Free Write - The Scene

 

 

Just looking at how well it was burnished meant that someone, somewhere, had put a lot of effort and thought into its’ making.

 

Today's prompt was personal. The cane (Brits call them sticks) belonged to Julia's late husband and is now being used as needed by D-L. People have stopped D-L on the street, at airports and in stores to say how unusual and lovely it is. D-L may hate using the cane but appreciates it belong to a late friend and it is original in its design.

 

D-L's Free Write

 

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful young girl. Beautiful on the outside, but inside she was a bitch and a bully. 

 

When a new girl started at her school she did all her mean tricks. The new girl's father was a wizard. To protect his daughter, he turned her tormentor's spirit into an olive tree.

 

The bully girl hated being trapped. She hated being an olive tree.

 

The only attention she received was during harvest when farmers spread orange nets under her and shook her until all the olives fell and were carted away to make oil. 

 

One winter day, many decades later, lightning cut the tree in half. Farmers came to cart the wood away, but the bully's spirit stayed within the one remaining piece of wood,

 

In the spring, a wood carver came by and took the wood back to his studio. There he carved and polished, polished and carved. How it hurt her.

 

When he finished he had a beautiful cane. The carver sold it to an old man. With the cane the old man was once again able to walk into his village and visit with friends,

At home he kept the cane in the kitchen. The girl's spirit was warmed by the fire and loved the aromas of his cooking. Slowly the girl's spirit began to mellow.

 

She was happy when the old man would show the cane to his guests. "It gave me freedom, he would say. The girl, who was no longer a bully, agreed, content she could make someone happy. 

D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Check her website at:. https://dlnelsonwriter.com Her 300 Unsung Women will be published this month.

Julia's Free Write

There it was, gnarled and knotted: obviously, or perhaps only to those who know woods, an old vineyard branch.

Questions flourished: why had it been cut? A discard or chosen specifically? Which vineyard? After all, it wasn’t even sure that it came from the country where it was found, as at least one owner had been German and this appeared in Switzerland!

Where did the horn which was used for the handle originate? A former pet goat? Found and picked up to recycle?

Just looking at how well it was burnished meant that someone, somewhere, had put a lot of effort and thought into its making.

For years it lived in the hall cupboard, unused, province unknown, unloved.

It is perhaps very fitting that such an object finally is being used by someone who not only appreciates its’ beauty but was also a friend of one of the original owners.

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

 

Rick's Free Write

Guiseppe had lived by himself on the hillside above the village in the Italian Piedmont for nigh on 20 years now. Since his beloved Angela had died after a fall on the rocky road. His only companion was a majestic grey heron who frequented the small pond on the property.

Guiseppe had almost domesticated the heron, whom he called Garibaldi, after his national hero. At first he would toss breadcrumbs to the bird but eventually he had him literally eating out of his hand.

Garibaldi would arrive in the fall and depart in the spring, perhaps to cooler climes in Switzerland. Guiseppe’s anticipation heightened each year as the trees began to turn brilliant colors.

In September Guiseppe was out walking, stumbling occasionally, as his knees were becoming frail. As he approached the pond he saw a familiar grey and white form. Except it was lying on the ground. As he got closer he immediately recognized Garibaldi, who was in distress.

He carried the bird carefully, stumbling as he did, to the one-room stone house, and put Garibaldi on the table.

Alas, the bird’s strength gave out and he died while Guiseppe was stroking his feathers.

After a proper period of mourning, Guiseppe decided to honor his friend and keep a part of him for the rest of his life. He sliced a branch of an old olive tree for a walking stick and fashioned Garibaldi’s right foot bone into a handle.

It gave him great comfort to still have his companion as he walked the hills.

Rick Adams, an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices.com, is author of the book The Robot in the Simulator, Artificial Intelligence in Aviation Training.

 

 

 

Under the American Radar

 

Under the American Radar

 

My husband asked me to post this only after he safely returned to European soil.

He was traveling to the Unhinged States of MAGA for a conference and was genuinely afraid of being detained or deported by out-of-control immigration authorities.

His message:

In Fear of My Birth Country

You’ve probably heard the news about the French scientist who was traveling to a conference in Texas. When he landed in the US, immigration officials insisted on checking his mobile phone. On it they found messages with his colleagues which disparaged ‘scientific’ policies of Trump and his cartel of know-nothings. The French scientist was deported back to France and not allowed to attend the conference.

