I’m always excited when my friend Andrea Eschen’s Substack Building Modern Chicago plops into my inbox. Andrea writes about her great-grandfather Victor Falkenau and the part he played in helping build modern Chicago. Falkenau was an important contractor in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. He worked with famous architects such as Louis Sullivan and his family was prominent in Chicago society. Every time I read Andrea’s posts, I learn something new about my hometown.

But what amazes me more is the breadth of information she has about her family. Unlike Andrea, I know very little about my Rizzo ancestors. My father never knew his Rizzo relatives who lived in Chicago at the same time as Andrea’s family. When he was a very young boy, his father left and his mother placed him and his three older siblings in an orphanage run by a Protestant organization. Dad kept in touch with his mother over the years, so he knew his parents came from very different backgrounds which caused (we think) their split. Dad’s older brother told stories of his father Sam being a bootlegger. Beyond that, my father’s family remained a mystery until a few years ago.

My parents met in Chicago after my mother, like many southerners, moved to Chicago after World War II. After snagging my father’s heart, she convinced him to move back to Texas with her where they started their family. Our family spent my early years moving around Texas and Colorado before we settled in my father’s hometown.

Wanting to make family connections, my mother decided to find some of my father’s long-lost Rizzo relatives. Opening the fat yellow Chicago telephone book didn’t help. Rizzo is a very common Italian name especially in Sicily. And there are a lot of Italians in Chicago. She found almost twenty thin-papered pages covered with Rizzos. Hundreds and hundreds of Rizzos. Which ones could be related to us?

Finally, going on a tip she gained during a rare visit to my father’s mother, Mom tried a different tack. One of my grandfather’s relatives, perhaps his sister, had married a man named Zappia. Luckily, that name wasn’t as common as Rizzo. Mom went through the phone book again. Dialing over and over. After a few attempts, she hit pay dirt – of a kind. On her last call, when she explained her purpose, the woman answering the phone snapped, “We want nothing to do with those Rizzos.” And hung up.

My mother laughed and turned to me, “What do you suppose that meant?” Perhaps the stories about my grandfather were true.

And there we left it. We all stopped trying to find anything more. I heard those few stories, joked with friends about being Sicilian. I felt no need to be part of that family.

Until, that is, my father began to slide into dementia. As my father’s mind slipped away my need to understand him grew and I began writing a memoir about our relationship. I was sure the story of his abandoned childhood was key. The missing Rizzo haunted me.

I would have to wait for my sister-in-law Jill to help. Jill, a dogged researcher who loves genealogy, took up the cause of finding out about our Italian roots. Unfortunately, she too kept coming up short. She could find no mention of a Sam Rizzo anywhere in records at Ellis Island or Chicago or Cook County, Illinois. She tried Samuele, Salvatore, any configuration of a first name that sounded more Italian than Sam. We wondered if he had snuck across the Canadian border as an undocumented immigrant.

Then, a few years ago as we sat around the dining table, Jill brought up the research she’d been doing. Reminiscing, my mother told the story of that long-ago telephone call. Jill said, “Zappia? I’ve never heard that name before,” and jumped up to find a pencil.

The name proved to be a crucial piece of the puzzle. Looking up Zappia, Jill found records of Lena Zappia, my grandfather’s oldest sister. She found records of his parents Antonio and Crucifissa Rizzo, my great-grandparents.

My grandparents’ house on the south side of Chicago.

She even found the family gravesite in Chicago where Antonio, Crucifissa, and three of their sons, including Sam, my grandfather, were buried.

Unfortunately for my father, those discoveries came too late. His dementia was too pronounced and he died not long afterward.

When I visited that cemetery with my sisters the summer after his death it felt a pilgrimage to honor him. And for his daughter, the writer, it became an important part of my own story. I still have work to do.

Do you have family mysteries to uncover? Or stories to tell? I’d love to hear them.

Last weekend I went with Lori, John and our friend Jamie (sadly her husband Cortney was ill and couldn’t join us) to Granville Winery in the Willamette Valley for a special wine experience. We stayed in their lovely guest house and drank glasses of their lovely Chardonnay.

