Summertime and the livin' is easy

One of these mornin's,
You's gonna rise up singin'
Then you'll spread yo' wings
An' you'll take to the sky.

I was going to call this blog-post "worrywart"

because I can't seem to stop myself from worrying
about every little thing - like how to do what I want
without a vehicle, or how to manage to clear our
goods through customs when they arrive in France,

or where to find a large wardrobe to provide storage

space, and on it goes - such nonsense, silly stuff.

When I went out on the terrasse and saw
what a beautiful day it is, I wonder about my sanity.

I know that I worry too much, that soon all will

find its place and I'll be able to alight and write

beautifully.

Or perhaps simply to write (to hell with beautifully.)

I will return and continue in a hour or two.

I went to the market in Cahuzac with Clare and

bought some saucisse, lamb chops, pate, bread,

and ham. We than stopped at Caves de Tecou

and I bought a dozen bottles of wine and a

box of everyday vino that Rob loves. After

a sampling, we climb up to the terrasse. Rob

has not experienced it in summer, says he

doesn't want to go back to work. I wonder

if the proceeds from our house will allow

this. Probably not.

(Something weird is happening with the formatting

of this post. I'll try again later.)

A Mother's Love

She's a Miracle

This number is no longer in service

I'm sitting at my bedroom window, in France, watching the sky lighten. Long stretches of sleep elude me. I finished a novel that I began on the plane. And this morning finished another. I should finish unpacking I tell myself and then drawl nah, I can do anything I want.

I can do anything I want. The thought makes me smile.

Gill is here. Last night she made a beautiful nicoise salad and we ate it on the terrasse. The night before, the night I arrived exhausted, she barbecued steak and spicy chicken, and zucchini from David's garden, under the stars, on the barbeque - the first thing Rob wanted to buy when he arrived. Brendan beat him to it.

I think I'm in heaven.

Leaving home, or rather leaving our home left both Rob and I a little stunned and emotionally drained. The phone was cut off before we thought it would be - Rob couldn't remember what he'd told Telus. (When Marlene and Maggie tried to reach me they both heard the automated message "this number in no longer in service." And somehow this short sentence made it all real. We've had the same phone number for 26 years. Gone.)

The next day, the last day in our house, the internet disappeared. There was little left in the house but still we managed to fill a number of boxes for Michael and Mackenzie who arrived to help with the final cleanup. Heidi arrived unexpectedly with a pair of rubber gloves to join the cleaning crew. We left the house sparkling.

After M and M left with the vacuum cleaner (yeah) and I stuffed the last of our stuff into a shopping bag, Rob and I walked through the empty house. We paused at the smallest bedroom and I asked Rob if he remembered the white and red squared wallpaper we had on the wall when Gill was little. We decided to change it and so let her go wild on the paper, drawing and colouring anything she wanted. We have a picture of it somewhere. So many memories and I know there must have been sad and angry moments in the house but I can't remember any. All I can remember at this moment are the happy ones, like our Friday pizza and movie nights, when all the children were still living at home. And the time, Gill and I returned from France and Bren and Mike happily sitting down at the dinner table commenting on the tablecloth and candles. They had missed them.

We paused at each room and then Rob and I said goodbye house out loud, left all our keys save one (to be given to the real estate agent for the new people), and shut the door. The next day we walked by and all I could think of was what a pretty house. I hope the new family appreciate it. Rob drove by yesterday and saw a work van outside. The woman told me that they were going to rip up carpets and paint before they moved in. I wonder how they will transform it, making it theirs.

How do I feel? Sad. A little scared. And excited. We have no choice now, we have to move on and create a new life.

Count Down

The good times are all gone... I'm bound for moving on...

Our farewell party brought it home that we'll never have another celebration in this house and never, as Helen said, bring such an eclectic group together again.

I am feeling sad and disagreeable. Everything irks me.

The house is nearly clear and I have cleaned several rooms thoroughly including washing walls and filling nail holes where pictures hung. I want to leave all immaculate. Perhaps to make up for the scuffed floors, shabby carpets, and the numerous little chips of paint missing on baseboards.

I am also battling with the morning glories and blackberry bushes in the garden. No matter the weather, they thrive, multiplying like crazy, threatening to take over the whole back yard.

I remember years ago when three big guys lived in the house and none thought of using the lawn mower, let alone the weedeater unless I begged or bribed. I asked all three if they minded that ours was the messiest garden on the street and all three said no, they didn't care.

