My mother said that I cried uncontrollably the day she told me I was adopted.  “You mean that someone didn’t want me?” I asked through sobs. “No, it means that we wanted you,” she answered.  I was three.  

 I don’t remember if it made me feel better then, but it gives me comfort now. I never doubted that my parents wanted me.  In fact, my father would never admit that I was adopted.  Somehow, his silence was as much an affirmation of my bond with him as my mother’s openness to talk about it. 

 I grew up with his tales of England: the bombing of Yorkshire, steeple chasing, his mother fighting off teens attacking an old policeman during the war.  He called himself a missionary to Canada.  I remember laughing at him saying it, but now the meaning behind the word is lost.  What was he trying to preach; the love of his country? Even if he wasn’t trying, his stories held me enthralled. I developed many of his British words: brolly, chips and a strange way of saying garage that can still make most people laugh. My father’s love of England, and his culture was mine. 

One day on a visit to the hospital where my father was dying of pancreatic cancer, I walked in while the doctor was there.

 “Ah this must be your daughter!” the man said cheerfully, “Your father is always talking about you.  He says such wonderful things!”  Now I know that most parents speak well of their children, but there seemed to be a different dynamic between my father and I. He was my champion; when I walked in the room his face lit up. I felt the same.  Every time I heard the bus stop outside of our home, my heart would leap at the thought it might be dad. After the doctor spoke these words, a shadow passed over my father’s face. “I will do it for as long as I can,” he looked down.  We both knew what this meant- his nearing end.  Even now, writing this so many years later, the tears flow. He didn’t really go; my daughter knows about him, calls him granddad. I can hear his jolly laugh and can remember the way it felt to hug him.

In a quiet moment he asked that I scatter his ashes on the Yorkshire moors; a true testament to the country that he called home.

In a strange twist of fate, I now find myself exploring the possibility of calling England my home. There is little doubt that the initial connection with my new British love came from my bond with my father and his stories of Yorkshire.

 Just recently, I found out that because I am not the blood child of my father, I have no claim to his homeland.  This will never change the way I feel about dad; he will always be my hero. But it has changed the way I feel about being adopted. It saddens me to think that the British government interprets only biological family as worthy of status. I was privately adopted; my parents took me home from the hospital the day after I was born. They are, and will always be, my parents.

I have never faced any negative feelings about being adopted; most people didn’t know. Those who did know accepted it as part of who I was. I would be lying if I didn’t admit that it hurts to be rejected by the country that my father loved simply because I am not his biological child, but with or without a piece of paper no one can take away the connection that we shared.  

When Louis XVI died at the guillotine on January 21, 1793 it was said people dipped their handkerchiefs in his blood. I had always considered it more myth than legend- until I did some research.

I had to look up the word- calabash.  It is a hollowed out gourd that is used to hold small keepsakes; a strange item to hold the blood of a king, but that is exactly what it contains. Writing on the gourd claims that a Parisian by the name of Maximilien Bourdaloue dipped his handkerchief in the blood of Louis XVI after his execution at the guillotine.

After a three year study, a report posted in the Journal of Forensic Science International claims to have enough evidence to assert that the calabash indeed holds Louis XVI’s blood.

Scientists had found the DNA on the cloth three years ago, but the challenge was that there was no living family member of Louis XVI. His only surviving child from the French Revolution, Marie Thérèse, died childless in 1851. They could identify certain physical characteristics from the DNA- such as blue eyes.

Then a mummified head was found in a retired tax collector’s home in 2010. It was bought at an auction and further evidence supports that it was Henry IV, king of France from 1589-1610. Raised as a Protestant, he was assassinated by Francois Ravaillac, a fanatical Catholic who had visions of converting the king.  When persuasion failed, Ravaillac turned to regicide. This murder seems to be show a stunning similarity to the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand; a strange combination of traffic problems mixed with opportunity. For his crime Revaillac was drawn and quarted, and his family was exiled.

HenryIV was buried properly, but exhumed during the French Revolution. In 1793 all royal graves were desecrated at the Basilica of St Denis in the attempt to wipe out the memory of royalty. But someone, for whatever reason, kept his head.

This head was the key to authenticating the blood of Louis XVI. The historic men were of the same bloodline, and by looking at the DNA of these primary specimens, a connection might be made.  Belief was authenticated by science. Both DNA authenticates that the men share the same paternal line.

