Coucoumellisms

Grief comes in waves, like the ocean slapping up on the shore.  It hits you when you don't expect it. I look at the photo where we are together, and sometimes all I feel is a dull ache, and other times, sadness hits me with sudden, overwhelming pain. I am not sure why our friendship is dead, just that it is, and that you seem to want it that way. I know our friendship centered around one particular activity that you have suddenly, without warning, given up, but for me, it was more than just that activity, we talked about so many other things as well. I am still not sure how we went from being "a team that could be the bomb" (your words, not mine) and three short days later, you stopped talking to me.  We used to talk to each other almost every day, even if it was only a few short lines.  We had projects together, we saw each other frequently.  And suddenly, overnight, without warning, you disappeared. It hurts, like someone took a big chunk of my soul an...

The following is a list of questions to be asked (without prompting) to each of my children, with the answers of each of my children, written EXACTLY as they said it. Some of these are quite astute, and others are just... funny... This was done December 24, 2016.  Jean-Alexandre was 22, Dominic was 18, Maryssa was 16, Raven was 15, Gabriel was 14 and Nicolas was 11. 1. What is something I say a lot? Jean-Alexandre: "I don't know, shuliyan." Dominic: "I don't know... LET GO OF ME!!" Maryssa: "What?!" Raven: "Vamonos" Gabriel: "Let go of me" Nicolas: "Go to bed" 2. What makes me happy? Jean-Alexandre: "I don't know, books" Dominic: "Uh... (thinking...) coffee..." Maryssa: "Books" Raven: "Soccer, a clean house, books" Gabriel: "Nothing" Nicolas: "Hugs!!" (hugs me) 3. What makes me sad? Jean-Alexandre: "I don't know, bad s...

What do you get when a white family moves north to live among the Cree? Dad grew up a pioneer in what was still a sparsely-settled province of Alberta. Mom grew up on a farm in New Brunswick that had been in the family for generations. Dad was a Catholic French-Canadian, whose family had been in Québec for centuries. Mom was an English speaking Anglican of Scottish and Loyalist descent who lived in an area where people were suspicious of French-speaking people. Dad liked the outdoors, hunting, snaring, trapping and camping. Mom was afraid of horses, so she rode the bony backs of cows home instead. Dad on the right, on a hunting trip What do you get when you put the two of them together? Besides a Dad who knows the name of just about every fruit-bearing tree and potato plant available in North America; a mother able to tell the difference between McIntosh, Empire, Spartan and Cortland apples (as well as a few different breeds of cow); Midnight mass at Christmas complete ...

I was given these questions to answer, some of which I answered rather briefly, as I'm not sure what anyone expected to learn from me, I am neither an expert nor very professional in the way I keep up my home, but I thought I'd post my answers here anyway.  I did try to be, if nothing else, honest. Check out From Chore to Job , where housework is taken seriously. Do you see the domestic care of the home as a profession, and if so, how does one make it "professional"? I see domestic care of the home not so much as a profession as a vocation.  Even then, it all depends on what we really mean by domestic care of the home.  If by that, we mean caring for our family and making it a good place to be, then it is a vocation.  If by that we mean keeping it neat and tidy and perfect-looking, then it is a chore. I am not professional in any sense of the word when it comes to my home.  I am disorganized and somewhat inconsistent.  The only re...

I entered the dark, empty chapel this evening and instantly I felt HIS presence.  That presence that makes you want to go down on one knee and stay there. I found my way to a bench and knelt there and prayed.  I could have stayed there for hours, in the calm and silence, with God. Something has snapped inside of me.  I think a ball has been set into motion.  I see seemingly totally unrelated events suddenly coming together.  I'm not sure what direction the ball is rolling in, but of this I am certain, something is going to change. For the first time, I have seriously considered the unthinkable, and what I thought unthinkable suddenly seems not only possible but perhaps part of God's plan.  That remains to be seen.  I do know this, in order to keep the ball rolling, there are two tasks I must accomplish first.  One of them is to send my book to publishers.  The other is to find a spiritual director. Oh God, it was so good to be in Yo...

