Writing on Whidbey

Just back from Whidbey Writer's Workshop on Whidbey Island, WA, across from Seattle. Formal Name: Northwest Institute of Literary Arts Master of Fine Arts Fall Residency 2011. You can see why we shorten it, sometimes to Writer's Camp or even W3. This was my fourth year attending the summer residency. It is a wonderful community of writers.

This summer the classes were headquartered at the Captain Whidbey Inn at Penn Cove, just outside of Coupeville. The inn is located right on the water and looked like this

and this

and this

and this.

I stayed just down the road in a three bedroom house

which I shared with my friends Grier and Cindy, children's book writers extraordinaire.

This was our view across the cove to the Captain Whidbey Inn.

To be continued...

Love for now.

N2

It's About Time

I know, I've been a Bad Blogger all summer. Bad Blogger! Bad, Bad Blogger!!

Sit! Sit, now.

Post!

That's a Goood Girl.

What can I tell you? It's been a bizzzy summer and will go on that way into Fall.

Thanks to those who sent a mail to see where the heck I was. So thoughtful and I didn't even get back to you. Too bizzy for that, too. But I hereby send apologies and hugs back at ya'.

~~~

I'm going to get back in the saddle the easy way, with pictures of the Corn Tiger and family.

They came here to California and then I went to Brooklyn to visit them. We'll do the same in September, in reverse. I'll go to Brooklyn first and then the Dear Daughter and the Boy will come to stay with me for awhile.

Nana is excited! (CT never did say Grandma. I wanted to be Nana anyway, and Dee said, "Well we'd better start calling you Nana then." And he heard that and said "Nana", and so it was.)

Dee said the boy asked to call me today and they left a message on my machine. He said "Hi Nana." 16 months old. What a smarty! When he was here he played back the messages on my machine from the handset, something I didn't know how to do. Three times. So it wasn't only by mistake. He liked listening to the two old messages on there all the way through. Funny Boy!

At first he just wanted to try on my reading glasses, because I have them on most the time and he wanted to see how they felt. Once he caught sight of the floor through the lenses, he would walk around with them on looking down to get this closer view of the floor as if through a magnifying glass.




Such a baby still sometimes and yet already such a Boy!

It was wonderful fun to get up early and have breakfast

outside in the sunshine while he explored my backyard.

And I am usually not a morning person!

We went early, June instead of August, for our weekend vacation on the Eel River.

Had a lot of fun with family and friends and Baby June came up for her first visit with us there.

We love swimming in that river! And the new owners of the lodge created access to a new beach this year which was perfect for the little ones.

A few weeks later, I went to Brooklyn on my way to a big re-union of my Father's family in Boston (140 people! More in a later post...).



The Dear Daughter and I took the Boy into the Village for a little children's street fair and stopped for lunch in a pocket park along the way.

He liked the bunch of balloons tied to the railing.

Ball! Anything round is a ball.

Reach. Pinch. Pop!

We hung around the apartment, wearing as little clothing as possible. It was NY in the summer: Hot and Humid! I never was good at that kind of heat, but we managed, at first with one little fan, then I had to buy an air conditioner for the window.

CT had no problem keepin' bizzy, throwing the ball for the dogs and, you know, movin' furniture and such. He's a real city boy, he makes that truck noise when he backs up "Beep, beep, beep!"

As opposed to "Brrrooom!"

Comin' through!

We went out in the mornings there, too, to the park down by the East River to enjoy the breeze with our iced coffee and almond croissant, and then to the playground for some slidin' and water play with Poppa.

Then home to crash for a good, long nap. You notice how he's nearly filling that crib already?!!!

My how fast they grow! And we see it all the more from the relative leisure of the Nana side.

Thankfully, we got a little time with Uncle George, just back from a friend's wedding in Italy. CT and I took a car over to his new apartment on the edge of the Clinton Hill neighborhood. The Momma met us there after her shift at the co-op food store.

Every day was a good day to be with my Loves, even in That Heat.

More soon.

Light Summer kisses for now.

xO,

N2

Mr Busy & His Mom