How I envied them.

I was the only one who hated the chaos. I am just too middle class, I thought.

And though I admire people with wild gardens and messy houses - which says to me that she or he has more important things to do - I find it difficult to live like this though I did and do to a degree because there is never enough time. And though I could hire casual labour who could do the job faster and better, I always hesitate because I bring in next to no salary and compensate by trying to do everything by myself.

Soon I will no longer have to worry about the upkeep of a house. And a garden. This pleases me immensely.

I'm tired. There is a little over a week to go before the big move and we begin living our dream. It damn well better be worth all this work, I whine.

***

Gill passed on this award to me this morning because I am brilliant and write from the heart. Read the rules and conditions on her site. This is the second award I've won for my blogging and unfortunately, the donor of the other award has locked in her site with a password and I can no longer link you to it.

I am supposed to award and challenge 7 more bloggers who are "brilliant" and link you to her or his site so here they are in alphabetical order:

1. Chris Tyrell

2. Gillian Young

3. Jim Reed

4. Kate Baggott

5. Marlene Schiwy

6. Shirley Rudolph

7. Wenda Nairn

And thirdly, I am to give you 10 truths about myself. (I wrote a long list and will only give you the most interesting, to my mind, but most of my readers will know them. I think it would be more interesting to ask my readers to tell me 10 truths about myself. "Disillusion me with truth," as Saint Teresa d'Avila once said.)

1. I am addicted to nicotine.

2. I am a kind person and more often than not give too much of myself.

3. I love being alone and moving to my own inner clock.

4. I wallow in my own inadequacies and although I have learnt that even the brightest I know are riddled with complexes too, still I sometimes have a hard time picking myself up.

5. I don't like driving a car but hate being driven.

6. I love reading tacky novels but also read my share of good literature.

7. I occasionally go to MacDonalds for breakfast or lunch.

8. I bore easily.

9. I look at my face in the mirror, see I am aging rapidly, and despair. Meanwhile I declare, that I will grow old gracefully.

10. I birthed and raised three extraordinary individuals.

Farewell House Party

There is just too much happening to write coherently at the moment. Soon.

But here's a few pictures of our farewell party. More and more this crazy plan of ours becomes a reality.

This is for Lois

Michael and Mackenzie arrived late Sunday evening with Icabod and Jasmine in their arms. 

Kenzie is now a seasoned driver. She drove every kilometer of the way. 

Today they're off (with Michael behind the wheel) to find a home and jobs. Those two don't waste any time. 

Yesterday Inform came and picked up our furniture and boxes for France. The place is looking quite bare but I like this. I can see what I have to do. And the place becomes less and less ours. 

After tomorrow - a wrap day for Rob - it's his last shooting day today - he will join me for the final clearing, packing, and storing. 

And Saturday, we shall have a farewell party for house. All are welcome. We should play some dance music. There's lots of room to move around. 

I'm movin' on

Sunday morning and I wake up anxious about nothing in particular but I know it has everything to with moving on, with clearing our house of 26 years. 

This is it. We're moving in less than a month and it feels good, right - we no longer need the space, work, or expense of a five-bedroom house. We figure we will have at least half the expenses without a house and one vehicle. 

But I'm doing crazy things. For 2 days I couldn't find my blush and brush. No big deal really but it drove me cray. Where could I have put them? And then yesterday in the shower, I remembered that I had laid my European document holder on the bathroom counter. After wrapping myself in a towel, I checked and there they were. (Showers are funny places, I often remember miniscule detail or find a good line for a story under water.) 

Another stupid thing I did and more dangerous was not paying attention at a four way stop. I pulled ahead as did a young woman opposite me who began shaking her fist.

I must be more careful.

Getting rid of stuff feels like a cleansing. Rob has told me more than once that we don't have to get rid of everything from our past but I find that there is little I'm attached to. I do want my Mont Blanc pen - a 50th birthday present from Rob, and my dancing awards from my teens, my high school necklace, and a UBC ring that my parents gave me when I graduated from university. And I have filled one liquor-store box to the rim with all our photographic memories. I kept ignoring the very personal stuff in my writing cabin, knowing it would be the hardest to sort through and toss. 

