Objects From The Past

Our little farm house in France has lots of reminders of my mother in it. Long ago, she had an affinity for old objects and she started collecting them to fill this house with period objects. Mind you, the original farmers who lived here were land-rich, but dirt poor otherwise. The house would have had few furniture such as a big farm table, long benches to sit around the table, a few beds and lots of tools. No kitchen ( all the meals were prepared in the fire place) and no bathroom. In fact, this house did not have running water in it until the late 70's. The only water came out of a faucet in front of the house. It was supplied by a water source which ran all along our little hill.
My mother loved to go to the Brocantes or flea markets around here and bought up many, many objects that seemed silly to me when I was young. They are all standing here and there in the house. The picture above is of a wash basin and water can which has been standing on a window sill of the house for more than 35 years. Sometimes, when I move it, one of my mother's grandchildren moves it back to its original place with a scolding look on their face. You see, I have been put in charge of this house, but it is more a museum, a place where the entire family feels close to my mother. She put so much of herself into this place. And now that I am an adult and she is gone, I am glad for all the objects she put in it. So the pitcher above stays were it is, though I dared add the lace curtain to the window this year. Read more

A Donkey Festival

Believe it or not, but I used to have a donkey when we lived in France and used this house as a week-end getaway. His name was Baltazar. We found him through our butcher. My father asked him if we could find a donkey for us, so the butcher must have used his connections at the slaughterhouse. So you could say that we saved this donkey from certain death.
He was my week-end companion for many years. During the wee,-he stayed with the Desgeorges, the neighboring farmers down the hill. So far and wide, Baltazar was known as "the Desgeorges'
donkey who belongs to the Germans." Baltazar was one of the things I had to leave behind when I moved to America with my family. I was heartbroken. I never saw him again, but my father assured me that he lived out his life on the estate of a friend of his, happily munching on grass until he died.
Back in the early 70's, Baltazar was the only donkey in these parts of France, though they had been an integral part of the landscape long ago. But then cars came along and the donkeys disappeared. Now there is a real revival and you can see them a little everywhere.
So you can imagine how excited I was to go to the Donkey Festival at St. Etienne -sur-Usson this last week-end. It was one of the highlights of this vacation. I fell in love with the little old couple and their tiny donkeys adorned with lace. Priceless. Read more

A Shopping Excursion

This is my favorite new store. If the exchange rate between Euro and Dollar where better, I could do some serious damage in there. It carries those nice French home decorating items that you could only find at Pierre Deux in Manhattan. It is in Ambert, trhe same little town with the incredible farmer's market I wrote about a few days ago. Read more

Here Comes The Sun...Finally!

The View Out Of Our Bedroom Window

The sun is back in the Auvergne. What a relief. Yesterday was a a productive day. I took up painting the shutters and the new windows again. In the afternoon, I declared war on all the pesky weeds that had grown in the last days of rain. Mr. K was busy sorting and splitting wood all afternoon, and my father proceeded to make a hellish fire to burn all the insect infested wood that was taken off from the roof of our little shed. By afternoon, the garden looked pretty spiffy for the first time in years. Progress, a little bit at a time. I guess work would progress quicker if not for the long lunch interruptions, followed by the frequent chats with neighbors as they walk by the house to comment on our work. And then of course, by the time the wine bottle makes its appearance, all work stops. It is hard to imagine that in two weeks, I will be back in Brooklyn, New York. The life I lead here just seems so much saner... Read more

The Story Of An Old Auvergniat Church And An Old Violin

Condat's Church By Night


A very old picture of Condat's main square. The church is the building all the way to the back on the left.

