The Little Words Mean the Most

Simone arrives on earth: July 23, 1948 ~ Happy birthday, you

 

June 6, 1944: The Allies force a massive landing across the cold-water beaches of Normandy against heavy German resistance and unfavorable weather.

         World War 2 was entering its final year in Europe.

         There was supposed to be a simultaneous invasion of southern France the same day. It would drive an irresistible anti-Fascist bulldozer north up the Rhône valley, from the Mediterranean to Switzerland. It would pinch German divisions between two well-supplied opposing forces.

         Sounded good on paper.

         But in the end there just weren't enough Allied troops and landing ships to strike France top and bottom at the same time. The southern invasion was postponed. It finally began on August 14, with a massive demonstration of Allied naval and aerial firepower. Troop landings came the next day.

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Before then, that same August, an intelligent and fit young man was riding his bicycle in a southern French city.

         His name: Georges Joyaux. He'd grown up in "Beautiful Nice," on the French Riviera. Not a child of privilege; far from it. But smart; like his brother, Fernand. Family lore says they'd been a handful in school. Now Georges was himself a teacher in the small Mediterranean port of Menton.

         And now he spotted a checkpoint ahead.

         Germans and French police were stopping everyone, examining papers; fishing for fugitive Jews (this far edge of France harbored many). Fishing, too, for fit, troublemaking-inclined young men on bicycles who might be in the Resistance.

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The Germans were understandably jumpy.

         Up north, Allied forces rampaged.

         They'd broken out of Normandy. Every battle now went their way. Generals like Patton and Eisenhower and Montgomery were fast becoming legends. The Allies pushed hard to liberate Paris, a huge symbol on the world stage. As long as their war machines were fueled (something of a problem, thanks to clogged northern ports), Allied motorized divisions were unstoppable. Allied pilots owned the skies. Allied troops owned the ground and enjoyed total freedom to maneuver. German forces up north were collapsing fast ... a broken umbrella pelted by exploding hail ... and everyone in southern France knew it. The Allies' amazing propaganda offensive (some of the best war reporters and psych warriors on earth) saw to that.

         Wondering who these "Allies" were?

         D-Day beach swarmers included (in some sort of order) the UK, France, Poland, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, the US, Belgium, Czechoslovakia, Greece, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Norway, South Africa, Southern Rhodesia.

         Vs. Germany and Italy.

         It was the biggest industrialized middle-finger ever built.

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So Georges is on his bike: no sign yet of the Allies in Southern France. Rumors fly. Insiders know General de Gaulle has argued hard for the capture of major southern ports like Marseilles and Toulon. The French Resistance has been on high alert for months. Relief is in the air.

         And Georges is approaching an inescapable checkpoint, carrying a concealed pistol, which in German eyes was an automatic death sentence.

         As, Andrée, one of Simone's five siblings recounts:

         "I always heard the story as dad saw the Germans and knew he’d get arrested with the pistol. So he faked a spill on his bike near a street drain and threw the pistol down the drain. But of course I may be completely wrong about that!" Sounds successful to my ears.

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Georges told me the same story. He told me a little bit more.

         When he was stopped, Georges had a quick, frank talk with the French policeman clutching his elbow. In essence: "In a few weeks this will all be over. You know it. I know it. And you will be on the wrong side. So let me go. I'll vouch for you."

         The policeman released his grip. Georges dashed off down a side street.

         And so Simone-of-the-future's semen escaped certain death. She and five fascinating siblings would follow.

         Enter Jane.

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Life is serendipitous: those you meet; mostly those hoards you don't meet. How many could you meet, after all ... with 8+ billion humans and counting (2023).

         In 1947, what's today called Michigan State University was named Michigan State College of Agriculture and Applied Science. It had been an early pioneer in co-education and integration. It was the first year of the Cold War.

         After the Second World War, Michigan State expanded rapidly. Its visionary president John A. Hannah flooded the campus with ex-serviceman pursuing a college degree on the G.I. Bill. Also included: Allies from European countries. Georges, who'd joined the French army after the invasion, was one.

