Chapter 4- Doors of France
I fell in love with the doors in France.
Okay. I'll get the pun out of the way right now: I actually fell in love with The Doors when I lived on Guam (1968-1970) and there was a guy-I think his name was Tom Farnsworth-and he was in a band with some other teen-age boys and he played the keyboard and they played "Light My Fire" by The Doors and Tom was really good at the keyboard part and so I fell in love with Tom and I fell in love with The Doors. And if you can actually believe this part-when we were in Paris we never made it to The Cemetery where Jim Morrison is buried. Really? Yes. Really. I had a little bit of a twinge about that because of Tom Farnsworth and Guam and Light My Fire and all. But it just didn't happen. When Tom's family left Guam they moved to Reno, Nevada and eventually we moved to Fairfield, California and any time I'd drive through Reno (in the 1970's) I'd think about Tom and wonder how it could have been... hahahaha!!
Back to France. Our first night, in Marseille, I was all agog. I mean seriously agog. I couldn't take it all in fast enough. And then there wasn't enough daylight. As we walked along the rows of buildings alongside the Old Harbor I couldn't get over the doors. I was fascinated by them. Then I realized I should be taking pictures of some of them but by the time I thought of that, it was too dark. So I decided I had to remember to do that the next day.
Sadly, it didn't happen.
But I did try to remember to take door pictures elsewhere.
I was so intrigued by the doors and the stories behind the doors.
And so, I give you The Doors of France-
Doors
by Trish McGill
Life is a series of pathways and doorways.
The doorway to life is always open;
with welcoming arms she calls you in
Some doors are large and some are small,
but no matter the size they have one thing in common
To let you in to a room or a garden, a new slant on life that's sure to be different.
A door to a church where we go to pray,
a door to a heart where we long to stay.
Red doors or brown doors, tin ones or wooden,
some with bars and padlocks to form a prison.
I remember a door in a small town in Cornwall with a porch made of wood,
surrounded by creepers,
so quaint, so welcoming, so olde world charming.
A door to a cottage built long long ago.
Doorways to pubs and doorways to schools;
No matter our age, our gender or colour,
we all go through doors on our way to our goals.
We have to enter new doors each fresh day
to take us forever onwards;
To open new chapters in life's endless search
for avenues of learning.
And I give to you one of my favorite doors:
Doug
in Monet's Garden.
