JAYSPEAK

My husband, Steve Orlandella, loved to write. By July, 2016, he was on a roll – brimming with ideas for his blog, Vic and the redhead, Facebook posts. Witty ideas and fun ways to express what he wanted to say. He had fun reading and re-reading what he wrote. I had fun reading them. Still do. He lives – and will always live – in his writing.

It all started on September 20, 2011. I, as an entertainment attorney, was invited to be on an e-publishing, self-help panel for members of the Writers Guild of America. The panel sought to empower writers to create new opportunities for work in film, television, new media and transmedia. Since WGA did not cover book publication regardless of format, it was thought that e-publishing could be a stepping stone towards potential work on Guild-covered adaptations. So, on September 20^th, I joined members Lee Goldberg (The Glades), Derek Haas (Wanted), and Alexandra Sokoloff (author, Book of Shadows, and Mark Coker (Smashwords). Our task was to discuss the latest ebook/self and indie-publishing developments. It was a power-packed evening with information, questions, and answers. Thus, the next day I said to Steve, “You need to write a book”. To which he answered, “I have nothing to say.” I laughed. Steve ALWAYS had something to say.

The first book is delightful – STEVESPEAK – 3 YEARS ON FACEBOOK.

STEVESPEAK is one of my favorites for spending time with him and getting to know him better. Plus, it is dedicated: “To Janet, The wind beneath my wings, And the power behind my throne.”

In his Prologue, he writes:  “I’m not sure how I got on Facebook.  Most likely it was word of mouth.  Like many of you I started small, but as my list of friends grew, so did my activity.  A funny thing happened along the way, I found my voice.  Along with connecting with friends, I had the chance to be critical, historical, passionate, and I hope, funny. This book traces almost 3 years on Facebook, and is designed to give my fellow “Facebookers,” An idea of what other people are saying. For what it’s worth, you will learn some things about me. My love for baseball, my interest in “The Titanic,” my passion for my hometown, Boston.

“Stevespeak” was coined by my wife, who insists I have my own language.  Well that’s probably not true, but there are some words that are uniquely mine. For instance, only in my world is there a planet “Smecktar.”  Those pimples on your shoulder blades are “bacne,” and “Xerocracy” is government by photocopy. If something is dead, it’s “kersfuncken.” “Inuendo” is Italian for colonoscopy.

That said, there are some things you need to know in order to navigate your way through this book.  There are many references to something called “HRB.”  “HRB” is “Her Royal Blondness.”  That would be my wife.  She is an attorney and is sometimes referred to as the “blonde barrister.” Her maiden name is Janet Jewell.  Christine became Kris and is my sister. “Tori” and “Icto” are other names for our friend Victoria Lucas.  Tori’s sister is Lil, and sometimes, Liz. The “Knife” is Joe Klinger. “Fabulous 52” was the old Saturday night movie series on CBS in Los Angeles. I stole it, (I mean, researched it) and it became the “Fabulous 42.” Most of the rest is self-explanatory.”

Next, his outstanding masterpiece – TITANIC.

TITANIC was his lifetime achievement, the one he held close to his heart.  He dedicated it to his mother.  He wrote, “To my Mother Therese, The Real Historian in The Family.”

He writes in his Foreword:  “In the fall of 1960, I was a ten-year-old, growing up in Los Angeles’ San Fernando Valley.  Even then I was sarcastic, opinionated, and well on my way to becoming obnoxious.  The phrase most often used was, ‘A little too smart for his own good.’  Perhaps.  Duplicit in all this were my parents who spoiled me rotten.  One of my numerous privileges was permission to stay up late on Saturday night…very late.

Toward the end of the 1950s, television in Los Angeles was in a state of flux.  The Country’s number three [now number two] market had seven stations, a wealth of airtime, and a dearth of programming.  The three network affiliates and the four independents turned to motion pictures to fill the void so much so that one station, Channel 9, ran the same movie every night for a week.  Hey, I love Jimmy Cagney, but how many times can you watch ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’?  The stations also had the nasty habit of cutting the films to pieces, the classic case being Channel 7, the ABC affiliate who filled their 3:30-5pm slots by slicing and dicing 2-hour movies down to 67 minutes. They came close to cutting Ingrid Bergman out of ‘Casablanca.’  Channel 2, the CBS Affiliate, had no such problem.  [They had ‘Lucy’; they had ‘Jackie Gleason’.]  ‘The Fabulous 52’ was reserved for Saturday night at 11:30pm, and, since the only things that followed the movie were the National Anthem and a test pattern, they ran uncut.  The station held the rights to a package of relatively recent films from 20^th Century Fox. 

One Saturday afternoon, my dad announced, ‘Titanic is on tonight.’  I had no idea who or what was ‘Titanic’, but we gathered in the family room at 11:30.  For the next two hours, I sat transfixed, mesmerized by what we were seeing.  If you are scoring at home, it was the 1953 version with Barbara Stanwyck, Clifton Webb and a young Robert Wagner.  They had me.

In 1964, I came across a copy of A Night to Remember, Walter Lord’s seminal work on the events of April 14-15, 1912, and the following year, I saw the movie made [in England, 1958] from Lord’s book.  It was a film made by people who wanted to get it right.  This film was the game changer. 

The Fox movie opens with a page of text proclaiming that all the facts in the film were taken right from the United States Senate and British Board of Trade Inquiries.  Really?  Even then, Fox knew how to ‘play fast and loose with the truth.’  As good as their movie was – and it was good, it paled before the Brit’s film.  Fifteen hundred people did not all stand together, sing ‘Nearer My God To Thee’, and meekly sink into the North Atlantic.  They fought and struggled until their last breath, trying not to freeze or drown in the unforgiving sea.  Madeleine Astor wasn’t an elegant matron.  She was in fact a pregnant teenager.  That was it.  ‘Game On!’ 

I absorbed every book I could find, any TV program I could watch, and every newspaper on microfilm, along with help from the Titanic Historical Society.  Add that to my natural affinity for ships, and an ‘obsession’ was born.  For some, it’s The Civil War; for others, it’s the Kennedy Assassination; for me, it is The Royal Mail Steamship Titanic.

Part of the obsession stems from the fact that no event in history is so loaded with conjecture, myths, and downright lies, some of which are ‘beauties.’  One example:  A young David Sarnoff [co-founder of RCA] became famous telling the world how he was the first to pick-up the Titanic’s distress call in the station on the roof of Wanamaker’s Department Store and how he remained at the key all Sunday night and well into the next day.  Great story?  Absolutely.  Truthful story?  Absolutely not.  Wanamaker’s was closed on Sunday, and even when the store was open, Sarnoff was the office manager.  Three other employees of The Marconi Company stood the watch.

Fox reloaded and fired again in 1997.  This time, they tried it with a seemingly unlimited budget and an amateur historian calling the shots.  Movie making?  Unmatched.  Story telling?  Not so much.  History?  Nonexistent.  There is a word for what you wind up with when you invent the leading characters.  Fiction.  Now, nobody loves Kate Winslet ‘in flagrante delicto’ more than I do, but the truth is better.  Thus, ”Jack Dawson’ and ‘Rose DeWitt’ join ‘Julia Sturges’ and ‘Lady Marjory Bellamy’ as mythical creatures on a real ship.

