Free Write The Christmas Tree

 

Our weekly Free Writers are now three. We met at the Vandoeuvres boulangerie and there was a dearth of people to use as prompts. Then we saw the Christmas tree, still decorated and lighted at the entrance. We picked up our pens and off we went.

THE CHRISTMAS TREE

Julia's Free Write

Last day of January and it’s still up in the corner – forgotten?

Appreciated for its lights and colors, which lend memories of the day?

“Why am I still here? Have my owners forgotten me? And why the one big bulb? Was it a child visiting the bakery cum mini-mart?

Oh well, I will enjoy my life as I know that all too soon my limbs will be stripped bare, my lights turned off and I’ll end up in the heap of other used once and tossed items of our Christmas past.

I only hope that over my short time here I have provided some joy, some warmth to all who passed me by.

I’m starting to list, start to tire – rest in peace Christmas 2023. It will be a brother, a sister or maybe even a cousin in eleven months.”

Rick's Free Write

Thirty-five days past Christmas and the tree was still up in the corner near the boulangerie door. Four foot high, Alpine green, artificial with a string of white lights and about a dozen large and medium globes for color.

The owner, Jakob, had put it up himself, then promptly went on holiday to the Seychelles.

Naomi, who minded the store, and served the croissants and tea, and the baker in the basement - Bruno - had not dared take down the tree because it was Jakob's thing and he might get mad when he returned and noticed it missing. Of course he might be mad, too, that neither took the initiative to do the obvious and take it down. 

More serious was the problem of supplies  - the flour, yeast, beverages and other stuff on which they depended - were dwindling down to almost nothing. 

Naomi and Bruno did not have purchasing authority so could not order supplies.

What they had not realized that Jakob, who had no family, had drowned in the ocean while swimming on Christmas Day. 

D-L's Free Write 

Jana entered the bakery. Elaine had already unlocked the door. The Christmas tree was turned on.

It was January 31st for God's sake. When was she going to turn the damn thing off?

Elaine was a gold medal procrastinator, waiting for Jana to do the chores.

"Ho, ho, ho!" Hugo, who was usually their first customer, walked through the door.

Jana poured his coffee before he asked for it. She had just finished brewing it.

"Elaine, set up the tables,"

"It's your turn," Elaine said.

"I'm filling the cases,"

If she were the boss, she'd fire Elaine, although the girl was good with customers. 

The tree was Jana's line in the sand. She'd set it up  alone.

The bell on the door tinkled.

Shit, Jana thought, Sharon, the owner who almost never checked on them.

"What the hell is the tree doing still up? Are you waiting to turn it into an Easter bush?"

When neither girl responded, Sharon said, "Jana, take it down."

If Jana hadn't needed the money she would have quit. 

Elaine smirked behind Sharon's back.

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

 

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

 

 

 

Lost and Found

 

Rick looked through his multi-pocketed jacket for the house keys as Sherlock scratched at the door.

Where had he lost them? 

Les Halles at the Mid Eastern food Stand?

At the ticket dispenser buying a bus pass?

On Bus 33 or 92?

Gone, gone, gone.

My keys let us in.

"Check the Lost and Found," I said. It was more than possible someone turned them in.

Over the next few days Rick looked at their website. One photo showed all the keys found and turned in. 

Nothing.

Then on Friday night,  there it was...our penguin in the upper right hand corner socializing with all the other lost keys in the city

I had received the cute little penguin thingie for my birthday. Always hard to buy for, my friends know a penguin gift is always appreciated. I had sewn it on top of the key lanyard.

Lost and Found would be closed until Monday morning.

We were there shortly after it opened.

Rick had the duplicate set of keys, a photo of the lost keys and his identity card. There were five people before us and within five minutes a line had formed down the long corridor and out the door.

Only three people were allowed in at a time, but those before us were served quickly and left clutching their property and  smiling.

Our turn came and a young woman listened as Rick explained about the penguin in French. She broke into a big smile and replied in English.

Without a moment of hesitation, she brought out a key-filled box and retrieved ours. She must have noticed it.

A payment of 15CHF (£17.03), a receipt to sign and we were on our way.

Love the Swiss efficiency.

Rick has a dueling blog at https://lovinglifeineurope.blogspot.com/

D-L Nelson is the author of 17 books. Read her blog at www.dlnelsonwriter.com

 

Sunday mornings

Sunday mornings are special even after the end of corporate life means no need to rush to work weekdays. During my lifetime, certain rituals have added to their pleasure.

