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.