Resolutions . . . that will last . . . 15 minutes by Jane Tolbert

Most web articles on New Year’s resolutions focus on two things—the 10 most popular resolutions (starting with fitness and weight loss) and psychological advice on keeping resolutions (especially those concerning weight loss). Any historian or anthropologist looking at our newspapers (digital or otherwise) years from now will assume we are an idle population with too much food and too much time, and obviously unable to commit.

The list of resolutions in both France and the States reads like this:
- Stop smoking - Eat healthy - Do more sports - Spend more time with friends and family (or form new meaningful relationships) - Be nice to colleagues at work and the general public -Be more socially responsible. These resolutions are easy to uphold. . . for a few days anyway.

In past years, neighborhood streets and parks have been filled with newly converted cyclists. Membership in fitness centers has increased. And it is easy to integrate a fitness routine in a vacation schedule. Just as it’s easier to think charitable thoughts about colleagues you have not seen for a few days. Our resolutions are made as we bask in the afterglow of holiday merriment.

My resolutions fall into two broad categories—volunteering for a humanitarian cause and maintaining a focus in my work. The odd thing about humanitarian actions is the difficulty I have had in getting organizations to accept my offers of free help. It has been much more difficult than getting a job

My personal resolutions include goals such as organizing my daily schedule, developing a business plan, identifying goals and objectives and branding my products. A critical resolution is not to sweat the small stuff.

That reminds me. I can’t have a business plan until I write my goals and objectives. And to write those, I really need to set aside a block of time in my schedule. But first, I need to clean up the dining room table which serves as my office. I’ll start once I check my email and cell phone messages just in case something important has come in . . . . This new technology is wonderful. I am so “in touch.”

Messages on FaceBook. A Gainesville friend is celebrating a birthday. A tanguero just wrote from the South of France where they will hold the Reveillon at Jack’s Blues. And look, an email. The Nice-based tango association Siempre Tango just posted photos from the Dec. 4, 2009, milonga at the new Café Nikaia I wonder if I recognize anyone?

My son just texted me from the Frozen North. He has been caught in various snowstorms over the holiday. I need to check the online weather. I just talked with my daughter the other day—those great phone rates in France (unlimited and free). Wake up, AT&T and T-Mobile.

Where was I? Organization. Focus. Don’t sweat the small stuff. Now that’s one of those expressions I haven’t been able to locate on WordReference. But a Google search. Eh bien, ça y est! Of all places--in a forum about New Year’s Resolutions--“arreter de prendre la mouche pour un rien.”

Maybe I should sweat the small stuff. . . . No, focus on the tasks at hand—clean off my desk! I am finding all kinds of interesting things. Ahhh, if I can keep this one resolution, at least for the next 15 minutes.

But all resolutions have a downside. . .



Best wishes for 2010!

What are your resolutions?

A Christmas List . . . by Jane Tolbert

The pet stockings were filled. . .


Réveillon – oysters, smoked salmon, or fois gras, leg of lamb, salads and cheeses, and of course, the Bûche de Noël or Yule log. Over here, turkey with oyster dressing, a Virginia ham, cranberries, corn pudding, salsify and chestnuts (if we can find them), pecan pie and fruitcake.

Reading the “Night before Christmas” or “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.” Watching the 1938 version of Dicken’s “A Christmas Carol.” Attending the Gainesville Hippodrome’s musical performance of “A Christmas Carol.” I never tire of “A Christmas Carol.”

Painting large, ball-shaped ornaments and making cookies.

Night walks or drives around neighborhoods and the harbor to look at Christmas decorations. Places that seem ordinary by day become a wonderland of sorts.

My pets are busy removing Christmas ornaments from the tree.

Humorous gifts—the inflatable husband and the dancing hamster

Wishing distances were not so great. . . .



Pets remove decorations. . .


Coco visits and poses . . .



Best wishes to all for a safe and happy holiday.

The $5 Christmas by Jane Tolbert

It won't be couture this year. . .

Many years ago, our family needed to save money for a European trip. We decided to limit the amount we spent on gifts and implemented the $5 Christmas at a time when Frommer published his guide on Europe on $5 a day.

Even many years ago, it was difficult to find a nice present for $5, so we decided to make our gifts. After all, the spirit of Christmas was in the giving. These gifts would have that personal touch. As an artist, my sister, Margaret, had an unfair advantage. Dad knew woodworking, and he made inlaid letter boxes, shoe polish kits or nativity scenes. Mom also sewed or helped by filling clay pots with wonderful plants. I had few skills but decided to sew clothes and even a necktie (all of which were mistakes).



Nativity--when an artist and workworker collaborate on a $5 Christmas . . .

Santa’s workshop meant entire areas of the house were off limits to other members of the family. We worked alone on our gifts. The gifts experienced a moderate success, but we never saw each other during the holidays. As Mom observed, the greatest gift would be to spend time together.

The spirit of Christmas seems be synonymous with increasing commercialization. Even in this period of recession, merchants began reminding us about Black Friday and Cyber Monday early in November. Now as we approach Christmas, we are assaulted daily with new store hours, email reminders of free shipping for a purchase of $150 or an additional 20 percent discount with a store credit card.

Although the mall parking lots look full and the post offices have long lines, are people buying lavish gifts? Or have they also implemented a $5 Christmas? The last few years have been very lean. People are concerned about job security and health care. In Florida, our unemployment is 11.2 percent with more layoffs expected. Underemployment is much higher.

