French la Vie

Longtime Dearest Friend

 

My friend Erika and I met when I was twenty-four years old and working for the Catholic Church in California. Erika was 14 years old. We became friends through youth ministry and, through the years, have remained very close. I rented a studio from her parents, and we lived together when her parents moved. When I moved to France, and after Erika completed her studies, she moved to Marseille to work as an au pair for a woman I knew. Erika is like a sister to me. The funny thing is I often told her I hoped to have a daughter like her. Chelsea shares similar qualities and personality.

It makes me believe we are sisters in spirit.

 

Yann, my mom, and my children adore Erika, and so do my grandchildren.

Sacha used to call her "Erikakaka."

Having a friend, a dear friend, and a lifelong friend is a cherished gift. Having someone who knows you, truly knows the depths of you, who sees you and still likes you is beyond measure love define.

 

 

"Oh, the comfort—the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person,

having neither to weigh thoughts,

nor measure words, but pouring them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together;

Knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them—keep what is worth keeping—

And with the breath of kindness, blow the rest away."

 

A Life for a Life (1859) Dinah Mulock Craik 1826–87

 

 

Sleeping Beauties

A safe, though very bumpy, flight home.

A few hours of sleep for them; most of the time, Gabriel was sleeping on me; when I returned from the bathroom, this was my view of Sleeping Beauties.

 

 

 

The Road Home

Far from the deserted country roads that are

lined in golden hues,

traced in grey, with blue herons standing solo

upon unplanted fields due to the lack of water,

we drove through long-needed rain and autumn chill,

windshield wipers wipe back and forth as my eyes hold back tears,

my mind wanders wide in that open space as it drops thoughts of nothingness as if I were emptying my pockets of collected wrappers, tissues, and receipts,

the streets of France wind their way into my childhood home, and funny; though the rhythms are different, they harmonize with the paths leading here.

Maybe after these many years, I have come into my skin.

 

 

 

 

The blur of one road to the focus of another.

The road leads to two homes.

One thing is at the core, the haunting truth we are growing older,

 The goodbyes are tugging at my roots in a way they haven't before.

Strangely, love seems to pour through every cell in everything around me.

Calling out to me to embrace the path and be thankful.

 

 

Soon We will be Venturing Home

 

 

Golden fields,

to the Golden Gate,

to the golden domes of Paris,

to my golden embrace.

 

Jenga 29 Levels

Have you ever played Jenga?

Sacha, Yann, Gabriel, my mom, and I played over and over again. Gabriel caught on quickly, my mom was a master, and we played as a team and not individually, which for our family is a feat as we were taught to be competitive by my mom who installed that in us. Remember she cheats at cards! She always played plays to win, lol, but seriously she does!

But the habit is breaking as teamwork is a good way to be.

 

Love Time

We have been with family at the wedding of our nephew Jack. The internet connection has been the only hiccup, so our time together has been flawless, though my blog posts appear when they want to and not when I post them. 

Olivia started walking while we stayed at our friend Janet's home. 

So much happiness jammed packed in a day, not by anything big, but simply being with those I love.

Of course, Olivia's first steps were big, as we were all there to witness the moment.

Photos by Chelsea and me.

Loved Shared: Jordan and Jack’s Wedding Day

 

“These are the hands of your best friend, young and strong and full of love for you, that are holding yours on your wedding day, as you promise to love each other today, tomorrow, and forever.

These are the hands that will work alongside yours, as together you build your future.

These are the hands that will passionately love you and cherish you through the years, and with the slightest touch, will comfort you like no other.

These are the hands that will hold you when fear or grief fills your mind.

These are the hands that will countless times wipe the tears from your eyes; tears of sorrow, and tears of joy.

These are the hands that will tenderly hold your children.

These are the hands that will help you to hold your family as one.

These are the hands that will give you strength when you need it.

And lastly, these are the hands that even when wrinkled and aged, will still be reaching for yours, still giving you the same unspoken tenderness with just a touch.”

Blessing of the Hands by Rev. Daniel L. Harris

This was the reading my nephew Jack and his lovely bride Jordan asked me to read at their wedding today.

 

A Tribute to my Cousin Julie

Today would have been my cousin's 65 birthday.

Julie was a few months older than me, she led the way into the new year, and I would catch up in February.

 

Julie was our "person" at our wedding, as we did not have standing witnesses.

 

She is Sacha's godmother, but we called her "Buddha Mere" as she didn't want to be called Godmother, as she said at the time she was agnostic.

 

She was one of our first guests in our studio in Paris:

 

Here are Julie's favorite French words:

Poubelle - Garbage can

Gendarmes - Police

Pamplemousse - Grapefruit 

Libellule - Dragonfly

 

 

We (Julie, my mother-in-law, Sacha, and I) were to go to Greece. We arrived at the airport and missed the plane because we were going to have a bite to eat. As I begged, argued, and tried to get the hostess to get us on the plane because it still had 50 minutes before taking off, Julie stood by me at the counter eating pizza UNFAZED. Later she said, "What was I thinking! We missed going to Greece!!"

All I could muster was, "You were eating Pizza!"

We laughed about that for years to come.

 

That blameful pizza, and it wasn’t that good.

 

 

We went to Egypt, where she paid a dollar for Chelsea and Sacha to ride camels. As they rode off with two guys we didn't know, I turned to Julie and said, "Maybe we should be concerned?" 

She shrugged, "Why?" 

"Well, they are 12 and 8 years old, with two guys we do not know, riding towards the horizon at a fast pace..."

 

"Oh, shit!"  she laughed with that worried kind of laughter.

 

 

Years later, we went to Marakesh when we arrived at Jemaa el Fnaa completely in awe through every sense: the smell, the sight, the music, the hecklers, the snake charmer, the fire eater, the food; we wandered. There, I realized Julie had a lousy sense of direction and needed a drink in a country without readily available alcohol. 

