The Husband's dog. 

Chickens waiting for me to lock them in for the night. 

Husband's dog trying to strangle my dog. 

View from our village. 

Nous Sommes Tous Hollandaise

Weather has cooled down significantly. Dogs, sheep, people are happier. I drove into town today to get some groceries, and I didn’t even stop. The village was just too crowded with tourists . . . and it was a Monday, the day when most of the shops are shut. I will now avoid going to the village in the mornings until September.

It finally happened. For the past five years, the people who were fed up with the overcrowding of the Dordogne were quietly trickling into our departement. Then last year, a few well known travel magazines wrote about our idyllic area . . . and like the Eagles song says “call something Paradise, kiss it good-bye” . . . Voila! We’ve become the Dordogne.

There don’t seem to be many British tourists this year. Or maybe it just seems that way because their license plates are outnumbered by the hordes of Dutch and Belgians. Everyone I’ve spoken with has noticed the Flemish invasion this year.

When you ask a Dutch person why they come to France they invariably have the same reply: “Have you been to Holland recently? It’s too crowded. It’s one big city from Rotterdam to Amsterdam.”

Alas, that’s what the future portends for France. It will soon become one big city from Amsterdam to Toulouse.

Last night at dinner, I was lamenting how “foreigners” destroy what they desire. The Dutch love this part of France because it isn’t overcrowded, so they come down here and overcrowd it.

The British and Americans move here and go on renovation frenzies, and huge box stores spring up to accommodate their insatiable needs, and more parking lots, and bigger roads, and more semis, and more trash consume the countryside the invaders profess to adore.

I know it’s not psychologically healthy to be against progress; I’m trying to accept the fact that I can’t escape its relentless march.

Blanche with Marley moments after his birth. My girlfriend sent me this photo, warning me that I would be sad. And I am.

It is the Progeny's contention that my dog, Antoinette, has adopted my personality traits.

Too Much Testosterone

This guy should be sent to Iraq . . . or the French Foreign Legion . . .

Beheader of Dog Sentenced to Two Years

Village 5 km to the west of us.

Walk the Walk

We had dinner last night with our dear friends Pierre-Yves and Marylen.

They took us under their wings when we first arrived here; and whenever we have a problem we immediately get on the telephone and ask Pierre-Yves to solve it for us.

The two of them had long careers with Air France, and speak perfect English. Pierre-Yves was the head purser on the Concorde for years. He’s organized and very efficient. When he promises you he’ll do something, it always gets done.

Pierre-Yves has always been an inspiration to everyone he meets. My brother sat down with him for only a half –an-hour two years ago, and the experience changed his life. My brother started working out daily. At the age of seventy-five, Pierre-Yves ran two HOURS a day, every day. My brother, who’s a divorced pilot, now a jet setting playboy, told me that until he heard Pierre-Yves talk lovingly about Marylen, he didn’t believe that love existed within marriages.

Pierre-Yves has pursued an exemplary healthy lifestyle. He has never imbibed alcohol except for the one time his father forced him to drink a glass of wine; admonishing him that Pierre-Yves couldn’t call himself a French man if he didn’t drink.

Pierre-Yves has never smoked.

He doesn’t eat foods that have been fermented. So when I have him over for dinner I must be careful to leave out all mustards and vinegars . . . and that means that most of my cooking repertoire is of no use. He purchases his bread from a biologique baker. His duck comes from a biologique producer. His granola is special ordered from an organic French monastery.

So it was a great shock to everyone when Pierre-Yves was diagnosed with lung cancer last year. He probably got it from being exposed to all that second-hand smoke in the small cabin of the Concorde.

He no longer runs. He now takes short walks in the morning. He walks with a limp from when he fell last summer and broke his hip. He won’t tell you what his condition is . . . he won’t even tell his wife. Sometimes when you’re talking with him, and you touch on the subject of his only grandchild, or he speaks about the days when he used to run, tears well up in his eyes. But other than that, he puts on a brave front.

