My mate's book

When you share years of writing time with someone, a bond forms like no other. Over a decade and a half ago Sylvia and I sat in the same writing class of the Geneva Writers Group. She talked about her worries of her family back in Australia where her parents still lived.

Since we worked across from each other, we began meeting regularly, comparing writing and offering comments to move the process along.

We shared our disappointments at our all too many rejections, joy at a rejection with a positive comment, ideas on how we could advance our craft, marketing sources. Sometimes I would publish something, sometimes she would. The shared joy of these early successes was never marred by jealousy on either side, we knew if one of us could, the other could.

Now she is bringing out a second short story collection down under. I share her reviews:

Sylvia Petter is a cartographer of dislocated lives. With compassionate precision, she charts the detours, the disruptive incursions of passion, loneliness and loss, the ever-shifting conceptions of home and of the self. Her characters are always on the move through complicated terrain, and the journey is richly rewarding for the reader.– Janette Turner Hospital

In simple, direct and compelling language, the stories reward the reader with a variety of distinct and memorable experiences: from the complexities of love (and unfaithfulness) to those of history and the way it treats, mistreats and selects its victims, building its ironies on the accidents of race, nationality, personality, place and parentage. With its broad geographical span and array of venues, this book would make a fine companion for a journey. Not only does it entertain; it makes you think, it makes you feel, it makes you appreciate the humanity of its many characters.– Thomas E. Kennedy, Advisory Editor, The Literary Review

Sylvia Petter’s second collection is storytelling at its best. Each story presents a mini-world complete in itself—with real-to-life characters, heart-aching situations, and “visions of wings”. Petter takes the reader for a fast moving, eclectic tour around Europe, and back and forth to Australia. Crossing cultures with every page, and shifting between generations, Petter slowly builds a world of human goodness and trust in the midst of shadows. The reader is won over by Petter’s sharp wit, polished craft and honesty. Bravo for this tour de force.– Susan M. Tiberghien, author of One Year to a Writing Life

Her publisher's website: www.ipoz.biz/Titles/BB.htm

I am so proud of you Sylvia. Congratulations...

A poem

The Washing Shed

The washing shed cooks in the sun.
Women stand by soapstone sinks
scrubbing stains from clothes
as their great grandmothers did.
The smell of bleach and soap
mingles with sweat.
They brush hair from their eyes.
Children play underfoot
as the river flows by.

They talk of Pierre beating Marie,
Sophie’s new job in Toulouse, Michel
cheating on Chantal, fresh garden
basil, the price of apricots.
Some own washing machines
white and shiny in lonely kitchens.
Better to carry baskets and powders
To the shed where gossip steals time
as the river flows by.

Clean strawberries

I bought strawberries today from a local grower, an organic farmer. They are medium-sized a beautiful red, rough to the fingers when you cut them up, and so sweet that I didn’t need sugar. They were not grown using Methyl bromide, a pesticide used in America. It was supposed to be phased out of use by 1 January 2005 according to the Montreal Protocol. Why? Because, according to scientists, it contributes to the hole in the ozone layer. Are we in trouble environmentally? Of course we are…Sea ice that would cover Australia and Texas has melted this summer. The US will continue to use it until 2009. Another example of the bully country acting as an international outlaw.

Still no habeas corpus.

The Senate did not restore the right of habeas corpus this week although 56 Senators wanted to. They needed 60 votes. Technically the lack of habeas corpus only refers to terrorists and non-Americans, but if someone is arrested how do they prove they are American? Some 75% of Americans don’t have passports and few carry their birth certificates in their pockets in case the government suddenly mistakes them for terrorists? What happens to dual nationals like myself? Or an American citizen with a strange accent?

For a government that has illegally spied on its citizens, which has tortured against international law, which has done illegal renditions, which has kidnapped people in other countries and sent them to countries that do torture and will torture…why should such a government, who does not follow the rule of law, care if they arrest American or a non-American? And of course without habeas corpus a person can disappear forever much like under any Latin American dictator (but then we trained some of them and their cohorts at the School of the Americas)

I had an ancestor who fought in the American Revolution. The Constitution guarantees the right of habeas corpus. Our government is acting outside the law and not enough Senators care. The vote was not strict party line. Besides Arnold Specter (one of the co-sponsors), five other Republican Senators supported the measure. They were Chuck Hagel of Nebraska, Richard G. Lugar of Indiana, Gordon Smith of Oregon, Olympia J. Snowe of Maine and John E. Sununu of New Hampshire. Senator Bernard Sanders, independent of Vermont, also voted for it. Lieberman was the only non Republican who sided with the Republicans. If there are 50 Democrats in the Senate now that Johnson is back what Senators were missing? (I haven't been able to track down a senator by senator vote) Maybe Obama and Clinton were out campaigning? It is something people should ask them.

Until habeas corpus is restored not one American is safe from their own government.

The frigo is here.

The poor delivery men, who had to struggle with my new frigo up the three flights of stairs and down with the old one, were polite. The problem was not newfor them for they have delivered appliances to me before.

The frigo is smaller than my old one, but not by too much.

I am much happier with the size because it takes up less room and still holds all that I need it to hold. The best part it has an A rating on environmental friendliness. The old one, bought 20 years ago, was made before such things were important. Still this one is large enough to support my oven, low enough that my friend’s needlework of penguins show.

Several I Love Lucy Moments

Why is a bottle of laundry detergent upside down in my sink? It was one in a series of I Love Lucy Moments, where stupid moves spiral out of control.

Normally when I put on a wash I leave the soap bottle on the counter. Then if I get involved in writing or go out, it is a reminder that there’s a load of wash in the dryer.

Now for some reason (Stupid move No. 1), this morning, I put it on top of the stove, which in itself wouldn’t have been so bad, had the burner not been still warm from my morning tea.

The odor of melting plastic laundry detergent bottle will never replace the smell of breakfast bacon. I grabbed the bottle and put it on the counter (Stupid move No 2.) and as I scraped the warm plastic from the stove the contents of the almost new bottle ran from the melted hole down the counter top and onto the floor. It seemed as if three times the liquid that was in the bottle seeped all over the tiles, although the blue colour was pretty.

Trying to save at least some of the soap, I put the bottle upside down in the sink ONLY to knock the top off (Stupid move No. 3) and watch the rest dribble down the drain.

Once the plastic had been removed from the stove top, I turned my attention to the blue soap that covered the floor. The sponge I used was too ineffective on the gluey liquid. Finally I took two bath sheets and let them soak up the soap.

Fortunately I didn’t commit fourth I Love Lucy moment. I was just about to throw one of the towels in the washer, when I realised that if I did, the amount of soap in the towel was equal to at least 100 washes. I imagined opening the washer door and being attacked by the suds that ate Argelès. Instead I rinsed and rinsed and rinsed the towel until the water ran only light-light-light blue rather than the original dark aqua.

I know Lucy had red hair. I have red hair. This morning's activity is enough to make me grow mine out gray or not.

The Guardian on Blackwater and PMCs

The Guardian had a wonderful editorial by John Hillary about The Blackwater scandal. He suggested the rethinking of the outsourcing of combat operations to private military companies and estimates there are at least 48,000 PMC boots in the country. The issue was raised by Blackwater’s massacre of Iraqi civilians last Sunday. These soldiers for cash are immune from all national and international laws thanks to Paul Bremer.

Hillary said: “Far from being an isolated incident, these killings are the latest in what has become an established pattern of human rights violations by private military and security contractors in Iraq, making them the most hated symbol of the occupation to many Iraqis. Widely publicised cases include the "sports shooting" of civilian cars by a Triple Canopy mercenary in Baghdad; the trophy video http://youtube.com/watch?v=XwvPh5LhrQU posted on the internet by an employee of UK private military company Aegis, which has none the less just won a massive $475m contract to provide security services to the US military over the next two years; and the involvement of Titan and CACI contractors in the Abu Ghraib torture scandal. Blackwater's private army was again the cause of a major stand-off between US and Iraqi troops last December when one of its soldiers shot dead an Iraqi security officer in Baghdad.”

His concluding paragraph sums up my feelings exactly “According to commentators more favourable to the continued deployment of mercenaries, our forces are now incapable of carrying out their duties without this private paramilitary support. (Diplomats are now in lockdown in the Greenzone) US and UK troops are so overstretched, the argument goes, that they would not be able to sustain occupations in Iraq and Afghanistan were it not for the private military and security companies operating alongside them. Given the horrors which have been inflicted on the people of those countries, however, that sounds like one of the most compelling arguments in favour of their demise.”

When people tell me I shouldn’t be ashamed to be an American, I only think of the horrors we have inflicted on the Iraqi people, which far surpass what Hussein ever did. So many nights I lay awake in my bed, realising I have so much, I am safe, warm, have electricity and water, but my country has stolen those things from the 27 million people living in Iraq today (figure from the CIA fact book), not to mention the 4 million people who have fled and I cry in shame.

Women writers

The Iranian women writers told their stories on Al Jazjeera. According to the program Everywoman publishing of woman’s works is up 30%, something that would be wonderful in the Western world.

A poet said her husband was surprised besides being a wife, mother and employee she had this other side of her, something for herself. She also admitted her first poems had been written for him when she was first in love with him.

Another a school teacher, said when her students found out she was a writer, their relationship improved. As a writer she had no respect.

But others said people disapprove of their writing either the activity or the content.
Writing in any country is not easy: finding time, finding a publisher, finding readers, all are problems for all new writers, but for women often family demands and social and culture obligations can add to difficulties.

As I watched I hoped that these women would not be silenced by their country nor by bombs with an American flag blazoned on its side.

PMC

So the situation in Iraq is better.

If that’s is the case why is there a lockdown in the Green Zone now that Blackwater, the private military company (PMC) cannot guard US personnel outside this small area. If anything the Blackwater shooting of 8 Iraqis and their loss of license to operate in Iraq snatched back by the Iraqi government, called attention to the problems of mercenaries and PMCs in that country.

Why someone should be surprised that they shoot at Iraqis I don’t know. They shot at looters in New Orleans when the protection of property overrode the protection of people. Anyone who has heard of Jeremy Scahill’s book Blackwater; Shadow Army, won’t be surprised. Scahill was most articulate on CNN giving the pros and cons of private mercenaries in Iraq and elsewhere. Brian William’s coverage was more, poor mercenaries in tone, they are only doing their jobs.
Americans should be aware of the danger these groups represent because they do not operate under controls. So far, they have been turned against American citizens only once and in New Orleans.

The number of number of mercenaries (read thugs) estimates vary from 10,000 to one for every American soldier. In any case, one is too many.

Meanwhile we can rest assure that the security in Iraq is so much improved that our people can not leave the green zone without armed guard.

Good God, what disaster the US has wrought.

Summer is over

Summer is definitely over. Unlike in New England no red leaf has floated gracefully to the sidewalk in front of the house. In fact, the days are still hot, it is possible to go to the beach. The nights are a bit cooler, but there is no wood smoke from household fireplaces scenting the air.

Summer’s end is marked by little rituals:
1. The second arrival of R&R.

2. I could hear the zipping of suitcases in the wee morning hours as the next to last group of Danes packed up to return to Copenhagen.

3. Tim’s birthday party (the photo above is shot from his family’s terrace. Besides cake and ice cream, there’s the combined international families and it is possible to hear Spanish, French, Dutch and English spoken depending on which chair one chooses to sit on.

4. The annual dinner given by Froed before he too takes off for his next assignment. This time another Danish artist was present.

5. Shutters on some of the houses, including Chris andKay's, The dutch family, the Swedish family, Heather's, and more.

The village doesn’t die to nothing in the winter, for the locals and year round residents are still here and we settle down to a calmer existence. The calmer hum is pleasant.

Soon I will be getting ready to head back to Geneva for another series of fall rituals.

Buying an Iron

I wasn’t buying an iron. Barbara was. The iron in the photo I had purchased in 1993 at Ferney Voltaire in Champion, one of those big stores where employees know next to nothing about the products.

I now buy all my French products at Groschen, a place owned by two brothers. They know me well, but never remind me of the time I told them the spin cycle on my washer didn’t work and during their repair visit, calmly and without mocking me, suggested if I pushed in the button it would work. Likewise, when one brother installed the air-conditioner/heating unit and I was in agony with a bad back, they considered it routine to help me stand when a trip to the bathroom was necessary and left by giving me a cup of tea.

Thus it was normal we would go there for my new frigo and Barbara’s new iron.
I consider ironing a necessary evil and I do admit to ironing things like pjs because they feel better against my skin. Any old steam iron will do. Barbara on the other hand uses her professionally when she makes her wonderful clothes for sale in her boutique. She needs more out of an iron.

The owner pointed out the pros and cons of the different models, larger holes, smaller holes, placement of the holes, calcaire retention possibilities, pressure (something neither of us knew existed despite decades of ironing. In fact the pressure was written on the iron. Nor did he steer her to the most expensive. Instead by determining what she needed, he steered her to the one that was right for her.

When it came time to discuss my frigo, I am sure he considered the horrible stairs that his delivery boy would have to maneuver, but the concern was not the kid’s back, but my concern that it offer the most environmentally friendly one possible. He knows my preference for half-sized frigos. I only need the two shelves, a mini freezer (which usually holds the overflow from Barbara’s freezer), and the door storage space. I want it no higher than just below the bust line because I place my mini oven on it. He knew the history of the different brands, and laughed when I rejected American Whirlpool for a German brand. Probably both were made in China anyway so probably the quality won't be any better.

Runs on a British Bank

The lines outside the British bank look like photos from the 1929 depression. People want their money from Northern Rock Bank, a victim to the American housing bubble burst although probably stupidity for not realising that you can’t give adjustable rate mortgages to people who can barely pay at the lowest rate without a consequence or two played a part.

