Russia/Ukraine

 

It was a lovely day as I left my doctor's after a normal checkup. I decided to walk to the train station rather than take the bus.

As I walked through the UN plaza, a woman approached and asked for directions to the train station. I told her I was going there, "let's walk together."

She was at the UN for a conference. She was Russian. 

We bonded as women do. Before I caught my bus and she went her way, we exchanged emails. It started a correspondence that goes on to this day.

A few years later Rick and I visited her and her family. She opened her home to us and saw that we saw all the glories of St. Petersburg possible. A friend of hers, a tour guide, provided us with an incredible amount of history, although my friend shared amounts of knowledge about Russian art, architecture, and daily life. We went to a classic ballet as well as a folk dance.

 

She had provided us with slippers for wearing in her home that I still wear today.

In a treasure chest of memories, a few stand out as extra treasures.

1. Going to a bookstore so she could buy a copy of my book Chickpea Lover in Russian.

2. Standing near the door where Rasputin escaped to jump in the river after he's been attacked. We were also in the room where he was attacked.

3. She didn't like the look of the cab driver that would take us home so she went into the street and hailed a car, negotiated with the driver and it was him who gave us a ride. It was a private car. We got a ride. He made a few rubles for a few minutes work. Fascinating.

4. Our shared love of animals.

5. Her concern for her Ukrainian relatives.

6. The incredible beauty of the underground.

7. Real life for Russians and Ukrainians, past and present. No commercial tour would ever be able to provide that experience.

There are so many questions I'd like to ask her about the current war. 

I won't. 

I remember in Syria, I was told not to discuss the political situation because I could put people in jeopardy.

There in the heart of Damascus, several people pulled me aside and told me the same joke: "I have free speech. I can stand in front of the White House and say anything against Bush that I want." Not very funny. Rather sad. 

Instead I think of her and her family and want the war to end.

Alleged leaders may think in terms of conquest and the weapons needed to win a war. I think of people, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, husbands, brothers and sisters who lives are destroyed by power-mad men.

 

I was always jealous of the writer Marge Piercy not just because she was a good writer whose books and poetry I loved, but because she was married to a writer. And then there's Nikki French, a husband and wife team who collaborate. I was jealous of them too.

I've been extraordinarily lucky with writing support: The Geneva Writer's Group, the Masters program at Glamorgan University in Wales, My writing mate Sylvia Petter, and my eagle-eyed housemate Julia S-L. So many writers have to slog through a manuscript with no support.

Then 10 years ago I rediscovered Rick Adams, who was a writer too. I won't use the cherry on the cake cliché, but having a writer living under your roof, of working just a desk visible from my desk 24/7 has been priceless. And he's a great husband

Today, we were going through what we hope is the final proof on Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel. It is three stories in one: James, a British soldier caught up in the American Revolution and Daphne, wife of the British Counsel General in present-day Boston. The third part is my notes on how the novel developed.

I've long-held belief that within every written piece: news article, corporate brochure, thesis, short story, book, etc. exists a gremlin. His soul mission in life is to take perfect writing and add typos mess up a margin, change the continuity and do whatever damage he can do. I know my literary gremlin has followed me from Boston to France to Switzerland.

Today Rick and I did the final (I hope) proof of my new novel. Italics seemed to have disappeared, fonts were changed, etc.

What an utter joy to have him by my side (with Sherlock the dog between us) to go over it word for word. His suggestions, both technical and literary, as always are right on. It took several hours. There was room for jokes and laughter. I am 99% sure we got them all.

The corrections have been sent to the publisher. I suggested to the gremlin he take a holiday.

 

Demonstrations

 

I've been demonstrating off and on most of my life: The Equal Rights Amendment, Vietnam, the Iraq War and more. For ten years on my walk home from where I worked, I passed the UN Geneva headquarters. Often there would be demonstrations for any number of causes. When I agreed, I'd spend the next 15 minutes to an hour joining them. 

There were times, along with an ironing board, I'd be on the street, trying to get people to sign petitions for different causes. I can't claim to have done it weekly or even monthly unless there was an issue that I really cared about.

I also called politicians regularly, not just my representatives but those that could make a difference. I would start, "I'm an expat and I vote." I wouldn't say in another district or state.

As I age, I'm less apt to go out and march. As a renounced American, I no longer feel I have a right to call American politicians.

The last time I went to a demonstration was over the Iraq War. My daughter arrived in Geneva the morning after it started. The pilot had announced the first bombing a couple of hours into the flight, she said.

"We're going to Bern," I said when I met her at the airport. Llara, said okay before asking why. She had been on demonstrations with me from the time when she was in a push chair through high school. 

We met up with friends and marched as the bombs continued to fall.

Does it do any good? I really don't know but I remember Nixon saying it affected him.

