The Stories, The Poems, and The Prose of Nadine Sellers

We can hear the creek swelling like a wolf bitch with fat pups below the terrace; she groans, ready to swallow any cow that should venture by it's sucking sides; November sun mocks bare limbs above the pretentious rivulet that rages in seasonal flush. In a last dutiful heaving, nature renders itself to the minor gods of reproduction. This will be my last winter in France and every sight becomes a tableau, every sound a concert, importance reduced to shear relevance, I draw a sensory map upon tired consciousness in an effort to seal memories until the great forever.

Blue jays survey the flooded valley which runs a deep furrow past the ancient flour mill and on toward domanial farms. Crows cackle angrily in a last territorial battle before settling to a dismal season upon the lone walnut tree uphill. Muddy swirls engulf freshly plowed clay, where the farmer sowed winter wheat; so eager was he to replace the spent sunflower crop before the rains, that he gambled meager earnings and now curses the flood. His figure, a soggy gray blue flash of fury on the crumbling bank, his black rubber boots enmeshed in rotten vegetation torn from his own pastures at torrential speed, he gesticulates the wrath of times.

The farmer's son drives by, snug in the glass enclosed cab of a powerful tractor, on his way to save some field from sliding terrain above the village. My fingers stretch the fabric of thin gloves, purple misery of long hours at the frigid task of mangle storage; large dirty white beets the size of twisted footballs weigh a fresh ton per hour of bending, picking, pulling up, and hacking, over and over. Building stacks of night fodder for the winter stock, spreading a layer of straw, laying the earthy roots gently, never to bruise the precious food for the stable bound cattle, never to miss a spot of mildew which would rot the entire barn full of rich mangles. Women tell of the one dreadful year of neglect when harried children ignored a hint of black mold, they recount the dire consequences in tones of doom and exaggerated gestures:

"Yes, cows weakened and some even died of starvation because the mushy, smelly mess had decomposed all the summer's labor in a single week's time" one rubicund peasant punctuates with pointing, wagging finger.

A girl tries to squelch doubting whispers and giggles, with quivering chin, I caution her to listen; I've heard this story before, and I know it to be true enough: I, was one of those children, forever guilty, and surely never allowed to forget.

We finish the work before freezing winds claim this harvest, before vermin, rodents and stubborn hens find it, and quickly chop off crowns as we hear the first of the cows coming home from pasture toward the long stables. By night fall the mounds of limp greens or stout rootstock are but pain and pride. My own reward, a gunny sack full of sweet roots to take home for a last winter in my ancestral domain. The farmer's son returns on the high road above the women and children, smug in the steamy cab, he snickers a strong tooth smile at the chores that he forgot were his very own duty, when he wore knee pants, only a few years ago.

Papa, as the old farm tenant is called, backs up to the fire in the tall hearth, boots in hand, toes peeking through wool socks, he yells a guttural curse, slapping the smoke off his pants. It's been awhile since anyone has understood what he said, but everyone knows what he means, even though he has no lower teeth left, and the uppers are nothing but shrunken tobacco stained stubs. The stout bench where he sits bears the imprint of ancestor's bottoms, shining with a dark patina that would make an antique dealer proud. Scent of rabbit stew wafts across the common room, so papa picks his toes clean, one sore purple digit at a time; mama, his loyal consort, grumbles some barely audible retort, too glad he burned his seat, too mad he chose to stink up the kitchen at mealtime with his belated hygiene.

She fills the cast iron foot warmer with red ambers from the fire and smothers them with cold ashes, then carries it under a high bed opposite the long table and draws a hanging tapestry across the alcove, soon the sleeping nook will be warm enough for her to cuddle up for a sorely deserved rest. The woman's eyes reflect the dullness of winters, grey green of loss of hope, she moans imperceptibly, the kettle trembles in her grasp as she pulls it off the swinging hinge on the side of the dwindling fire; she heaps a crude slapping of prunes and potatoes in a hollow bowl and sets it hard onto the long dark planks of a rustic table, then almost as an afterthought, she grabs a chunky leg of rabbit and lets the bones cling on the plate's border; in daily ritual of resentful exercise; her hungry fingers grope for the last piece of protein before the family plunges in it's customary bout of political rehash. Stout home wines fill short glasses at the speed of long repressed anger.

"I told you they wasn't gonna pay us farmers for the grain we lost, you can go to your Councilman all you want, tenant farmers don't count!": the daily paper shared by the two brothers rustles as they pass the rounds, papa asks what it says. "That, there?" he slaps the headlines with the aggravated back of his hand, the son who recently dropped out of school assumes his growing role as head of anything that looks important, he reads on, stumbling across the elusive text. "someday," he declares "I'm going to get my driver's license in the army, and I'll show them what I can do with a tractor too!"

