A French Garden Fable


A butterfly in the lavender.


This butterfly intrigues me. She is right side up-she flies in this position which looks strange to me, like she would be top heavy.

5
Further thoughts on butterflies and bees

I continue to be absorbed by the life I see among the lavender and the now past flowering santalina and the rosemary which hasn’t flowered at all so far. I know rosemary can get delicate tiny blue flowers in the spring but ours don’t seem so inclined as of yet.
Watching the butterflies and the bees this morning I was wondering why there haven’t been any fairy tales or fables written about them-at least to my knowledge. There is, of course, the story of the tortoise and the hare. The hare, who should have easily won the race, decided to have some fun and play while the tortoise made his plodding way toward the finish line and finally won due to his perserverance and keeping his eye on the goal. Then there is the story of the grasshopper and the ant. The grasshopper decides to enjoy his summer and plays and has a great summer. The ant works and never plays. He is too busy storing food for the winter. When winter comes, the grasshopper asks for some of that stored food. The ant, being neither a communist or a socialist, says no-the grasshopper should have thought ahead and planned for the winter. I’m thinking adults must have told these stories to get children to work in definite non-children ways. Now most of us as adults have to learn to play again.

A French Garden Fable
My story of the butterfly and the bee is similar to the grasshopper and the ant. The butterfly is a princess, Princess Priscilla, who only gets out of bed when the sun is well up as she was up late at a ball the night before. She doesn’t hurry to the garden but takes her time powdering her nose and deciding which hair style will look the best with her tiara. She then picks out her most beautiful gown in a breathtaking color to wear(and matching shoes) for the day where, flitting and twirling around above the flowers, sometimes exchanging a merry pirouette with a friend, she will look her best. She only stops dancing to sip herbal tea from the cup of a flower, with honey of course, from time to time to quench her thirst and perhaps have a nibble of a lavender cookie. Her only aim in life is to look pretty and enjoy life.
Burt, the business bee, is dressed in a stripped business suit with a tightly tied serious tie around his neck and a shiny bowler hat on his head. If he owned a company it would rival Microsoft, but his work is making honey. The word of the day, every day, for him is work and he is up out of bed and hard at work as soon as the sun comes up. No time to dawdle around doing any dances. “We have to gather nectar to make honey for our hive.” If he stops to do a dance with another bee, it could mean the hive wouldn’t have enough honey for them all. He looks at the butterfly princess with a frown. “What a waste of time,” he thinks. “The next thing you know, they will let those girly butterflies play golf at the country club.” Nothing can tempt him away from the job at hand.
The butterfly has a shorter time on earth than the bee. Maybe this has given her the desire to love life, laugh and to dance because she doesn’t have to worry about surviving the winter.

A Garden in Provence Part 4


There is a little local cemetery a short walk from our house. This is one of the tombstones there.

Hosed in Provence

Don’t you just hate it when you are forced to buy something, something you can’t do without? It seems like businesses all over the world are able to set this up, in the States and in France- it is the same. I’ve read there is built in obselence in many things built now, from cars to appliances. I know I once had a very ancient washing machine that needed some minor repair in the States. I mentioned to the repairman that maybe I should buy a new one but he told me to hang on to it, that it was built to last and could probably go on another twenty years or so. He said that the new washing machines would only last a few years at best. So I kept the old one until I moved to France. It didn’t look pretty but it had trusty innards.
So I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that there was something rather similar here in France. It has to do with hoses, the ones you have to water the yard with. When we first built our house and were just starting to get our yard into shape, I bought Maurice a bright yellow hose for his birthday. Not very romantic or imaginative and it gives some idea of our finances and where our money was going. Not one of the hoses in the store has ends-the things that screw onto the water spigot. Maurice told me that you had to know the size of the spigot first, that there were several sizes. I was used to buying any hose in any store in the States and being able to screw it on to the spigot and water immediately. This is not the case in France, maybe Europe, for all I know.
We had to pick a specific company and decide what sort of connectors we wanted on our hose and then buy something for the spigot, for the hose and, if we wanted to add another hose to the end, yet another connector. I am constantly having to go look for one connector or another. They are all made out of, hopefully, durable plastic and easily snap into place. I don’t know, it just seems strange to me. Its amazing how things come to be in various countries, from electrical wires and plugs, to plumbing to which side of the street cars drive on. I should be more amazed and maybe a little charmed, but I often find myself irritated. Sometimes I miss the comfortableness of America. And, on a final note, our dishwasher, used for a little over one year, has stopped working and we await a repairman.

