Les Olives: Part Six

Ripples in the Firelight

I continue to work on my Les Olives series after a life-changing trip to the South of France back in March when I pruned over 100 olive tree’s at my aunt’s home. For those of you who missed the first five installments of Les Olives, start with À Bientôt! Les Olives to catch up.

The entire series is coming together into a book that I hope to have published later next year.  I continue to learn lessons from those seven beautiful days in the South of France with my aunt and her olive trees. I hope you enjoy it too!

“We no longer build fireplaces for physical warmth. We build them for the warmth of the soul; we build them to dream by, to hope by, to home by.” Edna Ferber

There is something primal and transformative about firelight. In the glow of the embers, speaking truth often feels safer, more necessary, and more profound. Firelight has a tendency to only half-illuminate our faces, allowing us to divulge transgressions with less shame. The ancient rites and ceremonies of our ancestors used fire to purify and sanctify the holiest of holies, facilitating epiphanies and speech from the soul.

No wonder the evening fireside chats with my aunt have been such a treat, especially after long days of trimming the olive trees.

After pruning, I must clean up my mess in the yard before sunset. Then, back to the house to shower for dinner, and meet my aunt in the kitchen where the food has already been prepared. I set the table with plates and “tools” as my aunt likes to call them. The heirloom silverware is heavy in my hands, always a fork, knife, and soup spoon flanking enameled tin plates. I confirm there are two knife rests–little silver bars with legs that keep dirtied knives from staining the linens. I don’t know anyone else who has them. Then there are the dainty dessert spoons that sit horizontally at the top of the place-setting, turned face down so that the silversmith’s stamp is visible to guests. 

“Don’t forget your wine glass,” she reminds me, although I’ve already filled it with a delicious Mourvèdre.

Dinner starts with a detailed report of the day’s work, proposed activities for the next, and an update on how my aunt spent her afternoon. We have dessert, often a piece of fruit eaten with knife and fork, and my aunt insists she will do the dishes later. It’s time to retire to the living room. 

“You mustn't be ashamed of where you have gone wrong. Simply admit it and try again,” Words of wisdom from my Aunt

In the living room, my aunt never asks for help with the fire. It’s her sacred job, and she demonstrates a child-like joy when she tends to the hearth.

“I may have forgotten a few things with age, but I have not forgotten how to build a fire,” she says as she strikes a match to a thoughtfully engineered Lincoln Log-like structure nestled in the fireplace. The flames jump to life around the wood, and the room warms immediately. My nostrils flare at the smell of the delicious smoke. I feel my body relax, sinking into the ancient furniture. 

My aunt’s salon is the largest room in the house, but it feels on the small side thanks to the oversized furniture, acquisitions from larger ancestral homes long abandoned for being too big to heat and clean. There is the sofa that swallows you as you sit, side tables brimming with books, and an ancient wicker chair I am too nervous to sit in. A massive walnut armoire stands sentinel by the doorway. My aunt’s throne, a burgundy armchair with good, sturdy legs, is positioned closest to the fireplace.

The room is decorated with oriental rugs, an Islamic tapestry, and a Jacobean portrait of a long dead ancestor above a marble-topped buffet. A sculpture sitting atop the armoire might be more archaeological than artistic. The French doors and windows have already been shuttered so that the only light comes from the fire and a few lamps around the room, their golden glow sufficient for reading but no brighter. 

My aunt offers me a digestif. Fireside whiskies on cold winter nights have been some of my favorite memories with her. But this time I politely decline seeing that she hasn’t poured herself a glass. Instead, I suggest some tissane, chamomile that she’s picked herself from the wild plants that grow in the yard. While the kettle heats, I attempt small talk from the kitchen. She reminds me not to shout, but otherwise, she cannot hear me. So I steep in uncomfortable silence until I’ve filled our mugs and returned to the living room.

My aunt is standing by the fire, reaching for her soufflet à bouche from where it was leaning against the wall. This is an ingenious tool I’ve only seen in France. A tube-like bellows made from a hollowed out branch and smoothed to resemble a walking stick. My aunt points one end close to the fire and blows gently through the other end. The flames jump to life. Satisfied with her work, she sits back down. 

My aunt is an academic, and every horizontal surface is piled with stacks of books. Even at her age, she continues to research and publish, and there are always several texts opened to important references, noteworthy entries marked by the errant classical music concert program.  