 

We illegally crawled through the underground in Paris, hours and miles through damp, weirdness, darkness, wild parties, and balancing on telephone wires with rubber boots, and trusted Yann's friend to get us out of there. Truly a mad experience that was amazing in that I wasn't afraid most likely because Julie was a nurse she and Yann saw adnveture as a healthy challenge were I saw it as the underbelly of what could happen if...

 

We sat on a church rooftop in Camargue, and Julie took beautiful photos of Chelsea and Sacha. She loved my children as if they were her own, and they loved Julie as if she was one of them. 

 

When I moved to Paris, she cared for my seven-year-old goldfish called "Sweetlips." My goldfish was so depressed that Julie called me so I could perk him up by putting the phone to his bowl. She said he jumped when he heard my voice. "What?" I exclaimed. "Who is exaggerating now?"

 

She constantly claimed I exaggerated, and I swore that recalling memories or sharing about something and stories needed that, or they were just words utter. We went round and round about it. Julie and her facts, me, and my imagination came together in a place called admiration.

 

Julie was a nurse, she was my go-to person wherever I wasn't feeling well. Being in France and not speaking the language well, Julie was my living "Google" she knew how to calm my fear and put me on the right path to healing. As a nurse, it seemed nothing razzled her, but within that sensitive soul,, she carried a tremendous amount of sadness. Watching people suffer is only for the brave and those with a steadiness of trust. Julie called the ambulance when she felt within her the signs of a stroke.

 

She hated Grey's Anatomy and loved Taylor Swift, and I liked Grey's Anatomy and thought One Direction boy "Harry" was better than her Taylor... all said to get her goat. 

"Taylor Swift's "Folklore" has off-the-chart lyrics, she is a genius at expressing depth. Have you listened to it? Her words are easy to relate to..." she went on and on about this album.

 

"Isn’t it just so pretty to think, all along, there was some invisible string tying you to me.”

 

When I arrived in SF (as Chelsea, Sacha, and I did as we always stayed with Julie the night or two before we headed back to Paris- Oh God, I dreaded lugging our six suitcases at 72 pounds each up her fifty straight up stairway!) Julie was downstairs helping us unload our luggage. She sang, "My Lady Lumps from Black Eyed Peas" I stared at her, "Are you talking about your butt or boobs in front of Chelsea and Sacha?" Just then, she started to slap her butt at the beat. Julie's love for popular music was beyond the scope. 

 

Julie made us music tapes, then CDs of music, and we were thrilled to receive them.

 

 

Fat Boy Slim https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ruAi4VBoBSM 

God, we danced a lot to that song!

 

"We've come a long, long way together 
Through the hard times and the good
I have to celebrate you, baby
I have to praise you like I should

"

We've come a long, long way together 
Through the hard times and the good
I have to celebrate you, baby
I have to praise you like I should

I have to praise you 
I have to praise you 
I have to praise you 
I have to praise you like I should

I have to praise you 
I have to praise you 
I have to praise you

We've come a long, long way together
Through the hard times and the good
I have to celebrate you, baby
I have to praise you like I should..."

 

So many fucking memories, bringing them up, tears well in my eyes. My earliest memories are from childhood when we would play under the Weeping Willow tree.

Today is your birthday, and I am celebrating you as I should.

---

Our best bicycle race from my childhood home to hers was five minutes flat out between my house and hers. But maybe I am exaggerating. But I am not. We were young and robust. 

 

In my mind’s eye, my cousin Julie and I are riding bicycles again on county road P.

We are about 13 years old.

The sky is blue,

 the  rice fields are waving that brilliant green,

our long brown hair wiping around our faces as the wind is at our backs …

we let go of the handlebars throwing our arms into the air,

we look at each other, laughing!

We let the wind take us home.

 

Missing you has become a new normal. Thankfully, I can still hear your easy laugh, hear your voice in songs you sent us, and feel your love caressing my face.

 

When someone we love leaves us 

Life around us shifts, and changes, leaving us with an empty space. 

A seed of their life roots slowly within us, in that inner space, often invisible, over time leading us to a relationship with our memory and usually a spiritual connection. There, the space is renewed, and the one we loved/love blooms.

 

How Time Flies

 

My five little nieces back in 2008 in their dress-up clothes, looking at one another, dreaming of romance in castles, and pretending they were grown-up... I told them I would tie a brick to the top of their heads to keep them pint size. They think I am kidding. Little do they know that if the brick idea worked, I would probably do it.

(How could this be 15 years ago, almost to the day!? The youngest is Kate. She will graduate next year from high school.)

 

                                                                                                   

                                                                                                                 

 

The fallen hair ribbon as she runs.

 

 

                                                            

Photos: My nieces this summer.

A Photo Stirs Memories

Going through a box of photos, I came across this one from the early 80s — my dad, my brothers, and a childhood friend. I sent it in a text to my brothers, and this is what they had to say about the photo:

“I remember that day riding motorcycles with those goofballs! On the way up, dad passed all of the other pickups. I remember looking over at the speedometer. It was at 100! Dean was driving an old yellow Chevy and was the hardest to pass. Marty taped a beer to his handlebar, and it sprayed all over when he opened it! Cussing was so cool to hear.

That was the day dad was photographed jumping that was later put on a t-shirt. 1983 or 4…” Brother Zane (50)

 

“It’s funny. I just told George (my brother’s son ) the story of that picture last week, hoping to see it again someday. It was a lot of fun; I rode with Dean up there in that yellow c10….” Brother Mark (58)

 

“Yeah, Rob Stinger took that photo, and I think there may be a version with him in it as well.  Classic Marty…always the smart dresser. He also wore willows high school purple football pants that day with dad's lace-up motorcycle boots. He made such an impression on Stinger.  He also tells the story of the beer tapped to the crossbar.  We cherished that day as it was the first and the last time that group ever rode as one. “ Brother Mat (60)

Indeed, my dad and my brother Marty would have something to say. Unfortunately, they are not here, but man, their memories live on.

