Carpe Diem

In late March, we made a last-minute journey to Utah to see Jacqui and David and the girls. A side trip to the Rocky Mountains doesn't really fit in a blog about the South of France. But, of course, this isn't really a blog about the South of France. If anything, it's about taking a chance, plunging into life, and hoping things will turn out all right. "Carpe diem," Jacqui said, when I tentatively mentioned our idea to spend a year in Europe again.

Carpe diem, seize the day, because we don't know how many more we'll have.

We have a long tradition of skiing together from early days in Colorado, when the kids were little and we put them in ski school so they wouldn't slow us down. The photo above was taken at the top of the mountain in Breckenridge, in our younger days.

Now the kids barrel down blues and tackle black diamonds with alacrity. In the earlier days, as pictured, they had the most fun playing in the hot tub until we adults kicked them out because it was our turn.

[What is Luke holding and why does he look so mischievous?]

In some ways this last trip to Park City was just another ski adventure, with Luke ignoring my pleas to stop bashing into the girls and to stay with the group, and Dr goading us to increasingly difficult mogul-filled hills. "It's his plan," Esme explained, somewhat exasperated, somewhat admiring (although she won't admit that last part). "He takes us down really impossible runs where we fall the whole time and then he takes us on an easier but still difficult run and suddenly that one doesn't seem so bad."

The condo where they stayed had a hot tub on a screened in porch with a view of the mountains. As per our usual ski trips, we spent time in the hot tub. This time we didn't mind when the kids joined us. [Again, what is Luke holding and why does he look mischievous?] But as much as we enjoyed the trappings of just another holiday in the mountains, nothing was really the same. For one thing, Jacqui -- usually the most graceful one on the mountain -- couldn't ski anymore. Most days she could barely leave the living room. And when Dr and I rode the chairlift alone, the conversation turned somber. In fact, many of the conversations did.

"I want to die at home," Jacqui said, lying down on the couch, surrounded by Jeff and Dr and me. "I do, too," I added quickly, as if this were a theoretical conversation about an event that would take place in some distant time.

"I'm afraid it will be scary for the girls," Jacqui continued, her eyes closed so she didn't see that her husband had started to cry.

"It will be scary for the girls no matter what," Jeff said. "At least this way you'll all be at home and there will be people around who love them."

Jacqui could barely sleep during the nights because of the searing pain that kept her awake. As Dr increased the pain medication, he worried that she wouldn't be able to make the long red-eye flight back to New York.

But she did. And the night we spent together at their home felt like a celebration, complete

with the arrival of Laura H. and kids and a scrumptiously delicious wedding cake made by Marla just because Jacqui had said earlier that she craved one.

We left the next morning to fly back to France, and, as usual, we said our goodbyes and hugged each other in the kitchen, the ten of us, only to repeat the entire process in the driveway. "Goodbye!" "We love you!" "Goodbye!" The same as always, but not, because Laura H. had tears in her eyes. One more hug. And then never again the ten of us.

Goodbye, we love you, goodbye.