Chandernagor

Caught in the action of "Cranford", the return of the long lost brother from India brought back to mind names that had fascinated me as a school-boy in his early teens, back in the days when France was still a Colonial Power. Yanaon, Pondichery, Chandernagor, Karikal and Mahe. The names of the five cities and trading posts we had, around the Indian continent. We had acquired them in the 18th. Century, lost them to the English and the Dutch and got them back for good early in the 19th. Century. We held them till India Independence when we returned them in 1952 or 1954. For some reason, the name Chandernagor had stayed with me. Chandernagor, Chandernagor, Shand-Air-Nah-Gore.

Ten or fifteen years ago, I stumbled on an article in "Geographic Magazine" about those five cities.Their official buildings would not have been out of place in any French city in France proper. Their street signs were in the local language and French. The amusing thing I remember from the article is that at Independence time, the inhabitants were given the choice of citizenship: they could remain French or they could become Indian. Apparently, a sizable number decided to remain French and retain the social benefits, pensions and other advantages of any other French citizen, creating a new class of prosperous middle-class people whose sons and daughters immediately became extremely attractive to the less fortunate Indian members of the opposite sex.

Canford

A couple of months ago, one of the local Public Television stations showed a three part play called "Cranford". It's a period piece, written in the first half of the nineteenth century by one Elizabeth Gaskell, about life in a small village. I had never heard of it nor of her, but the cast was impressive: Dame Judi Dench, Imelda Staunton, Simon Woods, Dame Eileen Atkins, MIchael Gambon...for starters. The rest of the large cast was outstanding and the performance superb. The Brits are past masters at that sort of ensemble piece. The plots were straight out of Dickens, Balzac or any soap: the unmarried sisters, the widowed retired captain on half-pay, his two daughters, the invalid one being taken care of by the other one who had turned an offer of marriage to be there for her sibling and eventually for her father (this play reeks of devotion to duty), the poor pastor and his lovely daughter exuding charm and goodness, the good old doctor and his new assistant fresh out of medical school and full of "modern" knowledge, the lady of the manor and her son living in luxury in Italy on her income, the faithful retainer who save her from financial ruin, the ne'er-do-well and his son who, horrors, breaks down the class barrier by learning to read and write and gets an office job, and the long lost brother who left for India twenty five years ago, never gave any news and re-appears at the end, bringing with him the bolt of mousseline he had promised his sister, now alas a spinster for life. So, she generously gives it to the pastor's daughter, for her wedding gown. She is to marry the young doctor and one knows, one just knows that they will be very, very happy and have beautiful, healthy children and that there always will be an England and that little Isle, that Britannia will rule for ever. (fade-out, patriotic music).

Corn, corn, corn by the bushel. Maybe. But if your PBS station runs it again, and you have not seen it, don't miss it this time. "Cranford".

La St. Claude

Tomorrow is June 6th. which all my life was my Feast Day. It was no great big thing but everybody would wish me a Happy Feast Day and we had a special meal at home and a small gift or two. I liked my Feast Day. Truth be told, I even felt a secret pleasure in the fact that the landing of the Allied Forces in Normandy took place on June 6th. 1944. No connection evidently, but nevertheless a certain modicum of pride.

And then, the Catholic church moved things around for what reason, I'll never know, and all of a sudden, my Feast Day was kicked back to cold February on the 15th. (small consolation to be placed right after St. Valentin, on the 14th., getting the dregs as it were). And on June 6th., they installed Norbert in my place. Sic transit...

Well, tomorrow I'll be opening a bottle of California champagne to my good health, out of habit, and come to think of it, I might as well have another one next February 15th. out of respect for my Patron Saint, just in case.

Eudora and Ann

In one of her stories, Eudora Welty quotes a little ditty she wrote as a child, during the flu epidemic that started at the end of WWI and did enormous ravages all over the world. She had contracted the illness and so had a little neighbor boy. They were both well taken care of and survived but, while in bed she wrote the following, to the great distress of her family:

There was a little boy and his name was Lindsey
He went to heaven with the influinzy.

And that brought Aunt Mary to my mind. Aunt Mary was an older sister of my father in law who fell and broke her hip. The news was phoned to my wife Ann who, after hearing it, put the phone down, looked at me and said in her calm voice:

Aunt Mary broke her hip,
Boo, bee dee boo, bee dee bip.

At which point I howled with laughter and tears in my eyes. You have to know that Ann was the model of poise, propriety and good manners and that ninety nine per cent of the people who knew her would have remained speechless or have a slight heart seizure upon hearing her that day. She had her moments. Damn, I miss her.

Dawn and the dandelions

My friend Dawn has sent me an e-mail of a charming story she wrote about her grand mother showing her how to pull weeds (hold the weed close to the ground, twist and pull), back when she was four. At the end of the piece, she mentions dandelions. Like most people, I'm familiar with the dandelion, having pulled a few out of the ground in my days but, for the life of me, couldn't remember the French word for it. I knew it had been the symbol of Larousse, the ubiquitous publisher of dictionaries and encyclopedias of all types for years, but couldn't translate it. My English-French dictionary (Larousse) told me that dandelion is "dent de lion" or "pissenlit". "Dent de lion" is the literal translation of the Latin name "dens leonis" or lion's tooth, from the toothed outline of the leaves. Which explains the origin of dandelion, from "dent-de-lion". They almost sound alike. The amusing thing is that the French don't use the word. They say "pissenlit" which translates as bed-wetter. And for good reason. The dandelion is known for its diuretic properties.

May Day

In France, it is the day when people buy a small bunch of muguet or Lilly of the Valley to give to a loved one. It is also la fete des travailleurs or Day of the Workers. Incidentally, the first such day took place in this country in the late 1880s at a McCormick plant in Chicago struck by the workers demanding an eight-hour work day.

As they do every year, the main Unions march in all the cities of France, their number being the greatest in Paris. This year, several Unions marched together, in a show of unity against the policies of the current government. Their demands are, like here, for increased salaries but also for legalization of the illegal workers in France. The "paper-less ones" . Mostly from Africa. 5,000 of those illegals marched at the head of the largest French Union in Paris today. A small portion of the ones in the country.

In addition to reporting today's events, French TV was showing newsreels of the events of May 1968 when France was paralyzed by an increasing number of strikes which eventually stopped the country dead in its tracks. Pure and simple. And what should be, must be, remembered is that it all started with the demand from a small student Union on one of the University of Paris campus for the right for male students to visit the female students dormitories at night...After all, French women had received the right to take The Pill in a law enacted the year before in view of the large number of abortions, which were illegal then.

Happy May Day!

Hello!

A few words to acknowledge my absence. I'm back now and intent on writing regularly (more or less). I don't have a "real" subject in mind so will write about the weather in Paradise, sort of a "wishing you were here" thing. Paradise, for the poor uninformed souls is here, Los Angeles. In California. At the end of the Continent. Next stop, Diamond Head. Gorgeous weather, in the low seventies, after several days of unusually high mid-nineties.

All right. Now that I have learned to post again, I'll say "a bientot", so long, ciao.