One of the things that I miss about the South is the emphasis on family. Almost everyone that I knew when I was growing up still gets together with their family once a week or so. These "get-togethers" inevitably revolve around good food and often around some type of seafood boil or fry. Every holiday or birthday party that my family shared together when I was growing up took place around a newspaper-covered picnic table outside of someone's house. Actually, they still do; only I'm not around anymore to take part.
There are crawfish boils, crab boils, shrimp boils--you name it! I remember the men in my family carrying large, steaming baskets of these delicious delicacies to the picnic tables with various boat oars and dumping them out in gigantic piles. I can still taste the potatoes and corn on the cob boiled right there with the seafood, burning your lips with cayenne pepper and crab boil. Often, we'd have some kind of freshly-caught fish frying in a giant fryer outside; and they'd be dumped out into large, paper towel-covered Pyrex dishes and passed around. I can still hear my Dad or my brother or even my Grandpa telling us that another batch was about to come out of the water. We all knew what that meant: dump the heads and shells in a trash can and put down some extra newspaper so we could start all over again.
After everyone got their full of whatever they'd been peeling and eating, the kids would go off to play some type of game, ride the 4-wheeler, or hunt for eggs while the moms and grandmothers sat down to finish peeling the rest. You see, none of that food ever goes to waste; it's peeled and packaged in individual ziplock bags so that they can be distributed to those who want to cook a fettuccine or gumbo or what have you. Then, everybody'd come back and wrap up all the newspaper and break out the desserts.
Most cultures show their love for their families and each other through good food; so I am not writing about any kind of out-of-the-ordinary custom. I just feel that South Louisiana is a bit different. People there are so close to each other; they understand each other. They/We also share a beautiful, centuries old custom that will last for centuries more.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
When Souls Collide
I do realize how silly and naive this is going to sound, but I truly believe that when people fall in love--real love--that their souls collide. I suppose that's where the term, "soul mates" comes from. I was thinking about my husband this morning and about how we started out. I felt like we'd known each other forever or even before. I can't believe how comfortable I felt around him from the first. I just KNEW him.
Now, I was raised up in a Christian faith, and I am not going to try to deny those teachings when I say this; but I do believe that some (if not all) people have past lives. I believe I'm one of those people. I don't know why I have always been completely obsessed with Paris, France, but I have. I've always wanted to live there and be there and be "of" Paris if that even makes sense. The first time that I went there, I was 17 years old. I've said in other blog entries that my life was never the same; something changed in me--in my soul. I was on a school trip and without my parents; but from the moment I arrived, I felt home. I knew where I was. I knew how to get around. Everything was familiar to me: the food, the smells, the sights, everything. Why is that? I believe that at some point, my soul was there; and it remembered.
That's exactly the way I felt when I met my husband: I'd been there before. Call me crazy if you want or laugh; it's perfectly fine with me. But I know that when my soul collided with his, it finally felt at peace. Now, maybe some day, I'll get to have my husband and Paris together. What a collision that would be!
Now, I was raised up in a Christian faith, and I am not going to try to deny those teachings when I say this; but I do believe that some (if not all) people have past lives. I believe I'm one of those people. I don't know why I have always been completely obsessed with Paris, France, but I have. I've always wanted to live there and be there and be "of" Paris if that even makes sense. The first time that I went there, I was 17 years old. I've said in other blog entries that my life was never the same; something changed in me--in my soul. I was on a school trip and without my parents; but from the moment I arrived, I felt home. I knew where I was. I knew how to get around. Everything was familiar to me: the food, the smells, the sights, everything. Why is that? I believe that at some point, my soul was there; and it remembered.
That's exactly the way I felt when I met my husband: I'd been there before. Call me crazy if you want or laugh; it's perfectly fine with me. But I know that when my soul collided with his, it finally felt at peace. Now, maybe some day, I'll get to have my husband and Paris together. What a collision that would be!
