Saying good bye

I am saying good-bye to the Flanagans and the Kellys and it is both a happy and sad moment. They have existed in my imagination and computer database since 2004 when I created them as I wrote Triple Decker.

When I write, my characters become real to me. I can feel when dressmaker Peggy pricks her finger on a pin and worries about blood on a fabric.

I want to slap Katie when her unbending and old-fashioned morality makes life difficult for her daughter Jess to develop her relationship with Globe reporter Aidan, the way the young woman feels is best.

I can cry with Peggy when her son is killed. If I couldn’t go to Fort Bragg to protest the war, I could send Peggy. I did enough research to see the flag-draped cardboard cartons and hear the bagpipes playing for Peggy to experience.

I understand Peggy’s frustration working in an uncaring corporate environment.

The Mission Hill neighborhood is not a creation, but a recounting of a world changing through gentrification.

If the Flanagans and Kellys are figments of my imagination, they are composites of the many families that lived in Mission Hill.

I have a friend with a six-year old son, who is a great story teller. But as he told his grandfather, a story has to have a problem. The Flanagans and Kellys have their problems. In one way, the Flanagans and Kellys remind me of my two French-Canadian aunts who were still fighting about a prom dress in their seventies. However, let any outsider be a threat to the other, and that sister would come out swinging.

Marriages survive but husbands and wives grate on another. The Flanagans and the Kellys are no different. Peggy’s “Old Goat” frustrated her, but she protected him with the ferocity of the clichéd mother lion protecting her cubs.

As they go through the transitions in their lives, the transitions I put them through, I almost want to apologize to them for making them suffer.

I put the novel aside for well over a decade, although from time-to-time I thought of my imaginary friends. Their stories remained buried in my computer but rose to my mind’s surface by miscellaneous triggers.

After writing Coat Hangers and Knitting Needles, I was drained. It was my first non-fiction book about abortion before Roe v. Wade and it was painful. In fiction, it is possible to make things better for characters, but in non-fiction, suffering cannot be sugar-coated if you are looking for reality.

For the first time in my life, I could not write, with the exception of blogs.

The way back to writing happened in two steps. I found a publisher for Murder in Edinburgh and brought out Triple Decker from the depths of my database.

It was like a homecoming. As I walked through the rooms of the Triple Decker, it was as if Peggy greeted me and said, “I’ll put the kettle on.” I’d forgotten things like the claw-foot tub in Peggy’s bathroom which she’d painted blue and stenciled with flowers. I wanted some of the goodies the families has prepared for the Super Bowl despite how the day changed their lives forever.

So, after several months of getting reacquainted and polishing and after my husband put the book through his own severe and welcomed critiqued, I will send it off to be readied for its publication later this year.

The cover is done. For the first time, there will be art work within the book, something this publisher is willing to do.

In a few moments, I will hit the send button and it will arrive at the publishers.

I have the same feeling I had when I took my then 18-year old daughter to Logan Airport for her gap year at a German Gymnasium both sadness to see them go and a combination of relief and pride to see them go.

Patriotism

I always admired Teddy Roosevelt. I've visited his home twice and read biographies.

He wrote about his ideas on immigrants and being an AMERICAN in 1907 that were posted on Facebook.

I had mixed feelings. The first part I agree with whole-heartedly.

“In the first place, we should insist that if the immigrant who comes here in good faith becomes an American and assimilates himself to us, he shall be treated on an exact equality with everyone else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed, or birthplace, or origin."

The second part I have more trouble with. One cannot eliminate part of their life, their early cultural heritage, nor should they be asked to do so.

"But this is predicated upon the person’s becoming in every facet an American, and nothing but an American … There can be no divided allegiance here. Any man who says he is an American, but something else also, isn’t an American at all. We have room for but one flag, the American flag …

The analogy that comes to mind is a parent who has a second child. They should not be made to give up the first child. To ask someone to give up part of their life, is like taking a plant and replanting it.
New roots grow. If someone came along and cut off the roots nearest the plant, the plant would die.

On the other hand if the new roots that grew were cut off, the plant also could die because there is not enough to tie them to the soil.

In this global world the roots from both places can make the plant more beautiful.

We have room for but one language here, and that is the English language … and we have room for but one sole loyalty and that is a loyalty to the American people.”

