The first time I met Robert and Konde Babineaux, I was desperately trying to learn enough French to find the bathroom. When I arrived for the first time in Paris, I knew fewer than a hundred words in the language of my ancestors. I had memorized key phrases, such as “Je suis très heureuse de faire votre connaissance” (“I am very happy to make your acquaintance”) and “Quelle heure est-iI?” (“What time is it?”). I knew how to say “My name is Louisa,” and I could count to twenty and tell someone I was hungry. I was thirty years old and my French was that of a disoriented toddler, tempered with the unfounded optimism of an American abroad for the first time.

       I stepped from that first overseas flight onto the ragged carpet of the airport bridge, early on a February morning. I think I expected something grand, a sparkling, modern hall of mirrors in line with the France I had imagined, but this was before Charles De Gaulle was renovated. It was dirty and lit by the kind of fluorescence that makes everyone look tired or angry. Outside the terminal, it was misty and cold, and the air had the scent that cities have in winter: traces of musty buildings, some kind of fried street food, and top notes of diesel exhaust. It didn’t seem very romantic.

       Madame Babineaux, who surely had better things to do, met me at the gate. Right away, I felt the warmth of her kindness. I deployed my phrases. “Je suis très heureuse de faire votre connaissance,” I intoned carefully. She smiled and nodded, assuring me that she was glad to meet me, too. There was a pause. “Quelle heure est-il?” I asked, even though there was a large clock on the wall next to us. Madame nodded toward the clock, still smiling. My limitations were becoming clear. Fortunately, as a Dutchwoman who had herself learned French as a second language, she was inclined to patience.

       I was so dazed that I forgot to look in my phrase book and ask the location of the airport bathroom. Soon, it was too late. Madame Babineaux shepherded me briskly to baggage claim, then to the parking lot where the family car waited for us. In less than twenty minutes we were zipping out of Paris toward Jouy-en-Josas. I was dazed from the all-night flight, and even the grey light of the winter day seemed blinding. Nevertheless, I tried to make conversation. I told Madame repeatedly how happy I was to meet her, and when that began to seem tired, I asked the time. After the third or fourth iteration of this, Madame gently took control of the conversation. She described the towns and farms whizzing past our windows in slow, simple French that I still found completely incomprehensible.

       We came after less than an hour to Jouy-en-Josas, a suburb southwest of Paris and about three miles from Versailles. When Americans think of suburbs, we imagine elaborate, dull homes lined up near each other with expanses of chemically-treated grass separating identical driveways. Jouy-en-Josas was over a thousand years old, and while many of its homes were much younger, it retained a pastoral air. It was known for its “Toile de Jouy” fabrics, which were printed with period scenes of country life, complete with happy families, animals, and fields. The cows had given way to plump cats and the shepherds to affluent businessmen, but people still knew their neighbors and smiled in the shade of the ancient trees.

       When I entered the gates of the garden for the first time, I had an impression of dormant glory. The house was tucked into the frosty waves of the hillside like a ship, and the bare branches of the shrubs and trees that surrounded it billowed with sculptural precision in the cool air. It was still winter and nothing bloomed, but the house seemed somehow hopeful, as if waiting to embark on some grand voyage.

       The front door opened and Monsieur Babineaux appeared, backlit by warm, yellow light. I’m not sure how he knew we had arrived. There was no dog barking, and it was long before cell phones were popular, so perhaps he had timed our appearance the old fashioned way, with distances and driving speeds. He was a tall man and his sunny presence filled the small doorway. A newspaper and a pair of reading glasses dangled from his hand, and he was smiling. I had a sense I was often to have with him: that he was delighted to drop whatever he had been doing and focus entirely on making me feel at home. I felt like Frodo, meeting Tom Bombadil.

       Monsieur Babineaux greeted his wife and exchanged a few rapid phrases with her. Then he turned to me, speaking slowly. I had only the vaguest idea what he was saying. The sleepless flight and the linguistic efforts of the past two hours had further limited my repertoire of phrases. I gathered from his kind expression that his question had something to do with my welfare, but all I could muster was a glazed “My name is Louisa.” Monsieur Babineaux looked at Madame. Without further comment, they bustled me inside. We passed a vaulted, low entryway with passages to dining and living areas and a tiled kitchen with a huge stove and a butcher block table at its center. No doubt hoping that a nap would improve my French, theBabineaux family ushered me upstairs to the spare room. There was a double bed with a duvet to deflect the chilly February air, and a beautiful armoire that I later learned had been hand painted with roses and vines by the Babineaux family’s eldest daughter, Chantal. To my great relief, there was also a bathroom. Madame Babineaux closed the oak shutters and left me alone to rest. I am not sure if the room was painted pale blue or if fatigue manufactured that illusion, but just before I fell asleep, I remember thinking that the low, sloping ceiling looked like heaven.

