jeudi 31 juillet 2008

I'm so-oh-oh tired, I've hardly slept a wink

le perpétuel sommeil

de Charles de Maigny, tombeau
Pierre Bontemps, 1557
Musée du Louvre


As soon as David finishes in the shower, that is where we are heading, from as soon as we can possibly get there, until they close at 6 pm. Then drinks with a friend nearby.

Sam is off to Spain. I dropped him at the train station in Mantes la Jolie for the 8:19 am, which he blessdly agreed to take to get a RER in Paris out to Roissy. Driving to the airport was getting to be a weekly, and then daily (for the end of this week) occurrence, but I decided everyone is taking the mass transit system. He'll be back August 19, and I hope he has a won-der-ful time and comes back much better at speaking and conjugating in Spanish!

He isn't staying with the same couple, who have a grown daughter living in Zaragoza, because senora's mother is sick and hospitalized there, but she told them to tell Sam that he should come to the house whenever he likes. He left with the Christmas present he never sent to her to give to her now.

Oh, Sam.

So, he'll be getting to know another couple, either with children grown and out of the house or none yet, because none are listed on the information sheet. I am just so pleased that he is going back to get to know the people of this small, agricultural village outside Zaragoza called Gelsa better and show them his appreciation for their reception last summer. I would love it if he were to offer his services in exchange for a room and board next summer, but I musn't get ahead of Sam's readiness for full-blown humanity. One step at a time!

David leaves tomorrow.

Sadness.

It is impossibly, unbelievably, oppressively hot. Float around in the pool hot. Or mint juleps hot. Or, I suppose, marble corridors of the Louvre hot.

Definitely AC on in the BMW hot. We're going to do the oh so Texas thing of driving the air conditioned BMW directly to the parking lot under the Louvre, to emerge in the underground entry hall and proceed to those marble salles d'exposition. Perhaps it will be (oh, here I go, saying it again, twice in one entry) blessedly raining when it is time to brave the streets to get to chez notre ami.

I just checked the météo; 29° C, or 84° F. It feels hotter. The dogs are plastered to the terra cotta tile floor. There is a little wind, and it says thunder showers at cocktail hour. Perhaps I'll tuck a little black umbrella in my bag.

David is having an allergy attack. Sounds bad, even from here in the living room, with Chloé keeping me snug and warm in the arm chair.

Thank you, Chloé.
....

lundi 28 juillet 2008

When annual is perennial (or vice versa)

Santa Barbara Daisies and Campanules

Dead-heading won't save a plant from one year to the next. What it will only do is allow it to flower again in the same season, if flower again it is intended to do.

Some plants, like a good many varieties of rose, are meant only to flower once a year, for a shorter or longer period of time. For plants that are able to flower and flower again freely all season, all they need is the little encouragement of having their faded flowers cut off to produce again, and you needn't be too nice about it. Just follow the stem down to a likely leaf -- if you are concerned for the plant's shape -- and snip with the scissors, or in the case of a mass of plants in a planting border, just cut them across the whole.

I tend to go flower by flower -- even then -- because I want to preserve the ones that are in bloom and about to open.

Once the season ends, the plant will die if it is an annual, regardless of all the dead-heading it has received.

On the other hand, I have been surprised and had annuals return. Sometimes they are biannuals. Other times, the plant has had sufficient protection from the harshness of the winter weather -- or a temperate enough winter -- to come back from its roots. This is the case of the campanules in the photo above.

Anyone who has seen last summer's June photos might remember them -- planted with blue-violet ones and white lobelia -- in the urns at the step into the top terrace.

They died. I expected as much because I had purchased them as annuals, and forgotten the name.

The urns, empty of all but planting soil, made a napping place for Wisp until I saw sprouts coming up, whose unfolding leaves were unmistakably those of the campanules I had planted last spring.

I dug up the small plants, retaining the root mass intact in its soil, and transplanted them to a medium-sized clay pot, where I watched them grow, wondering what color flowers they would produce. A couple of weeks ago, I was rewarded with the first buds, which opened pure white. None of the blue flowers had come back.

Finally taking the time this morning to research what variety they are, the best I can say -- from the shape and size of the flowers, the way the plants grows, and the form of its leaves -- is that they are Campanula isophylla, or Falling Stars, Italian Bellflowers, or Star of Bethlehem. This is sometimes listed as an annual, and at other times as a perennial, due probably to the fact that it drops its leaves in cooler climates and is not very hardy, or tolerant of the cold. I suppose that it is easier for nurseries to sell them as annuals, so that their customers don't return upset when their plants don't the next spring.

In short, this is why it is difficult to know (sometimes) whether your plant will return and whether you and what you do or don't do to it is responsible for its failure.

I am not an expert, although I might be one if permitted to live a terribly long life, so I learn from experience (i.e. experimenting), research and inquiry.

If you count on your plants returning year after year, make sure to buy them in the perennials section of your nursery and then ask and look up their best care for soil, fertilizer and compost, pruning, etc.

If you buy a plant in the annuals section, well, you might get lucky (or unlucky, as the case may be) and actually have a perennial or biannual (requiring two years to complete its flowering cycle, which you might not like, since you will only have flowers the second year) on your hands.

I suggest looking up any plant about which you are uncertain to see if there is a hope that it is really a sensitive perennial because if it is, and you have the space, you can try bringing it indoors into a suitably light area and maintaining it over the colder months for a new reception in the garden.

Many plants that are intended to flower for several weeks during the year benefit from being cut down by about a third of their size to allow the plant to restore its energy and produce new growth and flowers. Failing to do so will exhaust the plant and disappoint you.

