I wonder how my mother is?
How does she do it?
How does she not complain or at least feel sad about how her life has changed.
But no.
Recalling her daily ritual those little ordinary things that she did.
Such as picking a small bouquet from her garden for her kitchen window.
Baking cookies and pies.
Feeding her chickens.
Spending time in her garden.
Helping others in any way that she could.
She says she is fine. That healing takes time.
I hope that a ton of all that she is rubs off on me.
All those little things that say something that words fail to, or actions deny.
All those little things that let us know that the moment is right,
that we are on to something good, that it is okay, that we will be alright.
The way the morning light reaches into our bed,
the way the hot water runs down our bodies in the shower,
the way the church bells ring just at a time when silence needs to be broken.
The way a strawberry tastes or a daffodil springs yellow into the darkness,
or the way a kite string plays in the wind against a cool blue sky.
The little things that speak a message out of nowhere that we want to hear.
The way written words, even those in nature's songs
connect us to the unheard story within our being:
How can I describe it?
How is it when the soul is stirred...
A song on the radio,
Several words strung together in a poem,
How the leaves dance even though tumbling down,
and the blossoms burst through the ground,
Oh, and the softness of shadows playing before us.
Nature's ballet.
While threading the needle to sew Sacha's worn jeans I asked Annie if she had any tender memories of living during World War II? If there was any light in that dark passage. Anything that reminded her of beauty when life around them was so unfair and off-balance.
Annie kept her eye on the thread and needle, "Of course, there were tender moments, we had each other. Our family moved from Marseilles (which was heavily bombed) to our country house. We were lucky to have a garden, my mother planted lentils. We had plenty to eat. We exchanged food from our garden for other things we needed.
Annie went on to say that during that time she was barely twenty and pregnant with her first child.
"One of my activities was to walk down to the village and exchange some of our produce
for whatever my family might have needed.
On the other side of the village, there was a man who grew watermelons. Whenever he saw me in the village he would race back to his garden to give me one. Can you imagine how wonderful it was to have a watermelon? It was such a rare treat. They were not very big, but they were sweet, and you know I have a thing for fruit. Mon Dieu, I prefer fruit over bonbons.
Whenever, he would give me a watermelon he would say, "This is for your baby. Your baby needs to taste sweetness." I was surrounded by such generosity. I think being pregnant brought out the best in the people around me. Seeing my big belly gave them hope, made them reflect on the wonders of life... or something like that... instead of the hardships of war."
I would lug that watermelon, the supplies I had exchanged from our produce, and my big belly to the river. The river is on the outskirt of the village, Annie's home was on the other side and up a steep hill. Then, I would sit by the plantain tree, you know the one at the end of your street, and I would crack that watermelon open, grab the heart and eat it. Funny, after all these years, I can recall the watermelon juice running down my face. It didn't bother me in the least. It was a luxury, sweet juice running down my face between my breast to my pregnant belly.
Note: This is one of my favorite stories of Annie's. When Annie she told this story I felt transported to another time when her memory was living, and her body was young and ripe. It showed me Annie and how she was full, ripe, sweet, and with many seeds of hope.
Happy Birthday, Annie.
Up in an attic, secrets are told tucked away in boxes, stuffed in baskets, locked in safe boxes,
buried in forgotten letters, or left aside without thought by someone who never came back.
I enjoy going through things in attics, not so much the dust, nor the little creatures that pop up without saying hi.
There is usually a discovery or two, and stories that follow are worth the mice, and spiders who claim the empty space as their home.
Have you ever had a mouse run up your leg?
I had a rat fall on me, yeah I didn't even scream as I was way too into a box of old papers to notice.
That is when I realized I have a serious addiction.
But then you already knew that crazy factoid about me.
Thank you, AtlasVintage Carole, for the photo.
Three years ago, this photo was taken on the last French la Vie.
Then Covid turned everything upside down.
Last week I teamed up with Red Shed Tours leading a group of 12 women around
Provence and the brocantes.
Back in the saddle feels better than ever.
The next group arrives on May 24. They have waited three years!
Finally, we will meet and create stories and find things that tell us their stories.
This morning we got up early and
drove three hours to a brocante dealer’s home where stacks and stacks of boxes greeted us.
Paper, paintings, textiles, and things that made me giddy.
It was a mother lode of happiness.
Hours later, we pack the car and returned home three hours later.
One of my favorite things to do in all the world is to be in a garage, or an attic, or a place full of boxes just waiting for me to go through them and find wonderful old things that are waiting to come home with me.
