To France

It's been 20 years; my first baby girl was 11 at the time that I last visited France. But, tomorrow, I fly to London and then on to Nice, arriving Tuesday morning local time. The ceremony will be next Saturday, on what would have been my mother's 92nd birthday.

There isn't a weekend I do not think of my parents. The last time I talked to my Dad was on the first weekend of 1999. That Sunday night, he suffered a massive stroke, and he died early Monday morning. My Mother and I were at his side.

The last time I called my Mom for our weekend chat was in early fall 2002. She heard the phone ring, and my recorded message, but was too ill to get up and cross the room to talk to me. A week and a half later, she died. I was at her side, also.



For many years before these endings, I called my folks every single Saturday morning. They looked forward to my calls, I knew, but it was only near the end that I realized how much I looked forward to them, too.

There simply has never been any other people who so unconditionally supported me the way I am, regardless of how badly I screwed up or however messed up my life became. It was the era before parents became their kids' friends: That seems to be Baby Boomer characteristic.



***

For me, travel is always disruptive. I have my routines, my books, my haunts, and of course, my little children here. But, there I will have my older children, plus the French. One thing I like about Europe is that I feel like a writer there.

In America, you see, being a writer is seen as an oddity by most people. There is nothing familiar about artists to Americans; we are weirdos. Not in Europe!

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