Who’s the Grinch this Year?

Three days before Christmas, I’m sitting at my desk in my house because I don’t have much choice. I can’t go to Paris. There are almost no trains, except those running before 7 in the morning—but not every day. And once I got there, how would I return?

Two weeks ago, I tried a ride-share. It was inexpensive and the driver was courteous and kind, but getting to our rendezvous point in the suburbs of Paris was like running in a “suitcase race” (I was dragging one behind me). Who can run the fastest, climb or descend stairways in two or three giant steps? I may have not won first place, but I did make it in time for my ride.

Nor can I travel to the South of France, where I was supposed to be spending the holidays. The train I was supposed to take was cancelled and replaced by a bus. A trip that was supposed to take five hours was extended to nearly twenty. Not worth it, I’ve decided. I’m staying put.

All these inconveniences are a result of the current strikes in protest of the French government’s proposed reform of the national retirement system—or systems. At this time, the rules governing retirement pensions are very different between the private and the public sectors, and within each, there are many different plans, each with its own criteria determining how benefits are accrued and when one can retire. It is complicated! Reform is in order. Then why are the French so up in arms?

It may just be that the government is behaving like a grinch and that’s what making people so mad.

A few decades ago, the French entered the workplace young, some before the age of eighteen. Those who will reach the current official French retirement age of 62 in 2025 and who will have worked a full 43 years are now being told they must stay on. Otherwise, they’ll have a penalty for life if they leave before age 64. They have paid their dues and are distressed by this proposed change so late in the game.

As for the younger generations, a new system based on points is being putforward. Even if you work only a few hours a month, you would earn your points, which is not the case with the current system based on the number of trimesters worked. This new system would become universal, applying to both private and public sectors.

I feel like I got out just on time. The proposed system will be especially hard on teachers, already underpaid in France compared to other countries in the European Union. It will also be hard on transport workers, who will lose many benefits.

Yet there is a need for reform. Nearly everyone agrees on that, but to many it seems the government of Emmanuel Macron has gone about it the wrong way. There have been “consultations” with union leaders, but no negotiations and the government has shown little openness to compromise, the prime minister Edouard Philippe and members of the president’s majority claiming they know best.

This is hard for the French to take, so hard that many are willing to put up with the hardships imposed by the strikes even if it means altering holiday plans.

But what about a Christmas truce? Couldn’t the striking workers of SNCF, the French national railway company, have returned to work for the holidays? They’ve left people stranded all over the country, scrambling for others means of transport. Aren’t they being grinches too?

The decision to maintain the transport strike has caused division among labor unions. Within certain unions, the rank and file are not in agreement with their leaders, in favor of the truce. Union foot soldiers are ready to man the barricades, even on Christmas, believing the cause more important than sharing a Christmas feast with family and friends.

Speaking of feasts, there are some grinches lurking on your side of the Atlantic too. At this time, an estimated 14 million Americans are suffering from food insecurity. In their wildest dreams, few of them could imagine a Christmas feast à la française, with oysters, smoked salmon, foie gras, buttery snails, a turkey or a goose, chestnut stuffing, glazed turnips, salad and cheese, accompanied by champagne and fine wines, with to wrap it all up, a creamy pastry Christmas log. A vast majority of the French can afford this menu for Christmas Eve, which is when they do their celebrating.

Despite the specter of 14 million Americans going hungry, the current administration plans to make major cuts to SNAP, Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, by changing the eligibility rules in 2020 for up to 3 million people, including children. For the USDA, this will permit 5 billion dollars in savings over five years. In 2019, President Trump authorized 14.5 billion dollars in MFP (Market Facilitation Program) payments to farmers, much of it going to big agrobusiness.

Now who’s the grinch here? The current Secretary of Agriculture Sonny Perdue is a climate change skeptic and a hard-liner on immigration. While governor of Georgia, he signed into law some of the nation’s strictest measures against illegal immigrants. As head of the USDA, he maintains a “helping hand” must not become a “handout” and that’s why he also wants to get tough on SNAP applicants.

Meanwhile, in Bethlehem, a tiny helpless baby, a refugee whose parents are on the run, nestles on a bed of straw in an unheated stable, counting on a mother’s love and lowing cattle for warmth. When Joseph and pregnant Mary inquired about a room at the inn, some grinch turned them away. He wouldn’t even let a pregnant woman inside to get warm at his fire.

There have always been grinches with hearts “two sizes too small,” as Dr. Seuss wrote in “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” back in 1957, creating the American equivalent of Dickens’ Ebenezer Scrooge. Both the Grinch and Scrooge had a change of heart before it was too late. They were conquered by the Spirit of Christmas and their too-small hearts expanded and opened to love.

Who’s the Grinch this year? You, me, everyone, anyone who refuses to recognize in the helpless, the hungry, the homeless, or that next-door neighbor or coworker who drives us crazy, a brother, a sister, someone worthy of our love.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and Happy 2020 to all, even to the grinches among us!

The French way of universal healthcare

In late October, I received a letter from “la Sécu.” That’s the clipped form the French use for “la Sécurité sociale,” the French system of social protection that includes health insurance, family services, retirement benefits and services to the handicapped. It was created in 1944 with, as its first task, the putting in place of universal health insurance financed by mandatory contributions based on income level, paid monthly by the working population and their employers.

On September 1, I retired from teaching after 43 years in the profession. I have been working in France since 1987 and during all those years, I made a hefty contribution to “la Sécu,” all the while benefiting from excellent health care, which cost me very little in supplemental costs. Since I retired, I continue to receive the same care but my monthly contribution is significantly less.

For care not covered in full by “la Sécu,” I have supplemental insurance I pay myself, the same plan I had while teaching. There was no need to scramble for a new one and in France there is no such thing as a donut hole, nor is there a deductible for medications. The supplemental insurance covers most costs not met by “la Sécu.” My plan also assures me a new pair of glasses, basically free, once every two years.

Dental care, on the other hand, can become expensive. The basics of cleaning and filling cavities are taken care of, but inlays, crowns, root canal or all those other unpleasant procedures meant to preserve a winning smile, are largely paid for out of the patient’s pocket.

But back to that letter. It was an invitation to go to my local pharmacy and pick up my flu shot. I am over 65, an age group considered at risk. In the pharmacy, I showed my paper to the pharmacist and she placed the shot in my hand. I took it home, put it in the refrigerator and a few days later went to a health center where a nurse vaccinated me, all at no cost.

“La Sécu” defines the groups at risk, extending well beyond seniors, and if a citizen or legal resident of France belongs to one of them, the vaccination is free. Otherwise, the flu shot costs between 6 and 10 euros, an out-of-pocket expense that will be entirely reimbursed, as is the doctor’s visit, but at the rate of 70%. As of 2019 pharmacists who so choose can give the flu shot in the pharmacy at a cost of between 4 and 6 euros and, once again, that out-of-pocket expense will be covered by “la Sécu.”

