Mr. Young and I

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. 

The night before

we left for France, Rob and I watched the American election at my sister's house in Toronto. At first, as the results came pouring in, we could not believe our eyes and ears. We did not want to be too cocky, too confident. Finally - when McCain conceded and Obama gave his victory speech - we believed: a vast number of Americans had come to their senses and elected the best man to lead their nation. 

Since the election, there's been a lot of fuss and applause from around the world because this 47-year-old first-term senator from Illinois, will become the first African-American president of the United States. I think this wonderful too but I am happier that Obama is smart, an intellectual even. Caroline Kennedy wrote that she feels Obama will be a president like her father.

"Sometimes it takes a while to recognize that someone has a special ability to get us to believe in ourselves, to tie that belief to our highest ideals and imagine that together we can do great things. In those rare moments, when such a person comes along, we need to put aside our plans and reach for what is possible.

"We have that opportunity with Senator Obama...."

 

 

Happy Birthday, Mackenzie

Breasts

"They were born when I was thirteen

They rose up half out of my chest

Now they are forty [fifty plus], wise, generous

I am inside them, in a way, under them

Or I carry them

I was alive so long without them

I can't say I envy them,

though their feelings are almost my feelings

As with someone one deeply loves...

They were a gift to me

And then they were ours

Like little nurslings of excitement and plenty..."

My beautiful daughter and I walk away from the Sharon Olds' reading Friday night, arm in arm, after saying goodbye to our plum friends. 'I am not a breast woman," Gill says. "Ah, you are a leg woman," I guess as I look up at her face and wonder once again how I created such long-legged children.  

I wish I could find the whole poem about breasts because though it is about breasts, it is also about Olds husband's departure. When I first bought "The Unswept Room" and read about the split with her husband, I almost cried. How could he leave this extraordinary woman, I wondered. She had written about their couplings so beautifully so many times, more beautifully to me than any other author. 

"If, someday, we had to look back

and tell the best hours of our lives,

this was one - moving my brow

and nose around, softly, in your armpit,

as if you were running a furred palm

over my face.  The skin of my body

touching your body felt actively joyful,

sated yet sipping and eating.  As you fell

asleep, your penis slowly caressed me,

as if you were licking me goodbye, and I lay

slack, weightless, my body floated

on fathomless happiness..."

I can't remember how I discovered Olds' poetry but I bought her books one by one as they first appeared on shelves. I love how the body is her reference point. She read at the Vancouver Writers and Readers Festival another year - I can't remember the date - and she read about sitting on a toilet watching her menstrual blood making beautiful patterns in the water. My head spun. I had never thought of menstruation as being beautiful. But forever after I did. 

Friday was such a good evening. I would have liked to buy Olds' new book but the lineup was too long and I hate lineups and I tell myself that I will pick up the book this week before leaving for France. 

(Another reason I love Olds is her politics. The young poet who introduced the author the other night mentioned her open letter to Laura Bush. It's worth reading.)

Restless

I don't know what to do with myself. 

Yesterday I booked our tickets back to France with a stopover in Toronto to attend the celebration of a friend's life: Patrick Spence-Thomas . His son Richard has created a blog so friends can leave "Patrick stories". (The number grows daily. He was a much loved man.) Richard has also included a selection of his father's readings, including Dylan Thomas' "A Child's Christmas in Wales."

We leave for Toronto November 1st. On the 5th, we leave from Toronto for France. Rob will see his transformed house for the first time. 

This has been a sad week. The day after Patrick died, my friend Helen's mother - Mary Babalos - died. I loved Mary too. She was not a meek and mild, little old lady. Though her hair was silver and she was 89 years old, she did not mince words. One evening at Anatoli's, a few years back, she was playing hostess. A man came into the restaurant and said his name "Dr. So and So." Mary looked down her nose and responded "just because you're a doctor doesn't mean you're going to get a better table." 

Mary was bossy. When she met my mother, at Whistler, New Year's 2000, she insisted my mum not toss a fruit salad but keep the fruit separate - healthier, according to her niece. When my father was vacuuming, Mary stood over him and issued instructions. 

I know she drove her daughter crazy. One day, she kept harping at Helen about a cardigan she was wearing - it looked stupid, Mary insisted, with the seams out (the style) and finally, in frustration, Helen turned the sweater inside out. 

Two days before she died, Mary told her daughter that she would be gone soon and asked if she would alright. Only a mother, Helen said, would ask such a question.

 

Two days after Mary's death, Rob received a phone call that another friend had died in Panama. I didn't know him well. He too was a sound mixer, a jolly hardy soul, a few years older than Rob. 

Where to go from here? It's been a strange week. We have decided to wait until January when we are back in Vancouver to make a decision about our house. 

Happy 22nd Birthday, Gill

I wish you many moments of happiness this

coming year

and 

that you may know and experience some, 

if not all, the riches you give to your mother

Happy Birthday, Rob

Patrick, dear Patrick

Home for Thanks Giving

Thank the heavens, we made it home. And more to the point, Rob and I made it home together. You'd never guess there was any discord between us, looking at this photograph.  There was. I'm the worst passenger in the world though I really try to keep my big mouth shut and not to press the imaginary brake on the dash too often. 

The nearly four days it took us to get to San Francisco was enough driving for the two of us but we had to get the car back. And Gill. Thank the heavens too for Gill. She's the easiest traveller in the world and so, when Rob was driving, she sat in the front and I read in the back. 

After Ayah and Oscar married, after we celebrated their getting hitched at the Russian River Resort - where most of the young drank themselves silly and only the aunts and uncles remained sober (not always the case) - we left our rustic cabin and spent a day and a half in San Francisco.  Brendan only had a few hours before he caught a plane back to Vancouver so it was only Rob, Gill, and I who saw a bit beyond Fisherman's Wharf. I love this hilly city but it's ghastly expensive. (Parking at the hotel costs $60 for a 24 hour period.) 

Towards the end of the second day, we drove to Sausalito, wandered the village streets and then drove a little further north to San Anselmo where Carol from Carolina lives. We were only going to stay 2 nights with her but were having such a good time, we stayed three. Carol is not only an easy-going host, she's an amazing chef and a great story-teller. She also has endless energy (though she turns 80 next year.) Every night, she's out at some theatre or opera event or lecture (she gave away a ticket to spend an evening with us) and during the day, she counsels students on university applications. She inspires me to be more industrious. The third evening, I went with her to see the Druid theatre from Galway perform John Millington Synge's "The Shadow of the Glen" and "The Playboy of the Western World." 

The next morning, we packed the car and headed north, stopping at the Robert Young Estate Winery for obvious reasons and splurged and bought 6 bottles of various labels as it's Rob's birthday on Tuesday. The wine is excellent (and expensive) and I will never complain again about spending 10 euros on a bottle of Chateau de Chanade in France. 