Years ago we used to buy something frivolous for Christmas—a paperclip holder in the shape of a Viking, a fedora or a pair of fantasy tights or even reindeer antlers for the pets. Sometimes we bought couture instead of dégriffé. But these days, everyone is my entourage is giving the more basic presents—the things we really need. Although we have put a limit on expenditures, we are buying rather than making our presents. After all, the greatest gift is having time together.

It's All About Details by Jane Tolbert

In his Major Thompson lives in France, writer Pierre Danois identified defining characteristics of the French and English provided by a surgeon who operated on them both. While an Englishman contains “a waterproof. . . a cup of tea. . . the Calais-Mediterranean time-table. . . a cricket ball, some fog,” a Frenchman “eats bread, knows no geography and wears the Legion of Honor in his buttonhole [and is an] . . . abyss of contradictions.” (pp. 16-17).

Mais oui! Danois pointed to that confusion that greets the first-time visitor to France. The French may criticize their government but expect the government to provide excellent health care, retirement and education. They may not attend church, but they want to retain their religious holidays. For an American, especially during a recession, a government healthcare system and a basically free education (through the university) sound like a terrestrial paradise. But the French insist, “Non, ça va très mal en France.” And when all else fails to convince the visitor, the older French would refer to the ailments of the liver--le mal au foie.

European neighbors assume the French have it too easy. The 35-hour work week, five weeks of paid vacation and strikes in public schools and universities, and mass transit give the impression that no one works. That the country is unproductive.

Economist and writer Michel Volle defines the French not by the headlines and superficial impressions but by what he terms the “animateurs” or the “vértèbras” who work tirelessly behind the scenes, receive little recognition . . . but assure that organizations and the country continue to “function.” (See his article, “Le coeur secret de la France,” 24 Oct 2006, http://www.volle.com/opinion/coeurimp.htm).

France can be different things for different people—a country of monuments, works of art and a long history; a people of contradictions; or country that consists of behind-the-scenes workers.



Most likely, all of us remember a foreign country by the details, les petits soupçons, or hints. For me, the South of France is a kaleidoscope of impressions and memories. Turkish coffee with friends at La Boutique (Opio). The ribald humor of the workers at the PMU. The intense buzz of those scooters that swarm around motorists or pedestrians. The citrus and palms that seem to grow everywhere. Flowers in every nook and corner. A wonderful chef salad with chicken and slivers of parmesan at the Café de la Plage. The shop window at the boutique Cité des Anges that changes daily. The long wait at the national employment agency or the prefecture. The paperwork and official documents still required by many government agencies.




France has changed since Danois wrote his book. If we were to operate on a French person today, we would probably find L’Equipe, the sports newspaper, crumbs from a baguette of bread, an espresso and some wine, a combination of gourmet, McDo hamburgers and pizza as well as the more familiar “tu” instead of the formal “vous” and probably a collection of unused conjugaisons in subjunctive and passé simple.

Now, what would an American contain?

Birthday Amnesia by Jane Tolbert

Birthdays are a special time with my family and friends. We may celebrate for days on end because not everyone can come on THE SPECIAL DAY due to distances or work schedules. Presents, although not usually expensive, were carefully chosen and hidden away until the day. My mother always insisted that we write thank you notes. So part of our birthday was devoted to just that. My grandmother used to say, the present did not belong to you until you had thanked for it. And if you forgot to thank, well then, you wouldn’t get a present the following year. At least that is how we have all been raised.

So I was quite surprised when a member of our family forgot to thank for a birthday present especially since he had written many “thank you” notes. As a child, he would spend his own savings to take us to an outdoor café to celebrate, and he saved for months to buy the special gift for others. But when he grew older, things changed. He no longer celebrated with us, and he argued (sometimes convincingly) that since he did not want the gift, he should not have to thank. Obviously, he suffered from Birthday Amnesia.

Since not thanking one year precluded a birthday present the following year (rules are rules, after all), family members and close friends refused to acknowledge his birthday even with a card. My daughter refused to send anything—he had overlooked her last two birthdays.

Admittedly, we all felt guilty not observing a birthday. The following year, my mom broke down and sent him some money and a birthday cake with very thick frosting, certain he would have recovered his memory by now. I, too, had a card with some money. We made phone calls and left birthday wishes on voice mail. Our calls were not returned. The cake with the very thick frosting as well as a bottle of champagne remained in my refrigerator for one day, then another . .



But then some dance friends came by and ate the cake and drank the champagne. And the money. . . .went for a new pair of tango shoes. No mention of the birthday was ever made.

My daughter makes an effort to thank for presents because she has seen other members of the family or friends eliminated from the gift exchange. As for her cake, since she requests her favorite cake (usually raspberry, pistachio and chocolate) well in advance of her celebration, she will never suffer birthday amnesia.

Other friends have similar “thank-you” rules in their families. And readers, what about you?


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Thanksgiving Magic by Jane Tolbert

From a child’s perspective, Thanksgiving is magical. It is that last school holiday before Christmas and often a time to see distant cousins and grandparents. While the adults endure copious meals, usually the children can be quickly excused only to reappear at dessert. At least, that is how our family dinners proceeded. During the lengthy part of the meal and clearing the table, we played in our tree fort or under the dining table, where, hidden by the lace tablecloth, we raced our toy horses and cars up and down the borders of an oriental rug. I am sure most of the adults would have liked to have joined us.