So today, my husband and I went to the demonstration at the UN. The Plaza was packed with people of all ages. Dogs joined the group.

We watched one woman with tears running down her cheeks giving an interview. Her family was in the Ukraine. 

Signs were in English, French, Ukrainian, and German. Blue and yellow dominated in clothing, face paints, flags. 

Signs were homemade.

One was subtle.

People swarmed around the Three-Legged Chair which will stay on the Plaza until all countries sign the anti-land mine treaty. All but a few countries have signed. Land mines, another example of man's cruelty to man.

The Geneva demonstration was one of many all over the world. Millions marched against the Iraq war, yet it went on and on and on and ...

When we left we passed two monuments dedicated to victims of other wars.

I think of the Peter, Paul and Mary anti-war song "Where Have All The Flowers Gone?" and the lyric, "When will they ever learn?"

I was born during WWII. I only remember the end and I asked why people were so happy. "The war is over," I was told. I didn't know what a war was, but I was happy they were happy.

Since then I've lived through too many wars or conflicts as they are called. When bombs drop and soldiers shoot guns, it doesn't matter what it is called. People are just as dead.

War had marked my 79 years. I'm tired of war. When will we ever learn.

Book Temples AKA Libraries

Libraries -- Yes I'm calling libraries temples. They have enriched my life. Every book I read allows me insights, escapism, knowledge and hours of enjoyment.

Reading Public Library

I was around 10 when I discovered the children's room at the Reading Public Library. I fell in love with the twin series, stories about how twins, who were my age, lived in different countries such as France and China. 

Foot binding? Wow. 

Looking back, the stories were rather racist or xenophobic with a bit of reality, but it did add to my desire to see the rest of the world.

My favorite kid's book, "Summer at Buckhorn" I took out several times to read about five children spending their summer vacation on a farm. From time to time, I've looked for a copy, but a three-figure price is more than I want to pay to relive a memory. The five Rose children still run around barefoot in my brain.

The library had a special meaning when my mother insisted I break my engagement. I was 20. My future husband and I planned to elope, but first I needed to escape. I pretended to go to my summer job at Pleasure Island, a encapsulated Disneyland. The plan: my college roommate Betty would pick me up and I would wait at her house until my future could get leave from D.C. where he was at the Naval School of Music.

While she was driving from Springfield, I hid upstairs in the library. There was a very uncomfortable wooden chair, but I could see the parking lot where she would come. During the time it took her to arrive I read "The Man with the Golden Arm."

The library has been converted to the town hall and the new library is in my old Highland Street School where I went to 5th Grade.

 

Kelley Barracks Library Stuttgart, Germany 

I was worried about reading matter when I moved to Stuttgart, Germany to join my husband who was in an Army Band. As a PFC and then a Spec4 money was so tight, that there might not be enough money for food at the end of the month. Buying books wasn't in the budget.

However, Kelley Barracks had a wonderful library. I feel in love with Taylor Cadwell and also was able to enjoy "Atlas Shrugged" which I didn't like when I was in junior high. I reread it five years later and decided it was pure crap. The library was small but had more than enough books to keep me in reading material for two years.

Lowell University Library

Back in the States I became an English major/History minor at what today is Lowell University. The name has changed several times. Between classes I was usually at the library. Between being a full-time student, working almost full time at a dry cleaner, every minute was precious.

When my brain needed a break, I would take a few minutes break and read "Punch Magazine."

It was there a made a good friend who shared most of my classes. We studied for exams together and discussed our studies. She helped me through a modern French drama class, that I had no business taking. I think my B was for my courage for taking the course.

Although we went our separate ways, we have reconnected, visited on the Cape where she lives and met up in France several times. In our emails we're still discussing books.

 

Boston Public Library/Parker Hill Branch

As a student I used the BPL to research papers including on the loss of colonies of the British Empire for Dr. Patricia Goler, probably one of the most brilliant teachers I've ever had. When I moved to Boston, I would love going into the periodical room and reading old "Time" and "Newsweek" magazines.

However, it was the Parker Hill Branch around the corner and a block up the street from where we lived. The staff were friends and their hours were such that if I were in danger of running out of reading matter at 6, I could run up the streets and renew my supply of books.

Brookline Public Library

My daughter's first job at 16 was at the Brookline Public Library. I would pick her up at night when her shift was over. They had the magazine "Paris Match" and it increased my desire to move back to Europe.

I was writing "The Card" and although I tried to find a lot on Danny Cohn-Bendit and the student revolution that brought down DeGaulle for a scene where one of my heroines meets him, there was almost nothing. Little did I know decades later would I have coffee and regularly chat with one his co-fighters who lives in Argelès. 

My daughter worked at the library off and on until her mid-twenties. 

