Remember

Is it really Memorial Day weekend?   I double checked the calendar, and it's here, the unofficial start of summer.  The weekend when pools open, families return to summer houses, and when communities gather for parades and ceremonies to honor those who died in military service to our country.

Formerly known as "Decoration Day," Memorial Day began as a ritual of remembrance after the Civil War when families visited graves of dead Union and Confederate soldiers.  The day was eventually extended after World War I  to cover all who died in military service.

Omaha Beach Memorial

We chose to take the kids to Normandy so that they could understand the enormity of the sacrifices made by Americans who fought in World War II and seemingly impossible mission that confronted the Allied soldiers on D-Day. 

It is one thing to learn about D-Day in a social studies or history class.

Tom on Omaha Beach

It is something else entirely to stand on Omaha Beach. 

Cliffs of Normandy

It is one thing to imagine landing on a beach and seeing cliffs to be liberated. 

It is something else entirely to see the cliffs that those soldiers fought to liberate.

Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial

It is one thing to read that 9,387 Americans are buried in Normandy.

It is something else entirely to walk among those graves and begin to understand the meaning of valor.

So, on this Memorial Day weekend, pause and remember and give thanks for all the service men and women who bravely defend these United States.

The Spirit of America's Youth Rising from the Waves,
Normandy American Memorial
Sculpted by Donald De Lue, Leonardo, NJ

Thanks for Making Lemonade

I read my Mother's Day Card from James this morning.  In his best Kindergarten print, he wrote:   "Happy Mother's (backward "s," love that) Day!  I love you!  Thank you for meken leanad."  I looked at James and pointed to the last two words on the card, "What does this say, James."  James stared and me and blinked, seemingly puzzled that I asked.  "Thank you for making lemonade," he replied.  "Oh, you're welcome, sweetie," I said.  "Happy Mother's Day, mom," said James as he got up from his seat and walked away.  I laughed as I thought, "This one thing I do --  make gallons of "lemonade" (Crystal Light, really) -- is important to him? This is the thing that mattered?"  Don't get me wrong; I'll take my thank you's whenever I can get them.  And, if my daily mixing of Crystal Light lemonade is important to James, I'm good with that.

Yet, the more I thought about it today, the more I saw the wisdom in those words, not because I think James was trying to make a statement; rather, I thought, "Isn't that what moms do every day?"  We make lots of lemonade, whether we want to or not.

We take the lemons that our kids (and spouse's sometimes) come home with -- the playground words, the friend who sat with someone else at lunch, the difficult class, the unreasonable teacher, boss, or client, the traffic or late train -- and squeeze them into lemonade.  Sometimes, we add lots of sugar and make the lemonade sweet.  On those days, the lemonade is easy to drink, especially if served with cookies.  Sometimes, though, the lemons are really sour and no amount of sugar is going to make that lemonade sweet.  We drink it anyway, even without cookies, make a sour face, and it's soon gone.

Then, those lemons find their way into our kitchens.  They're no good; they're soft; their clean, bright scent has disappeared.  Those lemons -- a parent's illness, a friend's cancer, a death, a job loss -- sit in a bowl, as we figure out what to do with them.  We definitely can't make them into lemonade.  They sit there.  Eventually, we realize that there's only one thing to do. 

Compost them and pray that, after some time, those very same lemons will help make our own gardens grow.

Happy Mother's Day!  Thanks for making lemonade.

Color Me Paris: Les Fleurs du Printemps

Spring finally has arrived in New Jersey -- the world is "painfully green," as Katie said.  Pink and yellow tulips fill my flower beds.  Korean spice viburnum and lilacs perfume the air.  Tree wisterias droop with purple cascades of blossoms.  Cherry trees and dogwoods are in full flower. 

These sunny, clear days bring me back to France a month ago . . . when spring had not yet arrived at home.  I nearly fainted at every florist, planter, and garden.

Who could resist le fleuriste avec les belle fleurs?  I could not.

 Or, les tulipes?

