Christiana in Wonderland

CHRISTIANA

AU PAYS DES MERVEILLES

****

CHRISTIANA

IN

WONDERLAND

****

Plousquenice, Brittany

also known as

Saint - Caradec

The Marvelous,
Marvel-Us,
Month of May

2008


PLOUSQUENICE
Pronounced for the first time “’Plus que’ nice” just one hour ago

Our franglais
Has created the name for our own
Brigadoon,
A place
We call
PLUS QUE NICE but
it has to be

PLOUSQUENICE

because after all
we are
in Brittany

And Plou…means Parish, Place…

PLOUSQUENICE.

April 6, 2008







The Journey
Mary Oliver

A poem sent to me by a dear Soul-Friend for my birthday
One day you finally knew what you had to do,
and began,
though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice--
though the whole house began to tremble
and you felt the old tug at your ankles.
"Mend my life!" each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried with its stiff fingers at the very foundations,
though their melancholy was terrible.
It was already late enough,
and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own,
that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world.
Determined to do the only thing you could do
Determined to save the only life you could save.

From “All in the Golden Afternoon”

Prologue Poem to

Alice in Wonderland

. . .

Lay it …
In Memory’s mystic band,
Like pilgrim’s withr’d wreath of flowers
Pluck’d in a far-off land.


On May 1, 2008, The Queen of the May – not to be confused with The Queen of Hearts except for that of the king of her own heart – pronounced that this month of Mary, a merry month, would be marvelous.

“Marvel us,” she declared.


And was not in the least disappointed.

It began with the flowering of her 2007 Birthday Rose, given to her by her “belle-fille”, Natalie.


On the same day when she dreamt of the Maypole and May Baskets of yore, she received a love-ly note from her younger “belle-fille”, Colette. It reads in part:

HAPPY MAY:) I have been thinking about you all day. I left my phone card at home because I was teasing Lola with it last time we spoke. On this first day of May I will go forward with a fresh look and feeling. If I were there, I would have picked wild flowers for you and made you a cup of your favorite chai. Love from the other C or the other other C depending on how you C it. Tee Hee Cheers, have a flute of champagne ....

As Mother’s Day was soon to be, this note touched the Q otM, aka Mother Goose, very deeply.

****
When I received Colette’s note, I wrote in a private journal that I would never expect anything from Natalie near or anywhere near Mother's Day. However, I noted, I am just so thankful and pleased that we have been able over the past months to enter into truly right relationship. All of us.

Then. Several days after Mother’s Day in the United States, where Natalie had gone to visit and vacation, I received a beautiful card. It reads: "To Wonderful You You're someone who knows that 'family' is the people you love in your life. You're someone whose 'motherly ways' have meant the world to me. Happy Mother's Day." Her note, in French, reads: “Dear 'Belle-Mère' Just a note to say that I appreciate everything youdo for me and the family. Hugs and kisses,Nathalie"

Oh, my heart.

All this while entertaining wonderful angels in our home such as Nicole Roux on May 24/25. When she arrived she saw and read the article that had appeared in the local paper concerning my father and my thoughts about World War II on May 8, V-E Day, when we had attended the memorial service at the “Monument aux Morts” in Saint-Caradec. Madame Roux has just written a memoir entitled, _C’est la Guerre, les Enfants!_ Her book concerns her childhood spent in Brittany and Normandy during the war. And we found out on Sunday morning that her husband is the author of the very well-known, recent bestseller, _Fils de Plouc_. After Madame Roux left, The Queen of the May prepared all of the rooms for the guests arriving that evening. All ten of them. May 25 and their arrival was a day I had been anticipating with joy ever since my telephone conversation with Georges Renault last winter. Monsieur (and he is actually Docteur Renault, a well-known retired pediatrician from Rennes) was so absolutely charming on the phone and we had had a marvelous conversation – one that stood out very clearly for me. He had explained that he and a group of friends and family take walking tours every spring and that this year, while they were not officially pilgrims (yes, I did say pilgrims—real ones!) of Saint James of Compostelle they would follow the route very closely. I prepared the rooms very carefully, thinking all the while of Monique and Jeanette Legrand. (This is true. Read on.)

Flowers, Glorious, Galore!
On Sunday when they arrived I immediately knew that these men and women were kindred spirits; as Anne of Green Gables says, “of the race of Joseph.”

