Tahitian Dreams

In my twenties, I lived and worked at an equestrian center near Nice, in the South of France. The stables and house were recessed in a wooded valley, set far back from the main road, leading to Grasse, where the perfume factories grow their jasmine, and where nightingales called to one another across the scented crepuscular calm.
FanFan was my boss's sister, who also lived with the family. Mature, but not an old fashioned "Auntie"; FanFan zoomed around in a rattling 2CV Renault; graceful, slender build, flaming red toenails and vigorous curls belying the marks of time that many decades of sun-worship had inscribed, like tree rings, on her neck and forearms.
Little by little I gleaned the story of some of FanFan's adventures. We would gather fresh raspberries from the garden and sit chatting for a while after work. FanFan had a secret recipe for a lethal rum punch, brought back from her life, with her husband, in Tahiti. An inch or two of her marvelous nectar,  combined with tales of her colorful existence, confirmed the incongruity of her presence in such rustic surroundings.
FanFan was living with her brother's family whilst her husband completed his prison term. On one voyage home from the islands, their yacht had been searched and some packages "they'd been carrying for a friend" turned out to be contraband. They had been charged with drug smuggling. The yacht was confiscated and their money was drained, whether as fines or legal fees, no matter, and FanFan made the best of it, in limbo.
I thought of FanFan this morning, when I came across plump, ripe, green limes at the vegetable market, ten for a dollar. First I scraped the zest with a fine grater, into a jar with brown sugar. Next I squeezed in the juices and added finely chopped crystalized ginger. I warmed the mixture to melt the sugar and release the other flavors and then I added dark brown rum. Well shaken and poured over ice cubes, that was FanFan's memorable secret sipping potion.
We varied it up today by adding pineapple juice, to make a long drink, more suitable for midday consumption. There will be other moments when we will open the potion jar again and sit outside on a warm evening with a glass of lime, ginger and vanilla scented memories.

A Quiet House

I can't remember the last time my home did not include a cat, dog or multiples thereof. It took me a while to start walking again around the neighborhood. Every time I went out I was faced, not only with an emptiness where a leashed companion used to be, but many, many acquaintances giving me quizzical looks and the fresh tears never far from the surface as I explained one more time that Diva had been put to sleep. I perfected a technique of never really stopping; just keeping walking; never letting myself break down completely. There is something about putting one foot in front of the other that soothes and seems an acceptable escape from sympathetic looks and words, without appearing rude.
My foster-kitten Sparkles has been immersed in kittenly socialization with the other orphans for a week now. Her Mum-to-be visited her yesterday and said she is still even cuter in person than in photos. Sparkles fell asleep in her arms and those arms will be taking her home once she's a little older. I will check in on her next week myself.
I put my cotton robe/dressing gown in the washing machine this morning, after inhaling one last time from the innocent perfume of milky kitten that it had held onto.It seemed a bit final but endings turn into beginnings and change is good.
My goal is to find out who I am and what I want when I am not filling my life with duties and responsibilities to other living things, albeit much loved creatures.
I am going riding tomorrow at a new barn. (New to me). I was there years ago when Lovely Daughter rode there a few times with a friend. It had escaped my memory until I read a post from a blogger I've just started following. She mentioned a new barn she has recently begun attending. I could tell from her clues that this was the place. I liked what she had to say and as far as Karma is concerned, she's grieving her dog and struggling with her identity in life and marriage too. I thought she might freak out if I told her I know the place she has chosen not to name. I really like the sound of the trainer she described but it seemed stalker-like to ask for details so I'll infiltrate and see what I see for myself.

