Marjorie Price - A Gift from Brittany: A Memoir of Love and Loss in the French Countryside

T HE VILLAGE DOESNT EXIST ANYMORE. Outwardly it appears the same until you notice the gleaming, prefabricated buildings sprinkled among age-old farmhouses. The villagers arent there, either. No longer do you see them trudging off to fields long before daylight has broken through the mist. The sight of old peasant women in long black skirts, bent over cabbages in their vegetable gardens, has vanished, along with that of peasants clustered around a fence, chattering among themselves in patois, indivisible from their ancient surroundings. Except on postcards for tourists, the sight of women pinning on their stiff lace coifs, their black skirts billowing in the wind, scurrying across a meadow to attend Sunday Mass in a nearby village, is long forgotten. The custom of huddling around a fireplace at one of the farmhouses on dark, wintry nights to keep warm, drink cider, and tell ghost stories to pass the time is no more. A way of life that endured for centuries is gone.

But years ago, when I was young, I found myself there, among them. At first, the village and the people who lived there were unfamiliar and forbidding to me. Then, in time, I grew close to one of themto Jeanneand the village became my world, too.

In an old hand-carved wooden chest, I keep a memento that I have treasured for nearly fifty years. It is a coif, the kind of cap the women used to wear on Sundays or whenever they ventured from their farms and villages. No longer white, tinged with gray from age, it is wrapped in tissue paper and pressed flat like petals of a flower enfolded between pages of a book. It is no ordinary coif; it is a special kind worn only for feasts and weddings. The center is made of netting, and all around is lace, thickly starched yet delicate. As I hold it in my hand, distant memories flood across my mind, memories of love and heartbreak, and of a simple peasant woman dressed in black who transformed my life.

My fingers run along the highs and crevices of the lace, remembering the day she pinned it on me. How vividly the memory of that day sharpens into focus; she is by my side, and the village comes to life again.

F OR A LONG TIME DRIVING BACK to Paris, I stared out of the car window, transfixed by skeletal branches illuminated by our headlights and silhouetted against starless skies. Speeding through the wintry Breton landscape, neither of us spoke. Yves kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. At last, he broke the silence.

Think of it, Midge, seven houses and three hectares. Well own half of a hamlet!

I said nothing, which might have been interpreted as sulking.

Come on, he coaxed. You have to admit for that many houses and all those trees, sixty-seven million francs is an unbelievable bargain.

A bargain? For seven broken-down farmhouses? I cant believe youd even think of buying the place.

Unfazed, he rhapsodized about how sturdy the houses were, how the pinewoods in back spread out for miles, and what a great find it was. Just imagine. Well have our very own forest.

I turned to him. Yves, I implored, have you forgotten? We wanted a cozy farmhouse by the sea where we could paint beautiful pictures. Not an oversized wreck buried off in the woods. This place is so run-down wed spend the next twenty years fixing it up!

Listen, Mijoux, he said. There it was: the name he called me when he was being affectionate, apologetic, or persuasive. With all that space, well both have plenty of room to paint. Besides, he went on, he would build a studio in the woods behind the main house, off by himself and private, the kind he had always wanted. And I could fix up one of the empty buildings as my very own studio.

Which one? I replied icily. Theyre all in ruin.

They just look that way on the outside, chrie. But theyre solid. Look, I know the place is bigger than what we were looking for, but we only need to restore the houses well live in. And next spring, while we wait for the Blevenecs to finish their new farm, well move into the one by the road, and

Next to the cows ? I slammed my fist down on the dashboard so hard the glove compartment sprang open. Absolutely not! I meant it. No one could get me to live in that dismal shack next to the stable that had harbored spiderwebs and rats nests for the past hundred years. No one, not even Yves, could persuade me.

Well fix it up, he said. A muscular arm reached out and drew me to him. The house already has a working fireplace. All we need is a double-burner campers stove for cooking, a mattress on the floor for us, and a bed for Danielle. The Blevenecs youngest is only two years older than she is. Shell have someone to play with. Think how robust shell become, spending summer months away from the city, breathing fresh country air. Youll see, ma chrie. La Salle is just what weve been looking for.