Listening to Horses: From Provence to California

By Célou Bonnet

Here are some true life stories that I have lived and will share in these pages. Most of these stories happen in the world of horses and in the midst of them. My passion for these incredible creatures is so strong that it will carry me as far as the United States. I never learned how to ride a horse. It came naturally and was certainly an easier lesson than my first steps in life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543441857

Célou Bonnet

Clou Bonnet grew up surrounded by the beauty of Provence. Born in Carpentras, France, Clou s earliest memories are of the scent of lavender, thyme and rosemary, the warmth of the sun and the unbridled love of her family. When Clou was a teenager, she fell in love for the fi rst time with an Arabian horse name Gitan. She became an expert rider and later moved to Chantilly, near Paris, to work with thoroughbred racehorses. In 1978 Clou immigrate to the USA, New York with the racing stable she was working in France, Mr. Daniel Wildenstein and the trainer Angel Penna. In 1981, Clou moved to California to work for famed thoroughbred racehorse trainer Charlie Whittingham. She continued to ride horses, however, it was her move to Fallbrook in 1984 when she fi nally realized her artistic destiny, to create sculpture in bronze. She learned the technique of working with bronze at a foundry in Escondido then in Fallbrook. In 1999 Clou was honored with the distinction of Artist of the Year by the Fallbrook Association. Th ought her long and varied life, art and horses seemed forever linked in the heart of Clou. It was my love of horses that brought me to the United States in 1978. Prior to that time, I had always been interested in art and sculpting, but my passion for horses was always my fi rst priority. Th en when the thoroughbred racing stable that I worked for moved to the United States, I was given the opportunity to accompany my beloved horses. It was here in America that I fi nally understood the true meaning of freedom. Th ere are more opportunities and fewer barriers for women in United States than in Europe. Upon my arrival, I was encouraged to apply for my trainers license and pursue a career in art something that would have been impossible for me to do while living in France. I love the country of my birth and visit my family and friends often, but I have made the United States my home and I choose to celebrate this choice with my artwork. Every experience I have had in my life is refl ected in my artwork. Th e beauty and mobility of the countless horses I have worked with, the country of my birth and the country I adopted as an adult all meld together to create an experience that is evident in my sculptures. I work in bronze because there is tremendous life and strength in this medium not unlike the tremendous life and strength of the horses Ive ridden. For years, I communicated to horses through the subtle gesture of my hand. Now I am using my hands to communicate through my artwork.

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Copyright © 2017 by Célou Bonnet.

Library of Congress Control Number:         2017912057

ISBN:                      Hardcover                         978-1-5434-4183-3

                                Softcover                           978-1-5434-4184-0

                               eBook                                  978-1-5434-4185-7

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Rev. date: 01/09/2018

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CONTENTS

Preface

Private Path

Our Parents

Lucien Speaks (May 2011)

The End of Lucien’s Writings

The Percheron

Cork in my Nose — 1952

Summer Vacation

Roller Skates

The Christmas Pageant (La Pastorale)

Pétanque Game (French Version of Bocce

Played with Smaller Metallic Balls)

Marius, 1968

Sunday at the Church of l’Observance

Pompon

Pompon at the Church

Jean-Marcel

The School of the Immaculée Conception

La Vallée Verte (The Green Valley)

Gas Asphyxia

Marseille

1961–1962

1963–1964

Vaunières — 1966

Departure from l’Estaque — June 1966

Gitan à Carpentras

Mont Ventoux

The Cornirrette

Dentelles de Montmirail

At Work

Hippodrome of Carpentras

Château du Cantal, 1969

First Day

Lunging Story

The Trapdoor

Babushka

Changing Horses Around

I Miss the Thoroughbreds

Meaux, Training Center — 1970–1971

Zachary the Stallion

To Fall or Not to Fall?

The Races, the Bales of Straw, Etc.

First of May

Dream

Chantilly

Le Mont de Pô, Chantilly — 1971–1978

Daniel Wildenstein

My First Work Day at the Mont de Pô

The First Day with Albert Klimsha

Deauville avec Albert Klimsha

Allez France

Getting Stepped on the Foot

Tananarive

Jean Parra

To Fall or Not?

