CRRA (The Camellia Rescue and Recovery Action)

The camellia

Pruned, leaves cut in half, and buds pinched

I am turning away from politics and humans today to concentrate on plants and buildings, ducking my head back down below the top of the garden wall, where everything is beautiful and lovely.

Sort of.

The camellia is an exception. Yesterday evening I asked Sam to grab his learner's permit stuff and drive me to Darty for printer ink and Florosny for garden stuff, things I needed for the camellia resuscitation, among other spring treatment products (as many suitable for biological gardening as possible; I am not as stringent with myself there as I ought to be). He hadn't driven since we got out of the car on the return from Chamonix, over a month ago now. Don't worry, he did fine.

It took me some time scanning the shelves in the insect and weed control area, next to fertilizers, to find what I was looking for.

"Why don't you ask someone, Mom?"

"Because there is hardly anyone left here to ask, and if I can avoid troubling them when I possibly can, I'll let them tend to other customers, hopefully getting them to buy lots of stuff so the store stays open." Victor really scared me last Christmas right before he left. "It's got to be here somewhere. I must be looking for the wrong sort of name."

I was. I had been searching for something like "traitement du pourrissement des racines", but I let my mind open up and think of the consequences -- yellowing leaves, dead areas, conifers as well as camellias --, and there it was, right in front of my eyes: Dépérissement des Confères et Feuillus, Action systémique racinaire, efficacité garantie sur phytophthora et pythium for rhododendrons, camélias, thuyas and lauriers. Curasis J.

Phytophthora. That was it.

Meanwhile, Sam had found a children's ball, one of the ones with cartoon characters or superheros on them that sell for $1.99 in big bins at the end of grocery store aisles.

"Look, Mom. I can --" he was concentrating on flipping the ball back between his heel and toes to catch it on the rear foot and chip it into my aisle. He missed. "I just did it before," he said, a little chagrined.

"It's always like that when you ask someone to look." He kept trying. I went back to studying the shelves for other things I might need, like the tar to close the sawed off branch wounds in the linden trees. I was just turning, when a flying objet whizzed past my ear and hit the boxes of fertilizer on the shelves next to me.

"Got it." It bounced and rolled near him, where he grabbed it.

"Yeah. I see. Just watch for the display." Whizzzz -- bang.

There's hardly anyone left in the store to even notice, although neither Victor, nor Thierry, nor any of the others who are gone, just like those who remain would mind.

Returning home, I gently dug up some of the roots to take a look at them. They are brown if they are suffering rot, and if they are, it might or might not be too late. I thought roots were always more or less brown, so I hadn't thought much of them.

They were. Healthy camellia roots are fleshy and white. Take a look. That's a great site.

I bent down next to the patient and applied a handful of slow-release fertilizer for acid-loving plants like camellias, rhododendrons and azaleas, scratched it into the soil -- which should be fine -- and measured out the proper dosage of the sweet-smelling fungicude (Propamocarbe HCI 722 g/l) and added the 3 to 5 liters of water required per plant, retrieved the sprinker head from the watering can and applied it all around the base of the plant, letting it soak in gradually. None flowed out the hole at the bottom of the terracotta pot.

This morning, returning from having Rapide's stitches removed (she was a champ), I got out my pruning shears (in need of sharpening) and set to work. I felt like Jules, cutting my hair, moving around the plant snipping off the leafless and budless twigs 2" to 4" long, as well as any others that grew at odd angles, were too long and spindly with tufts of leaves at the ends, one or two along their lengths, and topped the plant a bit. It had a terrible form from having been planted against a northern wall in the entry courtyard in the semi-shade of the gable end of the house, where it strained to grow toward the light, it's rear branches bending over and reaching forward through the plant to join the south-facing branch ends.

Then, I pinched off every damaged leaf and flower bud -- a very few leaf buds, like the ones in the photo, I left just to see what would become of them since they looked vital --, very possibly as much victims of the extreme cold we had -- by our and this plant's standards of typical winters here -- as of the likely root rot and transplant shock. This helps force the plant to make new ones, like removing small branches and cutting back some others encourages it to push new branch-growth, which, if all goes well, could attain 2' to 3' feet by the summer.

If all goes well. Inshallah.

Last, I used my pruning shears to cut off half of each remaining leaf, carefully rolling the tightly curled ones, white powder pouffing off their surfaces every now and then. This helps to reduce the amount of water the plants actually needs to take up with a damaged and compromised root system that is incapable of bringing sufficient water to so much leaf, while allowing the plant to continue to photosynthesize. A little, anyway.

Now, having moved it to where it can receive the morning sun -- its eventual delicate flower buds safe now (although last year, it snowed in April) from surprise frosts --, and aside from spraying for insects, there is precious little that I can do but continue to check its soil 5 to 7 cm below the surface to see when it needs watering. It is pointless to give it too much that will only keep inactive roots too wet, although drainage is pretty good.

Let us hope. Remember, my marital bliss is riding on my success.

I have some sketches to work on for a new grange (wood cabin, masonry gardening and storage space, timber carport) for my sister-in-law, so, if you will be so kind as to excuse me, I must be off.

