The Skunk and The Dog

 

Sunday Morning

My mother-in-law sat on her living room couch looking grim as I walked in. I was still in my PJs. Next to her was my brother-in-law looking even more grim. I was living with my MIL for a few weeks while my husband finished his tour of duty with an army band in Stuttgart, Germany.

"Did you come home drunk last night?" she asked.

Saturday Night

I had eaten the traditional Saturday night home baked beans, hot dogs and brown bread in my childhood home. Not much had changed in the two-years I'd been overseas. There were still 38 pine trees surrounded by a semi circular driveway. The property still was surrounded by a Robert Frost stone wall. There were both back and side yards. A forest was behind the house.

Unlike my childhood there were no Saturday night card games, Monopoly or Parcheesi. Instead my mother and grandmother were listening to my tales of living in Germany about the Fashings and Fests where the band had played, of walking by the Altes and Neues Schlösser, of the mini refrigerator I was so grateful for in our second apartment. In the first I'd used the window sill and had only an electric coil to cook with. I told them how much I'd loved living in Germany, but how much I loved returning to university to resume the studies interrupted by my marriage.

My German-German Shepherd Kimm needed to go out, so I let her go alone. Being off leash was a novelty for her and she went bounding off. I knew she'd come back. 

She did. 

Obviously, she had met her first skunk.

I put her in the bathtub. We'd heard that tomato juice helped remove the stink. My folks had two large cans that I massaged into her fur followed by all the shampoo in the house. 

By the time she smelled better my clothes stank. Although my mother was much heavier than I was, she loaned me slacks and a top that were most welcome after a long shower. 

A former high school boy friend decided to drop in at that moment. He often visited my mother and grandmother and we had more memory sharing. He offered to drive me and Kimm to my MIL's, putting my stinking clothes in the trunk of his 1957 gold and white Dodge, the same car his father had loaned him when we went on dates my junior year.

I left my smelly clothes on my MIL's back step. I gave Kimm another bath using liquid dish soap and showered again, quietly to not disturb my MIL.

Sunday Morning 

"Of course I wasn't drunk," I told my MIL. "Why?"

"Your clothes were outside. You didn't strip and come in naked?" 

I told them the story. My BIL verified the truth of what I was saying after going outside to smell and dispose of the clothes.

"What will the neighbors say?" my BIL worried as I hooked Kimm up for her morning walk. 

Years later I learned the tomato juice doesn't as much remove the smell which is caused by sulfur- like chemicals but masks them. I would have been better using hydrogen peroxide or dish soap. 

Kimm never saw another skunk up close. 

 

Deport Your Child

 

No, I'm not talking about turning your kids over to ICE.

As more and more universities capitulate to Trump's limitations, sending your child to those schools where education could now be limited, DEI puts them in a bubble, and tuition costs could lead them to a lifetime of debt, sending them to other places in the world to study makes sense. I won't even mention the limited number of shootings on campuses in other countries compared to those in the U.S. 

Depending on the country, English university courses can be offered, but the gift of a second language increases job possibilities, plus an enrichment of life in general. 

As for costs, it varies. Some countries now are charging more for American students, but there are still those where costs are minimal. There are some universities that will want the student to have a year of a U.S. university to make up for what they consider an inadequate base education.

In my daughter's case, which was a few decades ago , it was about $43 a semester for the undergraduate. Her Masters in Scotland was a fraction of the same type of program as it would have been in America. Had she been a Scot, it would have been free.  

A lot depends on what your child wants to do in life. Start researching educational opportunities and requirements in schools in various countries. Ideally it would be good to start in 7th grade when languages can still be acquired.   

There are wonderful universities all over the world. It shouldn't be necessary to limit one's child to the U.S. 

Note: D-L Nelson is a Swiss-Canadian raised in the United States. Her undergraduate degree was in Massachusetts and her graduate in Wales. She had lived for various amounts of time in five countries. She currently lives in Switzerland and France. Visit her website at https://dlnelsonwriter.com. 

 

Free Write - Puzzles

 

The Free Write this week was very different. Instead of a café we went to Julia's house where she was baby sitting. Toys were every where and two adult guests were a pleasant addition to the atmosphere. Sherlock, our dog, loved his freedom in the garden and was the recipient of new interactive toy fish. We wrote in the winter garden.

The best part is the flow of creativity no matter where we are and under what conditions.

D-L's Free Write

"How long will the table be unusable?" Thomas asked. 

Angela looked at the jigsaw table, then out the window at the heavy snow. She couldn't even see the gate.

Everyone was now snowed in for the long Thanksgiving weekend.

Last night at 3:27, she'd gotten up, found an old jigsaw puzzle and laid it out. She thought it would be a great thing bringing the family together like when she was little.

