The Solstice

 

The Solstice is one day away. Today the sun rose at 8:15 AM and will set at 4:52 PM. After tomorrow the days will start getting longer. I see it as the end of one year and the start of a new.

Man's calendar is a description only of what the planet goes through and it won't change no matter how we name or number it. 

I celebrate the natural change while borrowing things from what man has done to explain nature. Just like the early Christians borrowed from the pagans, I borrow from Christmas traditions eschewing the buying crazies. We exchange gifts, yes. I hope to find that special something for the special people in my life.

The last quarter of the earth's turning this year has been wonderful. The summer heat was replaced with cool days and the colorful countryside. Instead of long days spent with friends in café's or on our patio, I've come inside and relished the coziness of my home.

Over the years, I've borrow some of the Christmas traditions, making them my own. 

I have an Advent calendar. It was bought over a dozen years ago. In late November we go to Auer Chocolate in Geneva's downtown to pick out 24 black chocolates. Confession: Rick and I picked out more so we could sample two or three as I stuffed each date's box.

This year Rick and I cut them in half so neither of us miss out on a single taste sensation.

In my first grownup job, my boss, who also had a syndicated garden column, gave our secretary and me, an ugly bulb, with a tiny green tongue sticking out. Of course we thanked him. I took it home and was amazed over the next couple of weeks to see it grow into long stalks, then it developed pods that burst into red bell-shaped flowers. This year, I bought the bulb, which wasn't planted. The bottom had a tangle of thin gray threads. Rick filled a pot with dirt for it. Each day we monitored its growth until it blossomed fully. It is an analogy for the season.

Rick spotted our solstice bush when he went to buy dog food. Our Geneva studio is tiny, so a small tree is necessary and ever since having Sherlock, we opt for an indoor tree that fits on a tabletop. I know Sherlock would think of it as an indoor toilet at last if it were on the floor.

For the years that I could not have a real tree, I would make sure I brought at least a small branch of an evergreen into my room to remind me of the significance of the turning of the earth and the arrival of spring. The universe is so much bigger than what paltry mankind makes of it.

On the 21st we will decorate the solstice bush. There are wooden Christmas ornaments, my daughter and I painted of sleighs, soldiers, angels, balls, dogs, cats, churches, etc. over 50 years ago. We will put a sampling on the solstice bush. Hers are the work of a three-year old. I was touched when my husband made sure we brought at least one of his step-daughter's work from our French home where they are stores to our Geneva home where we are spending the holiday to make sure it was represented on the tree.

The ornaments are more than wood and paint, but have memories of so many other years. Many of the people whom I spent the holiday with are gone while remaining in my heart and memory. Songs like Little Drummer Boy or Twelve Days of Christmas conjure up images of my father and my friend's father who were part of my life. It reminds me to treasure those who are with me now.

The world will continue to turn, no matter what my species does to it. The days will get longer. Mimosa will act like sunlight in the woods near our French home. Seasonal vegetables will grow. The smell of the frozen earth melting will mix with that of lilacs. Coats will be replaced with sweaters, sweaters with blouses. We can once again sit outdoors after dinner. 

And as the earth turns spring summer will give way to summer then another autumn will arrive. The universe continues.

 

 

 

 

Why Read?

 

I am just shy of reading 35,000 pages in 2024. I've read less this year than many years. How do I know? I track my reading on a spreadsheet including:

• Date finished
• Title
• Number of pages
• Author

Why?

I read so much, I often pick up a book and by page 3, I wonder if I've read it before, especially if it's a much-published writer. With the spreadsheet, I can know for sure.

What do I read?

Almost everything but mostly fiction. Still I dig into history, biographies, politics, poetry, plays, even economics, but rarely. 

Reading lets me travel places I've been. If I want to visit Boston, I pick up a Robert B. Parker book. He'll take me by the Indian statue in front of the Museum of Fine Arts which I passed in reality zillions of times when I lived nearby or a jaunt through Harvard Square. I can revisit the old part of Damascus or once again stand at the tombs of Elizabeth 1 and Mary Queen of Scots in Westminster Abbey.

I can change seasons. On a hot day, a snowstorm in Louise Penny's Three Pines series is a welcome relief. When it is freezing, I can be in the tropics by turning a page.