I thank "Family love" for that.

 

 

Thanksgiving 2021

 

Thanksgiving 2021

---

Gathering in the kitchen

holding hands in a circle to give grace

We knew Thanksgiving would be different

my brother Marty wasn’t with us.

 

Each of us took an infamous turkey cookie

held it up like a communion wafer

Or some would say, a drink ready for a toast.

The cookie was part of our family’s tradition that Marty created.

silly, a childhood sneaky gesture, cherished,

and here we were about to continue without him

Reweaving his story into a new tradition-

biting their heads off in memory of him.

 

 

 

Thanksgiving

We miss you.

 

My Mother prepares the Thanksgiving meal.

Every year one of the traditional things that she makes are butter cookies that she cuts out with a red cookie cutter that is shaped like a turkey.

Setting the table she adds one of the turkey cut-out cookies to each of the plates.

—-

My brother Marty would traditionally sneak into the dining room and bite off the heads of each of the turkey cookies.

Crumbs and a headless, cookie-cut-out turkey...

Thanksgiving would begin with

my Mother moaning, "Marty!"

—-

 

This year... we miss you, we miss you, we miss you...

I am home in Willows, Sacha and his Italian Girlfriend are here too.

The last several months have softened inside of me. I feel I am coming back to myself. It has been quiet in my heart and mind which you probably have noticed in my lack of writing. 

The birth of Olivia has brought joy, and Gabriel is love divine...

I am thankful for the lessons of love, faith, and gratitude that my parents taught me. I am thankful for Yann who is the kindest man I know. I am grateful for my children, my health, and my home. I am thankful for you.

Happy Thanks giving.

 

 

Home

 

What speaks my mother's kitchen to me:

- The sugar bowl and spoon, the exact same one since forever, in the exact same place in the cupboard.

- The small old dust brooms laced on a rod for a kitchen curtain.

- The pull-out cutting board.

- The tin cup sitting on the counter that she drinks from everyday.

- The chocolate chips that are "hidden" in the dish towel drawer,

- and those perfectly pressed dish towels.

- Not a single good cutting knife.

- The kitchen faucet with a mind of its own.

- The junk drawer.

- The red checked cookbook.

- Constant children coming in and out,

•                                                                                                      and my mother's baking up a storm.

I am glad to come home to the love that surrounds every inch of my mom's home.

 

 

 

Rose's Love Letter

 

 

In a box at the flea market,
Dusty and forgotten,
Memories slept closely to one another while 
silently dreaming of another place and time.

 

 

 

Once cherished.

Placed carefully.

Peeked at when the heart ached, or feelings surged.

Those secrets, those cherished bits of papers, the letters from someone she held close.

Memories pinned on love.

 

 

 

 

 

Years ago, when I was around nineteen years old, I had the opportunity to care for an elderly woman who was housebound.

A beautiful woman who had a house stuffed with beautiful old things. Nevertheless, her curtains were closed and her stacks of fine dishes stored in the basement.

The summer I took care of her, her housekeeper went away for a three-month holiday, I entered a wonder world of someone's life that would have a grand effect on my sensitivities. As soon as I walked in Rose told me, while barely looking up from her soap opera, "I have my meals served on a tray right here in front of the TV. Here is my checkbook and car keys, buy whatever you want to make for my meals, charge it to my account."

I looked around at her lovely old home, "Why?"

She said, "Why, What?"

"Why take your meals in front of the TV?" I asked, "Your home is beautiful!"

She shrugged, "It is easier."

I frowned, "For you or for me?"

She sadly replied, "For you since I do not move very well."

As I was nineteen full of vinegar and honey I marched on with my desire to bring her home alive, "We will have lunch on the terrace. So you can use that walker... come on, I'll help you get up, let's give it a try."

Rose grump-ed, "Oh no! It is okay right here in front of the TV. I don't want to bother you."

"If you want lunch you will have to meet me on the terrace." With that, I turned and walked towards the kitchen to prepare the meal.

 

The kitchen! Had floor-to-ceiling cupboards, a breakfast nook, and a basement FULL OF LOVELY THINGS! I ran out to the living room, nearly hyperventilating with excitement, "Rose, Oh my God, your home is a treasure box! We will have breakfast tomorrow in the breakfast nook, lunch every day outside in the garden by your roses, or on the terrace, and dinner in the dining room. Can I use any of the dishes you have? And the linens can I use them? And the teacups too? Can we have tea too? And, why do you have the curtains closed?"

I am afraid Rose didn't know what to do with a girl like me.

She moaned though I saw her hidden smile, "Use whatever you like. The curtains are closed because the windows are dirty,

and I don't want to move to eat my lunch."

"I'll wash the windows," I threw the curtains opened, "And we are NOT eating in front of the TV even if I have to drag you

to the dining room to prevent it, or throw the TV out."

Rose's eyes opened wide. Then she laughed out loud.

 

 

 

 

 

I drove her car.

Went to the grocery store every day.

Bought delicious treats, and made meals for Queen Rose.

We became fast friends.

She wrote poetry.

Her cupboards were delighted my brocante heart.

Tea was served in sweet teacups.

Meals on different china plates each day.

I stuffed the sugar bowls with sugar cubes, and the cookie jars with my mother's cookies, and her silver trays with cakes, flowers in vases, and lace clothes on all the tables and trays.

Rose sparkled, so did the windows... and her garden provided flowers galore for every inch of her home.

I loved every day with Rose. Her home was a wonderland.

