The market and a star spangled sky.

   

Pasha arrived here mid-October.  
No, it didn't matter that her twins had to cancel the surprise party planned for her birthday.  She was not going to allow me to hear the doctor confirm the bad news without listening in.  

Two days after her arrival was her Big-'O' Day. Instead of me asking her how she would like to celebrate, it was she who asked if I wanted to do something different on that day. Would I like to visit Jean-Talon market in Montreal where she, her dad and I chose, 55 years ago, our weekly supply of fruit and veggies at the stalls of Hungarian, German and Polish farmers and where we offered the one and only rabbit, grown on our rear balcony, to an Italian farmer.  I vaguely remember that the three of us convinced each other that the rabbit would now have a better life on a farm.

We arranged to meet Besito de Luz, my younger daughter, at the market and made sure to align the timing in such a way that Pasha and I would have 2 hours during which to visit the areas where we used to live when she grew up.  Pasha wanted to take photos of the buildings.  We moved a lot prior to acquiring our own place.  Leases used to expire April 30 and May 1st was Moving Day for thousands of people in Québec.  The tradition is still alive but the leases expire on June 30th now.

1957  De L'Epee- 2nd floor

1958-1959  Birnam semi-basement

1959-1963 Outremont -3rrd floor

1963-1970   Birnam - 2nd floor

We had no time to visit  the years of 1956   De Bullion 
                                                       1970-1972 Nuns Island
                                                  1972-1974 Duquette
but it settles the years of Pasha's 'growing up'. The years that included much more than timing my contractions when Moselito was born and being the trustworthy, build-in baby sitter of Besito de Luz and Moselito, when help needed.


Pasha always has the taking of photos on her mind.

During her stay with me she stepped out on the patio to smoke and came back inside complaining as to why the neighbour leaves his patio light on during the night.  I was surprised to hear that she questioned the neighbours doing until she explained that she wants to take pictures of the stars and that it needs to be pitch dark in the area.  
One morning she returned from her 7km walk/run and was pleased to announce "I found the dark area! The cemetery!" 
And what happened in the evening?   She did something completely out of character.  I had fallen asleep on the couch.  She pinched my toe and woke me.
"Noooo, why did you do that?"
"I just want to tell you that I am going now - did not want you to wake up wondering where I was."
"Oh yah?  I get the message, ok I'll go with you."
The Schnucker was not at ease to go alone and is not one to ask for anything, ever.  It was almost midnight.
I threw my coat over my Pj's, wrapped a thick scarf around my neck and off we went.
It was minus 5 out there and since I had already caught a cold at the market and was on cough syrup there was no way I would get out of the car.  Nothing to do with cemetery ghosts or any such thing.  Pasha was happy.  She found the perfect spot for the tripod, set the camera up and waited and waited and waited.  Exposure, she said, takes a long time.  It seemed like an eternity to me.  I was cold sitting in the Jeep without the heat turned on.  No heat meant no disturbing lights on, you see.

Here are the results of bravery.  Untouched as yet and also a bit of disappointment because the lights of a neighboring village should not be showing but all in all she was happy with her first try.
The bit of milky way that appears I could not see with the naked eye and the stars were not visible in such great number.  The camera saw more than we did.






The sky brings evenings to my mind when I was 10,11,12 years old.  Sitting in the dark at the window, on my grandmother's short lap searching for constellations.                

Sorry about this messy post.  All looks fine as I type but when I preview things come up different.  My third try at fixing it, giving up.  

So,

how long has it been since I learned that everybody dies when they get old and how long since I learned that one can also die young?  74 years, a bit longer, or?   Did knowing make a difference in my life?  Not much.  I did not allow myself  to do things that looked dangerous to me but was blind concerning circumstances where I did not want to or did not see the danger, such as smoking.  

When I, two weeks ago, heard  the 'C'-word from the lips of my doctor my legs went numb just long enough to feel a warm  wave moving from the hips down and out at the toes and a bit of nausea in my stomach.  I have no other way to explain my reaction.  This was all. Half a minute shock-wave.
Since then X-rays were confirmed by Thorax scan and now I'm waiting living to see pulmonologist in mid-November.
So far I am not losing any sleep over this situation.  I am tying up a few loose ends and to use the words of dear Tom (Gwynt) in his recent not to say last post "I do not mind" and "life continues on its way". 

I wrote the above a few days ago.  Today, after reading dear Halle's recent post, I come to realize that 'fatalistic attitude' is maybe wrong self-analysis and wishful  thinking.  
My state of mind sounds more like a depression - no want to fight, only concerned about the well-being of my 'entourage'.  


And now something lighter.  What did the blind person say when handed a piece of sandpaper?  "Argh, this is written too tight". 
I heard this last week and thought it was offensive but was told it was not.