It is ironic, that the events of the French Revolution ended Louis XVI’s life, but also supplied to possibility to authenticate his blood. What strange things people collect!

It is a strange juxtaposition for the same women who participated in the Women’s March on Versailles.

On a rainy morning on December 5, 1789 Parisian women who sold produce at a local market began to congregate.  They were enraged over the price of food- mainly bread.  The crowd’s numbers swelled to thousands. Having first ransacked Paris’ armory, the masses marched six hours to Versailles to see Louis XVI. After first occupying the Assembly, six women were chosen to see the king. They told him of their plight, and he agreed to do what he could to help them. Exhausted and appeased, the ladies returned to Paris.

Not all were satisfied.   The royal bedchambers were breached the next day.  Palace guards who attempted to defend the royal household were beheaded on the spot.  Their head’s were put on pikes, and paraded around the palace. Marie Antoinette and her maid narrowly escaped attack, seeking safety in the king’s bedchamber.

The head of the National Guard regained control of the castle but the mob was still outside.  He convinced the king to stand on his balcony and address them. Louis XVI announced he would return to Paris for his people.  The crowd was overjoyed. They called for Marie Antoinette and the children.  This request was granted. Then the mob then demanded that the children be taken inside.

It was well known that they disliked the queen: she was Austrian and believed to be responsible for the king’s sumptuous appetite. If there ever was a dramatic moment for a movie, it would be this one. Everyone must have believed that this was Marie Antoinette’s last moments- herself and the king included.  Did he fight to return to the balcony? Did someone stop him?  What could be going on in her mind? Certainly the mob was armed and angry and there she stood before them- each sizing up the other.

Possibly it was her bravery that saved her that day, but it would only be a few more years until she stood again before the same faces in Paris- a guillotine towering above her. October 14, 1793.

During her sham trial, Marie Antoinette was accused of abusing her young son- a charge that horrified the queen. It is said the same women who marched to Versailles years ago rallied to her support. She was executed the same day. Possibly the tricoteuses who bore witness to her execution averted their eyes at that final moment, or said a silent prayer.

Looking today for more information about the case, I came across a comment (CBC News) that addressed the very core of the matter: why are we still hearing about this?  Women are raped every day.  Why do we still care?

I know we should, but before writing this I couldn’t clearly identify why this case resonated with me. The attack has been in the paper less than a month, and already people want to forget.  Even talking with friends, there is the sense that it is a horrific topic and best left to fade away (6 men, a rod, organ damage, half of her intestines needed to be taken out- are almost too taboo to talk about). Such is the leisure of living in a relatively safe country.

I am reminded of Martin Niemoller’s famous poem:

First they came for the Jews
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the Communists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left
to speak out for me.

By doing nothing, saying nothing we consent to brutality. We shouldn’t forget and we need to act. To stand with our brothers and sisters in India to say something must be done.  Already the protests and vigils are having some effect.  I read on One Website (ABC News), that lawyers have refused to represent the 6 men (correction: five men and one 17 year old boy).  I would argue the men deserve legal counsel- the verdict of the case is the most important part of the conclusion to this tragedy. Aljazeera claims that the men will be executed if they are found guilty.  Legal change and stronger protection for all Indian citizens would be the best way to honour the victims.

I am a mother.  Being a parent connects you more strongly with humanity.  When a child is lost in the mall- it is your child; a child giggles or smiles one is flooded with fond memories of their own child at that age. When my little girl was three I decided to become a foster parent to a little girl in India of the same age.  It was a small act, but I wanted to share the opportunity my little girl would have with a little girl that I believed could benefit from our help. She is family- extended and global. She lives in India, and she too will grow up into a beautiful young woman, and I care about the quality of her life.

Rape is a crime of control.  It is a weapon in war: to control, to terrorise to humiliate. From my understanding it is one reason that the United States won’t allow their female soldiers to fight in ground combat. When a country is not in war, the intent is still the same; it is a form of control.  If people are afraid of being attacked, they are less likely to leave the safety of their own environment. If women are afraid of being attacked and raped, they will stay at home. Choice and freedom are taken away. In Canada we have marches that are called ‘Take Back the Night,’ in which people hold vigil and march to fight this form of control. To talk about it, does keep it relevant and part of the discussion.

