The problems I have been having with my stomach recently have not let up any and so both of us feel the need to get it checked by my doctor in Woodland. Our thinking is that we should get home within a reasonably short time, but not so quickly that we cannot complete the touring we yet want to do as well as take a planned trip to London to see the Maynes. Careful eating should take care of most potential gastronomic hazards, or at least so we think, and we have finally decided to cut our trip short by three weeks. We have called the airlines and arranged for both of us to fly to Los Angeles, Eleanor on March 12 and my flight two days later. We will see the boys for a couple of days, relax, and then drive home about March 17.

The ailment is not serious, if the past is prologue (hum, didn’t someone else say that?). We have been told that there is something in the water just now that is giving many people gastritis so I may not have anything more than that, but that is bad enough. Yet, the attacks, when they occur, have taken out some of the joy of being here and make us fearful of what we eat. Not knowing exactly what has caused my problem we think that the next mouthful of food can end in disaster and begin days of taking medicine and staying close to home. For this reason, we rarely eat out and our diet at Lacoste consists mainly of pasta. Based on the recommendations of the doctor, we now drink nothing but bottled water and use it even for brushing teeth. It seems to us that half the fun of France is eating at some very good restaurants, and when that is taken out of the equation it cools our jets some about staying. However, it may be something more, and this is the thought making us leave a few weeks early.

It was a hard decision and certainly made us assess the trip up to this point. We both agreed that this has been a terrific adventure and that we have had a grand time. We would not have wanted to leave any earlier than we have now planned because it would make the time too short, and would not give us the chance to close the loop on many of the things we have wanted to do but have not so far. I knew this adventure to France would be simply spectacular, and it has been. I was less sure about what Eleanor’s reaction would be, as she was so against coming here for six months.

My fears were groundless, as it turns out, and she has loved being here as much as I. When she got here and the Meuters and the Roberts arrived she began having what I knew she would all along, a simply glorious time. We had such fun with the four of them that she really got into the spirit of things, and when the Maynes were here in November and then when our family came for Christmas things only got better for her. Thanksgiving in Paris was not bad, either. The friendliness and helpfulness of the people here, the beauty of the country, and the food and wine were all things that captured her soul as much as they did mine. It will be hard to leave, but I am following the recommendations of the physician here to have my doctor in California take a good look at me.

Part II -- Lisa Is Here

The beginning of the month was taken up with mundane but essential chores of getting ready for my niece Lisa’s arrival Tuesday, February 2 -- cleaning, changing sheets, putting out new towels, and taking all the dirties to Mme. Lacoste in Les Eyzies to be washed. On the 1st we drove into Bordeaux where we did some shopping for some beautiful new china and then had dinner. When we got to the Hotel Majestic I turned on the TV to see what the weather report would be, as it had been very cold and I wanted to see if we would have any sun while Lisa was here. I came upon the Super Bowl that was being broadcast on one of France’s channels, in French and without any commercials. The station had also eliminated all the time outs and huddles so they could show only the action. This is the only way to watch football as we saw the whole game in about an hour. But, I must say that seeing none of the crotch scratching, screaming at the referees over "blown" calls, and some of the other silliness that is such a part of American football did detract some from the spectacle. How good it was to see Denver win again.

It was going to be such fun to see Lisa again. It has been a couple of years at least since we last saw one another, and so this reunion in France would be particularly nice. She had been in Brazil for Christmas and now she was coming to spend her birthday with us. I had been in Sao Paulo for her birth and have always referred to her as my little Brazilian coffee bean. She is a terrific young woman, and we have always enjoyed her company very much. She has been to Europe before, in 1992, when she spent a month driving around France, so some of what we wanted to show her she has seen before. Yet, it will be fun to revisit those places and introduce her to what we so like about this area.

The next morning we did some more shopping and then went to the train station to pick her up. She flew to Paris from Cincinnati direct, changing planes at Charles de Gaulle, and continued on to Bordeaux. She was going to take the shuttle from the airport to the train station because I get lost so easily that it is just easier. We got there a little early and waited. And waited, far past the time she should have been there. About the time I was beginning to get anxious the next shuttle arrived and I saw her through the window. As she got off the bus I noticed she had no bag and I wondered what had happened. It seems that when she landed at Charles de Gaulle airport she also landed in the middle of a baggage handlers strike which made it impossible for her to get her bag. Yes, another grave grève had gotten us. "We’ll deliver it to you tonight in Le Bugue," she was promised by a smiling but no doubt weary Air France agent, and told not to worry.

We hugged and exchanged kisses, walked to where the car was parked, and, after calling Air France to see if the bag was en route (and being told that no one at the Bordeaux Air France baggage handling station needed any help to find our house -- oh, would they be sorry for that decision) and when I was told it would be delivered to the house late that evening, we left for St. Cirq. We took the same route as always and turned off for Tremolat to walk around this engaging little town, some of whose houses date back to the 12th century and whose fortified church has walls dating to about the same era. We then went to Limeuil for more touring. What a wonderful village that is. Its position at the confluence of the Vezere and Dordogne rivers gave it a strategic importance which made it the center of warfare during the 100 Year’s War and the other conflicts that followed. The bridges over both rivers, set at right angles, is simply one of the most beautiful sights in the world. The churches in each town, the small Chapelle St-Hilaire in Tremolat and its beautiful cemetery (this is not the fortified church) and the church of St. Martin in Limeuil, are exquisite. To me, these two villages are an extraordinary introduction to the region, and Lisa was as enchanted by them as we.

We went on and stopped at the Cingle de Limeuil to look down at the valley below. The view of the Dordogne valley is breathtaking and it is hard to think of a more beautiful place in the world. The weather was not cooperating at all, as it was overcast, looked as though it would rain at any minute, although the sun shown occasionally. For Eleanor and me this was a beautiful contrast to the way we had seen the view before, and we found it entrancing. Lisa, however, was not as thrilled, as this was her first time at this spot and she so wanted to take photos, but the day was overcast and dark.

We stayed there just long enough to vow to return the next day and then headed toward the house. Lisa was tired, we had to do some shopping at the Intermarche, and buy some more wine at our favorite wine shop. We got home, uncorked a bottle, started the dinner and a fire, and relaxed. Not long thereafter, as dinner was cooking, there was a knock on the door and, when we opened it, there was an exasperated Air France man who had been looking for us for some time and finally stopped in at the Liller residence just down the lane. Directed to the right house at long last, he eschewed a glass of wine or pastis and only wanted to get home. Can’t blame him, really. I am sure it must have been a long day. No doubt the man who told me he knew just where our house was located was not the one who actually drove the van. It must have been an interesting conversation when those two saw one another again.

