MY SON, LIKE ME, IS FRENCH: A BIRTHDAY LETTER FROM FATHER TO SON

April 30, 2001

My Dearest little Karl,

How these years pass like sand through an hour glass. But it seems just like yesterday when I was kicking a Football at you and I asked, Are you foreign?
You said, I'm French, and you're my Father. And then it clicked for me:
My son, like me, is French! I probably should have known. The way you inhaled, the way you fried, the way you wore your beret and spelled your name with a K. That endearing K, that nod to brother Marx; I wasn't sure the Frenchmen were Communists but now this confirmed what I always
suspected: the French are Communists.

My dearest Karlova Vary, my Charlemagne. They say years make the man wiser, and why does this make me want to ask: What kind of an understatement is this? Because it is understatement to say that you are wise. Was it Charles the Great that said, You Make Me Want To Jump, Jump? Because you do Karlito, you do.

I remember the day you were born just like it was yesterday. On the day you were born it rained. On the ride back from the City hospital to our village, Mother said it was God crying tears of joy. I must've agreed. And when I racked my knuckles between lug nut and tire iron on the side of the road and cursed God in all his glory as I staggered, up to my sock garters in mud, forehead clinched in agony, I thought out loud (very loud), Thank You for Caring So Much God.

As my vision cleared (somewhat), I made out, through the blinding rain, what appeared to be mother, beautiful and serene, inside our silver Citroen (damned half wheel wells) holding, in a baby blue blanket, our baby baguette, King Karl. I was so happy.

Bloody knuckled and eager I assured Mother, No, this tiny black spare tire will get us back home through this muddy French country side. And I will smoke unfiltered cigarettes to that end. Do you have the wine Mother?
Because this will be one of the greatest celebrations in all the land. We will get this boy home. Karlito, your people need you. Star-crossed fate will not keep you from your destiny.

----

When the Railroad men are not striking in our country, never let it be said that our rail system is not one of the most reliable. Your mother is a trooper, Karly. It is not only your beauty that you owe to your mother. It is also a dogged determinism and dry wit. My chinos already messed, there was no need to pussy-foot. That's what Mother said, anyway. So we all enjoyed a frolic through the increasingly dangerous countryside on the day you were born my little Charlie.

So we rambled and picnicked on your first day in the world. It was our
usual: sausage, brie, anchovy, Mom's Famous crepes, hard boiled eggs, olives, and what I call Three Livers (delicious!).
Oh and a baguette, of course! And wine! Mis en bouteille. Magnifique!
Voilá!

So we arrived at the train station satisfied, muddy-faced, and smiley. The Conductor welcomed us with open arms and said, Your filth is not welcome in my cars, even in coach! Reliable: certainly, service with a smile: less certain.

--

The rain had not let up and darkness was soon upon us; and we were so happy
to have you, my little Krumb Kake. So we walked, for what seemed like days,
except the sun didn't rise again so . . .
Until, at last, we crested the hill that overlooked our fair hamlet,
Karlville. We could hear the swell of the crowd's roar. It was a sight
that could only be described as amazing. How is it that so many ant sized
people can make such a thunder? And what was this! Was that the sun I saw
piercing the dark horizon? It was! Mother! Mother! We can set our
baguette out to dry! What an incredible day it was, my son. To top it all
off our little village had just beaten the neighboring rival village in a
football contest.
My pride was not easily concealed on that day.

So what is this I'm trying to say to you, my posterity? It is, For all you
do, for all these passing years of doing what Karl does, I say, Today
Kaptain Karl, today is your day. Do what you will on this day, Karlton.
Eat your Pommes Frites right inside your Kabob sandwich. It is your day.

With Love and Pride,
Your Father,
Karl Sr.

-----
Aaron L.