What's the Chance of That Happening?

You could be reading a wordless page if the moon and the stars hadn’t aligned properly, working their magic in 1954 to create me. It all started when my mother met my father, but isn’t that how it always begins?

My story is a bit different than most; my mother came from a tiny village in the Alps of France called Courchevel. In its infancy, it was made up of a few high mountain pastures and dense forest, which later became a very picturesque skiing resort that eventually hosted the 1992 Winter Olympics in nearby Albertville.

From what I recalled from hearing my grandmother speak to my mother via my moderate understanding of French, was that my mother’s engagement was pre-arranged between families. 

She was engaged to be married to a young man who owned the only camera shop in town, so I guess you could say, he held the monopoly for all your photographic needs in the whole village. As with most business owners in that village, the shop had been passed down by his father and his father before him. This made him quite an important asset to the community; without him, most events would not likely be recorded. Therefore, hooking up with that guy was probably considered marrying well.

Perhaps my mother wanted more in life than to be betrothed to the only camera guy in town, and the only way out of that arrangement was to leave. So, one day, along with a girlfriend, my mother came up with the idea to spend a summer in England under the pretense of learning English. She had seen ads in a local newspaper looking for au pairs in England many times before and presented the idea to my grandmother. To say that my grandmother wasn’t too keen on letting her only daughter go to a foreign country was probably an understatement, especially since a blueprint had been set forth for my mother’s life. However, knowing my mother, she probably wore the poor woman down until she agreed to let her go. One condition: they had to have jobs and a place to live. They promptly contacted the agency in the newspaper, and they were quickly matched up with wealthy families in the village of Woolton, a suburb of Liverpool.

But why Liverpool? The landscape in that city was destroyed due to the Second World War and Blitzkrieg air raids of the early 1940’s. Significant gaps where houses and buildings once stood were common things to see, along with the remains of much rubble from fallen structures. Some of the buildings that were left standing were damaged beyond repair and seemed to be barely hanging on. Food rations didn’t end until 1954. That said, Liverpool appeared to be quite bleak at that moment in time. And when they stepped off the train at Lime Street Station, they were a little shocked at the city’s setting. Wide-eyed, they were in a big city for the first time in their lives; quite a change from where they lived. Most would ask, why would anyone in their right mind want to move there? Especially coming from a charming ski resort village in the picturesque French Alps. But being young and excited about their new lives, they viewed things through a curious lens.

My father, on the other hand, was born and raised there. He endured the war as a child and had witnessed unspeakable events; even losing his best friend next door, due to their house being blown up by a bomb. My dad and his family were lucky to survive, only to have all the windows blown out from that blast.

After living through all that, I can understand why he would want to leave for greener pastures in America. I recall my dad fondly telling me stories of him seeing American G.I.s as a young boy and admiring their uniforms over the drab uniforms of the British soldiers. His other exposure to America was in Hollywood movies that were shown in the local theater. Up on that huge scene, he saw Hollywood’s perception of the American lifestyle: big shiny cars, pleasant dwellings with manicured lawns, and sharp suits. All this made him long to move to America.

The best and only way for a lad to escape from Liverpool to a faraway land was to: A. join the Beatles, or B. get a job on the Cunard-White Star Line ships. My dad chose the latter. If I remember correctly, he told me he had a couple of jobs onboard, first a stoker, which he claimed messed up his vision due to a lack of safety equipment back in those days. And second, after growing tired of the adverse conditions of that job, he opted for a more refined position as a waiter.

Back to my mom… She settled in nicely with the Woolton family in a charming house in the suburbs far from the city. They were very kind and warmed up to her immediately, and she was treated as part of the family. It worked out well for my mother as well as the family, to have a French nanny for their children so that they could be exposed to and learn a foreign language. My mother knew a basic level of English from school, but conversation helped to

fast-track her to fluency.

On her days off, she ventured into the city center with her friend, Maddie, never leaving home without her pocket 'French/English, English/French' translation dictionary. They visited the shops and the library for English-speaking books to help them perfect their language skills. They went to movies for their entertainment, but the fast-speaking Americans were often hard to understand.

In addition to learning the language they had to learn a totally different culture and sample food that were very strange at times. Almost immediately, they fell in love with the local fish and chips

—so different from French cuisine.