I keep thinking that I need to say something monumental to Pierre-Yves. He’s facing death and I feel that I must offer some brilliant words of solace. But I have none.

After our pleasant, joyful dinner last night, I realized that any words I would utter would be awkward and meaningless.

It was enough just to be in each others’ good company. My actions now and in the past are what matters.

I did tell Pierre-Yves that I loved him when I hugged him good night.

An unnamed member of the flock .

We Can Fix This Mess

See my reply to your message in the comments section of July 24th. Merci beaucoup!

Here are a few of the items on today's "things to do before dinner guests arrive" list:

• pick up dog poop from freshly raked gravel driveway
• wash chicken urine and feces off of terrace
  

Village down the road

Latour C.S.I.

Last night, the Husband and I walked the perimeter of the sheep pastures looking for clues to the disappearance of Marley. We found tufts of wool everywhere, but they were dirty and long so they weren't Marley's.

I joked that we were stuck in a "boring" episode of C.S.I. No fancy editing or hip music to make our plight seem exciting.

This morning, I returned from my bike ride, feelin g relaxed even though I had cycled 28km in very hot weather.

The Husband walked in the kitchen, fresh from his irrigating duties and reported, "I found a remnant of Marley."

"What part?" I calmly asked as I wolfed down a giant piece of fresh bread.

"The lower part of his leg. I stuck it up in the tree so you can inspect it if you want."

"I don't know if I want to," I replied. Then I added, "Maybe I'll take a photo of it for my blog. I don't have any photos of Marley."

Hot Enough For You?

Blanche is doing better. Her big bag is shrinking so I imagine that her physical pain is going away. Last night, I found her away from her flock, nibbling the meager grass offerings near her shed. She followed me out to the flock when I went to check on them. Beau sniffed her to see if there was any action to be had; there wasn’t so he sidled up to one of the yearling ewes. Blanche stayed with the flock, but on the periphery.

Weather is hot here. Whenever one of the natives mentions that fact, I tell them that California is having a heat wave along with electricity blackouts. They look puzzled for a few seconds and then just as I open my mouth to explain, they fill in the blank, “Ahhh, la climatisation!”

Our garden has kicked into full production . . . just as all our guests left. So now the Husband and I are consuming a vegetarian diet. After just two days of the regimen, I am amazed at how much more energy I have. Yesterday, I had no desire to take an afternoon siesta . . . even in the blazing heat.

The Husband ordered some grass carp to throw in the mill pond. They will supposedly rid the pond of a lot of plants that are choking it; but the fish farmer came out to visit and told the Husband that it’s too hot to throw the fish in the water.

Our long haired, black dogs sit on the shady side of the terrace and pant all day. The sheep roast in their sheds. The chickens are the only ones who seem unaffected. They ceaselessly wander the grounds all day and come 19:30 hours, they are waiting to be locked in their coop despite the fact that the temperature inside is oven-like.

I’m not getting many eggs from them lately. I don’t know if the chickens are on strike or if the rat is just more efficient.

Blanche in Happier Days

Blanche Update

Blanche was feeling a bit better yesterday. Her bag was smaller, so I imagine she isn't in as much physical pain. She finally came out of her shed, but went into a different pasture than the rest of the flock. She is still isolating herself, but at least she's eating better. I take her geraniums each evening.

Still no trace of the corpse of Marley. I can't stop obsessing about what animal took him. Yesterday, a tourist from a nearby camping spot was walking two Huskies. I eyed them suspiciously after reading in the Buddhist sheep book that Huskies are a menace to sheep.

I'm pretty certain, or at least I want to be pretty certain, that Antoinette and Attila didn't contribute to the demise of Marley. Yesterday I gave them a bowl of rice, and they had rice hanging on their neck hairs . . . there's no way they could have attacked a lamb and not had some blood on them. They aren't that neat.