Wigglesworth Street

A couple and I bought a house in Boston to renovate. We all had demanding jobs. Two of us were doing degrees on top of that. Saturdays were spent on stripping paint, putting down tile, etc. Sunday mornings were a bit of calm.

Bill would go out for The Boston Globe, The New York Times and the National Enquirer. If he had not made bread, he would bring back bagels. The smell of coffee would waft up through the heating grates from the kitchen on the second floor to our third floor bedrooms.

The bedrooms surrounded a small hall and we would eat and read the papers, exchanging newspaper sections as we finished them.

Eventually we would start the day's rennovations or whatever plans we made.

François Lehmann, Geneva

 

I lived alone in a one bedroom flat in walking distance of the UN alphabet agencies. Not alone-alone...on my floor were friends from the UK, India, Syria and other countries.

Some Sunday mornings our Indian neighbors would make their typical breakfast and we would wander down the hallway still in our pajamas and feast.

On Sundays that we stayed in our own places, I would make myself hot chocolate, not with a mix but cubes of chocolate, sit at my kitchen table and look out at the grassy lot and château across the street. 

Some Sundays I'd go to the dispenser and buy the paper feeling smug I'd finally had enough French to read it.

Geneva/Argelès

 

After Rick and I lived together, he began making special Sunday breakfasts, combining both American and Swiss traditions. Bacon and rosti might appear, fresh fruit, bread still warm from the boulangerie or other goodies.

Sometimes we invited friends instead of having them for dinner. Those times there might be a greater selection of fruit and breads.

He was a master at doing scrambled eggs without burning them.

Until recently when it was cancelled, BBC Dateline was a listening must. It featured reporters from different countries discussing the hot topics of the week. 

During Covid they broadcast from the reporters' homes. I loved checking out the books on the shelves in their backgrounds. I especially loved Guardian reporter Polly Toynbee's blue cabinet.

Sundays, even though we are allegedly retired but are still writing almost everyday, are still special. 

There are those mornings in France when we get up to catch the sunrise at Maranda Beach. After the dog does his zoomies, avoiding the water, we stop at the boulangerie for croissants and maybe a chocolate something to have with tea as we watch the Sunday shows in the afternoon.

In Geneva we might stay in bed just that much longer if the dog isn't in a rush to check out the fields and forest near our village.

Sunday mornings -- I love them.

 

Walden Pond

 

The weather was perfect as Rick and I walked toward the ruins of Henry David Thoreau's cabin in the Walden Pond woods. We didn't need to add clothes for warmth or remove them to cool off.

Although most of the leaves were still green, the trees were dotted with reds and yellows. A few floated to the ground. 

That day, a plethora of chipmunks seemed to be out and about, watching us, the only people there that weekday.

We were on a memory tour as newlyweds showing each other our childhoods.

Even as an ex-American, I can never remove my New England Yankee roots. The thoughts of Thoreau, Longfellow and Emerson, the Transcendentalist belief of the beauty of nature and goodness of people was inherent in my childhood even if my family would never have known to call it that. I only identified it after certain university lit classes.

It's a term I seldom think of, but I feel it on my walks through my Swiss village when the fields run into the forest and the Alps provide a backdrop to our lives. It doesn't matter if the crop is sunflowers or grapes. 

It is the sign that asks people to leash their dogs to not disturb the newly-born fawns. It can be the smell of the trees or the newly turned earth. If the temperature is not as perfect as it was on that September day at Walden Pond, its cold or warmth is a message of being alive.

The contrast of the natural beauty to the horrors of war, political upset and hatred is soul-saving. 

That day, Rick and I returned to the visitor's center. We had read the sign. We went into the model of the original cabin.

At the recreation of Thoreau's cabin, I thought of my Nest in the south of France, a studio in the grenier of a 400 year old building. I wasn't copying Thoreau consciously and it doesn't matter if the desire to live simply comes from my DNA or my environment.

We bought Rick a T-shirt that reads "simplify, simplify, simplify" a bit of consumerism contrary to the message but a memory joy of that day each time he puts it on.

 

Compulsive Reader

How does a cheapskate who is also a compulsive reader live with herself. 

The cheapskate part is easy. If forced to go into a store I resist buying anything that isn't necessary wondering is it necessary, I mean really necessary, really necessary, really?

Almost always the answer is no.

Living in Geneva and Southern France, although I can read French, English is easier. 

Last year I read 27,762 book pages, a three-year low. Forced to spend four days in the hospital, I called it a Reading Vacation and read a book a day.

Books become treasures. I haunt the English library and free book kiosks for those who've left anglo books.

However, my favorite haunt is a new English bookstore, Pages and Sips in Geneva's Vieille Ville. They are great for ordering books I wouldn't find from my other sources.

