My child sees hearts everywhere we go. We have both discovered them in leaves, rocks, and shells that I can think of. I have amassed quite a collection of hearts from her — either from a walk or from something she’s brought home for me from school. As early as 1239, the symbol we now recognize as a heart can be seen on the Bible Jesus holds in a mosaic in Istanbul’s famed Hagia Sophia. The classic red heart as we know it today I am guessing is the universal symbol for love. I was taking a walk through the woods near our home with my little girl when she said she’d made something for me. Looking down at the ground, to my delight I saw she’d fashioned the word “love” out of sticks and rocks. “I love you Mama,” she said and time stood still. I could feel the wind gently lifting my hair, see the early morning rays of sunlight casting through the trees, smell the slightly damp scent of earth rising up to me, and hear the distant trickle of water flowing from the creek. I had waited so long to be a mother and I am so very grateful to be one. My parents may be gone, but I see my mother in my child’s full lips and my father in her impossibly long, jet black eyelashes. I thought I knew what love was. I was fortunate enough to have been cocooned in it by my parents my whole life. Then, when my incredibly handsome husband asked me to marry him, I was blessed to experience a different kind of love. I was taught in church about agape love, considered to be the love originating from God to man. While I have been so blessed to have known any type of love at all, there is something indelible about the love between a mother and child. I realize many do not get to experience that while others do and take it for granted. So there we were, standing there together holding hands and my heart was overflowing. Smiling, I looked down at my cherished little one and said, “I love you, too.” In that moment I fully realized just how much love my mother had always felt for me. The American clergyman Henry Ward Beecher once said, “We never know the love of a parent till we become parents ourselves.” Standing with my six-year-old in the middle of the woods, I knew that to be true. I am so glad I took this picture. It is a cherished reminder to remember the moment.
A Reflection Into Your Soul
When my mother was a girl (in the ’40’s) she told me she used to ride the trolly car alone to Fair Park to take art lessons in the summer. All I can picture is what a different time it must have been when a ten-year-old little red-haired girl could ride a streetcar all by herself into the heart of downtown Dallas with no problem. Now in the U.S. kids who are ten are not even allowed to ride in the front seat of a car with their own parents. My mother had a true talent for art and was fond of replicating scenes from Audubon’s books of wildlife. I never took art lessons and have no idea if I would have been any good. This summer I sent our little one to an art “camp” for a week, which translated into a four-hour-a-day respite for me so I could work and at least pretend to keep up the house along with my sanity. Our child likes to paint and has already been exposed to art classes early curtesy of the private school she is fortunate to attend. I never picked up a paint brush in my life until I was 44. A few years ago, to my delight, I’d won a silent auction bid to raise money for our little one’s church school. It was an evening out for two to paint a scene of their choosing at an art studio with an instructor in a fun class. I wanted to paint the Dallas skyline and hoped my husband would as well. Sadly, he had zero interest so I invited a girlfriend of mine to go with me instead. We enjoyed some Cab Sav and painted our interpretations of the skyscrapers downtown. She is a professional art therapist but my friend was gracious and very laid back. Her attitude was that art is not perfection; it is personal. I really enjoyed taking the class and gained a small understanding of how relaxing creating a painting can be. When my mother was a young girl, she hand-painted all sorts of birds on fragile china plates and cups. She also painted two framed pieces which hang in our daughter’s playroom. My favorite is the one she made of waterbirds. Stalky white cranes, small egrets, and great blue herons are all perched on delicate tree branches overlooking water lilies blooming in deep, blue water. The Irish critic George Bernard Shaw once said, “You use a glass mirror to see your face; you use works of art to see your soul.” I find that particularly significant given how many different people view art in so many different ways. Our daughter came back after the second day and presented me with my favorite — a wolf in blue. This holds great significance for me and I know both my father and my mother would have been so proud. Even if you have never tried before, I say it’s not too late to try your hand at painting … it may allow you a reflection into your soul.
Keep Reading
Mama took me almost every weekday in the summer to our local library when I was a little kid. She was a voracious reader and instilled the same love in me. I was able to get lost in my own little world. It didn’t involve watching TV and, mercifully, it was in the air-conditioning. I remember they had a bulletin board for summer readers and each time you completed a book you got a star sticker under your name. There was a contest to see who could read the most books. I realized, despite my inherently competitive nature, it did not matter how quickly one could read; the joy was in the journey. Even now I have been known to slow down toward the end of a book just to savor it a bit longer. My sweet, quiet, lady-like little mother loved murder mysteries. She read hundreds of them. I think when I was a kid she read all 66 of Agatha Christie’s novels like Murder on the Orient Express. Then I remember her adoring The Cat Who … series. A Google search says there were 29 of those and the title that sticks with me is The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare. After that I found she was into the Navajo murder series by Tony Hillerman. I believe the first book was entitled The Blessing Way. Mama was never without a book. I suspect Daddy thought they may have been frivolous since they were fiction and he preferred non-fiction books on history and politics; my husband prefers the same. I have been reading historical romance novels since I was ten; to be frank — they are sometimes referred to as “bodice rippers.” I used to be SO embarrassed by the covers I would use something else to put in front of them. I loved to read on my lunch break when I was working at Lord & Taylor in my early twenties. A book is a treasure. It is something in which one can escape whenever one is able and, unlike a movie, it is your own imagination that fuels it. My earliest literary loves were the Madeline series (thrilled it’s now my little girl’s favorite as well) and the Frog and Toad books. I do not recall having a suggested summer reading list until the second grade. Now they have kiddos reading in kindergarten. Our little girl is doing pretty well I think to be entering first grade this coming school year. We have tons of books we bought to read to her as a baby, but I realized she has few she can read on her own. So I broke down and bought her half a dozen “Step Into Reading” books. To my delight, she has eschewed both the television and her iPad in favor of them. Designating my bench by the window as her reading place, she has even had the nerve to “shush” me several times when it interrupted her concentration. The American best selling author Sarah Addison Allen said, “Who I am, what I am, is the culmination of a lifetime of reading, a lifetime of stories. And there are still so many more books to read. I’m a work in progress.” I love this quote and share the same sentiment. We’re all a work in progress … just keep reading.
Memory Lane
I have been adding more music to my “library” lately. Singing has always been a major part of my life and I love to do it whenever I can — from church to my car to the shower. Being digital, I have all my beloved songs right on my phone, and I can take them with me wherever I go. Making my own playlists brings me joy. I have a playlist for songs all in French; one for classical music, sacred music, ballads, the entire soundtrack to the movie “Coco,” country, disco, hair bands, happy songs, inspirational songs, mariachi (my favorite next to the Latin church pieces,) songs I have “Shazammed” when I was not hip enough to know what they were, and work out music (which I need to listen to more.) I love it when I discover a new song — even if it has been around for years. In this case, I stumbled upon a ballad by the Judds, whom I have always liked. The melody is lovely and the lyrics are bittersweet. It is about remembering your childhood but not being able to really go back. However I believe in some ways one can. Some of my best childhood memories were the times when my folks and I went to the lake. Daddy would sprawl out on one of his Grandmother’s handmade quilts and take a nap under the shade of a tree. Mama would unpack our picnic and keep an eye on me as I searched for tadpoles, fed the ducks, and ran to swing. It was an idyllic time and even as a little kid I seemed to realize it. It didn’t cost any money but it sure was priceless. The Fourth of July just passed and I brought a quilt for my husband, our little one and me to lay on while we watched the fireworks. I had forgotten about the sounds of summer, the smell of the grass, and just looking up at fluffy white clouds against a dark blue sky. I even broke down and let my little one have my favorite childhood pleasure: Dr. Pepper. It is the only soda I ever indulge in and, since I try not to drink it now, it, too brought back memories. There was still a quilt enjoyed by one chocolate-covered head, one vanilla-haired, and one strawberry colored. Only now instead of Mama and Daddy with me it is my husband and child. I married a dark-haired man like my father and my little girl gets her auburn from my mother. I’m still the vanilla. My Daddy never wore shorts and neither does my husband really. I used to love riding on Daddy’s shoulders and our little one loves to do the same with my husband. The aforementioned newly-discovered Judd’s song entitled “Flies on the Butter” floated through my mind. My little family is so much like the one I had as a child. Just as I did with my folks, we were eating watermelon on the Fourth, laying on a quilt in the Texas heat, sipping Dr. Pepper, and waiting for the fireworks to begin. The American novelist Louis L’Amour once said, “No memory is ever alone; it’s at the end of a trail of memories, a dozen trails that each have their own associations.” I’ve never thought about it until now … perhaps that’s why they call it memory lane.
