Home for the Holidays

Home for the Holidays

Fiction

By Gregory E. Larson

          My heart sank when I saw the selections at the dessert station in the cafeteria. There were three small plates with half-melted strawberry Jell-O squares, each placed on a large piece of wilted lettuce. The bright fluorescent lights in the food selection area didn’t add to the appeal. All morning long I visualized a piece of pumpkin pie or apple crisp for the lunch dessert on the last day before Christmas, or whatever the proper term is now, Winter Holiday Vacation. The cafeteria workers were already in clean-up mode, and the few remaining people in the hallways scurried for the exits.

          My friend Eric, a manager in the accounting department, leaned over as he walked by with his tray, “Slim pickens, eh?”

          I responded with obvious disappointment in my voice, “So much for a holiday meal. What happened to the good old days when there was turkey and ham for everyone, and we all put in a full day’s work and didn’t leave until five o’clock?

          The cashier wearing a miniature reindeer pin, an elf hat, and a big smile tried to cheer me up as she totaled the cost of the tuna salad plate, the Jell-O, and a cup of coffee that had a burn-tinged taste. “Now you have a wonderful holiday Pete, and you be safe.  I want to see you next year”

          A massive Christmas tree filled the middle of the dining room which was almost empty. Background music was playing Burl Ives singing A Jolly Holly Christmas, while I steered toward a group sitting near the far windows.

          Betty Jo from Credit and Billing was there, having an animated conversation with another lunch regular, Fred. “My ex-hubby has the kids on the main holidays all year round! I get the left-over dates. Doesn’t matter what the court settlement says. He does just whatever the hell he wants, whenever he wants. Doesn’t seem fair.”

          “Sounds like you need an attorney that is good at sending nasty-grams. That might do the trick.”

          Fred’s eyes grew big as he turned toward me, “Get out the checkbook. Hey, Pete, what are you doing here anyway? You whiz kids up in R&D have the most flexible schedules of all.”

          “It’s all about data. We have to make sure we track and keep all kinds of data. It’s not the fantasy life in R&D that everyone thinks it is. Pressure’s on constantly.”

          Eric pulled up a chair and sat down next to the impromptu lunch group. He threw in his two cents worth. “I’m just glad I’m not in IT. Those poor guys have to draw straws to see who gets to stay here on late shifts over the holiday. Wouldn’t that be a fun way to spend your vacation?”

         “Maybe some people would like that assignment. It would be quiet and peaceful. I’m sure they have a few card games going when the boredom sets in. Better than sitting alone at home.”

          Betty Jo had a quizzical look. “Why would you want to be stuck here?”

          “Some of us older staff members don’t have spouses or family nearby. Things can get pretty lonely at home on a holiday.”

          Betty Jo looked down at the floor.

          Gina, joined the table. “You can’t believe the things we see in HR. There’s a lot of people that struggle with holidays. Some people at the company never take a vacation. They can’t handle the silence and loneliness.”

          “Who?” asked Betty Jo, “They need to get a life.”

          Gina motioned as if she were zipping her lips shut.

          Eric scanned the five of us. “We’re all here, aren’t we? What’s wrong with this picture? Maybe we need to get a life. It’s Christmas Eve.” He looked straight at Fred. “Where’s your family?”

          “The wife’s out in San Diego watching over her dying mom. The kids are scattered around the world.”

          “What about you, Gina?”

          “We get the family here on New Year’s, so I have a few days to get ready.”

          I slapped my palms down on the table, “So what are we all going to do this afternoon? Play tiddly-winks? It’s interesting, we have good 401K’s and nice homes with freezers stuffed with food and here we sit like a bunch of dysfunctional people.”

          Fred had a sheepish grin on his face. “I’m sure the guys from manufacturing are already getting cozy at the Giddy-up Roadhouse.

          “I’m not that dysfunctional,” I replied, and then added, “Well, I guess I have been out there a time or two after golf league.”

          My cellphone buzzed. The email said my credit card was compromised. The message came from an account with .edu at the end – a scammer for sure. Others started looking at their phones, too.

          Eric pointed to his phone and spoke to the group. “Okay, here’s something we can do before we go home tonight. The food kitchen at St. James is serving full holiday meals all this week to the needy and homeless folks. They have menus, and the volunteers take orders and serve the people at the tables. They need extra volunteers to help until six o’clock. You get to meet all kinds of people and when you are done you get your own free meal. It’s better than what I’m looking at on my tray. Who’s in?”