When our orders are in, we go there for their scones and tea. The atmosphere with the soft colors, book shelves, old beams is soul relaxing.

Each time, I tell myself, I won't buy anything else. Unfortunately, for my cheapskate status but fortunate for Page & Sips, there is a book display table next to where we sit to eat.  

I have to look, telling myself maybe I can find a present for Julia, Marina or other book-loving friends and usually do.

A book catches my eye. "Don't pick it up," I think as I reach for it. Nice design on the front cover.

Oh, the back cover the write up is intriguing. So is the first paragraph. And the second, and the third. So what that I have at least three unread books at home and am half way through a fourth and three quarters through a fifth.  

This week, on the way out after we've paid for the ordered books and the scones and pumpkin bread for tea that afternoon and breakfast tomorrow, I see Luca, a favorite staff member, setting up a display. The cover is interesting.

I mess up his display and pay for the book. I guess I really needed it, really, really needed it. My compulsive reader self told my cheapskate self to shut up.

Note: D-L Nelson is the author of 17 published books. Visit her website at www.dlnelsonwriter.com

 

Free Write: Blvd. de la Cluse

 

 

Rick, Sherlock and I settled in the café for our croissants and Free Write. A neighbor came up to pat the dog. We didn't really see a "victim" in the café nor did one walk by. I had not brought a novel to select a sentence.

"How about an address?" Rick asked. 

"Go for it." and he did coming up with Blvd. de la Cluse.

We have a new friend Free Writing with us. What a treat to see what each of us does with the same words.

D-L's Free Write

"It's around the corner, probably halfway up." At least that's what Maddy thought he said. She had expected that her four years of French in high school would have helped her more.

Maybe the taxi drive wasn't French. He certainly was grizzled.

Half of her wanted to turn and run to Charles de Gaulle and catch the next plane home to Boston.

Her other half said, no and that she'd waited her entire life to meet him.

Blvd. de la Cluse wasn't around the corner. Shit! Merde!

A woman in her 50's, maybe, walked toward her.

"Excusez-moi, Je cherche Blvd. de la Cluse, s'il vous plaît."

"Two streets to the right." The woman spoke perfect English.

Maddy gasped a startled, "Thank you."

"Your welcome, have a good day."

The Blvd. de la Cluse could have been a Paris painting. The number 47 was written in white on the ubiquitous blue square.

The stairs had a thick, red rug held in place with brass rods.

The iron cage elevatoe looked rickety, but she wanted the experience and could pretend she was in a French movie.

At the front of the door marked "Thibault" she hesitated then knocked.

She heard footsteps.

A man with a briefcase out the door allowing Maddy to slip in side.

To her left were six mail boxes. "Thibault 3éme" was on one. She heard footsteps. The door opened and an elderly man peeked out. "Oui?"

"Monsieur Thibault?"

"Oui."

"I think I'm your daughter."

J's Free Write

 

Here we go again, bad intersection, 3 minutes to the bottom and either a right turn, which she rarely 

had the pleasure of taking, or a left turn off Rue Emile-Yung onto Lombard then one of those 

re-named-for-a-woman streets leading into it.

How many hundreds, no thousands of times has she driven down this street, knowing that at the bottom the left-hand turn would lead to it and to the hospital, towards radiology, towards ICU, towards visiting a sick friend, towards surgery, in short a street that holds more memories

than it’s short distance can contain.

 

Blvd de la Cluse is the one street in all of Geneva that she could never forget.

 

Fortunately, this time it led to the maternity hospital and seeing her first grandson.

 

Rick's Free Write

 

There were speed bumps, of course. Always speed bumps. But they never stopped the motors from zipping around your car.

 

Illegally.

 

Jack was searching for a vacant parking spot, a prize more rare than gold, in the vicinity of the hospital complex from HUG Main at the top of the hill down to the maternité at the bottom.

 

He'd try one more loup past the Italian restaurant, along the elementary school in the converted 18th century manse, across the tram tracks, the round-about near the Migros and Co-op grocery stores and if nothing give up and pay the exorbinant fee in the underground garage.

 

He would catch up in time with Claudette, who was midway through a difficult pregnancy and requiring twice monthly check ups.

 

Jack was anxious for her health, for her mental health especially if she lost the baby. 

 

Again.

 

And anxious how they would pay for it whether the baby lived or not. Especially if it lived.

 

Living and working in the international city of Geneva seemed glamorous to friends back in the UK, but a mid-level NGO staffer salary didn't go far. 

D-L has had 17 books published. www.dlnelsonwriter.com

 

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

 

 

 

Trump

 

 Amazing.

