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

 

A Plethora of Richards, etc.

One of my best friends told me I could have no more Richards in my life. She was confused by them all. There were lots...

Richard No. 1: My high school sweetheart and husband number one. He hated the nickname Dick and would answer only to Rick at a time when there was a Ricky Nelson heartthrob. After our divorce, he named his first son Richard who became Rich or Richie and he in turn named his first son Richard.

Richard No.2: was my stepmother's son. When I was living with her and my father we played lots of cribbage games. 

Richard No. 3: hired me as PR manager at the Polaroid Credit Union. We both were hired by Digital Equipment Corporation to set up a credit union. I worked for him until I moved to Europe. He came back into my life when I helped him with his memoir Busted about how he stole over $43 million. and went on the run for over a year. 

Richard No. 4: My stepbrother's son was named Richard. I only met my nephew as an adult when he came through Switzerland and later we met up in Boston when we both happened to be there at the same time. I really, really liked him. When my stepmom developed dementia we double teamed to make sure she had the care she needed even though he was in California, I was in Switzerland and she was in Florida. 

Richard No. 5: My final husband also likes to be called Rick. A friend from college who knew both said, "I like Rick 2 better than Rick 1. I agree.

Richard No. 6: The thrill of seeing Richard the Lionhearted's, tomb next to his mother Eleanor's, two historical figures that have always fascinated me.

If another Richard comes into my life, I won't mention it to my friend.

 

Rage

 

I have only felt unbridled rage three times in my life.

That doesn't mean I haven't felt annoyance, frustration and anger, but rage was limited to three times, the most recent last week. I don't like that feeling.

The first time was 1990 when I received a survey from my university asking what I was thinking and feeling when I graduated. I remembered how my ex-husband had put every possible barrier in my way, including barely speaking to me for a semester, making it difficult to study and insisting I bring in a salary. I remembered grovelling with administration for more time each semester to make tuition payments evennvwhen they were only $400.

My colleague, who shared the company flatvwith me in 1990, came in and asked why I was shaking and crying.

The entire situation could have been so different. I'd left college to accompany my ex overseas while he was in the U.S. Army. I loved Germany. He hated it, but I did every thing possible to make him comfortable despite limited resources.

The second time was when he told me he loved someone else. I had just given birth to our daughter. I remember hitting him and hitting him, which shocked both of us.

The third time I felt the physical rage was this past week. My second husband, a friend and I were in Manora's café for our weekly free write, a happy time.

A woman walked by with a Maga hat saying make, "America Great Again." Remember this is Switzerland, not the U.S.

My husband and I had watched in shock as our birth country had elected a conman, a convicted felon, a man who endangered the country with his illegal and careless handling of classified documents, who cheated in business, lied over 30,000 times according to the Washington Post, thought it okay to grab women by the "pussy," a proven rapist and who tried to overthrow the election This was a man when he spoke often made no sense at all. Living overseas, we saw how often his behavior was embarrassing in dealing with other leaders to often being a joke.

Although we no longer live in the U.S., we followed the news closely, read in detail the books about U.S.'s history, politics and economics both good and bad. We still cared -- deeply.

We were in Portugal at a conference 5 Nov. The reaction of other Americans there was also shock. Many reported crying as I had. One woman said she had been physically sick.

My husband and I decided for our own sanity we needed to do a News Detox or at least for the U.S. We still were interested in what was happening in other countries. We eliminated many feeds on the internet, gave up American news channels although we still watched English, French, Middle Eastern and Swiss news. 

My reaction to that woman was rage much like my reaction to my university survey in 1990. I wanted to scream at her that she was helping in the destruction of my birth country. 

I didn't.

Later my husband said he resisted asking if she were American, and if she said yes, he would have said, "I'm so sorry."

As part of News Detox, I know I can do nothing. Rage at the destruction of my birth country only raises my blood pressure. 

I don't like me when I succumb to rage.

Angelo and Hadi

 Zurich Nov. 2024

Hadi

"Zwei, zwei, trois." Wrong.  

"Deux, deux , drei." Stupid me. 

When I reach into my German database, often French comes out, then English. I never get beyond the Shopping German category, but when I lived in Germany and was more than functional, it was in the early 60s.

When I said, "Ich habe viel vergessen," the man who was in charge of the hotel breakfast dining room said, "Room two, two, three." We'd be staying at the hotel just outside Zurich for two nights while Rick had interviews for stories he was writing. The man was probably in his late forties, had a mustache, a full head of closely cropped hair and was not the least paunchy. I adore German-style hotel breakfasts with their selection of meat, cheeses, fruits and breads, especially brotchen.

  

During the two mornings we ate there, I had a chance to add Hadi to my collection of fleeting relationships: waitstaff, taxi drivers, chambermaids, receptionists, secretaries, etc. people I sit next to on a train, bus or plane.

Why? 

Often they are nice, interesting and have a story to tell like the widow from the Dominican Republic that was just finishing her nursing degree while raising three children alone. Her children wouldn't let her quit. 

Often the people I talk to are ignored or dismissed as non-existent. What a loss to those that don't bother. The encounters enrich my life: I don't claim I enrich theirs.

Hadi had a story to tell too. He was raised in Iran, was lucky enough to move to Switzerland, emigrated with his family to NJ. He worked in New York City, but decided Switzerland was a better place for the family and had been back over 20 years. He spoke Farsi, English, German, Zurich Swiss German and French. 

He told me the history of the Harry's Home Hotel where we were staying. 

There is a real Harry, a Swiss businessman who had other hotels in Austria, Germany and Switzerland. The concept: offer regular hotel facilities in a homey atmosphere and apartments for short or longer stays. Even in the hotel part there were washer-dryers, ironing boards and irons.

All his information was gleaned during our two breakfasts, Frühstück.

Angelo

Upon arrival, we were hungry, but it was after lunch hours. Many restaurants close, but this combination Italian café, deli, bakery was serving. The cookies in the glass case to the right as we entered were beautiful and enticing.

Angelo, our waiter, said he knew English, but not German. He also spoke Italian, which was no surprise. The others,who worked behind the counter, were chattering in Italian. My Italian is more of the prego, lasagna, ravioli words, but I recognize it when I hear it.

Angelo, who looked to be in his early 20s, had black curly hair and was slightly overweight,  explained apologetically that they had sold out of most everything on the menu. Smiling did not seem to be his strong skill.

"That's good for you," I said.

For the first time he smiled. 

We ordered what wasn't sold out.

As I paid, I asked if I could ask him some questions. Since attending a communication conference in the 1980s and the speaker had everyone ask the person next to them questions then checked to discover those who asked permission to ask. Those who asked permission were British. Since then, I've always asked permission before satisfying my curiosity. 

What I discovered.

It was a family owned business, opened 12 hours a day, seven days a week. Angelo, was not a blood relative, but a God son and he loved the family. He was really proud of being Italian. He didn't like dealing with grouchy clients, but said he wished everyone was friendly like me. He enjoyed his two days off a week. During our conversation he was very smiley.

Before leaving I had to buy two butterfly shaped sugar cookies, with strawberry frosting and two sugar cookies half chocolate frosted.