We lived in France when I was in the 5th through 7th grade, in an American compound called Toulaire. Toulaire was made up of white stucco homes with red tile roofs set in the middle of the rural country side in Alsace province.
The “housing area” as we called it was laid out high on a hill overlooking what I think is the Mozelle River which connected with a canal system that was like the interstate highway for the river valley and beyond. On one side, Toulaire abutted the "big woods," a forest preserve where wild boar roamed freely. On the other the flat plateau that ran for miles and included battlefields from World War II, little villages where French families lived in homes built two and three hundred years before, with their livestock on the ground floor.
The area was probably two hundred miles or so east of Paris, at about the same latitude as New England, so in the wintertime, its was really cold. In fact, by my tween-year, exaggerated-though-they-may-be recollections, snow often accumulated over several months so that snow forts packed together in November remained useful until early March. During that season, conditions were ideal for sledding, or even just running and sliding on the street.
There was, just through the woods, at the bottom of a a steep hill, an expansive mustard farm. Bottom land, flat and fertile, with acres and acres of yellow flowering mustard plants in the spring. Little bottles of gray pouppon growing on bushes. Anyway the steep hill dropped off into the field farmer Hock's mustard field, so naturally we called it Hock's Hill. And we said it with capital letters and respect. The hill was too steep to plant in mustard, so it was left wild in the summer, overgrown with grass and shrubs and monkey weed, the local version of grapevine kids broke off and pretended to smoke. Of course, monkey weed is awful, like inhaling a camp fire, but it gave the illusion of smoking to almost-adolescents who couldn’t buy or sneak cigarettes from their parents.
In the wintertime, Hock’s Hill was a sledding heaven, a curvy goat path down the hill swinging wildly around old growth trees dropping probably 300 or 400 feet over a short distance, which again, in my tween-years, exaggerated-though-they-may-be recollections, was almost a 90 degree angle until it met the flat bottom land of the river valley. Ideal for sledding.
Of course, we heard regularly from the chorus of Mom’s who were ever present, "never, go into the big woods," "never smoke monkey weed" and "never under any conditions go to Hock’s Hill." Everyone knew farmer Hock was crotchety and didn’t care much for American kids wandering his farm land snatching monkey weed and tromping his mustard plants. And he always carried a double barrelled shotgun in the crook of his arm. . . rumor had it that he loaded it with salt and wasn’t afraid to use it to scare off intruders.
The “housing area” as we called it was laid out high on a hill overlooking what I think is the Mozelle River which connected with a canal system that was like the interstate highway for the river valley and beyond. On one side, Toulaire abutted the "big woods," a forest preserve where wild boar roamed freely. On the other the flat plateau that ran for miles and included battlefields from World War II, little villages where French families lived in homes built two and three hundred years before, with their livestock on the ground floor.
The area was probably two hundred miles or so east of Paris, at about the same latitude as New England, so in the wintertime, its was really cold. In fact, by my tween-year, exaggerated-though-they-may-be recollections, snow often accumulated over several months so that snow forts packed together in November remained useful until early March. During that season, conditions were ideal for sledding, or even just running and sliding on the street.
There was, just through the woods, at the bottom of a a steep hill, an expansive mustard farm. Bottom land, flat and fertile, with acres and acres of yellow flowering mustard plants in the spring. Little bottles of gray pouppon growing on bushes. Anyway the steep hill dropped off into the field farmer Hock's mustard field, so naturally we called it Hock's Hill. And we said it with capital letters and respect. The hill was too steep to plant in mustard, so it was left wild in the summer, overgrown with grass and shrubs and monkey weed, the local version of grapevine kids broke off and pretended to smoke. Of course, monkey weed is awful, like inhaling a camp fire, but it gave the illusion of smoking to almost-adolescents who couldn’t buy or sneak cigarettes from their parents.
In the wintertime, Hock’s Hill was a sledding heaven, a curvy goat path down the hill swinging wildly around old growth trees dropping probably 300 or 400 feet over a short distance, which again, in my tween-years, exaggerated-though-they-may-be recollections, was almost a 90 degree angle until it met the flat bottom land of the river valley. Ideal for sledding.
Of course, we heard regularly from the chorus of Mom’s who were ever present, "never, go into the big woods," "never smoke monkey weed" and "never under any conditions go to Hock’s Hill." Everyone knew farmer Hock was crotchety and didn’t care much for American kids wandering his farm land snatching monkey weed and tromping his mustard plants. And he always carried a double barrelled shotgun in the crook of his arm. . . rumor had it that he loaded it with salt and wasn’t afraid to use it to scare off intruders.
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