They even dressed differently than they did in France. However, everything was good, except for one thing that earned them a few dirty looks: “queue culture,” which is strictly adhered to by the Brits and not so much by the French. They learned quickly to follow the “when in Rome” ideology the best they could, reminding one another when the rules were about to be breached.

As their English improved, they wanted more; a young store clerk recommended a dance hall where they could socialize and possibly meet nice young Englishmen. When the weekend arrived, and they were done with work, both dressed in their fancy outfits and took two buses to get to the dance hall. Even traveling on the bus was exciting; packed with people laughing and chatting, all dressed in their best, venturing for a night out on the town.

Upon arrival, they were mesmerized by all the people dancing and the loud music blaring from the speakers. The band mainly played American music and a few slow-dancing tunes so sweethearts could dance cheek to cheek. They had never seen anything like this before, especially while living in the Alps. Both chattered excitedly in French, and a man sitting at a nearby table with his wife and another couple could not help but overhear their conversation in French.

 “Allo! I couldn’t help but hear you speaking French. What part of France are you from?”  the kind man inquired.   

 “A small town in France that you have never heard of, up in the Alps,” my mother responded with a smile. “Courchevel.”

“Are you visiting England?”

“We’re French students working here and learning English,” my mother’s friend replied.

  “I speak French too; I’m from a country you’ve probably never heard of either

—Seychelles, a small country in the Indian Ocean. We speak English there as well.”

He invited the girls to join them at their table and bought them a drink.

“It’s a shame that my son isn’t here. You would like him; he’s mad for redheads,” he said, smiling at my mother.

 At the time, my mother was going through a Rita Hayworth faze and dyed her hair to look very much like her. For decades, we listened to how much everyone thought she was the spitting image of Miss. Hayworth.

 “Where is your son?” my mother asked.

“He’s in America at the moment in the Air Force. I’m very proud of him. For years, he spoke endlessly about moving to America, and he did it,” he said, with his eyes watered up a bit.

Two young men walked over to the table to ask my mother and her friend to dance, and that they did, all night long. When the band had made an announcement that they were ending with their last song, the girls returned to their table to gather their things. Just before leaving, the older man encouraged the girls not to give up on their quest to learn English and said that each day, it would be easier and easier. They never forgot the man and his advice. Each weekend, they returned to the club and never saw the man again. 

While my dad worked for Cunard, the Trans-Atlantic route, it docked in New York City to take on food, fuel, etc., for the next trip back to Liverpool. It was the first time he had ever been to America. They allowed the workers to leave the ship for the day, and they had a set time to return. If you missed that time, the ship left without you, and most likely, you were fired and in trouble with U.S. immigration. Therefore, it was a good idea not to miss the blast of the ship’s horn, indicating all aboard time for the crew.

As soon as they were given the all-clear, my dad barreled down the gangway and onto the sidewalk, an American sidewalk. He felt like he had been transformed into another dimension and had a sense of contentment, as this was where he wanted to be.

Just as he was about to jump into a cab, he instead decided to walk around, taking in all the big city had to offer. As he began his walk, he spotted two beat cops taking a stroll, who said “hello” to him, and just like he had seen in every American movie, they were spinning their billy clubs on their wrists to pass the time as they patrolled. My dad spent the day looking at the famous storefront windows of Gimbles and Macy’s, then stopped in a Jewish deli for a hot corned beef sandwich —food he had never tasted in his life. He walked all the way up to 125th Street in Harlem and stood outside the famous Apollo Theater. But as they say, all good things must end. The bewitching hour was soon approaching, and he would have to return to the ship. But for now, as far as he was concerned, he was in heaven and did not want to return to his dismal hometown.

He briefly thought to himself, “Well, what if I just stay? What’s gonna happen to me?”  He knew that if he did that, he would really mess things up for himself, and it could possibly ruin his chances of ever settling in America. So, he chickened out and went back to the ship. However, he vowed to save every penny and emigrate the right way.

With my Gran’s permission and her signature on a ton of paperwork, she kissed her son as he embarked on his journey to the Americas—Canada, to be precise. Being English, it was easy to emigrate to Canada first, and then, with the proper paperwork, he could later emigrate to the States. His first American home was Kenmore, New York, just across the border and located in Buffalo.

Back in those days, Buffalo was the place to be, and Toronto —not so much. All the clubs and nightlife were in Buffalo; therefore, with his buddies, he would venture into New York for some fun. It only made sense to move there. Why live in a boring city when you can live in the capital of fun —good ole Buffalo, N.Y!