Monday, July 18, 2011
Scents of Time
It is amazing--absolutely baffling, actually--to me how a smell can bring me to a different place. This morning, I was at work and shredding some papers when I caught a scent that brought me back to my childhood. I don't know if it was the machine or the ink or the lubricating oil that goes in the machine, but it smelled like newspaper wax. Some people don't know that my grandfather, "Pop," was a newspaper publisher; and I spent every summer of my life a newspaper office when I was growing up. I'm positive that newspapers aren't composed the same way anymore; but back in my day (wow, I'm old), the ads and articles would be composed on the computer, printed off and cut out, and then run through this wax machine that would put a post-it note type of wax on the bottom side--that way you could peel the paper off and put it somewhere else without it ripping. I must have stuck my fingers in that hot wax a million times, watching it dry and then dipping them again to make these thick wax finger puppet-type things. It was so addictive. Then, once they got thick enough, I'd peel them off and drop the wax back into the machine to watch it melt.
But today, I smelled that wax; and it was like going home. I honestly went back in time and could see the old composing room just as it was in the early '90s. I could smell the newspaper ink from the press room too.
My sense of smell is incredible; it literally transports me sometimes. There are certain colognes and perfumes, for example, that do that to me. Shortly after we put my Pop in the nursing home (we lost him to Alzheimer's in September), I was riding the Metro in D.C.; and a man passed me who was wearing Bay Rum. As you've probably guessed, that was my Pop's scent. I felt so many emotions: familiarity, anger, despair, and--again--home that I just broke down and cried right there.
But today, at least, my sense of smell didn't fail me. It didn't lead me into sadness; it did the opposite. I got a little piece of my childhood back, even if only for the time it took to shred a few papers. I wonder where it will lead me tomorrow...
But today, I smelled that wax; and it was like going home. I honestly went back in time and could see the old composing room just as it was in the early '90s. I could smell the newspaper ink from the press room too.
My sense of smell is incredible; it literally transports me sometimes. There are certain colognes and perfumes, for example, that do that to me. Shortly after we put my Pop in the nursing home (we lost him to Alzheimer's in September), I was riding the Metro in D.C.; and a man passed me who was wearing Bay Rum. As you've probably guessed, that was my Pop's scent. I felt so many emotions: familiarity, anger, despair, and--again--home that I just broke down and cried right there.
But today, at least, my sense of smell didn't fail me. It didn't lead me into sadness; it did the opposite. I got a little piece of my childhood back, even if only for the time it took to shred a few papers. I wonder where it will lead me tomorrow...
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Back to Reality
My husband and I just got back from a mini-vacation, a night alone and out of town, without our children. We finally just took the initiative and the subsequent and necessary "belt tightening" and decided to spend the night away. We spent last night just remembering why we fell in love with each other and marveling at the changes we've been through since we met five years ago. We came home feeling like different people and so thankful for the time we got to share together.
It's often easy to romanticize the life my family leads: moving from country to country and culture to culture every couple of years. I've touched on bidding and things already, but it's easy for me to forget how hard it can be too, especially for the ones who have no choice in the matter.
My oldest son is only four now; and so far, moving has pretty much been easy for him to handle. But today, I realized that we're coming to the point where he's going to miss people and friends and continuity; in fact, I think it's here. This past year, he's been in a Montessori school where he made a friend whose mother happens to work with us. We've done lots of playdates and outings together, and the boys have just bonded so much. Well, the time has come for their little family to move on to another post. I explained to my son that tomorrow is their going away party, and he just fell apart. While I've been stressing about our upcoming bid list and wondering about where we're going next, I've neglected to realize what a change it is going to be for my little guys. I mean, my husband and I have come to terms with moving from place to place and the fact that the few friendships we are lucky (are rare) enough to forge at each post are--by all intents and purposes--temporary for the most part. I mean, of course there is Facebook and/or Skype; but we never know if, when we leave people behind, we'll ever see those people again. But try explaining that to a four-year-old. All he knows is that his best friend is leaving and going "to live in another country."
It's times like these when I wonder if what we're doing is the right thing. Don't get me wrong; I love this life. And my husband loves this life. But will our children? Will we ever be able to teach them how to let go of people as easily as we have (and can)? Is it the RIGHT thing to be teaching them? In fact, is it the right way to live...in the end?