Last night, a nearby village had a dance and confetti battle. The village sells bags of confetti and people go wild throwing it at each other. In the morning, there's an inch or two of confetti on the main street.

It's a village tradition that in the early morning hours, when the band is finished playing, people gather together to eat tripe soup.

It was dark, but the Husband and I walked Antoinette and Attila down the road to check out the action. The Husband had fun picking up some sort of strange glowing larvae that he found clinging to the tall grass. He stuck them to his shirt. I hope they aren't the result of a nuclear reactor accident.

At the village, the Husband and Attila ventured into the crowd. I had read that Australian Shepherds are afraid in crowds so Antoinette and I stayed on the sidelines watching the kids flirt. Antoinette was interested in a group of teenage boys who were drinking and smoking cigarettes. She pushed her way into their circle and sat among them watching them. Attila got confettied. It's still tangled up in his hair this morning.

I received my Carte de Sejour yesterday, so I'm no longer an illegal alien.

The Husband spends his mornings raking the gravel he had delivered for our driveway. If you remember, we had a septic tank put in this January and the asphalt between the house and the barn was ripped up. We were going to pave it, but after visiting several homes with graveled drives, we opted for the more rural look of gravel.

Unfortunately, the Husband ordered much more gravel than we needed and the deliveryman dumped the stuff in one giant pile. So now the Husband must eternally move gravel around to every available space on the property.

To my great New Age surprise, the Husband has adopted the attitude that the moving and raking of the gravel is his Zen training.

One becomes a Zen practitioner here despite any resistance to the idea. The animals and plants, the government and the repairmen, each have their own timetables with which we must be patient, patient, patient. The neighbors pop in at all times. The train conductors often strike.

On Sunday, I thought I'd make a schedule . . . to give myself the illusion of being in control of my time. By Monday afternoon, I wrote across the top of the schedule: Schedules are useless.

I overheard the Husband telling a friend on the phone that he found the gravel raking to be very Zen: the pebbles are like little pieces to a giant puzzle and one has plenty of time to contemplate how the pieces fit together.

I congratulated the Husband for "going over to the other side" by leaving his empirical view behind in his office. That change alone was worth the move here.

The Progeny with his 83-year-old "slave master", Leonce.

The Progeny flew back to Montana on Friday. I always feel down when he leaves.

That evening, I put Blanche and her lamb out in the field with the rest of the flock. I kept the two of them for one night and two days in the barn so that they could bond. The sheep book says to not keep them in the “jug” for more than three days. Marley was nursing well, and I made the decision that they should go back to the flock. They had spent the same amount of time in the barn as Biberon had with her lamb.

Blanche was happy to leave the barn to once again graze on green grass. I checked often to make sure that Blanche was taking good care of Marley. The last time I looked was around ten p.m. and Blanche and Marley were lying down for the night, side by side.

In the morning, I looked out the kitchen window as I made my pot of tea, and saw Blanche near the watering hole; but there was no lamb following her. The other sheep were grazing nearby, but I couldn’t make out Marley’s scrawny form among them.

I heaved a heavy, worried sigh and reluctantly left the kitchen without having a cup of tea.

There was no sign of Marley. I walked all over the two pastures, looking under bushes, over the fence at the river bank, at a mesh-covered hole. No sign of Marley.

I made Antoinette and Attila sit down for a blood inspection. I couldn’t find a trace.

I stirred the Husband from his perusal of the Tokyo market and asked him to go out and look for traces of Marley. The Husband conducted an even more thorough search by walking the entire perimeter of the two pastures. He could find no sign of Marley.

Marley had simply disappeared.

Yesterday evening, Sunday, the Husband and I took Blanche some geraniums to eat. We found her eating the short tufts of grass just outside her shed. The rest of the flock had taken off for their evening round of grazing, she stayed behind. Unusual behavior for a sheep.