So, this year, having not seen any Star of Bethlehem at Florosny, I decided to use deep magenta Impatience, especially since these two urns don't receive a lot of sun at any time of the day. I can't say that I like the impatience so well, but the white Star of Bethlehem makes a nice companion to the Erigeron karvinskianus, or Santa Barbara Daisies.

I would try to plant some in with the Erigeron around the fish basin, where I sat the pot next to two unplanted Erigeron and got to see the happy effect of the two plants together, except that this variety is better in pots, particularly urns or hanging pots. I could try the C. carpatica 'Bressingham White' instead, which has a tuft pattern of growth similar to the Erigeron, but makes pure white stars, like the C. isophylla.

Someone remind me that I said that, please.
....

PS: For the Anthemis
(camomile)

Although it is supposedly fairly hardy, mine -- seen here in June last year -- died over the winter, Mom. Having bought large balls last year in high season at high price, I purchased smaller ones this year to hedge my investment. They are almost quite as large now, and I will take the extra precaution of bringing the plants, which I have left in their nursery pots placed in the terra cotta planters, indoors.

It could be that had I planted them in a border, they would have survived the winter from the benefit of more soil around the roots, and the spreading of manure, but in their pots, they probably got too cold and humid for the roots to survive.
....

dimanche 27 juillet 2008

And this is life-saving

Radical pruning

Et oui.

You have to do it to save them. I knew when I bought them the summer before last (or was it the last? Yes, last summer.) that I would be taking them out soon enough. I knew I really should wait to put them in, but what I didn't know was when an idea of doing the work on the house would be able to become actually doing work on the house.

Like, you plant them, so of course the work will get going.

You wait, and the work always seems to be out there somewhere in the future.

I planted. I even replanted, better, in November (really tempting fate); we found a contractor.

Sam and Georges, one of the workers, dug them up. Sam put as much dirt from the hole in the pots around them as he could, and then the rose bushes sat, and waited for me. I couldn't bring myself to prune them, knowing very well I had to.

Day after day, they turned browner and crispier, all save one that continued to have some green leaves, and yesterday, when I passed it going into the garage, I saw a lovely last bloom opening, and a cluster of tight green buds.

It will finish on the table.

Yesterday, I finally went to Florosny for some root stimulator and more planting soil and rose fertilizer. Victor said I have to do it. I knew it. I came home and did it.

Audouin says that in their present state, the plants look better than they did before I pruned them to the nub. He's right. There's nothing worse than a bare, long-legged, shriveling rose bush, except four of them.

....

Justin heads home, or
a meeting of terrorists at Roissy give the sign

(fist bump)

When did six weeks ever go faster? Ask Victor and Justin, and they won't be able to come up with another answer than these last six.

They flew.

And Justin is right now, on his way back home to Lansdale.

Au revoir, et à bientôt.
....

samedi 26 juillet 2008

David, this is dead-heading

The Anthemis with no dead flower heads
or, "dead-headed"


That's because I cut them all off with my scissors.

You do it for two reasons. The first is that the plant looks a lot better (maybe you noticed the same plants at the top of the stairs, full of dead flower heads when you were here), and the second is that the plant needs to produce flowers to reproduce, but it can't when it is covered with dead flower heads. So, you cut them off, and the plant is released to produce a new profusion.

Which, you will soon be spending a morning cutting off.

When the plant is in a planting bed, it's an easy affair. You just cut. Sometimes you cut in three tiers: lowest at the front, higher towards the middle and you cut the least at the rear to get a stepped effect for maximum massing effect, but in the case of a shaped plant in a pot, you have to cut uniformly to maintain its shape. It is a zen activity requiring patience only.

The same applies to roses and any plant with repeat flowering.
....

Renovations

Yesterday morning, I treated myself to a grace matinée, meaning that I got up, dead-headed some plants and went back to bed with Mansfield Park with the full intention to read and the total inability to keep my eyes open. There were a lot of late nights in this last week. In July, period.

Getting up to take a shower and head to the bank to release the first payments to the contractor, I hear a voices. Sam. But Sam doesn't talk to himself.

Joachim.

"Sam, is there someone there?" I knew the answer. "What's he doing?"

"Sitting at the dining table, reading." I got in the shower, and when I got out I heard,

"Jacqueline?"

"Oui?"

"Ca va?"

"Oui."

"Vous avez une drôle de voix."

"C'est ma je-viens-de-sortir-de-la-douche voix." What did he think? I am not used to having people walk into my house when I am about to take a shower and ask what I am doing.

His turn to think, "Oh."

I took my time getting dressed before we walked through the recently used and still slightly damp bathroom to discuss the extent of its future renovations, which we have done twice before. Each time in more detail. His ideas are pretty banal, but luckily I have my own.

Renovations, like politics, makes odd bedfellows, in a manner of speaking.
....

jeudi 24 juillet 2008

Coming full circle

Today


And, exactly one month ago today... What a difference a month makes, 31 little back-breaking, miserable-making days.

That will do, pig.

I don't know if I can save the two hydrangeas I transplanted, but I will try.

The Acer palmatum tree went in by the largest of the two I moved down here. It might not be the best place for it, but it's a place for it.

I know it doesn't look that great right now, but it will. I hope.
It needs time to fill in, and a nice covering of ivy on the wall.

....

Renovations

No work on the house today.

But, they want money for the materials to get off to a great start on September 1, or whatever the first working day of September will turn out to be.

Better than money for arms.

....

I didn't kill the Potentilla

Look, it even made new flowers.

