Annette Haws's Blog

Combining the 1964 Civil Rights Legislation and the problem of starter marriages (which last only a year or two) in The Accidental Marriage, might seem like a stretch, but women moving into the workplace in the 1970′s strained marriages and poked and prodded society’s concept of the roles of men and women.

This year is the fiftieth anniversary of the 1964 Civil Rights Act. Much has changed in fifty years. My grandfather, a delightful man, raised five children without ever changing a diaper or washing a dish, because my grandmother would have been horrified if he had. In 1964 sexual harassment was normal, comic relief, innocent teasing. Women were only paid sixty percent of what men earned for the same work because that was fair market value. How much of societal change is the direct result of the Civil Rights Act? Probably a lot; and here’s something most people don’t know: the legislation almost didn’t pass.

A wily group of southern senators tried to put the kibosh on the whole thing by including equal rights for women–a repugnant notion. I wasn’t there but I can imagine them plotting and scheming in a back room blue with cigar smoke. I can almost hear them speak with their hair slicked back and dark rimmed spectacles resting on their noses.

In a green leather club chair with his skinny legs crossed at the knee, Smith, the Senior Senator from Virginia drawled, “It will pass. I swear it will. They have the votes.” He tapped a half inch of ash into a candy dish. “Lyndon will ram it down our throats.”

Eastland, a cotton planter from Mississippi had held his senate seat longer than them all. “He’s got dirt on everyone alive.”

“Then let’s add something to the legislation,” Smith said. “Something so repugnant the American people will reject it out of hand.” He unsheathed his fountain pen and scratched a word across a paper napkin. “Sex.”

Senator Elliot chuckled, “You’re going to toss women in the stew?”

“Sure,” Smith rolled a cigar between the tips of his fingers. “If they want to outlaw racial and religious discrimination, we’ll make them include women.”

“Women’s groups will be holding teas and writing their congressmen.” Eastland grinned. “Add gender and the civil rights act will go up in smoke. None of those gals wants to get up in the morning and go to work.”

“Gentlemen,” Smith dropped his empty glass on the table as though it were a period at the end of a sentence. “We have found our solution, and I for one, am going home.”

Standing at the far end of the room in half light, the young woman who’d been mixing drinks and passing sandwiches all evening bit down on her tongue. She needed this paycheck. When Senator Long reached his meaty fingers down the front of her shirt and tucked a five dollar bill in her bra, she forced herself to smile and wish him a good night.

In spite of the best efforts of that handful of good ole boys to derail the Civil Rights Act, it passed. But then what? How do you enforce an attitude, or police an off color remark, an unwanted touch, or an unjust promotion?

Shared parenting and domestic compromises, which seem so simple today, were a novelty in 1964. My son has three little children. He’s in charge of baths and bedtime; he’s an excellent cook, a pillar of his church, an MBA, and knows his way around a dirty diaper. In fifty years, much has changed. Thank Heaven.

My most recent teaching assignment was in an urban high school squeezed between a strip mall and a row of used car dealerships. The only students remotely interested in educational pursuits had been siphoned off into the AP courses, and the other seniors (that I was assigned to teach) were enduring their last few months of seat time before the public education system unleashed them on society. I intentionally saved ghosts, death most foul (poison dribbled into the ear), berserk girlfriends, and shameless mothers for the endless month of February, but even Hamlet couldn’t hold the interest of the last section of senior English before lunch.

One dreary day, I set Hamlet aside and said, “Take out a piece of paper. Let’s fast forward ten years and project where you’ll be.” Suddenly, they were completely engaged–energized. Their specificity amazed me. They knew the square footage of their two story homes in posh neighborhoods; they knew the make, model, and color of the cars in the garage; without a doubt, they were all going to be airline pilots, doctors, dentists, lawyers, or highly successful entrepreneurs; they knew the number of children they were going to have, and every single student (except the pot head on the second row who was gazing out the window at nothing in particular) was going to be happily married, svelte, and always know what bands were cool. When I asked them what steps they were going to take (starting today) to achieve those goals, I faced a sea of blank faces. I wanted to cry. Even if their names didn’t match their guardians’ surnames listed in the computer, they were absolutely positive they were going to have successful marriages–as though happily ever after were etched in their brains.

The thought of a handful of species–swans, bald eagles, wolves, vultures, turtle doves, and love birds–that mate for life brings a soft warm glow to the center of our chests. Show us a wrinkled, toothless couple married for sixty-seven years, and we give a heartfelt sigh and smile. We love the thought of monogamy, we want it, we need it, it makes us healthy and live longer. So why, do nearly fifty percent of marriages in the U.S. fail? Three years ago six adorable young people in my neighborhood bounced back home in emotional shreds after less than a year or two–because their marriages failed. Why?

I don’t pretend to have the answers, but I’ve tried to address the questions in my new novel, The Accidental Marriage. Hopefully, we can look at that person in the mirror who brushes our teeth each morning and have a serious conversation about how we contribute to the success or failure of new marriages, middle-aged marriages, or those nuptials that have endured nearly to the end.

