It Takes A Village

Now don’t get me wrong I like living in a Swiss village. I’m not ecstatic about it but as places go for bringing up a family it ain’t half bad.  For starters we have our own male-voice choir and a small but not insignificant Amateur Dramatics Group.  Both were appearing Saturday night in the village hall, which was pretty savvy really because if anyone failed to turn up, each group could blame the other, turn the lights off and go home early.

We live in the centre of the village and when we hear of any forthcoming village knees-ups we know from experience that it is best to either leave the country or go along as the noise level starts off as a friendly hum and finishes on a par with the flight path into Geneva.  This time we dithered, deciding to wait and see, but this was obviously a hot ticket as the locals turned out in droves which meant I would have to close all the shutters on the front of the house as the evening would inevitably spill over into the Auberge opposite and then into the street and the partying would go on all night, shouts and screams bouncing off the clock tower, and ending up directly underneath our bedroom window. 

As I sat in the Salle Communale, our village hall, on Saturday night, fourth row in a room of rickety wooden chairs, listening to the haunting sound of our all-male village choir and marvelling at how well these neighbours of mine scrubbed up in their crisp white shirts, I thought of how collectively they summed up our life in this village.

There was Monsieur Gremlich Senior, the school bus driver, who had given me a twinkly eyed smile of acknowledgement and a cheeky quick appraisal.  His son Gremlich Junior our “garagiste” was more reserved as although we have a great laugh together in his workshop, Nathalie the scary wife with the purple false nails was sitting just off to my right.  Fernando the school caretaker and Monsieur Grandblanc the retired communal gardener were as usual completely ignoring us in a passive aggressive way, for various reasons.  Monsieur Grandblanc because of our blocked roof drain that overspilt onto the main road, and the other I suspect has something to do with the type of cars we drive.  Dominating the row behind was our local butcher Monsieur Prelaz, looking very pleased for himself.  He had given us a respectful nod worthy of the loyal customers we are.  Then came the village doctor whom no-one in their right mind would go and see and the really doddery old retired fellows who drink wine in the Auberge in the winter and tend to their ”potagers” (vegetable gardens) in the summer whilst their permanently-aproned wives tended house.  Some of “les vieux” (the oldies) ignore us completely seeing us as “arrivistes” having no ancestors buried in the cemetery, nor a name on any of the seven fountains.  We have nonetheless, inspite of our lack of local ancestory, managed to impress a few, notably with our new roof, and if the wind is blowing in the right direction they may pause over their pitch forks and mutter a few words of acknowledgement.   

The concert was followed by the drama group’s satirical play (emphasis on satire) and expectations were running high.  As these things tend to go on too long ricocheting between excellent to truly a thing of horror with the jokes so ”in” that we can’t always follow, Mr. Jules and I snuck out after the concert leaving our daughter Lexi planted in the middle of the kid’s benches up front watched over by Nathalie No.2 who along with her husband runs the Auberge.  Lexi insisted on staying because she didn’t want to miss Florence her old kindergarden teacher.

For once we had an empty house so we settled down to watch a DVD of our choice one that was thought provoking rather than adrenaline charged and didn’t contain any of the following words in the title: brainsucker, legend, high school or musical.  We waited-up for our 8 year old who eventually rolled home around midnight smelling like a skunk, exhilarated that she was the last one home.  She threw herself onto my side of the bed, curled up beside me like a mouse and fell instantly to sleep.  Childhoods don’t come any better.

Copyright Jules Ritter April 2008