exhausted. It is being curled up on the couch with a hand-knitted, multi-colored afghan, eyes too heavy to read the book nestled next to my chest even if I had the energy to lift it and as much as I wanted to know what happened next. Just let those eyelids close. 

According to an entomological  dictionary the word came into usage in 1883 and had evolved from from and 1855 word meaning to kill or castrate.

They say words have meaning. They trigger imaginations. 

Words have history too.

Voltaire now and then

 

We had a tea and pastry at a Versoix tea room after dropping Sherlock off at Furry Friends. We knew he'd have a good day. We were planning a good day too doing things we couldn't 

Drivingdown a small side street, I noticed this painting on a building. Voltaire was talking to a man who could be Jean-Jacques Rousseau or maybe not. I know the men were contemporaries. I knew they had met up in Motiers, the tiny, tiny village where I first lived in Switzerland. But the other man in the painting was holding plans for Versoix, and I wasn't sure what Rousseau would be doing with those.

It did make sense that they would be enjoying tea. Voltaire had a copy of his book Candide, which I'd read decades ago. Maybe he was offering a copy to the mystery man.

 Jean-Jaques Rousseau is it him in the painting or not?

Anyone living in Geneva who had crossed the border near the airport to France finds themselves in Ferney-Voltaire where the philosopher/writer also lived. His statue is in the middle of the village. 

The Voltaire Museum in Geneva in a house where he lived 1755-1760. It is on my list of places to visit.

All this reminded me of the book by Dinah Lee Küng, A Visit from Voltaire. The description of this fun read is below.

"You can't keep a good man down . . . even when he's dead! When an American mother and ex-journalist is overwhelmed by her new Swiss home, a visitor pops out of nowhere offering to relieve her son's asthma, her husband's distracted absence and her problems grappling with village life. Is he the village crackpot or - as he claims - the Greatest Mind of the Eighteenth Century? This talkative character in knee breeches and a powdered wig is the last straw. Though she begs him to disappear, he unpacks his moldy trunk and a lifetime of stories instead. Slowly "V." becomes her stalwart best friend as they laugh, bicker and he teaches her the best lesson of all: how to live life to its fullest."

A side street can be more than a short cut.

 

Pussyfooting

 

When my husband and I began our relationship with the idea of making it permanent, I suggested a "No Pussyfooting Rule." We were about to face enough challenges in combing our lives especially when it involved two continents.

Also, having been happily single for 41 years, I did not need to deal with secrets or undercurrents. I knew that this had to be a two-way street.

Years ago when my daughter was young each school year we would agree on her rules. The last one was always, "If you do something wrong, tell your mother before she finds out." It worked pretty well, so why wouldn't it work in a marriage?

It does. Each of us may start a confession with "You know what your stupid husband (or wife) did?" followed by a confession. Most times it comes with a possible solution.

It isn't just when we do something dumb, but also about how we are feeling physically and mentally.

I will admit that I prefer when he doesn't pussyfoot than when I have to confess.

Today was one of those times. My five-year cancer check had been changed and rechanged. I have the bad habit of opening my mail at the end of a period that can be anywhere from 1-4 weeks. The hospital had sent several letters about the change. I hate that we do that because we set appointments for whe we are in Geneva and if they change it while we are away I can miss an appointment.

However the 21st was right for three different procedures and a consultation starting at what I thought I was 8 a.m. Because to traffic on the quai we left the house at 7 a.m. for what should be a 15-20 minute drive.

It seems the schedule had been juggled again and I had misread times. We later discovered another lettr with another change had not arrived.

My husband's frustration with my not looking at my mail regularly and making mistakes because of it came to the surface, not in yelling, but a calm "From now on, I'm opening your mail."

We did negotiate that I would now open and read my mail when it arrives. Things like not realizing my new debit cards had arrived would be a thing of the past. I'm not sure if it will help with hospital appointments which are now further and further apart.

I will also admit, that I much prefer him to make confessions than me, but fair is fair.

Carpe Diem

 

Carpe Diem...seize the day.

I've a wonderful friend who carpe diems all over the place. She can see beauty that others would ignore. Her morning walk when she discovered a heart-shaped puddle. In the early morning light the cobalt blue of the mud is so typical of her ability to make each moment precious. 

A reminder on how to find beauty everywhere.

So, so tired

 

My husband's snoring often wakes me and even when it doesn't I often wake up. I flip on CNN usually to see Chris Cuomo hand the show over to Don Lemon. The two men are obviously friends and if nothing catastrophic is happening they banter back and forth.

