Revelations of a Traveller

Lost

2010-09-27T18:30:00.003+02:00

It looks like my new website may be lost forever though I hoping, probably beyond hope, that it can be found as so much work went into creating it.

Michael just found it. Yeah.

So if you haven't gone there already, my new (not so new now) site is yvonneyoung.ca

Change of Address

2010-01-25T07:00:00.003+01:00

Please note that I am moving my blog to an expanded website at yvonneyoung.ca. It is still developing and will become more comprehensive (hopefully) as time goes by.

Merci

Fire

2010-01-21T15:07:00.004+01:00

It looks much better in the pictures than live. The damage is not great but the soot and smell are horrible. Tomorrow a cleaning crew arrive.

A Fire

2010-01-15T20:20:00.002+01:00

Yesterday, Rob and I were up in his office, the attic, trying to get my email to work when the electricity went out. Rob went down 3 flights of stairs and saw a light was flashing in the fuse box. He opened the door and flames lept out. He called up to me. I came running down and when I saw the flames panicked. "Get somebody," he yelled. "Call the fire department." Neither of us knew the emergency number. I ran to David's house and screamed our house is on fire. He said he would be right there. I ran to the Patisserie and asked the owner to call the fire department.

We watched the flames climbing up the wall and still no fire department. Finally, twenty minutes later they arrived. I have no idea how many fire men and women there were but they appeared to move in slow motion... Rob was furious but couldn't do a thing. The police arrived. Our small street was crowded and I nearly cried as I watched the fire spread while the firemen talked about what to do.

Several used an extinquisher on the fuse box. They were about to leave when Rob yelled, "There's smoke coming out of the second floor. In slow motion again, they went for a ladder and hoisted it onto the next roof. Firemen went in with smoke masks and opened the first and second floor windows. (Oh yes, they did, while we stood there shivering in our pjs, helpless.)

In the end, the bottom floor, ground level, one wall was destroyed. The first floor (second in our language) was destroyed and the firemen sawed it up and then lay plywood. The whole house is covered in soot and smells like smoke. No electricity. No phone.

The electrician came. Our builder came. The insurance agent came. No one knows how this could have happened when the whole house was redone a year ago. The insurance agent simply said "restore it" in French.

And so Rob and I slept at Susan and David's last night. At 6:30 in the morning, we left for our planned "holidays". Rob is in London, taking a French course. (Yes.) And I am in Paris with Gillian, awaiting our Irish cousins (mother and daughter.)

C'est la vie.

The First Days of the New Year

2010-01-03T14:11:00.003+01:00

The house is silent again. On January 1st, Brendan, Gillian, and Yeliz returned to Paris after celebrating too flamboyantly New Year's eve whereas Rob and I had a quiet night in the company of friends where we dined and played games - charade and dictionary - because Adam's two young boys were there. I secretly desired a little ruckus and music but still it was pleasant.

After the trio left for Paris, I went to a noon champagne and oyster party at Susan and Davids - a yearly event attended by English and French-speaking villagers where glasses of bubbly and platters of oysters are continuously replenished. I never liked oysters until last year when David begged me to try one (he'd bought too many) and I was surprised not to mind the texture and taste. After several, I began to enjoy them.

Isobel Allende in "Aphrodite" says that "Oysters are the queens of aphrodisiac cuisine, protagonists of every erotic scene recorded in literature or film. The best way to eat them is raw, after squeezing lemon over them to test whether they are alive..." Ah, I didn't know that's why the platters were filled with lemons.

Fortunately or unfortunately, I did not feel any great pangs of desire after slurping up 5 or 6 this year, but I can imagine they could be quite sexy at a table set for 2, with white linen and candles, half shells (top discarded), lemon squeezed liberally... in slow motion, raising the pearly shell to my lips, mouth open, oyster slidding down, down... (Allende says a lover may put the oyster in her mouth and then deliver it to her love's lips.)

After an hour, I left the party and went home to nap. I am not used to staying up past midnight. Finding myself not able to sleep (the oysters?) I went through the day in slow motion.

Today, I woke early, and felt a need to do something, anything, outside, wherever and so I drove to Gaillac and wandered round the Sunday market. I've been feeling housebound and needed some air and alone time. (I miss my small house in the garden though Rob and I seldom disturb the other during the day. He is on the fourth floor. I am on the bottom.)

I bought an almond croissant and went to Cafe Sport for coffee. The place is crowed. A line of men stand at the bar drinking beer (and it's not 11 a.m.), a number of grey-haired men sit a tables playing card games, and a woman across from me (there are few women) sits with her small dog, a long-haired mucky little thing, with a straight-up ponytail (tied with a red elastic) but you would think him (her?) her true love, as she positions him on her lap, paws on the table, and strokes his body, back and forth, absentmindedly.

And so the new year has begun slowly and I'm in a quiet frame of mind.

Welcome 2010

2010-01-01T16:08:00.004+01:00

Last year was an extraordinary year. In March, I turned sixty. In May, I went on a gypsy pilgrimage to Les Saintes Maries de la mer. In July, Rob and I finally sold our house. In August, we welcomed Michael and Mackenzie "home", then emptied this home, and moved to France.

Since August, we have been enjoying, struggling, entertaining, and getting used to the novel experience of not having a Canadian address and debt. Rob says he's happy here and doesn't want to return to Canada. I don't know what I want. I miss friends and family. As far as writing goes, it has been a slim year. I did manage to send one story out in December and will send out another before the end of this month.

I am hoping 2010 brings clarity, direction, productivity, contentment, and good health.

Happy New Year

2009-12-31T19:09:00.003+01:00

The day has disappeared like so many is the last while but I want to catch those I love and wish them a happy, healthy, prosperous new year and though these words are too often used, I wish for all these things in 2010.

Lacking time to think clearly about what the end of this year means and the beginning of another (more on this soon), I steal from other writers:

"One resolution I have made, and try always to keep, is this: To rise above the little things."
- John Burroughs
"The object of a New Year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul and a new nose; new feet, a new backbone, new ears, and new eyes. Unless a particular man made New Year resolutions, he would make no resolutions. Unless a man starts afresh about things, he will certainly do nothing effective."
- G.K. Chesterton
"For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning."
- T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"

I have been working on a new expanded blog that will appear soon and might have happened before the new year but I am so damn fussy and though Michael worked till four this morning to transfer files and improve the appearance, it'll take another day or two (hopefully not longer) to appear.

Now I will dress up to bring in 2010.

We had such a lovely Christmas Evening

2009-12-27T16:24:00.009+01:00

The Night Before Christmas

By 5 p.m., the Christmas tables are set, mistletoe hung, candles lit, and the only missing ingredient is our middle son and his love.

Rob opens a bottle of bubbly and Gill, Yeliz, he, and I toast the occasion. Alice arrives first with a lush green salad (to be served hot) and a gift of foie gras that she tells us to hide. Bob and Rosemary are next and without a doubt, Rosemary is the belle of the evening in her slinky blouse, Spanish tiara, and elf slippers. She has presents for everyone. She gives us a trio of pates, 2 of her novels - signed, homemade chocolates, a mincemeat pie (that she began 3 months ago), and cheese sticks and curry pastries for appetizers. Ruth comes up the stairs with a rich salmon mousse, surrounded by greens to be served as an entree, and chocolate cake, Francis following with white bowls of spinach, green beans, savoury stuffing, and hot red cabbage, then Adam and his two sons arrive with a leg of lamb and 2 pans of roasted potatoes. (Susan notes that all is delicious - surprisingly everyone can cook.) Gill scurries around the kitchen, re-heating what needs it, and laying out the bounty.

And so we feasted and sipped red wine. After the main course, we all trooped downstairs to hear Ruth on her violin and David on his cello, play 3 German Christmas songs. We all wanted more so Alice, in her high clear voice, sang a couple of rowdy ballads, and then I, who have always been told I can't sing a note, who was the one in the school choir told to mouth the words, cut through my embarrassment and fear and sang a few lines of Christmas carols so Ruth could catch the tune and accompany us.

Later, Adam told Rob that I had a beautiful voice - a stretch, I know. But Alice, in her no-nonsense way, told me that I have an adequate voice, that I can carry a tune. I cannot explain why her comment and not Adam's, filled me with such pleasure. I will not be so fearful next time.

And so this was Christmas.

And so this is Christmas Morn

2009-12-25T10:25:00.003+01:00

7 a.m.

A soft rain falls.

I have already been to the Patisserie for pain au raisin and bread and cooked a bread and walnut stuffing for the turkey.

The children (if you can call them that) are still snug in their beds. Gillian is here with her young friend Yeliz - they arrived from Paris two days ago and Brendan flew from Paris yesterday. (We are missing Michael and Mackenzie who promise they will visit soon but alas not for Christmas.)

Last night, we celebrated Christmas Eve with champagne ( really a bubbly from this region - as delicious but not as expensive as bubbly from Champagne) and Gill and Yeliz cooked steak with an extravagant cream sauce, tossed a salad, and baked lemon cookies for dessert. I made the frites and later the popcorn when we moved down to the salon to watch Elf - a silly film but one that I watch every year (as well as A Christmas Carol and The Santa Claus.)

Tonight we will have 15 people for a communal feast. I'm in charge of the turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce, and am looking forward to setting beautiful tables (we will need two) for our multi-cultural group of friends, aged 7 to 83.

I just stepped outside and the sun is shining.

3 p.m.

The turkey is in the oven. The cranberry sauce is made.

The "kids" did not get up until 11:30 and so we ate fresh pineapple and pancakes for lunch and then opened several small presents each. I am content but think it time that I jumped in a shower and dressed for our soiree.

Merry, merry, happy Christmas

2009-12-24T23:55:00.004+01:00

Santa is in Zurich right now. I hope he reaches all of you.

I am at a loss for words but I wish that you all have a lovely Christmas and a happy holiday season.

I'm Never Fully Awake

2009-12-15T15:41:00.003+01:00

I fall asleep at 9 and wake up at 1. I go back to bed around 6 and wake around 11. I wouldn't mind so much if I were fully awake and functioning but I feel I'm in a fog. I would like to email my friends and write from the heart but I cannot find the energy. And so I wander, read a little, eat, do laundry and the odd chore. I'd like to go into the forest and find evergreen branches and decorate the mantel for Christmas but again I can't find the energy to go outdoors. And it's cold out there.

I'll recap a little. The time in Toronto with family and friends sped by and I feel quietly content about my visit. I smile when I think of my father in the kitchen, my mother learning to maneuver her new computer, my sister cooking an amazing risotto, going out to dinner with one sniffling courageous friend and her new love, and sitting on the floor with another who has grown more beautiful since I saw her in the spring.

And now I am home. How strange "home" is these days now that we have only one house. And though it sounds exotic living in an ancient village in the south of France where we are in love with the food, wine, and tranquility, we struggle with the differences, especially the language. How strange too that our daughter and eldest son decided to leave Canada for Europe around the same time while our grownup middle child/son moved with his love - a young woman who we think of as a daughter - to Vancouver. We are all in transition.

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do/ with your one wild and precious life" is a question we're all exploring.

In my nuclear family, though often full of good will and laughter, we have the unfortunate habit of dwelling on what's missing or what's wrong with a situation, rather than luxuriating in what's good and wonderful - a human trait, I'm sure but one that we're particularly adept at and one which I'm trying to lose - or lose to some degree because it's next to impossible to get rid of something that's in the blood.

For some reason this reminds me of a film segment called Ole I found on Wenda's blog in which Elizabeth Gilbert discusses her book "Eat, Pray, Love" and how she nurtures the creative process and how frightening it is to have a hugh success (a fluke, she says). We writers have a tendency to wallow in despair - about the quality of our work or the lack of work. How do I stop being anxious that I am not attacking my novel? Gilbert speaks of ancient Greece and Rome where the creative individual was believed to have a guardian, daemon, muse who was as responsible as she for the quality and success of her work.

I would like to be visited by such a daemon but if it/she/he is not a constant presence, the thing to do, Gilbert points out is, is to just show up for your job - out of sheer human stubbornness and love. At the very least, I have written this blog today.

I'm back in France

2009-12-11T17:53:00.002+01:00

Time flies. Two days ago I'm in Toronto and there's snow on the ground. (Even though I find it lovely, I am miserable dragging my suitcase through the morning slush, catching a subway train, a Go Train, and finally a very late bus to my sister's house in Brampton, to eventually catch a plane back to the south of France.) The next morning I'm in Paris, repeating under my breath "Paris, je t'aime" though so damn weary I can hardly see straight. Several hours later I catch an one-hour flight to Toulouse.

