Sunday, March 17, 2024

Fear like I've never known

 

I cringe each time I see the American flag, the flag of my birth country.

Why?

Because I see it on the brink of destruction. Although I know a great deal of U.S. history, I think it has never been in so much in danger including the Civil War and the Fascist push by people like Charles Lindbergh and Henry Ford pre-World War I.

The greatest danger is Donald Trump. 

Although, I'm no psychiatrist, the man is a raving lunatic probably on the verge of dementia if one considers his childish ravings, incomplete sentences. His cutesy and cruel nicknames for people are not the mark of a leader but like a little boy calling names on a playground...only this playground is the United States of America and is part of a bigger neighborhood, the world.

His lies about the election, his lies about climate change, about Covid, about what other countries think of the U.S. are too numerous to repeat here. He lies about what he said in the past. He lies about what others have said.

His speeches, where he calls immigrants vermin and denies that they are people, should be totally unacceptable unless one is trying to create chaos and hatred. Never mind the cruel separation of children from their parents at the border. It was more cruel that no records were kept. Even the concentration camps in Germany had records.

How any one can deny his creating an insurrection on January 6th. I didn't come to this conclusion from the media, social or traditional. It was from watching it live and listening to the words from his mouth.

As for his wanting to release the “patriots” from prison, the ones who admitted to wanting to overthrow the government is equally shocking.

When he talks about what he wants to do, calls for a "blood bath" if not re-elected, frightens me in every cell in my body.

I listen to his followers many who seem to lack the education to understand the danger because they lack the knowledge of history, of the world.

I find it fascinating that almost any stranger picking up on my American accent ask me about Trump. They fear him too. I suspect if most of France and Switzerland could vote, Bidon, although not loved, would have a huge victory.

Saturday, March 16, 2024

Changing Countries Again

 

We change countries every few weeks or months between Geneva, Switzerland and the South of France.

Before you think we're rich, we are not. At least not rich in terms of money, but we're extremely rich in quality of life or lives.

What we've found is a way to live a dream life by not caring about having a  ton of material crap. 

I had bought my French retirement studio on my 45th birthday. It was on the 4th floor American, 3rd European. 400 years ago, it would have probably held hay for the cattle on the ground level. The cost was $10,000 cash.

It had everything I wanted and needed including a fireplace,

Fast forward to retirement, and the love of my life coming back into it.

The studio, my Nest, was too small for two. We ended up renting a larger studio in Switzerland and going back and forth. We also rented an apartment for the two of us around the corner in France. The Nest became a guest room.


In Geneva, we have never tired of the beauty. Again, we found an adorable studio that meets our needs. And when we step out the door, we have postcard views. Our village is on top of a Roman ruin. In 20 minutes we can be in downtown Geneva by car or bus.

Thursday, we made the transition again. Driving south was like driving into spring. We'd seen snow, sleet and hail the day before we left. Bad weather gave way to budding and flowering trees.

It is two different lives. Geneva is more preplanned, more formal. Its great for forcing us to do our writing. We are both writers. 

Since being back in France, we've met up with eight friends, some for coffee. We've walked to see One Life with Anthony Hopkins. The theatre is about 76 steps away. So are the butcher and green grocers and café for sitting and people watching. The two weekly marchés provide most of our needs.

Every time we change, we catch the "where-is-it?" disease. CNN is 885 in Geneva and 541 in France. Télémartin is one in Geneva,  and five in France. The remote that changes stations is black in only one country. For at least two days we grab the wrong remote.

I forget where this or that was left making cooking a challenge. And it seems to be a rule that something we need is always in the other place.

Not a complaint. In both places when I go to sleep, I think how lucky I am. I have a roof over my head. I know not only will I eat tomorrow, I've a choice for fresh veggies or any number of restaurants from simple to gourmet. No bombs are falling.  

It is an accident of birth I am where I am -- that my chance at an education and decent employment allowed me to do what I am doing. I will never stop being grateful that I was able to change continents to find the life, I think I was meant to live.

