Last Day in Paris

Our last full day in Paris happened to be Good Friday.  Jerry and I wanted to attend Mass at Notre Dame.  We woke up early.  The sun inched up a sliver on the horizon when we traveled down into the subway.  When we came back up, the sun was only about a quarter of the way up.  The city was quiet and beautiful.  Arriving early, we gazed at the gorgeous architecture of the church.  I snapped pictures.  Not many people arrived when the door opened.  We thought it would be packed.  We unfortunately didn't realize they changed their regular schedule and the morning Mass was canceled.  We strolled around the church and prayed.  Next time, we will attend Mass.

Walking back to the subway, we stopped at an outside vender for our breakfast.  My savory pastry and meat and cheese was delicious.  I think about learning to bake such wonderful breakfasts, but I am sure the calorie count would be too much.  We took our breakfast to the bridge crossing the Seine River.  Ten feet walkways flank both sides of the bridge with benches running down the walkways.  We sat on one of the benches to eat our meal as the sun continued to make its way through the morning sky.  My husband is great at romantic outings, so I can't say Paris was romantic.  He is romantic.  I was happy to spend that special time with him.

We picked up the daughter at the hotel and traveled about forty miles from our hotel to spend the day at Disney Paris.  Madelle hated it.  I must say that the experience wasn't great.  The workers didn't smile and acted miserable, like they really hated their job.  The food we had at lunch was mediocre at best.  She melted and didn't want to do anything the rest of the time there.  Jerry went on to do some fun rides and I watched people.  The outing was a bust.  I was very thankful it was our last day in the city.  I was a bit worried.  Madelle was ready to go home.  Traveling with a mentally ill teen is not the best.  After dinner by the hotel, we went back and packed up for our train trip to Germany the next morning.

Thoughts about Paris

The city is like a lot of cities.  They have amazing places to visit, amazing food, and a lot of people.  The things I enjoyed about Paris were the sites and food, but I also enjoyed the ease of the subway system after our first day.  I have traveled the subway in Washington D.C. and London.  Paris was 100 times easier.  Some of that may be because Jerry and I are great at navigating.  I did D.C. on my own and London with other people.  But, either way, Paris was easy. 

The other thing I was pleasantly surprised with were the people.  I heard so many people talk about the snootiness of the Parisians.  Supposedly, they hate Americans.  I was nervous to go.  I can say they were nothing like this.  Sure, Disney Paris can't hold a candle to our Disneyland and Disney World, the happiest places on Earth.  In the city, we had two subway riders help us.  A gentleman, on the first day, directed us to our train and gave us excellent advice on how to always exit the subway.  The second day a young woman gave us a lesson on how to buy tickets for the train.  The hotel staff was very friendly and helpful.  Three of the restaurants we went to have the best service.  Two were right by the hotel and we went there multiple times because they were so great. 

As we boarded the train that would take us to Germany, I was ready to leave the city.  I am not a city person for an extended amount of time.  I prefer the countryside and small little towns.  However, I would like to go to Paris and France again.  I want to attend Mass at Norte Dame, see more of the Louvre, go to Versailles, see more of the churches, explore the coast, travel through the farmlands, and just hang out along the Seine.  Some day.

The Cemetery

Peacefulness blanketed the small cemetery.  The smell of the freshly manicured green grass mingled with the flowering lilacs and newly cut flowers next to the gray headstones.  The sun filtered through the hundred year old pine trees with new pine cones forming on their branches.  Sparrows flew about the area.  Robins hopped along the ground, pulling worms from the moist soil.    The sound of a car door shutting broke the silence as more people arrived to attend the gravesides of their family members.

My father came to the cemetery every Friday of Memorial Day for the past sixteen years.  I went with him as a teenager, but I hadn't visited for eight years since I graduated and left to start a new life.  Some years, my grandmother attended the ritual (I think she started the tradition), but she now resided in the care center. 

The hour we spent delivering the plastic wreaths, Dad told me stories of the past two generations that were buried in different sections.  Our family traveled to the community of Libby, Montana in the 1920's.  Family further back from that year resided in the Midwest, before that the East, and we can go back to Britain before we came to the New World.  Dad didn't have stories about them, though I delighted in knowing there were stories.  I listened avidly back in high school, feeling a connection to those who came before me.  I loved listening to my dad tell stories.