And, since you’re making stuff up, how about a little character assassination?  The 1997 film depicted First Officer William Murdoch taking but ultimately rejecting a bribe from make-believe villain ‘Caledon Hockley.’  Murdoch was also shown shooting two passengers dead after he presumed they intended to storm one of the remaining lifeboats.  He then saluted Chief Officer Henry Wilde and committed suicide with a revolver.  None of this ever happened.  After the picture’s director [name withheld] refused to take out the bogus scenes, studio executives flew to Murdoch’s hometown to issue his relatives an apology.  As for the movie, if you are looking for an accurate depiction of events – keep looking.  Put another way, there was a ship called Titanic, and it sank.  After that, you’re on your own.

The Civil War is far and away the all-time champion of most books. [One of Titanic’s passengers wrote ‘The Truth about Chickamauga.’]  Second?  The runner-up is World War II.  Third?  The correct guess is the Titanic.  So, what is my mission statement?  What else?  Write yet another book.  Tell her story, once again.  This time, come armed with all I know and have learned in the wake of Doctor Robert Ballard’s stunning discovery of the wreck in 1985.  I will attempt to detail what is correct and dispel, whenever possible, what is not.

I spent my career working in television, the first seven years producing TV News.  What did I learn?  I learned skepticism tinged with a bit of cynicism, and it has served me well.  So, I will do your bidding.  On your behalf, I will be skeptical, factual, analytical, and when required, cynical.  There is one thing I cannot be, dispassionate.  I will stipulate to a love of all ships – but Her most of all.  By now, you may be asking yourself, ‘Why so many pictures?’  I confess that, too, is the TV producer in me.  You always try to put a face with a story.  Plus, there is always the possibility that you can’t recognize Turbinia.

If I am standing at all, it is on the shoulders of some truly great authors.  I have read, re-read, and re-re-read their work over the years and have researched – borrowed – from them all.  To the best of my ability, everything in this book is true.  I believe in the concept that, if the Lord wanted us to remain silent, he wouldn’t have given us [brackets].  So, on occasion, you’ll see a comment from yours truly.  [I’ll be that most irritating of shipmates – the loud, opinionated one.]

The longest section of the book concerns the area around the Boat Deck between midnight and 2:20am.  If it seems long [it’s real time] and overly detailed, I apologize, but to me, this is the heart of the narrative.  Hundreds of little dramas played out on a sloping deck in the middle of a freezing ocean.  Loved ones were torn apart, and families were destroyed.  And with it came the sub-plots.  Some got in lifeboats, and some did not.  Some were allowed in the boats, and some were not.  All of this begs the question, why?  Regardless, these are their stories, and on their behalf, I make no apologies.  I have tried to keep the technological parts under control and not drown my readers in facts and figures.  But the brains and skill that created the Olympic-class liners are very much a part of this story.

Allow me just a couple of more thoughts before we proceed.  There is one sentence that is common to virtually every book written about the RMS Titanic.  ‘It had been a mild winter in the Arctic.’  It had, indeed.  Ice that had been forming since well before the dawn of man was now at last free.  Unfettered, it could leave Greenland and move into the Labrador Current and begin its journey south toward the shipping lanes.  The ice was no different than previous years, only this year, there would be more than usual, much more.  There were small pieces of ice, what sailors called ‘growlers.’  There were large sections known as ‘sheet ice,’ and larger still, ‘pack ice.’  In between were hundreds of what every seaman feared most, what the Norsemen referred to as ‘mountains of ice.’  Icebergs.

If you’re familiar with the advertising business, you probably know about the concepts of ‘marketing research’ and ‘brand recognition.’  Countless studies have been commissioned to find out what people can identify and what they like.  The results are often quite surprising.  For example, inquiries have determined that far more people [around the world] can recognize the ‘Cavallino Rampante’ [in English, ‘The Prancing Horse’ aka the ‘Ferrari’ logo] than can recognize ‘Shell’ or ‘Coca-Cola.’  Then there is my favorite.  For decades, focus groups, when asked to identify the most famous ship in the world, gave the traditional answer, ‘Noah’s Ark’.  No more.  The runaway number one is now ‘Titanic’.  That’s ‘brand recognition.’

There is no way to tell the whole story in this little book, yet I will do my best.  Call me crazy [you wouldn’t be the first] and maybe a little arrogant [see previous], but I feel it’s my duty to help set the record straight for fifteen hundred souls who went to a cold, watery grave that night.  Time to depart.  ‘All ashore that’s goin’ ashore!'”

Next, THE GAME.

THE GAME is dedicated, “To My Father, For that rainy day at Fenway and A thousand games of ‘catch’”.  Steve was passionate about baseball.  He knew baseball in-and-out.  He was the expert’s expert. He would say, “I know what I like.”  Well, I’m here to tell you that he “liked”, [see also, “was passionate about”] the Red Sox, Boston, the Patriots, the Celtics, Lotus cars, Ferraris, meatballs, pasta of any kind, pundits, condiments, the Titanic, HRB, his family, and Vin Scully – not necessarily in that order. 

He writes in THE GAME Foreword:  “The History books tell us that the first professional baseball game was held on May 4, 1869, as the Cincinnati Red Stockings ‘eked’ out a 45-9 win. No doubt, the first baseball story was told on May 5, 1969.  No sport – not basketball, not football, not hockey – has the oral tradition of the national pastime. And, like any good oral tradition, it has been passed from generation to generation.  Baseball stories in one form or another are as much a part of our game as the infield fly and the rosin bag.  In this book, they come in all sizes and shapes – short stories, essays, expressions, rules, jokes, and slang, to name just a few.

The first ‘Baseball Balladeer’ in my life was one Vincent Edward Scully, known to three generations of fans as ‘Vin.’ For baseball-ignorant Southern Californians, he was a Godsend. Far more than their voice, he was their teacher.  At that point, the game that had been thousands of miles away was as close as your transistor radio or the ‘am’ in your car. He gave Los Angeles the who, what, when, where, and most importantly, the why. He studied at the foot of the master Red Barber and is acknowledged as the best in the business.  I know this how? He was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame 43 years ago! For nine years, I was lucky enough to be his producer. I called him ‘The Doctor’ for his PhD in baseball. Try explaining the balk rule to the man who taught you half of what you know about the game.

When I began covering the Angels, I got to know Emil Joseph ‘Buzzie’ Bavasi.  If you looked up ‘character’ in the dictionary, it would say, ‘see Buzzie.’  In the ‘40s, he was Branch Rickey’s top lieutenant and had a hand in breaking Baseball’s color line as well as dealing with Vero Beach in the acquisition of Dodgertown.  He became General Manager and earned a reputation as a shrewd and tough negotiator. Buzzie loved to tell the story about contract haggling with a certain player [still alive, so no names]. He had a fake contract with a very low salary created for the team’s best player.  He left it on his desk and excused himself for a moment, convinced that the player would take a peak. Needless to say that when he returned, the negotiations ended quickly and in Buzzie’s favor.  He had been schooled in [and ultimately taught] the Branch Rickey way of playing the game [stressing fundamentals, nurturing talent, and the importance of a strong farm system]. In the years we worked together, I never once overheard a conversation when he wasn’t at the beginning, in the middle, or at the end of a story or anecdote. He lived for baseball and lived to talk about it.

