Franco Prudence: Stuff That Grandpa Says

When we arrived at the Good Valley Farm in Montaigu last month, we were told to go directly to the potato field, where we waited to be met by the host’s father who moved here from Germany 30 years ago to become an organic farmer. The story of this patriarch’s migration to France and change of careers is a long and colorful one, from which we are continually regaled with anecdotal bits and pieces.

When Grandpa arrived to meet us, we introduced ourselves and gave him a very brief description of the previous WorkAway host from which we were forced to flee in horror, and from whom we were still reeling with disbelief. We explained that it was a British family who had purchased a 19th century chateau, and he immediately understood the situation as well or better than we could ourselves.

British people are always moving to France and buying old houses that they believe to be chateaux. If the house was built in the 19th century, however, then it is definitely not a genuine chateau, and it is certainly built with the worst quality wood. Grandpa went on to explain how British families like these are a vital source of both amusement and income for the local population. As they have no idea how to do any of the maintenance or restoration work for themselves, they are constantly hiring local hands to do every tedious task, from pouring concrete and erecting fences to rolling hay and digging out root balls.

After confirming our own first-hand experiences and encounters with international ineptitude, Grandpa moved on quickly to every European’s favorite topic when speaking with an American. That of course is Donald Trump. We’ve become quite deft at summarizing the Donald’s skyrocketing political success and his shockingly daft fanbase, but the fear of a Trumped up America courses feverishly through the veins of the old world.

The fact that we’ve been living out of suitcases and spare bedrooms for the last six months, with very limited internet access, has rendered us highly uninformed on current events. Thus we are able to confirm the deeply held stereotype of the ignorant American, perfectly clueless in the arena of world affairs. Grandpa was able, for example, to tell me a thing or two about Mrs. Clinton’s personal life.

“I heard that Hillary can’t control her bladder; she has to get up and pee every 15 minutes,” he told me. I was not aware of that. I only hope she’s not feeling the burn.

But when it comes to cultural icons and political celebrities, no star shines brighter than the Sun King, Louis XIV. Some, including grandpa, still wax reminiscent over France’s 18th century monarch the way some doughy-eyed Americans speak of Ronald Reagan. Either way, it’s a train of convoluted facts and logical inconsistencies, and in both cases I prefer to step aside and let the engine roll by rather than attempt to derail it with the force of reason.

Grandpa’s house was built in 1703, during the reign of Louis XIV, and like all the structures constructed in that period, it was built to last. Our host’s home, though nothing too remarkable or prepossessing, and all the best, longest-standing homes of the region, are of the same era. This was a time, according to gramps, when freedom really came to the people of France. The French Revolution didn’t come for another 80 years, but I realize we may have differing definitions of freedom.

Working on the farm and walking through the woods, thick with oak and hazelnut, grandpa’s wisdom is far less contestable. Or so it might seem. The bees in France, like everywhere in the world, are facing grave dangers these days, and threatening to disappear altogether. Rampant pesticide use is one problem, but ubiquitous radio waves and cell phone signals are another less frequently cited cause for concern.

Science books teach us that bees communicate with one another by means of an elaborate dance, in which they tell each other how far and in what direction to fly to find the best sources of pollen. But grandpa knows all to well that this explanation falls far short of satisfactory. Their complicated discourse and conveyance requires much more than just a rhythmic shaking of the hips. Indeed, nothing less than a subtle understanding of the stars and constellations could explain the success with which these insects navigate the blooming fields and blossoming orchards of the earth. And somehow, recent human activity has proven detrimental to this astronomical system of global positioning.

Even more interesting and impressive than grandpa’s elucidation of honey bee habits are his insights into the untapped powers of arachnids. Here on the organic farm, a wide variety of insects find safe sanctuary in a region where most of the neighbors heavily and regularly spray their crops with toxins. Spend a day or two harvesting berries in the woods, and you grow quickly acquainted with an almost microscopic species of spider that likes to feast upon the warm flesh around the crotch and armpits.

Reactions vary, and I, for example, don’t have such a problem with these critters. My daughter, on the other hands, itches terribly and scratches herself ferociously. Grandpa reacts even more drastically, with huge red welts proliferating across his body. Bothersome yes, but around these irritating bites he has discovered a silver lining of healing properties.

Grandpa began wearing glasses in his 50s, a decade or so after relocating to France. But following a few seasons of particularly plentiful spiders, his vision improved, and today, at age 75, he can read from the dictionary in a moderately lit room without the aid of spectacles. His only explanation for this miraculous recovery lies in the curative properties of the irksome arachnid. But the benefits are not limited to eyesight. Thanks to this spider, grandpa also has no need for viagra.