Husband's dream, my nightmare – Chapter 6

My friend Thanassis insisted so much that Husband finally accepted to take a short trip to Germany to look for a good job. Many Greeks travelled there to get acclimated and explore the opportunities; they’d settle in the country’s largest cities, where every street corner bustled with commerce. Newcomers were almost certain to earn good money either as factory workers, clothing store owners or fast-food operators. “What’s the best city to visit?” I asked. Thanassis replied that almost all German cities were thriving and attractive in their own way. One of his cousins had opened a souvlaki bar in Cologne in July 1965 and, 7 years later, owned a total of 8 and was now rich. I went to the small village library to try to learn more about the city of Cologne. I liked the name and I’d almost certainly like its smell. Knock, knock. An ancient-looking woman who must’ve been 100 opened the door. — “Ti thelis, koritsi mou?” (or, what do you want, young girl?) I explained the reason for my visit. The librarian took a piece of paper out of a wooden file cabinet as old as herself. — “Everything is decrepit in this old place, young miss, but our fact sheets are updated every five years for foreign countries. In 1970, the city of Cologne had 1,073,096 inhabitants.” — “Could you tell me, ma’am, how many kilometers do we have to drive to get from Thessaloniki to Cologne?” — “Ask the mayor. He goes twice a year to visit his daughter and 3 grandsons. I would have loved to accompany the two men on the trip, but it was out of the question. Three babies depended entirely on me at home! Thanassis informed me that the distance between Thessaloniki and Cologne was 2,157 kilometers – about a 20-hour drive – plus hundreds more kilometres more to visit the city properly. Moreover, the German language is unusual. It doesn’t come from the tip of the tongue, but rather from the throat. Its tonalities are hoarse, guttural, rough and rocky, like pebbles tumbling down a mountain. “Does Thanassis speak German?” Husband asked. Under my mother-in-law’s watchful eye, my sister-in-in-law Despina and I prepared a basket filled with food for our explorers. Spinach puff pastries, wine leaves stuffed with meat, roasted eggplant slices, pickled beets, feta, the basturma (thinly sliced air-cured beef) Husband loved so much, a dozen chicken oregano skewers and, of course, a large kilo of tzatziki I’d made myself with freshly grated cucumber. In that very moment, I experienced the strange happiness of realizing that my heart never gets discouraged, it’s only capable of hoping. I made the most of Husband’s absence to convince his mother little by little to come live in Canada with Despina. Life in the village was becoming very difficult without a man at home. The arms of neighbours and cousins were no longer enough to help maintain the old 2-story cement house. Each night, when I rocked my babies to sleep, I prayed fervently we’d leave this almost deserted village. If it weren’t for my kids, lightning could strike me and I wouldn’t care! But they were my flesh, my heart, my thoughts and my tearful eyes which, slowly, were becoming clear. With Husband gone, the three little ones and I slept in the middle of the bed and dreamt that we were in paradise. The following morning when Despina went to the post office, she learned that five large suitcases had arrived in town for Husband. After more than six months, our possessions from Montreal had finally arrived in Greece! I was immediately tempted to send them back home, but I hesitated. Would we wait for the baker’s old truck to collect our suitcases in which I’d hidden a few books in my undergarments, where Husband never looked? I was worried, I was crying and I was dying to write a few lines of poetry to unload my burden. Like open wounds that bleed and dry without healing, my needs were never satisfied. Seven interminable days had gone by since Husband and Thanassis had left for Cologne and I still hadn’t heard from them. Had Husband found an interesting, well-paying job? Perhaps at a souvlaki bar run by a Greek? Or a position as foreman in a fur coat factory? In Montreal, in those days, most of the Greek wives worked in fur coat factories. They’d skillfully sew the lining. They weren’t paid by the hour or the week, but by the number of coats they could line a day. The luckiest ones could count on the grandmother who lived with them to take care of the kids while they sewed away. And so these brave immigrant women would bring 2 or 3 coats home to sow after dinner, supporting their husbands until the restaurant took off. What could I have done to support this husband of mine who danced until the wee hours of the morning and slept until noon? Not to mention his penchant for seduction! Once, at my cousin’s wedding, I saw him in action on the dancefloor with the girls who practically had to fan themselves to keep from fainting from just watching him wiggle around. His absence was like an open door. Remembering that moment on the dancefloor, I was tempted to dress my babies and run! TO BE CONTINUED… Cora ❤️

On our way back from the hospital, neither Thanassis, my husband or I said a single word. The unease was so overwhelming, you could feel it in the air. I had woken in a puddle of blood on the stretcher and was asked to swallow two pills; I was in a state of shock. I’d given birth to a lovely baby just a little more than 40 days ago and now blood flowed between my thighs once again. The old doctor had damaged, butchered and aborted me. When Husband got me pregnant with my first child, my two brothers-in-law had convinced him to marry me because I was the first one of his conquests who refused to go through with the abortion he wanted. It was a shotgun wedding. I’d agreed to it then, but this time, I wasn’t even given a chance to voice my wishes. I was thirsty. On the backseat of the old car the village baker owned, my body was contorted in pain. In front of me, Husband smoked like a chimney and entertained himself by trying to keep the smoke in his lungs for as long as possible. In his empire of silence, he completely ignored me. I looked at my friend Thanassis in the rear-view mirror and my mood lifted. — “Please, Thanassis, open a window. My mouth is completely dry. I need to drink water.” Husband continued to ignore me and swallow cigarette smoke until we stopped at the only gas station between the city and the village, located almost at the halfway point. — “Let’s get out and stretch our legs,” Husband said. — “Good idea,” replied Thanassis. I opened the backseat door and did my best to get out. As I took a step, I noticed that I’d stained my dress and the backseat and that blood was trickling down my legs. — “Thanassis, please ask someone for a wet cloth so I can freshen up. And if there’s a woman around, I’d like to talk to her.” An elderly woman seated in a corner dropped her knitting and approached me. She understood the situation immediately when she saw my frightened eyes, my pale face and my legs glued together. The old woman wiped the blood from my thighs and handed me clean strips of fabric and suggested I go lie down while she cleaned the backseat of the car. Once inside, she led me to the back. That’s when I discovered that the gas station housed a small secret room from which the elderly lady provided nursing services as well as the occasional abortion for local women. She helped me onto her makeshift bed covered in old bedsheets. When we finally made it back, I immediately told Despina, my sister-in-law, that after the usual postpartum examination, I’d been put to sleep without my consent and that they’d removed the embryo of another child. “Men have no idea what women go through. I was happily married and I gave birth to a still-born son,” she told me.  After a few tears were shed, I told her about the old woman at the garage. According to Despina, it was a well-kept secret that everyone knew, but never talked about. Halfway between Thessaloniki and the few villages near Krya Vrysi, young girls who ended up pregnant illicitly visited the old woman at the garage. She’d remove the unwanted package and sew up the hymen so the young girl would be eligible for marriage again. This reminds me of a story from the time I lived in Montreal. I’d been married for just over two years and my belly was almost ready to deliver my second baby, a daughter. One of Husband’s good friends had invited us to his upcoming wedding. Mercifully one of my sisters-in-law lent me a maternity dress that fit me. Born in Canada to a couple of Greek immigrants, the 17-year-old bride worked with her father who’d become a restaurant owner on Park Avenue. She spoke English and French perfectly. In those days, believe it not, it was customary for the future husband to sleep with the bride-to-be a day or two before the wedding so that he could be certain of her virginity. Unfortunately, in this case, the promised girl wasn’t. When the groom’s mother found out, she promptly cancelled the wedding. The future husband who loved his bride dearly, ended up with empty arms and a broken heart. But let’s get back to the day after my follow-up visit at the hospital. Husband was up and he was holding the littlest one in his arms. He was tickling him to try and make me laugh, I guess. It was my third baby, but he was holding one of his children in his arms for the very first time. Did he want to be forgiven, exonerated, pardoned? Did he want me to believe that he’d done us a service the day before? Everything about his behaviour exasperated me. He was an uneducated, lazy, ignorant man who was full of himself, irresponsible, illogical and unpredictable. The latter terrified me the most. Did he still think that life in Greece was a lot easier than in America? It had been over six months, and he hadn’t