December 5, 2022

T0day, April 26, I turn 91. Wow!

By John Guy LaPlante

So of course today will be the first day of my 92nd year on this planet. Amazing.

Know what? I never, never thought I would live this long.

Like lots of people over 65 or 70, now and then I’ve wondered how long I’ll be around.

So recently I researched it. I checked at the Social Security website — 3.7 more years for me. and 4.5 for ladies. But those are averages. Some will live longer, some shorter. 

Then I wondered, what are my odds of reaching 100? No idea.  I haven’t come up with that number yet. Actuaries know that. I don’t know any actuary.

I do believe I have a better chance to hit 100 by living here in peaceful and quiet and crime-low Morro Bay than in so many other places.

Anyway, here are a few reasons why I do think I might live to become a centenarian.

I’ve never smoked, well, since the age of 17.

I’ve never drank — oh, at Sunday dinner maybe, or on a special occasion, but just a small glass of Manischewitz.

And very important, I’ve always, or nearly always had work of the kind that I enjoy. Writing. Which is what I am doing right now. Although I no longer get paid for writing. Shucks.

As we know, so many people work at something so humdrum that they just can’t  wait to call it quits and start collecting Social Security. 

So do I hope to hit 100? Not if I have to end my days suffering through some awful, monstrous, hopeless whatever.

Or in pain. Or being kept breathing through a machine. Or being a burden. Or with no loved one by my bed to hold my hand.

No problem there. I have three kids, and they are great, as are their spouses.

Of course, there is more doubt about all this now than there would have been a few months ago. The fearful Covid-19  pandemic!

I’m a perfect candidate for that, by the way. I’m very old as you know. And I was recently hospitalized for double pneumonia. From what I’ve read, that’s a very ominous possibility.

At times now and then, like you I’m sure, I’ve wondered what life is all about.

Is it an adventure? A highway we are plunked down on for better or worse and can’t get off of until we run out of gas, so to speak?

Is it a religious prelude to heaven or hell? 

Or a good opportunity to use whatever talents we have been handed to make a better life for ourselves?

Or just a mystery, a very tough one, to try to fathom?

Or a bit of this and that? Please, what do you think?

And the big, big question now, is life over when it’s over? Or is there another life for us?  People with their smarts working have been pondering that question for eons. I believe it’s over. But I may be wrong.

Anyway, one thing I’m sure of is I’ve been most fortunate.  And in many ways.

I was born male. I never questioned that. I was fine being male. In recent years I’ve been astonished to find out many males are unhappy about that. So unhappy they will go to great lengths do change that.

I was born to a wonderful father and mother. They nurtured me in many ways. Loved me and showed that to me time and again.

I was born white, which many consider a big plus in our mixed society. 

And was born American, which I’m sure you won’t disagree is more desirable than being born Nigerian or North Korean or Haitian or Costa Rican or citizen of so many other countries. 

And I was born with an IQ a wee bit higher than 100, so I’ve been told . That’s a pretty good plus. 

And have been blessed with better than average health over these many years.  

And so lucky to have been privileged to get a good education. And of course that opened the door to numerous opportunities. And certainly saved me from ever having to stoop to cheating or trying something criminal to make a living.

Also, so fortunate to have become a vegetarian. Increasingly that’s considered a more healthful way of life. Yes, definitely, though I did that also because I liked the idea of not having to kill animals to fill my stomach.

And I’ve always had a lot of friends. I feel good about that.

Now another big question. A great big one. Have I thought of how I’d like to die?

Have you? Well, it may be you’re not old enough yet to have a question like that come to mind.

I have indeed given that some thought.

For sure before my health fails to the point that things really start to become hard and difficult. My sixth sense tells me that may not be that far off. 

But definitely not the way my good friend Cam died ten days ago. No, no.

We met as freshmen at age 13 and were friends all through prep school and college. Early on, we found out we were born on the very same day, April 26, 1929! That became a special bond that kept us close these many, many years.

I became a journalist plus other things. He a Catholic priest. He loved being a priest and for the very best of reasons and he became a fine one.

Cam–never did I ever call him Father Cam–retired only some 15 years ago, long after he could have. And did so quite reluctantly.

We always kept in touch. It was important to us. Rarely did we miss on April 26.

Well, eighteen months ago Cam began slipping. A kind and gentle man, he began turning people off, fellow priests and longtime friends and even his own loving sister. Alzheimer’s! And it got worse. Hard to believe, but he had to be institutionalized. And then quickly he died. 

May I be spared an awful ending like that.

His death was a huge emotional jolt to me. I’ve thought about it time and again.

On a couple of mornings I thought of him the minute I opened my eyes .

As for me, I’ve written my will and done everything else that goes along with that.

So, getting back to that big question, how would I like to die?

Well, while still reasonably healthy. Before the pain and the misery kick in. I’d like to go to bed here in my home one night and close my eyes … and simply die. 

That would be nice and easy for me, and for my family and friends also.

But not, not quite yet. 

So, friends, how does that sound to you?

And right now, what?

Well, it’s a beautiful day. 

As usual this afternoon I’m going to hop on my tricycle and pedal it and pedal it.  For the exercise and fresh air and the fun of it. I do that on every fair day.

Often I’ll stop at Albertsons Supermarket for groceries. I have a big basket on the back of my trike, which is great for that.

Of course I put on my face mask for that and am careful about social distancing. Which I do whenever necessary.

Then I’ll pedal to McDonald’s for my daily cup of coffee. McDonald’s is take-out only now, of course. I used to like to read the paper in there. No more.

And today, my birthday, I’m sure I’ll be able to squeeze that in. But I’ll skip Albertsons. I will pedal longer to celebrate the fact I can still do that.

If things were normal, there would be a party, and there would be a birthday cake with a lot of candles on it, maybe even 91. Some jokester might do that. And I’d be expected, even cheered on, to blow them all out. No way!

Oops, not to worry. There’s not going to be a birthday cake. There’s not going to be a cake. No candles. And no party, either.

Social distancing!

 But I’ve been getting birthday cards and phone calls and emails. And that’s been wonderful.

And in 365 days, the gods willing, let’s hope Covid-19 will be over. And then on my birthday, I’d love  a little party and a cake with candles on it. Yes, sir.

Maybe 8 or 10. But please, please, not 92!

To the Friends of John Guy LaPlante


This is his daughter, Monique Nelson. I am sure some of you are concerned. It’s been a while since you’ve heard from him – John is ill. After 12 days at French Hospital in San Luis Obispo, he’s now at a rehab center. Here’s what happened.

John is 90 years old and lives alone in his mobile home. He never, never thought he’d live in a mobile home. Today he feels it’s the best home possible for him at this time in his life. It’s all on one floor and, wonder of wonders, most of his mobile home has light coming in on three sides which makes it bright and cheerful. It’s in a very fine community of 55 such homes, and there’s a lot of friendship.

Now here’s what went wrong.

He was changing his clothes when he slid off the bed and landed on the floor. He couldn’t get up. His Great Call button didn’t work. It took him a long time to reach his cell phone and even longer for help to arrive. He waited on his back for a few hours before my husband, David, and I got his message and rushed over there. The paramedics showed up a few minutes after us. John was shaken up but, luckily, not seriously hurt. He came home with us for the night, but felt able to go home the next day.

The same thing happened again the next day! He slid off his bed and couldn’t get up from a sitting position on the floor. At least this time, Great Call worked. They called David who went right over and, with the help of a neighbor, raised him to his feet. Again not seriously hurt, but some big bruises on his arm and knees.

John insisted on staying at home, so we made some changes to his bedroom to make it safer and prevent any more accidents. We also went back to check on him that night. Things went smoothly and we all thought the problem was solved.

…Until the third time he fell, the following day. I found him this time, again on his back in his room. I called David who came right over and helped right John. This time we insisted on bringing him to the Morro Bay Fire Department to be checked out by the paramedics.

The paramedics felt it urgent that John go to the Emergency Room. David took him. The paramedics wanted to take him the 20 miles by ambulance, but John felt David would get him there faster. It turned out he had pneumonia and related problems. John spent the next 12 days in the hospital. He’s now at a very nice rehab center continuing to recover from the pneumonia and regaining his strength.

What’s interesting is that a few of you go back to his young manhood days. Some of you live in many different parts of the United States. Some of you in other countries. You are all important to him.

He looks forward to being in contact with you as usual.

You may know about August, 1619. You may not.

By John Guy LaPlante

I did not.

We all know about October 12, 1492, don’t we….  About July 4, 1776. On and on. More recently, December 7, 1941. And who can ever forget 9 / 11 in New York City?

But 1619? Well, in August the ship White Lion arrived from far-off Africa and made landfall in Virginia, one of our colonial territories at that time.

And the White Lion left off some 20 captive black men and women. Did that in exchange for supplies and goodies to take back to Africa.

That day in1619 can be considered the real birthday of America.

Why? Because that modest financial but historically significant sale of some 20 black people ignited social changes. These great changes magnified and intensified for some 250 years, marking our very way of life as Americans.

It led to the Civil War which nearly split our country into independent, self-governing halves. The changes continued, affecting us in many ways, some bad.

Our black people have been afflicted severely. Here is just one example. It has been calculated that presently the average white family now has a net worth of $171,000. But the average black family has a net worth of a mere $17,600. Shocking, don’t you think?

And we’re so familiar with so many other differentials. Lower levels of education for blacks. Low ceilings for opportunity. More unemployment. Higher rates of broken homes and out-of-wedlock pregnancies. Inferior housing.

The list continues. Higher crime rates and far more imprisonments. More people on food stamps. More on welfare. More homelessness. Poorer medical care. Shorter life spans. And so forth.

Yes, there is progress. But it has been s-l-o-w.

No wonder that the institutionalizing of slavery four centuries ago has been called “our original sin.” And how.

Yet interestingly, way back at that time there did exist a system that was more rational and more decent for poor newcomers to our shores.  Men, not women. White men, not blacks.  It was the system of indentured servitude. Here’s how it worked.

Hoping for a better life in America but too poor to buy a ticket across, they would sign a contract.

They would work for 4 to 7 years here for basically just room and board and clothing and that would pay for their long journey across the Atlantic and getting set up.

They did so in the hope that finally they could then get started on their own. And depending on their talent, their energy, and plain good luck they could also prosper in this new land.

But this is not what happened to those first black men and women in Virginia. No, no, no.

They were sold. Whoever bought them was a white man. Would always be a white man.

They would live wherever he put them. Would do whatever work he demanded. Would do that from morning till night, day in and day out if he so desired. Would eat whatever he fed them and wear whatever he gave them.

Not for just 4 to 7 years. For their whole life. Until they died.

They were chattel property, to be valued by their owner just like his horse or mule or tools and implements or anything else he owned.

He could mortgage his slaves. He could flog them for any reason. Brand them. He could sell them off to another white man. He could kill them if he judged them impossibly lazy or hopelessly ill. Or to punish them and intimidate other slaves. Lynchings became the final solution for behaviors considered offensive.

He could get sexual with them. He could rape them. No problem.

Well, know what? Studies have shown that the average black person today is 17% “European” / meaning 17% white. That’s how blacks got their “whiteness.”

If two of his slaves became “man and wife,” he could say okay if that profited him.

But if he felt it would work out better for him, he could sell the black man off, and the black woman also, both to the same slave owner or separately to different owners. He could do that arbitrarily, with zero discussion. Back talk was not tolerated.

And think of this. When a slave child was born, the child did not belong to its father and mother. Yes, they would raise the child but from birth the child became the property of the slave owner. It was a built-in guarantee of prosperity. The more babies, the richer the owner!

And consider this. Slaves were prohibited from learning to read or write. No way would they be allowed to become uppity.

Sure, some owners were nicer than others. But even with the nicest, a slave was a slave. Period.

One result of all this is that the words “slave” and “black” became synonymous. Automatically blacks were considered slaves.

Slaves became all-important to the development and prosperity of the South. They labored primarily in agriculture, notably in Georgia (cotton) and Mississippi (sugar).

Slavery was the granite foundation of the culture and the economy.

Slavery was considered such a good idea that it spread throughout the colonies. In New England and the Mid-Atlantic colonies, where agriculture was of minor importance, they were locked into working in the low-pay and long-hours jobs of the various industries that were rapidly developing.

Thanks to slavery, some of the wealthiest men in the colonies were men in the Northeast.

Think of this. Back in1860, slaves were estimated to be worth 3.5 billion dollars in the dollars of that time. That was more than the total dollar value of manufacturing and railroading combined, the two biggest industries up there..

Yes, our great and brilliant Founder Thomas Jefferson wrote “all men are created equal.” But he meant white men. But equal in what ways? How?

I don’t see much equality among us. You may say, well, equal in the right to vote. For white men but that’s been iffy since the start. It took many decades for women to get suffrage.

Jefferson owned slaves. They built his mansion, made his plantation the very successful business it was. But he was typical of slave owners. He cavorted with at least one of his slaves, and fathered at least one child with her.

It is commonly believed that years later President Abraham Lincoln started the Civil War to free the slaves. Wrong! He did it to keep the South from seceding.

He thought that slavery was an abomination, a necessary evil that had to be put up with.

In fact, just a few years earlier, he had seriously proposed as the perfect solution that slaves be sent back where they had come from. That was totally impractical, of course.

By the way, there were some 4.5 million people in the United States and 3.9 million were slaves. Sounds incredible, doesn’t it?

Finally Lincoln decided that slavery was just too evil to keep on the books. He drafted his great Emancipation Proclamation and got it passed, freeing the slaves and ending slavery officially.

And that is how he became the president that we honor today as one of our very greatest.

But true emancipation, meaning treating the blacks as equal to the whites, has still not been realized, with a long way yet to go.

So why am I writing about this? It was not on my blogs-to-do list. Blame the New York Times.

At the public library, I was reading the Sunday Times of August 18th. It included a 100-page magazine entitled “The 1619 Project.”

I dipped into it, began jumping around in it, and thought, “Wow, this is interesting!”

I was allowed to check it out and take it home, have found it full of fascinating revelations. And here I am blogging about it.

It is chock-full with more than a score of articles and essays and photos on every phase of this convoluted subject.

The Times has said it considers The 1619 Project so important that it is going to be publishing more about it during this anniversary year.

It is the impressive work of what seems to a hundred historians, scholars, journalists, and photographers, all of them black, I believe.

And it’s another tangible example of what I believe makes the New York Times our finest American newspaper and surely one of the world’s most important.

If my humble efforts today have interested you, I urge you to look up “The 1619 Project.”

But I must tell you about a follow-up by The Wall Street Journal. I stumbled on it in the Journal’s “Review” section of September 21-22.

Obviously it was inspired by the Times’ special report. Smart move by the Journal!

What interested me especially were two fine, major articles on two aspects not yet covered by the Times. Along with powerful photos and illustrations.

The first is headed, “The Long History of American Reparations.”

It’s the growing belief that today’s blacks should be compensated for the suffering inflicted on their ancestors which sadly has devolved on them. Very controversial. Many strongly argued angles.

The second covers a subject totally new to me. Incredible. Shockingly so.

It’s entitled, “When the Slave Traders Were Africans.” Meaning blacks enslaving blacks and getting them shipped off to America for sale to whites. Would you believe?!

But among some African tribes, that was considered smart and legit.

You can also look that up along with “The 1619 Project” at your library.

Despite these slow but steadily compounding gains over the years, there is reason to rejoice and be hopeful.

More and more blacks are rising to positions of eminence and success in every segment of our life and culture, across the very width and breadth of them, right up to the Obama White House.

Symbolic of this progress has been the opening at the Smithsonian in Washington of our National Museum of African American History, an outstanding museum, from everything I’ve read.

It was built under the direction of Lonnie G. Bunch III, its founding director, a black man, of course, an eminent scholar in his own right. In fact, he is now the director of all the Smithsonian museums.

And what an important matter of pride and encouragement is this progress to the younger blacks moving up. Indeed, to all blacks. The road up is getting easier.

Now a personal note.

It’s surprising how little direct exposure I have had to blacks over the years. I mean person to person.

How come? I’ve given this a lot of thought.

I have traveled to all 50 states. I have been to many of them many times. But consider where I have lived in our country for chunks of years. Rhode Island. Massachusetts. Connecticut.  Newport Beach, California. Now here in Morro Bay on the Central Coast of California.

And in all those places, in sections with a very light population of blacks.

Here in Morro Bay, a city of more than 10,000, I am not aware of a single black person. Mind you, there is no sign, real or suggested, that says, “Stay out!”

True of those other locales where I lived.

I am confident that any black or black family moving in here would be accepted. The big barrier, I believe, is the cost of housing. Personal prosperity is the solution to that. Blacks are doing better. Blacks will move in. Blacks will do okay here.

On the other hand I have gotten to know blacks in my travels abroad. Got to be friends with them. In Cairo, Egypt, and Nairobi, Africa, and Durban and Johannesburg in South Africa (the land of “apartheid”), and in Rio de Janeiro in Brazil.  And one outstanding experience in my Peace Corps service in Ukraine. Wonderful experiences for me.

I would gladly welcome the same opportunity here. Or anywhere. It’s part of being a real American.

~  ~ ~ ~ ~

Off we go on a house swqp to France / Second half

By John Guy LaPlante

NOTE: Annabelle and I did this house swap nearly 15 years ago. I published this account back then. I recently decided to publish it again because I learned house swapping is more popular than ever. Not only to France. To many countries. I thought it might get some of you interested in a swap.

It was a great idea back then. A true win, win. It’s a great idea now.

I published the first half a month ago. I’m late in sending you this second swap because as we know, life has an irritating way of screwing up our best laid plans. Sorry about that.

Please remember that all prices mentioned are the prices in effect back then.

If this interests you, just Google or Bing “house swapping” or “home exchanges” in whatever country you have in mind and you’ll be off and running.

Poitiers , France —  Already Annabelle and I have been on our own for a week now and our house swap is working out fine.

Dr. and Madame Diaz – Paco and Mimi – whose large house is far bigger than we need – are now n my town house in Deep River, Conn., and happy. He’s a psychiatrist and she a professor of education. But he did send a frantic email back yesterday.  “Your place is an icebox!  How do we turn on the heat?”

Well, who expected such a cold spell in May? But really I should have explained how our thermostat works  It just wasn’t on my long check list.

Poitiers is a very old and famous university city. It’s a great pleasure to be here, so much history, so much culture, s0 French.

We’re getting used to their big VW van on the narrow streets and can now find our way downtown and back.  At the giant Leclerc’s – the French version of a Super Walmart – we know exactly where to head to get to the wines and cheeses, and then to the detergents and paper towels.

Downtown we know which streets are pedestrian streets – no vehicles allowed… just walkers. Wonderful.

We go downtown for two hours nearly every day, and always between 12 and 2. That’s because parking is free in those two hours, the lunch break. And we are lucky – we always manage to find a handicap parking spot.  What a blessing.  Annabelle qualifies because of recent surgery and, to our astonishment, her U.S. handicap windshield placard is accepted here.

Downtown Poitiers is a delight. It teems with pedestrians, which in our old-fashioned view is what a downtown is supposed to be like. A lot of people walking around make a downtown so much more interesting. And the downtown is dotted with truly ancient buildings.

The city’s great pride, the famous church Notre Dame La Grande, dates back to the 10th century. The cathedral and several other buildings go back nearly as long. It is common for buildings to be 300 and 200 years old and still be in daily use.

At the same time, right next to one of these antiquities could be a swanky, ultra-modern shopping galleria with gleaming escalators and sparkling shop windows.  Quaint boutiques and little shops line up shoulder to shoulder on the cobbled streets.  There is a regular outdoor farmers’ market, and there are street musicians playing for tips…and hopeful beggars, too.

On these sorties Annabelle and I split up for an hour or so.  She checks out these shops and I head for the Mediatheque. It is a striking contemporary building, which means it boasts plain lines and huge panes of glass. It used to be called the Bibliotheque, the Library.

But now it is called the Mediatheque to acknowledge its rich offerings of books but its many public computers and collections of CDs and DVDs. The French are really with it!

I like to scan the International Herald Tribune and Le Monde and La Croix, two of France’s big dailies.  Oh, I know I could read these in Paco’s study on the Internet but I like going to the library to read the real papers..  Excuse me, the Mediatheque. Not because there’s a shortage of books here in the house. I estimate Paco and Mimi have at least 5,000 books and 1,000 CDs and DVDs. I like to read the real printed papers.

I was in the Periodicals Room yesterday and I remembered Charles DeGaulle’s famous quote when he was having a big headache at the Elysees Palace one day. “How can anyone govern a country whose people make 350 kinds of cheeses,” he complained.  Well, the French seem to have that many periodicals also.  And that many varieties of wine. And bread.  Astounding!

This reminds me of prices here.  In my last article I complained about high prices.  It is still my impression that most things here are more expensive than back home.  Far more. But many cheeses and breads are much cheaper.  We bought a nice Camembert for 2 dollars, and good wines are available for 2 or 3 dollars per liter bottle.  (Sorry, I cannot find the dollar sign on this French keyboard.) And some for astoundingly more, of course.  In fact, I spotted a white wine for less than one dollar.  I could not resist buying it. I had to see whether it was drinkable.  It was.  I would buy it again.

Annabelle and I have discussed prices here a lot.  Who wouldn’t?  They look high for a good reason.  Let me explain.  Back home I will buy a meal in a restaurant for 15 dollars, let’s say. Then the waiter will tack on the 6.5 percent tax.  Then I will tack on the 15 percent tip.  But I will still go home thinking of it as a 15 dollar meal. Isn’t this your thinking, too?

Here the same dinner will cost much more…25 Euros, for example. That would be about 31 dollars. But when the tab is handed to me, it will have a tax of 19.6 percent buried in it…not as a separate item! And I will not add on a tip because here the service charge is also buried in the tab.  But I go home thinking of it as a 31 dollar meal.  Not a fair comparison. I felt I should explain this.

There is a reason for that huge 19.6 percent tax, by the way.  This is more of a paternalistic country than the U.S.A. is, with more generous social programs.  This week I talked about it with Dominique, a social worker.  He happened to mention he has 52 days of vacation a year.

I thought I heard wrong. 52 days…that seems incredible!

“No, that is what I receive,” he repeated.

That becomes very costly for the government.  And that is a major reason why many French goods are pricing themselves out of international markets.  They are too expensive for many people in many other countries to afford.  And a big reason why there is such a shocking rate of unemployment here, about 11 percent.

Still talking about high prices, I must say our strategy is hard to beat for cost-conscious Americans coming here.  It is to swap houses.  And cars. And computers.  The whole schlemiel.  No way could a wonderful vacation like ours become cheaper or easier.  The same is true for Paco and Mimi in Deep River, of course.

Sure, there is risk involved.  You could deal with a bad party and find your home a shambles when you get back.  That can be minimized with proper investigation beforehand. Yes, they might burn a favorite pot of yours on the stove, or run up a lot more miles on your car than you expect, but if you are going to worry about things like that, you might ask for a security deposit. Not a bad idea. Neither of us did that. As it turned out, it did not become a  problem.

A house and auto swap like ours cancels the biggest expense of a trip abroad.  So even high prices like those here have only a minimal impact.  Definitely recommended!

The big question all through France right now is the referendum which will be held at the end of the month on the proposed European Constitution. Twenty five nations in the European Union are all pondering whether to accept or reject the constitution, but France is one of the few putting it to the people as a referendum.

Here it is called the Oui ou Non Question, meaning the Yes or No Question. Yes if you are for it, no if you are against.   It is dominating everything — the media, public life everywhere, private conversations.

It is a complex matter, with much at stake. It seems to boil down this way. Vote Yes if you believe in an integrated Europe…one that may someday become a United States of Europe…even at the cost of some big sacrifices by France.  Vote No if you resent having to help support some of the poorer countries and fear giving them a vote equal to that of your own illustrious and powerful country.

It is a big question worldwide. The highest powers in our country are waiting in suspense and our markets…our stock markets plus many other kinds…are stalling as they await the outcome.

Annabelle and I hosted a small dinner two nights ago. Five guests. I was dumb and brought up the Oui or Non matter.  Renee, an elderly high school teacher, quickly pronounced herself a Oui.  Michel, the retired director of a museum here, let out a loud Non.  Within two minutes they were glaring at each other!

Right away I asked whether Annabelle had overdone the sour cream in her wonderful Boeuf Bourguignon, which she had not. I was so relieved when Renee and Michel both caught on. “Perfect!” they exclaimed.  I will not make that mistake again.

Our big outing this week was a drive to a hamlet called Chizelle.  It was a two-hour drive from here, just outside the city of Surgeres, which is on the way to the big city of New Rochelle on the Atlantic coast.  Actually we were going to La Rochelle.  That is where my paternal ancestor sailed from in 1665 to go to New France, which is now Quebec.

Why Chizelle? My son Mark spent six weeks there one summer in high school some 20 years ago.  He came over on a student exchange. He lived with a family named Gorioux.  They operated a large hog operation, raising hundreds of hogs for market.  The Goriouxs had six kids of their own, and Mark fell right in.

He worked with the others at chores and had plenty of fun on the side…picnics and bike hikes and visiting around.  A wonderful summer and a terrific learning experience.  He came home thinking the world of the Goriouxs.

