Vines, Voleurs, and Vaginas

Took a 2.5 hour walk yesterday with the dogs. We returned via the woods behind Roger’s house. He was in his now-barren vineyard loading up vine stumps onto a trailer hooked to his tractor. The Husband had suggested to me the other day that I should ask Roger if he wanted to give away those vine stumps. But I wasn’t going to do that because I figured that Roger would burn them himself in his wood stove.

I walked over to say “bonjour” to Roger and to ask him what he was doing. I don’t recommend that one walk up to a French person and ask, “Whatcha doin’?” It’s not polite. However, Roger is familiar with my strange American ways; and since he’s a bachelor and doesn’t have someone bugging him all day, he enjoys my nosiness.

Roger told me that the government agency that oversees agricultural matters had notified him that he had to move his pile of vine stumps to a covered location. They’re worried the stumps might be infected with some grape disease and the wind would blow the disease to other vineyards.

It doesn’t matter that Roger’s vines were disease-free for fifty years. It doesn’t matter that the nearest vineyard is on the other side of a small mountain. They insisted that he move the stumps.

Roger said to me, “I told them, I’m French and I can’t even understand why you would insist on such a crazy regulation.” I had a hearty laugh at that.

Roger has three vineyards worth of vine stumps. He told me that the Husband and I could take as many stumps as we wanted, and he’d even drive them over on his tractor. I told him that at the very least, we’d help him load them onto the trailer.

I asked Roger if he knew anything about the thief for whom the Gendarmes were searching. He told me that someone had robbed his cousin Perrot’s cave. They stole cases of wine and lots of homemade pate. The Gourmet Thief strikes again! The Husband ran out to check our cave and happily found everything in tact. It’s not stocked with delicious homemade pates that I’ve made; however it does have a robust collection of wine that the Husband has put together. I have to admit that I’m not holding up my end of the cave stocking duties.

Still no new lambs. During the day, I try to walk out every hour, and if I’m away, the Husband assumes Twat Watch duty for me. The Husband and I have developed the ovine version of The Vagina Monologues.

“See anything interesting?” the Husband asks as I return from my check.

“Nope. Everything seems tight as a drum,” I reply.

There’s something a bit perverted about making your sheep stand up every hour so you can examine their genitals. But I guess it’s in my genes for my Father and my brother Bill are doing the exact same exercise with their cows.

Until I get a healthy lamb, I’m going to be possessed by this constant foreboding dread when I walk out towards the sheep pasture. Checking on the sheep used to be a pleasurable experience. But now I’m very tense. I’m frightened of scanning the pasture and spotting another dead white blob of a lamb. This morning the thought struck me that I’m on some sort of sick Easter egg hunt.

On a happy note, the roses bushes are beginning to bloom.