"We can't start until the border is finished," Aunt May said.

"We need to put similar colors together," Angela's mother said.

"Yuck!" her daughter Emily said.

"I'll be in my room with my laptop," her son Grant said.

So much for old-time family togetherness, Angela thought.

The wind howled as she went to the kitchen to make hot turkey sandwiches from yesterday's leftovers, leftover like old-time jigsaw puzzles.

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

Rick's Free Write 

When Jake returned from doing the laundry, there it was. The whole table was covered with tiny chips of irregular-shaped cardboard. Another puzzle!

Not just any puzzle. Not a simple puzzle. A thousand-piece puzzle!

The table would be covered for days as Trudy painstakingly fitted the pieces together. They’d have to eat on the coffee table again. Last puzzle took 10 days.

Maybe this was a sign that they should move to a bigger flat. One where they could set up a card table – just for puzzles.

Or maybe he could find her an online puzzle site. But would that be the same challenge?

He had to admit, the first puzzle, a few weeks ago, he had ‘helped.’ Became a bit obsessed. Actually, pretty much took over toward the end. Posted photos on FB as proof of their achievement.

But not this time, he vowed. He wasn’t going to get sucked in.

Of course, if he helped, maybe they’d get the dining table back faster.

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.  

Julia's Free Write

Her life was in a muddle.

The kids were grown, on their own and even both married.

She hit the jackpot there as both her DILs were not only perfect for the son they were with, but she actually like them!

She had absolutely nothing to complain about.

Yet, today she was in a slump. Sneezing her head off, tissue after tissue – oh maybe that’s it? Allergies? A cold coming on?

With two days “free” in her usually more-than-busy-life, she could do what she wanted, when she wanted. So start planning she said to herself.

But first, time to tackle one of her favorite pastimes: there was a puzzle on the side table just waiting her attention. 

All in all, life was good?

How many others could actually do what they wanted?

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

 

 

An Interview

 

As a writer, I spend more time writing than talking about writing with one exception. My husband is also a writer so we will discuss our work in progress or writing in general.

Thus when Arab World Books wanted to interview me about my writing, I happily agreed.

Here's the interview. To listen it is necessary to copy and paste the link.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z9Vcb6O3SPk&t=4088s

Triple Decker: Story of a Family Hurt by War

 

Every family is made up of multiple separate lives intertwined. And though they experience the same event, each of their reactions is personal.

The Flanagans are a normal, three-generational Irish Catholic family in Boston's Mission Hill. The matriarch/patriarch live on the top floor of a triple decker, and their two daughters with their families live in the bottom two flats.

Their problems are those every family face until the Vietnam War changes everything they believed.

D-L Nelson is the author of 19 books. Check her website at https://dlnelsonwriter.com. 

Triple Decker is available at https://parnassusbooks.net/book/9781733269612 and other on line book sites. 

 

Almost Iceland

I had just shut down my emails with my professional mentor/friend of over 50 years. We'd been sharing information about his 90th birthday celebration trip to Iceland.

Within seconds, a picture of Iceland flashed on my screen from my rotating screen savers, bringing a cascade of memories. It was the first time in over two years, an Iceland photo had appeared there.

In my early 30s, I'd seen how Iceland needed fish packers. Crime was almost non-existent. They were a country of readers. The salary was high, the expenses low. I thought I could do it for six months, maybe a year, save my money then go to Paris and write living off my savings.

I went to https://www.schoenhofs.com/ then in Harvard Square and now on line to pick up learn-Icelandic books. Having loved my linguistic courses in uni, I was fascinated by its structure and history. 

Life interfered. I stayed in Boston. My fascination went underground.

Fast forward to the mid 2000s. I was retired and living in Geneva, Switzerland. Now was the time to visit Iceland. My housemate asked if she could go. Of course.

Tour or no Tour

We decided, if we went on a tour, we would be less apt to miss something. If we disliked our fellow tourists, we said we could gossip about them at night when we were alone. 

The people on the tour were lovely. Our guide a buxom (very) blond was beyond informative. Her humor added to her commentary. Even better, her French was easy to understand, not always the case with a second language. We'd have missed so much, had we done the trip on our own.

Sights and Sounds

Nothing had prepared us for the variety of landscapes. From waterfalls, geysers, fields, flowers, rocky landscapes, to an area that was so like the moon, the U.S. used it to train astronauts, I was mesmerized. I learned about cairns, saw puffins and black sandy beaches. I was told when a horse leaves Iceland, it can't come back. 

The Unexpected 

 

Standing in the field where the Althing (Parliament) has existed since 930s put my imagination in overdrive. I could "see" blond Viking type men and women run by me and sit on the nearby rocks as they made their laws.. 

