A list of special words

In Gaspésie, hay was baled at the end of June or early July. The year I was 7, I helped Grandpa Frédéric gather the cut hay. Haying season marked the start of summer vacation for me. Grandpa directed the operations. The morning of the harvest, the field was split between the different workers, and cousin George was always the first one to start. I’d been posted near the massive barrow to gather up the hay that fell onto the ground and put it back in to be baled. One of the workers would come along, grab the bale and throw it high atop a large wagon. Holding a heavy wooden rake with missing teeth in my small hands, I slowly followed the moving convoy. The repetitive labour was lightened by the sight of cousin George from afar, who made my young heart swirl like a twig carried away by strong winds. Each year, Grandpa made sure to have enough manpower on hand to get the job done on time. Once the hay was cut and dried, he needed two men to rake, one to load the barrow, a third to bale the hay and a fourth to drive the tractor. Fortunately, the harvest was enough to sustain a single large family. Cousin George had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and his pale torso, visible under the thin fabric of his tank top, rippled in the sun. His long arms swung rhythmically, his broad hands holding a scythe, his hair was covered in golden flecks of hay and his eyes were as blue as the ocean. Mesmerized, I kept my eyes fixed on him from where I was standing. The wind conspired to carry his enigmatic scent towards me. The sun beat down on us that day. Glancing at him for the hundredth time, I noticed that his large shoulders and now bare chest were wet from the sweat falling from his curly blond locks. He was so fetching right then! According to Grandpa Frédéric, cousin George was the best reaper in the township. It helped that he had a good scythe, which he only used when there was no risk of encountering stones. When the church’s bell sounded in the distance at noon, the men had already put in five or six hours of good work. Aunt Hope arrived with her wide-brimmed straw hat and a big basket filled with food. She’d make her way to the nearest shady spot and laid down two large, checked tablecloths. Then she’d call out my name to come help her butter the homemade bread. Each worker got a generous portion of baked beans topped with a thick slice of ham. Then Aunt Hope would open the coffee thermoses and take out the region’s famous molasses cookies from a tin box. Having quickly consumed the sweets, the workers moved a bit further under the trees to take a short, well-deserved nap. Meanwhile, Aunt Hope and I put away the leftover food, the tablecloths and the empty thermoses. Laying in the shade under yellow birch trees, cousin George chewed away on a skinny twig. He’d rolled up his tank top into a ball to use as a makeshift pillow. I watched him from a distance. I heard my heart beating as loud as a horse’s hooves on asphalt. I was distraught; I didn’t know how to act or what to say. His naked chest clinging to the ground, his tanned arms, his half-closed eyes… Was he dreaming? How old was he? Where did he come from? In the village, gossip about whether Aunt Hope was his mother or grandmother travelled on the foam of the waves. I never did find out the answer. Today, cousin George, you’ve resurfaced in my memory 70 years later. Is it to pay tribute to this first childish love that you lit in me? It was 1954, while we were harvesting hay with Grandpa Frédéric. Your young good looks made my heart race that summer for the very first time. Unversed in love, I felt its power to hurt. It wasn’t your fault, of course. We hadn’t even exchanged a single word! My young imagination created this infatuation out of nothing, just like the Christmas gifts I hoped for that never came. I’ll never forget those first heartbeats of desire. Do you remember, cousin George, that you couldn’t find your shirt that day after your nap under the yellow birch trees? You were so handsome that my heart strayed. I wanted to have something of yours so I stole your shirt while you slept! It stayed under my pillow for months. I’d smell and hug it. Its scent put me to sleep. Your beauty has stayed engraved in my memory forever, cousin George. Cora ❤️

Here we go! I’ve finally decided to write fiction. I’ve been toying with the idea for a few months now. Will I be able to pull it off? To create a plot from scratch; maybe a love story with sufficient events and facts to spin a brief tale. A short story, as real novelists call it. I’ve always dreamed of becoming a best-selling author, but where should I begin? I read somewhere that “if it weren’t for mountains to climb, we’d never enjoy the view from the top.” So true! If I go on this adventure, I’ll need a giant eagle to help me ascend. I muse about an idea, search for a thread, a story that’s part fact, part fiction perhaps. And VOILÀ! The idea comes to me! A new friend has been hanging around at the coffee shop where I write. The man, older and still good looking, loves to drink lattes and clearly appreciates our circle of friends. The day before yesterday, he divulged a miserable tale of love to us. Typing away on my iPad, I listened as he talked about a certain beauty that he had under his skin. Heavens! Could I take this story and embellish it? Disfigure it? I know almost nothing about love and physical attachment, so I had to ask my friend Google to tell me more about the expression “I’ve got you under my skin.” Popularized in a 1936 song by Cole Porter, it means to be so madly in love with someone that it’s as if they’re a part of you. Google also informs me about the pleasures of the flesh, the ones that are only ever partially forgiven. Eating to excess, gorging oneself, swallowing the sea and all its fish. I wait and despair; I don’t know who to pray to. Maybe love is the worst possible topic for a Sunday letter in my case? After all, what do I know about love? I’ve never loved enough to lose my mind! Tonight, as I sit at my kitchen table, I implore the white page in front of me with a wavering heart, a few ideas scattered about me. I’m terrified I won’t be up to the task. My fingers are typing in mid-air, I hear a wall crack, darkness surrounds me and traps me in a cage. Will I find a crevice through which I can enter this story of the shameless tigress? He fell madly in love the first time he saw her. This quiet man left his wife, his children, his home and his social standing for this woman. Grave mistake! He quickly discovered that she was a seductress, a resourceful