 

 

Rose was a storyteller. She had lived a beautiful life yet was left crippled by an infected mosquito that left her tongue hanging out which made it difficult for her to talk... though once she got to know you she never let your ears grow cold.

One day she told me she had a secret love letter from a boyfriend who had died.

"I never could throw them away." She said, then continued, "If you go to bedroom, in the closet, there is a trunk, in the trunk there is a box...

can you bring it to me?"

I sprang to my feet with excitement and raced myself to the hidden love letter.

In the trunk, there was the letter.

Love poured out as she held it in her hands, "I haven't held it in years." she cried.

...

There are some things that tell a story better than words. Rose did not have to tell me why, who, how, or when

her tears spoke the volume that only a heart can hear.

           And so it was that I put the letter back in the box, back in the truck in the closet of her bedroom.

 

Fast forward ten years later, on my wedding day, I went to visit Rose with my newlywed husband Yann.

A few months later I was in France when I received the news that Rose died.

The first thing I remembered was her love letter tucked away in her bedroom closet. I do not know if anyone knew about it.

 

In a box at a flea market,
Dusty and forgotten.
Memories sleep closely to one another while 
silently dreaming of another place and time.

 

 

In a box at the flea market,
Dusty and forgotten,
Memories slept closely to one another while 
silently dreaming of another place and time.

 

 

 

Once cherished.

Placed carefully.

Peeked at when the heart ached, or feelings surged.

Those secrets, those cherished bits of papers, the letters from someone she held close.

Memories pinned on love.

 

 

 

 

 

Years ago, when I was around nineteen years old, I had the opportunity to care for an elderly woman who was housebound.

A beautiful woman who had a house stuffed with beautiful old things. Nevertheless, her curtains were closed and her stacks of fine dishes stored in the basement.

The summer I took care of her, her housekeeper went away for a three-month holiday, I entered a wonder world of someone's life that would have a grand effect on my sensitivities. As soon as I walked in Rose told me, while barely looking up from her soap opera, "I have my meals served on a tray right here in front of the TV. Here is my checkbook and car keys, buy whatever you want to make for my meals, charge it to my account."

I looked around at her lovely old home, "Why?"

She said, "Why, What?"

"Why take your meals in front of the TV?" I asked, "Your home is beautiful!"

She shrugged, "It is easier."

I frowned, "For you or for me?"

She sadly replied, "For you since I do not move very well."

As I was nineteen full of vinegar and honey I marched on with my desire to bring her home alive, "We will have lunch on the terrace. So you can use that walker... come on, I'll help you get up, let's give it a try."

Rose grump-ed, "Oh no! It is okay right here in front of the TV. I don't want to bother you."

"If you want lunch you will have to meet me on the terrace." With that, I turned and walked towards the kitchen to prepare the meal.

 

The kitchen! Had floor-to-ceiling cupboards, a breakfast nook, and a basement FULL OF LOVELY THINGS! I ran out to the living room, nearly hyperventilating with excitement, "Rose, Oh my God, your home is a treasure box! We will have breakfast tomorrow in the breakfast nook, lunch every day outside in the garden by your roses, or on the terrace, and dinner in the dining room. Can I use any of the dishes you have? And the linens can I use them? And the teacups too? Can we have tea too? And, why do you have the curtains closed?"

I am afraid Rose didn't know what to do with a girl like me.

She moaned though I saw her hidden smile, "Use whatever you like. The curtains are closed because the windows are dirty,

and I don't want to move to eat my lunch."

"I'll wash the windows," I threw the curtains opened, "And we are NOT eating in front of the TV even if I have to drag you

to the dining room to prevent it, or throw the TV out."

Rose's eyes opened wide. Then she laughed out loud.

 

 

 

 

 

I drove her car.

Went to the grocery store every day.

Bought delicious treats, and made meals for Queen Rose.

We became fast friends.

She wrote poetry.

Her cupboards were delighted my brocante heart.

Tea was served in sweet teacups.

Meals on different china plates each day.

I stuffed the sugar bowls with sugar cubes, and the cookie jars with my mother's cookies, and her silver trays with cakes, flowers in vases, and lace clothes on all the tables and trays.

Rose sparkled, so did the windows... and her garden provided flowers galore for every inch of her home.

I loved every day with Rose. Her home was a wonderland.

 

 

Rose was a storyteller. She had lived a beautiful life yet was left crippled by an infected mosquito that left her tongue hanging out which made it difficult for her to talk... though once she got to know you she never let your ears grow cold.

One day she told me she had a secret love letter from a boyfriend who had died.

"I never could throw them away." She said, then continued, "If you go to bedroom, in the closet, there is a trunk, in the trunk there is a box...

can you bring it to me?"

I sprang to my feet with excitement and raced myself to the hidden love letter.

In the trunk, there was the letter.

Love poured out as she held it in her hands, "I haven't held it in years." she cried.

...

There are some things that tell a story better than words. Rose did not have to tell me why, who, how, or when

her tears spoke the volume that only a heart can hear.

           And so it was that I put the letter back in the box, back in the truck in the closet of her bedroom.

 

Fast forward ten years later, on my wedding day, I went to visit Rose with my newlywed husband Yann.

A few months later I was in France when I received the news that Rose died.

The first thing I remembered was her love letter tucked away in her bedroom closet. I do not know if anyone knew about it.

 

In a box at a flea market,
Dusty and forgotten.
Memories sleep closely to one another while 
silently dreaming of another place and time.

Long Distance Love

 

Saying goodbye to my family in California does not grow easier. How could it be? Instead of going down the rabbit hole of longing to have everyone I love in one place, the impossible dream. I remind myself how fortunate I am to have two worlds that I can call home and be grateful that I am able to travel back and forth, saying goodbye and living far away is not easy nor should it be. That is the bittersweet gift of long-distance love. Seeing my mom and sharing Gabriel with my family pulled every single heartstring at once. Instead of hearing that as a sad song, I am learning to move with the melody even if slowly.