 

English Library in Geneva

When I first moved to Switzerland, I lived in Neuchâtel and my books were those that were shared among the Anglo community.

What a joy when I moved to Geneva to discover the English library. They have over 10,000 books and they keep buying English and American books as they are published. 

And...

In 2018 I started keeping an Excel spreadsheet on what I read and the number of pages. It has been between 31,000 and 39,000 each year. I do it partially because when I pick up a book by a prolific author, I can check if I have read it before. The page numbers were started because I was curious.

My reading is eclectic, everything from chic lit, misery lit, literature, mysteries, history, biography, politics, poetry and whatever catches my fancy and is available.  

I should read more French, but I'm lazy. I will admit when I do read French, it has to be fascinating and I savor every word in a different way. 

I don't care if a book is pre-read and I love it if the previous reader made notes. When I lived on Wigglesworth Street in Boston, we exchanged books with our neighbor Hiram Manning. In one book, which was under-wonderful, he'd written "not another damned chignon."

We don't keep all our books. We share them with the Anglo community. Also it is a matter of space. Sometimes I buy a book several times having given it away too often. I've bought Alice Walker's "Horses Make a Landscape More Beautiful" three times and I'm thinking of making it four times.

E-books are fine. There's a certain security in knowing I can get whatever I want when I want it. They don't take up space or need to be dusted. On the other hand, my Kindle, even in its pretty case can need to be recharged at the wrong moment and there are those extended energy failures from storms. 

And paper has a feel to it. An old book has a special smell better than any perfume or maybe an incense.

My gratitude to my mother and grandmother for reading to me from infancy on until I learned to read myself, although the boring Dick and Jane books of first grade could have turned me off reading forever.

I have lived so many more lives, known so many more people real and fictional, seen so many different places, learned so much through books.

 

I'm the first to admit that I can be an old fogey that reminisces about the good old days or the almost good old days. I also admit to spending hours today playing games on-line which was impossible in those almost good old days.

One of the things I loved were paper dolls. I have no idea on how many I had, but it would have created a small community. I'm sure my parents were happy but the cost of a paper doll book with wardrobe was a fraction of the cost of a real doll and a real doll wardrobe.

Any future predictions of my embracing minimalism were not apparent.

My paper dolls were extremely well-dressed. Their wardrobe choices exceeded my four-person family's clothes together. Not only did they have the clothes that came in the book with the doll and her wardrobe, my mother and I would create more slacks, blouses, suits, dresses, skirts, PJs, nightgowns. We also created clothes for the dolls adventures as archeologists, nurses, doctors (I was an early feminist who made women dolls doctors when there were few).

They were colored either with colored pencils or Crayolas. My mother never skimped on making sure we had all the art supplies we needed.

There was on difference between home made paper doll clothes and the clothes that came from the book. The tabs. In our clothes we could make the tabs longer which meant the dolls were less to end up in their undies as their clothes fell away.

Paper clips could compensate for the shorter tabs, but then I had to make up some story about why the paper clip was part of the outfit.

Not only were my paper well dressed they were well loved. Winter days I would spend hours after school creating stories for them to act out. We were in ancient Greece, the Wild West, on a ship lost at sea, an acting company putting on a play, written by me of course. 

I suppose I'm lucky to have lived in the almost good old days, which were far simpler than today. Yet, don't try and take my laptop and an internet connection from me in the almost good current days. I'm lucky to have lived through both.

 

Castaway 2000

 

It is hard to believe that it has been 22 years since I avidly watched Castaway 2000, a precursor almost to reality shows. It is available through some streaming.

Thirty-six ordinary British men, women and children spent a year on the Scottish island of Taransay. Their goal was to build a self-sustaining  community. It was an experiment. They had buildings but not much else. They grew their own vegetables, raised their own animals, and learned to get along, more or less. 

A doctor and a teacher were among the castaways to fill some modern needs.

There was no production crew. Filming was done in a "dirty room" and regularly picked up by the producers to edit for the BBC.

People were not supposed to leave: but exceptions were made for family emergencies.

Mostly everyone worked well together, but tensions did arise, not to make good television but because that's how people are. There was an uprising and one family left before the year ended.

Because of where it was filmed, the weather was often unpleasant. I imagine on an island in a warmer clime, there might have been different issues, challengers, results.

Unlike the reality shows that followed, there was no winner. Succeeding in daily chores and relationships was winning. I like that. 

Later when I watched The Bigger Loser, I thought how much better it would be if the winner shared the prize with the runner-up. To me the concept of winning or losing is detrimental to development overall, not just on a TV documentary.

With the exception of Ben Fogle, the only participant that continued in television where he is a presenter, producer of different programs mostly documentaries. 

