Home again in the Perche.
“Home is where your stuff is.” I don’t know who is credited with saying it first, but I say it again, and it’s new to me. I have had stuff in every corner of the earth for so long that I haven’t had a sense of “place”… until now.
I have returned to what is my current “home”, because my stuff is here… in the Perche.
If the heart had a bigger say in things, if I LET my heart have a bigger say in things, I would perhaps not be calling this “home” – but practicality has the upper hand here. And so I am home.
The plants are dry (in spite of the rain; the overhang on the roof doesn’t let the gentler rains do much for the plants along the front of the house.) My first grown-by-me tomato has been eaten, my uncooked and abandoned artichokes have flowered on the kitchen counter, a surrealistic bouquet to herald my return. My dogs are in good shape and we were mutually enchanted to be reunited. The house is spotless, thanks to my Danielle, and my bookshelves are up and filled, thanks to Hamid and Michel.
My time in the U.S. was bittersweet. Saying goodbyes and hellos. Loving New York City. Loving Bar Harbor.
Sailing with Barbara in her sailboat moored off the Bar Harbor Inn (sleeps 4 if one decides to go far enough that sleeping is on the agenda.)
Making dinners in Alfhild’s loft.
Joyfully bean-bag tossing at John’s fabulous house with a bunch of lovely, uncommon thespians.
Dedicating a beautiful granite bench to Jane (not to her memory, but to her; she is still alive in my mind, awol…)
Almost a hundred people gathered to mourn and express their love for Jane. Volleyball and swimming and camaraderie. A sit-down dinner, speeches, and then kayaks floating off during the night… Someone even brought fireworks.
Sprinkling Jane (along with Pippi and Jamie), Joselyn and Uncle Tony into the bay. Quite a sprinkling of ashes sort of day. So much so that sprinkling ashes almost became mundane, in an odd way.
On August 13th the moon was full. And all day I felt a sort of unreal horror that it must be true, it must be true, if so many people are here in Brooksville, it must be true.
Gourmet sushi lunch in Sullivan Street, long drives filled with edifying listening and conversation. Elena and Terry’s house in what used to be a printing press in Varick street. Playing the piano in the buff. Breakfasts at Café This Way. Helping sort through Joselyn’s things. Crystals, journals, clothes. Stuff.
Haydn’s “Creation” by summer Maine people, a performance that would outshine many heard in Paris. Limited internet access, which most certainly contributed to the success of my stay.
Cats and children and Asian dinners prepared after a whirlwind shopping trip in the Bowery. Potato pancakes and chicken soup. Secret gardens and empty greenhouses. Scandinavian candy shops and Bagaduce Lunch.
On again, off again. Happy, sad. But a very good visit nonetheless.
No more words, here are more pictures (click to see the albums):
- Jane’s Memorial, Brooksville, Maine, Saturday August 13, 2011
And one last photo to explain why I gave up (after 20 years) trying to teach English in this country. This was taken in the train station connected to the Roissy airport when I arrived on Friday:
Bonita, you HAVE been busy!!! Love your words, pictures and memories…you captured the essence of so many amazing moments! Thank you for this! I’ll share with the rest of the NYC and Bar Harbor groups. Love the picture of me at the Hertz counter!
Alfhild
Hmmmm… I kind of thought I had a copyright on calling you Bonita…
Merci pour les belles photos, les textes et le souvenir de Jane, le banc harmonieux et apaisant.
Bon retour chez toi, bisous,
J.
Actually, Jeannette, the other “J”, Jane, used to call me Bonita too.. I think it’s a sign. I must change my name. Or perhaps it means I should learn Spanish. In any case, bisous à toi aussi !!!!!
I’ve loved reading about your summer. The bench looks beautiful and the drying flowering artichokes quite stunning and resplendent with symbolism. I love your writing.