It was a blue sky the likes of which he had not seen in a long time. From somewhere off in the distance, he heard his father’s booming voice hurrying him home for the noon meal and then his brothers running past betting who would get home first. He knew his mother would be waiting at the door and wondering. He could see her now, hands on her hips and finger wagging side to side, trying hard to keep a serious face for her little favorite. The sharp pains in his chest seemed to ease. He felt tired, deeply tired. He wanted to rest just for a little while longer. He closed his eyes. He would be home soon. He promised.

A late Fall afternoon in the Brittany countryside can be beautiful. The sky is quite often painted a majestic bright blue with just a few well placed clouds and combined with a gentle off-shore breeze, everything was about as near-perfect as one could have wanted. The back country roads, for the most part were quiet, absent the usual whine of tourists motoring furiously towards the village before the bakery closed for the noon hour or perhaps driving the back roads to the beach past house after house, each tucked well away from prying eyes and most with their shutters closed for the season.  Late Fall, away from the urbanized regions, the pace around these parts slows down considerably and one is more likely to come across a herd of cows than a herd of tourists.

According to the church bells which seemed to mark the passage of time, it was already past noon and gates were closed, front doors were shut and most families were indoors seated, a table, enjoying their big meal of the day. Madame Armelle Fourchon, the farmer’s wife waited patiently seated in her spotlessly clean kitchen, her rough hands that spoke volumes of life on the farm, were folded and resting on the simple plastic tablecloth. Their fancy new wall clock, weather barometer combination and made in Germany, announced it was half-past the noon hour. She had never known  her husband, Alphonse, to ever be late this late for a noonday meal. Not ever but most likely he was having a lively discussion about new farm machinery, government ineptness, elections and general village gossip. All over a few apero’s. 

It was Bernard, the local Garde Champetre the one responsible for keeping poachers at bay, who found him sitting there in his family field, leaning peacefully his back against one of the poplar trees that had all been neatly planted in a row marking the end of his property and the beginning of of his neighbors. As he crossed the field, Bernard called out Fourchon’s name once, then again wondering  to himself what was his brother-in-law doing there rather than seated at the lunch table with his wife who just happened to be Bernard’s oldest sister. Fourchon lay there, quite still, his coarse flannel shirt unbuttoned midway revealing a stained undershirt and a St. Christopher medallion that gleamed as it caught the early afternoon sun. Clutching his blue beret in his lap, he lay there half seated, half lying and wearing on his face a befuddled, almost questioning look.

Monsieur Alphonse Fourchon, the last of ten children, had passed away, that much Bernard knew at least from his training with the sapeurs–pompiers volontaires and the service mobile d’urgence, the volunteer fire department and the local rescue squad. Useful training, yes indeed but just a tad too late to do any good to ol’ Fourchon, his now deceased brother-in-law. He would tell his sister immediately then call the authorities, of course. There would be une enquete an investigation of some sort he thought to himself, as a matter of formality.

Monsieur Alphonse Fourchon was advancing in years that was an indisputable fact but obtaining any hard empirical evidence to support that indisputable fact was a horse of an entirely different color. With his ruddy complexion, shock of white hair and jet-black eyes typical du pays, he was a well known site in the village. For sure, his normal impatient hurried walk was a little slower but he still managed to show his eldest son, Jean-Marie the proper way, that would be his way, of herding the cows to and from the barn early each morning and in the evening followed by the milking process. Madame Armelle Fourchon, black-eyes, black curly hair streaked with grey and an equally ruddy complexion, tolerated at best her husband’s insistence that he be allowed to drive the old red tractor at harvest time however she clearly and quite firmly put her foot down when it came to any notion that he could climb up and into the monstrous moissonneuse batteuse or combine harvester and attempt to drive. No that was not going to happen as long as she was standing. The harvester was as least as tall as a two or maybe even a three story building and looked as if it might have once been used to destroy heavily fortified positions in another era; the enemy would have most surely turned and run at the sight of a green and red monster approaching, lights flashing, sharp red teeth tearing up, chewing and spitting out everything in its path. If you were unlucky enough to find yourself driving behind the harvester and driver on his way to the fields, you settled in for a long, slow ride. One reached their destination eventually. Country life.
  
