ex·is·ten·tial·ism
Georges Joyaux taught this powerful new philosophy at Michigan State University; he'd come from France, married American; Sim One was the first of their 6 children {{{ in truth, so common: her oopsie occurrence triggered the marriage }}}; Alain came next: don't buy two-for-the-price-of-one condoms I guess was the lesson there; then Nicole blah blah blah ... they're all Existentialists and magnificently accomplished, responsible adults; the planet is better for them all.
My parents introduced me to my first dead body when I was six.
It was a big decision for them, discussed with the relatives: Should a child go to a funeral? They were afraid I wouldn't understand. Why isn't that man breathing? But I could see their pride, too. Tommy's first funeral. A social occasion. How would he act? In a large Scotch-Irish family, dead people in open caskets were no surprise. The oldest generation went, like a worn edge against a grinding wheel. The young had accidents. You behaved a certain way. Childishness was unwelcome.
I don't even remember which of my countless aunts or uncles it was who'd stumbled into the afterlife. But children have the curiosity of Elizabethans. I was excited, if in murmurs. I tiptoed up, at my father's urging. I kept my eyes fixed on the puckered taffeta lining of the lifted lid. I'd wondered about the smell. Bouquets cloyed the air; otherwise nothing. And then I looked down. The corpse's eyelids were shut. The face looked vaguely familiar. Very wrinkled. Very powdered. Very settled. A face so still it vibrated; maybe it was the molecules.
Now I knew.
Something. I wasn't sure then. Now I know: I'd been shown the end. A voice could have whispered into my waxy ear: "You have now, my fragile little nudgkin. This time you're standing in. And then you'll have this, three showings to anyone who remembers you exist. And between those two points in time you will have to fit in anything you want to do, anything you want to accomplish, anything you want to savor, anything you want to say. We pray it's for good, but that's not truly a requirement."
Today's itinerary took us from the post office (to mail a check to the property managers), to the framer (who beautifully mounted two of Amy Montali's photos, a gift from her for her time here in France), to the bank (for lumps of cash), to a beggar with lovely eyes to deposit 5 euros of luck, to the Cracker Fair, an annual Christmas season crafts and food display at the Abbey de Valmagne. We had a list prepared by Simone of all the people we needed to buy for. We got a skirt for her, knitted pens for somebody, a ceramic ring for her, some bio room-deodorant, a couple of cloth bread bags labeled PAIN, a two-sided "modern cut" bowtie for Marc Pitman, artisanal candy bars of 6 different flavors of the region for Thanksgiving dinner with the Cornell-Feists, some cork coin purses for the Ducklings and Emma, gave money to the cancer society for English speakers in France ... and then I blew my top.
This is her at our kitchen window, asking "Weed or herb?" "Rub a leaf. See if it's pungent."
More on that tomorrow.
TODAY, a documentary photo in our entryway of a typical Saturday morning's shopping expedition to the outdoor market in Pézenas.
Starting at 10 AM: head of fresh lettuce; wine from a favorite local vintner, Mas des Auribelles, who opens her garage door around 11 AM just for the Saturday market crowd; bread sticks presented as a gift to us (we bought a lot) by the Italian pasta maker who prefers living in France because the politics aren't as crazy; a bag of his mixed raviolis; fresh tomatoes; a couple of jars of tomato sauce for pasta; the sausage-maker was having a buy 3, get one free special: we bit, including the filet mignon saucisson; in the bag: one night's meal of pork roast; Sim One's cheese (Pomerol); more sausage including liver sausage (the darker one); my cheese (a mix of cow and sheep; nutty, almost sweet); and take-away chicken pad thai.
That roller thing at the top has triangular blades like 1/4-inch-thick pie servers. It's about the size of a 55-gallon drum. The operator (with great finesse) rolls it back and forth in each of four huge truck-length dumpsters, crushing down what's inside. Impressive performance: it would crush a human body to the thickness of an ironing board in one pass. The woman who manages the dump gave us both (customary for the region amongst friends) cheek-kiss hellos (her left, her right, her left). We are thrilled to be accepted at the local dump, because recycling waste is central to life in France! ¶ Then we cruised over to the realtor to sign a bunch of papers, dropping the price on our OTHER house in France by 21,000 Euros; it's been on the market going on 6 years with only one crazy low-ball offer. We're trying to find the irresistible price point; it's a big house. ¶ Then off to Millau, France's (maybe the world's) premiere glove-making town; gloves sold in Paris are made here. It's a little more than an hour drive's away; we entered snow country. It had been maybe 15 years since our last visit to the same small shop, where everything's made by hand. I'd lost half a pair and needed something new. The owner greeted us and helped us with sizing. (It should be so tight you can barely get it on; gloves stretch.) ¶ Then rushed home in time for a 7:30 fundraising event in a nearby town, the occasion benefiting the local English cricket club in our part of France (the guy who runs our favorite wine shop here captains the team). Elvis never looked better. The night featured a band playing hits from the 60s, 70s, 80s ~ two French, three Brits. And they were better than just decent. Pretty much everyone there was a Brit transplant. You just didn't talk about Brexit. We danced instead. Loads of people danced. And drank. And ate interesting catered food (including mini-burger sliders) made by an American couple who've moved to the region.
Lots of broken windows in the main shopping district of Montpellier, the Paris of the South ... and a center for art and technology and socialist ideals. Conflict recently between civil protests and police. Our preferred parking lot has an aqueduct. And they wrap their trees in solidarity red. Revisiting the lucite artist, Henri Mouraire at his tiny shop at 16 Rue Sainte-Anne. Finishing up at Soleiado, a 19th-century textile manufacturer of the region offering updated fashions using ancient designs.