When I had checked on her earlier in the day, she was keeping to herself in a separate shed while the rest of the flock banded together in another. Usually the flock wants to be in Blanche’s shed; maybe they were feeling her sad vibes and didn’t want to be around her. Or perhaps she wanted some privacy and was keeping them out.

To me, Blanche looked very sad yesterday. I sat down and petted her. Told her I was sorry she had to go through all this misery: the Dutchman fishing around in her body with his arm; the dead female lamb; the huge, heavy milk bag; and now the missing Marley with whom she nuzzled so sweetly. I cried. She nuzzled my face. I cried harder.


I came in the house and told the Husband I wanted to give all the sheep, except Blanche and Soixante-Douze to the Moulys, the sheep farmers up the road. The Husband told me to hang in there. I quietly resolved to call the Moulys.

I pulled out a copy of “The Barn at the End of the Road.” It’s the journal of the year a Quaker-Buddist woman spent with a flock of sheep in Minnesota. I flipped through it and read all the parts about dead sheep that I could find. There were a lot.

The author said that when sheep die, it is a dress rehearsal for the farmer’s own pending death.

Yeah, I could see how that was true. I had always understood the theoretical aspects of death. My best friend in ninth grade was hit by a car and killed. But that seemed to be her fault. She had run out in the road after her cat.

I’m a smart American; I can thwart the grim reaper. I can exercise. I can eat right. I can get a mammogram each year. I can look both ways before crossing the street.

But I’m still going to die. That’s the message isn’t it?

That’s not quite the entire message. The rest of the message is that the only thing that matters while you’re alive is love; loving; being loved. Blanche nuzzling her progeny, that’s all that mattered in Marley’s short life.

The Husband thinks that an owl or a hawk took Marley, since we can’t find any blood near the fences, or wool stuck to the bottom of the fence where a dog could have dragged him.

On the bright side, if Marley had to die, I’m happy that his body was so thoroughly disposed so I don’t have to call the animal disposal man.

Blanche is a Mother!

Blanche gave birth yesterday to twins. I called a Dutch neighbor who had previously worked in a laboratory that studied sheep and was in charge of the birthing for six-hundred ewes; because I was worried that Blanche was so big she might have trouble.

I don't know if calling him was beneficial or not. Blanche had a male and a female. The male came out first. The female, was backwards, and when the man pulled her out, she was dead.

As is the case with all disasters, there is a lot of second guessing. I keep wondering if all his fishing around in Blanche's body had anything to do with the death. The female lamb looked perfect, in fact, bigger than the male.

I would have preferred that the female had lived, because I really wanted a little "Blanchette" and I don't need another buck. So this means that Blanche's male offspring will be going to the butcher. (His markings aren't as good as Lambchop's.)

The day before, I had just had a discussion about the emphasis on looks in society with a friend from the States, trying to explain why I don't often wear make-up; and then I'm forced to decide who lives or dies based on how good-looking they are.

My little friend Marleyna was here to witness the birth. She insisted we name the new lamb. I didn't really want to because I don't want to get attached to him. But we decided on "Marley." That's a male version of Marleyna, and it's the name of the book Marleyna is reading at the moment.

Should have photos to post soon.

The Progeny returns to the States today. The Husband and I took him out for his ritual foiegras extravaganza before departing dinner.

Oh, and can't forget, we attended a Canned Heat concert in our town! The Husband was so amazed and happy.

Work Farm

Our place has turned into a prison work farm. Yesterday, everyone was breaking rocks, hauling rocks, laying rocks, or raking gravel.

Leonce the ancient neighbor is building a little shepherd’s hut.
The Progeny is helping him.
The Husband was raking the gravel that was just delivered over the driveway where the asphalt was ripped out.
James, the Guest, was helping the husband.

The dogs just sat and watched them sweat.

Blanche has huge udders but seems disinterested in going through the birthing process. I walk out every few hours, lift up her tail, and give her a pep talk.