I would love to see more this type of "reality" show with life being the major competitor not people. It is interesting to see how people act out of their comfort zone and comfort zone can be social and physical.  

Grief, Crisis

 

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=83boOmd9cb8

I had almost forgotten that Rick and I made this video to send to several friends that were going through crisis and loss. We've heard back that it helped. 

 

Hospital Sunshine

 

I fainted while walking the dog. A neighbor helped me home and Rick took me to HUG.

Hug stands for Hôpitaux universitaires de Geneve and is pronounced WHOG with a hard G. I like to think of it as the English pronunciation Hug. It certainly has been a caring place for me more often than I would have liked over the years.

At HUG they did test after test to find no reason for my fainting, but kept me overnight for observation, causing relief to Rick, who feels his medical training (non existent) would be insufficient in case I fainted again.

My nose is broken, my second broken bone in my long life. I have blackening eyes. No pain. It's not like when I fainted years ago and broke my cheekbone and had to have surgery and couldn't blow my nose for several weeks. We had a big blow out and friends from all over the world to blow with me fir the first time I could at the same minute (adjusting for time differences). Of course we posted videos. Then we had champagne.

I was put in a ward with the beds labelled A,B,C,D,E. All were empty when they placed me in E, but by morning we were full up.

It was decreed that I was able to go to the toilet on my own. The WC was next to bed E. The hospital colors aren't. White or beige is everywhere. Sometimes a medical worker will sport a colorful sweater, but it's rare. 

In the WC was a sunshine yellow closet door. It lit up my night. One can find sunshine and happiness in the most unexpected places.

Now, I need to deal with the fallout from fainting (love the alliteration there).

There are tiny scratches on my brand new glasses. If we can't get the same frames to match my white hair (ya, ya, ya -- I know I'm a freak when it comes to responding to color -- we'll have new lenses put in.

My regular doctor has been notified to do whatever follow up tests he may deem necessary.

Back home, I'm feeling tsunamis of gratitude. Neighbors who care. Friends who care (and bring wonderful pastries). A husband who thinks of things like a hair brush when he picked me up along with clean undies (matching even). A medical system that will not bankrupt me for the overnight stay. My insurance company might be less happy.

Yup, I'm a lucky woman.

The other half

 

How the other half lives, often refers to the rich.

Many people think we are rich. After all we have "homes" in Switzerland and the South of France. 

Er ... not so fast.

But by a bizarre twist of fate, we have rented a studio, a kind of mother-in-law apartment, in an area where not only is it the other half, there's a smattering of the 1%ers.

The château in the photo was built for the Duke of Savoy Charles Emmanuel II in 1666, a five minute walk from our studio. We knew it as the home of the Aga Khan. One of our goals was to try and get a smile out of the body guards who are sometimes at the gate as we walk Sherlock by. Sometimes they did, usually if we asked if they were bored.

We hadn't realized that the Aga Khan had died and the château had been sold to Dinara Kulibaeva, whose worth is in the billions. This is her second property. She has another house in the next village.

Wealth like that does not compute.

I feel wealthy. We have enough. More than enough. Our home in the South of France is a two-bedroom flat in the center of a village. The building is at least 400 years old. There's plumbing and electricity. I suspect at one time, cattle and/or chickens were kept where we now live.

In both places we have beautiful scenery, fresh food be it bread coming from a bakery oven or fruits and veggies grown nearby.

We have a car that takes us back and forth. Because it was boring gray and hard to identify in a parking lot we covered it with blue butterfly stickers that make us smile. It's great on gas.

We have neighbors and friends that bring us pleasure.

We love our work as writers.

We have a dog that brings us laughs and cuddles.

If we run into the problems of ordinary living, we work through them. Annoyance yes, but anger no. Our homes are a place or peace and positive reinforcement.

I could list so many things that make us happy without having billions of any currency. We are in the half of the population without great wealth, but I like it here. It's okay to be a peasant, however, it is fun to peek.

Books, Blume, Banning

 

Judy Blume turned 84 on February 12th, Abraham Lincoln's birthday. A list of her works from Wikipedia is below.

My daughter is 53. As a teen, she read and reread Blume's books until the pages fell out. Even if Llara were thin, Blubber was one of her favorites.

In today's craziness where once again book banning is being used as a political tool, we can look back when her books were sometimes banned. One reason was in Forever where sex is discussed, something not done in 1975. Dealing with the reality of life without sugar coating may be why my daughter loved her so. 

Blume has fought against censorship and a member of https://ncac.org/ the National Coalition Against Censorship.

Not just a writer, she is a co-founder of Books & Books, a non-profit and independent bookstore. Books & Books. It has since expanded to eight locations, in the Miami area and  with branches in Grand Cayman and Westhampton Beach on Long Island, and now Key West.