The day was so warm that I took my blouse off in the car and rode in my tank top but by the close of day, in the mountains, in the rain, surrounded by fog, we finally pulled into what looked like a ski resort. Soon after, sitting in the dining room, we watched the snow begin to fall. 

By noon, the next day, we picnicked under a warm sun, at a rest stop. 

We are truly thankful to be home and thankful to Helen who has invited us to a turkey feast this evening. 

It will be a long time - if ever - that we decide to take a driving holiday again. 

San Anselmo, California

I was going to keep family and friends up on our travels but, after the second night (or was it the third?) I wasn't able to get on the internet and even Blogger refused to transfer my pictures and words full-size so I was unable to relate our adventures along the way. I'll try to recap some now. 

Friday afternoon, we reached our destination - Fern Grove Cottages - "an intimate retreat... charming... private" in the town of Guerneville in the heart of the Sonoma wine region. I had reserved the large cabin, a two bedroom, in June to accommodate 4, with a price tag of over $200 a night, and was expecting something spacious and luxurious. This it was not. The bedrooms could hardly hold two suitcases. The cabin was okay, kind of kitschy, adequate, but not worth the price tag and the hostess/owner, an English woman, was not very welcoming or gracious. We left our suitcases and drove to San Francisco to pick up Brendan and Gill who had flown in that afternoon. 

The best part about staying at this "resort" was that a number of the Young family had also rented cabins and when we returned from SF, all arrived at our door, with bottles of various libations, and we had a fun evening, drinking and catching up.   

The wedding took place at 1 pm the next day in the backyard of a friend's home that looks over the Russian River. The bride, Ayah, the youngest daughter of Rob's brother Gary, at around 6' towers over her mother, father, uncle, and most of the guests. She's a talented writer, singer, artist, political activist and all in all the Young and Sevilla families adore her. This day, she married Oscar, a RN, Mexican, with a kind round face who clearly adores our flamboyant niece (still don't know much about this man but liked him the moment I met him.) She is beautiful in a black gown, veil over her face, with assorted red flowers in her hair and hands - flowers beautifully arranged by her aunt Carol, sister of her mother.  Oscar is elegant in long jacketed white suit with white hat and black shirt. Ayah's grandfather officiates at the short ceremony where both bride and groom pledge to the other, in their own words, to love the other. 

The newly married couple dance their first dance to a Johnny Cash love song. A Mexican vegetarian feast is served while the champagne, wine, and beer flows. I even caught a few dances with my love and his brother and one brother-in-law. 

We don't see much of the Young family and so it was interesting, more than interesting: it was good to catch up with some members who I haven't seen for around 20 years. Both Rob and I were charmed by our niece Bijah, Ayah's older sister and her son Isaiah. And by her grandparents, Mary and Maynard, who haven't changed much since we saw them in 1986 when I was pregnant with Gill. (They are both now in their 80s.) 

Around 6 pm, we went back to our cabin, relaxed, did heavens know what, until it was time to attend the evening party at a gay resort down the road. We missed the leather fashion show...

more to follow

The Altar

The Altar
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y

Family

Family
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y

Brothers

Brothers
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y

The Bride & Groom

The Bride & Groom
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y

The Oregon Coast

We left Portland around noon and headed west to the highway that runs along the coast. I made this trip around ten years ago with Gill and Michael, driving a VW camper van and staying in national parks. I remember the drive as being breathtakingly beautiful. It would have been early summer, right after school was out. 

Yesterday I was disappointed. Perhaps it's the time of year. Many inns and restaurants are closed. The towns sprawled along the highway appear ghostlike.  Around 4 in the afternoon, we searched for an espresso cafe and had to drive through 3 small towns to find one. Beauty? We caught several expansive views of waves crashing onto stretches of sandy beach, one seal gliding in and out of the water, and a number of trees so windblown that their trunks and branches lean precariously to one side. 

This morning it's foggy and raining. We will somehow make our way into the state of California.  

On the Road

Rob and I left home this morning around 8:30, stopped twice for meals, and are now sitting in the lobby of the Moderna Hotel in Portland - much fancier than our usual choice but not knowing the city and not having a reservation, in desperation really, we find ourselves happily sipping wine and playing on our computers in luxury. 

Tomorrow, we will quickly explore the city and then drive further south. We have only to be in San Francisco by Friday noon to pick Gill and Brendan up at the airport. 

Perhaps later this week I will fill you in on my few days in Vancouver before departing. But I will mention that my friend Shirley won third prize in a literary contest for her story "Tunnel Vision." (I attended the ceremony Sunday and heard all three of the prize winners read.) She should have been first. 

"How I Missed Those Loving Arms"



I'm home. Thank the heavens. For one who hates to fly, I've been doing a lot of it lately. From France to England to Eastern Canada, and finally to our home on the West Coast. My body is tired. Yesterday, first day back, I limped around, unpacked my suitcase, curled up on the sofa and read, while Rob worked his last day on Night at the Museum, Part 11.

In six days, we leave by car for California for yet another niece's wedding. Around the first of November, we will hop a plane together (for a change) to rest in our French house until after Christmas. I'm excited. Rob hasn't seen the renovation and I'm looking forward to his response.

I call myself a traveller (English spelling, not American), a nomad who is happiest on the road with a load of good books. I love alighting in a foreign place, exploring, enjoying new sights and different food, and writing about the experience. Lately travel, for the most part, has been about house work.

Our plan to retire to France and travel the world was based on our Canadian house selling at a good price - one that would pay our debts and give us a comfortable income until we die - but houses aren't selling unless the price tag is ridiculously low. My realtor sister says that buyers are making low-ball offers - some under assessed value. We're in a quandary. Do we sell low, pay off our debts, bank the rest, and work for another a couple of years to make up the difference? We would have to rent when work is available. Or do we carry the debt, rent our house, and work for another couple of years, renting a smaller place ourselves when necessary? If we don't sell, how long will it take the housing market to recover? Nobody really knows the answers to these questions.

*****

There is so much I could say about this past week but I find myself reluctant because during this week, my blog has been praised and criticized. Praised by a stranger. Criticized by a loved one. What to do? I would like to write an anonymous blog that could not be traced to me. Is this cowardice? Yes.

Although some may not think so, I think that I'm too kind in this journal. I don't lie but I don't tell the whole truth, or rather my truth, for I fear hurting someone I love. But keeping my big mouth shut goes against the grain, does nothing for my writer self. I know I repeat myself but I keep thinking of Saint Teresa of Avila who told her close friends "to disillusion me with the truth." She wanted to know herself. I would like to have her courage.

*****

The last week in France disappeared. I left the house perfect, ready to dazzle Rob when we return. I stopped in Toronto (as I've mentioned) to attend Amie's wedding.