"Time to say good night!" warns the mother from her nestling alcove. At daylight I listen for birds, swallows have been gone for a month now, I miss their busy chatter on the edge of the shutters. The yellow breasted wren click - clicks by the hazelnut tree, I can trace the wanderings of the farm cat by the sequence of sharp warnings the mother bird emits. All night long the resident rats have been turning the fresh walnut shells drying on gunny sacks in the attic; excited little paws have stirred bits of bark through the ceiling boards onto my featherbed. A new day, another chore; mundane subsistence, suddenly so important.

Down the rounded steps of the domanial quarters, I step barefoot on the cobblestones that I've uncovered, one by one, with a small tool during summer hours, moss is wet velvet upon my toes, I scurry to the outhouse past the pheasants that cluck in alarm, my usual guest awaits, I chase the huge resident wolf spider with a long stick before gingerly attending to my own needs. The farm boys have dropped another dead rat down the one hole privy, I cover the fat thing with lime and exit most gracefully, sensing they must be watching from their frosty window. Oh! I should have been born a boy!

Water is glacial at the kitchen tap, pores on my face feel tight as drum skin, goose bumps on my thighs respond to the command of cold soap, how invigorating the morning ritual! That's how ascetic nuns must enjoy self denial, limiting pleasures, replacing them with the headiness of total communion; God and water. But I failed to join the noviciate at the ancestral convent, so, I personally will not mind returning to the blessed comfort of hot running water someday, soon. I drink a large bowlful of hot chicoree coffee, cautious not to slurp noisily; although no one would hear, I shake my head silently at the thought of all these useless little table manners which follow a reluctantly refined female child into adulthood; class dividing civilities which stifle and constrict, as if full enjoyment were forbidden, as if sonorities of the ingesting or digesting process were proof of excess hedonism (surely, one of the major sins of society.)

I flame grill a generous slice of sour couronne bread on the small gas burner, the wood stove isn't warm enough yet, so, I huddle under the featherbed a little longer. Luxury or penury, life in the country represents challenge, I arch my back in some perceived pride. The mirror on the center panel of the armoire reflects me as a stranger with straw hair, my mother's hairdresser would be sadly affected by my daily routine, I resort to usual alternatives; a scarf hides my neglected strands. Pale glow of morning light now rises above the escarpment that climbs sharply across the creek, I heed the nurturer's call within the cumulative conscience and set out to gathering food.

Recent cold winds have shriveled the last Jerusalem artichokes, I save a few for myself because the farm woman has sharply announced that she would throw the rest to the rabbits; "we ate enough of those during the war, I ain't goin' to eat some now, ever!" she bears a stubborn rictus and rustles her apron to dispel any contrary fate.

The faint anis taste of the tubers fills a room with summery aromas, and sates one more day's appetite. Collard greens of different varieties destined for the mangers are swiftly rerouted to my cool cache, one solid armful will serve our vegetal requirements for at least a week, I relish the anticipation of crisp salads of the cruciferae cooked al dente, then doused with vinaigrette and smothered with pan fried croutons rubbed with fresh garlic cloves. In San Francisco the meal would be dubbed "nouvelle cuisine" and the cattle fodder would be termed "Italian broccoli rab", the price of the dish, of course, would reflect the current name fad rather than the availability and ease of cultivation of this prolific and robust vegetable. Health benefits do not deter the resolve of the farmers never to be reduced again to eating the same foods as their animals, am I not animal?

"Id rather die of cancer than eat any of that stinking cow weed!" old mama spits on the path. For the barter of all this nutrition, I've promised to help with the broom harvest, on the other side of the river, the farm-wife and her grand daughter knock on the tall double doors at the front of the ancient rectory where my husband and I live, the walls break into a cold sweat that warns me of the afternoon drizzle that threatens to chill the very bones of creatures too stupid to take shelter. Like women of past centuries, we stroll on for a long time until the woman decides this is the place where we must cross, she has used the old tree stump for ages, I don't trust the slippery oak log submerged under a foot of mad waters,

"Come on , we're not going to take all day to do this"exclaims the exacerbated grand mother. "I'll try this first "I volunteer. I know the force of the stream, I know the cold wetness of the brackish green torrent, but I only obey the impatient heeding of the farmer, who, herself, only obeys fear of reprisal from her husbandman, who, himself, answers to dread of famine instilled generations ago. Hence, this fool braves the waters, slips and falls in a shout barely heard above the sloshing and raving of the creek gone wild. At first, the cold feels even and enveloping as a body blanket, I let my senses wrap me with signals of perceived comfort, melting into the elements rather than fighting them, then the shame of the moment replaces any instinct that was present,

Look at you now, we'll never get those brooms picked today" screams my elder companion, she is terrified of water, husband, and the prospect of imminent failure, in a single sentence she regrets the day, the event and empty hands. I amble back toward a hollowed tree to wring my skirt and squeeze my tights, the unctuous clay oozes out of my boots, I am grey, blue, black and chilled. The women do little to help, as they fuss about me, I wrap my soggy cape about me now that I am wet, I no longer fear the stream and I charge the enemy with a Jeanne d'Arc's determination. "Allons-y!" (let's go!)I invoke mightily.

