A carrot by the railroad

My grandfather was a railroad man. Blue collar to a fault. I never saw him without his blue heavy duty cotton jacket and his cap. Well, never? Not quite. Sometimes, when he visited us in Paris or in the magic house in Normandy, he wore a black suit with vest and tie. A starched white shirt. ‘Rest of the time? The blue cotton worker’s jacket. A thick cloth, called “coutil” in French, designed to last for centuries. Almost. It must have been warm in the winter. And the summer. His cap? Mostly glued on his head. Outside. Not inside. One took off one’s hat inside those days. A blue cap matching the colour of his eyes, of my brother’s and little sister’s. (Me? Green eyes. Like my mother’s. We were probably adopted.)

At heart, my grandfather was probably a farmer. He came from a long line of Breton farmers and peasants. He was born in 1890, in a small town in Brittany: Piré-sur-Seiche, between Rennes and Vitré. There are still many relations there, alive or dead. Half the monument to the dead of WWI bears the names of his brothers, cousins, in-laws. A family estate, my brother says.

Drafted in 1910, he spent his three years of military service learning a trade. A mechanic, I think. The automobile industry was soaring. New models of cars and lorries coming out every month. Better than toiling the earth, I guess. Though in his mind he remained a farmer. A “cul-terreux”, as the people of the city call the farmers. “Terroni”, the Italians say. I must say I am proud to come from a peasant, “cul-terreux”, family on my mother’s side. Hard, grey hands. The earth never really washes away.

In 1913, at the end of his military service, he should have been demobilized, but there were “war threats” everywhere. Nothing ever changes, does it? So, he signed up again for three more years. Then came 1914. Four more years of wearing the uniform. Fighting and fighting. Losing his brothers, his brother-in-law, his cousins… I have written about it in “The bride wore black”: https://equinoxio21.wordpress.com/2016/06/08/1916-the-bride-wore-black/

1918. The war ends in November. He is demobilized in 1919. Looks for a job. Not really keen to go back to farming, I guess. Finds a job as a chauffeur for a young Marquis. My brother tells me they met during the war, one was probably an officer, my grandfather a private or a corporal at best. (Need to check the stripes on his sleeve in an old photograph.)

The “Roaring Twenties” begin. Everyone wants to forget about the war. Women cut their hair and dresses. “Shocking!” (Today women are killed for burning their head veil. You know where.) In France, in the 20’s, Charleston was the popular dance. My grandfather drove the Marquis to endless parties. And drinking binges. The Marquis seemed to be intent to drink his inheritance as fast as possible. Until his family put a stop to it. Married the Marquis to a fair heiress. And fired my grandfather. End of chauffeuring.

Early twenties. My grandfather, Louis Prodault, at the “helm” of the Marquis’ Delaunay-Belleville. Nice car.

Meanwhile, my aunt Marité, (short for Marie-Thérèse) and my mother Renée, were born. One had to make a living to feed the family: my grandfather joined the French railroad until his retirement.

I always wondered how he felt in 1940, when the French Army lost the war in three weeks washed out by Guderian’s Panzer Divisions. He must have been near 50, close to retirement.

“This is all very well, but what about the carrot?”

“I’ll come to that.”

My grandmother Augustine died in the winter of 1944. The war was far from over. She died of a heart condition and the deprivations of the war. My grandfather eventually remarried. My mother always hated her stepmother’s guts… Family stories. When I was little, I only knew Marie as my “grandmother”. A small lady in black.

My grandfather lived in a “blue-collar” house, at the edge of Rennes, the largest city and capital of the Brittany region. I still remember the house vividly. Shaped in L, with a large garden to the right, a high line of hazelnut trees at the back of the garden. A small door hidden between the trees led to the fields and woods beyond. I doubt the house is still there, it’s probably all been built over by now. Back then? The house was the last one on the street before the fields began.

There were chicken picking at the gravel lane between the house and the garden. A number of rabbits were kept in “clapiers”, rabbit hutches. He was a peasant at heart, I tell you. Now, anybody who’s walked by rabbit hutches will understand the smell I still remember… Many, many years later, I realize I never wondered about what was served at lunch.

We visited my grandparents once a year, when we were on “furlough” in Europe, from whatever out-of-the way place in Africa or the Far East we were stationed. I remember the trains from Paris to Brittany. Steam machines, smelling of burning coal. The first electric trains started later, in the mid to late sixties. “Children! Do not lean outside the window!” my mother would say. “There might be another train coming or you might get an ‘escarbille’ in the eye.” Fun! I had to look ‘escarbille’ up. The translator says ‘scrape’. Basically, a tiny burning particle of coal blown away from the engine. Not too good in the eye.

I remember when my parents bought him a TV. A luxury then. An enormous (I was six or eight) grey contraption. Deeper than wide. Probably didn’t have a screen larger than 15 inches. Black and white of course. Only one channel. Government controlled. Those were the days of the War in Algeria. But no-one talked about the war. Any war. My father carried the bloody TV to the Montparnasse station, the platforms, the train, the station at Rennes, etc. My grandparents were delighted.

One summer when we visited, my grandfather told us (my mother, sister, and little me) to come with him on a stroll. We came out of the garden, through the small door in the hazelnut trees. I remember we turned right. And off we went walking in the countryside behind the house. Fields of golden wheat, barley. Small woods. After a ten minutes’ walk, we arrived at railway tracks. Trust a railroad man to keep tracks at hand. Always.

He kept a vegetable garden there, just a few yards away from the tracks. Why there? I don’t know. Nowadays there would probably be two dozen regulations sternly forbidding the private use of railway land, but at that time? Who cared? The earth was probably better than in his own garden.

I remember a dark, rich smelling earth. Lines and lines of vegetables neatly planted. Lettuce. Leeks, onions, garlic, some tomatoes possibly. My grandfather showed us his garden. Quite proud. Explaining each vegetable to us kids.

There was a line of what looked like weeds. Long green tufts sprouting from the earth. I asked my grandfather:

“Et ça c’est quoi, Grand-Père?” What is that?

He smiled. Lit his yellow corn Gauloise again, and said.

“Come here, Gamin (kid), I’ll show you.”

He put one knee on the ground. Inspected the weeds. Pulled one bunch, and came out with a carrot.

I was amazed. No idea carrots grew in the earth. No idea they grew at all. I imagined there were carrot factories. Just like milk. Milk came out from glass bottles then. Now milk has been upgraded to carton boxes.

My grandfather shook some of the earth away, then wiped the carrot on his blue sleeve. (See the importance of a blue-collar heavy-duty sleeve?) and handed the carrot to me.

“Take a bite, Gamin. This is the best carrot you’ll ever eat.”

I looked at the carrot in my grandfather’s calloused hands. There was still a lot of earth on it.

I looked into my grandfather’s blue eyes. I didn’t have to look at my mother. She was sending me mental, telepathic orders: “Eat. The. Bl..dy. Carrot. Now.” (I was about 7 or 8. In those days one followed orders. Even telepathic.)

So, I gingerly took the carrot from my grandfather’s hand. Took a small bite. Then another. And another. He was right. It was the best carrot I ever ate.

My Grandfather was a carrot man.

Louis Prodault, 1890-1969

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