Essay: Les mots dangereux

My husband, Paul, was perturbed. A radio show host had pronounced “les liaisons dangereuses” as “les liaisons dangeroos.” Paul grew up speaking French. He winced.

I said, “I think that’s how I learned to say it on Duolingo.” I have completed 1,301 consecutive days of lessons on the foreign language learning app. I have learned to use dangereuses in relation to certain rues (streets) of dubious reputation, as well as dangereux for the voleurs (robbers) that inexplicably pop up regularly in lessons. “I like to say dangeroos," I said. "It slides off the tongue.” Unlike words like oeil (eye) which just stick there.

“No,” Paul said. He glared at me. “How do you say forget in French?”

“Oublier,” I said promptly. Wait? What? That was quick. What had just happened?

Was I thinking in French?

I didn’t have a chance to ponder that thought because Paul was pointing out that the “ou” in oublier is different from the “eu” sound in dangereuse — les liaisons dangereuses, not dangeroos. I conceded the point and repeated dangereuses until I got it right.

I mangle words in English and knew that French pronunciation would be difficult for me. I warned Paul of this when I started my learning project because he, like so many Frencophones, is a stickler for perfect French enunciation. It wasn’t going to happen.

But I am good at vocabulary. I can now read the little story lessons on Duolingo without translating them word for word. Sometimes, while playing online Scrabble, I wish I could do it in French because there are so many words that use J (8 points!). Sometimes French words or phrases come unbidden to me. I saw a new café named “Lately’s” and I thought … dernièrement!

And I was able to produce, on a dime, the French word for “to forget.” And la cerise (the cherry) on top is that I pronounced it right too.

C’est une bonne journée, mes amis!

_______

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Essay: Meeting The Boss

I first heard about Bruce Springsteen in 1974, when I was a freshman at Providence College. Eddie, a friend of my boyfriend Don, had a copy of "Greetings from Asbury Park, N.J." He played it nonstop. I liked the sound of it, but not enough to buy the album.

Then, in 1977, “Born to Run” catapulted Springsteen to fame. I eagerly anticipated getting my hands on the record. I shared the enthusiasm for the title track with everyone I knew, but it was “Thunder Road” that resonated with me. The lyrics, “You ain’t a beauty but hey, you’re alright…,” struck a chord with me. I was in the process of recovering from the cystic acne that had plagued me throughout high school. The song filled me with emotion.

Now that everyone knew his name, it was hard to believe The Boss was coming to PC! Yes, he was going to play in the gym! I skipped philosophy class to stand in line for tickets. The concert was everything I hoped for—and probably more, in such an intimate setting. 

In early 1980, my sister Maggie and I were at Gulliver’s night club, in Smithfield, Rhode Island, to hear a band we liked. Beaver Brown had a Springsteen-like sound, right down to their saxophone player. One of their roadies casually mentioned to us that The Boss was probably going to be on stage with Beaver Brown when they played at The Fast Lane in Asbury Park the next weekend. “You probably could meet him,” he said with a shrug.

We looked at each other. We had to go.

We were 23 and 19, so why not? We hopped into my gold Ford Maverick and headed for Jersey. Unfortunately, I went right by the exit for Asbury Park and in my panic caused a fender bender involving three vehicles. I was cited.

A little shaky but unhurt, we drove on to our slightly seedy hotel. That night, we headed out for 

The Fast Lane. It was packed. We pushed our way to the front. Beaver Brown was as rousing as always, and as the night wore on, the crowd revved up. Then, suddenly, there was a roar of excitement. The Boss was here!

He grabbed a mic and the band segued into “Rosalita.” Maggie and I were dancing with the crowd. Yes! The moment we had been waiting for. Hoping for. Bruce Springsteen, right in front of us.

The show was over. The club emptied out. We lingered, unsure. Then our friend the roadie, waved at us and pointed for us to stay put. We looked at each. Was this happening?

It was. There was Bruce Springsteen, coming toward us. “Hey, thanks for coming,” he said. He ducked his head. The Boss was shy? My world tilted. “Where’re you from?”

 

“Massachusetts,” we said in creaky unison.

“All that way.” 

We nodded. If either of us said anything more, it is lost to history.