Rob meets me. The weather is warm. I get rid of my coat and sweater. We drive along the autoroute past fields so green, I cannot believe my eyes. How did I get from Toronto slush to French sunshine? Air France. I used to be thrilled when I could fly this airline but no longer. I've decided to change my blog - soon - and have a separate section where I tell whoever whatever how I really feel about her, him, it and why.

More soon.

Ho Ho Ho

2009-12-06T20:00:00.004+01:00

Just caught Santa Claus in downtown Toronto, on television...

The days pass lazily as I enjoy my mother's and father's company. I believe that they are happy to have me with them. My mother hugs me each morning. My father makes me breakfast - usually a boiled egg and toast. He drove me to Peterborough, down country roads, because I mentioned that I'd like to see this city. My mother has taken me to Wall Mart, Costco, Zellars, and the Swiss Chalet - nostalgic outings - a slice of Canadiana.

She manages well with a cane and better with a shopping cart to prop herself. My father needs neither. He is amazingly agile for a man of 87 though I hear him mutter (at least half a dozen times a day) "poor old man".

And so the days have passed. I have spent much of my time setting up my mother's new MacBook - a Christmas gift from my father - and teaching her how to use it. I admit that I sometimes lose patience. "Mum, highlight the message you want to move." "You have asked me five times about your YouTube flick. I told you I'd bookmark it today." My tone is brusque and I apologize. I know what it is like to be told something about a computer program (usually by one of my sons) and not understand a word.

I have downloaded and introduced both my parents to "Skype" and now that my mother has her new computer with a webcam, she can talk and see all her children online.

On Friday, I took a break and went out to lunch with Wanda, a woman I met at one of the French workshops. My mother says that she's very attractive. My father says that she's cheeky. She's both. And I so like her down-to-earth, generous spirit.

On Saturday, my brother and his love Jane came to visit. I adore

my brother. He's a genius (no bias here) and another down-to-earth, generous soul. Before he had even taken off his coat, he asked my Dad about the wood he wanted sawed down for fire wood. My father suggested he just leave the chainsaw and my brother refused. There's no way I'm leaving this for you to kill yourself...

And so my days pass... Later today I will return to my sister's Gael with my mum. Monday and Tuesday I will visit downtown Toronto and share two dinners with two women friends, before flying back to France on Wednesday evening.

In my Father's House

2009-11-30T18:08:00.007+01:00

On Friday, I flew from Toulouse to Frankfurt to Montreal to Toronto to visit my father and mother, two sisters and a brother. My sister Gael met me at the airport. Around the same time that Rob and I left our home of many years, she left hers and is now living in a brick heritage home in the heart of Brampton. The house is like something out of "Little Women" with polished wood banisters, brick fireplace, window seats, and leaded glass doors leading from parlour to dining room to kitchen.

My older sister and her husband joined us Saturday and together we helped Gael and her husband prepare for a Sunday evening party.

On Sunday morning, my big sister and her love drove me to Port Hope to see my parents. My mother cried when she saw me. My father, not expecting us till later in the day, was out roaming but returned soon after a phone call, to give me a big hug.

I feel so fortunate at 60 to have both my parents alive, lucid, and mobile. And although time has slowed them down and both have health issues, they are doing remarkably well for folk in their 80s.

Today, Monday, I'm up at my usual time - 5 in the morning - sipping tea after having unlocked and relocked the five locks and bolts on two doors that lead to the back garden, to smoke a cigarette. My parents own a heritage house, same vintage as my sister's, but theirs is crammed to overflowing with antiques. I suppose they fear some thief will slip in and rob them. But five locks? Given that they live beside a police station where there is always a cop or two outdoors enjoying the same filthy habit that I have, it seems excessive. Although to be fair, some thief did slip into their front hall and took off with a small table. The police caught him.

Nuclear families are strange units and even now that I'm grown, I bring the child that I once was home with me, the child who wanted a fairytale family in which every one smiles and is kind - oh so kind to each other like the March family in "Little Women." Of course, I identified with Jo, the writer, the independent sister who was less feminine, more adventurous than Meg, Amy, and Beth. I'm also bossy like Jo but, come to think of it, all my sisters are bossy. Together, Rob's sister once said, we can be overpowering.

And so back in my father's house, I find my parents still aren't Mr and Mrs March...

A few weeks ago, Rob told me about a time when we were setting out on a long road trip and before we had even left our street, I spat some harsh words at him. I vaguely recall the incident. Still I was shocked when he told me about it. I didn't think I could be so mean.

My mind wanders, thinking such things as "well no one's perfect" and "I am usually kind." I see that I still want to be the easy daughter, wife, friend but this would mean, to my mind, denying part of myself. And yet it's more complicated than that.

When I think of that time with Rob, I realize that my meanness was a cover for my fear. I was terrified of spending days in a car. After the car accident I had a few years back, I have become an impossible passenger. I know that people do stupid things behind a wheel and bodies are fragile. Unfortunately and unfairly, my fear cum venom were directed not at the asinine driver who could have killed me but at a safe driver who loves me.

Coincidentally a friend just told me a story about her husband and herself. They had been passing angry words back and forth and she stopped herself mid stream with the thought he loves me and wishes the best for me. This same friend was having difficulty relating to her son's wife and she asked him what to do. He said "just love her." It worked.

And so here in my father's house, I'm thinking about love and how it is sometimes expressed in negative ways because there's other emotions (like my fear) at play under the surface.

Minimalism

2009-11-24T14:37:00.006+01:00

Last week, Rob and I walked through a hidden park in Albi... a 45 minute walk to view beautiful fall colours.

Today I went to the village market with Rob. Spoke to Ruth whose energy overwhelms me.

Played with WordPress. New possibilities for my blog but confusing.

Yesterday, I visited Susan. She went to Marrakech with David - instead of us to celebrate my 60th - and described it as "savage," as I lay curled at the foot of her bed. Our conversation wandered. My self-image infuriates her. I understand.

Glad tidings. Gill is home from Italy and cooking and baking. Another woman whose energy overwhelms me, astounds me, whom I love.

On Friday I fly to Toronto.

Loving Donna Margaret

2009-11-18T12:42:00.009+01:00

How I admire thee, third sister born nearly five years after me - 4 years, 7 months, 2 weeks, 6 days to be precise.

You were the smart daughter. I was the easy one (until I reached my 40s).

I remember you in kindergarten - already so smart that the teacher wanted to accelerate you to second grade. I asked if you wanted to play hooky one day and you readily agreed but then I chickened out and took you to school instead. You were so angry at me.

Years later you took your revenge. I was dating a beautiful rich boy (though snobby) and, as Mum and Dad were out, I brought him home only to find you sprawled in the hall, an empty whiskey bottle by your feet, play acting you were drunk. I could have killed you.

And I have a vague recollection of inviting you and your boyfriend to come and live with Rob and me. You were at Ryerson and our place was so much closer to the school than the family home. Every week I would pin up a job list, trying to allocate housework so I wouldn't be the only cleaner. You laughed as you always laugh and did as you pleased.

More years pass and Rob and I are in Vancouver. You come to visit, and you and I take off for Victoria. Among other things naughty things, we decided to try every drink in a bar one night. My memories of that night - those I remember - are a haze. But the point is we were downright silly together, dared the other to make a fool of herself in public and without hesitating, the one dared performed. We laughed so hard. It's always that way with you. You have a way of making people loosen up, laugh at the world, play, and enjoy her or himself. How many of your real estate clients have become friends?

And we still act mighty silly together. Remember the day that I locked myself on your upstairs balcony and the only key to your house inside. After I found a neighbour to help me down and you returned. You didn't get angry, you laughed, hoisted me up to balcony again and insisted I break the door down if necessary. (It opened after a few body hits though I suffered the next day.)

And then there are the salsa classes, our lunches at Vera's, dinners at the Swiss Chalet, pajama parties, snuggled into your bed watching movies... And though we argue about who is crazier, I'd say that you win the prize. Recall this summer in the sunflower field?

You are just too wonderful for words, kind, generous and loving too, and I hope you're having a great time in Maui on your birthday (though it would probably be more fun with me. Okay, it'd be a different kind of fun.)

Lot of hugs and kisses from me to you. Here's looking at you kid.

(The next post is your birthday card.)

There were never such devoted sisters

2009-11-18T10:43:00.003+01:00

Song for Maggie

(click on pictures and song to see and hear more clearly.)

I startled Lucette

2009-11-12T18:41:00.003+01:00

just now. I was standing in my doorway smoking because I am not allowed to smoke inside. Correction. I cannot stand inside smoking because Rob finds it offensive and I cannot bear offending someone with my foul habit. Leslie used to say that I am a considerate smoker. Lucette was walking by, lost in thought, munching a carrot, and suddenly saw my shadow and jumped.

Je suis desolee, I say.

Pas grave, she says. Tu est toute noire (meaning I am dressed in black.)

I was standing there thinking of poetry. Tonight Susan and David and Bedding are coming to dinner and each person must bring a poem to read. I love these evenings. And I was thinking of all the moments that I don't write about in my blog. The moments that are lovely and might interest another or others. I think I'm embarrassed because I am so tight-lipped at the moment and want to give more of myself and yet feel that I have little to give.

Earlier, I stood ironing napkins. I know that it's sort of a waste of time but I like ironing small squares, easy and fast, and I like their neatness and yet this liking neatness feels old-fashioned and anal. I have more important things to do. Like what, that mean voice inside my head snickers. Like working at writing, I sigh. Of all the things I do, I think I am best at writing and it's the thing I avoid more than any other. You find your self-respect in your work, Leonard Cohen whispers. Yeah, yeah, I reply. I'm out to ambush my life.

And I just can't alight but tonight I must read poetry and I reached for a book that David gave Rob for his birthday last year, "An Anthology of Canadian Poetry." Rob asks that I find him a poem too because he is busy in the kitchen. Double pleasure.

I shall read (to keep with my image)

Sex Next Door (by Julie Bruck, born 8 years after me)

It’s rare, slow as a creaking of oars,

and she is so frail and short of breath

on the street, the stairs – tiny, Lilliputian,

one wonders how they do it.

So, wakened by the shiftings of their bed nudging

our shared wall as a boat rubs its pilings,

I want it to continue, before her awful

hollow coughing fit begins. And when

they have to stop (always) until it passes, let

us praise that resumed rhythm, no more than a twitch

really, of our common floorboards. And how

he’s waited for her before pushing off

in their rusted vessel, bailing when they have to,

but moving out anyway, across the black water.

I have chosen several for Rob and I must hurry up and read to him and let him decide what he likes best.

For those who know Bedding

2009-11-12T08:56:00.008+01:00

On November 8th, Bedding's daughter Ivana (who lives in Chile) celebrated her 37th birthday giving birth to Clara. In just over a week, we will drive Bedding to the airport so that she can fly round the world to meet her new granddaughter.

***

For those who know me

Where has time gone? This morning I drove Brendan to the train station. He is off on another adventure, crossing the French border into Italy. He will stay in Genoa for a few days and if it's not to his liking, he'll try living in Milan.

Gill is in Rome, leaving tomorrow for Sienna. So two of our children are in Italy and Rob and I are alone for ten days until Gill returns, though she will write and do her research here and then head up to Paris again.

Rob has settled into French country living more easily than I have. In fact, I am still not settled. I observe my restlessness and shake my head at myself but still can't move beyond it. I did rework a story for a literary contest and am happy that I managed to get it in an hour and a half before deadline. Though I am not completely satisfied with the final version, I am not displeased with it. (Brendan sent me a sweet thought last night: "If you set your goals ridiculously high and it’s a failure, you will fail above everyone else’s success."— James Cameron)

I have also been playing with design programs on my computer, attempting to divert more and more from templates. There is so much to learn but I like the play and believe that I have a good eye.

I'm still not in the mood to reveal more of myself on this site. Perhaps it's because I am confused and tired (woke up at 5:30 am to take Bren to station) but hopefully soon I will be more at peace with myself and the words will flow.

Loving Mackenzie

2009-11-06T17:35:00.004+01:00

(Click on picture and song)

A birthday song for you.

