I don't want a shopping experience

 

I'm told that if places like Facebook use my data it will enhance my shopping experience. 

Sounds like so much blah, blah that corporations and politicians use to hide what they really mean.

I don't want a shopping experience. I despise shopping anywhere. When I need something, I will go to wherever I can get that product be it on line or in a store as fast as I can, find it, buy it, get out before I ruin more of my day. In a store, I try not to look right or left just get to the object and get the hell out. On line, I play the fill-out-the-form game with or without getting a code. If it takes too long, I often decide I can do without whatever I was going to buy.

My husband often will go into a mall. I'll sit in the car and read, so store time won't be destroying my life. 

My idea of a shopping experience is not to shop. I have what I need. I don't want anything else cluttering up my house, my life or taking my time from things I enjoy.

Facebook seems to be increasing their ads. It's anywhere from merely annoying to infuriating.   

Likewise CNN International and ITV have repeated their ads so often, I know the words by heart. Also annoying. However, when ads are on, I can use it for bathroom time, or to put the dishes in the dishwasher. I can even take a quick shower or read a chapter in a book, do a sketch, play with the dog, etc.

I said to my daughter when I was visiting her in the States, that it seemed the programs were interrupting the ads.

As a retired marketer, I know that companies need to sell their products, but seeing the same ad over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over makes me want to not buy their product. 

I know I sound like a COW, Cranky Old Woman, but life is too short to be bothered by things that are absolutely useless to me especially when it reduces my pleasure in other things I want to be doing or seeing.

Note: Check out D-L Nelson's new book 300 Unsung Women at her website https://dlnelsonwriter.com. It is available at Barnes and Noble https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/300-unsung-women-d-l-nelson/1147305797?ean=9798990385504 

 

Living within 100 Miles

 

 

Christian Science Mapparium, Boston, MA

Sixty percent of Americans live within ten miles of where they grew up, according to the U.S. Census Bureau and 80% live within 100 miles. Some 98% percent of those who do travel make long-distance trips within the United States. 

Forbes Magazine reported the results of a poll the explains the lack of knowledge (or ignorance) by Americans to the rest of the world if not their own country.

• Eleven percent of survey respondents have never traveled outside of the state where they were born.
• Over half of those surveyed (54 percent) say they’ve visited 10 states or fewer.
• As many as 13 percent say they have never flown in an airplane.
• Forty percent of those questioned said they’ve never left the country.
• Over half of respondents have never owned a passport.
• As many as 32 percent of those studied in the poll said they either don’t own or can’t actually remember ever buying any travel luggage. 

I grew up like those that never traveled. We lived in a New England town. In summer the golf club was just up the street, in winter there were ponds to skate on. We didn't take vacations. 

Nor did we explore Boston, only 12 miles away. Eventually when my mother started a business selling clothing on a party plan, she had to go into the city. She'd take the train and then a cab to Kneeland Street where the clothes were designed and manufactured.

I was able to go to Boston three times. Once with a boyfriend to see the Ice Capades at the Boston Garden after he promised to never let me out of his sight and we were to go from train to our seats and back to the train. I made him break the promise to use the ladies room.

Once a family friend and teacher took me to walk inside the Christian Science Mapparium. 

Once when I thought about attending Northeastern University, a friend and student there took me to the university, although my mother made it clear, I'd never be allowed to attend. During a break I walked the couple of blocks to the Museum of Fine Art. I was enthralled. Little did I know as an adult I would live just down the street from the university and the MFA, but I was still in the under 100 miles.

Likewise, we knew few people who traveled far. A WWII bride from Belgium was thrilled to be going to visit her family. There were almost no foreigners, but a few first and second generation friends. 

My school participated in a foreign exchange program. A boy who went to Norway under the program, said he didn't want to come home, he found it so wonderful, a shocking confession for any American.

We had exchange students. Lotte came from Luxembourg and a girl from France. A German boy was followed by his sister, who wasn't part of the program, but sent by her family to her brother's host family. There was a girl from the Philippines who borrowed one of my prom dresses because her budget didn't cover it. We were the same size. 

