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So … where is Home?

Bon jour.
Having traveled a bit over the years, lived a few months in Italy in my early twenties, and lived most of my life in the Pacific Northwest, it is an interesting question for me now. Where is home? My adult children have lives and families far from me. I live in a comfortable home with a nice view. Is this my forever home? A new thought for me.

My recent trip to France was wondrous in every way. Paris is beautiful, historic and has endless things to do. Including sitting at an outside bistro enjoying watching the world of people bustling past, cars, and busses on their journeys. The Louvre, the metro, the Orsay, the Eiffel Tower, the crepes!

This cruise on the Seine river was fantastic. Another opportuinity for me to learn to be present and not rant about the unexpected obstacles. We got lost in Paris, missed our connection to enter the Eiffel Tower, and so were a couple hours late. If we had not been late, we would have completed our Seine cruise during the afternoon and missed the stunning sunset on the river.

The Apollo Gallery at the Louvre. Oh yeah, pretty impressive. It was the model for the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, which was completed in 1684. Versailles and the Louvre have been home for scads of people over the centuries. Things are still being discovered. Walls of the original medieval fortress were found under the Louvre as they excavated for the glass Pyramid in 1985.

Have you ever, or how many times, have you asked Where is my home? Is where I am now my forever home?

In Langres, the ancient town of my maternal ancestors, the question arose for me in a new and vibrant way. I re-connected with all four of my third cousins, and their families, after twenty-five years. Third cousins as our grandmothers were sisters. Rich, wonderful experience. Their children and grand-children are my fourth and fifth cousins! Yes, it matters. Family matters. Finding where we belong matters. Right?

Here is my new favorite refrigerator magnet: my four cousins and I at the Langres train station as I head back to Paris.

Am I going back to Langres? You bet!
Am I finishing my novel set in Langres? Oh yeah! Watch for it to be out early next year~

Thank you for reading my blog.
Merci d’avoir lu mon blog.

Flying Backwards in Time

Flying from Paris to Seattle means going back in time nine hours, as noon in Seattle is 9 p.m. in Paris. We left Paris in the afternoon, the sun never went down, it simply got more brilliant. Wish I could say that about myself.
Nor did I get any younger traveling backward in time. Perhaps a good thing.

As I gazed out the window at the endless expanse of white cumulus clouds, the wonder of it brought a peacefulness to surround me. The ice crystals on the window were exquisite. They glittered delicately as the air rushed around the plane.

Nutella, the chocolate hazelnut cream, is very popular in Paris. I sure get that, I don’t keep it my house as a jar is gone in a day. I had not seen Nutella B-ready treats before. O la la! A crunchy delight. I munched on a couple of them as I gazed blissfully through the ice crystals at the soft white expanse.

As the plane shifted direction a bit, the sun moved a tad more to the other side of the plane. In watching the ice crystals, I noticed the wing of the plane looked like a shark. A shark in the sky. Stay with me here.
What do you think?

Time on the plane with no responsibilities other than staying in my seat. My mind drifted, dozed, wondered, and remembered all the wonders of France. Of Paris. Of Chartres. Of Langres. Of reconnecting with my French cousins. Gathering all I could about Denis Diderot, my grandparents, the American soldiers in the Haute-Marne district during WWI (thanks to an amazing, dedicated man, Franck Besch, who has gathered so much information, artifacts and memorabilia for the museum he created and maintains in Marac, ‘Le Petit Musee du Doughboy’), and the ramparts around Langres.

Sparkling ice flakes, a shark, peace, connection to my family. What more could I ask?

Thanks for reading!
Yes, you can follow me on Instagram, LinkedIn, and f/b. My novel-in-progress is set in Langres. O la la, I am planning the next trip.

Diamonds on the Water

Indeed, the late afternoon sun is glinting off the waves of Admiralty Bay. Each wave sparkles separately, like an aquatic diamond.
I have gotten back from a 16 day venture to help my family make a major move. It was originally scheduled to be 6 days. So blessed that I have the latitude to be flexible. Yes, the venture involved goats, several dogs, cats, septic system pipes, real estate brokers, and 98 degree weather.
On some of the stops we made in the multiple round trips to and from the new home, there were rocks by the side of the road or parking area that seemed to call out to me, “You need to take me home.” A couple were flat slabs of about a foot square, others were large chunks of holey volcanic rock, a couple were rusty red volcanic rock. Yes, you’re right, they are now here at home, finding places in my gardens.

“I Talk to the trees but they don’t listen to me.” The lyrics written by Alan Jay Lerner from the movie, Paint Your Wagon. Now Alan was married 8 times, perhaps the trees doubted his credibility. At least I listen to the rocks.

Driving home on I-5 north, I passed by Kalama, Oregon. The gigantic sign in bright yellow letters that said RESTAURANT, was still there. Fifty years ago, that same sign was there as I was driving home to Seattle with my Uncle Jerry. It was late at night, I was a kid, and he was driving. I was the only other one awake in the car with five people. The first ‘A’ in the sign was out as we drove by, so the sign said REST URANT. We had great fun laughing about resting our rants. Rants about late night driving, soggy French fries, and my cousin snoring.

This stunning view is going up Ochoco Pass in Oregon on one of the moving trips. So much beautiful scenery in the high desert, so much geologic amazement to see: basalt cliffs, deep gorges, mesas.

As I neared home and pulled up to the ferry, I saw there was still room on board the boat. Yay! Then I was miffed as the staff person put an orange barrier in front of me, walked around a minute or two, then closed the gate to the ferry.
I only had to wait about 20 minutes until the next one, yet I was still a bit cranky. Then, then, I was the first car to board the next boat. First. Which meant I was front and center with the wide open view in front of me of the sunset. The Universe had a plan for me, I just needed to be there.
Gorgeous orange and pink sky, waves swishing up against the boat. And diamonds on the water.