One of the gentlemen, whose name is René, looks exactly, although he has a beard, like my Uncle Bob Lougee and has the same twinkle in his eye, the same keen intelligence and wit. And a similar sorrow in these very same eyes. My Uncle Bob’s sorrow came from the death of his youngest son, John Marsh Lougee, in 1963. René’s from quite a different, yet similar, experience of the loss of a beloved.

René told me almost right away when I showed him to his room, La Coquelicot, that his wife had died 20 years ago and that he had witnessed her death. They were on a cycling tour in the Pyrénées, others later explained to me. René was behind his wife and he was filming her. She was killed at that very instant by a car. What René did not tell me but his friends did was that it was precisely 20 years ago, to the day, that she died. He has never been the same, his friends confided. And so did he.

****

The next morning at the breakfast table

our delightful guests were all exclaiming over Christian’s cassis jam, and one gentleman who was across the room from me remarked, “We are from Dijon, you know.”

“No,” I replied. “I did not.”

I crossed the room and began to tell them my story of my friend, Monique, who was from Noiron sous Gevrey.

This gentleman’s wife, next to whom I was standing, looked up at me and said, “I know people from Noiron.”

To which I replied, “The family name is Legrand.”
Jeannette’s eyes widened as she looked at me in disbelief.

“I worked for Mademoiselle Jeannette Legrand at l’Hôpital Leclerc in Dijon for 20 years.”

Thus began one of the most joyful days of my life.

It began in 1971 and continued until 1992….

Let me take you back with me, first to September 1971 and then to October 1976.

Miss Big. That is what my mother called her.

Mademoiselle Monique Legrand.

Mademoiselle Legrand was, however, quite petite. Birdlike, she flew wherever she went, quick on her feet, moving always at lightning speed.

We met Mademoiselle Legrand – who only became Monique to me years later, once she had made sure that I understood the usage of the formal “vousvoiement” and the “rules and regulations” of French culture concerning our elders – in 1971 when we had the great good fortune, thanks to Huguette Mamlouk of Diplomat Travel Service in Washington, DC (for whom I subsequently worked during my college years, cf. Part I) who arranged for us to stay at Le Pavillon Henri IV in Saint Germain en Laye during our September “European Tour.”

“Ma Monique” as I later came to call and address her was the concierge of this magnificent hotel, birthplace of Louis XIV. And yes. The furnishings were “de l’époque.” Our stay there was an enchanted, enchanting time and it is when I fell forever in love with France.

In 1976, therefore, I returned to France to study. The reasons I went to Strasbourg are in Part I of our story!
The Hood College program in Strasbourg called for a month of preparatory study in September and then a break of two weeks before the beginning of our university classes.

Our group went together to Paris for a week and after that we were free to go out on our own. We of course enjoyed that week as only 19 and 20-year-olds can enjoy Paris.

Very funny story about my trying out of our pronunciation…

We had learned in class that the accent is always on the last syllable in French. For example, noted our professor, in restaurants, waiters only hear “çon, plait,” not the complete…”Garçon, s’il vous plait.”

So I decide, intrepidly, in a restaurant where we are enjoying incredible ice-cream treats (mine was, I am ashamed to say, called “Nègre en Chemise) to try this out. I’m the really gifted one, remember.

I say, in a very loud voice, very unusual for me, not “çon plait” but

CON, PLAIT.

Oops. That means something not very nice. Gotta watch those accents, let me tell you.

In the same vein when many years later my parents, Thierry and I were going to Besançon, my father, who knew two words in French – “pain” and “lapin” – it was the war, remember, -- said to me,

“Oh, Chris. So happy to be going to (what he pronounced as)

BAISE UN CON!

(Look it up in the dictionary if you don’t understand!
Or ask your favorite Francophile!)

Oh, yes, indeed. That is exactly what he said. My elegant father.

Henceforth, Besançon where Monique and her friend, Elisabeth, went to l’Ecole Hotelière has been known as ….)

Back now to our story….

Since our arrival in Paris I had not stopped but constantly sang – I am sure to the extreme annoyance of my best friend – the praises of the Pavillon and especially Mademoiselle Legrand. Amy finally said, a little exasperated with me, I do believe, “Well! Let’s Go!”

We did, that very afternoon and strolled through the famous park and gardens adjacent to the hotel. When we were finished with our walk, I recall saying, “OK. Back to Paris now.” Amy, to whom I shall forever be grateful for many things and most of all this, said, “Oh, no. Not until you find Mademoiselle Legrand.”