yet found an opportunity to make a good living. Had he even actually looked for work? That month, the garden was exploding with vegetables. I’d harvested and stored them on the second floor of the house. We’d gotten so many onions that I had to teach Despina, my sister-in-law, how to make preserves. One day, I dispatched a big white chicken for dinner. The kids had fun playing with the bird’s feathers. The oldest loved chicken thighs with shoestring fries prepared in a cast iron pan. The kids would ask for ketchup! What to do? I puréed a few ripe tomatoes and made homemade ketchup. At the end of September, I started to worry. Seeing that Husband still wasn’t working, the baker gave me day-old bread and a few unsold buns for my kids. Were Husband’s pockets truly that empty? I had no idea how much he had. At the village coffee shop, the men were all talking about the terrible lack of good-paying jobs. — “Where could we go?” — “Maybe Germany?” whispered Thanassis. “Most Greek men are already there working in factories, on farms or in restaurants.” — “Germany, Canada or the US… it’s all the same!” barked Husband when I tried to test the waters. — “How about Hamburg, Munich or Cologne? Your two brothers live like kings in Canada with their restaurants. Their families want for nothing. Please let’s return to Canada. Let’s ask for the baby’s passport and go. Let’s not delay!” TO BE CONTINUED… Cora ❤️

In 1972’s Greece, when a woman gave birth, she was required to stay at home for 40 days. On the 41st sunrise, she would present her child to the “pope”, the parish priest. This marked the end of her quarantine. I’d given birth to my third child in late June, and I was staying at home to care for my kids while Husband was ostensibly trying to find work to support his family. Krya Vrysi was so small that everyone knew each other. I guess Husband had forgotten that detail. That’s how his secret spread like wildfire on the main street. He wanted to see the world, live in a big city where he could become a business owner. What would he sell? God only knew and the devil would’ve bet money on it. One day when my friend Thanassis was enjoying a few cups of coffee on the main street, he quickly learned of my husband’s plan: he’d gotten it into his head to start selling flokatis, or traditional, handmade shaggy rugs that weighed at least 1,800 grams a square metre. The pure virgin sheep wool of these magnificent rugs was exquisitely soft, fluffy and warm. At one point, they were even a sought-after luxury item. However, flokatis were no longer popular in America, let alone Greece, likely because homes were making the switch to electric heat. When Husband finally decided to tell me about his new project, I replied that even his own mother and sister didn’t keep flokatis anymore because they were too heavy to shake out, too difficult to carry and too expensive to replace. According to Thanassis, only the poor and the gypsies appreciated them because they’d get the rugs for free from the well-off who no longer wanted them. I didn’t know it at the time, but that project would end up in a dead end, like many of his muddled aspirations. July 19 finally came around and it was my daughter’s birthday. She shared her Greek grandmother’s first name: Getsemani. Despina, my sister-in-law, had secretly made a cake using barely ripe cherries and topped it with 3 small pink candles. The village hairdresser had offered to cut the little one’s hair by an inch so it would grow stronger and faster. Even Thanassis had bought a sweet yellow dress for the girl. Husband was obviously going to miss the celebration because he was in Thessaloniki. He’d been going there more often now, and I couldn’t help but wonder why. Was he still looking for a way to earn money? Or was he indulging in female company? He always had some secret project on the side, an excuse to leave the village regularly. In the meantime, I tended to the large garden and filled six or seven huge buckets at the well for our daily needs. Most of the village’s homes didn’t have running water and it enraged my mother-in-law. Couldn’t her precious son fix the plumbing instead of wasting his time dreaming up plans? Thankfully, his hard-working sister adored taking care of my children. Every morning, she’d wash, dress and feed them, and bring me my baby to breastfeed. In August, I proudly presented my baby to the village “pope.” I had to go back to the hospital in Thessaloniki for the routine postpartum exam at the end of my quarantine. Thanassis accepted to drive Husband and me there. I was in great shape; I hadn’t gained a single pound although I devoured lots of bread each day and Greek delicacies dipped in olive oil. When we arrived, an old doctor greeted Husband, ordered me to remove my underwear and to lie down on a narrow table. The glove-clad man examined my breasts, belly and birth canal, which had almost completely healed. Then both