“Kids United” uniting kids and the world

This year I got into the Christmas spirit with the pre-adolescent set and their forty-something parents. I joined more than 20,000 of them in the biggest concert hall in Paris, AccorHotel Aréna. We were all there for “the Kids,” “Kids United,” the hottest group in France, at the top of the charts, having recently knocked Céline Dion out of first place.

Who are “the Kids”? In some ways, they are a fluke, a group of children and adolescents, between the ages of 10 and 17, who, at their beginnings a mere two years ago, were chosen to sing together to promote the cause of UNICEF. Contestants on shows such as "France Has Got Talent" and "Voice Kids," they were already used to performing when they were singled out to become representatives of French youth and ambassadors of UNICEF.

In May 2015 they gave their first concert at the Olympia, a Parisian theater where all the greats have sung: Edith Piaf, Jacques Brel, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. At the close of the concert, “the Kids” presented their first check to UNICEF for over 400 thousand dollars.

And the rest is history, a success story that my friend Tiago, 9 years old, has been following every step of the way. Singing “feel-good” songs, most of them unknown in the English-speaking world, “The Kids” have captured the hearts of the French and got millions humming “On écrit sur les murs,” (“We write on the walls/the names of those we love”), a 1989 pop song that became their first big hit.

The day of the concert, one of two Paris appearances in the group’s nationwide 2017 tour, many of us arrived early. We were bubbling with excitement, ready to stand patiently in long lines and undergo a body search before we could enter the hall. Like most parents and chaperones, I’d thought about the dangers of such a gathering, but I was gladly, even gleefully, chaperoning Tiago to what was the biggest music event of my life.

Once inside, we waited, with no sign of “The Kids.” When the group finally burst onto the stage, emerging from mist and beams of colored light, the 20,000 fans went wild. As for Tiago and me, a discrete usher invited us to rise from our last-row seats and follow him. He directed us to the fourth row of the giant hall, a stroke of luck, a miracle of sorts. Suddenly “The Kids” were real.

Now I could see the sweat on Nilusi’s forehead. This graceful 17-year-old whose roots are in Sri Lanka is the oldest member of the group and is about to go solo.

As the singers change positions on the stage, she is soon replaced by Gabriel, 15. He is what the French call “un black,” a French boy with roots in Africa, who spent a part of his childhood in England and is completely bilingual.

Esteban, 17, is proud of his Spanish origins. Erza, 12, has parents who fled their native Kosovo. Even Gloria, the youngest at age 10, has an Italian last name.

They are so close I could almost touch these talented, energetic representatives of UNICEF and France today, were it not for the security guards standing between me and the stage. All around me, children and adults are singing along, and I feel like the only person among the 20,000 who doesn’t know the words to every song.

Good, clean entertainment, I guess you could call it, provided by the very best of multicultural France, every one of “The Kids,” an example of the wealth of origins, backgrounds and races that are vital ingredients in what it means to be French today.

Everybody in the audience loves them, the parents as enthralled as their children—to the point that a little boy falls off the back of a seat into my arms while his mother blithely records the show on her phone. Every child in the hall dreams of someday becoming a “Kid” and, to children and adults alike, “Kids United” conveys the message that “le monde est beau,” the world is beautiful.

Then it’s over and we’re back in the cold, dark night. Outside the hall, there’s a hot trade in posters, selling for 2 euros, as opposed to the official price of ten. Tiago rushes up to a salesmen and whips out a 5-euro bill. No change, he is told. I search in my wallet, find a 2-euro coin, extend my palm and Tiago gets his poster—in the nick of time.

Just as the exchange is taking place, the police break in, confiscating all the posters, but ours. “Cadeau,” the policeman says, as he drags the poster-seller away. A gift, you don’t have to pay.

As for the salesman, I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. He lost his posters and he’s going to lose his profits, and if he happens to be an illegal immigrant, he may lose his foothold in France.

Concerning illegal immigration, President Macron has recently increased police powers, sanctioning random identity checks in hotels and shelters. The goal of his government is to keep new immigrants out and get rid of those who shouldn’t be here. With temperatures hovering around freezing, police have been destroying makeshift tent cities, slashing tents and throwing blankets, mattresses and personal belongings into trash bins.

While running for office, Emmanuel Macron praised the generosity of German Chancellor Angela Merkel, who, in 2015, offered asylum to over one million refugees. France committed to welcoming 30,000. In 2016, there were 85,244 requests for asylum status, of which 26,531 were accepted, according to figures provided by the Ministry of the Interior.

In 2018, President Macron hopes to reduce those numbers, in part by outsourcing the processing of asylum seekers to countries like Niger or Libya, where human trafficking and violence are rife.

A few days before Christmas, “Kids United” celebrated a different, more generous image of France. These vibrant singers proclaim that yes, we can all live together, at least for the duration of the show…

My wish for 2018, a year promising dangerous times, is that we all give it a try.

Circuses in the US and France: Will the show go on?

A week ago I had an experience that may make of me one of the last willing participants in a dying art, the oldest and greatest show on earth. I went to the circus and, thanks to the animals and their trainers, I had a fantastic time.

To tell you the truth, I wasn’t expecting much. The circus had rolled into town a few days before, and I’d already had a chance to observe many of the animals (over 60, many exotic, according to posters all over town). I saw two black pigs, a lot of chickens and geese, some ponies, three Bactrian camels, two llamas, a wildebeest, emus, a yak, a cat and two dogs, freely roaming the grounds.

In the same field, there were two truck trailers, the wooden entrance to the big-top, not yet in place, and one mobile home. Either this was a small operation, or not all the members of the circus had arrived. I walked the grounds, petted the ponies, took photos and pretty much had the menagerie to myself. If I had walked away with a llama or invited one of the dogs to follow me, I’m not sure anyone would have noticed.

Every afternoon a car drove back and forth through the village, announcing weekend show times. Sunday arrived and I set out for the 11 o’clock matinee. I bought my ticket, stood in line, waited. I thought the little clown who peeped from a crack in the tent was busy seating people inside. It took me a while to realize that the small crowd outside—36 in all, I counted—represented the entire audience.

Finally, the clown, dressed in a droopy harlequin costume, folded back a flap of the tent and invited us to file in to the sound of recorded music: Sousa marches, the music of Nino Rota, who composed the soundtrack for “La Strada,” Fellini’s 1954 movie about a small carnival starring Anthony Quinn. Most of us took our seats on bleachers, a few paid double for front-row seats. Everybody, with such a small crowd, had an excellent view of the one-ring show.

A drum roll, the curtains open, three beautiful lions from Kenya and their trainer burst into the cage occupying the entire ring. I’d seen lions represented on the posters around town, but thought they were just a come-on. Now I had them before my very eyes, three surly beasts, growling, showing their teeth, obeying reluctantly. They run, they jump, they mount metal stands, they form a triangle, with one of the lions placing his impressive paws on the backs of his two companions.

