Polaroid 41

http://polaroid41.com/ten-years/

Sunday, October 17th, 2021 - 10:26am.

I got my first passport in a rush at age 16.  My high school German class was doing an exchange with a high school near Stuttgart. My family had signed up to host students, but I had opted out of the three-week trip. I couldn’t imagine going so far away for so long. At the last minute, one of my classmates dropped out, a spot became available at a reduced rate, and my mom said: “Tina, you’re going!” She’d never been abroad herself and she knew it would be an enriching experience for me. We dashed to the courthouse in Mankato to request a passport, we paid extra to get it fast, and I learned the word “expedited.” It all seemed very exciting and grown up.

That trip to Germany was my very first stamp in my passport, my first transatlantic flight and my first time traveling without my parents. At least I was familiar with flying from various family trips to California, Florida, and the East Coast. Many of my classmates from rural Minnesota had never even been on a plane before. We were all buzzing with excitement, and though the exchange soon became a school tradition, we were the very first ones to go. That was 25 years ago now, but I still have vivid memories. Some are just flashes or sensations that are hard to put into words, but they’ve stuck with me all this time: discovering UHT milk that didn’t have to be refrigerated before opening, hearing Radiohead for the first time on German MTV, the feeling of the car flying at top speed along the autobahn, sleeping under a thick comforter without a flat sheet layered underneath, eating warm soft pretzels from the stand outside the high school, meeting up in the evenings at the ice cream shop, going to my first discotheque. My host family lived in an apartment, which seemed very exotic to me, and it was my first time being welcome into a foreign home, a non-American family.  I was struck again and again by how much independence the German high schoolers had, how grown up they seemed. Of course, while they were in Minnesota, they all marveled at the fact that we could drive at age 16, at how big and ‘American’ everything was.

I wonder sometimes at the real significance of that trip. If I hadn’t gone, I wonder if I ever would have done study abroad in college, if I ever would have started my love of affair with Europe and traveling, if I ever would have wound up living in France.

I was under 18 when I got that first passport, so it was only valid for 5 years. I remember going to renew it when I was 21 in Iowa City. I’d been up late the night before, busy falling in love with a new boyfriend. In the photo I look a little sleepy, dazed, love struck.  My hair is very long and wavy, I’m wearing a floaty green hippie tank top from the Peaceful Fool and a necklace with a jade stone. I remember thinking: “Where will I go with this passport? I’ll be over 30 when I renew it. What will life be like?”

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The complete 'polaroid' - text, minicast and polaroid photo - available at: http://polaroid41.com/ten-years/

http://polaroid41.com/rockstar/

Mardi 5 Octobre 2021, 10h41.

« Knocking on heaven’s door » pendant que je préparais mon café du matin. Ça m'a surpris parce que la radio que j’écoute ne diffuse que très rarement de la musique. Et puis cette reprise du titre de Bob Dylan par Bryan Ferry, et ben c’était vachement chouette. Alors je me suis mis à chantonner. Les paroles me sont revenues assez facilement. Quand j’étais adolescent, la version de Guns N’ Roses cartonnait. On l’entendait partout, tout le temps. Dans mon premier groupe, Youngblood (ça ne s’invente pas), c’était un peu notre tube, suivi de près par Hey Joe de Jimi Hendrix. Il faut dire qu’on avait notre propre guitar hero. J’avais quatorze ans, lui quelques années de plus et un degré d’engagement dans la religion Rock bien supérieur au mien. S’il estimait que le concert était bon, arrivé sur le morceau d’Hendrix, il terminait son chorus de guitare avec les dents, comme l’idole, puis aspergeait sa guitare d’essence à Zippo et y mettait le feu. Un petit feu certes, mais quand même… Bref, je repense à tout ça en chantonnant Knocking on heaven’s door. Ma fille se marre de me voir chanter et s’étonne que je connaisse les paroles d’une chanson, qui n’ait pas l’air d’une chanson de vieux, une chanson ringarde. Alors on se marre tous les deux et je lui raconte rapidement l’histoire.

