Fleur De Lies

                     one

            On June 6, 1944, Allied forces from the United Kingdom, Canada, and the United States stormed the beaches of Normandy, France, in the greatest single-day troop movement in recorded history. The operation was called “Overlord,” and its purpose was to establish a beachhead from which troops could punch through German lines to recapture the cities and towns that had lived under Nazi occupation for four horror-filled years.

            The British landed on a five-mile crescent of beach code-named “Gold,” which sat in the middle of the string of five D-Day beaches. At the far west end of this sandy crescent, flanked by towering limestone cliffs, lies the seaside village of Arromanches, which boasts an invasion museum, carousel, souvenir shops, and a parade of once-stately homes perched at the lip of the seawall. The houses look long abandoned, their windows boarded up, but in June of 1944, their location would have afforded them panoramic views of the spectacular white sand beach that stretched halfway to England when the tide was at its farthest ebb.

            Having just led my group of a dozen Iowa seniors down a flight of stone steps onto the beach, we stood at the base of a high bank of large broken boulders that were stacked against the seawall in an obvious attempt to lessen the destructive force of English Channel storms. “Is the tide in or out?” asked Alice Tjarks as she glanced seaward.

            I regarded the half-mile expanse of dry sand and rippled tidal flats that stretched before us. “Based on pure observation, I’d say it’s out.” Iowans can scan a field of budding green leaves and tell you what crop is growing, but asking us to speculate on the status of coastal tides is even more absurd than asking us to demonstrate how to eat a live-boiled lobster.

            I’m Emily Andrew Miceli, who, with my husband, Etienne, is co-owner of Destinations Travel Company in Windsor City, Iowa. I leave the office quite frequently to escort a core group of seventy-, eighty-, and ninety-year-olds who’d rather spend their retirement years seeing the world than knitting or playing golf. Etienne sometimes accompanies us, but this go-round, he’s hosting a five-day travel seminar at the agency. So while we cruise the Seine River, traveling from Normandy to Paris aboard a small river ship, with optional tours available to explore historic sites in the French countryside, he’ll be pretty much incommunicado. At least for a few days.

            Eleven sets of eyes riveted on ninety-something Osmond Chelsvig, who, as a member of Windsor City’s Board of Elections for longer than half a century, usually settled the group’s most divisive flaps by requesting a show of hands.

            Osmond nodded thoughtfully. “Yup. Tide’s out.”

            Jaws dropped. Eyes widened.

            “You can’t agree with her,” Helen Teig protested. “What happened to a show of hands? You always ask for a show of hands.”

            Margi Swanson’s voice rose with sudden panic. “Helen’s right. If we can’t voice our opinions on really stupid things, our whole social dynamic will be destroyed.”

            Gasps. Nods. An errant belch.

            “C’mon, Osmond.” Dick Stolee delivered a playful punch to Osmond’s bony shoulder. “Call for a vote.”

            “Nope.”

            Dick paused, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Oooh, I get it. Very clever, but don’t think you’re gonna get away with it. I’m onto you, fella. I wasn’t born yesterday. None of us were. And we know exactly what you’re doing.”

            “We sure do.” Dick Teig nodded emphatically before shooting his friend a quizzical look. “What’s he doing?”

            “We’ve come to expect underhanded stuff like this from Bernice.” Dick Stolee patted the shoulder of a woman with a dowager’s hump misshaping her back and sparkly Mary Janes dazzling her feet. “But we expect better from you, Osmond.”