The man next to me says under his breath, “Mais il n’est pas gentil avec ses bêtes,” he’s not very nice to his animals. The tamer prods them, and we’re so close we can see the metal point on his prod. He cracks the whip, he withstands the lions’ growls, their outstretched paws trying to strike him. My heart is beating fast, I can see the lions wet with sweat, I can smell them, the smell of wild beasts, I feel fear and I can feel fear around me.

It is a great performance. The small audience applauds wildly. We too are members of a dying breed, an audience overwhelmed by the courage of the man in the cage.

Then it’s over and it’s time for a change of set. The cage must come down. A man I recognize as a local comes out to begin dismantling it. He is soon joined by the lion tamer, who, after his death-defying feat, must work, hands-on, if the show is to continue. Then the ticket seller and the little clown get into the act, all working together to prepare the stage.

The next act is juggling, and the juggler is none other than the lion tamer, brilliantly playing a new role. He is a handsome man, young, a one-man-show from the look of things.

Another change of set, the preparation of a new act, and while this is going on, the little clown and a little fairy entertain us. Shanny and Ethan, the announcer tells us, and this is when it begins to sink in. This circus, “The Shanny and Ethan Seneca Circus,” is a family affair. Mom takes care of tickets, the concession wagon, props, Shanny and Ethan, no more than 6 and 8 years old, seat the guests and entertain us. Teddy, the father, does just about everything else.

From beginning to end, the audience loves it. There are other animal acts, trained horses and llamas, the wildebeest and yaks. When the barnyard animals scurry into the ring, fanning out in two directions, their trainer is none other than Shanny, dressed in a Bo Peep costume, carrying a dressage whip disguised as a staff.

At the show’s end, Teddy Seneca, one-man-show, stands in the center of the ring and reads us a poem about his love of animals and his pride in performing in the greatest show on earth. I’m ready to claim it sent a shiver up everybody’s spine and made some of us misty-eyed.

The year 2017 has not been a good one for circuses with animal acts. It marks the closing of Ringling Bros and Barnum & Bailey Circus after 146 years. New York City and Los Angeles have banned the use of wild animals in all entertainment, private or public. The subject is under debate in Paris and 62 French municipalities have already taken the step.

Many studies show it is impossible to meet the needs of wild animals in captivity; there is also ample proof of their physical and psychological suffering. As recently as November 17th, in the French science magazine Science et Avenir, a panel of veterinarians, philosophers and ethnographers called for the ban of animal acts in France.

This is progress and the show may not go on for Teddy Seneca and family.

Since I was a child in Pottsville, attending performances at the 16th Street field or at Agricultural Park, I have loved the circus, including the animal acts. I suppose it’s the wild beast in me.

Freed from exploitation, wild animals will lead better lives. If we could just bring the same care and attention to our fellow humans, we’d truly make this world a better place.

My Prince has come – and no time too soon!

Someday My Prince Will Come—who doesn’t know those words, that line? In the 1937 Disney movie, Snow White first sang the song, a sweet waltz to lull the seven dwarfs to sleep. The lyrics pack a promise alive still today in the hearts of many little girls and many who are not little anymore.

The song, one of most popular in movie history, also promises a carefree life in a castle and happiness forever, “someday when my dreams come true.” Somehow that song reminds me a lot of politics and I don’t think little girls are the only ones who believe extravagant dreams can come true.

Take the current US president, for example. Back when he was campaigning, he promised to “make America great again.” To do so, he was going to cancel Obama Care, pull out of NATO, ban Muslims from the United States, and build a wall all along the Mexican border. He was also going to “lock up” Hilary and approve “waterboarding” because “torture works.”

To his credit, he said he would elect a pro-Second Amendment judge to the Supreme Court and he did (I wonder what Neil Gorsuch thinks of the recent Las Vegas massacre, the deadliest mass shooting in US history); he also pulled out of the Paris climate control agreement, and has stepped up deportation of illegal immigrants.

As for “making America great again,” I suppose only time will tell. I’m not convinced Americans are going to be any better off at the end of Trump’s four-year term.

In France, our new president Emmanuel Macron calls himself “Jupiter,” King of the gods, who knows just what his subjects—oops, I mean, citizens want. Some Americans compared him to James Bond after viewing a July 2017 video of the French president being lowered from the air (like Jupiter) to the deck of a nuclear submarine. American political commentators see him as a bulwark against the populist politics gaining ground around the world.

While still a candidate, Emmanuel Macron proclaimed, “If anyone believes we are dreamers, rest assured. That’s exactly what we are.” As President, with a majority in Parliament, he is attempting to make his dreams come true, much to the chagrin of large segments of the French population:

Macron’s program includes increased taxes for the middle class and retirees, and decreased taxes for the rich. His labor bill, currently under discussion in Parliament, proposes fewer protections and rights for workers. In general, the new president and his majority hope to create a more technocratic government, and society, where those who know best decide for the rest of us. Apparently, there’s a name for this: “epistocracy,” the “rule of the knowers.”

“Someday when my dreams come true,” sings Snow White. We know she marries the prince and goes to live in the castle. But what happens afterwards? That part of the story was left unwritten, but for lots of girls who grow up to marry their prince, “afterwards” rarely means “happy forever.” In fact, they often wake up to a nightmare.

In his 2016 book Against Democracy, Jason Brennan coined the term “epistocracy.” He imagined a society composed of hobbits, hooligans and Vulcans, and argued not all of them should have the right to vote. Hobbits, according to Brennan, are those uninterested and uninformed about politics; hooligans root for their team, enthusiastically, even violently, but their understanding goes no further than easy slogans. As for the “Vulcans,” they are the ones who know and can decide for the others, but not because they’re morally superior. They’re simply better informed and trained.

A large percentage of millennials may agree with Brennan. Many recent polls in the US, Canada and Australia indicate that only between 30 to 40 percent place their faith firmly in democracy. Many millennials mistrust political leaders and feel elections rarely change anything. They also believe there could be alternatives to democracy.

In another recent book, Democracy for Realists: Why Democratic Elections Do Not Produce Responsive Governments, the authors C. Achen and L. Bartels contend that popular sovereignty may be a concept as questionable as the divine right of kings. As for the American ideal of a government “of the people, by the people, and for the people,” that’s the stuff, they say, of “fairy tales.”

Which brings us back full circle to Snow White, her prince, and mine.

I met him in early September, an unexpected encounter (the best kind) and an awakening because I have been forced to very directly confront myself. My prince is older, already retired, tall, lean, and weighs about 1,000 pounds. He is also Arab, a pureblood Arabian. My prince is a retired racehorse, chestnut brown with a black mane.

