My Visit to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan

January 31, 2017

I turn on the hotel TV here in Mackinaw City,  and the HBO series of "Big Love" is playing, reminding me of The Mormon town of Lamoni on the Iowa/Missouri border, a town that has  always held a fascination for me, for so many reasons. One, it is a Mormon town in Iowa. Two, it has a little Mormon college in it called Graceland College. Three, I have known an inordinate number of non-Mormon people who lived and went to college here, four, it is in Iowa and not Utah and finally I envision it as a great setting for Big Love, Bill, Roland, Chloe, and Jeannie. Remember the scene where all of Roland’s eighty year old wives are beating the daylights out of Bill in Roland’s house. Hilarious, but scary.   For these reasons and others I had decided back in September to stop there on my way back from visiting my friend John Quimby in Kansas City. I needed lunch, and plus Graceland College seemed like a pleasant rural setting in which to take my daily walk.

When walking or running I often have trouble with my shoe laces staying tied, which in times past has been no big deal, however as I age the bending motion becomes more challenging, so I try to avoid it. People, including strangers, always say “Excuse me, your shoe is untied”, of which I am already always aware. My response is a simple “Thank You” verbally but internally I’m like “WhaT (the T accentuated), don’t you think I know that, I just don’t feel like tying it right now, and also please don’t worry about me tripping on it since it hasn’t happened in 50 years and I doubt that this will be the day. ” I wonder if they are offended if I don’t immediately tie it, and take my “Thank You” as Duly Noted, which really is a rude response, as if to say, “Yes I’ll acknowledge that you said something but nothing more.”  I should really just go shoe shopping and buy only slip-ons and solve the whole problem for the few years that are remaining.

Over the last few months  I’ve learned that one of the ways to avoid going completely to the ground when lacing is to find some object upon which to place your foot, like a ledge of some sort, so as I was briskly walking up Linden Street  on the west end of Lamoni,  I get excited when I spot a fire hydrant which I’ve learned is perfect for placing your foot while securing your laces. While lacing, as I look up I see a one story pink building with lime green lettering that says, “ Lamoni Thrift Center”  and I wondered if they might have a some type of cheap jacket or sweatshirt since it was unseasonably cold here in extremely southern Iowa.

 The store was neat and orderly and I found just the item, a black hoodie with red lettering that said Lamoni Basketball, with ‘Basketball’ below ‘Lamoni’, centered of course on my chest. While trying it on I reached into the pouch and found a yellow note which read, Cedar Café, Manistique, Michigan, The Huguenot Diary, which I thought simply curious at the time, but curious things have a tendency to expand, especially in MY life. When I was a young child my mother used to read enchanting books to my back in my home town of Spring Lake Heights, but somehow Enchantment in real life takes on a more fearful emotion. Kind of like when you know a Horror movie is based on a true story.


Anyway, back in Mackinaw, morning arrives and Lamoni is not longer on my mind.  I get dressed and make my way to the elevator, press the ‘one’ button and wait, seeing that the current location is on floor five, and I’m on three. The door opens and eye contact with a African woman is made along with the obligatory gemornun.

Ethiopian women are so easy to identify and I’m ninety nine percent sure this is one of them, right here in Mackinaw City, the city under which the Upper Peninsula of Michigan rests. She heads over to the free breakfast buffet, and fills her plate with scrambled eggs and sausage, and grabs a Dannon yogurt in case she’s still hungry after the main course.   Under normal circumstances I would approach her and say something like, “are you from near Addis Ababa?”, to which she would absolutely light up by virtue that I am familiar with the capital but more so because I would be correct, since I have never guessed wrong before. The reason I don’t is that I’ve just started my coffee and inertia is keeping me on the pleather five-piece sectional that is forcing me to sit upright, cheap black coffee in my left hand, kindle in my right. The kindle is still off, since my mind is still off and will remain so until the coffee kicks in a few minutes later.  In the interim I will not put on my extrovert mask (which I try to keep handy) and will NOT inquire about the origin of the woman and besides I already know she’s from Ethiopia, so asking is just academic, but I find it odd that she’s not in an airport gift shop.

I do believe that extroverts have more exciting lives than introverts, which is just a supposition, but it makes sense since extroverts knock on more personal doors, and therefore statistically, more doors are open to them, it’s really just a numbers game. Friendliness benefits the friend-ER as much as the befriended, and while I know this I just don’t have the energy right now and won’t for another 15 minutes until the stimulant reaches home base. Yes, friendliness takes energy and a small amount of skill so for now, Opportunity Lost. At this point you are thinking this would be a good time to say “Story of My Life”, which would be only mildly funny but more importantly it’s simply not true of me in general, at least I like to think that. When given the chance to either approach or withdraw I usually choose the former since risk is better than safety although many times you have to endure short term rejection and even humiliation.  I mention skill since as an adult you can’t just approach a stranger by saying “Hi, my name is Bill, what is YOUR name”, like you could when you were four because….. well, you’re not four. English can be used like a knife with enough skill.

Hold ON!  Actually you CAN do this unskilled approach at certain events like wedding receptions, networking events, funerals, but probably not hotel lobbies, and for that reason I get up to leave and then remember that I have to cross the Mackinac Bridge to go from the Lower Peninsula to the Upper one, and I’ll bet there’s a toll. Good move Bill, because there is, and better fill up the tank as well since I’m not sure if they sell gas up there, and gas stations always have ATMs so two birds there. Ugh, so many things to consider, but the fifties style coffee (garbage, tastes like cigarette ashes mixed in hot water) is starting to kick in. Caffeine is caffeine and does not respect the quality, brand, or price of the coffee. I actually know of one coffee house in southern Wisconsin where they have this galvanized garbage can with EXTRA powdered caffeine to add to their drinks. Unbelievable but funny.  Also funny that I got them to admit it AND show it to me.

