Maisie Tucker et.al.

 

As  a child I lived on 14 acres of land. Our closest neighbor, Maisie Tucker, also had a large piece of land. Our two properties were separated by a Robert Frost type stone wall.

There was no way my brother and I would cross that stone wall. 

We thought Maisie was a witch.

Her house was a perfect witch's house with long grass, falling shutters. We drove by it regularly, sometimes several times a day when we did a lot of errands.

My grandmother told us we were wrong and that Maisie was just an old woman, a lonely woman.  

Why I thought of her today after decades of her never crossing my mind, I have no idea. And I'm sure I'm the only person on the planet now who even knew she existed. 

Once she must have been a little girl, gone to school, had friends. 

I have no idea if she married or even ever had a beau. She must have grown up when chaperones were the norm. In our small town, she didn't participate in anything. I'm not sure she went out for groceries. I never thought about it before yesterday.

The fading from existence holds true for almost everyone who has ever lived on this planet. Some leave examples of their work such as the cave paintings in France. A few make the history books.

With my brother's death, my grandparents have mostly disappeared unless someone reads about them in one of my blogs. Their wide range of relatives and friends have disappeared.

Did Maisie have relatives that survived her? Was she just a lonely old woman who died alone? 

I could use Maisie as a character in my books. 

Even someday I too will fade from view first with those that loved me, then those I knew casually. One of my books may be found in an attic or trash or a library. I'm sure given enough time there will be no digital trace of me.

Maybe someone will mention me and a listening child will ask, "Who?" 

It doesn't matter. What matters is what I do now and to whom, with whom, how I will live my days.

Maisie, for whatever reason, lived her live isolated and alone. 

She wasn't a witch. 

 

 

Two Collaborations

 

 Fourteen Days, stories written by 36 famous writers, a modern Chaucer Tales.

The premise

During Covid in New York City, people quarantined in their tenement spend each evening on the building's roof not only clapping and cheering the health carers, but telling stories. The superintendent is the link.

The book is deeper than the simple concept. 

The writers include Margaret Atwood, John Grisham, Scott Turow, Erice Jung, Tess Gerritson, Diana Gabaldon . . . Their ages run from mid 30s to 80s. Editors were Atwood and Douglas Preston.

I can imagine how each worked on their stories locked in quarantine in different places. Did they use ZOOM, the internet etc. to connect? 

Another Collaboration 

In the mid-1990s I joined a group of writers from England, Germany, U.S., Israel and Australia. We found each other through the IWWG, International Women's Writing Guild, now celebrating its 50th anniversary.

We communicated by fledgling e-mail. At first we just discussed writing, then shared our personal lives. We learned about spouses and kids, our problems and joys.

The most poignant was our Israeli member whose son started university and moved to New York City just before 9/11. She thought he would be safe there. He was not one of the victims. Mother-fear goes beyond writing bonds. 

We decided to collaborate on a short story collection with interlocking characters to be set in Camden Market in London. Each of us came up with a person. Then we selected our secondary character created by our fellow writers in the group.

I went to London to photograph the Market. No internet photograph transfers back then, so I sent the developed photos the old-fashioned way, by post.

One of our German writers acted as editor and did the leg work on  the cover and printer. 

We read each other's work and then the completed manuscript. It was not even a baby success, but we had a tremendous feeling of accomplishment. The book is now out of print. Somewhere, perhaps in a box under my bed, I've a couple of copies.

Many years later we still exchange emails, not often, but there's a feeling of joy when an email comes in. We've lost two members. Others are fighting with health issues. 

Some of us are still writing.

I'm in touch on Facebook with the daughter of one of the writers. I wish she were alive to see her two beautiful grandsons. 

The good memory of writing the anthology came swirling back with Fourteen Days making it a double pleasure.

Notes 

Fourteen Days is a project of the Authors Guild Foundation. I'm a proud member of the Guild, who offers so many services to writers including health insurance and legal services. Proceeds will go to the foundation.

I'm having fun trying to guess who wrote what. Their ages go from mid thirties to eighties. 

 

Free Write - Cluttered Table

Julia's Free Write 

Colors, colors inside the coffee shop and beautiful flowers outside.

And to make life even better, finally a truly glorious, just-the-right temperature summer day.

Inside though something was out of sync: upon arrival there was only one table free, so I grabbed it.

As time went by the early coffee/tea/juice breakfast lot started leaving.

Ah, peace.

In the corner though a mystery: a table waiting to be cleared and an abandoned baby stroller.

However, outside all-of-a-sudden there were sirens, cop cars, ambulances arriving on all sides.

We sat and watched the scene unfold, wondering if perhaps we shouldn’t discretely disappear.

