I was the fourth child in the family, named Jean-Marie probably for my paternal grandparents, born in 1943 at home in the farm house, Troupagat, in the middle of the war. Both the village of Rauzan and Troupagat were in the German-occupied zone at that time. That day, Rosy was not in school, but sick at home. Hearing the noises of boiling water in the kitchen, she came down but was told to go back to bed. Dr. Ribette came on his bicycle to assist. My dad had left to attend business in Bordeaux. Coming back in the afternoon, driving through Rauzan, he was told, “It’s a girl!” But he knew then, from the teasing voice, that it was another boy. My brother Bernard, five years older, declared that he was never going to fight with me. My mom recalled she had to break up quite a few fights between Michel and Bernard, six years apart.
Just before the war broke out, my parents had bought a small chateau, Augey. A neighbor offered his life savings and my mom’s dad gave the other half. During the war, my great grandmother Mamie and her daughter, my grand aunt André, lived there. Tanté, as we called her, had helped in raising my dad, and he was very devoted to her. They stayed with us at Augey, and my Mamie died there in 1954 at the age of ninety-eight. I am told that when I was two years of age, when we all moved from Troupagat to Augey, three miles away, it was done with a horse-drawn cart. I arrived at the new home on the last trip, sitting on the furniture on the cart.
I was dressed as a girl until the age of seven, complete with the Joan of Arc-style hair cut. Evidently, it was pretty common at the time since my parents wanted a girl. Toddler pictures of both my uncles, Charles and Roger, show they also were dressed as girls. As strange as this practice seems now, it didn’t seem to have a detrimental effect on them or on me, though I do remember being teased, especially by Michel.
I was home-schooled the first two normal school years. To discipline me, my mother needed to take me away to the other side of the house; spankings took place away from my great grandmother, Mamie, who always tried to defend me.
After the war ended, we had two German prisoners of war working the vineyard. Ernest returned home to his family in Germany as soon as he was allowed, but George stayed with us for several years, not having any family at home. On days when my mom could not drive me to school in Rauzan, George would take me, seated on the crossbar of his bike. Most times, by pedaling hard he could make it to the top of a long hill. Some days, we had to walk to the top and I sensed how disappointed he was. I spent a lot of time with him while he worked around the grounds and in the huge vegetable garden. Years later when he came back to visit, my mom said he asked for me right away but I was already in California. I still tear up thinking of him, a very kind man.
These were carefree years for me. We children learned to garden by helping our mom sowing seeds, planting vegetable seedlings, picking strawberries, and waiting for the tomatoes to get ripe. I have fond memories of buying seeds or transplants at the weekly village market.
In the summer, when plums “Prune d’Ente were ripe, it was time to make large quantities of jam. My mom and a kitchen helper got the fruit ready in a very large copper kettle. It was placed on top of a wood fire outside. Then it was Bernard’s and my duty to make sure it did not burn on the bottom. We took turns stirring with a big wooden paddle. My mom would come over from time to time. “It’s not ready yet.” It seems this was always done on a very hot day and took forever. I was recalling this story with Bernard’s daughter Muriel and she said, “I have the kettle!” It was truly confiture de prunes a’ l’ancienne. I promised myself to make a small batch this year!
In the meantime, my dad’s professional career took off, as he spearheaded initiatives to increase food production around the world. He was part of the Marshall Plan team, working with General Eisenhower to help restore the European economies ravaged by six years of war. With increasing responsibilities on the national and international agricultural stage, however, my father became very distant at home. He left on Mondays for his offices in Paris and was with us only on Sundays. My mom managed it all by herself: housekeepers, gardeners, older family members, and four children.
From time to time, my mom accompanied my dad on some of his trips abroad. I often stayed at Mr. and Mrs. Sabathe, my parents’ close friends, whom I knew well. The four of them often got together on Sunday afternoons to play bridge. I spent many hours observing and learning the game and eventually I was allowed to play a few hands. They lived in a chateau, Le Couros, built in the fourteen century, complete with towers and caves to explore. Because there was no school on Thursdays, Wednesday evenings, after dinner, the three of us played cards. It was such a treat, feeling treated almost like an adult. On cold winter nights, they warmed my bed with an old fashioned bed warmer, a copper container filled with hot ashes from the downstairs fire place. I loved it there!
When I was old enough I was able to go to a three-week overnight camp sponsored by the local parishes. It was several hours away by bus in the foothills of the Pyrénées, located within walking distance of the Catholic Shrine of Lourdes where the Virgin Mary is believed to have appeared to a local teenager, Bernadette. I had a great time away from home as we explored the surrounding hills and built rock dams across wild creeks rushing down the mountains. We occasionally walked to the sanctuary of Lourdes; as soon as I walked through its gates—and I have visited several times through the years—a feeling of peace came over me, as I was inspired by the pilgrims coming from all over the world. My mom took me there in the early fifties to pray for Marie-Helene, who had health issues as a little girl. What a special memory to have had my mom all to myself! Another time, she took me to Rocamadour, a picturesque city in the Massif Central. I had to plan the road trip, studying the Michelin Guide. We stopped often so I could fish in the rivers we crossed. Unfortunately we had no camera to take pictures but I still remember the little boy fishing or amazed at discovering Rocamadour built on the cliff of the mountain.
During his boarding school days, my dear brother Bernard came home only for the big holidays. He was a very good student and a great athlete, holding the national long jump record as a young boy. He quickly became the best soccer player in Grand Lebrun, our boarding school. We really wanted to have a soccer ball but we knew my mom wouldn’t buy one for us. Bernard and I searched through the house for loose change and found a small bill in one of our dad’s suits, enough to buy a standard-sized rubber ball. My idol, Bernard taught me to play soccer and tennis. We explored the woods together looking for porcini mushrooms in the summer and chestnuts in the fall.
The elementary school in Rauzan was located immediately behind the Marie, or City Hall. Being the son of the mayor, I felt a lot of pressure to excel academically. In truth, I was not a very motivated pupil, more interested in roaming the fields than in studying. In the French education system at the time, the students’ ranking was announced each week. On Saturday night when my father returned from Paris, he would ask before anything else, “Are you first?” Often I had to reply, “No it’s Marianne or Marie-Claire.” Then I was lectured on the importance of being first.
In 1950, when my sister got married, I was the ring bearer leading the procession into the 15th century church. My brother Bernard, with his beautiful soprano voice, sang the Ave María. There was not a dry eye in the church.
