FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

If you are ever in Sainte Cécile, please drop by Feuilles des Vignes and pick up a book.

Rock on, en français, with Mademoiselle K. Her album, "Ça Me Vexe," is available here.

The next word will go out on Monday (due to the pouring of cement floors around here...).

allonger (alon-zhay) verb
  1. to lengthen, make longer; to extend
  2. to stretch (out)
  3. to thin down (sauce), to water down (a drink)

Abréger son souper, c'est allonger sa vie.
To shorten one's supper, is to lengthen one's life.

The original quote, "To lengthen thy life, lessen thy meals," is from Benjamin Franklin's book "Poor Richard's Almanack"
.

Allonger, it is as good a verb as any to represent the ensemble of words in the coming paragraphs, whatever they may be, and to give this anecdotal billet* a needed theme, however glib and on a spree.

Enough dilly-dallying. Our warm-up paragraph has served its purpose. Time now to enter our story, which is already underway as you will soon see by turning your attention over there, to the Cécilien* curb on which tables of books, in French and English (mostly français*) and colorful racks of cartes postales* turn quickly or slowly according to a tourist's whim.

Beyond the books and postcards the scene opens up onto a stone shopfront (just beside the restaurant "Angelus" where we dined on pizza and banana "spleets" a few weeks back). Below a painted enseigne* which reads "Feuilles des Vignes,"* rests a small iron table the color of réglisse* as it melts on the tongue. There, beside the melt-in-your-mouth table, two iron chairs, sweet as their heart-shaped "dos,"* are occupied.

The woman with the black waist-length ponytail is filling out a form that reads dépôt-vente.* The writer seated beside her is wondering whether she will return to collect the money (should her book sell). She has "deposited" books in librairies* before (in Aix, in Lorgues...) only to be seized, she the writer, by
an unfounded phobia of returning to the shop to collect either books or earnings. "This time is different," she tells herself. "Those books were issued from Four Frogs Press.* This book is from a maison d'édition New Yorkaise.*" The writer is not convinced that this last detail has cured her cowardice.

A woman rides up on an old-fashioned bike, wicker panier* hooked to the handlebar. "I don't have any tomatoes for you today, ma belle,*" she apologizes, bending down to kiss the shop owner. "Je vous fais la bise aussi,"* says the woman on wheels, planting three kisses on my cheeks (left, right, left). I feel
like I did back in tenth grade when, new at Chaparral High School, one of the "freaks" (as opposed to "jocks"), who wore a hip-hugging belt with menacing spikes, welcomed me into her tribe (she liked the zigzags ironed into my straight hair. Years later, my muse with the spiked belt--which matched her
rock-n-roll locks--ended up dancing on tables for cash and I, writing on them).

I look over to the bookstore owner, who is coquette in a flowing knee-length skirt, one as whimsical as its motif: great black polka dots on white. "Don't worry about it," she is saying. As the lady-sans-légumes* pedals off, the shop owner informs me that she'll pick up a few tomatoes from her father's
potager,* near the Aigues river. I mention that, coincidentally, my home is near a such a potager. Before long it is understood that the shop owner lives in the house across the field from me.

More customers file past us. A man and his son inquire about "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" only to learn that the last three copies flew out of the store yesterday.

"I should go," I say, swirling the coffee (a café allongé,* I might finally add) in the plastic cup before me. I stand up to leave. Remembering my drop-n-run track record, I am not sure if I will ever see the bookstore owner again.

"Écoutez,"* she replies, solving an unspoken problem. "When these books have sold, I'll stop by your place on my way home and give you your cut."

That settles that. With one great stone kicked out of my path, I can go back to dreaming about books that fly (out of store windows), and to the writing of them. So far I haven't had to dance on tables and, in the meantime, I hope to keep this writing gig.