In case you were wondering, we have not called Joaquim since the work came to an end with the announcement that we'd have to give up some other areas of the contract work to get the whole house covered in chaux -- natural stucco -- as has always been the plan. We've been busy, disgusted, and preferring to remain numb. We'll have to make the phone call and schedule the necessary negotiation.

PS: About an hour and a half has gone by, and I have to fight the urge to go out and check on my patient, absurdly half-hoping for the deep green and the sheen to be returned to the stuff leaves, buds to be forming all over.

Patience.

PPS: Oh, I just did. I couldn't help myself. Do I even need to say there was no change?

Damn. I did it again.

6:37 pm -- Oops! I did it again. I watered. A little. It's 18° C.

7:21 pm -- Can you blame me? This reminds me of the vigil for the Chasselas Doré grapevine last year this time.
....

April's fools

The accused kisser

OC resident and volunteer, our Bev Haut,
and nobody's fool

I peeked my head up over the garden wall, and what I saw was stranger than strange. In fact, it was foul. I wondered if it was:

a) me
b) the world
c) April Fool's Day
d) all of the above


Just consider these tidbits...

Anal poisoning.

Anal poisoning. Yes, Rush opens his as(s)inine mouth again today and warns that "if the British Prime Minister keeps 'slobbering' over President Barack Obama, he'll 'come down with anal poisoning and may die from it.'"

He just makes you so proud to be an American. Perhaps he is unaware that under Bush II, the rest of Europe (which scarcely considers the UK to be a part of it based on their unwillingness to go along with many EU initiatives -- take the Bristish pound stirling, as an example -- that the "real" Europeans can't get over) referred derisively to Great Britain as "the 51st state", and that despite Blair being a Labor Party PM. Didn't hear Rush complaining then, did you?

Didn't think so.

And, a joyful kiss on the President's cheek can result in more reader comments removed and replaced with the statement "This post violates our user guidelines and has been removed" than I think I have ever seen following any single newspaper blog post.

Let's check out those OC Register guidelines...

Comments are encouraged, but you must follow our User Agreement.
1. Keep it civil and stay on topic.
2. No profanity, vulgarity, racial slurs or personal attacks.
3. People who harass others or joke about tragedies will be blocked.

Ooh. It must have gotten pretty ugly because the ones that are left are fairly choice. Locksey says it straight from the gut with such simple, compelling force:

"This story, this experience does nothing but turn my stomach."

At least it didn't make him "barf in his mouth" as it allegedly did another reader.

Poor Debbie, who writes on the Facebook group I'm Proud to Know Bev Haut and I'd Kiss President Obama, too:

"My family and I moved to Southern California a year ago from Massachusetts. I could not believe the backlash this poor women received. We thought we were moving to a 'Blue' State." (Sic)

There should be a sign on the county limits that reads:

"No Place Redder than OC and Damn Proud of It.
The rest of you can get the hell out."

I'm afraid I'd have to do as Obamalover1, who wrote to say:

"I moved my kids out of OC because it is more racist than Mississippi"

Debbie must be thinking "There's no place like Massachusetts, there's no place like Massachusetts..." right about now, as Rush dreams of Senator Ted Kennedy 6 feet under long before President Obama's proposed Health Care Reform passes into law.

And then there's Great Britain Home Secretary Jacqui Smith's spokesperson clarifying the precise nature of the Minister's husband's pay-per-view movie selections, inadvertently claimed on her income taxes:

"X-rated is not the same as porn."

Thank you for clearing that up.

Meanwhile, her husband, quite understandably, "can fully understand why people might be angry and offended by this." Thank goodness there is still a sense of decency among us.

All of this made the actual Daily Candy New York April Fool's piece look downright tame and mundane.

Oh. And then there's the GOP budget.

I'll have to risk sticking my head up again tomorrow and taking a look to rule out answers C and D.

Or, on second thought, maybe I'll just watch my camellia get better.
....

Fish kisses

Trust

That's one of my four fish friends. The survivors. If I talk to them in their fishcan [trans.: a trashcan containing fish, rocks and plants], they will come to look at me. If I put the tip of my finger to the surface of the water, they will come and see if it isn't something to eat. This does not frighten me. They are not barracudas. It kind of tickles. A little bit of a suction effect. Like a kiss. A fish kiss. I haven't offered my own lips yet. The ends of my hair would get wet, and Baccarat might bump into me and send me headfirst onto the reefs below, scaring the few wits she possesses right out of Rapide, not to mention the fish.

Rapide has, by the way, been doing wonderfully since the vet operated to remove the cyst from her left tear duct almost two weeks ago. It's amazing. When he first saw her a couple years ago, he said that it looked like she had an inverted lower eyelid on the right side. It was true. You always saw the inside of the lower eye, sort of droopy and red. It seemed a bit of a shame for such a noble dog. It ran a lot, too.

Then, he noticed the cyst back in January.

"How long has she had that?" he asked in French.