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In East Lansing, Michigan, Jane Peckham, artsy and tart; milk-fed and attractive; an accomplished equestrian; finds herself sitting next to a handsome Frenchman with a big laugh: Georges Joyaux.

         Georges pays attention to the lecturer. But she sees he's not taking many notes. She leans over and asks why. "I just write down what I don't know," he replies. Repeat that in your head, with abrupt honesty; spoken with a thick-as-sheep's wool French accent and a shrug. You get the picture.

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So Jane and Georges met in class. As fairy tales say: Jane and Georges eventually ran up a hill, to get a pail of water.

         To summarize Darwin: What is life really about? Reproduction of the species. Knickers flew the coop. Sim One was conceived. Jane and Georges wed before her birth at Sparrow Hospital in Lansing, Michigan. Simone was intensely proud of being their "love child": the child who sealed the marriage of Georges and Jane.

         Over two decades, another five children would emerge. The last were twins, Andrée and Paul. At which point, Jane turned a flame-thrower on the nearest doc in the delivery room and insisted, "Fix it. No more kids. Do it! Enough. " Her primary care physician was there and nodded: "Do it."

         And so it was done: no more kids. Jane retired her womb.

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         Or so the family story goes, according to Simone.

 

 

Road warriors swap tales: Carol Weisman, MSW, CSP and Tom

I think my personal best was flying out of a dinky airport in NY state (with an incredible snack selection, though; kudos), to speak in Green Bay, WI the next day and the Twin Cities the day after that. Keynote speaker at 3 National Philanthropy Days in 3 days. I don't remember much except running, dragging, buying snacks, speaking; repeat in reverse.

Not to mention the time my flight for Denver from Pittsburgh left 8 hours late due to a PA blizzard. The pilots bought pizza for every passenger who hadn't given up and gone home. They promised we'd leave; the final flight was a quarter full. Landed at dawn, got an invite to Denver's best Ethiopian restaurant from my cabbie, checked into the conference hotel for 1 hour's sleep, did the gig, checked out, went home; probably crashed for 24 hours.

Or how about that time my plane taxied for takeoff in Odessa, TX (which smells of oil ... literally; it's the "drill, baby, drill" capital of the world). The pilot suddenly got a bad dashboard light. He taxied back to the gate (I'd moved about 400 yards in total by that time, none of them in the air). And, lo, there wasn't a room to be had in town. The oil boom was so hot they were scouring the jails for employees. The airline was as helpful as could be. I think I slept that night alongside some hotel's vending machines.

Or, hey, that time in Winnipeg, when Simone forgot her passport ... and I had to present for both of us. Having spent years rebuffing her: "You know what you know. I know what I know. I don't have to know what you know, too. Just tell me what to do."

Or then there's O'Hare. O'Hare's special. It's in the middle of a continent. A super-hub. Weather conditions across North America effect O'Hare's arrivals and departures. What road warrior doesn't have a great O'Hare story? Like the time all flights were grounded ... and I snuggled into a dim hallway cot beneath a thin blanket at 3 AM. There were thousands of other passengers on cots under thin blankets stuffed in the halls, as far as the eye could see. O'Hare looked like the London Tube during the Blitz.

 

Reply to a congressional candidate seeking to pick my pocket

First: My name's not THOMAS. It's TOM.

I would never give a penny to any fundraising robot that doesn't get that right. And you can thank ActBlue for that persistent mistake. They go by my credit card name, not my common name. And never asked my preference.

I can't vote in the first district, anyway; so I'm really not your target audience. I have, however, given serious money to candidate Aaron, because I like a flaming progressive; I think he has fire power. Spoken with candidate Sabina, too; be happy with her. There are what? 33 other candidates as well? Oh, my.

And Walter, who are you again? I know what you're not (your paragraph 4).

How was the opening rate on your subject line? Not exactly a barn burner declaration.

And starting with a statistic in your email is how you lose the "3-second test." (I can explain; it comes from neuroscience.)

All this must sound like criticism. Honestly, may the best candidate win. David C. did RI proud, especially during the worst of the Trump years. Little Rhody can punch well above its weight ... with the right people in office (Whitehouse, Jack Reed).

And, yes, I know no one's listening. Hi, robot!

~ tom (not thomas)