Baby Formula Questions

 

 I am not a pediatrician, scientist, or nutritionist.

I am not minimizing the needs of babies with special dietary problems.

When my daughter was born in the 1960s, breast feeding was just coming back in vogue as the best alternative, something that makes the most sense. Not all women can or want to and wet nurses are hard to find.

What I don't understand is that for hundreds of thousands of years all over the world, babies have been born and feed on substances other than the formula produced by four companies in the United States.

Yes, I know the mortality rate was higher, but I would guess for more reasons than lack of the formula. Sanitation, disease, lack of heating, eaten by wild animals, numerous causes that don't threaten most American infants today.

Depending where and when donkey's milk, cow's milk, diluted wheat, diluted malt were some of the substitutes used and are still used today in undeveloped countries.  And yes, some babies died.

In the early to mid 20th century cow's milk, karo and maybe some vitamins or minerals were added. Certainly not as convenient as popping open a can. My brother and I were fed that.

Here's where I question blind use of formula.

• I used to love looking at old Time, Newsweek, Life, Look and women's magazines in general from the 30s-60s. For years there were cigarette ads with doctors saying __________cigarette was good for you.
• A friend did a report on women's magazines articles on women working during and after WWII. Seems working women were a great idea during the war, but afterwards the joys of staying home was the way to go. Almost a day to night switch.
  
• Stories of formula companies, which are almost a cartel, lobbying for reduced regulations, elimination of foreign competition.
• Stock buybacks rather than safety repairs.
• Firing of a whistleblower.
• Blind pushing of things like HRT hormones or Valium, mainly to women, over the years.
  

As a parent, I've seen advice change over the years on many things. Some can be explained by new discoveries, but what if, commercial formula was not necessary for the majority of babies? What if it has been a money-making scheme. I won't deny popping a can is easier than mixing and sterilizing.

26 House Democrats are calling for an investigation into the shortages.

 

 

 

Bells and Hugs

 

Outside the light increases through the curtains as the church bells ring six times. 

We'd been thinking about taking the dog to the beach so he could do zoomies, and we could see the sunrise, something easier in the winter than May.

We've been known to get a split of champagne and croissants from the first baking at the boulangeries and wait for the sun to color the sky pinks and yellow before it made its appearance.

 

Each sunrise is a little different. My favorite was the day when the sun was square as if it had slept all night in a box and still  had to stretch into its round shape.

When Rick read last night about a plethora of jelly fish at the beach, we decided to postpone for a few days.

As I lay in bed, I thought about yesterday when we ate tartiflette at a St. Genis restaurant with a couple who had been my neighbors in Geneva. The had retired to the U.K. but also had a small place at the port which they visit two times a year or did pre-Covid. I've memories over the decades of good meals, adventures as we explored various sites in our area of Southern France or over the border in Spain. Those visits stopped during Covid.

Robin gave me a big hug as we arrived in the parking lot. He gave me another as we left. We felt safe. I've been 3x vaxed, recovered from a mild Covid and been tested negative twice, the last time the day before. He had been vaxed four times. There was minimum dangers.

I've missed hugs. Body language greetings have changed. The two or three-cheek kisses also have disappeared as had handshakes. Somehow a fist bump isn't the same.

There's something about being enveloped in someone's arms and enveloping them. There are people whom I melt into as they melt into me.

I think of the Hôpitaux universitaire de Genève (HUG) pronounced Whoog by locals I think of it as hug, remembering the warmth and nurturing I received during my cancer treatments.

By now the church bells were ringing seven time. At 7:05 and 19:05 they ring 34 or 35 times. I'm never sure of my count, but they are a part of our day. We can tell the difference rings from time keeping, mass, weddings and funerals.

Another day is starting. There will be more bells, more hugs. 

 

 

 

Colors and Lines

  I've written blogs where I say how colors are important to me, very important.

 

Take for example our small cabinet. Every time I walk by there's a small shiver of joy as I look at the color and design. I would love to know the artist who painted it. Why did they choose that shade of yellow or green? Was s/he interrupted as s/he worked to answer the phone, make lunch or do some errand that couldn't be postponed? 

I bought the cabinet from a local antique store. It was on the street with other furniture. As a non shopper, it is not my nature to buy things, but I knew this would bring me great pleasure. I still waited a day figuring if it were still there, I should buy it was. I was and I did.

Months later, I still love it.

The colors in this advert caught my eye. The copper of the pants with the copper of the background. The three baby blue lines of various depth. The white moving from the middle upward to the right. Even the skin tone matches the background. I still don't know what the product is, but the color use brought me pleasure.

I also react to lines and balances. For example the spout on the Catalan wine bottle points directly at William Tell's weapon, an invisible attachment. Spacing and lines create moods. The invisible line also runs through the rear of the woman. There is something about the balance that brings me pleasure.

