Friday, November 25, 2016

Train Journey To Lillooet (1958)

Great War Story


From our latest Travel film, "Forever France," a visit to Verdun to discover the story of the Battle of Verdun, one of the Greatest (largest and most destructive) Battles of all time.  

Tuesday, November 8, 2016

Letters from Bidaine


A Letter From France/July 27th, 1994

( Prior to going on their great house sitting adventure in France, we asked Monty and Marsha Brown  to send a letter from time to time. Monty and Marsha are known to many area residents as entertainers in this area. Well, the first letter has arrived at our World Travel Center in West Winfield. They went to France early this spring.)

We flew from New York City almost three months ago, armed with our guitars, a few clothes, and our Border Collie, Cammie. We were a little worried about French Customs and Immigration. Would they allow our dog?. . . would they allow us? — but we saw hide nor hair of officialdom as we deplaned in Marseille on the Mediterranean coast. 


Our job is to take care of a "chateau," literally a castle, though ours is just a very large 17th  century house, for a year. When we arrived we met the couple we took over from. She is from Boston, he is originally from Lebanon, and they are both very nice. After they leave France they are headed for a big family wedding in Lebanon, and then back to Boston where they will work in the family restaurant.


Our chateau — Chateau de Bidaine — has about 20 acres of gardens, a four story house full of antiques, and 26 dogs. With Cammie, who survived the flight on Air France quite happily, that's 27! Actually, four of the dogs were born the week we arrived. They are Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, and they account for a lot of our work around the place. We also have four large "watch dogs," which are very lovable Bernese Mountain dogs. They are a bit like St. Bernard's.


 

Our employers are a couple of antique dealers from the USA, and they are hardly ever here. They were here for two weeks in May, but they have another chateau in Normandie — remember the Beaches of Normandie? — a flat in Paris, and homes in Connecticut and New York City. We don't expect to see them very much, though we keep in constant touch by fax.


So what do we do with ourselves? We walk dogs, feed dogs,and clean up after dogs! We tend to gardens — lawns, plants and water gardens. We write, read, watch videos (and the World Cup) on TV, and we swim in our enormous pool, which is fed by  spring which has been in constant operation since the Romans were here, before Christ.


One of our excursions was to see the ruins of a Roman temple of Jupiter, which is only about five miles away. Another time we went to swim on the beach at Cassis — our first plunge into the Mediterranean — and of course most of the women were topless. 

Some of the high school students at West Winfield are familiar with the book or the video, "A Year in Provence," so let me tell you where we are in relation to that. We are about 30 miles to the south of most of the action in the book, though our local town of Lambesc is mentioned in an early chapter because of one of its restaurants.

And we are very close to Aix, a city about the size of Utica, though very different. Aix has 2,000 years of history. There are beautiful old buildings, outdoor markets and cafes, a big university and an American school. It is also the birthplace of Cezanne, the painter, and Emile Zola, the novelist. We love to visit Aix to just wander around or sit in the cafes.

Lambesc is also very quaint — it has a Middle Eastern look to it, like pictures of Jerusalem. We sometimes walk there, or ride in on our bikes. It's only a mile away.

The weather is hot, the terrain is a bit like Southern California. Lots of grapes are grown, and the wine is very cheap. You take your own container to the winery (le cave) and have it filled up, just like at a gas station.

The biggest event of our stay happened in the USA. Marsha's daughter, Shelly, gave birth to her first child, a boy, Timothy Raymond Francis, on June 21st in Bossier City, Louisiana. He is the great-grandson of Amelia Williams of Unadilla Forks, and Jeannette LaCelle of Cedarville. 

Au revoir for now. We look forward to seeing everybody again next year, and to playing lots of music for you. The French seem to like Hank Williams (senior, of course)so we may not learn any French tunes.







Letter II/August 24, 1994 

The weather has been hot and we are told that this is quite normal for our part of France. The skies are clear every day and the temperature hovers in the 90's. We had one rainfall in July — on the night of July 28th.

The farmers around here irrigate their crops and have done so for thousands of years. We have a major canal running right beside our property, carrying water from the Alps to the coast at Marseille. It even tunnels through mountains. There are still signs of the aqueducts that were built at the time of the Roman Empire, 2000 years ago.

During August, we are told, all the French go on vacation. Paris is abandoned to the tourists, and many businesses simply shut down for a week or two or three. We noticed that our favorite bakery closed down and also our dog food supplier — a very important person, as we are taking care of 26 dogs.

Provence is a destination for many tourists coming from all over Europe, and we have had quite a few visitors of our own, mostly family.

