France!

If it's Tuesday, this must be ... Montpellier. Debby and I are slowly emerging from jet lag, or maybe we're still in it, hard to say. We're "out of it" enough to wonder what day it is but "with it" enough to enjoy our adventure. Despite having traveled 24+ hours, we grabbed for the gusto in today. Montpellier is bright and vibrant, and both modern and quaint.

This morning we opened our hotel room windows to see the bustling organic produce market just outside under les arceaux.  We bought juicy dried (not an oxymoron in this case) fruits and nuts, some apricot nectar, chevre, and fresh pears. Vendors were extremely friendly and helpful. After sitting for coffee for Debby and tea for me outside a cafe booth in the market, we ran up our two flights of stairs to our room to enjoy some of our purchases for breakfast. They will also serve as dinner tonight and breakfast Wednesday.

Then we hoofed it back into the historic district to meet Francoise. We followed les arceaux east to the promenade de Peyrou, which is a long, tree-lined path, to an arc de triomphe, and then further east along Rue de la Loge, a main street lined with shops. Every few shops, cobblestone alleys branch off to the sides. Some have other tiny shops, some cafe tables, some not much at all. Most wind around and eventually open onto a place, an open area with cafe tables and sometimes musicians. This morning, however, we headed straight for Place de la Comedie, where we met Francoise near the steps of the Opera. First order of business: relax at Cafe Le Riche (dating to the 1890s)  for an iced tea.

After a frustrating you-can't-get-there-from-here session at the tourist office where Francoise determined it's highly questionable whether we'll be able to canoe tomorrow, we explored more of the Montpellier maze and had a delightful lunch outside Toast' Tea Cafe in the shadow of Eglise St. Roch, which had a lovely rosette window. We went in some book stores and dress shops. And we hit Ortholan ~ twice. It's a guess what? Pastry shop that sells macarons and breads, including Debby's croissant and praline macaron for tomorrow's breakfast and my mint and apricot macarons for who knows when ~ maybe dessert after my canned tuna tonight. I liked this photo in Ortholan.

Bright Sides of Dark Clouds

Rain, rain, and more rain. For months. Right now, I am so sick of frizzy hair, I am ready to cut most of it off. And that’s a good thing, because unwelcome, unwieldy volume up top has provided clear impetus for me to get a fresh, new hairstyle, something I’m normally tortuously slow to decide. It’s either a new do SOON, or I remove all the mirrors in the house. For the first time in six decades, I actually bought a hairstyle magazine and plan to experiment a bit.

Another upside of all the rain is that our gardens are getting watered without our having to stand out in sweltering humidity with a hose. My herbs are doing especially well, which has prompted me to dry and mix my own herbes de Provence. This is exciting, because I am not a fan of rosemary. Oh, the taste is okay, but the mouth feel, even when rosemary is chopped fine, is like chewing pine needles. Have you ever tried buying a commercial herbes de Provence blend without rosemary? If you find one, please let me know the brand. In the meantime, I’m concocting my own blend. This morning I sniffed what I’ve got so far. The lively, lovely fragrance transported me to an outdoor café in Fontaine de Vaucluse when I got my first whiff of a salade Niçoise.

Months of rain—and weeks of 90+ temps with humidity that might as well be rain—have inspired yet another benefit. What’s the coolest spot in the house? The basement. And we’re cleaning it. Whoohoo!

Rain, rain, don’t go away until I’ve finished finding silver linings!

Tune-Up Tunes

Time for my biennial massage. Friends have recommended monthly muscle tune-ups, but it’s taken me 20 years to work my massage frequency up to once every two years, so monthly is probably a ways off. I show up at the local chain spa today, make my way through the brassy manicure, pedicure, and hair styling hubbub, open the magic door made of crystal pebbles, and tiptoe into the sacred sanctuary of satisfied sighs.

Two can lights are about as bright as one dying firefly, and I squint my way to an ottoman (what, they can’t even afford chairs?) to await my appointed time. Tibetan flutes trill to attract nearby mountain goats, I suppose, since I can’t imagine them attracting anything else, especially me. Who decided mountain goat music is conducive to relaxing? To take my mind off goats, I pick up a coffee table book on dream vacations. Despite the dim lighting, I manage to view a photo of Monet’s lush garden at Giverny and a few other appealing destinations. I flip quickly past any pages trying to lure me to the Himalayas.

Finally, my massage therapist rescues me and ushers me into a private massage room, where thankfully, different music plays. She explains the myriad ways she can tailor the massage to my needs using all their new techniques, which oh by the way, cost more. I wish she would tailor the music to my tastes, but I do not pipe up about this. Spa music is annoyingly bland, more like miscellaneous single tones than beautifully blended notes.

Perhaps today’s audio wallpaper is designed to empty clients’ minds. But I want to empty out the worries AND imagine pleasant scenes as I relax. So I do, despite uninspiring music. One quasi-orchestral “tune” takes me to an ornate white carriage ride through cobblestone streets of Vienna. A series of plinking sounds then transports me to a Cambodian rice paddy, where I stroll barefoot, watery soil burbling between my toes. Harp strums lift me to a puffy white cloud, where I float above a color riot of flowers. A few more such forays into fantasy, and my time is up. 

