Letters from the Infirmary

Well, the stomach virus has given way to a secondary ailment that may be worse yet.  Just about the time I kicked the shits, the youngest came down with a raging cold that he felt he needed to share with his Daddy.  Convincing a four year old to cough into the crook of his arm is an uphill battle.  He is actually very good about covering his mouth when he coughs, yet he always waits until he is right in my face to forget his manners and eventually let loose of a vaporous spray of the plague that has once again crippled my immune system.  I pray we get past all of this before mid-month or our trip back home is going to be less joyous than I had hoped.  We have a lot on the books for the coming year.  We have many adventures to look forward to, and this trip back “home” will serve as a nice prelude to "part two" of our French adventure.  Still, we can’t help be bogged down with job stress and the daily grind that all too often clouds our perception of what a privileged life we lead.  If I can keep my sinus headache and sore throat from doing me in, I am somehow going to grab the holiday spirit by the horns and wrestle that son of a bitch to the ground over the next several weeks.  We have just a small bit of shopping to finish and then we will be off.  Following Christmas, we have scheduled a week long ski trip in the Pyrenees.  By mid-summer we will be taking our lads on a cruise from Italy to Greece and ultimately Croatia.  My plan then is a birthday bash in Vegas to round out a year of travel and adventure.  My hope is to be able to wedge a trip to the UK in there somewhere given the enormous amount of vacation time we are afforded per year.  We have traveled a fair bit within France and now feel comfortable to spread our wings a bit more.  This is one of the treats of transplanting yourself across the ocean and we are looking to take full advantage of this in the New Year.

As our first year here draws to a close it is hard not to get lost in reflection.  At some point I will endeavor to cement my thoughts in a summary post and don’t want to spoil that here, but I do have a few recent memories to share.  In writing this, I am reminded of some of my more poetic experiences over the last few months.  I would like to share them with you before I forget them.   They are just simple little moments, pauses if you will.  They are the things that will live in my memory when I recall this period of my life.  I suppose that in some ways, these simple things are the best way to sum up my French experience.  As I drove the winding road through the vinyards on my way to collect the boys from school, I was treated to some amazing scenery that a photo wouldn’t do justice.  I don’t presume that my humble command of the English language will give them their due either, but for now it is all I have.  Driving along, I noted movement along the road side and soon watched as a beautiful Great Pyrenees dog came into view out of a field to my right.  With great bounding strides he overtook the 206 and crossed in front of my car, passing from one field to the next.  His gait was smooth and graceful.  The animation of his body showed the power of youth and seemed as though it was being captured in slow motion.  Up over a rise he ran, never breaking stride.  I rounded another corner and looked back at the ridge to my left.  On the horizon atop a hill of fresh green winter wheat he ran as though late for dinner at the golden stone chateau sitting atop that same ridgeline.  Perhaps it is because we lost a member of our family this year of that very same breed or perhaps it was just the simple beauty of the event, either way, it will be engrained in my mind’s eye forever more.  Not two days after this experience and not a mile or two down this same road I crept through a neighboring town sure to obey the posted 30 km/h speed limit.  In doing so, I had plenty of time to really take note of the ancient architecture along the narrow streets, most notable of which is the ancient gothic style church that sits unnaturally close to the road and nearly eclipses the sun's brilliant shine.  It was grey that day, and the Gotham flavor the town captivated my senses and captured my imagination.  It felt old and grey.  Mysterious and marvelous.  As I wound my way through town, the city streets gave way suddenly to an open countryside on the verge of a long winter.  As I stared across the river in front of me and down the rows of vines I noticed a sparkle of white in the steel grey skies.  The contrast of color was magnificent.  With clouds tinted in the grey blue of a coming storm, the appearance of powder white coastal gulls made for a dramatic landscape that I doubt I could capture with paint and and artist's brush.

Finally, with the sun now low in our skies, our sunsets are brief at best.  Blink and the sun has dipped beyond the horizon.  I am usually too busy to catch it on any given day, but yesterday I decided that I wanted to watch the sun both rise and set.  And so I did.  If you haven’t ever done something so simple, I encourage you to see the sun both break and fall in a single day.  Take 15 minutes and watch the symphony that is the turning of a day.  It will change how you look at your life, I promise.  The birth of the day is slow and dreamy.  The dark reluctantly loosening its grasp as the sweet warmth of the sun approaches the horizon.  The sun seems fresh and new.  A brilliant light yellow reflecting on the wet grass.  As she rises, so too does life.  Those that aren’t nocturnal by nature begin to awaken from slumber and sing their day alive.  Those that are, recoil into the shadows to await the coyote’s call and the falling of night.  As the sun rises in the sky, she does her best to erase all traces of the night.  Drying the dampened grass and burning away the chill in the air.  And as the hours pass, her mood seems to change.  From expectant and brilliant to languid and romantic.  On this particular day, the brilliance of bright yellow melted into a pool of dark orange, just above our horizon to the west . . . home.  In a sultry dance, she eased into a sliver, eventually becoming seemingly violent in her battle with the night as she clawed and grasped for one last breath of life.  It was a joy to behold.


I myself have learned to love the greyest of days.  Those when the sun has met its match.  When light and dark find their equal.  The days of Heroes and Villains.  Days that are met with a hesitant eye and slumber is not easily forgotten.  Days when the nocturnal stay for the after party.  If one can find their best in these days, they know what it is to appreciate life’s gifts.  Those days that are darker still, seem to excite the senses and thrill the imagination.  When the battle between dark and light becomes audible and the brilliance of lightening’s strike is followed by a growl from an angry foe, I am reminded of my mortality.  Days when a folded newspaper is wielded like a Spartan shield and thanks is given for a dry home and fire’s light.  Let today be such a day and we will seek out our fellow man.  We will huddle together in each other’s shadow . . . safe and warm.

As the seasons change, so too does my appreciation for each day and the bounty that it has to offer.  I will do my best to pay homage to each season and the best I know of the Holiday’s in a coming post.  Until then, I bid you all a farewell . . . for now.  R.