Pen and I

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

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

A song for Michael 

 

A Guilty Conscience Gets Me in Trouble

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

My Two Valentines

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

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 Faith 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

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

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

Love, Love, Love

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

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

Please click on each picture individually to see clearly.

Fifth Day of Celebrations

The fourth day of celebrations

Stand by Me

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

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...

Five Days of Celebrations

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

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

Tis the Season

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

C'est la vie

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

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

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

"Indecision is the seedling of fear."

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

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.