 Perhaps, you prefer les roses?

Or, sweet little pots of sedums. . . And, everyone needs a carte postale or deux to write home about les jardins de Versaille, n'est-ce pas?

Perhaps, the Sun King once walked by and admired urns filled with fritellaria.  I would have.

But, if I sent a post card, I would write about this fleuriste a block or two from our appartement on rue Babylone . . . and about the perfect potting bench and cherub that I wanted to bring home to my garden.  It wouldn't fit in my suitcase.

Instead, I remember these roses, in a perfect bouquet, on a fine spring day in Paris.

Arromanches-les-Bains: Welcome to the Shore!

Once upon a time, Arromanches-les-Bains was a Victorian vacation spot, perfect for taking the waters or playing games on the beach.

In 1944, Arromanches became the sight of Port Winston Harbor, an artificial "Mulberry" harbor created to move massive amounts of supplies to the Allies following D-Day or le jour J.

Today, all that remains of the Mulberry harbor are the hulking skeletons of the caissons. . . .

Visited by fishermen . . .

harness riders . . .

and touristes.

Today, Arromanches is a beach town, not unlike any other beach town, quietly waiting for summer.



Rouen: That's Some Big Clock

On our way to Arromanches, we stopped in Rouen to walk around and find some lunch because everyone was ravenous. 

Rouen is a 2,000 year old city -- most famous for the death of St. Joan of Arc who was burned at the stake in 1431.  It also has a really big and really old clock (c. 1528) that only has 1 hand for the hour -- close enough, I guess.  You can find it on rue de gros horloge or the road of the big clock. 

We followed the rue until we came to the Cathedral of Notre Dame which was built from 1200 to 1500 and almost destroyed by bombing during WWII (and since rebuilt).  The Cathedral is being restored (cleaned) to remove the centuries of grime that has accumulated.  Its gothic spires seemed to touch the sky. 

Tom loved this gothic cathedral and almost every other cathedral we visited.  He said to me, "Wow, mom, this is nothing like our church at home.  And, it's so old."  Tom started taking pictures in Rouen and didn't stop until we left -- over 600 photos on his camera.

Vaulted ceiling, organ, rose window -- mostly clear glass because the orignal was destroyed during WWII.  I loved these stairs. 

And gargoyles smiled at us on our way to a cafe . . .where Tom enjoyed a petit salade for the first time and pronounced it "bon."  "Mom, we don't have salad dressing like this at home!"  I guess I am going to have to master making a vinagrette.

Recharged and fueled, we pressed on to Arromanches.

 

On the Way to Normandy: What Are Those Yellow Flowers?

Well, I thought I would be able to write about our trip as we were taking it. Alas, it was too hard to get online to write and I could not upload any pictures. Luckily, I did keep a cahier with me so I could write.  Now, I can share.

Once we got past Paris, the highway opened up, and we started to see some amazing countryside.  France is primarily rural and agricultural.  As the kilometres passed, we began to see field after field filled with these yellow flowers.  What were they?  Tim and I guessed mustard. 

Wrong, they are colza flowers or rapeseed from which canola oil is made. 

Amazing.

All I Need is the Air That I Breathe and Some AC

We made it to the airport, all of the planning and packing is done. French is being quietly spoken around me. The kids are settling into their distractions, the adrenaline is wearing off. Katie saw another kid from her school at the gate. And, here I thought we were taking the most original vacation in town. Ah bon, it's all good.

Traveling across the Atlantic with the whole family is not easy, but there were moments on the flight that were magical.  Like, while we were waiting to take off, and the stereo was blaring "All I Need is the Air that I Breathe and to Love You."  Tim started laughing so hard, his shoulders shook. 

Later that night, we were south of Iceland, and Tom looked out the window and asked what the swirling yellow-green lights in the sky were. I said I thought they might be the Northern Lights. I tapped the Katie and told her to take a look. She did and agreed. We all watched them for awhile, and then they faded, swirled away into the dark. Tom fell asleep on my shoulder. James fell asleep on Katie's shoulder. The plane flew on - all was quiet, into the night.

