Life in France

[Pua'i Mana'o]

Re: Life in France

Susie, what will you do when your children are grown? May I ask what your long term plans are, if you have any? Has France grown on you? Are you a citizen of that country?

[Leo Lakio]

Re: Life in France

I'm wondering how much the trials and tribulation of the second world war, and after, had to do with it. This town was split in half during WW2..half occupied by the Germans, and half Free France....and loads of horror stories to go with the occupation. Maybe it was back then that they learned to keep silent? I haven't quite got my finger on it, yet.

Whoa - you may have hit a big clue with this. When you're telling tales of couples in their seventies, for example, they were children at the time - and likely VERY influenced by the Vichy France circumstances. Children of wartime, in a split community = some pretty big sh!t to deal with.

[SusieMisajon]

Re: Life in France

Susie, what will you do when your children are grown? May I ask what your long term plans are, if you have any? Has France grown on you? Are you a citizen of that country?

If I look at it realistically, I'll stay til I die. My kids are from here, and they'll probably make their lives here, and my grandchildren will be here. I want to see my grandchildren grow up...my own Mom comes only every two years or so, and her Mom only got to see us the few times we went back to Germany. I'd hate to continue that family tradition.

I can understand better how the 'picture brides' must have felt. Or the immigrants that made up so much of Hawaii's history...and that was in the days way before telephones, jets, and internet.

But then, I'm the mother of still young kids. I'd like to dream that they'll immigrate to Hawaii....

Is there life after children?

On the other hand...I was putting away the bikes the other evening and looked at the houses in the lane, and thought to myself, "I'm not really going to spend the rest of my days in the place, am I?".

Parts of it have grown on me, yes. But Hawaii is still there, as deep and as strong as ever. I never have been an American citizen. My Mom had me before she was married and then she married and I was adopted as a Misajon, but they never got around to finishing the paperwork (or telling me...for years I thought that I just looked Haole). I'm a resident alien (haha, it seems that way no matter where I live!), and I THINK that my greencard is still good....maybe not, after all, I did marry the 'enemy'....but we married and divorced long befor 9/11.

sigh. The answer is: I dunno.

[Leo Lakio]

Re: Life in France

A country unto yourself: Susieslovakia, perhaps?

[SusieMisajon]

Re: Life in France

A country unto yourself: Susieslovakia, perhaps?

Did I tell you that, when we lived on the little farm, I named it 'Fu*k Off Acres'? For realz!

[Leo Lakio]

Re: Life in France

Did I tell you that, when we lived on the little farm, I named it 'Fu*k Off Acres'? For realz!

That's the kind of attitude that will help you survive whatever merde gets flung your way!

[SusieMisajon]

Re: Life in France

I try to be a good neighbor, really I do. But, sometimes, things just get to a point when you can't stand it anymore, and something has got to be done. That's what happened with my neighbor, Hans...who really should be called 'Hands' for his ever-gopeing ways, when he is around a woman, any woman.

For an old geezer, Hans is pretty agile, especially when it came to the opposite sex. One has to be forever dodging both his hands and his innuendos. He's always turning the least little thing around to be of sexual conotations, and pawing and panting and actually drooling, when in the presence of anything female.

Of course, he's also one of the richest old geezers in the town as well, so perhaps that helps his chances along a bit. Not that it would help him during the actual act...I have it on good authority from Maggie (a poor single mother with refined tastes and aspirations), who had a go, thinking to get herself set up. Maggie's only comment, when asked how it went, was, "Meme pas penetrée!". And Hans has a reputaion for having a hedgehog in his pocket, which is to say that each time he reaches into his pocket, he get poked by the hedgehog's spines, and pulls out his hand too fast to get any of the cash that's at the bottom. Maggie didn't last too long.

None of them do, in fact...although there is always certain to be a petite, well dressed, well kept woman of a certain age hanging on Hans' arm at any social gathering of local ex-pats, it is an ever-changing woman. And one has to be adept at learning the new one's name, and and making smalltalk with her while not recalling any previous conquests or anecdotes of.

I'm not sure that Hans was happy to see me moving in as his new neighbor. Me, four little kids, goats, ponies, donkeys, and all the rest did change his quiet neighborhood somewhat. But it wasn't for the noise, as he's mostly deaf, and has his hearing aids turned off, anyway. It couldn't have been for the animals, although some of them did, from time to time, get into his garden...not that they made a mess, or destroyed any plants, mind you...and I did bring over eggs, goat's milk cheese, legs of lamb, and sides of bacon. Maybe it was the kids...Hans hates kids, he even specifies not to bring them to his parties or dinners...but even that seemed to be okay, and one of his ladies was being the piano teacher for the boys, until there were just too many complaints about doors being slamed, hair being pulled, screaming and tantrums...but the boys have another piano teacher now, and this new teacher doesn't do anything like that, and is quite calm, really.

It wasn't as if I were The Neighbor From Hell. I did try my best. But I did do something that might not have been exactly kosher. In my defense, however, I have to say that I was mightily provoked. It was at the time just before Hans had the fence put up between our two properties....

You see...I had a lot of chickens. Chickens are great for eggs and meat and a farm-raised organic chicken is always a useful bartering tool, for when the car breaks down or a tree falls on the road, or a leak needs fixing. And each chicken has an individual personality and character, so when the time comes to kill them it can be really difficult to choose which one is gong to go into the pot, especially if you've given them cute little names, and watched them grow up or hatched them yourself in the incubator. In fact, the best way to get over that problem is to buy or raise even more chickens, so that one more or less won't be missed.

And that's what I did. I accepted half a dozen more grown laying hens from a little old lady who goes every year up to Paris at Christmastime, in order to visit her daughter. She stays for six weeks, so there really isn't anybody willing to take care of her birds for all that time, and she had gotten into the habit of giving the birds away each winter and starting with fresh birds each spring. She didn't have the heart to kill them, but I did...and I traded her the hens for young birds every springtime, with eggs in between.

Chickens don't take too well to having new friends. In fact, chickens won't even let new friends sleep over or lay eggs in shared nests. Sometimes chickens will beat up on other chickens that have been introduced into their cluck-clique, and the newbies have to go elsewhere to find a space of their own.

And that's just what those new chickens did, too. They went straight over to Hans' garage and made themselves at home. I didn't notice. I was too busy with the rest of the gang. But I still was being a good neighbor, and brought a dozen eggs and some garden produce over to Hans each week, which he always accepted with a big smile, and a laugh. Nevermind, I thought to myself, some pople are stranger than others. Live and let live.

Until the day I noticed that the hens were over there. And, on closer inspection, noticed a nice nestbox, complete with one marked egg...marked 'hard boiled'. Grrr! The nerve of that guy! Why didn't he just tell me...he could've kept the hens and the eggs, I didn't mind...but to continue to accept eggs from me all the while, to boot! I had to think about some way to solve this.

As luck would have it, the Gendarmes happened to pass by on patrol and stopped to pass the time of day. I mentioned the nest and the eggs and asked for advice. They said just not to poison the eggs. Great. I had to think of something that would do the trick without too much humbug.

If you know about chickens, then you'll know that they do most of their pooping, about 75%, during the night, when they are asleep. And you'll know, too, that anybody can do anything with a sleeping chicken...they just hum gently and dream away, and stay sound asleep, it's impossible to wake them unless you happen to turn on the lights.

So, that night, the kids and I put thirty chickens into Hans' car. This was easy to do, as he had, still has even to this day, an open jeep-like car...somewhat like a French version of that old Volkswagon 'Thing'. We perched them all over..the steering wheel, the seats, the open edges (butts inward), even the gearshift. And then we went to bed. That old bugger wants chickens, I'll give him chickens!

The next morning I made a point to be in the garden from daybreak. The chickens had come back home at dawn, leaving the car to go and look for worms and bugs in the small forest nearby. Hans came out of his house and got into his car and got as far as backing it up a few meters before jumping back out. I sat quietly in my garden and watched as he emptied the nestbox, broke it into little pieces, burned it, and then made an inspection of his garage, looking for any bits of feathers or hidden eggs. He then went back into his house, presumbly to call the Gendarmes.