          Fred replied, “That’s a great idea.”

          Gina chimed, “Let’s go.”

          We all got up and walked to the conveyor belt at the tray return. I set my tray on the belt and watched the uneaten Jell-O disappear into the kitchen.

          “See you there at two.” My heels clicked on the floor of the empty hallway. The building was almost deserted. The office space had a quiet, spooky feeling to it. White-noise hiss and computer fans were the only sounds that filled the air.

          Eric’s idea of helping at the church appealed to me. It sounded more fun than going home to a dark house. I grabbed my coat and hurried through the bone-chilling cold in the massive concrete garage. Uh-oh, I need to get some gas. The tires crunched on the packed snow as I pulled out onto the street.

          The inner-city gas station with a mini-mart wasn’t one of those gleaming plazas in exurbia. The spaces were tight at the pumps and at the parking stalls. Once inside, I passed a small table on the way to the restroom. A woman with sad-looking eyes and stringy hair was holding a small child in her arms, and there was a crying toddler next to her. They were eating crumbs from small cracker and cheese-spread packets. She was counting change and putting the coins into her purse. There were two large shopping bags filled with clothes leaning against the window.

          While in the restroom, I thought of the look of fear and desperation in her eyes. They might be homeless, or at the very least, without enough money for food.

On my way out, I stopped at the table. “Ma’am, I don’t mean to pry, but if there is anything you need, I’d be glad to get it for you. Your kids look hungry.”

          The baby buried its runny nose into the mother’s armpit, and the toddler began to whine.

          The woman looked directly at me, then turned her head towards the window. “Oh, thank you, but I’m okay . . .” Tears began to stream down her cheeks and her chin trembled. “I just left my husband and I don’t know where to go. When he comes home, I’m afraid he will begin looking for us.”

          “I’m so sorry. You know, I think I can help you. I’m on my way to St. James to volunteer at their food kitchen. They’ll have a good meal for you and your kids. I’ll bet someone there will help find a shelter where you and the kids can stay.”

          She hesitated to respond, probably sizing me up, trying to decide if my offer was legitimate.

          “I’m on my way to meet some friends there to help serve. There’s room in my car. It’s just five minutes down the avenue.”

          “That sounds very nice, but we don’t want to be any trouble.”

          “No trouble at all, ma’am. I really think you could use some help right now.”

          She nodded, “Yes, just a little.”

          “Here, let me carry these bags and we can get you all to the car.” We walked slowly out of the mini-mart, and I helped them into the back seat.

          On our way down the avenue, I broke the silence. “Ma’am do you think you will be safe while you are at St. James? If you think your husband is looking for you, I can try to get you to a shelter immediately.”

          “No, he’s usually gone for three or four days when he goes on a drug binge. I think we’ll be okay.”

          At St. James, I helped them out of the car and carried their bags into the building. The smells of turkey dinner and coffee hit us was we walked into the large room decorated with red ribbons and gold bells. Betty Jo greeted us at the door. “Why Pete, you’re a bit late. Who do you have here?”

          “These are some nice people I met at the gas station.”

          The woman added, “I’m Mary and these are my two children, Isabel and Lucas.”

          Betty Jo put her arm around them and said, “So nice to meet all of you. Come on in and we’ll get you and your kids something to eat.”

          I found Eric, then shared the story about finding the woman and two children.

          "I know some folks here who have connections with the mission. I'll get them to see if there is some space at their home for women and children. Here, Pete, I'll let you take the orders from the guests at tables six and seven." He stuffed the food lists into my hand.

          While walking towards the tables I looked at the talkative crowd and heard laughter and music. I saw Gina crouched down, visiting with Mary and her two kids. They were all smiling.

          So many happy people. There’s no place I’d rather be than right here, right now. We’re all one big family. This is my home tonight.

          I walked up to the couples sitting at table six. “Merry Christmas, folks. What looks good on the menu? I’ll be glad to take your order.

A Slice of Americana

Madison, Indiana on the Ohio River

A Slice of Americana

memoir

by Gregory E. Larson

“We’ll give you free delivery if you win it.” The man on the street corner pointed to the bright red golf cart with chrome wheels and shiny rubber tires. “Just twenty-five dollars a raffle ticket. The proceeds go to maintaining the river walk.”

