Janice MacLeod's Blog, page 10

The LOST letter, not the LAST letter. The Paris Letters project began a café in Paris. But I suppose it started much earlier than that, around the time my friend Áine (Pronounced aahn-ya, rhymes with lasagna.) moved to… Chile? Japan? Ireland? Or maybe when I moved to Los Angeles? Somewhere in there we started writing letters back and forth. Great missives about—I’d like to say our travels, but no—our love lives. What he said. What she said. It was all very juicy stuff for the young ladies that we were.

Facebook reminded me today that Áine took this photo 12 years ago when she was visiting me in California. The Secret was all the rage and I was performing one of those Power of Attraction acts… pretending to kiss my future husband. Ugh! What actually happened was that I was kissed by a tick on my backside and later had a round of antibiotics to deal with the Lyme Disease welts. True story.

In searching for this photo, I came across The Áine Scowl:

Slightly amused. Slightly not.

 

I saw Paris for the first time with Áine.

And this is the moment I saw the Eiffel Tower for the first time… not knowing that I was 2 km and 2 years away from the lovely Christophe. He was so close!

When I finally did show up there 2 years later (and 20 steps from Christophe!!!) I sat down at a café and started writing a letter to Áine. These letters morphed into the Paris Letters project. Even now, many years later and over 200 letters down the road, each letter is addressed to her first. Except for one.

This is the letter written in March 2014 featuring Café Papillon. This letter was written to a lady named Patricia. She subscribed to everything I had… and she subscribed well in advance. That means that when I wasn’t sure if I had more than 12 letters in me, she had already subscribed to the next 36 so I’d better think of something. She definitely, quietly, pushed me along in this project. I never met her. Never talked to her. But there she was quietly supporting the craft with her enthusiastic purchases. There was a moment in time when I had a series of love letters, which were about great love stories set in Paris. I had but one subscriber left: Patricia. On the day I wrote the letter, I was sitting in a café (Quelle surprise) and thought I should take it home and make a copy. But I was on the other side of town, my feet hurt, and the post office was nearby. Plus, I never thought I’d need it for the anthology I’m currently creating. I folded the original, stamped it, and popped it in the post. I often wondered about that letter. I had long forgotten what I had written. Hoped it made sense.

Years later I received a email from her husband, letting me know that she had passed away. He had found all the letters tucked in a drawer, including this particular letter. He told me that they were once in Paris on vacation and he encouraged her to look me up, but she was too intimidated to contact a real author. (Hey I put my Burberry pants on one leg at a time just like everyone else).

Just kidding. I don’t wear pants.

Thankfully her daughter Bernadette was able to send this humble author a copy of the lost letter many years later. Now I continue to send letters to Bernadette, but I write them for Patricia whose ghost, I hope, is peering over Bernadette’s shoulder to read the latest missive.

Here’s the letter:

March 2014, Paris

Dear Patricia,

I think we are in the clear. The winter in Paris has been mild, which means the expat community has been avoiding discussions about the weather with their shivering compadres in North America. Poor North America has had a rough go of snow this year. Last year at this time, I was stuck at an airport in Warsaw due to a blizzard in Paris. And now trees are in bloom. The patio chairs have also been dusted off. Usually just the smokers puff and shiver outside. But now, long bright afternoons mean bustling terraces galore. There is a dark side to all these balmy spring days. The pollution levels are so out of control that the transit system was free this weekend to encourage motorists to hop on the Métro instead. I took a few free rides, but have spent more time on urban hikes. It’s easy to do when one isn’t weighed down by winter gear. The spring rain shows up, too, and I’m fine with that. Helps the flowers bloom. This great weather is almost too good to be true. I keep thinking the temperature will drop suddenly, so I haven’t put my winter scarves away just yet… though I’ve dusted off my sunglasses.

Janice

“About as simple as it gets.” Anthony Bourdain, sitting at Café Le Papillon in Paris

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In other news, I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you about the Black Friday business happening over in my shop.

And…

The email are so loud today, non? ALL CAPS highlighting BLACK FRIDAY. It’s all a bit much. I find myself sorting through my emails just to look for something not so aggressive. That said… with this sale, the final big sale of the year, you save about $44USD on the 12 month subscription (20% off, plus free shipping) until Wednesday, December 4. It’s a big sale, but there is only one year left of the Paris Letters project, so I’m hoping you’ll join me as we wrap up Paris. Speaking of wrapping… the letter subscription and note cards make nice pressies for your Paris loving pals. Find out more in the shop.

