I am back home in the USA from a writer’s retreat in France. Follow me on EW Emma’s Writings on http://emmapalova.com for stories from Provence, Burgundy and Paris. Pictured is Paris from a rooftop bar in the historic Le Marais quarter. To the right is the flashing Eiffel Tower. Every full hour the Eiffel sparkles in lights along with the blue beam that illuminates parts of Paris near the river Seine.
The fabulous panoramic “Les Nympheas” paintings inside the L’Orangerie Gallery were a gift from Claude Monet to the people of Paris.
Stay tuned for stories from Provence, Burgundy, Jura region and Paris on EW Emma’s Writings on http://emmapalova.com.
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Villages of the Luberon Mountains Continued from Provence most beautiful villages at By Emma Palova EW Emma’s Writings Provence, FR- After a morning writing session on Sunday in the large Provença…
International “ladies squad” explores L’art de Vivre in Provence
Note: My summer writer’s retreat 2016 in France takes me from Burgundy south to the heart of Provence for magical four days. Our international “ladies squad” explored three of the seven most beautiful villages in France: Lacoste, Lourmarin, Ansouis and the town of St.Remy-de-Provence. For one year, Van Gogh made his home in St. Remy inspired by the Alpilles.
By Emma Palova
EW Emma’s Writings
Provence, FR- Provençal bastide no.23 sits on Chemin de la Font du Pin between the villages of Cheval-Blanc and Merindol. The mansion with seven bedrooms nestles at the foot of a beach pine forest.
Provencal bastide near Cheval-Blanc.
Typical architecture for this southernmost region of France embraces traditional elements of stone washed walls with tall French doors, large gathering places on the main level and sleeping quarters on the second level. Arches instead of doors open the space between different rooms.
The yard with the garden caters to relaxation and function with a cafe-style gazebo lit by sun energy lamps, a large dining table and an iron wrought bed. White Mandeville plants and Hydrangea decorated the gazebo.
The large pool with a colorful cabin is near the house on a cleared terrain in the white pine beach forest with rosemary shrubs.
Our international “ladies squad” found their bedrooms each equipped with a bathroom and a view into the morning sun bathed beach forest. Tiles are a must in the hot dry climate of Provence.
I shared room no.7 dipped in hues of purple and decorated with butterflies with granddaughter Ella. After a recent conflict, I find solace in the peaceful Provençal atmosphere of farm markets, wine caves, cafes, cobblestone streets, olive groves and deserted châteaux lit by magnificent sunsets.
Inside the bastid. A large living and dining room with French doors into the garden.
The first night we picked ripe grapes in the front yard. Vendange or wine harvest has already started in this part of France. There was also a lime tree and plentiful rosemary shrubs that grew both at the base of the beach forest and in it. To my surprise, on my “balades” through the forest, I also found shrubs of holly.
One morning In the middle of my walk, I stopped dead when I heard a rattling sound.
“A rattlesnake,” I thought and hurried back to the bastide.
Two days later by the pool, Claude pointed out the rattling sound.
“C’est une tone de Cigale de olive,” she said. “That’s the sound of the cigales.”
I laughed at my paranoia originating in my early childhood years while living in Texas.
Mornings, before the heat of the day breaks, are fresh. You wake up to the roosters’ crowing and to the sound of the Cigale in the olive groves and in the rosemary bushes.
Beach white pines near the Provençal bastide.
Instead of a Provençal breakfast of hard-boiled eggs with figs, we ate Lyon festive brioche with pralines, compliments of Mrs. Claude Chavent, Emma’s mother-in-law.
Each lady from the squad contributed her own tastes and flavors to the full gourmet experience. The traveling squad consisted of Captain Dr. Emma Palova of Fixin, Chef Selene Alvarez of Veracruz, Mexico, former anesthesiologist Mrs. Claude Chavent of Lyon, FR and journalist, writer Emma Palova of USA. Both Emmas were born in former Czechoslovakia.
