August Mowing



The lawn is tempurpedic,

My tennis shoes sinking into luxury

Of crackly, misshapen leaves,

Delicate green shoots, and

Green-velvety moss,

Like an exotic quilt

Crafted by God.

My line is steady

Though not straight,

The rusty blade cutting

As it is able,

While softer blades

Bend gracefully

To avoid the offending

Machine, and acorns

Shoot out like ricocheted shots

In the warm autumn light.


Blue yet cloud-filled skies

Embrace me, and

I accept God’s grace,

Undeserving as I am,

Unyielding as the acorn,

Yet striving to be grass,

With the plush moss

Of forgiveness.

The sun in my eyes

Both blesses and curses,

Embracing and empowering hope,

Yet blinding me at times to the path.


Up and down, back and forth,

I mow what may be the

Last of the grass, not of leaves,

The ground soon enough

Hardening, whitening, freezing.

In the autumn of my life,

I still remember the golden spring,

Perfume of lilacs and birds’ song,

Azure, carefree skies,

And nights of angels

Sparkling a message of love and possibility.


I’ve stumbled and fallen,

Losing my balance, my center,

Distracted by those possibilities,

Betrayed by lilacs and songs,

Yet I press on the strait,

Though crooked, path,

Soft earth clumps rising

To slow my movements,

Mulching my way

To Judgment Day.


The good and bad

Ground in the same

Inexorable blade,

Fertilizing the earth

So that new souls

May rise up and

Bend, or break,

Yield, or stand oak-like,

Some falling,

Others steadfast.

The rains will come again,

And the pristine snow,

Bitter cold

Decimating the land

While miniature souls

Await spring sun,

God’s message


“Rise up! Rise up!”

Never knowing when

The mulching begins,

Or ends,

Never knowing…

Yet trusting God’s soft

And pliable power.

©2015 Linda L Labin, PhD


Thought For the Day

[Don’t forget to check out yesterday’s TFD]

How do you make a selfie without looking like a psycho?

Am I the only one with this problem?


©2015 Linda L Labin, PhD

I’m Back!

alice in a holeI’m back! In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been away, yet I haven’t left. I’ve been fighting the knee and back demons and they tend to knock the knickers off what talent I may have. Sorry for missing your marvelous posts; happy to be among the survivors.

While  recuperating from knee injections, I saw things I never want to see again–The tapes of planned Parenthood doctors dickering for big money for harvested organs taken from human fetuses butchered in the womb are horrifying. The claim that they need these for research is a lie, as computer models are more effective. Selling human body parts is illegal! Two images come to mind– Nazi concentration camps experimenting on people they viewed as not fully human, as progressives view human fetuses (apparently), and Charlton Heston screaming Soylent Green is people! Wake up America.


At least Café got a nice haircut, and I’m still passing open windows. I wonder what voracious reader will recognize that reference…

© 2015 Linda L Labin, PhD

Part 2 of Worst Date Ever

I had never been to a political rally, although I had seen TV news snippets of such productions. Even then, I had little interest in being immersed in large crowds of enthusiastic and sometimes angry people. Life is not a spectator sport. Still, after Jerry begged me to at least hear what the man had to say, promising that we ‘would not stay long,’ I politely but silently assented. I was raised to believe in the best in people, expecting (and usually finding) that most people are good and kind and decent. But I had also seen the dark side of the human condition and personality, so I agreed to listen with an open mind (while being on guard instinctively).

The speaker was gifted, not by intellectual expertise or a repertoire of success and valuable ideas for America’s future, but rather by (an apparent) adherence to populist ideas that elicited a visceral response from the audience. He was the first politician to offer tax breaks and other perks to big businesses if they would move their facilities to his state, a rather successful effort to bribe companies to offer employment to locals and one that is still used today. He also wanted to increase Social Security and Medicare benefits to the elderly while ending foreign aid and getting out of the Vietnam quagmire.