In 1985, I began working with Bob Starr. Bob, or as we called him, ‘Bobo’, was the broadcaster’s broadcaster. He could do play-by-play for anything – baseball, football, your kid’s hopscotch game, anything. Bobo was a graduate of the KMOX School of Broadcasting.  The famed St. Louis radio station produced Harry Caray, Jack and Joe Buck, Buddy Blattner, Joe Garagiola, and Bob Costas, among others. He had that smooth, Midwestern style, and on the air, you’d swear he was talking just to you.  I once shared a golf cart with him for a round – four hours well-spent looking for my ball [as usual] and listening.  He loved to tell stories, some on himself. While playing 18 holes on an off day, Bob had a heart attack.  Upon arrival at the hospital, the doctors asked if he were in pain. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘in my backside.’ Mystified, the doctors went over the test results. A physical examination revealed that the patient still had his pants on.  The source of the pain was two Titleists in his back pocket.  How we miss Bobo.

The average baseball fan may not recognize the name Jack Lang, but every player knew him and loved it when he called.  Jack was for twenty years the executive secretary of The Baseball Writers of America, and if he telephoned you, it meant that you just won the Cy Young Award, the Most Valuable Player Award, the Rookie-of-the-Year, or had hit the ‘Baseball Lottery,’ induction into the Hall of Fame.  His vocation was sportswriter [a New York beat writer], and for forty years, he was one of the best.  I met Jack in 1987.  We had been hired by Victor Temkin to do sports licensing for MCA/Universal. It was there I discovered his sense of humor, his humanity, and his encyclopedic knowledge of the game.  We would speak on the phone almost every day for an hour.  Five minutes would be devoted to business, the remaining fifty-five given over to ‘talkin’ baseball.’  I firmly believe that I could have put the phone on speaker, turned on a tape recorder, left the room, and returned thirty minutes later to find another chapter for this book.  In 1997, we took a production crew to his home for an interview. It was the 50th anniversary of Jackie Robinson’s entry into the major leagues, and who better to discuss it than the man who covered it.  Jack lived in the little village of Ft. Salonga on the North Coast of Long Island, [Vin used to refer to him as ‘the Squire of Ft. Salonga’] in a modest house with an office on the side. The office contained a desk, two chairs, and enough baseball memorabilia to open a museum. [The whole place could have been shipped, as is, to Cooperstown.]

Buzzie, Bobo, and the Squire are gone, and, believe me, this book would have been easier to write if they were still here. We still have Vinnie [long may he reign].  If there is such a thing as a sub-dedication, this is for them. They and countless others had a hand in writing this book.  I have tried to fashion a work with something for everyone, from the hard-core fan to the young people just learning about the game. In so doing, I’ve run the gamut all the way from baseball history to baseball jokes. I hope you enjoy it and hope it adds to your love for ‘the game’.”

At this point, Steve decided to try his hand at writing novels – mysteries with a lead detective and his girlfriend.  With that, Vic Landell and the Redhead appeared on the scene.  He spent hours with them in locales he loved – Sarasota, Florida, Washington, D.C., Boston, Los Angeles, New York.  The first Vic Landell mystery is BURDEN OF PROOF. 

BURDEN OF PROOF is set in and around Sarasota Florida.  It is dedicated my sister, Patricia Jewell Prince, “My Sister-in-Law Patricia, Lover of Mysteries.”

Steve begins each mystery: What’s in a Name?  “My father was born Vito Anthony Orlandella, and he didn’t much care for his name. “Vito” was all right, and in fact, he named his principal business The Vito Fruit Company – although throughout Boston he was often referred to as “Vic.” No real problem with the benign Anthony, it was the last name he saw as problematic. His one foray into show business as a record producer was done under the name “Tony Vito.” I’m not certain, but I believe he thought that Orlandella was too long and clumsy for a billboard. He had another name ready but never got the chance to use it. A clever anagram made by dropping the first two and the last letters of his name. Add to that, the remnants of his first name. Thus was born “Vic Landell.” When it came time to name my pitcher-turned-detective, the choice was an easy one. Call it homage to my father.”

Next, CAPITOL MURDER.

CAPITOL MURDER is dedicated to “Her Royal Blondness [HRB], Long may she Reign”. It is set in and around Washington, D.C.

“What’s in a Name? The heroine of this series is Marcia Glenn. The name is borrowed from my first childhood crush – a sixth-grade, blonde goddess. For two years I pined for her from, to paraphrase Hammerstein, ‘across a crowded schoolroom.’ My passion held in check only by the fact that she didn’t know I was alive. Her sights were set on another classmate, a surfer boy wannabe with flaxen air. Sure, just plunge a knife in my heart. The irony of all this is rooted in the fact that he seemed to have absolutely no interest in her. Funny the things you remember. How this preteen vixen has now morphed into a six-foot, Titian-tressed femme fatale is a story for another time.”

MARATHON MURDERS.

MARATHON MURDERS is dedicated to “Dash, Winner & Still Champion”, and located in Boston.

“What’s in a Name?  He was born on a farm in Maryland.  He served his country in the First World War, and became ill with the Spanish flu and later contracted Tuberculosis – spending most of his time in the Army as a patient in a Washington Hospital.  As a result of his illness he could not live full-time with his wife and two daughters and the marriage fell apart.  He was a firm believer in the notion that you write about what you know.  And since he was an alcoholic, his two most famous characters were as well.  He devoted much of the rest of his life to unpopular causes.  He wore his country’s uniform again in the Second World War.  His reward?  After the war he was investigated by Congress and testified before the House Un-American Activities Committee about his own life, but refused to cooperate with the committee.  As a result – he was blacklisted. He was sixty-six when lung cancer took his life.  In his obituary, The New York Times said of him, ‘the dean of the hard-boiled school of detective fiction.’  For any fan of mysteries his name is said with a smile.  For someone like me, who would love to be just a poor copy of the original, it is said with reverence.”                                                                                                                                               

And then, Steve wrote his favorite, DANCE WITH DEATH.

DANCE WITH DEATH is dedicated “To my Second Parents Rose & Gerry”.  It is set in Los Angeles, California.