Yesterday, I went down to it with the intention of throwing 20 years of journals in the recycling bin. I thought that all they contained where my private moans and groans. But leafing through one, I saw that they are much more. They tell of my travels - where I was when - the moments that made me anxious and those when I was perfectly content. They describe the times I urged myself not to be such a chicken shit and became more daring, and the moments when I crumbled. They tell of love and hate - where some instance or person sparked my fury - where my guts appear on the page. 

I remember another time that I wanted to destroy my journals because I was afraid that someone I loved would read about the times when I hated them. I think it was Susan who told me that I must trust those who are close to me.  

But I should trust them when I'm alive or rather say what I think rather than leave the other person to guess what I'm thinking. There is a passage, in "Middle Passage" by Hollis: "Radical conversation is what a long term commitment is about. With or without a wedding ceremony, true marriage is seldom achieved without radical conversation. Only... the full sharing of what it is to be me while hearing what it is really like to be you, can fulfill the promise of an intimate relationship." 

But I have been afraid sometimes to say what I really think - to Rob and a few others...  even when I know that holding back is bad, not good, does not promote trust, and can erode a relationship

And so what do I do with my journals? I have decided to delay the decision and store them in our Vancouver locker. I will read them slowly when I return and decide their fate then. 

Interesting Process

disassembling the house we've owned for 26 years. Last Saturday we had a garage sale and made around 1700 - a fraction of the value of the goods but still it felt good to lighten the load we'll take to France. 

What are we taking? Sofa, coffee table, bed, and night tables, 3 boxes of books, 2 boxes of photographs (that cover both Rob and my over-60-years), a dozen Irish linen napkins, a tablecloth, and a few kitchen utensils. Oh yes, and Rob's framed awards and a couple of prints. That's it. Well I have to decide about my journals... some are already in France.

Today or Monday, a truck will arrive and take these goods to the shipping company. Once I have the documentation, it will be on its way to France. 

Yesterday Gill and I went to the French consulate to get the necessary documents for French customs. The experience was strange. We stood outside a locked door with a young couple who told us to press the button and state our business. A man came out. We explained what we wanted. He went inside and came out and ask if we had proof that we'd lived in our house in Canada for 7 months. Yes. He went inside and came out. Do we have documents showing we own a house in France. Yes. He went inside and came out again. Do I have a plane ticket. No. I also need a list of items from the shipping company who have yet to pick up the goods. Come back when you have all the documents. He went back inside.

We did not see inside the consulate.

On the way there, there was a dead crow in the middle of the road. Another stood beside it, as if in grief, and when my car approached, it hobbled to the side of the road. When I returned, 3 hours later, the poor bird was still standing guard over the mess of feathers.

Meanwhile, Michael and Mackenzie left Port Hope on Monday sometime late afternoon and are on their way here with all their possessions and 2 cats. No one has heard from them. My parents are anxious. I sent an email asking them to telephone collect.

I am feeling disjointed, like this piece of writing.  

Leaving home

Double click to see pictures full size. 

After Maggie dropped by and let us put the SOLD stickers on our "For Sale" sign, we escaped with my cousin Avril to my friend's Suzanne's property beyond Mount Currie. It's so beautifully quiet and idyllic here. Both Rob and I feel a sense of relief that we can pack our belongings and move on. We're not sure what we're going to do beyond going to France when the money is in the bank and thinking about our options. 

Need I say more?

Can you believe it?

The young couple who want to buy our house have asked for another 48 hours to get their finances in place.

By some miracle, Rob was home yesterday around 2:30 and so we paced together hoping that the end was in sight and that we could begin to do some serious packing. I ironed and watched several movies on my computer to keep myself calm. Rob entertained himself on his computer. 

We had been told that we wouldn't know until after the couple finished work and had time to visit the bank - most likely five or six pm - if the deal was to complete. These hours passed without word. We ordered Chinese food. We paced some more. It wasn't until after eight, that we received their request for more time. It wasn't until after ten that the paperwork was done. 

Of course we gave them the time - after all, we gave the last couple an extra 48 to find their deposit. 

I want to stamp my feet in frustration.  

Feet stomping reminds me of the flamenco dancers, I saw on Friday night with my cousin and Marlene and Steve at the Playhouse.  There were three women soloists and one man. I preferred the women and I especially liked the last performer, Isabel Bayon - a 40 year old Spanish dancer -  a wisp of a woman, which surprised my cousin and I who both imagined this "living legend" would be fleshier, more voluptuous. Still, she stomped, kicked, threw back her head with the strength, hauteur, defiance, of a larger woman who imposes her presence, who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to ask.  And there were moments - like those where her hand swept over a breast or where she turned her back to the audience and crunched her skirt in a fist at her bottom, raising the hem just a little that spoke of wantonness.

