Beware the Spectre of Family Values

My handsome husband and I were discussing the advent of Halloween in our village. Roger let out a sigh before he pooh-pooed the new holiday; pointing out that it was an American idea and there wasn’t anything French about it.

Then he went on to tell us about the fascinating origin of MOTHER’S DAY in France.

Before World War II, France didn’t celebrate Mother’s Day.

Roger explained that before the war, the motto of France was Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite – which in English translates into the rousing call of Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood.

But when the Nazi-puppets, that were the Vichy government, ran “Free-France” they changed the motto to Travail, Famille, Patrie – which means Work, Family, Country. You can’t find a more uninspiring slogan than that.

To demonstrate what huge supporters they were of family values, the Vichy-based government instigated Mother’s Day - - they sponsored essay writing contests in schools so the children could extol their mothers; while at the same time, the government was helping the Nazis round up thousands of mothers, fathers, and children and sending them off to death camps. Talk about hypocrites!

(Believe me, whoever is screaming the loudest about the sanctity of any institution, is doing their best to destroy said institution.)

When the war was over, France reclaimed her beautiful Revolution-inspired motto, but kept celebrating Mother's Day . . . and Roger blamed the flower vendors for that blasphemy.

I was lying on the floor in my office last night unable to sleep because Antoinette was licking my face. I was keeping the puppy company so she wouldn’t wake up the husband with her howling. I couldn’t get Antoinette off of my head and I couldn’t get Roger’s history lesson out of my head.

When you think of it, every dictatorship feels it’s necessary to pound the ideals of FAMILY, WORK, and PATRIOTISM into their citizens’ heads. All three “concepts” require that you OBEY and give up your silly ideas about LIBERTY, EQUALITY, and BROTHERHOOD.

Feel free to draw comparisons to modern politics; and this Halloween, beware the spectre of Family Values.

British Intelligence Reports . . .

My British spy contact reports that the Halloween frenzy has overtaken the OBI home improvement chain in the big city of our departement.

He states that the clerks were all forced to wear witches' hats!

OBI is an evil company . . . I THINK it's owned by the DUTCH . . . and they even stay open during the lunch hours. They're a wart on the beautiful face of la belle France.

Husband has become a DOG PERSON. 

Antoinette! 

Roger at his birthday party. 

Le Coq visiting the kitchen. 

Roger Succumbs to the Dark Side

Incroyable!

The myth that is la belle France has been destroyed for me this morning.

Roger was out at 9am with a gasoline powered leaf blower!

Modernity has worked its evil spell on my hero.

Aujourd'hui, je suis tres triste.

Merci, New York Times!

According to the New York Times, France is now officially passe as a place for Americans to have second homes.

I will break out the bottle of Vueve Cliquot chilling in the frigo.

But if you want to snatch up cheap deals in Bulgaria, or other parts of the New Riveria, you better scurry over there quickly: the Dutch, who have been the wiliest of traders throughout the centuries, have been selling their properties in France and moving to the east.

Before I happened upon today's article in the Times, I was going to write about how the Dutch seem to be moving out of this part of France. I personally know only two Dutch property owners, and both of them are selling their places and leaving France.

One of them, a successful businessman in Holland, told me last year that the business writers in Holland were churning out articles about how France was too expensive now, and if you wanted a great property investment, you needed to go to Eastern Europe.

When he told me this, it was more than I could hope for that there would be a grand exodus of the Dutch out of my little part of la belle France . . .but it seems to be happening.

Don't get me wrong. I like the Dutch. I really like seeing them in action when I'm in Holland. But I'd much prefer to have my little corner of France populated with French people. The Dutch do horrid things like eat at 5:30 in the evening and talk loudly like Americans when they are in public, totally ruining the French ambiance.

Now the question is: What nationality will replace the Dutch?

My guess is: The French. And here's my anectodal evidence regarding that phenomenon. A realtor we know who "specializes" in British clients, has recently taken on a British assistant . . .so that the head realtor is freed up to deal with FRENCH clients.

And, of the four properties in our neighborhood which have changed hands in the past year, three have gone to French people . . . score only one for the British.

So perhaps the countryside will once again be Frenchified in my lifetime.

Cemetery behind our house . . .Trick-or-Treaters BEWARE!

Bad American Habit

We received a notice from the Mairie yesterday that we should expect to see trick-or-treaters at our house between 5pm and 7pm on Halloween.