I just recently discovered the word Listicles. Isn’t that the funniest word ever? It refers to articles that are really lists… Top 10 This and Top 10 That. It got me wondering about which of my Paris Letters is are the top sellers. Turns out, there are clear winners according to you, dear reader. And because my Etsy shop stats are easy to navigate, I thought I would present the top 12 Paris Letters. Voila!

And in more detail…

1. Montmartre. This sweet letter made it all the way to National Geographic Traveler. Way to go!

2. Les Deux Magots. Would this letter have been as popular without the weirdly named café? The answer is yes, because it is on a wonderful pedestrian-friendly corner and the light shines down mid morning in an oh-so-magical way. Plus they serve hot chocolate that is just as thick as Angelina’s. You heard it here folks. This letter is about famous writers who sat at the café. And yes, I sat at the café when writing this letter. But I’m not famous. I mean, a lot of people think I am, but not people who know me.

3. Hemingway’s Apartment. A lovely little side street and major thoroughfare of his book A Moveable Feast.

4. Bookstores and the Flâneur. Seems the books are a popular choice for letter readers everywhere. This is a letter about strolling around Paris and popping into bookstores.

5. Shakespeare & Company Café. This is a new-ish café next to the famous bookstore of the same name. And it’s packed. Decent coffee.

6. Eiffel Tower on Bastille Day. I think this is a popular one mostly because of our darling Eiffel Tower. This was the original sketch that I plopped on my book covers, too.

7. When the Seine Floods. It floods all the time. Makes fun headlines. And media-induced panic. Most residents doesn’t worry too much about it unless the tops of the bridges start getting wet.

8. Notre Dame in Spring. Featuring our darling spires that went up in flames this year. I wrote this a few years before the event.

9. Carousels & New Year’s Traditions. Paris parks a bunch of carousels around the city for the season. They were creating InstaShooting long before Instagram.

10. Zelda & F. Scott Fitzgerald. Ah yes our fiery pair of literati. This is about the lovebirds sitting in Paris cafés and dreaming up articles and books. Right in many of same cafés that still grace Paris boulevards.

11. Paris Lamps and November. It is so flippin’ dark in Paris in November. It feels like the sun goes down by 3 pm. Maybe this isn’t true, but it sure feels like it. The bright side is that the lamps glitter up the streets… pun intended.

12. Christmas Markets.I think Christmas markets hypnotize a person into buying things they don’t need… goopy melted cheese things, itchy mittens and scarves, boxes of stale chocolate. But like a moth to a flame… I cannot… help…. myself.

If you want to buy them for you or a friend. I made a bundle over at my shop. Sent flat in one package and personalized to the receiver to make it easy for gift giving under the tree. And that’s not all…

The Silver Collection is the 12 second place winners (so 13-24) Many of these haven’t been out as long as the Gold winners, so haven’t earned their online street cred yet.

I almost called the Bronze Collection the Artist’s Choice Collection because these newer letters have a bit more experience behind them. And I have a soft spot for Bronze, since Canada wins so many of them. *happy face sad face*

The holidays hath begun. Let the listicles commence! Get your Top 12 Paris Letters over at the shop.

I could design note cards all day long. It is my absolute new preferred activity when I’m in my rabbit hole that is my office… or is it a studio? Calling it a studio makes it seem like there are walls of supplies artfully displayed and yet totally handy:

Source: Design Sponge

Or a massive island in the middle where I cut things with fancy cutting boards, and of course light flowing in from a massive window:

Source: Apartment Therapy

Or even good posture when painting, like this girl:

Source: Christine Moore Photography

None of this is true. My office is a room in the basement where I pay bills, guests sleep, printers beep, boxes are piled as neatly and as out of the way as possible, and yes, where note cards are designed. There is a small window that I could crawl out of in case of emergency. My office is NOT Pinterest worthy. Nor is it even blog worthy. But it works.

I was researching Paris hotels for a little something I’m writing. I came across The Eiffel Writer’s Suite at the Lutetia.