       I awoke several hours later, feeling more human. It was almost dinnertime, and incredible smells wafted up from the kitchen. I opened the shutters to let in the late-day sunlight, and made my way down the narrow stairs. I have so many durable memories from this first dinner in Jouy-en-Josas: Madame Babineaux at the stove; the Babineaux family’s beautiful daughters, Jeanne, Katherine, Claudia and Chantal, chatting and helping their mother; a small herd of galloping grandchildren; Monsieur Babineaux emerging from some mysterious part of the house with bottles of wine for the table. I didn’t say much and it didn’t matter. The babbling current of conversation was cheerful and noisy, and I just allowed it to flow around me.

       I learned new words and phrases rapidly. I heard, “les bateaux” when Robert Babineaux showed me the boats he was building with his grandsons, which they would sail in the great park ponds in Paris or Versailles. Soon, it was time to assemble at the massive dining table and eat seafood gratin in shell dishes, and drink Vouvray from antique glasses. I learned “a table” and “Passez le sel, si’il vous plait.” I learned what prayers sounded like in French, and what these new faces looked like in the soft, incandescent light around the dining room. Perhaps most importantly, I learned that this language would come to me in moments rather than in grammar exercises, the words and phrases embedded in fluid sense memories that would stay with me for my entire life. Like moving ripples catching light on the surface of a lake, these scenes and syllables expanded and interacted. The resulting waves of understanding were bright and often choppy, their formations constantly in flux.

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       It was annoying, but I still had to learn verb conjugations. After that weekend, I left for Paris to attend intensive language classes at the Alliance Française. The Babineaux family installed me in a Paris apartment belonging to their family friend, Xanda. It was a sixth-floor walk-up, since like many old buildings in Paris, it had no elevator. The view from the front window was a bit depressing at that time of year, with an empty window box that might once have held flowers and a gray ocean of slate rooftops. However, the interior of the apartment was modern and charming, just like Xanda herself. My new roommate spoke several languages perfectly, including English. She had mastered four, and was working on her fifth, German. However, it was agreed that only French would be spoken with me, to enhance the language acquisition process by “total immersion”.

       At first, the immersion felt like drowning. I floundered around the streets of Paris, gasping garbled sentences at its elegant residents. Fortunately, my new roommate found my efforts pretty humorous, and she adopted me as a sort of little sister, speaking carefully to me as one might to a confused child. Our early conversations held frequent surprises.

       Xanda (pausing between words): “Did. You. Enjoy. Your. Dinner?”
       Me (thrilled to understand her question): “Yes!”
       Xanda (probing): “What would you like for dessert?”
       Me (after careful consideration): “Une pomme de terre.” (A potato)
       Xanda (trying unsuccessfully to keep a straight face): “Vraiment?”    
       (Really?)
       “Une pomme,” I clarified. “Pas de terre.” (An apple. Not with dirt.)

       I came to accept that fumbling with the language was going to be the rule, not the exception, especially when it came to sneaky French “double entendres”. These phrases had multiple meanings, most of which were sexual and all of which the French found hilarious. One memorable episode occurred when my fiance, a Francophone, came to visit carrying two heavy suitcases of equal weight, one in each hand, without any help. “Il est bien balance,” I intoned proudly. Everyone erupted in snorts of laughter. I quickly tried to correct myself, stating that he was definitely NOT “bien balance” but this only made everyone laugh harder. Apparently, this expression does not mean that someone is “well balanced”, but something far more intimate.