A belated happy birthday, Judy Blume and thank you for your work both writing and fighting against book banning.

Children’s books

• The One in the Middle is the Green Kangaroo (1969)
• Iggie’s House (1970)
• Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing (1972)
• Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great (1972)
• It’s Not the End of the World (1972)
• The Pain and the Great One (1974)
• Blubber (1974)
• Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself (1977)
• Freckle Juice (1978)
• Superfudge (1980)
• Just as Long as We’re Together (1986)
• Fudge-a-Mania (1990)
• Double Fudge (2002)
• Soupy Saturdays with the Pain and the Great One (2007)
• Cool Zone with the Pain and the Great One (2008)
• Going, Going, Gone! With the Pain and the Great One (2008)
• Friend or Fiend? With the Pain and the Great One (2008)^[4]

Young adult books

• Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret (1970)
• Then Again, Maybe I Won’t (1971)
• Deenie (1973)
• Forever (1975)
• Tiger Eyes (1981)
• Just as Long as We're Together (1987)
• Here’s to You, Rachel Robinson (1993)
• Places I Never Meant to Be (1999)^[4]

Adult books

• Wifey (1978)
• Smart Women (1983)
• Summer Sisters (1998)
• In the Unlikely Event (2015)^[4]

Collaborative short stories

• It’s Fine to Be Nine (2000)
• It’s Heaven to Be Seven (2000)^[43]

Non-fiction books

• The Judy Blume Diary (1981)
• Letter to Judy: What Your Kids Wish They Could Tell You (1986)
• The Judy Blume Memory Book (1988)^[4]

Superbowl Geneva Style

 

The Superbowl isn't a big thing in Geneva. Sometimes certain bars will show it for American expats. The word Pats to me is Bostonian for the Patriots also. 

Even when I lived in Boston, Superbowl parties weren't a big thing among my friends, although a favorite memory was when my coworkers held one when the Pats were playing. I forgot who won, but I suspect they won, because they are the Pats. I do remember "Sink the Fish" was the battle cry (could have been another game). The nibblies were great.

As a kid, high school football games on Saturday afternoons were the rule. We wore Black and Red clothes, our school colors. Because of that, football is one of the few sports I enjoy watching if it isn't too often.

"Let's watch it," I said when my husband mentioned one of the BBC stations we get were carrying it. It started at 12:30 a.m. or 00:30 on Monday morning. 

Rick came across the adverts on the internet which we watched in preparation of our bringing a bit of America into our Geneva home. I didn't recognize most of the celebrities and in some of the pub, I couldn't even figure out what the product was. I will call myself a COW, Cranky Old Woman, when most of them struck me as stupid. 

That hasn't always been the case. The Budweiser 9/11 advert had made me cry when I first saw it. It still brings tears to my eyes.

This is the first time when I watched a sport, I had no preference on who the winner should be. I didn't know any of the players, but by the end of the game I did, thanks to the men that the BBC had sitting in chairs commenting. I suspect all but the Brit were NFL players or former players.

If they broadcast the entertainment, I slept through it. We were watching from the coziness of our bed. I was awake to see all but one of the touchdowns.

No nibblies. 

Still fun.

 

Visiting the dead

 

                           Chaucer's Tomb, Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey

 Twice a year, when I was a child my grandmother, mother, brother and I would trek to the cemetery where my grandfather, uncle and aunt were buried. My grandmother would plant long-lasting flowers.

I've never returned to that cemetery nor have I visited my father's resting place. I'm even sure the exact spot my mother's ashes are scattered, although I know the general location.

I don't have to visit them. They exist in my heart and memory.

However, I've had a fascination of visiting historical figures: kings, queens, writers, artists, poets. 

My first pilgrimage was to Chaucer's tomb. I felt as if I could tell him, how much I liked his tales, and how I would especially like to meet the nun. Years later, in a Geneva Museum, I was to see one of the original copies of this work. To think his hand had touched the manuscript in the 1300s.

I could not leave the abbey without a visit to Elizabeth I, Mary Queen of Scots and Mary Tudor, conveniently arranged together.  I wondered how these three powerful women, enemies in life, would feel spending eternity together.

In Auvers-sur-Oise, France I stood before the simple graves of Vincent Van Gogh and his brother Theo's and wished he could have known of his after-death success. 

At Pere Lachaise in Paris, I picked up a pebble and touched Colette's black and rust stone. For years it was near my computer hoping that her spirit would carry itself into my own writing.

When my husband wanted to give me a party for my 75th, I told him what I really, really wanted was to visit the gave of Eleanor of Aquitaine.  

Off to the abbey at Fontevraud we went. She was a woman of great learning, influence and the arts at a time when women weren't all that important. I've read and read about her life. Katherine Hepburn gave her a new life in Lion in Winter. Considering Eleanor's love of poetry, it seemed right the carving on her tomb has her holding a book. 

