By Kimberly Onufrock-Bracco
France has always been with me. When I look back it was basically staring at me from the wall although I hadn’t seen it. My first real memories were of our neighbors who immigrated after the war from France, an older couple Alice and Emile. Alice taught me French words and songs as she played the piano, I would sing and dance in the parlor. They had lace doilies that sat upon their antique tables; she bathed in perfume and hugged me tight. Emile wore suspenders, with long crisp white sleeve shirts even in the summer and made wine in their basement. The large barrels reeking of fermented grapes, the pungent smell rose from the floorboards that would soon turn into sweet wine. I was maybe four years old but those aromas and vivid scenes of white lace curtains in their windows, and vines of yellow grapes that grew in their backyard were within me. There was music being played, pastries on the dining room table, perfumed roses growing in their side yard. And cigarette smoke that lingered in small, puffed clouds, memories that came in flashes, then they were gone. A few years later I would be in second grade and our teacher who majored in French in college wrote strange words on the chalk board, but when she pronounced the numbers, they seemed fluid and familiar,” Un, deux, trois.” I said them perfectly all the way to ten as I recited with her, she was surprised as were my classmates. When she asked me how I knew them, I said from somewhere, but couldn’t remember exactly where. I just knew it made me feel sad and empty of something or someone missing.
A young couple bought the house I used to visit as a child, they soon had a daughter then another. The house had been renovated over the years and I as a teen was asked to babysit their girls. I came there one afternoon feeling nervous, not about the babysitting job but visiting the house. The home was light and airy, painted with creamy soft colors. The French doors I remembered that separated the kitchen to the dining room were no longer there. There was a familiarity of sorts, the rooms seemed the same but nothing in it was. The couple was excited to go out to dinner and a movie. Once I got the girls tucked in, I was instructed to be in the family room which was in the basement. The living room was more formal, and they had redone the basement in a cozy space with an overstuffed couch, television, and playroom. It felt odd to be in the basement, but that’s mainly where the young family congregated. I tried to remember being there as a child, but everything seemed different. There wasn’t anything good on television that held my attention, which is when I saw the door. I assumed it was the utility room for the heating and water, but I was curious despite not being one to ever snoop. I fumbled for a light switch and when I turned it on, I saw them. There in the corner were two huge wine barrels, I walked over to touch them, the metal hoops slightly rusted now, but the oak staves were still solid and thick. I leaned over trying to inhale any remnants of the past and perhaps it was my imagination, but I swore a whiff of fermentation may have filled my nostrils just slightly. The images came back in full force, me dancing in their parlor, the piano in the corner, the Normandy lace curtains, the beautiful dresses Alice wore with pearls, Emile and his suspenders, the warm hugs. Where had they gone? When I got home that night, my mother was still awake, watching the late news. I asked her what happened to the couple I had loved so much. My mother, not too surprised had said,” I wondered when you would ever ask about them. Emile died suddenly of a heart attack when you were four, Alice was so upset, she sold the house quickly and moved away to stay with her sister. You still kept asking to go there all the time. I felt you were too young to understand, then one day you just stopped asking. I heard Alice passed away a few years later.” I realized now the pain of their disappearing had blocked those memories, I felt as if I was grieving, it made me feel so sad for them and me. Another time I babysat in the afternoon, I loved going over there now, in some small way I felt close to them again. I loved caring for the girls too, we played in the backyard. I saw a grapevine where a few grapes still grew on the old metal fence. I can remember there had been a canopy at one time where the grapes had covered the patio area with the big green leaves shading the area. Those memories of them I now embraced, I had felt so loved by them, they had no children marrying later in life my mother had told me, and they had treated me like a granddaughter.
As I one day married and then eventually had a family of my own, I always seemed to favor the style of French Country. It seemed so comfortable and beautiful, perhaps the décor reminding me of Alice and Emile. My husband bought me a planner one year of the French countryside which each month featured a different region of France. To me the pictures reminded me of a place I could live in my dreams. My parents now had long passed now. My dad had liked art and although my parents had little money, he had picked up a painting from a street artist in Brooklyn a few years after they were married when they bought their first home. He said he liked that it was so different. I took the painting that had hung in their living room for decades. I had never actually liked that painting growing up. It was a textured abstract, which was not a style I particularly favored. It was something that my dad loved so much that I could not part with it. As my family grew, we moved a few more times but kept the painting hidden in a closet as I just never got to hang it up. Although I traveled for work for as a living, I had never made it to France until a few years ago. We had planned on visiting my husband’s family in Italy and Croatia, both such beautiful, countries. My husband suggested on the way back we stop in Paris and visit the countryside as I had always wanted to. When we landed in France and especially when we traveled to the countryside, it felt like home. I don’t speak French except from what Alice and Emile had taught me and most is forgotten, but it didn’t matter, I will learn, France is where my heart is. The food, the history, the people, the landscape, all seem familiar.
We have been in our farmhouse here in New Hampshire for five years and the home needed some updating, so the décor became secondary. I again moved that painting from my parents’ home trying to find a place to hang it finally. I sat down taking a good look at it one day, something honestly, I never had, and I saw it. The figures are in thick strokes of paint but the words on the building are in French, the scene is of a village in France. I’d like to imagine Emile and Alice came from a village like this. My dad young and hopeful excited about owning his first home and wanting to decorate it with something special, perhaps even French. He had loved to travel but never made it to Europe, so his dreams of travel were in this painting. The painting has become so special to me despite having been around it most of my life with this discovery.
So much of my life has been entwined with a country I hardly know but am drawn to. I dream of escaping the cold New Hampshire winters and living in France in the countryside in a small village. The moments I spent with Alice and Emile are with me, the art museums I visit in Paris, I carry my father with me. I look at my mother’s ancestry which is Irish, but eleven percent of her DNA comes from Northwest Europe which includes Normandy France, and which is part of me. Dreaming is hope. I have a favorite saying that comes from the French, “Je veux vivre dans mes rêves” which translates to “I want to live in my dreams.” And I’d like to think I do….
About Kimberly Onufrock-Bracco
A former flight attendant, I live in New Hampshire with my husband, our sweet Golden Retriever and fat cat named Larry. We renovated our 1834 farmhouse that has views of Vermont. Gardening keeps my sanity and me busy. I have been previously published in a number of magazines. You can find me at HOMEATLASTFARMNH on Instagram
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Hey there, friend!
I want to welcome you to the newest addition to the Farmhouse Storyteller Journal- Homestead Hearth, where we celebrate the heart and soul of homestead cooking. Our homestead is a cherished gathering place for tired hog drivers to Sunday dinner. Just as the hearth symbolizes warmth and togetherness, we invite you to join us in sharing the cherished recipes that have brought nourishment and joy to our family table.
Since returning to the country, I have found that food is more than just sustenance – it’s a connection to our past, a celebration of family roots, and a way to create lasting memories. That’s why we’re not just sharing our own family recipes; we’re extending the table to welcome contributions from YOU! Whether it’s a treasured recipe that’s been passed down through generations or a new favorite that captures the spirit of homestead living, we invite you to share it with our community.
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Hi Danielle, I enjoy reading your journal posts and listening to your podcast. Have a great week! ~ Cheryl
Cheryl! You are so sweet! Thank you!!