When
I was just a boy, my family lived in Europe. My father was in the
U.S. Army, and we were stationed at a number of posts in Germany
during his career. Without exception, the locations were beautiful
and the experience, magical. But I was even luckier than most,
because every summer, we would hop in the car and drive to France to
see my mother’s ma and pa, my French grandparents. My French
family is situated in the quiet, beautiful green hillsides of
Charente, in the southwest, about three hours northeast of Bordeaux.
The county seat is Angouleme, and old Roman fortress-town built on
the tip of the largest hill as far as the eye can see. Normally, as
soon as we would arrive, all the relatives (Aunts, Uncles, Cousins,
friends, whoever was able to take Holiday leave) would form a convoy
and head west-northwest, towards the historic town of La Rochelle and
the picturesque, quaint, authentic (read: unspoiled by tourists)
island of Isle de Re. Our clan had the perfect location chosen
beforehand, and it would take no time at all to have the campers
unloaded, the tents put up, and one the kids, running to the beach
with half his ass still hanging out of his swim trunks (probably me).
We lived like that for three weeks or so, running to the market
every couple of days to buy food to prepare for dinner (and
bread…..bread is essential). I could turn this story into a book,
but let’s leave that for a more appropriate forum. The animals are
comin’, keep yer hat on.
After roughly three weeks of this torture, we were all chocolate
brown and actually thinner from all the running and goofing off on
the sand. We headed back to Angouleme for a few weeks before
departing for Germany. But the fun wasn’t over. Once we had
gathered ourselves, we piled back into the caravan and headed for the
medieval farm house out in the country, called La Chabre. This
rectangular, solid stone structure was owned by dear friends of the
family, and they were pleased to see it being visited every summer.
It must have been fifteenth or sixteenth century at birth, and the
floor consisted of these perfectly cut, giant, I mean GIANT square
rocks. The house was impenetrable and indestructible; it stands to
this day. Electricity had been wired, and a well provided running
water. The beds were a bit of a challenge. The mattresses were
filled with hay, which took some getting used to (“what happens if
an ember from the fireplace reaches my bed? Then you’ll go
mercifully quick.”); thank goodness we brought our own pillows. We
were never without something to do at La Chabre. My Aunt Veronique
and I would go exploring, and my brother and sister and Uncle Michel
would go for a ride in the junked out car that was kept t the
property. They both learned how to drive stick-shift in that
1950-something Peugeot. And there were no people as far as the eye
could see. The tiny village of Mainzac was just a few kilometers
away, so we had access to the small Tabac (corner store) for water,
sodas, milk and BREAD). My mother and grandmother always over-packed
the food so they wouldn’t have to listen to any complaining.
My
grandfather Marcel used the property more than anyone else because he
would occasionally go rabbit hunting. La Chabre was the ideal
location, with a nice warm place to eat and sleep, a large pen for
the Beagles, and nothing but farmland and rabbits waiting to be
slaughtered on the horizon. Yes, I said Beagles. They are brilliant
hunting dogs, and rabbits are at the top of the list. My grandfather
raised Beagles back in Angouleme, in a structure he built for just
such a purpose. When my grandfather would go rabbit-hunting, I
believe he would take seven, maybe eight dogs, although I have no
clue what the official number is for competitions. Although I never
did see my grandfather catch a rabbit, he was dedicated to those
dogs. They were fed, watered, sung to, and exercised. In order to
transport the dogs to La Chabre, my grandfather saved a great deal of
money by building his own dog-carriage-trailer-thing. He sued the
wheels from my brother’s baby stroller, and bits and pieces of
anything else he could find. He would load these barking, loud,
kinda dumb, dogs into this little trailer with two wheels,
double-check the hitch, and we were off. Now I knew better than to
question anything that my grandfather crafted by hand. Just like my
American grandfather, he was an artist with his hands. But even
Michelangelo had a flub up-once or twice, I imagine. One this
particular afternoon, we were leaving la Chabre for the summer, and
already mentally planning the trip back to Germany. We were in two
cars, with my Uncle Patrick driving the gray Renault and my
grandfather driving the white Renault, with everyone split evenly
between the two. We were driving a safe distance behind the white
Renault because it was pulling the homemade ex-pram full of barking,
shitting, peeing, unhappy Beagles. We hit a sharp turn, and the
unthinkable happened. As if it had never been screwed on to begin
with, one of the two wheels of the dog-trailer/ex-pram came flying
off into a ditch. My grandfather realized in a split second that
something had gone wrong and stopped, but the damage had been done
(relax- no injuries). The poor beagles….all eight of them, had
been flung out of the contraption totally against their will, and
onto one side of the road or the other. And there was my
grandfather, trying to catch the dogs, yelling at my grandmother that
somehow this was her fault, and my uncle and father trying to find a
way to put the contraption back together at least until we finished
the five-minutes left of our drive. To this day, I think about the
people who passed us by, who I could see in their cars, quickly
surmising what had occurred, and probably wetting themselves
laughing. The French love a good tragedy, as long as it’s not
happening to them. We finally rounded up all the dogs, who were only
psychologically damaged, thank goodness. We managed to fit all the
dogs into the two cars on top of the already-squeezed occupants, for
the five-minute drive home. Whenever we have a family gathering, we
have to retell that particular story. When I recall each Beagle,
being deposited out of the contraption against its will, I can’t
help but start to giggle to myself all over again.
If
any be a devout lover of God,