French Faux Pas - an excerpt from a transitory life in rural France

The French language and I have been antagonists since our first introduction. I vandalised the language - according to my Father and teachers, and the language tortured me. Despite the many long hours I spent trying to make friends with The Language of Love, it was not to be , until I hit my mid-life crisis and spontaneously bought a house in France off the internet , in a region where English is infrequently spoken or understood.

With the aid of the Alliance Française, a truce with cette langue was conceded toute de suite and I recommenced French lessons in 2011.

Now I hold the dubious honour of taking the longest time of any Alliance Française student in Melbourne (or perhaps the world) to successfully complete Beginners Level French.  And it's not for lack of trying - it's just that my efforts have been sporadic and the hearing in my left ear has prematurely ceased.

There are words I can understand and spell, but not pronounce. Then there’re words I can pronounce and verbs I can conjugate, but fail to be able to put them into coherent sentences, unless I have preplanned and rehearsed what I want to say.  A killer for spontaneous conversation.  However, the greatest language mistakes I’ve made are with false friends – French words that look and sound like English words, but have a very different meaning.

A further barrier to my communication is the spit-fire speed at which the French speak and the plethora of silent letters that can make a sentence sound like one, very long, indistinguishable word. My comprehension, when it exists, lags at least few paragraphs behind the conversation making me look like a village idiot: my facial expression is blank as the flight or fight mechanism musters the energy needed to decipher what I'm hearing.  Definitely not a time to multitask.

Our first foray into a hardware store (un bricomarche) was met with puzzled looks when I asked the carefully rehearsed question "Est-que vous avez des planchers de chien s'il vous plait?"  Have you (floor) boards (made) of dog please? “Ahhh chêne – oui, oui “ was the relieved response of the shop assistant when I produced the piece of paper on which I had correctly written my question.

Excité(e) is a French word that I can pronounce clearly and confidently. In the past I’ve told quite a few French people (including officials) that I was très excitée to be in France, only to get a reaction which ranged from a smirk to a look of indignation. With such responses, a prudent person would have referred to their dictionary. Not me. 

It was the retort of our close French friend, Guillame, that finally goaded me into checking the translation of excitée. Unfortunately it remained in my oral French vocabulary for years 

One July morning, after a 6 am start in order to make as much possible progress with our renovating before the expected 40⁰ C heat arrived, a trip to the le bricomarché and le supermarché were necessary. As I was leaving My French Folly, clutching a shopping list, Guillame (artisan extraordinaire) appeared - just in time to advise me on what type and brand of wood preservative I should buy.

"Bonjour Guillame " I exclaimed, before kissing him on each cheek, “Je suis 

très excitée parce que tu es arrivé et je vais faire les courses . Quel préservatif, je dois acheter s'il vous plaît ?”

Loosely translated I said "Hello Guillame, I am sexually aroused because you had arrived and I'm going shopping. What type of condom do I need to buy please?"  

Note to self: excité = sexual excitement or arousal (not thrilled or excited); un préservatif = condom; chêne is not pronounced chien.

A New Chapter Begins

A new chapter in our family history has just begun with the recent marriage of our daughter.

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage. 
Lao Tzu 

May God be with you and bless you.

May you see your children's children.

May you be poor in misfortunes and rich in blessings. 

May you know nothing but happiness from this day forward.
An Irish Blessing

A Message of Peace and Hope

The message of peace and hope can be found in unexpected places.

This week, 17 of my fellow countrymen have been held hostage in the Lindt cafe in Sydney, with 2 of them being killed during the final minutes of the siege. Unimaginable. Sickening. 
The gamut of emotions across the faces of those who have laid flowers at a make shift memorial outside the cafe is heart-wrenching - especially those of the family members of the deceased. An act like this tears at the heart of a community and can catalyse irrational responses. Concerns were expressed of the possibility of racial riots like those experienced in Cronulla, 2005; the first, and hopefully the last in beautiful, multicultural Australia.

Instead of this week's tragic event fuelling fear and hatred within the community, it has galvanised people of all faiths, backgrounds and heritages to come together to support each other, pray and offer the family of the victims their condolences and blessings. Truly heart-warming signs of peace, understanding and hope for the future............a reflection of the Christmas message.

Holding On When You Want to Let Go.

If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading. Lao Tzu

There has been a prolonged silence from Eiffel tells – nothing said since  mid September.

Dreaming of more of this and ...............

