text: 1. &#x200B; The farmhouse sat atop a slightly-sloping hill and looked out towards Ménerbes. To the west, a clock tower perched on a *colline* of a nearby town and white bluffs guarded the property to the east. The whole property sloped gently south except for the flat grassy section behind the farmhouse. It was flat because that’s the way it needed to be for farming hundreds of years ago, Pierre said. He did not know what they farmed but figured it was grain since flat ground was easier for animals to process grain. It was a cold and sunny morning. The ground was wet and cold and there was a damp breeze out of the south. I heard about *Le Mistral* but never felt it. Pierre compared it to the *Santa Ana* winds of California. This was too mild to be *Le Mistral,* but I hoped it would blow before I left so I could feel its strength. It was mid-November and the olives were in full harvest. The fig tree by the stone wall had lost most of its leaves but the remaining few danced in the wind. The mulberry tree covering the gravel terrace in front of the farmhouse still had its dark green leaves and the branches hung low and flat. Down the hill the silver tops of the olive trees shined in the sun. I leaned down to pet *Lola* behind the ear on the windowsill. Her face was too small for her body and her closely-set and wide eyes looked up at me. She jumped onto the gravel terrace and climbed up the mulberry tree. I walked over gravel and wet fig and mulberry leaves and around the thigh-high stone wall where the gravel turned to grass. The previous day’s harvest was sitting in gray and red crates on the stone wall with thin slits running along the sides but not wide enough for olives to fall out. I grabbed a handful off the top. They were dewy and green. I flicked a few wet leaves and twigs to the ground and admired their beauty and oiliness on my skin. I dropped them back in the crate and wiped my wet hands on my pants. I carried an empty crate in each hand and walked towards the spot where we finished the day before. My knee-high rubber boots were damp and cold but fit perfectly. The damp cold early morning ground numbed my feet. I made a note to warm my boots inside overnight. Pierre was already in the groves. I heard the *“tat, tat, tattatat tat”* of olives hitting his crate. He was harvesting a shorter *olivier* on the eastern edge near wild thyme and rows of pine trees leading up *Mt. Perreal*. Through the forest and up the mountain the sun shined below the tops of the pine trees. The sunlight came in patches and shimmered through the forest. The pine trees stood straight spaced closely together and swayed gently in the morning wind. “*Bonjour, monsieur*” “*Boujour*”, I replied. “*Les fruits sont incroyables*” *“Oui”* I dropped my crates and started on a branch opposite him. The limbs drooped and nearly touched the ground from the weight of the olives. When picked, the limbs would rise again. The ripest fell to the ground when shook and we picked them up off the ground once we picked all we could pick standing up. “They must be happy to shed all this weight”, I said. “*Oui*. Do you think they talk among themselves?” “Maybe” “I do” “How so?”, I asked. “Between their roots and their branches”. He pointed to a branch entangled in a branch of another tree: “You see how this branch touches that tree?” “Yes” “I believe that is how they communicate” “Interesting”, I said. “What do they talk about?” “About how grateful they are to shed the weight!” The sun rose above the tops of the trees. I started to warm up and removed my jacket while two blue jays sang for us on the next tree. The blue jays flew away, then I thought I heard sheep bells in the direction of the mountain. The other day returning from Apt, a shepherd and his sheep dogs and sheep crossed the road and blocked the way to the farmhouse. There were many sheep and beautiful white dogs larger than the sheep protecting the flock. The sheep wore steel bells around their necks and it sounded like wooden spoons hitting tin cups as they moved together guarded by the dogs. I was surprised how much the shepherd looked like a shepherd. He stood at the rear of the flock with his shepherd stick looking biblical. Pierre and I watched them move slowly into the vineyard to the north. I thought I heard the bells of the sheep. It was a distinct sound, the sound of sheep bells. Instead a hunter and his two dogs emerged from the pine trees. The dogs wore steel bells and were sniffing for tracks and zigzagging in front