We took a boat to an iceberg, with it's soft blue/white color. The captain broke off small pieces for us to eat. Never on any bucket list had I written, Eat An Iceberg, but it was a thrill. It more than made up for the normal Icelandic food, which was good but limited. I missed the wide selection of fruits and vegetables I was used to. I didn't expect to be offered the cod liver oil at breakfast I was, which I declined. A spoonful had been forced down me when I was little every day. I didn't need any as an adult.

We saw a number of museums. A never knew there was a penis museum, still family owned.  

We saw Höföi House where Gorbachev and Reagan held a summit in 1986. 

There were other museums and displays giving a feel of what life must have been like in the past as well as the culture. 

Sagas 

My biggest thrill was the Saga Museum, where old Icelandic poems written between 1200 and the end of the 14th century, were preserved in a darkened room to protect them. 

That day, I was lucky enough to be alone with the Sagas. The others in the tour went to the spa or watched the Gay Pride Parade. My imagination, once again overtook me as I imagined the people who wrote them. I "saw" them as they were dressed, the writing implements they used. I could almost taste the fish they had eaten for lunch. 

In a way, the Sagas were the social media of their time, with parchment not the internet the transmission form of events.  

I wonder every now and then had I been hired to pack fish and then gone to Paris, what my life would have been like. How it enfolded with my move to Europe, the development of my writing, the people I have met, the other places I've gone have been more than I could have dreamed of. And on top of it all, I got to Iceland, too. 

Notes: Check out https://dlnelsonwriter.com  An Icelandic tradition my husband and I and my daughter when she is with us has adopted on Christmas Eve we give books and then go to bed and read them. 

 

Empty suits, Empty Christians

 

They wear expensive suits and every hair is in place. Mike Johnson is one. He thanked God for the passage of the Big Beautiful Bill, the same bill that will cost millions of lives not just in the U.S. but all over the world thanks to what is in it. If there was a god, would he be that cruel? Those suits, no matter what label, are empty of human decency. 

Many of the Republicans who voted for it claim they are Christian. Those, who don't flaunt their alleged religion, also voted for it, but they aren't claiming to follow a faith that allegedly the exact opposite of their actions? 

And what actions are those?

As a start the concentration camps that the U.S. has in Florida and other places. People who have survived tell of treatment that matches Auschwitz and other German camps. www.vanityfair.com/news/story/rumeysa-ozturk-what-i-witnessed-inside-an-ice-womens-prison  by Rümeysa Öztürk is just one example. 

How many Americans died in WWII to end this treatment of humans? Maybe there should no longer be parades to honor their sacrifices. Although they tried, they failed to end the horror man inflicts on man. Maybe we should apologize to them instead. I suspect they never would have thought their descendants would duplicate what they fought against. Who would have thought America would become what it has become?

Those alleged Christians, so quick to tell others how to live and love must have a commandment "Thou shall only be kind to those like me." They probably haven't read the following Biblical quote.

And then there's Gaza. Deliberate starvation of fellow human beings. Killing people trying to get food. I'm so grateful that I'm no longer American. If I were still American my tax dollar, when it went for Israeli weapons would mean that I was a participant in the starvation, the killings. Even as a Swiss-Canadian, a human being, I feel in every ion of my body, the horror of what is being done to my fellow humans. 

I'm powerless to stop it. A measly blog doesn't begin to change anything. The empty suits in Congress will continue.

 

Three Women, Same Birth Date

The 24th is my birth date.

There are three women who share the day, not the year. 

There's nothing magic about the date, but nevertheless, I like to think I've some of their spirit combined with mine. More probably, because in reading about their lives, I knew I could break boundaries too. Here are three women born on 24 July.

 

Amelia Earhart (1897-1937) She was the first woman to fly non stop across the Atlantic when it was considered an accomplishment for anyone. 

Her childhood was filled with activities often left to boys including a worm collection. As a high school student she kept a scrapbook with clippings about successful women in male dominated roles.

She started a medical career, but quit after a year.

"By the time I had got two or three hundred feet [60–90 m] off the ground ... I knew I had to fly," she said of her first 10-minute flight in 1920. She worked several jobs to pay for her flight training and became the 16th woman to get a pilot's license.

On 2 July 1937, on one of her many flights, her plane disappeared and was never found.  

As an Associate Editor of Cosmopolitan she championed women's role in aviation. 

 

Zelda Fitzgerald  (1900–1948) Sometimes called the First American Flapper, she lived in the shadow of F. Scott Fitzgerald despite writing both novels and plays. She also painted. The couple lived a scandalous life. Zelda was often hospitalized and underwent both electric shock and insulin shock treatments. At the time, she was diagnosed with schizophrenia, but modern thought has promoted that she might have been bipolar. 