The Pleasure of Living in Europe

2009-11-01T15:10:00.002+01:00

We left Tuesday morning and returned Friday and because I am the worst car passenger in the world, I sat in the backseat and worked on a story for a contest deadline (I'm sure my writing friends will be pleased.) Just a few finishing touches and I shall send it via my computer. Finally I am working.

On the Road

2009-10-28T08:34:00.003+01:00

Monday, Helen, Rob and I drove to Toulouse for dinner and a Sonny Rollins concert where, coming onto the stage, the old jazz musician (79) walked jerkily as if he could crumble at any minute and bent over as if the saxophone around his neck weighed too much for his frail frame. But when he began to play oh la la, he never missed a beat, every note was crystal clear and Rob, who loves jazz, who bought the tickets as a birthday gift to himself, was carried away.

The next morning we drove to Andorra - a glorified ski resort with affinities to Whistler. The only thing this tax haven offered me, I am embarrassed to say, is really cheap cigarettes. (1/3 of the price I usually pay.) We stayed for lunch and then left for Barcelona arriving around six in the evening.

Again oh la la. What a beautiful city, a rich one, large avenues lined with huge windows of fashion, and many restaurants and tapas bars. Our hotel exceeded our expectations (found through expedia.ca). We have adjoining rooms and Helen's has a small balcony where we sat and enjoyed the evening warmth before heading out for tapas.

Today, we will search for Gaudi structures from whom "gaudy" defined as "flashiness, garishness, tasteless showiness" is derived. I love his work, think it wonderful a city would allow an artistic architect to create his most outlandish crazy dreams (some might call them nightmares.)

My House Runneth Over

2009-10-20T05:38:00.004+02:00

Kate with Brian 7 and Mary 3 arrived Friday and Helen arrived Sunday. Our house doesn't have enough beds so Kate and her children are sleeping in two lower rooms in Susan's house.

Bren is still working ridiculous hours and so moved up to the attic room to be as far away from the noise as possible (though now he tells me that in this space without a door, he can hear everything from the bottom floor up so he's using headphones. )

The evenings are especially celebratory when the wine is uncorked and everyone but me lends a hand in preparing dinner. I do the cleanup in the morning.

***

Two days have passed since I began this post without finishing it. I have unanswered emails... I'm thinking of Stella Bowen, an Australian artist who saw that her art was fueled by interaction with others.

And then there are Rilke's words for his dead friend, another painter Paula Modersohn-Becker:

"For somewhere there is an ancient enmity between our daily life and the great work. Help me, in saying it, to understand it."

Kate and Helen are especially dear to my heart and our days and evenings have been full of conversation, some tears. We are all sorting ourselves out and inadvertently helping each other to see more clearly (or that is the way I feel.)

Kate and her two children left yesterday. Helen will be here another week. I am going to try to fill my new journal with my overflowing thoughts and then come back here hopefully with a clearer idea of what I need to do.

This leaving home has been quite an adventure - not the one we expected. We thought we would feel free, unencumbered from debt but often we feel the opposite. We don't know what to do although our financial people are telling us to invest...

Marlene suggested that I write an article about living our dream. We have had so many people tell us that they admire us, that we are living his or her dream. I/we need more time.

They say it's your birthday too

2009-10-17T07:57:00.006+02:00

A song for you and me

They say it's your birthday

2009-10-14T05:38:00.007+02:00

Well Happy Birthday to you

dear Rob

you are one of a kind & I love you so

you are still a mystery to me at 63

I watch you going on 6 hour hikes with your daughter, practicing cycling around the village, renting a bicycle and riding around Toulouse, going for hikes around Albi. In the meanwhile, you are fine tuning a novel, experimenting with a keyboard though you think you might take up a guitar, playing with penny stocks and whipping up a sweet or savory quiche in a moment’s notice. You know how to enjoy yourself. You are wonderful and I admire you.

I have so much to learn from you.

I wish you buckets of happiness and gold this coming year.

Many hugs and kisses, Yve

I love these pictures of you. I love who you are. Have a wonderful day, dear Rob.

Acting on Impulse

2009-10-09T10:07:00.004+02:00

On Tuesday evening I decided to go to Paris to be with Gill.

When I booked my train ticket, on Wednesday morning for later that same day, I felt such pleasure and a tickle of excitement that grew as the time approached to leave. (Good to mark these moments that make one happy so one can reproduce them. Think I stole that idea from Joanna Fields.)

I was going to write a blog about rats. I've seen two lately. One in the back alley of our house in Castelnau and one just outside a door at Montparnesse train station where I went the moment I got off the train to smoke. (No smoking anywhere on French trains. Can you believe it?)

I thought there must be some significance in seeing two live ones in two days. Java, from time to time, would leave a dead one outside one of the doors at 2348 Mathers... So strange that we shall never use that address again...

But I'm rambling. The delight I felt at buying a train ticket went way beyond the anticipated delight at seeing my beloved daughter in my favourite city. It was the fact that I could do something so wonderful on whim and it won't break the bank. Perhaps this is my first taste of the freedom that selling 2348 has brought about.

I love doing things on impulse. One day, I'm in a sleepy little village. The next, I'm walking beside the Seine. Oh la la. I feel so fortunate.

Alles Gute zum Geburtstag

2009-10-03T13:55:00.007+02:00

Ein einfaches Geschenk mit vieler Liebe.

Yvonne

(I hope this says what I mean to say.)

Music for your birthday...

Dance. Sing. Do whatever pleases you. Enjoy your day.

(It's 5 pm and I'm having a glass of Chateau de Mayragues in your honour.)

A woman of few words

2009-09-25T09:37:00.005+02:00

Sometimes I feel like playing with layout, not writing.

Our personal belongings arrived from Canada on Monday and it is comforting to have our sofa and coffee table, all my poetry books, our photo collection, and night tables by the bed. Alas most pieces of our bed got lost on the trip across the ocean. The shipping company is searching for it.

I am writing sort of - editing Rob's synopsis - a good lesson for a writer.

How Time Flies

2009-09-21T19:02:00.005+02:00

Time on our hands

2009-09-20T16:58:00.011+02:00

You mustn't be frightened...

if an anxiety,

like light and cloud-shadows,

moves over your hands and over

everything you do.

This has been a strange week. I've been low. Rob's been low (while cooking up some pretty splendid meals - quiche, minestrone, apple tart, roast chicken with heaps of garlic and root vegetables.) We thought we'd feel free, light, even gleeful when we were unencumbered by debt but instead we feel heavy, plodding, indecisive.

Here we are picking figs off trees, and you'd think that we were doomed to 20 years of boredom. I've observed myself. I go from angry to whiny to anxious while inside my head a voice chides me - fool fool what's wrong with you? Lighten up. Enjoy your one wild and precious life.

Rob who loves his sleep has seldom been able to sleep through the night. He's facing his own demons.

Around 4 this morning, we lay in bed, wide awake, trying to sort out what's wrong. We're trying to do too much too quickly, he says. We don't have our own private space. This house is so light, so open now, I say. Have we blown it? It's too sparse, too immaculate, he says. I want to see things lying around. I want to see lives being lived, not a showplace. I know what you mean, I respond. I don't either but I like things clean and orderly. (I worry now that what we want is too different. Or I will give in and be secretly miserable.)

Writers' rooms are supposed to be messy and cluttered, he says. Not all of them, I say. Some of us like order. But I think back to my house in the garden and it was messy and cluttered and I didn't really give a damn as long as I was writing. Still I would have liked for it to have been more beautiful. I just wasn't willing to put the time in to achieve it.

I was so productive when I was here alone for 6 weeks, he says. I spent all my time in the attic room writing. I'm happy in the downstairs room, I say. But I don't want anyone walking through bugging me. We decide that we will create our own spaces and do whatever we like in them. We will not give them up when we have visitors. We will work any old time we feel like. Arriving at this decision makes us feel better.

We are not always so dreary

The other day because of this and that we found ourselves at half past one, just outside the village, ravenous. We made a mad dash for the nearest town of La Laroque in hopes of finding one restaurant willing to serve us. (Restaurants in France refuse to serve lunch after two, sometimes even slightly before two, which infuriates Rob.)

At ten to two, we walked into the brasserie and I asked the owner if it was too late for lunch. He rolled his eyes, let out a squawk, hastily cleared a table, and with an abrupt nod of his head indicated that he would serve us but not happily.

He plunked napkins, plates, glasses, and cutlery in front of us. Then a basket of bread. We decided we would have a salad. He didn't ask. Instead, he lay a platter of remnants of cold meats (charcuterie) on the table. We decided not to fight him. I picked up my knife and before I could help myself, a woman appeared and, with a sigh, whisked the plate away.

Moments later, she was back with a full platter. The night before we had watched an episode of Fawlty Towers and and a similar scene had played itself out with Fawlty being rude to the guests and Sybil correcting his mistakes.

After taking a helping of meat, the platter was replaced with a mixed green salad for two. We saw that if we wanted to eat, we would eat what we were served though they were willing to bring us a small pichet of vin rouge.

After the salad came a zucchini quiche and roast beef with a mushroom sauce (surprisingly delicious), followed by a cheese platter, and then a choice (finally) of desserts. We both chose a sorbet. Five courses with wine, then coffee on the patio. We wondered what the bill would come to. Another pleasant surprise - for the two of us - thirty euros.

Oh, I nearly forgot, during the meal, French Basil played the buffoon by picking up a watering can and yodeling into the spout. He loved to entertain (but not to serve.) No matter, the meal made our day.

Sunday Afternoon

2009-09-13T17:58:00.000+02:00

The day begins with a pleasant surprise

2009-09-11T14:44:00.005+02:00

Early morning, I received this picture (taken over 40 years ago) from a friend via email. I must be between 15 to 18 years because that's when I was in love with the photographer. I met him in high school when he was choreographer of the school's musical. If I remember correctly, I was in grade nine. He was in grade 11 - an older guy who had his own car though better than that, he could dance. He danced beautifully. And he loved music, theatre, and photography. I was in awe of him. After meeting him, my world expanded.

I've been thinking about him all day. We've probably seen each other or talked once every decade since our young romance ended. And yet I feel I know him still.

***

What's been happening? I'm organizing as usual. I have such a need to find a place for everything. After over a year of cleaning and clearing a house, I do not want to live with clutter. I want only what is useful. So the other day, Rob and I went to Albi and bought a large wardrobe for the lower room (my office) as I've decided I prefer to work in the larger salon (where we hold writing workshops.) This is due to Brendan who moved my long desk into this room to do his work and it is so much more comfortable and used so little except in the evening that I've decided I'll take over two rooms.

After a few days of emailing back and forth with the shipping company and a broker, I heard today that our Canadian belongings have cleared customs (no duty) in Le Havre and will be delivered next week. Or rather it will be deposited outside the door. Sigh. Another sigh - this one of relief. Another thing to stop worrying about. (What am I going to do when there's nothing to worry about? Write.)

Yesterday I took a break and spent the day in Toulouse. Today Rob took a break and is spending the day in Toulouse. He told me it was wonderful to be in the house alone. I feel the same. Hopefully we will be able to give the other this freedom at least once a week.

Contentment

2009-09-03T07:11:00.004+02:00

We've come up in the world. Yesterday, we bought a 2007 Renault Clio Expression from the Renault dealer in Albi. The salesman smiled when I took this picture, saying we're the first people ever to photograph their purchase while still in the showroom.

I would like to speak about contentment as prompted by Wenda. In my mind, being content means being still, at peace, without struggle, feeling free to be one's self, desiring nothing more than what one has.

Am I content? Not completely but getting closer. With no demands from Canada, I can focus on the details in France that will make our lives easier.

Two days ago, we were able to pick up the papers from our old car and deliver them to our insurance agent - the car was totaled around a month ago when the town chose to dump gravel around one of the bends leading into the village. (Thank goodness, no one was hurt.) Next week, we should receive a cheque for 2000 euros.

Yesterday, as shown above, we purchased a newer, better car, so we can explore the countryside and beyond, in comfort.

Most of our worldly goods will arrive from Canada next week and I am hoping that clearing customs won't be a big deal.

We have yet to sort out money which will take some thinking. We would like to map out our investments, using a lot of caution and some daring.

I want to create a schedule for writing.

I find myself content, writing this all down.