Part III -- More of Le Grand Tour

The tour with Lisa began on the way to the house from Bordeaux, as we have said. Lisa was captivated by Limeuil and Tremolat and the next day went back to both, lingering in Limeuil for well over an hour as Lisa took photo after photo and began to believe in this place as much as we did. The confluence of the Dordogne and Vezere rivers with their bridges was a particularly special place for her. We also drove in the countryside for her to get a feel for this part of rural France. Lisa is, as I have said, somewhat familiar with the major sights of the Dordogne -- La Roque-St. Christophe, Rocamadour, Belves, Monpazier, Les Eyzies, and others. But she wanted to see as many of the old sights as possible and take in as many new ones as we could, so we were off to the races again.

It was stormy the entire time Lisa was here, then turned beautiful sunshine the day she left and remained that way for three days before turning stormy again. It was sad, really, as she is a very good photographer and loves to shoot photos of her favorite sights. This time, however, the light was poor so she got little opportunity to take really good photographs. We went to Belves, Monpazier, St. Chamassy, Monbazillac, Bergerac, Ste. Alvere, Domme (where the overcast skies made it hard to take advantage of one of the most beautiful views anywhere), and a hundred other picturesque towns that dot the landscape and through which one drives getting from point A to point B in this most wonderful part of France. Yet, even the inclement weather could not dull our enthusiasm for le grand tour although it would have made it much nicer to have had some sun and warmth. The biting cold, humid air cut deep into the bones and made one bundle up each day in the warmest clothes possible.

We wanted Frank and Denise Liller to meet Lisa, so Friday evening we had them up for some wine. They are such a sweet couple and have been a Godsend for Eleanor and me, being good friends and helping to get medical attention when I needed it. They were quite taken with Lisa and had a grand time with us and fascinated by the life she has lived and the obvious independence with which she has lived it. It was grand seeing them again, and we commented after they departed how much we would miss them when we left for home. Lisa would see them one more time before she left, and they exchanged addresses and vowed to stay in touch.

The next day, Saturday, we went into Sarlat for the open air market. Many of the towns in the Perigord have market days, charters permitting them to hold such events had been given to the town during the Middle Ages, and Sarlat’s is one of the biggest and one of the nicest. We made a special effort to get up early and get out of the house in good time so we could get there to see it all. We did, which was as much a testimony of our devotion to Lisa as her prodding. The market is really great fun and even in the depths of winter filled with a very good selection of produce, meats, cheeses, and all the other delicacies that make up la cuisine perigourdine, and the people’s art of living and the science of eating and drinking. What a country and the Perigord is sublime. We bought some things for a shrimp dish I make with sliced fennel, shrimp, and Pernot (or any other pastis that is available). But the fish mongers were not there that day so we would have to wait until Tuesday when the fish market at the Intermarche was open to get the shrimp. It is a terrific dish and I could not wait to prepare it for Lisa.

At the end of our visit we went to a favorite restaurant of ours to have lunch. We each ordered omelettes au cep and, except for Eleanor who opted for a salad, pommes de terre perigourdine. The potatoes were just out of this world. I have never tasted anything like them in my life. Rich, flavorful, melt-in-your-mouth good, these potatoes were about the next thing to heaven I have ever encountered. When I asked at the end of the meal what accounted for the flavor, the man told me the potatoes, which had been sliced very thinly, were sautéed in duck fat. I somewhat winced at that as I wondered what the effect would be on my stomach, but said almost anything I might suffer would be worth it to have eaten such incredible potatoes as these.

On the way home we stopped at St-Leon-sur-Vezere for a quick walk around this beautiful old town, another of the most beautiful villages in France. It had to be quick as the day was ending and getting colder by the minute and my stomach was beginning to tell me in no uncertain terms that although the pommes de terre perigourdine may have been sublime they were not sitting well, and I knew what that meant. We got back in the car and raced home and for the next couple of days Lisa was going to be on her own as my stomach would keep me chained to the house and one of its most useful appliances. We went to see the doctor Monday and got some antibiotics to deal with the bacterium in the water and some other stuff for the more unpleasant side effects of the severe gastritis I was suffering. He also said it could be stress, and said the best thing to eat was bland food and just a little wine. This isn’t a prescription to make a gourmand happy, but I followed it nonetheless.

In a few days I was back in good health and ready for some more touring. But very sad events would intrude and make us concentrate on other things. Home. Family. Remembering.

Part IV -- "Let God Welcome Your Mother Near Him and Heal Your Sorrow."

The last 10 days of our trip in France was filled with sorrow and stress. We heard in the early morning of February 9 that Eleanor’s mother had died unexpectedly the day before. (She died Monday morning, but by the time we heard the news it was Tuesday in France but still Monday in California.) She had in fact been ill for the last several years with Alzheimer's Disease and did not know her family during the last few years of her life. Yet, physically she was very strong and everyone expected her to survive for many more years. Thus, the news came as an enormous shock and I felt so sorry for my wife who said more than once she should have been near enough to have seen her at least one more time before her death.

Eleanor was such a loving and devoted daughter and felt terrible that she was so far away from her family at this very sad time. No one is ever ready for the death of a parent no matter how sick and distressed he or she might have been. There is a finality to it for which there is no preparation and the shock of now being the lead generation in her family was rather sobering. We went back to bed and talked and dozed a little, but neither of us got much sleep after the news. The only thing we knew for sure was that our earlier plans for returning to the US would have to be changed and our departure made in much greater haste than we had anticipated.

The first thing we did, of course, was to call the boys and tell them. That was not an easy task, as they adored their grandparents. Now the last of them was dead. Then we sent some e-mails to people in France and at home to tell them the news and that we would have to be leaving suddenly. There had been talk of some friends visiting the first part of March, so we wanted to be sure they did not buy tickets. I also e-mailed our new friends in France to tell them we would have to take a rain check on their invitation to dinner. Jean-Francois sent Eleanor the nicest note, which included the quote that began this section, one of the nicest and most sensitive things we have ever received. If he is this eloquent in English, not his mother tongue, he must be something in French. What a delightful man he is, with an equally terrific family.

As it turned out, the news of Eleanor’s mother was just the beginning of one of our worst days in a very long time. About 9 a.m. I went downstairs to make some coffee and have breakfast and was joined in the kitchen shortly thereafter by Lisa. I told her what had happened and said that I was very sorry to say she would have to be on her own for a couple of days while we made preparations for our return home. As I said before, she has been to France and driven throughout the country so there was no real problem here. I just felt so badly that she had come all this way only to be left to her own devices. She is an enormously resourceful person, however, and would do very well. And she did. After about 30 minutes she went into the living room and let out a scream, "there’s water everywhere. Where is it coming from?"