Her reputation of flaunting conventional southern female roles began in school. Her first creative activity was ballet, although she was described as being more interested in boys and swimming. 

She was in and out of institutions throughout the end of life and died in a fire. 

Her creative work was not well received, however modern review has given it a much higher opinion. How much of her mental instability was increased by the time she lived in and how much by her refusal to accept those limitations, will never be known.

Bella Abzug  (1920-1998) "A woman's place is in the house - The House of Representatives" is a great quote from this lawyer, politician and activist. The daughter of Jewish immigrants, when her father died, she said the mourning pray at synagogue although it was reserved for sons. 

One of the few women to become a lawyer in 1945, she handled mainly tenant, labor and civil rights cases. She was against McCarthy and Vietnam. When she ran for the house, she was known as Battling Bella.

Once in the House, she supported gay rights and equal credit for all.

Although hats were banned on the House floor, she was almost never without hers. 

She failed in her attempt to become a U.S. Senator.

Two illnesses were her final battle: breast cancer for years and heart problems.

Am I like these woman? I hope I have some of their pluck, although I want to pick and select my own path as they chose theirs.

I've only flown an airplane simulator, landing it perfectly on Long Island. The graphics, as I handled the instrument, were so realistic that for a second, I thought I really would have to find a ride back to Teterboro Airport in New Jersey where the simulator was located. Any other flights after that I take in my future will be accomplished by real pilots.

Like Zelda, I write. I've spent much time in Paris and would have loved to be there when Hemingway and Fitzgerald, etc. were, but their lifestyle has less appeal. I'm happy to see Catalonia in Spain which Hemingway covered. It is enough, that some 100,000 people ended up on the Argelès plage escaping Franco. As for a bullfight, no way. I'd want to save the bull.

Bella is another story. She and I are almost identical in our beliefs. We both fought breast cancer, although where I live in Switzerland, one in eight women have been diagnosed. I wish she were cloned several times over and in the House today. 

Feminism taught me that all women are sisters, although there are some sisters whom I will never understand. We share menstrual cramps monthly, fight gender barriers and even today our accomplishments are being erased by the Trump administration. 

When I wrote 300 Unsung Women about those sisters who fought gender barriers, I was amazed what we as a gender can accomplish. What a gift it would be for my birthday, if being a woman made no difference on how we were treated.

 

 

Marché Joy

 

We needed veggies and Tuesdays is our local farmer's market. At one time the people who own the farm delivered an assortment of veggies to the house, but with our travel schedule it wasn't practical. Too much waste.

The market sets up in the middle of our village. At one time in that location were Roman villas, but they were long ago replaced by a medieval church and a small plaza. 

The temperature was perfect, 19°C/66°F with blue skies.

Glory! Glory! They had corn on the cob, still unshucked, a rarity in Europe. Corn was considered only for cows when I first lived here.

So nice to walk down the stand and decide on all the fresh greens, tomatoes (several kinds), broccoli, carrots, an apple or two, peaches and a cantaloupe. Each week, I forget something, and today it was an avocado. 

There's always warm greetings between the owner, staff and me. When we've been away, we're welcomed back.

Today there was a new stand with jars of veggies in sauces, nuts, and pastas. The man sitting there and I chatted. He was Italian, but had grown up in Switzerland. The products were family made. For years he'd been an engineer, but he hated being tied to the routine, so he quit for a life. He told me. the sauces and pastas were part of that life. He didn't do a marché every day, because that would limit his life. He had enough of what he needed. He also said what was more important to him was the human contact. 

We started in French and went to English with overtones of Franglais. His English was self taught. 

I bought some nuts for a salad I'm planning tomorrow and some aubergine soup for tonight.

During this transaction, Rick and Sherlock had found one of the tables from the man who sold cookies, teas, etc. Most Tuesdays we are on the way to our Free Write and don't have time to linger over cuppas, although we do buy his cookies made by a local baker. There was time for a bit of a chat.

The Swiss, cantonal and village flags flew above us. A few clouds decided to occupy the blue, blue sky.

Some how pushing a cart around a grocery store, just isn't the same. One is a chore, the other is an experience a sharing human to human.

 

 

 

Free Write - Another What Is It?

 

We had to juggle our sacred Free Write Day. It's much more important to do it than be locked into a specific hour or day, as long as we do it. Julia's prompt, which meant she knew. As we sipped our tea, Rick and I weren't sure of what it was. The timer was set just the same for ten minutes, pens poised, clean paper waiting. Go!

Julia's Free Write

"I don't have a clue."