It was a brown, nearly crispy thing in its pot. I got to it just in the nick of time.
....



mercredi 23 juillet 2008

Renovations, another day

7

So, we have had a certain number of explanations that are nearly as numerous as the number of days since they began work, but not necessarily fewer than the number of days they have worked.

We don't really know what we know, but what we think we know is that Monsieur Aubrun is not really, actually Joachim's boss, and that when I have called him to get dates or to get things straight or to get someone here period, we might have been operating under misinformation that led to a sort of misunderstanding that was leading to a problem.

We don't know why we didn't know that he isn't -- by inadvertence or something we would really rather prefer not to know -- but if it is true, and if we get clarity and performance from Joachim, then we really simply don't care.

We just want the job to get done, and be awfully good. I am (I know I say this every time, but it's true) just too pooped to write, so I'll just put in the photo and say that it's been a little rocky, our confidence has been a little shaken, we have each spoken with Joachim. We seem to have arrived at a sort of clarity, a few more precisions on dates, and hope that when things get going in September, hopefully in earnest, that they will sail on more smoothly then they began.

....

The hydrangeas and maples

I finished getting them in at 10:42 PM, in the deepening dark, the night before David arrived.

I have to put down more soil around them, keep watering copiously (it has been dry and getting hotter, in the low 80's), and try pruning the poor scraggly baby from the entry court. I wasn't too surprised to see that it had practically no root system when I dug it out.

I will be sad if I lose it. I don't like losing plants any more than baby birds.

I ended up having no real use for one of the maples, the slender, red-barked, yellowy green-leaved Acer Palmatum. Have to think about that.
....

Berlin

David and Stephanie are off to Berlin on the night train, in time to join the throngs to hear Barack Obama there tomorrow evening at Victory Gate.

He promised to take all the policy points and gripes about FISA everyone on Mybarackobama.com would like Barack to hear them out on, and get his book signed. He figures he'll just tell everyone he is an American, and they will let him on through the crowd and Barack will take the rest of the night to hear him, and then each and every other supporter.

But, of course we are being ironic.
....

mercredi 16 juillet 2008

Yeah, day 2

It's actually a little depressing.


Or I am just tired.

Yeah. Just tired.

It's brick.

And, it's silica.

And, one day it will be covered again.
....

mardi 15 juillet 2008

Day 1: Scaffolding and homeless bees

On the ground.

"Why haven't you returned my calls?" was the first thing Joachim said to me, when they arrived in the garden around 11:30 this morning. I figured as much.

"You have to call the home number. My cell phone doesn't receive signal here." Oh. Enough said, never mind, say no more, say no more.

All is forgiven, there is only joy to see three men and know there was a truck outside.

Joachim. Georges. José. Since they are Portuguese, you pronounce the "J" in José "Zho". Georges just adopted the French equivalent. They seem like pleasant people to have around for the next half year.

What's that? You thought it was going to be three months, two for the exterior and one for the interior? Oh, well no, actually. A job done right takes time, you know.
....

Bees

So, down came the little shelter for the no longer existing water softening system (much needed, still!) in the entry courtyard on the kitchen wall. When I returned from taking a paper to the mairie that is needed for our approval (remember that we have the mayor's approbation to start ahead of official approval from the authority that approves projects in the historical zone of the Château de la Roche- Guyon), I saw Georges looking as pale as I have ever seen him (since late this morning).

He pointed to the wreck of the bump on the house and said, barely audibly, "Bees."

I tried my best to make light of it, assuring them that the bees are disturbed because, clearly, they had their nest there (I wondered from where the tens of bees in the lavender come, and now I guess I have my answer) and told them that as long as they kept to their business, the bees would keep to their own, which was trying to figure out where their home had gone. I think they wanted me to spray them to oblivion, but I told them I couldn't anyway because bees are a protected species. Were I to call the firemen to come and get rid of them, they would have to refuse. Politely, but firmly.

"Really, there are tons of them in the lavender and never has any one of us been stung. Ever." He looked very doubtful, considering the bees buzzing around the debris.

"There are at least 20. There were only 8 or so before," he peeped. I smiled brightly and encouragingly and limped back to the house.
....

The politics of the corner evergreen

For the evergreen at the corner of the house, they are making an effort to remove only as much as necessary to be able to do the work. They think it should just go. Audouin agrees that it should be cut to just under the balcony, but he would like to save it because it screens the view into the garden from the gate. Personally, it wouldn't make me sad to see it go because it isn't very attractive and it traps moisture.

One evening, Audouin and I went to get the crystal wine glasses my mother gave us -- those that happen to be stored in the cupboard on the inside of the wall behind the evergreen -- for a dinner party we were hosting, and we discovered that the cardboard boxes were covered in mold from the humidity. It took me a little while to realize that the evergreen was responsible.

I am convinced we can replace it with something more attractive that allows better air circulation, all while offering us the privacy to which we are accustomed, and Joachim understands now that it is better to proceed judiciously and politically, with patience, petit à petit, pas par pas, bringing Audouin to the conclusion for himself.

Tomorrow, I am off to get my hair cut, at long last. Audouin seconded the motion as soon as I brought it up. I am just sick of coloring my hair already, and I know I will cave in and do it again and continue in the vicious circle of color - love it - regret it - color - love it - regret it - color... ad infinitum.
....

There's a hole in my sock, Dear Liza

And another one in the ball of my right foot.

Eeuw
(it smells worse than it looks, pee-euuuw)

Yesterday, taking a small break from filling plastic bags with dirt to prepare the planting bed for the hydrangeas, I was clearing out more tree branches when I felt an insane and wholly unexpected pain in my foot. I looked down in shock and realized that I had walked right onto the hoe, prongs facing upwards. One had gone straight through my rubber gardening shoes into the muscle. I lifted my foot up (the pain wasn't terrible yet, they say it's like that -- it's later that it gets really bad, like just a moment later) and removed my shoe, just to make sure that it really had pierced my flesh.

