Musical chairs? No, musical animals.

Winston:  I'm not kidding when I say "teacup" poodle.

While sons Seth and Pat are in France for a few weeks, Seth's dogs are staying with us.  Winston is a teacup poodle--about as small as a dog comes.  Seth adopted him from an old girlfriend when it appeared Jack and Winston were inseparable.  He adopts Milo's stuffed toys as soon as he arrives and challenges both Milo and Jack to attempt to separate him from what is temporarily his. He's sweet and docile with the humans in the pack.

Jack:  Ready for anything.

Jack is a Boston terrier--as terrier-like as any dog might want to be.  He's a pussycat with people, but with our pussycats, he's like a rabid rhinocerous.  When I water the garden, I have to keep him inside because any running water coming out of the end of a hose makes him crazy.  He figures the water is his to chew and try to chew it he does--in a way that is alternately hilarious and aggravating if you happen to be watering the garden--off limits to all the four-legged creatures.

Spike:  Wily beast.

While Jack and Winston are here, the cats go out in the morning and don't return until late at night when we say nighty-night to the dogs and cajole the cats to return to the hearth.  This evening, I called them both.  Max came in through the screen in the back door pretty quickly and I closed it behind him lest he decide to exit again.  Spike wasn't quite so accessible.  So first I tried to persuade him to come in by wandering around the front of the house in the dark without success.  Phil finally took a turn knocking against a can of tuna with a kitchen knife and promising a nice fishy meal. 

Milo and Max:  Ever buddies.

As Phil stood at the door with the tuna can, Max escaped through his legs.  As I approached to help, Milo took off.  So there we were out front in the dark persuading all three animals to return.  Max disappeared into the darkness.  Milo tried to herd Spike back toward the front door and Phil's fast action caught him in the neighbor's garden without actually trampling any precious flowers (though since it was pitch black out there, I can't be sure).  And because Phil held Spike in his arms, Milo trotted after him like the puppy dog he is.

I gave up on Max and had faith he would return--and return he did.  So now we're all back together until morning when the cats will return to the wild and Jack and Winston will emerge from their beds to protect us from our feline family

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Mothering

Mothering is life's most precious act.  There is no greater sacrifice and no greater joy.

My own mother was extraordinary.  She was the mother all the other kids thought was cool.  She was permissive and friendly--an adventurous and wonderful cook.  She was not judgmental and since she was the minister's wife, other parents overlooked her liberal attitude--or they presumed otherwise and had no idea.  I am grateful that she was my mother every single day.

When in France, I encountered an exhibit of paintings in Avignon's Musée du Petit Palais.  The paintings were from the Gothic to Renaissance periods (12th to 15th centuries).  These particular paintings have religious significance; however, more important to me on Mother's Day is the poignancy reflected in the faces of these women.  It's the joy of motherhood.

My children give me immeasurable pleasure.  Nothing else I have done in my life equals in value the experience of mothering my three sons--all of them charming, funny, creative, loving and bright.  I could not be more thankful.    

Sandro Botticelli

Adventures in the Southern Corners of France

Along the Mediterranean in Nice

 

 

 

Water wheel in l'Isle-sur-le-Sorgue

I invite you all to look at my recent book, Adventures in the Southern Corners of France.  Adventures chronicles the three months my husband and I spent traveling all across southern France in places we had been before and places completely new to us. 

Canal du Midi

We explored a tiny village in the Pyrénées where my brother-in-law's family had lived, a town in Provence formerly occupied by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, the pepper capital of France, a pre-Roman fortified settlement in Languedoc-Roussillon and more.








The book shares experiences from these discoveries with photos to entice readers to enjoy the same experiences.  I hope you enjoy the reading as much as I enjoyed revisiting the magical country of France.   

View to the Pyrenees

The Human Voice

In our churches, "Spirit of Life," by Carolyn McDade, has been popular since the mid-1960s.  It is a familiar song to me and others who have grown up in our denomination.  The melody is sweet and the message is compelling.

Spirit of Life, come unto me.
Sing in my heart all the stirrings of compassion.
Blow in the wind, rise in the sea;
Move in the hand, giving life the shape of justice.
Roots hold me close; wings set me free;
Spirit of life, come to me, come to me.