“I live in Kansas City and I really don’t need a golf cart.”

“You can opt for $7500 cash.”

The guy was going to have a busy day. It was only 9:00 in the morning but he was in his element. He pointed out to the man in the pick-up truck at the red light. “Hey Jack. I’ll put you down for four tickets. I know you got a hundred dollars cash in your pocket.”

I sat at the outdoor table by the curb, and viewed the surroundings while I ate a homemade apple-cinnamon muffin and washed it down with a big cappuccino. The guy never gave up. He almost had me believing I needed a golf cart. I got up when he wasn’t looking and started walking towards downtown Madison, Indiana, a historic district on the Ohio River. I looked down a side street through the mist toward the Kentucky side. Kentucky mist. Sounds like a good brand of bourbon. The sun and humidity were invading the quaint town in the late September morning while the people filled the sidewalks. It was the annual arts and crafts fair, and there were booths full of handiwork, as well as homemade jam, local honey, and baked goods.

Outdoor market at Madison, Indiana

I wandered over to the outdoor market on Broadway and sat on a bench by the fountain to wait for my son-in-law and granddaughter. Amish boys took turns pulling each other in an old Flyer wagon, as they wound their way through the crowd. A guitarist was twanging and singing at a microphone. I thought the lyrics sounded familiar but the quality of his voice and guitar kept me from remembering the original group or the song title.

Two dogs on their leashes passed each other in the crowd. The small bulldog strained and pawed to get near the little cairn terrier. The terrier glanced at the bulldog as if to say, “Why bother?”

I sat down and thought, this is a happenin’ place. A shapely gal walked by in flip-flops, zoomba pants, and a top that left her midriff bare. Then I noticed a guy with a curly beard so big it made me think of the beards worn by some of the major league baseball players these days.

My son-in-law with the granddaughter in the stroller met up with me. We applied sunscreen and began to look at the arts and crafts booth. There was more than you could imagine: leather goods, blown glass, jewelry, wooden walnut bowls, photo art, bonsai trees, pottery and sculpture, but not much framed art. A woman and her friends walked out of the bonsai booth. “Oh lordy, my cats would never leave those things alone.”

The town folks were working to cash in on a good opportunity. Signs on the lawn at the Christian Church read, “BBQ Lunch $10.” The church volunteers had their propane grills fired up and ready to go. I was thirsty so I stopped at a private home where the owners sat by a table and cooler on the other side of the wrought-iron fence. The homemade sign read: Ice Cold Bottled Water - $1.00.

“How’s it goin’? I’ll take one.”

“Business is brisk.”

The whole town was spruced up for the big weekend. Historic private homes had their mums out, hedges trimmed and fall gourds and decorations strategically placed. Bi-planes and helicopters buzzed overhead. This is a happenin’ place.

Historical homes in Madison, Indiana

Cecilia, the granddaughter, reached her hand out over the stroller and yelled, “Ooo, hey,” while she waved her finger towards a big bounce house for kids. At two years old, she didn’t know what it was, but the colors definitely got her excited.

The food trucks down by the river looked like they had just pulled in from a state fair. Wisconsin Cheese, The German Haus, Funnel Cakes. The aroma and steam from the brats and burgers added to the stifling heat. Step right up and stuff yourself silly.

I loved being in such a vibrant atmosphere, but the heat and humidity kept bearing down. Before walking back to my car, I made a special trip over to a back street where there was a doorway to a townhouse that I used for a watercolor painting I completed a year ago. It spoke to me as an image that summed up the historic town. Every time I go back to a spot that I’ve painted, it feels like a space where I’ve taken root, and that in some special way a piece of my spirit is always there. Today, I experienced another slice of Americana.

Doorway and Steps
2018 watercolor by Gregory E. Larson

Class of '69

Class of ‘69

Memoir 

by Gregory E. Larson

I turned up the Bob Dylan song, “Like a Rolling Stone,” on my iPod music to keep from getting drowsy on the highway, and yelled out, “Sing it loud and sing it proud!” Slapping my knee with one hand and holding the steering wheel with the other, I began to sing “Once upon a time, you dressed so fine…”

I kept slapping my knee as I looked out across ocean-sized farms that stretched as far as the horizon. I was comfortable inside the air-conditioned car, but it appeared hot and windy outside. The mirage from the late afternoon sun made it look like there was water on the pavement ahead. I had to admit there was a bit of angst in the pit of my stomach as I approached Garden City in Western Kansas. The fifty-year reunion of my graduating high school class of ’69 would be my first one to attend. Would any of my old friends be there? Would anyone recognize me?