When we moved from Northern Virginia to Florida, we tried to capture the magic of those northern Virginia Thanksgivings with family and friends. Years passed before we fell into another tradition. Our Swedish neighbors introduced us to new culinary delights and lively conversation that touched on quantum theory, philosophy, sales at TJ Maxx or human nature. These meals were always followed by a walk around Lake Alice and then the new Disney movie. But after many years, they returned to Uppsala, and a Franco-Scottish couple, who had become part of the tradition also moved away.

Most recently, our Thanksgiving holidays have centered on outside activities like bike rides or walks in a nature preserve. When I was still teaching, my students said they envied my Thanksgivings. Theirs involved frantic travel to a distant city, worry about final semester projects due on their return to campus and too much food and too many family arguments. They wondered about a formula to capture the magic of Thanksgiving.

This year I hesitated to plan festivities for Thanksgiving with the recession and the fact that everyone with a day job or commute would be thankful for a day to . . . well, “chill.” But some of our Swedish friends will be back. And maybe we can convince our Franco-Scottish friends to join us also. The meal itself is secondary. We are very fortunate to have such wonderful friends. And that is the true magic.

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The Great American Rivalry by Jane Tolbert

What is it about peaceful weekend mornings and my cup of coffee. The minute I sit down on my back porch, the noise begins. Sounds from next door. Across the street. The American weekend rivalry has begun.

From somewhere—a garage or a back shed-- power mowers and blowers emerge, and the great race begins with a deafening roar. It’s all about residential lawns blanketed with St. Augustine grass. This American weekend rivalry pits neighbors against neighbors.

All that’s missing is Heyword Hale Broun in his plaid jacket with large handlebar mustache reporting live from Suburbia, America. The rivalry in the Army Navy games is nothing compared to the neighborhood rivalvy to finish the yard chores for the weekend.

You would have to be out of your mind to want St. Augustine grass in Florida. But here it is—these lawns which guzzle at least one-third (and by some estimates, nearly two thirds) of our fresh water supply and require constant nourishment are pervasive.

I knew nothing about St. Augustine before I became a homeowner. And now I can identify the host of insects that chomp happily on my lawn. An entomologist’s paradise! And my own observations suggest that when egrets land in my yard, then I know I have an army of critters chomping on the root system. If, several days later, my lawn rolls up like a carpet, I know I have white grubs.




With St. Augustine comes additional requirements—pesticides and herbicides and fertilizers, which add further to the woes of our water supply. The professional lawn services seem to be an added necessity. What is the origin of this St. Augustine addiction? Northerners who brought the lawns south? Or photographs of British estates?

The silence of the morning has been shattered irreparably. One neighbor who always sports a “web survivor” tee shirt has already started mowing. The other neighbor begins in the evenings Those across the street, mow to Christian rock in the mid afternoon. The house behind me is empty for now, but I am sure the new residents will fill in those silent hours.

I try to resist the temptation to join in the ruckus. . . . But then I know sometime this weekend, I too will have to mow the St. Augustine. If I mow today, then perhaps tomorrow I can enjoy my coffee. Of course, my option is to bring on the egrets and grubs. I will replace those dying patches with indigenous plants. Now, if I can only convince the neighbors.
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Locked Out by Jane Tolbert

For generations, we have buried keys in the garden or flower pots or under statuary or left them with a neighbor. Fear of being locked out of our house runs in my family.

In the old days, you could always shimmy up a gutter or a vine. In middle-class apartments, someone always answered the interphone and buzzed you inside the main entrance. If you lived in more fashionable apartments, you could rely on a concierge.

The concierge has become obsolete or replaced by a system of gates and doors requiring security keys and codes. Hiding a key in the garden is also a thing of the past. These neatly manicured lawns behind walls and gates preclude burying a key (and those security keys with indentations cost les yeux de la tête to duplicate).

It was not my choice to live in a gated community. But from January through April 2009, this was the only place I could find in the South of France. For someone like me who fears getting locked out, this apartment was the stuff of nightmares. The main gate for pedestrians had an access code (1-2-3-4#) and another for the external set of glass doors to my building (4-3-2-1#). In this gated residence in which most units were still unoccupied, I assumed there would be a 24-hour guard or at least a concierge. Au contraire. No one to call on the interphone. No backup mechanical system in case of electrical failure or if the battery in my remote died. I had a lot to worry about.

Electrical failures did occur--at the main entrance gate (both the pedestrian gate and car entrance), the two apartment main entrance doors (which did fail), and my own apartment door.

In January, my cat Lacey and I moved into our apartment. We were the only living creatures in our 15-unit building. Each time I left, I carried my keys and cell phone. The key to my apartment entrance also opened my apartment and the elevator to the garage. I left a spare set of keys with my daughter, who lived a mere 15-minutes away on foot. And I often left the balcony door open just in case I could climb in.

For a couple months, I did well. I left the apartment and returned without getting locked out but still felt overwhelmed by a slight feeling of trepidation. When the syndic, or governing body, of the units hired a guardian, I felt giddy, “Enfin sauvée.” I had been saved. But Monsieur Christian, homme à tout faire, only worked in the day (excluding Sundays) and returned to his house near Grasse at 7 p.m.

Even with the best of planning, the day came when I got locked out. It was one of those days. . . . The syndic, a collection of men and women with notepads, visited the residential park and issued decrees such as this one:

Nous vous rappelons que he stationnement des véhicules est intérdit sur l’allée de circulation. Residents (meaning me) could no longer park above ground but had to park in the underground parking lot.

But the parking lot had been flooded for two months. So on this day, I grabbed a set of keys, rushed to the basement with a large bag of garbage then went through another set of doors to check the water level in the garage. The doors closed behind me.

