The disappearing mamies

 

 

 In the late 80s when I was visiting Argelès, I used to watch the mamies, as I called the old women of the village. They were probably in their 60-80s.

They would bring their chairs out on the street and chat in Catalan. They wore house dresses and might snap beans or peel potatoes as they talked. Sometimes their grandchildren would be in their care and would play near them. There was warmth and camaraderie in their faces and body language.

Once I learned French, we could talk, although more than once they said it would be nice when I learned Catalan. I was still battling with French verbs so Catalan was not going to happen.

They had lived in Argelès all their lives, had had various feuds over the years, remembered when goats and chickens wandered the streets. Some lived in houses owned by their many times great grandparents lived.  They were not sure of how many generations. They would speak of people they lost, parents, a husband, a son who committed suicide in one of their living rooms.

Sometimes they would go and sit on a bench in the center of the village. Another bench was reserved for the old men, the senators as we called them, who were probably swept out of their homes each morning by their wives who didn't want them underfoot all day.

Over the decades the mamies disappeared one by one. The church bells would chime their dirges, the condolence table would be outside the church door for friends and neighbors to sign.

And then there was one, our neighbor. One day she was gone. I saw her daughter turning the key to the front door. 

I asked. 

"My mother is having heart surgery tomorrow," she told me.

Then there was nothing for months. Finally I wrote a note asking about her mother.

Nothing.

The daughter reappeared last week and said she'd just left a note in my mailbox. It was from Rosemary, saying she was fine and living with her daughter in the mountains. 

Whew.

The streets are now mamieless. I am probably older than many of those mamies were when I was the newby in the village. 

The demographics have changed. Older retirees from Paris and other places in Europe have settled in the village to take advantage of the sun, sea and mountains. The locals whom have reached mamie age were from the 50s and 60s not the world wars. Their lives are different.

As lovely as some of the changes in the village are, the new main street, there is a sliver of loss for the old days. The freshly painted houses, that are hundreds of years old, have been refurbished inside too. Seldom do the mamies, or anyone, go to the washing shed by the river where once they gathered to wash their clothes, although those without dryers, they might use the drying lines next to the building.

Still, one can go to the green grocer, the butcher and the baker for the daily meal.  Some evenings in summer tables and chairs are placed on the street as neighbors gather to talk, share an apèro or even a meal. Sometimes the new people join in and French is more often heard than Catalan or it is until the newcomers head home. 

I think I've lived in two French villages that occupy the same ground.