Skirts drenched and feet logged with frigid mud, we climb the steep embankment, so proud of having bonded our efforts and forded the averse galloping river, we hide shivers under sounds of chopping as we lay the silvery briar twigs on decaying leaves. "This bunch will sure make a fine set of brooms" mama pinches her lips and nods her head. "look! This will keep the cooties from the hens" the girl rattles the seed pods; neither harmful bacteria nor winter louse will dare settle in the natural aromatic of the high hills. Our bundles wrapped tightly, we slip and slide noisily down the woodsy hill to the widened edge of the creek, the bank now is far from the ensconced tree trunk we used to cross, but nightfall threatens us, again decision is of the essence;

"I m-m-n-not going to f-f-freeze while I p-ponder how safe I am," I stutter. So, plunge as I can, I force body and bundle through the silver sheen of swirling rain swells, by the time my waist is engulfed, I feel the log and use it as guide and barrier, the women, seeing me already across the worst of it, follow the brave act. It hurts to laugh, my lips crack, my lungs burn, my liver stiffens in utter choleric fury, but I run home with the sound of the dripping faggot on my back. We prop our stacks of choice long broom branches against the farm portal, I take the time to admire them as some laborious testament to a day spent in elemental discovery.

We dart for the fireplace and give in to a common spell of tremors, gloves painfully peeled off, we hastily shed coat, cape and shawls, throw them on the bench, we squeeze each other's dresses and haltingly laugh between involuntary shudders, pointing at the steaming puddles on the limestone slab. I must return home before the men arrive and see us, wet rats commiserating on the hearth. The pillow welcomes me.

Awakening to the desperate bleating of unhappy sheep, I whimper, my feet do not wish to respond to commands, they don't want to move and resume life as it may be. Grunting and groaning freely, I pull myself out of bed, deep trembling shake my very being, the hot water bottle at the foot of the bed rustles with ice, not reassured, I grab my widow's shawl from the prayer stool which I use to climb on the high bed. Ah! coffee aroma laced with bitter chicoree escapes up the stairwell, pain shoots in every muscle but I slip on some felt house shoes and creep along the crumbly lime wall, mineral chips cling to the black wool, twenty nine steps to comfort, one creaking knee at a time. I pinch my lips and accept an all effacing hug from my husband, involuntary co-habitant of this common misery. The stream, now a valley lake, seems quiet and entrenched in the field below, a hundred sheep cling to the few feet of high ground at the edge, their hooves sinking in rich black alluvium, they yank rare tufts of grass under each other's legs and pull up heads to better bleat and chew.

In the direction of the night barns I hear muffled sounds of belligerent cows, restless mothers bugle louder, interspersed by insistent "maas" from their young. Farmers' tempers make themselves known soon enough, cursing either god or ground, the morning chores take on harried tones; "by the name of a dog, get the idiot cows fed!" yells papa, he stomps his good foot to the granite cobblestone, apparently worried that the fodder won't last all season if the flood waters remain in the pasture too long.

I slowly sip my chicoree, starring at the goats jumping all about stone walls above the steely waterbed beneath. Grey Toulouse geese honk wildly and shake their fattened bodies as they pretend to swim in elemental delight, chickens stalk errant earthworms at the periphery of the seasonal pond, a rooster sticks his neck forward and flaps his wings in a running sprint to mimic the geese. How connected we are, animal and vegetal, struggling to survive. How must I convince myself that I indeed am existentially rich, in love and in France, "what more do I want?" I hear myself ask aloud. No one hears me through economy of senses; each to his thoughts, each to unretrievable self.

Small tragedies repeat themselves in a quotidian chorus of unremarkable detail, a calf dies of pneumonia, the farm wife suffers a minor stroke and the goat is declared sterile. So close in time, so dire in consequence and yet so expected that none dares complain openly. The water is receding, glossy aquatic mints have invaded the fields, noxious ranunculacae flourish and will have to be hand pulled before cows are turned loose, before they drive themselves or the farmers crazy. The valley echoes sounds of impending death, men and animals pitted against nature that stains and sustains all around. It is labor that holds the aggregated village, this unkind month will wear the mark of weather, all will conjugate under the seal of rural life, and when the farm girl graduates and the youngest son is called to military service, few will remember the days we ate roots, borrowed from their livestock, fewer still will care about the nights we nursed our chillblains, itching maddeningly under blankets after excruciatingly reviving blood circulation in our gangrenous feet.

Glad to pack, sad to go, I bounce between emotion and resolution, no one can help me to tear and adhere, as I leave my country. The river has subsided, change has occurred and we will follow with liquid imprint darkly on our psyche; shall we struggle or flow, shiver or submit? Does instinct concede to knowledge or does it quietly recede until needed?