In Gratitude

I’m writing this from my living room in an old stone house in a tiny town in the South of France, where I’ve relocated for a year. This evening I built a fire, roasted some chestnuts, and began writing to you.

Gratitude for sacrifice. It is November 11—Veterans Day, Armistice Day, Remembrance Day—and my little town put on a show that brought tears to my eyes.

The South of France saw enormous loss during World War I, the war to end all wars and the war that brought us Armistice Day. About 12 times as many men from this town died during WWI as during WWII. I missed the start of today’s event at the cemetery, but caught up when the French Tricolore was marched through town, proudly borne by several veterans. A whole parade of townspeople accompanied them to the war memorial, where young children were invited to the front of the crowd to read the names of the fallen, and the local chorus gave a rousing rendition of the French national anthem, the Marseillaise. The mayor gave a speech, as did one or two other dignitaries. I didn’t follow all the French, but I understood enough to know that both of the longer speeches gave enormous credit to the United States for entering the war and helping the Allies win.

And that is really what this is all about: a day to remember those who gave their lives to fight for their nations, and to show our gratitude for their sacrifice. The armistice to end WWI took effect in 1918, at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month; here in my town, the ceremony began shortly after 11:11 in the morning (perhaps those parading vets are walking a bit more slowly these days!).

Gratitude for blessings. When you live close to the land, as happens here in France, the seasons are measured by what is available to eat. I arrived here in September at the end of vendange, the season of harvesting grapes for wine production. During October and early November, we’ve had the olive harvest. The celebrated local variety is Lucques, and there is a grove of magnificent ancient olive trees just outside of town. Up next will be truffles.

As autumn has progressed, the flavors and textures of the outdoor markets have altered to include myriad varieties of squash, root vegetables, and one of my favorite treats, chestnuts.

During this American season of giving thanks, I’m feeling so grateful for the bounty of the land, and for this opportunity to explore the beautiful foods, cuisines, and customs of the South of France.

Left: “Cavaillon” is one of the varieties of luscious melons grown in the South of France. Right: Autumn is when the many varieties of squash appear in the outdoor markets of France. This photograph is titled “Courge.”
A venerable old olive tree, one of a grove of trees that are hundreds of years old and still producing delicious olives. This photograph is “One Toe Forward.”
The Citroën 2CV is among my favorite cars; it’s the only one that consistently brings a smile to my face, if not outright laughter. This one, “2CV en Blanc,” was spotted in a garage in a tiny town we visited one day.
Left: “Dressed up with Lace” offers a textural contrast between the delicate white lace curtains and the roughness of the wooden shutters. Right: The soft white tones of “Curly Hinges” lend an air of ethereal magic to this photograph.
The ancient city of Arles is proud of its traditions, including its folk dancing. “Danseurs Arlésiens” is a circular sculpture that dresses up a roundabout on the outskirts of town.


And more gratitude. I have my health, I’m on the adventure of my dreams, I’m eating a lot of French cheese … what more could I want? Oh, yes, people.

It is the people I know who make my life what it is. Without you, this adventure in the creative life would not be happening, nor would it be as rich and fulfilling, no matter where I happen to be living. Thank you for being part of this adventure, for your support and encouragement and enthusiasm, for your love and friendship. For me, it is people who are the very definition of the good life, la belle vie et la bonhomie.


Doesn’t every town need a “Chicken Foot Street” ? I think so.




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