Then Saturday morning we walked the vineyard with Jackson, the winemaker. I had no idea what walking the vineyard would mean other than a stroll through the fields. But no, this turned out to be an educational experience. Jackson showed us how he and his crew strip leaves from the vines to expose the grape to the sun. Then he counted the canes and the clusters of grapes to make calculations of how many clusters to leave on the vines to ripen.

I had never really thought before about the farming aspect to wine-making. As the daughter of my farm-girl mother, I loved this part of the tour. And it reminded me of what I do as a writer, snipping words and phrases here and there to leave the best ones.

After the fields, we did barrel-tasting which meant drinking wine that is not really ready so when we drank we had to imagine what the wine would become. Not unlike how a writer works on her first draft, trying to envision the book it will become.

By the time we were done, unlike my wine-loving brother-in-law and Jamie who is studying to become a sommelier, I was pretty wined out. But there was more to come.

The next part of the experience was eating lunch with the winery crew. A simple meal of sandwiches, salad and potato chips. And of course wine. On the table sat two bottles in black sleeves. I know enough about wine to realize what was going to happen. Oh boy, a blind tasting. Don’t get me wrong I like wine, I like very good wine, and sometimes I can even make sort-of intelligent observations about what I am drinking. But to try to identify what type of grape, New World or Old World, the region – no way.

Unable to participate, I focused on my lunch. Luckily there were potato chips - special potato chips at that. Torres Selecta. Crisp and salty.

And, as I did as a child eating my morning cereal with nothing else to read, I started to peruse the packaging.

Torres are manufactured in Spain and the information on the back is written in several different languages.

Of course I recognized the first language right away - Spanish. But the second one? It was kind of like Spanish but not quite. I took a guess - Catalan. I got out my trusty iPhone and punched in Google Translate. And yes, I was right. It is Catalan.

After that I was off. While everyone else sipped and pondered and expounded about the wine, I sat with Google trying to figure out the rest of the languages listed on that bag.

Of course, English was easy. And I’ve studied French, Italian and Portuguese as well so I recognized them. But then I got into the more Germanic side. I was sure German was the first one and Google told me I was correct. After that, I had to keep guessing and punching in possibilities until I identified Danish, Swedish and Dutch.

And all that time, the wine talk had gone on without me.

Later in the day, when I told my friends what I’d been doing they laughed. I said I love language and Jamie asked me, Why?

I told them the story of me as a little girl after I’d learned to read. I have a very distinct memory of sitting in the backseat of my parents’ big black car as my father drove us somewhere. I was proud of my new power over words and I read out every sign we passed until my father growled at me to stop.

And here I am almost six decades later doing the same thing. Loving language just for the sake of its beauty and power.

Why do we love what we love? Why wine for them and words for me? I know there really is no answer to that question and it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that we grab onto what we love to do and keep on doing it until the end.

Book Recommendation

I’m so pleased to see my friend, Jodi Lorimer’s book out in the world. Based on the French legend of the faerie Melusine and her human lover Raymond, this is a great read for fantasy lovers.

You can buy it HERE from Bookshop.org.

Do you have passions you’ve carried with you through your life? I’d love to hear about them.

May 21

This month’s offering:

• A few musings

• A journaling idea

• Some poetry

• A little French

• Writing news

• And a puppy dog

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1. One of My Happy Places

I returned once again to Collioure, France for the Come to Your Senses Writing Retreat with Karen Karbo.

The sea, the sky, the light.

2. A New Idea

This year her co-teacher was Michele Filgate who shared a journaling technique from Lynda Barry.

I’ve added this to my daily journal practice since then - and since I’m in France - in FRENCH! This simple idea has helped me become more observant.

3. What’s the question?

My apartment is in the eleventh arrondissement in Paris. It’s the place to be. A street quote.

Think Hamlet. Teubé translates to moron. Interesting twist. To me the answer is easy.

4. Poésie here.

5. Poésie there.

6. I bought peonies (povoines in French) at the marché. This reminded me of the poem I wrote years ago:

In a Paris Apartment

Loosed from ribbon,

peonies unfurl,

offer up silky aroma

as we drink in

evening light falling

gold across gold stone

outside our window.

