French Dirt: The Story of a Garden in the South of France

Author Essay
Before I went to live in a small village near Avignon years ago, I already had a clear picture of the place. I knew there would be sun and cypresses. I knew there would be ebullient villagers who were as open and embracing as their Parisian counterparts were staid and aloof. I knew the land would be bathed continually in sunshine. I knew you frequently slept in a quaint hotel and drank rosé wine in sun-dappled cafés. I knew it was the good life.

Having grown up in the fifties and sixties, I'd been raised on images of the South of France from travel magazines, the life of Vincent van Gogh, and Alfred Hitchcock's To Catch a Thief -- with perhaps a smidgeon of the voluptuous Brigitte Bardot at the Cannes Film Festival. (Peter Mayle wasn't on the scene yet, and I hadn't read the great chroniclers of the South of France -- Jean Giono, Marcel Pagnol, Colette, M.F.K. Fisher, Laurence Wylie.) From these sources I had formed a definite picture. And what an appealing picture it was.

When I arrived in the small village (pop. 211) where I was to live for a year, less than fifty miles from van Gogh's Arles, I realized very quickly it was not the village of my dreams. There was no café. There was no boulangerie. In fact, there were no stores at all. The architecture was plain. The town square was as featureless as an airport tarmac. The cypresses? There were two or three -- in the small walled graveyard down the road. In August, the sun was so fierce I had to retreat to the cool recesses of my stone house. In October, the very same sun disappeared under a deluge of rain the entire month. The wine made by the local vintners tasted harsh. No one drank rosé.

But that was the least of it. When I said bonjour to the few villagers I encountered, they were mute. I smiled at them; they looked past me. When I spoke to the children, they fled. In the afternoons after school, the village teenagers parked their cars next to my house and blasted their car radios at rock concert volume. They were dressed in jeans, wore stylish leather jackets and loafers. I walked around in a sort of confused anger the first few weeks. Then one day I realized, for better or worse, this was the South of France. And this was my village. Discovering what was essential about the land and its people wasn't easy; I had to work at it. I started by hiring myself out as a laborer in exchange for firewood. That simple act opened many doors. Suddenly, people were saying bonjour to me. As for beauty, it didn't take long for me to grasp that this little corner of France, with its subtly undulating hills, its stunning light, its clean, earthy morning air with the faintest odor of the vineyards, was indeed incomparably beautiful. And their wine tasted better and better every passing day.

Then there was my garden. I met a young man named Jules Favier who loaned me a piece of land outside the village to have a small vegetable garden. I met more villagers, and my own roots struck deeper into the community. The villagers took their gardening seriously, and they were more than willing to offer their advice. I was expected to follow it. By the time my year in France was over, I knew most everyone in the village. The South of France I found was not easily or simply discovered, but it was richer and more satisfying than any fantasy. And that garden -- I still think about it. It was a privilege to go there every morning and work hard, thrusting my hand shovel into the French soil, caring for my plants. This is the story I tell in French Dirt.

When the book was published, the reviews started coming out. The Smithsonian said the book was for "Francophiles or wistful admirers of the simple life." Another review asked, "Who among us wouldn't delight in chucking it all and heading for this Southern experience? Goodman did it."

I began to wonder. Had I painted a misleading picture of my little village? Had I made my own contribution to the unreal fantasies people have about the South of France? I had thought I was telling the story of my garden and how it connected me to this corner of France and to this memorable community. I had thought I was writing about the verities of sun, soil, water, air, and work. I had meant, simply, to take readers along with me as I stumbled, fell, and righted myself.

When I was told that Algonquin was publishing a tenth-anniversary edition of my book, I decided to reread French Dirt for the first time in years. It was like a new experience. When I was finished, I thought, "Boy, wouldn't it be nice to go out and have the kind of year Goodman had." But I was Goodman! I had done this! My own book, with every difficulty only leading to a kind of triumph in such an exquisite land, made me want to live like Goodman did. (Richard Goodman)

Copyright © 2002 by Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill