Saving Bea

My 99-year old friend, Bea, is being evicted from the property where she has lived for about 25 years.  I've started a new blog about her, hoping to drum up support and embarrass the Bank of America to relent and let her live out her remaining years where she is.  You can see from the picture that it's not everyone's cup of tea, but Bea loves it there.  She has her dogs and her memorabilia, and people who help her.  Check it out --

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I Didn't Visit the Musee D'Orsay

April in France is magical. April in Paris is the best! I hum “April in Paris” just thinking about it. Don’t know that tune? Find a good rendition on YouTube. Then go to Amazon and listen to Sally Stevens’ song “The Paris Song” on her album “Things I Should Have Told You.”

I am writing this and smiling. I can’t help but smile with Paris songs in my head and memories in my heart.

It’s kind of like Hawaii, another magical place where getting there can be a challenge, but once there, it’s practically perfect. I do wish these favorite places weren’t everyone’s favorite. In Hawaii, haoles own, work in, and inhabit concrete lavish buildings and hotels. (Google defines haole as white Americans.) I can’t help but wish that Hawaii belonged more to the natives than the latecomers. In Paris the problem is not so much American tourists as all the tourists from the whole world. It’s too well loved. At least enough Americans think they don’t like the French so we aren’t the only ones overrunning Paris.

 I spent last Friday and Saturday with Sally and our friend Joan from UCLA days. Joan is widely traveled via Elderhostel, while I prefer to go independently with the necessity of talking to people.

Saturday the three of us went to the Getty Museum,  the perfect place to spend some a beautiful day. Sally is a photographer, so we first visited that exhibit and were awed by [I forget his name]’s work. Part of the exhibit included videos and commercials he’d done. Sally and Joan went in there, but I didn’t. One of the commercials was for Calvin Klein (I think). Completely unexpected, the sound track played Sally’s soprano obbligato (not really unexpected since she did record it, but unexpected in the context of a trip to the Getty)! “That’s me!” she whispered to Joan as a model dived into a pool. The model didn’t look at all like Sally, even given the years between. Noticing Joan’s blank stare, Sally explained, “The music!”

 Have you noticed how little you pay attention to background music? Yet it sets the scene. Without it, you wouldn’t know how to feel about what’s happening on screen. Sally has made an excellent career of such music, having a clear, high voice and a deep understanding and knowledge of music. When I hear the young people at the high school who “sing” and think that their next step is Hollywood, I don’t burst their bubble because they wouldn’t believe me. There’s always an exception – the hick from nowhere who becomes super popular via YouTube. But to have staying power, you have to have the depth and the work ethic. Sally has worked – “hard” is too easy a word for how she’s worked – since she was 20. She’s been honored by her peers with about all the awards possible.

I got off track, but it was a good side trip. What I wanted to share was that Joan was aghast that I hadn’t visit the d’Orsay Museum or the Orangerie when Mary and I went last year. Well, we didn’t want to. But there I was at the Getty in the gallery for Impressionist painters, looking at the Cezannes, the Monets, and a Van Gogh that I’d seen hundreds of times in prints. The reality of them in person overwhelmed me. While my books seemed to lie when they said Cezanne was such a vanguard leader, or that Monet’s haystacks were revolutionary, the real live paintings testified of the truth of their greatness. 

I cried, the experience was so powerful. Right there in the gallery with all kinds of people around, I stood crying with Sally’s arm around me, worried that something awful might be wrong. When I told her, she understood. She’d felt the same about seeing Van Gogh’s “Vincent” scrawled in the corner of his irises.

Joan, however, was puzzled, but made a wise comment: “It’s a good thing you didn’t go to the d’Orsay.” 

I’m still smiling. My next trip to Paris will be in deep winter when no-one is around. I’ll go to the Musée d’Orsay and drink it all in, day after day, and then go dancing down the Quai.

Fondant Roses for Easter

Last year on Easter, Mary and I went to the Roman games at the amphitheater in Nimes. I don’t know how many, if any, Christians were killed there, but it was an ironic way to spend the holiday that was my favorite for much of my life.

As a child, I loved Easter because we went to church, then over to Aunt Beryl’s for a whopper of an Easter egg hunt hosted by Uncle Paul. Their long, narrow back yard with a view of Dodger stadium, ran downhill in several terraces, making an adventure out of the hunt. All my family were happy on Easter, maybe because sugar and candy weren’t the main attractions as they are now. Our eggs were real, and turned into delicious deviled eggs after being found, another ironic twist.

Except for an Easter basket, the holiday was a no-present day. Christmas, by contrast, was stressful because of so many presents, most of which I didn’t like, or were just off the mark. Pretending to be enthusiastic takes its toll. Thanksgiving was nice, calm, but no egg hunting or new dresses were involved.

A new dress – that was a plus, definitely, for Easter. A new summery dress to wear to Sunday School and parties was a major big deal. It’s too bad that dressing up has become passé these days.

Flipping channels this evening, Judge Judy refused to listen to a young man who showed up in court wearing torn jeans. “Go get dressed,” she scolded him, “and don’t say a word.”


The idea I really wanted to share was Easter goodies. Shop windows in France were beautifully decorated with simple Easter themes except for the candy/pastry shops which went all out with glorious creations. It may have been the memory of these that inspired me to try my hand at using fondant for roses this week.

An amazing thing happened! When I told md (middle daughter) about my plan, she said that she had already started doing it for the first time ever, the day before! She was making fondant roses on cupcakes (I think) to give away for Easter presents. We shared tips and YouTube sites and then our own pictures. I am so happy with how they are coming out. I love the delicate texture and colors and the elegance.

Anyone receiving one can eat it (after a suitable interval for admiration) and it’s gone, poof. No knick-knack hanging around forever. A lovely token of love, given and received happily.

The only problem is being around all that sugar. I resisted tasting any of it for three days, but today I lost the battle. A lump of frosting in my tummy is unhappy. But the cookies are beautiful!