The Dear Daughter and I got some time out and about together with the Corn Tiger in the Village here in Manhattan. I took him to a playground while she and the Dad were at an appointment. There wasn't a moment to take pictures of him while the two of us were toodling about the playground alone. He likes to steer his stroller around the play structures in complicated patterns. Still needs a little help avoiding the parents, kids, benches and such.

Then we met back up with the mommapoppa. The Poppa had to go off to work, so the Momma and I took the boy for a walk and stopped off at the Bleecker Playground for another play session. It was a sunny day and the place was packed with kids. It was really the first time that CT has gotten to play in such a big sand lot with lots of communal sand toys. He was very interested in what all the bigger boys found to do with this damp, grainy stuff; learned very quickly not to put it in his mouth.

Next, we took CT to Lupa, where the Daughter used to work, for an early dinner. We were warmly welcomed and given the perfect table in the back room. You can tell the Corn Tiger is a city boy. He sat right up to the table and slurped down the amuse bouche (literally, mouth amuser) the little appetizer gift from the chef, which was fresh pea soup in a tiny, silver goblet, yumm!



CT's favorite menu items were the focaccia bread and the gelato that was gifted early in the dinner by the waiter, who must have a kid or two of his own. CT is only 13 months old. It is a good time for bread and ice cream, non?

Ice cream kisses!

N2

Stoppin' by New York City

On the way back home I am getting some time with my Dear Daughter, the Corn Tiger and his Dad here on the East coast. Just can't seem to get enough of that these days.

I think you can see why, non? Even though I talk to them at least once a week on the video phone and the Dad is good about posting a picture or video every week on Flickr, there is nothing that can replace the holding, running after, tickling, singing to, laughing with... the Grand Boy. To say nothing of walking, talking and catching up over tea with his Mom.

You know how it is, they grow so fast at this age, it's hard to keep up. Though, in some ways, viewing the process from the G'ma position does help one to see the details in a way there wasn't time for when you were the one making the meals, washing endless loads of laundry, feeding, rocking, bathing, reading the baby. From the G'ma point of view, we get the chance to the baby grow in a sort of time lapse cinematography, like those Disney nature shows we watched when we were kids. We get to see each petal of the child flower unfold, see the flower turn to the sun of its mother and father.

And blooming he is, the little Corn Tiger. He's walking, running, stepping, climbing, talking and showing a decided sense of humor. All at only 13 months old. Of course his G'ma thinks he's the most advanced boy of his age =o).

More soon.

Baby kisses!

N2

Les Derniers Rayons (The Last Rays)

Often I am in the garrett writing until six. On nice days it is hard to get myself up there

and to keep my butt in the chair. When I've put in my self-imposed goal of hours writing,

I slip my camera into my pocket and go for a walk around the village or out to

the surrounding countryside, chasing the last rays of the sun.

There are wonderful old buildings around here and I love the way

the gold tones of the sunset glance off the uneven surfaces of the old stones.

Fig trees in Spring are simultaneously knobby and fecund, like a young woman

who is ugly and beautiful at the same time. The French have a term for it

une laide belle. One could say that this tree, c'est un arbre beau et le laid

qui a la fécondité d'une femme. If you didn't know better and saw one in

Spring, could you possibly forsee the sensual, fragrant glory

that this small, green fruit will become by the Fall?

I love this house on the lane that leads back to the village - its artful gate,

its green painted timbers, its many shapes of windows, the way its face reflects

the last rays of the sun on its way to the bed sur la plaine du Lauragais.

Soleil écrase baisers!

N2

Vuelan a Madrid (Flying off to Madrid)

The Kitchen, an homage to Saint Teresa.

Painting by Marina Abramovic

Part of the Heroinas (Women Heroes) show at the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid

I worked and lived in Madrid for a good part of the years 1997-2000. When I first went there, the only Spanish I could speak was numbers, uno hasta veinte, Gracias, Buenos Dias and ¡Hasta Luego! None of these with a Madrileño accent.