I agree that people should speak the language of the country where they hold citizenship, but to limit oneself to a single language shuts out knowledge of literature, news and information about the rest of the world. Studies since Roosevelt's time show that being multi-lingual is good for the brain.

People change countries for many reasons and times. It can be the bad ones, bombs, natural disasters, a dictator, uncontrolled crime, The good ones can be adventure, a better job, falling in love with a person from another country, studying, research or anything the human mind can imagine.

When I had to chose between a bank account and my birth country, I gave up being a dual, but that does not stop me caring about my birth country. Nor does caring about my birth country make me care any less about the country that has taken me in.

I sometimes think about myself as an international with deep, deep ties to two places that have been so part of what makes me who I am.

A forced no grid day

This is a dueling blog with my husband.

 http://lovinglifeineurope.blogspot.com/2019/03/disconnected.html

For almost a year Saturdays were off the grid days: no email, no internet, no news. It didn’t really matter what Trump did or the latest Brexit flumdiddle (that is not a real word, but Brexit seems like an equally made up event).

What peace we felt, not dealing with the insanity of the world. Some projects which had been postponed for far too long, miraculously got done.

But since we went back to Geneva for the winter, work and other projects seemed to override the no grid day.

Today, Rick was beginning a new week, his first without being in an intensive French class several hours daily. I was doing a final glance through of Triple Deckers ready to send off to the publisher.

As I was heading for the shower and he was looking at Facebook before starting his next client project, he said, “Internet’s down.”

It happens and it usually comes back quickly. 

Forget usually. It is now suppertime and it still isn’t up.

We don’t know if the telecoms truck out on the street spied when Sherlock was being walked was responsible or not. Or it could be a problem with the landlord’s system. We are tied together.

The TV is also out of commission.

We wrote around the internet, walked the dog. Rick had a phone call and made it out in the car where he could get a signal. I even got back to my novel Daycare and wrote about 500 words.

I did some chores too, made lunch, played with the dog and read.

It wasn’t that long ago when I never had the internet although it was rare to be without the television. 

The publisher will not have a heart attack if the manuscript comes in tomorrow.

I did have one horrible thought. How bad would it have been had I not had enough to read.

ARGHHHHHHHHHHHH

Violets

Violets are my favorite flower and today, I spotted two tiny patches, one in the garden outside the door and one on a country walk. 

That's all--two patches less than a few inches across in an area that covers kilometers.

As a child I grew up on 14 acres of land. In the spring if we left by the back door, past the two maple trees with our swing hanging between them, past the circle of purple irises, past the apple tree with the pink blossoms, we were at the top of a small hill.

That hill was covered with violets, yards and yards and yards. I always wanted to eat a grape Popsicle ever time I looked at the lawn of purple violets. 

My mother and I would pick a bouquet each year. We'd pick and pick and pick. Sometimes the bouquet was eight to ten inches.

We'd take the flowers home and put them in a pewter pitcher, that was usually used for water at meals, but was relinquished for flower-duty in the spring. When it was first filled, water would condense on the surface making trails and patterns.

I still have the pitcher in my Nest in the South of France. After more than a century and a half of use (it was my great grandmother's in the 1880s) it leaks. I use it for ladles, spoons and spatulas, not as pretty as the violets, but efficient as a holder of kitchen utensils and happy memories.

Breakfast and chocolate serendippity

Rick and I were meeting the chocolate tour we planned to take at the Starbucks, Quai des Bergues, in Geneva.

It was a perfect weather day, unusual in Switzerland. We walked hand-in-hand along the quai, admiring the swans and the water so clear, we could see bumps on the rocks under the surface.We noted the sky was almost as blue as in the South of France, a special treat for Geneva at this time of year.

The goal was to grab a quick bite at Starbucks, not a big one, for we anticipated the chocolate to come.

Peeking in the window of the Ambassador hotel, we saw the diners at tables with Clorox-white cloths eating breakfast. So often, I wish I had the courage to go up to a dinner and using my own fork, say, "Can I sample this?" and then do. I never have and probably never will unless they bring back Candid Camera and hire me as one of the presenters.

"Do you want to get a special breakfast?" My beloved asked.

"If we can," I said.

The wait staff said it wasn't a problem. One of the servers, a man in his 40s with the most beautiful blue eyes, took our coats and directed us to the buffet for the perfect eggs, beans, cheeses, salmon, juices, sausage and an assortment of breads, jams and honey.