He had to send out this notice, because it’s the first year that Halloween has been celebrated here in our village . . . his constituency had to be warned to stock up on candy.

My American friends who live in our departement’s big city told me that they were flooded with trick-or-treaters last week. They too received a warning announcement from their Mairie. I guess their town held Halloween two weeks early so that if there was a run on bagged candy at the local box stores, at least the needs of their little goblins would be sated.

It seems that the Halloween craze is now sweeping Southwestern France.

But not so in other parts of Europe. A mayor in an Austrian town banned the observance of Halloween because it’s a bad American habit . . . and other mayors are following his lead.

My American husband really wants to have a Halloween party . . .he went so far as to bring a large cardboard skeleton with him on his last flight back from the States. I haven’t agreed to the party . . .because I'm not creative enough to figure out how to do it. The French just don’t seem to have the STUFF you need to PURCHASE for a full-blown Halloween party.

But I’m sure that in another year or two, they will have all the requisite STUFF . . . I’ll bet anything that this Halloween idea is being promoted by the candy and party supply manufacturers . . .they’ll bring those old stuffy mayor’s around to their point of view in no time.

Ugly Americans . . .not my imagination

Seems the NY Times business section has discovered that Ugly Americans hurt the bottom line.

I'm happy to see that my "paranoid" rantings are being validated in the mainstream press.

Had a little neighborhood aperitif for St. Roger tonight . . .had a dinner for him this past Saturday . . .today is his seventy-seventh birthday. I made my famous Roquefort/onion/smoked bacon/walnut quiche, and some little chesse puffs to go with the champagne. Francine performed her "Happy Birthday" imitation of Marilyn Monroe.

One of the neighbors reported on a rumor going around that a French family has purchased a house that was for sale in our immediate area. They were living in Florida and just couldn't take:

• the crime
• the commuting
• the frenetic pace of life
• the rudeness of Americans
• the hurricaines

The neighbors volunteered to take care of the sheep and the chickens if I go back to the States with the husband . . .but they said we have to put Attilla in a dog pension. You know you have GREAT FRIENDS when they volunteer to take care of your sheep and chickens.

Unfortunately, I can't take them up on their offer because the new puppy is arriving within the week. Stay tuned for really cute photos.

The chickens are on strike. I had to buy a dozen eggs today. According to Yvette, the neighborhood chicken expert, I'll be getting eggs in a month . . .if my understanding of her French was correct, chickens only lay eggs every other month.

Went to lunch yesterday with the husband and our friend Nathalie. We were discussing the fact that the sheep shearer never showed up. I said we could wait until spring. Nathalie sighed and said she'd have to help me clip the sheep again. The husband suggested we use NAIR HAIR REMOVAL! We had a good laugh.

Avian Flu -- Ground Zero

House situated on edge of Wetlands -- check.
Migratory birds resting in our trees-- check.
Ducks swimming in pond -- check.
Chickens roaming yard-- check.
Lone Pheasant patrolling back of house-- check.

Looks like we're just begging for the Avian Flu to roost at chez nous.

French chickens still enjoying liberte!

Seems we're running through a patch of all the world's plagues at the the moment:

• an expensive eight month long rectal exam compliments of the I.R.S.;
• all the attendant joys of pure, American-style capitalism, brought to us by the Refco implosion;
• the LOOMING THREAT of avian bird flu, merci to Asian-based industrialized chicken producers.

Goodness, I don't think that Hitchcock, the master of horror and suspense, could have come up with such a soul-chilling plot line.

But even though we are on the verge of financial ruin and imminent death we're still very happy and contented on our little farm . . .so physically worn out each day from gathering up walnuts that we don't have the time to fret about the looming disasters.

The new sheep are arriving next week . . .with the belier. The girls are very excited -- except for Blanche. She doesn't want any challenges to her leadership.

Love is . . .

"Love is the willingness to accept another person with all of his or her
faults and limitations, and to be infinitely grateful that this other person
accepts you with all of yours."
-- Harold S. Kushner

Au Revoir

We left at four this morning for the airport. The dog came out of the barn to give us a polite send-off. We drove in the darkness, enjoying each other’s company, talking the entire hour and a half.