I have a new short story, “A Gift of Tongues” in the Fall issue of Dialogue. What’s it about? Global warming, drought, raging pandemics that kill small children and old people, the Seventh  Article of Faith, the solidarity of women, and the futility of coloring gray hair. In short, there is something for everyone who enjoys being anxious.

Years ago, I was in a lit class at the University of Iowa taught by David Morrell, the man who gave the world Rambo. We were reading  Armies of the Night: History as a Novel, or a Novel as History by Norman Mailer, as talented an old rascal as ever there was one. Prof. Morrell was being fairly condescending about Mailer when a student–probably all of nineteen–raised his hand in the back of the class and said (without being called upon), “How can you criticize Mailer when you write the kind of stuff you do?”

The room of a hundred students was dead quiet. Morrell gave the kid a long stony gaze. I could almost see the D- flashing in his eyes. Then he spoke in measured tones–no dopey student was going to get under his skin–”We write what moves us or what frightens us, or we rewrite the endings of our own stories.” The guy was quick on his toes. He just happened to be a close personal friend of Stephen King and said that Mr. King, who is ridiculously rich, sits at his keyboard and terrifies himself. He concluded by essentially saying that Rambo might not be great literature, but the franchise has afforded him a very nice lifestyle. Yes, he’s laughing all the way to the bank.

I wasn’t the mouthy kid in the back of the room. I was a mother of three small children who carved out a few hours a week to stretch her brain, and that morning I took every word to heart. When I wrote this story, everything that terrifies me about climate change and over population and the last days came down though my fingers and onto the page. The conclusion is the only one that gives me any hope.

Nothing happens and then EVERYTHING happens at once. The big news is a contract for a new book, An Accidental Marriage. Ta Dah! Release date: December 2013.

Combining the problem of starter marriages (which last only a year or two) and the 1964 Civil Rights Legislation might seem like a stretch, but women moving into the workplace in the 1970′s strained marriages and poked and prodded society’s concept of the roles of men and women. I’ve tackled serious issues in this novel, but young love and new marriages are inherently comic, and I have to admit, writing this story was a lot of fun.

I hope An Accidental Marriage will appeal to anyone who has successfully navigated the first years of marriage as well as those folks who have floundered. The story is set in the early 1970′s, an interesting decade when gender roles were shifting. The groom in this tale is very traditional; the bride is not. After a tumultuous courtship, Nina, the main character, finds herself teaching at a junior high, learning to keep house in a miniscule apartment, and living with a young man who doesn’t know anymore about being married than she does.  Intimacy, cooking, laundry, lesson plans, and a tug-of-war with a possessive m other-in-law prove to be more new experiences than Nina can successfully manage.

At work, Nina is plagued by sexual harassment, a term not yet coined, which twists the plot and drives Nina to deception. She’s caught in the social cross-currents of the burgeoning women’s movement; her young husband refuses to compromise his rigid expectations; and consequently, the young marriage teeters on the brink of failure.

An Accidental Marriage

Part One

     Nina Rushforth was not raised to be a failure, anything but. The lofty expectations in her parent’s stately brick home were almost palpable, and now she can’t believe the disappointment her life has become. Standing at the black board with thirty-six pair of young eyes watching her face, Nina grasps a stick of chalk in her fist, and using a yardstick, she draws an intricate web of white lines. Swallowing hard and forcing a tight smile, she bisects the baseline with a quick horizontal stroke and hands the chalk to a freckled boy sitting in the front row.

     ”Okay George, do your stuff. Fill in the subject and the verb.”

     In the back of the extraordinarily long room, a spit wad flies through the air and sticks with a silent splat to a construction paper daisy decorating the edge of the bulletin board. Giggling, Robbie Eder peels another strip of paper off his assignment and crams it in his mouth like a couple of dry sticks of gum. Nina notices but she doesn’t care. Rowdy boys flipping spit wads are at the bottom of her list. Newlyweds or not, her husband didn’t come home last night–that makes eleven days in a row–and she wonders if he’s ever coming home at all, and how will she keep breathing if he doesn’t?

       Slapping her hands together as though she’s announcing a party with streamers and hats and a box of silly favors, she asks the class, “And the direct object?” The guest at this party. “Where does it go?”

      Sounding like she’s responding to a dapper game show host, Amanda Church sings out, “After the verb.” Nina can only give the girl a significant nod, because at that particular moment nothing can bypass the lump lodged in her throat. But crying is not an option, not in front of a classroom of farm kids–not in front of anyone. Jill Ferney tiptoes to the front of the room and hands her a wrinkled pink tissue.

     Sighing, Nina drops the chalk in the railing next to the black felt erasers. Blaming her well-intentioned father or her domineering mother-in-law, blaming the vile type teacher out in the portables or the curmudgeon in the front office, is simple during the day, but not so simple at three a.m. when she dreams the sound of her young husband’s key in the lock. Night after night she stumbles out of bed blinking through thick glasses balanced on her nose–and opens the door to nothing. Standing in the cool breeze, feeling the goose bumps rise on her skin, she knows she has only herself to blame.

