Catching Up

Sorry to be MIA for so long. My week has been partially wonderful and partially explosive.
Tuesday was my birthday.
It started out with a lovely run then breakfast with my husband and daughter at Pistace Vera.

I had my hair cut and  emerged for lunch at Bon Vie totally different.

Then I went to work in the evening.
Some time that night, Tucker let both cats outside (they're indoor/outdoor cats), but only one cat returned home. The younger one didn't come to the door. At 3:30 in the morning, I heard Tucker outside in the rain calling for him.
"Don't get arrested for skulking around," I warned him as I got up to check on Tucker.
The next morning as we hurried out the door to work, Tybalt still hadn't shown up.
Tucker got up around 9 to begin looking for him. As Tucker got more and more worried, I posted on our local Facebook page with a picture of the missing cat. I went to Ohio Pet FBI and posted. I called the non-emergency number of the police and the local animal shelter and the local vet clinic trying to find the cat. Instead of going to the gym after work, I came home and walked the streets shaking a container with cat food in hopes of luring him out.
Searches online told me that outdoor cats are usually within five houses, unless they've been trapped somewhere or accidentally relocated. Accidentally relocated would mean that a cat climbed in the back of a truck or in a wheel well and driven away. Another possibility would be that the cat got scared, sprinted from his normal neighborhood and couldn't find his way back, according to the Pet FBI research.

As I walked the neighborhood, gaining steps on my new Fitbit, I pictured our poor cat stuck in a shed or a garage, unable to get out. Or maybe a possum or raccoon had fought with him, leaving him hurt. The website warned that cats are silent when injured, even if I was close by calling his name. They don't want to alert any predators.
When Grace got home from work, we wandered the neighborhood again, stopping random people on the street to show them pictures of Tybs. The AEP guys going door to door. The kids skateboarding. We were getting desperate as the sun began to set again.
Finally around 6:30, a call came in. The young man had found a very nice cat on his porch. He'd been there since this morning.
Tucker and Grace went to fetch Tybs and the drama for the day ended.
Thursday, I determined would be the day I'd catch up on all my lagging work. I ran and showered then got down to work. Tucker told me he needed to film me doing something for his videography class -- 50 shots at least 3 seconds each. He wanted me to do something interesting.
"Too bad you don't have a talent," he said. He had wanted to film his father drawing a picture. It's not too interesting to watch someone grade papers or write stories.
He finally decided that I should play Scrabble.

But, at 10:15 as I put in a second load of laundry, also not worth filming, the phone rang. Grace couldn't move her neck and was in a lot of pain. I drove to pick her up at work. Got her home, medicated. Called to make doctor's appointments, took her to the doctor where she was diagnosed with a pinched nerve and muscles in spasm, picked up her prescriptions,, dropped everything at home then headed to the college to testify for the harassment hearing.
After I complained about a student in one of my classes, the college's Title IX rep filed charges.
She said I could send in a statement, or testify by phone, but the best idea was to attend and give my testimony.
Feeling anxious, I showed up and sat in the faculty kitchen waiting for the student to complete his testimony. He had denied that he hugged me, saying he'd only shaken my hand.
Up until I heard that, I'd continued to believe his inappropriate behavior was due to a cultural misunderstanding. By lying about it, he as much as admitted that he knew it was wrong and wanted to hide it.
The committee, made up of one student, one faculty member and one administrator, listened to me then asked questions. From the questions they asked, I thought they were leaning toward the student's version of events.
"How uncomfortable would you be if this student were in your class or still here on campus?" the male faculty member asked.
I came home Thursday feeling defeated. I wondered if I could avoid teaching at that college, maybe getting by on one of my jobs.
Friday was another sprint -- teaching, then a lovely afternoon of a facial and pedicure, making a casserole dish of macaroni and cheese before Tucker left for work, a quick trip to the gym, getting Grace comfortable with her still inflamed neck muscles and pinched nerves.
After 6, I sat down at the computer and checked my email. The student accused of harassment had been suspended for a year. Now I have a year to not worry about running into him in the halls, and next year at this time, we'll be preparing to move to France. Our schedules might overlap by one semester only.
Saturday, I ran with my friend Noreen then spent the day tackling our complicated taxes.

