A pocketful of homes

Where we live, the home or dwelling that we are sheltered in, should give us comfort, identity, and an outlet for creativity. I believe everyone has that right and need to have a home, not only to be shielded from tempestuous weather, but to be cradled in a haven or refuge. No matter how old we are, we grow up there--hopefully learning what we are supposed to understand in the span of time we live within its walls. To feel a sense of place is vital and transforming--to know that you belong somewhere and it belongs to you. To love a place, a home, and the walls that built you, is a hard thing to leave or shed. We all need a sanctuary to grow and love in. As Laura Ingalls Wilder says in the Little House Series, "I have discovered that home is the nicest word there is."

These pictures, by one of my favorite contemporary artists, Brian Kershisnik, show how I feel sometimes. Since I am a vagabond these days, the top picture shows two women  (if I can read their expressions), trying to trade houses. One woman seems willing, and the other one appears to be rethinking or pondering the costs/stipulations of the exchange. I am not sure I see a swap in the making. Do you? Will the other be willing to encounter a new place that can create needed change--even a reinvention of a new self? For some people, it is the obligation or choice to grow in the same place, to stretch and grow, without the physical change of place. But for others it is the duty, and perhaps desire, to periodically rearrange oneself. Different chapters and stages of our lives necessitate the need to trade homes, and even discard them.

Another of Kershisnik's paintings shows a woman with a kick of glee and satisfaction. It looks like this woman has found a home--a place she can call and make into her own.

   Since I lived and worked in refugee camps in the 1980's in Southeast Asia, I am painfully aware of the terror and exploits of some who must escape from their beloved homes. Their faces, struck with fear and helplessness, live with me, haunt me, because I remember their sense of homelessness. All their familiarities had been snatched from them, and their only home was their loved ones. I remember the hammocks that swayed breezily and the crowded bamboo mats on the three-sided cement structures of their temporary, makeshift homes. I know that not everyone has a home, a sanctuary. I have been a roamer this summer, and it has evoked memories of people who endlessly wait for a home to call their own.

   When I came back to the Middle East from my roamings this summer, I counted that I had slept in 20 beds since I left Doha in June--in Airbnbs, college dorm rooms, cabins, family and friends' homes, hotels, and on the ground. I do not count the many plane rides. Each time I was treated with the utmost graciousness, all while knowing I would eventually be settled in in my new home in Doha. 
   
   This new chapter of being an expat, after 19 years in the same abode, sometimes still has me a little bewildered. I was very accustomed to the cozy, comfortable, customary walls that sheltered me for so long. But when I entered into my expat home here in Doha a few nights ago, I felt a sense of relief and comfort. I am home: where I awaken to the call of prayer, embrace women who wear burqas, and listen very carefully to dozens of accents as we strive to communicate in English. After being one year in the Middle East, I have learned that I can do more than just adapt or adjust, I can be joyfully happy--living among unfamiliarities. I can be friends with strangers whom I do not know yet. Last year's post about my old "homestead."
   
   Here is the poem I wrote this summer in a grove of aspen trees in the Tetons, one of my favorite places or homes. I wrote it in my search to understand how to interlock and connect all the homes that I feel that are inside me--the places, languages, and most of all, the people. For some reason, it was not my call to live in the same town that my grandmother lived in almost her entire 93 years of life. It has been my task and joy to learn how to build many kinds of homes: in a skyscraper in NYC, foreign student housing in China, inner city LA, suburban Baltimore and St. Louis, refugee camps in Asia, a kibbutz in Israel, and so many others. One of my personal favorites was to be able to live across from the ocean on the Jersey Shore for a few months, and to hear the rumbling waves every night as I was lulled to sleep. Now that is a memory....

                 A Gatherer of Homes

            I am a gatherer,

            a collector of treasured homes,

            carrying them, safely tucked in my pocket--

            to be warmed on arctic nights and desert wanderings.

            I clutch and grasp them in my roamings,

            cupping, cradling each in

            my slippery hands.

            I eye my colorful assortment--

            each an old friend,

            reminding me that all

            pieces in the collage make one.

            Each place, unraveling who I am--

            a patchwork showcase,

            in my bulging pocket.