I hardly recognized the town since it had tripled in size from the days of school. When I drove to the older parts of the main thoroughfares, I remembered that Garden City was aptly named. It really was a green spot in the bleak stretches of land that made up the surroundings. It was an oasis of culture, a safe place to raise a family and connect with friends, a place of protection from the unceasing winds and the harsh weather.

That first evening at the Eagles Lodge for the meet and greet party, my fears melted away. The friends, the stories and the laughter greeted me as I walked in the door. The memories weren’t so much about what we learned in class, but about life and growing up. High school was the beginning of finding our way in the world. The stories of sports, part-time jobs, first cars, extra-curricular activities and shenanigans – that’s what were etched in our memories and what we shared all evening.

A tour of the old high school building the next morning was bittersweet. So much remodeling had taken place to the building, we had to hunt for something to hang our memories on. Carpet was on the floor instead of tile. Someone said the tiles that made up our mascot (the Buffalo) on the floor were taken to hang on the wall of the new high school. And there were ghostly memories of encounters with the faculty – both good and bad. Those teachers were on a mission to mold us into adults, and in the process, we learned that both teachers and students are human – sometimes right and sometimes wrong.

What touched me most about the reunion was how important every person was that made the effort to come. Somehow, some way. we’d all survived the intervening fifty years and had the stories to tell. The social pecking order of 1969 didn’t exist. We were a big group of peaceful, caring folks. All the greetings and all the shared thoughts were precious. The stories brought fifty years of humanity alive. Births, marriages, divorces, death, years of toil, years of joy. It reminded me of the English teacher from our high school years, Miss Barbee, one of the faculty mainstays. I can still hear her southern accent as she spoke to us, “These classical novels of English literature are filled with life events.” I realized that after fifty years our lives have the richness of novels. Living in the real world can be more fascinating. I truly enjoyed listening to people talk about the past, letting them tell their story.

In those two brief days of the reunion, we experienced somewhat of a time warp and it almost seemed like the '60s. Several of us had lunch at the old dairy shop downtown. The tin ceiling, the long counter and the old menus were all still there, and it reminded me of “the good old days” when we used to drive our cars down Main Street to see and be seen.

This was a rare August day for the reunion – mild temperatures and almost no wind. One of my high school friends and I drove by the houses where we were raised, and that brought back even more memories of coming home late at night, or shooting baskets on a goal that was taken down long ago. The little spruce tree my dad planted was now 60 ft. tall.

The second evening we had dinner at the Knights of Columbus Hall, catching up on lost years with old friends and making sure we didn’t forget to say ‘hi’ to someone and share an old memory. And a group picture was taken with umpteen cell phones pointed at us. It was sad to leave at the end of the evening. Our brief encounters came to an end.

Sunday morning was blanketed with a light fog across hundreds of miles of flatland. I gassed up the car, cleaned the bugs off the windshield and pointed my car to the east, just as I had done when I left Garden City for college. As I drove out over the prairie, I thought about all the stories and memories I’d heard and shared that weekend. Fog enveloped the city behind me, as if a curtain closed all the festivities. I searched for a Beach Boys song, turned up the volume and sang, “Round, round, get around, I get around . . .”

Paris, Etched in Stone

The Louvre Museum - Main Entrance

Paris, Etched in Stone

memoir

by Gregory E. Larson

          During a stopover in Paris on my 2017 trip to the Netherlands, I made a visit to the Louvre Museum. There’s enough to see for several lifetimes and I’ve just scratched the surface.

          My main reason for the visit was a hot ticket that I’d purchased at home to see a special Vermeer exhibit along with period Dutch paintings. Although it was crowded, it was a treat to see the Vermeer paintings first-hand and get close to the brushstrokes of the highlights.

Mona Lisa painting at the Louvre

          I then proceeded to the room with Mona Lisa, an elevator ride to a room full of people. Mona let me down. Was I really hoping to make a connection to this famous painting? They could have replaced the original with a cheap print, and no one would have known. I dodged a mob with selfie sticks. Each person was trying to get a picture with Mona.