Annabelle and I decided to stop by, without announcement.  We found the tiny village and the beautiful manor house and I knocked on the door.  A lady answered.  I mentioned my name, Monsieur LaPlante, and started explaining….

“Mark!” she said.  She remembered!  She was Madame Gorioux. She mentioned how Mark had left a farewell note on his  pillow the morning he departed to come home.

She welcomed us in.  We thought we’d be there for 10 or 15 minutes. Hello, how are you, au revoir!  When she heard we were on our way to New Rochelle, she insisted on putting us in their big Peugeot and taking us on a guided tour.  She even took us into the Museum of Discoveries, which we had planned to visit.  Wonderful afternoon.  When we got back to her home, Monsieur Gorioux was there.  Retired now, but still busy.  A friendly man with rosy cheeks and lots of good questions to ask about our country and people.

Well, they invited us back, and we returned on Thursday.  It was a holiday, and some of their kids, now adults of course, could come over and meet us, and with their little children.  Fine dinner.

Then I asked if we could visit the hog operation.  Christophe has taken it over from his Papa.  Christophe was Mark’s special pal way back then.  He took us to see it.

“It will stink!” he warned us.  Still I insisted.  Yes, it did stink, but everything was as clean and well-organized as could be.  A huge operation, with more than a thousand hogs, all in indoor pens. Christophe buys them when they are piglets only days old and keeps them for 180 days, when they are fat enough to head for their destiny.  New piglets arrive every week, and big hogs get shipped off.

They are fed a diet of blended cereals and other nutrients that pile the pounds on fast.  Excuse me, the kilos. It is all high tech and far more complicated and challenging than you would think.

Christophe, like Mark, headed off for university when he came of age.  “But I always knew this is what I would do someday,” he told me.

“It’s a tough business but a good life.  We live out here in the countryside.  It’s peaceful, quiet. Good for our children.  We will never be rich but we are comfortable. I am my own boss. It makes me feel good to do this work well. And I am helping to feed the French!”

Their farm has hundreds of acres of tilled fields. Right now the spread is devoted to peas, for livestock, not the people kind.  Christophe said he sows the fields in a four-year cycle…peas, then wheat, then corn, then colza.  I may not have the sequence right.  But the rotation is a science-based calculation, designed to raise the biggest and best crop year after year while always maximizing the fertility of the land. The fields are a thing of beauty,

In my first report I talked about the beautiful brilliant fields of colza around here, stretching to the horizon in some places. It is used; as I said, to make a delicious and cholesterol-friendly table oil.  I explained that in English colwa is rapeseed…something I was not familiar with.  Well, Len Poulin, one of my readers, very agriculture savvy, just sent me an email.

“We have colza oil here at home..  We call it Canola.  It seems the marketing people here thought that something called rapeseed would never be popular.  They came up with Canola. The Can part stands for Canada, where it’s grown a lot,  and the ola part for oil.”

I have enjoyed colza so much here that I was planning to take home a big bottle.  No need now.  Thank you, Len.

Got to tell you that France is beautiful and impressive in so many ways.  And with their big VW we did have a chance to explore the southwestern corner of the country we were in.  We drove to Paris one day, spent the next day touring what is one of the most beautiful cities in the world, came back the third. We took other tours, for instance down to Bordeaux, famous for its vineyards. And we enjoyed other wonderful meanderings.

Paco and Mimi did the same thing with my Buick. They drove all the way to Niagara Falls. Another time, down to New York City. And of course, here and there in Connecticut.

Yes, Annabelle and I went into this as an economical and wonderful win, win. And that’s what it turned out to be. What a great pleasure it is to think back on it!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Curious about our new Medicare card? I am. Very much.

By John Guy LaPlante

To start off, I am blogging about it today for a special reason. I’ll get to that in a minute. Patience, please. First it’s important to review some basic facts about Medicare.
Medicare, as you know, has become a birthright for any American turning 65.
Medicare is so important, so essential at least for us older folks, that any change in it is must reading. Like right now.
Close to 6o million of us are receiving a new card. Why?
Until now we have used our social security number. No more. The new cards give each of us a unique new number. It’s all about assuring better privacy and security, we’re told.
I’ve already gotten mine. Most of you reading this are older folks. If you haven’t gotten yours yet, it’s coming.

Do you know the idea of a national social insurance program goes back more than a hundred years?
Back in 1912 President Teddy Roosevelt pushed to get one enacted. For all Americans, not just older ones. It didn’t happen.
More than 20 years went by. In 1945 President Harry S Truman tried hard to get it passed, again for all Americans. He failed.
President John F. Kennedy tried. Failed.
President Lyndon B. Johnson got it finally enacted back in 1965 as a core part of his Great Society roll-out. But just for Americans 65 and older. That’s the best he could manage.

But finally, finally we had a national social security program! What a godsend to people facing retirement and old age!
President Johnson signed it into law in Independence, Missouri, the home town of President Truman. And he presented the first card to President Truman. Very fitting.
It’s important to mention other countries already had such a program, even more ambitious. And numerous countries do today, again some providing far wider coverage.
Ours has been tweaked many times. For some time now it has been made available to people under 65 who have dire health problems. That helps many.
It’s amazing the list of new changes and features that have been introduced. Obamacare is a dramatic one we’re all familiar with, and is severely threatened right now, as we know.

Finally, friends, here’s my special reason for blogging about it today. It’s the remarkable new language translation service being offered to those of us whose English isn’t up to par.
There are many of us in that fix. We can be assisted in 13 other languages by government translators. And the service is free. I was so struck by this offer that I read it twice. Fantastic, I thought. Wonderful!
Medicare is run by our US Department of Health and Human Services.
Here are the precise words of its offer to us:
“If you, or someone you are helping, has questions about Medicare, you have the right to get help and information in your language at no cost. To talk to an interpreter, call 1 800 MEDICARE (1 – 800 – 633 – 42227).”
Then it went on to say that very same thing in each of those 13 languages.
They are listed alphabetically. Here they are:
Armenian, Chinese – Traditional, French, German, Haitian Creole, Italian, Japanese, Korean, Polish, Portuguese, Russian, Tagalog, and Vietnamese.

Tagalog — that’s one I’m not familiar with. Turns out it’s the language of the Philippines.

So why do I consider this offer fantastic?
First, again we are told it’s our right. I didn’t know that. Did you? I don’t think that’s covered in our Constitution. But I do like the idea.
And second, without saying so explicitly, the agency is telling us that we have enough people entitled to a Medicare card who speak those languages that it’s smart to provide it.
And of course the reason they’re entitled is they came to our shores from a country using one of those languages, or their ancestors did. I applaud that. Imagine the headache of many without this help.
Yet I would find it more interesting to see those languages also listed by their popularity – how many of our people use each of those 13.
Which would be number one? Which number two? Which number three? Well, I’m guessing. But my hunches are so wild I’m not telling. What do you think?
And surely there are many folks using languages beyond those 13. I’d enjoy seeing those, too. How fascinating it would be to see how incredibly and amazingly diverse we are.
And what a wake-up reminder that would be — that each and every one of us, with the sole exception of Native Americans, is an immigrant, or a descendant of immigrants. In this, I truly believe no other country in the world can match us.
And think of the $$$ it’s costing to provide this new service — the many expert translators and whatever else is involved.

And suddenly strangely – well, not so strangely — I thought of the Statue of Liberty. You know, that big, famous, impressive, iconic statue on the tiny Island at the entrance to New York Harbor. A gift of the people of France to us.
The statue everybody on any ship coming in can get to see. Which some air passengers also can if they’re lucky enough to be sitting on the right side of the plane.
But what all those people don’t see are the famous words being proclaimed by the Lady as she holds up the torch of Hope, Freedom, and Liberty as high as she can.
The words are preserved on a small engraving on its base. Unfortunately only tourists who visit the statue get to see them. Many visit the statue as a sort of pilgrimage.  I’ve never made it there.
The words are part of a poem penned by Emma Lazarus at that time.

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

Fancy language. We’re not used to reading words like that any more. But its meaning is clear. It describes the people being welcomed back then. As we know, many, many seeking to get in today fit that definition.

Well, immigrant ship after immigrant ship over many years has passed right by the statue before unloading the newcomers at Ellis Island — which was the “golden door” for so many thousands of them.
But most of them have arrived through other points all around the country, and still are. On the north and the east and the south and the west. Many by air. Many by train, bus, car. Many by walking in. Many sneaking in, as we know. And more are coming, or trying, every day. At grave risk, even death.
So they never get to see the Statue of Liberty. Many have never even heard of it. Still they come driven by a dream of Freedom, Liberty, and Prosperity. In simple words, for a better life for themselves and their children. Cost what it will.

So no wonder I thought of the Trump White House. How could I not?! How our wild and compulsively tweeting windbag president is campaigning loud and relentlessly to slam shut the golden door. Haranguing to lock out so many that he deems unfit. Even by putting up walls. Even by kicking those who succeed back out.
Well, he grew up in New York City. Of course he is familiar with the Statue of Liberty. For sure he has visited it. I doubt he is familiar with that poem. But certainly he knows what the statue symbolizes.
Now he is feverishly pounding away to blot out, rub out that core belief — the one that has made our country the biggest and most mighty and important and admired democracy in the whole world. No wonder so many want in.

And what exactly has made ours the most mighty and important and admired democracy in the world? It’s by inviting people of diverse races and languages and cultures and religions to take shelter here. And settle here. And pitch in any way they can. And prosper here.
That isn’t malarkey. It’s a fact proclaimed by historian after historian.
How many other countries have offered such a dynamic and successful come-on-in invitation?
Darn few.

Why do you ignore this, Mr. Trump?
You yourself are a descendant of immigrants! Your grandfather was born in Germany! Your Mom was born in Scotland! Your first wife was an immigrant! Your second wife was from immigrants! Your third wife is an immigrant!
Come on! What you’re preaching is un-American!

Excuse me, friends, for getting so excited. Couldn’t help myself.

Please do give all this some thought the next time you use your new Medicare card.
And do think of Presidents Theodore Roosevelt and Harry S Truman and Lyndon B. Johnson and Barack Obama. They labored and fought hard to give us the national medical health program that is now our right. And our godsend, as limited as it is.

Roosevelt was a Republican, but a Progressive Republican. The three others were straight-out Democrats, of course. Trump is a Republican, but embarrassingly so to many in that party.

Yet, God Bless America!

* * * *

As always, I welcome your comments. Feel free to forward this to anyone who might be interested.



Oh, for a Fourth like those of yesteryear!

By John Guy Laplante

With 3 photos.

How I remember those terrific Fourths when I was a boy.

They were intended to celebrate our independence from tyrannical England. But in practice, for most people it was just an excuse to have a lot of fun. We called it the Fourth. Just the Fourth.

I’m talking of when I was 8, 10, 12 years old. Pre-World War II. Before 1941 when Congress made it a federal holiday,

My remarkable Aunt Bernie when she was 30. Amazing woman.

meaning a day off for federal employees. What fantastic news that was for them.

Oh, maybe as part of the Fourth the mayor gave a speech in front of City Hall. Maybe there was a parade on Main Street downtown.  I never saw and never heard of that.

I’m recalling what I saw and took an excited part in. That was the Fourth in our Pleasant View neighborhood in the little city of Pawtucket, I was born there and grew up there. Nothing  particularly pleasant about the view

But it turned out that Pawtucket was truly famous in our national history. It’s there where young Englishman Samuel Slater arrived with the idea of building a textile factory on our Blackstone River.

He had worked in such a factory back home. Much bigger. Got the idea of going to America. The English were the leaders in making textiles. Young Slater memorized every part of the machines that he worked on. Found financial support here. Perfectly re-created that machinery. Trained workers. Designed, built, and opened a small mill cleverly powered by the Blackstone. And made history. The first in the U.S.  A big deal. He’s known as The Father of the Industrial Revolution.

I heard of that only years later. His mill on the Blackstone is a must-see museum today.

Back to the Fourth. I’m talking of a time before one state after another outlawed as too dangerous a lot of the firecrackers and such that we took for granted and shot off so enthusiastically and prolifically.

Sure, hands-on fireworks for backyard fun are still sold. Celebrators of my day would have scoffed at them.

Nowadays we mark the Fourth differently. All across the U.S. we take in a community-sponsored 30 or 60-minute evening public show. An exciting spectacle costing thousands of dollars and produced and shot off by professionals whose business that is.

It’s done by cities all over, big and small, free for one and all, wonderfully impressive, vastly popular, and expected and accepted. It is a salute to our Independence, it is said. Well, to some. Then it’s over for another year.