Note: Visit www.dlnelsonwriter.com

 



Tuesday, March 12, 2024

Free Write: Quote from a Book

 


Prompt: A quote from Diane Johnson's L'Afaire. "It was clear the driver was hurrying on his rounds, perhaps fearing the people would be stranded in the worsening storm."

Goal: To write ten minutes using the prompt without stopping.

Note: Julia and Rick knew what their ending was before they started. D-L had no idea until she had the three-minute warning to finish up. It was clear to her that it could be a chapter and her ending would morph into chapter 2. The fun of these group free writes is the similar and different each of us takes.

Rick's Free Write

To say that Pierre was distracted was understatement.

His daughter had announced that morning that she was leaving home, and slammed the door. As he watched her strut down the street, small suitcase in hand, his wife, Emilie, had one of her anxiety attacks.

It had taken an hour to get her calmed down, and even then she was still touch and go.

He had to make his deliveries or he wouldn’t get paid. But he decided to look for Marie first. She wasn’t on any of the streets around. Probably holed up at her friend’s, Samantha, the American expat. Or had hopped a train to visit her boyfriend at Uni. Snobbish prig.

He finally had to abandon the search and start delivering his dry goods to neighborhood shops. Instead of the usual cheery greeting, he got a lot of gruff “You’re late”’s.

Two more deliveries to go and the rain was coming hard now. He pressed the accelerator to round a corner and heard a thump about the same time as the lightning and thunderclap.

Should he investigate? No, he had to deliver before the customers closed their stores.

Marie lay on the side of the road, bleeding and soaked, and unconscious.

D-L'sFree Write

It was clear the driver was hurrying on his rounds, perhaps fearing the people would be stranded in the worsening storm.

Jacques wanted to go faster but the danger of skidding was too great.

As the wipers did a semi-good job of keeping the windshield clean, he tried to look for any skiers but saw none.

Global warming? Bah! Global cooling. This winter there had been more snow than there had been for the last 12 years.

What was that up ahead? It looked like a woman and a boy running, skies slung over their shoulders.

He braked and skidded. If they hadn't jumped, he'd have hit them.

They rushed to his van, threw their skies away and jumped in.

"Go!" the woman yelled. "Go!"

It was then he saw a man emerge from behind the row of pine trees lining the road. He had a gun, some kind of hunting rifle.

He stepped on the gas, praying he wouldn't skid. A bullet pinged off the back of the van. "Get down," he yelled to the woman and boy.

Only after three curves, did he feel they were safe from the gunman and he slowed to a less dangerous speed.

"Do you want to tell me about this, or do you want to go to the police station? he asked.

Julia's Free Write

”It was clear that the driver was hurrying on his rounds, perhaps fearing that people would be stranded in a worsening storm”.

She didn’t often take this route, nor public transportation, but with her grandson sick in the hospital, she realized more how fragile life could be and was not willing to take any extra risks, especially with the latest weather forecast predicting a bad storm.

She still had her driver’s license at 85 and was sometimes afraid of losing it.

She made it to the hospital and had a very good visit – her son and wife were there as well, all hoping that having survived the avalanche that killed several of his friends, he would make it.

None were believers, yet in times of crisis, thoughts tended to send up a “prayer”.

And she was on her return trip and the storm had truly broken. A flash of lightening, a deluge of hail. Just as he skidded off the road.

In the front of the bus, she was the first in the water: St. Peter was there to meet her. As she looked at him, she said “fair enough, I’m glad you took me and not Joel”!

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

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

 

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

 

Saturday, March 09, 2024

The Real McCoy

 


 I was in Paris with friends near the Eiffel Tower.

"Is this the real McCoy?" The demanding voice was decibels more than other tourists. The woman speaker had a Texas accent.

She was well dressed, and her hair was coiffure perfect. In her hand she held a small Eiffel Tower stature. Identical statues were spread out on a blanket. They only cost a few francs.