At over 2000 Euros a night, I’m not sure many writers are writing here. I’m not sure I’d even want to, but it would have probably been warmer than the place where I actually did write books and letters. Voila… a glimpse at me writing in my Paris studio: (Kristin Lau Photographer) 

My “studio” was also my kitchen counter.

I’d have to pull out everything, write, and put everything back in a box that I stored on the shelf under the TV.

Then we would eat. Then clean. Then I’d pull out my box and begin again.

Box contents.

And art supplies artfully displayed. *snort giggle*

At least the books were artfully displayed.

I was so… flippin… cold when writing my book. I’d have to write, then go out to a café and warm up, write a little there in my journal, then come home and type up what I’d written. I wasn’t one of those who took their laptop to the café in Paris. It’s done, I suppose, but it’s not as prevalent as in other countries. Nor it is very safe to whip out your laptop in Paris. But I didn’t mind this type-walk-write-type routine because Christophe worked just up the street so we would have a mini summit. Usually we talked about food… and when he’d be home so I could clean up my writerly mess.

And it was a very nice day when I brought him the book for the first time. You can find out where to get it here.

Since then, I’ve had another book and a side gig of creating note cards along side the original side gigs of creating Paris Letters and writing books. The October 2019 letter is about Fashion Week, which happened earlier in the month.

It’s mostly about the fashion show on the street outside the actually fashion show. One word: Tentacles. Subscribe at my shop to get fun letters like this sent to you every month. I’ve also listed the new set of Paris street note cards.

They are, once again, brought to you with a rainbow of envelopes because I’m so in love with the hues. Plus I think there is a nice pop of vibrant WOW when it arrives in the mail with all the other boring white envelopes. Makes a nice pressie along with the other Paris street note cards sets:

Get them and more over at my shop.

I realize that is a lot of note cards, but what can I say. I’ve got an inspiring studio.

It’s easy to let your day pivot around what you discover on Facebook Marketplace. You could be casually scrolling through photos of your friend’s dog, then happen to click on the Marketplace button and BOOM!

I found an estate sale that I HAD to see. Why? Because in the background of all the photos was an orange and green shag carpet.

And the wallpaper…

And the light sockets!

And paneling… holy moses was that ever a THING.

Two words: TIME CAPSULE

This house was decorated ONCE in the 60s. In the corner of the sewing room (!!) I found this:

The holy grail of vintage estate sale finds.

That’s a Woolco W, people. Prepare yourself for a flurry of vintage art, old fonts, and a lot of exclamation marks.

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There were plenty of Get Well cards. It was pointed out to me that people don’t generally send Get Well cards. That could explain why there were very few birthday cards. Oh the evolution of communication! (Thankfully we still have the exclamation mark!)

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The paper is just regular folded paper. Nary a 176g/m2 in the bunch… that’s tech talk for “card stock.”

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Wait for it…

A pop-up!

Oh PLEASE… Fine. I will. Since you said please.

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Get-Well… get it… well. WELL. 

Exclamation.

A scalloped edge… nice touch. 

You!

Another PLEASE.

PLEASE!!!!

WELL!

DAY! I feel yelled at after reading these all in a row. 

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I don’t think “Some things are here to stay.”

Soon!

But only a “GET-WELL” wish in quotations. Thanks for nothing.

–

“Perky”

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You… Random Caps Are Always A Little Weird.

For FRIENDSHIP’S Sake!

!

Nothing says congrats like this still life. –

Nothing says love the idea of the husband rooting around in her greeting cards to find a note for her.

That was a dollar well spent. As for me and my letters… the October Paris Letter is out the door. I just LOVE October. So much so that I made a personalized version of one of the autumn note cards. It’s avails at the shop! (Exclamation!!!!!)

I think I had too much coffee. Or too many well-wishes.

If the beginning of September is all about going back to school, the end of September is about putting away summer. I’ve swept out the last of the beach sand, the pool toys are now spider hotels in the garage, and I spent all week CANNING. I know. Who is this stock piling freak before you and what has she done with Janice “the one suitcase” nomad? Well, I blame a love of salsa and a gift for growing tomatoes. I’m not going to show you photos. It seems all we do these days is Grow the Thing, then Share the Thing on Social Media. I can tell you one thing. I’m glad tomato season is over. I popped the final lid on the jar, ripped out the last of the greens, and put the garden to bed for the season. Everyone is getting salsa in their stocking.

