The romantic life of a vineyard owner, and other…..Myth-understandings.

          When we bought the “Petit Clos” farm there was a hectare (two and a half acres) of Sauvignon Blanc vines included. As the renovation of the main house was our primary focus, we had the seller continue managing the vines. After a year of renovations we decided it would be possible to take on the maintenance of the grapes. I mean how hard could it be, maybe a couple hours a week tidying up the rows?

          Fast forward to two years later; I’m taking a precious day off as the grapes are up to date on their tending. Our Chambres d’hotes; bed and breakfast, is running smoothly and we don’t have any more bookings for a couple days. And the house renovation is 90% done; the remaining 10% is like splitting infinity.  We have all modern conveniences and the esthetics are pretty much there. All that really remains are the assorted little finish items that we see daily, but hopefully visitors glaze over when admiring this beautiful old house through rose’ tinted wine glasses.

          There are two fronts that must be constantly fought in relation to running a vineyard. There is the paperwork and the labor in the vines. There are two skillsets between Cindy and I. Cindy is a contract negotiator and marketing professional, and I have a strong back….for now. So that defines who does what, believe me if I were handling the French document process we would both be shipped off to French Guyana. Do you remember that really cute island resort where Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman stayed, in the movie…”Papillon” (1973).

          In two years we have learned many lessons on the care and work required to keep the grapes not only alive, but more importantly, how to maintain their A.O.C. Cotes de Duras designation. I’m going to ask Cindy to chip in at this point and help the lowly laborer with delineating the process.

          First, we had to become “Farmers." There are two categories for farmers in France, the weekend farmer, and the fulltime farmer. We went through the process of declaring ourselves “weekend” farmers. That required dossiers for four bureaus. Not the furniture kind mind you. Each bureau was intertwined with the other.

The thought process (?) over here is illustrated by the first thing you need to set-up in France as an example.  In order to get a telephone, you need an electric bill. In order to set up an account with the electrical company you need a telephone number. You see where I’m going with this?

          Back to the four farming bureaus, multiply the phone/electrical bill conundrum by a factor of sixteen and there you have it. We had three meetings a month for a year in order to finally be a Farmer. You think that was it then?

No,no,no,no,…no! That just started the paper snowball rolling.

Let’s see what else was there? Oh yeah the vines, think they were covered in the farming dossier? Nope that only allowed me to work the fields, forest, and pastures. (Think skillsets again)

          The vines required only three bureaus.  But on the bright side the French vocabulary was twice as difficult on the Vineyard documents.

          They stipulate there will be inspections to ensure the care required of the vines is being done. Makes sense, also adds stress as I have a standard that I really care about. I really want the vines to be maintained and kept orderly; when we drive around I’m always judging the other vineyards. It is a source of pride for me that my vines are as good as, or better than the neighboring vineyards. We really try to maintain our vines with care. They still probably haven't forgiven us for bringing over phylloxera in the 19th century.

          Two years ago we paid an English winemaker to come over for an hour and give me a tutorial on the procedure of trimming vines. It was winter and the dormant vines were ready to be pruned. This entails trimming 90% of the vine and leaving two shoots that will carry the crop the coming year. You also leave two reserves shoots that will be called upon should something happen to the first two shoots.  Well the lesson was great and in an hour we had done a couple dozen examples; that left 1480 remaining vines for me. Merde’

          The process of vine pruning was blogged about earlier. “Vine Pruning” (Monday Feb. 6^th 2012)

          The other main work load for the vines is the constant mowing between the rows of the grass. If cut constantly it ensures that when it rains; the vines get their water. It is illegal to water the vines manually.

          Now comes the most labor intensive part of maintaining the vines;” Weeding between the vines”. After mowing the rows of vines, what’s left is to get between the individual plants. I accomplish this by the use of a weed wacker.

         I kid you not.

