The Flat Fields Of Belgium

In my youth I would sleep at the end of her bed on a velvet settee listening to murder mysteries on the radio as the headlights from Main Street heading to the midnight shift at the SD Warren paper mill played over the mural of trees on a flat French field painted by my grandfather's patient.

They had both served as doctor and nurse in WWI.

January 1982

I was hired as doorman at a Paris nightclub and drove the owner's car north to pick up the DJ in Bruxelles.

220 Kph

Autoroute

VW GTI

Fast but not the fastest car on the highway.

Passing through as Jacques Brel sang LE PLAT PAYS QUI EST A MIENNE.

Unchanged from 1917.

Now at peace.

The flat fields north of Lille.