Never do I look at the tiles on our coffee table without being transported back to my visits to the Alps. I can almost hear the brook gurgle. We used to eat at a restaurant situated in a spot like the one on the tiles. The salad was often greens plucked from the nearby fields and forest. Unlike real life, the cows on the tile are odor-free.

At this point in my life, I'm trying to keep my life as simple as possible. I want the time to enjoy small things, a flower sticking out of a crack in the pavement, the fact that a plant we thought was dead is now in full bloom, sitting at a café talking to old and new friends, a well written sentence in a book I'm reading, my husband and dog next to me in bed. The list of possibilities is endless.

I find I have less and less patience with time wasters such as taking hours to straighten out a computer problem or even going through the ever-increasing safety precautions on my bank account. I still don't understand why my credit union decided I needed to change my user name making the procedure almost impossible. And another bank suddenly stopped making automatic payments to my landlord and insurance. One was easy to solve, the other far less so.

I've come to the point I don't want to order anything on line. More than once I've completed what seems like endless forms for a gift only to be told they won't ship to where I want it to go. Or when they say I need a code. The code arrives but it isn't the correct number of digits or maybe it comes in the next day long after the form has disappeared forever into the great digital neverland.

I shudder about 60% of the time when my husband says, "We need to buy." Why? Do have something that already does the job? Will we need it in a month? A year? How much time will it take to buy it? What will have to be moved to accommodate it? Will it have to be dusted? What can we get rid of to make room for it? Admittedly the 40% of his ideas are good. I sometimes feel sorry for him dealing with me.

I now feel free to say no thank you to things I don't want to do, people I don't want to see leaving me time and energy for those I do want to see. 

I do claim to be a COW, Cranky Old Woman. But I'm a COW that loves color, lines and as much simplicity in my life as I can eek out.

Emotional roller coaster

  

What a ride emotionally over the past week.

Cancer beat a friend. It was no surprise and there was a feeling of relief combined with anger that it had to happen at all. There's always the question of what to say to the survivors. No clichés, no rest in peace, no time will heal...  Exhausting, but that's what we do for people we care about.

My long lost sister-in-law reappeared in my life. After decades of wondering what had happened to her, knowing she had lived, is living, a good life was not just a relief, but a gift.

Then I learned of the death of a writer and friend whom I'd mentored for a couple of decades. I knew she'd been ill, not just that ill.

My brother-of-choice is walking after months of rehab needed because of a horrendous car accident. That he lived is a miracle, that he is walking more so. A visit that included his brother and sister-in-law whom I'd not seen since the 1990s made for a surge of gratitude.

Two negative tests for covid, despite a remaining tiredness.

Learning a neighbor who had disappeared was fine and safe with her daughter living in the mountains after surgery.

Memories bombarding me of times shared. 

Too many good and bad things crammed into a short space of time. 

 

Blue Pot Diplomacy

 

The blue pot is outside my Nest. That's the studio I bought for retirement, but when I married, it was too small so we rented a larger flat two doors down. The street is considered one of the prettiest in the village.

 

We keep the Nest, as we call it, as a guest room. 

We were surprised to find one of my blue pots moved next door. We moved it back. It was moved again, we returned it to its proper place again and it was moved to my neighbors this time with new and healthier plants.

I had not met my new neighbor, but I knew he was a retired Frenchman. When I knocked on his door, he wasn't there. I wrote a note in French. Translation:

Hello, I'm your neighbor and the owner at Number 30.

I am curious why you keep moving the blue pot next to your house. I bought that pot in Spain eleven years ago. I see you have replanted it (thank you). We are moving it back. If you want me to give you the money for the plants you bought, let me know how much.

D-L Nelson

Rick moved it back and it stayed. I received a receipt for eight euros. I put the eight euros through his mail slot and I received a thank you back.

We could have turned that into a neighborhood feud, but the street is small and narrow. We could have had a screaming fight. I wondered if it could be handled calmly.

Still, I have not met the man. Or maybe I have. I've no idea what he looks like. We use the entrance of where we live on the parallel street. If and when we are face to face, I won't bring up the subject unless he does.

His plants have flourished.

10th Anniversary

 

Ten years ago today, I put on my black leather coat and caught the bus to the Starbucks at the Geneva train station. I was about to meet my future husband, although I didn't know it. 

On the bus I wondered if he would think I'd grown old and had he? Would I even recognize him?

The day before, I'd received a LinkedIn message: "I'm in Geneva. Do you want to have coffee? Rick Adams."

We had met in the late 70s at a Missouri credit union conference. Between sessions we managed to go horse back riding and to the pool. When the conference was over, a storm had made getting back to St. Louis for our flights almost impossible. We rented a four-seater airplane.

It had been a coup de foudre for me that I shoved aside. We each had our own lives.

Every now and then we'd talk on the telephone. When he came to Boston on business, I'd show him the highlights of my beloved city. We ate at Piaf's and saw a stage play with Lauren Bacall.

