Death Comes To La Sacre Coeur

Last Wednesday I took my little ones to the market. They sell calves, veggies for your potagere and poultry for your backyard and table. There were lots of discussion; would this one just be good for laying or can you eat it as well? For a city dweller’s ears it was a revelation. The girls, of course, thought it was all wonderful and were especially keen to go and look at the various types of chickens and ducks on display.

I was tempted but by the time I came back to give in to the temptation he’d sold out of the ducks that I’d wanted. He told me he’d be at another maket Saturday with more. Perhaps I’d had a lucky escape?

Nah! As Saturday morning rolled around I had the girls in the car and off we went to hunt some ducks down – metaphorically speaking of course. I asked the man for the ducks that were ‘collar vert’ which are Mallard ducks. In they went into a box and we set off for home.

On the way we stopped at my parents place to show them our ducks. They duly ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhed’, the ducks went back in the box and home we went again. Here are our ducks after we’d put them in the enclosure with the chickens. The chickens seemed quite scared of them at first; running away, clucking loudly and simply refusing to come in at night. This was the case even though the little ducks were in a cat box that I’d put them in to make sure they were safe from the larger birds over night.

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I contacted my hubby in America. It’s safe to say he wasn’t too happy about the additional birds in our coop. I swore to him -these would definitely be the last ones.

We set up a paddling pool and put rocks on one side so they could climb in and out themselves. They made a lovely little cheeping sound whenever you were nearby and followed you around like you’re their mum. Adorable.

On Friday a French friend Sophie came around. She told me ‘that’s not a duck it’s a bird’. I told her that I’d specifically asked for a Mallard, collar vert, and that’s what he gave me. She kind of agreed. Kind of.

That night the ducks didn’t want to go in the coop and evaded me for a good twenty minutes as I chased them round the coop. In the end I thought to myself that they’d evidently been accepted by the chickens so they be ok and find somewhere to nest.

On Saturday morning the girls had to go grocery shopping and we were going to let the girls out on our way. I looked inside and saw one of our ducklings next to the other one; the latter was lying with its feet showing behind the dog kennel that I thought would be their duck hose, in between it and the wall. It was lifeless – my heart broke as it’s pair chirped next to it, staying with him as if for company.

I moved my way inside, ushering my daughters to get back and not come in. I hoped it would move as I got closer. Had it been pecked by the chickens? Was I completely wrong about their acceptance? I expected to find a battered and scarred duckling.

As I looked closer there were no markings. Silly of me, but I wondered if I picked it up if it would move like Apple the hen did after Bertie grabbed her. She didn’t of course.

I searched again for signs of beak marks, wondering if she’d just got trapped between the wall and the kennel. But I couldn’t see how that would kill the little thing.

That’s when I noticed the true extent of how horrible it was. Her head was missing.

She’d obviously popped it out of some hole in the coop and it had been bitten of by a predator.

It’s bizarre. When I was younger my first career was as a police officer. I’ve dealt with numerous dead bodies in various states of decay and coped. Yet this little duck really upset me. Later on as I was driving round trying to sort things out I found myself having to pull over to the side of the road to be physically sick! I don’t know what my girls thought.

Panicking and disconcerted by the memory of the solitary duck next to its dead friend I decided that I had to get another one. I went to the same market and found the same stall open and asked the man for another duck, pointing to similar birds I’d bought before. The man said « they’re not ducks, they’re birds » using the same word, oiseau, Sophie had used.

My mind raced. What did he mean they weren’t ducks? I’d asked him for collar vert canards last time and he’d given me ones just like them.

He was looking at me strangely and I said again « collar vert mallards » and he said « oui » and pointed at a completely different set of birds. I started to panic even more and he was looking at me like I was a little insane so I just asked for two. He was still looking at me strangely (unsurprising really) as he told me I’d need to keep them inside for another fortnight and mentioned a heat lamp. I was asking him if I could just keep them inside and he said yes…..but I’m really not so sure. As the encounter went on it was evident that I didn’t understand what was happening as I struggled with the language and shock (it was shortly after this I was sick), but there I had two little duck in a box in the car, with my girls in the back seat and I was driving to pick up provisions for the new little lives I had suddenly acquired.