Wherever You Are, Be All There
Joy is often found in the little things. Since I refuse to use my wolf mugs for fear of breaking them, years ago I took to enjoying my morning cups of coffee with foxes. Fox, after all, is kin to coyote, who is cousin to wolf. My regular fox mug started to look gross no matter how much I cleaned it. On a whim, I saw this happy fox in a catalogue and decided to get him. I have always been a details person and often delight in the whimsical. After Foxy arrived I confirmed he was indeed dishwasher and microwave safe as I waited for my chicory coffee from New Orleans’ Café du Monde to finish brewing. I opened my little orange fox container and started out with my customary spoonful of “sugar” (Splenda.) After I’d poured my coffee and added my organic hazelnut almond milk creamer I noticed something … at the top of my new mug, written in tiny black letters, were the words, “Wherever you are, be all there.” I was completely and delightfully surprised to find the quirky script as well as the sort of informal mantra that greeted me. So I did some research and learned the the quote belonged to the late Christian missionary Jim Elliot. As I sat down to savor my first sip I found myself rereading the little words again. I had no idea when I’d ordered it that it contained any type of quote. I like to get going before my husband and daughter, so I sat in silence as I contemplated this. It was just six words but they were packed with so much meaning. I thought about my childhood and knew that I was definitely “all there” with my sweet parents. But with the advent of my beloved iPhone, I realize it has made me not fully present in some ways. While I have used it to record so much of my married life and practically everything our child has ever done, I do not feel that by documenting it I lost anything in the moment. When I have not been “all there” were the times I just wanted to read instead of drawing with my little girl. I have texted as I’ve listened with half an ear to my husband’s paranormal interests; yet he has read each and every one of my blogs. I REALLY want to be fully present with my family, whom I love with all my heart. I want to be more “there” with friends and strangers and places I encounter. Dear readers, wherever you are, be all there.
Paris, Mon Coeur
This was our last day in Paris. Once before we had stumbled inside the little church that sits underneath the great shadow of Sacré-Cœur. It is the Church of Saint Peter of Montmartre; one of the oldest surviving churches in Paris. According to traditional history, it was founded by Saint Denis in the third century. One of my favorite sacred composers, Charpentier, later wrote devotional music to be performed there. However the church, like so many other Christian sites, was destroyed during the French Revolution. Yet it still remains full of history, and there are a few Roman columns which managed to survive used in the nave. The first time we accidentally wandered in was on our honeymoon and, to my delight, I discovered a brightly colored poster of St. Francis with a wolf next to him that read, “Choisir La Paix,” or “Choose Peace.” I took it home and framed it. On this trip I wanted to revisit the church again with our little one and study it more closely. Instead of a throng of tourists and the shuffling of feet on the floors of Sacré-Cœur, we were greeted instead with an instant hush of holy silence. I could hear the murmurs of a young woman on her knees fervently praying the rosary. She knelt on the hard flloor discreetly out of the way but still very close to the this picture I unobtrusively took of the Virgin Mary. Very much a working parish and clearly a praying church, they still allowed the respectful taking of photographs, for which I was eminently grateful. The lights were dimmed inside the cool interior and the big, thick double doors managed to block out the cacophony beyond its sacred walls. A respite from the chaos of the world, my soul settled as I allowed myself to soak in my surroundings. According to the literature I’d just read, the church celebrated its 870th anniversary just two months prior; astounding! There was an elegant simplicity about it, with a white crocheted linen draped gracefully over the rough-hewn stone altar. The simple wooden pews were polished to a high sheen. I had left my little one with my husband as I silently walked through the church and I was stunned to discover them both quietly knelt in prayer. Afterward, we emerged into the bright afternoon sunlight and decided to sit at a small café where our little one had ice cream and we enjoyed my favorite beer, 1664, as we watched people traversing up the 300 steep steps to Paris’ highest point — Montmartre. Once we descended to the bottom, we rode the old carousel there that is astonishingly free. It was rife with an old magic that cannot be adequately put into words, but for me it was palpable. Watching Paris pass us by I was transported back to my first visit ten years ago. It was on my honeymoon and I remember watching my handsome new husband smiling at me as our horses rose up and down. This time I looked at the impossibly striking man I’d married and, next to him, I gazed with wonder upon our miracle from God — our precious only child. Her auburn curls slightly lifted with the breeze and I saw a perfect mix of the two of us in her, complete with my mother’s features and my father’s jet black, impossibly long eyelashes. From her father I believe she inherited her thick, wavy locks as well as her unfathomably dark eyes. My heart was so full of love and gratitude at that moment words cannot fully describe it. And yet I felt a great sense of melancholy knowing we were leaving the next day. The American author M. J. Rose said:
