"Happiness is not so much in having as sharing." Norman MacEwan

Losing Hubert was inevitable. After years of admiring, collecting, and chasing Hubert I had grown to believe that he was exclusively MY mystery artist. After all, I was the one who saved him from oblivion when I found his etching hidden beneath an old mirrored beer sign. I was the one who started a blog to track him down. I was the one who spent endless hours contacting strangers all over the world to find the identity of this elusive artist.

For a long time I was the lone person who showed an interest in Hubert ...... until several weeks ago when I noticed a Hubert etching in an online sale. I was the first and only person to place a bid and I was confident that I would soon have another etching to add to my collection. Because I would be at work and unable to log on for the final crucial minutes of bidding, for insurance I foolishly placed my highest bid higher than my affordability, never dreaming that there would be anyone else as interested in Hubert.

You can imagine my anguish when I arrived home and logged on to discover I was outbid. Someone won my Hubert and paid a pretty penny to acquire it. I felt like a jilted bride left at the altar. After experiencing four of the five stages of grief - denial, anger, bargaining, depression - I eventually arrived at the final stage of acceptance. Losing Hubert, although extremely disappointing, was an encouraging sign that others adore Hubert as well. It was time to relinquish my possessiveness towards Hubert and embrace the possibility that Hubert has grown a following. The Hubert Fan Club does have a certain ring to it....

One man's priority is another man's paltriness.

We all have our priorities. I've been guilty of neglecting Hubert lately. Daughter #2's wedding has taken precedence - most of my time over the last several weeks has been consumed with wedding plans. When did weddings become such complicated affairs? Steve Martin said it best in Father of the Bride "I used to think a wedding was a simple affair. Boy and girl meet, they fall in love, he buys a ring, she buys a dress, they say I do. I was wrong. That's getting married. A wedding is an entirely different proposition." Truer words were never spoken.

Weddings are complex, costly and time-consuming ventures that most girls spend a great deal of time fantasizing about. Most, that is, except for Daughter #2 who regarded her impending nuptials as a tremendous imposition and who would be completely contented with merely signing the wedding license and doing away with the ceremonial hoopla. If the definition of a bridezilla is a difficult, perfectionist bride, then Daughter # 2 would qualify as the blasé bride.

Nothing was a problem for this bride-to-be. Then again, nothing much excited her either. Nonchalant during the wedding dress selection, apathetic about the reception venue, indifferent towards the music, photography, flowers, you can imagine my surprise when this passive bride-to-be came out of emotional hibernation with an impassioned opinion about...garlic mashed potatoes! It was a simple spud that finally roused some emotion in this impervious bride when faced with making the menu selection for the reception dinner. She stood her ground through suggestions for wild rice, chive buttered new potatoes, twice-baked stuffed potatoes and requested - no, demanded - garlic mashed potatoes.

I guess we all have our own priorities. I suppose that's true of the galleries, libraries, hotels, organizations and people I've emailed over the last several months about Hubert. Hubert may be my passion but he's just not that important to most everyone else. I can't expect everyone to equal my enthusiasm in my search for Hubert. Yet, every once in a while, someone will come forth and renew my fervor to further the cause. Recently, someone contacted me via email with a "I think I have a Hubert" message. Bought at a bag sale with the intention to re-sell, she came across my blog and contacted me giving me the opportunity to purchase the etching and add to my collection for basically the cost of shipping. Hubert may be my priority but it's truly rewarding to discover another's understanding and appreciation for that priority. Thanks, Kate!

"You can't think you are going to win all the races by being quicker, because it's not possible. So you need to find another way." Alain Prost, French race-car driver

This week Hubert research has taken a backseat to my car woes. My nine year-old Volvo has been experiencing the aches and pains of old age. Like the old wives tale about dogs, I believe that one car year is equal to seven human years. Which would put my trusty Volvo at somewhere between 63 and 70 years old - past its prime but certainly not ready to be relegated to the junkyard.

I refused to accept the advice of my favorite (and uncharacteristically honest) mechanic friend to trade it in for a new, less expensive, lower maintenance car. Believing I needed a Volvo specialist to save it, I brought it to the Volvo dealer for a second opinion. Big mistake. Hundreds of dollars and a suspiciously broken dipstick later the bangs and clunks were still there.

Unable to accept the grim diagnosis about the faithful vehicle that transported me safely and comfortably each day, I brought my ailing automobile to yet a second Volvo dealer. Huge mistake. Here it was diagnosed as having a compromised breather box, injured tie rods, loose motor mounts, and a multitude of other problems. I was determined to rescue it from a slow death but thirteen hundred dollars later it was still banging and clunking so back again to dealer #2 who then proceeded to diagnose transmission trouble, the coup de grace of coupes. If I had been told at the onset that my car issues were due to transmission trouble I would have issued a do not resuscitate and taken the advice of my first (and favorite) mechanic friend. Now, with too much money invested, I have no choice but to hang onto my debilitated Swedish sedan.