My heart goes out to the family, the young man that tried to defend her and all the other men and women that have suffered the same violence.  Thank you to the media and the men and women of India that are standing up against this crime of control and saying- enough.

In a country where the main architectural symbol, the Taj Mahal, is a tribute to beloved spouse, it is important for the government and the courts to communicate that a woman’s life has as much worth living as dead.

Moulin De La Gelette

It was a piece of art that remained in my grandfather’s  portfolio; a cashe of his young life in Europe.  A time when he traveled with his mother and sister from Canada to England to follow his father in World War One.  It seemed to be the most artistic time of his life- maybe I project my own values when I say it seemed his most prolific and happiest.

It wasn’t his own art; the signature is indecipherable but certainly not my grandfather’s tell-tale chicken scratch.   I always imagined it was a (woodcut?) of the Moulin Rouge. Possibly because it was the only symbolic windmill I have ever known in French culture- I might have been swayed by the movie of the same name that featured the Australian goddess -Nicole Kidman.

I was mistaken.  I pulled the manila coloured picture from my grandfather’s portfolio with the recent inspiration of a person meeting a real Parisian for the first time this holiday season.  I felt some strange pride in knowing that I too had something to share that could be traced back into such an important cultural centre.

The windmill in the picture is written Moulin de la Gal..the rest of the words  are cut off (this is the moment that I say a silent prayer for the Internet and Online research).

Pierre Auguste Renoir

Moulin de la Galette  has a history that spans almost three centuries.  While seen as the more glamourous  sibling, the architectural  windmill style of the Moulin Rouge, established in 1889,  was almost certainly fashioned after the Moulin de la Galette.

Built in 1622, as a windmill for making bread,  the Moulin de la Galette was part of Parisian culture.  The Debray family bought it in 1809; by 1814 they sacrificed the head of the house- Pierre-Charles Debray.  He was nailed to the windmill as a punishment for his loyalty to his country in the Franco-Prussian war.

Van Gogh

The Moulin de la Galette was the inspiration of many great artists: from Van Gogh to Renoir. Their art is a testament to the timelessness of community and the movement of life inspiring art.

Under threat of demolition in 1915, the Moulin de la Gelette was moved in 1924 to the corner of Girardon and Lepic streets.  This is the name of the street that is written on the top of my grandfather’s (woodcarving?).

If anyone has any information on the artist, the style or the time period of the photo, I would love to hear!

Merci!

Oliver Wendell Holmes  was born in 1809, in Cambridge Massachusetts.  Disenchanted by his legal studies at Harvard in 1830, Holmes turned to medical studies in Boston and then Paris while gaining literary acclaim for both his poems and his essays. Once home in Boston, Holmes won his first prize at Harvard Medical School for writing a paper on the importance of the stethoscope- a tool not used yet by a majority of the medical profession.

In an era where bloodletting was still being practiced and germ theory was unheard of, Holmes was part of a forward thinking group of physicians.  He believed in the danger of contagion of sickness-specifically during childbirth.  This was highly contested at the time by other eminent physicians. Only a few years later would the idea of hand sanitization before delivery and autopsies be introduced by Semmelweis- a Hungarian in 1847.

Holmes was also credited with a word we know today- anesthesia. It is a combination  of two Greek words that mean ‘without sensation’.  It was adopted in 1846 after a correspondence between Holmes and William Morton, the dentist who had performed the historic first public demonstration of diethel ether as a general anesthetic to manage the pain of tooth extraction.  This was an important step in the road to pain management in medical intervention.

As dean of Harvard medical school Holmes admitted the first woman, Harriot Hunt and the first African-American, Martin Delaney. Sadly, his forward thinking beliefs didn’t meet with that of his peers, and both admissions were retracted under the pressure of public opinion.

The American stereoscope was invented by Holmes. This was a handheld nineteenth century version of a children’s view- master.  A person places a binocular- type lens up to their eyes and two pictures are present, providing a 3-D effect. Surprisingly Holmes didn’t patent this invention.

Holmes was considered one of the American fireside poets. His works were characterized as family friendly and upholding convention. Abraham Lincoln is said to have memorized and favoured at least one of his poems. Holmes wrote three novels, three biographies and countless essays. A friend of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Holmes was one of a group of intellectuals that assisted him on his translation of Dante’s Divine Comedy.  The group met on Wednesday, and affectionately called themselves the Dante club.