Many of this man’s ideas were reasonable and quite in line with the Democratic Party of the day. In the 1968 election, however, this staunch Democrat chose to run in the American Independent Party, thus splintering the Democratic votes irreparably, allowing Nixon to become President. I still wonder how different things might have been had a Democrat won. The 1968 campaign was probably the most chaotic election season ever in the most chaotic year ever (arguably).

One would think that a man who suggested populist ideas that appealed to the average working American would be perfect, but, alas, this Southern Democrat had sold his soul to the devil in his hot pursuit of political fame and fortune. When President John F Kennedy had ordered the desegregation of all schools, the Governor of Alabama blocked the school house doors, vowing this law would never be enforced in HIS schools. Early in his career he had discovered that he could only beat his opponents, who were supported heavily by the Ku Klux Klan, if he were to ‘join them.’ He became the horrible icon of racism and race hatred.

That was why the Democratic Party eventually dropped him and that is why I had no interest in attending a rally for him. As a Christian, I was raised to believe that we are all God’s children, regardless of race or creed, and in my family, this man’s name was spat out when he was spoken about at all. He was the worst of bigots, for he had political and legal power over his victims and he used invective, stereotyping, and fear to excite the mob of poor white men seeking a scapegoat for their problems. His rallies often attracted loud protestors and violence (another reason NOT to see him).

I remember the separate restrooms and drinking fountains, one for whites and the other for blacks, which were ubiquitous in the 50s and 60s, even in Akron and Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio (my hometown). It was a shameful time in our country, when people of color were treated as less than human. The town I grew up in had been named by a national magazine as “One of the 24 Nice Places to Live,” and it was. I only learned the true meaning of that idea in high school when I discovered that realtors and those with rental properties had an unwritten law not to sell or rent to blacks. Imagine that, in the 20th century!

To add gasoline to these confrontations, other tragedies that year electrified the very air with fear and hatred. I’m sure I’m not alone in saying that my entire world view changed with the assassination of John F Kennedy in 1963. How different the world, and America, would be if not for the nut job Lee Harvey Oswald, who killed the hope of many of us that day in November. Just 5 years later, and still in shock over that tragedy, we faced new ones—Dr Martin Luther King, Jr was shot down in the Spring, and in June of that year, Democratic candidate Robert F Kennedy was likewise assassinated!

What a loss to our country. How sad and shameful and depressing. How can one go on believing in the American dream when the best and brightest of us, who offered hope to all, were slaughtered like the American buffalo? The death of the buffalo was a deliberate effort by the government to commit genocide on Native Americans. The death of men like John and Robert Kennedy and Dr King came close to destroying all Americans. These senseless murders put us in the hands of men like Nixon who hated the people he was meant to serve, who played politics with boys’ lives in ‘Nam, who encouraged the wholesale slaughter of unarmed college students whose crime was objecting to an unconstitutional war.

So, that night in 1968 was, for me, filled with fear and confusion. I was in danger; America itself was in danger. The people who claimed to know what was right, who wanted to lead us to a better tomorrow, ostensibly, could not agree on even the simplest of principles. How, then, could we find the right path, surrounded by lots of rhetoric, hyperbole, and invective? Even knowing what is right does not guarantee that one will do right. Sometimes, knowing what is absolutely the wrong thing can spur us to head in the opposite direction. Sometimes, a bad example is more effective. That’s what I heard that dark night in Akron—the worst example ever offered to the American people.

I had reason to be concerned. I did not want to listen to this hateful man spewing his hate-filled threats, his twisted view of America. I also did not want to witness what I knew would follow his words. The Armory seemed to bulge at its seams, as countless numbers of mostly white working-class men filled the auditorium to hear their new-found spokesman. Lots of talk, laughter, then whispers, followed by loud, angry cries when a small group of black men in suits entered the room, attempting to listen to the speech. Suddenly, small Confederate flags appeared, waving rapidly, as the crowd, emboldened by the polite silence of the ‘intruders,’ began flinging insults and threats of physical violence.

