Leaving France via Hong Kong.

Our three years came to an inevitable end and we packed up our ‘new’ antiques and left our beautiful home with Channel, and the cats, Shatzi and Mitzi. On our way home from France to Ontario, we visited some friends in Hong Kong. Bob had been with the company, Quebecair, but left with his wife Judy and three kids, to pursue a career piloting with Cathay Pacific. We had minded their children for a couple of weeks  in France and they gave Don a t-shirt, as a thank-you, I guess.  They kindly invited us to visit them in Hong Kong . It seemed fitting to take them up on it and so we decide to go on our way home.  

Hong Kong was hot and humid, but it felt good on the bones. Bob and Judy lived on an Island off Hong kong so we ferried back and forth to go to the city to poke around, sight see and shop.  One day we saw massive numbers of containers floating in the harbour.  We bristled as our containers would be transported by ship as well.  You mean, THIS can happen?? Egad.

We decided to invite then out for dinner, with their three kids, to a Chinese restaurant in the city that was actually a huge three story Chinese boat, afloat in the harbour, painted bright red with all the fancy paintings and lights. It was also Judy’s birthday.  Bob had decided we would all meet that evening at 6:00.  He must have ruled over her with an iron fist or something, because I never suspected this ultimatum was a life or death warning.  But it must have been because of what happened that afternoon.  

Judy and I went to the market after lunch. It was a market that spanned several blocks.  I felt I was in a different world with all these fascinating and interesting things.  Judy had an agenda, so we decided she could go ahead and get her things and I would mozey on, on my own, and we would meet at the market entrance at 5:30.  This would give us enough time to drive to the restaurant and meet up with the gang.

I was about 8 minutes late even though I tried my best to get out of there and find the entrance on time.  I stood at the entrance of the market with all my shopping bags, waiting.  I figured she got tied up somewhere… easy enough to do in that place.  As the clock neared six, I started to suspect she wasn’t here.  It was getting dark and I had to make a realization, was she here or not?  I decided she wasn’t.

I was soon to find out that in this part of Hong Kong, no one spoke English. I approached several cab drivers who couldn’t understand me.  I’d go to the next one.  I was getting a little frantic and I even beseeched strangers to help me, but they didn’t speak English either. Finally one driver caught the word ‘water’ and even if he didn’t understand what I meant for sure, I had to take a chance that he knew I meant the harbour.

I was so relieved to see the familiar sight of the water and ferry station, even in the dark. I got out of the cab and started looking for another one, one where the driver spoke English. It wasn’t hard as most of them did. I described the restaurant and the driver knew right away which one I meant.  I guess it was pretty popular.  Sure enough, he got me to the right place, because even though I didn’t know the name, I knew what it looked like and this was it. What luck!

I was greeted at the door by a hostess who was expecting me.  I thought that was a nice welcome.  However, when I arrived at the table, there they were, all sitting around, with an empty chair for me, (how nice of them to remember me), finishing up their dinner. It was like the Twilight Zone.  Don saying, “Oh we knew  you’d find us,” and everyone else acting like this was perfectly normal.  I didn’t know what to feel.  I was bewildered, shocked almost, that Judy left me like that, and now I was in disbelief that my absence didn’t seem to affect them in any way. I had a couple of bites of left overs and that was it.

Now it was time to get home. Don stayed for a few more months to finish his contract and I flew home with the kids to meet up with our furniture. We were fortunate with the sale of the house as we doubled our money in the short time we had it. Twenty years later it was worth 5 times that!  The money gave us a cushion when we came home as Don was out of work for one and a half years.  His company, Quebecair, closed their doors with the end of the contract in France.   

There were a few complications to getting our stuff back.  There was the holding back or our belongings because we had been suspected of using the company for commercial reasons. The company refused to ship the containers until Don relinquished $10,000 of his severance.  The stuff sat in the heat at Le Harvre on the docks,  with 200 bottles of wine, until all this was settled. This caused a lot of stress on Don who was now on his own living in one of the apartments in the house.

Hunting in France

Hunting in France up to the time of the Revolution was just for the elite.  Once the French got the rights to hunt, they weren’t going to give them up easily.  M. Robin, Monsieur le Mayor, landowner and our land lord, used his land to profit from the large hunting fees.  Men paid thousands to hunt.  It was pure forest across from the house. Some of the land belonged to us, but most of it was M. Robin’s.  Martine had stories of lead from bullets soaring through her open shutters and landing on her bed.  

This one day the kids were playing in the woods with some American friends who were visiting.  They came in with stories of bullets flying by their ears.  This caused quite a stir and next thing you know, the game warden, the police and all the neighbours were sitting in our living room discussing the issue of hunting so close to the houses.