 It takes two days, and in the two years I’ve done it I’ve essentially burnt out one weed wacker. The large vineyards have an attachment on the back of their tractors. Yours for the low, low cost of 7,500 euros. That’s over ten thousand dollars. I am in the process of acquiring a professional grade Husquavana weed wacker. (1,000 bucks)

Then there’s the spraying of the vines with sulfur and copper solutions to guard against mildew. One of the neighboring vineyard owners lets me borrow his backpack sprayer. It weighs about eighty pounds, plus another forty pounds of the liquid solution of the anti-mildew treatment. So one walks the two miles of vines, refilling the gas operated sprayer; six times. Think about the process; stop, put it on the ground, walk to where the solution is, carry 20 gallon container to the sprayer, fill up the top mounted reservoir, pull start the gas motor, lift it onto your back and go. Blood, sweat, and tears….well no blood anyway.

          As I drive through the French countryside I’ve noticed that each year vineyards plow between alternating rows. This aerates the soil and allows the precious rainwater a better chance of reaching the roots of the vines. 

          So I ask the man who has his horses here, in exchange for helping with the property, if he has any ideas how I can do this. He shows up a week later with this huge 4x4 John Deere tractor that has a disking plow behind it. He proceeds to drive up and down every other row. The result is glorious, I have conquered the tilling of the vineyard. A week later I’m trimming the vines and discover that it is near impossible to walk on these freshly tilled rows. They have dried up and weeds are starting to grow, and grow. I should point out that it is impossible to mow these weeds as the rows are like half scale relief maps of the Andes mountain range.

          I voice my frustrations to my neighbor. He has thirty odd farming implements at his farm and I’m hoping that he might be able to pass through the petit Andes and solve my problem. The next day I drive around to all the Agriculture shops and start pricing rototillers that attach to tractors. Mostly they have these four foot wide 3,000 dollar rototillers. Even the used ones are a couple grand, but narrow, it would take me two passes for each row. Well, there’s no other way around it, I’m going to have to ask for help. I don’t like asking for help! Or directions, or the cost of things.

          I get home from my shopping expedition, having not even entertained buying any of the rototillers. About a half an hour later my neighbor drives up on one of his many nice tractors and behind him is this eight foot wide rototiller. He drives over to the vines and goes about ten feet into the vines, backs up and drives over to our house. He parks the tractor in the field near our pool and unloads the rototiller. I come over and after the ten minute hello conversation he say

 “For you Henri’”

          Well I tell him there’s no way I can take this piece of equipment from him, could I buy it? He says he has no use for it and that it would make his wife happy to have it out of his farm. There’s no way I can take it, it has to be worth thousands of euros. He elaborates it’s not a piece of equipment he can use.  Then as his final point he says,

          “Tell you what, you borrow it for now…..but never return it.”

          The kindness I have encountered over here is a function of getting to know my neighbors, working nonstop like them and always being happy when they drop by. They have seen our struggles, determination and results. It probably helps that we are not some stereotypical deep pocketed American family, and that we scrimp just like every one of our neighbors, friends, and even our family back in the States.   

It’s a commonality that is now global, an unfortunate set of circumstances that is like the vineyard. Individual vines growing together, needing care and tending. It’s about neighbors helping neighbors when in need. We have helped out most of our neighbors in one way or another, and what goes around comes around.

Because we all know Karma is Mother Nature’s hit man.

Little King Louis - our first.

     It doesn't seem as though many things happen around here through regular channels. It seems for every foot , or meter we move forward, the process starts usually two feet behind the normal starting line.
     We have a history with our neighbor "watchdog", an oddly funny, trying, and always bizarre history. The latest chapter started like every previous chapter, squarely right out in left field. I was chatting with our neighbor, well in point of fact he was talking to me, probably correcting me in the ways of construction. I think at some point in his lesson with me, his dog Chippie ran up.
     Chippie is a French Bulldog. About the size of a normal Maine coon cat, not one of those feminine purse dogs, bigger with some value to them. She is a real sweet dog, always makes me smile, a nice quiet kinda dog....my favorite kind.
     Well "Watchdog" informs me she is with child....well children as is the case with litters. We finish off our discussion and I go back to work with our renovation. A couple days later I am walking back from the post box and run into the neighbors wife and she happily tell's me. "Chippie is to be a mother again." I smile genuinely and say "Bon chance." Best of luck.
   