I mean, my life right now is consumed with research of possible posts and whether or not I'll be hired to do this in my own right. I've completed step two of a three-step process, and nothing is certain. Sure, I'll probably be able to find a job wherever we go, and I am thankful for that. And the fact is that even if we were tired of this life and this work (which we aren't even close to, thank God), that so many people our age are out of work right now or working in menial jobs just to pay the bills.
I keep hoping that I will get hired on in my own right because, if I do and we go to a "hardship" post, we'll be able to save enough money to buy a house in a few years. As it is now, that's not in the cards. But then I think about the different "hardship" posts and wonder how "hard" they really are. Some are unsafe. Crime isn't a deterrent thus far; but who knows. I mean, there are places where you have to have armed guards around your house. There are places where you can't just go to the store and find something trivial like peanut butter; rather, you have to order it online, pay for shipping, etc. So that $3 jar of peanut butter ends up costing more like $8-$10. So are you really saving any money by undergoing that type of hardship? Is it worth it to even order it or better to just do without?
Some posts won't let you import a left-hand drive car. Well, we just bought a new car--a bigger car--to be able to fit both kids and our nanny. Well, we won't have her when we leave here; so what then? I mean, the logistics involved in these moves are insane! And it never ends. But what's more insane than the moves is how much we look forward to them. I mean, I've said before that I am neurotic in my planning. I like to be prepared and to know what to expect, but the not knowing is kind of like a drug to me. I've been researching possible jobs for my husband and the countries that might be on the list: the housing, the cost of living, the things to do, security issues (if there are any), the culture, the languages, the climate, the things that can or cannot be found there, etc. It's never ending. And another thing I've been thinking about is how often we like to move. We spent two years in Ecuador, and we'll be here two years. But the thought of having to stay in the same place for three years, the normal procedure for one's third and subsequent tours, is really scary. Some tours, according to their level of hardship/difficulty, are two-year tours. That interests us the most. Not only could we save money, but we could travel more frequently too!
But that brings me back to my boys. What is the right thing? I keep telling myself that there are some amazing children in this life who become amazing adults and who love it. But we've heard stories of some kids who aren't or weren't able to adjust as well. It cannot be easy for a young child to move to a new school every single two or three years, much less in a different country with a different culture--many with an entirely different language. But I keep thinking of the opportunities to see the world too. And I still truly believe that we're providing an amazing life experience for our kids. I just hope I/we continue to feel that way as time goes on. But, ultimately, only time will tell.
It's often easy to romanticize the life my family leads: moving from country to country and culture to culture every couple of years. I've touched on bidding and things already, but it's easy for me to forget how hard it can be too, especially for the ones who have no choice in the matter.
My oldest son is only four now; and so far, moving has pretty much been easy for him to handle. But today, I realized that we're coming to the point where he's going to miss people and friends and continuity; in fact, I think it's here. This past year, he's been in a Montessori school where he made a friend whose mother happens to work with us. We've done lots of playdates and outings together, and the boys have just bonded so much. Well, the time has come for their little family to move on to another post. I explained to my son that tomorrow is their going away party, and he just fell apart. While I've been stressing about our upcoming bid list and wondering about where we're going next, I've neglected to realize what a change it is going to be for my little guys. I mean, my husband and I have come to terms with moving from place to place and the fact that the few friendships we are lucky (are rare) enough to forge at each post are--by all intents and purposes--temporary for the most part. I mean, of course there is Facebook and/or Skype; but we never know if, when we leave people behind, we'll ever see those people again. But try explaining that to a four-year-old. All he knows is that his best friend is leaving and going "to live in another country."
It's times like these when I wonder if what we're doing is the right thing. Don't get me wrong; I love this life. And my husband loves this life. But will our children? Will we ever be able to teach them how to let go of people as easily as we have (and can)? Is it the RIGHT thing to be teaching them? In fact, is it the right way to live...in the end?
I mean, my life right now is consumed with research of possible posts and whether or not I'll be hired to do this in my own right. I've completed step two of a three-step process, and nothing is certain. Sure, I'll probably be able to find a job wherever we go, and I am thankful for that. And the fact is that even if we were tired of this life and this work (which we aren't even close to, thank God), that so many people our age are out of work right now or working in menial jobs just to pay the bills.