When I turned to go back inside, I realized I had taken the wrong set of keys. The elevator door would not open, and my cell phone had no reception. I escaped through the underground parking lot where construction was still under way. And oh miracle, the guardian was still there. He opened the main entrance to the apartment with his master key but apologized for not having a key to my apartment. Fortunately, I had left both the balcony and apartment doors cracked. But I might consider burying a key in the garden of the model apartment. Just in case. . .

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The Commute by Jane Tolbert

I used to like cruising along U.S. 1 with windows open and music playing. The road overlooks the Indian River Lagoon and is dotted with small harbors. But now that U.S. 1 is part of my daily, 40-minute commute to work, I no longer feel that sense of wild abandon.

For those of you unfamiliar with jobs and salaries in small Florida towns, the situation is like this. We accept the trade off of local jobs and low salaries. We don’t commute well. Until now, my commutes have ranged from a 10-minute walk to a 10-mile drive. With the recession, however, most of us feel happy to have a job, even if it means a commute.

The traffic varies from day to day. Most times the early morning traffic is heavy. But on a rare day when no one is on the road, I begin to wonder whether everyone took the day off and went to the beach. Today, cars, rock trucks, semis and buses vye for lane space. Curb-side sprinklers hit the car. I hope to miss the train (the 7:20 a.m.), which has 88 cars.

7:15 a.m. I leave the house. Seven stoplights later, I pass Beck’s Natural Medicine, which advertises seminars—Franken foods, stress or weight gain. Nance Cacciatore personal injury lawyers has a lighted board gives the time and temperature. This morning, it’s a breezy 75 degrees. The quiet harbor in the Ballard Park area behind the Brevard Auto and Truck Center punctuates the hustle and bustle of traffic. The Eau Gallie causeway and beaches beckon. What if I just spent the day on the beach. . . . would anyone notice?

Years ago, I had a similar feeling. I rented one room in an old building in Nice, France, and I commuted to IBM at La Gaude. Traffic snaked inland for kilometers along a switchback road. In the background were the snow-capped Alps. Then, like now, I wondered, “What if I just kept driving. Would anyone notice?” When I reached the main entrance of the company, the thoughts had all but evaporated.


7:27 a.m. I pass a pesticide company where numerous small, yellow cars sport black mouse ears and tails. On the other side of the road is a local mover, one that used to have my phone number posted in bold letters on its billboard. This mistake got me lots of early morning calls from clients who wanted to schedule moves. It could have been an opportunity to change professions, but instead I complained. There’s the Burger Inn, which advertises curb service from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. Further on, the Pineda causeway offers the last chance to escape to the beaches on the barrier islands.

7:35 a.m. A osprey nest hangs over the road near the River Rocks restaurant. Just beyond stoplight number 15, tanker trucks emerge from nowhere and tilt precariously as they enter the passing lane. White and blue commuter vans whiz by, giving their occupants a white-knuckle ride. Cyclists ride on the edge of the road to access Riverside Drive, a road with older homes overlooking the water. Cars and trucks shift to the left lane to avoid missing the Barnes Road exist, an access to I-95 and my office. I need to be in the left lane when I pass the Harvey’s Groves sign with the large orange.

7:50 a.m. I’ve hit most of the 16 lights. I have memorized most of the billboards and businesses in both north and southbound lanes. McDonald’s coffee. Bud Light with 99 calories. An unsolved homicide. Memorial gardens. A Mexican restaurant. The marinas and RV sales.

At this stoplight, a billboard at the angle of the road advertises chiropractic services for those injured in car accidents. By now I have all but forgotten the beach, and it’s overcast anyway. I am sure that once I begin my editing job. . . those beach thoughts will dissipate. But then again, maybe not. . . . Geez, the parking lot is empty. Where is everyone!

The Quest for the Ideal Cafe Chair by Jane Tolbert

The quest for the idea café chair on this side of the Atlantic took on a new relevance when Margaret and I decided that would be the sine qua non of birthday presents for Mom’s outside terrace. Two issues had to be resolved—what criteria determine the ideal chair and where to find it! The ideal chair would have to be comfortable and carry an aesthetic as well as survive the Florida elements. These chairs were in every home improvement store in France. Surely we could find them in Florida.


For years on my back porch I have used the quintessential, white plastic stacking chair, a panacea for low budgets and the Florida humidity. But although this chair met the criterion of comfort, it was too ordinary for a birthday present. Wrought iron chairs are prevalent in the States. But we are tired of balancing on these small chairs that have ivy tendrils or a floral motif that cuts into our backs. Then, no one wanted heavy furniture with cushions (available at all home improvement stores) that could not be left outside. Finally, Mom is very particular about what goes on her outside terrace.




French café chairs come in a variety of styles. The picturesque but uncomfortable with slats serve as décor only. No one sits in these. At least, not for long. The antique with no slats and peeling paint make for great photo opportunities in a design magazine. Finally, the oh-so-comfortable woven burgundy and tan plastic on a bamboo frame in which I could sit for hours (and often did). Unfortunately, these would become a serious mildew trap in Florida. But the light weight aluminum resisted most elements.




French home improvement stores like Castrorama or LeRoy Merlin offer furniture that is compact given that space is at a premium. In contrast, the American counterparts sell mainly massive patio furniture, which requires a McMansion and storage for capacious cushions.

