* Forgotten Gardens of France *

I will build a wall to protect it from vermin and thrive to my heart's content. The lush soil of my ever-sweet garden shall be extraordinarily fertile, boasting of only desirable things, what I like to see, to touch, to taste.... to dream about, as I did back then. Blood red strawberries, for instance, shall be plump with promise. Comparing it to a convincing statesman would glean a chuckle, perhaps, however, that would be a most unfavorable comparison to something so genuinely sweet and giving. No, they shall be terrifically tender. Soft and trustworthy like Vladamir's unforgettable, paling blue eyes. My deceased cousin's soul-sheltering eyelids guarded against not only the sun's rays. They saved him from the cutting shrapnel of memory and the sanctity of a six year old boy's keen curiosity. From Krakow he brought his garden of love, wisdom, hardworking know-how and frightened family. From there, he also packed his will to share and care for others less fortunate, those who would also barely evade the borders of doom.

With modest shoulders and pride that overlooked his now plentiful turf that perched over the limits of Sedan, as German Panzers once did, he demonstrated the grace of generosity in mentoring his little American cousin, a boy unstarved, who enjoyed yearly summertime visits. It was in the hardest of ways in which Vladamir came to discover that country, a little over thirty years prior. It was in the gentlest manner, however, that he taught this fatherless six year old how to plant, to harvest, to grow as one with the earth. What he imparted, was special attention to the nuances of pure notions and simple things. The sort of awareness that one inhales when kneeling and kneading into soil. Even after lunch, when they would set-out to feed the rabbits and dig alongside the worms, clean and proper attire was marked as a consideration for the boy to not or ever ignore, for there were always neighbors watching, gossiping, waiting and wanting for something to go wrong. Indeed, moreso than today perhaps, impressions mattered back then. Hence, a shirt's top button was never to be left undone even whilst riding on Vladamir's scuffed up, pale-blue mo-ped, up to le beau jardin.

As the youngster imagined the palette of fragrances awaiting him there, he clutched his cousin's waist side and suit coat as they zipped through the eerie labrynth of cobbled stone streets, piercing through the frequencies of war hardening history. The engine's motor was loud but could not entirely bury the roaring vibrations of echoing Heinkel bombers. Even their shadows could be felt as they loomed over teetering bygone buildings. Boarded shut from tresspassers and tme, sullied structures conveniently abandoned as monuments, forever tumbling into the annals of defeat. The twenty-minute ride would take the duo past the city cemetery and over slim dirt roads, flanked on both sides by whispering fields of forgiveness. As the perfume of bountiful berries grew more potent, the boy's mind would clear from the din and smoke below. In substitue, the light of youth, would resurge and usher him back to joyful faith and purpose, in Vladamir's garden, in the hills of the Ardenne, overlooking Sedan, where in May, 1940, the gardens of France were lost. E