The song fragments are from a poem by the American poet Eugene Field.

"Mireille's Diary" - Week I

May 25, 2012 (Friday)

Dear Diary,

My name is Mireille Samuelle. I'm ten years old today, and you are my birthday present from my mom. I didn't ask for you, but I'm happy to have you anyway. It will be nice to have somebody my own age to talk to besides my brother. He's such a dolt! It's his birthday today too, because my mom and dad insist that we're twins, but I have my doubts about that! I think they mixed him up in the nursery, like in that old movie, "Big Business." My real twin is probably somewhere out there wondering where his other half is! Anyway, my brother's name is Jean-Michel. He's kind of named after my dad, but not exactly. You see, my dad is French, and his name is Michel. Nobody calls him that, though. Even my mom calls him Michael. I guess that's because she's Australian, and she thinks English is the best language in the whole world. You'd think she'd be more particular about pronouncing her own husband's name right! Especially since HER name certainly isn't English either, it's Russian. Not only that, but it's a MAN's name in Russian - Nikita, like that old fat guy who was the Russian Prime Minister around a hundred years ago. Personally, I like the French version of my dad's name. When I grow up I'm going to call him Michel. My dad and I talk in French a lot - it's our own private code. Fortunately for me, my moron of a brother refuses to be bothered learning it. He says he's too busy taking care of all his "patients". You should see what he's got out there in the barn! I swear, he has adopted about 50 million disgusting creatures - all of which he claims need medical aid! My mom is his veterinary assistant, and I really think she gets as big a rush from their project as he does. Those two are more like twins than he and I are! For one thing, Jean-Michel and I don't look alike. I have green eyes and kind of reddish-brown hair, like my dad's, except his is gray on the sides, above his ears, and in one streak across the front. My brother has blue eyes and hair that's almost white, it's so blond, like my mom says she used to have when she was little. (Oops, I guess that blows my "nursery switch-a-roo" theory.) Anyway, my brother and my mom like to hang out together, just like me and my dad do. Most people think parents should treat their kids exactly the same, just to be fair. I don't think that's realistic, do you? I mean, my dad and I are interested in a lot of the same things, and my mom and my brother are interested in a lot of the same things, so why shouldn't we pair off that way? Especially since I know my parents love us both a lot.

Well, let me tell you a little more about myself. I live in a big old farmhouse about an hour's drive from Montreal, Quebec. I really like it here, but I'm not sure if that's because I've never really been anywhere else, except to Montreal a few times a year. I know I like it better than the city, though. Let me see, what are some of the things I like about living here. I think I'll make a list:

1. Waking up in the morning to the smell of coffee. (I love cafe au lait for breakfast, especially with croissants!)

2. The way the sun shines on the dusty wooden floor in my bedroom. (I was supposed to mop it yesterday, but I forgot)

3. Playing my cello, especially duets with my dad.

4. Reading a mystery story on the screen porch during a thunderstorm.

5. Braiding my mom's hair. (it's REALLY long and blond, except she's got a few strands of gray in it, but I haven't mentioned them to her)

That's all I can think of right now, but I'm going to try to add one new thing to my list every day.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

May 26, 2012 (Saturday)

