MY POETIC COUSIN DESCRIBING HIS LIFE IN TOULOUSE FRANCE. HE IS MY DR ZHIVAGO. Today we took a quiet walk near our home, a loop along the small roads adjacent to our hamlet. The steady rains of winter have stopped for a bit and the fresh air beckons outdoors, a hint of Spring in the air. This is an area of little hills and valleys, of broad uncluttered views and large open skies. During the winter months, the colors are muted, but lovely. The sky, as everywhere, is a constantly changing palette, sometimes clear blue with dancing clouds, but more often silver grey with hues of yellow or pink where the sun passes through. The fields, those that have been freshly turned are a rich raw sienna color, others are darker brown, and those that have been planted display a variety of soft greens. The trees are bare and shimmer against the sky tracing lacelike patterns of warm grey. The landscaped is crisscrossed by narrow, winding roads weaving along at irregular intervals to connect little farms and hamlets dotting the hills. Alongside the roads, hollows have been dug out for drainage. These gullies are filled with water, rushing along on a hurried journey to an unseen destination. The fields on the flat and low-lying areas, unable to absorb any more, hold broad stretches of standing water, shimmering reflections of grey sky giving an illusory, ephemeral impression that this is a region of lakes. The hills are covered by fields, haphazardly arranged in a non-Euclidian patchwork of lozenges and salamanders of every imaginable shape and size. Occasionally, bordering these planted areas, stands of trees have been planted as shelter or windbreak. Conspicuous among the fields are woods that have been left standing, substantial gatherings of tall, clustered trunks and spare branches that break across the horizon and reach into the sky. Such an intermixing of woods and fields is very different from anything I know in agricultural parts of California. Alongside many roads are beautiful alleys of plane trees, stretching across the highways to form tall graceful cathedrals of elegant, arching branches. The smooth, multicolored bark peels and changes throughout the year revealing rich marbled patterns of cream color, dotted with subtle shades of grey, green, yellow and brown. When the sunlight strikes the bark directly it shines with blinding brilliance, reflecting ivory or gold, depending upon the time of day. Walking down the road from our house, on a rise to the left, there is a small empty dwelling that I had not noticed before, concealed as it is by shrubs and growth on the edge of the hill. I learned from Dany that this property belongs to our neighbor Berthe. We walk up the steep path and it is evident that Berthe continues to use the land for gardening--there are potatoes at the moment-- but the house is completely abandoned. The old grey wooden door, in deteriorating condition, is ajar and we quietly enter. It is an old stone house, still intact with an evidently serviceable roof--there are no signs of water leaks. The door yields unto a large space open to the roof, revealing a structure of old beams and rafters. This entry leads to a room with a fireplace, the former kitchen, which in turn opens to another room which was a bedroom. There are loose stones for flooring throughout. A wood ladder leads to an upstairs where there are evidently other rooms, but we did not climb the ladder to enter. There are few signs of former inhabitants, only a small wooden cross and a faded photograph on the wall. Walking further we cross a little bridge over a small stream with rushing water. As we continue along an uphill stretch we stop to gather dead and fallen branches for firewood, placing them in piles along the road to be collected later with our car. A short distance further there is a small summit where an intersection leads to a farm off to the left. From this summit, surmounting a distant hill, the two tall towers of a small chateau are visible. I know little about the chateau other than that it is inhabited and privately owned. In conversation with our neighbors I learned that during the war it had been used by the German army for a residence and headquarters. Ginette, Francis wife, remembers her own family, also in this region at the time, being compelled to board German soldiers. She was told to be polite and offer them chocolates. Every village in France has a monument to their war dead, with names inscribed along with a tribute to their sacrifice. But in broad perspective the wars of the twentieth century would not have taught any new lessons to this countryside. Our little corner of the world in particular was the setting for two tragic centuries of religious war against the Cathares. The Cathares were a group who asserted that they preserved the authentic teachings of Christ, and who considered the official Church of Rome a Church of wolves. The Catholic Church in its role as guardian of the purity of the religion of love and forgiveness, burned tens of thousands of Cathares at the stake here in the southwest of France during its Crusade. However history is written by the winners. Many would be surprised to learn that what are now considered unshakeable tenets of Christianity were in fact largely questioned a millennium ago. But on our walk today, gently intoxicated by the quiet tranquility of the surroundings, it is difficult to imagine these rolling hills having been a stage for anything other than the peaceful pursuit of simple lives, bearing witness only to the passing seasons. All is silent. The calm and quiet are a truly palpable and soothing presence. The trees and fields rest in winter sleep, cleansed by ample rains. The smells of freshly washed air and soil refresh the spirit, and one is glad to be part of the earth and all its fragile beauty. I SIMPLY DO NOT FIND PROSE WRITTEN WITH SUCH SKILL AND PASSIONS. THAT IS THE REASON I PUBISHED IT. IN MY OPINION IT CAN AND SHOULD BE PUBLISHED COMMERCIALLY.
Posted on: Mon, 10 Mar 2014 08:19:21 +0000
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