Confession of an illegal immigrant

No one would think of me as illegal immigrant, but I was. I didn't walk for days and weeks or risk my life in a crowded unsafe boat. I wasn't escaping famine, poverty, gangs or bombs.

I was looking for a better social contract, decent vacations, health care and a new culture different from what America offered.

In July 1989, I arrived safely in Paris on Air France along with my two Japanese chins and a small bank account. I trained to Toulouse to stay with friends.

I immediately started to look for work and began the arduous task of learning French something that has been a decades long battle. I knew I was making progress when a waiter said in French, "You're speaking French." I nodded. He added, "But you're American."

I would get interviews, come close to an offer but my lack of a work permit stopped any joy. I did teach English in a business school, but my salary was paid to a friend, who passed the money onto me less whatever taxes he would have to pay.

When I overstayed, I went to Spain or Germany and had my passport stamped on re-entrying France. It looked like I only entered France multiple times.

I gave up when my mother wrote she had cancer and returned to Boston.

After her death, I tried again. Those were pre-internet days. At the Out of Town bookstore in Harvard Square, I would get help wanted ads from French newspapers. I used business directories to get the names of PR and marketing directors and wrote cold call letters. 

I sent over 800 CVs before I saw an ad in the IHT. "Sales person wanted. Must know Digital Equipment Corp. Speaks French and German. We will get Swiss work permit."

Along with two others, I had started a credit union for DEC. It is now a billion dollar financial institution. My French was still basic, very, and my German rusty. 

I faxed my CV. An hour later, they called. A week later I flew to Geneva and two months later I was in Switzerland. In 2006 I received Swiss nationality.

Immigrants have bad press. I've known many. Yes, there are the proverbial bad apples.

When I used to wait for the bus to take me into Geneva, immigrants housed in a nearby shelter would ask if I knew how they could find work...any work, while citizens complained how their taxes were supporting them.

I've met people in the U.S. who started out as illegals and fought their way to legality. One owns a beauty parlor and is active in her community. Another works two jobs, has raised three honor roll students and will get her nursing degree this June. In my French village, the woman who cleans the train station and houses, has a son who is a plumber and a granddaughter in medical school. A young Serbian worked for me legally. He had no idea if any of his family were still alive. He was not the brightest employee, but the hardest worker saving money to go home when the war ended to find his family.

I believe the norm is more like me and the examples above. We are not alone in trying to better our lives using whatever skills and talents we have combined with hard work and risk.  

Bergli books has published 50 Amazing Swiss Immigrants immigrants who have enriched the country. 

An immigrant does not have to be a scientist, inventor, artist, businessman to enhance their new society. They can be any ordinary worker who does a good job from picking vegetables to writing code. If allowed to work, they will not be a drain on a country's resources but a contributor. 

The majority of immigrants are not vermin, but people seeking a better life.

Imaginary Friends

As a child, I had an imaginary friend, Booboo. He, for he was a he, went every where with me. He eventually disappeared. I know more about him from stories I was told by my parents and grandparents, all who accepted BooBoo as real as I did.

Even as an old lady, I have imaginary friends, characters from reoccurring series in books. That realization came to me, with my Christmas Eve book, one of Alexander McCall Smith, 44 Scotland Street Series, The Bertie Project. 

What a delight. I had thought the series had ended. 

There was poor little Bertie with his domineering mother Irene. I was thrilled that his father Stuart is having an affair. I hope he leaves Irene.

Bruce is still a narcissist with a new Australian girl friend.

Even Cyril, the dog with the golden tooth, reappears.

All the other characters are there, like old friends at a long-awaited reunion.

Louise Penny's Three Pines site for her mystery series created a village where I want to visit regularly to see my old friends, not just the two detectives Gamache and  Jean-Guy. I think of Jean-Guy with the French pronunciation Shawn GKee. 

There was Ruth, the drunken poet with Rosa her duck who regularly makes obscene comments, the book store owner, the gay owners of the B&B, Clare, the artist who comes into her own. All friends of mine.

Throughout the series, the characters develop and change, much like my real friends have over the years.

This series should never be read when hungry because there are referrals to hot croissants, pot au feu and many other dishes that are mouth watering.

As for the village of Three Pines, I see it, feel it. When I read one set in winter on a hot day, I felt chilled and half expect to need hat, coat and gloves when I went out for my own morning, fresh-baked croissants.

As a writer, I appreciate these people in my life. My own characters, especially as I'm writing a book become guests in my home. Annie, Roger, Annie's parents, Brenda and so many others sit on my couch as I move them through my laptop onto pages. 

These characters are so real, I almost feel I can ask them to make us a cup of tea or the dog needs walking, could they run him outside. When I had to kill off one character, my lovable husband wanted me to wait until he was home. He knows I feel sadness when I have to dispose of someone for the sake of the story.

There are other series or novels with sequels where the ongoing characters I follow with vivid interest. Even if the book is a single edition, the people inhabiting the pages become part of my life for whatever time it takes to finish the book. They give my already full, happy life, another dimension.

Unlike Booboo's disappearance, I know what happens to my book friends, good and bad. 

