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Sacha's friend Fabrice looked at the balls on our dining room table, he passed a strange look at me, and then he leaned in close to Sacha, and whispered, "C'est normal que ta mère ait des boules de canon sur la table? - Is it normal that your Mother has cannon balls on the table?" Sacha tossed back an easy answer, "Yeah." Fabrice gave the balls a double take, "Mais pourquoi? A quoi ça sert? - Why, what is the purpose?" Sacha shrugged, "Nothing, you know my mom."
Baby rattles: not practical for someone who doesn't have a baby, and who is half as old as they are, if not more. Yet, when I saw them I wanted them. "I could make them into a charm bracelet!" That is how I tried to convince my practical side into buying them. "I could use them as Christmas ornaments!" I quickly added to silence the know-all voice inside of me that was saying, "You won't wear them as a charm bracelet!" Practical side who is very vocal but never wins said for good measure, "Sure- stuff them into the closet all year long and only bring them out once a year!" The inner child in me was eyeing the baby rattles, toying with them in her mind, appreciating the wear and tear they had endured, admiring the details of the crafter, curiously imagining the babies that once wore them tied with a silk ribbon around their chubby necks. With that I honored my inner-child and bought them, knowing darn well the rule of my conscience side:
For each thing you buy you must give-up something in return to someone.
Rain and Snow do not happen often in the South of France, but when it does, it does so with vengeance, like a mad dog after a sneaky cat. Since yesterday morning it has continuously done one or the other; Rained cats and dogs.
"Yann, what can I write about today?" He is curled up with his laptop by the fire, slowly he stretches scratches his head. He looks up at the skylight blinks his eyes; "You can write about the rain."
Like a starving dog being thrown a bone, I jump at it, yes! "Yes! That is perfect!" Yann looks at me doubtfully, wondering if I am about to scratch his eyes out, or if I am about to lick his face like a puppy-dog! I dart over to the cast iron, cat and dog I bought years ago at a small flea market in Nice.
Yann shakes his head, "Only you could connect something that fast!" Well they do fit right into the scheme! A cat and dog from Nice watching the rainy day pass by...
My 16 year daughter
and her friends
are playing
in front of 3000 other
students as I type.
Can you hear her drumming?
ts tst tttt att tt tat dm dat to
Rock out honey child
Go go girl!
She has turned on her cell phone--
the announcer is saying...
"Les Rock et Roll Mondial..."
and I am listening
My heart is beating louder than her drums!
OH to be 16 and playing in a rock band!!
Grandmother often said to me that she felt young, not one day older than a child! That the thoughts she had or the feelings she felt seemed to be basically the same as when she was in her twenties. The only indication that she was growing older she'd say, was her reflection in the mirror!
"I see myself in the mirror and think, WHO are YOU! That old lady certainly can't be me! Where did she come from? How can I feel this young and look that old?! Who I see in the mirror does not reflect the "me" I know! So I don't look in mirrors anymore!"
Feeling young runs in my family's blood; My Father rides a Harley Davidson, and can keep up with any of my four brothers. My Mom wakes up before six in the morning everyday, and goes like a motorized bunny until nightfall. What I see in them is a passion for life; they are motivated by the day to day simple pleasures of living. There isn't anything, certainly not age; to keep them down.
The mirrors in my home are antiques. The mercury glass is spotted with age, looking in them I barely can differentiate myself from the dots, spots, creases and other effects of the antique glass. I don't feel like an energized bunny, nor could I manage to ride a Harley Davidson, Mostly I hear the words of my Grandmother..."Who are you?" When I see myself in a mirror the shocking reality hits me; I have to buy new mirrors or dye my grey hair!
An American Rooster sets up in France and starts cock-A-doodling in French!
When my Mother was 13 she made this little yellow, pot-holder rooster. The fine black stitches have remained straight and even. The button eye has kept its twinkle; Only the red felt top is slightly weathered. When I left home 30 years ago, I took the pot-holder out of my Mother's kitchen drawer, where she kept her well-pressed tea towels and pot-holders, and hid the chocolate chips.
In France the little yellow rooster is my mascot, it has seen five homes and I can tell it likes this one the best!
1992--- Chelsea came home from school, giggling, "Mommy, do you know what the rooster says in English?"
"Yes? Cock a doodle do!"
"Do you know how it goes in French?"
"You got me there, I never thought of that! You mean it goes differently than, cock a doodle do?"
She bobbed her head yes, bursting to tell me, "The rooster goes, CO CO RICO !!"
Porcelain Flowers 
With painted on petals.
Yester years memories
Broken
Chipped and cracked,
Wilted leaves,
Blooms without any fragrance.
Except in the hearts of those who placed them carefully upon the tomb of their loved one.
Leaning against his Peugeot he looks at me strangely...
They're broken you know, not a good one in the lot! You know what they are...don't you? For dead people! Disgusting isn't it! That is why I threw them aside. Don't want bad karma here! You want to buy them? What for, none of them are good condition!?
Gathered the flowers
I did.
Brought them home. Love never dies. May they bloom in the garden of Eden. Death doesn't mean an end. 
Crossing the threshold from Willows California to Marseille France was not easy. Even though I was in love, and starting the journey of married life with a Frenchman, leaving my big loving family and friends, was not taken lightly, my heart ached in the middle of its joy!
France and I were not instant friends, we didn't just click! No, ours was a slow steady coming together. On those days were France seemed unbearable, cold and hard, on those days where I struggled with the culture, the language, the lack of a cup-of-tea friend! On those days were the different rules and customs bugged me, and grated against my independent being, it seemed some sacred spirit would come and stand by me...in the midst of those blue days something would always tug at my sleeve, as if to say, "Here look, here!" The heart on my sleeve would be mended, a smile would blink away the tears, and I would hold on a little tighter to the country I was coming to know as home.
Sure, I miss my family in Willows, I always will. Time does not change certain things. France is my home, my day to day life. The differences between the two countries and myself I hardly see any more. France has become my friend, I don't focus on what I have lost, and instead I look at what I have gained.
I have a foot in both countries now, and a heart more full of love.
Iron rods with Fleur de Lys make interesting tough flowers in the winter time.
The zinc jugs haven't held anything this solid before.
I like the colors of the rusty iron, rock wall and zinc cans.
How does your garden grow?
French Garden Bench. Hand made. The weekend is upon us. The time to relax is here. Come and sit down. 
Take a thought and a moment and time to be still. Smile for no reason. Look around you. Feel yourself breathing. Be present to the moment. Look at your hands. Thank your heart for beating. Say the name of those you love and ...the name of those you need to forgive. Live life lovingly. Be here now with yourself and know it is good!
