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25 Thirsty Pigs Phoned Dad. It was half past midnight in b.c. I got the answering machine on the first try and asked the operator to try again. The line was busy. The operator tried a third time and Dad answered on the first ring in that fuzzy sleep-induced voice we all have when woken from a deep sleep. Robin and Scott, my brothers, were up for Easter, so we all got to talk for a few minutes. Mom was doing better. She was still in the hospital, but putting weight back on after not keeping anything down for a month. When Madeleine found out my Mom had breast cancer, she told us her parents had been asphyxiated in their sleep by a malfunctioning petroleum space heater one cold January night thirty years ago. At the time, Madeleine had been seven months pregnant with her daughter Sylvie. Her parents had been helping take care of her three year old son Jean-Jac. He usually slept there, but on that fateful night, for some reason Madeleine had him with her. Understandably, Madeleine was heart-broken over her parents untimely demise. But her husband couldn't fathom her severe emotional distress. She could never forgive him for his callousness and they divorced shortly after. She raised Sylvie and Jean-Jac on her own. "Tres difficile," she said, remembering the long hard years while wiping a tear away with one hand. I stayed around the house, reading and basking in a sunbeam on the verandah like a Cheshire cat. Sharon and Madeleine went to the busy market. The employee, as Madeleine called the worker doing her bathroom, left suddenly sometime before lunch without saying good-bye. Madeleine had wanted to check to make sure he had enough tiles to finish the tub enclosure. When he returned we discovered he had rushed off because he got a piece of ceramic tile in his eye while cutting the pieces for the corner. For some reason the tiles were not entirely flat and their wavy blue appearance resembled a storm tossed sea. It made an enchanting effect around the wash basin. Sharon and Madeleine went to get more tiles from a little place outside Draguignan. Sharon returned ill from the curvy mountain roads. Being in the washroom didn't help; it only made her seasick. Madeleine's married name had been Grosstete (big head). I could understand why she went back to her maiden name. Although, in France, when someone had a swollen ego they didn't say anything about a "big head." Instead, they whistled and expanded their hands outward from their ankles--fat ankles! Too funny!. Only the French would think that up! They had another saying: If you drink too much water you will get pigs in your stomach. Where did they come up with these gems? Supposedly they found that hilarious. As I poured myself another glass of water I told Madeleine: "My pigs are thirsty." She nearly rolled on the floor with laughter. Their humour was different all right. The scary thing was I was beginning to think some of it was funny. When I watched television at Christmas I thought their gags were vile, crude, nasty, impolite or silly at best. I watched tv at Madeleine's and laughed at a couple of skits. The host was singing some satirical song about the election--that I couldn't comprehend--while people walked along a make-believe street in the background. One woman turned up her foot and looked at the sole of her shoe. With all the dogs in France I had found that to be a common occurrence. On the return pass she held her nose. Then she was mugged and her purse was stolen. Funny, or what? What did the Frenchman say when he came home and found his wife in bed with three men? Allô! Allô! Allô! Instead of making new words, the French took already established words and combined them to make new meanings. I thought some of their combinations produced strange results. Take the word "driving," for example. Instead of making up a new word to describe driving a car, the French said "promenade la voiture." It translated literally to "walking the car." My mind conjured a totally different image than "driving" did. The wind was howling outside and we could hear the tree branches flailing. The glass door was shaking as if being beaten by the wind. Frappe la port. About to unplug the phone to plug in the Minitel (a computer from the phone company used to access phone numbers and addresses for everyone in France, as well as lotto numbers and daily horoscopes) the phone rang. Mom was calling from the hospital. She sounded well and kidded me about my French accent. Her next chemo treatment was in a couple of days. "I have an envious collection of hats to cover my bald head." Her latest acquisition had been from Scott: a jester's hat. Our prayers were with her. I hoped she would get well soon. We talked about everything including Mom's favourite foods: bean salad, black currant jam, and home canned bread and butter pickles. Sharon said she would be up in a moment if I said I wanted some bean salad. When I told her I had mailed my journal to her she said: "I'm dying to read it," then quickly clarified, "I mean, looking forward." Old sayings died hard, so to speak. After I hung up, I told Madeleine that Mom's maiden name was Boulet. Madeleine used the Minitel to do a name search for Boulets in the area, coming up with forty responses. "Can you swim?" Madeleine asked. "Why?" "Because your relatives at these addresses will have pools." Then we checked the lotto and found Madeleine still had to go to work on Monday. We tried the life length program. The cartoons were different. One had people praying to a giant condom. |
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