................................................................................................................
References: un billet (m) = column; Cécilien (Cécilienne) = of Sainte Cécile-Les-Vignes; le français (m) = French; la carte (f) postale = post card; une enseigne (f) = shop sign; Feuilles des Vignes = Vine Leaves (or Vine Paper -- feuille also means "paper"); la réglisse (f) = liquorice; le dos (m) = back; le dépôt-vente (m) = consignment; la librairie (f) = bookshop; Four Frogs Press = a.k.a. Kristin, Jean-Marc, Max, & Jackie Espinasse; la maison (f) d'édition New Yorkais = New York publisher; le panier (m) = basket; ma belle = my pretty one; Je vous fais la bise aussi = I'll kiss you too; sans légumes = without vegetables; le potager (m) = vegetable garden; un café (m) allongé = a "long" (watered down) coffee; écoutez (écouter) = listen

                                                  :: Audio File ::
Listen to Jean-Marc pronounce today's word & quote:
Abréger son souper, c'est allonger sa vie.
MP3 file: Download allonger_mp3.mp3
Wave file: Download allonger_wav.wav

Terms & Expressions:
  allonger le pas = to quicken one's pace
  allonger quelqu'un = to knock somebody flat

There are artistic oeuvres around every French corner at this former flower farm.

"Chasing Matisse: A Year in France Living My Dream," by James Morgan. "A lovely memoir, travelogue and art history...Morgan's passion...might even inspire some readers to follow dreams of their own." --Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. More about the book, here.

oeuvre (uh-vruh) noun, feminine
  1. work
  2. task
  3. deed
  4. ("oeuvre" is also a masculine noun and refers to the complete "works" of an artist; "oeuvre," masculine, is also used in construction lingo such as "second oeuvre" (finishings)

        La vie d'un artiste, c'est son oeuvre.
      The life of an artist is his work. --Jérôme Garcin
.

How to distill thirty-six hours with an artist into one tidy vignette? The task is daunting and I sit here staring at a blank screen as the artist herself must stare at her canvas.

For starters, I could do as the artist would by tossing out convention. Ouf.* Freedom! Next, I might sketch a few initial impressions...add a bold stroke of color, step back from my easel, and tilt my head. Hmmm. I return to my palette, swirl my paintbrush into a puddle of Prussian blue and, in the meantime, off we jump into this anti-essay via a series of scattered thoughts and impressions.

Seated in a wicker chair, a row of bee-spotted lavender beside me, I peer into Tessa Baker's atelier, past the painted green shutters, over the tomette* tiled floor, and spy the English artist who is singing "Suzanne" by Leonard Cohen:

"...And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers..."

...on the easel, a rectangular canvas receives an inspired stroke...in the air the smell of turpentine is thick enough to taste.

Here, on an ancient flower farm where chatty chickens ("Queenie" and "Firelighter") are home on the range, a charcoal cat named Cabas* (kah-ba) warms to me via a purr and a proie.* Oh, là là!

A gray-skied dawn filters into a guestroom window curtained by green vines that hold purple flowers. "Morning glory" indeed.

"Is it a "gift?" I ask my hostess, of the field mouse that Cabas the cat has dropped beside my bed. "Oh, dear. It is!" she apologizes.

In the kitchen I steal past the artist, a stiff souris* in my hand, on my way to its swift burial. "Rigor mortis," Tess shudders, before honoring the maman* in me. "Only a mother could do that," she says of such brazen mouse maneuvering. I puff up with pride as Cabas did when she presented her catch.

On the terrace, shaded by an honorable linden tree, I listen to the eclectic island beat of a bamboo chime. The breakfast table is set with pottery, linen, and pearl-handled spoons. "We'll have napkin rings!" the artist says. "What color would you like?"
"Orange!"
"And I shall have pink!" the artist decides.
The napkin rings slide on, then off, as we settle in to a petit déjeuner* of farm fresh eggs "à la coque"* and buttery "toast fingers," breakfasting with the abandon of giglets at a tea party.

I ask if I might clean the henhouse so as to learn about coop logistics (and to leave my hostess a pocket of free time in which to paint or putter). I wheel the barrel to the poulailler,* hunch down into the hutch, gather the straw and droppings with a shovel. When the shovel becomes chiante,* I give up and use my hands... Pouah!* I soon learn that poules* leave presents, just as purry cats do, when Queenie struts up and lays the third egg of the day in thanks for her fresh "sheets".

