The actual Tour de France has ended.  A gutsy little Spaniard, Carlos Sastre, hung on to win, after his best performance ever in the final time trial.  The experts said he didn’t have the strength and stamina to hold his lead against a stronger, and favored competitor in that trial.  But he ultimately won by 58 seconds, which is a decent margin in the Tour de France.

        Like most Americans, I root for the underdog.  But that’s not the Tour de France I came to talk about, today.

        The day before the Tour ended, Barack Obama had the second-to-last leg of his Tour de Most Everywhere, in Paris, where he bounded up the steps to meet Nicholas Sarkozy, president of France, who met him with an outstretched arm.  Obama has everything so well choreographed.  That bounding up the stairs thing--haven’t we seen that before?  Rocky & Bullwinkle?  Rocky Top?  No, it was Rocky I, and the “stairs of victory” were in Philadelphia, not Paris.

        But that’s not the Tour de France I came to talk about, either.

        We spent five days last week, driving up to Waynesboro, Virginia, with a U-Haul truck, and helping a lady who was born 81 years ago in Paris, move from her brick home with a lovely garden, into Summit Square, which is referred to as “assisted living.”  Fernande Annette Mead is my mother-in-law, but at her suggestion I call her Maman, just like her daughter does.

        Her father had invited two Americans who came into France in June, 1944, to come to dinner.   It wasn’t intended that way, but in due course his two daughters married the two Americans.  Maman’s parents had their daughters secretly tutored in English, since they knew how the war should end, and that French people who spoke English would be in short supply and high demand.

         I had a serious chat with Maman on the day she was leaving her home where she’d lived with her husband before he died, nine years ago.  She said she was very sad to be leaving her home.  But she’s becoming frail and many ordinary things are much harder for her to do for herself.  So, as she said, “This is not what I want.  But this is what I must do.”

        Several of her friends, including the lady from across the street at her old home, now live at Summit Square.  Sadly, they are all widows.  Fortunately, they have friends, and activities, and transportation to wherever they need to go.  And they have Luther, whom we met because one of the legs on a chest of drawers came loose as we were moving it.

        Luther showed up within five minutes, with every tool known to man.  Within five minutes the loose part was properly glued, and then screwed into place so it would hold forever.  And with a cheerful smile and a tip of the hat (Luther doesn’t wear a hat, but it seemed like he was tipping one) he was gone.  Every single one of us who were helping Maman move, immediately agreed that if Luther could be cloned, we all want one.

        In her old living room, Maman had a five-panel frame with photographs taken in 1888 and 1889 in Paris.  They show the Tour Eiffel first as stumps of a foundation, then as four legs arching towards each other, then as a complete base, then climbing to the sky.  In that series of photographs, the Tour Eiffel is not just an object and a symbol.  It is an organic thing, growing out of the soil of Paris and into the great steel beanstalk to the clouds.

        It is a symbol of Maman’s family, generations back in Paris, some going forward generations, still in Paris.  And it will hang as a reminder, over her dining table at Summit Square.  That’s the Tour de France which really matters.

        Back to the other two, Barack and the bicycles.  Obama’s style for the Tour de France would be to pose with a bicycle, and with a few other riders.  Then he would give a bang-up speech on how to win the race.  Then he would be off to his next photo op without ever actually DOING anything.

        He gives a terrific speech.  Other than that, what has he done?   Hasn’t anyone read the history of William Jennings Bryan lately?  He gave one great speech at a Democratic Convention, and got nominated for president three times.  But, the “boy orator” as he was known, never got elected.  Does that sound familiar?