Typical exhibit hall at the Louvre

          Oh well, I thought, there must be something else in this vast repository that would pique my interest. The architect in me began to focus on the building details, the sculptures and art that were a part of the building and ceiling. At one of the huge windows I looked out upon the city and the Seine.

          There was natural light ahead, filtering down through a skylight. That's when I saw her. The soft browns and grays reflected off the sculpture of Winged Victory. Oh, I wished she could speak to me, the winged lady.

Winged Victory with base

Looking up at Winged Victory

          I longed to see her face. It wasn’t there, but I felt it’s soft beauty, it’s happiness. The irony of a stone body, set free, with the garments flowing in the wind, awakened my soul. This mother-of-all-hood-ornaments was perched on the prow of a stone boat. Irony multiplied. But all was perfect on that morning in Paris. I forgot the crowds that wandered through the space. It was just me and the lady on the boat. I got on my knees to take a picture of the underside of the stone prow, and looked up at the magnificence. What purity of line and form, unlocked from the ages. Aerodynamic stone. Weightless rock. Humanity unleashed before returning to dust.

          All the museum items beyond Winged Victory seemed to be collecting dust. I left the behemoth to get some fresh air and to walk along the Seine. Pont Neuf caught my eye. It’s arches gracefully crossing the river, an artful work of stone in its own right, beckoned in the Paris atmosphere of gray sky, green water and patches of sunlight.

Memories for the keeping.

Pont Neuf
with the Louvre Museum beyond
2019 Original Watercolor
by
Gregory E. Larson

Our Lady of Paris

Notre Dame Cathedral -  Paris 2007
photo by author

Our Lady of Paris

memoir

by Gregory E. Larson

          Shock. Sadness. A sense of loss.

          Multiple emotions flooded over me yesterday as I stood in front of the television, aghast at the scene unfolding at Notre Dame in Paris. A conflagration of epic proportions was out of control at the heart of the cathedral. Where were the pumps? Where were the standpipes with hoses and nozzles at strategic locations?

          I have no answers.

          My thoughts went back to my teenage years of the 1960s in Western Kansas. My interest in architecture had taken root and I adopted Notre Dame as my personal symbol of Western Civilization. At that time, it seemed to me that the cathedral was the perfect building in the perfect city. The edifice was situated at the east end of the Isle de la Cité and appeared to have naturally grown out of the ground on the banks of the river Seine. Yet it seemed light years away from the sparsely populated plains of Kansas. I vowed to make a visit, and pay homage to Our Lady.

          Forty years later, on a Sunday morning in June, I fought off the jet lag while I stood in the verdant park on the east side of Notre Dame. I could hear strains of the organ playing inside the cathedral during an early mass. Our Lady didn’t disappoint me. She looked more elegant in person than in all the photos I had seen. I walked out of the warm, sunny morning and into the dark interior, and was amazed the public was allowed to walk the perimeter of the sanctuary while the morning mass was underway.

          The next day, I was compelled to take the tour of the exterior, which included a climb up the bell towers and a walk along the parapets. The views of the cathedral and the surrounding city made my heart sing. Far below the gargoyles were cars, motor scooters, busses, tour boats, and sidewalk cafés, all full of tourists and locals moving about on a Monday morning. My pilgrimage was complete. No doubt — this was the heart of Paris and my heart was so close to this symbol of Western Civilization. Our Lady held me in her arms.

          Even on the rooftop, the cathedral was chock full of stone carvings, copper statues, and artistic details. Grotesque and mythic creatures leaned from the edges to ward off the evil spirits. An angel stood at the peak of nave’s gable, blowing a horn of stone.

          Just before climbing the countless steps back to the ground, our tour guide let us inside the top of the south belfry to see the large bell that was a key element in Victor Hugo’s novel The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

          Those memories are significant now that most of what I saw that day is gone.

          Our Lady was more vulnerable than anyone imagined. A tinderbox waiting for a spark. I hope they rebuild her, although it will never be the same.

          Shock. Sadness. A sense of loss.

Author's note: All of the photos shown below are ones that I took during the tour of the bell towers in June 2007.

Thank You, and announcement of online gallery

by Gregory E. Larson

          What a joyful evening it was at the art exhibit and reception on Friday evening. I was so grateful and humbled to see the large number of people turn out to see the artwork. My goal is to create art that makes people happy, and it was fun to see so many happy people.