What’s good now is that hospital emergency rooms are no longer filled with people who have blown off a finger. Or worse. And firefighters no longer have to rush off to put out blazes caused by mindless jerks.

I’m talking about the kind of Fourth of July that i saw Fourth after Fourth as a kid. And which my Aunt Bernadette, like

others, made possible and in fact fanned the flames of. She ran a fireworks stand year after year in our neighborhood. In complete innocence. Never with a second thought. To make money

Bernie’s variety store. Very popular with our neighbors. That’s my Grandma subbing for her. Usually my Ma would be the one subbing.


Quite a lady, my dear auntie. Unschooled, self-everything. Well-known and esteemed in our littler corner of the world. Amazing in several ways, all good.

Nobody called her Bernadette. She was just Bernie. I called her Bernie. As I think back, Bernadette would have been a better fit.

She was my Maman’s youngest sister. Immigrants from French Canada, come down with their already elderly father and mother — my Memere and Pepere — for the usual dream of a better life in a better land.

We lived all together in a plain and modest house at 48 Amey Street. Much like most of the houses in our neighborhood. Lower middle class, very respectable. Made up of Canucks like us, Irish, Polacks, Syrians, Wops, all humble and hard-working folks. We got along fine. You may find that surprising. But that’s how I remember it.

My father—we called him Pa — was an immigrant like my maman – Ma to us.  He was a self-made businessman. He bought what became our home for solid reasons. One was a special reason. It was located at the corner of Amey and Broadway. Broadway was a big and busy street heading straight downtown. Lots of traffic.

So ours was a strategic corner. And right there stood Mrs.Toone’s Variety Store. A nice little business. She was getting old. She sold Pa the lot with her store and the house 75 feet behind it .The store was on Broadway, the house on Amey.

The house became our home, for all of us, meaning also my grandpa and grandma and Aunt Bernie.

Bernie  was Pa’s special reason. Like so many other immigrant women around us, she was working in a nearby weaving mill 10 hours a day, 6 days a week. Pa felt she could run the little store. She loved the idea and made her new little business a real success. It turned out he was perfectly right.

I’ve included the picture of the store. You see what it was. She handled it 99 percent by yourself. Put in as many hours there as at the factory. But a problem. It didn’t have a bathroom.

So Pa set up a doorbell wire between the store and the house. When Bernie needed the bathroom, she’d tap the button. And Ma would run to the store and sub for her. And Bernie would dash out the back door to the house.

Sometimes Ma would be doing something she couldn’t interrupt. Getting antsy, Bernie would tap the button again. And again. And again. Finally Maman would show up. That sparked hot words more than once.

Her little store thrived. Most of her customers were neighbors. Someone would stop by to buy a little something, but maybe just to get to chat with somebody and Bernie loved to chat.

A couple more memories of her. I have many. Everybody smoked cigarettes back then. They were 14 cents a pack. She had a little tincan with a tight cover. She’d open a pack and tuck the 20 cigarettes in the can. Would sell them for a penny apiece.

A customer would ask for two cigarettes. She’d open the can. He’d park one over his ear and light up the other. So she’d

Her ice cream stand — big success! A former garage. Bernie is in the rear. That big guy is Jake, a neighbor. That little guy is me. Easy to tell I was being paid with ice cream cones.

get six cents more for that pack. She’d re-stock that little can two or three times a day.

Another memory. She always kept a couple of punchboards on the display case by the cash box. Familiar with punchboards? They were a kind of lottery. About a foot square and three quarters of an inch thick.

Every board had a hundred or more drilled holes about the size of a nail. Stuffed in each hole was a little rolled-up paper. Each board came with a nice picture of something or other pasted on it. But you could tell where the holes were.

A customer would buy a chance. A nickel, I think it was. Using a punch that looked a lot like a nail, he’d push out the paper.

Most times he’d get zilch. But maybe win 50 cents. Even a dollar. Sometimes he’d buy two or three or four chances. Often he’d be a regular. Bernie would like it if he won once in a while. That would keep him coming back. Oh, women played the boards, too.

I told you that Bernie was a go-getter. Well, our lot had a two-car garage. Pa used one for his car. Bernie also had a car now. A beautiful brand new black Oldsmobile. It was said she was the first woman in Pawtucket to buy a car in her own name. Imagine that!

But she came up with a better idea for the garage. She talked Pa into letting her convert it into an ice cream stand. Open six months a year from mid-spring to mid- autumn.

So both of them had to park somewhere else now, but that was okay.

It was a beautiful stand. The only one around for a mile or so. She’d buy tubs of plain ice cream mix, then add flavors. She offered a dozen flavors. A lot of work. Busy from morning till night. She did it all with good cheer.

Customers would walk up to the stand, order a cone or a shake or a sundae or banana split.  Hey, a dad might come up with his missus and their two or three kids. Bernie did well. No surprise.

But what I wanted to tell you about was her fireworks stand. That will be more interesting to you now that you know this background stuff about her.

She had three home-made folding tables, each about six feet long. She’d set them up in line along the sidewalk. Load them with a full selection of every Fourth of July fireworks device known to man. Then decorate the whole thing with little American flags and bands of red or white or blue crepe ribbon. She made it look terrific.

Of course somebody had to staff the stand all the time. Not only to serve customers, but to make sure nobody came and pocketed a thing or two. She’d do it. She had helpers. I, a little kid,  pitched in.

At day’s end, everything had to be put away for the night. Then put back in the morning. Not easy.

At the same time she had to keep the variety store going. And the ice cream stand.

As the Fourth approached, business got better, especially in early evening. The final two days would be hectic.

You would start hearing the firecrackers going off and seeing the rockets taking off on the eve of the Fourth. People just couldn’t wait. Especially younger ones.

As I think back, it seems that it was a male thing. For teenagers and young men and older men who went wild for a day. For the women it was mostly a spectator sport. Oh, of course there were tomboys.

As the Fourth dawned, you would begin hearing a few firecrackers. But things would be mostly quiet till late afternoon. Then the tempo would quicken.

Come dark, wow! Firecrackers would be going off near and far and quicker and quicker. More and more flares and rockets would be brightening the night sky.

During all this, Bernie and her gang had to staff the stand. Eager-beavers would be coming back to buy more fun.

Some would get carried away. One example. Trolley tracks ran down Broadway. A guy would come along with a gallon of gasoline and pour it down one of the tracks. Then would drop in a lighted match. Shhhh!!! It would take just 10 seconds for that wild flame to race down to the last drop of gas.

Back then every neighborhood had a cop walking a beat. He’d work overtime over the Fourth. He’d make sure to make his presence seen. Often he’d look the other way. But if some jerk seemed to be getting carried away, he’d step in.

Finally the Fourth would be over. We’d take the stand down. Pack up all the leftovers. Enjoy a nice relief. Bernie stored away fresh ideas for the next Fourth.

She did all this season after season. The variety store, the ice cream stand, the fireworks stand. In rush times she grumbled a bit but who wouldn’t?

Oh, you may be interested. She married old, in her late 30’s. Handsome Irishman John Dana McCarthy had been wooing her for a decade. Eventually she said yes.

They bought and lived in the house next to ours on Amey Street.

John was known as Jack to everybody. Bernie called him Jack.  I always, always called him Jack. We all did. The only time he got called John was in his obituary.

Jack couldn’t even say “bonjour” in French. And her English was, well, I’ll just say it was street English. He was a shoe salesman for 50 years. In World War II saw long and violent action as an infantryman when we invaded France. Then went right back to selling shoes. A good man though he played the horses too much. Who’s perfect?  They got along. He also was wonderfully good to me.

They never had children. We were their children. Me, my younger sisters Lucie and Louise, and my younger brother Michael, Louise and Michael died years ago. I, the oldest by years, am still here. So strange.

One more detail. If I did not like what Ma would be serving for supper, I would just walk next door and stride in and sit down at their table with them. Without even knocking on the door. Always sure I would be welcome.

Another. At age 10, I was sent off to a boarding school. A good school. In our culture it was a desirable thing for parents to do that if they could afford it. I came home for holidays and summer vacation.

It was a 35-minute ride away. Sunday afternoon Pa and Ma would come see me for an hour. Ma would bring me my fresh laundry. Bernie would always send along three comic books and a few candy bars. Every Sunday. But I was told to be sure to read the comics gently. She’d expect on Monday to put the previous week’s  comic books back on the magazine rack in her store.

On some Sundays she and Jack would make the trip to give Ma and Pa a break .Also because they wanted to give me a hug and take me out for an ice cream cone.

She helped me in a thousand ways. Right to the end.

I would do little things for her. At Christmas she had a list of friends she’d want to send cards to. Most were non-French folks. Many lived far off. She’d want to put the cards in the mail with more than just “Merry Christmas, Bernie” on them.

One evening we’d sit at her dinner table, she and I. She’d have a stack of cards and her address list. I’d have my pen in hand. She’d tell me what she wanted to say on each card. And I’d do my best to get it down right, to sound like her. A relief for her. A big pleasure for me.

She laughed a lot, joked a lot, routinely made friends of her customers, died at 96. And had a core of old friends at her funeral. Jack died just a few months short of 100.

For years he smoked one cigar a day. After supper, he’d walk to Gendron’s Drug Store and buy his cigar, always a Philly. Would chat with Mr. Gendron a minute or two. Then light up his cigar for his evening stroll around the neighborhood.

One Father’s Day I gave him a box of 50 Phillies. He didn’t want 50. He wanted to go to Mr. Gendron’s every evening for his one Philly. And his chat.  I hope he enjoys lighting up one Philly every evening in Heaven.

A memory. He always, always kept his World War II Army dress uniform. Right int0 his very old age. He was a patient at the Rhode Island State Veterans Hospital. A good place. He made sure his uniform, perfectly clean and pressed in its plastic bag, was hanging in a corner of his closet in his room. He wanted to be buried in it. When he died, we went looking for it. Gone! Somebody had stolen it.

He and Bernie are buried side by side in Notre Dame Cemetery in Pawtucket. Like him, She prepared for that in her own unique way. After extensive research for a funeral monument, she found the perfect one. A magnificent, polished sphere of ebony granite (I think), bigger than a basketball or volleyball, resting on an interesting cube of gray granite. with their names, dates, and a few carefully considered words. It pains me that I don’t remember them. It’s the only such in the cemetery. Maybe the only one in Rhode Island.

No wonder she comes alive for me again come every Fourth.  Also come Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year’s and Easter. And at so many odd moments. Lucky me.

So do Maman and Papa, and Jack, and so many other fine people now gone. God bless them all!

Enjoy the Fourth! Wherever you are, take in that big, wonderful fireworks spectacle of amazing rockets bursting open in incredible patterns. Maybe you’ll be watching it on TV. It will be terrific, I’m positive. But to me those fantastic shows always seem to be more about enjoying great, free public entertainment than celebrating how good it is for us to be Americans.

You’ll be missing a lot of what has become part of our quirky folklore. But still you’ll  have a better opportunity than we did to appreciate what the Fourth is supposed to be about. Which we should all be keeping in mind in these strange trying times.

~ ~ ~ ~

I look forward to your comments. I read them all. Love to get a few personal words from you.








Hey, why don’t they ask me my name?!

By John Guy LaPlante

I’m worried about their not asking.  I’m talking about business dealings. Have reason to be. They’re asking less and less.

In such dealings, I’d like to be called Mr. LaPlante.  Even better, Mr. LaPlante, sir. That isn’t asking much.  That used to be the common custom. Right?

How times are a-changing!

Consider this recent incident I had — “insult” is a better word.

I was in line at a chain drugstore to pick up a prescription. Finally my turn came up.

I was about to tell the clerk my name. But she didn’t give me the chance.

Hardly looking at me, she said right off, “What is your address?”

I told her.

“Yep, it’s here.” And she dashed off, retrieved my prescription, and handed it to me. I paid and left.

She never got around to asking me my name. Hard to believe. It turned out all she needed to identify me was my address.

On my way home I was thinking about that. It rankled.

A few days later I was at a big-box store to pick up an item I had bought online.

The clerk was a young fellow. He had his fingers on his computer keyboard.  He glanced at me.  I was about to tell him my name. But right away he asked, “When were you born?”

I told him the month, date, and year.

Then, “What’s your social?“

I told him.

“I’ll get your package. Back in a minute.”  He dashed off and came back with it.

Two customers were standing in line behind me. He didn’t want to keep them waiting. I quickly paid and left.

“Damn!” I thought as I walked off. I felt really offended. Why in the world didn’t he ask me, “What’s your name?”

Well, he didn’t need to. When I was born and what my social security number is did the trick. Still!

What the heck has happened to good old-fashioned politeness? More  important, weren’t we given names exactly so that we could quickly be known, remembered,  and identified?

