What happened to childhood?

It's cloudy out this morning. I wish it would rain. We need rain. But, in lieu of that, I guess we'll have to water the garden if we expect to harvest anything out of it.

Sometimes I sit on my front porch and read. Lately, when I do this, it's usually in the afternoon when the kids are coming home from school. It's interesting, and sometimes sad, to watch the older ones as they make their way home. There's a young man I have seen who has a head of fuzzy black hair, and is overweight. I have yet to see his face. When he walks, his shoulders sag, and he more or less drags the bags he's carrying, even though they do not touch the ground. He doesn't walk as much as shuffles.

I feel sad watching him. He comes across as being very down, perhaps on himself, or the world, or life in general.

For the older children, pre-teens, young teens, what must their lives be like? Many come from broken homes, and when they return from school, there is no one there to greet them. I remember when my wife had to go to work, not because she felt the need to "find herself", or excel in any type of career other than being mother and wife, but because we flat out needed the money in order to pay the bills and eat. Unfortunately, that is the way it is today for most people.

We had three sons in school at the time. The oldest came home first, and had his mother's attention for a full hour before the others came home. When they did, they received their share of attention as the oldest was off doing other things. When my wife started to work, every one of the boys resented it. They lost their time with her, and they did not appreciate it.

I think of that when I see this young man, and I wonder if there is anyone to greet him when he opens the door, or is the house empty? Are there two parents there instead of one, or none, during the evening? Do his parents even care what he thinks or feels, or is he just a mouth to feed and someone to keep them from doing what they want to do?

Our next door neighbor used to teach driving in a local high school. The young adults taking his class were usually from well to do homes. He was shocked at the way they talked about their homes and parents. He said they talked like he was not there. One young lady told the others in the car that when her parents wanted to have a party they would give her $400 and tell her to go stay in a motel someplace...

Teachers, the government, media people, all talk about the drug problems in this country, and scratch their heads. All they need do is look around. Day after day after day our children and grandchildren are blasted on TV, in the movies, in the newspapers, on their cell phones or iPads or whatever, with nothing but what a horrible future lies waiting from them: no jobs, no money for college, imminent terrorist attacks killing hundreds of thousands, global warming killing all unless, reality shows hyping a stupid way of life as if it were normal... With all this coming at them, why wouldn't they want to forget? Get high? Opt out of life?

When I grew up, we had no TV. We had the bomb, and we knew it was there, but, we did not hear about it 24/7 the way youngsters now do. What happened to kids being kids? iPhones, iPads, Facebook, My space, video games, no parental controls... I see young girls, 11, 12, 13, in malls dressed like hookers... Why? There's no mysteries left for young people to discover as they grown up. It's all out there, thrown in their faces from the day they are first able to see. We, the supposedly responsible adults, have robbed our children of their ability to be children.

And the young man who walks by my door every school day? Who knows what will become of him... It's too bad we have "advanced" to the point of making life, and the future, not worth the effort for so many.

Dinner and other things in Sienna, Italy

They say that an army runs on its stomach. Well, we're not an army, but I think we also run on our stomachs.

We spent a week in Sienna, Italy in May of 2006. The weather was perfect! Around 80 degrees every single day and clear blue skies as well.

We stayed in the Albergo Bernini. Albergo in Italian means hotel. It was owned by an Italian family, the son having graduated from the University of San Francisco. We learned before we went that he collected patches of different police departments from around the world. So, in order to assist him in this, we took him patches from the Hanover Sheriff's Office. He was delighted to receive them and placed them on display with the rest of his small collection.

There were several interesting and funny things that happened to us while we stayed there. One happened on an afternoon when we decided to have dinner on the terrace of the hotel. We purchased our food, and then proceeded to go into a wine shop to purchase a bottle of wine. The middle-aged woman who was working there spoke no English. In many small towns in Italy, few people speak English, but, with a minimum of effort, one can make themselves understood.

We selected a bottle of wine, and when she asked if we wanted to purchase it, I had a mental lapse and responded with the French term for yes, namely "Oui". Definitely a no-no! She immediately began "speaking with her hands"....

"Oui? Oui è francese! È sì! SI!"

"Scusi! Scusi!" I replied, cringing under the onslaught of good natured ribbing of my faux pau...

Anyway, we purchased the wine, returned to the hotel, and ate on the terrace as we looked out on the view surrounding us.

The second incident occurred over the period of a day and a night and the following morning.

I asked the owner of the hotel to recommend a restaurant where we could experience a really good meal. He suggested a place called "Da Divo".

"Would you like me to make reservations for you this evening?"

"No, thanks. I think we'll just walk over there and see if they have a vacant table."

We walked around until we found the restaurant. It did not open until 7pm, or so the sign indicated. It was then about 10 minutes until seven. so we decided to just wait. Two other couples joined us in the wait. We waited until seven. No lights, no door opened. We waited until five after seven, ten after seven. Still, no lights, no open door.

It was then a shutter opened across the street. Now, picure this... the street is about 8 feet wide, so there was not a great distance from where we waited to the open shutter.

A young man leaned out and very nicely informed us that the restaurant was closed that day.

The next morning, the owner of the hotel asked us on the way out...

"How was the restaurant?"

"It was closed yesterday."

There went the hands again, speaking in Italian while the voice spoke in English...

"See? See? I wanted to make reservations, but Nooooo... youuuu had to walk over there to see if it was open!"

"Okay... Okay... you were right! I should have had you make reservations."

"Would you like me to make them for tonight?"

"Yes, I would appreciate it."

As you can see, the restaurant is really interesting. It had three levels. The main floor, seen to the right, the little cave like alcove you see to the left, and then there was a wine cellar like area down one more flight. We ate on the second level.

The waiter brought some champaign and a small appetizer to have while we looked over the menu. We both ordered fish, and it was fantastic! Then, they brought some little candies to eat while looking over the desert menu, and a small glass of a desert wine. Very potent!

Anyway, the service was fantastic! The food was fantastic! The ambiance was amazing!

The next morning I was able to tell the owner he was correct, the place was amazing, and the reservations were greatly appreciated! And I did it without waving my hands! But, it wasn't easy to be so restrained...

While walking around Sienna, we found the place where, in 2000, we shared lunch with two friends we met in Italy, one from California (now living in Pittsburgh), and the other from Australia.

We each had a bowl of Ribollita, an Italian soup that is REALLY tasty!

The picture to the right is one I took during a day trip to San Gimignano, the city of Towers. At one time there were over 100 towers within the walls of the city. Unfortunately, many of them are gone now. This was the city where the movie "Tea With Mussolini" was filmed. These are the types of places we look for to eat at when we travel.

While in Sienna, one afternoon, we sat in the plaza and had some bruschetta and a glass of bianco vino (white wine). Very nice. Very relaxing... Oh, to go back there....

A day in Honfleur, France

Honfleur is a little village located in Normandy. It is over 900 years old. During World War II, the mayor sent the allies a letter stating that there were no Germans in the village, and to please not bomb it. They didn't. So, the pictures you see are of the village that remains today as it was when it was built.

This is the Customs House. Every ship that came into Honfleur had to stop at the Customs House and be inspected before it was allowed to enter the marina.

The man in the picture was our taxi driver. I wrote his name in one of my journals, but now I can't find the journal I wrote it in. Anyway, when we arrived in Le Havre we discovered that there were only two buses to Honfleur, and the last one of the day had already left. The woman in the train station told us the only way we could get to Honfleur would be by taxi. Honfleur was not accessible via train, which is why we came to Le Havre.

My wife had done a painting of Honfleur several years back from a picture she found in a magazine. We had never been there, and we wanted to go. We asked how much the taxi would cost and found out it was around $50, one way. We decided that we may never return to this part of France, so we said the heck with it, we're going!

We went outside to the taxi stand and hopped into the next one in line. Our driver was very friendly and we talked as we rode. He told us he was learning to speak German the same way he learned to speak English, from talking to his passengers. I guess the Germans had once again begun traveling into the parts of western Europe they had once occupied. Prior to that time it was decided they were afraid of the reception they would receive, as well they should be. Unfortunately, even though they are not all arrogant, a lot of them tend to forget they lost the war, and are not very considerate of others.

But, back to the taxi ride. Our driver told us that Honfleur had the best seafood he had ever eaten, and saying that in France is saying a lot! He said when he went home at night and his wife said she wanted to go out to eat they would soon be on their way to Honfleur.

After we had wandered around, visited the Musée Eugène Boudin on the‎ Rue de l'Homme de Bois we found the restaurant you see to your right. We were the only English speaking customers. The rest of the customers were very friendly, and I'm not sure if they thought we were French, or they were saying things knowing we did not understand them. But, in either case, we had a fantastic seafood lunch and a great bottle of wine to go with it!

