Forty-Seven at One Blow

“Beware when children make no noise.” My mother-in-law offered me this piece of advice when my #1 was a mere babe in arms.  I saw no urgent need to pose questions, so this pearl of wisdom was stored in my mental lockbox for a later time. Fast forward to the future when #1 was close to 4-and #2 was two-plus. We began to come across some puzzling bits of malfeasance.  The sole of an iron was found among it’s entrails. An inexpensive, old-style alarm clock had been completely disassembled. Metal latches on Regina’s suitcases had been successfully opened and the contents therein messily examined. But, when had these two devils done these things? Hadn’t we all been vigilant?  I wasn’t getting it: that pearl was still in the lockbox.

The day came when my trusty Pfaff sewing machine refused to sew. It protested the moment the pressure foot came down with a loud electric hum on a steady middle C-flat. It screamed, “I can’t sew! Stop it! Do something!”  You see, our Pfaff represented a milestone in our married life. As our first major purchase, it had been acquired only after haggling for a (Pfaff) house credit. The spiel was slick. This fine piece of German engineering could do everything, even thread the needle. It was guarantie pour la vie. With a wave and a blessing, the salesman instructed us that if there was ever a problem to just take it to any Pfaff store and they would fix it at no charge. Wow! That German outfit was really confident in their product.  

At the time of the Pfaff-outage I was in the midst of several projects. With the typical impatience of youth I was frustrated. Without a second thought I threw the boys in the back seat of our jalopy, & tootled off with my sick machine in the trunk to the nearest store.  Madame la Patronne, a lady of a certain âge & authorité, had a store on the main street of the old town. She greeted me with great reserve. Not, a breathy“Vous desirez?,” (What would you like?) but, a metallic “Puis-je vous être utile, Madame?” (What can I do for you, Madam?) The severity of her expression and the glint in her eye told me right away I wasn’t very welcome. Nevertheless, with all due respect I explained my purpose. With a shrift “Aha! I see,” she gave me a work order to fill out, and informed me that it would take 2-weeks before pick up. 

I dutifully bided my time, and then the three of us went to collect my Pfaff. This time there wasn’t even a pretense of politesse. “Madame,” she proclaimed loudly, before the entry bell finished ringing or the door closed. “Your machine is ready. But, know that our repairman had to painstakingly remove forty-seven straight pins from the inner mechanism!” This time she had an audience of customers and she managed to embarrass me good and proper. All I could do was reply lamely that I had no idea, I never saw any pins anywhere sticking out, and meekly utter, excusez-moi, s’il vous plait!  I picked up my heavy machine & trudged out, followed by my two partners in crime who showed not a scintilla of guilt on their cherubic faces. 

Alas! Once again I had been a Mère Indigne (unworthy mother). Later, Jean-Jacques explained. “Mon cherie, look at it her way. Here she is trying to make ends meet by selling Pfaffs. Then you come with a Pfaff that not only she didn’t sell you, but that she must pay a technician to repair under the life guarantee. All the same, it was time to retrieve this pearl from my mental lockbox: Mefiez-vous du silence des enfants!  (See beginning)

Going Native

À l'aventure!

As you might imagine we had quite a few visitors from the famille americaine.  If it was their first visit to Europe, they were about to discover the truth in the adage "When in Rome, do as the Romanians do."*  We just said to come on & everything would work out. What good would it have served to cue them in? They needed to be in shape for a lot of walking, climbing up and down stairs. They should be modest in their expectations, as we would all share one bathroom and one W.C**; They must carve out a sleeping space where their affairs were bundled safe, and where no one would trip as they slept during the night.  Elders got the beds, younger ones, pallets on the floor.  We had no telephone yet, but we were on the list.*** Our one car was the typical "yogurt pot", old, and iffy. It wasn't for carting people around, but mostly for grocery shopping. The plus side was that our postage stamp kitchen turned out three fabulous meals a day complete with wine, cheese, & charcuterie, fresh fruit, pastries, and afternoon tea. Not to be ignored, the conversation was lively after outings. My father, the old southern dentist ever observant declared, "Well, I'll be, all this livin' in 800 sq. feet!" Indeed!