As an intellect, Holmes shows us what an insatiable appetite for knowledge can do for one’s life and the lives of others.  The study of his medical profession  illuminates  the darkness of past medical practices and the hope for future advancement- both in his time and in our future.

The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest
In their bloom,
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb. -Excerpt from the Last Leaf by Holmes

Tuberculosis also known as consumption was historically tied with vampirism based on the characteristics of the disease. A healthy individual would suffer a quick deterioration of condition- as if the energy was being sucked out of them.  A disease that attacks the lungs, the victim would usually cough up blood –again linking the condition with its mythical counterpart.

At the age of 19 Mercy was to follow her mother and sister to the grave on a cold January of 1892.  It wasn’t until Edwin, the son of the Brown’s fell victim to tuberculosis that the patriarch of the family was convinced to exhume his family. One account claims that Edwin woke up in the middle of the night claiming that Mercy was sitting on his chest. Other villagers claimed to have seen her. It was believed that the misfortune that befell George Brown’s family was the work of a vampire.

In March of the same year Mercy died, George went to the cemetery to save his son. Accompanying him was a Dr. Metcalf from a neighbouring town and an assistant. Having been dead for nine years, Brown’s wife and first daughter (both named Mary) did not show the tell-tale signs of vampirism: blood in the heart, and preserved body. If Brown and the good doctor followed the traditional custom of vampire hunters, they might have moved the bones of the two women to ensure that they didn’t stray from their resting place.

Only three months deceased, Mercy was a classic representation of a vampire.  Having died in the winter, her body was well preserved in the above ground crypt for burial when the ground softened. One can only imagine what her father thought when he opened the coffin. We know that he believed he had found a vampire by what he did next.  Her heart was removed and burned- hopefully ending the curse of the Brown family.

What follows defies understanding.  The burned heart was mixed with water and fed to her ailing brother Edwin. It is clear that George and Dr. Metcalf believed that Mercy’s heart had restorative properties.

It must have been a shock to all when Edwin followed his family to the grave two months later.

Abraham Stoker, the famous Irish author of the 1897 classic Dracula, did not spawn the idea of the vampire.  This gothic symbol and its characteristics have been around since the dawn of civilization.  It was introduced into literature  by German writers fascinated by the Serbian fear of the ghoul.

A vampire feasts on the life (usually the blood) of the living.  They are therefore seen as the antithesis of life, youth and goodness.

Tuberculosis or consumption could also fit that profile. It is indiscriminate about age; young and old alike fall under the weight of this infectious disease. This affliction is centered on the lungs, and the victim wastes away.  The perpetual cough associated with consumption will bring with it blood around the mouth from the damage to the lungs. Inevitably the victim will succumb.   Because of the infectious nature of this disease, it is likely that family members get this disease- and the modern conception of vampirism is born.

Families believed that a recently deceased relative was the one responsible for the slow deterioration of the living; the vampire.  To save the sick, family members would exhume the dead, cut out their hearts, and burn them- in serious cases the whole body would be burned.

Alleged cases of vampirism due to consumption have been found around the world- closest to date is in New England and Rhode Island.  A family plot in Griswold, Connecticut was found to have at least one burial exhumed for the purpose of saving the living from the dead.  It was the grave of a middle aged man with clear signs of tuberculosis. When archeologists opened the coffin they found the bones had been disturbed after death to make the skull and cross bone- an attempt to keep him in his coffin. The family of this particular man likely had an outbreak of tuberculosis many years after his death, because bones were the only thing left to disturb.

There is more far more historical evidence. In 1854  a Connecticut newspaper (Norwich Currier)  claimed that two boys had followed their father, Horace Ray, eight years after his death due to consumption. It was only after the last son was afflicted did the family take action.  It was reported that they exhumed the sons and burned their bodies so they couldn’t feed on the remaining brother.

While we snub our noses at the possibility of vampirism, and as this article claims: find natural causes for what some might fear is a spectral attack, there are those who still fear the vampire.  Note the recent article in Daily Mail Online UK, on November 27 of this year that claims that the Zarozje village in the municipality of Bajina Basta in Serbia fears the attack of a vampire.  There village councilors are advising residents to put garlic on their doors for fear of a local vampire’s reckoning , Sava Savanovic, since his mill has fallen to ruin. And you thought Twilight was just fiction!