After a trip to the garden centre I had a wire cage with plastic trays, straw, appropriate feed and new chicken wire.

As I arrived home my mind was still racing. What is the animal I have? What is a bird with webbed feet but isn’t a duck”? I racked my brains, called my mum who hadn’t a clue and was increasingly confused. Eventually an Internet search of « baby bird with webbed feet, not duck » brought up this image….

Yep. I had a goose, or a gosling to be exact. And on the same page….

Yep. I had Mallard ducklings too. That couldn’t be let out. They went in the cage.

I managed to speak with my hubby about it all and I think my still evident distress helped him be sympathetic to the two new little birds under our roof.

So for the rest of the day I hammered chicken wire all around the base of the coop with four layers going on the inside too. I think they’re safe.

I was bringing the gosling in with the ducks with the cage’s metal divider between them, as I didn’t want the little thing to be lonely.

Ducks poop a lot! I have to clean them out about twice a day and they want lots of water. So yesterday I let them out in the chicken coop as it was lovely and warm out. I gave them a little bowl of water which one immediately jumped in and splashed around.

It was so sweet; the little gosling ran straight over and was so excited when he saw them. The three were inseparable all day. Last night for the first time I took the grill out and they all snuggled up together.

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If I’m worried that they may not be warm enough at night I turn the kitchen heater on.

So. Four chickens, two ducklings and one gosling. It’s crazy town.

La Vide Grenier and Feeling at Home in France

Here in our little village the sun is out, the blossom is on the trees and it appears as if people are coming out from their hibernation. At our regular market here on a Tuesday people linger longer to chat, or sit outside the two little bars to share a drink, walks to school are enjoyed in the sunshine. Heaven.

Our youngest daughter is finally speaking consistently. She’s faced an uphill battle that I’ve spoken of before; a life endangering struggle when she was born meant she was fed intravenously, leaving her mouth muscles severely weakened. Added to that our move to France and moves within as well as other changes have also impacted upon her. Her use of English has developed significantly, which is a relief. She speaks a few french words, but understands everything.

I write all this just to let anyone who’s thinking of moving to France, or who’s already moved with young children and is experiencing this, to anticipate that there may be difficulties with very young children and language; but that things do work themselves out.

My own use of French is finally getting better. Twice recently people have commented how much my language has improved. I find myself expressing even my thoughts in English now with the french equivilant. Instead of saying ‘I’m happy about that’ I’ll say ‘I’m content with that’. I’ll automatically say ‘voila’ instead of there you go. The lines between the two worlds are a little more blurry.

Having said that it’s still as if we live in a glass box; you are there but the language and culture barrier limits your capacity to fully engage with what’s going on around you.

Yet I am deepening relationships, meeting people for coffee and having some English people over for dinner. Gradually I’m using ‘tu’ and not ‘vous’ – which is surprisingly hard. We don’t learn french from our parents of course, so swapping to the informal means becoming used to the different tense usage. Sometimes I swap between the two with people and when I realise worry that they’ll think I’m suddenly expressing annoyance. After all it was Josephine’s change to vous that enraged Bonaparte!

It was a battle to join the health system due to difficulties we’ve experienced caused by our accountant. However, when I expressed this to the directrice at the girls school she put me in contact with the mother of some of the pupils who worked in that department. Something which had taken me months of worry and heartache was suddenly resolved. I can not express to you have grateful I am for that.

There have been times, as I’ve spoken of, that this glass box has left me feeling a little isolated and lonely. When you’re an immigrant to a country where you must speak another language it’s hard. Not only have you got to think of how you express something, you have the difficulty of not being certain that the way you are saying it is the correct way in terms of social norms. We’re not aware just how much cultural and social knowledge we accumulate until we step outside.

This Spring showed me just how much has changed. Each year our little village has a vide grenier, a sort of car boot sale. Last year it was on Easter Sunday but, this year’s moon cycle being different, the same early April date didn’t clash with the feast.

