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.