Horatio Alger Pays Me a Visit

Monsieur Boudet pere drove in the yard yesterday evening while I was cutting off old geraniums to feed to Blanche. I was hoping that the driver of the white Renault truck was Monsieur Burc, the local carpenter who I called the other day and left a message with his wife that I need the roof of the mill fixed since the tiles are now falling three stories to the ground below and the situation could be dangerous, and I don’t want our mill to look like a bag of McDonald’s French fries. Our previous caretaker told me that he had pointed out the roof problem to my husband, but my husband claims he didn’t. I believe my husband because he’s a fanatic about getting the roofs fixed immediately when leaks rear their ugly heads. Luckily, it hasn’t been raining.

When I saw that it was Monsieur Boudet, I figured that he was coming to bring me his regrets for a party I had invited him and wife to attend. He stepped out of the truck. Gave me the obligatory two kisses, one on each cheek, and we started talking about the weather, as most farmers do when they first greet each other. I brought up the corn crops that are proliferating up our valley and he said that he wasn’t growing corn and he had gotten rid of his tobacco, because he now has too many vines with which he must contend.

When we arrived three years ago, the Boudet family had fields of tobacco, and other crops, but now they’ve evolved into full-fledged vintners. If you ever wanted to meet a family that has worked to pull itself up from extremely humble beginnings, it is Guy Boudet's family. Two sons work with him building their agricultural empire, one son owns a hotel and restaurant in a nearby town, and one son is a professor of some sort of incredibly difficult discipline which I wasn't disciplined enough to remember. Guy Boudet is the Horatio Alger of our neighborhood. You never saw a harder working man. He is also a great dancer and dances with all the ladies at the community fetes. I asked him if he was working during these hot afternoons, and he thought I was crazy for insinuating that he wouldn't work in the heat. He said he keeps the same schedule no matter what the weather. He must have been an incredibly handsome man when he was young, for he's quite good looking now as he approaches seventy. He's in great physical shape from his continual labor.

Guy assured me that no one irrigates out of our little ruisseau. He said all the farmers irrigate from the large river, through an irrigation pipeline association, and so the corn crops are not the reason for the fluctuating water problems in the canal. He was stumped though, as to what was causing the water in the canal to rise in the day and fall during the evening and night. He thought the opposite should be occurring due to evaporation.

He told me that he once worked for Monsieur Reste for ten years. I didn’t know that. But it shouldn’t have surprised me because I think that just about everyone of my neighbors worked for Monsieur Reste at the mill . . . except the Dupuis family and they had their own mill, however, I’ve never met anyone that worked for the Dupuis.

Monsieur Boudet told me that he and his wife would attend the lunch on Sunday, and that he would bring wine and ratafia on Saturday so that I could refrigerate it. This news was a pleasant surprise, as ratafia is hard to come by, yet highly sought, and since it is moonshine, you can’t buy it, by law, the makers can only give it away. Monsieur Boudet and his wife have never attended one of our lunches or dinners, so I was surprised and honored that he is attending and bringing me wine and ratafia, and lending me four plastic lawn chairs.

Later: This morning, I went to the bakery and put in my order for my Sunday morning pick-up of six tarts: three apple and three strawberry. Then I went next door to the butcher and placed my meat order for a Saturday afternoon pickup. The last time I was in there he couldn't understand my French and he seemed rather exasperated with me, today we got along great. Probably because I gave him a big order. The baker and the butcher don’t ask you for a deposit, they don’t even write down your phone number, they just write down your last name in a book with your order. I had wanted to order some strawberry mousse/cakes but as I was heading to order them at the bakery that specializes in such cakes, I remembered that I have an incredibly tiny refrigerator here and that I better just stick to the tarts. My husband called and was very excited because he has one more night in San Francisco and then he’s flying out here for a month. This evening my son has a friend from Toulouse coming to spend five days. On Sunday, I have thirty people coming for lunch. I’d like to have it outside, but the weather is broiling now with no sign of letting up.