Event Of The Year :Fête Patronale in Condat

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Another glorious day in Pissis. The mornings are cold but by mid-morning, I take off my warm flannel jacket and walk around in short sleeves. I am starting to feel relaxed and am getting used to the incredible silence surrounding us. At the moment, the only things I hear are the gurgling of the coffee machine and the dripping of the kitchen faucet. ( I have to remember to put that on the list of things to do for Monsieur Chataing, our plump french plumber.)
This week-end is a big one for our little cluster of houses on the hill. Condat-lès-Montboissier, the slightly bigger village of which we are part is having its yearly Fête Patronale. Every year, on the first Sunday of August, there is a dance with live accordion music, organized by the village party committee. It is always a highlight of our vacation here. Last year, I was whirled around the dance floor by our postman, chatted with our plumber and drank little glasses of rosé for .50 cents.
I also talked to the mayor who scandalized the villagers a few years back by building a pink house for his mistress in the middle of Condat. He survived "le scandale" by winning his bid for re-elected. The only other candidate was nor a native of Condat, but a week-ender from Clermont. And the villagers reasoned that a morally impaired farmer was better than a city dweller. Et oui, never trust these city folks.
The first time I attended the Fête, I was 11 years old. Back then, there was a carousel on the main square and a shooting gallery. There were also some vending machines from which my cousins, sister and I extracted tiny little lighters without our parents knowing about it. One of my cousins almost burned the house down while refilling his lighter from a 5 gallon gas tank. My father was able to put out the fire in time to save the house, but not in time to save my cousin from third degree burns on his arm. Thanks to a faith-healer in the nearest hospital (I kid you not) who blew on my whimpering cousin's arm by speaking in a strange language, the burn healed without any scarring or pain. It was miraculous. But my uncle and aunt were spooked and left the next day with my cousins. The vacation was cut short.
Since then I have attended many of the Fête. Marinette, one of my favorite people here on the hill, who to this day calls me "ma petite Kati," always tells me that the villagers were sure that our house would be sold after my mother's passing. Having seen me return with my little family for the fourth year in a row now, makes them believe that I will keep my word and find my way back to the Auvergne every summer. So rest assured that I will be at the Fête this year.