There was a perfect round of blood on the bottom of my dirt-encrusted sock with a hole right in the center.

Today my bottom hurts, right along with my triceps. Alas, it is not from physical exertion and exercise, but at least I am up to date on my tetanus shots.

I have crutches, but I get around better without them.

So, what's the next body part to be sacrificed?
....

Today is July 15

I got up early. Workers like to start early, right? Audouin was figuring 8 AM sharp.

It's 10:31 AM. I am about to call Joachim and see where on earth he is. Or Eric to ask where the heck Joachim is.

I am not having fun yet.
....

vendredi 11 juillet 2008

The bac

Bréval
photo by Delphine Bédier

I was kneeling next to the lawnmower, the Super Glue tube leaking its contents on the paving stone, swearing at the handle lock on the grass catcher that had just broken, when I heard a shout of joy from the house. Now what? A fire sale at Galeries Lafayette, with 90% off on all his favorite brands?

I felt instantaneously grumpier.

"Mom!"

"What?" Said in that impatient and harried staccato tone best (and most often) employed by mothers everywhere.

"I got my bac results!"

Joy? Bac results? All impatience was gone in a heartbeat, and I was next to him at the computer in the next one. They are:

French written -- 13
French oral -- 12
TPE (research and presentation group project) -- 15
Earth Science -- 8

Average -- 12

That last was the sorry point in an otherwise glorious result for this young man, but this gives him 20 points advance for next year. Don't ask what that means. Maybe Sam could explain it, but I doubt he will be interested in trying.

For those who haven't followed my explanations and lamentations, the French grade out of 20 and each subject in a baccalaureate program has its own coefficient, meaning that those subjects that are most central to the subject, like French (4), History and Geography (5), and Economic Science (7) will have a higher coefficient in the Economic Science baccalaureat, "bac", than Earth Science (2), Math (5), languages (3), TPE (2) and philosophy next year (4?).

There are three "noble" baccalaureates: Science (considered the most noble, because it is determined by strength in math, and those who are best in math are generally the best in the other subjects sélon les français), Economic Science, and Literature.

There are, then, the technological baccalaureates that prepare students for careers and the "professional" baccalaureates (les bac pros), which are technical training programs.

Sam's results are considered, with the exception of Earth Science, which is also less important for him, quite good, but more importantly, they are reason for him to rejoice that he decided to repeat his year.

These results do several things for him.

First of all, they boost his ego, which can certainly use bolstering. The tendency in the "elite" private schools, and Sam's -- most interestingly, surprisingly and felicitously -- was ranked number 13 in France last year, is to grade very, very severely. It is hard for the students who don't get the best grades to know of what they are actually capable in bac results.

The teachers feel that this keeps them from being over-confident and protects them from resting on their laurels in the event that they happen to have an unreasonably difficult grader on the bac. The downside is that it demotivates and eats at confidence, depending on the person, particularly for those who, like Sam, respond well to positive reinforcement and deflate in the face of a poor result. Audouin's youngest son is the opposite, or at least he takes the hit to his pride of a poor performance as reason to buckle down and "show them".

Second, it shows his teachers that their confidence in his capabilities in not misplaced. They will continue to demand a high level work from him, while believing even more in him. It is possible that they will grade him more in line with what he actually produces, knowing that he has demonstrated a more than adequate level of success.

For Sam, however, it still isn't enough.

He wants to go to France's equivalent of the Ivy League for political science and liberal studies, Sciences Politiques, known as Sciences Po. However, a good result this year will help him keep on next year because he can see that the effort with Asmaa, the doctoral student in history who has given him his private tutoring in French this year, concentrating on methodology and style for written work, has earned him real results, and that continuing with her next year can put him within reach of the mention he will need to help him get in sur dossier.

Sur dossier means admissions by application like American universities, where the full set of grades from the last two years, those of the baccalaureate program, count, along with work experience, community service, sports or music, and the baccalaureate exam results.

If your grades and bac are not strong enough to get in sur dossier, a student can prepare for the entrance examination, where only those above a certain result will be admitted. This is very risky; it's much better to have a solid dossier.

I had told Sam in the weeks before that having decided to repeat the year was not reason not to prepare for the bac, since these grades will be overwritten by next year's, but to see what he could do after this year, with the work he did with Asmaa and the preparation he would put in. A good result would certainly be encouraging and give him the best possible start to next year, where he can but get stronger, and that starting from the strongest point possible.

So, third, they will perhaps help Sam to relax and allow himself to be a more cooperative element in class, which can only work to his benefit. It is easier to succeed with success behind him, rather than failure or poor performance. If he can look back and see success, perhaps he can produce more of it in class, which he absolutely needs if he wants to get into Sciences Po on dossier, and he has the opportunity to try for a better bac result next year.

The last hope has less to do the with bac results and is simply the element of time. More time to develop his skills, his work and study methods and his mastery of written French expression and mathematics.

For now, he can enjoy his summer and look towards some congratulations from his teachers next year. He has the same ones, which turns out to be a blessing, as far as I am concerned. They know him -- the good, the bad and the ugly. At the end of the year, they had their class dinner. The French, History and Geography, Economics and Math teachers were there, and they had a great time, laughing with the kids and Sam. He needs that to feel secure with his teachers, and he will have a whole year with them to get himself straight on track.
....

jeudi 10 juillet 2008

Better in real life

Hydrangea Hovaria 'Ripple'

(and here) than any of the photos on-line,
and waiting for me to plant them.