One day, a French couple came to our gate and struck up a conversation. The man was a professor at a university in Rennes, in northern France. He and his wife, Yvonne, are a lively, attractive couple in their mid-sixties. They don't speak much English, and our French is pretty basic, but we had a wonderful visit with them all the same. This was Yvonne's story:

She was originally from Marseille, 30 miles to the south of us. In the summer of 1944, exactly fifty years ago, Allied forces were attacking Nazi-occupied southern France from both Italy and North Africa. The city of Marseille was being heavily bombed, so, many families moved to the relative safety of the countryside. Yvonne and her family were assigned to our chateau, Bidaine. Five families shared the place from May until August.

In June, 1944, the Normandie invasion took place in the north and fighting intensified in the south. In late July, a contingent of German soldiers arrived at Bidaine and moved in with the French families, who were squeezed into the upper floors. There was a General amongst the enemy, so the chateau was clearly some kind of command post.

The Germans stayed for ten days. They were polite to the French people. Yvonne was a teenager at the time, a very attractive girl, but she never felt threatened.

"The General was a gentleman," she said,  "and his troops followed his lead."

Although there was very little furniture in the chateau at the time, Yvonne remembered a grand piano in the sous-sol, the basement. One of the Germans was an accomplished classical pianist, and the young girl listened transfixed on several occasions as he played.

On the tenth day of the German occupation of the chateau — it was August 5th, 1944, Yvonne's fifteenth birthday — the enemy soldiers suddenly packed up all their gear and departed. There were sounds of fighting going on in the surrounding hills and fields, and the French people wondered what was happening. Then, two hours after the Germans departed, an American soldier appeared at the front gate. He was soon followed by many more "Yanks." It was the liberation of our chateau! The Americans moved in where the Germans had been just hours before. 

Marsha and I had been walking around the grounds with Yvonne and the professor, listening to this story. We had worked our way to the Grand Basin, our big swimming pool which is fed by an ancient spring in constant use since Roman times.

"And did you swim in the pool?" we wanted to know.

"Of course," Yvonne smiled. "It was hot that summer, too. We all swam: French, Germans, and Americans. All shared the same pool."

We exchanged addresses and hope to go and visit this charming couple when we go to the north. The professor revealed that he had been among the Free French forces invading his homeland from North Africa, though it was several years before he met his bride-to-be. Perhaps somebody reading this letter was among the American troops who helped to liberate Chateau de Bidaine.

1994 is a big anniversary year in France because of the Liberation, not just of our chateau, but of the whole country. It was great to discover that history was being made in our own little patch. 

Au revoir for now.







Letter III/September 28, 1994

We've been working on our French — the language, that is. It's possible to stay in France for a year, as we are doing, and never learn the language. When you first get here, Math seems more important than French, because you are continually changing francs into dollars in your head. Most complex is figuring the cost of things sold by the kilo — and many things are!

There are about five and a half francs to the dollar and two pounds to the kilo. So what is a pound of tomatoes worth in dollars if they sell for eight francs to the kilo? Marsha has a rule of thumb for converting the currency; she doubles the number of francs and divides by ten to get dollars. If something sells for 48 francs, that's 96 divided by ten, or $9.60. After a few weeks, though, you forget all the figuring and just pay what they ask.

In Marsha's system, the dollar equals five francs, but actually it varies. The value of the dollar has been going downhill since we got here. In April it was 5.8 francs, and now it is 5.3. It has been even lower. 

This kind of financial information comes to us from the International Herald Tribune, an English-language newspaper which has been published in Paris since the time Ernest Hemingway hung out there in the 1920's. We buy the Herald Tribune once or twice a week to keep up on the news back home. Also we get a bundle of West Winfield Stars now and then, courtesy of Marsha's mom. Otherwise we get our news from French TV, and for that it is best to understand a little French.

We do a lot of our shopping in a supermarket called Rallye. You can buy almost anything at Rallye — food, clothing, motor oil — and pay by credit card. That makes it easy because once a month you get a bill in dollars from Visa or Mastercard. And, just like Great American, you don't need to talk to anyone in Rallye.

Of course Rallye is not nearly as much fun as the outdoor markets which take place in Pelissanne on Sundays, Lambesc on Fridays, and Aix on Tuesdays and Thursdays — in the morning. At the crowded market — marché — you walk around with your basket slung over your shoulder and deal with a lot of different stall-holders who are trying to wait on five people at once. For this it is best to know some French. You put your selections in a bag to be weighed and ask, "C'est combien?" (How much?)