When one man in line was asked if his government’s reassurance helped him feel better, he said no, it made him worry further. We (both Brits and Americans) are reaping the lack of regulation and the results of government lies. If US consumers (for we are no longer citizens) suffer, perhaps they are at fault for not educating and informing themselves of the dangers, but the fact that the US is causing innocent people to suffer in other countries is only one more reason that once again I feel fear and shame when I see an American flag.

CNN Hypocrisy

I am angry with CNN who portray the poor little Iraqi boy with the burned face as he moves through the airport to come to America to be operated on, his face to be restored before his attack. Although, I am happy for him, I think of the millions of Iraqi children who have suffered at the hands of Americans directly and indirectly for our ill thought-out war. How many others are maimed, dead, or have lost parents, their education, their youth?

Under 1000 of the million Iraqi refuges are allowed into the US. We rescue on little boy and leave millions stranded (including those who have worked for us directly) or left to flea to Jordan or Syria.

Meanwhile watchers of the program can feel good about how kind America is to “fix” a child and forget the guilt on the millions of anonymous faces we have destroyed with the help of CNN and its bias reporting on the run up to the war with its patriotic music and Operation Iraqi freedom banners

Free writing: the next blogs explained

One of the free writing exercises* by Nathalie Goldberg is to start with an emotion: I hate, I love, I feel… My blogs are often my free writes, the warm up that gets the words flowing each day, the same way my grandfather used to keep a rusty can next to the garden pump. He would pour rain water from the can into the pump and depress the handle with its terrible creak that attacked the eardrums, but wonderful, clean, cool water would come pouring forth to taste and to splash on hot faces and hands while we dug asparagus or picked strawberries. The next few blogs are these exercises.

*Free writing or timed exercises means you start writing either with a pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and keep going. You don’t edit yourself. You just let yourself say whatever comes to mind, without thinking, if I write this, it will hurt Auntie Maud’s feelings. You can write it, you just don’t let Auntie Maud see it.

I feel nostalgic

Nostalgia hit today. (Okay, so this blog doesn’t start with I feel nostalgic today as I said in the blog above). A young woman carried a Japanese puppy, only seven months old through the marché. She said she bought it in Touraine, fortunately far enough away to keep me from doing anything foolish. My friend Barbara helped with this by repeating “resist, resist,” so much she sounded like a Jane Fonda exercise tape. Had a puppy been on sale…I am not sure the resist warning would have worked.

I feel happy and sad

I feel happy and sad when I look at a bouquet of flowers. As much as I like the beauty, when petals start to fall, I feel sad their life is ending.

I have always been guilty of anthropomorphising things. As a little girl I used to apologise to the paper butter was wrapped in when it had to be binned. It had done its job and then it was discarded. Or I would feel sorry for old socks that had holes, because they must hurt when my grandmother (Dar) mended them.

Thus I never bin an entire bouquet, but as each flower dies, throw it out. I rearrange the remaining flowers as best I can making them last as long as possible.

I love my dustpan

I love my dustpan. I know that’s silly, but because sweeping is one of those ho hum chores, I decided I wanted a pretty dustpan, something almost impossible to find. Then when I visited my mom in Florida, I read about a woman who painted household items with a technique called double brushing. I contacted her and commissioned a dustpan that she mailed to me a couple of weeks later. No way, do I look forward to floor sweeping. My tiles are so light, that each crumb is visible, so it is a frequent activity, but I smile each time I pick up the dustpan. And of course I always wash the dustpan afterwards (I always have) but who wants to treat a signed work of folksy art with disrespect.

I hate my toilet

I hate my toilet…How can anyone hate a toilet? Let me count the ways.

1. It is twenty years old.

2. The first year the only way to flush it was to remove the cover.

3. I have had a minimum of five innard replacements in the last five years.

4. Last year, Gigi (aka Gerard) who is the rarest of French workmen (read reliable, read shows up on time, read doesn’t overcharge, read has a wife that makes a great couscous) found innards that were suppose to last a lifetime.

5. Wednesday night the innards broke.

6. With the new innards, the toilet makes a sound that sounds a bit like a train coming through my studio.

Gigi has keys to my flat so he can come and do whatever needs to be done when I am not there. I came back from the marché to a repaired, albeit it railroad-noisy, toilet. When I called for the cost, I told him. I WANT TO REPLACE THE WHOLE DAMNED THING. He said we would talk about it.

Flags of fear

Watching the people constantly wave tiny American flags behind John McCain as he talked to Larry King last night and commented on the president’s speech, I felt both sadness and fear. Sadness at their blind patriotism and the fear I feel whenever I see an American flag.

I wonder

• What will be the next sovereign nation we will attack?
• How many more people will America kill?
• How many more will we tortured?
• How many armaments will we sell so others can kill and maim?
• How many more treaties will we not sign that might make the world more peaceful?
• How many more of our own citizens be denied the benefits other countries take for granted?
• How many more directives will go up on the White House web site like the one on May 17^th that all but promised martial law in case of another attack or natural disasters or those in July threatening to confiscate property and wealth of anyone helping certain groups with the muddy definition of helping.

When I was a teenager in Rainbow, I asked for the speaking part of Patriotism, purple in the bow. I loved the speech, the pride I felt in not only my country, but talking about it.

Now I only feel fear for those there that they will lose the little they have along with the loss of habeas corpus, freedom of speech, health insurance, decent jobs.

I predicted the dot.com and mortgage bubbles bursting. I predicted the disaster Iraq would be become. I only hope I am wrong now that the country will continue down its path of war criminality against other countries and its own citizens.

So I looked at those tiny waving flags, seeing only more spin, and again fear and sadness swept over me.

Another Trompe d'Oeil

This one is at the end of my street and done by English Artist and London Theatre set designer Chris Floyd. Chris is unable to leave any plain surface alone, so his house is always covered with painted flowers, window boxes as the bird forever checks out the street. The only real things are the green vines to the left, the door and the shadow.

Fixing a window more or less

Poor Dani, the fishmonger. Kids, who had too much to drink fought outside her shop, and one pushed another through the glass pane. The kid survived, but is in trouble with his parents and police as he should be. He had run away (break and run?) but a good neighbour had heard the glass break, saw what happened and identified the kid.

Meanwhile Dani hired the men in the photo to replace the glass providing as much entertainment as a Laurel and Hardy film fest. Although they allegedly knew what they were doing, they couldn’t figure out how to remove the glass. When they did finally go into the store and hammer the pane onto the street, they didn’t put anything down on the pavement to reduce sweeping up the glass, which became a greater problem. They had nothing to pick up the glass with, no broom, no dustpan, no shovel. This was okay too because they had nothing to put the glass in. Dani had to give them a Styrofoam container that previously had held her smoked cod.None of these steps in glass replacement were accomplished without much consultation that led to more consultation and head scratching.

One can't help but appreciate the entertainment factor in the process while supplying sympathy to Dani for going through the extra work. Never once, however, did she not smile at a customer, share a recipe or a piece of gossip.

Talking about Maddy at the tea room

“She did it out of love,” Franck’s face is animated but serious.

His wife Louise, rolled her eyes. “He is asking what everyone thinks, today.”

I was at La Noisette, my home away from home. I spend lots of time sitting at tables like this, enjoying the sky, the church, the ambience eating everything from a full English breakfast to drinking a cup of tea. Although I often take my book, I seldom read, because I meet so many people and we get embroiled in conversation. All roads lead to La Noisette, one Englishman said, but it is true not just for the English, but the whole international community and the local community too.

Franck was talking about the Maddy case, the little girl who went missing in Portugal and her parents are now considered suspects. He mentioned the mother was a doctor, that she could have given her too much sleeping medicine before they went out to dinner, then shaken her too to wake her but killed her. He uses his hand to show shaking motions. According to Franck when she realised what she had done, they could have begun a cover-up to protect their remaining children, the reason it was done out of love.

He is sure she could have found a place to hide the body because police were looking elsewhere.

At this point Louise points out that the “nounou” the child’s stuffed animal was left. As a mother she knows anyone would take the nounou to keep the child quiet if she were alive. She also found it strange that the mother washed everything belonging to nounou.

I don’t know if the mother is guilty. I do know that Franck is a proud father, carrying two-year old Toby-toes around the village on his shoulders or playing with him after he comes to the tea room from the creche. If Louise accidentally (this is hard to write) killed their son, I can’t imagine there very strong couple surviving it, with or without media attention.

Another customer came in, and the facts of the case are reviewed again. Louise makes the suggestion that Franck might want to wait on the lunch crowd arriving, which he does.

I go back to the contemplation of the street feeling overwhelming sadness for the people who I never met or will never meet.

A light bulb is not a light bulb not a light bulb

For those who think I think everything in Europe is perfect, you are wrong, wrong, wrong. Frustrations with small details can vary and from country to country and one that supplies regular aggravation to me here is light bulbs.

Yes light bulbs.

Having worked for two standardization organizations, I hate, yes hate, the fact that light bulbs have different bases.

In my tiny studio there are five possibilities. Only three are shown in the photo. I didn’t bother to pull out the neon bathroom light nor unscrew the bulb in my halogen lamp I use for needlework.

And those are not all the choices. The little track light bulb with its cute little stool attachments could have two needle size points or three. Not all stores carry all types, so it is often necessary to go on light bulb safaris to find the correct one to enable me to see after dark.

I suppose I should be grateful I have at least learned the word for light bulb, ampule… When I lived in Toulouse before my French was much beyond bonjour and avez vous…I needed to replace a bulb. I found a clerk and tried…Avez-vous…avez-vous…avez-vous but I didn’t know what came next so I started to act out reading a book, not being able to see, going to a wall to switch on a light switch and nothing happening.

The clerk looked at me, laughed and said in perfect English, “You want a light bulb?” and led me to a large bank. I grabbed the nearest got home and it was then that I discovered that God did not make all light bulbs the same. It has been downhill since then and I am in still in dark to figure out why it has to be so complicated. Maybe somebody can shed some light on the matter.

Who needs alarms?

The sun didn’t wake me this morning, nor did the trashmen nor the street cleaners. It wasn’t the children’s voices as they took a few minutes to play before trudging off to school with their backpacks filled with books.

Coffee woke me, its aroma crossing the street from where Ingoldt and Keega were sitting in their kitchen. Like some cartoon, the smell of the freshly brewed coffee wafted from their second floor window into my third floor window, made its way across the floor and entered my nostrils.
I don’t drink coffee, except for an occasional renversée, the Genevoise answer to café au lait. When I do savour the aroma and taste of anything but heavily milk-diluted coffee, ants enter the top of my head and tap dance. It isn’t the caffeine, for I can consume large quantities of tea and my beloved Coca-Cola without problems.

Sometimes I give in to the renversée like the time I met my writing mate at the Ferney marché and the only thing to do was to sit in the sun at a café and drink a coffee. Nothing else would have been the same. And the amount of frothed milk kept the ants at bay.
Sadly the same day, I had bought flowers for the Madame S., the octogenarian lady who lived on the ninth floor of my apartment building. She was so pleased she had to make me espresso despite my protests and then my best attempts to sip as little possible. She kept filling the delicate gold rimmed demitasse almost after each of my tiny swallows. I returned to my own flat with an colony of ants imitating the entire cast of Riverdance and Lord of the Rings in my skull.
Still not being able to drink coffee does not diminish the pleasure of smelling it brewing this morning. Thank-you Ingoldt and Keega.

Hearings make me sick

Watching the Betrayus and Crooker hearings I think of how many hearings I have watched starting in my childhood with my mother who was so thankful that McCarthy was saving us from the Red Menace in and out of our borders. (I will admit that I found the hearings annoying more because they conflicted with Howdy Doody and Beany. I won’t claim to have been political in grade school, but even then something didn’t make sense to me.)And we all know what an inspirational person McCarthy was.

From then on there was Watergate, Col. North, good old Monica and quite a few in between. The one that thrilled me was the one on C-Span where several Congressmen challenged the results of the 2004 election.

In so many of them, I feel as if I am watching a good fiction program. I often wish what people were saying was true. If I could have faith in the latest it was dashed, when Crooker made one more reference to Saddam’s torture of his own people. Despite the US Mantra we do not torture, saying it doesn’t make it so. Congress rejected closing of the School of Americas, www.soaw.org/article.php?id=205 or http://www.truthout.org/multimedia.htm where Janis Karpinski talks about Abu Grahib or the illegal flights where we sent people to be tortured. It is a variation of Bush’s statement about the terrorists killing innocent women and children. Tell that to those that were under US bombs when they landed and have been killed by US Soldiers. And as for 9/11 a few hours of terror against years and years that the Iraqis have suffered.
So thus I watch another hearing where lies fall from lips, for a war that is killing too many people. Sadly I have read too much to believe.

As I write this Crooker talks about training the Iraqis in preventive maintenance of their infrastructure. Maybe then the Iraqis can train us how to rebuild bridges starting in Minneapolis.

I also wonder what right the US has to demand what the Iraqi government must do after we attacked and destroyed it.

So far no one has mentioned the almost double the number of US Soldiers that we have hired as paid mercenaries.

No one has questioned why we can interfere in Iraq and only our allies can interfere. Doesn’t it make sense that Syria and Iran have more interest in their neighbour than perhaps Australia does?

And part of me thinks the fact that they couldn’t get the microphones to work properly at the beginning of the hearing is a great metaphor for the war. We couldn’t get that right either, but then attacking a sovereign nation can’t be gotten right.

Nor did I hear about the meeting in Finland where Iraqi ministers met with Irish ministers tried to talk about how the Irish solution might be used by the Iraqis. The US wasn’t present.
Likewise the Iraqis invited Iran engineers into the country to help fix the electricity that the US has failed so miserably do.

Why aren’t the questioners asking about the source of the stats and why haven’t they done their own based on news reports?

Overall the war leaves me feeling sick and ashamed and so angry. The hearings only make it stronger.

Vases and Flowers

Ever since I broke the $5 vase purchased some 25+ years ago from George’s Folly ferreted out from the Souk-like atmosphere between incense, bulky jewellery, strange statures and Indian cloth, I have had only had the egg-shaped vase. That I bought for my mother when I was nine. She had liked it when she saw it at Weston’s Greenhouse, a place smelling of flowers and damp earth. I had paid for it from my milk money, no great sacrifice since I hated the milk served in fourth grade. It was delivered in small bottles with paper stoppers early in the morning, left in the hall between the first and second grade rooms with enough ice to puddle but not enough to keep cool.

After my mother died I recaptured the vase and shipped it to Europe when I moved. However, it is not the type of vase to plunk flowers into. It is the type of vase wgere a flower arranger needs to anchor each stem in either that green florist spongy stuff or glass marbles.

The red vase isn’t a vase at all, but a metal Coca-Cola bottle purchased for the special occasion of the 11th birthday of Barbara’s grandson who was visiting at the time. The bottle was more festive in his eyes, I suspect, than champagne would be in the eyes (or taste) of an adult. I scooped the bottle and when I find a rose of just the right colour to match the pattern or the red, out it comes.

Perhaps next year in vide grenier sale on the 1st of May I will find another vase with enough memory potential to make it worth my while to carry it home.

Lost and Found

It is part of Nelson family lore how my daughter and friends spent time in my newly purchased studio. They travelled from Munich, via Toulouse, to pick up my newly-purchased dish set, the Villeroy and Boch Acapulco pattern, visible in other photos on this blog.

One dish was lost. It never bothered me that a dish was lost EXCEPT I never understood how anything could be lost in a one-room studio with absolutely nothing in it, not even a stove or frigo at the time.

Now that the studio is furnished, I find it easier to misplace things, even with my minimalist lifestyle.

The latest was my good Swiss watch, a gift from Florian. It had spent time in the States with my daughter, who took all my good Swiss watches, when I gave up wearing a watch for several years. It had more to do with so many demands on my time, my IEC job, writing for CUT, teaching at Webster, and trying to do my own fiction. The watch on my wrist served more to mock me than remind me of how time was flying much too fast even though savings were mounting for early retirement.

Once I devoted myself solely to writing and not being a 9 to 5 wage slave, I asked for one watch back and I have worn it regularly for the past three years. Two weeks ago, I couldn’t find it. I searched in the obvious places. I searched in the unobvious ones. Finally I decided to do the thing that guarantees the lost will be found—I replaced. Obviously the 5 euro marché watch was too inexpensive to qualify and the watch stayed hidden.

Today, my friend Barbara and I shared a roast chicken lunch, the bird bought from the stand down the street. I explained how frustrated I was.

‘Did you look…’ she named places that it might be. To each I replied yes, and she rechecked.

‘Did you look in your silverware basket?’

I nodded.

She rummaged around and pulled it out.

‘The gold part caught my eye among the silver,’ she said to make me feel a little less dumb.

So now I have a beautiful, classy watch, and a campy wooden one. I will keep the second. It won’t take up too much room. And to RM, no, this doesn't mean I am falling off the minimalist wagon.

Knitting for no reason

I have no idea why I started knitting baby sweaters since I know of no one with babies. My own biological time clock died out about 38 years ago.

Granted I felt like knitting and they worked up fast. I also kept having my own ideas for hearts on pink, putting penguin buttons on snow, etc. Well this is my production for the last year. Maybe I will give them to Barbara to sell or put them on Ebay...

Dinner

I love it when friends come. Even if they are here for reasons other than to visit with me, it means more conversations, sharing an experience or two in a relaxed atmosphere. I also love having people I know from other places to pop in and out. Popping is good.

This happened recently and they generously invited Barbara and I to share a meal at the hotel where they were staying.The photo shows my starter with a mouth-watering sauce on a crêpe with morel mushrooms and greens. Manners, Swiss, French or American, kept me from licking the plate but just...

Rock art

Some people find the image of the Virgin Mary on peanut butter sandwiches or Christ’s picture on a wood panel. While walking along the beach Sunday, I found a rock and despite the poor quality of the photo, in reality it looks a bit like a painting with waves, a rock and even a cloud. However, without religious significance, I doubt if putting it on E-bay would bring me any profit. In fact right now there is a wood panel image of the Virgin Mary but with no bids. Besides, I prefer to keep the rock as a memory of a nice day, walking along the edge of the waves with Mosquite, the pup, who decided he, too, wanted to put his feet in the water. The only problem was that waves for him were nose high. As for the picture of the rock, I don’t think he was impressed at all.

Social Butterfly

This weekend gives new meaning to the term social butterfly.

It started Friday night with my annual dinner with my pal Barbara where I prepare New England style apple pie and corn chowder.

The pie crust is made with Crisco bought and brought from the American store in Geneva and costing slightly less than a semester at Harvard. Traditionally I decorate it with a bird cut from the pastry with a cookie cutter that my grandmother and great grandmother used and set the piece on a tree branch cut into the crust.

Saturday lunch was at La Noisette with Gertrude and Barbara as we caught up on news. She told us of her award ceremony for her efforts in producing HIV awareness films, her dog, etc. and we planned other events for the month they will be here. Gertrude and Froed are in the house Barbara and I used to own. Of course during lunch, different people came by warranting catch-up conversations including a native who now lives in Pontalier (a place I fell in love with not far from where I used to live when I was first in Switzerland) and has so much history of the region in his head, that talking and walking with him is like being in a documentary.

Then at night, a different group of us, locals and Brits, went to the butterfly farm where Marielle, a native Argelèsian, who we meet for coffee at La Noisette, is cooking.

Before dinner we wandered through the enclosure alive with plants and flowers between ponds. Butterflies flew around us. They were every size and colour imaginable including several that were bigger than both my hands. The most beautiful were a perfect match for my blue folders, but were impossible to catch on camera. As soon as they lit they closed their wings. Their underside is a dark chocolate. I did find a photo on the web http://flickr.com/photos/jkleber/357822825/ done by a photographer with more luck or maybe patience than I have.

Dinner was in the garden, un menu unique de seche, giant calamar, done Catalan style. The sinking feeling of preparing to chew and chew and chew on flavourless rubber disappeared with the first bite which was tender and delicious. I should have had more faith in Marielle

And today I am off to the beach with Nadine, owner of La Petite Pause. Since it is the end of the season she is beginning her autumn hours.

Friends are due down from Geneva although not staying with me, Dinners are planned, more Danes are arriving at the end of the week, no longer content with just their summer stay.

My daughter laughs when I tell her that once I was worried that I would be isolated down here. Instead, I have found a variety of acquaintances in the Catalan, French and international communities.

And although there are days I lock myself to my computer to write either my fiction or my news articles, I know just outside my door are interesting people to talk to, eat with and share new experiences that leaves me all a flutter.

The gratitude rock

“I keep it my pocket,” she said referring to what she called her gratitude rock, something my Scottish friend touches often because she feels she has such a good life that she doesn’t want to take it for granted. It reminds her of all that she has.

We were sitting on Cristina’s rooftop terrace (see photo below) sipping local red and nibbling on olives and pistachios. On the table next to us stood three sparkly glass tumblers and a pink peony blossom that had fallen. I debated going home to get my camera to take not just that photo but the one of the chimney shadow etched in sharp lines on the yellow wall.

I didn’t leave, for the conversation was too enjoyable to break. We were all talking about the choices we had made in our lives and the prices we paid, mostly dealing with being away from those we loved. We weren’t sure what was the mythical and what was real, for when you talk about what you didn’t do, you never think of the downsides.

What we did know were the memories of things done, places seen, adventures—both good, bad and often scarey—but most important relationships built. When you aren’t on home ground, communities do not just happen by your birth and staying in one place, they are constructed carefully over conversations, dinners, and the slowly opening up beyond the superficial.

Thus I sat on the rooftop terrace, in the late summer sunlight beginning to fade, enjoying my created community. I didn’t have a gratitude rock—my rock next to my computer—had touched Collette’s grave stone in the hope that something will be transmitted to me when I write, but what I have is gratitude for my life that carried me through the good, the bad and the scarey.

La reentrée

The streets are quiet during the day. The children have disappeared to the reentrée, their new book bags stuffed with cahier (notebooks). Soon they will be filled with neat homework, reports, exercises and messages from the teacher to be signed by the parent and returned, pencils, pens, erasers zipped in equally new pencil cases selected from the various stores catering to the back-to-school classes. When I walk to the shops, to the cafés, I miss seeing the children playing with their dolls, their balls and bikes spread on the street.

I think of my first few years at school. We were supplied with a new box of crayons, one for each colour of the rainbow plus brown and black, thick crayons, that only later did I learn was to help small muscle co-ordination. I loved their pristeenness, but not as much as I loved the much more graceful Crayolas at home which could give me results with their many shades. But even more I loved the names. Burnt sienna had a magic that a brown would never have. Carnation pink brought thoughts of spring when I was home from a school day cancelled because of a snow storm. Thistle and maize felt good rolling around my tongue. The thin crayons felt better in my hand, looked as if there were unlimited possibilities spread out on the table that the school crayons, stubby and boring just couldn’t provide.

I don’t know if the children, now sitting in desks in the school next to the Shoppi plaza or over beyond the Marie have crayons. Years from now they may remember the backpack bookbags, the agendas with the covers of current heros or floral designs to write down homework assignments, the Mariefountain notebooks with their large coloured square covers and quadrangle insides (lined paper is rare not the like the yellow we used for first draft and white for final corrected copies to be handed in) and the pencil cases.

Living backwards

After my morning read, I flipped on the TV to see if the world has ended during the night and flip through the news stations, BBC, F2, France24, CNN and Aljazerra. This morning I did a double take. CNN was backwards as were the streaming headlines and the anchors were on the opposite sides of which they normally sit. Then the weather came on and instead of being on the left of the map, London was on the right. The same with the US map. California was right, Florida left (and this has nothing to do with politics). Thinking CNN had it wrong, I ran through the channels. They were all flipped. I unplugged and replugged the set. Backwards still.

Then I decided it must be with my satellite provider. Maybe it would be good to spend the day backwards, eating dinner first, breakfast last, taking a shower than getting undressed…etc. Although I haven’t gone there, there’s a restaurant in Switzerland where you start with coffee and end up with your starter.

Then I thought maybe we could run Iraq backwards and the millions the US has killed directly and indirectly would be alive again, the bombed buildings would rise from the rubble, US soldiers that lay under flags would be reunited with their families. Backwards could be good.

Perspectives

View from the terrace

It’s an annual trek to this lake for a picnic with friends on holiday from the UK (they own a summer home in Le Boulou, a few minutes from Argelès). The lake is almost always deserted, but this year a duck convention was being held right in front of the no swimming sign as if they could read and agreed to follow the rule.

Not all the lake is off limits to swimmers. Three teenage girls had their horses out for a day of fun and they were galloping up and down the path behind the grassy knoll. They took the horses for a long swim. The brown mare especially was in no rush to leave the water, but the dapple gray climbed out and rolled on her back in the grass much like a dog. The laughter from the girls floated over to where we were encamped with our salads, local cheeses, and fresh baked bread, olives and sausages. The horses seemed as happy as the girls and I wondered if they were making comparisons to their ordinary days in a field, versus the chance to swim and run.

Another part of the tradition with this couple is to go back to their place where they serve coq au vin (or in this case poulet au vin) on their roof top terrace and listen to the river that runs by their house.

As we were having the apero, a Siamese cat, probably only a few months old, made her way across the brick red tile roof and made it plainly known that sharing a bit of sausage and a few olives, would not go amiss.

Our hostess, led the cat, which she had named Speckles, downstairs for a bit of tuna.
The cat ate, came back on the terrace, and disappeared over the roof tiles. Some inner sense must have told Speckles what was there, because she raced back to the terrace and was set up with chicken, rice, gravy and even a carrot. Her pitiful meowing for more made us wonder if she was thinking we were stupid not to recognize her demands for more.

We watched the full moon peek over the mountain. It seemed to race into the sky. I mentioned that it was moving up into the sky fast, and my friend said, really the earth was moving downwards away from the moon...Perspective…the ducks probably didn’t care about the no swimming sign, the horses just revelled in running and swimming and the cat thought getting fed was her due. Meanwhile each of us on the terrace had our own perspectives on good food, good friends, good conversations

Websites

My writing mate and I used to meet several times a week, but now that she is based in Vienna it more like quick Sykpe conversations. These days she is in Australia with her mom, who just recently lost her sight.
So many of my friends are dealing with moms in various states of disintegration made more difficult by not sharing a continent.
My writing mate’s mom is one special lady, and one of the hardest things about her sight loss was the loss of her many projects. My mate had the brilliant idea of blogging her handicraft wisdom, giving the mom a project. Please check out her waste not want not site, and if you can look at my mate’s mercs world…
http://mercsworld.blogspot.com/
http://wastenotwantnot-thestory.blogspot.com/

On a political note, this is a great video against the government manipulation of the American population on fear. www.eidelsonconsulting.com/videos.php

Lastly http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/story/0,,2157197,00.html George Monbiot who writes on how How the neoliberals stitched up the wealth of nations for themselves

Nature is a metaphor

In Geneva I’m surrounded by nature, but in Argelès there are no fields and I have to walk to water instead of having it on my doorstep. Still looking out the window this morning, I was struck by the shadow of the vines crawling up Froed’s house across the way. One branch was dead, but its shadow lived on bravely in the sunshine, a memoriam of sorts.As I sipped my tea out of my cow bowl, I realised that in a way it is a metaphor for life, so many shades during a day. Sunshine causes shadows, grey days obliterate them

Mornings are wonderful times of day

One of the true luxuries about not working at IEC; Interskill, Digital or anyplace that has variations of the nine to five routine is to wake up with the sun and read in bed. The sun is no longer peeking through the skylight around five, but appearing closer to seven. Even when the days are warm, it feels good to snuggle under the duvet in the early morning air pouring through the open windows.

