My family will tell you, with an annoying unanimity, that I get steamed up relatively easily. Well, you know,...... that Gallic thing!One of my buttons is the media Duffus issuing opinion regarding " The French".Most of the originators of those amazing pieces of analysis are usually media member, some how either based in Paris or vaguely related with somebody who spend sometime there. My little experience (back in the 60's I’m afraid) was a bunch of people, living in Paris and passing a good portion of there time at the US Embassy, usually getting out of there right around 4:oo pm to make it in time to Harry's Bar where among pennants of every "Proper Ivy League University" they would indulge in sizeable numbers of the "only decent Manhattan in town" and getting out only to be fashionably late to the American expatriate party of the day.People who got out of town and mixed with the people of the country will tell you an amazingly different story.The truth of the matter is that with my little experience of a dude born in France at the peak of the tourist season (1942) and having spent a respectable number of years as a "The French" I am sorry to have to report that there is not such a thing as " The French".France is a country of amazing division. The first one is really basic: The Parisian French and the Provincial French. United by the division of there strong conviction that the other group is the ultimate waste of humanity. Parisian French are convinced that they basically walk on water and the rest of the population is basically convinced that the Parisian population is almost uniquely formed of brown-eyed people because they are full of ......Beside this basic division you have, stating from the eastern border and moving clockwise: Les Gars du Nord, The Alsatians, The Vosgiens, the people of Provence, The Catalans, the Basque, The Vendeens, The Britons, The Normans and in the center of that circle, the Gascons, the Limousins, the Auvergnats and I am missing Tens more. The Northern people have a strong heritage from Poland from their ancestors who came to work on the Mines, the Alsatians have a language of their own an distinct architecture and mastered the art of Beer brewing that escape most of the rest of France. The Vosgiens and people of the Alps have also a culture, language and tradition all their own. The people of Provence ( lou Provencou) darker skin, beautiful music of the Tambourinaire and a language that sing with the mistral, the song of the cicada and the din of a hard son hitting the hills. Their own poet Frederic Mistral was the founder of a movement to protect the dialect of the langue d'Oc, united by the song of La Coupo Santo and the very dedicated Felibrige.The Catalan whose country straddle the Pyrenees also have a language of their own, In fact France has more that 200 distinct dialects that presently see a strong revival. One Deputy, in defiance of the rule imposing French in the National Assembly, did last year stand and song the anthem of what is know as Occitanie (Se Canto) also known by its name from the Bearn Dialect "Asssero Mountagno". The People from the Basque Country also has a language that has baffle linguist for century, since nobody seem to trace its origin not pout the Basque in any ethnic group. The people of Brittany are proud of their Celtic heritage, the Normand fiercely independents also have an heritage all it own, The people from Auvergne and Limousins trace back their ancestry to the Gaul and the Gascons see themselves as the guardian of the spirit of panache.A tour of France for a person on the gourmet side is bound the be a treasure of discovery with aver 75 or 80 distinct style of food, wine lover will face an enormous diversity sometime define by the side of a hill or the other. Even De Gaulle grudgingly declared,” How can you govern a country that has more type of cheese than their is day in the calendar.""The French" have however one thing in common: an undeletable memory of World War one. Imagine that you live in a country of less than 40 Million people, that a war of 4 years (1914 to 1918) is entirely fought on your soil against a country of over 60million people and that a full third (3millions) of your male generation between 17 and 30 years will be killed and a larger number mutilated or disfigured. Every little town has in the main square a monument with the name of each member of this village who died in WW1 and WW2 is listed. Those are large numbers.Of that come one thing: The French will do almost anything to avoid any type of organized slaughter. I do not know how you feel about that attitude, but on my side, even if I served in the French Navy for ten years including a period in the Algerian Conflict, I am proud to have in me some of that Peace Loving blood and also I mourn for four thousand young people of my new country, victim of a cowboy who call himself a Christian but had no qualm and do not show any remorse for sending those beautiful young people to their dead along tenth of thousand of people of the land were the slaughter was imposed.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 8, 2008
The words that should not be spoken!
Interpersonal communication is a blessed gift, however there are some phrases I would rather have never heard.
The other day, for example, I woke up from a lousy coughing, sneezing, whizzing and all together rotten night. My head was stuffy, I ached all over, to put it simply: I had a lousy cold. I decided to stay home and try to nip that thing in the bud. The next thing I knew I was scratching all over. Well it was time to call my Doctor who to my great surprise (and the offices of his nurse) invited me to come over so he could take a look. I was expecting some wisdom such as " the Doctor said to take two aspirin and call him...." You know the classic answer. Not this time. My Doctor wanted to see me! Wow! I bundled myself, drove myself to the Doctor and for a while sat in the waiting room under the either disapproving or disgusted look of the local temporary population. Nursey called my name, parked me on the scale, sat me down, introduced a thermometer in my mouth (Thanks God!) took my blood pressure and ran out, no doubt to thoroughly decontaminate herself. I wait a bit. I hear the Doctor picking up my file from the handy dispenser on the outside, a knock at the door, the door open. My Doctor, joviality personified, enters. "Good afternoon Mr. Faye. How are you”?
