A Small Village in France

Monday, November 21, 2016

Why?

First there was the imposing chateau of Bourdeilles.

It held a great defensive position on a craggy rock outcrop.

Below was a strong flowing river.

The ramparts looked out over fertile fields and thriving forest woodlands.

Location. Location. Location. This is why we have our small village of Bourdeilles.

Monday, November 14, 2016

It takes a while to get use to the fact that one is not trespassing when wandering through the tiny passage ways of our small village. Voices babble out of kitchen windows, the funny old sound of an accordion song on the radio floats through living room windows, the crackle and pop of something delicious cooking up for lunch wafts up the alley next to you. Intimacies of village life that are literally under our noses. Passing by one feels almost too intimate with the stirrings of the household and the turn of their daily activities.

In contrast to the close quarters of parts of our small village there are grand homes that stand back behind imposing entrance gates.

When one first moves to a small village you think it will take mere days to get to know all the neighbors. Yet there are a few locals that remain mysterious, hidden behind those heavy, usually closed gates. Getting to know the people behind these gates and eventually actually moving through the entrance of iron and stone takes some time. After weeks or perhaps months of recurring “bonjour encounters” in the bakery, one finally moves beyond conversations about the weather and engages on a more personal level. Eventually, an invitation to visit is extended.

The first time one passes through those grand gates it feels scary, exciting, and like one has been granted a high honor. Some of these entrances are perpetually open, not even guarded by ancient doors or heavy gates. But for some reason they still have the same imposing air that gives them an aura of someplace aloof and special. Now one is getting to enter into a world set apart from others. Entering into a world that is going to divulge more secrets about our village of Bourdeilles.

By the time the invitation is offered one’s imagination has concocted all sorts of ideas of who is behind the gates, what is behind the gates, and stories of life behind the gates. It turns out that some of my imaginings have been sort of correct, but, truth be told, I have yet to meet a knight in shinning armor, a princess sleeping on a bed of roses, queenly rooms trimmed in gold and lined with mirrors, nor Madame and Monsieur being served high tea by a butler with maids scurrying around in black and white uniforms.

What I have discovered instead is the consistent simple country charm of Bourdeilles. No one is here to put on airs. These homes are treasured either because they have been in the family for generations or because they were purchased to fulfill the dream of living quietly, privately in the country. Yes, you can let the tune of Green Acres run through your head.

In these photos I try to capture a bit of the wonder that one feels upon entering the grand space created by those imposing gates. It’s a amazing what a little thing like a theatrical entrance can do to get the imagination going and how that imagination creates and holds onto exaggerated ideas no matter what the reality is.

Even now, a few years into having permission to “stop on in” whenever I want, a feeling of grandeur and a sprinkle of fairytale magic washes over me each time I enter into these “simple” country homes through those imposing gates. Here, too, the households have their turn of daily activities, but they are embellished with a golden splash of imagination by those of us peering in.

Monday, November 7, 2016

The Great Pumpkin

Whenever I get back to the States there is always some over-the-top thing that I get fascinated by. One trip it was the size of soda fountain drinks that one can get at gas stations, and the 2- foot straws that go with them. I brought a couple of straws back as curiosities for amazed and perplexed French folks. Even with the very long straw it was clear that they could not really visualize the size of the “cup” that straw fit into. In their minds, sort of a smallish barrel. On another long road trip it was the interstate billboards announcing what weaponry could be bought at the next exit’s gun shop. (I restrained from taking back any evidence of this fascination.) This fall the fascination and obsession was pumpkins.

You’ve probably noticed that my observations of American culture are being influenced by Continental life. In France a small drink is the size of a child’s sippy cup, a medium is reasonable, and a large would just about fill up an American small. Guns are in the background and certainly never spoken about. There are no billboards along the roads. Pumpkins are for eating.

The French shook me out of my single-minded perspective of pumpkins years ago. It happened during the fall that I spied jack-o-lantern type pumpkins at a nearby market. I excitedly bought 2 handsome specimen and brought them home. Two pumpkins that stood out from all the rest I had seen because they were tall, bright orange pumpkins. French pumpkins are squat, red, and there is no way to get a face carved into their deep curves. Recruiting a couple of astonished French children we carved classic silly faces and carefully placed them on the window ledge to be lit for Halloween. We could hear murmurs as neighbors walked passed this unexpected site, but couldn’t make out anything specific. At some point I was outside as two plucky women were walking by. “What are you going to do with those pumpkins after Halloween?” I stared at them blankly for a few seconds and then replied, “Nothing.” “Americans!” I heard them saying to themselves.They continued on their way. Slowly it surfaced in my brain that in France you do not waste food, to my French neighbors, pumpkin is a food and not a decoration. I was a heathen - well maybe all Americans are heathens….

Now that you have some background to my continental perspective on pumpkins I will get back to my thrill of the over-the-top pumpkins in the U.S. of A.

Summer was still holding on when I landed Stateside in the last week of September. Tress in Vermont were still sporting green leaves with just a hint of color starting to slide down the frost line on the mountains. But already there they were great heaps of pumpkins starting to appear for sale.

The first extraordinary sighting was at a grocery store in Iowa. Piles and piles of pumpkins ready to be selected for fall and halloween decorations -and it was just the 1st of October. All I could think of is what would a French person think seeing this. Just the sheer quantity and all these just at one store. To think that every store across the country would have a similar display!

The rest of the trip I was obsessed with capturing photos of the great pumpkin consumption wherever I saw heaps of them - or when I could get Tom to stop. (Given that there are comparatively fewer of them, he is much more likely to stop for a raptor alert.)

I have to say that I was exhilarated by the great quantities that I saw. All I wanted to do was to stop and pick out a few and buy them.

I about dropped down with laughter when my brother and nieces took me to The Great Pumpkin Patch. We made quite a detour to get there, and I was thinking “yeah yeah what’s the big draw”, and then there it was before me. What a hoot. Kids crawling all over the place, wheel borrows piled high with their carefully chosen to be jack-o-lanterns, and pumpkins jumbled all around an enormous field.

The best part about the great pumpkin patch was the absolute joy on everyones faces. Adults and children.

When I mention eating pumpkin to people in the States they just look at me like I have six heads. The only pumpkin they have ever seen to eat is in a can and already spiced up. To mention eating it fresh I hear a yiiick - no way. To be fair I am not sure if one can eat “American” pumpkins. The one box I saw full of garden fresh pie pumpkins was being passed by with no takers.

Back in France the last few days of October I carved up the four pumpkins that Tom had carefully tended for me all summer long. Four perfect jack o lantern pumpkins. The immediate neighbors think I am nuts. I've decided I just don’t care. I found two little English girls to come over and help me with the carving and we had a grand time. They took two for their home and I kept two for the pillars of the gate to our home. The two little girls brought a gaggle over for treats on Saturday and then they arrived again on Sunday. To our great surprise two little boys and their dad visiting the family next door came by for a trick or treat. Neither the English nor the French knew to say “trick or treat” - they just stood at the door gapping at us, timidly holding their goody bags behind their backs.

The day after Halloween is All Saints Day. Here they put chrysanthemums on the graves of their ancestors. Carpets of chrysanthemums. Don’t think they’ll last much more than a week….