— J’étais batteur, tu sais, c’était mon métier jusqu’en 2012. Dans mon premier groupe, on jouait ce morceau. Je me souviens très bien de l’été 1992, l’été de mes quinze ans, et de la tournée du groupe dans les Landes : Vieux-Boucau, Contis, Souston… Je pensais que la gloire était à portée de main, que veux-tu…

Alice sait plus ou moins tout ça, mais elle paraît surtout étonnée d’apprendre que j’aie pu avoir quinze ans, l’âge qu’elle aura l’an prochain.

— What ?!? Tu partais en tournée à quinze ans ?

— Ben ouais, on avait acheté un fourgon, un J9 qu’on avait entièrement repeint en violet, et tapissé de moquette rose à l’intérieur. Le bassiste du groupe était le seul à avoir le permis, et on a pris la route. C’était chouette.

Ma fille me regarde maintenant comme si je lui annonçais que j’avais un passé de junkie ou l’habitude de dormir dans la rue à son âge.

On termine le petit déjeuner, on monte à l’étage réveiller les petites sœurs. Ne pas perdre de temps, nous sommes lundi, c’est matin-shampooing pour tout le monde, même pour celles qui ont les cheveux très très longs. Damned…

Alice leur lance :

— Papa c’était une rockstar à mon âge ! Il partait en camion jouer dans des bars la nuit! Comment il s’appelle déjà le morceau qu’on a entendu ‘pa ?

Pour le coup c’est moi qui explose de rire.

—    Je n’étais pas une rock star, Zouzou, je jouais simplement de la batterie dans un groupe de rock… Zouzou… Et le morceau s’appelle Knocking on heaven’s door.

Les deux frangines encore pleines de sommeil veulent maintenant des détails.

—    C’est vrai ? Et c’est quoi cette chanson Nocky eve bidule ?

Ok. J’ai compris. Je lance Youtube et tape Knocking on heaven’s door - Guns N’ Roses.

Anouk n’en revient pas.

— Mais non ?!? Tu jouais ça toi ?!?

— Ben oui.

— Quand t’avais l’âge d’Alice ?

— Ben oui.

— Ah ouais d’accord… Mais là, c’est pas toi à la batterie ?

— Ben non, là c’est le vrai batteur du groupe Guns N’ Roses....

...

http://polaroid41.com/all-the-worlds-a-stage/

Sunday, October 3rd, 2021 - 8:28pm.

I love stories. This means in addition to loving theatre, I love books, movies and even certain TV shows. I’m in it for the stories, so why is theatre my medium? I’m currently reading ‘The Vanishing Half’ by Brit Bennett, and I just came across a passage that resonated with me about a young actor leaving LA to try her luck in the theatre scene in New York. The passage reads: “She was still trying to find her first acting gig then, and nobody understood why she left Los Angeles to do so. But she liked the stage. In Los Angeles, every actor she knew was obsessed with breaking into Hollywood, because anyone with sense knew that was where the money was. But that whole process seemed like a drag. Waking up at dawn, standing in front of a camera for hours, repeating the same lines until some asshole director was satisfied. The stage was something else altogether - new every time, which terrified and thrilled her. Each show was different, each audience unique, each night crackling with possibility.”  I enjoy film work, but this resonates deeply with me as an actor. It also resonates with me as an audience member. I’ve written before about studies showing that while watching live theatre, audience member’s  heart rates synchronize.  The moment in the theatre is unique and shared, and you’re either there for it, or you’re not.

Since I got back from Minnesota at the end of August, I have been seeing a lot of shows. I’ve felt a bit starved after a year and a half of limited (or no) access to live performance, and I’ve been making  up for lost time. In just over a month I’ve attended several concerts including a jazz trio, a brass band, an electronic DJ set and a quartet playing along to a giant projection of a graphic novel. I saw a three-hour cabaret about love, a musical reading of Woody Gutherie texts, a one woman show where she played 8 different characters, three women who gave a biting fake conference on female sexuality, an immersive piece with modern dancers and solo performances by seven ‘creatures of love and desire,’ a one-man review of news and current events from the summer, a modern dance duo, a presentation of a work-in-progress by a prominent local company, a visually stunning circus piece about finding your inner animal, a circus piece about surveillance culture, and another a circus piece with a social and environmental slant featuring 8 professional tightrope walkers, 8 child amateur performers, a musician and a vocalist.