In the inexcusable and sad absence of photos of the boys in France (they have to be downloaded) -- and there were some great ones in the garden of the Palais Royale of Sam, Pips, Justin and Victor --, I fall back on one of my recent acquisitions, one of the new hydrangeas. It is also called Hortensia Hovaria 'Ripple', with Hovaria being a trademarked name for this particular recent form of hydrangea, which is further classed both with the macrophyllas and the quercifolias, depending on the source.

It is probably a mix of both, since the balls of flowers conform to the form of the macrophyllas, while the leaves conform to the oak-leaf shape of the quercifolias, adding the charm of being bi-colored -- deep purple and dark green -- like the blooms themselves.

The one thing the Belgian horticulturists responsible for this variety did not foresee is the structural weakness of the stems, which bend to the ground under the weight of their tremendous burdens, these gorgeous balls of softest pink petals edged in deepest pink. From a distance, you see pink, but coming close, you begin to distinguish the markings of the individual petals and are treated to the soft gradation in color of each petal.

How to say it?

When you look at a pink ball of hydrangea flowers, you see the pink of the flowers. It is everywhere. It is, certainly and undeniably, beautiful, but the Hovaria 'Ripple' offers you the soft color of the petals and the deep pink of their borders, two presents for the observer. Taken together, they are merely pink, but seen from closer at hand, you delight in the surprise and the complexity of all the petals of each flower of every ball.

Their weight requires staking of the individual stems to help the shrub maintain its round and compact form.

Another high-maintenance plant.

Oh well. At least it offers its blooms from June to September, being quite long-flowering.
....

The boys

à l'Orangérie

I overcame the oppressive heat -- alright, so it wasn't much by Philadelphia or DC standards, but it was hot compared to the last days -- and glare of the day yesterday, as well as being completely worn-out, to get the benches and the dogs into the Voyager and high-tail it to Viroflay. It was nearly 4:00 PM before I arrived, and just past 5:00 PM when we arrived at the Place de la Concorde, where I heard Victor exclaim, "Look! Look, Justin, Jacqueline -- there!" My eyes left the windshield, where I was concentrating to get in the right "lane" to blend into the traffic so as to be able to turn for the parking lot entrance without creating a multi-vehicle pile-up, and followed his voice to the side of the car where he was looking out the window. There was a group of police officers, gathered protectively around a man lying on the pavement in a bright yellow helmet and his scooter, lying helplessly by him.

I recognized the helmet. Ferrari was written on it in black letters. It was the guy in a suit who turned onto the Voies sur Berges along the Seine in the 16th at the same time as we did. My eyes remained fixed on him as the car turned left around the place. Blood flowed from his nose as he tried to lift his head. His forearm moved up and down, as though that were all he could do to get up. A police officer knelt over him, certainly speaking reassuring words to him. A young woman, looking shaken, stood near the front of the small green car, whose front fender was severely dented and whose windshield had a hole in the passenger side the size of a helmeted head, crack lines radiating outwards. Another man sat astride his BMW motorcycle, a witness.

Only minutes before, he and I had traveled a stretch of road together, heading somewhere. He had no idea he would be lying injured, an ambulance on its way, his scooter destroyed, a young woman scared for him and herself, and what she might have done wrong, if anything.

We watched them the first time around the plaza, and the second time, after I missed being on the right side of the barriers in front of the Hotel Crion to be able to pull into the parking lot under the huge plaza. Down the entry ramp, I handed the boys cash for the entry fee, if there were one for them, and sent them scurrying to the Orangérie to see Monet's Nymphéas murals, the famous Water Lilies mural-sized paintings.

When I caught up to them, they were just heading into the rooms.

They were both hushed and startled by the quiet, the stillness and the sheer size and presence of these works, four to each ovoid room, the light of whose skylights is diffused by white fabric stretched across their openings at the ceiling. Victor went ahead to see just how many rooms there were, duly impressed and relieved by the restraint and simplicity of the museum: two identical rooms containing eight related works of art.

They loved them. They photographed them. They had themselves photographed in front of them. Victor talked and talked about them, their compositions and content, the colors, which he loved best. He talked to an English-speaking Canadian tourist from Hamilton, Ontario, who was admiring one in the first room, where we stopped second. Victor could talk about Monet's art in English.

Justin was quiet, listening to me and Victor, who was justifiably disturbed by the poorer quality of the transitions between the panels of one, Matin (you can click on each image for a high-definition version to open in a window), in the first room, which he was sure must have been an earlier attempt, and which was, nonetheless, one of his two favorites, along with Les Deux saules in the second room. For the transitions in Matin, Monet simply hadn't gotten it quite right yet, according to Victor. He also had a great deal to say about Soleil Couchant, understanding very well what it depicted.

Each of us had his or her own favorites. It was a little like being in a chapel of art, and it is such a sweet memory now.

à Montmartre

We sat down outside, on the rails around a tree in the late afternoon sun, and plotted our next move. We would take the car to Montmartre, enjoy the view and eat ice cream, which turned out to be a Nutella and banana crêpe in Justin's case. Then, I would take Victor home to see his last remaining friend, not yet departed on his vacation plans, before he would leave the next morning for the rest of the summer months. Audouin would come from the airport, meet us in Viroflay, and go to dinner -- a pizza in Paris made Justin's eyes light up -- , followed by a drive past Paris' great monuments lit against the blackness of the night sky.

Anne-So was reminded by her neighbor, when she crossed her in the street earlier that afternoon, that she had made plans that she had entirely forgotten.

"You haven't forgotten you are coming to dinner tonight, have you?" sang the neighbor.