6. Solving Puzzles

Anyway, back to my life story. I go to school in a small village, Montpelier, about 2 miles from our farm. My teacher is Mme. Bernard. She is really nice. I am in the 5th form, and my very favorite school subject is writing (it would be music, but our school is so small it doesn't have a music teacher, so my dad teaches me at home). I guess that's another reason my mom chose you as my birthday present. She says I have a talent for telling stories. What I would really like to be is a detective, though. They get to watch people and try to solve crimes. I really like solving puzzles, and I like to watch people and try to figure out their secrets, so I think I would make a really good private detective. In fact, I've been practicing on my family for a while now, trying to solve our own family mystery. And believe me, I'm sure there is a BIG ONE! I've read about other families in books, and I've met the parents of some of my school friends, and NOBODY has parents like mine! You'll know what I mean after I tell you more about them. Just let me say that I think there's something very strange going on in our lives, even though my mom and dad just chuckle when I try to get them to confess. I've seen the look they give each other, though, when I ask certain questions, so I'm sure they're hiding something. Speaking of looks, have you ever noticed how what most people are thinking shows all over their faces? My mom is like that, but my dad isn't. He keeps his thoughts really hidden, most of the time. He gets this weird look on his face, a kind of blank stare, when he doesn't want you to know something. And if he's really mad, he gets real quiet, and his eyes get kind of flat-looking, like some of the stones I've found on the bed of our stream, and he stares at you really hard. I'm telling you, when he gives me that "look" I know I'd better change my attitude fast! He doesn't even have to say anything! My brother, though, never seems to notice. He just bumbles along until he runs right into trouble. I can see it coming - the whole thing - until finally my dad grabs my brother, holds him still by both arms, bends down and speaks VERY quietly in his ear. When that happens, even Jean-Michel knows he's "dead meat!" I have to admit, though, that my dad is usually pretty even-tempered. My mom, on the other hand, is really unpredictable. She might be laughing with you one minute, but when things start to get out of hand she really starts yelling. And she doesn't quit till things are running smooth again. She's like a dog with a bone. Sometimes it's even funny. My brother will get her excited on purpose just to watch the show. If my dad's home, he'll come in and settle her down. I've watched him do it (I told you I like to watch people!). He'll just quietly walk up to her and put his hand on her shoulder, and when she feels the weight of his hand she just stops what she's doing and puts her hand over his. Then sometimes they'll look at each other in a certain way and my brother and I know we're in the clear for now, because those two are going to go in their bedroom and put the monkey on the door. I have to tell you about the monkey. Ever since I can remember, there have been lots of times when the door to my parents' room was closed and there was a stuffed monkey hanging around the doorknob. My mom told Jean-Michel and me that when we saw the monkey on the door we were supposed to knock before we came in, and even then, only if one of us was bleeding. Of course, the detective in me just had to find out what was going on behind that door! So, one afternoon, when I was about five or six years old, and I was supposed to be taking a nap, I sneaked out of bed, tiptoed over to that door, and as quietly and slowly as I could, opened it. And there they were! With no clothes on! Wrestling on the bed! First it looked like my dad was winning, because he was on top, but then my mom flipped him over and She was winning! He didn't look like he was mad about it, though. Unlucky for me, he looked up then and saw me standing in the door. I know my mouth was open, because I closed it quick when I saw him staring at me! I slammed that door shut and ran back to bed as fast as I could. I lay there waiting for them to come and get me, but they never did. Instead, that night at supper, they explained to Jean-Michel and me that what I had seen wasn't really wrestling, but what mommies and daddies do together when they love each other, and that's how babies get made. When I asked dad if that was how Jean-Michel and I got made, he smiled and said "Yes." Dad doesn't smile very often, so I knew everything was okay and they weren't going to punish me for opening the door. Then I asked if they were trying to make some more babies, but mom got kind of a sad look on her face and said that there wouldn't be any more babies. But dad put his arm around her and kissed her cheek and she smiled at him, so I didn't worry about that any more. To tell you the truth, it is just fine with me that we are the only two kids in this family! I hate to think of having another Jean-Michel to deal with! Or even worse, a sister to have to share with my dad!

* * * * * * * * * * *

May 27, 2012 (Sunday)

7. Silence.

Today is Sunday. I like Sunday. Sometimes we go to church in Montpelier, to the early morning mass at St. Jeanne d'Arc. It's a really old little church. I love the smell of it - candle wax, lemon oil polish, and incense. There's a statue of St. Jeanne in the front of the church. She was a famous French soldier, even though she was only 19 years old and a woman! She carried a sword and rode into battle just like a knight. She was burned at the stake but refused to give up her faith. I wish I could be more like her, but I don't think I have enough courage. I hope I never have to find out, either!

I like going to the 8:30 mass, because it's a quiet service - just a few old people and us. I think dad likes it better too, because one Sunday we went to the 11:00 mass and he looked kind of itchy all through the service. He made us sit way in the back against the wall, even though Jean-Michel and I wanted to go down to the front pew so we could see better. He folded his hands under his jacket pocket, like we both do when we're trying to keep still, and he spent a lot of time sneaking looks at all the other people as if he wondered who they were. When Pere Henri called everybody up for communion, dad didn't go. Mom put her hand on his arm to pull him up, but he just shook his head. Sometimes he doesn't go to communion with the rest of us. I wonder why, because my mom always goes, even though she isn't Catholic. She told me that communion is like being asked to have a special dinner with a really good friend, and to refuse to go would be impolite. I don't think my dad means to be impolite. But sometimes he has trouble eating. I've seen him sit at supper and just drink a glass of milk. My mom used to nag him about this, until one time she made him feel so bad about not eating her lasagna that he ate it just to please her. A few minutes later he excused himself from the table, and I heard him throwing up in the bathroom. So, when he doesn't go to communion, mom doesn't try to make him. She doesn't want to take a chance on him throwing up the communion host in church! (Pere Henri told us that if the host lands on the floor, the priest has to pick it up and eat it. I wonder if he would have to eat one that's already been eaten. )