My cousin Claud & his wife Carolyn praised my husband, Jean-Jacques, for his unique style of hospitality. Always generous & easy-going, he loved opening his house to members of my family or his own. For les amèricains, the night before the first outing, he would sit the guests down at our table ronde with maps of the Paris Metro. He explained carefully how the metro worked. He would suggest places of interest and indicate the metro station. Our guests were free to choose what they wanted. Next morning he would accompany them to the Maison Lafitte train station. Together they would all ride into Paris. Once there, he said a perfunctory good-bye with handshakes or cheek kisses, he exited Gare St. Lazare for work, leaving our guests on their own. This was my husbands unique immersion method for learning a foreign language, at least on a primitive level, and a crash course in acculturation. It was pretty successful, hence my cousin's profound admiration.

Probably the most astounding successes were noticed in the older set. Parents, aunts and uncles always dressed up for their Parisian outings. Wasn't this the home of haute couture? One never knew if Coco or Nina might see them and hiss: "Oh, those tasteless amèrcaines."  The women would muster up the "Jackie" look and their husbands would wear business suits. Once they knew the word, sortie****, the name of station,  end of line name, they navigated the metro like pros. Not knowing the difference between 1st and 2nd class, they travelled first class until they got nabbed by the inspector. He, assuming they were just ignorant amèricains,  courteously escorted them to 2nd class & gave no fine. They filled their days visiting historic sights, museums, boutiques, department stores, restaurants and bistros. They became so confident that if one didn't know better, at the very least they could have passed for expatriates.  Weren't they just doing as the Roumanians do?

Upon her arrival in France my youngest sister, Regina, was due to sign up for French courses right away. She was just 19, first time away from home, so excited, & ready to adapt. The very next day she would be going to the heart of old Paris to matriculate at L'Institut Catholique.  Jean-Jacques (heretofore "J.J.") set it all up for her at the round table.  Well, you know the routine....but, when he was about to take his leave she wailed, "You're not leaving me, are you?! I can't do this by myself!" He just kissed her on both cheeks and said, "You have a tongue. Use it." She returned by late afternoon elated & quite proud of herself. She had managed, but even better, she'd met a bunch more young people just like her...more Romanians.

*Famous quote made by the Kingfish on old TV series Amos & Andy
**W.C., pronounced Veh-Ceh for doubleyew(?) Cee - Water Closet taken from English, toilet only in a small closet. Bathrooms and toilets are generally separate.
***In these days it still took forever to get telephone service. One had to be on a waiting list for a long time.
****sortie - (sor-tee) exit, or way out

A Night at the Opera

Wagner, anyone?

About seventeen months after #1 was born #2 arrived. Our "new" apartment in Maison Lafitte had no elevator so, during the the last trimester I was barreling up and down four flights of stairs during July and August, the hottest months in France.* I was never a small pregnant lady. At six months people started asking me if I was close to delivery. Mercifully, #1 was already negotiating the 4 flights of stairs on his sturdy little legs. Shopping, toting our groceries, walking & climbing everywhere, was getting to be burdensome. But, #2 was in no hurry. No amount of physical activity on my part seemed to encourage my labor to begin. When he finally deigned to make his entrance he was two weeks overdue, and even then I had to be induced.

From the start #2 son announced a more deliberate pace. He moved with poise. His gaze was long and reposed. He cried magnificently with a full-bodied dramatic soprano portamento. He would stop, look slowly around the room, checking to make sure that his audience was rapt by his great aria. Satisfied or not, he would take an encore. For expert advice to new parents we had turned to an aged paperback, Dr. Benjamin Spock's The Common Sense Book of Baby and Childcare (first published in 1946!). I paraphrase, "If needs are satisfied & it's time for baby to sleep, wait at least 20 minutes before picking up a crying baby." Well, for the most part this dictum had worked pretty well. We had learned that baby usually did cry himself to sleep.  When it didn't play out that way with #2, as explained, we knew he mostly wanted an audience. His tears were quite obviously reptilian. My mother-in-law, having reared six kids, assured me that he was developing his lungs and doing his exercises. She would ask, "How else is he going to get in shape?" She also pointed that #2's crying spells were properly inuring us to future kid-noise. True to praticalité française she declared,  "There's always a good reason!" The queen had spoken.

But this was France. Apartment walls & floors are paper thin. The neighbors let you know right away when you've infringed on rules of co-habitation. Conform or begone! Hence, #2 had to be broken of this preposterous grandstanding.  We made a conscious decision with my youngest sister, our first au pair,** that the next time #2 held opera night, we would allow him to caterwaul to his heart's delight. For sure, it soon came to pass, and since we had made a decision, we followed through. We steeled ourselves & ignored him. I believe he must have kept it up for at least two hours, from about 10 to midnight. Of course, he finally gave up and went to sleep. There was nothing wrong with him. He just needed his exercise.

You can imagine that the next day the Frenchies let me have it. ---Was something wrong? How could you allow your baby to cry like that? We could not get our rest! How could you! & under their breaths, Mère indigne!*** (Qui? Moi! - Who me?) I got all kinds of dirty looks. But, go figure. Since they had been incessant in their complaints, I was glad to tell  them, "I had to let him cry. He had to learn that we were not going to pick him up. Now his grand opera will not repeat itself." There were two good things that came out. First, #2 learned his lesson & limited his performances to normal work-a-day hours. And second, I was secretly glad that my neighbors got what they asked for.

*Remember there's no air-conditioning.
** I have 2 sisters younger than me. This sister arrived in September about 6 weeks after #2's birth.
**Translation: Unworthy mother!

Setting the Tone

Da Capo

#1 came into this world greatly desired and greatly anticipated. As new parents la famille française* had primed us well. The elders taught that baby's contentment would revolve around la routine. This would be the beginning of social training, as well. Slowly, if the parents stuck to their principles, not deviating to accommodate the whims of baby, little by little, a kind of discipline would manifest itself. Baby would eat about every four hours, sleep through the night, pooh, and take naps regularly. His benchmarks would take care of themselves in a timely way. For about six months we three were la nativité. We enjoyed being new parents and #1 was healthy and happy. A move to the Parisian suburbs didn't phase our babe. He delighted in car trips that crissed-crossed the Ile de France to visit friends and relations.

At about six months, however, the peaceable kingdom dissolved. It wasn't that our boy-child didn't love his routine & our loving care, but he was manifesting his personality. He hated his playpen. He pulled up on the bars and protested loudly, wanting out. Once out, he crawled everywhere and check out everything that wasn't a toy.  He pulled on cords & dug into pot-plants. He loved poking 220-watt plugs with a metal object. Thing was, he worked fast. Once he became a bi-ped it was as if he had the genes of a Tasmanian Devil. Whatever the environment, he was off like a speeding bullet to discover the world. His little hands checked out every object. The kid had a tolerance for pain that a political hostage would envy. We all feared that his boundless curiosity would indeed kill him. Adults' attention was riveted on his incessant activity, as they jumped to save their precious possessions. At the height of this wild toddler period he was christened Touche-À-Tout, Touches Everything. The French elders would shake their heads in shock and amazement & say, "C'est l'education americaine!"**

Well, hardly. I had never been indoctrinated by my American family! Our little wiry towhead was not exactly a "Dennis the Menace," whom the French knew very well & drew comparison. #1 was a bi-lingual non-stop talker. His most peaceful & predictable  activity was singing lustily with his mange-disque.*** He potty trained easily. He loved eating all kinds of food.**** He loved his picture books.  His nature was not intentionally naughty or devious.  But, he just did not care about anyone else when it came to satisfying his curiosity. For this reason he was generally misunderstood. But for all the criticism of our parenting - until #2 was born, we let our first son teach us. And about our childrearing style? Hmm...was it American or français? You'll decide. No doubt about it, though, #1 set the tone for the other six.

* French families include the immediate, plus aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews, cousins,  in-laws, & outlaws (no kidding!). In two words, it is extensive, and clannish (in the purest sense of the word).
** American way of rearing (kids)
***Toy in which a 45 rpm record could be fed into a slit and played.
**** A quality of premier importance in France

The Dance Club

And the last shall be first....