Buying these peonies,

buds still tucked tight,

you astonish me

striding ahead into the shop,

fourteen years old,

ablaze with your first

time in Paris.

I have decided

to stop denying

my love of pink,

you declare as you cut

the stems, your deft

young hands full

of petaled promise.

7. I also returned to Ariège, a region in the south of France for a second round of immersion en français with Baptiste Delvallé of Deep French. I taught a poetry lesson in French! And wrote an acrostic poem.

Les mots murmurent, je suis écrivaine.

Imaginative, je cherche. Quels mots dois-je capturer?

Sur ma feuille, mon stylo coule un ruisseau bleu.

À la fin, ces mots créent ma vie.

Even though the acrostic is lost in translation, here is the English version:

The words murmur, I am a writer.

Imaginative, I search. What words must I capture?

On my paper, my pen flows a blue stream.

In the end, these words create my life.

8. Matisse

I went to the Matisse exhibit at the Grand Palais. Even though I love his colorful paintings, this is the image that struck me the most. How did he express so much with only SEVEN lines?

This is a lesson to remember for my writing. Keep it simple.

P.S. Matisse spent time in Collioure…

9. A new friend at the marché.

I grew up with dachshunds (teckel in French) and love seeing them everywhere in Paris. This belle dame and I had a nice conversation while waiting to pay for our vegetables.

Writing News

I wrote a blog post for the Brevity Blog titled: When a Poet Writes a Memoir Then a Novel and Returns to the Memoir. Yes, I am still wrangling with my memoir, even while writing a novel.

READ IT HERE. I’d love for you to read it and drop a comment.

GET IN TOUCH

Try out the new journaling idea. It makes recording your day easy and fun. When you do, drop me a line to let me know what you think.

Bonjour from Paris. I’ve been here for almost a month now.

Recently, I came across an article about something called Paris Syndrome. Apparently, many tourists coming to Paris experience this, a malaise e characterized by an extreme disappointment and disillusionment in their real-life experience of the city. People often have an overly romantic vision Paris. Perhaps from listening too many times to Ella Fitzgerald sing I Love Paris, by Cole Porter. Perhaps from watching too much Emily in Paris.

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My own version of Paris romance: the Eiffel Tower taken from a boat in the Seine.

Yes, this city is beautiful in many ways. The cafés, the wide boulevards, and the river. The Eiffel Tour, the Champs-Élysées, Notre Dame. But Paris is a huge, modern city. It is not all beauty. Those wide boulevards are filled with hordes of people. There is trash and dirt - and pigeons. There is graffiti. Many of the beautiful iconic Parisian buildings are grimy from years of pollution. The metro cars are often crammed to the limit. It’s a real place where real people live.

Is that any different from Chicago or London or New York? We expect gritty from those cities, perhaps even enjoy it. Why not Paris? I think we need to look beyond the grit to see its everyday charms.

I once had someone ask me why I come back to this city so often. Her question confused me. The answer seemed so obvious. It’s Paris.

One of the things I love about this city and French culture in general is the focus on the rituals of daily life. When I returned this year, I made sure to savor some of those rituals as a way settling into the culture as much as I can. Here are a few.

A café crème and croissant from Au Metro, our local café on the corner.

An omelet (with another crème), also at Au Metro.

A crêpe complet (ham, cheese and egg) at Krügen Crêperie.

Waiting in line to buy fromage at the marché that runs all year, no matter rain, hail, sleet or sun.

You’ll notice that food features large. But to me, to truly savor Parisian life, you have to focus on food as the French do. Especially if you’re an American like me who will never crack the code of the other life focus: Parisian style.

I have been coming to Paris for about forty years now. This time around I’m trying to find new places to visit and new experiences. Here’s a first for me: the Jardin des Plantes. This is me enjoying the first cherry blossoms of the season while trying to look pseudo-Parisian in my scarf.

And then I heard squawking. Luckily the trees were still bare so I could see this little fellow.