On this day, Dad wore a blue light weight flannel tucked into blue jeans.  A stranger could look at his tall large form as intimidating.  Teenage boys might have thought that at first meeting him, but all those who knew Doug Nixon, knew him as a gentle giant.  My sister and I especially knew his gentle, loving side.  His large weathered hands took ours as children to lead us down rocky paths to his favorite fishing holes.  Those same hands wielded an ax to cut firewood.  They held his new born grandson, named for him.

I wore a warm jacket, not used to the cooler mountain mornings.  Next to my father, I felt small.  Uncharacteristically, I also felt weak.  Dark circles lined my blue eyes and my skin was ghostly pale.  No amount of coffee infused me with the much needed energy I lacked.  A month earlier, I went through a quick delivery of my second son.  Something had ruptured and I lost more blood then normal.  My nurse midwife in the tiny town on the reservation didn't order a blood transfusion.  Being young, my husband and I didn't think to insist on one. 

Once out of the car, we pulled the plastic wreaths out of the back.  I always thought fresh flowers would look a hundred times better, but the expense was too much.  Our tennis shoes grew damp as we walked through the grass.  Passing rows of grave sights, we stopped at Grandpa Nixon's.  Unlike many of the older graves, Grandpa's marker was simple and flush with the ground.  Worth Helmer Nixon, born April 6, 1909, died December 10, 1977.

I don't remember much of my grandfather.  He died when I was eight.  I know my dad loved him dearly and still missed him after eighteen years.  Grandpa was tall and thin.  He wore bibbed blue-jean overalls and a flannel shirt daily, unless going to a church function.  Dad bragged about Grandpa's beautiful vegetable gardens, peonies, and lilacs.  I believe both flowers where the favorites of these two bigger then life men.  I know I think of both of them when all of my plants bloom.  I will always have peonies and lilacs to keep these men close to me.  And the robin is one of my favorites because Robin was Grandpa's nickname for me.

Besides the memory of Grandpa's pictures, I do remember him in the kitchen.  He cooked pancakes for us at breakfast.  I don't know how he did it, but he mixed up Krusteaz Mix into the best pancakes in the world.  Grandma would make homemade syrup.  Now Grandma, Mom, and I all use the mix to whip up a quick batch, but none of us make them so light, fluffy, and perfect.  In fact, I prefer not to even eat them because there is no comparison. 

My thoughts went back to that December so many years ago while my dad put the wreaths in the ground.  My parents and I were seated at the little dinner table, snug up against the wall in the tiny kitchen in our single wide trailer house.  Baby Kimberly sat in my old highchair.  My feet didn't touch the ground as I sat eating my meal of fried venison and potatoes with a side of frozen peas from my parents' garden that I helped weed during the summer.  I was thankful to not have to eat the horrible mushy peas from a can.  Yuck!!!  The phone rang.  Dad grumbled, but got up to answer.  He picked up the cream colored receiver from the wall.

I knew something was wrong.  The color drained from his face as de leaned up against the fridge, tears falling from his eyes.  Fear spread through me.  I had never seen him cry until that evening.  When he put the receiver back on the hook, he informed us that Grandpa had passed away.  I didn't know it then, but life would never be the same for my dad again.  I learned the lesson thirty-nine years later when I lost my dad because my life was never the same.

Coming out of my memory, I looked across the cemetery anxious to go to our next stop.

"Can we go see Great Aunt Rebecca now?" I asked.

Dad smiled and picked up a small set of flowers.  Hers was not a wreath.  A brown vase held a handful of red flowers which connected to a plastic spike.  We made our way across the large field of grass.  None of the other relatives rested near my dad's aunt, Grandpa Nixon's older sister.  In fact, only a few graves were in this section.  No trees shaded the area.  No one visited besides my dad and I.  Her marker was taller.  Mrs. Rebecca Bowman and Infant, 1899, 1922.  She was born on July 10, named Rebecca Mary Nixon, and died on December 29.

"Will you tell me her story?"

