Celebrating Sacred Cows in Switzerland

Though I lived in a gym, not a barn, I grew up in a farm community and have always shared a country kid’s appreciation for the livestock and land. I was raised in Sterling, Illinois, a farm and mill town, nestled in fertile soil on the banks of the Rock River. Today, I live in the mountains of my adopted country, Switzerland. I feel a connection to home by living close to cows in the summer months.

Livestock come up to graze in our rich, green alpine pastures in what I dubbed as cow’s “summer camp.” The locals welcome the cows, sheep, herders and cheese makers who reside here between La Cure and St Cergue from May through September.

In our area, the pageantry of cows with flowered head dress began in 1988 when Jean Ravel inaugurated the 20th anniversary of his first alpage season by decorating his herd with beautiful bouquets for their hike up the mountains from Trelex up to Borsattaz.

Some alpine villages celebrate the inalp when the cows hike up, but my village, St. Cergue, is known for the désalpe when the cows parade back down. Our désalpe, the largest in Switzerland, draws spectators from across France, Switzerland and other parts of the world.

The last Saturday of September, tourist buses arrive from all over. Our little two-car, red train, transporting people up and down the mountain to and from Nyon on Lake Geneva, swells with day trippers.

Every autumn 8 or 9 herds, over 400 cows, march through our village in a cacophony of cowbells. The herders dressed in traditional costume lead the cows bedecked with bells and bouquets from our mountain pastures to return home to the plains by Lake Geneva.

The festival with music, dance, arts and activities unites the community to celebrate the return of the cows and change of seasons from summer to autumn.

This cultural event is passed down through generations - grandparents, parents and children. Entire families lead the cows down the mountain showcasing the deep connection between mountain communities and their livestock.

Spectators crowd our village to discover this ancestral ceremony with its unique ambiance. Locals, donning traditional costumes, gather to witness the cows’ return. Groups of folk singers, dancers and yodelers perform. In addition, special events like the Swiss wrestling (lutte à la culotte) and locally trained Bernese mountain dogs add to the lively scene of cows procession down main street.

Hearing the alp horns has become one of the biggest attractions for visitors.These eight foot long, wooden horns used in rural areas in17th to19th century to signal between high pastures, across valleys and to communities on the valley floor, are no longer needed by herdsmen, but with the revival of interest in musical in late 1800s they have became important to tourism.

Eight different food booths and six bars offer regional wines and specialties of beef, cheese, sausages, ham and other favorites from our canton Vaud. A variety of beverages can be purchased, but the local white wine served in miniature glasses, is traditional. To produce a festival as ecologically friendly as possible, with the least amount of waste, the town provided real plates and glasses to be recollected after use at various stations.

Over 50 tents set out near the school grounds at the base of the ski slope, display Swiss arts and crafts and local products. Artists sell traditional wooden hand carvings, chinaware, black metal works and cloth goods.

Fortunately, this year people welcomed a day of play in sunshine in the spirit of bon enfant as a reprieve from anxieties about climbing gas prices, climate warming, political discourse. In a celebration of family, community and nature, we shared a day honoring those sacred cows that provide milk, beef and cheese.

The désalpe, a giant street party, also pays tribute to the herders, who are finishing their season in the mountains and sharing their passion for the land. It helps them forget the harshness; last year’s cows were quarantined due to a highly contagious virus that spread so rapidly entire herds had to be put down. The désalpe had to be cancelled. This summer hay had to be imported, when drought led to shortages of grassland.

As I admired the lively show, the day the cows come to town, I gazed up at our awe-inspiring mountains in gratitude. I gave a silent nod to the flat landers back home and to other folks who toil to grow and harvest food for our tables even in the toughest of times.

When Real Life Hits, Change Plans, Pick Up the Pieces, Keep Plugging

I’ve spent more time living abroad than I have been a US resident, so why now, fifty years later, after dozens of flights, was I scared to fly alone?

Walking through an airport after a traumatic brain injury (TBI), with the bright lights, loud sounds and noisy crowds, is like bouncing around in a pinball machine. Usually my Frenchman guided me through it, but Gerald washed his passport for the 2nd time in 4 years and his replacement did not arrive on time. Consequently, I flew solo from Geneva to Amsterdam to Minneapolis. After getting through customs, I fell into my daughter’s arms in Minnesota.

I did it! Euphoria was short lived.

With my health history, I never make plans ahead; I never know if my body can hold up for the event. Yet, this summer, I swore I’d return to Sterling to spend time with my 92-year-old mom and visit old friends from high school and college.

I never made it back home!

What happened? Another seizure? A stroke? Mega jet lag?

In the middle of the night, disoriented from sleep deprivation, I turned left instead of right coming out of the bathroom at Nathalie’s and tumbled. One misstep led to another bad fall and an ambulance ride to my least favorite place - the hospital.