A Garden in Provence Part 3


I actually have a few of these purple plants growing wild in my yard-thistles, I think.


I love the lavender against the sunflowers. What a great mix of color.

Maurice decided we should have a vegetable garden. I really didn’t want one, although you can’t beat the taste of a tomato right out of the garden. They just take alot of time and energy and they are rather like pets-they can’t be left alone for very long. We did hook up an automatic water system but you never know what you will find after being gone for more than a few days. I also had in mind a much smaller plot than the one Maurice ending up digging. We planted 6 tomato plants, 6 eggplants, and 6 zucchini bushes which came up from seed. From seed we also planted radish, lettuce, carrots, basil and parsley.
I am not a fan of radish as I don’t like that rather hot taste although they can be good eaten in the French way with a little butter and salt. The main reason I planted radishes is because they are so rewarding being the first to germinate and in a very short time, they are ready to eat. The lettuce was quick to come up as well but I don’t like its taste very well-it has that sort of hot, peppery taste that radichio has. I like mild lettuce.
We have lots of green tomatoes after a few weeks, about 6 zucchini that need a little more time, some very small eggplants and the parsely and basil is really doing well.
When I first planted the garden, I arranged it in the way I had read about in an old gardening book with wide planting areas and closely planted or seeded areas leading to more vegetables. Trenches run down on each side. The first thing Mrs. M said was that this was not how it was done in Provence. I did the same thing, basically, in Arizona and Texas, known for their heat, and was fairly sucessful. I am told that you plant the vegetables in the ditches here, close to the water. Well, whatever. I seem to be getting vegetable sto grow but I suppose I will try it the Provencal way next year if I do it again.
We also have 6 new fruit trees-apple, cherry, apricot, peach, pear and fig. We actually got a few small fruit this summer, maybe ten tiny cherries, a dozen small pink apricots and there are two baby apples. I’m not watering as much as I feel the need to, trying to do it more in the Provencal way.

A Garden in Provence part 2


A field near our house with hay all rolled up and ready for consumption by sheep.


These grapes are in a nearby vineyard. I think they stay green when mature. I’m hoping to see more of the harvest this year. I always seem to miss it.

To fight the encrouchment of weeds and the many other plants growing naturally here in Provence, Mrs. M. talked us into planting a type of clover. It seems to be doing fairly well although it looks like it needs some trimming to me with a weed eater. It is getting tall, about one foot or so, and not staying close to the ground as I thought it would. It does seem to be doing the job but, of course, there are still weeds, just not as many as before. There are many dandilions growing to huge proportions if they aren’t pulled up in time. If any piece of wood or root, even the smallest piece, is left under the ground, new plants spring to life from them, the bush growing yellow flowers, the genepie, and a thorny, rose-bush type plant which is probably a mulberry. If they aren’t pulled up when they are small, a pick ax is needed to get the plant up. Down in our lower piece of land, the mulberry is trying in every way it can, to take over. So far the clover has the upper hand, but it is going to be close.
Behind our house is a large expanse of land. On this, Mrs. M. planted a really nice little ground cover with purple flowers. I watered it at first to help it get started but it didn’t seem to last very long. I am hoping it will make a return when the weather gets cooler. As with the grass we have, I don’t want to have something else to water. Maurice seems to have left most of the watering up to me and I finally stopped watering all of it. The grass is looking very brown and the ground cover is totally toasted. I’m just feeling that if it can’t make it on its own, it just won’t make it. The clover, thank God, is established and has taken off.
I am still watering the bushes and trees behind our house and they all seem to be doing very well. I was told that, after a year, as with the lavender and santalina, they won’t need any more watering. I read somewhere that if you overwater things here, that they won’t establish deep roots and when the mistral comes, can even be blown over. Water is very expensive here, so I want everything to be able to survive with as little as possible.

