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.