     Later that night my Electrician is helping me and I mention the Chippie is with children.
  
     He looks at me and says "No, it did not take. Chippie is to have no children."
  
    "No; but it is being true, my neighbor and his wife each told me, just today."
   
     A smile crosses his face, as he realizes that our opportunistic neighbor has been caught with his dogs pants down.....so to speak. The Electrician proceeds to give me the backstory. His dog, another French Bulldog was the sire of said litter. My neighbor told him, sorry no take on the birds and the bee's activity. What would normally happen.....normally with two trusting people is that the sire of the litter gets one of the little litterette's as a stud fee. And normally......normally it would be the pick of the litter.

     I had asked Caleigh to come in and help me to better understand all the intricacies of the unfolding plot. She squealed when she heard that he should have one of the puppies.

     He cannot possibly take one of the little bulldogs ( not remotely like pit bulls) as his wife is due around that time. So he offers that he will donate his pup to Caleigh. What I would have given to be in the room when my neighbor was A: caught in the untruth, then B; informed that the American's (imagine someone holding their nose to indicate a rancid smell) would be getting the little pup. C: And that no money would be changing hands. The dogs are usually sold for around 700 euro's which is a thousand in American currency.
      We have yet to pay for a dog, as is evident by the quality dog we got in Holly, the wanna be Corgi. However we did hit the lottery with Skye, our Australian Blue Sheppard. Cat wise we have had a better return on our money, with maybe the exception being the recluse; Nipper.

      So a couple months pass, and Cindy has been shown the litter of three bulldogs, the one slated for Caleigh is a white one with a dark spot around his left eye. We were thinking wait and see, somehow this will go sideways on us. There will be some misunderstanding or needless drama.

     Saturday afternoon my neighbor knocks on the door holding the little pup and asks for Cindy. He has his entourage with him, five kids visiting, one crying, it must have been in her charge. He gives Cindy the pup and a ten minute lesson on dog raising. Interesting fact I want to pass on. Turns out puppies like water and puppy food and that they should be trained not to poop in the house.....and get this, they should do it (poop) out of doors. I kid you not, we were doing it all wrong before, training them to defecate on our bed. I stopped the tutorial when he started listing the pros and cons of making sure the dog is always breathing air. I put the duct tape and the flexibe pipe taped to the exhaust away.
    
Anyway introducing our new addition.....addition is French for bill.... like in a restaurant.

La addition s.v.p,  The bill if you please?   knew it would cost us some way. It looks a lot like Stich in the animated movie "Lilo and Stich"

    

   

             I was skim coating the walls on our "new" first floor bathroom, when I heard a truck approach the house. I ventured out through the old barn, and walked the short distance to the pick-up. It was one of our neighbors, this guy is huge, not fat or tall, just stocky. He had cows when we moved here, but now he switched to sheep. We got to know he and his wife pretty well. I have helped him on occasion, and driven with him when he purchased Rams, we would joke on the return trip "what a thankless job rams had."
             He is also known to have quite an appetite, he is more honour bound than anyone I've ever met. I have never crossed anyone that I can honestly remember, but the last person I would cross would be this guy. He is also; once you get to know him hysterical, he will say something offhanded, walk away and a sea of laughs erupts in his wake.
     
            Last year Cindy and I went to a Bastille Day lunch (4 f-ing hours of heaven) in this beautiful vineyard as their guests. There's something magnetic about him, the ladies serving would ensure that he had THREE entrecote''s  (our equivalent of sirloin), I scored a second by being next to him.

            So I walked over to his pick-up and he announced that Sunday at 12:00 we were to meet he and his wife over at the Salle de Fete. ( local meeting hall) His telling us is the equivalent of politely asking by other peoples standards. The occasion, the Hunters Feast.
       
            Our small village of Saint Jean de Duras, has probably 250 as a population. We are the only Americans (I should say North Americans) so we keep up our part of the bargain by attending all the Fete's- (soiree'). Community is very important in this country, and we are getting to be known by our towns elders now.