Angel Penna — from 1974 to 1978 (France)

Jalapa, 1976

Gerola, 1977

Great Peace (Sister of Madelia)

Hot-walker

The Life of Pawneese

B. Mare, Foaled April 5, 1973

By Carvin II out of Plencia (FR) by le Haar (FR)

Célou

Pawneese

Deauville, 1975

My First Race at Two Years Old

Célou

Pawneese

Célou

Pawneese

Célou

The Oaks, Epsom, England — June 5, 1976

Prix de Diane, France — June 13, 1976

King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Diamond Stakes

Ascot, England — July 27, 1976

Ireland, Airlie Stud — 1977

My Last Year at Chantilly, France, 1977

Goodbye, France … Hello, USA

Belmont Park, 1987

Flying Water (FR) CH. M

Foaled April 8, 1973 by Habitat — Formentera by Ribot

Flying Water

Rest in Peace, Blonde Angel

Waya (FR)

Foaled March 30, 1974

(Faraway Son — War Path III by Blue Prince)

USA — Waya, 1978

Maurice and His Mare in Love

Saratoga, 1978

Danseuse Etoile (Star Dancer)

First Day of Training at Saratoga

Broken Nose, Sauna, Bike — 1978

Liftoff at Belmont Park

First Christmas in California

Aiken — South Carolina, 1979

New Orleans

Retour sur New York

Goodbye, New York … Hello, California

California — 1980 until Today

Ruhlmann the Black Stallion

(April 22, 1985–December 24, 2008)

By Mr. Leader, Out of Indian Maiden

A Most Unusual Workout

Dan Sasha

Rasa Penang

Max, 1984

Fitzwilliam Place — Del Mar, 1988

The Breeze of the Century

Providential II — 1983

Kilijaro — 1982

Glenorum — 1983

Departure for San Luis Rey Downs

Sunday Silence — 1986

Charlie Whittingham’s Bronze, 1990

Amateur Races (ARCA) — 1987/1996

Delaware

Kin Park, British Columbia — August 5, 1991

Turf Paradise, 1994

Wyoming, 1995

Saskatoon, 1996

Marc Chauvet, Horse Dentist

Max, my dog and Monsieur, my cat

Dix de Cœur and Lilly

Automobile Accident — April 4, 1996

Here Is the Story of Lucile Figliolini, the Mother of Papa

I Wanted to Tell You

Departure of a Grand Woman

A thank you to:

I

Dedicate This Book to My Papa,

My Maman, and My Brother Lucien.

STOP HITTING ME…I CAN’T CONCENTRATE!

PEBIntroduction.tiff

Preface

Célou

Listening to Horses

From Provence to California

August 22, 2008

Here are some true-life stories that I have lived and will share in these pages. Most of these stories happen in the world of horses. My passion for these incredible creatures is so strong that it will carry me as far as the United States. I never learned how to ride a horse. It came naturally and was certainly an easier lesson than my first steps in life.

First, allow me to introduce my parents and my early childhood, which will always be engraved in my heart. A very simple childhood filled with love, pure air, and wild freedom under the Provençal sun. Carpentras, the Vaucluse, that beautiful Provence where the singing of the cicadas harmonized with the delicious aromas of lavender, thyme, and rosemary. One cannot be indifferent to such beauty presented by Mother Nature. This Provence is made of a thousand different sceneries, so diverse and discoverable after every detour of a serpentine trail, a sun-bathed valley, arid sometimes and wild but of great richness. Dig, work this earth, a treasure is hidden within. This living earth has no secrets for one who knows how to understand it, love it, respect it. They will be intoxicated by the joie de vivre this land will offer; their heart will be appeased, and their soul will rediscover its poetry. The Provence gives its heart to whoever wants to love it. It’s the land of my childhood, but I had to leave it for an even greater love: horses—those marvelous creatures without whom I could never be happy.