On Sunday, "Spirit of Life" was on the order of service.  It made me smile, remembering my youthful enthusiasm over singing--still for me an essential part of a Sunday service.  My father came to church with me to reconnect with familiar surroundings and familiar people.  When he was a young man, Dad had been encouraged to study voice.  Instead he chose the ministry where he met my mother--then the theological school choir director.  Over 20 years ago, Dad moved from his position of many years looking out from the pulpit to sitting among the congregation.  Now he is approaching his 96th birthday and is weaker of body and less sharp of mind.  His voice, however, does not age.

I enthusiastically joined in singing in earnest when Dad's voice became more and more a part of my consciousness.  I was overcome with emotion to hear him--even in his dotage--a voice as lovely as it ever was--true and precise and strong.  Unable to sing, I tried to gain control of my own voice, wiping my tears and hoping he didn't notice. 

This experience was a gift--a nod to the power of the voice and the human spirit.

The Nose Knows

As I brought the first spoonful of raspberries to my mouth, I was transported back to my grandparents' home in Calais, Maine.  My great aunt and I were the pickers so we had first dibs on the berries, which we ate guilt free with cream and sugar.  Yes, sugar.  And I still use sugar.  My husband accuses me of gilding the lily.  Oh well.

Whenever I catch a whiff of jet exhaust, it reminds me of stepping off the plane in Santiago, Chile, to start my Peace Corps stint.  That arrival in Santiago was over 40 years ago!

And lilacs--uncommon in California's central valley--conjure up images of an enormous bank of lilacs bordering the back of our property in Haverhill, Massachusetts.  I really can see them in my thoughts. 

Scents, odors, smells.  They are the most direct route to our memories.  The other senses--taste, touch, sight, hearing--these aid our memories.  But nothing is as acute as the sense of smell.  That same great aunt who was my co-picker of raspberries, beans, peas, tomatoes and pears had no sense of smell.  But she loved her food even so.  I am grateful to be able to enjoy what the world has to offer using the full spectrum of my olfactory senses.

Thank goodness for those memories.

A Note to Readers:  After too long, I am back on course.  Over the last several months, my blog has experienced some hiccoughs.  Photos have disappeared from prior posts and I am unlikely to take the time to replace them all and the appearance of the blog has been impossible to change.  Bear with me as I try to "crack the code" to make it better.  I will continue to post regularly, however, with or without successful changes.

Bah, humbug? Maybe not.

On the approach to Christmas, I usually suffer anxiety over gifting, confusion about who will be where and when and whether I am feeding throngs or a few, how clean the house really needs to be and other angst-laden planning.  This year, however, for some reason, I feel much less anxiety and much more general appreciation for what will be.  I am calmer about the next few weeks and feel thankful for whatever will transpire.

Father Christmas in St. Raphael, France

This year, Christmas will be new.  Our cat, Max, seems to be improved after a run-in with the vet's searing instrument, my sister is recovering after surgery, our father edges closer to 96, my sons are hale and contented, our health is good.  Somehow it just doesn't seem remotely plausible that I should do anything other than be thankful and enjoy these riches. 

The world is a scary place fraught with problems, hatred, ugliness and indescribable beauty and generosity of spirit.  I am privileged enough to live where I can hold some of that ugliness at bay and I can embrace the blessings in my life. 

Jack Frost is Eating my Lemons

Here in the Central Valley of California, winter is vastly different from what I enjoyed/endured in my early years.  In upstate New York, I remember when the temperature plummeted to 52 degrees below zero.  In Massachusetts, the snow fell and fell and fell.  And not so long ago here, winters gave us endless rain and fog.  In more recent years, winters have meant occasional rain—not nearly enough—and much less fog than previously and an occasional overnight freezing temperature.  This does not bode well for our reservoirs even though they are easier winters for us homosapiens to endure.

This early winter/late fall, we are expecting freezing weather and even a possibility of snow.  According to the local newspaper, The Sacramento Bee, there was a dusting of snow in 2002, 1996 and 1988 and significant snowfall in 1976.  I remember that 1976 snowfall when I lived in the San Francisco Bay area; and based on my youth in New England and New York, I would never have described it as “significant.”  Rather it was enough to roll up the tiniest snowman, make a snow angel and maybe fashion a few snowballs to throw for the dog to fetch.  And those were only possible if done immediately after the snow fell because it melted away in record time.

Tonight I am worried for my precious Meyer’s lemon tree that I've been coddling for several years as we’ve been told the temperature will fall below freezing.  After many years of a lemon-less tree, we finally have what can modestly be called a “crop”—nine lemons in all.  Lest Jack Frost consider the demise of my citrus treasures, all have been plucked from the scraggly tree.  I’ll not yield a single lemon to Jack Frost.