In our family, the sibling lineup was a bit like a generational flea market: age gaps wide enough to make childcare manuals blush, a direct consequence of the 1939–45 war. The youngest would arrive five years after me, just to keep the family saga going. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves — his legend comes later.
As for our mother, she traded her worker’s apron for the equally demanding role of stay-at-home mom when the fourth child, Lucien, was born. A promotion, you might say.
Memories with Jean and Alain are countless, of course, but those from my early childhood cling to my mind like old chewing gum stuck to a shoe. Jean, nine when I was born, was entrusted with the heroic mission of managing a stubborn, squalling little sister (his words). An early calling for patience, let’s say.
The title of eldest — about as glorious as a lead medal — quickly became a burden. With both parents working, even the mill’s daycare wasn’t enough to spare Jean from chores. “Jean, go fetch wood! Jean, go fetch water!” No, he wasn’t Cosette — she, at least, had a song.
What an easy job it seemed, though, to go fill a pitcher at “the hole”! A hundred meters farther on, a stone staircase led down to a spring where my mother rinsed the laundry. Today the washhouse is gone — proof that even stone eventually got tired of all that rinsing.
One day my brother, fed up, decided to hide and see whether anyone would notice he was gone. The verdict, after general panic and a round of hugs: yes, he was loved — but no, that didn’t excuse him from carrying bundles of wood. A major philosophical discovery of childhood.
Siblings, we were told, had to stick together: in games as in chores. That was our Olympic motto. And since we’re talking about sports, my brothers — noble competitors — were often tasked with pushing me home from daycare in a stroller. Jean still remembers it, teeth clenched. The smallest flower hypnotized me. Hand outstretched, I demanded: “Fwow! Fwow!” And of course, they had to stop. The story always ended the same way: the youngest one in tears.
To heat most of the house, there was one big white cookstove that did everything. It had to be lit every morning using bundles we made ourselves. Four branches planted in the ground, some twine, a chopping block, a billhook — and get to work. If you’re picturing safety goggles and gloves, you clearly didn’t grow up in heroic times. Tightening the bundle — with its slipknot and little wooden toggle for the final twist — was an art form. Jean had had enough of crooked bundles. Understandably: it’s the kind of specialty that wears out your nerves more than your muscles.
Winters, in that blessed era before global warming had the bad idea of existing, were impressively harsh. Snow didn’t just decorate postcards — it fell thick and fast, as if determined to bury half the hamlet.
Which is how, all of a sudden, the little sister became a first-rate logistical asset: just the right weight for a sled. 🛷
My brothers, snow-engineering geniuses, used the slopes of the land to carve sled runs worthy of the Alps. No grooming machines, of course — those didn’t come packaged with dolls. So the job of trail-opener fell to little sis — in other words, me. Perched on the sled like a willing guinea pig, I shot off “full speed ahead,” shouting my joy and inexperience to the wind. And one small technical detail: I didn’t know how to stop. Result: a magnificent two-meter airborne launch, straight toward the famous “hole” mentioned earlier — apparently my specialty. And if you think sledding is child’s play, just watch the 2026 Winter Olympics in Cortina d’Ampezzo.
Silence falls over the hill: an angel passes. Everyone holds their breath. Nothing. Then suddenly, a piercing scream — the kid is bawling. Whew! She’s not dead. The rescue team, relieved, doubles over laughing. Brotherly instinct in all its glory.
https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=1194005359171734
Our sleds, built lower to the ground than a doormat, required you to lie flat on your stomach to hurtle downhill. I, of course, couldn’t just watch: I rode proudly on the boys’ backs. Absolute luxury. I closed my eyes, rocked by the movement of their shoulders and muscles, half reassured, half amazed to still be in one piece at the bottom. Meanwhile, the cold played its part. Temperatures dropped so low you could have frozen a Russian novel in mid-sentence. Nearby, the reservoir supplying the mill turned into a life-size skating rink. And in the falling night, I could hear Jean’s grand strategic plans:
““What if…?” he always began, in the tone of an explorer ready to attempt the impossible.
“What if?” opened the door to schemes that were often risky but endlessly exciting: a rocket project on the ice, a crystal radio set, a manhunt game, building a shack deep in the woods — in short, everything needed to turn life into an adventure novel. And if I wanted to join in, the rule was strict: silence and sealed lips.
Genealogy alert!
After filling in this beautiful family tree, I discovered two things:
I have a lot of ancestors — and not enough branches to fit them all.
They all had the good sense to survive long enough for me to exist 😄
In the next article, I’ll tell you about our most improbable and dangerous adventures — and include a map showing where our roots come from.
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