I was hesitant, shy…. But here we went.

We entered (I think we got dressed up for this excursion but cannot quite remember that detail) this grand, grand hotel where dignitaries often stayed, such as the North Vietnamese delegation for the beginning of the Peace Talks with Henry Kissinger, et al (it was not unlike Le Grand Hôtel de Cabourg for those of you who remember my sojourns there years later). Who was standing there, at the concierge’s desk I remembered so well but “Mademoiselle Legrand.”

I walked timidly up and began in my junior-year-abroad French, “I don’t know if….” She stopped me and said, “Of course I remember you. How are your parents? And Mrs. Masi (my Aunt Lorraine)? What are you doing here?”

I explained that we were students in Strasbourg on a break and that we would be in Paris another week as we had decided to stay put as it were rather than tour the countryside. We were in love and as Margaret Switten of the Mount Holyoke College French department reminded me subsequently, “You can’t keep ‘em down on the farm once they’ve seen gay Paris.”

Miss Big then said, “I have a few – (when she really meant just about one thousand) – things to do but go and have coffee on the terrace and I will come to talk to you in a little while.”

No sooner said than done, which I learned was a very good approach to have when around Monique…

Et JAMAIS, jamais les mains vides!

Oh my.

The terrace just as I remembered it with the panorama of Paris.

Oh my.

The price of a cup of coffee….

****
Mademoiselle Legrand came to see us a little while later and said,

“I have my apartment in Paris. Come and stay with me for the week.”

63, rue Blomet in the 15e
…forever, forever in my mind and heart…

(I have kept with me always my “tabouret”
on which I sat
for all of our meals….

Little Miss Muffitt…
…
No curds and whey
at
63, rue Blomet.

Believe me.)

And so, we, Amy and I, along with another friend Monique had not even met, did.

(That night from our hotel I actually called my parents to tell them of this extraordinary development—this was at a time when transatlantic phone calls were rarissime, to say, I might add, the very least.)

Thus began a relationship between Monique and me that is so precious, so lovely, so dear to me that I cannot and never will be able to do justice to it in words. For this friendship, I think that I can only paraphrase Montaigne.

Parce que c’était elle. Parce que c’était moi.

She called me « Chrissy » and … « Bel Enfant » ….

I spent nearly all of my weekends with her in Paris during my year in Strasbourg. She took me everywhere, wanted me to see and experience every thing. I had to run, literally, to keep up with her.

Monique became my second mother, sister…and she was the best friend I have ever had.

When I returned to Paris on June 6, 1978 after receiving my diploma from Mount Holyoke, I lived with her – in that small apartment, rue Blomet that I so loved – for several months. Again she took me everywhere, showed me every thing we hadn’t seen earlier in Paris, took me to visit her family in Noiron, her friends in Normandy and Brittany…and her best friend, Elisabeth, and her family in Louvres, near Senlis.

She took me also, for instance, to meet and to visit often with a woman I knew as Madame Rabusson, whom Monique had met at the Pavillon. Madame Rabusson was the first guest in our teeny tiny studio in the 20th arrondissement after my marriage. We had “crevettes grises” and lasagna.

She arrived from Boulevard Péreire in a taxi.

I learned later, much later, that Madame Rabusson was actually… Madame Eyquem Rabusson. That is correct.
As in… Eyquem. (Relationship with Montaigne? I do not know.)

On the night I met Christian, the gentlemen were discussing Sauternes. Now. I never talk about Madame Rabusson or at least about her title.

But that night, that night. I got up from my seat to the right of Louis (an honor that I recognized silently that evening), very impolitely to be sure, and went over to Christian and whispered in his ear, “I knew Madame Eyquem.” And I had. She gave me salt and pepper shakers that I have with me in Saint-Caradec for my first engagement and then for my first marriage a “cocotte-minute” SEB.

She knew I would not have a “soubrette” as she called the woman who worked for her and was worried about the fact that I would be working and having to cook when I came home. I still have the “cocotte-minute” too.

This, my friends, is a true story.

****

In November 1978 my beloved Monique was diagnosed with breast cancer. She was 42 years old. She went home to Dijon for the operation – to l’Hôpital Leclerc where her sister Jeannette worked.