But my sad story isn’t over.  I was at the State Department of Motor Vehicles office to get my very first California driver’s license. I told you about that in a recent post. This time I had a different reason. As usual, crowded and busy.  Finally I got to a clerk. A young woman.

She asked my name and I told her. I liked that.  and gave her other basic info she wanted.  She typed all that into her computer. Then she handed me an electronic gizmo. And told me, “Press your thumb on it. Hard!” I pressed my right thumb hard against it. “Good!” she said.

Well, as you may know from that post, I had to go back to the DMV. This time I faced a different clerk.

Right off she asked, “Been here before?” I nodded and right away she handed me one of those gizmos and said, “Press hard!” I pressed hard. She was looking at her computer. “I found you,” she said. All my data, she meant.

So, absolutely no need to ask me what’s my name. Or my address. Or my social.

That thumb print of mine brought up everything she needed to move me along in getting my license.

I marveled at the technology, of course. And what it portends. My thumb print will identify me if ever I have to go back to the DMV. Which I hope will be never. Or maybe even in any office of the State of California for any purpose! Maybe forevermore!

I’ve been fingerprinted. Sure. All 10 fingers. To get a passport. And when I applied to serve in Peace Corps. And maybe my fingerprints made into the FBI’s national fingerprint bank – you know, in case I ever get picked up for something bad and they want to run a background check on me.

But now just a single thumbprint may do it all. Amazing.

So there you have it. The chain drug store knows me by my date of birth. The big-box store knows me by my address and my social. The California DMV by my thumb. Maybe the whole state of California has me down by my thumb print. Maybe the FBI, too. Even the IRS.  Even other government departments. Who knows? It’s not so far-fetched.

But all that said and done, still they could ask, “What’s your name, sir?”  Or, “Ma’m?” How nice that would be. Ten seconds is all it would take. Then their other questions. Maybe even use the thumb gizmo. Easy.  Then get down to business. I’d feel a lot better when my bit of business was done.

Of course, you’re in the same boat in such dealings. I’m sure you’d consider it a nice touch, too.


As always, I look forward to your comments. I read them all, and love it when you give me a different take on what I’ve sent you



This great gadget could save my life.

By John Guy LaPlante

The one that I wear on my chest. As you see in the photo, it’s just a small, silvery steel box hanging on a black cord.

No religious significance. No political significance. Nothing like that. So what the heck can it be? I know people wonder.

I wear it all day long. Hope I never have to push that little button for real.

They are too polite to ask.

 I would love to be asked. My mystery gadget is so important to me, and so potentially important to you, that I would love to explain. In fact, to a lot of people. This is why I’m blogging about it. 

Just recently I was speaking to Brady Lock at our Senior Center. ”Brady, ”I said, ”Possible for me to speak about this thing at our upcoming dinner meeting?”

“Sure, John. Some of our seniors could really use one of those things.”

He’s right.  So what is it?

It’s an emergency medical alert. A Great Call Lively. The Lively is marketed by Great Call, which also markets a popular flip phone called the Jitterbug. Designed for seniors. Easy to use  Inexpensive. Good, but not good enough for me. 

The Lively is a leading medical alert. There are dozens of makes. You’ve probably seen their ads.

From my research I think the Lively is the best. I want to assure you that I have no financial interest in the company. I’m speaking about it objectively.

Now and then, when I see somebody I know who I think can use a Lively, I talk about it. I even give a demonstration, which is always quite dramatic.

First I explain why I have a Lively, and why I wear it every day from the minute I get up to the minute I go to bed.

Of course I have to get up during the night to go to the bathroom. I make sure to take it with me. Just in case.

Why? Well, I am very old. I live alone. My body balance is deteriorating. I walk with a walking stick. I might fall. Might not be able to get up. Might need help desperately.  Maybe during the day. Or at night. 

 What to do? I would press that button in the center of the Lively. And in a few seconds a voice would come on. Might be a man. Might be a woman. Would tell me their name and then ask, “Are you reporting an emergency?”

And I would say, ”No. I am not. I am just showing a friend what the Lively is all about. How it works.”

And he or she would say, ”Fine! Wonderful! We appreciate that. Thank you.”

But if it were a genuine emergency, they would ask what’s wrong and if I could, I would explain, and they would spring into action. Help would be assured. I will explain how they would help in just a minute.

But if I were in a bad fix and could not explain, still they would snap to it. Here’s how.

When I signed up for the Lively, they asked me for a lot of info. My name, address, phone number, email address, age, medical problems, the name of my primary care doctor, other data. And most important, the names and contact information of the people they would need to alert in an emergency.

In my case, my loving daughter Monique and her hubby David, who live just 15 minutes away. Both know they are my emergency contacts. They insisted on being recorded as such.

Great Call calls all that my “profile.” Very important.

If I had a stroke, say, and could not explain what was wrong, then they would contact Monique or David or do whatever else they deemed appropriate.

But maybe it had not happened to me at home. Maybe outside somewhere. Say I was driving my car, was 40 miles from home, felt dizzy, and pulled over and pressed the silver button. The responder would come on and take whatever steps would work best.

If I could not explain where I was, or just mumbled, my Lively has GPS — global positioning technology — which could locate quite accurately where I was, and help would be dispatched.

Of course, the Lively works only where cellular service is available and that is in populated areas. If I were on a dirt road deep in a canyon between mountains in New Mexico, maybe not.

I could use it in many ways. If I messed up my meds. Or wanted to talk to my doctor asap. Misplaced my smart phone and wanted to contact Monique.  You name it. The responder would try to help.

Great Call says it’s waterproof. You could wear it in the shower. I haven’t tried that. I keep it within reach.

Oh, one more important detail. The Lively comes with a small electric charger. I keep it on my bedside table. Charge my Lively every night.

So how much does this service cost? You are dying to know, I’m sure. They have a few plans, one basic one, some with bells and whistles. In my case, less than the senior cup of coffee I buy at McDonald’s every afternoon.

To me, truly Great Call Lively is a smart life insurance plan. It could really save my life. And wonderful for Monique and David also. They worry less.

Sure, I’ve pushed that silver button a number of times but never for an emergency. Just to make sure it’s working properly, or to give a demo.

As I said, there are numerous other brands. They all advertise. You may have seen their ads. I’m sure they all do the job. But as in so many things —  TV’s, washing machines, cell phones, cars, mattresses —  some are better than others.

If you are interested for yourself or somebody else, just contact Great Call at or call +1-866-300-0041.

I like my Lively. Have confidence in the company. Have no intention to switch. Hope that I never have to push that button for real.

I look forward to speaking about all this at the Senior Center. I plan to actually push the button and call Great Call. Yes, folks always find that dramatic.

Maybe that will save the life of one of them someday.


I look forward to your comments. Read them all. Enjoy it even more when you include a bit of news about yourself. Have a great day.



I read the fine print, strange me

By John Guy LaPlante

It seems a lot of people don’t. Do you? Well, I do. Get a lot of it. Enjoy it.

What do I mean by the fine print? The small, small words printed on so many things that we buy. Prepared foods.

Of course it had fine print and I found it.

Medications. Publications. Products.  Name it and it probably has fine print.

Now you may be wondering, why do they make it so small?

Good question. I’m speculating. Maybe they don’t want us to read it. Maybe a law compels them to print whatever it says. Maybe for our protection and safety. Maybe for their protection. Maybe for whatever reason.

But whatever the fine print says, often, as I said, I learn something. I am so darn curious. It seems strange maybe, but often I do have fun reading it.

Let me give you an example.

I just bought a package of razor blades at Dollar Tree. As you know, everything they sell is $1. Seems so crazy. I don’t know of any other retailer that does that. Do you? Dollar Tree was born doing that some 30 years ago. When they had only one store.

Now there are 14,835 Dollar Trees in the USA and Canada. And 176,000 employees. By selling just $1 stuff, they will rake in more than $22 billion this year. They are a Fortune 150 company. Imagine that!

Well, I found they offered six different kinds of razor blades. Some for men and some for women. Some with two blades per razor, some with four, some with six. Other features also. Of course, some packages contained more razors than others.

I believe Dollar Tree sells good stuff. No junk. It’s a basic policy for them. If you don’t like it, bring it back for a refund.

Our Dollar Tree in Morro Bay is small, as most are, but it does big business.

And they honor that guarantee. No wonder their stores are so popular.

I selected a package that said, “Ten Count / Unites.” Unites is the French word for saying the same thing as “count.” Must mention there was an acute accent on the “e” in Unites, but sorry, on my computer I don’t know how to insert an acute accent.

So yes, 10 razor blades—just 10 cents apiece. I use one once, then chuck it. Hey, sometimes I get to use one twice. Whoopee!

The brand was called Assured. The plastic bag was attractive. There was a “window” in it so you could actually see the working end of a razor. They were made of blue plastic. I noticed the women’s model was pink plastic.

The heading on the package said Twin / Double. Double because in French that means “twin.”

In smaller type, it said “Lubricating Strip.” You know, it makes the razor glide over your skin.

Then “Stainless Steel Blades.”

What’s this with the French? Why French? Simple. Remember, Dollar Tree has stores in Canada. Many French-speaking people up there. In fact, Canada has two official languages, French and English. That’s why Dollar Tree uses French and English on all its packaging. It has to.

Now for the fine print. After all, that’s why I’m writing this. I found 12 lines of it. The print was smaller even than the small print newspapers routinely use.

First, the name of the importer of these razor blades, Greenbrier International Inc. and its offices, one in Chesapeake, Washington, and the other in Barnaby, British Columbia. So truly it’s an international company.

The bottom line: They would be sold in the U.S. and Canada. 

The next fine print was the most interesting of all. Those tiny twin blades were made in South Korea! But the razors were assembled and packaged in Mexico!

From that I jumped to the conclusion that if packaged in Mexico, then the plastic bags are manufactured in Mexico.  But maybe not.  Maybe from the U.S. or China or Timbuktu!

I also wondered, why aren’t these razors also sold in Mexico?  After all, there are millions of Mexicans and they’re right next door to us. Maybe they are sold down there.  Mexico’s only language is Spanish, so I would think all the words on the package would be in Spanish.

Getting back to Greenbrier International, maybe it also imports a lot of other merchandise for Dollar Tree.  After all, Dollar Tree stocks its stores with hundreds of items. Many from China, as we know.  Some from Bangladesh and India and many other countries. I’ve read that Dollar Tree buyers scour the world for items that it can sell for just $1.

Which raises an interesting point. Yes, the company was started some 30 years ago. From its very start, as I’ve mentioned, every item was just $1.  In 30 years there’s been a lot of inflation. How has the company coped?

Several ways. In some cases, they’ve found manufacturers in cheaper countries. In many cases, by selling fewer items—razor blades, let’s say—per package, or ounces per bottle or container.

In some cases, by dropping some items from their inventory. For instance, I’ve noticed they now sell far fewer kinds of tools than years ago. In fact, the tool department is smaller.

Now about Greenbrier International. Maybe it’s an affiliate of Dollar Tree, or a division of it. Or maybe Greenbrier is a company unto itself and also imports stuff for other retailers, maybe even giants like Walmart and Amazon.

Another interesting question to me is, how many packages of razor blades does it sell per year? Is it a million? Could be. That would mean taking in$1,000,000! So how many men and women shave with Dollar Tree razors regularly? I’ll bet Dollar Tree knows.

So, the next question is, how many pennies of profit will Dollar Tree make on each package of razors? Will it be the same amount on my package of 10 as on the package of six? Four? Two? Maybe yes, maybe no.

How much will Greenbrier make? How much will the South Korean manufacturer of the steel blades?  The Mexican company doing the assembling and packaging?  How much will the companies transporting all those raw materials to Mexico and then the finished razors to the U.S. and Mexico? And finally getting them to those thousands of stores?

One other thought. Dollar Tree is very savvy. Very sophisticated. I wouldn’t be surprised if it stocks some items with zero profit. Zilch. Maybe even at a loss — as “loss leaders,” so called. Because Dollar Tree believes the terrific PR of it—convincing us it indeed sells real bargains — is all-important. It’s our believing that which makes its stores so popular.

Here in my little Morro Bay, Calif., I believe that Dollar Tree is the most popular store in town after our three food supermarkets. I have no solid data but I’ll bet I’m right. Maybe even more popular than one or two of our food supermarkets.

Dollar Tree in many ways is remarkable. By the variety of the products it offers, by the huge restocking that it does routinely to maximize sales  for Mothers’ Day, The Fourth of July, the Graduation Season, Thanksgiving, Halloween, Christmas, New Year’s, and so on. Other retailers do that, sure, but not so intensely.