On a late Saturday morning, daughter Emma and I headed out to the Merindol market.
Instead of a marche extravaganza, we only found an olive and cheese merchant along with a straw hat and a bag vendor.
“It’s the summer break,” said the olive vendor.
Olive merchant in Merindol, Provence.
“It’s all about the love for life here in France, not about money,” Emma educated me. “It’s called l’art de vivre.”
For our apero that night, Emma bought an olive spread “olivenade”, a dried tomato spread, cheese, spicy olives with pimento and olives in brine with Provençal herbs at the market in Merindol.
Wine tasting stands at the markets in Provence.
Walking a narrow street up the hill, we stopped at a local hangout spot for coffee and tea on the sidewalk. I love watching people in these quaint villages not occupied by tourists. The locals were already drinking wine and beer.
A woman wearing an apron dress with a large grocery bag hurried past the abandoned tobacco shop. A chic woman overdressed in a black T-shirt with long sleeves pedaled uphill, while a youngster on a bike with fresh bread in his backpack closely followed her.
I wasn’t alone watching the action. A Provençal old-time villager was sitting in his chair right in front of his house on the street. Of course the woman haltered her hurry to exchange gossip with the old-timer. There’s always time for gossip in these villages.
Cafe in Merindol, Provence.
We also came across a reformed church, an anomaly in the mainly catholic France.
We stopped at a farm market on our way back to the bastide to get fresh strawberries and mangoes for the planned Daiquiri drinks by the pool.
We tasted wine from a local wine caterer stationed right by the market stand.
Even though pink wine known as rose is the wine of choice in the Provence region, I bought a bottle of white wine for the apero. Nothing like Burgundy whites, but it tasted better than the rose.
To be continued…………………The most beautiful villages of France
“Climats” in Burgundy present a cultural landscape, a 2015 UNESCO world heritage site
Note: After my third visit to the wine region of Burgundy in France, I consider it to be my annual summer writer’s retreat amidst vineyards, exceptional gastronomy and the “Climats.”
By Emma Palova
Fixin, FR- On an early Sunday morning, I woke up to the ringing of the church bells and a local gentleman shouting at his dog, a lot louder than the dog’s barking.
From my studio, I heard the cars rolling down the narrow Rue Magnien that leads into the tiny wine village of Fixin. The walls around the estates magnify the sounds and funnel them into endless echoes.
Major street through Fixin
But, just before the light broke, I could hear the chirping of the birds in the mulberry tree. The mulberry tree is the only tree that grows between the bricks in the small courtyard in front of the house.
The stone house rises three stories with “lucarnes” or windows in the roof. Sources tell me that the house was a brasserie, before getting divided. After the division, the house lost the right wing, but none of its Burgundian charm or massiveness.
Surprisingly, the house does not have an adjacent vineyard behind it. New or old vineyards in Burgundy are hard to come by, according to my daughter Dr. Emma Palova-Chavent. However, a dream to get a vineyard sometime in the future may become a reality, knowing my daughter.
The journey from the corn and soy bean fields of Michigan, USA to the vineyards of Burgundy is about 4,000 miles long across the Atlantic Ocean. After an endless flight to Paris, we took a reasonable Uber ride for 45 euros to the Gare Percy train station near the famous Lyon Station, one of seven train stations in Paris.
I have a great affinity to train travel that originates in my homeland in Czech Republic.
Township hall “Marie” in Fixin with school.
The local train took us swiftly into Dijon, the capital city of Burgundy, a principal wine-producing area. Travelling by train in France is a great alternative to the automobile due to the efficiency of the entire transit network.
Fixin sits on the Grands Crus Route which winds from the northernmost Chenove to Remigny in the south for a total of 57.8 kilometers.
You can ride it, bike it or walk it for a unique experience of a lifetime. Whichever you choose to do, there are accommodating facilities along the way like Hotel les Grands Crus in Gevrey-Chambertin sitting directly on the wine trail.
