Marriage and me

I never played house when I was little. 

My mother’s friends’ lives seemed to have too many limitations. Once they said “I do” they didn’t. I played archaeologist, journalist, cowgirl, Greek and or Roman goddess, etc. Much more interesting. I was going to have adventures not be a wife.

Nevertheless I married at 20 my high school sweetheart despite my mother having me arrested to try and stop it. I adored him. It was not his fault that the man I loved existed only in my mind. He gave me a wonderful daughter.

My late friend Barbara laughed when I told her that in ending my second marriage, I divorced a dead man I had never been married to. How was I to know there was already a wife? And although my mother had heard of his demise, she still let me go thru the divorce procedure as a lesson.

My lesson was my skills in husband-choosing was limited so I wasn’t going to do it anymore. I would never marry again, but that didn't mean there would be no men in my life.

When I was still in Boston there was a decent man. Power games pulled us apart. I refused to even call us a couple. For many years after I moved to Europe there was a lovely Swiss business man that I shared weekends with. Our relationship more or less dribbled away painlessly.

Then for a decade I didn’t even want to date. I was totally emerged in happy singledom until I received an email “I’m in Geneva, want to have a cup of coffee? Rick”

I’d met him in the late 70s at a conference and it was a coupe de foudre. Because of our personal circumstances we stomped on every spark left by the lightning bolt. We stayed in touch professionally until I moved to Europe in 1990.

This time, it was a lightening hurricane. And four years later it is still is. Instead of marriage closing doors he opened even more of them for me and vice versa.

Maybe the difference is that we are both writers with PR and journalistic leanings. Maybe it is open-mindedness. Maturity anyone? Probably not.

Why we are willing to ignore or laugh at each other quirk’s, I’ll never understand. Maybe because we don’t embarrass each other over stupidities. The words “your husband/wife is an idiot,” fall from our lips often usually followed by laughter. How was I to know that the 40 decorative snail shells I brought home still had their occupants hidden inside? It all becomes part of family lore.

I encourage him to play golf. He makes sure he doesn’t become between me and my friends’ quality time together. We read to each other, share our writings, rush to the lake to catch the latest sunset or sometimes sunrise. We learned things we didn’t know, broadening our already wide range of subjects. Sometimes we just share space. It just feels good being together. We can also be alone together.

Until last June all problems were external usually involving a stupid bureaucratic. Then they became internal, at least physically as I had two surgeries and chemo. Even with the most optimistic of prognosis. It was more fun spending a week on a houseboat in Amsterdam than logging hospital waiting room hours.

In neither our commitment ceremony (photo) nor our civil service did the words in sickness and in health play a part. It didn’t matter. He has provided wonderful care. I have been able to accept TEMPORARILY loss of independence.

He offered to shave his head when I shaved mine. Sometimes I cringe at how unromantic all this is. But marriage isn’t just about romance. And it isn’t just about having your partner’s back.

I am still not sure what it is. All I know it became something I couldn’t imagine as a kid and thru most of my adulthood I found. 

Or it found me.

Footprints

Tummy, the landlords' pet is often cat non grata for miscellaneous reasons.

Thus, when we saw paw prints all over their car, we thought we would help him stay in good graces by removing them.

We told our landlady.

"Those are weasel prints," she said.  "They like to eat any rubber parts from a car." 

There is enough wild land around to support wild life.

I remember a writer friend, Mighty Mom on her blog, who was a neighbor in the next village having to have rubber parts replaced on her car many years back.

Maybe they will leave our car alone if we give them a McDo gift certificate.

Not a poet

Although some of my poetry has been published, I don't consider myself a poet. Not even a po...

I don't consider myself an artist either, but for several years I journaled  by doing a sketch and a haiku.

The form requires discipline to fit the thoughts into a 5-7-5 line format.

The Geneva Writers Group had a master class with a real poet, Anthony Anaxagoro. He had us write down 10 nouns then add an adjective. We were then to take our favorites and write a poem. I fell back on haiku.

Here's mine.

The silent pen lay

next to teh waiting paper

Failing to give it life.

Between old fart and too young

I'm vain. 

I admit it. 

At 73 I want to look my best but not as the saying goes by becoming mutton dressed up as lamb.

