FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

One dove, Betty (pictured beside Mama), remained in our care until Sunday...when she successfully took flight. Read on for an update on her brother, Rusty, and his trick on local tourists :-) Your edits to this post are helpful, appreciated, and incorporated as soon as possible. Merci.

TODAY'S FRENCH WORD: "s'envoler"

    : to take flight, to fly away, to fly off

SOUND FILE: Click the link to hear Jean-Marc pronounce the French words in today's post. Then scroll down to the vocabulary section to check your French comprehension.

Click  here for the soundfile

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

The baby birds have successfully flown our makeshift coop. Quel soulagement! But eight days into the doves' rescue we were holding our breath after one of the oisillons took off in an erratic flight, landing above the busy street corner at the edge of our lot. 

As trucks shrieked by and hungry seagulls flew overhead our eyes were trained on the teetering tourterelle, Rusty. How he surprised us when he suddenly took flight after his last feeding in the garden (when I filmed this video). And there we thought his sister, Betty, would be first to fly the nest--Betty with the deep cat stratch along her side and giant gash in her back. "Betty is like those who've had a near-death experience," Mom remarked. "She is determined to live life to its fullest!" Betty was the first to jump up onto the box-nest's edge, first to venture out around the garden, her body scabbed, her wing missing too many feathers to fly straight. How she'd survived that bloody attack still amazes us (she went on to fall into the low-lying fountain, where Jackie scooped her right out. Shivering and wet, our little feathered fighter soldiered on). 

Each day we watched the baby doves grow stronger, thanks to regular feedings by Mama and Papa Dove, and my own Mom's loving care. When sibling, Rusty, took off last week, ending up in the flowering Arbre de Judée (a bad omen?), he remained there past sundown, his head tucked into his fluffy chest. That next morning I feared finding him lying stiff in the garden after a cold, rainy night, but there he was on that flimsy perchoir, same pitiful position. I hoped he'd caught a few of those raindrops in his tiny bec (Mother Nature was kind in sending a misty shower and not the pelting rains we've had in the past). 

That afternoon Rusty changed positions on that branch, assuring us all he was not in some kind of coma. And now, by facing our garden vs. facing the busy street, he seemed better off: he would recognize his nursery, below (the grassy area where he and his sister were placed each day of their weeklong rehabilitation). He could also see and recognize his caregivers as we regularly waved our arms and called to him, "Rusty, Rusty, Rusty!" By day three we were dumbstruck over how the tiny creature could survive without food or water (there were no signs of the parents feeding him). Meantime Mama and Papa Dove continued feeding Betty thanks to all the dog croquettes Jules fed them.

But finally, we were elated to discover Mama and Papa feeding Rusty. No wonder he survived the past 3 days. He was being nurtured all along. We even saw him fly from his branch to the telephone pole higher up, beside the tree, where one of his parents would join him for regular feedings.

By Saturday night, Betty was raring to go. Only her flight pattern (on her brief take-offs a meter above ground) was irregular. It was that maimed wing keeping her grounded. Yet she was determined and all but broke out of my hands when I brought her back inside the last two nights. It was sad to have to leave our little wild bird alone for the night, sans frère, in Mom's  bathroom, not a leaf in sight, but when I discovered the toilet seat open I flipped. Betty was set to be released in the morning, but what if she had a freak accident the night before!

"Mom! You must remember to put the lid down!"  Poor Jules was exhausted after 10 sleepless nights, caring for her fiesty new roommate. Leaving Mom's studio that night, I feared a second twist-of-fate. What if the lid was left up accidentally and Betty flew into the toilet bowl?.... But to remind Mom once more to be cautious would be hurtful. Il fallait lacher prise. It was time to let go and have faith. 

The next morning I hurried to Mom's studio, around the side of our house. Jules was getting ready to feed Betty (oh, thank God!) but Mama Dove was waiting in the garden to feed her, too. "Let's go!" I said. "Are you ready?"
"We are ready," Mom replied, answering for herself and Betty.

Out in the garden Mama and Papa were now feeding both siblings, Rusty (who'd returned to his flimsy branch, just the right size for his little feet?) and Betty there on the grass. After mama bird flew off suggestively, Betty surprised us by flying up to the hammock! Only, when she began eyeing the east end of the yard, beyond which 4 neighbor cats live.... Mom asked me to stand guard. "Mom!" I said, "we can't manipulate the situation. We've got to...."

And just as I stood arguing, Betty flew off the hammock and landed on my head!

How good her little scratchy purple feet felt in my scalp! Mom and I exchanged looks of delight along with smiles as big as the flying leap Betty just took.