The “Balades en Bourgogne” app offers e-guided tours highlighting off the trail locations with châteaux, churches and wineries.
I’ve experienced the magic of this wine route during my three distinct visits to Burgundy. In 2009 with a base in Nuits-Saint-Georges, then in 2013 in Dijon and now I stay in Fixin in the north part of the Grands Crus Route.
La Perriere mansion of the Dukes of Burgundy in Fixin.
The vineyards in the heat of the day are just as peaceful as they were a century ago when the monks established them. Perfect rows of wines in small plots that hug the slopes, are sometimes divided by stone walls, stone arches or by stone shelters known as “cabottes.” An occasional walnut tree oasis with a bench serves as an observation platform.
The UNESCO has recognized this complex magic in designating the vineyards of Burgundy as the “Climats,” a world heritage site in 2015 to be preserved for all mankind.
This small plot viticulture of vineyards that are terrain based create an impressive mosaic of more than 1,000 Climats lined up from Dijon to the Maranges.
Hiking between the wine villages of Fixin and Couchey.
“In Burgundy, when we speak about a Climat, we don’t look to the sky, we keep our eyes to the ground,” said Bernard Pivot, writer and president of the support committee for the Climats.
As I walk the winding path through the Climats, in the distance a church steeple in Couchey shimmers with yellow and blue tiles. Only the bell tolls the time. The time has stopped here in the vineyards and the watch seems unnecessary.
I bend down to pick a bluish purple small grape, the Pinot noir grape variety of the region of Burgundy deeply embedded in the red soil. As the sweet juices touch the palate, I realize that thousands of years of hard work have gone into this one grape to bring it to perfection.
And that this second is the same as it was one thousand years ago when the monks established the vineyards.
Church of St. Martin, 1172 in Fixin .
The monks, the Valois Dukes of Burgundy, the wine merchants and wine growers, have all carried the wine tradition over the centuries.
On the horizon to the left, I see the magnificent seat of Dijon nestling in a valley with all its museums, archaeological abbey, the Palace of the Dukes of Burgundy and the gourmet restaurants.
Walking from one wine village to the next, is like being born again with a new view on the world.
During my different stays in Burgundy, I noticed that some little things have changed, while the most remain the same. It’s that same stability that we constantly seek around us, no matter where we are.
Burgundy wine caves
Among the changes are: more bilingual tourist stations and chambers in the villages, greater use of the wine trails via bike tours, walking and hiking.
However, the steady constant vibrates in the romantic wine villages with stone architecture, in the gastronomy and in the exceptional Crus wines.
The Climats have given us the high quality wines sought after around the world. These include: Montrachet, Romanee-Conti, Clos de Vougeout, Corton, Musigny, Chevalier-Montrachet, Chambertin and more.
Unique and fragile, the Climats, vineyards of Burgundy, are our heritage, one that must be protected and passed on. Their inscription on the UNESCO World Heritage List as a “cultural landscape” is part of this objective. This is a commitment that has been undertaken, and witnessed by the community of nations, to respect and to preserve the “Outstanding Universal Value” of the Climats, as “combined works of nature and man.”
[Article 1, paragraph 3 of the Convention of World Heritage]
This is the first post in a series about family relationships that have inspired me to write the memoir “Greenwich Meridian where East meets West” (c)
Some time ago, I wrote the post “Two sisters still at war” about the friction between my mother Ella and her sister Anna aka Anyna. The derogatory version of the beautiful name refers to the relationship between the two aging sisters. Notice that the word Anyna is missing on the greeting card for Anna’s Day.
Anton Chekhov’s “Three Sisters” and Leo Nikolayevich Tolstoy’s “Anna Karenina” kindled my inquisitive mind to further explore relationships and psychology.
