In 2003, I went to Belgium with a friend and her husband whose name is Trevor.  Our quest was to try to find any information about what had happened to Trevor’s father who was lost in Belgium in WWII.

There were a few things we knew for sure.  Trevor’s father, an English gunner, had been wounded during the D-Day invasion, sent back to England to recover and then, with three other soldiers, had returned to the continent to rejoin his regiment.  We knew that, somewhere along the way, one had been wounded and the others had been taken prisoner by the Germans and held in a farmhouse somewhere around Yvoir in the Meuse Valley.  We also knew that two of them had been shot and buried along with a Belgian resistance fighter in the communal cemetery in Dorinne, a nearby village.  No trace of Trevor’s father had ever been found. 

Continue reading →

Oradour-sur-Glane

At least once a year during a European trip, I try to find a place where I can spend a quiet moment reflecting on the sacrifice so many people have made for the cause of war.  This “tradition” has become my own sort of November 11th, Remembrance Day.  In 2011, when I paused for this moment of silence, I was in the small village of Oradour-sur-Glane, not far from Limoges, France.

Continue reading →

During the 1990s, I took my mother to Europe a number of times.  She had not been overseas until she was in her late sixties and was not, as we would say, “street-wise”.  Unfortunately, some of my funny moments are at her expense.  Such as the time when we were checking out of a hotel in a small village in France.  I was paying the bill while she waited in the lobby.  When I rejoined her, she had a most puzzled expression on her face.  She had watched while a young woman spoke to her dog.  “Viens ici, Henri!  Assis-toi!”  Amazed, my mother said to me, “That dog can understand French!”  Yes, I replied patiently.  They aren’t born speaking English!