Ascending Kilimanjaro

The old driver of the bus that was taking us to Thessaloniki had just hit a dump truck full of oranges. The kids were wailing, Husband was screaming, the driver kept yelling that it wasn’t his fault. Three-thirds of the passengers were elderly people. A lot of luggage had fallen into the aisle and the mad driver was not allowing anyone to get up from their seats. I needed water for the kids, diapers to change them and a few cookies to buy some peace. We had to be patient. When three policemen finally arrived, they had us come out of the bus to board another. The ground in front of us was covered in crushed oranges reduced to a pulp. Husband went and retrieved our two suitcases while I settled in with our two babies. “What will happen to the driver?” enquired a few elderly people who made the trip frequently. My mother’s heart could only care about what would happen to our family. When we arrived in Thessaloniki, another distant cousin was waiting for us at the bus terminal. His name was Thanassis, and he was the only son of the baker in Krya Vrysi, the village where we would live. Thoughtful and friendly, this young man would become my ally, my friend and my only confidant in the village. Although I spoke Greek well, we spoke French between us since he’d learned the language in college. This meant we could chit chat freely in front of the village’s curious onlookers. When we reached the village, Thanassis drove us to the house of Husband’s mother. As I walked in through the kitchen door, the first thing I saw was dozens of sticky fly traps hanging from the ceiling. A constant buzzing filled my ears it seemed. Mother-in-law, all dressed in black, stood up, grabbed my head and pulled it towards her, kissing my forehead. Her daughter Despina, who’d been widowed a long time ago, snatched the two babies, cajoled and covered them in kisses. Then she took me to a well and filled a barrel with fresh water that would last us for the day. Husband, on the other hand, carried our two suitcases inside the house and asked Thanassis to drive him to the village’s main street, where all the action was. I later learned that this illustrious village was home to less than a thousand souls, most of them grandmothers and elderly people. The “palikari” (young men) had quickly realized that they had no future there and had migrated to Germany or Canada if they could. And lazy Husband was doing the opposite! He no longer fantasized about becoming as rich as Aristotle Onassis, but was trying to find a way to at least provide for his wife and two, soon to be three, children. His two brothers arrived in Canada before him and both owned two restaurants each. Husband, the most elegant of them, the most refined and most intelligent (or so he told himself), was a notorious slacker. A regular at “bouzouki” (Greek music) clubs, he fancied himself to be a modern Zorba the Greek. That’s precisely how he grabbed me by the waist and led me to the dancefloor in 1967. And the dance lasted 13 long, horrible years. It’s only when I finally escaped our home in 1980 that I managed to put this entire period behind me. Heaven knows why today I’m remembering those days when, as a young mother, we had moved our entire life to Greece. I already had two little ones, with a third one, who crossed the ocean in my belly, soon joining us. My heart surged with unconditional love for my young children. We were living halfway around the world and I didn’t care. I didn’t even truly care about Husband. I overlooked his life, his choices and his repeated mistakes. I was a mother, and that was the only important thing in my life. When June 20, 1972, finally came, I awoke Despina, my sister-in-law, to tell her the contractions had started. She woke up Husband and went to get Thanassis, who arrived driving his father’s old car. Despina put a pile of old bedsheets on the backseat in case the child arrived suddenly. I wasn’t worried; she knew exactly what to do. Later she’d tell me that she had only recently single-handedly delivered the child of girl who was too young to be a mother. When at last we arrived in the only hospital in Thessaloniki, I was brought to the maternity ward. I thought I would faint from the sound of all the women’s sharp screams. At each bedside, a sister, aunt, mother or friend held the hand of the woman in labour. Fortunately, a young doctor who spoke French came up to me. He offered me the small cot in his room so I could rest there until he helped most of the screaming women give birth. I immediately agreed. When the maternity ward eventually quieted down, I was brought to the delivery room and the baby came out like a clawless kitten. Such joy! When we left the hospital, my sister-in-law wrapped the child and laid him on her thighs. The baby purred all the way home. TO BE CONTINUED… Cora ❤️

Dear readers, I’ve finally decided to pour my heart out. Over the next 10 weeks, starting September 8, I’ll be sharing with you the almost year-long period in my life I lived in Greece. You’ll relive with me the events that occurred in the poor and almost deserted village where we stayed. --------- In winter 1972, without even consulting me, Husband had decided to go back to Greece. We’d been married 5 years by then, had two kids, with a third one growing in my belly. I’d have to leave my country, my language, my parents. My eldest would have to say his goodbyes to his kindergarten class. In those days, a man was king of his household, and a wife had no other choice but to obey...in my marriage, at least. To take some of the sting out of this Greek tragedy, a few of my sisters-in-law secretly confided in me that they’d been back to Greece one or twice themselves before finally settling down in Canada for good. Would I be subject to the same fate? I feared the worst. A few of Husband’s friends helped carry five huge suitcases to the boat that would move our lives to another continent. Two more suitcases, filled with the essentials we needed to survive until our belongings made it safely to Greece, were coming with us by plane. My young boy and his sister laid at our feet and slept