In France, the costs of a university education are minimal and by American standards, medical school is basically free. As in the US, medical studies are long, thorough, and demanding. French doctors can become family doctors, called “généralistes,” or choose a specialty. All doctors choose between two sectors, one respecting the fees set by la Sécurité sociale, the other allowing doctors to set their own fees.

In Sector 1, in the case of family doctors, either they charge the set fee of 25 euros for an office visit or exceed it in a controlled and reasonable manner. This is exactly the choice my family doctor has made so I can give an example. I pay 37 euros when I go to see him. Of that sum, 16.50€ are reimbursed by “la Sécu” and 8.50€ by my supplemental insurance. The rest, by choice, I pay out of my pocket. My gynecologist, a specialist, belongs to Sector 2 and fixes her own fees. In that case, no matter what she charges for an office visit, “la Sécu” will reimburse only 23€ whereas for a Sector 1 specialist, the visit, costing 30€, is reimbursed in full.

These are dry facts that don’t make for fascinating reading, but I think they are revelatory of the benefits to a nation that chooses a universal healthcare plan. I have been in France now for over 30 years, I have been operated on twice and been to the doctor and dentist multiple times. Only once was I dissatisfied, with a dentist (and I’ll admit I’m picky about my teeth). Otherwise, I have always received excellent medical care and never once have I worried whether I could afford it.

In my village I have two friends, a retired couple, generous and brave, who are not well-off. They often have money problems and when the car breaks down, they don’t have money on hand to fix it. Up against such an expense, the husband picks up work painting a house or repairing a roof; his wife takes in laundry. Once they have the cash in hand, they can repair the car.

At this time, both have cancer. This is a heavy burden but in France, as opposed to the situation of many Americans, my friends have the comfort of knowing their medical bills will be paid. Near my village there is no major hospital. When they must undergo chemotherapy or radiation treatments, what is called a “medical taxi” comes to pick them up and take them to a hospital 50 miles away. They do not pay for medication nor for the nurse who comes to their home to draw blood. They can concentrate on getting better because they are free from worries about how to pay for care.

Many Americans in the difficult position of my friends would have the additional anguish of facing possible economic ruin. A February 26, 2019 NPR report states that Americans undergoing cancer treatment are 2.65 times more likely to apply for bankruptcy than those without cancer. They spend their savings; they risk losing their homes.

How can this be possible in a country as rich and strong as the United States? When I visit, I am often impressed by the kindness of Americans, but I am convinced the health care system is anything but kind. It is downright cruel when you have to decide between losing your life savings or losing your life. This is a choice many Americans have to make.

I’d characterize France’s current president Emmanuel Macron as standing somewhere right of center. He is anything but a socialist. Universal healthcare is not a socialist idea; it is simply humane.

As for me, by American standards, I am clinging, barely, to the middle class. Yet I never have to worry about health care and that makes me rich.

I wish more middle and low income—and even wealthy—Americans could be as rich as me.

The Underside of Talking Plates

When I breakfast in the morning, every day of the week I can sit down with a “talking plate.” Today’s tells the story of “the old painter.” That’s the caption on the plate, accompanied by a black-and-white image of a white-haired painter, wearing an apron and a cap, surrounded by jars, flacons and baskets, in a workshop with canvases stacked in a corner and light streaming in. He is busy painting a kite with a long beribboned tail while three bare-foot children look on, enchanted by the images taking form before their eyes.

This plate is one of a series of a dozen, made of what I’d call “poor-man’s porcelain,” clear-colored clay mixed with silex and lime, covered with a transparent glaze. The black-and-white image, reproduced and mass-produced from an engraving, is an example of “transfer printing.” Already this method was used by Josiah Wedgwood in 1761; it was carried to greater perfection and took a form familiar to us today at the pottery works of Josiah Spode in the 1780’s. In his factory, Thomas Minton created what became known as the English Willow pattern, produced on plates through blue underglaze transfer printing.

Root in your cupboards and you’ll surely come up with a plate, dish or cup representative of “Blue Willow” ware, as the pattern became known in the United States. In my house in France, transported here from Pottsville, I have two Blue Willow teacups. On the bottom, I read “Adams England.” This indicates these cups were produced in North Staffordshire, after 1891, for export to the United States. I also have a very extravagant “Ceylon Teapot” from the 19th century, with the Wedgwood patent stamped in the clay. It too comes from Staffordshire and belonged to someone in my mother’s family.

My breakfast plates are 19th century heirlooms. They are in very good condition though, like Blue Willow ware, are far from rare. In the late 19th century, at the pottery works of Sarreguemines, a town along the French-German border, up to 10,000 of these plates could be produced in a day. The sets like the one I own spread to tables throughout France.

I picked mine up at a flea market early in the day. I may have been the first customer because the young man selling the plates did not have any change. I had two bills, ten euros and a 50. His fellow vendors refused to help him out for change. He wanted me to pay 20; I walked away with this almost perfect set of plates for 10.

In the 19th and early 20th centuries, in the homes of the poor and middling sort, these plates were conversation pieces. Some were decorated with a rebus, with the answer on the underside of the plate. Others encouraged patriotism, illustrating glorious events of French history. There were humorous subjects and slightly off-color ones too, what the French would call “polisson.” A plate might depict an insistent flirt or a lover overstepping bounds and being curtly put in his place.

These “talking plates” made eating fun. They could even make difficult eaters clean their plates, just to get to the bottom to see the story unfold, using their imaginations to bring depth and continuity to a caption and a static image, suggesting much more than was shown.

I’ll admit that breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. The prospect of French bread, fresh coffee, honey and homemade jams, is enough to make me jump out of bed, and the menu rarely varies. Some may delight in croissants or pain au chocolat; I’ll take French bread any day. I buy mine at a farm which grows its wheat and rye and has them ground locally. Their ovens are at the farm and when I go there, a warm loaf is placed in my hands. I sniff its warm, yeasty fragrance and declare to myself, “Heavenly.”

After slicing and toasting my reglementary two slices per morning, I place them on a “talking plate.” Will it be the draftee bidding farewell to his love, a young woman playing with her kitten, the old painter, a mother rocking her baby, two orphans gleaning in the wheat fields or a girl on the heath? As I eat, each plate will talk to me about bygone times, when life was much harder, I’m sure, than I can realize.

Walking through the Luxembourg Gardens, one of the most beautiful parks in Paris, I recently came across a statue of George Sand. Like the English novelist George Eliot, author of The Mill on the Floss and Middlemarch, this French writer, born Aurore Dupin in 1804, chose a man’s name as a pseudonym to publish her novels, plays, autobiography and hundreds of articles on the arts and politics. In fact, she is known as the first woman to have achieved complete independence, even wealth, through writing.

One of her best-known novels is La petite Fadette, the story of a country waif who is also suspected of being a witch. She is loved by twin brothers from a well-off farming family, both attracted by her intelligence, courage and generous heart. A new translation by Gretchen Van Slyke came out in 2017 and if you do not know Sand, this is a good place to start. The novel brings to life 19th century rural France. Often recommended as a children’s novel, it is also a portrait in courage of a young girl who must make her way alone in the world.

