Pioneer Living, Old-World style

Readers about my age must surely remember the TV series “Wagon Train.” It was one of the formative viewing experiences of my youth, and though I didn’t like shoot’em-up westerns, I loved watching the Conestoga wagons trek across the plains and mountains of the American West.

On “Wagon Train” there were families, which meant children, and the show allowed me to experience the journey through their eyes. Another detail sticks in my mind: girls were just as courageous as boys, and big or small, everyone did their part to survive. Go West, young woman. That seemed to be the motto of the show.

At night, I pulled the sheets over my head, turning my bed into a prairie schooner. Peeping out into the darkness, I imagined Chimney Rock, the Colorado River, the snow-capped Rockies. I also sensed the dangers of the trail: “Indians,” as we called them then, but also wild animals, rattlers or scorpions, and shortages of water and food. Participating in the journey through imagination, experiencing beauty, danger and adventure, I simply couldn’t understand why my parents, or their forebears, had never heeded the call.

I did. I went to California, albeit by jet plane, to study, not to homestead. I landed in Los Angeles, a quick trip into the future for a girl from Pottsville, PA. The Old West was buried beneath concrete and asphalt.

But that did not stop me from trying to dig it up. In 1976, to commemorate the bicentennial, I dragged my mother and two sisters onto an Amtrak train we boarded in Union Station in LA (they’d flown there for a visit). In 48 hours it was going to deposit us in Harrisburg, after having unfurled at ground level the beauties and wonders of the continental United States.

That was the program. Things did not go as planned. The train broke down in the Arizona desert and we sat there for hours. No air conditioning, intense heat, crying babies, passengers in panic. No one in my family would speak to me.

When we finally made it to Saint Louis, we changed to a local making every stop on this side of the Mississippi before it finally reached Harrisburg, nearly 90 hours after the trip had begun.

That was my transcontinental trek, inspired by “Wagon Train.” My family hated me for it, but I enjoyed the adventure. That may be why I ended up in France, a truly long trek that has finally provided me with a taste of “pioneer life.” Who would have ever imagined (certainly, not me!) that I had to return to the Old World to discover what conquering the New was like.

At this point in my adventure in “la France profonde,” heartland France, I call myself “pioneer woman” and wonder for how long I can keep this up.

To give you an idea of “a day in the life,” it all starts very early. I get up in darkness and pull on several layers of warm clothing, first my “woolies,” a pair of wool panty hose and a thermal undershirt, then a heavy sweater and a wool scarf around the neck, topped by a sweat suit ordered especially from Iceland, where they know something about cold. A pair of socks, fur-lined slippers, and I’m ready to go.

Then it’s time to make the fire. Every night I let it die down and go out. Every morning I start all over again. First, I remove yesterday’s ashes and clean the ceramic glass door of my wood stove. I clean that glass every morning, wetting and balling newspaper, dipping it in ash, and then scrubbing away. This leaves my nails caked with soot, but it gives me a beautiful view of the flames, the best entertainment in town.

Once the stove is clean I can build the fire, using the top-down method and fire-starter squares—I don’t know what I’d do without them. Sometimes it takes two or three tries to get it going, and once the flames begin to rise, I’m never far away. At the onset, my fire requires care and pampering if it is going to last all day—as it should, as it must. Wood fire is my main source of heat.

Working hard, my stove is always hungry. For me, this means numerous trips each day to the woodshed in my garden. I fill a heavy-duty bag and lug the wood to the house.

When my morning chores are done, I can finally eat, and I’m hungry. Now I can understand those big cowboy breakfasts of hot biscuits, gravy and beans. I also need a couple of cups of strong black coffee if I am going to make it through the rest of the day.

Part of it I spend sitting at a computer, something pioneers never did. Yet I am also in my garden, still, in January, living off the fat of the land. I’m harvesting winter salads, broccoli, Brussel sprouts and sorrel; and down in my root cellar, my supply of potatoes and beets will hold me through to spring.

To top it off, I live in a house I’ve ‘built’ (with the aid of local craftsmen). I have become a homesteader and that home still requires work. During the Christmas holidays the plumbing backed up, and the French take holidays seriously. Tracking down a plumber was like searching for the Northwest Passage, except that I was not battling ice.

And no pioneer experience would be complete without skirmishes with the natives, animal and human. I’ve had chiggers and been attacked by fire ants. A small house next to mine is abandoned. My contractor suspects it is infested with rats. He tells me to be careful when I feed the birds, or I’ll have rodents in my courtyard.