And still I wanted more heat, more passion. Perhaps one needs to be a tavern, a dance hall, a more intimate space, to experience flamenco; and not in a tiered seat looking down. 

How long has this been going on?

Since January 27, 2009 - although it feels longer as we had the house on the market for several months last year. In total, we have dropped our price 401,000.

When I hit an emotional low a few days ago, Rob asked how I could complain when I have a house in France. I wonder what one is allowed to complain about when one is as rich as I am (not monetarily.) Later he admitted that he had sunk to the bottom a few days previous.

Think about it. For five months you have to allow a large number of strangers into your home. They can roam where they please, open the doors to your closets and cupboards, pull out bathroom drawers, and examine whatever because you are not there. 

If you were brought up as I was, everything must be spotless, including under the beds. The beds themselves must be without a crease. The bathroom and kitchen sinks and faucets must sparkle. All dust must be gone from the furniture. The garbage must be taken out daily.  And then there's the garden... 

Yes, I did have a month off. Yes, Rob did have to wake half an hour earlier on work days - sometimes 4 am to make sure all was presentable for viewing. And yes, I do resent that three in my family and a good friend were able to sell their houses or apartments within a couple of weeks of listing. No, that's not right. I don't resent their success. I envy them. 

This is terrible. I keep wondering what is wrong with us. Are we such low-lives no one wants our prized possession? Is it our prized possession? I don't know but it is our most valuable one (monetarily.)

We have another good offer, subject to inspection and deposit. The subject-removal date is Monday, July 6th. 

Does the waiting get easier? 

No. 

Deal is null and void

The potential buyers have not been able to gather a deposit so the deal is off.

Here we go again. Last night two couples came through the house. Today two more. 

House selling saga continues

Yesterday I was a mess of energy, trying not to worry about house deal. 

At around two in the afternoon, I heard that the couple want the house, will take off the "subject to inspection" but didn't have the deposit money. I thought this irresponsible but Helen told me that once she was in a similar position - so much to think about when purchasing a house that she forgot about the deposit.  

The potential buyers have until 5 pm on Thursday to find the money otherwise the deal is null and void. 

So the waiting continues...

Flying

On Friday, returning from Albi I drove by a field of sunflowers with faces open to the sun - the first I've seen this year.

On Saturday, I flew to Vancouver via London into Rob's arms. Later that evening, my amazing Gill came home to welcome me. 

I didn't intend to come home until July 3rd but we had another offer on the house, a good offer, that included a personal letter. Gill just happened to drop in during the original viewing, and told the prospective buyers that she had been born into the house and showed them round telling the house's history through memories of her childhood. In the buyer's letter, he said that they found Gill's stories "comforting and reassuring" as he and his wife want to raise their children in such a home. "As a writer myself, I fell in love with the 'writer's cabin' and my wife, who is also an artist, loved the feeling of your house." 

Yesterday, an official inspector came through our home, digging into every nook and cranny in order to alert the buyers of any potential problem. The couple and their real estate agent joined him.

On Tuesday, the buyers have to give us a yeah or nay. If it's a yes, they want to move in July 11th and that's why I flew home early. I hope that they are the people we've been waiting for. 

The first man in my life

I wish I may, I wish I might

Have the wish I wish tonight

I want our house sold at a fair price. We have had two offers that have fallen through. We are negotiating a third. We have another viewing today and three more tomorrow and all the worrying is eating away at my gut. I hate it. We may have to take the house off the market and wait for better times and the only problem with doing this is that we'll have to go through this process all over again. 

So I wish that our house sells at a fair price soon. 

Come what may, I'm flying home July 3rd. 

He's my man

Our song. 

Here we go again

We have another offer on the house - not as good as the last one but good enough. Sometime Friday the subject will be removed, or not, and Rob and I will know if we'll be able to lead a simpler life with no more invasive tours of our home. 

It's harder on Rob at this time as he's working impossible hours - one day he had to leave at 4:30 am and still he had to rise earlier to make sure all was proper. So I'm hoping more for his sake than mine that the inspection will prove the house worthy and we can move on, though money will not change hands until September 3rd.

No matter what happens, I fly to Toronto July 3rd, and will be back in Vancouver soon after.  