Christmas 2012

Dear Friends and Family,

At the Haws household, this has been a year of odd coincidences and miraculous occurrences.  We have discovered that not only do Charlotte, Betsy, and I share the exact same shoe size, but unbeknownst to each other, we also have been using the same three word password—no kidding, to the letter– which I would share except that Charlotte has declared that disclosure would destroy her life. Suffice to say, it involves the continuous consumption of iconic American pastries—not Twinkies.

Charlie and I celebrated our  wedding anniversary on the very same day and in the very same place—Sun Valley, Idaho—where the journey began.  It was a lovely week and included a day organized by Betsy at Red Fish Lake where Pete and Ben caught and released eighteen fish, or maybe they caught the same really stupid fish eighteen times. No one is sure. The fish isn’t talking.

In April Charlotte moved to Portland, Oregon “where young people go to retire,” but not Charlotte who is diligently working in a large gynecological-oncology practice.  Half of her income goes to student loans which will finally be repaid when she’s white haired, but she is not deterred because she loves her job; in particular, Dr. Tseng, a hilarious doctor Charlie’s age, who has assigned himself the task of being Charlotte’s mentor and life coach. Thank Heaven.  Charlotte has lots of Dr. Tseng stories, but our favorite is his entry into an exam room occupied by a cervical cancer patient. His opening remark was, “Well, Mary, let’s get to the bottom of your bottom.” Obviously, he and Charlotte are kindred spirits.

Betsy has left the world of corporate law to work for Salt Lake City as a civil litigator. Not only has Betsy become very stylish, she also argued her first case before the State Supreme Court, and you can be certain her mother was in the audience critiquing her performance.  Her office is in the old City County building (haunted by five ghosts—no relation) where my grandfather worked when I was a little girl. There’s some symmetry there. Bets ran her first triathlon in July. I was her Sherpa.

Pete continues to be beset by the difficulties of managing a busy pharmacy.  He was horrified last summer to discover that in addition to being unable to alphabetize and spell instructions on labels correctly, none of the techs could pass the naturalization test.  No one knew the answers to the first three or four questions, like what country the colonists fought in the Revolutionary War.  So now, Pete is conducting an afterhours seminar on American Civics for his staff.

Andy and Nollie have a new baby daughter, Lauryn Elizabeth, obviously named after Lauren Bacall  . . . and Elizabeth after Andy’s sister, my aunt, Charlie’s sister, Charlie’s grandmother, Bess Dunn, and the Queen of England. So the little namesake will be theatrical, adversarial, creative, loyal, lovely, flamboyant, and regal. I think Andy has his bases covered.  Good luck, Baby.  Ben and Lucy, her older siblings, alternate between being completely adorable and totally berserk.

Andy also purchased a piano. He told me he felt like a void in his life has been filled.  It’s grossly unfair that after spending umpteen hours sharing the piano bench with four children as they practiced, I can’t read a note, play a Christmas carol, or hum a tune on key.  I keep thinking that if I could just rearrange the furniture in my head, I might find the missing piano. What are the chances?

We feel very grateful this year. We have all the organs we started out with a year ago, and no bones or treaties were broken. We haven’t lost any of the people we love. We’ve forgotten what it is we don’t remember, so who cares?  Merry Christmas anyway! And a happy whatever it is that comes at the first of the year.

Tuesday, October 4,

Dear Kathy,

The trip has been very exciting. A few mishaps. Trouble with a pickpocket, and there are four flights of very narrow, spiraling stairs, but other than that I’m okay. Clearly my next purchase will be a motorbike and an age appropriate helmet, something in a lovely shade of mauve. I have been approached by several people asking directions or needing a photo taken. I attribute this to my pleasant demeanor and stylish scarves.

October 7,

Dear Cindy ,

I am having a wonderful, interesting time. This street is narrow and all the doors open onto the street. When you enter it smells like a very old museum. We’re up four winding flights of stairs and then there’s the door, no landing, just a door. More steps to the bedroom and bath, which is nice, thank Heaven. Another flight of stairs to the kitchen and living room, another flight of treacherous stairs to a tiny loft with a sky light. Getting my suitcase up here was like moving a piano. I’m going to lower it out the window with a rope when it’s time to leave. There are no screens on the windows and the weather was so warm when we first arrived that everyone’s windows are open, and you can hear EVERYTHING in the apartments across the street. Surprisingly, there aren’t any bugs. I have seen one fly No kidding. It zoomed in to check out the new tenants, and then flew away again. It doesn’t quiet down around here until around three-thirty in the morning. Amazing. I go to sleep with an IPod in my ears.

