French Word-A-Day

en-tête

Today's story continues from Châteauneuf-du-Pape ("New Castle of the Pope"), the ruins are pictured here.
.

Bestselling books on/about France:
 1. The Ultimate French Verb Review and Practice
 2. Buying a Piece of Paris: A Memoir
 3. Exercises in French Phonics

en-tête (on-tet) noun, masculine
    1. heading
    2. headline

Audio File & Example sentence

Example, taken from the French version of today's story, listen here:
Download MP3 file  or  Download Wav file

Cet en-tête évoque à coup sûr pour les connaisseurs les fameuses "Lettres de Mon Moulin" d'Alphonse DAUDET. (see the translation in paragraph 1, line 2, below).
.

Letters from my Terrace
by Marie-Françoise Vidal

"Setting the Stage"

Isn't it a bit presumptuous to choose this title for the little series of articles that I promised myself to write from my Provençal village? This column title definitely calls to mind, for those connoisseurs, the famous "Lettres de mon moulin" by Alphonse Daudet. He wrote the charming pages for his Parisian friends, after making himself at home in an authentic Provençal mill near Les Baux-de-Provence.

More modestly, of course, I would like to share what I observe from my little terrace. It is a balcony from a village home that is nothing like a classic terrace overlooking a garden. No! It's just a little observation post, nested in between houses terraced beneath the ruins of our (village's) medieval château. I go and sit there during the good season, from April to September and provided that the tempestuous Mistral isn't blowing.

My terrace is, at most, 10 square meters and opens onto a landscape that enchants me. In the foreground, the old, irregular rooftops of houses that we overlook, pile up one over the other. Then, the view overflows... rising up to the hills that are covered with vines. Finally, in the background, a long musical line designs itself, making up the asymmetric curbs of Mont Ventoux. These three visual strips each have their own graphism and color. That (strip) which designs the rooftops is like a rug of uneven clay tiles, clear, and accentuated by a few chimneys. That which designs the vines offers geometric lines of parallel vineyard rows, which follow the curves of the field. It is a faux checkerboard effect, now austere and scrubbed in winter, green in summer, then blazing red in autumn. The last relief strip, far away, always colors itself with a note of blue or mauve. The mineral scales, of the Dentelles de Montmirail, and the ever white summit of our "Giant of Provence" add light to the ensemble.

View the original French text for this story, here

Facing this landscape, I am facing east; therefore, it is the occasion to take part in the sunrise and also the full moon. The show moves from left to right then in the other direction at every solstice, permitting me to witness the ballet of the seasons.

From my terrace, therefore, I hang over my neighborhood. It is an old (in our home a beam is engraved "1311") and modest quarter in our village. The residents are, for the most part, descended from old families owning small amounts of land, the newcomers are agricultural workers and, recently, young couples have moved in, fleeing the city.

The population of this neighborhood changes inexorably, therefore, with the departure of the "ancients". I hardly ever hear the patois that is the Provençale language, tinged with local character.

Village life follows the general evolution of the customs and habits of life: each his work, his hours, his car, his sports, his leisure... which changes the social interaction, leaving, of course, the good times of village community but nothing that can equal what I knew when I came to move here, as a young married woman, in 1968.

From my perch the stones talk to me, for they keep the memories. Thinking about my village, I see it again as it was with its slowness, its security; there's that feeling of oneness that I have with it, that feeling of being in a big family.

So there you are, the stage has now been set. I'll meet you here again, and we'll share these memories, little anecdotes or other little modern-day narratives.

*     *     *

Tante Marie-Françoise works  as a speech therapist (orthophoniste) and enjoys helping children who have special needs.

Note: The original French version of this story is posted here. Enjoy it! Meantime, thanks for saying "bonjour" to Marie-Françoise in the comments box. I know she will enjoy "meeting" you! She'll be back in a week or so with a very funny story called ("La Routine").

PS: Re today's translation (by me...): beg to differ? Honey, you don't even have to beg (I believe you!). Just add your own translation to one or more of the beautifully poetic lines written by my French aunt. Thanks for using the comments box, so that all might enjoy the update. (...and thanks for your help!)

French Word-A-Day archives:

Care to read some more stories? Here's a bilingual column from my son, written 5 years ago...

End photo: "Birds of a French Feather". Read the message, below.

Would you like Jules to paint this one? Let her know, in the comments box. P.S.: she'll be here soon. Please wish her bon voyage!

rubrique

photos © Kristin Espinasse. The view of Mont Ventoux ("le Mont Chauve") as seen from the village of Sainte Cécile. "See it" from the village of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, in today's new story column!