What I feared most of all began to emerge—a lynch-mob mentality, as armed security guards surrounded the young black men and attempted to remove them. Terrible words were exchanged by the speaker and these visitors. The crowd of mostly men, all white, began stamping their feet and yelling for blood. If not for the speaker’s next words, I think these regular guys would have shed blood that night. Horrified, I begged Jerry to take me out of there. I was more afraid for the black men down below, the only men in suits that night (except for the speaker), but I was also afraid for my own safety.

I have never seen a speaker so charismatic that he could actually convince the angry mob to calm down and allow the visitors to leave unmolested. They hung on his words like bees clinging to flower blooms. I couldn’t believe it; it was as if they had all been hypnotized by this man (or mesmerized, as the 19th century folks would have called it). With a few sentences, he commanded everyone to be calm, to be quiet, and to let those people go IN PEACE. I was astounded; the crowd, over-awed, performed like hungry seals, sitting down, ceasing the horrific racist rants and threats, calming, and waiting for this enigmatic ‘leader’ to tell them what to believe, how to behave.

It was the spookiest episode of my young life, watching this short, pudgy, badly dressed race bully calmly instruct his armed guards to escort the young black men out of the auditorium, at the same time convincing the angry crowd NOT to be angry, NOT to act with violence. We didn’t stay to hear his prepared speech, for I had witnessed a mind-boggling performance and wanted no more of it. I grabbed Jerry’s forearm with a strength born of fear and anguish and told him to ‘get me out of here, NOW!’ or face my father’s wrath when I told him about this date from hell.

I had learned too much about my so-called boyfriend that night, and also, perhaps, too much about the desperation of working men who had no clue about right and wrong, good and evil. They hated the scapegoat created by smug politicians intent on their own power and willingly gave up any claim to humanity that night. I was relieved that the speaker had stopped the potential violence that night, but I had no illusions about the reason he did that.

That was my last date with Jerry.

[The Democrat turned Independent running for president in 1968, the man who enthralled the crowd in the same creepy way that Hitler used to do in Nazi Germany, was George Wallace. He lost the election. Four years later, he was paralyzed after being shot by another nut job. He later recanted his racist views, claiming to have been ‘born again,’ and apologizing to the black people of America for what he had said and had done against them.]

© 2015 Linda L Labin, PhD

Worst Date Ever

Worst Date Ever

When I was young and optimistic foolish, I dated a bit. Not as much, probably, as my contemporaries, since I had work and school obligations, but in hindsight perhaps too much for me. I was too trusting and too naive, really, so I now marvel at my survival of those crazy times. Many people were drinking too much and doing drugs, having sex with strangers, throwing their youth if not their lives away for a short-term thrill. Not so for me. I remember the 60s because I didn’t do those things. After a few close calls, I realized that even moderate drinking could put me in danger from seemingly innocuous friends, and I stayed away from drugs because they were illegal and I had no interest in being out of control. Those choices made it easier for me to avoid casual sex, as I’ve always believed you have to be in love to engage in sexual activity. I realize how prosaic and old-fashioned that sounds, but they were different times and I was raised that way.

As happens, though, despite my best efforts, and no matter how ‘nice’ my dates seemed, occasionally I found myself in precarious circumstances. I was dating a young man who had been in the army who was pursuing a college degree; his brother was married to my cousin, who encouraged this ‘match.’ We had a number of dates, most of which were to varying degrees disastrous, but he was a sweet boy who just didn’t have a clue. I learned during this time how immature, how undisciplined he was, and it was not long before I discovered he had more serious faults.