Ile St. Louis is completely adorable. Lots of little shops, three bakeries, two butcher shops, a tiny grocery store, and two fruit and vegetable markets. I am trying out my French, and most people are great. Some roll their eyes, but that’s okay too. Andy and Nollie come tomorrow and Pete and Betsy leave on Tuesday morning. We’re all going to the Normandy coast on Monday.

So many chiefs that I have become an Indian. The kitchen is tiny, so maybe I’ll make an omelet for dinner. Who knows?

Pete remembers all of his high school French, his soccer coach was his teacher as wel–a Frenchman. So Pete has been speaking his own version of fractured French, very funny. It’s been interesting to observe these adult children in a neutral environment.

I’m increasingly more comfortable with my surroundings and less anxious about being on my own. The wrist I broke is still stiff and sore and certainly won’t be any good in a crisis, like falling down the stairs, but the stairs are so narrow that I’ll crash into a wall before I can do any real damage.

I can’t believe I’ve been here a week. Charlie says that it snowed in Utah???

October 8,

Hello,

I’m having a wonderful time. The kids have all behaved nicely. Andy and Nollie are arriving soon, and then we will have three chiefs and only two Indians. I did make a strategic mistake the other day. Betsy was showing me how to make my camera do tricks—honestly, zooming is over-rated—and she showed me a picture. In fairness, I wasn’t paying much attention and my glasses were smudgy, and I said, “That’s nice. Where’s that?” It was the family room at my own house in Salt Lake. Charlie took the picture when the camera was new. Oh dear. Now Betsy has license to instruct me on riding the metro, being brave, and fixing my hair, in addition to adding another oblivious mother story to her collection. Honestly, my kids don’t realize that their smartness is the result of me willingly sharing my DNA; they think my brains all leached out during pregnancy.

It’s a little colder here. My rainproof cape is very stylish, but not what anyone would think of as warm. I’ve started layering. I’m sure by the end of October, I’ll be wearing three sweaters at a time. Maybe I’ll have Charlie bring my favorite fleece jacket when he comes.   I hope all goes well in primary tomorrow. I’m off to see the crypts of Norte Dame.

October 11,

To Kathy, Kathy, and Cindy

More excitement from Paris. A little kid slammed the door of Marie Antoinette’s cell, and we were locked in for twenty minutes until they could find the key. Iron and six inches long. It looked like either a very good Disneyland version or the real thing. Plus, Pete got into a dust-up with the cleaning lady yesterday morning. Oh dear. We left early—six am—to go to the metro, to go to the train, to rent a car, to be at the Jour J (D Day) museum in Caen at nine o’clock. Pete stayed home because that’s not how he wanted to spend his last day in France and because Pete does not do “early.” So about an hour into the museum, I get a frantic text from Pete.

Pete: “Who is this grouchy lady that just came into the appt and cannot speak English?” (A little frowsy and seventy plus. I met her the day I arrived.)

Me: “She’s the cleaning lady. I thought she was coming tomorrow. This is very bad. Can you pick up all our junk?” (We left in a bit of a rush.)

Pete: “She’s yelling at me in French.”

Me: “Smile and pick up our junk so she can clean. This is so bad.”

Twenty minutes lapse while I’m looking at pictures of the fighters in the French Resistance of which I’m sure the cleaning lady was a member.

Pete texts me again: I helped her clean up. No speak anglais!!! She is not yelling now but just says ne comprend pas. LOL! Ask le Betsy where is the Liszt concert sil vous plais?”

Me: “It’s at San Chapelle. I’m so sorry about all this. Does she look upset?”

Pete: “She’s fine. It was kinda hilarious actually.”

But actually not so hilarious. She only left two clean towels and no clean sheets. The resistance was not so passive. However, the mental picture of Pete and the cleaning lady trying to talk to each other is priceless.

The trip to Normandy was wonderful. I sat in the back seat just like the Queen Mum. Betsy, Nollie, and the lady on the GPS were all giving Andy opposite directions while he zoomed around the country lanes like he was driving in the Grand Prix. When we got home, Pete met us for dinner at a restaurant that’s been a restaurant for 340 years. I’m quite sure I saw Dumas’ ghost sitting in the corner. The food was amazing.

Pete and Betsy left this morning. His parting remark was a suggestion that I get a can of mace for while I’m here alone. I’ve been worried about falling down the stairs, (five treacherous flights to reach the kitchen. I feel like I signed up for a month climbing in the Alps.) or losing my keys, (which I’ve done once. I sat on the steps and ate a chocolate éclair while I pondered my options.) but I haven’t really been worried about assault—until now. I’ve made friends with the grocer. I wonder if he would come if I screamed? Clearly, the cleaning lady is not available.