Pere Henri, the priest at St. Jeanne's, has been a friend of our family for a long time. He married mom and dad and baptised me and Jean-Michel. He is really nice, and sometimes he comes to visit. He was here for supper last weekend, just after dad got back from a business trip. He always comes to visit when dad gets back from a business trip, and they go and talk in dad's study for a really long time. My dad goes away on trips a lot - and when he gets home he looks different for a while. I try not to look in his eyes too close then, because they're always that flat color. I wonder what kind of work he does. Once I asked mom, and she said he helps people who have security problems. I asked her what "security" means, and she said "safety". I'll bet my dad is really good at his job, because I always feel safe when he's around.

Anyhow, sometimes dad doesn't get home until Jean-Michel and me are sleeping, and when we wake up the next morning, he's asleep. He sleeps for a long time on those days, and mom says he gets very tired from working so hard. One time I sneaked a look at him in bed. His eyes were closed, but he had these really dark shadows under them. His hair looked almost black because it was all dirty and sweaty, and he hadn't shaved in a long time. I like hugging him when he has just shaved, but sometimes he forgets to shave and I get all scratched up from his yucky stubble. I stood and looked at him for a little while, but then I got a kind of sinking feeling in my stomach and ran out of the room. Mom caught me and sat me down and talked to me about other people's right to privacy. Believe me, I was ready to listen too!

Another time, I heard mom and dad talking really quiet in their room, and I listened outside the door. (Detecting Method #1) I heard her call his name like she calls me and Jean-Michel when she's mad at us, and then he said "I'm fine." After a while I heard the shower running in their bathroom. It went on for a long time. When mom came out of their room with a load of laundry and went down to the basement with it, I followed her Detecting Method #2), and I saw that when she dumped the white towels in the washer there were big red splotches all over them. At supper that night, mom said dad wasn't feeling very well, but he would be better soon. I asked if we could say good night to him, but when she took us in, he was asleep. His face was a real funny color -- kind of grayish white. I got really scared when I saw him.

As usual, Jean-Michel acted like he didn't notice anything different, but I think he was scared too, because he spent all night in the barn with his patients. I tried not to think about the towels, but I couldn't help it. Anyway, the next day dad stayed in bed, but the day after that he came downstairs and acted like nothing had ever happened. I was afraid to hug him too tight, but he hugged me and kissed the top of my head, just like he always does when he gets home, and then we played duets for an hour. That night Pere Henri came for supper.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

May 28, 2012 (Monday)

8. A new green corduroy school jumper with a white blouse

Today was the beginning of the last week of school for this term. We all wore green and white to celebrate. Pere Henri says that green is the color of hope and of springtime. I don't have any homework this week, so I can take the time to write in you, dear diary. I had such a good time yesterday after church. All of us went on a picnic, and Jean-Michel and I went wading in our stream for the first time this spring. The water is still too cold to swim - maybe in another month. It was really a pretty day. There are so many wildflowers this year - gold and pink and orange and blue and purple - all over the meadow. We spread out a big checked tablecloth and ate until we couldn't eat anymore! Mom had made fried chicken and potato salad and baked beans and two pies - apple and peach. We had cold lemonade to drink. After lunch, we all took a nap in the grass, just looking up at the sky. It was clear blue, with a couple of big fluffy white clouds high up - the kind you can make pictures out of in your imagination. We took turns saying what we saw in them. Jean-Michel saw a rabbit, I saw an old man with a beard, and mom saw a poodle. Dad says he can never see anything in clouds. I don't believe him, though, because I've seen the way his eyes get that funny stare when he looks at them. I think he sees things he doesn't want to tell us.

Anyway, after our cloud game Jean-Michel and I went wading, while mom and dad (like old people) just lay there in the grass and talked. When I looked back at them, mom had dad's head in her lap, and she was brushing his hair back behind his ear, like she always does, and whispering to him.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

May 29, 2012 (Tuesday)

9. Chewy chocolate chip cookies hot from the oven, with bittersweet chocolate all runny inside.

Today when I came home from school mom had baked my very favorite cookies. I could smell them as soon as I walked in the door. The house was so nice and quiet, just the way I like it. I took a handful of cookies and a big glass of ice-cold milk out onto the sun porch and watched mom and dad out in the garden. They were picking vegetables for supper tonite - probably green beans and potatoes again. I am so sick and tired of beans and potatoes! It seems like everything gets ripe all at once, and we eat the same thing for dinner and supper for weeks on end! It doesn't seem to bother Jean-Michel, though. He's just a human garbage can! I don't think he even tastes what he puts in his mouth - it certainly doesn't stay in there long enough anyway, since he never chews his food.