This canvas is running out of room and we've yet to sketch the voiturette,* VaVa,* and the vêtements* aisle at Intermarché where the artist's words "It brings out the gypsy in you!" have me twirling round and round in a supermarket skirt. Catching the enthusiasm, the quiet French woman next to us selects a frilly jupe,* ignores the portable dressing room, and joins us twirlers who've given haute couture a haughty hee-haw!

As an artist leaves her canvas, so shall I leave this composition: abstract and incomplete, for the viewer to interpret as s/he pleases.

***

*     *     *
Meet Tess and join her for her fun-filled COOKERY COURSES IN PROVENCE. Visit:
http://www.tessaskitchen.com

.................................French Vocabulary..................................................
References: ouf! = phew!; la tomette (tommette) = type of terracotta tile, usually bright red with a hexagonal shape; le cabas (m) = wicker (or cloth) shopping-bag; la proie (f) = prey; la souris (f) = mouse; la maman (f) = mother; le petit déjeuner (m) = breakfast; (un oeuf) à la coque = soft-boiled egg; le poulailler (m) = henhouse; chiante (chiant) = a damn nuisance; puah! = yuck!; la poule (f) = hen; la voiturette (f) = little car; VaVa = GoGo; le vêtement (m) = article of clothing; la jupe (f) = skirt

     :: Audio Clip ::
Hear French pronunciation: Listen to Jean-Marc recite today's word and quote:
La vie d'un artiste, c'est son oeuvre.
MP3 file: Download oeuvre.mp3
Wave file: Download oeuvre.wav

Terms & Expressions:
  faire oeuvre utile = to do something worthwhile or useful
  mettre quelqu'un à l'oeuvre = to put someone to work
  se mettre à l'oeuvre = to get down to work
  faire de bonnes oeuvres = to do charitable, social, work

Random photo of my friend Tess's chickens. They love to sunbathe & shoot the feather-light breeze in French or English (they are bilingual, after all).

la gueule-de-loup (gul-duh-loo) noun, feminine
  1. wolf's mouth
  2. snapdragon

...les gueules-de-loup roses baîllaient dans les fentes des pierres...
...the rosy snapdragons gaped in the cracks between the stones...
                   --from "Les Misérables" by Victor Hugo
Read it in:
French or English
.

Funny-faced faucets, or robinets, in Brignoles, France.

After 30 years in the computer software industry, Michelle and Paul Caffrey relinquished their careers determined to reinvent themselves. The fifty-something couple sacrificed everything they owned to buy a converted 1906 Dutch barge. Click here for more about their French adventure.

le robinet (ro-bee-nay) noun, masculine
  tap, faucet

La créativité, ça ne s'ouvre pas comme un robinet, il faut l'humeur adéquate. You can't just turn on creativity like a faucet. You have to be in the right mood. --from Bill Watterson's comic book "Calvin and Hobbes"

The dialogue, from which this quote was taken, continues:
  Hobbes: "What kind of mood is that?"
  Calvin: "Last-minute panic."
.

Arriving in Avignon, I notice the colorful wooden péniches* lined up "à la queue leu leu"* along the Rhône river. Jean-Marc and I may be on the scenic route, but we are not in France's windy city to see the pont,* or even the Pope's Palace, we are in Avignon for plumbing purposes. And we are plumb lost.

At a stoplight my husband drives over a concrete lane divider and, presto, we join north-bound traffic. I try not to complain about the roller coaster ride when I can't be of much help with the directions. Before long we are in an industrial zone, pulling into the parking lot of a home improvement store. I reach up to the dashboard and take the contractor's estimate sheet where items are listed and priced--items the plumber will choose for us unless we intervene. Intervening we go...

The sales lady, Corinne, stands two heads above me in her spiked heels and tall hair the ends of which mingle with the plunging neckline of her frilly form-fitting frock. It will be Corinne's job to turn my request for "something simple" into something concrete. She wastes no time.

"Simple," she says, "ça ne veut rien dire."* I appreciate her hiding any impatience that she must feel in assisting clueless clients like me. Bon,* specificity is needed. Did I want modern? Classic?

