All that is yet to come can be no more
Than link of self with those who came before.
Than link of self with those who came before.
We gathered on the hilltop in the glow of the late afternoon on a summer's day. Below not far distant the incursions of urbanization were within sight, and the mutter of traffic was heard.
As we approached the gravesites we sought, memories of the past began to crowd out the concerns of the present, taking me back to the days when those in our hearts had left us.
We, the members of my immediate family, had come to this place to pay our respects to the memories of my parents and my brother, a fitting way to inaugurate the events of the extended family reunion to follow between 17 and 19 June 1983, in Kansas City, where descendants of Poppie and Mémé Borel gathered.
I spoke a few words, calling to mind the blessings that were ours, the joys we had shared, and the responsibilities imposed by our heritage to heed the example set by these saints, and by the parents of others among us not by blood related. A moment of silence followed. A short prayer brought us to a close. We left quietly to return to the house that had been turned over to us to make possible the first evening's program.
If, as Bowring has suggested, a happy family is but an earlier heaven, I have enjoyed on earth a goodly piece of heaven, day in day out, punctuated by the periodic reunions, sometimes held at the seashore, sometimes at Pinehurst, sometimes elsewhere, but always events greatly anticipated by each and, in the aftermath, events looked back upon by each as something special.
So it had been in Kansas City when I was young and father was patriarch (which role I find myself playing now without quite believing it to be real). There came a time when a grandchild would approach Poppie's door, a bit timidly perhaps, and knock. Poppie would open it and say, "Hello. Come in. Which one are you?” And Mémé would be quick to identify the youngster, who was not certain whether or not he or she was being teased. Soon goodies would be forthcoming from an inexhaustible store.
And in Oak Park, on visits to the home of Miriam's parents, picnics seemed to materialize at the merest suggestion on the arrival of The Chief, Grandpa Chesham, after a hard day at the office. And if Grandma Chesham had had dinner preparations already underway, with quite other plans for supper, she gave no hint of it lest the excitement of our children be abated, but smoothly and graciously effected a quick change of plans. Now Julie and The Chief are also at rest. And also on a hill, in Atlanta, in a special section reserved to those in the service of the Salvation Army when they have been "promoted to glory."
We miss them, yet they are with us still, those of the generation gone before. There is glory in the manner of their lives that glowed throughout their later years.
Julie was the first to leave us, in 1960, when she was 71. She had been with us each time one of our six children was born, adding much to our joy all the while catering to our comfort during the days we adjusted family life to the arrival of the addition. Then she was gone, the stout spirit of her heart yielding to its physical fatigue. With some premonition of this, she, in her last hours, tidied her bed, wrote notes to her three children, placed them in her Bible, lay down and was gone.
Dear Miriam –
I am far from well, have had a bad day, and do not know what may take place before the light of another day, therefore I want to leave a little note for you – you have always been sweet and understanding and have brought much joy to my heart.
Keep your heart in tune with God's Will – The most important thing in this life is to prepare for the great and full life God has for us just beyond the horizon.
Do not grieve for me, for I have longed for the "Homeland of the soul." We shall all meet again.
With all my love.
Mother.
It would be eleven years before my children lost another grandparent, in this case my father, who died 29 July 1971.
My mother had long been ill, and we would not at any time have been surprised to hear that she had died. When the call came from Kansas City, I answered the telephone, and my brother Pete told me Dad had died during the night. I was stunned beyond speech, muttered words of response, and turned from the phone unable to choke back my sobs. Inasmuch as I am not ordinarily moved to tears, those of my family at home at the time did not know what to make of this. I cannot account for it myself, save the sheer and unexpected sense of great loss. There were to be no more telephone conversations with Poppie, who, hard of hearing, had responded, I had by accident found, when we spoke in French. And no more would there be a hatless white head to spot amidst the airport crowd awaiting arriving passengers on the occasion of my periodic visits. No more his shy smile as I kissed his cheek in the manner of Swiss men especially close to one another.
Jack Allen, my colleague at FBIS, on my retirement, gave me back a note I had written to him:
August 12, 1971
Dear Jack:
I much appreciated your kind note of August 2 sent on behalf also of my office associates.
My family and I thank you all for the thoughtful and generous expressions of sympathy on the occasion of the death of my father. The flowers sent were beautifully a part of the service. The monies have been turned over to an organization in which my father had an abiding interest, the Salvation Army for specific use at its Day Care Center in Kansas City, Mo.
My father was a great one for looking ahead and planning. Only a short time before his death he told me he wished never to stop working, to spend no time in a hospital, and to predecease my mother. All this happened as he wished.
Nearing 87 years of age, he worked all day on 28 July, played bridge with my brothers until 11 PM than night, and died quietly in his own bed at 3 AM.
He was always proud of my association with CIA and took a great interest in FBIS. He would have been proud as well to know that you my colleagues shared in a tribute to his memory. For that act of kindness I shall always be grateful.