To everything there is a season

a time for every purpose under the sun...

The other evening, we had friends for dinner and Marlene created the substance - a potato and chickpea curry. (She is a wonder in the kitchen, can make something delicious from anything, refusing to waste - even the tops of the green onions.)

We began the evening at Ruth's artistically renovated houses - two ancient dwellings linked with a short staircase from kitchen to dining area - with kirs and tiny squares of bread topped with tapinade, cheese, and olives. 

I  left a few minutes early to add the finishing touches to our casual dinner. Plates and cutlery are placed en masse on the table, food on the island so our guests won't feel stuck in one place and can circulate.

I don't know about anyone else but I loved the evening. This may sound corny (I can hear Susan sigh) but there is something special about each individual who gathered this evening, speaking French, German, and English, representing Scotland, England, Switzerland, Germany, the United States, and Canada, who share a love for this tiny village, music and literature, good food and conversation. There is no pretention. Silliness and seriousness abound. 

This morning I sit on the terrace wondering what to do with myself. Brendan is down three flights of stairs working. Marlene is down one flight. Although this house isn't large, there is easily enough room for the three of us to live and work and not disturb each other.

I am the only one not doing serious work. I think now worrying about our West Van home is futile. Finally I accept that it may take some time to sell, or may not sell this time round. (Rob and I have decided we will rent it if nothing happens in the next month.) I have to move on and do something but what?  I am not sure but I realize after several days of proprioceptive writing that I am not content being just a cleaner of houses. I need more - some work that excites me. Money would be nice but I've never been successful at making money. Though this pisses me off and often makes me feel like excess baggage, I have to admit that it has never been a priority. And it is too late to work my way up the corporate ladder. I could take some job, any job, for a pittance to make something...

I feel like a bore. What would inspire me, spark my passion for words beyond Scrabble on Facebook? I tell myself I'm improving my vocabulary but I know, deep down, that I am procrastinating, avoiding the real work of writing. 

I don't know where to begin. I don't like what I've done so far with my novel. It's too contrived, not rich, too ponderous, not full of fun and laughter. It's boring. I am too heavy, too weighed down, putting emphasis on all the wrong things - like my incessant cleaning for one - spending hours on things that I could accomplish in one concentrated hour. How do I move away from this behavioral pattern? Perhaps I shall tie myself to a chair. 

Since turning sixty, I have been aware of time and how quickly it is gone, how little I have left. Ruth spoke of going to an island, learning how to die... and I see that I fear death, not finding myself, leaving before I have done what I want to do. I'm driving myself crazy but what if I have to be more crazy, let go of control, to do what I ache to do?  

Somehow the body has got lost in the housework. I imagine that I have a choice. I can have a sparkling clean house, a home that others covet, desire, would give anything to have. Or I can spend one glorious afternoon in the orgasm tent of Ruth's story - with my true love. 

Which would you prefer?

 

By the Beautiful Sea

Eight hours after leaving Castelnau, Marlene and I arrive at the fishing village of Les Saintes Maries de la Mer. Michael tells me that Van Gogh painted here. It is beautiful but too stinking hot and my only  concern is to find our hotel. We weave our way through town slowly. Modern caravans are everywhere, parked in clusters around the water and throughout the town's narrow streets, sometimes taking two or three parking spots. Cars are tucked into every other available space - some legal, some not. A steady stream of pedestrians adds to the congestion.

We finally find our hotel and go to our respective rooms to freshen up. I had caught my usual flying cold and feel stuffed and lacking in energy but I cannot sit still. Here the sequence of events grows hazy.

We did wander through the town's streets that first night and did stop to eat in one central restaurant. I had moules et frites (mussels and fries) and Marlene taurus (?) bull steak and fries, a regional dish. The waiters and waitresses literally ran from table to table to kitchen so maniacally, my head was spinning and I could not relax, but still I was excited to be in this gypsy haven. (Wished unkindly and unreasonably that so many tourists  had not found their way here.) 

The next morning, we enjoy a quiet breakfast in the hotel garden and walk the few blocks to the town's chapel where I hope to catch some gypsy magic. Again we face crowds but there is music in the air and we stop to listen to "Karpatz" an ensemble - 8 beautiful dark men - who seduce us with their gypsy tunes. One woman spins through the audience, twirling a scarf around her head.  Marlene buys one of their CDs. (When I searched the internet for information about the group, I find that they are from Ukraine, Hungary, and Romania and "are all proud not to deny their Romani culture.")