I notice a "retro" theme in one of the displays. The water taps, with their four-prong handles and porcelain tops, read "chaud" and "froid" and are as charming as the delicate scalloped vasque* beneath them. On display alongside the sink is one of those old-fashioned French toilets where the water tank is located high up above the bowl; to flush the toilet one pulls on a chain. (The French still use the expression " 'tirer' la chasse"* though most modern-day toilets require a push and not a "pull".)

I study the retro toilet. What character! How fitting for a farmhouse. With Jean-Marc's approval, I believe we are about to tick two items off our shopping list. Then we notice the tiny price sticker in the base of the vasque: "778 euros." I take out our estimate sheet to verify our budget for the powder room sink: "120 euros." Chérot.* It must be those scallops.

The toilet with "character" costs 2,200 euros. For amusement's sake, I compare the sticker price with our plumber's estimate: "219 euros, hors taxe."* We skip the retro throne.

When I mention that the retro line doesn't match our current budget, Corinne, with the clack-clack-clack of her high-heels, tactfully whisks us to the recesses of the store where she is no longer uttering a one-syllabled stylistic sales pitch ("chrome," "mode,"* "chic") but using phrases like "bon rapport qualité prix"* terms that suddenly sing to the word-lover (and wallet-watcher) in me.

............................................................................................................
References: la péniche (f) = barge (boat); à la queue leu leu = in single file; le pont (m) (d'Avignon) = famous bridge; ça ne veut rien dire = that doesn't mean a thing; bon = okay; la vasque (f) = basin, bowl; tirer la chasse = to flush the toilet; chérot = pricey; hors taxe = not including tax; la mode (f) = style, fashion; le bon rapport qualité prix = good price/quality ratio

                :: Audio File ::
Here French pronunciation: Robinet: La créativité, ça ne s'ouvre pas comme un robinet, il faut l'humeur adéquate.
MP3 file: Download robinet3.mp3
Wave file: Download robinet3.wav

Carignan and Grenache grapes.

picoter (peeko-tay) verb
  : to tingle, to tickle, to smart, sting
.

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE
Set out to renovate a house with your nervy counterpart while living "on site" and sooner or later sparks will fly. Add outer tension to the internal kind and you've got yourself a mouthwatering recipe for one electrifying pie--so mouthwatering, so electric that you might just spit fire! But first you need a preheated oven in which to bake that pie...

"Don't touch the stove!" Jean-Marc shrieks. Was it me or was he being a little touchy when he said that?

I set down the casserole of milk--forget café "au lait"* (and pie, for that matter. It was only a metaphorical pie anyway). I reach for a vacuum-packed coffee capsule, which I've stored with the others in an old glass candy jar above a miniature armoire. While unscrewing the jar's bakelite lid, I receive another admonition.
"Don't touch the cafetière!"* Jean-Marc barks. "And stay away from the bread machine!" he snaps.

Touchy, touchy, touchy! We've both been a little on edge here at the chantier* but not to the point of putting claims on household items (as in "I'll take the cafetière. You can have the aspirateur"*).

When I hear what can only be described as a French yelp, I look over at Jean-Marc who is poking the bread machine with the tip of his index finger: poke, poke, poke. His forward-backward dancing, which accompanies his poking motion, reminds me of fencing only instead of declaring "Touché!" he yelps once again.

YEOWWW! J'ai reçu le jus!*

Well, he got zapped, something that befalls him often enough. Some are prone to mosquito bites, others are prone to electric shocks (my husband is prone to both).

I unwrap the coffee capsule.
"Don't touch the coffee machine!" Jean-Marc insists. Only now I realize he isn't being touchy, but FEELY. He's just been zapped again!

I touch the coffee machine anyway, braving one jolt for another. Coffee is needed in order to face our "courant"* problem. Lately, every time we touch an appliance we get zapped. The electric shocks range from little zzzt zzzt picotements* to high voltage volumizers which leave our hair standing on end.

