A Christmas miracle

The second sofa

I have a calling: mover. More precisely, Paris mover. In the last two days, we have almost successfully moved two sofas from a Paris apartment in the 15th to our house, and I have only one injured finger. The sofas did a little bit less well.

Audouin did lots of mental math to figure out if we could get the sofas into the Voyager. I didn't bother following him through the contortions (it was very complicated; I suggested drawings). One would fit, and we had the roof rack. That was good enough.

Except.

On Christmas eve, we loaded the Christmas presents, luggage, sleeping bags and pillows, three kids, two dogs, my husband and myself into the Voyager and set off for my inlaws' home 2 hours south of us, not far from Châteaudun, on the edge of the Beauce, France's Great Plains. We were sailing along uneventfully past the château d'Anet, de l'Ormes' hunting palace built by Henry II for his mistress, Diane de Poitiers, who rather cunningly happened to share the same name as the great goddess of the hunt, and had cleared the uphill climb to the straight-away through his hunting domain, perhaps having passed the lunch pavilion, which one must circumnavigate to continue tout droit, before Audouin started muttering, and then swearing.

"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?" I asked, as he pulled over onto the shoulder of the road, upset that it was a lousy place to have to pull over, with cars approaching from behind. Not my main concern at that particular moment.

"Merde. Merde."

"Qu'est-ce qui se passe?"

"Ca chauffe. Le moteur chauffe depuis un moment. J'ai gardé un oeil dessus depuis avant la côte, mais ça chauffe." Vapeur, or smoke -- a more alarming possibility --, was streaming from under the hood. He got out of the car to go do what you do in such situations: open the hood and look at the radiator. His son had the not so brilliant impulse to follow him, which meant not one, but two Labrador Retrievers jumping from the door at the same time, into the dark night along a road cars travel at speeds upwards of 90 km per hour. His sister and my son lunged for the leashes.

Everyone, stay calm. Please regain your seats and remain calm.

I called my mother-in-law.

We sat and waited for the motor, and our heads, to cool.

"Ca va être difficile d'avoir un taxi le réveillon de Noël," I shared, "et pire encore, on n'est même pas 50 km de chez nous. Tu n'as pas changé l'assurance d'assistance sur ce véhicle quand tu as fait les autres, je pense." Our equivalent of AAA only kicks in once we are more than 50 km from home, but he changed that recently for the two cars we drive the most frequently, although this one is by far the least reliable. The last time it broke down, on the way to his parents' home (for Mother's Day, no less), we were 51 km from home.

We'd have pushed the damn thing a kilometer if we'd had to.

This time, by our calculations, we had about 17 km to push, right past Dreux. Not an option. Think fast. Stay cool. Audouin thought we might be able to make it back, in short hops, between the boiling points, if we sat and waited long enough each time it overheated. A light cold rain was falling in the winter night, a major plus.

"Il y a un McDo à l'entrée d'Anet. Tu penses qu'on peut y arriver et demander de l'eau?"

"Peut-être."

"Je ne sais pas s'il a été encore ouvert, mais ça vaudra le coup, et au moins on serait un peu plus près de la maison." As if being 8 km closer to the house, when we were still some 27 km away if we couldn't get any water would help. I was trying to be positive and encouraging. I do that when the situation is grave and calls for it. He nodded.

"On peut toujours essayer. On attendra que ça refroidisse, et puis on le tentera." We waited another 10 minutes, the kids settled down, playing DS or listening to their music. Baccarat, who had been upset and whimpering, had calmed, too. She must have smelled the hot metal and fone into high alert. It didn't help when his kids started imploring, "Non, Papa! Ne fait pas ça! Ne fait pas ça!" Dogs don't like anxiety in small, enclosed spaces.

"Ca doit être ce qu'on sentait à la Chaussée d'Ivry." La Chaussée d'Ivry had smelled very bad. We couldn't fathom why.

Now, it all made sense.

"J'ai senti quelque chose avant de quitter Mousseaux," added Sam. Why he didn't mention it is beyond me. Actually, he always says that Mousseaux stinks, so.

Let us just say that coasting as much as possible (the big uphill was a lot easier on an overheated engine heading back down), stopping once again in Anet for 15 minutes with the hood open under the December drizzle, and the great good fortune of the cleaning guys letting Audouin in and giving him a bucket of water, although one looked none too happy about breaking the rules to do that, and we made it home. Two and a half hours after we left it, we were unloading the car and carrying everything back inside. My stepson turned on the TV, and there, having only just started, was Ratatouille, right on cue.

Never was domum more dolce.

I called my mother-in-law, who could barely contain her disappointment, while I could barely contain my joy and relief, "Je suis désolée," I apologized, "j'ai de mal à vous communiquer la déception que je ressens quand je suis si soulagée d'avoir pu regagner chez nous au lieu d'être toujours au bord de la route, le réveillon de Noël."

I was nearly giddy with happiness, and she was nearly in tears, however, she could understand that my joy and relief trumped any disappointment I might have been feeling when we weren't still sitting on the side of the dark road, smoke pouring out from under the hood, the car loaded with everything precious, on Christmas eve.

However, this also meant that we wouldn't have the benefit of the minivan sans benches in and upon which to transport the two leather and wood sofas. The BMW was going to have to fit the bill, and make two trips.

And that, friends, is another story, for another day.

PS: The car doesn't have a big nose. It just looks that way.
....

One person's encombrants is another person's --

The hideous ottoman, melting in the rain

Trampoline.

Which is to say that the sofa and the dimestore, rock-bottom, price-slasher discount outlet compositional sofa and ottoman set that (dis)graced the petit salon did not leave the premises as foreseen, which is to say in the special garbage truck for discarded over-sized stuff. I missed that. It doesn't come in the evening, but at 8 am, or thereabouts. Yesterday evening, my neighbor rushed forward to offer his and his son's assistance in helping us get it all off the sidewalk and back into the house, which I politely declined.

No way was that stuff ever coming back into the house.

I told him my son would help me find a way to get it to the dump, forgetting that my husband's over-sized motorcycle (with reverse) was blocking the Voyager, which had broken down on the way to my inlaws' Christmas eve, and headed off to Paris to pick up a chair I had bought on eBay for 29 euros. That's when it occurred to me that my husband had the station wagon, since there was a bit of ice -- enough to make a motorcycle a poor idea -- Monday, when he left for the hospital. I had images of my son, furious, telling me that there was no way it was going to stay lashed to the Fiat Uno all the way to the dump, but what I didn't imagine was that I wasn't going to have to deal with it at all.

All except for the ottoman.

It was nearly 1 am when I heard noises coming from where I had dragged them, further back against the wall of the France Telecom utility building. Dared I hope? I called the dogs, attached Baccarat's leash and took them out to pee, and I surprised four young guys trying to figure out how to lift and carry a damp leather sofa in the drizzle. They all looked up at the same time.

"Bonsoir," I smiled, asking them what they were doing with the sofa and immediately wishing I hadn't said it that way; they might think I wanted to keep it. Nonsense, I corrected myself. They found it in the middle of the night in the rain, of course they aren't going to think that.