That was NOT music to my ears as I jumped up and ran to see what was up. Water was streaming out of the closet under the stairs, which is where the water heater was located. I jumped to the conclusion that this was the source of the problem, raced upstairs to call David Snitch at Simply Perigord, a property management firm that had provided such great service to us throughout our time in France, and told him what had happened, to get a plumber here immediately, told him about Eleanor’s mother, and said to him "damn the cost, just get this fixed." When I got downstairs I found that this initial diagnosis was very far off the mark. Lisa said it couldn’t be the hot water heater as the water coming into the house was ice cold and there was an ever increasing amount of it to deal with. We pulled out all the boxes, the vacuum, and all the other things that clutter up closets and looked to see what was happening. The conclusion was not reassuring and would later prove to be catastrophic for our continued stay at Lacoste.

What we found was that water was coming in the house through a hole where the back wall of the house joins the floor. The house itself is built into a large hill and there is nothing between it and the back wall, made of field stones held together by cement grout. The house is over 100 years old and when it was built the notions of drainage and water proofing were not well understood. Thus, the house is hostage to storms and other climatic conditions that soak the hill and transport water towards Lacoste between strata of the earth. Water was coming in at increasing rate and so I called David a second time to tell him what we had found so he and his plumber would know the problem was something much more serious than a bad water heater.

As we waited for them, Lisa and I moved furniture into the kitchen, which would remain dry as the house tilted slightly in the opposite direction due to settling over the years, got as many towels as we could to make levees directing the water through the front door and out into the front yard, and rolled up the carpets, which were by then drenched and smelling to high heaven, into bigger levees. Yet, it was to no avail, as the water was coming in faster than we could bail and we just waited for David and his plumber hoping for the best. I kept looking at the back wall and wondering about the pressure that was building up on the other side.

By now the water was coming in from several different places, under the fireplace, two other places in the closet, and, most ominously, weeping through the cement grout holding in place the field stones that made up the back wall. We have seen in California how water can cause problems for houses situated as this one is and I was worried. The pressure against the back wall must have been growing judging by the water flow, and if one of those stones became dislodged I feared for the entire house. I knew only one thing at that point. I did not want to be in this house any longer than I had to. My idea of paradise was not to toboggan down the hill on a tidal wave of mud. Not that day. Not any day.

As I waited, I walked down the lane and knocked at the door of Mme. Lacoste to tell her the news. We had not seen her for several days and now I knew the reason. She had been quite ill, and, although on the road to recovery she said, was still very sick. As I told her what had happened, her eyes rolled back in their now all too familiar way and she wished us luck. I said we would be back to get the house ready for our departure and that I hoped to see her before we left for the United States.

When David and his plumber arrived they surveyed the rather depressing scene. The plumber looked and immediately shook his head and told David nothing could be done until the water stopped and the hill dried out. He had never seen anything like this before, he said. We had had some rain over the last several days, and a steady onslaught of about 36 hours. It was a steady rain but not hard downpours or anything that would suggest something such as this might happen. Yet, the water was streaming in and showed no sign of slackening. The plumber said there might be some danger to the wall if this kept up because of the build up of pressure.

I asked David at this point if he had a rental we could move to and he said he would check but thought so, a very nice house in Ste. Alvere, about 20 kilometers away. I said we would take it and then went upstairs. I called Mellen again to tell her the news (I had called earlier, about 5:30 a.m. Virginia time, and left two or three messages on her machine). She was very good about it and said that if we had to move that was that and she would pay for it. We packed and then headed for the new place about 4:30 p.m. It had been a long and very difficult day, but it looked as though it was going to end well.

As we left Lacoste, Eleanor and I just looked at one another in disbelief. We had been through the grosse probleme with the septic system and the hassle of trying to get M. Gomes, the plumber, to come and fix it; the grosse probleme with the electrical system that had come close to ruining Christmas for us; the petite probleme with the kitchen sink and the flooding it caused on the outside of the house when we ran the sink water too long; and now this probleme catastrophique. And the news of Eleanor’s mother did not make dealing with it any easier. Too old to cry but desperately wanting to, we went with Lisa to the new house. It was such a good thing she was there. She kicked us in the butt when we seemed to be slacking, made us make the decisions we would have to make anyway, and was always cheerful and smiling and upbeat. Having her there was a Godsend, and although this last, dreadful episode may not have made her trip, it made these series of events and the next few days tolerable for us.

Part V -- An Aura of Destruction Around Us? Or, Just Because You’re Paranoid Doesn’t Mean They’re Not Out To Get You

The new house is an old two story farmhouse that is large (it sleeps between 8 and 10), exceedingly well equipped (it even had those new fangled things called an iron and ironing board), and has central heating. Yes, central heating. Astonishing. David met us and gave us a tour around. It is really a very nice place but lacked a certain soul and had no view. As we bid him farewell (I just knew I should have asked him for his home number, just in case), Lisa, Eleanor, and I took our bags to our rooms and then went back into Le Bugue for some shopping for dinner. It was going to be a nice spread as we had earned it. And it would be warm and tranquil, at least that was the game plan.

When we got back from the market we noticed that the house seemed really cold for a place with central heating, and we knew the radiators had been hot when we left for the Intermarche. But when we got back they were cold and the house colder. Murphy was right. His law that "What could go wrong, would go wrong" proved to be an accurate descriptor of this trip. He was our silent guest for our entire time in France, it seems, and when he got home I am sure he had a few more laws about catastrophes in foreign lands ready to publish to amuse the public.

This could not be, could it? The kitchen was an icebox and were it not for the very large fireplace in the dining room, we would have been miserable. I put Lisa and Eleanor in charge of dinner, picked up the large flashlight the Meuters had given us (bless them) and headed for Lacoste to get the portable heaters. My God, the roads were dark and there was the threat of black ice as it was very cold that night and getting colder by the minute. I got to the house OK, and when I entered I was hit in the face by the most obnoxious odor from the wet rugs (the water had stopped by this time) and the entire house stunk. I got the heaters and beat a hasty retreat to the new place, plugged them in, and waited for the other shoe to drop. Things have been like that this trip. We made it through the night, fortunately, mostly from the prayers we said about every ten minutes asking for divine intervention to protect us from the cold that night.

The next morning I called the office of Simply Perigord and told David what had happened. He raced over in record time and found that one of the pumps of the central heating system had broken. When it was repaired the heat when back on, but it would take awhile to heat the house, he said, and by the end of the day it should be toasty. Until then, he told us, use the portable heaters in full confidence that they will not blow any fuses. The house may be old, he assured us, but the electrical system was up to the task.

As his car faded from sight the first of the fuses blew and then another. Not all the house went dark, just the ones controlling the rooms that had portable heaters running. I flipped the switches to the circuit breaker and then all seemed fine. Until the next day when the main circuit breaker tripped turning the whole house black. When I flipped that switch back on (David had shown me where it was located with a wave of his hand and his complete assurance we would never, ever need to know where it was, but just in case....), I unplugged the portable heaters and took them back to Lacoste. Part of the charm of this new house is its old age and substantial character. However, there are times when it is better to be in a modern house with all its modern wiring, adequate heat, and other conveniences and looking out the window at old ones rather than the other way around. This was one of those times as the allure of this wonderful old place gave way under the constant need to stay warm.