In the late 80s when I was about to move to Switzerland, I called him to let him know. There had been no contact between us since then. 

In Starbucks, I recognized him from the back. Just as I was about to tap him the shoulder, I thought, what if I'm wrong. I wasn't.

I gave him a copy of Murder in Argelès, and he gave me a miniature simulator.

I took him to the Café du Soleil which I reserved for special-special clients and good, good friends. I hoped he would be impressed with my French. He couldn't know how bad my accent was. As we dipped our bread into the melting cheese we did as much catching up as possible. I needed to make the last bus home.

That's that, I thought again. No it wasn't. Email made it easy to communicate. I invited him to Argelès.

"How will your friends know about us?" he asked.

"When I hold your hand," I said. In a small village nothing gets unobserved. If the hand-holding hadn't done it, our close dancing at a street dance did. Friends were shocked. I was at a stage in my life, where I considered a date an inconvenience.

"I'm moving to Europe, " he told me. 

Several of my friends and my daughter warned him if he threatened my independence, he'd be history. My daughter added, "And she'll steal your socks." My friend Barbara moved on from her doubts.

We held a commitment/hand fasting ceremony ceremony attended by friends from seven countries. It was a week long party. 

My studio was too small for the times we were in France. We rented a two-bedroom ground floor: The Nest and The Warren. We settled in going between Geneva and Argelès and developed the habits and rituals of a couple.

We had stuffed animals that we put through various presentations. We wrote. We rushed outside to see sunsets over Canigou and took champagne and croissants to the beach for sunrise. We wrote. We lived temporarily in Westport, Ireland and Edinburgh, Scotland and traveled many places for work and pleasure. We wrote.

Rick accomplished a life-long goal--play St. Andrews. We wrote.

We also loved being home. Sipping tea in bed in the morning and sharing bits and pieces of what we were reading.

We dealt with the problems of getting Rick living permission and if we did marry how could we be fair to both our daughters with the inheritance laws in France and Switzerland. Despite being anti-marriage, I proposed although not on my knees. This ceremony was at the Mairie in Corsier. Unlike the earlier ceremony my housemate and her son were the only attendees. She had planned a surprised reception for us.

Our lives were reduced to our studio in Collonge-Bellerive when I had a second bout of breast cancer. I learned there are times it is okay to be dependent. If anything, it brought us closer. The chemo nurses asked if he could give good-husband lessons. 

When we applied for our marriage license we had to decide not only our married last names but the name of our future children. Considering we were senior citizens, children were not realistic, but it came in handy when we added a four kilo, four pawed ball of fluff. Sherlock Adams-Nelson became our baby.

Because we can laugh at ourselves, we accept each other's idiosyncrasies. We try to help each other not just in writing but doing things we want to. That expands both of our horizons. Without Rick, I would never have gone to St. Andrews, and he probably would never have visited the tomb of Eleanor of Aquitaine without me. If one of us wants something, the other does everything possible to make it happen. 

I think back to our commitment/hand fasting ceremony. We had written our vows. I started with "I cannot give you my heart, you already have it." He still does.

 

Penny

 I saw your comment and would love to have you contact me. dlnelson7@hotmail.com. I hope you see this.

P-Memories

 

We had two hours to kill before we met with the Ranger at Minuteman National Park. Without his information, my new novel Lexington: Anatomy of a Murder, could not have been written. That was one of the reasons I had come back to Boston to meet Jim.

"Do you want to see your old building?" Rick asked.

I had worked there for almost a decade. My co-managers from Polaroid Credit Union and I started the Digital Credit Union for the employees of the Digital Equipment Corporation (DEC). It has grown into a billion dollar financial institution. 

I'd left in 1988, when I moved to Europe. 

We found ourselves in a shopping mall/apartment complex that wasn't at all familiar when I realized that the DEC's office building that was behind our credit union building had been replaced.

Then I spied the red brick building. Somewhere, I have a photo of me in a pink dress holding the golden shovel, where I turned over the first bit of dirt to mark the start of construction.

The credit union had long ago moved its headquarters to Marlborough. 

We drove into the parking lot and around the building . I always parked at the very last space. 

The ATM window was no longer home to an ATM. 

The speed bump, which we had named Mount Handrahan, was gone. Because members had complained about its height, we had bumper stickers saying "I climbed Mount Handrahan" printed as a gift. We did spot them on many cars and even got requests for them.

My bladder was screaming for attention. "Let me out, I'll go here," I said to my husband.

"They probably won't let you in," he said.

The door was open and there was no one in the corridor.

Marty, the receptionist was long gone. The toilets were in the same place next to the elevator. I chose the cubicle that I had used probably a zillion times.

Back in the corridor I felt I was living in a Cold Case episode in reverse. 

Behind the doors where we had the branch, sports equipment was stored.

