Some days are diamonds...

In the words of John Denver: Some days are diamonds; some days are stones. Though this past Thursday, September 11, was a bit of both, the days that followed were, without a doubt, diamonds.

September 11, like its counterpart of 2001, was unforgettable. That morning I was offered not the best possible news on the job front, but welcome news nevertheless. I was asked to teach reading on a long-term substitute basis with the potential for permanent status when/if the teacher I'd be replacing couldn't resume her responsibilities due to illness. Should she return, I'd be first in line for the next available identical position district-wide. Of course, I accepted. I was fortunate to receive the call early in the morning, before I'd left for Ottawa, so I made plans to sign the requisite paperwork immediately. On the way, my “check engine” light came on; the needle on my temperature gauge had climbed as high as it was possible to climb. I pulled off at the very next exit to find antifreeze everywhere but where it belonged and had just begun to search for a garage using my mother's GPS when a very kind older gentleman pulled up behind me and offered assistance. Though it turned out he knew no more about radiators than I, he did know of a garage just up the road, and he followed me there (after refilling my reservoir with most of the antifreeze I had in my trunk and the two bottles of water I had planned to drink en route to Ottawa). I was once again very fortunate in that I only needed a new thermostat, which was installed in record time. I had signed my employment paperwork and begun my journey northward by 11:00, a mere three hours behind schedule.

The diamonds were the time I spent with my Canadian relatives and, especially, the time I spent with Martin. On Friday, since Martin had to work, I went with my aunt to a French bookstore, where I found several books by a new favorite author: Amélie Nothomb. Afterwards we had lunch at a wonderful vegetarian restaurant, The Table, followed by an afternoon of tea and reminiscences with my cousin's daughter, Arcadie, and Arcadie's dad, Gene. My uncle and youngest cousin, William, met us at Gene's place after work and school respectively, and we all went out to dinner.

On Saturday, Martin and I got an early start on a mushroom picking excursion. It was our hope to use whatever mushrooms we might find in a meal later on, but alas, we succeeded in finding only poisonous varieties, so we had to pay a visit to the grocery store before the cooking could commence! Wild mushroom soup was only the beginning of our culinary adventures. We also made an artichoke white sauce with asiago and parmesan cheeses and grape tomatoes over tri-colored pasta, spinach quiche, wild mushroom and asparagus crêpes, and black-eyed bean and tomato soup. We watched movies, played French Scrabble, visited a local farmers' market for fresh ingredients and delicious samosas, shared photo albums, went for walks, and most importantly, savored every moment of togetherness. After our parting on Monday, we would each discover a note that the other had lovingly written and carefully planted. I would also come home to a beautiful letter from Martin waiting in my mailbox.

Words can't express the happiness I feel when I look back on this weekend and ahead to others we will share...