“I think Paris smells not just sweet but melancholy and curious, sometimes sad but always enticing and seductive. She’s a city for the all senses, for artists and writers and musicians and dreamers, for fantasies, for long walks and wine and lovers and, yes, for mysteries.”
I took in the sights and smells of the city I love and prayed we could return soon. Leaving Paris was truly like leaving home. It gave me great consolation that my little girl and husband did not want to leave either. I realized with joy that she had seeped into my husband and my little one’s heart as well — Paris, mon coeur.
The Incomparable Versailles
It was our third visit to Versailles. This time, instead of broiling inside the main palace along with all the other tourists pressed together without air conditioning, we chose to focus outside on the gardens, the fountains, and the Petit Trianon. Marie Antionette’s hamlet was under renovation and I was so excited I could hardly stand it! I never thought they would open it! The past two times I had gazed up with admiration at the wooden outdoor curved staircase and balcony, whose boards had intermittently rotted like aged piano keys long ago. All we had ever been able to do was peek through the glass on the lower levels and stare in awe at the floor to ceiling marble. Outside there were giant clusters of huge calla lilies, one of my favorite flowers. The wheel of a mill stood eerily quiet close to a curved bridge over a pond with ducks swimming languidly. And, sadly, there were vacant places where buildings once stood before the Revolution. This was her retreat from the rigors of the Royal Court, where she was forced to give birth in front of an audience, people fought over the privilege of dressing her daily, and she was stared at as she ate. Here she pretended to be a shepherdess to escape the confines of the chateau and all the vicious gossip, plotting, and backstabbing that accompanied it. I went through all my pictures and I could not find one that even came close to doing any part of Versailles justice. As the world’s largest royal domain, the grounds cover over 2,000 acres, with 230 of them being devoted to the gardens. Water features of all kinds are an important part of French gardens and at Versailles they include waterfalls in groves, spurts of water from fountains, and the calm surface of water reflecting the sky and sun in the Grand Canal, formed in the shape of a Latin cross. Venetian gondolas were once housed on the grounds and even today row boats are available for rent to traverse the great waterway. My favorite is Apollo’s fountain but, since I posted that from our honeymoon, the picture I ultimately chose was my quick shot of Latona’s Fountain, commissioned by the Sun King. The first stage of construction lasted twenty years and resulted in the installation of pipes under the basin to supply the water, while twenty jets were placed, in the year 1666. It was a feat nothing short of amazing. Having previously been under renovation and seeing it working now in all of its gilt splendor was absolutely spectacular. Our guide this visit said that at one time there were liveried, royal servants wearing whistles stationed at all the fountains. As the king approached, they would sound a whistle and it would turn the water’s massive hydraulic system to that particular fountain. So, as the king walked, majestic fountains rose with his footsteps. Royal musicians were stationed in the groves to accompany the grand spectacle. Incredible! At the tender age of four, Louis XIV began his reign as the King of France from 1643 until his death in 1715, making the Sun King the longest recorded monarch of a sovereign country in European history. Aside from Paris herself, this place alone endlessly fascinates me. From the holy grandeur of the Royal Chapel to the Hall of Mirrors and to all of her grounds, Versailles speaks to me like no other site. It cannot possibly be seen in one day. The Italian polymath of the Renaissance, Leonardo da Vinci, said, “For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return.” On our first visit we toured the palace itself; the second we tried to see both the chateau as well as the grounds; and on this trip we barely set foot inside the main palace since we tried to concentrate on the vast gardens. A decade ago I tasted flight with my first footstep upon the cobblestones. Since then I have ascended exquisite marble stairways and walked over incredibly intricate wooden parquet floors. My feet have crossed into her formal parterres as well as her lush, shadowed alleys. With each step I find myself looking skywards, and it is there I long to return: to the incomparable Versailles.