One Friday night, I had obtained tickets to a ‘Poe Fest’ at the Kent State University movie theater, which had a mandatory time frame—if you were late, you didn’t get in. Their reasoning for this arbitrary rule escapes me, but it was engraved in granite. Naturally, as with every other date we had, Jerry (I think this was his name, but my cerebral cobwebs hang rather heavily in this part of my memory bank) arrived late, with no explanation but numerous excuses. It was winter and I was wearing my white go-go boots (!) and my new fluffy-white winter coat, a necessity in his older, clunky car. I soon found that, despite its mechanical schizophrenia, Jerry loved that car more than anything. As we sped the 10 miles to Kent, we talked of nothing and nonsense, until Jerry heard a noise undetectable by humans.

He stopped the car, got out to look at the road from whence we had come, mumbling something. I sat in wonderment, as he began speaking of a (purely imaginary) problem with his car. We pulled into a service station. In those days, gas stations had attendants who pumped your gas for you, checked your oil and other things under your hood, washed your windshields, all for the price of your gas!– minimum wage was about $1 or $1.25 an hour and you could fill your tank for about $3.00. He asked the attendant to put the car up on the rack to check ‘something.’ So, here we were, me in my white go-go boots and fluffy-white coat and he in his casual slacks and grimy hands, as he tinkered with an exhaust pipe with more holes than Baby Swiss cheese and hanging by gossamer. He and the obliging service guy used wires and (I think) bubblegum to affix the pipe to the car in hopes we could continue with this amazing date and, at least, get home safely.

That ‘essential’ mission completed, and suddenly realizing that we were really late now (as if we hadn’t been late before he began his exhaustive tinkering), Jerry attempted racing through downtown Kent. On a Friday night, downtown Kent was comatose, except for the clubs where kids could dance to loud music and drink 3.2 beer, so we had little traffic with which to contend. Despite this, Jerry managed to time his efforts in perfect sync with the 5 or 6 trains zooming through the country town at that moment. Perfect in the sense that we hit every flashing light and crossing bar! At one point, he thought to jam the accelerator to beat an oncoming train (going around the crossing bar) and we became caught on the tracks on the wrong side of the bar. Cars up ahead and behind had stopped dutifully at their signals, blocking us in, at the mercy of an oncoming train. Screaming!

At the last minute (in movie-thrill fashion), the cars behind us backed up the street so that we were able to back onto the right side of the barrier, escaping the imminent squashing. It was at this point I remember thinking, this date is not going as planned. Nevertheless, ever hopeful, we arrived on campus, parked the car of Jerry’s dreams and my nightmares, and, running through the snow and ice, we arrived just in time—to have the door slammed in our faces! We were, perhaps, 30 seconds too late, but the attendants refused to admit us, refused to hear Jerry’s lame (-brained) excuses. And yet, that was not the worst date ever.

Youth is forgiving, youth is trusting, youth is dangerous. My last date with Jerry was even more exciting than the movie thrill ride, and that is why it was my last date with Jerry.

As in previous attempts, our date began with his late arrival. We were to go bowling at North Lanes and grab a pizza at Leone’s, and I was looking forward to a ‘normal’ date, since the bowling alley didn’t have mandatory arrival times and Leone’s was open to the wee hours. Before my back problems, I loved bowling; now I bowl on my phone. Leone’s had the best pizza in Cuyahoga Falls, maybe in the world, with home-made provolone and mozzarella so thick you practically needed a machete to cut it and pepperoni from Mama Leone’s special recipe, too. (It was never the same after the kitchen fire destroyed Mama Leone’s aged, grease-soaked oven).

I noticed immediately, however, that we were heading south on State Route 8 instead of north, so I suggested that Jerry was turned around. Oddly, men and boys hate it when you point out their mistakes, even more than they hate it when you beat them at games (I was a bit of a pool shark)! He wasn’t angry, though, he just chuckled a bit and told me to relax because he was taking me ‘somewhere special’ instead of bowling. I’m a simple girl with simple tastes, so I would have been happy with our original date idea. Finally, driving through the dark streets of Akron, we arrived at the Armory where we would, he assured me, attend a special speech. It was 1968 and a man Jerry admired and who was running for president was meeting with constituents and speaking of his plans for America.