With three decades of living in Europe, how well informed Europeans are about America can be unbelievable. In some cases, they are far better informed than Americans themselves if the interviews of average Americans on the news are any example.

Not a new phenomena.

Election night when Bush Sr. won over Dukakis, I'd been invited to a special all night watch-the-results at the Toulouse Ecole de Commerce. The students put on sketches and acts between results that would have been sufficient for any graduate class in political history,

For a 30 minute appointment with my tax accountant, he spent 20 talking about the Clinton-Lewinsky debacle. He knew all the players.

During Obama's first presidential run, so many strangers, when hearing my American accent would talk about him. Yes they could.

The last few days when I've been out all sorts of people have mentioned Trump including:

• Doctors in the emergency room
• Nurses giving me shots
• Those bringing me my meals
• Hairdressers (the entire beauty shop)
• Waiters

They talk about the lies, the lack of coherence which is covered on many of the international news stations.

Most are speaking with fear.

The leaders of Scandavian countries are expressing fear at what Trump will do, especially on NATO questions.

As an ex-American, I watch what is happening to my birth country with a great deal of sadness. Because I left doesn't mean I stopped caring.

Free Write - Luck

 

For my husband's and my Free Write today, we decided to use a first person sentence from a novel, our first co-Free Write in the first person. Sometimes we take a similar tack but we've never had an almost identical second sentence before.

The sentence prompt: I like to think that basically I'm a lucky person.

Rick's Free Write

I like to think that basically I'm a lucky person. Not million-dollar winner lottery lucky, but lucky in sense that considering two or more outcomes to a given situation the better of two has fallen in my favor.

Like the time I was 11, riding my bike across town to the baseball field, because I was a hot shot "All Star" and could do it on my own without having my parents drive me.

I may have been fooling around a bit as I went over a huge hole in the road that crossed the railroad tracks in the center of town. Maybe. But I definitely hit a pothole or a crack in the expansion joint, and I went sprawling off the bike onto the road. That was unlucky.

What was lucky for me was that there were no cars were coming in either direction or I would have been as some would express it "schmuckled."

I was lucky the time when I was eight and our car got broadsided by a car that my mother didn't see besides a turning truck, sending us into a ditch. Unlucky to the car. Lucky neither of us were hurt.

I did cry a little. That's what kids are supposed to do when traumatized, right?

Most of all I've been lucky with the family I was born into, the friends I have met through the years, the successes I've had in my career (part hard work, part luck), and generally good health.

I don't ride bicycles any more.

D-L's Free Write

I like to think that basically I'm a lucky person not in the win the megalottery type of luck, but maybe win a card or two at bingo type.

When I went for a job, I usually got it. I don't think I'm exceptional, but interviewers liked me.

I've a son and daughter, just like I wanted, when I wanted. They are now adults and doing well.

And I had the home Jim and I bought and fixed just like we like it.

That's why I was surprized when Jim announced he was leaving me for another woman.

I now understand bad luck. Of course, I'd listened to my friends' woes.

For a year I was in a funk until the papers were signed.

With my half for the house sale I bought a flat. I wasn't sure I would like living in four rooms, but I love it. So much less work.

Living alone? It's sometimes lonely, but I do what I want when I want.

I don't regret my earlier life. It was good, but it's over. 

I've booked myself on a cruise.

The grapevine said Jim's new woman left him.

I wasn't surprized when he showed up at my door.

"No," I said. "I don't want to get back together."

After he left, I looked around my flat. I liked everything in it. My neighbors were lovely. I've taken up golf.

It's as I said, I'm basically lucky.

***

Note: D-L Nelson's web site: www.dlnelsonwriter.com lists her 17 published books.

Rick Adams is an aviation journalist. His website: https://aviationvoices.com/

 

Quick action for a TIA

 

The corridor where I was a patient had my initials.                             My food ticket was D-L US ...Was it my old nationality haunting me?

In a very hi-tech hospital, each patient had its own old fashioned white board. When they asked the date, I could read it.

Rick noticed my speech was weird. He bundled me into the car and 30 minutes later we were at HUG (French pronunciation WHOOG) Hôpitaux universitaires de Genève. They  took me in what seemed was within seconds. 

Something between my French side of the brain and English side was disconnected. I could not speek English but thought clearly in it but the sentences came out in a French that the doctor (who looked if he just passed fourth grade and had beautiful brown eyes) had no problems with. 

They put me to bed hooked up to enough wires to be a puppet. Every two hours some one came by and wiggled fingers, had me stick out my tongue etc. The number of times I told them where I was, who I was, the day, month, year one made me want to ask them if they knew the answers.