            Cindy and I arrive and greet every one and their uncle-literally. Cindy then drives back to the house to get out pick-nic-basket with plates, forks, knives, spoons-wine glasses. And we pay the 20 euro's each for entry. We were on the reservations thanks to our friend. We all sat at the same table, we knew over half ot the 16 people there.

            After the reading of the menu to the gathered guests, they passed around pictures(not photo's, keep up fer christ sake)  of an appertife'. This was their usual blend of what tasted like boxed wine, gator-aid and apricot schnapps. I've never cared for it, so I limited my self to just two glasses of it.....don't want to seem ungrateful ( yeah, that ship sailed along time ago) . In my opinion it wasn't starting well. That wine blend always makes me feel like we're heading off to back country anchovy loaf and bologna.

            Nope, next out was a terrine of hot soup, vegetable base and hearty. It was good, but  kept thinking the Meatloaf with a can of mushroom soup-sauce was up next.

            We all had some Rose' while awaiting the next course. We scored on the wine front though as one of the four vintners of our town supplied the wine.

            Next course was the Salad,sliced tomato's, shredded carrots, and cubed beets. The flavor of all three was perfect, our friend announced that during Fete's he was relieved of eating salads. His wife had gone to help out in the kitchen. I was still teetering on is this food going to go deep country or make a left into the Haute' cuisine of rural France.

          Then they brought out the cold terrines of Sanglier' (Wild Boar)

              Bam!   Pow!   KaBoom!

They did a sharp left to incredible! The most basic comparison would be a cold meatloaf, but that sounds too insulting. First they bring out thin baguette sliced toast, and a raw clove of garlic, and you proceed to rub it into the crispy toast. Then with your slice of the Wild boar-loaf you portion a small amount onto a piece of your hot garlic toast and Viola'.  Crazy good.....Oh forgot to mention at this point they brought out the pictures ( not photo's- i'm warning yah!) of the red local wine. This was his reserve, they were doling out the good stuff.

           It was at this point that I had to leave for 40 minutes, to pick up Caleigh at home and drive her to Saint Foy Le Grand, where she an a girlfriend were meeting. They are visiting her friends father for three days in Bordeaux.

            I raced back to the Fete' and sat down as they had served me a slice of the local tiny deer. I ate it, interesting flavor, a little dry.
            Then they served the Grilled Wild Boar, This was the headliner. It was prepared over vine stock, old vines that were the traditional wood for bar-be-queing. We have a supply at Petit Clos, which we use during the summer months. Cindy had an in depth discussion on the preparing and ingredients for the Boar marinade.
   
            Then we all relaxed with a glass or two of the aforementioned Red wine, and a fresh fruit torte' was brought out. They replaced all the EMPTY pictures ( don't get me started again) with bottles of a light sweet white wine. A new weakness. It's all about pairings,, the red and the Boar, the sweet white  and the torte.  Ooooof!

           Sure it took a total of six hours but we survived the Annual Hunters Feast. After they drew the winning tickets, about thirty winners, who won various cuts of wild game. O.K. off to sleep for a week. Heavens that was hard work.  Cheers Hank

 

Doctor Doolittle's other problem

 

“The last thing I need is an old infected cock.” I let out a deep breath and started walking to the Kitchen where Cindy happened to be.

          This started yesterday, well to be more precise it started the day we bought Petit Clos. The latest chapter, I guess started yesterday.  I had returned from driving my future retirement plan, Caleigh, to school.  All was good in the world. I arrived back to the farm house and went into the Kitchen and made myself another cup of Coffee. I chatted with Cindy about my plans for the day, and then changed them to what she wanted me to focus on. At about quarter to lunch time I returned to the kitchen and was preparing myself a couple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I was reaching down into the pullout cabinet drawer for some chips when I saw my neighbor pull into the long driveway.

          I stopped what I was doing and proceeded to watch in awe as he pulled into the space in front of one of our open barns.

“Hmmm, we’re going a little fast today my friend….shit!”  I watched as he slid in the mud and smacked our new metal driveway gates. The large truck then backed up a few feet and he proceeded to get out. I was walking down the driveway as he rounded the back of his company’s truck.