Coming back to France after being home takes me a few days to put my roots back into the soil of where I am, I suppose the surrealness of travel, the changing hours plus being jet-lagged gives way to my sensitivities about family and living abroad.

Happiness does not change it is simply an adjustment period.

Walking around Paris, beautiful Paris, was a far cry from Willows

my home base of a different type of beauty. 

 

 

 

Gabriel was held nearly every minute of the day and somehow learned how to roll over and sit up.

What a lucky little person to be born into such goodness. He was smothered in love and rolled up in sugar. If he was edible there would not have been a single crumb of him left.

Such a good thing that he loved being passed around into one waiting arm after another.

 

-After a three-hour car trip to the airport,

-Arriving two hours before takeoff to go through customs,

-Sitting for nine hours plus on an airplane,

-Then going through customs again and taking a forty-five-minute taxi home.

-With a nine-hour time difference, we arrived in Paris safely, without a single tear or problem.

Of course, we held and played with Gabriel the entire way otherwise the narrative would have been vastly different, thankfully he slept more coming back then going over.

 

Sleep is on the agenda and letting my roots settle in.

 

 

The Story of Family

 

 

The history of my family started back before any of us were born, back before history was recorded, before ink and pen, somewhere amongst a woman's arms and a man's kiss, somewhere in the middle of a heart and soul.

My father's and my mother's parents came from the Azores, the islands off of Portugal.

 

 

 

 

The history of my family took place sailing across the ocean, traveling and working across the fields, buying farmland, and prayer. I never thought about it before, but the long row of fences that surround the fields remind me of rosaries dangled between my grandparents and parents hands. Pray they did.

Faith rooted them.

 

 

 

 

Wooden shoes.

A photo of my grandparent's barn framed from wood from their barn.

A bird's nest.

The morning hour.

Farm animals in a row.

Details of the entrance to my childhood home.

 

 

 

 

 

Family history:

One after another.

My oldest niece Patti.

Names use to tell us where we were from.

Patti is not a Portuguese name. Chelsea is not a French name.

Alfonso was the first name in the large book containing our family history dating back to the 1500s.

Had I known that would I have named our son Sacha Alfonso?

Probably not.

I do not think Martin nor Chelsea will either.

 

 

 

Fifteen years ago we went to the Azorian island that my family was from. 

The above photo of Sacha standing in front of the massive stone wall/fences that surrounded the fields.

My grandparents walked along those walls.

They did not know that their great-grandson would one day lean upon them as their grand-daughter took his photo.

 

 

 

Photos from several years ago:

 

Uncle Phil  (My Father's sister's husband) and his daughter my cousin Julie (Sacha's Godmother who read at Chelsea's wedding) and Aunt Ann (my dad's youngest sister) and her oldest daughter my cousin Judy.

 

 

 

Some of my nieces and nephew Gina, Patti, Kate, Marie, Molly, Maci and blessed is he among women: George.

 

 

 

 

 My brother's Mat wife Shelley and their daughter Marie.

 

Three of my four brothers.

 

 

 

My mother (the little blonde girl in the white dress) and her brothers, sisters, and her mother shucking corn.

 

My father, brothers, and my oldest niece and nephews (Chelsea and Sacha are part of this group).

 

 

 

My mom with the younger nieces and nephews

 

 

 

My baptism.

Father McGoldrick, my cousins-godparents, Craig and Mary, and my father standing on his tiptoes to catch the moment. My mother took the photo.

 

 

 

Family, you are where I am. 

Our history is within us, being watered by our thoughts, prayers, actions, our choices, our faith in one another,

Our lives and it will continue.

 

 

A Wonderful Day Spent

 

 

 

 

A Circle of Love

 

When Chelsea tried on the first of many wedding dresses, my mom asked her granddaughters, (my nieces and Chelsea's first cousins) to hold hands ans circle her in love. I felt a tradition was born in that moment.

 

...

 

Happy Thanks Giving!  Here is knowing that we have hundreds of reasons for which to be grateful, moments for mindfulness and a life needing us to be loving and kind. Thank you for reading my blog and your generous encouragement.

 

XXX

 

Wedding Dress Shopping

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Home, Family and Heart

 

 

 

We are in Willows back to the nest. Yann, Sacha, Chelsea, Martin and I.

The fire is burning, the cookies are being made, the motorcycles are going around and around, the children are in and out of my mother's home all the day, and I have been in bed sick. It seems every time I come home I catch a nasty cold. This one had me down for four days and we are staying ten days. Grr. Though I would rather have a cold here than back in my home alone. So even though I am disappointed by being ill I am happy, very happy to be with those I love and admire. 

 

Tomorrow, we plan to go look at wedding dresses! How fun will that be! My mom, my sisters-in-laws, my nieces, me and of course the bride to be. I cannot wait to share the experience. 

 

 

 

 

 

In the kitchen, the cookie makers were at it with my mother at the helm. Snickerdoodles and chocolate chips.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Baking up love. 

Getting Ready to Say Goodbye

 

Leaving is never easy. It is a fact that I cannot change no matter how many times I say goodbye. It is what it is. I am fortunate to be able to come as often as I do, and more so that I have a family to come to visit. This month I have seen nearly 100 people mostly family, and friends that feel like family. A small town offers that sort of community, I have seen more people in a month than I see in a year in France. That is a fact of having a BIG family, of growing up in a tight knit rural faithful community, there is always someone to see and someone to miss.

I have never known a day where I am not missing someone.

The intensity of loving and being loved, what a gift.

 

Bittersweet too.

 

 

 

 

 

My brother Zane's rice field by my Mother's home.