of the hunter. The hunter carried a wood-trimmed double barrel shotgun slung over his right shoulder and stepped high through the dry brush under the pine trees. The hunter looked up and waved and walked towards me: “English?”, the hunter asked. “American” “*Ahh*. Welcome! What brings you to Gargas?” I looked towards Pierre. “Helping my friend with the harvest” “Very well. I’ve known Pierre thirty years. I live nearby”, he pointed towards the town with the clock tower. “Any luck?” “Nothing yet. Hunting boar but no luck yet” “Hunt anything besides boar?” “Just boar”, the hunter said. “They love boar, these dogs”, he said patting one of his dogs. “Beautiful dogs”, I said. “Well, best of luck!” “Same to you, sir”, he said and tipped his hat. We said goodbye and the hunter continued west with his dogs. He walked between the olive trees then through the brush in the forest and out of sight. “Let’s take lunch”, Pierre said. “I’m hungry” “Crêpes and salad?” “Sounds delicious” Pierre finished his crate and carried it up the hill towards the farmhouse. I picked a few more handfuls and followed him. I caught up to him under the oak tree and we walked together. We placed our harvest on the stone wall and Pierre wiped leaves off the white cast-iron table. He left his boots by the door on the stone and walked inside. &#x200B; &#x200B; 2. The white cast-iron table and chairs were on the gravel terrace under the shade of the mulberry tree. I sat at the table and looked south. It was windier than the sheltered olive groves but warm in the sun. Across the valley was the *Massif du Luberon*. A deep green and flat-topped silhouette against the blue sky like a smooth rolling wave. At the base was Ménerbes but I couldn’t see the town during the day. On the other side of the mountain was Marseilles and the Mediterranean and Algeria across the water. Pierre opened the kitchen window: “Egg on your crêpe?” “Yes, please” “Wine?” “Why not?" “Americans love their *booze!”* “We sure do” He kept the right half of the tall white window open and fed *Puce* sitting on the windowsill. “*Papa est ici mon petit chat*”. He scooped food into his dish. Pierre loved his cats and talked to them often. I could hear the eggs cooking in olive oil on the stove through the open window and my stomach jumped. The wind blew and a leaf fell on the table. I wiped it off and watched *Puce* eat his lunch. I looked up and *Lola* stirred in a branch above my head. She must have heard Pierre flirting with *Puce* and got jealous. I watched the cat move about the branch looking to get down. She jumped on the table and the table clanked loudly but *Puce* wasn’t startled because he was deaf. The sizzling stopped and clanking of silverware on plates signaled lunch was on its way. *Lola* ran across the gravel terrace and up on the windowsill and through the kitchen window looking for food: “*Papa est ici mon petit chat”*. I couldn’t see Pierre feed *Lola* but I knew he was feeding her because he never said no to his cats. The short wooden front door was open and Pierre walked out carrying a tray with two plates and a bowl of salad. “Anything else I can bring out?” “The wine and the glasses near the radio in the kitchen” “*Ah* yes. The *booze*!” “Americans and their *booze”,* he muttered. The door was a few steps away. I took off my boots and slipped on my loafers and the warmth felt nice inside. I found the wine and the glasses by the radio in the kitchen and brought them outside to the table. Pierre was tossing the salad in the bowl: “Salad with olive oil and olives”, he said. He held a serving of salad between two spoons over my plate and eyed me for my consent. I nodded and thanked him as he lowered the salad onto my plate. No coincidence an olive farmer made an olive salad tossed in olive oil, I thought. “From the farm?”, I asked nodding my head towards the olive trees. “Of course. The last bottle of last year’s oil and olives from last month”, he said pointing his fork at the bowl. “Excellent quality”, he continued, “Fetches a very good price at *le moulin”* “I’m sure it does. It’s delicious” *“Oui”* We sat in silence and finished our olive salad and I thought of Anna and I missed her very much. We visited the farmhouse years ago and I pictured her sitting across the table with her back to the mulberry tree and she looked beautiful in the sun. She always looked beautiful but that day she looked exceptionally beautiful sitting in the sun. During our visit we sat at the same white cast-iron table and chairs