I wonder if any readers remember Booie. He used to have stables at the end of North Centre Street in Pottsville and you could often find him and his ponies at block parties. Sometimes he trucked the horses to fairs; at others, he simply led them through the streets of town. When I was near those ponies, I got sick. My face swelled, I couldn’t breathe, and usually I had to go straight home to bed.

Thanks to Prince (that’s my prince’s name), I know I’m not allergic anymore. I’ve also discovered a horse can teach me a lot about myself. I call my riding lessons “horse therapy.” Thanks to Prince, I’m trotting, cantering and even galloping back through my life, coming up against fears, doubts and obstacles that are barriers to inner peace today.

Above all, I am constantly confronted with what I cannot control, an intermediary zone, where Prince and I must learn to communicate and negotiate. My signals are not always clear, nor are his to me, and we often have to start over, finetuning our relationship.

This new experience is personal, but, just like Snow White’s song, it somehow reminds me of politics. With a horse, you get nowhere if you don’t observe and listen, negotiate and compromise, skills all too absent from the political arena today. With Prince, there’s no name-calling or shouting; instead there’s constant give-and-take.

For the moment, I’m thinking and learning, thanks to “my prince.” And I’m not in the world of dreams. My feet are firmly planted in the stirrups of reality.

It’s mushroom-hunting season in Schuylkill County and le Perche

In continental France (as opposed to the French Antilles, battered by tropical storms), autumn arrives as autumn should: bright, blustery days, cool nights, alternating with periods of damp and rain. Perfect weather for mushroom hunting in a region like le Perche, where there are over 1,000 different varieties hidden among the undergrowth of the forests that have given this region its name.

Perche, I learned on the site of the regional park (http://www.parc-naturel-perche.fr/en) comes from an Indo-European root word, perk, which has nothing to do with the English word spelled the same. “Perk” applies to oak trees and is both the root of the Latin word for oak, quercus, and for the region where I have my home.

This time of year, in oak forests all over le Perche, men and women not afraid to get their feet wet are out searching for mushrooms.

At my village café, where I’ve earned the right to stand at the counter with the regulars and pay a round of drinks from time to time, I’ve been told it’s a record year. Why, all you have to do is plop down on the ground (if you’re ready to get the seat of your pants wet), plunge your hands towards the earth, and begin harvesting.

I’ve benefited from this abundance. Just yesterday a village friend gave me a bag of “trompettes de la mort,” trumpets of death—not a very promising name for something you’re supposed to eat. These dull, velvety black mushrooms look like the trumpets angels play to announce the Apocalypse. Their form is also very close to that of a highly toxic South American flower that bears that very name: Angel’s trumpet.

When receiving a gift of wild mushrooms in France, considered a great delicacy, one is supposed to first ooh and aah while caressing and gently sniffing a specimen. That done, the next step is to wax nostalgic about memorable mushroom meals. Ah! Ce bon petit rôti de veau aux girolles—ah! That delicious little roast of veal in girolle mushroom sauce. Finally, after more profuse thanks, one declares what one will do with one’s own little treasure: a creamy soup, a sauce for pasta, un bon petit rôti de porc (pork roast), or, better yet, an omelet.

I held my bag, I said my thanks, all the while silently remembering my own experiences with woodland mushrooms. Memories took me all the way back to my first summer in France. I met a man in a café in a little village in the mountains above the Côte d’Azur. He invited me to accompany him to a dinner at the home of friends.

Always ready for new adventures, I accepted. That evening, we drank a Beaujolais wine called “Pisse-dru” (the first word I think readers can figure out, the second means heavy or abundant) and ate wild mushrooms sautéed in garlic and butter. There was some oohing and aahing, but there was also some concern. One of the guests was not sure these mushrooms were real the thing.

“Fausses chanterelles” (a variety of wild mushroom), he declared. Not poisonous, no, but very hard to digest.

The other French guests, always on the lookout for good argument and debate, begged to disagree and defended the honor of the host serving us this gastronomic meal. Better than the original, more flavorful, they declared as they swallowed generous mouthfuls.

I had no opinion, at least none I wanted to share. I was doing my best to wash the mushrooms down with gulps of Pisse-dru. They were gooey, downright slimy. It was like eating pan-fried slugs (which, also known as escargots, are another French delicacy).

That was not a good evening. I had, and still have, the American’s fear of wild mushrooms coming from anywhere but supermarkets or specialty shops. Leaving the dinner party, I felt nauseous. I wondered what would come next. Luckily, the answer was nothing. I went home, refusing the gentleman’s offer to check out his little villa overlooking the sea, and went to bed.

I also have a Schuylkill County experience to relate. Once, at my mother’s home in Pottsville, my sisters and I looked on as my former French brother-in-law made himself an omelet with morel mushrooms he had found in the woods behind our house. The morel, or morille, as it is known in French, is the Cadillac of mushrooms, and it sells for a Cadillac price.

Oh là là! My brother-in-law was so excited. Terrified, my mother, my sisters and I feared he would die before our very eyes.

But he didn’t, probably because the French know about mushrooms. They track them in secret forest groves whose location they reveal to none but their most trusted friends. Picking up the scent, they are like human beagles sensing, not beast or blood, but a musty, earthy smell that, for the French, has the power of an aphrodisiac.

More prudent hunters carry a guide, beginners accompany the more experienced, and when truly in doubt, it is possible to take one’s find to the local pharmacy. In France, pharmacists are supposed to have the know-how to decide if, eating your mushrooms, you will live or die.

As I’ve been writing this article, I’ve been busy digesting, a cult-like activity in France that requires time, attention and care. I’ve also been listening to my body for any gurgles or untoward movements of the digestive tract. So far, so good. That means the omelet with sautéed trumpet-of-death mushrooms I ate for lunch is going down just fine.

I accepted the gift. I didn’t ask any questions about whether the mushrooms were safe or not. I have complete confidence in the friend who offered me them. I also listened carefully to his wife, who explained what I was supposed to do with them once I got home:

I filled a bowl with water, added some vinegar, and washed them several times. That done, I carefully drained them and just as carefully laid them out, one by one, on a tea towel. By morning they were dry. By lunchtime, I was ready to give them a try.

I sautéed them in butter and garlic. Then I folded them into an omelet I ate with fresh baguette, salad from my garden, and a glass of Burgundy wine.

Who knows? A few more experiences like this and I’ll be out hunting mushrooms myself.

Connections, virtual and real

My summer has been a busy one and I’ve devoted a lot of my time to strengthening the Pottsville-Paris-Perche connection. I’ve had a friend from my Pottsville High days to visit and my niece from Auburn came for an extended stay. For a good part of the summer season, I’ve been busy honing my skills as tour operator and guide.

Now I’m off. I’ve put my house back in order, caught up with weeding and hoeing in the garden, and can sit down for a rest. I get up early, do yoga, and listen to the radio, all elements in a cherished routine I’ve let go for too long. But now that dear friends and family are gone and quiet and calm have replaced the bustle, the outside world has come rushing back in.

