French Word-A-Day

journée du souvenir

Today's moving post is by guest blogger and author Nancy Rial (pictured here at the American Cemetery in Lorraine). Monday is Memorial Day in the US. The next post goes out Wednesday.

la journée du souvenir

    : memorial day
. 

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Searching for Mon Oncle, Soldier Alan 
by Nancy Rial 

Years ago, we flew past the auto-route sortie to St. Avold, on a fast paced trip which encircled France and her bordering countries. I immediately thought of mon oncle who was buried there in the Lorraine Cimetière Américain but my companion could not be convinced to turn around, stop and investigate. It would have to wait for another trip.

Years later, I happened to be vacationing in Paris when the WWII 50th Anniversary of the Liberation of that city took place—with a parade beneath the open, elegant French windows of my borrowed apartment. My children were with me, and I was determined this time to take them to visit my uncle’s grave. The short visit en route to our next vacation “destination” was undeniably the most moving experience of the trip to Europe that summer.

The Lorraine Cimetière Américain, like the 10 other American military cemeteries of WWI or WWII, is well marked, and easy to locate. The reception room is comfortable and welcoming, the superintendents are bi-lingual, and one can find the location of a soldier’s grave. It is the visitors’ choice to be accompanied for a brief and moving ceremony, or be left to wander freely among the rows of often unvisited young soldiers.

It is an unforgettable experience searching for the soldier the first time. I searched for for the familiar name until I recognized the letters on his croix, (there are many étoiles de David, also). Aha! There it is! Then the thought struck me that this is not the place one wants to find a name, for it means that the soldier resting there did not have the privilege of the long life that we live.

That first visit awakened more questions than it answered about this uncle I had never met. The kindly superintendent looked in his library for answers to some of my concerns. I wanted to know as many details as I could find about this young man’s life; just how much had he experienced? I have been investigating ever since.

The cemetery hosts an “Adopt a Grave” program, which is very important to the family of the soldiers buried across the seas from his homeland. No one in our family knows why my grandmother chose to leave Alan where he had fallen, but it is fitting that he is with his comrades, and that all these forever-young men should not be forgotten. The American cemeteries themselves are fitting reminders of the two countries’ entwined histories that started when France first helped the foundling colonies of the New World to independence, and was later lent a helping hand in the 20th century.

For a truly moving experience, visit one of the World War II cemeteries on Memorial Day, Veteran’s Day (Armistice Day), or a quiet day of your next vacation. The rows of white marble crosses and Stars of David are inspiring and provide a good place to think about the value of life and what it means to be human. If you live in France, consider “Adopting” the grave of a soldier who gave everything so that we all have a good life. Then share the experience with the next
generation.

***

Le Coin Commentaires

To comment on Nancy's story, click here.  To share more information on American cemeteries in France, or to share your experience visiting one, thank you for using the comments box.

--
Nancy Rial has a background in both the fine arts and library science. She is currently a library media specialist at the Cambridge Public Schools. She has been researching WWII for the past 10 years, and travels frequently between her home in Cambridge and France.

Read Nancy's book Alan's Letters 

"This is a personal chronicle of a teen soldier in WWII from basic training to his adventures across northern France on the front lines as a member of the Fifth Division, part of Patton's Third Army." Click here to order.

For more information on American WWII Military Cemeteries please visit here.

For more information about Nancy's uncle, Sgt. Alan Lowell, or how to get started researching your own soldat, please visit: www.alansletters.com

French Vocabulary

la sortie = exit

mon oncle = my uncle

le cimetière américain = American cemetery

la croix = cross

l'étoile (f) de David = star of david

le soldat = soldier

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Learn the significance of poppies and soldiers remembrance: read this touching poem.

If reading this edition via email, you will need to click over the the blog to watch this touching "Day in the Life" of an American who lives in one of the soldiers cemeteries in France--in order to care for it. Don't miss the video, click here then scroll down to the video.

"Remembrance" by Smokey. Please forward this edition to a friend. Merci beaucoup!

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ceder le passage

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céder le passage à quelqu’un

: to yield (when driving)

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A Day in a French Life… by Kristin Espinasse

I woke up this morning with the nagging doubt that the kids might not make it to school today—worse, that we might be stranded on the side of the road, our thumbs awkwardly stuck out as we begged an early morning ride.

I should have filled the tank yesterday! And now, our car was almost out of gas. The nearest station is in Camaret, but that would mean backtracking. I could drive to Tulette, but was the pump open this early?

Just as I began calculating the distance from Sainte Cecile to Pierrelatte, Max offered  a solution. “There’s one near my collège. I’ll drive us there.”