          For those of you in the Kansas City area, the exhibit will hang through March and April, so you are welcome to go see it during church hours at:

St. Michael’s and All Angels Episcopal Church 

6630 Nall Ave., 

Mission, KS 66202

          If my schedule is open, I would be glad to meet you there. Also, I have an online gallery with all of the artwork, and with a few paragraphs that I’ve written for each painting which describe where the scene is located and what struck me as interesting, and what caused me to want to paint it. 
          For those of you who live far away, and those who just want to view the artwork, the online gallery website is:

www.LarsonCreativeLLC.com

          I’ll send updates in the future that direct you to new paintings in the online gallery, and some months when I write the typical magazine-style articles, I’ll direct you the website you are on now (www.aroundthebend-greg.blogspot.com). Thanks again for your interest and support for both the blog articles and the artwork. I thank each and every one of you.

          Here’s an example of a couple of the online gallery selections:

Doorway and Steps
2018 watercolor by Gregory E. Larson

DOORWAY AND STEPS - MADISON, INDIANA

          This little town along the Ohio River in Indiana has one of the largest historical districts in the U.S. (approximately 1.5 miles long and .5 mile wide).
          I spent three days in town, enough time to get acquainted with it, viewing the architectural styles and details. It was a tough job to visit the coffee shops and diners, but somebody had to do it. 
          One morning I parked the car on a side street and began walking to the main thoroughfare. The stairs and doorway stopped me in my tracks and I took a picture of it.
          Back in the studio, I became intrigued with the wrought iron benches, realizing that this river town had a lot of wealth in the 1850s. Town homes didn’t just have railings on the steps, they had elegant benches.
          The architectural details, down to the bricks pushed me to the limit on my patience while painting. The most difficult part was painting the portion of the black bench that overlapped the black door. I added the flag for some interest and balance, but the focus of this painting is on the steps and doorway.

* * *

Firewood
2018 watercolor by Gregory E. Larson

FIREWOOD

          The three-bushel galvanized tub came from an antique store in Alma, Kansas. I purchased it the moment I saw it on a Sunday afternoon while driving in the Flint Hills. It was the perfect container for keeping firewood dry in the garage before burning the logs in the fireplace on Friday and Saturday nights. 
          Add an oriental rug, kindling wood, and some tan rubber tile and concrete, and the outcome is a mixture of cool and warm browns, greens and grays with some deep shadows.

Greg's Announcement of Upcoming Art Exhibit

MARK YOUR CALENDARS!

ART EXHIBIT: 

VISTAS AROUND THE WORLD

Watercolors by
Gregory E. Larson

Sicilian Fishing Boat
by Gregory E. Larson

MARCH - APRIL

OPENING RECEPTION

MARCH 1, 2019

5:00 - 8:00 PM

SPENCER HALL
Sponsored by Horizon Arts Ministry

ST. MICHAELS AND ALL ANGELS EPISCOPAL CHURCH

6630 NALL AVE.

MISSION, KANSAS 66202

Friends and Readers,

I have been busy creating watercolors and have twenty-four that I will show at the exhibit mentioned above. I welcome you to come and browse, so that I can share the joy and fascination I have in creating them. There is a story behind every painting. Most of them are landscapes of locations that I have visited in Europe and North America.

I look forward to seeing you on March 1st!

Merci,
Greg

Amongst the Waves at Lac d'Annecy

Catamaran Race on Lac d'Annecy

Amongst the Waves of Lac d’Annecy

travel memoir
by Gregory E. Larson

           The gentle waves of pristine water lapped the dock posts and the shore of Lac d’Annecy at the foot of the French Alps. The afternoon breeze was growing with the temperature in the low 70s, although for two people from Kansas (my friend Mary Anne and I), it seemed to be in the slight breeze category. We stood on shore, watching the white, modern water-taxi slowly jostle its way to the edge of the dock, guided by the young, sandy-haired captain of the boat.



Water Taxi approaching



          In weeks of anticipation of the chartered boat ride, I’d envisioned a sleek wooden boat of golden-brown color with a finish of glossy marine varnish. Although, the white taxi looked very sea-worthy and appeared to have the power to quickly get us around the lake.

           “Allo!” said the young driver of the boat as he stepped up on the dock and looked at me. The eyes of the tourists eating at the lakeside café turned our way to watch us board the taxi. He reached out his hand and spoke with a French accent. “My name is Thibault. And your name?”