I slowly walked my passenger to the nearest perch (our tall table, facing the front of the house). Betty hopped off of my head and onto the table where she carefully thought over her next move. Suddenly, she flew up to the rooftop beside our porch, then up again to the highest toit. A perfect choice! From there she could hop onto the gigantic cedar tree with its endless branches.

Mom and I were clapping and whistling in celebration when next Betty disappeared into the dark green network of branches: How would we find her again and if we did, how would be know which bird she was?

Turns out there are several ways to identify a baby collared dove: 1) they haven't yet developed the black with white trim "half collar" around their necks 2) their feathers are dark but will become a light gray after their first molt 3) their distinct gazouillis or baby chirps set them apart from adults.

It's two weeks now since we found those fledglings in the yard. And just yesterday Betty flew back to our garden to peck the ground alongside her ravenous parents. We guessed she’d be in Paris or Miami by now, such is her adventurous character! Rusty is still up in his same tree, amusing us with his antics, such as his finicky eating...

As Mother and son perch high up on the telephone pole (where Russ sometimes ventures), one feeding the other, a shower of large crumbs rains down on the sidewalk below. 

"Mom," I say, elbowing Jules. "You've got to crush those kibbles before feeding them to Mama! Rusty won't accept them that way."
"Honey, I'm doing the best I can," Jules says, rolling her eyes.
"That's true. And those baby birds would never have made it without you."

Mom is visibly touched by the recognition. And with that, we sit back and enjoy the moment. The sun is beginning to set, Betty’s finding her way around the gigantic Cedar tree, and Rusty is spitting out more of his dinner, showering unsuspecting tourists who are returning to their cars after a day at the beach. This is just the happy ending I was hoping for, and more :-)

***

Top photo: Betty, not yet ready to fly, only wishing to. Above: Perched on her box beside the artichokes, waiting for a parent to fly down and feed her again. Smokey is lounging over there on the right.

FRENCH VOCABULARY 

s'envoler = to take flight
le soulagement = relief
un oisillon = baby bird, nestling, fledgling
la tourterelle = collared dove
L'Arbre de Judée = Judas tree
le perchoir =roost
le bec = beak
sans frère = without brother
lâcher prise = to let go
le toit = rooftop
le gazouillis = chirps


Mama and Papa, whom Jules has fed for 3 years. And that is the high table (a former, ailing Palm Tree) from where Betty flew. She landed on the roof, left.

These baby doves were discovered in our garden one week ago. Don't miss the story, below. See any mistakes in today's post? Your edits are helpful and appreciated. Merci d'avance.

TODAY’S FRENCH WORD: un oisillon 

: baby bird, chick

SOUND FILE: Click the link to hear Jean-Marc pronounce the French words in today's post. Then scroll down to the vocabulary section to check your French comprehension.

Click here for the soundfile

EXAMPLE SENTENCE
Vous POUVEZ remettre un oisillon dans son nid. Contrairement à un mythe très répandu, les parents ne sentiront pas votre odeur si vous le touchez (l'odorat des oiseaux n'est en général pas très développé).

You CAN put a baby bird back in its nest. Contrary to a common myth, the parents will not smell you if you touch it (birds' sense of smell is usually not very developed). --intra-science.com

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

A week ago, Thursday, Jean-Marc and Jackie found baby birds in our yard, below the 20ft palm tree. My husband was getting ready to BBQ some salmon when he stepped back and almost crushed something under his shoe: a nestling, with all its feathers, scraggly looking and weak. Moments later our daughter discovered a second oisillon, severely injured and bleeding. There were scrapes all along its side, on the wing, and a deep, large gash on its back from un prédateur? Un chat?

I hurried and got a box, set a towel inside, and ran around the side of the house to Mom's studio. Jules shot into action: examining the doves, she began to wash the wounds of the injured one with water and drops of Bétadine. As she cared for them, Mom kept repeating, “They are big, these babies are big,” giving us all hope the lost ones would make it through their ordeal.

These fledglings were tourterelles turques, or Eurasian collared doves–very common in our neighborhood. Lucky little rescapés! To think their life hinged on a banal and flippant decision: earlier there was a question of cooking our lunch (fish) on the BBQ or in the frying pan. I kept hesitating until, oh let Jean-Marc cook outside--less of a mess in the kitchen! We would never have found the struggling oiselets had JM not gone out to the yard. Surely the cats would have come back in that scenario….

After lunch (the little orphans with us on the bench), Jules disappeared, leaving the helpless birds to Jackie… I didn’t understand why Mom would abandon her doves (we voted Jules as Chief Nurse) until she returned a while later having done a crash course via YouTube on how to care for fallen or injured birds. Apparently we had on hand all supplies needed, including dog croquettes… and the human touch, which Mom said was the most important ingredient. As Jules cradled the injured birdling, my thoughts slipped out, “Mom, haven’t you ever heard you’re not supposed to touch a baby bird? The parents will reject it!”

