B.L.O.G.

Language is a funny thing. It separates us (see British and American English), or brings us together, Lao in our family’s case. The U.S. Government determined that I should study Lao late in 1963, along with six other guys, who were all being shipped off to become the nucleus of what came to be called the Forward Areas Program. Considering the fact that there were never more than about sixty people who spoke serviceable Lao during the next ten year period, we seven were a little more than a tenth of that total; which probably accounts for Agency refusal to move some of us anywhere else until Asian hospitality wore out. We were to start off as community development advisors, something which apparently needed little or no training for the advisors in those days. Happily, that never bothered any of us. Those were the days when there was nothing an American couldn’t do, if setting “his” mind to it. [Digression: there was also no political correctness at the time either, and words l...

Once again I am back in France, visiting my brother-in-law’s farm; a farm built in 1904 in the middle of nowhere. Well it is in the middle of nowhere for a rural suburban American girl. Actually, I am in St. Vincent d’Autejac, in the county of Tarn-et-Garonne. You are going to wonder why I have my computer on while living in such a heavenly environment. As I said, I am an American, and we go everywhere with our laptops, cell phones, and IPods (I don’t have one right now, but probably will soon). In the morning, I get up with birds singing and playing, or more likely fighting amongst themselves outside my bedroom window; since the noises they make at times can be deceitful. I also met an old bachelor. They have a term in France, “un vieux garcon,” an old boy. He reminded me of an old Franciscan Monk with his white mane in some Robin Hood movie. He looks as if someone put a coconut on his head and cut around it. He and I walk three times a week from St. Vincent to Caussade; ab...

The view from my bedroom window in St. Vincent d'Autejac, France... This is what I see every morning when I wake up... Authentic Power: When you possess authentic power, your life is filled with meaning and purpose. You have no doubts. You have no fears. You are happy to be alive. You have a reason to be alive. Everything you do is joyful, exciting and you look forward to each day and each night. You are not worried about doing wrong, making a mistake, or failing. You do not compare yourself with others and what you do with what others do. You can experience authentic power caring for a child, or as simple as cooking a meal. You can experience it in a big project like building a house, or a little project like me, writing. It does not come from what you are doing, but how you are doing it. You can experience authentic power at work, at school, helping a child picking wild flowers, the listing is endless. External Power: Authentic power is not only different from extern...

Its winter in Madagascar, and summer in my outside world. Laure’s gone; and so is the noise, banter and general movement occurring around her. Sometimes it comes as a shock, though it shouldn’t after this many years, to realize that she forces life to whirl around us, when nearby. Things just happen. Now, almost a week after her departure for sunnier climes (France filled with Icelandic ash?) , here I am on a dreary Saturday morning in Antananarivo, with mist everywhere, shutting out the sun, which doesn’t appear to want to shine anyway. Ah well. Its still early, I generally wake between 4 and 5, and I have an hour and half before Solofo (this morning) shows up to haul me off to a quiet office building for a few hours. Then, maybe a pizza at Palladio on the way home. The sun may be out, and the French will be there by then. Last night, or early evening anyway, (Now, I leave the apartment as the sun rises, maybe; and get home around the time it disappears.) Laure’s gone, so it...

May 15, 2010 We went to a wedding reception of Colby and Ravaka. We arrived around 1:00 PM. No sooner had we arrived, when Colby flopped down in a chair next to me, put his arms around me and shouted, “I know you are married, and so am I, but I don’t care. I want this picture, and I want my wedding pictures in your blog, for the world to see.” Not sure what world, but Colby’s world in that particular moment. Colby was the happiest groom I have ever met. He was everywhere, he was three-sheets to the wind already when we took the picture, and he made people welcome. In other words, he was a happy drunk, and very happy to be married to Ravaka. My stay in Madagascar was a short ride, but a good one. Ending my stay participating at such an event was the highlight of my short visit to this country. I hope you all enjoy the wedding reception pictures as I did while taking them. Actually, since I am in most of the pictures, my husband took them. Lots of love going around. And oh yes, we walked...

Laure and Francoise Laure and Colby Gayle and Barnett Veronique and Laure

What do you do when you are married to a Foreign Service officer? You travel around the world. And if you are with USAID? You travel around Nations of Rising Expectations. Sure we have posts in Rome and Paris, but my husband does not get sent to those places. Except for one time he was sent to Paris for two weeks to evaluate the one and only house owned by USAID in Paris, near the Place Concorde, in a cul-de-sac; otherwise inhabited by Arab Sheiks and Princes all having more money that USAID can count. We were in Afghanistan when Barnett told me that our next assignment was going to be Mauritania. “Mauri-what?,” I said. To simplify the matter, he showed it to me on a map. Since then, we had a globe, and he would point out our next assignment each time. As an Asian/French teenager, you know about Africa because you studied geography. Even then, it was not the best subject while I was in school. I landed in Senegal in 1978, I looked around, and except for the fact that there ...

For Anne-Marie! The famous dress and the famous shoes, LOL!!!! Relaxing at the end of a great evening, and I still have my 5 ½ inch heels on...

As our gallivanting has taken us this time to Madagascar, our daughter asked that we close our house. She was a little tired of watering 230 plants, amongst other things. After a mental struggle, trying to sort through bibelots, paintings, furniture, and artifacts we have been gathering from Afghanistan, Mauritania, Morocco, all over Africa (I can now add South Africa onto my listing), and many parts of Asia; we now live in the mother-in-law suite in our daughter and her husband’s basement. Now that the mental struggling is over and the decision is made, I must say that it is great not having to take care of a house, mow the lawn, or pay utility bills. And, most important of all, being able to pick up and go anytime our fancy hits us is the greatest feeling of all. Having all my siblings in France, and extending my stay without worrying about a house, is also a plus. To get where we are today was not an easy decision, especially after accumulating beautiful “junk” for over forty ...

Poinsettias grow in pots, at least in America they do, but not here in Antananarivo... They grow wild and free and tall like trees. It is the end of May in Madagascar and the beginning of winter, and all the poinsettias are starting to bloom. These pictures are from places I pass in the neighborhood, and sometimes from a car.

About a month or so ago, a Saturday, as Laure and I sat on our rear balcony – we currently live in a fourth floor apartment (third floor, if you follow the French way of counting them) in Building D of a seven-building complex (the others are A thru G, naturally) - overlooking a nicely planted grassy area behind the buildings in the Ivandry Section of Antananarivo; the houses beyond; and a little community park full of flowers, are also built and owned by the “Management.” Nannies and a few complex guards oversaw children (Malagasy and European) playing, and generally enjoying themselves. It is all on a slight incline; and one little girl, probably five or six, proceeded to roll slowly down the incline, pick herself up, walk back to where she started, and then complete the trick again, and again; occasionally mixing in body flips to change the pace. As we watched, somehow, it took us both back to the raising of children like that little girl; and the relatively recent days in Staffo...

Antananarivo, Madagascar When you are married for forty odd years to the same person, and your husband has been a US Marine, a PC Volunteer, fought in Vietnam War, and spent over forty years in the Federal Government, you live an interesting, difficult and challenging life. You really never know what is next on your plate when you leave the comfort of your home and you end up here and there around the world. As a wife of a former Marine, I have to remember saying former not ex. Once a Marine, always a Marine. Then there is the Peace Corps moment. Something, or some situations that would remind my husband of his PC days, then we would get the stories of the first PCV, Ghana I 1961. Most of the stories of my life seem to have been something that does not belong to us, but belongs in chapters of a history book. Summer 2008 ~ I accompanied my husband to Monrovia. A two-month contract pushed onto almost two years on and off. On my way back to the States after a four month visit, I d...