and grumpy woman with little virtue. But this man loved her and forgave all her shortcomings. Brought up in a disreputable family, she admired all the great thieves and worst scoundrels. Small unpaid debts, here, petty thefts there – she relentlessly exploited the system to her advantage. The other morning, the unfortunate man made us laugh out loud. He recounted that his buddies jostled each other to catch a glimpse of his sweetheart. Orphaned at a very young age, this dolled-up force of nature was in full control of her universe. She bargained, haggled and stole all she could without ever getting caught. The missus’ favourite past-time was shopping, and she dedicated herself to it almost daily. Dining in five-star restaurants, her beauty proved a useful charm when she “accidentally” forgot to pay. Believe it or not, this mismatched couple lived together for 25 long years. A cruise in the Greek Islands, trips down south, gold rings, diamond necklaces, gondola rides in Venice, a climb up Mount Fuji… What she desired, my friend gave her, all out of love. The woman’s extraordinary blue eyes had him bewitched. That’s what those around him thought. Now older, isolated, scorned and abandoned, he opened up to our group of friends for the first time at the coffee shop this week. He unpacked his frustrations, his idiocy and his terrible grief of ending up alone. Yes, the heartless chick plucked him to his very last dime! Once more, I realize that fiction is often less tragic than reality. Cora ❤️

What do I have left to do before I die? It can happen at any time, tonight or in 2 or 10 years, or maybe I’ll live to be 100? Obviously, what’s left for me to do is to live! To open my eyes every morning around 5 and wait for the sun to wake up. I love the whitish light that precedes the start of the day. The light blue crossing the earth like a vast sea turned upside-down. In front of such beauty, I can only close my eyes and let the hands of time fly away. Where am I? I’m dreaming, I’m confused, I’m looking for paradise. Would it be above, all in white; or maybe all green, at the bottom of the sea? How could I leave behind this heavenly place? The flowers, huge fir trees, my family, my books, my writing and my great-grandsons, who are eager to start school. I drift off again and imagine a baby girl crawling on all fours in the kitchen in Caplan. She’s chewing on a small dried fish and smiles at me. Would it be possible to start my life all over? I just want to live a few more years, discover who I am, heal my soul and learn to love. What is it to live? If life were a long vacation – it’s far from it, of course – we’d end up as we always do regretting not having seen this or visited that. The Great Sphinx in Giza, the Eiffel Tower or a few kilometers of the Great Wall of China. In the bus that takes a handful of the living to the gates of Heaven, what would we talk about before falling silent? I shut up. I swallow my questions and explode. I shout out my regrets: I didn’t finish my classical studies, didn’t become a great writer, stopped myself from being guided by my heart and my true will. I should have refused to marry my children’s awful father. I still have so many things to experience before the great departure. My mind is swirling, my heart is agitated! It’s difficult to learn to die when we’ve never learned to live. Should I make a list of things to do, see and think about so I can experience life’s beauty even more, allowing myself to venture past the limits I set myself? And even then, I love life, my life. A quiet life at times, but so good and so beautiful! Contented with an uneventful existence, I risk being disappointed. If I chase the bees from my flowerbeds, I can’t expect to enjoy their honey. Am I truly alive? I wonder. I feel my left arm, right breast, neck, belly. I am made from stardust, according to the famous astrophysicist Hubert Reeves. I really would’ve loved to have met him, to ask him where we go when we fly away. Could we really be the children of the stars who’ve taken earthly bodies? And, tell me, who would be the father of so many kids? I am strong, I am silly, my pendulum is swinging at a different pace. Like an infant, I confuse day and night. In a corner of my mind, I cultivate wisdom and the poor thing grows at a snail’s pace. I have so little time left! I despair, age is distorting my beauty. It’s wrinkling my skin, spotting my forehead, sinking my cheeks and diminishing my sense of taste. My dreams of adventure melt away like ice in the sun. I write and tremble with fear. Everything that happens is meant to happen. I’d like to fly away, I’d like to stay, chain myself to a giant oak and never move. Could I ponder and take my measure before leaving? My life’s path has always been to cultivate my imagination and explore new forms of expression. I’m constantly faced with a fear of not being good enough. When I was a girl, I’d sew my clothes, write poems, draw flowers, faces, pretty owls and lions’ heads whose fate I imagined. It’s an instinct I was born with. The artist in me is capable of seeing the potential of an idea, a landscape, a colour or the twist of a sentence. My mind races, my fingers start to type. They move through an imaginary Sahara, on a white page suddenly inundated by thousands of small dark letters. That’s how the grace of words and the generosity of writing come to me. I create each morning by experimenting with words torn from chaos. I soar, I fly; the scent of lilacs envelops my summer. In this generous world of words, couldn’t I imagine my own death? To see the immortal lady appearing as gently as the spring arrives. To hear the boat horns sounding, the fishermen shouting, the soft singing of the seagulls, the children’s cries. I can see us, death and me, walking on the pier. Our dresses lifted by the ocean wind. Our white shoes dirtied by fish scales. A giant eagle snatches us and I smile. I know it’s the end and yet I’m fine. The bird knows the way to the angels’ door. Open up, Mom, I’m here! Cora ❤️

