Blooms Around The Bunny Bungalow

Pink Ivy Geranium

Jasmine in a Vintage Milk Bottle

Azaleas

Daylily

White Hydrangea

Tall Husband's Red Hibiscus

White Geraniums

Morning Glory

At the bungalow, we love to bring flowers in from the garden and put them in antiques vases, vintage milk bottles or even old olive oil bottles. Garden sounds so formal, yet at the bungalow nothing is. There are just old fashion flowers that have found their way to a wooden fence, an old well filled with dirt, or a rusting old gate.

“Suite Française,” a Novel

“Suite Française,” by Irène Némirovsky; translated by Sandra Smith

Irène Némirovsky was born in Kiev in 1903 and immigrated to France to escape the Russian Revolution. She was a successful writer in France before the Nazis invaded. She died in Auschwitz on August 17, 1942.

“Suite Française,” by Irène Némirovsky is a historical novel written as the author, a Russian Jew, is in the midst of the Nazi invasion of Paris and the subsequent Nazi occupation of France. That Némirovsky wrote at all, with the struggle to stay alive in order to save her husband and small daughters, is remarkable; that her writing is exceptional is a miracle.

“Suite Française” is two novellas, depicting life in France from June 4, 1940 as the Nazis invade Paris, to July 1, 1941 when they pull out of France to join in the invasion of Russia. The first novella “Storm in June,” opens with the thunderous sounds of the German Army advancing on a sleeping Paris. Némirovsky’s characters exhibit a range of human reactions to the catastrophe of war, some doing what they deem necessary to preserve a privileged life and some merely trying to stay alive as they react to the invasion.

The second novella, “Dolce,” takes place in a Nazi occupied French village, with only women, children and old men remaining. The French have lost the war, but the war continues in the form of internalized struggle. The villagers struggle to find some normalcy with the enemy billeted in their very homes. There is, on the surface, collaboration but with an undercurrent of resistance and real acts of heroism and honor carried out by some individuals. In occupied France, whether in Paris or a provincial village, Némirovsky’s characters show us that not all occupying troops were monsters and not all Frenchmen were honorable.

The most poignant part of this book is the story of how it came to be a book. Before Némirovsky was arrested July 13, 1942 by the French police who were enforcing Nazi race laws, she gave a suitcase to her two small daughters, which they took with them into hiding. The suitcase contained a leather-bound notebook in which Némirovsky had written what would become “Suite Française.” Denise, her eldest daughter, saved the notebook for fifty-six years before reading it. She had been fearful that reading, what she thought was a journal, would bring back horrific memories of a childhood in hiding and the death of her parents in concentration camps.

After reading her mother’s book, Denise had it published in France, sixty-two years after her mother had left it with her. “Suite Française” was awarded the French Prix Renaudot for 2004. This was the first time the prize has been awarded posthumously.

Careers My Father Chose for Me

Antique Underwood at The Bunny Bungalow

1922 Underwood No. 5 Typewriter

Qwerty Keyboard

When I was fourteen, my father brought home a gift that would define my future, an old 1922 Underwood typewriter he had found at a second-hand shop on his beat, as a police officer. "You are going to learn to type so you will never go hungry." My father did not want any of his children to depend on anyone to take care of them. He would say things like, "Who's always there when you're in trouble?" Then he would answer his own question before we could, "You, Kid!"

That old typewriter has traveled the world with me. I typed my way through high school and college with it, only switching to a newer model in graduate school. Word processors then computers came along, replacing typewriters but I kept the old Underwood with me. My keyboard skills, learned on that old Underwood, have kept me better than just fed. I've written work reports, articles, and books (my typing wasn't the reason the books weren't published.) And now I'm blogging and using those typing skills; no hunt and peck for your kid, Dad. Wish you were here to see me now!

