Thursday, March 31, 2011

School.


March 31, Tishomingo.

Dee Dee's back at the circus this year, she lost seventy-six pounds and she looks awesome. Liam is doing good.
Today she had school at the park so she could have Sam play while she taught. The kids worked under a tree canopy, next to the playground. It was breezy and warm, lovely after the winter weather of the last few days.
I've decided to bring Dylan to school; even though I won't have him study with the other kids in English, for I'm afraid he'll get confused after starting school in France, it will give us a chance to have a set schedule.

Bubbles.


March 31, Tishomingo.

Four.

March 31, Tishomingo.

We had a party for Nicolas' birthday today, rushing, as always, to get everything ready.
Mingo turned four in Tishomingo.

A trailer with a view.


March 31, Tishomingo, Oklahoma (50 miles, Pennington Creek park.)

Anguish.

March 30, Wynnewood.

Dylan had another asthma attack today, or maybe it wasn't but I treated it as such, just in case. Feeling cold then a fever and the heavy breathing, the wheezing, and the nebulizer is in the old trailer but Sara lets me borrow Gigi's, and thank heavens I have all the medicine and instructions I brought from France.
But I'll never get used to this.
The fear is overwhelming, it spins everything in its wake and leaves me bloodless, the world stops and I am just a raging heart of anguish.

A trailer with a view.


March 30, Wynnewood, Oklahoma (56 miles, city park.)

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

A trailer with a view.


March 29, Marietta, Oklahoma (72 miles, McClain Stadium.)

Monday, March 28, 2011

Reyna backstage.


March 28, Bridgeport.

Change.


March 28, Bridgeport.

Change.


March 28, Bridgeport.

Out-take (Nicolas napping at my mother's house.)


March 28, Bridgeport.

The incredible story of Brian's burn.

March 26, Frisco.

Our yearly three-day stay in Frisco, and we're back on the other side of the plazza.
Brian could be dead by now.
Three weeks ago he burnt himself practicing with a new fuel. He didn't want to go to the hospital but Tavana found him in the circus kitchen trying to cool his hand with cold water and made him go. He had second degree burns on his hand and face. Once in the hospital he was found to have alarmingly low blood pressure; they sent him off to a bigger facility, in Corpus Christy, where the next day he was outfitted with a pacemaker. His heart was failing, and would most likely have stopped within days.
If he hadn't burnt himself.
At first he thought they had the wrong guy; he was feeling fine, no chest pains, nothing out of the ordinary. His pressure was under twenty. He was released from the hospital the day after being fitted with the pacemaker and was back at work two days later.
When we were in France Nicolas went about the house armed with kitchen utensils saying he was going to cook, like Brian. When we were invited for dinner Dylan would inevitably say that the cooking was delicious, like Brian's.
To think we could have lost him.
If he hadn't burnt himself he may have been dead by the time we arrived at the circus.

A trailer with a view.


March 28, Bridgeport, Texas (60 miles, Harwood Park.)

A trailer with a view.


March 26, Frisco, Texas (70 miles, Frisco Square.)

Around the lot.


Mar ch 24, Royse City.

I want my trailer back.

March 24, Royse City.

Tavana and John Moss and Nikki and Carolyn and Mike have new digs, and so do we. We've got a new home and I hate it.
Well, not hate exactly, more like feeling adrift and missing my home, my trailer, and all the nooks and crannies that have made my life for almost ten years. Fridman wanted a motor home for the kids, so that we wouldn't have to take them out in the cold in the morning to sit them in the truck. We had seen one of don Sandro's used ones and liked it, so here we are.
It is a small class B motor home (it's much smaller than the trailer) that Fridman has been spicing up, building beds for the kids, painting, taking carpet out and curtains in, but all the goodies in the world won't make it home unless I want to and so far I don't, it's too new, too soon, away from home and then it's gone, I need time, time and maybe a lot of Dylan's art on the walls to anchor me in.
But there isn't any counter space in the kitchen, on top of it all. Not to mention the Trailer with a view series ("Motor home with a view"?)
I want my trailer back.

Around the lot.


March 24, Royse City.

Morning.


March 24, Royse City.

A trailer with a view.


March 24, Royse City, Texas (70 miles, Red Line Racetrack.)

Welcome.

March 24, Royse City.

The route slip said: "Welcome back to Valerie, Dylan and Nicolas!"

