Category: A Cup of Redemption (Page 2 of 2)

I was invited by Darlene Frank, a fellow member of the California Writers Club, to join her ‘blog hop’.  It seemed like a fun thing to do, so I agreed.  She also invited my daughter, Adaire Salome-Keating, to join her as well.  So, this ‘blog hop’ is our first mother-daughter event.

Darlene requested that we answer four questions about our own writing, so this is my response:

What am I working on/writing?

In 2000, I had the extraordinary good fortune of being befriended by a well-known and accomplished chef and culinary teacher, Sharon Shipley of Sunnyvale, California.  (Sadly, she has since passed away.)  I traveled with her throughout France and Italy in her search for traditional recipes, (known as cucina povera in Italian and cuisine pauvre in French) and to help her set up traditional cooking tours.  Sharon was laser-focused on the foods and their preparation but I was drawn to and fascinated by the intrinsic bond woven by families who shared their daily meal.

As a retired family therapist, I continue to hold an interest in family dynamics and am especially curious about the ‘glue’ that holds European families together.  Is it their religion?  Is it their traditions?  Could it be their culture?  To curb my curiosity, I decided to interview the families we met.  And, because most families come together at the family table, I began to ask people simple questions like, ‘What kinds of foods did you enjoy as a child?’, ‘What were your favorite holidays and traditions?’ and ‘What is the family recipe you continue to prepare?’  That line of questioning led to over seventy interviews in France and over thirty-five interviews in Italy along with receiving a plethora of ‘favorite family recipes’ they were willing to part with.  In fact, I received the honor of having many of these recipes prepared for me in their kitchens, at their tables, along with their favorite wines and delightful stories.  This became the basis for my travel/food tales I call Savoring the Olde Ways.

Then, a funny thing happened!  During one of my interviews with an elderly French woman, I was brought up short.  Instead of a simple recipe, she slowly began to reveal her life story—along with a secret past, which included not just stories of WWI, but also WWII.  Unfortunately, within a few months, she passed away, but with the help of her daughter, I continued to research her story, her letters, journals and we traveled extensively throughout France together. What I discovered about her life—which was one filled with selfless courage, love, and honor of family, was that her greatest desire was to find out her own identity.  My novel, A Cup of Redemption, which is based on her life, is being published this Fall by She Writes Press—on October 27^th, to be exact.

So, after a short twelve-year hiatus, I now feel content to be able to settle back once again among the discarded chapters, recipes and kitchen interviews from years ago.

How does my writing/work differ from others in its genre?

My writing is driven by the interviews and the interviewees—their interests, their favorite traditions, their cultural norms and their family stories.  Because many of the stories also included the impact of war—no matter the generation—the conversations easily glided into the ‘why’ of certain shared traditions and recipes born out of poverty or sacrifice during war.  The importance of ‘family’ was very pronounced, especially when the family had suffered so much loss.  So, I write about the human experience along with the passion for food and the sharing of recipes—which tends to nurture each and every one.

Why do I write what I do?

I’m driven by my desire to understand the women and families who, in spite of suffering so much, have given their families reasons to stand up, be courageous, laugh and rejoice.  Enjoy life, because you never know what the future holds!

How does my writing process work?

I pack my car with my favorite beach chair, notes, pen and paper, sunscreen, cheese sticks, bottled water and head to ‘my’ beach.  There, I let my mind wander back and forth from the surf, to the children laughing delightedly as the cold water engulfs their toes, to the birds skittering along the lacy fringes of the waves, to opening myself up to all the gifts I was given years ago—through those precious conversations over the kitchen tables in France and Italy.  You see, I enjoy a sweet life!

Whose next on this blog hop?

As it turns out, I’m not so adept in getting my ‘ducks in a row’, but the two women authors I would like to introduce are:  Elise Frances Miller, author of A Time to Cast Away Stones and Bernadette “Bette” Houchens, who is a new voice and in the process of completing her first memoir.  Both are member of our California Writers Club in Belmont, California!  They will be coming up on this roster the week of July 21^st.   At that time I will introduce them and give you their bios and details.  But, right now they both are either on vacation or have just returned.  (Tis the season!)  Stay tuned.

You are welcome to comment below.  And be certain to check out Darlene Frank’s blog post (http://www.darlenefrankwriting.com/ ) along with Adaire Salomé-Keating’s post (http://adventuresofaddgirl.com/)

4:30 a.m.  When Marcelle awakened that day, it had been another beautiful June morning. The cool air that swept into the small open window held the scent of jasmine and the promise of early summer. She crawled out of bed and inhaled the sweet fragrance.  She peeked out through the blackout shades to see if the sun would be rising shortly. It was too hard to imagine that Paris had entered into this nightmare. How could it possibly be?Paris has never looked lovelier!

By 11:30 a.m., Marcelle and her roommate, Gené, had packed their bags-only one per person—and had been waiting for the train to take them to Bordeaux. Since 5:30 a.m. In fact, their entire Citroën crew was congregated outside the Gare d’Austerlitz station. Standing on one leg, then the other, sitting on their belongings, shifting back and forth, all were waiting. Unfortunately, they were not alone. A mass of a thousand others surrounded them, all waiting for the same trains.

But now the heat of mid-day had become unbearable and there was nowhere to go. As the sun beat down, the hopeful passengers began shedding their jackets, hats, and sweaters, as they had layered for the trip.