       Despite these daily linguistic wrecks, under Xanda’s watchful eye I managed to navigate two entire weeks in the City of Light. I memorized the route from Xanda’s apartment near the Jardin de Luxembourg to the Alliance Francaise on Boulevard Raspail. I learned how to count money and buy groceries. I regularly offended the proud natives of this famous city, but found that it helped to be a young woman with a strange accent that they could not quite place. I had learned Spanish before French, and this affected my pronunciation. “D’ou venez-vous? D’Espagne?” asked one woman in the park. “Etes-vous Armenienne?” (Are you Spanish? Or Armenian?) There was a silver lining to this linguistic haze. Parisians did not assume I was American, and everyone spoke French with me. I capitalized on this misunderstanding by talking to every hapless French person I could corner. I grilled Xanda and my teacher Madame Durand at the Alliance Francaise to develop an arsenal of short, grammatically correct phrases, which I practiced every night. I used these sentences to begin conversations. When I ran out of things to say, I would invent a reason and rush off. I had memorized a list of excuses, too, like “I have to take my medicine!” and “I must depart; my cat is ill!” As I saw it, it was better to vanish mysteriously than to be unmasked as that worst of all things in Paris, an ignorant American.

       This rather dishonest strategy also helped me get around town in one piece. I used it to find train stations, parks, and museums. The tactic was simple: approach a French person, ask for directions, and then follow the rapid response as best I could, being careful to watch for hand gestures and pointing. I would thank them, then go off in the direction they had indicated. As soon as I had turned the corner, I would check to see that my benefactor was out of sight. Then, I would ask a new person the same question. This method of navigation was a little slow, not to mention disingenuous, but it helped me to flit around town on my own. When Xanda heard about my strategy, she smiled broadly. “Very inventive,” she said in her precise French, eyes bright. “Soon you will not need me any more.”

       Yet one always needs true friends, and my relationships gradually deepened as my language skills got better. About three weeks in, Xanda invited me to join her family on their farm in the country for the weekend. Perhaps I was improving, or perhaps the thought of leaving me alone in her apartment in Paris filled her with anxiety, but whatever her motivation was, I was overjoyed. It was the first time a French person (well, a French-speaking Dutch person) had actually volunteered to spend time with me (as opposed to being cornered on a park bench). We would have a day trip to ride horses in the Foret de Fountainbleau with Xanda’s father, brother and sister. I had grown up riding a series of poorly-trained, willful ponies on our farm, and I loved horses. Finally, I thought. Something I’m good at.

       It was decided that I would ride with Xanda’s brother, Oskar, an experienced horseman. We were given mounts named Capitan (his) and Belladone (mine). Perhaps they thought that if I turned out to be as bad at riding as I was at noun genders, Oskar would be best equipped to help me. I smiled politely at him. “I won’t need help,” I thought smugly to myself. I looked forward to demonstrating my competence.

       My first inkling that it might be a challenging ride should have come from the fact that my steed was named after a poisonous herb. At the very least, the light bulb ought to have come on when I saw the running martingale Belladone was wearing, a device used to control horses before they are fully trained. However, I was so thrilled to be riding that I ignored these ominous signs, as well as the belligerent look in Belladone’s eye, and off we went.

       I felt free and alive. I was riding in the fabled forest, astride a sleek mount, as had French kings and queens before me. Unfortunately, Belladone soon made it clear that he felt free and alive, too. As soon as we were out of sight from the rest of our group, we began what started as a leisurely canter on the forest path. Belladone had other ideas, insofar as a 1200-pound animal with a brain the size of a walnut can have ideas. Suddenly, as if by some secret, mutual agreement, he and Capitan jerked to the left and bolted away from the trail. They took off exuberantly at a full gallop, tails high, hurtling heedlessly into the heart of the woods.

       I am a strong horsewoman, and Xanda’s brother was an expert, but we were no match for the demented determination of our mounts. We pulled back with all of our power on the reins, but this only seemed to make them go faster. It was impossible to sit upright, which would have made controlling the animals easier, but they were barreling through a thick forest. I had to stay plastered to Belladone’s neck to avoid being swiped off by a low-hanging branch. All I could do was hang on.

       Oskar yelled at Capitan, who was not listening. “Merde, merde, merde!” echoed the shouts through the branches behind me, punctuated by a muffled thump each time Capitan swiped him with a tree branch. Finally, I managed to yank Belladone’s head sideways with the right rein, and our pace slowed. Whether you are a human or a horse, it’s hard to run flat out when your head is turned. In a few yards, Capitan stopped, too. Oskar and I looked at each other, gasping for air. “Merde,” he whispered. “Oui,” I managed.

       Belladone glared sideways at me. He did not look sorry. I think he was surprised to see me still on his back. However, the balance of power was about to shift. There is a point in the relationship between a horse and his rider when they determine who is in charge. Belladone had won the first round, but I had not cut my teeth with untamed Shetland ponies for nothing. We stared at each other, but he looked away first. “Bastard,” I whispered under my breath, one of those helpful English words that is pretty much the same in French. I think Belladone understood that his reign of terror was over, because he sighed forlornly and hung his head, the useless running martingale limp under his neck. Gripping the reins in my hands, I wheeled him around and we headed for the trailhead. Oskar followed on Capitan, pulling evergreen sprigs and leaves from his helmet.