“What’s in a Name?  She was born Marcia Colleen Glenn – her first name from the Latin, meaning ‘dedicated to Mars.’  Mars is the red planet – there is your first clue.  It also means proud or warlike – that’s your second clue.  Her middle name was chosen by her father to emphasize the family’s Gaelic heritage.  By the age of five, her sister Katelyn was calling her ‘The Marce.’  To this day, if she likes you, call her Marce.  If she doesn’t much care for you, it’s Marcia.  If she flat hates your guts – it’s Ms. Glenn.  Fair warning, if you call her Marsha, brother, you are just asking for trouble.  When she was seventeen and turned from an ugly duckling into a beautiful swan, the boys in her high school started referring to her as ‘the looker.’  The lawyers at the firm where she did her internship called her ‘the stunner.’  That’s also what the crew at WWSB calls her – along with ‘the goddess.’  To the boys in Idaho Falls, she was ‘the long drink of water.’  When she knocked out a would-be assailant with one right hand, the name ‘slugger’ entered the lexicon.  There are others, like ‘supermodel’ and ‘deadeye.’  But if you’ve killed someone, she’s the ‘red menace.’  And finally, to her smitten boyfriend, she is occasionally ‘Titian’ -the shade of her glorious red hair.  She will also answer to ‘Irish,’ and for him only, ‘Honey,’ along with his favorite, ‘Baby.’  But, first and foremost she is always and forever – ‘the redhead.'”

His finale, MIDTOWN MAYHEM, dedicated “For the amazing Kris Jones”, and set in NYC. He did not know this would be his last one.

“What’s in a Name?  It was my high-school baseball coach who first hung the nickname on me. Of the nine pitchers on his staff, eight were right-handed. When asked who would be the starting pitcher against Syracuse, he replied, “Let’s send out the lefty.” The name stuck throughout college, the minors, and my first six years in the majors. It became problematic for me when I was traded to Philadelphia – for you see, they already had a “Lefty.” He was born Steven Norman Carlton. He made his debut with the Cardinals in 1965. A tall, imposing man, blessed with a hard fastball and nasty slider. He was soon known as an intimidating and dominating pitcher. Following a protracted salary dispute, St. Louis Cardinals owner Gussie Busch ordered Carlton traded. Eventually, he was dealt to the Philadelphia Phillies before the ‘72 season for a pitcher named Rick Wise. In time, it would be recognized as one of the most lopsided deals in baseball history. Carlton hit his stride with the Phillies. How good was he? In 1972, the down-trodden Phils won a total of 59 games – 27 of them by Carlton. That won him his first of four Cy Young Awards. He finished with 322 wins and was a consensus first ballot Hall of Famer. The day before a start, the scoreboard in Veterans Stadium would list tomorrow’s starting pitcher – Lefty. Need more? There’s a statue of him in front of Citizens Bank Park. How was I supposed to compete with all that? I could not. Since Carlton is six-foot four and your humble servant is a paltry six-foot one the players started to refer to me as Little Lefty. The day my career ended, I went back to being plain old Lefty.”

Steve was writing CASINO KILLER when he died.  Forty-six pages are in the can. It was to be dedicated to “John & Gloria Cataldo, Once and Forever”.  It was to be set in and around Nice, France.

“What’s in a Name?  It is the coastline of the Mediterranean Sea in the southeast corner of France, beneath of the base of the French Alps. There is no official boundary, but it is usually considered to extend from the Italian border in the east to Saint-Tropez, Hyères, Toulon, or Cassis in the west. The area is a Department of the French Government – Alpes-Maritimes. There is nothing quite like it anywhere else in the world. As the French might refer to it – beau ravage – beautiful shoreline.  It began as a winter health resort for the British upper class at the end of the 18th century. With the arrival of the railway in the mid-19th century, it became the playground and vacation spot of British, Russian, and other aristocrats, including Queen Victoria. It was the English who coined the phrase, the French Riviera.  After World War II, the south of France became a popular tourist destination and convention site. The area went off the charts in the 1950s when a beautiful girl from Philadelphia moved into the Royal palace of the one and only principality. Millionaires and celebrities built homes there and routinely spent their summers.  The region has one more name. In 1887, a French author named Stéphen Liégeard published a book about the coastline. So taken was he by the color of the Mediterranean, he used the words Azure Coast in the title – in French that translates as Côte d’Azur.”

All books are for sale on smashwords.com and amazon.com under the name “Steve Orlandella”.

Thanksgiving is over, but the spirit of camaraderie remains.

Knowing this year would be Thanksgiving without Steve, I looked for something to do. Any restaurants in town serving turkey? No. Not that I know of. Then, I saw – The American Club of the Riviera (ACR) was having a Thanksgiving Luncheon at the Café de Paris Monaco.

I checked out the event and decided to go – time to get out of the condo. The Club is large – expats from all over, not just France. I joined. I asked Andrea and Slav to go with me as my guests. They agreed.

And, in the spirit of that first Thanksgiving [see article by Art Buchwald, below], we three enjoyed a Champagne Reception and Thanksgiving Feast – French-style.

It was fun, networking and meeting people from all over the world. I was introduced and asked to say a few words.

The program was given by several people, mainly representatives from the American Military.

We stood up for three national anthems (U.S., France, and Monaco).

and ate French “turkey” at an event that has always meant a lot to me. A fun time was had by all. Steve would have loved it.

 

Le Grande Thanksgiving  

[This confidential column was leaked to me by a high government official in the Plymouth colony on the condition that I not reveal his name.]

One of our most important holidays is Thanksgiving Day, known in France as le Jour de Merci Donnant.

Le Jour de Merci Donnant was first started by a group of Pilgrims (Pelerins) who fled from l’Angleterre before the McCarran Act to found a colony in the New World (le Nouveau Monde) where they could shoot Indians (les Peaux-Rouges) and eat turkey (dinde) to their hearts’ content.

They landed at a place called Plymouth (now a famous voiture Americaine) in a wooden sailing ship called the Mayflower (or Fleur de Mai) in 1620. But, while the Pelerins were killing the dindes, the Peaux-Rouges were killing the Pelerins, and there were several hard winters ahead for both of them. The only way the Peaux-Rouges helped the Pelerins was when they taught them to grow corn (mais). The reason they did this was because they liked corn with their Pelerins.

In 1623, after another harsh year, the Pelerins’ crops were so good that they decided to have a celebration and give thanks because more mais was raised by the Pelerins than Pelerins were killed by Peaux-Rouges.

Every year on the Jour de Merci Donnant, parents tell their children an amusing story about the first celebration. It concerns a brave capitaine named Miles Standish (known in France as Kilometres Deboutish) and a young, shy lieutenant named Jean Alden. Both of them were in love with a flower of Plymouth called Priscilla Mullens (no translation). The vieux capitaine said to the jeune lieutenant:

“Go to the damsel Priscilla (allez tres vite chez Priscilla), the loveliest maiden of Plymouth (la plus jolie demoiselle de Plymouth). Say that a blunt old captain, a man not of words but of action (un vieux Fanfan la Tulipe), offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. Not in these words, you know, but this, in short, is my meaning. “I am a maker of war (je suis un fabricant de la guerre) and not a maker of phrases. You, bred as a scholar (vous, qui tes pain comme un tudiant), can say it in elegant language, such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers, such as you think best adapted to win the heart of the maiden.”

Although Jean was fit to be tied (convenable tre emballe), friendship prevailed over love and he went to his duty. But instead of using elegant language, he blurted out his mission. Priscilla was muted with amazement and sorrow (rendue muette par l’tonnement et las tristesse).