I was surprised to hear that this particular niece was getting married. She is not a traditionalist. She has never tried to please, and is the most outspoken and caustic of my siblings' children. She does not lack intelligence. (I see none of these qualities as negative.) She loves books. Her choice of husband also surprised me. Tommy is the son of a Finnish Mormon. His father's closest friend (who I met at the wedding) described Tommy's dad, Ilmo as the closest person to Jesus Christ that he's ever met. "There isn't a kinder, gentler, more generous man on this earth." Although I have never had a long conversation with Tommy, I would say he resembles his father. He appears timid, modest, not volcanic like his beautiful bride.

Amie says they met at a bar. She was to be his friend's date but Tommy and she sat and talked the night away. The second time they met was also in a bar. She told him that she was in a foul mood. "Let's dance," he said. And they danced the night away. They arranged to go to a movie together. Amie says the film destroyed all her illusions about love. When they left the theatre, she burst into tears and couldn't stop crying. If you can't believe in love, what can you believe in. Tommy comforted her. I believe in love, he told her. And with that statement, she realized that she was falling in love.

*****
I arrived in Toronto exhausted, after being awake 24 hours. I slept poorly the first night. The next evening was the wedding. The evening after that the celebration. I went home with Gill and Durant and Gill and I had a day and evening together and although she was working, we still had time to catch up and play. Early, early the next morning, I took a train to Port Hope so I could visit with my son Michael and his love, Mackenzie. Although struggling financially - Michael is now enrolled in full time studies as well as doing web work - they are happier than I've ever seen them.

It was a whirlwind visit. Early, early the next morning, my father drove me to the train station and I caught a train back to the city. It was a glorious hot day and I pulled my suitcases through the streets of Toronto to the subway to the airport and home.

She'd follow Tommy anywhere...
She's in love with the boy

On the way home, I stopped in Toronto for Amie and Tommy's wedding (sounds like a country and western song to me.)



So much to say about the last week but until today (I'm with Michael) I have not been able to use my computer and as I have only a few hours to spend with him and Mackenzie, and my mum and dad, I'll tell more a little later this week. (I fly home tomorrow.)

Skip to My Lou

Don't know why a nursery rhyme comes to mind. My first two pages describe the work I've been doing. If they bore you, skip to the third.

Ma belle-soeur et l'amour de sa vie

I woke up at 4 am, made myself a cup of tea, opened my computer, and noted that it is August 31st, Kathy and Richard's wedding day. Kathy is my sister-in-law or, in French, my belle-soeur, translated beautiful sister. I imagine that she will be beautiful today in an Eileen Fisher flowing dress with organza overcoat. I imagine that she will be happy at her small wedding, surrounded by their children and grandchildren but I imagine her happy mostly because she is marrying the rather extraordinary man she met through an internet-dating-service a few years ago. Richard is one of the most inquisitive, industrious, generous, talkative, and intelligent man whom I have ever met. (See Richard's website.) He asked me once to tell him about Kathy's other men because he didn't want to make the same mistake and lose her. I have also noticed their kindness to one another. (The older I get, the more I see that kindness is the most important ingredient in a loving relationship.)

Kathy is Rob's younger sister and although she often comments on how he tortured her when they were young, and although they are not in touch often (which surprises Richard who is constantly in touch with his family,) there is no lack of love between them. They are similar in their down-to-earth, no nonsense approach to life - could be the Maritime in them - and their love of books and family. I admire too Kath's intelligence and organizational skills (something I lack in regards to the home.) I remember when we were raising our children, she'd be up, dressed, beds made, house cleaned, and be cooking one of her famous cheesecakes, while I'd still be wandering around in my housecoat. For the longest time in Vancouver, she was the only family I had and she was always there for me - taking the children when I went to see Rob on location, letting the whole family move in when we were between houses, organizing our extended family get-togethers, listening when I needed listening to - oh dear, there is so much I could say - but as I sit here thinking about her and the actions she's taken throughout our relationship, I see she is as extraordinary as Richard. I am happy that they found each other.

Last year, when Richard came to Vancouver - our first meeting - he stayed with us, and Rob introduced him as his brother-in-law which amused Richard.

Today Richard officially joins the Young clan and both Rob and I - I say with a grin - think he'll fit right in. Welcome, good man. We will celebrate your marriage with champagne when we meet in California, early October.




I have inserted here a picture of Kathy and Rob (lower left) and our combined children.

Milestone Birthday

My eldest child is thirty today. He wants no fuss or hullabaloo. How can this be? He was raised by a mother who loves celebrations. In my mind, turning thirty is important. On my 30th birthday, this young man was seven months old. I was never a baby person but after his birth, after falling in love with this child from my belly, while still reveling in my capacity to create such a perfect human being, I decided I wanted a dozen more. I had yet to discover how much time, physical and psychic energy, and yes, money it takes to raise a child. But the gifts given and lessons learned from this child-now-man continue (as well as from my other two.) I am often overwhelmed by the size and scope of dividends that I receive. Non, je ne regrette rien.

I wish him everything his heart desires, including many dazzling moments of happiness this coming year.

"Ain't No Cure for Love"

When I am depressed, I wallow. Yesterday was one such day. It began when I went to Mr. Bricolage for sandpaper and spoke to one bitch of a saleswoman who refused to understand my French... My bleak mood continued until the evening when I spoke to Rob (oh, I love the sound of his voice) and then sang along with Jennifer Warnes "I've loved you for a long long time" from her Famous Blue Raincoat" and ate my solitary dinner watching "Captain Corelli's Mandolin".

This morning, I feel better. Started my day with a phone call from Marlene, went to La Place for coffee, and sat in the sunshine, writing in my journal.

Susan is 81 years today and tomorrow Brendan turns 30.

I hate myself when I complain about the little things when I have so much to be thankful for, and even though I know this when I am sunk in misery, there are times when I just can't pull myself out.

I meant to blog earlier this week on last week's village fete but somehow time escaped me, though I did write about it in my journal so I will copy a bit about it and then continue to the present time.

Susan and David whose house backs onto the Esplanade where the music stage is set for the summer fete, left town for five days, and I promised to keep an eye on their garden and water when necessary.

"I am down in David's garden, drawing water from the well to feed the baby tomatoes, squash, and onions though there is really no need as it had rained a little very day. But a promise is a promise and I was worried that too many tomatoes had ripened and would go to waste...

I had decided the day before that I would get out of my hermitage and lead a healthier existence and participate more in the life of the village (which I call mine.) So in the evening I strolled through the Esplanade, bought some saucisse and frites and a glass of wine and sat listening to the music. But I was alone, felt out of place in the chattering crowd and, after a short while, went home to bed.

The next evening, I was wide awake at 10 (unusual) so I took another stroll through the Esplanade where a Spanish group were playing. The lead singer, a very pregnant young woman, had a great voice so I sat and listened with a French neighbour. It was an evening for the older folk (the night before was disco music - loud and horrible - and this band cooperated for most of the evening with traditional French songs which moved many in the crowd - some who could hardly walk - to hit the dance floor and move in unison which reminded me of the dances I'd attended in Northern Ireland. I think it a shame that dancing does not play a greater role in North American - especially for an older crowd.