Watch as I pick up on the tension between the two sisters. Check out the post at the following link:
Popular name brings back memories By Emma Palova EW Emma’s Writings Lowell, MI- As I was checking Facebook for messages, I came across a greeting card for Anna from the group Czechoslovak Friends o…
Lowell, MI- As I was checking Facebook for messages, I came across a greeting card for Anna from the group Czechoslovak Friends on Facebook. The greeting card wished well to all the girls and women who carry this beautiful name.
Front row from left to right: grandparents Anna & Joseph. Top row: Sisters Eliska and Anna.
Our family celebrated Anna’s day to honor three great women: Grandmother Anna Drabkova of Vizovice, aunt and godmother Anna Chudarkova of Zlin and paternal aunt Anna Tomankova of Otrokovice.
However, not everyone thought they were great. But, time changes everything.
I spent all the summers with grandma Anna and my grandpa Joseph; first at their old dwelling “chalupa” near the river Lutoninka and later at their ranch no.111 on a hill.
Grandma Anna accompanied me to the first grade at the Vizovice Elementary School in mid 1960s. At the time my parents and brother Vas were in Sudan, Africa. Dad Vaclav Konecny was teaching physics & mathematics at the University of Khartoum.
Wallachian town Vizovice was a paradise during formative years for the future writer. My first memory goes back to Vizovice. I remember chasing after our neighbor farmer Vlada for whatever reason, as I fell on the crushed asphalt path leading to the river Lutoninka and the wheat fields.
Krnovska, Vizovice where the street was the playground.
Vizovice, where old meets new.
Main Square Vizovice with Marian Column.
I hurt my knee. A little trickle of blood came out of the scratched skin. I couldn’t get up and I desperately reached out to Vlada.
“Wait for me, wait for me,” I screamed.
Farmer Vlada kept on walking. I finally got up, turned around and ran back to the “chalupa.”
“Babiiiii, babii, I am hurt,” I whined.
“That’s nothing,” said grandpa Joseph without looking up from the sewing machine that he was just repairing.
“Look here,” I cried pointing at my first wound.
Anna bent down to me and patted me on the head and then on my hurt knee.
“Come on little one,” she soothed me.
Grandma Anna was the youngest of seven children. Some of them died prematurely. She was taking care of her two single brothers, farmers Frank and Joseph. The brothers owned the family field called “Hrabina” close to the famous plum brandy plant “Jelinek.”
The field was a fraction of what they used to own prior to the 1948 socialization of private businesses and farms.
Both grandparents spent endless hours working in the fields after work and on weekends. They worked at the local shoe factory Svedrup. Grandpa Joseph as the lead machine maintenance man.
Anna was a seamstress, who also worked at Svedrup until she got a heart attack.
That day, the family forgot to pick me up from kindergarten.
Lowell, MI- I have just found out that small things matter, that destiny exists and that life is frail.
Three times in life I had close calls when death was reaching for me with her long arms.
Once, I almost drowned even though I am an apt swimmer, not like Michael Phelps but close. Just joking. I feel lucky when I can swim a 50-meter pool once and not the butterfly style.
The second time I almost got killed in a car driving on a rural route from one small town to another small town in northern Michigan.
Ella’s time in America.
The third time I fell down straight on my face due to low blood pressure, heat and dizziness from medication at the height of summer on July 14th.
A one-night stay at the Metro Hospital on M-6 cost us $10,000. My husband Ludek also spent one night at what we call “Hotel 6” with heart problems. That also cost us $10,000.
We came out of there alive unlike our neighbor Ted aka “Teddy Bear” who never made it out of “Hotel 6” after a 2-year struggle with leukemia.
“At least he lived it up,” said my daughter-in-law Maranda Palova.
No matter what you call it whether living it up, bucket list or living your way because you think you’re going to die soon, you can’t escape destiny.
Ella Chavent with one of the volunteers at St. Pat’s.
And yes life is frail at all its stages.
I am breathing again freely with new wisdom. I found out why I didn’t die in any of those close calls.
