Photos

During this stroll, old memories appeared from past.

The house of Andrée and Lucien. A hold woman , the white hair clamped in bun, with her annoying tendency to be rolled r who let me understand no more than 17.34 % of the conversations, a surprising kindness and a herculean strength when she squeezed me in the arms.

Lucien it was THE lad of the campaign, the true worker, living with the sun, always in clog where from brought out straws, we found him or with animals or in the workshop which looked like the Aladdin's cave.
It is the only person whom I know who had necessarily THE key which you had lost. He guarded everything, of saw it in nails, of the branch of padlock to the ancient old hand-written books.

My parents sent us at home, my sister, my brother and me to fetch the milk, any warmth and smoking, which would be of use to us as breakfast the remainder of the week. And then the fraterie in grows and I remained alone to make shuttles. The winter was painful because it was cold, and because it was sometimes necessary to wait that the milking is finished.
The summer it was the gooses who waited for me behind the forged iron bar and who made me turn back often with always a good excuse for being to bring in the empty hands.

There were always heaps of things in this big court, rests of tractor, or as here rusty cars. The tree makes left the heritage, it is more that centenary, and the house is now in dereliction.

And nevertheless in passing in front of, I felt the heat of the heater with wood where bubbled gaily for hours a remainder of coffee, and I saw again the metal box where Andrée kept her small more or less dry cakes.

Things change but the memories stay there.