I ordered a hot chocolate, half in preparation for the tour, half just because. The waiter brought a pitcher of steaming milk and a packet of cocoa powder.

I love watching the powder dissolve into the milk. Like pretending clouds have special shapes, I can pretend the chocolate is something more than melting chocolate, although today, the word amoeba was the first thing that came to mind.

We had well over an hour to savor our surprise breakfast. As always, we had lots to chat about, before paying and walking across the street to the tour.

We still had room to sample the chocolate and we di d.

Rick did a dueling blog https://lovinglifeinswitzerland.blogspot.com/2019/03/the-sound-of-chocolate.html?fbclid=IwAR3W51uVV2NjPeEILFULJOQ6Im_m6JmD6SXH5EAjheuqyhMZOigg_xXn9EQ
aabout our chocolatey morning. 

Eating books

People have said I eat books. I do read a lot and for fun and information.

One of the disadvantages of living outside a mother-tongue area is feeding my habit. Even though I can get books, they aren't always the ones I would buy at the moment, if my selection choices are larger.

• There are limited stores with English books, usually marked up
• Ordering by mail ups the cost. 
• Kindle is a good alternative especially if I run out of reading material late at night. 
• The English library in Geneva is a perfect solution for the latest books but we aren't always in Geneva.
• People share
• When we're in the UK or Scotland the charity shops 
• Book exchanges, formal and informal,

However, none of it matches eating Friday night dinner in Harvard Square, listening to the street musicians and then going to any or all of the bookstores to load up for the week.

This month I found a new source.

Crossing the border into France to grocery shop, the supermarket B1 has a book exchange with selections in French, German and English. Between the English Library book sale and B1 I will be able to recirculate most of my books as well as have a new source. A few I keep.

The other day I found a memoir, Life Class, which I began this morning. What a delight.

Out of curiosity, I started listing books I've read and the pages.

It isn't as much as I thought. More of an apèro than a full-course dinner. Still books are delicious.

International Happiness Day

On Facebook I regularly publish a list of things that make me happy. I don't need a special day.

Most of the things aren't exceptional. Flowers in winter or those that pop up as spring is about to arrive.

My dog finding a sunbeam to sleep in.

A cup of tea, or the tea my husband brings me each morning.

What I never quite lose track of is how incredibly lucky I am. Not that I haven't had my downs. My divorce was definitely not a happy time, but it opened the world to the life I was meant to lead.

There was worry about my daughter's childhood illness that now is just a memory. And being a two-time cancer survivor had memories that were more full of fear than happiness. Even around those more difficult time, there were moments of joy.

I have everything in life that I want and more. The rest is detail.
 

Name

What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

As a writer I name a lot of people. I am having a major problem with one character, that turned up as a surprise to me in the novel Day Care that is about 40,000 words done.

First, she wasn't supposed to be a character at all, but was part of an exercise I was doing where a writer was interviewing my main characters: Anne-Marie, Maura, Sally and Ashley. Those four women's names fell in place from the first touch of my finger to the keyboard.

Then Character X took over the novel, shifting the focus. I started with the name Susan Ainsworth. It didn't fit so I switch to Lauren. The problem with using Lauren, I keep picturing a writer friend Lauren, and Ms Ainsworth doesn't look anything like the real Lauren.

Names need to reflect place: geographically and in time. I know romantic novels often do exotic names. I have forgotten the book, but I remember a male character from Louisiana named Cash Boudreau. Boudreau is a good Cajun name and also my maiden name. But Cash?

The character was also known for his exceptional blue eyes, another trick in romantic novels but frowned upon in other genera.  

Where do I get names?

Often from lists of popular names for the year the character was born. Susan was number 11 in 1969. Lauren wasn't on the list. I new Jessica and Jennifer were popular from the number of Jessicas and Jennifers in my daughter's (born 1969) classes throughout school.

When was writing Murder in Argelès, I walked through the cemetery with a notebook taking down names and birth years. For Murder on Insel Poel, I went through the telephone book on the island. Murder in Geneva I read history books about the city from the period of Calvin.  

Murder in Edinburgh? A variation of the method although not all male characters could be named Duncan or Malcolm.

