President Bush talks a lot about protecting Americans from terrorism.
However, there is so much more that Americans need to be protected from than terrorists.
1. Food. The standards and inspection of meat is below what other industrialized countries do. The results of GM foods are not known, but GM foods have gone into the regular diets. The long-term effects aren’t known.
2. Job losses. With outsourcing to other countries Americans are working more, earning less and afraid of complaining because companies can get their labor cheaper elsewhere.
3. Overwork. Americans work more than any other industrialized countries even Japan. Often they need to work two jobs to make ends meet.
4. Illness. No country can protect illness, but with 46 million uninsured for health care the health of the country is at risk. Despite claims that American is number 1 in health care, the World Health Organization rates America 35th. Cuba is 8th. France is 1st.
5. Chemicals. People are surrounded by chemicals with long-term effects not known. What are hair sprays, Teflon, plastics and hundreds of other contaminates doing to us. Europe is beginning to require testing.
6. Medicine. Drugs are no longer properly tested or monitored. Vioxx is not an isolated case. HRT once hailed as an answer for every woman is now being looked at again.
7. Truck drivers. No truck drivers are not rampaging but with the lessening of standards and the methods of free-lance hiring they can now drive to a point where they can present a hazard to themselves and others on the roads.
8. Air pollution. Standards for clean air are being diminished
Pollution. Standards for other pollutants in our ground and in our water are being lessened.
9. Credit. Americans have been so encouraged to spend that their personal finances are the worst in the industrialized world. Their savings have now gone into the negative numbers. One recent article claimed a percentage of all Americans owe more than they make in a year.
10. Being born. CNN just reported that America has the second worse infant mortality rate in the developed world. Latvia is the only country with a worse rate.
11. Child Poverty. Here we are number two again. Mexico is worse
12. Old age. With pensions being reduced, savings almost impossible and Social Security being attacked, will a little old man of 90 be expected to run a steam shovel?
13. The government. Spying on Americans can go beyond terrorism. It can discourage any dissent.
14. Dishonest or irresponsible companies. Since co-operations have the legal rights of people they should also have the responsibilities. Fines for misbehavior need to carry weight. A perfect example is the mining disaster in West Virginia compared to one in Canada which followed stringent standards. In West Virginia, people died. In Canada they lived.
15. Global warming. I can guarantee more horrendous weather this year. I won’t guarantee a terrorist attack although it is possible.
President Bush doesn’t seem to want to protect my friends and family from any of the items listed above which are far more likely to happen them a terrorist coming through
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Monday, May 08, 2006
What's in a name
My daughter Llara blames all her faults on the fact that she was deprived of a Scooby stuffed animal during her childhood. No matter that as an adult she has a small collection of the beasts, she says the damage was done.
Her second laying on of maternal blame is on her name, mainly the double L. Having had a common name I wanted to make sure hers was an original. However, she has had to put up with being called Llama, Clara and Yara. Even when she sends for things that have her name on them they often come back wrong.
An article in the Swiss magazine Femina discusses how names identify us and can almost be a predictor of success. For example if two men with identical credentials named Charles and Robert, Charles (Pronounced Sharl in French) the Charles/Sharl will be more likely to advance up the corporate ladder (there are other factors like their army status but that wasn’t mentioned in the article).
Names were also considered an example of economic/social status. Côme (aristocracy) would never marry Beverly (non aristo), because they wouldn’t move in the same social circles so they would never meet, the article claimed.
Although I was never thrilled with my name, I will be forever grateful to the writer of a film that my mother saw a few nights before I was born. I was to be named Bonnie. The writer had called a cocker spaniel Bonnie. I am so un-Bonnie. My name as well as the name Bonnie are too Anglo to figure in Francophone name research.
Of course there are in-names each year. This year the most popular girl’s name in Switzerland is Sarah with various spellings and Matteo for boys. The popular of Sarah is attributed to the popularity of Sex and the City. Lara with one L was number 4. As my daughter suggested it is probably because of the Belgian singer Lara Fabian.
Her second laying on of maternal blame is on her name, mainly the double L. Having had a common name I wanted to make sure hers was an original. However, she has had to put up with being called Llama, Clara and Yara. Even when she sends for things that have her name on them they often come back wrong.
An article in the Swiss magazine Femina discusses how names identify us and can almost be a predictor of success. For example if two men with identical credentials named Charles and Robert, Charles (Pronounced Sharl in French) the Charles/Sharl will be more likely to advance up the corporate ladder (there are other factors like their army status but that wasn’t mentioned in the article).
Names were also considered an example of economic/social status. Côme (aristocracy) would never marry Beverly (non aristo), because they wouldn’t move in the same social circles so they would never meet, the article claimed.
Although I was never thrilled with my name, I will be forever grateful to the writer of a film that my mother saw a few nights before I was born. I was to be named Bonnie. The writer had called a cocker spaniel Bonnie. I am so un-Bonnie. My name as well as the name Bonnie are too Anglo to figure in Francophone name research.
Of course there are in-names each year. This year the most popular girl’s name in Switzerland is Sarah with various spellings and Matteo for boys. The popular of Sarah is attributed to the popularity of Sex and the City. Lara with one L was number 4. As my daughter suggested it is probably because of the Belgian singer Lara Fabian.
Men and laundry
In Neuchâtel there is a course for men on how to do laundry. Twenty men attended. They were asked why they wanted to do this.
Philippe, 41, says women learned how to do laundry from their mothers. Men didn’t.
Gilles and Claude, 65 and 73, never did a load of laundry in their lives nor wanted to. However when Gilles was asked to take things out of the dryer he was confused. He wanted to know how to do it. Claude thought he should learn in case… He didn’t say in case for what.
Fifty-five year old François wanted to learn how to do laundry in case his wife was in an accident.
It has always amazed me that any man capable of earning a living sometimes in highly complicated fields, can’t run household machinery or even manage to put a towel and his underwear in a basket.
Philippe, 41, says women learned how to do laundry from their mothers. Men didn’t.
Gilles and Claude, 65 and 73, never did a load of laundry in their lives nor wanted to. However when Gilles was asked to take things out of the dryer he was confused. He wanted to know how to do it. Claude thought he should learn in case… He didn’t say in case for what.
Fifty-five year old François wanted to learn how to do laundry in case his wife was in an accident.
It has always amazed me that any man capable of earning a living sometimes in highly complicated fields, can’t run household machinery or even manage to put a towel and his underwear in a basket.
A fish story
One of my more stupid thoughts as I was moving to Switzerland almost 16 years ago was how much I would miss fish. With major lakes scattered around the country, finding fresh fish is NOT a problem.
One of the national dishes is filet des perches, with several of the little critters laid out a plate. It is possible to get them fried, poached, cooked in butter, or done with various sauces. Tons are brought out of the lakes each year and grace the menus of most good restaurants. One of my favourites is in walking distance of the house and the other is only a couple of bus stops away.
However, this is May. No perch can be caught. They are busy making babies. I wonder if they breathe a sigh of relief as they go about their reproduction. Do they say to their dates, “Hey, let’s swim to Yvoire. No nets for the month.”
Regardless, I wish them fertility.
One of the national dishes is filet des perches, with several of the little critters laid out a plate. It is possible to get them fried, poached, cooked in butter, or done with various sauces. Tons are brought out of the lakes each year and grace the menus of most good restaurants. One of my favourites is in walking distance of the house and the other is only a couple of bus stops away.
However, this is May. No perch can be caught. They are busy making babies. I wonder if they breathe a sigh of relief as they go about their reproduction. Do they say to their dates, “Hey, let’s swim to Yvoire. No nets for the month.”
Regardless, I wish them fertility.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
T-shirt politics
In between the American Library Spring Book sale and the Indian Festival in my old commune I had time to kill so I settled down in my beige favorite leather chair in a corner. The library is small, but has more reading matter than I could possibly keep up with. The staff is friendly and going there is almost like a visit to a well-loved relative.
“Oh, I love your shirt,” I heard the librarian say.
“It’s great,” the other volunteer on the desk said.
I heard other comments about it from the stacks.
Then he came by and I saw what they were talking about it.
It said, “Don’t blame me, I voted for Kerry.” I added my appreciation of it.
This is the new version of the popular bumpersticker during Watergate “Don’t blame me I’m from Massachsuetts” the only state NOT to vote for Nixon.
It makes me wish that Gore had been allowed to take office. There would be far less national debt, there would be more concern over the environment and over 2000 American soldiers would be alive and many more not traumatized or damaged from the violence they have had to wrought.
Also, if Gore had been president the man wouldn't need his T-shirt.
“Oh, I love your shirt,” I heard the librarian say.
“It’s great,” the other volunteer on the desk said.
I heard other comments about it from the stacks.
Then he came by and I saw what they were talking about it.
It said, “Don’t blame me, I voted for Kerry.” I added my appreciation of it.
This is the new version of the popular bumpersticker during Watergate “Don’t blame me I’m from Massachsuetts” the only state NOT to vote for Nixon.
It makes me wish that Gore had been allowed to take office. There would be far less national debt, there would be more concern over the environment and over 2000 American soldiers would be alive and many more not traumatized or damaged from the violence they have had to wrought.
Also, if Gore had been president the man wouldn't need his T-shirt.
Colour coordination and eye rolls
If gold medals were given for eye rolling, my daughter would take the gold, especially if the contest were given for any discussion of colour. Llara accompanies the eye rolls with the words “Mother, Mother, Mother.”
Colours bombard me and I see patterns and shades that other people ignore. Therefore, I can match a miniscule stripe in my couch to five cross stitches in The Lady and The Unicorn tapestry Llara did for me.
I half wished she were on the Zürich-Genève train with me as I sat in the Elvintino dining car to have some Ceylon stick tea(www.sticktea.ch/presse.htm for a photo) and a croissant. As I took out my 10 CHF note, I noticed that part of the patterned yellow squares was exactly the same shade as the table cloth. I even folded the bill to hold them together to allow for the difference in material, paper and cloth. The yellow was a soft lemon with white and a touch of beige added. In my imagination, she was rolling her eyes across the ocean.
The waitress slammed my tea in front of me sloshing water out of the clear glass mug. The croissants were in a wicker basket saving her the work of having to give me one. She made no offer of butter or jam. I may be mistaken, but I thought I heard a growl.
A man in his late twenties or maybe early thirties, his hair slicked back, carrying a laptop asked me if any of the other three places at the table were frei. Ja, they were. I only chose a four-seater table because all the other eight tables were occupied.
The waitress deigned to take his order and slammed his coffee down. The meat on his meat and cheese breakfast platter almost did a Mexican bean jump when she put those down. He thanked her. She ignored him.
His eye roll would have rivaled even my daughter’s best. Maybe she had a bad morning, I said. He rolled his eyes again as he nodded. For a second I wondered what would happen if they had children. Eye left-up-right-down,left-up-right-down for eternity.
Colours bombard me and I see patterns and shades that other people ignore. Therefore, I can match a miniscule stripe in my couch to five cross stitches in The Lady and The Unicorn tapestry Llara did for me.
I half wished she were on the Zürich-Genève train with me as I sat in the Elvintino dining car to have some Ceylon stick tea(www.sticktea.ch/presse.htm for a photo) and a croissant. As I took out my 10 CHF note, I noticed that part of the patterned yellow squares was exactly the same shade as the table cloth. I even folded the bill to hold them together to allow for the difference in material, paper and cloth. The yellow was a soft lemon with white and a touch of beige added. In my imagination, she was rolling her eyes across the ocean.
The waitress slammed my tea in front of me sloshing water out of the clear glass mug. The croissants were in a wicker basket saving her the work of having to give me one. She made no offer of butter or jam. I may be mistaken, but I thought I heard a growl.
A man in his late twenties or maybe early thirties, his hair slicked back, carrying a laptop asked me if any of the other three places at the table were frei. Ja, they were. I only chose a four-seater table because all the other eight tables were occupied.
The waitress deigned to take his order and slammed his coffee down. The meat on his meat and cheese breakfast platter almost did a Mexican bean jump when she put those down. He thanked her. She ignored him.
His eye roll would have rivaled even my daughter’s best. Maybe she had a bad morning, I said. He rolled his eyes again as he nodded. For a second I wondered what would happen if they had children. Eye left-up-right-down,left-up-right-down for eternity.
Friday, May 05, 2006
War Stories
I understand why veterans like to get together to talk about old times. We were three former colleagues and current friends who don’t see each other that much and we sat and had a meal of gaspacho, veal with a tuna caper sauce, and misc. desserts each more evilly caloricfic than the one before. And we hashed over our memories of an over-controlling boss intermingled with life that has gone on in the thirteen years since we worked together.
The normal “do you remembers” abounded with appropriate “oh yeahs” that would not have been out of place in a gospel service.
Despite the bad working conditions each of us have gone on to do what we want to do and if nothing else we all were able to move to Switzerland because of those days. O H Y E A H !
The normal “do you remembers” abounded with appropriate “oh yeahs” that would not have been out of place in a gospel service.
Despite the bad working conditions each of us have gone on to do what we want to do and if nothing else we all were able to move to Switzerland because of those days. O H Y E A H !
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
I lost Einstein
It is hard to understand how a St. Bernard puppy that comes to my hip can be misplaced, but I did it. This is a good size apartment in the mountains, three bedrooms, double living room and several balconies.
I was writing but periodically between paragraphs and P-runs I would check on the dog, make sure he had a cuddle or two.
It was cuddle time but the dog wasn’t on his rug. I called. Nothing.
I checked the bedrooms. Nothing.
I checked the balconies. Nothing.
I checked the kitchen and dining room. Nothing
I looked in the two bathrooms. Nothing.
He did not respond to my increasingly frantic calls.
Since he isn’t a jumper I wasn’t worried he had jumped over the balcony. He is a lover not a climber.
The front door was closed, but when we came in from the last P-run the phone had rung. Had I left the door open and he had left and then the door closed by a breeze.
Telling his mother who loves him to a point that if she lit candles and incense by his mat I wouldn’t be surprised was not something I wanted to do. Shooting myself, going on the lam for the rest of my life would be preferable.
He wasn’t in the hall. I ran down the five flights of stairs. The front door was open. No Einstein.
A group of pre-teen age boys on their Easter break were lounging around on mopeds.
“Haben Sie Ein Grossen Hundchen sehen,” I asked trying to remember my more than rusty German as well as the German name for St. Bernard. It is the national dog afterall. I held my hand to my hip. They guessed the breed. “Er ist nicht mein. Er ist ein baby." They took off in different directions yelling, “Einstein.” They made bigger and bigger circles. Nothing.
He is such a beautiful dog visions of dognappers danced in my head.
I ran to the biggest road but thank God, there was no body.
I walked back upstairs waiting to make the dreaded call to my friend, who I suspected was about to be my ex-friend if I was allowed to live. I told one of the boys in German and French (we determined that as a backup language) that I was on the top floor if they found Einstein.
I walked back into the apartment. I glanced at the bathroom. In the doorway Einstein gave me, “so where were you” look.
Where was he?
Later he went missing again. This time I found him hiding behind the bathroom door.
As I write this up, he is asleep half in the sun and half in the shade. It is a beautiful sight as is the fact, that I don’t have to hide out and bare the guilt of losing a good friend’s beloved pet.
I was writing but periodically between paragraphs and P-runs I would check on the dog, make sure he had a cuddle or two.
It was cuddle time but the dog wasn’t on his rug. I called. Nothing.
I checked the bedrooms. Nothing.
I checked the balconies. Nothing.
I checked the kitchen and dining room. Nothing
I looked in the two bathrooms. Nothing.
He did not respond to my increasingly frantic calls.
Since he isn’t a jumper I wasn’t worried he had jumped over the balcony. He is a lover not a climber.
The front door was closed, but when we came in from the last P-run the phone had rung. Had I left the door open and he had left and then the door closed by a breeze.
Telling his mother who loves him to a point that if she lit candles and incense by his mat I wouldn’t be surprised was not something I wanted to do. Shooting myself, going on the lam for the rest of my life would be preferable.
He wasn’t in the hall. I ran down the five flights of stairs. The front door was open. No Einstein.
A group of pre-teen age boys on their Easter break were lounging around on mopeds.
“Haben Sie Ein Grossen Hundchen sehen,” I asked trying to remember my more than rusty German as well as the German name for St. Bernard. It is the national dog afterall. I held my hand to my hip. They guessed the breed. “Er ist nicht mein. Er ist ein baby." They took off in different directions yelling, “Einstein.” They made bigger and bigger circles. Nothing.
He is such a beautiful dog visions of dognappers danced in my head.
I ran to the biggest road but thank God, there was no body.
I walked back upstairs waiting to make the dreaded call to my friend, who I suspected was about to be my ex-friend if I was allowed to live. I told one of the boys in German and French (we determined that as a backup language) that I was on the top floor if they found Einstein.
