Libby Pratt: avril 2005

The neighbor's roosters.

Path leading into our woods from a neighbor's farm. This is the ancient "road" to a village 20 kilometers away.

More Preston.

Thanks Colin!

The following was brought to my attention by my friend Colin, after he read the "Happy to Be Alive" post.

Dear Dad,
It is with great regret and sorrow that I'm writing you. I had to
elope with my new girlfriend because I wanted to avoid a scene with Mom and you.
I've been finding real passion with Joan and she is so nice. I knew you would
not approve of her because of all her piercings, tattoos, her tight Motorcycle
clothes and because she is so much older than I am. But it's not only the
passion, Dad, she's pregnant. Joan said that we will be very happy. She owns a
trailer in the woods and has a stack of firewood for the whole winter. We share
a dream of having many more children.
Joan has opened my eyes to the fact that marijuana doesn't really hurt anyone. We'll be growing it for us and trading it with the other people in the commune for all the cocaine and ecstasy we want. In the meantime, we'll pray that science will find a cure for AIDS so Joan can get better; she sure deserves it!!
Don't worry Dad, I'm 15 years old now and I know how to take care of myself. Someday I'm sure we'll be back to visit so you can get to know your grandchildren.
Your son,John
P.S. Dad, none of the above is true. I'm over at Tommy's house. I just wanted to remind you that there are worse things in life than the report card that's in my center desk drawer.

The Comte's chateau . . . you can see the basin and foundation of the mill that he tore down, in front of the house.

More information coming from our French accountant:

I asked to one of my colleagues, he said it's normal that the letter was not
sent with "recommande". So, there's nothing to do. Mr Thiery's lawyer has now 3
month maybe 5 to make the complete file, then you'll have 3 month to
answer. Then the court will take the decision (maybe in 1, 2 or 3 years...). If
they decide the Cour d'Appel was wrong, there will be a new court who will juge
the case. Good luckSorry, I would have prefered to tell you some good news.

Woke up this morning and made the mistake of viewing my e-mail.

Our American accountant wrote thanking me for dropping off my business records yesterday. She said that she'll call the I.R.S. agent and schedule the "full-blown" audit with him. That's accountant talk for "stock up on Preparation H." In the meantime, she will be sending an invoice for a large retainer; she mentioned something about the I.R.S. demanding some sort of accounting going back to 1997 . . .which of course, would be costly.

I’m-Happy –to-Be-Alive!

Ah, there was an e-mail from our French accountant/good friend. Seems that Caretaker Corinne brought her a letter that looked as if it needed immediate attention. Seems as if Comte Theirry du Moulin de Bercegol de Fitzjames was not pleased with the appellate court’s verdict in our favor. Now our Bleak House odyssey is entering year 4 and we’re headed for the highest court in France. Now I need to learn the word for an attorney who is licensed to practice in front of the Cour de Cassation. Mon Dieu, will my French legal terminology lessons never cease?

I’m-Happy-To-Be-Alive! I'm-Happy-To-Be-Alive! I'm-Happy-To-Be-Alive! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!

Happy to Be Alive

A few weeks ago, I called Preston and asked him how he was doing. He replied, “I’m just happy to be alive.” I couldn’t argue with that sentiment, but as a worrisome mother I wondered what it meant while rummaging through my list of threatening teenage perils: Did someone try to kill him? Did he try to kill himself? Was he in a car accident? Did he overdose on drugs or booze? Did he knock up someone?

But teenagers are rather sensitive, and so, having recently vowed to be less Gestapo-ish in my mothering tactics, I didn’t probe into the reasons or psychology behind his proclamation.

Not long after that phone call, I went in for my annual mammogram. After the technician completes the mammogram, she asks you to wait in your hospital gown until she can tell if they need to do more screening. In past years, I had mistakenly thought that while you are in the waiting room, your scan is being read; and if they let you go, and don’t require another screening, then you are free and clear for another year.

This year, the technician called me back for more scans, telling me that the first scans were too light. I was suspicious. When she was finished, she gave me a phone number and told me that if I hadn’t received the results in the mail within ten days, that I needed to call.

For seven days, I was convinced that I had breast cancer. My mother had breast cancer and I’m pretty sure that they detected it at the age of forty-six: my present age. So all week I was on edge.

Finally, the anticipated/dreaded little square note arrived, as if it was an invitation to a party. It stated that the mammogram showed no signs of cancer and that the tests are 90% effective. Immediately, I was incredibly happy proving to myself once again that happiness is a state of mind.

When I jog or lift weights, I silently recite a mantra. The morning after receiving the card from the hospital, I replaced my usual mantra with I’m-Happy-To-Be-Alive-I’m-Happy-To-Be-Alive-I’m-Happy-To-Be-Alive. I had a fantastic run. The trees were greener and more numerous. The dog urine wasn’t as annoying. The car fumes seemed sweeter.

It took awhile, but the wisdom of Preston finally seeped through to me.