Now I'm thinking of the name Cynthia, not Cindy and definitely not Cindi for my new character.

Magic

Saturday was a magic day and not just because of the perfect, almost-spring weather and blue skies that had to be created by some artist's pallet.

The marché at Ferney with its colored umbrellas and a bit of every merchandise imaginable as well as all the fruits, veggies, breads, meats, cheeses, flowers. We gave into temptation and bought white asparagus, vintage tomato, raspberry tea cake and mimosa.

Chats were exchanged with different vendors all who had perfected the radiant smile.

A trip to the library provided another meaningful conversation with the volunteer library staff, one whom I've known for years, the other new.

Then the bank in Collogny to make some payments. I stayed outside with Sherlock, who met a couple of other pooches, sniffed around the grass. His tail kept wagging.

We then completed another step in our on-going quest to find where the Shelleys along with Lord Byron lived in 1816. No trace of Frankenstein, however. I think our next stop will be to ask at the mairie.

Photo by my writing friend Jay Käy Ëss

After a really lovely day, we headed for home, but instead of staying on the straight road, he veered left and stopped at our favorite view of the Jura.

We used the benches at the top of the Knoll where Sherlock played.

A tourist boat and a few sail boats were on the lake and we could see planes coming in to land.

The Jura were covered in snow, but I was warm enough to shed my coat.

Such a sense of peace.

Such a sense of having everything in the world that I could possible want.

Man has been in the area since the beginning of time. Julius Caesar walked along the shore of the lake. I am sure Byron and the Shelleys looked at the same lake, mountains and sky. A writing friend had taken a photo from the exact spot. For a brief moment in time I shared an experience with people who lived eons ago and throughout the ages.

Another car pulled up and three teenage boys popped out and sat on the knoll's grass.

We stood up to go. I told them the bench was free.

The events may be over, but the magic of the day, is embossed in my memory.

3 Little words

Three little words usually mean I love you.

For this blog, my favorite words are different. One I discovered I used wrong as did many other people.

1. Gobsmacked

When I moved to Switzerland and was working in an office with a majority of Brits, I heard this term for the first time.

Something about being hit in the mouth (gob) as in shocked by an idea rather than physically attacked just seemed to fit.

I've been told it is a lower class phrase. I don't care. I like it.

2. Peckish

Same office, same Brits many of whom became peckish at noon. Images of a bird pecking at crumbs abounded. I can now happily say, "It's four o'clock. I'm feeling a bit peckish. How about a couple of biscuits and a cup of tea." In my Bostonian accent it isn't quite the same as the many different English ones, but it doesn't matter as I nibble my biscuit (cookie) and sip my tea.

3. Penultimate

This is the word I had wrong for years. I thought it meant ultimate, but it really means next to last. I am not alone.

Arriving at a friend's house in Schwyz, she said she had the penultimate apèro for us, champagne and special nibblies. It wasn't the next to last apèro.

I have heard others use it my way. Maybe like gay changed its meaning or rather added a whole new meaning from happy to homosexual, penultimate will also evolve too.

And the other three little words: I love you? They are special when falling from my husband's, my daughter's or a friend's lips.

Pen

A pen is more than a pen.

People who know me, would be shocked to discover I do collect something--special pens. However, like all things I buy pens must have not one, not two, but three of the necessary attributes I want before purchase. Ideally everything in my home must be:

1. Useful

2. Beautiful

3. Memory

The pen collection started with a silver feather pen at a silent auction during a World Credit Union Conference in Barcelona. Five minutes before closing time, I rushed in and tripled the bid. The money went to credit union development so it became a win-win memory.

When visiting Rennes-Le-Chateau, there was a craftsman who made glass pens.

I bought one, of course. But glass and plume pens are not practical for shoving in a handbag along with a bottle of ink. I do use them, however, for things like thank you notes, or special letters when email just does not carry the same feeling.

My last pen, I left in Argelès, when we went back to Geneva for the winter. I miss it but will see it next month. I am planning to go to La Noisette, order a cup of tea and do some free writing with it.

I found the pen at a Christmas marché in Ferney-Voltaire, Franceand is hand made.

I will admit most of my writing is with the computer, but when I pick up a pen, whether it is a grocery list or a note to Rick saying I'm going _________ and will be back by _________ it is more than ink on paper. Part of my life is leaving my fingers.