This is not an isolated case, nor a misunderstanding. US goons (CBP, ICE, FBI, etc.) are systematically snatching up students, professors and others whose only crime is supporting oppressed people such as the Palestinians. The detainees have told stories of being thrown in cold, barren cells for days and weeks, not allowed even a phone call to an attorney or family member. They are not allowed a hearing – simply transported to a way station in Louisiana or shipped to whatever fourth-world prison the US can get to take them. (Look up habeus corpus and the Patriot Act. "Patriot Act II" Provisions in H.R. 10 (As Passed by House) | American Civil Liberties Union)

US Secretary of State ‘Little Marco’ Rubio recently stated that “Freedom of Speech” is only for US citizens. Non-citizens do not have freedom on speech on American soil (or off, apparently).

As I write this, I am planning to attend a conference in Florida. I am not a foreign scientist. Worse, in the minds of the Trumpistas, I am a foreign journalist. Specifically, I am an aviation journalist, Swiss citizen.

As a foreigner, there’s a good chance I will be asked to present my phone and computer at the US immigration checkpoint. (Not sure if that will be in Frankfurt as I emplane or Orlando as I deplane.)

As of mid-March, there would have been all sorts of pro-democracy, pro-Ukrainian, pro-Palestinian people, anti-MAGA, anti-Musk, anti-Drumpf, anti-Putin messaging: on my Facebook feed, Messenger shares, email inbox and sent folder… pretty much everywhere in my digital footprint.

So I started to purge those messages…

I had no conception how difficult that would be. Between Facebook/ Meta and Google alone, there are layers upon layers upon layers of nooks and crannies where they capture and store your data. (Even if you thought you opted out.)

I was amazed to find out, for example, that Facebook has a section which logs videos I watch on the phone and computer. Mostly videos of cute dogs and stupid construction faux pas. But nonetheless, FB captured that data, apparently so it could ‘tailor’ what it sends me to my ‘preferences.’ Maybe they’ll start sending me videos of cute dogs making construction mistakes.

I found photos (and the occasional anti-Troomp or anti-JD Dunce cartoon – you remember, the a**-kissing hillbilly VP who likened DJT to Hitler) which I thought I had long ago deleted. Only to find

them in a Trash file, which required another step to fully delete (maybe).

To get rid of friends, photos, messages, files, etc. sometimes required a simple ‘Delete’ button. Other times it required digging down through the layers, finding instructions on the internet, and ultimately just trial and error (wonder what happens if I click this symbol?)

I decided, on the advice of many, to buy a new cheap – clean – computer to take on the trip. I would load only essential software on it: my business-only non-MS Outlook email account, a word-processing program – not MS Word), LinkedIn (only business messages), and the programs to update my aviation newsletter and website. When I get to Florida, I will attempt to restore my personal email and other software, so I will need to remember some usernames and passwords.

That was the easy part. The phone is more problematic. I have thought about a ‘burner’ phone, but that may appear too suspicious. So I have focused on purging my phone of potentially offending messages, while still retaining the ability to call or message my wife in France or a friend (or attorney) in the States… and leaving a couple photos of our cute dog to appear normal. (Thought about switching phones with my wife – saying I grabbed hers by mistake - but that would require even more clean up, and much as she hates the phone she doesn’t want me messing with it – understood.)

As I was unfriending, restricting or blocking long-time friends, it felt like something of a betrayal. I simply did not want to risk them sending me political messages while I was enroute and not having opportunity to delete them before the checkpoint. Or have immigration type their name into a search engine and discover our share ideology.

It’s my intent to restore my friends when I am ‘safely’ back in Europe. They are the primary reason I am still on FB, though we are steadily moving to other platforms such as Substack (which has a lot of great writers of thoughtful commentaries).

Am I a hypocrite? Frankly, if I was not the chair of the conference I am attending, I would not make the trip. We’re talking a substantial part of our current income. And with Musk mucking around with Social Security, our pension – to which we ‘donated’ all our US careers - may disappear too.