There are places I will only be able to go in books: India, Japan, Africa. I would need another life to visit them all.

I meet so many people in books and learn why they do what they do, where and when they do it. When I finish many books, I miss them. 

Where do I read?

Everywhere: at the table, in the car waiting for my husband who is in a shopping mall, a place I hate to spend time even in the toilet. I've been known to respond to a knock on the door, "One more chapter." In a restaurant, if I'm alone. In a chair, on the couch or in bed.

My husband and I often read in bed, sharing an interesting word, fact or phrasing we come across.

The best place can be curled up in a chair or couch, my dog next to me and maybe a cup of tea and even a piece of cake ready to nibble. When it is a rainy or snowy day, that's even better. 

Living in a Francophone world can make getting books a bit harder. Geneva has English bookstores including the new Pages&Sips, which can also satisfy my scone urge before and after I browse.

Kiosks, often old telephone booths, are filled with books that people have left. Because of the large number of Anglophones or people for whom English is a second language as functional as their first, I've found many treasures to be devoured.

The number of pages that I've read isn't totally 100% accurate of how much I've read. Type size and spacing vary. I've a John Major biography, I would like to read, but the type face is small and the spacing is jammed making it almost painful to read. I will eventually get it on Kindle where I can make the type size legible. 

Yes, I have a life outside books. I revel in my life that includes;

• Friends
• Travel
• Nature walks
• Theater
• Concerts
• Museums
• Special events 
• Anything that catches my interest
  

It's not an either/or. It's another dimension extending the richness of my days.

 

 

 

Free Write The Lookout on the Ladder

 

We sat in the village café/boulangerie with our tea, espresso and hot chocolate and wondered what we could possibly do with Rick's prompt. It wasn't easy, but I love what we each did with our ten minutes of free writing, stimulated by this photo. Two of us had no idea how they were going to end it when they started. One knew the ending but not the beginning.

Rick's Free Writ

There once was a small boy who lived near a large lake. There were no other children who lived nearby, so he played alone – skipping along the shore, tossing pebbles and watching the wave rings form and fade. Sometimes he would bring a few pieces of bread and feed the swans… if the gulls didn’t steal the morsels first.

The boy’s favorite time of day was late afternoon, just before supper, when the steamship appeared from around the bend by the old castle. Stéfan loved to watch the majestic prow of the ship with the carving of the mermaid on the front. As the ship approached the dock – about a quarter of a kilometer away (beyond where the boy was allowed to wander) – the ship’s horn would sound to alert the dock of its arrival. Stéfan would raise his arm and pull it down vigorously, as if he was the one sounding the horn. But no one was around to see him.

One day, Stéfan decided he needed a better vantage point, somewhere the captain might see him. He noticed a tall ladder leaning against the house next door and climbed to the top rung as the paddlewheeler approached. Stéfan pumped his arm, and the ship’s horn sounded, louder.

 Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices. com

 D-L's Free Write

The sunrise was late: 8:10.

Her cheeks felt if they were being sliced by knives instead of the northeast wind.

Her husband had thought she was crazy selling her late parents' beach cottage to pay an artist to sculpt the statue. "I have to," was all she told him.

She walked to the ladder sculpture with the boy reaching for the clouds every sunrise. During the summer, she woke early with the sun. In winter she could sleep in.

The weatherman said today the temperature would fall below 0°. Clutching the coat she had brought with her, she climbed the ladder's stone steps.

The stone boy's face was her son's face. She caressed his cheek before taking her scarf and wrapping it around the stone boy's neck. She placed the coat around his shoulders. The statue's arm continued to reach toward the heavens, where his double, her son, awaited.

D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Check out her website at:. https://.dlnelsonwriter.com

Julia's Free Write

 His childish mind saw it, but couldn’t really make any sense of it.

He stood there on the wall butting into the lake, having wandered faster and farther than his grandparents.

They hadn’t seen it yet.

In the background there were skyscrapers, but none close enough to touch or see into.

Had he been older he might have wondered about the feat of engineering that it had taken to produce it.

He did wonder what the point was of having it, a useful object that is necessary for seeing the top of a roof, for leaning against something higher. But this was simply straight up, not high enough to touch the sky, not leaning pm anything-

And the boy at the top: was he real? Why a boy?

