RIP, MA MÈRE

This is supposed to be a blog about living in France. But I would be remiss if I didn’t honor my mother with a few words for it is she who was the reason for my love affair with this beautiful country. She died September 19 at the age of 97. 

My mother, Catherine, was born in Windsor, Ontario in August, 1925. She was adopted but we learned two years ago through DNA analysis that her adoptive father was in fact her natural father. When I told her this, she said “I always knew it.” And she did. His love for her was unquestioned and they were very close. 

My mother lost her father from bladder cancer when she was 11 years old. He was 47. The wound was always there and she missed him her entire life.

They had immigrated from Canada to Detroit when she was eight years old. Her first language was French because that is what her maternal grandparents spoke. But she lost her fluency once she came to the US. 

I remember 1990 when I took my parents to Europe to visit my dad’s brother’s grave in the American Cemetery in St. Avold, France. On the way from Charles De Gaulle Airport to our hotel in Paris, I told the taxi driver about my mother being French Canadian and this, France, was our heritage. She said she understood the conversation, but she wouldn’t speak.

My mother’s family came from Pain Court and Chatham, Ontario 60 miles north of Windsor. French is the principal language to this day in the schools of Pain Court. Few are aware of the French communities extant in southwestern Ontario for several centuries. 

People often ask me why I became enamored by the French language. I tell them that I would hear my grandmother speaking to my mother in French when I was a little boy. I told myself that I needed to learn this language. I thought it was cool to be able to converse “in code” so to speak. The desire stayed with me so, as soon as it was possible, I began to study French. That happened in my freshman year of high school and continued through college. Fortunately over the years there were trips and work that enabled me to associate with people who spoke French. It wasn’t until 1986, when a trip to France organized around the major cathedrals encircling Paris became a turning point for me. French became real and my ability to communicate was transformed from struggling, to having a certain degree of actual capability. It was exhausting, but it pushed me. I even began leaving the French-English pocket dictionary at home. 

As I reported before, in the year 2000 I brought my family to France using my many frequent flyer miles and hotel points to celebrate my mother‘s 75th birthday, my 50th birthday and that of my sister-in-law as well as the 16th birthday of my niece. We spent three weeks between Paris, the Loire Valley and the Dordogne region ending up in Bordeaux. I told my mother then that maybe for her 80th birthday I would have my own house here. It would take another 18 years before that became a reality.

She married my dad at the age of 22 and subsequently had six children. Their life was not easy as my father dealt with peripheral vascular disease, Berger’s Disease, subsequent bilateral amputations and alcoholism. Yet, my mother was strong and stood by his side. Because of my father, I worked in addiction medicine and I am happy to say that through an intervention, my father had 15 years of sobriety before he died. It changed everything. But it was my mother who held things together.

After my father died in 1998, I paid special attention to my mother trying to fill the role my father had played in terms of special remembrances on her birthday and Christmas. It was my father’s tradition to always buy my mother perfume and dusting powder for Christmas. I continued in his place.

Before my father died, my siblings collectively chipped in to send our parents on trips to Ireland, Hawaii and Alaska for special anniversaries. Later, I did what I could for my mother to ensure she was comfortable and enjoyed every day.

I learned from my mother constantly. She always had a kind word. She was never erratic, unstable, judgmental or condemning. I loved how, rather than telling you that you might be wrong, she would ask “Have you ever thought about this…?” Her approach was instructional and supportive. 

I can recall being in the 7^th grade and the teacher and football coach at our Catholic grade school told my mother I needed to play football. I was 6’2” by the time I was 12, so this coach (and, two years later, another in high school), expected me to be athletic. But football wasn’t for me. I tried, but hated it. His comment was “You will be sorry.” There was hidden meaning, but my mother stood up for me just like she did when I was in the 5^th grade and the teacher told her she wanted to advance me a grade. “He’s read every book in the library and he needs a greater challenge.” My mother said no, telling this teacher that while my intellect may have been ready, socially I was not. Mother knew best. 

Because she was not an American citizen until the age of 21, she was ultimately denied admission to nursing school in Detroit even though she had been previously accepted. The year was 1943 and the US was drawn into World War II. Once the school discovered she was Canadian, they rescinded her place. Her physician in Windsor who had known her all her young life offered her a place in Canada. But if my mother would have left, she would have given up the opportunity to become a US citizen, so she turned it down. I know she would have been a great nurse. She had an innate and nonsensical wisdom. 

My mother was a proud and humble woman, sometimes lacking confidence. Nursing would have built her confidence. I like to think that in time she saw through all of this and realized what she brought to the table.

She gave us the gift of her extended family scattered between Michigan and Ontario. Summers would draw us together around a bonfire on a family farm in Algonac, Michigan singing “Alouette” into the wee hours of the morning. Then there were the excursions to visit her cousin, Violet Cartier, whose very large family of 21 children in Wyoming, Ontario had French as their first language. Their life was difficult, but my parents did all they could to help them. There were great lessons in their compassion.

After her father died, she became especially close to her Uncle Fred, my grandmother’s brother, who took her under his wing and brought her home every weekend to be with his family. She came to know and grew close to these cousins and especially Fred, Pauline and Lois. Fred would become a Trappist monk. Lois, a Dominican nun. I cannot overstate the impact these two in particular would have on our lives, mine especially. They were awesome loving individuals I miss to this day.

My parents moved to Florida in 1974 and I made it a point to visit them every Christmas and my mother’s birthday since. I missed only one Christmas and that was in protest of my father’s alcoholism. Otherwise, I was there.

Every time I saw my mother in recent years, I knew it might be the last. I tried to make every moment count. So I am filled with good memories of happy times. My only regret is that she never had a chance to see my home in France. 

I am also consoled by the fact that she is reunited with my father, her father, my sister and my brother. Having dealt with Alzheimer’s in the last few years, my mother has been gone for a while. She is now at rest and no longer suffering. That gives me peace. 

RIP, Mom. You did what you could and you kept us together. We will always be grateful for your strength and fortitude. You were a shining example throughout your life for us your children, your grandchildren and great grandchildren, your nieces and nephews, and great nieces and nephews who have remembered you as such with kind words about ”Grandma” and “Aunt Catherine.” Your quiet and unassuming dignity and regal bearing were noticed, admirable and characteristic of the fine person you were. 

I am particularly grateful for you having given us our French heritage. It has for me been a lifelong adventure of discovery. Not just the language, but the culture, the cuisine, and the history. While your father’s family emigrated from France in 1660, I tell people here in France that I have made the return: “J’ai fait la retour.” Who knew we would come full circle?