“I can’t believe you hit that fucking gate, what an idiot.” This was said in English as I was too pissed to translate.

He looks at me and mutters something about slipping on the brakes.

“Bullshit, that was dumb. “ Then I say in French. “I’m tired of these things; maybe we don’t have to park there anymore.”

“My feet slipped on the frozen brake pedal.” He looks like he is as usual the victim. I look at him and restrain myself, say “Bon appetit” and leave.  

After his two hour lunch he proceeds to return to his work site. I watched as he left and made my way to the gate. I guess I overreacted. Then I tried closing the gate. Nope, the hinge on the bottom was bent and wouldn’t allow the gate to close. I went to my work room and got a couple vise grips and my six foot level. An hour later I had the gates trued and back to functioning properly.
 This morning I was again in the kitchen and watched as he came out and sprayed some de-icer on one of his many cars. One of his collections of fine automobiles as seen on”Sanford and Sons.” He glances at the gate contemptuously.

“Hmmm! Really?"  I go straight into Hank prick mode. So I amble out as though headed for one of the barns.

“Oh morning neighbor, do you have a second.” I say in French.

“Morning  Henri’” He replies, as I walk down to where he is and approach eying him with more contempt than necessary.

“Do me a favor, I realigned the gate you hit, so whatever you do don’t touch it.” Then I continued , being the supreme frustrated passive aggressive dick that I am. “You see metal is actually a fragile material. See the bottom hinge you bent. Yesterday I took the gate down and realigned the hinges with the adjustment nuts. You see neighbor... steel; as a for instance,... take the metal you use with concrete (Rebar- I don’t know the French word for it.) You can bend it once that’s fine, but if you bend it a second or third time the strength is worthless.” He nodded agreement.  I continued. “Don’t surprise me by trying to help and by straightening out your carelessness. If it happens again; I will take the gate down and have the fabricator cut off the metal tab and weld on a new one. Thanks, so please be careful.” Then I smiled at him and spun around 180 degrees and walked off like the little bitch that I am on occasion.

Gee Hank I pity anyone that has to share the same house as you, or city for that matter.

In actual fact he is the type of person that would not have said anything, had I not confronted him. He would have waited a week and mentioned that the gate looked as though someone had hit it. He probably would think this approach would absolve him as a suspect, as why would the guilty party bring it up. Then in passing he would gently mention that possibly the man with the horses probably accidently hit it with the tractor he has parked there. It was probably an honest mistake; he probably didn’t even know he hit it. How unfortunate. Then he would give me the tried and true look of sympathy.  Hey Whatcha gonna do?

I was working on breaking down part of the cinder block wall between Caleighs room and the new first floor bathroom, for a door. Then I heard our dog Skye starting to go off, barking loudly. He does this whenever Cindy starts talking French. He’s not being critical of her accent, or lack of one. Moreover it usually means someone is at the door. I stop my work and listen. Yep it’s the neighbor

I don’t come to the aid of Cindy to help with translation; instead I choose the insipid approach. I literally watch through the front door keyhole. I hear Cindy conversing, quite well; I was impressed as she repeatedly turned down his gift.

Then he walks down the driveway and I see he is carrying a live old roster, upside down by its feet.

 

 

 

The Cuckoo’s Nest

French Gothic - 2009

 

We are two months from completing this old French country farmhouse. What started out for us as a visionary’s nightmare has morphed into a source of pride for Cindy and I. The renovation was total in scope. The biggest ticket item on the menu was the complete mechanical system. What started as the original wiring for the Cabinet of Dr. Cagliari in 1897 has been transformed into the bridge of the Enterprise (Star Trek not the WW2 aircraft carrier, pay attention for Christ’s sake.).

 There is now city, well more like village water in addition to the existing well water. We literally experienced the well running dry. Then there is Cindy and Caleighs favorite, the heating system. The new boiler is finishing up installation on Saturday.  Hopefully it will thaw out the Artic corridor (First floor hall, skating rink) into a more tropical setting.