It’s my French granddaughter Ella Chavent, 5. She will turn six in September. Ella is staying with us for the summer. At first I had butterflies in my stomach. I worried about this international experiment not knowing where it will take us. We didn’t know Ella that well because we’ve seen her in six years only six times.
Ella’s parents left for France last Friday taking along her two-year old brother Sam.
“Did Sam leave?” she asked me.
“No, he’s living under the roof in the attic,” I said seriously but laughing out loud afterwards.
And we’ve played that joke ever since. Ella keeps telling everyone that her brother lives in the attic. That simple joke broke the ice when Ella started crying for her mami after coming home from St. Pat’s summer school.
Our international family clan on July 4th under the pergola.
Normally, I hate Mondays but this time I didn’t. I took Ella to school in the morning. She carried her tart cherry pie for her friends. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have made that cherry pie. I would normally not go to St. Pat’s Church. I would just lounge around all Sunday morning.
But, with Ella going to a catholic school, I felt compelled to go to church. Ella wouldn’t go either, but she wanted to see her friends from school.
After dropping her off this morning, I felt an urge to drive to Smyrna to see if the work on Whites Bridge replica has started.
Instead, there was a stronger pull to go home. I kept looking around over all my stuff; things that I used to think mattered so much.
At first I wanted to do the laundry, so I went upstairs to pick up Ella’s clothes. Picking up stuff off the floor in what was my daughter’s room in the nineties, I realized there’s a greater cause than just dirty laundry.
Without taking down Emma’s posters from the white walls, I started re-doing the room Ella style. I cleared the shelves for her souvenirs from the Ionia Free Fair and from Picnic Pops fireworks and concert, that she enjoyed so much over the weekend.
In the corner of the room, I created a work station for her. Our neighbor Catherine Haefner gave Ella a “computer” with books and a tape. Ella tested it out at the open house for Katie Haefner.
Then I went to the balcony to water the flower boxes. I looked at Ella’s little garden made inside a cut off milk jar. Her chicks and hens started already growing.
Next to Ella’s miniature garden is a bigger black square pot with mums. I forgot to water them during the June heat. So, the flowers died. I wanted to pull out the plant and throw it out. Something wouldn’t let me.
I looked closer at the plant after watering it thoroughly for the last three weeks. With all the rain we had, I found new buds coming out on the leafy stems.
To me, the new buds symbolize new blood and a fresh new outlook on life.
There was a reason why I didn’t die in one of those close calls.
Thank you universe.
Note: This story ties into the earlier post “Immersion English” or “International Experiment” found at https://emmapalova.com/2016/07/14/international-experiment/
May events feature crowds & peaceful manifestations of passion
By Emma Palova
Lowell, MI- In the quiet of an early hour, between night and day, when two energies meet, I am waiting for the daylight to break in.
I cannot see the International Space Station (ISS) orbiting the Earth, because of the clouds. The ISS usually moves over my garden heading south around 4 a.m.
I cannot hear the first bird yet, because it’s not his time. The first song comes around 5:30 right at daybreak.
Time to contemplate events,
I should be meditating, but I am not. Writing is the best meditation. I should be doing yoga, but I am not. Instead, I am exercising my brain.
I should be checking my e-mail, but I am not. Writing this today is more important.
I am thinking about the relativity of events and happenings that are all going on in May. May is the month of love, according to Czech poets and writers. I too celebrate the month of May for its freshness, rebirth and beauty. According to chefs, May is the month of Mediterranean cuisine, and according to the government, May is the Military Appreciation month. It also used to be the Mental Health month, according to mental health institutions.
Most events happening in May are by huge crowd gatherings in pursuit of something. A few of them are peaceful manifestations of passion for something.
The vicious circle of Roundup by Monsanto.
In two hours I will be going to the annual customer appreciation day at Jones Farm Market. My aging parents Ella & Vaclav are coming to join us for a day camaraderie.