Now, the work begins to put things up for sale, box them up, and kiss them goodbye.
To see more of what I am finding and selling follow me on Instagram.
This is the season to enjoy! When our courtyard is in bloom I just want to stay put and savor it.
Soon, as in days or maybe even now
this Little One is going to crawl and when she does
she will be called, ’” Go Go Baby ".
Repost from 2009
When the roses start to bloom I think of Annie.
I was up on a ladder, in my garden, trimming a rose bush when my friend Annie came over to visit. Looking up at me, then the rose bush she said, "How I wish I were up on that ladder! What a pleasure it would be to aid spring!"
"Annie!" I greeted her, "I was just saying to myself, God, I wish Annie were here to help me!"
Annie said, "You should pray for something serious because you have his ear!" With that
I jumped down from the ladder and hugged her.
Eagle-eyed Annie sees things with years of experience and gives her wisdom from a gentle heart. She advised me which off shots to cut, what branches to trim and in the middle of it all, recited her recipe for rose jam.
As I started to sweep the rose clippings into a pile, Annie bent down and picked up a few branches.
"We could plant these you know. Do you have a hammer?"
"A hammer? You mean a shovel?"
"No, a hammer, we need to smash the ends. Do you have a hammer, and we will need wheat seeds too."
A hammer and wheat seeds? Who would have guessed that is how one plants roses clippings?
Annie has a ton of her mother's secrets about gardening, cooking, sewing, baking, wine-making, and a million other household tricks up her sleeve. I thank my lucky stars that she remembers everything in such detail to share it with me.
I gave her a hammer. Unfortunately, I didn't have any wheat seeds on hand, though I had rice grain and offered that instead.
"No, rice won't work, but we can use our hair instead." She said.
"Our hair?" Certainly, I had misunderstood her French.
"Yes, we need something to aid the rose trimmings to root. You'll see."
Under her guidance I trimmed the rose clippings, taking off the old leaves and leaving one or two new shoots per branch. Each trimming was about eight inches long. As long as it had a new shoot it could be used. Annie smashed one end with the hammer. Then we plucked out two to three strands of hair from our heads. Then, Annie put the hair strands in the smashed part of the trimming, then pinching it so it wouldn't slip out, she wrapped the other ends of hair around and around the trimming. Afterward, she poked the hair-wrapped rose branch into the moist dirt about two inches deep.
Annie says that this method helps the rose trimmings root easier giving them a better chance of survival. She did say that for every five rose shoots, maybe one will take.
"Annie, I wonder if my dyed blond hair will turn the red roses white?" I laughed.
"Only the hairdresser in the sky knows for sure." She smiled as she pulled out a few more strands of my hair. Then added, "Though, if your neighbors are watching us, they'll think we are crazy old ladies!"
Photos of My Annie who is nearly 90 years old and is going strong.
Note: The wheat grain or lentil is shoved up into the smashed part of the rose stem. Then planted about two inches deep into moist soil; The wheat or lentil sprouts faster, and therefore aids the rose trimming to root easier.
My sister-in-law Diane, Me, my brother Mark,
my youngest brother Zane, my sister-in-law Shelley, and my brother Mat with one T.
Standing proudly around my mom.
xxx
Last November, after the Thanksgiving meal, Sacha took some photos of us.
The first Thanksgiving without my brother Marty. His family celebrated at their home understandably.
Yann, Chelsea, and co. were in France.
It was the first Thanksgiving when my mom didn't cook/bake everything.
Even though Thanksgiving was different it wasn't.
Happy Mother's Day!
Even if it is different this year it isn't really.
You are here as strong as ever in all that you give and have given to us.
(With the exception of cookies and pies.)
OMG!!! Look how my beautiful, fun-loving cousins cheer on my mom! Angels disguised as flappers will have my mom dancing! Thank you, Cousins Lynette Carroll, Donna Bassetti, and Barbara Leach ❤️❤️❤️
And everyone who visits my mom.
One of the very first French words I learned when I came to France was, "Zut".
Simply, because Yann's mom said it often enough. The way she said it, and when she would say it,
I figured it had to be a polite sort of replacement for a bad word.
And since I swear (such a bad habit of mine) I thought maybe I could say, "zut" instead of the other
colorful words that pop out of my mouth. Unfortunately, ZUT never made it out of my mouth.
Yann, on the other hand, is the master of not swearing or using slang words. Thankfully, when we first met he didn't speak English.