So, my husband went to go play volleyball and took the three youngest hobbits with him yesterday evening, and I went and drank 1/2 a glass of Chartreuse, and proceeded to sing loudly along to drunken Irish, American and Canadian songs on YouTube   Then I finished the bottle, managed to get myself plastered, and started a conversation with a friend in which he found me very funny and through which I giggled and snorted at myself (it was not pretty) the whole way through because I could not spell anymore and I had suddenly become dyslexic.  I temporarily could not find my Hotmail, which I found extremely funny (even though it is right there on the bookmarks bar at the top of my screen). I sent my friend my book that I just finished, and amazingly, this morning I still do not quite regret having done so, although perhaps I may yet.  Oh those nasty monks...  (wink, wink)  (Oh my aching head) When my husband came home, I went to bed whereup...

I had a dream when I was young. I saw myself living a life, not quite so different from what it is on the outside, yet very different from what it is on the inside.  I had hopes and dreams for an inner, spiritual life.  I had a dream my life would be so different, not, as Fantine, from this hell I'm living, but from this desert I'm living. I could be bitter, but there are too many bitter and hurting people on this planet.  They didn't start out bitter.  I didn't start out bitter.  Too many people think God has given up on them, or don't believe in God anymore because what did He ever do for them? I think back to before I had any real regrets.  Who was I then?  What changed?  Why did it change? Things changed when I made a decision to do things my way. God did not abandon me.  I went my way.  I didn't leave him completely.  I just decided to do this one thing my way.  I made a wrong decision, and I suppose you coul...

Certain things happened at my part-time job which led me to seriously consider quitting.  It turns out that I did not have to quit, because I was fired instead, with no real explication why (although I have a few hunches).  I was more than happy to leave, it saved me the bother of going through agonizing weeks of " Do I continue and see if it gets better even though I don't foresee it getting better soon or do I quit now? " I suppose that this was God's not so gentle nudge out the door and through a new one.  This particular job experience gave me the desire to work for myself, at something I LIKE to do. For years now, people have been telling me I should make pinatas to sell.  So I decided I would start up my own business, making pinatas, painting pictures, and sewing things to sell. It took a while to finally come up with a logo that I liked, that looked professional. I wanted it to be something mushroom-y because the coucoumelle is a mushroom. I also wa...

... well sort of... I just kind of thought it really funny when, last night, after I scored two goals on a team we haven't really played before, suddenly they were all like:  "No! No! Stay on her!!"  And "Look, this is what she does... watch her..." Uh guys, as much as I enjoy being talked about like that, (it's good for the ego) I'm not really that good.  (Actually, the one you normally have to watch for is Jean-Alexandre, but he wasn't feeling all that good yesterday, so he didn't stand out much.  But he's the goal scorer.) The secret to my goal scoring (and to our team wins) is team work.  The rest of my team does all the work, while I stand somewhere near the net and wait for an opportunity.  Well okay, I do some work too, but seriously, I don't run as fast as the guys, so they still do more work than I do.  Also, we pass.  A lot.  Many of the other teams don't seem to have that connection, that pass-back-and-forth-all-the-t...

The traditional stockings picture The table - and my christmas log, which I actually managed to make look presentable!! The ones that made it all happen, (my sister and I) with the ones that made us want to scream... (we were a bit tired after making 15 pies, one cake, turkey, stuffing and trimming, roast beef... etc, etc...)  Note to self, DO NOT let Marc prepare the contents for chicken pot pie the evening before Christmas Eve ever again...  (Also, I really am going to have to try to bake as much as possible AHEAD of time...  We were almost too exhausted to enjoy anything!! The Christmas log, which was made for reveillon (Christmas Eve dinner) but which, on Christmas evening, has yet to be touched.  Noone's been hungry enough to eat it yet. Nicky fell asleep half-way through Dealing out gifts... :) family Brunch this... well, not morning... more like afternoon... with Rose Anne's baked Camembert

