My Paris Dress

© 2002 by Janice Green

ParEEE!  ParEEE!  My daughter, Joni, and I were going to Paris!  A close friend advised that I should dress up in Paris if I wanted to be treated nicely by the locals.  So with my strained budget, I shopped at a special discount dress shop and found a long cotton skirt and shirt-blouse in shades of purple, orange and green.  I set it off with a black cummerbund-like wrap around belt. 

Joni’s idea of dressing up was different than mine, but for a 13 year old, her Paris Hard Rock Cafe shirt, purchased at a tourist shop in Germany, and her stunning black felt hat had her feeling and looking apropos.

Our arrival into Paris wasn’t quite as grand as I had hoped.  Paris was actually only one day of our trip to Europe, and most of our traveling was by train.  Wearing my “Paris dress,” and Joni in her carefully chosen duds, we caught a sleeper train from Frankfurt to Paris where we were assigned bunks in separate rooms.  I spent a nearly sleepless night worrying about Joni and trying to keep my Paris dress as unwrinkled as possible while keeping the camera close with its strap around my neck.

Morning eventually came as we arrived in Paris, a bit ruffled and weary, but we were finally there.  Eager to try out my high school French, I began looking in the train station shops for “une petite carte de Paris” (a little map of Paris) and “un petit dictionnare en Anglais et Français avec les phrases” (a French-English dictionary with sentences).  I found my map, but did not find the dictionary. 

Once these preliminaries were taken care of, we set out on the subway to find the Champs-Elysées.  I was gaining confidence, bit by bit, wearing my Paris dress, speaking “un très peu” French, and using our navigational skills. 

We had hoped to be able to sign up for an English speaking tour, but the tours turned out to be only for US military personnel and their families.  We also learned that the Hard Rock Cafe, the one stop on the entire trip that Joni most had her heart set on, had gone out of business a month or two earlier.

 My French got a workout looking for a “Magic Marker.”  We went into an office store on the Champs-Elysées, but I didn’t know enough French to ask for it by name.  All I could do was ask for a pen that “writes a wide line”.  The store clerk was gracious, but didn’t understand.  Finally she thought of the felt tip markers and we made our purchase.  We used the marker to make paper signs naming the current location and date in our diary notebook. Then we photographed a sign each day so we could better identify our pictures when we got them developed.

Since we were truly “on our own” to explore Paris, we paraded up and down the Champs-Elysées one more time and admired the Arc de Triomphe.  Studying my “petite carte” we returned to the subways and came out at the Eiffel Tower.  We took the elevator to the top where I used up almost an entire roll of film taking pictures in every direction.

We returned to the train station to pick up our luggage, and then caught a taxi to our hotel.  In our room we watched cartoons in French.  We also caught the news, in English, and learned that the singer, Madonna, had jogged through Paris and right past the Eiffel Tower the same day, quite possibly while we were on top.  Given my mad snapping of the camera, I wondered if I might have caught her on film. The next morning we took the taxi again to the train station.  This taxi driver was especially friendly, so I did my best to converse with him in French.  He pointed out an opera house to us, gesturing with an operatic utterance and outstretched arm when I didn’t understand, but since we were leaving Paris shortly we couldn’t check it out.  I tried to tell him about seeing Madonna on TV but I didn’t know the French word for television.  Eventually I tried pronouncing the word, television, with a French accent and he understood me immediately.  I even impressed myself! 

We then caught the TGV to Lyon.  The TGV at that time was the second fastest train in the world, having only recently been outdone by the Japanese.  On our trip to Lyon, I was treated the most rudely of any place we went on our entire trip.  Perhaps because I couldn’t order appropriately in French, or perhaps because I wasn’t properly attired, as I wasn’t wearing my Paris dress again that day, the waiters were refusing to serve us any food on the train.  I was so hungry and getting angrier by the moment.  I think they could have served it to me raw and I could have cooked it on my head–I was steaming!   I did remember how to say “J’ai faim” (I’m hungry) and that at least got a little sympathy out of one waitress, so with the help of another passenger on the train, we were finally able to get some food. 

From Lyon we took another train into Switzerland where we spent two very peaceful nights.  About a week later we flew back to the States.  Again I wore my “Paris dress” to the airport, and as we went through customs, the customs lady looked me over and asked if I had purchased any designer clothing in Paris.  I decided that my Paris dress must have been elegant enough as I strutted on to the jet liner with my head held high.

My Paris dress no longer fits me, especially the skirt.  But it hangs in my closet as if it were an elegant prom dress.  No matter that I bought it at a discount store for less than $20.00.  It’s my Paris dress!

My Paris Dress

Note: I am not really wearing the skirt in this picture.  I tucked the waistband under the belt and held it out at the sides to keep my hips from showing around the edges.

A Backwards Party in a Hoghouse

From my Family Heritage Album 

© 2002 by Janice Green

Among my earliest memories of writing my own thoughts and ideas I find myself playing with secret codes when I was in about the second grade.  My older brother, Keith, had been using secret codes to share messages with Ronnie who lived up the road, and I thought it looked like fun.

The easiest code they were writing called for two sheets of paper and a piece of carbon paper.  The trick was getting the papers in the right position before starting to write–an original copy on top, a second sheet under that which would carry the encoded message, and beneath it all was a sheet of carbon paper with the carbon side up.  Then when you wrote the message correctly on the top sheet of paper, it would appear backwards on the backside of the second sheet of paper.  It was a great trick!

I discovered two problems with my newfound trick.  The first was figuring out whom to write a message to since my older brother preferred writing to the neighbor boy, and my younger brothers and sister couldn’t read yet.  Then the second problem was figuring out what to say in my secret message if I did figure out whom to send it to.  This was probably my first encounter with writer’s block.