The owner of the statues spoke French, and at the time I didn't understand what he said to her.

We didn't need French to be embarrassed by the rudenss of the women in her attitude.

We knew that Americans have a reputation for speaking too loudly compared to other cultures. 

Had I had French, I would have said to the man, "We aren't all like that."

I'm not sure what she thought the "real McCoy" was. Certainly not silver hidden under the plastic.

Friday, March 08, 2024

Rainbows

 

For most of my early years, rainbows were in books, drawings or photos. In the Little Maida series, one of the characters, I think her name was Sylvia, tried to capture rainbows in her paintings that would become gifts.

I wished for real rainbows. I had to be satisfied with my grandmother's prism, which I still have.

When I moved to Geneva, there was a plethora of rainbows visible from my balcony. There were nights that they were so spectacular, that I knocked on neighbors' doors with a rainbow alert. My balcony had the best view.

On a bus ride from Geneva to Ferney-Voltaire in France, I was on the bus to go to dinner with a friend who lived there. France was only four bus stops from my house.

The bus was filled with UN and office workers, tired from the day. They sat, not talking. 

Someone cried, "Look!" Out the window, on the left side of the bus, was a double rainbow. Everyone looked moving to the left side if necessary to see.

The atmosphere on the bus went from tired and isolating to energized and sharing.

When my husband and I spent several weeks in Ireland near Westport, there were daily rain showers almost always followed by a rainbow. We began to look forward to their daily appearance.

However yesterday, a rainbow came to call at tea time.

I looked up from my writing, ready to prepare the tea and I saw it. A rainbow brought its friend, another rainbow and settled near the dog's dish under the television.

So often when I try and photograph a rainbow, the colors are washed out. I was sure it would disappear before I could get my phone to take its picture, but it seemed to grow stronger.

The colors on the dog dish, did not, however, encourage my persnickety dog's appetite. A blue sip of water and a red Frolic didn't impress him. 

The colors did last and last.

A rainbow came to call. I wish I could have kept it, but it will forever be a treasured memory.

 


 

Thursday, March 07, 2024

Why Free Write????

 


As a writer of 17 books, words always float around in my head. To create the books, I need the discipline of sitting down and pounding away at my beloved laptop.

There are days my fingers can barely keep up with my brain, but on other days, my fingers rest on the keyboard as if paralysed. 

I think of a writing workshop I took in Paris with the amazing Isabel Huggins. An overweight French woman with fireman red hair pushed into a chignon described how she has to wait days sometime for The Word, Le Mot. She didn't write until The Word, Le Mot arrived.

Having worked in PR, marketing and as a reporter with firm deadlines, this was never possible. Likewise, writing around a full time job before doing my own writing, I couldn't wait for an inspired word to come into my head.

About the same time, I found Nathalie Goldberg who extoled the virtues of free writing in her book Writing Down the Bones.

The concept was to sit with paper and pen and just write on a newly selected subject. Don't stop, don't edit. She wanted to banish "the monkey mind" stopping the flow.

It was freeing, I used it whenever I was stuck.

Eventually I found a writer friend, and we would meet at a cafe, find a "victim" and free write about that person between sips of tea. Sometimes we identified the same characteristics while at other times we went on different paths.

My writer friend's work commitments made future free writes impossible, but I would still use the technique when blocked or slowed.

My beloved husband then suggested he and I do free writes together. He is also a writer.

Tuesdays became sacrosanct free write days no matter where we were. We'd find a café, have a croissant and tea (me) hot chocolate (him) and write our hearts out for ten minutes.

At one point we were joined by an Irish friend.

Recently another writer has joined us. 

Sometimes what we produce could be polished into a flash fiction piece or the seed for something bigger: short story, novella, novel. Of course, there wouldn't be time to develop them all and we normally went back to our regular writing, refreshed. 

Note: visit www.dlnelsonwriter.com.