"Death
has come for me many times but finds me always in my lovely garden
and
leaves me there, I think, as an excuse to return."
~Robert Brault, quoting an aunt
Hanging, like tiny tempting breasts, from within the huge
palm-shaped leaves, the figs wait.
It is the purple ones we want.
Those that are slightly soft to the touch. Too soft and it is best to leave them for the wasps. Grab the top of the stalk and twist
slightly and they should fall gently into our hand. Patience: it takes a bit of time - and some reaching high
into the branches of this ancient, widespread tree – to gather enough to fill
the basket.
At Chez Poète in the garden, the home of Vivi’s grandmother,
now often barred and bare, so silent and still, it collects cobwebs and flies
until some family member comes to visit, opens wide the big heavy doors and
huge windows, pushes aside the heavy wooden shutters to let in warm sunlight
and bright fresh breezes. For a
few hours.
The white house beckons as we approach on the long white
driveway. Like thick railroad
tracks, the ruts are wide and filled with crushed limestone. They lead us in one-point perspective
toward the house. Huge, lush geranium plants
are everywhere: vibrant crimson and bright spring green, effusive in the warm October sun. They edge and accent the house. The cadmium red complements the cerulean blue
of the well house where the black craggy grapevine clings (blue on the white
limestone from years of a sulfur treatment to protect the vine). White house, warm-toned wood shutters,
russet tiled roof, scarlet geraniums, and bright green grass and amber
cornfields as a backdrop create a striking image.
 |
| Magazine article about Vivi's grandfather |
This is the home on the hill, built of limestone blocks and
flint rocks, where her grandfather would bring amazing varieties of mushrooms
(for which he was renowned). An
American writer once did a piece on him in a U.S. magazine. There is a copy of it in the house still. Photos of his gentle, laughing face,
along with that of his joyous wife, and his heavy, gnarled hands holding softly
the deep-wood treasures. Thoughts
and memories of this come to my mind each time we come up the driveway.
 |
| Vivi's grandmother |
Grandmother sitting quietly in the
corner chair, the sunlight streaming through the window onto her silver hair
and her busy, expressive hands.
These hands are those that spent countless winter hours embroidering
sheets and tablecloths, and crocheting beautiful bedspreads and table runners. Linen and cotton. Both delicate and strong at the same
time. Thick and rich patterns
which are works of art. When I
sleep in a bed with these sheets and bedspreads, deep within I feel the
comfort, safety, and love that Grandmother infused with her blessings. It is a feeling beyond tactile .. it is
a spiritual touch.
 |
| Hazlenuts from the orchard |
Ah! Back to the
garden! Fruit and nut trees
planted four or five generations ago.
We gather six kilos of figs in a basket.
Now we notice that the hazelnut tree offers its tiny gifts as well. Vivi has not seen it laden like this
before. We pick up those on the
ground and toss away the ones with the tiny drill holes (that indicated something as
already had the pleasure of eating what was within). We tug on any in the tree still that will come easily. These are still covered with a tiny,
ruffled skirt that twists off when they are ripe. We have perhaps a pint in the basket.
The walnut tree is not yet ready to give up its fruit, that is to come a bit later, but I
do find one that has a cracked green casing that grows around the shell .. it
yields one ripe walnut within. Two
aged, twisted and misshapen vines proffer a few bunches of the sweetest green
grapes I have ever tasted.
There
is something about the food in France.
It has Soul. Soul from the
land here, the sun and water, the history of the earth. Each province has its own specialty,
its unique flavors, but they all have deep, rich Soul. Fruits, vegetables, meats,
cheeses and breads. Grown and
produced in the small farms and gardens and kitchens of stone cottages. Oh, and the wines and aperitifs! They inherit their taste from the
grapes, and the grapes from the earth, the sunlight, and the rain.
 |
| figs cooking |
 |
| fig compote |
Late in the afternoon we drive the scenic back roads to
arrive home at Payenché (in Périgueux) at sunset. A dozen jars of fig confiture
(jam) are made from half the fig harvest.
The sweet green grapes are set aside for dessert.
Another blessed day in
France.
 |
| a girl and her dad |
˜
Green,
gray and black the forest. Russet and cocoa the path floor, weak sunlight
finding tiny holes to pierce through but not getting far, rarely finding a mark
on the ground. Hidden rocks clothed in heavy moss. Tiny yellow leaves curl and
dry on the path. 
Dark green English ivy carpets the forest floor and finds its
parasitical path up the unsuspecting tree trunks. Huge brick colored slugs
longer and fatter than my finger. A tiny brown snake slithers away.
Unyielding flint stones fill old stream beds. 
Commanding, discordant notes within the deep registry of the
piano fill the concert hall. The
pianist chronicles the saga of another pianist’s life and, during these
moments, the devastating tragedy of war.
