Bursting with Love
Posted June 13 2010.
I woke up this morning bursting with love, more than content with my lot. We received such a wonderful surprise at our 40th anniversary party last night in the square. (And a beautiful decanter, champagne, and lots of wine.)
We had sent out invitations to all our friends. “Join us at 7 for drinks, then dinner, at Les Consuls…” Rob and I arrived a few minutes before seven, sat, chatted, and then I heard a familiar voice say “Let’s get this party underway.” Rob and I turned and there was Bev and Bill walking towards us. It took a minute for it to register. That really is Bev. That really is Bill. We squealed, screamed, hugged. Their spur-of-the-moment decision to join us made our day. And evening. Some friends just came for drinks. Thirteen sat down for dinner. I even – for old times sake – got up and danced on the table.
The writer in me couldn’t help but use this title. (Or perhaps it’s the devil in me – who has not visited for I don’t know how long.)
Forty years ago today, we married. The night before I stayed at my sister-in-law’s apartment. I dyed her hair and put mine in rollers. We rose at the crack of dawn to go to the flower market. Defiant, as usual, I did not stay away from the groom. I slipped into our apartment where his parents were staying and gave him a hug. Sometime in the afternoon I went to my parents’ house. I bathed in cold water (because everyone else had washed ahead of me) and removed the rollers. My hair was a mass of curls. I stepped into the dress my mother had made, tied a small bonnet at my throat, and drove to the church in a neighbour’s fancy car. Before pulling away from the curb, he told me that I could still change my mind.
Unbeknownst to me, Rob’s boss/friend/driver told him the same thing.
Doesn’t seem like forty years ago. People congratulate us for being steadfast. I think to myself, forty years of marriage, not monogamy.
We do not have a fairytale marriage where every second of the day, week, month, year, we whisper sweet nothings and embrace. After five years of marriage, we split up for a year and a half. After twenty, we had another crisis – that’s when we told each other hard truths that made us both cry but, in the end, those truths made us respect the other more and saved our marriage.
On our wedding day, Patrick Spence-Thomas with his melodic voice read from the Prophet, on marriage:
Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.
After our second crisis, we realized two things. First, we have to tell each other the truth, no matter how difficult. Second, we cannot be together all the time. When we’ve been living in each other’s pocket too long, we aren’t kind to the other.
I believe we have good marriage. We have not grown complacent. We leave each other alone to do whatever the other wants. We share house work. He cooks. I clean. And sometimes in the night, I reach over with a toe to make sure he’s there.
When I awoke this morning, he was standing on the terasse naked. Hi you, I called. He shook his head, said he was miserable. He had been up all night worrying. “I’ve wasted forty years of my life.”
I grinned, then laughed. “Well, I’m bursting with love,” I said.
He grinned, gave me a hug, but said that he had to go back to sleep. He’d celebrated too hard last night.
I slipped down to my office and checked my emails. Gill, Michael, Mackenzie, John, and Nancy had sent congratulations via video.. I laughed and played it five times – each person’s character shone through.
I love these moments when I feel happy to be alive.
“He can make a cherry pie,/ Quick as a cat can wink an eye”
Posted June 9 2010.
Last night Alice dropped in for dinner and Rob whipped up a cherry pie (with cherries he’d picked himself) and guacamole, artichokes, salad, lamb chops, and baked potatoes.
When I asked him if he minded doing all the cooking, he said “no. It relaxes me.”
“Great,” I said. “I don’t mind the cleaning up but cooking throws me into a frenzy.”
We complement each other. I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships lately – ours and in general – as Sunday, June 13 is our 40th wedding anniversary. We shall celebrate at the new hotel with friends on Saturday evening.
Slowing Down
Posted June 6 2010.
I say I”m slowing down but really I’ve been busy. I arrived home to Rob, Susanna and Lewis (Canadian friends, architect, and interior designer, responsible for so beautifully transforming this house.) The next evening, while I strugged to fit into the time zone, we all went to David’s 70th birthday. (He loved the slingshot and cigars I brought him from Canada.) The next evening or was it the next, Susanna and Lewis left for Provence and Henri and Susan, friends who live outside Paris, dropped in for dinner. Thank goodness Rob loves to cook.
The rest of the week I’ve been catching up on work that I somehow never got round to during my visit to Toronto. I did escape to Toulouse yesterday and wandered the streets and stores in over thirty degree sunshine. And oh yes, I did go back to the insurance office earlier in the week and no matter what I do, I can’t get them to give us the remaining money to pay the artisans and close our file. I give up. It’ll come when it comes.
