I was quite a lazy blogger last year, and as I never make New Year’s resolutions that I know I won’t stick to, I can’t promise I’ll be better in 2012.
The older, the lazier, I guess.
But I wish you all a happy New Year!
See this photo on a black background
with thanks to my cousin Léo
It was a warm summer day and they had decided to go and visit Beningbrough Hall. Now that both of them were in their sixties and both retired, they enjoyed visiting those lovely old homes and gardens and had joined the National Trust as a couple.
They had bought a guidebook, quite a thick and heavy one about Yorkshire, and visited a place of interest a day.
He liked to joke about that and often said: “one place of interest a day keeps the doctor away.”
It was trite humour, he knew it and she knew it, but they had been married for so long and had laughed at the same things for all those years. She shared a pleasant feeling of companionship.
Basically, they enjoyed pretty much the same things and that gave them a warm feeling. That morning, they had looked at the weather forecast and decided on comfortable cool clothing.
They had visited the Hall, a very interesting place, and had been fascinated by the kitchens and the servants’ hall.
It was all very well to learn about the life of baronets and such, but what happened downstairs was something they were always keen on.
The laundry room especially kept their attention. They noticed starch in a surprisingly old carton box, and all the necessary instruments to get the linen dry, a large basin, a wooden mangle, old-time clothes pegs and lines.
The place reminded them of the series Upstairs, Downstairs, and when they visited the downstairs part of the Hall, they exchanged a few remarks and , imagined the kitchen maid, for instance, working in these surroundings.
Then, after their picnic lunch eaten at the cafeteria, with a pot of tea, they had headed towards the beautiful gardens. Both of them were keen on gardening and had enjoyed the herbaceous borders, the flower garden and the kitchen garden. There was also a beautiful orchard, with a lot of apple-trees.
Around three p.m., they felt they needed a rest so they found a bench in the shade and sat there for a while.
He took the book out of his bag, and they reviewed what they had seen.
They both wore glasses but he was always the one who got his reading glasses out. She liked listening to his reading. In fact, even at home, he would sometimes find something of interest in the newspaper and read it aloud to her.
He had quite a deep and beautiful voice, she thought. When they had first met, she had remarked his hands and his deep voice. Those had always been the things she noticed first when she met a young man. And he had been no exception.
She was a very good listener, but also made witty remarks that he enjoyed.
Then, they noticed that they had missed part of the garden, spotted it on the map and decided to explore it, after which they would have tea in a place they had noticed on the way over.
Then, they would drive back to their B&B, maybe take a nap and get some reading done.
They were both quite fond of reading, although their tastes were quite different. He mostly read history books, essays and The Times. She found novels, murder mysteries, and occasionally, a biography or an autobiography more entertaining.
They hardly ever shared the reading of the book, but they did talk about what they read a lot.
So many men kept themselves to themselves, not to say that they hardly knew how to communicate. Not her husband. She felt she was quite a lucky woman.
For years, ever since her son had died, she had come to the cemetery at least once a week. Then, when she retired, she began to come every day.
Now, sadly, she was visiting two dearly departed, her son and her husband.
She liked puttering around the grave, doing this and that. On most days, she would bring her tools: a sponge, a large bottle of water, a little trowel. She sometimes used the water cans that were there for the use of visitors but found them heavier and heavier. She weeded the potted plants on her grave but also looked around, and straightened out flowerpots that had fallen or picked up flowers that had been scattered away by the wind.
There were few visitors in that area of the cemetery. Just a couple of cats, who stretched out on the graves when it was sunny, and quite a few crows the rest of the time.
A few years ago, there had been a newcomer. A woman had been buried nearby, and she had seen all the flowers and wreaths on the grave. At the beginning, one could not see the name of the dead person as it was hidden under the flowers.
Then he started coming. He would clean up his wife’s grave and as there was a bench right there, he would sit, looking bereaved and thoughtful.
Occasionally, he would bring a book.
She looked at him furtively at the beginning. She did not want to look inquisitive, so if he looked in her direction, she would look away.
But after a while, they started nodding hello to each other and little by little, took to talking.
They walked around the cemetery, evoking those days when his wife was alive. She had died of what in the old days, they used to call a long and painful disease, to avoid the use of the word cancer.
She told him how her son had been run over by a car as he was coming back from school and how angry she had been at the time. Now she just felt sad and nostalgic. He had been such a nice child. And she had been so lucky to have her husband to support and understand her.
When he died, she really felt that her life was over, but then, her job kept her going. She was a school teacher then and had always enjoyed teaching young children.
He had never told her about his job. Sometimes she wondered. She tried to imagine him behind a counter, selling… what would he be selling? Well, no, he did not look like a salesman. Or maybe he was a writer. He was such a good story-teller.
She tried to picture him typing away at an old-fashioned typewriter, the sort that goes click click with a bell ringing at each carriage return. Or maybe a computer? No, definitely not a computer. Or more simply, she saw him sitting at his desk and filling long pages with his elegant handwriting, using a fountain pen. Yes, that was definitely more his style, she thought.