Little Red Riding Hood
I remember sitting in French class on a hot Texas day in June just after I was graduated from high school. I wanted to start college right away and I had enrolled in an excellent junior college by our apartment. (All my life I’d loved the French language, but I’d never dreamt I would one day have the pleasure and the privilege of visiting France ever — much less multiple times.) We were learning about Paris’ “bateaux mouches.” The boats are popular tourist attractions, as they allow visitors to view the city from along the Seine. The name is trademarked, but all the excursion vessels are generically referred to as “bateaux mouches,” whether they are open-air boat tours or glassed-in cruisers serving meals. I adore viewing Paris from the river; every time we have gone we have taken some sort of water guide. This time our little girl was old enough to eat with us and we could enjoy dinner while crossing underneath the famous bridges of Paris. We do not eschew touristy things and I had always thought a sunset dinner winding through the Left and Right Banks of Paris would be lovely. The boat was clear on all sides, which afforded excellent views from all angles. Tables were set with red napkins on red table cloths, and an excellent bottle of red wine was waiting at our window seat upon our arrival. I adore Bordeaux and I liked the bottle’s name so much I wound up taking it home to put in our “bottle tree.” All the chairs were red as well as the water glasses, so I was particularly pleased with the outfit I’d chosen for our little one. She was dressed in red shorts with a red and white striped top that read “Cherie” and, at one point, when the late afternoon turned into dusk, she wound up wrapping her napkin around her because she was cold. Seated across from her, I was reminded of the fabled Little Red Riding Hood. There is an anonymous quote which says, “The tiger and the lion may be more powerful … but the wolf does not perform in the circus.” With that I realized I did not want to change her, or “tame” her, and I knew she carried the strong, independent spirit of her ancestors. My child literally lives with wolves and there is no gruesome ending. Never underestimate the power of the wolf … or of Little Red Riding Hood.
Our Tenth Wedding Anniversary
It was June 16, our tenth wedding anniversary, and one of those perfect days as we were in Paris. I was with our beloved little girl and the most handsome man I have ever met — my husband and our child’s father. I have always been acutely aware of how much his love and fidelity means. He proposed to me in Dallas on top of Reunion Tower back when the restaurant was still Antares. We loved it because it retained the original swanky ’70’s feel and it was fun to dine while the floor slowly rotated us around the city skyline. I remember after he proposed they brought out a three dimensional dessert which was an impressive replica of the tower. My favorite landmark in the world is the Eiffel Tower and, thanks to my husband, this was my fourth time viewing it. We have never been afraid to be tourists and we also never tire of revisiting places we love. The Eiffel Tower was the first place he took me on our honeymoon. On our second trip we noticed scaffolding and assumed it was maintenance. Then, to our great surprise, on our third visit we inadvertently stumbled upon opening night of the new addition of the first floor! It was the 125th anniversary of Gustave’s tower, created for the Universal Exposition in 1889. I did not realize the floor was made of glass until I noticed tourists hugging the walls and shuffling awkwardly. On our fourth visit we decided to celebrate by having our tenth wedding anniversary dinner in the restaurant 58 Tour Eiffel, named for its 58 meters above the ground. We were greeted by a hostess in black tie, who promptly escorted us up a wide, sweeping curved staircase. The views were breathtaking, with wall-to-wall glass, offering excellent perspectives of Paris and the tower itself. I requested a window table overlooking the Trocadéro, and it was the best view in the house. We looked out over the long, open expanse of lawn, flanked by great fountains on all sides, spraying in symmetrical perfection. By now, as this was our vacation, every time I ordered a drink our little one would also request an apple juice. I figured if I was cutting loose with French fermented grapes she should be able to enjoy extra fruit juice as well. On our honeymoon I was so proud because the French asked what a Frenchwoman was doing married to a Texan. I received the bulk of my French from a community college and to repeatedly be mistaken as French made me feel incredible. Now they were asking what WE (my