Dinner Date

2009-09-01T12:37:00.003+02:00

Last night prepared dinner for Clare and her family. Escalloped potatoes. Roasted summer vegetables (zucchini, tomatoes, onions from David's garden with a market-bought eggplant.) Lamb and saucisse. Salad. We began with bubbling wine. Moved on to red of the valley. Finished with more bubbly.

I slept well.

Clare is such a good friend. Wherever she goes, she lets me know so I can catch a ride or not. This afternoon we go to Albi to look at Renault Clio. It's difficult to be without wheels in this tiny village.

All is well though I/we have to force myself/ourselves into money mode and do something about the proceeds of our house.

Take Two

2009-08-30T14:38:00.005+02:00

I tried writing earlier but the formatting was off. Hence "take two."

Settling in - for both Rob and I - seems to be taking longer than usual.

I have to force myself to write more often so I don't forget the moments when I stop worrying and am content. I can think of two (though for sure there are more.)

First is the last aperitif concert of the season that we attended with Francis Meadows a few days after Rob arrived. Francis who admits to being a jazz snob was concerned that the music would be mediocre, even abysmal as she had just returned from Marciac that hosts (according to Rob) the finest jazz festival in the world.

The evening turned out to be charming. Every summer many small villages in our region host Aperitif concerts that begin at around 7 in the evening. Most are free. This one took place in Campagnac, a hilltop town not far from ours. The entertainment was a brass jazz band that played Sinatra-like tunes and much to our surprise, especially Francis', turned out to be quite good including the male and female vocalists.

We arrived early, sat at a long table, under an awning not far from the stage. The venue - a winery - crowded with many long tables and outer cafe tables was sparsely populated. I hopped up, bought us a bottle of rose, water, some melon, cheese and bread, so we could pass the time until the music started. While Rob and Francis talked jazz, I watched the tables fill, waved to Helene - a fellow Montmirais - who joined us with her new beau, her ex-sister-in-law, and a few friends.

Truly, the evening was lovely, especially for 2 Canadians who felt privileged to be there, under the stars, looking over a glorious vista of vineyards, sipping wine, nibbling, talking, as the band played on. (And though money wasn't a consideration, we liked that the evening cost around 10 euros for the 3 of us.)

The second event that did my heart good was the two days and one evening that I spent in Toulouse with my precious daughter who has written about our time together so well, I need not attempt to.

Summertime and the livin' is easy

2009-08-30T09:35:00.012+02:00

One of these mornin's,
You's gonna rise up singin'
Then you'll spread yo' wings
An' you'll take to the sky.

I was going to call this blog-post "worrywart"

because I can't seem to stop myself from worrying
about every little thing - like how to do what I want
without a vehicle, or how to manage to clear our
goods through customs when they arrive in France,

or where to find a large wardrobe to provide storage

space, and on it goes - such nonsense, silly stuff.

When I went out on the terrasse and saw
what a beautiful day it is, I wonder about my sanity.

I know that I worry too much, that soon all will

find its place and I'll be able to alight and write

beautifully.

Or perhaps simply to write (to hell with beautifully.)

I will return and continue in a hour or two.

I went to the market in Cahuzac with Clare and

bought some saucisse, lamb chops, pate, bread,

and ham. We than stopped at Caves de Tecou

and I bought a dozen bottles of wine and a

box of everyday vino that Rob loves. After

a sampling, we climb up to the terrasse. Rob

has not experienced it in summer, says he

doesn't want to go back to work. I wonder

if the proceeds from our house will allow

this. Probably not.

(Something weird is happening with the formatting

of this post. I'll try again later.)

A Mother's Love

2009-08-25T08:24:00.003+02:00

She's a Miracle

2009-08-24T22:32:00.002+02:00

This number is no longer in service

2009-08-21T06:37:00.003+02:00

I'm sitting at my bedroom window, in France, watching the sky lighten. Long stretches of sleep elude me. I finished a novel that I began on the plane. And this morning finished another. I should finish unpacking I tell myself and then drawl nah, I can do anything I want.

I can do anything I want. The thought makes me smile.

Gill is here. Last night she made a beautiful nicoise salad and we ate it on the terrasse. The night before, the night I arrived exhausted, she barbecued steak and spicy chicken, and zucchini from David's garden, under the stars, on the barbeque - the first thing Rob wanted to buy when he arrived. Brendan beat him to it.

I think I'm in heaven.

Leaving home, or rather leaving our home left both Rob and I a little stunned and emotionally drained. The phone was cut off before we thought it would be - Rob couldn't remember what he'd told Telus. (When Marlene and Maggie tried to reach me they both heard the automated message "this number in no longer in service." And somehow this short sentence made it all real. We've had the same phone number for 26 years. Gone.)

The next day, the last day in our house, the internet disappeared. There was little left in the house but still we managed to fill a number of boxes for Michael and Mackenzie who arrived to help with the final cleanup. Heidi arrived unexpectedly with a pair of rubber gloves to join the cleaning crew. We left the house sparkling.

After M and M left with the vacuum cleaner (yeah) and I stuffed the last of our stuff into a shopping bag, Rob and I walked through the empty house. We paused at the smallest bedroom and I asked Rob if he remembered the white and red squared wallpaper we had on the wall when Gill was little. We decided to change it and so let her go wild on the paper, drawing and colouring anything she wanted. We have a picture of it somewhere. So many memories and I know there must have been sad and angry moments in the house but I can't remember any. All I can remember at this moment are the happy ones, like our Friday pizza and movie nights, when all the children were still living at home. And the time, Gill and I returned from France and Bren and Mike happily sitting down at the dinner table commenting on the tablecloth and candles. They had missed them.

We paused at each room and then Rob and I said goodbye house out loud, left all our keys save one (to be given to the real estate agent for the new people), and shut the door. The next day we walked by and all I could think of was what a pretty house. I hope the new family appreciate it. Rob drove by yesterday and saw a work van outside. The woman told me that they were going to rip up carpets and paint before they moved in. I wonder how they will transform it, making it theirs.

How do I feel? Sad. A little scared. And excited. We have no choice now, we have to move on and create a new life.

Count Down

2009-08-15T15:02:00.003+02:00

The good times are all gone... I'm bound for moving on...

2009-08-08T23:15:00.011+02:00

Our farewell party brought it home that we'll never have another celebration in this house and never, as Helen said, bring such an eclectic group together again.

I am feeling sad and disagreeable. Everything irks me.

The house is nearly clear and I have cleaned several rooms thoroughly including washing walls and filling nail holes where pictures hung. I want to leave all immaculate. Perhaps to make up for the scuffed floors, shabby carpets, and the numerous little chips of paint missing on baseboards.

I am also battling with the morning glories and blackberry bushes in the garden. No matter the weather, they thrive, multiplying like crazy, threatening to take over the whole back yard.

I remember years ago when three big guys lived in the house and none thought of using the lawn mower, let alone the weedeater unless I begged or bribed. I asked all three if they minded that ours was the messiest garden on the street and all three said no, they didn't care.

How I envied them.

I was the only one who hated the chaos. I am just too middle class, I thought.

And though I admire people with wild gardens and messy houses - which says to me that she or he has more important things to do - I find it difficult to live like this though I did and do to a degree because there is never enough time. And though I could hire casual labour who could do the job faster and better, I always hesitate because I bring in next to no salary and compensate by trying to do everything by myself.

Soon I will no longer have to worry about the upkeep of a house. And a garden. This pleases me immensely.

I'm tired. There is a little over a week to go before the big move and we begin living our dream. It damn well better be worth all this work, I whine.

***

Gill passed on this award to me this morning because I am brilliant and write from the heart. Read the rules and conditions on her site. This is the second award I've won for my blogging and unfortunately, the donor of the other award has locked in her site with a password and I can no longer link you to it.

I am supposed to award and challenge 7 more bloggers who are "brilliant" and link you to her or his site so here they are in alphabetical order:

1. Chris Tyrell

3. Jim Reed

7. Wenda Nairn

And thirdly, I am to give you 10 truths about myself. (I wrote a long list and will only give you the most interesting, to my mind, but most of my readers will know them. I think it would be more interesting to ask my readers to tell me 10 truths about myself. "Disillusion me with truth," as Saint Teresa d'Avila once said.)

1. I am addicted to nicotine.

2. I am a kind person and more often than not give too much of myself.

3. I love being alone and moving to my own inner clock.

4. I wallow in my own inadequacies and although I have learnt that even the brightest I know are riddled with complexes too, still I sometimes have a hard time picking myself up.

5. I don't like driving a car but hate being driven.

6. I love reading tacky novels but also read my share of good literature.

7. I occasionally go to MacDonalds for breakfast or lunch.

8. I bore easily.

9. I look at my face in the mirror, see I am aging rapidly, and despair. Meanwhile I declare, that I will grow old gracefully.

10. I birthed and raised three extraordinary individuals.

Farewell House Party

2009-08-04T03:23:00.003+02:00

There is just too much happening to write coherently at the moment. Soon.

But here's a few pictures of our farewell party. More and more this crazy plan of ours becomes a reality.

This is for Lois

2009-07-28T22:47:00.004+02:00

Michael and Mackenzie arrived late Sunday evening with Icabod and Jasmine in their arms.

Kenzie is now a seasoned driver. She drove every kilometer of the way.

Today they're off (with Michael behind the wheel) to find a home and jobs. Those two don't waste any time.

Yesterday Inform came and picked up our furniture and boxes for France. The place is looking quite bare but I like this. I can see what I have to do. And the place becomes less and less ours.

After tomorrow - a wrap day for Rob - it's his last shooting day today - he will join me for the final clearing, packing, and storing.

And Saturday, we shall have a farewell party for house. All are welcome. We should play some dance music. There's lots of room to move around.

I'm movin' on

2009-07-26T21:36:00.004+02:00

Sunday morning and I wake up anxious about nothing in particular but I know it has everything to with moving on, with clearing our house of 26 years.

This is it. We're moving in less than a month and it feels good, right - we no longer need the space, work, or expense of a five-bedroom house. We figure we will have at least half the expenses without a house and one vehicle.

But I'm doing crazy things. For 2 days I couldn't find my blush and brush. No big deal really but it drove me cray. Where could I have put them? And then yesterday in the shower, I remembered that I had laid my European document holder on the bathroom counter. After wrapping myself in a towel, I checked and there they were. (Showers are funny places, I often remember miniscule detail or find a good line for a story under water.)

Another stupid thing I did and more dangerous was not paying attention at a four way stop. I pulled ahead as did a young woman opposite me who began shaking her fist.

I must be more careful.

Getting rid of stuff feels like a cleansing. Rob has told me more than once that we don't have to get rid of everything from our past but I find that there is little I'm attached to. I do want my Mont Blanc pen - a 50th birthday present from Rob, and my dancing awards from my teens, my high school necklace, and a UBC ring that my parents gave me when I graduated from university. And I have filled one liquor-store box to the rim with all our photographic memories. I kept ignoring the very personal stuff in my writing cabin, knowing it would be the hardest to sort through and toss.

Yesterday, I went down to it with the intention of throwing 20 years of journals in the recycling bin. I thought that all they contained where my private moans and groans. But leafing through one, I saw that they are much more. They tell of my travels - where I was when - the moments that made me anxious and those when I was perfectly content. They describe the times I urged myself not to be such a chicken shit and became more daring, and the moments when I crumbled. They tell of love and hate - where some instance or person sparked my fury - where my guts appear on the page.

I remember another time that I wanted to destroy my journals because I was afraid that someone I loved would read about the times when I hated them. I think it was Susan who told me that I must trust those who are close to me.

But I should trust them when I'm alive or rather say what I think rather than leave the other person to guess what I'm thinking. There is a passage, in "Middle Passage" by Hollis: "Radical conversation is what a long term commitment is about. With or without a wedding ceremony, true marriage is seldom achieved without radical conversation. Only... the full sharing of what it is to be me while hearing what it is really like to be you, can fulfill the promise of an intimate relationship."

But I have been afraid sometimes to say what I really think - to Rob and a few others... even when I know that holding back is bad, not good, does not promote trust, and can erode a relationship

And so what do I do with my journals? I have decided to delay the decision and store them in our Vancouver locker. I will read them slowly when I return and decide their fate then.

Interesting Process

2009-07-24T07:03:00.003+02:00

disassembling the house we've owned for 26 years. Last Saturday we had a garage sale and made around 1700 - a fraction of the value of the goods but still it felt good to lighten the load we'll take to France.