Before we left the taxi, our driver wanted to know if we had a way back to Le Havre. When he found out we didn't, he wanted to know what time we would be coming back. We told him probably around four in the afternoon, as we still had to catch the train back to Rouen where we were staying. He asked if we would like him to return and pick us up, but if so, could we make it around three-thirty. We thought that was very nice of him, and accepted his offer.

We arrived at the pick up point a few minutes early and were speculating on why three-thirty when we saw him coming over the bridge.

On the way back to Le Havre, we learned that he had to be back by a certain time as he went to a school for the handicapped and took 6 children home each school day on his way home from work.

We really, really, enjoyed our day, lunch, and the friendliness of the taxi driver. It was by far one of the best days of our trip, and was worth the taxi fare, going and coming!

The beginning of my book...

What follows is the first 'chapter' of my book, titled "The Diary of Aimee Roth - The Girl Who Lived in Colours"

This was the first time Lily Granger had ever flown, the first time she had left Ohio since she and her mother settled there after leaving France at the end of World War II. She was scared and excited at the same time, not knowing what to expect, anxious to experience whatever would come next.

She felt the jerk as the plane began to back away from the terminal, roll slowly across the tarmac, and take its place in line waiting to takeoff. It crept forward and stopped several more times before it made a turn to the left. The engines roared as they began pulling the plane, faster and faster, down the runway, the gravitational force pressing her further back into her seat. She felt the pain from the events of the last several months being pulled out of her from deep within, and hoped against hope it would not return.

She held her breath as the plane lifted into the air and the landing gear retracted. The pressure eased. She felt lighter, freer than she had ever felt. The muscles in her shoulders relaxed their grip and she felt them sag. She took a deep breath happy she had survived the takeoff. It would be seven hours before the next harrowing part of her journey arrived, the landing at Aéroport Paris-Charles de Gaulle!

Suddenly, the plane banked sharply left! Lily grabbed the armrests as she looked out on the roofs of houses and buildings below, sure the plane was going to crash. A sharp right followed, causing her to become lightheaded as she looked down at the water racing by under the tip of the wing. She closed her eyes, her inner voice telling God she did not want to die. At last, the plane leveled off into a steady climb. She cautiously opened her eyes and saw the brilliant blue of the sky above her and the snow white tops of the clouds tinged with soft pink from the setting sun.

“First time you’ve ever flown?” The voice had a French accent.

Lily turned to the man next to her as she tried to regain a sense of composure. He looked to be in his early-forties. His graying hair was neatly trimmed outlining his oval face.

“How could you tell?”

“I think the fear in your eyes and the white knuckle grip of your armrests gave it away.”

His piercing steel gray eyes showed a hint of humor behind the glasses he wore; his smile was soft and understanding.

“Are you going to be staying in Paris, or is it just a stop over?” He asked.

“I’m going to study at the Sorbonne.”

“Interesting. What are you going to be studying?”

“The techniques, colours, and the methods the Impressionists used to capture light in their paintings.”

“You’re an artist, then?”

“Maybe someday. Right now, I’m a ‘learner.’ I studied art in college, but that was some time ago.”

“Is the book in your lap something that deals with art?”

Lily looked down at the diary, running her fingers over the leather cover. She didn’t really want to discuss it or what had happened that led up to her finding it. She tried to think of what she could say that would terminate the conversation in a nice way.

“It’s… it’s a diary my mother had. I planned on reading it during the flight.”

Realizing from her tone that she was reluctant to give more details he reached into his pocket, withdrew a small, business sized card, and handed it to her.

“Take this. Once you’re in Paris, if you need anything, or would like to see the sights, feel free to give me a call.”

Lily glanced at the card as she placed it in the diary. It read ‘Discoverer of Lost History’. Beneath the title was a name – Lucien Chesnel, with an address and phone number in the lower right corner.

“I take it you’re Lucien?”

“I am.”

“What does a ‘Discoverer of Lost History’ do?”

“I find things for people.”

“You find things for people. What kind of ‘things’?”

“During the last war and the turmoil that followed, a lot of people were separated, husbands from wives, children from parents. Some lost art objects; some lost records of big events in their lives, such as marriage certificates, birth certificates. I attempt to find out what happened, perhaps even discover ways to reunite the people, or recover the items they were missing.”