I am a rebel and fighter by nature. I’m trying to live to continue to fight the battle. Much as I would like to tell the immigration officer to F-off, that’s not a battle I am going to win. He/ she is low level, following orders and misguided instincts. I am best at fighting with words, with persuasion, and I cannot do that from a detention cell.

Out of this experience may come a book, one for which I had an idea long ago when the Surveillance State was just ramping up – tracking our phones, our computers, cameras on streets and roadways, in businesses, satellites, drones and other snooping devices… all meant to control us. (Good thing they cannot yet read minds…)

I reference my ‘birth country’ in the title of this blog. Yes, I was born in the USA… but that was a very different America in the late 20th century. I left a dozen years ago because I was in love with a woman who lived in Switzerland and France, and I quickly fell in love with Europe too.

I am angry beyond words at how the Musk/ Trump gangsters and DOGE-bags are destroying the States and anything else they can get their hands on to make their rich friends richer and punish anyone who disagrees with their current whims. They are the scourge of our lifetime, as Hitler was in our parents’ era. I am

saddened, too, that our children and grandchildren, and those of our friends, are caught in this maelstrom, which cannot end well – even for the MAGAs.

If you’ve read this far, you know I am back home, or almost, in Europe, ready to restore and expand my connections… and resist with every ounce of me the nightmare of America.

LIVE. RESIST.

Note: My husband did not have a problem but three French scientists, who were planning to attend the same conference, were pulled aside, had their passports confiscated, taken to a room and questioned. Eventually they were released.

Lighting Candles

 

A man and a woman in the book I'm reading are in an English Cathedral that had escaped Henry VIII's destruction. I don't know yet will they sleep together or not.

He hands her a coin to light a candle and she adds a flickering long white taper to the multi rows of other candles varying in length. 

The passage moved me, more because my husband and I never enter a cathedral without him giving me money to buy a candle to light for my beloved stepmother.

I am not Catholic. 

She was, but she separated from the church when she married my father. They were both divorced.

I was with her, when after my dad died, she was able to take Holy Communion for the first time in two and a half decades. She returned to our pew, tears streaming down her face. I felt honored to be there for her.

She never read the Ugly Step Mother Manual. In the years I knew her, she rebuked me once, the closest to cross she ever was with me. 

What did she say?

"I wish you hadn't put the iron away when it was still warm."

Before I moved to Europe, she spend many summers with me and a few Christmases in Boston. We visited places like Edna Vincent Millay's home. She showed me where she and my father had docked their boat in Camden, Maine. 

We played endless games of gin rummy during her visits to Boston or mine to Florida. What a card shark she was.

Eating out was fun, but what wouldn't I give to have her make a baloney sandwiches with potato chips for lunch.

There's a French Wheel of Fortune. Whether in Florida or Boston we watched it and Jeopardy together. I would love to tell her about the French version.

I invited her to live with me in Switzerland, but she didn't want to leave her home, even though she knew I couldn't take care of her in the same way long distance.

I lost her twice: once to dementia and once to her final death. Her grandson in California and I in Switzerland double teamed to make sure she was cared for. As a Navy veteran, she went into a Veterans Nursing Home. One Valentine's Day she was named queen. Unlike some victims of dementia, she never became nasty, only nicer if possible.

The housekeeper, who watched her before she went into the home, visited her at least twice a week to make sure she was okay. Neighbors who loved her stopped by to see her and reported back to me.

Sometimes when I called, she knew who I was, but I cried each time she said, "If you see Donna-Lane, ask her to visit me.  

There's a 14th century at the end of my street in my French village. Sometimes I will go in and light a candle for her, my own private memorial, my gratitude that she was in my life, a recognition of the faith that she held.

Free Write The Scene

One of the free writers is in France, one in Florida and one in Switzerland. When preparing this for those that follow our free writes, I messed up and copied Rick's twice. Julia took the prompt and it made me homesick for Switzerland. Next month all three writers should be in Switzerland. Do any of you writers out there use our prompts?

 Julia's Free Write

Another one of those days, but I appreciated this one as our drought had simply lasted

Too long!

It kind of looked like one of Switzerland’s famous alp views with a tiny bit of snow underneath the layers of dark gray and very dense clouds covering the Jura chain.

The bench was dry, but I had an umbrella just in case as I enjoyed the view of lake, mounts and clouds.