I walked back into the apartment. I glanced at the bathroom. In the doorway Einstein gave me, “so where were you” look.
Where was he?
Later he went missing again. This time I found him hiding behind the bathroom door.
As I write this up, he is asleep half in the sun and half in the shade. It is a beautiful sight as is the fact, that I don’t have to hide out and bare the guilt of losing a good friend’s beloved pet.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
The toilet installer spoke Italian and German. I speak French and English and much of my German is buried deep in my database.
However when he finished, he gave me a guided tour of the new electronic toilet and I understood, Ich verstehe.
1. It senses when you sit down and turns itself on.
2. There are controls both by the toilet and it has a remote.
3. A special button flushes it.
4. Another button causes a metal hose to descend to a strategic location and spurts water.
5. Temperature, flow and pulse of the washing device can all be controlled by buttons.
6. Seats go down automatically.
Now I have to admit I miss the hose for washing that goes with each Syrian toilet I used. And I do like the water conservation of many toilets here that you can choose either a big or little flush.
I’ve heard people refer to toilets as The Throne, but this throne would impress even the most imperious of monarchs.
However when he finished, he gave me a guided tour of the new electronic toilet and I understood, Ich verstehe.
1. It senses when you sit down and turns itself on.
2. There are controls both by the toilet and it has a remote.
3. A special button flushes it.
4. Another button causes a metal hose to descend to a strategic location and spurts water.
5. Temperature, flow and pulse of the washing device can all be controlled by buttons.
6. Seats go down automatically.
Now I have to admit I miss the hose for washing that goes with each Syrian toilet I used. And I do like the water conservation of many toilets here that you can choose either a big or little flush.
I’ve heard people refer to toilets as The Throne, but this throne would impress even the most imperious of monarchs.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Voting in Switzerland
Just got back from a Radical (centre right fiscal, centre left social) Party meeting to which all foreign voters were invited to introduce them to their party in particular. There are seven main political parties here.
In Swiss Romand (French speaking section) foreigners can vote in local but not Federal elections. We represent 33% of the canton and 48% of the city.
The speakers kept saying giving us the (foreigners) right to vote wasn't a gift, we are giving Switzerland a gift with our new ideas and contributions to the society and culture.
I am still hoping my last and hopefully final interview next month for my citizenship which will give me the right to vote at all levels. The right to vote is sacred, a viewpoint passed down to me not only from my family but from my Boston neighbour Kelley who made sure you voted each election or she wanted to know why and it better be good.
One man from Ethiopia who has been here since the 1960s stood up and said almost in tears that he has never had a chance to vote in his life and he was so appreciative of the right. He had tears running down his cheeks.
People died so I could vote. People died so I could live in a democracy. I owe them to take my responsibilities of keeping that democracy alive my vote.
In Swiss Romand (French speaking section) foreigners can vote in local but not Federal elections. We represent 33% of the canton and 48% of the city.
The speakers kept saying giving us the (foreigners) right to vote wasn't a gift, we are giving Switzerland a gift with our new ideas and contributions to the society and culture.
I am still hoping my last and hopefully final interview next month for my citizenship which will give me the right to vote at all levels. The right to vote is sacred, a viewpoint passed down to me not only from my family but from my Boston neighbour Kelley who made sure you voted each election or she wanted to know why and it better be good.
One man from Ethiopia who has been here since the 1960s stood up and said almost in tears that he has never had a chance to vote in his life and he was so appreciative of the right. He had tears running down his cheeks.
People died so I could vote. People died so I could live in a democracy. I owe them to take my responsibilities of keeping that democracy alive my vote.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Jesus Loves me
Jesus Loves Me...a song we all sang. Against it are beautiful pictures. Take a look and be proud.
http://peacetakescourage.cf.huffingtonpost.com/animations/wwjd.html
http://peacetakescourage.cf.huffingtonpost.com/animations/wwjd.html
Snails, sun, snow drops, snow at St. Cergue
“I think the picnic is still worth it,” my writer friend said. She is the mother of my two favourite little girls ages three and five. I agreed despite the peek-a-boo sun and she picked me up shortly after.
The drive up the mountain to St. Cergue is twisty. We were surprised that patches of snow still existed and even more surprised that in between them snow drops both purple and white bloomed. (http://www.st-cergue.ch/photos.htm only take away about 85% of the snow and put in grass and flowers). The temperature left us comfortable with jackets, although both little girls operating on a more powerful heating system shed theirs.
We crossed a stone wall that would have done Robert Frost proud and settled on our blue quilted blanket for our chicken in tortilla sandwiches. There was lots of healthy cheese, tomatoes, juice and cukes, but a less healthy chocolate Easter bunny saw his last moments.
The area was deserted with clumps of pine and we walked along the wall to find all kinds of treasures from walking sticks to snail shells and even an earring in the shape of a violet was put into a pocket to be taken home for washing. They discovered things I would never have and their enjoyment was boundless and contagious.
The drive up the mountain to St. Cergue is twisty. We were surprised that patches of snow still existed and even more surprised that in between them snow drops both purple and white bloomed. (http://www.st-cergue.ch/photos.htm only take away about 85% of the snow and put in grass and flowers). The temperature left us comfortable with jackets, although both little girls operating on a more powerful heating system shed theirs.
We crossed a stone wall that would have done Robert Frost proud and settled on our blue quilted blanket for our chicken in tortilla sandwiches. There was lots of healthy cheese, tomatoes, juice and cukes, but a less healthy chocolate Easter bunny saw his last moments.
The area was deserted with clumps of pine and we walked along the wall to find all kinds of treasures from walking sticks to snail shells and even an earring in the shape of a violet was put into a pocket to be taken home for washing. They discovered things I would never have and their enjoyment was boundless and contagious.
I dare you to watch this
It is painful to watch the clip - An Iraqi writhes on the ground. Bullets are fired. He is still. “We got him.” Cheers and yahoo. Pure glee. Then a clean faced youth that should be taking his girl to a movie says, “That was awesome, let’s do it again.”
Watch it if you dare then ask yourself if you are doing everything possible to stop the war for the sake of our troops whose souls we are killing never mind the Iraqis who never did anything us.
It’s the Dahr Jamil’s article subject to the penalty of death.
http://www.truthout.org/docs_2006/042506A.shtml
Watch it if you dare then ask yourself if you are doing everything possible to stop the war for the sake of our troops whose souls we are killing never mind the Iraqis who never did anything us.
It’s the Dahr Jamil’s article subject to the penalty of death.
http://www.truthout.org/docs_2006/042506A.shtml
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Katie Curic is traumatized
One of the great things about the internet is that I can always listen to videos of programs like Meet the Press.
There are others. Yesterday I listened to one from the Today show where Katie Curic talked about being traumatized by trying on bathing suits. This is the same woman that Dan Rather said must show seriousness about news.
Anyone who is traumatized by a bathing suit probably should get a good dictionary and look up the word traumatized. A person who has had their house bombed in Iraq is traumatized. Probably the victims of genocide who have survived in Sudan are traumatized. The Pakistanis still living in tents months after the earthquake are traumatized.
If Katie is traumatized at a bathing suit, I suggest she not anchor the news and they get a real reporter in who understands the real world’s problems.
There are others. Yesterday I listened to one from the Today show where Katie Curic talked about being traumatized by trying on bathing suits. This is the same woman that Dan Rather said must show seriousness about news.
Anyone who is traumatized by a bathing suit probably should get a good dictionary and look up the word traumatized. A person who has had their house bombed in Iraq is traumatized. Probably the victims of genocide who have survived in Sudan are traumatized. The Pakistanis still living in tents months after the earthquake are traumatized.
If Katie is traumatized at a bathing suit, I suggest she not anchor the news and they get a real reporter in who understands the real world’s problems.
More about the Dissipated Santa Claus
Scott made dinner last night, roesti, the Swiss version of homefries. As we listened to music, ate the talked, I mentioned the Dissipated Santa Clause street person I’ve written about. He knew of him, and said he thinks he is a former professor of philosophy who has deliberately chosen this as a life style. It explains the reading. I am tempted to talk with DSC, but I am not sure I wouldn’t be intruditing. On verra. We will see.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Back to may favourite marché
For almost 11 years at least two Saturdays a month found me out of the house early to go the Ferney-Voltaire outdoor marché. Marché shopping is fun where grocery shopping is boring. So much better to taste a bit of cheese, talk about which is the best honey for a cake than to drop stuff into a shopping cart with nary a human communication in the process.
People who did not realise that I lived on the Swiss side of the Swiss-French border but just four short bus stops from the French border didn’t quite understand if I said, I was going to France for coffee, dinner, leave my dry cleaning whatever. However, now I live the other side of the lake and dropping into the marché isn’t as convenient as it was before.
This past Saturday I was meeting a friend, who lives in Ferney. What a delight to march through the marché again. It takes about an hour to wander through looking at all the out door stalls and tables, some with gay awnings and coloured umbrellas that surround the statue of Voltaire who peers down in metal britches, stockings and buckled shoes. http://www.ferney-voltaire.net/en/visites.php
The first block is mainly clothes, jewellery, soaps, cloth, pocketbooks. Then come several blocks of all kinds of food from roasting chickens, to bread that was in the oven hours before. In Saturday’s spring sunshine, the smell of strawberries wafted out. A man showed me his spring onions and said they had been picked last night after dinner.
All French towns have marchés one or two mornings a week, run by farmers, artisians, and small business people, but this one will always be my favourite.
My daughter when she lived in Geneva often went with me and one day, she started to laugh as we crossed the last street before the roads were blocked for the marché. “What is it?” I asked.
“We’re in France, right?”
I nodded.
“Look at the license plates.”
I did. Geneva, Geneva, Geneva, France, Geneva, Geneva, Geneva, France, France, Geneva Geneva, Geneva, Geneva, Geneva, France, Geneva, Geneva, Geneva, France, Geneva Geneva, Geneva, France, Geneva.
And this day I was reminded of it because as I wandered around, I ran into old colleagues and other people I know from the other side of the border.
People who did not realise that I lived on the Swiss side of the Swiss-French border but just four short bus stops from the French border didn’t quite understand if I said, I was going to France for coffee, dinner, leave my dry cleaning whatever. However, now I live the other side of the lake and dropping into the marché isn’t as convenient as it was before.
This past Saturday I was meeting a friend, who lives in Ferney. What a delight to march through the marché again. It takes about an hour to wander through looking at all the out door stalls and tables, some with gay awnings and coloured umbrellas that surround the statue of Voltaire who peers down in metal britches, stockings and buckled shoes. http://www.ferney-voltaire.net/en/visites.php
The first block is mainly clothes, jewellery, soaps, cloth, pocketbooks. Then come several blocks of all kinds of food from roasting chickens, to bread that was in the oven hours before. In Saturday’s spring sunshine, the smell of strawberries wafted out. A man showed me his spring onions and said they had been picked last night after dinner.
All French towns have marchés one or two mornings a week, run by farmers, artisians, and small business people, but this one will always be my favourite.
My daughter when she lived in Geneva often went with me and one day, she started to laugh as we crossed the last street before the roads were blocked for the marché. “What is it?” I asked.
“We’re in France, right?”
I nodded.
“Look at the license plates.”
I did. Geneva, Geneva, Geneva, France, Geneva, Geneva, Geneva, France, France, Geneva Geneva, Geneva, Geneva, Geneva, France, Geneva, Geneva, Geneva, France, Geneva Geneva, Geneva, France, Geneva.
And this day I was reminded of it because as I wandered around, I ran into old colleagues and other people I know from the other side of the border.
The First Picnic of the Season
The day was such that staying inside would have been a crime. Flowers were in abundance, their colours translucent int he sun. My girlfriend and I decided the only thing to do was to go on a picnic. Having stocked up on pâté, cheese, olive bread, artichoke-olive-sun-dried-tomato-celery-salad and grapes we headed off to find the for the perfect spot.
A small river runs through two small villages on the French/Geneva border and we walked the trail along the banks until we found a place for feast and blanket. The river was filled with melted snow and it sang to us as it foamed and rushed over rocks.
The sun, filtering through the trees, warmed us.
My friend will be in a play and we went over her lines. She is a good actress. Every now and then hikers would come by and a couple in hip boots and with fishing poles tried their luck in the river.
Water in rivers has a certain smell that cleans the mind as well as the nostrils.
This spring, maybe because it arrived both late and suddenly, seems worth some pagan celebration. I suppose we could have danced naked along the river bank, but we didn't. The image is better without bare feet stumbling on sticks and stones.
A small river runs through two small villages on the French/Geneva border and we walked the trail along the banks until we found a place for feast and blanket. The river was filled with melted snow and it sang to us as it foamed and rushed over rocks.
The sun, filtering through the trees, warmed us.
My friend will be in a play and we went over her lines. She is a good actress. Every now and then hikers would come by and a couple in hip boots and with fishing poles tried their luck in the river.
Water in rivers has a certain smell that cleans the mind as well as the nostrils.
This spring, maybe because it arrived both late and suddenly, seems worth some pagan celebration. I suppose we could have danced naked along the river bank, but we didn't. The image is better without bare feet stumbling on sticks and stones.
La Doublure
I love French movies. The theatre at Ferney-Voltaire was showing La Doublure (http://www.allocine.fr/film/video.html?cfilm=59303 for a clip) has all the elements of an unfaithful husband, a clever wife and cleverer mistress. The director is the same man who did Huit Femmes, which to me was one of the best French films in years. http://www.allocine.fr/film/video.html?cfilm=59303 for a clip. If you have problems try googling for the film title and allocine
If that wasn’t enough moving, we then went home and watched the video of Snow Falling on Ceders. No complaints. Like you can never have too much chocolate (unless you are a dog named Vixen or Albert) you can never watch too many movies.
If that wasn’t enough moving, we then went home and watched the video of Snow Falling on Ceders. No complaints. Like you can never have too much chocolate (unless you are a dog named Vixen or Albert) you can never watch too many movies.
Accents
Okay, when I speak French, there is no doubt as my daughter would say, my accent sucks out loud, but I get through.
Friday night I spent with my Indian friends. The couple was going to a dance recital in Bern and although their teenage daughter is capable of being left alone, they knew they would be more relaxed if an adult were in the house.
I arrived in the late afternoon and was greeted by a gaggle of teenage girls preparing for a party all who go to the International School. I have long been used to the fact that Nandita’s chums can be from any country and over the years I’ve met, Latvian, Indian, Korean, French, etc. little girls. Now they aren’t quite so little.
The next day Nandita said two of the girls were American. “They knew you were from Boston,” she told me. I had said one sentence something about not wanting to disturb them. I wasn’t surprised. If my French accent is terrible, I do a great Bostonian accent and that’s without trying.
Friday night I spent with my Indian friends. The couple was going to a dance recital in Bern and although their teenage daughter is capable of being left alone, they knew they would be more relaxed if an adult were in the house.
I arrived in the late afternoon and was greeted by a gaggle of teenage girls preparing for a party all who go to the International School. I have long been used to the fact that Nandita’s chums can be from any country and over the years I’ve met, Latvian, Indian, Korean, French, etc. little girls. Now they aren’t quite so little.
The next day Nandita said two of the girls were American. “They knew you were from Boston,” she told me. I had said one sentence something about not wanting to disturb them. I wasn’t surprised. If my French accent is terrible, I do a great Bostonian accent and that’s without trying.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Where my ancestor walked
A while back looking for my missing brother on the web I came across my father's and step mom’s names to find the complete history of the family going back to their settlement in the early 1600s in Canada http://free.hostdepartment.com/a/aclinks/fam00105.htm
The Boudreaus (Boudrots) arrived on the continent a few years before my mother’s (Stockbridges) in 1636, which is a shame that my mother didn’t know. My mother thought of my father’s family as foreigners and newcomers although they didn’t get down to New England until the Depression and Boudreau was definitely an unWASP name for our New England Yankee community.
Then tonight while staying with the Indian family to be there for Nandita when she herself got home from a party, I started going back though the list until I found the village in France where the Boudreaus migrated from.
Lordy, Lordy, it has a website: http://www.ville-larochelle.fr/ Sometime before the end of the year, I think I’ll go and have a look-see. The writer part of me wonders what Michel Boudrot would have thought when he sailed off for the new world to know that almost 400 years later his descendent would walk down the same streets he walked down, albeit with a bit more traffic
The Boudreaus (Boudrots) arrived on the continent a few years before my mother’s (Stockbridges) in 1636, which is a shame that my mother didn’t know. My mother thought of my father’s family as foreigners and newcomers although they didn’t get down to New England until the Depression and Boudreau was definitely an unWASP name for our New England Yankee community.
Then tonight while staying with the Indian family to be there for Nandita when she herself got home from a party, I started going back though the list until I found the village in France where the Boudreaus migrated from.