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The complete 'polaroid' - text, minicast and polaroid photo - available at: http://polaroid41.com/all-the-worlds-a-stage/

http://polaroid41.com/garcimore/

Mercredi 29 Septembre 2021, 21h05.

Je ne sais même plus comment ça a commencé. Je crois que c’est parti d’une blague faite à Alexis, l’acolyte de toujours, qui enrageait de ne pas retrouver son maillet censé lui servir pour assembler le pont d’éclairage, jeudi dernier. Imitant la voix et l’accent de José Garcimore, je lui ai proposé de se « décontraster ». L’effet escompté s’est produit, on s’est marré de bon cœur. J’ai passé le restant de la journée à ponctuer la moindre de mes maladresses (ou des siennes) par « Y m’énerve ! Des fois ça marche, des fois ça marche pas ! ». En réalité je n’ai qu’un vague souvenir de ce magicien, vu qu’il officiait à la télévision à la fin des années 70 et au début des années 80, mais j’ai toujours eu de la tendresse pour le bonhomme. Il apparaissait sur les plateaux de télévision dans des costumes improbables, déclenchait le rire de tout le monde dès qu’il ouvrait la bouche avec son accent espagnol (surjoué) et son rire à lui « hihihi… », sorte de gloussement irrésistiblement communicatif. Ce type était un génie : il feignait de rater ses tours, s’en excusait puis finissait par les réussir à sa plus grande surprise. Tout le charme d’un tour de Garcimore, c’était Garcimore lui-même.

Le lendemain de cette représentation du jeudi, nous voilà repartis de bonne heure pour en donner une seconde au sud de Toulouse. Alexis me reparle de Garcimore et me dit qu’il me considère responsable de son intérêt soudain pour le magicien. Il a lu sa biographie, et me la résume pendant que je suis au volant. Garcimore, de son vrai nom José Garcia Moreno, était avant tout un musicien. Il jouait des cuivres. Il avait un premier prix de conservatoire de tuba et avait même endossé la fonction de chef d’orchestre. Arrivé à Paris en 1967, il sera finalement repéré par le producteur Jacques Canetti en 1976 alors qu’il se produit dans des cabarets. C’est à ce moment-là que la télévision lui ouvre les bras. Alexis m’apprend que Garcimore est décédé à 59 ans d’un accident vasculaire cérébral. Son plus mauvais tour…

C’est décidé, à la pause de midi, on essaiera de glaner quelques vidéos du magicien pour étayer le vague souvenir qu’on en garde. On a ri comme des bossus ! Notamment en revoyant une de ses apparitions au côté de Denise Fabre. Elle présentait le jeu du Kaléidoscope et Garcimore entrait tout à coup dans le champ de la caméra de manière impromptue. D’autre fois il apparaissait derrière elle, gloussait, et la reine des speakerines attrapait un fou-rire. Ce duo Denise Fabre-Garcimore est magnifique. Leur complicité authentique. Elle sera sa meilleure partenaire à la télévision.

http://polaroid41.com/side-by-side/

Sunday, September 26th, 2021 - 4:43pm.

I grew up living in houses, big three and four-bedroom houses, from the time I was born until I left for college at age 18. Living in the dorms my freshman year at the University of Iowa was the first time I lived in such proximity to other people. Now I’ve spent well over half my lifetime as an apartment dweller, and I’ve gotten used to having neighbors living really close. Our building in Toulouse is tall, nine stories, and there are two apartments on each floor plus a building caretaker on the ground floor. We’re the only family with a small child, and the building is mostly populated with couples or wealthy, older residents.

My son is a city kid, and the only homes he’s ever known have been apartments. For the first two years of his life, he shared our 1-bedroom apartment in Paris. We moved to Toulouse when he was two, a much smaller city and a much bigger apartment by comparison, but city life nonetheless, and I’m aware that his childhood looks so much different from mine.

We don’t have a yard, but we live across the street from a beautiful park where Elliot plays almost every single day. After dinner, he likes to hop up and say “Je vais au 5ieme !”, “I’m going to the 5th floor!”  Just upstairs from us, Elliot has befriended a young couple with a dog. Elliot loves to go up and show them his Lego creations, chat and play with their border collie. Sometimes they go out and walk the dog together or take him to the dog park. I wonder if hanging out with Elliot has them imagining what it’d be like to be parents some day.