Eleanor, Lisa, and I looked at one another again and laughed. This had to stop sometime. Until then, all we could do is sit and wonder what else could go wrong. It was really spooky that so much had happened in such a short time. Yet, the next day, and with some trepidation, I gave the car keys to Lisa and sent her into the French countryside, in search of both sights to see and the sun. The weather had been miserable for her up to that point and as she set out it looked as though she would have at least some sun that day. She did at the beginning of her drive, but by the time she got back to the house the snow was falling.

Eleanor and I spent the day just sitting and catching our breath. I began to phone the airlines (Delta and United) and rearranged our tickets home. We would both fly out of Paris on February 19 to Los Angeles. United Airlines again was magical to deal with, exceptionally helpful and compassionate and waved the usual $75 fee for changing the place of departure from Amsterdam to Paris. There were no frequent flyer seats for Eleanor on Delta so we had to purchase one at a substantially reduced fare. It was the only good experience we had in the last several days.

Part VI -- Le Petit Tour

After the initial problems with the house in Ste. Alvere, things steadily improved. It was warm upstairs. The beds were very comfortable, the kitchen was very well equipped, and we had some terrific meals, good wine and, for Lisa, pastis to warm her insides as only it can. For Eleanor and me, the enthusiasm for touring had evaporated but we wanted to be with Lisa before she left in a few days, so we made some decisions and decided that we had to get out and about; it was to be very good therapy. So after we firmed up our arrangements for returning home and packing some boxes to send to the boys, we made plans for a few day trips. We took two major excursions, one to Perigueux, Brantome, and Saint-Jean-de-Cole and the other was south to Cahors, and one small one to see Castelnaud and its military museum. All these drives were simply terrific.

The weather was very cold for this time of year. It snowed several times during our last few days in the Dordogne and we were very happy to have the central heating, which was now up and running and doing its job very well. With the cold weather and the snow at night we all had an interest in staying in bed in the morning, lingering just long enough to make us rush for the rest of the day. We got up to have coffee, orange juice, bread, and perhaps a pain au chocolat, my favorite way to begin the day, which we got in the village just a few hundred meters away. We took to the roads when our bellies were full and knowing what we wanted to accomplish that day. It was therapeutic and we had two wonderful days together.

Eleanor and I had been to Perigueux (which is located in the Perigord Blanc and to the north of where we were staying) several times and we never ceased to be impressed and amazed by it. It is a wonderful place and we liked going there with Lisa. It is the main administrative town for the department of the Dordogne and has a population of approximately 60,000, and offers visitors a wide variety of things to do and see. There is the Roman Vesone Tower, which are the remains of a huge temple, the Saint-Front cathedral with its several handsome domed cupole, the Barriere chateau, the Chapter mill, the Mataguerre Tower (a 14th century structure) and so many other things it is hard to describe.

We left Perigueux after a very good lunch that was enjoyed even more because of the appetite we had worked up from our walk around the city to drive to Brantome, located in the Perigord Vert. Just 27 kilometers from Perigueux, it is one of the most sublime places on the face of the planet. It is surrounded by the river Dronne and has things to dazzle the imagination at every point of the compass. I just love this place and there was enough sun for Lisa to take some wonderful photos. The main historical building is the Benedictine abbey that dates back to the 700s. There is also the Saint-Pierre church to see, but for us the real glory of this place can be found just walking around and looking and taking in the sights which have an almost mystical hold on me. Like La Roque-Gageac, the Parc de Marqueyssac and some other places, this village has a claim on my soul that will require periodic return visits.

The next town we went to that day is also in the Perigord Vert, Saint-Jean-de-Cole. This is a really charming village to the northeast of Brantome. We had been told about this village by Denise and Frank Liller in one of their sessions with us. As I have commented before, we came to the point of never passing on one of their recommendations. Not only are they the sweetest people in the world who were so very good to us when we were at Lacoste, but they had an impeccable and uncannily accurate sense of what to do and see.

Saint-Jean-de-Cole was one of them. It is very small and very quiet as many of the houses seemed to be owned by people who used them as vacation retreats. One of them was just being opened by a family that lived in a part of France a long way away, judging from the license plate on their car. Saint-Jean-de-Cole is on the banks of the Cole river that is straddled by an old gothic bridge remarkable for its symmetry and grace. The main square has at one of its sides the Chateau de la Monthonie and at another a very large and lovely church (whose design is said to be unique in the Perigord) and priory and a magnificent covered market hall that dates back centuries. After visiting this place, I know there is yet another place that has a claim on my soul due to its antiquity, grace and charm. It is simply wonderful here, but unfortunately we ran out of film and so we vowed to come back before we left. That, unfortunately, was not to be.

The second drive we took with Lisa was to Cahors, in the department of Lot, and to the south of Le Bugue and our new house in Ste. Alvere. It sits on the Lot river and is home to some wonderful vineyards that produce a very hearty and flavorful variety of red wines. North of Cahors is the extraordinary medieval village of Rocamadour, something that should never be missed and which Lisa had seen before so we did not take the time to visit it again this trip. On the way to Cahors we drove through the town of Gourdon where we walked around for a while in the ancient part of the city, I looked for some new eye glass frames, and, because of the cold, sought refuge in a local cafe.

As it turned out, school was out and so many of the customers were school kids having a coffee and countless cigarettes. The place was uninhabitable due to the amount of smoke, so after using the toilet we left and continued on the way to Cahors. The striking thing about this visit was that it reminded us of the level of teenage smoking that occurs in France. The government is trying to do something to curb it, but as it has a monopoly on tobacco (it also has a monopoly on the sale of matches) it is caught in a cruel dilemma. There is also the French notion of personal freedom, I think, that suggests that if this is what young people want to do then so be it. It seems to us they are making a big mistake by beginning smoking at such a young age, but that decision is theirs and this seems to be the position of the government as well.

We continued on to Cahors where we had lunch. After some very good salmon we did some exploring in the vieille ville, with is ancient roots that go back to 1 BC. The center of this district is the Cathedral St.-Etienne. On the other side of the town is the Pont Valentre, which spans the Lot river. Considered one of the finest examples of French military architecture since its construction in the 1300s, it has two elegant towers at each end. It is extraordinary, and we always marveled how these structures got built when the people had none of the machines we do today. But they had plenty of workers and lots of time, and an uncanny sense of grace about what they were building. We walked around for a bit longer but then, as the day was coming to an end and it was cold and snow flakes were beginning to fall, we headed back to the house, dinner and a roaring fire.