"Je ne sais pas. Depuis toujours, ou longtemps au moins." I couldn't recall it not having been there, but I couldn't be certain either, and, besides, he notices everything. Wouldn't he have said something before?

"On devrait l'enlever," he said. I visualized myself writing more checks and Audouin sighing heavily over our pet budget. He's starting to wish he had gone to veterinary school and not medical school.

Let's check the earliest photos, taken in September 2006, just after we brought them home.

Oh. Hm. Not much there, is there? Maybe a tiny little something, if you look really close. Now I have to go through all the hundreds of photos to see when it first really showed up. It must have been very progressive because I look really closely at these dogs, a camera lens practically glued to my own eyes.

When she came out of the vet's clinic the day she had it removed, she was a wreck.

"Elle est terrorisée," said the vet, as she crashed into the door frame with her lampshade thing around the head and jumped back in fright. I barely recognized her, all scrunched up and shaking, her head swaying this way and that, trying to see to her side and figure out why she didn't make it around corners anymore without a jolt to her head.

"Je vois ça."

The lampshade thing protecting her stitches lasted all of 3 1/2 days. It was supposed to make it through 14 and be removed along with the stitches on the 15th. On the 5th, however, I was carrying it in my hand into the vet's office. The assistant took one look at it, glanced at Rapide, and asked, "How long has she had that off?" in French.

"Depuis avant hier soir."

"Et elle a toujours ses pointes de sutures?" I nodded.

"Elle ne les a pas touché, mais elle ne supporte pas cette espèce d'abat-jour." She nodded, looking doubtfully at Rapide. The vet laughed when we walked through his door.

"Elle a fait exprès," I said to him. At least not in the beginning, but after running into enough pillars and posts, corners and doorframes and seeing that it was breaking, she started in on it with energy and application, batting it with her huge paws until it tore clean to the collar, and when a second tear formed at the peripheral edge, she went at that one until I found her the previous morning with the thing bent back over her shoulders, a large section missing.

It was pointless to leave it on her. I watched to see if she'd go for the stitches, but she did nothing but gloat at her own accomplishment.

"Ben, si elle ne les touche pas, on peut le laisser tomber."

"Je pense," I said, "qu'on n'a pas de choix. C'est elle qui décide."

Upon examination, her eye was perfect, her stitches intact.

"Elle a ouvert son oeil quand?"

"Son oeil ne fut jamais fermé," I said. "Vous avez du très bien réussi. C'est ouvert et clair depuis que je la cherchai à la clinique l'autre jour, vous savez." Which reminded me that we had also noticed, or I had, anyway, that the droopy, red lower lid on the other side had disappeared right along with the removal of the cyst, and the eye teared less. I explained it to him, asking, "Est-ce que le cyst fut réponsable pour l'autre oeil?" He looked up from her eye and right at me.

"Non, pas de tout."

"C'est drôle. Ce fut immédiat, et ses deux yeux semblent mieux." Maybe he is on the verge of a veternarial opthamological discovery. He has a specialty in this area. I did not, however, insist. Let him discover for himself. I'll bet you dollars to dozens that he'll be on the look-out now for the same with other dogs presenting the same symptoms and condition.

The cyst in protective fluid that went off for testing in Toulouse appears to have been benign, since we have had no news of it. Tant mieux.

So, the camellia.

....

The sick Camellia japonica

The camellia bush. I tremble.

My husband came home from work last evening just as I had let myself out the lower gate to take the dogs for a walk. I opened the large sliding gate for him to park his motorcycle. He got down, have me a kiss hello from inside his helmet and I cast my eyes down somewhere beside the rear wheel of the bike.

"Tu vas te fâcher contre moi."

"Pour qoui?"

"Parce que," my volume lowering defensively, mumbling, "j'ai oublié, en fin, je n'ai pas pensé à temps d'aller à la boulangerie chercher de pain, ni de vin."

"Comment? Je n'ai pas entendu." I grimaced. I hate having to say I didn't go get the baguette and wine before the stores closed.

"J'ai dit qu'avec le changement horaire, il faisait plus clair plus long et je ne me suis pas rendu compte qu'il fut déjà si tard, alors j'ai raté la boulangerie. Et le vin."

"Ah, il n'y a aucune importance. J'ai pensé que tu allais dire que le camélia est mort. Je l'ai vu ce matin. Ca -- ça c'est grave. Tu n'as pas de montre pour voir l'heure?" Actually, no. I haven't had a watch for awhile and I sort of avoid going to the store when I don't feel like it. I had both my cell phone and my laptp right next to me or in front of me. I could have checked the time.

"Il n'est pas mort. Je suis allée le voir aussi. Il a l'aire d'être mort, mais il ne l'est pas." Not yet. He looked as far from convinced and reassured as I have ever seen him look. Plants die. They die of all kinds of things. Sometimes you notice in time, sometimes you don't. Sometimes you can save them, and sometimes you can't. You replace them when you can't. Audouin does not choose to accept, nor to forgive.

It's stressful being the resident gardener around here.

"Je vais m'en occuper demain. Je te le promets. Il se peut que c'est juste le choc d'être rempoté."

So, I did.

