Niches and Nests

 

This photo was taken at the moment I bought my Nest, my studio in southern France. I had co-owned a house in the same village with two anthropologists, but then they ended up divorcing.

My goal was to pack fish in Iceland half of each year to earn money and go to France to write for the rest of the year.

I wrote a French friend. "Can you help me find a place to buy?Anything between Carcassonne and the Spanish border will do." 

He did. Remember the movie, If it's Tuesday It Must Be Belgium? He had arranged to see so many places it was "If it's 11:00 it must be Collioure and if it's 11:30 it must be Port Vendre. We had five days.

On the third day, the minute I walked up the stairs into the 3rd floor European (4th floor American) studio, I knew this was it. A Coupe de Foudre, Love at First Sight. 

It had stone walls, wooden beams, a fireplace, sky light and cathedral ceiling. The building was 400+ years old, and at one point in its history my future Nest would have been filled with hay. There were three other apartments, one of each of the other stories.

"How much?"

"180,000 French Francs." That was $18,000 at that current exchange rate.

"I'll take it."

Not only was my dream to write there, but to live as simply as possible. I wanted everything I owned to be

• Beautiful
• Useful
• A memory

Even my dustpan would fulfill this. On a visit to my stepmother's in Florida, I met an artist who painted a special design on a dust pan that now has swept up dust for decades.

Of course, things didn't go as expected. I didn't go to Iceland or pack fish anywhere, but ended up in another corporate job, this one in Switzerland, where I became proudly Swiss. 

I succeeded in writing several of my books in the Nest in free time and retirement. I had exactly what I needed and not one thing extra. Studios don't have room for extras.

When I married my love, it was too small for two especially when one of us found my love of austerity hard to follow.

The Nest became that for many others. A Czech family reunited under one roof for the first time since the cold war, several artists painted there when they needed to get away, five women, each from a different generation enjoyed an Easter weekend of bonding and good food, people just needing peace from a turbulent life found not just peace but claimed healing in my Nest. 

I never charged, although it would make a great B&B. 

Some things aren't about money. They are about beauty, love and making dreams or parts of dreams come true.

 

 

The Fly and G17

 

I wish I could have been the proverbial fly at the G7 these past few days to see what the participants REALLY thought of Trump.

We did enjoy seeing the backdrop of the various reporters because we knew the spots in much of Geneva and Evian. "Oh that's the quai" or "That's the ..." 

We wonder if the story that Trump called Bridgette Macron "sweetheart" is true or not. He is crass enough to do that to make it believable. The remark of a thug at best.

But more importantly how did the professional politicians react or say to to the American president? What did they say among themselves when Trump was out of hearing distance. 

This photo tends to show he was ignored. 

 Macron has been praised in the international news for not quaking at Trump's criticism of the other heads of states for not supporting the U.S. in an illegal war. I guess he thinks friendship should include breaking the law and killing.

 

Trump did not apologize for saying NATO did nothing for the U.S. during 9/11 which they did.

 

Macron's reaction was a simple statement showing that France made French law not the U.S. 

 

To top it off was Trump's rambling press conference where he threatened to bomb Iran if it didn't behave. Sounding like a 7th grader, he threatened to not be a country's friend if they didn't behave like he wanted. A variation of a temper tantrum and saying "I'll take my marbles and go home."

Yes, the MOU between Iran and the U.S. was signed for a very expensive unnecessary war that didn't restore conditions that Trump negated in his first presidency. 

The U.S. is led by a corrupt idiot who is doing his best to hurt the world. One doesn't need to be a fly at a conference to see it.

 

 

Free Write - The Drawing

A black and white drawing of a French village from the Middle Ages, a very different prompt.  

Rick's Free Write 

"To your posts, men, " yelled the village elders. “The pirates are attacking!”

Francois and Petr, best friends on rue des Sarcelles, raced through the streets, dodging men with swords and bows, women carrying babies to safety, and dogs barking in the excitement.

Argelès-sur-mer had never been attacked by pirates before.

Fortunately, the village had just finished constructing the stone walls, towers and gates to make it a completely enclosed city.

But the pirates, French Protestants, and their allies, the Moors led by Barbarossa, had come prepared with catapults to hurl large rocks against the gates and ladders to scale the walls.

From the ramparts near the Mer Gate tower, 10-year-old Francois and Petr watched the battle rage. Rocks, lances, flaming arrows, hand-to-hand combat with swords and knives, the Argelesian men (and a few women) fought ferociously for their homes.

Some died. Others were badly injured and were taken to the eglise for aid.

But the walls and gates held. The pirates and Moors moved on.

Centuries later, the village still stands.

D-L's Free Write

Cynthia knew the minute she walked into the Parisian antique story, she had to have the drawing. She'd been here many times before, knew the owner well.

André came out to greet her. "Lovely isn't it? Represents the 14th century. Perfectly preserved." 

Cynthia examined every line of the drawing, the mountains, the towers, the walled city. She was almost afraid to ask how much it cost. She didn't want it for her antique shop back on Cape Cod. She wanted it for over her bed.

"The village still exists," André said. "You can go by train. About five hours."

She knew she would. She had to walk in those mountains, wade in the sea, walk in that village. She could extend her trip to France. It wasn't like her to be impulsive, but why not?

Julia's Free Write

Summer vacation; school was out and the family off to their cabin.

Said cabin was up a small, dead-end road, had three separate levels of lawn, and woods on two sides, never mind a very small stream along one side.

In short, a child’s adventure land.

Although there was a sandbox; an outdoors fire pit and enough “toys” for any kid, the woods were a major attraction.

Young as they were they never went very deep, just enough to scare themselves, especially as night fell.

So much of their day was spent outside.

Today, however, was a gloomy, rainy day so their attention turned to the cabin on the middle lawn.

Creek…

Getting the door open was spooky enough, but inside the cobwebs and rustles had them almost fleeing.

No, can’t lose face. Looking around they saw a tube.

Outside they opened it only to discover an ancient map: oh the joy.

Maybe there’s a treasure hidden here on our land!

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/ 

 

 

How Many - Part II

 

The Swiss vote at least four times a year on initiatives and/or referendums. These two types of petitions can propose or disagree with a law that parliament has passed or hasn't passed and the entire country weighs in.

Switzerland is a tiny country with about nine million people, a fraction of most major world cities. The Swiss far right wanted to limit population to 10 million, drew up the petition with the right number of signatures so to the entire population it went.

The vote was no June 14th with 55%. Whew!

Limiting the population was a bad idea for business, for science, for education . . . 

In most of our votations there's a rostigraben, nickname for a regional potato dish from the Swiss German side. Usually the German speakers carry the vote. 

This time the French majority of voters carried the results.

One of the things I love about being Swiss, especially in Geneva, is the diversity. Because of the United Nations and international organizations including businesses the Geneva canton is 43% foreign.  

Some of the other cantons consider diversity diluting Swiss culture. Any country with four languages and miscellaneous celebrations already is divided. 

As a naturalized immigrant, I still enjoy watching the cows come down from pasture in autumn. They're decorated in bows and bells. 

There's the different festivals including the Bern Onion Festival Zibelmärit) and more. 

Be it raclette, fondue or sausage, romaine lettuce and potatoes cooked together popular from a traditional Vaud dish, etc. I enjoy it. 

I try and follow the local etiquette of whatever group I'm with: three cheek kiss, shake hands, greet everyone coming and going at any event, Sunday quiet and more.

I respect the laws, written and unwritten. Mostly important, I vote  every votation which is more that many citizens do. Fifty-five percent is considered a good turnout. 

Being a natural-born Swiss does not guarantee s/he will vote. 

The limitation vote seems to come from the more rural cantons.

As far-right, anti-immigration movements seem to be increasing in many countries, U.K., France, Austria, and more my question is what sociological factors are being created to explain it. 

It comes back to how many or rather how much hate, how much fear and even if there is a way to stop it, do the alleged leaders really care about anything but themselves? 

 

Coat Hangers 11 - Parenal Consent Laws

 

 

Parental Consent Laws  Chapter 11

The law assumes an ideal family situation, ignoring all the other possible scenarios of why a girl might not be able to go to her parents, such as rape by the father.

For a minor to go to a judge can be beyond the capacity of many teens.

Parental consent laws for minors’ abortions became an issue after Roe v. Wade. I had debated not putting this chapter into the book because the book is about abortions prior to Roe v. Wade. However, unnecessary deaths occur because of continuing government interference in an individual’s womb.

In the late 1950s my best friend’s mother noticed that her daughter’s sanitary napkin box had not been used for over six weeks. She knew the girl was regular.

“Do you think you might be pregnant?” the mother asked. 

 

My friend broke down.

The mother took her daughter to a doctor and found no pregnancy. In today’s world, the doctor could have put her on the pill, installed an IUD or given her diaphragm. In the 50s these options were not available. Current attempts to limit access to birth control are still an issue today not just for minors but for adults by allowing companies to limit health insurance as a matter of religious belief or defunding Planned Parenthood.

A few months later my friend needed an abortion. She was deeply in love with the boy as only a teenage girl can be. Not only were they too young to marry, the boy took no responsibility for the pregnancy.

My friend had an illegal abortion and lived.

Her mother knew. Her father never did, because he would have opposed it. He was one of those men, although loving, that would think his daughter a virgin even after marriage and children.

My friend was lucky because of her mother’s support.

Not All Families Can Be Told

The law assumes an ideal family situation, ignoring all the other possible scenarios of why a girl might not be able to go to her parents, such as rape by the father. For a minor to go to a judge can be beyond the capacity of many teens.

Rebecca Suzanne Bell (1971-1988) was called Becky by her friends and family. She grew up in a middle-class neighborhood.

If she aborted herself or found someone to do it illegally, is still unclear. We know that she sought a legal abortion, but under Indiana state law she needed one of her parents to give permission.

Bell had choices:

        Going to Kentucky 100 miles away, which is what many local teens did

        Going before a judge

        Have the baby and give it up for adoption

        Run away to California

        Telling her parents

 

Fear and Fecal Matter in the Genital Track

According to her friend, Heather Clark, Bell feared that her parents would find out and that overwhelmed her fear of the abortion method she selected.

When Bell left the house in September 1988 she told her parents she was going to a party. It was the last time they would see her in a normal condition. She returned crying and ill. At first, she refused to see a doctor, but as she worsened, they forced her to go to their family doctor, who diagnosed pneumonia and sent her to the hospital where she died on 16 September.

She had developed sepsis as the result of an unsterile abortion, according to the coroner, who found fecal matter in her genital track. He stated the abortion was probably caused by a knitting needle or wire.

After her death, her parents, Bill and Karen Bell, found information on Kentucky abortion clinics among their daughter’s things.

Heather Clark, who was supportive of Becky, has stated she does not believe her friend self-induced.

The Family Fights for More Realistic Laws

The Bells blamed the parental consent laws for their daughter’s death. They have:

        Spoken against the laws in Colorado in 1988

        Testified before the Michigan House of Representatives Michigan in 2006

The Bells were attacked by pro-life groups, who disparaged Becky’s character and denied that she died from an abortion but a normal miscarriage. Dr. John Wilke produced an expert to challenge the autopsy, but the expert gave an opinion without seeing the autopsy report. On 60 Minutes, forensic pathologist John Pless, who had been associated with the autopsy, verified that Becky Bell had died from what was probably an illegal abortion.

HBO showed Lifestories: Families in Crisis “Public Law 106: The Becky Bell Story” on 15 August 1992.

In reaction to pro-life attacks, Karen Bell wrote in Choices: Women Speak Out About Abortion: “Bill and I decided to speak out; we thought we could prevent other girls from dying. We appeared on 60 Minutes. The anti-choice crowd came after us. They followed us. There would be crowds of people with their fetuses in a bottle, and some would say that Becky didn't die the way we said she did. They loosened the lug nuts on our car. In Arkansas, they shot a hole in the building where we were speaking. They cared more about a fetus than about my daughter. I thought, ‘I'm not afraid of anybody, because my daughter is dead and you can't hurt me anymore.’ People ask me what I would have done if Becky had told me the truth. I would have been mad, and I would have said, ‘Becky, you just ruined your life. What are the neighbors going to think?’ That would have been my first reaction because that's who I am. But then I would have asked her, ‘Beck, do you want to get married? Have a baby? Have an abortion? What do you want? What can you live with, hon?’ We would have worked it out. But I never got the chance.”

How Many - Part 1

 

 

When I bought my studio in a small village in Southern France there were seven bakeries. That was 1989.

Walking the dog before sunrise, fresh baked bread smells hung over the village. Think of a cartoon where a beautiful aroma entangles the main character with a delicate and curly smoke and the character dances off into happiness.

That was in the late 1980s.

As of today we are down to two bakeries (boulangeries) in the main village. There is still a delicate smell of baking bread but faint.

Locals and tourists still go out for their morning bread fresh from the oven but for how long before we will have to get in the car and drive out to the zone artisonale where the bakeries are supplied by factories that may or may not stick to traditional ingredients? 

UNESCO has registered the baguette on the Intangible Heritage Cultural Lists.

In 1970 there were 55,000 bakeries. Now there are 30,000 with  some 400 disappearing each year.

This morning my husband brought me a croissant still warm from the oven. Tomorrow morning is when we go to a cafe tfor a ten-minute free write. my husband, my friend and meet. She drinks espresso, he drinks hot chocolate and I drink tea. We want to have croissants or even divide a baguette with butter and jam or honey from a local bee keeper.

Researching Novel Details

 

 As a writer, I need to research details to make sure my work is believable. Sometimes the information is easily available. Other times it can involve travel or delving into archives. The internet has been a huge help.

Here's some examples.

Murder in Paris

The historical part was from Heretics and Lovers, the first novel I wrote. It won an award for an unpublished novel. The idea came from Montaillou by Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie. I found myself in a tiny village in the French Pyrenees. I stayed too long soaking up the atmosphere for the real characters who lived in the 1300s. After dark I was afraid to drive down the twisty mountain road. I slept in my car after discovering the fields had too many sheep droppings. 

I used the section in Heretics about Jacques Fournier (Pope Benedict XII) when he was a student in Paris for my historical section.

The skeleton, a soldier who lived 700+ years ago. shown on the bottom of the cover, was from an excavation of a Corsier CH church. 

Murder in Caleb's Landing

 

 

 

It was luck. When visiting my beloved stepmom in Florida I found a used book by an English actress who married a U.S. southern plantation slave owner. I learned, instead of mattresses, slaves on some plantations slept on moss. It was a surprise to me that I ended up with two stories about underground railroads: runaway slaves (historic) and runaway abused wives (modern). I'm not a writer that plots out everything before I start to write. This book held many surprises for me, including characters that suddenly arrived in my laptop and insisted on a major role. 

 

Murder on Insel Poel

The plot came to me when my friend and I went to Insel Poel to retrieve a painting. The museum had a model of a ship, Cap Arcona, which was sunk by a British plane with concentration prisoners on board. The model was an accurate description of the ship. There was my historical part.

My friend, whose German was fluent unlike my shopping German, was a God send. 

Spending almost a day listening to recordings from the Neuengamme concentration camp survivors who survived the sinking of the Cap Arcona was gut wrenchingly painful as was seeing where so many suffered and died. 

A positive memory was sitting with museum staff members making paper Christmas Decorations for the museum and drinking coffee.

Family Value

 

Having to write a scene where an unwed mother had to give up her baby for adoption might be easy to imagine, but my scene was lacking something. Then I talked to a Salvation Army Officer who headed a home for unwed mothers. Her description of the turnover left me crying when I rewrote the scene.

My main male character needed a vasectomy, something I could never experience obviously. Asking male friends "Have you had a vasectomy?" was a bit embarrassing but what the hell, anything for my art. Right? After I wrote the scene with their details, I gave them the scene to read. I was pleased they found it accurate.

These are just a few examples of wanting knowledge that I don't have. I've made mistakes because I thought I knew something and didn't know that I didn't know. I had TWA flying out of Miami in Chickpea Lover: Not a Cookbook. TWA never flew out of Miami. 

That's why in the acknowledgement of many books the author says any mistakes are theirs and not the people who helped.

 

Walking in Ancient Times

 

It was time to go to Ebla, my host Syrian family said.

I had already experienced so much.

• Drank maté through a silver straw with women, who graciously spoke English to me
• I'd heard the language Jesus was said to have spoken.
• I saw the French bullet holes in the souk ceiling where I bought a scarf. 
• I had a private tour of the National Museum. 
• Sat in courtyards of a centuries old homes in the old city. 
• Eaten combinations of food that I couldn't identify but found wonderful. Often I was fed several lunches or dinners as we stopped at houses of friends. Out of politeness I ate and ate.
• Recovered from Saladin's revenge.
• Slept in a monastery.
• Seen a 13th century mental hospital that was more humane than many today
• Participated in a woman's group that had their body hair removed by a woman who used an application of sugar and water.
• Watched a craftsman inlay mother of pearl on a mahogany table. 

I  was visiting Syria before the war, early in this century. The trip to the ancient northern city from Damascus was through parched land.

Ebla was one of the ancient cities going back to the third millennium B.C. It dominated the region. Discovery began in 1964 by Italian archeologists. 