As a woman, this is what George Sand did in 19th century France, during that same period when hundreds of thousands of “talking plates” were being produced. She was hailed by Victor Hugo at her death in 1876 and criticized, even vilified, for her work and mores throughout her life. Though married and the mother of two, she loved freely, including a 9-year relationship with Frederic Chopin. She wrote freely, as a feminist, though the word had not yet been coined.
Her contemporary the poet Charles Baudelaire called her “stupid, heavy and verbose,” expressing surprise that any man could have fallen in love with “that latrine.”

How pretty, in the pale autumn light, is the statue of George Sand in the Luxembourg Gardens. It is like my talking plates, a static invitation to move beyond the surface into the depths of life, where pictures become less pretty but more real.

Time and the Tide: Climate Change Won’t Wait for Us

Today it is raining in le Perche. I know that is not news in Pennsylvania, but this is the first rainfall we have had in well over a month. In early August, we had a rainy Saturday. Before that, we’d not seen a drop since early June. We are in a drought, with water rationing in place, and during the summer, temperatures regularly climbed above 100°.

This morning, I went to my garden to see the impact of the night’s rain. It wasn’t much, a downpour followed by an early-morning clearing till later, rain began again. A glance at the big golden flowers of zucchini and pumpkin plants, at the kale standing tall, at lettuce puffed up like a peony in bloom, and one word filled my mind: gratitude.

Literally, the earth soaked it up and immediately plants reacted, the few drops of rain as good as an elixir sent by the gods. I could feel the sap rising and was amazed that so little could do so much.

This past summer has not been easy. My house is in Normandy, a region known for green fields, leafy hedgerows, morning mists and lots of rain. This summer I’ve watched the earth crack, fields turn brown, and leaves fall from trees. In a nearby garden, the branches of a cedar at least five stories high are covered with brown tufts as big as basketballs. This could not be a good sign.

Meanwhile the forest fires of southern France have moved north towards central regions of the country, where there are fears that drinking water will soon run out.

“Douce France” seems neither temperate nor kind, at least not weather-wise.

In Paris one pollution peak follows fast on another and in some city classrooms, pollutants measure higher than in city streets.

This past month has got me thinking more than usual about the climate. Like nearly everybody, I like to say that at my own modest level, I do what I can. I’m careful to not waste water (but I love long showers), I try to cut down on the use of electricity (easy in the summertime in France, where few have air-conditioned homes), and if I don’t have to drive, I don’t. I love to take the train. Deep down, however, I know I’m not doing enough, especially at a time when planet Earth is on a collision course.

If I didn’t have the high temperatures and drought to remind me, this past month has also been inundated, not with rain, but with commemorative days meant to get us humans involved in the Earth’s fate. September 16th was the International Day for the Protection of the Ozone. The theme for this year is “32 years and healing,” celebrating 32 years of international cooperation, since the first “Save the Ozone Day” back in 1995. Since then the ozone has been recovering at the rate of 1-3% per decade.

Some readers must remember those days in the 1960’s and 70’s, when we carelessly, joyfully, participated in the destruction of the ozone layer using spray deodorants, spray starch and hairsprays that we regarded as signs of progress compared to the products of our parents’ day. I remember my mom’s Tussy cream deodorant and her love of talcum powder. The deodorant left white traces on her clothes. The talcum powder, it was soon discovered, was laced with asbestos.

We young people simply sprayed on till, in the late 70’s, the CFC’s (chlorofluorocarbons) that so powerfully propelled the spray to underarm or teased hairdo, were taken off the market.

Now we should be worrying about our refrigerators, air-conditioners and cars. If they are more than 10 years old, they contain freon, a potent greenhouse gas, which will be phased out completely in the USA in 2020 if the current administration does not cancel the ban. That’s a possibility since, in mid-September, President Trump revoked California’s right to set higher fuel-emission standards than those of the federal government.

According to figures provided by the EPA for the year 2017, transportation was the biggest producer of greenhouse gases in the US.

This means we’re going to have to cut back on our use of gasoline, a fossil fuel, yet I have to admit, be it in le Perche or Schuylkill County, life without a car would be a near impossibility.

It wasn’t always that way. Reading a short story by Pottsville’s John O’Hara, I registered surprise when characters hopped on a trolley to ride between Saint Clair and Frackville. I’d never known such a trolley existed. Until the 1930’s, county residents could also use trolleys to travel south. A line ran between Schuylkill Haven and Adamsdale and from Pottsville to Tumbling Run. In fact, trains and trolleys crisscrossed the county in all directions. Back in the olden days, public transportation was the viable option it no longer is today.

My village in France is at the head of a bike path that used to be a trainline joining all the towns and villages of the region.

But back to dates! Since late August, you’d have to have your head buried in the sand to escape talk about climate change. That’s when 16-year-old Swedish climate-activist Greta Thunberg arrived in the USA on her solar-powered boat. On September 18th, she addressed Congress. The following Friday, she led young Americans in New York City in a climate strike. They were joined by millions of protesters around the world.

On September 21st, while in Saudi Arabia the world’s largest oil refinery continued to burn, the UN asked the world to celebrate International Peace Day. This year’s theme is “Climate action for peace.” The same date is also World Cleanup Day, a time for individuals to join together to clean up the environment in their neighborhoods.

From the 24th to the 30th, New York City is celebrating Climate Week. This corresponds with high-level general debates at the 74th session of the UN General Assembly, two of which are devoted to the climate and sustainable development.

Meanwhile, the rain has turned to drizzle and I wonder if this climate hubbub will change anything. Afterall, we’ve heard it many times before and climate-change sceptics write it all off as a hoax.

But, as the saying goes, “You don’t miss your water till the well runs dry.” That day will make believers of us all.

Trap shoot or pigeon shoot? Views from both sides of the Atlantic

Last month it was garbage. This month it’s guns. Guns in El Paso, in Dayton, in Riverside, California, and in nearby Philadelphia, PA. France too has had its share of guns and death this summer. In July, a shootout at a gas station in the Var region of the South of France left three dead. In this same region, in mid-August, police shot and injured a couple fleeing a routine road check.

In France, as opposed to most states in the USA (there are 8 exceptions), assault weapons are banned and the purchase of other arms is highly regulated by the state. French law divides weapons into four categories, ranging from D to A. Category D is limited to weapons sold over the counter, including knives, truncheons and tear-gas bombs. Category A is restricted to weapons of war, such as assault rifles, outlawed for personal use. Categories B and C include guns and rifles whose sale is restricted to licensed hunters age 16 and over and to marksmen belonging to a federally registered gun club. Those wishing to purchase a semi-automatic rifle must undergo a thorough background check.

These restrictive laws have not prevented terrorists from obtaining weapons of war. On November 13, 2015, 131 persons attending a concert at the Bataclan Theater in Paris were killed by the fire of assault weapons. The guns used by the perpetrators, 7 of whom were killed by the police, were obtained on Europe’s lucrative black market in illegal arms. Surely they paid much more than your average American gun aficionado purchasing an assault rifle at a gun show or on-line.