I worked on a project at Telefónica for a digital TV startup in the Silicon Valley. It was the American company's first project in Europe. They and I had a lot to learn besides the language. What got me through was my natural inclination to take the position of observer, being of the writing persuasion from an early age.

I was in Madrid, and at the Telefónica offices in an office park under construction, for the first two weeks by myself. I sat quietly at my desk in a side office and they forgot that I was there so I was able to watch the way the Spanish behaved with each other. They acted like a big family -- talking openly, kidding and telling jokes on each other. They laughed a lot. Always went out to lunch in groups. Shared things, even computers in those days.

They worked hard. Came in around 9:00 am and left between 7 and 8 pm, with a two hour break for lunch between 2:00 and 4:00. ¡They were on my schedule! I fell into their work pattern. Tried a couple of jokes on the ones who would speak English with me. (Almost everyone had studied English in school, but those who hadn't lived for awhile in an English speaking country were timid about trying to speak it with a stranger.)

Even after the four American engineers arrived, I was often upstairs in meetings with Telefónica or on the phone with the customs office trying to get the equipment released, rather than downstairs in the equipment room with the guys. The Telefónica crew and even the guards and secretaries adopted me, one of the American strangers, as one of their own.

This helped a lot in getting the project done and led to further work in Madrid, finally working with a Spanish company, as part of a Spanish team. And then I worked with a good part of that Spanish team for another year on a project in Germany.

It's been five years since I have had relaxation time in Madrid. This past weekend I took a break from writing work and went to stay at the home of a friend in a suburban area and then spent a couple of days in my old neighborhood, the barrio Salamanca. It was great to live en familia with C, her husband and daughter. Over the four days, I saw eight Madrileños that I knew from before, met at least as many new ones and felt welcomed by the whole city.

One of my favorite Saturday night dates, often a date with myself, was to go to the Cafe Central on the Plaza St Ana to hear jazz. When the show was over there at midnight, there was still time to catch the end of the last set down Calle Huertas at the Cafe Populart. I stopped by last Saturday night to say hello to old friends and hear a little music.

All the way 'round, it was great to be in Madrid, though, as always, the time was too short. There is a direct flight from the Toulouse to Madrid. I'm planning to go back soon.

Besos!

N2

la Tristesse dans nos Rue

A woman I admire, Claude Crespy, passed away this morning at the age of eighty. She lived just down from me here on the opposite side of rue Ferlus. We had a rendez-vous for tea last Thursday. I took her the last of the lemon bars I made from the Meyer lemons.

I had just come to know her in the quiet of last winter when I came here to hole up and write. K and M, from whom I bought this house, introduced us. They knew I was a gardener with only a container garden on the patio here and that Claude had a large garden space just down the road in the countryside. We went to her garden several times together, to pick flowers or apples and sit in the sun. I made an apple crisp for her and my other neighbors from the apples from her tree.

Claude was a highly educated single woman who had been born in this village and grown up here. Her parents used to be the proprietors of one of the small groceries here. She carried a lot of the history of the village in her heart. She had traveled and lived outside the village for awhile and spoke English quite well, once upon a time. She came back and was living in a part of the house in which she grew up.

She had a stroke a year ago November and it was tough going at first. Even though her garden is just a little over a block from her house, she would drive down there from the disabled parking space the village marked out for her here on the street, unlock the gate and hobble in using two canes to spend time there. Last Fall, she was easily fatigued and had taken to giving me the key to the garden gate so that I could stay longer when she needed to go home and lie down.