Back on the road I leave the lower portion of Michigan driving north across the Mackinac bridge which is majestic and just this side of awesome but not truly awesome (most overused word in America except Fùcque), and about a mile later I hang a left (west) along U.S. Highway 2 which  has only three colors in January, gray above, green to my right (north) , and white on the north shore of Lake Michigan to the south. It also has three types of stores, those that sell Pasties, those that sell Smelt, and those that sell Pasties AND Smelt. I try to romanticize this landscape but it’s tough, as I try to visualize its residents trying to make it through the winter but I haven’t even seen any residents yet, and I’m glad I filled up earlier. As a friend mentioned to me maybe the best place to actually SEE people is in the bars, since I don’t see any other places to gather socially, but really I haven’t seen any of those yet either, so maybe they socialize in the Smelt or Pasty shops. I’m just not curious enough today.

In case you don’t know, Pasties are like Swanson Pot Pies without the foil wrapper, just a baked crusty outer layer with meat product and vegetables stuffed inside. Smelt, the noun, are more mysterious in that I can’t tell if they just use them for bait or if people actually eat them for like a multi-fish dinner. Whatever the case, I’m not sure how these folks make a living selling just these two things, especially in the winter. In fact, since I haven’t seen any people yet I’m not sure they do make a living at all, but try to give the illusion of making a living by putting the Smelt and Pasty signs on their dishwater colored shacks that have no other signs of life on them. If you can’t make a living in actuality I know from experience that giving the perception of making a living can actually take the edge off of not making a living. At least you’re trying, and can show others that you’re trying.  Nobody respects a person that doesn’t try and nor do they respect themselves. This place doesn’t even seem like America, but I know in my heart that it is. Maybe Canada would like to buy it, and then it would fill up with sick and old people due to the health care pricing, but sick and old people are better than no people I suppose. Can you imagine a mass migration from Fort Lauderdale to Iron Mountain?

The novelty of the scenery wears off fast, and I’m getting  as bored as you are, and can’t wait to reach some type of city or at least a village of some sort, and even the fact that I’m entering National Forests does nothing for me. Finally, I reach the town of Manistique, which sounds both quaint and French, and has a bit of size to it, and I estimate the population to be about 5,000 or so, big enough to have some place to get some coffee. There’s a Big Boy to my right as I curve around the bend and I’m thinking that I haven’t seen one of these since I lived in borough of Fairbanks. There was a Big Boy there on north side of Airport Way,  and I remember Tiny, who was always sitting there on the stool to the far east (toward the Yukon Territory) , one butt cheek hanging over the left side of the stool, and the right butt cheek hanging over the right side of the stool.  People named Tiny are never really very tiny. Since both cheeks enveloped it, you could not really see the stool, and the only reason you knew it WAS a stool was from the context since it was on the edge of a series of other stools with normal size people on them.  I never saw Tiny’s face either since he was always facing his food and the menu on the wall behind the counter.  In addition there was never a time at Big Boy when Tiny wasn’t there. He was a fixture as they call it, and I imagine that this was his home, everybody knew him and accepted him, and you know there is something to be said for being known and accepted. We have fixtures here in Mt. Horeb as well, who go to either McDonalds or Sjolinds every morning and some stay there most of the day and mostly every day. Some are lonely, some just look that way, some have messy homes, some dislike their spouses, some are looking for a spouse, some just like to be known, but these establishments provide a partial solution, as they did for Tiny who sits on the stool closest to the Yukon Territory to the east. Everybody knows Tiny. Nobody knows him well.

Now I know that some people prefer directional statements in terms of right and left, front and back, but I view these terms as ambiguous due to their relativity of one’s approach. For instance if I’m headed towards the ocean in Belmar and I want to go to Asbury Park I turn left on Highway 71, however if I’m in Belmar but headed to the Garden State Parkway then I would turn right on Highway 71, so to avoid confusion I use the absolute terms of east, south, north and west. The reason I can do this is that I always picture myself relative to big entities such as either countries, continents,  or oceans, and I know typically for example that the Atlantic Ocean is that way, the Pacific is the other, the Yukon is North West (in Fairbanks it was dead East)  and Belize is south. It also helped that I grew up near the ocean where I could just face it and say “Nova Scotia is to my left, Haiti is to my right, and Trenton is in back of me to the west. Oh, and Lìsbon is straight ahead after I exhaust the Atlantic.  I’m always aware of this so if I’m giving directions to someone I use a tool that  I call “The Internal Map of Large Entities” to determine the absolute direction.  Some people can’t always point in the direction of Europe but I can always sense it unless you were to blindfold me and spin me around like four times but that never happens. By the way, in Wisconsin, Europe is most often to my right since my office desk faces north. Another hint is that in North America the prevailing winds typically come from the west (jet stream) and the sun typically sets in the west. Lots of hints. I love the combination of Geography and Meteorology.

As a child my parents bought me this game/puzzle called “Game of the States”, where you had to piece together each state into a puzzle shell, and it would also tell you the main industry or crop of the state in addition to the capital. I would spend hours on this game envisioning myself in each of the states and wondering about the people there, and how similar or different they would be from me. I rarely left Monmouth county but from the time I was twelve I knew EXACTLY where each state was as well as its capital, if it had water, main industry, whatever. Even today I think about the far off places on the perimeter such as Bisbee Arizona, Marfa Texas, Hudson Iowa, Ocean Park-Washington, Howell Michigan, and Villas New Jersey. In any case it helped me visualize where I was in any given point in time relative to all other states, and for some reason I think it’s been helpful.

Enough of Tiny and Geography. The Big Boy statue and his ridiculous checkered outfit, now in my rearview, I see the main drag up ahead, hang a right (north towards Canada) on Maple Street, turn left (west towards the Pacific) on Oak, and right again (north to Canada)  on Cedar and at this point a chill runs down my spine. The name on the coffee shop is the Cedar Street Coffee Shop, and the spiritual tremor starts affecting me physically, since the name of the shop brings back the memory back of the yellow piece of paper in the pouch of the Lamoni sweatshirt.  

