by B. Joan Gordon
Life in the village has a static rhythm that assures one that all is well in the world, and if that changes, neighbors will help you. The sun rises before 6:00 A.M. and is announced by pigeons cooing to each other. Soon sugary smells stream through the bakery door onto the courtyard of the old church. As the bells of Eglise St. Pierre ring seven times, buses come to take children to school and commuters to busy offices. When they return in the afternoon, the outdoor tables and chairs of Les Camelias, the local bistro, beckons them to have a lemonade or wine, or on special evenings, a pizza. The stress of the day is left in the city.
Flowers at doorways, in gardens, along street curbs, and hanging from light posts celebrate summer. They are bigger, brighter, and more beautiful than any display in a floral shop. Roses laden with clusters of blooms live for decades and grow into trees. Lilacs, boxwoods, forsythia, and fruit trees make the hedges that line the roads.
People walk – to the grocery, bakery, pub, church, or just to stroll along the street. And when they meet, they greet each other with friendly gestures, a handshake for men, a kiss on the cheek for women, and a wish for a good day. They talk and listen and compliment and smile. Dinner invitations, gifts of garden grown vegetables, and offers of help are every day events and the ugliest word spoken is “modern.”
Each morning, shy Roberto, who has no family or money, shuffles his way from the restaurant to the bakery, dragging tall paper bags behind him. When he returns with the sacks filled with long loaves of French bread, he is rewarded with free lunch and a beer. He sits in his special seat at the bar, smiling, happy to be included in the daily gathering of workers and villagers.
Ninety-Year old Evelyn’s house is encircled with pots of flowers which she lovingly tends each day. A farmer most of her life, she knows how to make plants thrive. Still curious and interested, she watched through open windows all that goes on in the village, and she talks to everyone who passes by. Neighbors check on her daily and offer to help with the watering cans. She declines the help but enjoys chatting with them. On Wednesday, a meat and vegetable vendor pulls his truck in front of her door and blows his horn to let her know he has arrived. The large parking lot across the street would be a more lucrative spot for him, but it would mean a longer walk for Evelyn.
Centuries old churches, homes, monuments, and buildings are everywhere, and the history of every place is well known. Locals are proud of the uniqueness of their area. There are caves with drawings of ancient people and animals, castles that were never taken in battle, chapels built by kings, and lily-filled rivers that flow past abbeys and flour mills.
Old is better than new, pastures are better than highways, music is better than television, parks are better than high rises. Successive generations grow up in the same home and families are extended. Money is not king, or even a baron. It is exchanged for good, honest labor and used to buy necessities. Vehicles may be decades old and still reliable with few electronics to malfunction. Like money they are necessary, but not central to life. New and flashy is tacky. Insurance, home or auto, is cheap as are property taxes and medical costs. Fast food and the plastic that normally accompanies it is rare. Roads, alleyways, and public areas are trash free.
Chickens roam in grassy fields while music plays in their houses, cattle are clean and graze in lush pastures, and sheep and goats munch their way along river banks and meadows. The food chain is clean.
Holidays are frequent. They are spent enjoying the countryside, or beach, or a walk in the park. There is no need to travel for there is nothing to escape from.
It is a simple life, a rich life, a good life. The rhythm is slow and enduring. May it always be so.