Adding Flesh to Family Skeletons

This article isn't about Carcassonne, other than it has provided me a grey, intemperate day to stay inside scouring obituaries and census records in search of my ancestors.

I am determined to write my grandmother's story and it is proving a formidable task.  But today, I got to piece together a little of HER family.  She never shared any information about them or her childhood with me.  I seem to remember something about 11 children, but I was so young, I can't remember if she meant her generation or her mother's family.  

As it turned out, today brought a moment of recognition.  I found, online, a photo of a woman whose likeness was included in our own sparse family album.  Nobody knew who this little woman was, and all I knew what that she didn't look like someone easily amused.  I sure didn't want to be the one to cross her.

As it turns out, the photo is of my grandmother's grandmother, Julia Elizabeth Bayles Harding and her daughter, Great-great Aunt Lillian.  Great-great grandmother Julia actually raised my grandmother, Hazel, from infancy to about the age of 11 or 12.  No wonder Grandma Hazel had a soft spot (and believe me, she had very few soft spots) for her own grandmother.  

In laying out a timeline for Julia and her family, I realized that she had her first child in 1857, and her youngest of 11 was born in 1884.  That means Julia was pregnant for--27 years!!!  It begged the question--what kind of a sibling relationship did Herbert, her oldest, have with his youngest brother.  Herbert himself had children who were older than little brother Joseph.  What kind of family dynamics were there in the Harding household over the course of three decades?  

Trying to place their movements and whereabouts from 1870 through 1920 has been frustrating and fascinating.  I learned that Grandma Hazel's youngest uncle, Joseph, died in 1966.  I was old enough by then to understand history and what my elders had to share with me.  Why did I never even know of his existence?

We, my sisters and I, come from a family that keeps secrets, big secrets, close to their breastbone.  Poking around old records is raising more questions than it is answering, but I am determined to add flesh to the bones of these long-dead ancestors.  

Montpellier March

Banner at the head of the parade

Yesterday, like more than a million people across the globe, I took part in a protest march.  It has been labeled as a protest against Donald Trump, but for me, that was not the point.  For me, the march was about safeguarding the rights and steps toward equality that women have been fighting for since they took to the streets demanding the right to vote. 

The sign told me I had found the right place

Lending a hand at preparing the signs

This woman is a contemporary

It feels like I already did this once, back in the late 1960's and early 1970's.  I am poleaxed to really comprehend that we still are not at parity in equal pay for equal work.  I am afraid of the de-funding of Planned Parenthood, which provides much needed education and pregnancy prevention services.  I am afraid that Roe v Wade will be overturned, and women will be forced once again into back alleys in desperation to end an unwanted pregnancy.  I am afraid that healthcare will be taken from those who can least afford to be without it.  And all of this "taking away" is being done by a few few privileged people who have more than they will ever, ever need.

The woman with the bullhorn was our "choir" director

A sea of signs

Little girls get a lesson in civics

For those who couldn't walk yesterday, or those who walked elsewhere and might like to compare notes, this is what I witnessed:  women, men and children of all ages, ethnic backgrounds, color walking together peacefully, thoughtfully talking about issues ranging from female genital mutilation to still un-equal pay for the same jobs to seemingly unlimited choices for future education and employment. 

Cable-knit "pussy hat"

Getting ready to leave the Parc Peyrou and head downtown

I made the acquaintance of Faiza, a young woman born in Algeria, but was raised and has been living in France since she was a toddler, who that very morning had been called "dirty" by the cab driver who brought her to the march.  (Much of that southeast part of France is LePen country)

Young Americans in Montpellier

Marching and talking

Looking downtown--notice the man in the beret?

I was astonished by how many Americans there were in the march.  Most of them were university exchange students, so had I thought about it, I shouldn't have been so surprised.  These young women walked thought the day yesterday surrounded by that "golden glow" of knowing that their educational options are not limited by their gender.  They cannot conceive of a time when Ivy League schools were male-only. That change didn't just fall like manna from heaven--it had to be fought for and won. 

I ran into a family from California.  They were marching as a way to advocate a California secession from the U.S.  I was thinking about this the other day, and I don't think the idea of forming two nations is such a bad one.  The idea that the US is "indivisible" is up for debate, in my mind.  Why not let people who are conservative have their own country and those who are progressive have their own country instead of trying to cram one another's beliefs down the "opponents'" throats? It's not as if we disagree about what color to paint the stripes on the highways.  We disagree about whether or not we have an obligation to provide for the common good--education, healthcare, reasonable taxation, environmental protection--things that determine whether or not our fellow human beings live in peace, but in some cases, live at all.

