Give peace a chance

I was sitting on the front porch drinking coffee. ‘5 Ernest Hemingway passages that every gentleman should know,’ Alex read from his phone. “Only gentlemen?” and I raised my eyebrows, already put off by the over-used, formulaic title. But I had taken the bait. See, the marketers do know their stuff. 

The first was a banal everyday scene set in Paris, which for some enables any prose to transcend the ordinary without undue effort. 

The fifth passage was from ‘The Old Man and the Sea.’ 

Then, while the old man was clearing the lines and preparing the harpoon, the male fish jumped high into the air beside the boat to see where the female was and then went down deep, his lavender wings, that were his pectoral fins, spread wide and all his wide lavender stripes showing. He was beautiful, the old man remembered, and he had stayed. 

At that moment, a cockatoo flew towards us, its wings wide like the spread fins of the male fish. Not striped lavender; pure white. The bird landed on our fountain, slurped, cocked his head and grinned. I’m sure it was a grin. It looked for all the world like he was seeking praise. “Ok. You’re clever,” I acquiesced as I turned my gaze coyly, alighting on a geranium standing tall. I had worked the ground in that spot yesterday, denying the sprawling lavender its unfettered claim, and clearing a space for the hedge it was using for support to push through.

The open face of the lushly red geranium was looking straight at the cockatoo. 

“I can’t fly but I have strong roots and, if you stay by my side, I can stand my ground.” 

 Could it be that nature was sending me soothing messages after my disturbed dreams last night?

Please world, give peace a chance.

Links to purchase digital copies of 'But you are in France, Madame' and 'Weaving a French Life: An Australian Story'.

It's ok, Mum. I've got this.

Ready for adventure. Noah, age 6, on our way to France

On this day, nine years ago, we put our French life on hold for what we thought would be a couple of years and flew back to Australia. My little boy was little and my three children all still at school. In a few days time that will change. The littlest, Noah, is no longer little and, like his two sisters, neither will he be living at home. 

I know that at this juncture of family life all parents have to say something of a good-bye, and perhaps the emotions of one's last child to leave home is different...more raw, strangely physical. But, Noah is champing at the bit to discover what life has in store for him and it is with pride that I will watch him go. 

He is a dreamer who sees himself sailing the seas, wandering barefoot, playing his guitar campside, exploring the depths of the ocean (with his brand new SCUBA certificate en poche), wearing his Indiana Jones hat (passed down from his father) under the scorching daytime sun of distant archeological digs and debating the mysteries of time and space - in English, in French or in any language born of mutual comprehension - at night. 

Another family member that will miss him

My son, I know that you will be kind, loving and generous whilst living your adventures. 

Ah yes, I see that smile in your eyes and hear the rising chortle that precedes your quip in response. And, in translation, I know that it is saying, "It's ok, Mum. I've got this." 

Cold, wind-blown, but special walk in the mountains

"You can't live in that" and straying from the best path

My husband was away so there was no calling out for help. Not that it would have made a scrap of difference if he had been within cooee*. We were stuck in traffic with ten kilometres to go. That doesn't sound like a lot and on any normal day it wouldn't be, but it was no ordinary day. This final year of secondary school for my son Noah has required him to navigate a labyrinth of challenges and yesterday was his penultimate exam in his favourite subject, physics, (no, not French); the one to which he had strategically devoted the maximum amount of study time.

I had already dropped one child at the bus stop and, given that it was pouring with rain, had seen firsthand that the roads were clogged. Ten minutes later, Noah and I were in the car en route to his physics exam with a theoretical good hour up our sleeves. A cheery 'hello' wave to my neighbour and we were off.

We didn't even make it out of our street before there was a build up of traffic. I made a quick decision to vary our usual trajet ... straight into roadworks, onto a mind-numbingly slow 30 kilometre-per-hour school zone, and into three lanes of traffic at a complete standstill.

"Look at the flag on the hill. Shows how strong the wind is," said Noah, oblivious to my rising stress level.

Five minutes crawled along with us a few metres up the road. 

I was desperate to not communicate my anxiety, but wringing my hands and rubbing my eyes (to wipe away the unchanging scene?) was no doubt a less-than-ideal way to do that. 

The strange thing is I had guessed that something would go wrong on this particularly important day for my son. After all, nothing else has gone right this year for him.

But, let me tell you about another mistake that I made. I laugh now but at the time the only thing I could think to do was to hit the 'leave group' button...quickly.

You see, the best place to advertise one of my dresses for sale was not to the FB group 'Rent your maison long term in France'.

"Ha ha. You can't live in that..." and probably worse, but I didn't wait around to read the rest of the comments.

Oh well, today I am sitting in my garage holding a vide-grenier. So far, I've 'sold' one item (for free) to my daughter and it is the curtain of rain that is keeping me company. And, I forgot to post about my Amazon Countdown promotion, yesterday, which would have given readers a chance to purchase 'But you are in France, Madame' for a scant .99c. 

At least, I have nowhere to be, I have a soundtrack to my writing and a hot cup of coffee beside me. 

It's the small things. 

And the big things. 

I did get Noah to his exam on time, kissed him 'goodbye,' wished him good luck, saw him walk around the corner and burst into tears. 

*Australian vernacular - nearby

Gloves off since writing Book Two.

