Me and Marty McFly

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Last Thursday evening I attended an event at Perry High School. I hadn’t been on a high school campus in a long time. It felt odd. I wasn’t there as a parent, PTO member, classroom teacher, administrator, counselor, club advisor or in any other capacity. Just a local supporter of the closest high school to my house.

It brought back those hundreds of nights I spent at meetings, presentations, graduations, football games, basketball and baseball games, theater productions, dance, band, orchestra and vocal performances, meet the teacher nights, awards events, and the list goes on.

It felt so familiar. The exuberant high pitched energy of high school students, the blaring music, the spontaneous line dancing, the carnival atmosphere, the balloon and banner decorations in the cafeteria, the food vendors, the haunted house, and the girls following boys and boys following girls around the campus.

I also remembered all the nights at my kids’ high school as a parent, all the events I led as a PTO officer, the many carnivals and fund raisers and early morning drop-offs and late night pick-ups. How did life pass so quickly? I asked myself. It was only yesterday that I was involved at an intimate level with campus life — not just a spectator. Only it wasn’t …

I am glad to hand over the gauntlet to younger parents and to young educators, but I’d also love to have some of those evenings back — to enjoy them just a little bit more. I felt a little like Marty McFly that night. I wanted a magical car to take me back for a few more hours.

Home from Paris

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Just over a week ago, I returned from a month in Paris. After three days of jet-lag and sleeping and eating at very odd hours here in the states, I began to function again. Everyone asks how it was, and I hesitate. I’m certain they are expecting one answer and one answer alone … fabulous!
my chair – Tuileries 
Musee d’Orsay
I hesitate because it was both fantastic and a little bit disappointing. The fantastic and fabulous included moving slowly through the city and pacing my visits. I spent a leisurely lunch and an entire afternoon in the Tuileries Gardens just soaking up nature and architecture and people. The Musee d’Orsay captured me for a full day including coffee and macarons for lunch and a few tears in the Monet exhibit. It was breathtaking and something I never felt in the Louvre.
My day in Normandie cannot be put into words. You have to breathe it and live it, but it was a highlight of my trip. As was the day-trip in Champagne country where I tasted 8 glasses of champagne in 4 hours. The scenery once you get outside Paris is spectacular and I began to wish for a full week outside the city.
American Cemetery Normandie
I wandered the rooms of Shakespeare and Co. with lunch at an outdoor cafe listening to the chiming bells from Notre Dame. And that same day, I experienced Sainte-Chapelle. I say experience because you have to see it in person. Even the post cards and books sold in the gift shop cannot capture it.
Paris Opera House
My last day found me having coffee and a lemon tart in the same café as Hemingway, Stein, Fitzgerald, Picasso – the list too long to name them all. Café de Flore. All of the Parisien artists and authors of that era met there for hours. I walked the streets of Saint Germaine de Pres and toured the cathedral, then returned for another café au lait at Le Deux Magots. Between these two spots you would find the authors writing their pages of drivel before something creative and wonderful appeared on the page.
Cafe de Flore
Wonderful also included daily croissants and street markets with fresh vegetables and fruits. It included wine and cheese and rainy days and sunny ones. It included walking miles each day even with the Metro. It included music and dancing along the Seine. And getting lost and finding my way again. And a hidden community that beckons you back to the 20’s and a gladiator arena tucked among apartment buildings. Music boxes, street vendors, and artists. And the always present Notre Dame Cathedral and the Tour Eiffel.
Not so wonderful was not hearing English for four weeks. It became somewhat oppressive and definitely isolated me from the world. Not so wonderful are the numbers of homeless sleeping in tents under the quai of the river, beggars on street corners and on the train, mothers with babies pleading for money. It included walking 50 steps to the tracks for my metro train west. And 50 more down when I returned.
 It included getting confused with buses, lost among winding streets that suddenly changed name with no warning and frustration standing in front of a store item taking pictures and using google translate to see what I was buying. It included hanging laundry to dry every other day and not having the right pan for pizza after I had bought a frozen one for dinner.
 Not so wonderful was the lack of AC during a week of heat. It included a hard bed that hurt my back until I moved to the futon in the office and it included the broken baby toe three days before one of my day-trips. Not so wonderful was not being able to hop in the car and get somewhere in minutes. It included my hair that refused to cooperate in a strange environment. It included trying to figure out pounds in metric and buying two pounds of green beans instead of a half.
Did I write in Paris?  A small notebook of scenes but not as much as I thought I would. I finally realized that I was there to absorb and would write it later.

The fabulous always outweighed the not so great and I loved being there. Loved the cobbled streets until my feet complained. Loved walking less than two blocks to a 32 acre botanical garden where I sat and ate ice cream and talked on Whatsapp with my daughter. I was ready for home so apparently the timing was just right.

