Driven to Overload

On my desk is an open book with my glasses in the open spine, my Kindle to which I just downloaded and began reading a new book, my France Eyewitness guide, a map of the south of France—both being used in the writing of my solo book, my garden journal, my notebook with heretofore unrealized marketing ideas, a folder from my paid part-time employment with a piece of work for one person and an article with which I will prepare something for another, my laptop, and my breakfast. 

I’m waiting for a call from my co-author with whom I’m working on a third book; and in an hour and a half I will pick up my father to spend the day with me.  Once he’s here, all the rest of this goes by the wayside except perhaps the open book.  That’s an English translation of a French book I’m reading with my friends, and since it’s a loan from a library in another state, I’m pressed to finish it before I have to send it back.  I will sit with my father for a little while now and again through the day to chat or just be together in between the lunch and dinner “performances” in the kitchen and at the table.  I expect six at the table for dinner.

I think this is overload.  It’s what I’ve always done.  Do I think it’s the right way to live?  Who cares?   It’s my way.  And it has afforded me a life full of love and laughter, adventure and challenges, risks and triumphs, failures and wisdom, friendships and good food. 

There’s a certain denial that comes with a life like mine.  Denial about our vulnerability, about my need for activity and my doggedness about cramming it all in.  I refuse to relinquish any thought to slowing down.   And the rest be damned!

Milo on Speed

One in the mouth, one on the run.

This is what it looks like when all you care about is a colorful plastic disc that flies through the air at the hand of the man who feeds you.  Milo is maniacal for his Frisbees.  In fact, in order to avoid any escape from us while on the road, we keep a few Frisbees in the trunk of the car.  He'll fall for that Frisbee chase in lieu of food, cats, other dogs, squirrels, fast-moving cars.  Anything. . .  We have successfully lured him away from danger on several occasions.

Bring on the next one!

Our back yard is large enough to really let the Frisbee fly, and Milo takes full advantage of it.  As small as he is, he sounds like a trotting horse across the ground.  Thump, thumpety, thump.  It’s louder than you think such a small animal could make.  And while he's running after the Frisbee on the fly, he won't give up on the one he has in his mouth.  Nothing gets him going like a flying plastic disc--or the promise of a flying plastic disc.

Some dogs are motivated by treats that emerge from crinkly plastic bags.  All Milo wants in life is a little love from his owners and that round plastic thing.  Thank goodness for such enticement in his otherwise not-so-thrilling days.  

Milo lives for Frisbees. 

Flea Market Watercolor

Above my desk sits a small watercolor that we bought in Vieux-Boucau, France.  It captures the sense of ancient stone buildings that are ubiquitous in France where every stone tells a story.  Everywhere you look, there’s a medieval chateau, 11^th-century cathedral, or Roman ruin.  This particular watercolor was purchased at a flea market. 

In this remote part of southwestern France, the forest of Landes along the Atlantic coast, towns are small but not ancient as they are in Provence or Alpes-Maritime or Paris. Most of the département was built on sand. And only since the mid-19^th century has that sand been stabilized enough to establish permanent towns with the planting of vast pine forests.  Those forests provide France with much of its pine, harvested and then replanted to maintain the stable land and provide a living for many of its residents. 

Vieux-Boucau is populated in the summer by tourists—mostly French, but British and others as well.  In the winter it's quiet and sleepy.  Flea markets are advertised on posts at the many roundabouts populating the route from town to town.  In the 20 kilometers between where we stayed in Moliets and the nearest large town, Hossegor, there are 19 roundabouts.  The low-tech social medium used here suffices.

This flea market was held on Sunday afternoon, the most common time for such events, in a community building far off the main route.  It was pocket-sized by comparison with the large antique markets in Anglet or Bordeaux and insignificant by comparison with the markets in Provence.  It was a homey affair.  Lots of used toys, games, children’s clothes.  We were unexpected visitors and heads turned in wonder as we wended our way through.  We wandered through the small piles of this and that and walked all the way to the end, which took all of about a minute and a half, and came upon a table littered with watercolors.  We greeted the artist and asked if we could look through them.  She invited us to peruse, and peruse we did.  This sweet little watercolor called out to me even if it might have taken her all of 20 minutes to complete.  A recessed stone window set into a deep stone wall, judging by the shadow created by the sun's rays, with only one aging shutter.  Of all the paintings we purchased, this one was mine. 