I am usually home when these fields are being harvested. 

This time I have seen them take root.

 

 

 

 

We took a drive on the dirt roads around the fields. The nieces were laying in the bed of the truck admiring the blue sky and taking a break from the heat wave that lasted two weeks.

While driving around the fields we searched the canal banks for wild blackberries. My Mom said next week they will be ripe, so blackberry pies will be on the menu. 

 

Memories of childhood flooding my heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Making cookies is a steadfast ritual at my Mom's house. The cookie can, as my Mom calls it, is rarely empty. The nieces and nephews have an excellent teacher in their Va (my Mom).

 

Later in the day... 

 

 

 

Shooting the bull.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sitting taking it all in

one delicious moment after another.

Maybe this time I won't cry when I say goodbye.

But I wouldn't bet on it.

 

The Pot of Gold

 

This time is different. This time coming back it doesn't feel like the other times. When I got off the plane I felt like I was home. The only thing missing were those I love that do not live next to me, and the landscape around my Mother's house.

Everything in Provence was familiar: Yann's embrace, the taste of wine, bread and cheese, the sounds, the colors, the light, our home, dishes, garden and bed.

 

The emotional experience of coming back gets heavier. It is what it is: Goodbyes are not enjoyable. In fact they suck.

 

 

  

 

 

The thing about being a child is (most likely) we see our parents grow older. 

There is a sting in seeing one cycle end and another begin. Whether the transition is happy or sad, letting go means just that... letting go.

The lump in my throat has a way of lumping every emotional moment in my life. You would think at 58 I would have a better grip! Separating past from present is easier said than done especially when they are similar... Saying goodbye is not high on my list of things I like to do.

In the past I shoved my feelings down below the bruise that constantly reminded me that I left my family to join Yann in France. Not because I did not want to be here, rather it was too hard to hold on to both at the same time. This time when I left my mom I cried for quite sometime while my brother Mark drove me to the airport. And when he dropped me off I started to bawl as he drove away. The airline hostess at the check-in desk asked if I needed to sit down? Or was there someone I could call? I just shook my head and gave her my ticket.

 

Years ago my parents and I decided that they could not bring me to the airport when I left Willows because it was too brutal on us. From that day on a relative, or friend dropped me off at the airport.

And so it was extra hard this time as my brother Mark was there, and he cries as easily as I do, which means we could end a drought if we wanted to.

 

 

 

Paint your life beautiful.

Paint it with the brush at hand.

Grab it, hold it, and paint.

Splatter, wide brush strokes, in intricate detail.

Paint with the colors that speak what is yours:

Blue, Green, Dark Grey, Framboise, Mauve, Noire and Gold.

 

 

 

 

Forgetting to be honest with my feelings.

Instead of saying what is true.

"I want to hold on to you. I miss very much."

and

"I am happy to be here with you in our home, my home, my life abroad."

Both are true at the same time.

I reach for the paint brush-- is that a rainbow after the storm?

A pot of gold with snickerdoodles, walnuts, brocante and our town's pizza.

 

Hairstory History

 

Several years ago my five younger nieces started cutting their beautiful thick hair, Molly had hers cut to chin level. As my hair was short at the time, and hadn't been long since my late twenties, I came up with a plan, a long hair contest. Each year when I came home we would see who had the longest hair.

Kate the youngest, nor Gina, nor I ever won either.

Usually Maci with her curly hair won, Marie and Molly won.

Now Molly's hair is soooooo long and thick it is amazing, none of us stand a chance.

 

 

 

Last year we decided to keep our hair long, but not to have contests. Most of us cut our hair to our shoulders or there of. That is long enough.

 

 

 

From left to right: Marie, Maci, Gina, Molly and Kate.

Patti and Chelsea are missing they are the oldest two in our family.

 

The following is the from 2012 when we started the contest:

 

My five youngest nieces and I have a standing contest to see whose hair is the longest each time I come home to visit.

Last March I was in third place. But since I am the oldest my hair doesn't seem to grow as fast, nor as long as theirs. I think I should have a handicap of five inches extra per six months. But they said no go.

The Longest Hair contest started over eighteen months ago when I noticed that my nieces were cutting their hair shorter and shorter. First to their shoulders and then to their chin...

I had to do something, you see long hair to means young and staying young is what I want my little nieces to be... forever young would be fine by me.

The Longest Hair contest took the scissor away and the race was on.

 

 

Maci, won again with her curly long hair.

I told her I heard a secret to keeping hair long and beautiful, when she asked me what I heard I told her, "Bubble gum, a big wad of it in your mouth when you go to bed."

She didn't fall for it.

 

 

 

Kate is the youngest and her hair color is what I want.

Notice she has chocolate on the tip of her nose. So cute.

Gina, Maci and Kate are sisters, they also have a brother named George.

 

 

 

 

 

We stood by the family barn while George took a photo of us. He counted, "One, Two..." and when he said three, without planning it that way, my youngest nephew Warren ran in front of the camera. Perfect timing! 

 

 

 

 

I think I might have the longest hair contest with my nephews instead. I think I could win that way. Though George had a trick up his sleeve. Long white hair?

 

 

 

 

Marie is my brother Mat's daughter. Her hair grew the most. It was on her shoulders less than a year ago. Marie told me her secret to long hair... horse shampoo. I tell you I thought my line about the bubble gum being a good one, she had me beat with horse shampoo secret.

 

 

 

Molly's hair was the shortest eighteen months ago. I think playing soccer has made her hair grow, she laughed at that idea. Warren is Molly's brother.

 

 

Hair Flip with glasses.

 

Teased.

 

 

Blow Dry.

 

 

Pop-tart!

 

 

Family Hair-itage!

 

 

My five youngest nieces and I have a standing contest to see whose hair is the longest each time I come home to visit.