There was something terribly efficient, that I could also see the tombs of Richard the Lionhearted, her son, and her husband, lover and enemy Henry II.

There are other graves I've visited including William the Conqueror, although only his leg bone may be interred. That same trip allowed me to see the Bayeux Tapestry, another of my historical visiting goals. In the 1990s, I saw a copy at a museum in Reading, England. It tells the story of William's 1066 battle and allegedly was attributed to his Queen Matilda. 

There are others whom I've visited and more that I would like to see. Pompeii is my next goal, Covid-willing.

My mother once said she didn't need to travel. She could read about whatever was there in the world to see. Even better there might be something on television.

I didn't try to convince her it is not the same thing as being on the spot where an event happened. Of course, there are changes around wherever something took place, but for me the aura of the past lingers bringing to life the past to be enjoyed at the moment.

Mud pies

 

I came across a list of things referring back to my childhood (see at the end).

 

What stopped me was mud pies. Outside our backdoor we had a small garden. Much of the time it wasn't planted, which made it ideal for mud pies. Even when there was no rain, a nearby hose was perfect of turning the dirt into mud.

 

My grandmother loaned me various molds, spoons, etc. 

 

In my mind I pretended I was the chef on a cooking show. I'd do the commentary as I mixed up my creations. Sometimes, I would add spices and other goodies (really pebbles, pieces of bark, leaves, petals) carefully describing to my imaginary TV audience.

My creations would be put to bake in the sun, also described as a wall-less oven. Later in the day, I would come back and unmould my delicacies with more commentary.

My grandmother never complained about washing the mud-coated utensils.

 

 

WE ARE A GENERATION THAT WILL NEVER COME BACK.

A generation that walked to school and then walked back.

A generation that did their homework alone to get out asap to play in the street.

A generation that spent all their free time on the street with their Friends.

A generation that played hide and seek when dark.

A generation that made mud cakes.

A generation that collected sports cards.

A generation that found, collected and washed & Returned empty coke bottles to the local grocery store for 5 cents each , then bought a Mountain Dew and candy bar with the money.

A generation that made paper toys with their bare hands.

A generation who bought vinyl albums to play on record players.

A generation that collected photos and albums of clippings.

A generation that played board games and cards on rainy days.

A generation whose TV went off at midnight after playing the National Anthem.

A generation that had parents who were there.

A generation that laughed under the covers in bed so parents didn't know we were still awake.

A generation that is passing and unfortunately it will never return!!..

Saving spiders

 

"There's a spider above your head," Rick said. We were still in bed, gentling ourselves into the day.

I looked up. A spider was on the ceiling. S/he wasn't doing much. With the exception of mosquitos, I'm not into killing creatures. As for spiders, to me they are all Charlottes or her children.

I've a couple of friends and my late brother who are/were afraid/terrified of spiders. I've warned them not to read my blog today.

"I suppose you want me to save it," Rick said. He remembered the night we tried to save a mouse from the cat we were sitting. We lost that battle. The mouse did not co-operate or maybe it just had suicidal tendencies.

"Yes."

I watched him walk on the bed with a glass and envelope. It took him two tries and then he evicted the spider from the flat into the cold rain.

"Do you think it will be warm enough?" I asked him. I don't think he believed I was joking.

 

Remote Hunt

 

My husband, Rick, snores.

In Argelès, My office doubles as a snore room to escape to.

In Geneva, I put on the TV, the blended sound letting me sleep.

Last night, I woke with the TV doing crazy things, channels changing, changing, changing.

I reached for the remote to stop it, but the remote had disappeared. Normally, it is on the sheet between my and Rick's pillows. That way either of us can shut the TV off.

I searched under the duvet, over the duvet, under the pillows. Rick is a heavy sleeper (I'm jealous) so I rolled him over. The remote was not under his pillow. At this point he was no longer snoring.

Ten minutes or so into my quest, I gave up and woke him.

Together we searched, stripping the bed, moving the bed looking every place we could think of around the bed. Sometimes the channels went crazy only to stop changing and to start again.

Had evil spirits entered the flat? We've been here since 2015 and nothing like this has happened.

The dog at this point was awake and was staring at us. The remote is nothing he's been interested in. He is probably the best sleeper of the three of us, so the chances of him removing it to join his other toys was not likely, but I checked anyway.

"I've got it!" Rick held it up.

Somehow it had fallen and wedged between the side of the bed and the bed board. We're still not sure what caused it to change channels except movement of the bed. It was probably something I did in my sleep. 

"I'm so sorry," I said to Rick. He had put everything back together and was crawling under the duvet.

Neither or us lose our tempers when one or the other does something dumb, knowing given enough time, the other would do something less than brilliant.

