I remember a time when the Beatles, Bob Dylan, miniskirts, marijuana and major political protests were about to explode across Europe and America. As Bob Dylan sang, “There was music in the cafes at night and revolution in the air.”
In the sixties, I took a trip across Europe one summer with a pal, James Dean, who was very aware he shared the name of an iconic actor killed in a car crash in 1955. When we landed in London, a customs agent, looking at James’s passport, said, “Jaymes Dyne, eh? Faymous Nyame, yours.”
“Some of us are still around,” Jim said.
When a group of street walkers descended on us on a London Street and heard Jimmy’s name, one said. “That’s all right. Elvis Presley left about an ‘our ago.” One of them looked at me. “Who are you, Ricky Nelson?”
Our trip was a comedy of errors. My parents and Jim’s single mother insisted on sending us our money, but often, not at the same time. We would arrive at the American Express and I would have money waiting but none for James, or vice versa. We got as far as Toulouse, France, and realized we were homeless and broke, so I sent a desperate letter home from a youth hostel. My advice: always be in control of your own money.
Things turned around when James, a handsome devil, met a young French woman. We were sitting by the side of the road, one evening, when what appeared to be a cadre of French youth arrived on motorcycles, and we were ordered to get on the back. Then we met the Mongelard family (Monge-a-lard). In French, it means, “eat bacon.” Monsieur Jean Mongelard, with his hair combed out wild like Einstein, was prejudiced against Germans since he fought the
Nazis in WWII and was put in a prisoner of war camp, but I assured him that we were “Americans.” I stressed my Irish ancestry though my mother’s father was part German. Jean’s wife, Annie, plump and a gifted singer, could break into an Edith Piaf song like “No Regrets” at any place and at any moment. One could not stop her. She had to finish the performance, which could be quite theatrical and astonish onlookers at a restaurant.
At his home, Jean acted out his war stories, pretending to cut my throat as he shrieked in rapid-fire French. One afternoon, a visiting missionary translated for Jean. We had a week of fine dining, drinking and wild war stories. Then our money arrived and it was time to leave that kind family, Jean and Annie Mongelard.
“I would like you to send me some…some fruit trees,” Jean said. “From California.”
“I will try,” I said.
We corresponded with them over the years and one day, they showed up in America, first visiting James, by now stricken with a paralyzing MS. It was difficult, and the Mongelards had sparse English. James eventually put them on a plane, and they flew to Pocatello. My wife and I were working, and it became complicated since the elderly Mongelards were a high-maintenance family. We still had good times, however; Jean, a chef, cooked a big dinner with many of our friends and colleagues invited, and though Jean accidently started a fire, it was still memorable. One guest insisted he spoke French, fluently, and could translate for us, but he seemed to know only two phrases, "enchanté," which he murmured while kissing Annie’s hand, and “Viva la France,” which Jean would repeat with gusto.
We were saddened when I finally took the Mongelards to the Pocatello airport. As James pointed out, “They saved our bacon in Toulouse.” We owed them so much, and I knew I would never see them again.
Adieu, cher ami.
One day, I got a card from Annie noting that Jean Mongelard had died in his nineties; I am sure by now that Annie is gone, though I never got an official notice. One bright note, however, is that my father visited them. He spoke a little French, and he brought them the fruit trees which they so wanted.
I like to think of those fruit trees still growing in Toulouse, France.
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