I have used the term Perigord Blanc and Vert here and it is appropriate to note that the Dordogne region of France also goes by the name Perigord, a name used most often by the French themselves for this region. The color designations are official descriptors of the diversity of the land and the economy of this region. Thus, there is the Perigord Vert (whose name, as the author of "The Most Beautiful Villages of the Dordogne" writes) evokes the woods and fields of the northern crescent with its towns of Riberac, Nontron, and Jumilhac; Perigord Blanc whose name congers up the limestone valleys of the center and its towns of Perigueux and the others in the Isle Valley; Perigord Noir in the southeastern part of the region is suggestive of the truffles and lush forests of the region and is home to the towns of Le Bugue and Sarlat; and Perigord Pourpre is the wine producing region of the department around Bergerac, Monbazillac, and Lalinde. What is interesting to Eleanor and me, as well as to all our guests, is that the terrain we saw on our drives was constantly changing, from the rolling hills and valleys of Perigord Noir to the gentle pastures of the northern part of Perigord Vert. And with the change in topography also came different forms of agricultural activity. When we were planning the trip Eleanor kept asking what we would do for six months, six months, she would shout. Now she knew we could spend six years here and never get to know this remarkable part of France, where history is such a fundamental part of the present and where ever more beautiful scenes can be found just around the next curve in the road. This is, indeed, an extraordinary part of the universe.

The last tour we took in the Dordogne was to Castelnaud. The day we went it was raining like crazy and our plans to walk around La Roque-Gageac and Beynac (a wonderful chateau that should not be missed, and it is no doubt one of the finest in France) were shelved and Eleanor and Lisa decided to tour this ancient castle instead. It is a fabulous ancient fortification that dates back to the 12th century and sits atop sheer cliffs rising up from the Dordogne river. It was razed and rebuilt several times in its history and was one of the English fortifications used to hem in the "evil" Baron de Beynac and his French forces during the 100 Year’s War. This war was the result of the marriage of Queen Eleanor of France to the future king of England, Henry Plantagenet. She had been married to Louis VII of France, and, after his former wife and her new husband were crowned in 1154 in Westminter, he refused to recognize that Acquitane, which had been part of Eleanor’s dowry when she married Louis, now belonged to the English. From 1154 until the middle of the 15th century England and France fought over the disputed territory, a war that spawned so many of the chateaux and bastides that now dot the landscape and give it so much of its indescribable beauty.

The short distances between the opposing chateaux of Beynac (French) and Castelnaud, Feyrac, and Marqueyssac (English) -- they could easily see one another and keep tabs on what the opposition was up to -- during this long struggle gives one a good sense of space as it was known at the time, and the smallness of the world in which these people, lived, fought, and died. This is one of the most interesting things about visiting this part of France. Castelnaud also contains a great military museum featuring the armaments and methods of warfare used during this same period. I did not accompany Eleanor and Lisa on their tour because of my claustrophobia so I did not have the opportunity to see firsthand one of the new features the architects of the chateau built into the structure. These were little alcoves built out from the walls of the chateau with holes cut in the bottom so that people could use them to answer nature’s call. I suspect these folks never thought of the peasants who might be toiling on the land just below. With the social system as it was then, this was just another example that the peasants were always getting dumped on.

There was one last town to visit with Lisa and that was St. Emilion. We would go there on our way to Bordeaux February 12, but the night before we celebrated Lisa’s birthday with champagne, presents, and some good food. She had given herself this trip as a birthday present and we felt fortunate she wanted to spend it with us. We gave her a French candle holder we had found in Le Bugue. It was special, we thought, and we took great joy in giving it to her. We hope she will use it for many years and think back to this evening with us and her trip every time she uses it. Lisa is a special young lady.

St. Emilion was a perfect way to end the trip for her. Besides Sarlat, this is Eleanor’s favorite city and she also wanted to have the opportunity to visit once more before we left, and with our tight schedule we knew we would not be able to if we did not go there with Lisa. So, as Lisa’s time with us was coming to an end, we departed St. Alvere Friday morning to go to Bordeaux, stopping in St. Emilion on the way.

St. Emilion was magnificent once again. We got there in time for lunch and then took a walking tour and did some shopping along the way. We found a tire-bouchon that was, in its own right, an objet d’art and so beautiful I just had to buy it. I had seen one just like it used by the owner of the Bistro Chanzy when we were there the month before, and I so admired it that I asked where I could get one. We did not have the chance to get one at that time, but now I had found one at long last. It truly is wonderful with a rosewood handle and stainless steel for all the working parts. It doesn’t get the cork out any faster but nonetheless accomplishes its mission with great panache.

In the same shop we came upon some really unusual glass fish we thought would be perfect for Andrew, as he once had an aquarium, wants another, but is now so busy with his new job that he has no time to maintain one. These are colorful fish that hang from a clear nylon line attached to a glass ball. This holds the fish suspended in water as though they are alive and swimming. We will get him an aquarium in which to display them when we get home. We then drove into the countryside to see the thousands of acres of vineyards and found the Chateau de Ferrand and took some photos under the entrance and the family crest. Now, if only the owners would learn to spell their name correctly.

After we finished our time in St. Emilion, we drove to the hotel in Bordeaux, checked in and went to dinner. We went to the same restaurant we frequent whenever we are in Bordeaux and by now the staff knows and welcomes us graciously. It was a really amusing meal, as the waiter seemed very taken with Lisa and hovered around the table bringing us whatever we wanted. Eleanor and I had a pave of salmon that was very good. Lisa indulged herself with lamb that was delicious, as lamb always is in this part of France. Later in the evening, when we completed dessert, the waiter brought us a bottle of wine that went unfinished at another table and poured us each a glass from it. Then a plate of chocolates for the table, set right in front of Lisa. It was a gas, with the waiter being alternately obvious and ever so subtle (NOT) and made this evening for us, our last together, memorable. Then we walked back to the hotel and we bid one another good night and good-bye. She had to be at the airport by 5:45 am as her plane left for Paris 45 minutes later. But we asked her to wake us before she left, which she did. It was sad to see her go. She had been so important to us after the news of Eleanor’s mother that we did not quite know what to expect when we would be on our own.

Part VII -- The Last Days In Le Bugue

Before we drove back to the house to finish packing, we went to the train station to change the tickets. We wanted to change one ticket for our trip from Paris to the Haag and back February 18, when we planned to see the Wileys one last time before we left Europe. And, we needed a one-way ticket to Paris February 16. It was a complicated transaction, and the experience we had at the station confirmed for me once again how helpful the French can be in working with someone who speaks less that perfect French.

It would have been very easy for this man to be bureaucratic and say that what I wanted to do was impossible, arrange for a refund that would come months later, and make us purchase new tickets for the trip we wanted to make to the Netherlands. Instead, he worked with me, waited patiently while I looked up the proper words in my dictionary or got the proper conjugations from my book of 300 verbs. He was truly remarkable and very much appreciated by Eleanor and me. When we left he even remarked that I spoke very good French, but French with an English, not American, accent. I have yet to figure out if that was a compliment or not.