But we won’t be reading tonight. We’ll likely talk until late into the evening. Our conversations take their time, drifting along, but never faltering. Sometimes they get quite spirited, but most evenings, they meander and wind through myriad subjects, comfortable and engaging in a way that is only possible for two people who relish each others’ company. 

Tonight, she opens with commentary on a radio show she heard this morning, (French radio is truly of astonishing quality). Today, the topic was feminist theory in Medieval convents. “Men can be like carbuncles that grow on the side of a ship,” she jabs.

Next, we move to ancient history and world travel. “I wish I could have shown you Istanbul.”

I ask about her childhood in France during WWII–one of my favorite topics–but the conversation detours into a comparison with the current war in Ukraine.  “Notice the similarities my boy.”

I point out a painting tucked away in the hall that I’d noticed for the first time this evening. “My sister’s,” she says. “It’s a shame she never continued her passion.”

Painting hanging on the wall by my aunt’s sister, my other aunt.

No conversation goes long without discussion of American politics. My aunt cannot hide her fascination with and contempt for the whole charade, “You are such a young country,” she says, almost in an attempt to reassure herself.

But what I appreciate most abut our conversations is when she shares her life lessons, acute observations, moments of truth and authenticity, sometimes when I least expect them.

What were you afraid of as a child?

“The power of the Big Bang. Or maybe I was more afraid of what came before the Big Bang. The concept of infinity. The fact that there was no answer. The profundity of no answer. No structure; no rule; no point.”

How old were you?

“I must have been twelve.”

Do you think people can change?

“Change, I don’t know. But most people struggle to mature. They fall into a frame and stay there; behaving like everyone else around them.” 

And of course, we talk about the land, her trees, and her olives. My mind is spinning with creative ideas. I offer them in rapid succession, ways to improve things, how to further transform this little oasis into a Provencal estate, complete with lavender fields, wildflowers, honey, and (more) fruit. Maybe she could have a few sheep to keep the grass mowed. Had she considered fertilizing the grove? Did she notice a quince tree had died? Would she like a bigger potager this year? Surely we could boost olive production if we just planted more trees. I’d made some calculations, and there was ample room.

My aunt patiently waits as I rattle off each suggestion. After a moment, she is polite but firm. “I’m too old to worry about those changes. I have what I need, and you know, it’s just too expensive to try something new.”

At first, I am ready to challenge her. Too expensive? Too old? Ha, certainly she could live for at least another decade, and then she’d have twice the olive oil. Or maybe she could consider bottling and selling it. We could make a label. What would the name be?

“It takes a lot of effort to do more with the same amount of land.” she asserts. “And must I remind you that I might not be here next summer.” The fire hisses. I swallow the last of my tisane. 

I attempt some self-deprecation, apologizing for my persistent American entrepreneurialism.

She responds, “US culture has all the ingredients, but it is missing the cement of centuries of history. It is based on things borrowed from other countries and cultures that haven’t had the time to ‘set.’ The cement has not cured.”

I think about how old America is. Almost 250 years. France, as a nation, has been around for more than 1,000. I’m nearly half a century old. My aunt is almost exactly twice my age. When does our concrete set? 

“There is no limit to growth. I am always learning. You don’t grow up, you grow out, like the ripples in a pond after you have thrown a pebble. The ripples just continue to expand until they find the shore.”

The fire starts to die down, and so does the conversation. A couple of times I catch my aunt nodding off to the crackles and pops of the fire. I am so comfortable right now that I can’t imagine ever leaving this room again. But the image of my bed is too compelling. I make some extra noise extracting myself from the sagging couch.

I think it’s time for bed. Can I help you with the dishes?

My aunt refuses and stands slowly. She inspects the fire. Before I can give her a hug good night, she shuffles off into the kitchen. The sound of running water and the gentle clatter of plates fills the otherwise silent house. I hope I’m able to do my dishes at 94.

The embers glow more faint in the fireplace, but the warmth lingers as the night begins to settle.

I stand in the doorway for a moment, watching her with her back to me, thinking about all that she has said tonight. When do the ripples stop? I guess when they reach the far shore. But when is that? 

And when I am twice as old, will my ripples stretch beyond my reach? 

I let myself feel fully the weight of the day. I smile with the quiet satisfaction that I have been part of something timeless. There is just one more full day left among the olive trees. I whisper goodnight and leave my aunt to her midnight tasks.

With the house quiet and dark, I climb into bed, my mind still lingering on her words, knowing they will echo in my heart long after the last olive has been pruned.

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