Visit D-L's website at www.dlnelsonwriter.com

 

Story Furniture

Note: In writing this blog, I am fully aware of how lucky I am that I'm not one of the millions of people on this planet that are suffering from war, poverty and climate disasters. It's frustrating not being able to help, but not feeling gratitude for the things that enrich my life, would not help any of them. 

Story furniture...furniture that tells more than its usage. My home has story furniture. These are pieces we've found in recycle centers and flea markets. We didn't set out to buy story furniture when we needed some things, it just worked out that way.

A tiled coffee table found at a recycle center. My husband spotted it. The scene reminds me of a village in the Alps in Valais, Switzerland where we often ate when staying in a nearby chalet. I remember one special salad made from greens gathered in a nearby meadow among the countless fondues. Another time, there was a walk up to a wood. The feel is there of that village even if there were no cows.

I wish I knew more about its origin. It has a Scandinavian feel to it. Obviously hand painted, I wonder who the artist was: man, woman, young, old. How did they decide the design. Why did they chose those colors? Was it what they had on hand or did they seek out special paints? How long did it take? Did children interrupt them while they working?

I found it in an antique store in Argeles-sur-mer. My dog and their dog often exchange greetings.

A few days later, a visiting friend who visited said, "You're the one who bought it. I saw it and was going back for it." She forgave me over wine and cheese. It is another chapter in the story.

Almost every time I pass it, I look at it and feel a shiver of pleasure. The colors and design make my eyes happy.

My husband spotted this at the recycling center. We'd gone there for a couch.

Because of my love of Medieval things, I think of the people in metal and sometimes make up stories. After all, I'm a writer.

I only realized I'm the shadow when I downloaded the photo, after we returned to Switzerland from France. I debated not posting but it will be a few months before we are in France again.

This was found in depot vente, a used furniture store. It had been hand carved by a man in the next village. I had debated painting the people, but decided against it. We use it for wine. We keep our candles in the top.

Almost everything we buy is recycled. 

Our favorite center gives work to people who need it but are difficult to hire for various reasons such as handicaps. 

It's a win-win. I get something that gives me on-going pleasure and they get a salary. Make that a win-win-win. The pieces are not trashed, which is good for the environment.

 

 

 

 

Free Write -- The Backpackers

 

The prompt for our Tuesday Free write was six backpackers outside the tea room where we enjoyed croissants, tea and hot chocolate before starting to write. Our dog, Sherlock was taken home half way into the writing for stealing dog biscuits from my pocket. We live around the corner.

Rick's Free Write

The holiday trip to the south of France had the potential to delight or for disaster. Hugh, Laurie, their two daughters Bethany and Karrie and their husbands William and Jacques decided to go backpacking in the Pyrenees. 

It was Jacques idea -- he had grown up in the village of Argelès-sur-mer close by the Alberes section of the mountain range which divided France and Spain and the near-worshiped Canigou, the snow covered peak which rose out of the plains west of the village.

The ultimate goal was to climb to the summit of Canigou and build a small cairn with one stone from each.

Sleeping outdoors didn't rate high on Bethany's list, and when they passed the cozy-looking l'Hostalet boutique hotel, she suggested using it as a "base camp." The others, especially brother-in-law Jacques, chided her as soft and pampered.

After a cup of chocolate chaud and croissants at a village café -- seated outdoors, of course -- they hoisted their backpacks and set out for Canigou about a 30-mile hike just to reach the base of the mountains. 

Passing dormant farm fields, cherry trees and vineyards, it was slow going as mud collected on their heavy hiking boots.

It was almost noon before they reached the foothills of Canigou, and as they were crossing a small stream, Jacques slipped on a rock and went sprawling into the cold water. Hugh and William waded in to help him to his feet, but as they did, he let our a loud, anguished cry. 

Jacques could not stand on his left leg. "I think the ankle's broken," he said between gritted teeth.

As they waited at the side of the road for two taxis to arrive to take them back to the village (thank goodness there was some mobile reception), Bethany looked forward to the soft sheets and warm air of L'Hostalet.

D-L's Free Write

The six of them always celebrated Boxing Day even if only two of them were Brits. 

They met in the middle of the village and hiked up the mountain. This year there was no snow, no Tramontane wind. It wasn't warm, but not cold. Still, they might need their jackets, hats and gloves.

Their backpacks held the ritualistic picnic food. This was the 10th anniversary of their climb. It started the year after they graduated from Perpignan University, a six-month reunion.

Daniel and Daniella lived in the village. 

Jean-Marie and Marina had taken the TGV from Paris and had spent Christmas with the Les Dans. No one had been surprised when Les Dans had married four years ago.

Robert was divorced. He worked for Airbus in Toulouse. No one understood what he did.

Eleanor had flown in from London.

The walk had started more as a "why not" rather than a "let's" which was the way they had decided most things at uni. 

They had stayed in touch over the years, mostly over the internet except for their annual Boxing Day climb,

The lower levels of the climb was mainly on paths left from summer hikers.

During the walk, they seldom talked, waiting for their picnic spot, a meadow, which they reached by 11. 