Sorry my wonderful muscle-tuning time is over, I am also glad to escape before any snake-charming music comes on. Snakes and mountain goats—not my things, in life or in music. As I pay on my way out, I hear another client ask the spa cashier, “Can you put glitter in my hair?” Hmmm. What would the audio backdrop be for that service—fireworks whooshes, sizzles, and booms?

Seeing the End

You’ve donned a sweater most days for two weeks, and then weathermen predict one day in the 80s. Don’t you long for one last picnic before winter? After you’ve made the hard decision to part with a favorite dress you haven’t worn (Why? It is so cute!) in two years, don’t you consider wearing it one last time before putting the box out for Salvation Army pickup? As the library due date nears, and you finish a novel you enjoyed, don’t you page back to reread the parts that made you laugh out loud? Driving away from your vacation cottage, you call out, “Bye, cottage! Bye, lake! Bye, kayak rental place! Bye, lighthouse! Bye, ice cream shop!” Don’t you? I do. I know I will miss these things.

Recently, I visited my 91-year-old mother on my “regular” day despite my raging headache. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have wanted to not disappoint her more than I wanted to be a safe driver. The pain was borderline blinding; and a simple phone call could have absolved me of my promise to visit. Mom is a reasonable, caring woman. I knew this. But the damage was done—I had driven 20 miles to her house and now faced another such drive to get home. But if I had done the smart thing and stayed home, I would have missed a big blessing.

Mom asked me if I wanted her to massage my head. Everything in me said no, because I am the one who has to be strong now. Plus, one of her hands is bandaged; she shouldn’t be applying pressure with her fingers. But then I remembered that when I was sick as a little girl, I just wanted my mom. I wanted her to lie me down on the couch and tuck the blue afghan under my chin. That afghan was such scratchy wool, it may as well have been woven of porcupine needles, but it felt light and soft to me, because it represented my mother’s caring touch. I remembered her hands tipping a water glass toward my lips and smoothing a cool washcloth on my forehead. And I remembered my mom’s saying when she was sick as an older adult, she still just wanted her mom. I remembered I wouldn’t have many more offers like the one my mother had just made. I said yes.

No blue afghan this time, I laid on the couch with my head on my mother’s lap. Her middle fingers made small, gentle circles on my temples. Using all her fingers, she feathered my forehead. I needn’t have worried about her applying too much pressure with the bandaged hand; I knew then, those arthritic fingers were no longer capable of standard massage. With all fingers barely touching my scalp, she combed my hair. I fell asleep. But not before we’d reminisced about the 1960s and ’70s when she’d had migraines and my two sisters and I had massaged her head. And we laughed remembering how sometimes the four of us would all lie on our left sides on her and Dad’s big bed and scratch the back of the girl in front of us. Then we’d switch to our right sides. Dad and our brother could never understand how good this assembly-line back scratching felt.

It was a sweet half-hour or so. Made sweeter by seeing the end and setting aside my stupid pride long enough to admit I just wanted my mom.

Father to the Fatherless

When I read in Psalm 68 that God is father to the fatherless, I think of children of single moms, or of friends whose fathers have passed away. Oh, I have thought of myself as a beneficiary of this wonderful fact, certainly, but more in the context of God’s being a perfect father, compared with my imperfect earthly father. Today is the first Father’s Day I’ve thought of myself as “fatherless,” and it feels odd, as though I’m wearing someone else’s name tag. 

Last June Dad understood the celebration. Today, although he was happy to receive gifts, he had no idea why we gave them to him. He made no comments about them. He recognized the cookies and candy; he didn’t recognize the jigsaw puzzles. He asked Mom to read our cards to him, but he didn’t assimilate the compliments. Mom had given him an ID bracelet so that he’d have something of his own in the nursing home. He liked the bracelet but didn’t recognize his name engraved on it.

Dad’s protection, provision, companionship, and guidance throughout my life are now all in a closed attic trunk of memories. This trunk is not yet locked or dusty; I still reach in and feel the warmth of those daddy memories that embraced and shaped me. An open trunk where current and future paternal experiences go will, however, contain none of these precious things. 

This morning when the radio played a song about holding our heavenly Father’s hand, I pictured myself a small child reaching for her father’s hand to cross the street. My daddy was not there, but God stepped in and took my hand. This little girl’s lips quivered and her eyes spilled over because she longed for her father’s familiar hand. But kindness and strength in this new hand collected her tears and calmed her lips. I can’t explain how, but I felt changed, as though God not only walked me across the street but also lifted me up onto a Segway and then hopped up behind me and off we zipped together. It seems at least one benefit of losing my dad to dementia is a deeper desire for and dependence on God’s fathering. Today I’m especially glad God is father to the fatherless.