I didn’t have friends during my years as a businesswoman. I was surrounded by caring colleagues, extraordinary employees and cherry-picked franchisees, of course, but I didn’t have true friends with whom to discuss topics other than business. I was so busy, preoccupied and absorbed by a thousand and one things that I didn’t have any spare time to socialize with friends. Most of the ambitious businessmen who sought me out were on high alert. They all wanted to do business with our brand, and my reputation for being demanding and uncompromising preceded me. I never bargained. Never haggled, never dithered. If they wanted to sell me something, I would name my price and they either agreed or went home empty-handed. At that time, I often thought a man was living inside my head. I’d been a book worm all my life, an artist who crafted words, with no business knowledge or training. I was learning how to be a franchisor by ingesting biographies of men who’d developed great franchise networks. I was always one reassuring step ahead of the game. Thank goodness! I knew that the risk of failing was clearly much greater than the chances of winning. The beautiful thing about it was that I was never afraid of failure! I was fearful of running into a mean ol’ bear money or original ideas. When I opened my first small restaurant, the breakfast food industry in those days (1987) suffered from a glaring lack of decent breakfasts. And so I put on a chef’s hat and apron to create amazing, one-of-a-kind dishes that dazzled thousands of customers. After 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6… the 7th Cora restaurant became a franchised location! This exceptional restaurant in Montreal’s West Island, located at 187 Hymus Blvd., Pointe-Claire, is still going strong today. We had to face the facts: I was gifted with creativity and business. I’d created an unbeatable breakfast restaurant concept and I now had to travel my own Camino de Santiago, sowing franchises all over this vast country. During those years, I was audacious and careful, a spendthrift and a penny-pincher. I was constantly expanding our team of experts and always in a rush to open the next restaurant. I took calculated risks without ever putting the heart of our operations in danger. I’ll never forget the times during my childhood when we used to pick hazelnuts with Grandpa Frédéric at the end of summer. Every year, using the same jute bag, Grandpa would show us how to remove the nuts from the tree and place them in the bag, which he’d later hang in the barn to allow the precious contents to dry. After a few months, he’d smash the bag against a stone wall to crack open the shells. Grandma then carefully stored the tiny treasures, dispensing them sparingly on Sundays so that there’d be enough left for Christmas. Just like my grandmother who gave me a few meagre hazelnuts, 30 years later, I rewarded my children, who helped in the restaurant, with a few measly dollars of spending money. How could I’ve possibly managed to open myself up to others and find real friends during this solitary but very full life? I was constantly spinning like a weathervane, looking for the best location to set up the next big yellow Sun. Only when I transferred my role and title to my youngest son did I finally start to slow down. In the end, the horrible pandemic succeeded in immobilizing me. I changed my lifestyle. When eventually we were given the all-clear to leave the safety of our homes, I started writing at the town’s coffee shop. And there, at last, I found friends. Like a baby bird learning to fly, I’d whisper a few hellos to the people near my table, and they in turn would answer. I smiled, I was happy. After a few weeks, we moved our tables closer together in order to get to know each other better. Like a bee slowly feeding on the nectar of flowers, I learned about friendship, this mutual feeling as precious as honey. It hasn’t been hard for me to make friends. The go-getter in the past had to deprive herself of friendship because of the urgent need to make a living to ensure her young family’s survival. Today, friendship is like a decadent dessert served to me on a silver platter. A gift, a reward. I won’t run away from the challenges that still occupy my mind and keep me from growing old. I love my friends tremendously and their antics and eccentricities, like a desire to die standing up! Together, we’re learning that living means being constantly confronted with what is beyond us. We were discussing it the other day and realized how easy it is to age mentally and give into fatigue and weariness. “The less we do, the less we want to do,” said George, the oldest in our group (82). I was quick to reply that my mind and my inner being have never taken to retirement. I detest the word “retiree” because it seems like a fragile wobbly-headed trinket with a knobbed walking cane. There’s no denying it, as we get older a part of us remains young, like any creation that’s never really finished. May the heavens bless this eternal youth that prevents us from growing weak. I wonder. I may have once lacked love, but now I’m surrounded by intrepid, valiant souls. Very early last Sunday, an elderly man walked into the coffee shop and came over to my table. I’d never seen him before. With his two hands resting on the chair in front of me, he bent down and told me, “Dear Cora, your modesty is a sign of greatness.” He then took his leave and went to the counter where he ordered a latte to go and left. I was the only customer in the café at that moment. I’ve never seen him since. This year, I’m celebrating my 77th birthday surrounded by friends. I feel very lucky to have such a tight-knit circle of companions – people who watch out for me, check up on me and whose company I enjoy. Cora ❤️

The snow has melted, the cold weather has turned mild and the grass is getting greener by the day. This morning, I even saw a few ants in a single file climbing onto my porch. I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, I open the door to the kitchen and a few gusts of warmth, a few bursts of happiness enter. I make myself comfortable to write at my large kitchen table, I type a few sentences and my fingers awaken. Two, three, five pages are darkened as I finish my first cups of coffee. It’s quite something to see winter yield its place to summer! I must have been 5 or 6 when Dad said that in 50 years’ time Gaspésie would be as hot as California. Really? Will I live long enough to burn my toes on the asphalt in January? Last night I read that writing’s therapeutic virtues have a positive influence on women’s moods. What do I know? I’m so old now. My only medicine consists of encapsulating my words in ink, and I indulge to excess. At the coffee shop the other day, a young woman declared that writing leads nowhere. Maybe she’s right. I earned a living by cooking and serving amazing breakfasts, but today, I write and will never stop because it feeds my happiness. Writing is an exquisite dessert for my life. Yesterday, a strawberry crêpe, this afternoon a pistachio cake and tomorrow, my favourite apple pie brushed with sugar fudge sauce. The young woman drones on: — “What purpose