       In a way, taking charge of this unruly animal was a metaphor for learning the gorgeous, temperamental Gallic language. Like our ride, my linguistic adventure began as a desperate careen through the briar patch of spoken French, characterized by an almost complete lack of control. It was about to get more focused. As we made our way back to the group, my determination grew. I had branches hanging from my hair, I only knew how to conjugate five verbs, and I sounded like a burly Armenian plumber, but I was going to do this.

       When we returned to Paris, I tried harder. I worked on my accent, singing difficult words in the shower and chanting them under my breath on my way to school. I studied every afternoon and evening after my three-hour immersion classes were over. At night, Xanda quizzed me on vocabulary, and I continued to stalk the citizens of Paris for additional practice. Gradually, I developed the ability to follow directions without cheating. I shopped, went to museums, listened to music, and watched television in French. I didn’t speak English— even to the other Americans at school. I made friends who spoke no English at all, and by end of the first five weeks I was chattering in broken French with an eclectic crowd of students from Germany, Brazil, and Japan. At home with Xanda, I requested apples after dinner, not potatoes.

       I was excited to show the Babineaux family my progress. I took the train back to Jouy-en-Josas the next weekend, and found Robert Babineaux sitting in his living room squinting at a newspaper, his shoulders cloaked in golden sunlight from the window behind him. The living room was really more of a library, with hundreds of books, glowing oak floors and soft, golden draperies. There was a flock of taxidermy birds on one shelf, frozen forever in poses that were intended to look natural, looking down at us with bright, glass eyes. The sandpiper looked surprised to see me. When I came in the room, Monsieur Babineaux took off his reading glasses and grinned brilliantly. We exchanged news, and he immediately noticed my improvement. “Tres bien!” he beamed at me when I used correct grammar in a sentence. “Bravo!” He ignored my ongoing, plentiful mistakes.

       The house at Jouy-en-Josas showed signs of spring. Buds swelled on shrubs and trees, and the ground was softer. It would be Easter in two weeks. I took a tour of the garden with Madame Babineaux, who showed me the tips of crocuses beginning to emerge from the lawn beds. On Saturday, Monsieur Babineaux took me to Versailles to see the Hall of Mirrors and the famous grounds. He relayed its history to me, and we viewed the Hameau de la Reine and the War and Peace Salons. He was unfailingly cheerful and loved to talk, but he did not push me too hard. I think he understood that my comprehension was still limited, and he wanted me to feel successful. He enunciated each bit of history with care, and when he saw that I was tiring he slowed and simplified his speech. We looked at our reflections in the tall, ornate mirrors of the palace, skipped stones in the great pond in the garden and remarked on the unfortunate delusions of Marie Antionette. Without a specific lesson, a book, or a blackboard, he was teaching me. I had the impression that I was being given something precious I had not exactly earned, but I suppose that is the nature of kindness.

       That night we ate with Madame and Jeanne, the Babineaux family’s youngest daughter. Jeanne was young, and her speech was rapid and informal, which was good practice for me. I listened to her animated tale of the train ride from Paris, understanding only parts of it. She had met a young man who was a cancer survivor, and she felt powerfully moved by his determination. Chance acquaintances, felt Jeanne, could change one’s perspective and alter the course of one’s life. On the train, the bus or the street corner, a serendipitous conversation had transformational power. Her eyes glowed as she spoke, her hand movements and facial expressions passionate, her delivery animated by conviction. She was right, of course; we never know who we may encounter that will change us forever. I fell asleep that night thinking about this in the room with the oak shutters, under the ceiling that looked like the sky.

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       The rest of March passed in a kaliedoscope of shared outings, classes, and conversations. Now that I could communicate, however imperfectly, I had the odd feeling that the world around me was getting bigger. In a way it was, because I could see it more clearly. Instead of expending enormous amounts of energy on simple tasks like finding the bathroom, saying “hello” properly, or buying milk instead of accidentally buying an enema at the grocery store, I could ask questions—and I could understand the answers. This was a good thing, because I had a big weekend coming up at the Babineaux family's house. It was Easter, and the whole family would be in Jouy-en-Josas to celebrate. For the Babineaux, that meant seven adult children and their spouses as well as a gaggle of excited grandchildren brandishing baskets, intent on ending Lent with as much chocolate as possible.