These students seemed so exotic. Most had to repeat a year when they went home to make up for what they had lost academically.

My mother and I both worked in Lawrence, 13 miles from my home town. I studied at what is now Lowell University, another 13 mile distance. My mother cried that I would be so far away when she left me to start my freshman year. 

There was one period where we went beyond the 100 miles. My father had an Underwood Typewriter Franchise in Bluefield, West Virginia. We moved there for two years until my mother insisted she was tired of being called a damned Yankee and listening to the drawl. I'm sure some thought her Bostonian accent was equally strange. Because the school system was found wanting, I went to a private school that left me a couple of years ahead academically when I returned to our hometown. My mother insisted I stay with my own third grade class for social development and physical size.

My family, despite not traveling, was well read, but the desire to move out of their, what we now call a bubble, was non existent. They had what they wanted and needed, although we did have to go to Wakefield, the next town, to buy my Brownie outfit. "Why go anywhere, when I can read it in a book" was may mother's feeling. Even our friends who would take vacations outside of our town never went much beyond Cape Cod, New Hampshire or Maine almost the same bubble. 

I married and my new husband was sent to Stuttgart, Germany to join the 82nd Army Band. My father and stepmother took me to New York to sail on the  USS America. 

From Le Havre, France, I made my way to Stuttgart on three trains having no French, no German. At one point I told a Frenchman, I spoke French and he didn't. I refused to get off the train to have a meal with an adorable young Frenchman.

I fell in love with Europe. Like the exchange student who went to Norway, it was hard to return to my hometown. I finished my degree, worked in Waltham 14 miles away, had a baby, ended up divorced and went to England on a special theatre trip.

Many years later after a minimum of 800 CVs (resumes), I found work in Switzerland. Now I live in both Switzerland and southern France, where I bought my retirement home in a tiny village.  

Working with students who were prepping for a big English exam, I discovered many had not been to Perpignan the closest city, never mind Toulouse or Montpelier. A French bubble is still a bubble.

Visiting, living and working in different cultures has influenced me. After a prolonged visit in Syria, I think it is fine to have olives for breakfast and relish sipping maté with a group of women friends. If my language skills are under-wonderful, listening to a French movie, chatting with French-speaking neighbors or even getting what I want with my shopping German, still thrills me after several decades. That most of my friends speak anywhere from two to seven languages fluently, keeps me humble. Even as a fiction writer, I could never dreamed up many of the fascinating stories of their lives.

It's one thing to read about people fleeing Franco in 1939 and another to hear a woman tell how as a child she crossed the Pyrenees in the freezing January cold. I walk the towel-strewn beach around tanning bodies, knowing this was where 100,000 people were put into a concentration camp in WWII.

I can read about Rasputin's assignation, but to stand in the room where it happened, and then walk by the door where escaped and see the swirling river where he disappeared -- well that feeling of living history isn't in any book. 

Sitting in James Joyce's living room, knowing I'll never read Ulysses, but loved some of his other writing, is a feeling of bringing the past into the present. 

To hear the point of view of French, German, Chinese from the lips of those who lived it and not run through any media interpretation no matter what nationality, lets me weigh what might be true or false.

I will always be grateful to my husband for finding another woman, because it freed me to go beyond those 100 miles and live a life that I never would have had otherwise. 

D-L Nelson just published her 18th book, 300 Unsung Women, that tells the story of women who fought gender limitations. Available at www.barnesandnoble.com/w/300-unsung-women-d-l-nelson/1147305797?ean=9798990385504  Visit her website https://dlnelsonwriter.com 

 

 

 

 

Free Write -- A flower and a bee

   

The three writers are once again doing their Tuesday Free Writes from two countries sharing the prompt (photo of the Iris and the bee) and what they created in ten minutes of uninterrupted writing over the internet.

D-L's Free Write 

Diana sat on the faded patio chair. The umbrella blocked the sun.

She read the printed-out e-mail that her publisher had just sent. Printing had not changed the message. Her children's book was being banned in Florida, North Carolina, Arkansas and Alabama. 