men started talking in a foreign dialect I didn’t understand. I only caught a few words and glimpses, but it was all I needed to understand that something wasn’t right. The doctor left for a few minutes and came back with a syringe in hand. “A small injection to calm you,” he told me as he smiled. I didn’t even have the time to ask Husband what was happening, I’d fallen asleep. When I woke up, the old doctor was gone. The stretcher on which I was resting was stained with blood. When I saw the thick sanitary pad placed between my legs, I quickly realized why I’d been anaesthetized against my will. I was afraid and crying. Husband, who’d run off to the pharmacy to get the two tablets prescribed by the doctor, which I was to swallow without chewing, returned and helped me get dressed. He took my arm to help me down the stairs and we left the hospital without exchanging a single word. TO BE CONTINUED… Cora ❤️

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 ❤️

During the 13 years of marriage to the man who desiccated my life, I was forbidden to write and socialize with family, childhood friends or even the few neighbours that made friendly overtures. Back then, I couldn’t even imagine that I’d somehow survive and eventually strike out on my own to reach such great heights in the business world. But since I’m terrified of heights, I’ve never made it a life goal to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro. This makes me think of Suzan, one of our long-time employees. This brave woman, much braver than I, has been a single mother all her life. We are very similar in many ways, both being audacious and roughly the same age. She also shares my passion for the Cora business. Unlike me, however, she’s clearly not afraid of heights. On January 6, 2025, as people get back into the post-holiday swing, Suzan and her partner will be climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. That’s right! It takes my breath away just thinking about it. They'll be climbing to the very top of one of the world's tallest peaks, where “the earth meets the sky” as the locals say. For this great female adventurer, sports have always occupied a big part of her life. “I love the challenge mainly; the competitive part is much less important.” she tells me. Suzan’s dream of climbing Kilimanjaro is one of the biggest challenges she’s ever taken on. During our lunches together, Suzan often talks about all the preparation that goes into getting ready: the long hikes of varying elevations and in all kinds of weather conditions; strength training to build muscle; lots of walking; and a variety of cardiovascular exercises. She explains that “the goal is to improve our endurance and cardio capacity, as oxygen becomes increasingly scarce the higher you go.” The climb itself will take 7 days of hard physical effort. The descent is over in just one day. Wow! Can you believe it? I feel gripped by fear just imagining the height! Twelve months of hard training for a vertical trip that will last less than 10 days! “It’s an adventure of a lifetime for us, and we want to share it with others,” explains Suzan. “I was wondering how we might do this when the idea to organize a fundraiser came to me. We’ll be climbing over 6,000 metres, so we thought we'd raise a dollar for every metre. A total of $6,000. Every penny raised will go directly to Breakfast Club of Canada.” Suzan and I, and all our employees, understand the financial challenges that many parents face every day. Providing their kids with food is typically one of them. For many families, the first meal of the day is vital. For over 15 years, Cora has partnered with Breakfast Club of Canada to help ensure Canadian kids can thrive and grow up with the belief that they can do anything. Plus, since October 2019, when customers choose the Breakfast for the Club dish from the menu, 50 cents goes to the organization. We also run a number of activities that enable us to make a difference. For example, during our $1 Kids’ menu promotion, every dollar raised directly supports the Club. It's our way of helping children in need realize their full potential – one breakfast at a time. In Canada, one in three children are at risk of going to school hungry. Their performance and development suffer in a number of ways as a result; a hungry child lacks energy, creativity and concentration. Their ability to learn and behaviour are also impacted. The Club gives children the chance to start each school day with a nutritious meal. Just like on a quest to summit Kilimanjaro, nothing in life is guaranteed. However, if we put our hearts into it, we can, step by step, most definitely achieve it. I’ll share more news with you about Suzan and her partner’s trip of a lifetime in the coming months. Until then, I invite you to take part in their adventure by following them on their Facebook page! 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 ❤️