I sip bitter black coffee while Jean-Marc continues to check the appliances, taking note of which ones are emitting "jus" as he calls it. I myself have received a few zaps and a few volumizers, but nothing like the châtaigne* that Jean-Marc just got from the bread machine.
"AIEEEE!" He shrieks, this time clapping his hand over his heart.

                              *     *     *

Big-hearted Patrick, our steel-haired electrician with the ponytail, has left his Sunday dinner to make an emergency call at our place. With a hand-held device, he checks our appliances and visits the electrical outlets throughout our house.

"Effectivement..."* he says, mumbling something about the parafoudre,* something about "masse"* and something about "terre".* Apparently a surge protector had been "grilled"--overworked and now defective--after all of its sockets were taken up by high powered masonry machines (drills, electric saws...). This, combined with the recent weather--in particular the sky-whitening foudre* we had recently--had made for one fantastic fuite de courant.* The excess, Patrick explained, was being sent back to the ground or "terre" where we were, horror of horrors, picking it back up as human circuit conductors. Patrick unplugged the faulty unit and the problem was solved.

Reading up on electricity, my face is as white as the electric sky was the other night. While the idea of renovating a historic farmhouse may be charming to some, the reality can be "positively" chilling.

***
(Update May 2019: To return to the memoir The Lost Gardens, click here.)

............................................................................................................
References: le four (m) = stove, oven; le café (m) au lait = coffee with milk; la cafetière (f) = coffee-maker; le chantier (m) = building site; un aspirateur (m) = vacuum; J'ai reçu le jus! = I just got zapped!; le courant (m) = electrical current; le picotement (m) = tingling; la châtaigne (f) = electric
shock (châtaigne also means "chestnut" and to "flanquer une châtaigne" is to punch someone); effectivement = as a matter of fact; le parafoudre (m) = surge protector; la masse (f) = electrical (earth) ground; la terre (f) = earth, ground; la foudre (f) = lightning; une fuite (f) de courant = an electric "leak"

:: Audio File ::
French pronunciation of today's word & quote (compliments of my 12-year-old, Max): "PICOTER. Il ne faut pas lâcher le poisson que l'on a dans la main pour capturer celui qui nous chatouille l'oeil."
MP3 file: Download picoter.mp3
Wave file: Download picoter.wav

My aunt-in-law, Marie-Françoise, weaves a "lavender bottle" at the picnic table.

tresser (tres-ay) verb
  1. to plait, to braid; to twist
  2. to weave, wreathe (basket, garland)

synonyms: natter (to plait, braid), entrelacer (to interlace, intertwine)

Tressons, tressons ces fleurs, hâtons-nous, jeune amie, Les songes et les fleurs demain ne seront plus! Let us weave, let us weave these flowers, let us hurry, young friend, for the dreams and the flowers will be gone tomorrow. --from the book "Irlande: Poésies des Bardes" by D. O'Sullivan
.

                                                                  
"The time to pick the lavender is now, while it is fresh," Marie-Françoise is saying, as I follow her over to the scented allée* where purple flowers mingle with rosemary in one long row, like juilletistes* motoring toward the sea.

"We'll take a poignée* from the very bottom of the bush...you won't even know they're missing!" Following Marie-Françoise's example, I begin snapping up stems from the base of the lavender buissons* which line our driveway. Jean-Marc's aunt has a tour de main* for herb gathering and before long she has collected enough spiked flowers for my braiding lesson. I hand over the half-dozen stems that I've collected for a bouquet that is now 34 flowers strong. I feel my brows lift in confusion when Marie-Françoise tosses one purple beauty out. "Eh, oui!* We need an odd number," she says, apologetically.

We return to the picnic table where my belle-mère* is peeling aubergines.* "I don't have the patience for weaving," my mother-in-law sighs, adjusting the eye-opening Tahitian print pareo that covers her swimsuit. Ah, but she has the patience to peel all those vegetables which she will soon fry in an orderly
fashion: first the aubergines, then the zucchini, then the red and green peppers...she'll even separate the skins from the boiled tomatoes before adding them to the marmite.* I wonder why all the vegetables can't just be fried together? Therein must lie the secret behind the saveur.*

It will soon be no secret how the French tressent* lavender. First, we pluck off the excess foliage along the tiges.* Next, I watch and listen as Marie-Françoise ties a satin ribbon around the neck of the bouquet, just beneath the flower base. I put my finger on the taut satin, wondering how to help. Marie-Françoise knots the ribbon there, then turns the bouquet upside down.