does it serve, to fill pages with ink all day long? Couldn’t you travel? Visit Spain, the Eiffel Tower or Venice and its magnificent gondolas and cafés, Murano Island and its glass-blowing artisans? Haven’t you said it all in the last 4 years?,” continues the rude woman, raising her brows. — “What’s motivating you to keep typing words in a café instead of being outdoors feeling spring’s warm breezes? Time is flying away and you, dear Cora, are writing, typing and aging. You incessantly start a new story. You sieve, you brew, you invent a plot, a few characters and an ending that’ll look like a new beginning! Clearly this young woman is a loathsome inquisitor who has no love for words! Doubt overcomes me. What a misfortune it would be if I became an empty well! I’m not hurting anyone by putting all this ink to the page. I ponder for a moment, reach into my bag and hand her the last copy of my book. The woman seems surprised, but at last, she falls silent. Tonight, at my large kitchen table, I’m writing again. Who else could describe winter’s tears falling onto the spring’s warm soil as I do? I type until the clock passes midnight when, suddenly, I see a small mouse coming out of a cupboard. I follow it with my eyes. It runs across the floor under the table, along the wall, enters the living room and hides under the red sofa. I’m so terrified of mice and here I am, all alone in this big house! I calm myself, sit back down and think. I invent a new paragraph. A path in the middle of the forest with century-old trees and a carpet of lily-of-the-valley shoots. In the largest oak tree there’s a huge hole, a refuge for my family of mice. I feed them fine cheeses, and they forget all about my home address. I never tire from chasing an inexhaustible vein of ideas. I skip a line, finish a page, I’m always eager to start a new letter. This childlike pleasure in threading words one after the other reminds me of my brother when he was little, the tireless marble player. Focused so completely on his game, he would be absolutely still before throwing the coloured glass bead as far as possible. Like him, I stop, think, invent and cast my words. I draw strength from the sap of trees to build my castles. I laugh, I cry, my emotions often all simmering together. I strive to embellish my world and the thousands of birds that land on my lines, on my words, in my stories and in my heart. My motivation to keep writing is this: a copious capacity to keep moving forward, to go further, to dig deep into the soul of the world scattered within each and every one of us. Am I the woman I would have liked to be at 20? My heart wide open, my eyes so green, Blue waves, fish discussing among themselves? Cora ❤️

I was 5 and I already knew you were terribly sad, Mom. A martyr with eczema-ridden fingers, your mummified hands, gloved and painfully burning, Mom. The morning tears when you’d pretend to go to the neighbour’s to borrow a half-pint of cream, Mom. All the sleepless nights you spent unstitching and sewing one of Dad’s old jackets to make me a pretty coat, Mom. I remember your delicious meals, and the jams you’d make for us, Mom. Sewing, cooking and cleaning. You always did your duty, but your broken heart was incapable of loving us, Mom. Your long silences bewildered our little hearts desperate for love, Mom. As you busied yourself with chores, never resting , you kept your mind occupied to avoid thinking about what had ripped out your heart, Mom. The rage, the sorrow and the disappointment must have exhausted you each day. This heavy secret you kept and took to your grave, Mom. We had no clue about your indescribable sorrow as you suffered in silence, Mom. Indiscernible and menacing, a mysterious pain had turned your life, and ours, upside down, Mom. Our childhood was muted, as we gingerly stepped around you, afraid of disappointing you, Mom. I blamed you. I needed to know about the important things in life. You failed to teach me or your two other daughters a single thing. Too young and naive, we found ourselves with our own child, Mom. Was it the lack of knowledge or fear that kept you silent? We were pristine white goslings and you let our little wings become soiled, Mom. This cursed ignorance caused us a thousand torments. Your daughters became trapped in loveless marriages. And our lives, totally lost, became battle grounds, Mom. You knew nothing about my sad life then. Miserable as I was, I sometimes thought of leaving this world for good, Mom. In that moment your car crashed head-on, you, your grief and your secret all died together, Mom. At the morgue where I went to identify you, I was terrified. I was scared of your disfigured face, of the congealed blood on your cheeks, of the open veins in your neck, Mom. As tough as life can be, it has spoiled me. At your funeral, one of your sisters finally told me your secret. That story, unimaginable today, nonetheless happened to you and ruined your life, Mom. You were the most beautiful schoolteacher in the township, in love with a Protestant that the Catholic church forbade you from marrying. Do you remember, Mom, that in those days, religion ruled our lives? You did as your father wished when he introduced you to a brave and hard-working young man who had recently arrived in Gaspésie. Grandpa liked him a lot, but you were in love with another, Mom. I hate myself for accusing you, criticizing you and blaming you, oblivious to your sad fate. I feel so remorseful, Mom. All the unused love inside me, I give to you, Mom. Wait for me, because together, we’ll begin a new and beautiful life again, Mom. Your daughter, Cora ❤