Should we have asked for an autograph? A photo together? Speaking for myself, I’m just glad I didn’t faint.

We were still in a daze on the drive home. Springsteen on stage right in front of us would have been enough. But he spoke to us. He saw us.

On the way we stopped at a phone booth and called our parents. Dad answered. We did it. We met him. Heading back now. I did not mention the accident. Dad was going to give me an earful when I got back so there was time enough for that.

At home, reality set in. The car was barely damaged and only required a minor repair. I returned to building my career as a freelancer, writing articles for the Fall River Herald News and my hometown weekly, The Spectator.

Mail from New Jersey arrived. I was going to have to appear in court. 

Then, tragedy struck. My father had a massive heart attack at age 50, alone, on his way to work. In his wallet, he had a clipping of one of my newspaper stories. Apparently Dad showed it to people as he made his rounds selling Arnold Bread. I cried when one of his friends told me how proud he was of me.

After the funeral, I called the court in New Jersey and requested a delay in my appearance. To my relief, they dropped the case.

Life went on, though I miss my Dad every day. I never got to see Springsteen in person again, but I remain a true fan. He gave me a story that I would cherish for years to come. And a sweet memory that flashes before my eyes every time I hear the opening chords of “Rosalita."

_______

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Essay: Leo 2.0

What happens when your household goes from four cats to one?

Leo is showing us the way.

A large, long-haired black cat, Leo has always been quiet and reclusive. But since he’s become the only feline in the house, he’s come out of his shell.

Leo now meows when he’s ready to eat. He often follows me, or my husband, Paul, around. He waits at the door when Paul takes our dog, Will, for a walk, then sniffs the pup’s hindquarters once he’s back in the house.

To those of us who have known and loved Leo for 12 years, this is amazing.

Leo came to us because he needed a home and we had a space. Paul and I determined, in our younger years, that we could handle four cats. We wanted to help the cat overpopulation problem, but four was the limit. If we lost one, we added one.

A student of mine needed a place for his cat, and we had an opening.

Leo was almost two at the time, so he’s 14 now. When he arrived, the petite tortoiseshell Clara reigned supreme in the family. Sweet but elusive Annie and handsome, gregarious Teddy rounded out the kitty population, and there were two dogs, Aquinnah and Martha.

Leo seemed to accept his place at the bottom of the kitty pyramid. He became friends with Annie. They slept together and he often groomed her. Leo and Teddy maintained an uneasy male alliance. Periodically they would tumble around, hissing, in what Paul and I called an exhibition of Greco-Roman wrestling. Leo studiously avoided the dogs.

He spent much of his time upstairs, where there are sunny, south-facing windows. While Annie and Clara hid when we had visitors, he and Ted would socialize. But mostly Leo kept himself to himself. 

Quinn passed away in 2020. Clara was next at the end of 2022, then Martha in early 2024. Will arrived this past January, and then a few months later we lost both Annie and Ted. 

Leo’s world had been turned upside down. Will was gentle and respectful of the cats from the moment he stepped through the door, but he was still a new, strange presence in the house. Now Leo’s best friend and frenemy were gone. 

Not surprisingly, Leo got sick. He wasn’t eating, was vomiting and spent even more time upstairs. Though he didn’t exactly hide, we’d find him in odd places, like next to the love seat in the library. Normally, he’d be on the back of the couch, watching the world go by.

Since he’d hacked up a huge hairball at the outset of this illness, we gave it a few days, to see if he’d get over it. Then we brought him in to the vet’s. Steroids, antibiotics, anti-nausea meds—Leo was nearly back to normal within hours. And he was cheerful; clearly glad to be home.

There’s nothing like your people spending $300 on you to make you sassy, I joked.

Actually, I do think our furry friends do feel gratitude when they return home from the vet’s. 

Leo’s appetite was great and he was engaging with us more and more. So we quickly noticed when he appeared to be squinting out of his right eye. Soon clear discharge appeared.

It was back to the vet’s again. One week later.

Leo is now doing fine after a round of eye drops. Better than fine. He’s Leo 2.0.

He still spends a lot of time by himself upstairs, but he also hangs out with us several times a day. Leo is regularly looking for rubs and hugs. I’m not exaggerating when I say we never heard his voice until a few weeks ago. We wondered if he had one.

