Getting used to the idea
My grandmother passed away at the beginning of the month, and I have spent the last few weeks in the small village in France that she called home, helping my mother to tie up loose ends and trying to get used to the idea of my Mamy not being here anymore.
Before I left, I was working on this portrait of my grandmother, an hommage to the many visits I made with her to the cemetery over the years.
original photo by my mother
This is the last picture of Mamy at our family grave, but it is by no means the first. She was always a faithful visitor to the tomb, but in the years after my Papy died she was there every day.
More often than not, she wasn’t alone: she had Pepsi the super dog with her—note the bundle of cuteness sitting on top of the tomb. Pepsi belongs to a friend of my grandmother’s, but for years he loaned his dog to her because he understood that my grandmother needed another being to care for and because Pepsi did quite a bit of caregiving in return as well. If the dog is sitting on the family tomb, it’s in order to be closer to Mamy’s face so that she can lick it.
In the “caveau” are my grandmother’s parents, one of her brothers, my grandfather, and now my Mamy.
I took this photo directly after the funeral. I’d always imagined (rather foolishly, in retrospect) that the tomb would be opened by lifting up the stone monument.
That the “caveau” would be opened from the front by digging through the loose gravel and earth of the path never occurred to me.
It’s strange to see the family tomb so covered in flowers. Mamy always made sure it was clean and decorated, but never to this extent. I almost don’t recognize the monument as it is.
This visit to France has given me many reasons to consider how we treat our dead. Part of a family’s responsibility for a grave is to keep the monument well sealed and, in our case, the wall behind it painted. The Le Carrer tomb is ostensibly ours in perpetuity—as was the custom when the plot was purchased 60 years ago—but, should it fall into disrepair, my grandparents and company can be evicted.
Just a couple of graves over is this one.
It has been falling apart for a while…
...and for a long time now Bubry’s city hall has been looking for leads on who might still care about anyone buried there. Being responsible for digging up unclaimed bones is, I’m fairly certain, one of the least appealing jobs in the universe. Once evicted, the remains end up in the graveyard’s ossuary.
Death and decay may be par for the course in a cemetery, but it still buzzs with a certain kind of life.
Real flowers growing where synthetic ones are preferred.
Little grave dwellers skittering around among the monuments.
Magnificent.
And life goes on in the village too.
Walking one afternoon, we met Monsieur and Madame Le Pen, old friends of my grandparents.
As usual, they wouldn’t let us leave without trying to teach us some Breton.
My mother used to understand Breton since it was the only way she could follow secret conversations between her mother and her grandmother, but, when she was growing up, Breton was not encouraged. That’s why we had to write down our newly acquired words!
photo by my mother
Madonna the donkey passed away over the winter but her son Tango is still around and he was happy to be fed grass by hand.
My mother suffers from a persistent cough whenever she visits Brittany. In this photo, our friend Brigitte is explaining that if she reaches one arm up to the sky and really stretches herself her cough will go away. Brigitte is full of these kinds of remedies. I don’t know if they always work, but they certainly do take your mind off of the problem!
My mother has her own bits and pieces of country wisdom too. Here she’s chewing on a sour sorrel leaf because she’s thirsty…
...and here she’s using a blade of grass to whistle loudly.
Not to be outdone, Brigitte answered the birds singing in the tree.
This past winter was miserable in Brittany…
...but spring is starting to come around.
In yellows…
...and blues.
In sweet smells…
...and so many variations on that theme.
With the obligatory tulips…
...tulips…
...and more tulips!
We haven’t had a single day without sunshine since we arrived.
Though I wouldn’t normally complain about such a coup in the habitually grey and wet Brittany, it’s a bit disconcerting when the cloud of a certain Icelandic volcano is hanging around enjoying the clear and still weather with us. One day, I hope to make it home to Portland.
In the mean time, I’m sure I’ll find some way to cope with the help of goat cheese galore, fresh pastries, and Bubry’s new crêperie.
The Crêperie De La Forge just happens to be our new neighbor…
...and Isabelle Le Strat makes some delicious crêpes. Beginning at 4 o’clock every morning and finishing up in the afternoon, the smell of fresh crêpes has turned my mother’s courtyard into a mighty fine place to catch your breath.
With a new neighbor comes new responsibilities. Behind this façade is my mother’s house as well as a series of interconnected yards belonging to people who all have the right to access the well next to the house.
The old gate wasn’t going to cut it anymore with the crêperie opening its restaurant room this summer.
photo by my mother
So we set about making a new one from a hardware store kit.
photo by my mother
Once it had been varnished, the issue became how to put it together. I needed an electric drill, so we borrowed one from a friend of my grandmother’s. At first, Monsieur L’Hinguerat didn’t want to lend me the power tool, afraid that “la petite” would hurt herself—nevermind that “the little one” is 28 years old and builds her own stretcher frames!
Once he was satisfied that I was adult enough for the drill, I followed him to his workshop to pick it up. There, I saw some delightful old Breton carvings. His father had made them, but Monsieur L’Hinguerat was refurbishing them. Inspired by the traditional designs, I drew him this thank-you.