"Euh, on se disait qu'il ferait un bon trampoline." They were going to jump on it right there? In the rain in the middle of the night?

"Ah, ça oui. Allez y. Le plus de morceaux le mieux pour le charger dans la voiture et l'amener à la déchètrie." They looked at me, puzzled. That's when I realized that they weren't going to turn it into matchsticks jumping on it right there. No, they were carrying it somewhere to do that, or to use it. I hurried the dogs off to pee, afraid I'd say something even stupider in my embarrassment.

What is wrong with me? I find 4 guys carrying away my old furniture, and I get nervous?

Another came up as I was hurrying the dogs back through the still unfinished gate. He picked up a piece of the discount compositional sofa, leaving the other and the ottoman by our garbage cans, and they made their way up the street in the rain. I watched them, hoping they didn't need that furniture. Hoping they really only wanted to jump on it for the fun of it.

This morning, I went back out to check, afraid I'd find it all returned, a thousand bits of wood and leather and stuffing to load into the car and take to the dump, but all there was was the ottoman, tossed over the wall and sitting in the unfinished courtyard.

Let us hope the town caretaker wasn't aggravated with me for leaving it there.

The chair, has it happens, also has a destiny to fulfill. I pulled up in front of 238 rue Faubourg Saint Antoine at the appointed hour, and its owner brought it down for me. I was standing in the dark in front of the door when it opened, and there he was, the chair in hand. He set it down next to him and extended his hand, into which I attempted to place the 30 euros I had taken out of the machine on the way in. He laughed, and I turned crimson. He was offering his hand to shake. I took his, and missed his thumb. He laughed again, and I just wanted to sink into the sidewalk and disappear.

"La voilà, la chaise," he said. I smiled. I felt like he was introducing me to his dog, his dog that I was about to adopt.

"Je l'aime beaucoup," I said.

"Moi aussi."

"Bah alors, pourquoi vous vous séparez d'elle?" He smiled.

"Ma copine l'exige. On n'a pas beaucoup d'espace, alors elle a dit que je dois la vendre, et elle vend la sienne." I nodded.

"Sachez qu'elle sera très appréciée."

I started to leave, when he asked, "Vous êtes de quelle origine? Vous avez un accent."

"Je suis américaine, mais je suis française, aussi."

"Je suis norvégien." He said it as though this meant that we had something very important in common; the fact of being here, from somewhere else. He is also a composer of classical music, ballets and music for film, based on mythology, Khazak and other. He has Joseph Campbell on his bookshelves. His girlfriend is a writer.

I see, he said, the chair is in good hands. The chair, as I said, has a destiny to fulfill. We'll see where it goes next.
....

Les encombrants, Dolce domum

Waiting for the collection of "les encombrants"

I went to sit down on the broken-down, hand-me-down leather sofa and realized right before my hind-end hit the terracotta tile floor that there wasn't any sofa there anymore. It was out on the sidewalk, waiting for the truck to come and collect our and everyone else's encombrants. The things we don't want anymore that won't fit easily into our cars to go to the dump, but that encombrent -- "Occuper à l'excès au point d'embarrasser, d'obstruer; être source de gêne par le volume, le nombre", or to occupy excessively to the point of blocking movement; to obstruct; to be a source of bother in their volume or number -- our homes, garages, attics and basements (for those fortunate enough to have such a thing) and our esprits.

The floor was hard, and cold. Sam laughed, over where he was working at the dining room table, at the same time I did.

"I forgot the couch wasn't there anymore," I said. He grinned and bent his head to his notepaper, or his iPhone and text message. I was almost giddy with delight, remembering that it is gone, never to cause me embarrassment in the English sense of the term ever again.

It was once a lovely leather sofa. Buttery yellow with navy blue edging. It came from La Maison Cap, a chic furniture store not far from the Etoile in the 8th. Its companion, the same model with a bed inside, went to the Versailles dump near my sister-in-law's home years ago, not long after she offered us this one, to "tide us over". A seven year tide.

I scrubbed it clean, but the worn leather still showed black in the cracks. It had an overall grayish cast, except the back, the part never seen. Forever dingy. But I knew it was clean, until it wasn't anymore. I gave up when the back cushion nearest to the television collapsed entirely from the weight of kids trying to get as close to the screen and make themselves as comfortable as possible. The other back cushion was nearly perfect. It only made the scrunched one, the entire sofa, and the living room look that much worse.

I covered it with a lovely chenille throw the cats ruined with their claws. That was a year ago. It helped me for a few weeks, until it didn't anymore.

I put the ruby wine red chenille throw over the back of the other hand-me-down armchair, like the brown one the cats slept on and covered with their fur, collapsing the back cushions of the armchairs under their weight.

I worried about the renovation and talked bravely about the planned interior renovations and getting rid of "that", gesturing to the ruined sofa, with the air of transforming it and the entire living room into La Maison Cap's or Roche Bobois' showroom, all for me and a flow of friends coming to enjoy the effortless mastery of casual elegance. Inside, I knew: it was likely to be far less impressive, and not soon enough, nor would it be so easy as I implied, not even kidding myself.

Nor did I entertain hopes that I would ever be able to maintain the living room of my dreams; it would soon be covered in pet hair and vomit, beaten and worn down by people whose only interest is comfort in front of the television, trodden through in motorcycle boots and sneakers covered with wet leaves and sand from the workers' never-ending construction site. The cats would scratch it. The younger dog would make herself comfy on the furniture just as soon as we were out of sight, or she thought she was out of sight. The spiders would continue their home building projects, the dust would settle, endlessly, ever thicker, and all I'd see would be my compromises and lack of inspiration and confidence, as through the perpetually dirty windows darkly.

I stopped entertaining. I couldn't bear it any longer.

I sent a Facebook message to my stepson, after thoroughly perusing the Roche Bobois Internet site. He promptly replied with the prices. I typed "eBay.fr" in the address line of my Internet browser.

The compromise was on.

I found thousands of sofas, and followed them over two weeks, showing the contenders to my husband. He was game. He'd already accepted the piano (due in January) and turned it into my Christmas present in his mind (one very major Christmas present). He knew the sofa had to go. We decided which ones we liked best, and I wondered at myself for filling the house with furniture before I emptied it and plastered and redid the woodwork. I continued to scan the new arrivals on eBay every day, and then we found the paired wood and dark leather sofas from Roche Bobois, some years before.

"J'ai trouvé quelque chose que tu aimeras." He looked up from his game of Solitaire or Mahjong on his laptop over the tops of his supermarket-bought reading glasses, the eyebrows expressing interest. Probably relief, too, that I was in the used market with such enthusiasm.

"J'arrive," he said, not sounding at all put out by my request for him to cross the room and join me, where I sat at the good end of the sofa. His promptness and courtesy, I thought, were promising, and he looked down at my computer screen.

"J'aime ça," he declared, sounding every bit like I had found just what he liked. "Attends, il y en a deux?" I nodded. There were two. He asked me to follow them, and less than a week later, they were ours; tomorrow evening, they will be in our living room. I will have to cover them with plastic when I finally tear out the ceiling and plaster the walls, but without them, I might never have gotten motivated. With them in place, I have an idea of where we are going and of what the interior might ought to look like. Without them, all I had was a feeling of defeat, like the old sofa that's out by the street, waiting for les encombrants to come and take it away.

