A Day of Remembrance and Love
May 1, 2020
MUGUETS – LILLIES OF THE VALLEY

Excerpt from Searching for Family and Traditions
at the French Table, Book Two

Josiane rolled through the main part of the city, Richelieu, then hung a left and headed to the east as we started out of the city. Our time in the Loire Valley was coming to an end.

In the street, next to the curb, two small boys stood near a table set up with an umbrella and two plastic chairs. The smaller boy held a tiny bouquet of flowers in his hands, waving to passersby.

“What are they selling?” I asked, craning my neck in the process.

“His sign says ‘Muguets.’ He is selling lilies-of-the-valley. Oh my, this is May 1, isn’t it? This is a national holiday—Labor Day. Oh, my, this is the day my mother would always send a small bouquet to me.” She hesitated.

“And this is the first year since her death that . . .” Josiane stopped. Tears suddenly appeared, surprising even her.

“Oh, Josiane, I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “I know how much you miss your mother.” She nodded her head.

“What a sweet gesture,” I said, “to send you flowers each May Day.” I paused.

“I, too, have sweet memories of May Day. When we were kids in Nebraska, we used to make May baskets filled with forget-me-knots and candy mints and delivered them to those we loved.

And years later, while traveling with my sister, Melody, in Arles, France, we learned that lilies-of-the-valley were given to those we love. I was surprised when my dear sweet sister purchased a small bouquet–for me. Wait! Stop the car, will you? I want to buy a bouquet.”

Josiane pulled off the main road, and I jumped out of the car and headed directly toward the boys. Suddenly it dawned on me I had no idea what to say. (My French was still deficient.) I turned and humbly waited for Josiane, my intrepid French translator to once again bail me out.

In the meantime, the older boy leaped up from his chair, almost knocking the younger one to the ground in order to reach their prospective customers. Being the big brother—he looked at least seven years old—he must have decided he could handle this sale alone. But upon reaching us, he stood with his hands stuffed up his coat sleeves. It was a chilly morning.

The smaller boy, probably five years old, began to howl after his brother, but swiftly made his way over to us, pushing his brother aside. A thin cardboard sign that hung around his neck, laid limp against his red and blue parka. Prominently displayed on the sign were the words: MUGUET – 2,00 Euro.

In his hand, he clutched a small fistful of flowers. He smiled shyly, revealing a missing tooth, and held the flowers aloft for us to see. And, to smell. We took turns sniffing the delicate scent.

“I have to have a picture of these two,” I said, as I raced back to the car for my camera. “Do you think it would be okay?” I yelled over my shoulder. “Should we check with their mother?”

Josiane, in the meantime, had bent down to talk with the boys. “We would like to buy two bouquets, if you have them. And could you ask your mother if she would give permission to have an American journaliste take your picture?”

“Our picture? By an American?” they said in chorus, their dark blue eyes bulging with excitement.

“Yes, by an American.”

The two almost flattened each other as they scrambled toward the open window overlooking the street. Both bellowed into the window to get their mother’s attention. A curly-haired woman—presumably, their mother—poked her head out from behind the lace curtains. A look of surprise swept her face. Josiane walked over to the window and kindly asked permission from the woman, who smiled and nodded vigorously.

By the time Josiane returned to me, the boys were already posing for the camera. One inched forward, pushing the other behind; the older one ruffled the younger one’s red hair as he squawked in protest; then the older boy poked the younger one’s hand to pull it down and out of sight. The two finally fidgeted into place and faced me, toothed and toothless grins spilling onto my lens, a small forgotten bouquet drooping in one clenched fist. Click!

“Perfect! C’est parfait! Vous êtes adorable,” I said to the boys. I handed them several euros for the flowers. They blushed, then bounded back to their table to fetch the flowers and make change. I waved off the change and turned to hand a bouquet to my dear friend.

“Happy May Day, Josiane,” I said.

“Merci,” said Josiane, accepting my gift. “Isn’t life sweet?”

It is due to be published in August 2020, and can be pre-ordered here on Amazon