There are herds of horses, gaggle of geese so what do you call it when six interns and a doctor show up to talk about you? A bunch of interns...a chorus...a package...?

They were followed by two speech therapists who had me do all kinds of exercises.

• Name as many words as you can that start with M.
• What day is it?
• Where are you?
• Finish these sentences.
• Identify these pictures.
• Do this math.

They were speaking French and by now I was able to both think and speak in French and English again. Some of the photos were of tools that I didn't know in either languages and never had. As for math, I couldn't do it orally in either languages ever. When they showed me the numbers, no problem. 

My IRM/MRI was next. This was the first time I was enclosed in the machine. I played word games in my head to make the time go faster.

One of the technicians  told me among the hospital personal, there are 56 mother tongues. Patients can almost always find someone to translate.

The results showed no damage, no cause. I'd been responding to everything correctly.

Still they kept me for three more days. I comsidered it a reading holiday. I'm back home. Thank goodness.

There is a moral to the tale. Mine was a light case caught early. However if you think someone is having a stroke get them medical help FAST!

Keeping America Safe--NOT

 

They say the United States has a huge defense budget to keep Americans safe. It is larger in size than the next nine countries.

Americans are unsafe in many other areas in comparison to other industrialized countries. They are more likely to be damaged by local factors than an attack from another country.

The U.S. is not keeping citizens safe in their daily lives. Americans are free from the things that would make their lives better. Citizens in other countries enjoy these safety features. Here are just a few examples.

Not Safe From Guns

40,167 people died from shooting in 2023. More than 36,160 were wounded. There were 630 mass shooting many in places that should have been safe such as the grocery store, churches,  schools.

Not Safe from Ignorance

School curriculums have been watered down or include lies. Book banning keeps children from the knowledge they will need to be informed citizens.  

Not Safe from Limiting their Chances

How many people have not been able to fulfill their full potential by not being able to afford higher education?  And if they do how handicapped are they the rest of the lights with educational, debt?

Not Safe from Food or Lack of Food

It is estimated that 44 million people in the U.S. face hunger. That includes one in five children.

There are not enough inspectors to make sure that food producers are following safety standards in content and production.

Not Free from Unsafe Working Conditions

An American worker dies every 96 seconds from a work-related accident. There are not enough inspectors to do the checks.

Not Safe from Weather

Fires, tornadoes, hurricanes have increased because of climate change. 2023 was the hottest year in history.

Not Safe from Medical Bankruptcy

Cost of medical treatment, hospitalization, drugs can wipe out a family's finances. This does not exist in other industrialized countries.

Not Free from Unsafe Bridges

Some 42,000 U.S. bridges are considered unsafe according to Scientific American.

Not Safe from Corrupt Politicians

Oklahoma is a good example of politicians working with the oil and gas industry. The industry fracking practices contributed to 953 earthquakes in one year and politicians backed their practices. Just one of thousands of examples...politicians who put party and career over the people they are elected to serve. Corrupt politicians do exist ever where. 

Not Safe from Corporations Putting Profit over People

Companies hiding climate change information, other industries making short cuts to bring a product to market before it has been tested or people trained in its use, inferior materials substituted for safer ones...the list goes on.

Not Safe from Lobbyists

Millions of dollars are spent to buy votes that are in their interest but could hurt ordinary citizens.

Women Not Safe from Pregnancy

Women whose lives would be damaged if they have a baby or were raped or a victim of incest cannot get a safe abortion in many places.

Women who want their babies but can't because they have major medical problems and cannot get a safe abortion in many places.

Women whose baby had died in the womb cannot get a safe abortion in many places. 

Let it snow

 The flakes started as we were in the tea room. By the time we arrived home an hour later, there was a ground covering.

Once everyone I know and love are safe, I adore a good snow storm. Back in Geneva, I was hoping for one. Too often Geneva has rain. One has to drive up an Alp or a Jura to get snow.

Thriugh lunch, it continued to fall until we had quite a few centimeters of wet, sticky snow, perfect for snowmen.

I convinced my husband we needed to go out and build a snow dog.

After bundling up, we headed out. Sherlock ran ahead doing zoomies. I wonder if he knew that snow was really white water would he be as happy. Water, in his doggie mind, is to the avoided totally.

Rick piled the snow up against a tree: body, head, ears and tail. We located too small rocks for eyes. 

 

Inside we toweled off the dog, put the kettle on decided whether to watch something on Netflix or read.

What a wonderful, wintry day!

Note: Check out D-L at www.dlnelsonwriter.com