I’m scared. I’m also enchanted. Risk versus Safety, and it’s no contest.  I decide to enter the heavy wooden door  of the Cedar Street Coffee Shop and inside some nice looking hippie ladies are relaxing behind the wooden counter under the chalkboard menu, looking all permie and hippiesh, long dresses to the ankles, and the requisite hair where the under portion of the arm meets the shoulder. One had a fuchsia sweater (think Mexican Pink) , with dreadlocks and ivory discs in her lobes with that thin faced Tunisian look about her, and the other had metal fragments in various parts of her pale thin white face, but in a pleasant way and normally the short metal rods protruding our of each nostril hole would be off-putting except her engaging demeanor just seemed to make everything ok. In both individuals I note that extra bit of liveliness, energy, friendliness that tends to augment the appearance almost by a factor of two.  The Fuchsia sweater sans supporting undergarments didn’t hurt either. I’m not saying they helped, I’m just saying that they didn’t hurt. It was all I could do to refrain from touching one of them to see how sharp they were, meaning one of the prongs that were protruding, but as unfamiliar as I am with Peninsula culture I’m fairly certain that feeling or touching a female’s nostril prong without asking is beyond the social norm unless you know them really well, and even then.  I discard the thought as inappropriate. On second thought I’m not sure that asking would have helped, maybe even made it worse. As you can tell I’m having trouble with the discard and my thought life in general. Yes, your thought life is important.

“Hello ladies”, I started, “My name is Bïll and today I’m in need of some robust brew that will keep me awake until the next local election, so what do you recommend?”  They laughed and said that the Double Mocha Moto (2M² on the menu) is guaranteed to keep me awake until President’s day, so I exclaimed with jubilation “sold, but could you please make it extra hot, like scalding? It may have to last awhile. Oh, and by the way, do you happen to have a bookshelf or something with some reading material”?  Before they could answer, a tall elderly woman holding a badly painted mauve walking cane with an ivory skeleton head handle tapped me on the shoulder, and pointing with her wicked looking cane to the rear of the shop said, “over there by the black radiator”.  Startled, I thanked her and mentioned, “by the way Mam, righteous cane, I love the way the hood comes of the back of the skull for better grip”, to which she nodded in acknowledgment but said without a smile, “Madame to you.” Her face and skin were cocoa brown like that of Beyònce or Mariah Carey, and hair was slightly nappy and  long past her shoulders which does not happen with elderly women too often, unless of course they are white old hippies, but this one did not have the spirit of a hippie, but more like that of an ancient. Her skin was so clear yet her eyes just seemed…… ancient, which was a bit unsettling, especially in conjunction with the skeleton head on her cane. On the other hand she was thy type of woman that you knew was a beauty in her prime, and probably well beyond with the perfect mix of European and Northern African features, reminding me of the Ethiopian women who work in the airport gift and snack shops. As mentioned at the outset I can always pick them out, and after paying for my sundry item I always mention “I’ll bet you’re from Ethiopia aren’t you?”, and they always giggle and smile because they always are.

Thanking the hippies with the facial accessories, I took my Extra Hot Double Mocha Moto, placed a protective sleeve on it, and went directly to the bookcase by the black radiator, nursing my scalding drink and exclaimed “Umph, good stuff, better than expected” just like the wolf in Pulp Fiction.  My heart is now pounding, and after several minutes of looking I find nothing, mostly just romance novels, Sex for Dummies, Field and Stream magazines, Sex for Smart People, The Tipping Point, Dress like a Porn Star, How to Act Black when You’re White, When and Where by Anita Shreve, 50 Shades Hotter, Lesbians of the Caucasus, Europeans  Guide to Equatorial Guinea, and quilting books, in other words NOT what I’m looking for. It also seemed like it held an inordinate number of sexually oriented materials.  

Although I’m not as scared as I had been I’m a bit frustrated and let out what I thought to be an inaudible sigh. Again, I feel that pointy finger on my shoulder, and the elderly skull cane woman says “sometimes the books you are looking for are hidden in that they are lying flat along the back of the case, so you have to spread the normal books apart to see them. They don’t maintain things very well here and yes I’ve lodged a number of complaints. The place is going downhill.”
After thanking her I start spreading the books out as she said, making the composite shelf backing visible, until after about three minutes on the second shelf from the bottom I see a plain brown leather bound book facing flat against the back panel of the case, very thin, with thin gold lettering on the title, not exact, but close enough, “Margaret Prioleau, The Huguenot”.  The ancient skull lady says “Oh, that’s my favorite”, and heads over to the left of the radiator into the transgender rest room, which was the only one that was not being cleaned at the time so I wondered if she were a tranny or just couldn’t wait any more. I think that with the very old, while gender is retained it becomes more biological than sexual, with bathroom selection approaching trivial. I’m disturbed that I’ll find out soon enough, and I’m also disturbed that I have no idea what I’m talking about.

Still slightly trembling but gaining confidence due to the Scalding Double Mocha Moto, I walk over to the vacant two-person table near the front window, pull down the shade like I always do since I hate sunlight in winter, start reading at the front leaf, however the entire book is in French, which is not a language I am capable of reading very well at all. I tried to work it out for a few minutes emboldened by the 2M² and figuring I have a decent Latin basis but it was just too tough, I simply don’t know French, plain and simple.  It was at this point that the elderly woman exited the restroom and started towards me and I'm thinking, Oh Boy, I KNOW she's coming over here, you know that feeling you get when you know you're about to be engaged? Yes, that feeling. "How's the book going?" she asked, to which I replied, “I’m not sure since while I can identify the language as French, it is not a language I can read.”  

“I know you can't, but I would consider it an honor to assist you since French is my first language although I’ve lived here in the Peninsula since before there was any such thing as a Pasty.”  Normally, I would have refused the offer but due to the mystery surrounding the book, my current trip, and my previous trip to Lamoni I had no real choice. I asked her permission to record the narrative on my Sony pocket digital recorder, to which she gave her familiar nod of assent and began to read as follows….