on the gravel terrace. The table sat near the edge of the stone wall in the sun. It was a hot and sunny day I remembered. *Puce* was much younger and was up in a tree watching us. Anna was across the table and Pierre to my right and Griff to my left with her back to the farmhouse. We were sweaty and hot from our hike up *Mt. Perreal*. Pierre led the way on narrow pine needle covered trails around and up the mountain, stopping to take in views when the trees cleared. Ruins of a red stone and flat roofed church sat on top of the mountain. The surrounding valley stretched off and far below the farmhouse glowed in the sun. We were tired and rested awhile at the top. It was a splendid hike up the mountain. Griff now lived in California and Pierre would love to talk to her about the golden state. He loved few things more than California. He used to lead bike tours all around the world and Yosemite was his favorite place. His bike hung in the garage and I knew he missed riding very much. I daydreamed about that day with Anna and Griff and *Puce* in the tree and the hike to the ruins and the farmhouse in the sun. I blinked away the thoughts and Pierre slid a crêpe onto my place. I thanked him and looked down at an egg on a crêpe with salt and wild rosemary from the farm. The outer edges of the egg were crisped brown and porous. “I almost forgot”, Pierre said as he reached across the table for the wine. “*Baron Philippe de Rothschild.* Only the best for my American guest”, he said reading the label on the bottle. “Only the best” “I’ve never tried it”, he said. “But I’ve heard it’s excellent” “Yes”, I said after my first sip. “Excellent *booze”* “We had a lovely time with your friends a few years ago”, Pierre said. “Remember our hike up *Mt. Perreal?”* “Yes. How could I forget?”, I said. “Such a hot and beautiful day” “Most beautiful and hot” “And the champagne and cheese and fruit afterwards?” “Such a reward that was” “Yes. Great reward after the hard hike”, Pierre said. We were quiet a moment reflecting on that day on the mountain. Pierre was much older now and his face was grey and tired. He knew those days had passed. The days climbing the mountain to the ruins. “How are they doing?”, he asked. “Great” “Where do they live now?” “Anna lives near I and Griff lives in California” “How wonderful. Whereabouts in California?” “Los Angeles”, I said. “She really loves it there” I looked down at *Lola* who joined us under the table. She laid at my feet in the sun. “*Ahh.* California is so beautiful. I would love to bike Yosemite again” He poured another glass of wine and I drank it and it warmed me up. There was some bread on the table and we cleaned our plates of yolk and olive oil. I looked at Pierre, but he looked down between his clasped hands and his elbows on the table. His wrinkled forehead touched his thumbs. I watched him for a moment and saw tears in his eyes. He closed his eyes tightly and released them and a tear fell through the table to the gravel. I knew he was thinking of Jaqueline riding beside him down smooth pavement in Yosemite with a cool breeze in their faces and a California sun on their backs. I turned and looked towards the olive trees and we sat in silence under the mulberry tree. &#x200B; &#x200B; 3. The rain came from the east from the mountains and the sky darkened quickly. I stood at my opened bedroom window and looked south and saw the lights of Ménerbes in the rain and mist across the valley. The lights of the town spread up the *Massif du Luberon* but I couldn’t see the mountain through the opaque wet sky. Faint automobile lights zigzagged down the mountain towards Ménerbes. I watched the automobile lights awhile and it was soothing looking out across the valley through the window. I pictured families returning from Marseilles after a day at the beach, speeding to get home off wet roads into warm houses. The children slept quietly in the backseats while the parents drove. They’d get home and bake wild oysters and boil leeks from the *Vieux Port* market and the parents would drink wine while the children laughed. They’d all go to bed full and happy and sunburnt. The rain was steady but there was no lightning. The air held a sweet zing and the smell reminded me of storms back home. I left the window open and walked over the warm grainy floor to the curved staircase lined with artwork. The kitchen was at the base of the stairs where Pierre was boiling water for tea. The radio spoke fast but I sat down and listened and knew it was about the California wildfires. The fires had started a few days ago and spread quickly near Chico in the mountains. The disaster troubled Pierre. He looked up from his milky grey tea with watery eyes: “Fifty-seven dead and over five hundred missing”, his voice choked back tears. “*Incroyable*”. He lifted his white octagonal porcelain cup with both hands and tilted it back and took a sip. He looked down at the table shaking his head in disbelief. “The entire town burned to the ground. Many more will die. *Incroyable”*, Pierre said. “Every year the fires are worse. It’s a shame” “Yes” I looked out the window into the rain. If only the rain came to the mountains near Chico, I thought. “Have you ever been to the area of the fires?”, I asked. I reached for a cup and filled it with black tea from the white porcelain teapot. I added honey and milk and stirred until the dark clear liquid turned milky grey. “Yes”, Pierre replied. “Many years ago” “On a cycling tour?” “Yes”, he said sipping his tea. “I led a group of Austrians south along the foothills of the Sacramento Valley, then east and up into the Cascade Range. We rode through the town they speak of on the radio” I cut a few slices of day-old baguette on a thin wooden board and spread peach jam. I pushed the wooden board towards Pierre and he grabbed a slice. He dipped the bread in his cup and took a bite. “We rode up the mountains to Paradise. It was early May and cool in the mountains”, he said. “We rode hard that day. It was a very memorable trip” “How many of you?” “About twenty”, he replied. “The Austrians were strong cyclists and we rode *fast* that day”. Pierre closed his eyes imagining the ride. “Were you the strongest of the group?” “Of course. I could’ve been a champion cyclist, *you know!*” “I know” “That town is gone. It’s a pile of ashes”. He took another sip and bite of bread. “It’s completely gone. *Incroyable*” “The fire came so quickly. It’s awful to think about” “Such a tragedy” “*Oui”* I cut two more slices of bread. Pierre ate one and I ate the other with peach jam. “I can’t handle any more bad news. Every day it’s worse”. He turned off the radio. “Time for a nap”, he said placing his empty cup in the sink. “Leeks and mussels and roasted chestnuts for dinner. But first I need a nap” I cleared the table and climbed the stairs to my bedroom. The window was open and I could hear the rain against the roof. &#x200B; &#x200B; 4. I thought I was dreaming when I woke in the cold and dark room. A thick wool blanket secured me against the bed and I laid motionless listening to the rain on the roof. A terrace lamp casted long shadows across the room and I tried to focus on the shadows hugging the mahogany wardrobe at the foot of the bed but my eyes were too heavy and tired. I couldn’t move my arms and I laid stuck to the warm bed under the wool blanket. I must be dreaming. I fell back asleep. The sound of an accordion woke me up. It billowed through the high ceilings and hallways of the farmhouse and skipped across the bricks and tiles and filled each room with music. I switched on the bedside lamp and checked my watch and stood and moved to the window. I had slept for an hour but it felt much longer. The lights of Ménerbes twinkled in the distance but no automobile lights came down the mountain. I suppose all the families are home now in their dry houses eating a hot meal, sunburnt from a day at the beach in Marseille. “*Bravo*!”, I shouted down the hall and clapped my hands when the music stopped. “*Bravo*!” “*Merci, monsieur!* I walked down the hall towards the music and pushed open the half open door to Pierre’s room. He sat on a wooden chair at a wooden desk while a white cloth lamp illuminated a pile of sheet music. His black and white accordion rested gently on his lap. “I had no idea you played an instrument” “It’s been a very long time”, he said patting the instrument lightly, his left hand under the strap. “Look how dusty she is” “I see that”, I said. “It sure is a beautiful instrument” He moved some sheet music around. “How long have you played?” “Over thirty years. I bought it at a Paris flea market before I moved to Les Chauvets” “It sounds lovely” I watched him shuffle more sheet music until he found what he was looking for. I took a step back leaning on the doorframe and watched him perform his next piece. He pulled his left hand away from the body and the instrument breathed to life. The music sailed through the farmhouse. His right hand danced on the treble keyboard while his left hand controlled the expansion and contraction and managed the brass buttons and switches. It was a beautiful marriage of music and coordination. *Lola* jumped on the wooden desk. She’s waited many years to hear him play again. He played the last measure squeezing the remaining air out of the instrument then it was silent again except for the rain. “Well done!” “*Ohh* it’s been so long since I’ve last played. My fingers needed the exercise” “You are quite talented” “It has been collecting dust under Jaqueline’s bed”, he said removing the instrument from his lap. “I shall keep it out and play more often” “Great idea” He set the accordion against the wall next to the wooden desk. “Did you sleep well?”, Pierre asked. “It was an odd sleep”, I replied. Pierre stroked *Lola* on the desk. “I dreamt I was a cat” &#x200B; &#x200B; 5. We ate our last dinner of leeks and mussels and roasted chestnuts in the white-washed dining room with thick wooden beams supporting the high ceiling. It was still raining. “What time’s your train tomorrow?”, Pierre asked. “Four in the afternoon leaving Cavaillon” “We shall leave here at two thirty then” “I shall pack my bags tonight” There was plenty of food and he ladled mussels onto my plate until there were no mussels left in the steel pot. We slurped them and filled an empty bowl with shells and slurped more and filled a second. We ate boiled leeks and the mild greens complimented the saltiness of the mussels. He filled our glasses with *Baron Philippe de Rothschild* and he held his glass up and I clanked his with mine: “*Santé*” “*Santé*” “To good friendships and olives” “To good friendships and olives” “I will miss having you around”, Pierre said. “Will you come back for next year’s harvest?” “I hope I can” “Maybe Anna and Griff will join you?” “They would love to” “Les Chauvets is lonely sometimes” “I bet” “Even with my olives and my cats”, he said. “It truly is a very lonely place sometimes” “I bet” I watched Pierre mop his plate of mussel and leek juice with bread then I did the same. He cleared the bowls of empty shells and returned with a pan of roasted chestnuts and an empty bowl for chestnut shells. “More food?” “The last supper with my hungry American guest” “I’ve never had chestnuts” “They are delicious. *Here*”, he said handing me a plateful. “How do you eat them?” “Like this”, he said opening one with his knife. We sat around the table awhile pealing and eating sweet spongy and earthy chestnuts and drinking good wine. *Lola* was curled on the other end watching Pierre with her chin on her tail. “*Lola mon chat. Veux-tu une châtaigne?”* He rolled a chestnut across the table towards the cat but the cat watched it roll off the table and crack on the floor. “*Je suppose que non”* &#x200B; &#x200B; 6. The rain stopped in the morning. Pierre was in the kitchen feeding the cats and boiling water for tea. The radio was on but quiet. “*Bonjour*” “*Bonjour*” “Tea?” “Please” He poured dark grey tea from the white porcelain teapot and I added milk and honey. “The rain stopped”, he said. “Would you like to walk the property?” “I would love to”, I replied. “Great. After breakfast we will walk the property”, he said. “How is your tea?” “Great” “Bread with jam?” “Please”, I said. “Anything on the radio?”, I asked. “Nothing”, he replied. We finished our tea with stale baguette and peach jam and dressed to walk the property. We stepped out onto the gravel terrace and around the stone wall. The sun was rising and drying the dew and low clouds moved west across the valley. “Beautiful sky this morning. Like a painting” “Very much so” “Don’t the clouds look fat with colors?” “Yes” We walked gently downhill along the edge of the farm to a row of bare almond trees\*.\* We followed a trail to the top of a dried river bed at the base of the mountain and stood at the edge in the grass in the sun. The river banks were packed layers of red and orange clay. A single fir tree grew from the clay on the other side and a large grey bird with red feet looked at us from a limb. Down below were fresh boar tracks in the wet clay. “*Le Colorado”*, Pierre said. “Funny” “The Mighty Mississippi”, he joked. “I like *Le Colorado* better” “So do I” \*“\*It’s beautiful, *Le Colorado”* We continued along the base of the mountain through the pine trees. White mushrooms covered in dirt had broken through the brush and dotted the ground. Pierre examined the mushrooms but none were edible. The forest was quiet except for the breeze. We walked awhile uphill through the