And well, as you know, I didn't speak French, so my swearing was not a deal-breaker in our relationship, and when we finally understood that our
vocabulary choices were vastly different from each other's it was zut too late.
(These gilded wooden letters belong to my friend Delphine.)
Nearly eighteen years ago I started this blog... every day some little note is added.
I grew up in a small rural town called Willows
My journey included a million first cousins, four brothers, studying depth psychology, praying, cooking, and doing retreat work on CJ Jung while living in a Benedictine monastery in New Mexico.
I hiked the Grand Canyon, wished on stars, and worked for the
Catholic Church in San Francisco. It was there that I fell
in love against the odds at the Ibeam with a Frenchman who happened to be on vacation.
He collected his "belle souvenir" and moved back to his homeland: France.
Over thirty years ago, two beautiful children, a son in law, two wee ones, and many containers
of French antiques, I am still tripping over my tongue gathering
adventures at the flea markets.
Most days I am happily walking somewhere in
Provence smiling while whispering over the waves: thank you xx
Memories of our plane ride to California came rolling in as we took the three hour plus TGV from Marseille to Paris.
We went back with Chelsea and the little ones as Yann had a meeting in Paris and we could help Chelsea with the children.
Three adults two children.
We all took naps except Gabriel and Papioca.
Then this one thought why not learn to crawl on a table in a moving train? Sort of felt like the story: Cat in the Hat.
How I love when you my readers share
what you do with things you have bought from me.
I received this message today:
Hi Corey-
I just wanted to share a couple pictures of a wreath I bought from you several years ago. I saved it for my granddaughter Josette’s First Communion. I did embellish it a bit and she loved it! Thank you for sharing your treasures!
Thanks again! Lorna
Beautiful darling Josette!
Happy First Communion!
Funny how it happens
age comes
all at once over years
here we are
the same but with added patina and texture.
Over the last several days I have been with Red Shed Tours guiding them around and through Provence, the brocantes, and private addresses that I have up my sleeve.
We have all sorts of weather but that did not dampen our spirits nor our adventures. Luckily, I can pull many places out of my hat when it rained and the brocante was closed. That is the advantage of traveling with a local.
I am so fortunate to be able to team up with Red Shed Tours. Michele and Valorie, the owners of Red Shed Tours are a dream team with which I have enjoyed collaborating. We plan to do more in the future.
Yes, I am still continuing with my French la Vie retreats, the only difference is mine are intimate small groups, as Red Shed's are larger and include more free time.
I have two openings for the French la Vie Retreat in June. Let me know if you are interested.
make a wish
one for each seed
send it forth with your breath
one for others
one for the world
one for you.
Teaming up with Red Shed Tours
fun at every pit stop and turn.
will be sharing more when I have time to share.
Thank you Valerie and Michele for giving me this fun loving opportunity x
now, when are you going to join me?
never holds back
Thank you so much for your loving messages and prayers.
xxx
The Sweetness is six months old.
Papioca
(A photo taken on Easter with my niece Patti)
My mother is all about doing the best she can without complaining. Her faith is where she stands in anything that comes her way. Oh and she is the boss.
The fractured pelvis is only on one side. My mother isn’t in pain if she stays still, she can sit. The doctor said she can go to rehab so hopefully it will be nearby.
My brothers and sisters (in law) and family are rallying around her and my moms spirit is good. My family said she was saying funny one liners… she is witty.
Thank you so much for your caring messages and felt prayers. I am grateful for this community which is you xxx
Tomorrow I lead a group of 13 women with Red Shed Tours for a week. Then depending where my mom is I might go home.
I hope you and yours are well.
Thank you ❤️
Gabriel said to his mother that he wanted to see the Easter bunny. Chelsea told him that the Easter bunny was very shy and afraid and that he like to come for the children are asleep.
Gabriel responded, “ I am very sweet. The Easter bunny doesn’t need to be afraid of me. »
In France, when the church bells ring on Easter morning they ring outchocolate eggs for the children. So instead of a bunny the French have bells.
Olivia’s first food
carrot purée.
—-
Photos sent to me as Olivia and Chelsea are still testing positive.
Symbolism of faith.
Yann drives me to the brocantes
everywhere
anywhere
early mornings until late in the evenings
AND
Carries my finds, my purchases to the car-
heavy
light
fragile
bizarre and fluffy.
My hunk of burning brocante love he is
Soon after Gabriel was born a beautiful handmade gift arrived.
Every single detail was created with perfection. The cards, the stationary, the
book with photos circled with lace and sweetness, a darling elephant... a
package of beauty, love, generosity and creativity.