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Gitan and Célou, 1967 — Bridle too big, my feet in the leather straps above the stirrups, no helmet, living dangerously

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Chemin Privé

Private Path

From the Avenue Pont des Fountains originates a small dirt path. A few Provençal houses of stone define the little path until it meanders into fields that mark its end after a kilometer or so. The marker on the path, which has seen countless days, is proud of itself. Caressed by the sweet winds of the South and battered by the insolent mistral, it has witnessed the passage of a thousand things. Offering one of its flanks to the avenue, it will take on a severe expression to announce Private Path on its weather-beaten and worn stone face.

The path is scented by a wide range of aromas, beginning with fennel. Sometimes flooded by torrential rains announcing the arrival of spring, it has a wild and charming aspect. Spiny bushes eat up an ancient rusty gate, while flowering poppies brighten their sad bearded look. The almond trees in bloom protect with tenderness the wild violets so fragile, so timid.

After passing a house on the left then one on the right with its finely chiseled vines, we reach the thorny brambles, which are so generous in blackberry season. The dark green cypresses follow the meandering path bordered haphazardly by tender grasses. Butterflies play and play. Filled with a thousand perfume-like scents, this path will lead you to the house of happiness.

Camouflaged from the eyes of the curious, an old structure stands amid great sycamores and perfumed lindens. Four acres of land in total, bordered by giant cypresses of a certain age. There is a large pond that serves to water the fruit trees. It is fed by a well, producing fresh quenching water to drink. A well water who runs under the property. In the summer, the pond will be our swimming pool where the sounds of fun and laughter will splash all over the neighborhood.

One must push open a small wrought-iron gate after pulling the ringer’s handle to announce their entry. The ringer is attached to a long wire, which extends along the side wall of the house and under a covered trellis of wisteria. Attached to the wire are four lovely bells that sound so nice when pulling the handle. In front of the house sits a lovely terrace where interlacing vines of wisteria lock on to wrought-iron trellises, probably as old as the house itself. At the end of the terrace, a cascade escapes from a rocky wall, while a small grotto in the middle protects a statue of the Virgin Mary. This old abode contains an ancient stable. There is a sink but no kitchen in the traditional sense. One of the rooms serves for dining. As we go up, corkscrew stairs lead us to the parents’ bedroom. On the right, a room with one bed is for Lucien, which connects to another larger bedroom furnished with tree beds for Den, Célou, and Paul the Caganis or the little one.

The garden is quite big but abandoned for a long time. Papa sweats profusely, trying to bring it back to life with his hoe. A smile on his lips appears though when the aromas from the kitchen reach him. Mom is preparing a delicious Provençal meal.

They are home, at least. After many sacrifices. So much work needs to be done in perspective. Papa knows; he is not intimidated by it.

Carpentras

Childhood Memories

The Figliolini Bonnet Lorenzi

The Clan: Den, Lucien, Célou, Paul

Our Parents

Mother Josette, born in Marseille on April 9, 1921, daughter of Jean Joseph Lorenzi, carpenter, son of a carpenter, Pierre Lorenzi and grandson of Italian immigrants. Her mother, Marcelle Teisseire, daughter of Marius Teisseire our Great-Grand Father. All inhabitants of Marseille, in the village of Saint Barnabé in the Twelve district.

Mother was the eldest, having a brother, Henri, but the third sibling died at birth. Not only was the death of this infant very painful for the family, but Marcelle Lorenzi Teisseire would also shortly follow her last child to heaven after a difficult delivery. Mom’s childhood was simple and enjoyable, but she also knew difficult moments with the death of her mother and baby brother when she was seven years old, her brother Henri was at the tender age of three. She was always very optimistic and of a joyful nature. Her family was very close and artistic. Her father had followed his father’s path with an education at the Beaux Arts School of Marseille. Her grandmother was a piano teacher who won a first prize at the conservatory in Marseille. Mom and her brother Henri learned music.

Mom dreamed of playing sports, riding horses, skiing, etc. A real tomboy, as they say! In her time, a girl had to know how to sew, cook, clean the house. Not a lot of fun, right? That’s the way things were, and Mother’s dreams would simmer on her back burner until the arrival of her four children, who would make her dreams come true through them. She learned to be satisfied with what life had to offer her, and with very little, she could create around her a well-being, a loyal comfort, and a joy of living, full of common sense. Her tenderness and kindness were without limits. She never thought about herself.