All that red tomato action in my kitchen got me thinking about Paris and Métro signs, those exquisite rouge beacons that seem to say “Come here and let me take you. Your feet seem tired.” Feet always seem tired in Paris. I haven’t gone a day in Paris when I didn’t marvel at how feet can be so tired and sore at the end of a day, then be completely healed and ready to spring into action the next day. Feet are miracles. And after my canning episode, my feet felt like they had traipsed clear across Paris instead of the reality of pivoting back and forth between counter and stove.

There are over 300 Métro stations in Paris so wherever you are, chances are, you’re near a station. After a quick scan of my photo library, I came across just a few signs. There are oh so many.

Typique.

Same but different shades of green. Why? Qui sait.

This was taken from inside a bus. I was more excited about the Pret a Manger in the background. The chocolate mousse is sublime.

Straight and skinny.

Voluptuous at night.

A feast of taupes by day.

I love the swirls so much on this one that I sketched it out with my new fountain pen.

And then added THAT to the September Paris Letter, now in the shop. This letter is about a nice moment on the Métro, parenting in Paris, and how the whole city seems to bow before you when you’ve got a kid along. People that once brazenly stepped in front of you in line must now insist that you go ahead in line. It’s the Paris you only wished for in your wildest dreams.

I’ve also popped a few more note card sets in the shop. If I could spend all day in my studio designing note cards, I would. And since the Paris Letters are ending in 15 letters, I might just do that. Qui sait.

A little known thing about writers. We LOVE naming things. We name book titles, animals, and fictional characters constantly. Since I’ve been making note cards, I’ve been adding all my fictional characters. This one is Lester Sinclair… how debonaire. He has great hair and looks good in a suit but he’s a complete disaster with talking to the ladies.

All orders between now and September 30th will include a free card featuring this lovely vintage typewriter. Yours will not say Lester Sinclair… unless that is, in fact, your name, which would be wild. Order at the shop.

I thought I’d write a finance book. A smart little read about saving and making money. *How-To. Clears throat. Straightens tie.* I began in earnest and soon had enough of an outline to know where I was going with it. The problem was, I never wanted to talk about it with anyone. It’s not that it was such a super terrific idea that I wanted to keep it all to myself. Sometimes that happens and it’s nice to mull enthusiastically to self, to cradle an idea until you’re certain about what you’re creating. But that’s not what this was. I didn’t want to share my book idea because to do so made me tired. Meh. Finance book. Who cares.

What I wanted to talk about was my new life in Paris. See, I had saved up enough cash to quit my job and travel. I landed in Paris and stayed to investigate a smouldering look I was getting from a butcher across the street. THAT story had energy. THAT story was what I wanted to talk about with anyone who would listen (my blog readers, mostly). I pondered what the most delightful first line of a book written by me might be. “We met in a café in Paris.” So that’s where my story began, when I met the lovely Christophe at a café in Paris, across from that butcher shop.

I scrapped the finance book and wrote about life in Paris and how I got there. Of course, how I got there had a lot to do with saving up and making the money to buy myself a few years of travel, so I sprinkled those tidbits in the book. A light dusting. I added a fun story of how I painted pictures on letters I mailed out to friends, and eventually to those who subscribed on my Etsy shop. Then I’d go out in the day and discover a little bookshop, overhear an interesting conversation, taste a new cheese or wine or dish. I’d return and weave it all into Janice’s Fun Book About Fun Paris Things, People And Events As Told Through Letters To Her Friends. That long title evolved into a much shorter title: Letters from Paris. But even that wasn’t great. I didn’t like the “from.” It felt flat on the tongue and tiresome like the finance book. I asked myself again: If I were going to give this book any title I wanted, what would it be? Paris Letters. Simple. Easy to spell. Not a mouthful. Fun.

Writing this book for fun, in the end, inspired a lot of people to save up cash and fund their own dreams. So I suppose I wrote a sort of finance book, but with Paris as a backdrop, a lovely opening line, a sweet romance, and a title that still makes me smile whenever I say it.
***

We think we have to help the world by writing important works. I think we should just write the most fun book we can. The book that entertains, marvels, and delights the very first reader: The author.
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Buy the book and/or buy the letters. 
***

PS My Comments section is still in retrograde. Join the conversation at my Facebook author page .