Forty-eight hours after landing, I regained consciousness in Minneapolis’ major trauma center (HCMC). Bruised from head to toe, the ER doctor sent me for CT scan, MRI and X-rays, stitched my eyebrow, slipped my shoulder in a sling and strapped my neck in a Miami J immobilizing collar. Immediate action. Super efficient. Life saving steps.

As I lay on the gurney in the trauma bay, various specialists came in addressing my numerous injuries - subdural hematoma (brain bleed), scapula and acromion fracture (broken shoulder), broken rib, fractured skull - and explained they were admitting me to the hospital. I turned to my daughter and asked “are we going home now?”

Instead of taking me home (an absurd request now understanding the extent of my injuries) she called my sisters who swooped in bringing hope. They took turns holding my hand through the terrifying hospital nights. They advocated for explanations and requested more ice, more pain med, more pillows.

Meanwhile, my daughter communicated with my care team and translated medical jargon while trying to recover from the trauma of finding her mom in a pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs, and my husband fought for a space on a flight over the Big Pond.

A week later, with guarantees of round-the-clock care from my husband, daughter and sisters, I was released.

When I was finally well enough to look at Facebook, I saw photos of classmates gathered at the Railside Bar and Grill in Nelson and regretted the fun I’d missed.

I hold a soft spot in my heart for SHS class of ’75 and have memories frozen in snapshots of that interlude of adolescence.

After my high school non-reunion, I had planned on reuniting with “The Family,” my “sisters”, those besties sharing a townhouse during senior year of college. Though we never lived under the same roof again, we remained connected forever.

With such fun summer plans, why did I hang out in the hospital instead?

My French sister-in-law explained it best, “The angels were drunk the day you were born!”

Drunk angels or no, I never liked being told I can’t do things. If I couldn’t make it to my reunions, I was determined to get to the cabin and the healing waters of the lake.

The challenge? So many restrictions? “Don’t turn your head. Don’t raise your right arm. Don’t lift anything heavier than a coffee cup.” My neck brace, worn 24/7 could get wet, but then changing the pads required two people and an engineering degree. Oh, and I had to sit still. Not my forte.

“Biking, swimming and skiing are out of the question! But can I walk in the lake?” I asked. The doctor never answered, just chuckled.

My family made sure my wish came true. With my chauffeur at the wheel, I laid flat in the backseat squeezed between a cooler, guitar and beach towels.

When we arrived at the cabin, I stepped off shore and waded up to my knees, my waist, my shoulders. Then weightlessly, I slid one foot in front of the other.

With pain lancing through my skull and spine, I walked on water.

“You can do it!” I shouted to the heavens. My dad’s voice echoed back from the timbers, “You can!”

Every evening, as stars sparkled over still waters, I curled up on the couch listening to the stories of my ancestors. I drifted to sleep, holding mom’s hand, cocooned in a circle of love everlasting. Back in nature, surrounded by family, I processed my losses with hope renewed. Ready to begin my long journey to healing again.

Family helps with first walk

Easter Tradition in Normandy

Though Gérald and I will dine tête a tête this Sunday, our hearts are filled with memories of holidays past when our children were younger and we were surrounded by family. As with every celebration in France, Easter begins and ends à table.

Normandy is appreciated the most at mealtime when land and sea are perfectly marinated. Mamie cooks the traditional Easter favorite, leg of lamb. At the head of the table, Papie carves the tender meat fresh from a newborn romping on the rolling green hillside only days before. But back up, each course is an event worth savoring.

toasting champagne

First a toast of champagne and a light aperitif. Next is naturally an egg based, a soufflé as light as cotton candy, followed by a platter of seafood: shrimp, crab legs, clams, oysters, something for everyone’s palate.

The main lamb course is always served with flageolet, a mini lima bean, that reminds me of the word flatulence and of course, bean jokes inevitably enter the conversation, sending the children into gales of laughter. Mamie always has a special dish for every family member, so a garden of vegetables -beans, broccoli, potatoes, spinach, tomatoes - also grows out of the linen tablecloth.

The children eat with the adults where they risk being reprimanded to sit up straight. However, I never notice table manners; my fork and knife are usually in the wrong hands. Softhearted Mamie excuses the grandkids early and they scamper upstairs to read Lucky Luke or Astérix comic books until called for dessert.