Again following their tradition, the men spread the cloth, the women the food: sausages, baguettes, cheeses, olives.

As the chatted, Dan suddenly hushed them. A deer had appeared at the edge of the wood. Suddenly she bolted and disappeared.

"A bear?" Robert asked.

""They're hibernating," Jacques said.

Their Boxing Day walks were nothing special, except they were. Old friends sharing time together.

The last bagel

 

My daughter has come to France from Boston to spend the holidays and brought the most wonderful gift -- a package of raisin-cinnamon bagels.   

I've eaten one each morning either with cream cheese or butter. Today was the last one -- sigh.

No one will feel sorry for me thinking what a wonderful life I have living in Geneva, Switzerland and Argelès, France, nor should they. It is a wonderful life, almost two wonderful lives.

Whenever expats get together, they will talk about what they miss from home...or if they've lived in many countries, from the different places they have lived. Almost always the subject involves food. Desires for food, even that not often eaten at "home" can bring a great yearning.

I first experienced that yearning was when I was new in Switzerland and talking with a friend. I had such a yen for Oreos, although I'd rarely, if ever, eaten them in the States.

Bagels are becoming available in Europe. There's a bagel stand in Geneva, although the last time I was there, they had not added cinnamon-raisin to their offerings.

I've heard there's a Dunkin Donuts at Gare de Lyon in Paris, but my bagel craving does not warrant a three-plus hour train trip from Geneva to Paris to check it out. Imagine my disappointment if I made the trip and had to make the trip back without having found any.

I should ask my Parisian friends to check out Dunkin Donuts the next time to see if they carry cinnamon-raisin bagels.

Food yearnings are not limited to bagels. I miss a good cassoulet when I'm in Switzerland. And the best fondue is at the Café de Soleil in Petit.Saconnex when I'm not in France.

That is not to say that I don't savor the best of where I am at any given time. I also appreciate with every cell of my body that I have enough food, unlike too many in the world today. 

Still, my grandmother's oatmeal bread, baked stuff lobster, hot maple syrup poured on snow, corn on the cob picked minutes before being dropped into boiling water, Boston brown bread are all on the tastes that trigger happy eating memories enhanced by the unavailability.

Still, those bagels were wonderful as is my daughter who knows how much her thoughtfulness means to me. Having a loving, considerate kid could be the topic for another blog, but not tonight.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL!

 

Happy Solstice

 

Today is the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year: There will be nine hours and four minutes of day in Argelès, eight hours and thirty seven minutes in Geneva, and nine hours and five minutes in Boston.

It is the start of the new year. The planet will be turning. The days will be getting longer.

The winter solstice, occurs when either of the earth poles are at their maximum tilt from the sun. Since the beginning of time, archeological evidence shows examples of people celebrating it or maybe even fearing it.

To celebrate we are bringing in our living tree with the hope that its fate will not be like last year's. That tree died in the canicule. I'm not sure how to protect it if we spend the summer in Geneva? Drive it back and forth? Ask our landlords if we can plant it in their garden?

The planet is not at rest. Fissures spew lava, plates shift, the climate is reacting to man's folly.

The humans stomping around on its surface are a violent machine doing damage to their fellow humans. Many of our so-called leaders are dangerously insane while appearing somewhat normal till they speak or act.

Not a happy outlook for the new year.

Still, in the warmth of my family, we will decorate our tree with memory ornaments, share the warmth of our homes and each other, see friends. We are grateful if not a bit guilty for the richness of our lives while others lack even basic water, food and shelter. I am in touch at some primitive level with all the other peoples who walked the planet living with the hope that the new year will be better.

Happy Solstice to all.

 

Free write: A friend

Free writes are sacrosanct on Tuesdays for my husband and myself, but hard-to-get haircuts derailed them. We decided to eat at a favorite restaurant after our cuts, but it was jam packed. We then went to Tapas Taverna for the best guacamole I've ever eaten. After finishing, we did our free write on a prompt from a novel. "How are you doing then, my old friend?"

Rick's Free Write

It was a long walk, arduous in fact, It didn't used to be, but then it had been a few years. Through the forest, along the stream, up the slope to the plateau that overlooked the sea. 

As he climbed, stopping a couple of times to catch his breath, he savored the autumn colors -- mostly yellow, some orange and the rare brilliant red.

His dog, Chester, loped along, sometimes racing after an imaginary rabbit, returning to his side, anticipating a "Good boy. Treat?" which he'd retrieve from his shirt pocket.

Finally he arrived and sat on a boulder worn smooth by a thousand bums over the years.

From here you could see the curve of the horizon and an occasional freighter, bound for the States or maybe Greenland.

Jack had been climbing to the summit since he and Ben were school boys, best friends.

The last time there were here, Ben's heart was starting to fail and not long after that he went into the hospital for the last time.

Jack rubbed Chester's fur and felt a warm breeze on his cheek. He thought he heard a soft voice voice in the wind, "How are doing then, old friend?"

D-L's Free Write 

"How are you doing then, old Friend?"

Craig wished he hadn't asked as soon as the words escaped his mouth.