Now those are words that should not have been spoken! I saw my face in the mirror several time this day and nothing, I mean nothing indicated that the owner of the face was having a good day, morning or afternoon! But I could have overcome that one if the fountain of knowledge and happy character, on which I was placing all my hope to a return to the land or the livings, was now asking me how I was. A third grader would have judged on the spot that I was not well. Hey Sherlock! I am here for you to tell me how I am and how I can get out of that unpleasant situation. A little compassion, please!
Find out that I had a bad cold, number one and that number two the shrimps of the Chinese Restaurant of the other night were the reason of a whapping allergic reaction.
As I walked out of the office with my usual load of assorted and highly encrypted prescription and samples a memory came back of an event almost thirty years ago.
I was driving from Sioux Falls, South Dakota to Seattle. That was during another one of those interesting oil crisis and Congress had decided in its cumulative wisdom that the answer was a national speed limit: 55MPH. I was at the time the proud owner of a brand spanking new Oldsmobile 98 with more horsepower under the hood than what was actually needed to propel the monster to almost three times the speed limit in question. Well, yes, gas was getting expensive, almost a buck a gallon! And I was in a hurry to reach Seattle. I flew thru South Dakota, Interstate 90 was basically lined by a blur thru the Sate of Wyoming and Montana, zipped thru Idaho with just a glimpse of Coeur d'Alene and roared thru Washington just long enough to get a siren and a flashing light behind me. Police chase was not in my blood, I stopped and soon a Washington State Trooper was at my door. I can still see him: Smoky the bear hat with a brim perfectly flat and seemingly sharp enough to cut a tree, a broad face, tanned, eyes hidden behind a pair of Ray Ban mirrorized pilot sunglasses and a little hint of a smile, two fingers touching the hat brim as he said with a little friendly smile: "Good afternoon Sir, Welcome to the Sate of Washington" Then proceeded to inform me that said State of Washington was enforcing the speed limit.
Well, number one it was not a good afternoon and sure like hell I was not feeling any of that friendly Welcome to the State of Washington stuff! Those words should not have been spoken.
Somehow I would have felt much better with a " Holly Cow! You look like shit" from my Doctor and a "Gotcha Sucker, You’re in my territory and I'm gone fry your butt!" from the trooper!
The other day, for example, I woke up from a lousy coughing, sneezing, whizzing and all together rotten night. My head was stuffy, I ached all over, to put it simply: I had a lousy cold. I decided to stay home and try to nip that thing in the bud. The next thing I knew I was scratching all over. Well it was time to call my Doctor who to my great surprise (and the offices of his nurse) invited me to come over so he could take a look. I was expecting some wisdom such as " the Doctor said to take two aspirin and call him...." You know the classic answer. Not this time. My Doctor wanted to see me! Wow! I bundled myself, drove myself to the Doctor and for a while sat in the waiting room under the either disapproving or disgusted look of the local temporary population. Nursey called my name, parked me on the scale, sat me down, introduced a thermometer in my mouth (Thanks God!) took my blood pressure and ran out, no doubt to thoroughly decontaminate herself. I wait a bit. I hear the Doctor picking up my file from the handy dispenser on the outside, a knock at the door, the door open. My Doctor, joviality personified, enters. "Good afternoon Mr. Faye. How are you”?
Now those are words that should not have been spoken! I saw my face in the mirror several time this day and nothing, I mean nothing indicated that the owner of the face was having a good day, morning or afternoon! But I could have overcome that one if the fountain of knowledge and happy character, on which I was placing all my hope to a return to the land or the livings, was now asking me how I was. A third grader would have judged on the spot that I was not well. Hey Sherlock! I am here for you to tell me how I am and how I can get out of that unpleasant situation. A little compassion, please!
Find out that I had a bad cold, number one and that number two the shrimps of the Chinese Restaurant of the other night were the reason of a whapping allergic reaction.
As I walked out of the office with my usual load of assorted and highly encrypted prescription and samples a memory came back of an event almost thirty years ago.
I was driving from Sioux Falls, South Dakota to Seattle. That was during another one of those interesting oil crisis and Congress had decided in its cumulative wisdom that the answer was a national speed limit: 55MPH. I was at the time the proud owner of a brand spanking new Oldsmobile 98 with more horsepower under the hood than what was actually needed to propel the monster to almost three times the speed limit in question. Well, yes, gas was getting expensive, almost a buck a gallon! And I was in a hurry to reach Seattle. I flew thru South Dakota, Interstate 90 was basically lined by a blur thru the Sate of Wyoming and Montana, zipped thru Idaho with just a glimpse of Coeur d'Alene and roared thru Washington just long enough to get a siren and a flashing light behind me. Police chase was not in my blood, I stopped and soon a Washington State Trooper was at my door. I can still see him: Smoky the bear hat with a brim perfectly flat and seemingly sharp enough to cut a tree, a broad face, tanned, eyes hidden behind a pair of Ray Ban mirrorized pilot sunglasses and a little hint of a smile, two fingers touching the hat brim as he said with a little friendly smile: "Good afternoon Sir, Welcome to the Sate of Washington" Then proceeded to inform me that said State of Washington was enforcing the speed limit.