As for the humans, it’s an uphill battle. A foreigner, an American no less, a member of that nation whose founders were not satisfied till they’d grabbed an entire continent, has come and laid claim to a piece of the local “patrimoine,” their heritage. Until she took it, nobody wanted it, but now that she’s fixed it up, things have changed.

We all know “how the West was won.” It took generations, and I’ve only been here two years. In the village of Condé sur Huisne, I’ve staked my claim, but will it hold?

Just like “Wagon Train,” this is one episode in a series and the show has just begun…

“Kids United” uniting kids and the world

This year I got into the Christmas spirit with the pre-adolescent set and their forty-something parents. I joined more than 20,000 of them in the biggest concert hall in Paris, AccorHotel Aréna. We were all there for “the Kids,” “Kids United,” the hottest group in France, at the top of the charts, having recently knocked Céline Dion out of first place.

Who are “the Kids”? In some ways, they are a fluke, a group of children and adolescents, between the ages of 10 and 17, who, at their beginnings a mere two years ago, were chosen to sing together to promote the cause of UNICEF. Contestants on shows such as "France Has Got Talent" and "Voice Kids," they were already used to performing when they were singled out to become representatives of French youth and ambassadors of UNICEF.

In May 2015 they gave their first concert at the Olympia, a Parisian theater where all the greats have sung: Edith Piaf, Jacques Brel, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. At the close of the concert, “the Kids” presented their first check to UNICEF for over 400 thousand dollars.

And the rest is history, a success story that my friend Tiago, 9 years old, has been following every step of the way. Singing “feel-good” songs, most of them unknown in the English-speaking world, “The Kids” have captured the hearts of the French and got millions humming “On écrit sur les murs,” (“We write on the walls/the names of those we love”), a 1989 pop song that became their first big hit.

The day of the concert, one of two Paris appearances in the group’s nationwide 2017 tour, many of us arrived early. We were bubbling with excitement, ready to stand patiently in long lines and undergo a body search before we could enter the hall. Like most parents and chaperones, I’d thought about the dangers of such a gathering, but I was gladly, even gleefully, chaperoning Tiago to what was the biggest music event of my life.

Once inside, we waited, with no sign of “The Kids.” When the group finally burst onto the stage, emerging from mist and beams of colored light, the 20,000 fans went wild. As for Tiago and me, a discrete usher invited us to rise from our last-row seats and follow him. He directed us to the fourth row of the giant hall, a stroke of luck, a miracle of sorts. Suddenly “The Kids” were real.

Now I could see the sweat on Nilusi’s forehead. This graceful 17-year-old whose roots are in Sri Lanka is the oldest member of the group and is about to go solo.

As the singers change positions on the stage, she is soon replaced by Gabriel, 15. He is what the French call “un black,” a French boy with roots in Africa, who spent a part of his childhood in England and is completely bilingual.

Esteban, 17, is proud of his Spanish origins. Erza, 12, has parents who fled their native Kosovo. Even Gloria, the youngest at age 10, has an Italian last name.

They are so close I could almost touch these talented, energetic representatives of UNICEF and France today, were it not for the security guards standing between me and the stage. All around me, children and adults are singing along, and I feel like the only person among the 20,000 who doesn’t know the words to every song.

Good, clean entertainment, I guess you could call it, provided by the very best of multicultural France, every one of “The Kids,” an example of the wealth of origins, backgrounds and races that are vital ingredients in what it means to be French today.

Everybody in the audience loves them, the parents as enthralled as their children—to the point that a little boy falls off the back of a seat into my arms while his mother blithely records the show on her phone. Every child in the hall dreams of someday becoming a “Kid” and, to children and adults alike, “Kids United” conveys the message that “le monde est beau,” the world is beautiful.

Then it’s over and we’re back in the cold, dark night. Outside the hall, there’s a hot trade in posters, selling for 2 euros, as opposed to the official price of ten. Tiago rushes up to a salesmen and whips out a 5-euro bill. No change, he is told. I search in my wallet, find a 2-euro coin, extend my palm and Tiago gets his poster—in the nick of time.

Just as the exchange is taking place, the police break in, confiscating all the posters, but ours. “Cadeau,” the policeman says, as he drags the poster-seller away. A gift, you don’t have to pay.