Last March I was in third place. But since I am the oldest my hair doesn't seem to grow as fast, nor as long as theirs. I think I should have a handicap of five inches extra per six months. But they said no go.

The Longest Hair contest started over eighteen months ago when I noticed that my nieces were cutting their hair shorter and shorter. First to their shoulders and then to their chin...

I had to do something, you see long hair to means young and staying young is what I want my little nieces to be... forever young would be fine by me.

The Longest Hair contest took the scissor away and the race was on.

 

 

Maci, won again with her curly long hair.

I told her I heard a secret to keeping hair long and beautiful, when she asked me what I heard I told her, "Bubble gum, a big wad of it in your mouth when you go to bed."

She didn't fall for it.

 

 

 

Kate is the youngest and her hair color is what I want.

Notice she has chocolate on the tip of her nose. So cute.

Gina, Maci and Kate are sisters, they also have a brother named George.

 

 

 

 

 

We stood by the family barn while George took a photo of us. He counted, "One, Two..." and when he said three, without planning it that way, my youngest nephew Warren ran in front of the camera. Perfect timing! 

 

 

 

 

I think I might have the longest hair contest with my nephews instead. I think I could win that way. Though George had a trick up his sleeve. Long white hair?

 

 

 

 

Marie is my brother Mat's daughter. Her hair grew the most. It was on her shoulders less than a year ago. Marie told me her secret to long hair... horse shampoo. I tell you I thought my line about the bubble gum being a good one, she had me beat with horse shampoo secret.

 

 

 

Molly's hair was the shortest eighteen months ago. I think playing soccer has made her hair grow, she laughed at that idea. Warren is Molly's brother.

 

 

Hair Flip with glasses.

 

Teased.

 

 

Blow Dry.

 

 

Pop-tart!

 

 

Family Hair-itage!

 

The Canal Behind my Mother's Home

 

 

As the last rays streamed down creating a masterpiece on the still water of the canal I was was transfixed on how an ordinary canal running behind my mother's home became a work of art. The canal's dirt road, the fields in the background, the barns and sheds that dot the canal bank were transformed simply from nature's brush of golden hue.

 

 

 

The nearby eucalyptus scented the air, the branches gracefully bowing added to the scene. I was taking photo of my nieces their eyes deep pools called me in, "I know you. I love you. You are the tomorrows of many moons and stars."

 

 

 

Later as I was washing dishes, while my mom baked cookies I was carried away from the moment with thoughts about returning back to France. Making mental lists as my thoughts raced from one thing to another. The marbleize suds popped catching my attention, my mental list stopped. I looked over at my mom who was measuring butter, cinnamon and love into her mixing bowl. 

Be present to the moment.

Be present to now.

This is why you are here.

My heart swelled as I prayed I would become more mindful to the moment at hand.

 

 

 

The coming and going of youth and age, like the changing seasons crossing our stage, slowly transform before our eyes, and yet suddenly the recognition that something has passed, time has gone by, life's experiences have settled within the soul of who we are.

 

 

 

The sun sets highlighting the walnut tree by the chicken pen.

A crown appears on the end of the day.

What did I make of it? It gave me more than I gave back.

The fortunate moment at hand, while others for no other reason of their own live in turmoil (war, famine...) 

What do I make of this glorious gift of peace, harmony, love, family, meals, faith, comfort, water, land... the time to reflect without worry?

 

 

 

Is it enough?

All this because the sunset over the canal behind my mother's home.

 

The Older Seven

Chelsea posted this photo on her FB. The seven older nieces and nephews (of our American family) in order of age: Patti, Chelsea, Andy, Sacha, Sam Jack, and Joe. They met to share the evening Thanksgiving (except Sacha, who could not be here with them). It is a rare treat for them to be together, and soon the seven younger ones will find it as rare to be together. This getting older reminds me to grow younger, if only with the spirit in mind every moment I can.

Happy Thanksgiving

 

Potatoes are being mashed, turkey is being smoked, pies are ready, children are running around, beers and wine poured, mom is busy checking the last details of Thanksgiving lunch, while I quickly type this blog post before I get called into the kitchen to go scoop, slice, chop, serve... dine!

 

 

 

 

...and the heads are still on the turkey cookies!

 

 

 

 

Take a shovel, hang it on the wall to make a shelf, take a old rusty tin can for your bouquet of feathers, leaves, wheat...

Thanksgiving bouquet. 

 

 

My mother took a cylinder glass vase then added pomegranate seeds, mint, oranges and lemons then she put in a large glass ladle for water. My mom never misses an opportunity to make the things beautiful.

 

 

Happy Thanksgiving!

xoxo

 

 

Cracking Walnuts

 

Whenever we come home, whether it is Sacha, Chelsea or I we always crack and shell walnuts, and we are at it again. Three hours later several bags full.

 

 

Indian summer, or should I say summer going into late Fall.

Mr. Espresso cracked the walnuts and we shelled them.

When a handful cost 7 euros in France, we crack a couple pounds worth to take back with us.

 

 

 

 

Do you have a recipe using walnuts that you would like to share?

Pesto with walnuts is one of my favorite usage, or endive/roquefort/walnut tart... and you?

Heartland is Home

 

 

 

Home.

That is where my heart goes,

That is where I find my roots that hold me in place,

That is where the long road ends, where the green never seems less green.

Home is where my soul knows no bounds, and my arms never tire.

Home, that is where I am when I feel the distance between the

Here and now, don't have words nor need them.

Home is no longer an external place, rather it is within me. It rises from the core of my being, Like a spring that goes beyond space and time.

xoxo

I Can Smell the Cookies!