Dandelion Lover

 

 

 I've always loved dandelions.  Sure, sure, sure...I know most people think they are weeds that destroy their pristine (but often boring) plain grass gardens.

When I see a profusion of dandelions I see sunshine that has come to earth to cheer me. Okay, that's a little egoistic. I doubt if any dandelion takes my feelings into consideration.

When they turn to white fluff, it is an example of survival, the bravery of continuation of life. It tells me next year there will be even more sunshine on my lawn. When there's a wind seeing the pieces of the dandelion, little white angels, flying free shows me joy.

What's a weed anyway? 

Merriman-Webster calls a weed a plant that is not valued where it is growing and is usually of vigorous growth. Maybe there's an analogy to racism, the fear the white supremacists have of minorities. In that case, they should love the dandelion for becoming white at their end.

I wonder how many people hate dandelions just because the crowd does without thinking of the dandelion as having a beauty in their own right. Could it be a lesson to think for one's self rather than follow the crowd?

I suppose it would be crass to mention besides the beauty of the bloom, the leaves make a great salad green. They offer vitamins A, C, E, K plus small amounts of various Bs.They provide fiber so besides giving nourishment to our vision, they can give nourishment to our bodies.

It is February a few weeks away from when dandelions will once again bring me pleasure. Something to look forward to.

Statues celebrating death

 

                                            Northern Civil War General George Gordon Meade.

 

My husband mentioned this morning, that in our travels the majority of the statues we see are of generals.

In the U.S. there's been a controversy about statues of Civil War generals. Many have been removed because history has changed their status from hero to traitor depending if you're from the North or South.

No matter how you look at it, no matter the reason for the battle, generals led people to their deaths. War has been the majority of what is written about history.

 Oliver Cromwell

War is destructive. The reasons for past wars get lost, diminished in importance. England's Civil War ended with the restoration of the monarchy for example. People now go to theatre without worrying about being punished. Do most people even think of the religious restrictions Oliver Cromwell enforced? It doesn't matter now that some 80,000 people died for their religious beliefs. Let's put up a statue anyway.

War often is thought of as something glorious, patriotic. It isn't.

I wish there were more statues to writers, artists, philosophers, scientists, people who celebrate life not destroy it for reasons of money or power. I suppose whipping up people into a frenzy of patriotism to allegedly protect whatever is effective if you want those things. 

 Oscar Wilde outside his home in Dublin

And yes, we have seen statues to the thinkers and creators. Oscar Wilde is just one example.

 

And then there are statues for beauty alone, famous and not famous. One of my favorites is two nuns dancing in Martigny, Switzerland.

 

Despising baths

 

In a recent Friends rerun it showed Monica and Chandler in a romantic bath.

I shuddered.

I've an almost pathological hatred of baths.

I can't blame is all on my brother. At seven and two my mother insisted on bathing us together. I liked it, playing with him with his rubber duckies or boats or other toys. Then he peed in the water. 

No missile launch went up faster then I did in getting out of the tub. Not given to tantrums, my mother gave in when I threw one NOT to have to get into a tub with him again.

We were late to get a shower in our house. We still had a claw-foot tub, but it seemed to me as I grew that I wasn't getting clean. Bits of fecal matter, probably microscopic from where I didn't wipe hard enough, minuscule drops of urine, juices from my vagina never mind dirt from just  living might leave my water than swim right back on to me. I began to wash under the faucet rather than fill the tub. Or I would use a washcloth (flannel for you Brits).

Then in my 50s, having friends who loved baths I wondered if  I was missing something. After all my brother was on a different continent, and even if were closer, no way would we take a bath together.

I decided to try it. I bought bubble bath, put on Enya, l lit candles and dimmed the lights. I sank into the water waiting to rekax.

One minute passed, two, three.

No relaxation, just images of gunk coming from my body into the water and reattaching itself to me.

I didn't remove myself missile-like like I did when I was seven. After all, I was older and could slip.

I pulled the plug and turned on the shower. The water doused two of the four candles. Enya soft notes blended with the sounds of the water. 

I haven't taken a bath since then. I can't imagine what it would take for me to have one, no amount of money, no promise of making all my books best sellers. Perhaps if it was a matter of life or death of a loved one, but that scenario is unlikely, making me safe from baths the rest of my life.

 

Car Games

We spend a lot of time in the car and to break the monotony I play games in my head. Some go back to my childhood, where over the course of the summer, we would try to see a license plate from every state. Hawaii and Alaska were almost impossible. Anything outside of New England was a challenge, especially the further west we got.

