With elections seemingly everywhere this year, we asked our butcher and his wife whom they were voting for in the French presidential run-off.  Mrs. butcher went into a trance-like state and Mr. butcher went into his cooler.  We pressed.  “Oh, no,” she finally said, “we in commerce cannot say whom we support.  That might upset some of our clients.” 

“But we’re Americans.  You can tell us because we can’t vote here.”   She demurred once more.  “Look, we’ll tell you whom we’re going to vote for in our elections.”

No deal.  ”We are business people,” she said proudly.  “We are forbidden to discuss politics in our business place.”  Sort of a private Hatch Act that keeps shops from turning into brawls, I guess.

We shouldn’t have been too surprised.  She is always the most discreet of human beings.  When she saw an article about our book in a regional paper, she waited to mention it until we were the only customers in the store.  “If we get a copy, would you sign it for us?”

When the book was in their hands, it was again a quiet little dance, as she ushered other customers out and then got the book out for our signatures.

Last week we had a chance to prove we had learned our lesson.  She asked if we would be willing to donate a signed copy of the book to the local library of which she has been the treasure for many years.  We agreed.

We packed the book in an opaque bag, and, after we had paid for our purchase, we quietly handed it to her with a “This is for you.”

She smiled the way you smile at children who have cleaned their rooms.  “Our local readers thank you,” she said.

An update on Loue chicken’s 50th anniversary.  All that good stuff they get fed has joined the list of ever-more-expensive food.  The price of grain has risen faster than little green sprouts.  Result?  Those yummy free-range birds have become rara avis on shopping lists thanks to new, higher prices just announced.  Not really the way consumers had planned on celebrating the anniversary. 

But it’s an ill-will and all that….  Higher fuel prices have driven many French shoppers home giving small shop keepers something to celebrate.  Instead of getting in their cars and heading to les grands surfaces or supermarkets on the edge of town, people are walking or biking downtown for their daily baguette and other supplies.   Small towns all over France are rejoicing.

Me, too.

Quiet and calm–two words nearly everybody uses when they ask about country life.  Ha!  New people moved into our village and promptly became city hall regulars complaining about noise.  It seems there was lots of mowing, plowing, hedge-trimming and kids-playing going on.  Even big tactors pulling wagons of mooing cows.  Our mayor, a life-long farmer, was surprised.  It never occured to him that the place was noisy, but dutifully he suggested to the coterie of little boys that they might not yell so much. 

Another mayor also got complaints about noise.  This savvy fellow decided to complain himself and called in the local press. He’d had it with the weekenders who came out from the cities and didn’t understand the countryside.  “Plowing and hauling, that’s what we do,” he said.  “Do they think their food is made in some cotton-lined warehouse?”

You may also remember Pedro, the donkey hauled into court for braying too loudly.  This week he got company–Coco the cock.  He crowed at night keeping a neighbor awake and furious.  The sleepless one resorted to sleeping pills which “ruined her health,” she said.  So, she too, took an animal–and its owner–to court.  The judge forced the owner to pay damages or kill the cock. 

“It’s not my fault,” said Coco’s owner.  “It’s those electric lights.  People shouldn’t use them.  They confuse poor Coco.” 

“You must meet European norms for your septic tank and system,” we were told.  We called in a company which, for several hundred euros and a great deal of digging up our property, brought us up to code.

That was the easy part. 

Sometime later there was a knock on our door.  Outside was a woman wearing an offical jacket of the water company, dark blue slacks and serviceable shoes.  Somehow, with her carefully applied makeup, beautifully tailored shirt and gold jewelry, she managed to look extremely elegant.  “I’m here to check your septic system,” she said, presenting her ID. 

We answered her questions and watched as she diagrammed the path of evacuation.  “All right, let’s look at the tank.”

Out we went.  She lifted a concrete cover off and began poking around with a long stick from her truck.  “You need new filtration charcoal,” she said, pulling out an old net bag full of black stuff.  

Then she moved on to the center cover and lifted it.  “Hmmmm,” she said peering in.  We edged closer.  Inside was thick brown sludge.  We were so embarrassed we didn’t know where to look.  That was certainly more of ourselves than we cared to reveal to anyone.

“You’ll get a report,” she said, and then she was off, still looking unbelievably elegant.

We felt like slugs.  Let’s hope she mails that report.   We couldn’t stand to face her again.