Free Write: When a Business Closes

 

Rick's prompt "when a business closes" was triggered by the local boulangerie being closed for over a month. Before Christmas when Rick went to order cinnamon rolls, the sales girl said, she didn't think he was ordering any more supplies. Rick assumed that it meant it was just closing for the holidays. 

This was the boulangerie/tea room where we often met for our Free Write, but this is what is greeting us now, just closed shutters.

Rick's Free Write

When a business closes, the employees lose their jobs, the owners lose income.

But they’re not the only ones affected. Their suppliers lose a customer and some of their revenue, maybe so much that they have to close too. More job losses.

Families without income are forced to eat less, maybe go to a food bank, maybe apply for welfare. Buy less. No birthday or Christmas presents this year.

The businesses they used to spend money at suffer too. And their families.

The shuttered business creates an eyesore in the community. If too many businesses close it’s a blight.

Crime may increase, compounding the problem.

The customers of the business see their lives change too. Daily patterns are disrupted because there’s no boulangerie, no neighborhood grocery store. They have to go farther for bread or eggs or petrol, if they choose to go at all.

The building landlord must seek a new tenant, not easy in this economy.

Governments must cut programs. More people suffer.

The wealthy don’t care.

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

Julia's Free Write

It was a very emotional moment; the day she closed the doors on what had been her life’s work

Young, she had had thoughts of marriage and a family: that was before, at age 25, she had ovarian cancer.

One of the few and very lucky survivors, when she was through with her treatments, her only thought was to stay well – and improve the lives, in no matter how small a way, of young women going through the same. Many of whom had no support.

Fortunately for her – and for them – her family had a large property in the country but close to a major city, with a small annex.  Of “independent means” she could afford to dream so turned that annex into a “one size fits all” place where those newly diagnosed in treatment, or even in remission could come for some female understanding, information.

Over the years coffee, tea, even pastries appeared.  The “clientele” widened to include all female cancers.

Thankfully public services improved and there were many opportunities now for such services.

So, at 80, looking back on her life, she decided that the time had come. There was a crowd of over 1’000 people to witness her tears as she shut the door for the last time.

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

D-L's Free Write

At 9:30 when the "senators," the retired men of the neighborhood were outside Mac's Café where they met six mornings a week. The café was closed Sundays. 

They would have coffee and pastries - that is they would if their wives weren't present to tut tut about unhealthy choices.

They talked about the Pats, Celtics, Sox, and Bruins, the stupid governor and why couldn't they make the T run on time.

Politics came up. It was blue neighborhood in a blue state, and the name Trump raised their collective blood pressure.

Where was Mac? He should have been open an hour ago. 

They peeked in the window. The chairs were still on top of the table.

A car pulled up. A man, in what looked like an expensive business suit, got out. He pulled a sign from the back seat. It said.

Café For Sale

"But it was successful."

"He's been here for as long as I can remember."

"His father and grandfather owned it before him."

"He should have told us."

Then Fred voiced what they all had been thinking. "Where do we go now?

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

A Found Postcard

 

Sometimes our lives touch someone we've never met and may never meet.

That happened today. My husband just came back from walking our dog Sherlock. He had a book No Time for Goodbye which he had retrieved from a kiosk where people leave books that they've read and want to pass on. 

Most kiosk books are in French, but we prefer English if it's available. I thumbed through the novel. Inside, I found a card with a handwritten message from Sally, her London address and a message to Carl and a name I couldn't read. 

The card was dated 21st September '08. Sally's London address was printed on the top of the card.

Having done a handwriting analysis course a lifetime ago, I noticed the pointed m's and n's which is said to be the sign of intelligence. There was neither a slant left indicating a person is not very emotional nor right which could mean the writer was very emotional. Sally had written:

"I enclose two books, which I hope you will enjoy – very easy reading. The Swedish one is part of a trilogy which we have all enjoyed reading.
"We have at last got sunshine for 3 days but it won’t last. We have had the worst summer on record – which is depressing. It somehow makes the winter that much longer.
"I hope you and Paul enjoy your course it will do you both a lot of good. I do hope Paul is feeling better.
"Much love to you both Sally" 

Curiosity, some would call it nosiness, overcame me. 

• Who was Sally?
• Did she still live in London?
• Who were Carl and Paul?
• What course were they taking?
  
• Was the Swedish trilogy the one by Steig Larsson?
• Did the address still exist?
  

The writer in me decided to write Sally.

Dear Sally : 

My husband just came back from walking our dog Sherlock with a book, No Time for Goodbye. Inside I found a card with your address and a message to your friends Carl and Ha (I think that’s the name). My husband had found the book in one of those kiosks outside a boulangerie.  

I added the photo of the kiosk and copied the message on the card before continuing. 

Of course, you may have moved long ago. Your card is dated 21 September ’08, well over a decade ago. From the warmth of the note and if you are still at the same address, I hope this brings back a pleasant memory.

Tomorrow, I will drop it in the mail. Do I expect to ever get an answer? Probably not. Maybe someone will be at that address and open the envelope. I can imagine any number of reactions. 

No matter what.

Today I peeked into the lives of Sally, Paul and Carl. May they all be well and happy.