WARNING: This letter contains graphic details related to death that may offend some readers. Reader discretion is advised. This morning at the coffee shop, I have the terrible fortune to hear straight from a real police officer’s mouth about all the horrible moments that some humans tolerate and suffer through until the day they expire. Why am I sharing this almost unthinkable story with you this morning? To encourage all of us to get to know and spare a moment for our neighbours, friends and all those who seem to be in need. While he was on duty one day, my officer friend received a call from the janitor of a 6-unit apartment block complaining about an unusual smell and insisted that he come by for a wellness check. As he approached the building, which was already known to him, a foul odour was noticeable. Could it be dirt? Had something burned? Rotten meat? It’s likely something much worse, he suspected. The two men walked up the stairs and stopped on the third-floor landing in front of apartment No. 6. The officer recognized the smell of putrefaction. — “Someone died in the apartment?,” asks the janitor. — “A dead body starts to smell within 72 hours, depending on the cause of death,” replies the officer. I asked my friend how the other tenants in the surrounding apartments hadn’t smelled the strange stench of death. “Most probably because they weren’t familiar with it.” He adds that it’s a smell that’s impossible to forget. When the police officer enters apartment No. 6 with the janitor’s master key, he immediately sees the body of a man in a wheelchair presenting signs of obvious death. Flaps of brown and black flesh hang from the man’s skull, his cheeks are sunken and empty, and a battalion of large black flies cover the dead man’s eyes. The police officer noticed that the marble threshold of the bathroom had likely blocked the elderly man’s wheelchair. Unable to move, he may have died from exhaustion or starvation. “A real tragedy,” says the building janitor, with tears in his eyes. The officer continues his apartment check and, as he enters the single bedroom located next to the kitchen, he discovers a second inanimate body, covered with a sheet up to the chest, the head darkened. The officer immediately turns back, calls his superior and requests the presence of a detective and another colleague to fill out the two death reports. According to the janitor, the two elderly people were over 80. Were they sick? Alone in the apartment? Did the couple have any children? The police set out to find the answers and determine the cause of their deaths. When the second police officer arrived to write the report, the two of them worked diligently to preserve and keep the scene intact. Wearing protective gloves, one of the officers took a notebook from the night table next to the deceased woman. Under the watchful eye of the detective, the officer opened the book and found the first names of three women, no surnames. He dialed the number under the first name, identified himself and asked the woman at the other end to identify herself. The woman instantly asked what the man was doing at her parents’ place. He explained that the two tenants in the apartment he was calling from had just been found dead. — “That’s impossible!” said the woman, panicked. “I spoke to Mom yesterday morning!” The officer didn’t contradict her. Given the advanced state of decomposition of the two bodies, their deaths occurred approximately 10 to 15 days prior. Dear readers, I am telling you this profoundly sad story because it breaks my soul and because my officer friend says that it’s the tragic fate of too many elderly people. The old man in his wheelchair and his wife, who was barely able to walk according to the janitor, lived in a single bedroom apartment on the third floor of a building with no elevator. Who cared for whom? My officer friend has been retired for 20 years now. Last year, he found himself single again. As he recounted this sad story, he wondered if he would be able to care for himself in his cottage until the end. He has two long staircases to manage – one that goes down to his basement workshop and another that leads up to the second-floor bedroom. The story my friend shared with our little coffee shop trio this morning stirs up a lot of questions, in him, in George (82) and in me, of course. We stay to drink a second coffee and to think aloud. “We have to think about it fast,” says the retired officer, “for age flees like a thief, and we could be left alone, isolated, poorly setup, far from our loved ones and ignored by our neighbours.” “We are all alone,” continues George. “We are born alone and we die alone, like old, confused, starved mice, hidden away in the back of the cupboard more often than not...” As for me, a few weeks short of 77, I believe that, if old age is a time when the body gradually declines, it’s also an incredible opportunity to finally slow down. It’s a time when we can take care of our mind in a way we never had a chance to while making a living. Today, this intelligent body is forcing us to slow down most of the time, so we can pamper our little hearts and the friends who surround us more. Let’s take care of one another. Call your friends, keep in touch with your neighbours, take it upon yourself to check in with lonely and aging souls that so desperately need our care. Let’s love every minute of our life today. Perhaps the more we stretch it, the more likely we’ll deserve a few drops of wisdom. Cora ❤

I read somewhere that “the way we tell a story has a great influence on our happiness.” So, this morning, I stop lamenting and contemplate the heavenly blue of the sky. Of course, like anyone with zest for life, I would’ve liked to have met an artist, a poet, a rare bird who flies far above, but I already had three children and my two feet were nailed solidly to the ground. With my heart and body invested solely in my work for so many years, numbers were much more important to me than men or words. That’s how I matured without even noticing it, until two old crows I’ve already told you about, Retirement and Old Age, came into my life. Then with age, Lady Solitude also came along. We lose a few feathers, we lose near ones, friends, sisters or husbands, and we find ourselves facing a void. Do you remember April 2020, the terror of the century disguised as a horrible virus? In all of two seconds, I was alone, worried, locked down between the hills, with only my words for company. The COVID witch sharpened my emptiness and taught me how to keep quiet. I was afraid of dying. Thankfully, I had a dozen black crows on my roof cawing and asking for my attention. I would throw breadcrumbs at them, and they’d get closer to my balcony. These first friends during my solitude kept me alive. I even came to talk to the ants, the worms and to the big groundhog living under the porch. As the weather became milder, I’d settle each morning on the grass and wait for the dandelions to grow. While the horrible virus kept passing over my home, I turned on the TV to catch the daily count of elderly souls that had flown out the window. I got scared, I got thirsty; I could see pretty streams of my childhood in my dreams. And then summer came and burst into beauty. Hand-drawn rainbows light up the streets. I’m out for a walk. In front of me, an old couple holds on to each other, welded together and moving as one. I envy them! I hear the rustling of the branches stretching out in the sun, the humming of the bees, the gentle scent of flowers. Lifting my head up high, I admire a parade of geese tracing words for