Tax Day in France

Yesterday was property tax day.
I felt a strange sense of happiness as I drove down the winding road through the autumn tinged vineyards. I was happy to be giving a check to a government that supports the same ideals I support: universal healthcare, quality public education for every child, reproductive freedom, liberté, egalité, and fraternité. I was also happy to be paying the dues for living in this wonderful land. When I drove into town, the French flag was flapping over the mayor’s office, and I smiled, thrilled to be a part of the daily life of this beautiful, intriguing country. I’m going to apply for my Carte de Sejour soon . . . I want to stay here much longer than six months a year. France isn’t perfect, but it comes close enough for me.

My husband will be THRILLED to know that I finally got Fargal to come out and give us an estimate for replacing the roof on the mill. You might recall that back in June, I complained about Monsieur Reste because here he was our handy-dandy-drive-us-crazy caretaker and he hadn’t bothered to tell us that the roof was caving in on the mill. By the time it was discovered, the tiles were dropping three stories to the ground below, posing a danger to anyone walking by . . . for instance Francine and her 89-year-old mother who walk the back path to visit me on Sundays. When he was here in July, my husband called up two people to give us devis (estimates). The incredibly handsome carpenter arrived within a couple of days, and the devis arrived the following week. The very ugly carpenter required two telephone calls to get him out to look at the roof, he arrived a month later, and we still haven’t received a devis three months later. I say we should reward the incredibly handsome carpenter because he showed the initiative to get us the devis quickly, and perhaps that is also an indication of how thorough his work is. However, my husband wants to give the homely carpenter a shot at the work because he is a neighbor; and, my husband wants another devis to compare to the incredibly handsome carpenter’s devis.

Back in August, I went to see Fargal, the roofer that everyone says does great, reasonable work. (The other two roofers have great references as well.) The woman in Fargal’s office had told me that Monsieur Fargal was very busy but that he would call me when he had time to come out and measure the mill. In two months, I haven’t heard from Fargal and so every time my husband calls me, which is at least every day and sometimes twice a day, my husband asks, “What about Fargal?” I find this question agitating because it zaps me out of my blissful state of reverie and requires me to make a foray into the world of commerce . . . and it also requires me to MAKE A LIST OF THINGS TO DO. I hate making that list, because everything on it requires that I interact with the modern world, and I want to remain in my own little world here on the farm.

So, donning a suede mini-skirt, tight body suit, and boots, I thought I would follow my French girlfriend’s advice, which was specifically to wear a low cut top with a short skirt if you want to get something accomplished in France; but it was cold and my low cut top would not have swayed Monsieur Fargal so I opted for tight. Luckily, it was raining, and so Monsieur Fargal was sitting in his office when I arrived, unable to be outside working. At first his secretary closed his office door a bit, because she knew the reason I was making an appearance, I had been there twice before. She wanted to hide Monsieur Fargal. But, I thought he must have been mesmerized by the mini skirt and boots, for he joined in the conversation.

He wanted to know if it was an emergency. No not yet, but it might end up being one if the mill collapses.

He wanted to know if we were converting the mill into a gite. No, I don’t want any more tourists here.

He wanted to know if I was English. No, I’m American, but I’m a poor American so give me the French price.

Okay, he said he would come out next week, on the 26th at 2pm. By the way, he’s totally bald and chubby. I’m still rooting for the guy who quickly gave us the devis. I smiled as I turned to leave when I noticed he was looking at my legs. But then, when I got home and was changing into my overalls to pick nuts, I realized that maybe he was wondering why I was wearing such weird striped tights . . . think Pippi Longstocking. So I don’t know if the trying to be sexy tactic worked or not. When you’re forty-six it’s hard to tell if the “sexy” card plays well.

Triumphant, I went home and picked nuts. It has been raining so it’s too wet to use the machine. That’s the problem with the machine: when you really need it, after the rain has knocked down massive quantities of nuts, it doesn’t work. So I have to pick the nuts from 150 trees. And just to clarify for you city slickers, these nuts are lying on the ground which means I have to bend over or squat for every single one of the buggers. I was thinking about how I won’t bend over to pick up a penny in the street in San Francisco; but here I’m bending over thousands of time to pick up something worth a penny or less. Needless to say, my derriere and legs are in great shape.