I know a woman, Bambi. She has long blond hair in a pony tail and bangs/fringe. She dresses as she did when she was a model in the 1960s. She has the body for the mini shirts, halter tops and shorts. Her face reflects her age. It is in the 60s.

Although I am not fat at 57 kilos, mini skirts, shorts etc. I definitely am not a Bambi.

I also have seen women my age dressing like grannies.

Nope. Boring. 

Nor do I don't want to have a stuffy look yet that many Swiss women select. I don't need stockings and gloves to go to town or the grocery.

Although I love my more bohemian puffy pants and layered dresses that I wear in France just wouldn't feel right. They are fun and comfy.

And I love pretty matching lingerie. No one but my husband will see those colors or lacy thingies.  Even when I was single my underwear was important. It makes me feel feminine even on the worst days. I might even strut when I think of it when I'm out of the house.

In both places I accessorize my outfits with a variety of scarves and fun earrings. One of the advantage of the chemo baldness is I have two wigs and I can vary length for the earrings, but I still want my own hair back someday. I also have some very sedate earrings like my gray pearl ones.

I am not mutton. 

I am not lamb.  

There is a song I gotta be me. But not to the point of being ridiculous.

Scoob sulks

The animal story goes back at least from 2003 as part of a game my daughter and I played. 

Rick and J picked up on it and over the years it has grown. This the latest installment.

Scoob 2: I've called this meeting because we have a crisis.

Miel: What?

Scoob 2: My mother had a date. He gave her a brownie. A BROWNIE and TEA.

Honey Bunny: Well why shouldn't she? After all your father deserted her in 2013.

Scoob 2: But if she gets involved with someone, they will never get back together.

Shamrock the trans-gendered Boston lobster: I wasn't there at the time, but from what I've heard, he was a scum bag and hasn't sent one cent.

Scoob 2: But I met him when I went to Boston. He was nice to me.

Herr Hare: Anyone can be nice for an afternoon. Grow up. Let your mom be happy.

The animals again

Petite Cougar has had her first date since her disastrous romance with Scooby that produced the mischievous Scooby II.

Fuzzy cat invited PC for tea and a brownie. Tactfully, PC didn't say the Funky BBQ brownies, although good to math J's.

Another date is planned.

The Hungry Writer Review

"Food played a prominent part in my first book, a novel called The Oven House - it symbolized comfort and nurture, attempted to soothe the desolated landscape of lost love through the cherishing intensities of heat and taste. It is sprinkled, literally and metaphorically, through my poetry too: an unsettling chip shop owner, a bare-breasted woman striding past a grocery store, tomatoes, milk, bread, chestnuts, olives, eggs, a single golden apple." The Hungry Writer by Lynne Rees

I wanted to send that paragraph to my Reader at Lancaster University where I dropped out of a doctoral program dashing my plans to become Dr. Donna. 

He thought food did not belong in any serious writing and totally failed to see that choices of what my characters ate SHOWED as much about their attitudes and relationships as being TOLD. 

Showing vs. telling is a lesson that all beginning writers should learn with showing being the stronger. There were other problems, and despite him saying my writing was not publishable, Family Value was published with all food references.

The Hungry Writer is a fascinating combination of the Welsh author's experiences growing up in Wales, living in France, writing prompts for those writers that want to use it as a text book or to trigger their own writing and a cookbook.

As a long-time fan of her poetry, I doubt if many other writers could pull the combination off. She did, although she started it out as a weekly blog. The book feels like a book not a blog demonstrating her skill with not just the written word but with the manipulation of format.

Interwoven are bit and pieces of her life, which intentional or not, can be adapted to the reader's who may never have spent time in Wales or France, but can identify with a mate's accident, doing somethin to remember happily or regret.

This is a perfect book to settle down with on a rainy afternoon, a cup of tea and perhaps with the smell of welsh cakes (recipe page 61) hot from the oven.

Order here UK or here US.

I sleep in the wrong century

I know eight hours sleep is recommended to be healthy and maybe wealthy and wise.

For me, it ain't going to happen and hasn't for years.

Yes, I go to bed at a reasonable hour and "pretend" to read as my daughter says. Rick often removes the book and my glasses from my body. I don't stir. Or we have the telly tuned to Midsummer Murders as we settle in for the night. I seldom stay awake for the discovery of even the first corpse (usually one of three).