He also often goes down to the 3rd floor, the home of his honorary grandmother. She moved into the building around the same time as us, and she has always been so indulgent with the (not so gentle) pitter-patter of Elliot’s feet. They play cards together and eat chocolates, and she keeps fruit juice on hand just for him.  My husband isn’t much interested in Christmas tree decorating and our neighbor doesn’t like to set up a tree just for herself, so she always comes up to decorate ours with Elliot and me.

In the spring of 2020, during the first two months of the pandemic, France was on an incredibly strict, house-arrest style lockdown. You could only go outside for one hour a day carrying a government permission form, you could go no farther than .6 miles from home, and you were not allowed to see anyone who lived outside your home, even for a walk, even outdoors. We were all completely cut off from each other.

A few weeks in, word got around via social media that at 8pm people were going to go to their windows or balconies and clap for healthcare workers. We hadn’t changed the clocks for daylight’s savings time yet, so at the end of March at 8pm it was still dark outside. We ventured out on our terrace in the night and at eight o’clock, we started to clap. Suddenly, the sound of other hands clapping and voices cheering began to echo all around us.  It was our first human contact with others since the pandemic started. We stuck our heads out over our railing and looked to the balconies below ours, there were neighbors waving up! We looked up and saw faces smiling down! It became our nightly rendezvous, our ritual, our way to say, “We’re still here!” As the weeks rolled on and the days got longer, it was still daylight at 8pm, and we could see people waving to us from balconies in the distance.  We waved back and cheered, Elliot brought instruments, bells and whistles and jumped and cheered with all his might.

...

The complete 'polaroid' - text, minicast, polaroid photo - available at:  http://polaroid41.com/side-by-side/

http://polaroid41.com/moments-english/

To celebrate the 100th episode of Polaroid 41, this week I’m writing and recording an English translation of ‘Moments,’ Marc’s very first Polaroid, and he’s writing and recording a French version of mine. For our non-French speaking listeners, this is your chance to “meet” Marc, hear one of his stories and discover his style.

The original French version is available at: http://polaroid41.com/moments

Sunday, September 19th, 2021 - 12:19pm

I’m on the beach in Hendaye when one of my daughters points out the fact that, right now, right this minute, life is good. She’s aware that we’re happy and says we have to remember this moment.  This little seven-year-old girl blows me away. She tells me she’s going to write the moment down in a ‘moments notebook’ so that if ever she’s feeling sad all she’ll have to do is flip through the notebook to feel better. “Wouldn’t that be great?! Reliving all my happy moments!” Yup. Seven-year-olds are perfect for reminding us of these kinds of things.

And just like that, I find myself thinking back and wondering: when have I been aware that I was happy? Of course, I’m not talking about the big happy moments, like the births of my daughters, or the day I met my sweetheart, or even our wedding. No. I’m talking about the little happy moments, the sort of everyday happiness that is fleeting and easy to forget. Happiness as brief and intense as a breath of fresh air. The answer is in my childhood, no doubt.  That time in life that’s so inclined to little, everyday happiness. As children, our joy is big, we marvel at small things, and self-consciousness and social norms don’t exist yet. We don’t hold back from happiness, we run right at it with open arms.

I’m nine years old, it’s August, and I’m spending the entirety of my summer vacation with my uncle and my grandparents on their farm. After lunch, despite the sweltering heat, I follow my uncle out to the pasture below the farm to check that the dairy cows have enough water. We walk side by side and, for maybe the first time in my life, I feel like a man.  Granted, a little man, but a man nonetheless. We don’t say much. I match his pace, and soon we see the cows at the edge of the path. The water trough, sitting under an enormous linden tree, is three-quarters empty. Unsurprising given the heat of the last few days.

My uncle places the hose linked to the watering barrel into the trough and opens the valve. Then, without a word, he lies down in the grass in the cool shade of the linden tree, tips his straw hat down over his eyes and drifts off to sleep. I copy him, mimicking each movement and gesture, taking my place beside him, I pull my cap down over my eyes, and wait.  But I’m worried. What if I fall asleep and the water overflows? One of us needs to stay awake and keep watch. We’re two men, two soldiers on a mission. It’s his turn to sleep and my turn to keep watch.