       On Easter, Madame Babineaux family’s garden put on a floor show. In the spirit of rebirth, purple and white crocuses had burst forth on the lawn next to blades of new grass, and forsythias billowed yellow around the library window. The fruit trees had started to bloom, lavender and peach and pale pink, as though they knew it was time for a celebration. The people were equally festive. There were bow ties and frilly dresses, straw sailor hats and flowered skirts. Everyone looked fabulous. I wore new, mauve suede shoes with bows that I had bought on sale that week in the city. “Tres Louis Quatorze,” remarked Monsieur Babineaux when he saw, grinning broadly. He was presiding over a large group of children under the age of ten, none of whom were listening to him. They were preoccupied with chasing one another around the garden, playing pirates and having sword fights with sticks of forsythia, pausing occasionally to ask (again) when the Easter egg hunt would start. “After church,” said Madame Babineaux firmly.

       The Easter service was given in Latin. As a Quaker, I knew nothing of the procedures of high Catholic mass, and I understood very little of the Latin liturgy, but I felt a spiritual beauty in that ancient church that I will always remember. I was installed next to Jeanne, who whispered discreetly to me in French so I would know when to stand, when to sit, and when to pray. We sat on the edge of a pool of light that streamed through stained glass panels into the cool depths of the church. I felt a powerful connection to history, to the ancestors who had built these pews, and to the divine power that arises when people gather in a spirit of peace to worship in any language.

       When mass was over, the festivities began. We sat together in the dining room, crowded around the massive table, and Monsieur Babineaux said grace in his warm, melodious voice. The children, who had their own tables, ate with gusto and then squirmed in their chairs, trying valiantly but vainly to control their excitement about the upcoming egg hunt. At last, the meal ended and Madame announced that the hunt could begin. The kids erupted in cheers and burst from the front door into the light of the spring afternoon, each one gripping a hefty basket. They raced about the garden, squealing and exclaiming as they found eggs, candy and chocolate in the forks of trees, gutter drain spouts, and among the crocus blooms, hidden at different heights so that even the smallest child could find her share.

       Sons-in-law in bow ties milled about, balancing punch glasses and 35mm cameras. We gathered on the front doorstep for photos, under the paper bell decorations that replace the Easter Bunny in France. I still have those pictures, almost thirty years later. There I am in my Louis Quatorze purple suede shoes, grouped first with the children and then with the women. As Monsieur Babineaux remarked, this arrangement accurately reflected my linguistic development over the course of the past seven weeks, my start as a child and my current status as a grown-up. It was a rite of passage, and I was so proud to be included in a photo with the Babineaux sisters. They chatted with me after the picture was taken, excited that we could now have a real conversation, albeit a simple one. Like their father, they kindly overlooked the flaws in our dialogue and focused on the improvements. Just as the world seemed bigger to me now that I understood it better, I think that I became more of a person to them, able to express ideas and tell stories, able to be a friend. That night, my last in the room under the sloping ceiling-sky, I dreamed in French for the first time.

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       The day before my flight home to the United States, I went on my own to the garden vendors on the street where Xanda lived, and bought a flat of blooming plants. I bought so many that I had to carry them back to the apartment in two batches, with a third trip for potting soil. I hauled the plants up six flights of spiral stairs and planted them in Xanda’s window boxes. They looked so happy in their new home, bursting with color and life among the gray, slate rooftops. When Xanda got home, I made her close her eyes and led her to the open casements. When she opened them, they filled with surprise, then a little bit of mist. “Tu vas me manquer,” she said, hugging me. “I’m going to miss you.” “Especially,” she added, “Since I can actually talk to you now.”

       In the years ahead, I would think often of my friends and mentors from France. Some, like Xanda and the Babineaux family, I saw when I returned to visit. Others, like Madame Durand and the students in my class, lived on for me only in memories. Yet as I look around my apartment, I see physical evidence of everyone’s influence. There on my coffee table is the wooden box labeled “gants” (gloves), bought in an antique shop on a rainy day with Bernard. The photo albums on my bookshelves are full of images: classmates, Xanda, even the wily Belladone. My old school notebook from the Alliance Francaise is also there. In a drawer in my kitchen lives the flowered apron Madame Babineaux gave me as a wedding gift. When I interact with my students today, I still strive to be as patient as she was with me.