“But when fall comes, kicking summer out on its treacherous ass as it always does one day sometime after the midpoint of September, it stays awhile like an old friend that you have missed. It settles in the way an old friend will settle into your favorite chair and take out his pipe and light it and then fill the afternoon with stories of places he has been and things he has done since last he saw you.” Stephen King, Salem’s Lot

This quote seems innocent enough until you see that it’s from a Stephen King novel. Then you wonder if the visitor will do something sinister after dark.

Anyhoo. September. There are those of us who think one of the best parts of summer is September. I know. Surprising. But we’re out there. If September was a drink, it would be rosé. If September was clothes, it would be corduroys. Brown and noisy. If September were a wall hanging, it would be a macrame owl. If September were a spice, it would be cinnamon. If it were an act, it would be to grab another blanket. And if it were an office supply, it would be a freshly unpacked notepad. If it was a hotel, it would be The June Motel in Prince Edward County, a simple roadside stop that was renovated to become a chic pink paradise for weekend getaways from Toronto:The light seems to always be at that pre-dusk angle, making everyone look fantastic. The back story on The June Hotel… it was a tired old roadside stop, then two women waltzed in and committed to fixing it up to become a pink-gold 1950s retro motor lodge and BAM! Beautiful old ruin gets a facelift. Read more here. 

So taken as I was by their pretty aesthetic, that I created some pink, feminine personalized note cards for the shop.

Why did personalized note cards take so long? It seems so obvious now. I have so many personalized note card designs in the hopper, and thanks to the glories of my brain coming back after cancer treatments combined with the delights of daycare, I can now pursue these passions. Holy Toledo what fun I’m having.Get them over in the shop. More to come so check back often. I’ll leave you with this September thought:

 

“Don’t you love New York in the fall? It makes me wanna buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address.” You’ve Got Mail

PS I’m in the process of disabling the Comments section. It has been too problematic. Having to prove you’re not a robot (You are not). CAPCHAs not working. Me deleting spam. Most of the action will henceforth take place over at my Facebook author page . Head over there for fun good conversations.

The August Paris Letter is all about Paris flea markets. The atlas shown above is a flea market find. Inside there are secret notes: “Peggy loves Ray” scratched out to say “Peggy loves Lenny” scratched out to say “Peggy loves Pete.” I wonder if she ended up with Pete, and if so, did the romance last as long as the atlas. The thank you card in the photo is my latest creation over at the shop. A friend needed thank you cards. I whipped this one up based on another card I created with this gorgeous balloon. A vintage image from another flea market find. Using these finds in my studio is complete bliss.

Why have I not been doing thank you cards all along? I noticed Etsy is packed with cards, but not a lot of folded cards. I like a folded card. I’ve got things to say that require the extra panel. Plus, I like getting all I can out of the cost of the stamp. These cards are in the shop for your perusing pleasure.

In looking for… who knows what… I came across a few flea market photos.

This lady’s portrait was for sale in a frame AND on matches. Remember those days?

Keys and key chains. Somehow I think the big keys on the left did not originally go with the key chains on the right.

Books books books. Always a lot of books at these Paris flea markets. Sadly most of them are in French, but I still dig around for something with pretty pictures that I can gaze at lovingly later.

This is also how I look when I’m at a flea market:

Prowling around looking for something je ne sais quoi.

If you look closely, there are two mini elephants on a mini pillow. What? Why? WHY does this happen?

Feathers. Always plenty of feathers at a Paris flea market. To Moulin-Rouge your slinky outfits.

Normally, I don’t post the content of the Paris Letters, but if you’ve made it this far… all the way through that little flea market tour, perhaps you’d like to read more. I’ve started posting the content of the letters on my site. I’m hoping to post them all by the end of summer. Or autumn. Or 2019.