It’s the radio, a habit and a passion. I don’t stream the news, I don’t podcast. I collect information the old-fashioned 20th century way, tuning in to favorite shows on a little transistor at set times each day, imagining that, all over France, others are doing the same. I like that idea of a community of “unlike-minded” individuals, doing the same thing at the same time, sharing a real-time experience while preserving our independence of mind.

My mother also loved the radio; she was a member of WVIA and a great fan of public radio. Her favorite shows were “Car Talk” and “Prairie Home Companion.” “Morning” and “Evening Editions,” along with The Republican Herald, were her main sources for the news.

In France, I listen to the equivalent of American public radio, two national public-service stations whose names say it all: France Culture and France Musique. Since I arrived in France thirty years ago (the first day of summer 2017 marked the anniversary), France Culture has been my constant companion, and to all those voices on the radio I owe much of what I know about France and the world. I can even say that radio has helped to bring about important and radical changes in my life.

Thanks to France Culture, soon after my arrival in France, I discovered the Austrian writer Thomas Bernhard. Though his name may not be a household word, at a difficult turning point in my life, this man’s novels helped me to move forward and change. I also travelled to Austria to visit the places he wrote about and to attend his plays at the Burgtheater in Vienna, all because of what I’d heard on the radio.

On France Musique, I discovered Betty Davis. Her “Anti Love Song” was released in 1973, but I have to admit I listened to it for the first time in 2016. What a voice! What a woman! Better late than never to discover one of the greatest voices of funk.

The radio also brings me the kind of in-depth reporting it’s difficult to find anywhere else. French radio still takes its time; one-hour programs are the rule, some extend to two or three. For me, the radio is a true school of life.

Sometimes, though, I can’t take it all in. The news is too painful, incomprehensible, so far beyond anything I have ever experienced that I want to shut it out. Just this morning I listened to a report on France Culture about the Syrian regime of Bashar el-Assad and how his government eliminates any trace of dissent.

The words I heard were raw: if a Syrian protests, he or she disappears from the face of the earth. Like the Nazis before them, the regime has documented the process: victims are tortured and killed, then they are numbered, a tattoo on their skin. No name, no identity. Finally, the corpses are photographed. One courageous insider released those photos to the world, but that is no guarantee justice will be done.

I listened to the broadcast a second time to prepare this article. The same harsh words, the same unimaginable reality as I sit comfortably at my desk. Garance Le Caisne, author of Opération César, a book documenting the Syrian project of mass execution that has already resulted in more than 100 thousand deaths, emphasized that as she spoke Syrians were continuing to be tortured to death.

That’s the radio. That’s having some time to myself: the juxtaposition of opposing realities as I, an onlooker living in comfort, come up against the constant specter of pain and death.

During the broadcast, I heard an interview with David Crane, founder of the Syria Accountability Project and co-author of the 2014 Syrian Detainee Report. He claims that “beyond a reasonable doubt,” the Syrian regime is committing crimes against humanity, calling the methods “medieval” in their cruelty.

The rack, the Catherine wheel, the iron maiden, repeat strangulation, poison gas, drowning or beating to death. Torture and cruelty traverse the ages with apparent ease.

I listen, keep my distance, do not participate.

During the recent visit of my niece Leah, we spent a lot of time immersed in beauty, natural beauty and the creations of artists from around the world, their works spanning thousands of years.

We hiked through the hills and valleys of le Perche, where farms and churches, hundreds of years old, blend with the landscape in an almost perfect marriage between Nature and humankind. In Paris, we visited two museums a day, taking in wonders until we were ready to drop.

As we walked in the country or toured the city, whenever I had a spare moment, I read a biography that had taken hold of me, Dorothy Day: The World Will Be Saved by Beauty, written by her granddaughter, writer Kate Hennessy.

Dorothy Day, founder of the Catholic Worker Movement, held up by Pope Francis as the very model of an American saint, devoted her life to the downtrodden and forgotten, working tirelessly to offer them better lives. She helped and sometimes saved those she could, but she placed her faith in God and beauty when it came to the salvation of the world.

Listening to the radio, confronting the horrors of torture and war, I’d like to believe Dorothy Day was right. Beauty can save the world. It transforms onlookers into participants and makes us more alive and aware. We all need beauty and we need to share it. Pottsville, Paris and le Perche have grown closer together this summer because I have shared beauty with family and friends.

The Opioid Epidemic seen from France

This year I celebrated the Fourth of July in Schuylkill County and Bastille Day, July 14th, in Condé-sur-Huisne, the French village where I have a country home. In early July, I made a quick trip to the States to attend the marriage of my niece Sarah Hahner of Pottsville to Darren De Arment, formerly of Pittsburgh, and then stayed on to celebrate the 4th with family and friends.

Stateside, my nephew put on a firework display in the backyard and we roasted hotdogs. Back in France, I missed the fireworks, but we roasted merguez, France’s spicy version of the American hotdog, eaten not in a soft bun but in a long piece of baguette.

While in Schuylkill County, I read The Republican Herald every day, the paper version that makes me feel close to my mother, a faithful reader all her life. In the July 4th edition, looking at the headlines, I had a shock: on the left side of the page I saw a big color photo celebrating Independence Day; on the right, the photo of a woman from Coaldale on trial in a heroin-overdose death.

That strange juxtaposition of fireworks and holiday fun alongside a story about a woman accused of a drug-related murder delivered a powerful message: “the land of the free and the home of the brave” is fighting for its independence once again, but this time it’s freedom from drugs.

I’d read about this war in France, but there’s nothing like being in a place to make events more real. From sea to shining sea, the opioid epidemic is attacking small towns and big cities, rural America and the rustbelt; drug-related incidents in Coaldale, Shenandoah or Pottsville echo nationwide. For Schuylkill County readers, it may even be old news.

When I was a junior at Pottsville Area High School, a new boy in town tried to sell me heroin. I said “no,” because I’ve always been a sensible person and the idea of anyone but our family doctor putting a needle in my arm gave me the creeps.

Back in those days, heroin was an urban drug. People used it in New York City, but in a town like Pottsville, in a hard-drinking county like Schuylkill, it didn’t have much of a chance—though the new boy did convince his Pottsville girlfriend to try.

At about the same time—as if I needed more convincing, I saw one of the first movies in which Al Pacino starred, the 1971 film “The Panic in Needle Park.” In it he plays a heroin addict and smalltime New York dealer who sends the woman he loves into the street as a hooker so they can both buy drugs. Leaving the theater, I was ready to hurry home and hide under my bed so frightened had I become of the ravages of heroin.