My son took the return portion of his flight back to the U.S. When I purchased the ticket in July, I didn’t think he’d use this half. We’d just throw it in the trash can and live happily ever after here in Europe where he would become a rock star. But the enormity of the undertaking made him have second thoughts; and with his friends at the university tempting him back, he decided that he’d like to go to school next quarter . . .using the return ticket while he still had the chance.

I’m home now. He’s in Paris waiting for his San Francisco-bound flight. I’m crying. I don’t know why. He’s nineteen. He needs to be on his own. The plan wasn’t for him to live at our house so why am I so upset now that he’s gone?

When I walked in the house and saw his slippers lined up under the desk where he had recently sat at the computer, that’s what made me feel as if someone had punched me in the gut. Those little ghost leavings – his guitar pick on the floor, the hoody he left for me to wear, a notebook with his drawings, his scent on the sheets I stripped from the bed and threw in the dirty laundry pile.

I don’t know why I’m sad. He decided he wants to go to the university and that’s great. That’s what I assumed he’d do from the moment he was born. It’s safer than being a rock star. His decision was wise and good.

Every time he leaves I regret all the things I didn’t say to him because I didn’t want to sound like the irrelevant adult that I am: take care of yourself, you’ll be sorry if you get tattoos, sell your motorcycle, pursue your guitar dreams at all costs, remember that love is the only thing that matters in life, but don’t throw your dreams away for some girl, remember you need to make money too so choose something you enjoy, et al.

The trees on the wooded hills are turning bright colors and the leaves are falling, and the flowers in the pots are dying. It’s sad when someone you love goes away. It’s sadder when they leave in the autumn . . . when the air is full of melancholy and the trees cry with you.

Husband rearranging his nuts so they'll dry thoroughly in the sun. 

Our Local British Tabloid

A British neighbor showed up to inform us that he tore down OUR post and chain that WE had strung across the public trail that goes through OUR property.

He said he just wanted to let us know that he didn't think it was right for us to try and close off the path. (Damn Americans, think they control everything.)

Trouble is, WE didn't put up the post and chain, and they weren't on OUR property. Hee, hee.

The Comte's handyman must have erected the impediments since they were on the Comte's property.

I have to side with the Comte on this one. The path has been recently frequented by gasoline motors and I'm sure the chain was there to ward them off. Walkers can just easily go under it. Horseback riders can go around it.

I wonder how many of our neighbors were appaled by the story of US chaining OUR path -- before the British neighbor found out we weren't the culprits.

I'm going to have to hire a PR agency to undo the ill-will he most likely spread.

Manure--Nuts--Stolen Underwear

This morning, I donned my husband's winter jacket over my turquoise-flower printed pajamas then, tramped outside in my muddied hiking boots to feed the dog, cat, sheep, and let out the chickens. I was immediately struck by the oddity of the day's heat and moisture that made it seem like a budding spring day. The birds are singing loudly and I have the urge to plant flowers, not pick up nuts.

I'm sure that urge, or more aptly, that rebellion, is being generated from my thigh bones which are acting as if they're made of rubber.

Went out yesterday with my husband to gather nuts. He drove his noisy, gasoline powered nut picker, and I followed behind to pick up what he misses. (Because men are NATURALLY more mechanically oriented than women they control the machines and that's the reason that 9 out of 10 of them will eventually be fat, while only 7 out of 10 women will be.)

At one point, I was begging my husband to let me use the machine, but he couldn't hear me over the engine noise. I just couldn't bend over one more time so I gave up and went in the house to cook the evening's high-fat meal.

This morning I spotted a pen lying on the floor. I left it there. I just couldn't force myself to bend over to pick it up. Yes, I'm a cripple but my 47-year-old abdomen resembles my 19-year-old abdomen for the first time in decades, so it's worth it. I now understand why women endure the savagery of breast implants . . .we're so programmed to try and fit the physical ideale du jour that we happily embrace self-flagellation.

(I just suggested to my husband that he drive into the village for a croissant run. But he couldn't hear me over the noise of his nut-drier.)

I much prefer picking nuts without using the machine, but we are so overwhelmed with nuts, and so physically beat that we're FORCED to use the machine or lose all our beautiful nuts.

I guess my next Zen challenge is to learn to shut out the ANNOYING noise of the nut machine engine. Perhaps that triumph will come next year.

I don't know what we did right this year, but our nuts are so very big and beautiful that they look as if they've been doused with insecticides and fertilizer . . . the nut buyer won't believe that they're biologique.