At length, she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence: “If the great captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, why does he not come himself and take the trouble to woo me?” (Ou est-il, le vieux Kilometres ? Pourquoi ne vient-il pas auprès de moi pour tenter sa chance ?)

Jean said that Kilometres Deboutish was very busy and didn’t have time for those things. He staggered on, telling what a wonderful husband Kilometres would make. Finally, Priscilla arched her eyebrows and said in a tremulous voice, “Why don’t you speak for yourself, Jean?” (Chacun a son gout.)

And so, on the fourth Thursday in November, American families sit down at a large table brimming with tasty dishes and, for the only time during the year, eat better than the French do.

No one can deny that le Jour de Merci Donnant is a grande fete and no matter how well fed American families are, they never forget to give thanks to Kilometres Deboutish, who made this great day possible.     – By Art Buchwald,  Thursday, November 24, 2005  

Best, Jay

 

The woods are on fire. Trees have been hit by lightening bolts. Nature is forcing new growth – whether I like it or not. Well, I don’t like it. It has jolted me out of complacency. Things I took for granted, people I took for granted must never be taken for granted. Time out! Think.  Remember  – this is a time of year I love.

I love fall leaves, fireplaces, pumpkins, chrysanthemums, Thanksgiving. Mother loved it, too. She made each fall season special. Right before school was to start, she would take me shopping for “fall cottons”. That meant we were going to Atlanta and spend the entire day – shopping! Drive down in the morning and return late afternoon. First stop – Muses. There, most of the salesladies knew Mother by name. “Hello, Mrs. Jewell. And, Janet, how nice to see you. What can we help you with?” Boy, did she love that! Plus, Muses was fun because I was rested and ready to try-on everything. Then, on to J.P. Allen (where I usually got shoes and socks), then Davison-Paxon Company’s Tea Room for lunch. Either that, or the S&W Cafeteria. The decision depended on whether Davison’s was having a Fashion Show, or not. I preferred the S&W Cafeteria (even though I loved the fashion shows). It had great chocolate pudding. And, I could choose what I wanted – fried chicken (unless they had fried fish), beans, corn, turnip greens and cornbread (and/or homemade buttered biscuit) plus a dessert. Dessert was problematic because I wanted one of each. Hard to narrow it down unless they had cherry pie. If not, it was chocolate pudding. Late afternoon, we would drive back to Gainesville, exhausted with the trunk full of boxes – new outfits for school – usually plaid dresses.

We also had to get school supplies – a new book satchel, notebook, notebook paper, pencils (No.2), eraser (rubber gum), ruler, plus anything else on the list. We got all of that at The Book Shop. I was happy. Once school started, I was even happier. I loved school. I still love school (witness, starting Law School at age 59 and graduating at age 62, passing the California Bar Exam at age 63). Currently looking around for a University in Nice that has a class with an English-speaking professor, teaching French. I think there is one in Monaco, but I don’t want the commute.

Finally, Thanksgiving was my favorite! Mother pulled out all her pretty things and made a gorgeous table. Fresh flowers everywhere. Relatives would come from all over to be with us that day. And, wonderful Southern dishes would grace our table. All though my life, I have tried to make Thanksgiving special for my family.  Hopefully, I succeeded once or twice. J  I would set a gorgeous table with fresh flowers. Use my silver goblets and good china. Cook for several days. A typical Thanksgiving meal at our home would be turkey, dressing, giblet gravy, sweet potato souffle, wild rice, petite English peas, celery sticks, carrot sticks, olives, spiced peaches, cranberry sauce, and boiled custard with Waldorf Astoria cake (very chocolaty) for dessert. I knew how to make all of Mother’s dishes (she got from Mama Dorough who got from Grandma Eliza) and succeeded with most. I never could get my dressing or giblet gravy to be as good as hers, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. And, most Thanksgivings, we invited guests. It was fun. For years, my daughter helped me cook. The boys liked it, too.

This year, I must focus on thoughts and memories that make me feel good. At least – this week, I must. Probably next week, too. And, the next. I miss Steve. I miss my kids. Current events are no help. But, letting up is not giving up. It is just a time to re-group. The thought for today speaks to me: “At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person, each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.”  – Albert Schweitzer.

Thank you, Mother.

Thank you, Trascey, Craig, and Blake.

Thank you, My Darling Steve.

Thank you, Friends and Extended Family.

Best, Jay

To my Family and Friends, thank you very much for your donation(s). I have tried to write a personal note to each one of you. Don’t think I missed anyone. I hope not. It has meant the world to me. Truly. Making the best of things has been difficult. If you have seen my profile pictures of late, you’ve noticed my sunglasses. That is on purpose – to hide my (sad) eyes. Eyes tell the story. As an actress, I worked to tell the story in my eyes so the camera would pick up belief. Not disbelief. It has not been easy, asking for help. These after-death problems have been complex. And, they are not over. On the contrary, I am still working with hospitals and insurance companies, trying to negotiate my way out of a mess. Yet, we are all working our way out of a mess of some kind or other – especially now. So, at this Thanksgiving time, let’s all pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and start all over again. If you are willing, donations are still in order. Keep that bucket list going. Look for things to be thankful for. Meanwhile, I will put on a happy face, maybe sunglasses, maybe not, and post roses. Again, thank you from me and Steve.  Happy Thanksgiving!   https://www.gofundme.com/2g4wsbx7

Best, Jay

Remember Kaleidoscopes? Did you have one? I did. I would sit, peering through a peep hole and watch the different designs as I turned the scope. When I lived through earthquakes in California, I thought each time about my kaleidoscope. It was like the earth was “shifting” – especially during the Northridge Earthquake. And, if I had a peep hole, I could watch the different designs. This time, I am not watching. Rather, I am inside the kaleidoscope, being shifted as someone else turns the scope, powerless to stop irreversible change. The United States of America has elected a bully to its highest office, disregarding everything previously held sacred.

Frankly, I keep blocking the truth. I spend hours, looking for information and evaluations. In the old days, I would ask Steve. He knew. He spent hours, watching TV and pundits and news programs. So much so that I frequently got on his case, accusing him of living in his head. Still in LA. Or Boston. Or Sarasota, Florida. Now, I am doing the same thing. How can I not? I am still a California attorney licensed to practice law in the State of California. My heart is still fighting bullies in the employment arena,  helping victims of discrimination, wrongful termination, harassment, retaliation, whistle-blowing, and such. That’s why I can hardly believe what I am hearing and reading – a bully has come to power. I read articles on Facebook, on the Internet, watch television, listen to radio – the BBC, CNN, Riviera Radio, Sky News – trying to get a feel for what is happening.

I am no longer in disbelief. Not after reality check after reality check. In my despair, I talk to Steve in absentia. We have conversations – like in the past when we talked, laughed, cried, and held each other. I am on my own with this one. Lots of platitudes are out there. My favorite quote is Anna Eleanor Roosevelt’s “You gain courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, ‘I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing which come along.’  …You must do the thing you think you cannot do.” That quote got me through law school, the California Bar Exam, and a lot of trials (and tribulations). It doesn’t work in this situation. I am not afraid. Quite the contrary. I am emboldened to speak out and take action.