An aluminum café set represented what we imagined to be the ideal birthday present for Mom! It was light and resisted most elements—rain, humidity and many falling objects. And we figured the aesthetic would meet Mom’s somewhat stringent criteria. But finding such a set presented another challenge. No one seemed to sell aluminum café furniture. We debated shipping them from France, but the expense and my June 2008 experience with a strike in the Marseille port made us hesitate. Margaret searched the Internet, finally locating one place in Alabama that sold these. They were on backorder , the sales department explained. . . .


We missed Mom’s birthday by several months, but six chairs and one table did arrive in time for the nice fall weather. And Mom liked them so much, at the first sign of rain, she dragged her new café set inside to protect it from the Florida elements.

Euro Culture by Jane Tolbert

Travel used to be an adventure—I went to Europe to experience métros, small hotel rooms, a Taramisu and even Nutella. I regaled family and friends by returning to the States with suitcases brimming with Panettone, the Italian fruit bread, a special Cantal cheese or even a bottle of walnut liqueur. Today, the Euro has homogenized culture, and airplanes have telescoped distances, making foreign travel less of an adventure and certainly caused problems in terms of gifts to take home.

On one hand, the Euro has offered advantages. Before, I used to spend all of my layover in Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport waiting in the currency exchange line or trying to deliver American products (e.g., a tennis racket or sports clothing) to Dutch friends. Plus, at the end of a European vacation, I had a sprinkling of coins from numerous countries.



Trashcan on Promenade, Juan-les-Pins

Globalization has also given me access to European clothing stores. Although the French catalogue La Redoute no longer has a U.S. base from which we can order, Mango, a Spanish clothing company, has a mail order business in the States (and a store in South Beach). At least I can order reasonably priced clothes that fit without having to travel to Cannes or the Cap 3000.




Mailbox, France

When we think of globalization, the first thing that comes to mind is the way in which McDo and Disney are embedded in French (and other) culture. You can eat burgers or visit the Magic Kingdom without without a transatlantic trip. Like one American friend pointed out, I can experience international flavor by visiting the Epcot foreign pavilions. There are other examples of blending of cultures. Study abroad programs enable students and their classrooms travel to a foreign setting, follow a similar curriculum and in some cases have their US professors. What a change from the old days when you had to know a language or you lived with a foreign family. Furthermore, it’s even becoming more difficult to distinguish nationalities. The French look less French and more like everyone else.



Taxi, Lime Street Station, Liverpool

With all the blending and merging, some icons remain. The French trashcans and mailboxes remain distinctly French (see photos that compare the French to the British). And the British have kept their currency, square taxis and right-hand drive cars.

The advantages of globalization are offset by my more pressing problems. How to find unique souvenirs! I am baffled. Nutella is in American grocery stores, and French t-shirts carry American expressions. What small trinkets can I bring back to show that “I was there.” Maybe I’ll just check out Epcot to see if those pavilions offer something I overlooked while traveling.



Mailbox in Liverpool

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The Elusive Cracker by Jane Tolbert

Everyone is talking about the heat. It’s nearly mid October, and the temperature is still in the upper 80s. We had hoped for a respite with cooler fall temperatures. Is climate change to blame? Or has the change in construction of our homes also affected the way in which we live?

These so-called modern homes, many of which are all electric, seem built on the premise that the outside air is not good for us. The power companies keep us cool—for a price that has an averse effect on our living expenses and, more importantly, on the environment. Our homes appear hermetically sealed. Our windows rarely open. Furthermore, features that could keep the house cooler have been removed. Our shutters do not close but are nailed on the façade for decorative purposes. Our shade trees and natural vegetation have been plowed under to develop communities with names like Castle Gardens, Monastic Oaks, the Cloisters or Caribbean Isles, all evocative of grandeur, meditation, peaceful settings or tropical breezes. Many of these new neighborhoods have replaced what has been termed the Florida cracker house.

Basically these cracker houses had roofs that facilitated air circulation. The wide verandas and overhangs provided shade and prevented the rain from blowing in. High ceilings with fans and cross ventilation kept the house at a reasonable temperature much of the day. Often shutters remained partially closed to retain the cooler morning air.


Home construction has not reflected what we know about climate change. Instead of reverting to the more traditional cracker homes, in the last 20 years many builders have constructed what Mom terms the “bonnet house” (also known as the McMansion) because the roof resembles a large hat placed over the walls. The main point is that most of these homes are hermetically sealed and exhibit few features that would make them comfortable without air conditioning.

We have reasons to modify our lifestyle and, if possible, our residences to address the depletion of natural resources and climate change. And traditional construction with open windows and wrap-around porches (and sometimes sleeping porches) also provided the possibility of communing with nature—to hear wind or rain in the trees, or even nocturnal animals. Those older homes with the wide front porches also offered yet another advantage—a chance to socialize those hot summer evenings. I have memories of sitting on a swing at my grandparents’ house in Culpeper,Va., where neighbors with their dogs would stop for a drink and the news.

Living for years in a modern, all-electric house has made me almost forget the pleasure in sitting outside or letting in fresh air. Although my windows are difficult to open, I do have a wonderful back porch on which I spent much of my days. The mornings are cool, and in the evenings, the breeze is delightful. And when the neighborhood air conditioning compressors are not running, I can hear the night sounds too.

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Anyone have a photo and a story to share? I'd love to hear from you.

Show and Tell, or When Presentations Were Fun by Jane Tolbert

Technology readiness level. Financial projections. The need, or significance, of the study. A phase II report, a white paper. . . . . Friends in academia and corporations talk about presentations they make. “Show and tell,” my sister Margaret commented, comparing those of the grownup world to those presentations we made in elementary school.