So two years and three months later we will have a completely renovated, beautifully built stone house from 1900. Even though it appears that the family that lived in the house never performed any maintenance for over a hundred years, she was a survivor.  We have poured blood, sweat, and tears into the old girl and she’s ready for the dance. Her threadbare smock has been transformed into more formal attire. Once we have finished the final punch list and final cleaning it will be odd walking around this dapper old house.

The Original first floor bath with what we lovingly (?) called the dog bath now has been razed and doubled in size and two small sheik bathrooms have been added upstairs.  There is now wifi cascading through the house invisibly connecting us to the innerwebs, and more importantly to the world out there. The Kitchen which was our first main project has settled into its new job as heart of the house, it has performed flawlessly. Although Cindy, on occasion shrieks when the smallest lodger pays a visit. Usually it is a stowaway in the pullout compost container, next to the recyclable and trash container.

I wasn’t sure about including the brief, never-ending experience with a contractor we ….worked…?.... with?

He installed the pool, and most of the pool stuff, nebulous enough for you?

He ah…he ah…supplied the cast iron wood stoves I installed.

He quoted us for the new wood burning boiler, solar panel aided radiator hot water heater system. We paid for it and the six week estimate turned into sixteen weeks. Then (I kid you not) on week sixteen he informed us, on a Sunday via e-mail, that he would not be able to install the system until May.  So that was stressful, the local vineyards thanked us for the added quantity of red wine we used for interior heating fluid. It was the most stressful time that Cindy and I shared, although I think shared is the worst word to use.  

Would I recommend renovating a French farm house, and all the romantic wonderment it contains?

Would I recommend a root canal without a heaping amount of Novocain?

 Would I recommend preforming your own appendicitis’s?

Better believe it, whole heartily.

 One cannot truly appreciate the good without experiencing the bad.

(I have learned how to format now, so reading this .....stuff should be at least easier on the eyes. Although still headache making).

The Hatfield and McCoy’s; part deux

     

Obviously what I thought to be an open and closed case, was just the prelude to the French Opera I call “Voisins”. Or as we would say in English, “Neighbors”. So let’s recap; my neighbor “watchdog” is seen taking 6 trailer wheels and a few trailer frame members and confronted in the act by Cindy, he changes the subject. I question him he replies they are his materials, the owner of the horses and of the parts asks him; he says I gave them to him. I tell him that’s not true, the two parties exchange words; the owner of the horses throws him (“watchdog”) about the interior of his car. End of story…..

Not a chance, I get a call from the Gendarmerie, our local police, and they ask for the phone number for the owner of the horses. I look it up in our notes and tell them the number and describe the location and town of where he lives. Interesting, probably following up on the theft of his material.

A couple hours later I’m in the kitchen and hear Cindy talking outside with our neighbor, the watchdog’s wife. I go out to see what’s up, and I am confronted with what I would imagine a rural casting call for “Brunnhilde “from “Ride of the Valkyrie” would resemble. (See photo above for reference) She along with her daughter and her daughter’s daughter are milling about with expressions you might see on posters illustrating “the greatest injustices ever waged on humanity.”

I enter (actually wade into, as in fecal matter) halfway into the greatest Shakespearian tragedy never written. The daughter, who is running away with the part of Brunnhilde, is not only gesturing with such despondency, but she is telling the tale as a nearly grieving mother who could not live without her littlest Brunnhilde. Let’s pick up where I joined in. I will tell it in English, although ideally it should be sung in Italian.

“We are but humble, simple farm folk, living our simple existence, spreading joy to the unenlightened. This dark stranger vaulted our gate with a bloody saber and a large bore shotgun. All the time, I am selflessly standing in front of my weeping infants, ready to lay down my selfless life, so that they might live, and go on to lead the lives of missionaries.”

“I wonder why he was so mad and threatening.” I ask.

“That is a mystery wrapped in an enigma, stuffed into a baguette” the neighbor’s wife offers. “We are mere pawns in this injustice. My husband “watchdog” is suffering the most. This madman was threatening us with the gun and pointing it at the little ones. On cue the daughter mimes a menacing figure pointing a gun, behind her mother.

(I find no humor in this aspect of the story, but Cindy and I imagine if this aspect of the tale were true the Gendarmerie would have taken him in. There was a wealth of misinformation and half truth told in this act.)