Jules wasted no time arguing. Tearing up her favorite wool nightshirt, she swaddled each chick. Emmitouflés, snug and warm they were carefully fed "un velouté de croquettes" (enough to nourish and hydrate them) before being placed near the heater in Mom’s tiny salle-de-bain.

I didn’t think the injured one would make it through the night, but early the next day I found Mom awake, feeding one of the nestlings, who now had a name: "Betty." I knew right away the other was "Rusty," after Mom’s dear, departed brother.

We took Rusty and Betty outside to the “nursery” (the center of our garden, beside the weeping pepper tree). There on a carpet of delicate white flowers we set the baby birds. The sun and fresh air began to dry Betty’s wounds. If it wasn’t amazing enough to see them alive Day Two, Day Three presented a miracle when a couple of doves landed beside the box and began feeding the baby birds!

It was no other than Mama and Papa, a pair of doves Jules befriended 3 years ago. So tame, they feed right out of Jules' hands and have landed on her head and shoulders dozens of times. Here they were, taking turns feeding Rusty and Betty. But were these fallen chicks their offspring? I didn't think so, but Jules insisted they were!

I noticed the parents opening wide their beaks for the babies to reach in and feed (I always thought it was the other way around, with the mama putting the food into the baby's beak).  "This is good!" I said to Mom, happy she would have relief from the regular day/night feedings. 

"And the good news is I don’t have to teach them to fly!" Mom smiled. Sacré Jules. I could just see her flapping her wings!

They next days were a treasure, with our family gathered in the garden for the 3 or so daily feedings, in which Mama and Papa flew in to nourish the babies, who began trembling each time they were ready to eat (see video below). If it was awesome to watch the feeding you should have seen these fierce protectors dive bomb any bird that came near our yard (parts of which are now covered in feathers). They even chased the cats away!

Sacré Mama and Papa. I never did understand why Mom named the doves this way (always wished she'd come up with something zippier--Suzette and Fritz, for example. But now I see it clearly. Mama and Papa have come into their names.

This morning I went to get Rusty and Betty from Mom's, to put them out in the "nursery." Mama and Papa flew in immediately and began feeding their kids. Jackie and I sat chatting on the edge of the little pond/fountain, Smokey beside us, as usual. (Mama and Papa practically walk over his paws to get to where they're going and the baby doves find it normal to have a giant golden retriever looking over them.) This morning was one of the loveliest and when it came time to put the baby birds back into the box.... Rusty flew up to a branch!

I ran to get Mom, who hurried out. Jules's reflex was to get Rusty down off that branch (a rainstorm was coming in...) but as she approached the parents flew in and Rusty took off in a spectacular arc over our yard landing in the tree on the corner of our lot (above the busy crossroads in our neighborhood). He's been there now 8 hours, his parents looking on from the telephone pole beside the tree. 

Should we get a ladder? Toss a ball near the branch? Will he survive the night? He must be getting cold. What will happen to little Rusty? The overall feeling (beside helplessness) is to leave the parents to take over from here on. But why aren't the stealth dive bombers moving him along, steering their young one back to the nest? 

Please send good wishes Rusty's way. Meantime Betty is back with Mom. Ever a fighter with those battle scars, she's ready to fly too. But with the rain coming in we want to keep her dry and warm a little while longer.

I worry about Jules as much as the nestlings. She's put her everything into nursing them back to life, and she didn't get to say goodbye to one of the little ragamuffins, as she called them. I want this story to have a happy ending for the birds and for my Mom, but will have to stop here and cross fingers. Bonne chance, Rusty and à demain, j'éspère.

Click the arrow in the screen below to start the video, or view directly on my Instagram

FRENCH VOCABULARY 

un oisillon = chick, baby bird
un petit oiseau baby bird
tomber = to fall
blessé = hurt, injured
le prédateur = predator
le chat = cat
le nid = nest
la Bétadine = Povidone-iodine, a popular antiseptic 
la tourterelle = dove, see "lovebirds" in French
l'orphelin, l'orpheline = orphan
un (une) rescapé(e) = survivor
un oiselet = baby bird, chick
la croquette = dog biscuit, kibble, dry food
emmitoufler = to wrap up warmly, to swaddle
un velouté de croquettes = cream of kibble soup
la salle de bain = bathroom
sautiller = to bounce, jump
voler = to fly
soigner = to care for
à demain, j'éspère = see you tomorrow, I hope

The blossoming tree where Rusty landed. See him camouflaged there in the center? 

