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Send Me A Postcard

“J'ai trouvé des trésors” (I’ve found some treasures). These were my first words (via FaceBook Messenger & Google Translate) to my cousin Marie Claude Papot in La Rochelle, France. 

“I have over 60 years of letters, postcards, photos, and notes written in a hand I cannot read, can you help?”

“C'est une bonne idée!” Came her response.

I’ve dubbed this “Project Translate.”

It’s been over a year now since my mother (Mauricette Ball) passed away. Frankly, I'm ashamed to say she was the only connection to our French family. During a recent visit home I decided it was time to finally clean Mom’s house. It was obvious after almost a year none of my siblings wanted the responsibility of dealing with Mom’s belongings. Can’t say that I blame them really. All the years my parents lived in that same tiny house in the small Midwestern town of Cuba, IL. she saved everything (tucked neatly away in places you’d never suspect).

Turns out I’ve uncovered bundles of written correspondence from my grandmother, uncles, aunts, cousins, and her childhood friends in France that only Mom was able to read or translate. She grew up (Mauricette Bontemps) in the small village of Lagord, France.

 As young boys, we visited France many times but the prospect of learning French terrified me and my brothers. I’m still trying to figure out why?

Allow me to provide you a typical example when the telephone would ring, one of us would pick it up and this was the extent of our conversation;

“Hello.”

“Bonjour Patrìck, comment cà-va?”

“Mom! Someone from France is on the phone.”

“Who is it, talk to them,” she would say.

“What should I say?” . . . 

“ Ca va bien merci.” (I’m fine, thank you).

Then, thinking I was going to speak fluent French he/she on the other end of the line, would cut loose and talk so fast that I would get completely frustrated and lost - Mom!

“Je suis désolé, je parle très peu le français,” (I'm sorry, I speak very little French).

Mom would take the phone and a completely transformed person would talk, talk and talk, in French, so fast that all we could do was watch, listen, and wait.

“Who was it?”

Mom would then look directly at us and say, “Tante Josiane, elle fait un gros câlin et bisous et veut savoir quand vous lui écrirez?” . . . and continue jabbering, in French. All the while, with a blank stare on our faces, we would wave a hand in front of her face - - 

“Mom, we can’t understand you. Speak English!”

It was as frustrating to her as it was to us.

We moved to the States when I was three years old - everyone wanted to talk to the "cute" little curly-haired French boy. They would look me directly in the face and say, “speak English, speak English.” Like today, there was no urgency to be bilingual. Not a soul in Cuba, IL. spoke French. However, much later I discovered my Mom was somewhat of a celebrity. The locals were very proud of the fact they had a beautiful young French lady living in their small community.

But according to the law, we were “aliens” and every year we were required to register as such at the local Post Office. That “petit bureau de poste” was her connection to France.

Since Mom always handled the mail we never really saw the delightful postcards she had received from France since 1959 after my father’s military service ended.

Thanks to Google translate I’m now going through each one learning to read the local dialect (from Lagord, FR.) with the help of my cousin Virginie Bontemps who lives in Paris.

So, I’m sending scanned digital postcards back to France via the internet - no postage required.

 "Oh . . . excuse me an email just popped in from Virginie (Envoyé de mon iPhone) with her latest translation." Isn’t technology wonderful!

Joyeux Action de Graces!
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