Each course is accompanied by wine, a light white Burgundy for the seafood starters and then a heavier Bordeaux for the meat and cheese. Every big meal is followed by a green salad and cheese platter with triangles of creamy local cheeses like Camembert and Pont L’Evêque.

family feast

Dessert always includes seasonal fruits, which in the spring means luscious strawberries. Like little elves, the children reappear to gobble up berries dipped in fresh cream. The kids magically disappear again when they smell the coffee brewing. Papie ceremoniously opens the antique Normand hutch and pulls out his bottle of Calvados offering, “a little taste.” True Normands swear that the fiery apple brandy aids the digestion. During weddings and christenings, the “trou Normand,” a shot served on sorbet in the middle of the feast, is customary.

boy with easter basket

Throughout each course a lively repartee of sarcasm, word play and arguments ensue that to a soft-spoken Norwegian American sounds like verbal abuse, but is only part of the French art de vivre and their love of language and debate.

Just when you think your belly will burst, Mamie rings a bell and the children race downstairs, for in France, bells, not bunnies, deliver eggs. As a token of mourning for crucified Christ, church bells remain silent from Good Friday until Easter Sunday. On Easter, when the chimes ring again, children rush outside to see the bells fly home to Rome, after dropping chocolate Easter eggs from the sky.

The children crowd onto the wrought iron balcony to find eggs tucked behind the potted geraniums and tulips. While they devour the chocolate figurines, the adults, too, savor a delicacy from the local chocolate shop . Everyone moans of stomachaches and swears they will never eat again, but a few hours later after a stroll by the sea, we are à table again discussing the favorite French topic, food.

Happy Birthday to Me, E.T.

Oh dear, how do I tell my 91-year-old mother that she gave birth to an extraterrestrial being? What else could explain my extraordinary quirks, peculiar ailments, and uncanny ability to survive against all odds?

I’ve recovered from accidents that no mortal should have survived. I suffer from maladies so bizarre that no one has ever heard of them before.

Then again, how many people survived a rabid skunk bite as a toddler and lived to tell the tale?

My latest episode involved the right side of my mouth festering until my gum line resembled the embers of a dying fire. A thread under my lip pulled my gum away from my tooth, exposing the root.

My Swiss dentist pried open my mouth and exclaimed in awe, “Très intéressant! I’ll do a frenectomy!”

Frenectomy?

In the past, when diagnosed with other strange ailments, I had no idea what my American, French, German, Greek and Swiss doctors were talking about.

I’ve always been different.

After all, I was born in Sandwich.

“Which kind? Baloney!” friends teased.

According to my mother, I was the only planned baby of her four children.

Good grief! Who in their right mind would have planned to birth an extraterrestrial being?

Fortunately, back in Sandwich in 1957, I was a bargain baby! The doctor who delivered me charged my folks only 50 bucks.

Since then, I’ve cost a fortune!

Braces, glasses, orthodontia, orthotics, and umpteen surgeries. Disintegrating discs, temporal mandible dysfunction, neuroborreliosis. I had strange conditions before they became common knowledge. My treatments, considered controversial quackery at the time, have become part of standard care, like chiropractic and TMJ dental treatment.

Why me?

Blame it on that rabid skunk bite!

My poor mother! How did she survive my childhood?

My poor Frenchman! How does he endure my adulthood?

After each calamity, he picked up the pieces, paid medical bills and waited for me to heal. With his help, I am still ticking, albeit slowly.

Today, doctors suspect I was born with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS). EDS? Huh? It’s part of a group of genetic connective tissue disorders, which could help explain
my proprioception issues and propensity for falls.

We’re all unique beings, trying to move forward, stay strong, and beat the odds.

No one chooses their family, the genes they inherit, the beliefs they assimilate, or where they grow up. No one can predict what physical, emotional, and mental challenges they’ll face.

Wouldn’t it be easier if we didn’t see ourselves only as Democrats or Republicans, Americans, Europeans, Asians, Africans, Indians, Australians, Muslims, Jews, or Christians?

Could we live better harmony if we didn’t identify so much with one religion, nationality, race, or ethnicity, but more as tiny specks in the universe?

What if we all came from somewhere beyond Earth?

How’s this for conspiracy theory?

What if we’re all aliens?

Who knows?

I am here still questioning, still yearning, still learning.

Time is running out. I may never get it right. For now, I exist in a state of grace, warts and all, grateful to be here even during these troubled times.

Thank you, my beloved mother, for bringing me into existence and guiding my path!

Merci mille fois mon courageux français for staying by my side.

Happy Birthday to me, E.T.

Endearing Tradition – Swiss Celebrate Seniors With Christmas Dinner

In one of its most endearing traditions, Swiss villages celebrate their seniors by hosting the annual Christmas dinner for retirees. The “Repas de Noël” has become a beloved part of the holiday festivities.

In St-Cergue, at the community center next to the grade school, a few hundred retirees gathered around long tables to share fondue. Not the classic cheese fondue one associates with Switzerland, instead Vaud, like all 26 Swiss cantons, has adopted a variation of the Chinese fondue to celebrate Christmas Eve.