Leave Me Alone

 

I set up my computer the way I want it. Then I get updates that changes stuff. I don't want changes costing me time and frustration. In fact, I was thrilled with a number of Windows Number something way back and find the later editions just annoying. What used to take one step now can take several once I find those steps.

I hate popups. Don't interrupt my writing or even my game playing. 

Advertisements go away. Granted I worked in marketing for years, but if I want to buy something, which I usually don't want to do -- for me shopping is a little bit of hell -- I will go looking. It is especially annoying on Facebook, but I always check irrelevant because 99.9% of the time, it is. They must have dumb algorithms where I'm concerned. Sometimes I think there are spies in my house because I might say something about a river cruise in Norway and then ads pop up for a cruise.

I want to sit down at my computer and write without an update.

I want to check news or other sites such as Facebook without pop ups.

I want to check email without anything changing. The old versions have worked better.

Admittedly, I'm a COW, a Cranky Old Woman. 

I'm Terrified

 

January 20th to today has left me terrified as I listen to U.S. news. Terrified for my birth country, terrified for people I know and don't know, terrified for the world.

With each new executive order my fear increases.

1. There is now a U.S. Secretary of Defense that has said "Kill all Muslims" like some demented Crusader from the Middle Ages. I have Muslim friends. I've spent time in Muslim countries and respect their rich culture. Even without that death wish to another people, the man is unqualified based on his past failures and moral failings.
2. The U.S. is withdrawing from the World Health Organization whose headquarters I walked by regularly on my way to work for ten years. I've eaten with, laughed with, shared with WHO employees, dedicated people who work to make the world better against the ravages of disease.
3. I may have disliked Bolton for his politics, but he worked for his country. I loved Dr. Fauci for his trying to bring sanity to fighting a pandemic. Both men's lives were threatened for their stances. Removing their security protection (and others) is not how a civilized society responds to government employees who did their jobs.
4. The American medical system is less of a disgrace for an industrialized country with Obama Care. There is still much work to do, but there are improvements. Caps on some drug prices were one positive step. Those caps, instituted by Biden's executive order 14087, are being removed. Though I don't live in the U.S., I have friends who suffer from diseases requiring regular exorbitanty-priced medication. The lack of caps will impact them financially negatively, but impact the already obscenely profitable drug companies positively.
5. For years my cousin worked for FEMA. He saw heartbreaking situations. A presidential threat to eliminate FEMA, which helps ordinary Americans rebuild lives from disasters that they did not create is beyond irresponsible. No one wakes up and says, I think I will lose everything today and have an earthquake, tornado or hurricane so I can suck up government money. Over the years I have noticed that states which do not want to help other states are first in line when it comes to their state needing help.
6. Withdrawal from climate change treaties reveals ignorance at best. One does not need to be a weather scientist to see the changes as glaciers melt and weather extremes exist all over the world.
7. Putting DEI employees on leave. Not all my friends are white, healthy males. Decades of working toward giving everyone a chance to work is being rolled back with the stroke of a pen.
8. When America was putting immigrant kids in cages, I cried. That there was no attempt to identify children and parents for future reunions. When I was researching a book and spent time in a former Nazi concentration camp, I was amazed at their record keeping. There is much to be improved in the American immigration system. "Let them come legally" cries need the framework to let them come legally. Lies about criminals among immigrants - yes there are some - ignores that there are more native born criminals. It ignores the reasons people want to immigrate and the work they do that Americans won't. Treating them as less than human, rounding them up, throwing them back into their birth countries where they face the same conditions that sent them on dangerous treks is not a human solution.
   
9. Cutting of foreign aid to everyone except Israel. Foreign Aid is often given in the form of arms which gives jobs to Americans, which is another issue in itself. Personally, I find the idea of foreign aid for genocide repulsive. Could I be wrong to think the horror of Gaza could have been shortened without the U.S. help?
10. Forbidding agencies to speak with important information for citizens, information they may need to save their lives. Aren't tax payers entitled to the information their tax dollars paid for? If there are discoveries that will hurt them, why should this information be hidden by the government?
11. Other appointees to cabinet posts add to my fear. A medical con man for the Department of Health who wanted to be a senator by carpet bagging to another state does not provide confidence but more fear of the damage that can be done.
12. A Nazi salute, no matter how a white washing attempt is constructed, by a man who seems to own the president financially, is beyond frightening.

I could go on and on for the reasons I'm terrified that my birth country is in danger of destroying the things that make it good. I could go on and on for fear the limitations my daughter and step-grandchildren will have in this cowardly new world. I could go on and on about my fear for peace around the planet. I could go on and on about my fear that the planet will become more uninhabitable. 

This is not making American Great Again. It is making it worse. 

Instead I will work on quelling my fears so I can function within my private world knowing it is not enough.

 

Action threatened against sanctuary cities. Sanctuary has been a concept since the Dark Ages.

 

Morning Games to Start a Weekend

 

Looking out the window as I lay in bed, the sky is layered pink and gray. I begin to read the English translation, The Secret Life of Writers by Guillaume Musso (I'm too lazy to read the French if English is available). He has the character Nathan Fawkes appear on TV and answer a series of rapid fire questions. Musso referenced Bernard Pivot,* a French journalist whom I used to watch on television. He would ask the interviewee a series of questions, almost always the same.