Gené, not able to stand still, insisted on checking for the train, yet again. Marcelle folded her jacket in quarters, placed it atop her valise and sat down. Her job was to hold their place in line. Time and time again, Gené returned with no new information, saying “Le train qui a été retardé!” Well, Marcelle knew the train was delayed! Every fifteen minutes or so, the station master had been screeching, ‘Nous vous prions de nous excuser pour ce retard!’ We apologize for the delay!

Through the din and confusion, families clustered together. Haggard mothers chastised their errant toddlers while desperately clutching crying babies and belongings to their chests. Marcelle thought of her small son, Thierry, who she had left with the nurses until she could send for him. At least, he wouldn’t have to face this madness. He was much too sensitive to endure this noise.

The piercing voice of a young woman jolted Marcelle to her senses. She looked up. The woman was asking for help with her students. She was a teacher from a nearby girls’ school and had arrived with one hundred orphans and was desperate to get her young girls on board the first train leaving Paris.

“They must be saved,” she cried out. “They have to go first! They have no one left!”

A voice near Marcelle called out, “Are they Jewish?”

The teacher blanched, shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. She dared not answer that question. After much deliberation the station master, frantically pulling his hair, escorted the young girls inside the station as hundreds of others pressed forward to join them. The teacher, frazzled by the experience, sat despondently weeping on someone’s forgotten luggage.

“I will never see them again,” she cried, “and I don’t even know where they are going.”

Placing her hand on the sobbing woman’s shoulder, Marcelle asked, “What about you? Aren’t you going with them?”

“I have no pass from the school to leave. I have no idea what I will do now.” She looked wildly about her. “There must be children left in Paris to teach—somewhere.”

Before Marcelle could respond, the teacher, as if crazed, stood up with tears streaming down her blotchy face and disappeared into the crowd.

Remaining on top of her own suitcase, Marcelle fingered her evacuation pass. Only defense factory employees were given these passes and were allowed to leave the city. She questioned whether or not she should leave, but knew in her heart that, at the age of 22 and a single mother, this was her only opportunity for employment. She sent up a prayer once again to her beloved Sainte Anne d’Auray to watch over her son and return her soon to take him with her.

The day turned into evening and the final train came, loaded up and left the station. Hundreds, thousands, who had been patiently waiting at the station, had been left forlornly behind. Marcelle and Gené picked up their bags and returned to their pensione. They now had no other choice. The next day they would do as everyone else was doing . . . join the l’Exode, the walk to Bordeaux.

Rarely do we, as individuals, prepare for war; and rarely do we prepare for war on our own doorstep.  The following is an excerpt from the upcoming novel, A Cup of Redemption.   Our heroine, Marcelle, is a young lady of twenty-one, unmarried mother of one and working the only job available to her in Paris: the Citroen factory.  Aware that the manufacture of cars has halted and weapons are being made, she still can’t fathom how the world will quickly change around her.  How can it be?  They live in beautiful Paris!

May, 1940 – Paris, France

Marcelle had read about the bombings in Dunkirk and as she and her roommate, Geneviève, dressed that morning for work at Citroen, they listened to a French-language correspondent on a German radio station, ‘Parisians, you were right to take advantage of your last peaceful Sunday.’  They looked at each other and laughed. “Propaganda,” tossed Marcelle. “That’s all this is.  More propaganda.”

But, just as they turned onto St. Germaine Boulevard, a cacophony of sound erupted; they were jolted by the sights and sounds. It was as if a moving farmyard was sweeping past them.  The refugees of human flotsam and jetsam of dazed and disheveled peasants passed them by.  Seeming not to see anything before them, people moved along not knowing where they were heading, just walking, walking.  Beaten-down women with exhaustion etched into their eyes carried infants swaddled in mud and blood-spattered blankets.  Terrified-looking children with tear-streaked faces held hands or led puppies on a string.  Older children pushed baby carriages loaded down with bedding, pots and pans.  Teens pulled small wagons with wailing toddlers clamoring to get out or get in.  Horses, oxen, and cattle were harnessed to farm wagons, carriages, cars and drays.  The elderly, with eyes glazed and faces hardened, perched on top of these conveyances clutching babies, valises, chickens in a parrot cage, or each other.

Horses whinnied, children cried, horns honked, dogs barked, but the ever-grinding wheels of this odd parade creaked by.

“Where are the men?” Marcelle asked an old woman who appeared to be observing the parade.

“You don’t know?”  Her voice cracked with emotion as tears flowed down her wizened cheeks.  “There are no men.  There are no soldiers.  They were either captured or killed.  And the Maginot, that mighty line of defense for France?”

“The Maginot Line?” asked Marcelle.

“It didn’t hold!”

“What do you mean it didn’t hold?” Gené gasped.

“The enemy came by plane.  Mademoiselles, the only French soldiers you are apt to see are running ahead of the Germans because the Germans are at our back door,” she spit out.  Marcelle gaped at the woman.

“Were you there?  Is that what you’ve seen?  The Germans are entering France?”

The old woman nodded sadly, and said, “What we’ve seen will haunt us for a lifetime, Mademoiselles.  Our homes were destroyed; our husbands and sons killed.  We’ve stepped past the dead bodies of innocent children strafed by German airplanes . . .  Oh, I’ve lived too long.  Too long.  I can’t go on.”  She slumped down on the sidewalk and began to cry piteously.