       I think I look most often at the art I purchased with Monsieur Babineaux’s guidance. He loved to “faire les brocantes”, and to study things that had a sense of history. We spent a number of afternoons in flea markets, auctions and antique stores. One of my acquisitions is a large, very old painting of a bouquet of garden flowers that has graced the wall of my home for the last 20 years. I can still hear him explaining to me that it was “la modele d’une tapisserie du dix- septieme ou dix-huitieme siecle,” an old model for a tapestry. In it, the flowers are arranged casually, spilling over one another in a confusion of color. When I returned to the States, a woman in the framing shop offered to buy it for two thousand dollars, ten times what I had paid. This was a fortune to me, but the painting wasn’t for sale...ever. I also bought a little nineteenth century watercolor of a group of people standing underneath a tree in a pasture, talking to one another. They look relaxed and happy, as though they are entirely comfortable together. “Tres fine,” said Monsieur Babineaux approvingly when he saw it.

       Many of the gifts I received were not material ones. For example, I was able make French friends long after the Alliance days ended. At home, I started a French conversation group and met Helene LeSage Arkush, a comparative literature scholar from Lille who was living in the United States with her husband, the historian David Arkush. Helene became one of my dearest friends, and it was she who translated this story into respectable French for me. I met Corine and Peggy Toviekou, who cared for me like sisters and hosted me at their flat in Paris. Once, I even made a French friend while swimming in the Atlantic Ocean, training for a triathlon. Like water, and kindness, the ability to communicate flows forward.

       I returned to France many times. I rode better-behaved horses in the Camargue, and through the grounds of the famous Loire Valley chateaux. After my children were born, I took them with me. The last time I went was more than ten years ago. My son Ian, then twelve, joined me on a horseback riding trip in the Dordogne, and we stopped to see the Babineaux family on the way back to Paris. They had sold the house in Jouy-en-Josas and renovated a 400-year-old cottage in the tiny village of Bouglainval near Chartres. The house looked like an artist’s sketch. There was a thatched roof and a huge garden surrounded by a stone wall, within which Madame Babineaux was raising fruit trees, vegetables, and a hutch of dwarf rabbits for the grandchildren. We stayed across the cobbled street at the home of Chantal and Bernard. Roses tumbled over the gateway, blooming just in time for our arrival.

       Unfortunately, Monsieur Babineaux had recently suffered from a spinal affliction that required surgery and a long rehabilitation. The day Ian and I came to Bouglainval was also his first day home after three months in a specialized care facility. When he got out of the car, he used a cane to walk. He looked around at the garden, the house, the little rabbits, and the clear sky, and drew a deep breath. Then he directed his brilliant smile at Ian. “Il est temps de sortir le deux chevaux,” he pronounced, “Le deudeuche!” (“It’s time to take out the Citroen 2CV!”) Bernard and Chantal looked a little alarmed, but they helped get the little vintage car out of the garage and in spite of the family’s concern for his fragile state, Robert Babineaux was soon driving us through the French countryside as fast as the deux chevaux could go. Fortunately, the deux chevaux was not very fast, having an engine about the size of an American lawn mower motor, but it was still a lot of fun. He opened the sunroof and Ian stood on the seat and waved to the farmers we passed, with the wind in his face, like the Pope on tour. When we returned, it was hard to tell who was happier, Ian or Monsieur Babineaux. Even in the throes of serious illness his priority was still to be a good host, and it gave him pleasure to make others feel welcome.

       This December, I received word that Robert Babineaux had passed away. He was 89 years old, surrounded by his wonderful family, and probably quite a few miniature rabbits. I feel fortunate to have learned so much from him about joie de vivre, the loving of life. He was a steadfast advocate of family, a connoisseur of art, good food, antiques and wine. He helped me feel I had something to add to every conversation, even when my contributions were flawed. In his family’s company I always felt like I was part of a community, like the people under the tree in the watercolor painting.

       Through him I learned that speaking itself is an act of giving, or at least it should be. It sometimes seems that the art of true communication has been lost, fallen prey to the insidious, egotistical demands of social media and the corrosive power of public judgment. It can be hard to imagine that generosity survives. When I am feeling this darkness, I remember Robert Babineaux. I recall that small things are as infinite as great ones. I remember that the most important gift you can give someone is kindness, because like a spring of water or a good conversation, it has the power to flow outward and touch others.

Thank you all.
Louisa Starr
Oak Park, Illinois 
July 19, 2019