feasting

I'm sitting by the pool at my gite, because the wifi only works by the pool. Beside me, bees happily diving into the lavender; olive trees, cedars, pines, brown grass, the ubiquitous oleanders. The sound, as always, of cicadas and wind. I gather that all the rest of France and Canada still are having bad weather. Here, wind and sun. Yesterday there was a pottery market in Gordes, and delicate pieces were flying off the tables in the mistral.

The wedding is drawing closer; today the groom's mother arrives from Australia, yesterday the bride's brother and his girlfriend from London. We were 18 for dinner last night. Denis's mother is here too; Denis drove her down from Versailles, she sleeps in an extended care nursing home nearby but spends the day in the midst of the family. When I knew her, she was a sharp, highly critical university professor who never stopped working, a great deal like her son. Now she wanders about like a small child, needing help with everything, mostly sitting gazing into space. But she walks to be where the people are and is always sitting with them. The other day she sat in the midst of a dozen young Australian men, friends of the groom, who were having a picnic at the end of the garden. Something in her underpants interested her so she sat groping about down there while the men continued to chat, unperturbed. The family is wonderful with her, patiently helping her in the toilet or to eat - just as they do with the babies. This is all part of the big family experience, and again, something those of us with small families don't often experience.

The two-hour meal at the table is a place for story-tellers like me and Lynn - by yesterday night, people were calling out requests for favourites. "Tell the one," I was asked, "about the cheese tray again." Not one of my finer moments, but for those of you who want to hear the story, it's in the podcast section of this website. It's a good party piece. Lynn and I talked last night, too, about our famous friend Dan Ackroyd. This makes us briefly interesting to the eyes of the teenagers present. There was a glass on the table unlike the others, covered with ornate fake gold. "That's your father's scotch glass!" cried Norah, and suddenly we were all back in Chateauguay, Quebec, sitting in the living room with Lynn's parents Therese and Andrew, with the sound of clinking ice cubes.

Today, all I know about our plans is that the groom's mother is coming to dinner and we're cooking gigot d'agneau and there will be more than 20 of us. The same bee and now a convention of white butterflies continue to dine beside me, in the feast of lavender. Provence is a feast for us all.