A Garden in Provence


Oh, my aching back!

A Garden in Provence

To tell you the truth, I thought I was through with gardening. I had done it all of my former life with a huge vegetable garden in Arizona and massive landscaping in Texas. I was out there every Autumn and Spring either planting tulip bulbs and pansies or red and white begonias in the flower beds. When I had a house of my own eventually, I had a small garden of flowers but mainly low maintenance bushes, 10 very prolific pecan trees planted by the previous owner, and a lawn I thought too large as I had to mow and water it. Every Autumn I was raking what seemed like tons of leaves and bagging them, gathering pecans, although many neighbors came by to help themselves, and pulling up fledgling pecan trees in the grass.
When I moved to Paris with Maurice, I gave a little sigh of relief. I love gardening, especially the results, but the labor was getting to me. In Paris all I had was two pots of geraniums to water on holders outside two windows. When we started building in Provence, I thought I would keep it all really low maintenance, with lavender plants, maybe a pot or two of flowers, lots of gravel and- a wish of mine- a “tunnel” with wisteria growing up the side to spread over the top giving us shade and a sweet fragrance in the Spring.
Well, life being life-and being married-nothing turned out like I thought it would. I do have quite a bit of gravel but we had to add unexpected plots of elevated and walled areas and some terracing, as the land drops off from our house. Maurice planted grass-sigh- around our pool and we have trees and bushes planted to help block views from neighbors into our yard or just to help the look of our yard. On a hill steeply going down to a further yard, we planted many santalina, rosemary and lavender plants to help hold the dirt in place. What I thought would be low maintenance has not turned out to be the case. The first year we had to water them once a week which did pay off as we now have really luxurious santalina and lavender growing. The rosemary was a little disappointing. I am used to it loving the heat and really doing well in the Southwest, but, so far, it is being outpaced by its neighboring plants.
Mrs. M., our landscaper in the beginning stages of our yard, told Maurice that not only do the lavender need to be trimmed of its flowers at the end of the flowering season, something I did last year-a wonderfully fragrant job-but so do the santalina. I haven’t counted the number of santalina plants as I don’t want to get too depressed, but I’m guessing there are about fifty of them. They have stopped blooming and are now all covered by what were once bright yellow flowers, now darkening into brownish yellow shades. I didn’t trim them last year and they did alright although they did get “holes” in the foliage where I guess the plant got too heavy.
So, every morning, trying to beat the heat, I am out there cutting off the flowers of four or five bushes a day so it doesn’t seem so overwhelming. I try to do most of it sitting down to save my back. I am using ordinary scissors to do the job with no problem. I sit next to the lavender which still attracks many bees hoping they don’t mind me sharing their territory. At the closeup proximity in this little microcosm, I see spiders-I don’t think Provence has any poisonous varieties-grasshoppers-some realy large-and a praying mantis or two. Lots of fuzzy, velvety bees, and, of course, my butterflies come to join me. There aren’t as many as there were when the santalina was covered with fresh flowers, but they still come for the lavender.
So, here I am, back at gardening, which is really a full time job but, other than a sore back and fingers at the end of the day, I have to admit that I am enjoying it.