The sky was a great contrast to my current life, which for once, was not only running smoothly, but where it seemed that I was enjoying an abundance of, metaphorically speaking, blue and sunny skies.

I pondered life’s little quirks and as I arose from my bench and thoughts, I noticed that amongst the gray clouds there was one “peak”. Backlit by the setting sun, it resembled one of my favorite mountains: the Matterhorn.

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

Rick's Free Write

Miguel was tired of the rain. No, not just weary. Annoyed.

The rain was unceasing, unrelenting, endless. It pounded on the skylight and ran in torrents through the streets. They were lucky they lived on the highest point in the village or they might have been flooded like the homes along the river.

At first the rain had brought welcome relief from the drought conditions of the past two years – bad enough that water usage had been rationed for swimming pools, car washes and the like.

That was before the deluge, before the 40 days and 40 nights of near-constant drizzle, drip and downright downpour.

The dog absolutely refused to go out the door and had resorted to pissing on the patio under the overhang.

The patio chairs seemed to be warping before our eyes, and there was a shallow swimming pool for snails on the tabletop.

Forget about a fire in the fireplace; the wood would probably never dry out.

Even the seagulls had stopped flying and simply huddled under the eaves.

Miguel used to love to lay in bed, listening to the patter of the gently falling pluie. Now he covered his ears with a pillow. The sound was maddening.

When he awoke the next morning, he heard... silence. Blissful nothing.

He looked out the window toward the mountains and, behold, a sunrise. Okay, some clouds. But actual sunshine!

“I guess we needed it,” he mumbled.

Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices.com  

D-L's Free Write

Leigh opened her eyes in the strange room as she snuggled under the duvet. She had been so tired when she fell into the hotel bed, she'd forgotten to close the curtain.

Outside the sun was trying to hide behind the clouds. Unlike in the valley, no leaves were on the trees, but they swayed in the heavy wind.

Less than 24 hours ago her boss had yelled that she wasn't doing enough. She'd had two weeks of 10 hours days.

Standing up, she yelled back. "I quit," walked out of the office, took her car from the company garage and eased into the bumper-to-bumper traffic along the quai until she came to the autoroute, which was still heavy trafficked. 

She drove East for three hours, took an unknown exit and didn't stop until she reached a mountain village. Like the village the hotel was small, six rooms.

It was quiet except for the wind. No neighbor foot steps as the left for work, no muffled traffic, no car horns.

What she done? Would the company take her back? Would she even ask?

She pulled the duvet up to her chin and fell back asleep. 

D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Check out her website at:. https://dlnelsonwriter.com Her 300 Unsung Women will be published this month.

April 19s - Two Rebellions

 

April 18-19, 1775 

Paul Revere had helped mount the lantern in the old North Church tower. He hadn't seen it from across the river it as the Longfellow poem says, but he did ride out to notify the farmers and shopkeepers in the Lexington/Concord area that General Gage was sending his troops to search for stolen cannons. 

William Dawes also rode through the countryside, but never appeared in a poem. I suspect they did not scream, "The British are coming," but knocked on doors and those occupants rounded up their friends and headed to the old North Bridge.

The Redcoats slogged their way  through the 13 miles between Boston and Concord, some of it through a swamp. Their uniforms were muddy not pristine and their feet must have been wet.

The locals were ready for them. They were fed up with the government's taxes and tariffs be it on tea, stamps or anything else London imposed.

No one knows who fired the first shot. It doesn't really matter. It started a revolution the effects of which are still felt today by the way governments around the world. Powerful kings ruling on whim are in short supply, a good thing.

The initial Minutemen, locals who formed a militia and named because they could be ready in a minute, were about 400 in number against 100 Redcoats. Reinforcements from surrounding towns, villages and Boston joined both sides during the day. 

My ancestor John Sargent was one of the revolutionary soldiers. That's all I know about him. I wish I could talk to him and learn about his life. My three main questions would include what made him finally pick up his musket, what did he think of how America evolved and would he demonstrate against Trump, Musk and today's government.

April 19, 2025

A second demonstration against the government is planned for April 19, 2075. The first April 5th had according to most estimates over a million people, so many times more than the almost 200,000 people living in the colonies in 1775. No muskets this time. No AR-15s. just signs and angry people. 