Father, Antoine (nicknamed Nano) Figliolini Bonnet, born August 11, 1919. This composed name was due to his life circumstances. Natural-born son of Lucie Figliolini, young unwed mother, born in Italy, who had traveled to France to give birth and to Carpentras, where she hired herself out for diverse farm jobs.

The family name Bonnet originates from the adoption of Papa just before his coming-of-age by a family of cultivators from Carpentras named Bonnet, who were childless. Papa gave them a helping hand with the upkeep and general daily tasks on their farm. I will revisit this act of adoption later and the intervening facets of it that make his composed family name Figliolini Bonnet, no hyphen, one we were always very proud of but which sometimes complicated our daily lives, especially administratively.

Papa, at about four years old, was taken on by Madame and Monsieur Lucien Bonnet. This little boy left the orphanage to live with his new parents. At seven, Rose Bonnet decided to no longer send Antoine to school and to use him to help Papé Bonnet, who unfortunately had been gassed in the war of 1914–1918, with the farm work. Papé’s strength had been sapped, and he could no longer work the fields and perform the heavy physical chores of upkeep on a farm.

Antoine was heavy hearted from leaving school. He was a good pupil but did what was asked of him, worked hard all day, and, in the evening, before falling asleep, continued his education on his own. He concentrated his efforts on mathematics and grammar, the two subjects he deemed the most important. He was too exhausted from his work on the farm to learn anything else! His childhood was challenging, but nothing scared him. He had great self-esteem and pride and was prepared to confront all stages of life ahead of him, whatever they may present.

The years go by. Papé Bonnet becomes too feeble to continue, and Papa takes over all the work on the farm. Rose Mémée Bonnet is very demanding, difficult, and always malcontent. Papa is now nineteen and must leave for his mandatory military service, which he is impatient for—an opportunity to get away from Mémée Bonnet’s firm grip. A bit of freedom for him, even if the army is the army. Very quickly, Papa realizes that life in Carpentras is a prison for him.

Papa is sent to Marseille for his military service. One day, his colonel asks him to take some salt over to his friends in Saint Barnabé, a suburb. These people are a family of carpenters, the Lorenzis. Joseph Lorenzi succeeded to his father to become head of the Lorenzi woodworks, situated near the church. Papa delivers the salt and meets the family: Joseph; Denise, his second wife, Josette, the elder daughter, and Henri. He will return several times to bring them vital necessities. In wartime, people help one another out as they can to survive. The Germans still occupy France, and life is hard.

Denise Lorenzi is a piano teacher. She has a childhood friend who lives in Carpentras, Mademoiselle Alary, who is an accomplished pianist. Mademoiselle Alary, while visiting with the Lorenzis in Saint Barnabé, learns that Joseph and Denise (Mom’s stepmother) are actively looking to marry off their daughter Josette. That same day, a young medical student is invited to lunch at Saint Barnabé. The next day, Mademoiselle Alary, during a conversation with Josette, asks her, out of curiosity, if she finds the young student attractive …

Mom, tell us how you met Father. The question constantly asked by the four of us like chickadees starved for the good things in life.

Mom finally speaks.

"Well, it was during the ‘restrictions’. We couldn’t get salt. A young soldier from Carpentras who was serving in Marseille brought us some salt at Saint Barnabé. The months passed by. There was a young medical student from Verdun who would come eat a meal from time to time at the house. I remember that he never wore the same suit twice.

"Days went by. My piano professor and godmother, Mademoiselle Alary from Carpentras, would visit us now and again. One day, she asked me if I liked the young medical student.

"I replied to her, ‘No, and if I had to choose, I prefer the young man from Carpentras who brings salt on occasion.’

This did not fall into the deaf person’s ear! Having a plan in the back of her mind, Mademoiselle Alary, a few months later, invites us to Carpentras, and the young soldier, whose name I don’t even know yet, is of the ‘party.’ And you guessed what followed. He was kind and handsome, and what’s more, in the learning that he was from ‘public assistance,’ ‘child welfare,’ I found he had a lot more merit than most others!

