Does scaring ourselves for fun help us grow?

Every evening, the boys’ bedroom turned into an improvised conference room. Well… “conference” might be a big word: it was mostly Jean doing the talking, while Alain served as the free audience. The endless string of “let’s suppose that…” began like a radio show with Jean as the star host. He was the local version of Gyro Gearloose, his brain constantly bubbling, convinced that the lock and its gears hid secrets worthy of a spy novel. You’d think the machinery itself was plotting to overthrow the government.

In the workers’ housing estates, large families lived packed together like sardines, and the kids sometimes played until night fell on them. The older boys—Jean, Alain, Roger G.—had invented a game: “The Hunted Man.” Nothing less. Hide-and-seek was far too childish for them. Friends from the hamlet of Hamanxard came as reinforcements, because a playground the size of a battlefield isn’t conquered by three people. The fugitive got a head start, just enough to feel like James Bond, and the pursuers shouted coded cries that echoed through the valley as if an uprising were being prepared.

For the younger kids who stayed in the hamlet, it was a grand spectacle: you’d think they were watching an Olympic final, except the gold medal was won by chasing a breathless friend who was red as a tomato. The triumphant return of the pursuers and the fugitive always ended in bursts of laughter, each one recounting his heroic feat—naturally, everyone claimed to have saved the game in their own way. The chase often lasted more than an hour, proof that children’s endurance can rival that of marathon runners… except that here, the ultimate reward was a good laugh and the feeling that they had rewritten the history of the village.

Scaring ourselves — or rather playing at taming a fear we hadn’t really faced yet — was the official goal. In practice, it was mostly an excuse to pretend we were heroes in an action movie. The age difference wasn’t in my favor: I was the little one tagging along, the one they dragged with them like an indispensable extra. But I went willingly, convinced that my presence added a certain prestige to the expedition.

When summer came, in the little grove near the lock, my brothers had invented treetop adventure before its time. Yes — long before theme parks started cashing in with fluorescent harnesses and regulation helmets, we were doing it with hazel trees.
The rule was simple: move from tree to tree without ever touching the ground. The springy branches served as homemade zip lines, complete with a built-in parachute effect. No certification required — just a bit of imagination and a great deal of recklessness.
Luckily for me, my build was an advantage: light as a feather, I bounced more than I fell. And, miraculously, that flexibility is still with me today — proof that dangerous games can sometimes be more effective than a gymnastics class.

We called it “doing hard things.” The name had the merit of being honest: it was tough, but not deadly. No broken bones, no sprains — just a few scratches in the varnish of the skin. In short, a medical report that would make any sports club green with envy.

And then there was the ultimate test: crossing the gap between the spillway and the lock’s reservoir. Bent double, feet on a slippery beam, hands gripping a metal bar (which no longer exists), above the roar of the water crashing below… Four meters to get across, your nose barely higher than the surface of the water. Let’s just say that even James Bond might have asked for a stunt double for that scene — except perhaps Timothy Dalton, the best of them all, in my opinion.
We, of course, did it just for fun, with no cameras and no applause.

The lot’s waterfall.

ScreenshotWhat remains of the electrical power transmission shaft

A New Chapter in the Story of Our Origins — Told Through My DNA

For years, the mystery of the red hair lingered in our family. A curious trait, especially when you consider that it appears in only about 1 to 2 percent of the world’s population. In other words, quite a rarity… almost a genetic signature.

Red hair most often comes from a variation of the MC1R gene.
This gene alters the production of pigments in the hair:

– less eumelanin, the brown or black pigment
– more pheomelanin, the red-orange pigment

It is this balance that gives hair its famous coppery color.

In the Middle Ages, red hair carried a rather… eventful reputation. Depending on the time and place, it could be admired for its uniqueness or surrounded by colorful beliefs and superstitions. As often happens in history, what is rare soon begins to seem mysterious — and anything different can easily become stigmatized.

And then, as the old proverb says, “To live happily, live hidden.”
The gene seems to follow this principle with great discipline. Anyone can carry it without ever knowing.

If both parents carry a variant of the MC1R gene, the chance of this trait appearing can reach 25 percent. The gene may lie quietly dormant for several generations… before resurfacing with a touch of mischief.

Research carried out through MyHeritage points to an English lineage dating back to the Middle Ages. The circle of origins now seems to close — and with it, the mystery of Jean’s freckles.

An amusing detail: the maps produced by MyHeritage and those generated by ChatGPT lead to exactly the same conclusions. Proof that even algorithms can spot a good old family story when they see one.

Belove is a map of carriers of red hair gene