In my quest to reconcile how to cherish all the homes and peoples that created me, I will continue to tuck all the memories of other refuges in my pocket. I cannot let them go, for they are as a part of me as my eyes or ears. However, I now know after living here in the Middle East for one year, I can enlarge the pocket--to include a whole array of additional homes in my collection. For you see, I am a gatherer....  But if I could choose my most favorite "home", I would tell my husband what Jane Eyre said to Mr. Rochester, "Wherever you are is my home--my only home." He is my most treasured home of all in the collection.

Here a few snippets in my Doha neighborhood, our immediate home--a place of endless fascination and intrigue:

This is the local barber shop where I took my dad when he came to visit. My sons also come here too since it is just in the neighborhood. This is a Nepalese barber who speaks no English. His partner is in the background. You just go in, and somehow they figure out how to cut your hair. Everybody comes out happy so I guess you don't always have to speak the same language when you get your hair cut (not sure if I would want to do the same with my hair. Ha!)

Kids in my neighborhood handing out Eid treats. The girl on the left, in her abaya, on a hot day, is one of my tennis students. Love her....

A common sight at this particular mosque in the neighborhood is a pick up soccer game.

My new home, to the left. My dear neighbors from Jordan live next door. My neighbor told me we are "sisters," and I completely agree.

This is Ala, my seven year old next door neighbor, from Jordan. She is the ball girl for our tennis class. Love her too. She always, without fails, knocks on my door to see me, and calls out that she loves me from the street. Who would not want to live next to a neighbor like her? 

                                            

         

       

         

Teton Tales

My son in his mid teens climbing the Tetons on the Idaho side

I married into a Wyoming family of devout Teton aficionados (my in-laws have The Tetons etched into their gravestone, and I suspect we will too). Since we were living back east for the first years of our marriage, I had never been to the Tetons until my husband and I were married a year or two. When we got close to the mountain range in Grand Teton National Park on that first trip together, my husband blindfolded me, grasped my hand, and waited for my gasps of wonder and rapture. I did not disappoint his anticipation of amazed emotions. And to tell you the truth, the awe of their splendor has still not escaped me--even more than three decades later.

Feeling the Teton wind....

The Teton mountains are what Teddy Roosevelt said, "what mountains should look like." I agree. The Teton peaks are cathedrals in the clouds, granite pinnacles that inspire me in every season. Their rugged crevices that are speckled with snow and coniferous trees are a towering reminder of the majestic beauty of our world. They fill the human spirit with intrigue and awe--making us not only want to be a better steward of the earth, but also a better person. Those peaks have also at times almost spoken to me, if I could hear their voice, calling out to hang on, and to take courage.

A picture that I asked my good friend, Steven Chamberlain, to paint for me--to remember that morning when the dawn truly came a new day in The Teton Valley. Those towering peaks, even if they are far in the distance, can coach and mentor you.

In the years since my first glimpse of The Tetons, their tutoring has given me surges of courage and faith that I could do harder things than I thought otherwise. Being in the Teton Valley on the Idaho side, with the gentle rolling hills in front of the Tetons, I realized that I could climb "my autism mountain." I will never forget climbing in the early morning on a mountain there, overlooking the Teton Valley at sunrise. The sunlight dripped into my downcast heart that had been parched and crackly dry for about a year after my son's diagnosis of autism. However, since that morning, a new and hopeful morning,  I have tried to continue to "climb the autism peaks" and never look back.

The Tetons, as shown from the Idaho side, with the rolling hills in front.

It's so important to find a place that fills your soul....

This summer, on the Wyoming side, with the stark, bold views of the Tetons in the clouds and sun rays, I took courage that I could face an illness that a loved one was experiencing. The entire four days that I was there in the Teton National Park, I tried to glimpse the peaks in every angle, distant and close, allowing them to soothe my fears. And the peace came. For some reason, those summits in the clouds give me hope that I can climb higher; they give me more pluckiness that I can surmount any paths that have unanticipated turns. Again, these peaks were my friends, constant and steady.

The Tetons in the background, with the famous Mormon Row barns in front on the Wyomingside.

In the Jackson Hole, Wyoming Visitor's Center, near the gateway to the National Parks, there is a quote by Edward Abbey that reads: "Wilderness is not a luxury but a necessity of the spirit." Yet the wilderness of the Grand Teton National Park almost did not happen; it was one of the most controversial national parks that was ever established in the U.S. The history of how it finally came to be, after several decades in 1950, makes me proud of someone whom I have never met: my husband's grandfather. His tenacity, sacrifice, and love for those peaks showed dogged determination to preserve them when the people around him did not have the same vision.

