Kermesse

July 30, 2014

     Last night was the organizational meeting for the kermesse on Sunday, August 24.  Friday, August 15 is the Feast of the Assumption, but this year's kermesse --the church bazaar in favor of Notre Dame du Cros, the chapel historically associated with the abbey of Caunes-Minervois --and in fact, where Mass is said Sundays and weekdays -- is being held later.  The abbey is used only for the Mass on the Feast of the Martyrs of Caunes; otherwise it is used as an exhibition space.

     Notre Dame du Cros, however, has a devoted following.  The waters of the adjacent spring are said to have healing properties, and the Romanesque marble statue of the Virgin is also a subject of devotions.  The altarpiece was recently returned to its place at the center of the altar after having been taken to Provence two years ago for regilding.  All the expenses of church upkeep are borne by a small group of dedicated parishioners from the surrounding area, not just Caunes.  People come to Mass at "le Cros" from the nearby mountain villages of Citou, Lespinassière, and Félines, even further away, not to mention Laure and Villeneuve, on the way to Carcassonne.

     Kathy Delpech, with whom I worked at last year's kermesse, invited me to the meeting, which coincided with my desire to make a contribution of articles belonging to the former owner of my house, the Curé Sibra, a professor of sacred music at the seminary in Carcassonne, who died in the 1960s.  That which I intended to give are two rustic saws, large enough to fell an oak and for use by two men; and two headboards for small beds.  The headboards were in the room opposite the grenier, or attic; the saws were in the cave, or cellar.  They still bore the delivery labels, crumbling rectangles of paper onto which the delivery address and name of the destinee had been inscribed in flowing script from what was no doubt an ancient pen.

     I was told that the meeting would be at the abbey, although where, I wondered.  I arrived early and stood in front of the small square facing the church for a few minutes.  All at once, a large car with two persons drove up and parked in front of one of the abbey's wide doors.  It was a gentleman I'd met last year, the main organizer of the kermesse and his wife.  They recognized me, and greeted me warmly.  I regret to say I didn't catch their names, but immediately after he opened the door we put ourselves to work setting up the tables and chairs for the meeting.  The room we were meeting in is a medieval one, the cold stones set off by a fireplace at the back of the room, which must have surely have been necessary in the winter, even in this temperate clime. I noted that a table and a wash sink in the back were made of slabs of Caunes' famous red marble.  The lights were giant electric torches, cast-iron with glass cups, of a size and placement evocative of the Middle Ages.  Chairs were placed around the table, and a bench behind one end, to accommodate those late-comers who could not find seats at the table.  I wondered how many people would appear for the meeting and wondered whether it would be well-attended, as the organizers clearly expected.

     In fact, there were nineteen attendees, and just enough seats, although no one sat in any of the chairs on either side of me, preferring to sit next to people they knew.  Two people could not attend for various reasons, the gentleman in charge hastened to inform the group, and conveyed their regrets.

     "And don't forget about my daughter --she'll help, but she couldn't make it tonight", one woman added.  Duly noted.

     The meeting was well-organized, everything from publicity for the event to provisions to drinks to stands and games being discussed in two hours, and in relative quiet.  However, some items evoked an eruption of commentary which each time derailed the meeting from its otherwise orderly course.

     The first of these was the question of who would donate the wine.  With Languedoc-Roussillon having the highest per hectare cultivation of wine in all of France, it would seem that willing donors would not be in short supply.  However, as Marcel --an older man with the shrewd manner that naturally delegated such a delicate subject to him observed,

     It's a pain to have to go to the vintners and ask them, but they have to be asked, they won't just donate their wine freely.  You would think that "X" [the name was given, but I prefer it be unstated] would give us two or three cases --it's his family's village, they're devotees of the Virgin of Cros-- but you have to go to him and ask formally.  His cousin over in Azille [a nearby village] used to give to the nuns' bazaar there, but now that they've left, he'll donate --but you have to ask.

     At which point everyone began talking to their neighbor, offering and exchanging their point of view on the question.

     "Yes, you would think they were lords", the woman sitting next to me, said, laughing.  She is a retired institutrice, or primary school teacher, Marie-Claire.  Originally from Laure, the village across the road, she married a Caunois and changed her allegiance in doing so.

     Notwithstanding the declared reticence of those organizing the bars à vins and the gallery's vocal protests at the vintners lack of donatory initiative, after about ten minutes the din calmed down and the meeting was able to proceed.  The good will of everyone present seemed obvious to me: there were equal parts men and women --and I had expected the event to be dominated by females.  The men were good natured, I have to say, without seeming to indulge in clichés about "simple, rural folk".  When it was revealed that last year's "Loto" master of ceremonies had family troubles that meant he could not stand in all day, another man volunteered to relieve him, to applause from everyone else.

     The kermesse is popular and brings in people from as far as Carcassonne, as well as the outlying villages.  Whole families come, so there is a range of activities for young and old.  "Loto" which, I learned last year, is wildly popular, has to be reconfigured: grains of corn can no longer be used as markers --C'est interdit!" the chairman of the meeting explained.  Plastic markers will be used instead --much less dangerous.

     Activities for children include "La Vache" --a mechanical cow that drops toys when its teats are pulled; and "Lapinodrome" --a rabbit race around a circular course which involves letting each numbered rabbit loose at a different point along the course and waiting to see which one completes --or comes closest to completing, the race.

     "Lapinodrome" wasn't so popular last year, reported the chairman, which remark triggered various remarks about cruelty to rabbits, what to do with the rabbits after the race, and butchers.

     "Well, let's just do one round, then", conceded the chairman, not wishing to give up the activity -which would have to be replaced by something else, requiring new organization-- altogether.

      Finally, the brocante --the used goods sale-- was discussed.  Roseline, my neighbor down the way is in charge and solicited help.  I volunteered and made known my wish to donate the antiques I had inherited.

      Well, look, everyone wants to give things no one wants.  Old wood --everyone's got some, Roseline replied in the friendliest way.  We'll have to have a look and see whether they're suitable. 

      I felt a bit deflated, but it hit me immediately that in an area where everyone hangs onto everything as long as possible out of necessity, when someone rids themselves of ancestral fixtures, it's because they have exhausted their utility.  There may be antique collectors in Caunes-Minervois, but the likelihood is that my têtes de lit and skies (headboards and saws) will end up at la dechetterie: the town dump.

      Roseline will be by Saturday morning to faire le tri-- sort out what's suitable for the brocante and what I can throw out.  I can't wait, as I'm sure to learn more about the ways and days of Caunes as a result.

       C'est beau contribuer!