daughter and I) were doing with a Texan! And, by the way, they all adored my husband Burk — and they loved Texas! Our five-year-old’s “au revoir” now sounded better than mine! Even the woman working in one of the gift shops stopped to tell me she dressed exactly like our little girl when she was that age. With my baby doll’s dark, Gallic eyes and her auburn hair she simply looked French. I had dressed her in pink and white Toile for the occasion, complete with a Renoir inspired bow which was set jauntily off to one side. Our server that night was so smitten he inquired if he could get his picture with our child. I asked her if it was OK and she agreed. Then I informed him that if she did not order in French she was not to have anymore juice. The handsome man looked at me as if I were horrible, and neither my husband nor our little one knew what I’d said to him. When she was ready for another juice I told her “en Français.” She buried her curls into my arm and said she could not do it. I replied she could and to repeat what I said. At first she mumbled so faintly I would not allow the server to accept it. Finally pulling the sentence out of her, she beamed up at him proudly. And then I think he understood. For the rest of our meal he was careful to speak slowly and only in French. I almost chose to post the picture of him with our child in his arms for this post. My husband had never looked more handsome, wearing the French cuffed shirt I’d bought him along with a pair of silver Eiffel Tower cufflinks. A young girl came by asking if she could take our picture. She got three memorable shots of us: one was with all of us smiling; the second was just our girl who looked stunning; and the third was my favorite, although it was somewhat staged. She’d asked Burk to kiss my hand. But the unexpected joy in the picture was watching our little one next to me. She had her hands clasped together over her heart. Smiling broadly, her head was turned to the side with glee. I knew then she would be a hopeless romantic like me. Next dessert came and I was reminded of another tower and another dessert which was special to me. The French novelist Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin — best known for her nom de plume as George Sand, once wrote, “There is only one happiness in this life, to love and to be loved.” Feeling so blessed, I knew I had found with certainty true happiness on this our tenth wedding anniversary.
The Real Hunchback of Notre-Dame
The next day we decided to revisit la Cathédral de Notre-Dame in Paris. It is the most famous of the Gothic cathedrals of the Middle Ages and is distinguished for its size, antiquity, and architectural interest. Dedicated to the Ever Blessed Virgin Mother Mary, her doors are open to over thirteen million people annually. As my feet trod upon the shadowed stone floors I reflected upon my first visit to this magnificent cathedral; it was on our honeymoon in 2007 and I remembered how very dark it was. Blackened by soot from countless years of incense, it was enshrouded in a sort of somber holiness. Hundreds of candles large and small were lit in prayer, flickering everywhere, which at once both helped to dispel the gloom and yet also contributed to it. My second trip was with our Marian child where she took her first ever independent steps, and I was surprised to see the ashy columns and ceilings had been cleaned for the cathedral’s 400 year anniversary. The entirety revealed a startling, soft white facade and I could not resist the urge to run my fingers along the smooth marble walls. The famous sculptures of the Blessed Mother were gleaming and the cathedral’s contrast — both internal and external — was as vivid as night and day. This was my fourth visit but we had yet to ascend the outside flights to the bell tower. The first time they closed before we discovered it. The second time the line was several hours long. The third time we could not take a stroller in the narrow stairway. This time we deemed our five-year-old was still too little to make the 387 steps up and then back down again without copious amounts of whining. Out of sheer frustration I hollered, “SANCTUARY!” in attempt at literary humor. I was referring of course to Victor Hugo’s 1831 French novel “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” set in Paris during the reign of Louis XI in 1482. Hugo began writing it largely to make his contemporaries more aware of the value of Gothic architecture, which was being neglected and often destroyed. A few years prior he had already published a paper entitled “War to the Demolishers,” specifically aimed at saving the city’s medieval architecture. Not knowing when we might return, I found myself standing on