"Well, in the spring of 1922, my grandfather and three of the boys, my dad being one of them, set out on horseback for Canada.  They had heard of a prosperous valley up north.  They drove their extra horses with them, but they ran out of money and stopped here in Libby for work.  Once they found a home, they sent for Grandma and the rest of the family except Aunt Rebecca.  She was married to a Wyola, Montana man named Bill Bowman and was expecting their first child.  Aunt Rebecca came later by train to be with Grandma during the birth.  On Christmas Day, she had the baby and it died.  Four days later, she died.  Her husband came on the train at the start of the new year to find both had died.  She and the baby are buried here."

I felt the sting of tears at the story.

"I wonder if the birth of her baby was like that of mine with Clay.  I wonder if she lost too much blood and couldn't recover.  Or if she just gave up because of her broken heart?"  My own recovery was going slow and I had the joy of holding my healthy baby boy, Clay Douglas named after my dad.  I couldn't imagine if he had died at birth.  I was also fortunate because I had a healthy two year old boy to live for as well.  Poor Aunt Rebecca had neither and her husband was so far away.  Yet, knowing the Nixon spirit, I really don't believe she died from a broken heart.  The fleeting thought was romantic nonsense.  Our family is made of sterner stuff.  She, like many women of the day, died from childbirth due to so many things that doctor's didn't know how to prevent.  My prenatal care probably saved me and Clay which Aunt Rebecca wouldn't have had.

I stayed with Aunt Rebecca for a while.  I vowed to visit her as often as possible and tell her story to my children.  I didn't want her to be forgotten.  I was born almost forty-six years later, but I felt a strong bond with her.  Later that summer, my little family and I moved to Hardin, Montana.  Wyola was only forty-nine miles away by interstate.  She remained on my heart almost daily for the three years we lived there.  I daydreamed of stories of her teen years in the tiny little town.  I wondered about how it was for her living on the Crow reservation.  I might have been teaching a friend's descendant.  I will never know.

I think of her often still.  My heart is broken knowing that no one visits her grave on Memorial Day anymore.  When I go home, I visit with her.  My parents will be buried beside her one day.  I am thankful she and the baby won't be alone.

********************************

For years, I have dreamed of writing my stories.  My favorite author as a child was Laura Ingalls Wilder with all the tales of the old days.  The idea hit home the day in the cemetery with Great Aunt Rebecca.  How I longed to know more about her life.  Someday, I may have a niece, nephew, or grandchild who wonders about me.  Yet, how is my life of any significance?  Am I a little egotistical thinking my life is exciting enough to write about? 

Great Grandma Maria probably would laugh at me wondering about her life moving to Wyola and finally to Libby.  How hard was it to take the young children by wagon to Helena and the rest of the way to Libby in a Model T with her husband already in Libby?  I am sure at the time she thought it mundane, but I, ninety-six years later, am fascinated by the story that has died through the years.  She probably wouldn't want to tell me about the extreme suffering she endured when her twin babies died in 1909.  They were born on August 6th.  One died that very day.  There is no name in the family Bible.  I don't even know if the baby was a boy or girl.  Louis lived until September 14th.  Rebecca was ten years old.  How did her siblings death affect her?  She must have thought of the twins when she held her own baby who failed to breath.

History posses so many questions.  If we are lucky, we have lists of names and dates of those who came before us.  I want more for my grandchildren and great grandchildren.  I want all the people in my life to come alive on the page.  Of course, I am sure there are better writers to do the task, but I refuse to wait for them.  I, myself, have waited too long as it is.  In the last two years, I have lost my last grandparent, my father, an aunt, and an uncle.  Yes, I listened to their stories over the years, but I have also forgotten them. 

We can learn a lot from our elders.  Mine are quickly fading away.  Hell, I am fifty years old.  I am becoming an elder.  So, I begin my journey of writing about my past for better or worse.  I may be entertaining.  I may be boring.  I may bring enlightenment and wisdom, or not.  Either way, this is my story. 

