Skip to main content

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!
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Most Popular of All Time

The Compass of Cuba: Mom

🎄  Preview of this week's  On the Fly  blog: A Holiday Tribute to Mom. As the holidays hustle with pixels and beeps, the world scrolls along in a smartphone-y sleep. I log off for a moment—just one little minute— To breathe in the past and to sit myself in it. My mind doesn’t wander to faraway places, Or trips full of tickets and new airport faces. Instead, it drifts backward, as memories do, to Cuba, Illinois, where the best moments grew. To a home full of warmth, in the wintry Midwest, Where my mother—dear “Marcie”—put love to the test. With a smile that could melt the most frigid of dawns, and hugs that hung on you like shivering fawns. She came from La Rochelle in France, brave and bright, Across oceans and war shadows, into new light. A town full of strangers soon felt like her own, And her courage built up the foundation of home. “Oh yes, we know Marcie!” the locals would say— “It's Doc Ball’s French lady! She brightens the day!” She cleaned, and she cooked, and sh...
2 comments
Read more

Feeling Human Again

In this episode, The Unexpected Thankfulness of Feeling Human Again I’ll be honest with you: My triumphant return from France was not the glamorous homecoming I had imagined. No graceful glide back into routine. No cinematic jet-setter moment where I lift my suitcase off the carousel and wink at life like we’re old pals. Instead? I came home and immediately launched into a two-week performance piece titled The Great American Couch Collapse. My days blurred together in a haze of soup, hot tea, tissues, and desperate negotiations with the universe for just one nostril—one!—to function properly. The living room sofa became my emotional support furniture. And any creative idea that dared tiptoe into my congested brain was gently shown the exit with a firm but courteous, “Not today, friend. Try again later.” When life hits the pause button like that—when you’re exhausted, sick, and mentally unplugged—how do you find your spark again? Somehow, today, I felt it. A tiny shift. A clearing of th...
1 comment
Read more

Believing Is Seeing

🎄 In this episode, Believing Is Seeing . . . It's December, we bustle, we wrap, and we dash. We sort life into boxes— myths  here,  to-dos  in a stash. We whisper of Santa (adult code: “Not Real”), but hold on one minute—let’s rethink this whole deal. For the stories we cherish, the movies we stream, hold more truth in their sparkle than we grown-ups may deem. So hop in this sleigh and hold on real tight— We’re chasing down Santa by the glow of his light! Scott Calvin once landed in the North Pole’s cold air, with elves, cocoa, and snow everywhere. He squinted and frowned—“This just  cannot  be so!” (Like thinking tangled lights will detangle if we  blow .) Then Judy the Elf gave a cocoa so steaming,  and said something simple . . . yet surprisingly gleaming: Seeing’s not believing—no, that’s not the key. "Believing is seeing!"   Just trust, and  you’ll  see!” Kids don’t need a map or a satellite screen to know Santa’s workshop is her...
1 comment
Read more

Stamps and Snow

In this episode, Stamps and Snow . . .   You don’t usually walk into the local Post Office expecting a time warp . . . but here we are. All we wanted were stamps for this year's Christmas cards— yes, the old-fashioned paper ones that require licking, sticking, and hoping the Postal Service is feeling ambitious this week. But holiday errands have a talent for slowing you down, almost like the universe whispering, “Relax. You’re not getting out of this line any faster anyway.” So we waited. And while we waited, we talked (Are you surprised?). Because the Post Office is one of the few places where people still look up from their phones long enough to talk . . . Maybe it's because they're holding packages. It’s the modern town square: part civic duty, part free entertainment, part sociology experiment. The discussion began with holiday specials streaming on Netflix, Paramount+, and other services during this time of year. One gentleman who has lived in Vista since 1958 told us,...
3 comments
Read more