Instant love for these two youngsters, both charming, filled with love and joie de vivre under the Provençal Sun. Lovely love letters will go back and forth for a year, and Papa would ask Joseph Lorenzi for his daughter Josette’s hand in marriage. It’s still wartime, but nothing would stop these young lovers.

Mom continues, First came the engagement, and shortly before the wedding, my father asked Mémée Bonnet to legalize your father’s name. The Bonnets had taken care of Nano since he was four, often as a slave, and my father told her the wedding would take place only if the future husband of this daughter, Josette, was adopted by Mémée and Papa Bonnet. My papa was thinking of our future, thus, upon the passing-on of the Bonnets, we would inherit the house and have a home to live in. Unfortunately, my father didn’t know Mémée Bonnet well, who proceeded to sell the house shortly after Papé’s death, even asking her adopted son, now the father of two, if he’d be interested in buying the farmhouse. Instead, she decided to kick out her adopted son and his young family!

Mom pointed out that in the end, they preferred leaving than having to deal with the sale of ’ la Mère Bonnet’s’ house. The wedding was fixed for June 19, 1943.

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The wedding, June 19, 1943.

"For a while before that date, I was with my cousins from Val d’Asse in the Alps, Lea and Antonin. Word was circulating that perhaps women were going to be forcefully sent to Germany except the farmworkers. Therefore, I went to stay with the cousins. There, I learned how to prepare the sausages, boudin, andouillettes, salamis, cured ham, etc. after the men had slaughtered the pig. I was content there but languished dearly from the absence of my love Nano. After our wedding at the Saint Barnabé church, we went to live at the Castellas, at Mémée and Papé Bonnet’s. The house was large. We lived on the ground floor on the left side of the house where there was a very small apartment with a balcony and an attic space. Mémée and Papé had the rest of the house.

"It didn’t take long for Mémée Bonnet to eye jealously whatever Nano could bring me home from the town where he worked. She was envious, and even though we would always share Nano’s meager ‘bounty,’ she never had enough, was never satisfied. When Papa Jo would bring us olive oil from Marseille, he would always bring some for Mémée Bonnet as well. But she didn’t know how to be economical and would be ‘empty’ before my bottle would be dry. She would be constantly borrowing from my precious supply, complaining that her bottle was less full than ours. From the outset, upon our arrival at Castellas, Mémée Bonnet claimed her share of Nano’s ‘bounty,’ which we gladly shared, but since she was so wasteful, her reserve disappeared fast, and she came back looking for more.

"Thus, we were often short on food, but when I found out I was expecting our first child, Nano did everything so the baby and I would have enough to eat. Also, when we would return from helping my godmother on her farm in Mazan, working the fields in exchange for some fruits, vegetables, meats, and sausages, Nano would go to great lengths to hide our well-earned life supplies from Mémée. Right before arriving at Castellas, Nano would hide almost all our supplies under the cypress trees or in a drainage grate and then quietly, at nightfall, would go back out to collect them. To be able to hear Mémée Bonnet approach, Nano had put some gravel down at the entrance to the house.

Papé Bonnet, on the other hand, was of extraordinary kindness! He was not of good health, having been gassed in the Great War. He passed away a few years after our wedding, to our great sorrow.

We are in the era of the occupation, and the German troops occupy Provence. The restrictions and rationing are a hardship for Papa and Mom, who are expecting the first baby in nine months. Controls by the Gestapo are frequent, and food is in short supply. Papa works hard to bring Mom the most comfort he can. Comfort mostly in the way of nutrition since the growing baby is ravenous, and Papa leaves all the best fruits, vegetables, meats, or poultry for Mom!

Lucien Speaks (May 2011)

From what Mom told us, Papé Bonnet was very kind and attentive to the family situation. Mémée Bonnet, on the other hand, was far more authoritative, and this was felt daily, which did not facilitate Papa and Mom’s everyday existence.

May 15, 1944: the arrival of Denise, firstborn of the clan! I will come back to the history of names as they all have a story. Social life gets organized, and Provence is still living under the occupation and restrictions. The constraints of such an existence don’t keep Papa and Mom from watching affectionately over Denise, a very good child, and expecting the arrival in a few months of number two of the clan.