But, thinking globally, today are demonstrations around the world against the seed giant Monsanto, the creator of Round-up and GMOs. Both have crippled the environment, humanity, farmers and agriculture.
To stand and watch what’s happening is being a part of the problem. Yet, I have chosen to go to the peaceful farm market in the country. It’s not because I am afraid, it’s because I value bonding with the family more.
Am I feeling guilty? Yes.
I will make up for it by using the power of the word. That is by writing about how Monsanto is hurting us in a very complex and sophisticated way on everyday basis.
Okay I have to stop now to get ready to go to the farm market.
If you still have time, you can get on the Internet and find out about March against Monsanto in your community at
Lowell, MI- I am putting back together the pieces of my life like in a shining kaleidoscope. Some call it a comeback.
I am back on the final stretch of the “Greenwich Meridian” (c) memoir. I took a break to establish my Internet blog design company Emma Blogs, LLC. Now that I feel well grounded, I am returning back to the life of a daily writer. I missed it anyway.
The blogging journey took me from a rookie to a lifelong learner. Internet is much like water & wind; it never stands still or like Wall Street; it never sleeps. You can’t abandon it, because it’s like the writing life. It doesn’t let go of you.
Abstract art by Kathleen Mooney inspired by quilting.
Lsvender is good for anxiety and insomnia.
Along that three-year long journey, I’ve met some of the best people in the industry by trial and error, as well as by targeted searching. After spending endless hours on learning the ropes of the blogging business, I sought help. I found Learn to Blog. This group of people is golden. Their support is pivotal in my blogging life.
And I’ve made friends. How can you make friends working all day alone in your writing studio staring at the flashing cursor with an occasional glance at my orchids on the window sill?
Well, you join private and public Facebook groups. I have done that. I am a member of the private Learn to Blog (LTB) and WordPress Support facebook groups. I’ve done both LTB and WordPress challenges. I’ve commented and I got comments back. I’ve gained the most followers on the 30 Day Content Writing Challenge . I established my own writing group “Writers Loop” on facebook based on advise from Soulpreneurs founder Leigh Ann Dickey.
“Facebook pages are old school, groups are the way to go,” she said in a Skype interview.
Some of the major players in the memoir Greenwich Meridian: the Two Sisters, Mom Ella & Aunt Anna, grandma Anna and grandpa Joseph.
One of the best things that has ever happened to me on a blogging challenge was making a lifelong friend and a business partner.
During the 30 Day Content Challenge, a link to a healing site Beautiful Body, Mind and Spirit caught my eye. We were supposed to like and comment five blogs. I liked it and commented on it.
“I’ve always been interested in alternative healing,” I commented.
I e-mailed the owner Nan Raden asking for an interview to feature her as the blogger of the month on EW Emma’s Writings. During the first Skype call, we immediately clicked.
Nan is a natural healer and I suffer by nature. We compliment each other. She healed my inability to take action. She healed me emotionally and physically to a distance of 1,884.90 miles between Grand Rapids, MI and Tucson, AZ.
Now, we’re getting ready to webcast our show on Google hangouts on air. I will announce the name shortly. Stay tuned for a story and a video.
Other than the blogging challenges, the most productive in gaining followers were posts relevant to the current events. These included: “Alpenhorns at the Octoberfest in Grand Rapids,” ” Thoughts on Fear in the Wake of Paris Attacks” posted during the 30 Day Content Challenge, “Evil Choices” after a SuperTuesday primary ,”Happy Mother’s Day” and most recently “Cannes Film Festival 2016.”
Speaking about timing. My former editor and friend Jeanne Boss used to say, “Timing is everything.” The 30 Day Content Challenge started before Thanksgiving. I scrambled to get through it around the holidays. Sometimes I had to play catch up writing up to five posts one day.
I’ve learned a lot and I’ve diversified in the blogosphere. I’ve joined SheKnows and BlogHer platforms that have merged since. I am still carving out my own path. I am contemplating Blogspot, but I want to stay focused on the memoir.