She'd written it for third and fourth graders about a rebellious bee. The hive Queen Bee had gone overboard, demanding they find double the pollen. They were allowed less sleep time, less food.

The other bees, well most of the others, had been afraid to speak up or buzz up. The Queen Bee was too powerful and had banished him from the hive.

He crawled into a purple iris where he'd sleep for the night.

Diana knew she'd been banned along with some really great writers. All the bannings horrified her.

There was nothing sexual in her story. Maybe rebellions were more dangerous to the powers that be.

D-L is the author of 15 fiction and three non fiction books. Check out her website at: https://dlnelsonwriter.com 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

 Julia's Free Write

First thought: how long has it been?

Then the memories came tumbling in – the death of her husband and fleeing to her brother and sister-in-law’s. Her SIL had so many lovely irises: transplanted to that house from first her grandmother’s then her own mother’s.

When she moved from one state to another some 2’000 km. away, they went with her.  It took two years in her new home for them to start blooming, but this year the first blossom, of a variety so that that even the state specialist hadn’t seen one, bloomed on her birthday.

I even tried sending her some of my bulbs, but due to rigorous import laws they weren’t admitted.

Then looking closer at the pictures, I noticed the bee: yet more fond memories of friends who were beekeepers, never mind my brother-in-law for some twenty years.

Honey that I have sampled and use every morning in my warm water and lemon.

One picture: an explosion of good memories!

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

Rick's Free Write

To iris or not to iris?

That was the bumblebee’s question.

He had happened by the most wonderful garden he’d ever seen. Roses, poppies, purple loosestrife, hibiscus, carnations and a vast field of daisies.

Which to choose first?

Since he had all day, basically, BB King, as he fancied himself, decided to proceed by colors. Starting with the white flowers, then the yellow, then pink, red, blue and purple for last. Irises always were his favorite. So fragrant.

Midway through the roses, BB sensed he had company. A small dog. Not worth bothering with. But perhaps fun to buzz and scare once or twice. Nah. The pup barely noticed him flitting from pollen stem to pollen stem.

Next the hibiscus. They didn’t last more than a day. Better to strike while he could. Might not be there tomorrow. And his inner forecast suggested rain later.

As he approached the final prize, the iris, BB noticed movement in the flower. Gasp! It was the Queen! What was she doing here? She waved at him with her wing and re-buried herself in the flower.

BB decided to leave the iris for Her Majesty. Maybe another helping of carnations and then back to the hive.

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

 

 

 

Army band gender changes

 

Rick1, my first husband, was doing his required military service. They were fantastic musicians with some going on to play with the likes of Stan Kenton and the New York Symphony. Stationed in Stuttgart, Germany, the 82nd Army Band was mostly a PR unit playing fests and Fashings many times a week.

Fast forward to the present. On Facebook, I publish some writer whose birthday it is each day with their birth and death dates, one of their quotes and a photo. Today's writer was Julia Ward Howe who wrote the Battle Hymn of the Republic. 

I went to YouTube to listen. I noticed there were both men and women in the U.S. Army Field Band and the chorus. When my husband was in the band, I don't think the idea of a woman being in the band even entered anyone's head.

Arlie Hatfield had led the 82nd. They called him the old man. I wonder if any of the musicians in the U.S. Army Field Band would dare call their conductor, the old woman?  

Writers -- Why Free Write?

 

When I was a new fiction writer (I'd been a journalist and PR writer) and fiction was a new road, I found Nathalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones. It recommended Free Writing and has sold over two million copies. Goldberg wasn't the first. Dorothy Brand proposed a form of it as early as 1934.

It's simple. 

• Find a prompt. Anything you see, smell or hear: A chair, a bird singing, a photo, a person coughing...
• Put pen to paper and write for 10-15 minutes. The exact time is not important. It's what works for you.
• Write without stopping. If you freeze, write the last word or any word over and over until you can go on.
• Don't correct.
• Do it daily or do it if you feel blocked. Just do it.

I did it by myself for years, especially when blocked, but then I mentioned it to Lydia, who lived in my French village. Although she was French, she'd spent years in the U.S. and had a degree in English and writing. We would meet at least weekly in a café, find a "victim" as a prompt and off we'd go our pens running across the paper. The "victim" never knew they were the subject.