I will use my imagination on the fine details.  Like in the story of the cemetery, I haven't a clue what either my dad or I wore.  Our spoken words are definitely not verbatim.  However, the episode did happen.  Others may remember the stories differently.  I do hope that someday people read the stories and learn of my amazing father, my mother, my supportive husband, the gifts of my children, the journey of my sister and I, and all the other great and not so great people that came and went in my life.  We may only be remembered by a few, but remembered we will be. 

And if after you read these stories, you find yourself in Libby, Montana, please stop by the cemetery off of Highway 2.  Say hello to Mrs. Rebecca Bowman who died too young at the age of 23.  Give her my love and tell her she hasn't been forgotten.

The Monstrous Eiffel Tower

In preparation for my trip to France and Germany, I read the historical novel "Paris" by Edward Rutherfurd.  The story spanned many generations of characters.  The storyline which fascinated me the most was about a young man who worked for Gustav Eiffel.  Since I came home, I have read up a little on the Eiffel Tower and Gustav.

My first surprise was that Gustav, a French civil engineer, built the Statue of Liberty in 1881.  Six years later, he began work on the tower after buying the copyrights from the original designer.  Of course the tower was named after Eiffel, which I didn't know before reading the novel.  Many people opposed the construction.

 We, writers, painters, sculptors, architects and passionate devotees of the hitherto untouched        beauty of Paris, protest with all our strength, with all our indignation in the name of slighted French taste, against the erection … of this useless and monstrous Eiffel Tower … To bring our arguments home, imagine for a moment a giddy, ridiculous tower dominating Paris like a gigantic black smokestack, crushing under its   barbaric bulk Notre Dame, the Tour Saint-Jacques, the Louvre, the Dome of les Invalides, the Arc de           Triomphe, all of our humiliated monuments will disappear in this ghastly dream. And for twenty years … we shall see stretching like a blot of ink the hateful shadow of the hateful column of bolted sheet metal.^{[8]  Wikipedia}

The tower was built for the 1889 Exposition Universelle.  The contract stated that in 20 years time the tower had to be dismantled.  I can't envision Paris without the tower.  I am so thankful the French government decided to let the beauty stand.  In the early days, noted visitors included Buffalo Bill Cody and Thomas Edison visited the site.  I walked in the footsteps.

As for myself, I marveled at the structure.  I have a fascination of beautiful bridges and the Tower did not let me down.  Of course, I am afraid of heights, so at the second floor, my nerves almost got the best of me as we wound our way around all the metal to reach the elevator to the summit.  In the novel, the author talked about Eiffel taking the stairs to the top everyday.  I can't even imagine.  I turned my head towards my husband's chest not daring to look out.

I cautiously took a step up to the windows at the top.  My stomach would have leaped out of my throat if it weren't as scared as myself.  Looking over the city, the beauty settled my fear.  My family coaxed me to take the stairs to the last landing at the very tip top.  I gazed into Eiffel's office.  People milled about making me a little jumpy, but I enjoyed the view.  The drizzle of the rain was cold, so we didn't stay very long.  On the way down, I felt 100 times better and enjoyed looking out the windows of the elevator.  I would definitely go up again.

On our way back to the hotel, I found fun art to take pictures of on our walk.  I also caught a glimpse of George Washington.  What a fun day!

To Let Go

As I mentioned a long time ago, I signed up for a twelve week class about mental illness.  I finished up the course about two weeks ago.  I learned a few new things.  I met some amazing people who understand, truly understand.  They are in the proverbial trenches as well.  My last night before I left for class, I had an episode in my life that had me spinning.  I went to get my survey out of my binder when a piece of paper fell out.  It was a list of "To Let Go" statements.  Boy, did I need them at the moment.

I have a few people in my life struggling with mental illness.  I only talk about Madelle because I have her permission.  I haven't asked the others if I can write about them.  I can also write about myself, but I find that is a bit lame.  I have only had a little depression.  Sure, it can be tough, but nothing like what those around me go through.  I found while I wrote my responses to the statements, I would think about different people.  I found it interesting that at times I was thinking about those without mental illness that judge others so harshly and won't budge on their judgment. 

At any rate, the statements are underlined and italicized.  My responses follow.  Many of the statements have similarities as do my answers.  I could consolidate them, but I want all my readers to have the opportunities to read them in their original form in case one strikes a cord that might not if I changed them.

