She was already very old and nearly infirm. She didn't speak very much. She had a phobia about open doors. She told us all the time to close them to keep out the flies, even the cellar door, even in the mid­dle of winter, when there were no flies anywhere.

Maman was wonderful to her. She gave her her own room, on the first floor, and she moved to the second floor with Papa. She took care of her, washed her, changed her like a baby. She even helped her eat and get dressed.

I don't know if I'd have the courage and the strength to do some­thing like that, but I absolutely admire those who do it, whether for family members or as a profession. I'm certain that they find pleasure in some part of it. Doing good does you good; it makes you a bigger person.

Once more I see Grandma, huddled in her rocking chair, lost, completely lost in her thoughts. She would smile all the time. Even when you couldn't hear yourself think in the house, because there were several kinds of music playing at the same time. For example, Ghislaine and Claudette, my godmother, would be singing upstairs in the girl's big bedroom. Down below, Jacques would be playing the guitar, Clement the drums, Daniel the piano. Michel was listening to his jazz records. Another of my sisters was talking on the telephone. And sometimes the TV was playing over all of that.

But most often, someone, my father or my mother, imposed some order on the chaos and everybody ended up making music together. This could last hours, all evening, if not through part of the night. Grandma stayed in her rocker and watched her sons family make music, playing reels as old as the earth itself or doing versions of the

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