the entire way. With his head resting on the window, Husband smoked like a chimney. (Back then, of course, you could smoke onboard a plane.) He’d ring the stewardess every minute for yet another coffee. Did he know that I was sad or upset? Did he notice my eyes filled with tears or my hands cradling the new baby in my belly? I’d barely slept, but by the time the bright daylight stirred the passengers awake, it seemed like the giant metallic bird was already touching down on the tarmac. The kids woke up and were hungry. Sleepy Husband stretched out his long legs and got up. He called for a stewardess and insisted on a final coffee and snacks for the kids. When we got off the plane, I thought I’d die from the heat. Still today, I wonder if the old Ellinikon Airport was air-conditioned back then. Everywhere in the large building, hot air assailed the passengers. Sweat was dripping down our foreheads, the kids were crying, Husband was impatient, smoking one cigarette after another and looking for his distant cousin who was supposed to meet us in the arrival area. — “What time is it?” I asked Husband. — “I’m thirsty!” screamed the oldest. — “Pee-pee!” implored the youngest. My anxiety-riddled heart was racing. Would we be able to withstand such heat? Where would we live? In Athens, in Thessaloniki maybe, or elsewhere? Had Husband secured an apartment? A job? The kids were wailing, they were hot, they were hungry and they wanted to go home. When the cousin finally arrived, he grabbed the last two suitcases that were still going around in circles on the conveyor belt. Husband grabbed the oldest child and biggest travel bag. I was carrying a large bag myself filled with the kids’ clothes and our essential items: passports, the little ones’ Greek Orthodox baptismal certificates, the eldest’s Quebec vaccination booklet and my baby girl, half asleep in my dripping-wet neck. It was almost noon when the cousin dropped us off at his mother’s. The sound of the kids’ complaining became a dull clamour the moment I lifted my head to look out the window. On the right, high up on the mythical mountain, I caught sight of the famous Parthenon, literally the “temple of the virgin” and the physical symbol of Athenian supremacy in the Classical era. Astonishing! The old treasures I’d studied in my youth were right before my very eyes. Everything suddenly came back to me, probably because I’d been forced to memorize when the various monuments had been built, including the Acropolis of Athens, erected between 443 B.C. and 438 B.C. Husband couldn’t care less about archeology. He introduced me to his aunt who’d offered to take us in for as long as was needed. She also suggested we visit the Parthenon together on a few afternoons. Finally, something good was happening to me! My young heart was quivering. We slept in cramped quarters on a double bed with the two kids in the middle and the third one in my big belly. Whenever the kids moved around too much, Husband would move to the only couch in the house. His cousin had borrowed a convenient double stroller. Each day, I’d take a walk with the kids to get us used to the hot climate. Shortening my dresses or wearing pants was out of the question, since Husband would never allow it. The aunt praised the classic Greek dishes I had already mastered, and I continued to develop my skills with her guidance. Entering my seventh month of pregnancy, I felt an urgency to query Husband about our future plans. — “Where will we live?” I asked in French. — “In the village where I was born,” he replied in English. — “Is it near here?” — “Not at all.” — “Where is it?” — “In the north of Greece, about 70 kilometres from Thessaloniki. The village is called Krya Vrysi, that’s where my mother and sister live.” Would the house be big enough for everybody, including the kids? The man of a few words seemed to have a plan in mind. Two days later, the cousin drove us to a bus terminal to go to Thessaloniki. The trip, I was informed, would take 5 hours and 45 minutes. Fortunately, the thoughtful aunt had prepared a basket full of food for us. The little one and her brother were cuddled against my inhabited belly. The maternal instinct put me on alert; I kept my eyes fixed on the old bus driver, who was driving like a madman. Sitting behind me, Husband was still smoking. I began feeling nauseous and turned my head towards him to ask him to open a window when suddenly things took a frightful turn. The bus had just veered sharply to avoid hitting a few sheep, and Husband saw that the bus was headed straight for a dump truck full of oranges. TO BE CONTINUED… Cora ❤️

For over two long weeks, not one brilliant idea, not one speck of inspiration, not a single trigger word has emerged from my head. I’ve written to you every Sunday since the beginning of the pandemic; I’ll soon have 237 letters piled high. Perhaps it’s normal that the ink in my fountain pen is starting to dry up? Up until now, I’ve always caught my ideas mid-flight. This morning, all I can do is confide to the crows dancing on the roof of my house that my mind is blank. I get the distinct impression that I’m no longer able to write a single word; staring at the empty page is giving me goosebumps. After a quick search, I learn that what I’m experiencing is known as writer’s block. According to the Oxford dictionary, it refers to “the condition of being unable to think of what to write or how to proceed.” Ugh, this describes me to a T! Maybe I overworked my brain in early June when I started writing a long story called “HUSBAND’S DREAM, MY NIGHTMARE.” I’ve divided it into 10 letters and I’ll start sharing them with you starting in September. I also have to tell you, dear readers, that I’m doing double duty these days as founder and senior executive of the Cora business. I’m required to weigh in on a thousand and one things, such as new dishes and wonderful surprises we’re preparing for you. Unearthing new ideas keeps my mind extremely busy! I promise you, dear readers, that writer’s block won’t get the best of me! I will rest while I’m on my Alaskan cruise, when I’m certain my creativity will take the helm once