me in the pale blue of the sky. Weeks fly by and the worst expires. “Don’t talk about it anymore,” repeats a host on an American TV show. Quickly, I turn on my tablet and my fingers start by thanking the universe that I’m still alive. I write to the angels, wrap my lines in golden paper and then console everything that moves around me. With my words flying, my sentences taking flight, a new life writes itself like a novel that we finally want to read. I love to create meaning by bringing words to life. I love to start a paragraph slowly, like when we enter a river, and then plunge headfirst into a revelation. It’s exactly how the SUNDAY LETTERS came to be, dear readers! In my mind’s kitchen, I started to draft delightful breakfasts of words. Short letters to whet your appetite, homemade caramel, fudge and delicious cake recipes that you could easily make yourself. The faster Sundays arrived, the stronger my enthusiasm grew. My heart, filled with love, rejoiced in your good company. Without even realizing it, I did what I’ve always done since I was a little girl: write! And so I started writing to you. First my recipes, and then the remarkable story of our business and, by extension, the entire saga of my surprising life story. I ventured into the sea up to my waist, then my shoulders and often into the open water. You followed and loved me. You painted pink all the brown spots on my body. You turned my heart into a lighthouse, a bouquet of tiny lights illuminating my written lines. Writing these SUNDAY LETTERS awoke the writer inside me. I discovered that my greatest pleasure consists in aligning words, throwing the bare bones of a story onto a page and writing it in black ink, eyes wide open. My memory is a real treasure trove, a live photo album. As I invite Lady Creativity and Lady Inspiration to visit on the white of the page, I jot down the scribbles of time. By reading me, you teach me to be a better writer. Cora ❤

Since all of us in the family are restaurateurs and excellent cooks, our Easter brunch was, if I may say so, an amazing feast! To start, my granddaughter placed three large plates of fresh, nicely cut fruit on the table, filled with strawberries, raspberries, cherries and blueberries. The youngest kids climbed onto their chairs in no time and reached out their hands and raided the colourful plates. A few minutes later, their cheeks were coloured blue and pink, and their small aprons stained with raspberry juice. I’d prepared the crêpe mix the night before, but as soon as my daughter walked into the kitchen, she took control of the helm. She still had to assemble the various elements of each service. With her daughter by her side, they first prepared over 20 crêpes filled with different garnishes: spinach-feta, ham and Swiss cheese, bacon-cheddar and delicious apples brushed with homemade caramel. They were all kept warm on the stove’s hot plate. My daughter and her daughter then cooked all the meat traditionally found in a good French Canadian breakfast and placed it on the table alongside a big tureen filled with baked beans, a big plate of smoked salmon garnished with capers and red onions, a large bowl of roasted potatoes, my famous cretons and a nice spread of homemade jams: strawberry, raspberry, blueberry, orange and citrus marmalade. I’ve long had a knack for making delicious jams. I never measure anything and my middle finger is my helper, letting me know when it’s time to turn off the heat. It never fails! My eldest son’s sons were tasked with preparing a variety of breads, toast, bagels and croissants. They cut the butter into little squares that they placed in small dishes to be arranged in front of each place setting. Then the 15 adults sat down at the table and the feast began. As they’d already swilled their coffee while talking, they switched to orange juice. Heavens! I still remember the fresh orange juice I forbade the employees and my own kids from drinking while they were working at the restaurant. In those days, the juice imported directly from Florida was expensive and precious. No one was allowed to drink any of it except the customers who paid for it. I was left penniless in 1987 when I opened our first small restaurant. It was an old wreck of a snack bar that had been closed for two years. I remember it like it was yesterday: a 29-seat room covered in cobwebs that I bought after selling our house in the suburbs. I’ll never understand why my young kids and I immediately fell in love with the place. Perhaps this was a new adventure for them? Maybe this was my opportunity to build a brilliant destiny for myself? We had to scrub, clean, paint, sew a few nice aprons and write our menu on the walls. I never could have imagined in those days that I would create an exceptional breakfast restaurant concept. Living in a third-floor apartment on a commercial street in Montreal near our tiny eatery, the kids got used to the city cacophony, public transportation and the sleepless nights their mom spent inventing new breakfast dishes. My daughter and her daughter are at the stove ready to take omelette orders. Over 15 bowls filled with omelette garnishes are lined up on the counter next to them. Service is running smoothly! By the sounds of it, you would think that all the adults haven’t eaten even a crumb in three days! Seated at the end of the table, my eyes sneak a look at each of my guests’ face. They are hungry, thirsty and are relishing their food. My oldest son congratulates the cooks, thanking them warmly. He volunteers for dishwashing even before he’s done eating his main course. His girlfriend says she’ll assist. Dear Josée is a very good cook herself; she especially excels at roasting meat and her man, a big eater, couldn’t be happier. All the guests are content. The youngest ones ate earlier, and they’re now running around in the big house, playing hide-and-seek and having fun with the toys their grandfather (my oldest son) brings them each time he sees them. All the adults are helping themselves to more coffee and chit chat like they haven’t seen each other in 10 years. Then Josée stands up and orders me to stay seated. – “You’ve done enough already, mother-in-law! I’ll take care of the dishes.” When the conversations finally dwindle, my children’s children get up and raid the leftovers, like they always do when they come to grandma’s house! Again, my daughter and her daughter busy themselves wrapping up the pastries, crêpes, meat, baked beans, cheese and the other leftovers on the table. You have to be quick to get what you want! When the table is empty and the stove and counters wiped clean, the young ones help with the dishes. Soon the kitchen sparkles and the adults move to the living room. It’s time to digest, continue conversations and tell me repeatedly how everything was delicious. I can hardly take any credit; I just have to get them together. At Christmas, Easter and a great-grandson’s birthday. How many more Easter brunches will I be able to host? Time goes by so fast! Three more short years and I’ll be 80. Perhaps I’ll have crooked fingers, cracked kneecaps and my memory will be gone? I’ll forget my superb cretons recipe, my great-grandsons’ ages and maybe my daughter-in-law’s address? For now, I still have my head on straight and I intend to enjoy every family occasion and celebration to the fullest! Cora ❤