I had heard about the parakeets in Paris but never seen or heard them. Apparently, tame birds escaped and have now acclimated to Paris. Kind of like me. Although, with their flashy green feathers and bright beaks they make a much better fashion statement than I do.

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So tell me, is there a place you feel called to return to again? What do you do to make yourself at home?

I’d love to hear from you.

Feb 24

Last week I watched the documentary about Toni Morrison which I somehow missed when it came out in 2019.

Toni has been my writing hero for decades. She is without a doubt one of the most important writers of our times.

As I watched, mesmerized by her words, suddenly I sat up as if someone had slapped me. I actually heard Toni Morrison, Writer God, say that she didn’t feel like a real writer until her third novel, Song of Solomon was a commercial success.

Before that, Toni Morrison called herself a teacher and an editor, but not a writer. Toni Morrison.

Published by Simon and Schuster

About the same time, I started reading Shonda Rhimes’ book Year of Yes for a book club started by Natalie Serber. Since I’ve only watched a few of Shondaland’s productions (Let me admit I hate Bridgerton), I was unprepared for her voice in this book. I’m more team Song of Solomon and less Grey’s Anatomy.

Even so, the premise of the book intrigued me. Who could argue with the value of saying yes to the things that enrich your life?

There was one chapter in particular that resonated with me. Shonda writes about attending an event for women who were influential in the entertainment industry. All powerful women, including herself. Yet, as the woman’s achievements were detailed, Shonda says that each one of them did one of three things: shook her head and looked away or ducked her head or laughed. Instead of sitting up proud of what they had accomplished.

All those women saying No to who they were. It’s what we women have been taught to do.

When I read those words I thought of Toni Morrison responding to her interviewer. And I thought about myself.

in 2011 I attended my first writing retreat in Abiquiu, New Mexico, the land of another famous woman artist, Georgia O’Keefe. Like Shonda Rhimes, I was nervous about attending such an event with other women who I perceived as being better than me, more accomplished than me. Chatting with one of those women (who became a close friend), I said these words: “I’m not a real writer.”

Yes, I did. Even though six months before going to that retreat I had published a poetry chapbook. Even though seven of the poems in that chapbook had been published in literary journals. Even though I had been writing and studying and writing poetry for over thirty years.

I’m no Toni Morrison or Shonda Rhimes but I am a writer. So I’m putting the cover of my first book, In the Poem an Ocean (Big Table Publishing) with theirs. I like to believe they’d approve. Because like them, I needed to learn to say yes to my own voice as a writer, to stop saying I can’t because I’m a woman.

Thank you Toni for showing me what words can do. Thank you Shonda for showing me how important my own yes is.

So tell me, is there someone who showed you the to saying yes?

Jan 29

Art was not a part of my family’s vocabulary. My working class parents believed in work, religion and work. Even though I grew up in the Chicago area, I never went to the Art Institute as a child. But I was fortunate to take a high school trip to Spain with my Spanish teacher. When we visited the Prado - my first art museum experience - I was stunned that one of my classmates seemed to know about art. As we stood in front of Diego Velásquez’s painting Las Meninas, my friend talked about the brushwork and composition. Where the hell had he learned that? I didn’t know but I wanted to find out.

Luckily, in my sophomore year at Northwestern, I got a work-study job in the university library’s Art Collection. It was in the old wing that was built (as I would later learn in art history classes) in the neo-gothic style with pointed arches and huge windows. It reminded me of the church I attended.

My only duties were sitting at the front desk to check bags for “forgotten books” before they walked off and re-shelving the books strewn around the tables after use. I had a lot of time to read those books and look at the pictures. When I met one of the professors from the Art History Department, he noticed my interest and encouraged me to take his course. I did and I was hooked.

Since then not only have I been to the Art Institute many times but other art museums around the world. Looking at art is one of my passions. But making art is not.

I have said over and over again I am not an artist. Recently I’ve amended that statement to “not a visual artist.” But I so admire people who can paint and draw and have always wanted to join them. This January for some strange reason (turning 69?) when DrawTogether With WendyMac popped into my Substack feed, I decided to take the plunge and commit to Wendy’s 30 day drawing challenge.

