Change of Address

Please note that I am moving my blog to an expanded website at yvonneyoung.ca. It is still developing and will become more comprehensive (hopefully) as time goes by.

Merci

Fire

It looks much better in the pictures than live. The damage is not great but the soot and smell are horrible. Tomorrow a cleaning crew arrive.

A Fire

Yesterday, Rob and I were up in his office, the attic, trying to get my email to work when the electricity went out. Rob went down 3 flights of stairs and saw a light was flashing in the fuse box. He opened the door and flames lept out. He called up to me. I came running down and when I saw the flames panicked. "Get somebody," he yelled. "Call the fire department." Neither of us knew the emergency number. I ran to David's house and screamed our house is on fire. He said he would be right there. I ran to the Patisserie and asked the owner to call the fire department.

We watched the flames climbing up the wall and still no fire department. Finally, twenty minutes later they arrived. I have no idea how many fire men and women there were but they appeared to move in slow motion... Rob was furious but couldn't do a thing. The police arrived. Our small street was crowded and I nearly cried as I watched the fire spread while the firemen talked about what to do.

Several used an extinquisher on the fuse box. They were about to leave when Rob yelled, "There's smoke coming out of the second floor. In slow motion again, they went for a ladder and hoisted it onto the next roof. Firemen went in with smoke masks and opened the first and second floor windows. (Oh yes, they did, while we stood there shivering in our pjs, helpless.)

In the end, the bottom floor, ground level, one wall was destroyed. The first floor (second in our language) was destroyed and the firemen sawed it up and then lay plywood. The whole house is covered in soot and smells like smoke. No electricity. No phone.

The electrician came. Our builder came. The insurance agent came. No one knows how this could have happened when the whole house was redone a year ago. The insurance agent simply said "restore it" in French.

And so Rob and I slept at Susan and David's last night. At 6:30 in the morning, we left for our planned "holidays". Rob is in London, taking a French course. (Yes.) And I am in Paris with Gillian, awaiting our Irish cousins (mother and daughter.)

C'est la vie.

The First Days of the New Year

The house is silent again. On January 1st, Brendan, Gillian, and Yeliz returned to Paris after celebrating too flamboyantly New Year's eve whereas Rob and I had a quiet night in the company of friends where we dined and played games - charade and dictionary - because Adam's two young boys were there. I secretly desired a little ruckus and music but still it was pleasant.

After the trio left for Paris, I went to a noon champagne and oyster party at Susan and Davids - a yearly event attended by English and French-speaking villagers where glasses of bubbly and platters of oysters are continuously replenished. I never liked oysters until last year when David begged me to try one (he'd bought too many) and I was surprised not to mind the texture and taste. After several, I began to enjoy them.

Isobel Allende in "Aphrodite" says that "Oysters are the queens of aphrodisiac cuisine, protagonists of every erotic scene recorded in literature or film. The best way to eat them is raw, after squeezing lemon over them to test whether they are alive..." Ah, I didn't know that's why the platters were filled with lemons.

Fortunately or unfortunately, I did not feel any great pangs of desire after slurping up 5 or 6 this year, but I can imagine they could be quite sexy at a table set for 2, with white linen and candles, half shells (top discarded), lemon squeezed liberally... in slow motion, raising the pearly shell to my lips, mouth open, oyster slidding down, down... (Allende says a lover may put the oyster in her mouth and then deliver it to her love's lips.)

After an hour, I left the party and went home to nap. I am not used to staying up past midnight. Finding myself not able to sleep (the oysters?) I went through the day in slow motion.

Today, I woke early, and felt a need to do something, anything, outside, wherever and so I drove to Gaillac and wandered round the Sunday market. I've been feeling housebound and needed some air and alone time. (I miss my small house in the garden though Rob and I seldom disturb the other during the day. He is on the fourth floor. I am on the bottom.)

I bought an almond croissant and went to Cafe Sport for coffee. The place is crowed. A line of men stand at the bar drinking beer (and it's not 11 a.m.), a number of grey-haired men sit a tables playing card games, and a woman across from me (there are few women) sits with her small dog, a long-haired mucky little thing, with a straight-up ponytail (tied with a red elastic) but you would think him (her?) her true love, as she positions him on her lap, paws on the table, and strokes his body, back and forth, absentmindedly.

And so the new year has begun slowly and I'm in a quiet frame of mind.

Welcome 2010

Last year was an extraordinary year. In March, I turned sixty. In May, I went on a gypsy pilgrimage to Les Saintes Maries de la mer. In July, Rob and I finally sold our house. In August, we welcomed Michael and Mackenzie "home", then emptied this home, and moved to France.

Since August, we have been enjoying, struggling, entertaining, and getting used to the novel experience of not having a Canadian address and debt. Rob says he's happy here and doesn't want to return to Canada. I don't know what I want. I miss friends and family. As far as writing goes, it has been a slim year. I did manage to send one story out in December and will send out another before the end of this month.

I am hoping 2010 brings clarity, direction, productivity, contentment, and good health.

Happy New Year

The day has disappeared like so many is the last while but I want to catch those I love and wish them a happy, healthy, prosperous new year and though these words are too often used, I wish for all these things in 2010.

