In my Father's House

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minimalism

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

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

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

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

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

On Friday I fly to Toronto.

Loving Donna Margaret

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(The next post is your birthday card.)

There were never such devoted sisters

Song for Maggie

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

I startled Lucette

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

Je suis desolee, I say.

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

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

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

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

I shall read (to keep with my image)

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

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

and she is so frail and short of breath

on the street, the stairs – tiny, Lilliputian,

one wonders how they do it.

So, wakened by the shiftings of their bed nudging

our shared wall as a boat rubs its pilings,

I want it to continue, before her awful

hollow coughing fit begins. And when

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

us praise that resumed rhythm, no more than a twitch

really, of our common floorboards. And how

he’s waited for her before pushing off

in their rusted vessel, bailing when they have to,

but moving out anyway, across the black water.

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

For those who know Bedding

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

***

For those who know me

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

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

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

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

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

Loving Mackenzie

(Click on picture and song)

A birthday song for you.

The Pleasure of Living in Europe

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

On the Road

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

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

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

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

My House Runneth Over

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They say it's your birthday too

A song for you and me

They say it's your birthday

Well Happy Birthday to you

dear Rob

you are one of a kind & I love you so

you are still a mystery to me at 63

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

I have so much to learn from you.

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

Many hugs and kisses, Yve

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

Acting on Impulse

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alles Gute zum Geburtstag

Ein einfaches Geschenk mit vieler Liebe.

Yvonne

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

Music for your birthday...

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

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

A woman of few words

Sometimes I feel like playing with layout, not writing.

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

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

How Time Flies

Time on our hands

You mustn't be frightened...

if an anxiety,

like light and cloud-shadows,

moves over your hands and over

everything you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

We are not always so dreary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday Afternoon

The day begins with a pleasant surprise

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

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

***

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

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

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

Contentment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want to create a schedule for writing.

I find myself content, writing this all down.