Concerning guns and their use, Americans and the French have points in common. In both countries, avid hunters impatiently await the beginning of hunting season. Many hunters are also committed environmentalists. In both countries, gun clubs and shooting ranges abound. In France, sharpshooting is a respected sport and the French have not forgotten that the founder of the first modern Olympic games, the Frenchman Pierre de Coubertin, a fine marksman himself, pushed for making sharpshooting an Olympic sport.

That was in 1900 at the Paris games and one of the forms it took was a pigeon shoot.

In that same year, in Pennsylvania, Frank Coleman won his first state championship in a live-bird shooting competition.

To readers over 40 and perhaps to some younger ones as well, that name may sound familiar. Born in 1874 on a farm near Hegins, Coleman went on to become an international champion of his sport. Until 20 years ago, he was honored each year at the Fred Coleman Memorial Labor Day Live Pigeon Shoot and Homecoming, held at the community park in Hegins. The idea for the shoot dates back to 1933. Locals, proud of their native son, hoped to use his fame to put Hegins on the national map. They succeeded in more ways than one.

As many readers know, the shoot came to an end in 1999 because of a ruling of the State Supreme Court, which did not, however, outlaw live pigeons shoots. Pressure from animal rights groups, the Humane Society and the SPCA, national attention of a kind the town had never asked for, and protesters outnumbering shooters did the rest. The event was simply cancelled and since then, there has been no public live pigeon shoot in Hegins, marking the demise of a tradition that many locals continue to support.

Live pigeon shoots have a long history and the sport had its beginnings in England. There, in the 18th century, it was practiced by the aristocracy. When some of them became colonists in North America, they brought the sport with them. On American soil, it became more democratic; live pigeon shoots were even associated with pioneer values. The American male had to know how to use his rifle to protect his family. The quantities of pigeons released in a shoot reflected the endless abundance of the American wilderness.

Yet, early on, many were not at ease with this sport and its seemingly wanton killing. In 1872, the New York Times criticized its “useless cruelty.” By 1903, the Grand American Trap Shoot had dropped the pigeon shoot, replacing the birds with clay traps. And though de Coubertin had introduced live pigeon shooting as an Olympic sport, it was not officially recognized because of its cruelty.

Back in 1881, the Pennsylvania Supreme Court heard its first case concerning pigeon shoots and animal cruelty statutes. Supreme Court Justice Edward M. Paxson declared that all birds, be they caged or free, were placed here by the Lord for humans to use as they would. The live pigeon shoot could go on.

In 1923 the sport was outlawed in Great Britain. France waited till 1976 though the tradition of the pigeon shoot has retained its aristocratic cachet. Deep in the Bois de Boulogne, a vast forest and park at the western edge of Paris, there’s a club called “Tir au pigeon,” “Pigeon shoot.” Founded in 1899, it’s still one of the city’s most exclusive. Of course, Baron de Coubertin was one of its first members.

In le Perche, the region of my country home, skeet or trap shooting is a popular sport. It’s called “ball-trap,” two English words borrowed by the French. A big event is taking place next weekend, Labor Day weekend in the US. It sounds a lot like the Hegins homecoming used to be: a shooting range, stands selling food and drink, lots of picnic tables. All the ingredients are there, except the live pigeons.

Without them, the Hegins shoot came to an end, and I’ve often wondered why the tradition could not have continued with clay traps. The same marksmanship skills are required and both skeet and trap shooting are Olympic sports.

Back in its heyday, at a live pigeon shoot in Hegins, up to 9,000 birds were released. About 7,000 of them were killed; about 2,000 escaped. Trapper-boys collected the birds in the field, breaking the necks of those still alive.

That’s a lot of birds, a lot of death, a lot of blood; and in this killing world of ours, I’d say, the less the better. And if I may put in my two cents on the controversial subject with which this article began, the French are right: assault rifles are weapons of war.

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Information about the history of the Hegins shoot and pigeon shoots in Pennsylvania comes from “Contesting Tradition: The Deep Play & Protest of Pigeon Shoots,” Simon J. Bronner, The Journal of American Folklore, Vol. 118, N° 470 (autumn 2005), pp. 409-452, consulted on JSTOR.

The Garbage Wars

July 14th is called Bastille Day in English. For the French, the date alone says it all: le 14 juillet, Independence Day, the storming of the Bastille on July 14, 1789, an end to the tyranny of monarchy.

On the US side of the Atlantic, July 14th, 2019 also marks the first attack of “the Garbage Wars,” as I call them. Here in France, on a much smaller scale, a fierce “Garbage War” has been going on for some time.

Since July 14th, I’ve been following presidential tweets as he attacks “the Squad,” four young first-term congresswomen of color who, according to President Trump, should “go back” to their countries. Graciously, the President has offered to take care of travel costs. I don’t know exactly know how to interpret this, as three of the four congresswomen are US-born.

As the week of July 14th progressed, things got uglier, as more “garbage” was tossed around. On Wednesday the 17th, a crowd of Trump-supporters in North Carolina chanted “Send her back,” attacking Somali-born Representative Ilhan Omar, as the President looked on approvingly.

On Friday the 19th, Trump protested to reporters that neither Omar nor Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, another member of the Squad, have the right to “call our country and our people ‘garbage’.” Fact-checkers were quick to point out that neither used the term ‘garbage’ to refer to their fellow citizens.

I always try to send off my monthly article to The Republican Herald on the Monday preceding its last-Sunday-of-the-month publication. As you read, much of what I’ve just written may already be “old news.” A lot of presidential tweeting can go on in one week and who knows how “the Squad” may respond?

In general, who knows how the world will turn?

One thing is certain, the President’s attacks against the four congresswomen have struck a nerve in me because, here in France, for over a year, I’ve been caught up in my own “garbage wars.”

My story may appear trivial in comparison to national or international events, yet it contains elements common to all wars.

First of all, it’s about territory: who has the right to control it? Who has de facto control? In my case, we’re talking about a wide cement passageway that separates my home from the local superette. This is what the French call “une cour commune,” a shared courtyard, a co-property, where each owner shares rights and responsibilities.

For years, the manager of the local superette, a feisty woman in her 40’s, considered this space her own. One house in the passageway was owned by an absent Parisian. Another, by a taxi service using it as a business address.

Then there was what became my house, with its roof and living room floor about to collapse. You’d have to be a fool, locals believed, to buy such a place.

Such a fool—me—showed up, bought the place, fixed it up, turned it into a home, and presto, the manager of the superette was no longer alone—which did not mean she was ready to relinquish sovereignty.

To approach my house, you must descend an incline. The manager of the superette had given local boys the right to use the slope to pop wheelies and then execute fancy turns in the courtyard. I protested, especially as a reckless stop sometimes sent their bikes crashing into my front door.