There it was - a picture for all practical purposes was undecipherable. 

So her mind wanders . . .black bag, white wall, a few signs on the bag, but not much indication of its purpose.

Never mind, she thought. I'll do what I do when I'm stuck in a meeting and bored: take a trip to my favorite places. The mountains? Yosemite, the Grand Tetons,?The Swiss Alps? The Dolemites? 

Can't settle on one so perhaps a Natural Wonder? The oasis in Tunisia? The Painted Desert of my youth?  

Or maybe water? The beaches of northern California? The numerous waterfalls throughout my life? The gorgeous lakes?

Nope, nothing to be done, my mind returns to the photo.

Eureka - a garbage bag !  I Think I'll take it off the "whatever" and use it to strangle whoever thought of the prompt !

110 liters - a good size for a body !  

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

D-L's Free Write

"Class, get your pencils and pads and go sketch something," the hunky art instructor said. 

Julia took her pad. She saw Martha stop at the swan fountain. 

Freida headed for the elaborate gate with the gold spikes on top. You can't show gold with black pencils, Julia thought.

Nancy headed for the forest. She'll probably draw a tree or violets in moss.

So what if I want something different. She walked around the old château, okay a big mansion turned into an arts center where the women had come to drool over the art teacher and eat good French food. 

She passed the kitchen and found a stone to sit on.

One pencil outlined her object, another offered shading.

A bell called them back. They sat on their chairs as Monsieur Hunk collected their pads, commenting on each one: the swan, the tree, the gate. 

Then he came to Julia's. "You have the most unusual I've ever seen," he said with his sexy accent. "A garbage bag."

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

Rick's Free Write Stone / Sack

Superstition can be a wonderful thing. It can make sense out of mystery and inspire simpletons to follow the guidance of cult leaders.

Consider the example of ‘sacred stones.’ The myth of the sword in the stone. Or the rock over which Scottish and English kings were crowned for centuries.

Or modern fairy tales like the bullet hole in the ear which miraculously healed over through the application of a sanitary pad.

Just about everyone, from a young age, makes up stories, usually to deflect attention from some uncomfortable truth. Deny, deflect, distract. Nothing to see here. Look at the shiny object over there.

We think we’re too sophisticated to fall for the fantasies believed by the rubes of a thousand years ago. But are we any less gullible in believing the lies that fit our view and ignore the facts?

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.  

 

  

 

 

 

 

Lucy Fitch Perkins (1865-1938)

 

 Early Seeding of The Love of Writing

As a child, I could hardly wait to get to the Reading Public Library to get another twins book by Lucy Fitch Perkins. 

Little did I know that she attended the Boston Museum School of Fine Arts just down the street from where I would live as an adult on Wigglesworth Street. My house was part of the Mission Hill Triangle built in 1872. She must have walked by where I would live.

Decades, yes, even more than half a century later, I'd still remember her books. Each were about twins living in different countries and times. 

She whetted my interest in Greek history in the Spartan Twins. I was also intriguided by the American Revolution. Because of her books, my interest was not, is not limited to leaders, war dates, etc. but the lives of ordinary people, like what they ate, wore, did in their free time, problems, society's rules, although I didn't label the later back then.

Perkins produced about one book a year. I learned about other countries, including my shock at foot binding in China. It started a life long desire, often fulfilled, to visit different places in the world.

As a future writer, I wasn't alone. Others were influenced by her. Historian Barbara Tuchman (another favorite of mine) cited her as a beloved childhood author. I just learned that Perkins tried to interview people who had lived in the countries she wrote about, which makes me treasure the memories of curling up with one of her books, even better.

She started to write to supplement family income after the panic of 1893. Once her husband became chief architect for the Chicago Board of Education in Chicago, writing was no longer necessary for income but because she wanted to.

Her first major book, The Dutch Twins, was encouraged  by publisher Edwin Osgood Grover and was the start of a 26 book series. They sold over two million copies, a result that most writers would love and even more amazing for the time she wrote the books.

Many of her books are still available, some on Kindle. Tech meets time travel.  I plan to buy a couple. I couldn't find the biography her daughter wrote. 

Note: In writing this blog, I also feel sorry for the book banning that has become so popular today. Check my website at https://dlnelsonwriter.com.

 

 

Reasons to Read

 

Coming from a reading family, reading was as natural as eating, if not more so.

My grandparents and parents would devour the conservative Boston Herald delivered daily to the house. Books were every where. 

My grandmother would set a timer to 15 minute intervals for her to do whatever she needed to do and then read to me for 15 minutes. I suspect she fudged the time. 