Priscilla looked terrible. Her hair had not only lost its sheen, it was hacked and greasy. Her model-perfect skin was motled.

"Surviving," Priscilla said. "And you?"

Had she looked like the old days, he'd tell her about his great job with regular travel to Europe, his Mercedes and his condo on Beacon Hill. "The same."

"How long has it been?"

"A decade at least since graduation. How are your parents?" Craig has spent many a a summer afternoon in their pool. Her father with her father barbecuing at night. He was sorry he'd lost contact with them.

"Dead. Heart attack then cancer."

"I'm so, so sorry."

She shrugged. "No one thinks of me as an orphan."

A man was watching them. Priscilla excused herself. "Please wait. I'd love to have a coffee with you. Chat some more." She went to the man who gave her an envelope after she gave him some money.

It happened so fast Craig wasn't sure what he saw -- except he was. It made him feel sick.

When Priscilla returned to where Craig had been standing, he was gone.

 

The Dinner Party

I'm in the finishing stages of writing my book on 500+ remarkable but unrecognized women which led me to thinking how much I would love to talk to many of them.

Then I thought...what if I had a dinner party with well known women, whom would I invite. Here's my list.

Eleanor of Aquitaine: She's fascinated me for decades. What a thrill it was to stand at her tomb in Fontevraud Abbey. She was married to two kings and mother of two kings. Her daughters became countesses or queens. Besides being a political force, she was a lover of the arts and woman not limited by her time. 

Katherine Hepburn: One of my favorite movie lines is when Hepburn played Eleanor in Lion in Winter. I would seat the two women together and I'm sure Eleanor would tell Katherine where she did it right and wrong.

Mary Queen of Scots: Maybe we could speak French together, although hers would be a far earlier version. I suspect my husband would want me to ask her some golfing questions since she was one of the early players of the game. 

I've been in the room where one of her lovers was killed, stood on the spot where she received her crown in Stirling, seen a snippet of the dress she wore for her beheading and a bit of her hair.

Elizabeth I, Queen of England: Should she and Mary be placed side by side or at opposite ends of the table? They never met in real life but remained "loving" cousins and deadly enemies. What a conversation that would be.

Emily Dickinson: Her poems touched me like no other. They take on different meanings with each rereading. A friend lives near where she lived in Massachusetts and sends me information about activities around the poet. One of her poems about death, I often send to someone recently bereaved. I hope they have found the same comfort in it, that I did. I suspect, she would be quiet during the dinner, listening rather than speaking. Maybe I could ask her to stay after the meal and talk to her one on one. 

Eleanor Roosevelt: A woman of depth. I would like to probe her knowledge of America during her lifetime. I came from a family who hated her, but as I read more about her, I grew to admire her intelligence and strength. Would that we have more of her type of women today.

Margaret Mead: A late friend was her daughter's anthropology student and shared so many of her mother's teachings, which my friend passed onto me. That made me look at the world and people in a different light. Her books and articles always made me rethink what I thought I knew.

Judy Chicago: She is the only living person at dinner and I include because she did her own dinner party (see photo above). 

What would I serve? 

I would ask Thibault, the Chef at Bartaveille in Argelès-sur-mer, France, to provide whatever meal requested by each of the attendees from his restaurant menu. His food is perfection. We would be able to cater to the tastes of each of my guests. Would Elizabeth 1 wish there was swan on the menu? Would Emily want New England Baked beans?

Thibault's wife, Stephanie, would describe the food in detail which might create a lull in the conversation which could be a good thing if there are some moments of tension.

The Setting

The table would be set with fine linen, dishes and glasses and would be lit by many candles.

Clothing

What would they wear? Would the early queens love the comfort of sweats and jeans? Or would they prefer their court clothes? Margaret Mead, who considered clothes cultural coding, might opt for what she wore for her field work.

Music

I would like soft music in the background, perhaps having a flute player with melodies from Eleanor of Aquitaine's court. 

Poetry

Perhaps Emily might read us one or two of her poems. I know Eleanor of Aquitaine would like that. 

Pictures of Judy Chicago's Dinner Party would be passed around. Eleanor of Aquitaine, Elizabeth 1 and Emily Dickinson have plates. Emily would blush when she learned that. The queens, I suspect, might think that was proper for their positions when they were alive.

I've turned off my phone. I hope Judy Chicago would do the same. It would be too easy to have the conversation about each woman's time interrupted by a buzz.

Although I didn't want to get into the technology of today versus that of their times, I suspect giving their curiosities would want them to hear all about it. 

Maybe the queens would be interested in armaments having promoted different battles in their names. Eleanor Roosevelt would be seeking peace and would be upset at the chaos in 2023. She might have solutions, but even if she did the powers in control would reject them. Human behavior does not evolve, she might say.

Margaret Mead would have learned that my phone had a recording device and borrowed it for an article she would want to write.

The fork came into English usage after Elizabeth I's death in 1603. Margaret showed those who were not alive when they were common, how to use them. The women laughed and decided the fork had advantages over fingers.