And whether or not my bladder calls I am usually awake, bright eyed and bushy tailed by one or two. There are multi ways to treat this.

• Stay in bed and think of things on my to do lists, plan my next day's writing, etc.
• Read
• Check my iPad
• Worry that I should be asleep
• All of the above

A couple of hours later my eyelids get tired of blinking and then it is morning.

I am seldom tired the next day although having read articles about the terrible consequences of not getting enough good sleep I wonder what disease awaits me because of my bad sleep pattern.

I was so happy to come across this post to learn that my sleep patterns are perfect for the Middle Ages when they had what they called First and Second Sleep.

First Sleep: Not having things like electric lights or even an abundance of candles, the First Sleep began at dark. In winter, bed would be warmer than sitting around the fire even if the house had invited livestock in to protect them from the weather and act as additional heat units.

Second Sleep: This could vary. Monks would wake for Matin prayers around 2 in the morning. Non religious people would just wake.

Jean Verdon wrote Night in the Middle Ages about sleep patterns way back when. And Roger Ekrich penned At Day's Close Night in Times Past.

From childhood thru university to today, I've been fascinated by the Middle Ages. Maybe I was even reincarnated so in the 20th and 21st centuries, I am sleeping as I did in my earlier lives.

Even if this is the only life I have ever lived I am once again reminded that yesterday's medical advice has been changed and may be changed again.

Once doctors recommended smoking. Eggs are being rehabilitated from not being as bad as they once were thought. Wine and the amount is bad-good-bad-good-bad good depending on the time and study. 

So I'll no longer worry about my middle of the night wakefulness and just make sure good books are next to the bed until I'm ready for the second sleep.

Helicopter husband

My mother could have created the manual for the helicopter mom a half a decade before the term was created. I hated being over protected.

Fast backward to three years ago when Rick and I were getting together. My friends who approved of him and actually thought he might be good for me took him aside and said, "Don't smother her. Give her freedom. She's very independent." The underlining message was "Or you'll be history."

My daughter added another message, "And she'll steal your socks."

He believed both. Some of his socks disappeared. He didn't hover.

Then I developed breast cancer. I made sure he attended all my appointments, although in most there was only French spoken and I had to translate. He had said this is a motivation to speed up his learning process. I wanted him to not feel left out.

We went thru the bad news, the good news, the bad news, the good news. They think they got it all. Chemo and radiation would be preventative.

After surgery, I still was able to maintain my full independence. But with chemo, I was less brave. There have been times walking across the room has left me without energy. Doing chores that should be ordinary were/are exhausting. Unloading a dishwasher shouldn't leave me shaking, but it does on the bad days.

He took over.

"You are a helicopter husband," I've told him as he worried about leaving me alone. For whenever I was weak, his blade rotated at full speed making sure I don't faint on him as I did one day.

He didn't deny it. 

Now chemo is almost at an end. Radiation will be tiring but not like this. In a few months I will regain my strength and we will be back to normal. I've promised him that I will do the cooking for months rather than our alternating under our previous arrangement.

"We'll see," he said. 

I hate being dependent, wanting to do stuff but not having the energy. I have learned that it is okay to ask for help, to not always be 100% strong. I have learned that having a hovering, helicopter husband is a good thing when needed.

Because on my good days, when I do feel normal, he lands his helicopter and shuts off the hover mode, I know our lives will resume.

Meanwhile I need a clean pair of socks, and when he isn't looking I'll check out his drawer. 

Rick has done a dueling blog at http://lovinglifeineurope.blogspot.fr/

coup feu

"Call the coup feu," my landlady said to my complaint that it felt as if my hands were on fire, a reaction to the Taxol chemo treatment.

She wasn't the first. My physio had said the same thing when I had had radiation only none of the burning predicted  happened.

I'd heard that even doctors had recommended a coup feu, a person you telephoned to relieve pain.

After a sleepless night, I did.

She immediately put me thru to her daughter whose English was much worse than my French, but I gave my name, address, birthdate in both languages.

I was handed back to the mother and we spoke French and understood each other without a problem.

She told me to be still.

Nothing but quiet for I don't know how many minutes. I felt my hands cool.

"Call me back if you have more problems," she said.