It could be anyone of several things:

1. Root rot. Phytophthora cinnamomi Rands. Hm. Somewhat complicated to determine the causality. But, I did use sterile potting soil.
2. Dieback. I don't think so. I don't see the telltale signs. Thank heavens.
   
3. A case of the planting soil drying up and becoming hydrophobic, meaning that when you water the plant, the water just runs right through the planting soil, which is no longer able to absorb it, hence, the roots can't get the water you are offering and the plant dies of thirst. Soil doesn't look that way. I have done that often enough to know what that looks like now.
   
4. Not enough water for other reasons. Neglect comes to mind. No chance with my husband's feelings about this particular plant. His ex probably gave it to him. [Die plant, die!]
   
5. Too much water. Overattention and fear of being yelled at by one's husband come to mind.
6. Too much fertilizer (engrais), or the wrong kind. Liquid fertilizers, it turns out, are too potent for camelias. They prefer long-release [Oh my! The frogs just started to make such a racket!] fertilizers, the granular forms. I used the only one I had available when I replanted it -- in acidic soil for camelias --, a liquid fertilizer that might not have been weak enough that I added to the water in the watering can. Oh oh.
7. Rootbound. Not in this case. I gave it a bigger pot.
8. Concrete pot, leaching lime into the soil and causing alkaline conditions. Nope. Nice terra cotta pot.
9. Transplant shock. This is what I suspect.
   
10. Leaf galls. Nope. Not life-threatening.
11. Sooty mold. Yah. Not life-threatening. Will treat.
12. Lichens. "Lichen are not organisms that damage camellia; instead they show up when the camellia (or some other plant/tree) is stressed for another reason. It is, thus, an indicator of a problem rather than a cause. Determine if the camellia soil is kept wet too long such that the roots are developing root rot." This is a back to the drawing board problem.
13. Virus variegation. Not my problem.
14. Root-knot nematodes. I'm getting bored.

I think our Camellia japonica has transplant shock. It had to be pulled up from the entry courtyard for the work on the house in August, and I couldn't respect any needs it might have had in terms of timing and weather. According to The Old Farmer's Almanac, the best time to transplant a camellia is:

"before they bloom in spring, but a second option is when they start their new season of vegetative growth right after flowering, usually February to May for camellias. Transplanting young plants is easy, but older plants can be difficult. If you're thinking of moving an older plant, you may want to consider heavy pruning instead."

It sat in a pot, large enough to hold the root ball that I could dig up, a sad affair at best because the acidic soil-loving camellia and hydrangeas planted in the entry courtyard where stuck into the existing, lime-ridden chalky dirt. They were fairly scrawny, with the exception of one hydrangea that nearly killed me to dig out, with large main roots.

Audouin and I had carried that one together down to my new hydrangea border in the bottom garden, back behind the pool, and I did everything I could to take as much of the root system along intact. It wasn't much, and all the dirt fell off the roots. I had prepared a brand new bed with acidic soil, and I did my best to distribute it's roots in the new soil with care, watering profusely and tying the plant back to hold it in place. Of course, I should have cut it back significantly before transplanting it, but it was in its height of flowering glory, and I couldn't bring myself to do it.

It wilted some, but as it's flowers died, I cut them off, taking a good deal of the supporting stems, and the plant picked up a bit. Now, coming out of the winter, there is a good deal of healthy new growth at the base of the plant, and buds everywhere. I need to cut it back now to insure full, bushy growth, rather than a spindly plant.

As for the camellia, though, I didn't know where I wanted to put it. It needed more friends, and Audouin wanted to put it somewhere where it would be easily seen an enjoyed. If it were up to him, the entire garden would be right in front of the door to the house. The rest of it -- well, what would the rest of it be mon chéri? Tu veux un grand jardin, mais tu te plains que tu ne passes jamais dans la plupart du jardin pour pouvoir profiter de ses plantes.

I am under the obligation to plant lovely things throughout the garden, or suffer the criticism of neglecting it.

Il va falloir que tu aprennes de prendre le temps pour y errer. [Excuse me, he barely speaks English.]

And, so, there it sat while I wrestled with these problems in my head. I wanted to get it two more Camellia japonica plants and put them all down by the pool, where there are already azaleas and a rhododendron, ferns -- acid-loving plants. He wanted it in a pot in the front courtyard. It sat.

"Je suis sur que les racines ont gelées."

"Non." Maybe.

"Tu dois vraiment faire quelque chose."

"Oui." Yes.

I emptied a large terracotta pot of a dead pine, rinsed it out and set to work filling it with acidic planting soil for azaleas, rhododendrons and camellias, placed the camellia in its hole and watered copiously, adding a liquid fertilizer to the water in the can in the correct proportion. It still might have been too strong for a camellia, though. If this is the case, the problem will pass as the plant is watered over time. I hesitated to remove all the old dirt from among its roots, even though it was the gloppy, chalky crap mostly. It was still holding its minor root system. I hoped that the new dirt around its edges, broken into it, would make up for it. I added (I think) root stimulator and set it where the morning sun would not burn its fragile leaves.