We started simply with a More/Less list of what we hope for the new year. I wanted to have less I can’t’s in my life. Including saying I can’t possibly show someone the drawings here!

Then Day 2 we worked on something familiar. Spirals! How many spirals had I drawn in the margins of my notebooks during boring lectures? I knew how to do that!

We played some more with funny pictures before moving into lessons about the elements of drawing such as lines. So far so good. I can draw a line.

But then - oh no - things started to get serious. Lines, shapes, light and shadow. Now draw an animal with the shapes we’d practiced. That’s when I really started to get nervous. I heard all the I can’t’s coming back. Here is my hare made of the shapes I practiced. (I’ll come back to the book later.)

That’s when things started getting really serious - and scary. Composition, drawing, color. Sharing what I’d drawn in the online chat. Yikes! But I swallowed my pride - or was it just fear? - and did what I could.

When my drawing turned out to look like the object I was trying to recreate, I was amazed! I might be able to draw after all - at least a little.

Today and tomorrow are the last days of my drawing challenge. But just like when I started exercising, I’ve surprised myself by actually enjoying this. I’ve always been envious of people who add drawings to their journals. My notebooks are so boring with line after line of unbroken text but of course I can’t draw. There’s that I can’t I’m determined to get rid of. I’ll keep you posted.

BOOK RECOMMENDATION

I joined an online book group hosted by Natalie Serber through her excellent Substack site: eat.read.write. The first book we read and discussed was the memoir Raising Hare by Chloe Dalton. When Dalton hunkered down in her home in the English countryside during the Pandemic, she rescued a baby hare. This book chronicles their journey together. I cannot recommend this book enough. It is beautifully written and is just what I needed during these turbulent times. Buy it HERE.

What is something you want more of in your life? I’d love to hear from you.

Dec 11

Birthday flowers from Mom

Today is the day before my birthday. It’s a big one this year - with a 9 at the end. But since the alternative to turning this age isn’t very pleasant, I’m leaning into it right now. Having a December birthday has always been a mixed blessing to me. December 12th seems to be when everyone swings into the holiday season. It’s also the feast day of Our Lady of Guadalupe, . But having a birthday two weeks before the big day meant I got a lot of birthday/Christmas presents rolled into one.

December is also the month of short days and long nights. Today the sun sets at 4:27 in Oregon! When I lived in Illinois, it was the month of cold and snow. Now that I live in Portland it means rain, lots of rain.

Last year my birthday was difficult even though I got to spend it in Paris. It was my first after my mother’s death a little over a month before, the first time I wouldn’t hear her wishes for the day. She often sent me flowers, telling the florist to make sure there was nothing Christmasy about them. There won’t be any more of those.

As I get ready to celebrate another birthday without her, I feel a little tightening of my throat. I wonder if this will happen every year from now on. I suspect it might.

A few weeks ago my friend Andrea Eschen wrote about Spanish Nativity scenes for her Substack site, Snippets from Spain. (Read it HERE) I was happy to learn some history about Nativity scenes since they played a big part in my childhood. Even though my mother was a staunch Methodist, her Nativity scenes, or crèches as she called them (a word she was quite fond of even though I doubt she knew it was French!) were an important part of her Christmas decorations.

Saint-Ambroise, Paris

Reading Andrea’s post made me remember that the crèches I saw in France last year helped me through that difficult birthday. I wished my mother could have seen them.

I visited Saint-Ambroise on my birthday. I was surprised to find they make claims that the church was visited by Our Lady of Guadalupe in the 19th century!

Their Nativity scene was surrounded by fragrant pine trees. Standing in front of it brought back so many memories of past Christmases. Even though I am not really a believer, I lit a candle.

‍ ‍ Saint-Ambroise, Paris

I visited another wonderful crèche in Strasbourg Cathedral after wandering through that city’s marvelous Christmas Market. I was fascinated to see a Bible in the manger, not baby Jesus. I guess he appears there on Christmas Day. And yes, I lit another candle.