forest then downhill through knee-high brush and into an abandoned almond farm. “This is my neighbor’s property”, Pierre said. “It’s a shame they don’t take care of the almond trees anymore” “Why did they stop?” “They planted grapes and left these to rot” “That’s rotten” “Yes” “How long have they been like this?” “Many years” “What a waste” The brush between the rows of almond trees was unnavigable. We walked the perimeter along the edge of the forest. Around a bend we saw more abandoned almond trees and the vineyard in the distance. The grey stone house sat at the end of a gravel driveway lined with olive trees. Grape vines stretched into the valley and the vines were bare and grew from short mounds of gravel. We continued along the edge of the forest and passed the vineyard and reached the road. “I want to show you something”, Pierre said. He pointed down the road: “There’s an abandoned farmhouse I want to show you” “Why is it abandoned?”, I asked “It’s a very tragic story”, he replied. We started down the road. “The mother was in the kitchen one morning many years ago”. He paused to pick packed mud off the bottom of his boot with a stick. “She saw her daughter standing on the railing of the stairs with a rope around her neck. The girl jumped. Her neck snapped right in front of her *own* mother” “That’s horrific” “The family left and never returned” “It’s been empty since the day she died?” “*Oui”* We were close enough to see the abandoned farmhouse over the tops of trees. “Look at the decay”, Pierre said pointing to the roof. “The roof has caved it” “I see” Overgrown sycamore trees lined the driveway. We walked in the shade up the winding dirt path. Ahead was an opened garage and to our right the abandoned farmhouse and a grassy field in the distance. Pierre froze: “*Arrête!”* He pointed across a ditch towards the barn in the field. White sheep dogs looked at us. They barked and paced along the edge of the ditch keeping the flock behind them. Their snouts pointed towards the sky when they barked. The sheep rested in the field by the barn behind the dogs. “They’ll kill us if we move any closer” “Why?” “They’re trained to kill anything they think threatens the flock” “Better we leave, then” “Yes” We retreated slowly keeping our eyes fixed on the dogs then we were out of sight and back to the road. “They would have killed us if we didn’t stop” “How do you know?” “In September they killed a cyclist that rode too close to the flock” “*My God*” “They are beautiful animals but very dangerous if you threaten their sheep” Pierre checked his watch. “We better get going” The sun had disappeared and the wind was blowing heavy clouds from the mountains. &#x200B; &#x200B; 7. We drove past Roussillon and Gordes then continued southwest towards Cavaillon. Clouds moved low and fast from the east from the mountains and it started raining. Pierre was quiet and I looked out the window at the passing stone houses with flat red roofs in the grey countryside. We rode through Robion on a narrow street lined with cypress trees and to the west jutted steep white cliffs dark with trees. We slowed around roundabouts and passed closed cafes with chairs and tables moved inside for the winter. “Cavaillon is two towns away”, Pierre said driving under a metal bridge. “That’s a lovely name for a town” “It’s world famous for their melons” “What types of melons?” “Cantaloupes” “If I have time I will buy a cantaloupe” “They’re world famous” We arrived at the train station and I checked my watch. The train left in fifteen minutes. “No time to buy a melon”, I said. “Next time” “Yes” We parked and walked to the front of the train station. The square in front of the train station was empty except for a man with his dog on a wooden bench under a sycamore tree. The building was off-white with dark green shutters and a red terracotta roof. A flag flew below the station’s clock and chairs were stacked on tables outside closed cafes along *Avenue Pierre Semard* across the square. “I guess this is it” “So long my friend” “Thank you for everything” “My pleasure” I extended my hand and he shook it and we hugged in the empty square and the train whistled. “You’re a good man”, I said with my hand on his shoulder. “Best of luck with the remaining harvest” “Please visit again soon” “I will” “*À bientôt*” “*À bientôt*” Pierre walked away and I stood there and watched him with his arms crossed behind his back and his head tilted down. He stopped and turned and waved and I waved and headed for the train.