Dear Aine,

I love a Paris flea market. It’s an outdoor museum of the culture. In Paris flea markets, you’ll always find ornate cutlery, feathers, and books. You will also, inevitably, come across a booth that is absolutely 100% off the mark. And that booth is usually filled with Buddha statues. I imagine the hierarchy of steps that led to the creation of this booth. First, our salesman travels abroad and falls in love with the local souvenir. In Paris, this is the Eiffel Tower keychain until you see it everywhere. Then the spell is broken and you buy yourself a scarf instead. But our salesman falls in love with the Buddha statues, and the low price, especially when converting into Euros. He fills his bags and dreams of the profits to be had in Paris. He invests in his table, tent, and permit; small expenses when he’s already mentally rolling in dough. Locals have NO IDEA how cheap these Buddha statues are in the foreign land and currency. He sets out his wares and stands back, preparing for the buzz. Instead, he gets silence and bored glances by passersby who can’t even be bothered to step inside the booth. Next door is a vintage sunglasses salesman who doesn’t even need to haggle. People are lapping up his offerings, giggling int he wee mirrors he has slapped up around his booth. A selfie station. It dawns on our entrepreneurial salesman that he has committed a pricey faux pas.

– Janice

On the back of my Paris Letters, I usually include a quote from some literary text that relates somehow. I think of it as a bow. A nice little “ahhhh” after reading the letter. A literary P.S. if you will. This one is from Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman, which is a completely wonderful book.

Click on the image to purchase if you’re so inclined.

“I imagine a hierarchy of happiness; first purchased in the 1970s, a couple would sit here, dining on meals cooked from brand-new recipe books, eating and drinking from wedding china like proper grown-ups. They’d move to the suburbs after a couple of years; the table, too small to accommodate their growing family, passes on to a cousin newly graduated and furnishing his first flat on a budget. After a few years, he moves in with his partner and rents the place out. For a decade, tenants eat here, a whole procession of them, young people mainly, sad and happy, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends, lovers. They’d serve fast food here to fill a gap, or five stylish courses to seduce, carbohydrates before a run and chocolate pudding for broken hearts. Eventually, the cousin sells up and the house clearance people take the table away. It languishes in a warehouse, spiders spinning silk inside its unfashionable rounded corners, bluebottles laying eggs in the rough splinters. It’s given to another charity. They gave it to me, unloved, unwanted, irreparably damaged. Also the table.”

If you would like this letter addressed and mailed to you, visit my shop. It also makes a great gift for flea marketing friends.

I have finally fulfilled a philatelic fantasy. I created a new notecard series inspired by my favorite thing: French stamps.

Get ’em in my shop. Free shipping forevah.

As you likely know, each month I send out a new Paris Letter… an illustrated little ditty about life in Paris. For a handful of people, I add a special note. It’s nice to send a letter to your pals and include a little something extra. Each month I think, Gosh I wish I had a new fun notecard every month to write my little messages. Well here we are.

Also in the shop, for the sailors among us.

If cancer teaches you anything, it’s that you can’t wait for things to happen.

Also, you guessed it, in the shop.

Cancer has also taught me that many survivors proceed to live life as if they were in a video game. You feel like you’re being chased by wolves and you have to collect all the coins and tokens. One such token is tackling the list of unfinished business. No going back to get it later. No time! And for me, one token was to make a note card series inspired by French stamps. It’s a little thing but oh so satisfying.

Get them all together or separately, say if you’re more of a balloon person than a car person.

These, of course, are not the original stamps. I think technically you can actually make notecards from stamps of a certain age without getting into legal hot water, but my creations have a more modern twist. They are inspired by a series of stamps from the French postal service called Journée du Timbres. Basically, the story of stamps.

Gotta get those bills to the people, otherwise they’d never get their visa dossiers approved.

The visa office in France will not even look at you if you don’t have your name on an electric bill. This sweet bicyclist is smoking a pipe and delivering “les facteur” for the people. This stamp commemorates improved postal services for the rural communities of France. I love that they included the pipe. This was deliberate to “illustrate the original, human character of the rural mailman” and that he is “a man of the earth.”

This is another of the same series. Before our bicyclist was delivering mail, you could see this guy coming with his top hat and blue jacket. He was often the only link to the outside world and was therefore always welcome to rest and warm up along his route during bad weather.

The army delivering mail during World War I. No spy activity there. *smirk*

This stamp honors the Roman roads that advanced postal delivery. Side note: My street in Paris, rue Mouffetard, is part of the original Roman road into Paris. The road is still there underneath the current layer. You can see the actual Roman road through a glass wall in the Métro at Place d’Italie. A side note on the side note: Place d’Italie Métro is also close to the sewer system, so it can get stinky. Best to walk fast. A side note on the side note on the side note: You can take tours of the Paris sewer system, which was so highly advanced back in day that royalty from other countries came for tours and to implement similar strategies back home. These royals also adopted many aspects of the advanced French postal system.