That’s when the idea of writing an invitation to a party came to me.  Since the writing was all backwards, it seemed perfect for an invitation to a backwards party.  There had been a backwards Sunday School party at church recently where everyone dressed with their clothes on backwards or wrong side out, and with their shoes on the wrong feet.  My family had recently moved to the farm in Rochester, Indiana, that had been in my father’s family for generations.  There was also a new family who had moved into the farmhouse across the road and they had four young children.  We could invite them to join us for a backwards party in our clubhouse.  With Mama’s permission, I wrote the invitation, in code of course, and took it to Mrs. Ogle across the road.  She didn’t understand it, so I showed her how to hold it up to a mirror to read it.  And what joy!  She said they would come to my party!

When the day arrived for the party, the girls, Carol, Doris, and Sandy came in dresses, though I don’t recall what her son, Donnie, wore.  They didn’t wear anything wrong side out or backwards.  I panicked!  I guess in all the excitement I had forgotten to explain to her about the clubhouse. Our clubhouse was nothing more than the old 5 by 7 foot abandoned hog-house behind the barn.  To fix it up for the party we had brushed out the spider webs and used some crepe paper to attempt to make it more festive.  I had also planned an activity or two to play in it.  But I would NEVER wear one of my dresses to play in the clubhouse!  We even had to climb in through the door in the roof!

If it bothered Mrs. Ogle, she never let on.  She let the children take their clothes off and put them back on wrong side out and backwards.  And the party began!  I was quite proud to have pulled off the party, but I also learned something about the importance of including all the important details in an invitation that day.

Writing your family history

I wish I knew what my grandparents were like since all but one died before I was three years old.  What were my great grandparents like? Or my great, great grandfather who I’ve learned was a pastor who rode a horse from one church to another in his circuit?  It is one thing to learn the names of my ancestors, but to me this has little meaning without some indication of their personalities.  I wish I could enjoy a long conversation with them.  Where did they live?  When did they get electricity?  How did they provide clothing for their families? 

For my father’s 90th birthday I made an attempt to put together pictures and information to tell his life story, and I put it into web page form to share with guests at his birthday celebration.  He helped me to write and edit some of his memories as I picked his brain for anything and everything he could tell me.  I thoroughly enjoyed the project; however, it was a temporary disappointment. Daddy’s health was deteriorating to the point that we decided to spread out the birthday celebration over three days with a series of drop-ins so he wouldn’t become too overwhelmed with so many people all at one time.  This plan gave him more time to enjoy all of his guests.  But as it turned out, there was no appropriate time to present the web page, and few guests took the time to sit at my computer and read what was written there.

I transferred the web page onto my father’s computer before I left Murfreesboro to return to my home in South Carolina.  The more I thought about it I realized that the web page was not a good solution for my father as he was no longer able to sit at his computer and navigate through the web page to read what was there.  Around Thanksgiving following my father’s June birthday celebration I began considering the possibility of putting the same files and pictures into a book he could hold while sitting in his recliner, so I began making Google searches for ways to self-publish a book.  It wasn’t long before I discovered, an online book printing (print-on-demand or POD) website, and I realized that I could pull it off in a very short time.  Since I was planning another trip home for Christmas, I hurriedly began the cut and paste process of transferring my web page text and picture files into a Word document that could be uploaded to Lulu.  Within two weeks I had created a file for the first draft of Dad’s book.  I hurriedly uploaded it to Lulu and put in my order for one copy to be delivered to my parents’ home in Murfreesboro before packing my clothes and driving to Tennessee.

Before I left South Carolina I learned that Dad was in the hospital, and  while I was driving through Atlanta I got a call on my cell phone that Dad was taking a turn for the worse and I should drive straight to the hospital as fast as possible.  Dad pulled through that crisis and after my second day in Murfreesboro, I was able to present him with the professional looking first draft of his book which had come in the mail.  Nothing could have made him more proud.  He showed it to every person–visitor or hospital staff–who came into his room explaining that it was a book about himself.  He read the entire book carefully and gave me more information that I added to the finished edition later.  Having taught high school English, he was also a fantastic proofreader. 

Dad never saw the final draft of his book, but he died feeling very important and appreciated.  I believe he lived an extra two weeks on the energy he gained from reading and showing the book to his guests.  Dad died in mid-January.

I share this story because I want to encourage others to write about their ancestors.  There are too many wonderful stories that die every time a person dies, even more so, the oldest among us.  Their lives have gone through so many changes as the world has gone from pre-electricity to laptops, cell phones, I-pods and MP3 players to name only a few recent advancements.  They have lived through the days of horse-drawn carriages and have seen astronauts walk on the moon and repair satellites in space.  Few children born in the last 20 years will ever know what it is like to create their own fun without TV or the latest computer games.  Those who are willing to do so can have a part in preserving the heritage that their children and grandchildren will wonder about when they are older.

Learn about your ancestors while your grandparents, aunts and uncles are still around to tell you about them.  Make a list of things to ask and write a little at a time.  Some items in your list might include:

  • Ancestry/genealogy
  • Home place(s) 
  • Childhood toys, activities, and playmates
  • Childhood chores
  • Clothing
  • School stories
  • Courtship
  • College
  • Jobs/career path
  • Transportation
  • Electricity, lighting, TV…
  • Travel

Use a recorder and take notes.  Write down the events and arrange them to suit your fancy.  Make scans of pictures and include them in your writings.  If you don’t feel like publishing the stories in a book, put them into a ring-binder notebook and continue adding to your collection of stories.  Save your computer files for sharing with family members or for making a book at some date in the future.  I will be sharing some of my memories from my own “Family Heritage Album” in the future as part of my blog.