Would I do it again? No, not in Paris. A big city — noisy, chaotic, nonstop traffic and sirens and refugees and homeless and dirty. I couldn’t wait to get into the shower each night after being in the city, especially the metro. It was good coming home to spacious and still vacant land and farms and cows. I am a country girl at heart and always have been. I’d do France again but outside the city. 
my host Martine when she returned from Canada

On Writing in Paris:

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I thought being in Paris – walking the streets of Gertrude Stein, Hemingway, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald – would inspire me to write. I had visions of sitting in cafes with pen and journal in hand, or along the quai with my own bottle of wine and a tablet. But no —. No great story ideas. No new characters. Just a few more scenes on a boring little story I’ve been writing (and hating) for months.
My extremely bright daughter recently wrote me to relax. Yes, writing was a goal and a good one; but I’m also here to absorb. To soak it all in.
I thought about that. This has always been my M.O. I go places and see and hear and taste and smell. I get caught up in the walking, the discovery, the architecture, the experience. I create routine amidst the unknown, the unfamiliar. I figure out tubes and metros, how to get from A – B and from B – C. GPS and maps and notes. I go home feeling as if I didn’t experience a thing; didn’t write a word except daily drivel.

But later – sometimes much later – a character emerges or a particular tree or the sound of the metro from my apartment with the doors open and the birds – larger than life it seems – caw and caw on the roof tops above me. I am like a sponge. I soak it up and let it sit on the counter until one day I notice, and I think to wring it out – to squeeze each drop of memory onto paper.

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I have an urge to pinch myself. The ducks floating along, bobbing under the water for food, the brown one preening himself about two feet from me—they could be swimming in any pond or fountain in the world. Power Ranch not far from my house. Meadow Lake in Enid. Literally anywhere.

But as my gaze moves further down the sandy walkway, I see the massive stone columns designating the corners of the garden – some square, some circular, topped with statuary centuries old. Satyrs, Nymphs, Roman soldiers, a woman holding a child aloft. They tower over the garden and surround the 196 foot diameter basin where I sit.

I am seated on one of the painted green iron chairs that surround the fountain. There are other, smaller pools around the perimeter. The languages around me are foreign: French, German, Italian, Middle Eastern. Different but much the same. Friends taking photos of friends who pose on the rounded cement edge of the basin of water. Parents speaking to children– their intentions obvious and familiar though the words themselves are not. I see on their faces and the children’s responses: No. Not so close. Be careful. A few bread crumbs at a time. We will get ice cream later. Why? Why not? You’re tired. A father gives directions to his wife and two lovely teen-age daughters and I know he is saying, smile, or take off your sunglasses, or OK, now….

Suddenly the wind picks up and shifts direction. I feel a mist and look up to check the clouds above me. The sun shimmers through the gray density but there is no sign of rain. The mist is from the fountain which shoots high into the air before splashing back to its stone base and then down into the basin itself. I hear giggles as people check the images on their cell phone cameras and conversations with family or friends back home.

My eye wanders ever further and my focus is taken by the long rectangular buildings to the right and left, and the one dead center – forming a court yard with an arched stone gateway entrance. On top of the arch the gold angel figurines draw attention though the central sculpture appears charcoal gray and without detail from this distance and with little sunlight. A horse drawn chariot, its rider standing, staff in hand. The Louvre.

In Paris. In France. I am sitting in the Tuileries gardens looking at this famous building. A half hour ago I had lunch at an outdoor café with this same scene. Am I dreaming? No. But it feels that way. I soak it in and let myself doze slightly for just a moment. I will wander a bit now. I’ve rested long enough. Behind me, miles away but looking so deceptively close, is the Eiffel. Another day. I’m not up for the walk or even the bus ride. Not today. 

Today is strictly for the gardens and for thanking God for my good fortune to experience this moment.

First Week in France…. or …. nothing is easy!

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I’ve been to Paris three times. The first time barely counts as we were here for four days and walked ten hours a day trying to see everything in Paris.

The second time — 2.5 years ago — with my daughter, we stayed in this very same apartment. We had a week to see it all and we hit the road early in the morning and crawled back late at night with just enough sleep to keep us moving.

Somewhere along the way, I aged. I hate to admit it, even to myself. I hate aging. I hate not having the energy and the strength and the stamina I had just 2.5 years ago!! Hate it. Hate it.

This time I came alone and for nearly a month stay. I knew the apartment and the area and how to use the metro. I had Google Earth, Google Maps, Google Translate, and VPN (unless you are under 40 you do not know what that is: at least I didn’t.) which allows me to watch American TV, though so far I’ve watched CBS newscasts. I haven’t gotten around to Netflix so I don’t even know if it works.