Later, living in New York City in the 1980’s, I got a firsthand view of the drug: discarded needles in the gutter, hookers leading johns into dark basements or doorways, ready to pull any willing male with a few dollars off the street if it meant they could have a fix. I also remember seeing drug delivery trucks pulling up to the curb and customers appearing out of nowhere. They’d make their purchase and then they and the truck would just as quickly disappear.

Once I even slipped my fingers into the coin slot of a payphone, rooting for my change, and pulled out a tiny bag of white powder that I quickly pushed back in place, hurrying away, trying to blend in with the crowd, hoping no dealer had identified me.

The 1980’s were a rough time in New York City, with the Big Apple undergoing a temporary decline. The first cases of Aids were appearing and adolescents, for a thrill, would stab pedestrians or commuters at bus stops with needles, inoculating them with the fear that they could have contracted the deadly disease.

I’m sure those harsh and sordid times played a role in my leaving New York City for France. But back in the 1980’s, heroin was a popular drug there too among musicians and artists who liked to believe they had things under control.

Until the current US opioid epidemic, which has now been going on a for a few years, I associated heroin with the city and the fringes of society. My last visit to the States brought home to me how much heroin and other opiates have penetrated “ordinary” American lives, middleclass men and women, their children, workers and the unemployed. Today, for those under 50, death by overdose is the number one cause of mortality.

To me this means that a lot of Americans are leading desperate lives. It also means that those with addictions can be found in any town or city, among neighbors or friends, among professionals or unskilled laborers; they can be anybody and everybody, just like with an epidemic of the flu.

Apparently heroin use is on the rise in France as well, though there is nothing comparable to the addiction to pain-killers so many Americans know. Those who work the hardest in heavy industry and incur the most painful injuries are among the victims. Losing their prescription for oxycodone, some turn to heroin.

During my recent trip to the United States, I read, observed and felt sad. Something is wrong in a country where, in 2015, according to the American Society of Addiction Medicine, 20.5 million Americans 12 or older had a substance-use disorder. In 2017, more than 70 thousand of them may die. This is an epidemic and its victims are not committing a crime. Nor can America become “great again” if the nation, collectively, does not find a cure.

In a highly centralized country like France, citizens, often grudgingly, count on their leaders to propose and find solutions when a problem plagues the nation. Healthcare and education, for example, are debated and taken care of at the highest levels of government.

In the United States, I tend to place my hopes in the grass roots. United, Americans pulled through two world wars and the Great Depression; the tragic pain of 9-11 was shared by everyone.

But drugs are associated with crime and drug-users are traditionally considered criminals. Today, independent of the causes of their addiction, they require understanding and care. That’s the impression I’ve brought back to France after my most recent trip to the USA.

City neighbors, country neighbors: worlds apart

Anyone who has grown up in a town like Pottsville knows that neighbors have a way of becoming part of one’s private life. Houses are close together, and even when they are not, the people next-door are never far away. In summer, we hear the lawnmower, the hedge-trimmer or the grind of a chainsaw; sometimes we hear the patter and pulse of a sprinkler or smell the smoke of a barbecue; on sunny days, we sniff the scent of honeysuckle or sweet william, wafting over a neighbor’s fence.

In the city, it’s different. In Paris, open windows in summer bring in the roar of traffic and only in the early hours of morning, before the first metro of the day, does city air offer respite from the heat. The sounds of summer are jackhammers and the drum brakes of city busses. The smells range from heavenly (in the warm evening air the scent of linden flowers greets commuters emerging from underground) to revolting (a lot of Parisian men, in imitation of man’s best friend, relieve themselves against trees or on the sidewalk, making the acrid stench of urine a typical Parisian smell).

As for people, they are everywhere. In city parks, like Buttes Chaumont next to my apartment, Parisians grapple for every available patch of green. On summer evenings, the lawns are a multi-colored patchwork of picnickers and apartment dwellers overwhelmed by the heat. Café terraces are packed; sidewalks are crowded. When temperatures climb above 90°, as they have this June, the city pours into the streets, seeking relief.

Yet, despite the crowds, we city dwellers remain unknown to all but a small circle of friends. Hemmed in on all sides, we ignore our neighbors, trying our best to block them out. We convince ourselves we don’t hear the flushing toilets, the surge of water pressure when a neighbor takes a shower, the thud of boots, the click of high heels, the shuffle of those too lazy or tired to lift their feet. Nor do we hear the voices; at least we do our best not to listen. Sometimes we can hear every word. When we do run into our neighbors, we nod our heads and say a quick “bonjour.”

On the whole—and this is what we need and crave in order to lead our private lives in a confined space—we prefer to remain anonymous.

In a small town like Pottsville, this is a challenge; in the tiny village where I live, population 1343, an impossibility. I know what I’m talking about. I have become a local specimen, a rare insect, pierced through the middle and pinned to a pinning block, on display.

Not much happens in my village. There is rarely the “pin-pon” of police cars or ambulances, the constant background noise of sirens Parisians live with night and day. Since I’ve been here, there hasn’t been a single fire and the crime rate is blessedly low, though juvenile delinquency is a problem, as is drunk-driving, the cause of some very serious accidents.

Daily events take place with clockwork regularity and they take place on the village square, the true theater of village life. Anyone who enters it to go to the bakery, the pharmacy, the superette, the village café or the post office, steps on stage, both actor and puppet, whose comings and goings belong to everyone.

Let’s say you usually purchase your daily bread at 9 AM. Then, one day, you change. You go to the bakery a couple of hours later, taking a risk because your favorite baguette, the seeded whole grain variety, may already be sold-out. In fact, it is and you are reduced to purchasing an “ordinary” baguette made with white flour.

The shy, sweet boulangère who sells you the loaf notices, as do other customers in the shop. When you step back outside, everyone is already wondering what event was so important that it made you break with routine.

No one (except you) will ever know and no one will ever ask. The pleasure is not in knowing, but in speculating about the myriad reasons that could have made you change. Before you know it (and perhaps you never will), you have a fatal disease, a secret lover, or a serious problem with drink.

As a foreigner, an American (Trump is not endearing us to the world), a Parisian, a woman living alone, when I cross the square, I am transformed into the perfect specimen, an actress in a series destined for a long run.

Already I have been suspected of a liaison with the husband of the owner of the superette. I like to talk to him, which is not a crime, but readers, I assure you, I never drew him to my bed. Browbeaten by his wife, these days he barely says hello, and when he does, it’s without a smile.

I am also a persecutor of the disabled, when in fact the disabled are persecuting me. My immediate neighbors are a couple about my age, the man, an ailing alcoholic; his companion, a woman whose mental problems guarantee her a disability pension and protection for life.

Soon after my arrival, I invited the woman to my home because she begged to see my new kitchen. Though warned by the owner of the local café to never let her in—once she crossed my threshold, she’d attempt to do it every day—I opened my front door and invited her inside. When finally, after too many visits, I stopped, she put her fist through my front window, her hand protected by a sheepskin glove.

