I wrote an article a couple of years ago called "A French Lesson." Had I thought of it at the time I wrote Afterglow, I would have included this story. It went somewhat like this:
A French Lesson Freeman Ashworth - February 2, 2008
Dreams are weird. At least my dreams are weird. Whatever the conflict entailed within the dream, I could usually resolve it easily when I awoke. However, in my dream it is an impossible situation. Let us say a heavy, such as a bear, or an IRS agent who wants to even up the books, is chasing me and I am running in mud that is of the consistency of coal tar. My feet stick in the mud, I lose my shoes, and I have all sorts of problems. Then, just before the heavy catches me, I wake up and realize it was just a dream.
Let me tell you about one I had the other night. It harked back to the time in high school the year I took French. Now I have about as much parley voux in me as did Fifi, Mrs. LaFave’s French poodle. And getting me to pronounce those words correctly was a classroom joke. It is humorous, as I look back on that episode in my life, but it was no joke during my sophomore year at dear ol’ HHS.
The reason I subjected myself to this year of agony, had nothing to do with my desire to learn to communicate with or to read anything in French. At that time in my life, I was head over heels in love with a female member of my class, Ellen Mason. Oh, she was cute, and I loved to watch her dimples move as she talked in French. However, she could read a stock market report or recite the Star Spangled Banner and it would have had the same effect on me. It was Ellen, and being around her was like being in heaven itself.
However, here I was in Mrs. LaFave’s French I class. I had ambivalent feelings about this class. In a sense, I was somewhat like the fellow who slept with his head in the refrigerator and his feet in a hot oven, but on the average, he was comfortable. I had the hots for Ellen, but Mrs. LaFave was my refrigerator of discontent. She was the designated teacher to make my sophomore year miserable.
At the close of the school day and as we left the building, Andy Duvall caught up with me. “Frank-o, I loved the way ol’ lady LaFave pinched your lips and made you repeat those French words,” he jibed, as he pouched out his lips and remarked, “Parley voux Fran-se?”
“I’ll parley voux you – with a knuckle sandwich,” I remarked. Ellen must have overheard our conversation, and felt sorry for my temporary embarrassment.
“Frank, if you are having trouble with those lesson, maybe I can help.”
“Oh, I need help,” I said, “Do I need help.”
“Why don’t you come over to the house tomorrow after school,” Ellen told me, “and we’ll go over some of this stuff together.”
Now, going over these amo-amas-amat things with anybody was the last thing I cared to do, but this was Ellen who asked me for a study date, and that made all the difference in the world.
“Sure thing,” I said, and I could hardly wait for tomorrow to come so we could ‘study’ together.
It was a balmy afternoon and we sat together on her porch swing. It creaked a little as we swung back and forth, and there was a faint rustle of the fallen leaves on the lawn, and of course, here I was sitting next to Ellen. She had her French book on her lap as she read over the assignment. I could not help but notice that her plaid skirt crept up showing her pretty knees. What lovely knees. From then on, I paid little attention to our French declensions.
“You’re not paying attention,” Ellen said, closing her book, and trying to look exasperated.
“Oh, I am paying attention, believe me,” I replied. “Do you think Mrs. LaFave makes Fifi bark in French before she feeds her?” I thought of how a dog would bark in French, as I walked home – Arfx arfx, woofx, woofx, boueaux, bowx wowx! Something I had long forgotten, but I still remember Ellen’s knees.
Until later, cheers!
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