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?