We visit the chapel and Saint Sara's crypt (click on first picture) and then find a low stone wall in partial shade at the back of church to listen to a jazz duet. After a salad lunch, we return to our hotel to rest, before the procession of Saint Sarah. Thank the heavens, we had seen the statue earlier in the day, as it was impossible to see her facial features at our vantage point as she was carried - though elevated - through the crowds. Here I feel ignorant and sacrilegious. Sarah is a dark-skin-coloured doll with a tipsy crown wearing numerous sparkling fabric cloaks. I am intrigued by the devotion she inspires and yet know that she is a symbol of something that I can't quite grasp. Still I am happy to have witnessed the event. 

The next day, the two saint Marys will have their procession to the water. Unfortunately my cold is still stealing my energy so we do not leave the hotel late evening to witness the reported roma music and dancing in the streets. 

Though we leave for home early the next day, Marlene and I are not unhappy to miss the bulls charging through the streets (the thought scares me) and have agreed that we will return another year. 

 

Dream Squished

Poor Marlene has had to live with me as I've paced and agonized about our West Vancouver home. For the first time, we had a decent offer and the people seemed ideal. He's a journalist. She's an artist. They visited the house three times. Their only subject was the usual official inspection by a professional. 

I learned at 1 a.m. that they're not going to remove the subject. They said that it would cost too much to renovate to accommodate their 4 children. I'm pissed off. They must have seen this from the beginning. I even mentioned it to the real estate agent. But there is nothing I can do but mope.

Everyone's house except ours seems to be selling. My sister and sister-in-law sold their houses within days of listing. Another family member just bought a house. 

Oh woe is me. I know. I know. Here I am in the south of France, sitting in Rob's office, taking in the sun that's especially glorious and warming on the terrace that looks over an equally glorious valley of multi-coloured green fields, spotted with clusters of trees. In the distance I can see the Midi Pyrenees.  I have just come back from a trip to the Mediterranean. How can I whine over one little old house deal? 

So here we go again. I can't make plans because I don't know what is going to happen. We may have to rent the house in WV. Our dream of simplifying our lives is once again put on hold. 

Keep your fingers crossed

It looks as if we have sold our sweet house. I'll tell more on Tuesday when the one subject is to be removed.

Meanwhile, in France, I leave today, with Marlene, for a gypsy pilgrimage in Les Saintes Maries de la Mer. 

Other than recovering from a miserable cold, all is well. 

I arrived safely in France yesterday

I have so much to tell but, first of all, I would like to wish a wonderful man, a happy happy birthday. 

(Tomorrow when I am so under the influence of jet lag, I will write about my journey here.)

Remember to click on picture...

Have I told you lately?

A song for my mother.

So tired, tired of waiting

Last week I sat down and cried. The house is being shown often, sometimes two times in a day, and yet we have had only one insultingly low offer. Although all house prices have slipped and we have lowered our price accordingly to the point where we are now lower than land value, no one wants our sweet cottage. I look around me. All is spotlessly clean - I'm sick of cleaning - so now all I can blame is the flaws - poor layout, scratched floors from 25 years of living, small crack on kitchen countertop, and on it goes until I feel as if I am tearing apart an old friend who has been good to me. 

I keep thinking of an image from Marion Woodman's "Bone" where she is stroking her stomach and apologizing to it for being so critical when it has served her well, despite her abuse. How can I compare a house to a body? When one dreams of a house, according to Jungian thought, one is dreaming of self. I transfer this to strangers walking through our personal space, turning on every light, opening drawers and closets and it almost feels as if I am standing naked in Grand Central Station. 

You should be tougher I tell myself. To hell with those who don't like what they see. 

Rob says that I shouldn't take the lack of interest personally, and yet I know he too is becoming anxious. Someone once described us as "old hippies" in reference to our life style and our lack of need to fancify our house. Oh we would have liked to buy better stuff and even, at one time, a bigger house but the desire was never strong enough. Besides we don't like being in debt except for travel and computers.

So why did I cry? I was sitting in my little house in the garden, reading a soppy novel, nearing the end, when one of the main characters dies of cancer. Earlier in the day, I had been sorting my filing cabinet and rereading old letters from Leslie, my friend who died half a dozen years ago. Were the tears, tears of grief compounded with tears of frustration? Both Rob and I want to move on, start a new adventure, but without the sell of our house, we are stuck in a waiting room. 