They wouldn’t budge.  Nothing could be done to interfere with their right to hunt.  I was livid.  I tried to point out that if a kid had been killed our conversation wouldn't be the same.  They agreed.  But no body was produced, so no change in the rules.  

Chanel our French Bearded Collie

We never were intending to get a dog while in France, but when friends of ours could no longer care for their Bearded Collie, we became the proud owners of Chanel.  She was a french dog, after all, and needed a good french name. She came with instructions on what to feed her.  Fresh vegetables and fruits and certain kinds of meat.  I thought this was really amusing, and bought her dog food.  When dinner time came she met it with total lack of enthusiasm and a look of “Is THIS what you’re giving me for dinner?”  Eventually we fed her table scraps in with the dog food and that was much better. 

She was a quiet, devoted pet and everyone loved her.  While we were living in France, she always looked groomed with her long shiny coat brushed and tidy.  But she did not look like this when we moved back to the farm. The dirt was attracted to her and wouldn’t come off easily.  Brandon brushed her for a while, but then gave up.  It was so much work and it never lasted long.  She was never meant to be a farm dog. She turned from a coquettish little beauty into a ‘swamp thang’. 

Chanel lived for twelve years.  At the end, back at farm and years later, I noticed Boy wouldn’t leave her side.  By the time I got her to the vet, the blood infection had progressed and there wasn’t much the vet could do, so we had to put her down.  It happened while I was busy packing up to move from the farm in 2002, and I felt guilty that I hadn’t noticed it earlier.  It was a very sad time.

Madame le Bar Tender

Behind our house in Boinville on the other side of the little river on the main country road, was a small bar in a courtyard of an old house. It was owned and run by ‘Madame’’. Outside the bar were weather worn tables under the large looming branches of the trees. There were pigeon cages everywhere.  Oh Madame was a picture of the past, with a kerchief around her head and a long apron hanging over her very french working dress. She was a short old lady with a smile you’d want to hang on your wall. She was beautiful!

The bar had been a bar for a hundred years and not changed much over time. It was a place where travellers passing by could come and have a drink and a croissant.  But not just any drink.  We walked over one day to sit at one of the picnic tables in the garden and have lunch. Damon ordered a coke.  She chided that coke wasn’t good for you, have something else. We found that was just too funny.  Don ordered a drink and she reprimanded him that straight alcohol wasn’t good either, so have a beer or some wine.

Ian Visits

My step brother, Ian Roberts, came to visit us at Chèvre Chou.  He was an established artist, even back then, and he talked of one day having workshops in France in a grand chateaux.  I encouraged him and said, why not?  You can do it if you want to. He eventually did hold workshops every spring in Provence and Italy.  This was to play a part in my life later on.

The Berlin Wall

It was November, 1989 and the Berlin wall, constructed in 1963 to separate east and west Berlin, was finally coming down. This would allow families to reunite who had been separated by threat of death, for over 25 years.

Don had queasy feelings about the Germans and hesitated to go.  But by February, he was ready and we piled the kids into the car and went to join the ‘wall peckers’. 

Armed guards who the day before shot anyone venturing into ‘no man’s land’, (the space between the Berlin wall and the smaller wall on the east side), and today were acting as tourist guides.  The look of confusion on their faces did not escape me.  They just couldn’t smile.

We came equipped with our chisels and hammers.  That wall was never meant to come down. It was hard.  We enthusiastically did our bit at chipping away at it to gather our treasured pieces into our own little bags. The strangest phenomenon occurred. People with spray cans would spray the walls and before the paint was dry, men in business suits and attache cases would appear.  They had chisels and tools in their attache cases. They began immediately to chip away at the freshly painted parts of the wall. It all seemed so strange. We deserved the title they gave us, ‘the wall peckers’ as the bits came off in small pieces and we could but chip away at it. We managed to get a few jars of the hard stone as our loot. 

We visited east Berlin and passed through Check Point Charlie.  It was just a little white building, but had quite a history after the war in its special role as a check point between east and west Berlin.  I thought it was a big mistake when they removed it when it really belonged in a museum. I thought it was a mistake too, that the Germans completely removed the wall.  Parts of it could have kept the wall peckers coming for years. But it was removed in its entirity save for a small section very quickly within a few months of the declaration that it was to come down.

At Check Point Charlie, we were given passes to go into east Berlin.  I think we were supposed to hand them back in but I ended up keeping mine.  Back at the farm, I framed it. We went to a restaurant in east Berlin.  It was dreary and poor and hadn’t yet adjusted to the freedoms and plenty of the west.   When we ordered coke, the staff said they had some but it was just for the staff and they wouldn’t sell it to us. This reflected the mentality that they had to live with, hoarding and miserliness.  It was evident that not only was coke not easily acquired, but they didn’t realize yet that they could get all the coke they wanted. 