again. While searching on Google for a few tips on how to beat writer’s block, I discovered a writing expert called Alphonsine. She explains that the phenomenon is perfectly normal and offers a few strategies to get the words flowing again. According to Alphonsine, the blank page doesn’t only represent a lack of inspiration. It can also come from the writer’s overwhelming desire to create the perfect copy. I think that’s exactly my case. I’m sorry, dear readers, that I’m experiencing this block, the first since I started writing to you each week, and I wanted to explain it to you in the right way. The expert goes on to explain that most authors face this obstacle at some point. So they take a break, go on a short trip or vacation. All these ideas inspire me! A big thank you to Alphonsine for elucidating the problem for me. I’ll sit down again in front of my iPad, type a few erratic lines until I can write a good story. From now on, I will master this writer’s block and won’t be afraid anymore. Instead of writing, I’ll bake a nice apple pie, my favourite lemon poppy cake or a few sublime spinach puffs. And I won’t forget Ernest Hemingway’s trick to stop when you know what you’ll write next. When you sit down again, your mind will quickly pick up where you left off. It’s an excellent idea which makes me impatient for tomorrow to arrive. This wonderful tomorrow that I know nothing about! CORA ❤️

In my last letter, I announced that I had finally booked a cruise to Alaska – another box on my bucket list checked off. This has inspired me to talk more about bucket lists with you and what I’d like to experience before my time is up. Each one of us, dear readers, should slow down, reflect upon, choose, name and list a few activities, wishes or dreams we’d like to realize before the big finale. Think about it for a moment, especially us elderly people who can hear the ticktock of our internal timers getting louder and louder. I’ve loved making lists all my life! I’ve had all sorts of lists: goals to reach, documents to learn by heart, plans to approve, new recipes to master, daily chores to handle, best-selling books to read, Sunday letters to rework and an ever-changing list of unfulfilled desires. You can start a bucket list by randomly writing down thoughts as they pop into your head and then rearrange them in order of importance. The goal of this exercise is to uncover simple and adventurous experiences you’d like to live, and then project them into the universe of possibilities. Deciding the order of the items on my bucket list is turning out to be as complicated as removing a cherry pit without staining your fingers. I have an awful lot of years of experience and, even with all this life experience behind me, I still can’t figure out what would truly make me happy before turning off the lights one last time. A bit more success? Finding love? I certainly need more time to taste the true love I’ve always searched for. Before I turn off my heart, I’d love to drive around my native Gaspésie one more time. I’m too busy at the office to do it this summer, but next year, I promise I’ll do it! I’ve often wished I could rely on the companionship of a pet to finally experience the affection and attachment between animal and master. But being overly busy seeding restaurants all across Canada, I’ve always hesitated. Am I too old now to learn the language of an animal? I can just imagine the puppy or cat keeping warm on my couch, watching documentaries with me and playing with my balls of yarn. I dreamed of going to the opera for the first time because I simply adore the human voice and the interaction between the operatic characters. I finally saw “Madama Butterfly” in the spring of 2023. A masterpiece. Will I go back to the opera soon? Absolutely! I’m waiting for Giacomo Puccini’s TURANDOT. This famous story of a fictitious medieval Chinese princess who’s as cruel as she is beautiful. Quick, I have to see whether it’s coming to Montreal soon! I wish to visit Sweden and, more specifically, the boutiques of fashion designer Gudrun Sjödén. In another life, I would have loved being her neighbour and working in her workshops. Ask Google to show you this talented Swedish artist’s unique clothing designs. I also want to visit Iceland, the mother country of my favourite novelist, Audur Ava Ólafsdóttir, who wrote the highly acclaimed “Rosa Candida” and more incredible books. I dreamed of writing and publishing a new book, and I did just that, in autumn 2023. Its moderate success is enough to motivate me to keep on writing. I hope to live for as long as possible – beyond 100 if the angel of longevity will let me. I love waking up every morning, opening my eyes, hearing my heartbeat, getting up and feeling blessed that my fingers can still type away on a keyboard. Your bucket list is a tally of wishes, dreams or challenges you’d like to realize. It’s a bottomless basket in which you can drop a new dream or remove one that no longer tempts you or has already come true. It’s best to try and strike a balance between small and big projects for your list. The easiest ones will give you the confidence to tackle the harder ones! It’s also a good idea to regularly read your list so your determination to keep checking off your life’s desires doesn’t waver. Isn’t it an excellent occasion to rejoice and celebrate? Sharing your bucket list with friends or family might also entice some of them to start their own list. And isn’t that a wonderful gift to offer them? I firmly believe that declaring our wishes to the universe is the best way to make them come true. Cora ❤️