Then, six hours later, we saw the sun rise over Ireland as we descended toward France.  At 7:15 AM, we landed; made it through customs; passports stamped; no lost baggage; picked up the rental car; and hit the road to Normandy . . .right at rush hour into Paris. 

So, there we sat, sat, sat in our Ford Espace, crawling on the Paris Peripherique -- the road that goes around Paris -- which Tim dubbed, the "Paris Freak," for about an hour.  Now, this would not have been so bad except for two things, it was about 70 and sunny and the car had no AC.  Well, it had a button that said AC, but pressing the button got us a tepid breeze, so we were 4-70 all the way to Arromanches.  Let's just say, that by the time we got there, the car had an odeur about it than was more stinky than a good cheese pour ce soir.  Who knew, at the time, that the lack of AC foreshadowed the lack of another thing that is cold and rare in France, but that Americans use often?  What could that be, hmmm?

Reel Around the Sun Chips



"Hear my cry in my hungering search for you
Taste my breath on the wind
See the sky as it mirrors my colors
Hints and whispers begin

I am living to nourish you, cherish you
I am pulsing the blood in your veins
Feel the magic and power of surrender to life"

Reel Around the Sun

Riverdance on Broadway

The Sun Chips sat, discarded next to the Stop & Shop bag on the bench in mudroom, as if they had been considered, but rejected at the last minute as too big or too much of a nuisance to carry.  I noticed them early this morning when I returned from dropping off the princess for the much anticipated 8th Grade Trip to D.C.  These were the very same Sun Chips that I had searched for in three stores yesterday, all because I asked the very stupid question, "Is there any snack or something you want to bring on the trip?"  "Yes, mom, can you get me a big bag of PLAAAIIIN Sun Chips?"

So, Sun Chips went on the list, along with the other odd bits that I had to locate and purchase -- stupid, little things that we need to go to Fwance; you know, because they don't have stores there or something.  Yet, for some reason, these small purchases -- batteries, shampoo, travel size bottles -- eluded all of my efforts to buy them at the same time when I went shopping earlier this week. 

So, I reeled around on my search for the odd bits and apparently rare big bag of PLAAAIIIN Sun Chips -- to Costco (only big box of small bags), Riteaid (small bag), Target (no PLAAAIIIN) .  I found Sun-Dried Tomato Sun Chips, French Onion Sun Chips, Some Other Flavor Sun Chips, until, at last, I located them at Stop & Shop -- though not at eye level, I might add.  They tuck the big bag of PLAAAIIIN Sun Chips up high, as if on an altar to the snack food gods, so you really have to look for them.  I get them home, tell the princess that I had procured her one snack wish for the D.C. trip, put them on the bench in the mudroom so she could grab them on the way out the door . . .

On the way to school this morning, it was quiet in the car.  The princess spoke, "Admit it, you're happy I'll be gone tonight."  I didn't say anything.  I had been thinking (at that very moment) that a break from the princess might be a good thing.  "That was weird," I thought to myself.  I still didn't say anything.  We got to school; the princess left for a sure to be cold, wet D.C. trip.  "I have extra socks.  Don't worry."

Now, I have to wonder whether the princess offered up her remark because she knew she had left the chips and felt bad about it?  Or, whether she knew I would find them and just sigh -- you know, that mom sigh -- and she was glad not to hear it?  Or, whether she knew (as I did in that weird moment of synchronicity) that sometimes it is good to get away from those we care the most about, even just for a little while, and that I didn't need to worry about her getting sick in the rain in D.C. because she has extra socks?
Later that morning, I mentioned to my older son that the princess did not take the big bag of PLAAAIIIN Sun Chips to D.C., he said, "It's not like it's a waste, mom.  I'll have them." 

Reel around the son's chips? 



Man Cannot Live on Croissants Alone, But My Kids Will

Les musees passes arrived today.  I booked our car to the airport.  I set up the mail hold.  I am starting on packing lists.  Yet, I still pause.  France, hmmm.