As Wyoming Commissioner for Fish and Game and later in Eisenhower's cabinet as Undersecretary of Interior, he made some political enemies because of  his life long desire to increase the Grand Teton National Park that was originally established in 1929. He sided with John D. Rockefeller Jr. that the land should be preserved when Rockefeller slowly bought 35,000 acres around the winding Snake River--near the Teton mountain range. Within this letter, it outlines his involvement in the expansion of the Grand Teton National Park. To be a Wyoming mountain man, canvasing the Teton range as a boy and then working for the government in preserving the land, he went against his own Wyoming friends and neighbors to expand the Grand Teton National Park.  Somehow people like Lester Bagley knew how precious those abruptly vertical, jagged peaks would be to our human spirits generations later.

William Lester Bagley, my husband's grandfather, is an unknown catalyst in the history of how the Grand National Park
came to be. He did not seek recognition, but his outspoken voice to combine the land of the already formed park in 1929 (with Rockefeller's gift of 35,000 acres in 1950) helped to enlarge the park--making it the sublime place it is today. 

In the Ken Burns series entitled, The National Parks: America's Greatest Idea, there is a interview with Terry Tempest Williams who currently teaches Environmental Humanities at the University of Utah.  Her thoughtful words echo my own love for the Grand Tetons. In the interview, she states, "Everybody has a favorite national park, whether it is Yosemite, the Great Smokies, but for our family it is The Grand Tetons." Yes, and it is for our family too. The Teton landscapes are living, breathing friends, tutoring me in all seasons--giving me moments that are divine, majestic, sublime. I mark them dear to my heart, where all the best tales are stored.

Rivers, Swift and Slow

Roaming the Snake River

Everywhere I have gone this summer the rivers have stirred me, whether it was in Iceland, Missouri, Idaho, Wyoming, Nevada, or Utah. Maybe it is because of the scarcity of rushing rivers in Qatar where I now live (yes, one of 18 countries that have no rivers). Perhaps it is because I like to fish with my family on a river. But it is also because a river's waters flow with unexpected beauty--that belies my imagination in every season and turn. They remind me of the constant motion of Life, with its ongoing swelling and ebbing. Sometimes there are gushing surges, and other times a trickling tributary becomes a river with white water rapids. The shallow, clear water that flows beside the deep, swift rapids are a reminder that Life is tenuous. Unanticipated twists happen on any river, and in any life. A river can be full of glimmering light, but also with shadows of concealing darkness.

Coming home from the rafting trip as the sun was setting

On a scenic river trip on the Snake River in the Teton National Park this summer, we were in a group of 22 people who were slowly gliding down the river. We had happily spotted beavers swimming next to our raft in the current, and bald eagles soaring above us. We even saw a moose about 20 feet away as we floated by on the raft. As we neared the end of the trip, we came upon an island where there was a fork in the river. A man was waving his hands wildly, calling out to stop our raft,  and a frightened young couple were behind him. We could see their clothes were drenched, and they were trying to keep warm. Our two guides, who were rowing a model of an old World War II raft, mightily tried to push their way over to the rocky shore. We could see the people's small fishing raft was punctured on a tree stump that was sticking out of the water.

As our two river guides rushed out to help the three people on the island, I noticed the rescued people's solemn, shocked faces as they tried to keep warm. When the young married couple climbed on our raft, we wrapped them in a blanket the guides had on the boat. A few people added their jackets for extra layers. There was even a hot thermos of water so they could drink a hot beverage. When they were warmed, the husband began to tell us why they were on the shore with their boat capsized. But his wife just sat silent, deep in reflection.

He said they had been pleasantly drifting down the river on a fly fishing boat (the kind where your feet are fastened to the raft like a seatbelt). Their pace was slow as they moved down the river, catching more than a dozen fish. Suddenly, their fishing raft was overturned when the raft hit a deep, swelling hole that hid some felled logs. The young woman's feet were stuck in the straps, and she could not breathe with the raft on top of her. The raft clung to her, and she was unable to escape. The husband said he frantically pulled with all his strength, but was unable to unloose her. The other man, their friend, was finally able to dislodge her from the footholds.

As the young husband spoke, we all felt an incredible relief, but also a sober realization that a dangerous situation had been rectified. Sometimes in our lives the proximity to death, for ourselves or for others, intersects. There is the immediate vulnerability--the sense that life can be reversed so very quickly, sometimes with hardly a warning. None of us are immune to the swift waters that can swallow us.