Alice Cooper crashed at our place over the weekend. Read on...

heurter (euhr tay) verb

    : to bang into, to knock against, to run into

heurter à la porte = to knock on the door
un heurtoir = a door-knocker

Audio File: listen to our daughter, Jackie, pronounce these French words: Download MP3 or Wav file

Le petit oiseau a heurté la fenêtre. 
The little bird crashed into the windowpane.

A Day in a French Life... by Kristin Espinasse

Over The Rainbow, Bluebirds Fly

The other night I noticed our golden retriever standing very still... nose-to-nose with wild creature.

"Smokey!" I shouted, in time for our dog to run into the house, only, the little creature remained....

Slowly, I approached the motionless visitor, getting close enough to identify it. Un petit oiseau... From the way the little bird stood perfectly still, it was clear it had been through some sort of trauma. 

A collision? I looked up to the window above the front door, then back down to the bird. Meantime, Little Blue Feathers stood staring at the wall. 

"Ça fait de la peine! It's heartbreaking," my friend Pascale sympathized, from the wooden deck beyond. She returned to her telephone conversation with her daughter, the subject now being "Comment aider un oiseau blessé?" or "How to help an injured bird?"

Lying on the ground beside the little sparrow, I noticed its dashing plumage: navy blue feathers which contrasted with the lighter blue and brown hues of its covering. How exquisite its design!  I resisted the urge to photograph the beautiful bird. Reason whispered into my ear, saying: All creatures are owed dignity in suffering.   

Surely the creature was suffering? Eye to eye with the bird, mindful not to touch it, I studied its behavior. My head resting on the cement porch, I studied the bird's beak, which opened and closed automatically. Open, close, open, close... Not a peep! It would seem Little Blue Feathers had seen a ghost... or a giant monster which, come to think of it, from the bird's perspective, must be what the giant, worried eye beside it looked like. I blinked. The bird blinked. "N'aie pas peur, petit oiseau. Don't be afraid, little bird."

I scooted back a bit, and studied the overall picture. No blood, no crooked, might-be-broken wings. Just a perfectly beautiful, if stunned, bird.

Now what to do? "Don't touch it!" Pascale suggested, transferring a message from her 13-year-old daughter, Alice.

I went in search of a small branch. "Qu'est-ce que tu fais?" Pascale wanted to know.

"I'm going to coax the bird onto this branch, sans le toucher!... then I'll... well, I'll...." (Well then what would I do?)

Pascale looked doubtful. Meantime, the sun set. I resisted the urge to set a basket over the bird, to protect it from predators. It seemed the best thing to do was not to tamper with Mother Nature (perhaps the bird, if left free, would fly off in time? under a basket it would not...). I trusted that our dogs had left enough of their scent to ward off any cats and, with that, we left the poor creature on its own beneath the darkening sky... into which the winged bats flew out to spy....

That night I said a Thy Will Be Done prayer and the next morning, on waking, I said another before opening the window shutters and looking down at the front patio.

No bird... It must have flown off. Could it be?!

I ran downstairs but my heart sank on opening the front door and seeing the little stranded sparrow... which had managed to move forward during the night, finding shelter between the chipped flower pot and the old Sicilian chair.

I knelt down, level with the little bird, and noticed its feathers were all puffed up. I hoped this wasn't a sign of distress!

And just when I thought my heart could not handle the worry of it all, I gave up and decided to trust. That is when the miracle happened: the little bird flew up... and into the tree just behind me!

I swirled around, amazed. Looking up into the mulberry tree, I found Little Blue Feathers looking back down at me! Well there you are! I thought. There you are!!!

After our silent, grateful bird-to-human exchange, le petit oiseau turned and hopped from branch to branch. Higher, and higher, and higher... in step with my thankful heart. 

***

Post note: I named the little bird "Alice", after Pascale's daughter, who had cared so much about the bird's outcome. Only, I had a doubt as to whether the bird might be a male... in which case, Alice would seem to work, too... (for in my home state of Arizona, we have a famous man who goes by "Alice". For this, our feathered surviver will be called, for the records, "Alice Cooper" (and hereafter, affectionately known as Alice (Ah leece).

Le Coin Commentaires
Join us now in the community corner. Respond to today's story or share one of your own. Corrections in English and in French welcome. Click here to leave a message. 

P.S.: Little did I know, when dragging that chair back from Etna last summer, that its most noble incarnation to date would be that of sauvetrice, or héroïne...

French Vocabulary

un petit oiseau = a little bird

ça fait de la peine = it's heartbreaking

comment aider un oiseau blessé = how to help an injured bird?

n'aie pas peur = don't be afraid

qu'est-ce que tu fais = what are you doing.

sans le toucher = without touching it

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French Dirt: The Story of a Garden in the South of France

Garden update: Voici, here is my first attempt at lasagna gardening. I am doing things backwards (having gotten a late start). The idea is to build up layers of plant material that will eventually break down and amend the soil. It is also an effective way to control weeds! Suzanne, if you are reading, I will be trying to get my hands on some of that straw... meantime, I am collecting tiny twigs and building them up around the tomato plants. A suivre... to be continued...

I need mulch!!! The old vine stalks are only there to hold down the cardboard... I need to find a lot of tiny twigs -- plenty of them around here. Now to get out and hunt for them! Any other mulch suggestions? Stuff to be found around one's garden? I hear one can even grow her own straw. Pourquoi pas?

Along the steep zigzagging path to the sea in Sicily, we stopped to peer in to this tiny chapel. The doors were locked but we stole glances all the same.
. 

    : dove

A Day in a French Life... by Kristin Espinasse

 (Continued from the previous story: "Switch-back")

On New Year's Day I was walking along a steep and slippery path to the sea, one very much like life itself: get past the obstacles--both real and perceived--and cross the finish line in victory! You might wonder just what reward awaits on the other side of the broken ribbon... but, consider: Life is not a race and the prize may just lie in the act of taking it all in stride, at a peaceful pace.  

Currently I strode, in panic mode, behind my husband of 16 years. I wanted serenity and I knew, by instinct, that Peace is what happens when you give in and quit fighting life's current. For the first ten years in France, I'd swum against the stream, it is only recently... since following my husband's dream... that I've begun to float. 

"Ça va Mon Amour?" Everything okay, Love? There were two ways to answer the question; similarly, there are two ways to face the new year: by caving in (to fear) or by venturing out (by faith).

I ventured a "Tout va bien!" and, voilà, we swiftly rounded an uncertain switchback, and landed on the seashore. 

As soon as my husband's feet hit sea level, he was off! Scrambling over the giant rocks beneath the seawall to kiss the salty waters beyond (in the end, he opted for a splash-on-the-face "bath" and not full immersion!).

I was still standing in the road when a foot-dragging dog limped past me. The dog seemed to live in the modest house at the back of the parking lot, which faced the sea. My eyes followed the crippled creature to an empty, industrial lot, farther on where thousands of birds were gathering.

Amid the commotion, a figure began to appear from within the frenzy of feathers. It was a man! The man, of a certain age, was holding a 20 liter bucket in each hand, the source of so much excitement on the part of the birds.

I followed in the dog's tracks... drawn to the stranger's simple act of charity. Why would a man lug such a heavy burden, then stand still as an altar... only to risk being capsized by a hungry flock of seed thieves?

The answer was written on the stranger's face: for the joy in giving!

I leave you with photos of "Antonio" and his dog "Lupo". And who said there is no prize at the finish line? I do believe this man and his dog and "their" birds of peace were the reward for following the path of life, for trying--one step forward, two back... to take fears and doubts in stride.

 Le Coin Commentaires / Comments Corner
Corrections and comments are most welcome. Click here to leave a message.

 

Audio File: Listen to Jean-Marc pronounce these French words: 
Click to Download the MP3 file

L'homme était en train de nourrir les colombes.
The man was feeding the doves. 

Please help me to resolve a technical issue by trying out the audio feature, above, and then giving feedback on the following question (those reading via email may need to click over to the blog to see the question and to vote)? To comment on this question, thanks for using the comments box (click here).

Look closely and you will see the man in the photo, above...

I thought they were pigeons... but Antonio pointed out the colombes....

Yes -- doves!

Sweet Lupo...

What a lovely man and dog -- and a flock of fans to prove it!

Do you have a minute to read the story "Tourterelle" or "turtledove": it's short--under 200 words... and you'll learn the French word for "lovebird"! Click here.

 Exercises in French Phonics is " a great book for learning French pronunciation", "useful and practical", "high quality material, good value for your money" --Amazon customer reviews. Order a copy here.

Meet Madame Alberte. It's cold out, but inside Madame's nest there's enough warmth for new friends: feathered, furry, and foreign, like me. Come along and see...

mamie (mah-me) noun, feminine

    : granny

A Day in a French Life... by Kristin Espinasse

I was hoping she would talk to me. Chances were, she would, for as I advanced along one of the many ruelles that make up the village of Roquemaure... yes, as I drew closer, so did she.

From her little, lace-lined first-floor window, she caught my eye. The closer I came, the more she leaned out of her fenêtre... until we might have brushed shoulders with each other, as two pedestrians crossing on a cobbled street.

"Bonjour, Madame."
"Bonjour," said she. "What a beautiful day it is!" She declared, and I knew right then and there she was a Glass Half Full type. In fact, it was very cold outside, and my hands took turns warming themselves first in one coat pocket, then in the other. How else could I keep a hand free to photograph the village surrounding me?