Repurposing

In an impromptu tour of our hostess’ beach home, she shared her joy of honoring family and of creating new from old—she calls it repurposing. That charming weatherworn white bird house perched on a pillar in her living room? Repurposed from the garden of her former B&B; to use the bird house as indoor décor, she found a tall, slender, curvy pillar. The pink and green tile-top table on the porch? Repurposed from a living room end table that now has a rattan top repurposed from an earlier use. The trunk topped with glass showcasing her husband’s fishing lures, hole-in-one golf ball, and other mementos? Repurposed from a box her grandfather had made when one day her grandmother had casually said, “I need a box,” then repurposed into our hostess’ childhood toy box. In recent years, she looked at the trunk and thought if someone built up the top into a glass showcase …

Sepia photos of our hostess’ ancestors, an 1895 edition of the kittens who lost their mittens book, eclectic collection of mirrors, Roseville vases and Rosepoint glassware—we heard all their stories. For example, her sister secretly wanted their mother’s Rosepoint cake plate (which had a story all its own). When her sister learned her mother had sold her Rosepoint glass collection, she went to the antiques dealer and bought it back from him. Afraid her mother would find out, she always hid that cake plate whenever her mother visited—until one visit, she didn’t. When her mother heard the subsequent chapter in the Rosepoint cake plate’s life, she exclaimed, “Why didn’t you just tell me you wanted that plate?”

I was thinking how rare vision like our hostess’ is today in our throwaway society. A beat-up old bird house? Eh, just pitch it. Pink tiles no longer match your new décor? Out in the trash goes the table; you can always buy a new one. She values the old because of their stories. Though she has discarded items she saw no new use for, she sees new life in many more items than the average person does. I treasure a wooden trunk my dad crafted, but my only vision is to put blankets in it now and toys later. A trunk is a trunk is a trunk. I don’t look at a trunk and see a display case. And I could stare at two tables until my eyeballs turned into marshmallows and never imagine the table tops on each other’s bases, let alone on completely different bases. Our living room has furniture made new to look antique. I once saw a TV do-it-yourselfer flogging a pristine dresser with chains to dent and scuff the paint off its corners for an instant-antique look. This seemed both ridiculous and clever. We abandoned the clever, but kept the ridiculous—to achieve the cottage look, we didn’t find antiques and fix them up; we bought new “antiques”—pre-flogged furniture.

Our hostess explained that even the cottage we are renting this week has been repurposed. In the 1930s it was part of a resort. Back then, little bedroom cabins dotted this land. When families came to enjoy the lakefront, they ate in a central dining hall. Eventually, the land was parceled off and sold, the cabins demolished. But—our hostess and her husband purchased a lot with two of the cabins. Again, their repurposing vision came into play. Since the dining hall was gone, if they wanted to rent the cabins, they’d need to add kitchens, eating areas, and living space. So they did just that. A few years ago, they wanted to build a home for themselves, but instead of demolishing one of the little cottages to gain land, they sold it to someone who moved it down the road to preserve it and continue to rent it out. Her lovely beach home and our little cottage for the week share land and lake. When we arrived, she delighted to tell the story behind the picture hanging over our couch. Someone had donated an 80-year-old black-and-white picture postcard to the historical society, where she volunteers. She recognized the tiny white cabin tucked into trees and repurposed the postcard by enlarging the photo for a 16-by-20 frame and giving it a place of honor where it could speak to many more generations enjoying this cozy cottage.

I admire people’s talent for creating new while honoring old. Some people have a knack for accessorizing outdated clothing to create striking new outfits. Others have additional vision and skills to raise and lower hems and change collars and lapels to create new looks. Our hearts and minds have rusting junkyards full of treasures, too. In the process of maturing, we repurpose experiences to learn and do better next time. When we succeed—for example, we approach conflict differently and this time the other person responds positively—it’s a beautiful new relationship, a little scuffed but now more serviceable. And remember the ditty we sang around Girl Scout campfires? “Make new friends but keep the old. One is silver, the other gold.” Old friendships that bend, flex, and re-create themselves as our lives change are more precious than gold and certainly become more beautiful with burnishing over time.  

South Haven Simplicity

At the moment a cardinal sends whew-whit-whit-whit-whit-whit-whit-whit signals from treetops above my screened porch. Another bird a few houses away responds to every signal: cheer-chew-cheer. Their conversation has lasted most of the evening ~ too long for Twitter posts but probably okay for a nice thread on Beakbook.

Between the porch and Lake Michigan shadows of tall maples and elms approach, turning Kelly green carpet to forest green. The sun glistens in top branches, then rests between lower boughs. A motorboat streaks silently across the gray-blue band of water while a vapor trail in a cloudless sky plunges like a star. Occasional hotrods on the road behind the cottage and cigar boats on the lake in front rip ruthlessly through the calm as though tearing a rag. Little do they realize the peace they’re ripping is rare royal silk. But mostly all is quiet, save the birds social networking above. Simple.

Another South Haven simplicity I appreciate is the sunset tradition. People walk down the pier to watch the sun set over the lighthouse. Last night a crowd clustered at the base of South Haven’s red lighthouse saw an unspectacular sunset, then dispersed. We stayed though, knowing the sun below the horizon wasn’t yet finished painting the clouds above. In one of these photos, I purposely included someone’s abandoned ice cream cup, because that is another part of the tradition I enjoy ~ walking down the pier with a cup of Sherman’s ice cream. Make mine Chocomania please.