My son learning to read "the swift and slow" of the river with his fly fishing rod.

It seems every day of our lives we are on a journey down a river: sometimes almost motionless, with a sleepy stillness, and other times with a racing momentum where we can hardly hold on. The unpredictable nature of a river is magical, perplexing, alarming, calming. As my fly fishing friend instructed me, "You have to learn how to 'read the river' when you fly fish." But this summer I was reminded of the precarious nature of a river and of a life. A river is always changing its course, depth, and force. As we climb on our raft every day, we must be prepared for every twist and curve, and to stop for replenishment and an occasional rescue. Sometimes, and we never know when it will happen, we may be on the shore ourselves waving our arms wildly for a fellow rafter to stop for us.

Gazing at the Snake River's rough water with its wildness, power, and unpredictability.

My son whispered to me as we climbed off the raft, "I will never forget this rafting trip down the Snake River." I nodded and said, "Me too." To be nudged and reminded of our mortality sweetens the journey, adding a layer of new wisdom to our experience. Our scenic rafting tour was longer but filled with more than just mere beauty or pleasantries. We climbed off the raft with an increased desire to rescue, but also a renewed respect for a river.

I am trying to "read the river" with its ripples and rapids, but I also understand a little better the delicate nature of life--to love every second I get to be on the river. The journey on any river is that much more cherished with a loved one by my side.

Learning to navigate the waters with my son who has autism

Fly Fishing

Don't laugh--fishing in a long skirt, on the way to dinner....

This summer I discovered a new passion: fly fishing. There is a contemplative adventure to swinging a pole with a flowing, designated rhythm--an art and athleticism that is quieting, but yet electrifying, all at the same time. It soothes the soul. The simple sway of the pole soaring above your head, and then placing the curved line onto the ripply water is pure mediation. To be on a river, stream, or lake, pole in hand, brings a oneness with the wilderness world surrounding you. As Thoreau once wrote, " Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not the fish they are after."

To hold a pole in your hand, and watch the slanted sun glisten as it dances on the swelling water elevates the endorphins in the brain. To be alone on the river with your thoughts or in silence with a companion ties you together, with a tangle that cannot easily be unloosed. And sometimes, if there is conversation, it is of the most salient variety--peppered with humor and wisdom--acquired only on the river and other special places. The hours of time, the chaotic pace we run with, slow down with a fishing pole. Somehow fishing moments are remembered with more clarity and vividness. As my son said yesterday on the river, it is not necessarily about catching a fish, but it is about "catching the happiness" that the moment offers.

Catching the happiness and the fish!

Navigating the river with three of my sons

I have "caught the happiness" many places this summer in the Teton Valley of Idaho, Star Valley, Wyoming, the Provo River on the way to Sundance Ski Resort in Utah, and in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Two weeks ago on the Snake River near Jackson Hole a friend recounted, "It is not only about the motion of a pole above your head that makes you good at fly fishing. It is about 'reading the water.' It takes years to understand the ripples, seams, shallow and deep spots on a river. Sure, it is important to know which insects are jumping in the season to tie onto your pole. But it is the constant 'reading of the water'' that is the barometer of a good fly fisherman. " This summer I am trying to "read the river" a little better--watching the quiet flow, anticipating the rapids, and delighting in the waterfalls.

The Pete, learning how to "read the river."

Watching a river for me is like gazing at a crimson fire on a star-filled night; it is mesmerizing, riveting, almost transfixing. The light and shadows, the shallow and deep ravines, and the interweaving creeks that merge unto The River all remind me that watching a river is like trying to understand Life. While I am on a river, I am hoping to catch a fish, but I know that just being in a quiet place, with a pole in hand, prods and revives my soul. As I watch the river gliding by, with the water winding around the creviced banks, I am beginning to understand how to "read a river." It is about standing apart from your own self, and trying to understand a bigger and more beautiful world that surrounds you--even if it is a minute buzzing fly.

Jonathan, my son, taking the time to "read the Mississippi River"--where he grew up.

In the stirring small book about fly fishing and his own family life, A River Runs Through It and Other Stories, Norman Mclean writes about his early life fishing on the Blackfoot River. His relationship with a rebellious brother was more loving, more understood because of their constant escape of fishing together--sometimes with their father, and sometimes just the two of them. Although his brother's reckless actions and ways often eluded him, their relationship was tied together with a line of a fishing reel.