It's 9.13 in the morning.  I just came back from driving Moselito to his home away from home and will now attack laundry and tidying up.


   

Ghosts

 For now it's my fatalistic attitude that helps me deal with ghosts during the day. They tell me what is but are not ready to say what will be soon or later.  

 I thank them for staying away during my sleep.

  

The geriatric care wing of a pavillion attached to a nearby hospital.

  
The doctors insist that residents be served water as often as possible.  

Mr "R" sits in his wheelchair, eyes closed , his back stiff against the back of the chair, his white hair curling around the rim of a black felt hat.  Impressive figure.  I put my hand on his shoulder, stroke his arm gently and expect him to open his eyes.  He does not.  I ask if he wants some water - no answer.  I push the glass softly against his mouth and slip a straw between his lips.    Glass empty..... his eyes still closed.                                                                                                                            I feel triumphant.


Mrs "A" had breakfast in bed and invites me into her room. The rosary on her night table compelled me to say that I used to recite the rosary in German.  She delivers a part of it in French as her fingers move the pale blue beads and is eager to tell me that a priest comes to a lower floor later in the day for rosary recital and would I please wheel her there some day.  She can not leave this floor because she does not know the password that opens the elevator door.  I have done so and sat with her while warm memories such as rosary evening and teenage awakening mingled  in my head, going back many many years.  Us girls on our knees in the pew struggling to be next to hold the tiny mirror in front of us so that we could look up to the choir loft where the boys were hanging over the gallery looking down. .                                                                                                                        Pleasant thoughts.
                       

Mrs "L" likes Christmas.  The decorations in her room look tired and the white film covering them is not snow but dust. Her right arm is in a sling she moans about the pain and asks me to inspect the bruises.  I tell her that I'm not allowed to do that and ask her what happened..
She tells me that she was not tied in on the right side of her wheelchair and fell out.  Sometime later I meet her in the 'fish bowl' aka smoking room and as I express my concern about the fact that she is again not tied in she tells me that her fall had nothing to do with being tied in or not but that she fell as she tried to walk.                                                                                           Listen and take in with a grain of salt.      

                        
Mrs "M" sits near the window and turns the pages of a magazine lying on a table in front of her.  She invites me to come closer and points to a photograph of cats playing with a ball and is concerned as to how they can get all that work done in one day.                                                                Then she utters "if my mother came to see me now I would give her a push to get her out of here"  and in the same breath she continues "when I moved out from home mother told me that I could not do that and asked where I will go and what I intend to do and I answered I will do everything that you would like to do now but can't, haha".
I change the subject and ask if I can change the water of the flowers in the vase.  She smiles and as she turns a page in her magazine asks me to leave by saying come again.
                                 I feel welcome.


Mrs 'C' sits in her room facing the open door.  She does not want any of this rotten water.  No she does not want me to turn her chair towards the blaring TV which she says she can't see because they placed it too fu...ing high. I stop trying to turn her chair around, move to the side and watch her knit without needles and wool.  
A heavy Nefertiti bust hangs on a gold chain around her neck.                                                                                                                Harsh words have no power over me.


Mr "P" is a retired pastor.  He rolls back and forth in the corridors as if he were on Main Road and tells me that he is here because his wife left him and mumbles something about for better or for worse.
                Yes, shit can happen in the best families.


Mrs "M", the 92 year old resident is the matriarch of  the 3rd floor.
She rises late, has breakfast in her room, dresses nicely, wears jewellery, has her hair and nails done once a week and loves to push her walker towards an area where her job is waiting. She smooths wrinkles out of hundreds of facecloths and makes neat piles of them.  "Who touched this, none of their business, my job, it's only 11.30 why are they moving towards dining room".
                       Live to the very end.



    

Melee of things

A few weeks ago I took the boys age 8 and 10 and the girl age 14 off their parent's hands.

For lunch they filled their bellies with drinks, spaghetti and meatballs and desert at the Ikea store restaurant and when I later inquired about their supper preferences and expected to maybe hear McD's or such other fast food place, they emptied my wallet in a 'Sushi Palace'.
No, not a plain Sushi Bar but a Palace. 

How times have changed!

On my 10th birthday, shortly before the end of war, I asked for apples.  My mother went begging to some farmers and returned with the gift of 2 wrinkled ones which made me very happy.
    

60 years later, 10 years ago, Pasha, Besito de Luz and I sat around the kitchen table talking and laughing all afternoon whilst sipping wine, slicing carrots, cucumbers, avocado  and things I don't remember, sniffing the ingredients of the sea and choosing what to artfully combine with the rice for a pleasing effect to the eye and palate when rolled in seaweed on the bamboo mats, all in preparation for the sushi party of the evening, my 70th birthday.   Again I was not only happy but also overjoyed about the gift of togetherness of mother and children.  Yes, Moselito was also present but only interested in coming to the table to eat.