I don't even mind the dog vomit on the rug so much, although I really do need to clean it up now.

If you will excuse me.
....















Wind in the Willows
Chapter 5 - Dolce Domum

Excerpts

The Mole subsided forlornly on a tree-stump and tried to control himself, for he felt it surely coming. The sob he had fought with so long refused to be beaten. Up and up, it forced its way to the air, and then another, and another, and others thick and fast; till poor Mole at last gave up the struggle, and cried freely and helplessly and openly, now that he knew it was all over and he had lost what he could hardly be said to have found.

The Rat, astonished and dismayed at the violence of Mole's paroxysm of grief, did not dare to speak for a while. At last he said, very quietly and sympathetically, "What is it, old fellow? Whatever can be the matter? Tell us your trouble, and let me see what I can do."

Poor Mole found it difficult to get any words out between the upheavals of his chest that followed one upon another so quickly and held back speech and choked it as it came. "I know it's a — shabby, dingy little place," he sobbed forth at last, brokenly: "not like — your cosy quarters — or Toad's beautiful hall — or Badger's great house — but it was my own little home — and I was fond of it — and I went away and forgot all about it — and then I smelt it suddenly — on the road, when I called and you wouldn't listen, Rat — and everything came back to me with a rush — and I wanted it! — O dear, O dear! — and when you wouldn't turn back, Ratty — and I had to leave it, though I was smelling it all the time — I thought my heart would break.— We might have just gone and had one look at it, Ratty — only one look — it was close by — but you wouldn't turn back, Ratty, you wouldn't turn back! O dear, O dear!"

...

Encouraged by his inspiriting companion, the Mole roused himself and dusted and polished with energy and heartiness, while the Rat, running to and fro with armfuls of fuel, soon had a cheerful blaze roaring up the chimney. He hailed the Mole to come and warm himself; but Mole promptly had another fit of the blues, dropping down on a couch in dark despair and burying his face in his duster. "Rat," he moaned, "how about your supper, you poor, cold, hungry, weary animal? I've nothing to give you — nothing — not a crumb!"

"What a fellow you are for giving in!" said the Rat reproachfully. "Why, only just now I saw a sardine-opener on the kitchen dresser, quite distinctly; and everybody knows that means there are sardines about somewhere in the neighbourhood. Rouse yourself! Pull yourself together, and come with me and forage."

They went and foraged accordingly, hunting through every cupboard and turning out every drawer. The result was not so very depressing after all, though of course it might have been better; a tin of sardines — a box of captain's biscuits, nearly full — and a German sausage encased in silver paper.

"There's a banquet for you!" observed the Rat, as he arranged the table. "I know some animals who would give their ears to be sitting down to supper with us tonight!"

"No bread!" groaned the Mole dolorously; "no butter, no — — —"

"No pate de foie gras, no champagne!" continued the Rat, grinning. "And that reminds me — what's that little door at the end of the passage? Your cellar, of course! Every luxury in this house! Just you wait a minute."

He made for the cellar-door, and presently reappeared, somewhat dusty, with a bottle of beer in each paw and another under each arm, "Self-indulgent beggar you seem to be, Mole," he observed. "Deny yourself nothing. This is really the jolliest little place I ever was in. Now, wherever did you pick up those prints? Make the place look so home-like, they do. No wonder you're so fond of it, Mole. Tell us all about it, and how you came to make it what it is."

Then, while the Rat busied himself fetching plates, and knives and forks, and mustard which he mixed in an egg-cup, the Mole, his bosom still heaving with the stress of his recent emotion, related — somewhat shyly at first, but with more freedom as he warmed to his subject — how this was planned, and how that was thought out, and how this was got through a windfall from an aunt, and that was a wonderful find and a bargain, and this other thing was bought out of laborious savings and a certain amount of "going without." His spirits finally quite restored, he must needs go and caress his possessions, and take a lamp and show off their points to his visitor and expatiate on them, quite forgetful of the supper they both so much needed; Rat, who was desperately hungry but strove to conceal it, nodding seriously, examining with a puckered brow, and saying, "wonderful," and "most remarkable," at intervals, when the chance for an observation was given him.

....

The weary Mole also was glad to turn in without delay, and soon had his head on his pillow, in great joy and contentment. But ere he closed his eyes he let them wander round his old room, mellow in the glow of the firelight that played or rested on familiar and friendly things which had long been unconsciously a part of him, and now smilingly received him back, without rancour. He was now in just the frame of mind that the tactful Rat had quietly worked to bring about in him. He saw clearly how plain and simple — how narrow, even — it all was; but clearly, too, how much it all meant to him, and the special value of some such anchorage in one's existence. He did not at all want to abandon the new life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all they offered him and creep home and stay there; the upper world was all too strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew he must return to the larger stage. But it was good to think he had this to come back to, this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome.

....

Listen to Jennifer Mendenhall read it all aloud on NPR.

Peeking into the blog

Hello?


Anyone here?


I say, is anyone here?



I guess not. I'll check back later.
....

Howard Dean says vote "no" on the Lieberman Bill

"There's no cost control of any kind. You're going to be forced to buy health insurance from a company that's gonna take, on average, 27% of your money so they can pay CEOs 20 million dollars a year, and so they can have return on equity for their shareholders, and there's no choice about that; if you don't buy that insurance you gonna get a fine. This is a bill that was funda,entally written by staffers who are friendly to the insurance industry, held up, so it was friendly to the insurance industry by senators who take a lot of money from the insurance industry, and it is not health care reform. I think it is too bad that it has come to this."

On passage of this bill, vote yes or no?

"No, absolutely not. You cannot vote for a bill like this in good conscience. It costs too much money, it isn't health care reform, it's not even insurance reform. Take for ex this, there's a lot of talk about people who have pre-exsiting conditions can get health insurance. Well, not exactly. The fine print in the senate says, the healthcare industry gets to charge you three times as much if you are older as if you are younger, and they get to write the rules. That's in the senate bill. This bill is no longer reform."

After that no vote, strategically, where would you say the Democrats should go?

"I don't think this will happen, if it were me I'd kill the bill all entirely and have the house start reconciliation, which is what they should have done in the first place. So, to be held up by four senators, a minority of forty, who are totally uncooperative, which is the Republicans, and then four senators who are beholden to the insurance industry I think is wrong, but that's what's happend. So, the other thing you could do is pas the good stuff, pass the exchanges, pass the money for the prevention wellness, pass the community health care center money in a small bill, don't run our children into debt and come back and do this two years later. I disagree with the administration when they say a president won't take this on for another twenty years.

We're in crisis here, this bill I think is more likely to make the crisis worse than it is better because it is so expensive. We can come back with a new congress -- which unfortunately as a result of all this will have fewer Democrats, but it'll still have a Democratic majorities -- we can come back wuth a new congress and we could pass a bill, which we had on the senate floor last week, that would insure people faster, even though it is delayed by a year and a half, than the bill that's going to be passed in the senate."