Sincerely,
Paul A. Borel
At the funeral service, a few of the octogenarian watchmakers who had been my father's customers were among those in attendance. They had come from Nebraska, Iowa, Kansas, and Missouri, filing by his casket, stopping solemnly for a last salute. I recalled then, when at the bottom of the Depression, Father was at wits end about where the needed next dollar would come from. A check for $500.00 had come in the mail. It was from a customer in San Francisco, a woman he had never seen, the widow of a customer who carried on her late husband's business. Having heard of my father’s difficulty, she wished him to credit the check to her account against future purchases! She was later joined by others in testimony of the esteem in which he was held when competitors on the verge of retirement offered him their businesses on terms less favorable to themselves than they otherwise had been offered by others. And, they came to work for him part-time to insure a smooth transition.
A few weeks later, 16 September 1971, we also lost The Chief, my wife's father, who for the last five years of his life made his home with us and was in every respect so much a beloved member of the family. Albert Chesham, on retirement from his last posting as commissioner in charge of the Salvation Army's fifteen southern states, had, with his wife Julie, built a home in Richmond. For several years he, as volunteer, served there as chaplain of the Salvation Army's rehabilitation center for alcoholics. Here, in this smoke-filled environment, the man who never smoked eventually contracted emphysema which contributed to his demise, though edema was also a problem. My sons, coming home from college to see Gramps ill, would berate me for not somehow effecting his recovery though we had doctors making house calls. The Chief abhorred doctors, and we were pledged not to put him in a hospital except as last resort. This fear stemmed from his experiences with a doctor not long after he had emigrated from his native England to Canada, a tale so well told by Sallie Chesham, his daughter-in-law, in her biographic account of The Chief's early years, The Contender. Finally, he understood we had to take him to a hospital. Three hours after his arrival he was gone, at age 84.
We laugh now, as we did then, about certain incidents. When he became bedridden, The Chief had been given a bell to ring should he need attention. One night – it was about 2 AM – the bell rang loud and clear, bringing four of us out of sound sleep to his bedside. We feared some crisis. But all he wanted to know was what time it was. My son, Mark, drawing upon the college culture of the day, came up with the most succinct epitaph for The Chief: "He was a good dude." As indeed he was.
So it was Mémé, Juliette Marie Pascal-Rudhardt, the oldest of the grandparents, nineteen months semi-comatose, and by all odds the one we expected to lose first, who gave meaning to the Biblical injunction the first shall be last, and the last first. She left us shortly after, on 12 September 1972. She was almost 88.
During the course of her illness, I wondered what meaning there could be to prolonged suffering. How could she have smiled when there seemed little reason to do other than complain? Requiring nursing around the clock, family members organized shifts to cover the night watch so that she could be well cared for in her own home. Eventually, she was moved into the home of my sister and her devoted husband, James Chandler, who lived next door, so Poppie could always be near her.
It was not clear whether she ever fully realized that Poppie predeceased her by a year. During one of my visits, she seemed to perk up as I addressed her in French. By then she could have seen me only dimly even if fully conscious. It became evident that she may have caught a glimpse of my hair, by then a whitening gray, and hearing my French, had mistaken me for my father. But the point is: her professional nurses were utterly devoted to her and told me that my mother's faith had during their time with her resulted in their becoming better persons. This then gave added meaning to her terminal months as her earlier influence on people had given meaning to her years.
Among the letters returned to me by my sister after mother's death was this one, written when I had had word that she was slipping away. How little we know of these things – she fought on for 17 months more:
Paul A. Borel
3175 Holmes Run Road
Falls Church, Virginia 22042
March 15, 1971
Dearest Juliette,
A beautiful name, though I've seldom used it save in response to questions of my forebears. Now I write while you are between worlds. With us, they say, on occasion only, but far still from promised mansions.
I write on my 59th birthday, a day given more than most to looking back rather than ahead. Where have the years gone? Have they been misspent or well used? Future, present, past. Each in turn the other merely by the waiting.
You yourself have always dealt realistically with questions of time. Satisfied that the future comes one day at a time, you also brought yourself to the sensible state of mind which in turn acknowledges that one cannot relive the past.
You set admirable standards for yourself. Bible based they were, steeped in human dignity. Strength to meet them came from daily prayer, each day begun by a breakfast service you and Dad shared for sixty years.
In time of need you helped us all. Slow to anger when we erred, you were quick to forgive, then working hardest to wipe the slate clean. Would we in turn could help you now and ease the one journey each must make alone.
We who have known you will ever be the better for it. And we who have been closest to you have the greater debt to share your love with those in need of it. In life you taught us how to live; in death, how to die. Truly, as the poet has said, you have added threads of gold to the gown of days.
Sleep then quietly and goodbye.
Your son,
Paul
The long march for the first of the siblings of my generation began on October 30, 1978, when my brother Pete died. Stricken by a heart attack, he lay in the hospital, all expecting his early recovery. Still on that day, as I thought of him, I chanced to look out my window. There, a bluebird, then only infrequently seen, alit upon the burford holly just outside, as though to attract my attention. I watched him for a minute. He then very abruptly took off, soaring straight up and very fast, or so it seemed. I was stirred by an unfamiliar sensation. It seemed I must call Kansas City – indeed the hospital itself. My nephew Roger was put on the line. "Strange you should call at this moment. My dad just passed away."