Carless in France Chapter 10

Chapter Ten
Car-Less In France

Paris is one city where you do not need a car.
My husband and I have one but it stays parked in a garage unless we are going out of town. The public transportation system is so great in Paris that getting around is a breeze. Plus, no one in their right mind would want to drive here. I tried it once and it was so foreign to me – what else? The French don’t get in an orderly line to turn left – they sort of pile into the middle of the road, squeezing as close as they can to each other in order to go screeching across the intersection the moment they get the chance. It was a couple of years before I realized that there weren’t any left turn signals as there are in the States which explains a lot of these driving patterns.
People walk in Paris. You wouldn’t believe how much you walk here. I have finally gotten used to it and often out walk visitors, even young ones. I had a girl in her twenties come to visit me and we walked everywhere. We went to the Eiffel Tower, the Arch de Triumph, down the Champs-Elysées, to the Marais, up the hill to Sacre Coeur, through the Louvre and the Musée D’Orsay. At the end of each day she would collapse on the couch, rising only to drag herself to bed at 9 p.m. What are these young people coming to? It made me realize how much I walked in Paris without a second thought. Even my grandsons, ages three and five, couldn’t do it. We had to purchase umbrella strollers, not an inexpensive thing to get here, so they could go everywhere we wanted to go. They were used to walking from the house to the car, the car to school, and then the opposite at the end of the day. My husband’s grandchildren walk from their home to their school, five or six blocks, every day. They never have any trouble keeping up with the adults.
Needless to say, I am always on the metro or a bus. The metro goes anywhere you want in a very short time. It took me awhile to figure out the system, but I’ve mastered it and find it fast and reasonable. Occasionally, I start reading to pass the time and have looked up as the train pulls away from my station. When this happens it is simply a case of getting off at the next stop, going to the other side and returning to the stop I wanted.
Since being in Paris a short time, especially down in the metro stops, I have been subjected to a wide variety of music, some of it very good, some of it unbelievably horrible. I am on the metro just about every day and have started to see the same people either sitting in one of the connecting halls with their box in front of them for donations, or boarding a train just before the door closes not giving anyone a chance to change cars. The musicians around various metro stops and tunnels actually have to try out to get their places and receive badges making them official. I read that over a thousand people try out for just a little over three hundred places. I am sure the ones boarding the trains haven’t gone through the audition. Apparently, the money is pretty good and you can pick your hours, too.
In the connecting tunnel between metro lines 1 and 4 I usually hear a little band from Peru with some background music playing from a speaker and several native flutes of wood tooting. There is often a large crowd standing around to listen, applauding when they finish a song, then stooping to look at their offering of CD’s. Is it just me, or are these Peruvian musicians in every city? I have heard the same live music in many cities, just recently in San Antonio and not long ago in Prague.
One day I was walking down a tunnel and I heard music that sounded like it was coming from an organ in a church. It echoed majestically through the subway tunnels. The tune was from the Phantom of the Opera and I was surprised when I rounded the corner and the musician turned out to be playing the accordion. It was really rather religious sounding. I wondered if the acoustics of the tunnels added to the sound as when I sing in the shower and think I sound like Celine Dion.
A friend of mine said he was sitting on the metro one day when a man boarded with what is often the instrument of choice, an accordion. He swears that the man must have taken his music lessons by mail, and had only completed the first lesson. It was excruciating to sit there while the “musician” went through the three songs he knew. I often hear the same songs time after time, usually including the quickly recognizable “Besame Mucho,” in Spanish. I assume they think these are the songs people riding the trains want to hear. I have sometimes wondered that if I offered a musician a Euro NOT to play, would I would be successful? This is usually at the end of a hot day sitting on a crowded car with the accordion playing in my ear as I have picked a seat near the door where they enter to play. Sometimes it is entertaining and enjoyable. Sometimes, I can’t wait to get off at the next stop and hurry to slip onto another car.
One day my sister was with me and a man entered without any instrument at all. He stood there with a hand cupped over one ear and began to sing, “It Had To Be You” in English, with only a slight French accent. It was like he was singing to himself as he kept his eyes to the ground, never looking up. My sister, who is a good vocalist herself said, “This guy is really great!” He did sing well. I was really surprised, and I am sure he was as well, when she pulled out a five Euro note and gave it to him. “You have a really great voice,” she told him. He profusely thanked her and stepped out of our car and on to the next one. When the train stopped again, he came back in and stood in front of us and sang another song. I don’t know if he wanted more money or was just happy to be appreciated.