But she was looking better when I arrived this year. Her hair had been colored again and permed. She was walking more easily and getting out to see friends more often. She shared some fleurs de coing japonais, flowering quince branches, with me from her garden last week that grace the table in my study even now.

My next door neighbor, Elodie, did cleaning and grocery shopping for Claude for awhile after her stroke. It was Elodie who came by to make sure I knew about Claude this afternoon just as I was listening to this song. The music brought tears to both of our eyes as it played in the back room and we spoke of Claude.

Il vaut mieux pour elle. Elle était une femme solitaire, said Elodie. It was better for her. She was a solitary woman. She would have been very unhappy in the maison retraite retirement home with all the others, we agreed.

We already miss you, Madame Claude Crespy.

May flights of angels sing thee to thy sleep.

Baisers de la tristesse.

N2

Citrons Atomique

I have a Meyer lemon tree at the back of my yard in California. It was a birthday gift over twelve years ago from my friend G, who knew how much I loved Meyer lemons.

I got my first taste of this extra-ordinary lemon when I moved into my California bungalow, 25! years ago it was now. (Long before the CA foodies jumped on the bandwagon.) My neighbor Gladys, who lived alone in her house after her husband died until she was 95, but has sadly passed on, had a Meyer lemon tree growing on the side of her house. My son would mow her lawn in trade for our use of her lawnmower to mow our own lawn. She always felt she needed to even out the trade by giving me some lemons from her tree.

I've had a long term fondness for lemons anyway. I think it started when I was 10. I read about Amy March in "Little Women" getting in trouble for sneaking bites of "lemon pickle" during class. My mouth started to water and I'd never even seen a pickled lemon. I tried to recreate what I though the taste would be by eating a slice of lemon with salt on it. I know your face might be crumpled up in a sour sort of way right now, but I Loved It!

Those lemons from Gladys were just the beginning of a deeper lemon addiction. The really good Meyer lemons (for me, that means the old, not "improved", variety), have a thin, glossy skin and the fruit has an orange tinge. Thought to be a cross between a lemon and a mandarin orange, they remind me of a kumquat in that the skin is almost sweeter than the fruit, though they are certainly not as sour inside kumquats. I like to eat them chopped into salad, peel and all. Hell, I like to eat them sliced and dipped in a little French sea salt. **My mouth is watering here. I kid you not. I have to go to the kitchen and dip a slice of lemon.**


I got my own Meyer lemon tree those twelve years ago and it lived awhile in a large pot while I tried it out in different locations to find where it would be happiest in the yard. When I finally put it in the ground there in the back corner, it took awhile to really start producing. My brother stayed with me a couple of years ago and clued me in to giving it special citrus fertilizer. This year I had about 100 lemons on my own tree. Finally a decent crop! In the intervening years I have had to beg, borrow and stea..., well, indulge in a little midnight harvesting to find sufficient Meyer lemons to quench my thirst.

When I was working and living in Madrid for a year, a CA friend shipped me a dozen Meyer lemons, put in an egg carton and then double bubble-wrapped. A work pal who was sharing my apartment over a few months dubbed them "atomic lemons" because they never went bad. He didn't realize that they had been airmailed fresh off the tree or that I was nurturing them along, washing and airing them out from time to time in order to make them last until my next trip back to CA.

When I came to France in February, I brought twelve of my own Meyer lemons with me. Last week I made a batch of lemon bars in a round pan and served it sliced as a tart au citron when I had a few people over for dinner. I also gave slices to my favorite neighbors here on Rue Ferlus. This evening, Elodie from next door stopped me and told me "La tarte au citron - un petit morceau avec une tasse de café? Impeccable! (Pronounced IM-peck-ahb-leh and said with a gourmet's twinkle in the eye and a little kiss to the fingers.) So the Meyer lemons are a hit here, too, at least when they are tarted up.