The service was held on the afternoon of November 2, a beautiful testimony to his life and dedication. Words of the heart do not lend themselves to reduction to speech or writing. I can do no better now than I did then: "We loved him, for he was relentless in his search for life's true values, and was faithful to his ideals. We loved him, for his single-minded determination to share with others his love of Christ, and for the generosity of his love for us. Above this, we loved him because he was our brother."
On November 18, The Kansas City Times carried a series of splendid "Eulogies for 'Pete' Borel, a Testimonial of Giving."
But my daughter, Nancy, in writing me, said it best: "I would have liked to have gone to his memorial service and to have shared the experience with you of saying to Uncle Pete, 'Goodbye and thank you. We miss you already.'"
I write of these matters solely because my grandchildren were quite young or yet unborn when their great-grandparents were so much a part of the family. Thus they must rely on what they are told for any knowledge of them. These folks were saints they may be proud to number among their forebears.
By any definition the family in which I grew up was close and loving. By their conduct toward each other and toward their children my parents gave evidence that each was a treasured gift, something special, giving wonder to the process called life.
As eldest I was quite naturally the object of their earliest attention. This position brought with it certain privileges and attendant responsibilities. If I got something first the questions raised by my brothers and sister were easily answered: "when you're as old as Paul you'll have something special too." The flip side of the coin was: "Paul, you're the eldest and must set a good example. You too are responsible to see that the others are properly looked after.” But always, I was the “Crown Prince,” and through the years many letters from my mother carried this salutation.
In my letters to my parents I also used special salutations, borrowed from stories we had read or movies seen. The ones used most frequently were "Governor" for my father, and "Mutterchen," Little Mother, for my mother. And so they themselves often signed off in closing their letters to me.
Over the years, it was Mother who wrote the letters. She placed a high priority on writing, not only to keep me apprised of family news, but to urge upon me the importance of daily Bible study and prayer. She wished not to preach, but her own experience in keeping close to God was so real and wonderful that she did not want any of us to miss it.
As time went by, I would ask my parents to reminisce, for I was innocent of much detail concerning their early years. Regrettably they did not do more of this. My father worked hard at the office; he needed all the rest he could get when at home. He did not find it relaxing to write. Mother was much more at ease with a pen. She had the potential to become a scholar. Though much preoccupied with the welfare of a large family and others, she composed beautiful letters, some in French, some in English, often a mix. It is clear from reading her letters that she moved from one language to the other quite unconsciously – often in the middle of a sentence. Here is a portion of a letter written while I was in France. My translation scarcely does justice to her beautiful French:
Thursday, August 24, 1944
Our dear one:
We do not expect a letter from you this week. We were surprised and happy to receive two last week. Thank you for the picture postcards and the picture of the house in which you live. It is very interesting to have these; they are so beautiful, do people still dress like that?
All this reminds me of the time when I was in France, at the age of 11: The great beamed chambers, the large linen wardrobes, the big family dining table. In the springtime we brought in violets we had picked. They smelled so good, and we made bouquets of these for sale in the market at Geneva. In autumn, on the same table, we cracked nuts during the evening. These were later taken to the mill in order to extract the oil used in the preparation of meals.
There were three boys in the family, the youngest, who was about my age, was my playmate and we had the run of the pastures. Horses, bulls, cows, pigs, lambs, the harvesting of field crops, and grapes from the vineyard, and this was of much interest to us.
Years later, when you and the others were children, I would very much have liked you to have had the freedom which comes with living in the country, even as I once had. These people owned an old house, uninhabited, and it was great fun to rummage through its ancient contents.
I always nurtured a desire to return one time to that village. After having left you three in Switzerland, you in Zurich, [Pierre in La Chaux-de-Fonds and Jean in Frutigan, in 1929], we returned to Geneva and Aunt Marie offered to accompany me and Papa – The house where we lived had been sold, the old folks had died. Two of the boys, the eldest and the youngest, had come back to live in the old house. The other had been killed in the war of 1914. My dear playmate, little Paul, had become a giant, both in height and weight, and was no longer so attractive. Thus do things change with time.
How do you like your new assignment? I am sure it is not easy. "If someone lacks wisdom, let him ask it of God who gives it to all without reproach." It's in the Bible. . . .
Maman
On 23 September 1944, she wrote in part:
Our dear "prince":
I have been getting ready to have [your family], cleaning and canning. You can be sure that they will be well taken care of. We hope they will be happy and soon feel at home. This week I made apple-sauce of a bushel of apples. I got 37 pint jars. And I canned some plums; also made jam of some of them. We also had a good washing for which we had one of the most beautiful fall days. Today is cloudy and cool.