I don't know what awaits me on Sunday.  

On the way back to normal

Yes, loads of snow and  below normal temperatures of -25/-30F and the very occasional -8 in between have been on the menu for too long now.  Actually since early January.

I don't like the cold nor the job of clearing snow off the car early in the morning but I like Québec and what I'm seeing from the spot I am sitting at at the moment.  I see majestic pine trees wearing a thick white coat over a dark green undergarment.  Coat where illuminated by the sun changing into a diamond studded jacket topped with a blue hat.                             I forgot what I don't like.  Good.


Oh, thank you all for your so very kind words on my last post.  I wanted to say much more but could not find words that were precise enough to convey my feelings. 


I thought that knitting exercise would prevent getting cramps in hands.  Well, no cramps when knitting but yes cramps when holding playing cards. Hm...

These are some of my baby's snuggle socks made of leftover yarns.  Now, don't rush off making babies.  

  
   

I feel very blessed and am much surprised reading your comments here and thank you all, Tom, Halle, Rouchswalwe, Marja-Leena, Lucy, Sabine, Roderick R and Natalie, for your kind words.

Why surprised?  Because when I want to know if one of you has posted anything new I click on your blog.  I did not expect all of you dear friends to click on my blog to see if there is something new to read after I mentioned 'end of posting and commenting'.  

I have been feeling very fatigued and melancholic for a while now and very much in need of receiving. I don't feel the strong woman.

This new need of mine feels very strange to me.  I don't know what name to give it.  Is it need for help, appreciation, encouragement, gestures, words, love?
Maybe I do get it all but don't feel it, nor see it, nor hear it.

Is this need caused by the fact that a big 'O' is around the corner or is it health related?  I have been told that the count of "I forgot what" in my blood has been low for too long and have been referred to a specialist whom I'll see next week.
  

Today was better than yesterday - I'm on the way to improved tomorrows.


I do follow your blogs and also

                        Je suis (for the verb suivre) Charlie  

Holiday Wishes

Moselito and I are heading in this direction today.

May you all. dear friends,  be safe in whatever direction you are going this holiday season and throughout the New Year.

Today is one of those days

on which my thoughts jump from one thing to another to end up on a theory that maybe needs to be given long and serious serious thought.   

As I am cleaning my Bamboo floor which I supervised the installation of and know that a small space needs to be left  available behind the floor boarding all around allowing the wood to react to temperature and humidity.  It contracts and expands.  If no space left near walls, it will allow the floor planks to open up where they join.                                                                                                                                                                                                     I reach an area where a gap has developed between the planks and my thoughts jump to the spot on my right hand thumb where at the top on each side of the short fingernail the dry skin has popped open.   This reminds me that I need to wear gloves as soon as I start using the heater in the car to prevent this from happening.  My thumb reacts to warm air being blown at it as my hand is busy steering.

Then, as I wonder if there is a word to name this area of my thumb and play with the idea of asking one of my daughters, I think that I should not.  They have no time nor patience for such silly questions of their mother.

From there my thoughts wonder to the question of  what is this thing of 'mothers and daughters'?   Why, after the mother is no longer with us, and I know that it applies to many of us, does one feel guilty of not having  shown more patience, more devotion, more gratefulness, more compassion, more love.  I am saying more because we all have given, some more some less.  Did our mothers display love, self-sufficiency, tolerance and strength in order to give us peace of mind?

If so, it does not seem to work.  Not with me anyway.


Actually, I was going to say that I will stop posting and commenting for a while because it takes more time for me to do so than I can afford to use up for that purpose.

Will I be able to overcome this much enjoyable addiction?
          

Day Three

To Val-David again where Mireille exhibited two of her works.  I have seen and bought a smaller one of her creations a few years ago but had not seen any of her larger works.  Our paths cross occasionally in the village. We hug and kiss cheeks.  She recently told me that she no longer sculpts her hands being 'done'.                                                                           She now composes music, writes the lyrics and guitar in hand performs in small places here and there.  

   

A cold glass of sangria while waiting for our food was much appreciated by all.

What you see is not all she got.  The goat cheese made itself invisible.  

  

A few more photos and then back home .

Day Two

35 minutes drive to Mont Tremblant

  

                                                                                       
                                                                                          We took the easy way up

South side

Hard rocks in hiding

North side

Day one with Pasha

She arrived tired from her 6.5 hrs Jeep drive, eager to get into position to capture the blaze of autumn colours.     
                                                      
                                                     Parc des Amoureux - Val David