There are stalls selling the succulent vegetable of Provence: plump, purple eggplants; bright red, green and yellow sweet peppers; shiny, slim zucchini, potatoes, tomatoes and carrots. There are fruit stall loaded with cherries, peaches, apricots, melons, pears and apples in their seasons. (We only buy an occasional melon, because we have our own orchards and grapevines.) There are whole stalls devoted to the olive — freshly pressed virgin oils and trays of black and green olives bathed in garlic and herbs de Provence, unstuffed or stuffed with almonds, pimentos, anchovies and other exotic tastes. Other stalls feature local honey, blocks of soap from Marseille (savon de Marseille), braided garlics for hanging in your kitchen, and the distinctive shirts and skirts of the region. Some stalls are manned by Moroccans or Algerians selling couscous, tabouleh, spices, figs and dates from across the sea in Africa.

We are only scratching the surface of these outdoor marchés — they are like weekly festivals. There are often street musicians playing for donations, and it is just fascinating to look at all the people and the flamboyant way many of them are dressed.

We buy our bread at a boulangerie — bakery — because it is better than supermarket bread, and because the Lambesc bakeries are a bit like social centers. Bread is very important to the French; it is truly the staff of life, and some of the loaves are as long as staffs. Some are round and dark and heavy, and some are light and white and crunchy. And of course, there are flaky croissants and a tempting array of sweet pastries.

A favorite thing to do is ride our bikes into Lambesc in the early morning to get fresh warm bread and the Herald Tribune. This round trip takes about twenty-five minutes.

When our friend Anne-Françoise came down from Belgium, we were delighted. We spoke French with her in the mornings and got a lesson from her every day. Anne-Françoise is a teacher of French whom we met in Louisiana. She made the 500 mile drive with her teenage cousin, Cecile, who spoke no English. But now, Cecile knows a bit of English and our French has improved markedly. Sadly, they have left us, but Anne-Françoise will be sending us lessons by mail. She lives near the famous town of Waterloo, where Napoleon got his comeuppance, and teaches French at an international school.

There are many similarities between French and English, if you look at the written word; the problems begin with pronunciation. The French love vowels. They love stringing a bunch of them together without interference from consonants. They say their vowels differently, also: a, e, i, o, and u, become ah, ay, ee, oh and ooh.

Our great aim in life is to be able to converse with our electrician, Monsieur Aria. He is a small, good-natured man who we run into all the time. He speaks a mile a minute in the local Provençal accent, and we come away with a sense of joy mingled with bewilderment: what did he say? I have made progress since Anne-Françoise's visit, however. I bumped into Monsieur Aria at the boulangerie and actually picked out a few words that I recognized.

Au revoir for now.




Letter IV/October 26, 1994

Ordinary events take on greater significance when you're in a foreign country. Going to the store, buying a newspaper, asking directions — all of these things seem more significant when the people around you speak a different language. For instance, the other day I was taken away by two policemen — "gendarmes" as they are known here in France. 

First of all the dogs set up their usual racket when someone approaches our wrought-iron gate. We have two large dogs — Bernese Mountain dogs — and our Border collie, guarding our gate, and a sign on the gate which says, "Attention: Chien Méchant." In fact the big dogs, Bark and Mario, are far from méchant, but they can make a lot of noise.

Bark is "tres timide" and as soon as a stranger comes inside the gate, he will retire to his kennel. Mario, on the other hand, is overly friendly: he has a habit of coming up behind you, between your legs, so that suddenly you're straddling him like he was a pony. He'll do it to perfect strangers, too. If you get mad at him, he'll roll over on his back and demand to have his tummy rubbed.

The bell started ringing at the gate and the dogs redoubled their efforts to break the sound barrier. I went to the gate with our niece, Alice, who was staying with us at the time. Alice is an eight-year-old red-headed English girl, the daughter of my sister Fiona who lives in London. Two gendarmes were at the gate. They spoke for a while, I went to the gate; they spoke some more. I got into their car with them and off we went.

Meanwhile, back at the chateau, Alice went into the kitchen and announced to Marsha and Fiona: "You're not going to believe this, but Uncle Monty just got taken away by the police!"

The police cars here are quite small, just like most European cars. One of the gendarmes got into the back and I sat in the front with the driver. I hadn't understood what they were talking about back at the gate, but it didn't seem terribly serious. It seemed like they were asking for my help and I wasn't wearing handcuffs or ankle chains.