“Corinne (I’ve changed the manager’s name) told us we can ride here,” the boys said. And they continued till the day I got out my phone and took photos of them in the act. I could have saved myself a lot of trouble if, instead of asking first, I had simply flashed my phone in their faces—that gesture sent them running and they never came back.

That was a minor battle won, but one battle does not win a war. Corinne still did not want to share and to prove it, she piled the store’s garbage a few feet from my front door. This was, to put it mildly, too much.

Since moving in, I had learned that Corinne managed the store but the building and the courtyard belonged to city hall. I went there, met the mayor, and recounted my plight.

He was on my side, I could tell, but my predicament made him uneasy. Grocery stores like Corinne’s are essential to rural life. He—and Corinne—knew her business was the lifeblood of the village. That did not stop him from finding a solution: an enclosure to hide the garbage cans. I was delighted and wrote a letter of thanks. I had won a major battle and had my say about our common space.

Naively, I believed my troubles were over. I had not bargained for the ideological side of warfare, which, as President Trump well knows, has a lot to do with false accusations and name-calling.

The garbage cans were out of sight, but the war continued by other means. One evening as I was walking home, the manager’s husband approached me and began insulting me. I had “no values,” how could the French educational system allow someone like me to teach? I was sneaky, “false.” I went behind his wife’s back, addressing myself to the mayor. Such behavior was not “French.”

When attacked, I rarely strike back and that evening I remained calm. I even thought about what Corinne’s husband said. His insults were nasty, but perhaps he had a point about speaking directly to his wife. The next time there was a problem, I’d give it a try.

And that’s what I did, diplomatically, I believed. Still concerning those garbage cans, I asked her if they could be cleaned (they never were). In response, she lashed out at me with such verbal violence, all I could do was back away.

The war escalated and Corinne once again began piling garbage outside my door. When I protested, she made fun of the way I speak French. This last incident happened only a few days ago, while the US Garbage Wars raged.

Though no one has yet told me to go back to where I came from, I know I am neither liked nor wanted by villagers like Corinne who reject me without knowing me: I am a woman, a foreigner, and that’s enough.

My greatest crime? I exist. I take up space and have rights. These are also the “crimes” of the Squad of four. And I have the feeling, Mr. Trump and Corinne, that you’d better get used to sharing because none of us “criminals” are going to go away.

**************************************************************

Below, the French take on Trump and the 'Squad of four': Toujours l'amour!
Translation: Trump goes after four elected officials
Speaker 1: But why only pick on women with foreign backgrounds?
Speaker 2: Melania must have kicked him out of the bedroom again.

Organic gardening – now and then

Since I began gardening seriously, and by that, I mean sometimes devoting hours a day to that activity, I’ve begun asking myself what it would be like if I had to depend solely on my garden to sustain my life.

What if the only fruit or vegetables I ate were those I grew? What if a couple of chickens picking at the earth were my sole source of eggs, and when they got too old, of chicken stew? There’d be no more need of diets or cutting back on this or that high-calorie treat. Between tending the earth and losing crops to pests or the elements, I’d soon be as thin as a rake.

Yesterday I spent over four hours in the garden. I mowed the lawn with a hand-mower (I am keeping things simple and limiting pollution in all forms). I removed slugs, one by one, from ripening strawberries and tossed them into a bowl of beer. Some of their fellow creatures had already climbed in; all were drowning in a drunken stupor. It’s cruel, but it’s me against them. If I didn’t seek and destroy, there’d not be a single strawberry left for me.

This year there are no cherries. Not a single one. In March 2018, I had my cherry tree radically trimmed. It seemed ill (I don’t know if it really was) and was too big, casting a shadow over my vegetable patch. Most importantly, it was not producing well. Though as towering as an oak, it gave me just about enough cherries to make two clafoutis, a light French cherry custard. That was a lot of tree for what came down to a harvest of about 50 pieces of fruit.

I thought trimming would make things better. I hired a professional gardener to do the job. He showed up with an assistant, a man who claimed he was a lumberjack. As I walked into the garden to see how things were going, I discovered him hanging by his feet from a ladder, his chainsaw sputtering on the ground near his head. He looked like a cross between Saint Peter, crucified upside-down, and the about-to-be victim of a chainsaw massacre.

The gardener managed to get the chainsaw under control. Somehow the lumberjack, no spring chicken—he was precisely at that age when you’d start thinking about throwing him into the pot, got himself back on his feet (I turned my head, the whole scene too gruesome for me). The two men returned to work and reduced my cherry tree to a trunk with three ugly bare stumps.

Since then, for the past two springs, those trunks have sprouted branches and the branches, leaves that turn from tender green to black. Black flies cover every inch. The leaves wilt and the tree is an eyesore. The gardener says I just have to let nature take its course. In a year or two…or ten, there may be some cherries.

This makes me ask myself, again, what if all I had was my garden? At this time of year, I could live on fresh lettuce, deformed radishes, and the tasty leaves of the red beet and turnips sprouts I pull from the earth to create breathing space for the more robust plants (this is my first time planting from seed and I’ve created too-crowded conditions).

Soon I’m hoping for green beans, zucchini, pumpkins, onions, carrots, tomatoes and cantaloupe, but only time will tell if those hopes become reality.

In le Perche, where my home is located, there are many former monasteries. Some have fallen into ruin, some have been converted into private residences, others, into parks and monuments.

I visited one last weekend in a place called Thiron-Gardais. The “Thiron” in the hyphenated name honors a monk who, in the early 12th century, on lands given to him by a local lord, created an earthly paradise for hermits who had been wandering in surrounding forests.

In the early 12th century, what is today the town of Thiron-Gardais was a forest. No land was cleared for planting, no stone structure stood. Saint Bernard de Tiron and his fellow hermits cleared the land, created a pond, and built themselves a church, a cloister and a dormitory. They became a community of men working to create a garden where every tree, plant and flower spoke to them of God. And, as a biographer of Bernard Thiron wrote, the monastery became the very image of Paradise.

For the monks of Thiron-Gardais, work was prayer. God created the ground on which they stood, and that made it holy. They took care of it, and the earth gave to them all they needed to live. In their cottage garden, there were onions, leeks, lentils, cabbage, parsnips, beans and common vetch, known as “poor man’s peas.” These were the main ingredients of their diet and monks were vegetarians long before the term came into vogue.

They also had a garden for medicinal herbs, which included flowering plants, such as lilies or roses. Lily root fought leprosy; attar of rose healed ulcers and eye infections. The cemetery was the monastery’s orchard, with fruit trees surrounding the graves. At its center, in the place of the apple tree of temptation, stood a cross.

The monks of Thiron-Gardais prayed without ceasing, hoeing, digging, weeding, pruning, harvesting. Their time was the time of the seasons and they submitted to the whims of the sky. Observing nature, they learned patience. Growing the food they ate, completely dependent on Mother Earth, they became humble. Sharing what they produced, they practiced love.

That was the monastic ideal put in place at Thiron-Gardais, where the gardens live on today. Almost 1,000 years ago, the monks, cut off from the outside world, created their paradise on earth. Today we enter their sanctuary and admire, but we have little idea of the difficulties they faced to maintain their simple diet of herbs, legumes and fresh vegetables.