Keep on fighting. Keep on fighting for real health care reform, he says.

Why not pass a really incremental bill, in other words, one with the small and good stuff and build the legislative coalition required to pass the bigger stuff -- preexisting conditions, a real public option -- in the next phase of legislation.

Who said it had to happen now? Who said that making President Obama go down in history is more important than getting the right legislation passed? We didn't start out Social Security and Medicaid in the hopes of making FDR or LBJ heroes of history. We didn't worry about their legacies. We legislated with intelligence and heart according to need and moral courage for the benefit of our society.

Who says that doing it this way won't send President Obama down in history as a great American president?

Perhaps today we are making the electoral progress necessary to obtain the legislative representation that is necessary to pass the true health care reform so necessary to our country and it's citizens, to the benefit of everyone, and not just the insurance companies.

Maybe we need to tend to first things first, as we put together a coalition of representatives like Weiner, Grayson, Sanders, and a long list of others who are ready to work to do what's right.

Feel free to share your opinion.
....

The late shift

Sponge cake birthday cupcakes

There is no such thing as failure at 1 am.

That's a new rule if I am going to start making cupcakes at 11:30 pm, after a day of Christmas shopping and dinner at 10 pm. No matter how bad it is -- well, except the disgusting recipe for vanilla buttercream that I abandoned for reminding me of what we produced in 6th grade Home Ec class --, you do not start over, and you do not promise yourself to make another batch, just in case, tomorrow.

I didn't have any brown sugar, even after a stop at the grocery store for possible necessary ingredients, so they are not Devil's Food.

I didn't have enough sugar, as it turned out, and had to pound sugar cubes with a meat mallet.

I also didn't have any white chocolate, so they are vanilla buttercream frosted and not chocolate buttercream frosted. I purposely didn't buy "dessert" chocolate for the buttercream since I wanted to use red food coloring to make them pink. The birthday girl, one of my sister-in-laws, had her third baby, after two boys, about two months ago. Lou. Lou's Mom needs pink cupcakes for her birthday so that everyone will know these cupcakes are about Lou.

They have sprinkles and red cherries on top, too.

If I find the energy, however -- who needs the time --, I will make a dessert for the grownups. This one might be visually pleasing, but I don't know what the French palette will make of it. While it succeeds as a visual attempt to celebrate a mother-daughter birthday-birthday, it might well fail as a delight for the mature taste bud.

I don't know what mine would make of it were I still eating that sort of thing. I licked the beaters and my fingers. That was enough of a sugar rush to get me through the clean-up at 2 am.

Water's running in the kitchen sink. Gotta' go.
....

L'aire du temps, le piano

Or, maybe people enjoy playing the piano and making music.

Dogs, too.

This inspires an architect to make stairs more than stairs, and just me to make life more than life.
....

Not feeling so lucky

That's pictures of the ceiling and wall in the room I plastered and painted about 7 years ago, my first effort in the house at beautification; they look even worse because I used the "I'm feeling lucky" feature on them in Picasa. The beautification was partial, even though it seemed gorgeous to me then (you'd have had to have seen the room before), since I just left the odd insulating paper in place on two walls and painted it to match everything else rather than installing drywall, or its French équivalent. Now, it's all ruined anyway.

First, there were the large cracks that opened in the walls and ceiling (I haven't even shown you the scary ones in the closet; I suspect the skeletons). They matched the ones downstairs, but everyone told us not to worry. They're probably just superficial.

Why, then, are they so wide and so deep?

Then, my husband's youngest daughter -- the one who is more than 12 but not 13 -- yelled from where she was sitting in bed, playing DS (I'm making an educated guess based on experience that she wasn't actually reading), "Il y a de l'eau au-dessus du lit!"

I thought of Monsieur Leroy, our local roofer, come last May to place a large tarp over the petite maison when the same thing happened there, who stood outside the house and looked at the work in progress with me. He had pointed up to the place where the newer part of the house joins the original 1865 construction, and he shook his head. We were going to have problems because we had one, according to him, already. I believed him. Just looking at this house is enough to tell you that we have more than one.

Of course, one of the two guys who has been doing all the work on the exterior renovation is a roofer himself. He said we needed a whole new roof, quickly. Monsieur Leroy said we didn't need a new roof any time soon, but we did need to take care of the flashing between the newer roof and the wall and around the chimney, quickly, only he was very busy. But, then it started to rain in the house before he could get back to do the work.

Audouin ran up to see. I could picture it, so I sat still and imagined water running down the wall, puddling on the floor. I had seen the water damage the other day, when I was treating and painting the new oak French door (By the way, chaletlafôret suggests Borax paste next time; leave it on for 30 minutes and follow up with almond paste. Sounds like something that would work on my face.). The paint already chipped on that, where it closes, and I did wait to shut the door.

"Prends une serviette et tirer le lit du mur!" I shouted, trying to be helpful. "J'ai vu ça avec Monsieur Leroy quand il est venu ici en mai," I told him when he came back down. "Il a dit qu'il faudrait qu'on fasse ça mais il n'avait pas le temps tout de suite."

"Tu l'appeleras demain?" Yes, I will call him tomorrow, I answered. He will come as soon as he can.

Hopefully, before the newer part of the house falls off and fells the thing we call the garage.
....

The absence of no

The plate, gold-leaf restored and polished
Steinway Model A 1911
Pianos Baudry, Us, France

"No", it turns out, is not "yes". Le même s'applique pour "non" et "oui".

I knew that. I really did. The absence of "no" is, however, closer to yes than is the presence of "no". I knew this, too. The dinner table is becoming the marketplace, the corner café, the place where news is sought and exchanged, for better and for worse.

"C'est vrai qu'on va avoir un piano?" asked his youngest daughter, past 12, not yet 13. She got me. The moment of truth was thrust upon me, and by no treachery on her part. She looked genuinely interested in my answer. My answer. I glanced at her father, and then back at her before replying. Think quick.

"Ben [that's a form of "bon", or good, that means "wellll" or "OK"], peut-être," come on, say it, there's no use pussy-footing around here, "Je veux dire, oui."

"Ah bon?" spluttered her father, seated across from me at the table. This was the first indication that the absence of "no" is not the presence of "yes". Think quick.

"Enfin, si votre père donne son accord final," I glanced quickly at him. His daughter continued without missing a beat; our exchange being irrelevant at past 12 and not yet 13.

"Parce que d'ai envie de jouer au piano," she finished. She is turning into an excellent ally. Now I know why mothers require at least one daughter.

"Alors, tu joueras au piano."

"Comment on va payer ce piano?" asker her father without missing a beat; my exchange with his daughter being irrelevant as bread-winner. Think more quickly.

"Euh, avec un peu de notre argent et un peu de ce que j'ai aux States."

"Avec l'euro à $1.50?"

"Ah bon? C'est à ce point là?" As if I didn't suspect. The dollar has been weak against the euro ever since we arrived, more than 7, but less than 8 years ago.