Papa.


March 23, Van.

We're back.

March 23, Van.

We flew back yesterday.
It was a good trip, if a ten-hour flight with two kids and a twenty-four-hour traveling day can be called a good trip. But it was good, for the kids were angels. I woke them up at six for the taxi call after we all went to bed around midnight, and they were fine, fell asleep shortly after take-off, leaving me to browse magazines by my quiet self, and watched cartoons for the rest of the flight.
Dylan fell asleep again on the way back to the circus and didn't wake up til this morning. Then he went chirping around to anybody that would listen - in French. Both he and Nicolas ran wild with Flaco and Gigi and the gang of Kelly Miller Circus kids, all the familiar faces fro; last year and years back, Nathan and Gordo and Renzo and Luis and more.
A day, and we're back at the circus, a language and a world away.
That, and we went straight from winter to summer.

A trailer with a view.


March 23, Van, Texas (70 miles, high school.)

Sunday, March 20, 2011

On the side.

March 20, Saint-Ismier.

A recent comment threw me into introspection, into the way I write and what I write and why.
Ellyn Rose said what I wrote reminded her of the Portuguese word "saudade," a word I love. It is a word that evades translation in either of the languages of my awaken life; it means nostalgia, regretful love and sadness intertwined but it is also beyond all these notions, as elusive as the feeling it represents.
Reading back it is obvious that my writing has increasingly been infused with saudade, the obsessive return to nostalgia even as the moment is being lived, the fear of forgetfulness (another word falling short, "l'oubli" in French so much more beautiful, even the sound of it,) pervading everything, life passing by to be recorded against oblivion and in the process transformed into a pervading museum of memories to come. It has to do with the fear of death, of course, this obsession of time passing, of recording, remembering life in its most mundane expressions above all, its minute unfolding, and in its scathing ebb.

Friday, March 18, 2011

Art.



March 18, Saint-Ismier.

Nicolas does Jackson Pollock, Dylan is more Klee.
My sons the artists.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Galactic fighter.


March 16, Saint-Ismier.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Twist.

March 15, Saint-Ismier.

Encounters is a word to which I much prefer the French version, les rencontres.
This one came about by a twist of fate. Saving Dylan on Saturday, and tonight we met, the physician and I, as I was sitting in the same room, literally in Dylan's shoes - inhaling the same asthma medicine, for just as long (it was all quite strange, also sweet, I following him for a change.)
Lives crossing, windows unfolding, possibilities, the valleys of destinies, affinities, rencontres.

Teachers.


March 15, Saint-Ismier.

Clos Marchand.


March 15, Saint-Ismier.

It our last week here and so time is slipping away vertiginously.
Today after school I took pictures of Dylan and Nicolas' classrooms and teachers, Brigitte and Mélanie.
Clos Marchand, the elementary school they attended, is a small school, with only three classes, one for each of the sections, as grades are called, that make up early elementary school in France. Small, medium and high sections serve three to five year olds, as kids start school at three here, a big help for working mothers.
Such a small school was perfect for my babies, catapulted as they were far from everything they knew, their world wildly upturned, like their Dad on the upside-down loop. They did so well, a tribute to their teachers as much as to them, soothing my fears. Nicolas even came out of his bubble today, his teacher told me, happily interacting with the rest of his classmates.
Better late than never, only two days left of school

Monday, March 14, 2011

Out-take (the castle of Vizille.)


March 14, Saint-Ismier.

Last week we also went to the castle of Vizille, a small town outside of Grenoble, with my mother's friend, Monique, and the kids. Monique had brought several bags full of old bread for the kids to feed the ducks, swans and fish that live in the park.
The castle figures prominently in the history of the French Revolution as its owner at that time, Claude Perrier, a rich businessman, opened it in 1788 to one of the first Estates-General convocations in the country. The original castle dates back to the year 996, when it belonged to the bishop of Grenoble, and became a royal residence in 1349.
To the kids none of that mattered, only the swan biting at Dylan's hand as he tried to feed him, only the fat carps darting for the pieces of bread thrown their way.

Out-take (out in the woods.)


March 14, Saint-Ismier.