I keep hoping that I will get hired on in my own right because, if I do and we go to a "hardship" post, we'll be able to save enough money to buy a house in a few years. As it is now, that's not in the cards. But then I think about the different "hardship" posts and wonder how "hard" they really are. Some are unsafe. Crime isn't a deterrent thus far; but who knows. I mean, there are places where you have to have armed guards around your house. There are places where you can't just go to the store and find something trivial like peanut butter; rather, you have to order it online, pay for shipping, etc. So that $3 jar of peanut butter ends up costing more like $8-$10. So are you really saving any money by undergoing that type of hardship? Is it worth it to even order it or better to just do without?
Some posts won't let you import a left-hand drive car. Well, we just bought a new car--a bigger car--to be able to fit both kids and our nanny. Well, we won't have her when we leave here; so what then? I mean, the logistics involved in these moves are insane! And it never ends. But what's more insane than the moves is how much we look forward to them. I mean, I've said before that I am neurotic in my planning. I like to be prepared and to know what to expect, but the not knowing is kind of like a drug to me. I've been researching possible jobs for my husband and the countries that might be on the list: the housing, the cost of living, the things to do, security issues (if there are any), the culture, the languages, the climate, the things that can or cannot be found there, etc. It's never ending. And another thing I've been thinking about is how often we like to move. We spent two years in Ecuador, and we'll be here two years. But the thought of having to stay in the same place for three years, the normal procedure for one's third and subsequent tours, is really scary. Some tours, according to their level of hardship/difficulty, are two-year tours. That interests us the most. Not only could we save money, but we could travel more frequently too!
But that brings me back to my boys. What is the right thing? I keep telling myself that there are some amazing children in this life who become amazing adults and who love it. But we've heard stories of some kids who aren't or weren't able to adjust as well. It cannot be easy for a young child to move to a new school every single two or three years, much less in a different country with a different culture--many with an entirely different language. But I keep thinking of the opportunities to see the world too. And I still truly believe that we're providing an amazing life experience for our kids. I just hope I/we continue to feel that way as time goes on. But, ultimately, only time will tell.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Five Years Later
I should be saving this blog entry for next Monday, but I am feeling inspired today for some reason. Our youngest is making the transition from his crib to a big boy bed and is waking up in the night again; only now, he's no longer "confined" in his crib and has taken to walking around in the middle of the night. Last night it was my hubby's turn to get up for any "incidents," and there was one that lasted around two hours. Now, I am usually--and by usually, I mean 99.99999% of the time--a serious #@$%^ if you wake me up at 2:30 in the morning. But last night was different. I remember the initial haze of hearing the baby waking up and then being cognizant enough to cheer silently to myself that it wasn't my night. Then I remember feeling the emptiness of my bed and missing my husband. When he came to bed later, I remember holding him and breathing in the scent of his skin. And I realized that I've had him for almost five years now in my life. And what an amazing five years it's been--a whirlwind of every kind of emotional, physical, economical, and mental situation you can imagine.
This coming Monday will be five years since my life got turned upside down. Most of my friends know this story, but I'll tell it again for those who don't (care) lol. A friend of mine at the time was asked to go on a date with a guy she didn't like at all, but she felt like she should since he was so "nice." She was dreading the night, and I told her that I'd drive in after work in Metairie and meet them at Y Bar so she'd have an "out" if she needed it. All she needed to do was tell me the word, and I was going to fake an emotional crisis and make her leave with me. When I got to Y Bar, she and the guy were doing fine; so I sat down at the bar and talked to Ricki. I noticed a guy sitting at the bar, thought he was cute, and just "happened" to sit down next to him. He started talking on his cell to his brother (screaming would describe it better, and he still does it). After the conversation was over (I was by then on my second Crown and Coke), he leaned over and said, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be 'that' guy in the bar who's always on his cell phone."