A rush of uniforms and men with guns in hand had us diving for cover.

It was only when I watched the news that evening that I learned that the abandoned stroller had held the baby of the wealthiest person in the state. 

D-L's Free Write

"It's your turn to clear that table. I've walked up the blinking stairs three times, Janice knew that the mother never leaves a tip.

Fanny hissed, "Well I've a sore leg."

Janice knew that Fanny's sore leg was selective. After their shift at Harry's café, when she'd been on the bus, she'd seen Franny leave the supermarket carrying a bag of groceries. Probably the limp had been in the bag too, because Fanny was walking fast.

The table they were arguing about had been occupied by a regular young mother with a toddler and a two-month old. The toddler was cue, a good thing too because she was also a brat." 

Fanny sighed. "You win." She limped up the five stairs to the other tables.

WOW! The woman had left a $5 tip.

Rick's Free Write

Strange city. Strange country. Strange life.

She was a ‘trailing spouse’ in the parlance of the UN agency for whom her husband worked.

Two children, one just in school, one an infant. Getting a job was out of the question. Not without a full-time nanny, which they couldn’t afford.

So she searched for mental diversions. Not shopping. Not museums. Places where she could sit in a corner, park the stroller, keep the kids calm and quiet.

Like this café on a hillside overlooking the lake. Lots of sunshine. A garden with a plethora of flowers.

She occasionally saw other women who seemed like herself. But she hesitated to engage. Her language skills were not great.

The tea was good. The chocolates were wonderful.

She wished they had never come here. 

About the Free Writers

Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices.com, a weekly newsletter reporting the airline industry  top stories . He is the author of The Robot in the Simulator. AI in Aviation Training.  

Visit D-L.'s website  https://dlnelsonwriter.com, She is the author of 15 fiction and three non fiction books. Her 300 Unsung Women, bios of women who battled gender limitations, can be purchased  at https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/300-unsung-women-d-l-nelson/1147305797?ean=9798990385504 

Visit Julia's blog. She has written and taken photos and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/ 

 

 

 

 

Corruption Beyond Belief

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hEfnuYIBDEw The corruption of this president is unbelievable. Don't believe. Check them out. If you're paying taxes your money is stolen.

 

Horrified

 Each day I'm more horrified and terrified at what my birth country is becoming. Trumps speech on voter fraud, one more series of lies added to my fear. It isn't just Trump. It's those under him.

I believe that a country has the right to defend itself and that defense is the duty of its citizens acting as soldiers.

I don't believe those soldiers should be sent to illegal wars. 

Two more soldiers have died in an illegal war.

Sending soldiers to kill in illegal wars turns them into murderers pretending to be heroes. They are not defending their country.  

The U.S. has no right to attack Iran under international law any more than it has to destroy boats in international waters.

It has no right to remove the leader of another country as it did in Venezuela.

It threatens to take over Cuba.

It threatens to take over Greenland.

The U.S. is a global bully. It's like child, no make that a brat, that says, "I want what I want when I want it and I'm going to take" then tries sowing pain and destruction.

No matter how much patriotic bullshit that has been shoved down the soldiers throats from childhood, no matter how many Pledge of Allegiances said, no matter how many Star Spangled Banners sung, when a soldier pulls trigger and the bullet hits another human, they committed murder. 

Those soldiers thoouoght they were defending their country. They were victims of leaders who sold them phony patriotism 

 

Trilingual Dog

  

Our dog, Sherlock, is trilingual.

He was a rescue, a three-month-old male. We went to  the SPA, the name of the local animal rescue center, looking for an older, small female. 

The person in charge, reached under a counter and pulled out a fuzzy male of just three months and put him in my arms. He kissed me.

According to his DNA, his mother was a Yorkie, his father a mixed Jack Russell with all sort of breeds in his genes. 

His name was Spider, which we quickly changed because a good, good friend, is afraid of spiders. We thought of having a Facebook naming contest, but as a mystery writer, Sherlock was a natural choice 

Even as a pup, we realized that he understood much of what we said by his body language. His understanding was also signaled by ear directions.

Thus we started saying things we didn't want him to understand in French. Ice cream, glace, go, allez and entire sentences. 

Oh là, là, là.  

We realized he developed a third language, a series of barks, whines, growls always used for the same things. If we didn't respond, those same sounds would be combined with soul-searching stares.

His body language would include spins and placing himself where we would get the hint..."I'm in the kitchen, how about food?" or "I'm by the door, let's go walkies." 

I suspect he thinks we are less than bright that we aren't speaking his language.

However, we have a friend whose dachshund speaks button. The owner has yes and no buttons and the dog will push the no repeated times when she disagrees with her owner or yes when she agrees with the owner.