The 2Wing RCAF Sign Caper

Don and I had decided to take the kids to my old stomping grounds at 2Wing Grotenquin.  I had heard the French took over the base after it was closed in 1963.  I was curious to see it and to visit the PMQ’S, the apartments where we lived which were located 17 kilometres from the base. I wondered if the farm would still be there with the chickens and rabbits. It was still vivid in my memory.

We found the base and it looked so different.  Trees had grown up everywhere and no longer could the relentless sun burn the sidewalks and roads.  The guard house was still there; and, much to my surprise, there was a guard in it.  I wondered what he was guarding as the base looked completely deserted and dilapidated.  Apparently the French had assumed the runway and the rest of the base was left to rot. I tried to convince the guard to let me go onto the base to have a look. But his job was to ‘protect’ the base and I could not soften his resolve.  We had to be content to see it from the fence that bordered it and gaze over the barrier that blocked me from my past.  

There was a large metal sign outside the base indicating this was a RCAF base.  It had a CF100 painted on it and ‘RCAF 2Wing’ in big letters on a sky blue background. It measured six feet by twelve.  It graced the grounds just outside of the guard house on the civilian side. It had been there for thirty years and, although we didn’t know it at the time, we were about to steal it away and return it back to Canada.

We left the base to visit the PMQ’s and the old farm.  

The PMQ’s had been updated and looked pretty good.  The hill rolling down to the farm was all built up with homes, all close together, as were my forest and ravine, save for the forest around the water tower. I ran into the woods with great anticipation to see my fantasy palaces, the bunkers.  I searched and searched and finally had to come to the conclusion that they had all been removed. I was crestfallen. 

I was sad to see that the farm had been deserted and it loomed dark and gloomy.  What could express abandonment better that a large, empty, neglected house?  I wondered what had happened to the girls.  We did manage to track down one of them.  We had a wonderful visit catching up on the family news, over a cafe au lait, sitting in the sun at an outdoor cafe in St. Avold.

My curiosity had been assuaged by revisiting my childhood haunts, the base, the PMQ’s, the farm and the forest. I thought things might have been more the same as I remembered them, but they were not.

On our way back home to Boinville, we stopped to visit military friends in Lahr, Germany. We were discussing the fact that all the signs at the Canadian military bases in Europe had disappeared..  Since we had just come from 2Wing, we shared that  this one was still there. Our friend said he’d arrange a posse to steal it, or rescue it, as he preferred to call it. Don said, ‘Give us ten days.”

Instead of going home, we went back to Grotenquin. 

We stopped off at a hardware store to get some tools, like a hammer, a screw driver, a lever and a pair of gloves and headed for the base once again but this time we had a mission. We were going to get that sign away from the French and back into Canadian hands where it belonged. 

When we arrived at the guard house, we did have a little conversation with the guard at the gate to clarify what area the French had jurisdiction over.  Well, it wasn’t outside the base, so we figured the coast was clear.

The looming sign located off side of the guard house. There were tall cypress trees bordering it which helped hide us from the guard’s view as we performed our nefarious deed.  I set up a picnic beside the sign in full view of the guard.  He didn’t leave his little window.   It seemed he was facing us the whole time.  We casually sat and ate our meal, chatting and looking over the rolling fields as if nothing was going on.  But something was going on.  Don was gripped onto the sign like Spider Man, disengaging the screws, one by one, releasing each six by three foot panel and letting them fall to the ground in front of the sign and out of sight of the guard.

Don had to now get the panels into the station wagon without being seen.  My job was to divert the attention of the guard so Don could fulfill his mission. When we had finished eating, I collected the garbage and went into the guard house to ask where we could put our refuse.  The guard obliged and we started to chit chat.  It turned out that he was on the base the day the CFG100’s crashed and landed in the hospital. I was across the street sitting on the church steps and he was working in the building next to the doomed hospital. We established a rapport and I ventured to ask again if I could go on the base.  It was a different guard and a different situation and he acquiesced.  

Just as we were finalizing the deal, Don came into the scene, his white shirt covered in blue chips of paint, looking like the cheshire cat who swallowed the canary.  We were all looking up at the ceiling and whistling in an imaginary way.  Please don’t notice that the blue on his shirt matches the blue on the sign! 

The question became, do we take a chance and take a 45 minute tour of the base, or high tail it before some senior officer drives up and sees the sign is gone?  Well, I had to take a tour of the base.  The old swimming pool was more than deserted, it was in ruins, as was the rest of the base.  There was only a wall and steps remaining of the church and practically nothing of the hospital and PX.  The trees had overgrown everywhere. It looked like a jungle.  