Sure enough, the Gendarmes showed up a few minutes later. I was still sitting quietly in my garden, just waiting. After a few minutes of conversation with Hans, one of the Gendarmes peered into my garden, spotted me, and crooked his finger at me, "Come on over here, Susie". Well, so I did.

When I got to where everybody was, next to the very shat-upon, and in, car...the Gendarmes (trying, but not quite succeeding, to keep a straight face) asked me what was going on. I replied that it seemed the chickens were just being chickens, because, as chickens are wont to do, they tend to sleep where they lay. And as they had been doing their laying in Hans' garage... And then the Gendarme asked Hans what he had done with the nest and the eggs that had been there the day before! Years ago, that was, and I still laugh when I think of the look on Hans' face!

In the end, the Gendarmes said that since it had been my chickens, it would be up to me to clean up after them. And so I did. I dumped thirty two buckets of hot soapy water into the car, and called it a day.

And I had a full case of 360 eggs delivered to Hans' house the next day. Here you go, Hans, have some eggs!

[Leo Lakio]

Re: Life in France

When you come out of your shell, Susie, then the hard-boiled neighbors egging you on had best beware - or the yolk will be on them. You ain't the type to let this stuff go over easy, is you? Omelet-tin' you know what my scrambled brain thinks, is all.

But un oeuf is enough ...

[damontucker]

Re: Life in France

nothing like a good cock fight

[jdub]

Re: Life in France

But un oeuf is enough ...

ugh...and i mean that in the best possible way...

[SusieMisajon]

Re: Life in France

We had a suicide here, a few years back. Suicides are not that uncommon, this is a town with ordinary depressed, drunk, divorced, cheating, insecure, ill, and poor people, just like any other small town. Not to say that it's only these kinds of problems that makes someone consider, or commit, suicide. I imagine, never having been seriously in any kind of suicidal frame of mind, that whatever it is that triggers or finishes the act is between the person and their maker.

What made this suicide so unusual is in the somewhat spectacular way it was done. Don't get me wrong...any suicide is a big deal, especially to the loved (or unloved) ones left behind. It does seem that suicides tend to go into two separate camps. There are the ones that simply want out, and go about it in a no-nonsense fashion designed to get it over and done with. And then, there are the ones that seem to use the effects of their suicide to further the pain for the ones left behind. A nasty sort of fringe benefit, you might say.

Mr. DuCamp's suicide was most certainly of the second camp. It is still spoken of to this very day. I imagined that he planned it, and its repercussions, down to the last, most intimate detail. It seems such a shame that he didn't stop to think of the innocent people that were bound to be touched by his act, as well. Maybe too, had he thought it out a bit more clearly and with less emotion in the heat of the moment, he would've not done such a thing, saving all of us...family and community alike...such awful memories, such awful wonderings about the pained heart and mind of the hurt individual.

This is a small town, just one up from a village, really. The thing that saves us is the market day, when farmers from all around come with their produce to sell in the town square, right by the fountain with the stone carving of the wild boar who, history has it, it the reason that the town is even here. It seems that hunters were chasing a wounded boar through a marsh, when the boar dropped dead. When the hunters caught up to the animal, they noticed that the boar had salt chrystals on it's whiskers. Back then, salt was one of the only ways to preserve food, making it a very valuable thing, indeed. There have been humans in the area, boiling down the salty marsh water to make rock salt, since the Bronze Age...so perhaps the story is more than a legend, perhaps it has a grain of truth to it.

Because of the salt, and the value of it, the town became quite rich. And well known for it's hot saltwater cures, bringing curists from all over Europe to take the waters. Local loththarios made it a custom to meet eligible female curists at the train station and romance them for the duration of their three-week stay, a custom that still holds to this day. Many people stayed on and began to intermarry with the townsfolk. This created a big problem for the Town Fathers, as the revenue from the salt was being diluted. Their money was being menaced! Steps would have to be taken to protect their salt heritage and birthright!

You have to understand...the town is in a little, almost hidden, valley, just at the beginnings of the Pyrenees foothills. Centuries had passed without too much interference from outsiders. The salt was their salvation, and the basis of their economy...but it was mostly taken away to be traded. Even the famous 'Bayonne Ham' was, in reality, from the town's salt. Bayonne, half a hundred kilometers away, just happened to be the port that the ham went from on it's journey to the four corners of the earth.