 When I told my oncologist, she raised her eyebrows. "I don't understand how it works," she says."But I've seen it work in burn units."

I don't understand either. I don't care. My hands are still cool. 

Clowns all

When I look at the debate stage for the candidates in both parties in the US presidential election, I see clowns and puppets spouting lies or stupidities. Facts, reality do not seem to enter into it. Knowledge of things that they would need to deal with as president is lacking. When caught in a lie, they repeat it.

They talk about war and how to be tougher than each other. No one talks about peace.

Meanwhile they create divisions: how to deliver good wishes, the color of a coffee cup, the label of liberal or conservative, becomes more important than the floods devastating parts of the UK and the US, the fracking earthquakes in Oklahoma, the poison water in Flint, Michigan and the millions of deaths created by other clowns with their drones and guns.

Foil vs. bottles

I once watched my beloved step mom arrange her medications in this type of box thinking that she had too many medications. For her it was useful as her dementia increased.

I dislike taking pills and try always to do the natural first, but I failed with my blood pressure. I also have an acid stomach...two pills needed daily.  Then chemo means another pill here and there.

It has been years since I've seen the childproof orange pill bottles in real life that should read adult proof more than child proof. I don't miss the struggle to open them.

I know that other types of containers can be dangerous. Kimm, my German Shepherd, got into an envelope of tranquilizers bought to keep her calm during an international flight.

She lived but that was the most mellow day of her life. My brother once took some of my mother's hormones. She called the doctor. "Don't worry until he starts chasing you around the house," he laughed.

Medicines do need to be kept out of reach of those that don't know any better.

Swiss and French medicine come in tin foil packets. No struggle.

With no children in the house, I have no worries about children getting into medication.

Of course, a child overdosing is no laughing matter, but I am happier with tin foil packets. I'd be happiest still with no medication.

Still, I refuse to go with the weekly box and hopefully never will

The accidental restaurant lunch

Rick and I had not intended to go to eat in a restaurant. We had been exploring a village, Veigy, in France on New Year's Day for no other reason than because we could.

On the way back as we crossed back into Switzerland we passed the restaurant Café de la Frontière.

We had meant to eat there last week. Marc, the manager had been at Marro, our other restaurant of frequent meals, and we like supporting his adventure not just because we like him but because the food is good and the atmosphere cozy.

Much easier to take a left into the parking lot than go home and cook.

We debated calling my former housemate only to find her already there. My trout and rick's lasagna were good. Rick is trying to find the perfect lasagna in Geneva. Today he came a bit closer

3 New Years

"You're serious?" Rick mumbled.

I'd just woken him to tell him it was 5:56 and ask if he wanted to catch the ball dropping in Times Square.

He rolled over and put on the television. It would be our third celebration of the arrival of the new year.

The first was at my old home. We were  unusual for a Geneva group of six: we were only from two countries: four from the US and two Brits.

Under it's a small world we discovered that Rick had gone to the U of Illinois as had Paul. A special guest was the 94-year old Father, who had come across the channel for the holiday. The number was the only thing old about him.

We mumphed down some great cheeses, foie gras, salmon, aubergine caviar, topped off with champagne. There were even crackers to pull with messages inside. And since none of us are spring chickens, we made 10:30 the official new year and went home.

On Swiss television we watched the New Year come in. RTS2 has a hall full of people dancing in conga line and dancing. Many were in national costumes and reminded me of the many fashings and fests I'd attended in Germany when I had been a bride of an Army musician and his 7th corp band were in demand to perform.

At midnight the count down was flashed on screens across the hall. The only logo was on the top of the screen, left hand side, saying which station we were watching.

Now to New York and this morning. 

Anderson Cooper and Kathy Griffin exchanged comments, an unknown singer sang and the ball began to drop. It was hard to see because of the logos behind it.

I can safely say after very three different welcomings-in, 2016 is definitely here.

Happy New Year everyone.

Moratorium on death

Okay, death isn't a happy topic, which is why I am declaring a moratorium of friends and family on death for 2016. Enough is enough

Having a second bout of cancer, does create a sense on my mortality. Just my age at 73 could do that. But I am well on my way to complete healing.

In the shower this morning I reflected all of the people whom I've loved and lost over the years, and compared to many people, especially those in war zones, it is few, but it is still too many.