Lordy, Lordy, it has a website: http://www.ville-larochelle.fr/ Sometime before the end of the year, I think I’ll go and have a look-see. The writer part of me wonders what Michel Boudrot would have thought when he sailed off for the new world to know that almost 400 years later his descendent would walk down the same streets he walked down, albeit with a bit more traffic
Eating outdoors
The red table cloths matched the tulips that grew from the cement planters surrounding the Auberge’s terrace. Leaves on the ivy against the stucco walls were just beginning to bloom.
My writer friend and I chose a grilled fish that was brought on a copper plate. The owner deftly filleted the fish, filled our plates with rice and fennel placed in stripes and served it with a fresh pepper and coriander sauce.
The sunshine was too refreshing after the winter to hide under any umbrella. None of the other diners wanted shade either. We couldn’t imagine their conversation was as much fun as ours as we delved into conflict in writing and what should and shouldn’t be in first drafts, but that was probably because we are so passionate about our subject. Still I hope they were as passionate about theirs.
Dessert was seven different ice creams all made by the restaurant, served on a ceramic painter’s pallet with each ball served in an indentation.
This was the first outdoor meal of the season after a winter that went on too long.
My writer friend and I chose a grilled fish that was brought on a copper plate. The owner deftly filleted the fish, filled our plates with rice and fennel placed in stripes and served it with a fresh pepper and coriander sauce.
The sunshine was too refreshing after the winter to hide under any umbrella. None of the other diners wanted shade either. We couldn’t imagine their conversation was as much fun as ours as we delved into conflict in writing and what should and shouldn’t be in first drafts, but that was probably because we are so passionate about our subject. Still I hope they were as passionate about theirs.
Dessert was seven different ice creams all made by the restaurant, served on a ceramic painter’s pallet with each ball served in an indentation.
This was the first outdoor meal of the season after a winter that went on too long.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Accidental Cinema
I didn’t mean to go to the movies. After three days of self-imposed exile (everyone was gone out of the house) and with a writing schedule that I deliberately slowed to nothing, I was using the time just to be… to wake up and feel the sheets under me, to listen to the birds sing and Munchkin clack at them.
Today, I decided I needed Texmex and headed to town, the first day a jacket wasn’t necessary. The colors were breathtaking from the yellow forsythia and dandelions to the purple pink cherry blossoms.
The dissipated Santa Claus was in his usual place, surrounded by his shopping carts, sans his girlfriend, but engrossed in a book.
At the bus change I saw Nigel, who used to work for me, then took over my team while I went onto other projects. He later quit because he didn’t want to work for a while, a man I can respect for taking time to be. However, he was dressed in a suit, shirt and tie and admitted sadly he was working again.
All the cafés and restaurants had their tables filled with people in shirt sleeves.
The Texmex was as good as I thought it would be and as I wandered back to walk by the lake I saw the movie at Chantepoulet was The Secret Life of Words. No writer can resist a title like that, especially with Tim Robbins in the starring role. The film was starting in minutes.
This is what film making is all about. Excellent, Excellent, Excellent…
Today, I decided I needed Texmex and headed to town, the first day a jacket wasn’t necessary. The colors were breathtaking from the yellow forsythia and dandelions to the purple pink cherry blossoms.
The dissipated Santa Claus was in his usual place, surrounded by his shopping carts, sans his girlfriend, but engrossed in a book.
At the bus change I saw Nigel, who used to work for me, then took over my team while I went onto other projects. He later quit because he didn’t want to work for a while, a man I can respect for taking time to be. However, he was dressed in a suit, shirt and tie and admitted sadly he was working again.
All the cafés and restaurants had their tables filled with people in shirt sleeves.
The Texmex was as good as I thought it would be and as I wandered back to walk by the lake I saw the movie at Chantepoulet was The Secret Life of Words. No writer can resist a title like that, especially with Tim Robbins in the starring role. The film was starting in minutes.
This is what film making is all about. Excellent, Excellent, Excellent…
Monday, April 17, 2006
The walk
Munchkin is the world’s best barometer. On a bad day she centers herself on my bed giving out illness-producing looks to anyone who would dare suggest she move. On a good day she can’t get out fast enough to consort with Goose, the neighbor’s cat, and keep the garden free from footed and winged critters.
Today her purr woke me and she did that two-legged walk she has so perfected to lead me to the door.
Her accuracy was right on, and I decided to take advantage of this holiday and do something I’d been meaning to do since I moved almost two years ago – walk from Corsier to Geneva.
Walking allows you to see what isn’t visible from a bus. A pansy face is more intense up close. A toad is only visible when walking, but it also conjured up memories of my daughter at 18 months when after work each night she wanted to go to a place that toads gathered, a reptilian conference so to speak. Llara would hunker down and the toads of all ages held her attention for up to 15 minutes. I learned more about toads that summer than before or after.
Today it was ladybirds/bugs that littered the sidewalk and I was careful to step around. Two seemed attached like a double lorry as they ran in tandem. I wondered if it were some kind of mating ritual.
One of the mansions along the lake, turned out to be four apartments probably broken up a while back. Up close I could examine the details of the villas and chalets that the bus rushed by.
And I could smell the water as the boats bobbed on the surface.
The walk took about an hour and a half and I did catch the bus back. Coming back to the house Munchkin was no where to be seen. She obviously was not ready to let go of being outside.
Today her purr woke me and she did that two-legged walk she has so perfected to lead me to the door.
Her accuracy was right on, and I decided to take advantage of this holiday and do something I’d been meaning to do since I moved almost two years ago – walk from Corsier to Geneva.
Walking allows you to see what isn’t visible from a bus. A pansy face is more intense up close. A toad is only visible when walking, but it also conjured up memories of my daughter at 18 months when after work each night she wanted to go to a place that toads gathered, a reptilian conference so to speak. Llara would hunker down and the toads of all ages held her attention for up to 15 minutes. I learned more about toads that summer than before or after.
Today it was ladybirds/bugs that littered the sidewalk and I was careful to step around. Two seemed attached like a double lorry as they ran in tandem. I wondered if it were some kind of mating ritual.
One of the mansions along the lake, turned out to be four apartments probably broken up a while back. Up close I could examine the details of the villas and chalets that the bus rushed by.
And I could smell the water as the boats bobbed on the surface.
The walk took about an hour and a half and I did catch the bus back. Coming back to the house Munchkin was no where to be seen. She obviously was not ready to let go of being outside.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Easter surprise
My Easter surprise had nothing to do with eggs but with the telephone. After a wonderful dinner in Payerne, I headed home and before my coat was off the phone began to ring. Each call was nicer then the one before, old friends and family wishing me a nice Easter. However the absolutely best was from Czech and my old neighbors and friends.
So often in Geneva people do not bother to make friends with people because so many are transient. Some feel why put in the work if people will jsut disappear after three, four, ten years.
On the bus last night I heard two people tell their friends they were moving back to Norway (their common language was accented English) after being here over 25 years was a reminder of the ever changing nature of the human climate.
My theory is that is better to have friends for three or four years then miss them rather than not knowing them at all. But just because people move, doesn’t mean a friendship has to end. I am amazed how many people have stayed in touch with regular phone calls, card, letter, e-mails and/or visits. Yes, it is different then when people are in dropping in distance, but the richness can be preserved and new memories can be made.
The Couple Czech was always extra special in my heart. Our communications were sometimes in French, sometimes in English, never in their language and it involved lots of shared meals, shared laundry nights, diplomatic bread which was bread they had flown in from Prague in the diplomatic pouch and totally different from what I could buy locally. Half a loaf would be left on my door, half they would eat. She made baked goods that would earn her a post in any pattiserie and he loved my peanut butter cookies.
This is the couple that one of my chins would have moved in with in a shot. I always knew when they were home because Mika planked himself down in front of their door and had to be physically carried to our own flat. When they retired back home they left a hole, although the Indian couple that moved in also became special, special friends. That is the way in Geneva.
Since they moved the Couple Czech and I’ve stay in touch. I have visited Prague, they have come back. Today I was thinking of them and Florian had asked about them. I made a mental note to buy a card and send it. (I had talked to their son by email not that long before) As if by ESP they knew and called. The man explained they hadn’t been in touch for a little longer than usually because the wife had had cancer but waited until everything looked like it was going to all right. Their son hadn’t wanted to tell me about his mother.
We caught up on the news. The warmth was almost as good as when they lived two doors down the hall, but not quite only because I would have loved to see their faces (and perhaps sample one of her pastries). Still it reminded me of the important of taking the effort to stay in touch and that moving away doesn’t mean friendships have to suffer. They just change format. What that format is depends on those involved.
Yup, the phone call was better than any huge black chocolate Easter Bunny.
So often in Geneva people do not bother to make friends with people because so many are transient. Some feel why put in the work if people will jsut disappear after three, four, ten years.
On the bus last night I heard two people tell their friends they were moving back to Norway (their common language was accented English) after being here over 25 years was a reminder of the ever changing nature of the human climate.
My theory is that is better to have friends for three or four years then miss them rather than not knowing them at all. But just because people move, doesn’t mean a friendship has to end. I am amazed how many people have stayed in touch with regular phone calls, card, letter, e-mails and/or visits. Yes, it is different then when people are in dropping in distance, but the richness can be preserved and new memories can be made.
The Couple Czech was always extra special in my heart. Our communications were sometimes in French, sometimes in English, never in their language and it involved lots of shared meals, shared laundry nights, diplomatic bread which was bread they had flown in from Prague in the diplomatic pouch and totally different from what I could buy locally. Half a loaf would be left on my door, half they would eat. She made baked goods that would earn her a post in any pattiserie and he loved my peanut butter cookies.
This is the couple that one of my chins would have moved in with in a shot. I always knew when they were home because Mika planked himself down in front of their door and had to be physically carried to our own flat. When they retired back home they left a hole, although the Indian couple that moved in also became special, special friends. That is the way in Geneva.
Since they moved the Couple Czech and I’ve stay in touch. I have visited Prague, they have come back. Today I was thinking of them and Florian had asked about them. I made a mental note to buy a card and send it. (I had talked to their son by email not that long before) As if by ESP they knew and called. The man explained they hadn’t been in touch for a little longer than usually because the wife had had cancer but waited until everything looked like it was going to all right. Their son hadn’t wanted to tell me about his mother.
We caught up on the news. The warmth was almost as good as when they lived two doors down the hall, but not quite only because I would have loved to see their faces (and perhaps sample one of her pastries). Still it reminded me of the important of taking the effort to stay in touch and that moving away doesn’t mean friendships have to suffer. They just change format. What that format is depends on those involved.
Yup, the phone call was better than any huge black chocolate Easter Bunny.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
He has a girlfriend
The street person looks like a dissipated Santa Claus (DSC). He “lives” on a small island in the middle of traffic crossroads at Place Eaux Vives where a small chalet houses a news stand. On one side, under an overhang is a long wooden bench. DSC has stored his two shopping baskets filled with his treasures there, and they provide some privacy for him when he stretches out on his blankets to sleep.
During the cold weather he was often huddled there on and under blankets. Sometimes he leaves his baskets. I am not sure why the owner of the newsstand hasn’t had his stuff carted away when DSC isn’t there, but it hasn’t happened in the months that I have ridden past on the E bus.
No matter what the temperature, his pants are always cut off at his knees and his red legs only add to the Santa Claus image. I’ve never seen him with alcohol, but I have seen him sit there watching traffic with a smile. Sometimes he is in other parts of town without his shopping baskets.
Geneva does not have a lot of street people in compared to other major cities, but this isn’t why he stands out. He carries a sense of dignity within the small home he has established.
Today when I passed he was sitting with a woman with long gray straggly hair and poorly dressed. They were holding hands. It made me feel good.
The lyrics to a Christine Lavin song beat in my head.
I was standing on 6th Avenue at the corner of 53rd Street
Waiting for the bus
Token in my hand
Thinking about Dinner and what I would eat
That's when I saw him all dirty and ragged
Begging for nickles and dimes
I got on the bus
Rolled away
But one thing stayed in my mind.
He once was Somebodys Baby
Someone bounced him on her knee
Do you think she has any idea
What her little boy's grown up to be?
I was walking through riverside park
On a beautiful afternoon
Telling my neighbor about the vacation
I planned to be taking soon
That's when I saw her all dirty and ragged
Drinking a bottle of wine
I turned my head
Walked right on by
But one thing stayed in my mind.
She once was Somebodys Baby
Someone bounced her on his knee
Do you think he has any idea
What his little girl has turned out to be?
In the back of a checker cab stopped at a light
Heading toward Broadway
To see the latest critically acclaimed
Pulitzer Prize winning play
That's when I saw them outside the shelter
Forming a ragged line
We pulled away
I didn't look back
But one thought stayed in my mind.
They once were somebody's babies
But somewhere their lives went all wrong
Next time you see them don't think the worse
Why not try to think of this song?
During the cold weather he was often huddled there on and under blankets. Sometimes he leaves his baskets. I am not sure why the owner of the newsstand hasn’t had his stuff carted away when DSC isn’t there, but it hasn’t happened in the months that I have ridden past on the E bus.
No matter what the temperature, his pants are always cut off at his knees and his red legs only add to the Santa Claus image. I’ve never seen him with alcohol, but I have seen him sit there watching traffic with a smile. Sometimes he is in other parts of town without his shopping baskets.
Geneva does not have a lot of street people in compared to other major cities, but this isn’t why he stands out. He carries a sense of dignity within the small home he has established.
Today when I passed he was sitting with a woman with long gray straggly hair and poorly dressed. They were holding hands. It made me feel good.
The lyrics to a Christine Lavin song beat in my head.
I was standing on 6th Avenue at the corner of 53rd Street
Waiting for the bus
Token in my hand
Thinking about Dinner and what I would eat
That's when I saw him all dirty and ragged
Begging for nickles and dimes
I got on the bus
Rolled away
But one thing stayed in my mind.
He once was Somebodys Baby
Someone bounced him on her knee
Do you think she has any idea
What her little boy's grown up to be?
I was walking through riverside park
On a beautiful afternoon
Telling my neighbor about the vacation
I planned to be taking soon
That's when I saw her all dirty and ragged
Drinking a bottle of wine
I turned my head
Walked right on by
But one thing stayed in my mind.
She once was Somebodys Baby
Someone bounced her on his knee
Do you think he has any idea
What his little girl has turned out to be?
In the back of a checker cab stopped at a light
Heading toward Broadway
To see the latest critically acclaimed
Pulitzer Prize winning play
That's when I saw them outside the shelter
Forming a ragged line
We pulled away
I didn't look back
But one thought stayed in my mind.
They once were somebody's babies
But somewhere their lives went all wrong
Next time you see them don't think the worse
Why not try to think of this song?
Memories of Motier
When I was first in Switzerland I lived in Môtiers, a tiny village in the Vals de Travers between Neuchâtel and the French border. I describe it as having 600 people, 6000 cows and 6 million flowers, which was more or less accurate and as a city girl I fell in love with country life. Never before had I been awakened to cow bells as their bearers marched down the street on their way to pasture next to where I was living.
Today I found its website http://www.motiers.ch/ and I was transported back to the village with its fête des fountains (check out the photo with the gnomes – it is on top of a fountain) where once a year each neighbourhood decorates the fountain closest to it. I could almost hear the waterfall where Jean-Jacques Rousseau pondered weighty topics. I visited the cave where champagne was distilled in the old abbey. Before a dinner party I would lead guests to it and we would sample what I would buy for our apero. And I saw the fields where my chins Albert and Amadeus played. I couldn’t help remember the time they routed out a soldier hiding behind a hay roll as part of his military exercises. Less pleasant was the memory of Albert fresh from his bath rolling in a fresh cow patty. He was proud of his new odor, I rebathed him.
Today has been a day lived in my imagination and memory. Tomorrow I will live once again in real time. But then, I may also take a real-time visit to the village and stock up on my Mauler & Cie champagne even if it can’t call itself champagne officially it tastes just as good.
Today I found its website http://www.motiers.ch/ and I was transported back to the village with its fête des fountains (check out the photo with the gnomes – it is on top of a fountain) where once a year each neighbourhood decorates the fountain closest to it. I could almost hear the waterfall where Jean-Jacques Rousseau pondered weighty topics. I visited the cave where champagne was distilled in the old abbey. Before a dinner party I would lead guests to it and we would sample what I would buy for our apero. And I saw the fields where my chins Albert and Amadeus played. I couldn’t help remember the time they routed out a soldier hiding behind a hay roll as part of his military exercises. Less pleasant was the memory of Albert fresh from his bath rolling in a fresh cow patty. He was proud of his new odor, I rebathed him.
Today has been a day lived in my imagination and memory. Tomorrow I will live once again in real time. But then, I may also take a real-time visit to the village and stock up on my Mauler & Cie champagne even if it can’t call itself champagne officially it tastes just as good.
Imaginary Farmhosue
The marché de puce (flea market) is every Wednesday and Saturday at Plainpalais, http://www.smpg.ch/FR/Histoire/French_Frame.htm but I hadn’t been there in years. Why I woke with an urge to go is beyond me, but then again why not?
Do look at the web site with its photos because the feel is very much the same and with the gray day even the sepia seems realistic.
As I walked among the furniture and dishes I mentally bought for my imaginary farm house that I have furnished and decorated then refurnished and decorated over the years.
The house itself is real. Robbert and I found it in one of our wanderings in the Pontalier region of France just over the Swiss/France border from where we lived. It backed up to a rock cliff and had a stream running by.
It was easy to imagine tables and chairs on the tiled side garden with fresh tomato salad from my own garden flavoured with olive oil and my hand-picked basil that grew with abundance next to my string beans.
In my imagination I bought the old wooden bread trough that probably had been at some bakers and a cupboard for the upstairs bedroom that would hold some of the antique linen. There was even a person selling old fashioned nightgowns that would have to be worn in my imaginary home.
Clear glass and hand painted with flowers cups, low and long, would be wonderful for fresh cold berry soup also to be served outside. The berries would come from the patch next to the house where my two Japanese chins would play. This time they would be a girl and boy named Tristan and Isolde.
There as no danger the two-foot copper plate with JFK in the middle would hang in the hallway (I saw the plate in a box in front of one stall with each item for sale more ghastly than the one before), between the two Queen Anne style chairs with maroon fabric that I did buy mentally.
There were fewer vendors than normal, for the Cirque du Soleil was stationed in the middle of the field. I half wondered what the performers sleeping in their trailers with their satellite dishes on the roof felt with the hubbub around them. Their curtains were drawn so there was no way to see in.
The sky darkened, and I headed for the tram. I love my imaginary farm house and it in no way reflects a dislike of anything in my current life. One of its main advantages is that it never needs cleaning, the plumber would always show up on time IF it were to need a plumber, which would never happen, the beds make themselves automatically and nothing is ever out of place while it has the warmth of a lived in home. Just like my imaginary Japanese chins never shed.
If I were to become extremely wealthy, which is not likely, I just might try and turn my imaginary farm house into a real one, but then again, I might not. I am so content with what I do have, that I doubt if much would change. Besides, the fun of an imaginary place is it is just that.
Do look at the web site with its photos because the feel is very much the same and with the gray day even the sepia seems realistic.
As I walked among the furniture and dishes I mentally bought for my imaginary farm house that I have furnished and decorated then refurnished and decorated over the years.
The house itself is real. Robbert and I found it in one of our wanderings in the Pontalier region of France just over the Swiss/France border from where we lived. It backed up to a rock cliff and had a stream running by.
It was easy to imagine tables and chairs on the tiled side garden with fresh tomato salad from my own garden flavoured with olive oil and my hand-picked basil that grew with abundance next to my string beans.
In my imagination I bought the old wooden bread trough that probably had been at some bakers and a cupboard for the upstairs bedroom that would hold some of the antique linen. There was even a person selling old fashioned nightgowns that would have to be worn in my imaginary home.
Clear glass and hand painted with flowers cups, low and long, would be wonderful for fresh cold berry soup also to be served outside. The berries would come from the patch next to the house where my two Japanese chins would play. This time they would be a girl and boy named Tristan and Isolde.
There as no danger the two-foot copper plate with JFK in the middle would hang in the hallway (I saw the plate in a box in front of one stall with each item for sale more ghastly than the one before), between the two Queen Anne style chairs with maroon fabric that I did buy mentally.
There were fewer vendors than normal, for the Cirque du Soleil was stationed in the middle of the field. I half wondered what the performers sleeping in their trailers with their satellite dishes on the roof felt with the hubbub around them. Their curtains were drawn so there was no way to see in.
The sky darkened, and I headed for the tram. I love my imaginary farm house and it in no way reflects a dislike of anything in my current life. One of its main advantages is that it never needs cleaning, the plumber would always show up on time IF it were to need a plumber, which would never happen, the beds make themselves automatically and nothing is ever out of place while it has the warmth of a lived in home. Just like my imaginary Japanese chins never shed.
If I were to become extremely wealthy, which is not likely, I just might try and turn my imaginary farm house into a real one, but then again, I might not. I am so content with what I do have, that I doubt if much would change. Besides, the fun of an imaginary place is it is just that.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Beauty
Friday was so beautiful that it was almost painful to look at. Snow capped Jura rose over the lake being crossed by a lone Easy Jet plane on its way to Cointrin airport. The apple orchard shook out the first of its white blossoms that resembled flickering candlelight more than full blooms as they danced in the early morning breeze. The cloudless sky was blue while the grass shone in multitudes of shades of green.
Thank goodness the vineyards hadn’t begun to sprout leaves leaving their tortured branches as a small reminder that perfection isn’t possible. Still even with their twisting and turning, they represented a form that would do a bonsai designer proud.
I had chosen to walk up the hill to the post office even though everything is closed for the four-day Easter weekend. If I weren’t a writer, I would say tighter than a drum, but that is a cliché. Since I’ve just been reading old fashioned mystery novels let me try tighter than a size 34 blouse on a dame with a 36D bust. No one else was around, just me and beauty. A gift.
Thank goodness the vineyards hadn’t begun to sprout leaves leaving their tortured branches as a small reminder that perfection isn’t possible. Still even with their twisting and turning, they represented a form that would do a bonsai designer proud.
I had chosen to walk up the hill to the post office even though everything is closed for the four-day Easter weekend. If I weren’t a writer, I would say tighter than a drum, but that is a cliché. Since I’ve just been reading old fashioned mystery novels let me try tighter than a size 34 blouse on a dame with a 36D bust. No one else was around, just me and beauty. A gift.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Walking, more than exercise
The walk was familiar from my old apartment house to my old office. For almost ten years I was able to walk to and from work, taking about 20 minutes to do so.
I had stayed last night with former neighbors, enjoying catching up with the news and basking in the warmth of their friendship and hopefully sending out some of my own.
I was meeting a former colleague for lunch.
There are two routes to my old office, one that is grassy with a short cut through a mini wood. Since the cherry tree in front of ILO still isn’t in bloom, I opted for the Route de Ferney, more heavily trafficked and the one I used to use when I walked in the dark. However, I still passed the field with the horses, and I noticed chives were sticking up along the side of the road. Nestled between them were violets, my favourite flower.
Although it hasn’t been that long since I stopped working, the new WIPO building has wiped out a vacant lot where trees sprouted mushrooms that would make seats for elves with weight problems or dwarfs without. The two-story, three-legged chair symbolizing the damage of land mines is gone as a huge redevelopment project is taking place in front of the UN.
The temperature was good.
After lunch I continued walking downtown to finish the rest of my errands enjoying each flower along the way. Nothing spectacular but excellent for inner peace. And I will go back in a week or so to catch that cherry tree, and again a week later. Whenever it sheds its blossoms it looks as if there had been a pink snowstorm.
I had stayed last night with former neighbors, enjoying catching up with the news and basking in the warmth of their friendship and hopefully sending out some of my own.
I was meeting a former colleague for lunch.
There are two routes to my old office, one that is grassy with a short cut through a mini wood. Since the cherry tree in front of ILO still isn’t in bloom, I opted for the Route de Ferney, more heavily trafficked and the one I used to use when I walked in the dark. However, I still passed the field with the horses, and I noticed chives were sticking up along the side of the road. Nestled between them were violets, my favourite flower.
Although it hasn’t been that long since I stopped working, the new WIPO building has wiped out a vacant lot where trees sprouted mushrooms that would make seats for elves with weight problems or dwarfs without. The two-story, three-legged chair symbolizing the damage of land mines is gone as a huge redevelopment project is taking place in front of the UN.
The temperature was good.
After lunch I continued walking downtown to finish the rest of my errands enjoying each flower along the way. Nothing spectacular but excellent for inner peace. And I will go back in a week or so to catch that cherry tree, and again a week later. Whenever it sheds its blossoms it looks as if there had been a pink snowstorm.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Geneva is number 2
The list of the best places in the world to live is out. Zurich is 1st, Geneva is 2nd and Vancouver 3rd.
My writer friend and I discussed the quality of life in Geneva over lunch in a pub-like restaurant with long planked wooden floors and couches surrounding tables. Because it was the noon rush we were seated on each side of the bar. She had salmon tartare and I had a poulet tangine with couscous and lots of veggies and we split the gateau du chocolate de la maison (which if the judges had eaten any would have pushed Geneva into the number one spot.)
We decided that over all it is the basic respect people show each other as part of the culture. The excellent transportation system, clean and safe streets, good education system, fine hospitals (and universal health care although paid for by the residents is affordable--but universal health care exists in all but one industrialized country so that couldn't have been a factor.). Of course we can find scandals and mistakes like anyplace but the best way to summarize Geneva in particular and Switzerland in general, it works better than it doesn’t and it works better than most. The judges who decided the best places in the world to live must have thought so for at least two of our cities.
My writer friend and I discussed the quality of life in Geneva over lunch in a pub-like restaurant with long planked wooden floors and couches surrounding tables. Because it was the noon rush we were seated on each side of the bar. She had salmon tartare and I had a poulet tangine with couscous and lots of veggies and we split the gateau du chocolate de la maison (which if the judges had eaten any would have pushed Geneva into the number one spot.)
We decided that over all it is the basic respect people show each other as part of the culture. The excellent transportation system, clean and safe streets, good education system, fine hospitals (and universal health care although paid for by the residents is affordable--but universal health care exists in all but one industrialized country so that couldn't have been a factor.). Of course we can find scandals and mistakes like anyplace but the best way to summarize Geneva in particular and Switzerland in general, it works better than it doesn’t and it works better than most. The judges who decided the best places in the world to live must have thought so for at least two of our cities.
Masks
I had seen the posters advertising the masque display at the Barbier-Mueller Musée but hadn’t really thought about going until one of my writer friends suggested it. The museum is in the Vielle Ville, nestled in an ancient building where Calvin could have tapped his cane on his way to his church.
A noted poet was asked to write a poem for each mask and they came from all over the world. His words captured the essence of each one. Not only were we entranced but we quickly noticed that those from Papua or New Zealand were always elongated, while the oriental ones were rounded. One looked as if it were made of fine gold threads. We grew better at guessing the locations of each.
“Guess where this one is from.” My friend covered the location. It was horrible with horns and vampire style teeth and it looked out of place. I guessed wrong. Ohio 1960s. There were other American masks, a baseball umpire’s, protection for soldiers in combat, one for a diver and another for miners. They looked out of place with those that were for theatre, marriage, religious rituals and carnivals. But we thought about it and maybe our rituals are war and sports.
Neither of us could remember if American Indians had masks, although there were several from Alaska. We thought maybe they could have included carnival masks from New Orleans, but they did not have any of the carnival masks from Venice either.
We’ve decided to create a mask that is symbolic of how we see ourselves for the next time.
A few of the masks can be seen at www.barbier-mueller.ch/eng/home.htm
A noted poet was asked to write a poem for each mask and they came from all over the world. His words captured the essence of each one. Not only were we entranced but we quickly noticed that those from Papua or New Zealand were always elongated, while the oriental ones were rounded. One looked as if it were made of fine gold threads. We grew better at guessing the locations of each.
“Guess where this one is from.” My friend covered the location. It was horrible with horns and vampire style teeth and it looked out of place. I guessed wrong. Ohio 1960s. There were other American masks, a baseball umpire’s, protection for soldiers in combat, one for a diver and another for miners. They looked out of place with those that were for theatre, marriage, religious rituals and carnivals. But we thought about it and maybe our rituals are war and sports.
Neither of us could remember if American Indians had masks, although there were several from Alaska. We thought maybe they could have included carnival masks from New Orleans, but they did not have any of the carnival masks from Venice either.
We’ve decided to create a mask that is symbolic of how we see ourselves for the next time.
A few of the masks can be seen at www.barbier-mueller.ch/eng/home.htm
Monday, April 10, 2006
Flowers and cities
The Boston Globe web site had a photo of the cherry blossoms along Comm Ave. What a beautiful street that is with its red Bulfinch or Bulfinch styled buildings on each side a grassy divider, part of the Emerald Necklace, the green area that makes Boston such a great city to walk in.
Meanwhile Geneva is alive with flowers. Pierce neige (not sure of the English name, but it translate as pushing through the snow) are in abundance on lawns and you almost need sunglasses against the yellow forsythia. Daffodils, pansies, planted by private and public people are seen in window boxes and town planters.
I still haven’t checked out the flower clock. Look at the photos of the clock and other beautiful parts of this beautiful city.
http://www.swissworld.org/fre/swissworld.html?&siteSect=1215&rubricId=2200&pg=2&img=6044507
I did drive by it yesterday on the way to spend a day with a friend, doing housework (she has a bad back) eating a great stir fry she made and seeing Memoir of a Geisha. I was too busy worrying about the traffic. Cars and spring do not belong together. From the bus I can appreciate the budding beauty without guilt.
How was I lucky enough to end up living in two incredible places in one lifetime???
Friday, April 07, 2006
Ritual return
Coming back to Geneva is almost ritualistic now. It doesn’t matter if it is a weekend, a week or more.
1. Stop at potty before going through customs. The handicapped has more
room.
2. Clear customs and make sure passport is safely away.
3. Stop at bank
4. Buy tailleul bread.
5. Check window for new colored pencil animated display. Nope this time it is still the two Eskimos fishing while a polar bear looks on.
6. Buy monthly bus pass, a great deal at 70CHF and will be even better when I turn 64 in July and the price drops to 45 CHF.
7. Check to see if any LeMatin papers are left
8. Hit Boky, Mikado or restaurant under the train station for sushi. The
location depends on what I am toting, time and temperature (I wanted to say
weather but decided to use three t’s)
9. Grab either the 8 or 16 to Rive then the E bus. Admire the Lake, jet d’eau,
and mountains if it is daytime. Imagine them if it is dark.
11. Check out the life size cow with the glasses in front of the optometrist’s in
Collonge.
12.Get off at Corsier Port.
13. Walk down the hill, totally entranced once again by the beauty.
In this case 13 is a lucky number.
1. Stop at potty before going through customs. The handicapped has more
room.
2. Clear customs and make sure passport is safely away.
3. Stop at bank
4. Buy tailleul bread.
5. Check window for new colored pencil animated display. Nope this time it is still the two Eskimos fishing while a polar bear looks on.
6. Buy monthly bus pass, a great deal at 70CHF and will be even better when I turn 64 in July and the price drops to 45 CHF.
7. Check to see if any LeMatin papers are left
8. Hit Boky, Mikado or restaurant under the train station for sushi. The
location depends on what I am toting, time and temperature (I wanted to say
weather but decided to use three t’s)
9. Grab either the 8 or 16 to Rive then the E bus. Admire the Lake, jet d’eau,
and mountains if it is daytime. Imagine them if it is dark.
11. Check out the life size cow with the glasses in front of the optometrist’s in
Collonge.
12.Get off at Corsier Port.
13. Walk down the hill, totally entranced once again by the beauty.
In this case 13 is a lucky number.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
French dental costs jump
I read in the newspaper….
From 14 Euros a visit to 17. That means instead of paying $17 per dentist appoint people will now pay $20.90. Insurance does take care of 75% of that. And how much do you pay for your dentist visits?
I have to admit my Swiss dentist is a lot more expensive.
From 14 Euros a visit to 17. That means instead of paying $17 per dentist appoint people will now pay $20.90. Insurance does take care of 75% of that. And how much do you pay for your dentist visits?
I have to admit my Swiss dentist is a lot more expensive.
I miss Peggy et. al.
I miss Peggy, Jess, Katie and Bridget. I have lived with them for 15 months. They are the characters in my new novel Triple Deckers and they are as real to me as Barbara, Chitra, Julia, Susan, Marina, etc. I have watched Jess fall in love with a reporter, Katie try to loosen up over the alleged immoralities of her daughters. Mostly I miss Peggy who has survived the loss of her son in Iraq and moved beyond her self imposed limitations and Bridget who was one of those strong, strong women who fight for their families.
They have come to me in the middle night and have told me that they wanted to demonstrate at at Fort Bragg or sell their house. Bridget shared her concerns for her husband. Jess reminded me of what it means to fight for what you believe. They have sat on benches with me and warned me that if I wrote something a certain way, they wouldn't do it. With them I walked through my old Boston neighbourhood and didn't buy a house a Florida.
Now I have released their friendships to their new lives and I am going on with mine.
I need to fine tune my mysteries before I can start on a new novel although I’ve done some research for two. Since I will be in Geneva, I will probably work on the Geneva one.
In general I declared April a non-fiction writing month, although words still bounce in my head they are for my articles and my blogs.
Peggy and her family are moving further away from me as Liz, Jane, Diana and other characters that have shared my life, and it leaves me feeling sad and at loose ends
They have come to me in the middle night and have told me that they wanted to demonstrate at at Fort Bragg or sell their house. Bridget shared her concerns for her husband. Jess reminded me of what it means to fight for what you believe. They have sat on benches with me and warned me that if I wrote something a certain way, they wouldn't do it. With them I walked through my old Boston neighbourhood and didn't buy a house a Florida.
Now I have released their friendships to their new lives and I am going on with mine.
I need to fine tune my mysteries before I can start on a new novel although I’ve done some research for two. Since I will be in Geneva, I will probably work on the Geneva one.
In general I declared April a non-fiction writing month, although words still bounce in my head they are for my articles and my blogs.
Peggy and her family are moving further away from me as Liz, Jane, Diana and other characters that have shared my life, and it leaves me feeling sad and at loose ends
The woman in the window
The woman sat in her kitchen with its window looking out on the marché. She was peeling potatoes for lunch and her friends were leaning against the house talking to her. Next door the smell of cooking onions and meet wafted out.
The flower dealer had deep purple iris in a vase that seemed more beautiful than the tiger lilies and mixed bouquets, but I decided not to buy anything because I am heading home to Geneva tomorrow.
The mini-vacation down here has been fun, but I am looking forward to a master writing class, a meeting with a political party that wants to sell its message and a dance performance by my Indian family.
I need to do some work on my web site and I need a long walk along the lake even if there’s no woman peeling potatoes sitting in her kitchen window.
She would make a good painting by Vermer or Chadin.
The flower dealer had deep purple iris in a vase that seemed more beautiful than the tiger lilies and mixed bouquets, but I decided not to buy anything because I am heading home to Geneva tomorrow.
The mini-vacation down here has been fun, but I am looking forward to a master writing class, a meeting with a political party that wants to sell its message and a dance performance by my Indian family.
I need to do some work on my web site and I need a long walk along the lake even if there’s no woman peeling potatoes sitting in her kitchen window.
She would make a good painting by Vermer or Chadin.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Klutz Time and Things That Go Wrong
A simple withdrawal and paying for airline tickets should be simple right?
Nope. The ATM machine had a 300€ limit and I needed 620. I waited in line. Monday mornings people go and do stuff, even though a lot of the stores are closed. Those that open have long lines. Tellers at Crédit Agricole no longer give cash, but they give you a card to withdraw money from the ATM.
Money in hand I headed to the travel agent. Since there was a line I went to buy bread. No chatagne bread until next year. They are out of chestnut flour.
Back to the travel agent. Only one person was there. He wanted to go to Miami. Forty-five minutes later after discussing every flight possibility he ended up going to San Francisco through Madrid via Toulouse. I didn’t have my passport number so the agent couldn’t issue the ticket, but she did accept my money and gave me her email so I could send her the info. Granted everything I was doing was in walking distance of the house which is wonderful.
Once home I broke a glass followed by dropping a package of cookies. It was toss up which had more little pieces. If my broom were a living creature it would probably be in mental collapse at this point.
I may spend the rest of the day under the desk. I can always nibble on any cookie crumbs the broom missed.
Nope. The ATM machine had a 300€ limit and I needed 620. I waited in line. Monday mornings people go and do stuff, even though a lot of the stores are closed. Those that open have long lines. Tellers at Crédit Agricole no longer give cash, but they give you a card to withdraw money from the ATM.
Money in hand I headed to the travel agent. Since there was a line I went to buy bread. No chatagne bread until next year. They are out of chestnut flour.
Back to the travel agent. Only one person was there. He wanted to go to Miami. Forty-five minutes later after discussing every flight possibility he ended up going to San Francisco through Madrid via Toulouse. I didn’t have my passport number so the agent couldn’t issue the ticket, but she did accept my money and gave me her email so I could send her the info. Granted everything I was doing was in walking distance of the house which is wonderful.
Once home I broke a glass followed by dropping a package of cookies. It was toss up which had more little pieces. If my broom were a living creature it would probably be in mental collapse at this point.
I may spend the rest of the day under the desk. I can always nibble on any cookie crumbs the broom missed.
Cemetery Art
I love French cemeteries. Many graves are decorated with metal and ceramic books with messages and photos. There’s a new store in town that sells these, but they are far more elaborate than others I’ve seen. Two examples:
A farm scene with a tractor. The background is painted with a blue sky. The words are for Papy, grandfather.
Another has a bronze man dressed in 1930s style with knickers pedaling a bicycle.
Of course there are the ceramic books with messages from families and friends, scenes of rivers flowing, gardens, etc.
I haven't checked to see if any are already on display in the local cemetery.
A farm scene with a tractor. The background is painted with a blue sky. The words are for Papy, grandfather.
Another has a bronze man dressed in 1930s style with knickers pedaling a bicycle.
Of course there are the ceramic books with messages from families and friends, scenes of rivers flowing, gardens, etc.
I haven't checked to see if any are already on display in the local cemetery.
Chocolate Merry-go-Rounds
Lopez sold his bakery and tea room. He lost a son, and his wife has had two bouts with cancer. He obviously needed a change. The new owners are the ones who made the chantagne bread (chestnut flour bread). Lopez at Easter decorated his window with chocolate art.
The new owners have created a one foot chocolate merry-go-round with the horses being made of multi-colored frosted horses. Not quite as fine, but still worth a smile.
The new owners have created a one foot chocolate merry-go-round with the horses being made of multi-colored frosted horses. Not quite as fine, but still worth a smile.
The copper bowl
Dust from the fireplace had fallen on the pine cones in my Paul Revere-style copper bowl that decorates the middle of my hearth. Since seeing how nice Betty’s hearth looked sans fire but with decoration, I threw away the logs and used the fireplace as decoration.
In the early 70s I wanted to sell copperware on the party plan. At the time I was a bad salesperson and hated asking my friends to give the initial parties that would have sent me on the path to riches. I did end up with some beautiful copperware however, including that bowl.
As I was dusting, I realized I have had that bowl almost 30 years and for the entire time, whenever I look at it, it brings me pleasure both from the shape and the color.
In the early 70s I wanted to sell copperware on the party plan. At the time I was a bad salesperson and hated asking my friends to give the initial parties that would have sent me on the path to riches. I did end up with some beautiful copperware however, including that bowl.
As I was dusting, I realized I have had that bowl almost 30 years and for the entire time, whenever I look at it, it brings me pleasure both from the shape and the color.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
The Farm Fair
As a former city girl, it may seem strange that I love farm fairs. The one held April 2nd was at the Salle Polyvalante and was only a ten minute walk through sunshine. Inside the hall cheese, olives, anchois, sausages, honeys, sausages, herbs, nuts and other produce were displayed in abundance. Another stall featured beautiful hand-knitted sweaters made from the stall owner’s own wool.
Outside piglets tried to nap on straw despite one piglet wanting to lick them all up and down and around. However, it was a bit disconcerting to see pork recipes displayed above the enclosure. If I wanted to buy a pig, the farmer would raise it until fall then return it to me in chops, slabs of bacon and sausage. Although it was enough to turn me off pork, I know if I smell bacon cooking I won’t be able to resist not even for a second. If I were to buy a pig at least I would know that it wasn’t stuck in a building but ran around happily during its short life. However, one pig has more pork than I have eaten in the last thirty years combined.
Cows were segregated by colour. Some were the soft brown that I so love and there were a number of grays as soft as the sky before a gentle rain. Each was named. I met Tulip, Amande, Sabine and Amelie nose to nose. They had their history on purple placards. I new their birthdates, weight at birth and at 120 and 210 days. I knew who their fathers were and if the names were confirmed all though one had a father whose name was a guess.
The cows have already lived longer than the pigs will. One had passed her 17th birthday. She watched the goings on. Maybe she likes farm fairs too as a change of scene from her pasture.
Outside piglets tried to nap on straw despite one piglet wanting to lick them all up and down and around. However, it was a bit disconcerting to see pork recipes displayed above the enclosure. If I wanted to buy a pig, the farmer would raise it until fall then return it to me in chops, slabs of bacon and sausage. Although it was enough to turn me off pork, I know if I smell bacon cooking I won’t be able to resist not even for a second. If I were to buy a pig at least I would know that it wasn’t stuck in a building but ran around happily during its short life. However, one pig has more pork than I have eaten in the last thirty years combined.
Cows were segregated by colour. Some were the soft brown that I so love and there were a number of grays as soft as the sky before a gentle rain. Each was named. I met Tulip, Amande, Sabine and Amelie nose to nose. They had their history on purple placards. I new their birthdates, weight at birth and at 120 and 210 days. I knew who their fathers were and if the names were confirmed all though one had a father whose name was a guess.
The cows have already lived longer than the pigs will. One had passed her 17th birthday. She watched the goings on. Maybe she likes farm fairs too as a change of scene from her pasture.
A woman didn't shop for a year
Susie sent me the following link with the email heading – Right up your alley. A Consuming Life Could you live a whole year without shopping? Author Judith Levine did. Here's what she learned. http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/12099950/site/newsweek/from/ET/
I send it on to my mega shopping pal Rose. I am probably between the two -- Rose and Judith. I did shop on my mini vacation buying a new phone (I can now hear what people are saying and it works when my ASDL line is plugged in unlike its predecessor) and a new CD-player. What good are CDs without something to play them on? The old phone and CD-player have already been sent to the decheterie /dump and disposed in the proper recycling bins. Even if I had an attic, they would never be put there until I decided to fix them as my Swiss gentlemen friend does. We both know they will never be fixed, but it makes him feel better so why not. I also purchased a new printer ribbon. So I do shop.
Disliking shopping is not new for me. I remember when I ran away to my father’s (too long a story to go into) and we had to go shopping for clothes for me. I was in an out of that store so fast that it became a building block of our relationship. I didn’t know he hated shopping and it was a real act of love and need that he had taken me.
Part of the dislike is that I don’t want the things that shopping brings cluttering up my life. Things have to be dusted. Things have to be taken care and I do. My oven and food processor still look almost new despite three and five years of use respectively. When I have too much stuff it gets lost.
However I am not sure that I would want to give up ice cream, movies, going out to eat or wine as Levine did. We all have our levels of consumerism don’t we?
I send it on to my mega shopping pal Rose. I am probably between the two -- Rose and Judith. I did shop on my mini vacation buying a new phone (I can now hear what people are saying and it works when my ASDL line is plugged in unlike its predecessor) and a new CD-player. What good are CDs without something to play them on? The old phone and CD-player have already been sent to the decheterie /dump and disposed in the proper recycling bins. Even if I had an attic, they would never be put there until I decided to fix them as my Swiss gentlemen friend does. We both know they will never be fixed, but it makes him feel better so why not. I also purchased a new printer ribbon. So I do shop.
Disliking shopping is not new for me. I remember when I ran away to my father’s (too long a story to go into) and we had to go shopping for clothes for me. I was in an out of that store so fast that it became a building block of our relationship. I didn’t know he hated shopping and it was a real act of love and need that he had taken me.
Part of the dislike is that I don’t want the things that shopping brings cluttering up my life. Things have to be dusted. Things have to be taken care and I do. My oven and food processor still look almost new despite three and five years of use respectively. When I have too much stuff it gets lost.
However I am not sure that I would want to give up ice cream, movies, going out to eat or wine as Levine did. We all have our levels of consumerism don’t we?
Saturday, April 01, 2006
French Strikes
I love the French. The students and their adult supporters have taken to the streets to say they don’t want job insecurity – some three million of them out of a population of 60 million. The students estimate that for everyone in the street and we can’t assume it is the same 3 million each day there are another five in 100% support of them. Mathematically that means one in 4 agree whole-heartedly against the government. As for numbers as I talk to my neighbors while on my mini vacation, I have yet to find anyone who disagrees with the students. They probably exist, but I haven’t found them yet.
The French love their social contract. It is nice to know if you lose your job and it has to be for cause and even then you will have a roof over your head and food in your bellies. You will have health insurance. No one needs to be homeless in this country. Admittedly for business, it is expensive and frustratingly unwieldy, but good businesses survive. There are less super rich but there are also less super poor. I don’t hear a lot of people dreaming about being rich but having a home, a family and free time to enjoy them.
And if strikes are a pain and trains schedules and bus schedules are perturbed so be it. It is what a democracy should have, the people telling the government what they want. Chirac said he heard, but what he offered wasn’t enough. Neither did De Gaulle in 1968 and it not only changed the presidency it changed the country. Like in 1968 I suspect this strike is training a whole new generation of leaders that will influence France for decades to come.
The students, although they want work, they want fairness in the workplace. And there are other implications. If they are hired under the system, few landlords will rent to them because they do not have a secure salary. Likewise employers can take advantage of lower wages to keep all salaries depressed or have a turning door of cheap workers. Of course some would be kept, there’s no question, but how many.
In the US businesses have the legal status of people with the benefits but not the responsibilities to the society in which they operate. In France it is the reverse.
De Villepin may be a sexy man, but he made the mistake of not checking with the unions and the students before announcing the new law. Interestingly, many business leaders have said that they wouldn’t change their hiring practices, sorta like the 35-hour work week was supposed to increase jobs. It did give lower level employees more free time, but les cadres, the managers, took up much of the slack of work that had to be done.
Meanwhile in Britain people are striking against reducing pensions.
Latin America is slowly rejecting the IMF and World Bank policies of privatization and cuts in social contracts.
The EU was founded on the idea of free movement of trade, capital and people, but globalization is only the free movement of trade and capital. People are locked into their home countries and if jobs flee to cheaper locations, they can’t move after them. Now if workers globalized and demanded the same salary structure, job security, pensions and health insurance everywhere, it would truly be the level playing feel they talk about in free trade which is far different from fair trade.
I respect any people who stand up to power when it is against their interests. America did it in 1776. The new immigrants are doing it now in the US. But will it happen world wide? I doubt it.
I may sound anti-business, which I am not. However, for a healthy society business needs to take all interests into consideration: the employees, the stockholders and the clients. Without any of them the business can’t survive nor can the society that it lives in.
The French love their social contract. It is nice to know if you lose your job and it has to be for cause and even then you will have a roof over your head and food in your bellies. You will have health insurance. No one needs to be homeless in this country. Admittedly for business, it is expensive and frustratingly unwieldy, but good businesses survive. There are less super rich but there are also less super poor. I don’t hear a lot of people dreaming about being rich but having a home, a family and free time to enjoy them.
And if strikes are a pain and trains schedules and bus schedules are perturbed so be it. It is what a democracy should have, the people telling the government what they want. Chirac said he heard, but what he offered wasn’t enough. Neither did De Gaulle in 1968 and it not only changed the presidency it changed the country. Like in 1968 I suspect this strike is training a whole new generation of leaders that will influence France for decades to come.
The students, although they want work, they want fairness in the workplace. And there are other implications. If they are hired under the system, few landlords will rent to them because they do not have a secure salary. Likewise employers can take advantage of lower wages to keep all salaries depressed or have a turning door of cheap workers. Of course some would be kept, there’s no question, but how many.
In the US businesses have the legal status of people with the benefits but not the responsibilities to the society in which they operate. In France it is the reverse.
De Villepin may be a sexy man, but he made the mistake of not checking with the unions and the students before announcing the new law. Interestingly, many business leaders have said that they wouldn’t change their hiring practices, sorta like the 35-hour work week was supposed to increase jobs. It did give lower level employees more free time, but les cadres, the managers, took up much of the slack of work that had to be done.
Meanwhile in Britain people are striking against reducing pensions.
Latin America is slowly rejecting the IMF and World Bank policies of privatization and cuts in social contracts.
The EU was founded on the idea of free movement of trade, capital and people, but globalization is only the free movement of trade and capital. People are locked into their home countries and if jobs flee to cheaper locations, they can’t move after them. Now if workers globalized and demanded the same salary structure, job security, pensions and health insurance everywhere, it would truly be the level playing feel they talk about in free trade which is far different from fair trade.
I respect any people who stand up to power when it is against their interests. America did it in 1776. The new immigrants are doing it now in the US. But will it happen world wide? I doubt it.
I may sound anti-business, which I am not. However, for a healthy society business needs to take all interests into consideration: the employees, the stockholders and the clients. Without any of them the business can’t survive nor can the society that it lives in.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Merry Christmas -- Solved
I know Christmas is still nine months away, but when it involves international travel it is good to plan in advance. Our original idea was to go Thailand to spend it with a Syrian friend, but my daughter’s work schedule would have meant she would have spent more time in the air than there and the cost was budget-choking. (I still have to tell Yara but I haven't ruled out a trip to Thailand at another time).
Plan II would have been to spend it in Geneva. My housemate’s family would have been there and my daughter and Marina would both be welcome for a full house. Presents would be downplayed with a secret drawing rather than excess, which was indeed welcome. However, the trip was still too far for her for the too little time that she had.
Then the problem of where came up. With the several ton elephant that exists between my daughter and I we needed a place that the elephant wasn’t welcome. She suggested my step-mom’s. My step-mom loved the idea. I did mention it was only a maybe but she was so excited that any other alternative seemed unreasonable.