Or should I look at the situation differently? Our accountant says sell and Rob and I snap to attention and put the house on the market. What if he's the idiot? What if we wait a couple of years, rent the house out to make a few bucks, and find the housing market is back on track? We could be one or two hundred thousand dollars better off than if we sold right now. 

Of course, no one knows how long it will take real estate to come into its own again, but why not wait it out? At the moment with interest rates so low, it isn't difficult to carry our debt. 

I look around me. Vancouver is especially beautiful in the spring, especially when the sun is shining. Rob and I went to an art show yesterday and met a young Russian woman who moved here a couple of years ago. She reminds us of just how lovely our home territory is, and says that next to two cities in Switzerland, Vancouver is the third most desirable place to live in all the world. 

Why, I ask myself, am I making such a fuss? Where is my business head, my animus? If we have to wait this recession out would it be so terrible? 

As I am sitting writing, wading through these thoughts, Rob calls. Strangely or perhaps not so strangely, he is asking himself the same questions. Perhaps we can give this no-decent-offer situation a positive spin. Perhaps, in the end, if we can find the patience, we will be richer (not only monetarily) and less indecisive several years from now. 

The House is Alive

Champagne Friend

Yesterday Helen and I dropped in at Maura's home to wish her happy birthday. Her husband and daughter were there waiting for her. Maura has had no time to relax and enjoy her day. Her dining room table is set with sewing machine, patterns, and frothy tutus. Behind the table is an industrial clothing rack, lined with assorted dancing costumes. She is out doing costume fittings. 

When Maura returns, she tells us that she'll celebrate her 60th in June when all the costumes are finished and the dances have been danced.

This woman accomplishes so much and all she does is beautiful, I think, as I look out the window and see her garden full to bursting with opening flowers in all the colours of the rainbow.

Her house is a mess. She has no time to clean the surface of things.  And although I could not live like this, I am envious. 

Salsa Sister

We are just about to take off to Cathy's birthday party. This week has been unusually busy and there's so much I'd like to say, including a promised continuation of a blog an entry back. I will try to be more diligent this coming week. 

Though a lot of people have been viewing the house, peeping in our closets, no one has made an offer so I continue to clean, to spruce up the garden, and whine. Silly really... but the waiting is getting me down. I thought reducing the price would entice a buyer but nothing seems to work - even baking banana bread for an agent's open though all commented about how good the house smelt. 

I must learn to have more patience. 

growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional

When she's writing her blog link 

when we were young

(Click on picture to see full size.)

It is hard to believe that it has been 40 years since I met Rob, 30 years since I became a mother, and varying numbers of years since I struck up friendships with such strong women as Penelope right through to Kate and Marlene (and most recently, Mary.) Once when I was feeling particularly pathetic, my oldest son said "Just look at who your friends are. Do you think they'd stick by you if you were pathetic?"

 It's hard to believe that I began this blog April 3rd, 2003, over a year before Gill began hers. 

So I have been a blogger for six years. I began originally when Gill and I were in Northern Ireland and I wanted family and friends back home to know what we were up to. In those early years, I often wrote every day. There have been times when I spilled my guts onto these pages and times when I haven't been able to say anything - either because I have been too fearful or too bored with myself. Every time I've wanted to stop blogging, someone (usually Kate) says no and so I have continued though not as often.

So much has changed for Gill. She's lived in Northern Ireland and Vancouver for her last two years of high school,  then Paris and Toronto for five years. Soon she will receive her BA. I only received mine when she was kicking inside my belly. 

I did try to enter the graduate program in Art History at UBC but the prof (a Frenchman) who I wanted to work with didn't want me - "a West Vancouver housewife" - despite my A average. The director of the program told me to take more courses which I did until I flew off to France with my children for a year. 

France changed everything.

to be continued

Music to My Ears

I forgot to mention the flowers I received for my birthday. Bev decorated the house with 60 tulips. Sonia gave me this beautiful orchid I keep by my bed. Gill and her love gave me a bouquet of exotic blooms. Mary sent pink tulips. Heidi and Maura presented me with fragrant roses and Sarah, a pot of white Easter lilies. The day before my birthday, Helen came over with a bouquet of passionate red flowers. Our house looks amazing. (Now why won't someone buy it?)

Here's a link to the poetry I received. 