I did have a couple of horrible thoughts-during our ride — perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity, like in one of those Eric Ambler adventure novels, and I'd be thrown into some squalid French jail (the Chateau d'If?) and forgotten. Weren't you guilty until proven innocent in France? Did they still have the guillotine?

Back in the old days our region of France saw quite a bit of the guillotine. There was the French revolution, of course, and before that, religious persecution; the Catholics persecuted the Huguenots. Or was it the other way around? Back in the 14th century we actually had the Popes move to our region.

The Pope owned a piece of France to the north-east of us, and in 1309 Pope Clement V moved there, to the town of Avignon. It seems that life was too hectic and dangerous in Rome at the time. After Clement came John XXII, the last "John" until the current Pope. From 1309 until 1376, there was a succession of Popes based in Avignon, and they built a great palace on a bluff, high above the River Rhone. There was already a magnificent cathedral there —
Notre Dame-des-Doms,  which was built in the 12th century. After 1376 there were two Popes, one in Avignon and another back in Rome, and each of them excommunicated the other. But the Avignon Popes gave up after a few years.

We drove up to Avignon in August to pick up a young friend of ours at the railway station. The TGV (the very fast train) from Paris stops there, and we took the opportunity to see the sights.

The old town has a wall around it, and within the walls were the most marvelous goings-on. Each summer there is an International Theater Festival in Avignon, and the streets were literally bursting with colorful activities — musicians, jugglers and even stage performances. There were tourists everywhere, especially around the Palace of the Popes, which has magnificent gardens for walking and viewing the river and the famous Pont (Bridge) d'Avignon.

We walked around for hours, bought some bread and cheese and bottled water, and then went back to the station to meet our friend. Actually she is the daughter of a friend from Louisiana and her name is Genia Michaela. She is barely 18, but already a veteran actress. She has played on Broadway with Alan Alda, and she will be seen in a TV movie this fall playing the younger sister of Reba McIntyre. The movie is called, "Is There Life Out There?

Anyway, there was life and I was in it, driving down this narrow back road in France with two gendarmes, not quite understanding what was going on. Until  they stopped the car and pointed to a tree that was leaning precariously onto a telephone line, and then it all became clear! Apparently this land belonged to the chateau, and since we were the caretakers (gardiens) could we do something about the tree before it interrupted the telephone service?

I explained by making power saw sounds and actions, that I had access to the right tools and that I would work on the problem that very day. And although they said they would try to get help (or did they?) they never returned. The fallen tree was the result of one of our big winds — a mistral — and Marsha and I brought the chain saw and cut the offending trunk away from the telephone line.

But, you see, if all this happened in West Winfield, it wouldn't have been nearly so significant. If the State Troopers had come to take me away . . . do they still have the electric chair in New York? 

Au revoir for now.

Letter V/November 16, 1994

Before we left New York for our year in France, we went to see Andy Christensen who teaches French at Mt. Markham High School. He told us about the book, "A Year in Provence," by Peter Mayle, and he lent us the videos that had been made from the book. Apparently he shows the videos to his French classes each year.

Provence is the name of the region of southeastern France where we are now living. It was so called because it was the original province of the Roman Empire. Peter Mayle lived in the mountainous region known as the Luberon, just to the north of us. Our town of Lambesc is mentioned on page 39 of Mayle's book, when he talks about going to a restaurant run by and 80-year-old woman. Unfortunately, that restaurant is closed now because the woman passed away.

Anyway, we have read the book, so we should have been forewarned about the mushrooms. There is quite a lot about the danger of mushrooms — champignons, in French — in the chapter entitled "October." There is the story of three men who died after a supper of "ill-chosen" champignons. They were discovered by neighbors, still sitting at the dining table, paralyzed, their eyes staring wide open.

Our friend Graham, an Englishman who retired to Lambesc, told us he was going out mushroom hunting in October. He said the locals were very secretive about their mushrooms — they'd rather you slept with their wives than tell you where they found their mushrooms, he said. I think he was exaggerating, but we got the message. 

At the beginning of October, the outdoor markets began to display a wide variety of mushrooms. There is always one man there who specializes in edible fungus, but now it seemed all the vegetable stands had one or two varieties: delicate trumpet shapes; chunky looking bruisers of orange and blue; black, odious looking things, and the normal mushrooms, too, like the ones you find at the supermarket.

Back at the chateau we noticed that fungi were sprouting at the damp bases of trees, and one particular brand was quite plentiful. Marsha decided these orange beauties were just like the kind we had seen at market. That evening I walked into the kitchen and there she was, spooning a small bowl of freshly cooked orange mushrooms into her mouth.