Some of my early favorites were Thorton W. Burgess's animals stories, Jack and Jill Magazine, fairy tales,  The Bobbsey Twins and the series about twin children in different countries, which in hindsight were xenophobic, but created in me a life long wish to live in different countries. I'll do another blog on the writer Lucy Fitch Perkins after this blog.

People, whom I'm friends with, roommates, husbands are all readers. 

My reading is eclectic: the two books I've read in the last week are Jake Tapper/Alex Thompson's Original Sin and Martha Hall Kelly's Martha's Vineyard Beach and Book Club, two books on different ends of reading spectrum.

Original Sin, left me depressed, not because it was badly written, but because it confirmed how badly my birth country was on the path to self destruction. Worse, it confirmed what I always suspected. I love being right, but I so wanted to be wrong.

Martha's Vineyard had been discovered on the table at Geneva's Pages and Sips, an English book store. We'd just finished our scones and tea when I spied it. No way was I leaving without it.

The more I travel, the more I like revisiting places I've been in books: Europe, Syria, Ireland, U.S., Canada and UK, especially Scotland. The locale adds to the story. Some places, I hope to return in reality as well in pages.

My favorite fiction is when the characters in the book move in with me for the two to three days it takes to read a book. They can be of any era as far back as The Cave of the Clan bear books, which my late anthropology friend says is realistic to events in D.C. last year.

Coming from Boston, I knew the Vineyard well and many of the places mentioned, I've visited. I  could almost smell the sea and feel the sand under my feet. What I didn't expect the book to be set in 1942, my birth year. Living in war time with a German sub off the coast, along with rationing was a surprise. 

When I was doing a Ph.D. in creative writing, my reader (it was what they call mentors at the University of Lancaster) hated that I mentioned food. I use food to show character. Someone who wants lentils over steak, is an insight. 

I loved the fruit pies and cookies in this book. I will never read a Louise Penny book when hungry because of all the food from tea in bowls with fresh baked croissants to gourmet meals. 

I never finished the degree, feeling that my reader was destroying everything I was trying to say. He threatened that the book Family Value, my submission for the degree, was unpublishable. He was wrong. It was published. The time spent wasn't a loss. The concept of keeping notes for the book required for the degree, I used later, adapting it to Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel.

So what are reasons to read? I can go into different worlds, some I have been, some I want to go, and some I would never want to go. I can examine history, politics, science. Also economics (less so, but enough to dip my toe into its waters), geography, human motivation, and much more. Reading calls my attention to details; colors, scenery, tastes, smells, feels that makes every day in real life richer. 

 

 

The Fox, the Fawn and the Heron

 

Our Swiss village (pop.2400) looks nothing like the Swiss village stereotype. No streets with Swiss wooden chalets and red geranium window boxes, but it has its own Swissness.

The center, such as it is, covers a Roman villa, discovered a few years back in an archeological dig. has a church and plaza where a farmer's market sets up every Tuesday. The boulangerie/tea room is waiting for a new owner. Two restaurants, one gourmet, one pizza and a couple of shops complete the village center. 

There's farm land galore growing corn, hay and other produce depending on the time of year. A number of almost château-like mansions dot the landscape, although many are hidden behind 10+ foot hedges. The streets are narrow with a plethora of sleeping policemen (speed bumps). There are views of the Alps and Mont Blanc.

Walking Sherlock there's evidence of wildlife. In the spring at the edge of the forest there will be a sign asking people to leash their dogs so new born fawns have a start in life without canine harassment. We need to keep our dog from the dish in the garden where our landlady puts food. There was the night when Sherlock chased the fox.

Lately, a heron stands in the middle of different fields. Sherlock is fascinated. He makes no move to it. He is used to pigeons, doves, small birds, which I can't identify, but that long-legged creature? 

Would there be a children's book in creating a friendship between the fox, fawn, and heron? Each could have a talent that the others might be jealous of. The fox could be a hunter, the heron fly and the fawn knows when he grows up he will have a beautiful set of antlers like his daddy. At they end, they could each be proud of what they could do, the things that make them, them. 

I have too many other writing projects at the moment, but that does not stop me enjoying country life knowing that in 20 minutes, traffic willing, I can be in a major city.  

Visit https://dlnelsonwriter.com 

 

 

 

3 Stories 1 Book

 

For readers who like a combination of history that can connect with modern life. And for anyone who wonders why an author would write the way s/he did.

Story 1: James Holloway lost his young wife. He was frustrated with his older brother who wouldn't let him try out new ideas in the multi-generational family bakery. By chance he runs into an army recruiter, and signs up never dreaming he'll end up in Boston when the American Revolution is brewing.

Story 2: Historian Daphne Andrews marries the British Counsel in Boston. She becomes friends with the wife of the French Counsel which helps her overlook some of her dissatisfaction with her marriage. Together the two women work on a major project about the American Revolution.