“Why would anyone want to find a lost marriage certificate?”

“You sound like a woman who was married at some point in the past.”

“Sorry. I guess I need to get past the lingering resentment,” Lily said.

“Understood,” he replied. “However, for many others, they may need to prove who they are, prove they were married to someone for inheritance purposes, perhaps prove they are the rightful owner of a piece of property.”

“Sounds like you have an interesting profession.”

“I enjoy it. I enjoy the research, the chance encounters,” he said looking at her, “and it gives me the opportunity to travel to different places, like America for instance.”

“Well, thanks for the card. The offer of a tour is appreciated, and, I just may take you up on it someday in the not too distant future.”

“I’d like that. Paris is an amazing city, and I love showing it to people and telling them about it. But, for now," he said nodding toward her lap, "I’ll let you read."

Lily smiled to herself as she realized she had just made the first acquaintance of her new life. She placed the card in the diary and tilted the seat back. She closed her eyes hoping to take a power nap but the image of her mother’s body hanging from a rafter in the attic of their house stormed back into her consciousness and would not leave her alone.

Their relationship had never been a close one. Her mother, Sarah, was always a very private person. But the fact that she did not speak after Lily told her about being accepted at the Sorbonne, followed by her taking her life the way she did, had weighed heavily upon Lily. She left no note as to why she had taken her own life. Mothers were not supposed to be like that. Not with their daughters.

Sarah never learned English, never made any effort to know the neighbors, and never wanted to go anywhere. The few times Lily was able to coax her out resulted in Sarah very being very uncomfortable. Her reason, she said, was that she didn’t like people staring at the scar that ran from below her nose to her left ear. Even less, she resented the questions people asked when they saw it, rudely expecting a detailed explanation of what had happened.

Lily discovered the diary buried within stacks of drawings found in an old trunk in her mother’s house, along with a notebook, and what looked to be a savings book from a bank in Paris. The name on the savings book was L. K. Bouchard, and even with her limited knowledge of the French Franc, she could tell the account contained a large sum of money.

Looking around the cabin she saw the lights above the seats did not infringe upon the space of the other passengers attempting to sleep. She reached up, turned on her light, and lifted the diary from her lap. She wondered if there would be anything inside that would help her understand the actions of her mother. Resigned to a long night of reading someone’s diary that had been written in French over thirty years ago, she opened it to the first page and began.

More Happy Moments...

Happiness is:

Finding out you're getting a really large refund on your taxes.

Realizing that unless you win the lottery, you won't be paying any tax next year.

Finding out your wife's paintings are beginning to sell once again.

Waking up every day... so far.

Realizing the $60 worth of grass seed spread late last year is actually producing a few blades of grass in an otherwise weed filled yard.

Finishing the restructure of your book, which included rewriting the beginning and end.

Not caring whether or not the stars on DWTS get along with their partners.

Not watching or listening to the news.

Looking outside on a day forecast to have rain, and seeing sunshine.

Realizing you still have plenty of books to read when you finish reading the three you're

currently reading.

Military memories -

I took a troop ship to and from Germany many decades ago. Fortunately, the war had ended long before I ever joined. I read the book "Hawaii" by James Michner on the way across to Germany. There was a bad storm in the North Atlantic during the trip, and I was amazed I did not get seasick. Someone had said that if you kept your stomach full, you wouldn't get seasick. So, I did, and I didn't.

On the way back, I and another GI heard that if you kept on your dress uniform it was presumed you had "special duty", and would not be called upon to do any of the other tasks one normally had to preform while on board ship. So, we did. It was a nice, peaceful cruise back to the states. We went up to the crew's mess (that's where they ate, not something they did) and watched movies, rested while walking the decks, and ate really well.

One thing that has stuck in my mind about the trip back was how totally dark it is at night when there is no moon and is cloudy. You literally can not see your hand in front of your face. Of course, you had to touch your face to ensure your hand was, in actuality, in front of it.

Military training -

While I was at Fort Deven's in Massachusetts taking a typing class, the instructor gave us a break. All but one man rose from their seats and began to leave the room. However, there was one young recruit who remained at his station, hands poised over his typewriter ready to strike the keys, but never moving... He was sound asleep. Being the nice instructor that he was, he allowed the recruit to continue sleeping until we all returned. The recruit was still there, sitting upright in his seat, hands still poised to strike the keys, still sound asleep... until the instructor slammed his hand down on the table next to him.