Well, number one it was not a good afternoon and sure like hell I was not feeling any of that friendly Welcome to the State of Washington stuff! Those words should not have been spoken.
Somehow I would have felt much better with a " Holly Cow! You look like shit" from my Doctor and a "Gotcha Sucker, You’re in my territory and I'm gone fry your butt!" from the trooper!
Sunday, June 1, 2008
To be a Dad
Yesterday Choupette (my Wife, Companion and more than better half since 1969) went to the Long Beach Aquarium with Denis, Sandie and Cassidy (Our Son, his Spouse and our Grand Daughter). That was one of those days that stick to the ribs of your memory and that you wish would never end. Afterwards we went to Denis’s and Sandie’s house for a little of those to rare time when we can enjoy each other and be a little part of their wonderful family life. Then life took over and came the long drive from Redondo Beach to Murrieta, about an hour and a half.
On the way back Choupette was exhausted and quickly went asleep leaving me alone with good old myself to ponder another great philosophical one sided argument,
I stated focusing on Fatherhood and the strangeness of the situation. We all enter the position amazingly unaware of the fact that we are totally unprepared for it due to one basic amazing prejudice: We are all convinced that we are going to do a pretty darn better job than the previous guy and we all are convinced that we have everything single answer possible on that subject (or know which book to find it in). Beside we are all married to a wonderful companion who also (even if she cannot conceivably have gone into fatherhood herself) has also all the answers!
Been there, done that!
After badly fumbling thru the experience myself, I know that in the average it takes you just a little bit over 25 to 27 years to find out how to be a semi decent Dad, by which time you are definitively out of business and more likely into the process of screwing-up being a semi-decent Grand Father.
Somebody said that the two hardest things life in life are to teach your children how to fly then to let them fly.
My three kids soared and every time my heart bled and to some point is still bleeding, I knew they had to go into their own space, but I have never learned to accept that their life, if it is to flourish, has to be at arm length of my own, somebody else has to become the catalyst and focus.
I was at best an OK Dad. Like others I set standards for my kids that I, as a kid would have had one heck of a time to reach, I made bad decisions and at time set bad priorities, I should have known that business cannot be a priority over some of my children milestones. An award without a Dad to witness it is a shallow event! I fell in business at a time when my family badly needed the resources of that business and went to the deep end when my children needed me.
My children overcame and are now making lives of their own, and here I, on the sideline, have to learn from my grandchildren how to make myself relevant!
Finally after two tries I think I got the answer: Dad, Grand Fathers we are all in the same boat! We are not Coach, Motivators, Goal setters or Mentors! We are only Co-Students in the great school of life! There should be a law forcing us in exile the second we feel that we have all the answers! Please somebody kick me when I claim i do!
Good Night!
On the way back Choupette was exhausted and quickly went asleep leaving me alone with good old myself to ponder another great philosophical one sided argument,
I stated focusing on Fatherhood and the strangeness of the situation. We all enter the position amazingly unaware of the fact that we are totally unprepared for it due to one basic amazing prejudice: We are all convinced that we are going to do a pretty darn better job than the previous guy and we all are convinced that we have everything single answer possible on that subject (or know which book to find it in). Beside we are all married to a wonderful companion who also (even if she cannot conceivably have gone into fatherhood herself) has also all the answers!
Been there, done that!
After badly fumbling thru the experience myself, I know that in the average it takes you just a little bit over 25 to 27 years to find out how to be a semi decent Dad, by which time you are definitively out of business and more likely into the process of screwing-up being a semi-decent Grand Father.
Somebody said that the two hardest things life in life are to teach your children how to fly then to let them fly.
My three kids soared and every time my heart bled and to some point is still bleeding, I knew they had to go into their own space, but I have never learned to accept that their life, if it is to flourish, has to be at arm length of my own, somebody else has to become the catalyst and focus.
I was at best an OK Dad. Like others I set standards for my kids that I, as a kid would have had one heck of a time to reach, I made bad decisions and at time set bad priorities, I should have known that business cannot be a priority over some of my children milestones. An award without a Dad to witness it is a shallow event! I fell in business at a time when my family badly needed the resources of that business and went to the deep end when my children needed me.
My children overcame and are now making lives of their own, and here I, on the sideline, have to learn from my grandchildren how to make myself relevant!
Finally after two tries I think I got the answer: Dad, Grand Fathers we are all in the same boat! We are not Coach, Motivators, Goal setters or Mentors! We are only Co-Students in the great school of life! There should be a law forcing us in exile the second we feel that we have all the answers! Please somebody kick me when I claim i do!
Good Night!
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