Stories from the Stringam Family Ranches of Southern Alberta

From the 50s and 60s to today . . .



All of My Friends

Saturday, February 23, 2013

Renting in Paris

Okay. Not quite, but you get the picture . . . so to speak.

During the two years my Husby lived in Paris, France, he and his companions stayed in many and varied dwellings.
Some nice.
Some . . .
But the best of the best was the time they lived in a guest house on an estate in the Paris suburbs.
A real, four bedroom deluxe guest house.
On a real French estate.
Wow.
The estate, itself, covered ten acres and included said guest house, as well as the main mansion and assorted outbuildings, all owned by an aristocratic octogenarian. A woman whose actions belied her age.
And athletic ability.
Let me explain . . .
Husby and his companions had been living in this, to-eight-young-men-in-their-early-twenties-who-had-lived-in-some-rather-unpleasant-places, remarkable abode, for about four months.
In all that time, owing to the fact that their rental had been handled by the man who directed them, none of them had met, or even laid eyes on, their landlord.
One afternoon, several of them were out in the beautiful grounds, enjoying an unexpected few hours of relaxation. Suddenly a slender, erect person carrying a cane appeared and moved slowly toward them across the yard, chattering in French as she came.
As the figure drew closer, they could see that it was a very well and expensively-dressed woman. She stopped next to them, and they deduced that they were, for the first time, addressing their landlord landlady. They also noted that she had the bearing of someone who was accustomed to being in charge.
For a few moments, they discussed the beautiful weather, and the day in particular.
Suddenly, the woman noticed a sizable bug, crawling up the trunk of the large, mature tree standing next to her.
“Ah!” she shrieked, making the young men jump. She turned and, wielding her cane with intent and purpose, preceded to pound the hapless bug until even the memory of it had disappeared. “C’est mauvais, ca! (That’s bad, that!)” she said.
Then she smiled and nodded at the speechless boys and, turning, continued across the yard.
I will add one more thing . . .
Their rent was always paid on time.

Our youngest son (Back row, fifth from the right or thirteenth from the left) - doing what his father did . . .

9 comments:

  1. Sometimes it's the small subtle things that get the point across. Don't mess with Granny McGo.

    ReplyDelete
  2. :) re today's label!

    So how did your husband and son get to go to France for such a long period?

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Actually, that picture of my son was taken in Argentina! they both served missions, Grant in Paris, Tristan in Rosario. Tough, but they both came home with a cartload of amazing experiences!

      Delete
  3. Hi Diane what a wonderful experiene of life really amazing loved reading it,Greetings Jarnail

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you, Jarnail! And thank you for visiting!

      Delete
  4. Beating the life out of a bug with a cane. I dream of having that kind of energy when I'm in my eighties.

    ReplyDelete

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Diane was born and raised on one of the last of the great old Southern Alberta ranches. A way of life that is fast disappearing now. Through her memories and stories, she keeps it alive. And even, at times, accurate . . .

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