None of this is possible, of course. However, pretending is fun, even if it postponed the writing of my book or maybe because it did.

Lemons, Lemonade, Champagne

 

Looking back, some of the bad things in my life did, in the long-run, turn into to something wonderful.

Probably the biggest lemon in my life was when my husband, whom had been my high school sweetheart and my spouse for seven years, decided he didn't want me any more. Only later did I realize that the man I adored existed in my mind...not his fault.

We lived in a small Massachusetts town, which is many ways was limiting me to an extension of my childhood life. Nothing wrong with it, just there was so much more that was possible in the time I was granted to be on this earth.

As I recovered, a world opened up to me. I lived in Boston, which I loved. There was something special about catching the T going home from work, stopping to see a couple of paintings at the Museum of Fine Arts and still be home for supper.

I moved to Switzerland, became a writer including doing research in various places for my Murder in... series. I worked, among other jobs, as a journalist meeting some world leaders, none of who will remember me.

My friends were from all over, including Europe, Asia and the Middle East. I developed a family of choice from Syria and fell in love with their culture and Damascus. It was a place I never thought I would see, much less have the experience of living there, albeit for short periods.

I did a masters in creative writing in Wales. In Geneva, I found friendships among so many writers that helped me nourish my craft.

I found I could visit a friend in Paris and pretend I was Hemingway as I wrote in her flat while she worked. I could even wake up the morning and take the TGV, have lunch in Paris and be back home in bed the same night.

It wasn't all glamour. The trash still needed to be thrown out, dust accumulates. Colds are international. Appliances breakdown.

I was granted Swiss nationality and because of FATCA renounced my American nationality. I fought FATCA both by going to Congress and through being part of a lawsuit. These actions were a failure, yet fascinating. With the change of nationalities FATCA can no longer hurt me. 

There were disappointments. I learned if I didn't get the job I wanted, another one, usually better would come along.

I could have done without two bouts of cancer, but the medical care and my chemo sessions was an enriching experience shared with the other women and incredible nursing staff. 

I met my soul mate at 71. I had thought I wasn't good at husband or even partner selection and living single had a great deal of merit. He made a good life better.

Most of the lemons in my life were transformed not just into lemonade but champagne. The sour of the lemons made both the lemonade and champagne so much better.

 

Minced Pies

 

My first encounter with UK-style minced pies was in Wales. I was doing a creative writing masters and the last session before Christmas, the Christmas break, the director served sherry and tiny mincemeat pies like the ones above.

I'd been used to my grandmother's Christmas pies: apple, pumpkin and mincemeat all made to a New England recipe. They were full sized.

Fast forward to Argelès-sur-mer, France a few decades later where an English woman whom we've dubbed, The Brownie Lady, produces wonderful mini minced pies during the Christmas season. Since we spend almost all Christmases there we can enjoy this British tradition. 

Ideally now if we could find some Christmas crackers we could wear funny hats and read riddles and jokes as we eat our minced pies.

Free Write -- The Glutton

  

Rick's and my Tuesday free write session was once again at Mille et Une. We were really early at the café and there were not many people, but the Glutton went by.

Rick's Free Write

A light, piano jazz lilted through the tea shop. In the kitchen area, the whirring, mechanical noise of the chocolate chaud being whipped like cappuccino. Outside the window a raucous, sucking sound -- Glutton Guy was passing by.

One of the banes of France, and for that matter most of Europe, is that there's little or no grass for dogs to do their duty and many dog owners -- far too many -- can't be bothered to carry a (free) plastic sack for scooping the shit and placing it in a communal trash can.

Enter the "Glutton" essentially a Hoover on steroids (vacuum for you Yankees). About the size to a motorcycle, the Glutton machine is pulled around the street by an orange work-suited clad village employee as he reaches out the four-foot hose to suck up the paper debris, leaves and the ubiquitous merde de chien.

We're friend with the Glutton Guys unlike most people who act as if they and their cacophonous contagion are invisible. We appreciate the job they do, truly.

I tried to offer one of them -- short, bearded, smiley, perhaps Algerian by his appearance -- a 20-euro bill as a holiday gift for his service. He politely declined.

The streets are not clean to the point where I'd be comfortable walking them on a darken night, but thanks to the GG's they are a lot better than they might be.

The music just stopped. 

Pause. 

Ah, there it is again. And the coffee machine and the street sweeper are silent.

D-L's Free Write

Thibault wanted to shake off his anger as he pulled the Glutton sucking up the village debris.

He was having trouble pushing his father's words from his head.

Another doggie sack disappeared. 

"I'm not a loser." No one heard him. It was too early.

Several papers disappeared up the Glutton's hose.

Thibault had been happy to get this job. His father wanted him to be an apprentice first to a plumber then to an electrician.

He didn't want to spend his life with his head in toilets.

The Glutton sucked up broken glass.

And make a mistake as an electrician? Poof! You're fried.

He passed the house with the yappy dog that he made friends with. The dog wagged his tail.

An old MacDo box was next to a garbage can. Lazy people, he thought as it disappeared.

"Bonjour, Thibault." Three little girls, book bags on their shoulders, greeted him as they headed to school. Their mother waved.