Pourqui you ask? A lot of self-reflection and soul searching has been going on here.

Too many years of multi-tasking and angst have taken their toll...... Then there is my newly acquired tinnitus as well as a few other body parts that no longer function properly, creating daily tests for my patience; nothing life threatening, but niggling enough to make me review where I am and where I would like to be at this stage of my life. 

Definitely time for a change of direction. 

After much thought, and unsolicited advice from friends who have already trodden similar paths, I've decided the best course of action would be to change from full time employment to part time, and further develop the skills I need in order to “follow my passions” .

......... and this 

As a mother and wife who has had a career, I’ve put the interests and needs of those whom I love, my friends and my employer first, leaving very little time or emotional energy for myself. Now it’s time for me – in theory, but alas not in practice.

Last month, my employer refused my request to work part time next year– an unusual response as many of my colleagues already have part-time status and most of those who applied concurrently with me to reduce their hours of work, were granted their requests. There has been no explanation for my application being refused. A compromise appears to be feasible, but it’s not to be an option – for me. I have been with my current employer for 25 years.

I haven’t the courage to resign, and to be honest, I’m not sure if it’s feasible and will not know for quite some months. What would you do if you were me – cautious, and nearing the end of your professional life with a burning desire to change direction, but lacking the knowledge or confidence to do so?

Yes, I know I am fortunate to have such a dilemma, but I am no ‘spring chicken’ and the other hens of my age have already flown the coop. It’s lonely being the oldest chicken on my perch and I’m being sapped of energy just by trying to hold on to the damn thing.

Vale

Vale to my Father - a distinguished physician and scientist who had great compassion. I have learnt so much more about him from others since his passing, and also much about myself. 

Father was walking when stuck by a car, (driven by a very drunk 60 year old female driver) and sustained horrendous head injuries. I have had to find strength for my father, who was taken off life support almost 2 weeks ago and forgiveness for the drunk driver who took his life away when she swerved around a stationary car to hit him without braking. 

Father gave unconditionally to others - generous in spirit and humble by nature. He adored our mother who predeceased him, and gave his children a strong and loving family that will be sustained for generations to come.

Please to do not leave a comment. Instead take the time to focus on those you love. 

Bad Hair Days...Months...Years

Courtsey Google Images*

I am cursed with the family’s rogue genes. My siblings are all tall and handsome, and still draw admiring comments, despite their years. I am shorter, pale (à la Cate Blanchett) with unruly curls that tended to frizz with the onset of puberty and became drier and less predictable on reaching middle age. A theatrical agent could easily cast me in the role of one of the witches in Macbeth without the need for a hairstylist.
In the era of “product”, one would think that this sort of hair could be easily tamed. But unfortunately there is a scarcity of effective frizz-reducing treatments, and then when I do locate one, I develop an allergy after 6 to 8 weeks of applying it to my unruly crown. The result: presentable hair and a bright pink face, similar in appearance to one that is sunburnt…...or to that of an alcoholic.

For years I’ve longed for hair through which my beau could sensually run his fingers and seductively toss aside as he kissed me. Instead, there is a tangled mass of protein springs bobbing about on my skull through which fingers can't penetrate.

My search for a suitable hairdresser, shampoo and conditioner has been a life-long quest.

Before "zis hair cut"

In my very early teens, at an age of great sensitivity when straight hair and no bust was de rigour, the doyen of hairdressing in Melbourne loudly exclaimed that “ zis hair haz to come orf’ and gave me a number 2……decades before it was in vogue. I can still remember the warm tears streaming down my face and my throat tightening as my curls fell to the ground. I wanted to scream “stop” but I was too intimidated to utter the meekest whisper of protest.

After "zis hair cut"

A new hairdresser was sought and a new look obtained -  chemically straightened hair……..until the air was damp! Father, (who had never accepted the change in my hair  from the soft golden locks of childhood to a hormonally-driven frizzy mop), was happier with this new hairdo and consequently compared me with sheep less frequently. 
As I grew older and wiser I decided, despite the angst my hair had caused, I didn’t want potent, nasty chemicals regularly applied to my scalp.

Another hairdresser. A natural look. A success. Unfortunately for me, but more so for him, this talented and rather flamboyant hairdresser prematurely passed away.