I was anxious to return to the car and get out of there before things got complicated.  The metal panels went from the front of the station wagon to the back and there was no place for the kids to sit except on the floor, sort of.  We drove a few kilometres away and reorganized so we could make the 4 hour trip back home.

Don alerted the authorities at the Canadian Embassy of our treasure.  They arranged for a Hercules transport plane to come and pick it up. One evening after dark, we drove the sign into Paris into the back yard of the Canadian Embassy.  The large security doors opened to let us in.  We felt rather ‘impo’tant’.  The sign was delivered to Trenton, Ontario, where it waits to be put on display at the Trenton Military Museum.

Daniel and Martine were shocked and asked us what kind of example we were setting for our kids.  It was a difficult question to answer since we all thought we’d accomplished a great deed. Their reaction made me feel a bit guilty and I hoped the French army wouldn’t be marching in to arrest us.  

We went back one more time to the base, and this time ran into some French soldiers who were recounting the story of how Canadian soldiers from Germany had come and stolen the sign in the middle of the night.  Actually, they had come and taken the wooden base the sign was on. I didn’t have the nerve to tell him that the sign had actually been taken by my little family in broad daylight.  I thought it better not to find out how he’d react at having been had by a couple and their kids instead of by trained military personnel.

Having a Baby in My Car?

My British friend, Sue Walker, was very pregnant.  Her husband worked in Paris and it usually took him some time to get home.  

One afternoon Sue called to tell me I was on yellow alert.  She wasn’t sure her husband would get home on time to get her to the hospital and was needing me as a back up. A couple of hours later, the call was to put me on orange alert and, not much later, it was upped to red.  I rushed over to find her in transition. She had to waddle down a very long set of stairs to get to the car and I was personally worried she wouldn’t even make it.  But she got into the back seat and lay down.

I was in a rush. I didn’t want the baby to be born in the car; it would be so uncomfortable for her.  So I had the accelerator to the floor to the pleas of Sue to ‘Slow down Chris..’  She had visions of the front page of the newspaper announcing the accident with mother and baby. So I’d slow down for a few blocks and then gun it to the cries of “She’s coming!”  Oh gahd, please not yet!

When we got to the hospital, the baby was starting to see the light of day.  I ran in and completely forgot all my french.  I yelled up and down the empty hallways, “Au secour, au secour” That means ‘help’.  A hulking black orderly ran up with a gurney and out to the car.  Sue, who was in the middle of delivering, looked up to see this beast on top of her telling her to hang on.  

She barely made it. Her husband missed the whole show of the arrival of a beautiful baby girl, Sofie. That was a day to remember.

A Hundred Dollars for Christmas

We had promised the boys $100 for Christmas.  However, one day Tyson came to me saying that he could no longer support Brandon’s calling him ‘box head’.  Brandon loved to make fun of Tyson and tease him.  Tyson was pretty good natured about it, but he’d had it this particular day. I tried to cajole Brandon into cutting it out, but he persisted.  Finally, I took out the big guns and said he’d lose a dollar off his Christmas money for every time he called Tyson box head. 

 Well, Brandon, not to be controlled by desire, lost $25 and the hundred dollars was now down to seventy-five.  He asked, “How much is left?”  When I told him “Seventy-five dollars”, he continued, “Box head, box head, box head, box head.  How much left?  Box head, box head, box head….” until it was all gone. I think he tired himself out and it wasn’t a big issue after that, but he didn’t get his $100 for Christmas.

Paris Socked In and the 747 ‘bump’

I took a trip home to Canada for a week or so.  I had trouble breathing and I thought it might be the Paris air.  I suspected, though, that it might be more like repressed emotions. 

On my return, we were heading for Paris, but the plane, a 747, was diverted to Lyon because Paris was socked in with fog.  Lyon airport couldn’t really accommodate all these aircraft, but they kept landing anyway. We were not allowed off the plane which was surrounded by armed guards in fatigues with rifles. Boy, these French meant business. It was 8:00 in the morning.

At one point there was a large bang;  the airplane rocked and all the electrical systems failed.  The lights went out and the GPS (ground power system) shorted out.  It got very hot inside the cabin and passengers were going up to the cock pit to put their heads out the port hole to get some air. Others were walking out onto the small landing of the stair case. The French army didn’t approve of this and ordered everyone back into the airplane. We were there from 8 in the morning until we could leave for Paris at 5:30 pm. 