Well, why not ? He has completed his cours de conduite, and the drive would count towards the 1000 hours kilometers of road time he would need to accumulate in order to get his license (but not before the age of 18).

Max, Jackie, and I buckle up and are soon on our way to Bollène, driving past fields of grapevines and little yawning villages, window shutters opening as we speed by. The morning sun feels good on our faces and the drive is relaxing, after all. As passenger, I feel pretty secure driving with our 17-year-old, who has completed an excellent driver’s training and knows the rules of the road by heart. He is probably a better driver than I am, but experience has merits of its own, namely precaution, which in my book trumps skill.

As we drive, I offer an ongoing commentary. “Always anticipate an obstacle—a little kid that bolts from a side street… or a dog… or a grand-mère or…”

Max interrupts. ”Mom, je sais!”

“I’m sure you know, Max. In fact, I think you are a very good driver and I feel safe riding with you. But it isn’t you I am worried about so much as the other driver out there. You must be alert! Practice defensive driving!”

Here Max shares the story about his driving instructor who had an accident in the very spot over which we are now driving. It was a head-on collision. He was driving with a new student.

“Did she survive?”

“Yes, the car just spun off the road… ”

The next few kilometers are passed in thoughtful silence. When Max picks up speed, I perk up.

“You need to slow down!” I remind him again. Only, for each reminder, Max has an argument.

“But Mom, the car is registering kilometers-per-hour, not MPH.”

It is too early for me to calculate (or divide?) kilometers to miles and so know whether Max is going too fast or too slow for my comfort zone. I cut to the point. “Well, it feels fast to me—so slow down!”

Nearing the village of Rochegude I have to look over at the odometer again.

“Max, what is the speed limit here?” 

“80.”

“Then why are you going 84?”

“Mom! Old cars show a higher speed. We are really only going 80.”

“This is not an old car. Slow down!”

As we approach the gas station, it occurs to me that I won’t have to do the messy chore this time!

“Your driving instructors have taught you to fill the tank, haven’t they?”

“Yes,  but I can’t do it this morning. It will make my hands reek and I’ve got to go to school afterwards!”

I shake my head. He sure has an excuse for everything from faulty odometers to smelly gas pumps—and it all seems to work in his favor!

After I fill the tank, Max fires up the engine attracting the attention of the student in the next car’s passenger seat. Subtle Max, you are subtle! Careful, now, not to kill the engine as you did on the way in! You won't look so cool putt-putting out of here, just as you putt-putted your way in!

At the industrial roundabout in Bollène Max slows, observing the yield sign.

I watch as cars speed around the busy circle, or camembert. Although a little nervous, I trust that Max will take his time. Only, when a lumber truck passes carrying a forest of giant logs, I notice Max does not stop!

I watch as the semi-truck’s wheels spin past our car, which is presently entering the roundabout , right on the heels of the giant truck!

Our car slips in so close behind the semi that I fear we will be sucked in beneath the truck’s back tires. Looking up from the passenger seat, I now see a tower of lumber above us. The ends of the neatly cut trunks are so near our faces I can count the many circles that represent the tree’s age. Will we live as long?

***

In the school parking lot I am lecturing Max, who, as expected, has an argument for every point I make. And when he doesn’t have a point, he simply replies, “Quit screaming!”

Finally, I make an ultimatum:

“Max, you are NOT going to explain things away and have the last word each time! Now, listen closely. I am going to say it one more time and this time you will not interrupt me—do so and you will lose driving rights for two weeks!"

I finally get the chance to make my point without being cut off. “What you did was dangerous and there is no justifying it!”

I wait, lest one more peep come out of the reckless driver. When not one peep is made, I am satisfied and have to turn my face away, lest the smirk upon it degrade its authority.

Despite the grave situation that was now past us, it feels so good to have the last word. Cathartic, even! I can now see the allure “le dernier mot” has for my ever righteous kids!

But that self-righteous feeling soon gives way to simple humility and gratitude. Thank God none of us had the very last word this time!

 

Le Coin Commentaires

Corrections, comments, and stories of your own are welcome here, in the comments box.

French Vocabulary

le collège = junior high school

le cours de conduite = driver education

la grand-mère = grandmother

je sais = I know

le camembert = the popular round cheese is also a synonym for roundabout

le dernier mot = the last word

 

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cadre

Thanks, Marsha and Dad, for such a nice visit! I hope you will enjoy this story that I wrote about it... (and here is that photo taken during our stroll in Villedieu "Town of God").

"Meet Chief Grape in Copenhagen . He will be pouring his wines at Mansted Wine May 28th, from 5 to 7 PM"

cadre (kadr)

    : frame (of picture, door, etc)

Note: there are more meanings for the French word cadre. Sorry to not have the time to list them here. Dust off those dictionaries and see for yourselves... meantime, a little bit of dust in the following story...