Today, a run, Trader Joe's, and my parents' taxes.

Tomorrow, I'll start the schedule all over again, with the added chaos of Spencer coming home for Spring Break. He starts with a trip to the dentist for a chipped tooth.
You'll understand if you don't hear from me for awhile.

Dreaming of France -- The Ubiquitous Carousel

Please join this weekly meme. Grab a copy of the photo above and link back to An Accidental Blog. Share with the rest of us your passion for France. Did you read a good book set in France? See a movie? Take a photo in France? Have an adventure? Eat a fabulous meal or even just a pastry? Or if you're in France now, go ahead and lord it over the rest of us. We can take it.
A French town just isn't complete without a carousel. I think the French must have a lot more carousels per capita than we do in the United States. What does that say about the French? About us?
This one was in Aix en Provence, aptly named the Carrousel Paul Cezanne since Cezanne had a studio in Aix and painted many scenes of the nearby mountain Mont Ste. Victoire.

Note the gorgeous blue sky behind the carousel and the intense red and gold on the carousel. There's even a second story that kids can go up to.

We saw another carousel in Marseille when we spent the day there. 

I wonder how big a town has to be to have a carousel. Maybe I should be asking how small it has to be so that it doesn't have a carousel. 

Hope everyone is having a splendid spring.

Thanks for playing along with Dreaming of France. Please leave a comment and visit each other's blogs so you can share you love for France.  

Goodreads Giveaway

If you're on Goodreads, enter for a chance to win a paperback copy of my novel, I See London I See France. I'd love it if you'd friend me on Goodreads too.

Goodreads Book Giveaway

I See London, I See France

by Paulita Kincer

Giveaway ends May 26, 2014.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter to win

Dreaming of France

When I visit France, the things that mean the most are the everyday living. The idea that life is more important than work.
And, of course, since we're on vacation, we have time to relax and enjoy life.
When the kids were two, four and six, we visited France and spent some quality time in Luxembourg Gardens in Paris.

Someday I'm going to get all of these pictures put on my computer rather than taking pictures of them. They don't have very good quality that way, but you can still get the feel of France. 

Also in the Luxembourg Gardens, is a shot of Tucker playing in a blue car. He had a cute French girl next to him and was making his cute flirty face.

One thing we were surprised by at the French playgrounds was the play equipment. Since the French aren't nearly as litigious as we are in the United States, they have things like this climbing contraption that would never fly here in the U.S.

Here's 6-year-old Grace at the top of it. 

Maybe this week I'm dreaming of France and dreaming of those halcyon days when my kids were little. 

Thanks for playing along today and I hope you'll all visit each other's blogs to see more. 

Spring Break

My spring break from one job is coming to an end, but Grace's spring break begins today.
I picked her up at 8:30 a.m., after a run with my friend Noreen, and we drove through Starbucks for coffee. Then I baked the kouign amann that I had set out last night to rise. We settled on the couch to drink coffee, eat kouign amann and watch House Hunters International in France and Switzerland. We  yelled at the Americans who complained about not having American-sized refrigerators.
I love having Grace home.

I've stocked up on supplies of chocolate and wine, plus asparagus and goat cheese. I hope to really enjoy the week with her.
May all of you experience something as delightful as a daughter returning home for the week.

Blogger's Review of I See London I See France

Be sure to take a look at Laurel-Rain Snow's review of my latest novel, I See London I See France.
As an author, I can't begin to explain how thrilling it is to have readers enjoy the words I wrote, imagine the characters I created.
When I read, I'm always searching for those nuggets of truth that I can relate to. I hope readers can find those in my novels too.
Here's the link to Laurel's review on her blog Rainy Days and Mondays.
She also posted the review on Amazon and Goodreads. I'm always happy to have reviews and news of my novel spread to other readers.
Thanks to everyone for their support.

