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.