Manuela Buisset created this treasure for Chelsea
weeks after Gabriel was born. It remains a treasure.
Made with vintage and antique textiles.
This divine book of photos that Manuela made using photos from my blog.
So unexpected, delightful and WOW what a gift.
My appreciation of this treasure continues.
How thoughtfully kind of you Manuela.
Thank you a hundred times over.
photos from Chelsea.
The place.
1800s
France
a blue velvet chair
The fitting
a change of clothes
from the Provençal countryside attire
to a blue silk smocked dress with a fine transparent trim.
Who?
A young girl
sitting by flowers from the garden.
First Day:
Gabriel had a fever and slept most of the time.
Didn't eat.
Second Day:
Gabriel had a dry cough, less fever, and still wasn't eating.
The third day:
Still not eating, no fever, and a dry cough.
Nevertheless, he was playing and seemed happier today.
Except, Chelsea has a scratchy throat and a dry cough.
She took a covid test it was negative. She will take another one tomorrow.
At last, my lost suitcase was found and returned to me.
8 days later.
🧳
—-
The correct pronunciation for Papillote is:
Pap - pee- Yacht
🍬
—-
War crimes?
War is a crime.
🕊
—-
My friend Gina is here. I haven’t seen her since 2019!
😊
—-
Gabriel has Covid. Thankfully he is feeling better and better.
I pray Chelsea and the baby do not catch it.
🤒
—-
I had a wonderful lunch at Table 7 in Cassis.
🍽
—-
For the first time, Yann is beating me in French checkers!
grrr
☹️
—-
This Sunday will be the first time I can vote in France as I have Dual Nationality.
🇫🇷 🇺🇸
—-
What is new with you?
Papillote is a French Christmas candy as popular as candy canes in the States. Though it doesn't look anything like a candy cane it is made of chocolate. You might think it is a bit odd that I am writing about a Christmas candy during Easter ... Though you will see my story doesn't have anything to do with Christmas except the name of the candy.
Since Martin and Chelsea did not want to reveal Olivia's name until she was born they called her, "Papillote" in the months leading up to her birth.
Gabriel understood this to mean Olivia had this name. From that moment on the name, "Papillote" has stuck with him.
When we arrived at my Mom's home Gabriel said his sister's name was, "Papillote".
My mother had a difficult time pronouncing "Papillote" so she asked Gabriel to teach her how to say it.
Gabriel would say, "Pap-pee-ought".
My mother tried and tried to pronounce it though she just couldn't get it right.
After the 100th time, my mother gave up and said,
"Okay, forget about it, I am going to call her, "Tapioca".
And she did.
The day went on with my mother singing and saying, "Tapioca" and Gabriel correcting her every time,
"No, Vavalinga it isn't "Tapioca", it is "Papillote".
But my mother shook her head adding, "I cannot pronounce it, so Tapioca it is."
By the end of the day, I don't know who said it first, the two names merged -
"Papioca"
and just like that, another nickname came to be.
Thank you Dixie for posting this!
It made me feel that I am not alone and crazy.
Do any of you relate to any or all of these?
My mother has a terrific memory. Utterly amazing. While I was at home she would give me a look that seemed to say,
”Again?”
Honestly, her memory and focus are rock solid.
Maybe sitting outside everyday without sunscreen is her secret.
Or not having a cell phone nor the internet.
Or her strong mindfulness to be a good person and do that right thing.
Or maybe it is because she has said the rosary everyday since she was a child.
Or/and that she sleeps solid 10 hours Every Night!!!!
…
all I can say is my mom is with it at 86… She is witty, fast humored, and has great positive comebacks. She would never leave her clothes in the dryer because she hangs them outside, and she arrives 30 minutes early because that is how it is done.
Thank you Dixie for posting this!
It made me feel that I am not alone and crazy.
Do any of you relate to any or all of these?
My mother has a terrific memory. Utterly amazing. While I was at home she would give me a look that seemed to say,
”Again?”
Honestly, her memory and focus are rock solid.
Maybe sitting outside everyday without sunscreen is her secret.
Or not having a cell phone nor the internet.
Or her strong mindfulness to be a good person and do that right thing.
Or maybe it is because she has said the rosary everyday since she was a child.
Or/and that she sleeps solid 10 hours Every Night!!!!
…
all I can say is my mom is with it at 86… She is witty, fast humored, and has great positive comebacks. She would never leave her clothes in the dryer because she hangs them outside, and she arrives 30 minutes early because that is how it is done.
