La Vie de Chateau (Chateau Life) II
Friday, August 16th, 2024
Bill Bonner, writing today from Poitou, France
Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.
—Marcel Proust
“They said I was retarded” reported a nephew. He had been sent to a nearby bakery to get bread. He must have arrived just as the place was closing.
So they told him he was late — ‘retardé’... which recalled a family joke.
When we first came to France, arriving at Orly Airport, we noticed a sign. They had set up a special room for people whose flights had been delayed. The “Retarded Passengers Lounge” they called it.
“I took French in high school for two years. So, I told her I wanted two croissants. ‘Je veux deux croissants,’ I said.”
“What did she say?”
“She didn’t understand me. What’s wrong with this country? People should at least learn to speak their own language.”
“Did you say ‘hello’ properly?” we asked.
“What do you mean?”
“People in France are mannerly. They always say ‘Bonjour Monsieur or Bonjour Madame’ before asking for anything.”
“Well, if they’re so polite, how come they called me retarded?”
This summer we hosted two groups of relatives. One from Southern Virginia (not the ‘rich men north of Richmond’). The other from New York/California.
The two groups were very different. It was almost as if they were from different countries — with different accents, different ideas, and different codes.
One group didn’t drink — not even wine. The other practically cleaned out our wine cellar. One group said grace before dinner... and “yes, ma’am” when asked to clear the table. The other spoke the language of the bi-coastal elite... witty and fast. One group will probably vote for Trump. The other will pull the lever for Ms. Harris.
The first group came to work. The second... on vacation.
We sent out the invitation to our Virginia nieces and nephews... and their children... partly because we wanted to get to know the family better. But we had an ulterior motive: we needed to repaint dozens of windows and shutters. We expected one or two teenagers would take up the offer of a summer job. What a surprise and a delight when eleven cousins... one boyfriend... and six parents... showed up.
“Slave labor,” said a neighbor as he watched them paint a fence. “You’d never see that in France. These kids are real workers. They keep at it all day and get the job done.”
“Kids in France don’t do much physical work anymore. They get subsidies... handouts... or they stay in school — paid for by the government — year after year. Don’t bother to ask them to help change a tire. They don’t know how to do anything.”
Our neighbors were impressed with the Virginians. These were farm boys and girls, used to working hard. Polite... good humored... they were a pleasure to have around. And they got things done.
Château life is different from life elsewhere. People come. People go. Or they stay. The former owner reported:
“We always had a lot of people living here. Our family, of course. But we also had a man and his wife who did everything — cook, clean, drive the car. This was the 1950s... we had household help back then.
“And there was a lady who lived on the top floor. Aunt Jeanne, we called her. My husband thought she was a distant relation. It turned out she wasn’t related to us at all. She just was there when my husband inherited the house; she stayed until she died.”
Last Sunday, Damien appeared at the door at 7am... He was in his fishing outfit... shorts and rubber boots. In his hand was a bucket, in which was a large fish with sharp teeth — a pike.
“I caught it this morning in the pond,” he beamed. “It’s for you.”
Seeing the activity, Artur came up to the kitchen door.
Artur is an old family friend. He arrived at the château a couple of months ago with a friend of his. He has some nerve disorder that makes it uncomfortable to wear clothes... so he goes about, even when it is quite cold... in just a pair of shorts.
To keep himself warm, he began sleeping in the kitchen, in front of the fireplace. Even in warm weather, he kept a small fire going.
Later, he moved into our gypsy wagon parked by the pond, warmed by an open campfire.
“You’re not supposed to have an open fire,” Damien told him.
“Why not?”
“It’s prohibited. Everything is dry. They’re afraid of a wildfire.”
“My fire is next to the pond. And I keep the grass around it wet.”
“It’s still illegal,” Damien had the last word.
A few minutes later, Artur had hung the fish up on a chestnut tree and was scraping off the scales.
“You shouldn’t take off the scales on a pike,” said Damien.
“Why not?”
“You’re not supposed to. I don’t know why.”
Artur, naked from the waist up, kept scraping the scales off.
“La vie de château,” commented Elizabeth. She was wearing a straw hat, with a bouquet of flowers she had just cut from the garden. At her side were two grandchildren to whom she showed the fish, now being gutted by Artur.
“Eeeww!” said the little girl, averting her eyes.
Elizabeth was on her way to the Croix Blanche (the white cross) at the end of the road. There, she would affix the flowers, as she did every year before the Feast of the Assumption (August 15).
Château life is full of rituals, eccentrics... traditions and surprises...it is the smell of wood smoke in the dining room... having tea with the priest... American friends stopping by on their way to wine country... peeling wallpaper... blistering paint…coffee with the farm hands... wondering who is staying in the room above us... arguing with the tax authorities about how much the place is worth (less than we paid!)... trying to find a plumber... parking cars for a concert... butchering a wild boar while drinking pineau... falling asleep in front of the fireplace... huge baskets of green beans... croquet on the lawn... hay rolled up in the back field... tractors running until late at night... long summer evenings... a bright, full moon over the chapel... putting pets on the bed to keep warm in winter... the clip clop of horses on the cobblestones...
After a couple of weeks, the Virginia cousins had repaired the garden gate... making hinges by drilling out solid cubes of metal and welding them to the gate. They had also painted dozens of shutters, the floor in one of the outbuildings, the big doors to the farmyard, the cast-iron gates, the windows in the barn...if we stood still for more than a few minutes, we might end up with a coat of barn-red paint too.
We were running out of work for the kids to do!
“They can come over and paint at my house,” offered a neighbor, joking. The next day, the Virginians crossed the road — a group of six — and painted the neighbor’s windows and shutters.
As always, more to come...
Regards,
Bill Bonner
American by birth, Southern by the Grace of God. Hats off the parents of the Virginian kin! They are raising children who are & will be happy….and survive & thrive in the worst conditions. I’m blessed with some grandchildren like them. I still remember my own childhood when we all worked, ate, shared, worshiped together. .. and still do two generations later.
Bill, that's a great story of the mindsets between people from different parts of the country. I prefer the folks from Virginia.
Jim Marshall