You may remember that I published my bucket list in June 2020. Well, I’m excited to announce that I’m about to check off another one of my goals! In the fall, I’m setting sail on a large cruise ship called the Coral Princess to visit Alaska, its gigantic glaciers, Seward, Juneau, Skagway, Ketchikan, the gold rush route and the state park with towering totem poles. I’ll spend 14 nights on the water, explore picturesque fishing villages and visit whale-watching spots. Maybe I’ll come nose to nose with one? I’ve toured my native Gaspésie over a dozen times and I’ve never even seen a whale! Our departure point is beautiful Vancouver, British Columbia. The day before we leave, we’ll tour the city and charming Granville Island before enjoying a group dinner. The next morning, the large cruise ship pulls anchor and we’ll be off. I’m ecstatic! What a great adventure to have before my final voyage. I can’t describe the accommodations aboard the floating hotel yet, but I’ve inquired with a few fellow travellers and they give them glowing reviews. I can at least share with you the highlights from the travel agency brochure of this once-in-a-lifetime trip I’ll soon be embarking upon. We’ll first make port at Icy Strait Point to take in an interactive show retracing the lives of the region’s original inhabitants through their dances and legends. I’m so eager to learn more! With time sailing along, we’ll reach a huge glacier nicknamed “the sleeping giant” on the fifth day. According to those who’ve already been on this cruise, it astounds the eyes with its vast whiteness and vibrant blue. I’ll take a thousand and one pictures, that’s for sure. We’ll moor in the small town of Sitka, with its unique blend of Russian, Tlingit and American culture. I can look forward to a postcard-perfect setting composed of snowy white mountains, a volcanic mountain, rare fauna and magnificent birds with large orange beaks. I love rare birds, and I’ll definitely take photos of them. On the sixth day, we’ll carefully come alongside Hubbard Glacier, who’s width measures almost 10 kilometres. Since we’ll be accompanied by an expert guide, we shouldn’t miss a single thing. On the seventh day, we’ll dock in a small fishing village, ideal for whale watching and discovering unspoilt nature, notably in Glacier Bay National Park. I just can’t wait! On the eighth day, we’ll sail smoothly through a vast bay of dazzling glaciers and emerald waters. Enchanting scenery that will no doubt remain engraved in my memory. On the ninth and tenth days of the itinerary, we’ll put our feet on American soil again to visit the vestiges of the gold rush era and its old buildings. Then we’re off to Juneau, or “little San Francisco” as it is known, the capital of the American state. That’s where the Mount Roberts Goldbelt Tram will lift us over 1,800 feet in the air. I’m so terrified of heights, I think I’ll pass on the cable car ride even if it means missing out on the remarkable panorama! Braver souls are also invited to fly over the area in a seaplane. No, thanks! On the eleventh day, we’ll discover the typical town of Ketchikan, the totem pole park, the alleys of historic Creek Street and the former red light district where bootleggers once ruled. I’m going to strike it rich in memorable moments! According to those who’ve already been aboard, the food on the liner is sublime. When I was just a small girl accompanying Grandpa Frédéric in the rowboat, he’d congratulate me for “having sea legs.” My small room on the floating hotel has a balcony with 2 chairs, where I plan on spending time scouring the endless horizon. I’ll likely implore the heavens and seas to bring me a whale. From my observatory in the middle of the ocean, will I see giant birds, emperor penguins, shrieking albatrosses, the back of a breaching whale, a school of Alaskan pollock that I can reach out and catch? Voilà! I hope the sea’s blue undulations will inspire me to write you a few letters from Alaska describing my adventure to you as if you were there with me. Cora ❤️

The more I write, the more I can do it anywhere: in a coffee shop, a fast-food joint, at my kitchen table, on my couch or in my bed when sleep is slow to come. Each day, I write something. I note different ideas that come to mind, things I’ve seen or invented. I write my drafts on the small pages of a notepad I can easily carry around. 1, 2, 3, 4 – I number the pages in the top-right corner in a circle the size of a blueberry. I strike out words and erase others; I cross out a sentence that doesn’t belong. On my tablet, I sometimes even delete an entire page. I read my text out loud to ensure it has a musical quality to it. I rarely know exactly what I’m going to write when I start typing on my keyboard. Sometimes I wait, I drink one or two cups of coffee, I stand up and walk in circles around the kitchen table until a word grabs my attention. WINDOWS. A wall in my kitchen is made entirely of windows, flooding the room with light. A red cardinal taps on the glass, an ambulance siren wails loudly and then fades into the background, children’s shrill screams pierce my eardrums. Noise doesn’t bother me and neither does silence, which is like flour waiting to become something else. When I write at home, I listen to Handel, Vivaldi, Gregorian chants and baroque music. Perhaps it helps me to feel safe? Music is generous. It waltzes with my inspiration and produces miracles. I never have meager ideas when a great musical master keeps the rhythm. The pandemic emptied homes of guests, and I learned to appreciate it. I quickly got used to the silence and creative solitude; so much so, that I didn’t notice the time flying by. I’ve always kept my house tidy, so there was no big clean-up to do. My habit of never putting a book back in the right place on the bookshelf produces the only enduring mess really! I have so many books now that I don’t know where to put them anymore. Since I started writing, I never think in terms of breaks, days off or vacation. My light is always on. Stringing words together in a sentence brings me tremendous joy. It just takes one mother word and then its entire brood colours in a few pages in no time. When nothing interesting happens, I vault onto planet HAIKU. You might have heard of these three-line Japanese poems before? Just three lines are all you need to create a castle. They often contain a transparent immediacy, the ephemeral that runs through our lives or an unexpected flowering. The unoccupied mind finds a feeling of openness within the terse lines. My mother was always too busy taking care of us. Many times, Dad would insist that she nap for an hour, but she refused each