Fear and Life - La Peur et la Vie

Marie Curie once said, “Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood.”

This quote is so true when we think about salamanders. In Medieval France salamanders were considered to be dragons that could survive fire. The French believed just one salamander would poison a well. And yet, King Francis I adopted the salamander as his symbol. You can see the salamander images in the stained glass windows at his hunting chateau, named Blois. So what do we fear? Death? Old age? Illness? Not passing an exam? Not getting into the school we want? Not having friends? A family? We first have to just start understanding ourselves, our motivations, our kindness, our talents and skills. And, no, Salamanders are not dragons that survive fire. Probably when the peasants brought in logs from the moist forest, the salamanders were hiding inside and when the logs were lit, the salamanders had to flee. As for a well, I remember seeing so many little Red-backed salamanders in a well at a nature camp once. The water was fine to drink. Salamanders are amphibians. They breathe through their skin. They need moisture. So, if you are going to handle them, please be careful and use soy-based soaps - no hand sanitizer. You could poison the little creature. So go out into the world and start understanding things. You have nothing to fear but fear itself.

Winter Warmth Continued

This is the second part of Winter Warmth

I heard muffled and quick Parisian French between Sylvie and her mom. Then I turned to Clémentine. She noted that the winter has been cold. “Il faisait froid. Il a neigé très tôt cet hiver. Il fallait mettre les vaches dans les pâturages plus bas et dans les granges” (It has been cold this winter. We had to put the cows in the lower pastures and in the barns.) The children shifted in their seats, pulling a tiny bit away from the table. I understood her French, but didn’t see a barn or cows. What was the matter?

Sylvie’s mom smiled warmly, “Oui, maman.” I saw her draw close to her mom, the gentle pull of love drawing them together. Her grandmother leaned toward her daughter’s words.

The French have a way of drawing you into a conversation with an intent closeness, a friendly intimacy, if they wish to show it. They draw boundaries by either showing a clear coldness or a simple warmth. it is easy to know when you are liked or disliked. The grandma turned to me and smiled. I drew near to her to listen. Her soft, sad eyes connected with mine. Sipping hot chocolate, we made simple French talk, a huge relief to me. Her French was less of a blur to my ears. Words formed crisply, slowly, in an even rhythm. She spoke in a steady manner, her voice soft but clear, her wrinkled hands defly holding the cup of hot chocolate.

Cathérine had been ill with pneumonia, but was well now. Clémentine frowned a little, “Ne meurs pas avant moi.” she fretted. (Don’t die before me.”) Mme. Rosseny reassured her. She was well. “Il faut faire du ski. C’est la pollution dans les villes. Il faut prendre de l’air fraîsche des montagnes,” Clémentine advised, a note of urgency in her voice. (You should ski. It’s the pollution in the cities. You should get fresh mountain air.)

“Pourquoi il faut faire du ski?” I asked. (Why should we ski?) The snow, the illness, must have touched a memory.

Clémentine turned to face me and then crisply stated, “Les Américains nous a sauvé.” (The Améridcans saved us.) Curious, I looked at Sylvie, but she blankly stared into space in front of her. She knew the same old story was coming out again. Mme. Rosseny sighed, knowingly, “Maman, C’était pendant l’Occupation, la Deuxième Guerre Mondiale. Nous ne sommes plus à la guerre. Nous avons la paix. Maman tu n’as pas plus de vaches. Il y a une autre famille qui le fait maintenant. “ (Mama, that was during the Occupation, the Second World War. We are no longer at war. We have peace. Mama, you no longer have the cows. Another family has them now.)