Thursday evening nobody was coming home to eat, so after the washing was over I rested a half hour and went downtown to meeting. As I was walking to the street car I passed the little Baptist church where you and Miriam went once. Someone, or more, was singing in there. Overhead a plane flew by. Ahead of me in the West the golden sunset gleamed through the trees; the air was nice. It gave me a deep impression of peace and harmony and I thanked God for it.
When you all were younger, I used to get up very early so as to have some time to myself to read a few verses and commune with God. Often have I had that impression of beauty then. A sunrise above the hill, the quietness of early morning, branches overhanging the street, even the purity of a freshly opened morning glory. Those were things of everyday, but how precious and how those few minutes would help to have a good day.
So has God given even to the very limited a possibility of some inner life and joy, but we don't really enjoy the outward things till we have peace with Him. More precious than those were my babies, in spite of the crying and the work and the sickness. There was more joy in contemplating a baby asleep, little arms around your neck, eyes soft and pure, love yet undivided and unconscious. Those things are never forgotten and they are precious souvenirs. I hope that each one of my children shall have the privilege of a family of his own. . . .
That members of our family, except for myself, all remained in Kansas City, and, for the most part, were engaged in the same business enterprise, enabled them to maintain the close ties forged in our earlier years. For my part, despite geographic separation, I strove to stay close to my parents, my brothers and my sister by frequent visits, letters and telephone calls.
Without question, some barrier was created because I was the first among those of my generation of Borels and Perrenouds to attend university. As a consequence I was accorded unmerited special status and had to guard against letting this create any gap between us. My father took great pride in my academic record and followed my extracurricular activities with great interest. As much as I did he felt the pain of exhaustion as I labored to finish the grueling mile run. He took great pains to avoid any embarrassment. Once at a Fathers and Sons banquet, held at the University of Kansas, they served pumpkin pie for dessert. He hated pumpkin pie, but rather than make waves, he ate every bite. When I visited his office, he insisted that I make the rounds. He was showing me off. From casual conversation it was clear that his employees were well briefed about my progress through academe, or later, with the Navy and CIA.
There was one area where we all learned to tread softly. Once Dad had a notion to do something, when he asked for an opinion of its merits, it was not an independent view he sought. Rather, he wanted confirmation of his decision to go ahead. Thus the case when he bought an Austin automobile (a highly impractical purchase), and again when he decided to sell the solid brick house on Grand and buy a badly built frame house on Clark. Even Mother, who most often could carry the day, did not budge Father on those occasions.
When it first seemed that Miriam and I were getting serious about our courtship, the enthusiasm of every member of my family and hers for this match was so manifest it was feared by some that it might be counterproductive. Miriam's mother, Julie, was certain that the only reason her husband had been transferred from Minneapolis to Kansas City was so Miriam and I could meet. She was joined by my mother in declaring this "a match made in heaven." And years after we were married, my father wrote me, on April 7, 1944, while I was in France:
Thanks for your letter received a few days ago. Was really surprised to hear from the hospital. You did not even mention what was wrong with you. We sure all love your little family. Hope the war will be over soon so that we can be together for a while.
So far we have good news from everyone. You ask me in your letter how it is that we had in mind to come to America! First, Brother from Xante Jeanne came and did well as a farmer. Oncle Charly used to like to farm and came, and later, war came and Oncle Alfred came and did O.K. too, and our Mamy was glad to come too to be with the rest of the family! Maybe I had a vision that far away in Cheyenne was born a cute little girl [Miriam] who would become our girl too. Maybe for you was the best that could have happened for your future, and I believe it was the best for all of us. Because everyone is happy, everyone loves each other, and we all can be thankful for so many things! You see, is nothing [for me] to brag about. Everyone has done his part. And God has been with us all these years! We are proud of you all and we hope to see you all soon! For today, I leave you.
Adieu notre cher Grand,
le Gouverneur.
The ties of family have both multiplied and lengthened as additions by marriage and birth have enlarged the size and the character of the family. There are now branches spread from East to West and from North to South. In years past, such geographic separation would mean a weakening of ties, even their permanent rupture. Not so today. By mail, by telephone, by air and auto travel, we stay in touch. The mind, guided by the heart, conveys its special message of concern and love to each, whether seen frequently or less so.
Of our immediate family, Miriam, as she has throughout our days together since we first met over fifty years ago, remains the family's heart and soul. Those to whom this book is dedicated, my children, Nancy, Elaine, Julie, Jane, Douglas, Mark, need no words from me recounting how it was, or how it is. They have a more important story of their own to tell.
And yet, a sonnet I wrote recently may be an appropriate close for anything I could write on Family Ties:
Miriam
She nobly walks life's way from day of birth
This child of Chesham- Williams union wrought
Who through her splendid days upon this earth
The gift of love and service to us brought.
So prompt to help wherever help is needed
She without quarrel will walk the extra mile.
No neighbor's cry shall ever go unheeded;
With all she shares her ever winsome smile.
Her spirit shines in utter radiancy
In role as tender mother, gracious wife.