I credit the sheep manure.

I've been throwing the chicken poop on my roses and the roses are thriving. . .it's mid October and they're blooming out in big blossoms right now. Problem is, working in my rose garden isn't that pleasant.

I'd much rather use sheep manure on the roses. Sheep poop actually has a pleasant smell if it isn't mouldering in a big pile. But, the Catch-22 is that if the sheep are out roaming in the pasture, throwing off good smelling poo, you can't collect it. . .they leave little pea-shaped pellets lying about.

For dinner I made a pork tenderloin wrapped in bacon, baked green beans, and an apple tart . . .my husband tried to incite me to ALSO make some brownies but I drew the line on the fat consumption for the day.

Roger paid us a visit yesterday morning. I was in the shower when he arrived so he chatted with my husband relating the troubling report that Attila was stealing his dog's bedding.

I thought Attila had pulled all those rugs out of our barn. He's so sneaky. I've never seen him return from Roger's with anything in his mouth.

I now understand why all those Parisian women are seen shopping with their dogs . . .I'm going to take Attila with me next time I make a visit to rue St. Honore! I will start teaching him how to read shoe sizes on Hermes boxes.

Roger and my husband gathered up the stolen rugs. Attila also has a mysterious pair of men's underwear but my husband didn't ask Roger if they belonged to him.

Death of the Vendage

The vendage, grape harvest, is wrapping up now.

This weekend, our neighbor Bernard walked over to say "hello" to my husband and me while we were in our front walnut grove picking up nuts. Bernard is Therese's son and works at Airbus overseeing the writing of the flight manuals. He comes up to visit his mother every other weekend.

While we were chatting, a tractor with a steel grape wagon attached went speeding by on our narrow road. We all commented on how reckless the unknown man was driving.

Bernard is one of the younger neighbors, not yet 50. He mentioned that it was very sad for him to witness the demise of the vendage as he knew it. Bernard told us that it used to be, up until very recently, that the grapes were cut by hand, and that all the community participated in the event . . . men, women, children. When the harvest was finished, the owners of the vineyards would host abundant dinners. As Bernard put it, "there was much happiness."

When we arrived in 2001, many vineyards were still harvesting their grapes by hand; but within the past four years, all of the harvesting has been mechanized. And the parties are gone too. My husband and I were lucky enough to experience one.

I guess there isn't much to celebrate when one man on a noisy machine finishes harvesting all the grapes in a field in less than an hour.

If the vendage is gone, then Romantic France is gone. I try desperately to cling to it's ghost with my chickens, sheep and walnuts.

The Efficiency of High Fat Food

After physically exherting myself for hours on end picking up walnuts, I'm too tired to go to much trouble making lunch. So I do what the farmers and shepherds have done here for centuries, I partake of a charcuterie lunch, nibbling on dried sausage, cheese and a little bit of bread. (I forgo the wine because it would knock me out for the rest of the afternoon.) I don't attempt to limit my portions, I just eat until I'm sated. Occasionally following up my repas with a couple of squares of chocolate.

A local friend told me that in the seventies he frequented a restaurant where there were only two choices on the menu for lunch: plat du jour or charcuterie. If you chose chacuterie, the owner of the enterprise, would pull a sausage out of the large pocket sewn on the front of her apron, and immediately slice off your portion.

Surprisingly, allowing myself to eat as much as I want, I end up not eating much. The fat fills me up quickly.

I don't know what my veins look like, maybe they're as clogged as a Los Angeles Freeway at 6pm on a Friday; but I'm now to the point that when I pinch my thighs, I'm hard pressed to find fat globules.

So this leads me to believe that fat, does not cause a person to be fat.

I suspect our bodies crave fat because the survival of humans depended upon high-fat food. Since it is extremely labor intensive to raise vegetables, fruits and nuts -- and you're at the mercy of the weather -- it was imperative to develop foods that could be stored for longer periods of time and fatty meats and cheese fit the bill.

Up until the last half of the twentieth-century, the majority of people in Europe were what we would now term "poor", and it was absolutely necessary for them to pack the highest amount of calories into the smallest amount of food. Hence, the preference for cheese, sausage, foie-gras. When people worked with their bodies, this high-fat fuel burned off quickly.