Story 3: I interweave how and why I made the decisions I did to include certain scenes in the book. 

My objective was to give a life to one of the unknown soldiers buried at the battleground. The book was written during Covid. Without the internet and National Park Ranger Jim Hollister, I could never have done the research necessary. After it was published we went to Lexington. I left flowers on the grave of the unknown soldier and gave a copy of the book to Jim. The U.S. Park Rangers do an incredible job.

To order: 

https://booksaremagic.net/browse/filter/t/lexington%20anatomy%20of%20a%20novel/k/keyword

https://doylestownbookshop.com/search?q=lexington%2Banatomy%2Bof%2Ba%2Bnovel%2Bd-l%2Bnelson

https://greenapplebooks.com/search?q=lexington%2Banatomy%2Bof%2Ba%2Bnovel%2Bd-l%2Bnelson 

https://www.harvard.com/book/9781733269667 

Adverts as the Brits Call Them

When we are in our Vandoeuvres, Switzerland home, we have access to many more British stations than we do when we are in the South of France. We enjoy the English shows, including mysteries.

Midsomer Murders* is a favorite, almost. There have been 140 programs in the series. Usually there are three murders. Since a majority of the shows have three victims, my husband and I joke that no one would want to live there in the tiny, idyllic village of Causton if there were over 400 murders. Most of the population would be wiped out. Those remaining would be in a constant state of mourning. Even Chicago's 2024 murder rate was only 21. 

The villages, the characters, scenery and the amazing number of festivals for the small community are fun to watch, to put a positive spin on it. 

When I was recovering from cancer after chemo, I often fell asleep somewhere between the second and third murder and my husband had to tell me whodunit the next morning.

ITV often repeats the shows and doesn't necessarily show them in order. Last night's was from Season 4. It wasn't that enjoyable, not because of the program but the number of adverts or pub. Every few lines, or so it seemed there was another advert, many repeated so often it is almost possible to mouth the words along with the announcer. A sample:

• A pretty woman, wrapped in a towel, takes a shower. She leaves the shower still wearing the towel which is dry. Her hair is also dry which maybe why she has a simpering smile.
• A request for money to help poor mistreated donkeys (worthwhile cause)
• A request for money to help mistreated animals, mainly dogs and cats (worthwhile cause)
• An insurance company featuring an opera singer with a curly mustache 
• A funeral plan (not eligible)
• A river cruise (pretty stops)
• Children in Africa with eye problems (sometimes cleft palates)
•  A wheelchair
•  A chair where one can push back
•  A method to buy a car without leaving one's home 

The one advantage to the many interruptions, is that it is possible to:

• Put the evening meal's dishes away
• Get clothes ready for the next day
• Get a snack including making popcorn
• Do misc. chores

I know advertising pays for programming. It feels as if the program is disturbing the pub. It makes me want to switch to Netflix or pick up a book.  

*Midsomer Murders is also available on a French station, but we are lazy -- if we can get English we do. In either case we would use the subtitle feature. Sometimes the English-English is hard to understand.

 

Communication reduced

  

My husband Rick and I were driving into Geneva.

"Flowers?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered. 

We just had had a reduced conversation. What is that? 

It is when two people know the entire story without full explanations or even sentences.

In this case, the day before we had been discussing where we could buy flowers as a gift for someone we would be seeing in the city. We had discuss various places to buy them in terms of quality and convenience of location. When Rick had asked "flowers?" he was nearing the turn we would have to take to get to the place I needed to buy the flowers. He wanted to know before the turn if I still wanted them. 

When people, especially those who live together, often take communication short cuts or have codes. Full explanations aren't necessary.  My favorite example was with a roommate years ago.

Me: Esther called.

RM: Colon or period?

Me: Colon. 

Our other roommate was perplexed. We, however, knew that Esther was on the board of directors where I was communication director. She would phone me regularly whenever she saw something my department put out with a comment on punctuation.  

These short cuts don't always work. One or the other person's mind may be elsewhere when spoken to. If Rick came in after a dog walk and said, "snail" I would assume that there was another one on the patio. Still I would check. The only thing I could guarantee, he wasn't asking for snails as the evening appetizer.

And if there are misunderstandings, it's still a good feeling of being emotionally and informationally close to another human.

Free Write - Whose Prompt?

There was a bit of confusion about who was offering the prompt for our Free Write. Finally it was decided.  Rick's prompt. Even before we started writing there was a discussion on what it was. Rick's Free Write revealed all. 

Rick's Free Write Binky on the Bus

I decided to skip the final joint session of the AI for Good conference because I wanted to catch the No. 8 bus from Palexpo and didn’t want to queue up with dozens of people in the hot sun. Seems I wasn’t the only one.

