French country tale provides diplomatic approach to delicate parental dilemma

One Saturday my youngest daughter Eliza came running into the house sobbing that she had lost her present for her best friend's birthday. That morning we had bought a gift bag full of “Diddle” bilia, a fuzzier French version of Mickey Mouse. And Eliza was so proud of it, she insisted on carrying it around with her as she played in the street below while waiting for the birthday party to begin.

At one point I glanced out the window to see where Eliza was and noticed a young boy from the upper village playing as he passed in the street.

A couple of minutes later my daughter came running into the house crying uncontrollably, screaming that her present had disappeared. She had set it on the doorstep at the next-door neighbor's house and gone inside for just a moment. And when she came out her bag full of gifts was gone.

I couldn't believe it. We both ran out into the street and searched everywhere, she crying and me getting angry that I had let her walk around with the present in the first place. She was heartbroken and sobbing, distraught at the idea of going without a gift to the party that was starting in a few minutes. But I convinced her to go and dropped her at the party. Then I sped off to the Diddle store, my thoughts drifting back to the upper-village boy I had seen in the street moments before the gift bag disappeared.

Eliza often spent afternoons or weekends at the boy's house, playing with his younger sister. And she often came back with stories of how they were poor and struggling to make ends meet. The parents were good and kind people, the father a musician who had fallen on hard times. Eliza said she often overheard quiet arguments between them about money. She said she once heard the mother pleadingly asking “What are we going to do?”

I found the store that sold the “Diddle” bilia, bought more than I should have to make it up not only to the birthday girl, but to Eliza as well. I wanted her to be proud of what she had gotten so would forget how heartbroken she had been by the theft.

I explained to the shop owner what had happened and he was eager to help. He made up a bag with a Diddle gift card, a small, tin Diddle box with a designer Diddle pad inside. A lip gloss. A Diddle pen. A tiny Diddle notebook with a snap on a keychain. The gift bag was blue instead of the pink one she had before, but it was bigger and decorated with ribbons and a sticker that said “Joyeux Anniversaire.” I hopped in the car hoping I could get back to the party before the birthday girl got around to her gifts. And luckily I did.

When I got back to our village, I searched every crack and corner of the street, moving further and further from where Eliza said she left her bag. Then I went down the hill to the trash dumps and looked around in the trash cans. I found the gift bag and some of the wrappings of the presents on top of the heaps of trash bags in one of the big bins.

I took the bag with me back up the hill and headed straight to upper village to the boy's house. And as I reached up to knock at the heavy wooden door, I had no idea what I was going to say to his parents. I didn't want to accuse the boy because I had no proof. But I also didn't want to let it go.

And then I remembered a story our friend Francois had once told of his uncle down in the valley who had a firewood pile that kept getting smaller and smaller, but much faster than he was using it. He suspected someone was stealing but didn't know who.

Then one day there was a heavy snowfall, which is rare for this part of southern France. And when he went to the woodpile, he found most of the wood gone and footprints in the fresh snow leading to his elderly neighbor's house. He followed the footprints and they disappeared into his neighbor's front door.

He went up to the door and knocked. And when she opened the door he said `Bonjour madame. Sorry to bother you but I thought I should warn you: There's a wood thief about so you should be careful. Keep an eye out. Thanks. Au revoir.' It got his point across diplomatically without openly accusing his neighbor. And none of his wood was ever missing after that.

I knocked at boy's house and his father poked his head out an upper window with the exposed roof beams silhouetted behind him. Though I didn't know him well, he seemed in passing to be a good and kind person. So I didn't simply want to accuse his child. But if it was his son, I wanted to let the boy know that it had been noted. If it wasn't, I didn't want any harm done.

So I told his father the story of how Eliza's presents disappeared only minutes before the party and that she was “catastrophé.” She cried all the way to the party. I told him as gently as I could that I had seen his son passing in the street around that time and was wondering if he had seen anyone who might have taken it.

His father knit his brow as he looked down, but didn't seem to take offense. The boy wasn't there, he told me. He had gone shopping with his mother and would be back later. But he said he would send him to our house when he returned. I told him that if his son knew anything, he could come and tell me. But if he didn't, there was no need to bother.

I never heard from the boy and still to this day don't know really know who took my daughter's gift bag. But it doesn't matter really. What matters is that a friend's country tale had given me a diplomatic solution to what could have been a sticky parental dilemma.

- Jody Jenkins is a freelance writer living in Bonniuex, France.