July 16, 1945: the birth of Lucien, first boy of the clan and first curly-blond-haired child. After my birth, July 16, 1945, feast day of Notre Dame of Mt. Carmel, as Mom Josette would remind us at every evocation of this event. There are now two heirs to of Figliolini Bonnet. From then on also, our family life will be managed by the omnipresence of our maternal grandparents. Papa Jos and Mom’s stepmother, called Maman Marraine, without forgetting Uncle Henri, brother of Josette and our aunt Edith, wife of Henri, so far childless. In these times, daily necessities are a priority, and certain provisions become indispensable. The proximity of Marseille would allow Papa Jos and Maman Marraine to improve on supplies for the family. However, this was a sore spot for Papa, who put so much effort into being a good provider for us. He never spoke much about this situation, which hurt him and annoyed him to a great extent. Several years later, he confided in me like a father revealing certain secrets to a son.

After the Castellas, and for a reason linked to the happy event of a third birth, we move to the center of town into a small village cottage, 275 Rue d’Allemand. Back to the major event of that year—March 23, 1947—a second daughter and third child, Marcelle Marie. The clan keeps growing, to everybody’s delight. Also, the birth of the nicknames, we will all carry through our childhood and adulthood—Den for Denise, Célou for Marcelle, and Cœur for Lucien. Only Paul will keep his original name. Paul, our little brother and last member of the clan, came into the world on March 13, 1949, and I was delighted; two boys, two girls!

Our mother would often say, When I was a little girl, I couldn’t skip rope by myself, so I would say that when I would be older, I would have three children so they could jump rope together.

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Marraine, Papa Jo, Mom, Den, Lu, et Célou, 1947.

Let’s now discover other members of the family or friends we have known who have, from near or from far, shared our childhood and helped us build our lives.

Our Great Grandfather Marius Teisseire, father-in-law of Papa Jos, lived many years at Carpentras, first at Josette and Nano’s, then with a friend of the family we called Mademoiselle Jouve. Grandfather and Mademoiselle Jouve would come to the house on Sundays, and their arrival on the Peugeot scooter was always an event as we’d all watch them come up the path precariously perched on the bike, regaining their balance with every acceleration!

The End of Lucien’s Writings

Back to Carpentras, 123 Avenue Pont des Fontaines, where a happy family thrives in its joie de vivre and enjoys a very simple existence.

Despite the difficult childhood, Papa managed to find his way, following the right path and avoiding mistakes. He was an exemplary man with a heart of gold. From his hard beginnings, he was able to plant the pillars of stone to build the foundation of his professional and family life. With our mother, he finally found the happiness he so well deserved. Papa, a handsome man with a complexion burnished by too much sun, set a profound and admiring look on this house, their house. He is filled with pride. He had to take out a loan to purchase it, and now at last, they don’t have the worries of having to move at the end of the month with four very young children: Den, Lucien, Célou, and Paul.

Home at last! Breaking in deeply the aroma of freshly plowed earth, Papa looks at me, sitting on a rock, and I return the admiration. I’d like to help him, but how? I must be four years old, and it looks rather difficult, what Papa is doing, the sweat falling rapidly from his weather-beaten and dusty face. His large and rugged hands deftly manipulate the smooth handle of the double-pronged spade, which devours, rips, and turns over the mahogany earth. This is when the long-dormant aroma escapes from the disturbed soil and the agitated worms squirm. This is life. Small lizards enjoy the sun. The trees are still bare, and one wonders how the delicate, fragile buds of spring can emerge from the black lifeless branches when winter wanes.

We didn’t have any heating in the rooms or in the living room where there was a fireplace. In the kitchen where we spent most of our time, we had a coal-burning stove for cooking that kept us warm. In our rooms, it was a cat, curled up at the foot of the bed, which furnished some warmth. Also, Mom kept some irons on the stove that she wrapped in towels, and we each went to bed upstairs hugging our warm irons. Sometimes, she would come upstairs with a bed-warmer filled with ambers and would apply it to all our beds. Luxury! In the morning, we would make drawings on the window panes, which overnight got frosted inside.