California family

Doggie sports "pussy" ears

Not surprisingly, I found myself the recipient of a white armband--a torn strip of cloth tied about my upper arm.  I didn't seek such a distinction, but have come to realize that in my life, I think because of my height, I get picked to be a "leader," a "hall monitor."  This was no different--those of us with white armbands were the "border Collies" of the event, shepherding the flow of marchers and preventing tumbles caused by tripping over the lane dividers down Avenue Foch.  So I stood on the very end, facing the oncoming marchers, and like Moses parting the Red Sea, waved them around the divider, preventing a spill by someone (usually that person would be me) who didn't look down and didn't see the obstacle until it was too late.  Everyone smiled and thanked me when they realized what I was doing.  Not ONE grumble!  

Toward the front of the parade

Red, black and white were the colors of the day.

As I was exiting the march, I took the time to go up to the police officers who'd been there to make sure we were safe and thanked them individually.  They smiled back and accepted my thanks with grace.

Human Rights

How I wish I could translate this

There was an atmosphere of thoughtful discussion in most of the conversations I either participated in or overheard.  We sang, or attempted to sing, the Women's Hymn, but honestly, there were too many people, too long a line to have that happen in unison.  There was a choreography,  "La Chatte" that some people mastered and were able to perform, but most of us did not dance.  The bullhorn needed better amplification, but it was not a day for criticisms.  It was a day, a gloriously beautiful day, to come together and speak as one.

a beautiful day for a little 'walk'

Antiques in Narbonne

Two churches side by side, different eras and architecture

 I am embarrassed to say that after all my time here, today was my first real visit to this town east of Carcassonne.  Although the official population puts Narbonne at only about 3500 more people than Carcassonne, its downtown has a much bigger city feel to it.  The Canal du Midi runs right through centreville--what we'd call the business district in American terms.  And Narbonne has taken exceptional advantage of this fact, improving the waterfront with a great wide walkway, fronted by shops and restaurants. 

Narrow, marbled street

In front of Les Halles--yes, like the composer/pianist

I had the opportunity to learn about the free shuttle bus and to ride it twice, which gave me a great feel for the overall layout of the city.  I went into the covered market, Les Halles (just about every French city of any significant size has its own "Les Halles") and observed the butchers, cheesemongers, olive merchants and bakers plying their wares.  As I had skipped breakfast, I indulged in a pain au chocolat. 

Animated conversations with the bus driver, the clerk at the Office of Tourism, the ticket seller and security guard at the Exposition Hall where the antiques were being shown revealed to me their preferences in what to do, what to see, where to eat.  I was even given a lift by a lovely older French couple who heard me talking to the shuttle bus driver about which bus to take to the exhibit.  It's a really easy walk, but there was a fierce wind with a bite to it today and they warmed my heart and my hands with their kindness.  

So elegant, so--decorated

As far as the antiques show itself--I have never seen so much gilt under one roof that wasn't either a Catholic church or  Versailles.  French furniture is graceful in its lines, I think, but oh my, do we have to decorate every square centimeter?  The other thing that I noticed was that all of these pieces of furniture had been cleaned, or refinished, were waxed and gleaming.  Maybe that doesn't affect the value; but Antiques Roadshow experts always say to leave it alone.....I found some dining room chairs very similar to the ones I just bought for 5 Euros a piece, and they had been re-upholstered.  I am more determined than ever to re-do my bargain finds. 

Table #1  and my chairs are similar

I am in the market for a dining room table and found two--one in particular that I really love.  They both would fit in my space, and both have extensions for the rare occasion I would have a big dinner party.  I also found a set of Meissen dinnerware that made my heart go thunk, but at 1600 Euros, it would make my bank account go thunk, too! And there was a carpet dealer there who had beautiful, beautiful things, but far out of my price range.  It was fun to look, though.  There was an entry fee, so yes, in truth, I did pay to look.

Has two leaves in it right now--Am really liking this one

It takes a lot to make me feel uncomfortable, but these sharks of antiques dealers were able to accomplish that.  I felt like I was intruding on sacred ground whenever I asked to take a photo, so I didn't get as many as I would have liked.  Too bad that they were so vulture-y.  Is predatory a nicer word?  

Table #2--and he will deliver

For now, I think I will stick with my two local antiquarians.  They are much nicer, and the delivery fee is certainly less than what it would be from  Perpignan or Marseilles. 

And there's definitely a return day trip to Narbonne in the works!

Guilt and Ironing

When I do nothing but read, this is how I see myself

It seems that yesterday's blog about guilt has vanished into outer space.  I am sure the fault is mine; I have a cursor that jumps around to unintended places on the screen, opening and closing links that I have not asked for and do not want.  I seem to have inadvertently deleted the blog with the text and photos and when I went to fix it, was left with only a blank page.