Alphonse Fourchon had always been a farmer just like his father Vieux Fourchon or “old man Fourchon.” According to the village gossip, you could pretty set your clock by le vieux. If you saw him dressed in his finest shirt and pants walking down the street holding flowers, it was most likely a Wednesday and just past eleven o’clock and old man Fourchon was paying his respects to his parents at the cemetery the way he had been doing every week for so many years he had forgotten just how many. Traditions die hard in the country, if they ever died at all. Alphonse, also known as le jeune Fourchon,  young Fourchon even though he was close to seventy years old had continued on the family habit of paying their respects.

It was Wednesday morning and by the looks of the bright blue sky, it was going to be a beautiful day. Madame was, in a tender moment, making sure Alphonse was ready for his walk down to the cemetery. She buttoned the top button then gently smoothed down his well worn flannel shirt. She inspected his blue working man’s pants and despite the season of the year, Alphonse knew she would always say, “now it’s chilly outside, so make sure you button your sweater and keep your beret on dear. This time don’t stay too long after you paid your respects.” She knew her husband would likely think about stopping at the Bar-Tabac on his way home in event he might catch one of his of copains or buddies. There was always the distinct possibility of having a little glass of something before lunch. The infamous “petit verre.“

With flowers in hand, grey sweater vest buttoned up and his beret firmly atop his head, Monsieur Alphonse Fourchon walked out the front door of their immaculate little house, swung opened the little gate but making sure to hook it closed after him, turned right and slowly began his walk alongside the road to the Cimetière du village or the village cemetery. It could be a challenging walk in full tourist season as car after car would speed by him in a blur. Today, only one car speed past him, a gleaming blue, two-door, Peugeot with the tale-tale “75” on the license plate. A Parisian around these parts, especially after the season was rare. Speeding however was always in season.

As country cemeteries go, it would hardly stand out as anything truly spectacular if in fact cemeteries can ever be but it was, nevertheless, the final resting place for generations of village locals. There were a few oddities or perhaps items of interest if one took the time to stroll about. There was the grave of a Canadian fly boy, deceased June 1944, undoubtedly shot down by German anti-aircraft that would have dotted the coast as part of the Atlantic wall defenses; there was an elegant tombstone of a Baron of some uncertain nationality, who died apparently from a duel gone bad in 1911, and just steps away, a child of just a few years resting there since 1942. Two rows over over from the Canadian, Alphonse stopped and took of his beret in respect, arranged the flowers as best he could for Maman et Papa. He spoke softly, your son is doing fine and, yes he missed you both very much. That was done.

Leaving the cemetery, Alphonse could have turned right and retraced his steps home but he wondered if perhaps his friend Hervé might be standing at the counter of the Bar-Tabac, having a coffee with a little Cognac and a pack of his forbidden Gauloise cigarettes safely by his side. In short, everything the doctor had warned him about and reminded daily by his wife. Hervé was sure he had cancer brought on by an incessant tobacco habit combined with the accumulated quarry dust that had settled in his lungs for the duration. He had spent most of his adult life working the quarry on the outskirts of town near the salt marshes and the infrequent high tides. It was hard, back-breaking work but it was all he had ever done and it’s what he did best.    

There he was leaning against the bar chatting up the young serveuse bartender just as Alphonse had figured. Bonjour Alphone she chirped, un Ricard comme d’habitude? The milky, anisette flavored drink went down a little too fast. It had a habit of doing so. Yes another please. Hervé pointed a nicotined-stained index finder in the direction of the racing forms “this is a winner Alphonse, I feel it in my bones.” Alphonse wasn’t buying it this time. He placed a few francs on the table patted his buddy on the back and waved goodbye to the cute little serveuse. 

It was unusually warm even though it was mid day. Alphonse decided a little detour was in order. Days like this were getting scarce and he planned on taking full advantage. He jumped the little hedge as if he were still a schoolboy and walked the fields in a long circular walk back to home. The cows were standing still, an occasional tail whisking off something here and there. The smell of the earth, the fields, the hay, the cows were all intoxicating to him. It had been his life, his passion. It was him. He was the earth. A tightness in his chest made him realize that maybe jumping the fence or that drink had not been that good an idea. He would remember next time. He came across a row of poplars gently swaying in the breeze. Just a stop to catch my breath he thought to himself and then home for lunch before he really got into trouble. Alphonse sat down with his back leaning against the poplar. It was a pretty view, calming yet his heart kept racing. He felt a tightness in his chest. It would go away he thought. He started to sweat. He was worried. His wife would be worried now. He wanted to get up. He could hear things, things that made no sense. Was that his father calling him? Were his brothers nearby? The  sky was blue the likes of which he had never seen before. He was tired now and just wanted to sleep.