An old church stands in Condat -lès-Montboissier's main square, its bell tower plainly visible from all corners of this little village. It is in a sad state. Held together with huge blocks of local stone, the structure is slowly falling apart. The Catholic Church long ago abandoned this and all the other tiny community churches here in the Auvergne by not replacing the local priests when those died. So, after centuries of being the heart of the community of Condat, the church stays closed. No more service, no more marriages, a priest is only called for funerals. A sad state of affairs.
I had not been inside in many, many years, so when the mayor invited us to a concert in the church last night, Husband and I jumped at the chance. "Le Syndicat D'Initiative" of Fournol, a neighboring village, had organized a series of baroque chamber music concerts in many of the abandoned churches . So last night, the mayor opened Condat's house of worship with an eight inch cast iron key which weighed at least two pounds.
I was shocked by the church's state of disrepair. The smell of humidity and mildew was intense as we found our place on one of the simple wooden pews. One glance at the ceiling confirmed my immediate fear that we were sitting right underneath big chunks of loose plaster. I am not a religious person, but I was so saddened and shocked that this little treasure of a church had fallen in such disrepair.
The concert last night was given by a trio that had come all the way from Germany. I wondered how a group of first class musicians had gotten an engagement to play in such a god-forsaken place as Condat. The trio consisted of a husband and wife team playing the trumpet and the violin respectively and a harpsichordist. Though the trumpet was a bit of an odd choice for a baroque trio, it filled the little church with beautiful sounds.
I promised you a tale of an old violin as well as of an old church. So here it is.
As a young man, the grandfather of last night's trumpet player saw a violin in a music store in his native town in Germany. He passed the store many times before he had the courage to enter and to ask the shopkeeper the price. When he finally entered the store and asked, the elderly shopkeeper looked at the young man and declared: " My dear young man, you will never be able to buy it. It is a very expensive instrument." More determined than ever, the trumpeter's grandfather saved his money for many, many years and finally had enough to buy the violin. He loved and treasured it.
Then the Great War of 1914 broke out. Afraid that something would happen to his violin, he carefully hid it under the straw stack of his farm loft. Four long years went by. The trumpet player's grandfather came back from the war and immediately took out the violin from its hiding place. It has survived the war unscathed. But when he tried to play it, he realized that his fingers were no longer subtle and agile enough to produce beautiful music on the instrument. So, broken-hearted, he wrapped a rope around its scroll and hung it from the rafters of his bedroom.
When his grand-son seemed to have inherited his musical talent, he was overjoyed. But the grand-son had his own passion. He was only interested in the trumpet. So the violin stayed unplayed, suspended from the grand-father's ceiling until he died.
But sometimes, life is full of little twists and turns. The trumpet-playing grandson fell in love with a violinist. He presented his wife with his ancestor's instrument, but by then, it had not been played for so many years, that its sound was uninspiring and flat. So the trumper-player and the violinist decided to sell the violin. They took it to a dealer of old violins. The expert looked at the instrument for a long, long time. Finally, he said: " I just bought a brand new Mercedes. Would you consider accepting it as a trade for the violin?" The instrument was from the 1700's, the time of Johann Sebastian Bach's life. Needless to say, the couple decided to keep the violin.
That was eight years ago. Since then, the violinist wife has played the instrument many times and having been played again, the instrument has regained its beautiful sound.
It was played in Condat's little church last night. Its sound was magnificent. An old violin rich in history being played in a church of about the same age, equally full of history. It was a magical evening.
So there you have it, my little story of the day. I hope it did not bore you too much.

P.S. The name of the trio was " Ensemble Entrada" the name of the trumpet player was Dominik Arz and that of his wife, Agnieska Sokol-Arz Read more

A flower grows in Pissis

There are so many reminders of my mother in this house.
Next to one of the windows, a hollyhock grows tall and spindly. It is one of the only flowers that bloom when we are here in August. I remember when my mother excitedly told me that the seeds from this plant came from Monet's garden in Giverny. During a visit there, she secretly snipped a seed pod off a plant and brought it here to her house. This was about 10 years ago. Ever since, it has been blooming in the poorest dirt one can imagine.
As a matter of fact, flowers seem to grow out of every crevice, every dirt patch, even out of walls. The picture above was taken yesterday morning of a sunflower growing out of the stone wall of our shed. No dirt, no visible means of survival. But here it thrives, in almost 900 meters altitude.
And here I thrive too. I am starting to understand why my mother said that she was the happiest when she was here. Read more

Event Of The Year :Fête Patronale in Condat

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. Read more

Another Productive Day in The Auvergne

The days have their own rhythm here. They are divided into two distinct parts: 9 to 12 and 2 to 8Pm. Yes, everything still closes for the sainted lunch period. Even here on our little hill, everything is quiet except the clanking of cutlery on plates. My little family has not quite gotten the hang of it yet. We get up early, work through lunch and start feasting on cheese and bread by 6Pm. Quelle travesty. I will try, I promise, to do better in the next few days, but I cannot see taking the time to make a four course lunch in the middle of the day when I could be painting shutters. My New York attitude is still coming through, but then it has not been a week yet. Give me time.
If one wants to get anything accomplished, one better gets up early here. Because stores also close at lunch. So either you get going early or you wait till two. In that spirit, Husband and I left for Clermont, the bigger city, by 8 yesterday morning. It had been raining through the night and fog clung to the hills. Our quest was to buy building materials so that we can start working on a funky room in the house. It used to be a kitchen when my parents bought the house. Now it serves a s a television room ( though we have not even connected it yet.) During the year, our plump little plumber drilled channels into the granite walls to hide the copper pipes. Mr, Chataing came by yesterday to take a look at our water heater which is providing us with hot water but which is spewing water from the pressure valve. No fear. Mr. Chataign is on the job. Which led my french neighbor to declare that she has been waiting for one year to have him come back to hook up a sink. I don't know. I guess Mr. Plumber likes me. I also send Christmas cards to his wife and bring little presents for the grand-children. I know how to treat my most -important Auvergnats well. Without them we would be sitting here without water or electricity. And that would be hell, I tell you.
The above pictures were taken yesterday on our way back up to Pissis from Clermont. Read more