For the next seven years she fought with all her considerable might and main and with her incredible courage against what I believe she knew was the inevitable. Often, so often, she was so very ill but she continued to go to work and to travel.

She so loved life. So loved life.

She continued to live it until the very last.

The very last came in December 1985. Elisabeth called me at work to say that I must go. Go to Dijon. Immediately.

I did.

When I arrived, Monique had a seizure. When I went back into the room, the first thing she said was, “Il faut que Chrissy mange. Donne-lui une orange.”

I saw Monique for the last time on December 17, 1985. I left for Washington to see my parents just days later.

I returned to Paris on the morning of December 30. Monique’s sister, Suzanne, called me and said, “You see, Chrissy. I told you she would wait for you to come home. And she did.”

We buried Monique on December 31, on what was and remains the very coldest day of my life – for many reasons – many, many reasons even now too painful to describe. I will simply say that this day, when my husband left me to go alone to Dijon and to make my way back all the way to Le Raincy on a freezing night when my soul was already so cold, so cold… was also, de facto, the end of my marriage. The very end of what had never been a true marriage. All it took then, several months later was the death by hanging of his grandfather, to whom I was closer than his own grandchildren, to remind me that I had to live. Had to, somehow, somehow save myself as Mary Oliver writes.


St. Caradec
April 8, 2008

Dear Friend,

First let me apologize to you for the shock I gave you. I thought you knew that part of my story and also for having shared so much joy with you on a “gloomy” day for you. The return of Ulysses to his Penelope after all we have been through has been, for us, the beginning of a new and stronger part of our marriage and our foyer that includes all four Cailles. A miracle.

Now on to my story.

I have always been a “moody”, sensitive person…

And then I married the wrong man for me in 1980. I realized this error soon after our wedding but just did not know what to do. It is actually a very complex story but I cannot dredge that all up right now for you simply because it is so complicated and I would have to spend days writing it.

Suffice it to say that by 1986 I was in terrible emotional trouble and add to that fact that in 1985 my best friend, who had been the concierge at the Pavillon Henri IV, and had become over the years my sister, a mother-figure for me and best friend, died on December 29. On March 12, 1986 my husband’s grandfather died by hanging in his home. I had never known my grandfathers so he had become like my own.

By June 1987 I had become clinically depressed and by September 1987 was really in hell. Every day. My husband forbade me to see a psychiatrist because he did not want me to share with a doctor any of my feelings but wanted me all for himself. I was a caged bird.

It got to the point in December 1987 that all I thought about was how to die. I never really attempted to do so with one very slight exception because I did not want anyone I loved or had loved to find me.

By Christmas I was nearly catatonic and two of my dear friends urged me to go home to my parents in the US for Christmas. I did so.

At the kitchen table one night, my mother said, “You MUST save yourself.” The next day my father came up to my bedroom and said, “Chris. Will you do something for me?” You know that my father meant the world to me and I said, “Yes, Dad.” He told me he wanted me to go to see my US doctor that very day. I did and that doctor also saved my life because he took one look at me (now down to 105 pounds) and said, “You are thinking about suicide, aren’t you?” He was the first person to say the words. I had told no one of these thoughts. I knew then that he would save my life. And he did.

When I returned to France, it was New Year’s and my dear friend, P., insisted that we attend a party he was having…a beautiful party. I danced with him (He too helped to save my life) and while we were dancing and you have seen me dance so you know, I thought: I AM GOING TO LIVE.

I have…

Never, despite many trials since then, ever to descend to that hell again.

That, dear friend, is the story.


****

After Monique’s death I discovered that Suzanne and I shared not only our abiding love for Monique but many other interests. We became fast friends. But when I moved to Minnesota I lost touch with Suzanne. Since those awful days in 1985, however, both Monique and Suzanne have been in my thoughts daily.

Now especially with the B & B I think of Monique and her sisters constantly. Jeannette was the Director of Housekeeping of l’Hôpital Leclerc, where Monique was hospitalized many times and where she died.

I smile when I make beds as I am sure Jeannette would make me remake them! Of that I am “sûre et certaine!”


May 26, 2008

With my guest, Jeannette, to help me we called the person she, to this day, calls Mademoiselle Legrand. Jeannette to me.

And oh, what delight. The voice. The accent. The expressions not heard for so many years. Our conversation about the whole family (Monique had seven siblings.)

That afternoon I called Suzanne and spoke with her for an hour.