His grandparents caught up, and explained it all to him: the artist, the desired effect… Boring!

That’s when Nathan woke up. Thirty years later, as a “proper” artist, he would replicate the ladder statue in time for the inauguration of the renovated park.

Julia has written and taken photos all her life and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/  

Tea, espresso and hot chocolate finished we are ready to start writing as J. reaches for her her phone to set the ten minute time limit.

Thank you for breaking up my marriage

 

f

 A letter to my ex-husband's widow.

First my condolences on your loss. You two were married for decades, raised a family and hopefully felt fulfilled and happy.

I'll admit, I was heartbroken, when my ex told me he was in love with you.

Rejection is never easy.

Originally, I was supposed to be a stay at home mom, a role that was not tailored made for me. Fortunately my old job awaited.  

Working suited me. Of course, there were times I resented it like the day I checked in with my baby sitter who told me my daughter took her first step. I missed it.

On the other hand my sitter helped potty train my daughter. I was amazed one night eating with my babysitter's family how my daughter used a fork and spoon. At home she was still shoveling food into her mouth with her hands. hmmmm two sets of behavior.

Walking thru stores, my daughter always put her hands behind her back and never touched anything. Again, it was my babysitter's lesson. She also taught her to recite her phone number and address in case she was ever lost.

She showed me how to be a better mom.

Moving to Boston was wonderful with its museums, theatre, and general feeling. I'd always wanted to leave the town where I grew up, but my ex wanted to stay. 

With two other adults, I renovated a townhouse near the Harvard Medical School. Their support took the aloneness out of being a single mom. 

Our living arrangements were fun and filled with intellectual stimulation provided by a vibrant city, meaningful work and warmth. 

Eventually, I bought my own condo, a couple of blocks away, which I adored. My feeling of accomplishment was beyond pat-myself-on-the- back, but often surprise that I pulled it off. It would not have been possible had I stayed married.

Staying married would have meant never moving to Europe, also a childhood dream. And I'm not sure I'd have developed as a writer, thanks to the people I met in Geneva. If I had it would have been much slower and without the support of so many like-minded people whom I met.

Imagine my surprise at finding my soul-mate at 71 after years of being happily single. There were relationships, but none I wanted to make formal. My freedom was too precious.

Had I stayed in a marriage that didn't meet my dreams that I had to swallow, I would never have lived the life I was meant to live. I would never have had the adventures that I had.

As horrible as the day was when I learned that my marriage was ending, it turned out to be the best day of my life because it opened the door for everything else in my life as it did for you.

It may seem strange to some to be grateful to a couple that turned the life I planned because my ex wanted it upside down. Upside down was the best thing that happened to me. So thank you.

 

Montreux Christmas Marché

 

We met our friends at Freddie Mercury's statue in Montreux, Switzerland. People still leave flowers for him. 

The rain and snow earlier in the week had been replaced with cool, crisp, clear air. The lake and the mountains were their usual postcard beauty.

 

All up and down the lake were chalets, most decorated with boughs, ornaments and filled with everything imaginable. I'm not sure how many. I've heard 160.

Rick quickly located the chalet with Canadian poutine, something he had grown to love when he lived in Montreal, where the vendors came from. Next to impossible to find in Switzerland or Southern France.

There were all kinds of good things to eat from roasted chestnuts to Swiss specialties. Many were being prepared within the chalet.

I spied the place where a few years ago, I'd found a pretty red bowl. The potter was from the village next to ours in the South of France. This market has an international flavor.

Despite being a minimalist, I was able to add another handmade wooden pen and bookmark to my collections. 

Part of the marché is to have Pére Noël  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mBWVrgbpSf0 fly his reindeer-driven sleigh across the lake. This year we left before the first flight at 17:00 but I remember it from earlier years.

My first Christmas marché was in 1962 in Stuttgart, where I was living with my ex-husband, serving his Army time in a band. I wondered into the square near Breuniger's department store to see it filled with about 15 chalets. They sold everything from würst to handcrafts. Years later I went back to Stuttgart for it's marché to find it had expanded to most of the center of the city.