A short night in Dublin...

I was sitting in Temple Bar, a small pub in Dublin working on my first Irish coffee listening to some traditional Irish Folk Music when I spotted her at a table in the far corner. She was a fine looking Irish lass, long wavy red hair, sparkling green eyes, a spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Well, okay, I couldn’t actually see all that since she was so far away, and cigarette smoke hung heavy on the air.

I wondered why a lass such as herself was alone, but since I was just now finishing my first cup of liquid courage, I knew it would be a while before I might be able to find out. And, with my luck, by then, if I could still see her, she would probably not be alone.

I drained the first cup, running my finger around the insides to ensure there was not a trace of Bailey’s flavored cream left trapped inside.

The evening progressed as I stared at her, giving her traits of and the personality of a sensuous saint, a woman who knew how to create a heaven on earth for this lonely male.

Not once, but many times, as I drank my next Irish coffee, I watched hopeful male after hopeful male approach her table only to leave after a short time, faces a blazing red colour, while hers remained unmoving, save for a slight smile I thought I detected as each one left.

I finished my second coffee. The music the band was playing was beginning to sound like a herd of cows crashing through a field of tin cans. The heads of the people around me were becoming large, fuzzy, balls bobbing and weaving to the sounds of the noise.

I tried to focus on the woman of my dreams. She was still there, still alone. One more cup of liquid courage should do it, I figured, and requested same from a passing waiter.

Now I was having trouble seeing her. Someone had started making the room tilt one way and then another, the customers moving all around me in a circular motion making me dizzy.

Another swallow, a big one this time. Now, I told myself go! I stood, fastened my eyes on her and began the long journey to her table. It was not easy as there were more and more people pushing at me, spinning me around and around, but perseverance paid off, and I was there, standing in front of her, reaching out to take her hand in mine when all of a sudden she fell over and lay flat on the floor as if run over by a steamroller!

I gasped, terrified I had somehow killed her until one of the waiters reached down and stood up the cardboard cutout of an Irish lass advertizing the hand soap to use on your next trip to the loo.

The above is fiction, except for being in the Temple Bar in Dublin, which I have been, and the Irish coffee that I experienced in a nice restaurant, also in Dublin. I based the effect of the coffee in the story on having the one at the restaurant. It was really potent!

Mont St. Michel, Normandy, France

While we were staying in Bayeux, France, we took a day trip to see Mont St. Michel. It was about a two hour drive from Bayeux through the Normandy countryside. One we arrived, we were "turned loose" so to speak, to make our own way into the abbey, and, if one had the energy, to walk to the very top.

The abbey was built over several centuries. Everything used to build it had to be literally brought over to the island while the tide was out, and then lifted through the use of a pulley system to the construction site. Once the abbey was completed, the lift was used to bring supplies, such as food, up to the abbey.

As you can see from the pictures below, it was quite a climb to reach the vary top.

Neither of the photos above were taken from the very top. I think the one at the left will give a better idea of how far up I was.

Mont St. Michel used to be a tidal island, which means that when the tide came in, the area you see with the cars and buses would be under water.

When any enemy attempted to attack the Abbey they had to be aware of the tidal schedule. If they had not breeched the doors by a certain time, they had to give up and head back to the mainland in order not to drown.

The abbey is still in use today, and our guide indicated there were at least seven nuns still living there.

The photo to the right shows one of the few remaining working drawbridges in Europe.

If you focus on the bridge, you can imagine a knight in shining armor galloping over the bridge in his quest to save his lady fair at the last second before it was raised and he would be left to the ravages of the tide.

There are only two times a year when Mont St. Michel is again an island, and those are during the winter and summer equinox. Then, if one looked out at the island, all the green shown at the bottom of the photo would be under water.

The fields surrounding the island are used for grazing by sheep farmers in the area. As you can see, the countryside is quite beautiful, and makes one think of a Renaissance style painting.

There is a ten year project that will soon get

under way to restore the island to its previous

state, namely, an island. A bridge will be built for

access to the island, and tourist hotels are planned

for the landward side of the bridge.

Mont St. Michel was one of the main places I wanted to visit when we went to France that time, and we did! It was well worth the cost and the drive just to be able to see such an amazing structure and the beautiful countryside.