The complete 'polaroid' - text, minicast and polaroid photo - available at: http://polaroid41.com/moments-english/

http://polaroid41.com/que-je-vive/

Pour fêter le 100ème épisode de Polaroid41, cette semaine je vous ai écrit et enregistré une traduction française du tout premier polaroid de Tina « Let Me Stay ». De son côté, elle a, elle aussi, écrit et enregistré une traduction en Anglais de mon premier polaroid. Pour les non-anglophones, voici l’occasion de découvrir le style et l’univers de Tina.

La version originale anglaise est disponible ici : http://polaroid41.com/let-me-stay

Mardi 21 septembre, 2021, 13h41.

Le septième jour de ta vie, je suis retournée dehors pour la première fois. Nous avions vécu dans la petite bulle jaune d'une chambre d'hôpital, au deuxième étage, depuis que tu avais rugi dans le monde à 5h29 du matin le 3 février 2013.  Maintenant, il était temps de rentrer à la maison. Je me souviens avoir quitté notre appartement vers minuit une semaine auparavant, en essayant de trouver le bon timing entre les contractions, pour descendre les quatre étages sans ascenseur. Bruno était descendu avant moi, pour porter mon sac et indiquer au taxi que nous arrivions. Je suis restée seule une minute, j'ai jeté un dernier regard à l’appartement et j'ai pensé : quand nous reviendrons ici, nous serons trois.

C'est incroyable qu'à chaque naissance, il y ait soudainement une toute nouvelle personne dans la pièce qui, quelques instants auparavant, n'existait pas.

Nous sommes sortis dans le froid de février et t'avons attaché dans un siège de voiture emprunté.  Notre chauffeur de taxi, un grand costaud, semblait aussi excité que nous. Et nous voilà partis ! Descente de la rue, première à gauche... et nous voilà arrêtés. Un énorme camion de déménagement bloquait la route. Le chauffeur de taxi est sorti et leur a fermement ordonné de dégager le passage: "J'ai une nouvelle mère et son bébé dans mon taxi. Vous allez déplacer ce camion immédiatement !" Je me suis sentie tellement fière et importante.

Très vite, nous sommes partis en direction du nord, du 12ème arrondissement jusqu’au 19ème. C'était un samedi matin et les rues étaient pleines de gens faisant leurs courses, il y avait les marchés habituels du samedi le long du boulevard. Je m'émerveillais devant toutes ces couleurs et ce mouvement, tant de gens, tant de bruit. Mon monde entier à moi avait totalement changé depuis samedi dernier et cette toute petite chambre d'hôpital s’était avérée assez grande pour contenir tout cela. C'était tellement surprenant d'être tout à coup confrontée à un monde extérieur immense et animé. J'avais envie de baisser la vitre et de crier : TOUT EST DIFFÉRENT MAINTENANT ! VOUS NE LE SAVEZ DONC PAS ? ! TOUT A CHANGÉ ! ! ! Je ne comprenais pas pourquoi ils continuaient d’agir comme d’habitude.

Je n'arrêtais pas de les regarder et de penser : "Vous avez été des bébés, vous aussi. Vous étiez tous des bébés. Vos mères ressentaient ça pour vous."

Puis on est passés devant le cimetière du Père Lachaise et mon cœur s'est serré. Vous avez tous été des bébés, vous aussi. Des petits bébés des années 1800 portant des robes de baptême blanches. Vous avez été des bébés.

Polaroid intégral (photo, texte et audio) disponible sur : http://polaroid41.com/que-je-vive/

http://polaroid41.com/wish-you-were-here/

Monday, September 6th, 2021 - 11:22am

My dad loves music. So many of my memories with him are linked with songs, especially from when we were out driving around.  Growing up, the vibe in ‘dad’s car’ and the vibe in ‘mom’s car’ were very different. In my mom’s car, we were allowed to listen to the Cabbage Patch Kids cassette on repeat and sing our little hearts out. We’d clamor, “Tell us different ways to sing it!!!” and my mom would happily oblige, saying things like, “Sing it like opera singers! Sing it like you’re under water!” She also had a few faithful tapes, and later CDs, on heavy rotation. The Righteous Brothers, Bonnie Raitt and Bob Seger always make me think of being in the car with my mom.