I arrived at midnight U.S. time – 7:55 a.m. here. My host let me sleep one hour before lunch, then forced me to stay awake until 9:00 p.m. I slept 13 hours straight! She left for Canada the next morning so I spent Tues. settling in: unpacking, putting things away, hanging up clothes, etc. I went up the street to the Monoprix store. Similar to Target in the states. I bought enough groceries to get me through a few days. It took me an hour of reading French labels to determine if coffee was in fact sans decaf (decaffeinated), if the lait (milk) I was buying was actually milk and not cream, to determine if 6.50 EU meant for the pkg. or per pound for chicken. You get the picture.

Each day I have tried to do one thing outside the apartment. I am still very tired so I am in bed at 11 and up at 7:00. My usual time in the states. I eat on French time now as well. I have the requisite croissant each morning with fruit and yogurt. I’ve eaten every meal at home which pleases me (and saves my bank account).

Yesterday I ventured out to the Musee Orsay which turned out to be an experience of a life-time. Beautiful building and hundreds of famous paintings that I drooled over. I had a cafe au lait and three macarons — yum! But getting there was not easy. I went to the Gare (terminal) 45 minutes early as I had decided to use the RER train instead of the metro and I didn’t know which set of tracks that would be on. Come to find out, it didn’t matter! The RER C was not operating, neither was the Metro 5 or 10 – my second option. After muddling through my lack of French and the information desk clerk’s lack of English, I was sent on my way to find the “Castro bus”. I asked three people who did not know and finally noticed some arrows on signs with that logo. An hour later, I was on the bus heading to the second stop — the Orsay. Stupidly, I forgot to ask where to stand to get a return trip so that became the next ordeal. But I’ll spare you….  Yes, I made it there and I made it back.

Today I “made it to the market” and I “made it back” again. Each trip is a learning curve and I am so tired of learning. Don’t I know enough by now? The Google maps took me one way and my host’s typed notes told me another. I did my usual — asked every fourth person along the street the question: Marche Aligre?  Marche Aligre? They point and I go another few blocks before asking again. My son would shoot me – he put all the google help on my phone before I left. I just don’t happen to trust technology all that much.

I went to the gardens a block away this afternoon. They are famous as are the four museums inside the gates. I sat and tried to write on my second novel. I was simply too tired from the two hour excursion to the marche. Next time I will buy 2 bananas, not 4. My shoulders and back have set into rigor mortis. I caught a cold my first day here. I can do nothing with my Arizona hair. And I’ve forgotten most of my French in the past four days.

But I continue to muddle through; one step at a time; one block at a time; one bus stop at a time. Now if they’d just get the damned metro operating again, I’d be golden. Today I thought my cold had subsided. I sit here now sneezing my head off in need of a tissue. Ah, the joys of travel.

The Mystery Bookmark

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The other day I received a used book from Amazon. When it came, I flipped through to see if there were markings or torn pages. Instead what I found was an airline boarding pass stub and a home-made book mark with a black and white photo of three little girls.
On the back of the marker, I read a very faded: Merry Christmas 1995. Most of the letters were worn off, but there was enough to make sense of the message. 
Does the bookmark belong to the woman on the Continental Airlines boarding pass? If so, I have a name and I know that she flew on the 13th of June (no year) and her name is Underwood/Wend. 
She flew from Chicago to Phoenix on flight HP 2442 in seat 2D.
I sit here staring at the two items and wonder about the girls in the photo. It has been laminated and cut by hand (you can tell) with a hole punched on one end for a ribbon or string. The girls look similar but not enough to prove they are sisters. Their hair and dress suggest 1950’s. Their ages appear to be about 10, 7, and 3.
Who were these young girls? Were they related? 
Who created the bookmark? Was it a gift to Wendy from a friend? A sister? Her mother? 
And how long ago did she make the flight as she read Under the Tuscan Sun? 
How did her life turn out and here does she live now? 
Are all three girls still living and if so, do they live near each other? 
Are they married, divorced, gay? 
Was their childhood happy or sad? 
My brain wants to create a whole scenario.
I did a quick search on Facebook – it turned up nothing. Should I try to locate her? She might think me ridiculous, although that is unimportant. I question if I’m the one making a big deal out of nothing. She probably doesn’t even realize it is gone. She left it inside her book; maybe it was not important to her.
A mystery for sure. Will it ever be solved? Probably not. But perhaps it will be the basis of a short story or a novel. For now, it calls to me each time I look at it.

Does anyone know a Wendy Underwood from Chicago? Or perhaps this was her return flight to Phoenix. 

She Likes It!!