The weather has been glorious (though a storm is moving in) and my precious grape vines, all around the village and beyond, are now lush and green – they have doubled in size since I saw them last. And speaking of growth, while I was away, Rob planted a lemon tree, pepper tree, herbs, and a number of vegetables in pots on the terrace, and all are growing so quickly Rob thinks that someone is playing a joke on him and switching the plants at night. We’ve already had fresh lettuce in a salad.
This week, I shall put an extra effort into slowing down (though I do have a number of business things I have to do.) When I mentioned to Shirley my problem with non-activity and finding my soul, she wrote “No one faults the cat for sleeping all day.” I must remember this.
Worlds Apart
Posted May 29 2010.
One day I’m in Port Hope, the next Toronto, the next Toulouse – from my parent’s heritage town to the urban to a small village in the south of France. I am exhausted. The time with my mum and dad was precious. I did everything I could to help around the house and beyond, like putting geraniums and pansies into planters, to taking a drive in my father’s pickup to the dump, to sorting and scanning old photographs, to helping my mother on her computer.
Time escaped me. Although my Dad made breakfast in the morning, I made most dinners in the evening – unenthusiastically, I admit. I didn’t have time for my own work, for visits with friends or for emailing friends (forgive me, those I ignored) but there was always something to do and time was short.
And then Gill emailed and said that she and John were flying in Sunday for our belated Mother’s Day feast. I didn’t tell my mother and so it was a big surprise for her when Gill and John appeared, joining my brother and his wife, my sister Gael and Larry (who picked them up from the airport).
When I saw her, my baby, walking toward the house, I was on the phone with a friend and had to excuse myself, I was so excited. I ran out the front door and wrapped my arms around her. I wanted to be the first to embrace her.
And then my beautiful daughter took over the kitchen – John was her sous-chef – and our meals changed from the mundane to the exotic, including a lemon tarte made from fresh lemons. Gill and I grabbed moments alone when we could. I miss her.
Although I miss Michael and Mackenzie too and wished they had been able to fly to Toronto, I took the time to visit Mackenzie’s grandmother in a neighbouring village in their honour. Lois is lovely, a vibrant 80 year old, around my height who adores her granddaughter and Michael (and all her 19 grandchildren and 8 great-grandchildren, if I remember the numbers correctly.) We had coffee and appetizers in the kitchen and then descended to the back garden – an extraordinary setting with pond and pathways, rocks and waterfalls.
Lois charms me with a bit of her life story. She is a country girl from the region, who first married an Ojibway with whom she had six children. Mackenzie’s father Ed was one of her babies and from whom “Kenzie” inherited her exotic beauty. (Her father is at the far right, second row.)
When her husband died – an easy-going man, she tells me, who was never interested in money – she lived alone for a number of years and then married an Englishman with whom she has traveled around Europe. I met Dennis, a charming man, who with a smile, takes a number of pictures of Lois and me with a small disposable camera. (He refuses to use a digital and prefers paper and pen to computers.) I suggest to Lois that she visit France when Michael and Mackenzie are visiting. She likes the idea.
Gill, John, and I left my parents (I tearfully) the next morning and caught a train to Toronto. (I reassured my mother that I would return soon.) When we arrived, John left us and so most of my last day, I spent with my daughter before catching an evening flight. We shopped. She bought me lunch in a trendy restaurant. We talked and walked… and I only scratched the surface of what I wanted to say to her. There is never enough time these days with my daughter but as Gill said, I know we will be together soon and when we are, we will take off together for a few days.
I am happy that I took this short trip though I hate flying. I only regret that time disappeared and I did not see Mary, Wanda, and Malcolm, and that I wasn’t able to attend Ursula’s birthday celebration.
Now, back in Castelnau, I must get to work.
Niagara Falls: Playing Tourist
Posted May 20 2010.
To make a long story short, Helen and I should have been in Port Hope with my parents but instead we went with my sister, Gael to Niagara Falls – one of the seven wonders of Canada. (My sister thought it was a world wonder but alas Victoria Falls is more magnificent.)
I haven’t seen the falls since I was a little girl and I remember them as scary beautiful, set in a green wilderness. On Sunday, driving toward it, I felt as if I were in Las Vegas with its flashy buildings and billboards. Unlike yesteryear, the falls is a money-maker for the town of Niagara Falls. Parking alone costs $18. If you want to take a trip along the water, close to the falls, you’ll pay $30, and on it goes. And still, it is magnificent.