Along the way I hear her song as she
Plants flowers in the garden of my life.
Who knows of goodness sent from heaven above;
Of beauty knows who has not known my love.
As we approached the gravesites we sought, memories of the past began to crowd out the concerns of the present, taking me back to the days when those in our hearts had left us.
We, the members of my immediate family, had come to this place to pay our respects to the memories of my parents and my brother, a fitting way to inaugurate the events of the extended family reunion to follow between 17 and 19 June 1983, in Kansas City, where descendants of Poppie and Mémé Borel gathered.
I spoke a few words, calling to mind the blessings that were ours, the joys we had shared, and the responsibilities imposed by our heritage to heed the example set by these saints, and by the parents of others among us not by blood related. A moment of silence followed. A short prayer brought us to a close. We left quietly to return to the house that had been turned over to us to make possible the first evening's program.
If, as Bowring has suggested, a happy family is but an earlier heaven, I have enjoyed on earth a goodly piece of heaven, day in day out, punctuated by the periodic reunions, sometimes held at the seashore, sometimes at Pinehurst, sometimes elsewhere, but always events greatly anticipated by each and, in the aftermath, events looked back upon by each as something special.
So it had been in Kansas City when I was young and father was patriarch (which role I find myself playing now without quite believing it to be real). There came a time when a grandchild would approach Poppie's door, a bit timidly perhaps, and knock. Poppie would open it and say, "Hello. Come in. Which one are you?” And Mémé would be quick to identify the youngster, who was not certain whether or not he or she was being teased. Soon goodies would be forthcoming from an inexhaustible store.
And in Oak Park, on visits to the home of Miriam's parents, picnics seemed to materialize at the merest suggestion on the arrival of The Chief, Grandpa Chesham, after a hard day at the office. And if Grandma Chesham had had dinner preparations already underway, with quite other plans for supper, she gave no hint of it lest the excitement of our children be abated, but smoothly and graciously effected a quick change of plans. Now Julie and The Chief are also at rest. And also on a hill, in Atlanta, in a special section reserved to those in the service of the Salvation Army when they have been "promoted to glory."
We miss them, yet they are with us still, those of the generation gone before. There is glory in the manner of their lives that glowed throughout their later years.
Julie was the first to leave us, in 1960, when she was 71. She had been with us each time one of our six children was born, adding much to our joy all the while catering to our comfort during the days we adjusted family life to the arrival of the addition. Then she was gone, the stout spirit of her heart yielding to its physical fatigue. With some premonition of this, she, in her last hours, tidied her bed, wrote notes to her three children, placed them in her Bible, lay down and was gone.
Dear Miriam –
I am far from well, have had a bad day, and do not know what may take place before the light of another day, therefore I want to leave a little note for you – you have always been sweet and understanding and have brought much joy to my heart.
Keep your heart in tune with God's Will – The most important thing in this life is to prepare for the great and full life God has for us just beyond the horizon.
Do not grieve for me, for I have longed for the "Homeland of the soul." We shall all meet again.
With all my love.
Mother.
It would be eleven years before my children lost another grandparent, in this case my father, who died 29 July 1971.
My mother had long been ill, and we would not at any time have been surprised to hear that she had died. When the call came from Kansas City, I answered the telephone, and my brother Pete told me Dad had died during the night. I was stunned beyond speech, muttered words of response, and turned from the phone unable to choke back my sobs. Inasmuch as I am not ordinarily moved to tears, those of my family at home at the time did not know what to make of this. I cannot account for it myself, save the sheer and unexpected sense of great loss. There were to be no more telephone conversations with Poppie, who, hard of hearing, had responded, I had by accident found, when we spoke in French. And no more would there be a hatless white head to spot amidst the airport crowd awaiting arriving passengers on the occasion of my periodic visits. No more his shy smile as I kissed his cheek in the manner of Swiss men especially close to one another.
Jack Allen, my colleague at FBIS, on my retirement, gave me back a note I had written to him:
August 12, 1971
Dear Jack:
I much appreciated your kind note of August 2 sent on behalf also of my office associates.
My family and I thank you all for the thoughtful and generous expressions of sympathy on the occasion of the death of my father. The flowers sent were beautifully a part of the service. The monies have been turned over to an organization in which my father had an abiding interest, the Salvation Army for specific use at its Day Care Center in Kansas City, Mo.
My father was a great one for looking ahead and planning. Only a short time before his death he told me he wished never to stop working, to spend no time in a hospital, and to predecease my mother. All this happened as he wished.
Nearing 87 years of age, he worked all day on 28 July, played bridge with my brothers until 11 PM than night, and died quietly in his own bed at 3 AM.
He was always proud of my association with CIA and took a great interest in FBIS. He would have been proud as well to know that you my colleagues shared in a tribute to his memory. For that act of kindness I shall always be grateful.
