I’m not sure whose idea it was to send us to hiking camp in the mountainous Haute Savoie region of France, but one August, there we were. Two little American kids among forty or so French-speaking 8 to 12 year olds. For an entire month. The camp was sponsored by SNCF, the French National Railway. We went two years in a row. The first summer was fantastic: Hiking in the high peaks, eating amazing cheese and foraging for hazelnuts and wild blueberries on our endless treks. It was there that I discovered the joys of eating a baguette stuffed with giant hunks of Swiss chocolate. On our longer hikes, and at higher altitudes, we would sometimes stay overnight at a farm. We would all pile into the stalls in the sheep or the goat barn. With the animals. Yep. The second year was decidedly less fun. I had sprained my ankle quite badly right before camp was to start. It doesn’t take much imagination to figure out how that played out in a place where one was expected to be ambulatory and more. I mostly sat around reading, drawing and — inexplicably — making yarn pom poms that the bratty French girls then promptly pulled apart. The other day I found this picture of my brother (kneeling with his arms around the goat) with some of the other campers and it all came back to me in a rush.

This is a personal little tidbit: When I was 7 and my brother was 9, my mother decided to move us to Paris. She had visited a few months prior and left her notebook in a cafe. She decided it was fate. Or was it serendipity? Anyway, instead of relocating via airplane (boring!), she opted for the slow boat. The S.S. Nieuw Amsterdam. The very same ship pictured here. How she afforded it still baffles me. It was the last transatlantic voyage for this vessel and its Dutch crew. Any passage thereafter was spent in the Caribbean. We departed from a pier on New York’s west side. All the requisite streamers and champagne were there to see us off. It had to be one of the MOST exciting days…ever. Until my mother realized that she had left her luggage sitting on our porch back in Philadelphia. Oops. She was a trooper though, and made the best of an awkward situation. She also quickly made friends, all of whom were happy to lend her a dress here, a pantsuit there (It was the 70s). But mostly she just wore the same thing. We were supposed to dock in Le Havre, but there was a dockworkers strike so we couldn’t make port. Through some stroke of genius, or luck, or both, the trip ended up being extended for a few extra days before finally anchoring in Rotterdam. Photo via Old Chum via Electrospark.

At long last, with the expertise of the very very patient and talented Susan F., you now have the option to subscribe to Mrs. Easton. Just click on the subscribe link in the right hand navigation menu…et voila!

Update: Some people have reported a lag in the confirmation email, so please let me know if you are having any difficulty signing up. I will be glad to help.

So, as of today Mrs. Easton is two years old!! It doesn’t seem like much, and then again it does. In baby terms, I am now officially a toddler. I started this little venture as a sort of personal diary…for all to see. I only wanted to post images of what I truly loved. And I figured that maybe, if I hewed to my own way of seeing things, others might enjoy the occasional posting here and there. I also told myself that if ever this became a bother instead of a pleasure, then I would summarily pull the plug. Well, I am delighted to report that hasn’t happened. I am particularly grateful (and always delighted) by the kind words of support from Mrs. Easton’s readers!! Happy Birthday.

Here’s a little peek into my new studio — the reading corner. I finally set up some bookshelves, as well as a chair and a lamp that I kidnapped from our place in Brooklyn. I hooked up an old stereo and, truly, I could not be happier!! It’s going to take awhile for all this to sink in.