We were to learn that when another 747 was landing on the crowded runway, its wing got caught under our tail, causing the power outage. A crane had to come and lift our aircraft off of the other airplane’s wing. This took the whole afternoon. When I heard of this I was suspicious that the fuselage had been cracked and I refused to fly on the airplane.  I was instructed to stay on the airplane as de-boarding was going to be in Paris, not Lyon. I was conflicted andI  suspected putting this aircraft back in the air without being checked was not a good idea. It  could be fatal, but I had no choice.  They had guns. Don was at the airport with the kids since 8 in the morning and was never informed of the accident. It was never was discussed by airport personnel nor was it in the news.

I was so happy to see all of them there waiting for me and be on terra firma!

Cat in the Armoire

We had just left the house, heading to the airport on one of our excursions, when I realized I forgot a belt for my skirt that I kept in the large armoire in the bedroom.  Fortunately, Don conceded to go back for it, because when I opened the armoire door, I found the cat sleeping soundly on my clothes.  Perish the thought of what might have been if it’d stayed there for a week.  I deemed that must have been divine intervention.

When we were on our way again, we passed a little girl who was in Brandon’s class. With heartfelt enthusiasm, Brandon says, “Man, I love that woman.”  He was nine years old.  It was so unexpected and funny coming from him.

Damon Loses His Camera

Don took Damon on his first trip alone… a trip to Corsica where Napoleon Bonarparte was born.  They visited Napoleon’s home and Damon collected water worn tiles in the sea around Bonaparte’s house.  They had lunch one day at a restaurant-pub. When they  left, much to Damon’s heartbreak, he realized he did not have his camera with him.  They went back to the restaurant where all the staff said they hadn’t seen it. Don was just sick for Damon and wanted to buy him another one right away.  He sent Damon back in by himself to ask again if anyone had seen it. This time, someone went into the kitchen and came back with his camera. Well, Damon didn’t leave it out of his sight after that. He was so grateful, he considered he owed the universe one now.

Hans and Yanik

When we moved next door to Chèvre Chou, Hans and Yanic moved in to the sheep barn. Don flew with Hans, a young, good looking, dream boat. He happened to get involved with a younger, brazen little tart.  He was madly in love with her, but Don could see the warning signs and decided to take the situation in hand and advise Hans, whom he considered something like a son, of potential disaster.

Don wrote Hans a letter of advice, unsolicited, warning him of Yanic. The response was similar to Hiroshima, because Hans showed the letter to Yanic, in the delusion that one shares everything with their partner;…well, maybe not always a good idea, if its hurtful.  So the hate-on began.

The letter came before Hans moved in. But just. He magnanimously came over to the house with Yanic and threw the letter in the fireplace, saying we were under too much stress, lets just pitch the letter and forget it. (“We”?  I had nothing to do with this, but I was to pay dearly). We decided to let it go and we agreed, even though we knew it had nothing to do with stress.  Nice cover up on the part of Hans. Or was it denial?

I had a welcoming party for Yanic and Hans to introduce them to all our friends. This didn’t help our situation as she just developed a separate life with them. I continued to invite them to all our parties as if everything were normal.  Little did I realize the revenge this woman could harbour.

I was a flea market junkie and I loved to buy trinkets and old armoires.  Not only did we need the armoires, but I believed everyone should have one.  I was so passionate about them, I started to believe I must have had them in a past life.  At one of our parties I fantasizing about  having an eclectic store at home in Canada,  similar to the flea markets of France, and sell knick knacks and armoires.  It was only wine talk. This was taken as a fait accompli by Yanic. 

At the end of our stay, when our three years passed in France, I headed home to Glengarry with the kids. Don stayed to finish up his contract. We had sold our house in Boinville to a lovely young couple, and Don continued to stay in one of the apartments. 

He called me from France to tell me the airline company he worked for was not going to release our belongings from the French port ‘Le Harvre’ until Don signed a waiver giving up his $10,000 bonus and rendering the company not responsible for our belongings in the transfer to Canada, including a caveat that we couldn’t ever sue them for damages.  Now, I wondered, why would this situation arise?  Is it possible that our friend Yanic, went to the company and told them I was using them to transport my goods for my future store? Deal with it.  I told Don to sign the waiver and not worry about it. 

The saga continued on the other side of the ocean at home.  When our things finally arrived,  I was summoned to go to the port in Montreal to release them.  Well, wouldn’t you know that I had randomly been selected to be investigated.  Our containers would be emptied in a warehouse and inspected at our expense, about $2,000.  “How could this happen?” I asked.  Well, “Just random,” the custom official answered.  Random, my ass is a star.

As I was speaking with the customs officer, he abruptly finished our session at 4:30.  What is going on?  He explained they are working to rule and I was to come back tomorrow.  “Well, who is going to pay for my hotel?”  Just come back tomorrow.