I have only ever weaved beads through my hair, as a child in Arizona, in turquoise, coral, and silver--colors that inspired the native Indians. I liked the coral of Sedona, the blue of Navajo turquoise jewelry, and, of course, the silver in that lining along an eastern cloud that would lead me to France. I had
not yet considered lavender and the fields of Provence, didn't yet know that one flower's essence would match my very own. Meanwhile France was budding within me, there in a mobile home park along the edge of the Mojave desert.

Near the Drôme, far from the desert, Marie-Françoise tells me that what we have here is "lavandin," that lavender is rare. But lavandin smells just as good, so good that trapping its essence is our enterprise of the hour. Marie-Françoise explains that she is about to create "une bouteille de lavande"*--which, mind you, isn't a bouteille at all, but bottle shaped. "More like a jug or 'amphore',*" my aunt-in-law admits.

She will make the "bottle of lavender" by weaving satin ribbon through the bars of the "cage" that she has formed from the lavender stems (the stems having been bent, one by one, back over the bundle of flowers, interning the lavender like so many sweet-scented prisoners).

Fishing out the longest ribbon, pulling it to the top of the cage, Marie-Françoise begins to weave. As she passes the ribbon through the lavender bars or "spokes" she explains that hand-woven lavender bottles have been used from time immemorial to freshen drawers and armoires. Placing a bundle
of lavender in a tiroir* or closet will keep hungry moths and insects at bay. The making of these Provençal pest busters is a tradition chez les soeurs* Espinasse who get together and weave up a lavender storm each summer. "They make great gifts!" my aunt suggests, adding that the woven "bottles" were traditionally given during les fiançailles.*

I notice the relaxed expression on my aunt's face as she weaves. The line of her mouth reflects her smiling eyes: soft, content, free--unlike those sweet-scented prisoners behind the lavender bars.

......................................................................
References: une allée (f) = driveway; le (la) juilletiste (mf) = one who takes a vacation in July; une poignée (f) = handful; le buisson (m) = bush; le tour (m) de main = the knack for something; eh, oui = that's right; la belle-mère (f) = mother-in-law; une aubergine (f) = eggplant; la marmite (f) = cooking pot; la saveur (f) = flavor; tressent (tresser) = to weave; la tige (f) = stem; la bouteille (f) de lavande = lavender bottle; une amphore (f) = ancient jar used to store oil or wine; le tiroir (m) = drawer; chez les soeurs (f) Espinasse = with the Espinasse sisters; les fiançailles (fpl) = engagement, betrothal

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:: Audio File ::
French pronunciation: listen to Jean-Marc pronounce today's word and quote:
Tressons, tressons ces fleurs, hâtons-nous, jeune amie, Les songes et les fleurs demain ne seront plus!MP3 file: Download Tresser.mp3
Wave file: Download Tresser.wav

Lavender: Practical Inspirations for Natural Gifts, Country Crafts and Decorative Displays. "Lavender bottles" are mentioned in the index of this book...

Terms & Expressions:
  tresser des couronnes à quelqu'un = to praise, flatter someone
  tresser un panier = to weave a basket
  tressé = having interlaced fibers

More, in shopping:
Hand sanitizer with Organic Lavender Essential Oil -- naturally cleansing and soothing
In music: Quel Enfer by Niagra
Surrounded by the scents of France: Provence French Linen Water- Fragrant Basil

The Beverly Hillbillies meet the Hexagone... Photo taken in front of our "baraque": a bidet, a bécane, a lot of beton and, beyond, a breathtaking view.

bécane (bay-kan) noun, feminine
  bicycle, bike, machine

"Bécane" is also slang for "motorcycle" and "machine". You can use the noun to designate a computer, a calculator or any machine upon which one works. Oh, the possibilities for employing today's word!