After much conversation about where something was painted, the merits of this one over that one, the difficulty in choosing them, we selected seven or eight—none of which cost more than four euros.  After making the sale, she asked, “Where are you from?”  I responded with “Etats-Unis (United States), California.”  She appeared dumfounded and asked, “What are you doing here?”  It was a bold question for a French person to be asking.  But the real question was, “why are you in this part of France instead of the more popular tourist destinations.” 

“We love France—all of France!” 

She and her neighboring salesperson returned a wide smile, a sign of both pride and pleasure.

When I sit at my desk, my eyes are drawn to this watercolor, which takes me back to the conversation, the rainy day, the feeling of satisfaction walking out of there with such treasures.  Since our return from France, not a day has passed without my thoughts meandering to the next trip.  The little ancient window keeps me focused and motivated.  

Je reviendrai.  I'll be back.

Hidey Holes

In our small 1950s California tract home, we have three bedrooms—all pretty small.  Two are occupied and one is used for storage—extra food, paper towels, bedding, suitcases, stacks of skateboards long unused.  It’s also where I have a desk.  Since returning from France, it has either been so cluttered I can’t sit at my desk or we’ve had guests who use the room for sleeping purposes.  Either way, it has been unavailable. 

Last week, I was finally able to return to my little space that I so enjoy.  Like so many writers who cannot do anything without their special paper or pen or music, it’s never as easy to write anywhere other than that hidey hole.  I am surrounded by photos of my family, a watercolor we bought in a remote French village in Landes, my printer, my stereo, my printer, and my dictionaries—French, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese and English.

Lest I believe, however, that just by virtue of returning to the desk would make me prolific, I know that I’ll still have to work at it.  And work I will.  Time to move on to books three and four.  And in the meantime, I expect to post more here. 

For those of you who feel the urge to create, I recommend that you find your own little hidey hole—or studio, garage, workshop, sewing room.  And just do it!

Volunteers

The edge of our back patio is littered with privet trees.  Mostly volunteers, they have grown in great profusion. 

The good things about them?  They're evergreen and provide lots of shade in the hot valley summers, somewhere in there there are a few hummingbird homes, they don't worry me during winter storms the way the Modesto ash and the elm trees that tower over the house front and back, and they don't take much care. 

Robin getting his berry brew

The bad things?  When they flower, there is yellow pollen dust that doesn't quit.  It's on the lawn furniture, the cars, the pavement, even the cats.  And when it berries, there is a party going on at least twice a day.  The tree is covered with birds--first robins and then cedar waxwings. 

They paint the patio.  They paint the cars.  Sometimes they paint the people (me, for example, when I'm walking from the house to the car).  And they paint in fashionable purple-black free-form blobs that splatter in such an artistic fashion as to be the envy of any Jackson Pollock wannabe. 

As much as I wish we lived in a berry-splatter-free world, there's something amusing and dependable about the evolution of the privet.  We welcome them because they're artistic harbingers of the spring to come, so we continue to live in harmony and look forward to the next profusion of pollen and berries. 

Heureux nouvelle année

After three months in France, we finally bid a bientôt (see you soon) to the richness of new discoveries, familiar places, often spectacular weather, extraordinary food, wonderful hospitality and challenging lingual communication.  The leaving is always hard when we really want to stay--while at the same time wanting to be reunited with family and friends.  It's a struggle between wanting to be with loved ones and loving to be in France.  

Naturally, it's good to be home despite the agony of international travel--rarely smooth.  There always seems to be some hiccup somewhere along the way.  This time, the pilot in London was involved in an automobile accident en route to Heathrow and a replacement delayed us for over two hours, so we missed our Seattle connection.  The airline people put us on a later flight on a different airline, so we arrived home before the next day dawned, and we were grateful.  Frankly, though, the inconvenience of travel is a small price to pay for the privilege of adventure and exploration.

Now that we're home, I appreciate the ease of life in America.  There's always an open supermarket somewhere.  One can buy gas at any time of day or night--somewhere.  I can cook in my own kitchen, sleep in my own bed, walk the dog and pet the cats.  I understand every single word that's spoken on the television.  And I can simply pick up the phone to talk to my friends and family.  

The sacrifice?  Both the price and quality of bread.  Meals in common, everyday restaurants that send us into ecstasy.  Drivers who pass only on the left, never run a red light, always stop for pedestrians, and, as mentioned in a previous blog, obey the speed limit.  Sights everywhere you look that take your breath away.

We've just welcomed in the year 2013.  And I wish you all a healthy, productive, adventurous year.  For me, as good as it is to be here, I miss France and will find continued adventure with my French language group of friends, the French Channel (Canal 5), and our enthusiastic planning for the next visit to France.