"Non, non! Bien sur que non," she lied with a smile, thinking, "Oh merde!" We were all supposed to have dinner together.

They are gone now to the Mont St. Michel on the Brittany channel coast, and I am deprived of contact! I have to rely on news dispatches from Anne-So.
....

Sam's miracle at Lourdes

There must be some actual basis in truth for the place's powers, for Sam called the person who he considered the one friend who could most appreciate his being there, because his mother had taken him there before, and when Sam said, "Guess where I am? Lourdes," Franky immediately replied, "Me, too!" His mother had brought him again, although he had either known he was going and said nothing, or known nothing in advance because Sam had no idea he could be there.

They ended up going out together last evening with Pips, and having lunch today before the train departed.

Sam had called me yesterday evening, nearly as soon as he arrived at the hotel, "You'd love it here, Mom," he exclaimed, "it's so beautiful." He described the fortified castle with its chapel on the high peak of rock upon which Lourdes is situated, and the view out to the snow-capped Pyrénées.

They were able to find more HD tapes for his SONY video camera, which has finally found a useful purpose, and are satisfied with their work. I hope that Bessie and Pips' mother, the producer and writer, will be as much so.

Sam returns on the 23h14 direct train from Paris, and Pips, sadly, goes off to his room at the Holiday Inn Paris - Orly Airport hotel to put him near the airport for his 6:40 AM flight out of Orly Sud for Athens. I got kind of used to having him around.

Now, Lyca, you are going to have to keep me posted more closely of his doings, because you can't help but take a greater interest once you know someone better.
....

mercredi 9 juillet 2008

Lourdes bound

"tawdry relics, the bric-a-brac of piety"
-- Malcolm Muggeridge, BBC

Sam is off to Lourdes, a fabled place to which I have never traveled, with Pips to continue filming for the documentary about Bessie Badilla, once a model for Balenciaga, well-known Philippina television personality and Queen of the Sao Paolo carnaval.

Her story is not mine to tell, but their subject, "Queen Bessie", has reason beyond her own beliefs as a Catholic to return to Lourdes.

Perhaps the documentary will tell. Perhaps not.

They took the train this morning, 5 hours to the very edge of France where it touches Spain in the Hautes Pyrénées to this unremarkable 19th market town made sacred to millions by Bernadette Soubirou's vision of the Virgin Mary in the grotto of Masabiel, and through which the Tour de France will pass on Bastille Day, on the leg to Pau, perhaps to partake of the healing waters, which, as of yet, have not been classified as an illegal substance for the cyclists.

And, yes, that is Saint Bernadette, Bernadette Soubirous. Her miraculously preserved body was exhumed after 30 years in 1909, and provided with a wax mask, she has been treasured as a relic in a case of glass and gold in keeping with this former Catholic tradition, like the bones of the companions of Saint Denis, the priest Rusticus and the deacon Eleutherius, and the saint himself.

I think she is far more beautiful than St. Florent in Corsica. Besides, he was a guy, and a knight.

I'll return to add a picture of him I took when we visited the church built to house him during our travels in Corsica in 2004.

Speaking of relics, I still have a baby bird to bury, and of miracles and unexplained events, durnst I not hope for Sam to have an epiphany of his own in this place among places and make the long-hoped-for turn-around next year?

....

Justin and Victor

The Franco-American Exchange continues in Viroflay-Paris before leaving tomorrow morning for the Mont St. Michel en route to Brest for the gathering of several thousand old ships in the harbor to celebrate Bastille Day as part of Brest 2008.

I am late. I am expected in Viroflay, and I haven't even taken a shower or reattached the benches in the Voyager to travel with the dogs. They positively cannot stay home alone for another 12 hour stretch.

I have absolutely got to go.

PS: Sh! Don't tell anyone, but it's Anne-so's 40th birthday on the 14th!
....

PPS: Will O'Wisp

Today marks one year that she has been with us.

I have to call the vet for news about Chloé.

Now, I really have to go.
....

Note: None of these photos were taken by me. They are from Wikipedia and the Queen Bessie website.


mardi 8 juillet 2008

July, it's official

Gloom

(Yes, the picture is from just a few minutes ago.
You may feel quite sorry for us.)


This will make five Julys that the month begins shrouded in clouds and rain. I would say, "and ends", but I am attempting to be optimistic.

Worse, my nephew is visiting Paris in these lousy atmospheric conditions. At least they had the Musée d'Orsay in mind.

Update: They are visiting the area around the Louvre, the Palais Royale, meeting my brother-in-law for lunch in a Corsican restaurant near his offices at the Bank of France, and then heading to the Orsay, which is, unlike the Musée du Louvre, open on Tuesday.

Weather update: The luminosity if increasing. The clouds might open. It is supposed to be nicer in the evening.

Interpersonal update: American nephew has quite good understanding of French, is willing to speak some, and will surely only be more and more willing. French nephew talks in English as fast and as completely as any 16-year-old does in French, only with far fewer four-letter words! Making allowances for excitement of arrival, exhaustion from jet-lag, which is worse coming from the States as opposed to from Europe, Justin appears to be quite at-ease.

He was very enthusiastic about going to Versailles (as opposed to coming out to Moose-sucks to see his dear Aunt) yesterday, which impressed Anne-so. We met up in the gardens, going in by the free gates down by the Great Canal, since everyone was arriving late, and to our delight we found the whole garden open to us at no charge! There was a spectacularly dramatic sky, with the West facade of the château alight bright evening sunshine against impossibly dark, steely blue clouds, and Justin used over 1 Gig of his memory card there alone! (He'll download, of course.)