"Où est-ce qu'on va le mettre?" asked his youngest son, more than 15, but not yet 16, although he's gaining, without stopping to pay attention to the exchange between the bread-winner and his lovely partner.

"Pas dans le salon," his father replied, decisively. Remember, he thinks pianos are ugly and make an unpleasant noise.

"Ca serait dommage quand même car il est beau. Il serait la plus belle chose dans la maison."

"On peut le mettre dans le petit salon," said his son, mine remaining quite quiet during all this. It struck me that I had another ally in my stepson. Somehow, the subject petered out, for the moment. I did the dishes with my husband, dejected. I went to bed and wrote in my journal (that's where I say all the things I would never say here. You didn't think I tell you everything, did you?), dejected, while he read.

"Tu fais la tête?" he asked, not without concern. I shook my head, but I was pouting. Absolutely. I felt terrible about wanting a piano -- this piano -- so much, when we need so many things that I want, too. Like a sofa. Ours is, well, a hand-me-down, beat to hell and an embarrassment.

I woke up, dejected, next to my husband.

"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a qui ne va pas?" What's wrong?, he asked.

"Je pense au piano." He laughed. "Je le veux."

"Tu viens à la gyme avec moi ou non?" I was too miserable to answer. How to tell him why I want this so much? Worse, how to explain to someone who feels exactly the opposite way why it's so important to me? I was going to have to. That, or renounce. I shrugged. He went to get ready to go, and I pulled the duvet up closer to my chin and stared at the wall. I was going to have to get up eventually, and the car, it appeared to me, would be, after all, the best place to talk to him. It's always that way with males. But, in the car, I was still mute and miserable.

"Tu penses à quoi?" he asked.

"Au piano." This time, he laughed out loud.

"Mais, si tu le veux tant que ça, achete-le. Je ne sais pas comment on va le payer, mais -- "

"Je ne sais pas t'expliquer pourquoi je le veux -- "

"Tu ne dois pas m'expliquer pourquoi -- "

"Si, je dois. Je dois t'expliquer pourquoi."

And I did try to explain why I want it so badly when there are so many things we both want. I tried to explain about playing when I was little and why I stopped. I tried to explain how when people tell you that you will regret having done so, they are right because you lose what you once had, and every time you pass a piano, you remember and you know that you can do nothing with it now. It's a real loss, and a real regret. I tried to explain how music had been in my life since I sat with my mother and watched the symphony on television and she taught me which instruments were which, since she bought a piano and I began lessons, since I sang in chorus and we were surrounded by musicians in high school, where our select choir won top honors in the state competitions, just like the orchestra and the jazz band. We ate lunch in the chorus room, listening to the stereo, gathering for jam sessions with Jeff Millstein improvising at the piano.

Jeff was the other reason I stopped playing. He had the quality that Fabio had, and that my nephew has; they know where the music is in the piano, and they only have to bring it out. I had to look for it, knowing it was in there, somewhere. But I found it, and I could play it. Today, I can't.

Then, Sam played the violin, and I listened to his teacher and wanted to make those sounds. I wanted a fine violin for my son, so that the sounds he could make would be the most beautiful and the most emotional possible. He stopped, and CDs in the stereo cannot come anywhere near real music in your home, whether you make it, or others make it. I tried to explain that I want the possibility of real music in my home and to make my efforts to make it myself, but it cannot be on just any piano. I need a piano that sings with warmth and vibrancy.

"J'ai besoin -- tu vas dire que c'est stupide --, mais j'ai besoin d'embellir notre vie."

"Ce n'est pas stupide."

"Je ne parle pas de la beauté superficielle, mais la beauté de la manière de vivre et les possibilités de cette vie."

"Je comprends."

I believed him.
....

My piano

My nephews, playing Schubert's Trio in E flat Major

"Tu étais où?" he demanded, when I opened the car door a little too casually, where I had just pulled up in front of the house and begun struggling with the car CD player to remove a version of Schubert's Trio in E flat Major with Vladimir Ashkenazy and Pinchas Zuckerman. I had seen him approach the passenger door out of the corner of my eye. He had been watching for me. I smiled. I knew I was in trouble. I had just received his message and seen that my cell phone answering service had called me, oh, 10 times, but I felt a little touched.

Going on 50, and nearly in trouble. I felt 15 all over again.

I sidestepped his question. The moment was not quite propitious to reply. Not at all. After all, for the moment, I was in trouble. I continued to fiddle with the CD player.

"Mais! Qu'est-ce que fais?"

"Je n'arrive pas à sortir le CD."

"Laisse tomber." But I didn't want to let it go and get it later; it was very useful for distracting a piqued husband. "Je ne savais pas où tu étais, et il est tard. Tu pouvais avoir eu un accident, et je n'en savais rien." It's true. I could have had an accident.

"Mais, j'ai dit à Sam où j'allais." The CD slid out and I gathered up my things and stepped from the car, hoping to confound him with my presence and beauty.

"Quand j'ai enfin pu arracher un mot de Sam, il ne savait pas non plus où tu étais allée." He wasn't sounding all too pleased with my son's communicativeness, but then again, it would be particularly misplaced of him to make an issue of that particular, well, issue.

"Oh," I thought a moment, making sure to look concerned and contrite enough, since my beauty was perhaps not having the full desired effect. "Peut-être je ne l'ai pas dit." I explained that he had called from the vaccination center for the terrible flu thing we call H1N1 here, when I was taking his daughter home from riding class, and I was trying to listen to him, talk and not be rude to her all at the same time. "J'ai peut-être oublié." He followed me into the house.

"Tu pouvais être blessée." At least he didn't say "dead". "Alors, tu étais où?" I was going to have to answer the question, and better to be honest about it, even if I had just managed to create the exact opposite of the conditions required for my communication.

"J'ai été allée voir les pianos." I turned to busy myself at the kitchen counter. It was, after all, past 10 pm, and no one had had dinner. I heard him draw a breath in.

"J'en étais sûr. Alors, tu l'as acheté?" He let the breathe out. I drew one in, much more subtly. This was it.

"Non. Pas encore."

"Pourquoi pas?" I let the breathe out, barely perceptibly.

"Parce que, ce n'est pas le piano que je veux." He looked at me. "C'est un autre que je veux. De chez lui." He sought to clarify; I didn't want the piano at 3,000 euros that I did want the other day? I nodded. I'd have to explain. Monsieur Baudry had suggested that even if he didn't like the piano, he could possibly understand that like anything complex, there are differences in the quality of the instruments that can explain why -- oh! how self evident this was! -- a better one is more expensive.

This can perhaps be better explained if I say that I had given articulation to my fear some moments before, before I crossed the villages of the Vexin Français, listening to Schubert's trio and thinking of my nephews and niece playing it together, avoiding announcing the joy that made my heart sing as I drove in and out of drizzling rain and a succession of lovely old villages (picturing us -- and the piano -- living in several different homes I passed in the dark), over the phone, the fear that my husband not liking the piano at all would be perfectly indifferent to the reasons I wanted this piano, and not the one I thought I could want. Monsieur Baudry had made the list for me. It was my own. I drew breath in again, and decided to go for simplicity of expression and absolute truth.

