Another day and more purchases. The garden is taking some breaking down and without the proper tools, it is a nightmare. I can imagine how the Germans felt at Stalingrad; heavy resistance and bogged down in unforgiving terrain.
So here I go again; off to the local gardening store in Carentan to buy a petrol strimmer. I must be getting better at planning the shopping as I arrived thirty minutes before it closed for there two hour lunch break. I wonder what they must eat to take two hours to do it in.
Buying the strimmer was yet another strange experience. My memories of buying something from the big DIY stores in England are totally different to today. I had to get a receipt from a man in the store, take it to the till and then drive round the back to pick it up. In England, it seems a lot simpler; but probably no where as near interesting.
Having done the formalities and then driven round the back of store, I had the pleasure of being served by a really pleasant young man. He explained that he had opened the box and was now going to give me a demonstration of how it worked. Not only did he demonstrate, he put some petrol in it and told me where I should take the grass that I was going to cut. He seemed to be able to read my mind and for that, I was truly impressed. It could have been the fact that it was almost midday and he wanted to get rid of me for his two hour meal.
Once we had got back home and had our 30 minute lunch break, I set about firing up the new wonder weapon. I followed the instructions of the guy from the store and all worked as planned. Re-equipped and having had some rest and relaxation, the offensive, code named green grass, was back on.
After about 30 or 40 minutes of the offensive, my arm was starting to feel the strain of the weight and vibration from the small engine. I felt like had suddenly developed Parkinsons disease and white finger as an added bonus. I decided it was time for a tea break and switched off this contraption that was making me shake like a jelly. I turned round to go back to the house and nearly had a heart attack. There was a strange looking man standing just behind me grinning like a cheshire cat without teeth. Jesus wept! I hadn't heard him as I was wearing ear defenders. I have Parkinsons, white finger and now a nervous disposition.
The man turned out to be one of my new neighbours. It didn't take him more than a minute to tell me that one of my trees was obscuring the sun and that his vegetable plot was suffering as a result. Following his orders, I went to look for myself and acting as if I knew what he was talking about, I agreed and did the face of anguish on behalf of his vegetables. This seem to do the trick and it wasn't long before he insisted on helping me finish cutting my grass. An allie in the war on grass should not be turned away so I accepted his kind offer.
With his help, we managed to get the job done and as a thank you, I invited him to join me for a beer. As I am interested in the history of the war, I asked him about our new house. Apparently it was occupied by the Germans during the occupation. He started to tell me that his relatives owned the house previously but before he finished the sentance, he burst into tears. What a strange situation to find yourself in. In a foreign country, in a new house, with a strange man who is now in tears. I didn't know what to say to him, other than it is OK to cry. It wasn't OK, but what can you do?
I'm sure I have made a friend and I am interested to know more about his life and what he and his family endured during the war. I just hope that if the subject is mentioned again, it doesn't all end in tears.
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