Then there is the advantage of the leisurely breakfast, making sure the tea pot is hot before adding the leaves, choosing the fruit and again reading as I eat.

Even when I have a full day of writing planned, the ability to juggle my hours is a gift.
For those that believe (know) I’m over the top on colour co-ordination, I DID NOT CHOOSE a blue book to match the décor when I took the photos. I am really, really reading it. And although I don't often do it, I can even go back to bed and read and read and read...

At the marché

I set out early with my shopping list: eggs fresh from the farm, saucions smoked by the stand owner, a veggie or two. I saw a wonderful array of figs and blackberries brought in by one of the farmers. Blackberries are usually too expensive, but these weren’t. They reminded me of a walk in the Maine woods with my best friend from high school years ago when we picked berries as we shared stories of our lives. I paid my three euros of the berries but he “offered” me the figs for nothing. “Vous êtes trés gentil,” I told him. When he smiled, his wantabe goatee quivered.

And walking up and down the marché, I ran into friends of different nationalities as well as Catalan neighbours, who all smiled and welcomed me back.

Although I didn’t need olives, I ran up to the area next to the church where Joel has his stand.

He is always professing his undying love, but then he does it with most women. Besides his olives, he sells olive trees and produces perfume labelled for the nearby towns, Argelès, Collioure, and Banyuls, and made from flowers from his own fields.

I didn’t need cheese from Leo either, but like Joel he gave me a big wave and smile as I walked by, reminding how much I like personal shopping. The only problem with the marché that it is too easy to over buy and the freshness dissipates in the Frigo. Instead better to pop into the green grocers on the days between the marchés. When I am here I am spoiled in the what do you mean eat bread that isn’t still warm from the oven or mayonnaise where I have to wait for them to finish beating it up.

No room at the inn until...

The couple, no more than in their early twenties, stopped at La Petit Pause where I was having dinner with Nadine, the owner/chef. They wanted to know about hotels. Although they had reservations at one of the many campings, their train had been late and the reception area was closed. Nadine let them leave their gear while they did a foot tour of the hotels in town. Their faces told the story when they returned.

“I’ve an idea,” I said. I led them to my street and received the expected oohs and ahhs. Even after dark the hanging flowers and the full planters look beautiful in the lamp light.
I knocked on my neighbour, Cristina’s door. She rents out apartments. Apologising for bothering her, she asked if they spoke English. When she ascertained they didn’t, we spoke in English.

No, I didn’t know them, but I explained their plight adding the only thing I knew was that they were from Grenoble.

Cristina invited us in, and called the hotels. For the last Friday of high tourist season it wasn’t surprising that no one had a vacancy. The couple stood up and apologised for “deranging” us.

“You can sleep here,” Cristina said, leaving them stunned.

I left hoping they weren’t murderers or thieves, but I saw Cristina on the street. She said that she liked having them in the house, gave them breakfast on her terrace, and they had left only to return with a bouquet of flowers to thank her.

Ducks with a smile

Ducks along the lake wander among the pedestrians. Like Divers in Acapulco they hurl themselves off the rocks into the water. They are quick to find any crumbs as people picnic on the benches and gratefully accept the dry bread children carry down to the shore line.
I couldn’t resist playing with the photo special effects of this darling in the bottom right hand corner. You need to click on the photo to get the full effect.

The lake at the end of the day

After sitting at the computer much too long during the day, taking a walk at dusk along the lake is not only good for my muscles, but for my soul. Dusk is earlier, no longer almost 22:00 but closer to 20:00. It is not something I do daily, but enough. Knowing the lake is so close and is an option at any moment, is a sense of security.

The lake, like the ocean, has many moods, and the night this picture was snapped it was rocking the ducks trying to settle in for the night making them raise their heads often from under their wings. I often wonder if ducks can get seasick, and that, in itself, would make a great children’s story, The Seasick Duck. The sound of the waves was a regular slap, slap, slap as water hit the large stones. The boats bobbed. Other nights the water has been so still that it resembled a carpet ready to walk on, something I knew better than to try. It reminds me of one of my mother's favourite joke with Jesus walking on the water. He looks back at his disciples floundering behing and calls to them, "On the rocks, stupid."

The colder weather is a hint of the fall to come and I’m already thinking of Auer’s hot chocolate, roasted chestnuts, fuzzy socks and sweats.

But then a late summer day will put these desires into limbo, rather willingly for sandals, days in outdoor cafés, and walking with the sunshine warming my face.

This has been the summer that wasn't, with too many cool days, but least it comes as a complaint, give me cool to cold weather over heat any day. And give me a lake or ocean within walking distance.

The Psycho Syndrome

I beat the Psycho Syndrome...that is the one that a women is in the shower and she remembers the scene where Tony Perkins slices up Janet Leigh.
Not a woman alive, I bet, who has seen the movie doesn't think of that one time or another.
This morning as I was about to take a shower, my housemate called saying the back door was open to air out the house.
I got into the shower anyway.
Well, okay, I thought about the scene, but I didn't go downstairs to lock the door, nor did I lock the bathroom door.
Now my only two remaining fears are the possibility of King Kong carrying me to the Empire State Building (although in Europe it is more likely to be the Eiffel Tower or those Kachina dolls that come running out of closet, but then they may still be after Karen Black.

I love Trompe d’Œil. A new (to me not to the area) favourite restaurant, became a favourite not just for this wall Trompe d’Œil or the cosiness of the room with the wooden beams, but for their good food.

A friend and I ate lunch there on Sunday, not inside by the painting but outside on the terrace surrounded by grapevines.

The carpaccio of beef with pesto and parmesan cheese sliced to translucence thinness was a wonderful starter followed by a roast chicken in a sauce with morelles (? Spelling), a smoky-tasting mushroom.

Despite the beautiful weather and the pleasure of being on the terrace unlike the other times I ate there when it was cold and we were glad to be in this cosy back room, I couldn’t resist slipping inside to snap this photo. Little did I know that the cat watching the dog scene would be re-enacted later (see next blog).

This old house..

The old building was so sad looking among the pristine ones that make Evian such a charming little village that has nothing to do with bottled water, although there is a museum there about Evian water.

My friend and I were saying that it was probably beyond repair, but what a shame as we speculated about its history. I thought of the old song "This house was once made of laughter..."

Memories get etched into buildings. The arches, the carved slats on the balcony all could be beautiful with some love added.

We’d been meandering around the village, looking at shop windows, remarking on the architecture, the beauty of the lake, what a perfect day weather wise, the joy of just being.

Thirsty, we decided to stop at a crêperie for a coffee or something cold. It was a little after 17h, neither dinner nor lunch time. The two owners, one middle aged, one young and blond, were outside at one of the tables, all of which were empty. The blond greeted my friend’s Irish wolfhound, whose head is bigger than any of my Japanese Chins. She was welcomed with a water dish and a caress, although the cat in the window, was far less pleased. In fact he looked on in horror. The dog never noticed the cat at all, content with her water and affection.

