What a beautiful sunny weekend we had. In central Maine, the black flies are pretty much gone, and the weather was perfect for working outdoors or for having a barbecue to kick off the summer season, which is all too short in my estimation.

On Sunday, our daughter Shannon and her husband, Mike, joined us for a barbecue and an afternoon on the patio, one of our favorite places to be when the weather is good. This year, we decided to go light with the appetizers. Our family is plagued with high blood sugar and high cholesterol, and we are doing what we can to modify our diets. We’re not fanatical—we like chips and dip as well as the next family—but we have all decided to eat healthy food most of the time, with occasional indulgences so that we don’t feel deprived.

Accordingly, the appetizers consisted of nuts, fruits and berries, and grilled bread. (Add a salad, and you’d have a very satisfying meal.) We all agreed that the appetizers were perfect, and I plan on doing the same thing for other gatherings we have this summer.

Unfortunately, it is a little too early for local fruit and berries, so the ones we had for Sunday’s barbecue all came from away, as we Mainers like to say.

However, our salad not only featured Maine lettuce, but it also had some of Farmer Kev’s beautiful radishes. And, the pork chops that Mike, Shannon, and my husband, Clif, ate came from The Farmers’ Gate Market, a nearby shop that specializes in local meat. (I’ll be writing about the the pork chops and The Farmers’ Gate Market for the next post.)

While Memorial Day’s big thrust is to remember and honor those who have served in the military, it is also a time to remember all those who have passed. In our backyard, we have a memorial bench for Clif’s mother and my mother, and both mothers’ ashes have been scattered behind the bench, where the ferns grow. (My mother thought it would be a lovely resting place, and she specifically asked to have her ashes scattered among the ferns and trees.) On Monday, I planted some impatiens in big pots, which will add a burst of color to the deep green around the bench.

Clif and I have come to think of that bench as a memorial to all the family members who have passed, which means there is always some sadness around Memorial Day as we remember our mothers, our fathers, and other relatives who were dear to us. In my remembrances, I always include my good friend Barbara Johnson, who was much too young when she died seven years ago.

Well, to be mourned is to be loved, and it is good to have day that focuses our thoughts on those who have passed. It is especially appropriate to have Memorial Day in the spring, when life is emerging from its winter’s rest, a reminder that life continues, and we are part of that continuum.

On Saturday, my husband, Clif, and I went to Brunswick to see a Center Stage Players production at the Theater Project. According to the Theater Project’s blurb on their website, the Center Stage Players “is a group of Mid Coast Maine seniors who create and perform original and classic pieces that are performed ‘readers theater’ style twice a year.” Our friend Sybil Baker is part of this group, and we came to see her perform and also to see her short piece, “The Church of the Divine Potluck.” (The title came about as the result of a conversation Clif and I had with Sybil a while back. Sybil was complaining about the preponderance of potlucks in the church she went to. Clif jokingly came up with the title “The Church of the Divine Potluck,” and Sybil took off with it.)

The Center Stage Players spring production was LOL, and laugh out loud we did over the various pieces and skits. Our favorite, of course, was Sybil’s “Church of the Divine Potluck,” but there was also a beautiful little fable about birds, written by James Thurber. And a funny but poignant piece about two women talking about finding companionship after the death of a husband. To paraphrase one of the women, “When you get to be our age, no one’s going to look at us.”

After the performances, which lasted about an hour, we headed to Maine Street to Little Tokyo for an early dinner. Sybil had been to Little Tokyo for Mother’s Day, and she described it as having “lovely food.” Sybil wasn’t joking—the food was exquisite—and the prices were lovely, too. Sybil and I both had the fish soup—fish, shrimp, vegetables, and mushrooms in a clear broth that was both smoky and delicate. We ate until there was just a bit of broth at the bottom of our bowls, and Sybil said, “My grandson, who’s been to Japan, says it’s perfectly acceptable to sip the last of the broth directly from the bowl.” She raised her bowl to her lips, and I quickly raised my bowl to my lips. I didn’t want to waste even a smidgen of that delectable broth.

Clif had deep-fried scallops in panko crumbs. Again, there was the combination of hearty yet delicate. Along with scallops came rice, vegetables, a salad, and miso soup, all first rate. (I had little bites and sips of what he ordered.) The bill came to $27 for the three of us, and I think it’s safe to say that I have never had such good food at that price. We’ll be back, that’s for sure. In fact, we’ll be plotting for excuses to go to Brunswick—about 45 minutes from where we live—so that we can eat at Little Tokyo.