Sincerely,
Paul A. Borel
At the funeral service, a few of the octogenarian watchmakers who had been my father's customers were among those in attendance. They had come from Nebraska, Iowa, Kansas, and Missouri, filing by his casket, stopping solemnly for a last salute. I recalled then, when at the bottom of the Depression, Father was at wits end about where the needed next dollar would come from. A check for $500.00 had come in the mail. It was from a customer in San Francisco, a woman he had never seen, the widow of a customer who carried on her late husband's business. Having heard of my father’s difficulty, she wished him to credit the check to her account against future purchases! She was later joined by others in testimony of the esteem in which he was held when competitors on the verge of retirement offered him their businesses on terms less favorable to themselves than they otherwise had been offered by others. And, they came to work for him part-time to insure a smooth transition.
A few weeks later, 16 September 1971, we also lost The Chief, my wife's father, who for the last five years of his life made his home with us and was in every respect so much a beloved member of the family. Albert Chesham, on retirement from his last posting as commissioner in charge of the Salvation Army's fifteen southern states, had, with his wife Julie, built a home in Richmond. For several years he, as volunteer, served there as chaplain of the Salvation Army's rehabilitation center for alcoholics. Here, in this smoke-filled environment, the man who never smoked eventually contracted emphysema which contributed to his demise, though edema was also a problem. My sons, coming home from college to see Gramps ill, would berate me for not somehow effecting his recovery though we had doctors making house calls. The Chief abhorred doctors, and we were pledged not to put him in a hospital except as last resort. This fear stemmed from his experiences with a doctor not long after he had emigrated from his native England to Canada, a tale so well told by Sallie Chesham, his daughter-in-law, in her biographic account of The Chief's early years, The Contender. Finally, he understood we had to take him to a hospital. Three hours after his arrival he was gone, at age 84.
We laugh now, as we did then, about certain incidents. When he became bedridden, The Chief had been given a bell to ring should he need attention. One night – it was about 2 AM – the bell rang loud and clear, bringing four of us out of sound sleep to his bedside. We feared some crisis. But all he wanted to know was what time it was. My son, Mark, drawing upon the college culture of the day, came up with the most succinct epitaph for The Chief: "He was a good dude." As indeed he was.
So it was Mémé, Juliette Marie Pascal-Rudhardt, the oldest of the grandparents, nineteen months semi-comatose, and by all odds the one we expected to lose first, who gave meaning to the Biblical injunction the first shall be last, and the last first. She left us shortly after, on 12 September 1972. She was almost 88.
During the course of her illness, I wondered what meaning there could be to prolonged suffering. How could she have smiled when there seemed little reason to do other than complain? Requiring nursing around the clock, family members organized shifts to cover the night watch so that she could be well cared for in her own home. Eventually, she was moved into the home of my sister and her devoted husband, James Chandler, who lived next door, so Poppie could always be near her.
It was not clear whether she ever fully realized that Poppie predeceased her by a year. During one of my visits, she seemed to perk up as I addressed her in French. By then she could have seen me only dimly even if fully conscious. It became evident that she may have caught a glimpse of my hair, by then a whitening gray, and hearing my French, had mistaken me for my father. But the point is: her professional nurses were utterly devoted to her and told me that my mother's faith had during their time with her resulted in their becoming better persons. This then gave added meaning to her terminal months as her earlier influence on people had given meaning to her years.
Among the letters returned to me by my sister after mother's death was this one, written when I had had word that she was slipping away. How little we know of these things – she fought on for 17 months more:
Paul A. Borel
3175 Holmes Run Road
Falls Church, Virginia 22042
March 15, 1971
Dearest Juliette,
A beautiful name, though I've seldom used it save in response to questions of my forebears. Now I write while you are between worlds. With us, they say, on occasion only, but far still from promised mansions.
I write on my 59th birthday, a day given more than most to looking back rather than ahead. Where have the years gone? Have they been misspent or well used? Future, present, past. Each in turn the other merely by the waiting.
You yourself have always dealt realistically with questions of time. Satisfied that the future comes one day at a time, you also brought yourself to the sensible state of mind which in turn acknowledges that one cannot relive the past.
You set admirable standards for yourself. Bible based they were, steeped in human dignity. Strength to meet them came from daily prayer, each day begun by a breakfast service you and Dad shared for sixty years.
In time of need you helped us all. Slow to anger when we erred, you were quick to forgive, then working hardest to wipe the slate clean. Would we in turn could help you now and ease the one journey each must make alone.
We who have known you will ever be the better for it. And we who have been closest to you have the greater debt to share your love with those in need of it. In life you taught us how to live; in death, how to die. Truly, as the poet has said, you have added threads of gold to the gown of days.
Sleep then quietly and goodbye.
Your son,
Paul
The long march for the first of the siblings of my generation began on October 30, 1978, when my brother Pete died. Stricken by a heart attack, he lay in the hospital, all expecting his early recovery. Still on that day, as I thought of him, I chanced to look out my window. There, a bluebird, then only infrequently seen, alit upon the burford holly just outside, as though to attract my attention. I watched him for a minute. He then very abruptly took off, soaring straight up and very fast, or so it seemed. I was stirred by an unfamiliar sensation. It seemed I must call Kansas City – indeed the hospital itself. My nephew Roger was put on the line. "Strange you should call at this moment. My dad just passed away."