Oh how I wish the Omni bus was still in action in Paris. The top would be filled with photo-taking bloggers, bien sur.

You can often find me here, sifting through dusty old papers and stamps. Bliss!

Order this new notecard set in shop:

Each morning I walk out to my cherry trees and CLAP CLAP CLAP. Birds scatter after feasting on my cherries. They tend to eat all the cherries that are one day from perfection, beating me to the punch by 24 hours. Enough was enough. A tall friend came by, climbed up the ladder and harvested what was left. CLAP CLAP CLAP.

Yield: 2 jars of compote from 2 large cherry trees.

So I went to the cherry farm nearby and bought more. Then made a pie and sat outside to eat it in front of the birds. Take THAT.

Even though yields were down, the cherry trees are a delight. They blossoms in spring, follow with fruit in early summer, and provide shade for the rest of the summer. CLAP CLAP CLAP.

Before I mashed my bowl of cherries, I made a painterly study of them.

I added radishes, which I’m glad to report, birds don’t like to eat.

And strawberries, which the birds ate before I could even get a photo. This berry is from the farm nearby:

I popped the trio in the shop, which now features FREE shipping FOREVER on EVERYTHING.

It is nice to be hanging out in Norfolk County in Canada. It is called “Ontario’s Garden,” and it really is living up to its tagline. I moved away when I went to university and never fully moved back until now. Back then I was more interested in socializing with my friends to care about the charms of Pick Your Own Strawberry signs. Plus, I didn’t have wheels or money for any of it. Even last year when I was here, I was too tired with chemo treatments to venture far. But now I’m back, baby, full head of curls, a few scars, wheels, time and energy.

Bring on the berries.

I don’t even dare tell you what I spent on strawberries for fear that my husband will read this. But he likes the jam. He also likes the pie I made yesterday so I’m not telling you how much those cost either. It’s not that either of these fruits is expensive, per se. It’s more about volume. So. Many. Berries.

As I was pitting cherries yesterday, feeling the breeze from the lake waft in, I was thinking about how much fun I was having. Pitting cherries! It was a delight. I suppose the birds did me a solid by eating most of my harvest. I might not think it so fun if I had thousands of cherries to pit. As I was pitting said cherries, I was pondering how we don’t make much time for fun these days. We buy things for fun but we don’t use them. Instead we buy more storage solutions to house the fun things. I’ve been really concentrating on not buying for fun but instead playing with what I’ve already purchased. (Flats of fruits aside.) Lucky for me, I’ve got a great teacher who knows how to have fun:

Yes she’s dressed as Santa’s Little Helper, and yes it’s July. But it still fits… in all the ways. Today we went to the cemetery and had the best time. We weren’t there to visit anyone. It’s just a nice shady place to go for a walk. We came across a baby bird who was as curious about Amélie as Amélie was about her. So I softened my stance on birds. They aren’t all cherry hungry scallywags. Back in Paris, I visited the cemeteries in summer because they had the most shade. This of course, is said to change. Paris is planning to plant more trees to keep the city cool as world temperature rises. It can’t come fast enough.

Speaking of heat, I sent out the July Paris Letter. The original art is also listed in the shop:

I spotted an art student drawing this lamp once. It was so good.

A very nice shady day activity.

If you haven’t received your Paris Letter yet, the post office tells me it’s due to holidays in July. If you’d like one, go here. Speaking of, I believe the Paris Letters will end with the December 2020 letter. That means a countdown hath begun. 18 letters remain. This is not a decision I’ve come to lightly. Last year, when I was diagnosed with cancer, before I knew exactly what was where, I quietly unlisted my 12 month subscription just in case I… gulp… died. But after the scans and tests, and the discovery that the chemo was working very well, I decided to relist the 12 month subscription. (I also had a renewed vigor to outlive my enemies, but that’s another story.) I never mentioned this slight, silent move. Not to anybody. Not even Christophe. Not even to my mom. A year later with all that behind me, I can make a sound decision and plan based on something other than… death. I’ve got another 18 letters in the hopper. It’s going to be a great time, and ending the series will open up time and energy for another project. I’m thinking by then it might be time for another book.

So if you’d like to subscribe, allez to the shop. There is a special link for 18 monthers, only until the end of July.