I hopped aboard about 2 minutes before departure and managed an aisle elevated seat next to an older gentleman in a weathered baseball cap. We exchanged ‘bonjours,’ and he went back to his phone scrolling.

At each of the several stops enroute to Gare Cornavin, more office workers boarded. Didn’t take long to become SRO.

One woman, dressed smartly in a sleeveless navy tunic with military-style gold buttons and a silk scarf, kept having to exit the bus each stop to allow people off, then she’d get back on. Finally, after about the 3rd such drill, she worked her way deeper into the bus, away from the door.

As we approached the station, where my mission was to buy tilleul bread and cinnamon buns, I noticed something on the ledge next to my seatmate. A baby’s binky. Obviously abandoned by a previous rider. I wondered how long before the mother, or the child, noticed the pacifier was gone.

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.  

Julia's Free Write

It had been a very long day – to say the least.

Up at the crack of dawn, even having to wake up their two-year-old: Imagine!

The bags had been packed the day before, but there were always last-minute additions.

They had to dash to catch the bus: oh for the “good ‘ol days” when they had been able to find long-term parking on the street only a couple of blocks from the train station – or even the airport.

But it was all for a good cause – they were off to see her parents – from Spain to Sweden. All by train.

They arrived two days later and exhausted to the bone, finally unpacked.

Only to discover that somewhere along the way their ever-so-active toddler had lost her pacifier.

That first night was not peaceful!

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

D-L's Free Write

What the hell is it?

A penis on a circular skate board?

A big nose, two eyes? No mouth.

The shadow could be a skull.What's it doing on a stair?

Did some kid drop it?

Germs?

Arghhhhhhhhh.

Too many questions.

Only one answer. 

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

 Rick and Sherlock wait for Julia to arrive at Martel Café to start the Tuesday Free Write. Photo by D-L

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

Perspective

 

Facebook reported that my World History teacher had died at age 91. He was only nine years older than I am, but when I was a senior in high school he was one of those adults whose ages seemed to be the same, or at least were until they got wrinkles and gray hair. Then they formed another group of old people.

I had only thought of Mr. Lahood since my 1960 graduation a few times over the decades or not at all.

I had wanted to take World History along with the required U.S. History, a course where each student was assigned a country or subject to follow and report on weekly.

World History had been a disappointment. I remember the teacher as a chubby red head who would fall victim to tears at the harassment of the class. Mr. Lahood replaced him after the first teacher broke down totally. He tried to show us slides of his trip to Greece. Although I loved the slides, the boys especially were so disparaging, that the teacher fled the class to never return.

Looking back, I have great sympathy for the man. He loved his subject, but lacked the ability to transmit it to unappreciative teenagers. He'd have been better off teaching at a university. I imagine his dread each day having to walk into that classroom. I wish I knew what happened to him, and I wish I could apologize.

Mr. Lahood took no prisoners. His classes were under control and interesting. He fulfilled my expectations and then some.

Life was very different then from today. The one semi-run-in I had with him was when he said single mothers turn out delinquent children. He didn't use those words, but that was the gist. My mother was a single mother, and I was anything but a delinquent. I had good grades and a job as a cub reporter for a daily newspaper. My biggest run in with the police was when I was caught parking with my future husband. We learned the best way to park was to go where there was some kind of event and park among the cars of the attendees.

In my class there were only two other single parents for three kids, including twins. My mother had developed her own business, selling women's fashion on a party plan. She also did fashion shows and managed to work just six months a year. She set it up to spend maximum time with my brother and me. 

I argued with him politely. I doubt if I convinced him, but I'll never know how he thought over the next several decades as society changed. 

In 1960 JFK became president despite the fears of my family's Republican friends that he would take orders from the Pope. Mack the Knife and Battle of New Orleans were on the top of the music charts and Castro was in control of Cuba, having replaced Batista. 

I wore lots of petticoats, white bucks and looked forward to going to Merrimack College in the fall. My mother swallowed her dislike for Catholics to make sure I didn't go to one of the Boston colleges and no way was I going to NOT live at home. 

The Facebook posting told of Mr. Lahood's career. He became a guidance counselor and a principal. He taught driver ed. Comments from many of his students showed he was loved and respected. 

Looking back on my high school education, I realize how good it was, how in-depth the subjects were. Now that I've lived a full life, I realize that my teachers, like Mr. Lahood, held full lives outside of school hours. They didn't just disappear when the three o'clock bell rang. I imagine most of them have died. I wish I could thank them for all that they gave me, for seeding the path I would take. 

R.I.P. Mr. Lahood. Your life had meaning.