Sim Carter: Past Tense Imperfect

New on the Podcast Part 2 in a series. [ Part 1: Pretty French Postcards ] I’ve been writing and recording some of my memoir pieces and, in what some might call an extraordinary bout of egomania, posting them on SoundCloud and iTunes. It’s my way of marking my territory, tagging a wall, or like Kiljoy of yesteryear simply saying I was here.  This story is part of a series about a trip to France I took with my younger sister in 1973.  Thanks for listening, subscribing, and if you're feeling it, leaving a comment. Clean from our bath in the sea , awake and running on adrenaline, my sister and I hit the town in search of someplace to stay. Even back in 1973, the hotels overlooking the beach at Bandol, with their pea gravel patios set with painted wooden tables and colored umbrellas, were too pricey; even I didn't have to ask to know that, so we headed to the port side of town. Fronting the harbor, a row of shops, bars and outdoor cafes lined the road. Later wh...

I sit staring at my toes, aware of the incongruity of the turquoise nail enamel on a woman my age. I’m 62, almost 63. What I really want is turquoise blue hair, Katy Perry style. Sitting there in the examination room, bare legs dangling from the paper covered table, the blue toe nails are my concession to propriety, even if they are in desperate need of a retouch. I'm aging, I can't get away from it. I'm too old for aqua colored toe nails, let alone bright blue hair, and too young not to know it. My doctor doesn't mention my turquoise toes but I can't help but wonder if the shade colors her impression of me. "So what are we seeing you for today?"  She gives me a glancing smile before turning her attention to the computer screen. Annoyed that I have to go through the litany of aches and pains and the "I don't know, it's just kind of a nagging pain, right about there, you know?" thing twice, first with the nurse, and then re...

Throwing it back to the Summer of 1970 We were living on Tenth Street in Santa Monica, California when I turned seventeen in 1970,  my friend Trixie  was visiting from Canada, and boys were on our minds. It's #12 of the  On the Street Where I Live stories.  I was a 17 year old high school senior, he was a 23 year old Vietnam Vet. Delaney & Bonnie (and Friends) Jailbait We were sitting on the sand watching the water when they walked by the first time; three long-haired guys who could just as easily be rockers, roadies or bad ass bikers, smiling up at us from the shoreline. The one in the middle - I'd already decided he was mine -  looked like Cat Stevens or the guy from Delaney and Bonnie or really, any of those musicians who had a beard, mustache and dark wavy hair skimming their shoulders. From behind my sunglasses I followed his faded green baggies as they disappeared in the shadows under the pier. Just before they faded to black completely...

Originally posted January, 2015. Watching Downton Abbey, I find myself weeping, homesick for a country I barely lived in. I was born in London at the end of May, 1953 in a scene right out of Call the Midwife. Princess Elizabeth was officially crowned Queen on June 2nd and my parents, who had been hoping my birth would come a few days later — thereby entitling them to a year's worth of free nappies— named me Simone Elizabeth in her honor. But we left England when I was three. In my 60's now, I haven't been 'home' to England in 25 years; with both my British parents dead, I know some of my tears are for them. I feel bereft, my British heritage vanished with the passing of my parents and the few aunts and uncles I ever knew. Watching top British actors like Benedict Cumberbatch, Helen Mirren, and Eddie Redmayne in the films I write about on   Chapter1-Take1, my book-to-movie blog makes me ache with longing. All the episodes of Downton Abbey, Broadchurch, Las...