When I'm in the U.S., I jog (a lot) and eat things that are much less fatty (in the U.S., I often eat as a vegetarian) but still I have difficulty with my weight . . . I suspect because I eat out in restaurants so frequently; and, jogging for 45 minutes to an hour is not as effective a form of exercise as several hours of sustained physical exertion that I regularly get on the farm.

I read an article the other day outling a new study which found that 7 out of 10 women in the U.S. will end up being overweight by the end of their life, and 9 out of 10 men will end up overweight. The study concluded that it is near-impossible to remain thin throughout one's life in modern America.

Our bodies were designed to function best in a state of constant physical exertion where calories are scarce. The modern western world has destroyed the fundamental balance into which we humans developed over the millenia.

Our bodies have been made obsolete by our machines. Calories are cheap and abundant. These are the reasons for our constant stuggle with weight loss.

We haven't had time to evolve to a balanced way of life that meshes with our new abundant way of living.

The Zen of Walnut Harvesting

Here on our little farm, all of us homo-sapiens are physically worn out.

It's walnut harvest time. For the next four to five weeks, we will be constatntly moaning about how our muscles ache and how tired we are.

Harvesting walnuts by hand, is an exercise in futility to some. To me it's an exercise in Zen meditation. You're performing hours of exhausting physical work each day, yet you will not be "rewarded" with adequate financial/material compensation.

My nineteen-year-old son thinks the trees should be cut down. "What's the point?" he asks. "You don't make any money."

And yes, I do ask myself that same question during the first half-hour of nut harvesting each day -- after I've mustered the energy from who-knows-what-internal-resevoir to trudge out to the dew-soaked nut grove, pushing the wheelbarrow filled with crates and a large bottle of Badoir, to initiate my first squat to pick up nuts. After all, I've got better things to do: finish my best-selling novel, start on my blockbuster business proposal, make my fortune trading options, paint one of highly sought after moutons masterpieces, hem the new curtains, or clean out the chicken coop.

It has been very difficult for me to explain to my son the joyous myriad of emotional, spiritual, and health benefits that accrue to one while harvesting walnuts.

He just doesn't buy it.

A thin teen-ager doesn't need the relentless physical exertion to firm up anything on his body.
A music obsessed rocker doesn't want to spend his days in silence.
A stylish dresser wants to earn decent wages to buy clothing.
A popular stud wants to hang around other teenagers . . .not sheep.

I really enjoy being in the nut grove with my trusty flea-transporting dog at my side, the sheep grazing peacefully nearby, and the birds serenading me from the trees. After an hour or so of internal grumbling, I develop a rhythm of bending and squatting that gets my heart racing, burns calories, and firms my derriere. I have friends who pay big money for such an experience.
In the nut grove, I'm alone in solitude, except for the occassional gasoline-powered tool that a neighbor revs up, with only my thoughts.

To be alone with only my thoughts, is a very rare state in which to find myself. Yes, if I'm writing or studying stock charts, I'm alone with my thoughts, but they're very directed thoughts. To be alone for hours with un-directed, random thoughts is a scary proposition. I would venture to say that most people in modern society are frightened to be alone. That's the reason televisions and radios are always blaring. That's the reason Musak was developed. People just don't want to be alone with their thoughts.

I have to admit that throughout the first autumns of walnut havesting, I just couldn't "quiet" my mind. The same ridiculous thoughts would race back and forth in my mind for hours. I finally took to humming to get rid of a useless thought that just wouldn't go away; or I'd stop to talk to the sheep (I didn't have a dog before) to try and direct my mind to a new area of introspection.

Slowly, year after year, the farm has taught me to prefer being in silence. I no longer play the radio while I'm in the kitchen, or anywhere in the house. When I'm alone, I move about in silence. In the car, I'll sometimes play the radio or CD, but it's no longer habitual, it's usually to keep me awake when I get tired.

And this harvest, I've noticed that my mind has "quieted" . . .I've finally reached that Zen state where I can control my thoughts. If I don't want to think about something, I no longer have to hum or talk to an animal, I can switch thoughts. I've stopped the mind chatter.

So what? One might ask. What's the benefit in finding enjoyment in silence?

If you can get to the point where you find enjoyment in just being alone, you've come to the point where you live contentedly in the present moment: you are not living in the past and you are not living in the future. This is the peaceful point where meditation is supposed to lead.

I believe that the last year I was capable of living solely in the present was 1967. I was nine-years-old. Since that year, I've been swept along in a world not of my making. It took me thirty-eight-years to fight my way back to my natural, blissful state.