"Try some," she said, with a come hither smile. "They're really good."

I'm not quite sure what possessed me to join in this gastronomic experiment, simple stupidity, perhaps, plus the fact that I'm easily led into Marsha's adventures, but before you could say "toadstool," I was loading up a bowl of these tempting morsels, and downing them with relish. (As in "heartiness," not pickle.)

Two hours passed. We were eating popcorn and watching TV when I was overcome by a wave of nausea. The next moment I had my head over the toilet bowl. When I got back from the throwing up I noticed that Marsha was still OK, but within a few minutes she followed suit. We were both sick and we knew it had to be the mushrooms. 

I never thought of death. I remember lying on the bed hoping that at least I might have a hallucination or two when I heard Marsha on the telephone to our Texan friend, Ray, describing the mushrooms as "bright orange." Ray has been living in France several years and might know about these things. The next thing we knew the Fire Brigade ("Pompiers") were at the gate with their ambulance, lights flashing.

By this time Marsha was much sicker than me, with chills and sweats, but she did manage a little joke before we were whisked away to the emergency room at the local hospital.She pulled out a big bag of the offending mushrooms to show the pompiers what we had been into. They selected one to show the doctors at the hospital and told he to make sure and throw the rest away. 

"Oh, no," she said, smiling feebly. "These are for lunch tomorrow."

The pompiers were not amused.

We spent the night on I.V.'s at the hospital and somewhere along the way we were told that these particular champignons were not life-threatening. Once we had purged them from our systems, we would be fine. And we were.

Of course we became the butt of a lot of jokes, and generally the talk of the town. We ran into one person who seemed surprised to see that we were still alive — you know how stories change as they are passed along. My daughter, Justine, arrived for a visit and regaled us with a story of a man who died from eating mushrooms from his own front lawn. She failed to see any humor in our great mushroom caper. 

In closing, I would like to put in a good word for the French medical people. From the pompiers to the hospital nurses and doctors, everyone was marvelous. But the best thing was the bill, less than $100 for both of us. Thank goodness for their national medical plan. Mind you, that is still a pretty expensive bowl of mushrooms.

Au revoir!  



Letter VI/December 21, 1994

The first time we saw Paris, we landed there from New York City in April. We only saw the airport. We transferred directly to a flight to Marseille. The next time we arrived at the Gare de Lyon, a train station on the east side, and went by subway (Metro) to the Gare St. Lazare on the west side.

Seeing Paris from underneath is quite intriguing, especially while running. We were in a heck of a hurry to catch a train to Normandie. I was carrying a suitcase and a guitar; Marsha had a suitcase, a camera, a plastic bag full of miscellaneous foodstuffs and our Border collie, Cammie, on a leash. 

We had to change trains twice in the Metro. Cammie eventually took the lead after she figured out how to get on and off the escalators. She doesn't stop on the escalator and wait til she reaches the top. She keeps plunging onwards, like she was on a regular staircase. That is probably why we made it to our train, which started moving about two seconds before we jumped on!

We saw the Place de la Concorde, the Tuileries and the Louvre by the station signs underground. A string quartet was playing classical music at one of the Metro stations. A man with a violin got on one train and explained that he needed money. Then he started to play. Marsha whispered in my ear that she would gladly pay if he would put the money towards music lessons.

The third time we got to Paris, we stayed the weekend with friends on the Left Bank. The first evening we strolled over to the beautiful Notre Dame cathedral, where Quasimodo used to dangle from the bell ropes. We walked along the banks of the Seine and saw the big tourist barges go by. I was wearing a black beret. Someone  on a barge pointed to us and we concluded they were saying, "Finally, a real Frenchman!"

Next day we visited the Eiffel Tower, which is not a disappointment in reality. It is huge, magnificent and imposing, not to mention, grand. 

We got there about sunset, so it was all decked out in lights. There were thousands of tourists — like us — with cameras and guidebooks, many of them waiting to take the elevator to the top. You can take the stairs part way up; that would be quite a workout. We moved on to the Champs Elysées and then walked down by another part of the Seine. We saw cozy restaurants, secluded parks, apartments built centuries ago, and even a man playing bongos on the river bank.

One evening we played music for a little party of Parisians. They're what you would call "Left Bank intellectuals" working on PhDs in poetry or cinema. It is probably the only time we will sit around discussing the philosophical implications of our latest country songs. We all laughed a lot.

One person was explaining the Eiffel Tower to Marsha. In Frenc h, Eiffel" is pronounced more like E-Fell, with the emphasis on "fell". The tower was built over a hundred years ago and the same man, Gustave E-Fell, also built a couple of  bridges in the USA.