With cars currently on my mind, I have noticed that Hubert has etched an occasional automobile into some of his scenes. I've been trying for quite some time to date Hubert (numerically, not romantically) but because only one of his etchings is titled with a date (1914-1918) it has been difficult to pinpoint his lifespan. Perhaps cars could be the key to placing Hubert in a specific time period establishing a chronology of his existence. Now, I just have to research thousands of cars to isolate the few that Hubert etched. I might be taking the slow lane but it's not how fast you drive, it's how you drive...

"Stop thinking in terms of limitations and start thinking in terms of possibilities." Terry Josephson

Question of the week - when do we accept our limitations and when do we stretch a little further? It was a long, hot, Hubert-less summer. Every minute lead I gathered over the past months seemingly evaporated in the oppressive humidity of the dog days of summertime. Even my hope went on holiday. But it was the words of my yoga guru that led me to doubt the likelihood of ever finding Hubert

My co-worker, good friend and current car-pooler, and I recently enrolled in a yoga class to limber up and de-stress. During a particularly challenging pose, our instructor's chant "accept your limitations" seemed directed exclusively towards me in more ways than one. Nearing the one year mark of my search it was time to face the realization that I might never find Hubert.

A last ditch effort to contact the bouquiniste society resulted in a terse reply from the man in charge. Emails to three different hotels that were depicted in three different Hubert etchings has yet to yield a single response. My attempts to locate a library, gallery, or museum in the same town as the hotels has been an exercise in frustration due to my French language impairment. Downward Dog may be a popular yoga pose but it could just as easily describe the downhill direction my Hubert quest has taken.

The yoga guru might have me submitting to that which is beyond the realm of possibility but it was the words of art teacher, part-time French resident, and Hubert supporter whose email gave me the shot in the arm I needed to realize that your limitations are not an excuse for failure.  Along with some valuable suggestions she pointed out that waiting was also an alternative, "be patient and persist, you might be a pioneer in exposing Hubert." So for now, I persevere AND wait because, as they say, good things come to those who wait....

Patience is bitter but its fruit is sweet. --French Proverb

Patience is a virtue - one that doesn't come naturally for me. For the past month I've been impatiently wracking my brains for a new angle to find Hubert. My search, relegated to weekends now that I'm happily employed, has been moving along at a snail's (or in this case, an escargot's) pace. Last weekend the escargot didn't move at all because I had to make a three and a half hour trek to help move one of my daughters into the sorority house near her college.

The female version of Animal House minus the togas, my anticipation for a leisurely dinner at a gourmet restaurant after a quick move-in was cut short at the sight of the driveway, overgrown with weeds and littered with bottle caps. Somehow I knew this move-in was going to be anything but quick. That thought was confirmed once I saw the state of the kitchen. Dirty dishes with petrified mac and cheese filled the sink, empty wine bottles decorated the soffit above the cabinets and, what first appeared to be singed food residue, was actually mouse droppings strewn in Jackson Pollock-like fashion on the white stove-top. I could go on and on but suffice to say it took me three hours to bring the kitchen to conditional status.

During my cleaning frenzy, I did get a glimmer of an idea. Maybe it was the collegiate climate, the educational environment, or maybe just the first symptoms of hanta virus from the toxic effects of mouse excrement, but the business textbooks on hotel management that were piled on the kitchen table suddenly called to mind several of Hubert's etchings of French hotels . Might not one of these places of lodging still be standing? And might not one of these hoteliers recognize Hubert's work? After all, he might have set up his easel right in front of one of these inns to capture the image on paper. Perhaps someone in one of these hotels might remember Hubert or remember someone who might remember him. It's a remote possibility but it's all I have to go on for the moment.

Exhausted and dirty but still swept up in school spirit when I arrived home I mustered some moxie and emailed my daughters' favorite teacher - who just so happens to be une professeur de francais - to ask for assistance in sending a proper French email off to the  hotels that are hopefully still in existence. But the email will have to wait a bit longer because le professeur est des vacances. All the platitudes of patience - "slow and steady wins the race", "good things come to those who wait", do not allay my growing vexation that this chase is still moving at a snail's pace....

"You have to accept whatever comes and the only important thing is that you meet it with courage and with the best that you have to give." Eleanor Roosevelt

I've been a real slacker the past month about Chasing Hubert. June was filled with activity - graduations, weddings, engagements, new jobs - and I had barely enough time to sleep much less search for my mystery artist. I took a fatalistic approach to my Hubert hunting. If I were destined to find Hubert then surely one of the numerous emails I sent out would respond to me. In my sleep deprived state I rationalized that after spending the past nine months chasing after Hubert perhaps now it was time to throw it up to fate and see if Hubert would come to me. Illogical maybe but it was self-justification for my slacking off.

