The fourteenth of May is a lovely day. I’ve had 19 fourteenths of may in my life, and though I cannot exactly remember them all, I am going to assume that they were all spectacularly lovely.
One May 14th some years ago, I was sitting on the floor of an old house in Sarlat, France, watching French television and documenting my adventures of the day. I wrote about the fauna and masonry, the coq-aux vin and crepes, and gushed about the simple beauty of the town. My one complaint was that the antler in my backpack was giving me bruises.
There were several very good reasons for me to take a 5 point antler across the world with me. Unfortunately those reasons were quite forgotten or rendered invalid 6 days into our trip and I was becoming quite frustrated with my antler. Each time I packed or un-packed, the venture was entirely centered upon fitting in the antler. Each time we moved I would, after multiple attempts, successfully fit the all my clothing and the antler into my small backpack, and though I rejoiced in this small victory I never achieved comfort. That is why, while backpacking through the lovely country that is France, I was continuously and relentlessly stabbed in the back with a pointed object. It did not take long for me to realize that ridding myself of the artifact would be a most advantageous endeavor. I consulted my traveling companions and we decided on several courses of action.
1. Leave the antler on the sidewalk. This option was quickly discarded because it was disgustingly un-romantic, could allow the antler to fall into unworthy hands, and would provide no closure or (more importantly) intriguing story.
2. Sell the antler to a Parisian cowboy boutique for an exorbitant price. This option was rejected first, because it would require me to carry the antler an extra 7 days until we returned from our tour of the country to Paris, and second, because it was undeniably materialistic.
3. Give the antler to somebody I liked. This option was undoubtedly the the most appealing to me and my companions. So we set out to find someone we liked.
The very first day we arrived in the Dordogne region of France we stayed at a small house that a lovely old lady rented to visitors. As we came inside the petit and beautifully developed yard surrounding her house we noticed a young man picking cherries from a small tree. We waved to him and smiled before disappearing into the doorway. Our visit to their small town of Sarlat was one of the most contented and inspiring events of my life so far. We went to the market and bought stinky cheese, walked through the winding cobblestone streets, and marveled that such beauty could be contained in so small a town. We didn’t want to leave, but when the time came that it was prevailed upon us to do so, I was once again faced with the challenge of packing my backpack. How the boy came up, I do not perfectly recall. Our only encounter was the hesitant wave in the garden that happened several days earlier, but somehow it seemed completely clear that it was to him that the gift (or burden) should be bestowed. My mom, who served as our translator for business affairs, asked our hostess if her grandson (the cherry picker) would like an antler from the United States of America. All of our party waited in earnest as she called him on the telephone to ask. We could hear him animatedly tell his grandmother that he would be thrilled to be the recipient of the antler and so the matter was settled. I gave the antler to our amused hostess and who assured me that she would give it to her grandson as soon as possible. For the rest of my trip I packed my backpack with ease and satisfaction. I’m sure the antler could not have been presented to a more worthy candidate. I do wonder where it is now. Don’t you?
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