The Last Eight Days

Life zoomed by our last full week in Mollans and hasn't broken pace since then. I look back at that final week in our little house from the perspective of life back in the States and a few, fleeting treasures come to mind.

We managed to catch a baptism at our local church. It was sweet, unpretentious and the exact opposite of our experience at le Barroux that I wrote about earlier. When we first bought the house in Mollans,there were enough priests that our church could host one mass each week, on Saturday. Then a priest retired and the village went to one mass every other week. From there it deteriorated to once a month and now, in the five weeks I spent in the village, no mass at all. We used to go from time to time to be part of the community; the priest was friendly and the people watching great. We'd walk along up the cobbled streets just minutes before the service, passing the old folks slowly heading the same way and slip into one of the wooden pews. Our local "church lady" who seems to hold the whole show together,always sang the hymns during the service. She still does but the service is a prayer service--normally held elsewhere--that she organizes and conducts. Makes you think the church just might be missing the boat on the whole women and ordination thing.

In any event, the prayer service this particular Saturday was listed for the church and we thought "Why not?" As one of the village matrons said as we passed her on the hill, "It's a shame to have a church empty." Once inside, we discovered we were also in for a baptism. Since there's no font, they bring out a jam pot--one of the traditional large copper basins used to preserve all the local fruit--polished to brilliance for the occasion. The parents and grandparents were proud and the dad kept gently planting kisses on his small son's head. The baby's name--Valentine.

Sunday was the exploding wine episode I wrote about last. The next day, I finally made it to pizza Monday. While the weather was not much better than the Mondays before, this was my last chance until fall. All the crowd gathered anyway, British and French alike, with the conversation meandering in and out of both languages in a friendly, casual melange that matched the setting--our local Bar du Pont.

Tuesday I made a last trip to the Vaison market, more for nostalgia than need and was delighted to discover that something about the overcast, humid day intensified all the fabulous food aromas. The scent of richness and spice from the the sausages danced a tango in the stiff breeze from the oncoming storm, followed by the sweet smell of ripening fruits. Apricots glowed yellow-orange instead of the sun and it was a sensory treat just to stroll along.

Wednesday we took one last trip to Buis to drop more money into our French bank account and got caught on the way home by two gendarmes standing under an eave in the small village of Pierrelongue. One had a speed gun, one a camera. Supposedly a ticket for miscreants follows in the mail but our good friend Steve has been checking and so far nothing. Perhaps it was too much trouble since I drive on a Minnesota license. One can only hope.

Thursday we invited our French friends from Montelimar for lunch and had a pull-out-all the stops (and the bits and pieces in the fridge) salad plus little souffles for dessert, put together in the lovely pottery cups that yogurt comes in at the supermarket. Then it was washeteria time, running our tiny washing machine in multiple loads and hanging laundry here there and everywhere in an attempt to get it all dry.

Friday, we cooked and cleaned in a glorious fit of domesticity before Gary and Marilyn came for one last meal of lamb stew with market artichokes and olives plus a bottle of lovely Rhone wine from Gary's stash that we cellar for him in between their visits. Marilyn was mostly recovered from her bout with peritonitis--a whole chapter of a story in and of itself. The following morning the two of them were heading to Paris to, as they put it, "eat out a lot" now that Marilyn was free of the diet restrictions imposed by her near-death experience with a burst appendix.

Saturday we packed,cleaning and emptying the refrigerators in anticipation of turning off the electricity the following day and then we headed to Steve and Jo's, our kind British friends, for a good bye dinner served on Jo's lovely Polish stoneware--a relaxed evening of good friends, food and conversation. Then, tucked in our beds one last time, we spent the last night before heading to Avignon on Sunday morning, catching the train for a final treat in Paris prior to flying Stateside.

Next: A birthday bash.