I did not have to go the first floor for a meeting with Liz, Harry, Claire and Annie. We'd been christened "The High Five" by my assistant John. He and I had shared an office with a half wall and a window that we could chat through. I would have loved to see if it were still there, but I didn't.

Other past moments flashed through my memory. I would not be able to eat lunch with Pat, Barbara, Rachel, Maca. I did not hear Don tell his joke in his Southern accent, about the dead dog.

I didn't have to worry about the monthly stats, plan any campaigns, diffuse the few complaints, train customer service people.

Still it was the best job I ever had both in personal development and watching the credit union grow. We were one of the most innovative credit unions in the country. We had a level of customer service that I have never found elsewhere.

Like in Cold Case the past morphed into the present. At the car my husband asked if I had found a toilet.

I had, and a lot more. For once I was happy I'd lived up to my nickname of Bitty Bladder.

 

Covid and me!

  

Day 5 of my visit to my daughter in Malden, MA, I woke with a bad cold feeling. The rest of the visit I had plans to meet with two special women, daughters of a later friend whom I'd known for decades and a high school friend whom we've met up regularly. Then I'd see who else I could manage to see before returning to Europe.

The word Covid drifted through my brain. "I think I should have a test just in case." 

My daughter found a CVS testing center and off we went. My husband was already at his conference in Florida.

At the CVS we went to the testing center, we walked by at least 16 people drifting around staring at their phones. In my head, I played the Twilight Zone theme song.

"Positive," the tester said. She was from Kenya and was hoping to go on a cruise Monday.

I'm not sure where it came from. Six days ago I tested negative before my flight. I'd been 3x vaxed. I used sanitizer regularly. I wear a mask. Could it have been when I'd taken it off to eat at Dempseys, the Wayside Inn or that Japanese restaurant? The airplane?

I cancelled my planned visits.

My high school friend offered money if we needed it or anything else we might need. I really appreciated his offer.

Husband Rick returned from Florida. My five day quarantine passed and checking with the CDC, I thought I was no longer contagious when we headed home. I was also masked.

Compared to ventilators and death, this seemed like a mild case. My cold-like symptoms disappeared although I was left with a deep-tired.

As we were ready to leave, my daughter developed a "cold." A test showed positive.

Once home, my husband developed a "cold."

He went around the corner to our local pharmacy for a test. 

"Positive." That was the first word out of his mouth on his return.

I'm on day 9. Because I am a bit OCD wanting everything in its place and not caring, the fact that I put some stuff (not much) away makes me believe, this too should end.  

As a family, sharing is wonderful. Sharing Covid is not.

Rick has done a dueling blog at https://lovinglifeineurope.blogspot.com/2022/05/does-this-ventilator-match-my-pajamas.html

 

The diminishing supply of infants

 

Some people are upset that the draft of overruling Roe v. Wade was leaked. More have been upset that a women's right to control their own bodies is in great danger.

Looking at the draft what concerned me even more were some of the comments that showed when Judge Samuel Alito wrote the draft he was living in a total misconception of what women's lives are really like. 

He talks about maternity leave but doesn't consider how someone living paycheck to paycheck can go without paychecks. 

He talks about health insurance which doesn't apply to everyone.

He must have been thinking about other countries like U.K., Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Germany, Austria, France, Switzerland, Italy, Canada and other industrialized countries. Certainly it is not the case universally in the U.S.

I'm sure none of his wealthy cronies have the problem of affording an unwanted third child.

He doesn't mention how he actively opposed women being allowed to attend his university, Princeton.

What distressed me the most was this phrase... “whereas the domestic supply of infants relinquished at birth or within the first month of life and available to be adopted has become virtually nonexistent.” 

Should it be  a comfort to a woman whose life is thrown into an upheaval if she is face with an unwanted pregnancy that she is increasing the supply of infants?

Early child trafficking?

Customer Service Pre-computer

 

In the olden days of the 1980s when computers were uncommon, my housemate and myself decided to start a typing service. We were in walking distance of 10 universities, and by contacting professors it did not take long for them to arrive at our door with their handwritten blue-lined yellow sheets of reports, articles and books.

Some were orderly. Others suggested hieroglyphic studies might be needed. There would be numbers in the writing matching corresponding scraps of paper with inserts or notes. 

We lived in a Boston town house under renovation although the first floor was more or less complete. 

We rented an IBM proportional spacing typewriter and invested in a number of "golf balls" which meant we could offer our clients various type faces. 

All was going well until our typewriter rental company said they were replacing the machine with a different model. Our "golf balls" no longer fit. We offered to buy the old machine on time payments.

They said no.

We refused to return the machine. They got nasty.

I wrote the CEO of IBM. Emails did not exist. I explained we were two single women running a small business on a shoestring. All we wanted was to keep a typewriter that was working for us perfectly and not have to go to the expenditure of replacing the "golf balls." 