As for today's quote...just between you and moi, "bécane" quotes aren't exactly flooding the reference books that clutter this desk. So how about taking the dreamy quote, below, and exchanging one of its parts? The quote's meaning will stay the same--just replace "machine" with "bécane" for the same effect:

Le dictionnaire est une machine à rêver.
The dictionary is a dream machine. --Roland Barthes
.

                                                          
I was folding sun-dried linens at the picnic table when a man in a casquette* called out to me from the front gate. Next to the terra-cotta tiles, stacked in old wooden crates and waiting to be scraped and scrubbed, I recognized our immediate neighbor, Yann. And when I say "immediate" I mean that if I open one of our north facing windows and toss a stick of frozen butter over to the petite brunette (Yann's wife, Daniele) standing at the front door, she'll be able to catch it fastoche* and eventually make that Tarte Tatin for which she had had an inspiration.

"Bonjour, Yann," I said, dropping a lovelorn sock for which no well-meaning Cupid could find a suitable match. Leaving the laundry, I made my way down the crooked cinder block stairs, past a line of unhinged doors, and along a row of potted grappa tomatoes. Careful not to slip again, I stepped over an unwound hose and offered Yann my right hand only to take it back in time to receive three kisses, one per cheek then back again, which is the local custom (as opposed to two kisses or a handshake).

Next, I apologized for the tractor and farm equipment, including a charrue,* pulvérisateur,* and fouloir*--machines that are facing Yann's woven wire fence which separates our properties. While the equipment is parked on our property, just in front of our cellar, it must be a terrible eyesore for Yann and Daniele whose view from the kitchen window once included the lovely vine horizon beyond. I keep pestering Jean-Marc to move the machines, only he reminds me that our masons' bulldozer, flatbed truck, and tractopelle* are already double- and triple-parked at the other end of the yard. "It's nothing," Yann assured me as we returned to the picnic table where I continued my chore. "We are in this
together!"

What we are "in" together is this circus of living on a chantier.* But the three "rings" at Yann's house are slowly coming down and, looking at our neighbor's neat yard and clean facade with its newly painted shutters, it is hard to imagine any beastly chaos on the other side. I should mention that at one point Yann's house and our own were part of the same homestead. But in the past decade or two the property was divided, sold, then resold when the last two homeowners went either cinglé* (Yann's seller) or sour in marriage (our seller). I hope the work won't get to us like it did the former owners as I don't want to
go bananas or bust. Enough said, or my mom, who reads this journal and is keen on the council of Florence Scovel Shinn,* will remind me that my words are my wand! I should be careful about what I say and think lest it--poof!--spring to reality, like a prince-turned-frog, before my very eyes!

Back now to our story where we were talking about machines, one of which Yann casually referred to as "une bécane".*
"Bécane, you say? I thought a bécane was a bike."
"It is," Yann confirmed. "But you can call just about any man-operated machine a "bécane." For example, you can call a calculator or a computer a bécane."
"Really?" I chirped back, feeling the magic of words begin to stir within me.

And that word magic, like a fairy godmother's wand, transported me...until where once a woman stood folding sun-dried laundry...there was now but a puff of fairy dust. Just like that, in the blink of my neighbor's eye, I had run down those cinder block stairs and up several others--over to my own ever humming bécane in time to deliver to you today's word before it went bust from my memory bank, or slipped, as on a banana peel, to fall from my mind for good. But we won't talk about bananas. No, we won't go there.

.............................................................................................................................
References: la casquette (f) = baseball cap; fastoche = dead easy, a cinch; la charrue (f) = plow (plough); le pulvérisateur (m) = crop duster; le fouloir (m) = grape crusher; le tractopelle (m) = backhoe; le chantier (m) = building site (worth noting that chantier also means "shambles"!); cinglé(e) = screwy, cracked, nuts; Florence Scovel Shinn; une bécane (f) = machine

:: Audio File :: Listen to today's word and quote:
Bécane. Le dictionnaire est une bécane à rêver.
Download becane_mp3.mp3
Download becane_wave.wav

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