Well, gotta go pick more nuts.

Nightmare on Egg Street

A few posts back I mentioned that the Americans who are against foie gras production should also take a look at the inhumane conditions in which poultry is raised in the U.S.

It's amazing that a corporation can turn something as sweet and innocent as laying an egg, into an horror show.

The Path to Happiness

"Economic growth is not always synonymous with progress . . ." or as the Beatles put it, "Can't buy me love."

It's true! It now appears that the excessive application of asphalt does bring misery. The idea of living simply, in harmony with nature, is now being discussed seriously in scientific circles as the secret for happiness.

It seems that excessive pavement does bring misery!

Breaking News!

President Bush Sells Louisiana Back to the French

President Bush and a giddy Jacques Chirac shake hands on the deal.


BATON ROUGE, LA. - The White House announced today that President Bush has successfully sold the state of Louisiana back to the French at more than double its original selling price of $11,250,000.

"This is a bold step forward for America," said Bush. "And America will be stronger and better as a result. I stand here today in unity with French Prime Minister Jack Sharaq, who was so kind to accept my offer of Louisiana in exchange for 25 million dollars cash."

The state, ravaged by Hurricane Katrina, will cost hundreds of billions of dollars to rebuild.

"Jack understands full well that this one's a 'fixer upper,'" said Bush. "He and the French people are quite prepared to pump out all that water, and make Louisiana a decent place to live again. And they've got a lot of work to do. But Jack's assured me, if it's not right, they're going to fix it."
The move has been met with incredulity from the beleaguered residents of Louisiana.

"Shuba-pie!" said New Orleans resident Willis Babineaux. "Frafer-perly yum kom drabby sham!"

However, President Bush's decision has been widely lauded by Republicans.

"This is an unexpected but brilliant move by the President," said Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist. "Instead of spending billions and billions, and billions of dollars rebuilding the state of Louisiana, we've just made 25 million dollars in pure profit."

"This is indeed a smart move," commented Fox News analyst Brit Hume. "Not only have we stopped the flooding in our own budget, we've made money on the deal. Plus, when the god-awful French are done fixing it up, we can easily invade and take it back again."

The money gained from 'The Louisiana Refund' is expected to be immediately pumped into the rebuilding of Iraq.

Barbara Kingsolver

Yesterday, I had the privilege of being invited to attend the presentation of a doctoral thesis on the short stories of Barbara Kingsolver.

Ms. Kingsolver and her husband Steve were in attendance. The presentation covered five hours, and we were given only a ten minute break. Four professors and Ms. Kingsolver commented on the dissertation by my friend's daughter, Benedictine.

Ms. Kingsolver commented on the fact that the dissertation presentation was much more formal in France than it is in the United States. The professors in the U.S. ask questions; the French professors write out their own lengthy analysis of the work, and then ask some questions.

At the end of the presentation and commentary period, the audience was sent to wait in the hallways while the professors and Ms. Kingsolver deliberated on whether to award the doctorate and what level they would award.

A half-hour later, maybe forty-five minutes, we were brought back in the room. Everyone, including the professors, remained standing. The moderator-professor announced that Benedictine was being awarded the highest honor . . . and that after an English translation of her work, it will be published and sold world-wide through the university.

The room broke out in applause and cheers of "bravo," her parents, sister and American boyfriend beamed with pride. My eyes welled up with happy tears, and I didn't even know the young woman before that morning.

Here's an example of Barbara Kingsolver's work where she writes in her book Small Wonders about the tragedy of the disappearance of nature: Excerpt

Bienvenue. 

oops!

I guess that Bill O'Reilly Boycott of all things French didn't catch on: La Belle France

Zero Egg Day

Yesterday was a zero-egg day.

I spent ALL morning dealing with an I.R.S. audit.

To relieve my stress I went out after lunch to pick walnuts. Arriving in the grove I gasped out loud at the massive amount of nuts on the ground. The rain the day before had knocked them off and there appeared to be a carpet of big, beautiful nuts laid out before me.

I believe that the manure the sheep have spread is the catalyst for the quality improvement this year.

I enjoy picking up nuts by hand, it’s great exercise for your legs and derriere, but I was just too overwhelmed at the impossible amount of work confronting me. There was no way for me to pick up all the nuts before the bugs and worms attacked them.