One reason Dad turned out to be right about his choice for me is that some things never change. After the Qwerty keyboard made its first appearance on the Remington writing machine in 1874 and people learned it, Qwerty has persisted. This strange arrangement of keys was utilized, not for typing ease, but to keep adjacent type bars from hitting each other. Your computer has a Qwerty keyboard unless you went to some trouble to find another kind. You will notice in the computer keyboard photo above that the name Qwerty came from the consecutive arrangement of the q, w, e, r, t, & y keys, spelling Qwerty.

If you love old typewriters, as I do, check in on the websites of some really serious collectors. Two of my favorites are Martin Howard and Richard Polt. They both have the history of the invention and some wonderful photos of their collections.

A few years back, I entered the The Bad Hemingway Contest, typing my entry on the old Underwood. It looked really great and should have won on looks alone but it didn't. I really wanted the prize, a trip for two to Harry's Bar and American Grill in Italy (Hemingway's favorite watering hole.) Dad, couldn't you have sprinkled a little magic dust on the old machine before giving it to me? Oh, I forgot, you didn't believe in magic, you believed in me.

Color Blind: A Cure?

Shortly after Tall Husband and I were married, he discovered that I was "color blind." I bought a new suit bag and announced that it was my favorite gray. He informed me that it was green and that I had a color vision problem. He could have more easily convinced me that I was Chinese.

Later, at a bookstore that specialized in medical books and items, Tall Husband asked to see a set of Ishihara cards (a standardized color test). When the saleslady was busy with another customer, he asked me to tell him what I saw in the pattern on each card. Afterwards, he informed me that I indeed had a "color vision deficiency" and was green weak (deuteranomaly). I argued with him, saying that women are not color blind, that he was. He informed me that when he worked for Kodak, as a job prerequisite, his color vision was tested and found to be perfect. Also, he had been a faculty member at the department of ophthalmology at a prestigious medical school.

Flash forward several years: My grandson was tested by his French pediatrician and found to have a magnesium deficiency that caused leg pain and muscle cramps. His doctor prescribed magnesium. As I also had the same symptoms, Tall Husband went straight to the drug store for magnesium. After perusing the labels, he decided on a mixture of zinc, calcium and magnesium. Having taken the supplement for about two or three months, I began to notice that people were repainting things green. First there was the perfectly fine black fence at a nearby school that had been repainted a dark green. There was a house on the corner that had been a nice dove gray that was repainted an ugly green. Then one day I was applying eyeliner when I noticed that my gray eyes had changed color. Stunned, I ran to Tall Husband and demanded to know what had happened to my eyes. He asked what color I thought my eyes had been and what color they appeared to be now. "Well they were gray and now they are a greenish blue." He informed me that they had always been a greenish blue. He immediately Googled color vision. Finding a reliable on-line Ishihara color test he sat me in front of his computer. I passed the Ishihara.

"This cannot be," he said, "There is no cure for color vision deficiencies." He asked me about other vision changes. I told him how my world was looking like a garish cartoon. How people were repainting things and that it was not psychologically pleasant. In fact it made me nauseous. I wished that I could have my old color vision back.

The next week I was at the Department of Ophthalmology, at Baylor College of Medicine, taking the Farnsworth-Munsell 100 hue test (for color vision) which found me to have normal color vision. One would think that those docs who examined me would jump all over such a discovery: a cure for a type of color vision deficiency. But no. Tall Husband is not an M.D. so they took the not invented here attitude. To think that a simple, inexpensive supplement (we think it was the zinc) from Walgreen's could cure a color vision deficiency is not dramatic or earth shattering.

I found that I had some strange colors of green in my wardrobe; that U.S. dollars are green (so that's why they are called green backs.); that there are various shades of green (really green) in a forest. My brain has finally settled down and though I still see all the colors, things seem visually normal to me now.

Home Work

Laundry Room at The Bunny Bungalow

The only thing I hate worse than cleaning house is a dirty house. I am such a procrastinator! So today is the day.