What are we taking? Sofa, coffee table, bed, and night tables, 3 boxes of books, 2 boxes of photographs (that cover both Rob and my over-60-years), a dozen Irish linen napkins, a tablecloth, and a few kitchen utensils. Oh yes, and Rob's framed awards and a couple of prints. That's it. Well I have to decide about my journals... some are already in France.

Today or Monday, a truck will arrive and take these goods to the shipping company. Once I have the documentation, it will be on its way to France.

Yesterday Gill and I went to the French consulate to get the necessary documents for French customs. The experience was strange. We stood outside a locked door with a young couple who told us to press the button and state our business. A man came out. We explained what we wanted. He went inside and came out and ask if we had proof that we'd lived in our house in Canada for 7 months. Yes. He went inside and came out. Do we have documents showing we own a house in France. Yes. He went inside and came out again. Do I have a plane ticket. No. I also need a list of items from the shipping company who have yet to pick up the goods. Come back when you have all the documents. He went back inside.

We did not see inside the consulate.

On the way there, there was a dead crow in the middle of the road. Another stood beside it, as if in grief, and when my car approached, it hobbled to the side of the road. When I returned, 3 hours later, the poor bird was still standing guard over the mess of feathers.

Meanwhile, Michael and Mackenzie left Port Hope on Monday sometime late afternoon and are on their way here with all their possessions and 2 cats. No one has heard from them. My parents are anxious. I sent an email asking them to telephone collect.

I am feeling disjointed, like this piece of writing.

Leaving home

2009-07-10T19:15:00.008+02:00

Double click to see pictures full size.

After Maggie dropped by and let us put the SOLD stickers on our "For Sale" sign, we escaped with my cousin Avril to my friend's Suzanne's property beyond Mount Currie. It's so beautifully quiet and idyllic here. Both Rob and I feel a sense of relief that we can pack our belongings and move on. We're not sure what we're going to do beyond going to France when the money is in the bank and thinking about our options.

Need I say more?

2009-07-09T19:42:00.000+02:00

Can you believe it?

2009-07-07T13:36:00.004+02:00

The young couple who want to buy our house have asked for another 48 hours to get their finances in place.

By some miracle, Rob was home yesterday around 2:30 and so we paced together hoping that the end was in sight and that we could begin to do some serious packing. I ironed and watched several movies on my computer to keep myself calm. Rob entertained himself on his computer.

We had been told that we wouldn't know until after the couple finished work and had time to visit the bank - most likely five or six pm - if the deal was to complete. These hours passed without word. We ordered Chinese food. We paced some more. It wasn't until after eight, that we received their request for more time. It wasn't until after ten that the paperwork was done.

Of course we gave them the time - after all, we gave the last couple an extra 48 to find their deposit.

I want to stamp my feet in frustration.

Feet stomping reminds me of the flamenco dancers, I saw on Friday night with my cousin and Marlene and Steve at the Playhouse. There were three women soloists and one man. I preferred the women and I especially liked the last performer, Isabel Bayon - a 40 year old Spanish dancer - a wisp of a woman, which surprised my cousin and I who both imagined this "living legend" would be fleshier, more voluptuous. Still, she stomped, kicked, threw back her head with the strength, hauteur, defiance, of a larger woman who imposes her presence, who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to ask. And there were moments - like those where her hand swept over a breast or where she turned her back to the audience and crunched her skirt in a fist at her bottom, raising the hem just a little that spoke of wantonness.

And still I wanted more heat, more passion. Perhaps one needs to be a tavern, a dance hall, a more intimate space, to experience flamenco; and not in a tiered seat looking down.

How long has this been going on?

2009-07-01T14:05:00.002+02:00

Since January 27, 2009 - although it feels longer as we had the house on the market for several months last year. In total, we have dropped our price 401,000.

When I hit an emotional low a few days ago, Rob asked how I could complain when I have a house in France. I wonder what one is allowed to complain about when one is as rich as I am (not monetarily.) Later he admitted that he had sunk to the bottom a few days previous.

Think about it. For five months you have to allow a large number of strangers into your home. They can roam where they please, open the doors to your closets and cupboards, pull out bathroom drawers, and examine whatever because you are not there.

If you were brought up as I was, everything must be spotless, including under the beds. The beds themselves must be without a crease. The bathroom and kitchen sinks and faucets must sparkle. All dust must be gone from the furniture. The garbage must be taken out daily. And then there's the garden...

Yes, I did have a month off. Yes, Rob did have to wake half an hour earlier on work days - sometimes 4 am to make sure all was presentable for viewing. And yes, I do resent that three in my family and a good friend were able to sell their houses or apartments within a couple of weeks of listing. No, that's not right. I don't resent their success. I envy them.

This is terrible. I keep wondering what is wrong with us. Are we such low-lives no one wants our prized possession? Is it our prized possession? I don't know but it is our most valuable one (monetarily.)

We have another good offer, subject to inspection and deposit. The subject-removal date is Monday, July 6th.

Does the waiting get easier?

No.

Deal is null and void

2009-06-26T15:14:00.001+02:00

The potential buyers have not been able to gather a deposit so the deal is off.

Here we go again. Last night two couples came through the house. Today two more.

House selling saga continues

2009-06-24T16:13:00.002+02:00

Yesterday I was a mess of energy, trying not to worry about house deal.

At around two in the afternoon, I heard that the couple want the house, will take off the "subject to inspection" but didn't have the deposit money. I thought this irresponsible but Helen told me that once she was in a similar position - so much to think about when purchasing a house that she forgot about the deposit.

The potential buyers have until 5 pm on Thursday to find the money otherwise the deal is null and void.

So the waiting continues...

Flying

2009-06-22T12:56:00.007+02:00

On Friday, returning from Albi I drove by a field of sunflowers with faces open to the sun - the first I've seen this year.

On Saturday, I flew to Vancouver via London into Rob's arms. Later that evening, my amazing Gill came home to welcome me.

I didn't intend to come home until July 3rd but we had another offer on the house, a good offer, that included a personal letter. Gill just happened to drop in during the original viewing, and told the prospective buyers that she had been born into the house and showed them round telling the house's history through memories of her childhood. In the buyer's letter, he said that they found Gill's stories "comforting and reassuring" as he and his wife want to raise their children in such a home. "As a writer myself, I fell in love with the 'writer's cabin' and my wife, who is also an artist, loved the feeling of your house."

Yesterday, an official inspector came through our home, digging into every nook and cranny in order to alert the buyers of any potential problem. The couple and their real estate agent joined him.

On Tuesday, the buyers have to give us a yeah or nay. If it's a yes, they want to move in July 11th and that's why I flew home early. I hope that they are the people we've been waiting for.

The first man in my life

2009-06-21T13:27:00.002+02:00

I wish I may, I wish I might

2009-06-15T23:27:00.003+02:00

Have the wish I wish tonight

I want our house sold at a fair price. We have had two offers that have fallen through. We are negotiating a third. We have another viewing today and three more tomorrow and all the worrying is eating away at my gut. I hate it. We may have to take the house off the market and wait for better times and the only problem with doing this is that we'll have to go through this process all over again.

So I wish that our house sells at a fair price soon.

Come what may, I'm flying home July 3rd.

He's my man

2009-06-13T10:17:00.003+02:00

Our song.

Here we go again

2009-06-10T09:10:00.002+02:00

We have another offer on the house - not as good as the last one but good enough. Sometime Friday the subject will be removed, or not, and Rob and I will know if we'll be able to lead a simpler life with no more invasive tours of our home.

It's harder on Rob at this time as he's working impossible hours - one day he had to leave at 4:30 am and still he had to rise earlier to make sure all was proper. So I'm hoping more for his sake than mine that the inspection will prove the house worthy and we can move on, though money will not change hands until September 3rd.

No matter what happens, I fly to Toronto July 3rd, and will be back in Vancouver soon after.

To everything there is a season

2009-06-03T08:07:00.003+02:00

a time for every purpose under the sun...

The other evening, we had friends for dinner and Marlene created the substance - a potato and chickpea curry. (She is a wonder in the kitchen, can make something delicious from anything, refusing to waste - even the tops of the green onions.)

We began the evening at Ruth's artistically renovated houses - two ancient dwellings linked with a short staircase from kitchen to dining area - with kirs and tiny squares of bread topped with tapinade, cheese, and olives.

I left a few minutes early to add the finishing touches to our casual dinner. Plates and cutlery are placed en masse on the table, food on the island so our guests won't feel stuck in one place and can circulate.

I don't know about anyone else but I loved the evening. This may sound corny (I can hear Susan sigh) but there is something special about each individual who gathered this evening, speaking French, German, and English, representing Scotland, England, Switzerland, Germany, the United States, and Canada, who share a love for this tiny village, music and literature, good food and conversation. There is no pretention. Silliness and seriousness abound.

This morning I sit on the terrace wondering what to do with myself. Brendan is down three flights of stairs working. Marlene is down one flight. Although this house isn't large, there is easily enough room for the three of us to live and work and not disturb each other.

I am the only one not doing serious work. I think now worrying about our West Van home is futile. Finally I accept that it may take some time to sell, or may not sell this time round. (Rob and I have decided we will rent it if nothing happens in the next month.) I have to move on and do something but what? I am not sure but I realize after several days of proprioceptive writing that I am not content being just a cleaner of houses. I need more - some work that excites me. Money would be nice but I've never been successful at making money. Though this pisses me off and often makes me feel like excess baggage, I have to admit that it has never been a priority. And it is too late to work my way up the corporate ladder. I could take some job, any job, for a pittance to make something...

I feel like a bore. What would inspire me, spark my passion for words beyond Scrabble on Facebook? I tell myself I'm improving my vocabulary but I know, deep down, that I am procrastinating, avoiding the real work of writing.

I don't know where to begin. I don't like what I've done so far with my novel. It's too contrived, not rich, too ponderous, not full of fun and laughter. It's boring. I am too heavy, too weighed down, putting emphasis on all the wrong things - like my incessant cleaning for one - spending hours on things that I could accomplish in one concentrated hour. How do I move away from this behavioral pattern? Perhaps I shall tie myself to a chair.

Since turning sixty, I have been aware of time and how quickly it is gone, how little I have left. Ruth spoke of going to an island, learning how to die... and I see that I fear death, not finding myself, leaving before I have done what I want to do. I'm driving myself crazy but what if I have to be more crazy, let go of control, to do what I ache to do?

Somehow the body has got lost in the housework. I imagine that I have a choice. I can have a sparkling clean house, a home that others covet, desire, would give anything to have. Or I can spend one glorious afternoon in the orgasm tent of Ruth's story - with my true love.

Which would you prefer?

By the Beautiful Sea

2009-05-30T08:42:00.012+02:00

Eight hours after leaving Castelnau, Marlene and I arrive at the fishing village of Les Saintes Maries de la Mer. Michael tells me that Van Gogh painted here. It is beautiful but too stinking hot and my only concern is to find our hotel. We weave our way through town slowly. Modern caravans are everywhere, parked in clusters around the water and throughout the town's narrow streets, sometimes taking two or three parking spots. Cars are tucked into every other available space - some legal, some not. A steady stream of pedestrians adds to the congestion.

We finally find our hotel and go to our respective rooms to freshen up. I had caught my usual flying cold and feel stuffed and lacking in energy but I cannot sit still. Here the sequence of events grows hazy.

We did wander through the town's streets that first night and did stop to eat in one central restaurant. I had moules et frites (mussels and fries) and Marlene taurus (?) bull steak and fries, a regional dish. The waiters and waitresses literally ran from table to table to kitchen so maniacally, my head was spinning and I could not relax, but still I was excited to be in this gypsy haven. (Wished unkindly and unreasonably that so many tourists had not found their way here.)

The next morning, we enjoy a quiet breakfast in the hotel garden and walk the few blocks to the town's chapel where I hope to catch some gypsy magic. Again we face crowds but there is music in the air and we stop to listen to "Karpatz" an ensemble - 8 beautiful dark men - who seduce us with their gypsy tunes. One woman spins through the audience, twirling a scarf around her head. Marlene buys one of their CDs. (When I searched the internet for information about the group, I find that they are from Ukraine, Hungary, and Romania and "are all proud not to deny their Romani culture.")