Leo’s meow is bittersweet to me. I miss the loved ones we have lost, but I’m glad he’s finding himself. I’m sorry he’s an only cat, but the other day I caught him stretched out in the sun next to Will in front of the glass door to the deck. A friendship in the making?

We can only move forward in the face of grief; Leo is showing the way.

_______

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Essay: Who's Will?

Will (left) and Rolo, en route to Maine.

Our dog, Will, is not a completely blank slate.

We know he is four or five years old. He was brought in as a stray to a shelter in Ada, Okla., where he spent a few months. Then he was brought to Maine by the Miles to Freedom rescue in Oxford. The shelter had given him the name “Branson.”

My husband, Paul, and I also submitted Will’s DNA for testing. He is mostly American Shepherd and Bernese Mountain Dog, with some poodle thrown in.

Still, I find myself asking on a daily basis, “Who is Will?”

Who is this dog who, on his very first night, headed for the dog bed in the bedroom and spent the entire night there? This behavior indicates Will lived indoors, was allowed to sleep in a bedroom and was trained to use a dog bed. So how did he end up stray and languishing in a shelter for several months?

Will is well-behaved, almost gentlemanly in the house. One of our criteria for adopting a dog was that he or she would not be aggressive toward our senior cats. Will basically ignores them, and even waits for his share of cat treats while I feed the felines first.

He’s very patient if Teddy decides he wants to rub up against him.

Will quickly staked his place on the living room love seat and just as quickly understood what I meant when I said, “Go to your place.”

He arrived completely house-trained.

Will is an excellent traveler. He loves to get into the car, and behaves perfectly on our drives. So far, he hasn’t even shown an inclination to bark at people who pass by while we are parked somewhere. We wonder if he had belonged to someone who did outdoor work and brought him along every day.

That might explain Will’s two issues. He has separation anxiety, especially if Paul leaves the house, and he’s a challenge on the leash.

Will is definitely more attached to Paul than to me. All Paul has to do is make a move toward his jacket and Will is up and wiggling. To his credit, Will has not, as of this writing, done one iota of damage while we were out of the house. He has even calmed down a bit about us leaving. But he is very, very excited when we get back.

He is doing better if Paul leaves the house alone, too. But before he settles down (with one eye open), he jumps up on a chair or window seat to see if he can spot “Papa” in the driveway.

This intense attachment could damage my heart and ego, but I tell myself that Will’s original owner must have been a man. I picture some guy in a flannel shirt driving a Ford F-150 over the plains, Will riding shotgun.

Paul is a worthy substitute in his plaid chamois shirts and RAV4.

I am just the “Food Lady,” but I still get a lot of love, so I’m good with it.

Presumably, Will just ran wild and free out west while doing his business. Alas, he now lives in town and has to go on walks around the block. Will doesn’t seem to mind being on a leash; he just doesn’t understand the concept of walking nicely. Also, he refuses to do his business in the yard, which can present problems when it’s -4 degrees and icy. 

Will actually has gone 28 hours without a Number 2. What’s with that? We can’t figure it out.

So, between the extra walks to try to get him to go, and Will’s C-plus behavior on the leash, Paul (to whom this chore falls) can get frustrated. I don’t think there’s a lot we can do about his bathroom habits and am just happy he has not gone in the house.

As for the leash behavior, I am desperately awaiting the real arrival of spring so I can get out there and train him. Winter is really not the best time to adopt a dog. It’s hard to enforce heeling rules when you’re trying to avoid ice.

But Will came to Maine in January, and we had a chance to bring him into our lives. It was a chance I was not going to pass up.

Although I wonder about Will’s previous life, it does make me sad to think about how he ended up alone. I can’t let myself think about what he went through during that scary and uncertain time.

So though I theorize about where he came from in order to better understand him, I am trying to focus on who he is now. Who is that dog? Why, it’s “Our Will.”

__________

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Essay: Lost and Found

I wasn't shocked when my editor at the Central Maine Newspapers told me, in November of 2024, that my column would be "on hiatus" for the rest of the year. I know newspapers are in a steep decline, with diminishing readership and disappearing ad revenues. I certainly knew I was lucly to have held on to my column for so many years.