Donald Trump is a bully. In fact, he is a bully of bullies, or so he says. I did not vote for him. Nor would I ever. He is a revolting man to me. I voted for Hilary. I have admired her since I was a young woman. She lost. I can take losses. This loss is different. It is bigger than elections. It involves country. After January, I don’t think my country will have my back. A bully will be at the helm. I have seen firsthand what damage bullies can do. Bullies harm little guys. Employees get kicked by bully supervisors who got kicked by managers. Passing damage and destructive behavior down the line. You and I, as little guys, can look forward to getting kicked. We have a bully coming on board as manager. And he will bring in bully supervisors to help him. And we, as employees, won’t like what happens. Mark my words.

PLEASE TAKE NOTICE, destructive behavior passes down. Here, it is starting at the top. Our President-Elect has promised to do things endorsed by bully organizations and ratified by “good, intelligent” people, “Christian” people, claiming the President-Elect is the answer to their prayers. What were they praying for? Apparently, they got it. I tried giving my opinions and suggestions to a few people on Facebook. Didn’t work. Got blocked. I do better posting pictures of roses. Big Brother is watching.

Best, Jay

 

 

 

“SeaTrek” is Jayspeak for those times when I walk from my home to the Sea – wherever it is feasible. In Los Angeles, I walked from our home in Westwood to the palisades park in Santa Monica, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. That was approximately eight miles. Once I arrived at my destination, I would call Steve to meet me for brunch. After brunch on the Promenade, he would drive us home. Last Saturday, I walked from our home in Cimiez – now my home – to the Mediterranean Sea. Luckily, the distance was only three miles. And, a bus brought me home. Steve and I had talked about doing it together. And, it was on our list. I carried the torch without him. Not the same, but doable.

I started out around 8:30 a.m. There was very little traffic at that point. And, the sky was crystal clear. Good day for a walk. I walked past the monastery and the park, crossed the street, and headed down the Boulevard de Cimiez toward town – taking pictures along the way.

My plan was to take short cuts at the bottom of the hill to get to the main drag – Avenue Jean Médecin. Then, walk to my destination – breakfast. And, I wanted to check out the parking lot at the Carrefour Supermarket at the bottom of the hill. I have wanted to shop there, but did not know about parking. (Parking is always a consideration in Nice.) After making note of the parking lot, I cut through Avenue Notre Dame to Avenue Jean Médecin, taking a picture of everything in sight, including the beautiful Notre-Dame de l’Assomption.

For breakfast, I wanted to try a cafe that I had read about, named Mama delices – good reviews and served breakfast. I wanted to give it a try. Maybe they had omelets. No omelets, even on a good day. And, by the time I got there, the only thing they had left was one small croissant and orange juice. Plus, coffee. Always coffee. Not what I had in mind. The French are not big on breakfast, I have discovered. If you want breakfast, you must go to the Hard Rock Café on the Promenade, or some such place, to get petit déjeuner Anglais. Otherwise, breakfast is a croissant, orange juice, and coffee – if they aren’t out of croissants. Or yogurt. So, after my orange juice, small baguette with butter and apricot marmalade, and coffee, I started walking to the Sea – down the block.

Then, it happened. I spied a hair salon across the pathway. I “walked in” and asked if someone could “trim” my hair. Miracle of miracle, the lady said yes. So, two hours later, I walked out – butchered. One girl shampooed my hair, massaging so much that I knew it must be extra. Then, another woman blow-dried my hair. Curious, I asked who was going to “trim” my hair. Apparently, Thierry Antoine, from Paris. That was when I wondered why I had not asked the price up front. And, now, it was too late. Damn. How would I pay for it? Credit card? Did I have to tip these people? Damn. As it turned out, it wasn’t too expensive, and I did not tip anyone. I figured they could blame it on damn Americans. But, to be honest, I like my haircut. Nothing about it is a “trim”, but I don’t care. Easier to do in the mornings. I got his card.

More pictures by the sea, a selfie or two, and on to the Flower Market. I wanted a yellow chrysanthemum for my patio. By then, it was lunch time, and I was hungry. So, I went to La Voglia, another favorite, and got their salad and a glass of wine – Cote de Provence whatever. Always good. On to the bus stop. Back through the park to home. All in all, I walked approximately six miles. Great day. Only thing missing was Steve.

I took a lot of pictures – too many to post. I put some on Facebook and some on Instagram. Not all the same. And, here, other selections. Some may be the same, but most are new. AND, I still have ones I am not posting. Anyway, enjoy.

Best, Jay

 

Monday is Halloween, October 31, 2016. They don’t pay much attention to Halloween in this town. Delicious candy is in the stores, but… there is always candy in the stores – delicious gourmet chocolates and boxes of goodies. No huge sacks of small Hershey Bars. Store windows have a “fall” theme. My Halloween fun will be on Facebook – seeing all the posts of parties and creative costumes mixed in with a barrage of political opinions and posts – ugh.

More important, Monday marks the anniversary of Steve’s death – two months later. It seems like yesterday that he was watching TV on the sofa, or sitting at his desk – writing things to post on Facebook, or spending time with the Redhead and Vic Landell in Nice, or in the kitchen – cooking “gravy” (the Italian word for pasta sauce). Most of his clothes are in the closet. All trains lie dormant. Boxes of uncooked fusilli are in the cupboard. A copy of each book – in the bookshelf. How long will things remain like that? I don’t know. Until I change them. Don’t know when that will be.

GoFundMe has been a Godsend. I am almost “there”. Some signs of accomplishment – I paid one hospital – two to go. I have submitted required documents to the French government, the U.S. Government, the landlord, insurance companies, and a slew of other agencies that needed notification. I have renegotiated my lease (for now) and have begun thinking about downsizing – again. None of this has been easy – but necessary. And, during it all, I got sick. 

The good news is that I am better. The bad news is that I must get in the car, drive to Hopital l’Archet, deal with Admissions, and negotiate hospital bills with people who speak French – only. On another day, I must get in the car, drive to Hopital Pasteur, deal with Admissions, and negotiate hospital bills AND morgue bills with people who speak French – only. One lady scolded me – in English, mind you – how dare I live in France and not speak French. 

These campaigns are controversial. I have been criticized – “it is a scam”, “she lives in California, not France”, “she is enhancing her retirement”, “GoFundMe campaigns are out of control”, and so forth. Maybe. I am doing it anyway. Thank you, thank you, thank you. And, to those of you who cannot contribute, or don’t want to contribute, or have contributed – please share this post. That helps a lot. 