We might have talked for minutes or hours; I couldn't tell you which. I knew he was perfect on paper and that I really liked him. I also knew I was starting to catch a good buzz and was in danger of embarrassing myself. He had to run to the bathroom; so I made a move that was either going to be genius or poison: I wrote my name and phone number on a bar napkin and a "Better call me, Cutie" on it for good measure. I gave the napkin to the bartender with strict instructions to make sure "the Cutie" got it and hightailed it out of there as fast as I could. I didn't know at the time what the outcome was going to be, but I just had a feeling.
My phone rang about 30 seconds later. I wasn't even to my car yet. Having just read "The Rules"--like every good Southern girl looking for the right man does--I didn't answer his call. I let him go to voicemail and then listened to the message a minimum of 10 times, analyzing everything he said and how he said it. I would give anything to get that message back. Anything.
The next morning, I texted him before I left for school and apologized for "missing" his call. He fell for it. And I fell for it when he told me that I'd saved his job by waking him with my text, as he'd stayed out late and overslept. That led to our first date two days later. We met at a sushi restaurant and couldn't stop talking long enough to order. We ordered about 10 rolls and ate one of them. The first date was amazing. I introduced him to my parents on our second date (the following night). That's all she wrote. When we left the restaurant and went to the Hollywood Club in the middle of a cane field, and he just took it in stride, I knew he was cool. But when we talked until we fell asleep (fully dressed and above the covers I'd like to add) and woke up holding hands, I knew that was it.
Now most, if not all, of those reading this are probably yawning or feeling like they were dropped in the middle of some kind of chick flick; but the speed at which our relationship started is only the beginning.
In almost five years to the day since we met, we've:
fallen in love
got married five months later
had a baby
moved to D.C.
learned Spanish
moved to Ecuador
both got new jobs
had another baby
moved to Canada
both got new jobs
I took the test
I passed the test
We're about to bid on the next post
So, sorry to go on and one but: five years, two kids, three moves (not including me moving in with him), two jobs, three countries, and a possible career for me later, I still miss when my husband is not in the bed with me. And I still get weak at the smell of his skin. And I still light up when I see his face or hear his voice. And I still cry just a little bit whenever we're going to be apart for more than like 12 hours. And it all started with him telling me, "I'm sorry..." My goodness, life flies by so fast when you've found the right one. My hubby says I only get 50 years of monogamy, and then he's going to trade me in for a younger model lol; so 45 more years just doesn't seem like enough.
This coming Monday will be five years since my life got turned upside down. Most of my friends know this story, but I'll tell it again for those who don't (care) lol. A friend of mine at the time was asked to go on a date with a guy she didn't like at all, but she felt like she should since he was so "nice." She was dreading the night, and I told her that I'd drive in after work in Metairie and meet them at Y Bar so she'd have an "out" if she needed it. All she needed to do was tell me the word, and I was going to fake an emotional crisis and make her leave with me. When I got to Y Bar, she and the guy were doing fine; so I sat down at the bar and talked to Ricki. I noticed a guy sitting at the bar, thought he was cute, and just "happened" to sit down next to him. He started talking on his cell to his brother (screaming would describe it better, and he still does it). After the conversation was over (I was by then on my second Crown and Coke), he leaned over and said, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be 'that' guy in the bar who's always on his cell phone."
We might have talked for minutes or hours; I couldn't tell you which. I knew he was perfect on paper and that I really liked him. I also knew I was starting to catch a good buzz and was in danger of embarrassing myself. He had to run to the bathroom; so I made a move that was either going to be genius or poison: I wrote my name and phone number on a bar napkin and a "Better call me, Cutie" on it for good measure. I gave the napkin to the bartender with strict instructions to make sure "the Cutie" got it and hightailed it out of there as fast as I could. I didn't know at the time what the outcome was going to be, but I just had a feeling.
My phone rang about 30 seconds later. I wasn't even to my car yet. Having just read "The Rules"--like every good Southern girl looking for the right man does--I didn't answer his call. I let him go to voicemail and then listened to the message a minimum of 10 times, analyzing everything he said and how he said it. I would give anything to get that message back. Anything.