When I sat down to write my annual holiday letter to a good friend, a tradition we’ve shared for probably 40 years, I could barely type. I cried. I had to tell her the news, and I knew she’d be upset. I wrote a paragraph, then closed the document. I couldn’t come back to it until the next day.

My position would be reassessed in the new year, my editor told me. I told myself to save the teeth gnashing until I got the final news, but I knew I was toast.

I started writing a weekly column for the Kennebec Journal in 1988, shortly after I was hired there as an editorial writer and manager of the op-ed page four days a week. On Sunday nights, I pitched in as a copy editor. The opportunity was offered to me and I was thrilled; writing a column was something I’d wanted to do since I began freelancing in journalism in 1979. Plus, I pretty much had free rein on what I wrote. I called the column “Thinking Things Through,” because I envisioned it as an exercise in working through my thoughts on various topics.

It took me about a week to write my first one. I would get better at it.

I continued to write the column after I left the paper about a year and half later. I went on to work as the librarian at the Readfield Public Library and did some freelancing. Then I joined the Augusta School Department libraries, where I stayed for 32 years.

It was not always easy to get that column written during the school year, but I never missed a deadline. At one point, a new editor came on board and decided she didn’t like my column. She axed me. But some of my faithful readers complained, and I was brought back.

My column was originally weekly; more recently it ran on the first and third Thursdays of the month. Somewhere along the line, maybe in the early 2000s, I was approached by the editor of The Notes, a weekly in Yarmouth. They offered me a weekly slot, and I could use my KJ columns most of the time.

I was quite excited to be in two markets. Sometimes I had to write an original column for The Notes—if the KJ piece was on a holiday topic or an Augusta community issue. But most of the time it was just a matter of checking it over twice and sending it off to them.

When my KJ column schedule was cut back, however, I had to write more original pieces for The Notes. That felt like a lot of pressure when I was working full time. The year I completed my master’s degree was a crazy period. I tell myself I was younger then.

I loved writing a column so I was willing to put up with some anxiety. Still, I appreciated three-day weekends and school vacations when I could be a little more leisurely with my work.

I had a system to keep all the balls in the air. I’d keep a list of ideas going, and try to pin one down about a week in advance. Then I’d jot down ideas as I thought of them. Sometimes I’d scribble out a draft.

Finally, I would sit down and pound it out. I thanked my experience as a newspaper reporter for the training to be able to do this. Also, I was inspired by the work of writer and teacher Donald Murray. This was his writing method—pre-writing, writing and revision— and it worked for me. He also advocated the use of a “day book” to keep track of writing thoughts.

When Murray passed away in 2006, I wrote a column about his influence on me. His family wrote to me—they were responding to everyone who wrote “eulogies” for him. I treasured the letter. Like most writers, the readers’ responses kept me inspired.

One time I wrote about how confusing marketing is, when a grocery shopper has to consider price, ecological concerns and health benefits. A co-worker clipped it and gave it to her pastor; he read from it from the pulpit.

I wrote a column opposing the invasion of Iraq in 2003. In the early days of the Internet, I was astounded when I received email from all over the world.

When I wrote a column about a list my late mother had left in a book, I heard from a school friend I hadn’t seen since graduation. Our mothers had been friends, and “K" agreed with me that when my mom wrote about praying for her friend, she was talking about K’s mother, who had developed memory issues.

And I will never forget the amazing outpouring of support I received after my husband, Paul, and I said goodbye to our 15-year-old lab/pit bull mix, Martha, in February, 2024.

Through the holidays, I mulled, and no cider was involved. I had a creative routine—my mind went into column mode every two weeks. I thought in column form, the way I imagine poets see poems everywhere. I loved my connections with my readers.

I was a columnist; it was part of my identity.

In January, several columnists at the Maine Sunday Telegram lost their gigs. I knew then that I didn’t stand a chance. I mourned for them, because I enjoyed their work. But, literally, the writing was on the wall.

I got the final verdict by the middle of the month. It was good to have finality, I guess. It was good to get the emotional green light to move on.

I’m still a writer. I’m just not a columnist anymore.

__________

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Essay: Chilled!

If you live in an old and drafty house, it may take you awhile to realize the furnace isn’t working.