Every time I use the new pen, it is a reminder of my husband's gift. It is walking to the marché with my French daughter and her five-year old son holding my hand and talking to me almost adult-adult. It is the sun on my face like it was that day even if it is rainy now.

My husband doesn't always understand why I can't pick up any pen and write, but it is because it is any pen, created in some factory by people I don't know or care about. There's no beauty and less memory from buying a box of pens to be used and thrown away when finished.

Age/Books

I am currently reading The Brimstone Wedding by the late Barbara Vine/Ruth Rendell. It was published when Vine/Rendell was 65.

What bothers me is how old people are treated in the book. Old seems to be defined as those in their 70s+.

Because it is set in a residence of the elderly, that some are suffering from life-ending illnesses does make sense.

My problem?

I am 76 and 3/4s. I am nowhere near the doddering characters in the book.

Yes, I have had classmates that died at various ages some of whose death include dementia, heart attacks, cancer. I am a two-time cancer survivor. Both times were a glitch that needed to be overcome. Had I not been successful, perhaps, I would be a bit more like the characters in the book.

But, and it is a big but, my life is no where close to be future-less. We have trips planned to Stockholm, Edinburgh, Boston in the next few months. We travel between our homes in Switzerland and France where we participate in life at many levels. I have books still to write, still to publish.

My husband is younger than I am. He is of the troisème age as the French describe our stage of life. Not only is he still working in his chosen career by choice with new sought-after challenges, but he's trying a new phase of his loved golf and has tournaments to play.

I have friends in my age group who have taken on a new love relationship with gusto. Others are traveling the world. They participate in as many activities as the human species can imagine. They are learning, living, loving.

Maybe someday, I too, will end up in a residence home, terribly diminished. I've made my husband promise that he will see I am dressed each day in co-ordinated underwear and pretty clothes, although jeans, sweater and scarf (colored to pull the other colors I might be wearing together) will do.

I picture myself doing wheelies down the corridors, organizing a mutiny among other residents for better food, sneaking out to make mischief somewhere. If bedridden, I hope to continue to write, send emails and read for as long as I can. Only after that is impossible to accomplish, I will I succumb to being like the characters in the book.

FATCA/Bank Manager

He came down the stairs at the Eau Vives branch of my Geneva bank. He was 30 something, wearing the bank uniform of a black suit, white shirt and red tie. A well-trimmed beard and short-curly hair set off twinkly eyes as he shook my hand.

He was cute.

We'd talked by email on the phone yesterday. Once again I was required to come in and prove my non-American status. I'd done this twice before as well as leaving my Certificate of Loss of Nationality twice, which proves that the US government recognizes I am no longer American. I paid $450 for my freedom, although if were I to do it today, it would cost $2,350.

As a result, I should be able to lead a normal financial life, although periodically I am threatened with loss of services such as life insurance it I were still American thanks to US bullying and FATCA.

I had shared with him how angry I was, not at him, not at the bank, but having had to choose between my birth country and having a normal financial life.

He emitted all the normal sympathetic sounds of good customer service training.

I asked why, once a person had provided the certificate, wasn't there a mechanism to have their IT system switch them to a different listing where the bank wouldn't be threatened by the US.

He pointed out that they also require all Green Card Holders and anyone of any nationality who has spent the last six months in the US, sign a form saying they are tax compliant. How they know someone was in the US for six months I don't know. The same with green card info.

The US (except for Eritrea) is the only country that has citizen based taxation. When an American becomes an expat they pay taxes in their new country but are also required to pay taxes to the US.

The US through its threats has made all financial institutions throughout the world report US citizens just in case they might be not paying, money laundering, drug dealers or slave traders. Those refusing, would be subject to huge fines and loss of access to international banking systems. As a result, these institutions have spent billions, identifying American persons and shedding them as clients. Those they keep or those, like myself, who are no longer American, are allowed to continue to do business with them when they jump through hoops.

Being angry, does no good. I try and control it. I just want the handicap of having been born American to be over.

silver linings

We've all heard the cliché about clouds with silver linings.

It was a frustrating day, a cloudy day.

It started when I couldn't find my bra. I have to keep it out of Sherlock's reach. He loves stealing it and even better, eating my  prosthesis. Once I was dressed, I did find it where it had fallen. Not eaten.