In memory of those family and friends whom I've lost and who still exist in my heart and always will I list you.

Florence Stockbridge SARGENT (DAR) my grandmother who died in her late 80s. Whatever is good and strong in me came from her.

James Francis BOUDREAU at 69. He died Dec. 30th one day after his 69th birthday. We made up for the years that I lost him as a child to forge a strong relationship. I knew him well from 20 to 48 and those years were precious. It was a lesson it is never too late to love.

Jack CROWLEY in his 90s...my step mom's step father...a family of choice member who told me his doctor was stupid expecting him to lose weight the way he ate and drank. We were both born on July 24, many decades apart.

Sam and Eva SCHEINFELDT who were part of holidays and events from the time I began work with Eva in 1967 until their deaths many years later and quite a few apart. They were more than relish recipes and singing "Little Drummer Boy" as we decorated the Christmas tree and waited for Chinese food to be delivered.

Diane Perroset REYNOLDS my step sister. My parents made one major mistake calling her the beautiful daughter and calling me the intelligent. I am not ugly, she was not stupid. She died in her fifties from some bad life choices. She was also one of the sweetest people I have known.

Dorothy Sargent BOUDREAU at 71 from throat cancer. She would never stop smoking. It took me ten years after her death to let the good back in. Domineering, and destructive to me as an adult, she was when I was a child often fun, understanding and generous. Some of the good things I do with my daughter came from her...as for the bad...I have a range of people who would kick me if I tried any of them.

Mardy WILLSON who gave me (and I hope I gave back) 53 years of friendship and support. As I was recovering from my first bout of cancer and her from a fall I complained how tired I was. She complained how she hated being forced to walk. Her last words were "I'll sleep for you, you walk for me." Sadly her sleep started the next day and was permanent.

Norma Crowley BOUDREAU who forgot to read the Ugly Stepmother's Manual...who always said to my father, that they didn't have his children or her children but "our children" and made the best chocolate Kahlua cake. We only had one cross word in all the time that I knew her and that was about an iron I put away hot. My father did really well in his second marriage and I love him even more for bringing Norma into my life.

Dr. Barbara HAGAMAN at 78 and a friend for 41 years in four different living places on two continents. A woman who lived by her own rules which were better than the ones that society imposed upon her.

So, as I said above, enough enough. We can renegotiate death in 2017. We can't stop it forever, but a year would be so nice.

Gilded Chalet

Although I love Switzerland, that is not the main reason, I adored reading The Gilded Chalet (off-piste in Literary Switzerland) by Irishman Padraig Rooney who has lived there for the last 15 years.

Although I read the most of the writers mentioned in The Gilded Chalet as required reading in university, I haven't touched any of them for years. My studies were of the works themselves not whom they were as people or the backdrops that gave rise to their work.

The book makes fascinating reading because it puts the lives of literary greats together with the country of chalets, watches and chocolate.

It did help that the first part about Jean-Jacques Rousseau covered his time in Môtiers, the 600-person, 6,000 cow village where I spent 1990-1993 having just moved from Boston. He is so accurate in his description that I could almost hear the cow bells and feel the spray from the waterfall that Rousseau loved and near where I picnicked with my Japanese chins Albert and Amadeus.

Switzerland is great for putting up plaques about who lived in what building and when. Only last month did I come across the plaque where Joseph Conrad had spent time.

What makes the book sing is Rooney's combination of descriptive and sometimes humorous writing, the facts about the writers interwoven with conditions and movements of their time, quotes both from and about the writers.

Literature lovers, history lovers and those that would like to get to know Switzerland from the comfort of their chairs in whatever country they may be living, would find this a fun read.

Cat Coke vs. Pepsi

There are those that swear by Coca-cola and others who love only Pepsi.

Clea and Babette are the same, only it involves two brands of kitty milk.

Clea tends to push her sister out of any food. Babette doesn't seem to mind all that much when Selina is in the bowl. In fact, she often will walk away from it when her sister is no where nearby and it is clear drinking.

On the other hand when there's whiskas she will lick the bowl clean. 

Feline brand loyalty.

A tale of two Christmas stockings

Both these stockings were embroidered by my daughter.

The first was done when she was in high school in the 1980s. It originally was going to be hers and mine was going to be different.