Enter Anthony – a sensitive and colourful soul. On our first meeting, Anthony informed me that my hair was of a type that could never look sophisticated and the only acceptable alternative, in his professional opinion, would be funky. So funky I became with varying success. Anthony had relationship issues that used to affect his hands or eyesight, and on occasions, both.  His desperate solution to his growing  problems was to move interstate, which led me to Stephan in 4er Paris. For the first time my heart actually sang after a hair cut, but I was faced with a dilemma. I couldn’t wait 12 months for another cut in Paris.

Finally fate sent me Emma – an English hairdresser (in Australia) who followed Stephan’s cut…….and improved on it! Ce n’est pas possible? A good haircut has a transforming effect on one’s self esteem. It had taken decades, but I finally felt at ease with my appearance. I have accepted that my search for a suitable leave in hair conditioner will be life long…. as will my father’s occasional references to sheep …..….obviously funky ones which are bien dans leur peaux!

Post Script.

The husband has just read the above and wants a “right of reply”. He loves my pale skin, the doona that adorns my head and my height, and rather biasedly claims that I resembled Nicole Kidman in my younger years. Yes, my husband truly loves me ….. for me!

The Artist and His Wife          Andrew Sibley

* If you are the owner of this Google Image, please contact me so you can be acknowledged. Thank you

An Unfortunate Event - Kiss and Tell?

Despite being brought up in the Presbyterian church, I have a need to confess my wrong doings. Perhaps it's a legacy of my distant Catholic ancestors (whose allegiance to the Holy Roman church abruptly ended when my great-grand father took to a priest with a shovel).    
     

1 hour ago, I badly dented the rear right-hand side of Roger, my husband's beloved black Land Rover Discovery. .......He is yet to find out. I am riddled with guilt and just can't summon up the courage to tell him, so I am confessing to you with the bizarre hope that it will alleviate some of my remorse. 

Yes I am a coward. There is no one to blame but myself - one sedentary brick gate-pillar and one moving car . I wish I could report that Roger lightly caressed the gate post as he passed it, but unfortunately the encounter was more like a French kiss..... involving 2 interlocking tongue rings. Merde! 

The internet informs me that extensive repairs to one back panel and one side panel of a metallic coloured Land Rover is equivalent in price to the renovations of our bathroom in France. Mon Dieu....... And I can't covertly locate the relevant insurance policy, due to The Husband's unique filing system. Consequently I don't know the nuances of our insurance cover and my possible out-of-pocket expenses.  Perhaps I'll be bathing in a bucket when we eventually get to stay in My French Folly?  The appropriate businesses which could remove the evidence of my wrong doings are closed for the weekend .......my stomach is "in knots".

Poor Roger, poor Husband. And financially poor me..........?

Never lend your car to anyone to whom you have given birth or married.

Photographs courtesy of Land Rover

The Dinner Party

Where once having guests for dinner was a carefully orchestrated affair, now such an occasion is like having an accident - it is unplanned, does not require much effort in order to happen and one is relaxed and calm leading up to the unsuspected event. Last week I made some heavenly rillettes and  French onion soup, so when I chanced upon some friends shopping, an invitation to share our food was offered and accepted. Flowers were already sitting on the dining room table, napkins, place mats and cutlery were quickly arranged, the fire was lit, the wine selected and excellent company was enjoyed. No fuss on my part and no expectations on behalf of my guests. A perfect combination for a hostess who is prone to suffer angst over small details. As a consequence of my relaxed approach to entertaining,  the dinner  invitations which we receive, tend to be of a similar ilk. 

Last night was an exception. The Husband and I attended a carefully planned dinner party to celebrate a friend's milestone birthday. I'm always reticent at formal affairs when I don't know fellow guests, but my anxieties were quickly quelled by our charming hostess who provided the perfect combination of food, wine, atmosphere and interesting guests, that included francophiles, speakers of perfect French, (it definitely wasn't the time to showcase my basic French language skills), a professional photographer, a writer of novels, an owner of chickens, a couple who had also purchased a house in France over the Internet, and some engineers who fuelled an interesting discussion about alternative energy sources - delightful, unpretentious guests who appeared to have in common, an interest in the "Good Life". The conversations were passionate and  flowed easily all evening. New friends were made.......I was in social heaven. 

By this morning, the enchantment of the evening had dissipated when I woke with a champagne headache after only 2 glasses - a mid-life curse - and the realisation that I should reciprocate  with a similar dinner invitation. Perfectionist overload.......fear of failure.......2 aspirins taken. Time for a soak in the bath and some reflection..........