I paused to take a picture of the window next to Madame's and watched, surreptitiously, as Mamie studied me.

"May I take your photo?" I asked, transferring my gaze from the somber shutters... to the window with the bright stickers and colorful mamie leaning out.

"Bien sûr! Mais..." (and here, Madame reacted as any modest mamie might) "je ne suis pas très présentable."
"You look lovely," I assured her, while admiring the auburn color of her hair and the little heart pendant hanging on a chain. Madame smiled softly, revealing a single "pearl" just beyond her lips... With only one left, it was indeed precious. Next, she closed her mouth for the photo.

 

When I showed her her portrait she agreed, "Ce n'est pas mal du tout!" said she, as in is that really me?
"May I post your photo? I have a blog..."
"Un grog? You would like a grog?"
"No. A blog... I have an on-line journal and would like to post your photo."
"Ah, bien sûr! Please mention my son, who has a vegetable stand just outside of town... le jardin "Île de Miémar" à Roquemaure!" She added, with a chuckle, "the publicité won't hurt him!"

With that she told me stories of her heroic and helpful son, as any mother might. As she spoke I stole glances inside of her home-sweet-home. There was a chatty parrot, "Paco," to her left  and a floppy-eared rabbit to her right. I longed to see what other furry and feathered friends she had tucked away inside.

Perhaps it wasn't too late to change my story... from a blog... back to "I'd like a grog!"? Mamie could have the warmed rum all for herself and I would sit beside the rabbit and listen, cozily, to Mamie's 73-year history.

***
Comments are appreciated. Thanks for responding to this story--or sharing it with a friend.

French Vocabulary & Audio File:
Listen to my daughter, Jackie, pronounce the following French words Download Wav or MP3

Ma grand-mère française préfère que je l'appelle "Granny" au lieu de "Mamie". Et ma grand-mère américaine préfère que je l'appelle "Grand-mère, au lieu de "Grandma." Elles sont compliquées, les "grandmothers," n'est-ce pas? My French grandmother prefers that I call her "Granny" instead of "Mamie".  And my American grandmother prefers that I call her "Grand-mère" instead of "Grandma". They are complicated, grandmothers, aren't they?

une ruelle (f) = alley(way), lane
la fenêtre (f) = window
la mamie (f) = granny
bien sûr, mais je ne suis pas très présentable = of course, but I am not very presentable
ce n'est pas mal du tout = it's not bad at all
la publicité (f) = advertising

***

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A Day in a Dog's Life... by Smokey Dokey
 
Smokey says: Sometimes we get a bad picture. We mustn't get discouraged. Instead, remember: we all look better in person, especially when we smile!

By the way, these flowers are for you as a reminder: Never mind the bad "posies"—and don't forget to smell the rosies.

lavoir (laah-vwar)noun, masculine

    wash house, washing place

Audio File & Example Sentence
Listen to my daughter's dear friend, Sonia, pronounce these French words:
Download MP3 sound file

On lave son linge sale au lavoir.
We wash our clothes at the (community) wash basin.

Improve your French pronunciation with the Exercises in French phonetics book. Click here. 
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A Day in a French Life...
by Kristin Espinasse

At the old stone lavoir* in Saint-Maurice-sur-Eygues a man is doing the washing.  There is a plastic bucket beside him and box of sugar in his hand. He is sprinkling the white powder over the linge sale,* which drips from the centuries-old stone below. When the laundry begins to froth at the surface, I realize that not sugar--but laundry detergent--is responsible for this sudsy chemical reaction.  Turns out our washer man has recycled the plastic box of sugar into a soap recipient, so as not to carry a much bigger box to the launderette each time.

I study the ancient wash room from across the street, where I have finished a photographic journey around the Provençal village. I am headed back to my car, content with the images I have captured, only, the man at the lavoir is the most precious picture of all! As a rule, I do not point my lens at the locals. It seems intrusive--if not exploitative. However, just as with French grammar, there is an exception to every rule and, in this case friends are that exception.

After all, the man and I had established some sort of rapport* (you might say we were des connaissances*) back at the fountain when first I arrived to the village. Seated on some steps, he had been feeding the birds... and I had been setting out, from the municipal parking lot, to discover the village. 

Locking my car door, I had paused to witness the scene across the way:  the joy on a stranger's face, the happiness that only a dance with Dame Nature* can bring. The dance, in this instance, was no more than the doting relationship between man and wild animal: Monsieur was feeding the pigeons.