We visit the chapel and Saint Sara's crypt (click on first picture) and then find a low stone wall in partial shade at the back of church to listen to a jazz duet. After a salad lunch, we return to our hotel to rest, before the procession of Saint Sarah. Thank the heavens, we had seen the statue earlier in the day, as it was impossible to see her facial features at our vantage point as she was carried - though elevated - through the crowds. Here I feel ignorant and sacrilegious. Sarah is a dark-skin-coloured doll with a tipsy crown wearing numerous sparkling fabric cloaks. I am intrigued by the devotion she inspires and yet know that she is a symbol of something that I can't quite grasp. Still I am happy to have witnessed the event.

The next day, the two saint Marys will have their procession to the water. Unfortunately my cold is still stealing my energy so we do not leave the hotel late evening to witness the reported roma music and dancing in the streets.

Though we leave for home early the next day, Marlene and I are not unhappy to miss the bulls charging through the streets (the thought scares me) and have agreed that we will return another year.

Dream Squished

2009-05-28T11:02:00.003+02:00

Poor Marlene has had to live with me as I've paced and agonized about our West Vancouver home. For the first time, we had a decent offer and the people seemed ideal. He's a journalist. She's an artist. They visited the house three times. Their only subject was the usual official inspection by a professional.

I learned at 1 a.m. that they're not going to remove the subject. They said that it would cost too much to renovate to accommodate their 4 children. I'm pissed off. They must have seen this from the beginning. I even mentioned it to the real estate agent. But there is nothing I can do but mope.

Everyone's house except ours seems to be selling. My sister and sister-in-law sold their houses within days of listing. Another family member just bought a house.

Oh woe is me. I know. I know. Here I am in the south of France, sitting in Rob's office, taking in the sun that's especially glorious and warming on the terrace that looks over an equally glorious valley of multi-coloured green fields, spotted with clusters of trees. In the distance I can see the Midi Pyrenees. I have just come back from a trip to the Mediterranean. How can I whine over one little old house deal?

So here we go again. I can't make plans because I don't know what is going to happen. We may have to rent the house in WV. Our dream of simplifying our lives is once again put on hold.

Keep your fingers crossed

2009-05-23T06:59:00.003+02:00

It looks as if we have sold our sweet house. I'll tell more on Tuesday when the one subject is to be removed.

Meanwhile, in France, I leave today, with Marlene, for a gypsy pilgrimage in Les Saintes Maries de la Mer.

Other than recovering from a miserable cold, all is well.

I arrived safely in France yesterday

2009-05-19T04:46:00.004+02:00

I have so much to tell but, first of all, I would like to wish a wonderful man, a happy happy birthday.

(Tomorrow when I am so under the influence of jet lag, I will write about my journey here.)

Remember to click on picture...

Have I told you lately?

2009-05-10T18:48:00.004+02:00

A song for my mother.

So tired, tired of waiting

2009-05-04T20:26:00.002+02:00

Last week I sat down and cried. The house is being shown often, sometimes two times in a day, and yet we have had only one insultingly low offer. Although all house prices have slipped and we have lowered our price accordingly to the point where we are now lower than land value, no one wants our sweet cottage. I look around me. All is spotlessly clean - I'm sick of cleaning - so now all I can blame is the flaws - poor layout, scratched floors from 25 years of living, small crack on kitchen countertop, and on it goes until I feel as if I am tearing apart an old friend who has been good to me.

I keep thinking of an image from Marion Woodman's "Bone" where she is stroking her stomach and apologizing to it for being so critical when it has served her well, despite her abuse. How can I compare a house to a body? When one dreams of a house, according to Jungian thought, one is dreaming of self. I transfer this to strangers walking through our personal space, turning on every light, opening drawers and closets and it almost feels as if I am standing naked in Grand Central Station.

You should be tougher I tell myself. To hell with those who don't like what they see.

Rob says that I shouldn't take the lack of interest personally, and yet I know he too is becoming anxious. Someone once described us as "old hippies" in reference to our life style and our lack of need to fancify our house. Oh we would have liked to buy better stuff and even, at one time, a bigger house but the desire was never strong enough. Besides we don't like being in debt except for travel and computers.

So why did I cry? I was sitting in my little house in the garden, reading a soppy novel, nearing the end, when one of the main characters dies of cancer. Earlier in the day, I had been sorting my filing cabinet and rereading old letters from Leslie, my friend who died half a dozen years ago. Were the tears, tears of grief compounded with tears of frustration? Both Rob and I want to move on, start a new adventure, but without the sell of our house, we are stuck in a waiting room.

Or should I look at the situation differently? Our accountant says sell and Rob and I snap to attention and put the house on the market. What if he's the idiot? What if we wait a couple of years, rent the house out to make a few bucks, and find the housing market is back on track? We could be one or two hundred thousand dollars better off than if we sold right now.

Of course, no one knows how long it will take real estate to come into its own again, but why not wait it out? At the moment with interest rates so low, it isn't difficult to carry our debt.

I look around me. Vancouver is especially beautiful in the spring, especially when the sun is shining. Rob and I went to an art show yesterday and met a young Russian woman who moved here a couple of years ago. She reminds us of just how lovely our home territory is, and says that next to two cities in Switzerland, Vancouver is the third most desirable place to live in all the world.

Why, I ask myself, am I making such a fuss? Where is my business head, my animus? If we have to wait this recession out would it be so terrible?

As I am sitting writing, wading through these thoughts, Rob calls. Strangely or perhaps not so strangely, he is asking himself the same questions. Perhaps we can give this no-decent-offer situation a positive spin. Perhaps, in the end, if we can find the patience, we will be richer (not only monetarily) and less indecisive several years from now.

The House is Alive

2009-04-27T18:32:00.002+02:00

Champagne Friend

2009-04-24T16:06:00.006+02:00

Yesterday Helen and I dropped in at Maura's home to wish her happy birthday. Her husband and daughter were there waiting for her. Maura has had no time to relax and enjoy her day. Her dining room table is set with sewing machine, patterns, and frothy tutus. Behind the table is an industrial clothing rack, lined with assorted dancing costumes. She is out doing costume fittings.

When Maura returns, she tells us that she'll celebrate her 60th in June when all the costumes are finished and the dances have been danced.

This woman accomplishes so much and all she does is beautiful, I think, as I look out the window and see her garden full to bursting with opening flowers in all the colours of the rainbow.

Her house is a mess. She has no time to clean the surface of things. And although I could not live like this, I am envious.

Salsa Sister

2009-04-20T01:22:00.003+02:00

We are just about to take off to Cathy's birthday party. This week has been unusually busy and there's so much I'd like to say, including a promised continuation of a blog an entry back. I will try to be more diligent this coming week.

Though a lot of people have been viewing the house, peeping in our closets, no one has made an offer so I continue to clean, to spruce up the garden, and whine. Silly really... but the waiting is getting me down. I thought reducing the price would entice a buyer but nothing seems to work - even baking banana bread for an agent's open though all commented about how good the house smelt.

I must learn to have more patience.

growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional

2009-04-15T16:50:00.003+02:00

When she's writing her blog link

when we were young

2009-04-12T18:49:00.008+02:00

(Click on picture to see full size.)

It is hard to believe that it has been 40 years since I met Rob, 30 years since I became a mother, and varying numbers of years since I struck up friendships with such strong women as Penelope right through to Kate and Marlene (and most recently, Mary.) Once when I was feeling particularly pathetic, my oldest son said "Just look at who your friends are. Do you think they'd stick by you if you were pathetic?"

It's hard to believe that I began this blog April 3rd, 2003, over a year before Gill began hers.

So I have been a blogger for six years. I began originally when Gill and I were in Northern Ireland and I wanted family and friends back home to know what we were up to. In those early years, I often wrote every day. There have been times when I spilled my guts onto these pages and times when I haven't been able to say anything - either because I have been too fearful or too bored with myself. Every time I've wanted to stop blogging, someone (usually Kate) says no and so I have continued though not as often.

So much has changed for Gill. She's lived in Northern Ireland and Vancouver for her last two years of high school, then Paris and Toronto for five years. Soon she will receive her BA. I only received mine when she was kicking inside my belly.

I did try to enter the graduate program in Art History at UBC but the prof (a Frenchman) who I wanted to work with didn't want me - "a West Vancouver housewife" - despite my A average. The director of the program told me to take more courses which I did until I flew off to France with my children for a year.

France changed everything.

to be continued

Music to My Ears

2009-04-08T20:19:00.008+02:00

I forgot to mention the flowers I received for my birthday. Bev decorated the house with 60 tulips. Sonia gave me this beautiful orchid I keep by my bed. Gill and her love gave me a bouquet of exotic blooms. Mary sent pink tulips. Heidi and Maura presented me with fragrant roses and Sarah, a pot of white Easter lilies. The day before my birthday, Helen came over with a bouquet of passionate red flowers. Our house looks amazing. (Now why won't someone buy it?)

Here's a link to the poetry I received.

Robert Bly says that you have to hear a poem twice to understand it but sometimes I need more than twice. There's also poems that people were too shy to read and several from friends who could not be present.

How it feels to be loved by you

2009-04-05T20:50:00.006+02:00

Extraordinary.

Last Sunday I left my fifties. Thanks to the efforts of Rob, Helen, Bev, and Maggie, I entered my sixties with a celebration. I asked for an afternoon and evening of poetry and music, good friends, wine, and a feast. I received so much more.

In a day or two, I will post a link to the poetry and music, I received.

I am so very very grateful. Thank you everyone.

March 29th was a day of magic. I felt beautiful and (yes, Gill) sexy, and loved.

When I had a minute this past week - for some reason, it was very busy, good busy with visitors and dinners out, and some work - I wrote in my journal, trying to figure out (once again) what work I want to do, what gives me pleasure, what excites me... "When it's over, I don't want to wonder/ if I have made of my life something particular, and real./ I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened/ or full of argument./ I don't want to end up simply having visited this world."

I am a woman sixty years old

2009-03-29T16:57:00.004+02:00

I am a woman sixty years old and of no special courage...

Everyday - I have work to do:

I feel my body rising through the water

not much more than a leaf;

and I feel like the child, crazed by beauty

or filled to bursting with woe;

and I am the snail in the universe of the leaves

trudging upwards...

Marlene spent hours trying to find this poem for me (by Mary Oliver.)

It is understandable why, like so many,

I find pleasure

in your acts of language...

What the heart endures

is difficult to order in vowels

and consonants...

Helen included this poem by Gloria Oden in a beautiful handmade book she gave me yesterday.

My daughter, my friends, call me sexy at sixty. So many lush loving descriptions of a woman who is a little like me but much more vibrant, less fearful.

And I sit in my little house in the garden, thinking I'm sixty now - a senior. If I wanted to I could collect an old age pension...

I am a woman of sixty, I tell myself over and over, and I am still not quite ready to accept it though I have little choice.

Rob calls out that my father is on the phone. I return to the big house and talk to both my parents who wish me well, and are as astonished as I am that I have reached this age. "I remember the day you were born," my father says.

When I hang up, Rob hands me two gifts but asks me to wait a minute while he plays this song.

While the music is playing, I open the first slim wrapped parcel. It is a guide book to Marrakech along with a promissory note. We shall visit this exotic city in the fall. The second parcel is my favourite perfume. I am stunned by these presents. I wanted to give you something special, he tells me, and when I asked your friends what you would like, all said travel.

As if that weren't enough, my nephew and his wife come back from a walk with 2 bottles of champagne. And then my daughter (a surprise gift from my sister who paid her flight) comes in with a friend and a huge bouquet of exotic flowers and a second one of lovely pink tulips from Mary who visited last week. And I receive a gift certificate for Amazon from my son Michael and his fiancee - and a beautiful poem by e.e. cummings and a kaiku Michael wrote himself.

if there are any heavens my mother will (all by herself) have

one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor

a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but

it will be a heaven of blackred roses...

Gill and her friend prepare a breakfast feast of spicy potatoes, eggs, and chorizo sausage. My nephew serves Mimosas. Gill tells me that when she was at the flower shop, the woman who wrapped the flowers told her that when she turned sixty, her life got better and better.

I hope so. I imagine, after this morning, that this could happen.

There's Something about Mary

2009-03-23T15:24:00.005+01:00

Last week, Rob and I welcomed Mary S-T into our home with the same generosity of spirit as Mary showed when she welcomed Gill into her home months ago. There's something about Mary that is impossible not to love. Every time she appears in a room I want to hug her. And do.