Champagne bottle photograph courtsey of The Daily Green, and the photograph of the onions courtsey of Wikepedia.

The Good Life: Keeping Hens in the City

Some are born with a love of hens, some develop a love of hens and some just have hens thrust upon them.

My great grandfather was a poultry fancier. His love of hens was intertwined with his scholar’s fascination for genetics and his passion for fine tasting chicken and eggs. His knowledge of and love affair with poultry has been passed down through the generations as his descendents have continued to keep hens and quail.

The desire for organic produce resulted in our friends acquiring chickens which  kindled their love of hens. Then there are our neighbours who had 3 down-covered chicks thrust upon them after their child had hatched some eggs at school.

I need hens for stress release. For me, the rhythmic sound of cackling hens and collecting newly laid, warm eggs are therapeutic. .

So my Husband has had fowls forced upon him - on 2 occasions. Last weekend I purchased a pair of young Isa Brown birds, which should be laying within the month. A cheaper option to buying mature fowl, but not the preferred option for my Husband.

Their acquisition has heightened the tension in my household to such a level that the birds, yet to be named, now reside in my brother’s garden – a comfortable 10 kilometres away.

Recalling our last batch of egg layers which roamed the garden, was enough to raise my Husband’s blood pressure. Tractor cages were assembled, elaborate drinking contraptions erected and the repairs to our garden were never ending.

The final straw for my Husband was the birds’ untimely demise - a result of my wing clipping. The consulted manuals precisely described, and illustrated how to clip wing feathers – on one wing only.

My desire for symmetry resulted in my birds having both wings clipped. A mistake.

A  pair of clipped wings still enables a bird to become airborne, albeit quite low – but  enough to fly out of our yard (2 birds) and attempt to fly across our larger than average in-ground swimming pool. A reckless decision. The sight of 3 deceased fowl floating on the sparkling blue water and the need to extract another from the pool filter were enough to have my newly acquired Isa Brown hens banished.

Diminished stress for the Husband, heightened stress for me and one very happy brother who has inherited my grandfather’s fascination for “chooks”.

Mother's' Day

"Who, being loved, is poor?"          Oscar Wilde

Mother's day is a day for the gathering of the clan and to count my blessings. 
The older I get, the more grateful I am for the simple things in life - and the greater my intolerance of screaming children, particularly those who are spoilt. By the time I am a grandmother, all of my patience with children will have been eroded away – unfortunately I will probably be known as Grandma Grump and be given "wide berth" on Mother's Day.

"All that I am. or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother". Abraham Lincoln .......I just wish that I had inherited a touch more of Mother's characteristics.  My mother was an inspirational woman whom I understand and appreciate even more with the passing of time. I miss her laughter, wisdom, patience, kindness, infectious energy and mischievous sense of humour

"Mothers are all slightly insane."          J.D. Salinger

There is no way to be a perfect mother, and a million ways to be a good one".  Jill  Churchill.......Yes, Mother's Day is another occasion to reflect upon life.

Perhaps it was with envy that Oscar Wilde said : "All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his."

Back at the Blog!

Perhaps a bookshelf of diaries?

No. It's a wooden sculpture of a life-sized

bookshelf, on display in a Chateau of the

Loire Valley, France.

Yes, mother was right - my handwriting is illegible - even to me. The on button of the computer has been pressed and my newly acquired diary has been cast to one side.  I am of an age where my memory is less reliable so what is the use of recoding my thoughts and observations if I can't read what I have written? I suppose I could "ramble on" in a word document, but then I would be denied the pleasure of browsing my photographs for a purpose. Blogging also provides an effective means of “updating” friends en masse without the complications of social media.The recent claims made in the press, that internet friendships are superficial and often of a bogus nature, are a gross generalization ......At least they don't apply to me -  a sample size of one.  For many of my generation emailing has replaced the long, hand written letter to family, friends and pen pals from our youth.

 In this time-poor age it is rare to be able to sit with friends and colleagues to discuss issues . And when we do, the conversation is usually superficial.

Seldom do we give a detailed description of personal observations or thoughts about events that are important to us……………but writing an email, particularly to people in distant places, often necessitates these omitted verbal details in order to communicate clearly.

Two friendships I value highly have been nurtured over the Internet. Jo I met briefly in France. Despite living in different hemispheres we regularly have “a cup of tea and a chat “ via email. Rosemary is a professional travel writer whom I contacted after she had published an article about the region in France in which we have bought our "renovator's opportunity with great potential".