It's not that I don't want to go to France.  I fell in love with France nearly 30 years ago when I first visited the country.  I majored in French.  I can read and speak French -- at least enough to get by, I hope.  My husband lived in France for three years when he was a kid.  It should be a great adventure to return with his own family, right?  And, besides, what's not to love about great food, great wine, beautiful art and architecture, and the rich history and sense of place?   Well, it's the kids, really.

Our kids have grown up listening to stories about when my husband lived in France.  They have heard stories about their dad and uncles being forced to go the Loire Valley with guests for "punishment."  They have heard stories about their uncle who, at the age of 5, told his parents that he did not like three things in Fwance -- museums, churches, or chateaux.  "But that's what we are going to see," I want to scream.  "Stop, re-telling that story!"

 France, hmmm.

And then, there's the whole food thing.  Let me think about the foods my kids don't like.  Well, there's anything with a sauce, most vegetables, anything other than chicken, steak and some types of fish, most cheese . . . Now, let me think about the foods my kids love.  There's bread, french fries, croissants, ham, and eggs.

Wait a minute, omelettes, frites, croissants, and baguettes.  It might just work, especially if we include dessert.  And, there are lots of places to go for dessert in Paris, like:  La Patisserie Des Reves, www.lapatisseriedesreves.com, which is down the street from where we are staying, and Pierre Herme, www.pierreherme.com, which is not too far a walk from where we are staying, and . . . 

I think I might be onto something.

Sunday Afternoon: Can You Fire Your Kids?

How did I get here, typing a blog?  It all started back in January when the snow rose feet high in the backyard.

Snow, snow, snow.

"A spring vacation, I thought, that's what we need.  Someplace warm, like the Turks & Caicos where the beaches are gorgeous.  Friends of mine have gone and loved it.  Wouldn't it be great to relax for a nice, warm week?"

Sun, sun, sun.

"Why would we ever spend that much money to go to a beach?" was the response from my husband.  "We go to the beach in the summer.  What are the kids going to get out of going to a beach?  If we are going to spend that much, why not go on a real trip.  Let's do something meaningful.  Let's take the kids to France."

"France, hmmm."  And, so it began, planning our trip to France.  Given my tendency to research and plan everything to death, I have spent a lot of time with books, maps, and the internet searching for places to stay in Normandy, apartments to louer a Paris, getting restaurant addresses and advice from my in-laws, figuring what to see without overdoing it with the kids.  We have tickets, passports, and a plan.   We have luggage and rain gear.  Are we there yet? 

No, of course, not.  Why do I know this?  Because, this afternoon, I took my older son (10) shopping to get a pair of good walking/trekking around shoes, in addition to the skate board sneakers he loves.  I should have know it would not go well after he said, "I really hate shopping for shoes."  After what will surely go down in history as the Great Effingers Shoe Battle, I guess we go to France with just the board sneakers.

  

I get home and take the dog for a long walk.  I do some laundry and decide that this is a good time to figure out how to make a blog.  I sit down at my computer, and behold, my husband had the instructions for me.  I create this site.  I am so proud.  I go to share it with my 14 year old daughter because I thought we could blog together about our trip.  I go to talk to her and say, "You have to come see this."  She looks up from her desk, scowls and me and in a voice that would turn Medusa to stone said,  "Do you know the way you taught me my algebra last week was ALL WRONG?  Now, I can't do my homework.  It makes no sense. What did you want to show me?"  "Nothing."  I shut the door. 

I ask my husband whether I can fire the kids.  He looked at me puzzled, "No, no, I don't think you can."

France, hmmm.

Later, the kids are traipsing into the kitchen; my daughter looks at my computer.  "I would love to be fired. And, I already made my blog."

A little while later, my youngest son (5) says, "In Fwance, they have French poooo-dehls near the Eiffel Tower.  Lots of them. You'll see."  Maybe, France will be okay. 

Maybe, I won't fire my kids, at least not today.