Then today was the day, I was pulling the 2018 tax stuff together, one of my least favorite chores. One of the things I was missing my SS statement. A 45 minute search produced nothing and trying to order it from the internet site didn't work, mainly because I don't have a US address.

I mentioned it to Rick. "I have it," he said.

Although I didn't finish, I do now what I am missing and hopefully by Sunday, I will pull it all together.

We decided to go to the ATM at the post in the next village. As we approached the machine, we noticed two men had the ATM out of the wall.

I burst out laughing.

"Let's get some tea," my husband said.

We walked to Martel, a 200 year old chocolatier that has tea rooms sprinkled around Geneva, all with desserts that are beautiful. I half expected it to be closed, considering how the day had been going,but it was open.

The silver lining was that it was open and the desert and tea was yummy. And besides it being a silver lining, the sprinkling of gold on the top, made the frustrations of the day disappear.

Other Lives

Rick and I were sitting on benches in the park by The Little Mermaid in Collonge-Bellerive, Switzerland.

Sherlock was running around being de-energize so we could write as he napped.

I have met my three main goals in life (not in order) from the time I was a preteen.

• Be a writer
• Live in Europe
• Have a daughter

It has been a great life, not always easy, but good.

"I sometimes wish," I said to him as Sherlock hopped up between us, "I could have had many other careers."

What are they?

• Documentary maker
• Anthropologist
• History professor

He too mentioned other careers he would have liked, some bordering on the scientific, some technical and of course, golf. Like me, his career has been filled with some meaningful, interesting work.

Although it is possible to have more than one career in a lifetime, responsibilities often negate the chance to do the training. Yet, also if one is willing to make the sacrifices, switches are possible.

To a certain degree, I did that researching history for my novels or reading about some of the things anthropologists do, listening to my friends who were in either field. It is toe-dipping method of cramming a bit more into one life but still enriching.

Reformation

Sometime Monday night on the Reformation Wall in Geneva someone(s) painted, where are the women? in French on the monument. 

The wall gives me the creeps. The main figures are

• William Farel (1489–1565)
• John Calvin (1509–1564)
• Theodore Beza (1519–1605)
• John Knox (c.1513–1572)

To me their faces are cruel, angry, hate-filled. Calvin burned Michel Servatus for disagreeing with him and took most of the beautiful things such as jewelry, music etc. from Geneva. Women, beautiful or not, did not feature prominently in the social fabric at the time.

I try to avoid the wall. It is depressing, but I will take visitors there. At one time my former neighbor, a minister who was visiting Geneva and I went. I said nothing about my feelings.

His feelings were like mine. An overwhelming sense of negativity.

Later we were walking through Paquis, the red light district, but also a viable neighborhood where a former Swiss president lives. There was a big-titted hooker on the corner. "I think I prefer to the wall," he said.

I am not for vandalism, but as a feminist I understand. I do not understand a religion that negates the beauty of the world.
 

Sherlock

 Since Rick and I started to live together in 2013, we talked about getting a dog.

There were so many reasons not to:

• We were too old
• We traveled too much
• We lived in two places, only one which would be pup friendly

None of those reasons stopped my husband from looking at photos of homeless dogs at the SPA.

The words, "just to look" in December 2016 were dangerous, they were also unrealistic. The older female he'd spotted on the website was not there. Then one of the staff, went behind the counter and brought out a three-month mixture and put him in my arms. He licked me and I was a gonna.

We changed his name from Spider to Sherlock, which fits. He investigates everything. Even more he has changed our lives.

He'll be 19 months March 10th. He has learned a lot. We've learned a lot.

Of the reasons not to get a dog, all are there but solutions abounded.

• My daughter and more than one neighbor has promised he'll never be homeless.
• www.trustedhousesiters.com/ has provided us with sitters for our trips some of whom have become friends.
• My landlady likes dogs even if her husband is reticent.

Because we work at home, Sherlock is part of our day with time devoted to lap sitting, ball throwing and long walks to the lake or sea depending on where we are. We know, if Rick puts his arm around me, just as I snuggle into him, a furry head will appear with a "Whatcha doing can I cuddle too?" look on his face. The answer is yes.

Today a DNA kit arrived to tell what mixture of breeds he is. It is curiosity mostly.

He is ours and we love him.