I trudged back to the house, to ask my husband to start up the nut machine for me. He claimed it was too wet to use, but I argued that the afternoon sun had dried up the ground a lot, and I thought we should at least try.

He was busy with something, and said he would get the machine out shortly.

I went back to the walnut grove and started frantically picking up nuts. Believe me, nut harvesting can be turned into an arobic activity.

About a half an hour later, I heard the nut machine start up, and saw that my husband was moving it out of its shed.

There is a little, teeny, tiny plot of land situated between the road and the little river that runs along our nut grove. It's owned by some people who live in the big town of our departement. It’s an overgrown field, not much bigger than a postage stamp. Each fall, this old couple arrives and for three days, with their little tiny dog at their heels, they clear the brush and small trees that have grown up on the bank, off the land.

Last year, I offered to buy it. The woman scoffed at me and told me they couldn't think of selling it; it was her mother's land, and they were going to leave it to their son. The land can't be used to build on because it's in the flood plain.

This couple brings a huge picnic basket to tide them through the long day of work. The man wields a giant weed-wacker whose motor ceaselessly screams all day. The wife makes piles of debris and lights them on fire, filling our little valley with smoke for three days. My husband thinks their ritual is romantic.

After my morning of I.R.S. induced fun, I was looking forward to spending the afternoon picking up nuts surrounded by the peace and tranquility of nature. But that was not to be: try as I might to escape the mighty master, the gasoline powered engine, yesterday was not the day.

My sheep did graze peacefully, and every now and then I would glance over at them and smile . . . trying to figure out why they make me so happy to watch.

The dog was busy crossing the river to harass the couple's little dog.

I noticed that the nut machine was quietly sitting outside of its shelter, but my husband was no where to be seen.

After an hour of picking nuts, I went back to the house; walked past the nut machine, and noticed that there were tools on top of it.

“Why are there tools on the nut machine,” I asked my husband when I walked into the house.

“I pulled the rope to start the engine and it broke,” he replied.

“Ohhhh,” I moaned, as I cut off a slice of bread to devour.

On my way back to work, I took a detour to check for eggs. But there were no eggs and the chickens were no where to be seen or heard. I was bummed. The hens had been spoiling me with their daily eggs.

I returned to the nut grove and picked up nuts for three more hours. My husband went into town to get a replacement starter rope for the engine. The woman on the other side of the river was kept busy trying to chase Attila back to his side of the river.

In the early evening, I got the wheelbarrow and hauled my three crates of beautiful walnuts to the barn. Then I went in the house, sliced off more bread, and called the accountant back in San Francisco. Talked to her for over an hour. I had to end the conversation because it was getting dark and I needed to lock up the chickens so the proverbial fox wouldn’t eat them during the night.

After thinking earlier in the day that the chickens had disappeared for good, I was very pleased to find that they were all in the coop, roosting.

By this time, my husband had repaired the walnut machine and was out in the grove picking up nuts . . .his engine screaming much louder than the man across the river's weed-wacker. I briefly noted my hypocrisy. My husband soon returned to the barn with two bins of nuts. He had collected them in one quarter the time it had taken me to gather my three bins of nuts.

We were in the barn, washing the nuts he had gathered, when I walked outside, and was shocked, shocked I tell you, to find all six sheep standing there, with Blanche in the lead, munching flowers.

Attila was there beside me, and as I started to shoo the sheep back towards the gate THAT MY HUSBAND HAD LEFT OPEN, Attila miraculously switched into sheep dog mode, and quickly and efficiently herded the sheep back through the gate and into the pasture. My husband and I watched in amazement. We had given up any hope that the dog could be trained. Just that afternoon, my husband pointed out that the dog only did what you wanted when your wishes were in accordance with his desires.

But the dog really amazed us, even stopping when I shouted that command. I told my husband, that the dog achieved the feat in 1/100th the time it would have taken me to herd the sheep. And he does it without the aid of a gasoline powered engine! Attila really is a working dog and we’re soooooo proud of him.

However, I’m worried that we praised him too much for his artful display of sheep management and that now he’ll be looking for every excuse to harass the sheep.

Take note of how rotten my day started out: having to deal with I.R.S. matters.
But in the end, I had a great day -- and what brought me pleasure?
Watching my sheep in their pasture.
Seeing the dog masterfully maneuver the sheep through their pasture gate.
Finding the chickens peacefully roosting in their coop.