It was as if Monique
Had sent me
A Birthday Gift.

As if I could hear her, rolling her “r’s” as her sisters do in the way of Burgundians of that epoch,

As if I could hear her saying as she did every single day and sometimes several times a day,

“Regarde! Chrissy! Regarde!”

This day in May

Was a Miracle.

God did indeed grant me marvels…in May.

****
But we are not finished with the story.

****

My birthday morning, May 29, began with breakfast on a tray and a package from Claudia and Stan.




In it were:

The Celtic Way of Prayer de Waal

Marked by Claudia with a Salvador Dali bookmark from her 2003
trip to France to this:

"Making the bed provided them with the opportunity to reflect on God's many blessings.....'I make this bedIn the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy SpiritIn the name of the night we were conceived,In the name of the night we were born,In the name of the day we were baptised,In the name of each night, each day,Each angel that is in the heavens.’”


Blue Arabesque Hampl
A Journal for my musings,
and

A Princess & Her Garden Adson

When I came home that afternoon from distributing “Ronde des Artistes” pamphlets in Loudéac and from tea with Natalie who gave me yet another loving card and a book that she had dedicated to me by the author, Colette called….

That evening our guests, the Soergels, from College Park, Maryland, joined us for dinner. But before dinner, Phil, who is an assistant professor of history at the University of Maryland (and who of course knows of Bob Lougee, who was a professor of history at the University of Connecticut, Storrs, for more than 40 years, whose expertise was 19th century Germany), specializing in the Renaissance, Reformation and the medieval Christian Church in Germany, and Marcia, who is a social worker, visited the “Mise au Tombeau” here at our village church. This is a life-sized depiction of Jesus being placed in the sepulchre and there are only two such polychromes in France. (An article will be in tomorrow’s paper!)

Dinner was a combined celebration of my birthday and the Soergel’s 25th wedding anniversary.

First a sword…for the champagne…

Then

Plateau de fruits de mer (yet another oyster first for Marcia)
Saumon poché avec sa sauce Hollandaise
Asperges blanches
Pommes de terre vapeur

And for dessert, my favorite—

Vacherin aux Framboises.

Before they left the next morning as he wrote in our guest book and saw once again our tagline, “Entertaining Angels”, Phil asked:

“Are you interested in angels?

“Yes,” I replied. “But as in Hebrews, not in figurines.” (I forgot to mention Rilke’s angels that day.)

He then said, “Well. I wrote an article about angels. I’ll send it to you.”

(Along with others and recipes, too!)

Not ten minutes after their departure I went to my computer and found the two following emails:

(picture of a candle)

NOTICE AT THE END, THE DATE THE CANDLE WAS STARTED. GONNA GIVE YOU GOOSE BUMPS. I am not going to be the one who lets it die. I found it believable -- angels have walked beside me all my life--and they still do.
A young university student was home for the summer. She had gone to visit some friends one evening and time passed quickly as each shared their various experiences of the past year. She ended up staying longer than planned, and had to walk home alone. She wasn't afraid because it was a small town and she lived only a few blocks away. As she walked along under the tall elm trees, Diane asked "God" to keep her safe from harm and danger. When she reached the alley, which was a shortcut to her house, she decided to take it However, halfway down the alley she noticed a man standing at the end as though he were waiting for her.She became uneasy and began to pray, asking for "God's" protection.
Instantly a comforting feeling of quietness and security wrapped around her, she felt as though someone was walking with her. When she reached the end of the alley, she walked right past the man and arrived home safely.The following day, she read in the newspaper that a young girl had been raped in the same alley just twenty minutes after she had been there. Feeling overwhelmed by this tragedy and the fact that it could have been her, she began to weep Thanking the Lord for her safety and to help this young woman, she decided to go to the police station. She felt she could recognize the man, so she told them her story. The police asked her if she would be willing to look at a lineup to see if she could identify him. She agreed and immediately pointed out the man she had seen in the alley the night before. When the man was told he had been identified, he immediately broke down and confessed.The officer thanked Diane for her bravery and asked if there was anything they could do for her: She asked if they would ask the man one question?Diane was curious as to why he had not attacked her. When the policeman asked him, he answered, “Because she wasn't alone. She had two tall men walking on either side of her."Moral of the story: Don't underestimate the power of Prayer!Gives ya goose bumps, doesn't it! This is to all of you who mean something to me, I pray for your happiness. The Candle Of Love, Hope & FriendshipThis candle was lit on the 15th of September, 1998.Someone who loves you has helped keep it alive by sending it to you.Don't let The Candle of Love, Hope and Friendship die! Pass It On To All Of Your Friends and Everyone You Love!May God richly bless you as you send this story on. Please keep this candle alive
Don't walk in front of me, I may not follow. Don't walk behind me, I may not lead. Just walk beside me and be my friend.