Lacking time to think clearly about what the end of this year means and the beginning of another (more on this soon), I steal from other writers:

• "One resolution I have made, and try always to keep, is this: To rise above the little things."
  - John Burroughs
  
  
• "The object of a New Year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul and a new nose; new feet, a new backbone, new ears, and new eyes. Unless a particular man made New Year resolutions, he would make no resolutions. Unless a man starts afresh about things, he will certainly do nothing effective."
  - G.K. Chesterton
  
  
• "For last year's words belong to last year's language
  And next year's words await another voice.
  And to make an end is to make a beginning."
  - T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"

I have been working on a new expanded blog that will appear soon and might have happened before the new year but I am so damn fussy and though Michael worked till four this morning to transfer files and improve the appearance, it'll take another day or two (hopefully not longer) to appear.

Now I will dress up to bring in 2010.

We had such a lovely Christmas Evening

The Night Before Christmas

By 5 p.m., the Christmas tables are set, mistletoe hung, candles lit, and the only missing ingredient is our middle son and his love.

Rob opens a bottle of bubbly and Gill, Yeliz, he, and I toast the occasion. Alice arrives first with a lush green salad (to be served hot) and a gift of foie gras that she tells us to hide. Bob and Rosemary are next and without a doubt, Rosemary is the belle of the evening in her slinky blouse, Spanish tiara, and elf slippers. She has presents for everyone. She gives us a trio of pates, 2 of her novels - signed, homemade chocolates, a mincemeat pie (that she began 3 months ago), and cheese sticks and curry pastries for appetizers. Ruth comes up the stairs with a rich salmon mousse, surrounded by greens to be served as an entree, and chocolate cake, Francis following with white bowls of spinach, green beans, savoury stuffing, and hot red cabbage, then Adam and his two sons arrive with a leg of lamb and 2 pans of roasted potatoes. (Susan notes that all is delicious - surprisingly everyone can cook.) Gill scurries around the kitchen, re-heating what needs it, and laying out the bounty.

And so we feasted and sipped red wine. After the main course, we all trooped downstairs to hear Ruth on her violin and David on his cello, play 3 German Christmas songs. We all wanted more so Alice, in her high clear voice, sang a couple of rowdy ballads, and then I, who have always been told I can't sing a note, who was the one in the school choir told to mouth the words, cut through my embarrassment and fear and sang a few lines of Christmas carols so Ruth could catch the tune and accompany us.

Later, Adam told Rob that I had a beautiful voice - a stretch, I know. But Alice, in her no-nonsense way, told me that I have an adequate voice, that I can carry a tune. I cannot explain why her comment and not Adam's, filled me with such pleasure. I will not be so fearful next time.

And so this was Christmas.

And so this is Christmas Morn

7 a.m.

A soft rain falls.

I have already been to the Patisserie for pain au raisin and bread and cooked a bread and walnut stuffing for the turkey.

The children (if you can call them that) are still snug in their beds. Gillian is here with her young friend Yeliz - they arrived from Paris two days ago and Brendan flew from Paris yesterday. (We are missing Michael and Mackenzie who promise they will visit soon but alas not for Christmas.)

Last night, we celebrated Christmas Eve with champagne ( really a bubbly from this region - as delicious but not as expensive as bubbly from Champagne) and Gill and Yeliz cooked steak with an extravagant cream sauce, tossed a salad, and baked lemon cookies for dessert. I made the frites and later the popcorn when we moved down to the salon to watch Elf - a silly film but one that I watch every year (as well as A Christmas Carol and The Santa Claus.)

Tonight we will have 15 people for a communal feast. I'm in charge of the turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce, and am looking forward to setting beautiful tables (we will need two) for our multi-cultural group of friends, aged 7 to 83.

I just stepped outside and the sun is shining.

3 p.m.

The turkey is in the oven. The cranberry sauce is made.

The "kids" did not get up until 11:30 and so we ate fresh pineapple and pancakes for lunch and then opened several small presents each. I am content but think it time that I jumped in a shower and dressed for our soiree.

Merry, merry, happy Christmas

Santa is in Zurich right now. I hope he reaches all of you.

I am at a loss for words but I wish that you all have a lovely Christmas and a happy holiday season.

I'm Never Fully Awake

I fall asleep at 9 and wake up at 1. I go back to bed around 6 and wake around 11. I wouldn't mind so much if I were fully awake and functioning but I feel I'm in a fog. I would like to email my friends and write from the heart but I cannot find the energy. And so I wander, read a little, eat, do laundry and the odd chore. I'd like to go into the forest and find evergreen branches and decorate the mantel for Christmas but again I can't find the energy to go outdoors. And it's cold out there.

I'll recap a little. The time in Toronto with family and friends sped by and I feel quietly content about my visit. I smile when I think of my father in the kitchen, my mother learning to maneuver her new computer, my sister cooking an amazing risotto, going out to dinner with one sniffling courageous friend and her new love, and sitting on the floor with another who has grown more beautiful since I saw her in the spring.

