Start by knowing very little.
Commence par en savoir très peu.
That your mother always told you, “We’re French and Indian.”
That she said your grandmother swore in French. But on the day, as a four-year-old, you swore at a car, in English in a parking lot—little black-patent-leather shoes and pretty dress notwithstanding—it was because, so your grandmother admitted, she had sworn in front of you while driving. (You have no memory of ever riding with your grandmother.)
Question why (pourquoi) you don’t remember your grandmother ever speaking French.
But perhaps she did?
Your mother says she sang in French, too, which you also don’t recall.
Remember the stories you only just heard in the past few years: that one of your French great-grandmothers had the voice of an angel (un ange) and would have sung for the USO, but her husband forbade it. That your grandmother walked the cargo railroad tracks bridge (très dangereux!) to cut the time it took her to get to school: all French, no English speaking allowed.
Question again: pourquoi (why) did you never hear your grandmother speak French?
Turn the question into yet another question: why have you always inexplicably loved French? Even though it never started coming to you, until now?
Wait.
(Attends.)
Sudden memory: a black and white photograph of your grandmother in the Stickley rocker that is now in your bedroom. On each knee, a baby. One is you.
Did she sing to you?
Fast forward, decade upon decade.
Be amused, in that special way we are sometimes amused by our past selves—for whom we feel tenderness and the wisdom of having grown far beyond that time. Because you found among all the things your mother saved from your childhood… your very first term paper. The title? C’est Moi.
Realize that now that your mother is freshly gone from this world, so are the many, many stories she held that might have connected you to your French heritage. Perhaps your mother had names of French family members, even contact information. Maybe she could have helped you find Camille.
Find it also oddly (and a little sadly) amusing: why did you not think of all this earlier? Why did you not consider that Camille’s name was French?
Remember, in hazy tones, a lone driveway, with lilacs bordering. How Camille would pick the lilac clusters and harvest the petals from them into… was it baskets? You were too small, you don’t recall. But you do know how lavish it felt when Camille said you and your sister were brides, and she scattered the petals in your path and over your hair and in the air as you walked down the drive…and smiled…and smiled…and smiled.
To this day, you still love lilacs and you wept when the neighbor cut down the flourishing bushes to the side of your tiny Tudor. Then you replanted a lacy barely-lavender variety in the back yard, near the looking-glass ball your mother gave you. The looking-glass catches the lacy blooms in its azure-rainbow face in spring. It brings back memories. It makes you think, maybe you can still find your French family if you try.
(translation: as always, L.L. :)
P.S. If you want tips on how to explore your family heritage, French or not, check out this great advice from Glynn Young, author of Brookhaven: Seven Tips for Researching Family Heritage.
P.S.S. There is nothing vintage in these pictures. Unless you count the unseen windows of my 1932 Tudor that are letting in such beautiful morning light over the piano. The poetry collection is by Andrea Potos. Cheery lemon teapot by ForLife. My beloved knife, with which I love to do so much cooking, by Henckels.
P.S.S.S. Oh, wait! The Stickley and Brandt has to be from sometime between 1891 & 1917. But that still means there is nothing vintage here, because anything 100 years or older is considered antique.
below ↓ look what happens when we shoot into the light. how the light even makes it possible to see flowers through other flowers. light is magic. n’est-ce pas? (isn’t it so?)
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