A year ago the weather was grey at that time and we knew, well, no one really. The girls had only just started to their school as it was shortly after we’d moved here. The main street had lots of places to buy cooked food and eat outside. As I was alone with the girls I bought us lunch and we had it inside. I expected an early end to the fair, but my eldest kept coming into our bedroom at 9 and 10 o’clock as there was an open air bar and people were enjoying themselves. She found it exhilarating!

This year we were more prepared and, even though my husband was away again, my parents came over the night before to take part. The sun was shining, the village was full of stalls and activities (we only saw a fraction of what was on offer) and there was a party atmosphere throughout.

What really struck me though was how many people we now knew. Every few feet we would stop to greet and exchange kisses with someone, happily chat and move on until another friendly face meant we stopped again.

Our school runs are the same; stop, kiss, chat, stop, kiss, chat….

Deus gratias.

Living In Community Means Responsibility…

….and as an immigrant I know this from my hosts.

On Tuesday my husband and I left the house early to go to the market before I went ahead to pick our youngest girl from school for lunch. My eldest refuses to come home for this meal as she likes to ‘dine with friends’. In all honesty the menu they have at the school is far superior than that at home. Only when you’re living in France can you expect to get an answer to “What Did you have for lunch…” that begins with “Well for l’entré we had….for the main plait… and for déssert [proper inflection] we had….”.

I digress. We are fortunate that we have one, as well as local shops. Many of the villages nearer to the towns don’t as their proximity to large shops makes them obsolete with selection and prices. Yet these markets give us an opportunity to meet the others in our village, as well as buy from chains leading back to our local farmers.

Unfortunately this time I didn’t have my camera, and I’m rather shy about taking it out and snapping away so publicly anyway. I’ve included here some photos of the local market at the next town. Regularly visiting ours is a fruit and veg stand, with in season produce, a small delicatsen, some clothes, a fishmonger, a wine cellar. This in addition to the local butchers, hairdressers, ironmongers, pharmacy and boulangerie.

I must confess I am no longer used to prices of produce that hasn’t been hammered down by the enormous buying power of a supermarket chain. It shocks me that having bought an entire cod fillet we paid 20€. I bought a kilo of mince from the butchers and à tartine of pâte croûte and together they cost 14€. Needless to say the supermarket is cheaper and for someone who has virtually no physical taste (I thought it was diabolical, for instance, when they reduced the salt in Pot Noodles – If You add it back in it just doesn’t taste the same) this isn’t a selling point for me either.

Yet the importance of people and valuing what they produce is important and does convince me. Never more so than having read this astonishing article here. Unfortunately I have neither the cooking or home economic skills at present to commit successfully shopping at these places all the time. I say this because the expense means going without – perhaps we can’t have meat every day of the week, but it will be of a superior quality. In order not to have meat every day of the week and not just substitute fish I have to learn to cook meals with little or no meat, with leftovers; in other words the things our grandmothers did when produce was local and their shopping was too.

I want to do this, I feel compelled to as giving value to the food, denying the self in the process, means valuing the person doesn’t it?

Today I walked out of my front door and was met with the scene that made me fall in love with this village. The sweep of the road here is so beautiful – and our house is on the corner leading into this sweep. I remember driving through this village for the first time and being astounded at it’s beauty, constructed 100s of years ago, and lovingly developed since then.

As I walked round the area, its duck pond so beautiful which is actually owned by a naighbour, the clear waters of the river, I am aware that generations of these villages have contributed to this and I am inheriting it by grace.

I walk to the school and my presence is walmly greeted by others. They smile and are patient with my still struggling French. I am grateful for their patience and consideration.

When I return home a neighbour drops by. We walk through my garden and she gives me advice on plants and how to tend them as she knows I’m not a country woman. Again I am grateful for her time.

These people already practise the responsibility of small community. It strikes me that they are La France Periphique, those who are mocked and derided for their concerns about immigration, globalisation and the impact it has on their lives.  Yet I can tell you that I have not experienced any derision, only kindness from them. Even when I’ve discussed political issues with them and they have been vocal in their concerns in their grace they have always made it clear that it not born of hatred for the stranger, but a wish to have someone discuss and address their concerns without deriding them.

They are people I admire and I went to learn from. From their self sacrifice, their solidarity and, yes, the knowledge of this earth we share. I pray that I can be worthy of their inheritance.