What with the complexities of the French language and the effects of the Calvados brandy, I could see that Marsha was getting confused by an overdose of information. 

"Now, who's this guy who built the tower?" she asks.

"Eiffel," says I, in American. "You know, the Eiffel Tower."

Everyone thought this was terribly funny. You had to be there. Sometimes it is just a lot of fun being surrounded by a lot of people who speak a similar, but different, language. Brings out the "human" in humanity.

We also visited Normandie, which is reminiscent of Upstate New York, but not so hilly. Lots of cows, though. By the way the French word for cow is "vache" and the French phrase for "Holy Cow!" is "Oh, la vache!" Gales of laughter. 

While most of France, including Provence where we live, is famous for grape growing and wine, Normandie is famous for apple products from tarts and pastries to cider (cidre, of course) to hard cider, to harder cider, to the "makes a hole in your stomach" Calvados. Oh, la vache!

Joyeux noel et un bonne année! Merry Christmas and a happy New Year! 






Letter from France VII/ December 21, 1994

This was Marsha’s first Christmas outside the U.S.A.  We got lots of cards and letters from the folks back home, so we didn’t feel forgotten. Archie and Hattie Christian, who live on Babcock Hill Road just near our place, sent a card with a prayer for peace. Bob Crossman, a neighbor, sent a picture of himself and his horse, which reminded us of his daily rides around the countryside.

We got cards from relatives who gathered to carve the turkey without us: Marsha’s mom, Amelia Williams of the Forks; aunt Iva and cousin Debbie Salamacha; Laurie and Gary Strong and their two boys, Christopher and Brett.

We received  a very nice letter from Arlene and Alex Wood of West Winfield. They sent us the music to the stirring gospel song, “One Day at a Time,” so we can have it ready for our return to the States this summer. We look forward to singing in church and reviving our Coffee Houses.

We have been playing lots of music. On Fridays we go to a little bar in Lambesc called Le Penalty, where we jam until the wee hours. Le Penalty is different from most American bars: Michel, the owner, gets up at 5 a.m. to serve coffee and croissants to the early morning workers. Coffee and sandwiches and French bread are sold all day, along with wine, beer and pastis, a regional drink which tastes a little of licorice.

In the warm weather there are outdoor tables and the ice cream freezer is kept busy. Teenagers drink soft drinks and play the video games or the big table soccer game in the back room. Michel is a big soccer fan, hence the name of the bar. He is helped by his wife, Hermine, and their 18-year-old son, Nat.

On Friday night we come in with our guitars and we are usually joined by a couple of other guitarists, like Pierrot, who gets quite vocal at times, bellowing out his own versions of English words to old rock’n’roll songs. “Be Bop a Lula” is a great favorite, probably because most of the words belong to no recognizable language.

Early on we discovered that Michel likes to sing “When the Saints Go Marching In,” so that’s always one of the highlights of the evening. Michel is an adept performer, as is Patrice, a roly-poly fellow who sings “The Penalty Blues.” He makes up most of the verses, which usually describe how his wife is going to kill him when he gets home. Sometimes his wife is in the bar, so we know it’s all in good humor.

We are also accompanied by Eric, a harmonica player and fan of country music. Eric is a freelance pilot who is well over six feet tall and full of fun.
He also speaks good English and teases us about our bad French. One day when he was visiting our house, he noticed a copy of “French in Three Months” in our bathroom.

“How long have you been in France?” he asked, accusingly.

“Eight months,” we replied, and then added, hastily, “But not always in the bathroom.”

Eric’s favorite songs to play on the harmonica are “Country Roads,” “Oh Susannah,” and our own “Take You Home Again.” He came with us to play at an elementary school in the neighboring town of La Roque. We sang folk songs and Christmas songs for the kids, and the hit of the day was “I Know an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly.” The school principal, Hervé Avignon, had arranged an exchange with a school in Shreveport, Louisiana, our old home town, in 1989. 

On Christmas Eve we played at an outdoor festival on the main street (Rue Grande) in Lambesc. We followed the local choir, which sang traditional French carols, most of which were quite recognizable in spite of the language difference. We presented quite a contrasting program, doing popular songs like “Jingle Bell Rock,” “Blue Christmas,” and our own “Cajun Christmas.” There was free hot chocolate and mulled wine; roasted chestnuts to eat, and dancing in the street. It was a truly merry Christmas.