I'd been marooned at work in Maynard where I worked. The drive back to Boston would have been far too dangerous in the snowstorm.

When I entered our apartment the next evening, I was greeted by my daughter. "YOU..." she said with the caps justified, "...are getting the other stocking."

"Why?"

"Albert peed on what was going to be MINE!!!!"

Albert was our Japanese chin. Whether he was unhappy that I had stayed away all night or not, we could only guess. The division of stocking has been part of our Christmas lore each year.

Fast forward many decades.

Rick has joined our small family and  has thus earned his own Christmas stocking which my daughter finished this summer for use for the first time this year.

No dog peed on his.

Why oh why

I'm a minimalist...

I don't like gadgets because they equal clutter.

My husband is testing it with wanting things like pizza cutters and ice cream scoops when scissors and a spoon are just as good.

This is not an issue that will put our relationship in jeopardy.

At least he doesn't want a hamburger press (I have two hands) or something to cook hot dogs when a pan will do.

On the other hand a kitchen without a food processor makes cooking not as pleasant  because it does the work of lots of gadgets, and I love my slow pot cooker. It gets lots of use. Maybe a reader will consider this extra or clutter.

When we rented the flat in Argelès it came fully equipped and thus there are duplicates. I figure we can get rid of about 40% of what is in the kitchen.

And we finally settle on a flat in Geneva maybe some of the Argelès stuff will come in, but I want to be very careful there is nothing extra.

Maybe clutter is in the eye of the beholder.

Arghhhhhhhhhhh

I am a surface neat freak. Everything must be what I think is its place and preferably lined up. We won't discuss closets that could cause burial if doors are opened too quickly.

Thus if Llara or Julia walked into my bedroom and saw this pile they would think someone else was staying here.

The reason?

I'm in this middle of moving. And I need to empty closets to decide what:

• Stays in the new place in Switzerland
• Goes to Argelès
• Gets given to charity
• Hits the trash bin

It make no sense to put stuff into a closet to take it out.

However, because of the mess I can't find anything.

Rick comes in and picks it up almost as fast as Julia would be able to. She's still the find lost stuff champion. He resists saying ALMOST always "In front of your face."

I'll be glad to be settled.

Best present ever

OUR family gives simple but thoughtful presents. Some are traditional: socks for my daughter and Kleenex she can't get in the states. Something with a penguin and a book of Cryptoquotes for me.

After my dad moved to Florida, when we still lived in Boston, each year he would send a box of grapefruit-sized oranges with a note...

Merry Christmas

Love

Jimmy and Norma

Succulent is the best word to describe them.

He died two days after Christmas, one day after his 69th birthday. To say I missed him, and still do even though I am now four years older than he was when he died, is an understatement.

Like all deaths of loved ones, the first year is the hardest.

I was sitting at my desk where I shared a cubicle with my assistant. Digital Credit Union, where I was Communication Director, was about to move into its own building, but until then as our staff expanded things were more and more crowded.

My assistant and I worked together perfectly even in the crowded space. "Please move your knees so I can open a drawer," was an oft-spoken request.

A box, from my stepmom. had been delivered to my desk.

I opened it. It was packed with oranges and the card read...

Merry Christmas

Love

Jimmy and Norma

I must have paled, because my assistant asked what was wrong. I handed him the card. My dead father had sent me a Christmas gift.

I called my wonderful stepmom and told her.

"They must not have changed the card like I asked. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," I said. My dad in his own way still was sending me a Christmas gift, this one for the last time.

It was one of the best presents I've ever had.

Tell the truth? Yes? No?

My former housemate J makes the world's best brownies from her secret recipe.

Sunday we moved over to her place from our new place to house/cat2x sit while she goes on a river cruise with old friends. The house is occupied and Clea and Babette have laps for the duration.

On my old desk were two tins, one with cookies, which are pretty amazing too and one with brownies. The note, Merry Christmas Rick and D-L, left no doubt about her intentions.

I left the two tins on the desk where Rick would be working. He was really pleased about the cookies.

"And the brownies?"

"Brownies?"

"There were two tins."

"The other was her sewing box. I put it in her room."

I went into J's bedroom and there was the tin, filled with brownies, not a needle, thread or scissors to be found.

