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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