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A Day in a French Life... by Kristin Espinasse

Framed!

I was driving my dad and my belle-mère, Marsha, home to our vineyard when I realized that the room I had carefully prepared for their 4-day stay had something terribly, embarrassingly out of place! 

Despite the fastidious organizing that took place in the days leading up to Dad and Marsha's visit, I had forgotten all about the oil painting my belle-mère Marsha had presented us years ago. Currently it was missing its frame! More about that in a minute, meantime, there were other glaring oversights that were now coming to mind. For example,  I might have dusted Marsha's painting, as my own mom had, during her previous visit, when we wiped down all of Mom's paintings. I remember being astonished watching Mom wring out a dishcloth and set about scrubbing down all of her own oil paintings before placing them back on the counter tops.

Mom had overlooked the fact that her paintings were not hung properly, but there was one thing that bothered her. "They need frames. Promise me you will frame them!" I nodded my head as we stared back at the paintings, which gleamed. The colors were so deep and rich after the towel bath. I would have never thought to wash a work of art!

It was during that same visit that Mom discovered Marsha's painting.  Mom admired Marsha's rendition of a typical Provençal mas. The shutters and door were beautifully painted and the climbing roses that reached up to tickle the shutters made this an enchanting scene from any Francophile's dream.

Marsha had set the painting into a beautiful wooden frame before offering it to Jean-Marc and me. When Mom saw that frame her eyes began to shine and I sensed, even before the crime took place, what calculations were going on beyond that innocent face.

"No! The answer is NO!"

"But I just want to show you what my painting would look like if you ever got around to framing it!" Mom explained.

Fast forward to the drive home, where Marsha and Dad are chatting about the countryside as seen from the car window. Another conversation is going on in my own head:

I need to get to the room before Dad and Marsha do! But how to switch Mom's painting out of Marsha's frame?—when Mom's painting is in another room!  And what a dope you are to have placed Marsha's painting there—on the ledge of the heater of all places! This is really going to look bad!!!  

True! I should have given my belle-mère's painting a more prominent place than on the heater! But it wasn't the heat that threatened to damage the painting (we never use that heater, which serves more as a shelf for books and artwork).... it was the seeming carelessness that threatened to damage my carefully soigné appearance of a mature, has-it-all-together daughter. As it was the bed was impeccably made and the en suite bath shined, as did the floors. And then there was my belle-mère's painting—which sat there vulnerably, like a beautiful women whose summer hat had just been blown off by the Mistral... or pinched by a rascal! 

Meantime, Mom's painting of Le Quartier Juif à St. Maximin now boasted a beautiful frame! It would be one of the first things my Dad and Marsha would see when then walked in the front door.

As things threatened to quickly fall apart (we were nearing home now, just one or two blocks away from The Revealing Moment) I made a quick decision to come clean. Experience reminded me that skeletons always manage to work their way out of the closet, "Bonjour! Bonjour!", the moment the guests arrive. Besides, I have learned that the antics involved in covering up an embarrassing faux pas are often as ridiculous as the situation itself.  The skittish and bizarre behavior one exhibits while trying to mask the skeleton only makes the problem more obvious. There was no way to dart out of the car and into the house in time for a casual switcharoo without my behavior seeming weirder than usual.

Often the best course of action is to admit error and, if at all possible, to swiftly pass along the blame... 

"Marsha, there's something I need to explain... it has to do with that rascal mom of mine!"

***

Post note: my Mom and Marsha have an unusually peaceful relationship as wife and ex-wife of my dad, Kip.  You might say the women are as close as a painting and its frame!

Marsha was quick to forgive Mom and to assure me, "It's nothing to worry about! It's not at all important." Admiring Mom's painting, Marsha remarked, "It's just lovely." 

 

No make-up (Marsha, left) and no breast (Mom, right). I hope my moms don't mind my posting their photo, taken in 2003 after mom Jules's mastectomy. Marsha offered a loving ear back then, and the two women continue to maintain a caring email correspondence. Mom always says, of her ex, that Marsha is the best thing that ever happened to my dad. I think he would agree.

 

I temporarily moved Marsha's painting to my desk, for inspiration while I typed today's story. Click on the picture to see a close up and to read the other inspiration (Flaubert's words) just above.

Here's Mom's rendition of Le Quartier Juif à St. Maximin. Mom can tell you stories about one of her favorite places. Maybe check the comments box later on.... Meantime, I need to learn how to drill a hole and hang some of these lovely paintings!

Comments Corner
Corrections and comments are welcome and appreciated. Click here to leave a message.  P.S. no vocab section today. Sorry about that!

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