time. “I’ll rest when I’m dead,” she’d constantly repeat. I’m my mother’s opposite; I love to fall asleep in the middle of the day with a book over my face to hide the light. I also enjoy keeping busy with an unexpected subject for a letter, a flight of rare, thought-provoking expressions. Like Mom used to say regularly, “when we grow up, we have to learn to read between the lines.” My poor parents always navigated between two oceans: indifference and pain. A mother who’d grunt and a father who’d cry most of the time, especially after opening a beer or two to soothe his heart starved for affection. Describing everyday life remains my favourite topic; it’s just as important to me as eating is to stay alive. Inspiration can come from anywhere. I just need to wait for a surge of ideas, almost like a magic trick, a sequence of fascinating and ordinary words. The road taken by words can sometimes be a bumpy one. I imagine a conversation between the two crows on the roof of the garage and suddenly, the storm softens my ideas. Most of the time, the real and unreal happily collide. I’m constantly on the lookout for a good sentence, an unusual fact, a childhood memory or a wrong turn on the road. Sadly, I haven’t kept a diary for very long. I’ve always loved to write. The husband forbade me from doing so, so I wrote in secret for the 13 years we were married. I typically wrote at night and burnt the pages as soon as the ink dried. Today, I’m free and write night and day as I please. I don’t do it to become famous, but to stay effervescent, to cultivate the best of myself and share it with my loyal readers. I sleep, dream and ramble on occasion. Dear readers, I’d like you all to sit at my big writing table, mingling fantasy, sweet madness and freshly baked apple pies. Cora ❤️

Dear readers, do you remember the journalist who has interviewed me on a few occasions? Well, the young woman approached me with new questions yesterday. Will I play along? I glance at her email; she begins with the query… — “Why did you keep your husband’s last name after divorcing him?” — “After escaping from our home, I left my kids with my parents to quickly find work. It was December 1980, and I took a job as a hostess in a popular restaurant in the Greater Montreal area. In less than a year, I had moved up to become the daytime manager and then the general manager 5 months later. I worked there for 6½ years until I landed in bed from a serious burnout. One day, after recovering, I was driving my eldest son to work when I saw a “RESTAURANT FOR SALE” sign in a window. The small location became a Chez Cora restaurant, and I became Madame Cora. Do you think I had time back then to start the application to change my surname? DEFINITELY NOT! Legally I wasn’t obligated to take my maiden name again. I simply preferred to save my money rather than go through all the paperwork required to rid me of his last name. Nobody knows his first name, so it’s fine.” — “You often talk about your marriage as your biggest regret. However, you seem like an optimist who knows how to get herself out of a bad situation. You got married because you were pregnant with your first child. Tell us about the 3 greatest things your marriage brought you.” — “Having studied Greek civilization at college as a young girl, I knew many Ancient Greek words, so I quickly grasped the modern version. It was a rare wedding gift that I still appreciate today. Same goes for the Greek cuisine I learned in no time with my sisters-in-law. I also spent 6 months in a small village in Greece where I cooked with my husband’s mother every day. She’d compliment my cooking and her beloved son also enjoyed my food. Lastly, my children will always remain the greatest gifts life gave me through this rickety marriage.” — “What’s the last book you finished reading and which one have you just started?” — “For no particular reason, I’d never read any of the books of Haitian-Canadian writer Dany Laferrière, but I recently read his last book, “Un certain art de vivre” – only 134 pages. I really loved his dazzling and profound thoughts. It’s a type of naïve self-portrait which, according to the author, took him more time to write than his other successful novels. The book I’m reading right now is only 200 pages long, but I wish it were over 2,000 because I love the story and the quality of the writing. The title is “Là où je me terre” (“As the Andes Disappeared” in English) by Caroline Dawson, who recently passed away. I highly recommend the book.” — “List three things you’d bring to a desert island.” — “You can’t guess? I’d bring paper, ink and a good fountain pen. Every day I’d talk to the birds, I’d live off smelts, wild strawberries and sublime inspiration.” — “Do you prefer the city or the country?” — “Without question, I prefer my beautiful Laurentians and the village where I reside. It has all the amenities to make me happy! I love to drive in the summertime and I often take the road from my town to Mont-Laurier. My eyes take in the beauty of the landscape at every turn, and this summer, I’m particularly proud of myself. In fact, all the wild lupines I transplanted in front of my house last year have bloomed into a lovely cluster. I love nature’s summer green and winter white. I have my head in the clouds in the country and a small pied-à-terre in Montreal.” — “What’s your favourite season?” — “I don’t really have one. Every morning that I can still open my eyes, get out of bed, wash up, get dressed and go for a walk is a celebration! I live in a big house filled with books. I write every day to keep my mind active. The present moment is therefore my favourite.” — “What part of the writing process do you find the hardest?” — “Writing is a huge pleasure for me and really, it’s not difficult. I enjoy each step of the process. Napping on the couch hoping for a good idea. Reading an interesting magazine and cutting out a paragraph that teaches me something new. Listening to my friends talk and getting a glimpse of a story that inspires me. My mind is filled with words that dance, swirl and slide gently between my lines. Cora ❤️