Beau’s cuddle therapy has been a little too successful. Every time I walk out into the field, he comes trotting up to me to be petted. If I ignore him, or don’t pet him long enough, he butts me. His little horn nubs really hurt.

I don’t mind giving him a back massage, except I come away smelling like a sheep . . . and if I rub his back too long, he gets aroused and, well the results are rather gross.

Yes, this is my life here in France. I have a French lover . . . but it’s a sheep. I have a second house . . . but it’s a shepherd’s shack. The glamour I’ve sought all my life, still eludes me.

La Tour de France

The Husband and I rode our bikes 36 kilometers yesterday, tackling some high, long hills. We just started our bike riding pursuits a little more than a week ago so we were quite proud of our feat.

We rode through gorgeous scenery, filled with sunflowers, to a hilltop village that has an abundant and vibrant Sunday market. By the time we arrived, the bakery was almost stripped clean of goods, so we were forced to try a “baguette of the summer” . . . the baker had added dried tomatoes.

We purchased two apples and devoured them immediately with the bread. The baguette was savory and I would highly recommend it. The Husband bought a ripe melon for us to eat during a break on the ride back home.

We sat in the café and were waited on by a very grumpy waitress. I think she was the owner’s wife, and if that was the case, she should have been thrilled that there were so many foreigners showering her with Euros. I asked her if I could have a carafe of water, to fill up my water bottle and she flatly replied, “Non.” I asked her “Why not?” She just huffed, turned on her heels and walked quickly away.

She returned with our order and told me that if I wanted water, I could get it from the bar.

When the Husband and I finished our drinks, I walked up to the bar. The waitress had a pitcher of water sitting there, and I asked her if I could take that water. She emphatically replied, “NON.”

I looked at a patron who was sipping a beer and he sympathetically smiled at me. After a long silence, the waitress told me that I could ask the bartender for water.

Well, I didn’t think I’d get anywhere with the bartender because he looked surlier than the waitress; and, since he had been within earshot of my curt conversation with the waitress, he knew what was going on and he hadn’t offered me any water. So I thought my chances of getting water out of him were slim to none.

The bartender was busy filling up glasses, so I waited for an appropriate moment to bother him. When he had placed an order of drinks on a waiter’s tray, and the waiter was leaving, I bravely ventured forth. “Some water, please.”

“In two minutes,” he answered. Well, in two minutes I could go to the restroom and fill up my bottle, but I had too much time and energy invested in trying to persuade these two good Samaritans to give me some water. So I waited.

When the bartender saw I wasn’t going away he took my bottle and filled it.

The experience was very bizarre . . . even in Paris the waiters aren’t that rude, and they’re famous for being rude.

We spent the evening watching the World Cup final at Roger’s. He has satellite television. We don’t have any.

Roger had plenty of chips waiting for us. I told him he should open a restaurant for American tourists since he’s the only man in the area who truly understands the gluttonous eating habits of Americans. He had thoughtfully purchased two fruit tarts from the baker’s wife, Madame Trés Sexy. The Husband picked up two pizzas in the village.

Roger is a bachelor. Roger only owns five very old plates. One was repaired with a wire. I washed them after our pizza course so we could eat the dessert off of them.

The match went on forever because it ended in a tie. Then it went into extra periods. That also ended in a tie. Then they finished the game with the goal kicking match-off.

We all felt sorry for the French member who didn’t make his goal. I hope he woke up this morning realizing that “it was only a game,” -- it would be horrible to be haunted by a missed goal all your life.

I’m sure getting tired of walking out in the field every few hours and lifting up Blanche’s tail to see if anything new is developing.

Yesterday evening, Blanche wouldn’t get up, so I was certain she would hatch. Especially since we were going to spend the evening at Roger’s watching France play in the World Cup.

The Husband was kind enough to go out during a rainstorm at halftime and lift up Blanche’s tail for me.