Angry at how the government was taking away their rights, making life more difficult for them, hurting their pocketbooks, destroying programs that support parts of life that make life better for all such as science research and libraries. 

I don't know what King George III's reaction was when he heard about the rebellion many months later. News was by ship not internet. I know Trump played golf, his version maybe of Nero's fiddling while Rome burned.

If you marched April 5, please come out again. One demonstration won't solve the problems. If you didn't demonstrate April 5, please do on April 19.

S A V E   A M E R I C A 

Note: Minuteman National Park has had a year of programs to commemorate the 250 anniversary of the battles of Concord and Lexington. An reenactment will be held April 19 at Minuteman National Park. Continue what the forefathers started, rebel for freedom and rights.

Fighting Fascism

This is the Place de la Republique, Argelès-sur-mer, a small village in the south of France. Once the Hotel de Ville, it is now a music school. Summer nights, people dance in the square. There are two cafés where people sit and talk. Wednesday and Saturdays the square if filled with stalls selling veggies, clothes, wine, oils, cheeses and more at the marché.

It wasn't always that peaceful.  During two days in April 1942 about 50 women protested the Vichy government. The people of Argelès were French and Catalan. They were laborers, farmers, worked the vineyards, the sea. They still went to the washing shed along the river to wash their clothes. In some houses, animals still lived on the ground floor.

 

In the United States fascism, like a Hydra, has raised many ugly heads. April 5, millions of Americans turned out in all 50 states to fight the many rights and services being destroyed. It varied: abortion, education, social security, libraries, weather services--every aspect of U.S. decent life is under attack.

 

Maybe those 50 women in that tiny village represented the same proportion of the population as those protesting on April 5. They risked their lives. 

 

Those protesting in 50 states might not stand out in the same way as those 50 women but they all stood up against the evil of fascism.

 

What a shame it is a battle still being fought. There's the last line of the Peter, Paul and Mary hit, Where Have All the Flowers Gone, "Oh, when will you ever learn?
Oh, when will you ever learn?"

 

Fighting Fascists-Nothing New

The heart warming demonstration

I'm not the only writer who does this!

 

I found this quote on a card tucked away in a very old journal. I wish I'd written down who said it.I feel that way about many of my characters. 

"Sooner or later, I know that my characters will take charge of the book. They'll turn bossy and opinionated and they'll stop following my instructions. 'You just leave things to us,'" they'll say to me. 'We can manage from here.'"

For me it's as if the characters are sitting on my couch. The say, "You can write it, but I'm not going to do it."

My characters become as real to me as the people I see every day. Minor characters are short-term guests, but people like Annie, who was my main character in all my Third Culture Kid mystery series stay with me forever. Some people thought I saw myself as Annie.

I wish.

She was taller, had real red curly hair, was fluent in English, French, German and Dutch. As a tech writer, she was more technically competent than I ever will be. Both of us did love history, so Annie ended up in various cities with temporary tech writing assignments as she researched different historical events. Sometimes, she handled social issues such as domestic violence, but she always, like Angela Lansbury in Murder She Wrote, ran across murders.

My husband Rick and I were walking through the Veille Ville in Geneva and as we passed the Hotel de Ville, Rick pointed out a medium tall, curly red head. "There's your Annie," he said.  He was right. She had a sign in French offering free hugs, a very unSwiss thing. I imagined Jean Calvin, who walked those same streets in the 1500s, had he come across her would have had a heart attack.

We accepted the hug. She let us take her photo. An artist friend took the photo and used the image on a clock, my Annie clock that I treasure.

I had four women in Day Care Moms, all of were bossy personalities. I was surprised when Brenda arrived one rainy morning as I was working with Anne-Marie, but not well. Writer Brenda interviewed her as a tool to get into her character. Brenda wanted to be a major part of the book. After typing The End on the umpty umph draft, I imagined all five women who had lived with me over a year packing up their suitcases. I missed them.

Now on my twins novel, because I'm busy with getting 300 Unsung Women published. Lou and Nancy have taken the day care moms' place. I had intended that a sister-in-law was to be a walk on role, but she keeps pushing in, refusing to go back to university, and insisting on working in the company business. 

It isn't the first time that happens. In Murder in Caleb's Landing, a woman who was just supposed to have a cup of coffee turned out to run an underground railroad to help women of domestic violence, which shadowed the underground railroad room found in the basement of the main house in the book. That was a surprise to me, but it made the book stronger.

