Friday, October 16, 2015
My father was on deck on a battleship in the Spanish Civil War standing next to another sailor when a bomb struck the deck and killed his comrade instantly. My father related the story in his gentle, unemotional way to illustrate how human beings can stand tightly between death and life: had the bomb hit the deck a few feet to one side, the dead man would have been my father.
I remember this story as I reflect on the death of Josette Lacroix, familiarly known as la poupette --the little doll, the wife of Jean Lacroix, the retired gendarme who rides with me as part of the Club de Cyclisme de Caunes-Minervois ("CCCM").
Jean and Josette welcomed me to Caunes with open arms, inviting me to their house for lunch in 2013, and having me to lunch again last year, 2014. Jean was a gendarme, a member of the paramilitary force that preserves order in the French countryside. However, because he was capable and eager to see the world, Jean served with the French gendrarmerie not just in France, but in Martinique and Cameroon, the latter as an adviser. Jean and Josette travelled widely: Jean spoke to me with enthusiasm of his love of Egypt, of travelling in a felucca on the Nile, and of his later trip to Mexico with Josette. They were curious and eager to experience the world outside Caunes, although their origins were modest. Jean came from a family of eight children, their father a barrel-maker --the workshop was down the street from my house here-- pushed out by the industrialization of the manufacture.
Jean and Josette were sweethearts, he tall, thin and quiet, with piercing blue eyes, she petite, periwinkle-eyed and blonde. They had three children, two daughters and a son. Their life was far from rosy, though: Jean and Josette spent years caring for Josette's mother, incapacitated by a stroke; their eldest daughter died of cancer at thirty-five, leaving two children and a husband bereft. They took on partial responsibility for their daughter's children, keeping them with them summers to ease the burden on their father, who never remarried.
They never shirked their family responsibilities, and they still found time to volunteer to help keep Notre Dame du Cros in good order: Jean assisted with repairs and renovations, as well as making the popular tripes for the kermesse lunch each year; Josette would daily open the abbey to visitors, cycling from their house on Allee des Vignes Baties to Place de la Abbaye. Indeed, she was such a keen cyclist that she helped found the CCCM. My first year in Caunes I used to see her riding around Caunes on her bicycle, always smiling and ready to stop for a few minutes to chat, a joyful woman, despite her sorrows.
A year and a half ago she had her first stroke, which incapacitated her mentally a bit. It was followed by another, which eroded a bit further her capacities. Jean cut back on the days he cycled with the CCCM, returning home earlier than he had to assure that Josette was not left alone too long. Sundays, he would drop her off at Notre Dame du Cros so she could go to Mass, and he or neighbors would bring her home. I saw her there frequently: it was where she worshipped and would sometimes read the lessons.
The Sunday before last I was, unusually this year, at Notre Dame du Cros. I had gone to the HD broadcast of the MetOpera in HD, which conflicted with going to Mass at Saint Vincent, which has, with its magnificent organ, become my church of choice. A minute or two after the Mass had started, Josette came in, shuffling slowly and finding a seat on the bench in front of me. I tapped her on the shoulder; she met me with a radiant smile, shifting her position so I could join her. We rode back to Caunes in the car of Marc and Marie-Helene, a couple active in the parish.
The next night Josette had a small stroke, followed by a massive one the next day. She lost all consciousness, although Jean said after the first stroke, she was still able to squeeze his hand in response to his grasp of hers. She went into a coma Tuesday night.
I learned of all this last Sunday, when I rode with the CCCM. I called Jean and got his son first --he had come down from Paris, where he has a business. When Jean came on the line I volunteered to help with grocery shopping or house cleaning, if he needed it. He kindly thanked me, and told me there would be a meeting with the doctors Monday at 11:30 a.m. when a decision would have to be made about Josette's fate. I urged him not to let the doctors pressure him, and he thanked me for saying that. We rung off, and I wondered when Josette would be taken off life-support.
The removal of all aids to life happened Tuesday morning, and at 6:00 p.m., Josette Lacroix died. The funeral Mass and internment were today.
Throughout the week I have been miserable, losing things, breaking glasses. And eager to leave Caunes. Timeless the countryside may seem, but neither it nor we are immutable. And the little village of Caunes is no exception: this week I saw the "For Sale" sign in the window of Chez Marlene, the grocery store opposite the mairie that is the only place in Caunes that sells fresh fruit and vegetables and a variety of groceries: Marlene (a niece-by-marriage of Josette) wants to retire. If no one takes up when Marlene leaves off, the heart of the village will be moribund, as Marlene's is not just a grocery store, it is a center of village life.
I also learned this week that my 83-year old cycling partner, Jeannot and his wife Gisele, are putting their house nearby mine up for sale.
"It's a good idea for us to move near our daughter who works at the Institut Pasteur in Paris", Gisele told me yesterday, when I stopped by to tell them when the services for Josette would take place. (Their other daughter lives in Tunisia, where they used to live, and which they wish she would leave.)
So all the things I thought I could count on in Caunes are no more reliable than anywhere else.
I should have known.
Josette's funeral was a magnificent affair: the entire village came out. The CCCM sent a wreath, many of the members were there, along with their wives. Pere Philippe, the solitary priest who is in charge of Notre Dame du Cros, cancelled the daily Mass to assist the parish priest with the funeral Mass. The abbey church with its magnificent white marble altarpiece, a kneeling angel on each side (one, its hands clasped in prayer, the other, hands crossed against its chest) was filled to capacity. The choir of volunteers sang, unaccompanied --not always tunefully-- but generously. The influence of technology on even rituals of death was made manifest: Josette's son and her son-in-law read their remarks from a mobile device. They were no less moving for that.
At the end of the Mass, many people walked or drove to the cemetery to say their goodbyes at the graveside A friend read from a piece of paper she had written on. Then the small, narrow coffin was encircled by two ropes, one at the front, the other at the end. It was lowered into the earth feet first, then the head, gently. The man in charge explained the service was now at an end, although anyone wishing to faire une geste d'adieu (make a gesture of farewell) was welcome to approach the grave after the family. Jean, his children, grandchildren and relatives filed by, one by one, then walked to the cemetery gates. Jeannot and Gisele, who had driven with me to the cemetery, preceded me. We saw Jean Lacroix once more before we left, Courage-- I wished him before saying my goodbye.
So I'm leaving the village as soon as I can, which is Sunday. My original departure date was Tuesday, but I want to break up my travels to Tulle into three parts, so I limit myself to two hour trips, the first to Toulouse, the second to Rocamadour, the third to Tulle. In each case I have nice lunches planned.
Funnily enough that's what has kept my spirits up this week: meals out. Creature comforts are the only defense against death's unforgiving grip on those we love. So I'm going to hotels for three days so I can be waited on, to fight against the despair.
--I am sure that Josette would laugh out loud, if she could hear me.
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