It was there I found a poster of an Underwood typewriter bordered by news articles. It was during my no-buy year, but this was too personal to pass especially for 15 Euros. My father had an Underwood franchise in the later 1940s. I learned to type on an Underwood. My mother insisted I learn, saying if I could type, I would always have work. Change that to word processing today, and it was/is true. The poster hangs in my Nest a reminder of my youth, my family and the marché.

One year my cousin and her photographer husband had an assignment to photograph different Christmas markets. I joined them in Frankfort. A great family reunion with all the pleasures of Germany.

Our little village of some 2500 people also had a one-day market where local artisans displayed their wares.

Each market has its own buzz. The one we went to this week was even better because we shared it with good friends.

Free Write -- A Man

 

Today's Free Write's prompt came from the book Absolution by Alice McDermott. "His frame suggests a lifetime of manual labor but he seems to be a snappy dresser in a shirt and tie."

D-L's Free Write

I am not a stalker, but when I saw him, I became one.

His face and body structure screamed a life of manual labor. However, his clothes were snappy, expensive.

I pretended I was trying to decide between types of canned soup, so I could look into his shopping cart. If he were a laborer, he wouldn't have all those exotic fruits and veggies. His cheeses were from the gourmet cheese counter.

Enough, I thought and went to the checkout line. He was two people behind me.

I saw him in the parking lot.

No Tesla.

No Mercedes. 

He got into a mud-splattered truck with a dented door.

I decided to follow him through the streets of Cambridge onto the Mass Pike. He continued West, but I quit at the 128 Exit.

I guess I'm no good at stalking, but 17 months later, I'm still wondering about him.

D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Check out her website at:. https://.dlnelsonwriter.com

 

Julia's Free Write

 “Really, I have to put on a suit and tie?”.

Tim turned to his wife, the expression on his face reflecting his total disagreement with the idea.

“OK, but I only have the suit you bought me when we celebrated our 25^th wedding anniversary.”

A lifetime of working as a logger in the woods showed in his stature, in the compactness of his body. Fortunately, he had inherited his father’s build; a build only perfected by his labors.

Twenty minutes later he turned up ready to go, nattily dressed, shaved and combed, looking just as he should.

After all, it’s not every day that you are going to meet your future in-laws, the doctor and his wife.

Julia has written and taken photos all her life and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/  

 

 

Rick's Free Write

He stood in front of my desk, clutching a flat cap firmly in both hands, as if to steady his nerves. His hands featured dark lines, the kind one gets from dirty work. Farmhand? Grease monkey? And yet he was dressed in what appeared to be a new off-the-rack sport coat, chinos, corporate pale blue dress shirt, and paisley tie.

I offered him a chair, but he declined, preferring to stand, occasionally shifting his weight from one foot to the other as the interview proceeded.

He had no family, he said, so he could work long hours, odd hours.

I asked about the gap in his resumé and he mumbled something about being away. It was an odd answer but I did not pursue it. I was hiring a grocery stock clerk, not an accountant.

Then I noticed, peeking from under the end of his shirt sleeve, what looked like a tattoo. No, a number. What kind of number?

He tugged the shirt down when he sensed me looking. Then he turned to head for the door.

“Wait,” I called. “We hire ex-felons here. Will you take a chance on us?”

He turned back around, a tear in his eye, and extended his hand.

As we shook, he noticed the partial number peeking from under my shirt sleeve.

 Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices. com

Morning noises

 

One of the joys of retirement is not having to rush out of bed. The alarm never goes off because we never set it, unless we have some place we need to be in the early morning, and we try and avoid scheduling early morning anything.

Staying in bed, reading, thinking, and just enjoying being is a great improvement.

Sometimes, I shut my eyes and just listen to the sounds around me. They vary if we are in France or Switzerland, but they still gentle me into the day.

Garbage men: In France they pick up the garbage daily. Sometimes Sherlock wakes up to bark at them, sometimes he just doesn't care.

People: Also in France we may hear people walking by. A dog may bark, a cat may hiss. Sometimes we hear them pulling suitcases on their way to the train station.

In both countries, the tea kettle clicks on and I can hear the water boiling. My husband will come in with a cuppa, selecting a different flavor each morning. I can identify it by its aroma.

If it is rainy, I can hear the beat of the water on the skylight signalling the start of a day that will involve snuggling inside.