Thanks to my vegetable garden, I may have a clue, but I’ve a long way to go before I learn the patience, humility and love it takes to truly care for Mother Earth. I also have a lot to learn about failure and submission to the elements. Far from an image of paradise, my organic garden (just like the monks’) is an open-air school of hard knocks.

Meanwhile, I’m glad there’s a supermarket down the road, a bakery in my village, and food on the table every day. And I take my hat off to the monks of Thiron-Gardais.

Living with disabilities in France

Mickaël is back.

In January 2019, at the start of the second semester of the university year, that was just about the best news any of us had heard in a long time.

Mickaël, a student who had abruptly disappeared from the classroom two years earlier, was returning to complete his “licence,” the French equivalent of a bachelor’s degree. He was picking up where he had left off when the disease first took hold.

In the beginning, the symptoms looked like those of the flu: fever and aching joints. By the time he was diagnosed with meningitis, it was almost too late.

He survived. He emerged from the coma, his mental faculties intact. However, he lost his fingertips and both feet; his legs had to be amputated at mid-calf. He also suffered a severe loss of hearing and sight. For months he lay in a hospital bed. Then he spent months learning daily life all over again.

Today Mickaël travels on his own from Melun, a city to the south of Paris, to Université Paris 8, located in Saint-Denis, in the northern suburbs of the capital, over forty miles from his home. To attend 9 o’clock class, Mickaël must get up at 4:30 AM. Once he has showered, put on his protheses, dressed and made himself breakfast, he walks to the nearest bus stop, using only a cane that neatly folds when he’s in the metro. This is the first step in his journey.

The bus drops him at the suburban train station of Melun. From there he has a 30-minute train ride to Gare de Lyon, the major Parisian train station to points south. Once there, he walks ten minutes underground to line 14 of the metro.

This line, the most recent addition to the Paris system, is the only one adapted to the needs of travelers with disabilities. For all the other lines, it’s hit or miss. Sometimes there may be an escalator, rarer still, an elevator. In most stations, there are flights of stairs to climb.

After a bus, a train and a metro, Mickaël is not yet at his final destination. There is still one more leg of his journey, a change of metro lines, underground corridors to traverse, and then a ride on line 13. In French, I call it “la bien nommée,” the metro line that lives up to its name.

If “13” is an unlucky number, so are all of us who must put up with the overcrowding and delays, which are the daily lot of commuters who depend on this line. Mickaël often stands for the dozen stops of his ride.

Finally, a few minutes before nine, he arrives at the end of the line, Saint-Denis Université. There is an elevator in this station. He takes it to street level and hurries to class. At the end of the day, he’ll repeat the same itinerary in reverse, returning home after 9 in the evening.

Once home, he’ll make supper. Then he’ll take off his protheses and remove his hearing aid for the night. Thanks to them and to his glasses, Mickaël is able to attend classes and navigate a transportation system that has some serious catching up to do before it can claim to accommodate passengers with disabilities.

Such is public transportation in the Paris region. I might add, such is France.

In early May, caravans of the handicapped, les handicapés as they are called in France, set out from points all over the country, “on the road for (their) rights,” converging in major French cities on May 14th. On that day, a protest march was held in Paris, with slogans such as “liberté, égalité, mobilité,” and “my handicap is exclusion from major services.” The association “France Handicap” presented a letter to President Macron, reminding him of his campaign promise to make the handicapped a priority.

So far, reality has not kept pace, and his government’s measures in favor of the disabled are timid or limited to good intentions.

At this point, it may be interesting to note the French have chosen the English term “handicapped” for those with disabilities. This word, handicapé, came into use in France in the 1980’s as the inclusive term for all those with disabilities. In the United States, at about the same time, the term “handicapped” was discarded in favor of the “person-first” approach: a person has a disability; a handicap is a barrier or circumstance.

In other words, the Paris metro system is full of 'handicaps': stations with lots of stairs and no elevator or escalator. There is also the 'circumstance' of employment discrimination. In France, the unemployment rate among persons with disabilities (19%) is double that of the general population.

The current Secretary of State in charge of the handicapped, Sophie Cluzel, has pledged to create 100,000 new jobs for persons with disabilities by 2022. The government has also reaffirmed its commitment to making accessible all buildings open to the public. This is a work-in-progress and there is still a long way to go.

Throughout Europe, May 16th was Duo-Day. Begun in the Republic of Ireland in 2008, Duo-Day has set as its goal the bringing together of prospective employers and persons with disabilities. For example, after an initial contact through an on-line site, lawyers with disabilities meet the heads of law firms, disabled gardeners meet the owners of greenhouses or flower shops. On the evening news that day, a journalist in a wheelchair presented a part of the national news.

Meanwhile Mickaël has almost completed his bachelor’s degree. Despite an open sore on his knee, he travels regularly to university, a commute of over 2 hours.

He also battles with bureaucracy, one of the greatest handicaps a person with disabilities must face. A young man of unshakeable good spirits, he has met obstacle after obstacle. He is entitled to free transportation, but only in the zone where he lives. Because he is determined to finish his studies at the university where he began, located in a different zone, he must pay most of the ride out of his own pocket and this adds up to a lot of euros each day.

Mickaël has also learned to drive a standard transmission car. He thought this would entitle him to an aid for the purchase of a vehicle. The official response was “non.” He can only receive aid for a car adapted for “handicapés.”

Yes, Mickaël is back and may he go far—for a person with disabilities must strive ten times harder than the rest of us.

The Day After: Notre Dame de Paris

I remember my first time—my first visit to Notre Dame de Paris. I was 17 years old, a student at Pottsville Area High School, travelling with other students and with Mrs. Alice Ney, our courageous chaperone. We were fearless, sneaky. We did not stay with the group.

With my friend Jane Dolbin, who died in 2008, we wandered off and went shopping on Boulevard Saint Michel. We each bought a new dress and put it on in the boutique. Then we proudly marched down the boulevard and crossed the Seine to Notre Dame, paying a couple of francs to climb the steps to the northern tower, the one that, last night, was touched by the flames at the cathedral’s heart.

Once at the top, we had a panorama of the rooftops of Paris that took our breath away. The sun was shining, a strong wind was blowing, but little did it matter. We had a magnificent view of the famous spire of the cathedral, the one that fell a few minutes before 8 PM last evening. We also looked down on the flying buttresses that withstood last night’s fire and on the lead roof, held up by “the forest,” an immense wooden frame made of oak beams dating back to the cathedral’s construction in the 12th and 13th centuries.

Last evening the fire began in “the forest,” beneath the eaves. The lead roof melted, causing some parts of the vaulted stone ceiling of the transept to fall.

Standing atop Notre Dame nearly fifty years ago, wearing my Parisian minidress, I was unaware the wind had lifted it up around my waist, exposing my American panties to a delighted security guard. My friends knew; they did not tell me.