This morning, Blanche was full of energy, and shows no sign of going into labor. I fed her the geranium clippings. The other sheep aren’t interested in geraniums. Blanche developed her geranium addiction when she was a youngster and I let her roam freely around, and into, the house.

I feel badly for our only lamb. He doesn’t have any other lambs with which he can run around and play. He tries to engage the older sheep in his jocularity, but they just butt him out of the way. Sometimes I catch him playing with the cat.

The Progeny named the lamb "Lambchop."

Leonce, our eighty-two year old neighbor, is building a stone shepherd’s hut for us. The Progeny wanted to build a stone house after reading a book about Jung. Jung spent his free time building stone edifices. So now the entire family is learning about serfdom. We are at the mercy of Leonce. Whenever he bicycles into the driveway, we must drop what we’re doing and start shoveling sand or hauling rocks or drive into town on some errand.

Hopefully I’ll be able to organize myself to post some photos of Lambchop, pregnant Blanche, and the shepherd’s hut for you . . . oh, and the beautiful terrace with all the potted flowers blooming.

Listen

My walk to Compostello lasted a week. On the morning of the eighth day, the Husband rang me on my cell phone. There was a medical emergency in the family. I stood in the woods shaking. My friends said they’d help get me to the train station in Pau.

Lessons learned from the eight day walk.

1. There’s no place like home.
2. It is the first inclination of people to be friendly and helpful . . . so trust them.
3. I can eat anything I want, in the quantities I want, if I just exercise enough.
4. Nothing much matters on this earth except love.


I knew all of that before I left; but all of those lessons were reinforced and drilled home to me during my week of walking the Trail.

I learned that it’s much more pleasurable to pay attention and enjoy where I am at the moment.

How Zen. How Simple. How difficult to live in the moment.

But when you’re struggling to take a step on blistered feet in scorching heat, that’s all you can do . . . live in the moment. Take a step. Take another step.

Every moment is a lesson . . . I just have to be quiet and listen to be rewarded. Whether it’s in a dingy little hotel where the room is too hot and the traffic noise is too loud to allow for sleep; or whether I’m sitting in the elegant courtyard of Eugenie les Bains sipping a Kir Royale. Soak it all up.

One hot afternoon, my friend Marilyn and I were walking on a path that cut through a wheat field. Marilyn and I did most of our talking in the morning, so the afternoons were pretty quiet. Marilyn was a good bit ahead of me, so I wasn’t much aware of her presence. The wind was rustling the heads of the wheat and made the most soothing sound. I had never heard anything quite like it and I was raised on a farm and ranch.

I was enveloped by a rustling sea of wheat. Mother Earth was hugging me. The toasty smell of the wheat filled my nostrils. The soothing whispering calmed my soul. The undulating hills brought me great pleasure.

LISTEN TO THE WHEAT FIELDS, it all said to me.

I couldn’t get the thought out of my head: LISTEN TO THE WHEAT FIELDS. I trudged on in the heat: LISTEN TO THE WHEAT FIELDS.

Listen to the wheat fields, listen to the trees, listen to your husband, listen to everyone you meet, listen to your son, just be quiet and listen and you will reap great joy.

Last weekend I was in the Drôme for a wedding. I listened to the lavender fields and the bees that populate them. I soaked up their luscious scent. I was walking on the asphalt road. The sun was just beginning to peek over the eastern mountains. I waved to a farmer on his hay baler. I smiled. I wanted for nothing else . . . everything is perfect as it is. It always is.

On the way home the highway, crowded with vacationers and truckers, was perfect. Asphalt had never looked so good.

Nirvana awaited when we arrived back at the farm. My husband, son, and a friend were with me in the car. The two dogs were waiting for us on the porch. The sheep were grazing in the field. The flowers were blooming bigger than when we had left two days earlier. The zucchini was running wild.

Listen to the wheat field. Enjoy the bliss.