The service was held on the afternoon of November 2, a beautiful testimony to his life and dedication. Words of the heart do not lend themselves to reduction to speech or writing. I can do no better now than I did then: "We loved him, for he was relentless in his search for life's true values, and was faithful to his ideals. We loved him, for his single-minded determination to share with others his love of Christ, and for the generosity of his love for us. Above this, we loved him because he was our brother."
On November 18, The Kansas City Times carried a series of splendid "Eulogies for 'Pete' Borel, a Testimonial of Giving."
But my daughter, Nancy, in writing me, said it best: "I would have liked to have gone to his memorial service and to have shared the experience with you of saying to Uncle Pete, 'Goodbye and thank you. We miss you already.'"
I write of these matters solely because my grandchildren were quite young or yet unborn when their great-grandparents were so much a part of the family. Thus they must rely on what they are told for any knowledge of them. These folks were saints they may be proud to number among their forebears.
By any definition the family in which I grew up was close and loving. By their conduct toward each other and toward their children my parents gave evidence that each was a treasured gift, something special, giving wonder to the process called life.
As eldest I was quite naturally the object of their earliest attention. This position brought with it certain privileges and attendant responsibilities. If I got something first the questions raised by my brothers and sister were easily answered: "when you're as old as Paul you'll have something special too." The flip side of the coin was: "Paul, you're the eldest and must set a good example. You too are responsible to see that the others are properly looked after.” But always, I was the “Crown Prince,” and through the years many letters from my mother carried this salutation.
In my letters to my parents I also used special salutations, borrowed from stories we had read or movies seen. The ones used most frequently were "Governor" for my father, and "Mutterchen," Little Mother, for my mother. And so they themselves often signed off in closing their letters to me.
Over the years, it was Mother who wrote the letters. She placed a high priority on writing, not only to keep me apprised of family news, but to urge upon me the importance of daily Bible study and prayer. She wished not to preach, but her own experience in keeping close to God was so real and wonderful that she did not want any of us to miss it.
As time went by, I would ask my parents to reminisce, for I was innocent of much detail concerning their early years. Regrettably they did not do more of this. My father worked hard at the office; he needed all the rest he could get when at home. He did not find it relaxing to write. Mother was much more at ease with a pen. She had the potential to become a scholar. Though much preoccupied with the welfare of a large family and others, she composed beautiful letters, some in French, some in English, often a mix. It is clear from reading her letters that she moved from one language to the other quite unconsciously – often in the middle of a sentence. Here is a portion of a letter written while I was in France. My translation scarcely does justice to her beautiful French:
Thursday, August 24, 1944
Our dear one:
We do not expect a letter from you this week. We were surprised and happy to receive two last week. Thank you for the picture postcards and the picture of the house in which you live. It is very interesting to have these; they are so beautiful, do people still dress like that?
All this reminds me of the time when I was in France, at the age of 11: The great beamed chambers, the large linen wardrobes, the big family dining table. In the springtime we brought in violets we had picked. They smelled so good, and we made bouquets of these for sale in the market at Geneva. In autumn, on the same table, we cracked nuts during the evening. These were later taken to the mill in order to extract the oil used in the preparation of meals.
There were three boys in the family, the youngest, who was about my age, was my playmate and we had the run of the pastures. Horses, bulls, cows, pigs, lambs, the harvesting of field crops, and grapes from the vineyard, and this was of much interest to us.
Years later, when you and the others were children, I would very much have liked you to have had the freedom which comes with living in the country, even as I once had. These people owned an old house, uninhabited, and it was great fun to rummage through its ancient contents.
I always nurtured a desire to return one time to that village. After having left you three in Switzerland, you in Zurich, [Pierre in La Chaux-de-Fonds and Jean in Frutigan, in 1929], we returned to Geneva and Aunt Marie offered to accompany me and Papa – The house where we lived had been sold, the old folks had died. Two of the boys, the eldest and the youngest, had come back to live in the old house. The other had been killed in the war of 1914. My dear playmate, little Paul, had become a giant, both in height and weight, and was no longer so attractive. Thus do things change with time.
How do you like your new assignment? I am sure it is not easy. "If someone lacks wisdom, let him ask it of God who gives it to all without reproach." It's in the Bible. . . .
Maman
On 23 September 1944, she wrote in part:
Our dear "prince":
I have been getting ready to have [your family], cleaning and canning. You can be sure that they will be well taken care of. We hope they will be happy and soon feel at home. This week I made apple-sauce of a bushel of apples. I got 37 pint jars. And I canned some plums; also made jam of some of them. We also had a good washing for which we had one of the most beautiful fall days. Today is cloudy and cool.
Thursday evening nobody was coming home to eat, so after the washing was over I rested a half hour and went downtown to meeting. As I was walking to the street car I passed the little Baptist church where you and Miriam went once. Someone, or more, was singing in there. Overhead a plane flew by. Ahead of me in the West the golden sunset gleamed through the trees; the air was nice. It gave me a deep impression of peace and harmony and I thanked God for it.