That is my first memory of Notre Dame de Paris. It may seem trivial, too personal, in light of the destruction wrought in a few hours to a religious and historical monument that has withstood wars and revolutions for more than 8 centuries. Yet, I’d go so far to say that Notre Dame de Paris, My Lady, is a personal part of my life, a friend whose door is always open; who, since my first trip to France, has welcomed me hundreds of time. She would smile and understand two teenagers who, on their first trip to Paris, wanted more than anything else to look like the elegant Parisians who surrounded them in the streets.

These days, whenever I can, I cross the Seine on foot, just so I can have a look at her. No matter what the weather or season, she looks beautiful, day or night, a great lady promising comfort and intercession to all who open their hearts to her.

But “these days” are now the past. At the time I write, there has not yet been an estimate of the damage. For example, it is not yet possible to approach the church’s magnificent organ, one of the finest in the world, rebuilt over time but still containing pipes from the Middle Ages, capable of “singing” like a choir of angels or creating the ominous rumble of approaching thunder. No one can say what state they are in today, nor can anyone know if, upon reconstruction, the church will regain its exceptional acoustics.

Paris, France, the world is in mourning for a beloved monument and a spiritual beacon, today covered with ash and exposed to more damage by falling rain entering through the roof. In one night, in our careless times, where no one has time to wait, and everything must be done asap, roaring flames proved they too can work fast, erasing the past in the blink of an eye.

Last evening, as the flames were being brought under control, President Macron opened a national and international fund raising drive to rebuild Notre Dame de Paris. A church, but more than a church, a historical monument, but so much more, this cathedral is “everybody’s home.” No one has ever paid an entrance fee to cross its threshold; Notre Dame welcomes us all.

In his 1831 novel Notre Dame de Paris, Victor Hugo gave the world its first bird’s eye view of the rooftops of Paris, and he played an important role in awakening public awareness to the church’s importance to all of France.

In the 20th century, Americans, perhaps more than the French, understood his message, and Hugo’s novel became a staple of Hollywood. In the 1923 silent film classic, “The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” the hunchback, played by Lon Chaney Sr., pays tribute to the church’s bells as he effortlessly climbs up and down the façade. In this moving excerpt, to the accompaniment of organ music, Chaney communicates the cathedral’s grandeur (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84lab78RiPg ).

In 1956, Anthony Quinn became Quasimodo and Gina Lollobrigida the beautiful and seductive Esmerelda (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Df2xIFEABjc ). And in 1996, it was Walt Disney’s turn in an animated version.
More than the Eiffel Tower, more than the Moulin Rouge, it is Notre Dame de Paris “who” reaches out to the world to say, “this is Paris,” and it is the city’s most visited monument. That is why today I feel I’ve lost a part of myself and I’m sure many others feel the same.

Yet the fire has not destroyed the church’s contours. The towers, the walls and the flying buttresses still stand, though weakened by time, neglect and now, flames.

The spiritual message of Notre Dame is that humans alone cannot save themselves. Now Notre Dame de Paris seems to be saying she cannot be saved without us.

Turmoil and Doubt: The Catholic Church in the US and France

On April 15th, Notre Dame de Paris caught fire and extensive damage was done to the centuries-old cathedral, known and loved as a religious and cultural symbol throughout the world. On Easter Day, the Archbishop of Paris, Michel Aupetit, celebrated mass in nearby Saint Eustache, a church whose architecture was inspired by Notre Dame.

In his sermon, the Archbishop thanked the firemen of Paris for their courage and devotion. He also asked, “Where is the body of Christ?” During this Lenten and Easter season, this has been a difficult question for the Catholic Church of France, shaken by scandals, lawsuits, and a much publicized court case involving its highest ranking dignitary, Cardinal Philippe Barbarin.

In the United States, the scandal of sexual abuse within the Catholic Church exploded onto the national scene in 2002 with the Boston Globe’s exposé of abuse within the archdiocese of Boston. The paper’s investigation resulted in the prosecution of five priests. It also served as a catalyst, giving many victims who had longed remained silent the courage to speak out. At that time, a Gallup survey’s findings revealed that, after the Boston scandal, 22% of American Catholics were considering leaving the Church.

This year, on March 13th, a day after the sentencing of Cardinal Pell of Australia to six years in prison for the abuse of two choir boys in Melbourne, another Gallup poll revealed that 37% of American Catholics surveyed expressed their desire to leave.

The Catholic Church in France has recently been shaken by the same type of scandals, yet in some ways the situation is more dire. If we compare figures, keeping in mind the variations in reliability of surveys in general, 23.9% of Americans (about 72 million) identify themselves as Catholics, and 39% of them say they attend mass on a weekly basis. In France, 53%, or about 35 million people, declare themselves Catholics, yet only between 2% and 6% of the general population attend weekly mass. This boils down to about one and a half million faithful in a nation with a population of over 67 million.

These figures, in terms of religious practice, make Catholicism a minority religion, alongside Islam and Protestantism, in a nation where most citizens declare themselves agnostics or atheists. Today, for the French, Catholicism represents a vague cultural identity, and few who call themselves Catholic understand the workings of their faith.

Also, the exposure of sexual abuse within the Catholic Church came later to France, in part because victims were too often ignored by Church hierarchy. A case in point is that of the priest Bernard Preynat, today 73 years old. Between 1970 and 1991, Preynat, very active in the Catholic boy scout movement, raped and molested dozens of boys. Only in 2016 was he indicted for sexual assault against minors by a person exercising authority.

Father Preynat, still a priest but without a parish, living under court supervision in Lyon, France’s third largest city, is expected to be brought to trial later this year. His case, however, has had serious repercussions on the Archdiocese of Lyon and on its bishop, Cardinal Philippe Barbarin.

On March 7, 2019, the Cardinal was sentenced to a six-month suspended prison term for the non-denunciation of sexual assault. In other words, the French courts accused him of covering up the crimes of Preynat, of which he was apparently aware. On March 18th, Cardinal Barbarin presented his resignation to Pope François, who refused it. The Pope gave as his reason the presumption of innocence, as Cardinal Barbarin is appealing the case.

In a nation like France, whose revolution was fought against both King and Church, this scandal has heaped more discredit on an institution already struggling to keep its foothold. In a French film called “Grâce à Dieu,” “Thank God,” released in February 2019, director François Ozon reconstructs the events of the Preynat case. The film's title is based on the words of Cardinal Barbarin who, in a public interview, declared that “grâce à Dieu,” certain accusations brought against the pedophile priest remain outside the reach of the courts because of the statute of limitations.

On the eve of this year’s Lenten season, another sexual scandal was placed under the national spotlight. On March 5th, a documentary was aired on Arte, a Franco-German public TV station. Its title: “Religieuses abusées, l’autre scandale de l’Eglise,” “Women religious abused, the other scandal of the Church.”