Just for the record: When Steve died, it was like being in a shipwreck, with waves crashing all around me. I searched for a piece of wreckage to hold on to, having to make decisions right and left. And, worst of all, I was in shock and couldn’t think. Now, six weeks later, I am thinking a tad better and glad of it. Bottom line, I need help. There are a lot of bills. If you will, it really helps. We moved on a tight budget. Maybe not the best way, but we did it anyway. All attorneys are not rich (no jokes, please). With love and appreciation, Jay  For those who may not know, on October 1, 2015, over a year ago, my husband Steve Orlandella and I moved to Nice, France. We moved to France as a compromise. We had been living in Los Angeles, California, for many years. I moved there in 1968, from Gainesville, Georgia, to be an actress. I met Steve Orlandella in 1993, at Dodgers Stadium. He was a television writer / producer / director for KCET. We got married in August 2005. He began writing books while I practiced law. In 2014, we decided to retire to Nice, France. It took two years to “get our ducks in a row,” complicated with snags galore. On October 1, 2015, we moved – two happy campers. On July 30, 2016, Steve didn’t feel well – the flu. On Tuesday, he took a major turn for the worse. I rushed him to emergency. He was diagnosed with acute pneumonia. He remained in the intensive care section of ICU for a month while doctors tried to save his life. On August 31, 2016, he died of heart failure. He was only 66. Since then, bills have come in – hospital, doctors, morgue, funeral home, crematorium, obituaries, insurance policies, deductibles, renewals. We did not have life insurance or sufficient French insurance because we were excited about living, not concerned with dying.  The money is being used to cover existing costs and incoming bills.  So…. I thank you for any help you are willing to give. I’m sure Steve thanks you, too. Jay

Grammar has always been fun for me. When I was in “Grammar School”, I learned how to diagram sentences. We built little bridges and put words places that made little pictures. I could make a picture and get an A+ for doing it. It started with Miss Castleberry in First Grade, then on to Miss Bessie in Second, and Miss Dent in Third, Miss Lay in Fourth, Mrs. Patten in Fifth, and Mrs. Miller in Sixth. I don’t remember whom I had in Seventh Grade. Mrs. Puckett? Not one of them easy. Strict and hard. Great. Bring it on!

In High School, I don’t remember grammar being a focus. I had Miss Turner for English in my Senior Year, but I don’t remember grammar. I guess by then, we were supposed to know it. Maybe. I don’t remember. At the University of Wisconsin, nothing. And, at the University of Georgia, nothing. But, as soon as I graduated with my Master’s Degree, I began teaching at Brenau College and then at Gainesville Junior College. I always included grammar in my English and Drama courses. Students seemed to know NOTHING about grammar. Why not? Didn’t they teach it anymore?

As my children were growing up, I corrected them – a lot, until I stopped. We had so much going on in our lives, my kids did not need for me to get on their case about grammar. When they got older, I considered correcting them, but didn’t. When they became adults, I didn’t dare correct them. Still don’t. Correct grammar has gone out the window. I see bad grammar in legal briefs.

Every week, I get an email from a guy named Gary Kinder, selling editing software “SoftRake” that should be required in colleges, law schools, trade schools and on home computers, business computers…… Last week, Mr. Kinder wrote one that was inspired. I loved it. So, I am re-posting his post:

“After much pondering and many long discussions with my wife, I have decided to jump into the race for President of the United States. I know it’s a little late, and the campaign will be arduous, but I have been preparing myself for a long while, practicing the victory sign with both hands at the same time.

My platform is simple, one plank: I pledge to the American people to wage war on one of the most insidious threats to the American way of life since Ben Franklin flew a kite in a storm. The VFW, NOW, DAR, AIM, MADD, NAACP, ASPCA, MLA, NRA, LBJ, and JFK all support my campaign and have contributed heavily.

Yes, I am talking about the pervasive, relentless, unmitigated, diabolical flipping around of subjective and objective pronouns. If we do not act decisively now, the “me-‘n-himmers” will soon be old enough to procreate. What will happen if a “me-‘n-himmer” hooks up with a “her-‘n-Ier?” Can you imagine the sentences that will come out of the mouths of their offspring? “Me and him bought her and I Jimmy Choo handbags.”

How will I implement my plan? First, I will create Youth Groups, young women and men who will wear red arm bands with slogans: “Lips that touch bad grammar shall never touch mine.” Stuff like that. I also plan to resurrect the pillory, that thing where you put your head and hands through and they lower the top half, so you look stupid with your head hanging through a hole. I know there’s one in Williamsburg, and I think Boston has a couple.

But I can’t do this alone. I need the help of every adult, especially coaches, teachers, and parents. Tell the kids, “You may say anything you want to around your friends, but you may not sound stupid in this house (on this court, field, track, diamond, in this classroom).” You wouldn’t let them drive on bald tires; don’t let them shoot their futures in the foot by getting used to bad grammar. 

Reality check: Most children listen to their parents, but would never let their parents know. When your children climb into their twenties, you will have a lot of good laughs with them, as you discover they were listening the whole time.

Now, parents, if you will, I need a few moments alone with your kids. Thank you.

Are they gone, kids? Okay, here’s the deal: Your parents’ greatest fears are that you will contract some terrible disease, get hooked on drugs, be in a horrific car accident, or use “Me and her” as a compound subject in a college interview.

Fact: When the college interviewer says, “Tell me about your best friend and what the two of you like to do together,” she wants you to say, “Me and him play ‘Destiny’ and hang out,” so she can quickly cross another name off her long list. Next! Why not ruin her process with, “He and I hitchhiked from Lake George to El Paso to get closer to real Americans, and that experience has helped him and meto understand more about our country. When we were in Appalachia . . . .”

A few more thoughts: Unless you are standing in the shadow of El Capitan or staring at a Leafy Sea Dragon, it’s time to retire “awesome.” Do not use it when you’re working at BCBGMaxAzria and a customer tells you he has correct change. Also, do not have this conversation with yourself while within ten feet of another human: “So he tells me this, and I’m like. And he’s like. So I’m like. You know? Then he goes, ehh. And I’m like, whoa.”

Here’s the cool part about learning grammar: You can correct your parents. Because just between you and me, they do it, too. They need your help. Every time you hear one of them use “me” or “him” (or both) as a subject, tell them they owe you a quarter. For example, “Me and Kelly’s dad are driving to lacrosse this week.” That’s two bits in your pocket. You can make a lot of money, more than you could with a paper route (never mind), and you don’t have to get up so early. You may go now.

Kids are gone now, parents; just us again. So here’s my plan going forward: once we have them (and ourselves) using subjective and objective pronouns properly, we can move on to “could of” and “should of.”

In the meantime, please join me in my quest and elect me President of the United States, for the future of our children and our children’s children. And our children’s children’s children. And our children’s children’s children’s children. And anyone alive in 4973.

P.S. As I was writing this Tip, I saw an article on a study by the Pew Research Center that compared the Millennials’ reading habits to those of the Baby Boomers. Guess what, Boomers? Millennials read more than we do. And, bless them, they are more likely to say there’s a lot of really great information out there that’s not found on the Internet!”

“New York Times bestselling author, Gary Kinder, has taught over 1,000 writing programs to law firms, corporations, universities, and government agencies. In 2012, Gary and his team of engineers created WordRake, the only software in the world that edits for clarity and brevity, giving professionals more confidence when writing to clients and colleagues. Backed by seven U.S. patents, WordRake was recently hailed as “Disruptive Innovation” by Harvard Law School. And LexisNexis® Pacific has chosen the WordRake editing software to include in its new Lexis® Draft Pro.”