In my dad’s car, The Cabbage Patch Kids was a no-go.  “When you drive the car, you’ll choose the music. For now, I choose the music.” “Daaaad I’m not gonna be old enough to drive a car for like a million years! So unfair! Mom lets us listen to Cabbage Patch Kids! Pfffffffff.”

In the end, though, I’m so glad I had both of those experiences. I absolutely looooved singing along to the Cabbage Patch Kids in the car with my sisters, and still know the words to those songs. And, I also loooove the memories I have of driving around in my dad’s black Chrysler Lebaron, feeling so grown up and cool listening to my dad’s music.

Despite being such a music lover, my dad doesn’t usually sing along. Instead, he says his favorite lyrics, pronouncing them slowly and with meaning, so they stand out and I can hear them.  My dad is the one that made me realize that songs could be political, thought-provoking, even make references to movies or pop culture.  I started paying attention and listening for the stories behind the songs. I liked to ask my dad, “What’s this one about?”

On at least one occasion, this backfired and I got more than I bargained for. We were cruising around to Rockwell’s 1984 hit “Somebody’s Watching Me.” (You remember it, “oh oh oh, I always feeeel like somebody’s watchin’ meeee.”) My dad totally traumatized me in a Target parking lot with a brief plot summary of the movie “Psycho” as an explanation to part of the lyrics.

Later, I remember being haunted by the knowledge that Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven” was about the accidental death of his four-year-old son.  I was shocked and amazed that Clapton could keep going, that he could sing his grief and share it with the world.

When I was 11 and Eric Clapton’s MTV Unplugged became a huge success, my dad played me the original 1970s Derek and the Dominos version of “Layla.” He told me the song was about Clapton’s impossible love for his friend George Harrison’s wife, Pattie Boyd.  Whoa...this raw, electric, scream was a love song?! Not only that, but an unrequited love song about George Harrison’s wife! Like, George Harrison! Like of THE BEATLES! Whoa.

...

The complete 'polaroid' - text, minicast and polaroid photo - available at: http://polaroid41.com/wish-you-were-here/

http://polaroid41.com/unisson/

Mardi 14 Septembre 2021, 12h14.

Drôle de journée. Mardi 7 septembre. Double pontage et remplacement de la valve aortique. Voilà l’opération prévue. Neuf heures, ma mère téléphone pour me dire qu’elle a reçu un sms de la clinique.

— Ton père est au bloc depuis huit heures, à priori jusqu'à midi.

On se rassure mutuellement. Aucune raison que ça se passe mal. Ça nous fait quand même drôle. Il n’était pas oppressé, pas essoufflé. Il n’a pas fait d’infarctus, mais l’opération est nécessaire.

— Moi je me sens bien, mais la mécanique est fatiguée. Je n’ai pas le choix.

Voilà ce qu’il a dit à une de ses anciennes clientes croisée par hasard sur un trottoir le week-end dernier. Nous y voilà, il est neuf heures et l’opération a déjà commencé. Sa seule inquiétude :

— J’espère que mon cœur va redémarrer. Ils ont l’air sûr d’eux à la clinique…

Je lui dis qu’il n’a aucun souci à se faire et je répète la même chose ce matin à ma mère au téléphone. On raccroche. Je n’ai pas de pensées morbides, mais quand même… Le père a un genou à terre. Du jamais vu.

La vraie vie se fait entendre dans la cuisine à l’étage du dessous. Alice et sa copine de classe m’attendent. Je dois les déposer au collège pour 9h30. Le temps d’enfiler mes chaussures et nous voilà partis.

— On prend la Merco ou le Scenic ?

— La Merco, Zouzou.

— Ok !

Cinq kilomètres plus tard, les collégiennes me font au revoir de la main, mission terminée. Je dois retourner à la maison, mon bureau m’attend : mails, appels téléphoniques, administratif compagnie, enregistrement du polaroid de la semaine, etc. Sans l’avoir prévu, une fois arrivé devant la maison je décide de ne pas m’arrêter. Je continue ma route. Le voyant d’usure des freins de la Mercedes est à nouveau allumé, pourquoi ne pas filer au garage tout de suite pour avoir un avis, et le devis qui va avec.