Then we'd read what the other vote, not to correct or judge but to see what the "victim" triggered in our minds.

If there were no "victims" we'd open a book and select a sentence that would become the first sentence of our Free Write.

Eventually Lydia's schedule made it impossible to get together. When I said to my husband how much I had missed the two-person Free Write, he suggested we do it together. He's a journalist who had dabbled in fiction. 

We did. It was wonderful.

When my friend Julia, who writes poetry for herself and takes fantastic photos, asked if she could join, we agreed.

We've formalized the sessions, taking turns suggesting a prompt. When everyone was in Geneva, we'd meet in a café Tuesday mornings, have our beverage of choice and write for 10 minutes. We'd read what we wrote, again not to judge, but to compare what we thought. Sometimes our efforts were similar. Other times, other than the prompt link, they were wildly different. The format might be fiction, memoir, half and half...

Sometimes there were groans as we tried to transmit a prompt onto the paper. Other times we were inspired and ink flowed.

The challenge of often being in two countries (France and Switzerland) was overcome, thanks to the internet. The prompt would be shared the day before although it was not to be looked at until we were ready to write. The person who provided the prompt did have a head start.

Although we tried to keep Tuesday mornings even in two countries, life happens and we'd do the Free Write at different times on the same day for the discipline. We shared our work in emails, and I would post them in this blog https://theexpatwriter.blogspot.com. 

I know other writers who have said they use our prompts to do their own Free Writes, but don't share them with us. 

When I'm working on my fiction and feel blocked, I will do a Free Write on my own, but doing it with other writers is more fun. I find the days we do our Free Write, my writing goes more smoothly.

For isolated writers who want to Free Write with others, use the internet to find writers that might want to do this regularly. It's a motivator.

 Check out D-L's website https://dlnelsonwriter.com

 

 

A Hunger Stop

12:01 Saturday: Rick and I were hungry as we drove the French autoroute from Geneva to Argelès-sur-mer. My husband did a quick turn toward the next exit -- Nimes. The city, which goes back to Roman times, has been called the most Italian city outside of Italy. Archeological finds suggest people have lived on the land since 400 BCE.

We make the trip between the two places often taking anywhere from six (no stops) to eight hours (human and dog pee breaks, stretching and meals). Although the autoroute has really nice rest stops with a choice of restaurants and/or snack bars and unlike most of France where dogs are welcomed, Sherlock is canine non grata. 

We find going off route into different places provides a nice break with the added bonus of stumbling across interesting things. Nimes is no exception.

In Nimes center is a Roman coliseum. Although we love history, food was our goal so we bypassed any museums. We can always come back.

We spied a Lebanese restaurant with people sitting at all the tables outside. The Lebanese owner indicated that wasn't a problem. He set up a table a little away from the others. 

Our waitress, who was Japanese, taught us to say thank you in Japanese. She spoke wonderful French and good English. She even spoke good dog. Sherlock basked in her praise and appreciated the water she brought him.

The veggie plate was a 15 on a scale of 10 with ten being fantastic. Only my Syrian-born friend Marina and her husband make better tabuli and hummus.  

Walking back there was a display in the local park by the local fire department.

In less than two hours we'd experienced several cultures, current and going back in time, different languages and foods.

Our hunger stop, once again, had proven to give us so much more than just a full stomach.

 

UPS Lies Part III-Last episode

 

Today, on our way back to Argelès from Geneva, we stopped at the local UPS access office. Our book was there. It was a miracle. They had told us it would be EXCEPT earlier they told us many times they couldn't leave it there.

It has been a month of lies. Here's an incomplete sample.

• They tried to deliver it but no one was home. We work from home and were there when they claimed to try to deliver it. We have both a doorbell and a dog that barks at leaves in the street and anything that comes to the door. No notice of a delivery slip was left.
• They would deliver between 17:00 and 19:00. They didn't,
• They would deliver it tomorrow. They gave times. They didn't.
• They said that they would deliver it on the 23rd to our home after being told many times we wouldn't be there until the 26th.  
• It was in Perpignan, 20 minutes or so from us depending on traffic, they claimed.
• It was sent from Perpignan to Montpellier, they said. That was the wrong direction if, in deed, it was true.