There are variations depending where you live. Collect:

• In Europe all countries.
• In country: cities, cantons, departments depending on how your region makes plates
• Take the first two letters from any sign and try and think of a famous person. To make it really hard limit it to say writers, singers, politicians. 
• Try and locate the alphabet in order from signs. It's harder if you limit it to lettering on trucks, highway signs, license plates. The latter is easier in France, impossible in Switzerland where the letters are only the Cantons.

I have come up with a new one for French license plates which usually have the format of two letters three numbers two letters (see sample above). Make up a story using those letters. 

For example with the plate Bob Peterson lives in Vermont. From then on any story is possible or just wait for the next plate.

Books then and now

 

By accident I fell across the movie 84 Charing Cross Road starring a young Judy Dench and Anthony Hopkins on a British TV station. I had loved it when it came out in 1987 and I had love the book it was based on. It was one of the few movies that hadn't ruined the book.

The plot was based on the true story of New York based freelance writer Helen Hanff. Unable to find the English books she wanted in 1949, she ended up ordering them by mail from a bookstore at -- you guessed it -- 84 Charing Cross Road, London. It triggered a decades long-distance mail friendship the involved anti-ration care packages, funny notes, happiness and sadness.

Hanff wanted to go to England to meet the bookstore staff. When she had the money, dental work took precedence. I won't tell you what happened when her dream came true.

How different from today, when almost every book she wanted (excluding special editions or antiques) can be downloaded within minutes. As for international travel--well except for the pandemic, I can hop over to London on a whim. I do remember when I had to go once on business over a weekend, all I really wanted to do was to stay home and get caught up on my laundry.

The book is available today in many formats, and I'm tempted to order a copy. There's not a Kindle edition, which is appropriate. Hanff loved books not just for the words and wisdom, but for the feel and smell. Bindings, gold lettering, imagining who else's eyes had looked on the same pages hold a magic that kindle editions would not.

When I lived in Boston, a favorite bookstore was all old books. It had a special perfume of old paper and old leather. I could pop in on my lunch hour. Now, whether in Switzerland or France, if I want a book and it's after dinner, I simply download it.

The reading pleasure is the same. Words can be savored in any format, but I can't help feel something has been diminished in the anticipation of arrival, the touch, the imagination. 

And then there's the relationship built between book lovers in New York and at 84 Charing Cross Road that can only be treasured. 

It was another time.

Another dialect

 

The waiter at my hotel in St. Moritz speaks five languages: German, Portuguese, Italian, English, French. I speak only 2.1 (English, French, ein wenig Deutsch).

I live in a country with four official languages: German, French, Italian and Romanish. The later is spoken by about 13,000 and is a descendant languages of the Roman Empire's spoken Latin when it replaced Celtic and Raetic about the 5th Century. It only became an official language in 1938.

Among the Romanish there seem to be three varieties or dialects Sursilvan, Vallader, and Surmiran Puter. 

Wikipedia either helps stop or adds to the confusion with this:

"Puter and Vallader are sometimes referred to as one specific variety known as Ladin, as they have retained this word to mean Romansh. However, the term Ladin is primarily associated with the closely related language in Italy's Dolomite mountains also known as Ladin. Puter and Vallader are distinguished from the other Romansh dialects among other things by the retention of the rounded front vowels /y/ and /ø/ (written ü and ö), which have been derounded to /i/ and /e/ in the other dialects. Compare Putèr mür (help·info) to Sursilvan mir (help·info) ‘wall’ and Putèr chaschöl (help·info) to Sursilvan caschiel (help·info) 'cheese'."

This means that side-by-side villages may have a different dialect. In the German part the Swiss-German of one Canton and be incomprehensible to the Swiss German of another canton. 

It's enough to make a linguist weep or jump for joy, thinking he will have a career for decades.

 

 

Your day to cook my day to...

 

Years ago I shared a house with a man and woman. We would take turns cooking. There was a rule: whoever cooked, didn't clean. There was a corollary: Whoever cooked better cook neat. 

When I married my husband and we made a deal. I'd cook, Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Sunday evening. He was on kitchen duty Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. Also he produced restaurant-buffet quality Sunday morning breakfast which meant my Sunday contribution was usually very light. 

Since he had never cooked before we married with the exception of Spanish rice, my husband would scour cookbooks and the internet for recipes. Never an adventurous eater, he wasn't sure about herbs and seasonings, but he had a natural flair for trying different tastes, most which worked well, very well. 

Both of us had the right to substitute a restaurant, sometimes so often when we appeared at our local favorite eating establishment, the staff would say, "Oh, it's your day to cook, Rick (or Donna-Lane)."

We also established, the chef never cleaned up, but my husband often did both, claiming he had made a mess. I love him for that but do feel guilty sometimes -- it depends on the condition of the kitchen.

Our meals may be simple or elaborate. We may have music. Lunch is the main meal of the day and it is sacrosanct that we eat together.