The other night they'd gone to dinner. They were saying how despite news casts to the contrary much of New York City was not violent. Then Chris made the joke saying "except for the man with the machete."

It was a joke. It was banter. They went on to say how sometimes people recognize them. 

Then the next day I flipped onto Fox News. I had never watched Fox News mainly because no one carried it. Now Bluewin, our supplier does.

There were Lemon and Cuomo being lambasted as being disgusting for joking about violence. Their comments were taken totally out of context as the commentators ranted on.

Because I watch so many different news casts from several countries, I often think that their are many different planets being reported on.

I also listen for choice of words. As a writer I know that can be powerful.

Making a mountain out of a molehill seems to be the done thing. It adds to the unrest and hatred that seems to be destroying the U.S. Better to sling vitriol than look to the causes of problems and try to solve them.

I feel sadness for my birth country. I feel anger at those who are helping to destroy it no matter what their role.

Women's Rights

When my mother married in 1940, she lost her job. According to her boss, she had a husband to support her. She went on to start her own direct mail business with cloth toys made by friends and neighbors to her design. Later she had a clothing business done on a party plan. Her final career was journalist, one of three women, one of whom was in charge of the women pages, the other who was a rough and tumble journalist.

In 1960 my world history teacher told me women belonged in the home, because otherwise there was a good chance the children would be juvenile delinquents. My mother worked, I wasn't a delinquent.

When my husband and I separated, I needed a car to get to work. The bank where three generations of my family had done business turned me down. They said divorcing women were unstable. My husband had no problem getting credit there.

When my best friend with excellent credit married a man with terrible credit, the bank cancelled her credit card.

When I became pregnant in 1968 my boss seriously considered firing me rather than have a pregnant woman in the office. He decided to keep me. I returned to work after the baby was born because my husband had left me, but he made it clear, it was not that he approved but that I was working was better than being on welfare. 

Another job, sleeping with the boss was expected. Fortunately he was replaced before I was called on. It wasn't for that reason he was terminated. His performance was terrible.

In another company, the head of finance thought job duties included the right to feel his staff's breasts. I will give the company credit. He was fired when one employee went screaming, literally, to human resources.

I went for a job interview and my potential boss told me how he expected his pencils sharpened every morning. I concluded the interview.

In the 1990s in Switzerland I was told by one company that I would be perfect for the job except I was too old and a woman. I could have changed my sex not my age.

At another organization where I worked, a woman who was hired as head of engineering, was given a smaller officer than her predecessor because the secretary general thought the male engineers would be upset if a woman's office was bigger than theirs. She found a job at almost double the money, the next week. When I took over a department the same man expressed doubt I could handle a staff of five. I told him that previously I had had five direct reports and shared responsibilities for a staff of 250, double what he was responsible. He told me he liked my perfume in response.

When I told one boss that I set my watch a few minutes early to never be late, he said with a sneer "just like a woman." I thanked him and said, I didn't want to think like a man.

An ad in the Tribune of Geneva for a personal assistant listed bust size as a criteria along with computer skills. 

One of the first women up for president of Switzerland was judged by her clothes and blond hair. Another woman was selected, but she was dowdy. Now they have had many women, an improvement.

One of the few advantages I've had as a woman was when they needed a woman, but my

To live when I lived has given me advantages my sex has not had in most of human history, but there is still an undercurrent. We are not equal.

The death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg brings home the fight that women have had to be treated equally. My tribulations were minor compared to many. RBG kept after her other justices to look beyond their own prejudices. 

It was RBG and other women who made my life easier by banging on doors until they opened.

 

 

 

Anniversary

 

42 years ago, I was at a Credit Union Executives Marketing Conference at Tan Tara Resort in Lake of the Ozarks MO. Because, Missouri had not ratified the Equal Rights Amendment, I almost didn't go because of it but the program looked so good.

I was the Public Relations Director of the Polaroid Credit Union. 

During a break at the snack bar, this rather skinny man started chatting. He ordered a milk shake and an apple. I don't remember what I ordered.

At the time credit union marketing was usually a role given to tellers. He and I were two of five there that had had professional marketing, public relations experience. It was a bond.

We hung out for the rest of the conference. Between sessions we went horseback riding, my last time on a horse. There was a quick dip in the pool. At a dinner, I watched his horror as I ordered catfish, a local treat.

When we went to leave for St. Louis airport, the roads were blocked by a flood. We rented a four-seated plane and were awed by the colors of the trees below us.

We stayed in touch as friends and professional colleagues. I left Polaroid Credit Union to start Digital Credit Union, which is now a billion dollar financial institution. He left IBM Credit Union, went to work for an ad agency and eventually started his own agency.