Mclean's words at the end of his life when he wrote his autobiographical book summarize a lifetime of questions answered on the Blackfoot River: "Like many fly fisherman in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise."

"Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs (his family's words). I am haunted by waters."

Yes, fly fishing is about "all existence fading" around you. The moments in a river can make all the difference.

Normandy, France (part 3) Remembering Omaha Beach on D-Day

The simple act of remembering someone, their memory, words, or deeds, I believe, is the most cherished wish of human beings. We all want to hear our names spoken with warm endearment, and to know that our life made a difference--at least to a small cluster of people. Of course, we all want to be loved, but to be remembered and honored elevates love and friendship to another proportion or magnitude. To be at a place where someone we loved did something courageous, that place becomes significant, even sacred, holy. We are never the same again because our hearts have been etched with their hopes, actions, and sensitivities. To visit Normandy, France caused my heart to tug, shift and turn. It was a week of remarkable remembrances.

Normandy, France is not the typical tourist destination; it is a place that evokes bravery, determination, and yes, forgiveness. Coming to Normandy during the first week of June this year with my 18 year old son to remember and honor my father-in-law and his grandpa, H. Smith Shumway II, who landed on Omaha Beach was unforgettable. "Grandpa", as he was known to countless people, died at age 89 four years ago. I had been to Normandy with him 19 years before when I was pregnant with this son. When anyone asked me about my experience walking on Omaha Beach with my father-in-law, I likened it to going to Gettysburg with a veteran from the Civil War. 

Although he was blinded six weeks after he landed on Omaha Beach at age 22, he could still point out the pillboxes and cliffs to me, just exactly where they still stood. A small stone church did not escape his memory. As the early spring breeze blew on us that day, he continually said, "It is so quiet, so calm." He had lived for decades in darkness after an anti-tank blew up next to him, but that day and those six weeks before he was blinded never were erased for him. It was not until decades later that he spoke freely of those experiences in Normandy. When anyone commented that he was a part of the "Greatest Generation", he quickly declined the praise. He would tell his grandchildren that they were the "Greatest Generation"--not him.

As I walked on the beach this visit with my 18 year old son next to me, I thought and remembered the many parents who had sent their beloved sons to a place that was unknown to them--far from their familiarities. I spotted graves from Britain, the United States, Canada, and Germany--some boys who were even younger than my son. Sometimes there is a point we come to when we not only remember and honor a loved one, but we etch unknown people on our hearts too. It does not matter if we knew them or not, or even if we are related. When everyone around you is remembering the courage of a certain time and place, there is a transcending, unifying feeling. Immediate friendship occurred as we embraced strangers that first week of June at Omaha Beach. 

Joshua Chamberlain, a brigadier general for the Union Army from Maine, U.S., is a favorite historical figure of mine. His experience in Gettysburg, Maryland are depicted in the Pulitzer Prize winning book in 1975, The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara. He wrote of sacred fields of war, and I think his words can also be described for sacred beaches, like Omaha, Juno, Gold, Utah, and Sword: "In great deeds, something abides. On great fields, something stays. Forms change and pass, bodies disappear, but spirits linger to consecrate ground for the vision-place of souls. . . generations that know us not, and that we know not of, heart-drawn to see where and by whom great things were done and suffered for them, shall come to this deathless field to ponder and dream; and lo! The shadow of a mighty presence shall wrap them in its presence, and the power of its vision pass into their souls."

Lessons of Normandy: Remembering matters. Earth and heaven can intersect when we pause to reflect and remember. Bonds of unity are linked, and we are changed--not only by the act of remembering our own loved ones. Our own senses are elevated, and we begin to love and remember those who we have never known. Suddenly, their sacrifices and courage is part of our own story. Our hearts are enlarged and more complete when we take the time to remember.

LT. Commander H. Smith Shumway, my father-in-law, who landed on D-Day in the second wave on Omaha Beach on June 6, 1944. He had graduated from University of Wyoming in pre-med. Six weeks after landing on Omaha, he would be permanently blinded. But he lived his live with immense grace, humor, determination, and grit. He received his Master''s degree in Counseling, and was a national figure in helping the blind and deaf.. He married his college sweetheart and was the father of seven girls and one son, my husband. Thanks Grandpa for all the lessons you taught us! You are remembered every day!