“Ah, oui,” Clémentine sighed, a light shifted on her eyes and it was as if she were drifting into another place, another time. “Les Allemands étaient dans les montagnes. Les Américains étaient dans les montagnes. Les Français étaient dans les montagnes. Quand je faisais du ski, je les trouverais. Il fallait faire attention. Si je trouvais des Américains, je les aiderais. S’ils étaient blessés, j’irais chercher Jean.” she quietly explained. (The Germans were in the mountains. The Americans were in the mountains. The French were in the mountains. When I skied, I would find them. I had to be careful. If I found Americans, I would help them. If they were wounded I would get Jean,” she recited her story as if it had been said many times before.

I leaned in closer. What was her story? What happened? Why were they in the mountains? Were they in trouble? Did you get into trouble?

Then it was time to go. “Maman, nous devons partir. Il faut descendre la montagne. Je t’aime, maman,” Cathérine calmly whispered to her mom. ( Mom, we have to go. We have to go down the mountain. I love you,” Cathérine smiled to her mom. “Au revoir,” Clémentine.

“Merci, Madame. Je suis très contente de faire votre connaissance,” (Thank you, m’am. I am very happy to meet you.) I politely offered my hand. Clémentine turned to me and smiled warmly, leaning forward, she gave me “bizous,” her soft cheek brushing mine. Cathérine smiled warmly. Her children hustled into the car. While driving down the mountain, we rolled past an inscription carved in a boulder. “A memorial to all of the children in the Resistance who were killed during the war.” What did it mean? What other stories could we find?

Later, I asked Cathérine if her mom was ok. Cathérine reassured me that she was just getting older. She explained to me that, from what she could recall, in 1944 the Germans were pushing to make a way to Italy. They were losing. The Americans were in the mountains and the French were fighting in the Resistance. Clémentine had Cathérine. Cathérine had a friend, Jean. They were sent from time to time on errands, skiing. Sometimes they would find Amércans or report Germans in the area. Sometimes the children would be caught. Jean was caught, but he didn’t reveal either Clémentine or Cathérine. He was sent away with his mom and never returned. Someone denounced them. Sylvie’s sister, Jeanne, is named after Jean. After the war, a neighbor mysteriously died in a fall from a cliff. No one really knew much. It was all so strange and people tried to protect the children. The mountains hid the Resistance fighters, but there were collaborators, too. The mountains hold the stories.

Her mom had a memory, that is all. “Il vaut mieux être gentille pour avoir de la paix,” Cathérine stated “Ça tu le sais bien.” (It is better to be gentle to have peace. That you know well.) I saw then a sadness in that moment, and I drew near. It was best to leave the story untouched. “Now, let’s go have some hot chocolat,” Cathérine encouraged me in her soft Parisian accent.

Winter Warmth

The holidays are over. It is 2021. A mathematician once figured out that the third Monday in January was the most depressing day of the year. School is back. But not really. Zoom classes are so purely informational, that I understand why children struggle. In the living classroom the energy of all of those minds working ticks and hums. Little events happen between the students, their teachers, and any other players in the educational profession. Those little relationships are like a gentle pull between living things. Human beings move toward or away from a feeling, a perception, a word. The author, Nathalie Sarraute, called this phenomenae “les Tropisms” or “Tropisms.” — and wrote a book with the same title. These little movements are akin to the movements of plants toward the sun. They draw someone to someone, to something, a feeling, an idea. But they are so subtle that we are not aware. They happen, quietly.

We are in the worst of the Pandemic here in the U..S. More will die. But vaccines have been developed and are being distributed. Things do look better now. This is the time when I turn to memories to muster strength and summon comfort.

The winter I was studying abroad I went skiing and met a French family, the Rossenys. Sylvie was my age and a great skier. One day her mother, Cathérine, offered to take me, Sylvie, and her little sisters, Céleste and Jeanne, to visit their grandmother, Clémentine. The hesitant looks on the chilidren’s faces told me something wasn’t right, but the adventure pulled me along. In my family our Grand Aunt, Aunty Betty, used to come over all the time and help mom with the garden. It was she who drove a Model T Ford across country with my brother, Norman, to California to see Disney World. My Grandpa drove my Grandma over to our house so my Grandma could help with the laundry, to talk in the kitchen, make bread, darn socks, or sew buttons on shirts. My Grandpa stayed in the shade of our porch, a transistor radio pressed to his ear as he listened to a baseball game. What was the problem?