October 15,

To Kathy, Cindy, Kathy, and Clytee

The last contingent of children leaves in the morning. Andy and Nollie have had a wonderful time and there has been much hand-holding. I have trudged along behind in my black raincoat, a Grand’Mere—until I decided that this just wouldn’t do—and so I started to tail them at a discrete distance. Think CIA agent disguised as  savvy sixty-year-old, wearing a scarf. Because you have to wear scarves. I think they’re just handing them out when they stamp passports, because people’s scarves don’t’ seem to match—not an issue. Of course, the instruction would be that you must wear them around your neck and not covering your hair. I am very glad that I don’t wear my religious garb on my head. There would be no way to tie those legs to make them look chic.  Anyway, everyone wears scarves, men, women, BABIES! But not the Germans, they wear wind breakers and sturdy backpacks, no scarves on those necks. The Asians look like their scarves have just been ironed. And of course, Americans are so adaptable—bring on the scarves—wrinkled, matching, plaids, solids, prints, whatever works, it’s all good. Golden Retrievers should be our national breed.

Our weather is cold but beautiful. My legs and feet are finally adjusting to all this standing and walking. After we noticed a scruffy young man standing outside our door, and someone rang our door bell at one in the morning, I googled crime in Paris. It’s so funny, every single thing has happened to us. A woman—certainly a gypsy—approached Pete with a gold ring she said he’d dropped. Someone came up to Andy with the string ploy. Pete had a friendly young man approach him about a ride in from the airport, which Pete accepted. We’re lucky he wasn’t murdered. (I guess tourists coming in from the airports with cash, cameras, and credit cards are a juicy target) We’ve been approached with petitions from deaf girls. The works. And it was right there in Google. These criminals need to get on line and change their approach. However, nothing I read talked about break-ins. Too much work. No violent crime. I’d need to stay home for that. I was very relieved.

I’m going to church in the morning. I cased it out. I can get there without a map in my hand. I’ve also contacted an old student from Logan High. He’s an artist living here. He was great. He offered to loan me a phone (mine has mysteriously quit working. I blame the gypsies.) and he invited me to dinner. Look at his website. Paul Ferney. So, I don’t feel isolated. Charlie arrives on Saturday, and if he survives the trip from the airport, I’ll be delighted to see him.

October 16,

Dear Kathy, Kathy, Cindy, Cathy, and Clytee,

I went to church today. At least I’m pretty sure that’s where I went. I was so worried about not forgetting my keys, my phone, and my emergency numbers for the American embassy, that I forgot my glasses. It was a Monet morning, very blurry. The Sunday school classes were in French, English and Chinese, but I went to Primary and stood in the back of the room with tears running down my face listening to those little French children singing the very same songs that our children sing. I don’t know why it hit me that hard, but I looked pretty silly with a wad of blue toilet paper mopping up my face. My grandfather came here on a mission in 1911. He was called three times before he actually went. He didn’t want to be the only one of George Q. Cannon’s sons who didn’t go. He ended up loving it, spoke French like a native, and wore a beret for the rest of his life. I think of him walking these streets. Anyway, going on a mission felt a little more comfortable this morning, like maybe it’s an adventure that shouldn’t be missed. Who knows how I’ll feel tomorrow.

I met my cousin’s daughter at church. I knew she was here. She’s going to come tomorrow and spend the day while her husband travels. She’s a great kid, and we’ll have fun. The cleaning lady also comes again tomorrow. I’m going to try and not be here when she arrives.

I’m on my way to my old student’s house for dinner. It was sort of last minute and I have to take the RER which will require bravery. He lives under the Eiffel Tower on De La Bourbonnais, so I could probably get a cab without breaking the bank. Maybe on the way home.

October 19,

Dear friends,

Well, there I was thinking I’m on sabbatical from all things normal, and I’m invited to dinner at an old student’s house. Getting there was not simple, a train ride away. I had one arm full of a flowering plant and was putting the ticket through the little machine, but the bar wouldn’t move. I tried it five or six times, until I remembered the definition for insanity. So I stood in line for another ticket hoping I had enough change. The billet machines hate my credit card. I finally remembered I had a couple of new tickets in my purse. (I had just realized using used tickets doesn’t work.)

I finally arrived and was ushered in to their very small apartment full of delicious smells. Paul and his wife had invited another nice young couple and a girl named Gabrielle, who is very late, but she can get away with it because she’s getting an MBA at an exclusive school at Fontainebleau, and when she finally arrives, this girl is put together, no kidding. Studied perfection. Perfect clothes, hair, high heeled boots, eyebrows (sculptured eyebrows are big around here), the works. Her husband flies over every month to stay with her in her little chateau. How lovely. So in the course of the conversation, it turns out that she grew up in Cache Valley. Gabrielle? Not only did she grow up in Cache Valley, her uncle was my plan B boyfriend in high school, and in college I worked with her father. The world was suddenly too small. I tried not to stare, but it was all I could do not to ask where the window was  because I needed to jump out. No kidding, I felt like Han Solo and Luke Skywalker in the trash compactor. Encountering a new generation of my past was too weird.