Both of these women write beautifully.  And enhance their  photographs with well-crafted descriptions.

The old vine at the gated entrance
of the B&B where we met Jo, her husband
and le vulcan, Terrance Gelenter

Jo knows me better than my colleagues with whom I have been working for 21 years! I consider both of these women to be real friends who have been honest and open in their communications with me about many aspects of our lives. Thank you Jo. Thank you Rosemary. Thank you technology.

Punch - clearly not gorgeous

When being gorgeous is not enough

A Word to Husbands 

To keep your marriage brimming

With love in the loving cup,

Whenever you’re wrong, admit it;

Whenever you’re right, shut up.

by Ogden Nash

When Being Gorgeous Is Not Enough

My husband is gorgeous, wonderful and a whole host of other superlatives, but it is not enough: he can be infuriating. Although highly intelligent and mentally well organised, he is happy to live in physical chaos.

The 2 car garage, minus the cars, is his official Shed in which he works, or at least spends a few hours per week when he wants to lie low.

The roller door to his secret world is opened at one’s own peril, as it is more than likely that some object, often large and heavy, will lunge at you from an unsuspected angle. This door is the only entrance to the Husband’s sanctuary as the other thresholds can no longer be crossed due to the machinery and clutter which abut them. To enter this chamber of confusion, one has to shuffle in sideways along planks of wood which lie on the floor. At the far end of The Shed there is a cleared space, about 1 m square, in which sits a stool in front of a pile of tools that hide the work bench: husband’s bliss, wife’s nightmare.

Being an engineer, the Husband is a great problem-solver: he is a “hard worker”, enjoys physically challenges and can do anything around the house - with direction. And this is where we become “unstuck”.

Dust and clutter don’t appear on his “radar” and his tendency to put his belongings down anywhere in the house adds to our domestic mayhem. Batteries are recharged on our bedroom floor; accounts and important papers are dumped in the bottom of his wardrobe, squirreled under his side of the bed or mounded on our dressing table. There are computer parts and tool boxes in the family room machinery parts and hoses in the hallway and the pile of man things at the bottom of the stairs is now becoming a “death trap”.

In our domestic environment The Husband is “practical” whereas aesthetics and order - as well as the protection of my beloved Persian carpets and antique furniture - are my priority.

His generosity and adherence to his Queen’s Scout oath can also be a source of contention. He is always there for others, frequently downing tools, while working on one of my many mandated domestic projects, leaving them in situ, to run to the aid of family or friends.

I am no angel when it comes to tidiness; however, tidiness and order are mandatory for me to function effectively. As an employed professional, I feel exhausted shouldering the responsibility of organising this adult family, and the domestic chaos poignantly indicates that I am not really effective in carrying out my duties.

Why do the rest of my tribe need directions? Where’s their initiative? Part of my problem is I tolerate the status quo until I am at breaking point then I snap.  Result – mass migration – husband to his Shed and adult children to their sacred no go zone upstairs. So I am abandoned – left wallowing in a sea of frustration and inaction which saps me mentally and physically of the situation that appears impossible to rectify.  

Status and money are not the Husband’s priorities in his life – he wants for little. A happy, well adjusted individual, about whom I would have little to criticise, if it weren’t for my burning desire to “see the world”, and dabble in photography, both of which necessitate more zeros than we have in our bank account.

I want a man to complement my shortcomings; not enhance them.

Frank discussion is no solution to our domestic disharmony. Unlike the metro men of the Y generation, my baby boomer husband is not willing to workshop our issues. At the slightest hint of such an occurrence, he disappears to his shed.

Clearly, living with a gorgeous husband is not enough when I am not perfect myself and, despite the passage of time, we haven’t quite mastered our communication skills.  

Would I cast him off or trade him in? Never. 

When being gorgeous is not enough

Judy - obviously frustrated

Quatrain Number 20............A Favourite Since Childhood

 Edward Fitzgerald: “The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam” (1905)

Quatrain Number 20

Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears 

To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears: 

To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be 

Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years. 

By Omar Khayyam

This quote has helped to buoy me through difficult times. Introduced to The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám at a tender young age, by my Great Uncle who could quote a relevant quatrain for almost any situation, I learned to recite my favourite verse, quatrain 20, before the age of 10. As I grew in years so too did my appreciation of this eloquently expressed piece of wisdom. It is a pity that many 21st century children are deprived of the richness of an extended family............