Vignettes of France

I drove into our little village to pick up my daily pizza.
It was just before seven p.m. when I pulled up in front of the butcher shop to park my car. The handsome butcher was behind the counter while the short, homely butcher mopped the floor in preparation for closing. One woman customer was at the counter. All three of them were laughing.

I felt a poignant joy to be a witness to their lives. This is the France that I love: the independent shops, the owners laughing as dusk falls and they sweep the floor, the church bells striking seven and all the shop keepers coming out to close their shutters for the night heading to their waiting dinners, young people and old people sitting on the benches in the village square, the restaurant waitress setting the outdoor tables for the night.

Sometimes, I get so caught up in noticing what I don’t like about the modernization of France, that I’m blinded for months to the simply beauty of the lives that carry on around me. Therese bringing me a clafoutis made with Roger’s peaches and then the next day bringing me the greens for the rabbit; always kissing me when she sees me. Roger coming to my dinner bringing flowers for me and Francine, and bottles of his homemade moonshine and peach wine. Steef, sick from a disease that is attacking his nerves, hears me on the horse outside his house, and hobbles out to talk to me. Seeing my saddle packs, he fills them with cucumbers and melons.

Leonce is burning tree branches right now, as his wife sets the dinner for him on the table outside. I drove by and honked.

I sit on the terrace, eating my pizza, drinking some local wine, watching my sheep graze, while the most sublime classical music pour from the government radio station. I have found heaven.

The pizza man asked me how I was doing, and I said “bien.” And then I asked him how he was doing and he said “mal.” I asked him what was wrong, and he said, “pas des touristes.” I laughed and told him that I was happy that the tourists were gone but that I could understand why he was sad. He said he might take a vacation in October and I said that he mustn’t go in October because I would still be here. I think he will stay when he weighs how much money he makes from me in a month.

He said he wanted to go to England and I suggested that he should come to San Francisco since the dollar was so low and the Euro was so high and the British food was so bad. He didn’t seem interested in my suggestion.

We’re in for a very hot week. I guess Mother Nature is making up for our cold August. According to Horatio Alger, this hot weather, after all the rain we had should make for a good grape crop this year. I was told that the last year our region produced a truly stellar wine was in 1990, so the vintners are keeping their fingers crossed.

I have a great confluence of events happening at the moment. My house is cleaned. The yards and tree groves are smartly trimmed and mowed. I have my rose garden weeded and fertilized. Monday, I’ll start all over again with the mowing, weed wacking, weed pulling, and junk sorting. But today, all is beautiful, and in its place, and for the moment, perfection.

I cut a beautiful bouquet of roses and lavender for my bedroom. Every time I look at it I get a little bit melancholy because minute by minute its beauty slips away. I guess I’m a lot like that bouquet! Last night I had the unpleasant observation that I now apply the heavy concealor over half of my face. I used to just use it under my eyes!