If you’re an organized person, nut picking can be very frustrating. The first couple of years, when I wasn’t even the one responsible for the harvest, I would go out and be overwhelmed by the magnitude of the job. But this year, knowing that I have to pick up every nut on the ground, I tell myself to be calm, to do as much as I can, and to slow down when my back starts aching. I’ve found that I work best in two hour shifts with an hour in between each shift. I would be fired if I was a migrant farm worker for demanding such exorbitant breaks. But I find that while the first two-hour stint is painful, if I take the hour-long rests in between, the next two stints become easier, almost fun, although tiring.

Around four yesterday, a tremendous rain and hail storm hit. I toughed it out, but finally went in the house realizing that I had to change my drenched clothes because I was too cold, and that these walnut trees have shallow roots and easily tip over so I was in danger staying out there during the storm. When I returned after the storm had passed, there were just as many nuts on the ground than before I started working. On one hand, that was disheartening, because I didn’t appear to be making any progress in cleaning the nuts off the ground; on the other hand it was exciting because it meant that there would be more nuts for a larger harvest, and these nuts were clean and shiny and fun to pick up, in comparison to muddy nuts that have been lying about for an extended amount of time.

I was back in one corner, picking up wayward nuts that had fallen into the untrimmed brush and I noticed that there were two apple trees. I was wondering why the sheep liked to hang out in this corner, and figured out the reason when I saw the half eaten apples strewn among the nuts. This tableau got me to thinking about how we humans are always so stressed running around wanting more, more, more, when in reality that state of affairs is an affront against Nature. We’ve been given everything we need by Nature to live a happy life: loved ones for companionship, sheep for clothing, nuts and apples falling from trees, berries growing on the vines, water for drinking. In reality, we are all born into the Garden of Eden, not needing anything but love, warmth, and food. But because we have listened to the snake (society, marketers, and governments) we are under the totally wrong impression that we must have more, more, more . . . more than love, warmth and food. And all this more, more, more brings us is obesity, pollution, stress, depression, war; oh, just add anything bad you can think to that list. Why do humans discard Eden and opt for Purgatory instead?

I was crawling around in the sparse grass, scooping up the nuts, and enjoying being in the mud and the rain. It was a particularly sensual experience which reminded me of my childhood on the farm in Ohio. We used to play all day in the woods, and that’s where I developed my attraction to that birth/decay smell that is Nature’s musk. I was thinking about the garden of Eden, and how there isn’t much of it left anymore, and how in reality we’re all born into it, and it’s our choice not to partake of the pleasure and abundance which Nature bestows on us. It’s my theory that the rampant depression that plagues modern society is the result of being estranged from Nature. Maybe French peasants were incredibly depressed three hundred years ago, but I theorize that they weren’t . . . they weren’t told constantly that they weren’t rich enough or beautiful enough by billboards, radio and television, so I think that they probably possessed a sense of contentment with their “poverty” that eludes modern man. They built the rituals of their life and family around their work so their entire existence was centered on a dependent and mystical relationship with Nature . . . and I have to believe that when such a close relationship exists with Nature, then Man is in his natural and most optimal state.

So yesterday, I’m writing in my journal and I realize that I have everything I want and need. Isn’t that a marvelous, stupendous, liberating realization to have? Funny thing though, everything I want and need isn’t what I thought I wanted and needed when I was spending my time on Russian Hill in San Francisco; no, those needs were much greater and much more materialistic and unfulfilling. Living and working in the Natural world, I realize that I need very, very little to keep me contented. I also realize that if I had absolutely nothing in the material sense of the world, I believe that I would still find contentment if I could just wander the countryside with my husband, son and two sheep . . . eating apples, nuts, and berries and walking south into Spain for the winter. If I lived like that, I wouldn’t have to spend four months, stressing out, trying to tracking down a roofer to give me an estimate to replace the roof.