It slowly withered.

Then, it appeared to be dying.

Finally, it looked outright dead.

And, having looked into the affair, I conclude that it may have root rot and it is likely suffering from transplant shock. In the case of root rot, I have to dig up the roots and check to see if they are brown, and if they are, improve the soil conditions. Possibly apply a fungicide to the soil. This would surprise me, since I did what is needed to avoid it. I worry about checking for it, since if it is transplant shock, it would prefer to be left alone.

The best option might be to follow the advice of trimming it back, cutting each leaf in half, adding some sugar to the water and doing what I can to make sure the soil is draining well, including setting the pot on a bed of gravel to make sure that the water seeping from the soil in the pot is not saturating the ground below and preventing it from being able to drain fully. If the root tips are sitting in overly moist soil, the roots will rot.

Wish me well. I will win big marriage points if I carry the day with this camellia!
....

Spring skiing aux Portes du Soleil, Euphoria gracias!

Euphorbia characias subsp. wulfenii

I love Euphorbia characias. It sounds like Euphoria gracias! Thanks for immense bliss, ecstasy, elation, exhilaration, jubilation, exaltation, exultation and glee!

I bought these two Euphorbia characias plants last year and stuck them in amongst the overpowering mint alongside the steps to the second terrace last year. They weren't much to behold. I bought them wilted and on sale at Florosny at the end of the season just because I wanted some of this plant, but having no specific intention for it [trans.: no plan worked out requiring them]. Just plant them, let them establish themselves somewhere suited to them, and figure the rest out later.

Is it later yet?

So, I accompanied Audouin to les Gets, part of Les Portes du Soleil ski resorts some 20 kilometers north of Chamonix as the crow flies, but not as the car drives, last week. We returned last evening. We'll take our car next time.

What an odessy.

We left the hotel to return to Paris yesterday with friends on the trip with us -- colleagues of my husband's from his hospital -- at 9:30 am in the rental car one of them had gotten in desperation, fearful that there wouldn't be a navette to Morzine, where the conference was actually taking place, and from where the bus to the train station in Thonon-les-Bains was leaving at 3 pm, and arrived home to two very happy dogs, two cats trying to appear indifferent, and one very pleasingly pleased son at 11 pm. If you only count our departure from 3 pm, that was still at least 8 hours. It takes about 6 1/2 by car, traveling at the speeds of an adult with a full driver's license.

We had had navette issues in les Gets - Morzine since we arrived Wednesday night. So, Wednesday night's one was there, diligently waiting for us at the conference center in Morzine to deliver us to our hotel in les Gets 7 kilometers away, when we got off the bus that had met us at the TGV in Bellegarde sometime after 11 pm, but it seemed to be the last one on which we could count, at least when we'd need one. As it was, our companion on the bus ride Wednesday night from the train station in Bellegarde to Morzine was only gradually recovering in Audouin's company from his foul mood, the product of having been deposited by the 4 pm TGV from Paris in Bellegarde only to discover that there was no bus to Morzine there to meet his train, and -- the salt in the wound -- he was the only conference participant on that train. The next bus hired by the conference planners to take those of us arriving from the Paris area to Morzine was to meet our TGV, 3 hours later.

You have to actually travel to Bellegarde to formulate a concept of just how bleak this news is, and just how aggravated you would be, were you he.

The train station in Bellegarde sur Valserine is a step below ours in Mantes la Jolie. There is not even a kiosk selling newspapers and magazines, candy and gum. Nothing. There is only a ceramic-tiled tunnel connecting the several platforms, disgorging the passengers not continuing all the way to Geneva in a miniscule vestibule at the parking lot, where a closed hotel café showed how much Bellegarde cares to welcome its arriving visitors and own.

Actually, let's hope there is no relationship whatsoever between the availabilty of hospitality and Bellegarde's interest in seeing people travel there.

There might have been benches upon which to sit. There was a cart selling sandwiches, and Antoine counted the numbers of each of the three types available for sale -- jambon et beure, jambon et fromage, et fromage -- until there were no sandwiches, or no passengers to whom to sell them, left. About 15, he concluded.

"J'ai failli faire demi-tour pour rentrer aussitôt."

"Jusqu'à Paris?" I asked, amazed. Audouin had told me that he is somewhat impetuous, mais sacré bleu!

"Oui."

He had called our contact for the conference organization and explained the situation. Full of apologies, she suggested that he take a cab. The company that had invited my husband's group would reimburse him. He thanked her, refused politely and sat down to think. He'd checked on a taxi from Bellegarde to Morzine... 300 or 350 euros would do it, and this being France, he was shocked, amazed, scandalized and refused to pass such a bill along to the company paying our way. Somehow, he summoned the calm and the resources to withstand 3 hours waiting as night fell in a drizzly Bellegarde evening.

This unpropitious beginning summed up our transportation woes for the remainder of our stay in the Haute Savoie sans voiture, ending with our missing several possible hours of skiing on our last day, yesterday -- for which we had acquired passes -- for fear that we'd never get to Morzine and our bus, only to hear from the conference director that we could have had a navette to bring us at any of the times we had needed one.