Instead I entered a dead zone in my hunt for Hubert. I would probably still be in that dead zone were it not for the drink contest I participated in on July 4th. The drink contest I refer to is a contest for creating - not imbibing - a winning cocktail (although one does have to sample one's creation to perfect and produce a winning entry.) My worthy opponent began to experiment a month ago testing combinations of ingredients until he arrived at the perfect concoction. He proceeded to work on his presentation, purchasing real coconuts and laboriously hollowing them out to serve his creation in, adding fresh fruit swizzle sticks, an island-themed stirrer, and finally layering the coconuts in nests of Hawaiian leis. It was the Mona Lisa of alcoholic beverages.

I, on the other hand, formulated a recipe in my head and, whistling "Que sera, sera" the night before the throw-down, ran around town searching for the vital ingredient of my creation - a bottle of coconut vodka. I never imagined how many versions of vodka there are on the market. Nor did I imagine how difficult it would be to locate the coconut version. Finally, with minutes to go before the last liquor shop closed I chased a salesperson down and he located what was probably the last bottle of coconut vodka in the state - a thirty dollar bottle of Ciroc premium coconut vodka imported from France  (in my Hubert dominated world amazingly all things lead to France.) The next afternoon, an hour before the contest, I attempted mixing various juices to create a layer that would resemble a sunset. Scientifically, this has something to do with juice density about which I know nothing so all of my juices melded together. My presentation consisted of dipping the glass rim in shredded coconut which unfortunately didn't fully adhere to the rim, then inserting paper drink umbrellas cast off from a previous party.

I forgot to chill the glasses and when the drinks were brought out for the competition my drink was served at room temperature which, considering it was an outdoor barbeque during the recent heat wave, was 95 degrees. Not only was it not refreshing but my glass was raining melted shredded coconut over my paper umbrellas causing them to wilt. Needless to say, my opponent was declared the winner. Surprisingly, I didn't lose by a landslide and my drink was actually quite tasty but my fatalistic approach of leaving it up to chance cost me first prize.

Somewhere in my drink is a moral. So I decided to take a cue and begin anew Chasing Hubert, this time leaving nothing to chance. I contacted a French teacher to assist with translating notes attempting once again to elicit a response from the bouquinistes of Paris, I emailed an art museum that specializes in prints, I'm pursuing the Art Appraisers of America, and I sent a follow-up email to the charming print expert at the New York Public Library. You could say I've gone from slacker to tracker...

The thrill of victory, the agony of de-feet.

Last Saturday was the annual 5K run. When daughter #2 asked me to join her in the race I acquiesced though somewhat reluctantly. Although a regular at the gym I've never run before and religiously avoid the treadmill. But secretly, I've envied those cheetah-like marathon runners and yearned to be among them sprinting gracefully towards the finish line, feet barely touching earth, wind in my hair, the theme from "Chariots of Fire" blaring as I cross the finish line...and so, when my daughter burst into my bedroom Saturday morning at 7:00 a.m. and asked me to join her at the starting line at 9:00 a.m. I thought why not, another item I could check off my bucket list.

I was the poster child for how NOT to run a 5K - no previous training, wearing five-year-old sneakers, no sunblock, no sunglasses, and no vital warm-up exercises. Inexperience, however, didn't stop me. I began to run at maximum speed and two blocks later almost passed out so I stopped to fake a quick chat with my nine-year-old neighbor in order to catch my breath. But when a grey-haired older woman sprinted past me I somehow pulled myself together and took off again trying to catch up with daughter #2 who had left me in the dust. Throat dry, calves burning, knees aching, a massive headache from sun glare, and sunburn on my nose and head, the only thing that kept me going was the thought of that senior citizen pulling ahead of me. Determined, I kept at it, and crossed the finish line ecstatic at actually finishing my first 5K run. Unfortunately, no one from my family was camera-ready to document the moment because they assumed I'd be arriving home by ambulance - no one dreamed I would complete the race.

My elation was short-lived because the next morning I woke up in pain, ankles swollen and massive purple bruises on both heels, a severe case of shin splints and a possible stress fracture. Every cloud, however,  has a silver lining. Sitting with ice packs affixed to both legs gave me the opportunity to do some Hubert hunting on my laptop. After hours of intensive researching I finally located an address to email the booksellers on the Seine. The first response I received (in French, of course) was the usual "sorry but we do not have these works." Emboldened by my recent accomplishment I was undeterred, and determined not to let the trail grow cold, I sent off another email inquiry. As Charles De Gaulle once said "You have to be fast on your feet and adaptive or else a strategy is useless." Obviously, I'm not all that fast on my feet but if my computer fingers were nimble enough to evoke a response from one of the booksellers then perhaps there would be someone else who might respond as well.

And there was - I received an email from another bouquiniste who also responded with a negative.  I persisted, asking if he could suggest another contact but by his return mail "Non aucune idee, du fait que nous sommes uniquement specialises en Geologie, Mineralogie et Paleontologie" (No idea, owing to the fact that we are only specialists in Geology, Mineralogy and Paleontology) my strategy as per Charles De Gaulle appears useless. My daughter thinks it's time to enlist the aid of a French teacher. I'm thinking it sounds like a far better idea than the 5K....