The Rules: Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen writers (poets included) who've influenced you and that will always stick with you. List the first fifteen you can recall in no more than fifteen minutes. Tag at least fifteen friends, including me, because I'm interested in seeing what authors my friends choose. (To do this, go to your Notes tab on your profile page, paste rules in a new note, cast your fifteen picks, and tag people in the note.) Cynthia Voigt JRR Tolkien CS Lewis Louisa May Alcott Laura Ingalls Wilder Gerard Manley Hopkins JK Rowling Lucy Maud Montgomery Bette Greene Hilda Stahl Thornton W. Burgess Johanna Spyri Farley Mowatt Peter Kreeft Charlotte Bronte There were others, whose stories I remember, but these were old books, that my mother had, hardcovers from the 30's and I don,t remember the titles nor the authors anymore, but the stories (although rather distant) remain with me, and some of the lessons learned as well... i...

Ou l’Expérience de Juana la Cubana (1) Écrit: le13 novembre 1993 (C'est un travail qui devait être fait dans le style d'un récit biblique et remis à l'accompagnateur/prêtre du groupe qui avait été au Paraguay.  Cela faisait parti de notre intégration au retour du Paraguay.) Édité: le 24 août 2010 La suite de l’Évangile… Jésus guérit une mère célibataire. La parole de Dieu fut adressée à Jeanne, fille de Jean-Nil, dans sa vingtième année sous la forme d’une parabole. C’était dans la neuvième année du règne de Brian Mulroney et elle se trouvait dans le ville de Québec, étudiant la théologie. L’Esprit lui dit : Voilà qu’un malheureux bédouin qui se plaignait de sa misère exceptionnelle, s’est mis en route à travers le monde pour voir, ce qui lui paraissait impossible, s’il existait au monde un plus pauvre que lui. Finalement en plein désert, il rencontre un vieillard tellement abandonné qu’il est ému de pitié devant ce dénuement incomparable. Il lui dit : « Tu es...

1.  Cheap cotton stretch shirts/dresses that look nice the first time you wear them, but totally loose their shape after one wash or two. 2.  Driving down the road, then slowing down gradually, putting the blinker on to turn, then having some idiot swerve around you honking like mad at you for slowing down to turn, as if you'd just suddenly slammed on the breaks with no indication whatsoever that you were going to turn.  Keep your eyes OPEN people!!!  Red break lights means the person in front of you is SLOWING DOWN.  A blinker blinking means they are TURNING.  Get it?  Got it?  GOOD!!! 3.  Trying to find shoes/sandals/footwear for feet that are probably a size 9 or so, but have toes so long they bring it to a size 11.  The arch is never in the right place, the toes are often squashed, and size 11 thongs have your toes overlapping the front, with about an inch of space in the back, because the thong isn't back far enough. Ther...

I was 18 when I arrived in Québec City, on my own.  Except for a four month stay in Timmins Ontario, I had never lived anywhere in my life (that I could remember) except for Moose Factory. Had I been going to live in India, or China, I might have expected different customs.  But I was just going to Québec City.  Other than the language barrier, how different could that be? Very different, as it would turn out. Moose Factory Island, Northern Ontario, James Bay Lowlands My sister's ex-boyfriend (a man from Gabon) went with her to visit Moose Factory once.  He was surprised to find that even in Canada, you could find the "third world". When I went to Paraguay, many mannerisms and customs (but not all) were so similar to those in Moose Factory, that I did not notice them until the people in the group I was with talked about how strange they were;  The way they would say, "Yeah, yeah, I'll be there." and then never show up;  The way meetings always ...