After this we drove back to Ste. Alvere. But first we made a mad dash to Sarlat so we could close out our bank account. I had made an appointment with Gerard Martegoutte at the Credit Commercial du Sud-Ouest for 2 pm that afternoon and I did not want to be late as the bank is closed Monday. We got there in good time and decided that Eleanor would try to get another haircut before we left. We did not have an appointment, but the people there, when hearing our need to return home unexpectedly, fit her in and did another spectacular job. She looked even better than before. We then went to the bank and conducted our business with one of the nicest people we have met in France.

After talking to M. Martegoutte awhile, we both decided that it would be best if I kept the account open, for him because I still had some charges on the credit card that the bank had to post and, for me, as an inducement to return to France. Where I have money I have interest, and it seemed as though this would be a good way to handle things. I wish the bankers here were as friendly and helpful as M. Martegoutte was. When we left the bank I said thanks to everyone there for tolerating my at times fractured French and for always being so willing to help. They are all very nice people. The drive back to the house in Ste. Alvere was a melancholy one for us both. We love that drive and now we were taking it for the last time. Our dealings with M. Martegoutte and the beauty of the drive made us realize again why we like France and the French people so much. Now I knew for sure the transition to life in California would be hard.

At the house, we were trying to eat down our store of food and so we bought a few scant things at the Intermarche and then went to the Maison de la Presse to get a copy of the paper. We got back to the house in good time to start a fire as it was still very cold outside, but the central heating made the inside of the farmhouse toasty and very nice. There was so much packing and getting ready we did not really know where to begin. So I opened up a bottle of wine, we sat in front of the fire and just relaxed. It did not help us toward our goal of getting ready, but it was the best we could do that night. We thought a good meal and sleep would make us more productive the next day. It would have had I not had another stomach attack that came at just the wrong time. With so much to do, with two long train rides in front of us and then the 11 hour flight home I was staring at the dreadful prospect of being locked in the latrine of first a rail car and then an airplane as I departed France. In a word, I was worried. And so was Eleanor.

These attacks are really strange. I had been drinking nothing but bottled water and boiling the tap water in which we did the cooking for a long time before we put pasta and other things into it, eating only vegetables that had been washed in bottled water, and having our usual pasta dishes washed down by a single glass of wine. Yet, I was still getting sick, and this last episode was so near our departure for home. I immediately took the medicine I had obtained from the doctor and tripled the dose (as the package said I could in extreme cases, and I certainly thought this case fit my definition of extreme) and the next day I was really laid low by the effects of the gastritis. I got a new prescription of the medication Monday and things began to look better Monday afternoon and by that night I was about back to normal, and not a second too soon.

Eleanor and I spent our last days in the Dordogne packing suitcases and the boxes in which we would send many of our things home. I had arranged with Simply Perigord to take the boxes to the post office and mail them for me. I knew that I would not be up to hauling a very heavy duffel and so packed many more boxes than I had used coming. It would cost me, but I knew this was the best thing to do. Thus, by the time I was done I had a bag I could lift with relative ease. Then we got busy with Eleanor’s two suitcases.

We had to go back to the old house for most of Eleanor’s things, as she left them there when we moved the day of the flood. We also had to spend time cleaning Lacoste as best we could. The house was a mess when we got there. Due to the flooding the rugs were sopped and smelling dreadfully. The water had washed in a lot of dirt and it was everywhere. The fact that the driveway was a sea of ankle-deep mud created its own problems as well as being slippery, which accounted for Eleanor’s fall just before we left for the last time, something that did not endear her to the house. But we got everything we had left there, cleaned out the refrigerator and got the food ready to give to the Lillers, dusted everything we could reach, mopped the kitchen floor and the bathrooms and water closets, stripped the beds and put sheets and towels on the dining room table, vacuumed upstairs and in the kitchen, cleaned up the area next to the house where I had split at least 7 square meters of wood between October and February, and generally tried to leave the place as neat as we could.

I worked as fast as I could because I did not want to be in the house any longer than I had to. All I could think of was the pressure building against the back wall. Eleanor worked as fast as she could because all the affection she had for the place evaporated after her fall in the mud. It was, in short, time to move out and move on. Lacoste had been a place of great merriment and good times for our guests and us. But it had also been a source of enormous travail and work for me. I calculate that I spent about 12 working days dealing with the various problems there, waiting for tradesmen to come to fix one problem or another, writing memos to M. Gomes, and e-mails to the owner, Mellen Candage, about what was going on. This was a lot for a vacation. Too much, I think. Yet, we had a grand time so there is a real tension in my mind, and Mellen always did her best being so far away to try to get things fixed in a timely manner. That counts for a lot.

As the weekend came to an end and blended into Monday, the packing and house cleaning was coming to an end. We also wanted to leave the new house in good shape even though a cleaning service would come in shortly after our departure. Eleanor’s bags got packed and when they seemed too full to close, I ripped some things out and packed another box. Their number was growing geometrically, it seemed, as we strove to get ready to leave by 11 am Tuesday morning. We had to turn in the car that day by 3 pm so we could get to the train station in time for the TGV at 5:30 pm.

We continued packing into Monday evening and as we packed Eleanor’s bags I packed more boxes, wondering where the devil all this stuff came from. We knew we were going to be here for 6 months and therefore needed more clothes than for an overnight trip, but neither she nor I arrived with this much JUNK, did we?? Whenever there was a question about what to pack, I got another box ready. It was an astonishing process, but by the time we went to bed we had everything packed and ready to load in the car. We gave the CD player we had bought to Frank and Denise Liller. It operated only on 220 current so it was no good to us in the States, and I wanted them to have it as the sound quality is good and music is so important to them. Frank liked it especially as he had wanted to buy some CDs but had nothing to play them on. Now that situation is rectified and we hope they get years of enjoyment out of it. Our departure and the last round of good-byes was very sad, as they are such sweet people.

We also said good-byes to the people in Le Bugue we had come to like so -- the people at Maison de la Presse, the butcher shop where we got our meat, and the boulangere who sold us the most lovely bread and pain au chocolat imaginable, and several others. Then we were ready to leave. It had been a hectic time. We had scheduled two weeks in March to get ready to head back home. We did it all in two or three days, and for these two people that is truly astonishing. The only thing that was left to do was take the last boxes to Simply Perigord and say ciao to the Snitches, pack the car, lock the house and return the keys, and set out for Bordeaux and the car agency. We had done the impossible. It was our own Manhattan Project, but neither of us had gone nuclear. Remarkable.