Sometimes, I think, I'd like to get all my main characters together for a weekend, introducing  them to each other. We could star off with a get together apèro Friday night, meet for breakfast and a workshop Saturday morning, an informal lunch and maybe a tour of Argelès or Geneva, whichever place we are meeting.

Argelès would probably better, it's less expensive and many of my fictional characters do not have the money to travel. 

Meanwhile, I'm reassured by the writing on the card, that other writers or at least one other "live" with their characters.

Becoming Swiss

I wore my green suit that I inherited from my daughter and a black necklace from my grandmother to take my oath as a new Swiss citizen. In a way it made me feel as if they were with me. It had been a long haul. Fifteen years eight months and six days.

My being in Switzerland at all was an accident. Because I'd heard getting work permits was impossible, I hadn't applied in Switzerland. I'd sent over 800 CVs (resumes) to France, Germany and Austria and that was after I started counting.

Getting the IHT for European want ads from the the Out of Town news stand in Harvard Square, I found an ad for a post in Neuchatel, Switzerland for someone who knew French, German and Digital Equipment Corp. I had two of the three, sent a fax, was hired and was given a Permis A. 

After three months I had a Permis B which was held by my employer and after 5 years a Permis C which gave me the right to work anywhere and more.

On the 12th anniversary of moving to Switzerland, on my first day eligible, I filled out the citizenship request form beginning a three-year process of interviews. I cried in relief when it was granted.

The oath taking ceremony was held in Hotel de Ville, constructed in the 1400s. I entered by the stone ramp where in the Middle Ages people rode their horses up to meetings. I was greeted along with 89 other soon-to-be citizens by a man in a medieval costume. 

As we filed into the hall, we tossed our cardboard Permis Cs in a box. Today the Permis are plastic.

On my designated seat was my voting package for the next votation, one of the four each year where citizens wishes are put to an all-country vote. It was complete with my name, address, signature card, information, ballot and postage paid envelope. There were also forms for my identity card and passport to take to my local mairie. 

 As a group we sang the Swiss national anthem. I've a terrible voice. I'd been teased by friends if they heard me sing, the government might change their mind about accepting me.

A few officials made welcoming speech and we took the oath as a group.

Outside the grand hall, there was champagne and a  pain surprise. The layers were salmon, ham, and a local cold cut. Everyone was given a book with photos and the history of the Canton.

Leaving the Hotel de Ville I walked past the hall where the Treaty of Alabama was signed in September 1872 by the Americans and British the final step ending the American Civil War.

I passed one of the old fountains that had been built so people did not have to walk down to the lake and lug it back in the time of Jean Calvin. More were planned by the city fathers, but they did not want to pay for more than one.

As I walked through the streets of old town, the same streets I had walked to go to the oath taking, I felt somewhat different. I was still me, but also I was Swiss.

 

Thank you Maga

 

Thank you Maga for making it possible for Trump to tank the world economy. Over six trillion dollars in losses, the most in 95 years.

Thank you Maga for electing Trump so his tariffs is creating one the largest drops in the stock market not just in the U.S. but around the world.

And thank you Maga for the world-wide recession that is being predicted by people who really know the basics of economics.

And thank you Maga for allowing him to cut back on education grants that means your children will have less learning opportunities.

And thank you for giving him the power to hire so many incompetents like the Secretary of Defense planning strikes on non secure lines. I guess the secretary learned from Hillary.

And thank you Maga for letting him threaten the income of millions of old people.

And thank you Maga for letting him streamline FEMA. Especially thank you to the Maga people in Kentucky who are flooded out. I'm sure you will be able to help yourselves. Those in other states like Florida will have plenty of time to prepare for the next hurricane. 

Thank you Maga for voting for Trump for all the tourist money that won't becoming into the U.S. because people are afraid of going through U.S. customs and being arrested or deported.

Thank you Maga for voting for Trump for the fired scientists who will leave the country and take their knowledge and ideas to other countries. Other countries are thrilled to have them. There's nothing like a good brain drain to make a country better, you think?

Thank you Maga for all the American-made products that won't be purchased because they are American. 

Thank you Maga for the Trump tariffs that once again will hurt American farmers who will lose their international markets.