There are many professional sounding musicians in the subways. Along with the accordion sounding like an organ is a lady who plays classical music on a harpsichord that I always enjoy. Sometimes, usually on a weekend night, there is an exotic looking woman singing really great jazz. A father often boards trains carrying a tambourine to accompany his little son who plays the violin. Recently there has been an eight member group of young people playing classical music with violins and cellos. They really sound fabulous. All of this music in the metro really does add to the experience of being in Paris. You might get a man with hand puppets giving a little show behind a curtain that he attaches to the poles in a car, a group of three singing (what else?) “Bessa Me Mucho” with guitar, accordion and trumpet, or just one person with a small sound system playing background and amplifying their singing or clarinet. It is more enjoyable than the men who get on and shout at the top of their lungs over the sound of the metro the story of their lives, usually that they were “just released from prison,” and ask for a little monetary help. I don’t often give money as it would really add up being on the metro daily, but there are moments when the music brings a smile to my face and my foot beats in time to a happy song being played. That’s when I will dig in my wallet and see if I have any spare change.
Sometimes riding the metro can be a challenge. When the temperature soars over ninety degrees, it is akin to being inside an iron box set in the sun. The only relief is the open windows blowing hot air into the car as the metro moves along. A long stop between stations for various reasons can be brutal. And you never know if you are going to sit down on a seat that was recently occupied by someone with a really wet sweaty bottom or grab a handle still moist from the previous metro rider. My sister once kept one hand cupped in the other until she could get to a sink and scrub her hands after this experience.
A crowded train can be really difficult. I’ve been on cars where it was so packed with commuters that I couldn’t lift my hand to scratch my nose. A metro strike or slowdown can add to this experience happening more often. I have stepped into a crowded car and taken my place right by the door thinking no one else can get in but someone always manages to squeeze in just as the doors close and push you back behind them. This can be difficult as it is hard to find a bar or strap to hang on to then and you start hoping the train won’t make any sudden stops sending you into the lap of a total stranger, or causing your foot to mash the foot of the unfortunate person next to you. I’ve had both things happen to me. There is also often some woman getting on the metro with a little shopping cart on wheels. As she boards the crowded train she runs over your foot with her cart. Does she say excuse me? No. She looks at you like you have some nerve putting your foot in the path of her cart.
The bus system is great, too, and you get wonderful views of Paris as the bus rolls along. One day I had just returned from a trip to the Marais and had a poster of an artist I liked rolled up in my hand. I got on the bus at Nation, four stops away from our apartment building. There were only four other people on the bus. As we pulled away I noticed a man standing in the aisle next to me. I wondered why he was standing when almost all of the seats were empty. Then I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. Was he doing what I thought he was doing? I refused to look and kept my gaze fixed firmly outside the bus window. The bus stopped and someone else got on. The man in the aisle moved back to a little standing area. I could tell he had continued his “activity” and was wondering what to do if, when I came to my stop, he was still doing it, and would actually have his “member” out for all to see.
The bus came to my stop. I stood up and turned around and there it was. All of a sudden I was really angry and without even thinking about it, I started bashing him on the head with my rolled-up poster. It made a loud sound rather like a gun shot. I said, “You sicko! You pervert!” like he could understand me. I think I startled him (do the French just pretend nothing has happened?) and he quickly zipped up his pants and turned his back to me. Good thing, too, as kneeing him had entered my mind. Interestingly, the other passengers were looking at ME as if I were the weird one. I looked at the bus driver to see if he was going to do something, but he just sat there. Should I go up and tell him what the pervert was doing? Would he care? And how would I do it without any French? The thought of pantomiming what the man had done kept me from trying.
So I got off the bus and the man got off, too. There was the neighborhood prostitute standing right there and I said, “Why don’t you use a prostitute?” He kept looking at me over his shoulder, maybe expecting another attack and I actually looked around for a rock to throw. As I was walking back to my apartment I realized that I wasn’t upset, I was feeling empowered, a sort of “I Am Woman Hear Me Roar” feeling. I hadn’t been a victim, I had been an activist. I thought maybe that pervert would think twice before trying that on a bus again. Who knew where another English-speaking Avenger might lurk?
I told my husband about what happened that night on the phone as he was out of town. “Why didn’t you call me?” he asked. What could he have done? Ask me to hand the pervert my cell phone so he could tell him off? I handled it but every time I board a bus I do look around and see who’s on board with me. Today I have the poster framed and hanging on my wall. You have to stand close to see the creases. Only I know they are there.