For the first time in my life, I’m interested in astrology. I was born on May 27, 1947, so that makes my zodiac sign Gemini. All my life I thought the horoscope section on the last page of the newspaper was some kind of swindle for gullible people seeking illumination. When I was dirt poor, I would daydream about what I would do with all the money that my horoscope occasionally assured me was coming. If not good fortune or money, the chief astrologer at least promised me a handsome suitor. Solitude weighed upon me so heavily at times that I forced myself to believe it. The other morning, I couldn’t help but become curious when my friends started discussing astrology. Suddenly, I want to know more about this Gemini woman that I am! I quiz Google and learn that “the Gemini woman is the queen of communication. Always smiling and attentive to others, she knows what to say at the right moment and infuses energy and a good mood.” Admittedly this description seems like a good fit. Google continues: “at work, the Gemini woman is an essential element who has a stabilizing effect, motivates staff and brings positive vibes.” That also sounds like me! I think I was a fairly charismatic president who mastered the daily challenges of a large business. The description ends by saying that if I were a small animal, I’d most likely be a busy bee, pollinating from flower to flower. Looking up words, typing on the keyboard each day, isn’t that harvesting my famous Sunday letters? This morning, I’m back at the coffee shop with my friends and I ask everyone about their zodiac sign. Steven the retired cop is a Capricorn, Jean-Pierre and Claude are both Sagittarius, George the businessman is a Taurus, Denis is a Scorpio, Doris a Cancer, Bruce the accountant is a Libra and my dear friend Éric is an Aries. Late afternoon, I head to a bookstore and find a wonderful book on astrology. As soon as I get home, I read through a few pages and I’m now a tad more knowledgeable. I learn in the opening of the book that “astrology isn’t a religion or a belief. It’s a system that is part astronomical, part psychological and part forecasting, but unlike many other forms of divination that have come and gone over the centuries, astrology retains its popularity, for the simple reason that it works.” If it still works, it’s certainly because there’s something worthwhile knowing. But before I get too excited, I quiz Google again about the book’s author. Sasha Fenton is a “professional astrologer. She has already published six volumes on the subject and writes columns for many magazines and newspapers. She’s a frequent guest on radio and television shows in the UK. She also hosts workshops and conferences at many astrology events around the world.” The book is serious, and I’ll try to be serious too, for my own sake and the sake of my good friends. We’ll certainly poke fun at our quirks and brag about our innate strengths. Since we’re all approximately 75 to 80, it’s about time we learn more about the solar system and ourselves. Personally, I’ve always had the habit of looking up at the sky, imagining it empty, except when the clouds were heavy with moisture. Today, I’m aware of everything that this white desert hides behind the clouds. I read the scholarly book, skipping the pages that are too difficult. I learn that my Gemini lunar sign is air. Ignorant of its meaning, I read on. The author explains that Gemini women typically climb the ladder of success and lead a life that many are envious of. Wow – something else that’s spot on! The final point I note is that “Geminis show determination when the topic interests them; they will devote themselves to studying a subject in depth.” Why don’t I kill two birds with one stone? First, with the help of a Sagittarius, I’ll try to understand astrology better. And second, I’ll become closer with Claude, a former electricity teacher and bush pilot. I’ve already noticed that we have many things in common: we share the same family values, we read the same books, we had the same number of children, we both love nature and are of the same age. Would Sasha Fenton be available for an overseas consultation? CORA ❤️

The other day, I was invited to give a lecture about my book in a long-term care facility. My listeners were mostly women my age and three men in relatively good shape. They all seemed happy to have the opportunity to question me about my life, rave about my delicious breakfasts and inquire about my future. I took their questions about this and that, I floundered a little and shared some spicy bits of my long life. Then the host invited me to meet with a few residents who knew of me but were confined to their beds. I accepted and we went up one floor where we met a few brave women who were doggedly fighting cancer. I opened the door to Room 118 half-way and was startled by the words “For Christ’s sake, Jesus! You forgot me again last night!” The woman was talking to the gold-coloured crucifix hanging in her room. “Everyone around me is dead – my damned husband, my two brothers, my three sisters, my two daughters and the youngest one’s boy from AIDS. The devil can take me if the good Lord no longer wants me!” The host explained to me in a hushed voice that the poor woman was a living miracle, a force of nature. In the last two years, she had endured several surgeries for various issues and was still alive… despite herself, it seems. I don’t know what to say, I stutter, at a loss for words. The elderly resident pulled the bed sheet over her head, signalling she no longer wanted to speak with us. My heart searched for a few words of consolation, but nothing came out of my stunned mouth. My host then invited me to visit the kitchen and view the well-arranged dining area and balanced menu. I only have praise for establishments like this one. I leave behind a few copies of my book at the library and thank my host before taking my leave. I still have a clear mind, sturdy legs to walk on and hard-working fingers. I am blessed to be able to express myself in words almost every day and give my old brain a workout! My head is an inexhaustible barrel of memories; many of them assail me and