Now I was faced with a great moral dilemma. I could eat all the brownies myself or share them with my beloved husband.

I am guilty of thinking it over.

I guess I really love that man. I showed him the brownies. We are sharing.

DST ends again

I have often said that setting the clocks back makes the day it is done my favorite. 

I think I've bee given another hour of life. I only change the clocks back in the afternoon when I say to whoever is willing to humor me, "Oh, it is only 4 o'clock, we have time to (fill in the blank).

Today, it was clock setting back again.

We've moved back into my former home for two weeks while my ex-housemate/current friend goes on a cruise to cat sit and house guard. 

I woke at eight in the morning, read for a couple of hours and then decided it was time to get up. We've been so busy, the idea of a slow Monday morning was a delight.

Rick came in, asked the time and we decided to skip breakfast because by the time we ate it would be time to go to lunch.

He then went to check his e-mail.

"It's an hour earlier than you said," he told me.

Seems the clock in my old bedroom hadn't been changed. 

I had a longer morning with an extra hour. That makes twice this year I've won extra time in a day.

WONDERFUL!!!! 

GWG Gratitude

This mansion was converted to be the home of the Geneva Press club and is one in a series of buildings that has been used over the years for Geneva Writer Group workshops led by Susan Tiberghien (and sometime others).

It was a lifeline when I discovered the group in 1993. I was one of the original 18 members. With a day job in an NGO finding other people who thought it made perfect sense to spend hours slaving over a computer producing words that might never be read much less paid for was to me, a miracle.

The group is now 250+ strong and includes a biannual international writers conference.

I have been extraordinarily lucky in my writing career www.donnalanenelson.com having had most (but not all) of my novels published. The success was not mine alone, but aided by the GWG.

GWG and Susan have been responsible for helping me hone my craft. The monthly workshops, the critiquing sessions, the conferences and the emotional support were part of it. I learned about markets and magazines for writers. From a British writing magazine (which I later wrote for) I learned about Glamorgan University in Wales where I earned an M.A. in creative writing further improving my craft.

In the room where we hold the workshops are two opposing mirrors, each reflecting into eternity the other. I've always thought of those mirrors are a metaphor for writing, the possibilities go on forever.

It doesn't matter how much one publishes. There is always room to do it better. Yesterday the workshop was on dreams. Once again Susan made me reach into myself and discover something I didn't know was there. 

Thank you Susan.

Tails and terrorists

"That woman has a tail." My husband's head swiveled before returning to the road. He was driving me to the eye doctor.

"Escalade," I said.

He understood.

Escalade is the Geneva's celebration of stopping an attack by the French in 1602. People dress in costume both modern and of the period. Is not unusal to see men in armor and on horse back.

Vin chaud and hot vegetable soup are on sale for those that watch the parades and demonstrations.

Marmites filled with marzipan veggies are on sale to commemorate Mère Royaume's throwing a pot of boiling soup on the French trying to scale the city wall giving her time to alert the soldiers.

This year, there is a slight pall over the weekend fête. Geneva is under a terrorist watch. They have already found two people, whom they think are connected to the Paris bombings. Explosives were in the car.

Geneva, with its UN organizations, could make a desirable target. It is French speaking and the French are bombing Syria in the never ending retaliation cycle.

However, the celebration has not been cancelled. We are not going, not out of fear but more because of my energy level. 

Still 500+ years after the attack by the French, that man is still trying to kill, maim and destroy is sad. Yesterday's enemy is today's friend and tomorrow's enemy again. Usually it is all a power game.

The tail that Rick saw was part of a cat costume. As long as man is so stupid to go to war, maybe it should be on a devil instead. 

Yesterday's evil, today's evil and sadly probably tomorrow's. It doesn't matter which side, it is all evil. Only now it is evil with better weapons.

I'm happy

A French friend once said I was always happy. Almost guilty as charged. 

Of course there are times of sadness, when I lose a friend, am disappointed by something but those are far from daily events. And even in those events there is some good. I am sad when I lose someone I care about, but I had the joy of that friendship. The mourning is the price for the good.

Each down has a counterpoint of an up, a lesson to be learned, a memory to be filed.

Right now, because I'm dealing with cancer, people expect me to be unhappy.

However, my nature is happy and people look at me strangely when I say how happy I am.

The answer is simple I have so much.

1. Top notch, friendly, affordable health care. Chemo is almost fun thanks to the hospital staff.
2. A wonderful single life up until I met my husband replaced by a wonderful married life.
3. I never thought that I would be happy in a relationship. I'm not just happy I'm ecstatic.
4. I live in two incredible places, Southern France and Collonge-Bellerive, Switzerland.
5. Both places I live have an incredible beauty.
6. If I never bought another thing, I have more than I need.
7. I have wonderful friends of many nationalities and interests.
8. I have a daughter that is a friend and whom I am so proud.
9. I have a second daughter of choice, who will be moving to Geneva with her family. 
10. There are books, books, books in my life.
11. No matter which country I am, in the restaurants and choice of food is almost unlimited.
12. There is room for silliness in my life.
13. I had a wonderful education in Reading, MA, Lowell, MA and Pontypridd, Wales.
14. Some fantastic teachers opened the world to me.
15. Most of my professional life was in jobs that were interesting and where if I didn't make the  world better, I didn't make it worse.
16. I have developed a new love of taking photos of bits and pieces of life that I discover.

The list could go on and and on and on...

Each day, whether on a walk or staying in there is something good. It could be a hot cup of tea as rain pounds the window creating its own music. Or it could be the spectacular fall colors that are now giving way to the delightful ting of cold weather on my cheek.

My greatest joy and happiness? I have been given a long life, full of rich experiences. The bad ones gave me strength and the ability to see the good.

 

Miss Blanche's

"7x5=35, 7x6x6=42, 7X7=51," I said.

"49," my grandmother corrected me.

We were sitting at our kitchen table in Bluefield West Virginia. The month before we'd moved from Reading, MA. I was in first grade and my mother shocked by the level of education, had enrolled me in Miss Blanche's private school. I would attend from 1-3 every afternoon.

However, I would be allowed to stay after my one-month probation only if I could catch up to the others, which meant I must know my times tables thru 12, be able to do do simple addition, subtraction, multiplication and division, spell 150 words and be able to read and understand our books. She figured I could catch up on geography that she was just beginning.

"No problem," my grandmother said. Each morning found us at the kitchen table with my Sunbeam bread toast, egg and fruit juice.

In one way I was thrilled.

Gone were the brain-dreading, boring "See Dick run, run Dick run" that I had finished the first week in Reading. The new books were about silk worms and gave real information about animals, people and places. I wanted to unlock those so I learned the words. My grandmother would make them into anagrams so it was fun to find the correct spelling.

No big letter printing. We were expected to write cursive and be neat, no ink splotches.

I loved the learning, hated Miss Blanch.

I'm not sure if I would recognize her, but my memory dimmed by decades conjures up a woman with a grey bun, chubby and house dresses. A ruler was never far from her hand to tap the outstretched fingers of any student that gave a wrong answer. I never told my mother, thinking I had no choice.

There were only five of us. I only remember Robert who usually wore shorts to school. One day Miss Blanch refused to let him go to the toilet and the mess he created oozed out of his pants. I was rapped for gagging. I wonder, if he is even still alive remembers.

At our short recess, we had swings and monkey bars. I always selected the swing, but one day she gave me no choice. Monkey bars or else.

I didn't have the strength to swing from bar to bar, but she refused to help. Instead I fell to the ground and was not allowed to play on the swing because of my failure.

By third grade we were back in Reading and I was put in third grade although tests showed I was at fifth grade level or above. I was tiny even for third grade and my mother thought that socially it would be too hard for me for the rest of my school career.

Miss Berry, a new teacher, made no allowance for my advanced learning. I was back to printing on double lines. No cursive. Reading was boring.

That year I ran thru childhood diseases: mumps, measles, chicken pox. Not wanting to return to the boring school, I rubbed poison ivy leaves on my face. (I never confessed this to my mother, was nearly permanently scared and in agony, but it was worth it).

I did pass the year went on to Mrs. Beaton's class with the wonderful pamphlet books about famous people that we could read when we finished our work, and started cursive writing, although different from the one I had learned. Flutophone was introduced, enough to make anyone hate music, but school was no longer dreaded. I started a school newspaper.

Life and learning were good again.

Me with my not-loved flutophone, third row, second from left.