A gratitude list is an expression of thanks for the people and things that make you happy. Ideally, you should create one each day, paying homage to the little moments that brighten your day. Note everything that elicits a sense of gratitude in you during the day; things that you feel thankful and lucky for. Experts on the matter say that it can be a difficult exercise at first, but one that quickly becomes second nature. You can also thank life every night before you fall asleep or each morning when you wake to another day of being alive. I personally have my own gratitude ritual. Each Saturday afternoon after my nap, I pour myself yet another coffee and open my pink notebook which I fill with huge THANK YOUs. I discovered gratitude during the pandemic. Instead of worrying I’d die, I started to thank the universe for being alive each day. Fear faded away, and I slowly learned to recognize the good things that were happening to me. Each one of my writing days is different, but I can say that I’m grateful for being alive every day! I always have a good reason to be grateful for a friend, a good idea and especially for the wild woman inside my head who keeps me alert and inspired. Here are a few sentences taken from my gratitude list: – Thank you, my friend! Your burly arms and enjoyable company were just what I needed to install the two new IKEA bookshelves in my living room. – Thanks to my children who shaped me into a courageous mother. – Thank you, dear Pénélope, your love keeps me alive. – Thank you to my generous neighbour for giving me such delicious jams! – Thank you to my friends who invite me along on outings and events. – Thank you for all the coffees I’ve enjoyed with great company! – Thank you, dear Claude, for repairing the thermostat for my heated floor. – Thank you, Stephen the Irishman, who accompanied me to the annual St. Patrick’s luncheon, and to my good friend who invited us. – Thank you, dear Bruce, with whom I always have deep conversations. – Thank you, Marie-Pierre, our circle of friends’ favourite aerial host, for all the delicious privately imported chocolate she’s brought back on her flights to the old world. – Thank you for the inspiration I am gifted with from above. – Thank you to the wild woman in my head who inspires me and governs all my thoughts. – Thank you for my perseverance, my patience and my love of words. – Thank you for my advanced age, and to this sublime life that keeps me strong and healthy. – Thank you, Life, for this incredible sleigh ride. – Thank you for the spot you’re keeping warm for me up there. – Thank you for treating us to such a mild winter, with its snow so white and sky so blue. – Thank you, dear life, for allowing me to recognize what’s good for me. – Thank you to my ex-husband for being just vile enough for me to finally decide to leave him. – Thank you to all my cherished readers, who follow me each week through my Sunday letters. – Thank you for all the comments you leave for me week after week. – Thank you to all those who bought my book Cora l’ordinaire endimanché and who talk to me about it! – Thank you to the sea, who’s fed me all my life and continues to do so. – Thank you to all the handsome gents who grace my dreams and feed my hope. – Thank you to my 10 well-practised fingers that still allow me the pleasure of cooking for my children, grandchildren and even for my colleagues at the head office occasionally. Since I’ve started making these lists of gratitude for the universe to hear, I always look forward to tomorrow to see what I’ve learned to appreciate more. VERBA VOLANT, SCRIPTA MANENT. Spoken words fly away, written words remain. Cora ❤

Have you ever noticed how the never-ending cycle of daily life keeps us from thinking about our own death? I will be celebrating my 77th birthday on May 27, and because the number 7 has always been my favourite number, I’d like to enjoy one or two more if I can. To celebrate my 77, 87 and 97 years on this planet would fill me with happiness! After that, God willing, I’ll fly away. Rest assured, I firmly intend on living my final days to the fullest! Dressed all in pink this morning, I feel like my heart is still 20. My fingers type away on the keyboard and make up little tales of love about passing moments. There is so much that captivates me: a handsome man’s smile, a compliment about my clothes, cookies from a thoughtful neighbour. Aging happily may be the key to longevity. With that in mind, dear readers, lately I’ve been scouring self-help magazines for articles on the end of life, noting all the helpful ways we can positively impact our future over the long term. Without wanting to seem like I have all the answers, I’d like to share what I’ve gathered. Don’t be afraid of getting old, love your age and celebrate your birthdays. Throw the slow loss of independence, the dip in vitality and daily boredom straight out the window. Transform daily monotony into a celebration of life. A long life is Heaven’s gift – grab the opportunity by the horns. It’s now or never. Add up the good days that go by because they’re the most precious thing we have. Transfer your wisdom to loved ones so they can learn from your example in advance. Give yourself the opportunity to experience each day at least one thing that is meaningful to you. Learn a new word, visit a friend or show yourself kindness. Dare to be optimistic! Approaching change with a sense of wonder instead of apprehension allows us to remain curious and enthusiastic about the future. Write down five new things you’d like to accomplish this year. Don’t be afraid. Our abilities multiply with age. Remind yourself of the five or six most important things you have learned to do in your long life. The older we get, the closer we are to unknown territories. We’ve earned the right to freely explore the rest of our lives, without