The lemon bar recipe I used was one I found on the smittenkitchen blog. It seems very reliable from my two attempts at making it and gives you the option of a thick gooey topping or a thinner one. I made it in CA in a gas oven and here in an electric, both times with stellar, if a bit different, results. I used superfine sugar and that made for a thin, meringue-type of top to the bars which meant they didn't need any powdered sugar sprinkled over them. It's a recipe that is on the tangy side. Right up my lemon lovin' alley.

Lemon puckered kisses,

N2

Départ et Arrivée

I took the airport shuttle from Sonoma County Airport at 0945 Wednesday, left SF airport at 1450 flew through Frankfurt to Toulouse and arrived in the village of Soreze at 1900 (GMT, that's +9 hrs to CA time) on Thursday night. It was a very long day and one of the more grueling Lufthansa flights that I have taken to date.

I usually fly SF=>Munich=>Toulouse, but I thought I'd try this route through Frakfurt because it got me into Toulouse in the afternoon rather than at 8:50 pm -- too late to get the Arc en Ciel (Rainbow) bus to Revel (the town next to Soreze) where the car would be waiting for me.

I am here to report that Frankfurt is a much less organized/user friendly airport than Munich. And the plane SF=>Frankfurt is a Boeing 747, a world of difference from the Airbus Industrie A340, which has more leg room, individual, seat back video screens, 7 bathrooms downstairs at the back of the plane in Economy. The A340 has been designed in such a way that sitting in the cattle section is bearable.

The leg room on the Boeing 747 was crippling. I was in the window seat of a three combo. Next to me was a ! 97 year-old ! Turkish lady, in hijab with raisin eyes, and on the aisle her ~80 year-old son. Very nice people, but she did/could not move out of her seat during the whole 10.5 hour flight. And the three of seats in front of us were tilted back. Every time I had to get out to go to the bathroom it was a laughable contortion exercise.

Son and mother were both very decent about it, helpful even. By the end of the flight we were compatriots. But my knees were locking up. I don't think that has ever happened before. And, in my full time work period, I flew a Lot.

Speaking of good design, the snack on the commuter flight Frankfurt=>Toulouse was a model of thoughtful packaging. It was pasta salad with a mini sausage patty on top and a packet of good saltines. The two edibles and the eating implement all came stacked in what was essentially a drinking cup divided into compartments. The plastic fork, actually a spork, as you can see in the close-up, was tucked up into the "Be Invited" Lufthansa snack lid. Once you got it out of its wrapping you just snapped the handle flat and were ready to eat. The pasta salad and saltines were actually a decent, homestyle-German-type of snack.

When I arrived in my little house here, there were some supplies for breakfast waiting for me on the table. Monique had been over to turn on the heat and she left a note inviting me over for a bowl of soup and a warm up by their wood stove.

What would I do without the friends on either end of this journey?!

I woke up at 6 am quite jetlagged this morning, turned on the gas fireplace to warm the bathroom and drew a deep, hot bath in which to soak my travel weary knees, ankles and bones.


When I went around the corner at 11 to get milk from the Utile for my tea, I was surprised by the little Friday market. The vendors used to only come to our small village (Pop. 2500 including the outlying areas) in the summer, but it seems they have hung on through the winter this year. I was able to get farm fresh eggs (only 1.50€ for 6 here), spinach, green onions and a little cœur de chèvre (goat cheese) with which to make an omelet for my dinner tonight.

It is the heart in the journey that makes it all worthwhile.

Bisous from Soreze,

N2

Man Becoming Tree

We have had sunny, dry weather for the last week -- a good time to get the

tree trimming done in the yard, to ask the taller trees to give some air and

light to their smaller tree and plant brethren below.

A good friend, retired tree trimmer turned chiropractor, offered to lend a hand,

a chainsaw and to utilize his pair of tree climbing spurs.

Another friend recommended Francisco lo Fantástico and made sure that my smaller chain saw was sharp. My neighbor donated the community truck to carry away the brush. We gathered on Saturday at noon, and were off climbing in the air and chopping on the ground.

A satisfying day with hard working men. Light increased, space made

for the fruit trees to flourish, dead wood cleared away, trees more becoming.

I give thanks for a day of generosity and good company.

Gracias a todos!

Wishing you a week of the same.

x0

N2