Fifty years ago today I was in Kutzenhausen, France, having recently arrived as a farm hand at the 16th century Ferme des Fleckenstein. The day was like any other on the farm – cows don’t take off for national holidays – though I seem to recall that late in the afternoon the son – who was also 24 that summer – took me to the small village hall where we each received a glass of white wine. And in the evening, I believe, there was music from an oompah band.