Merci.

"Mais vous ne le saviez pas?" she exclaimed, dans un état d'étonnement.

"Mais non."

"Thierry vous n'a rien dit?" she asked, full of wonder and amazement. Thierry was the maître d'hôtel at our hotel, said to be worth the distance from Morzine for it's quality, as well as the more charming nature of les Gets, certainly smaller than Morzine these days, anyway.

"Non, Thierry nous a dit qu'on pouvait vous appeler, sans préciser que vous l'avez informé depuis ces derniers 12 ans qu'il n'a que de nous appeler l'une des navettes du congrès." It appears that the succession of front desk attendants at La Marmotte over the last 12 years that the conference has housed people in this hotel has caused a failure to communicate the precious information that their guests attending the Conference of Fetal Medicine are to be transported between the hotel and Morzine at times other than before breakfast has scarcely begun to be served and after lunch time and corresponding with their needs and convenience, within -- of course -- reason.

"Comprenez," she sought to make herself clear, "on a eu une dame une année qui a fait appeler une navette du spa dans son hôtel pour l'amener à Morzine dans une demi heure, et ça -- ça, vous comprenez, on ne peut pas gérer, mais de vous amener à l'hôtel pour vous changer pour le dîner et vous ramener à Morzine ou vous descendre pour prendre le car à la gare c'est tout à fait autre chose!"

Ah bon. It seemed that Thierry had indeed failed to communicate to his reception staff this most critical information, but worse, we let her know, he seems to have forgotten after all these years himself, for we had asked him, and he seemed to be convinced that there would be one navette and one navette only, and this would entirely prevent us from profitting from our final day.

"Il n'y a même pas une navette du village qui circule entre les Gets et Morzine?"

"Peut-être à 13 heures, Madame, mais il est dimanche et je ne sais pas si l'information est toujours bonne pour le dimanche." It was difficult to comprehend that this charming maître d'hôtel, who has directed service at La Marmotte these last 7 or 8 years, was neither familiar with the schedule of buses between les Gets and Morzine, nor offering to check his information to be certain to better inform us and be of service, either to us or to Madame Bidas, but such was the evident case.

"Vous pouvez appeler Madame Bidas," he offered, with great concern and attention, "J'ai son numéro à la réception."

"Non, c'est très gentil," I said. And très insufficient, I thought.

It couldn't possibly be a tremendous hypocrisy because our group was largely Moroccan, Lebanese and Benini doctors possessing French citizenship, could it?

Let us hope not. This seemed to enter no one else's mind, so let it leave my own. He had been so very attentive, and charming.

Our transportation woes were only completed by not only having spent from 10 am to noon, sitting in the emptying lobby to the conference, as the various manufacturers of diagnostic equipment, tampons and gel douche for "sensitive areas" representatives packed their brochures and equipment, loaded their vehicles and left us more and more to ourselves, while we waited for a pizza lunch we'd as happily skipped to ski had we known that we could have had a navette later in the day to make the 3 pm bus to Thonon, but by learning once we finally made it to Thonon that our change in TGV reservations had not been confirmed. We did not have seats on the train. No one had bothered to confirm that the travel agency had actually made the change once the organizers informed our group's inviting company representative that there was no bus planned to take people to our station -- Bellegarde again -- for the return trip to Paris, but only to Thonon-les-Bains.

So much for our first class seats. And, we'll just need to get remimbursed. Oh, remind me to tell you sometime of the attempted and of the successful theft on the RER C we witnessed, on our way to get the car in Viroflay from Gare de Lyon. Oh, yeah, and then there were the gendarmes' cars blocking the entry to the bit of road along the Seine in Méricourt as we neared home.

"Ca doit pour les gens qui viennent se garer et boire plus loin."

"Je sais, je les vois --" I started to say "when I walk the dogs in the evening," but I thought better of it. He'd already asked me not to walk the dogs alone after dark even there, along the Seine in our tiny villages. Yet, on the RER C he had said, "This doesn't happen in Mousseaux."

"Non, Ils ont seulment essayé de voler notre voiture, et ils ont réussi à voler les roues de la voitures des voisins dans la rue devant chez eux," I offered.

The trip? For all that, we had a wonderful time. I could see Grands Montets, imagining Argentière nestled at its feet, and Mont Blanc with the peaks behind le Brévent and La Flégère across the Vallée Blanche on the side where I stood, from the top of Ranfouilly, and as much as I wished that we were there, this was skiing that suited my husband better, with reds that are more like the blues of Chamonix, and he was so happy to be able to take me there that I was only to happy to sacrifice the challenge of the trails and see him actually enjoy himself on them, rather than in the banks along their sides, ski tips pointing akimbo.

And, upon our return, a garden offering the first tulip bloom, still more saxifragia flowers, and the opening of the Euphorbia ones. Now, to figure out how to -- and if I can -- save the camelia. It's looking really bad.