A few days later the door bell rang. Two men in suits handed us their cards. They were both IBM vice presidents sent by the CEO from New York.

I can't remember if we served coffee or not, but we explained the situation. They used our phone (no mobiles) to make a phone call.

"You can keep the typewriter." He meant "keep it." It was ours, no longer a rental.

As they left, they asked us one thing. "If you have another problem, contact us directly. Please, please, don't write the CEO."

We promised. The door closed.

We could only imagine what they had to say about a taking a day out of their schedules and two plane rides to solve a diddly squat problem for two women.

A few minutes later, our Japanese chin walked into the room, a used tampon hanging from his mouth. We were so grateful he had not appeared a few minutes before.

The Constitution and Abortion

 

According to Judge Alito, there is no mention in the U.S. Constitution of the right to abortion.

He is correct. 

Likewise, there's no mention of gay marriage, birth control, free public education, light bulbs, ice cream, cars, planes.

Also there's no mention of electricity, internet, telephones, clean water, roads, hospitals, television, radio, libraries, corporate regulation and thousand of other things we take for granted to make life as we know it. 

If you carry Alito's statement to a conclusion that if something isn't in the Constitution it can be considered illegal, than probably 98% of our daily lives are being lived with the potential of them being illegal.   

The world was very different in 1787 when 55 white men sat down to create it. Nothing like it had been written on the workings of government from the time people lived in caves and thirty-nine of the delegates signed it in 1788 before it was sent to the states for ratification.

It contains 4,543 words. 

Those words work more than they don't to give structure to the country. It's success is also dependent on the good will of the officials who follow its principles -- principles. There also needs to be rationality to understand that to expect the situation of daily life in 2022 was something that the writers could not possibly have imagined.

Abortion existed when the Constitution was being written. From my research to write Coat Hangers and Knitting Needles, the methods used were rather commonplace from cotton and fenugreek seeds to the knitting needles that my grandmother's friends admittedly relied on.

The law and abortion goes beyond the Constitution. The reality seems to be ignored by five of the Supreme Justices. Maybe people will rely on the newer abortion pill rather than natural seeds. Hopefully they won't go back to the knitting needles and back alley quacks. Legal or illegal it will continue.

Or better yet, maybe it should be legal everywhere.

I can dream. Dreams aren't mentioned in the Constitution either, so I should I consider that illegal too?

 

 

Cider Love

 

Never did I expect to find apple cider when I visited my daughter in Boston in May. When I visit near Christmas, cider and Hood's eggnog are things I guzzle because I can't get them in France or Switzerland where I live.

My daughter always puts in hard to get treats for Rick and I when we stay with her. 

Imagine my surprise when I found the cider in her refrigerator. There were also a cookie Rick likes.

All a form of showing love.

No Logo bills

 

I refuse and have for decades to wear anything with a logo so it is not part of being a COW (Cranky Old Woman). I was also a Cranky Young Woman on the issue. I am not a billboard nor do I get any kicks from having someone think I'm special because I wear this or that brand. 

This does not mean that I won't buy the products, but I make sure the logo is removed or covered.

 

But then I thought, I could bill the company for advertising for them and save myself the work of hiding the logo. In the seventies VW Beetle drivers were paid to have their car covered with ads. Why not be paid for advertising sneakers/trainers, clothing, etc.

I've composed a form letter to the CEO of whatever company I approach.

 Dear CEO of (fill in the company name, address)

I recently bought your (fill in the product) with your brand name on it.

I really like your product except for one thing...your name is on it. I had thought of covering it up or replacing it with my name. I mean, what if I was in an accident and the police identified me by your brand name?

Because when I wear your product with your name, providing you with free advertising I'm sending you a bill based on the number of hours I'm out in public where your product will get exposure.

20 hours at $100 each total $2,000 hours for the month of April.

We could also discuss a yearly contract at a flat fee of $20,000 which includes a discount for your long-term commitment.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

D-L Nelson

Meeting Jim

Decades ago when visiting the Minuteman National Park, I saw the gravestone of two unknown British soldiers. On later trips to the Park, I always stopped. I wondered who they were, what made them join the British forces, did their families wonder what had happened to them.

A couple of times, I tried to find out more thinking it would make a great novel.

My latest attempt was two years ago when I wrote the Park. Ranger Jim answered. I didn't know that it would be the start of a long correspondence where I could finally create a fictionalized version of the life of one of the soldiers. The official release of Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel was April 19, 2022 the anniversary of the "shot heard around the world." 

 

Without Ranger Jim, the book would never have been written. I would send off a question and if he didn't have the answer, he directed me to several historians that could and did. 

I watched several of the podcasts featuring Ranger Jim and others about various topics related to the American Revolution period. 

My husband once said it felt like Ranger Jim lived with us after I'd listened to many of his programs.