Margaret Priòleau Gallaudet – The Huguenot

Village of Mauze

Deux-Sevres, Poitou-Charentes

To My Family and Descendants

Chapter One – The Prioleau Family

My name is Margaret Prioleau Gallaudet and I am 39 years of age, with my birthday having just occurred last Wednesday, February 27^th, 1697.  I live in the village of Mauze, in the region of Poitou-Charentes near the western coast of France approximately 10 leagues to the east of the major City of La Rochelle, where the suicides have begun. Normally I am excited about my birthday, however this year it has occurred on the same day of the suicide of Édouard Villefort, a young man of only 23 years of age who worked at Munier’s food market on the east end of town. Untimely deaths are always disconcerting but suicides seem to ring deeper throughout the collective soul of the community, especially small towns like ours since we rightfully feel that we have more of a duty of awareness regarding those within our sphere, of which Edouard certainly was. Due to this event I felt obliged to refuse all celebrations and gaiety out of respect and propriety for our neighbor as well as his distraught family.

Regarding this pamphlet, it has been written to memorialize a small portion of my thought life, and scribed mostly while I sit near the Riviere le Mignon (more like a brook), which runs through the village center but extends toward the rear of our property, where my grandfather Elishee  (Minister of Exodun) built my stone bench, with my full name engraved on the back in case anyone doubts that it is mine. Under my name there is a beautiful mosaic of an African man in a chariot with labeled, “The Ethiopian Eunuch.” I love to sit here and write in the spring time, listening to the courant, as it laughs over the rocks and fallen tree branches. The water is particularly swift at this time of year due to the snow melt, of which we have had plenty this winter. Father Elishee took great care to ensure that my bench was located where it is shady in Summer and even somewhat in Spring, It affords enough sun to help my fair complexion, yet enough shade to keep my sensitive skin from getting burnt, although in early March there’s not much with which to be concerned. Today it is warm enough to get by with my light black cloak, a gift from my uncle Samuel, Pastor of Niort, upon which is emblazoned “Alma Mater Studiorum A.D. 1088, Universita di Bologna.”  The date on my cloak is only nine years after the birth of my paternal ancestor Sylvestro Priuli of Hungary, and only eleven years prior to his participation in the famed battle of Ascalon, just to the south of Jaffa in The Holy Land.

While the dragoons that were quartered in our homes by Louis the 14^th  had left years ago, the attitude of most of the people toward the non-Roman Christians or Huguenots as we are labeled, is increasingly hostile, and in addition, many of our faith have already left for London, Denmark, southern Africa, or the English colonies of New York and Carolina. My cousin Elias, whom I miss so much, left years ago via London and then Carolina, where I hear things are well with the Huguenot community there in the Charlestown.

Although my family and I had suffered through the rapes, murders, and humiliation of the Draggonade period of the 1680’s, I do not harbor a hatred of the Catholic people since most of my in-laws are Catholic as well as some friends, and many of them including friend Margot who is a sincere Christian as many of them are. In terms of piety, however,  some of them put me to shame.  I do however admit my hatred for Louis IV and his dragoons, and wish I could love my enemy as stated by the scriptures. While it may be more exciting to the readers if I wrote regarding the Edict of Fontainebleau (Revocation of Nantes) and its associated horrors including the compulsory placement of dragoons in my very home, I will attempt to focus on my current life, since I fear that focusing on the ills of the past will lead me to a callous heart. In addition, I am confident that the horrors mentioned above will be memorialized by others, and have been already, from what I hear on my reports from Switzerland, England and their Colonies.

My husband’s name is Josue Gallaudet, whose family is largely Catholic however Josue converted from Catholicism on July 12, 1685, just a few months prior to the Fontainebleau Edict on October 22^nd of that same year, and although his conversion was prior to the revocation, the hostilities of the dragoons and Louis IV were near their peak. He was the only one of his family to do so which took great courage and conviction, whereas I was raised in this faith. In addition it was this act in 1685 which I believe will create a chain reaction throughout Europe and possibly the New World.  Again, I will not speak of the humiliation endured by him nor our family for fear of providing further embarrassment to the family name, and thereby generating more hatred and the violence that is latent, hiding in its shadow.  

Josue’s heritage is truly French, with ancestors from Belle-Isle Brittany near St. Malo, with Josue’s father being Isaac, whose father was Thomas whose father was Joseph of Belle-Isle, a Mariner who was born around 1550. They are all great men in different ways, and I am highly confident that our son Pierre and his descendants will carry on that tradition of Prioleau/Gallaudet honor, however I fear it will need to be in the New World and not in my beloved France, due to circumstances which I have described above with possibly too much brevity.

My maiden name of Prioleau (PRAY-low) is actually a French version of the Venetian/Hungarian name of Priuli, which traces back to the Doges of Venice, and then back to King Arpad of Hungary, possibly as far back as Attila the Hun. The lineage is recorded at the end of this pamphlet but suffice it to say that my blood can confidently be traced through the Doges of Venice (Lorenzo, Giralamo, and Antonio) to Sylvestro Priuli of Venice and Hungary, and back through Arpad the Great the reputed Founder of Hungary, and possibly all the way to Attila the Hun.  While this last connection to Attila cannot be proven it is more than probable since Attila could and would copulate with whomever he pleased, whenever he pleased, which was fairly often judging by the volume of his progeny. Some say his descendants would be close to twenty million in today’s age, so much of Europe and Western Asia could contain his seed. In any case if you really are that interested in the Prioleau/Priuli lineage there is a full report at the end of the pamphlet.

Today is Sunday and Pastor Antoine (Bouraine) gave the message this morning as he normally does but for some reason today’s sermon brought tears to my eyes at a time that had wished they hadn’t. I was sitting near someone I don’t know very well but admire, and it would have certainly helped if I had neither admired them nor had known them. You can’t control all circumstances, but nonetheless I was embarrassed yet felt I did a fairly decent job of controlling the weeping, containing it to merely sniffles. I think my containment worked out so that no one was the wiser. Historically I cry easily, especially at some of the plays that are performed in the outdoor amphitheater to the south of the town, near the canal. Due to my reputation for being overly sensitive in this way I try to hide my feelings so as to not perpetuate the legacy of an emotional weakling.