And now, I must run, stopping only to say that Pips and Sam will likely shoot video later with Bessie, and, Peggy, I have not improved my skills at saving young birds, or any birds.

He made it through the afternoon and evening, but he drew his last breath and left this world, after so brief a stay, during the night.

And the rain falls in the fish basin.

Happy Birthday, Mom.
....

lundi 7 juillet 2008

Look what the cat dragged in

A baby bird

It can't even fly yet.

I had just gotten back from taking Chloé to the vet (it's not good news) and stopping at Florosny for the planting soil for the hydrangeas I will plant down where I have been axing out the tree stumps -- wound up buying the plants instead at Tony's suggestion, since at 50% off, they are moving fast; there's only so much I can fit in the car at once, so I'll go back for the planting soil tomorrow -- when I heard Shadow meowing up a storm outside the living room door.

I wondered if she felt sick after her vaccinations, or what.

A moment later, she appears at the door and walks in with something in her mouth. It didn't look like the usual spider mice she and Chloé hunt.

"Shadow! What do you have?" She dropped it at my feet, and I see it tumble out, wings opening. A little bird.

"Sal chat! Leave it alone!" I cried at her, bending to get the little bird before she did again, except, she didn't want it. It didn't appear too injured, either, but it couldn't fly.

I managed to pick it up, roll it into my sweater, grab the hem of the sweater in my mouth so that I could go open the attic trap and get the old mouse cage. I did all that without crushing it.

Then, I went and got one of the nests from our bird nest collection (you never know what will come in handy), filled the little dish with water, found the bird grains -- on hand for occasions like this (I haven't managed to save one yet) -- and collected a handful of grass and leaves.

After a bit, it calmed enough to start peeping, and I could hear a grown bird just outside in the linden tree peeping the same way. So, I took the little one outside under the linden, and they started peeping for all they were worth, back and forth. I can't get up in the tree easily, and I have to run to my sister-in-law's because she picked up her son and my nephew Justin at the airport this morning. The boys were returning from the States, where her son had spent three weeks at my sister's near Philadelphia (Happy Birthday, Elizabeth! Yes, I am getting going), and my son and another friend from the States, Pips (Hi, Lyca! Yes, the boys are working, but the weather is atrocious), are meeting me there.

Sam and Pips are filming for a documentary Pips' mother is producing, telling the story of -- oh, it's a long story! Imagine a former model for Balenciaga from the Philippines, who has also done television, and twice won the carnaval queen in Sao Paolo, the first Philippina to ever win that distinction. They are doing her story. Gives Sam a chance to try his hand at doing something he has dreamed of doing -- filming and making films.

So, now I have the mouse cage out on the deep living room window sill, where the little bird can get fresh air and chirp and peep back and forth with his family. I hope that will encourage him to live until we can figure out how to engineer his reuniting with his family.

It was very windy and rainy today. I wonder if it happened that he (or she) fell out of the nest on a first flight? Which made me wonder if Shadow hadn't actually merely brought it to me, thinking I might be of more help to it than she could be. You never know with her.

I also bought two maples, which I will tell more about later. I am really late.

Really.
....

jeudi 3 juillet 2008

Allez, Sisyphe! Ca il y est presque!

Baccarat, and probably the last of the stumps
I will remove, behind.

I nearly stopped at 4:23 PM. Enough is enough.

But, I was so close to having this one out. Allez, just one more. You can do it.

At 4:53 PM, half an hour later, it gave under a shove with my foot. It's root system was fairly rotten, like the first ones I had taken out. The others, closer to the pool shed, had vigorous roots, and, naturally, they were still growing a few branches with leaves. These were pretty much defunct.

The time between was spent filling 35 bags with dirt and lining them up very neatly in a nice array.

I was hoping that would impress in a subliminal way, giving a sense of order to my labors.

Never mind.
....

Another one bites the dust... No! Not a finger...

A stump.

(You can see the red wedge stuck in the previous one.)

The three in this picture were the three biggest and toughest, so far. There are three left, not two as I would have led you to believe had you been paying attention to what I wrote before. I lost track of one. One will stay in that far corner. I'll just devitalize it, since it is behind the pool shed, which looks even more lovely now that it is exposed. Maybe I'll paint it black with tar. It actually looks nice, tar. Sort of modern, mat, goes-with-everything basic black.

The other two are at the other end, and I have to get rid of a lot of dirt and haul it in bags to the dump before I can even get close to removing them. I worked from the first stump in one direction, knowing it would bury in the first two at the other end.

The dirt has to go anyway because it is not good quality, nor is it compatible with the shrubs going in. Hydrangeas, like azaleas, camellias and rhododendrons, require an acidic soil. I bring (as you know) bags of it in. There is already a red azalea (see the entry Balenciaga party dresses) and a light pink rhododendron alongside the pool. I'd love to put in the white Azalea mollis I saw a few weeks ago at Florosny.

I'll have to complement the few hydrangeas I have with a few more to fill in that space along the wall. I have one climbing hydrangea, and I will have to get a few more of those, and perhaps some ivy to grow -- in a controlled manner -- along with it. Perhaps some Escallonia 'Iveyi', too. Good for screening, it can be clipped quite close to a wall, like ivy, and it blooms in the summer.

And perhaps a Robinia pseudoacacia 'Frisia' -- Golden Locust -- alongside the pool shed. You can keep them pruned small.

But, that might be overkill with the fir tree.

We'll see.

Got to feed the boy before he goes off to his preparation for the French bac oral exam tomorrow morning.

