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.

Dinner Date

Last night prepared dinner for Clare and her family. Escalloped potatoes. Roasted summer vegetables (zucchini, tomatoes, onions from David's garden with a market-bought eggplant.) Lamb and saucisse. Salad. We began with bubbling wine. Moved on to red of the valley. Finished with more bubbly.

I slept well.

Clare is such a good friend. Wherever she goes, she lets me know so I can catch a ride or not. This afternoon we go to Albi to look at Renault Clio. It's difficult to be without wheels in this tiny village.

All is well though I/we have to force myself/ourselves into money mode and do something about the proceeds of our house.

Take Two

I tried writing earlier but the formatting was off. Hence "take two."

Settling in - for both Rob and I - seems to be taking longer than usual.

I have to force myself to write more often so I don't forget the moments when I stop worrying and am content. I can think of two (though for sure there are more.)

First is the last aperitif concert of the season that we attended with Francis Meadows a few days after Rob arrived. Francis who admits to being a jazz snob was concerned that the music would be mediocre, even abysmal as she had just returned from Marciac that hosts (according to Rob) the finest jazz festival in the world.

The evening turned out to be charming. Every summer many small villages in our region host Aperitif concerts that begin at around 7 in the evening. Most are free. This one took place in Campagnac, a hilltop town not far from ours. The entertainment was a brass jazz band that played Sinatra-like tunes and much to our surprise, especially Francis', turned out to be quite good including the male and female vocalists.

We arrived early, sat at a long table, under an awning not far from the stage. The venue - a winery - crowded with many long tables and outer cafe tables was sparsely populated. I hopped up, bought us a bottle of rose, water, some melon, cheese and bread, so we could pass the time until the music started. While Rob and Francis talked jazz, I watched the tables fill, waved to Helene - a fellow Montmirais - who joined us with her new beau, her ex-sister-in-law, and a few friends.

Truly, the evening was lovely, especially for 2 Canadians who felt privileged to be there, under the stars, looking over a glorious vista of vineyards, sipping wine, nibbling, talking, as the band played on. (And though money wasn't a consideration, we liked that the evening cost around 10 euros for the 3 of us.)

The second event that did my heart good was the two days and one evening that I spent in Toulouse with my precious daughter who has written about our time together so well, I need not attempt to.

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?