After our walk along the boardwalk, where my sister kept snapping pictures, and where I enjoyed people watching as much as fall viewing, we headed out along Lake Ontario to visit a few wineries and then stopped in the town of Niagara-on-the-Lake for a very expensive hamburger. What to say? I am grateful for the excursion, especially the nostalgic aspect of it, but I don’t like being a tourist, surrounded by crowds.
On Monday, Helen and I took a Go Train to downtown Toronto, wandered a bit, ate lunch at a fancy little place in Yorkville, and then she caught an Airporter to fly home, and I caught a train to Port Hope.
I am now at my parents home. When my mother came down to breakfast the day after I arrived, she had tears in her eyes. She said that she was happy. She couldn’t believe I was here. This morning she came down again with tears but this time because she didn’t feel well. She is always tired she tells me. After a short time, she went back to bed. A little later in the day my dad said that he wasn’t feeling well.
I worry about them. A lot. I see myself twenty years down the road. “Old age is no place for sissies,” said Bette Davis. My father and his brother say that one must not give in to time, one must not think that the end is near, or one brings it closer. My mother says that she doesn’t have a lot of time. Are the brothers or my mother wiser? I don’t know.
I am thinking of reading Helen Luke’s book Old Age: Journey into Simplicity. One reviewer writes that Luke “puts old age into the context it deserves: a time of spiritual clarity, when the flame of life-meaning burns brightest.” I remember too a passage I read or heard from another of Luke’s books that says something to the effect that if one wants to die a good death, one has to live a good life.
***
Something kind of funny happened yesterday. My first boyfriend – I think I was 15 when I first met him – was driving out to my parent’s house for a visit. He rang from downtown and said he couldn’t find the street. As I’m not that familiar with Port Hope either, I said I’d hop downtown and meet him at “Black Beans”, a fancy new restaurant. I hopped down the street, looking forward to conversation, and waited and waited, walked around the block, and still no M. Oops, I forgot to mention that he said he was driving a red sports car, so every red car with a fellow behind the wheel, that kind of looked like it might be him, I waved at wildly. Eventually my father drove up and said that M had called and he’d gone to Port Perry, not Port Hope.
Ontari-ari-ari-o
Posted May 14 2010.
On Wednesday, I flew up to Paris and across the ocean to Toronto. I’m here for two weeks to visit two of my sisters, my brother, and my parents. I left all our insurance worries and more behind for Rob to deal with. Hopefully when I return to France, all will be resolved and I can relax and work with words, not slow-moving French “experts”.
I should not complain. I live in one of the most beautiful villages of France. I love the farmers’ markets, the vineyards, the green rolling hills, and the language. Life is so much slower and this I like and this is what drives me round the bend – at times.
I am happy to be back in Canada where all seems easy, where all appears more efficient, where I understand the language, where I don’t feel helpless and yet I love the challenge of living in a foreign country, where all is not certain, where I do feel helpless.
I wonder if France has slowed me down or made me wiser. I chose to come to Ontario rather than British Columbia as I worry about my parents who are both in their eighties. And yet, two of my beloved children live in Vancouver as do a number of close friends. I would have liked to hop from Toronto to Vancouver but
then both visits would have been rushed and this I cannot bear. I need to take my time, not feel as if I am always on the run.
I will return to Canada to Vancouver later in the year when I have more time to visit with my children and friends, and play.
Mother
Posted May 9 2010.
I have spent the morning searching through pictures to send to my mother. As a little girl, I thought her the most beautiful woman in the world. When I was a teenager, I resented the time she gave to politics mostly because my older sister and I had to babysit our younger siblings. And yet, I remember her once standing at a podium and giving a speech. I was stunned by her intelligence and courage. After I left home and had children of my own, I was in awe of her. How could a woman bring up six children? I found raising three overwhelming.
Now that my mother is in her early eighties, I find her tender and loving. She contacts me almost every day on Skype to help her sort out problems with the Apple computer my father gave her for Christmas. She often worries that she’s bothering me. I tell her “no” that I am happy to help her and if I’m too busy, I’ll let her know. Sometimes, I bring the computer into the kitchen when I’m cooking and show her what I’m doing. She loves this. My mother like my daughter adores recipes and food. (I avoid the kitchen whenever I can.)