On June 6, I wrote on the Omaha Beach sand, "Love U Grandpa!"

My son with some German reinactors who had come from Germany to honor the soldiers who landed on the Normandy beaches from the UK, US, and Canada. I shed a tear or two to know they had come to remember what happened between Allis and Axis powers. There was no spite or malicious feelings that I observed, only a desire to build unity on that special week.

Large posters of World War II were everywhere. This poster is in front of the Big Red 1 museum in Colleville-sur-Mer, Normandy France.http://www.tripadvisor.com/Attraction_Review-g676160-d2087033-Reviews-Big_Red_One_Assault_Museum-Colleville_sur_Mer_Calvados_Basse_Normandie_Normandy.html

Our new friends (shown below) asked us to help them place 100 flags in the sand on Omaha Beach to remember different men who fell there. They gave me us one flag to remember "Grandpa."

We met these new friends, Kent, Judy, and Steven Bow, from Michigan who were in Normandy with their son who goes on missions to play Taps with Bugles Across America.

Steve Bow, from Bugles Across America, who came to Normandy to play Taps on his 1944 bugle. As the wind brushed by us that night at near-twilight, images of the men on the boats that landed on June 6, 1944 almost seemed to tap on our shoulders. 

World War II jeeps, cars, and motorcycles were ubiquitous around Normandy in the first week of June. Omaha Beach is in the distance.

Flags and banners hung on every storefront and street in Normandy--remembering what happened 71 years ago.

This is a plaque that honors the Big Red 1 division where Caumont was held and liberated--about 23 miles from Omaha Beach.  Smith Shumway was with the division that held this town on a hill, and helped to prepare for the Cobra breakout in late July. My son, with Michal Quilles, who lives in Provence, and Bernard Marie, a man from Normandy who is now 84 years old. He remembers clearly as a 13 year old boy the invasion of the Normandy beaches. I could not get enough of their stories--people on the street and on the beaches--particularly the octogenarians and anybody who was in their 90's.    

The curator of the Big Red 1 Museum in  Colleville-sur-Mer, where he has collected memorabilia all his life. A few years ago he met my father-in-law, and was eager to meet us too.

My son with a paratrooper from Alabama whose father served in World War II.

A plaque for the Big Red 1 Division that was put up in the town of La Vacquerie, France. The Big Red 1's motto was: No mission too difficult. NO sacrifice too large. Duty first! Smith Shumway was a Lt. Commander of a group of men who helped liberate this village. He was there to attend the 65th anniversary of D-Day.

Michal Quilles giving Grandpa some olive oil from Provence, his native region. We have adopted him into the family. That is how strong the act of remembering together unifies people together.

Five years before "Grandpa died", he was honored with the  French Legion of Honor.  On my Normandy visit, I deeply felt that the French people had lived up to their promise in this letter, "My fellow countrymen will never forget your sacrifice. Their children and grandchildren are proud of your courageous actions, as can be your own children and grandchildren."  

Normandy, France (part 2) Utah Beach on D-Day 71st Anniversary

To be in Normandy, France in the first week of June you enter another chapter of time. 1944 Vintage jeeps, motorcycles, and trucks from World War II are ubiquitous on the streets and winding village roads. Many people, including children and even dogs, are dressed in the l940's style with U.S., Canadian, and British uniforms. Women have their hair tied up, with bright red lipstick, and stockings with a seam down the back. There are American, French, Canadian, and UK flags of every size waving everywhere, with 1940's Big Band music being blasted on the streets. Emotions are high, with celebratory festivities, parades, ceremonies, and picnics. But there is also a somber air of honoring those who sacrificed their lives on the beaches of Juno, Spear, Gold, Utah, and Omaha.

Most every town and village in Normandy are remembering the D-Day invasion in the early morning of June 6, 1944. When my son and I came to remember my father-in-law who landed on Omaha beach, it didn't matter if we did not speak French. We danced, sang, and walked the shores and villagers with everyone else. Everyone, even the children, seemed to perceive that the simple act of remembering and honoring the past was important. The festivities were observed with purposeful meaning, but also mixed with fun and merriment. We would not have missed it.