As luck would have it, right next door to Little Tokyo is Gelato Fiasco. The day was warm and sunny, allowing us to have gelato on the tables outside on the sidewalk. Sybil, Clif, and I chatted about family, books, movies, the Theater Project, trains, and bikes. As we talked, people from other tables chimed in. We admired one woman’s bike, and she told us that her husband bought it at a yard sale for $50. From another woman, we learned that there is a substantial senior citizen discount for the train from Portland to Boston. (Clif almost qualifies.)

“Let’s take the train to Boston!” Sybil suggested. “We can go for the day, and you can spend the night in my apartment.”

“We could go to the aquarium and eat in the North End,” I said.

“What fun!” Sybil said. “Let’s do it.”

And so the seed has been planted for a Boston trip. In September, perhaps, to celebrate Clif’s and my birthday.

If I am lucky enough to live into my 80s, I want to be just like Sybil. She’s devoted to her daughter and family, who live not far away, but she is independent, too, leading a very creative life. Truly, she is an inspiration.

In the previous post, I wrote about going to a Franco-American gathering last Saturday, and I felt as though a brief history was necessary. Readers from away could be forgiven for wondering, what the heck are Franco-Americans, and why are they gathering? I think I have answered the first question. Now on to the second, why did we gather?

We humans seem to have an innate need to examine and to explore life in a variety of ways, and art is one of them, cutting across culture and time. The astonishingly beautiful prehistoric cave paintings indicate that the urge to look and create goes way, way back. Different aspects of life can fuel that urge, and ethnicity, especially if there has been discrimination, is one such motivator. A big one, in fact, as members of that group struggle to come to terms with who they are and how the repression influenced them, their families, and their communities.

For many years, Franco-Americans kept their heads down, so to speak. They did not want to cause a fuss or draw attention to themselves. They wanted to work hard, raise their families, and keep clean houses. This they did, with a zeal that is often amazing, and while Francos have too often been called stupid, even their harshest critics could not accuse them of being lazy or dirty.

But times change. As Michael Parent has put it, our parents could only go so far, and they brought us to a certain point. Now we are going further, and today there are Franco-American writers, scholars, performers, and historians. Some of us recently met at the Darling Marine Center in Walpole, Maine, just outside of Damariscotta, which surely qualifies as one of the loveliest places in a state that has many lovely places. The tidal Damariscotta River twists through the area, and its gleaming presence brings a rich variety of life as well as some incredible views. The Darling Marine Center, a branch of the University of Maine, overlooks the river, and lucky are the students who come to study at this center.

Susan Pinette, Director of Franco-American Studies at the University of Maine at Orono, and Jacob Albert, who works at the Franco-American Centre at UMO, were the prime organizers of this event, which started on Friday and ended on Sunday. I went on Saturday, and I can’t remember the last time I have been so inspired and energized by such a smart, creative group of people. It made me proud to be Franco-American, that’s for sure.

I did not take notes—although I started out doing so. I just wanted to listen and learn. Each presenter had 20 minutes to read or perform or to give a talk, and there was usually time for questions afterward. Among so many talented people, it seems unfair to single any of them out, but this is a blog, and although in theory I can make this post as long as I want, in reality there is a limit to how long it should be. So I must make choices. Again, I want to note that all the presentations were worth seeing, and I especially was fascinated by James Myall’s slide show about an orphanage run by nuns in Lewiston. (James, with his charming British accent, is the coordinator of the Franco-American Collection at the University of Southern Maine.)

But my three favorites were Susan Poulin and Michael Parent, extremely gifted and talented Maine storytellers and performers, as well as the Massachusetts poet David Surette, whose precise yet soulful poems beautifully capture his working-class Franco-American experience. In one of his poems, David describes going with his father to a site in Nova Scotia where his daughter is doing archaeological work. David’s ancestors came from Nova Scotia, and when he and his father visited a graveyard and “counted the Surettes in the graveyard at St. Joseph’s, we realized we had come not just for my daughter but a family’s legacy, whispers from our past that will forever be a part of our future.”

Susan Poulin is a performer whose work encompasses a broad range, from women and weight to marriage to the grief of losing her mother to cancer. But her most enduring creation, perhaps, is Ida LeClair, a Franco-American woman of “a certain age,” who has a tremendous zest for life, and, despite the humor, wisdom as well. Susan has created several shows that feature Ida, and if any of them come to a venue near you, then get thee to the show. (In fact, if you see anything featuring Susan Poulin, then get thee to the show.) At the gathering, Susan, as Ida, explored how couples must take time for themselves, even it’s only to go to the local lookout and spend a couple of hours together.