I must have been convincing (enough) for when he asked me how much this piano was, and I gave an approximate answer (which I could do in all honesty because the price wasn't established, not yet, but I had a ballpark figure; it would all depend on whether Monsieur felt that he could harmonize the piano without sending the hammers to Germany to have the felt changed, which he wouldn't know until he sat down and studied it in the morning), he remained silent.

Which means, he didn't argue. He didn't tell me no.

In two weeks, I have gone from only thinking vaguely of wishing to have an to play a piano again, to considering purchasing a very basic piano for which you can find no information online (nor in the piano atlases -- a bad sign), to nearly purchasing a good Swedish piano with an excellent Renner mechanism and nice sound and touch, to actually contemplating the purchase of a 1920s Johann Urbas piano. I had not completely lost my mind; I was not looking at the Hamburg Steinway and Bechstein uprights, and I had not given serious thought at all to the lovely satin black Feurich, from the 1920s, as well. I had merely returned to make sure. "My" piano had moved to the front and center of the studio work area for harmonizing and tuning.

Seeing it there, I needed to swallow. I wasn't sure. I thought I might need to talk myself into it, like a reluctant courter. He played it a little for me and talked about how it was a good piano. Monsieur Baudry is not a "commercial", or a salesperson. He is a master piano technician, a lover of pianos. Whether I buy the least or the most expensive piano is of no concern to him for someone will buy them, every one of them that he presently has, and every one that he will have valued and brought to him, of which about a third will become his own pianos.

"Et s'il y avait un argument pour acheter un piano un crin au-dessus," just a hair better, "il serait quoi?"

Monsieur drew in a breath and began to explain that if I really thought I might wish to own a better piano (and it was starting to become clear that I did) it would be best to make the investment now, if I possibly could, since it would avoid the problems of selling the one I was buying, having it transported and moving a new one in. Beyond the practical aspect, I would, of course, benefit from better quality of construction, greater durability, a finer voice and touch, and a piano I would be happy to have for a very long time. It would be, he said, perhaps, a Sauter, and he rolled one out from a long line of pianos, stored sideways against the studio wall. The most impressive were the grands, ranged on their sides like so many filing cases, wrapped in moving blankets, their legs up on top. He knew which each was, how it sings, to what music it is best suited. They are the pianos he rents for concerts. They are his pianos.

I looked at it. It was walnut in a satin finish, rustic carvings of nature graced the Chippendale legs, the case and below the keyboard. Audouin would prefer it, I thought. Monsieur began to play it. It was nice. I sat down on the piano bench and looked at its open case, just touching the side of a gleaming 1920s Hamburg Steinway O model, and down along the length of the room, past several Steinway and Bechstein grands to the far wall, letting my gaze run back up the other side, stopping at the half taken apart mahogany upright to my side.

"J'aime ce piano." I stood and moved closer to it.

"Alors, achetez le," he said, raising his shoulders and eyebrows and smiling kindly at me.

"Vous plaisantez," I laughed, joining in the joke. Only it wasn't one. He thought I could. "Alors, il serait combien?"

I returned my gaze to the glow of the aged whiskey-colored wood, the straight legs, the keys that seemed less plastic than those of the Nordiska and the Sauter. I touched one. It was soft and alive. I read the name of the manufacturer again, in raised lettering on the plate, Johann Urbas. I heard him say the price. I looked at him. I thought I saw him trying to find a way to make this piano possible for me. So many pianists, he had told me, excellent ones, very capable ones, only think of the technical performance of the piano, they don't, he said, hear the piano. This made no sense to me, except how else could so many industrial assembly-mine pianos get to the market and be sold if this were not true?

"Mais, ce n'est pas comme ça pour les violonistes, violoncellistes? Il parlent toujours de la voix de leur instrument."

"Oh! Mais pas de tout!" he had said, agreeing. "Depuis qu'ils sont petits, ils cherchent à faire le plus beau son. Ils écoutent leurs instruments, et ils font la même chose quand ils achètent un piano."

"Peut-être," I sought to explain this, "c'est parce qu'un enfant joue souvent le piano qui se trouve chez ses parents, comme un meuble, un objet dans la famille, ou parce qu'ils achètent quelque chose 'pour voir' si leur enfant est sérieux, et puis il ne joue que celui-ci et celui de son professeur. Il travail la technique, et il vie avec le son de son piano." He nodded in agreement. I didn't know that Schubert sounds "right" on a Bechstein, nor that a Bechstein upright has a delicacy, a finesse that suits other music better than a grand, but I did know enough to be convinced that no two pianos are alike in the sound they produce.

He explained that the phenomenon of the ubiquitousness of certain instruments, despite a distinct lack of quality of sound (Yamahas) is because they were able to saturate the market with instruments at a competitive price at a time when quality of fabrication was dropping anyway -- gone with the last of the artisans in so many other fields -- as people were demanding the "democratization" of the piano. Combine that with lack of demand for "voice", and you have the resurgence of the Japanese pianos, and, today, the plethora of lesser quality pianos coming off the lines in Indonesia, China, South America, and so on. The conservatories, he explained, buy Yamahas and the students sign contracts to purchase an Yamaha, with the ability to "trade up" in their line after two years. The ear becomes trained to the instrument, and not the other way around. It is Monsieur Baudry's hope to encourage more music schools to buy well-maintained and reconditioned used European pianos, which more than compete economically, provide more nuanced sound and will outlast the production pianos.

As he spoke, I recalled my son's violin teacher as he played, first, his violin, and, then, his viola for us. The beauty of the sound. I recalled remembering the screeching dry sound of the violins in our school orchestra, provided by the school, and wanting to get the best-sounding instrument for my son that I could, while he still played. It makes a difference. We were still standing by the Johann Urbas piano, and I touched the keys while I watched him think. They made you want to play this piano.

"J'aime le toucher de ce piano."

"C'est beaucoup plus profond." I continued to pick out little melodies that came from nothing and were less while he thought a little more.

"Je pourrais peut-être éviter de changer les marteaux," he finally said. If he could, then he could offer me the piano for a little less, "pas beaucoup, vous comprenez, mais un peu." I understood, and I felt grateful to him. He said he would look at it in the morning. It would take him about an hour to determine if he could possibly do that and still make the piano sound the way he thought it should. He placed the front of the case back on it, and we looked together at the carving. He reached forward and touched it, "Je n'ai même pas touché à ça." It didn't look to me like it needed to be polished, cleaned or anything.

It was lovely.

"Je pourrais être très heureuse pour longtemps avec ce piano," I said. He raised an eyebrow, looking at me and then at the piano and nodded.

"Oui." Oui, vous pourriez l'être.

I felt my heart race a little, driving home. I knew what I was going to do, if it wouldn't be at the cost of my marital happiness, and remembered what my friend had written to me when I told her that I was about to buy another piano, "Congratulations, you are soon to be the owner of a beautiful piano! It's very exciting when they roll it into your home. You won't regret it."