Remerciements
Talk about flower power! The combined strength of your sympathies--via lilies, rosemary, snow drops... pansies--has put a smile in our hearts as my family and I continue to read each and every one of your colorful condolences sent in to honor Grandma Audrey. Merci beaucoup!

Please accept the following gift in return: something my French aunt showed up with on Sunday (along with her chestnut cake--and I promise to post that recipe sometime!)...  Enjoy now a new rubrique* here at French Word-A-Day: a column titled "Lettres de Ma Terrasse" written by Tante Marie-Françoise. Enjoy this upclose and very personal look at Provence. Meantime, merci encore for your joyful words, virtual flowers, and so much more.

*today's word: la rubrique (f) = column

Lettres de ma Terrasse
"Planter le décor"

(Enjoy this taped introduction to the following story, in French. MP3 Wave )

N'est-ce pas bien présomptueux de choisir ce titre pour la petite série de chroniques que je me suis promis d'écrire de mon village provençal?

Cet en-tête évoque à coup sûr pour les connaisseurs les fameuses "Lettres de Mon Moulin" d'Alphonse DAUDET. Il avait écrit des pages délicieuses pour ses amis parisiens en s'installant dans un authentique moulin provençal près des Baux de Provence.

Plus modestement, bien sûr, je voudrais faire partager ce que j'observe depuis ma petite terrasse.

C'est une terrasse de maison de village qui n'a rien d'une terrasse classique donnant sur un jardin. Non! C'est juste un petit poste d'observation niché entre les maisons étagées sous la ruine de notre château médiéval. Je m'y installe à la bonne saison, d'avril à septembre et à condition que le mistral tempétueux ne souffle pas.

Ma terrasse d'à peine 10 mètres carrés s'ouvre sur un paysage qui m'enchante. Au premier plan se superposent les vieux toits inégaux des maisons que l'on domine. Puis la vue déborde sur ce mouvement montant des collines couvertes de parcelles de vignes. Enfin, en arrière plan, se dessine la longue ligne musicale des deux courbes asymétriques du Mont Ventoux. Ces trois bandes visuelles ont chacune leur propre graphisme et couleur. Celle des toitures est comme un tapis inégal de vieilles tuiles d'argile claire rehaussé de quelques cheminées. Celle des vignes offre les lignes géométriques des rangées parallèles du vignoble suivant les courbes du terrain. C'est un effet de faux damier tantôt austère et épuré l'hiver, tantôt vert l'été puis qui s'enflamme de rouge en automne. La dernière bande des reliefs lointains se colore toujours d'une note bleue ou mauve. Les écailles minérales des dentelles de Montmirail puis le sommet toujours blanc de notre "Géant de Provence" ajoutent une lumière à l'ensemble.

Face à ce paysage je suis face à l'Est; c'est donc l'occasion d'assister aux levers de soleil et aussi de pleine lune. Le spectacle se décale de gauche à droite puis dans l'autre sens à chaque solstice me permettant d'assister au ballet des saisons.

De ma terrasse, donc, je surplombe mon quartier. C'est une partie ancienne (dans notre maison une poutre est gravée 1311...) et modeste du village. Les habitants sont pour la plupart issus de vieilles familles de petits propriétaires; les nouveaux venus sont des travailleurs agricoles et depuis peu s'installent de jeunes couples fuyant la ville.

La population de ce quartier change donc inexorablement avec le départ des "anciens". Je n'entends presque plus le patois qui est la langue provençale teintée de particularisme local.

La vie du village suit l'évolution générale des mœurs et des habitudes de vie: chacun son travail, ses horaires, sa voiture, son sport, son loisir... ce qui change la convivialité -- Restent bien sûrs de bons moments de communauté villageoise mais rien qui puisse égaler ce que j'ai connu en 1968.

De mon perchoir les pierres me parlent car elles gardent les souvenirs. Contemplant mon village je le revois comme il était avec ses lenteurs, sa sécurité, le sentiment de faire corps avec lui et d'être dans une grande famille.

Voilà donc, le décor est planté. Je vous donne rendez-vous pour partager ces souvenirs, de petites anecdotes ou d'autres petits récits de la vie d'aujourd'hui.

Tante Marie-Françoise (seen here making a traditional lavender wand)--when she is not harvesting her family's grapes--works  as a speech therapist (orthophoniste) and enjoys helping children who have special needs.

Note: The English version of this story will be posted on Friday! Meantime, thanks for leaving your comments for Marie-Françoise in the comments box. I know she will appreciate them!

 

Find out where to buy our Domaine Rouge-Bleu wines, here.

Paradis

My grandmother is on a journey. I hope there are French bikes in Heaven!

le paradis (pah-rah-dee) noun, masculine
    : paradise
    : the gallery, the gods

le Paradis terrestre = the Garden of Eden
le paradis fiscal = tax haven
l'oiseau de paradis = bird of paradise
aller au / en Paradis = to go to Heaven

My Grandma Audrey passed away yesterday. My sister made the call and I could hear the news in her voice before the words were delivered.

"I tried to call her several times this week..." I answered.
"I did too," Heidi assured.

I thought about the nursing home, where my grandmother spent the last season of her life. I pictured a television on the wall, from which inspiration often struck her, at which point she would become the heroine from the latest show... or infomercial:

"I'm wearing my pretty white sundress," she told me, last time we talked on the phone. "We're having a beauty contest this afternoon--and *I* am in the running!"

"Do you think you'll win?" I asked, playing right along with this latest production, "The Nursing Home Beauty Contest".

"Oh, I'll give it my best shot!" Grandma said, and I could almost hear her smoothing down her "dress" in pride and admiration of it. But a sundress in snowy Salt Lake City? I could never tell, during one of these conversations, whether Grandma was pulling my leg or, more likely, living in her imagination. Her voice was always so clear, sprinkled with a touch of Southern Stubborn.

* * *

"She is in a better place now," my sister stated, comfortingly.

I have to believe that Heidi is right. Still, as I look into the mirror this morning, at the long face staring back at me, I find my faith faltering again.

"If I truly believed in Heaven," I reasoned, I wouldn't feel guilt or regret right now--but relief! I'd feel happiness for my grandmother...."

* * *

I am spending the morning renewing my faith, not because it comforts me--but because faith is the "Instructions" book that guides me when I don't know where to step, when I can no longer see....

I am picturing my beautiful grandmother in her flowing white sundress! Beyond a shadow of doubt, it's now clear to see that my Grandma Audrey won that beauty contest, yes siree!; plucked up as she was in the night -- right out of her nursery home bed in time to collect her prize--that golden crown: Heaven's glimmering halo over her head.

*  *  *

Post note: During a recent call to our grandmother, my sister wanted Grandma to be sure to know that Jesus was waiting for her, and that she, too, would see Grandma again one day. Grandma joked, "That's what they tell me."

Last night at the end of her telephone call, Heidi encouraged me to call our mom, with whom she had just shared the news. "Remember," Heidi said, "(Our) mom has lost her own 'Mommy'." That last word went right to the heart and I could almost see my mom's plump 5-year-old hand, reaching up to try and clasp her mother's, ever searching for that connection.

Now for a request: Because my mom, "Jules", and my family read this column--and each and every comment--I would like to once again ask you to send *virtual* flowers to the comments box--this time for my Grandma Audrey and also for her loved ones: Jules, my Aunt Reta, my Uncle Rusty... also for my sister, Heidi, and my cousin Mike. 

Just pick a person & send a virtual fleur (i.e.: "tulips for Uncle Rusty from Rémi in Beaverton" or "kangaroo paw for Heidi from Gretel in Sydney" or "a magnolia for Aunt Reta from Fred & Nancy").

Click here to access the comments box (wait a few moments for it to load...), then instantly send in your flower.

With much appreciation (and dare I say love?) for bringing cheer to my family and me. I can't think of a better way to rendre hommage to Audrey. I hope you will agree.

Amicalement,
Kristin

Grandma Audrey with Jean-Marc (2005)

Visiting Jules, in Mexico (thank you, Mom, for the photos).


With all our love, Grandma!

mise-en-scène

La mise-en-scène: doesn't this scene look staged? Walking through the villages of France sometimes makes you feel as if you've stepped back in time, to post war Europe... until you see the modern cars at the end of the lane. Photo taken two weeks ago, in the town of Camaret.

I am excited to announce our first debate here at French Word-A-Day... and that's about as French as this edition will get! Read on, in today's story.

la mise-en-scène (meez-on-sen) noun, feminine

   : the "putting on stage", stage setting

Six years ago, almost to the day, I learned a life-changing concept: one that returns to me this morning, as a flood of emotions float upward to the underbelly of my skin, electrifying the surface. When God created sensitivity, he gave an extra dose of it to me! Strike a line through that last sentence or, rather, that last word--for I am not alone: artists, writers, musicians, plumbers, preachers--and even highfalutin Frenchmen, can feel the same way and, I suspect, do.

I dread this space that I am in, but recognize it as the engine behind the words that sometimes flow out of the fingertips, onto a blank screen: oh, the ills of Inspiration! Hold on a minute... isn't that the ego talking? He who likes to convince us that it is the Self's HARD WORK--and pain!--that bring forth art. What a crock!

As thoughts continue to dart back-n-forth, I raise my arm to catch one of them, watching in amazement as it almost drives a hole (the sheer force of faith, landing) through my tattered catcher's glove. I look into my glove, beyond the steam, and read the message:

"One can change her mind. P.S.: Lighten up a bit!"

I am reminded to pull that chain in my brain and so flush out a rush of ravaging thoughts, such as this one that just crept in: "Easier said than done." The minute I pull that chain, reflux happens; determined, I pull the chain again (sort of off topic, but if you say that last bit--pull the chain again--with an English accent, it kind of rhymes... at least in *my* mind. Whatever.) And there, dear reader, goes the mind: Hither and thither, but whither? Whither???

Back to the "life-changing concept", which the subject in today's photo reminds me of: "la mise-en-scène". I thought this might make a good topic for debate. One thing I struggle with is remembering my "part" in this film that is Life. So here's a question for you:

If life is a stage, are you the director or the actor? Which part makes you feel more at peace? Tell us your answer in the comments box.

Story Archives
Care to read another essay? I posted this one "The Car Accident: or How to Meet Your French Neighbor" over at Twitter and Facebook, yesterday.

All photos taken with this camera.

In the town of Camaret there are not cabarets, but the shutters close their eyes and blush anyway.

façonner

On the outskirts of Camaret: Gallic Graffiti

façonner (faah-so-nay) verb

    : to work, shape (metal); to fashion, mold (clay)

Listen to the verb conjugation of the French word façonner:
Download MP3 *  Download Wav

je façonne, tu façonnes, il façonne, nous façonnons, vous façonnez, ils façonnent =>past participle: façonné
.

I love it when my French aunt comes over on a Sunday, with her chestnut cake, a smile on her face, and stories of Provence which she'll often illustrate. I learn even more when Uncle Jean-Claude tags along to assist in the story telling with his musical accent--a mixture of Africa, Toulouse, and Provençal sing-song.

Dimanche dernier,* we were contemplating dessert (should we go for a walk first... or dive right into the gâteau de marron*?). That's when Aunt Marie-Françoise noticed the roof tile set on the kitchen counter.

I answered her questioning gaze. "I plan to use it... for a light fixture!"

In its current incarnation, the old tile is a vase--perfect for holding colorful branches and flowers plucked up during a stroll through the campagne.*

"C'est très ancien,"* Jean-Marc added, before offering a brief a history of the roof tile, an artifact that Michel, our builder, had uncovered while renovating le toit.*

With that, Uncle Jean-Claude picked up the tuile* and set it before the light. He began reading the cursive etched into the surface. "... à fait...30 juin..." It looks like a name, he noted, offering: "André à fait (le) 30 juin."

"Too bad the year wasn't noted." With that Uncle Jean-Claude shrugged his shoulders, passed the tile to his wife.

"Say..." my aunt began, "Did you know the history behind these tiles? They were handmade here in Provence... par les femmes!* And here's where my aunt's French factoids never cease to amaze me:

"The tiles were shaped with the help of a woman's thighs!" Aunt Marie-Françoise pointed out the tile's pretty curve.

"Thighs?" I questioned. Cigar façonnage* immediately came to mind... somehow lending credibility to this amazing story.

We took turns placing the long, wide tile over our own thighs, impressed by the Rubenesque dimension of the artifact, which slipped off our legs. This got me thinking about thigh surface, and "working space"--how Cuban women had a certain advantage over the French, cigars being that much smaller, lighter.

Imagination kicked in and I pictured a cigar production line, Cuban skirts hiked up, Prudery pitched out the door, cigar smoke following in her wake.

Next, I pictured a roof tile production line: heavy clay slabs awaiting "fashioning," French skirts hiked up even higher, prudery pitched out the door... together with those hampersome skirts.

***
Comments, corrections--and stories of your own--always welcome in the comments box.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~French vocabulary~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Your turn to help out: select and define some of the French words in today's story. Share your translations in the comments box, for all to see and enjoy.)

French Girl Knits: Innovative Techniques, Romantic Details, and Feminine Designs by Kristeen Griffin-Grimes: Superbly fitted and fashioned in luxurious yarns, these imaginative patterns follow four thematic vignettes inspired by French daily life, film, and history.

Tune Up Your French: Top 10 Ways to improve your spoken French
Chestnut spread imported from France

From the French Word-A-Day archives

Care to read another story? How about this one, concerning a certain Frenchwoman's practical joke. (Looking back, I can now laugh at it!)

"Modern" roof tiles in the town of Visan.