As you may know from a previous post, I do not have a maid. I have tried hiring my own maid and several maid services. Each experience always felt like nagging teenagers to clean their rooms. The fact is, no one cleans a house like it's their own or, OMG, maybe they do. No one prepared or studied for a career in house cleaning. Except me!

The truth is, once I jump into it, I love cleaning house, doing the laundry and ironing. I have studied house work as an art. I've got books and articles I've collected. I cruise the aisles of the supermarket, perusing the labels on the latest household products. In high school, I was a member and president of the Future Homemakers of America (FHA)*. Yes, the effing FHA!

Now where's my new mop bucket? I think I see it over there, under that pile of dirty designer towels!

*Striving toward PCness, in 1999 the FHA became "Family, Career and Community Leaders of America" (FCCLA). Now isn't that catchy!? This name change was an attempt to "resonate with today's and tomorrow's teens." And who's cleaning their rooms?

Drip Irrigation for Pot Plants

On a recent weekend, Tall Husband installed a drip irrigation system for our two large pots of hydrangeas. Hydrangeas require lots of water in our hot Texas sun. You can see the small black tubes in the photo above. The tubes are attached to a hose that is attached to a hydrant with a timer. The tubes and hose have since been hidden among the foliage and behind the pots. We purchased the timer and system from our local hardware store. This system will keep our hydrangeas from looking like boiled spinach when we are away on trips.

Now, I just need to run back to that hardware store and ask those guys what to get for those iron stains on our new sidewalk! I fertilized the lawn in the rain to save water and time. Not smart but, after all, I'm a blond.

Spicing Up a Medieval Congress

In the summer of 2005, my daughter, who is a French Medievalist, was presenting a paper at the International Medieval Congress at the University of Leeds in Leeds, UK. As she was still nursing, her little Cecilia had to accompany her. I tagged along so I could tend to my granddaughter while my daughter attended presentations. (The day we arrived in Leeds, was the day the entire world learned that the London suicide bombers were from Leeds but that is a story for later.) I had expected to be wooed by Medieval pomp and circumstance but none of the Medieval scholars met my expectations. Save for the lone musician in Medieval costume, playing reproduction Medieval instruments, there would have been a total lack of atmosphere to this Medieval event.

When daughter was again to present a paper in the summer of 2006, I expressed my disappointment at the lack of passion and romance exhibited by Medieval scholars, the lack of costumes. She, a daring soul, agreed to wear Medieval dress if I were to construct it. I am also daring, so I accepted the challenge, knowing nothing of Medieval dress. I was launched on a research and sewing project with a deadline of a month before having to mail the costume to her home in Paris. As luck would have it, Tall Husband learned that a work colleague was an historic reenactor familiar with the Medieval period. He provided invaluable information and web addresses, sending me off on a quest!

As it turned out, McCall's has Medieval patterns that can be ordered on line. I e-mailed links to my daughter and she made her selections. The dress she chose took thirteen yards of fabric. I had to clear out the living room and use the floor to cut, which took all day just for the dress. We did not go for historical authenticity. Those who do, make their own patterns, sew by hand and torture themselves in other ways, I'm sure. I went for the romantic impression of Medieval dress, with an Italian style, lace-up damask dress and a French style chemise of silk. The small crown-style hat, which was also made from a McCall's pattern was the style you see in Medieval paintings. Websites of those who sew historical reproductions were of great help in finding notions (such as lacing rings, etc.) and in reconstructing the patterns to achieve a better look or fit. Also, a friend, who is near my daughter's size, graciously agreed to let me put the costume on her so that technical changes could be determined. The friend, in the photo above, is taller than daughter, so the dress does not romantically drag the ground as it did on the intended.

I met the deadline and shipped the thirty pound costume to Paris, along with dressing instructions. So my adventurous daughter was the renegade scholar who presented her scholarly paper in a red Medieval dress that summer. And who would dare to argue against the scholarly findings of one who is wearing a crown?!