Writing For Women or Men or Both

I've been pondering audience recently.
My first published book, The Summer of France, has both a male and female perspective. It has a mystery and some historical details from World War II. It has a motorcycle/car chase, for goodness sake. That makes it appropriate for a man or a woman to read.
My other books (as yet unpublished) are more aimed toward women readers. I See London, I See France is about a woman trying to decide what she is outside motherhood. She is so overwhelmed with her children, ages 9,7, and 5, that she doesn't recognize what makes her happy any more. So the conflict is internal.
When her husband walks out one afternoon, she sells her minivan and takes her children to Europe to try to find the passionate self she was in her 20s when she studied in Europe. Her husband, of course, is angry that she disappeared with the kids and threatens to have her arrested and take the kids back.
A couple of writer friends have read parts of it recently, and one suggestion was to add an outside conflict to make the novel more attractive to men.
Of course, that seems overwhelming. Is she chasing something around Europe? Is she searching for something? Why can't she simply search for her real self, while trying to be a good mother?
Now I'm torn. Do I revise this book and add an external conflict? Do I keep it in its same form and label it women's fiction? Do I move on to another one of my novels that already has the potential for "action"?
What do you think when you read novels? Do men only like external conflict?

Mistakes

Have you ever made mistakes that haunt you?
Yesterday at the library, I saw a little girl who reminded me of a big mistake I made.
I was walking down the stairs at the library. The stairs are open to the main floor all the way down. I was on the third floor and as I reached the second floor, a little girl came marching up the stairs. She had blond shoulder-length hair, a pink sun dress and pink flipflops that flapped against her feet as she took the stairs. I smiled. She seemed determined and confident. The girl was probably 5. I expected to see her mother walking up the stairs behind her, maybe lugging a younger sibling. But the girl turned toward the 3rd floor and continued on up the stairs alone.
I didn't say anything, like "Where's your mom?" And our downtown library is not the kind of place where kids should go exploring on their own. Some shady characters take refuge in the library during the day. But the girl really looked like she knew what she was doing.
That's when I remembered that time long ago when I didn't intervene with another little blonde girl.
We were living in Michigan and had probably been friends with Sarah's family for about six months. Sarah's mom Patricia was from Arkansas. She had an adorable southern accent and that haunting ability to make every person she met feel special. In addition to her daughter Sarah, who was 5 like Grace, Patricia had a son who was a few years older. Patricia made fun of how overprotective I was. She scoffed at the booster seat I still made Grace use in the car. (In Michigan at that time, the carseat laws only required a carseat up to age one.)
We were at Shakespeare in the park, and the green, grassy hill was covered with families watching the play below. Some of the kids climbed to an open gazebo at the top of the hill. I went to check on them. There were several little kids, like Grace and Sarah, along with an older boy. Sarah was sitting on a low wall swinging her legs and she introduced me to the older boy. I don't remember the boy's name now, but I said hello to him and asked Sarah how she knew him.
"He's my friend," Sarah said.  I wasn't clear whether he was a boy she knew already or had just met him. I sent Grace down the hill and considered whether to make Sarah come down too.
I remember feeling torn. Patricia thought I was too overprotective already. Would she simply roll her eyes and allow Sarah to traipse back up the hill? I decided to walk back and tell Patricia then let her decide. I looked at the boy, figuring he wouldn't do anything stupid knowing an adult was aware of him.
Then I started back down the hill, making a beeline for Patricia.
That's when I saw Spencer and another boy throwing acorns at each other. I stopped to redirect them. It didn't take more than a few minutes to talk to the boys, but during that pause Sarah ran past me sobbing, straight to Patricia's blanket.
"Oh, no."
I went running over to the blanket. 
"There was a boy," I gasped as Sarah sobbed and hid her face against her mother.
As we pieced the story together, I remember Patricia's eyes piercing me as she said, "You sent your daughter down and you left mine?"
And, I had. I didn't think about it as a sacrifice of her, but I had protected Grace. Grace wasn't the type of kid who would have allowed a stranger to get close anyway, but Sarah was an open, welcoming child. She didn't know a stranger.
Sarah had sat on the boy's lap and he clapped a hand over her mouth then put his other hand in her panties. I don't know how Sarah got away.
Our husbands went searching for the boy but couldn't find him. Patricia took Sarah to the hospital for an examination and the police asked lots of questions.
As the adult who had seen the boy, I answered police questions and tried to come up with a photo sketch. A year or so later, as we were getting ready to move to Ohio, the police came by again with a number of photos. The boy's photo I identified was already in custody.
But little blonde girls, like the one at the library will always remind me of the time I didn't protect a little girl.