My grandparents were from a different generation and difficult to relate to. The post World War II boom gave us so much, while my grandparents had so little. I found out much later after my Grandpa passed that at the age of 8 he lost his parents to Typhus and had to go work in a lathe factory. He worked his way to the grand department store, Marshall Fields, fixing trucks. It was a dubious honor because he worked every Christmas Eve so that the trucks could deliver toys to the stores for customers. My grandparents generation experienced the Great Depression, Herbert Hoover, Roosevelt, Pearl Harbor, and World War II, Truman, the Nuclear Bomb, and Eisenhower. Ours was Kennedy, Lyndon Banes Johnson, Civil Rights, the 60’s, the Vietnam War, and Women’s Rights. They spoke Czech when they didn’t want my mom to know what they were saying. My mom spoke English to be American. And I was learning French to travel and see the world. But I loved my grandma. She taught me to sew by hand, how to make dumplings, what kind of man to marry, what profession I should have, and how to eat food that was substantial.

Sylvie’s grandma, Clémentine, lived higher up out of town in the mountains in a tiny wooden house. In Clémentine’s youth and married life she tended the cows, moving them from high to low pastures. Now she lived alone in a house — no cows, widowed, alone but not lonely, hanging on like a mountain pine.

When we arrived, she burst out of the house, chattering and waving her arms. Her tiny frame quivered with energy. Her wrinkled face beamed a generous, almost toothless smile. She was no withering vine. Dressed simply in a wool sweater and skirt, with wool leggings, and big warm boots, she opened her arms to us. Speaking a clear and strong French, in a way I could understand, she prodded us, like the cows she tended, into her warm kitchen. Mme. Rosseny hugged her mom, and they exchanged the three kisses, called “les bizous” so effortlessly, connecting so affectionately that I could feel the warmth of their love. Why couldn’t I do that easily? Sylvie came next, again effortlessly, and on with Céleste and Jeanne.

We sat at a table wooden table in the center of a cozy kitchen. Skis hung on hooks on the wall - Clémentine’s skis? They were very small. Sunbeams struck the table. “Je fais un bon chocolat chaud. Vous voulez un bon chocolat chaud?” (I make a good hot chocolate. Do you want a good cup of hot chocolate?), she said. The children nodded, hesitantly. Mme. Rosseny gave them a warm gentle turn of her head and they said, “Oui merci.” French moms rarely are heavy handed with discipline. Things are understood. Then the words popped out of my mouth, “J’aime bien le chocolat chaude." ( I like hot chocolate.) “Chaud,” Mme Rosseny corrected me. “Chaud,” I repeated.

“Il y une Amécaine ici,” Clémentine noted.

“Oui, Je m’appelle Mélanie.” (Yes, My name is Melanie.) I offered politely, unsure of a mistake. She must have heard my accent and the gender mistake on chaud. Oh well.

“Maman, l’Américaine parle français,” Jeanne remarked.

“Mélanie a parlé français,” Cathérine corrected her.

The children fussed in their chairs Sylvie looked frustrated. An uneasy silence fell briefly like a shroud in the room. Sylvie pulled away, lost in her thoughts. Clémentine set to work to make the hot chocolate, and Cathérine started to play a word game with Céleste and Jeanne. Where was that easy connection?

But soon the warm kitchen smelled of rich chocolate, hot sugar, and boiled milk. We huddled into the warmth, our noses drawn to the scent of hot chocolate. The uneasy pull of some kind of thoughts had shifted away and we were together again. As we sipped the warm chocolate, we giggled and laughed. The circle pulled in, tying a chord of winter warmth and friendship between us. But why the uneasiness? …

The story will be continued in the next blog.