Part VIII -- Paris and the Return Home

After the last, rather melancholy drive to Bordeaux during which we ticked off the things we had intended to do and places we wanted to see in our remaining weeks in France, we arrived and after some difficulty found the car agency. We signed the forms and the man with whom we were dealing then drove us to the Gare St. Jean. Eleanor had to ride on my lap as the back seat was down and the car loaded with luggage. The man was stunned to see the number of bags we had and wondered how we dealt with them on our trip, which he no doubt thought was spent touring in the car. When I said we had rented a house for 5 months he understood better but still hoped no police would spot us because our riding style was strictly illegal.

We got to the station in such good time that I changed our tickets from the 5:30 pm train to one that left at 4:40, or so I thought and had been told. With about 45 minutes to kill Eleanor went to the bathroom and I got us sandwiches and something to drink. Eleanor came back and as I set off to go to the bathroom Eleanor looked at the tickets. She let out a shriek when she learned that even though the clerk had told me our train left at 4:40 he had us booked on the one that left at 4:05 -- we had 5 minutes to get to the train, put the bags in the car, and return the two luggage carts so I could get my two 10 franc coins back.

Pushing as hard as we could, we got to the right train, I threw the bags on and as the whistle blew I sprinted with one of the carts to the stand nearby, made the connection to get my money back, ran back to the car and grabbed the other cart and, as I turned to race to the cart stand, Eleanor yelled for me to get on the train. At that moment I just knew she would have made a great drill sergeant in the Marine Corps as there was no mistaking the tone in her voice. She was right, of course, as just as I set my foot on the step to board the train the doors began to shut. That was a close call. I looked back and saw my 10 francs heading into someone else’s pocket.

The craziness of the departure gave way to a wonderfully peaceful trip. This was just the train to take as it made no stops along the way and we arrived in Paris in just over 3 hours. We got a taxi and went to our regular hotel where the very good staff took our bags up to the room. The doorman has turned out to be very friendly to me and always made sure I had one of the "International Herald Tribune" for my personal use. He saw that my demeanor had changed and asked if all was OK, and I told him my belle mere had died recently and we had to return for the funeral. He was shocked. When he saw Eleanor a few minutes later he went up to her and said how sorry he was, took her hands in his, and kissed her on both cheeks as a sign of his sorrow. His mother had died just a while earlier, he told me, and said it was extremely difficult for him to deal with her loss. His sympathy was touching.

Later, when we got to the room, we got out the cookware we had brought with us and ready to take to Dehillerin, le specialiste du materiel de cuisine, the next day so the people there could mail it to our home in California. That gave us much more room in our bags so we repacked for the 43rd time, but this time there was no need for any boxes, thank heaven. Then we went to dinner and afterwards walked around the Parc du Champ de Mars for a while and gazed at the Eiffel Tower that is so remarkably beautiful at night remembering the especially good time we had with the Korvases and the Garners over the Thanksgiving holidays.

The next day began with an unusual incident on the metro. As we were buying a carnet for our travels on the system, three young black kids jumped the gate and headed down to the train we wanted to take. A man entering the station was infuriated and excoriated the stationmaster in no uncertain terms about why she did not call the police. I also made a comment about why did I bother buying a ticket if I could jump the fence and take the train without paying. Then we proceeded down to the tracks and were just about to get on the train when several police came running down the stairs after the kids. It looked as though the stationmaster had taken action after all. More police came, one almost knocking Eleanor down (stopping long enough to offer his apologies), and then several plainclothes cops followed. The three kids saw them coming, jumped out of the car they were on, and raced into the tunnel trying to escape. This is risky business, of course, because of the electrical power so the police shut down the system. No trains were moving along this line at all, and, as we would see in just a minute, they had more police at the next metro stop looking for the miscreants. This continued for many minutes and we looked at one another and decided to take a cab. Who knew how long this would take and the event convinced me again, if I ever needed more convincing, that the one group of people one never wants to annoy is the French police. I would not want to be one of the young men if they were caught.

We took the cab to Dehillerin, left the pans, and exerted all my will power not to get anything more; went to Printemps for lunch with Jacqueline at Cafe Flo (what a fabulous place that is. It was built in 1923 and is composed of 3,185 stained glass panels, measures 16 meters in height with a diameter of 20 meters, and makes even modest fare about as flavorful as it can get ); looked for a beret to take the place of the one I had lost; said a bientot to Jacqueline after we had found just what I wanted; and then headed off to Delta and United Airlines to get our tickets for the flight home.

One of our stops was to the Air France office to try to get a refund on the tickets we had purchased for a flight to London to see the Maynes. They were nonrefundable but I thought under the circumstances they would make the refund. After all, it was not as though we had changed our plans willy-nilly but for a very good reason, as the letter from the mortuary I showed them verified. The response was wonderfully bureaucratic and not at all sympathetic. The supervisor threw the letter back at me and said I should have purchased trip insurance. It was no good arguing with the twit except to say that it is impossible to know when someone is going to die unexpectedly. It is just a good reason to avoid flying the airline if possible.

The next morning we traveled to the Gare du Nord to get the TGV to the Haag and from the station took a taxi to John Wiley’s home where we spent three delightful hours with Liesbette and him. We could not have left Europe without seeing them again and they were eager to see us for one last time before our trip ended. They are very special people and we enjoy them a great deal. John knew my condition and so did not offer me any of his wonderful Dutch gin but just tea with his favorite cookies. The time just flew buy as they told us more tales of their life together and the extraordinary adventures they had. We filled them in on our last several days in France and we all agreed that it was a stressful way to end a marvelous 5 months. But as the time passed I began to feel we should head back to the station to get the train to Paris. It was a good thing we did as it was a new station to us and we were not entirely sure where to go. But, we found our way, the train came, and we were off to Paris and our last night. We had some last minute things to do when we got back to the hotel, so up until the very end we were repacking and trying to get things organized.

The next day we were off. It had been just 11 days since the phone call about Eleanor’s mother. In that time we called the boys and consoled them just as I consoled their mother; endured a flood in the house; packed all our things hurriedly and left one house to set up shop in another; got our new flight reservations for the trip home; spent two days sightseeing with Lisa and then took her to Bordeaux to get to her plane home (thank God she had been with us as I doubt we could have done everything without her); went to Sarlat to close our bank account and get a last haircut for Eleanor; returned to Ste. Alvere to complete our packing and to take the Federal Express boxes and those we would send by mail to Simply Perigord for them to handle; cleaned Lacoste as best we could, a long process; packed the car; returned the keys to the house to Mme. Lacoste and said our good-byes to this remarkable old woman; closed up the new house and returned those keys; endured yet another, one last attack of gastritis; drove to Bordeaux and turned in the car and caught the train to Paris; did some business in the City of Light before going to the Haag to see the Wileys; and went to the airport for the flight to the United States. It had been a sprint and we were exhausted, emotionally and physically.

