La Vie de Château (Château Life) III

We had expected a small gathering for the Piazzolla event. But so attractive was the show that they sold more tickets than ever before... with many surplus attendees spilling out onto the lawn.

‘Do not wait for life. Do not long for it. Be aware, always and at every moment, that the miracle is in the here and now.’  

Marcel Proust

Friday, August 23^rd, 2024 

Bill Bonner, writing today from Poitou, France

 

A château is often a focus for local cultural life. It is typically a big place... a monument to an earlier age with different vanities. Big shots built big houses. And they dressed them up with turrets... towers... ornamental stonework... soaring roofs — making them as difficult and expensive to maintain as possible. 

The strongest buck in the herd supports the biggest rack of antlers; so does the Big Man show how much money he can fritter away. 

Alas, for Mike Lynch the antlers proved deadly. His super-yacht pitched over after being struck by a waterspout on Monday, drowning Lynch and several others. Reuters: 

Italian rescue divers were scouring the sunken family yacht of British tech magnate Mike Lynch on Thursday for one last missing body, three days after the luxury vessel capsized in a violent storm off the coast of Sicily. 

A château is a bit like a yacht. It needs someone to unfurl the sails, polish the ‘brightwork,’ and scrape the hull. Alas, many of France’s magnificent old houses go down every day... dragging their owners with them.

Their roof tiles crack and fall. Their rafters rot. The windows warp and break, leaving the place open to bats and birds. Heirs often lack the resources to save them... or can’t agree what to do with them. And so they sink back into the earth whence they came.  

Those still afloat, however, find new uses. 

The local cultural committee asked if they could hold a concert in front of our house. The house is old... not exactly an historic monument... not particularly noteworthy. But it is old enough to deserve some respect as well as new paint. Part of our thinking, when we invited our nephews and nieces from Virginia to come over, was that they could spruce up the place before the concert... which they did. 

Then, as the concert approached, the Virginians sprang into action... moving chairs and tables... preparing parking areas... and making themselves useful in dozens of ways — while listening to country music. 

Improbably, they were getting ready for a concert of music by Astor Piazzolla, the famous Argentine composer who developed what is known as the ‘tango nuevo’ — the new tango. lt is complex music, sophisticated... and fun to listen to. 

We had expected a small gathering for the Piazzolla event. But so attractive was the show that they sold more tickets than ever before... with many surplus attendees spilling out onto the lawn. Cars were parked along the road almost a kilometer in both directions. And the food truck, drawn up for the occasion, quickly ran out of grub. 

The crowd began showing up an hour before the show. A guided tour had been promised. A local historian took them around and explained the various eras of building and rebuilding that went on here. There was the ancient fortified tower... probably from the 15th century, when this area was in the middle of the Hundred Years War between the English and the French. Then, there was the wing, probably transformed from a farm building, in the 19th century. And finally, late in the 19th century, the farmyard complex was added, with its workshops and storerooms... all carefully and scientifically planned in the spirit of the new industrial age agriculture. 

They were mainly local people, dressed in shorts and summer shirts. Many had a family attachment to our place.  

“Oh yes, I was born here,” said an old woman, pointing to where we store bicycles and unused furniture. “Of course, it has changed so much I barely recognize it.” 

Much of the change was wrought by your editor. Thirty years ago, he found a working farm... charming... picturesque... with a machine shop, a complete woodshop, stables, fowl house, and much, much more. He had no interest in either antlers or a superyacht. But he was delighted by the activity... by the carefully organized structure of the farm enterprise. He was intrigued by the local knowledge... of mechanics, woodworking and farming itself... and imagined himself spending happy hours in the workshops pounding, cutting, drilling... and astonishing both himself and others by producing yet another cutting board!  

When we arrived, the workshop was almost always in use — with the sounds, sights and smells of an industrial revolution all around us — hammers clanging... sparks flying old tractors brought up to the machine shop, taken apart and fixed... sawdust thick on the floor... the smell of diesel fuel in the air.  

But now the only sounds coming from the workshops are ones made by your editor himself. The tractors are much bigger. And when they have a problem, a technician arrives with an electronic ‘briefcase’ to find a solution.  

The woodshop was dismantled after we found our children using a dangerous bandsaw to make a toy rifle. And the granaries, too, fell into desuetude, when the farmers found it cheaper and easier to load their grain into plastic ‘sausages’ on the ground.  

And pity the poor, lonely hens. Where once the poultry yard housed dozens of clucking chickens, quacking ducks and screeching guinea fowl, the bird population has suffered a catastrophic collapse; we have only six laying hens — just enough to give us fresh eggs when we are here. 

The tour was soon over... but the people kept coming. The local mayor — who had organized the concert — had to keep sending a truck back to the office to get more and more chairs. The Virginians set them out. And finally, almost three hundred people were there, seated in an arc facing the front door, where four musicians prepared their act. 

Your editor took the mic and thanked all those who had helped set up the show. He speaks French fluently, but not perfectly, and found himself doing an embarrassing impersonation of Joe Biden at the teleprompter. The humiliation was brief, however, and the mayor took over. He introduced the musicians, who had come from Germany and Finland. 

And the program began. 

“This is the ‘vie de château,’ isn’t it?” said Elizabeth. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Cultural enrichment... we should do more of it.” 

“Where did all these music lovers come from?” asked a young nephew. “The countryside around here seems so empty. Who is Piazzolla? I never heard of him.” 

“I mean... you could get this kind of crowd if Garth Brooks or Oliver Anthony was performing. But this is something else.” 

Regards, 

Bill Bonner