I had another altercation with la lady du clean. She arrived and I was as charming as I could be and did lots of Merci’s and Bon Jour’s, and I left as soon as she came because I was meeting my cousin’s daughter, in front of Norte Dame. Maren wanted to leave her bag here  and use le toilette, so back we came. The cleaning lady met us at the bedroom door, tapped her watch, and proceeded to scold me in French. She absolutely would not let us use the bathroom. It was hilarious. She even poufted at me—only the second time that’s happened in two weeks. She uses a single crutch, but I don’t think she’s disabled; it’s just a ploy to fight off the infidels.

Fortunately, I’ve had mostly wonderful experiences with native Parisians. I had a five minute conversation with a man who (long story short) told me he didn’t know Paris was beautiful until he saw it through the eyes of an American friend. He didn’t speak a word of English, but I understood him perfectly. He was completely charming. I also met a street artist who was also very nice. Zamir Mati. He has a website. He does whimsical street scenes in water color.

I’m staying home today; the first day since I’ve been here. Maren and I were caught in a down pour yesterday on our way to Victor Hugo’s house, and I thought I’d give myself a day to dry out and put my feet up. It’s getting cold, but I’m not going to risk anything else electrical. The microwave spit sparks at me when I tried to heat up a legume quiche.

Charlie arrives in three days, that’s the equivalent of six chocolate éclairs.

October 22,

Dear Friends,

Well, Charlie arrived this morning. That is the longest time that we’ve been separated in the nearly forty years we’ve been married. When I met him at the metro, I had a rose in my teeth just in case he didn’t recognize me. It was a bit dicey as he got off on the wrong stop, but thanks to smart phones, and in spite of dumb humans, we found each other. Now just five hours later, he is in charge of the map. What can I say?

It is cold. Freezing last night. I don’t know what was going on, but a very rowdy crew of young people were singing the Marsallies near midnight. I just hope their team won. I finally braved the heaters, and now I’m down to wearing one sweater at a time. An improvement. I had three quilts on my bed last night and my ears still froze. But the skies are sunny and beautiful this afternoon, people were out and about, and Charlie and I were sitting together eating chocolate éclairs in the Luxemburg Gardens. It doesn’t get much better than that.

We visited the Rodin Gardens and I have to say that the Burghers of Calais remind me of mothers in the foyer after the Mother’s Day sacrament meeting. Something about their tragic faces.

Well, I hope all goes well in Primary tomorrow. Seems crazy that I only have a week left. I am so glad that I came.

October 23,

Dear Children,

We’re having a wonderful time. Charlie has an app on his phone which speaks French phrases. Very funny. Of course, by the time he tells his phone what he wants it to say, it’s too late. He’s currently pronouncing all the items in the fridge in French. It is cold. Oh my goodness. Your dad brought my fifteen year old fleece jacket and I nearly bawled when I saw it. Such an old friend.

We think that we’re going to take the train to Caen, miss the museum, see the D Day coasts, and the cemetery and then meander our way through the country side to Mont St. Michael. Maybe stay in a little bed and breakfast and not hurry. If we get back in a day or two—who cares? The upside to being old. Then we’ll see the museums when the weather turns rainy.

October 27,

Dear Cindy, Kathy, Kathy, Clytee, and Cathy

Occassionant du perturbations, which is what the departures sign said next to the train to Caen because of a ten minute retard. I had to sit right down and laugh. Charlie was pacing. We arrived in Caen and went directly to the car rental, and guess who left his driver’s license at home and guess who had hers in her pocket?   So I was driving listening to the GPSs lady giving me instructions to get in the right lane (not the far right lane) which was the street car lane (I should have noticed the tracks) and an electric trolley was nearly upon us. I made a quick left barely missing not much of a family, the children were small. No one said anything for about five minutes, then Charlie said, “I nearly threw up back there.”  I’m just so glad he didn’t.

Once we were out in the country, we found an adorable boulangerie and had a couple of chocolate éclairs which made everyone feel better.  Then Charlie drove (he insisted) and I held the map and had the GPS in my lap. The GPS lady doesn’t say much on country roads when you’re going the right direction, and then suddenly it’s like your crotch is talking. “In eighteen meters go through the round-about and take the third exit.” Very startling. Nevertheless, we had a nice time in Normandy, walked along Omaha Beach, and saw the Bayeux Tapestry—amazing. Of course, getting back into Caen and finding the train station was hair raising, and we had to have more éclairs for dinner. We are sleeping in today.

Husbands are funny. After entering the game in the fourth quarter, Charlie is now in charge of the map, purchasing tickets, and the keys.  I am in charge of figuring out the metro and chatting with strangers. Neither of us takes picture of ourselves, as Charlie says, “Let’s keep the illusion going as long as we can.”   We are thinking of visiting Versailles tomorrow, if Charlie’s nerves are up to it. And then it’s home on Monday. It will be very hard to leave. I’ve gotten used to the smell of “very old.”  This garret has been around since 1670. And I’m not sure how to tell the grocer I’m leaving. However, it will be lovely to see all of you.