deserve to be brought back to life for a short while. I remember it like it was yesterday: each one of us in our group of perfectly behaved girls had a rosary and was required to attend church at 7 p.m. every evening to say our prayers. If we’d forgotten our rosary or mantilla, we had to go back home to get it. I also remember all the sight-singing a nun forced me to practise for 2 long years. I had no musical talent then and it’s still true today! The only thing my memory managed to record is “do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do.” Yet another memory surfaces! It was a Friday night, right before my birthday. I opened the kitchen door, I saw my mother dipping an apple in boiling syrup. I’d seen other children enjoying them, but it was the first time she’d made us candy apples, a special treat for my birthday. The school week was over, and Mom had boiled small wild strawberries to make a red glaze for the apples. My brother was stomping his foot to be first in line, but the honour was of course given to the birthday girl. I’ll never forget those candy apples. One year for Halloween, I prepared some for my own kids, but they all preferred the coloured candies they’d collected in their baskets. Age is a wheel that never ceases to turn. We are born, we live, we die, our hearts won’t stop loving. Who can predict my last hour? I move forward, I take a step back, I climb, I fall. My translucent spirit lets the light in. Colour has always brightened my appearance. The yellow of the sun keeps me happy. The blue of the sky and sea soothes me. Orange invites me on adventures. Green gives me hope. Red and pink excite my heart. The white page bids me to write. And all the shades of black scare me. CORA ❤️

I don’t have illusions anymore. I’m too old to be a young prodigy, but my stubborn head never ceases to hope. It works its thoughts to the bone. Better than anyone, it insists, dreams, trips over details and imagines itself in heaven. I darken lines night and day lately, I pile up the pages and feed on creased papers. Desperately, I search for my path. Will it emerge from an idea sown somewhere in my past that suddenly springs from the earth? I’m worried, I’m cold. A coat of reassuring phrases might warm me up. After we escaped the apartment, my poor kids were tossed around like little frogs forced to grow up too quickly, without tenderness and cuddles. In those days, life went around in circles like a fairground ride. I had an expansive vocabulary yet had no voice to describe the carnage the horrible husband wreaked on my writing. Am I too old to start a new career? A new book might interest me, keep me busy, make me better. The process of creating a plot fascinates me. I love linking ideas together, fragments of phrases, souvenirs that are still warm and even strange words that signify something. The accumulation of lines provides new perspectives that serve as fertile ground for fresh ideas. In my eyes, even a nonsensical sentence deserves to be put on paper. It may never move beyond the scribbling stage, but it may also have enough vitality to become an article, an amusing letter or even a road laid with a hundred pages. I suffer from emptiness this morning. I open the window and welcome dawn. The promise of sunshine simmers behind the village’s steeple. Writing is like dancing: one word forward, one word back, then the music starts. My FM radio keeps pace. Between a rain shower and a sunburn, my heart sways. A memory resurfaces. A certain afternoon in May before turning 17. There had been a power outage at college and, since we were all boarding students, we were forbidden from leaving the gated school grounds. I had a few apples in my bag, two dates and a piece of Oka cheese. At the time, I was sweet on a certain guy named Paul, whom I hadn’t even spoken to. The heat was heavy that day and several of the boys removed their vests, rolled up their sleeves and unbuttoned their shirts. Beads of sweat were rolling down my forehead, but my heart shivered with fear! Writing often breaks like a tidal wave, entering our minds and shredding everything in it – the judgements we make, our expectations, impatience, ego, received beliefs and all the terrible faces of fear. Writing liberates us from this existential prison. The more I read, the more I dream, the more I live, my imagination becomes increasingly elastic. I write to learn how to write, to know myself better, to discover which category of mechanical pencil I belong to. I scribble in my bed, resting in a hammock, dipping my toes in the pool or admiring the song of the finches and sharp caws of the intrepid crows. Summer is my best season. No matter how much I implore inspiration, search for it, beg for it, I must abide by its time. I know she cares for me and keeps watch over my writing. I appreciate all the different facets of writing and work joyfully because of it: when I’m researching topics for my letters, when I have to document a subject I am unfamiliar with , when I jot down a million details in order to master a subject, when my mind races and my heart pounds. I drink a dozen coffees a day, eat lightly, listen to Gregorian chants, snooze for two hours and darken paper until a final period shuts me up. I don’t write to perform, I write to talk to my loyal readers. If I keep it up, surely they won’t forget me. Cora ❤️