Madame LaCroix was limping by, a baguette in her hand. Sometimes she needed help and he would carry her shopping, wait while she unlocked her door and put the bags in her kitchen.

Finished, he returned the Glutton to its place in the village garage.

Nine and he was done for the day. He walked to the café where he would have his croissant and coffee before going home. The wood, which he would turn into a squirrel with an acorn in its paws, awaited his knife.

The street was immaculate: he felt proud.

He loved his life. He wasn't a loser, he thought.

Celebrity Scams

 

I've been intrigued by celebrities who message me. I probably shouldn't, but I enjoy playing along with what I'm convinced is a scam.

The first came from (allegedly) Urs of Il Divo last February. I follow the group so I was a bit surprised to get this message.

UB: Hello fan

 

Me:  How many people are you messaging?

UB: Why do you ask?

Me: I'm curious. (I didn't believe it was him.)

UB: This is official private account I created to reach out with some of my amazing fans who has been supporting me and it’s unknown to my management.

By the way I hope you are not a journalist?

I told him I had been a financial journalist. I asked him what dialect was his mother tongue. He's Swiss German. I'm Swiss. I wanted to see if he would know just on the tiny, tiny, tiny chance he was real. I wrote him in high German and he replied in the same. Whomever he was could have used an internet translator.

He said he had something to tell me.

I didn't answer, he must have gone onto someone easier to scam.

In August I received another message from Urs (allegedly) asking me if he could ask me a question. He asked if I would keep our conversations confidential. And he wanted contact info.

I again asked to prove he was the real Urs.

He replied that the nature of his career for security reason he'd like us to keep in touch on somewhere more confidential.

I refused to give my contacts. 

He disappeared for good...on to greener pastures, I assume. However, I cannot imagine what a scammer hopes to get from his.

A couple of days ago I received a message from Sebasrien Izambard, also of Il Divo. I mentioned that Urs had contacted me earlier and he said they had reported fake Il Divo contacts with fans to the FBI. We exchanged a couple more emails when again I asked for verification of whom he really was. When I started writing in French, he too disappeared.

A third contact was from writer John Irving. We had both lived in Exeter, NH. I had done my masters thesis on repeated symbolism in his work. Still it made no sense he would contact me even writer to writer. He too disappeared when I wanted verification.

Too bad these contacts aren't real. Both Sebestian's and John's messages have disappeared from my message list. Urs's is still there. I'd love to talk to John about his writing. It will never be. 

I do have trouble imagining what the next step of the scam might be.

On the other hand, as a writer, I would see this as the seed for a great murder mystery. Any writer out there is welcome to the plot as I have too much I'm working on to develop it.

 

 

 

 

Happy Anniversary Sherlock

 

Six years ago today, Rick and I were driving to the SPA in Perpignan to adopt a middle-aged dog named Mila. She wasn't there, but we left with a three-month old puppy half Yorkie, part Jack Russell and myriad other breeds in our arms.

His gratitude manifested itself by snuggling and throwing up in the car. 

His name had been Spider, but we changed it to Sherlock, reflecting my mystery writing credentials and the fear of spiders that a good friend whom he would visit has.

He walked into our flat.  I had a tiny black stuffed animal, Thé Noir, and for lack of any other toy, gave it to Sherlock who ran to the other side of the bed to an area that would become his horde.

At this point he had established his place in our heart where he rests today. 

I am so rich

  

This morning, I can crawl back into my warm bed with my husband and dog. Two of the three of us will read for a little while.

We can see the living Christmas tree on the patio waiting for the solstice to be brought in to be decorated by my husband, daughter and me with 51-year old hand-made ornaments containing memories and color.

The flat is warm.

We will walk to the marché for the brownie lady who is now making minced pies. We need honey from the bee keeper and veggies for the barley soup my husband is making for lunch. It's his day to cook, mine to clean up.

This afternoon I will work on the book I'm writing.

I have everything I need or want including appliances like a washing machine, dish washer, stove top, oven, food processor, television, printer, lap tops, hair dryer, etc. We even have a warmer for our towels for when we get out of our hot showers.

I have more than enough clothes, mostly jeans and a few "good" outfits when needed.

We have a used car, but where we live we could get by on public transportation. Sometimes days or even weeks go by without using it. 

I have the medicine I need to keep my blood pressure down and my bones from giving into osteoporosis. 

Most importantly I have my husband and daughter whom I adore and friends that I treasure. I have wonderful memories of those I lost.

We have everything we need or could possibly want. I can't forget how lucky I am. That I am not a refugee in Gaza or the Ukraine is only an accident by birth. 

Wishes do not make the insanity of war go away. There are so many people who have lost everything through their accidents of birth in the wrong place at the wrong times.

Along with awareness of all that I have, all that they have lost is the frustration that I can do nothing to change their horror. It's not guilt I feel but a sadness that goes deep within me.

Prom Princess

 

The store that sold prom dresses was next to the Lawrence Eagle-Tribune where I worked as a cub reporter in the 1960s.