Oh, this may surprise you. Dollar Tree also sells online. Yes, to individuals, groups, anybody who wants to buy in larger quantities. For instance, a school teacher for her classroom.  Maybe you love their nugget pretzels but your store often runs out. Well, stock up online.

As you can see, Dollar Tree’s story is an incredibly interesting one. To me, a fascinating one.

Now the final question. As inflation continues, as it’s expected to, how long can Dollar Tree maintain that crucial $1 strategy? The day will come when Dollar Tree will have to re-brand itself. To Double Dollar Tree or something like that. Or surely it will go out of business. That would be bad news for fans aplenty.

That’s happened to other famous chain stores. Montgomery Ward died. It seems Sears—for a long time famous as Sears Roebuck–is dying now. Same story with A & P supermarkets. And numerous other popular brands.

Now about reading fine print once again. If you, too, read it, great! If not, maybe you’ll give it a closer look now.

To me Dollar Tree’s story is all part of the great saga — the great success — of capitalism and free enterprise. How it serves both sellers and buyers. Both sides. Which is one of the things that make us so fortunate to be living in the good old USA.

And notice, please, I didn’t write that in fine print. I put it in bold. It deserves to be put in bold.

~ ~ ~ ~

As always, I look forward to your comments. I read them all. Enjoy them, whatever you say. Especially when you also tell me a little about yourself.





A big PS for you about my WP post

By John Guy LaPlante

I’m delighted with your comments about my recent geographic musings of a few days ago. I see that you found them interesting.  What writer wouldn’t be tickled to hear that?

If you recall, I mused that eons ago our continents might have been a single huge land mass. I got this thought as I looked at North America, South America, Europe, Africa and Australia on my wall map. Mere speculation on my part.

Well, in came an email from Judith Bourke from way up in Ontario. I always marvel that one of my posts might wind up in the inbox of someone in another country. Well, hers was doubly interesting because Judy is a cousin-in-law of mine. We haven’t seen one another in decades. Yet we’ve been in touch. Oh, how wonderful is email!

She told me that as a young woman she read something about “plate tectonics.” And it intrigued her.

Have you heard of plate tectonics? It’s a scientific stab at explaining that as a real happening.  It posits that the earth is made up of plates and slowly but steadily huge forces lever them apart. And our continents are now the result. Interested? Look it up on Wikipedia.

Thank you, Judy.

What I found remarkable is that a young person would become interested in this ultra hi-tech subject to the point of recalling it now, decades later. As I think back, this was not considered a woman’s subject back then, methinks.

Another pertinent comment came in from long-time friend Jon Person in New London, Conn. He writes: “I strongly suggest checking out Buckminster Fuller’s Dymaxion Map. It is the only world map with no distortion in the land masses, a little in the ocean views.”

Fuller patented that way back in 1946. And what an amazing, incredible map that was! Check that out, too.

Thank you, Jon.

As always, a  lengthy and fascinating comment came in from Mark Lander, my close friend in Connecticut – well, close emotionally now that I’m in California—saying he was familiar with plate tectonics – said that places back there have geologic evidence that shows a relationship with someplace in Europe.

Mark is so interested in so many things and is such a gifted writer that more than once I’ve urged him to launch a blog of his own. I’d be proud to be his first subscriber.

Hear that, Mark?

If I’ve overlooked one or two of you, I apologize. I do appreciate your input.

Well, two days ago I mentioned all this at dinner with my daughter Monique and her hubby David. He immediately handed me the latest copy of National Geographic. Opened it to Page 30:  headlined Future Earth. “The continents are in constant motion. Tectonic plates crash together and break apart…..” And concludes: “In about 250 million years a new supercontinent, Pangaea Maxima, will form.”

This is not speculation. It’s presented as scientific fact. Wonderful illustrations show how this has happened and will continue to happen. Also amazing is that National Geographic had this in its latest issue and that David had the article fresh in mind. You agree?

Thank you, David.

Anyway, I’m also writing this because of more things that I’ve observed in looking at a more detailed world map than the one on my wall. Here they are, in the order that I thought of them and jotted them down.

So many of them are so interesting and lead to so much wondering and speculating.

  • Again, so, so much water! I hope a comment will come in from one of you explaining why so much, and what has created all this H2O.
  • And so much of the land is above the Equator.
  • And how so much of South America is in North America.
  • Most of the islands of the world are in Asia.
  • Islands are usually the outcroppings of hills and mountains.
  • Our Hawaii is so far from Asia.
  • The rotation of the earth is always easterly. Why?
  • People at the top of the world – in the Arctic – and people at the bottom – in the Antarctic – are not really at the top and bottom.
  • How much closer we, even in California, are to Europe than to Asia.
  • In fact, so surprising that California is as close to Paris as to Tokyo.
  • A quick look at our country shows that our states get bigger as we look from the Atlantic to the Pacific. The big exception is big Maine.
  • We have 37 states in our eastern half and 11 in the western half. How come such a disparity?
  • California has a bigger economy than most of the countries in the world.
  • The biggest states in the eastern half are Maine and Georgia.
  • The other five states in New England would fit into one two other states.
  • Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico are as big as all of Mexico. And remember, these used to be part of Mexico, as were Arizona, California, Colorado, Nevada, New Mexico, Utah and Wyoming. Mexico also gave up claims to Texas in that treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, 1848. That’s when the Rio Grande became our mutual border.
  • By comparison to our states, most of the provinces of Canada are humongous.
  • The province of Quebec seems as big as half of the United States. And it dwarfs the other provinces. No wonder many folks in Quebec a few decades ago hoped and cheered it should become a country by itself. That along with its history of being French and Catholic.
  • Geographers have divided the earth into sectors. They said there are 360 degrees around. Their starting point – 0 degree – is in Greenwich, near London. And exactly half way away — 180 degrees – is what they called the International Date Line
  • They also divided the world into time zones. If all were one hour apart, there would be 24. But strangely there are more. If interested, check it out.

The IDL has a striking importance. That’s where in crossing it we instantly change from one day of the week to another, depending on whether we’re going west or east. It runs from top to bottom, a bit jagged, down the Pacific, approximately half way between us and Asia.

  • I was aware of that the first time I was flying to Asia. In fact, to Japan. As we got close to the IDL, I asked a stewardess at what time. “I’ll ask the captain,” she said. She returned and said, “In 42 minutes.” And mentioned the exact time.

When we did cross, all I could see were clouds far below. I thought it was a big deal and jotted it down in my diary.

I believe that was the first time she ever got asked that question. I thought then, and still do, that routinely it should be announced to all the passengers.

Well, that’s it for today, friends. More than enough, you may be thinking.

II you have interesting observations of your own, please share them with me. Who knows … they may have the makings of another postscript.

As you know, “PS” is the way I headlined this up top. A PS is supposed to be short, right?  Hah! I just couldn’t help myself.

~ ~ ~ ~

Again, I welcome your comments, read all of them, appreciate whatever way you happen to be leaning. And am even happier when you send me a little personal update.


I’m 89 today and kicking. Wow!

By John Guy LaPlante

With 1 photo.

Yes, Wow! And today is the very first day of my 90th year! I have reason to tag on that exclamation mark. Don’t you agree? But you know, I never, never expected to live this long. How lucky I am!

But a friend says I’m wrong about my age. Wu Bin in Shanghai, China, strongly disagrees.  We became friends in Nairobi,

Here I am still doing the work I’ve enjoyed decade after decade. Lucky me.

Kenya, more than 20 years ago. And we are friends to this day.  Back then he was just out of university as an electrical engineer. And he’s the whiz who got my Around the World Alone book published in China.

Wu insists that I am really 90 today. Now he is a big shot in a company developing and manufacturing LED lights that get sold around the world.

He just sent me an email. ““John, you’ve been to China four times now. You know that when we have a baby, we consider that little boy or girl one year old!”

“Yes, Wu, I do remember that. So thank you. But know what? I don’t like the idea of being a year older than I thought I was. Not one bit! And being in my 91st year instead of my 90th.. It was already scary. Now it’s even scarier!”

Well, I was joking a bit there. Now I’ll get serious, Yes, I’ve been most fortunate. My life, like the life of everybody else—which means yours, too, of course — has been imperfect. But it could have turned out more imperfect. As we know, so much in life is not within our control. All in all, I have great reason to rejoice and celebrate.

I’ve been fortunate in many ways. You may not be up to hearing all this, but I’m going to list the ways.

So no more joking. Here’s how.

I enjoy good health.

Of course, I’ve had sicknesses and accidents and serious losses. A great loss about five years ago was total loss of hearing in my right ear. It was more than loss of hearing. It was the loss of directionality. If I don’t see where a sound is coming from, I can’t tell if it’s from the left or right, in front or behind me, or from up above. Also—I didn’t realize this—our ears are the gyroscope that controls our balance. Lose one ear and you will have a balance problem. I’m constantly aware of that.

I live alone. I may fall because of poor balance, or trip on something, or slip in the tub. So I wear a Great Call medical alert device every minute I’m up. Inside and outside. It hangs on my chest. If I fall, I’ll press the button on it. Within seconds I’ll reach a 27 /7 Great Call respondent. He or she will say, “Are you reporting a medical emergency?” And I will say yes. They have my profile. Much info, including the name and phone number of my loving daughter Monique who lives nearby. If they cannot her, they’ll try others on my profile. Even  my primary care doctor.

If I fall away from home, through GPS,  Great Call can locate me. It will also help me if I get lost on the road somewhere, feel dizzy, and so on. It costs less than the price of coffee per day. It’s really a life insurance policy. More people should become aware of it.

As or my  primary care doctor, I just saw him. . He is excellent. He told me he feels I’m  doing so well I don’t have to see me till mid-July. How about that?! I’m aware a lot of old people have to see their doctor every week or two.

I take some credit. I watch my weight, don’t smoke, rarely drink alcohol, do limbering exercises, eat few sweets, do regular limbering exercises, and am a vegetarian. I make it a point to do fun things. It’s hard for me to walk now. I make up for that by pedaling my tricycle every day. Which I find great fun.

I had loving parents.

Arthur J. Laplante and Marguerite Bourke were immigrants from Quebec. They met at a church social in Pawtucket, R.I. Many French-Canadians in Pawtucket. He became a salesman in the Shartenburg Department Store. Mr. Shartenburg felt my Papa with his outgoing personality could attract Francos as customers. He was right. In just two years Papa opened his own store. Yes, it was small — just linoleum and bedding. But in six years it became a big one – two sprawling floors – selling just about anything you might need in a home. Then sold it and started buying three-deckers and renting them out. Then also started selling house and car insurance.

Maman, just back from their honeymoon, returned to work in the weave shop of a textile mill.  In two years she became a full-time mom.  In eight years they moved from a three-decker into their own home. Then, just as I was finishing college they moved into a lovely Cape Cod colonial with a fireplace in the living room. It had a fine lawn and beautiful white fence and trees and even an in-ground swimming pool. Unusual back then. They enjoyed a cruise to Bermuda. They bought a winter home in Florida. Yes, America, truly the land of opportunity!

They loved me. And all my siblings. Did a fine job of raising us. Pa had a temper, but it blew up seldom.

I grew up knowing I was loved. Maman showed it day in and day out in every way. He did, too, by giving me – all of us – wonderful opportunities. Back then I took the opportunities for granted. Then I smartened up and saw how blessed I was.

I grew up to have an enterprising streak – plunging into challenging projects and working hard to make them succeed. By example Pa programmed me to do that.

I’ve had the longest life span in my family.

Pa died at 73. Maman at 83. The one exception was her sister Bernadette – my dear Aunt Bernie – at 94.   I was the first born of eight children. Born in my parents’ bed on the second floor rented tenement in a three-decker at 18 Coyle Avenue.

Mr. Clark and his family lived on the first. Mr. Archambault and his family on the third.

Rose-Marie died at six months— obstructed bowel. I still remember her little white casket in the parlor.  Lucie was next, my dear petite sister, nine years behind me. She and I are the only two remaining. The eighth was Michel. He was born 16 years after me. Died at 55 in agony after having a leg amputated below the knee. Diabetes.

Lucie is now retired after a fine career as a high school teacher of French in West Hartford, Conn. We are close and speak often.

And here I am, the first-born and now the oldest survivor. How to explain this? How? Yes, how? Logic would insist I’d be the first to die. Then the others in the order of their birth. Ha!

I got a fine education thanks to my parents. Education they never dreamed of for themselves. We were Catholic. After four years in parochial school, I was sent off to a Catholic boys’ boarding school 30 miles away. I was 10 and went there for grades five through eight.

I was sobbing and screaming when they dropped me off. Came home only for Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, and summer. But I got used to it. I graduated first in my class. Had to get used to living with my family again. Well, that summer.