Similarities exist. Both grownup presentations and elementary school “show and tell” can be characterized by digressions, interruptions and embellishments. In Miss Ruth Cooper’s class of Anthony Seeger Campus School, second grade students exhibited traits similar to those of long-winded university professors and corporate tycoons. They interrupted: “Let me see.” Or, “I have two just like that.” Others embellished accounts: “From the beaches of Florida, I could see the waves of Hawaii.” Or, “On my tour of the White House, I got to shake hands with the president.” But overall, "show and tell" was pretty interesting and included guinea pigs, Bufferin (a neighbor’s white cat who also starred in at least one of the class theatrical productions), snacks or new toys.

One of the more unique sessions of “show and tell” was led by Margaret, who brought in a plastic bag filled with costume jewelry. Although she planned to tell about the contents of the bag, she talked more about the bag itself. This particular plastic bag had contained several pairs of men’s boxer shorts purchased by my dad, who served at the time as dean of students of the university that supervised Campus School. On other occasions, she brought in a book to share, its pages marked with my dad’s salary check, or she stood before an audience and painted a picture (shown here). When it was my turn, I searched closets and dresser drawers, and likely brought in china horse models with broken legs. And there was that one less successful attempt using a magic trick to make milk disappear so I could throw the empty container into the audience. . . .

At present, everyone cringes at the thought of yet another presentation with numerous PowerPoint slides crammed with chart junk, lengthy agendas and action items that will never be followed. The grownup world would be wise to capture the spirit of those earlier “show and tell” sessions. Although many of today’s presentations would involve sharing a gadget—an iPhone, a digital photo frame or MacBook Air--Margaret said she would still bring her bicycle and her greyhound Fay. As for me, I will have to see what I can find.

The Pear King by Jane Tolbert

NOTE: The typographic pear image is from Robert Justin Goldstein's book, Censorship of Political Caricature in Nineteenth-Century France, 1989. The inkwell portraying Louis-Philippe belongs to me.

Increasingly, activists and dissidents are turning to the new media (blogs, FaceBook, Twitter) to lead grass-roots protest movements often because the mainstream media are government controlled. The “net” is accessible to a diverse crowd, and information delivery takes place in real time. What a change from those earlier days. It took the content of Martin Luther’s Ninety-Five Theses (1517) approximately a month to travel Europe and 17th-century subscription-based newspapers approximately one week to arrive at their destination. How did earlier citizens question official policies in a period of censorship and the Inquisition?

Since the advent of movable type (in the 1450s), journalists and scientists have used the press to criticize. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, officials of the church and state responded by implementing increasingly stringent laws to suppress divergent views in religion, medicine, and astronomy to name a few. There were enough examples of burnings at the stake (Giordano Bruno who wrote a heliocentric and infinite world) and imprisonment or censorship (Galileo who claimed he had proof of the heliocentric world) to make writers cautious. In sixteenth-century France, newspaper copy was submitted to officials prior to publication. In the 17th century, Cardinal Richelieu penned some of the news stories carried by journalist Théophraste Renaudot to ensure the favorable portrayal of French policies. To evade pre-pre-publication screening, some writers used rhetorical strategies such as a retraction (e.g., I am outlining this pernicious theory to make you aware of its dangers). Some writers (including Galileo, the priest Marin Mersenne, and journalist Renaudot in his published conferences proceedings) presented information in the form of a dialogue between three individuals, representing divergent positions characterized by rational, neutral, or specious reasoning. Often these evasive writings seemed reminiscent of a verbal sparring match, pitting the wit of the writer against the intellect of the official. Others used convoluted reasoning, or they relied on a long-winded, verbose style to overwhelm censors and make the author’s position unclear. Still others attributed new points of view or radical theories to the Ancients. Sometimes two different versions of a text appeared—one targeting the censors and the other, a public of savvy readers.





Source: http://blogs.princeton.edu/graphicarts/2009/02/charles_philipons_la_caricatur.html

One of the more creative ways of communicating antigovernment critiques took place in 19th-century France. By this time, the press had been given varying degrees of constitutional protection in the late 18th century. But freedom of the press vacillated with politics and often failed to protect caricature because officials contended these images could create derision and scorn in the public eye. And French kings, who created regimes of abuse and displayed gout-ridden or jowled physiques, became popular targets. In a series of caricatures, Louis Philipon, editor of Le Charivari, represented King Louis-Philippe as a pear in the 1830s. When Philipon faced imprisonment and fines, he protested by using the shape of a pear to print the text of the censorship decree issued by the king.

These earlier activists, limited to the print medium, used creative approaches, approximating verbal or visual repartees to spar with officials. Just think of what they would have done if they had access to blogs or FaceBook. They could post satirical messages on a Louis-Philippe FaceBook fan club. . . . They could use blogs to counter any “whitewashing” that originated with royalist supporters. While pre-internet officials had hard copy with which to contend, with numerous outlets and the potential for real-time communication, perhaps today’s “censors” face a more difficult task.



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Quality of Life by Jane Tolbert

For many years, my parents handed us envelopes, which were labeled “quality of life” and filled with a wad of cash. Their families had known the Depression, and for them, quality of life meant the ability to purchase something frivolous such as shoes or bouquets of cut flowers rather than the more mundane groceries and necessities. My grandparents had also given us rolled up dollars and handfuls of coins each time we visited. No one could really afford to give us this “quality of life.” But they did, and they appeared generous.