Today I booked my ticket for December 16-Dec. 31. Although my daughter won’t be able to spend a long time, I will have a good amount of time with my mom, and my daughter is talking about an elephant-trip to Geneva in November to see her old hash friends, have a fondue at the Café du Soleil and check out my new home, which she hasn’t seen (I don’t think unless she cat sat once for my housemate).
Christmas solved.
Plan II would have been to spend it in Geneva. My housemate’s family would have been there and my daughter and Marina would both be welcome for a full house. Presents would be downplayed with a secret drawing rather than excess, which was indeed welcome. However, the trip was still too far for her for the too little time that she had.
Then the problem of where came up. With the several ton elephant that exists between my daughter and I we needed a place that the elephant wasn’t welcome. She suggested my step-mom’s. My step-mom loved the idea. I did mention it was only a maybe but she was so excited that any other alternative seemed unreasonable.
Today I booked my ticket for December 16-Dec. 31. Although my daughter won’t be able to spend a long time, I will have a good amount of time with my mom, and my daughter is talking about an elephant-trip to Geneva in November to see her old hash friends, have a fondue at the Café du Soleil and check out my new home, which she hasn’t seen (I don’t think unless she cat sat once for my housemate).
Christmas solved.
Gaslighted
For years I’ve used the expression “you’re trying to gaslight me,” when someone was driving me crazy. I knew it came from the 1944 movie with Boyer, Cotton and Bergman, but I had never seen it.
Today it was on TV under the name Hantise. When I was little I thought Charles Boyer was an old man. A dogpile search showed he killed himself at 80 two days after his wife died. He must have been 46 when he made the film and he looked young and sexy. However, I still wouldn’t want to be gaslighted by him or anyone.
Today it was on TV under the name Hantise. When I was little I thought Charles Boyer was an old man. A dogpile search showed he killed himself at 80 two days after his wife died. He must have been 46 when he made the film and he looked young and sexy. However, I still wouldn’t want to be gaslighted by him or anyone.
Mini beach holiday
It is a mini Argelès vacation. I’ve finished Triple Deckers (which is now being proofed by friends to scare away all typos) and I am all caught up on my journalistic stories. Today the sky was blue. I walked to the beach and settled on a bench where I’d never sat before. Rather than face the water I was looking in the direciton of the 14th century fortress Madeloch perched on the middle mountain surrounding the bay.
It had protected France against Spain, Spain against France and Majorca against whoever.
My mind wandered to those who had lived in this village long before the palms were planted lined up in perfect symmetry and brick walkways were flanked by cafés and boutiques. This village only began to attract tourist in the last 100 years or so of its 1000+ year history. For the intervening centuries farmers and fishermen must have walked where I sat.
Today is was couples holding hands, a roller bladder, a lanky young man in an orange T-shirt and a cocker puppy who thought it was fun to pull back on his leash. Heel or à pied was not in his vocabulary yet.
No one could tell the temperature from people’s dress. Some wore sweaters but a couple of young women had spaghetti strap shirts without any sign of goose flesh.
It today was in the late 1930s I am sure refugees from Franco would have been where I was.
A few of the cafés and boutiques were open, others were painting and hammering for the tourist season. Some are still boarded up.
In my pocket I had my ticket to go back to Genève, where my roommate has complained about the cold. I’m a little old for the university spring break, but the feeling doesn’t have an age limit.
Of course, with the strikes getting back might be harder, but as they say on verra.
It had protected France against Spain, Spain against France and Majorca against whoever.
My mind wandered to those who had lived in this village long before the palms were planted lined up in perfect symmetry and brick walkways were flanked by cafés and boutiques. This village only began to attract tourist in the last 100 years or so of its 1000+ year history. For the intervening centuries farmers and fishermen must have walked where I sat.
Today is was couples holding hands, a roller bladder, a lanky young man in an orange T-shirt and a cocker puppy who thought it was fun to pull back on his leash. Heel or à pied was not in his vocabulary yet.
No one could tell the temperature from people’s dress. Some wore sweaters but a couple of young women had spaghetti strap shirts without any sign of goose flesh.
It today was in the late 1930s I am sure refugees from Franco would have been where I was.
A few of the cafés and boutiques were open, others were painting and hammering for the tourist season. Some are still boarded up.
In my pocket I had my ticket to go back to Genève, where my roommate has complained about the cold. I’m a little old for the university spring break, but the feeling doesn’t have an age limit.
Of course, with the strikes getting back might be harder, but as they say on verra.
Spring memories
Fresh peas and baby potatoes about the size of a fingernail are on the market now. As much as robins, this is another sign that spring may still make it. The unpeeled potatoes steamed in a little olive oil and fresh sage (good for the memory) are wonderful. The peas need only to be cooked for a couple of minutes and then sprinkled with butter and/or cream and fresh mint.
Most of Europe is warmer causing the potential of floods in Czech from rains and snow melting too fast.
I think of my former neighbors whom I still miss. My dog Mika preferred their house to mine, and seldom would go by their door without scratching to be let in. Of course he was then hand fed salami as he sat in a place of honour on the couch and told how beautiful he was. No wonder he loved them.
I benefited as well. They preferred bread from Prague and every couple of days a loaf would arrive in the diplomatic pouch. Too much for them to consume, I would find a third of the loaf hanging on my door.
Many people in Geneva tend not to make friends with internationals who have limited contracts because they will only lose them. I would rather have had their four years of friendship than missed knowing them.
One of my fondest memories is having the man help me open my rusted plant holders on my balcony. He and I were speaking English. His wife was making suggestions. She and I were speaking French. His daughter and son-in-law who were visiting and I communicated in my bad German, and of course the family was speaking Czech. Despite the polyglot atmosphere the plant holders were fixed and I could plant my geraniums.
Spring is the time of renawal and I will write them as they do me.
Most of Europe is warmer causing the potential of floods in Czech from rains and snow melting too fast.
I think of my former neighbors whom I still miss. My dog Mika preferred their house to mine, and seldom would go by their door without scratching to be let in. Of course he was then hand fed salami as he sat in a place of honour on the couch and told how beautiful he was. No wonder he loved them.
I benefited as well. They preferred bread from Prague and every couple of days a loaf would arrive in the diplomatic pouch. Too much for them to consume, I would find a third of the loaf hanging on my door.
Many people in Geneva tend not to make friends with internationals who have limited contracts because they will only lose them. I would rather have had their four years of friendship than missed knowing them.
One of my fondest memories is having the man help me open my rusted plant holders on my balcony. He and I were speaking English. His wife was making suggestions. She and I were speaking French. His daughter and son-in-law who were visiting and I communicated in my bad German, and of course the family was speaking Czech. Despite the polyglot atmosphere the plant holders were fixed and I could plant my geraniums.
Spring is the time of renawal and I will write them as they do me.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Plastic bags
French grocery stores are no longer giving plastic bags. You can buy them, they write the date on them and when they wear out they replace them. Years ago people took their baskets shopping. Although it is a pain if you forget the bag, it is much more environmentally friendly.
The only problem is that I've used store plastic bags as my garbage bags. However, you can still get plastic bags for vegetables, but even then I used one bag for all rather than be wasteful. Once at the Co-op in Geneva the cashier explained to me I had to have one bag for all. I told her as the customer, I wasn't wasting plastic and the oil they are made from. In Swiss grocery stores they tend to package vegetable in quantities that aren't made for a small or one person family. When you can select the quantity, you weigh them and a sticker comes out with. I put several stickers on one bag.
I am not sure I am a throwback to my grandmother who used and reused everything or a throw through to the future when waste will once again not be possible for the human race.
The only problem is that I've used store plastic bags as my garbage bags. However, you can still get plastic bags for vegetables, but even then I used one bag for all rather than be wasteful. Once at the Co-op in Geneva the cashier explained to me I had to have one bag for all. I told her as the customer, I wasn't wasting plastic and the oil they are made from. In Swiss grocery stores they tend to package vegetable in quantities that aren't made for a small or one person family. When you can select the quantity, you weigh them and a sticker comes out with. I put several stickers on one bag.
I am not sure I am a throwback to my grandmother who used and reused everything or a throw through to the future when waste will once again not be possible for the human race.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
No need to dust for fingersprints
The two window boxes looked desolate. The dead leaves from last year’s flowers could not cheer up the purple and blue flowers on their white ceramic background. I searched the marché to buy replacement flowers and grabbed petunias thinking they were pansies. Okay, I am not a great plant person. I do know purple and planted the flowers.
My neighbor Madame Martinez stood by watching. She has one those open faces that breaks into a smile at the drop of a bonjour. A real plant lover, last year she talked me through each of my attempts to bring nore plant life to the street that is a floral wonderland. “Not enough dirt,” she said referring to the left box as I patted the petunias into the soil.
“I know. I’ll get some later.”
Her husband went to one of the two royal blue containers that flank my front door. “Papillons ate your geraniums.” He pulled out the dead plant and showed me where the little buggers hollowed out the inside. The rest of the calf-high planters was weed-cover but at least it was green. (The other planter has a tree which hasn’t succumbed to my neglect.)
I am still not sure if the Martinez’s applaud my attempt to no longer be one of the only houses on the street not to have flowers or despair for my black thumb or both.
I went in and did some things. By the time I came out again, one the planter with not enough dirt was emptied of my new petunias. My first thought was they were stolen, but then I saw the weeds in the blue planter had been replaced by the momentarily missing petunias. I didn’t need to dust them for finger prints to know that Madame Martinez had been at work. I must remember to say merci before I return to Geneva.
My neighbor Madame Martinez stood by watching. She has one those open faces that breaks into a smile at the drop of a bonjour. A real plant lover, last year she talked me through each of my attempts to bring nore plant life to the street that is a floral wonderland. “Not enough dirt,” she said referring to the left box as I patted the petunias into the soil.
“I know. I’ll get some later.”
Her husband went to one of the two royal blue containers that flank my front door. “Papillons ate your geraniums.” He pulled out the dead plant and showed me where the little buggers hollowed out the inside. The rest of the calf-high planters was weed-cover but at least it was green. (The other planter has a tree which hasn’t succumbed to my neglect.)
I am still not sure if the Martinez’s applaud my attempt to no longer be one of the only houses on the street not to have flowers or despair for my black thumb or both.
I went in and did some things. By the time I came out again, one the planter with not enough dirt was emptied of my new petunias. My first thought was they were stolen, but then I saw the weeds in the blue planter had been replaced by the momentarily missing petunias. I didn’t need to dust them for finger prints to know that Madame Martinez had been at work. I must remember to say merci before I return to Geneva.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Phish and Philosophy
I was the only one in the store, but it took almost a half hour to buy a fish filet. Dani, the fishmonger, stood behind the crush-iced-ladened counter with the fish arranged artistically in head-to-tail order. Cut lemon, cooked prawns, tartar sauce were decoratively displayed. I made my selection in minutes. We spent the time talking about life, the importance of community and calmness, families, recipes, life in Paris vs. life in a village etc. Not a moment of my time was wasted as we laughed together and bridged new understandings. All that and a good piece of fish for lunch. She believes she should only be open mornings and never Sunday and Monday to give time to the things she enjoys in life. She has enough.
All that and a good piece of fish for lunch.
All that and a good piece of fish for lunch.
Starting the day with news
As a devoted news junkie there’s something I like about waking up and watching BBCnews and CNN before getting out of bed, probably a variation on the joke about the man who said he read the obits before beginning a day. If his name wasn’t there he went ahead with his day.
If the world hasn’t ended I can start my day.
This morning I noticed something I have heard on French news from the BBC. When reporting on US, the statistics are preceded with the phrase “If the numbers are to be believed.”
Meanwhile there is a sense of ridiculousness about the news. Drug people from Columbia are being indited. We have to catch them first. In the whole drug war, it is all on catching on people and nothing about treatment. The drug trade always seemed to be the use of free market and globalization at its purest.
Then BBC discussed the bugging of Greek officials’ phones to the lead up of the Olympics that lead to the suicide of a man. They had an unnamed diplomat at the American embassy saying it was the US because the US wasn’t confident in the Greek’s ability to provide security.
And of course Bush was still in fantasy land talking about Iraq. Once again a man stood up and said how glad he was that Bush was Commander in Chief.
A bit of talking back to the television then I can do my morning routine of exercise, breakfast and start to write.
If the world hasn’t ended I can start my day.
This morning I noticed something I have heard on French news from the BBC. When reporting on US, the statistics are preceded with the phrase “If the numbers are to be believed.”
Meanwhile there is a sense of ridiculousness about the news. Drug people from Columbia are being indited. We have to catch them first. In the whole drug war, it is all on catching on people and nothing about treatment. The drug trade always seemed to be the use of free market and globalization at its purest.
Then BBC discussed the bugging of Greek officials’ phones to the lead up of the Olympics that lead to the suicide of a man. They had an unnamed diplomat at the American embassy saying it was the US because the US wasn’t confident in the Greek’s ability to provide security.
And of course Bush was still in fantasy land talking about Iraq. Once again a man stood up and said how glad he was that Bush was Commander in Chief.
A bit of talking back to the television then I can do my morning routine of exercise, breakfast and start to write.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Hope however minimal
My buddy Dennis sent me this to give me hope. www.wingsofjustice.com/06/03/woj06012.html
The rebuttal said everything I’ve been feeling for the last three years.
The rebuttal said everything I’ve been feeling for the last three years.
A pilgrimage for charity
May wandered off to get a nightie for her pilgrimage for her walk of St. Jacques de Compostelo www.red2000.com/spain/santiago/index.html and www.harvestpilgrimages.net.au/youthpilgrims.html She will earn her pilgrim’s shell, stay in monasteries with other pilgrims in the medieval tradition.
A retired midwyfe from Scotland she is dropping over 200 letters into the mail asking for sponsorships.
She doesn’t want the money for herself, but for a charity in South Africa run by two former accountants who left their work to take care of AIDs orphans in a tiny village. May visited them and saw children who were lucky when they had powdered milk. Often corn was ground and water added (not necessarily good water) to provide their basic food.
Another friend is thinking of giving up a lucrative job to work with the elderly.
Thank god for the people who try and make the world better. Good on anyone who at least goes through live without making the world worse. A pox on those who destroy life.
A retired midwyfe from Scotland she is dropping over 200 letters into the mail asking for sponsorships.
She doesn’t want the money for herself, but for a charity in South Africa run by two former accountants who left their work to take care of AIDs orphans in a tiny village. May visited them and saw children who were lucky when they had powdered milk. Often corn was ground and water added (not necessarily good water) to provide their basic food.
Another friend is thinking of giving up a lucrative job to work with the elderly.
Thank god for the people who try and make the world better. Good on anyone who at least goes through live without making the world worse. A pox on those who destroy life.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Small worlds and all that
When I was a bride living in Germany we were friends with another couple, a musician and his wife from upper state New York and their infant son. Even after we returned to the States we stayed in touch and after my marriage broke up, my daughter and I visited them often. By that point they had a little girl, one year older and I have pictures of the two girls at various stages.
One of those visits gave rise to a family story. Before driving back to Boston, a good six hours, I called home to let me roommate know we were on our way. Once in the car my daughter started to talk and talk and talk. She recited nursery rhymes, she sang songs until I thought I would go mad. Nothing would stop her. At home I staggered out of the car. She did too and hoarsely whispered to my roommate, “I did like you said, I kept Mommy awake.”
Finally we lost track but they were in my thoughts. Last week, I did an email search and found the name of the son, working at a company. I took a chance and emailed.
An email came back. It was the right one and Sunday night my girl friend and I had a good chat. Despite life’s disappointments and successes, her voice sounded just like it did when I sat at her kitchen table watching her roll out pizza dough. I half expected our two little daughters to climb into our laps.
However, when we started talking about our kids, we discovered that both girls were now living in Leesburg VA. As soon as my friend sends the contact numbers I’ll pass it onto my daughter who is looking forward to talking to her childhood buddy.
At one point my friend and I caught up on our mother’s who have both died. We had at times difficult relationships. I wonder what our girls will say about us, but then again, maybe I don’t want to know.
One of those visits gave rise to a family story. Before driving back to Boston, a good six hours, I called home to let me roommate know we were on our way. Once in the car my daughter started to talk and talk and talk. She recited nursery rhymes, she sang songs until I thought I would go mad. Nothing would stop her. At home I staggered out of the car. She did too and hoarsely whispered to my roommate, “I did like you said, I kept Mommy awake.”
Finally we lost track but they were in my thoughts. Last week, I did an email search and found the name of the son, working at a company. I took a chance and emailed.
An email came back. It was the right one and Sunday night my girl friend and I had a good chat. Despite life’s disappointments and successes, her voice sounded just like it did when I sat at her kitchen table watching her roll out pizza dough. I half expected our two little daughters to climb into our laps.