As for the salesman, I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. He lost his posters and he’s going to lose his profits, and if he happens to be an illegal immigrant, he may lose his foothold in France.

Concerning illegal immigration, President Macron has recently increased police powers, sanctioning random identity checks in hotels and shelters. The goal of his government is to keep new immigrants out and get rid of those who shouldn’t be here. With temperatures hovering around freezing, police have been destroying makeshift tent cities, slashing tents and throwing blankets, mattresses and personal belongings into trash bins.

While running for office, Emmanuel Macron praised the generosity of German Chancellor Angela Merkel, who, in 2015, offered asylum to over one million refugees. France committed to welcoming 30,000. In 2016, there were 85,244 requests for asylum status, of which 26,531 were accepted, according to figures provided by the Ministry of the Interior.

In 2018, President Macron hopes to reduce those numbers, in part by outsourcing the processing of asylum seekers to countries like Niger or Libya, where human trafficking and violence are rife.

A few days before Christmas, “Kids United” celebrated a different, more generous image of France. These vibrant singers proclaim that yes, we can all live together, at least for the duration of the show…

My wish for 2018, a year promising dangerous times, is that we all give it a try.

Circuses in the US and France: Will the show go on?

A week ago I had an experience that may make of me one of the last willing participants in a dying art, the oldest and greatest show on earth. I went to the circus and, thanks to the animals and their trainers, I had a fantastic time.

To tell you the truth, I wasn’t expecting much. The circus had rolled into town a few days before, and I’d already had a chance to observe many of the animals (over 60, many exotic, according to posters all over town). I saw two black pigs, a lot of chickens and geese, some ponies, three Bactrian camels, two llamas, a wildebeest, emus, a yak, a cat and two dogs, freely roaming the grounds.

In the same field, there were two truck trailers, the wooden entrance to the big-top, not yet in place, and one mobile home. Either this was a small operation, or not all the members of the circus had arrived. I walked the grounds, petted the ponies, took photos and pretty much had the menagerie to myself. If I had walked away with a llama or invited one of the dogs to follow me, I’m not sure anyone would have noticed.

Every afternoon a car drove back and forth through the village, announcing weekend show times. Sunday arrived and I set out for the 11 o’clock matinee. I bought my ticket, stood in line, waited. I thought the little clown who peeped from a crack in the tent was busy seating people inside. It took me a while to realize that the small crowd outside—36 in all, I counted—represented the entire audience.

Finally, the clown, dressed in a droopy harlequin costume, folded back a flap of the tent and invited us to file in to the sound of recorded music: Sousa marches, the music of Nino Rota, who composed the soundtrack for “La Strada,” Fellini’s 1954 movie about a small carnival starring Anthony Quinn. Most of us took our seats on bleachers, a few paid double for front-row seats. Everybody, with such a small crowd, had an excellent view of the one-ring show.

A drum roll, the curtains open, three beautiful lions from Kenya and their trainer burst into the cage occupying the entire ring. I’d seen lions represented on the posters around town, but thought they were just a come-on. Now I had them before my very eyes, three surly beasts, growling, showing their teeth, obeying reluctantly. They run, they jump, they mount metal stands, they form a triangle, with one of the lions placing his impressive paws on the backs of his two companions.

The man next to me says under his breath, “Mais il n’est pas gentil avec ses bêtes,” he’s not very nice to his animals. The tamer prods them, and we’re so close we can see the metal point on his prod. He cracks the whip, he withstands the lions’ growls, their outstretched paws trying to strike him. My heart is beating fast, I can see the lions wet with sweat, I can smell them, the smell of wild beasts, I feel fear and I can feel fear around me.

It is a great performance. The small audience applauds wildly. We too are members of a dying breed, an audience overwhelmed by the courage of the man in the cage.

Then it’s over and it’s time for a change of set. The cage must come down. A man I recognize as a local comes out to begin dismantling it. He is soon joined by the lion tamer, who, after his death-defying feat, must work, hands-on, if the show is to continue. Then the ticket seller and the little clown get into the act, all working together to prepare the stage.

The next act is juggling, and the juggler is none other than the lion tamer, brilliantly playing a new role. He is a handsome man, young, a one-man-show from the look of things.