And this:

This will give you the chills....... GOOD chills. A young man had been to Wednesday Night Bible Study. T he Pastor had shared about listening to God and obeying the Lord's voice The young man couldn't help but wonder, 'Does God still speak to people?' After service, he went out with some friends for coffee and pie and they discussed the message. Several different ones talked about how God had led them in different ways. It was about ten o'clock when the young man started driving home. Sitting in his car, he just began to pray, 'God...If you still speak to people, speak to me. I will listen. I will do my best to obey.' As he drove down the main street of his town, he had the strangest thought to stop and buy a gallon of milk He shook his head and said out loud, 'God is that you?' He didn't get a reply and started on toward home. But again, the thought, buy a gallon of milk. The young man thought about Samuel and how he didn't recognize the voice of God, and how little Samuel ran to Eli. 'Okay, God, in case that is you, I will buy the milk.' It didn't seem like too hard a test of obedience. He could always use the milk. He stopped and purchased the gallon of milk and started off toward home. As he passed Seventh Street, he again felt the urge, 'Turn Down that street.' This is crazy he thought, and drove on past the intersectio Again, he felt that he should turn down Seventh Street. At the next intersection, he turned back and headed down Seventh. Half jokingly, he said out loud, 'Okay, God, I will.' He drove several blocks, when suddenly, he felt like he should stop He pulled over to the curb and looked around. He was in a semi- commercial area of town. It wasn't the best but it wasn't the worst of neighborhoods either. The businesses were closed and most of the houses looked dark like the people were already in bed. Again, he sensed something, 'Go and give the milk to the people in the house across the street.' The young man looked at the house. It was dark and it looked like the people were either gone or they were already asleep. He started to open the door and then sat back in the car seat. 'Lord, this is insane. Those people are asleep and if I wake them up, they are going to be mad and I will look stupid.' Again, he felt like he should go and give the milk. Finally, he opened the door, 'Okay God, if this is you, I will go to the door and I will give them the milk. If you want me to look like a crazy person, okay. I want to be obedient. I guess that will count for some thing, but if they don't answer right away, I am out of here.' He walked across the street and rang the bell. He could hear some noise inside. A man's voice yelled out, 'Who is it? What do you want?' Then the door opened before the young man could get away The man was standing there in his jeans and T-shirt. He looked like he just got out of bed. He had a strange look on his face and he didn't seem too happy to have some stranger standing on his doorstep. 'What is it?' The young man thrust out the gallon of milk, 'Here, I brought this to you.' The man took the milk and rushed down a hallway. Then from down the hall came a woman carrying the milk toward the kitchen. The man was following her holding a baby. The baby was crying. The man had tears streaming down his face. The man began speaking and half crying, 'We were just praying. We had some big bills this month and we ran out of money. We didn't have any milk for our baby. I was just praying and asking God to show me how to get some milk.'
His wife in the kitchen yelled out, 'I ask him to send an Angel with some. Are you an Angel?' The young man reached into his wallet and pulled out all the money he had on him and put in the man's hand. He turned and walked back toward his car and the tears were streaming down his face. He knew that God still answers prayers.****
That morning also waiting for me was an allegory about Whitey, the mother squirrel, that Claudia Daly had written and dedicated to me, for my birthday, and to her friend, Alla. Just because.

The same evening as I was working a little bit on the computer – email and so forth – I received an email from Beth, a development officer at Mount Holyoke. This is my 30th reunion year but I had not made a gift. My classmates were gathered in South Hadley just as I sat here and contemplated the richness of the tapestry of my life.

Well, thank you, Beth. I began to think as I do so often about where I am today and the overwhelming gratitude I feel for all of my teachers and preceptors, particularly three of them at Mount Holyoke (there is a fourth but I honored him a long time ago with a yearly award in the French department for a student who excels in 17Th century studies!) who changed and transformed my life:

Andrea Sununu, now a professor of English at DePauw,
Elissa Gelfand, professor of French at Mount Holyoke College, and
Marjorie Kaufman, professor of English, Emerita, Mount Holyoke College.