 

Coat Hangers & Knitting Needles - Another Fighter

Women’s access to family planning, contraception, birth control, emergency contraception, and healthcare services and resources should be unrestricted by the government or religious preferences of private third parties.

What motivates a person to fight for abortion rights?

For Patricia Theresa Maginnis it was a combination. Part of her motivation came from a military tour in Panama and seeing how an unmarried pregnant woman, who was brought in in a strait jacket, was treated. When she worked in a hospital back in the States, she saw hundreds of women admitted from complications after illegal abortions.

Born in 1928, Maginnis was 31 when she moved to San Francisco. Her activism accelerated with her support for abortion reform bills. Things moved too slowly for her as her belief grew that all anti-abortion laws should be repealed. It led her to:

• Form the Citizens Committee for Humane Abortion Laws
• Speak at panel discussions
• Conduct surveys
• Fight for California legislation to make abortion available for everyone.

Two other women joined her in her fight: Rowena Gurner, Lana Phelan. With Maginnis formed they formed the Army of Three. They provided women with information on abortion providers.

In 1968 the Society for Humane Abortion maintained a free Post-Abortion Care Center (PACC), which was sponsored by the American Humanist Association (AHA). Their website says: “The AHA supports every woman’s unequivocal moral and legal right to autonomy over her own body and reproductive choices. Women’s access to family planning, contraception, birth control, emergency contraception, and healthcare services and resources should be unrestricted by the government or religious preferences of private third parties. Local, state, or federal initiatives designed to undermine the landmark Supreme Court decision Roe v. Wade violate the individual’s human right to pursue all reproductive options.”

Because the Society for Humane Abortion had a tax-free educational status which could have been threatened, Patricia Maginnis set up a parallel organization, the Association to Repeal Abortion Laws (ARAL).

ARAL handed out pamphlets and kits (for a small donation) that gave information about:

• Abortion specialists
•  Abortion laws
•  Mexican, Japanese and Puerto Rican abortionists
• Customs information
• Directions on self-induced abortions

T hey asked for evaluations after a woman had an abortion to help the group maintain the quality of names given out.

Working with another organization, Maginnis helped:

• Sponsor symposia on abortion procedures for physicians
•  Provide speakers and literature to libraries, medical schools, physicians, family planning
•  Publish a quarterly newsletter

Coincidence

 

Two editors told me that coincidence in writing doesn't work. Not believable. It contradicts the real life coincidences in my life.

The first needs some numbers.

• The current world population is 8,298,979,48. 
• Swiss population is  9,002,920
• Montana's population is  1,151,831
• Hyde School in Maine has 137 students. 
•  We live in Geneva, Switzerland. 

Pages and Sips is a much loved English book store in Geneva's Vieille Ville nestled in old buildings behind city walls. It has ancient beams, just baked pastries, teas and coffees, books and comfortable places to sit.

We love to go there not just for the books, but the friendly staff, scones and atmosphere. 

On one trip a man with a dog that greeted our dog heard me speak.

"You're from Boston," he said, my accent a giveaway.

We chatted. He was from Montana, the first person from Montana I'd ever met.

As we talked we learned that his son and my brother had both attended the same prep school and to increase the coincidence, Hyde School was located in Maine. It has 137 students. I'm incapable of working out the math on the chances of that.

Today, the first break in the heat wave, we ventured into the Vieille Ville to pick up our book order and enjoy a scone breakfast.

It is a trait in my family to speak to strangers. Tables were set up on the cobblestone street outside the door.  

Sherlock was with us and as so often happens people ask about him.

A young couple, American accent, tourists, patted the dog. We started talking. The usual questions fell such as where are you from, do you live here...

It was a coincidence that she had lived in Stuttgart as a child as I had when my ex-husband was in the 7th Army Band stationed in Stuttgart.  

"My father was an Army doctor," she said.

"What base?" I asked.

Her memory was hazy until I named the three biggies Robinson, Patch, Kelley.

"Kelley," she said.

Memories of the band at Kelley Barracks flashed through my mind. 

It became more entangled. Her partner and my husband both had professional knowledge of the same airplane.

We exchanged contacts and hugs. It would be wonderful to stay in contact. 

Maybe if I want to experience a coincidence I need to go to Pages and Sips, because finding two unlikely coincidences in the same place is a coincidence in itself.

 

Snow Fantasy

 

One of the ways I've dealt with the canicule (heatwave) is to fantasize snow, complete with my Scarves, Swedish mittens, and boots. I picture gentle falling snow outside our window then howling winds. I go back to my childhood when we turn snowdrifts into forts.