The next step required some help from a friend with a stone drill…
...and, “voilà,” a brand new gate!
Even with these housekeeping details…
...we have taken the time to visit the loveliness that is Brittany…
...by going to the beach.
It never ceases to amaze me how different the Atlantic’s shells are from the Pacific’s.
If my Maman looks happy here…
...it’s because she has an orgy on her hands. These shells are called “crepidula copulata” after the way they cling to one another.
This is one kind of windsurfing I had never seen…
photo by my mother
...and I felt it was safer to stay on the beach watching.
After lunch, we visited the Côte Sauvage, which was the opposite of wild that day.
That said, I’m not sure I’d brave the rocks in order to fish even on a calm day.
We visited Quiberon too…
...for the mandatory icecream at the beach…
...and returned via St. Cado.
photo by my mother
I also got to meet my godmother’s new puppy, Flora.
Louisette freely admits that she killed her last dog with kindness. She fed Sara a bit of everything she ate, including all kinds of sugary things, and the poor little poodle’s heart gave out after 8 sweet years.
Louisette recounts the story this way: people told her that Sara was fat, but she thought that her dog was beautiful and that people were just being mean. Louisette hasn’t exactly learned her lesson either. She was feeding Flora from the table while we had tea and cookies. Then again, I don’t know if I’d be able to resist the Ewok-faced love bug either.
Before we left, Louis gave us one of the first heads of lettuce of the spring. I think he was proud to share the produce of his garden, but he handed over the lettuce very carefully and admonished us to be gentle with it as we washed it. As garden gnomes everywhere are my witness, we didn’t even bruise it as we feasted on it that night!
A friend of mine from gradeschool, Floriane, and my mother’s friend from college, Françoise, came to visit us last weekend. We went for a walk after lunch, and, rather unoriginally, found ourselves back at the cemetery.
Later that evening, Floriane took me to a “Fest Noz,” an evening of “danse bretonne.” Traditional dancing in Brittany is basically square dancing to the sound of a “bombarde,” a wind instrument that’s a lot like a bag pipe without the bag. It’s all sweat and country folk yip-yipping and yeehawing. Some of the dances are for couples, but most of it is a lot like a conga line except that everyone moves sideways and links pinkies. I picked up the two-person dances fairly easily since they were more active, but the sideways conga line was beyond my abilities. The varieties are endless and endlessly subtle. I never did figure out which down beat to pick my foot up on in some of the dances.
The dancing was fun to watch as well. The age range was everything from 4 to 84, and everyone there was red-faced from dancing or from drinking. When the whole dance floor was pulsating with a twisted up conga line, it was impressive, but more interesting still was the small picture of the individual dancers. Some had the funniest faces on: they seemed bored or even annoyed, but maybe they were just passively allowing themselves to be carried along the line. Others seemed to be looking for their spouses—current or prospective—and many were dancing with the unfiltered joy that only music and movement can engender.
My grandmother loved to dance. Whenever traditional music came on the radio, she would hold out her pinkies and dance by herself. Sometimes she would dance a few steps with me, but it was hard for me to understand what it really meant. I think I went to a “Fest Noz” once when I was a teenager, but otherwise all I ever saw of “la danse bretonne” were the choreographed groups who wear traditional costumes and tour the countryside in the summer. It’s unfortunate that I only got a clearer understanding of this aspect of my Mamy after she died.
Then again, I guess that’s just the way it is. In the past few weeks, I’ve come to see how many things I didn’t really understand about my grandmother and about our relationship. For one thing, I always thought that I was the one who bridged the cultural gap. After all, we spoke her language together, not mine, and it was usually me who visited her. But the more I think about it, the more I’ve come to see that she was the one who gave me a place here: now it’s up to me to find my own or else stop visiting.
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- Cleaning the family grave and other Breton adventures
- Visiting my childhood…
- Walkabout
CATEGORIES: - Events - Philosophy - Photography -
(3) Comments / Commentaires: Getting used to the idea
Gorgeous photos!! Sorry to hear of your grandmother. Hope you are healing well.
Your grandmother’s village looks so serene yet full of life. I smiled when you’re mom was whistling using a blade of grass, we do the same here 
Your photo journal is really captivating and I enjoyed reading through it.
Beautiful photos! And your writing is beautiful, too, as always.
Of course, I have wonderful memories of les danses bretonnes from Madeline’s French class! It was so much fun! And you know what? It gave me a bit of a head start for the Renaissance Dance classes I took at the conservatory in Tours! Those traditional dances have been around for centuries.
I’m glad (in a way) that you have had this unexpected extra week… And I hope that your return to Portland goes smoothly.
Madeline Bishop...
Hi Gwenn,
Your pictures are delightful! I loved the flowers. You are a very good photographer.
When I was Claire’s French teacher, I always taught my students the “pinky danse” from Britanny. We would conga around the room. Ask Claire about it someday.
Sorry/not sorry you have extra time in France. Your grandmother’s village looks like a really sweet place.
_Madeline Bishop
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