I am fortunate I know to be in my sixties and still have my mother. I worry about the day she will leave me. There will be one person less in this world who loves me for who I am. She doesn’t agree with a lot I say and do and yet she never stays angry with me for long. She says that I’m the odd one, the strangest of all her daughters. I don’t like fancy houses. I never ask for recipes. (When asked once which daughter she liked best, my mother paused and said, “the fourth has the best house.”) And yet, this is the woman who stood at a podium and in a loud voice told a crowd that so-and-so said that she never says anything nice about him. “When I find something nice to say, I’ll say it.”
I can’t help loving her.
Wisteria
Posted May 1 2010.
Looking out our kitchen window, I admire the wisteria below. A young couple with a baby recently bought the garden and the house facing it.
The past week, the weather has been gorgeous, bright sunny skies, with temperatures up to 30 degrees.
I love the sun and all would be idyllic (Rob returned Tuesday evening) except for two things. I’m still waiting for the insurance money, and I have a certain frustration with self.
If I were a real writer, I tell myself, writing would be the most important thing in my life. I wouldn’t spend so many hours trying to make the house perfect. I would not worry about the chip in the mirror, the carpenter’s uneven finishing, the ways the shelves are to be built in my library. I’d leave my books piled up again the wall (Gill says they look artsy) and pull out my novel and perhaps, if luck were with me, the words would flow and nothing else would matter.
I am helping a younger woman begin her mother story. She is surprised that the editorial work is so slow. I want to tell her that I have spent a day on one sentence, finding the right word, the right rhythm, and I am not an exception.
Rob returned home, exhausted and puffy-eyed after the stitches were removed from his lids earlier in the day. With age, his eye lids had softened and descended (which happens to us all, and happens to all of our physical selves, but Rob’s eyes were especially bad. The soft skin was blocking his pupils, making it difficult for him to see.)
He is happy that the operation is over (already he can see better), happy to be home, happy with his house, and, for several days, he enjoyed the sun though he had to wear dark shades to protect his eyes. Today, the weather turned and a soft rain falls on and off.
The day before he returned, Alice turned 30 and we celebrated in her parent’s garden, directly below the village.
I’m sorry that my picture doesn’t show the feast and wine and bubbly and all who attended. What struck me about the celebration was that Rachel (Alice’s mother) and I were the only older people there. The town is coming alive with young couples and their children.
And there’s others like Alice and Tiziano who recently moved from London, who can work via internet, and who prefer a bucolic setting.
Several people have asked me if I really want to live here, to stay here for the rest of my days. I think so. Life is simpler (unless you have a house fire) while, at the same time, the culture and language make it more stimulating and challenging.
Lavender
Posted April 19 2010.
We bought the house in France ten years ago and every spring and summer, our neighbour Lucette has lined the street beside our house with her blooms. We have never potted our own because we have not been here long enough to care for them so after a discussion with Rosemary on Sunday about what plants are best suited for pots – I had oliviers, ornamental bay trees, and lavender in mind – she advised me to go with lavender as it’s lovely and hardy. You don’t even have to water them, she told me.
And so today, I went to a nursery and bought plants and pots and adorned our front with 2 species as a symbol of permanence. This is our home. Apparently lavender can also symbolize luck, devotion, and trust.
We are lucky. After a lot of work, our home is more beautiful than before the fire. We have a fridge. The cushions came back from the cleaners mildew free. I dropped off all bills at the insurance company Friday and our agent assured me that we would be paid quickly so I can pay the artisans. I am hoping this happens this week.
I am breathing easier. When Rob returns from Vancouver next week, I think he will be pleased. We can resume our lives together in comfort with lots of luxurious space to be together or separate.
The good thing about the fire is that my French has improved. For the first time, I understand our neigbour who speaks rapidly. When I turned 60 last year, Lucette turned 80. She is extraordinary, a bubbly energetic woman who often slips into latex and takes off on her bicycle. There’s something about the south of France that keeps people young. Perhaps it’s because no one moves quickly which, on the one hand, can be infuriating – three months to restore the house – and, on the other, forces one to slow down and smell the lavender.
This One is for Gill
Posted April 13 2010.
On Friday, after I had published my last blog, our new refrigerator arrived. On Sunday, I invited Rosemary and Bob, Susan and David for lunch – unfortunately, Susan was ill – and we celebrated the reopening of the house to guests with orange juice and bubbly, prawns fried in olive oil with plentiful garlic, the first asparagus of the season sprinkled with sesame seeds, fresh crusty bread, a green salad with endive and tomato, and three cheeses. A humble feast – my daughter would have been fancier – but delicious. One of the reasons I love France is that any day of the week I can find a farmer’s market with the freshest ingredients at a reasonable price.