Michael Parent uses his Franco-American heritage to tell stories that, like Susan’s, have humor and wisdom. At the gathering, he performed a piece about a young boy’s fascination with a flamboyant garbage collector. The boy is so taken with this man that he decides he wants to be a garbage collector when he grows up. When the boy expresses this goal to the garbage collector, the man gently but firmly disabuses the boy of that notion. In his performance, Michael switched effortlessly between the boy’s character and the garbage collector’s character. Again, as with Susan, if one of Michael’s shows comes to a venue near you, then do not hesitate to see it.

As if this all weren’t enough, the food served at the conference was very good, too, and the salad at lunch featured fresh fiddle heads. Now, how many conferences can you go to where the performances and presentations are first rate and the salads include fresh fiddle heads? Not many that I know of, and I felt very fortunate to be included.

Last Saturday, I went to a Franco-American gathering that included artists, editors, archivists, and professors. (I’m sure I’ve left out a category or two.) Most of us were of Franco-American descent, but a few were non-Francos who are involved in the culture in one way or another. In Maine, around 30 percent of the population are descended from emigrants from France who made their way to Maine via Québec or the Maritimes.

A brief history of Franco-Americans for readers unfamiliar with Maine’s history: In the mid-1800s, when the Industrial Revolution was gearing up, factory workers were desperately needed in Maine. At the same time, Franco-Canadians needed work. Big Catholic families combined with a finite amount of arable land led to poverty and deprivation. Indeed, as I heard over the weekend, some families were so poor they could hardly afford to buy shoes for their children.

So down the Franco-Canadians came, to work in Maine mills. And they came and they came and they came. (Not only to Maine, but to other New England mill towns as well.) These emigrants brought their language—French—as well as their religion and other customs, including a preternatural urge for cleaning their houses, garages, and barns. Settling in mill towns and cities, the emigrants formed French quarters where French was the main language, and there were French newspapers and radio shows. Masses were said in French, and most of the children went to Catholic schools.

Sometime around the early 1900s, the dominant culture—the Anglo-Americans, the Yankees—began to get alarmed. Yes, they wanted workers, but there were so many of “the French,” who insisted on speaking their language and carrying on as though they were still in Québec, not in Maine. The Yankees embarked on an assimilation campaign, and like all such plans, it relied on intimidation, repression, and, at times, outright terror. The Ku Klux Klan was huge in Maine, and they marched against the Franco-Americans. French was not allowed to be spoken in schools unless it was in French class, where “good French” was taught. Unfortunately, the Yankees succeeded with their plans, and by the time my generation came along, few of us spoke French, and too many of us were only vaguely aware of our rich, cultural heritage. We knew we were the underdogs, but we weren’t exactly sure why this was the case.

Others—writers and scholars—were more aware of what happened, and as the past was examined, there came an overwhelming need to tell the Franco-American story, which had been suppressed for so long. This movement started sometime around the 1970s and is continuing into the 21st century. Writers and performers are examining what it means to be Franco-American. Courses are offered at the University of Maine at Orono that explore the history. And some writers, like me, use the Franco-American culture as a springing board in fiction. It is not the destination, it is who I am, and all things flow from this.

I will admit that as I came to terms with my own heritage—French for as far back as I can trace it—I went through an “angry Franco” period and was quite bitter about the whole Yankee repression thing. But one day, when I was sounding off to David Surrette, a very fine Franco-American poet from Massachusetts, he looked at me and said calmly, “It’s the way of the world, Laurie.”

This brought me up short, but I instantly knew he was right. This sort of thing is the way of the world, and Franco-Americans are hardly the only ethnic group to suffer repression. This acknowledgement doesn’t make it right—of course it doesn’t—but repression happens all around the world with various ethnic groups. Unfortunately, it’s part of the human condition. Humans form groups, and there is always a dominant group. This can happen in different ways, and right now in this country the 1 percent are doing their best to be in charge and to hoard resources.

I would also learn that France—the mother country, so to speak—hardly has a spotless record when it comes to exploitation, and countries in Africa are still dealing with their own legacy of French repression and colonization.

So on we go. We learn, we remember, and we make art. And, I hope, we forgive, although that is not always easy.

In the next post, I will describe some of that art and also the beautiful place—Darling Marine Center—where the gathering was held.

This…

Plus this…

Equal lunch.

And this…

as well as this…

Equal dinner.

If only math could always be this good.