Happy BIrthday

Twenty years ago, I lived in a warm climate and a spotless house. I was a size six with 18 pounds of basketball belly when I got up early in the morning, about this time, and drove to the hospital an hour away. Four hours later, Grace was born. Eight pounds, eight ounces.
And, obviously, my life has never been the same -- in a good way. Yes, we've had our mother daughter run-ins and temper tantrums (both of us). But when I went to the hospital, I could never have dreamed that I'd be giving birth to one of my best friends.
Sometimes I think that she relies on me too much, but then I realize that I rely on her too. She's always happy to talk about my day and offer advice on how raise her brothers. We laugh together a lot, and I don't think there's much more I could ask for from her. Someone who loves me, who makes me laugh and who I have watched become a beautiful, confident young woman. And that's only the first 20 years.
Happy Birthday, Grace

Moseying Along To School

I drove Tucker to school this morning since Spencer went early. On the way home, I stopped to get a gallon of milk, which put me driving through the neighborhoods smack dab in the middle of elementary school time.
Our high school and middle school start at 8 a.m. while the elementary kids begin at 8:10 a.m. That gives parents time to get kids to both schools if they need to.
In our little burg, we don't have any school buses. Everyone can walk or bike to school. For the high school age kids, of course, most of them drive so they can be cool, and sleep in later.
It struck me as I saw all the parents walking to school with their elementary-aged children: Walking to school with little kids takes a long time.

My kids didn't go to school when they were that age, and I always said the best thing about homeschooling was not having to get out of the door in the morning to get somewhere.

I don't think I saw one parent and child combo actually making progress. They were stopped waiting for the dog. Or the kid was in a yard looking at flowers. Another kid knelt down on the sidewalk tying his shoe. Another kid was pointing up in a tree.
The parents stood on the sidewalk, their shoulders slumped in defeat, realizing that a beautiful spring day was no time to hurry along curious children.
The shortest distance between two points (home and school) is not a straight line for most little kids.
I guess the parents know that the walk to school will be more like a mosey, or a treasure hunt.
That's a hard lesson, but a good one, for those of us who are always in a hurry. We need to stop and smell the daffodils before they're gone.

Strange Signs

We just got back from a long and delicious dinner at a friend's house. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow, since it's after midnight here which means I'm nearly a pumpkin.
I saw this sign yesterday and couldn't figure out what it meant. (Ignore the graffiti. I'm talking about why the state or the city would put up a sign like this.)



Why would it have a line drawn through a parent and child holding hands? The other side of the sign clued me in on the way back. Does anyone have any guesses?

Careful What You Wish For...

The day before Thanksgiving, I was nearly in tears. Our holiday was going to consist of me, my husband and our three children. Earl had to work. I would do the cooking with the kids help. It didn't seem like much of a holiday. So I called my mom in Florida on my way to work that Wednesday.
"Please won't you and Dad come up for Christmas?" I begged. "I can't stand another holiday without family."
So they came up to Ohio. And my nephew in the Navy came home from Seattle. Then last week, after a flurry of phone calls, my older brother in Texas drove to my grandmother's house in Kentucky. He brought along his teenage daughter and 21-year-old son. Grace and I made the four-hour drive on Sunday morning to spend the afternoon celebrating my grandmother's 92nd birthday. Here's our whole family, minus my boys and husband.

In addition, my aunt, another uncle, a cousin and his wife and their two college-aged children all came too.
The kids had a good time catching up.

Well, I guess they aren't kids anymore. The girls range in age from 13 to 20.
But they caught up with each other like cousins do. They talked and played some music.

My cousin's son Logan is a freshman in college. He has acquired the nickname "The Rooster" but we don't want to know why.
The grown ups (that's me) reminisced about the days when they played Little House on the Prairie, roaming the woods behind my grandmother's house. Then we talked about how they played dress up and how most of them wouldn't fit in my grandmother's clothes now.
I wanted family for Christmas; I got family.
Grace and I drove home Sunday night in a snowstorm. Over the river...