On New Year’s Eve we went to a house party at the Avignon’s in La Roque. Most of the guests were college students, friends of the Avignon’s daughter, Laure. They danced to disco and reggae, but were politely appreciative  (nay, enthusiastic) when we played a set of country music just after midnight. Eric was there with his harmonicas. We left about 2 a.m. but we understand the party kept going all night long.

The big Christmas news story here was the storming of the highjacked Air France jetliner. It had been taken over by Algerian militants in North Africa and was being used in a hostage situation at Marseille Airport. French commandoes successfully raided the aircraft, freed the hostages and arrested the culprits. 

We assume you heard about this very successful antiterrorist operation, but might not have realized that it took place at our local airport. It is a half hour drive to the airport from our chateau. We were there just today as Marsha flew off to Louisiana to spend two weeks with daughter Shelly and her firstborn, Timothy. He is our third grandson as we have two others, Jacob and Christopher, in Arizona. Their parents are Marsha’s son Matt and his wife, Lupita.

Au revoir.

Letter VIII/February 22, 1995

Bonjour. A good part of this letter is about Marsha in Louisiana, which is about as close to France as you can get and still be in the U.S.A. Louisiana was sold by the French to the United States during the Presidency of Thomas Jefferson. Most of you, with the exception of Len Hoyer, wouldn’t actually remember this, but you might recall learning about it in school.

European travel is relatively cheap at this time of year. For about $700, Marsha got a return flight from Marseille to Dallas via Paris and Atlanta. She was picked up by a friend and driven to daughter Shelly’s home in Shreveport, La. She met the new grand baby, Timothy, and was generally treated like a visiting celeb. Her name appeared in the social column of the local daily, and she did a half-hour radio show for a local country station. Played a lot of our recordings.

Shreveport has changed in the two years since we left. Riverboat gambling was introduced last spring; there are three casinos on the Red River, so there is a lot of action in what was, for a while, a sleepy southern city. Feels like Vegas on the Bayou. While she was actually trying her luck one afternoon at the Isle of Capri, somebody won over a million dollars on a slot machine. After you bare in town a week, says Marsha, you find yourself waiting for coins to drop after you put a quarter into a parking meter!

She was visited by her brother Dick Newton and family from San Antonio. Dick’s wife is the former Phyllis Plumley of Leonardsville. Daughter Julianne recently rejoined her parents in Texas and is now studying to be a medical assistant.

Dick retired from the U.S. Air Force last year and opted to stay in Texas. Reminds me of the New Yorker who went to visit his old school friend who had moved to West Texas. They were driving along one of those endless roads on that flat, bleak, brownish-gray prairie when a large vividly colored bird suddenly ran across the road and disappeared into the distance.

“What was that?” asked the startled New Yorker.

“Oh that was a Bird of Paradise,” replied the Texan, smugly.

The New Yorker pondered this for a while and then, gently shaking his head, said, “Boy! He sure is a long way from home.”

Meanwhile, back at the chateau. There are 22 dogs her and when people ask Why? we can only reply, We don’t know. The owners are rich and like to collect things.

We have discovered that rich people do a lot of things that cannot be easily explained by the rest of us. Apart from the dogs, which are quite decorative but hardly ever seen by anyone other than us, there are other mysteries. Like the car.

The car is a 1980 Pontiac Grand Prix. One of the first things the owners (they are Americans) told us about the situation in France was that they like to be “inconspicuous.” They don’t want to draw attention to themselves, their wealth, or their chateau full of antiques. So they drive around (or have us drive around) in a 1980 Pontiac with no muffler or tailpipe and a fake New Jersey license plate. By “fake” I mean it’s a tin facsimile that’s be hand-painted to look like a New Jersey license plate.

The Pontiac is twice the size of any other car on the French roads and very difficult to maneuver down narrow village lanes. If they don’t see us coming, they sure HEAR us. And do they stare! Inconspicuous? You figure it out.

We understand you are having a pretty mild winter in New York. We find this very irritating since we spent the previous two winters there shoveling snow over our heads, and were happy to escape this winter. Anyway, it is nice here, too. Lots of sun, not much cold, and now, in early February, signs of spring. Blossoms on the almond trees and yellow and white flowers blooming here and there.

There has been one very sad note during our time in France. Our dog Cammie died in January. The Vet’s finding was that she ingested a strong poison of some type, likely something local hunters or farmers put out to kill rodents. Anyway, we have had a difficult time with this, as anyone acquainted with us knows, she ws our “right hand man.” We know “life  goes on” and “time will heal,” and we were lucky to have this special being in our lives for six years.

Au revoir.