By the way, the rain went away. It isn't a glorious day at all moments, but it is mercifully cooler than it has been, the sun comes out and cheers one, and, so, maybe we will be spared our usual July monsoon.
....

mercredi 2 juillet 2008

Then again

Maybe not.


Oh, I don't know. You know what they say, "No pain, no gain."

....

Rain, finally

It's raining. Forced work stoppage.

Not such a bad thing, maybe. I don't have many more body parts I can sacrifice. You should see my boo-boos. I look like an 8-year-old boy.

A reckless 8-year-old boy.

I watered heavily the past two days because the lawn was parched and turning the colors of the inland California hills, the flowering plants in the urns shriveling and turning the same, the more delicate plants, like the clematis, whimpering. It had been some time since we had had rain. Three weeks, perhaps, with temperatures fairly high.

Yesterday the breeze stiffened. Audouin had told me, coming home from the hospital, and seeing that I still had the benches from the Voyager down by the motorcycles for my dump runs with Sam to dispose of all the branches and trunks from the conifers, and other mystery trees, I was taking down, that rain was expected. It came this morning, and it is raining steadily.

Oh. I just thought of something. Are these the rains of July settling in above us?

Please, no. Not this year. Please.
....

mardi 1 juillet 2008

Not on your life, but is it worth a pinkie?

You bet.

I hope I won't have to tell you what it's not worth.
....

My new tool

That's my new tool, with the yellow handle and green head. Thierry, at Florosny, of course, said they didn't have any gasoline powered chainsaws, when I raced in before they closed for lunch today. "It's not the season," he said, giving me that look, and asked me what I wanted it for. I had just officially killed the electric chainsaw, although I think Audouin might be able to mess with the cord and make it work.

I told him. If I thought the look was bad, it got worse, "That's not the tool for the job. Nothing eats up a chain like dirt."

"I dig around the roots first," I sort of lied because I sort of dig around the roots.

He told me that I don't want a gas chainsaw for this job. I believe in Florosny. They (sort of) believe in me. He is at least willing to discuss the right tool to remove a stump, asking why I didn't just devitalize it (because I want to remove them, that's why) with a woman, even if he thinks I am nuts. He knows me, though.

The tool is a something or another that's halfway between an ax and a mallet. It even came with a wood splitter (which is now stuck in the stump... I might explain later. Let's just leave it at an expression of my severe frustration for now), but he said you only use one in the company of another one. I bought, of course, another one (it is not stuck in the stump; I was not quite that frustrated). It also came with a pair of protective glasses. I did not use those. I am not that smart. Besides, what I needed was a pinkie protector.

I have dug around one of the last three remaining. That's enough fun for today. Time for a shower and a ride on my motorcicle to the gym for a little relaxing work out.

Ha!

One thing is absolutely certain: tearing out the conifers, brambles and overgrown, out of control ivy back behind the fir tree really helps punch it out against the blue sky. That is a big plus, since it is a nice tree.

Before, it just got lost against the tangle of green and ropey ivy.

See what I mean?
....

What's missing from this picture, or...

How to define a loss
or a win

July 1

Or, what's a loss and what's a win, and what's just a salvage?

It's all a matter of how you look at it. It's a negotiation. A surprise negotiation. The very best kind, the one for which you aren't in the least prepared. The make-the-best-of-the-situation sort or negotiation, when a July 1 start date for the work is... -- after remaking the world politically, socially, environmentally with the construction manager -- is... c'mon, you can do it, you can give us a date... finally July 15.

July 15. Significant date in France. Things only ever start on significant dates; have you ever noticed? In this case, it's the day after the 14th of July, Bastille Day. It would make no sense whatsoever to start on the 10th or the 11th, for example, because that would be right before the weekend with the 14th, which falls on a Monday, and is a national holiday. The 15th, that's the day.

When, naturellement, it will be the 16th because, well, vous comprenez bien, it just isn't possible to get to work the day after a national holiday, so why don't we just make it the 21st? After all, what's the good of working a partial week when we can start and make it a full week's start.

But, that's not even the official start date for the work. That will be on September 1st, at la rentrée. The very best time to start because that's when everything starts. Really the best time, taking all things into consideration.
....

That was July 1.

Joachim called a few days later to say that they had cancelled a small project they had lined up (voilà pourquoi la rentrée serait très certainement mieux et plus avantageux) and would be here on July 15 with the full crew, all three of them.

Well, now, that was looking more like a real win.

To be scrupulously fair, he was even anxious to start on the 14th -- the holiday -- but I wasn't sure that we wouldn't finally be going to Brest to meet up with the Vayssets and Justin at Christine's.
....

Crying Uncle?

This one might be too much
even for me

It's 10:43 AM, July 1.

I am waiting for the contractor.

The contractor is not here yet.

I cannot get back to work on my stump until he gets here. Audouin asked what I used to get the other big and heavily rooted one out.

"What I had available." I was definitely being pouty (bad weekend for the step-family from hell, and I wasn't over it).

"But! You can't do it with what you have. (Oh? I hadn't realized). Have you gone to price chainsaws?" That was a submission to my statement that we need a more powerful chainsaw, not to go and rent them every time we do, in which time you rapidly spend vastly more than the purchase price of a decent Stihl 14" chainsaw of your very own.

"No, I'll manage." He insisted. I changed the subject. I will go price chainsaws, if I can ever stop waiting and get out of the house.

When will the contractor finally get here? Do I have a message I haven't received apologizing and saying it will be this afternoon, certainly this afternoon, after lunch?

Ah, well, my Ghislaine de Féligonde is blooming again. The one with more sun much more than the one in the protection of the weeping mulberry tree. I guess I'll prune some of its branches to give the rose more light.
....