James Lipton on the program The Actors Studio, adapted the method at the end of his interviews with famous performers.

A variation was done by Catherine Ceylac on the French program Thé ou Café where she and the interviewee sat back to back to back as she asked rapid fire questions often like Pivot.

I loved both. Many are now on YouTube if anyone wants to check them out.

In an egotistical moment, I pretended what I would do if on TV and were interviewed in such a way.

BP: What's your favorite word?

DL: Plethora

BP: What's your least favorite word?

DL: Like when it is injected many times into sentences, like you know I was running late, my favorite food is like spaghetti I will be going to the like you know the movies.

BP: Your favorite drug

DL: Blopress with all its other brand names in France and Switzerland. Keeps my blood pressure in check. I don't do drugs but have had a life long addiction to Coca-Cola.

BP: Your favorite sound

DL: Bird song

BP: Your least favorite sound

DL: Sherlock barking in the middle of the night

BP: Favorite swear word

DL: Merde or shit

BP: The plant, tree or animal you would like to be reborn as

DL: A dog with someone like me as the owner. I'd have a wonderful life if as a dog I was treated as I treated my dogs.

BP: If God exists what would you like him to say to you after you die

DL: You were wrong about me. I exist.

My husband was next to me checking emails. I told him I was going to say a number of words and wanted a quick answer. Of course, he wanted more information, which I gave him. He agreed but his voice had a I'll humor her tone.

BP: What's your favorite word?

RA: Merde

BP: What's your least favorite word?

RA; Nazi

BP: Your favorite drug

RA: Viagra

BP: Your favorite sound

RA: Laughter

BP: Your least favorite sound

RA: Gas

BP: The plant, tree or animal you would like to be reborn as

RA:: A dog

BP: If God exists what would you like him to say to you after you die

RA: Not bad

When I watched Pivot, Lipton, Ceylac, I often thought it would be fun to ask friends the same series. Earlier in my writing, I would "interview" my characters with these and other questions to help me round out their characters. For the last few years I haven't really thought about it but on a Saturday morning, it was a fun way to start the weekend.

The sunrise pink has disappeared. It's now time to start the day.

*Bernard Pivot  5 May 1935 – 6 May 2024 was a French journalist, hosted cultural television programs and was chairman of the Académie Goncourt

Davos, World Economic Forum and Xenophobia?

 

This is the week when the bigwigs of finance, business and government meet in Davos to find solutions to problems that they helped create.

Reporters, such as CNN's Richard Quest, will interview the participants at the World Economic Forum in front of snow-covered pine trees.

My husband Rick and I went to Davos, not for the Forum but when the weather was beautiful, and for a hickory golf tournament. He had become enamored of playing with the old-time clubs and participated in tournaments in various countries where the players dressed in 1920s clothes.

When we travel for golf, pleasure or business, Rick loves to find interesting hotels. We stayed in a converted schoolhouse in Dublin where every room was named for an Irish writer. In the Austrian Alps we fell asleep in a bubble on a rooftop enjoying the stars overhead.

The hotel he selected in Davos had hosted Obamas, Clintons, Merkles and other people whose names were in the headlines regularly. I don't know if our room had been one of theirs.

Our dog Sherlock was not Canine Non Grata but treated as visiting royalty. The embroidered dog bed and decorated ceramic food and water dishes were waiting for him. We had the normal hotel teas, coffees, biscuits plus Swiss chocolates laid out for us, but Sherlock was offered a ribbon-tied bag of dog biscuits. Walking through the corridors and lobby, he was greeted, patted and complimented.

While Rick played his rounds, I poked around Davos, a town of just under 11,000 people. One of my missions whenever I travel is to buy a mug with the location for my daughter's cup collection. She has more than 100 from all over the world.

The shopkeeper, a man in his sixties, had not taken any customer services courses. The inside of the store was chilly, but not from air conditioning.

My German is what I term shopping German. A woman customer ahead of me asked if he spoke English. He did not.

She and I began to chat and discovered we both lived in Geneva and were Swiss.

The temperature in the store warmed instantly with this information as the shopkeeper switched to French and even found smiles in his repertoire. He could not be more helpful even adding a bow to our purchases. 

Outside, we concluded if he did not speak English, he had understood our conversation.

I regret that I had resisted the temptation to ask him what he thought of people coming from all over the world to the Forum. People swamp to Davos to ski as well. Maybe he wasn't xenophobic, although I suspect he was. Maybe was tired for his town being inundated with foreigners even if they contributed to his income.

I'll never know.

Present, Past

 

Sitting at L'Hostalet, Place de Republique, Argeles-sur-mer, France with a glass of wine or a cup of tea, I can hear music across the square from the music school. It might be anything from a beautiful piano piece to the scratchings of a beginner's violin. I can chat with friends, read, write. All is normal for French village life.

The music school was once the village mairie, the town hall.

 

The square is surrounded by houses, hundreds of years old. Wednesdays and Saturdays are the scene of a marché and it is filled with stands selling veggies, cheeses, meats, honey, olives, plants and clothes.

