The French School

Ah, the French school; finally strict schools and serious study.  Well, it was a little too much.  You see, the schools in France all had to be on the same page on the same day.  If the students couldn’t keep up, they failed.  And if they didn’t keep up the second time, they failed again. They could even fail three times. 

This was rather unacceptable to us North Americans, so we put the boys with the nuns in a French private catholic school, hoping support would be better.  Damon and Tyson survived two years, Brandon, one.  

It just wasn’t working for Brandon.  He was having nightmares and displaying depressive behaviour.  He produced superlative work, I thought, but he couldn’t pass.  So the next year we placed him in the local public school. I thought this would be much better for him and allow him to acquaint with local kids.  Unfortunately, his teacher was an old  badalax and hated the kids, it seemed. She yanked Brandon’s hair, and tugged on his ears.  In May, in frustration with her, I pulled him out of school and waited till the next year when he would go to an adjacent town with his school mates, up to the next level.  

My best friend, Jocceline, was the head mistress and teacher of that new school.  Brandon managed to lead the whole class into rebellion as he had figured out now that we were going back to Canada in the summer and he didn’t really need to learn anything. I was to find out later, that Jocceline would often go home in tears. She was so special.  She was beautiful and wore long skirts and gold shows… even to garden in!  She had long black hair, pulled back to show her exquisite delicate, Spanish features. She was such a good teacher and had the loyalty of all her students, and then along came Brandon. 

Damon and Tyson tried honestly to make the grade.  After two years of not getting great marks, Damon came home and ranted that he would NOT fail because of a language especially when he knew the subject matter.  He was so upset, and rightly so, that I immediately called the Ontario Ministry of Education and put the boys on correspondence courses.  Damon could never accept failure or substandard results. 

The rules were they had to get up in the morning, be dressed, fed, and beds made by 9:00.  Once the work was done, they were free.  We worked around their flexibility and took four and five day trips around Europe.  It worked for all of us. They sure knew what work meant when they returned home to finish up their high school; both were Ontario Scholars. Grade thirteen was a cake walk after all there pressure of the French school under the nuns and the self-educating experience of correspondence courses.

The Sheep Barn

‘Hameau de Boinville' was a little hamlet that consisted of a series of farm buildings and small dwellings for workers, that all belonged to the farmstead.  The small streets, lined with stone walls, fell under the umbrella of ancient old trees.  It was quiet except for the sounds of the birds singing from their hidden abysses.  It was very beautiful.  

The farmer  who owned the farmstead was also the mayor of the hamlet. He had renovated many of these outbuildings into homes and we rented what had previously been the sheep barn.  It was an old stone building on top of a mound which rolled down to a little river.  The stone pathway along the river, with the rose arches above, led to a little one room ‘river house’.

Outside the sheep barn was a large stone patio and a vegetable garden.

The inside was completely new. Downstairs had a working kitchen, an open dining-living area and a large bedroom. Upstairs were two bedrooms.  It was a little small for the five of us which just meant Damon and Tyson would have to share a bedroom.

We had many wonderful times there. Damon discovered the house on the river and moved in.  He had a bed and  a light, a little dresser. He was happy!

Even thoughI had had many postings as a kid, for some reason, I initially felt uncharacteristically anxious here, out of place. It was a new feeling for me. But I had to stay put. I had to overcome these feelings.  I decided I’d treat it just like another posting; it would only be for three years. Hold your breath; you’ll be home soon.  This feeling passed; I guess it was adjusting to a new environment and I was worrying about how it would go for the kids.

The Move to France

It seemed all our moves were done alone by me.  This one was no exception.  Don had started his new job in Paris and I was packing up and organizing the movers.  When all was done, I was on the airplane to Paris with the kids with a full blown case of laryngitis. I couldn’t speak.  It was okay though, because I didn’t need to talk much on the plane.  Don’s pilot friend, Reg Orange, joked that his prayers had been answered. 

Don did the neatest thing. As the kids and myself were landing in Paris, Don was simultaneously taking off from for a three day trip from the same airport we were landing at, and with the same air line.  The Captain came on the PA.  “Captain Murray had a message for his wife that he’ll be home in three days and welcome to France. And…. if I were to look out the starboard window, i could wave at him taking off!”  I thought I should stand upland take a bow, and say, ‘That’s me!  I’m Mrs. Murray!”   I thought that was so sweet.  We were on our way to ‘L’Hotel Mercure’ where we would all meet up.

Chapter 14 France, 1989-1992

One year after moving to ‘Mondesire’, Don got an offer to move to France for three years.  We anguished over it because we were still excited about the farm.  It was hard to leave our lovely home, but we decided it best for everyone to go to France and have this experience. We rented the farm and headed to France with the kids.  It was to be the highlight of their lives, just like my living in France as a kid was the highlight of mine. They, too, were grateful for the traveling and for the opportunity to live in another country. 