Dances and proms were a big part of my high school life. The Freshmen and Sophomore Hop were less formal but by the time we reached the Junior, Senior proms and the Junior Senior Reception, never mind the balls put on by Rainbow, Demolay and the graduates of Mr. Curry's dancing school, there were several during the year.

I attended most, many with the boy that would be my future ex-husband. Some were with other boys who asked me or I asked them, I do remember getting into trouble with my mother when I told her I'd been asked by a Demolay boy without mentioning he wasn't white. She was happy the boy was protestant so she didn't ask anything else. Politeness reigned over racism when he picked me up, but her unhappiness was made clear when I came home.

I would buy my dresses from the shop next to work. They cost between 25$ and 35$, more than I made in a week of writing, but they were worth it. I sometimes would wear the same dress more than once because I loved it.

With the dresses, I would wear full length white gloves, my glass (read hard lastic) heels. I had special earring, feathers, and they covered my ears. Unlike many girls, I never had my short hair done  by a hairdresser especially for the dance.

My date would bring me a wrist corsage made my Weston's Greenhouse in matching colors. Sometimes parents would drive us, but eventually my dates would have their own cars or borrow their parents'.

The school cafeteria was always transformed into some kind of magic place. 

Parents would peek in the caf's windows to watch their kids.

Mostly we had bands, sometimes a DJ. The Twist was especially popular. Snowball dances meant one or two couples started out. When the music stopped, each dancer would seek a new partner until everyone was dancing. One time, a senior I had a crush on, asked me to dance. I was in heaven for a week, although he never spoke to me again.

That last song was usually Good Night Irene. 

As a writer I now spend most of my times in jeans or sweats. I have a few dress up clothes for things like a business meeting or a funeral, but nothing like those prom dresses that made me feel like a princess at least for that one night.

Free Write Working with Wood

Today's free write was prompted by a young woman we saw walking down our street on our way to Mille et Une for a croissant and chocolate. She was carrying what looked like three pieces molding lumber. What is different, I am learning to do an AI graphics program, text to image, to illustrate the anthology of my work, that I'm pulling together of my short stories and poems (mostly published) called The Corporate Virgin.

D-L's Free Write -- Working in Wood

She'd show him. Mallory walks down the narrow village street with three long pieces of wood under her arm.

He'd mocked her, saying a woman would never be able to fix the molding around the bedroom door. He was the one who had broken it during in yet another one of his temper tantrums.

"We'll leave it. Remind you to behave," he'd said.

She wasn't sure when their relationship turned violent. After she'd quit her job at his insistence, sometime.

The first time she'd forgiven him and the second. After the third time her only thought was permanent escape.

Back in what would soon be her former home, she pried the damage molding from the wall. Using his tools, she measured the wood to fit.

She'd never told him how her father insisted she have basic skills usually attributed to a man. She could change a tire and the oil in the car. Why she hadn't said anything, she never could figure, just that it was a secret to guard.

She decided no to paint the molding. It would be her farewell message.

She picked up her suitcase and her phone with the tickets to Montreal. A job awaited her, given by an old friend who hadn't said, "I told you so," but," Thank God, you came to your senses."

Mallory knew how lucky she was not to become an abused statistic.

As she put her coat on she saw the sawdust on the floor and thought it was a fitting commentary on her short mortgage.

 

 

Rick's Free Write Woman with Wood

 

Cassandra was not known for her abilities in plumbing, electrical or carpentry. In fact, she had never done anything more challenging than fixing a ceramic vase with super glue. And then, she had gotten glue on her fingers, and it took a week to get it fully off.

But she had determined to surprise her eight-year old son, Thomas, with a railroad track for Christmas. He loved the Thomas the Tank engines animated character, but that was a British TV series, and she could not find the toys in any shop in the south of France, despite searching from Ceret to Narbonne.

 

How hard could it be? So she drove out to Weldom, which she had heard had cut-to-order wood in the back of the store, and tried to explain in her broken French the type and length of pieces she thought she needed.

 

By the time she got home, she had to hide the six-foot pieces of wood in her bedroom closet, as it was time to pick up Thomas at school. The project would wait until tomorrow.

 

The next day she laid the strips on the kitchen floor, and got started searching the internet for instructions for building a railroad. All seemed to involve saws and lathes  and other equipment she didn't have and couldn't afford.

 

Cassandra started to cry, when her new boyfriend Pierre knocked and walked in. "What's all the tears?"

In between sobs, she explained Thomas's yearning for a wooden train set.

"Why didn't you mention it? My cousin is a wood worker. Let's go see him."

Time will tell

So often when we discuss our marriage Rick and I are shocked at how fast the 12 years have gone since he sent me a LinkedIn message, "I'm in Geneva. Do you want a coffee?" We are not shocked at how happy we've been.

There are three clocks in our French flat. Each is special as they tick away our lives.

 

The Seth Thomas Clock

A gift from a vendor, Massachusetts Envelope, from when I worked at Digital in the 1990s. The rule was not to accept any gift over $25, but I did anyway. (I asked permission to accept two tickets to a Laker-Celtics game the next year and it was granted).