Another change of set, the preparation of a new act, and while this is going on, the little clown and a little fairy entertain us. Shanny and Ethan, the announcer tells us, and this is when it begins to sink in. This circus, “The Shanny and Ethan Seneca Circus,” is a family affair. Mom takes care of tickets, the concession wagon, props, Shanny and Ethan, no more than 6 and 8 years old, seat the guests and entertain us. Teddy, the father, does just about everything else.

From beginning to end, the audience loves it. There are other animal acts, trained horses and llamas, the wildebeest and yaks. When the barnyard animals scurry into the ring, fanning out in two directions, their trainer is none other than Shanny, dressed in a Bo Peep costume, carrying a dressage whip disguised as a staff.

At the show’s end, Teddy Seneca, one-man-show, stands in the center of the ring and reads us a poem about his love of animals and his pride in performing in the greatest show on earth. I’m ready to claim it sent a shiver up everybody’s spine and made some of us misty-eyed.

The year 2017 has not been a good one for circuses with animal acts. It marks the closing of Ringling Bros and Barnum & Bailey Circus after 146 years. New York City and Los Angeles have banned the use of wild animals in all entertainment, private or public. The subject is under debate in Paris and 62 French municipalities have already taken the step.

Many studies show it is impossible to meet the needs of wild animals in captivity; there is also ample proof of their physical and psychological suffering. As recently as November 17th, in the French science magazine Science et Avenir, a panel of veterinarians, philosophers and ethnographers called for the ban of animal acts in France.

This is progress and the show may not go on for Teddy Seneca and family.

Since I was a child in Pottsville, attending performances at the 16th Street field or at Agricultural Park, I have loved the circus, including the animal acts. I suppose it’s the wild beast in me.

Freed from exploitation, wild animals will lead better lives. If we could just bring the same care and attention to our fellow humans, we’d truly make this world a better place.

My Prince has come – and no time too soon!

Someday My Prince Will Come—who doesn’t know those words, that line? In the 1937 Disney movie, Snow White first sang the song, a sweet waltz to lull the seven dwarfs to sleep. The lyrics pack a promise alive still today in the hearts of many little girls and many who are not little anymore.

The song, one of most popular in movie history, also promises a carefree life in a castle and happiness forever, “someday when my dreams come true.” Somehow that song reminds me a lot of politics and I don’t think little girls are the only ones who believe extravagant dreams can come true.

Take the current US president, for example. Back when he was campaigning, he promised to “make America great again.” To do so, he was going to cancel Obama Care, pull out of NATO, ban Muslims from the United States, and build a wall all along the Mexican border. He was also going to “lock up” Hilary and approve “waterboarding” because “torture works.”

To his credit, he said he would elect a pro-Second Amendment judge to the Supreme Court and he did (I wonder what Neil Gorsuch thinks of the recent Las Vegas massacre, the deadliest mass shooting in US history); he also pulled out of the Paris climate control agreement, and has stepped up deportation of illegal immigrants.

As for “making America great again,” I suppose only time will tell. I’m not convinced Americans are going to be any better off at the end of Trump’s four-year term.

In France, our new president Emmanuel Macron calls himself “Jupiter,” King of the gods, who knows just what his subjects—oops, I mean, citizens want. Some Americans compared him to James Bond after viewing a July 2017 video of the French president being lowered from the air (like Jupiter) to the deck of a nuclear submarine. American political commentators see him as a bulwark against the populist politics gaining ground around the world.

While still a candidate, Emmanuel Macron proclaimed, “If anyone believes we are dreamers, rest assured. That’s exactly what we are.” As President, with a majority in Parliament, he is attempting to make his dreams come true, much to the chagrin of large segments of the French population:

Macron’s program includes increased taxes for the middle class and retirees, and decreased taxes for the rich. His labor bill, currently under discussion in Parliament, proposes fewer protections and rights for workers. In general, the new president and his majority hope to create a more technocratic government, and society, where those who know best decide for the rest of us. Apparently, there’s a name for this: “epistocracy,” the “rule of the knowers.”

“Someday when my dreams come true,” sings Snow White. We know she marries the prince and goes to live in the castle. But what happens afterwards? That part of the story was left unwritten, but for lots of girls who grow up to marry their prince, “afterwards” rarely means “happy forever.” In fact, they often wake up to a nightmare.

In his 2016 book Against Democracy, Jason Brennan coined the term “epistocracy.” He imagined a society composed of hobbits, hooligans and Vulcans, and argued not all of them should have the right to vote. Hobbits, according to Brennan, are those uninterested and uninformed about politics; hooligans root for their team, enthusiastically, even violently, but their understanding goes no further than easy slogans. As for the “Vulcans,” they are the ones who know and can decide for the others, but not because they’re morally superior. They’re simply better informed and trained.