The next morning, I texted him before I left for school and apologized for "missing" his call. He fell for it. And I fell for it when he told me that I'd saved his job by waking him with my text, as he'd stayed out late and overslept. That led to our first date two days later. We met at a sushi restaurant and couldn't stop talking long enough to order. We ordered about 10 rolls and ate one of them. The first date was amazing. I introduced him to my parents on our second date (the following night). That's all she wrote. When we left the restaurant and went to the Hollywood Club in the middle of a cane field, and he just took it in stride, I knew he was cool. But when we talked until we fell asleep (fully dressed and above the covers I'd like to add) and woke up holding hands, I knew that was it.
Now most, if not all, of those reading this are probably yawning or feeling like they were dropped in the middle of some kind of chick flick; but the speed at which our relationship started is only the beginning.
In almost five years to the day since we met, we've:
fallen in love
got married five months later
had a baby
moved to D.C.
learned Spanish
moved to Ecuador
both got new jobs
had another baby
moved to Canada
both got new jobs
I took the test
I passed the test
We're about to bid on the next post
So, sorry to go on and one but: five years, two kids, three moves (not including me moving in with him), two jobs, three countries, and a possible career for me later, I still miss when my husband is not in the bed with me. And I still get weak at the smell of his skin. And I still light up when I see his face or hear his voice. And I still cry just a little bit whenever we're going to be apart for more than like 12 hours. And it all started with him telling me, "I'm sorry..." My goodness, life flies by so fast when you've found the right one. My hubby says I only get 50 years of monogamy, and then he's going to trade me in for a younger model lol; so 45 more years just doesn't seem like enough.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Subtle Differences
When I found out we were moving to Canada, I was excited for many reasons and a little nervous. I was scared it wouldn't be foreign enough for us; we'd gotten spoiled by Ecuador, I figured. The truth is, I figured Canada would be "America light," like it always seemed in the movies when I was younger. I knew before arriving that Canadians say "Eh," a lot; and, to be honest, that stereotype is well-deserved. But Canada is so much more cosmopolitan than I ever could have ever imagined. The funny thing about that is that it's not something I realize every single day. However, the idea of Ottawa being a cosmopolitan city was never more apparent than on my trip home today.
While walking from work to our car, we passed a man selling fruit. As another man, a customer, was walking up to inspect his wares, the vendor smiled and said, "Bonjour." Without missing a beat, the prospective customer continued toward the vendor and answered in exactly the same tone with, "Hello." It's the same when we go back and forth across the border. Whenever we are crossing back into Canada, the immigration officer always says, "Bonjour/Hello!" But "Bonjour" is always first. It might be because we always seem to have the same border agent when we enter ha ha and that his first language happens to be French rather than English. Or maybe that's just the way they're trained. Who knows, and it's not important. What amazes me is that the dual national language system in Canada seems to work. At least, as a non-native, it works for me. This topic, between Canadians, can be quite tense; and it is one that I would never try to insinuate myself into here.
I can understand a pretty fair bit of French now--more than I ever could when I was dating a native French speaker and nearly minoring in the language. I can thank two years in Ecuador for that, I am quite sure. And I can read French without even thinking about it, which is pretty awesome too. But I did not grow up with two languages. I mean, sure, there is a lot of Cajun French in South Louisiana; but it is not widespread by a stretch. I never grew up hearing it at all, although I am positive some of my friends did. My uncle/godfather was actually whipped in elementary school because he couldn't speak English. I know that South Louisiana has moved far, far away from its (self) hatred of Cajun French and that some schools are actually teaching the language now. I think this is an amazing step toward the right direction, not to mention a great way to give many Louisianians back some of their heritage. The movement toward reviving Cajun French in the schools in South Louisiana is quite similar (although on a minute scale) to the Quebecois and the Silent Revolution here in Canada, where the native French speakers fought long and hard to have their language and their heritage recognized by the Anglophones.
Now, let me say right now that I am neither advocating nor opposing the Quebecois or the Silent Revolution; but it is just uncanny how much of my culture and my fellow South Louisianians' culture can be found here in Canada. When I first moved here, I was talking to someone at work. I swear I thought he was from "down the bayou" as we'd say back home; but he's just from Quebec and is a native French speaker. It is absolutely astonishing to me that after centuries and thousands of miles, and several generations, etc., the Quebecois English accent is the same as the Cajun/Acadian English accent of today. It makes me so homesick, honestly.