There would be periods, I would be writing, writing, writing -- then I needed a piece of vital information to stay true to the reality. I'd fire off an email. Ranger Jim always got back to me. Sometimes his information led to a different scene than I'd imagined. He also referred me to other historians, books and web sites that went deeper into the information I needed.

Google photos and memories of many trips to the Park did help in descriptions where my memory was shoddy.

All this went on during Covid when a trip to the battlefield was impossible. In fact, there were periods where a trip beyond a few kilometers from our French or Swiss homes was impossible thanks to shutdowns and quarantines. Crossing the Atlantic was a fantasy.

This past week we flew to the U.S. I wrote Ranger Jim to see if we could meet. He said, although he was teaching the day we could be there, he'd try and make a few minutes.

The Visitors Center was closed to the public until May 7th, although they had had a big event on the April 19th anniversary of the start of the American Revolution. We knocked and Ranger Jennifer answered. I explained why we were there and gave her a copy of the book. She agreed to contact Ranger Jim to see if there was a time we could meet with him.

Off we went to the Wayside Inn restaurant, which also played a part in my novel. The lobster roll was more than a replacement for the schrod, which they had run out of. With both foods, I knew I was back in my native New England. I wondered would I finally be able to meet Ranger Jim in person as I ate.

An e-mail from Ranger Jim arrived during our meal, He said that he'd be free at 4:30. Having come so far, I wasn't about to miss him. To pass the time we were able to enjoy the beautiful New England countryside, the stone walls, the fields, the architecture until about 3:30 when we parked by the Visitors Center and read from books which we had bought earlier in the day.

Then it was 4:30.

I found myself a bit nervous. Granted we'd been almost pen pals for a couple of years, but still he had no idea of how important he'd become to me and my work.

Another man let us in the building. When we explained he called Ranger Jim the man who had become my historical security blanket. I had often worried that he would see my name pop up on his emails and think, "Oh not, not her again."

And then the door opened and he was there with a big smile. Mostly in the videos, he was dressed in uniforms and clothes that were appropriate for 1775. Now he wore jeans.

 

We chatted in the Center's store, with its souvenirs and books. We were surrounded by the two flags and tankards. On the mantle were painted buildings on small pieces of  wood. Underneath the paint were scraps of the original North Bridge, the location of the first shot.

We shared our passion for history, a bit about our lives. I made sure I told him how much I appreciated his help. He told me he was surprised and moved to find the book dedicated to him. He also said he appreciated my questions.

 

We discussed that the soldiers were unknown, although Ranger Jim said they had names of some British soldiers who they might be.

Knowing he was probably tired from teaching new seasonal employees all day, I brought the meeting to a close although I could have talked to him for hours.

The meeting was a very special moment for me. He reinforced my appreciation of people who have a passion for what they do. We both agreed when you love what you do, it isn't work.

 

Our lives will probably never touch again, but mine is richer having had him on the other end of my computer for two years plus. As a writer, I know my work is not just from me but from all the experiences I have had and all the people I have met.

 

Jetlag Brainstorming

 

It was 3 a.m. in Boston, 9 a.m. in Argelès. 

We were in Boston for our second night and still jet lagged. Had we been in Argelès, we would be just getting up, having had our morning tea in bed and reading bits and pieces to each other. Rick would have walked the dog and crawled back in bed.

Staying awake earlier in the evening had been difficult so we went to bed about 9 p.m.

Rick woke first around three and was thinking of ideas about his work.

I woke second thinking about the day ahead where I would finally meet the Minuteman Park Ranger who had been so helpful in my research for my novel Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel. I was also thinking of the project I'm currently working on.

 

We started sharing ideas throwing out one concept after another. We were each writing down what we wanted to make sure we remembered. And then it was almost five in the morning Boston time. 

We tried to sleep. It didn't work. Instead we were up, showered and off to breakfast at our favorite Dempseys and Lexington to meet with the Ranger who helped so much in our research.

I think one of the things I enjoy most in my marriage is that we share ideas in our chosen work. However, maybe not at 3 a.m. on a regular basis...or then again, maybe 3 a.m. is more than okay.

Rick has done a dueling blog.  https://lovinglifeineurope.blogspot.com/

First Flight

 

The last flight I took before this week was 1 January 2020. This week I flew from Toulouse to Amsterdam to Boston on an Airbus KLM.

Over the decades, I've been an almost frequent flyer on both business and pleasure trips. So many changes -- many because of automation, many because of Covid.

Where once flying was exciting and fun, now it has pitfalls, which my husband did much to circumvent. He found out we needed the rapid Covid test to get into the U.S. I suggested the local pharmacy rather than the next village. Once again my nose was subjected to Q-tip attacks. I think this was my 10th time. He's pushing 20 times. Negative.

One nice thing? If we hadn't been at the pharmacy, we would have missed seeing two friends and ended up in coffee and a café sit in the glorious sunshine.