A large percentage of millennials may agree with Brennan. Many recent polls in the US, Canada and Australia indicate that only between 30 to 40 percent place their faith firmly in democracy. Many millennials mistrust political leaders and feel elections rarely change anything. They also believe there could be alternatives to democracy.

In another recent book, Democracy for Realists: Why Democratic Elections Do Not Produce Responsive Governments, the authors C. Achen and L. Bartels contend that popular sovereignty may be a concept as questionable as the divine right of kings. As for the American ideal of a government “of the people, by the people, and for the people,” that’s the stuff, they say, of “fairy tales.”

Which brings us back full circle to Snow White, her prince, and mine.

I met him in early September, an unexpected encounter (the best kind) and an awakening because I have been forced to very directly confront myself. My prince is older, already retired, tall, lean, and weighs about 1,000 pounds. He is also Arab, a pureblood Arabian. My prince is a retired racehorse, chestnut brown with a black mane.

I wonder if any readers remember Booie. He used to have stables at the end of North Centre Street in Pottsville and you could often find him and his ponies at block parties. Sometimes he trucked the horses to fairs; at others, he simply led them through the streets of town. When I was near those ponies, I got sick. My face swelled, I couldn’t breathe, and usually I had to go straight home to bed.

Thanks to Prince (that’s my prince’s name), I know I’m not allergic anymore. I’ve also discovered a horse can teach me a lot about myself. I call my riding lessons “horse therapy.” Thanks to Prince, I’m trotting, cantering and even galloping back through my life, coming up against fears, doubts and obstacles that are barriers to inner peace today.

Above all, I am constantly confronted with what I cannot control, an intermediary zone, where Prince and I must learn to communicate and negotiate. My signals are not always clear, nor are his to me, and we often have to start over, finetuning our relationship.

This new experience is personal, but, just like Snow White’s song, it somehow reminds me of politics. With a horse, you get nowhere if you don’t observe and listen, negotiate and compromise, skills all too absent from the political arena today. With Prince, there’s no name-calling or shouting; instead there’s constant give-and-take.

For the moment, I’m thinking and learning, thanks to “my prince.” And I’m not in the world of dreams. My feet are firmly planted in the stirrups of reality.

It’s mushroom-hunting season in Schuylkill County and le Perche

In continental France (as opposed to the French Antilles, battered by tropical storms), autumn arrives as autumn should: bright, blustery days, cool nights, alternating with periods of damp and rain. Perfect weather for mushroom hunting in a region like le Perche, where there are over 1,000 different varieties hidden among the undergrowth of the forests that have given this region its name.

Perche, I learned on the site of the regional park (http://www.parc-naturel-perche.fr/en) comes from an Indo-European root word, perk, which has nothing to do with the English word spelled the same. “Perk” applies to oak trees and is both the root of the Latin word for oak, quercus, and for the region where I have my home.

This time of year, in oak forests all over le Perche, men and women not afraid to get their feet wet are out searching for mushrooms.

At my village café, where I’ve earned the right to stand at the counter with the regulars and pay a round of drinks from time to time, I’ve been told it’s a record year. Why, all you have to do is plop down on the ground (if you’re ready to get the seat of your pants wet), plunge your hands towards the earth, and begin harvesting.

I’ve benefited from this abundance. Just yesterday a village friend gave me a bag of “trompettes de la mort,” trumpets of death—not a very promising name for something you’re supposed to eat. These dull, velvety black mushrooms look like the trumpets angels play to announce the Apocalypse. Their form is also very close to that of a highly toxic South American flower that bears that very name: Angel’s trumpet.

When receiving a gift of wild mushrooms in France, considered a great delicacy, one is supposed to first ooh and aah while caressing and gently sniffing a specimen. That done, the next step is to wax nostalgic about memorable mushroom meals. Ah! Ce bon petit rôti de veau aux girolles—ah! That delicious little roast of veal in girolle mushroom sauce. Finally, after more profuse thanks, one declares what one will do with one’s own little treasure: a creamy soup, a sauce for pasta, un bon petit rôti de porc (pork roast), or, better yet, an omelet.