I am missing my friend Clare this summer who was always willing to go down to the garden with me and my Gill, who always pulled me to the dance floor (and made me eat healthily and regularly.)

I am obsessed with getting my house in order...."

This week is a blur of fixing and painting but there were two occasions that I got out of my old clothes and ventured into the world - both happened on Friday - and both cheered me considerably.

On Friday morning, Bedding and I drove into the country to see an art exhibit that Susan had arranged. Susan went with Carol and a friend of Susan's drove with her mother. We met at a small auberge for lunch (famous for its bread soup) and then went to the home of Bettina von Arnim (the great great great (don't know how many greats) granddaughter of the writer by the same name. The Bettina who met us at her driveway, with her floral trousers and patterned over-blouse, roughly cut hair in a fringe round her face, no makeup, looked (to me) more like a farmer's wife than an artist who had studied in Berlin and Paris, has held many expositions, and has two studios filled with everything from small metal sculptures created with found objects, to mirror boxes, to watercolour and oil landscapes, to six large, rather humourous oil paintings of figures with huge hands. When I mentioned the eclectic range of her work, she laughed and said that she did not like to repeat herself. I liked the woman and loved her art. (Wished I could have afforded one woman in blue. 5000 euros, she said. Next year, I responded.

In the evening, I was invited to Ruth's for dinner - Ruth is the woman at the far right. She also is an extraordinary artist but her milieu is music. If I remember correctly, she played a viola but now performs with a violin and on occasion, plays a small accordian (for fun.) (She pokes fun at me about my taste in music - country and western. I just have no class at all.)



I love Ruth's energy, her quick smile, sense of humour, intelligence, and her directness in our conversations about love and living. Ruth has also recently had her home renovated. A second house (that used to be rubble and water-logged) is now linked to her main quarters through an arched opening and a short flight of stairs.

A long, long, narrow, ancestral table is set with a long white tablecloth in her new dinner space. Candles are everywhere. (A woman after my own heart.) I open the champagne. Susan and David arrive. Carol. And Francis. We sit and Ruth serves us a seafood opener - salad with a mousse, scallops, and prawns - followed by a paella. (Not only can Ruth play a mean tune, she can cook.) Red wine flows as easily as the conversation. Ruth brings out a fruit torte that she serves with a thick sour cream. Again delicious. I look around me. There is a German, Swiss, Scot, Irish, English, American representative.

I had a wonderful day and evening so why I turned miserable the next day, I have no idea.

I'm All Over the Place

and see that I must slow down and take some time to organize and prioritize.

After writing this statement, I stopped and began making lists. And Sunday disappeared. 

(I did go to market in Gaillac, fill several holes in the floor, scrape small areas caused by water damage and re-paint these areas, do several laundries, and speak to Rob - I walked around with my computer with its built-in camera and showed him our house in the light. And I watched Charlotte Gray in the evening. The line that I remember is "Of these three which, in your view, is most important. Faith, hope, or love. Charlotte answers "hope.")

I'm finding it hard to write at the moment. I think that I've left it too long. But I think too that once I get going I won't be able to stop. Is this true? I have no idea. 

I would like life to be more generous. I would like it to allow me to finish one project at a time. At the moment, I would like to have this house finished to my satisfaction so I could write. But life isn't like that. When one project is finished, another will rise up and demand attention. 

So write, damn it, I whisper over and over to myself. Sit down and write. 

I'm reading, as I mentioned before, "Literary Seductions" and the criteria for inclusion, is that the author must be obsessed by writing, must not be able to not write. Nin and Miller, for instance, could hardly wait to finish making love, so they could write about the experience. 

I remember once, a long time ago, that writing came easy, that I'd be vacuuming, for example, and suddenly I'd be hit with an idea, and I'd turn the machine off and scribble furiously. I have not felt so compelled since, though I have ebbed and flowed. 

I want to both live and write. 

Friday night I sat on Susan's balcony with two American poets - one a long-time friend of Susan's - and as Susan and David were going out, we found ourselves alone. Sue was knitting and drinking red wine and Julie was drinking red wine and smoking when I arrived. They invited me to join them and share their wine and dinner of zucchini soup, duck breast and pickled beets. 

These two women were boisterous and fun, spoke of their misadventures traveling together, and their future plans. I have no idea where the wine and time went. At one point, I asked what they thought of Sharon Olds. Sue dismissed her. Julie said she liked her earlier work but found her repetitious. I said that I loved her work. Had they read the poem about her husband leaving? No. I didn't speak of Olds pact with Satan. And so the conversation died. 

I always find it strange when someone I like, doesn't like what I like - though why I find it strange, I don't know. It happens all the time. But not with poetry. Or am I deluding myself? Or have others deluded me? It doesn't really matter.

I am restless though not unhappy. I did find a few moments of pleasure, swimming in a friends pool and going out for dinner with Carole from Carolina (who turns 80 next year) and tells the best stories. 

SISTERS IN PARIS

Paris

I am here, waiting for my train down south.   

Flowers and Cake

I have had an almost perfect couple of weeks since I last wrote here.

My Gill came home and we spent most of her precious week together. Her second day, we went to Victoria for the day as I had to see a printer about a book that I've just designed. The sales rep was very kind, showed me a selection of books that the company had printed so I could choose paper and cover stock (and I picked up some tips on layout too.) She also explained at length the formatting process and all the pertinent info I would need to get the material to her.

The proof should arrive today and although I did none of the writing, I feel as if it's my creation though it isn't - all the pictures, images, and words came from others.

On the way back to the ferry, Gill and I stopped to see my nephew, his love, and their new baby - Aliyah. The baby is lovely, peaceful, a gentle disposition - funny how one can tell that even at a week old - and I have never seen Thomas and Mariah (especially Mariah) so content. The few times that I've been around her, she has been serious, rarely smiled. This evening a smile never left her lips.



My time with Gill flew. She cooked breakfast and dinner for Rob and I. We walked, shopped a little, had our nails done... can't remember all we did but it was over too quickly. On the way to the airport we stopped at a medical clinic as her ears were bothering her, both of us  hoping that the doctor would advise against flying and we'd have a few more days. No such luck.

Later that day, I received a cake - not any old cake but a Diplomat from Notte's Bon Ton - from Marlene and I proudly admit that over the next few days, I consumed over half of it myself. No wonder my belly is softly rounded. ("You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves." And though not really a sweet seeker or lover, I do love the rich butter cream filling of this cake.)

Later in the week, my eldest son took me out for a dinner and I experienced for the first time Cakebread - not a sweet - but a rich fruity cabinet sauvignon from the Napa Valley - a real treat and one I could not afford myself. ( I'm not whining - in a less than a week I will be in my beloved France and will just have to put up with Gaillac vintage.) This Cakebread wine is so elegant that the wine steward opened the bottle at the table and then carefully poured it into a decanter. 

Saturday morning, as I was heading out the door to help my sister pack for Europe (she was leaving that evening) Rob stopped me and told me that I looked beautiful. Strange. He so seldom compliments me that I had to look at myself in the mirror. Wish I could see what he saw.

I wrote the above yesterday morning and typed it here today, intending to continue but I think I'm coming down with something, feel very very tired, and so will nap instead. 

Play



My friend Penelope was in town last week for a court case. She was angry at the way things went. She thought she had a good case but said that once in the courtroom, it felt as if the decision had been made before the trial. She was angry at herself too for being flustered when told that the afternoon - her time - would be cut to less than two hours. (She was only told this when she returned from lunch.) She'd flown all the way from the Yukon to be treated so unfairly...

Penn and I met at York University, first year theatre arts - nearly 40 years ago - and we've been getting together once or twice a year ever since. Why do some friendships last and others fade away? Although asking this, I remember that Rob and I got together several months ago with a friend from Ryerson - must have been over 35 years since we'd seen Allan. He took the photographs at our wedding. I felt awkward at first - wasn't sure the man in the lobby was him (less hair) but within minutes, it was as if no time had passed.

Penny's visit was a gift. (She hates to have that "y" on her name now - I think of it as an endearment.) I took several days off from my work and simply played. We went for a long walk on the beach and after, happened upon a wine tasting that we both enjoyed (first time I tried $80 a bottle wine), shared an amazing fish dinner at an outdoor cafe, and the next day, we went to see King Lear on the beach - an updated version (set in the near future) with music and chorus. I forgot at times that it was a tragedy... and I had forgotten just how tragic the ending is.

The next day I dropped Penn at the airport and I went back to work for a day.

Tuesday was the finale (hopefully) to Maggie's relationship with the slimy man who locked her out of her own house. She has only been allowed in once with his lawyer present - to itemize all her and their material possessions. But the dreadful man to whom she is still married would not allow her in to collect all. He said that it would be too traumatic for him and named me as her representative. I think he wanted to hide things. (When I asked him towards the end to walk through and see if the movers had packed everything that belonged to her, he refused.)

Maggie and I showed up at the house together. He came down the walk looking angry but she quickly said that she had to give the movers instructions. When the three arrived, they were wonderful - first of all, they took the wicker couch from the porch (that was hers) and sat it on the grassy boulevard beyond the sidewalk - public property - for her to use and there she sat and read. He - the horrible he of her past - went and sat with her several times, brought her diet cokes, and wanted to know yet another time why the relationship had failed - though he instigated the break - he must be extremely thick.

When things were to be split in two or rather, shared - like the baking dishes - he chose and gave me the leftovers. When I complained that he chose the best stuff, he called me petty - didn't recognize the projection. He's a mean-spirited, unkind, self-indulgent, power-hungry, sneaky asshole and I had to bite my tongue more than once to keep myself from lambasting him.

The worst moment was when I was stuck in the attic with him, dividing Christmas decorations. He asked why no one in the family had called him to get his side of the story. I said not a word. He asked what my mother and father thought of him. I said they were angry. And then he proceeded to tell me how unethical my sister is - basically because she would not put his name on the property she had owned before the marriage, and later signed it over to her son. I said not a word but I thought plenty... I wanted the stuff out before I let loose. But I never let loose. In the end, I was exhausted, wished him a nice life and left.

For the next few days, I played through some of our interactions in my head and came up with all kinds of smart things that I could have said but didn't. Why is it always after the fact that the right things come to mind? Though I doubt that any words would have got through his thick head. He blames Maggie for everything. He sees himself as the victim. In reality, he's a small-minded, mean, vindictive little man who isn't willing to take any responsibility for the breakup.

Before I left, I could have hurt him. I could have said that his first wife is "ecstatically divorced." His second common-in-law partner thinks he is a thief. And my sister thinks he's pathetic. But I didn't. I couldn't hurt anyone in this way - but he would have deserved it... I am just thankful that my beautiful, generous, ethical, fun-loving, vivacious sister is finally free of him.

THE WAY WE WERE



At 5:30 this morning, he rolled over, groaned, and muttered "Happy anniversary."

I'm barely awake.

"Will you bandage my shoulder," he asks.

"I didn't think I'd grow old with you," I reply, forcing myself awake and watching as he stumbles across the room, naked.

It's Friday, the 13th.

38 years ago we were married.

Every time I mention the number of years we've been together, I am congratulated. This irks me just a little. Do we deserve some award because we've stuck with each other for so long?

Perhaps we do. We've been through some tough times together and, without revealing our secrets, I doubt many couples would have lasted.

Why did we? Should we have? We both say that we don't believe in marriage (though, when we say this, many of our friends laugh in our faces.)

THE WAY WE ARE



He'll admit he has trouble communicating though, with time, he has grown better. Just the other day he sent me an email with three words "I love you" and three exclamation marks.

He's said that I drive him crazy though how I do not know.

We don't cling. We don't tell the other what to do. We let each other be. We think little of being apart for 2 or 3 months. We even think this freedom enhances our marriage.

I love watching him when he doesn't know I am watching - when he's sleeping for instance or when he's at his computer, head bowed nodding to music. I like seeing him singular, not in relation to me.

I like to think of myself singular, not in relation to him.

When I am around my parents, they squabble a lot. He tells her she should get dressed before noon, not listen to politics, get off her computer. She tells him he's inappropriately dressed, should not be working at 86, shouldn't fall asleep early evening and then roam the house in the wee hours. (I gently suggested that they let each other be.)

Rob and I seldom squabble. We seldom tell each other what to do. I cannot depend on him to make me happy. (Oh yes, I can tell him what makes me happy. And likewise.) I'm happiest when I make my own plans and do what I like to do - not always easy - especially for a woman who is financially dependent. But I see here that this is one of the reasons I respect Rob. He never lords it over me because he makes more money. He never makes me feel bad about taking off and enjoying time alone. And over the last few years, he's been telling me that he too likes to be alone - so I laugh when he says that it's unnatural to sleep alone. (I like it both ways.)

I do not want to be considered a success because I've been with the same man for so long. I do not consider myself a success for this reason. (Do I consider myself a success? That'll be the subject of another blog.)

I do feel fortunate to be with a man who is most often gentle and kind ("tell me when I'm being an asshole," he says.) I really appreciate that money has never been an issue between us - especially as I was raised in a household where my father controlled the purse strings and, to this day, I doubt my mother knows how much or little he has.)

While I was writing this blog, a big bunch of exotic flowers were delivered - from him to me, with love.

After arranging them in 2 vases, I ran out to run some errands. All the while, I kept wondering how to end this blog, how to tell him that, though not all is perfect - what is? - he's the nicest, finest, best man I've ever met. Is this true, I ask myself? I think long and hard and I decide, yes - he's unique, amazing really... for a man. Oh, I don't mean to be flippant - but I trust him. I'd trust him with my life. I guess I have trusted him with my one wild and precious life. And so I end this blog on a whimsical note: I like the idea of growing old with him.

My Old Vancouver Home

I have always loved my little house with its unpretentious air. It never mattered that I didn't have the time to paint inside closets, clean the eaves, and weed the garden. As long as my bookshelves were full, candles lit the table, and my children were well, I was content.

 

I pause here. Is this true? No. I thrive on discontent. But there have been moments of real happiness and those moments, in my mind, always involved my mind - when I was stimulated, thinking, learning, and felt competent, useful, needed. (A perfect house was never a priority.) 

Or when I was traveling. I didn't travel - or not much - until my fortieth year and since that time, I am happiest on the road. I love traveling alone. I loved traveling with Gill. Once - when she was much shorter than me - we were Italy and because of a series of circumstances, we found ourselves on the road and I did not know where to go. 

"Pisa," said Gill.

"Verona to see Romeo and Juliet's balcony."

And so we went, staying in cheap little hotels and once-in-awhile splurging on something better, usually something with one star and a bathtub.

Where am I going with this early morning blog? My mind is drifting. I was going to write about our house... the house we have lived in for 25 years. No one wants it so far. The other day a couple came to look at it and were in and out in two minutes... and I took this personally, knowing that I was being stupid. And now all I can do is find fault with it - the scratches on the floor, the musty smell in the basement, the area until the eaves that is rotting... and the garden where all that our friends helped us clear is once again pushing up through the soil. Damn dandelions and blackberry bushes, I curse as I take time off from the work I'm doing on my computer to try and show a cared-for property. 

I know that I've got it all wrong, that this is an exciting time, that we will look back and laugh at our angst and aggravation - when we are living our dream. 

When is the big question? 

And so I force myself to stay put, work, make a bed, weed the garden. 

I fear that we are stuck, that no one will buy our house and that we'll go further and further into debt, and that I'll never be organized and at peace with myself. 

I laugh here. I am alive. How dare I complain? I am alive. I love my life. And yet, I smoke. 

Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer came down on her head...

My thoughts are racing as I sit here and write in a small coffee shop, enjoying my morning coffee.  A man with a dog sits at the next table and we have a brief conversation. "I'm doing something wrong," he mutters. "I'm too busy." I tell him that I know what he means.

I realize that this is the first time in a long time that I have written in my journal.  I see that I will have to force myself to take time out and write out my discontent. 

I feel so much better. 

Catching up, once again

I hate to just state the facts but that's all I seem capable of at the moment. On Wednesday evening, I will be back in Vancouver... and hopefully soon after, I'll be able to write something more reflective.

LEAVING

This time in Montmiral - two weeks today - has been much to quick but I have done what I came to do and happy about that - if it weren't for these damn butterflies in my stomach. Sometimes I think I am to much of a coward for this world. I take everything to heart. I found it difficult to complain to the builder about the small imperfections because he has done so much more than we expected and the house truly is magnificent. And he also did thoughtful things - like set up the beds so we would have a place to sleep when we arrived... And he is proud of his work. How can I squash him with complaints or so my reasoning goes?

And our house in Canada... why haven't we had at least one offer? Oh there are a hundred reasonable answers but I don't want reason, I want someone to love it and pay our price. Rob told me this weekend that he will bury a statue of Saint Joseph in the backyard. This will insure that our house sells. (What happened to my sensible man? It is strange that he is embracing superstition.)

And I'm feeling a little bad - oh I just stood and looked out on the terrace - two pigeons are kissing each other on the next roof - I'm feeling a little bad about love - not keeping up with my correspondence - because there are friends out there who I love and who I haven't written. And I know that actions speak louder than words.

I know I worry too much... my thoughts are drifting here. I recall a coincidence - a news letter I received from "Carrie and Danielle" on Friday. (That's another story.) And in it, they spoke of butterflies. I shall quote them:

"Embrace the jitters. Butterflies are a sign that you’re alive and expanding. If you’re not feeling the flutters it’s just not that important to you.

Every time you feel the adrenaline whirl, imagine that you have wings and breathe that rush into your spreading wingspan. Think of it this way: your nerves are reminding you that you have what it takes"

I like their positive spin. Oh if life could only be that easy.

Anyway, must pack and do the hundred little things that must be done before I leave.

A Little Aside

Yes, I'm in France. Yes, I will write Part 111 of my last 2 1/2 weeks that soon stretches to three, but I just spoke to Rob...

He tells me that the birds of paradise still survive from my birthday bouquet he gave me (that I failed to mention.) Nor did I mention the bottle of Mexican brandy he gave me that I requested. We have been so careful with money the last few months that the little extravagant extras - like a snifter of brandy in the evening - like a spray of exquisite French perfume - like beautiful bouquets of flowers - were put on hold. Thus these gifts on my birthday were extra special.

I'm finding myself a little lonely these days. This is strange because I like being alone, setting my own pace, listening only to myself...

KATE SENT AN EMAIL,

reminding me that I had not blogged for 2 1/2 weeks, shaking me out of my lethargy and misery - I am heavy with a cold. So much has been happening that I decided to tell with pictures. Part 11 will be added hopefully sometime today.

Tis my Birthday


Gutsy Old Me

Yes, I have danced on tables. This picture was taken in France on a white-clothed table in the new hotel restaurant, one summer day, during a writing workshop.

I am astonished at how brave I am. And I love that though I am no spring chicken, I am not above being crazy. I love that this is not above my dignity. (What dignity? some may ask.) Dancing on tables has always been a symbol to me - that though I feel a fool, I believe that every table I climb on brings me closer to a certain freedom - the freedom to do and not worry about what others think. This reminds me of a letter my friend Susan in France gave me a long time ago and which I keep by my desk. I shall quote her:

O YVONNE
LETS LIVE IN A FOOLS PARADISE
LETS PRAISE FOLLY
AND PRACTICE IT
AT LEAST YOU HAVE FORCED ME
TO THINK ABOUT - BY YOUR COMPLAINTS -
WHAT A BIG THING BEING A FOOL IS -
THE BIGGEST THING
IN THE WORLD,
THE BIGGEST WE CAN ACHIEVE.

I WISH I HAD THE COURAGE
TO BE A FOOL.
AT LEAST YOU HAVE
TAUGHT ME WITH ALL THIS
CLAMOUR TO SEE CLEARLY
THAT THIS IS WHAT I WANT.
IT'S ALSO WHAT I RESPECT IN
OTHER PEOPLE,
REALLY RESPECT.

BEING HAPPY AND HAVING
THE COURAGE TO BE FOOLS
IS VERY MUCH THE SAME THING.
LETS BE HAPPY.

Susan has given me a lot of courage over the years. Happiness is no easy thing. But how
I love it. I want more and more of it and if it means climbing on more damn tables, so be it.

I feel so loved today...

And since it's my birth day, I'm allowed to be self-indulgent (I do this every year) and say nice things about myself. And my daughter has also done it for me: Gillian's website

The other day, I had my hair cut and streaked. I like it. And in an hour or so, I am going out with my mother and Helen to have a manicure and pedicure. And later in the day, I am going out with my longest friend Penelope and her love and her parents. And, and... tomorrow my family are having a party for me. I love birthdays (even my 59th.)

A Breath of Fresh Air

I've come up for a breath of air. The two major projects I've been working on for months have been made public.

our house

and

Marlene Schiwy Website


And though I consister myself an excellent cleaning woman/house painter, I am less sure of my website abilities (though I did have help from both my sons) as Marlene's website is the first one, I have attempted.

And, in the end, although my writing has been put aside, I see that I loved the work. If anyone asks me how I feel about what I have accomplished, I will most likely say that I am pleased but both projects are far from perfect. (Oh, that old addiction to perfection is hard to lose.) But in my heart of hearts, I feel that I have outdone myself. Both shine with the care and attention I've paid to detail. (Of course, I am speaking of appearances, especially in regards to the website as it was Marlene who provided the content and images.)

The first public Open House of our home was on Sunday, Easter Sunday, and though the real estate agent said that it was well attended and that there were three couples who were interested, there were very few cars on the street and even the mall down the road - except for several stores - was closed so we will have two more Opens this weeks (meanly I will have to be especially clean and tidy) and hopefully get some offers. I know I expect miracles - a quick sell - but I do so want to get to France and get back to my writing...

On Saturday, I will turn 59 years - my last year in my fifties. I hope it is a good one. I really really hope this...

Happy St. Patrick's Day

I'm hoping and praying that this is the year that dreams come true.

Today a photographer will come into our home and take pictures of the house we have lived in for 25 years. Later in the day a sign will go up on our lawn. I'm hoping that the luck of the Irish will be with us and it'll be a quick sell. I'm hoping that a young couple, like we once were, enters and falls in love with it, as we once did, and wants to raise their family in it. (Before us, another couple lived in this cottage for 25 years and raised two children.) It is humble house without pretension and even though we have borrowed furniture and rugs to jazz it up, it is what it is. For three months, Rob and I have been working at clearing and cleaning and I like the result. There is no clutter, nothing or little superfluous in it, and I see that this is the way I want to live from now on.

And far away, across the ocean, our other home (oh, we are so lucky) is almost ready for us. Here's a picture of the roof terrace (without the beams removed.) As the town sits atop a hill and we have one of the highest houses in the village, we will look out over luscious vineyards and glorious sunflower fields. Rob dreams of barbecuing here. I dream of sipping wine and reading poetry under the stars.



Speaking of poetry, I thought of an especially lovely one - one I once quoted for another friend - when I was looking at Facebook and checked out some pictures of a sister - the sister who was locked out of her house by a man. On Friday, the court ordered that he let her in to get her "stuff" and half the stuff that they bought together. And though he gets the house (unfair), she is glad to be rid of him.

This sister has blossomed over the months, since she was locked out. She's become a sassy, sexy force... and I love her spirit.



Here's a part of the poem for her (by Olga Broumas, called "Rumpelstiltskin"):

Did anyone
ever encourage you, you ask
me, casual
in afternoon light. You blaze
fierce with protective anger as I shake
my head, puzzled, remembering, no
no. You blaze

a beauty you won't claim. To name
yourself beautiful makes you as vulnerable
as feeling
pleasure and claiming it
makes me. I call you lovely. Over

and over, cradling
your ugly memories as they burst
their banks, tears and tears, I call
you lovely. Your face
will come to trust that judgment, to bask
in its own clarity like sun.

Yeah, Maggie.

I must run and set the scene for the photographer. I imagine it will be an emotional week - one in which strangers will enter our space and examine all we have with critical eyes... but all we need is one who has the same aesthetic that we have...

I can't believe...

that two weeks have flown by since the first garden party. We did have a second "gardening" party to clean up the front yard and a number of good souls, who were free and able, returned. We had forgotten the little stone steps that lead up to the higher end of the garden and the cottage-y stone wall that runs along one side.... we had to pay for another load of debris to be hauled away.

We're piglets - no doubt about that but do I regret all the time that I spent doing other things - like writing? Not one little bit. But I do like everything spic and span. Reminds me of the poem "Woman Enough" by Erica Jong:

I wish there were not a choice;
I wish I could be two women.
I wish the days could be longer.
But they are short.
So I write while
the dust piles up.

And in these two weeks the interior of our house has come under scrutiny. I have painted the entrance hall, the stair banister that Java uses as a scratching post, the interior of my little house in the garden (now virginal white), and laid a floor in the downstairs washroom. I took off one afternoon to be with my father and woke at 5:30 the next morning to take him to the airport. (And whose bag was searched because he was carrying 100 silver half-dollars of mine to sell.)



I had a discussion with my accountant who wanted us to pay 40,000 (yes I have the zeros right) right away. And I was on the verge of tears and my stomach was doing somersaults when I spoke to my father and then a friend accountant, who told me a way to waylay that ghastly amount. (And I wonder why our new accountant didn't think of this way herself. And I am sick to almost death of accountants. I was not impressed when I received her first bill the next day for 2,900 with no explanation, just that grand figure. And I find myself fuming that this profession does not account for their billing. Why can they/he/she/whoever just ask for a sum without an explanation. Rob notes his hours. I have always noted my hours. Our builder notes his hours... )

And beyond, repairs and money, there have been a few precious moments. Rob came to me, wrapped his arms around me and said that he could not go through this without me. My eldest son rescued me one night and took me out for a fancy dinner. It felt so good sitting across from him, talking, eating a perfect filet, lyonnaise potatoes, and asparagus, drinking a superior red wine in a crystal goblet, in an elegant restaurant. Those few hours took me away from the drudgery of house work... but that's not really what's important - what is, is that this son wished to be with me, treat me, and tell me of his life. Of course, not all is perfect - whose life is? - but he is happy work-wise. He has found his self-respect in his job.

And my other son, the younger, will turn 26 tomorrow. (The elder turns 30 this year.) The birthday boy is the little one in my lap.



He was such a joyous, loving, mischievous, talkative little boy. He engaged everyone in conversation. This picture was taken in Mexico when Rob was working on Rambo, and everyone in the hotel would smile and greet Michael by name, even the guards with their rifles who stood outside the hotel's gates...

Yet underneath his joyful clatter was a serious scared little soul who was always questioning his place in the world. I have a poem that he wrote when he was nine or ten on my office wall:

I am special
I wonder about life
I hear music..
I pretend that life is normal
I feel alone
I touch the stars...
I hope that I am loved
I am special

And I wondered at the time, as I wonder now, how he could question being loved... for he is so lovable and kind and sensitive... and creative and intelligent and thoughtful. He really is. He has begun re-organizing his life lately, is taking more university courses, is working towards a new future... and he sounds happy.

And so this coming year, my son, I send you much love and gold dust (my friend, Kate knows how potent this can be) so you will be happier, even more successful than your wildest dreams.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MICHAEL

It's the Wee Wee Hours

of the morning and I cannot sleep so I unload the dishwasher, clean the candlesticks, insert new candles and place them on the table in ready for tomorrow's festivities. We're having a garden party where people will actually garden and since I've delayed it several weeks, I have no idea who will remember, who will show up though two people have called and said they'll be late. A good sign. And I know Marlene is preparing a curry feast with spices she brought from India. And my mother has baked Irish bread and is preparing a large salad with oranges and poppy seed dressing.

The days have disappeared and I am accomplishing a lot in way of clearing and cleaning the house (I have taken my mother to the dump twice) and we did have a garage sale last weekend. The stuff that didn't sell, I placed at the top of the driveway and hung a sign saying "absolutely free" and miraculously all was taken. I have been doing publicity and registration for a April 7th workshop and Marlene and I have been working on one for France this summer so I am feeling more than a house wife/ garbage disposer but I go around with lists in my head with tons more to accomplish before we put the house on the market - most likely three weeks down the road.

I am always in a state of disquiet. There's often butterflies bouncing around in my stomach and I rarely write - even emails - that leaves me even less at peace with myself. If you're a friend who I haven't responded to - please forgive me. I can't seem to alight and hold a conversation let alone sort through my growing unanswered correspondence.

I think in a week or two, when all the chores are finished, I'll be more my self. Better still, I'll be able to sleep. I shall go and try again.

Night. Night (though it's almost five in the morning.)

January Blues

I just read my daughter's blog. She's blue. I don't know how I feel at the moment. There is just too much going on... Rob and I keep sorting and clearing. At the moment, I am doing the company books - a job I hate because I only do it once a year. Bad. I swear each year that this year will be different but I'm not going to lie to myself this time, though given the lack of work in the film industry - what with the fickle American dollar and the writer's strike - there will be few figures to add up. Rob finished his last film at the end of September last year. I've made just over 400 dollars on design work. There ain't a lot of money in our coffer. In fact, there's none.

We've been trying to sell stuff but people don't want to buy in January. Probably because they spent too much during the holidays. I've been counting our pennies. Truly. Last week I went to the bank with a plastic bag full of rolled coins. I had 27 dollars worth though then I went out and bought 30 dollars worth of chicken. (We still have some in the freezer.) And Rob's been cooking up some good meals. Gill gave him a personalized cook book for Christmas - one she made with recipes from family and friends. Rob's loving it - has been trying all kinds of different recipes. We've been eating well. I can tell by my nicely rounded belly.

And so life goes on... It's rather humbling being without money. Rob laughed the other day when I suggested we splurge and go out for breakfast. "That's not really a big splurge, Yvonne."

I feel a little foolish saying we're poor because we live well. This week we've lived very well indeed. On Thursday evening, a good dear generous friend took Rob and I to Le Gavroche, an elegant French restaurant in the West End. We hadn't experienced fine dining for ages. I can't remember the last time, I dressed up and feasted in a white-clothed, candle-lit restaurant. To celebrate the occasion, I did something that I haven't done in a long time. I curled my hair...



and felt kind of silly... and when Rob took a picture of me and showed it to me, all I thought was "do I ever look old." Sigh. I try not to worry about looking older but sometimes it sneaks up on me - especially when I look at photographs... but enough of this nonsense. The dinner was a delight, an indulgence - organic greens with hazelnuts, goat cheese, and baby beets, followed by braised lamb shank with garlic mashed potatoes, and completed with an ice wine creme caramel. And with each course, we were given a small goblet of BC wine to peak our taste buds.

My thought was that I could live on the memory of that glorious meal for a long time but, lo and behold, we were invited out a second time this week by my sister's in-laws (one who just arrived in town with her spouse for a few days.) So while the baby of my nuclear family skied at Whistler, Rob and I enjoyed her extended family.



We walked down the hill to the Beach House on Dundarave pier as Lee and Tim wanted to taste some North Shore cuisine. Again the tables were decked in white with candles. Again, the food was excellent though not as fancy as the French one. And again we were treated. I doubt anyone would know that we are counting pennies.

Because we are about to put the house on the market and it must shine inside and out, I've been worrying about our garden... it's a pig sty and what with all the work I'm doing - counting and clearing, organizing and designing, I don't have the time or the cash for a major gardening project. So on the advice from a friend, I've organized a garden party for next weekend. I'm pleased that those invited have enthusiastically responded.



And so it goes in my little world. I'm worried about a hundred things and my attention is here, there, everywhere but I will survive. And I will write...

It's About Time

the Young women wrote a blog. Sometimes life is just too crazy, too full of emotion and action to alight for a minute and pick up a pen. I don't know where Gill's head is at the moment but mine is full of angst. I don't know what the future holds or what I want it to hold. "There's not a peaceful bone in your body," my mother used to say. She's right. I hop from one job to another.

The house feels as if it's in chaos although, in reality, it is becoming clearer and sparser. A week ago, a couple came and took the old filing cabinet from the basement. Several days ago, a book store owner went through out books and took a dozen or so boxes away. (We still have a room full.) Yesterday, a man picked up a dresser. Today a young woman is coming to pick up another dresser and book shelf. Another is coming to look at our son's filing cabinet. But we still have too much "stuff."

When we put the house up for sale in the next month or so, I want it to be free of clutter - even the closets. For my peace of mind, I want it to appear a calm oasis. I want to be able to find something without searching high and low. And once I accomplish this, I want to continue to live with just the essential. It feels good though getting there can be gut retching.

A few nights ago, I had around a hour discussion with my middle son. I was going through boxes of his stuff, asking "do you want this? that? No. Nothing from your school years? No." After our conversation, I started wading through his school years from kindergarten up through high school. I had already been through it once and so only the cream was left - his art work (cartoons mostly) and dozens of sketch books.) All were so rich, so full of imagination, so technically good - even in his early years - that I caught the development of a very talented artist, one with a unique vision. And I thought of Hillman's book that I've put aside for the moment, that speaks of each individual's gift, talent, that which he or she should be pursuing, that can often be seen most clearly in childhood, before other stuff gets in the way.

This son was different from my other two children - a little wilder, less settled, more frustrated with himself. He often complained that he couldn't do what his older brother did - with his hands, his body. I told him that his brother was four years older... and so he grew.

When Gill was home, she went through her stuff and threw all of it away. She didn't even want her first baby doll. My eldest son, the most ascetic of my children, doesn't want anything either.

I have kept a little - not much - though I worry that in later years, all my children will regret having little from their childhood. I worry also that they won't, as I am doing, be able to go through their stuff, and see their own essence. Is this necessary? I don't know. For myself, I would like to be able to do this now - if only for an affirmation of self.

Still this letting go is exciting and, in a sense, liberating. I can create a new life without the old baggage - or so I hope. But I think getting rid of the physical evidence is a good first step. Could my children be right?

Farewell 2007