Letter IX/July 5, 1995

(Editor’ Note: this letter was originally sent on April 17th, 1995. Because there was a general postal strike in France at the time it was never delivered to the West Winfield Star. Monty Brown called and asked if we ever received the letter. We said “no” so he sent us a delayed copy. By the way, Monty and Marsha will be performing in Britain and in Europe in the near future. Monty says there is a good market for their kind of music in that part of the world)

Amelia Williams and Iva Salamacha, Marsha’s mother and aunt, arrived in France for a 12 day visit last month (March.) When they landed in the airport at Marseille, they innocently followed the rest of the passengers towards passport control. We watched the whole thing through a glass barrier. Unfortunately the line they were in was for European Union passports only, so they were eventually rerouted to another line.

This next line was stocked with passengers who had obviously got off a plane from North Africa. The French are very careful about planes from North Africa at the moment, having gone through a hijacking scenario at this very airport just three months ago. Marseille Airport is well-staffed with armed soldiers.

Anyway, our intrepid travelers finally moved to the head of the line and then into our waiting arms. It had been a long trip — Syracuse to New York City to London and on to the south of France — but all their luggage arrived and they were in generally good humor, although it was 18 hours and many miles from Unadilla Forks.

We installed them in the guest cottage at the chateau. it is a wonderful summer house, all stone and tile, very good at keeping the heat out, not good at keeping it in. The weather has been sunny and mild during the day, but cool, sometimes freezing, at night. Eventually we got the heating under control, but the first couple of nights were chilly, even for New Yorkers.

During the first night there were some strange noises. A regular clanging sound may have been the ghost of some long-dead inhabitant of the 17th century dungeon. Aunt Iva overheard a conversation between a man and a woman — in French, of course. After the first night, the spirit world apparently accepted the presence of our visitors and left them alone. Or was it merely “jet lag?”

Sightseeing was the order of most days. We drove down to the Mediterranean at Cassis, which was once a fishing village but is now a very picturesque tourist town. Amelia ventured towards the waves on the beach and was practically carried off, shoes, stockings and all. Iva was more careful. She took off her shoes and rolled up her pant legs and let the waves swirl around her bared ankles. It’s still way too cold for a swim.

Another day we visited the Palace of the Popes at Avignon, and saw the bridge which is celebrated in the old folk song, “Sour le pot, d’Avignon.” Oddly, the bridge only goes halfway across the River Rhone. Apparently part of it was swept away in a flood a couple of centuries ago.

After Avignon we headed west and came to the Pont du Gard. This is an example of Roman plumbing at its most spectacular. A 160 foot high, three-tiered bridge of stone arches, this aqueduct was built in the year 19 B.C.L. It is still in great condition, too, though it does not carry water anymore. In the guide book is referred to as one of the Wonders of Ancient Times.

We saw markets and churches and various other ancient and modern landmarks of French culture, and on their last full day, we took Iva and Amelia to the ruined village of Vernegues. This sightseeing business can get a bit wearisome, as you world travelers know, but you hate to miss things. Vernegues offers a truly panoramic view of the region, from the Luberon mountains to the north, to a glimpse of the sea at the south. An earthquake destroyed the village in 1909.  Walking through the village you get a feeling for what life was like just moments before the apocalyptic event.

We stopped for a snack and then descended the hill to have a look at the 2000 year old temple of Jupiter at the Chateau Bas. We have to admit it was an anticlimax after Vernegues. There are a couple of Corinthian columns still standing, but Amelia but the whole thing into perspective by describing it as “another pile of old stones.” There is just so much history here, visible mementoes from World War II and back to the time before Christ.

We also introduced our guests to many of the friends we have made during our year in Provence. Iva was delighted with the friendliness of the French people and she even started to pick up the language. She has French-Canadian roots, so many words and phrases from childhood started to come back to her. We had a big night at Le Penalty, where we play on Fridays, and we had a “soirée” for a mixture of French, English and Scottish folks who live nearby. 

Things were distinctly quiet around here without Iva and Amelia. We had 12 days of sunshine during their visit, but it rained a few hours after they left, and then the mistral, the big wind, started up. It is just now returning to sun and warmth. By the way, we did get in a few games of pitch, in front of a roaring fire in their stone cottage.

We have heard the sad news of Emily Sexton’s death. She was a warm and positive influence on the life of the region and it will not be the same without her. We were looking forward to seeing her on our return in June. She still lives in our hearts.

Before we return, we will be touring northern France, Belgium, and the British Isles, so our next letter may be from any one of these places.

Au revoir. See you soon.