Quality of life means enjoying the simple pleasure of life when the economy is bad, unemployment is high and the next paycheck is uncertain. In today’s recession, many of us seek activities that require little investment but have a high yield of memorable experiences. This year we have given up travel to the larger dance workshops that require nights in hotels and airfares. Instead we are riding out the recession, focusing on less expensive local dances or relatively free activities.


Quality of life isn’t about extravagant pleasures but about a perspective. This past year in France, my walks enabled me to savor details—the steep hillsides of Vallauris where orange trees nestle among turn-of-the-century villas or the wide boardwalk at Juan-les-Pins overlooking the Mediterranean. Local dances on the Mediterranean cost anywhere from 1 euro for the outdoors events to 10 euros for the clubs.







Rocky coast on the Cap d'Antibes


The occasional jaunt to see the yachts at the Antibes port and a hike along the rocky edge of the exclusive Cap d’Antibes allowed me to gauge how the very wealthy were making out in the recession.

This year in Melbourne, we meet at places with no cover charges--the Cove, a beachside restaurant with great dancing on Tuesday nights, or Lou’s Blues, a bar with a small dance floors. We take turns hosting dances at our homes or may splurge on an afternoon Argentine tango workshop. Biking along waterways, planning a picnic on the beach or attending free foreign films at the local university are activities that make us focus on that extravagant feeling associated with the quality of life rather than the perception that cash is the sine qua non of the quality of life. Like those times when my dad would throw dollar bills—not hundreds and hundreds of dollars—up in the air, we attempt to emulate that tradition, or perspective, of quality of life associated with those envelopes of cash. It’s not a million dollars but it seems like it.



Crane Creek, Melbourne, Florida

Dog Days on the Riviera by Jane Tolbert

Most of us want to return to this life as a French dog—loved and pampered and stay-at-home.

I adopted my first dog when I lived in the French countryside near Grasse. The masons who worked on my house had Brittany Spaniels, which they used for companionship and for the hunt (pheasants, water birds and others). They brought their dogs to work every day. Nana climbed ladders and would sit on the chimney while her master Robert worked on the tile roof. Roger’s puppy Sophia ran through wet cement, chased lizards or chewed the seats in his Peugeot 204.





One day the masons asked if I wanted a dog. Their friend planned to get rid of his Brittany, Pink, who had committed two egregious sins—she had eaten a tiered cake, which he had prepared for a wedding, and she had spent the last hunting season hiding under his car. Pink loved pastries, and she did not like guns. She became my companion and nanny to my two kids for many years. She rode in the front seat of the car, went on family vacations in Florida and continued to scarf down pastries. She took the bus with me to Grasse (dogs rode half price). Sometimes she wandered off to the village café, the Pergola, at Pre du Lac. Usually someone brought her home.




When we moved to Melbourne Beach, Pink moved with us. She wandered down to the beach one day. Since her tags still had a French address, my dad commented that anyone who found her would have marveled at the distance a Brittany could swim.

When I later returned to France to live in the city, it seemed the growing emphasis on clean public streets and the “no poop” policy had forced people to opt for smaller dogs just because of logistics. Toy poodles, papillons, terriers and chihuahuas, now the vogue, were in boutiques, cafes and even in backpacks on scooters.



In France, with its population of nearly 62-million people and an estimated 19-million dogs, canines are an integral part of life, as much as the apértif and baguette. Even on the coldest days, shivering pooches accompany their owners to the Monday morning flea markets in Nice or for a walk on the beach. Some watch passersby from shopfront windows in Juan-les-Pins. Still others sit on their owners’ laps on the boardwalk or wait patiently outside a grocery store. One dog even had a security clearance at the research park of Sophia Antipolis. Patrons bring dogs to cafes and restaurants, and both eye the menu with a hint of gourmandise. Sugar cubes? Two orders of croissants? One large café au lait and a hot chocolate followed by a walk in the sun.

As I prepare for an early morning commute to my day job, I realize a dog’s life sounds pretty good.

Pipedream or Paradigm? by Jane Tolbert

Rails to Trails Overlook


South Rim

When we think of ideal biking locations, the Northwestern United States or Europe come to mind. But ever so slowly networks of greenways are inching across the American landscape, offering the possibility of biking on off-road paths or little-traveled highways. What might have seemed a pipedream years ago is becoming the new paradigm--a shift from the automobile-based lifestyle of recent generations to one that focuses on exercise. Let’s hope this trend continues.

In the Melbourne – Cocoa area, cyclists meet at Viera or Cocoa Village for a 25-to-35-mile loop that follows the Indian River Lagoon. Some of these roadbikers in brightly colored jerseys have such a competitive gleam in their eyes that I know this loop is not for amateurs. I’ll ride at my own pace and maybe meet them later at Ossario’s Café. I’ve trailed other cyclists who gather near Mather’s Bridge to pedal a 10-mile circuit on South Tropical Trail along the Banana River and taken a predawn ride along Riverside Drive between the Eau Gallie and Melbourne causeways.


Mather's Bridge

Biking technology has really changed since the days my sister Margaret and I shared ‘Thunderbird,’ our first bike. The massive-framed green bike had coaster brakes, streamers on the handle bars and a clattery kickstand. We got our thrills from riding with feet on the handlebars or pedaling furiously up and down neighborhood streets of Virginia. And it probably took both of us to lift the cumbersome Thunderbird to an upright position. Today, we don’t even have to stand to pedal uphill. The lightweight frames, comfortable seats and gears make bikes easy to ride.