The Town Fathers, seeing this revenue beginning to slip out from under their grasp, made a few resolutions. It was declared that the annual dividing up of the cash...called, I kid you not, 'The Sauce'...would have certain stipulations attatched to it. A beneficiary had to be the issue of a proper marriage, and not be born out of wedlock. Only the firstborn son could inherit salt rights. Only persons born within the actual town could claim salt rights. And so on and so forth.

These resolutions had the effect of not only making the townsfolk even more wary of anything but the merest trade with outsiders, it also made them change their matrimonial habits somewhat. There were at that time, many, many incidences of 'Mariages Blancs'....White Marriages...that is to say marriages that were never intended to be consummated, marriages on paper only, often between partners of incredible age gaps, sometimes the differences being fifty years or more. One can still go into many of the big, older houses in town and marvel at the separate chambers for each marriage partner, with the formal receiving rooms communal, and the living quarters apart. Some even have separate wings for two sets of servants.

It seems the townsfolk have followed in the tradition of this 'protectionism' ever since. Outsiders are looked upon with wary eyes, and seldom brought legally into the family folds. Marrying a first cousin is not unheard of. The telephone directory has about thirty family names, an amazing thing, really, for a town of more than five thousand people. Everyone knows everyone.

And, depending on your family name, you might be able to more easily get a good job, a loan, a place in the local political scene...or an invitation to join the volunteer Fire Department. All the firemen have local names, and have grown up here, and their fathers and grandfathers and great-grandfathers have been firemen before them. Mr. DuCamp was a fireman, too. And so was his wife's father. And so was his wife's lover. And so was his wife's lover's father.

So, when Mr. DuCamp decided to commit suicide because his wife was having an affair and was planning on leaving him, he must've thought long and hard about all of this. He did the deed with a locked car, an opened thirteen kilo propane gas bottle, and a match...therefore, you could say that he was serious about things.

But he did it when he was damned sure that his wife's lover would be one of the firemen on call, one of the people responding to the explosion and the fire. As I said, everybody here knows everybody else. And their business. And the car they drive. Can you just imagine the scene at the site, with the entire team of firemen there, including Mr. DuCamp's wife's lover? What would the others have said? "Hey, Marcel...this one's yours!"?

[MadAzza]

Re: Life in France

I try to be a good neighbor, really I do. But, sometimes, things just get to a point when you can't stand it anymore, and something has got to be done.

*Your* chickens invaded *his* property, and you filled *his* car with chicken shit? Are you kidding?

Good thing you're not my neighbor. Who needs all that pointless hostility?

[SusieMisajon]

Re: Life in France

*Your* chickens invaded *his* property, and you filled *his* car with chicken shit? Are you kidding?

Good thing you're not my neighbor. Who needs all that pointless hostility?

No Maddie, there was no hostility...neither of us minded the chickens being at his house, or him keeping the eggs. What I minded was that he continued to accept me coming over and giving him even more eggs, and not telling me that he's already solved his egg problem.

[blueyecicle]

Re: Life in France

Hi Susie, I was speaking to my brother in Germany yesterday and he told me it is very diffficult to buy a home there because you have to pay it off in 10 years or less or have 50% down. I googled it and couldn't find information...do you happen to know if he is full of it??
I know you are I France but I would assume some of the basics apply there too.

[damontucker]

Re: Life in France

Hi Susie, I was speaking to my brother in Germany yesterday and he told me it is very diffficult to buy a home there because you have to pay it off in 10 years or less or have 50% down. I googled it and couldn't find information...do you happen to know if he is full of it??
I know you are I France but I would assume some of the basics apply there too.

ok pinkeycicle... you get it this time

Hey... since you live in Oregon...and that's on the Mainland... In the United States... You think you could tell me where I could get a good bottle of Quervo in Mexico since in Oregon theres no sales tax on things

The fact you would believe susie who doesn't even live in Germany over your own Brother who does live there speaks about your trust for your brother!