He also found out about the multi-page form the U.S. requires. We had to hand them over in Amsterdam. Our Clean Covid Certificates were never asked for. 

In Toulouse, I've never seen such a short security line. It was the two of us, although some people followed us. One looked like a short version of George Clooney. Hmmm.

I limped ahead of Rick leaving the Toulouse flight only to see stairs leading to the tarmac. The pilot or co-pilot asked me if he could help. He not only took the suitcase down the stairs he carried it up the next set of stairs. His parents, although Dutch, currently live in the Boston area. 

Schipol Airport is still huge, but we noticed that many of the moving sidewalks weren't moving. Also the restaurants stopped serving around 2. Looking out the window we saw a field of tulips. Coming into and leaving the airport looked down onto large patches of yellow, red and purple tulips -- and of course, Rick spotted a golf course.

They did have a nice selection of English books. The woman who sold three to me was from Norway and we had a nice chat about reading in 2nd and third languages.

Rick and I have a different point of view about flying. On our first international flight I wondered why he wanted a meal right before boarding the plane. For me, airline food is fun. He isn't as enthused and prefers eating before the flight, but I just love peeling back that tinfoil to see what's there. Peek and eat. 

For me part of the enjoyment of flying is meals and movies. This flight had the new West Side Story. It might be interesting to watching them back to back sometime, except, the new one made me long for the old one and to change the channel. Rick settled into a Federer/Nadal charity match. Both of us napped.

 

A cheese packet wrote about how the cheese was made from healthy and happy cows. As a cynic, he was sure it was marketing, but I'd like to think the cow that produced the milk for the cheese was at least content. Maybe she modeled for the cow above in the store at the airport. Maybe a happy and healthy cow modeled for the statue.

On both flights, I asked for early boarding because of my hip that has left me limping. It made it easier for us, especially in getting things in the overhead. Also, we didn't slow anyone up.

While waiting with the other boarders, a woman remarked on how sweet the teddy bears that decorate my suitcase were. She lives outside Boston and her hobby is making doll furniture. I told her about my daughter's dollhouse. 

Of course, the best part of the trip was walking into my daughter's hug. A man in his late 20s or maybe early 30s stopped and said how seeing a mother and daughter hug made his day. It made mine too.

 

 

Cannon fodder

 

When I was pregnant, it was during the heyday of the Vietnam War. My husband only wanted a son, but I secretly was hoping for a girl.

There were two reasons. My younger brother was a horrible child regularly disturbing the home. To this day when someone has a boy, I feel a moment of sadness if the birth of a boy is announced along with gratitude the infant is healthy. Granted, some have turned into lovely children and adults that I've developed good relationships with or admire.

The other, I wasn't ready to provide cannon fodder of my child in some far away country for reasons that had little or nothing to do to protecting the homeland, and everything to do with protecting the military-industrialized complex, propaganda not withstanding. Over the years in most wars, the reasons disappear in time and those that died, died for nothing.

Few people realize that the U.S. has fought in 102 wars over its existence. That made for a lot of dead soldiers and a lot of dead civilians--cannon fodder. For what? Does anyone know why what each of those wars accomplished other than extinguishing lives too early?

Likewise, I thought of a pregnant woman in a far away land whose son my son might kill. Would it ruin his soul or would he have bought into the propaganda too? Would he think he killed for a noble cause?

I knew if I had a son and there was still a draft, I would take him to whatever country would offer him protection from the U.S. Armed Services. I would hope I would have raised him with the understanding why fighting for your country had little to do with reality and he would go with me.

This does not apply to places like the Ukraine or Vietnam (and others over time) where the country has been attacked by invaders.

I live in Switzerland where every male is expected to do military service until 34. Those who don't pay extra taxes or can substitute civilian service. However, Switzerland does not attack other countries. The military is there to protect from invasion. They do hire out such at the Vatican Guard. A look at their uniforms makes one suspect their main function is not the battlefield. There are other forms of protection that the Guard offers.

The idea of every youth doing some kind of formal service for their country is a good one, especially if kids are sent far from home and mingle with people who are very different. It might build better understanding between regions which is sadly lacking. A city boy and a farm boy might discover they have things in common.

I shudder that there is a game called Cannon Fodder described as Never So Much Fun. On duckduckgo.com it is described as:

"Cannon Fodder is a military-themed action game with strategy and shoot 'em up elements. The player controls a small squad of up to five soldiers. These soldiers are armed with machine guns which kill enemy infantry with a single round. Game developer Sensible Software Game publisher Virgin Interactive Entertainment, Inc. Game published 1994."

A form of violence brainwashing preparing young men to be cannon fodder. In the game, the players do not feel machine gun bullets tearing through their bodies. They have no idea why the enemy is their enemy. Perhaps their country overthrew the diplomatically elected president of the "enemy." Or maybe it is just to guarantee there will always be enough cannon fodder for the powers that be. 

I didn't have a son, thank goodness.

