Autumn in Provence, the changing colors, grapes picked, the smell of wine to come. Plants putting on their golden coats dressing doorways with a shawl of foliage lace.
Lacoste, Bonnieux, and Lourmarin small Provencal towns nestled in the hills.
Inviting long glances, small talk at cafes, and a pace that doesn't involve running around, nor phones ringing. The sound of boules and the mistral echo in the town square, while cypress trees lead the way to another vista.
No pretending, it is what it is.
Sacha on his first day of school holidays went on his moped to join his friends who were going riding in the hills. Oh those silent hills to be torn up with the sound of young boys frolicking on their mopeds.
Poor Provence solitude.
I was content that he remembered without me telling him, to wear a helmet, long sleeves and jeans. Did he wear gloves?
Within an hour he was back, I heard the door open and his footsteps. How does a mother know something is wrong just by the sound of her child's footsteps?
I called out from upstairs, "Hey Sach- what is up, why home so early?"
His response… "You'll see…"
What I saw was a proudly held forearm bloody and with a prized gash. Teenage boys love scars don't they? We cleaned it and studied it, and wondered if it needed a doctor's care. It wasn't that bad, but bad enough to make my stomach turn.
Even in the golden moments of autumn, even in the beautiful surroundings of Provence, real life continues and families mark the seasons with their memories as the days go by. Life with teenagers is never boring.
Sacha is fine. He loves and I mean loves his scratched up arm. Oh a badge of toughness. Strange glory I must say. Or is his inner, century-old, roman hero of battle longing to yield his sword that makes him and other boys proud to have a scar from playful youth?
Note: Take a ride through old Provence with this charming old TV ad..moped.
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