Friday, November 2, 2012
Only last night at a dinner party with some old friends, my friend Beatrice told me how, when at 17 her mom (following a divorce from her husgand, Bea’s father, quickly decided to move the three of them, Bea, Marjorie, and herself, to France, to the house where her mom’s family had lived for four generations (late 1880s) she woke one night, unhappy to have been snatched from her California life, and sulking, though she loved her grandparents. In her room a party was going on, and she felt kisses on her face. Waking, she realized it was all her family who had died, all welcoming her to this house in the French countryside, all so happy she had come, and welcoming her as one of them. From then on, she loved the house, the area, the new life.