When he received his green card, he was now able to work and legally live in the United States. He did it; his dream had come true. The next thing on his agenda was to become a citizen of his new home. So, he spoke to an Air Force Recruiter on a trip to New York City, who promptly signed him up. He packed up all his things and shuffled away from Buffalo and into the military.

I remember asking him if boot camp was brutal, and he said that it was a piece of cake compared to his life in England. He was eager to workout and take advantage of all the Air Force had to offer. After a not-so-grueling eight weeks of boot camp, he was ready to embark on his military occupational specialty, or A.F.S.C. as they put it.

Where would they send him? He was excited to explore another part of this big country he now called home. Maybe Texas? California? Florida? Nope, Birkenhead, U.K., about six point two miles away from his parents’ house. The U.S.A.F. assigned him there for two years. He thought this had to be a joke but followed orders and headed back to England, albeit begrudgingly.

One night, he was walking back to the base from his mother’s house when he bumped into an old friend from school who was accompanied by two beautiful French girls. My father said he was attracted to my mother immediately and asked her for her phone number so he could take her out sometime.

“I don’t give my phone number out like that! What kind of girl do you think I am?” feigning restraint. However, she ended up giving him her number anyway. How could she resist him? He was tall, dark, handsome, and wearing a spiffy U.S.A.F. uniform. She had never seen anyone like him before, especially in her tiny village back home.

He told me he put the number on a bureau in his old bedroom at his mother’s house and forgot about it. It was a miracle that my grandmother, who throws away EVERYTHING when she cleans, didn’t throw the number out as well.

Several weeks passed, and my father was dating a local girl he knew from school. They had planned to go out the following evening. But while my dad was visiting his mother, he stumbled upon the number in his bedroom and decided to give my mother a call.

“Hello, Josette? This is Tony, the guy you met on Bold Street.”

“Oh, I don’t know any Tony, have we met before? Oh I don’t know…” she said, trying not to seem like she was hanging by the phone all that time, which she probably was, even Rita Hayworth can get played by a guy.

Totally ignoring her lapse in memory, he asked her out, and she accepted. Also, it was on the night that he was supposed to take the other girl out, for which he blew her off for my mother. Thank God for my sake.

They saw each other frequently, and the day came when he decided to introduce her to his parents. My mother was so nervous and was worried that her English wasn’t good enough to speak to them. He encouraged her to go and told her not to worry that his father was bi-lingual, with English not being his first language.

She wore her best dress that night, and her friend Maddie did her hair. When my dad arrived to pick her up, she was beyond stunning, looking very beautiful. She could see in his eyes that he liked what he saw, which added to her confidence. As they were about to walk into his parents’ house, he whispered in her ear, “You look wonderful. They are going to love you.”

My Gran answered the door and was first to greet my mother. She complimented her dress, took her wrap, and guided her into the living room where my grandfather was sitting.

“Josette! Is that you?”

Everyone was surprised he recognized her from the club a little over a year ago.

“Yes, it’s me. You’re the man at the dance hall who was so nice to me when I first arrived,” my mother gushed.

“You both know each other?” my dad asked, puzzled.

“Mais oui!” said my grandfather, winking at my mother.

“Yes, I remember you now… you were with that sweet girl, Maddie?”

“I can’t believe it. Talk about fate…” my dad said, grabbing my mother’s hand and putting it up to his lips to kiss it.

They all sat down to one of my grandmother’s wonderful dinners. They enjoyed conversation that was peppered with French. As my parents were getting ready to leave, my grandmother pulled my dad aside and said, “If you don’t marry that lovely girl, you’re bloody daft!”

The day came when my dad had to return to America; he was stationed in Hempstead, New York, at Mitchel Air Force Base. Before leaving my teary mother, he gave her a beautiful engagement ring and promised he would send for her as soon as he was settled and could get accommodations for both of them.

As promised, he sent for her, and they were married in New York City in a small but intimate wedding. Unfortunately, their parents could not attend due to the distance it would take for them to travel. However, they made many trips to England and France to visit them. In fact, I was told I was conceived in France.

They stayed married until the day they died. My mother was first to go, and he, not being able to go on without her, passed hours after she was gone. I would like to think their love was beyond chance —it was fate.