About 21,000 troops landed on Utah Beach, with only 197 deaths on the beach--far less than Omaha. The paratroopers started landing at 1:30 in the morning ,and then amphibious landings began at about 6:30 am  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Utah_Beach

Just before we all went to the beach to light the lanterns, we were able to listen to a U.S. veteran who landed on Utah Beach 71 years before. He said something I will never forget, "I did not want to get out of the landing craft that night. I wanted to crawl under the craft, and never come out. I was very scared. But I had no choice. I did it anyways. Let me remind you that war is terrible, and I still have nightmares about it. I pray every day that there will be peace in this world. "

Peter, my son, next to the replica landing equipment that was on Utah Beach.

Peter, with the curator of the Utah Beach Memorial Museum, as they prepare to light the lantern. On the night of June 5, the museum provided hundreds of lanterns (one for two adults). People were organized into groups, and the leaders of the group instructed hundreds of people how to safely light the lanterns, and push them to the sky.

They are lighting the lantern, to then be pushed up to the sky.

Peter is trying to help someone else push their lantern to the sky. It was not very windy, and some of the lanterns fell to the sand and in the water, reminiscent of that same night 71 years ago. I will never forget that night as I watched my son push up the lantern to the sky, in remembrance of his grandfather and all those who bravely landed on those shores. It was a night when the heaven and the earth touched for a few moments in time, witnessed by all the thousands of people that night.

It was a night when the stars blazed with memory and light, reminding me of a Van Gogh painting, A Starry Night on the Rhone.

Some people on the beach about to push their lantern into the air on June 5 at Utah Beach. We all gazed as lanterns navigated their way into the sky. Some of them had a tough time floating away, and we all cheered as they ascended.

One thing that was so moving was that the paratroopers knew that if the sea landings failed, they would be in enemy territory--with no one to back them up. They jumped anyways. With about 70 pounds of equipment on their back, many of them drowned.

There is a mannequin with a parachute still hanging from the church today in Sainte-Mere-Eglise. In the early morning of June 6, there were 13,000 paratroopers that dropped onto the Normandy coast from the 82nd Airborne and 101st Division. One aerial bomb ignited a fire in the town square that night, with the church bells ringing to alert the town of the fire. Both villagers and German troopers helped in a bucket brigade to squelch the fire. Many paratroopers died that night because they were easy targets since many were awake with the fire. It was supposed to be a secret, quiet mission. Instead, the paratroopers were a surprise to the village in the middle of the night. They were dropped into enemy territory to soften the blows and obtain the needed targets, especially the Cherbourg port. Some were scattered in the countryside, and many drowned in the rivers. Within the week, they were able to capture and liberate the Cherbourg peninsula. There is a moving museum there in the town that chronicles their dangerous, brave feats. www.airborne-museum.org/

In the early night of June 6, paratroopers from the 82nd Airborne jumped from the skies all around the Normandy coast. This is a picture of John Steele who landed on the Sainte-Mere-Eglise  stone church. He is remembered in the movie The Longest Day. www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZzHme4zIkPQ

The French are passionate about remembering to keep the memories alive, even now that many of the veterans are gone. 

Children in France are told stories that rekindle the past. Parents, teachers, and community leaders all join together to keep the history alive in the young. They want them to remember the young men who gave their all to liberate Normandy, and the rest of France.

Dogs were even dressed up for the occasion.

Some of my own children on Halloween in St. Louis, Missouri. Grandpa's World War II uniform was brought out on many occasions to remember. They loved to reinact on every occasion they could remember their grandpa.

Scottish bagpipers in Sainte-Mere-Eglise to remember the Scottish man, Bill Millin, who played his bagpipes on the day of the invasion. He was memorialized in the movie, The Longest Day.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/08/20/AR2010082005465.html

Here is a picture of Jonathan, another son, in France at the 60th anniversary of D-Day. Reinactors have been coming now for decades to this coast to remember the past. I think they always will.

There are rein actors all over Normandy during the first week of June. In many villages, the rein actors have encampments, where they stay in tents for the week with their fellow comrades. Some of them came from Belgium, the U.S. and Germany to remember what happened 71 years ago.

More people dressed up in 1940's attire at the Utah Beach Museum.

As  a band played big band music in the background, many couples danced in front of the the Utah Beach museum. They were there, dressed in 1940's attire, to capture and remember a time that they knew liberated their country.

Flowers stuck in the sand on Utah Beach, among the seaweed--to memorialize and remember those who fell on those beaches.

The breakfast that we woke up to on June 6 in our gite (a French home that is rented out for holidays) We knew it would be a special day to remember forever because everyone around us, all these new friends, helped us remember.