 

On many summer nights there are dances. Many types of music can be represented by live bands: rock, Latin American, ballroom a mixture, even Texas line dancing. Villagers and tourists of all ages twirl or sit at the café and watch.

The Place de Rapublique was not always the center of normal activities.

On the music school is a plaque paying tribute to the brave women who staged a protest to the Vichy.

On the 29 April 1942 at 11:15 forty women demonstrated against the Vichy. On the 30th there were more.

I imagine how those women felt as they left their kitchens to stand for what they believed was right against their oppressor. How long had they been aware of the dangers that not just France but the world were facing as a madman spread his power and "normal" people flocked to him?

Today there are similar dangers but the oppressor is internal for Americans. Donald Trump, and those that support him, are putting my birth country and the world as I know it in grave danger. 

Much is different. During WWII, owning a radio to communicate with others could bring arrest, imprisonment and death. In 2024 there's the internet that spreads truth and lies around the world in seconds. Weapons, which destroyed much of Europe and Asia in the 1940s are nothing compared to what exists today. Much is the same in propaganda content as men and women usurp power and overthrow established norms and laws for their own gain. 

Like in the 1930s people are going about their ordinary lives, ignoring what is already too far along in the destruction of their lives. The forty women who demonstrated in Argelès are long dead, and in themselves did not stop the insanity. It took armies and bombs. 

Can what is happening be stopped? Is it too late? I hope not, but I'm afraid, very afraid.

 

The Surgery

 

Nicolo handed me the hospital gown, paper panties, green cap to cover my hair and terry cloth slippers like hotels give, but these had a terry cloth ankle strap so they stayed on my feet. Key 928 was to a locker to keep my possessions safe. 

I had talked to Nicolo on my mobile the night before. He had called to remind me of my surgery, as if I could forget. My port-a-cath, or dial as the Swiss called it, was to be removed after nine years. Every six months since 2015 I'd gone to HUG - Hôpitaux universitaires de Genève for it to be cleaned and blood taken.

It had been a God-send during chemo. No one had to stick me repeated times as my veins played hide and seek when I had my chemo treatments.

I'd been reluctant to have it removed, superstitious that when if it was gone the cancer would return, stupid really.

A blue-scrub dressed and masked nurse greeted me. Her beautiful, long lashed brown eyes were the only thing visible. After self introductions, we walked, elbow to elbow, to the operating room. I felt as if we were Dorothy, the Cowardly Lion, the Tin Man and the Scarecrow dancing down the yellow brick road. I didn't say anything not sure it would be a cross culture reference.

The operating room had four women and one man, who turned out to be the chef. A scraggly gray beard, peeked out from his mask.

They helped me onto the table, grabbed my arms and whoop--they lifted me in position. My clavicle area was exposed. I had a warmed blanket pulled over the rest me. What looked like a vacuum hose attached to a machine was placed under the blanket. It blew warm air.

"I want one of those at home," I said. Three of the scrub-clad nurses? doctors? agreed. 

Several pricks numbed the area as the nurses built a green cloth cabin around my head blocking my view. I'd have loved to watch, had it been a patient other than me.

No pain, but lots of pressure. Everyone was chatting. I tuned the French out. 

Their voices changed from chatty to alarmed. I heard sucking noises and pressure being applied over and over.

I asked what was happening, but fear blocked my understanding of their rapid French. "Can someone tell me in English," I asked.

A face appeared in the door of my green cloth cabin. The eyes were smiling telling me not to worry. A vein had been nicked in the too-well buried dial. They needed to stop the bleeding.

"We'd like to give you a sedative. You'll feel dizzy, sleepy, relaxed." Her English was perfect.

At first I refused explaining my fear of my misbehaving veins. The worst time had me stuck eight times, but three to four is more normal.

"You have great veins on your hands," she said. 

"That's 'cause I'm old."

"I promise to get it first time." She kept her promise. She kept me briefed on the progress, the bleeding had been stemmed, the dial separated from its cozy home, they would add more anesthesia to finish. "All done," she said.

We returned to French. 

They gave me time for the sedative to wear off then rolled me in a wheel chair to a room where other patients were sitting.

Nicolo brought me a tray with water, tea, a roll, butter and jam and yogurt. He'd forgotten a knife and spoon, but I dipped the roll in the little butter and jelly cups, drank the water and tea -- a feast after not eating since the night before.

Unlike American hospitals, a patient when they are ready to leave can just dress and walk out. I did.

My husband was waiting.

The last step of my cancer treatment from nine years before was over.

 

 January 21 Free Write - The Office

The prompt that sent the three writers to their pens and paper to do a ten-minute Free Write was "He entered his office." These writers meet weekly either in person or through the internet.

 D-L's Free Write

Ralph entered his office. He saw his black coffee, no milk, no sugar on his desk. His assistant Denise brought him coffee Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Because he wasn't a male chauvinist pig, he brought her coffee on Tuesday and Thursday.

His out-tray was empty, His in-tray was full of folders. So much for the paperless office. Legal still wanted paper originals.

He did have a window. It faced a brick wall.

This was his life every work day: same old, same old, same old.