The on-line form and the humans contradicted itself/herself/himself at different times.

I now have the book I ordered, my book, 300 Unsung Women. Miracle or miracle.

The entire experience has been one of corporate incompetence.

If this were the first time, it would be bad enough. Last year we'd ordered ten books. They said they tried to deliver it three times, but no one was home. No notice of delivery slip. We tried to arrange after the 2nd time to have it dropped off at a restaurant at the corner of our street. They claimed they tried but couldn't. Instead they destroyed the 10 books.

When we told friends about our experience, there was eye rolling and comments, that it was normal for UPS. I won't use the word service. It does not belong anywhere near that company.

UPS management should review their system from pick up to arrival at the customer's house or use their access centers. They need to have an on-line system that works. What they are doing now sucks. In France, it can be difficult to fire people, but everyone involved should be let go and a team (including those that can fix their computer system) should be let go.

 

 

Free Write

 

At the Martel café in Vésenaz, Switzerland, the three writers did their last face-to-face free write until June. It was a Friday, not their usual Tuesday. Appointments had made their regular Free Write session impossible. 

It was Julia's prompt. She'd taken the photo at the restaurant where she'd eaten earlier in the week. Unlike other prompts, she had three photos to choose from.

Julia's Free Write

"Wow," she said: "rather blinding don’t you think?"

It had been a long day with a full schedule and when she arrived early due to a lucky happenstance and was shown to the table, that was her reaction.

However, at the end of a delightful and delicious dinner her attitude had totally changed.

In a wooden-ceilinged Thai restaurant, this table was in its own corner on an upper balcony where one could overlook the lower part – or look out to the balcony which ran along the side.  That in turn was an overhang overlooking a “river” stocked with koï and other exotic fish.

The food had been authentic, the services Asian polite.

She was entirely relaxed at the end of the meal and actually much more receptive to the colors and intricacies of the patterns.

No longer blinded, but appreciative of the beauty.

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

D-L's Free Write

Josie was unhappy. Her mother and sister know she doesn't like Thai food but overruled her by selecting a Thai restaurant.

Okay, the table cloth was beautiful, the dishes were beautiful, but the food would leave her with a tummy ache.

It was always them against her. Her sister would be praised for one A when Josie had all As. Her sister finished junior college, but her parents couldn't get to Cambridge for her graduation when she wore the crimson robe for her Ph.D.

The luncheon was to plan her wedding, something her mother said she thought would never happen. "Men don't like bookworms," Josie had heard most of her life.

Her mother took a notebook from her pocketbook. Page after page listed guests names.

"Paul and I want a small wedding." Josie said.

"Impossible," her mother said.

Her mother and sister, who assumed that she'd be Josie's maid of honor, continued planning everything that Josie didn't want.

Josie stood up and gathered her things.

"Paul and I are going to elope. We'll be married in the south of France. I'll send photos." As she walked out the restaurant door, she thought, "that felt good."

D-L is the author of 15 fiction and three non fiction books. Check out her website at: https://dlnelsonwriter.com 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

 

 Rick's Free Write

I’m a rather picky eater.

I had never before eaten Thai food. So when I traveled to Bangkok for a conference for several days, I was seriously concerned I might starve. Just in case, I packed a package of Oreo cookies.

I needn’t have worried. Outside my hotel in the convention/ tourist area, there was a McDonald’s across the street and a Kentucky Fried Chicken around the corner.

But eventually, I would end up dining with business colleagues and be forced to order something local.

Oh, did I mention I especially don’t like fish?

The menu had all sorts of exotic-sounding dishes I had never heard of. And wasn’t sure I wanted to know the details.

Just before I had to order, a waiter walked past with a tray for another table. I noticed some skewers of meat and thought I detected an aroma of peanuts.

“What is that dish?” I asked him.

“Satay” was the response. “Chicken.”