I went to the police, I filed a complaint, I divided the village in two: the Montagues and the Capulets, the Hatfields and the McCoys, everyone has taken sides and the final battle has yet to be fought.

When it is, I’ll be ready because I learned the ins and outs of small-town life in my mother’s Pottsville home. From her redoubt, which was also her sunroom, she observed every move on her street through a slit in the venetian blinds. When something happened (a neighbor parked his car in a different spot, another forgot to put the garbage out), she was ready with an explanation meant to reestablish order on the block.

I’ll be ready too, because life has taught me that in small town or village, whether we like it or not, we can’t escape our neighbors, nor can they escape us.

Cultivate our gardens: An antidote to politics?

France has a new president, the youngest in its history, with a wife 24 years older, exactly the age difference separating Donald and Melania. Four years younger than John F. Kennedy when he took office in 1961, Emmanuel Macron is creating feverish excitement in France and abroad.

All the world is talking about this new president and his young prime minister, Edouard Philippe, 46 years old and member of “les Républicains,” the party founded by former Right-wing president Nicolas Sarkozy. A balancing act has been set in motion for next month’s legislative elections. In choosing Philippe, Macron hopes to form a ruling majority with candidates from both Left and Right. This, he hopes, will enable him to push through his reforms.

As the end of May approaches, it is almost impossible to escape politics (and since last November’s US elections, Americans must be feeling the same—is there a day without a new scandal?). Online or off, on paper or on screens, in words and images, politics, politicians, their advisers and their families have become our daily bread—to excess.

The world is in a scary state and today it may be just as dangerous as when a young John Kennedy faced the Cuban missile crisis in 1962. I remember leaving for Jackson Street School in the morning, fearing nuclear attack and wondering if my family would still be alive at the end of the day. The city was dotted with “fallout shelters” and at school, we had drills where we would hurry into the cloakroom, stoop down and puts our hands on our heads, this apparently to protect us from nuclear bombs.

Sometimes, during these drills, the entire town of Pottsville shut down. Traffic came to a halt while sirens whined. Only when civil defense agents gave the go-ahead, could cars move about again.

Once waiting at an intersection with my father during such a drill, I asked him why we would be safer in shelters. He explained, very frankly, that they offered no protection, nor did the cloakroom at school. The only advantage, he said, was that we could all die together, if there was any comfort in that!

My father spent World War II in the US Army in the Philippines. He was on a boat off the coast of Japan when the first atomic bomb was dropped. A survivor, he’d become blasé about death and dying, unafraid to share his feelings—and harsh reality—with a child.

I love the month of May, its lush beauty, the succession of wonders from beginning to end, white and purple lilacs, pink magnolia, lilies of the valley, iris or blue flags, as my mother used to call them, though this year I’ve seen some that are pale yellow and copper-toned.

Yes, I love the month of May and as an antidote to politics, I’ve taken to cultivating my garden, following advice I found in the work of Voltaire, 18th century French philosopher and author of philosophical tales.

In Candide, the most famous tale named after the main character, this naïve young man travels around Europe and the world, encountering war, natural disaster, and the hardships of ocean voyage before he can finally settle down on a simple farm with his ladylove, her virginity lost to others, her beauty destroyed.

On that farm, Candide follows the advice of one of his companions of misfortune, who advises him to cultivate his garden and “stop thinking.” In that way only, he assures Candide, does life become bearable.

I don’t know if I’m ready to go that far, but my garden is a refuge from the troubles of the world. After a hard day at the computer, that’s where I head to squat and dig my hands into the soil. When I return from Paris, I enter the front door, drop my bag and head out the back, impatient to observe any change.

So far, my lettuce patch would be a delight to Peter Rabbit, and just this morning, I discovered the first shoots of the fava beans I planted about ten days ago. I also have a beautiful potato patch, though it has already known hard times. A late frost bit some of the early shoots, but I hoed and built up my potato mounds again.

There are also predators, grub worms eating the roots of my lettuce crop, one head going, another on its way. I am worried! I consult articles on line, determined to cultivate an organic garden, but I’m not sure how to combat these dangerous pests. If any reader has environmental-friendly suggestions, please write!

I’m also busy training the branches of my apple tree so they eventually grow horizontal to the earth. Last autumn I planted it against a wall and someday I hope its long sturdy branches, heavy with fruit, will stretch along it as they bask in the sun.

On May 14th, I planted tomatoes. I chose that date because my friends told me I had to wait until after “les saints de glace,” the ice saints Mamert, Pancrace and Servais, who, since the Middle Ages, have been associated with late springtime frosts. According to popular wisdom, tomatoes put in the earth before their feast days are unlikely to survive whereas gardeners who wait will have a bumper crop.

My garden keeps me busy, it gives me solace, it makes me realize how fortunate I am to be alive, able to dig, plant and weed for hours. I listen to the wind and the birds, finches, robins, chattering magpies and even cuckoos. This is the life, I say to myself, as I learn to submit to the elements, so independent, so indifferent to our obsession with performance and speed.

President Macron wants to act quickly. He wants to “reform” France, beginning with an overhaul of labor law, an issue that, in a recent past, sent citizens streaming into the streets to protest. He also wants to combat endemic unemployment, the biggest problem facing the country today.

Yet, I hope he will not change France too much because life remains good here and there is much to preserve and protect. As French travel journalist Sylvain Tesson writes, “France is a paradise whose inhabitants think they are in hell.”

I tend to agree and I’m going to try to take advantage of paradise while I can.

French presidential elections: a half-hearted vote in uncertain times

Driving home at the end of election day, the first round in the 2017 French presidential elections, I noticed, flapping in the breeze, a hand-written note stuck beneath my windshield wiper. Was there a problem? Had someone put a dent in my car, parked since early morning on a public lot? Worse still, had I done something wrong?

I pulled over to the side of the road, got out and grabbed the note. Unfolding the paper, this is what I read: “Es-tu sûre, Nancy, d’avoir bien voté?” (Nancy, are you sure you made the right choice at the polls?) No signature, just a message, and though I had a hunch who wrote it, I read those words as if they had been beamed down by a ghostly oracle watching me from the sky.

Did I make the right choice, did I use my vote well? The morning after, I have to answer, I don’t know.

I voted. I made the effort to get up early on a Sunday morning and travel to Paris, where I am registered to vote. I crossed the city by metro to get to my polling place, an elementary school located a few steps from my Parisian apartment.

Voter registration card in hand, I crossed the threshold and immediately got in the wrong line, the one for those who had already been inside the ballot booth to cast their vote. I had forgotten to “pass go,” to stop at the table where volunteers check my name on a list and then invite me to pick up a small envelope and 11 rectangles of paper, each one stamped with the name and party of one of the 11 first-round presidential candidates.