Le garagiste me fait d’emblée remarquer qu’il ne me connaît pas ce véhicule. D’habitude je viens avec le monospace familial, mais aujourd’hui c’est la Mercedes qui nécessite une visite. Je lui indique que le voyant des freins est allumé.

— Les plaquettes, j’imagine, et probablement les disques, à l’avant.

Le type me tend la main, j’y dépose la clef de la voiture. Il file aussitôt l’installer sur un pont élévateur. Son collègue plus grand, plus âgé, l’air débonnaire, l’aide à bien placer la voiture. Elle est maintenant à un mètre cinquante du sol. Le diagnostic peut commencer. Je ne m’attendais absolument pas à ça. Je voulais juste un avis, éventuellement un rendez-vous.  Les choses ont pris une tournure différente. Débonnaire me regarde en souriant :

— Elle roule que le dimanche cette voiture ?

— Non. Je l’utilise tous les jours, c’est la voiture de mon père. Il me l’a donnée en Janvier 2019, elle n’affichait que 125 000 km au compteur. Il l’a achetée neuve en Juillet 98, trois jours avant la finale de la coupe du monde de foot.

...

Polaroid intégral (photo, texte et audio) disponible sur : http://polaroid41.com/unisson/

http://polaroid41.com/sweet-spot/

Friday, September 3rd, 2021 - 9:17am.

All across France, school started yesterday.  In the United States, back to school dates vary greatly, with kids going back anytime from early August to early September. In France, however, all of the kids go back on the very same day. I like this. I like the electricity in the air on the last day of summer vacation, and I like imagining all of the school children, ages 3 to 18, tossing and turning in their beds as they try to fall asleep.  I feel connected to all of the other parents as I check my son’s backpack, go over the school supplies list and tuck him in before a big day. Wednesday night, I whispered to Elliot in his bed, “Don’t worry if you have a hard time falling asleep tonight. All of the kids all across France are doing the same thing you are right now: wondering about who their teacher will be, which friends will be in their class, wondering what the new school year will be like.” I kissed his forehead, breathed in the smell of his freshly washed hair, and imagined all of the other mothers doing the same exact thing as me.

This was the summer when Elliot was eight, and there will only ever be one of those. We’re in the sweet spot of parenting where he doesn’t need us as much, but he still really wants us. He doesn’t need us to hold his hand as he toddles, or to make sure he won’t swallow a Lego or stick something in an outlet, or to catch him at the bottom of the slide. But he wants us to play with him, read to him, explain the world to him, answer his many, many questions and admire his tricks on the playground. He simply wants to be with us.

In July, we spent 4 days at a beautiful little family-run camp site in the Lot, about two hours north of Toulouse, with Elliot’s best friend Lou and her parents. There were a couple of families with kids Elliot’s age, and a couple of other families with teenagers. The younger kids formed a little pack of 5 to 11-year-olds, Elliot and Lou right in the middle, and they were free to run around together after dinner. The small camp site nestled in the cedar trees was a kid’s paradise: a huge swimming pool, basketball court, ping pong table, mini golf, swings and a spinner. The summer days are long and it stays light here until 10pm, so we let the kids stay up late.

I noticed the families with young kids and the busyness of it all. The applying of sunscreen, the finding of goggles, the procuring of afternoon snacks and the negotiations around showers, bedtimes and teeth-brushing.  I also noticed the families with teenagers. The teens, of different ages and degrees of awkwardness, hung out by the pool and put on their own sunscreen.  They chatted with their parents and sure, they scrolled on their phones (don’t we all?), but they mostly seemed pretty good-natured.

Sitting under my parasol, I was looking at them as if they were a sort of crystal ball that could show me my future.  How old is that boy? 14? Will Elliot be like that in 6 years? Does he look like he still likes his mom? What do they do together? What do they talk about?

The complete 'polaroid' - text, minicast and polaroid photo - available at: http://polaroid41.com/sweet-spot/