How his face lit up with delight, bite after bite, on feeding the feathered friends to his right! When one of the pigeons flew up--to land at the top of the fountain--a friendship was born: that's when I pointed my lens at the pigeon and snapped the photo. Monsieur smiled at me, as if I had photographed a member of his very own family. He pointed to his bag of bird feed (a small sack of rice, premier prix*). I nodded in affirmation. Hunger is hunger, black, white, or feathered, and he who gives to the poor is priceless.

...Priceless as the scene before me of a lone man washing a lone shirt in a lonely French town. Of the many remarkable scenes I had viewed from the other end of a camera lens, none were so picturesque as this. But how to proceed? It occurred to me that I might simply ask Monsieur's permission for his photo.

Permission granted, I watched as Monsieur thoughtfully rearranged the bucket and the box of soap before returning to his chore. I could now see his working hands, as they kneaded and scrubbed, and I now had a better view of the soapy subject:
"Ma chemise,"* Monsieur explained, and his accent was as foreign as my own.

"Je suis marocain,"* the washer man offered.
"And I am American," I offered back.

But what to say next--apart from "do you come here often?" And so it was that I asked the clumsy question:

"Do people actually use these old washbasins?"
"Vous savez,"* Monsieur said simply, unassumingly, "on n'est pas tous les riches."*

I set my costly camera aside... and wanted to crawl under the stone lavoir and hide. I had an urge to become small, petit as the pigeon back at the fountain--and with an appetite as all-consuming as its own: an appetite for amour* and approval from the man sans machine.

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Thank you for your comments & feedback.

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~~~~~~~~~French Vocabulary~~~~~~~~
le lavoir (m) = wash basin; le linge (m) sale = dirty laundry; le rapport (m) = connection, relationship; la connaissance (f) = acquaintance; la Dame Nature (f) = Mother Nature; le premier prix (m) = first (bargain) price; ma chemise (f) = my shirt; je suis marocain = I am Moroccan; vous savez = you know; on n'est pas tous les riches = we are not (all of us) rich; l'amour (m) = love

Book (photo above): Lavoirs: Washhouses of Rural France
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Postnote: Monsieur, sensing my malaise, offered a kind conclusion to our conversation:
"Besides," he said, "Je n'ai pas de femme," I don't have a wife... and not alot of clothes to wash.... Je n'ai pas besoin d'une machine à laver.

How much is that doggy oie in the window? Photo © Kristin Espinasse taken in or near Buisson (Vaucluse)...

Which do you find more charming in the photo above: those curvy curtainettes, those bucolic beads, the patched up window pane, or that oisive oie--or gazing goose--in the window upstairs? Or maybe it's the whimsical frieze above the door? Or simply, shutters? Share your thoughts in the comments box.

Word of the Day:

oie (wah) noun, feminine

    : goose

[from the Latin avica, from avis -- bird]

une oie sauvage = a wild goose
une oie des neiges = a snow goose
faire l'oie = to act silly
une oie blanche = a white goose (also "a naïve, silly girl")
le jeu de l'oie = game of snakes and ladders
le pas de l'oie = goose-step
  avancer au pas de l'oie = to goose-step along

... and this, from the comments box (remerciements to "Dkahane"):
A road intersection in the shape of an X (as opposed to a +) is known as a patte-d'oie. And once we reach a certain age, les pattes-d'oie (crow's feet) start appearing in the corners of our eyes.

Reverse dictionary (English term / French equivalent):
goose pimples / goose bumps = la chair de poule (chicken skin)
silly little goose! = petite dinde! (little turkey)
to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs = tuer la poule aux oeufs d'or

Did you know that the male goose is le jars and the young birds are les oisons. Do you know any other "oie" expressions? Would you like to talk about one that you've seen here or fill us in on a further meaning? Thanks for sharing in the comments box.
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I can't remember which of our holiday dinner guests had suggested goose (was it Alicia or Misha, who had driven up from Les Arcs-sur-Argens via London? Or was it Florence or Olivier, who'd arrived from Collioures via Brussels?). Or maybe the tipster was my do-it-yourself sister-in-law, Cécile, who'd rigged a faulty gas tank to her car's back seat in order to make it here for Christmas... the voyage took forever (driving at 80 km/hour so as not to splash too much...) and, as for a Frenchwoman's fragrance, hers was authentically essence.* Talk about splashed on!

Never mind, it doesn't matter who brought it up, goose that is--goose, not as a main course, rather goose as a force: one for hen-hungry thieves to reckon with! (Did you know some people steal chickens? My neighbor, down the way, tells me it's the gypsies. Toujours les gitans!*)

But back to the dinner table where I, under my husband's influence, was talking about why it would be futile to have chickens what with hen-hungry hounds in the environs... That's when my guest came to the rescue: offering suggestions (including "get a goose!") regarding poule* posterity--this, to my husband's chagrin....