However, when we started talking about our kids, we discovered that both girls were now living in Leesburg VA. As soon as my friend sends the contact numbers I’ll pass it onto my daughter who is looking forward to talking to her childhood buddy.
At one point my friend and I caught up on our mother’s who have both died. We had at times difficult relationships. I wonder what our girls will say about us, but then again, maybe I don’t want to know.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Einstein
When Amadeus and Albert, my two Japanese chins, went to the great dog biscuit factory in the sky I was left with lots of wonderful memories and some less wonderful ones like the horror of five international flights with dogs, which although they ended with healthy pups, were a worry. After we moved to Toulouse, a while back, my neighbor, Anne a 13 year old who later had a successful liver transplant, renamed them Einstein and Mozart, and as long as I lived in the neighborhood they were known by that, except when they were called the musician and the brain, which in Albert’s case was more complimentary than factual.
Recently a friend named her new pup Mozart and this weekend I was in Schwyz visiting a friend and former colleague and her St. Bernard pup Einstein, who although only four months is already bigger than an adult Lab.
This Einstein has a gentle soul and is a lover of slippers. I found my slipper-shod foot surrounded by his mouth, although no pressure was applied. He rolled his eyes up with a gee-it-would-be-nice but accepted my decision to remove foot and slipper from my mouth.
My friend’s house looks out on snow covered fields leading into a pine wood. I did not roll down the blinds because I wanted to wake to the beauty. Because I left my room door closed, my slippers were still on the floor in the morning.
As I write this Einstein is laying on the rug at my feet, his head on one of the slippers, a worthy compromise.
Recently a friend named her new pup Mozart and this weekend I was in Schwyz visiting a friend and former colleague and her St. Bernard pup Einstein, who although only four months is already bigger than an adult Lab.
This Einstein has a gentle soul and is a lover of slippers. I found my slipper-shod foot surrounded by his mouth, although no pressure was applied. He rolled his eyes up with a gee-it-would-be-nice but accepted my decision to remove foot and slipper from my mouth.
My friend’s house looks out on snow covered fields leading into a pine wood. I did not roll down the blinds because I wanted to wake to the beauty. Because I left my room door closed, my slippers were still on the floor in the morning.
As I write this Einstein is laying on the rug at my feet, his head on one of the slippers, a worthy compromise.
You can't believe in stereotypes
The Swiss Germans have a reputation for being cold and unfriendly, but if one woman on a train is an example, they are in danger of losing that reputation. I wanted to go to Schenderleggi, but the name was not posted on the board by the track where the station attendant told me to wait. On the train I asked this fortiesh blond in my bad German if it were the right train.
“Ja,” she said and showed me on the map that covered the trays at each seat the route. When the conductor announced the stop in his sing song Swiss Deutsche, she turned and held both thumbs up. I smiled and thanked her, but her helpfulness wasn’t through. She led me to the door and made sure I knew how to push the button that opened the doors. “Sie Sind eine gute Frau,” I said.
”Merci,” she said.
“Ja,” she said and showed me on the map that covered the trays at each seat the route. When the conductor announced the stop in his sing song Swiss Deutsche, she turned and held both thumbs up. I smiled and thanked her, but her helpfulness wasn’t through. She led me to the door and made sure I knew how to push the button that opened the doors. “Sie Sind eine gute Frau,” I said.
”Merci,” she said.
Spring
Spring is trying but not hard enough. In Geneva it is still duvet-coat cold, but there is a hint of a smell that only happens in spring of the ice letting go of the dirt, probably what e.e. cummings was thinking of when he used the word mudlious. When I left the house much too early to catch a train to Zürich, the last hoots of the owl were drowned out by a chorus of birds, which have been silent through March.
Munchkin the cat must notice a rise in the temperature because when she asks to go out, she changes her mind less often when testing the wind with her nose and also stays out longer. There is a temperature that when she does go out she is almost immediately meowing at the door or window. She seems to know which room we are all in and has a large amplifier in her system that lets her voice penetrate barriers.
Where I stayed in Schwyz spring seemed even further away with snow still piled up and cross country skiers sliding through the fields, but I was staying at 500 meters in a little town called Schenderleggi. It seemed like the start of a DuMaurier novel. I want to go back to Schenderleggi… with the name rolling around my tongue.
Munchkin the cat must notice a rise in the temperature because when she asks to go out, she changes her mind less often when testing the wind with her nose and also stays out longer. There is a temperature that when she does go out she is almost immediately meowing at the door or window. She seems to know which room we are all in and has a large amplifier in her system that lets her voice penetrate barriers.
Where I stayed in Schwyz spring seemed even further away with snow still piled up and cross country skiers sliding through the fields, but I was staying at 500 meters in a little town called Schenderleggi. It seemed like the start of a DuMaurier novel. I want to go back to Schenderleggi… with the name rolling around my tongue.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
gloves
I did it. I got from October to Marc without losing my one pair of gloves. Today I left them on the bus. They were cheap gloves. The last expensive pair I bought were from the leather market in Florence and were the softest red leather I ever felt. I caught myself stroking my hand the whole one time I wore them before leaving them on a table in a forgettable village in France on an adventure with RB2. Now the question is do I bother to find one more pair of cheap gloves for the rest of the winter.
Selling and selling out
There is a group that wants to buy the 1291 document that formed Switzerland in that year, making it the world’s oldest democracy and put it in a US museum. Needless to say, the plan is met with less than enthusiasm. As one newspaperman wrote, he couldn’t imagine Americans selling the Declaration of Independence. No one mentioned the sell-out of the American Constitution.
Fighting Graffti
A novel way to battle graffiti on trains and in train stations has been announced by the CFF. They have asked that the employees who wash the graffiti off, first use their cell phones to take a photo. They will store the photos in a data base and because some spray artists have distinctive styles they hope by preserving evidence they will increase their convictions. Now there’s a use of cell phones that is original.
Trains and oranges
About 98% of the time when I am on a French or Swiss train someone eats an orange. The smell is wonderful. However, on my weekend getaway to Paris, no one ate an orange, and I arrived home feeling something was missing. Today, the heavens balanced themselves. On the Number 9 bus from Eaux Vives, a woman with short hair peeled a blood orange.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Death announcements
Le Matin Bleu kept the francophone tradition of not announcing deaths. Slobodan Milosevic didn’t die, according to the newspaper, he escaped his judges.
Postcards from Paris
Friday night – Three women, three nationalities, ages from three different decades in a Parisian flat complete with tiled roofs out the window, good food and great conversations.
Saturday – lunch at a favourite vegetarian restaurant. The owner sang “I want to be loved by you” to one of his staff and we chorused poop poop de do. He convinced everyone there was an imaginary hole on the route to the toilets and even the most self-conscious local made an effort to step over the hole. People watched to see if they would.
Saturday – Sacre Coeur in the rain, a candle lit for a sick relative, a wander through the square where artists drew passer-bys, a discovery of all kinds of cloth shops, and a cup of hot tea in a tea room. When Marina said “entertain me” then disappeared for the obligatory stop, Mary and I quickly added faces to our knuckles and serenaded her on her return to “Let me entertain you…” followed by “There’s no business like show business…” with the appropriate “leg” kicks.
Saturday night – Three women in jamies watching DVDs as the rain pattered against the window.
Sunday – leisurely breakfast followed by a boat trip. This may be the fourth time I have done it (the boat trip), but I never stop pinching myself that I am in Paris and not as a one-time thing. I lost count of the times after 30 and maybe they shouldn't be counted. For a “little girl from Reading,” as my childhood friend’s father termed me, for a New Englander whose mother believed if you went much further than Boston you fell off the edge of the earth, it is a miracle.
Saturday – lunch at a favourite vegetarian restaurant. The owner sang “I want to be loved by you” to one of his staff and we chorused poop poop de do. He convinced everyone there was an imaginary hole on the route to the toilets and even the most self-conscious local made an effort to step over the hole. People watched to see if they would.
Saturday – Sacre Coeur in the rain, a candle lit for a sick relative, a wander through the square where artists drew passer-bys, a discovery of all kinds of cloth shops, and a cup of hot tea in a tea room. When Marina said “entertain me” then disappeared for the obligatory stop, Mary and I quickly added faces to our knuckles and serenaded her on her return to “Let me entertain you…” followed by “There’s no business like show business…” with the appropriate “leg” kicks.
Saturday night – Three women in jamies watching DVDs as the rain pattered against the window.
Sunday – leisurely breakfast followed by a boat trip. This may be the fourth time I have done it (the boat trip), but I never stop pinching myself that I am in Paris and not as a one-time thing. I lost count of the times after 30 and maybe they shouldn't be counted. For a “little girl from Reading,” as my childhood friend’s father termed me, for a New Englander whose mother believed if you went much further than Boston you fell off the edge of the earth, it is a miracle.
Book launch report by popular request
Four people have asked why I didn’t blog my European book launch.
The evening was wonderful with old and new friends and a few strangers too.
The location was my hairdresser, maybe a strange place for a book launch, but the two brothers that own the salon, use it as a gallery and a place to support the arts or maybe vice versa.
The night was horrible, rainy, cold, damp – thank goodness Swiss buildings are well heated. I did say before I read selections from THE CARD that I wasn’t sure I would have gone out on a night like that.
Some people are shy about reading. I take great pleasure in it, especially when people respond as I hope they will. It takes so long to produce a book, and even when I am in the middle of writing it, I am never sure it will find a reading public. So when people laugh where they should, or cock their heads at just the right moment, there’s a feeling of “I nailed it.” Of course, there’s always the fear that blank faces will look back at you, but this did not happen.
The question and answer period after also touched me. One of the women in the audience remembered me reading one of the same selections in Zurich over ten years ago. At that stage, the book was still a seedling.
Christmas music played to create the mood. The son of my housemate played bar tender and made a new friend, a plus for helping me out.
My last book launch for CHICKPEA LOVER had been at the now defunct book store Elm (hopefully there was no connection to their going out of business and my reading). That night was as hot as this was cold. But that reading had something special: my daughter and neighbour were there. For this reading they were in two different countries, and I did miss their faces in the audience. However, I carried their warmth with me.
The evening was wonderful with old and new friends and a few strangers too.
The location was my hairdresser, maybe a strange place for a book launch, but the two brothers that own the salon, use it as a gallery and a place to support the arts or maybe vice versa.
The night was horrible, rainy, cold, damp – thank goodness Swiss buildings are well heated. I did say before I read selections from THE CARD that I wasn’t sure I would have gone out on a night like that.
Some people are shy about reading. I take great pleasure in it, especially when people respond as I hope they will. It takes so long to produce a book, and even when I am in the middle of writing it, I am never sure it will find a reading public. So when people laugh where they should, or cock their heads at just the right moment, there’s a feeling of “I nailed it.” Of course, there’s always the fear that blank faces will look back at you, but this did not happen.
The question and answer period after also touched me. One of the women in the audience remembered me reading one of the same selections in Zurich over ten years ago. At that stage, the book was still a seedling.
Christmas music played to create the mood. The son of my housemate played bar tender and made a new friend, a plus for helping me out.
My last book launch for CHICKPEA LOVER had been at the now defunct book store Elm (hopefully there was no connection to their going out of business and my reading). That night was as hot as this was cold. But that reading had something special: my daughter and neighbour were there. For this reading they were in two different countries, and I did miss their faces in the audience. However, I carried their warmth with me.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Tea and Perspective on Mothers and Daughters
Yesterday morning I had tea and biscuits with two charming little girls, three and five and their writer stay-at-home mom. Actually, the girls had milk and bite-sized chocolate bears with milk, but were allowed to sample our gingery biscuits.
These are lucky children; well-loved, disciplined to a point that they are well-behaved but not discouraged to speak freely. Their creativity is encouraged. A quick argument over a ball is resolved with fairness; each is encouraged to take turns. They are eager to show their dollies, or their colouring books. They are bright children, often surprising me with their vocabularies and memories.
This morning on waking I thought of the mom gathering the littler one in her arms after a fall from a chair. Tears disappeared quickly. A few minutes later she made a ruling over a gift. Their mom is only slightly younger than my daughter. As we sipped our tea, I had nothing but admiration for her. But then I realised to her daughters she is an all powerful being able to withhold chocolate teddy bears, decider of who gets what, controller of bedtimes, walks and everything that happens in their lives.
The next jump in my thoughts as I spent the last few precious moments in bed was how much power I gave my own mother over me. Only when I watched her ashes spiral into the air on a spring April day in the woods behind her apartment, did I realise it was me that gave the bits of dust the power once I was an adult.
Munchkin, the cat, looked at me, trying to decide if she wanted to encourage me to get up to let her out. She settled down with her tail over her nose, and I went back to my own musings. This time I thought of my own daughter, over whom I once had the same control of chocolate and milk, bedtimes, television viewing, everything. Today any power I have over her, not that I want any, is of her own relinquishing to me. Both she and this stay-at-home mom-writer are adults with their own ways to find as I had to find mine.
The stay-at-home mom as she metes out discipline and love is not interested in power. She wants her daughters to develop into what they can be and knows loves and fairness is the way to help them along the road. Sometime in the future these two little girls will have to deal with developing their own independence and maybe they will fight to be free of the woman that once had so much power over their lives, power that the mom never saw it as power, but as love. Love is not about power, it only exists as one person allows the other to have it.
In that house, around the kitchen table looking out on the countryside, there is love. There is a re-enactment of lives for eons between women and their children, little daily events like milk and cookies, talks and games, but each in its own way is special.
I hope when those two little girls are grown they and their mother develop a relationship of appreciation. They may not remember yesterday’s rainy March day, but the feelings created will be part of them. The mom will not be able to solve their adult hurts with hugs, she will not be able to negotiate their lives, but she will have given them the skills for them to do it themselves not because she is powerful, but because she is loving.
These are lucky children; well-loved, disciplined to a point that they are well-behaved but not discouraged to speak freely. Their creativity is encouraged. A quick argument over a ball is resolved with fairness; each is encouraged to take turns. They are eager to show their dollies, or their colouring books. They are bright children, often surprising me with their vocabularies and memories.
This morning on waking I thought of the mom gathering the littler one in her arms after a fall from a chair. Tears disappeared quickly. A few minutes later she made a ruling over a gift. Their mom is only slightly younger than my daughter. As we sipped our tea, I had nothing but admiration for her. But then I realised to her daughters she is an all powerful being able to withhold chocolate teddy bears, decider of who gets what, controller of bedtimes, walks and everything that happens in their lives.
The next jump in my thoughts as I spent the last few precious moments in bed was how much power I gave my own mother over me. Only when I watched her ashes spiral into the air on a spring April day in the woods behind her apartment, did I realise it was me that gave the bits of dust the power once I was an adult.
Munchkin, the cat, looked at me, trying to decide if she wanted to encourage me to get up to let her out. She settled down with her tail over her nose, and I went back to my own musings. This time I thought of my own daughter, over whom I once had the same control of chocolate and milk, bedtimes, television viewing, everything. Today any power I have over her, not that I want any, is of her own relinquishing to me. Both she and this stay-at-home mom-writer are adults with their own ways to find as I had to find mine.
The stay-at-home mom as she metes out discipline and love is not interested in power. She wants her daughters to develop into what they can be and knows loves and fairness is the way to help them along the road. Sometime in the future these two little girls will have to deal with developing their own independence and maybe they will fight to be free of the woman that once had so much power over their lives, power that the mom never saw it as power, but as love. Love is not about power, it only exists as one person allows the other to have it.
In that house, around the kitchen table looking out on the countryside, there is love. There is a re-enactment of lives for eons between women and their children, little daily events like milk and cookies, talks and games, but each in its own way is special.
I hope when those two little girls are grown they and their mother develop a relationship of appreciation. They may not remember yesterday’s rainy March day, but the feelings created will be part of them. The mom will not be able to solve their adult hurts with hugs, she will not be able to negotiate their lives, but she will have given them the skills for them to do it themselves not because she is powerful, but because she is loving.
Pussy willows
The early morning snow turned to rain as the temperature rose. As the day wore on it even felt like a spring rain, the first in a long, long time.
I was invited to lunch with another writer at her villa in the Geneva countryside. There are several old villas there, all part of an ancient estate. Hers, before conversion, was where the owners pressed the grapes. The stone press about the size of a double bed, decorates her living room. Outside her double-doored windows grapevines are lined up like a marching army, twisted from battle. In a few weeks they will begin to green.
As I wait for her to unlock the door before I return home after a meal and conversation on varied topic, I notice that at the tip of each branch of the leaf-shorn bushes a single rain drop glisten in the late afternoon light like so many transparent pussy-willows, but unlike the pussy willows in the woods and those just appearing in the stores for sale, these will only last in memory. Again I am reminded how important the minute is and how I should not waste them. Like the brother-I-always-wanted RB2 said, “each day should have a celebration.” Mine was water drop pussywillows.
