French Word-A-Day

peuchère or What Not to Say to a Disabled Person

I'm having the time of my life with my wonderful mom! I love this innocent, serendipitous photo with Mom and her little fish purse. The sign says: "You are at the right place. Look no further." Vous êtes au bon endroit. Ne cherchez plus. 

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peuchère (peuh-sher)

    : poor dear, poor thing

Peuchère is a Provençal expression of sympathy, used to indicate compassion for someone: Peuchère elle doit avoir mal au dos! Poor thing. Her back must ache!

Peuchère may also rank among the top Ten Things Not to Say to A Disabled Person. Can you list some others? Comment... or read on in the following story.

Mas la Monaque - Rent this beautifully restored 17-century farm

A Day in a French Life... by Kristin Espinasse

I was standing in the supermarket checkout line with my daughter when I saw a man approach in a motorized cart. A familiar dilemma returned: did I offer him my place in line--or risk making the man feel pitied?

Over the years I have struggled with the subject--ever since watching a man in a wheelchair open the door of his car (driver's side). A friend and I were across the street when we noticed the wheelchair-to-car transition--only each of us had a completely different reaction.

My instinct was to wait and see how the transition unfolded. If the man needed help, we could then offer it. But my friend fumed. "WHY ISN'T ANYONE HELPING HIM?" She shook her head angrily as she stood watching.

Her outrage made me feel ashamed. Had I not reacted fast enough? Would I have reacted in time? But I hadn't wanted the man to feel pitied. I hadn't been sure how to respond, I only knew I would be there if the man needed help. Meantime, the man managed to hike himself up into his car, taking with him the folded wheelchair. No assistance had been needed after all. But could the man's experience have been smoother had my friend and I intervened? Or might we have slowed or even put a snag in his familiar routine?

Fast forward ten years. Youtube. I happened upon a rant wherein a middle-aged man in a wheelchair complained about how people over-respond to his condition. "Can I get the door for you?" said the man (paralyzed from a bike accident), and the cynicism in his voice as he mimicked the modern-day good Samaritans made me even more uncertain of how to assist--or how NOT to assist--a disabled person. It seemed you were damned if you did, damned if you didn't.  But how to get past the poor them/poor me (all I wanted to do was help) syndrome in time to help out when needed?

Standing there in the checkout line I tried to be discreet while figuring out whether the man-on-wheels needed help. The answer came swiftly and easily when I looked up and noticed the sign depicting a pregnant lady. Aha! This was the caisse prioritaire line. It would be perfectly normal for me to offer my place in line without making the man feel pitied.  But the woman in front of me was about to fall into the same trap I had hoped to avoid.

"Peuchère!" she declared. "Il me fait de la peine!" she said, explaining why she had just given up her place in line, too. I wanted to shush her up so that the man wouldn't hear her "I feel so sorry for him!" remark... but who was I to shush another's expression of compassion? Her sympathy was sincere and mimicked my own sentiments as we watched the hard-of-hearing senior hand over his thread-bare change purse to the cashier so that the latter could fish out the somme due.

That's when we watched the cashier turn the purse upside down and shake it. Oh no! The man was 4 euros 36 cents short! Suddenly the "peuchère" woman went silent, opting to arrange and rearrange her pile of groceries along the tapis roulant. It didn't mean she was indifferent to the man's dilemma; she was probably doing what many do, French or otherwise: allowing the man privacy as he settled his finances.

But, given the purse's upturned state, it didn't seem likely that finances would settle on their own accord! I looked around nervously, and finally whispered to the woman ahead of me. "We ought to be able to rustle up the rest?"

The French weren't stingy, they just didn't seem to have the "pay it forward" reflex. "On doit pouvoir trouver ça," We've got to be able to come up with that," I hinted to the other customers in line. Next, I watched as wallets flew open and French fingers went to work riffling through the contents of their money purses. The collective reaction was so touching that I didn't notice, right off, how the contents of my own purse were as spare as those of the man we were trying to assist....

"Jackie!" I whispered, "do you have any change? I can't believe it," I said, searching through my wallet, "I don't have enough!" And there I'd gone suggesting that "we" pay the difference! Only, as things were, I'd given the job of debt-paying to the others in line! No matter how many times I rooted through the change purse, all I could come up with were pennies. The ten euros I'd been searching for was in my jeans pocket... back at home!

"No worries," the woman in front of me said. "I think I've got it!" I watched as she handed over enough coins to pay off the man's modest debt. I noticed the relief and happiness on her face. Whereas she had initially frozen up allowing the man to deal with his dilemma in privacy, she now had unwittingly experienced the "Pay it Forward" principle--and the good feelings it brings to all involved! The movement was gaining ground in other countries, but I'd yet to see strangers paying for strangers in France.

I watched as the senior-on-wheels gazed up at his lovely benefactor. "You are an angel," he said to the woman. And by the way his face beamed with light you'd think he was the very same.

***
To comment, click here. Or answer the question at the opening of this post: What are some things NOT to say to a disabled person? (i.e. "Count your blessings!" or "I know how you feel!")  Click here to leave a message.

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bivouaquer

 

a couple of perruches, or parakeets, camped out in Sanary sur Mer

 

Villa Royale apartment in Monaco. Large studio with beautiful sea views in the residential district of Beausoleil overlooking Monte Carlo

 

Today's word is yet another example of how I learn English from the French... 

bivouaquer (bee-vwack-ay)

    : to bivouac

un bivouac = an improvised camp site. An individual sleeping shelter under the stars (or more often rain clouds) made out of natural materials or very rudimentary supplies. (from Wiki Answers)

Question ...but just what does "to bivouac" mean?
Answer: to make a temporary encampment somewhere.


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Audio File: Listen to Jean-Marc: Download MP3 or Wav file
Bivouaquer, c'est s'installer sommairement dans un lieu naturel pour y manger ou dormir.
Bivouaquer... it means to settle oneself simply (in minimalist conditions) into a natural environment and then to eat (picnic) or to sleep there.

A Day in a French Life... by Kristin Espinasse

I thought today's word had nothing to do with the goings on around here at the moment. My plan was to feature the word--overheard yesterday at a picnic--and then post a few unrelated photos from Mom's visit. (I've promised to take some time away from posting and email, in order to spend as much time with Mom as possible).

Only, when I went to look up the word "bivouac", I learned it is the same in English. Zut! That means I have to find another word to share... On the other hand, maybe I am not the only one unfamiliar with this funny word bivouaquer, a verb that is alive and well in France (I must have heard it half a dozen times, yesterday, as the French are already talking about vacation plans, which, for some, will include roughing it, ie, bivouaquer.

Meantime, life's not so rough for Mom at the moment. She is temporarily encamped--or en train de bivouaquer--in the room that was to be my office... (I've grown fond of this cozy corner of my bedroom and continue to write from here). Off to see what she is up to now....

Thank you for reading and for the encouraging and poignant comments you sent in, following last Friday's post. If there are slumps, doubts, victories, embarrassements, yearnings, and hi-falutin' aspirations in a writer's journey--your supportive comments even out the bumpy road, helping me to see the horizon in time to renew my commitment to simply settle down and write my heart out.

Amicalement,

Kristin 

To comment, click here. I leave you now with a few snapshots from Week One with Mom...

She made it--all the way from Mexico! Here is Mom's welcome party fan club. From left to right: 17-year-old Max, 4-year-old Smokey, Mom, Smokey's mom, Braise, and 15-year-old Jackie. I told Mom to get up off the paw-stained floor, but she was so happy to be surrounded by ALL her loved ones that she could have cared less about the dirt.

Some bivouac!  Mom loves her room, where she can see and hear all of the activity in the courtyard. At night she loves to watch the stars that twinkle over the Mediterranean Sea.


Mom's bags arrived 24 hours after she did. We shared my make-up and a chat before heading to Sanary sur Mer for lunch. That's Mama Braise, on the left. (A funny aside: Mom is wearing my red pajama pants. I wouldn't notice this until AFTER we finished lunch at the cafe and a stroll around Sanary. Her baggage arrived later that afternoon :-)

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It's fun to walk along the port in Sanary sur Mer, where all the historic fishing boats "les pointus" are lined up. Many of the wooden boats have signs displaying the historic characteristics of the modest vessels, some nearly 100 years old.


Mom's purse. It looks like Jean-Marc's humble side kick, Mr Sacks, has competition!


Time for a siesta. But first, enjoy the fancy ironwork on this campanile.

Me and Mom. "Just pretend it's my stand." Mom said, after a local artist offered Mom her seat for the photo. 

More photos coming soon. Meantime, I'm making the most of my time with Mom. This newsletter/blog may be a little sporadic in the coming weeks--as we slow down our day and celebrate. 

To comment, click here.

 

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How to say "a small matter" or "something trifle" in French

Earlier this week, on Facebook, I posted Snoopy's message (even if I didn't believe a word of it): Chaque fois que tu trouves de l'humour dans une situation difficile, tu gagnes.

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une broutille (broo-tee)

    a trifle, a small matter, a little thing, nothing

Audio File: Listen to Max Download MP3 or Wav file
 

Ils se sont disputés pour une broutille. They got in a fight over a little matter.

perdre son temps à des broutilles = to waste one's time on unimportant matters
se préoccuper de broutilles = to focus on insignificant details
s'inquiéter pour des broutilles = to worry about nothing
se disputer pour des (ou une) broutilles = to fight over nothing 

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A Day in a French Life... by Kristin Espinasse

On Monday morning I quietly packed an overnight bag and left it on the edge of my bed. Next, I drew a few deep breaths, clicked open my blog, and began searching the archives for a post to rerun. Though I had gone to work and written stories under more nerve-racking circumstances, this time the energy-fueling crisis could not be put to constructive use--not even for sentence construction (emotional turmoil can be an adept wordsmith).

As I searched for a story to repost, I stopped, now and again, to contemplate the packed bag. If it eventually disappeared from the edge of the bed, it would be the first time in 19-years of marriage that I dared employ Plan B (a night spent alone at a cheap hotel...to think things over). But what would a little room cost? I wondered. I'd spend 60, at least... Surely I could get an off-season room in Bandol for 60/65...? Maybe they'll offer a discount if I stay a week. Will I stay a week?

Don't think about that right now, I told myself. Wait for that "still small voice" inside to guide you. Meantime, one step in front of the other... Get your work done and then you can decide what to do. 

The argument had been over such a trivial matter. And to think, the day had begun in a deceptively peaceful way! I had passed my husband in the hall, where we exchanged smiles:

"Oh by the way, do we have a smaller one of these?" he said holding up the narrow arm or vaccume cleaner attachment.

"No, I don't think so," I answered, continuing on my way to my room, to dress.

"Never mind." Jean-Marc was chipper. "I think this one will fit down the drain...." 

I walked on in ignorant bliss until, suddenly, my smile fell and I froze in my tracks. The drain? He is not going to put that vacuum attachment down the drain!

The alarms sounded inside of me and that old fear of WATER + ELECTRICITY was paralizing. I thought of the neighbor we lost. The young father, who, along with his wife, worked night and day to fix up their modest village home. And then he was electrocuted (at work. He was putting up the municipal Christmas lights).

Electricity is a big bone of contention in our household. Over the two decades that I have lived with Jean-Marc, I have watched him dabble in DIY work. He is no good at it, he admits, but that doesn't take away his enthusiasm--nor do the trips to ER when he slips! Lately, after long discussions with my mom, I have learned to see Jean-Marc's DIY adventures in a new light: not only is he extremely curious, but such projects are his way of expressing himself--unleashing his inner-artist! Thus, we have the velcro-taped GPS in our car and the duct-taped mop-spear. The perfectionist in me winces at each of my husband's latest "solution creations" which lack for visual esthetique. But, lately, thanks to Mom's help, I can smile at them and even begin to appreciate the quirky man-made fix-its. And I can almost overlook my husband's obsession with refitting all the electric cords (on the microwave, the TV, the lamps...he seems fascinated by the anatomy of the cord. He itches to reveal the wires within the black rubber conduit).

But I draw the line at electricity and water.

"There is a plastic bottle cap stuck in the drain and I am going to vacuum it out!" This, Jean-Marc states with intention, for he knows that I will go hoarse trying to talk him out of it. "The drain is dry," he adds. "There is no worry about water!" 

I pause, knowing that if this conversation continues it will continue at a great expense. Listen, I want to say to my husband, I get it that you need to do your thing. I get it that I am to leave you alone with your projects and schemes. I get it. I get it. But I will never "get" electricity and I am asking you to wait for the plumber to arrive. He's scheduled to be here, anyway, and he can get the bottle cap out of the drain!

Realizing that I was not going to let up, Jean-Marc let go, losing his battle with self-control. This happened somewhere between his urging to, "Trust me that I know what I am doing," and his final desperate plea: "LET ME LIVE MY LIFE!"

I did trust him to know what he was doing and I did want him to live his life (obviously!). Only, as I so often tell our son, "It isn't you I worry about. It's the other drivers!" (Here, it isn't Jean-Marc I worry about. It is the water and the electricity!)

***
Back in my bedroom, having closed the door on the verbal gunfire that raged on, solo, back in the living room, I tell my daughter: "Get your bag, we are leaving for school now." Only, when I open the door, there stands my husband, goggle-eyed, arms rising up and down.

I see he is waiving the plastic bottle cap in one hand, in the other, the vacuum. Victory is written all over his beet red face.

"I GOT IT! I GOT IT!" he thundered. "AND. I'M. STILL. ALIVE!" 

I stood completely silent and still before the stunning bottle cap-and-vacuum spectacle, not a single of my limbs in motion, yet inside my arms were flapping wildly and my mouth thundered just like his. I was just as riled as he was, only I managed to keep it all tucked neatly inside as I walked right on past the live wire and out the door.

***

Returning from school, I discreetly packed my bag and waited for intuition to tell me what to do next. Meantime, I finished my post, hit the publish button, then relaxed by surfing the net (that "still small voice" hadn't gotten back to me yet, and I needed distraction from the emotional turmoil).

I don't know how I happened onto the site of a photographer based in Memphis, but I stayed to study every single photo in her touching self-portrait exposition, in which she photographs people sneering or mocking her (seemingly unbeknownst to her) because of her weight. Artist Haley Morris-Cafiero writes:

For my series, Wait Watchers, I set up a camera in a heavy-traffic, public area and take hundreds of photographs as I perform mundane, everyday tasks as people pass by me. I then examine the images to see if any of the passersby had a critical or questioning element in their face or in their body language. I consider my photographs a social experiment and I travel the world in an attempt to photograph the reactions of a diverse pool of passersby.

But it was the photographer's final words that gave me goosebumps: 

I have always had a hard time controlling my weight. My uncontrollable exterior has determined my place in society and I have often felt left out and awkward.

The artist's words hit hard and for the first time I realized that, though we all have struggles and vices, some of us have the added humility of having to wear their uncontrollable sides on the outside--weight and temper being two examples. With this thought came a wave of compassion for all who suffer from outward expressions of their inner conflicts.

Jean-Marc calmed down in time to bring me wildflowers in an attempt to reconcile. Accepting them, I was unable to curb my impulse to point out HIS faults. (I didn't see it as humiliation at the time but--like using a blow torch to put out a lighted candle wick--such words were crushing and unnecessary... and only served to fuel the flame!) 

 By the third bouquet of wildflowers (it took days--and many bouquets--to reconcile...) I began to see some of my own vices, trickier for myself, or others, to identify as they are hidden on the inside: stubborness, self-righteousness, intolerance, perfectionism, the need to control, over-anxiousness--to name several. Unlike the overweight photographer or the short-tempered husband, I have the luxury of keeping my vices and sins to myself, though I endeavor to share most of them in the stories I write. Afterwards, I can't help but see the humor and the beauty and the value in the struggle of life.

Marseilles, 1994. Would you like to add a caption? See the comments box :-)

Disclaimer: Lately I have received a few emails and comments regarding my writing: 

"I'm uncomfortable when you talk about your struggles with alcoholism," one readers comments. Another writes, "Aren't you afraid you'll lose Jean-Marc--aren't you doing him a disservice by writing these very personal accounts). I worry some other woman will steal him away from you!" 

Such notes make me cower back inside myself, and I think my writing days are over. If I cannot tell my story--through the lens of humor or whichever lens I'm using for a particular episode--then I might spend my time sorting socks (and some of you will agree yes, Kristin, this would be best!).

"But writing is your gift! Don't let intimidation silence your creativity!" my mom urges me (sure, she's my mom, Moms say that kind of thing... but I feel that kind of thing--not the gift but the words and sentences that will not stop filing across my mind, or chattering in my ears, until they are set down in story form. It is torture, but, three times each week, it is delivery).

 
Post note: Jean-Marc has always encouraged me to share my story. "If it is the truth," he says, "then tell it."

Comments

Taking the week off to be with Mom (she arrives Sunday), so I won't be checking email--but Mom and I will be reading messages here in the comments box. Thanks! (P.S. I never did check in to the hotel :-)

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