I don’t know when I got it into my head that my new house would be French. But, just like an expectant mother, convinced she can intuitively glean the gender of her baby months before it is born, I am certain I am carrying a little French house inside me.
France and I go way back. My mother, who could read several languages and speak a few, would occasionally call me her petite chou (little cabbage). She said it with great elan!
Mon deux touch of France came by way of a T-shirt my mother claimed she brought home from her first European trip, just for me, her jeunne fille. Its front was covered with blue and green French words relative to my astrological sign: Pisces. Years later, she admitted to me my favorite French shirt was hastily picked up at Macy’s when she realized she had brought nothing home pour moi.
I took French in school, but struggled. Because I struggled in every aspect of school at that time in my life, I ended up in three schools in three years. I took French in all three. The first year of French three times. I got it, en fin!
So, bear with my remedial French language skills and vocabulary, my provincial design aesthetics, and my multisensory approach to “my little house big build” (LHBB). I offer my ideas, experiences, and hopes to inspire rather than guide you. I travel a rocky path, as often stumbling into swampy thoughts as I do stroll the straight avenues of linear accomplishment.
So, welcome. Let’s see where the next months take us.