Mental illness is a huge issue in our communities.  So many people runaway from the issues whether in themselves or others.  Many of our extreme cases are homeless or in prison because there is no one to take care of them.  I am not mentally ill and struggling through the medical system was hell on earth.  I can't imagine having to do all the phone calls and stuff when in a mental breakdown.  I could go on and on, but will cut my soapbox short. Here are the statements.

* To let go does not mean to step caring.  It means I can't do it for someone else.

Letting go can be excruciatingly hard.  When I let go in the past, I have done so out of frustration.  I try to convince myself that I don’t care. Frankly, sometimes I don’t care for a short amount of time.  The attitudes of people with mental illness can be taxing at best. Other times, I let go for a bit just to regroup and take care of myself.  I also end up caring again which puts me back in the middle of the situation. I wish I had a button that I could turn off to allow me to let go and not care to the point that my heart hurts.

* To let go is not to cut myself off.  It's the realization I can't control another.

On a good day, this works.  I let go and let the person talk/vent.  I just listen and know that I can’t fix their problems.  Unfortunately, I want to be in control. I want to fix it.  Of course, on bad days, I let go and cut myself off from contact for a time.  The mental illness becomes too much for me to bare.

* To let go is to allow someone to learn from natural consequences.

Oh, this is so hard when the person is a loved one.  I want to step in and protect them. I want to make it better.  Alas, I can’t. If I step in, I tend to make the relationship worse.

* To let go is to recognize when the outcome is not in my hands.

So very true.  Even though I am the mother, Madelle’s education is not in my hands.  Yes, I can encourage, but the work has to hers, not mine. I can’t force her.  I have tons of other examples of my not having control in many other situations with many others as well.

* To let go is not to care for, but to care about.

I can’t take care of many people in my life with mental illness.  I do care about them. But ultimately, they have to care about what happens to themselves and do the work themselves.  I can’t do it for them.

* To let go is not to fix, but to be supportive.

I am horrible at this.  I want to fix it. Sure, I am supportive, but I also can’t keep my mouth shut.  I have to give suggestions on how to fix everything. I would think I could learn.  Sometimes I do well, but I inevitably find myself suggesting how a person can fix their lives.  I come off as a know it all when I just want to fix. Hopefully someday I will learn to just listen.

* To let go is not to judge, but to allow another to be a human being.

We all judge.  I believe it is part of human nature.  I work hard at not judging and I fail quite often.  I know I am getting better at refraining from judging and keeping my opinions to myself at times.  I find I am becoming more empathetic, though I have work to do. I watch other people judge my dear daughter and think they need to let it go.  But again, that is something I am not in control of. I know many people don’t like her at the moment and may never like her. They are missing out.  They don’t understand mental illness. I try to explain, but they have to do the work to see behind the quirky, harsh personality traits.

* To let go is not to expect miracles, but to take each day as it comes, and cherish myself in it.

I truly think I have reached this.  At the moment, my daughter is doing amazing.  She has worked hard and doing well. She is working about six hours a day on school work, art, writing, and hiking.  She is hoping to get into an alternative school next fall. She is happy. She hasn’t cut in almost a year. The anxiety and panic still trip her up.  They probably always will. I am enjoying the good times we are having. It could change tomorrow. We have no idea or control.

* To let go is not to criticize or regulate anybody, but to try to become what I dream I can be.

At the beginning, I tried to regulate Madelle when she started using her voice.  She can be very harsh and judgmental. But, then I thought why? I could fight with her and risk her losing her voice.  Risk her cutting again and risk her becoming suicidal again. I am not going there. Yes, she upsets people and they end up not liking her.  That is her burden, not mine. Frankly, it is also their burden.  Well, it is mine when people go off about her attitude to me. But I “let it go.”

* To let go is not to regret the past, but to grow and live for the future.

There are so many things I could regret: not taking her out of the private school a year sooner, not seeing the signs of her illness, being a tough boot strap mom, and the list could go on and on.  I know I have loved her and others with all my heart. I have screwed up. I will screw up again. I am human, far from perfect. I can only handle the here and now. I will live in the moment.