I was feeling a bit chilled at around 9:30 on a recent Wednesday morning, but that wasn’t unusual. It’s winter in Maine. But I checked the thermostat to see if I was justified in cranking it up. I was surprised to see that although it was set at 70 it was only registering 64 degrees.

I reported this fact to my husband, Paul. “The two don’t always match,” he said.

“Six degrees?”

He came to take a look. “Hmmm.”

What was happening? The furnace was on. We went over to the nearest vent. Bent over. It was blowing, all right—cold air.

Paul called our fuel provider. They put us on a list.

I went off to exercise on the indoor cycle, which, I figured, would keep me warm. Paul went out with the dog. As I finished up my ride, I heard a knock at the door. It was two people from the fuel company. Wow, that was fast, I thought.

“We just filled your tank,” one said. “It was empty. Is your furnace off?”

I stared at him. What? In the 30-plus years we’ve lived  in the house, we’ve never run out of oil. The company just comes and fills it up before it’s depleted. I told the delivery guy we had a service call in, but he said he could take a look at the furnace and reset it.

Oh, joy! I couldn’t believe our problem was going to be resolved this easily.

I was miffed that we were having a problem at all. In Late last year, we’d had an extended “checkup” of the furnace that resulted in the addition of a “draft induction” unit. (Don’t ask.) Both operations took hours on separate days and cost quite a chunk of change.

After all that, I figured the furnace should be trouble-free for a few years.

But if the fuel had run out…well, that was another matter to address.

The duo went downstairs and came back a few minutes later. The reset hadn’t worked.

Back to square one.

While we waited for the technician to arrive, Paul set up a space heater in between the living and dining rooms. It was a sunny day, so our tall, south facing windows were keeping things relatively comfortable. We ate our lunch. I was remaining calm and practicing non-resistance. I was letting the universe do its work.

Finally a cheerful young man arrived, confident he was going to get us up and going within minutes.

He was wrong.

We could hear him making several calls to HQ. He went out to his truck several times. I was feeling less Zen by the minute. Then he gave us the somber news that he had tried to replace a part in the furnace twice, and had blown both replacements. But he was not giving up!

By now it was time for Paul to take Will on another walk. This was fortuitous, because I had kept sending Paul to the cellar to check on the tech’s progress. Now, on his own, the tech had time to ponder the situation and he figured out what the problem was. It had something to do with the empty oil tank failing to set off an alarm, shorting a circuit.

The solution, however, was back at HQ.

He set off to get the needed part. I decided I needed coffee, so I fired up the Keurig. This shorted the circuit that the space heater was on. Paul reset it. I made my coffee. Then I noticed that the WiFi router—also on the heater/Keurig circuit—was off. I looked at the Bose radio. The clock numbers were blinking. I said, “We did it again!”

The whole house is falling apart, a voice inside my head shrieked.

I wasn’t even trying to be calm at this point.

Back to the cellar Paul went, but the heater/Keurig/router circuit was fine. One of us had dislodged a power strip while unplugging the space heater. And I had not reset the Bose after the actual outage. Of course, if we had blown a circuit again, there would have been no numbers blinking.

The house was not falling apart. The Internet was restored. After resetting the clock, I went back to sitting in my chair with a blanket and my hard-earned coffee.

The tech returned quickly with the part he needed and got the furnace going again. He was quite proud of himself. I could see he took pride in his work, and that made me happy—although not as pleased as I was about the heat being back on.

The furnace hummed merrily along, and soon we were up to a comfortable 70 degrees. Then Paul lit a fire in the woodstove, so we turned the thermostat down to 66. It wouldn’t go on again until we were in bed for the night, around 8:45 p.m. Yup, the furnace goes on at the same time every night, after the woodstove cools down.

Of course, on this night we were on tenterhooks. Would the furnace go on as usual? I lay awake, waiting, thinking of all the times I’d cursed its roar in the night as it woke me from a sound sleep. Never again, I vowed.

The furnace came on. Paul and I cheered. But wait—I hopped out of bed and stood over the hot-air vent to make sure.

Ah, yes, heat. Wonderful heat. If you live in an old and drafty house, you don’t want to live without it. 

__________

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com