After individual starters of grated carrots and paté, we passed plates of veal, pork, chicken and beef provided by our local butcher. We skewered the thinly sliced meat on long forks and dipped them in slow-simmering broth in Chinese fondue pots. The meat was accompanied with rice and different sauces, ranging from curry-flavoured mayonnaise to zingy relishes.

For dessert, we savored the traditional Buche de Noel or yule log, a rolled sponge cake, with layers of buttercream. This extraordinary favorite had a local twist. It was crafted by a former pastry chef who perfected his art in prestigious French restaurants. To our great fortune Julien Maslanka relocated to Switzerland where he opened four different patisseries including Le Comptoir du Vieux Chateau à St-Cergue on our main street.

In a serendipitous stroke of luck, I sat next to an interesting jazz musician and a friendly, outgoing woman, who gave me all the contacts and links to activities for citizens in the community. When she saw me scribbling in my pocket notebook, I explained that I wrote a blog sharing European experiences.

“Oh, I have to introduce you to our American writer!” she said clapping her hands. Then she led me to a table to introduce me to a short, white-haired fellow with twinkly blue eyes who had lived in Switzerland for fifty-five years.

Then after the municipal employees took a bow on stage, the seniors gave a hearty applause in appreciation for their public services, especially for their swift snow plowing of our streets.

A senior dance group performed a polka, school children sang holiday songs, and then we joined in singing along to a French translation of Gloria in Excelsis Deo.

The only shadow on the festivities, was finding out that we lost our petition to save our local post office, which closes in 2026.

The convivial atmosphere resumed, when the master of ceremony invited us to pop open the tubes of confetti in a jovial grand finale.

Wherever you live dear friends and readers, however you celebrate the season, I wish you peace, health and hope for 2026.

Happy holidays from X-Pat & ze Frenchman in "Santa's Village" Switzerland!

The Village Shop, Soul of the Town

In a nondescript, brick building across from the Malt Shovel Pub, Gaydon’s Village Shop opened in May 2010 as a non-profit co-op where volunteers provide locals with staples and simple necessities that households might run out of on a weekend.

The shop’s shelves were stacked with a hodgepodge of essential toiletries like shampoo, soap, deodorant, toilet paper and toothpaste, as well as milk, eggs, butter and cheese and a limited selection of fruits and vegetables, canned goods, pasta and cereals.

Surprisingly, the Village Shop also sold fresh pastries and bread delivered daily from a bakery in the hamlet just down the road.

Beverages, such as bottled water, alcohol, beer, wine, cider, juice and sodas are also available for purchase.

I perused the shelves with childlike wonder. I picked up a chunk of cheddar, waved it at the woman behind the counter and asked, “Do you have grated cheese?”

“No” the lady at the till told me, “but I have grater at home that you can borrow.” Then, she picked up the phone and called her daughter and asked her bring it over.

Minutes later, the shop doorbell jingled and her daughter dashed in and handed me the family’s cheese grater.

Meanwhile, as we were talking, a middle aged man walked in with his father, who hobbled on an artificial leg from the knee down.

“Oh dear, what happened?”

“Felt my knee cap slip up me thigh when I fell,” the elder man told the woman at the cash register. “And that was my good leg!”

A spontaneous discussion between strangers unfolded as can only happen in these quaint, little communities where the time seemed to standstill.

Another shopper asked me, “Where you from?”

“Illinois,” I answered in my midwestern nasal twang. My very unBritish inflection was a dead giveaway.

“I’m from Normandy,” Gerald added in English with a heavy French accent.

“Normandy!” the elder gentleman exclaimed. “Lost my great uncle over there during The Landing. He was shot down parachuting over Ranville (towards Caen).”

“Me and dad were paratroopers,” the man’s son explained. “I parachuted in the WWII reenactment in Arnhem, Holland.”

Then the friendly fellow went on to recount his tales traveling to US and being in whiskey bar in Florida.

“We’ve just been to the pub,” the jovial, older man said, “Had a wee pint or two or three!”

Another young lady in the shop overheard us talking. She peeked into our baby buggy and asked, “Oooh, is that Nic and Larissa’s baby?”

“Yes,” I said beaming, “we are the proud grandparents.”

“I’m their neighbor,” she said.

“Glad to meet you!” I said. “I’ve heard so many nice things about you from our son and daughter-in-law; I feel like I know you already.”

If the Malt Shovel Pub is the heart of Gaydon, the Village Shop is its’ soul. Where else in the world does the pace slow enough to chat with locals, so trusting, that they’ll lend their own kitchen appliances to complete strangers?

Everyone feels at home at the Village Shop.

Even the “foreigners.”