He hung his coat on a hangar so it wouldn't wrinkle.

After lunch, he'd finished half the folders then Denise brought in another six. To complete them, he'd have to stay late. When he entered his building, it had been a beautiful spring day. He could look into the grassy common alive with daffodils, tulips and pansies across the street.

He stood, put on his coat, scribbled a note and left the office keys on his desk.

Denise found his keys and note: It said, "I quit." Ralph never entered his office again.

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

Julia's Free Write

Growing up he, like most kids, wanted to be first a fireman or policeman. That always wears off fairly quickly as they grow and come in touch with the variety of life.

In his case though he fixated very early on engineering, water to be precise.

The years passed, he did get a degree in what was first known as Agricultural management but fortunately during the last year of his Masters became Environmental Engineering.

Then came the jobs, mostly in humanitarian instances with the odd stint in private enterprises.  Those didn’t last long as his heart was in the humanitarian work.

More years passed, then he had the years and the experience to apply for the job of his dreams.

A year into that job, he finally felt complete, and every time that he walked into his office, it was not only new, but a pleasure.

 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 entered his office.
Flipped the light switch.
It didn’t work.
He froze momentarily, looking, listening.
Smelled a peculiar odor.
Cigar?
No, pipe.
Called out.  “That you?”
No response.
The curtains were closed.
He never closed the curtains.
Dark, but not pitch dark.
He scanned the room, left to right, squinting.
Nothing.
Then a small sound.
A puff.
He thought he noticed a small light.
The fire in the pipe bowl?
Another ‘puff’ sound.
Then the shuffling of feet.
Was he armed?
His line of business.
Why was he here?
In the dark.
Who was he hiding from?
He thought about leaving.
But he needed to know.
Why this hide-and-seek?
He quietly closed the door.
Took a step toward the desk.
Thought about pulling out his mobile.
Use the lighted face.
How would Pipe Man react?
Then there was a hand on his forearm.
He pulled away.
Grabbed at him again.
He flailed with his arms.
The mobile clattered to the floor.
And turned itself on.
“You !”
Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices. com 

My elopement

 

My father´s lawyer told me not to fight being a 20-year old stubborn child, just tell the judge I would be a good girl, go home and go back to college.

One week earlier, my mother had dictated a letter breaking my engagement to my high school sweetheart. Before I sealed it, I wrote on the inside of the envelope, "I don´t mean this." She drove me to the post office and made sure it was mailed to him at the Naval School of Music where he was beginning his obligatory military service.

I needed to get to D.C. so we could marry. 

Two days later I left for my summer job at an amusement park, but instead of going there, hid on the top floor of the Reading, MA library. While I was waiting for my college roommate to arrive from Springfield, I read The Man with the Golden Horn. The plan was for my fiancé to drive from D.C. and we'd elope.

I had another college friend, Paul, call my mother to tell her I was safe, but wasn't coming back without telling her where I was or where I was heading.

Paul succumbed to police questioning but warned me in time to alert my father, who drove from Scituate MA to Springfield. My father's attempt to reason with my mother failed, and the police arrested me based on her legal complaint that I was a stubborn child. 

Since I didn't look like a dangerous criminal, they allowed my father to drive me to the station where we waited for the arrival of my mother and a Reading Cop, Herb Perry. He had driven me to kindergarten before joining the force. It was a long silent drive back to Reading from Scituate.

The court hearing the next morning was quick. My mother had withdrawn her complaint. I spent the next three weeks planning my elopement whenever I could talk to my fiancé from a phone booth.

I packed my car for college, leaving most of my things in it. Instead of registering for my sophomore year, I had the necessary blood test and went to judge to have the three-day waiting period annulled. My fiancé drove from D.C. to Lowell and I found him outside my dorm at 6:30 a.m..

His buddies, Best Man Steve and Kenny who would be my Maid of Honor, were waiting for us outside the church in Reading. The white wooden church at the head of the common was a postcard cliché of a New England small town.

Kenny and Steve had arranged for Rev. Snook to marry us. His secretary had placed flowers on the altar for us. But there was a problem. We had to register at the town hall, kitty corner across the street.

"I told your mother if you came in, I'd call your mother," Boyd, the town clerk, said. He was probably in his late 40s. bald but with a white fringe.

"Do you have to call right away?" I asked.

His eyes twinkled. "I do have some filing to do, maybe 15 minutes worth," he said.

Back to the church.

Rev. Snook wanted to counsel us and counsel us and counsel us. At fifteen minutes, I called Boyd and asked for a reprieve.

"Tell you what," Boyd said. "Call me when the deed is done."

I've after ceremony photos of Kenny and Steve in their suits, my fiancé in his uniform and me in my favorite yellow dress, the closest thing I had to white. 

Before we headed back to D.C., I called my father to tell him. He insisted we stop for lunch where I met him, some cousins and my grandfather for the first time since I was a little girl. They had thrown together a good meal and found $300 to help us on our way. That was a huge amount of money for us. 

Within a week, my new husband had his orders to be a trumpet player with the 7th Army Band in Stuttgart, Germany. 

Our marriage lasted seven years and produced our daughter. As Edith Piaf sings, Je ne regrette rien. I regret nothing.

White Asparagus Birthday

I'd forgotten the name of the restaurant outside of Vienna where I'd eaten with my husband, my writing mate and her husband for my birthday many years ago. They had forgotten the name too.

My husband and I searched the internet for the name using the German and English words for asparagus, spargel and Vienna, Vien. We knew the area and the restaurant were known for white asparagus.

We looked at Google photos. "I found it," I called when I recognized the giant asparagus sculpture out front in a photo.

We scrolled through the photos on the restaurant's website. "They've a photo of our table," my husband said. They did. And the staircase with the photos of the celebrities that had eaten there including Elizabeth Taylor, the chandeliers and more.

Because it was my birthday, I was serenaded by a violinist. I suspect my German mother tongue writing mate gave the secret away. Of course, the conversation was equally good.

 

It is almost  white asparagus season again. I will be in the South of France and the asparagus will be good, but part of me would like some from the Marchfelder fields and to be back outside of Vienna with my friends.

 

Are we really equal?

 

The State Senator called me a "cute little girl" that "shouldn't worry my pretty little head" about the Equal Rights Amendment. My husband could take care of me. I was thirty, a single mom on my lunch break and using my time to fight for the ERA. I didn't hit him, although I wanted to.

This is the wording: 

• "Section 1. Equality of rights under the law shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of sex.
• "Section 2. The Congress shall have the power to enforce, by appropriate legislation, the provisions of this article.
• "Section 3. This amendment shall take effect two years after the date of ratification.

This past week Biden said.  "It is long past time to recognize the will of the American people...In keeping with my oath and duty to Constitution and country, I affirm what I believe and what three-fourths of the states have ratified: The 28th Amendment is the law of the land, guaranteeing all Americans equal rights and protections under the law regardless of their sex."

Maybe yes.

Maybe no.

Alice Paul proposed the amendment over 100 years ago. I guess some things can't be rushed.

When brought up again by 1972 thirty states had ratified it well within the seven-year deadline attached.

The idea that half the population should be equal should be normal, not radical. Yet it was fought by people like far right Phyllis Schlafly with fears of having to use a bathroom with a man. I wasn't afraid having used a bathroom with my brother, father, husband and visiting males. Seems the same argument is being reborn for transgender females.

Different opinions flourish on if the ERA was ratified after 38 states approved it. That was the 3/4s necessary.

But wait a minute. Five states rescinded it. What did that do?

What was the real deadline?

Were the deadlines set by Congress? The Brennan Center for Justice said yes. Ooops seven years.

The American Bar Association said: "no time limit was included in the text of the Equal Rights Amendment." They also said the Constitution framers didn't give states the right to change their minds.

Some say the amendment was ratified in 2020 when Virginia ratified the ERA. Colleen Shogan, U.S. Activist, is supposed to publish the amendment.

Now in my eighties, I'm tired of fighting for what should be normal for a civilized country. I remember the bad old days:

• Being turned down for a car loan from the family bank because divorcing women were "unstable" although my ex received one. 
• A friend with excellent credit lost her credit card when she married a man with terrible credit. Her credit limit was lower anyway because she was a woman, but at least she had had a card. 
• Another friend, a small woman, who won the right to be a truck driver, was gang-raped by other truck drivers to teach her to go back where she belonged.
• Women, when they were promoted out of a secretarial roll to a "man's job,",were paid less. 
• A loved high school teacher with a Ph.D. was not given the head of department post in favor of a less qualified male. 

All wrong!

It is better now. Women now are doctors, lawyers and other professionals, but pay inequity still exists. One place I worked five of the seven top roles were held by women. The CEO was a man who admitted he liked to hire women because they worked harder for less money. Did it matter that they were earning more than before?

What will happen next? 

Will the courts rule in favor? It is hard to have any confidence in the current judicial system. 

I may be too tired to fight, but hopefully the next generations will have the energy to carry on.

 

Free Write - Winter Wonderland

Three writers, one prompt, ten minutes to write without stopping or correcting. This is a regular Tuesday activity. This week it was in a different tea room in Vesenaz, Switzerland, a Geneva suburb.

Julia's Free Write

Brrrr…. All that snow. Thankfully he was on the inside looking out.

Peaceful – this was what he needed after the year past. A few days to rest and recover before heading into the “New Year.”

By the way, why did everyone he know act as if the simple fact of leaving one year behind and starting a new one, was an automatic erasure of past problems, of aches and pains?

In his experience, the New Year sometimes brought even more.

His kids had found this place, up in the middle of low mountains and valleys.

So, he was determined to make the most of a week “off” in spite of himself.

And you know, looking out on the snow and setting sun almost did the trick. It was peaceful, he could relax.

Now if he could just avoid thoughts of what might be buried under all that snow as the sun set that first day of the New Year.

 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 Free Write 

How did Sandra let herself be talked into this. She was the most unsporty person she knew.

Granted Tom had been enthusiastic. "You'll love skiing."

She did love the place they'd rented near the slopes. 

The sunrises, sunsets with their many shades of pink sent her scurrying for her camera. She would recapture them on canvas when she was back in her studio. OK, landscapes weren't her usual thing, but Picasso and other artists had more than one style.