A few months ago, my good friend Éric and I went on a road trip to Ottawa. I wanted to stop by and say hello to a few of our franchisees in the area and then visit Whole Foods Market on Bank Street, the Moulin de Provence and ByWard Market. The highlight of the day was going to be dinner at a world-renowned Chinese restaurant, famous for its delicious egg rolls. I enjoy doing this kind of trip from time to time to visit our restaurants all over Canada. I take the opportunity to meet with our franchisees and get acquainted with our talented training staff. They are my head and eyes in the restaurants, and they always seem happy to see me. We have lunch or dinner together when our schedules allow. I’m extremely grateful to all of them who keep a close watch on everything and support our dedicated franchisees. When I close my eyes for the last time, I’d like my ideas to be spread at the foot of a huge apple tree. Every day, with my remains entwined with the roots, I’ll imagine a thousand apple seeds that will one day grow into orchards. That’s how I picture my franchise network. Since I won’t die any time soon, let’s get back to my road trip! On Highway 50 to Ottawa, I noticed that a caring angel was sweeping away the final remnants of winter while we discussed cooking and food. My friend Éric, originally from Switzerland, immigrated to Canada more than 30 years ago. He studied the great culinary wisdom in his country and worked in the great palaces of Geneva and Lausanne. A seasoned traveller, he scours the world in search of new flavours. His palate is a close cousin to the great Bocuse’s palate. The friendship that ties us together tastes incredibly delicious! We frequently cook together, and we experiment new ways to reinvent recipes and surprise our friends. Once in downtown Ottawa, we made our way to Bank Street to the extraordinary Whole Foods Market, which I discovered during one of my road trips to the United States. The environmentally responsible supermarket offers fresh, organic, natural and ecological products. I feast my eyes as I stroll the aisles at a snail’s pace. I discover lots of excellent products each time I visit: food, pastries, unusual cereals, exotic fruit, cosmetics, soaps and fish of all kinds. I’m also crazy about their take-out dishes. Since we had just enjoyed breakfast at our CORA restaurant in Kanata, I’m reasonable and only buy smoked salmon to bring home. Éric has a passion for magic facial creams and spends over a half hour in the section stocked with these miracles in a jar. I’m hardly exaggerating! The man just celebrated his 70th birthday, but he looks like he’s 50. He only eats quality, and if possible, organic food. He’s a big lover of meat, which he skilfully cooks, and he’s an excellent saucier. I may be an expert in delicious morning dishes, but I have no talent with meat, probably because I eat so little of it. Like my family says, I’m a woman who was raised on Gaspésie fish, who now eats cod from Iceland. It’s the best cod in the world, according to my friend Éric. Time flies when there are so many things to see and we still have to visit our CORA restaurant on Rideau Street. I thought I remembered the address, but my memory is as old as Mississauga’s former mayor, Hazel McCallion, who reigned for 36 years. I had the chance to meet her when we inaugurated our first restaurant in Ontario, and then a few weeks later at her house, when she invited me for tea. This extraordinary woman passed away just two weeks short of turning 102, in 2023. She was a model of efficiency, and I hope to match her longevity too. We take a few breaths of fresh air as we stroll towards the huge blue-coloured CORA with its walls covered in pictures presenting a visual history of our brand. In this inviting setting, I have the honour of shaking hands with my franchisee. We take a few pictures to capture the moment and, as is often the case, a few customers approach me and ask for a photo with “Madame Cora.” My heart, like a true queen, loves all its subjects. I might not know romantic love, but my life overflows with love. I have extraordinary friends, brilliant colleagues, well-intentioned franchisees and patrons who have always chosen me. A turn to the right, a turn to the left. We’re looking for the ByWard Market and its famous Moulin de Provence. When Barack Obama was on his official visit to Canada on February 19, 2009, he went into the Moulin de Provence to buy cookies for his two daughters and wife. He picked the red and white cookies with the name “Canada” written on them. After his famous visit, people went crazy for these “Obama cookies.” The Moulin de Provence sold so many that the shop’s owner thanked the President by donating $10,000 to the Obama Foundation. We enter the market and I quickly plug in the next stop on my phone: the GOLDEN PALACE. I’ve only been once, some 10 years ago, and I’ve wanted to go back ever since but was always too busy opening the next restaurant. Life goes by so fast! Then the pandemic shut us away and I forgot about my old favourite addresses. My friend kindly indulges me and agrees to drive us to the old Chinese restaurant. It’s not the type of food he enjoys, and when he sees the building that looks as old as Noah’s Ark, he seems reluctant to set foot inside. The Golden Palace celebrated its 63rd anniversary in 2023, and I’d swear it’s never been renovated. Everything is dilapidated, worn by time and wear. There are two wobbly chandeliers and, in a corner, a decorative cat or perhaps a giant tiger. All the waiters look like they’ll soon celebrate their centenary birthday, but they are exceptionally polite, welcoming and warm. I’m almost certain they’re all related. Smiling broadly, they present us with menus as old as they are. I suggest that we order dinner No. 2, for two. It includes two wonton soups, an egg roll each, a chicken chow mein dish, BBQ spareribs, chicken fried rice and two almond cookies. When Éric bites into his egg roll, he swoons. He’s never tasted anything so good! Every dish is delicious, and we quickly make short work of our meal. I hadn’t told my friend that I was already familiar with the Golden Palace. Since he likes egg rolls but never finds any that satisfy his demanding palate, I wanted to surprise him and introduce him to the rolls that have made the Golden Palace world-famous. They are so popular, they are delivered in two-dozen boxes all over the world by overnight express. Of course we leave the restaurant with a dozen delicious egg rolls each. I’d only been to the Golden Palace once prior to this trip, but a few thoughtful staff members from our Ottawa franchise network would bring me back a dozen of these deep-fried wonders when they visited the head office. Last night, before I sat down to write this letter, I popped 3 of them into the toaster oven to heat up for dinner. Cora ❤️

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 ❤️