This documentary is based on two years of interviews and research by Marie-Pierre Raimbault and Eric Quintin. Its findings, once again, reveal coverups by Church hierarchy, too blind or too proud to identify the corruption in their midst. The most damning accusations concern two brothers, both Dominican friars, Marie-Dominique and Thomas Philippe, who, according to the women religious they abused, instituted a system of sexual slavery. Marie-Dominique Philippe, who founded a charismatic religious community in the 1970’s and died in 2006, was a close friend of Pope John Paul II, and there are those who believe the pope was aware of his behavior.

The year of 2019 may well be France’s “2002,” a year like no other concerning sexual abuse and hypocrisy within the Catholic Church. A French journalist and researcher, Frédéric Martel, recently published “Sodoma, enquête au Coeur du Vatican.” Translated into English, the book’s title is “In the Closet of the Vatican: Power, Homosexuality, Hypocrisy.” Though you may not have heard of the book, it is not difficult to realize what it is about.

After four years of inside investigation, with solid evidence to back him up, Martel accuses those church prelates who most decry homosexuality, be it in France or elsewhere, to be practicing homosexuals themselves. Though the book is often repetitive, it delivers ample proof of the Church’s double standard regarding homosexuality and sexual mores in general.

All of the above have made 2019 a painful year for the French Catholic Church. Yet, at the grassroots level, parish priests labor on. In direct contact with parishioners, they often bear the brunt of charges directed against their higher-ups. Many are responsible for several churches. Those who are reaching retirement age must often look towards French-speaking Africa if they hope to be replaced, as the number of vocations has radically fallen in France.

As Notre Dame burned, Father Jean-Marc Fournier, the chaplain of the firefighters of Paris, entered the church and saved the Blessed Sacrament. But, after decades of sexual scandal and a refusal by hierarchy to admit the sexual hypocrisy in its midst, can the Catholic Church save itself?

In Strasbourg, a taste of “home”

A few weeks ago, I had to go to Strasbourg for professional reasons. This French city, located on the western bank of the Rhine River, has not always been part of France. For centuries, its inhabitants pledged their loyalty to the Germanic Holy Roman Empire. Early on, its clergy embraced the teachings of Martin Luther, and Strasbourg, a “Free City” granted self-rule, became an important center of the Protestant Reform.

In 1681, after a rapid siege, the Sun King Louis XIV made a triumphant entry into the city. The Alsace region, of which Strasbourg was the capital, had already become part of the Kingdom of France at the end of the bloody Thirty Years’ War. Ignoring previous treaties, Louis XIV claimed this independent Protestant city for France.

Though he granted Protestants a certain freedom of religion, he returned the city’s beautiful cathedral to the Catholics. At a time of fierce persecution of Protestants elsewhere in France, Strasbourg’s Protestants were subjected to many restrictions yet could discreetly practice their faith.

In the narrow streets around the red sandstone cathedral, once the highest building in the world, Catholics and Protestants, French and German voices, mingled. The city was on its way to becoming, as it still is today, a hub of two languages and cultures. At times, they coexisted in precarious harmony; at others, neighbor was pitted against neighbor as two great Empires fought over the city’s destiny.

In 1871, France’s Emperor Napoleon III lost the city to Bismarck, first Chancellor of the united German Empire. The French Republic won it back after World War I, only to lose the city to Nazi Germany, which occupied it from 1940 until 1944. In 1949, Strasbourg was proclaimed capital of Europe and today, the Council of Europe has its headquarters there. The city, disputed for centuries, has become the symbol of European aspirations to live in peace.

I have been to Strasbourg many times; I like to go there because it is the one place in France where I feel “at home.” When I speak, no one ever asks me where I’m from. Like me, many Strasburgers have a hint of an accent when they speak French. Many, again like me, are bilingual. In the place of my English, they speak the Alsatian dialect of German.

If they see my family name, they simply assume I’m one of them. It’s the “i” in Honicker—rather than an “e,” as in Erich Honecker, the leader of East Germany at time of the fall of the Berlin Wall—that suggests I share their Alsatian roots.

I have other good reasons for feeling at home in Strasbourg. In a bakery there, I discovered an almond ring, a favorite pastry of mine, tasting exactly like the one my mother used to buy at the Danish Bakery of Pottsville, once located at 20th and Market Streets. Some readers may remember the Vienna bread, fresh-sliced and warm when it was handed over the counter by Mrs. Frederickson. There were also glazed doughnuts, still the best I’ve ever tasted.

I discovered (or rediscovered) the almond ring in a bakery at the edge of a canal in Strasbourg’s Old Town. That little bakery, its façade painted burnt orange, could have been a setting for one of Hans Christian Andersen’s tales. As the buttery pastry and the almond filling melted in my mouth, I was transported back to childhood and the delights of discovering that “European” treat in a bakery on Market Street, once painted burnt orange, just like the one in Strasbourg.

My interest in the Rhine River began in high school, thanks to Herr Hartley, my German teacher. He was demanding; he made us learn poetry by heart, and one of those poems I can still recite today!

He had us learn “Die Lorelei” by Heinrich Heine. The poem is the story of a skipper and his boat, dashed against the rocks because he could not resist the voice of a golden-haired Mädchen. Seated on a rocky summit high above the Rhine, as she combs her dazzling hair, this entrancing beauty sings a mournful tune, casting a spell on the skipper just as for decades, her words have cast a spell on me.

On my last trip to Strasbourg, I did something I’d never done before. I travelled to the banks of the Rhine and crossed to Kehl, Germany, riding one of the newest lines of Strasbourg’s tramway. Though I was not dashed against the rocks like the skipper, I lost, not my life, but certain romantic illusions about the Rhine.

Or I may have simply been in the wrong place. The legendary Lorelei inhabits a summit about 160 miles north of Strasbourg. Where the tram crosses the river, there’s not a rocky cliff in sight. Worse still, once I reached the German side, I entered a zone of gas stations and discount alcohol and tobacco stores offering prices the French, on their own territory, can only dream about.

There were also tacky hotels surrounded by bleak, almost-empty parking lots. This is not where Strasburgers go for the weekend; this is where those willing to pay go for sex. In Germany sex is an industry and brothels are legal businesses. In France, prostitution is hidden from public view, and clients, not sex-workers, can receive fines for paying for sex.

The only positive note of that little excursion was the purchase of a delicious soft pretzel in a Kehl bakery.

I don’t know much about my family history, but I suspect my past is connected to Strasbourg and the banks of the Rhine. Despite my claim to French nationality, I’ll always be a foreigner in France—except for Strasbourg, where I get a sense I belong.

As for the Rhine, once back in my country home, I picked up a book I’ve been trailing for years, Rhine Journey: a novel, by English author Ann Schlee. I bought this book over 30 years ago in a book store in New York. I finally opened and read it last month.

There I found it, the Rhine I’d been dreaming of. In a 19th century journey down that river, a young woman undergoes a transformation that quietly but radically changes her life. We follow her inner journey; we also intensely experience the Rhine River as it was then.

You can find it at the Pottsville Library. Don’t wait 30 years like I did. Pick up Rhine Journey and enjoy it now!