Hair on Fire

yes, life can be demanding for little girls…MIndigo

Drift of Bubbles

Anyone else ever have a spectacularly busy day?

It’s been one of those. ^_^  My day started at 6:00 a.m., got to work by 7:00 a.m.  And won’t be over until after my hair appointment, followed by music rehearsal (dinner has to be in there somewhere) and finally home at probably around 9:30 p.m.

But the rest of the week should be under control.

I hope.

Now, off I go!

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Egg or Porridge?

Folks:

Here is an anecdote from the 1st chapter of the memoir, when Mom was still quite little. Her adoptive mother had brought in a *French Governess* (named Marie Diane–and also frequently called Mamselle) to give Mom the advantages of culture at an early age. The only problem was that Marie Diane spoke no English, and Mom, of course, knew no French. Here is one result of the language barrier:

 After that, I didn’t see much of Mama; I was on my own with Marie Diane. We communicated in sign language at first, but somehow I always seemed to know what she was talking about, and gradually I learned to understand her words and even to repeat after her during our meals in my room, served on the table with folding legs. If I wanted the butter, I had to call it le beurre, or she wouldn’t hand it to me. I learned that gentil meant nice, and that if I flushed my panties down the toilet, I was méchant.

I also learned some tricks. Once, I told Mama that I didn’t get porridge for breakfast any more; I only got a plain old egg in a shell, and Mamselle chopped off the top with her knife and made me eat it out of the shell with a little spoon.

Mama said, “Well, I never!” and turning to face Marie Diane so she could read her lips, said carefully and slowly, “In America, we cook our eggs before we eat them.”

“Mais, bien sur! (But of course!)” Mamselle replied, leading Mama by the arm to the kitchen. She got hold of the hourglass egg-timer, and, turning it up and down furiously, insisted, “Trois minutes! Ni plus, ni moins! (Three minutes! Neither more nor less!)” Mama looked to Anna, our Swedish cook, for help with translating, but Anna only put her arms around my shoulders and said, “I donna understand her neither.”

“I want porridge with syrup for breakfast!” I wailed, pressing my advantage.

Faced with the insurmountable barrier of language, Mama capitulated, and after that I got to eat breakfast in the kitchen so that Anna could supervise. It remains a remarkable fact that, while Mamselle and I slowly learned each other’s language, Mama never picked up a word of French.