the cobblestones looking up with longing. “SANCTUARY!” I shouted again, as every tourist around me pretended not to notice. The word “sanctuary” is defined as being a place of refuge or safety; Merriam-Webster refers to it as a consecrated place. Religious buildings were commonly used as sanctuary and it was against the law to prevent someone from seeking asylum in a sanctuary. The hunchback of Notre-Dame was named Quasimodo and has become synonymous with “a courageous heart beneath a grotesque exterior.” It was he who called for sanctuary. Once again we left without ascending the cathedral’s towers. It is said they afford one of the best views of Paris. In addition there is an up-close look at the twelve apostles, the cathedral’s spire, and many of the gargoyles and chimera statues. The gargoyles were designed to funnel water away from the cathedral, while the chimeras are the gothic statues whose purpose is to protect the church from evil spirits. Then of course there is the infamous bell tower in which the fictional Quasimodo worked. Walking behind the famous church, we crossed the Seine to the Île Saint-Louis for some of France’s famous Berthillon ice cream. Afterward, as we made our way back across the bridge I noticed to our left there was a modern-day organ grinder. Instead of a monkey he was exploiting a little Chihuahua in a wicker basket. The man sported a beret and cranked out old French tunes from under the cover of a large blue and white umbrella. Then, almost directly across the street I discovered a man sitting upon a scant piece of cardboard, barely shielded from the sun by the shade of a parked car. He had partially removed his shirt and I was shocked to discover he had a true hunchback. His legs also appeared severely deformed and I believe he was unable to walk. As if in slow motion, I stood and watched people gravitate toward the organ grinder, giving him money while conspicuously avoiding the hunchback who was devoid of everything except a solitary paper cup. Stopping a way short of the man, whose back was to us, I asked our little girl if she would go hand him money and say, “Pour vous, monsieur.” Looking over my shoulder I found the organ grinder glaring maliciously, realizing we would not be giving him any Euros. He seemed to have amassed quite a bit of bills in the short time we had been walking. With horror I noticed as we approached the hunchbacked man he had only a single twenty cent piece at the bottom of his small cup. Here he was, in the shadow of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame, and yet everyone was literally passing him over. It was incredibly sad. The man did not push himself on anyone; rather he sat with a quiet dignity I found admirable. Before I knew it our little girl had approached him and, with great joy, said in perfect French, “For you, sir.” I will never forget the stark look of shock on the man’s face. He did not dare touch her (as if he carried some kind of contagious disease) and instead craned his head to look up at my husband. In incredulous disbelief, the curved man asked if my husband wanted his little girl to be near him. Not understanding the language, he had no idea as to what he was being asked. I interjected that our little girl wanted him to have the money. Still unsure, he looked back at our child, who was looking dejected because he had not readily taken her offering. The immediate sense of compassion this man had for her was humbling, and he asked her very gently if that was for him. I translated and she suddenly straightened. With a beaming smile — and with no hesitation or revulsion whatsoever — she bent to him to give him the money. I will be forever struck that he still took extreme care not to touch her. He smiled at her and she was so proud! Immediately I found myself ashamed; wishing we had given more. Looking up at my husband once again with astonishment, the man drew himself up to the best of his ability and thanked him in a surprisingly deep, strong voice. After we left I felt we all were profoundly blessed. This man had given so much more to us than we could have possibly given to him. As I held our little girl’s hand, I noticed she was looking back, smiling and waving good-bye to the crippled man on the street. Victor Hugo once wrote, “Adversity makes men, and prosperity makes monsters.” I would argue instead that it is avarice which makes monsters of men. Prosperity is a blessing and I believe those who have it are called to use it to help others. But in this case I can tell you the man cloaked with carousel-like music was the monster, while the “monster” was a lovely man who was in fact the real hunchback of Notre-Dame.
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