Ugh. Not funny.

Best, Jay

It was a Sunday – mid-June. Usually on Sunday, Steve and I would take off, go to the Italian market for provolone cheese, ravioli, gnocchi, and thin-sliced salami, then browse the flower market for flowers, fruit, cheeses, olives, baguettes, and wind up at our favorite restaurant – Di Piu, Nice. After lunch, we might browse the shops, get a soft vanilla ice cream, or walk along the Sea. Come home, hang out, watch TV, and munch on baguette, thin-sliced salami, Dijon Mustard, and olives for supper – with a cookie for dessert. Add Cabernet and Canada Dry Ginger Ale, and you have the picture. It was always fun.

For some reason this Sunday, we were staying in. Steve was writing. I was surfing the Internet, looking for a place to go on holiday that wouldn’t cost an arm and a leg. I came across a Get Away resort in Interval International – Club Elite Vacation at La Fenice Resort, outside of Olbia, Sardinia, Italy. “Steve, have you ever been to Sardinia?’ “No, why?” “Want to go?” “Sure, why not?’ “Can we be ready to go by July 8?” “Sure.” With that response, I clicked “confirm”. We were going on holiday to Olbia, Italy [Sardinia] from July 8 – July 15.

We flew to EasyJet to Olbia from Nice, and the Resort sent a shuttle to pick us up. Driving there, I began to question our choice because the road became narrow and mountainous. “Remote” is another word for it. Yet, when we arrived, it was beautiful. Serene. Picturesque. Cozy. Quaint. Surrounded by small mountains. Right away, we could see that it felt different – like we had gone to summer camp.

We even had an assigned leader, a lovely Italian woman who lives in Spain who comes to Olbia for 4 months in the summer while the resort is open for guests. Obviously, it is closed for the rest of the year!? Right away, our leader said food was expensive in Sardinia – duh – and did we want to buy the food package – seven breakfasts and seven 4-course dinners with wine for 400 euros? I said no; Steve said yes. Well, we didn’t have a car, so why not. And, where would we go? We hardly knew where we were. When we arrived at our assigned room, it was delightful. Not plush, but nice. With a patio, covered with bougainvillea. Lovely. Then, true to form, we immediately tried to get online. No way. So, Steve took his phone to the Lobby. Yes, WiFi – but he had to find a “hot spot”. The hot spot changed often during the day. One had to shift around the chairs to find where it was at the time you wanted to check messages.

On the other hand, the people were nice, the guests friendly, and the pool was just what the doctor ordered. The surrounding hillside was gorgeous. Al Fresco dining with candlelight. There was a TV in the room – in Italian, French, German. So…. No WiFi, no TV, no lunch, dinner almost past my bedtime – at 8 PM. And, no car. Hmmm. I brought a book, and Steve brought his computer.

 

During the days – other than the day when we went with our “co-campers” around the Island on a private yacht, we ate breakfast (when we pocketed something to eat for lunch), sat by the pool, read, swam, slept, laughed, joked, played solitaire on our Ipad(s), and hung out together.

Steve did a lot of writing on the patio while I lay on the bed and read. It was great. We met a couple from Bristol, England, and were delighted to have someone to talk to. EVERYONE was Italian except for the four of us. The chef was Italian and divine. Pasta courses every night. Dinners were out of this world. Each dinner was different with four courses, and wine. Steve, of course, had Sprite. I cannot tell you how much we loved being there and loved being with each other. Several times, we agreed that this was the honeymoon we never had. And, it was worth waiting for.

On the last night, we set our alarms early for a 6:30 a.m. shuttle ride to the airport. That was when I saw a message on my phone (wonder of wonders) from my niece, Deb Prince Kroll. She wanted to know if we were all right. Yes. Why wouldn’t we be? Had something happened? That is when we turned on the TV to discover – Terror Attack in Nice.  Since we couldn’t get WiFi, Steve went to the lobby to find a hot spot. No go. We turned on the TV to look at pictures and were horrified. That is where we go every Sunday. It was Bastille Day. We would have been there but for this vacation. Would we be able to get home? Would they close the Nice airport? Were our friends all right? Those were families. Families go to see the fireworks at the beach on Bastille Day.

It all went well. Our flight was delayed three hours, but we got to Nice. No problem going through customs. Got a taxi. Got home. We found out our friends were fine – even though close calls. They were there, watching the fireworks. So were his parents. Found out the Nice airport had been closed right after we left. That Sunday, July 17, we went to the scene of the crime – the Promenade – where so many died. We agreed that life is fragile. Little did we know what would happen two weeks later.

I am posting pictures of the resort, the pool, our boat trip around the island, the patio, our friends from England, and a few others. The pictures aren’t great, but my heart was not in taking photographs. I was having too much fun. This was a week to remember. Forever. I love you, Steve. I miss you. Forever,

Love, Jay

 

This post is about ROSES. I am not sure when my love affair with roses began. Early on. But, Mother did not grow roses. She always said they were too difficult. Instead, she decorated the house with silk roses that Henry George helped her buy. I never liked the silk ones because I was a nature-snob and thought anything artificial was tacky. But, at least, Mother’s artificial flowers were silk. And expensive. That helped – snob that I was/am. And, if I got a corsage, it was either an orchid – purple or white – or gardenias. I wouldn’t wear anything else. Alice Whitehead’s father grew roses – really pretty ones. I think Mrs. Martin next door had some roses. And, I LOVED it if a boyfriend brought me roses. But, that seldom happened because roses were expensive. Plus, when I was dating, guys didn’t bring flowers – not like today. Steve bought me roses on my birthday and on Valentine’s Day. He knew I loved them and enjoyed seeing my delight when he came in the door with a dozen long-stemmed red roses. My son Craig sent me roses one time on Mother’s Day. I was ecstatic. And, I bought roses from time to time at Ralph’s or Gelson’s.

Things really changed when I got my first smart phone in 2005 – a Blackberry. It had a camera. So, in the mornings, when I walked through the neighborhoods, I took pictures – of roses. In Southern California, it seemed as if every yard had roses. At least, that was all I saw. Beautiful roses. When Facebook arrived on the scene, I began posting a picture-a-day on Facebook. Very little else – just pictures of roses. People began giving me thumbs ups. That encouraged me to continue. And now, 11 years later, I am still posting pictures of roses on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, FOAP. I have an international following. It is fun. And, I have published two books about roses – “Moments in Time” and “Capturing Beauty” – for sale on amazon.com.

So, from time to time, expect a rose here and there on Jayspeak. Today, I am posting roses from Los Angeles – Brentwood, Westwood, Encino – and Nice, France. Plus, I am posting flowers I have used on my books. Steve was wonderful at Photoshop. So, he made some beautiful covers. Guess I will have to learn how to use Photoshop. Along with a myriad of other things that Steve took care of for us. Picture quality has changed over time because Apple keeps making the camera better and better. I have so many pictures of roses, that it is difficult to pick only a few. But, this is a sampler. Enjoy.

Best, Jay