Strasbourg Cathedral

This year I am back in Portland for the holidays. This being my birthday week - and the official start of the holidays, my sister and I put up our Christmas tree. At the foot, I placed the Nativity scene that my mother took out of its box every December for over fifty years. This Nativity scene holds a special meaning for me.

When I was old enough to watch over my three younger siblings, our parents would take we four kids to a mall near the Chicago suburb where we lived. One year - I think I was about twelve - when it came time to buy presents for Mom, I convinced my siblings to pool our money and buy her a Nativity scene. We bought it at Woolworth’s, a chain of Five and Dime stores that doesn’t exist anymore.

The ceramic figures looked just like the big ones in the Nativity scene at our church. It had Made in Italy stamped on the back. I was so proud of that gift.

The Woolworth’s Nativity scene

Now that my mother is gone, that crèche sits under my Christmas tree. It’s a little worse for wear. At some point my mother patched the roof with a piece of brown paper cut from a grocery bag. Looking at the makeshift fix makes me smile. That frugal resourcefulness represents my mother more than any sparkly lights.

Today the sun will set in just about an hour. I’ll light the Christmas tree and some candles and perhaps pour a glass of wine to toast my mother - and myself. After all, I’ve made it another year. Then I’ll sit back and lean into the light.

How are you finding light in your life during the short days of December? I’d love to hear from you.

Oct 20

Today I visited my local market, Le Marché Popincourt in the 11th arrondissement of Paris. Until recently I didn’t realize that each arrondissement has a name as well as a number. The 11th is called Popincourt, a name I find charmingly French. What is even more exciting is that I know how to pronounce it with my improving French accent using a long “o” and no “t” on the end.

At the marché I bought eggs and cheese and vegetables - all while speaking French. I’ve heard many Americans say that even though they try to speak French in Paris, the locals most often reply in English. I’ve had that happen at times, but at local markets and stores, I find that vendors are happy to hear my basic but comprehensible French. And being French, they can’t help but correct my pronunciation if needed. What a treat. Delicious food and free language lessons.

For the last few years I’ve been studying French because it’s a beautiful language, and I love France’s culture. This love began after my first visit to Paris when I was thirty. I knew enough to say bonjour and merci but little else. I resolved to communicate better the next time I visited.

I was working as an insurance claims adjuster, a job I hated. I decided learning French would add joie de vivre to my life, so I took classes at City College in San Francisco. Those lessons gave me a basic understanding of the language which sufficed for many years.

Fast forward to my retirement in 2020. The desire for French bubbled up again. And I’ve been working away at the language ever since. At first I was happy with online apps. Then my sister Lori and I started taking classes at the Alliance Française in Portland.

This year I took even bigger leaps. First, I took a class at the Alliance Française here in Paris. Then a bigger adventure: a French immersion excursion in the southern Ariège Region of France. Lori and I spent ten days based in the village of Foix with a small group of friends from our Portland French classes.

Led by Baptiste Delvallé, a native French-speaker bilingual in English, we ate breakfast together, took tours of local sites, ordered meals at restaurants and even had discussions about our lives. All in French.

Baptiste is a gifted teacher who never translated into English when we needed help or didn’t understand. He used examples and explanations in French. It reminded me of my years teaching English as a second language.

With him, our group spoke, read, and listened to French for about 75% of each day (okay, I admit in the evenings, we reverted to English. We had to. We were exhausted).

And every day our French skills improved.

My biggest challenge speaking French has been my fear of making mistakes. This is not an uncommon fear, of course. But I’ve let it keep me tongue-tied. For those ten days in Ariège, making the commitment to speak (mostly) French meant I had to overcome my fears of using the wrong verb tense or garbling sentence structures. My human need to communicate wouldn’t let me remain silent, especially my desire to tell stories and hear the stories of my companions!

This experience reminded me of the book, The Storytelling Animal: How Stories Make Us Human by Jonathan Gottschall. Every story I told meant I had to twist my lips over a new French word with five vowels and unpronounced “t.”

But my intrepid friends and I persevered because we needed to share with each other. This experience reminded me once again that our stories make us who we are.

