The Farm
Our PMQ building was on the edge of the PMQ development, situated on top of a very high hill that sloped to a valley like a green carpet. In the valley was a little town called ‘St. Avold’.
Many things were observed on that greenery. Sheep grazed, kids swatted golf balls and cars wound around on the road circling the hill. One day when we were looking out the window of our apartment, we watched an old lady walk down the hill through the little apple orchard to the side. She was all dressed in black but when she stopped to relieve herself, she revealed shocking pink bloomers. What a kodak moment that was!
At the bottom of the hill there was a beautiful old French country farm house with three charming young daughters. I felt so privileged to know these girls and to be able to play with them on their farm. They only spoke French and I had no French at all. I was going to an English school the military had set up in the PMQ’s. It took me the whole time I lived in France to be able to understand them. This was the beginning of my passion for French.
They had chickens on the farm that would run freely in the yard. Much to my horror, the chickens even ran around after their heads were cut off. It was nothing for my friends to witness this as this was just the normal beginning of preparing dinner.
They also had rabbits in the barn in cages. I had had a pet rabbit that got too big for me and I asked if I could leave it with their rabbits and they could take care of it for me. It was dark in the barn and all the rabbits looked the same. As the months became years, I became less and less sure which rabbit was mine and suspected it had made it to the pot as rabbit stew. But I couldn’t be certain.
The worst thing I ever did, I did on that farm. I stole an egg from one of the chickens in the chicken house. I carefully carried the egg up the hill, coddling it in my hands. When I got to our third floor apartment, I carefully laid it in the oven and turned the oven on. I was sure I would have a baby chick! Hours later, nothing happened. It was so hot when I took it out of the oven, I thought I’d killed it when I opened it to find a hard boiled egg.
I never really got over stealing from my friends nor the added injury of perhaps killing the baby chick. I feel guilty about this to this day. This experience marred an otherwise wonderful gaggle of memories of my French friends and their charming farm.