I was invited to lunch with another writer at her villa in the Geneva countryside. There are several old villas there, all part of an ancient estate. Hers, before conversion, was where the owners pressed the grapes. The stone press about the size of a double bed, decorates her living room. Outside her double-doored windows grapevines are lined up like a marching army, twisted from battle. In a few weeks they will begin to green.
As I wait for her to unlock the door before I return home after a meal and conversation on varied topic, I notice that at the tip of each branch of the leaf-shorn bushes a single rain drop glisten in the late afternoon light like so many transparent pussy-willows, but unlike the pussy willows in the woods and those just appearing in the stores for sale, these will only last in memory. Again I am reminded how important the minute is and how I should not waste them. Like the brother-I-always-wanted RB2 said, “each day should have a celebration.” Mine was water drop pussywillows.
Monday, March 06, 2006
2x in 16 years
Whenever it snows I find myself singing Winter Wonderland, although no one listening would recognize my version. Sunday morning as I slogged through the snow to the bus to catch an early train to Payerne the melody beat in my head.
Because it is the 78th Car Show, all the canton flags big enough to cover at least three king-sized beds decorated the Pont du Mont Blanc and the Jet d’Eau could be seen through the flakes.
More people tramped through Cornavin train station than at rush hour on Monday, mostly men and boys on their way to see the latest automobile models. It is easier to live on the left bank not the right bank near Palexpo where the car show takes place. At least I can get away from it and there aren’t thousands of people crowding a bus I want to take home.
I got up to the voie and there was a message on the board “10 min. retard”. The train was late, which would mean I would miss my connection in Lausanne. I have used Swiss trains since 1990 sometimes on a daily, sometimes on a weekly basis and never less than once a month. This was only the second time a train was late.
Nothing could be done except to take out my natel (cell) which is in a fluffy Dalmatian dog case and advised Florian I would come in an hour later.
When the train did pull in, it was one of the sleek double deckers. I mounted the stairs to the second story and as we plunged through the swirling snow I wasn’t the least bothered as the scenery passed. Being late twice in sixteen years is fine when there is such beauty to look at as I rode through a Winter Wonderland. This will be a record snowfall for Switzerland.
Because it is the 78th Car Show, all the canton flags big enough to cover at least three king-sized beds decorated the Pont du Mont Blanc and the Jet d’Eau could be seen through the flakes.
More people tramped through Cornavin train station than at rush hour on Monday, mostly men and boys on their way to see the latest automobile models. It is easier to live on the left bank not the right bank near Palexpo where the car show takes place. At least I can get away from it and there aren’t thousands of people crowding a bus I want to take home.
I got up to the voie and there was a message on the board “10 min. retard”. The train was late, which would mean I would miss my connection in Lausanne. I have used Swiss trains since 1990 sometimes on a daily, sometimes on a weekly basis and never less than once a month. This was only the second time a train was late.
Nothing could be done except to take out my natel (cell) which is in a fluffy Dalmatian dog case and advised Florian I would come in an hour later.
When the train did pull in, it was one of the sleek double deckers. I mounted the stairs to the second story and as we plunged through the swirling snow I wasn’t the least bothered as the scenery passed. Being late twice in sixteen years is fine when there is such beauty to look at as I rode through a Winter Wonderland. This will be a record snowfall for Switzerland.
Brandons de Payerne
The Brandons of Payerne http://www.brandonspayerne.ch/ is another word for carnival. I went out to spend the day with Florian and his family and to stand and watch the cortege (parade) with the chars (floats). All the floats are made by local groups such as the gymnastic club and in past years they have been imaginative with themes from good citizenship, political satires, movies, cowboys and Indians, in fact just about any theme is possible. Much love goes into this enterprise, which is not commercial, although some of the stands along the cortege route selling chestnuts, balloons, sausages, sweets, and confetti are.
However, because of the snow, the floats could not roll safely. Only the bands marched. It is a tradition for some of the bands to play off key. Many are costumed as are the children who decide what they will wear as carefully as American kids plan Halloween.
Although the snow had stopped and the sun was in a rare blue sky, the offering was on the disappointing side. As I left I saw the confetti had melted into the snow creating a rainbow around our feet.
However, because of the snow, the floats could not roll safely. Only the bands marched. It is a tradition for some of the bands to play off key. Many are costumed as are the children who decide what they will wear as carefully as American kids plan Halloween.
Although the snow had stopped and the sun was in a rare blue sky, the offering was on the disappointing side. As I left I saw the confetti had melted into the snow creating a rainbow around our feet.
Faux Christ, Faux Texan
He looked like the paintings of Jesus Christ that decorate hundreds of churches and Sunday School texts only without the radiance. He was dressed in robes that would have been in style in Jerusalem in 20 A.D., probably more to keep him warm. The look was not totally first century. I doubt if Christ wore sports socks in his sandals. This man had a crutch in place of a staff to lead his sheep. The crutch was the kind that grasps the lower arm not the kind that is thrust into an armpit. As this Faux Christ waited for the No.9 bus at Eaux Vives, he took the crutch and started spinning it like a proud majorette at an American high school football game. The bus came, he got on perhaps on his way to try to stroll across Lake Geneva.
This man probably in his late 50s early sixties is French speaking but he wears cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, not a small one, but a huge one that if it were not for the design would stand taller than a top hat. He is always dressed in an impeccable beige suit with a thick leather belt around his waist that crosses one shoulder Canadian Mountie style. His pants have a butter-cutting crease. Over his suit he wears a long black leather coat with ribbons on the shoulders with both the right and left held down by a sheriff’s badge. A third sheriff’s badge, at least six inches in width and length is over his heart. Two American flags are in each of the coat’s lapels. Like the Faux Christ he carries something to help him strut, not a full crutch but a cane from which dangles a Swiss Army knife.
The words of a Christine Lavin song came to my mind in both cases. She sang about derelicts and crazies with the lyrics “He once was somebody’s baby.” I don’t know what made the Faux Christ and the Faux Texan into what they are, but at one time a woman held each of them as a baby in her arms as she gave him a breast or a bottle never dreaming of their future.
This man probably in his late 50s early sixties is French speaking but he wears cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, not a small one, but a huge one that if it were not for the design would stand taller than a top hat. He is always dressed in an impeccable beige suit with a thick leather belt around his waist that crosses one shoulder Canadian Mountie style. His pants have a butter-cutting crease. Over his suit he wears a long black leather coat with ribbons on the shoulders with both the right and left held down by a sheriff’s badge. A third sheriff’s badge, at least six inches in width and length is over his heart. Two American flags are in each of the coat’s lapels. Like the Faux Christ he carries something to help him strut, not a full crutch but a cane from which dangles a Swiss Army knife.
The words of a Christine Lavin song came to my mind in both cases. She sang about derelicts and crazies with the lyrics “He once was somebody’s baby.” I don’t know what made the Faux Christ and the Faux Texan into what they are, but at one time a woman held each of them as a baby in her arms as she gave him a breast or a bottle never dreaming of their future.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Each day is a gift
Swiss death notices have always fascinated me. Often several appear for the same person put in by their families, employers and organizations they worked for. The smallest might be 1/32 of a page and like one today, that touched me, they can go up to half a page.
The notices list those who miss the “defunct” with messages or not along with funeral information.
The picture of Yolande caught my eye. She was a pretty woman with short blond hair and wearing one dangling earring. Her smile radiates. I suspect she was a blond, but the black and white photo doesn’t tell me.
Her family tells me she had “quit” them in her 52nd year after a long and bad illness, which she supported with courage and dignity.
But above the message and the list of her survivors is a letter she wrote. I will give a loose translation.
“If you think I’ve quit you too soon, you’re right but this long walk in the glade filled with shadows and light where I have been cradled gave me permission to live unforgettable moments intensely.
“To all my entourage, I leave with hope of having communicated to you all my energy, my joy in life and my strength. Know that it is with much humility that these lines have been written to send to you this message of deep love. The world is peopled with marvelous persons.
“I thank everyone, especially my children, my parents, my family and my close ones. I can never thank enough my doctors (she names them) which was an incredible meeting and for allowing me to live a serene life with my cancer.
To you, who have supported me with exemplary courage, when you think of me, never forget for an instant to live in the present for each day is a gift.”
She died March 1. There are five other notices of various sizes from the places she worked and clubs she belonged to. There is a notice from where her father was a president. One was from Nice in France.
Outside my window the bise is ripping through the trees. The sky is a strange ribbed grey with the light shinning through to make the evergreen outside my window almost luminous.
I have writing to do dressed in my old jeans and sweatshirt, my feet toasty from the radiator behind my desk. Tonight is my book launch where hopefully I will see old friends that I have invited. My housemate and her son are helping me. My housemate is bustling around downstairs filing papers. There is harmony all around. Each day IS a gift.
The notices list those who miss the “defunct” with messages or not along with funeral information.
The picture of Yolande caught my eye. She was a pretty woman with short blond hair and wearing one dangling earring. Her smile radiates. I suspect she was a blond, but the black and white photo doesn’t tell me.
Her family tells me she had “quit” them in her 52nd year after a long and bad illness, which she supported with courage and dignity.
But above the message and the list of her survivors is a letter she wrote. I will give a loose translation.
“If you think I’ve quit you too soon, you’re right but this long walk in the glade filled with shadows and light where I have been cradled gave me permission to live unforgettable moments intensely.
“To all my entourage, I leave with hope of having communicated to you all my energy, my joy in life and my strength. Know that it is with much humility that these lines have been written to send to you this message of deep love. The world is peopled with marvelous persons.
“I thank everyone, especially my children, my parents, my family and my close ones. I can never thank enough my doctors (she names them) which was an incredible meeting and for allowing me to live a serene life with my cancer.
To you, who have supported me with exemplary courage, when you think of me, never forget for an instant to live in the present for each day is a gift.”
She died March 1. There are five other notices of various sizes from the places she worked and clubs she belonged to. There is a notice from where her father was a president. One was from Nice in France.
Outside my window the bise is ripping through the trees. The sky is a strange ribbed grey with the light shinning through to make the evergreen outside my window almost luminous.
I have writing to do dressed in my old jeans and sweatshirt, my feet toasty from the radiator behind my desk. Tonight is my book launch where hopefully I will see old friends that I have invited. My housemate and her son are helping me. My housemate is bustling around downstairs filing papers. There is harmony all around. Each day IS a gift.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Celebration Part II
I am disgustingly happy. I know some cultures say it is tempting evil eye to say this, but with one exception that will hopefully pass, I love the way I am living. My living situation in Geneva is nothing short of fun with a generous amount of joy thrown in. Sharing a house again with others, the coming and going, the laughter, is great. It goes beyond functionality. And if I ever desire alone time I have a nest to run to. I get two lives in one.
My calendar needs control to allow me writing time, but this is not a complaint when I have a chance to visit with friends. Most are creative and share my politics, although they all have their own set of interests making sharing fun. The mental stimulation is enhanced by the warmth. The beauty of where I live
And if I don’t accomplish my to-do list each day, which at best is unreasonable, there’s always tomorrow. I can laugh
When Rb2 said we should celebrate things everyday, I have much to celebrate, but I don’t take it for granted. Maybe not taking it for granted will keep the evil eye away.
My calendar needs control to allow me writing time, but this is not a complaint when I have a chance to visit with friends. Most are creative and share my politics, although they all have their own set of interests making sharing fun. The mental stimulation is enhanced by the warmth. The beauty of where I live
And if I don’t accomplish my to-do list each day, which at best is unreasonable, there’s always tomorrow. I can laugh
When Rb2 said we should celebrate things everyday, I have much to celebrate, but I don’t take it for granted. Maybe not taking it for granted will keep the evil eye away.
Tee sticks
The tables in the dining car of the Zurich-Lausanne train had lemony-beige starched table cloths. RB2 and I ordered our Fruhstück of brotchen and croissants. The menu said tee sticks. I selected the Ceylon. “What is it?” Rb2 asked.
I didn’t know, but the dark haired waiter brought my cup. The tee stick was in silver with holes, about four inches long and ¼ of an inch wide. It looked like a slick skyscraper but it made a great cup of tea as the Swiss villages with their chalets, a castle or two, lakes, mountains and a lightly falling snow brought us back into the French-speaking part of the country.
Although we were only away a night all the little details including changing languages in this tiny three-language country, made it seem as if I had been on a holiday.
I didn’t know, but the dark haired waiter brought my cup. The tee stick was in silver with holes, about four inches long and ¼ of an inch wide. It looked like a slick skyscraper but it made a great cup of tea as the Swiss villages with their chalets, a castle or two, lakes, mountains and a lightly falling snow brought us back into the French-speaking part of the country.
Although we were only away a night all the little details including changing languages in this tiny three-language country, made it seem as if I had been on a holiday.
Celebration Part I
RB2 first saw Chris Rea www.chrisrea.com in Cape Town and then a few years later in Rotterdam. He introduced me to him in 1990 at a concert in Lausanne. When we saw he had a Zurich stop on his last tour, we grabbed tickets even if it was a three-hour train ride.
The concert hall was a stand-up only. The first place we found we had no view of the performers but the instrumentals were so great I only half minded. It has been a long-time since I was at a stand-up only concert and I’d forgotten smoking was allowed in the hall. What was new was all the people with their cell phones pointed at the stage recording the concert.
RB2 touched my shoulder and beckoned me. He had gone on reconnaissance and found a wonderful hidey hole in back of the in-hall bar.
Rea is not that well known in the States. He is a rock-blue-jazz gravely-voiced singer, song-writer with tremendous performance on guitar, banjo and harmonica. I’d always liked his lyrics but you felt the music and the advantage of standing was you could dance. In fact not moving would have been impossible.
Towards the end of the concert RB2 asked if I wanted a champagne. Is the Pope German? As we clunked our plastic flutes together he said, “You should have something to celebrate every day.”
The concert was a good thing to celebrate.
The concert hall was a stand-up only. The first place we found we had no view of the performers but the instrumentals were so great I only half minded. It has been a long-time since I was at a stand-up only concert and I’d forgotten smoking was allowed in the hall. What was new was all the people with their cell phones pointed at the stage recording the concert.
RB2 touched my shoulder and beckoned me. He had gone on reconnaissance and found a wonderful hidey hole in back of the in-hall bar.
Rea is not that well known in the States. He is a rock-blue-jazz gravely-voiced singer, song-writer with tremendous performance on guitar, banjo and harmonica. I’d always liked his lyrics but you felt the music and the advantage of standing was you could dance. In fact not moving would have been impossible.
Towards the end of the concert RB2 asked if I wanted a champagne. Is the Pope German? As we clunked our plastic flutes together he said, “You should have something to celebrate every day.”
The concert was a good thing to celebrate.
A dead duck and other musings
A dead duck found near the Jet d’Eau on Lake Geneva had Bird Flu. The disease has arrived officially in Switzerland. Near the news article was a report that the disease started in a bird farm where chickens were pushed together and never saw the light of day.
A man refused asylum in Switzerland because they didn’t believe he was in danger was sent back to his home country to be arrested. He is serving a nine-year jail term.
Gee, the US has attacked other countries, built a gulag, ignored international treaties, reheated the nuclear build ups by ignoring the nuclear non proliferation treaty, engaged in torture, spied on its own citizens and now wants to build a wall (to keep people out not in) between Mexico and the US. Doesn’t that sound a bit like the old Soviet Union?
Bush has had many bad ideas including running for president but the stupidest yet is to sell US ports to a company owned by the UAE. Meanwhile a British company wants ownership of a New England utility. I may be out of line here, but I really feel a country should keep its infrastructure in its own hands. Years ago I thought of writing a futuristic novel where there were no more countries, only corporations in as I pledge allegiance to IBM (or Microsoft, or GE). People laughed. Maybe I wasn’t so far off.
With all the bad news later today I will take a train to Zurich, meet up with my best buddy RB2 in Lausanne and we’ll go to see a Chris Rea concert. The world may be going to hell, but at least my friends aren’t.
A man refused asylum in Switzerland because they didn’t believe he was in danger was sent back to his home country to be arrested. He is serving a nine-year jail term.
Gee, the US has attacked other countries, built a gulag, ignored international treaties, reheated the nuclear build ups by ignoring the nuclear non proliferation treaty, engaged in torture, spied on its own citizens and now wants to build a wall (to keep people out not in) between Mexico and the US. Doesn’t that sound a bit like the old Soviet Union?
Bush has had many bad ideas including running for president but the stupidest yet is to sell US ports to a company owned by the UAE. Meanwhile a British company wants ownership of a New England utility. I may be out of line here, but I really feel a country should keep its infrastructure in its own hands. Years ago I thought of writing a futuristic novel where there were no more countries, only corporations in as I pledge allegiance to IBM (or Microsoft, or GE). People laughed. Maybe I wasn’t so far off.
With all the bad news later today I will take a train to Zurich, meet up with my best buddy RB2 in Lausanne and we’ll go to see a Chris Rea concert. The world may be going to hell, but at least my friends aren’t.
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