limits or hesitation. There’s always time for us to change the way we live. Open up to others, consider our best friends as members of the family. Name three or four who can become your safety net and make them a priority. Learn something new and share your knowledge with them. Give them the right to teach us something in return. Exercise without thinking about it; pedal while you’re watching TV. Get out of the house for no reason in particular. Wander in nature and admire the landscape. Let your smartwatch calculate your number of daily steps. Eat slowly and, if possible, in good company. Paying attention to what we’re swallowing allows us to eat less and savour more. Simplify your life. Clean out your closet and give away what you no longer want. Lighten your load! Birds fly because they have no baggage. Stop hesitating, and let your emotions speak. Éric Simard, a biologist, believes it’s a decisive factor in enjoying a long life. He also says that regularly seeing friends and family increases our life expectancy. Before we fly away, we should heal our souls of all the wounds that have made us miserable. Rejection, abandonment, betrayal, injustice, humiliation. They’ve all inflicted their wounds on me to some extent. At one point, I read the excellent book Heal Your Wounds & Find Your True Self by Lise Bourbeau to help restore my spirit. It’s never too late to make up for our mistakes or to learn how to live better. Old yet still spry, I’m the worst for inventing a thousand detours on the road to love! Dear readers, I dillydally, I have fun. In the end, I’m simply trying to delight you with millions of loving words. Cora ❤

Dear readers, it’s the end of March and my journalist friend reached out to me, suggesting I answer a few of her weighty questions to remove the dust from my mind. I’m happy to play along. — What are the three things that give your life meaning? My children give my life meaning. They give me the assurance that I belong somewhere, that I’m part of a family and an important link that ties the siblings together. Also, the business I created and which has shaped me into a successful entrepreneur. I truly don’t know how I acquired my business acumen. Maybe it’s because of my creativity, hard work and remarkable knack for grasping the franchising concept and doing business in Canada. Last but not least, although it only came to me later, writing is part of my everyday life now and, like a big ocean liner, it allows me to be a tourist in my own life and revisit each port before the final getaway. — What are your three greatest qualities? Courage, creativity and perseverance. All my efforts have been wrapped in courage. A bit of creativity drops from the sky every time I need it, and I constantly work on improving myself and my writing. I try to grow flowers in the desert. For hours on end, I can refine my words to make them white Bengal tigers, mandarinfish or fabulous birds of paradise. — What are the three most courageous acts you’ve accomplished? The first was to keep my baby although the father wanted me to have an abortion. Then it was to flee with my three children in tow after 13 years of conjugal misery. Finally, without a penny to my name, I opened the first small breakfast restaurant, which miraculously became a major restaurant chain. — What are three memories that remain with you to this day? I will never forget my mother’s mummified hand, incessantly plagued my eczema. Her broken face when I had to identify her body at the morgue after she had a head-on collision while she was driving with my three children. The extremely difficult delivery of my firstborn, who had to be taken out of my belly with forceps. — Name three regrets you’ll never be able to forget. When I was young, it was easy to regret something: a bad grade in school, a bad tennis game. As I grew older, I learned that everything was necessary. Like salt and pepper, the better and worse are also part of a life’s recipe. To quote the famous Édith Piaf, whom I still like a lot, I would also say Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien. (“No, nothing at all. No, I have no regrets.”) — What are the three most difficult things you’ve had to accept? Many difficult things have come my way in life, it’s true, but I refuse to count them. You’re more or less familiar with my life story by now. With time, a big obstacle turns into a small flood, which eventually dries up. I try to avoid the extremes: very high/very low, yes/no, the good/the bad, white/black. I prefer thinking of myself as squarely in the middle. — Name three things that still torment you. I am terrified of snakes, even the small ones that lived in the fields behind Grandpa Frédéric’s house. I’m also inexplicably afraid of mice. My old country house is right up against a forest. I love the deers, wild turkeys, groundhogs and big crows I come across, but I’m frightened by a mouse’s small black tail in a cupboard! I’m also a bit wary of the police when I’m driving through the towns of our beautiful country. Distracted by the beauty of the surroundings, I sometimes forget to stop at intersections. — Who are three good friends that are still in your life today? Generally, you can count your best friends on your fingers. As I get older, however, I’m working less and writing more. For the past three years now, I’ve been typing away at the local coffee shop. As a result, I have more and more good friends around me, and I’m glad for it! I introduced them to you, dear readers, in my letter Thirteen for dinner, published on January 21. — Tell me about three desires you still haven’t fulfilled. What a huge hill that word is, desire! A small thing happens to me, like a compliment, a look, a smile, and my heart hits the “desire” switch. Haven’t I passed the age to take my desires for reality? I’m not so sure! I still snatch at the crumbs of affection that fly up when I shake the tablecloth. — What are the three compliments you receive the most often? Since I read all the comments my loyal readers write, I honestly think that my letters are my greatest object of praise. My colourful glasses and clothes come in second. I stand out, I have fun, but I firmly believe this originality does me good. Dressing up in bright colours, choosing matching accessories and lipstick, styling my hair – these are all small creative moments that bring me joy each day. Lastly, it’s true that I get a lot of compliments on my culinary skills! They once helped build the business, but I continue to use them to delight those close to me, especially my grandkids. A thousand thank-you’s, dear Isabel. Cora ❤