Storytelling is not just for people like me who call themselves writers. It’s how we connect with each other.

That is why I’m studying so hard to learn French. I want to hear the stories of people who have been shaped by a different culture and language, who view the world differently from me. And I want to be able to share my stories in new ways.

I’m happy that I’m finally able to listen to peoples’ stories here in Paris. For now, they’re mostly about the vegetables and cheeses I buy or the food I’m ordering. Someday they’ll be deeper as word by word my French skills improve.

BOOK RECOMMENDATION

I didn’t know that not only is Baptiste Delvallé a talented teacher, he’s also a writer. How fun it was it discuss writing in French with him. He’s not only published two books in French (email me for the titles if you’d like to read in French!) but also this book in English.

The Feeling of Home is a mixture of memoir and guide for readers who are searching for a feeling of home. Having lived in several countries, Baptiste offers some real insights about what home means and how one can cultivate that feeling no matter where they find themselves.

Buy it HERE.

How do you make connections with people and places? I’d love to hear from you.

Sep 8

One of the most important pieces of advice I have gotten about traveling in France is: “Always say bonjour.” And it’s true. Bonjour could be the most important word in French (I’m not the only one to say this. I Googled it.) Every time you walk into a store or a restaurant or put your groceries on the checkout counter, say “Bonjour.” It isn’t just about saying hello. It’s about showing respect and opening a conversation.

Americans, especially those who of us who live in cities, find this difficult to remember. We Americans mostly just walk into a store and start looking or taking. Shopkeepers or sales clerks don’t expect to be greeted.

When I’m in France sometimes I still forget to say bonjour and then try to make up for it as quickly as possible. That’s not as bad as the many Americans who don’t even try at all. I admit I cringe every time I hear one of my compatriots in France start speaking English right away. Don’t do it! Just say Bonjour!

It is magic. My bonjour elicits a bonjour from the vendor or waiter. Sometimes if I say it with a pretty good French accent (admittedly easier when just saying one word), they may continue to speak to me in French. I’m always thrilled when I understand. The longer I study French, the more my confidence grows and the longer my conversations grow.

And if you don’t speak any more French than bonjour, people will appreciate your effort before switching to English for you.

Bonjour is especially important in small villages like Collioure where I just spent a magical week.

Who wouldn’t love strolling the streets of one of the prettiest villages in France overlooking the Mediterranean? Who wouldn’t love to make a beady bracelet like a girl at her first sleep-over? Swimming in the Mediterranean? I would. And I did.

I just got back from the Come to Your Senses Writing Retreat hosted by the incomparable https://substack.com/@karenkarbo along with wonderful co-teacher https://substack.com/@readwriteeat and guest writer Chelsea Cain. This terrific trio inspired me to scribble and type away on my novel-in-progress.

Along with great writing advice and a group of wonderful fellow participants, there was the delicious food prepared for the group every day by Helen and Kristen. (I’m ashamed I never learned their last names. Next time!)

Collioure was named France’s Le Village Préféré in 2024. Walking the narrow streets among colorful buildings it’s easy to see why.

Make a bracelet and add a word to remind you of this week. La mer is never far away in Collioure. Maybe this bracelet will become a part of my writing ritual.

What a wonderful way to end the summer. Now I’m back in Paris to continue my bonjour practice.

Writing News

I had the wonderful opportunity to be a part of Alyson Shelton’s Where I’m From Poem project inspired by George Ella Lyon. Alyson provided sentence starters for each writer to write a poem. I was especially delighted to participate since I used this same prompt many times with my own middle school students. After submitting my poem, I shared it with Alyson on Instagram Live.

Alyson now has 204 poems - and counting. She has also created the Where I’m From podcast to showcase all the wonderful poems created for this project.

My poem is #30 on her list. Scroll down to listen to my conversation with Alyson as I read my poem.

P.S. Natalie Serber’s poem is #71.

Check it out!

Book Recommendation

Of course one of the best things about going to writing retreats is meeting writers. Last week I met Eva Lesko Natiello, the author of The Memory Box.

