Two years out of high school, I was traveling through France with a buddy, James R. Dean, when we got stranded in Toulouse, France. We were out of money and staying in a youth hostel. Our whole trip had been a comedy of errors. I wrote a desperate letter home demanding cash and wondered how we would survive the time it would take for money to arrive. We tried to sell things, but the other travelers were not interested in our books, toilet paper or Bermuda shorts. One Frenchman said he preferred using newspaper to toilet paper in the hopes of getting a photo of Brigitte Bardot — then a huge sexy film star.
Jim was a handsome devil and met a young French woman who realized our predicament. One summer night while sitting on a French street, some French youth pulled up on motorcycles and ordered us to get on back. They took us to the home of Jean and Annie Mongelard (their last name means “eat bacon”). Jean, a short but burly man, asked us if we were German. He fought in World War II and hated Germans, unfortunately. I said we were Americans, and for the next week, we dined on three-course meals, listened to Jean’s war stories and heard Annie’s passionate imitation of the torch singer, Edith Piaf. Anne would break into “No Regrets” at any moment and no one could stop her.
By the time the money arrived, we had enjoyed swimming in the local pool where Jean was a lifeguard (the French kids thought he was eccentric), and we skinny dipped at night in the same pool. The group of young French men and women would run naked around the block in the semi darkness to dry off. Motorists were startled. Nights were spent drinking wine, singing songs and telling stories in an odd mixture of English and French. Some of the French boys were curious how to pronounce our American obscenities properly and would shout them out jumping off the diving boards the next day.
Cut to: Years later, the Mongelards visited a fellow retired French soldier in California where they also met James. Then they flew to Pocatello and proved to be high maintenance, indeed. They could order meals with many courses, and Annie was ready with her Edith Piaf set to deliver in public. When a baseball team playing in a nearby field broke a bedroom window and a fellow came to fix it, he mentioned he had served an LDS Mission in Europe.
“France?” I asked, with great hope. “I need a translator. Please tell me it was in France.”
“Germany,” he replied.
Jean did his imitation mock Hitler impersonation and shrieked about Nazis. The fellow fixing the window was startled, and I tried to explain Jean’s war experience.
Then it was Memorial Day, and I took Jean down to meet American veterans and celebrate the occasion.
None of the veterans knew French, but I told them that Jean had fought during the Nazi invasion of France and helped American fliers when they landed behind enemy lines. Jean was moved when the American veterans came to take him out to the field and salute the American flag. They gave him a small flag which they took back to France. Later we visited various ceremonies at the Pocatello cemetery. Once again, Jean was visibly moved. Memorial Day made their visit special.
I kept in touch with Jean and Annie, until he recently died at 95. She is in a senior center home in Toulouse, and I still write, though her letters in her very formal English (“The food was sufficient?”) have slowed down. I still have fond memories of that house in Toulouse on Rue des Jacinth Street, and the sight of Jean Mongelard marching out with his American fellow soldiers to salute the American flag on Memorial Day.
(4) comments
The only way I would visit France is if I were there
To conquer it.....those clips of nazis marching through Paris with french "men" on the sidewalks crying, never get old.
Nicely written tale of Michael and James on the road in Europe. Quite refreshing after the hyperbole, eccentric writing, and misinformation (lies) by Hackworth, Enfreaking, and Parsons. However, it is always fun to read Nugene Sant's critique. In the name of diversity, inclusion and equality let's get new woke columnists.
Well of course you would love the stories about gay Paree. The Journal went woke and has gone broke.....they don't understand their consumers
Any more than Anheuser Busch does.
You paint a clear picture with your words....now I've been to France!
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