The Chain


I just told my next door neighbor that we're moving.

"C'est pas vrai!" She had tears in her eyes. I'd told her a while back it was inevitable. But I don't think she'd registered it until now.

But all that hard work that Eric did on the place, she said.

True, the man worked like a demon. But wasn't I there too? Is it just this part of France? Around here, when a man is on a ladder or loading wood into the barn or leaning out of a window painting, it's "oh, isn't he wonderful - look at him working". When a woman has a paintbrush in her frozen claw or is hacking through waist-high weeds with a scythe, it's "il faut travailler" (it's necessary to work).

I wanted to scream, then remembered I don't have to - we're leaving.

Instead I hugged my neighbor and told her I'll miss her. Which I will.

We have a buyer. We have somewhere we want to move. I looked for a video of this Fleetwood Mac song because I'd heard of a real estate chain but never knew how stressful it was to be in one. A rather short chain, thank God, but a chain nonetheless. Then there's doctors' appointments and visa interviews. Hoping all the pieces hold until the thing completes and we can move forward. Until then I'll have a hard time writing about it.

There were several live versions, but this has to be the best - Lindsey Buckingham has always been one edgy dude but here he outdoes himself.

I feel downright calm in comparison.