We took a taxi to Charles de Gaulle Friday morning and first dropped Eleanor off at her terminal and I went to mine for the noon flight to San Francisco and then, after a two hour lay over, on to Los Angeles. Business class is a wonderful way to fly and the flight attendants were very good. The flight was wonderfully smooth and the pills I swallowed took the edge off things so I could get some real sleep. The Boeing 777 is a great plane and has a good library of old films. I saw "The Caine Mutiny" and the 1949 film, "All the King’s Men," starring Broderick Crawford in a story based loosely on the life of Huey Long of Louisiana. They were terrific. Before you knew it, and after about 30 seconds of rough air the entire trip, we landed in San Francisco. I went through customs in two minutes and spent the entire time talking to the agent about my consulting work. Not a question about where I had been, for how long, or what I bought. He took my slip and I was off, to wait for the shuttle to Los Angeles. After two hours we were off and an hour later, about 6:00 in the evening, I landed at LAX. It was a Friday evening and I was set to hit the freeway in my rental car at the worst hour. And about that time I began to get really tired. But I made it to Sierra Madre and my sister-in-law’s house in less than two hours and ready for bed. I was back in the United States, and back with my wife as she and her family made the final preparations for their mother’s funeral the following Monday.

Part IX -- Back to LaLa Land and the Boys

When I landed in LAX the whole world seemed upside-down. I would soon be back with the boys and that was great. I would see the doctor before long, but everything had changed. Here are a few impressions:

• The number of people in motion around me was staggering and the velocity of their movement even more so. I had not seen this much activity in 5 months, even in Paris. It was a little surreal;
• when I got outside the terminal, there were no cars that sounded like cement mixers as everyone was running on gasoline. One form of pollution was being substituted for another;
• there was no quiet any longer, and in fact the level of noise was deafening;
• there were police everywhere, on foot, on bicycles, in cars, on motorcycles; in the air in helicopters with their searchlights piercing the evening darkness. I was indeed back in the land of proscription, those rules and regulations that proscribe activity and so much personal choice and freedom;
• there was a stunning amount of selection in the markets, far beyond what the Intermarche had to offer, and coming from everywhere in the world. It was astounding and slightly mind boggling;
• there was no view and no vivid colors that snapped to life as the sun came up in the morning. That is something that we will never have again, or at least for a while, and which we will miss terribly;
• I went into Starbucks near the home where we were staying with Eleanor’s sister and out of habit asked for un cafe et pain au chocolat. The clerk looked mystified and then I knew my mistake and asked for a coffee. He asked about the pain au chocolat and when I explained what it was he smiled and said, "oh, something like a Twinkie but with chocolate, right?" I knew I was home;
• I jaywalked one day in Sierra Madre and one of the ubiquitous policemen in a patrol car drove by me and gave me the longest stare. Not knowing what I was doing wrong I just stared back, wondering why he was staring at me so intently. It was not until I was told that jaywalking was a no-no did I realize what a severe infraction I had committed. That cop would have had a field day in the land of double parking, endless jaywalking, and tailgating. Ticket heaven, I’d call it.

The next day we went to see the boys and what a sight they were to see. Now I knew I was home and how good it was to get a long hug from each of them, and from Kristen. I just savored them and suggested we have dinner all together the next night including Kristen’s mother and father. We did and it was just like the good old days. It was terrific to be home. The next day I went with Andrew while he leased a new car. Not to approve or disapprove, just to see what it was like. Most of all, it was just nice spending time with him. I had missed the kids more than I ever thought I would and it was terrific to be able to hug and kiss them again.

Part X -- The Funeral and Return to Woodland

Monday was the funeral and Eleanor’s sisters and brother did a wonderful job of planning. E-mail had permitted Eleanor to participate as well, in addition to the time she spent on the telephone. The planning and service were impeccable and it was a moving tribute to a wonderful lady and a life well and graciously lived. Eleanor’s mother would have liked it and would have been proud of what her children did and the choices they made.

The service was held in the Episcopal church the family attended and the interment was in the cemetery very nearby and where Eleanor’s father is also buried. It was a celebration of life that was being conducted and the minister did a splendid job of reminding people that death, like birth, was an integral part of life and that what counted was the quality of the life that had been lived. By this standard Eleanor’s mother, as had her father, lived a life that gave back to society more than she ever took, and made the world a better place for her having been a part of it. Yet, there is a finality to death that is impossible to escape, and as the celebration made her children remember their mother in her more vibrant years, there was still the sadness and melancholy of no longer having her there, to hug and kiss, even in her compromised condition that robbed her of her memories and knowing who her children were.

There was a very nice reception that followed in which friends gathered to talk and to remember. Then we returned to Elizabeth’s house for dinner. I had to call it a night earlier than most as I was just as tired as I could be. I said good-bye to the boys and to Kristen, Eleanor and everyone else there and went back to Sierra Madre and bed. Jet lag had me in its grips and I had to sleep. The next day I spent at the University where I consult and picked up some work that will keep me busy for the next few days. Eleanor spent the time with her family and saying one last good-bye to her mother and father. Then Wednesday we drove home.

It is amazing how large California is. It took us 6 hours of driving at 70 miles per hour to reach Woodland through California’s Central Valley, one of the richest agricultural areas in the world. It is a remarkable sight, but so different from the agricultural areas in which we had been living the past five months. Big farms instead of small ones. Huge tracts of land tilled rather than smaller fields that make up a single family’s holdings, made smaller each generation due to the nature of French laws of inheritance. This conflicts, of course, with French public policy that seeks to encourage small farms and sustaining the position of the small farmer in French life. This has met with mixed results, as the slow exodus from the land marks social evolution in France every bit as much as it does in the United States.

We finally pulled into our driveway, opened the door, and saw Max. He ran to us, smelled Matt’s and Andrew’s dogs on our clothes, and then began to run around excitedly wanting to play. My, how we had missed him. After a quick dinner we were off to bed and there was Max, keeping it warm for us. We are home at last, and all was right with the world. And after the last 10 days or so this is just the place we want to be.

This brings to an end the formal part of this journal of our five month adventure in France, and an adventure it was. Eleanor and I hope you have enjoyed reading about and participating in it. We have enjoyed your feedback and suggestions. In fact, we were reading one of the months recently and it brought back many things that already had begun to slip from memory. So, in reality, it is serving its intended purpose, a memoir of this period of our lives, written by us for us, and for those who found it interesting to follow our adventures on the Web. There will be one last bit, a coda in which we hope to combine some photos with general reflections about our time in France. It will be uploaded in a while, but I now need to get to work for some clients and earn some money with which to pay the bills that are now coming due with a vengeance. So, good-bye for now.

One last thought. If you want to know where the towns are which Eleanor and I visited, the best way is to get a copy of Michelin map number 75. It covers this part of France and is mandatory equipment in every car and home.