My husband had a more practical method. "Let's go to Chamonix. It's in the 20s instead of the mid 30s."

 "Sherlock go," we reassured our dog who considers suitcases a cause of anxiety and off the three of us went to the ski resort in the Alps.

Arriving about noon we stepped into cooler air. We thought off season it would be empty but it was filled with hikers.

An Italian restaurant provided lunch served by a Thai waitress who preferred English to French. The pasta was fresh made, the cheese local. We sat on the terrace under umbrellas.

As if there was a switch, someone turned on pounding rain and high winds. We ran inside for our after lunch coffee and tea. And as suddenly as it started, it stopped.

Rick has a habit of finding interesting hotels. We've stayed on a Dutch canal boat, a plastic bubble on an Austrian country roof, a converted schoolhouse in Ireland, a château owned by a descendant of Napoleon, and the Davos Hotel where the world leaders stay at the Economic Forum.

This unpretentious family owned hotel that he found was simple with everything we needed. The friendly receptionist wore a T-shirt that said, "Life is too short to learn German."

Sherlock, who made a hit with the hotel staff, loved walking around one of the three lakes near the hotel.

The next morning we went searching for the brand new musée of Alpine history. I went in the morning, Rick in the afternoon. Sherlock was chien non grata.One of us had to stay with him.  

Lunch at chez Josephine. Rick said that he had the best onion soup he ever eaten and he loves mine, which isn't half as good as my late friend Bill's. A plate of local meat, potatoes, salad and olives reminded me how Italy has anti pastas and Spain Tapas. 

Rick checked on a store that sold English books and brought back Land by Maggie O'Farrell and Fourteen Days, overseen by the Author's Guild. He also found French chocolate.

Tomorrow we descend to Geneva. The temperature is predicted to drop to the high 20s, which will be a relief.

Meanwhile we've had the break from the heat, a mini getaway.

And my fantasy? Every time I look up, I've seen snow on the Alps. 

 

 

Letters

  

I wanted to write before I could write, so I did orally, adding "he said or she said" and descriptions to whatever was happening.

Our mailbox was at the end of a long driveway. Almost everyday my grandmother and I would walk out to get the mail. She did not appreciate the day when I laughed and said, "The little girl said laughingly holding the fat cook's hand." The suggestion from my parents was to continue writing but silently.

Letters flew back and forth when we lived in West Virginia. My grandmother, A.K.A. the fat cook, kept in touch with her friends back in Massachusetts. Each letter's arrival was a cause for celebration.

As a teenager, back home in Massachusetts, my cousin Joanie in NJ was a pen pal and later as an adult I would have an English woman as a pen pal. She wrote on the special baby blue airline paper that cost less to send than a regular envelope.

During summers when I was a teenager, my future husband was a counselor on Cape Cod, which seemed so far away. I answered his twice weekly letters. I couldn't wait for morning deliveries so I went to the post office.

Bunny Clarkson, postal employee and family friend, always had a big smile when he had a letter for me.

When said boy friend became my fiance he was stationed at the Naval School of Music in Washington DC. I bought all different stationary and inks and tried to create works of art in my missives.

We were stationed in Stuttgart Germany, but our mail was sent to an APO address in New York to be forwarded. I treasured letters from my father and college friends. My grandmother kept me updated on my brother and mother plus the soap opera we had watched together. Recipes were included.

Back in the States there was no more need for letters. Mail was bills and catalogues.

Many years later, my daughter and I crossed the Atlantic. I moved to France after she finished a year at a Gymnasium in Germany. We communicated by fax, faster than letters.

In France I still wrote letters to my mother and stepmother. In a rush I sent the wrong letter to the wrong mother. My stepmother was amused, my mother wasn't.

Letters reappeared when I moved permanently to Switzerland, mainly from my best friend's father who acted as a stand-in father throughout my high school years. He described me as "That little girl from Reading who moved to Europe."

Somewhere in the 90s, communication became email. No longer did I have to wait for that precious envelope. Almost every afternoon around 3:00 there would be an email from my best friend. We filled a large notebook with our exchanges sharing as much as we had done when we shared a house. 

Emails do not have to rely on distance. In the 2000s sharing a four-story house, emails could bounce between floors saving steps. 

"How do you feel about going to Marro for lunch?" 

"Great, noon?" 

"Meet you downstairs."

We have archived letters from famous people for scholars to research. That will be lost with the click of a delete key. Sad in a way.

Would I give up email? 

Absolutely not. 

The immediacy, back and forth, is wonderful. But still there is something about getting an envelope with thoughts and ideas. There's something about coming across a letter from years before that carries us back to an earlier emotion. 

I consider myself lucky, I've had both.