Oh, God, I forgot to get bread at the boulangérie, and it's too late. I always do this in the first days of the end of daylight savings time. It's too light out for it to be time for the stores to close. I spent the whole afternoon (finally) reading Dreams From My Father. Anyone who has read it already understands why it's the best excuse for forgetting to go to the boulangérie, alongside sunlight still bright on the garden outside the windows after 7 pm this far north.

What am I going to tell my husband? I can't pull out that worn explanation that I was tricked by the longer day to think it was earlier... Um, je me suis habituée de sortir en restaurant?

I'm in trouble now.

C'mon, dogs, lets go for a walk. It's still light out.
....

An angry star

Mont St. Victoire

After the oatmeal's gone, you get up.

You get up after the oatmeal's finished because you have gotten up, made your oatmeal while feeding the dogs, and then taken it up to bed where you will read. You do this sometimes.

Today it didn't last long, that further moment under the duvet -- only a single chapter of Mansfield Park; today I had to do the things I had to do, and it started with making a decision to go to the funeral of the son of friends of my husband's from back when they were all university students in Paris. He knew them through their sisters before they married, back when they all got married. My husband had his first child, a son, and they had theirs, also a son, a year later.

Rémy.

Thursday, they will bury Rémy in the hills of Provence, where -- his father told us before we followed his son out of the church in Boulogne-Billancourt -- he could run for hours and hours in the hills he loved, but he ended his life last week beneath a train, somewhere near Paris.

"C'est tôt d'enterrer les enfants de nos amis," said a dear one, joining us alongside the hearse after the mass. I watched his parents and sisters at the head of Rémy's coffin. His mother looked up, then, and met my eyes, and she offered me a smile full of kindness that made me feel like everything would be alright.

Always.

She offered me the smile, which I returned.

Did she see Audouin next to me, Franck behind us? Did she know who I was?

He was, I am told, suffering from schizophrenia. He found drugs and alcohol young.

I admired their dignity. I wondered if I could do the same, for my son, for all of our friends and family.

"Comment font-ils ça, voir leur fils partir et rester si sereins, dignes?" I asked my husband.

"Ils ont -- une très grande fois. Ils sont croyants --" he seemed to seek further reason, and he stopped. It was enough. He is not. I am uncertain.

Maybe we both are.

I typed to a friend when I arrived home, "It makes me feel blessed. I don't use that word often." I saw Matthew is typing.

"Then that would suggest that they are damned," came his reply. I understood.

"And since they are not," I typed, "let me consider myself fortunate."

Near the Mont St. Victoire lies the beautiful village of St. Rémy-de-Provence. I wondered if this was from where his name came, for this village.

Van Gogh and Cézanne painted here.

Van Gogh sent himself into an asylum in St. Rémy, where he painted in a frenzy, 150 canvasses -- including Starry Night -- in a year. In the 70 days before he killed himself, he painted another 70 in a second period of intense creative activity, the anguish of his own mental illness.

Picasso lived nearby, in the shadows of the Mont St. Victoire.

Soon, Rémy will rest somewhere in the hills somewhere not far away.
....






Fragile

If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one
Drying in the colour of the evening sun
Tomorrows rain will wash the stains away
But something in our minds will always stay
Perhaps this final act was meant
To clinch a lifetimes argument
That nothing comes from violence and nothing ever could
For all those born beneath an angry star
Lest we forget how fragile we are

On and on the rain will fall
Like tears from a star like tears from a star
On and on the rain will say
How fragile we are how fragile we are

On and on the rain will fall
Like tears from a star like tears from a star
On and on the rain will say
How fragile we are how fragile we are
How fragile we are how fragile we are

Today, in the garden

the Saxifragia blooms

ps: saxifragia can grow on toits végétaux

Spring arrived, and the temperatures fell. 10° C this afternoon, partly overcast now, after some rather unexpected sunshine. Audouin pointed out as we drove home from the gym on Saturday morning that it is always this way; our spring comes in the month of March, and as soon as spring officially arrives, the weather craps out.

He's right.

"J'espère -- sans fond de raison, seulement l'espoir -- que le fait qu'on a eu un vrai hiver voudrait [note the use of the conditional tense here] dire qu'on va avoir un vrai été."

"Moi aussi." I resolved to appreciate the day, for as long as the blue skies beyond the brilliant yellow forsythia branches hold. Not long. That evening, having a dinner in the 15th arrondisement, we were all dressed to take a car, and I had a crisis of faith in our ability to find a parking space and arrive before desert.

"Il y a surement un parking dans le coin, non?" It's a lot to say that there is certainly a parking garage near her house (excuse me, that's how we talk here in Moosesucks, I meant building), more to say that it will be open when we'd need to recuperate the car after midnight. I have begged on interphones to be let in to get my car after closing at as early as 11 pm in parking garages in the 15th. The worst is that the interphones at McDonald's drive-thrus are nothing next to the clarity of communication with the (usually) immigrant (no offense intended; I am one) attendent on the other end of the line. Incomprehensible, and they get cranky about it! We decided to take the motorcycle, which turned out to be a very bad choice, apart from allowing 5 minutes of conversation upon our arrival. It's cool to arrive by motorcycle.