Posts about relationships like the “Two Sisters” about the animosity between my mother Ella and her sister Anna attracted more followers. The relationship that went raw over immigration is a big part of the memoir.
“They never mended not even now standing at the gate to heaven or hell,” I write in the book.
I would also like to highlight the mini-series “Eyeology with Dr. Verdier” about my cataract ordeal two years ago. The IW Inspiring Women was a joy to write because I met all these interesting women who continue to inspire and motivate me to this day. It is a living ongoing series with new encounters every day.
I found out that the best writing comes from the heart and without a narrow purpose. Big tears rolled down my cheeks penning the most emotional posts like “It took a lifetime to get to this moment,” based on a prompt from the 30 Day Challenge.
It took me a lifetime to get this moment to write this post and to complete the memoir.
Mother’s Day ties to Greenwich Meridian (c) memoir
By Emma Palova
Lowell, MI- Every year on Mother’s Day, I think about my mom Ella Konecny. That is why I dedicated “Greenwich Meridian” memoir to her. I hope to finish the book within the next few months.
Mom Ella Konecny, the pharmacist
Actually people have been already asking me about the memoir that covers our three-generation immigration saga. I had to put it on hold while I was establishing my Internet presence and my business Emma Blogs, LLC.
Now, that I feel well grounded I am picking back up both fiction and memoir writing.
My mother Ella is both funny and sad. She likes being the center of attention at anyone’s birthday party even at my own. I have a birthday tomorrow, one day before the official Mother’s Day. May 9th was also a national holiday in Czech Republic.
Whenever we gather around the dining table, she stands up and starts telling a joke or whatever she can think of. Ella takes that after my grandpa Joseph Drabek. Her maiden name is Drabkova. The -ova ending to Drabek, is the female linguistic twist to the male version of the name.
Mom, a former pharmacist, is witty, progressive and quickly understands new things like working on blogging projects.
“Do you have to work until you finish it?” she asked on Friday when she brought over birthday gifts early.
Happy Mother’s Day
“Yes, mom. You have to finish a task otherwise you won’t know where you stopped and you might lose it,” I answered.
“Sure. That’s what I thought,” she nodded.
Other than just mentioning info technology, Ella hates it. Both mom and dad are refusing to get a smart phone. That drives my son Jake nuts.
“I want to send them photos of the kids,” he said. “This is crazy, they are fighting it so hard.”
“You can’t force them,” I told him. “They will resist it even more.”
Ella is an awesome cook. Ever since she retired from Ferris State University, biology department, Ella improved her chef skills by 100 percent. Not, that she was a bad cook before, but mom just didn’t have the time.
“What do you want me to make?” she always asks before we come to their home in Big Rapids.
Mom Ella with me on the Venice peer, 2014.
“What do you want me to bring over?” she asks before they come for a visit to our house in Lowell.
So, I have the privilege of picking from a wide menu of choices; anything from Moroccan beef, Stroganoff beef, Chinese to Czech dill sauce with dumplings.
I like to pick kebabs any style.
Mom Ella is a very sensitive person. She cries over both man-made and natural disasters. Mom cried over the oil spill in the gulf that destroyed a lot of marine life. She cries over the situation in Syria. She cries over our lives.
When I see her cry, I cry too. It’s somewhat of an emotional synergy.
She is generous all around; in church, with the family, close and distant and in the developing countries.
She’s getting fragile. Ella will turn 80 next year.
I can’t believe it. My beautiful and kind mother is aging. Last year, she had skin cancer removed from her face. Before that, she underwent countless surgeries, both successful and unsuccessful.
“Everybody lies to me, because it’s easy, I am old,” she said the other day. “Old people get lied to.”
As years go by, Ella is getting more stubborn. She does not want to reconciliate the discord with her only sister Anna, who lives in Czech Republic.
“Mom you should make up with your sister,” I said.
“She doesn’t want to make up with me,” she snapped at me.