Art is a lie?

“Art is a lie that illuminates the truth.”
This tidbit is attributed to Pablo Picasso, Jacques Cocteau, and Albert Camus, among others.
Another interesting take on it, “Art is the lie that allows us to approach the truth.”


My interest was captured by this as I saw art as the truth, be it via Picasso, Georgia O’Keefe, Edward Curtis, Derek B. Miller, Jodi Picoult, Virginia Wolf, or Jackson Pollock. There is some aspect of truth, enlightenment, or expanded vision in art. It was not necessary for me to like the art, just see it and learn something.


As I have gotten older, and recognized that just because something is a documented fact, such as landing on the moon or the Holocaust, there are people who don’t believe those things happened.


In getting older, I have come to see more truths about myself. Yup. A recent lightbulb was “Yes, Mary, you are valuable and worthy.” Somewhere deeply embedded in my psyche was the belief I was not good enough. Wow.


A lesson learned that still makes me smile is “I tell the truth so I don’t have to remember what I said.”
Perhaps I relate to that, as there were some big lessons for me with the choice of telling the truth or dodging it with half-truths, clouding the issue, or a flat-out lie in order to avoid a consequence for some action of mine.

Another ‘Yup.’ This really is an organ-grinder and yes, he has a real monkey on top of it. This was from my last trip to Paris, about ten years ago. What does this have to do with truth and art and lies? Reasonable question. Maybe because I think it is time for me to head to France again. My next book is a novel set in eastern France. Truth in the novel? Quite a bit. Art in the novel? Oh yeah!

Bob & Mario & Camille

“Like a rock. I was strong as I could be.”
Remember Bob Seger? I enjoyed his music in the 70’s and 80’s. His style, his lyrics, he found the right combination for millions of us. Back then, I felt like I ‘got’ the meaning of the lyrics, it is now I am relating to them in a deeper way. Yeah, what thirty+ years will do, eh? Kids, jobs, betrayals, mistakes, accomplishments, moves, spouse(s), adventures, lessons learned, opportunities lost, learning to live with gratitude.
“20 years. Where’d they go? I sit and wonder where they’ve gone.”

You, too?

Bob is 77 now. I found my copy of his “Greatest Hits” CD from 1994, which got me hearing the lyrics of several of the songs in an up-close-and-personal way. And think of some of the people in my past.

I wonder where many of them are now.
In first grade, there was this sweet kid in Ms. Winans’ class with me, Neil Gibbs. His family moved away at the beginning of second grade. He was so kind to me, little Miss Not-sure-what-to-do. I have often wondered how and where he is.
“I’m older now but still running against the wind.”

Mario Taveri. My boyfriend when I lived in Brindisi, Italy. Lots of stories from that year, o la la. I was twenty-three and naïve. He was thirty-six, or so… He got me a job in the ticket agency where he worked part-time which sold tickets for the ferry boats to Greece. Backpack and all, I had gotten off the train in Brindisi to catch the boat to Corfu and Piraeus, Greece. He and several other men were latching on to us tourists as we stepped onto the depot platform. No missing that all of us were tourists and many Americans. After a short time working there, I too, learned to tell what country a traveler was from just by seeing and hearing them for a minute or two.

Mario proceeded to tell me the boat workers were on strike and no boat that evening. Did I know where to have dinner? “No,” I shook my head. He knew a great place. “Okay,” I said. Off we went. My first calamari. Wonderfully delicious.
I found out later there was no strike, he had ulterior motives.
I didn’t make it to Athens for some months, and then it was a work trip, related to moving part of the ticket agency owner’s furnishings. I got a good look at the Parthenon as we drove by. “I was livin’ to run and runnin’ to live.”

Stories. There was the young, slim Mid-Eastern man with a bodyguard. He was trafficking men from the Mid-East up to work in Europe who had no papers or passports. His bodyguard was built like Joe Greene or Dick Butkus and carried a wad of $100 U.S. dollar bills bigger that his fist. There was the Scottish woman, Anne, living there with her boyfriend, Gianni. He was no more faithful to her than a mosquito, I didn’t know why she stayed. She missed her family and home in Penrith.
There was the trio from southern France: Helene, Michel, her husband, Camille, Helene’s sister, approximately late 20’s in age. They were traveling in a van. They stayed a couple nights in Brindisi, which has historical significance: the Appian Way ends in Brindisi, Spartacus was captured near Brindisi, Cicero visited regularly, and the poet Virgil died in Brindisi. Lots to see.
One afternoon, I am coming back with a latte’, when I see Mario coming to the agency from one end of the block and Helene from the other. I knew in that second what they’d been doing the last couple hours.
Mario made a big fuss about getting me a calzone to go with my latte’. I just looked at him.
About an hour later, I heard cries and whacks from the back room. I opened the door to investigate. Mario said, “Stop. You might get hurt.” However, I saw Michel kicking Camille as she lay on the floor, trying to protect herself. I rushed in, yelled at him to stop. He looked at me, kicked her again, and stomped out to the front office.
I helped Camille wash her face, put some ice on her bruises, and sat with her awhile. Where was Helene?

Then early that evening, the three of them got in the van and drove down to the ferry dock, smiling and waving at Mario and I as we stood on the sidewalk and watched them go. As they were leaving, Camille gave me a long hug. “Remember me,” she said and pressed a small jade heart pendant in my hand, kissed me on both cheeks, and got in the van.

Yes, I still have it.

I would love to know what happened to Camille and where she is today. And Mario. And Neil. And Anne.
“Like a rock. I see myself again.”

Thank you for reading~
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