On his infrequent trips to Boston to see clients, we would meet up. We had at dinner Piaf's, saw a show with Lauren Bacall. I took him toe Where's Boston, a multi-media show, which gave him an overview of the city I loved. 

As with most professional friendships, when jobs change there was little need to communicate.

In 1990 I moved to Switzerland. We lost total track of each other. I filed him under good memories and things that weren't meant to be. Sigh.

In 2013 I received a LinkedIn message. "I'm in Geneva. Do you want a coffee." He was at an annual conferences. Luck had it I was. I was retired and divided my time between Southern France and Geneva. I'd become Swiss. 

That was the month of reunions. I'd met up with a high school friend who now had a Swiss partner. I also had a reunion with a woman I'd worked with at my first Swiss job. I'd dated her father as well. She had returned from several years working in Canada.

When I entered the Starbucks, I recognized him from the back. We went to the Cafe du Soleil for fondue. It is a place I take special people including business relations that I like and it isn't a duty.

We caught up on our lives. He had found me when he saw my by-line on a Credit Union Times article where I was their international correspondent. Now in marketing and PR for the airline simulation industry, he discovered I was in Geneva and took a chance.

I needed to catch my bus. A quick kiss and a "same time next year" and I ran.

On the bus, I realized that for years, I'd had more than a strong attraction but it wasn't to be acted on because of our personal situations.

We started to email back and forth.

I was at the chalet in the Valais Alps, when it hit me, what I had suppressed far too long. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. My next e-mail said, "I give up, I love you."

Two months later he visited me in Argelès. When he returned to the States he announced he was moving to France. 

August 2012 we had a commitment ceremony. In May 2015 we married civilly, the only legal marriage in most of Europe at the mairie in Corsier where I lived.

It has been a great eight years with the normal ups and downs and a few abnormal ones (cancer, immigration issues) that we handled abnormally well. 

I am so glad that I admitted I loved him. I should ask him over our special lunch today if he ever ate that apple.

Ethics

 

When I was teaching business communications at Webster University in Geneva, I did one lecture on ethics to about 20 students from many different countries.

"You'll never succeed if you are ethical," a Russian girl said. Her Russian friend agreed with me.

The ensuing discussion was far more interesting than my prepared lecture. Most of my students felt the world would be better if everyone was ethical, but that was impossible. 

It left me with a terrible feeling of sadness. That was in the late 1990s.

I was raised by a strict New England Yankee grandmother and an almost as strict mother on right and wrong. You tell the truth (that was learned after I lied about putting the kitten in the refrigerator. They had found and other than be chilly for a short time, she went on to a long life).

• You pay full price at the movie even if you look like you're under 12.
• You don't cheat on tests.
• You put yourself in other's shoes.
• In golf, you play the ball where it lies.
• You don't pick on someone weaker than yourself
  
• And thousands of more do-what's-right

That not everyone followed these rules I learned at 16 when I was cub reporter for the Lawrence Eagle Tribune covering town politics. And when I met my first Palestinian after the 1967 war, I heard a hidden side of life.   

My mother was in charge of rental events for the Meadowbrook Golf Club where we were members. Caterers, florists, bands for the weddings she had booked in all offered her kick backs. She refused them all.

The more I read, the more I discovered much of what I was taught was either a lie or only a small part of the story. I learned symbols were more important than reality because the reality was hidden. 

Part of me wants the world to be good and beautiful: flowered gardens, happy families, police who do not shoot people in the back, people who do not shoot police, wars that are only to protect the U.S. not to feed the arms manufacturers, people who earn enough to have those flowered gardens, politeness, builders who follow safety laws, politicians who vote for the people not their corporate sponsors, etc.

I am not naive enough to expect that. I fear my students were right.

 

The box

 

Rick opens the box for me. 

The box was waiting for me in Geneva for when we returned from France. I knew it was from a man whom I've known since the 1960s. I knew it contained what his late wife, also my friend, wanted me to have.

He and my ex were both trumpet players in an Army band and stationed in Germany. We did a lot of things together including a trip to Italy. We need two cars because both of ours were two-seaters. We came back through Switzerland and as we looked at the Rheinfalls I never guessed that one day it would be my country.

A became good friends with the woman. We would explore Stuttgart on her day off usually ending up in a tea room with a good pastry. Once we ended up stuck in Frankfurt. And there was a trip to Munich so she could get her VISA to join her husband in the U.S. after he left the Army.

After we were all back in the States over the years we saw each other in D.C., Boston, Florida and Colorado some before some after my divorce. My daughter potty trained herself after seeing her daughter go potty. We met up often in Colorado where I went on many business trips. Each visit was like we'd seen each other the week before. It was that kind of friendship. 

We'd met up once more in Germany. I was living in Switzerland. She'd come to her father's funeral. We went back to the base where our friendship was formed and were amazed despite the Gulf War were let us on with almost no questions. More memories.

They moved. 

I moved. 

We lost track. I knew they were going to Arizona. I called everyone with his name. No luck. They'd moved to Oregon.

About five years ago I had a Facebook message he wanted to be my friend. We met up again, this time in Nice where their world cruise had stopped. The few hours were too short, but the feelings were just the same.

Time does not negate caring.

My friend was three years older than I was. She passed away with dignity, he said. He shared some stories. Although there had been little chance we would meet physically, we had met in our hearts.

I waited a day to open the box. It would make her death final. Rick did it for me.

It contained beautiful sweaters and scarves. She always had wonderful taste. As I touched each scarf, I knew the sweater or blouse I would wear it with, a fashion memorial.

There was also a small silver box with a necklace and a brooch. He had included a note saying that he had bought her that broach for her 24th birthday at the Kelley Barracks PX. I could see the PX, across from the cafeteria. Both were in the same building where our husbands practiced with the other band members. I pictured every floor board, every door even the ladies room. I could imagine him buying the brooch. 

So many memories go with that broach.

I took the letter he had written and the brooch to the garden where Rick was playing with dog. I started to read the letter, but I couldn't without crying. He put his arms around me until I stopped.

My life and hers have been intertwined, unwoven, rewoven, shared. We knew each others history even to little details like why she didn't like peanut butter having been given too much by the Americans when the war ended. I never made peanut butter cookies without thinking of her.

We knew our hopes, disappointments. We shared silly things, painful things. In a way all those memories are embedded in that blue broach.

Rebel

 

Growing up I was told to never wear white after Labor Day. Mostly it referred to shoes. White blouses were okay. 

I wasn't sure what would happen, if I did wear white shoes. Would I be smote by some fashion goddess? Locked in a store to replace whatever white I was wearing?

When I sailed to Germany to join my soldier husband in Germany in 1962, my father, who had driven me to New York and wanted to make sure I was safely aboard, found another young Army wife also sailing to join her husband. She was German. It was November. She wore white shoes. It startled me because the no white shoes after Labor Day had been pounded into me

Labor day in France comes in May. Naturally that is the start of the white-show-wearing season. In Switzerland there is no September Labor Day.

On September 10, I happily put on my white sneakers (baskets in French, Trainers in English-English). They are comfortable. Better yet they have no brand name and it took me three years to find non brand name sneakers. I wore jeans and a white turtle neck.

Somehow it made me feel like a rebel and dumb for feeling like a rebel.

I may even wear them in October? November? No by then I will want my boots.

Panic

 Dedication

To Pauline S...who commented once my posts were always happy.

Situation

We were about to go to Geneva. Our flat has rolloden, (electronic shutters) that we need to open the door. I kept the remote in the pocket of my suitcase. As soon as I got out of bed, I went to transfer it to my purse. 

Husband Rick was in the shower. 

The remote wasn't there. I unpacked and repacked the suitcase. I wondered if maybe I had put it in my computer case, although unlikely because this was a seven-year habit. It wasn't there either. 

Was I going senile? 

Maybe my desk drawer.

Not there.

Panic

We wouldn't be able to get into our flat unless our landlords were home to let us in through their house. Or if we arrived too late, they'd be asleep. Could we go to a hotel for the night? We would need to replace it and how long would it take? 

Rick

My husband came out of the shower. We have a no pussyfooting rule...we tell the truth and let the other know about bad situations or dumb things we do. Although I dreaded it, I told him the remote was missing from my suitcase. 

"I took it," he said. "It's in my green bag."

My husband is a wonderful man. I adore him. 

I'm a bit OCD or CDO (alphabetical order is better). I preplan. I put things in a certain place so they will be there when I need them, sometimes in minutes, sometimes much later like the remote in my suitcase. More than once my beloved has moved them. I will admit that he does it to my glasses but he puts them in a special place where I can find them. And I will also admit that I also put things down and forget when I put them. 

He admitted that he should have told me. Once I stopped shaking from the worry, I forgave him.

Happy New Year

 

To me, September was always the start of the New Year. Perhaps it has a lot to do with 20 years of starting a new school year and an equal number of seeing my daughter off to a new school year.

When I was working, it was the start of new projects when all the staff was back from holiday and all our clients were once again at their desks. People's attention were on work more than holidays. 

I started my life in Switzerland in September.

Although we often spend September in Argelès, many of our international friends have headed back to Dublin, London, Ely, Copenhagen, Toronto and Stockholm in late August.

The tourists that remain in ASM are older or have children not of school age.

This year we head back to Geneva a bit early.

The days are shorter.

Psychologically, my writing has surged with the change of the month. It is more focused with less time to sit in cafés and chat with friends (distanced of course).

The temperature is cooler, and I'm looking forward to the change of leaf color in Geneva. I know that the colors do not compare with those of my native New England, but they are still beautiful and as much a season-change signal as the daffodils and rapeseed in Spring. It conducive to new projects and generating energy for walks.Nature has a new wardrobe for a "new year."

This morning I needed a sweatshirt as I walked around the corner to return a basket and dishes to a neighbor. As usual in ASM, it became a conversation that added to my day. 

Tomorrow I pack. I do not know how long we will be in Geneva. Other travel plans (Toronto, Nova Scotia, Boston, Ireland and Norway are postponed). 

None of that matters. I am beginning a new year and my novel needs to come from my brain through my fingers into the computer.

Happy New Year.

Winners, Losers, Believers

 

About a year after the Iraqi war started I was on the TGV from Argelès to Geneva. A young American soldier and his wife sat opposite me. 

He was on leave from the war. He talked to me about how he was helping to save the U.S. from weapons of mass destruction (WMD).

I believed he believed. I debated from Narbonne through to Avignon whether to say anything to him. He was young. He was proud. He was in love.

How would I say it? I started out by saying he was doing what he thought was his patriotic duty and he should be proud. 

I took a deep breath before continuing. I then went into how he and the world had been lied to about WMD. 

He disagreed with me and I didn't press further.

I've often wondered what happened to him. 

Did he go back and was he killed? 

Was he wounded?

If he were wounded did he discover how little the country he was so proud of to save it from WMD ignore his needs?

Did he ever learn as the rest of the world that there were no WMD? How the president who sent him into danger joked about it at a dinner pretending to look for WMD under a table?

The current U.S. president would call that man a loser. 

He wasn't a loser. He was a brave man standing up for his principles. That he had not been given the education to fall for the lie was not his fault.

Maybe it is my age having been in university during the Vietnam War where men who believed the Vietcong might come to Ohio, Indiana, Arizona and other states volunteered. Many were drafted. But they all served their country. They were not losers. They were believers in the lie.

Now there's a U.S. President who says dead soldiers who fought for the U.S. believing were losers. He denies it. Even Fox news, which first came out and said it was a lie, changed their minds. The news was broadcast on most major international stations. 

My reaction, even if it is a lie, because of who the president is and what he has said in the past it was believable. 

I know men and women go into the services voluntarily. Some do it for patriotic reasons, some for economic, some for adventure. They believe the propaganda they've been fed. They are not aware the services will take care of them until they have no more need for them.

They are no losers but believers. Doing what you believe in to defend others makes you a winner.

Rick has a dueling blog http://lovinglifeineurope.blogspot.com/2020/09/why-do-soldiers-sailors-and-airmen-serve.html 

Writing

 

 

I came across the on Facebook and thought how true.

Both my husband and I are writers. We talk about what we are going to write about (if we know), we edit and edit and edit. The synoposis? That's another story.

Plotting/writing is fun

Creating characters, putting them in situations and getting them out of those solutions or not, making them the age and physical appearance that works is like making new friends. Or if it is a bad guy is making them look or act like someone I dislike is my form of revenge. Of course, I have to disguise the revenge characters.

And I don't want to give the false impression that it is all fun. There are times when my characters just won't obey me. Or they go through the motions while telling me it is wrong, wrong, wrong. Usually a cup of tea will make me give into what they want to do and it becomes fun again.

Editing is fun

This is when a different word, a rearranged sentence or paragraph, a change of name or place, even cutting out entire sections or people and I see the improvement in the story and style. If at the end of a day editing, I can say that "I nailed it" I am a happy woman.

Writing a Synopsis IS NOT FUN

Because my husband is more of a journalist he doesn’t go through the suffering of writing a synopsis. I’ve often said, I’d rather have a tooth filled without Novocain than write a synopsis. If a dentist did that and I could go home to find a wonderful synopsis on my laptop, then I’d do it. It doesn't work that way.

The process -- all of it -- is as much a part of me as breathing -- except that damned synopsis.