Why did Maman and Pa do that? They thought I’d get a better start in life. And in their social circle, it was an impressive and envied accomplishment for parents to be able to provide such a start.

Then eight years full time at Assumption Prep and College in Worcester, Mass., 45 miles away. The two were on the same campus, in fact the same big building. I went through the eight years with a 50 percent scholarship from a Franco fraternal society, the USJB. Won it in a competitive examination. Elected a class officer every year. Named to the National Honor Society in the prep school. Graduated with high honors from the college.

So 16 years in Catholic schools, with half the courses in English and half in French. We learned to think, speak, and write in both languages.

I entered college as a pre-medical student.  My mother dreamed of me as an MD. But in biology, I was queasy about dissecting a frog. Hated the lab work. I developed second thoughts. And I was chosen editor of our tiny college paper.

I had discovered I enjoyed writing. I found it was fun to think up articles and write them, hand out assignments, edit the stories, lay out the little paper. Some of the articles were in French, by the way. And that’s how I came up with the notion of journalism.

One of my priest teachers, hearing of my ambition, advised me to study economics and political science. He spent all of 10 minutes suggesting that. And I promptly took the National Graduate Record Exam, and on the basis of that got accepted by Clark University in Worcester and Brown University in Providence. I chose Brown because closer to home and was Ivy League.

The economics department had about 50 students. I was one of them, with a master’s degree my ambition. More than half were aiming for a PhD. Nearly all had majored in economics in college. I also took a couple of courses in political science.

The grades were A, B, C, D, and F.  For us graduate students anything below a B was a failing grade. A single failing grade and you were kicked out.

I had had only one one-semester course in economics. It was taught by a lay professor who had emigrated from Italy. Spoke broken English. He lectured In Italian-tainted French. We had no textbook. All we had were the notes we took.

I was good at math. Had courses in algebra, geometry, trigonometry, and calculus. But for calculus—again no textbook–I was out sick for the first three classes and never caught up.

I returned home to Pawtucket proud and optimistic. I would be living at home for the first time in 12 years. And commuting to my classes at Brown, taking two buses each way and trudging up and down steep College Hill. Now and then my Aunt Bernie, who lived bright next door, would let me take her Oldsmobile. I loved that.

Well, at Brown, I got a single C, in statistics, which involves calculus. I found out that this was an essential tool for an economist. But becoming an economist was not my goal, as I’ve explained. I got A’s and B’s in all my other courses.

One of my professors was Hyman Minsky. He knew I was planning to be a journalist. One day he called me in to talk about a paper I had written. He complimented me — said my style was a bit rococo and I felt he liked that though it was the first time I heard the word and didn’t know what it meant — and I walked out beaming. Professor Minsky became famous for an economic theory he developed. Google him if you’re curious.

Anyway, that single C ended my Brown career. Of course, many Brown graduates proudly graduated with a much lower yet honorable grade average than mine,

I wasn’t used to failure. That failure smarted.

Focusing on my true ambition, I applied to the Graduate School of Journalism at Boston University, was accepted, found myself in my element, enjoyed it, and graduated with a master’s. That was the terminal degree in journalism at that time. I made that 50-minute commute by train five days a week.

And went to work. Some call ii the business of journalism. Some journalists to this day, successful ones, never took a single course in journalism. But that’s rare now.

One of our professors was Donald Murray, an editorial writer on the Boston Herald. He gave us assignments on editorial writing.

One day he returned our papers to us. And said, “Who is Mr. LaPlante?” I raised my hand. “Congratulations!” He said. “There were some fine papers. Yours was the best.”

Interestingly, shortly before our class graduated, Donald Murray won a Pulitzer for his editorials at the Herald.

I had been named to Sigma Delta Chi, the professional journalism fraternity. And that’s what we felt we were entering, the profession of journalism.

Got to tell you my Papa paid for all that schooling with the exception of the scholarship to Assumption I had won. He and Maman encouraged and supported me whole-heartedly. How fortunate I was.

I wound up in the work I enjoy.

I went to B.U. with a single ambition: to someday own and publish a weekly newspaper in a small town.

On my own, apart from my journalism studies, I would read up on everything I could find about weekly newspapers. There were hundreds of them. And there were startling technical breakthroughs.

One was the Varitype Machine. It was a fancy, enormously sophisticated typewriter.  With it you could change type fonts. It had an interesting variety of fonts. And it could justify lines of type– make then fill out to be flush on both sides of the column. Just how it’s done to this day in all newspapers.

That was accomplished back then by highly skilled and well-paid workmen operating Linotype machines — huge machines using molten lead. Machines costing more than luxury cars. The Linotype operators had to apprentice many months.  Today to see a Linotype you have to go to a museum.

Well, within walking distance of our school was a business office machine store, Burroughs I think it was. And it sold the newfangled Varityper. And offered free lessons on using it, with no pressure to buy one.

The Varityper justified through a double typing. You would set the column width you wanted. Would type a line and then tab over and retype the line. The Varityper spaced out the words to make every line even. The double typing was clumsy and time-consuming, yes, but It did the job. The Varityper cost just a fraction of a Linotype. Any good typist could master it fast. I got good at it. The day came when I bought one. More about this soon.

At B.U. another professor was Evan Hill. He taught reporting. He had been wounded in World War II and walked with a severe limp. He didn’t let it slow him down.

Was a perfectionist. Preached objectivity, fairness, thoroughness, clear writing. Had worked on weekly newspapers and had edited a couple. He took a liking, to me, especially after hearing of my interest in weeklies. Most of our class wanted to work on dailies, the bigger the better.

Spring break was coming up. He took me aside, told me one of his graduates was the publisher of the Record-Journal in Amherst, Mass.  Amherst was the home of Massachusetts’ flagship state university, UMass. If I were willing, he – I believe his name was Timothy  Woodrow —would welcome me into his home with his wife, feed me, take me with him to the office,  and give me reporting assignments every day.

If I turned in decent copy, he’d edit my reports and publish them with my byline. How about that?”

I had a wonderful “spring vacation” at the Record-Journal. I returned to classes even more intent on owning a weekly.

As a class project during another break, Professor Hill took a dozen of us to a weekly in Lakeville In northwestern Connecticut for a week. Professor Hill knew that publisher, too, We’d put out a special supplement for the paper about historic houses in the community. He was our editor for that, giving us assignments, editing our work, and producing an insert that became a valued souvenir for many subscribers.  A great experience.

I kept in touch with him. He left B.U. and became a full-time freelance feature writer, getting published in the Saturday Evening Post and other quality national magazines.

A few years later, when I was a staff writer on the magazine of the Worcester Sunday Telegram, I drove up to New Hampshire to visit and interview him. I’ve forgotten the town’s name. He lived there with his family and had an office in a downtown building. I wrote a cover story about him as a big-time magazine article writer. He told me I did a good job.

Shortly before graduation, Professor Hill told me of a friend who was the publisher of the Thomaston Express in Thomaston, Conn. The town is famous as the home of Seth Thomas Clocks. He told me Cesario DelVaglio was looking for a new young editor. The job could be mine. I accepted on the spot, without ever meeting Mr. DelVaglio or getting to Thomaston.

Thomaston was a hundred miles from Pawtucket. I reported for work by thumbing to Thomaston.  It took me nearly five hours. And I met Del for the first time. That’s who he was to everybody, Del, a big, hearty Italian who was all business.

He sold all the ads for the Express, schmoozed with anybody who was somebody in Thomaston, and also operated a job-printing business at the Express—letterheads, brochures, business cards, and such.

“Make the Express interesting,” he told me. “Do a good job and in six months I’ll give you a raise.”

The Express occupied a small gray building. It was just a block from Main Street and the Town Hall, so I could walk there easily.

He drove me to a small, modest house three-quarters of a mile away.  Introduced me to Mrs. Beardslee, a widow, who lived alone. She would rent me a room and supply the sheets, blankets, and towels, $11 a week. She’d serve me breakfast if I wanted, 35 cents a day. Do my laundry. I said yes to everything. And started work.

Thomaston had about 5,000 people. It was a one-industry town, Plume and Atwood, a brass manufacturer.  Little news ever emerged from there. I never heard of labor problems, business problems, accidents, promotions, or lay-offs. I didn’t have the moxie to go probing. Anyway, didn’t have time for that.

The Express was a tabloid. The news hole was 500 column inches. That’s what I had to fill every week. I was editor and sole reporter. We had three or four outlying neighborhoods with a correspondent in each. They were elderly matrons who knew every soul, and sent in a column of neighborhood doings every week.

They were stringers. A journalistic word. They clipped out their column every week, then glued it to the tail of the previous one, and then to another couple and at the end of the month sent in their string. Del paid them so much a column inch. I’d check their spelling and amplify something if I felt it was needed.  We had a high school coach who wrote sports stories. The rest was up to me.

At the Town Hall, I introduced myself to the Town Clerk, the Police Chief, the First Selectman (mayor), School Superintendent, Librarian, and others.  All nice to me. They all knew this was my first week on the job right out of school, a total stranger in Thomaston, and saw I was as green as an unripe banana. They didn’t expect much.

Every week I went in looking for news — marriage intentions, police arrests or accidents, school announcements, all the bread and butter news of small town life.

In my third visit to the Police Chief, he said, “John, my boy, this is a nice quiet little town, you know. No need for you to come by. If something happens, I’ll call you.”  In my time there, a big police story never developed.

We published on Thursdays, and on Wednesdays I’d work till 10 p.m. wrapping everything up. Laying out the pages, cropping and sizing photos, writing headlines and captions, arranging the “jumps”—continuations to other pages – making sure the layout was clear and simple, and no goofs.

There were five of us. Del. Gus, the earnest, cigar-puffing compositor. Eddy, who ran the humongous Linotype.  Ray, who was the pressman. And myself. They too kept their fingers crossed about me. I was just “the kid.”

On Thursday morning Gus would call me to his “stone.” That was a big, heavy steel frame. He knew what and how many ads would be on each page. Only Page 1 did not have ads. I gave him a layout for each important page. He would fill it with all the metal components — headlines, articles, captions, and so on. Then he’d “lock up” the chase. The paper would be printed from that chase.

Gus would call me over. “John, this story’s too long by an inch and a half.” And I would duly cut out an inch and a half. It might take a bit of re-writing.

“John, this one needs another three quarters of an inch.” And I’d write three quarters of an inch more.

Then Ray would load the chases on the flat-bed press and get it running. The building would vibrate. He’d hand-feed one sheet of paper through at a time.  The page would print, then slip over a long horizontal pipe with many tiny holes along the top. They’d emit small, even gas flames. That would dry the ink. Then the sheets would pile up at the end of the press.

More than once I saw a sheet catch fire going over. Ray would grumble and curse, grab a broom and beat out the fire, clean the mess, then start the press again.

Every week we’d publish on time for the paper boys and taket a big canvas bag of papers to the Post Office for our mail subscribers.

I was a good photographer but Del insisted all pictures would be provided by Milo Puwalchek. Thirty-ish, smiling, a gentleman. Milo ran a portrait studio on Main Street.  Wedding photos, promotion photos for Plume and Atwood. He took the pictures we needed. His only pay was the printed credit he got for each one , “Photo by Milo.”

That was another swap Del had worked out. For Milo did it was his total advertising program.

I’d stop by to chat with him in his studio.  His wife and assistant was Maria, very able, very sweet. They became my closest friends. Milo did not have a car, but I did now.  We started going out to dinner once or twice a week.

One time my parents came to visit. They were dying to get a look a Thomaston and how I was living. I took them to Milo’s. He insisted on shooting portraits of them “on spec.” They’d pay for them if they liked them. They did. I still have a set of them. More than 60 years old. As beautiful as new. I treasure them. Impossible for me to ever forget dear Milo.

About that car. After my third week In Thomaston, my parents astonished me with a brand-new Ford Victoria sedan. A belated graduation present, all thanks to the prayers and cajoling of my Maman.

I had weekends off. Now I could drive home to Pawtucket on Friday evening, and next day drive 35 miles to Putnam, Conn., to date beautiful Pauline, my very first girlfriend. We had met in a blind date arranged by friends for her junior prom at Annhurst College. And I could do a much better job of reporting.

Once a week, a nice treat.  Del would take me to lunch at the White Fence Inn. A beautiful, long-established, four-star restaurant. Always a fine meal and a great chat. Del always picked up the tab.  Later I found out that was another of his deals. He was swapping ads for the White Fence Inn in the Express for dinners there.

One day a spectacular happening. After enormous rains, the river overran its banks. Some sections of town had a foot of water and it was still raining. Huge devastation. I went all out covering it. Worked endless hours. Got little sleep. I was a journalist. That’s what journalists do.