Thank you Maga for Trump whose tariffs will add thousand of dollars to the price of a car because the manufacturer had to buy parts that were hit by tariffs.

Thank you Maga for the tariffs that will reduce everyone's 401K. Along with reducing Social Security you won't mind working longer and harder and maybe forever.

 

You guys and gals in the red hats did a great job in helping to destroy the country. U.S. enemies must be thrilled to see how they hurt the country without firing a bullet.

Visit https://dlnelsonwriter.com 

 

 

 

 

The Crossing

November 1962

I was about to take a ship from New York to Le Havre, France to join my husband who was stationed in an army band in Germany. A year before, I was a college freshman not allowed by my over-protective mother to even visit a friend in Attleboro, MA less than an hour from my home.

I had met my father's family for the first time at a shower where all my aunts, uncles and cousins gave me cash-filled envelopes attached to a model ship. As I opened each envelope and said thank you to Uncle...and Aunt...I scanned the faces until someone reacted.

My father and stepmom drove me to New York City from Scituate, MA. My dad was so excited. He adored boats and was building a 38-foot cabin cruiser in his back yard.

As was the custom of the day, everyone was dressed up. My stepmom even wore her mink collar. Heels and stockings were required. 

My dad saw that my much-traveled trunk, a gift from my stepmom's father, was properly stored aboard. I knew as we walked the deck, looking for my economy stateroom, he would give anything to be going too.

Once installed in my stateroom (no window) my dad left me with my stepmom . He reappeared with a German passenger, about my age. Heidi was an army wife going to join her new husband. She had moved from Germany to live in America and was less than happy at going back. I noticed she wore white shoes, something that was a no-no after Labor Day where I grew up.

My dad had arranged the table where we would eat and made sure I knew how to reach the lifeboat that I was assigned to. Heidi and I chatted through the drill later that afternoon.

Reluctantly I had a final hug with my parents, the parting whistles blew, the tug boat pulled the ship, and I watched the Statue of Liberty disappear.

Meals were wonderful. The other people at our table were older, but not old. We would share all meals with them.

There was a library where I selected reading matter. At the movie theater I watched Gypsy. A number of young officer wives were traveling first class but snuck down to economy to join us because we were more fun, especially at night when a band played. We danced and danced. A German young man named Dieter feel in love with Ellie, an Army wife, who didn't reciprocate. I listen to him describe a broken heart.

A woman, maybe in her sixties who got so drunk each night that she had to helped to her stateroom. I felt sorry for her while relishing my youth and future.

A storm hit on our third night. The band skidded across the dance floor. We were told to return to our cabins. We needed to hold the side ropes as we made our way. The next day I was sea sick, but when we outran the storm, I recovered.

Coming to the green Irish coast, row boats met us with Irishmen selling Irish knit sweaters. I did not have the funds to buy one.

A stop in the U.K. was followed by crossing the English channel and lots of tossing, but then all was calm in the Le Havre port. Economy passengers were the last ones off, but the boat train taking us to Paris waited.

The train ride to Paris was exciting as I imagined what it had been like when the Allies fought their way through the German troops. 

I managed to buy train tickets in Paris and then in Nancy before I stepped off the train in Stuttgart into my husband's arms. 

For someone who wasn't allowed into Boston, who didn't speak French, who didn't understand the 24-hour clock, who had a six hour wait in a train station, and said no to a Frenchman who wanted me to go home with him, I managed it all, although the Englishman, who worked with baggage in Paris, put me in a taxi with directions to the driver to take me directly and not run up the bill was a help.

For the rest of my life whenever I see movie or a TV program on a luxury liner, I realized that I had lived the experience and was grateful. All other crossings of the Atlantic have been by plane.

Visit D-L's website https://dlnelsonwriter.com
 

Demonstrations-YES!

 

In the mid 80s when I was writing The Card, a character was caught in the 1968 student-led Parisian riots. I spent hours and hours at the Brookline, MA library going through microfilm (pre-internet) trying to glean enough information on the riot. I used my imagination to write it.