Chicken I could do – with a coating of peanut butter. Reminded me of the Italian spiedies from when I grew up – marinated chicken cooked on a skewer over charcoal. (I was even a spiedie cook for one summer during university.)

Between the satay and my imported Oreos, I managed not to starve on the trip.

I’m less fussy these days… but not much.

Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices.com He is the author of The Robot in the Simulator. AI in Aviation Training.

Cruelty, Killing and Lies

 

 

A view from my bedroom door.

I woke in my Geneva flat next to my adorable dog and my beloved husband. He was scrolling his phone for messages to help him arrange his day.

I reach for my book. There's no need to rush. We have no morning deadlines so we can take our time and enjoy the little things of the day: a cup of tea, a meal bought from Les Halles in downtown Geneva, perhaps a Netflix, more reading, playing with the dog.

Outside rain falls gently. My view is of bushes and a plum tree. It will drop sweet fruit in a few months. The leaves are still. In some of the winds we have had recently, they danced as if possessed. It is a great analogy for the contrast of my feelings: personal calm but chaos around me.

It's like all is right with the world, but it isn't.

When I put on the news, I hear two Israeli embassy staff members were shot and killed in D.C. They're a beautiful young couple about to announce their engagement. CNN focuses on their lost future. The pain of their families is unimaginable. 

In contrast, I think of the 50,000+ people killed in the Gaza genocide. Why aren't there pictures and stories of individuals who have died given similar attention? Is to die by a one-man shooting worse than having a bomb dropped on you?  Then there's the Gaza starvation and the babies that even if rescued will suffer with development problems. Food and help are just outside the borders, but are not being allowed to help.

Lost dreams aren't just for one group of people.

The news then goes to Trump lecturing the South African President. They sit in the same chairs where other guest White House dignitaries have sat: the guest to the left, Trump to the right. Wood is ready for a fire in the gold trimmed, white fireplace between them. Cabinet members sit in a semicircular around the two men.

Trump attacks him with lies about the genocide in South Africa. Trump has already saved some white Afrikaners from an alleged genocide. He has not saved anyone from Gaza and he has also wanted to deport other refugees including some of the Afghans who helped American troops seeking refuge in the U.S. I guess they don't count because they are not white Christians. Fake genocides call for more action than real genocides.

No need to go into the diplomatic rudeness of attacking visiting leaders from other countries before the press. 

The TV switches to the Big Beautiful Budget Bill or as my husband calls it the Billionaires Boondoggle Bill. That is the one that will kill people too, who will not be able to afford medical care, who want to breathe clean air, who wish to drink clean water and to eat safe food. Silly people.

The U.S. now claim that they can't afford things like scientists who will take their talent to other countries. No need to have weather warnings and after a disaster, FEMAs ability to help those who have lost everything is compromised.   

Ordinary U.S. citizens when they are tossing in the beds at night and are worried about paying increased taxes can take comfort knowing how much better off the rich will be. They can take patriotic pleasure in a multi-million dollar military parade rather than fund vital services. And how happy they will be in the knowledge that their hard-earned tax dollars will allow the president to have relaxation time on the golf course. 

If they are worried about their own jobs, safety at work, lack of union protection, they can be reassured that Trump will be increasing his own wealth. Netanyahou said today that he will continue until Israel will reach its goals and implied that Trump's plan to turn Gaza into a resort is possible. Oh happy days.

It doesn't matter that bond market investors, those who lend money to the U.S. are signalling that the U.S. is an unacceptable risk. 

It doesn't matter that the Billionaires Boondoggle Bill will add trillions to the national debt. My memory must be slipping because I've heard Republicans whinging about having to cut the national debt. 

Wait!

They now have to spend lots and lots of money to fix a gift plane. 

And there's that great idea to have a $175 billion defense shield against an enemy in a future attack.A variation known as Star Wars was proposed by Reagan only to be debunked. I guess its okay to make people safe from things that might or might not happen when they aren't safe from ordinary things in their daily lives. 

As I write this, Rick is doing his own writing. The dog naps after a walk. The trees do not move. The rain has stopped. There is no chaos in our personal life. We have to fight to not let the catastrophe around us destroy us.