  

 

 

 

 

Summertime Memory: A Trail of Happiness

                       

 

Repost 2008

 

The boy who dreams the entire year long for summertime in Willows is happily living his dream. Yesterday he turned sixteen and his Cousin Curtis and Uncle Zane gave him a summer job cleaning their rice dryers. It is a classic dirty job of farming rice. One that many teenage boys on the farm do...the job consist of crawling under the large metal bins and cleaning out the dust and debris that has gathered after drying the rice. Sacha and his cousin had a taste of dirt yesterday. One bin down 20 more to go. It is a valuable birthday gift.

Since it was Sacha's birthday his cousin Sam offered his help. They put on my father's work clothes, it felt strange to see them in his wranglers, button-down work shirts, baseball caps and sporting his red hand-kerchiefs...the boys attire released a flood of memories in me: Will they be like him?

 

Oh how they were covered with dirt yet they sparkled proudly.

After the photo they asked me if they could run and jump into the ditch, to cool and clean off? "Why not, yeah sure go for it!" I said and then thought, what fun it is to be Huckleberry Finn.

................in a split second they turned, ran, kicked off their shoes, peeled off their socks and clothes and blazed a trail to the ditch.

 

 

 

                                      

 

 

                                       

 

 

                                      

 

 

At this point I wondered how far were they going to go... certainly they knew I was behind them, as was my mother.

 

 

                                     

 

 

                                     

 

 

                                      

 

 

                                     

 

 

                                      

 

 

The trail to happiness is having the freedom to be yourself dirt and all.

 

                       

 

Repost 2008

 

The boy who dreams the entire year long for summertime in Willows is happily living his dream. Yesterday he turned sixteen and his Cousin Curtis and Uncle Zane gave him a summer job cleaning their rice dryers. It is a classic dirty job of farming rice. One that many teenage boys on the farm do...the job consist of crawling under the large metal bins and cleaning out the dust and debris that has gathered after drying the rice. Sacha and his cousin had a taste of dirt yesterday. One bin down 20 more to go. It is a valuable birthday gift.

Since it was Sacha's birthday his cousin Sam offered his help. They put on my father's work clothes, it felt strange to see them in his wranglers, button-down work shirts, baseball caps and sporting his red hand-kerchiefs...the boys attire released a flood of memories in me: Will they be like him?

 

Oh how they were covered with dirt yet they sparkled proudly.

After the photo they asked me if they could run and jump into the ditch, to cool and clean off? "Why not, yeah sure go for it!" I said and then thought, what fun it is to be Huckleberry Finn.

................in a split second they turned, ran, kicked off their shoes, peeled off their socks and clothes and blazed a trail to the ditch.

 

 

 

                                      

 

 

                                       

 

 

                                      

 

 

At this point I wondered how far were they going to go... certainly they knew I was behind them, as was my mother.

 

 

                                     

 

 

                                     

 

 

                                      

 

 

                                     

 

 

                                      

 

 

The trail to happiness is having the freedom to be yourself dirt and all.

My Mother's Exercise Routine

The Last Supper or Breakfast

Going Home

 

 Going from home, one to the other.

Passing crops golden to a sea blue, following the long road while my thoughts unwind, divide, separate, gather, connect, holding me over space, time, through the goodbyes to the near future hello.

Twenty-two hours door to door.

The never-ending sky.

Changing light.

One heart beating, longing with a soft sadness, happy tears for everything, forever tucked close in my spirit's inner pocket.

I miss you already and ready to say hello.

Just to Remind Me...

Late Night Conversation Between Grandmother and Grandson

When Little Ones Grow Up

 

My niece Gina (16) came to pick me up at the airport.

Gulp.

Oh she is just a baby in my mind's eye, how can she be old enough to master a moving mass of metal going 65 mph?

Though considering the option of an older person (namely me) falling asleep at the wheel, the baby has the better score card.

I walked out of the airport and Gina pulled up perfect timing.

 

 

 

 

Colors of homeland raced by, trucks, faster cars, pick-ups too.

Gina kept her eyes on the grey pavement, I kept my non sleeping eyes on Gina in amazement, wonder and awe.

Where will you go little sweetheart with such bravery, willingness and confidence? Surely the road ahead is nothing to fear with you at the helm.

 

 

 

Hello Past, Present, Future.

The life cycle with its course, speed and goals.

 

 

Maci, Gina's sister was in the back.

Soon she will be picking me up.

Wonders of seeing little ones grow up.

Wonderful wonder.

 

 

Keep Calm and carry on.

House Guest the List of Perfection

 

Mari my friend created the perfect list of what to do for a guest room.

And I must admit "my room" was exactly that perfection!

A Perfect Blend of Mixing Old with the New

 

 

The gathering at Back Home in Austin went well. Mari, my friend and owner introduced me to the group before I spoke, she praised me to the point I thought I would turn red: So nice So sweet, I wish I could always be as good as she made me sound! After that introduction I wondered how I could possible say anything to match her generous loving introduction.

But I like to talk, especially when it comes to anything about France, antiques, culture, living, loving, creating...

 

 

 

Mari's beautiful shop is a fantastic mixture of old with new. A modern take on old style pieces, creating a blend that is hard to do, the admirable talent of perfecting style.

My photos with my i-phone do not do any justice, but better than none. You gotta go see for yourself.

 

 

 

 

 

Of course I wanted everything. The style the reproductions are amazing! Amazing. If only I could.

Back Home Living in Austin for more information follow this link:

http://www.backhomeliving.com/

Happiness is seeing and letting it pour through me absorbing what I can and letting it go forward in thanksgiving.

Thank you Mari

 

Speaking at Back Home in Austin

 

 

Will be speaking today
at Back Home
in Austin 
11 to 12:30
Aperitif following.

Country Home

When the Sunshines

Dressing up in the Target Dressing Home

Designing Dresses

Making Patterns with my Godmother Mary