I am not normally a reader of thrillers, but I had to check out Eva’s book - just to see what she had to say.

I couldn’t put it down. I started read it on the train back to Paris and then stayed up late last night to finish it.

Buy it HERE.

What’s the best advice you’ve been given about being polite? How are you transitioning into autumn? I’d love to hear from you.

Jul 31

I’ve been back in Portland since the middle of June. I worried that I’d feel disappointed coming home after spending weeks in Paris, one of the most exciting cities in the world. Portland feels small after being in one of the biggest cities in Europe. Small and rather quaint. But instead of mourning that, I’ve decided to embrace it.

Portland gets a bad rap for being super rainy. Deservedly so - except in the summer. Summers here can be magnificent (when there isn’t a heat dome).

And one of the best things that comes with the winter and spring rains followed by long days of mostly sunshine is the abundance of fruit, especially berries and cherries.

And the other best thing, at least in my neighborhood, is the animals. I live in the Sellwood Neighborhood which has tree-lined sidewalks and plenty of room for goats.

When I tried to describe the animal pen created by one of my neighbors to someone at a writing event, she kept asking, “Goats? Are you in the city?” Yes, goats and also chickens and a rabbit. And yes, in the city limits. While Paris may have the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame (not to be sneezed at), so far I have never seen goats. (Now someone will write and tell me where they’ve seen goats in Paris!).

The Portland yard in question now is in competition with its own goat castle. It is quite theneighborhood attraction. People especially like to bring their kids to feed the very willing inhabitants. And I often make it part of my walk just to say hello. It’s like having a very small petting zoo just down the road.

I’ve found it impossible to be a bad mood when either eating berries or feeding goats.

BOOK RECOMMENDATION

After feeding the goats, I like to settle down with a good book. This month I want to recommend How the Hell Did I Not Know That? by Lucie Frost. Since meeting Lucie in an on-line writing class I’ve been following her on Instagram and now Substack.

After retiring, Lucie found herself at loose ends. After many false starts to get her life going again, she decided to actually research subjects she’d always wondered about. Her posts describing her quest to understand the most arcane, esoteric and sometimes downright silly subjects are hilarious.

Her new book is part memoir, part comedy, part guide to finding a purpose in life. You’ll laugh and cry as you follow Lucie on her journey.

Buy it HERE at Bookshop.org.

What are you doing to enjoy your summer? What do you recommend to lighten your mood? I’d love to hear from you.

What did I do instead of clicking on my phone? For one thing, I read books - twenty-five of them. All of those books were what you might call light reading, but who cares? I enjoy reading books about the places I’m visiting while I’m there. In Paris this time, I decided to re-read the mystery series by Cara Black starring her sleuth Aimee Leduc. I enjoyed reading about places very near my apartment - and even a mention of my very street! I kept looking at the map to see just where the action was taking place. These books are a great introduction to Paris - the real city which is beautiful but also big and gritty at the same time.

Now that 'I’m back in Portland, someone asked me what I miss most about Paris. I have to say - as cliché as it sounds- I miss the cafés. I didn’t go to a café every day (even though I thought I should) but sometimes just walking by them with their chairs full of people chatting and drinking made me just as hoppy.

And on a hot day there was nothing like sitting on the terrace under a big tree. You can’t see it, but I assure you the omelette I dug into after taking this photo was delicious.

My last few days in Paris were brutally hot and air conditioning non-existent in two-hundred-old buildings. In the apartment, we have portable air conditioners that have a tube that sticks out the window to blow the hot air. That worked fairly well - except on the day it was 94 degrees Fahrenheit.

So there are some things that are better here in a younger city.

A few years ago someone asked me why I’d been to Paris so many times. (This last trip was my twelfth time). All I could say was, “Because it’s Paris.” There’s really nothing else to say.

This makes me think of a song sung by Joséphine Baker and more recently by Madeleine Peyroux. Some of the lyrics:

J'ai deux amours
Mon pays et Paris

This translates to: I have two loves - my country and Paris. (I have to say, right now Paris is a lot easier to love. )

So Paris, au revoir for now, I’ll be going back soon.

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