And now I am home. How strange "home" is these days now that we have only one house. And though it sounds exotic living in an ancient village in the south of France where we are in love with the food, wine, and tranquility, we struggle with the differences, especially the language. How strange too that our daughter and eldest son decided to leave Canada for Europe around the same time while our grownup middle child/son moved with his love - a young woman who we think of as a daughter - to Vancouver. We are all in transition.

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do/ with your one wild and precious life" is a question we're all exploring.

In my nuclear family, though often full of good will and laughter, we have the unfortunate habit of dwelling on what's missing or what's wrong with a situation, rather than luxuriating in what's good and wonderful - a human trait, I'm sure but one that we're particularly adept at and one which I'm trying to lose - or lose to some degree because it's next to impossible to get rid of something that's in the blood.

For some reason this reminds me of a film segment called Ole I found on Wenda's blog in which Elizabeth Gilbert discusses her book "Eat, Pray, Love" and how she nurtures the creative process and how frightening it is to have a hugh success (a fluke, she says). We writers have a tendency to wallow in despair - about the quality of our work or the lack of work. How do I stop being anxious that I am not attacking my novel? Gilbert speaks of ancient Greece and Rome where the creative individual was believed to have a guardian, daemon, muse who was as responsible as she for the quality and success of her work.

I would like to be visited by such a daemon but if it/she/he is not a constant presence, the thing to do, Gilbert points out is, is to just show up for your job - out of sheer human stubbornness and love. At the very least, I have written this blog today.

I'm back in France

Time flies. Two days ago I'm in Toronto and there's snow on the ground. (Even though I find it lovely, I am miserable dragging my suitcase through the morning slush, catching a subway train, a Go Train, and finally a very late bus to my sister's house in Brampton, to eventually catch a plane back to the south of France.) The next morning I'm in Paris, repeating under my breath "Paris, je t'aime" though so damn weary I can hardly see straight. Several hours later I catch an one-hour flight to Toulouse.

Rob meets me. The weather is warm. I get rid of my coat and sweater. We drive along the autoroute past fields so green, I cannot believe my eyes. How did I get from Toronto slush to French sunshine? Air France. I used to be thrilled when I could fly this airline but no longer. I've decided to change my blog - soon - and have a separate section where I tell whoever whatever how I really feel about her, him, it and why.

More soon.

Ho Ho Ho

Just caught Santa Claus in downtown Toronto, on television...

The days pass lazily as I enjoy my mother's and father's company. I believe that they are happy to have me with them. My mother hugs me each morning. My father makes me breakfast - usually a boiled egg and toast. He drove me to Peterborough, down country roads, because I mentioned that I'd like to see this city. My mother has taken me to Wall Mart, Costco, Zellars, and the Swiss Chalet - nostalgic outings - a slice of Canadiana.

She manages well with a cane and better with a shopping cart to prop herself. My father needs neither. He is amazingly agile for a man of 87 though I hear him mutter (at least half a dozen times a day) "poor old man".

And so the days have passed. I have spent much of my time setting up my mother's new MacBook - a Christmas gift from my father - and teaching her how to use it. I admit that I sometimes lose patience. "Mum, highlight the message you want to move." "You have asked me five times about your YouTube flick. I told you I'd bookmark it today." My tone is brusque and I apologize. I know what it is like to be told something about a computer program (usually by one of my sons) and not understand a word.

I have downloaded and introduced both my parents to "Skype" and now that my mother has her new computer with a webcam, she can talk and see all her children online.

On Friday, I took a break and went out to lunch with Wanda, a woman I met at one of the French workshops. My mother says that she's very attractive. My father says that she's cheeky. She's both. And I so like her down-to-earth, generous spirit.

On Saturday, my brother and his love Jane came to visit. I adore

my brother. He's a genius (no bias here) and another down-to-earth, generous soul. Before he had even taken off his coat, he asked my Dad about the wood he wanted sawed down for fire wood. My father suggested he just leave the chainsaw and my brother refused. There's no way I'm leaving this for you to kill yourself...

And so my days pass... Later today I will return to my sister's Gael with my mum. Monday and Tuesday I will visit downtown Toronto and share two dinners with two women friends, before flying back to France on Wednesday evening.

In my Father's House

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minimalism

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

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

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

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

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

On Friday I fly to Toronto.

Loving Donna Margaret

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(The next post is your birthday card.)

There were never such devoted sisters

Song for Maggie

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

I startled Lucette

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

Je suis desolee, I say.

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

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

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

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

I shall read (to keep with my image)

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

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

and she is so frail and short of breath

on the street, the stairs – tiny, Lilliputian,

one wonders how they do it.

So, wakened by the shiftings of their bed nudging

our shared wall as a boat rubs its pilings,

I want it to continue, before her awful

hollow coughing fit begins. And when

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

us praise that resumed rhythm, no more than a twitch

really, of our common floorboards. And how

he’s waited for her before pushing off

in their rusted vessel, bailing when they have to,

but moving out anyway, across the black water.

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

For those who know Bedding

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

***

For those who know me

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

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

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

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

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

Loving Mackenzie

(Click on picture and song)

A birthday song for you.

The Pleasure of Living in Europe

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