October 29,

Dear Betsy, Andy, Pete, Charlotte, Nollie

We’re getting home late Monday night. It will be a long day, and Charlie goes to work on Tuesday. But we’ve had a wonderful time.  Two days ago, we unplugged the clocks and put our watches in the closet. The new impressionist exhibit at the D’Orsay opened on the 20th and two days later the staff went on strike. Those Parisians, when they’re not happy, they head to the streets. Anyway, it opened again yesterday, and we went, and it was completely wonderful. I’m so sorry you all missed it. We went through the exhibit twice, had lunch, and went through it again. Even the paint colors in the rooms were beautiful.

The day before, we were at the Louvre. Charlie was zooming around seeing the highlights with an audio guide, and I headed for the Flemish wing away from the crowds. No one was about except an older lady—she was probably sixty—and we both sat there looking at the three Rembrandt self portraits which really do take your breath away, and she finally pressed my hand and said, Magnifique! It was a great moment. Charlie and I met at our appointed spot, and he walked up carrying his shoes under his coat. Very funny. Very unCharlie, but his feet hurt, and he wasn’t about to miss the Alexander the Great exhibit.

Today we’re walking to the Bastille, a terrifying round-a-bout, but we’ll just look at it from the sidewalk. Then I think we’re going to see the old Opera House that I remember my grandfather mentioning in some of his missionary letters. I think tomorrow we’re going to a mass in Saint Suplice and hear the pipe organ. And then I suppose we’ll pack. It will be hard to leave—I mean who can give up five flights of winding stairs three times a day and a grouchy cleaning lady—but I’m starting to think about home and getting ready for the holidays.

I expect I’ll be upside down for a few days, but then I’ll check in.

Love, mom/annette

I know, I know, no more Vampires. You mention the word and everyone groans and makes some crack about the Twilight series or Bela Lugosi, but I just spent three days with my nose in a book–a 766 page turner, The Passage by Justin Cronin. It’s a great read. Even the invented slang is entertaining. Vampires are smokes, dracs, virals. Children are Littles. Slims are the dessicated left over bodies (think carcass after Thanksgiving). Cronin is clearly a graduate of the Iowa Workshop, and occasionally you feel like you’re swimming through unending descriptive passages and each of the dozens of characters have a complex back story, but give the guy his due, they were all interesting and well written. And the whole premise for the novel, an apocalyptic pandemic, a virus that turns well intentioned humans into blood sucking exo-skeleton monsters, I mean what could be better than that?  Borrow it, check it out, buy it on Amazon or at your local independent bookseller, but read this book. It’s so much fun.

After being a loyal Dialogue reader for too many years to count, I finally have a short story, Fish Stories, in their winter issue. I think it’s an insightful treatment of the both toxic and healthy ways women interact with one another, and so I was a bit disgruntled to have it totally eclipsed by the article by Kenneth Cannon II, certainly one of my twenty thousand second half cousins once removed. Yes, you’ve got to love the fallout from polygamy.

“Wives and Other Women: Love, Sex, and Marriage in the Lives of John Q. Cannon, Frank J. Cannon, and Abraham H. Cannon” does not hold back, and good for the author. I reread the biography of George Q. Cannon by Davis Bitton over the Thanksgiving holiday when I was stuck, wrapped in a blanket in a corner of my son’s house trying not to infect my entire family, by what was lacking. That biography was so scrubbed that I wanted to chuck it out the window. Now in 36 pages in Dialogue, the heart ache that a father must have endured is spelled out, no details missing.

There are plenty of stories about my maternal grandfather’s older brothers, and I’ve  heard the story of Frank Cannon’s illegitimate child before, the one plucked from his mother’s arms by George Q. Canon to be raised as a twin in his own Grandmother’s home, but I had never known the mother’s identity. Now I do, Maud Baugh of Logan. Poor Maud, a twenty-year-old girl, just happened to be the aunt to Phyllis Baugh, a secretary for fifty years to my paternal grandfather, Old Dr. Randall, a non-Mormon native of Alabama, who certainly knew the whole story but never saw fit to mention it given his connection to my mother, his daughter-in-law and a Cannon. Maud was a woman with some resources and came from an excellent Logan family, not just the upstairs maid as legend has it. When her son’s uncles took him aside on his wedding day (I can’t say much for their timing) to tell him that his parents were not whom he supposed them to be, I hope they knew enough about Maud to get the story straight.

If this genealogy is confusing, you’ve never lived in Utah, and I apologize. The larger issue is how a biography could be written and not mention any of the stories that must have shaped the last thirty years of George Q. Cannon’s life.

These three boys, toddlers all, were left with wife #2 while George Q. left with wife #1 for an extended English mission. Were the little boys all scarred in some way? Did their father’s complicated sexual relationships influence their own? George Q. constantly intervened trying course corrections with his sons that failed. He must have agonized when his oldest son had to publicly confess his adultery  at General Conference. What courage was required to soldier on in the face of censure, humiliation, and disappointment. Wow. Why are the most inspirational stories shoved under the rug?