Last night, I stopped at my sister and brother-in-law's to call home. There were problems with the trains on that line in and out of Paris all days, and my cell phone battery had given out. I didn't want a repeat of the prior evening's doings, so I rolled the load of fabric I had just bought with a friend at the Marché St. Pierre on the little cart I picked up at the bottom of the street, near Barbès Rouchechuart, from the RER station, up their street and stopped on the way to my car, parked a little further along, in front of my other sister and brother-in-law's home. I sat it inside the gate and went to knock on the door.

It was nearly dinner time, and one by one, those not home arrived. A plate was set out for me for dinner despite my protests that my husband was going to have a fit -- two nights in a row, deprived of my company -- and then we talked of my purchase. Unlike his brother, my brother-in-law and his wife love music period. Their son is a gifted pianist at only 11. His older brother plays the violin, their sister, the cello. They listened while I told them about my piano and listening to Schubert's Trio in E flat Major. I knew they children were working on this piece together, their first collaboration. They agreed to play for me, all but my niece, who had already gone to her room, sore from her new braces.

It was magnificent. It truly was. The others in the family who don't care to appreciate this may do and think as they like, but I want to be able to offer a gorgeous piano with beautiful sound in my home to musicians who come to visit, and to be able to do what I will be able to again one day with my own hands.

Johann Urbas began making pianos in Dresden, Germany in 1894. In 1945, it was bombed in the bombing of Dresden. I think of Victor Klemperer who survived that night, as did his wife, from whom he became separated during the horror; he found her the next day, another of the miracles in which life seems to abound. I think of Wladyslaw Szpilman, whose life was saved by a piano and a German officer, or, as he corrects himself, "a human being who wore the uniform of the Germans", Wilm Hosenfeld.

"Jouez quelque chose!"

Comment? Monsieur l'officier ignorait-il que les SS des environs allaient arriver en courrant dès qu'ils entendraient les premières notes? Je l'ai dévisagé avec perplexité, sans bouger, et il a dü percevoir mon embarras puisqu'il a ajouté d'un ton rassurant:

"Ne vous enquiétez pas, je vous assure. Si quelqu'un vient, vous irez vous cacher dans le garde-manger et je dirai que c'est moi aui voulais l'essayer, ce piano..."

Quand j'ai posé mes doigts sur le clavier, j'ai senti qu'ils tremblaient. Habitué que j'avais été à gagner ma vieen plaquant des accords, je devais donc la sauver maintenant de la même manière! Quel changement!... Et ses doigts agités de frissons, privés d'exercise depuis deux ans et demi, raidis par le froid et la saleté, embarrassés par des ongles que je n'avais pu couper depuis l'incendie qui avait failli m'emporter! Pour ne rien arranger, l'instrument se trouvait dans une pièce dont les fenêtres avaient été brisées et les réactions de sa caisse imprégnée d'humidité seraient sans doute désastreuses.

J'ai joué le Nocturne en ut dièse mineur de Frédéric Chopin. Le son vitreux des cordes mal tendues s"est répandu dans l'appartement désert, et allé flotter sur les ruines de la villa en face pour revenir en échos étouffés d'un rare mélancolie. Lorsue j'ai terminé le morceau, le simence n'en a semblé que plus oppressant, irréel. Un chat solitaire s'est mis à miauler dans la rue. Puis il y a eu un coup de feu en bas, e bruit agressif, sans apel, si typiquement allemand...

L'officier me regardait sans rien dire. Au bout de quelues minutes, ila poussé un soupire avant de murmurer:

"En tout cas vous ne devez pas rester ici. Je vais vous sortir de là. En dehors de Varsovie, dans un village, vous serez moins en danger."
J'ai sécoué la tête, lentement mais avec fermeté.
-- Non, je ne paritrai pa. Je ne peux pas.
A cette réponse, il a sursauté. Il venait enfin de comprendre pour quelle raison je me cachais parmi ces ruines, visiblement.
-- Vous... vous êtes juif? m'a-t-il demandé d'une voix oppressée.
-- Oui."

Pour la première fois depuis notre rencontre, il a décroisé les bras et s'est assis dans le fauteuil ui flanquait le piano, comme si cette révélation demandait d'être mûrement considérée.

"Euh, oui, certes... Sa voix était à peine audible. Dans ce cas je comprends, en effet."

If you have read or seen The Pianist, you know that he asked Szpilman to show him his hiding place in the attic, and that he brought him bread, sausage and raspberry jam to sustain him while he protected him; you know that it would be the officer who would die, while Szpilman would return to the radio in Warsaw and play again, his first piece that same one with which he left off at the beginning of the invasion, the same one he played for Hosenfeld, Chopin's Nocturne in C sharp Minor.


....

The unwashed hordes?

I think not, although I can understand why a commenter the other day to my Thanksgiving post on Sarah Palin, "I have an opinion, therefore I am [American]", might be tempted to discount these thousands of Americans, lining up to get their copies of the New York Times bestseller Going Rogue signed by their idol outside major bookstore chains around the country, saying, "I am not at all concerned about the unwashed hordes. It is not now - nor has it ever been - about them."

I suppose I differ in opinion. It isn't about them, but it isn't about us, either. It is about America, a country to which we all hold rights to participate in decisions about how our society will be governed and its character. These are not a handful of filthy, ignorant Americans dribbling into the halls of evangelical churches in remote rural corners of our nation, but thousands of Americans with college educations, who run businesses and ranches, families raising children climbing out of their minivans and lining up outside Borders bookstores in major American urban areas, and they hold a set of ideals based on sometimes shaky factual grounds and but always rock solidly held religious and social convictions.

My husband has argued since Jean-Marie Le Pen started running for office that since France is a representative democracy with a proportional legislative branch, the people who vote for him have as much a right to be heard and their point of view represented as do he and I, whether we like what they have to say or not. I have searched for arguments to counter his point of view. They usually run along the "but you have to draw the line somewhere in society, or you might move closer and closer to Hitler's National Socialist politics without even realizing its imminence."

And he argues back ( in French, though), "Then you have to address the basis of their concerns, which are grounded in legitimacy, to prevent the extremism of their reactionary reasoning."

In other words, if white French people in cities and villages fear rising crime associated with waves of unintegrated immigrants, then you have to address the integration of those immigrants, spend more in policing, readopt neighborhood policing strategies, invest in education and jobs training and actually hire qualified immigrants to provide jobs, income and a sense of hope to people formerly ushered to the waiting cités, with their invisible but nearly unscalable ghetto walls, or you will see the numbers of those supporting Le Pen rise and society will shift in character from more inclusive to less inclusive, charges of racism aside, and people who might not actually have been racist will become so. Their concerns, he argues, are not less valid because they are less appealing to those who tend to identify themselves as "liberals" or on "the Left".

Damon Linker, writing in The New Republic today in his article "Against Common Sense", traces these more perfect, more Good Americans' unswerving confidence in the righteousness of the Truth of their vision, a vision of America and what it ought to be that is based on their conviction of the infallibility of their Common Sense. Sarah Palin belongs to them, proves them right, come as she has as a prophet of the credo of the Truth of Common Sense. Linker writes:

Drawing on the Scottish tradition of Common Sense philosophy—which asserted that commonly held opinions are our most trustworthy guide to truth—writers connected to the Princeton Theological Seminary naively suggested that spontaneous universal concord on every matter of moral, scientific, and spiritual significance should be possible. Men and women need only open their eyes to apprehend directly the timeless, objective, self-evident truth about all things: God, nature, right and wrong.