A Varied, if Disjointed, Day

I stole an hour this morning to ride with a regular group who meet every Wednesday at 8am. It was a pristine morning, with a few remaining wisps of mist contrasting with the dark green conifers in the creases of the higher hills. My road was all dappled sunlight snaking up to the stables; a Doe with two spotted fawns popped out of the creek-bed and crossed in front of me. I drive with deer and cyclists in mind on this road; although last week it was a double truck-trailer rig that almost wiped me out. His front end was on track but the rear trailer completely cut across the corner I was planning on driving around. I could see from the driver's face that he knew he had come close to disaster. I was able to hug the hill and brake in time but it was down to an inch or less.
The entrance to the stable is through their vineyards. Workers were out nurturing the grape vines; they drive small electric vehicles similar to a golf-cart pick-up truck conversion; painted green, of course. There are tractors too, but the small stuff gets done quietly.
Back down the hill afterwards, a "Flash-Shower", clean clothes and letting my hair dry with the car windows open. Detour to a job site that needed some instant answers and in to our business to approve an edge detail for the hearth of a fireplace that is under fabrication.
A new client meeting scheduled for 11:30 am in nearby Palo Alto, to meet all members of a design/build company with some good projects sprouting around the area. I was on time for my appointment, but only just; many surrounding streets were closed and police were everywhere. The ensuing traffic snarls and lack of parking can be laid at the feet of Russian President Medvedev, who was in town to speak at Stanford and decided to visit Yandex Labs, the largest internet company in Russia (except they are here). Per the local news website, Medvedev sauntered down the street with secret service and motorcade in tow, and spoke to local spectators, many of whom had just finished watching the World Cup Football Games at Antonio's NutHouse.
It was just as hard to get out of there after my appointment. Nose to tail traffic made me depart in the opposite direction to that which would lead me home for lunch. Even though I know my way around it was time consuming and laborious.
By the time I got to our house, Hubby had eaten and was taking a short nap before the second phase of the work day. We had received a delivery from the Exotic Meat Company. I unwrapped Wild Boar Bacon and Boar Chops (from Feral Swine, it proclaimed on the packaging). There were Venison sausages and stewing meat, as well as a roast. Everything arrives vacuum sealed and frozen, transported in dry ice to ensure freshness. I used to order from this internet source when Lovely Daughter and her Husband were first stationed at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. I couldn't send them wine, they were too young to sign for the shipments. Their 5th wedding anniversary is coming up soon and they are doing so well in life and careers that I was happy to order something that would bring back memories and just be a fun and useful gift. I packed their share in a cooler and delivered it to Lovely Daughter's work place at the end of her day.
I had received a call from my sister, who is ensconced in rural England. We have horses in common and she once also had a French Husband. He, and her previous ex-boyfriend both managed to be pedestrians killed by cars, although one was in Italy and the other in the U.S. at the time. Her current husband and the father of her son works in Siberia three weeks out of every six. Fiona takes good care of  her horse, her son and the neighbor's rescue greyhound.
The neighbor is a famous lady artist, full of her own importance and living in what was once the Manor House. My sister has the little cottage down the lane that is overgrown by the trees that flourish from next door and steal her light. Last time they needed pruning there was much hullabaloo. Apparently, even if you rarely go outside and can't see these trees from your house it is impossible not to interfere with work that your neighbor has undertaken.
The root of the problem was disclosed today, when Fiona went to discuss sharing the impending 700 pound tree trimming bill with the owner of said trees. "But you live in the Wood Cutter's cottage" said Marge " The Wood Cutter always takes care of the trees".
My other link to a partial childhood/adolescence in Cornwall is a friend who is very successful in marketing consulting for firms in Silicon Valley. She needed to meet to brainstorm a transformation of her house and garden. She has become a quirky germo-phobe, who believes in alternative medecines of all kinds. When we spoke to set up a get together she was at the vet's office with her favorite chicken, who was unwell. The chicken is spending the night under observation and, in her absence, we decided on a navy blue front door and cancellation of a trip to the U,K, tomorrow for the Christening of a new family member this weekend. I further suggested that she put her teenage son on the plane by himself so that she could recuperate and get some work done uninterrupted to pay for the pending money-pit of renovations.
One of my frustrations today was that there was a news story, in which I was interested, on my  talk radio station in the car. It seemed as though every breaking news update was announced right when I had to get out and leave my car to do other things. I was able to catch up with the gist of it but missed some important press conferences and commentaries.
My last achievement of the work day was pinning down "she of the sage cleansed house" to a rendez-vous tomorrow morning. " If I am not there please call me at my other house number" she requested. "Oh sure!" I thought to myself. "My time is of no importance" " I look forward to seeing you" (Swallow bile).

Gardeners: Seers of the future.

"Seer"- a person with unusual powers of foresight; - one who divines the future.

Gardening is a leap of faith; optimism personified; visionary belief that planting, tending and nurturing will produce concrete results. Indefatigable Gardener Egos are prepared to accept that  lack of success does not mean surrender. There will always be next year.

The strange, finger-like leaves unfurling relentlessly from the shadows are this year's peonies-to-be. Part of my pleasure in gardening is that I see the images of the future; beautiful flowers to come. In my minds eye I leap from this to fragrant, pristine white flowers tinged with rose.

I tried and failed for three years to grow peonies. Then I had plants with leaves only. The blooms did not reappear the following year.  Now I have consistent success, using what I learned from each disappointment and counting on each previous failure to multiply my satisfaction.

Something's Got to Change

Partly due to the event of my recent birthday, partly the economy, but mostly just waking up and asking myself what the heck the future holds and, if it's more of the same, do I want that?
My husband is averse to planning ahead. One thing he cannot "spontaneously un-plan" is his seventy-fourth birthday, which looms in May.
He is an Artist, a Creative Soul, and we have lived and worked together for more than twenty-five years. That's the good and the bad news.
I have created a monster! He believes in his own P.R. but I wrote it. There are clever pull-quotes in some articles that, when people ask, "Did he really say that?" I reply, "He would have, if he'd thought of it"
I put a positive spin on most everything and often we succeed just by creating our own momentum. But we don't have a plan. Other than perpetually getting up and doing the whole thing over again tomorrow, there is no plan.
It may come from a deeply female, nurturing instinct from the past but I want to know which cave I will be coming home to, in the event the dinosaurs overtake my cave-man.

to be continued...