You will be delighted to know that Charlie and I have reversed the aging process. Through an amazing discovery Charlie made at Costco, we are now the proud owners of a Vita-Mix Machine and drink copious amounts of raw fruits and vegetables twice a day. Tomatoes, mixed berries, apples, grapes, bananas, carrots, broccoli, and green leafy vegetables get tossed into the machine and pureed into a concoction the consistency of a milk shake. We are virtually aglow with anti-oxidents. Our age spots are fading, our memories are improving, and our aches and pains are less vocal. Of course, the qustion we are frequently asked is   “What about chewing?” We strain the seeds with our teeth, but not a lot of chewing is involved which is good, because we are also into joint conservation.

The update on our children is not, unfortunately, as exciting. Pete is working at a pharmacy, Betsy is working too much, Andy is working in Ohio, and Charlotte is working on completing her last year of PA school. They are a tax paying, student debt reducing, energy conserving crew of liberals, moderate consesrvatives, and conspiracy theorists who play scrabble on holidays and remember their parents’ birthdays and anniversaries. So far no one has run away to join the circus.

The grandchildren are much more engaging. Ben has lost two baby teeth spontaneously and not as a result of playground mishaps. He rides the bus to kindergarten and thinks he scores all the goals on his soccer and basketball teams. Charlie tried to tell him that goals in basketball are called baskets, but the logic isn’t consistent. After all goals in soccer aren’t called socks.

Lucy is fifteen months old and is a girl with a mind of her own but not much hair. She has started to talk. Her first word was “ya-ya,” but actually it sounded more like, “yeah, yeah.” It’s a response I frequently make myself, and I was delighted, after five years of fruitless searching, to discover my genetic thumbprint on one of my grandchildren. When adults make the ridiculous, obvious remarks that adults make, “Lucy, what a pretty dress,” or “Lucy, aren’t you a big girl,” she responds, “Yeah, yeah.” I’m sure that next year she will perfect rolling her eyes. She’s an adorable child, a diminutive, happy cynic. All she needs now is a small set of car keys and a baby doll to throw over her shoulder.

Charlie and I are not worried about getting older. We just toss back more glutinous fruits and vegetables and devise our escape plans. We’ve rented a flat in Paris for a month next fall to mark our continued existence. Betsy is going with me, she refers to herself as the vanguard. Charlie is coming at the end of the month to ensure my return. Pete, Charlotte, and Andy and Nollie are coming as the mood strikes them.

If you happen to be in France next October and see an elegant ex-pat wandering the streets, searching for food that hasn’t been pulverized, it just might be moi. Please say hello; the chance that I’ll recognize you is greatly improved.

Happy New Year.

I never know which version of my grandson will come down the escalator to hug me (and knock me down) in baggage claim. The aficionado of Thomas the Train and Cars seems to have been replaced by a karate chopping five-year-old pouncer who breaks into elaborate dance moves when the music, any music, reaches his ears. The first morning he was here, we were awakened at five o’clock (seven, Ohio time) and were at the play ground at the elementary school as the sun was coming over the mountains. After several days of pleading, “Please, no chopping” or “Grandmothers are fragile,” I have learned to just tuck and roll.

This little boy, who has been in perpetual motion since he deboarded the plane, sat perfectly still to have his face painted like a terrifying blue dragon at Lagoon. His back-to-school haircut had to be gelled and spray-painted green. Not being able to tie a bow was not a deterrent to the purchase of electric blue Converse All Stars. He sped around the shoe store–lightning speed. What is it about new shoes?

In two weeks time, it was only the ride up the tram at Snowbird that proved traumatic. In fairness to Ben, it was terrifying, like a trip to the surface of the moon. We landed above the timber line, no birds, no wild flowers, just gravel and a grim landscape. Ben had been hopping from one foot to another for the last five minutes, but the operator assured me that a porta-pottie would be available on the top. A very nasty, cold, smelly convenience, and Ben sat there for several minutes while I stood guard at the door. This little boy has a bladder the size of a peanut and a pressurized stream that could blast paint off concrete, but the chill wind drowned out the absence of noise. Two minutes into the return trip, two hundred feet in the air, Ben made his announcement. In spite of the tram being jammed with sightseeing vacationers, we sang, we danced, we jumped up and down. I cajoled, I encouraged, I failed. I couldn’t imagine even such a small bladder reloading so quickly. Quarts of urine spilled down his small legs and soaked his socks and shoes. Aghast, people pulled away, turned up their noses, and grimaced at being confined on a tram with such trashy people. We were both humiliated and glad to take French leave from the rest of our party and hide out in the public restroom rinsing out Thomas the Train underwear, shorts, and socks and drying them with the hot air machine next to the sinks. There is much to remember about little boys that I seem to have forgotten.

I’ve considered pinning a warning label on the front of his Levi jacket for his Kindergarten teacher, Caution Pouncer. Instead, I’ll hug him tightly before he leaves me at security and wonder who will meet me at Thanksgiving.