While walking from work to our car, we passed a man selling fruit. As another man, a customer, was walking up to inspect his wares, the vendor smiled and said, "Bonjour." Without missing a beat, the prospective customer continued toward the vendor and answered in exactly the same tone with, "Hello." It's the same when we go back and forth across the border. Whenever we are crossing back into Canada, the immigration officer always says, "Bonjour/Hello!" But "Bonjour" is always first. It might be because we always seem to have the same border agent when we enter ha ha and that his first language happens to be French rather than English. Or maybe that's just the way they're trained. Who knows, and it's not important. What amazes me is that the dual national language system in Canada seems to work. At least, as a non-native, it works for me. This topic, between Canadians, can be quite tense; and it is one that I would never try to insinuate myself into here.
I can understand a pretty fair bit of French now--more than I ever could when I was dating a native French speaker and nearly minoring in the language. I can thank two years in Ecuador for that, I am quite sure. And I can read French without even thinking about it, which is pretty awesome too. But I did not grow up with two languages. I mean, sure, there is a lot of Cajun French in South Louisiana; but it is not widespread by a stretch. I never grew up hearing it at all, although I am positive some of my friends did. My uncle/godfather was actually whipped in elementary school because he couldn't speak English. I know that South Louisiana has moved far, far away from its (self) hatred of Cajun French and that some schools are actually teaching the language now. I think this is an amazing step toward the right direction, not to mention a great way to give many Louisianians back some of their heritage. The movement toward reviving Cajun French in the schools in South Louisiana is quite similar (although on a minute scale) to the Quebecois and the Silent Revolution here in Canada, where the native French speakers fought long and hard to have their language and their heritage recognized by the Anglophones.
Now, let me say right now that I am neither advocating nor opposing the Quebecois or the Silent Revolution; but it is just uncanny how much of my culture and my fellow South Louisianians' culture can be found here in Canada. When I first moved here, I was talking to someone at work. I swear I thought he was from "down the bayou" as we'd say back home; but he's just from Quebec and is a native French speaker. It is absolutely astonishing to me that after centuries and thousands of miles, and several generations, etc., the Quebecois English accent is the same as the Cajun/Acadian English accent of today. It makes me so homesick, honestly.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
My Children
My little boys couldn't be more different. My oldest is tall and slim with curls just like mine that stick out all over the place. I could take his picture and superimpose it on mine at the same age. It's scary actually, that my husband and I have created a little me all over again. I never thought that a child could be made up almost entirely of just one parent: hair, eyes, height, mouth, and--though I hate to admit it--temperament; but that's just what we got in our oldest. Our youngest is my husband made anew. It's as if our chromosomes got confused during the fertilization process or something because our little guy has blonde, straight hair, stockier build, kind and gentle temperament, etc., just like my husband. He's kind and beautiful and sweet. He tells me all day every day, "I love you Mommy."
Kids are such a blessing too. They are really a chance for you (meaning me) to kind of go back and correct some of the mistakes you made or that were made for you. I see my children and I see the opportunity to mold them into people and future adults unlike me. I have always been a bit of a nervous individual with various neuroses and fears--like most other people. It isn't very obvious by the life path I've chosen, but it's not always easy for me to try new things and new places. It's taken me until the last few years to be able to just jump into new things, new lives, and new experiences; and I still struggle with it. But through much soul searching and conversation with my husband and best friend, I've come to realize exactly what kind of mother I want and need to be. It comes from a poem my friend sent me. This is what I want:
Kids are such a blessing too. They are really a chance for you (meaning me) to kind of go back and correct some of the mistakes you made or that were made for you. I see my children and I see the opportunity to mold them into people and future adults unlike me. I have always been a bit of a nervous individual with various neuroses and fears--like most other people. It isn't very obvious by the life path I've chosen, but it's not always easy for me to try new things and new places. It's taken me until the last few years to be able to just jump into new things, new lives, and new experiences; and I still struggle with it. But through much soul searching and conversation with my husband and best friend, I've come to realize exactly what kind of mother I want and need to be. It comes from a poem my friend sent me. This is what I want:
"Children Learn What They Live"
If children live with criticism, they learn to condemn.