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Most cats are finicky, and mine is no exception. Hermione has always wanted to drink out of the kitchen sink. I hate this habit. Not so much when I’m home alone with her, but when guests sit on the bar stools a foot away from the sink, it’s pretty distracting. (make that gross) I tried putting a bowl of water on the floor by her food dish, and she ignores it for days. Not a lick!
I found that I can put a bowl of water right by the kitchen sink. She might look at me with disdain, rub up against the crook-neck faucet, but eventually I will hear her lapping up the water. She particularly enjoys an ice cube on hot days.
Due to my guilt for leaving her next month, I decided to purchase a couple of new things for her (even though I have a cat sitter coming). I decided to look into water and cat food dispensers. There is one that provides food 3 times per day – to the tune of over $100.00. I decided she wasn’t quite worth that!
The next possibility for around $50.00 was the type that distributes food daily – it has a rotating bowl with 7 compartments. Closer to my budget, but I was thinking around $15.00!  I love her, but…
So I went to Amazon Prime – my go-to for every purchase these days and found just the thing. Easy design which simply releases water as the level goes down; same with the food. Some cats eat themselves to death if left alone. Herm barely eats when I’m gone, so I figured this would suffice.
 The other day the water dispenser arrived via Fed Ex. I figured she’d hate the darned thing, but I washed it thoroughly, filled it with water and placed it in the same spot as her water dish – right by the kitchen sink. She bounced up onto the counter, sniffed and turned up her nose. But an hour later, I saw her leap from the chair to the kitchen counter and begin lapping. It gurgled as it released more water. She liked that. She lapped a bit more. The water bubbled in the container again. She looked at me curiously, as if to ask – what the heck? I continued to watch. It’s been on the counter now for 5 days, and she’s drinking from it all the time.
Oh, my God, I want to scream – she likes it!
Today the food dispenser arrived. Will she use it or ignore any amount of food I put in? Time will tell. But I’m hoping it will amaze her as much as the water dispenser.
Now if she’d just look twice at the $6.00 piece of carpet with a red fuzzy ball attached on a long spring. She patted it once the day I placed it on the floor and has ignored it ever since. Cats!?!@

Yum! and Happy 4th of July!

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Last week someone posted how to make 4th of July chocolate covered strawberries! Sounded good and looked beautiful! I raced to the store to look for blue sugar. No such thing at the grocery store and I didn’t feel like hauling to Michael’s or Hobby in the 108 degree temps. So I bought blue food coloring (well, a pack of 4 colors – you can’t buy just one blue).

They didn’t turn out too shabby! Better than most of my Pinterest crafts.

But they left out one direction in the recipe:
(see bottom photo)  Scoop out every last bit of chocolate with the remaining strawberries and lick your fingers!

Warning Labels

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Today I thought I’d share with you a quote from a book I revisited this weekend.

The book title:  The way of transition  (embracing life’s most difficult moments)
“Whatever it is that you intend to achieve by whatever you do isn’t likely to be the thing you actually accomplish by doing it.
The attraction is just the window dressing. The bargain specials which do not (it turns out) come in your size.
It’s the bone the burglar gives your watch –dog as he robs you blind.
The actual result – lesson – pay off – is discovered only over time, and often in ways that you could not have known in advance.
If our lives were pharmaceuticals, they’d require warning labels.”
By William Bridges, author of Transitions.
A warning label for our lives – in retrospect it is so easy to see what they might have looked like in large bold 24 font text. And yet, I am thankful they were written in invisible ink.
For without a marriage there would be no precious children; without a lover there would be no memories of love; without a few disastrous jobs there would be no retirement; without the bad and the ugly, there would be no good.
If everything were white, there would be no contrast. Life requires black to give balance, shadow, and reflection. So today I will relish the black times and say a prayer of thanks. For without them, my life would be like a blank page of paper waiting for something to be written.

$5.00 for a loaf bread – no thanks!

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I noticed it last summer — the price of food creeping up weekly. Every aisle of the grocery store displayed the rising costs. I started shopping the weekly ads more closely. I began to purchase fresh vegetables at our local farmers markets and Sprouts. I planted a winter garden and then one for summer. I could still find inexpensive milk and meat if I watched the sales. But for some reason, bread became the thorn in my side!

I hate to admit that I remember two loaves for a dollar, but I do. I didn’t mind when it hit $2.50 a loaf; bucked up and paid $3.00 as long as it was 9 grain or something good for my body. But somewhere during the past six months, it got more expensive by the week. When it hit $5.00 a loaf I said “enough.”

I started baking my own. I will admit a secret — I buy the Rhodes frozen. Don’t tell my son as I’m sure it is not GMO free, but I don’t have a bread maker. Three loaves in a bag! You can’t beat it. I know it isn’t 9 grain — it’s white bread. But as I watch the dough rise, it brings back earlier days. And the smell of baking bread is incomparable. I always have to slice an end while it’s still cooling on the rack and smear butter on it while it’s warm. Heaven. It slices easily as I have a good bread knife so I can cut it thin enough for sandwiches. I pat myself on the back each time I pull a loaf out of the oven. Now if I could just have chickens and a cow in the back yard, I’d be a happy camper.
Here is last night’s results: