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. 

"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.