A year ago today, I started writing my second book. 17 days later it was done. I know that this number is accurate because I still have the dog-eared piece of recycled paper on which I recorded my word count at the time. It has been gathering dust on my desk - my non-efficient filing system for family papers - since then, only re-surfacing last weekend as I tried to maintain momentum and motivation for packing to move to the mountains. That task in itself is huge but it has been confounded significantly by a lockdown of indeterminate length. Morale is pretty low plus our plan to save money by ferrying car loads of possessions between our current and new homes over a period of time may not be possible and we may be up for a quick but expensive removalist job at the last minute instead.

I've had to be strict with my sorting. Whilst I am happy to give away or recycle clothing, kitchen items, furniture ... most things, in fact ... my French teaching resources and the children's mementoes are a different matter. 

So why is a pair of old beige school gloves still sitting on my desk?

They are too small for me, they would not keep my hands warm in my French mountain village, they have my surname and an out-of-date phone number in big black pen on the inside cuff ... and fashionable, they never were. But, here is the pièce de résistance, a no-longer-elastic length of tape links the mitts. It was ingenious really. Thanks to my mother's careful sewing, threading one glove through a sleeve, across the back of a coat and out through the other sleeve, meant that the chances of primary school-aged Catherine losing one or both gloves was magically minimised. Maximised, on the other hand, was the embarrassment. Kids are not shy to point out differences.

My Cray-pas set, too, is sitting on the kitchen bench. A long-but-nowhere-near-as-long-as-a-French-school-stationery list asked for crayons many moons ago, and my birthday is the 10th February. This date coincides perfectly with the start of the school year in Australia. Again, genius parent idea: why not combine the two? The crayons became the present. But so treasured were they, I still have them. I dared not use them, for fear of not being able to use them. (Financial constraints are rarely logical.)

But, if you will indulge me, my writing... let's go back to that.

I know that I didn't know where I was going when I started writing in earnest again a year ago. I didn't have a must-get-through daily word count. I also did not have a pre-determined routine, although as each day went by, my self-imposed, unacknowledged pressure grew. Faster, more, longer. Sounds like a timely Olympic slogan, doesn't it? You know, the cutesy clichés about being a legend, becoming a legend, just starting...all in bold calligraphic lettering and able to be ordered as mounted wall prints for $40 or more. 

I am not intentionally misleading you when I say that 17 days was all it took. Draft one was a wrap in that short time. Passes 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 ... editing, the cover design, the printing, getting it ready for public consumption took a whole lot more. And there were days when I genuinely did not know where I was going with my story. The knowledge that I had been able to get there once (Book One) kept me going. I allowed myself to trust in the process.

This year, it is different. I rarely write, and finding optimism, even that based on past successes, is so much harder. In a strange way, this is where the gloves come in. Obtusely, although stretched, unfashionable and colourless, they remind me strongly and positively of the person that I once was. Shy but competitive. Intimidated but confident. Not always top of the class but intelligent. I felt that I could go places. Yeah. They are good to have around. Once again, I need to trust. 

PS I hope that you are all doing ok and thank you in advance for your messages and purchases.

PPS Links to purchase digital copies of 'But you are in France, Madame' and 'Weaving a French Life: An Australian Story'.

Announcing ...

... our return to the mountains.

Secretly, I had hoped that I might be letting you know that a new book, 'But you are in Italy, Signora' was on the go, being shared as I was writing it from a heart-pumping Tuscan village where I could put into practice my flamboyant language skills, dive deeply into my husband's Italian ancestry and eat. Yep, that would be a big part of each day.

But, no. 

For reasons that need no explanation, I am still in Australia. 

Yet, I have serious and constant wanderlust and an ever-present need to find my next adventure. With our youngest finishing school this year, my husband and I have decided on a path forward and plumped for a return to the mountains. Not our French mountains, hélas, but the beautiful Blue Mountains, a short drive from Sydney. 

Cottage

I have dropped a few hints in recent Instagram posts but it is now officially shareable news and already I have felt closer to our French mountain lifestyle than I have in a long time. It is not just the altitude (we are at > 800m here), neither is it the low, low current daily temperatures, but the snow yesterday helped get me there. Waking and seeing it falling was not enough. A play in it was in order. I bundled up as warmly as I could, shoved my gloveless hands deep into my pockets, licked the snow from my lips as it settled momentarily and felt French again. It was chilly and I rued my hatless state (my beanies are all in France) but felt alive, energised, happy, purposeful. 

              

I can't wait to find my new mountain crew and the cottage at our new home might help facilitate this. Perhaps it will lead me to a new venture? Le Français à table (French classes over coffee) has a good ring to it. Or, a cosy space to welcome guests on an Air BnB basis (there is a double bedroom in the cottage)? Could I set up a time-out venue for writer's retreats (or other such get-togethers/conferences)? ... I'm not yet sure. 

What do you think?

I have been told that is not easy to leave comments on this blog, so drop me a line instead at cb222@me.com. Or, if you are in the mountains, I'd love you to reach out.

PS My writing journey has led me to many beautiful souls. If you have not yet had a chance to read my second memoir 'Weaving a French Life: An Australian story,' it would give me so much pleasure if you could do so through the affiliate links to Kristi and Mardi below. They take a couple more clicks to get to where you want to go, but they cost you nothing. Merci.

For print copies: Head to Kristi's blog at French Word-A-Day and scroll down until you see my book in her list of recommended reading on the RHS of the page. 

For digital copies: Head to Mardi's blog at eat. live. travel.write and scroll down until you hit the purchase link in her review.

Or, if you have not yet read 'But you are in France, Madame,' the first of my memoirs. Here is a universal link, which should take you to your current geographic location for easy purchase. 

Merci et à bientôt.