My friend decided she would order a sweet crêpe with coconut. I passed still full from lunch.
However, when it was brought out, there were two plates, two forks and will power fell away like snow in 90° temperature.

The young blond chef was from Brittany and proudly declared himself a Master Crêpe Maker, something we wouldn’t have argued with. He also explained that Grand Marnier and White Rum were included in the batter which is what gave such an exquisite flavour.

He brought out the menu explaining how everything was made from scratch, nothing frozen, only the best ingredients. Although they didn’t make their own ice cream, they bought it from a person who did, again using only fresh ingredients.

Somehow the conversation worked its way around to the sad building across the street. The young man told us it was a centuries old military prison, but it would be restored, because it was part of the French patrimony.

But when it came to his patrimony, he made it clear he was a Breton and when he said good bye, he taught us how to say it in his Breton.

We will go back to see the Master Crêpe Maker, the progress on the renovation, but I have already forgotten how to say good bye in Breton. Maybe not knowing good bye is better because then I don’t have to say it to old buildings or new places to eat.

A lunch invite spurned...

Mrs Sarkozy and her children were not feeling well leaving her husband to go to President Bush’s picnic alone. Was it a political statement or gastronomic?

On rain and floods

The waters are receding after the floods. I only read about one death. Our house, despite being near the lake, wasn’t that near and the banks were high enough, but both my housemate and I say we never remember the rivers and the lake being so full. The equivalent rainfall for a month landed in three days. Much of the flooding was from streams and backed up drains, water filling basements, etc.

Temperatures plummeted.

I did suggest to my daughter who was sweltering in D.C. that if she could send me 25° we would both be living at a comfortable 75°. Meanwhile I gave in and pulled out my warm winter slippers, wrote away as the drumbeat of the water hitting the roof pounded away.

I have only been in one flood at Fort Knox Kentucky when I was visiting friends who were living in a caravan as they sold merchandise on base. We woke up in the morning to find water about a foot into the van. One was enough.

What's in a name?????

In Swiss Romand the names Léa and Samuel have replaced Emma and Noah or Nathan as the most popular names for new borns. In Swiss Alémanique it is Luca and Anna. And Swiss Italienne it is Luca and Alessandro for boys while Sofia replaced Sara for girls.

One of the great things about being a writer is you get to name so many people. You are not limited to one or two offspring and an occasional dog or cat.

Of course in naming characters you have to be careful to be time and place appropriate. An eighty-year old French woman would never be named Tiffany. Romance writers tend to give unreal names. I have always loved Sandra Brown's Cash Boudreau. The only thing I remember about the book is his name and he was from New Orleans, so she was at least geographically correct. I have been known to wander the graveyard in Argelès for names to add to a scene set there.

Many of the internationals I know who name their children need to find something that works in many cultures, his home, her home, and their next posting and the one after that.

Part of me is still sorry my ex rejected the name Cloud (okay it was the 60s) for our daughter. However, I am sure she isn’t, but Britt, which was never designated to any of our children for we produced no more daughters between us or with others, might not have been too bad.

And although my daughter rejected David for one of chins in favour of Amadeus (see photo of a Chin below) Ama fit his character better. And I did get to name two characters in two different novels David. Both were not nice people, but the real Davids I have known have been lovely.

Meanwhile I must start another novel soon to be able to name more people.

Johnny Halliday Shouldn't Sing English

With my accent I shouldn't criticise, BUT I don't go on national television with it. Check out http://youtube.com/watch?v=WQNXz7DV7rQ Johnny Halliday Celine Dion Blueberry Hill. Music and beat is great, but I never found a trill on Blueberry HIll. And someone should tie down Celine's leg.

Speaking of You Tube...it is possible to watch Little Mosque on the Prairie on You Tube.

Eating in the Garden

The only reason I woke at 4 p.m. was Munchkin, who led me to her empty food dish. Once filled, she ignored it and demanded to go out.

I had slept 13 hours, recovering from the world’s coldest flight from Calgary to Frankfurt.

My housemate had departed for the mountains leaving me a frigo full of goodies from her August 1 National Holiday Party, a loaf of fresh bread from the local bakery and Bill Bryson’s I Am a Stranger Here Myself.

Thus I spent a glorious time sitting in the late afternoon sunshine, nibbling on carrot and celery sticks plus a sandwich, and reading often breaking into laughter. Few days have such perfect weather, neither too cool or too warm. Everything was luminous. The flowers, which had been just a few short weeks ago, seeds huddled in a packet were now debating if they were capable of, with one more little push, to become blossoming trees. The mountains were in the background.

In my last flat I practically lived on my balcony during the summer months, but it has been years and years and years since I have a garden to sit in and relish being there and relish I did.

Meeting Mounties

If I could have met these guys when I was eight, I would have thought I died and had gone to heaven and I told them so. Like most kids of my generation, I chewed Doublemint gum because Gene Autry did, Sang Happy Trails to You with Dale and Roy and wore my Hopalong Cowgirl outfit complete with boots long after they were too small. Two giant rocks dropped by a departing glacier were behind my house were the badlands and I galloped on imaginary horses.

These two Mounted Royal Canadian Police didn’t show up at the conference where I was on horseback, but regular cars. I suppose horses would never have made it up the escalator anyway. They smiled at me, probably had heard it all before, as I took their photo.

The Good Guys Wear White Hats

The good guys wear white hats. The short, squat woman from the Calgary tourist office gave them to the youth group at the conference I was attending. I know, I know, I am not in that category, but I was covering this session for my news service. Despite my years, I was given the hat, taught how to put it on and bonk the top to set it in place just like the others. I took the Calgary pledge.

This is the sixth time I have covered this micro-finance organization’s conference, in places like Ireland, Poland, Italy, France and now Canada. It provides my greatest source of hope for the world when I hear about their work in the developing world to bring hope and independence to the have-less as the previous CEO of the group described. A live feed from Afghanistan where they are running a successful project even if they need bullet proof vests while working reminded me of how lucky I am to be living the life I am living.

Covering credit unions is my way of spreading the word that there is a better way than uncontrolled capitalism and putting money in the hands of the poor does more than a dictator squirreling it away in a Swiss bank.

Listening to other stories about how to protect the unprotected, giving them the means to care for themselves in all countries, always revs me up as balance Over the years I have seen the staff turn over, and this year it was almost a totally new staff in the press department. Each of them expressed how lucky they felt to be able to work for an organization that was making the world better. I met a lot of people this week that make the world better. They wear white hats even when their heads are bare

The Lion Sleeps Tonight

and he sleeps with me but not in the jungle, the restless jungle.

It was cheapness that made me go to a B&B rather than stay at a conference hotel and bless the net, I found one, Lions Park Inn, within a short train ride or slightly long walk to the conference centre. However, cheapness aside, the biggest advantage was the feeling of being in a home. Each morning sitting down to breakfast chatting with the other guests, a personal touch that even in the best hotel is impossible to find. And the lions? Not to fear. They were all of the stuffed variety and inhabited different rooms. These two were in mine.