After supper, I went to my room to practice my cello. Sometimes I like to just sit and hold it and let the music fill up the inside of me like water fills up the sink in the bathroom when you put the stopper in. Then, when I draw the bow across the strings, the music just flows out like someone lifted the stopper. It always sounds better that way, even though I never know exactly what will come out. Tonight it was an American lullaby called "Last Night My Darling." I don't remember all the words, but some of it goes like this:

Last night, my darling, as you slept,
I thought I heard you sigh,
And to your little crib I crept,
And watched the space thereby.

Then bending down, I kissed your brow,
For, oh, I love you so.
You are too young to know it now,
But sometime you shall know.

Some time when in a darkened place,
Where others come to weep,
Your eye shall see a weary face,
Calm in eternal sleep.

Look backward then into the years,
And see me here tonight.
See, oh my darling, how my tears
Are falling as I write.

And feel once more upon your brow
The kiss of long ago.
You are too young to know it now,
But sometime you shall know.

When the song ended, I looked up and saw mom and dad standing in the door to my room watching me. Mom smiled and said, "Your father played that song the night he proposed to me." I never knew that.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

May 30, 2012 (Wednesday)

10. Thunder and lightning on a hot summer day

There was a big thunderstorm this afternoon. I sat on the front porch with a glass of lemonade and a book of mysteries and watched the black clouds sweep across the sky. I could smell the rain in the air, and the birds flew close to the ground, swooping up bugs to feed all the new birdlings in the apple and peach trees out back. Then the storm hit, and heavy drops plop-plopped into the backyard dirt and onto the tin roof of the porch. Faster and faster, until it sounded like the snare drummer in a band I heard once in Montreal. I'm not scared of storms, though. Mom and dad aren't, so why should I be? One evening, not long after dad had come home from a trip, there was a big storm. I was reading in my room, and when I looked out my window I saw him standing there in it, thunder and lightning banging all around, and he just put his head back and his hands out and let the rain wash over him. I know how good that feels. Then mom came out and hugged him, and the two of them stood there getting soaking wet. Finally, she pulled him inside, but I could tell he didn't really want to come. That night I could hear splashy sounds coming from their bathroom, but I didn't go in because the monkey was on their door.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

May 31, 2012 (Thursday)

11. The smell of my dad's leather jacket

Today my dad and I went for a motorcycle ride together! It's the first time he's ever let me ride with him. It was one of his birthday presents to me and Jean-Michel (mom wasn't too happy about that one!). He said now that we're ten we're mature enough to follow bike safety rules without him having to remind us. I'm really proud that he trusts me. Anyhow, he has this great bike - big and black, and he always wears a black leather jacket and black helmet when he rides it. One day he came to school on it to bring me my lunch, which I had forgotten at home, and all my classmates stood there with their mouths open watching him ride off. My best school friend Suzanne told me later that he had looked just like the Black Knight on his charger going into battle. I never noticed that before, because you don't think of your own dad as the Black Knight. I told my mom what Suzanne had said, and mom just laughed and said she bet the Black Knight wouldn't be so unchivalrous as to leave the toilet seat up so his wife fell in in the middle of the night!

Anyway, back to our bike ride. As another birthday present, dad bought me a special purple helmet with my name on it, and a purple jacket to match. I forgot to tell you that purple is my favorite color. He showed me how to hold on tight with my arms around his waist, and off we went. At first he circled the yard kind of slow, making sure I was okay, but then he revved up and headed in a straight line down the dirt road toward Montpelier. I felt like I was flying! I held on tight and pressed my face into his jacket, because the wind was cold. I love the smell of my dad's leather jacket. It's his very own special smell - aftershave and woodsmoke and a tangy smell that's just his own. I hope he takes me riding again soon.

Tomorrow I will be exactly 10 years and 1 week old. I am kind of surprised that I have been writing in you every day. Somehow, I thought I wouldn't have enough to tell you, but the more I write the more I want to write. It's funny, though, that a lot of what I'm writing isn't just about me - it's about mom and dad. I guess that's because our mystery seems to begin and end with them. As I get older, the more questions I have. I know I'll find the answers sooner or later. Good night, dear diary. Thanks for being my friend (and partner in my private detective agency).

FIN (For Now)

Send comments to Aline.