On the late, late evening of Christmas Eve, after much to eat and much more to drink, my husband and I were traveling home in the midst of one of Kansas City’s worst blizzards since (1979? or 1826? I'm not sure). There were a few stranded travelers along the roads, and we needed to help. After all, moments before my husband was proudly chirping about his “animal” of a car. How his American made car trumped my “fancy” German type that I’m so fond of. Cars were abandoned as we loaded passengers up in his Jeep and safely drove them home.
The wind was violent. It pelted snow into our eyes and forced icy snow crystals down our throats as we got out pushing cars to the side of the roads and escorting our fellow travelers into the car. I was without a hat and my hair was coated with bricks of snowy ice. I didn’t notice at the time -- my stomach full, my veins pumping warm red wine and we were doing a good deed.
Earlier in the evening as I kissed Billy good-bye and darted out the door, I paused for a moment to glance over at my hat and mittens. I left them on the chair. I was going to a Christmas Eve dinner, there was no reason I needed to dress appropriately for a winter blizzard -- my skirt, tights, high-heeled boots and Christmas brooch neatly pinned to my sweater would do me just fine.
Today, I can barely sit erect as my head splits in two, my body aches, my sinus passages throb, my eyeballs heavy as lead cannon balls, and my lungs burn like a raging inferno... I dream of a warm place in the French West Indies.
I vow in my next Midwestern home to create it as a Martinique retreat.
So the next time I have to look outside at this:
I will be inside seeing this:
and this:
and this:
Three images above from French Island Elegance by Michael Connors.
Living room of unidentified French Plantation home; Dining area of La Réunion, Grand Case, Martinique; Maison du Mauduit, a nineteenth-century home, in Guadeloupe.