So the next day, fully prepared to stay in Montreal for a few days to clear my stuff, I arrived at the customs counter.  “You live in Cornwall?  You’re at the wrong port. You have to enter Canada at Cornwall.”  I reacted with a mixture of relief and expectation.  

When I got to the customs at Cornwall, I found the chief inspections officer. I tried to explain that the only thing we hadn’t paid taxes on was our new couch.  He seemed rather detached and I didn’t think I was getting through to him.  

Our things arrived at the farm in two large containers.  The customs officer in attendance vocalized that he couldn’t understand why his boss had asked him to stay with the containers the whole day. Usually he just cut the wires on the lock and went on with this work elsewhere. He had just come off of holidays and he didn’t want to have a bunch of papers to deal with. “Just let me know when the containers are empty.” and off he went to lie down under a tree.  

My friends didn’t have to visit me in a prison cell after all!

Chevre Chou, the Mysterious Manor

The house next door was deserted.  It had a worn stucco finish. The  closed, faded blue shutters hung listlessly, showing the neglect of time. The brambles and overgrown brush  engulfing the place revealed the truth of long time emptiness. It’s size exaggerated the sadness felt.  The neighbour, Albert, a 50ish French ‘fonctionaire’, (like a civil servant) was in charge of regulating the furnace for the owner, to protect all the antiques inside, I guess.  

One day he invited me to go with him into the mysterious ancient manor.  From his house we had to pass through a gate in the wall to followed the river. We walked along  to the manor and passed through another large wooden door in the wall that led to the grounds of the old house. The tunnel of brambles from the river was evidently carved out by Albert to reach the house. We passed through a dusty door. From a dark, small hall that joined the furnace room, we continued up the stairs to a large vestibule.  We saw a door to a kitchen at one end of the hall and a large wooded door at the other end. which  opened unto ‘le grand salon’, a magnificent large room with a library, a bar and most interestingly, a grand piano. It was breathtaking in the dusky light, in the  silence which held the secrets of the past and in the smell of stale, humid air. We had entered into a different world.  

Madame Delaage, a renowned concert pianist, was  one of three children of the owner, her father, M. Delaage. He had renovated the manor, called ‘Chevre Chou’, into three apartments for his three children. Her two grand pianos were drawn into the blue prints. 

My mother, Elizabeth, came to visit us in France and, coincidentally, Madame Delaage was visiting her deserted home.  We had the privilege of being invited to listen to her play her grand piano.  The imprisoned grand salon came to life as the massive shutters creaked open, allowing the sun’s rays to penetrate the dark and dank space.  Her music lilted on the air currents and drifted into our souls.  We listened to the angel play, watching the dust particles linger on the vibrations of each note, the humid air barely noticeable as her music engulfed us. We were transported.

When Mdm Delaage’s father fell ill she wanted to sell the house as soon as possible. It was no wonder that I jumped at the opportunity to buy it.  But Don wasn’t of the same sentiment.  He felt I was leading him to financial ruin.  He knew if he saw it, he couldn’t resist the impulse to own it. So he refused to see it. I dragged him, flailing and screaming, but see it he did. Two months later we were moved in. 

At the time of purchase, we didn’t know how many rooms or bedrooms it had.  We just loved it and bought it with the confidence that M. Delaage had done a perfect job in renovating; after all, he was the ‘Chief Architect for the Chateaux and Large Palaces of France’.  We thought we’d approve of his work! The house had three kitchens, five bathrooms, four bedrooms and three living rooms.  It was superlative!

It needed a little work, but not as much as one might think.  The musty smell came from a mouldy cupboard, which we removed and rebuilt.  The shutters, pale from years of neglect, perked up with a fresh coat of paint.  The exterior grey white stucco turned bright white with a power washing.  Our neighbours came and helped paint and scrub.  We had the brambles  dug up in the garden and replaced with a green lawn that would be the envy of any golf course. 

As we were removing the brambles, we noticed a small fence next to the house with stairs going down.. to something… The stairs were all overgrown with dirt and grass, and there was a door at the bottom of the stairs.  We thought maybe there was a wine cellar full of wine, so we proceeded to dig our way to the bottom.  When we got the old wooden door opened, it was ‘Eurika!’ It was a vaulted roofed ‘cave’ full of wine, hundreds of bottles!

Under the earth of the back yard were pathways of bricks leading to other patios as well as a brick lane under the arched rosary that hugged the wall to the gate at the road.  We even found wide steps going to the large wooden door in the wall along the river.  Everything was a discovery. We dug away at the dirt, revealing the bricks.  The yard was beautiful.