Robert Bly says that you have to hear a poem twice to understand it but sometimes I need more than twice. There's also poems that people were too shy to read and several from friends who could not be present. 

How it feels to be loved by you

Extraordinary. 

Last Sunday I left my fifties.  Thanks to the efforts of Rob, Helen, Bev, and Maggie, I entered my sixties with a celebration. I asked for an afternoon and evening of poetry and music, good friends, wine, and a feast. I received so much more. 

In a day or two, I will post a link to the poetry and music, I received. 

I am so very very grateful.  Thank you everyone. 

March 29th was a day of magic. I felt beautiful and (yes, Gill) sexy, and loved. 

When I had a minute this past week - for some reason, it was very busy, good busy with visitors and dinners out, and some work - I wrote in my journal, trying to figure out (once again) what work I want to do, what gives me pleasure, what excites me... "When it's over, I don't want to wonder/ if I have made of my life something particular, and real./ I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened/ or full of argument./ I don't want to end up simply having visited this world."

 

I am a woman sixty years old

I am a woman sixty years old and of no special courage...

Everyday - I have work to do:

I feel my body rising through the water

not much more than a leaf;

and I feel like the child, crazed by beauty

or filled to bursting with woe;

and I am the snail in the universe of the leaves

trudging upwards... 

Marlene spent hours trying to find this poem for me (by Mary Oliver.)

It is understandable why, like so many,

I find pleasure

in your acts of language...

What the heart endures

is difficult to order in vowels

and consonants... 

Helen included this poem by Gloria Oden in a beautiful handmade book she gave me yesterday.

My daughter, my friends, call me sexy at sixty. So many lush loving descriptions of a woman who is a little like me but much more vibrant, less fearful.  

And I sit in my little house in the garden, thinking I'm sixty now - a senior. If I wanted to I could collect an old age pension... 

I am a woman of sixty, I tell myself over and over, and I am still not quite ready to accept it though I have little choice. 

Rob calls out that my father is on the phone. I return to the big house and talk to both my parents who wish me well, and are as astonished as I am that I have reached this age. "I remember the day you were born," my father says.

When I hang up, Rob hands me two gifts but asks me to wait a minute while he plays this song.

While the music is playing, I open the first slim wrapped parcel. It is a guide book to Marrakech along with a promissory note. We shall visit this exotic city in the fall. The second parcel is my favourite perfume. I am stunned by these presents. I wanted to give you something special, he tells me, and when I asked your friends what you would like, all said travel. 

As if that weren't enough, my nephew and his wife come back from a walk with 2 bottles of champagne. And then my daughter (a surprise gift from my sister who paid her flight) comes in with a friend and a huge bouquet of exotic flowers and a second one of lovely pink tulips from Mary who visited last week. And I receive a gift certificate for Amazon from my son Michael and his fiancee - and a beautiful poem by e.e. cummings and a kaiku Michael wrote himself. 

if there are any heavens my mother will (all by herself) have

one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor

a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but

it will be a heaven of blackred roses...

Gill and her friend prepare a breakfast feast of spicy potatoes, eggs, and chorizo sausage. My nephew serves Mimosas. Gill tells me that when she was at the flower shop, the woman who wrapped the flowers told her that when she turned sixty, her life got better and better. 

I hope so. I imagine, after this morning, that this could happen. 

There's Something about Mary

Last week, Rob and I welcomed Mary S-T into our home with the same generosity of spirit as Mary showed when she welcomed Gill into her home months ago. There's something about Mary that is impossible not to love. Every time she appears in a room I want to hug her. And do. 

What is it about Mary that inspires warmth, trust, and laughter? What is it about her that calls forth my most mischievous self? Why do I feel comfortable spelling out her initials with fallen tulip petals? 

Mary is one of the most loving generous woman I've ever met. She walked into our house (with her equally gorgeous brother) laughing, embraced me as if we were old friends, and the entire evening was full of laughter and stories. As was the next day and the next. She didn't even complain when we served her the same thing for dinner that we had for lunch. 

 

Mary is the wife of Patrick, Rob's mentor who died last fall. Mary says their relationship was a 27 year romance. Understandably, she misses her crazy wonderful poetry-quoting man, especially the cuddles. She has her "Patrick moments" when the tears start to fall but still she feels his presence everywhere. 

There is something about Mary that is quite extraordinary. In just a few days, we befriended each other for life. I once again feel blessed. 

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.