If children live with hostility, they learn to fight.
If children live with fear, they learn to be apprehensive.
If children live with pity, they learn to feel sorry for themselves.
If children live with ridicule, they learn to feel shy.
If children live with jealousy, they learn to feel envy.
If children live with shame, they learn to feel guilty.
If children live with encouragement, they learn confidence.
If children live with tolerance, they learn patience.
If children live with praise, they learn appreciation.
If children live with acceptance, they learn to love.
If children live with approval, they learn to like themselves.
If children live with recognition, they learn it is good to have a goal.
If children live with sharing, they learn generosity.
If children live with honesty, they learn truthfulness.
If children live with fairness, they learn justice.
If children live with kindness and consideration, they learn respect.
If children live with security, they learn to have faith in themselves and in those about them.
If children live with friendliness, they learn the world is a nice place in which to live.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Sixth Sense
I'm not unlike many people in that I've always been curious about the "sixth sense" or people who claim to be psychic. But, unlike most people, I know psychics exist. The story of how I came to be sure about that happened about five years ago.
I was at my favorite bar, the Y Bar. An incredibly old man was always there and always drunk as a skunk. The bartenders and regulars always called him "Pops." One night, he came to me and said he wanted to give me a "reading". Being an open-minded person, I told him to go ahead. He told me that in six months or so I was going to:
"MEET A MAN WHO'S FIVE FEET NINE OR FIVE FEET TEN WHO WILL BE IN TOWN ON BUSINESS. HE WILL EITHER BE FRENCH OR SPEAK FRENCH AND HAVE BROWN HAIR AND BLUE EYES."
He said I'd fall in love with that man. Well, six weeks later, I met my husband--all 5 foot 10 of him. He was in town on business, had brown hair and blue eyes and minored in French in college. I met him on July 18, 2006 and married him on December 16th of the same year.
I often wonder how that man just "knew," and the only answer I can come to is that he just KNEW. The night he gave me my reading I asked him about himself. He told me he'd been a psychic during the Vietnam War and that he was a "10th degree Buddhist monk" who could meditate so well/deeply that his heart would almost stop. Now, I did some research; and per Wikipedia it appears psychics were used by the Americans to help find the enemy during that war. Interesting. However, I have never met a Buddhist monk before; but something tells me they don't spend their time in the Y Bar. But, who cares. All I know is that he KNEW what was waiting for me. It still gives me goosebumps to this day. Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.1
I was at my favorite bar, the Y Bar. An incredibly old man was always there and always drunk as a skunk. The bartenders and regulars always called him "Pops." One night, he came to me and said he wanted to give me a "reading". Being an open-minded person, I told him to go ahead. He told me that in six months or so I was going to:
"MEET A MAN WHO'S FIVE FEET NINE OR FIVE FEET TEN WHO WILL BE IN TOWN ON BUSINESS. HE WILL EITHER BE FRENCH OR SPEAK FRENCH AND HAVE BROWN HAIR AND BLUE EYES."
He said I'd fall in love with that man. Well, six weeks later, I met my husband--all 5 foot 10 of him. He was in town on business, had brown hair and blue eyes and minored in French in college. I met him on July 18, 2006 and married him on December 16th of the same year.
I often wonder how that man just "knew," and the only answer I can come to is that he just KNEW. The night he gave me my reading I asked him about himself. He told me he'd been a psychic during the Vietnam War and that he was a "10th degree Buddhist monk" who could meditate so well/deeply that his heart would almost stop. Now, I did some research; and per Wikipedia it appears psychics were used by the Americans to help find the enemy during that war. Interesting. However, I have never met a Buddhist monk before; but something tells me they don't spend their time in the Y Bar. But, who cares. All I know is that he KNEW what was waiting for me. It still gives me goosebumps to this day. Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.1
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