If it's windy, the chimes sound on the patio, a faint melody. 

Birds trill their original melodies. Later when we walk the dog through the fields in Switzerland, we can hear woodpeckers.

Whatever combination of sounds, I feel a sense of joy that I have the time to be aware of them. 

 

Scum

 

I do not condone murder.

I do understand the cheering reaction to the health insurance's CEO's shooting death in New York.

The CEO who was shot was scum. He put profit over people. I would have preferred that he live the rest of his life along with those he loved and never, ever, ever have access to medical care.

I wonder how many of the millions of Americans without health insurance realize that every human in all other industrialized countries have access to some type of health insurance. Some systems are better than others, granted, but it is there.

He is not the only CEO to put profit before people. Customers, employees do not matter over their bonuses.

I do not have anything against profit, but I do have something against excessive profits made on the backs of others.

Top executives say that they give those people jobs. True, but without those people, there would be no one do the work that give them their money. Katie Porter's grilling of CEO Jamie Diamond is an excellent example. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2WLuuCM6Ej0

Whether it is a corporate executive, politician, lobbyist, the amounts that they earn are staggering in comparison to the average worker. In many cases they do real damage, such as the lobbyist who convinces congress to gut safety regulations because it costs their clients too much from their profits.

Societies that share do better overall. Granted that means people like Jeff Bezos won't have as many mansions with up to 25 bathrooms, but that is preferable to a person not getting the medicines they need because some scum of a CEO encourages systems that denies their claim.

We live in a neofeudalism age. Just the names of the social groups have been changed.

 

 

Free Write -- The Two Doors

 

Julia's Free Write

Of all the things to do today, he was not prepared to be faced with this choice.

It was a lovely late fall, bordering on winter, day. The sun was shining, most of the trees were bare, which gave the advantage of seeing into properties normally hidden and protected.

The countryside walk took him down paths, which, although known to him, seemed somehow different and new.

His mind wandered down memories’ lane, of the times he had climbed those distant mountains. He could still manage hills, but balance issues made him leery of climbing rocks.

Throughout his life, he had always been a decisive person, never having a problem choosing in between this, that or the other.

Until today.

He gave it some thought and wandered a bit farther, hoping that his mind would miraculously come up with a solution.

He knew that when he returned, he would have to choose: one door or the other.

Julia has written and taken photos all her life and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/ 

 

D-L's Free write

Wat it the right or left door?

All Jemma could think about was the short story of the lady and the tiger.

Well no lady. No tiger. They would be frozen solid.

"Your order is behind the left door," the man said. "And lock up when you leave," and he was off. He also sai DON'T open the other door.

Ever sine Jemma was a child, she took the word don't as do.

What if she opened them at the same time?

She had to stretch to reach the handles on the two doors. Freezing air rushed into the room.

On the left were three boxes with her name written on them. To get them out she would have to get something to hold the door open. Nothing was visible, so she put her coat across the door sill and removed the boxes.

She peeked into the door on the right and screamed.

A frozen woman was at the back.

Her first reaction was to rush in and save her, but she knew she could become trapped and freeze to death too. 

Her second reaction was to call the police, who told her it was only a mannequin.

D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Check out her website at:. https://.dlnelsonwriter.com

Rick's Free Write

Door No 1. Door No 2. Where is Door No 3? No 3? Guess this is not a game show. Not a game at all. This is deadly serious. Nuclear serious.

The two doors in the sub-basement with the heavy hinges and steel casings lead to two chambers. About 5 metres by 10 metres each. Equipped with simple cot beds, a sink, a toilet and enough canned goods to last as long as the radioactive fallout lingers. Bomb shelter. A requirement for every Swiss residential building. Originally mandated because of fear of Hitler. They now serve the same purpose over fear of what Putin might do.

Most Swiss families long ago turned the chambers into wine caves, so the hingers stayed limber from frequent use.

I’ve sometimes wondered, what would it be like to share a shelter with someone you do not really like? And what if a bomb struck nearby when you were inside and blocked the door from being re-opened? Did any of the chambers have a secret escape hatch? Or do you just shrivel away slowly from lack of oxygen?

I may take my chances on the outside. At least it would be quick.

Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices. com