Compared to the gifts Supreme Court Justices Thomas and Alito have taken, I feel no guilt. 

I had great loyalty to the envelope company for their service. Their prices were always competitive. What earned my loyalty was when I worked for NFPA I had approved a four-color envelope proof. I can't remember the quantity but it was over 50,000.

The president of the company came in, looked at the print job as it was running and threw out what had been printed because he didn't like the quality. He reprinted with an improved design at his cost. He had my business until I left the country a decade later.

The clock has moved with me. At first it was in my Boston condo. Later it was in my Nest, my French attic studio in a 400 year-old building. It oversaw dinners with friends, my writing and my daily life for several years. Now it is in my kitchen where I moved with my husband because the Nest was too small for two. 

Although I use the stove top and oven timers, I still check that clock when I'm cooking. My husband, who has learned to be a good cook, looks at it regularly. When we walk through the kitchen, we can tell the time of day or night. It is part of our daily life.

My Annie Clock

Annie is the heroine of my Murder in (Fill in the city) series.

Imagine my surprise when my husband and I were walking in Vieille Ville in Geneva to see a woman who looked exactly like I had envisioned Annie giving out hugs in front of St. Pierre Cathedral, Jean Calvin's church. 

We took her photo. 

An artist friend made me a clock using that photo as a guide. My Annie clock is the first thing I see each morning when I wake.

Cuckoo Clock

Rick wanted a genuine Cuckoo Clock. Wonderful, I thought, I can buy him one for Christmas. I went out immediately and found a perfect one in downtown Geneva. It had everything a good cuckoo clock should have: animals, people that came out from doorways and a variety of musical tunes on the hour.

We had planned a getaway to Gruyere (the home of the cheese of the same name and reeking of Swiss atmosphere.) "I can get a cuckoo clock there," my husband said.

I had two choices.

1. Be a bitch and dislike everyone he liked so he wouldn't buy anything and be surprised on Christmas day. Not a good plan for a getaway.

2. Give him his Christmas present early.

I decided on number 2. 

Although we can shut off the cuckoo, many days as we are writing, we listen for its time announcements and songs.

We measure time to organize our days. The weeks, months and years continue to fly by. But as time passes we take time to appreciate all the good things in life. Clocks aren't usually thought of as reminders beyond ordinary things, "like we need to get to the store before it closes," but they are.

November was Nuts

 

November was nuts...good nuts like the hot chestnuts sold in paper cones on Geneva street corners. They warm hands and tummies.

FlashNano2023, is over, leaving a hole the same way when a friend goes away. Each day's eagerly-awaited prompt to stimulate a flash fiction piece was a stimulant.

I missed about five prompts because November was overly full. There are 563 writers that participate and I'm sure their lives are as crazy as mine.

November started with a trip from France to Geneva after greeting our dog sitter. The dog is staying in France. It's an eight hour drive.

The Geneva Writers Group three-day conference was not only full of inspiring workshops, but it was a chance to meet up with writer friends from the last three decades.

Especially wonderful was the hour I didn't attend a workshop spending the time with the GWG founder and a young writer whom I watched advance in her craft. Two women from different generations whom I respect not just for their writing but for whom they are as people.

Then it was off to Portugal for an aviation conference for my husband's work. The hotel suite offered total luxury, the food satisfying for gourmet palates. The hotel itself was full of history of spies, royalty and writers. 

Back in Geneva, we immediately returned to France to pick up one dog and then back to Geneva to celebrate Thanksgiving with friends, a treat when one lives in a country that doesn't celebrate it.

 

We spent the rest of the month in the Geneva countryside flat we love among the scenery that refreshes our spirits. We saw a very few select friends, because we'd been cramming our writing between other obligations. 

There was the tiny village Christmas market with its chalet filled with handmade crafts, the smells of melting cheese of fondue and raclette and pumpkin soup in a huge caldron.

We needed to be back in France to say goodbye to Canadian friends heading back to Toronto.

Now it is quiet as we await the arrival of my daughter for the holidays. The calm will allow us uninterrupted time with our laptops and projects, to be described as "Priceless."

The next trip to Geneva after Christmas will be for the winter where our writing projects will have precedence. We will do our sacrosanct Tuesday morning free writes which produces flash fiction too.

None of the above is a complaint. I do hope next year when it is FlashNano2024, other things in our lives will not back up on each other. Still, I'm grateful for being able to participate because it always reminds me of why I am a writer. 

Thank you Nancy Stohlman for FlashNano2023.

 

FlashNano2023 The wave

 THE WAVES

Prompt: Find a few moments to look at the image above, and let it sink in--wait until something in the image wants to be written--and write.

The wind almost blew him over as he walked along the edge of the Med. The waves were so big that they discouraged even the most accomplished surfer.

What a change from last summer. Then the sand was barely visible hidden under towels and umbrellas and cooking bodies glistening with suntan oil.

Someone should have seen Bobby swimming away from the beach. 

They didn't until it was too late.

The calm of that day versus the ferociousness of today. There has to be a metaphor somewhere, he thought swallowing his sadness once again. He just didn't know what it was.