Once I did that, I stepped into a voting booth, stuffed one paper in the envelope, and threw the other ten in a waste basket at my feet. Then I opened the envelope and peeped inside, afraid I had made a mistake. No. The “right one” was there. Closing the envelope again, I accidentally tore it. As I joined the line of those who had already voted, I tried to smooth it to make my vote look respectable.

When I arrived in front of the transparent ballot box, a woman checked my name in the ledger of those registered to vote and I signed. Then I dropped my envelope into the box and the official observer pronounced, “A voté” (she has voted).

It was over, my duty done. Eleven o’clock was chiming at a nearby church. I was free for the rest of the day. I headed to the outdoor market at Aligre Square, one of the best in Paris, where I met my dear friend Nathalie and we shopped for lunch. We also roamed through the flea market, and I bought a pair of cashmere and flannel trousers for a song.

By one that afternoon, too busy cooking and talking non-stop, we’d forgotten all about the elections. After eating, we sat on the floor and talked some more, warmed by the brilliant sun streaming into Nathalie’s top-floor apartment. Later we strolled along the Seine, joining a dense crowd, stopping to watch couples dance the tango on a platform near the water.

A lovely spring day that would have been perfect had it not been for the unshakeable doubts and anxiety lurking in the back of our minds.

Once back in le Perche, a region faithful readers are getting to know, first I found the note, then I returned home and turned on the TV. The names of the two front-runners were on the screen: 23.9% for Emmanuel Macron, representing the movement (and not the party) En Marche (which could be translated as “moving forward,” besides being the initials of the candidate’s name); 21.4% for Marine Le Pen, the candidate of “the people,” member of France’s far-right dynasty and president of the Front National, the party founded by her father Jean-Marie in 1972. On May 7th, voters will choose between the two—or for many, not vote at all.

But what about me? Up until this point, I’ve been tight-lipped about my half-hearted vote. Let’s just say I voted like a typical Parisian. Like 35% of the city’s voters, I chose Emmanuel Macron, a young man (age 39) who has never held an elected office and comes from the world of high finance, a neophyte to politics, a complete unknown three years ago, at the head of a movement he founded only a year ago. Macron came in first place in the city; Marine Le Pen did not even garner 5% of the vote.

This morning, first thing, I checked the results in my village. I was not so happy with what I discovered, but I was not surprised. Le Perche is a region that has traditionally voted socialist. In the 2012 presidential elections, François Hollande came in first place, but in five years things have changed. In the first round of the 2017 presidential elections, the far-right candidate Marine Le Pen is leader of the pack with almost 30% of the vote (out of 1503 votes in a commune composed of three small villages and adjacent hamlets).

The local papers have been saying it for weeks: when Marine Le Pen travels to this corner of rural France, she is entering friendly territory. Here people work hard and many are self-employed; unemployment is slightly below the 10% national average, but among young people, rises above 25%. Many are angry and feel forgotten by those who govern them. If only there were fewer foreigners, which—let’s say the words—means Arabs and Muslims, there would be more work, more opportunities, finally, more money for the “true” French.

And who am I to judge? I’ll admit, I do not share their fear or rejection of “foreigners.” After all, a majority of my students are of Arab or Muslim origins and for me, they represent the future of France. I better understand their fear of poverty and the feeling that things are getting worse. Though I constantly worry about money, I always manage to pay the bills, and compared to my country neighbors, I am one of the “haves” among many “have-nots.”

Finally, this is why I am not happy with my vote. I voted cautiously, choosing my interests over theirs, deliberately rejecting both far-left and far-right, yet still unsure to have made the right choice.

In a week, France will have a new president. As goes Nancy, so goes the nation? We’ll have to wait to find out.

Auction fever (2)

The sale begins. The pros and the most avid bidders crowd around a big wooden table dragged out from the garage. This, along with the wooden chest where the auctioneer stands, is the auction block.

The rest of us line the stone walls separating the driveway from a raised garden. This gives us a bird’s eye view of the table and the auctioneer, a highly trained professional who often behaves like a carny. I’m standing on the edge and every once in the while an impatient bidder pushes forward, throwing me off balance, forcing me, if I hope to avoid a fall, to take a quick step backwards into the flower bed where well-tended rose bushes are taking their winter rest.

But this pushing and jostling is all part of the game, a game of combat. An auction is physical; literally, you must be on your toes, poised for action, eyes and ears open, arms stretched forward to grab your newly acquired possessions, passed from the auction table above the heads of the crowd once the auctioneer, with three strikes of his gavel, has proclaimed “Adjugé, vendu!” (going, going, gone).

It rains, the rain stops, a crisp west wind blows in clear skies. The sale is moving fast. Little by little, I begin to follow and understand, with regret—my feet are already numb, that the objects that interest me will not go on sale till afternoon.

For the moment, up for auction are a lifetime of knickknacks, paintings, statuettes, busts, a porcelain dinner service and many sets of everyday stoneware, copper pots and pans, several dozen wine carafes, carved African stools and masks, a collection of minerals and one of magnificent conch shells, a full collection of the acts of the historical society of le Perche, a few fine and ancient maps of the region, and some delicate 18th century lace, carefully mounted and framed.

I follow the proceedings, moving fast. Some items, such as the lace and a pre-revolutionary map of le Perche go for several hundred euros. Others, sold by lots piled in cardboard boxes, for twenty or thirty, and I begin to understand that those boxes are a lot like grab bags. Nobody, not even the auctioneer, knows exactly what you’re going to get: there may be a treasure hidden among the crockery and bibelots.

A woman standing next to me hits the jackpot. Rooting through her box of glass and stoneware, she pulls out two crystal wine carafes with the imprint of Cristal Saint-Louis, the oldest glassmakers in Europe. For thirty euros she walks away with the prize.

I watch her bid. She is experienced. She knows what she wants. She buys lot after lot, and her cardboard boxes, buckling beneath the weight of their charge, are passed to her and then piled up on the lawn behind us or at the foot of the wall where we stand.

When I ask her if she is in the antique business, she vehemently denies it, explaining she is buying for her children, for nieces and nephews, all setting themselves up in life.

I know she is lying; she must know I know, but this is not a world where you trust your neighbor. Everyone at the sale is a potential rival and she has no idea who I am. And who knows? I could be a secret agent from internal revenue sent to crackdown on antique dealers who, notoriously, hide much of their business from the taxman.

The young man standing on the other side of me is more forthcoming. He sells on line and is looking for objects from the first half of the 20th century. He buys an art deco vase, paying more than 200 euros, and a telephone from the 1930’s. He’ll post these items on his site and, I hope for him, make a profit.

There are other professionals bidding on what to my eye are atrocities, a horrible 16th century statue of Sainte Barbe, a Christian martyr who had her head and her breasts cut off, and an equally ugly signed 19th century terra cotta bust. Both go for close to 1,000 euros.