What is it about Mary that inspires warmth, trust, and laughter? What is it about her that calls forth my most mischievous self? Why do I feel comfortable spelling out her initials with fallen tulip petals?

Mary is one of the most loving generous woman I've ever met. She walked into our house (with her equally gorgeous brother) laughing, embraced me as if we were old friends, and the entire evening was full of laughter and stories. As was the next day and the next. She didn't even complain when we served her the same thing for dinner that we had for lunch.

Mary is the wife of Patrick, Rob's mentor who died last fall. Mary says their relationship was a 27 year romance. Understandably, she misses her crazy wonderful poetry-quoting man, especially the cuddles. She has her "Patrick moments" when the tears start to fall but still she feels his presence everywhere.

There is something about Mary that is quite extraordinary. In just a few days, we befriended each other for life. I once again feel blessed.

Pen and I

2009-03-18T20:00:00.005+01:00

Pen and her daughter flew into Vancouver at 5:30 am on Thursday. I met them at the airport. Several hours later, after we had dropped Isobel at her home, Pen and I were on our way to Whistler where we spent several quiet days at my sister Bev's cabin (an understatement). Though I moaned and groaned when Pen made me walk to the village and back, several times, I enjoyed myself. I love the quiet of the area and being with this woman whom I've know longer than any other, who dropped in after five months travelling so we could celebrate our 60th birthdays together. We decided at 65, we will be much more adventurous.

In the early morning of the day we were to return, it snowed wildly - 10 beautiful, treacherous inches - and, after shoveling the driveway, I climbed behind the wheel of my VW Jetta, without snow tires, and cautiously drove home. (I was terrified for the first half of the drive.)

We made it in time to attend the matinee performance of "Blackbird" by Scottish playwright, David Harrower. Thank goodness. It was a potent piece of theatre - the reunion of a middle-aged man and a young woman, with whom he had an affair when she was twelve - precociously twelve, I'd say, as she had pursued him. Love? Who sets the rules? It's a curious tale, creepy at times, and the ending stung me. I didn't like it though I think Pen and Rob did which led to some interesting dialogue later on.

Sunday, after a trip to Ikea, Pen flew home. Since then I've been lost in paperwork for the government.

Same mother, same father

2009-03-08T18:19:00.006+01:00

I've spent the last five days with my sisters thanks to Gael who flew in from Ontario for a conference at the Empress in Victoria and shared her harbour view room with two of us before returning to the mainland and adding another sister to the equation. As our oldest sister couldn't join us, I was the eldest but my giggly siblings did not treat me as if I were older and wiser, they just wanted to have fun and so we did in true Wetherall fashion - luxuriating at the fancy hotel, swimming morning and evening at the hotel's health spa, shopping (buying little), dining well, drinking too well one evening, and laughing - so much laughter. "How many lovers have you had," asked one? "That many?" "No fair," said another. (And being the oldest, I didn't bother counting - too easy. I lie and love the incredulous looks they all give me.)

There were also moments of serious discussion, asking the other or others for advice on aging, children, and career. Although we are different ages (I am 15 years older than my youngest sister) and are in different financial positions with differing tastes and desires, we are comfortable discussing most things with each other. We accept that one sister will spend $10,000 on a fridge and another the same on a vacation. (One frets about the cost. The other doesn't. For two of us, neither is an option or a priority though the discussion interests me.)

It's easy to see our differences. Our similarities, beyond looks, are less obvious and I need some time to reflect on this but there is something special about blood ties. What? I'm not sure but I trust them to love me, no matter what. As I love them.

On Saturday evening, our last two together, Rob and a sister-in-law join us at the Red Door for a farewell feast.

Beautiful boy

2009-03-03T17:22:00.006+01:00

A song for Michael

A Guilty Conscience Gets Me in Trouble

2009-02-25T03:15:00.002+01:00

Rob arrived home Saturday. Hurrah.

Sunday was the Academy Awards. We went to Helen's for an Oscar party - our first really if you don't count attending the Governor's Ball in 1993. Helen and I decided no elaborate dishes that require knives and forks and so we bought olives and cheese, cold meats, bread and crackers, vegetables and fruit. Gill and a friend made fresh crab cakes with a mango topping. The rich desserts, in honour of the Oscars, were chocolate eclairs, made by a pastry chef friend of Helen's and an apple, blueberry crisp by Marlene.

Rob and I were the first to arrive. While I helped Helen arrange platters, Rob pressed the button on the remote and began to watch stars walk the red carpet. Marlene, Steve, and Lael arrived soon after. In my best hostess voice, I asked them and Rob what they would like to drink and poured and served. Except I forgot Rob.

This bugged me. How could I forget him of all people? We had only been re-united the day before... and so, as I watched the opening scenes of the show - pleasantly surprised at its entertainment value - I looked across the room at Rob and lambasted myself for forgetting him. Part way through the evening, thinking I must make it up to him in some way, I left the room, slipped into the kitchen, and back into the living room, behind him and began to massage his shoulders and stroke his hair. He turned around, looked up, and lo and behold the man I was touching wasn't Rob. Everyone thought it a joke, including Rob, but I felt like an idiot.

I can laugh now but I wasn't laughing at the time.

The past week has been crazy busy. I did finish the accounting at around midnight Friday night and I was able to create a flyer and a menu, and keep the house clean for around half a dozen potential buyers...

I paused here and thought of Shirley whose father is dying. She has been writing more than usual so I went to her blog to learn that her dad died yesterday. Again death startles me. Frightens me. It has been happening too often.

Happy Birthday, Penelope

2009-02-19T06:53:00.001+01:00

My Two Valentines

2009-02-14T17:31:00.007+01:00

Our Lovely 5 Bedroom Cottage for Sale in Dundarave, West Vancouver

2009-02-11T00:07:00.013+01:00

I imagine that there is a family out there who would like to buy our cottage and raise their children here. It's a short walk to three schools, the beach, and Dundarave Village where there's restaurants, coffee shops, grocery store, and assorted boutiques. There's a young family next door and another across the street.

The house is rather special. We have lived here 25 years and raised three children under its roof (which we replaced three years ago.) Before us, the Clarks lived in the house - also for 25 years and raised their two children here who have returned to visit - once the boy/now man to show his daughters where he grew up and once the girl/now woman to cut ivy for her wedding bouquet.

Both Rob and I loved the house from

the moment we saw it. It's wasn't pretentious, had many book shelves, and it felt... I don't know what you call a place that feels good to you the moment you walk in.... It felt like us - casual, comfortable, quiet.

With only Rob and me living in the house now - and often we're in France - it's feels too big and not necessary anymore. Admittedly too, it is expensive to maintain two houses; not to mention, a lot of work.

I had to have a tooth pulled today and some bone shaved in my mouth so if my descriptive powers are lacking, please visit F aith Wilson's realty site where there is a movie, showing every room and all the details. I'm hoping some person or family soon will discover its charms so I can stop my incessant cleaning and gardening and move on... though Gill arrives in several days so I will ease up and enjoy her company. Rob returns a week Saturday.

Make 'Em Laugh, Make 'Em Laugh, Make 'Em Laugh

2009-02-05T17:41:00.004+01:00

My brother-in-law Bill's party on Ground Hog Day reminds me of a Danny Kaye song. Around 30 or so guests were willing to make fools of themselves for a laugh and although I felt like a little old lady in the bright yellow wig my sister gave me, I wore it most of the evening - for a laugh or two.

Earlier in the day, as I was slaving over the lavish cakes for the celebration, I thought of another man who was celebrating his 62nd birthday on Ground Hog Day. Strange as it may seem, every year on this day, I think of my first true love - the beautiful dancer I met when I was 15 years and send him a silent message. This year I sent him a real one... and he responded, noting that "so many life ingredients were added to the mix in impetuous youth." I continue to think on this... am I the same person today who I was then? Is Malcolm? Is Bill with his subdued afro?

One of my favourite movies is "Ground Hog Day". I love the idea of doing the same thing over and over until I have it right. And also the idea that there's time to do anything I want - like learn how to play the piano and impress the one you love.

I am feeling a little breathless these days, feel that the world is spinning faster and faster, and there's no time to catch my breath, no time to do everything right, and I'm trying, in the pause between breaths, to sort of out priorities. What must I do and what is unimportant in the business of selling a house?

I had an email from another friend who noted something that she felt was profoundly true: "You always give up what you love." This tore at my heart. As I look around the house that I have lived and loved in for 25 years and try and cover its flaws so someone else will want it, while at the same time, knowing that the flaws give it character, and whoever walks in and loves the place, will accept its imperfections; and I think also about the business accounts that our accountant is asking for (and which I haven't begun), and all the things that one must do each day, each week, to keep body and soul together, I feel inadequate and not up to the task.

"You always give up what you love." I remember a scene from a movie - can't remember which one - where a nuclear bomb is about to explode and the husband tries to urge his wife into the bomb shelter, and she won't leave until the dishes are done.... Priorities. I have said that I want to write a book before I die and I'm scared that I will never find the time to do what I love... though saying this I do a lot of little things that I love - like baking and decorating a beautiful cake and donning a hideous wig, like sitting in a cold restaurant, wearing my coat, and sharing a meal with good friends, like standing in an empty square in a little village in France with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a flute in the other, bringing in the New Year with two loved ones...

And sometimes, I catch a glimpse of a solution to my battle against time... but at the moment it eludes me.

Acting twenty as I approach sixty

2009-01-29T02:00:00.004+01:00

I know that I promised to write about my week in Toronto but Ed's dying so quickly stunned me. I didn't think he'd leave this world so soon after my visit. And thinking about him and his family - Lois and Herb, Mackenzie and Michael, especially - occupied my thoughts though I wasn't idle.

I have been cleaning the house, making it shine, for yet another real estate appraisal. Soon the house will go on the market again, unfortunately at a reduced price, but still Rob and I feel it's time to sell.

I have also been editing Rob's novel - at last, he's allowed me to read his work-in-progress. It's a mystery, set in France and, beyond being a good read, I'm fascinated by his descriptions of place and characters as I can guess many of the sources. It's as if he has invited me into his brain to show me how it selects and processes data.

It was Sunday that I found myself acting as if I were twenty years old - quite unintentionally. I met my sister in the city for brunch and as she had to work and I had a hour to kill before meeting a friend, I asked if I could use her second-storey apartment. She lent me the only key, giving me strict instructions to leave it under her front door mat when leaving or she wouldn't be able to get in.

After half an hour or so, I went out to the balcony for a smoke, closing the door behind me. When I went to re-enter, the door was locked. I tried rattling the door and handle, sticking things in the lock, but it refused to budge. After half an hour, I was freezing - no coat - and starting to panic. Finally I heard footsteps and yelled down.

"Can you help me? I'm on the balcony."

A young woman looked up and agreed to telephone my sister who didn't answer her cell. The young woman left a message for her, apologized that she couldn't help me further as she had to get to work, and left.

Another fifteen minutes went by. I heard a young couple below.

"Can you help me? I'm locked out and freezing."

The woman ran and brought me a warm jacket. The man knocked on the door below and roused yet another young man who agreed to telephone the landlord who also didn't answer the phone.

"I have to get off of here," I said. "Will you spot me? I'm not very big."

So I climbed over the railing, hung from the edge, and the men lowered me to the ground.

Eventually my sister showed up. (Why had I locked the door?) She called a locksmith who said he charges $200 for a house call. She told him she'd think about it. We agreed it would be cheaper to break the glass and replace it.

"Do you think you can climb up onto the balcony again?" she asked.

She found an old piece of sturdy trellis in the back garden and up I went, flipping over the railing. Before breaking the glass, I gave the door several hard shoves with a shoulder and it sprang open. Sigh of relief.

Though feeling myself a fool, I was rather proud of my gymnastics, thinking not bad for a woman who is nearly sixty.

Later that night, I didn't feel so smug. I couldn't get comfortable in bed. My back was aching.

Fare Thee Well

2009-01-22T21:15:00.004+01:00

Love, Love, Love

2009-01-18T18:34:00.005+01:00

I have much to tell. The past week that I spent in Toronto en route to Vancouver was so rich that I don't know where to begin. I promise to record as much as possible over the next few days but I feel it important to speak first of Ed Charles and his family - for Lois really - because she is a faithful reader, has the most gorgeous eyelashes (a private joke), and I love her granddaughter.

