Well, Filou, I'm not in Provence any more. I'm here amidst a US East Coast snow storm. Obama came home early from Oslo, and we came home early from our cousin's get-together up in Connecticut. The world is white, moving slowly. I had to push Ma's car out of the gas station with the help of a friendly passer-by. As I walked home from her church where she was singing in the choir, I witnessed the ritual post-snow storm act in front of nearly every home: there is the father with or without sons of varying ages shoveling away. It is rather sociable actually. I smile and say "Morning" to them as I stroll on by. In one case I'm invited to join in, but I demure.
Back at Ma's house I'll help with the walkway, and likely dig out her parking spot so we are able to manoeuver tomorrow when no doubt the snow will be denser and icier. According to Leo and Jonas, it is not a good texture for making a snow man. Hmmm, I may have to test that. But perhaps it's true. It felt rather powdery coming down, not lumps of dense moisture only barely frozen.
The birds flock to Ma's feeder for her generous supply of sunflower seeds. Jonas helps me finish decorating our Christmas cookies. A short session of yoga calls. I'm in that surreal space of being in my childhood home. Here, under my mother's roof, France seems far away, except when my children bicker and fight, cursing each other with a flow of vulgarities learned in the school yard back in Avignon.