"Lessons," Tom had said as he introduced her to Jared, the drop-dead handsome ski instructor. "I'll meet you back here for lunch," he called over his shoulder as he headed for the ski lift.

He met her instead at the hospital, her foot in a cast suspended over the bed.

Not even her first run, but her first slide she'd heard the bones crack in her ankle and foot when she fell. A bandage kept her sprained wrist stable.

"My ski experience was three minutes," she told Tom. "I warned you I wasn't sporty."

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

Rick's Free Write

They’d been traipsing through the deep snow for several hours, on snowshoes, but it was getting late. The sun was starting to go down over the Jura Mountains, and though the colors were a brilliant orange, red and yellow, when the sun was gone it would get brutally cold.

As they came over a small rise, Josh spotted a house or cabin at the bottom of the slope. There was also a barn-like structure nearby. But no people in sight, no roads or walkways cleared. Was it abandoned? Jill didn’t care: “It’s a place to sleep,” she said.

No locks on the door. No electricity when she flipped the switch. Josh used the light on his mobile to check out the one-room structure. It didn’t look like anyone had been there for months, maybe years. The water had been shut off.

But there was a fireplace. And a bit of stacked wood on the hearth, so they built a much-welcomed fire. Sat at the ancient wood table to eat their tinned rations.

Well after the sun went down, as they attempted sleep in their bedrolls, they heard a sound outside. Soft, like steps through crunchy snow. Then a bark. And another. Then a low growl.

When Josh looked out the window, staring back at him was an enormous gray and black wolf. With several of his mates. And two of them were pawing to get in the door.

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

Conversations with Strangers

 

"I can't help it.

It's in my genes. I strike up conversations with strangers, just like my mother and father did. As a child I listen to them chattering away and after we left the person they were talking to, I would ask who that person was and/or how did they know them. More often then not, they would admit they didn't know them at all.

Today I went into the ladies room at Manora, a grocery store. A woman was washing her hands and she was wearing an ankle-length coat with various shade of brown stripes.  It had a fur collar and reminded of something I might see in the Dr. Zhivago movie.

"Excusez-moi mais votre manteau est beau, magnifique,"

She turned and with a smile said, "Merci."

She said that she'd had the coat for 40 years. The coat was so original, that the most I could hope for was to capture the feeling of the moment of the two of us talking. To ask to take her photo would have spoiled the mood.

We talked about how we kept some clothes for years: they were like old friends with shared memories.

She had been in Switzerland for 40 years and had escaped Czechoslovakia when it was still Communist. I told her about my wonderful Czech neighbors in Geneva who later showed me Prague through their eyes saying similar things about living through those bad years and the freedom of their current lives.

We talked about French accents -- she thought mine was adorable, but I didn't say I thought mine sucked, just I wished it were better.

She was three years younger than I am. She mentioned my almost unwrinkled skin, another tribute to my genes. Her skin was that of someone younger but there was no way would she ever have any surgical or injection, she told me. We agreed that what wrinkles we do have, we earned. They represent memories. 

Her figure was something that any woman would love to have. She exercises regularly to keep her figure, but also to keep healthy. 

The conversation ended as we went to join our husbands.

I owe a debt of gratitude to both my parents. Because of them, I'm not afraid to tell a stranger that she has a beautiful coat which will meld into a moment of sharing, discovery and insight into another person's humanity.

 

Coat Hangers and Knitting Needles

 

For several months after I finished writing Coat Hangers and Knitting Needles, I felt a heaviness, a sadness for all the women who had suffered. Between research, interviews and writing it had taken a year. The book covered abortion before Roe v. Wade. What helped me not descend into depression was a sense at least with Roe v. Wade women's reproduction rights were safe.

How wrong I was.

I knew that my grandmother and her friends, all born in the late 1800s, controlled the size of their families with the "knitting needle solution." I found it hard to picture these very-proper women, who still wore corsets, aprons and sensible shoes, aborting themselves but none had more than two children at a time when birth control was almost non existent.

I knew many friends had had abortions under frightening conditions. 

As time went on and the pro-lifers became stronger, I was scared we would go backwards. I decided to write a book.

My first interview was with Bill Baird, who after seeing a woman die from a botched abortion, became a lifelong fighter for women's reproductive rights including birth control. Baird was in his late eighties, blind and extremely helpful when we talked. Today he is 92.

Day after day, I did the research. I found information on the first abortion trial in Pomfret, CT. A woman in 1742 died from an abortion and her abortionist was tried. 

I found all the ways women tried to abort their children from the dangerous to the ridiculous.

I watched Tim Sebastian on BBC's Hardtalk interview Norma McCorvey, the Roe of Roe v. Wade. If I ever did anything wrong I would never go on the program because Sebastian would go for the jugular vein. With Norma McCorvey, he pulled his punches, was even gentle. Unfortunately, the interview is no longer on Youtube.

I watched video after video of women who had undergone abortions. Gerri Santoro was featured in a film www.pbs.org/pov/films/leonassistergerri/. An abused wife, she tried to free herself. A do-it-yourself abortion left her bleeding to death on a motel floor. The picture of her lying on the floor in her own blood and her story became an article in Ms Magazine. Gerri's story left me crying.