So, I will try to remember what I was whining about yesterday.  Oh yes, the guilt.  I got very few material items from my grandmother when she died, but one of the biggest legacies she left to me was guilt at not being productive.  Lazy was the highest and meanest insult anyone could (and still can) level at me.  It would sting less, I think if someone were to call me a murderer.  Maybe that's because I secretly fear that I am lazy?

I was talking about this very issue to my Brookings friend, Diane.  She deals with the Daily Double of Guilt--Lazy and Unclean!!!  Now I don't feel so bad, nor so alone.  You would think that after all these years of working (long hours and multiple jobs), of keeping a household, and in her case, raising a family, we could put these guilt trips behind us.  Honestly, I don't think there are enough analysts' couches in the world to "fix" either one of us when it comes to this "guilt."

So, instead of taking advantage of the rainy, chilly day to stay inside, have a cup of tea and finish the book that I am reading (The Olive Farm) I fretted because I HAD THINGS TO DO!!!!  What--the article I wanted to mail to someone couldn't wait one more day?  And as Diane, oh so reasonably,  pointed out to me, reading a book is a worthwhile endeavor.  Isn't it?

I made up for it today--I used my new 9.99 Euro iron to press the wrinkles out of my freshly laundered linens. I am totally caught up with laundry and ready for the next round of visitors and the floors are mopped.  There is the little matter of defrosting the freezer--we'll see how this afternoon shapes up.   

There's an antiques show--a big one--in Narbonne this weekend.  Count me there, with my camera at the ready.  So I had better get cracking and get my chores done so I can go and enjoy it, guilt-free!!!

Epiphany Galette

Tonight;s dessert--galette, nuts, and a clementine

One of the (many) reasons  that I love living with the French is their adherence to traditions.  We get lily-of-the valley on May 1 because one of the Louis received a bouquet of it a couple hundred years ago. We revel in long lunches.  We celebrate Epiphany with the Galette des Rois, and I dutifully bought a little one for myself.  Believe me, it's no hardship....they are layered pastries, usually with an almond paste filling.  The bigger ones come with a crown, and whoever finds the "charm" in his/her slice gets to wear the crown.

I certainly do not need to eat an entire full sized galette and really, I don't need a crown.  This little pastry will do just fine.  

Until I moved here, my Epiphany tradition was to take down the tree and at church, we always programmed and sang the carol, "We Three Kings."   That hymn was always hard for me to get through, first because the organists always wanted to play it as a dirge. But in all honesty, the real reason it was so hard for me to get through was that the "alternate words" kept running through my head and I would get a bad case of the giggles.  Those alternate words involve a exploding rubber cigars.  I smile even now, just thinking about it.  As an antidote to that old, tired carol, I always insisted on "In the Bleak Midwinter."

My tree has been down for a couple of days now, and I don't think there is a French version of "We Three Kings."  My Christmas hyacinth is perfuming my living room, especially on days like today when the light streams in. 

My window "garden"

I don't know that I have experienced any sudden "revelations,"  as I try every day to be open to what the Divine wants me to know.  I have made a start on my "book," and it's every bit as hard as I thought it might be.  I am frightened that I am not equal to the task, but I must try.  The chores are done, soup is made, the sun shone all day and life is very, very good.

Maybe I will save the clementine for breakfast tomorrow

Whereas it is 2017, Therefore Be it Resolved....

My sunny, cheerful kitchen

Just like everyone else on the planet, I spent some time at least thinking about what I would like to see happen in my life in 2017.  I don't actually call them resolutions, because, just like most everyone else on the planet, I am not sure resolute is the accurate word to describe my wishings....

But this morning, as I sat at my kitchen table writing, enjoying the sun streaming in the kitchen windows, I realized that there ARE a few things I am resolved to accomplish this year.  2017 is the year I write the book I came to France to write.  Time is growing short and I must get this down on paper, not for some anonymous audience, but for family members, so they will KNOW, and maybe understand,  their heritage and their parents.  This is my first public declaration of my intent to write this, and now the pressure is on me to deliver. 

The woman at the center of the photo is the center of my story

The other change in my life about which I am resolute is to live more fully in the moment.  Even though my life in France has helped me to discover a great deal about this process, I  have some miles to go in putting aside the "what if's" and being focused on what I am going to accomplish.  I forget to be still, to listen to the Aude whisper its secrets in my ear, and to savor the smell of freshly brewed coffee.  This morning, it was the sight of sunshine on my dishtowel that stopped me, just for a moment. 

Sunlight streams in the kitchen windows

Given that it's only January 2, I think I am making progress.  😊