The pastor’s message was about the act of pleasing God, and doing what He leads you to do regardless of the discomfort, pain, or embarrassment that it may cause. He started with an example of a soldier who was quartered in one of the Huguenot homes in Rochefort. Outwardly this dragoon was a horrible man, neither Catholic nor Huguenot, and he, along with his friend would take the elderly folks in the city, put them in a large blanket, and cast them up in the air for fun and ridicule. The Huguenots in that portion of the city hated the soldier and for seemingly good reason. There was a minister and his wife that lived near the home in which this dragoon was quartered and would see him at the fish market occasionally but would never greet him since they were technically enemies. The wife then said to the husband,”Would you please give him a copy of the The Holy Scriptures, you never know. Out of fear the husband refused, thinking his wife to be possessed by an unclean spirit and apprehensive that he may be the next one assigned to the blanket. The woman persisted, and said “well if you won’t then I will”, and snatched the Bible out of the hands of her husband and handed it to the soldier. To the surprise of both of them the dragoon broke into tears. When they asked him the reason for his emotion he explained that three days prior his mother had told him that she had a dream that a Huguenot woman would present the truth to him in the form of a book, while he was at the fish market. The idea here is that many times God works both sides of the situation, and our job as Christians is to be sensitive to God’s voice, sometimes breaking through the fear, to walk down a seemingly rough road in which He has already made smooth.

This struck me especially hard today since I often wonder how often I have ignored the gentle voice of God. Maybe I could have said something to Édouard at Muniere’s to assuage his pain, thereby preventing his death as well as the other six men and women that have followed suit, but then I think that it is best to look forward and to focus on those now who need the love of God. Eliza comes to mind, a beautiful woman about my age who has left her husband. Divorce is rare here in Mauze but it does occur, and the plight of a single mother is not easy since few will assist her, and actually few CAN assist her since her need is deep, but more than deep it is perpetual. This is especially acute at this time in France since there are few opportunities for women to learn a marketable skill, and she is therefore solely dependent on the charity of others which is humiliating and oppressive to the soul. In addition, even if she finds employment, who will care for the children? The situation is nearly impossible.

I have great respect for Eliza, she has gone through so much in her life. Her mother was also a single parent, boarding in one of those public block houses, horrible places, and at times Eliza’s mother Florence could no longer take the responsibility nor provide financially, so during these times of internal turmoil and emotional stress, Eliza would be sent away to live with friends or relatives outside of the city. Many are tempted to criticize Florence for this, but only those in her situation understand the pressure and mental anguish of a mother struggling alone and trying to raise a child. In addition these woman, out of desperation, become vulnerable to men who are not worthy of them, but seem worth during this time of anxiety. With this framework of domestic uncertainty Eliza developed an eating disorder and was extremely thin and sickly through these years, but due to the love and persistence shown by Florence’s friends Isabelle and Francois Hemguise (related to the infamous house of Guise) as well as their daughter Cynthia Jeanne (Alexander by Marriage) , she eventually learned to eat somewhat normally, however never really gained weight until recently, and not much at that.

Eliza then married a man of Anglo/Prussian descent and while the couple had little to no money due to an unfortunate legal case involving the construction of a building, another friend named Charles Gravois and his wife Adèlaïde, either loaned them or gave them the money to purchase a house that was not even a league from the Atlantic ocean in the town of Hauteurs du Lac Printemps locally referred to simple as Le Hauteurs or less locally as Lac Printemps. She has since moved nearby, over on Grand Rue.

During the time just prior to the purchase of the house in Lac Printemps  but after the agreement to purchase had been consummated, their eldest son, Guillaume, now nearly five years of age, was with his parents on this property near the sea and was fearful that the actual owners would catch them on their property and was so worked over it that Eliza had to comfort him and tell him that all was ok, and that it was all cleared with the Hancocks of Wellington, from who the house was purchased. This comforting of Guillaume would take place often by Eliza, and Eliza took great delight in doing this since she loved this son as her own self, and indeed the personalities of the two were so closely matched as were their lexicon, meter of speech, and thought sequences.  In any case it was her hope that this son, the first of five, would be able to break the generational cycle of poverty that she feared was just starting to develop.

You see, Florence her mother was not brought up poor, to the contrary, her father, Giuseppe was from Florence in Italy, now settled in Brittany, being a notable textile manufacturer in the area. (As a child Florence grew up thinking this city was named after her.) His first wife had died, and he now married Catholic women who had some offspring of her own.  By this time Giuseppe and his new bride had considerable assets, possibly millionaires at a time when that was a rarity.  Florence seemed to bristle at this new marriage and shortly thereafter became pregnant at age 16, with one of the delivery boys, presenting Giuseppe, a respected manufacturer, with an embarrassing predicament. To remedy this embarrassment Florence was sent to England to have the baby in late January of 1605, and give it up for adoption, where it was taken by a French woman named Marlene Limouix living in St. Ives in Cornwall, a tiny hamlet that served as a minor seaport in the far southwest portion of the country. Poor child, the English are such queer birds, with Cornwall being the most queer. 

The adopted child’s name was Sophie, and she grew up to be tall and slender, with dark frizzy hair, and facial features that attracted every male within 30 leagues of her house. She had no shortage of suitors, and broke many hearts, however eventually she became engaged to one Edward Frye, a soldier and singer. The engagement didn’t last long but long enough for them to have relations in the west wing of the mustard store and Sophie became pregnant. She and Edward stayed together for a couple more months but Edward became enamored with another woman named Patricia, who also had a child by Edward, again conceived in that same mustard store but in the room where the money was counted, which some may think as extraordinary,  What was truly extraordinary was that Edward already had a wife in Saxony while he was copulating with Patricia and Sophie in the mustard store on a fairly regular basis. Sophie kept the child whom she named Chlòe.

Sophie was not very religious however she was convinced by her mother Marlène to baptize the young child in the Woodsmith Lagoon to the south of St. Ives where she herself had been baptized by Marlène’s husband Alexàndre. It was local lore that if a child was baptized in this algae ridden lagoon that they would live an extremely long life, however there was one condition. The baptism had to be a  simple one, not performed by an official, and not associated with a certain Christian denomination, but only with Christ Himself. This made it easy for anyone to do although hardly anybody did since it was thought to be an ignorant practice. There are a lot of things like that.

