Illustration by Elizabeth Cannon
An ongoing series about uprooting our lives in America and moving to France. For what's happened before, see previous Jours of Our Lives entries here.
THERE WAS CHASING and hiding. Children and their mothers were being put in…something…and being told they were being sent…somewhere. I felt the fear of the mothers and their children, fear of my own.
Whoever it was shut the door and threw, pushed, dumped what turned out to be a submarine into the water with the women and children—and me—in it. It sank. It was meant to be a coffin. Someone (maybe me) cracked one of the windows with a high-heeled shoe. Water came rushing in, and we all knew we would die. The mothers wanted to protect their children, and they couldn’t.
Photo and Kites by George Peters of Airworks Studio Inc.
The dream stopped, and my eyes were open like I was looking out into the bedroom. There was a wispy ghost—not fashioned as a person, but whimsically created as a Japanese kite—sailing through the room. Then there were others floating by me. Many, many, many came and went, but I was not afraid. Suddenly, somehow I had the feeling these ghosts were Jewish children from the Marais whom the Nazis took and killed, and they wanted my attention. They wanted me to write about them. This dream that came from thin air, or somewhere in my head, was about the Nazis murdering these children.
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WE WOULD HAVE to leave Perche on December 27th, the day Blair and Bret were flying back to Arkansas. Where would we go? I’d been dealing with that major issue only a little, emailing back and forth with Randall Vemer of French Home Rentals, who had become our immediate and stalwart supporter when he first read about our project. He’d been contacting more of his company’s property owners to tell them about us and Chasing Matisse, trying to help find us another place to stay. One interested couple was going to lend their beautiful apartment, and then it rented. I believed something would work out—that something would fall out of the sky to save us, just as Perche had.
Living Room at Perche / James Morgan
Another reason I hadn’t dealt with this primary issue more is that it requires a certain kind of energy for me to put my neck on the chopping block. I don’t always have it. I must feel rested, energetic, positive, able to withstand rejection. I have to have some reserves in order to put myself out there. As I writer, I’ve put my neck on that line what seems like zillions of time, and it’s gotten chopped off plenty. It’s never easy. You never get used to it: Even when you think it won’t matter, it does. I hadn’t had that kind of energy until the day Holly left, and we all rested and reorganized ourselves.
Money, or more accurately the lack of it, has been a draining stress and burden in our lives, especially for the last few years. It has paralyzed us, depressed us, instilling fear and doubt about ourselves, creating any number of problems for us and between us, complicating our lives in untold ways. Fear is the worst—destructive and debilitating. Jim and I have written and believed, hoped, wished, and persevered on the paths of what we’re called to do. That’s what artists do. We’ve believed in ourselves and our work. We’ve bet on ourselves. We’ve made an investment in ourselves and our future, taken this risk of moving to France that many people would be afraid of. But in the process, we’ve created a lot of debt. Chasing Matisse is a hugely expensive project, and the book contract advance is long gone. Again, we’re betting on ourselves.
Our dog Snapp loved Christmas!
Our first Christmas away from home, in Paris no less, wasn’t feeling too Christmasy on the Eve itself. Our tradition is to have a delicious, spirited, and sparkling dinner with Champagne, oysters, standing rib roast, Yorkshire pudding, asparagus, garlic mashed potatoes, and a luscious dessert. Friends usually come for drinks, others stay for dinner. By the time it’s over and we’ve cleaned up, it’s 2 A.M. The next morning we’re tired and excited, happy to be opening our presents—which are many though not grand. Our good dog, Snapp, is the most thrilled of all. He loves his gifts and expects them with tremendous anticipation. He can’t wait to open the various treats which are almost always food. I maintained the surprises of Santa Claus up until a year or two ago, and still and always will fill our stockings.
On this Christmas Eve, I planned for us to go to one of the beautiful florists and make an arrangement for our Christmas tree. We could each choose our botanical desires. The place I had in mind had big branches of holly which I wanted as my part of our tree collage. Blair chose an orchid and Bret a little pot of roses. The name of the shop was Art et Nature. We walked in, and the woman in charge didn’t speak any English and didn’t do anything but pout and roll her eyes and sigh loudly and with exasperation when we tried to speak French and explain the flowers we wanted. She had no Christmas spirit. We should’ve left, but I wanted one of those holly branches—but only one, since they were 8 euros apiece.
Our Christmas Tree at Perche
Blair, Bret, and I went to pick up our Buche de Noel and a few more items. They had a fight (not unusual—I think we fight every year on Christmas Eve, until our party). When we got home, Jim was freaked out, almost catatonic. I didn’t know what sent him reeling until a week later. I thought it was the income tax (he was also working on that) that had done him in. But he had received news that we had less money than he thought, and more bills had to be paid.
That evening we dressed up and rode the Metro to the Boulevard St. Germain where we had a dinner reservation at Vagenende—which had been highly recommended. Coming out from the Metro we went the wrong way and arrived 40 minutes late, though the restaurant thought it more, since whoever answered the phone had failed to write down the change in the time of our reservation which I’d called in. They weren’t happy with us either. The food was wonderful—briny oysters that tasted of the sea, and perfectly cooked fishes. A tart tapenade with crusts of bread was set on the table to start. We woofed it down.
We had planned to attend a midnight mass at Notre Dame, but the police had captured what they’d initially thought was a bomber with bombs there that afternoon, and we opted out. Instead, we went home and had our Buche de Noel and a glass of Champagne after midnight, but we were already too full.
Jim and I had told Blair and Bret that there were no presents this year. Their gift from us was the trip to Paris, and our gift from them was their coming. On Christmas morning we could all sleep late and not be rushed. So that’s what we did. There were no presents, no anticipation, no event. It seemed sad and pathetic, which is what I told my mother when I called later in the day. I think that pleased her—in the sense that yes, we did indeed miss being with our family.
Christmas Birds from Rotisserie Man
Jim and I went out into the world to pick up our order from La Fougasse and the Rotisserie Man. I loved that they were open Christmas Day. The French want their food nice and freshly cooked. Nothing much else happened except getting dressed and preparing the table for dinner. We had invited Ruben and Chloe to join us. Jim drew and painted decorations for our little tree which made us all happy.
When our guests arrived, we popped Champagne. Over the next four or five hours, we laughed and talked and ate and decorated our makeshift tree, which became quite festive, as did we. It became Christmas after all, and the lesson to us is that yes, we want to have presents no matter what they are, and yes, we have to have a Christmas party. It’s not Christmas until we do.
Beth Arnold
Paris
December 31, 2002
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Unless otherwise indicated, photos by Beth Arnold.
Beth Arnold lives and writes in Paris, where she produces her "Letter From Paris" new media project.
For more on artist (and couturier) Elizabeth Cannon, click here.