After three months, we said that was all we were going to do.We were only here for three years.. to see Europe, not to labor all the time on the house… so that was all we were to do , now onward, to enjoy the rest of our stay.

We had given the boys $400 each for helping fix up the house.  That was a lot of money in 1990.  The boys each decided to buy a Canon Camera. It was their prized possession, of course.

The Kamikaze Bug

I was outside gardening and passing by the patio when this bug flew over my shoulder and splatted on the ground in front of me. “Oh how weird”, I thought. Then another. “How strange.” By the third one I concluded these must be Komacazie bugs that suicided themselves.  But who should creep up behind me with a bunch of grapes?  Brandon. He’d been shooting them over my shoulder.  Monkeyshines.

The Espresso Machine

The Italian coffee machine has two parts.  The bottom part holdthe water and the metal filter for the coffee grounds and then the tp empty chamber which screws on to the bottom part.  When the water heats up it explodes through the filter and coffee into the empty chamber above.

One day I was in the kitchen waiting for the coffee to pressurize into the upper part.  It was taking a long time.  Damon was adjacent in the dining room doing his homework.  I had waited long enough, so decided it was time to open the lid  to see what was up.  Stupid.  At exactly the moment that I opened the top, it exploded. I looked away a millisecond earlier to Damon calling, “Mom..”  My face was directed to the dining room as the coffee exploded onto the 12 foot ceiling, the walls, the stove.  I knew I could have been blinded.  Saved by the sweet call of Damon.

Le Quatrelle

Can you imagine a pregnant roller skate?  That was my little French car.  A metal body on four wheels. It was an excuse for a car really! I had a sticker on the back fender that said, “Flea market junkie” and I was.

The strongest memory I have of that car is the day I took Channel, our adorable, complacent, blond Bearded Collie, to the vet.  

On our return home, a waft of an unpleasant odour hit my nostrils.  It became a more and more intense. Argh!  Channel, tell me its only gas!  As I continued to drive, I feared it was much more than gas.  When I got home, my worst fears were confirmed. There was diarrhea all over the back seat.

I went in the house and offered $10 to whomever was willing to clean up the mess.  Damon liked the idea of $10. So out he went, only to return in an about face and say, “Not me!”

Tyson thought this was his opportunity to make a buck.  But, no, he wasn’t up to the task either.  

Brandon, now it was his turn.  He put on the  yellow rubber gloves, got the pail of soap and water and out he went to make his fortune.

He came in with the profound advice, “Mom. You have to buy a new car.”

So who cleaned it up?  Well, I was agreeing with Brandon until Don went and did the dirty deed.  Good ol’ Don!

Guillaume

Guillaume, Damon’s life-long friend

Damon met his good friend Guillaume at school.  Both were on the fringe and as such, they gravitated to each other.  Guillaume especially liked that Damon wore army pants, just like him.  This made them different from others, but the same for each other. They were odd looking as Damon was large compared to Guillaume who was small and short at the time.  Over the three years in France, Guillaume surpassed Damon in height, so they weren't so odd looking.

Guillaume came to Canada many times over the years. He became like a brother, like a son.   The last time Guillaume came to visit was to say good-bye to his best friend, at Damon’s funeral in 2011.

The French School

Ah, the French school; finally strict schools and serious study.  Well, it was a little too much.  You see, the schools in France all had to be on the same page on the same day.  If the students couldn’t keep up, they failed.  And if they didn’t keep up the second time, they failed again. They could even fail three times. 

This was rather unacceptable to us North Americans, so we put the boys with the nuns in a French private catholic school, hoping support would be better.  Damon and Tyson survived two years, Brandon, one.  

It just wasn’t working for Brandon.  He was having nightmares and displaying depressive behaviour.  He produced superlative work, I thought, but he couldn’t pass.  So the next year we placed him in the local public school. I thought this would be much better for him and allow him to acquaint with local kids.  Unfortunately, his teacher was an old  badalax and hated the kids, it seemed. She yanked Brandon’s hair, and tugged on his ears.  In May, in frustration with her, I pulled him out of school and waited till the next year when he would go to an adjacent town with his school mates, up to the next level.  

My best friend, Jocceline, was the head mistress and teacher of that new school.  Brandon managed to lead the whole class into rebellion as he had figured out now that we were going back to Canada in the summer and he didn’t really need to learn anything. I was to find out later, that Jocceline would often go home in tears. She was so special.  She was beautiful and wore long skirts and gold shows… even to garden in!  She had long black hair, pulled back to show her exquisite delicate, Spanish features. She was such a good teacher and had the loyalty of all her students, and then along came Brandon. 