Then it is time for lunch. Because this is France and no one can imagine going without a hot meal, the doors of the maison bourgeoise are locked and the crowd disperses to cars or to the center of town. I head for the bistro where I had a coffee in the morning. Packed, all the tables reserved, but if I’d come back in about a half hour…

I explore the village of Longny-au-Perche, discover a 16th century church, Saint Martin, with a painted wooden nave. At the edge of town, I walk past a Renaissance chapel where each year, on September 8th, a pilgrimage takes place to venerate the Pieta inside. There are also many streams and old mills with mill wheels turning and half-timbered houses that look like they belong to Shakespeare’s time.

The village is sleepy, many storefronts are empty, but time passes quickly, despite the damp cold, and when I return to the restaurant, a little table is waiting for me.

And once again I have a bird’s eye view of the auctioneer. He and his employees dine together. He has removed his padded coat, and beneath it wears a mustard-colored hunting jacket that reminds me of a famous 1939 French film, Jean Renoir’s “Les règles du jeu” (The Rules of the Game), where aristocrats and the wealthy gather for a weekend of hunting in a country château. He could be a part of that world and several remarks he makes during the sale make me feel he regrets its passing.

While I observe, I warm up and eat an excellent salade de gésiers, a chicken gizzard salad with two vinaigrettes, one raspberry and the other mustard, both extremely fine. I drink a glass of red wine and, for you, dear readers, sample a dessert. I try the homemade lemon tart with freshly whipped cream, a “délice.”

But then it’s back to the cold. Clear skies have replaced the rain and the sun shines on me, bringing me a stroke of luck. Though most of the furniture will be auctioned off inside, the armchairs I want are already out on the auction block. I take out my number and I’m ready to bid.

Perhaps not everybody is back from lunch. Perhaps wooden armchairs are not a hot item. For a little more than 100 euros, I walk away with two beautiful cherry-wood chairs that, once I get them home, immediately find their place in my living room.

Now I’m ready for the next sale. I’m ready to swoop down on another man’s life and pick over the remains, acutely aware that someday my precious belongings will suffer the same fate.

Auction Fever (1)

Early one summer morning, a couple of years ago, I was walking along the railroad tracks off route 895 near the village of Molino. It was early, before 7 am, but the air was already warm and heavy with moisture. Mist rose off the Little Schuylkill and floated in wisps above a marsh where two blue herons were busy fishing. Looking around me, I was filled with a sense of the beauty and harmony of Nature.

Then I rounded the bend. Atop five or six utility poles sat a committee of vultures. On the ground, the skeleton of a deer, what had recently been its carcass, lay next to the tracks, picked dry to the bone.

The vultures followed me with their eyes, and as I advanced further down the tracks, they changed positions, spreading their wings, rising into the air and settling on the next pole, not letting me out of their sight.

They were waiting, for another train, for another strike. They were waiting for me to turn into a carcass. They were hungry and saw me as a potential next meal.

This month, in the dead of winter, I got to feel what it’s like to be a vulture. I went to my first public auction. I joined a “committee” and honed in on the prey.

I’m partly joking of course, but only in part. Above all, I’m not criticizing or making fun of others, because the “vulture spirit” swooped down and took hold of me.

It all started with a newspaper, a weekly called Le Perche, the name of the region where I have my country home. I buy the paper faithfully every Wednesday, the day it appears, and read it on the train to Paris, paying special attention to the classified ads. For months, I’ve been on the lookout for a particular kind of auction, a sale of the contents of what the French call a maison bourgeoise, the home of a family belonging to the upper middle class.

About a week ago, eureka, I found one. I cut out the ad, visited the on-line site, and printed the photos of objects that interested me.

On the Saturday morning of the sale, under a dark sky, in pouring rain, I set out for the town of Longny-au-Perche, driving about twenty miles through hills and forests that reminded me a lot of Schuylkill County.

Once I arrived, I drove in circles looking for the site of the sale and only found it once I parked my car in the municipal parking lot and set out on foot. I had believed I was looking for an auction house. I ended up in front of the maison bourgeoise. All its contents and the house itself were up for sale.

We, the “committee,” tramped through the house, opening drawers and closets, trying out chairs, testing mattresses, rifling through boxes, elbowing anybody who got in our way. We handed over blank checks in exchange for a bidding number. Then we continued to comb through the contents of the house, waiting impatiently for the sale to begin.

A rich life had been lived there, rich in terms of experience and love. A happy couple had spent a long life together, some of it abroad, in Asia and Africa, at a time when France still had colonies in those parts of the world. The house was filled with their souvenirs.

And they had cherished their home and organized it with great care. I recognized a sense of order, not rigid or obsessive, but put in place so the inhabitants of that house could get on with the more important things in life. Monsieur played pool in the billiard room; Madame was an amateur pastry chef and had a veritable laboratory for baking in the basement of their home.

Then they got old. They moved from the master bedroom upstairs to a back bedroom off the kitchen, perhaps once meant for domestic help. They went from a double to single beds. Medical equipment filled the last room they shared. One died; then the other. Their grown and already aging children had no use for what they had lovingly accumulated throughout their long life together.

Sensing their story as I studied their things, I felt like one among a horde of intruders, soiling with our muddy boots and shoes a lifetime of intimacy.

But my scruples were superficial. I wanted to be there as much as the rest of them, the professionals from the antique barns that pop up regularly along the main roads in the region, a few Parisians with upscale antique shops, lots of young people selling their wares on line, the curious, those looking for a bargain, a crowd where most people seemed to know the rules.

Despite the rain and the cold, in a house with all the doors thrown open, the rooms were heating up. I had to wait my turn to go up and down the stairs and there was a line in front of certain rooms. The billiard table had a lot of success, as did a 19th century children’s bed, a cross between a cradle and a boat, perfect for Winkin, Blinkin and Nod “setting off in the night into a sea of dew.”

So many things awakening so much craving for what we did not yet have! But if we were wily bidders, not bidding too much but just enough to clinch the deal, we could leave at the end of the day, our craving satisfied.

I know what I want but have no idea how to get it. I’ve never bid at an auction before and hold tight to the number issued me in exchange for my signed blank check.

The agents of the auction house are entering the rooms, pushing us towards the doors, down the stairs, locking doors behind them, chasing us outside, into the rain and cold, where the sale will take place.

The auctioneer, called a commissaire-priseur in French, member of a tight-knit and exclusive corporation, is the only one who looks dressed for the occasion (I’m not, I thought the sale would be inside and once it’s underway, I’m shaking like a leaf). He’s wearing a handsome flat cap made of Harris Tweed, a padded-jacket to keep out cold and rain, wide wale corduroy trousers, and thick-soled black boots.

Standing on a wooden chest, gavel in hand, he is about to set the sale in motion (to be continued March 26th).