I used to say of #7 that no one could rain on his parade. He was such a happy child that when his 3rd grade teachers sent home an "underachiever" note, his response was, "I'm just an average student." He was sure smart enough to dream up this excuse, but it wasn't convincing enough to prevent him from being properly remediated. Nevertheless, he maintained his carefree attitude about life and still made time for his pleasures. One late afternoon, early in the fall term when all sorts of activities and school organizations are gearing up, I found #7 snacking in the kitchen. He said, "Mama, I would like to join the Dance Club." I was mildly surprised because I didn't know that there was such a thing in elementary school.  Also, I didn't know that #7 had a such a strong desire to dance. He went on to say that he didn't know when it would start, but he had heard that there would be a meeting for the parents first. When he found out he would tell me.  I left it to him to let me know. Then, he said that it would be on Wednesday night at 6:30 in room # 116. From then on he dropped me little reminders just so I wouldn't forget.


Five minutes before the meeting I threw off my apron and drove to the school. I walk briskly to room #116. I found the door open & the meeting apparently underway. I acknowledged the principal who stood by the door. She was a handsome plus-plus sized woman somewhere in her late 30's. With look of surprise she flashed a toothy, insincere smile. "Oh Mrs. Darcy, come in and have a seat." I sat down quickly. How could I already be late? Settling in I gave my full attention to the speaker as was my habit in grad school.  It seemed that there was a project for raising money to buy computers for all the classrooms. I had the impression that the discussion had already been launched at some previous meeting. 


So far only men had spoken. Were there any other women besides the principal & myself? I checked: no, there were not. These men were obviously passionate & committed. On and on it went. The more I listened the more partisan I became. It seemed like a silly idea: so much money for machines that kids would only misuse and fill with viruses.  Since there was one computer brand that kept being mentioned, I was sure there was graft. The sums were huge. Or were these guys just fantasizing? I listened almost an hour never uttering a word. This wasn't my business. But, why wouldn't these guys just hang it up and get on with setting up the Dance Club? My patience was beginning to fray. It was obvious that these guys had only one thing on their agenda. 


And then, it suddenly hit me. This wasn't anything about a Dance Club. I had intruded in on the Dad's Club! It struck me as wildly funny. I broke into uncontrolled laughter. The Dads turned to me in shock. I said, "I'm so sorry. I thought this meeting was for organizing a Dance Club. It's a misunderstanding. I'll be leaving."  Sweet-as-pie, they begged me to stay on. I left forthwith laughing all the way back home.  #7 Didn't understand why I was laughing as I gave him the disappointing news. However, #7 took it well. As I mentioned, no one could rain on his parade. 

A Raffish Family

The consolation of having reared and educated seven sons may not be riches per se, but the wellspring of memories never runs dry. My posts will mostly concern what people ask me about most. What was it like to raise a family of seven boys?  These stories and musings will be random and journalistic. You might be interested to know that I write under a pseudonym for many reasons, but chief among them is not to protect the innocent,* but to protect the guilty. By writing a blog, I already anticipate a hammering from close relations. My franco-american husband quotes some famous French writer, "Les gens heureux n'ont pas d'histoire."** Well, it's not that we are not all quite happy. We mostly are. 

What I think my husband meant was that if everything went perfectly we would have nothing worth telling. I have a cousin who is famous throughout my vast family for writing the longest, most boring Christmas letters ever. One must read them just in case, you know, but only a few paragraphs at a time. (Read & Wretch.)  Once finished the reader should know that this family is the most successful, richest, beautiful, brilliant, pious, deserving, well-traveled, healthiest, atheletic, patriotic, desirable, you name it, family in the(ir) world. 

Once long ago in our world, when I was laboring over my thesis, which my husband faithfully proof-read, he stopped at the adjective raffish in a quoted passage & asked, "What exactly does this word mean?" I knew what it meant but I preferred the authority of our tattered, permanently borrowed, Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary. Paraphrased punctuation: Ray-fish 1) Marked by flashy vulgarity or crudeness 2) Marked by a careless unconventionality. The first definition we would never own up to, but to the second, always. Raffish certainly struck my husband's French fancy, hence, to familiars my husband had fun claiming that we are a raffish family. He doesn't mention it quite as often these days, but there was a time when this bon mot*** was his mantra. We were nothing if not RAFFISH. 

So, by means of introduction, our secret is out. If you are in sync with careless unconventionality you might enjoy. And if you aren't our stories will provide a bonanza of self-edification. 

* "The names have been changed to protect the innocent." Famous phrase that all children of the '50s learned by watching Dragnet starring Jack Webb.

** "Happy people have no story."

***good word