Watching the films of women's families that had died, brought up something seldom discussed. When a mother dies from an abortion her children grow up motherless like the singer with five children who couldn't afford a sixth. Some of their stories. https://www.attiegoldwater.com/motherless-a-legacy-of-loss-from-illegal-abortion

I did interview after interview. I heard from women who were sexually abused by their abortionists. The age of women varied from 12 to 50, married, unmarried, rich, poor, all classes.

A presenter for Romper Room took Thalidomide just as the news broke on it causing birth defects. She was denied an abortion and had to go to Japan for her abortion. The fetus was horribly deformed. At one point, her children needed police protection when they went to school because of people threatening them because their mother had sought an abortion. 

"Back in the 50s and 60s, every major hospital in the U.S. had a septic abortion ward..." according to Dr. David Grimes.

I gathered information from 3000 B.C. to 2017 which proved to me, women will do what they need to do regardless of society.

I self published and mailed copies of the book to every pro-life group, every Supreme Court Justice. I received a few replies threatening me with hell and/or calling me evil.

Neither myself or my daughter are of child bearing age. However, every young woman is at risk should they become pregnant and want or NEED an abortion for personal, financial or health reasons.

The book is available in paperback and Kindle at cost. 

International Eating

 Growing up in Massachusetts my grandmother was a traditional Yankee cook while my mother scoured Gourmet Magazine for recipes. Our choices of restaurants were local and limited: Italian and Chinese nothing else.

There are New England foods I miss: lobster, scrod (fish of various types), fresh apple cider, baked beans baked all-day long in a bean pot, brown bread, New England boiled dinner with red flannel hash as a left over. On visits back there, I now add breakfast at Dempsey's restaurant in Medford near my daughter's. If we're lucky we can go several times for their waffles, eggs benedict, bagels, etc.

As an adult living in different countries and traveling to more, I've developed a love for many national and regional specialties, some gourmet, some peasant and much in between. I get excited about trying out different cuisines or going back another time. My husband also has developed some favorites:

CANADA

My husband has loved poutine from when he lived in Montreal. A friend, whenever she can find the packets for the sauce, buys them. There is usually a Canadian stand featuring poutine, a combination of potatoes, cheese and gravy, at the Montreux Christmas Marchè and we make sure they have a good sales day.

He is also in love with Schwartz, a special seasoning bought from a Montreal restaurant. They don't ship to Switzerland, but will to the U.S. My daughter orders it, so she can send her stepfather a very special Christmas present.

SCOTLAND

There's nothing like being in the 4th floor of a certain Edinburgh store that specializes in kilts where there's a café serving tea and scones while looking down on Princes Street. Granted Pages & Sips, an English book store in Geneva's old town, sells a really good substitute. 

 

Coming out of the car rental at Edinburgh airport, there's an Irn Bru dispenser. Both my daughter, who did a Masters in that city, and my husband, need to stop to buy cans. A few places in Switzerland and Massachusetts do have the drink, but so few that finding Irn Bru is a treat for them.

Mac and cheese, haggis, jacket potatoes, and pub food in general is a must on any trip to Scotland.

SWEDEN

Sure, there's ligonberry jelly which I fell in love with at the House of Pancakes in Saugus, MA. However, in Stockholm there was the jelly on many menus. I found a cinnamon bun that I adored. Talking to my Swiss/Swedish dentist, who goes to Sweden regularly, I am not alone. He too is a fan. In Switzerland our local boulangerie makes cinnamon rolls to order and in Argelès there's a mother and daughter who bring pastries to the marché including cinnamon rolls.

GERMANY

When I lived in Germany for the two years my ex-husband served in an Army band, we did not have the money to eat out, but because the band played many public relations gigs, we were fed. I developed a love of hot potato salad which we were served almost every time. 

Sauerkraut? 

Great the first three or four times, but after the fifth and definitely after the 25th, not so much.

I would save up so at lunch time I could go to a stand and buy a wurst with mustard and brotchen maybe twice month.  

Only after I left Germany did I realize that the butter was so good because it wasn't salted.

When my housemate and I drove to northern Germany from Geneva, we both had a long list of things we wanted to eat. She had developed a love of German food from her German husband.

CARCASSONNE, FRANCE

Cassoulet, the bean, duck, sausage and other things that is typical of the region. I suspect that meal developed from leftovers which would explain the assortment. It is a must whenever I'm in the walled city with or without friends. 

SWITZERLAND

 

Our local dishes have become part of our family eating be it at home or in a restaurant: fondue, raclette, rosti, preferably black chocolate. Asparagus in the spring, chestnuts roasted by street vendors in the fall.

SYRIA

Having a Syrian neighbor who fed me regularly made me fall in love with everything I tasted. Her tabuli and hummus are fantastic. Lentils? Oh yes. When I visited Damascus there were more delights, a garlic soup-like dish - wow. 

Now days almost every nationality is available in any good sized city. In Geneva I can find various African cuisines, Japanese, Thai, Indian (although Indian neighbor neighbors spoiled me with their home made meals), Pakistani. 

Just writing this makes me hungry. I'll sign off and see what's in the fridge.