Today, I was reading Paris Notebooks by Mavis Gallant who wrote a day-by-day account and mentioned Daniel Cohn-Bendit, a red-headed instigator of the demonstrations. Last night Cohn-Bendit, at 79 and white-haired was on French television. He'd been active in politics throughout his life. Part of me felt smug that everything I wrote could have happened, but had I had Gallant's first-hand accounts, I could have added so many details.

The 1968 demonstrations were a watershed moment in French politics. 

April 5, demonstrations are scheduled all over the U.S. Find one near you and go. The only way to stop the destruction of the good things in the U.S. is with action. Make April 5th a watershed moment in the U.S.

 

 

Free Write - Empty Chairs in the Sun

 

This week's Free Write still has three writers in two different countries. Rick's prompt was a photo was taken in our small French village, but the country isn't important. It is the chance to poke one's creativity encouraging it to slip into other aspect of our  creative lives. Anyone reading this might want to try a Free Write. If you want to share it, please do.

Rick's Free Write 

Empty chairs, empty tables.

Reminds me of a Les Miserables song after so many young men had died in a failed revolution.

But these are peaceful empty. A Sunday afternoon in a quiet village in the south of France. Normal. Tranquil.

The next morning these chairs will be filled with people talking, sharing their lives over café, thé and chocolat chaud. If the wind is down and the sun is out, the umbrellas will be up.

Sundays are my favorite in the village. Fewer people, fewer cars. Mostly dog walkers. Maybe kids playing football on the church plaza (unaware it used to be a graveyard).

Sunday afternoon used to be the time we caught up on news from our birth country through the talk shows. But they have become nauseating since the election as we witness the country’s accelerating destruction.

We think we are ‘safe’ in our little out-of-the-way enclave. But are we? Will there be war in Europe? Will the forces of evil stimulate civil unrest that reaches even us?

It would be wonderful to imagine we are immune, living in a bubble of the past, carefree… but is there any such place on the earth anymore?

Will these tables fill with happy people again? Or will they remain empty through intimidation and fear?

Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices.com 

D-L's Free Write

Toni walked by the tea room's outdoor chairs and tables. The sun was bright. No one was sitting there. The tramontane was blowing at full force sending leaves racing down the street. 

It had been five years since she been there. She and Paul had had coffees after their divorce hearing.

It had been a friendly divorce, if such a thing was possible. She and Paul had thought they'd found their life's partners in each other. The problem was they wanted different lives.

Paul loved his florist shop, owned first by his grandparents and parents. It was part of village life. Toni found herself sneezing when she was near many of the flowers.

She wanted to be a game develop and when she had a chance to work with two friends from her tech school, she couldn't pass it up,

Unfortunately the job required a move to Paris, or made not unfortunately because she loved Paris.

Today, she had not planned to get off the Paris-Barcelona train where she'd left her marriage. Something seemed to propel her when the train stopped at the station.

In the last five years some stores had changed. Some were the same. So many espressos had been shared by her and Paul while sitting on those chairs as they people watched.

She peeked inside. She saw the back of Paul's head. He was holding the hand of a very pretty woman as he used to hold hers.

On the way back to the train station she felt sad at what wasn't yet happy they'd made the right decision.

D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Check out her website at:. https://dlnelsonwriter.com 

 Julia's Free Write

It was a beautiful sunny day.

The terrace lay waiting, every chair and every table still empty.

Who would come to sit and enjoy a coffee or tea?

Who a snack and a glass of wine?

Who perhaps a full meal?

It looked to be a great place also for people watching – a small Pedestrian zone.

Oh, here comes the first client of the day: the chap in somber clothing, always with a hat on his head, never a smile for either

The waitress nor the waiter – and just barely a word either, simply the strict minimum: “a glass of white wine, a Chablis, please”.

He is soon followed by the second – a woman in her 50ies, wearing a lovely spring dress, the appropriate handbag, shoes and jewelry,

In truth a bit fancy for this part of town. She orders “a small glass of red wine, the pinot please. And settles in to await a friend.

Her friend duly arrives – an indeterminate 40-something, dressed in very casual slacks, but a nice blouse. She turns out to be a teetotaler so orders only a coffee.

Then comes the young couple, so much in love that they have only eyes for each other. They order a sandwich (after consulting their change) and a soda.

The family is next: loud, boisterous – they order a small meal.

And so it goes until the lonely terrace is full of various individuals

All enjoying their time in the sun in this small town in Southern France.

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