I mentioned this in my profile.  During the Viet Nam War, I applied for and was granted by my draft board a conscientious objector status.  As a result I needed to fulfill an alternate service.  I choose to work with the Mennonites, who, in 1971, sent us to Grenoble, France for one year to learn French and then on to Algeria, where we taught English as a foreign language in a little mountain village high school.

 

While my wife, Nita, and I were living in Grenoble, we decided to buy Peugeot bicycles.  I should correct myself, I decided to buy Peugeots.  Nita, bless her heart, literally went along for the ride.  Ever since our marriage in 1968, she has been willing to try most anything, even when it was outside her comfort zone.

 

Nita had reason for concern.  The streets of Grenoble were busy, very busy, and the French are crazy drivers.  Not as crazy as the Italians, but darn close.  And the French pedestrians are not much better.

 

Early in our stay in Grenoble, Nita and I were returning from French class at the university. We were in the middle of the city.  At a crossroads a French man in his 30's decided to step out in front of Nita, who was peddling at full speed. Nita squeezed down hard on the hand brakes to avoid hitting the man head on. Her bike slid sideways and, in an instant, Nita crashed to the pavement.

 

The Frenchman simply shrugged his shoulders and continued on his merry way.

 

I was enraged, and more than anything, I wanted to tell the so-and-so off. But all I could think of was the French word for “you,” which is “vous.” So I said “Vous . . . vous . . . vous . . . !” all the while punching holes in the sky with my fist.

 

The Frenchman just looked at me with a smirk and one raised eyebrow, as if to say, “You need to work on your vocabulary, Yankee.” 

 

So why is this a favorite memory? It was not for the rude Frenchman. It was for Nita. As I lifted my beautiful wife to her feet, small French cars whizzing by us from both sides, she was trembling. I looked into her eyes, which were brimming with tears. She did not say, “That dirty, no-good louse.” She did not even say, “That was not very kind.” What she said was, “Gee, honey, I could of killed him.”

 

That’s Nita: With a broad skid mark along one the full length of her body, she was worried about the insensitive French guy. Oh, Nita, you are priceless.