I transformed the Express. A full, no-ads editorial page, with one or two editorials every week. Plus a full, detailed feature story with photo on that page. Plus a column by me of chit chat and observations, “By JGL.” Interesting stories on Page 1 and inside. I gave the paper a clean, distinctive, appealing look week after week. I was proud of myself.

Lots of papers publish “boilerplate,” prepared news stories sent out by PR people pushing this or that. It’s a cheap way to pad out a newspaper. In my time not an inch of it got into the Express.

Came the end of my sixth month. Del had made no further mention of a raise. We had a fine relationship. I liked him and he liked me.  I didn’t waste a minute. I brought it up. “Yeah, John, you did a good job. You deserve a raise. $5 a week!”

I nearly fell off my chair. I had expected a jump from $50 to $!00 a week. Wow! A lousy $5. I gave him my notice.

My own weekly

I had heard of a paper for sale in Woonsocket, R.I. Not a town like Thomaston. A city. The Sunday Star. Just 12 miles from my home town of Pawtucket. It was a newspaper – it covered local news. But Woonsocket had a big daily, The Call. The Star couldn’t compete.

I was 25 years old. I had a vision for it. I would change it into a feature weekly   — lengthy articles, rich in detail, with lots of quotes, each with several photos – of interesting people, happenings, undertakings, lifestyle. The concept is commonplace nowadays. I had never seen such a paper. Then The Star could compete hard against The Call in a different way.

(I must say today’s concept has one added feature. You don’t buy the paper. It’s free. Advertising is the sole support.)

How could I afford to buy The Star? I could not. I didn’t have a dime. I convinced Papa, Sure, he was hesitant and doubtful and cautious. But he discussed it with a cousin, a highly successful businessman in Woonsocket. My father handled all the Pawtucket business for him—all clients that he signed up. The two interviewed me. Grilled me. They left the room. They came back. Papa said, “Well, okay … I guess.”

I went to work. The Star had a small suite in a fine, prestigious building.  I was owner of the paper, editor, employer, Varitype operator, well, for a while. Yes, I had immediately bought one. All the typesetting and printing were jobbed out. Now only the printing would be. I hired a trucker to get the paper out every Saturday afternoon to be available on Sunday.

I would live at home in Pawtucket, supported by my parents, bless them. And commute to Woonsocket.

I hired a secretary, Marie. I taught her how to use the machine. She was talented. Learned fast. I also hired an artist / paste-up man, low-key Lucien. Both hard-working. This would no longer be hot metal printing. This was new “cold type,” so called.

The Sunday Star would be supported by paid subscriptions and store sales. Store sales were 99 percent. And as always, mostly by paid ads. I knew nothing about newspaper advertising. Only that the more, the better.

One day a man, smartly dressed with brilliantly shined shoes, handed me a card and introduced himself.  He beamed, pumped my hand. I remember his name, even his middle initial, and I will never forget him, but I will call him Mr. Smoothy.  He had 35 years in the business.  Told me my concept for the paper was brilliant. Predicted a golden future. He would be my advertising director. Sure, of course, he knew I was just starting out but hey, he would work simply on commission.

My prayers were being answered!

I worked hard and late. I was elated.

I started writing features.  Very early I found a dandy. I met a guy who flew a small plane out of our local airport and would fly advertising banners around them. For pay, of course. A great feature.

Recalling Del’s business stunts back in Thomaston, I now pulled one of my own. If he flew a banner of The Star over the city till his gas nearly ran out, I would wow our readers with a super feature about him and how he got into that and does it.  (In fact, I would never charge anybody for a feature.)

I took the pictures of him at the airport, prepping the banner on the ground, attaching it, taking off. And it all happened. My story was the play story – two and a half pages, six photos.

I had found his banner could carry 24 letters and spaces. All big enough to be visible from 1,000 feet – I don’t remember the exact altitude. And he’d tow this banner around on Easter morning.

I composed the message: “SUNDAY STAR REBORN TODAY”. Exactly 24 letters and spaces! It turned out to be a perfect-weather Easter.  My ad was a perfect tie-in. Countless people must have seen it. I was watching, of course. Published it as the cover feature the following Sunday.

I had big bills. Rent. Staff. Routine expenses …telephone, electricity, supplies, and so on. Printing was the huge one. I took only walking-around money for myself. Pa made up the  deficit every week.

Mr. Smoothy kept breezing in. Always smiling. “I just landed another full-page ad, John! And I expect another!”

It was all bogus. He’d go to a prospect and say, “This guy LaPlante is hot. He’s creating a different paper.  A terrific paper. I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you a full page ad FREE. You’ll be impressed by your sale results. You’ll be happy to become a regular advertiser. And we’ll give you a good discount.”

And I paid him his commissions for those ads.

But none of those businesses ever signed a contract for more lineage.

I’m not sure what he told people exactly. But I think what I just wrote comes close.

I watched the circulation sales carefully. It turned out that even my distributor was falsifying the counts. In five months the game was up. One day Papa told me in French, “No more, Jean-Guy!” His voice reeked with pain and disappointment. “This isn’t working. You can’t keep this up.”

I lost my staff. My Varitype machine. My office furniture. All my supplies. Even my camera. My reputation with my landlord and the Woonsocket people I had been dealing with. I walked out with only the “Master’s Degree in Journalism” diploma that I had on the wall behind my desk. Oh, and my Ford Victoria.

It’s with the greatest difficulty that I write this today. Very painful.

I thought I was putting out a great paper.  Apparently not. I am positive Papa made a terrible mistake in supporting my idea. His love for me overcame his common sense. Sure, I was a hard, eager, energetic worker.  But I had zero business experience. And was extremely naïve in the ways of the world.

It was a full four months before I found another newspaper job.  A time of stress and worry for me. And though I never heard a word of reproach from them, for Pa and Ma, too.  I was still living at home and they were supporting me. I wonder whether I would be as supportive.

Then, thanks to my dear Aunt Bernie, I landed a job on a big newspaper, the Worcester Telegram and Gazette, a metro paper covering all of central Massachusetts. It took 850 people to publish the T & G seven days a week.  It was on the list of our 100 biggest newspapers.

I went on board as a reporter, and over some 16 years moved up through an interesting variety of editorial  jobs — a bureau chief, feature writer, columnist, and in due time the Sunday magazine editor, an executive position. Every step was a challenge. As a whole, good years.

Way at the top of this piece, I mentioned I have been fortunate because I’ve found work I’ve enjoyed. Very true. So many people go through life working at what I call bread and butter jobs. They can’t wait to hit retirement. And when they do, they never do that kind of work again.

I’m still doing this work today, as you can clearly see.

Gosh, I’ve written far more here than I intended.  And I still have much more to tell you about my good fortune in having reached ripe old age. I’m going to take a break and give you a break too, by stopping right now. And I’ll take up the tale again for you before very long.

And I’ll be very interested to know if you’ve read these 5,546 words right down to here. If so, I compliment you for your fortitude. Obviously you’re interested.

I hope you make it up to a happy 90, too.

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Again, I welcome your comments. I read them all, good and not so good. Email me at or












How lucky we are to speak English!

By John Guy LaPlante

With one photo.

Yes, indeed. Because English is now the world’s most popular language. The one so many people in so many other countries can read as a second language. And which so many others are trying so hard to learn.

At one time French was the big international language. Hah!

Now this gives us a great advantage when we travel abroad —  a better chance of being understood and more ease in getting around. More books and technical and scientific papers originating in other countries getting translated into English and becoming available to us here. All of this giving us reason to be very proud.

It sounds incredible, but our globe supports 6,000 languages. Thank goodness we Americans don’t speak 5,999 of those as our birth tongue. Well, most of us. We’ve had the good fortune of growing up in English.

What a richness of English lies between these covers.

By the way, here I’m not speaking of British English or South African English or Australian English or Indian English or even Canadian English, which have big differences. I’m speaking of our English. Yours and mine.

I just mentioned Indian English—the English of India. Yes, India has English. What?!  A strange story. India is big – a third the size of the U.S but 1.3 billion people. Many sects. Hindi is the major language but 779 others. So how to speak to someone of a different sect? If you got higher schooling, you use English.

How come English? Well, England ruled India for many years and imposed it. Hindi is India’s main language but English is an official language,

spoken by 150 million. I’ve seen that for myself. Thanks to Indian friends, I’ve made two long trips  through through India. Got to most areas, north, south, east, and west.  I often managed to understand and to be understood.

So their English works, sure. But it isn’t our English, believe me. There are so many differences in inflection, vocabulary, pronunciation. And slang! But it is genuine English.

Our English – our American brand – is the world’s second most spoken language. Mandarin, China’s most important language, is the world’s largest. The next are Spanish, Hindi, Arabic, Bengali, Russian, Portuguese, Japanese, German, French.  And people with those as their mother tongue make it a priority to learn ours.

As we know, China has grown into our most important rival economically, and that has great significance in many facets of Chinese life.

Here’s how I see China today. It may sound outlandish but I feel comfortable in saying it. I’ve been to China four times. The fourth just four years ago. I have good friends in China. This happened to me because one of my books—“Around the World at 75, Alone, Dammit”—was published there. In Mandarin. Our English is their most popular foreign language.

These days, millions of Chinese are studying our English. In their schools. And also here in the USA. Do you have any idea how many Chinese are studying in our universities? I checked. 350,755 last year. More would come if they could. And that’s been the trend for years and it’s certain to continue.

Sure, more Americans are studying Mandarin. But by comparison darn few.

So here’s my take on China today.  The last century – the 1900’s –is when we became the biggest and most influential country on the globe and therefore the most formidable. I don’t think anyone will dispute that.

Well, we have 82 years left in this century, right? I believe China will eclipse us. This is China’s century. I feel it would be smart for my  grandchildren and great- grandchildren to study Mandarin. And if you buy stocks, smart for you to buy into a Chinese mutual fund.

All this said about our national  language, I must now say that not all of us in our 50 states speak the same English.  Go to Bangor in Maine, or El Paso in Texas, or Atlanta in Georgia, or Salem in Oregon, or Honolulu in Hawaii, or Anchorage in Alaska, and particularly the smaller towns  in those states, and you’ll be surprised by the different flavors.

I was born in little Rhode Island and spent most of my years in Massachusetts. Well, years ago I attended a professional conference in Phoenix, Arizona. There were attendees from all over the country. After our keynote speaker finished – he was from Michigan, I believe – questions were invited from us. A man got up and asked one, then a woman. I stood and asked one. You should have heard the laughter that erupted!

They were laughing at my accent.  Yes, my accent. “We know where you’re from!” one man laughed. Which was Massachusetts. I was laughing, too, and yelled back, “Hey, you’re the ones who sound funny!” And I meant it. After all, it’s always the other person who has the accent, of course. Never us. Haven’t you experienced that?

But the accent differences were much, much sharper when I was a boy.  It’s radio, and then television, that flattened out our English.  Nowadays the accent that most national radio and TV people on the air aspire to pick up is that of educated southern New Englanders – Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and Connecticut. That’s a fact.

Now let me tell you a bit about my language experiences in other lands.

Quite often in China, I’d be approached by two or three teenagers.  A girl would say, “My name is Betty.”  That was an assumed name, of course. And then would ask, “Where are you from?” Very sweet. And I would tell her. Then, a boy would say, “I am Dick. Do you like China?” And I’d say “Yes, yes, yes!”

They suspected I was American and they wanted to practice their English.

As many of you know, I served 27 months in Peace Corps, which is a full hitch. In Ukraine. Went to school six days a week for the first three months. Russian, the history of Ukraine, its culture. Russian because that would be the language where I’d be stationed (though Ukrainian is the main language.) Agonizingly difficult. Felt I’d be sent home. But they kept me.

There I taught English at university level.  In my everyday life, at a store or whatever, whenever I started to say something in Russian, the clerk or somebody else might jump in and start speaking English to me. They wanted to practice. They understood the enormous importance of English.

I saw its importance in country after country in my travels around the world. Hostels were always my first choice. Every hostel invariably had guests from other countries.  Australia (a common occurrence), France, Portugal, Spain, Denmark, wherever.  Mostly young people. And many spoke English, at least a little.  Because they knew its convenience in world travel.

Though English is incredibly difficult. For them probably as difficult as Russian was for me. Let me give you just one little example of the difficulties. How many ways do we pronounce a word with the letters ou?  Now have fun – pronounce ours, then yours, then ouch, then touch, then through, then enough, then rouge, then wound. See! And this is just a starter.

Yet we mastered all these difficult subtleties, slowly, one at a time, because we were born here and grew up in the language. Yes, how lucky we are.

God bless America! God bless our English!

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Again I look forward to comments from you. I read them all. Don’t hesitate. Truly I’m eager to hear from you.







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