Damon and Tyson tried honestly to make the grade.  After two years of not getting great marks, Damon came home and ranted that he would NOT fail because of a language especially when he knew the subject matter.  He was so upset, and rightly so, that I immediately called the Ontario Ministry of Education and put the boys on correspondence courses.  Damon could never accept failure or substandard results. 

The rules were they had to get up in the morning, be dressed, fed, and beds made by 9:00.  Once the work was done, they were free.  We worked around their flexibility and took four and five day trips around Europe.  It worked for all of us. They sure knew what work meant when they returned home to finish up their high school; both were Ontario Scholars. Grade thirteen was a cake walk after all there pressure of the French school under the nuns and the self-educating experience of correspondence courses.

The Sheep Barn

‘Hameau de Boinville' was a little hamlet that consisted of a series of farm buildings and small dwellings for workers, that all belonged to the farmstead.  The small streets, lined with stone walls, fell under the umbrella of ancient old trees.  It was quiet except for the sounds of the birds singing from their hidden abysses.  It was very beautiful.  

The farmer  who owned the farmstead was also the mayor of the hamlet. He had renovated many of these outbuildings into homes and we rented what had previously been the sheep barn.  It was an old stone building on top of a mound which rolled down to a little river.  The stone pathway along the river, with the rose arches above, led to a little one room ‘river house’.

Outside the sheep barn was a large stone patio and a vegetable garden.

The inside was completely new. Downstairs had a working kitchen, an open dining-living area and a large bedroom. Upstairs were two bedrooms.  It was a little small for the five of us which just meant Damon and Tyson would have to share a bedroom.

We had many wonderful times there. Damon discovered the house on the river and moved in.  He had a bed and  a light, a little dresser. He was happy!

Even thoughI had had many postings as a kid, for some reason, I initially felt uncharacteristically anxious here, out of place. It was a new feeling for me. But I had to stay put. I had to overcome these feelings.  I decided I’d treat it just like another posting; it would only be for three years. Hold your breath; you’ll be home soon.  This feeling passed; I guess it was adjusting to a new environment and I was worrying about how it would go for the kids.

The Move to France

It seemed all our moves were done alone by me.  This one was no exception.  Don had started his new job in Paris and I was packing up and organizing the movers.  When all was done, I was on the airplane to Paris with the kids with a full blown case of laryngitis. I couldn’t speak.  It was okay though, because I didn’t need to talk much on the plane.  Don’s pilot friend, Reg Orange, joked that his prayers had been answered. 

Don did the neatest thing. As the kids and myself were landing in Paris, Don was simultaneously taking off from for a three day trip from the same airport we were landing at, and with the same air line.  The Captain came on the PA.  “Captain Murray had a message for his wife that he’ll be home in three days and welcome to France. And…. if I were to look out the starboard window, i could wave at him taking off!”  I thought I should stand upland take a bow, and say, ‘That’s me!  I’m Mrs. Murray!”   I thought that was so sweet.  We were on our way to ‘L’Hotel Mercure’ where we would all meet up.

Chapter 14 France, 1989-1992

One year after moving to ‘Mondesire’, Don got an offer to move to France for three years.  We anguished over it because we were still excited about the farm.  It was hard to leave our lovely home, but we decided it best for everyone to go to France and have this experience. We rented the farm and headed to France with the kids.  It was to be the highlight of their lives, just like my living in France as a kid was the highlight of mine. They, too, were grateful for the traveling and for the opportunity to live in another country. 

And I hoped that maybe this time this adventure would heal the wounds of our marriage.

Before we moved, I went over to France with a group of pilots and their wives to find a place to live. Everything was rented.  It seemed impossible to find something in the time we had. There was a song on the hit parade at the time, “Sail away” and all I could hear was ‘c’est loue”.  

Don’s company, ‘Quebecair', had made arrangements for the pilots and their families to stay at a hotel at the airport until they found accommodation.  It was smack dab in the middle of a large parking lot surrounded by motorways. There was no where to go in the hotel aside from the lobby.  It was disastrous.  I couldn’t help thinking… whatever are the kids going to do besides drive their mothers mad?

It just so happened that the real estate agent I was with showed me a secluded, classy hotel, the ‘Hotel Mercure’.  It was tucked up in the forest away from civilization and high ways, but not that far to the airport.  It had a riding stable, a manor, a pool and a beautiful new hotel all buried in the magnificent old trees.  It was luxurious!  I was delirious. This was it; this was where the families had to be.  I excitedly brought chief pilot Reg Orange and the other pilots over and they concurred immediately. What a find!  

It was a great introduction to France where we were to live for three years. We stayed at the hotel for about three weeks and then Don found the sheep barn.