The wife of “watchdog” was starting to catch up with her daughter for the part.

“Abbiamo pensato che fossimo a essere massacrati, martirizzato come cani e mortalmente sacrificato per nessun motive.” She sang.

(We thought we were to be massacred, martyred like dogs, and mortally sacrificed for no reason.) Sorry I just wanted to see it in Italian.

The part was hers for the taking at this point, then she clenched it, she grabbed the part from her poor understudy of a daughter. She wept genuine tears, she so believed of their injustice, she wept. Cindy comforted her, it was sad. It is only as the story unraveled, and hidden truths were uncovered that I thought of this as a comedic tragedy. Were I a prop artist at this point I would have given “watchdog’s” wife a chainmail dress, a shiny two horned Viking helmet, and a Valkyrian battle axe.

After fifteen minutes of this country theater, and me asking two or three times to speak not scream, the troupe continues their soliloquies.

A script rewrite was definitely needed; forgotten facts have since been brought to light. Turns out the daughter of the horse guy came over and enquired where her wheels and frame members were, and when could she expect them. Well as in any opera, I imagine the volume was increasing during the conversation. Then it turns out the daughter of “watchdog’s” wife hit the smaller, although taller daughter of the horse owner guy. I think that was the aforementioned motive that was missing during the tryouts.

Later that evening the boyfriend of the girl that was hit arrives, (queue in trumpets and battle drums in the background) and the action ensues.

At this point “watchdog’s” wife’s daughter tries futilely to wrest the part from mom. With vaudevillian exaggeration she pantomimes the arrival of the evil caped figure. She mimes the world wide gestures for abundant drinking and “POT” smoking. She takes an exaggerated draw from an imaginary joint. But too little too late for being awarded the part; the Russian judge gave her a two. Sadly she over reaches by then telling me if he shot my child I would shoot him. Flailing madly with punch drunk inefficiency she tries the angered revengeful mother routine, but she’s reading off the wrong script to the custodian in the basement at this point.

I guess the reason it seems so laughable is that during this whole audition, they never mention that someone hit the horse owner’s daughter, and thus started the events rolling. They never admitted “watchdog” came onto our property and stole stuff, also setting this tragically funny audition in motion. And lastly, there has been a history of so much stuff being taken from the property, and who just went to number one with a bullet, on the suspect charts.

As the stage lights dim and we are returning into the sanctity of our house and the minstrels depart, I imagine I heard someone overweight singing, in Italian, with a lone thunderclap.

The Hatfields and the McCoys ; “Or Les champs de chapeaux avec le maître des cérémonies coys” (French Version)