Weekend activities are planned around meeting friends for a bike ride. In the Gainesville area, we biked the popular 16-mile Gainesville-Hawthorne Trail. Other times I have joined friends at Split Rock, the South Rim or the San Felasco Hammock, all of which provide miles of sandy paths as well as encounters with deer, bird and, if not the cougars or bear themselves, at least their paw prints.

So why isn’t everyone biking? The network of trails still needs to be linked. Portions of many bike routes contain a mixture of high- and low-congested areas and roadside debris, conditions that preclude many commuters or school kids from biking. One my favorites workouts in Melbourne is to ride the causeway bridges that link the mainland to the barrier islands. But an element of fear offsets the salubrious benefits of a cardio workout. I dodge road debris within feet of speeding pickups, towed boats or SUVs.

The combination of exercise, outdoors and chats with friends make biking somehat addictive—enough to get me out before 8 a.m. on weekends. It’s unlikely I’ll ever ride more than 15 or 20 miles, but I am looking forward to the day when I can access a greenway from my neighborhood, ride my bike and feel like a kid.

Promises, Promises by Jane Tolbert

Chapelle de la Garoupe, Cap d'Antibes


Imagine the setting. You are a captive in some dank prison in a foreign land. You vow to perform an incredible feat if you ever gain release and return home. Faced with adversity or in a moment of duress, individuals often made wild promises. Take for example the Knight of Blacas, captured by Saracens during the Crusades, who vowed that upon his release he would hang a star over the provencal village of Moustiers Sainte Marie. No one is quite certain when the actual feat took place, but the star hangs today about 690 feet in the air on a chain that spans a chasm more than 675 feet across. What was he thinking! The knight could have made a more modest vow--the restoration of a chapel or a generous financial contribution to ransom other captives. Instead, he chose a way to give thanks for his liberation that captivates our imagination to this day!

Sailors make vows and offer prayers for a safe passage on tranquil seas or deliverance from shipwreck. On the Cap d’Antibes, the small, 13-16th century Chapelle de la Garoupe has an eclectic collection of ex-votos--drawings of the Virgin Mary, paintings of flowers and ships, model ships and marble plaques. In other areas, roadside shrines to the virgin or a patron saint enable passersby to make small votive offerings.



The numerous ex-votos in chapels suggest even to the skeptic that there may be something to these offerings. . . or is there? What about those individuals who made vows but nevertheless succumbed to a crisis or perished in a dank prison? As scholars Jörg Rüpke and Richard Gordon have pointed out, “Failed vows produced no votices; the system renders its failures invisible” (Religion of the Romans, 2007, 164).

Still, school-age children may want to play it safe not only in the pre-Christmas season when they prepare their wish list for Santa but throughout their K-12 years. To complement their studious efforts and hours devoted to study, they may want to make a promise to the patron saint of homework assignments. Rumor has it that a patron saint of parking meters exists in New Orleans. Impressive! But has anyone beaten Blacas' record of the star on the chain?

Stiletto Thin by Jane Tolbert

Years ago, the French physique seemed to be defined by a pencil-thin silhouette. Americans marveled—how could a nation that consumed wines, cheeses, and croissants and pastries do it! In her book French Women Don’t Get Fat, the slender Mireille Guiliano addressed this paradox of eating, stressing that French women do not deny themselves certain culinary delights. But they seek quality over quantity and get plenty of exercise. But hélas, did Ms. Guiliano speak too soon? Not all French women look like the svelte, laughing demoiselles remembered by WWII GIs (including my dad) or the shapely bistro bartenders in the tight lace dress.

The image of pencil thin has changed in recent years. Overweight people, who used to be identified as “foreigners,” speak French while they wait in line at French supermarket aisles, walk seaside boardwalks and eat in restaurants. What used to be a lean population has turned into one of expanding waistlines, which has become a matter of national concern! Too much rich food? Au contraire. This phenomenon is blamed on the invasion of junk foods--a shift from eating only at an established meal time to continual grazing. Furthermore, more cars and parking spaces provide less incentive to walk. The average French person of previous years walked to the fresh food markets, dashed to catch a bus and always ran up steps, lugging net shopping bags filled with the day’s purchases. For children, the combination of fast foods (in French, le malbouffe actually means bad food), computer games and television programs has led to the problems of being overweight and obese.

To combat a growing population of obese children (an estimated one in 10), the French government removed vending machines from public schools and initiated a massive campaign, targeting fast foods. Since 2007, all fast-food advertisements carried by the media must advocate healthy eating habits--five fruits and vegetables daily, exercise, avoidance of snacking and foods high in salt and fats. .

But is obesity the fault of McDo (prononced MAC-DOE) and “le Big Mac” or other fast foods? Or is that je ne sais quoi. . . .

Of course, a simple solution exists, one developed by my mom years ago. Before my sister and I could approach the den couch to watch afternoon television, she whisked us outside under any meteorological conditions for “rip and run.” Exercise became part of our lifestyle, and fruits, vegetables and the occasional pretzel, the staple of our snacking and our bag lunches. Of course, we did find ways to circumvent healthly eating. At the school cafeteria, we bartered these raisins, carrots and apples for the occasional indulgence (a Twinkie!). But overall, the "rip and run maxim" and healthy eating has stuck with us.

The French maintain the crisis has leveled off, that the draconian measures to combat the invasion of fast foods are working. . . . Time will tell. When the slender bartenders return to their counters in their form-fitting tops and when the new generation of kids rip and run outside, the crisis may have passed.