Ella and dad have always strove for perfection and to fit in with the most. That may have been hard on them. Ella has a perfectly clean house where everything has its own spot.
She gets upset with me because not everything in my house has its own spot. I like to move things around. I sometimes leave dishes behind.
Ella is very vocal about my life; that I could have done a lot more with it.
“We were at this concert where Ferris students played,” she said Friday. “Can you imagine how those parents felt when they have such successful and serious kids?”
We each have things that bother us. We cover it up, hold it inside or we talk about it.
At a certain point, we have to come to terms with anything that’s depriving us of living a life to its fullest extent.
Mom has given me life and all the tools to live it.
Thank you, Mom.
Yours forever,
Emma
Cover photo of tulips by Emma White Darling of Parnell, MI.
St. Petersburg, FL- I’ve made many new discoveries this year during my annual writer’s break on the Gulf Coast. I spend some time in St. Pete’s with the family in a big blue house close to the beach on Tierra Verde.
The 5,600 square feet house had no furniture except for an old couch. The five bedrooms did have beds, most of them were queen or king size. And there were smart TVs. Big smart TVs. You sat on the floor to watch the TV.
The house had two flights of stairs, one of them was spiral, probably inspired by Salvador Dali. Sitting on the couch, you could watch from the top all those who were coming up a long bridge-like walkway. It took people forever to come to the only sitting area in the entire house.
St. Pete’s beach
I was especially fond of the huge empty living room downstairs. It was more like a ballroom. I could easily imagine couples dancing down there deep below much like in the Disneyland haunted house. The professional wrestler Undertaker lived in the house at one time. So, goes the legend.
The reason we ended up in that upscale quarter without street lights instead of Daytona Beach were last-minute arrangements. The big houses that didn’t fill with reservations were cheaper and went fast like hot potatoes.
The renter hunk Rob didn’t realize that he advertised the wrong house.
“It’s not ready,” he said. “We’re fixing it up.”
Croissant & Co. in Venice
“Don’t beat yourself up for that,” my daughter Emma said.
“The question is how much furniture will there be in the house,” Rob stated honestly.
Obviously, my daughter was looking for an adventure in St. Pete.
We had a backup plan if Rob didn’t come up with any furniture. We would split up our party and do necessary tasks. Emma and I planned to hit the local Goodwill to buy some beds. The other half would go and buy groceries.
We flew into Orlando already an hour late. On board the plane we demanded a free beer to make up for the lost hour. It was dark in an unknown city with yet a rental car to pick up.
Somehow, we made it St. Pete and knocked on Rob’s door around 11 p.m. But, first a couple of dogs came charging at us.
My writing station in St. Petersburg.
Rob was a fun character who made money on supplements before big box stores took over. Some really funky supplements remained in the kitchen cabinets. They looked very home-made with scribbling on them.
The kitchen even had plenty of utensils, and again it was very big more like a cafeteria. All seven of us could dance in there if we wanted to.
I like big things but everything in that blue house was enormous, even the Tupperware containers.
I don’t know if Rob was feeling guilty for our lodging or if he was just a nice guy.
Shooting pool outside.
“Hey, you can spend tomorrow at my other house,” he said. “It’s closer to the beach and the guests are not coming until later in the week.”
So, the search for the other house ensued after a breakfast standing up. The last time I ate my food standing up was as a student at cheap buffets in Brno, Czech Republic.
St. Pete, a city full of surprises, has a Gulf Blvd. and a W. Gulf Blvd.
Finally, we found it. It was much smaller, but it did have furniture. Moreover, it had a leftover box of low carb Ultra Michelob with only 95 calories per bottle.
“We earned it, we deserve it,” were shouts of joy.
We devoured the beer shooting pool outside. Then we grilled Johnsonville brats in the outdoors kitchen.
“You call that beer?” Rob laughed when we apologized. “I am from Wisconsin, that’s water.”
authoremmapalova 