I held my bag, I said my thanks, all the while silently remembering my own experiences with woodland mushrooms. Memories took me all the way back to my first summer in France. I met a man in a café in a little village in the mountains above the Côte d’Azur. He invited me to accompany him to a dinner at the home of friends.

Always ready for new adventures, I accepted. That evening, we drank a Beaujolais wine called “Pisse-dru” (the first word I think readers can figure out, the second means heavy or abundant) and ate wild mushrooms sautéed in garlic and butter. There was some oohing and aahing, but there was also some concern. One of the guests was not sure these mushrooms were real the thing.

“Fausses chanterelles” (a variety of wild mushroom), he declared. Not poisonous, no, but very hard to digest.

The other French guests, always on the lookout for good argument and debate, begged to disagree and defended the honor of the host serving us this gastronomic meal. Better than the original, more flavorful, they declared as they swallowed generous mouthfuls.

I had no opinion, at least none I wanted to share. I was doing my best to wash the mushrooms down with gulps of Pisse-dru. They were gooey, downright slimy. It was like eating pan-fried slugs (which, also known as escargots, are another French delicacy).

That was not a good evening. I had, and still have, the American’s fear of wild mushrooms coming from anywhere but supermarkets or specialty shops. Leaving the dinner party, I felt nauseous. I wondered what would come next. Luckily, the answer was nothing. I went home, refusing the gentleman’s offer to check out his little villa overlooking the sea, and went to bed.

I also have a Schuylkill County experience to relate. Once, at my mother’s home in Pottsville, my sisters and I looked on as my former French brother-in-law made himself an omelet with morel mushrooms he had found in the woods behind our house. The morel, or morille, as it is known in French, is the Cadillac of mushrooms, and it sells for a Cadillac price.

Oh là là! My brother-in-law was so excited. Terrified, my mother, my sisters and I feared he would die before our very eyes.

But he didn’t, probably because the French know about mushrooms. They track them in secret forest groves whose location they reveal to none but their most trusted friends. Picking up the scent, they are like human beagles sensing, not beast or blood, but a musty, earthy smell that, for the French, has the power of an aphrodisiac.

More prudent hunters carry a guide, beginners accompany the more experienced, and when truly in doubt, it is possible to take one’s find to the local pharmacy. In France, pharmacists are supposed to have the know-how to decide if, eating your mushrooms, you will live or die.

As I’ve been writing this article, I’ve been busy digesting, a cult-like activity in France that requires time, attention and care. I’ve also been listening to my body for any gurgles or untoward movements of the digestive tract. So far, so good. That means the omelet with sautéed trumpet-of-death mushrooms I ate for lunch is going down just fine.

I accepted the gift. I didn’t ask any questions about whether the mushrooms were safe or not. I have complete confidence in the friend who offered me them. I also listened carefully to his wife, who explained what I was supposed to do with them once I got home:

I filled a bowl with water, added some vinegar, and washed them several times. That done, I carefully drained them and just as carefully laid them out, one by one, on a tea towel. By morning they were dry. By lunchtime, I was ready to give them a try.

I sautéed them in butter and garlic. Then I folded them into an omelet I ate with fresh baguette, salad from my garden, and a glass of Burgundy wine.

Who knows? A few more experiences like this and I’ll be out hunting mushrooms myself.

Connections, virtual and real

My summer has been a busy one and I’ve devoted a lot of my time to strengthening the Pottsville-Paris-Perche connection. I’ve had a friend from my Pottsville High days to visit and my niece from Auburn came for an extended stay. For a good part of the summer season, I’ve been busy honing my skills as tour operator and guide.

Now I’m off. I’ve put my house back in order, caught up with weeding and hoeing in the garden, and can sit down for a rest. I get up early, do yoga, and listen to the radio, all elements in a cherished routine I’ve let go for too long. But now that dear friends and family are gone and quiet and calm have replaced the bustle, the outside world has come rushing back in.

It’s the radio, a habit and a passion. I don’t stream the news, I don’t podcast. I collect information the old-fashioned 20th century way, tuning in to favorite shows on a little transistor at set times each day, imagining that, all over France, others are doing the same. I like that idea of a community of “unlike-minded” individuals, doing the same thing at the same time, sharing a real-time experience while preserving our independence of mind.

My mother also loved the radio; she was a member of WVIA and a great fan of public radio. Her favorite shows were “Car Talk” and “Prairie Home Companion.” “Morning” and “Evening Editions,” along with The Republican Herald, were her main sources for the news.