          With the exotic setting in the Alps, I was very tempted to say, “Bond . . . James Bond.” But my senses got the better of me. “I’m Greg . . . and this is my friend Mary Anne.”

Author and Mary Anne in the Water Taxi

          Thibault responded, “Oui, I can show you some points of interest around the lake, but tell me if there is something specific you want to see.”

          “I’m an artist. I paint watercolors, and I’d like to photograph a castle, chateau, or church along the shore to use as my inspiration to paint. I’d also like to get some good mountain backgrounds as well.”

Abbaye de Talloires at the foot of the Alps

          “Yes,” said Thibault, “We can do that. Let’s go.” We settled in the boat and pulled away from the resort of Abbaye de Talloires. It was worthy of a movie setting. The deep water reflected colors of turquoise and emerald green. As a backdrop to the old resort, the deciduous trees were just beginning to turn their fall colors. Behind them, upwards on the mountain slopes stood the conifers of deep forest green. Capping the view at the sky were the massive cliffs which seemed to announce to the world: Here we stand guard at the west end of the European Alps! Artistic views appeared at every turn on the lake.

          The artful setting did not go unnoticed by impressionist and cubist painter, Paul Cezanne. In the summer of 1896 he stayed at the Abbaye, which had originally been the home of a group of Benedictine Monks. It was abandoned by the monks after the French Revolution, and in 1862 the portion of the building that was built in 1681 became a hotel.

Paul Cezanne's 1896 painting of Chateau de Duingt on Lac d'Annecy

          Cezanne painted many scenes around Lac d’Annecy in both watercolor and oils. His most famous painting of that summer, Lac d’Annecy, was a view of the Chateau de Duingt, which is the castle located across the lake from the Abbaye. This was a time when Cezanne cultivated his cubist ideas of making geometric forms out of what he saw in his surroundings.

Chateau de Duingt on Lac d'Annecy

          I tend to paint more realistic detail, but I hoped that whatever pixy dust of Paul Cezanne remained in the surroundings, that some of it would fall on me as I searched for subject matter.
          Thibault steered the boat across the small end of the lake to give us a good view of the famous Chateau de Duingt. He slowed the engine and allowed me to snap several pictures.
          “I am told that a family with three children live in the castle. For income they have some of the surrounding buildings set up as a bed and breakfast hotel, and they rent out the grounds for large parties for weddings and family events.”
          We followed the western shore and stopped at spots to view interesting church spires or large chateaus, but I wasn’t pleased with any of the pictures. The mountains were so huge and once I zoomed on the buildings, the peaks were lost. Thibault steered the boat around a peninsula and the large north end of the lake came into view. Voila, a sailboat race of small catamarans was in progress. That’s when my creative juices started to flow.
          I turned and looked at Thibault, then pointed to the boats. “We must go there. I want to take as many sailboat pictures as possible. Try to stop on the south side of the race so the sun will be good for the photos.”


Sailing on Lac d'Annecy
2018 original watercolor by
Gregory E. Larson

          When he turned the water-taxi and accelerated, some of the wave-spray sprinkled our faces, and the whole afternoon came alive. He closed in on the race, cut the engine, and we began to bob like a cork. I jumped like a little kid from one spot in the boat to another to get good views of the moving catamarans as they rounded the race buoys. I focused on composing each picture of sails and mountains, which was difficult while using a zoom lens.
          The sailboats were bobbing in the water and the participants were shouting and laughing at each other in French. Was this catamaran race smack-talk? I couldn’t make out the words, but there were spirited exchanges of shouting between the boats. I guessed they were saying things like, “Get out of the way you waterlogged bucket! We’re coming through!” I felt like I was in a virtual carnival ride, with the wind, water, and the colorful sails moving at a rapid pace.


Focused on sailboats

          Thibault kept following the race and repositioning the boat for me to continue taking photos. My mind was racing along with the boats, trying to find the most colorful groupings and nice backdrops. I’d hit the motherlode in terms of inspiration for watercolors. Les Petits Catamarans! Tears of joy came to my eyes as the boats continued racing.
          I smiled with a thumbs-up to Mary Anne and realized she was taking a picture of me taking pictures of the sailboats. In that moment, I was convinced that the boat ride on the lake had made the entire trip to France worthwhile.

Les Petits Catamarans
2018 original watercolor by
Gregory E. Larson