Optimism

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 ❤️

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

I love to write, and this morning, I want to offer you a list of specially chosen words. They’re ordinary yet meaningful words that contain messages capable of making our daily lives better. TODAY is a succession of encounters, actions and moments that can be fully lived in the present. Take the time to appreciate what you say and what you’re doing today because tomorrow is already knocking at your door. BENEVOLENCE is a validation of trust. In our relationships with others, this way of being serves to create selfless connections devoid of prejudice. I always try to be empathic and friendly to others. Maybe that’s how I attracted such good friends? Any accomplishment is an occasion to CELEBRATE, to praise a person’s achievements and highlight a person, team or result. During my years as a businesswoman with not a second to spare, I often forgot to honour my colleagues and employees’ successes. Today, I thank them a lot more often, and I hope that, one day, my writing will read like a love song to the humanity of ordinary people. Every night, before I fall asleep, I dream of a TOMORROW that will always be better than yesterday. My head on the pillow, I imagine tomorrow as more beautiful, more enlightened and more hopeful. I’m an idealist – the future is positive. I take action, I do what I can today and I’m always excited about tomorrow. HOPE is a sentiment that keeps me confidently waiting for a happy ending. It’s a promise that re-energizes me each time. Hope is a new day that opens windows in my heart. I hope for the impossible and realize what’s possible. I’d like to learn to send myself a CONGRATULATIONS letter. Congratulations on my Sunday letters, on these specially chosen words and on the tremendous happiness I get from knowing you read my letters. Do something tangible, dear readers. Congratulate yourselves on being alive every morning. Buy yourself flowers or chocolates. Expect the best and congratulate yourself with each accomplishment. My friends are open, generous, refined and considerate. Their KINDNESS “is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.” (Mark Twain) I love my friends so much, and I never take advantage of their kindness. I’d be worried that I’d exhaust their goodwill. Tonight, the great Simone de Beauvoir teaches me “that between two individuals, HARMONY can never be taken for granted; it must be constantly conquered.” Wow! I listen to soothing music, search for affinities and a successful balance. When it comes to the fellowship between two beings, maybe I’m taking giant steps forward. IMAGINATION has always been my friend and that little voice inside my head. I love to write, and when my sky gets cloudy, she comes to my rescue. She throws pink and blue on my page. “Let’s go on a trip!” she tells me. Imagination is the air that fills my hot-air balloon and gives me wings. I dream, fly and imagine that I’m writing my best novel. What I don’t see is infinitely more important than what I see. Being capable of finding our own JOY in others’ joys, perhaps that’s the secret to happiness. I worked my fingers to the bone, bustled, hustled and, happily, I experienced moments of tremendous joy. My first-born’s smile, my daughter’s cradle that I embroidered myself… Today, I’ve come to believe that I was born under a lucky star. I believe in myself. According to Hindu tradition, each person’s fate is determined by how well they lived in their previous life: the one who is blessed today lived a good life before. Each person has their own KARMA, I’d say. If we want to change our destiny, we have to get on with it. In everything I start, I try to do the best I can. I recoil, I move forward, but I never give up. Be a free thinker; a free, happy-go-lucky person who uses their free will. FREEDOM is one of the most precious gifts heaven has given humankind. So many dictatorships chain men and women for no reason at all. You probably know Bernard Werber, one of the most-read novelists since the publication of his novel The Ants. He wrote, “men’s free will consists in choosing the woman who will decide for them.” Haha! According to Ingrid Bergman, the illustrious Swedish actress, “happiness is good health and a bad MEMORY.” Like a muscle that is developed and maintained. Memory stores information, creates deep links between sensations and experiences. My own memory is often like an erased black slate when it comes to the hardships I’ve encountered. I worked hard, I was afraid, I often forgot about the best times. I’m learning to say NO; to refuse having to justify myself. Honestly! I’m no longer the bird on the bent branch who’s afraid of falling. With age, my reason is more certain and my decisions are my own and no one else’s; I’m free to say yes or no. To DARE is to invent the possible behind the impossible. When I started in the restaurant industry, I immediately dared to surpass myself and move beyond my fears. That’s how I was able to create a brand-new breakfast restaurant concept that many envied. An old woman who has lived a full live, I now dare to be entirely myself, from my head to my toes. Maybe PARADISE only exists in opposition to hell. This heavenly place has tormented me since a very tender age. My Mother always said that we children had to wash our feet and hands before going to bed so that we’d never arrive dirty at Heaven’s gates. Her words stuck with me! All through my young life, my mind was imagining a god bursting with light. Today, it’s my heart buried in my chest that’s looking for the light… Cora ❤️

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

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

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

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

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