And I hoped that maybe this time this adventure would heal the wounds of our marriage.

Before we moved, I went over to France with a group of pilots and their wives to find a place to live. Everything was rented.  It seemed impossible to find something in the time we had. There was a song on the hit parade at the time, “Sail away” and all I could hear was ‘c’est loue”.  

Don’s company, ‘Quebecair', had made arrangements for the pilots and their families to stay at a hotel at the airport until they found accommodation.  It was smack dab in the middle of a large parking lot surrounded by motorways. There was no where to go in the hotel aside from the lobby.  It was disastrous.  I couldn’t help thinking… whatever are the kids going to do besides drive their mothers mad?

It just so happened that the real estate agent I was with showed me a secluded, classy hotel, the ‘Hotel Mercure’.  It was tucked up in the forest away from civilization and high ways, but not that far to the airport.  It had a riding stable, a manor, a pool and a beautiful new hotel all buried in the magnificent old trees.  It was luxurious!  I was delirious. This was it; this was where the families had to be.  I excitedly brought chief pilot Reg Orange and the other pilots over and they concurred immediately. What a find!  

It was a great introduction to France where we were to live for three years. We stayed at the hotel for about three weeks and then Don found the sheep barn.

Glengarry

The area fit us like a glove.  I got involved in all sorts of community groups such as The North Glengarry Economic Development Group, The North Glengarry Investment Club, Chair of Property Standards.  My neighbour Alison Wilson, became a best friend.  People I admired and adored included Jean and Blair Williams, Sue and Bill Gilsdorf, Aidi and Annie St. Dennis, Gwen Morris, Flip and Robin Flocton, Nancy Ripley. Nancy passed on in 2014.

Alison and I would cross country ski with a group of girls in the winter and hike in the summer, stopping to have tea at someone’s country home. I was happy.  I had my community of friends. I had come home.

I found so much joy in the kids, my new friends and the beauty of the farm. It was certainly these pleasures that carried me through. Even after all these years together, Don and I, we couldn’t get it right.

The Chickens

What’s a farm without chickens?  We picked up some Arkansas chicks and they laid blue and green eggs.  We mixed them up with a brown rooster and the eggs were then all different colors, pink, brown even sometimes white.  The color of the hen determines the color of the eggs. 

We put the chickens in the solarium, which was at the end of the former chicken coup, where they could be warmed by the heat lamp and could cozy up in the empty flower bed crates.  I thought they’d be safer there than in the chicken coup which was a bit open onto the yard and some fox might get them.  In the remembering of it I realize how ludicrous my request was to my neighbor, Alison. I asked her how to clean the chicken coup floor, because there was linoleum in the solarium and it was getting rather dirty, even though I had covered it with sawdust.  Alison didn’t know what to say because chicken coups had dirt floors and she never cleaned hers.  That’s what you get for living in the country when you come from the city.  

One day Don came in with a dead frozen chicken.  He reminded me of Monty Python who was returning a dead parrot and flopped the stiff corpse on the counter.  He explained the chicken had fallen out of the solarium and had gotten stuck between the wall and some fencing and froze to death.  Poor chicken.

UFO's

UFO’s

When we moved to the farm, I had just read “ The Interrupted Journey”.  It was a story about how a couple had been abducted by a UFO and how they had to be hypnotized to recall what had happened to them. I was fascinated and convinced that they existed. Now it was my turn. We were in the country, isolated, just perfect environment for a connection with aliens.  I mentioned to Don that we could put a message for them to come to us in lights on the roof so they could find us. He said that’d be okay as long as we didn’t tell anybody.

I was intense.  I was receptive and I just had a feeling it would happen.  Well, one night I was driving our full sized van along a dark and secluded country road.  There was a brilliant light  that filled the van which disappeared just as quickly. It came again and again.  As I gripped the steering wheel, I thought victoriously to myself,  “This is it! They’re here!”  My breathing became shallow as I drove slowly along, in anticipation of what might happen next. 

When I got home, much to my disappointment, I realized the back door of the van wasn’t closed properly and it opened and closed on the bumpy road causing the interior lights to go on and off.  Waa!

Oh, but it happened again!  This was the real thing now.  Again I was driving the van on a back road in the country, and the light came back, in a similar way, brilliant light and then blackness.  I was full of expectation!  They found me!  I only hoped they’d be kind.  I drove along for several minutes waiting to see them.  I furtively looked left and right, checking for a space ship.  In my delusional state, it was difficult to see the obvious, that the full moon was low on the horizon and every time the trees dipped, the moon light shone through. The realization was crushing.  Rats.  There were no other episodes and the aliens never did find us.