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| The church in Condé sur Huisne |
If Papy had lived in Bethlehem long ago, Mary and Joseph, no room at the inn, would have found a bed and food and love at his place. It may have been small, and the bed may have been of straw, but Papy would have given them his bed, his blankets and the food off his plate.
If he’d had a chicken, he would have killed it, plucked it and thrown it in a pot: a rich broth for the new mother, a drumstick for Joseph, and enough to share with the shepherds who’d somehow found their way to his door. With the feathers and the down, some scraps of fabric, an old straw basket, he’d have made a cradle where the little baby could lay down his sweet head.
Sacré Papy, as the French say. That’s Papy for you.
Except that Papy is no more. He died December 4th. He was born March 2, 1949, in the town of Sochaux, France. Here, on a piece of swampy land along the Doubs River, not far from Switzerland, Peugeot built its automobile assembly lines in 1912. The site became a city onto itself where, in the 1960’s and 70’s, as many as 40,000 workers were employed. Today fewer than 8,000 are present on what was once the biggest industrial site in France.
Papy’s father worked for Peugeot. The family lived in company housing and Papy’s mother worked hard to raise her sons. Everyone worked hard and played hard. Soccer was the big sport and the town of Sochaux can boast being home to France’s first professional soccer team, Football Club Sochaux-Montbéliard, founded in 1928, the last year the Pottsville Maroons played in the NFL.
Papy came from a working-class family and lived in a working-class home, where there was always plenty to eat, but at night the heat was turned off to save on heating bills. Before they went to bed, Papy’s mother would give her sons 2-liter glass bottles filled with hot water to warm their beds.
In the daytime, Papy went to school. He was a good student but rowdy and left school when he was 14, which was common practice in France at a time when very few students finished high school. Fewer still obtained the high school diploma called the “baccalauréat,” which opened the door to French universities.
Papy earned his “junior-high diploma,” “le brevet.” It meant you could read and write French much better than many French high school graduates today. I know because these were my students and I spent as much time correcting their French as their English.
Papy had a favorite teacher, Madame Moreau, and he was her favorite too. She recognized his sharp mind, his energy and zest for life. She encouraged him to stay in school, but that’s not what his people did. Whenever he talked about her, he always exclaimed, Oh! I wish she could see me now, friends with a teacher. She would have never believed it.
Because Papy was my friend.
We met at the house I was remodeling in a country town called Condé-sur-Huisne. Our first conversation took place with me looking up at Papy as he laid new tiles on the roof. I was working too, sitting on a wall by the garden shed, chisel, hammer and metal brush in hand, as I cleaned the original 19th century floor tiles from inside the house so they could be put down again.
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| That's Papy in the striped sweater |
For that, I earned Papy’s respect and when he took a break, he often came to talk to me. He knew we’d get along well when I showed interest, rather than repulsion, listening to his story about his pet boa constrictor.
When the house was done and the workers gone, Papy stayed in my life. He and his wife, Mamie, became my best friends in that little village, where some of the locals were none too kind. I’ll never forget my first meal at their home, a luscious pot au feu made with different cuts of tender beef, leeks, carrots and potatoes from their vegetable patch.
Mamie, whose name is Nicole, married Papy, whose name is Guy, in 1990. Till then, both of them had lived a lot of life and taken some hard knocks. I’d say their love saved them and those 33 years together were the happiest of their lives. They had no children together, but they raised one of Mamie’s grandchildren as their daughter and Papy was as proud of Mamie’s children as of his own.
In their home, I learned the meaning of hospitality and ate some of the best meals I’ve ever eaten in France: lapin chasseur, rabbit with mushrooms, langue de boeuf à la sauce piquante, beef tongue in a spicy tomato sauce, tripes à la mode de Caen—yes, I even enjoyed the tripe!!! French home-cooking at its best, served with love.
Anyone who showed up at mealtime was invited to sit down and there was always a lot of drinking—and smoking—during the meal. Thanks to Papy, yes, thanks to him, I’ve learned, not to enjoy, but to tolerate cigarette smoke. And perhaps to better understand those for whom a cigarette represents a brief respite from the pressures of daily life.
Papy lived hard, almost from the start. He loved to reminisce about the dances he went to as a youth, the drinking, the girls, the fights out back. Later he worked in Paris as a painter but lived far away. As soon as he got on the earliest train to the city, he’d meet his buddies and the poker game and smoking would begin.
Later, even when he was up on my roof, working hard, he was fighting cancer. It got him in the end. I saw him last in September, weak, confined to an easy chair, but still in love with life.
A couple of years ago, I gave him a t-shirt from Yuengling Brewery’s gift shop. He wore it with pride.
Papy didn’t use a computer, wasn’t on social media, didn’t much like his smartphone. He was too caught up in giving, living and loving life.
What the world needs now, in 2024, is more like him.
