These days I often think of the lyrics in the Shaker hymn “Simple Gifts” composed by Elder Joseph Brackett Jr. in 1848: ‘tis the gift to be simple, ‘tis the gift to be free. It is a gift, too, to be living in France under orders from President Macron to remain in our houses except to shop for necessities, to exercise, or to help others. When we go out, we must carry a form attesting that we’re going for one of those reasons. We will survive this ordeal.

We live life in Laroque des Albères, a small village in the Languedoc region of France, as it should be lived and has been lived for centuries: slowly, guided by our senses. In spring, we breathe the fragrances of the awakening earth and the perfumes of wondrous flowers I can’t begin to name. The purple of blooming wild iris lines our paths. We stroll along rugged, shady trails or shuffle through the loamy soil of composting leaves—byways so unlike the ubiquitous concrete lanes in Houston. We delight in birdsong and the rustling of trees in the wind. We linger over the freshly baked croissants I buy every morning at la boulangerie (the bakery) and the olive oil from our neighbors’ olive groves. We and the Rocatins, citizens of our village, together shelter in place.

We and our dear American friends bought our house in the center of the village twenty years ago, because we wanted to immerse ourselves in French life. We could have bought a grander house outside town, but that wouldn’t have been the same. We four own the house. Or, do we really? Perhaps we merely hold title temporarily. How can you own a house hundreds of years old in a region once ruled by the Kings of Aragon? We immerse (insinuate?) ourselves in the life of Laroque. One of us is fluent in French, the rest of us less so, but each of us does the best he can. We strive to show our neighbors that we respect them, their language, their history, and their traditions. We gain more than they when, no matter how inarticulately, we speak French with them.

Soon after we moved in, we invited our French neighbors to join us in what we Americans call an open house. All of them came. Were they merely curious about their new American neighbors? It was a lovely soirée enjoyed by all.

Over the last twenty years, life, inevitably, has brought changes to our neighbors and village shopkeepers. Pierre, the owner of le magasin de chaussures (the shoe store) passed away, and his wife moved to another town. Their son, Thierry, who loaded his truck with shoes every morning and drove from town to town to sell them in local markets, also left.

Our lovely friends Christine and Guy moved in nearby. Together we entertain ourselves when in Laroque, and correspond when we’re in Houston. I enjoy finding a Noël card in French to send them each Christmas. Two Sundays ago, the Rocatins elected Christine to the Village Council. Good choice.

Thoughtful Lucien, who lives next door to Christine and Guy, graciously chats with me in his broken English. Lucien loved to ride his three-wheeled motorcycle to la plage (the beach). Although we live near the Mediterranean, the beaches are now closed.

Gretchen’s mother used to wave from our living room window to an elderly lady across the street, who waved back from her fenêtre du salon (living room window). Both are now gone, but they exist in the fabric of our memories of this French village.

While the neighbors have changed, I feel we haven’t. The bakery clerk still sees me coming and gracefully slides my baguette into its paper sleeve, wraps up my two croissants au beurre (butter croissants), lays out my L’Indépendant newspaper, and smiles as she waits to see which of my inner antagonists, restraint or gluttony, will prevail in their battle over her delicious pastries. I pay her through a slot in a plexiglass shield, newly installed, fumbling through my pocket with tight anti-virus gloves to find 4€ in coins. Why doesn’t America have lightweight one- and two-dollar coins?

Yes, we are now housebound most of the time. But I still shop, albeit masked and gloved and ten meters away from my fellows. And we still take walks everyday, Gretchen into the Pyrenees and I around town or through the gardens. While we can’t get too close to our neighbors, we manage to exchange delights from our kitchens. Guy and Christine give us flan-like puddings, and I take over olive oil with hot peppers that Gretchen marinated for three days. I leave the couple a flowering plant I bought at l’épicerie (the grocery store) on the café table outside their door, just as I left one on the lovely deck of our neighbor Sabine, le coiffeur (the hairstylist) whose shop shares a common wall with us. And we wave from our windows. We know it’s 8:00 p.m. when Rocatins shout and sing from their terraces in support of the medical workers. Time to watch French news on Channel 2.

Sure, we have our gadgets: our smartphones, an iPad, a Chromebook, and a television. And we communicate with friends in America and those locked down and stranded in far-off countries. I read the American papers online, too, since the government ordered stores selling the print versions closed, designating them non-essential. But we use our mobile devices sparingly.

The coronavirus may prevent us from doing everything we might want to do, but it cannot stop us from doing what’s vital. We wrap ourselves in the life of the village, where eating local food is a way of life, not an aspiration. As I round the corner, I smell the bakery’s freshly baked bread. Every morning I see more flora blooming and note how the deciduous trees have filled out just a little more. I spoon locally made fig jam into my morning yogurt, its lemon zest moderating the sweetness of the figs. Soon cherries from Céret will sparkle on the shelves of l’épicerie.

We are connected to the Rocatins, to this ancient village that withstood all hardships even as regional kings warred across the countryside, as its youth died in Belgium during the war to end all wars, and as its citizens endured the Nazi yoke. That connection will carry us through this.

Yes, ‘tis the gift to be simple, ‘tis the gift to be free.

— Email comments to Julie@bayoucitypress.com or leave public comments below.
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