A Sweet Day

I had a sweet day yesterday. 
 
In the afternoon, Preston and I drove into the big town to look at the July sales.  The French stores are only permitted to have sales in January and July.  I don’t know the reason why this is the law, but when they do have markdowns, they are meaningful.  I purchased a pillow and an outdoor table candle for half price. I would have shopped more but Preston had to critique everything I wanted to buy so I ended up not buying anything.  I spied a pair of lime green stretch jeans which he hated, but perhaps I’ll drive back to town today without him and purchase them.  He has to sort tiles today to prepare for the repairing of the mill roof which will commence next week.
 
We visited our favorite candy couple at the Belgian chocolate store.  They have one of the few air conditioned places in our departement so it’s a pleasure to go in there on a hot day.  The lady always jokes with me by asking if I’m going to eat the chocolate right away and I say certainement.  She laughs, because I’m so honest about my bad manners.  The French don’t eat while walking down the street.  You may see the young doing it now and then in Paris, but it’s a rare sight.  They also don’t eat in their cars. They don’t eat between meals and they eat only when sitting down.  In their opinion, only animals eat standing up.
 
Earlier in the day, I had asked Roger if he had an old sewing machine I could use for my patchwork.  Since I started another project by hand, I figured that the piecing together of the patches could be more efficiently done by machine, and I could still achieve my Zen-sewing states with the other mountain of hand-sewing I needed to accomplish. 
 
He said he did have his grandmother’s old sewing machine, but that it wasn’t motorized, it was foot-powered.  I said that was fine.  He said he would need some help bringing it down the stairs, so I said that I would send Preston over in the evening, and then Roger could join us for dinner.  He agreed.
 
At eight, Preston went over and then returned in the back of Roger’s Deux Cheveaux, holding the machine so it wouldn’t fall over.  He had taken the place of Roger’s dog, Miss, who now ran beside the vehicle.  The machine is very beautiful, with lovely designs painted in gold on the black body, and the iron legs were artfully crafted by the Singer Company.  Without a manual I figured out how the machine works, although I can’t thread the extremely small hole of the needle.  I don’t know how Roger’s grandmother managed the task, and I’m sure she had worse lighting than I do.  What is amazing is how fast the machine runs without a motor.  I kept repeating to my husband that I don’t understand why Singer even bothered to attach a motor to their later designs, the pedal power runs the machine quickly and smoothly.
 
Our other neighbor, Francine, joined us for dinner.  She arrived with a jar of giant green olives.  Roger brought a bottle of homemade peach wine.  We all thought it was too sweet so he added more red wine, and then it was very tasty.  We sat outside in the warm evening air.  The cats didn’t bother us.  A neighbor’s dog lay on the lawn and watched us, wagging it’s tale in the hopes that we would fine it adorable and throw it some food. As the sun was setting, the birds started singing loudly.  Darkness fell upon us and I lit the new candle.  My son serenaded us with his guitar. The evening was perfect.
 
During the dinner, we were talking about Roger’s Deux Cheveux and I mentioned that I had seen a pretty bleu Deux Cheveux.  Francine and Roger were puzzled and Roger repeated what I had said.  And I was confused because I didn’t understand why they couldn’t understand me. They thought I had said that I had seen two pretty blue horses. I hate it when I’m chattering along in French, then I say something incredibly simple and clear, and no one understands me.