I made a gift in their honor but most importantly wrote to each one of them to express my abiding gratitude. To Miss Marjorie Kaufman, for example:



Saint-Caradec, May 30, 2008

Dear Miss Kaufman,

You are very often in my thoughts not only but partially because my dear friend, Gayle, gave me a golden bowl for my marriage to Christian Caille in 2007. Yes. Christian and Christiana, a new and revised version of Pilgrim’s Progress, met in 2005 and married in 2007. In deed and in truth.

When Gayle gave me the golden bowl that is in a prominent place on my dresser in our bedroom, I thought naturally of rainbows as there are many in our beautiful Brittany; I thought also of the promise and of Iris, but most particularly I thought of you, The Golden Bowl , and The Wings of the Dove. Henry James knew his Bible, I have understood now, 30 years on.

I wrote to you and was going to come to see you after your trip to Africa in 2005 but I met Christian and became somewhat befuddled. Please forgive me for not having written or called you to say that I would not, after all, be in South Hadley in April 2005 but instead in Saint-Caradec, France. (Saint Caradec, by the way, followed Saint Patrick to Ireland!)

I write to you today as this is my 30th reunion year. I am not at MHC but here at our B & B in our beautiful Brittany, where we “entertain angels.” From afar, though, I am remembering. Remembering, as I have so often, a professor who wrote on my final paper in her Henry James seminar in 1978, “Now this is more like it!” A professor who inspired and helped me to become the woman I have become today.

As did another one of my professors, dear to my heart, tough as nails in that class and with me, Miss Sudrann, whose course on Romantic poetry I took when in my second year. She was the most rigorous professor I ever had, including you! And at that time I really did not like the Romantics although as you may remember from another note I wrote you when Miss Sudrann “passed the bar” or the veil as I prefer to call it, her words about Dorothy Wordsworth caused me to weep and to write about the keen sense of grief I felt that day in October 1975.

Indeed at that time – I was only 18 when I took her course and 20 when I studied with you – I did not understand, truly understand, the Romantics. I do now. But even then I knew that Dorothy Wordsworth’s life spoke to mine. I could never have imagined then how or why. As for Henry James, how at 20 could I, could any one of us, have understood him?

**
My dearest Miss Kaufman.

**

My thoughts are often with you, with Andrea Sununu and with Elissa Gelfand. Each of you in your own ways shaped my life. Your influence remains always in my thinking and in my writing –that many of my friends and colleagues enjoy, thanks to you. Most important of all, however, is the way in which both your intellectual rigor and many kindnesses to me touched and transformed my heart.

“Educare”— to lead out.

“Education.” The word can be transformed by transposition of letters into “Action Due.”

I attach two pieces of mine that you may already have read in early 2005 along with something I just penned today concerning pansies. If I have already sent you “Soul Sculpting” and “UTS Hearts”, my apologies for sending them again.

As Patricia Hampl writes, “I Could Tell You Stories”… but I will end here for now.

Know, please, that I think so often of you.

With my everlasting gratitude,



Christiana Adams-Caille

PS “Caille” means “quail” in French. Almost like a dove of which we have many here in Saint-Caradec, the quail is a very peaceful bird…



On to the “Ronde des Artistes” (that I have been asked to chair next year! Yet another unwanted promotion!) on the 31st of May,
Christian and I were both in our element(s),
separately and together.
We made
many new friends
of, as my mother used to say,
like mind and heart.

On June 1, “after the ball was over” …

after all of the big activities of the weekend and after I got in my lovely robe to relax,

I finally read
The Princess & Her Garden
One of the gifts from Claudia and Stan

From Princess in the Garden to
QUEEN OF HERSELF.

(“HerSelf” as Stan calls Claudia, in the Irish tradition….) As if that were not enough in addition to all of the other miracles lately for the Queen of the May, I opened up my father's Missal (Imprimatur 1956 by Cardinal Spellman and edited by one of the priests my father so admired at Duquesne University when he (my dad, that is) was the Dean of the School of Pharmacy) to May 31, a reading I had missed due to all of the activity of the last day of May.

(Feast days have changed since then.)
But in the 1950s,
May 31
was
THE QUEENSHIP OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY.

End of Part V