After surrendering her child to Marlène in England, Florence married a fairly successful man named Raoul, who manufactured and sold toys. Things went well financially until his business partner embezzled the money, leaving Raoul penniless. As is common with this type of loss it led to an increase in his alcohol consumption to the point where Florence could no longer tolerate the behavior, leaving the city with her daughter Eliza (the only child left at home) to fend for themselves as described earlier. This would not have been significant except that Florence’s father had also died, leaving his second wife the inheritance who divided it between herself and her own children, thereby leaving Florence and therefore Eliza out of the equation.  Unbeknownst to Giuseppe’s second wife, or to anyone else, the elimination of these two from the will set in motion a series of events that I suppose will ripple forward for centuries, as many events do. The alcohol would also impact generations to come, like it always does, never positive, always dark, and sometimes deadly. The only surprising thing is that we are surprised.  

Guillaume was not aware of his mother’s past, and could have never guessed although she spent a great amount of time with him, not just passing time, but investment time, explaining life, reading books to him, emphasizing education and manners, ambition with kindness,  and to Guillaume she was the Pretty Princess Mom but was really barely more than a child at 22 years old. Apparently she would do whatever it took to make sure that he became a decent person, and made sure that he went to church every Sunday, where she would drop him off at the front door of one of the biggest cathedrals in La Rochelle where he sang in the choir and where the pipe organ was the largest in the province. The church was so wealthy that they actually paid Guillaume a monthly stipend to sing in the choir, and Guillaume just loved this idea even though it was a paltry amount, may just enough to buy a loaf of bread at Muniers. Despite the ostentatious wealth, some of the teachings made their way inside, partly due to the attitude and reverence of the choirmaster, an Englishman named Mr. Wells. Guillaume could never understand why his Princess Mom would never enter the church itself except on a few Holy days. Maybe she just needed time to relax. 

The boy grew up as a mediocre student, attending the University for a couple of years, but midway through his education left for the land of Khiva just south of the Aral Sea and east of the Caspian where he joined a monastery, which is where he resides at last report. This move broke Eliza’s heart, and now she is sick with an awful disease, raising her remaining four children, but at least two of them are grown. Still it is more than difficult and reminds her of her mother’s plight just twenty five years ago. At least she is in her own home and her adult children are indeed a huge help, giving up their young adult opportunities to help with the struggle.  I do hope to lead Eliza into the comfort of my Savior at some point, and that point is near since I don’t know how much she can take and we don’t want a seventh.  A local, somewhat portly minister has also taken an interest in her by the name of Pastor Hulbert, and this provides some comfort, but not enough I’m afraid, plus he’s kind of wishy washy, raising her hopes and then dashing them again. I don’t like him.

As I age it has become clear today that God does assign certain people to Christians, usually those that are physically near, for us to draw up alongside of, similar to Phillip with the Ethiopian Eunuch engraved on my bench. It may be two or three, or as many as six or seven, but beyond that our efforts become diffused and we become no good to anyone. Eliza is one of those to whom I am assigned but there are others as well. Sometimes I get the thought that I am assigned to them?  We cannot save the whole world as individuals but we can work with those in OUR world and to some of those we ARE their world. We cannot underestimate the residual affect that our actions in our micro world have in the macro world. This is our life, through sufferings, in pain, in fog, one step in front of the other, in faithfulness to our Saviour.

Sometimes it is drudgery but in the middle of the dullness we are often fascinated beyond belief, even though it may take years for the fascination to come to fruition. It is this thought that reminds me of the children I encounter, sometimes the offspring of the poor or near-poor such as Guillaume. I no longer look at children in their current age, but in my mind I view them as their future self, assigning all the latent potential to them now ahead of time. Some think this is unsound, however the difference between a child and an adult can be as little as 15 years, and as Eliza and I are starting to learn, 15 years is a flash in the pan, to the point of being minuscule. The main difference is that the child is softer in heart, malleable, and we should seize this brief moment in time and space to speak the love of Christ into their lives. The window into a child’s soul closes quickly. 

Fortunately Eliza used this time by spending time with Guillaume, and it was one of the best times of his life while he learned things like manners and gratefulness, but also his imagination was strengthened by the books she would read to him. One of his favorites was about a boy to who was given the ability to fly, so at night he would leave out his bedroom window with these female winged creatures, out over the countryside, to other countries, over the moon and wherever he wanted to go. In addition he could speak with and understand the animals, and this excited his soul. She would also place detailed maps of Europe and Asia in his room that she had received from her grandfather Elishee, and before bed would tell tales from a different land each night, delighting his imagination but instilling a wanderlust that would hurt her deeply in later years as mentioned earlier.

In short Eliza instilled in him ambition that should know no bounds, and to never let someone convince him otherwise, regardless of his looks, his size, or any other perceived deficiency. She warned him to beware of individuals who would try to intimidate him by expanding like a blow fish, all puffed up but full of air. People will usually counsel you to take the more conservative route since it is safer and if they’re wrong the danger is minimized. What they don’t understand is that there are many who don’t want a life style dictated by caution and Guillaume was one such individual, as is my own son Pierre. My daughter Marie, Pierre’s older sister, is more careful, or should I say not as carefree.  Regarding myself, I like to think that I’m a perfect balance between the two. I think that about a lot of things concerning myself. 