Tourists were not allowed to walk among the ruins for fear of damage, but our guide made an exception. He also invited me home to lunch in his nearby stone house, much to the surprise of his wife. She quickly supplied a meal and conversation flowed with translations and hand signals as children ran in and out of the house.

Some 17,000 cuneiform tablets had been found, either complete or fragments. Ebla had a well organized library. The tablets had been translated by a Roman professor. The guide gave me his contact.

Several months later when I was covering a conference in Rome for my newsletter, I contacted him. I explained that I wrote a series of mysteries, Murder in (different cities). Half of the stories were historical. I wanted to do Murder in Damascus with the historical part set in Ebla. I was hoping he could tell me what daily life was like so long ago. 

He invited me into his book-filled apartment on a tree-lined street, and over the next three hours graciously told me about what he discovered about life on the tablets and fragments.

Ebla's library contained the world's first bi-lingual dictionary in Eblaite and Sumerian, women had many rights, there was a royal palace. Much of what was on the tablets were accounts and formal correspondence.

Although I told him that I would send him a copy of the book after I wrote it, I never finished it. In 2011 war broke out. Not only did the dig stop with much of Ebla occupied and/or damaged even more than time had done. 

 

Free Write - Muddy Boots

 

We are getting closer to when the Free Writers will be in Geneva in the same café. Despite the separation we still managed to share the prompt and our ten minutes work thanks to the internet. Sometimes the writing gets done at a different time on Tuesdays, but that is unimportant. What is important is that there are people writing together in their heads and sharing. 

D-L's Free Write 

Frank carried his muddy boots in his left hand. In his right was his cane, an improvement over his crutches and a definite improvements over his wheelchair and sling over his hospital bed holding his broken leg.

The boots had been with him since high school, through uni and two jobs. They had hiked in the mountains and along river paths.

He has almost thought of them as buddies until that rainy day when he'd slipped and rolled down that steep hill. He was found the next day unconscious.

All he wanted to do now with the boots was to get rid of them. 

"Why not give them to someone?" his sister asked.

He was going to give them to the dumpster behind the supermarket. Placing them on the top he turned his back without a goodbye,

Less than a half hour later, a homeless man spied them. "Just my size," he mumbled. He knew just where to wash them.

Rick's Free Write

It had been a long, exceedingly hot day working in the ditches in the village, laying new fiber optic cable so people could have faster internet and brighter television images. Irony – he didn’t have a computer or a TV.

He’d taken off the muddy boots and changed into sneakers, then he and Jake and Bluto had walked to a nearby bar for a couple of cold brews that tasted really good.

Jake had given him a ride home, and dropped him off to his eager retriever, Digger.

It wasn’t until he was cleaning up and climbing out of his filthy overalls that he realized he’d left his boots behind. He could picture them sitting on the stone in front of the iron fence. But it was much too far to walk. If he was lucky, the boots would still be there in the morning.

He sat down to another solitary supper. Some cereal. Half of a leftover banana. Tap water. Digger got kibble, and was glad of it. It had been a long time since either had had meat.

He started to read a Reacher novel, and had almost fallen asleep in the ragged recliner when he heard a truck drive up.

Jake walked through the door without knocking and set the boots, cleaned, next to the chair. “Found these in town. Thought you might need them. See you at 7.”

 Julia's Free Write 

 "These boots are made for walking, and that's what they're gonna do". Shades of my teenage years. And the more famous song probably by, hmm Nancy Sinatra, I believe. I can't remember though who wrote this.

That was the first thing that popped into my mind when I saw the prompt for today.
Then I thought no get serious.

They were worn, they were used: they looked like just recently, although the mud had had time to dry.

There had been no rain for days. So, when it first finally did rain, one had to take advantage of it by all means possible.

He had always loved working outside and in the garden, but as he aged, it became more and more a necessity.

 Recently, the advent of grandchildren in his life had made him rethink gardening, and all of its’ fun.

His grandsons could literally dig in a patch of dirt for hours on end. Sometimes they made hillocks, sometimes they just strew the dust and the dirt, and it landed where it would. Other times they thought about building something with the dust, but they had yet to learn that one must mix it with water.

So somehow what was very satisfying to be able to put on his boots again. Go out and make a new patch for those beloved grandsons. As the old patch would soon be holding a huge sun umbrella to protect the winter garden. 

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/