On that particular day, they had sat on the bench that was close to both “their” graves and were talking in the cold. She liked the fur hat that he was wearing and it made her realize how cold it was. She did not like wearing hats but often thought that she ought to.
Funnily, that was exactly what he was saying!
“You know you should not go bareheaded like this, you’ll catch your death!” They both laughed out loud at the idea of catching one’s death in a cemetery.
I took this photo at cimetière Vaugirard in Paris. Sometimes I like to catch a candid shot like this.
I really don’t know these people at all and it’s an old photo that dates back to 2006.
I am and have been a visitor of cemeteries for at least seven years now and always find interesting stuff to photograph, whether it is people, animals or flowers.
Friday night. They’ve changed all the Christmas decorations around Champs-Elysées, this year. I like what they have done at Rond-Point, but really didn’t appreciate the avenue itself. Too gaudy for my taste
The first thing that caught my eye was the bright blue of her dress. Then I looked up and noticed her white hair. That is when I clicked!
In Venice, walking in the streets means climbing up and down the stairs all the time. The city is composed of a myriad of small islands that are linked together by those little bridges. Some bridges only have five or six steps, but large ones, like the Rialto, have more. So walking from one place to another always implies climbing stairs.
Contrary to what one may think, there are quite a lot of old people living in Venice and you see them hurrying along up and down, up and down.
Once, I asked an old lady for directions, (when I say old, old she was, she told me she was 89) and she said she would walk me wherever I was going. So I immediately protested, in my broken Italian, explaining that I did not want her to get tired because of me, and she told me that walking was life. As I wondered whether all those steps were not too much for her, she said that living in Venice kept you going, as no matter what you did, you had to cross all those bridges. She told me she went shopping every day.
“I never carry heavy stuff, but I go out every day and do everything myself. It keeps me interested and keeps my legs going.”
When I asked what floor she lived on, she said the second floor, and laughed when I asked if she had a lift. Of course she didn’t!
But she went up and down her staircase just as she did on the bridges. Only, she added, a bit slower.
The wind blew and the Luxembourg garden, one of her favourite places in Paris was quite empty. It was the middle of February, quite a cold day. She had taken a large striped umbrella along to get some shelter.
When she got to the hothouse wall, she chose a chair in the corner and wiped it dry. She pushed it against the wall at an angle. It had been raining earlier in the day, and it was still drizzling, but she was used to this sort of situation and would rather go out, whatever the weather, than stay at home.
She dragged another chair to face the one she would be sitting in and wiped it dry as well. Then, she sat down, opened the large golf umbrella, took out her book, a library book, which had a plastic cover, and protected by the umbrella, started reading.
It was pretty cold, but she was wearing a parka, and her thick gloves protected her hands, although they did not make it easy to turn the pages.
The umbrella filled several purposes. It kept her sheltered from wind and rain, but also from the staring gazes of passers-by.
She had quite a few friends, who loved taking walks in the garden and when she was intent on a good book, she did not want to be disturbed. The umbrella was more efficient than a “do not disturb” sign, she was just hidden from everyone’s looks.
She thought, with satisfaction that no one passing by could even know whether she was a he or a she and settled, quite comfortably for her reading break.
She read for a long while and decided to leave because she was starting to feel uncomfortable. Those chairs were not meant to welcome strollers for a long time. She remembered a time when you had to pay a fee for your chairs. Old women, called “chaisières” would pass by, give you a ticket, in exchange for a few centimes.
That was years ago, when she was young, and the game was to avoid the “chaisière” at all cost.
Nowadays, it was probably cheaper to let people have the chairs for free.
For a while, she wondered who had paid the “chaisières”. Jardin du Luxembourg belonged to the Senate, so whoever paid for the upkeep of the Palace and its gardens, also paid for the people who worked there. Come to think of it, she thought, I am probably paying for the upkeep with my taxes.
It was getting chilly, so she got up and decided to walk across the garden, and have a cup of hot chocolate at Café Le Rostand, which would probably be full of people, considering the weather, but where they made a pretty decent hot chocolate.
This is actually part of something I started doing some time ago, on http://750words.com/ I am writing daily, most of the time, just rambling on and on. Sometimes, I just have no idea what to write about, so I go to Virginia de Bold’s great prompt site, First 50 words.
And when I really get stuck, I try to remember a photo I took and write a description of it.
So this is part of this morning’s 750 words. The rest, as the owner of the site puts it, is between me and me.
This was taken on Bénerville beach, just before they got married.
It still feels strange to write “her husband”, but I am one of the mothers-in-law who loves her son-in-law.
There are and will be more photos on flickr
Taken this afternoon on September, 11, 2011,
Les Français n’oublieront jamais / The French will never forget
Today’s the day.
I’m wishing you all the best for the coming year and many happy returns.
You too can wish Millie a happy birthday by going to her blog and leaving her a message