I knew that the chin strap on my helmet was too loose, but I thought it would be alright. As soon as we hit the highway, one hand was employed in pulling down on it under my chin to keep my helmet more or less in place. My eyes watered. It felt like I was receiving a particularly aggressive acupuncture treatment on my left cheek, and as though my head were being stretched up into the sky, pulled right off my shoulders. I could feel the tendons strained all the way down into my chest.

I bore up until I spied the first sign for the exit for the rest stop at Morainvilliers, and pointed in a very decided manner from the fast lane so that Audouin would understand that he was to get over and off there, in 2 km. 500 meters later, I repeated the gesture at the next sign. He signalled, shifted right and slipped into the exit lane. Relief. Pure and immediate relief.

"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?" he asked. I never ask to stop.

"Mon casque. C'est pas assez serré, et il tire péniblement." That's when he explained that the problem with the windshield forced him to set it at its lowest position. It was creating turbulence I had never felt behind him. I couldn't even keep my lips closed. At least there was a reason. We struggled with my chin strap, which afforded some relief when we took off again, but I also had to ride with my head stuck out past his, turned like an Egyptian. The turbulence is less when you are not directly behind the pilot.

It was hell.

Home was worse. Far, far worse because to add insult to injury, the temperature had dropped from 8° to 2° C, or just above freezing, at speeds of up to 160 km per hour. My toes warmed up sometime around dawn. So much for not taking time to put on my thermal socks. Never, ever again will I be too hurried not to go retrieve them.

I felt fluish today. We leave for Morzine - Avoriaz Wednesday evening. I cannot be sick. I cannot be sick.

Yesterday was Audouin's birthday. His parents came to celebrate his advanced age (désolée, mon chéri!) and the most extraordinary thing happened.

I made him a fondant au chocolat to serve with a crème anglaise and chantilly (nicer than "whipped cream"), and then it occured to me that I might not have place on the cake for 54 candles, and one for good luck. Sam went and got the camera and joined me at the kitchen counter, where I listened to the conversation and crammed candles from the bowl of once- and twice-used birthday cake candles onto every centimeter square of cake surface available.

At least lighting them should be a cinch, I figured. There were so many they'd autocombust from the heat of those lit close by. At last, there wasn't the possibility of another and I started to light them. Sam took a match and helped finish. We didn't need a flash for the photo, although it occurred to me that we might need les pompiers.

I sang "Happy Birthday", lustily, in English, my in-laws joining in bravely, adding their French voices to my heartfelt song. The French love to sing "Happy Birthday" in English. It's the one bit of English they know.

Audouin tried to look brave, faced with such a lusty display of birthday fire, and puffing up his chest, he exhaled forcefully, achieving the exhaustion of a little more than half the candles and the dispersion of as much as half the powered sugar on the cake, disappearing behind a cloud of smoke and powdered sugar, while he took another breath to attack and Sam clicked away.

"Bon, je suppose que je peux compter les bougies en les enlevant maintenant," and I did, counting two by two. We got to about 38, and Audouin and his parents remarked that it looked like it might be pretty close to 54. I continued.

"40, 42, 44, 46... 48... 50 -- oh!" There was the silence of wonderment all around the table, and one after another face looked up at me in disbelief: 4 candles remained on the cake, next to the one I had gone to get for good luck. Everyone started to laugh at once.

"C'est pas possible."

"Mais ça alors là, je suis vraiment impressionné," dit Audouin, rising to take hold of my head and give me a kiss of recognition and gratitude from across the table, as I blushed in something resembling delight and pride for something undeserving of the latter.

How I did that, I will never know. That I did that, I will forever be grateful for a magic moment.
....

Eideh shoma mobarak!

Inshallah

That Iran and the USA can step forward together in mutual respect and allow both of our countries to show and to share their true greatness in friendship and cooperation, but most especially Iran, who by its own acts and deeds, and by the response of the USA and the west to those, has drawn shadow over the magnificence of its people, culture, civilization and history; that it might be known, appreciated and celebrated by Americans, as well as all people in the world.

I know that there is much behind this for which we are responsible in the west and that we have our part to do, as well, to live more justly in the world we all inhabit, but no one is without sin here, and law imbued with universal human values -- not religious law -- must be the rule under which we all live as children of Adam.

The president has extended the hand withheld but not without understanding; his message is full of carefully communicated messages, as Paul Reynolds, World affairs correspondent BBC News website lays them out, one by one -- all of which being perfectly clear to anyone familiar with the conflict, and most certainly to the leaders of the Islamic Republic of Iran --, in his article "What Obama's Message to Iran Means", concluding:

He also looks to a future "where you and all your neighbours and the wider world can live in greater security...". "All" the neighbours include Israel, of course.

There is a very ambitious agenda here. The process suggests direct talks if that is what Iran wants.

Let's start with a Nowruz haft-sin table and aim to make it a really big one, big enough for enemies and friends to come together --

Happy Nowruz: Cooking with Children to Celebrate the Persian New Year by Najmieh Batmanglij.

I'm going to get my scissors to cut the parsley. Who will join me?

Inshallah.
....