This morning it looks like someone took away a dirty film from our view of the mountains all around, leaving me dazed with the brilliance of their outlines. For almost a week there had been a pinkish-grey fog masking them, engulfing everything. Such pollution peaks are unfortunately common in this region where three mountain chains form a natural barrier around the city nestled in the valley.
Twice last week we went walking in the woods, along our beloved paths, because the kids were so eager and soon there'll be no more mountain trails to walk within a stone throw of our house, and I can't help but wonder now whether breathing that foul air, however lovely the walk seemed, however much we rejoiced in it, didn't contribute to Dylan's asthma attack the next day.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

A doctor's visit.

March 13, Saint-Ismier.

An asthma attack that I don't detect, until it is very late. One of my worst nightmares come true.
The kids and I have been sick almost continually since we've arrived here, but yesterday Dylan woke up coughing and went on coughing all day, until I finally woke up and ran to a doctor's office open on week ends (one we'd already visited.) A massive dose of steroids and an inhaler for an hour straight and when we drove home night had fallen for a long time already.
I didn't see it.
I should have known.
Last May's emergency room nightmare all over again.
And I can't shake the panick, the gripping pressure in the chest; the proximity of reliable, low-cost care doesn't seem to alleviate the fear. But it does help; nothing is worse than rushing your child to a health care facility you don't know, you don't know where, the only thing that you know being that it will cost you hundreds of dollars at a minimum (we were charged just under three thousand dollars for Dylan's five-hour ER visit at a hospital near Indianapolis last year.)
Yesterday the physician sent us home with antibiotics to clear the looming lung infection, but also a life changer for me: the knowledge that I can call her from anywhere, any time our time zones let us, and get help over the phone from someone I trust.
She also sent us home without making me pay, as we've agreed to go back on Thursday for a checkup before we head back to the U.S. How I'll miss the blessing that is the health care system in France: the double bill will be less than sixty dollars, and that only because I am not covered here, as I don't contribute to the health care system through taxes; otherwise it would have been free, as any other health care bill for my kids until they're eighteen.
All through those months of constant doctors' visits, each of them looked at me with alarm every time I announced that I wasn't covered, and each time too, when they told me how much the bill was, I wanted to laugh, although it would have been a bitter laugh. A family practice physician charges around twenty-six euros for a consultation, or about thirty-five dollars; no specialist has charged me more than fifty dollars.
No, physicians certainly don't get as rich here as they can in the U.S. They don't have huge student loans to pay back either, and no impossibly high insurance bill to pay to cover their back.
For the rest of us, what a difference.

Tuesday, March 08, 2011

A hidden garden of magical secrets.


March 8, Saint-Ismier.

Isabelle and I could be sisters, we share a childhood that was lucky enough to sometimes be full of hidden wonders.
We grew up together, she a year older than I, our parents close friends, in Vence. Now settled in Nice she hosted us, the kids and I, and with her four-year-old son, Amssane, they made a killing trio.
Isabelle, her older sister Sophie and I were a girls' trio growing up, in each other's stuff and each other's lives, secretly in love with hero of our favorite TV series, and later, in our adolescent years, a summer in the coolness of Isabelle's room listening to a radio program, the life of Elvis unfolding each afternoon and I can still hear the melody of the announcer's voice, listening to the same records too, vinyl back then, up to our shared years in Paris.
With Sophie the ties had grown looser, and I have never met any of her two kids, now teens themselves.
Their parents in the same house, still, cavernous spaces of art collectors, the dark staircase, treacherous, the tight rooms, the smell of waxed wood, the posters on Zaza's wall, the sunshine outside. Our house was airy and light, and they never visited, a pattern that has continued through the years, and even now, with this visit.
In the small village garden of her parents' house there is a tiny stone building below the patio with on one side a workshop and on the other a room where we dreamed up our magical universe as little girls, a room of our own, a room that is magic itself. It is a room you do not enter if you've outgrown it, or the loss of its wonders would scrape you raw and leave you bereft of all that's cherished about childhood.

Returns.

March 8, Saint-Ismier.

I went home.
I went home to the south and found everything different, and loved it, found the pebbles on the beach, smooth and round and comfortingly heavy, the mimosa flowering, covering the hills bright and spreading the soft fuzziness of their scent, the olive trees and orange trees, I found the school smells of my childhood in the old bookstore, the friends of another age old and same, I went home and I'm bound to go again.

Monday, March 07, 2011

Isabelle at the beach.


March 5, Nice.

Mother and son.


March 5, Nice.

Blues.


March 3, Nice.