In France, I listen to the equivalent of American public radio, two national public-service stations whose names say it all: France Culture and France Musique. Since I arrived in France thirty years ago (the first day of summer 2017 marked the anniversary), France Culture has been my constant companion, and to all those voices on the radio I owe much of what I know about France and the world. I can even say that radio has helped to bring about important and radical changes in my life.

Thanks to France Culture, soon after my arrival in France, I discovered the Austrian writer Thomas Bernhard. Though his name may not be a household word, at a difficult turning point in my life, this man’s novels helped me to move forward and change. I also travelled to Austria to visit the places he wrote about and to attend his plays at the Burgtheater in Vienna, all because of what I’d heard on the radio.

On France Musique, I discovered Betty Davis. Her “Anti Love Song” was released in 1973, but I have to admit I listened to it for the first time in 2016. What a voice! What a woman! Better late than never to discover one of the greatest voices of funk.

The radio also brings me the kind of in-depth reporting it’s difficult to find anywhere else. French radio still takes its time; one-hour programs are the rule, some extend to two or three. For me, the radio is a true school of life.

Sometimes, though, I can’t take it all in. The news is too painful, incomprehensible, so far beyond anything I have ever experienced that I want to shut it out. Just this morning I listened to a report on France Culture about the Syrian regime of Bashar el-Assad and how his government eliminates any trace of dissent.

The words I heard were raw: if a Syrian protests, he or she disappears from the face of the earth. Like the Nazis before them, the regime has documented the process: victims are tortured and killed, then they are numbered, a tattoo on their skin. No name, no identity. Finally, the corpses are photographed. One courageous insider released those photos to the world, but that is no guarantee justice will be done.

I listened to the broadcast a second time to prepare this article. The same harsh words, the same unimaginable reality as I sit comfortably at my desk. Garance Le Caisne, author of Opération César, a book documenting the Syrian project of mass execution that has already resulted in more than 100 thousand deaths, emphasized that as she spoke Syrians were continuing to be tortured to death.

That’s the radio. That’s having some time to myself: the juxtaposition of opposing realities as I, an onlooker living in comfort, come up against the constant specter of pain and death.

During the broadcast, I heard an interview with David Crane, founder of the Syria Accountability Project and co-author of the 2014 Syrian Detainee Report. He claims that “beyond a reasonable doubt,” the Syrian regime is committing crimes against humanity, calling the methods “medieval” in their cruelty.

The rack, the Catherine wheel, the iron maiden, repeat strangulation, poison gas, drowning or beating to death. Torture and cruelty traverse the ages with apparent ease.

I listen, keep my distance, do not participate.

During the recent visit of my niece Leah, we spent a lot of time immersed in beauty, natural beauty and the creations of artists from around the world, their works spanning thousands of years.

We hiked through the hills and valleys of le Perche, where farms and churches, hundreds of years old, blend with the landscape in an almost perfect marriage between Nature and humankind. In Paris, we visited two museums a day, taking in wonders until we were ready to drop.

As we walked in the country or toured the city, whenever I had a spare moment, I read a biography that had taken hold of me, Dorothy Day: The World Will Be Saved by Beauty, written by her granddaughter, writer Kate Hennessy.

Dorothy Day, founder of the Catholic Worker Movement, held up by Pope Francis as the very model of an American saint, devoted her life to the downtrodden and forgotten, working tirelessly to offer them better lives. She helped and sometimes saved those she could, but she placed her faith in God and beauty when it came to the salvation of the world.

Listening to the radio, confronting the horrors of torture and war, I’d like to believe Dorothy Day was right. Beauty can save the world. It transforms onlookers into participants and makes us more alive and aware. We all need beauty and we need to share it. Pottsville, Paris and le Perche have grown closer together this summer because I have shared beauty with family and friends.

The Opioid Epidemic seen from France

This year I celebrated the Fourth of July in Schuylkill County and Bastille Day, July 14th, in Condé-sur-Huisne, the French village where I have a country home. In early July, I made a quick trip to the States to attend the marriage of my niece Sarah Hahner of Pottsville to Darren De Arment, formerly of Pittsburgh, and then stayed on to celebrate the 4th with family and friends.

Stateside, my nephew put on a firework display in the backyard and we roasted hotdogs. Back in France, I missed the fireworks, but we roasted merguez, France’s spicy version of the American hotdog, eaten not in a soft bun but in a long piece of baguette.

