I am back in Paris for a couple of weeks after a couple of months of ongoing renovations to the south wing. Surprisingly, it is very distracting, time-consuming, and fatiguing to have someone else in your home every day doing work.
My initial thought (made in error) was that my wife and I would interview vendors to do repair and reconstruction work, receive and review proposals, hire the best candidate, and then I could get back to the business of writing while the above-referenced craftsmen got on with the business of hammering, nailing, plastering, and painting.
I would occasionally supervise, act like an executive, strike a lordly pose, avoid all manner of dirt and sawdust, keep my distance, and do my own work, crafting stories, blog posts, and songs.
Au contraire, mes amis.
Even the best artisans have questions as a job progresses. One would worry if they did not. So they arrive in the billiards room, where my desk, papers, and work are located, with hesitant raised eyebrows and the inquiring index finger in the air. This signifies that they have one small question. And my wife and I must go see what it is, review our options, consider the best course, and direct the work to proceed in one way or another. Usually at additional costs.
Paint color, lighting fixtures, a small surprise behind the wall…all these things require our attention on a regular basis.
I am not complaining about the chateau. But I am not productive at the chateau, either. At least not as productive as I would like to be. Thankfully, the craftsmen usually depart around 3pm in the afternoon. Paint and plaster need to dry. Materials need to be picked up for tomorrow’s work. One would think that the afternoon in the countryside would be the perfect time to write and revise, dream and ponder, scheme and plot.
But no. Firewood needs to be cut. (Yes, I do that, as does my wife.) A neighbor drops by to ask about the garden. Total strangers walk up to the chateau and admire, sometimes even knocking on the front door. I am required to respond and converse, be a diplomat, explain that the house is not open for tours just yet, casually and gently mention all of the DO NOT ENTER, PRIVATE PROPERTY signs that mark both entrances, and say thank you so much for stopping by unannounced just the same.
As I may have mentioned in a previous post, it’s like living at Graceland: I may be a very private person, but I live in a very public house. A residence that holds a unique emotional and historical place in the hearts and minds of the French people, especially the locals, who have lived with the aristocratic family that resided here for 400 years. (We are only the second non-family owners.)
They are curious about us and our plans for the property. The chateau is like an aging auntie. The locals are like nephews and nieces… sentimental about their past relationship, loving and proud, concerned for her well-being, and hopeful for her future. They want to know that she’s doing okay, even if they don’t come by as often as they should. But they do come by.
And then there are the not-infrequent random events requiring our attention. A huge limb from the centuries-old cedar tree breaks off in a storm and falls, blocking the driveway that leads from the chateau to the road. (A neighbor arrives with his tractor and pulls it aside.) A bird somehow ends up inside the chateau and is flapping around, through the grand salon, up the staircase, into our bedroom–which is under construction–through the library where we have now set up camp, and down the second floor hall. It must be located, coaxed, and set free through and open window on the north wing because, well, not all the windows open (!). A half dozen buckets on the top floor of the place must be monitored and emptied after a rain, as the roof is a historically protected work in progress, and leaks are part and parcel of chateau life.
Amidst all these challenges, for lack of a better word, there are magical moments. The fog that lingers over the pond and chapel in the early mornings. The new historical discovery about something in the house that we make almost every month. The sense of accomplishment when a job is done, or partly done. The smallness that one feels when surrounded by centuries of history and legend, stone and timber, family and foes.
Then there is the realization that this chateau, like every other chateau, has a personality. It has quirks. It has preferences. It is charming. It is cranky. It bestows blessings. It throws temper tantrums. It is demanding of us. It is protective of us. This is not just my opinion; it is the considered, experienced consensus of other chateau owners we’ve had the privilege to meet.
Yes, we have our own auntie. And we have to take care of her.
But it’s only when I get back to Paris, have a moment to rest, relax, and reflect, that I get a sense of the life we’ve chosen, and have the chance to write about it.
More later…
- BGT