* To let go is to fear less and love more.

I would love to say that I don’t fear the outcome of the mental illness that shadows relationships in my life.  Or should I say worry? I worry about the future. Where will we all be in the next ten years? But, I refuse to let the fear or worry cripple me.  I will continue to love and live.

The Louvre

Growing up, I don't remember an appreciation of art in the form of the greats.  I knew nothing of Monet, da Vinci, or Michelangelo.  Our home didn't have any pieces of "art" of known artist.  On the walls, we did have my aunt's pieces.  Mom also displayed two of my string art pieces that I had done at youth group.  I do remember loving the stained glass window at church of Jesus praying in the garden.  I also loved the crucifix at the local Catholic Church.  My cousin fascinated me with how she could draw, but I had no talent.  I also loved watching my friend Joe do a piece in class.

I began taking note of art when I was hired at the Ben Franklin Frame Shop.  Seeing the pieces come into the store, I studied the local artists of Montana and around the United States.  I was determined to have some good pieces in my house.  I have a few outdoor scenes and religious pieces.  None are of "known" artists.  I also have a piece of my aunt's art.  The entertaining part is by the time I could start collecting I decided I really prefer my own photography.  But I do love to go to a good museum.

The Louvre originally  was built in the late 12th to 13th century as a palace and fortress by Philip II.  In 1682, the Palace of Versailles became the residence for Louis XIV.  The Louvre housed the royal collection, including Greek and Roman sculptures.  Over the centuries, the palace developed into the art museum of today.  There are approximately 38,000 objects in 782,910 square feet museum.  I only saw a small fraction and it was magnificent.

The day started out questionable.  I messed up and bought the wrong tickets.  The problem was we were so confused when they turned Madelle and I away, but they let Jerry through with his ticket.  Madelle panicked and wanted to just go back to the hotel.  She only does well with Jerry and he was on the other side of the ticket area.  I waved him back.  Seeing panic in your child's eyes is a tough situation, but I wasn't going to let her miss out on The Louvre.  I told her she would not be going back.  We went to sit down while Jerry went for the right tickets.  She turned her back to all the world and regrouped.  Once he returned with the tickets, she had gathered herself and we made it into the museum.  The first sculpture grabbed her attention and she was enjoyed herself.

Because of the panic, we didn't get headphones to learn or a map to guide us.  We just wandered.  Jerry worked at reading the French signs.  Madelle insisted we stick together, so I didn't get to engross myself in the art like I normally do.  Instead, I watched her and snapped pictures.  Really, the experience was overwhelming in its magnitude of people, space, and beauty.  I would love to go again by myself to take notes and learn. 

A few of my favorite sculptures.

As we went through the Christian paintings, I marveled at the Crucifixion pieces.  We saw them on a Wednesday and in two days we would be remembering the event since it was Good Friday.  I loved that we visited and saw these great works during Holy Week.

Part way through this section, Madelle turned to me upset.  "They aren't even stopping to really see the art," she observed.  I began watching the people.  The majority of them just walked through with a glance left and right.  A handful of people actually stopped and looked at the artwork.  "I am kind of glad though," I commented, "this way we get to appreciate it more without the crowds keeping us from the art."  She liked this thought and we continued on looking.

Finally, we came to the room with the Mona Lisa.  People were stopped here.  The room was huge and it was shoulder to shoulder.  I worried Madelle would get anxious.  "Do you want to go up front?"  Her eyes had grown large with wonder and she nodded.  We put her between us and went forward.  She did wonderful and was delighted to see the beautiful lady.  I loved her as well.

After seeing one of the most famous paintings in the world, we escaped the chaos and found the gift shop.  We picked up a couple of things.  Madelle was finished with the museum.  Jerry wasn't, so we found some stairs and went down to the lower level and found a section with hardly any people.  This was my favorite spot.  The display was a lot of sculptures of scenes from Jesus' life.  We spent a little time in this area and then made our way out of the museum which wasn't easy.  There is a huge mall in one section, but Madelle was done.

Outside, we breathed in the fresh air.  We found a crepe restaurant and had the best French lunch of the vacation.