In the summer, we lived with the climate and accepted the heat no matter how severe it was. We had outhouses, and we survived. We didn’t have an automobile. Papa had a motorcycle, and Mom a motorbike. We had our legs and later a bicycle for two. We didn’t have TV; our games were very original and creative and kept us very healthy, being outdoors all year long. We didn’t have a telephone, and we wrote letters often to our grandparents, aunt and uncle, friends, etc. We didn’t have a refrigerator but a small cupboard where we would place the butter and cheese and store it carefully down in the well, being mindful of spiders. We didn’t have a washing machine. Mom was the washing machine. We didn’t have a dishwasher; again, Mom was the dishwashing machine, the children taking turns drying with a towel. We didn’t have Christmas presents but a delicious meal prepared by Mom. We did have the thirteen desserts, a Provençal tradition. A nativity scene, magnificently crafted by Papa and illuminated, the water flowing from the mill, forming a small river. Various santons (small figurines) and the miller as well, a figure who would open and shut the window shutter, were all animated. This was a true gift, which had a very deep value for us.

What a wonderful childhood spent in joy, surrounded in love and the simplicity of life. A real happiness that cannot be bought. Thank you so much, Maman, Papa, Den, Lucien, and Paul.

The Percheron

I remember this as if it was yesterday. My parents ask a friend, monsieur Costa, to come once in a while to plow our vineyard. He has a chestnut percheron. My first love. I find him so beautiful, so powerful, a monster of sweetness. He is very impressive to my eyes. He uses so much force to pull this plough and at the same time, his work is done with precision and perfection.

I am hypnotized watching him work, always calm despite those ugly flies that attack him in an insolent carrousel. Then the moment of rest arrives. His owner gives him water and some food while he is taking a break. Then, I approach the one who is already my friend. He bends over me, I can feel his breath tickles my ear, his fat lips play with my hair softly then our eyes connect, there is in his gaze a lot of warmth, a wonderful current run through my little body.

A grand conversation begins. I ask him a thousand questions and I receive in return some gentle strokes and kisses on my nose. He rubs his big head against me, I loose my balance and find myself on the ground bursting in laughter.

Incapable of suspecting any meanness in the grand horse, I then act naively by playing hide-and-go-seek behind and in between his enormous legs and steel-clad hooves. I latch onto his tail as his ears, in constant motion, follow my play like radars. I am so tiny; he seeks, I smile.

Mom was serving a refreshment to our friend the farmer when she suddenly exclaimed, Hoo la la! in the direction of the Percheron. Oh my god, my baby …

Don’t worry, Madame Bonnet, he’s as gentle as a lamb. He’s huge, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly, responded Monsieur Costa in his singing Southern accent.

As for me, the fearless one, I have found a name for my horse: Papou. Also, I have solved the problem of climbing onto his back despite my diminutive stature. If I take hold behind him of his beautiful tail and use it to hoist myself onto his croup using his hocks as a step-up, I should wind up on his back, right? Not really. Just then, the tiller arrived to softly lift me onto Papou’s back. I try to straddle him, but his back is so large, I am almost doing a split! His walk, although very deliberate, has me bouncing around every which way, to my great joy. I take a strong hold of a handful of mane to maintain my balance. He smells so nice! Back to earth, he drops his big head in my direction. I hug him hard, laying plenty of kisses on his muzzle, which he lets me do. He closes his eyes and lets me caress him.

All my life, I never forgot this instant, which later became my passion and my calling: horses, thoroughbreds.

Cork in my Nose — 1952

I must be five years old and attending a day care in Carpentras run by nuns that we called Sisters of the Rope because of the ropes around their waists, which served as belts, I suppose. I can still recall the aroma of the pasta soup we ate so often for lunch. I have very vague but sad memories of this childcare place. The courtyard where we used to play was very somber and resembled a prison, although at my age, I had no idea what a prison looked like. It gave me the creeps! Perhaps because the courtyard was surrounded by the tall wall that only allowed a glimpse of the sky. Even then, I preferred the companionship of animals over children of my age, whom I found noisy and mean. I like solitude, thinking, dreaming.

In the recreation courtyard, I have just found a nice cork stopper to a perfume bottle that smelled lovely but was very