La Vie - 2009

2009-01-06T15:59:00.006+01:00

At the last moment of 2008, Rob, Bedding, and I stood in La Place with a glass of champagne and welcomed 2009 to the village. The only sound was the clinking of glasses and our voices, expressing the hope that the new year would be a good one.

Soon after, we went home to our respective houses to sleep and wake the next morning for a champagne and oyster party at Susan and David's.

Will it be a quiet year, I wonder.

January 2nd: I drive to Albi, sit at an outdoor table of a small cafe, under a strong sun, working on a story. Suddenly I realize that I am happy and record the moment in my journal.

January 3rd: I am restless as hell. I want to make concrete plans for this new year and I don't know where to begin. I have only so much control over what I can and can't do. My major worry is about money. What to do?

I grabbed a poetry book and discovered Kathleen Raine's poem "Confessions:"

Wanting to know all/ I overlooked each particle/ Containing the whole/ Unknowable

Intent on one great love, perfect,/ Requited and for ever,/ I missed love's everywhere/ small presence, thousand-guised.

On the 5th, Gill returned from Paris with a friend. In the afternoon, I lost myself in battle with a loved one who lives at a distant. Though I measured my words, was careful and respectful, she lashed back at me, chose to think the worst of me. My insides churned and I could hardly contain my tears. I walked round and round the village, talking to myself, trying to think of a way to make her understand. In the end, I sent one short email, saying that she knows me: I am not a mean person. She conceded a little...

This morning, Rob played for me a short video, called "Count your Blessings" and though I found it slightly maudlin, it touched me and I put together 3 pages of images, shown at the beginning of this entry, on the 6th day of the new year.

The year in perspective

2008-12-31T07:10:00.003+01:00

Please click on each picture individually to see clearly.

Fifth Day of Celebrations

2008-12-27T12:03:00.001+01:00

The fourth day of celebrations

2008-12-26T10:00:00.001+01:00

Stand by Me

2008-12-26T08:40:00.002+01:00

A gift of music arrived from Helen this morning and although Rob had already shown me this video, I thought I'd include a link for those of you who haven't seen it.

The third celebratory day

2008-12-25T09:33:00.003+01:00

We are celebrating Christmas is our small French village. Near midnight last night, we walked through the town - Gill danced - and saw not a soul though flashing lights and a few plastic Santas trying to climb in windows made us feel Christmasy.

Strange it was Rob who felt saddest about our no-gift rule this year. And it did feel sad though liberating - no flurry and worry about trying to find the perfect present - but Michael broke the rule (Bren too but his gift will arrive late) and it was quite lovely to have his thoughtful presents and messages under the tree - and then wake in the morning to unwrap his perfect surprises.

While those I love sleep and hopefully dream sweet dreams in North America, I have just put a squash in the oven for our noon feast. (Kate you must be up too - hope your little ones are happy and give you peace today.)

Soon I must think of New Year resolutions... I feel next year will bring great change.

For now, here's my communal Christmas card.

On the second day of celebrations...

2008-12-24T18:35:00.002+01:00

Five Days of Celebrations

2008-12-23T14:30:00.004+01:00

My family is rather extraordinary. From the 23rd of December to the 27th,

we celebrate each day for a different reason.

On the first day, we celebrate a sister's birthday:

Once again

2008-12-21T23:35:00.004+01:00

For some reason this picture will not enlarge when you click on it so I'm trying once again.

Tis the Season

2008-12-21T22:52:00.008+01:00

There is so much I would like to say but somehow can't bring myself to speak about, at this time - perhaps because there is so much to be thankful for - good friends who love poetry and books, who wine us and dine us. One generous couple let us take the top of a tree from their garden and gave us a pet cloth snake, aptly named Mr. Boa C Draftblocca as he lies by the door and keeps the cold out. (I keep slipping and calling him Mr. Boa Draftdodger.)

We had two of Gill's friends with us for a week, Robyn and Brandon, who left for Paris yesterday. They were an easy-going, helpful, vibrant young couple who had been on the road for three or four weeks and were happy to do little , catch up on their laundry and reading, and entertained us with tales of their travels.

Now the house is quiet and today I've tried to catch on my correspondence - not quite - and clean a few rooms.

(remember to double click on pictures)

Simple Pleasures

2008-12-14T16:04:00.001+01:00

C'est la vie

2008-12-08T09:54:00.003+01:00

My daughter leads me to the bar this cool, crisp morning. (On the way, we stop at the Patisserie for 2 pain aux raisons.) We greet Mark, the owner, find a table at the back and order a cafe creme and tea.

The French language surrounds us. Rapid and undecipherable though Gill understands all that is said. She tells me that my grammar is better than hers but what use is good grammar if I don't understand the responses to my questions. Still I survive.

I survive in this little village. Survive. Is that what I want? To survive pure and simple? Part of me thinks no I want more than survival. I want pleasure. Another part says why not? You're alive. You're here in the south of France not saddled with responsibility - just debt.

My thoughts are muddled. I just want to live a good life. And I want more time - a dozen years, at the least. Two dozen would be even better. But no matter how much time I have left, I feel that I had better get started on what I want to do with the rest of my days.

I see this is a shift in my thinking. A sign of aging? Carolyn Heilbrun wrote that middle age is the best age. Old enough to know that time is finite. Young enough to be physically capable of realizing dreams - like climbing a mountain, cycling through Italy, writing a book. I figure that I'm near the end of middle age. I'd better get a move on...

After Patrick's, Helen's mother, David Lee's death... and today after learning of Wenda's brother's death, dying is on my mind. Death. I have no words. Why do I weep? The tears flowed at Patrick's wake when really I have only seen the man once in twenty years. And yet, I loved him. But those who have shared his life before and since I knew him, their stories reminded me of what a sweet man he was, how he touched me. I remember one morning, when Rob and I had just started living together and Patrick arrived early to pick him up for work. I sat up in bed when the door opened. In my bleary morning eyes, I saw Patrick stick his head around the door and remember his words: "Oh Yvonne, you even look good in the morning."

Death. C'est la vie. I have had such a hard time lately finding words to express my thoughts. Gill helps. She wants to write with me and so we write. Why is it, I ask her, that it is easier to do something for someone else than one's self?

I ordered and received the other day "Times Alone: Selected Poems of Antonio Machado" translated by Robert Bly. Marlene introduced me to the poet, to his lines "Last night, as I was sleeping,/ I dreamt - marvellous error! -/ that I had a beehive/ here inside my heart./ And the golden bees/ were making white combs/ and sweet honey/ from my old failures."

So many poems in this collection are about dreams and death.

Like Anacreon,

I want to sing, and to laugh, and to throw

to the wind

the sophisticated sarcasms, and the sobering proverbs.

And I want even more to get drunk -

you know about it - bizarre!

A true faith in dying, a thin joy,

strange dancing a little ahead of time.

Gilly arrives in France

2008-12-04T09:17:00.004+01:00

Our long-legged high-heeled lovely loving daughter arrived last night near midnight. I embraced her, talked for minute, and then had to crawl back into bed. The bug that kept me prone for two days running, lingers, refuses to leave me alone though yesterday I worked all day, cleaning and organizing so that I could spend time with my baby.

I awoke at seven this morning, made a coffee, and climbed up the stairs to the second floor. Her door was open. Unable to sleep, she was sitting at the white desk that looks out a window to the green garden across the narrow road, writing in a journal. "Everything is so luxurious," she tells me. "From the light switches beside the bed to the motion-activated light in the hall to the elegant bathtub with tap that allows you to set the temperature of the water."

I was worried that she wouldn't like the changes as she had said that everything was perfect the way it was. No, she says. "The house is perfect now. All the little things that I didn't like are gone."

Sigh of relief. I worry that in my desire to do things right in this home that I have gone too far. I want only what I find beautiful. I have adopted my eldest son's philosophy. Live without until you can find or afford what pleases you.

We talk for a hour or so and then Gill, who has only been able to sleep a couple of hours after her long flight, goes back to bed. I come down to my office, content to have her here.

Sick, sore, and tired

2008-11-30T18:12:00.002+01:00

I've spent the last two days and nights sleeping, waking briefly every couple of hours or so with a circle of pain in my gut and rushing to the bathroom.... food poisoning, I'd guess.

Though my energy is still low, I felt better this morning and wanted out in the sunshine so Rob and I drove to Gaillac, picked up sandwiches at the Patisserie (though I couldn't eat much) and wandered the streets of the old town and into the park to the Museum of Beaux Arts. We were the only visitors. Great fun, saying what we wanted about the paintings - as the one employee, the receptionist at the desk was too interested in talking on her cell phone than following us around. The exhibit featured Gaillac painters and sculptors from the 19th & 20th century. I especially liked one scene of village life - a bit like a Bruegel - where the figures were almost cartoon characters, each one (or almost) had a bottle of wine in hand, faces animated, having a good old time while one crazy rogue was dancing on a table.

This is not much of a blog I'm afraid but I'm not up to speed and will try to say more soon though I really haven't been doing too much. Rob wins the prize as far as writing goes. He found a program to organize and format his novel and he has over 65,000 words... I'm jealous.

Maggie's Birthday

2008-11-18T08:10:00.002+01:00

"Indecision is the seedling of fear."

2008-11-16T13:29:00.001+01:00

In case you don't know - if you double click on picture, it becomes large enough to read.

Mr. Young and I

2008-11-12T08:24:00.009+01:00

The trouble with writing a blog is that if one misses one day, then two, then three, moments are lost and it's hard to catch up. For the past week, we've been trying to right ourselves time-wise, deal with house problems (another story) and enjoy the company of Penelope and Roy who arrived the day after us from Tunisia where a wild horse ride left Pen bruised and an exotic diet left Roy a little sick. So we have been recovering together and taking short trips to Cordes, Saint Antonin, Gaillac, Albi, and a few vineyards to give our friends a taste of the region.

The pictures are from La Domaine de la Chanade, a small superior winery on the route to Cordes. When we arrived the owner, Christian (a charmer) was in the process of emptying the wine press. We learnt that the grape skins and seeds, and anything else left after the grapes have been squeezed dry are given to a government agency who, in turn, turn them into alcohol, and by "donating" such, Christian pays his taxes.

Christian is proud of his wine and tells us that it is served at some of the finest hotels in France though 80% of his harvest is exported to the eastern United States. We sampled a number of varieties and left with 8 bottles.

Today Rob, Pen, and Roy have gone to Toulouse and I remain to attend to our house problems and try to catch up with my blog.

Was it only a week ago...

that we stopped in Toronto for Patrick's "damn good party" - the party he requested instead of a funeral service? He told his wife that he would be there, glass in hand. On the "Change of Address Card" we were given at the door, we were told that "maudlin, morose or depressing sentiments are discouraged."

We entered a crowded room. I was afraid that I wouldn't recognize anyone. After all, it had been over 30 years since we left Toronto and this was Rob's world really - most of the people would be from the film and television industry. On the back wall a slide show played scenes from Patrick's life. I was happy to spot Audrey, Patrick's first wife who, to my surprise, looked much the same as I remembered her and who had inspired me greatly in the early years of my marriage. I told her that she had made a difference to my life - for instance, it was because of her that my children attended French Immersion. I rattled on about I'd done and asked questions about her. I have some more advice, she said. Live your life. Be wild, take chances, do what you please. (Rob said, I already do but I know that I still have a way to go, and I love being given permission. I asked Audrey to repeat her advice.)

The afternoon was a dream. I felt outside myself. Everyone was telling Patrick stories, laughing, drinking, eating, and only when Emma stood up to speak of her father did my tears start falling.

Later I spoke to Mary, Patrick's second wife who said theirs was a 27 year romance. Didn't he drive you crazy at times, I asked. She laughed. "Of course. I can remember telling Patrick that he must tell me when I annoyed him as I would tell him when he bugged me. Well, it took four years for him to complain and when he did, I ran out, slamming the door. I was halfway down the block when I realized that he was only doing what I had asked him to.

Mary told me about Patrick's last hours, that he decided that he had had enough. She had wanted to delay him, keep him close, but a nurse took her in hand and said "this isn't about you."

It took a lot of energy to be Patrick, I said. Mary smiled. "That's a good way of putting it."

Patrick's death did affect me. Although I have my memories of this effervescent wonderful man - more after his wake - he is no longer.

I think of loved ones who are here, who I can touch and want to touch more.