Out of the corner of my eye I caught what appeared to be someone leaning into the parked car down at the end of our driveway. Then the headlights flashed, the wipers started up, a blinker signaled, and the windshield fluid sprayed. It indicated that there was someone being tossed around the interior of the car, forcefully. I allowed myself a smirk and slowly turned away and proceeded into the barn. I would have to start readying the vine sprayer for the three hours of back breaking anti-mildew vine treatment. I certainly had a spring in my step as I savored the surreal imagery of the car jumping into that animated state.
When we bought our fifty acre’s of heaven in South-west France, it was a quantum leap for the family. We went through the whole French buying process, and it was at this point we met our neighbor. He was helpful and talked loudly so we could better understand him. He certainly was familiar with the property, and offered to look after things. He would remind me a couple times, “You know there are gypsies to watch out after”. It sure felt nice having someone so close to the property and someone who had our best interest at heart. The purchase included most of the furniture and a lot of agricultural items. So Cindy and I inventoried the house and property and prepared to return to the states.
Prior to leaving we were introduced to the man that kept his two Belgian draft horses and small donkey on the property. The arrangement was in exchange for boarding, he would help with maintaining the land. Ah everything in place, and thoroughly accounted for and then we returned to the states.
Fast forward six months, we loaded up the truck and we moved to….sure the hell wasn’t Beverly. Long story short, when we got to the property everything was gone. Well specifically anything worth taking was taken, and anything worthless was left. I have written before about this so I won’t repeat the tale other than to say that some enterprising soul had removed anything of value, to the point of grinding off items embedded into the centuries old stone walls. We squared away with the seller and were compensated to a degree. We learned over time that our “watchdog” neighbor should not have the word “watch” in front of this title. Over time the ever opportunistic neighbor ingratiated himself by bring me “Cadeaux”; presents as it were. These “gifts” were of little value to him and usually stuff from his jobsites that were removed for a renovation. It was always awkward when he would walk up the driveway carrying a three legged chair that only required a little work. There were some useful things, but the presentation was similar to a waiter lobbying for a tip. Luckily he had the added talent, of knowing everything. His depth of advice was staggering, even though I spent almost 30 years in the construction industry; he had the ability to correct any thing he saw me do. We were installing an arched window for the kitchen, and had hired a mason to do it. I was outside taking down stones as directed by the mason, and my neighbor runs up the driveway yelling. “Henri’, attention, tomber, tomber!” Essentially he was saying, “Hank, beware, its going to fall, its going to fall.” I had tired of his constructive help, to the point that I replied with my best glare and said. “Dit avec le macon, ami” (“Talk with the mason, pal!”) I jerked my thumb towards the kitchen. Thank God there was someone helping the mentally challenged American.
The man with the three horses has over time proved to be a man of his word. He helps with so much, and has such patience. He has a slight limp, and favors his left hand, the result of an accident that left his right side slightly incapacitated. We have over time discussed the migration of a lot of items from the farm. All roads lead to Rome, well here all departing items lead to our neighbor’s doorway. We believe he was hired by a relative of the seller. But what has always annoyed me was shaking my neighbors hand on our first meeting, and him assuring me that he would watch the property. Well in truth he did watch the property; he watched it all get loaded into trucks.
Just recently we had guests visiting from England, and the U.S. One day I left the house with a carload of guests to drive to Saint Circ Lapopie.
“ Ahhh!! an opportunity presents itself.” Someone must have thought as he eyes the abandoned house. So he has a couple friends drop by with a big van and they proceed to load it up with a half dozen spare tires and frame members that belong to the man with the horses. I wonder if you can imagine the startled look on our “Watchdog’s” face as Cindy walks down the driveway and inquires as to what they are doing. “Watchdog” didn’t pick up on the fact that Cindy didn’t go with us on the road trip.
Instantly he affects the animated posture of introducing Cindy to his two friends. He literally introduces them as Mr. Moustache and Mr. Glasses. (in French of course.) This tactic backfires as this makes Cindy notice their features. Then the “Watchdog” continues by telling Cindy that one is the Chef for the fete’ at a local town. He never even acknowledges the items he is removing as the stupid American has successfully been distracted by the information regarding the fete’.
A couple days pass, and I notice the “Watchdog” and ask, hey was that your stuff or was it the horse guys stuff? He replies that it was his.
The next day the man with the horses is working on his tractor and mentions that his daughter spare trailer wheels and trailer frame members have been taken. I fill him in on the events as seen by Cindy and my inquiry.
Later that day I see him again and he says that the “Watchdog” told him that I had given him the material. I look at him and laugh shaking my head, and say.”It is not mine to give away; he has told you a non-truth.” (That is literally the translation, I didn’t know how to say “fucking lie” in French)
Next day I’m walking non-stop between the house and workshop and I notice the man with the horses driving his tractor down the driveway towing a tank of water for the horses. He stops and notices “Watchdog” watching him from his walkway gate. I think my understanding of rural French slang was rusty but they were discussing the missing items. “Watchdog” comes out of his walkway gate without his shirt on and stands there hands akimbo. (Both of his hands are on his waist) not unlike a scraggly rooster. He has adopted the attitude that he is the alpha male and that the slightly handicapped horse guy should acquiesce. Then I hear the wife bandy about some verbiage. Horse guy drives down the driveway and attends to his horses.
Later that same day, the insults have been brewing inside the horse guys mind. The “Watchdog” drives up and parks his car at the bottom of the driveway to lob a couple more insults toward horse guy who is still working there………..
Out of the corner of my eye.