For these theologians, the very idea of a genuine (as opposed to a spurious) conflict between reason and faith, science and religion—let alone between opposing political views—began to seem inconceivable. They thus tended to trace disagreements to defects in the mind or morals of whomever dissented from prevailing religious, scientific, social, cultural, or political opinion. Maybe the dissenter had succumbed to the sin of pride, which led him astray. Or perhaps he made an innocent error of reasoning, or got caught up in futile metaphysical speculation. And then there was the most ominous possibility—that he was seduced by unbelief or false religion. Whatever the case, the disagreement was assumed to flow not from the intrinsic complexity of either the world or the nature of the mind but rather from an accidental failing rooted in a particular individual or group—a defect that could potentially be removed, thus restoring the inevitability of universal agreement based on self-evident common sense.

Listen to the voices in the video above. You will hear these very words: common sense, truth. You will hear them spoken, followed by silence, a look from the person uttering them that says, "That's it. There's nothing more to say. What I just said is inalienble, self-evident, undeniable."

And so I chose not to underestimate the force of their conviction, nor to write off the possibility that as society continues to become more complex and as people feel less able to create the society they believe is right for America, less heard and appreciated in their nation's capitol, that their numbers will grow. It happened in Germany in the 1920s and '30s, and it can always happen here. To believe otherwise might feel noble -- and it certainly sounds it to those who share Jericho's and my ideals --, but it dismisses dangerously a swathe of those who also call themselves Americans and will continue to make themselves heard and seek to influence the political structure that will determine the laws of the nation in which we all live or with which we are all associated emotionally.

They are Americans, and while they might not be as numerous as those of us who elected Brck Obama president, they do not want what we want, and they do not see America in the same terms as we do, and even if they actually do, they will not admit it. They will work to oppose us by whatever means they have. The Republican party is their party, and it is supported still by enough to keep it relevant for the time being without having to change its face, the face it has adopted since Nixon's "Southern Strategy" sought to appeal to what some now call "the unwashed hordes" of southern Dixicrats and other social conservatives. They had enough influence to change a major political party in their own image. Ought we discount them thus? Just how much do you want to insult and alienate them? How far do you want to push them, and how powerful do you want to make their leaders and spokespersons?

How, instead, to present our political philosophy and agenda in terms that come closer to meeting an opposing world view and find the common points that might exist in them, despite the huge differences in how we chose to live and what we chose to accept socially?

Before we come apart at the seams.

....

Un festin pour l'odorat

Chocolate spice bread mess

"Mom, wait, save some of that for me." I was licking the beaters when he came in from school. And the bowl, and the spoon, and the rubber scraper. "Oh, but there's almost nothing left."

"I have two more to make. I'll leave more in the bowl next time and save it for you." I was making chocolate spice breads for the hospital staff, holiday offerings for their kindness and attentiveness, for my first melanoma follow-up exam. They get chocolate spice bread, and I get to take off all my clothes and have every centimeter of my body inspected for suspicious beauty marks. I have been looking forward to this day with great anticipation since I had more flesh removed for my between-the-toes-melanoma June 30.

For months, my husband has been able to delight in referring to this upcoming trial, placing one finger above his upper lip in reference to the dermatologist's luxuriant mustache and grinning like an idiot in another kind of anticipation. The other day, he came home from the hospital and handed me another box of chocolates. Lindt.

"Divine de la part de qui c'est?" I didn't have to guess. If he asked at all, it was from his not at all secret admirer, the warmest, kindest, most considerate and appreciative of the administrative staff, his champion at arms, whose name I will withhold to protect her privacy. I raised my eyes to meet his and said her name.

"Elle a ta fiche prète depuis une semaine." She always has my paperwork ready for any appointment I have at the hospital at least a week before. Does she, we wonder, scan the system periodically for my name? No matter. Whenever I have an appointment and arrive at the admissions counter to take care of my paperwork, I take the customary number, knowing it is only for appearances. She is watching for me. She will catch my eye, smile and beckon me to the counter.

"J'ai votre fiche prète pour vous." All the eyes of the young women turn to greet me and smile. I am his wife. They all go to him now. She would have it no other way. There are doctors, and then there are those she admires. It is always for their humanity, beyond their skill, and my husband is her standard, the stick by which all others are measured. If he has married me, then I benefit automatically from her tremendous regard. Now that I need to see the doctors, I can bring her presents to match those she has offered for years to my husband, presents he can't offer himself. Last time I brought chocolates.

"Qu'est-ce tu lui donnes cette fois-ci?" he asked me. I had thought about it and had my answer ready.

"Je vais préparer des pains d'épices au chocolat pour elle à partager avec ses collègues, pour le docteur et pour son infirmière." This year, I am in the holiday mood, ready to bake up a storm.

Baking is another way to take pleasure from dessert without consuming it, by, as my husband said, experiencing an olfactory feast.

Today, in anticipation of my long-awaited exam, I made my shopping list, headed to the grocery store and hunted down the ingredients, dragging my rolling basket along behind me: honey, flour, anise, bittersweet chocolate, cocoa powder, unsalted butter, and loaf pans. They didn't have pretty ones, but I couldn't be so nice as that. Then, I went off in search of wrapping paper and bows. I had some at home, but I felt like buying new ones, just for my chocolate spice breads.

"C'est quoi," asked my husband when he returned from the hospital, passing behind the two sitting cooling on the rack, while the other two finished baking, "ce festin pour l'odorat?" The house smelled of ginger, cinnamon, cloves, honey, anise and chocolate.

"Ces les cadeaux pour le staff demain." He inhaled deeply and nodded. He doesn't really like desserts and sweets. I retrieved the two from the oven and set them to cool, slightly burned at the edges, while the first two had been slightly undercooked, and I began to wash the mountain of bowls, measuring cups, spoons, beaters, and more bowls, put away flour, the bag of sugar, the cocoa and honey, the spices and waited for the bread to set. 15 minutes.

I wrapped each in plastic film, in two directions, and then in aluminum foil. I was just folding in the ends of the foil on the last chocolate spice bread when it hit me.

"Audouin?"

"Hm?"

"Mon rendez-vous," I said, "ce n'est pas demain mais mardi prochain." I had made three spice breads to give away, spent my afternoon and evening preparing it with great attention and pleasure, and my appointment was not tomorrow at all; it is next week.

"Ils seront toujours bons la semaine prochaine?" asked Audouin.

"On peut les manger tous?" asked Sam.

"Je les ai fait une semaine trop tôt," I repeated, to myself, dropping onto the sofa next to Audouin, where he was buried in his Asus. "J'aurais pu faire autre chose avec mon après-midi."

"Uhn," he said, making that sound of agreement that happens in the throat somewhere, like a positive grunt.

Never, ever do I do anything too early. Ever. Except this year, I am in the giving mood.

I'm ready to make presents and enjoy the season.
....