 

Legislating ignorance

 

The Scopes Trial ran from 10-21 July 1925? The crime? A teacher had taught evolution breaking the Tennessee Butler Act forbidding the teaching of evolution and Charles Darwin's theories. The idea was to protect children from ideas different from the Bible.

How far we haven't come with laws that prohibit teaching some subjects such as Critical Race Theory, Black, Latin American history or gender variations being enacted in Florida and mainly other southern states. Lord knows, we don't want kids to learn about reality. Better to leave them in ignorance.

In Puritan times Boston kids went to school to learn to read and do basic math. Boston Latin was founded in 1635 with heavy courses in Greek, Latin and other erudite subjects to prepare them for the ministry, law, teaching, medical careers. Harvard University was founded the year after for the BLS graduates to continue those studies.

Boston in the 1600 and 1700s also had Writing Schools. These trained the accountants and small business owners. 

Public schools should be designed to produce a literate and educated citizenry. It allows them to work in needed professions or jobs. Some of these can evolve into trades that still require basic reading and math skills.

I read an article where a mother was furious her child was studying world history. "What does she need that for?" she demanded.

The rude answer is, "So she won't be as ignorant as you are." The diplomatic answer is "what happens in the world will affect your child."

Parents want to say what their children will learn and some are amazingly hostile. Usually these are the parents that want to limit information to their children.

What do kids need to know? First to learn the 3 Rs -- "Reading, Riting, Rithematic."  In today's world let's add how to use a computer (mobile). Of course, the second they have access to a computer, the entire world, true and false, is available to them. 

The phrase "my tax dollar" echoes throughout school board meetings. Between the woman who didn't want her kid to learn world history and myself who wanted my daughter to learn the good, bad and ugly of the world so she would be prepared when faced with them has the same gap as between an orange and a Tesla.

I doubt if any child will faint if they hear the word gay. And it really wouldn't hurt them to know some kids and adults are not only different, but they might learn compassion and appreciation for differences that would go beyond sexual differences. This might even extend to religious differences and national differences. 

Basic biology, chemistry and physics wouldn't hurt them nor would history, good and bad about the U.S. and the world. And if there's time the arts for their hearts and soul.

The problem with ignorance is that it doesn't make anything go away. Reality will be there to damage us when it wants to.

What bothers me most is we haven't advanced much since 1925 in trying to legislate ignorance.

 

 

Clothing coding

My first classmate to die almost immediately after graduation had been a bit of a rebel by pre-1960s standards. His crime? He wore a boatneck jersey. This almost identical except it was white and yellow striped.

Needless to say, the administration went nuts when our entire class showed up in dresses made from burlap bags. I guess they didn't know at one time burlap bags were printed with flowers and designs for women who couldn't afford cloth for their kids' clothes.

My late friend Barbara, an anthropologist, claimed that all clothing is cultural coding. 

She was right. Throughout the ages, clothing has delivered messages. One of my fantasies is the Jean Calvin comes alive and is plunked down on the quai near Lake Léman with all the  young women walking around in bikinis. If he weren't already dead he'd have had a heart attack on the spot.

If early man were concerned with covering himself, over the centuries styles have come and gone. A Roman and/or Egyptian might have been confused with men's slacks. 

Only in the 20th century did western women reveal her legs (and maybe more). Men were able to control themselves most of the time and the god dids not send any other the normal storms to wipe out the species for their sins.

 

Clothing also reflects social status, although I wonder if a cave woman wearing mammoth skin was considered lower class compared to a woman wearing a bear fur.

Clothing was and is a way of maintaining control. Think of maid's uniforms. English school children still wear uniforms.

Back in the dark ages we had to wear skirts or dresses to school and that included university, although it was beginning to break down. I suspect you could have a treasure hunt to find girls in dresses or skirts on most campuses today and give the winner a semester's free tuition if they could find five.

When I went to work, all female staff petitioned our male boss (aside from the printer/janitor the only male)  agreed to let us wear slacks to work. We were never in contact with the public. He relented -- but they had to be stylish with creases, combined with a nice blouse and preferable a suit jacket.

My job in Geneva was varied. 

Meeting with clients? Stuffy business suit. Spending time in the print shop on new publications or just buried in my office for the day? Jeans.

I've been fascinated by the clothing in the TV series Suits. I've never been in a law office where the staff wore thigh-slit skits and showed off so much cleavage. That comment is not from jealousy because of lack of cleavage on my body.

I know I dress differently in France and Switzerland. More Bohemian writer in France, and slightly more office casual depending on where I'm going in Switzerland. I think of the couple that was turned down for citizenship because they wore sweats into their village.

Today we are alternating downpours with normal rain. Tonight we are having an apéro for Rick's birthday. I'm wearing jeans and my sweatshirt that says "I am a writer. Anything you say may be used in a story." 

I warned you. Another message delivered by clothing.