You see, I have been pestering Jean-Marc about chickens ever since he promised them to me, just as soon as we wrapped up the 2007 grape harvest. For the record, we got plenty of fruit from that harvest--but not one friggin' feather! The 2008 harvest flew past, still no chickens.

Nowadays, there's an ongoing joke around my house and anything to do with eggs, feathers, or potential chicken coops triggers it. It goes like this:

(Me) "Oh look! An over-sized wine-barrel. Think that would make a good chicken hut?"
"PEWEL!" Jean-Marc and the kids respond, in thick American accents. "PEWL, elle veuh lay pewel."*

Yes, I still want chickens. Only I haven't yet figured out how to build a simple PEWL EYE YAY* (part of our agreement was that I would have to come up with chicken digs, hence, every playhouse, garden shed, u-haul trailer--anything roughly chicken-hut sized gets me calculating "Would a chicken fit comfortably in there?" I ought to ask my self-sufficient sister-in-law for help, and just build one!)

But all that is beside the point. The point being the cute goose in today's photo and how she might just be the antidote to all this feather fever that I've suffered.

For, while chickens are delightful (see them strutting through the grapevines, en masse) and practical (eggs ever on hand!), they don't, as I am told, throw their wings up in a fury, honking obscenities, when trespassers approach--nor do they frighten gypsies (those known hen heisters).  But take a goose, oh a goose, a silly goose and she'll stand her ground--and stand yours while she's at it. Yes, that's what I need around here: more than a chicken, I need a championner.

French Vocabulary: l'essence (f) = gasoline; toujours les Gitans = It's always the gypsies; une poule (f) = hen; PEWL, elle veuh lay pewel = (Jean-Marc's imitation of American wife pronouncing the French words "Poule, elle veut les poules"; PEWL EYE YAY (pronunciation for poulailler (m) = henhouse

Shopping:
The Snow Goose (my dad sent me this book and I loved it!)

Stumbling over the vines... a swarm of soûlards or drunks. Read on...

étourneau (ay-toor-no) noun, masculine

  : starling, star (bird)
  : scatterbrain, featherbrain, birdbrain (you get the picture)

Les aigles ... volent seul... ce sont les corbeaux, les choucas et les étourneaux qui vont en groupe. Eagles ... fly alone...they are crows, daws, and starlings that flock together. --John Webster

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In books: "The Boy Who Drew Birds." John James Audubon, who was born and raised in France, was sent to America at age 18 to avoid service in Napoleon's army... Read on, here.
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Imagine a vintner's field in wintertime. Row upon row of dark, leafless vines... trunks over which a spray of rust-colored limbs (or so the morning light, reflecting across the unpruned field, would have us think). Now imagine that woody, glowing champ* disintegrating from the "waist" up (this, before your
very eyes)! Watch as the vines seem to lose their combined "heads," if not their minds!

Les étourneaux...
They are called "scatterbrains," tout simplement.* Not the vines, which appear to be losing their heads, but the birds who've alighted, eaten, and are now, once again "altitude bound" -- by the thousands! The visual effect of so many migrators "unmoored" is, if not stunning, sobering.... to the birds at least.

For while the birds themselves aren't scatterbrains, they sometimes act that way after feasting on the fermented fruit which, this time of year, might as well be grape-size "shots" considering the alcohol inside those wrinkled raisins.*

Now this would explain the odd swerving flight pattern that some exhibit--those birds that can't seem to hold a feathered finger to beak while "walking" a straight line (for starlings are known to walk and not hop). Like that, they commonly flunk French breathalizer tests before jamming jail cells from Lille to Paris, all the way down to Marseilles.

A former fêtarde* myself (and still a bit featherbrained from it) I shake my head and cluck my tongue on hearing those birds, beaks-a-begging, try to get out of jail time by pleading with the French cops, swearing that they are merely scatterbrained and not at all soûlard!*

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Update: One of our birds seems to have landed on my friend Ann's Paris bistro table. Can you see its bloodshot eyes and that telling grenache-stained grin?


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References: le champ (m) = field; tout simplement = quite simply; le raisin (m) = grape; fétard(e) = merrymaker, partyer; soûlard(e) = drunkard
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:: Audio File :: 
Listen to Jean-Marc pronounce today's French word and quote:
Etourneau. Les aigles ... volent seul... ce sont les corbeaux, les choucas et les étourneaux qui vont en groupe.
Download etourneau.mp3
Download etourneau.wav

Stocking stuffers and more for your Francophile:

Words in a French Life: Lessons in Love and Language from the South of France
Magnetic Poetry Kids' Magnetic French Kit
This French Bingo version promotes vocabulary enrichment and hones perceptual skills.

Hâte-toi de bien vivre... Make haste to live and consider each day a life... Seneca