Just wanted to write this out, in story form, so I can use it later, if I ever need to write a scene in which someone gets hurt. Don't get me wrong.  I don't set out purposely to hurt myself, but hey, there is no point in not taking advantage of it when it does happen. Later, the scene would unfold in J's head, without her being quite able to pinpoint exactly how close she had been to the ball.  She had been running towards it, but couldn't remember being very close to it.  She must have been close enough though, because suddenly, out of nowhere, the goalie from the other team threw himself on it, right in front of her. One minute she was running, the next her belly was sliding over his back.  Her hands stretched in front of her, she intended to simply tuck her head in and roll. Her left hand struck the ground just before the right.  She must have been going too fast, because her elbow turned just slightly to the left.  She heard a crack.  Th...

So, it turns out that I have been walking around with a broken elbow for a week and a half after all. I went to see a doctor at a clinic Wednesday, because I needed one to fill in insurance papers so I could have physiotherapy if I needed it, and because the doctor at emergency said to consult if it was still hurting in a week.  (It was.) Given the bruising and tenderness, this doctor wanted me to get more x-rays done to make sure I did not have a fracture, because sometimes you can miss it.  So I did that Wednesday afternoon.  Thursday, she called to say that the radiologist could see no fracture but thought that there was one anyway because of all the liquid she could see in the articulation.  So I got an appointment in orthopedics this morning, where the doctor there confirmed that it was indeed a fracture, so no physiotherapy for another two weeks at least. No cast either.  I kind of feel cheated of all the sympathy a cast would have garnered for me,...

Be Not Afraid (Paperback) by Jeanne Chabot (Author) No customer reviews yet. Be the first. List Price: CDN$ 25.91 Price: CDN$ 16.32 & eligible for FREE Super Saver Shipping on orders over CDN$ 39. Details You Save: CDN$ 9.59 (37%) Temporarily out of stock. Order now and we'll deliver when available. We'll e-mail you with an estimated delivery date as soon as we have more information. Your account will only be charged when we ship the item. Ships from and sold by Amazon.ca. Gift-wrap available. http://www.amazon.ca/gp/product/1448929369/ref=cm_cr_rev_prod_title

I read through my book yesterday, and finished it this morning. Unfortunately, there were a number of typos, and other errors, including some formatting ones, especially near the end, that I did not catch, as well as at least one inconsistency. There are a few passages that I think could have either been written better or broken down. But it is too late now. An editor would have been nice, would have caught these things, but Publish America is, albeit a free one, still a self-publishing company, and does not offer much in the way of services, other than printing the book. It's too bad, because I think it is a decent book, and could have been better. Still, despite the few errors, it is not unreadable, nor incomprehensible like some of the books they publish must be. We (the authors) provide the book description as well as the author description for the back of the book, and I came across at least one in the Publish America Directory, that, in reading the back cover, I tho...

However, I cannot give up internet for Lent, as I did a few years back, in 2004. Too much important information is passed alone through e-mail. I wasn't the team manager for a soccer team back then, and in fact, none of my children were even in competitive soccer at all yet. Now I have four in competitive soccer. The writer in me is coming back to my blog, after a couple of years of neglect, this is one good thing that not going on facebook is giving me, the urge to write, no matter how mundane the subject, on my blog. Most of my writing or comments has been done on facebook in recent years. It's time to pay a little more attention to the poor neglected blog and other little writing projects. By the way, Facebook imports my blog posts, so while my posts may appear in my facebook notes, I am not actually writing them on facebook, and I will not see comments posted to them until Sunday.

I drove down the icy road this afternoon, past the snow-covered fields and realized, I love this season. I love the cold. I love the snow, I love the ice. I like to curl up in front of a blazing fire. I like to pad around the house in an extra sweater and slippers. I enjoy putting on a hat and scarf and warm gloves before I go out. I miss the land of the spruce trees that I grew up in. The countryside is beautiful here, but the land everywhere belongs to farmers or some other person. There is no free land left. I miss skating near the flats below my home. I miss sliding down the bank. I miss crossing a frozen river to a nearby island to cook hotdogs over a blazing fire. I miss the ski-doos. I miss tunnelling in the snow. You can take the girl out of the North, but you can't take the North out of the girl.