Eliza and I talk of parenting often, and consider the school to be a part of this, but our influence is much greater. There are so many things the school or tutors do not teach them such as etiquette, finance, music, and social skills. So many children today are stunted in their social growth in that they have little practice or instruction in how to interact with those with whom they don’t know well, and this is partly due to the fact that they have no model with which to observe in their parent. It is important for any child that a couple of windows to the greater world be opened, as in that child’s book. One window is the window of books, and the other is the window of other individuals whose knowledge and perspective is different than one’s own. While a book is fairly easy to open, and person’s soul is much more complex and it takes skill to penetrate the outer membrane. In order to do so a child must learn through observance the much maligned art of what we call ‘plaisanter’ here in Poitou-Charentes, or in England they call it ‘small talk’, a handy tool to penetrate the protective membrane surrounding another’s soul. Once inside however its usefulness expires and one must develop the ability to transition to the inner areas using verbal handles to traverse the deeper regions of the soul.
This is an oft maligned skill, usually done so by those who believe themselves to be deep thinkers although they are usually no more ‘deep’ or less deep than anyone else. My friends and I have often thought of teaching a special class at the University of Bordeaux to the south, just on how to do this effectively, but in the class we would also teach the reasoning behind it and the benefits, when to back off, techniques, attitude, probability through volume, when to follow through, went to ignore it, and most importantly how to move deeper into more of the center of the target’s mind. Yes, I realize that this word ‘target’ may sound almost sinister but it really isn’t since the goal is to get to know a particular individual, and really it is not that strange since we see it among our youth all the time during the courtship process, which is another class we would like to teach, one to young women as well as the weaker sex. That would probably be more fun than the plaisanter class, but actually both would be fun as they both deal with the psyche, courage, skill, fear, persistence, progress, compassion, and listening to understand as opposed to listening to respond.  It is my strong belief that the child instilled with these abilities will be truly successful in life regardless of their technical traits in the trades or in commerce. It is not that these skills are not important it is just that they pale in comparison. 

A more boring class would be the managements of ones finances, but it is probably just as important. Very few young people including young adults in our region of Poitou-Charentes have any notion of saving their livres, and therefore are in a continual state of anxiety regarding payments and debts, but this also spills into their marriages and therefore into the psyche of their offspring, regardless of how much they may try to mask it. It has always been Josue’s principle to give save a tenth, give a tenth, use the remainder, and do not retain debt. This is prudent and while not one of the Huguenot core principles, it is a principle nonetheless, since if we have no excess we are constrained in our gifts, and if constrained in our gifts then we are constrained in our joy, and if continually constrained in our joy we are miserable people indeed. There was man named Duchen from the Duchy of Mecklenburg that I knew as a child who always said to me, “Margaret, you can only keep what you give away.”  I never really understood that saying until recently regardless of how many times he tried to explain it.
It hurts to not be able to give, especially to your children. Ironically it hurts them more to give them too much. It is so much better to give them yourself, and lessons, and skills, and the truth of God than to give them material things. They can have the fish right now or the pole for a lifetime. We know this has been taught since the days of Latinius, and possibly even before so the teaching is not the problem since we already know it. I often think therefore that the children of those who can’t give materially are better off than the children of those who can. Food tastes better to the hungry man.
Fortunately my two children, Marie and Pierre, hold their parents in high esteem, and also regard their communion with the Divine seriously, which affords them the ability of self-correction. Since the parents cannot hover over the children continually it is important that the child deploys a bit of self-governance or in other words, obedience to the Holy Spirit.

As an example, during the past 10 years or so there appears to be an increase in the use of profanity among the church goers and especially the children. Profanity is common among those who don’t believe, but for those who do believe it strikes me as odd, not sad, just odd. They correctly believe that there are greater sins in this world and therefore they believe (incorrectly) that we should just let it go, and concern ourselves with larger issues. This was the argument presented to me and Josue by Pierre when he returned from fishing at the Auberge duVieux Moulin when his father confronted him on his vernacular. Josue then told the following story to Pierre…

“There was once a ruler named Dùshan in the land of the Balkans near Dardapara, who had an expansive country estate and invited many of the townspeople to dinner. In addition to dinner there would be entertainment, games and prizes, all furnished at the expense of the host and it was therefore considered a great honor to be invited to this annual event.  There were only a few rules at the estate that must be followed, the normal ones that everyone would follow, such as no fighting, no stealing the silverware, no fornicating in the parlor, mostly just common sense type stuff, but rules nonetheless. There was one other rule that was requested, a minor one, and that was that everyone should take their shoes off upon entry. Since it was a great honor and all thought well of the gracious host, all followed the rules, including the shoe removal rule.  There was this one man named Renè, who simply refused to take off his shoes. He shamelessly walked all over the house with his shoes on, until the wife of the host asked him politely if he could take off his shoes as previously requested. He refused, so she consulted her husband the host who addressed the man as well, and asked why he wouldn’t honor their simple request, to which the insolent man replied in front of everyone, “Since it is only a minor issue I figured it would be better to focus on larger items so I choose to ignore it.”  Everyone was aghast, thinking the man an idiot since it was such as easy thing with which to comply, why disrespect the host and his family?”

Pierre immediately understood the analogy, and we are the guests at His event, and that out of love AND respect for the Host we should honor the small commands as well as the major ones.  This struck Pierre to the core since he indeed DID love God and has never issued an obscene word since that time, not out of fear but simply out of respect. While this particular example may apply to foul language, we can apply it to so many other seeming minor things as well such as over consumption of alcohol, gossip, or other items that are considered by today’s 17^th century Christians as minor. In other words just because you focus on the major does not afford license to ignore the minor. Of course if you don’t love the host then none of this applies, and therefore minor transgressions like this are acceptable within your world view.

I find the concept of Self-Correction fascinating, much more fascinating than it is on the surface, and in my opinion it is one of life’s greatest traits.  It would not be fascinating if we only lived for 2 years since there would be little time for accumulation but due to the length of our life we have the opportunities to make small incremental errors throughout time, and these are not just singular isolated events but they tend they are cumulative, one building on the other. If the mistakes are not self-corrected, then the individual grows increasing vile over time, hardly noticing what has happened until an occasion for perspective occurs and that person realizes that she is no longer who she was and wonders how did  she get this far off the path. This does not occur with those that have this built in self-correcting mechanism, but to the contrary they improve in all areas of life to where their brilliance is obvious to all with whom they have contact.  

Which brings me to the recent suicides of Eduoard, Marie, Jacques, Antoine, Jean, and Alex,  where it seems like one spawns others as if it is giving permission. As mentioned above suicide can be a long series of mental errors that build up to the point of being unbearable, an unchecked mentality of depression, rejection, hopelessness, humiliation, or other emotions that reach an apex from which recovery is almost impossible. The suicide of one therefore becomes the catalyst for another, as if there is a type of demonic bond between the victims. This life must be so painful that they think that nothing could be worse than the present and therefore risking the unknown on the other side to escape the current known seems to be risk worth taking, although in reality it is not.  As mentioned earlier it is to these that we must be sensitive while they are alive, sensitive to them as well as the Holy Spirit so that WE are the catalyst to pull them through.

                                    Chapter 2 - Chlòe Limòuix of Saint Ives

In the summer of 1694 there was a woman named Jènnifair Deirkòis, uhff, uhff…sniff…..ugh…

At this point that I notice that the elderly translator is weeping, the tears dripping onto the laminated table along with her nose, but what was truly odd was that the fallen tears formed a small puddle in the shape of a heart, and even more odd still was that there was condensation on the ivory face of the skeleton on her cane. Of course I asked her regarding her emotion and she said that although she was reading a sad portion of the pamphlet that actually her tears were tears of joy since she had been waiting for an eternity to be able to share the first chapter of the book with someone and now, finally she had the freedom to finally pass away.

 “What do you mean by that !?!”, I asked, but she simply paused and now I could see water on the wooden portion of her cane, dripping onto the parquet floor. “Only that now, finally, after a life full of regrets I have performed something meaningful, fulfilling my purpose here and soon I will be released, so here, please take this book with you and keep it nearby. You will carry on my purpose, which you will certainly figure out on your drive to Mount Horeb. I have read the portion that is important, and you can possibly find someone at the University to translate the remainder, again, my work is done here.”

She is now leaning back in her chair, the weeping turned to gasping, as her arm swipes across the table, knocking over the remainder of my Double Mocha Moto. Her breathing has stopped and I yell over to the Hippie woman with the facial hardware to call someone. She comes running over and screamed “Coco  Coco !!! ”, and she was hysterical as she dialed 911 explaining to the operator that the old women was dying.  “Chloè!”, “It’s your Mom, get over here!” and the other hippie girl with the dreadlocks and fuchsia sweater ran over and just started screaming hysterically  with tears, “Mama! NOOOO,  Mama!

I took my coat along with others that were on the tall wooden rack and laid them on the floor as padding for Coco, but we all knew it was too late. The ambulance arrived just minutes later and as the paramedic knelt beside the woman, checked her vitals and then asked her name from whomever would answer. “I think her name is Coco sir”, I said.

“What is her last name?,”  asked the paramedic to which I shrugged but the Hippie said everyone just called her Coco Ivy due to her complexion and birthplace.  We never knew her real name. The officer reached for the expired woman’s wallet which was in her jacket, found her license and softly stated “Sophie Limòuix, birthdate January 31, 1605. I hope the six is upside down?”, his face turning whiter than Edgar Winter.

If he only knew the half of it, which he never will since I took the book with me, both as a keepsake and to have the remainder translated. As I start my car I see that my meter has expired and there’s a piece of paper under my wiper, but the wipers were set to ‘ON’ due to the morning’s inclement weather, so the paper ticket works loose and the north wind blows it up over the hood to the south toward Triangle Park and US Highway Two. I could chase it but I won’t. Not now. I head south to US Highway 2, I see the ticket in a shrub by the post office, Eddie Vedder on the radio singing…


Cannot find the comfort in this world
Scrawl dissolved, cigar box on the floor...
A truant finds home...and I wish to hold on, too...
But saw the trapdoor in the sun...
Immortality...
I cannot stop the thought...I'm running in the dark...
Coming up a which way sign...all good truants must decide...
Oh, stripped and sold, mom...auctioned forearm...
And whiskers in the sink...
Truants move on...cannot stay long
Some die just to live...
.

 Here is the genealogy which my daughter was kind enough to translate for me ….

Maternal Lineage of Margaret Prioleau Gallaudet – Many years of birth are approximate, except my own.
             French Lineage

·         Margaret (Me) , born1658 - daughter of Elisee (My son is Pierre Gallaudet and Daughter is Marie Gallaudet)

·         Elisee Prioleau my father– born 1639 - Pastor of Exodun

·         Elisee Prioleau – (1609??)  my grandfather– Pastor of Niort 

·         Antonio Prioleau  Born circa 1588– Studied in Geneva , Pastor of Tounay-Boutonne 

·         Marc Prioleau -  Born 1555, son of Marco Antonio
 

Venetian Lineage
 

·         Marco Antonio Priuli  - Born 1530 moved from Venice to the region of Saintonge and married non-Catholic, changed name to Prioleau, Grandson of Alvise Peruli  (This Marco Antonio was NOT the 94^th Doge of Venice as some have written, the confusion created since the 94^th Doge was indeed named Antonio, which is a fairly common name in Venice.

·         Giovanni Pole Capello (maternal Uncle) and Paternal Doge Uncles (Lorenzo Priuli b. 1489 and Giralamo Priuli-1486 to 1567)

·         Alvise Peruli –   born circa 1460 , Grandfather of Marco Antonio of Saintonge (above) , descended from Silvestro Priuli of Hungary

o   (Nebulous lineage here but we know that all of the Venetian Priuli’s above were certainly descended from Sylvestro below, since prior to Sylvestro there were no Priulis in Venice)

·         Silvestro Priuli - born in 1079 in Hungary. The name was spelled Priolus in Latin. It became Prioli in Venice. In 1099, Silvestro participated in the First Crusade in the battle of Ascalon, south of Jaffa.  He was sent by the King of Hungary to meet with the Senate in Venice.Silvestro was the son of Michele , and grandnephew of King Taksony of Hungary
 

 Hungarian Lineage
 

·         Michele Priuli – born 1013 (Nephew of King Taksony)

·         King Taksony – born 931 son of Zoltan

·         King Zoltan  born 880 son of Arpad

·         King Arpad born 845

·         Almoz -  born circa 820

·         Ugyek – born circa790

·         Atilla – born between 390 and 406, son of Mundzuk

·         Mundzuk – Unknown