Walkabout
The setting: Bubry, France. A village in Brittany with a population of 2500 and an open air market every second and fourth Wednesday for the last 400 years. The characters: three representatives of three generations of Breton women, each with strikingly similar noses and eyes.
I realize that a walkabout isn’t supposed to be confined to one particular place nor even to a specific group of people—it being, by some definitions anyway, an exploration—but these last few weeks have been my own kind of walkabout.
My grandmother is a great believer in the power of taking a walk. “Faire un petit tour” always meant an excuse to exercise and a visit to the cemetery to be sure the family graves were clean and freshly flowered, as well as a chance to see just what the weather and the seasons were doing on any given day.
I took this picture in the spring of 2006, my last visit with my Mamy until very recently.
In the meantime, my grandmother has lost her (sometimes uncomfortably) piercing clarity along with her mobility. She lives in a retirement home and spends most of her time in a wheelchair.
When my mother and I first arrived at the beginning of December, Mamy didn’t know who we were and her confusion was painful to all of us for different reasons. A few days into our daily visits, we started to make it a point to “faire un petit tour” together every afternoon. Breaks on, foot supports up, little slippered feet planted, a direct descendent supporting each arm, Madame Eugénie Kervinio was standing and then walking. Lots of stopping to rest because “la petite” (that’s me, believe it or not) needed a breather, some complaining about a numb backside and an aching back, and just once or twice a colorful string of Breton exclamations: we were putting one foot in front of the other.
By the time my mother and I had to say goodbye two and half weeks later, Mamy had taken my face in her warm hands and told me I was the cutest. Though I can’t say for sure that she knew I was the product of her demanding love and the vast variety of buttery yums she had made for me over the years, I do know that our walks had meant something to her as well as to us.
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- Getting used to the idea
- Cleaning the family grave and other Breton adventures
- Visiting my childhood…
CATÉGORIES: - Philosophy -