When you all were younger, I used to get up very early so as to have some time to myself to read a few verses and commune with God. Often have I had that impression of beauty then. A sunrise above the hill, the quietness of early morning, branches overhanging the street, even the purity of a freshly opened morning glory. Those were things of everyday, but how precious and how those few minutes would help to have a good day.
So has God given even to the very limited a possibility of some inner life and joy, but we don't really enjoy the outward things till we have peace with Him. More precious than those were my babies, in spite of the crying and the work and the sickness. There was more joy in contemplating a baby asleep, little arms around your neck, eyes soft and pure, love yet undivided and unconscious. Those things are never forgotten and they are precious souvenirs. I hope that each one of my children shall have the privilege of a family of his own. . . .
That members of our family, except for myself, all remained in Kansas City, and, for the most part, were engaged in the same business enterprise, enabled them to maintain the close ties forged in our earlier years. For my part, despite geographic separation, I strove to stay close to my parents, my brothers and my sister by frequent visits, letters and telephone calls.
Without question, some barrier was created because I was the first among those of my generation of Borels and Perrenouds to attend university. As a consequence I was accorded unmerited special status and had to guard against letting this create any gap between us. My father took great pride in my academic record and followed my extracurricular activities with great interest. As much as I did he felt the pain of exhaustion as I labored to finish the grueling mile run. He took great pains to avoid any embarrassment. Once at a Fathers and Sons banquet, held at the University of Kansas, they served pumpkin pie for dessert. He hated pumpkin pie, but rather than make waves, he ate every bite. When I visited his office, he insisted that I make the rounds. He was showing me off. From casual conversation it was clear that his employees were well briefed about my progress through academe, or later, with the Navy and CIA.
There was one area where we all learned to tread softly. Once Dad had a notion to do something, when he asked for an opinion of its merits, it was not an independent view he sought. Rather, he wanted confirmation of his decision to go ahead. Thus the case when he bought an Austin automobile (a highly impractical purchase), and again when he decided to sell the solid brick house on Grand and buy a badly built frame house on Clark. Even Mother, who most often could carry the day, did not budge Father on those occasions.
When it first seemed that Miriam and I were getting serious about our courtship, the enthusiasm of every member of my family and hers for this match was so manifest it was feared by some that it might be counterproductive. Miriam's mother, Julie, was certain that the only reason her husband had been transferred from Minneapolis to Kansas City was so Miriam and I could meet. She was joined by my mother in declaring this "a match made in heaven." And years after we were married, my father wrote me, on April 7, 1944, while I was in France:
Thanks for your letter received a few days ago. Was really surprised to hear from the hospital. You did not even mention what was wrong with you. We sure all love your little family. Hope the war will be over soon so that we can be together for a while.
So far we have good news from everyone. You ask me in your letter how it is that we had in mind to come to America! First, Brother from Xante Jeanne came and did well as a farmer. Oncle Charly used to like to farm and came, and later, war came and Oncle Alfred came and did O.K. too, and our Mamy was glad to come too to be with the rest of the family! Maybe I had a vision that far away in Cheyenne was born a cute little girl [Miriam] who would become our girl too. Maybe for you was the best that could have happened for your future, and I believe it was the best for all of us. Because everyone is happy, everyone loves each other, and we all can be thankful for so many things! You see, is nothing [for me] to brag about. Everyone has done his part. And God has been with us all these years! We are proud of you all and we hope to see you all soon! For today, I leave you.
Adieu notre cher Grand,
le Gouverneur.
The ties of family have both multiplied and lengthened as additions by marriage and birth have enlarged the size and the character of the family. There are now branches spread from East to West and from North to South. In years past, such geographic separation would mean a weakening of ties, even their permanent rupture. Not so today. By mail, by telephone, by air and auto travel, we stay in touch. The mind, guided by the heart, conveys its special message of concern and love to each, whether seen frequently or less so.
Of our immediate family, Miriam, as she has throughout our days together since we first met over fifty years ago, remains the family's heart and soul. Those to whom this book is dedicated, my children, Nancy, Elaine, Julie, Jane, Douglas, Mark, need no words from me recounting how it was, or how it is. They have a more important story of their own to tell.
And yet, a sonnet I wrote recently may be an appropriate close for anything I could write on Family Ties:
Miriam
She nobly walks life's way from day of birth
This child of Chesham- Williams union wrought
Who through her splendid days upon this earth
The gift of love and service to us brought.
So prompt to help wherever help is needed
She without quarrel will walk the extra mile.
No neighbor's cry shall ever go unheeded;
With all she shares her ever winsome smile.
Her spirit shines in utter radiancy
In role as tender mother, gracious wife.
Along the way I hear her song as she
Plants flowers in the garden of my life.
Who knows of goodness sent from heaven above;
Of beauty knows who has not known my love.
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