Thank you, Nikki, for sharing part your family’s story.
Each of us has something to pass forward, to share, to give …
I read this above the other day on Instagram. Mirroring. Most of us do not know we are doing this for one another. We go about our days unaware of the true extent our impact can have on one another. Small gestures and words can have a butterfly effect. I see this in Gabriel, in children, how they read our non-verbal signs and messages, often without a filter.
Extend kindness, generosity, hope… all the things that give life.
The, “thank you”, “please”, “yes I will", “may I help”, "I am sorry".
Be the Christmas cactus, be the tee-shirt, be our best selves...
So after running around, and around the park
following Speed Racer on his pushbike.
I asked if he would like to lay down in the patch of daisies? Instantly, and quite surprisingly, he got off his pushbike and walked over
to the wild patch of daisies.
In my mind’s eye, I imagined he would take off his jacket, and his pink helmet while giving me one of his sweetest smiles.
Nope.
He laid down and covered his eyes due to the bright sun.
Which gave me thirty seconds to take a photo and a small break
from running behind him on his pushbike.
We made it.
An uneventful 20-hour door-to-door journey. The flight with the little ones was a breeze compared to the long lines and longer waits.
When we boarded the plane the host took our carry-ons to store underneath as there wasn’t room in the overhead bins. But she mixed up my tag with another carry-on. Hence, my carry-on is gone to some unknown person. I hope they will return it. Usually, U travel with only a carry-on so all my stuff is in limbo
--
We left sunny dry California tanned. In France, there is a late-season cold front...
We come home to snow.
We are packed with bittersweet feelings as we prepare to leave.
I hope the drive to San Francisco airport and the long flight this evening go as smoothly as it did when we came over.
My mom is going to feel the void. She has had a whole month cuddling the little sweeties, and she has always loved children.
Olivia has grown, Gabriel is speaking more English, I cannot wait to be with Yann, and Chelsea with Martin.
Here we go!
My Godmother Mary is an amazing woman,
her heart is golden, her bones ivory.
Her home is a sanctuary where darkness has no room.
When she embraces me I know the meaning of heaven on earth.
She is spiritual and earthly and downright an angel on earth.
Mary collects feelings, weaving them into soft spots.
Her ear is ready to listen far into the night.
When I am with her there is no other place I would rather be,
she captivates my imagination and makes me laugh.
She talks with lightness and depth in a way few can do.
Seldom does anyone leave her home empty-handed.
I leave with a car full not of things but of inspiration, and a spirit that soars.
A gift of many faucets.
If I could spend a million years with her I would never know boredom,
and I am not exaggerating. She is just too good to be true.
Honestly, every inch of my Godmother's house has a touch of Marie-Antoinette, Betty-Boop, and Martha Stewart stuck to it.
I went into her closet and just screamed! She had rows of vintage prom dresses, and hats to match. Talk about bling-bling.
So out of the ordinary.
Certainly, the day she was born
earth was a better place, heaven touched the ground and sang.
My Godmother shares abundantly, she doesn't know the word selfish, she puts everyone on a throne.
I haven't had tea in the same cup twice.
Mary finds her treasures at yard sales.
She told me she cannot leave anything behind, especially if it is chipped or cracked.
I believe Mary knows that being broken is being made whole.
One of Mary's creations.
Mary's beauty stems from caring for others.
She has a knack for unfolding people's pain and giving them a bundle of courage to carry on.
Mary has a healing touch, a graciousness that makes me want to be a better person.
____
This is the first time I have come home and haven't seen my Godmother as she has not been feeling well.
She didn't have the energy for a visit, even talking on the phone exhausted her. I pray she heals steadily and with ease.
I missed not being able to see her.
xxx
My cousin Judy made the best Nicoise salad I have ever had without anchovies and used smoked tuna.
Each savored bite was better than the first. I did not want it to end.
My cousin Judy has a way of doing things, everything actually, with charm and pizzazz, be it styling her home, creating a play area, cooking a meal, wrapping a gift, writing a letter... she is the artist of her daily life and everyone who meets her benefits from her generous heart.
Why I didn't take a photo of the salad, or her gorgeous table makes me shake my head. All I can say is I was in the moment and took it all in.
The salad started with lettuce freshly picked from her garden.
This was the recipe she used.
But it was her touch that certainly added the extra +++
Then to add to all the wonder she had this incredible smoked tuna!
Thank you Judy for spoiling my family and me.