While in Schuylkill County, I read The Republican Herald every day, the paper version that makes me feel close to my mother, a faithful reader all her life. In the July 4th edition, looking at the headlines, I had a shock: on the left side of the page I saw a big color photo celebrating Independence Day; on the right, the photo of a woman from Coaldale on trial in a heroin-overdose death.

That strange juxtaposition of fireworks and holiday fun alongside a story about a woman accused of a drug-related murder delivered a powerful message: “the land of the free and the home of the brave” is fighting for its independence once again, but this time it’s freedom from drugs.

I’d read about this war in France, but there’s nothing like being in a place to make events more real. From sea to shining sea, the opioid epidemic is attacking small towns and big cities, rural America and the rustbelt; drug-related incidents in Coaldale, Shenandoah or Pottsville echo nationwide. For Schuylkill County readers, it may even be old news.

When I was a junior at Pottsville Area High School, a new boy in town tried to sell me heroin. I said “no,” because I’ve always been a sensible person and the idea of anyone but our family doctor putting a needle in my arm gave me the creeps.

Back in those days, heroin was an urban drug. People used it in New York City, but in a town like Pottsville, in a hard-drinking county like Schuylkill, it didn’t have much of a chance—though the new boy did convince his Pottsville girlfriend to try.

At about the same time—as if I needed more convincing, I saw one of the first movies in which Al Pacino starred, the 1971 film “The Panic in Needle Park.” In it he plays a heroin addict and smalltime New York dealer who sends the woman he loves into the street as a hooker so they can both buy drugs. Leaving the theater, I was ready to hurry home and hide under my bed so frightened had I become of the ravages of heroin.

Later, living in New York City in the 1980’s, I got a firsthand view of the drug: discarded needles in the gutter, hookers leading johns into dark basements or doorways, ready to pull any willing male with a few dollars off the street if it meant they could have a fix. I also remember seeing drug delivery trucks pulling up to the curb and customers appearing out of nowhere. They’d make their purchase and then they and the truck would just as quickly disappear.

Once I even slipped my fingers into the coin slot of a payphone, rooting for my change, and pulled out a tiny bag of white powder that I quickly pushed back in place, hurrying away, trying to blend in with the crowd, hoping no dealer had identified me.

The 1980’s were a rough time in New York City, with the Big Apple undergoing a temporary decline. The first cases of Aids were appearing and adolescents, for a thrill, would stab pedestrians or commuters at bus stops with needles, inoculating them with the fear that they could have contracted the deadly disease.

I’m sure those harsh and sordid times played a role in my leaving New York City for France. But back in the 1980’s, heroin was a popular drug there too among musicians and artists who liked to believe they had things under control.

Until the current US opioid epidemic, which has now been going on a for a few years, I associated heroin with the city and the fringes of society. My last visit to the States brought home to me how much heroin and other opiates have penetrated “ordinary” American lives, middleclass men and women, their children, workers and the unemployed. Today, for those under 50, death by overdose is the number one cause of mortality.

To me this means that a lot of Americans are leading desperate lives. It also means that those with addictions can be found in any town or city, among neighbors or friends, among professionals or unskilled laborers; they can be anybody and everybody, just like with an epidemic of the flu.

Apparently heroin use is on the rise in France as well, though there is nothing comparable to the addiction to pain-killers so many Americans know. Those who work the hardest in heavy industry and incur the most painful injuries are among the victims. Losing their prescription for oxycodone, some turn to heroin.

During my recent trip to the United States, I read, observed and felt sad. Something is wrong in a country where, in 2015, according to the American Society of Addiction Medicine, 20.5 million Americans 12 or older had a substance-use disorder. In 2017, more than 70 thousand of them may die. This is an epidemic and its victims are not committing a crime. Nor can America become “great again” if the nation, collectively, does not find a cure.

In a highly centralized country like France, citizens, often grudgingly, count on their leaders to propose and find solutions when a problem plagues the nation. Healthcare and education, for example, are debated and taken care of at the highest levels of government.

In the United States, I tend to place my hopes in the grass roots. United, Americans pulled through two world wars and the Great Depression; the tragic pain of 9-11 was shared by everyone.

But drugs are associated with crime and drug-users are traditionally considered criminals. Today, independent of the causes of their addiction, they require understanding and care. That’s the impression I’ve brought back to France after my most recent trip to the USA.