We had seats in the over-crowded balcony; there were more attendees here than I had seen at a rock concert. Lots of men, a few women, lots of talking, gesticulating, flag-waving. Later, when he spoke to the massive crowd, the speaker enthralled the audience. They hung on his every word, cheering loudly and jumping up to clap repeatedly. I have never seen anyone control a crowd in that way. I never want to see anyone control a crowd that way. It was the most frightening thing I had ever seen. The stage and the speaker were surrounded by large, well-armed security guards and the erstwhile ushers were likewise armed and threatening by their very presence.

Why was this man so afraid of a public spectacle he had planned? Why were rumors flying about uninvited guests and trouble brewing for this eloquent speaker? What had my ‘boyfriend’ gotten me into? Why did the oxygen seem to go out of the over-crowded auditorium, now smelling of sweat, anger, and despair?

————–to be continued———————-

© 2015 Linda L Labin, PhD

Who Were the Huguenots?

The Huguenots were French Protestants who followed the teachings of John Calvin, and who, due to religious persecution, were forced to flee France to other countries in the 16th and 17th centuries. Some remained, practicing their faith in secret. The Protestant Reformation, begun by Martin Luther in Germany about 1517, spread rapidly in France, especially among those having grievances against the established order of government. As Protestantism grew and developed in France, it abandoned the Lutheran form and embraced Calvinism.

The new “Reformed religion” practiced by many members of the French nobility and middle-class was based on a belief in salvation through individual faith without the need for the intercession of a church hierarchy (the Lutheran view) and on the belief in an individual’s right to interpret scriptures for themselves (the Calvinist addition). Protestants believed that Christ was the only intercessor, the only priest, necessary for salvation. This belief placed French Protestants in direct theological conflict with both the Catholic Church and the King of France in the theocratic system which prevailed at that time. No other country called their Protestants Huguenots. They preferred the Presbyterian form of church governance, but in the New World, the Huguenots would eventually merge with the Episcopal Church (the American equivalent of England’s Anglican Church).

Because of their rejection of the Pope and the Catholic belief in transubstantiation, as well as opposition to the corrupt hierarchy of the papists and the absurd notion of the “divine right of kings,” Protestants were soon accused of heresy (viewed also as treason against the Catholic government) against the established religion of France (Catholicism), and a General Edict urging extermination of these heretics (Huguenots) was issued in 1536. Nevertheless, Protestantism continued to spread and grow, and around 1555 the first Huguenot church was founded in a home in Paris. The number and influence of the French Reformers (Huguenots) continued to increase after this event, leading to an escalation in hostility and conflict between the Catholic Church/State and the Huguenots.

Huguenot numbers peaked near two million by 1562, concentrated mainly in the southern and central parts of France, about one-eighth the number of French Catholics. In that year, some 1200 Huguenots were slain at Vassey, France, thus igniting the French Wars of Religion which would devastate France for the next 35 years. The Edict of Nantes, signed by King Henry IV (Henry of Navarre) in April, 1598, ended the Wars of Religion, and allowed the Huguenots some religious freedom, including the free exercise of their religion in 20 specified towns of France. Francis II and his wife Mary Queen of Scots, both virulent Catholics, began abusing Huguenots with torture and burning. After Francis’ death, Mary returned to Scotland (and would later be executed for treason against Elizabeth I of England). The Revocation of the Edict of Nantes by King Louis XIV in October 1685 renewed persecution of the Huguenots, and hundreds of thousands of Huguenots fled France to other countries, despite laws prohibiting emigration. The Edict of Toleration in November 1787 partially restored the civil and religious rights of Huguenots in France, too late to help the diaspora. Voltaire declared that this disgraceful abuse by Louis XIV was “one of the greatest calamities to befall France.”

Since the French Huguenots were artisans, craftsmen, physicians, and professional people, they were well-received in the countries to which they fled. Most went initially to Germany, the Netherlands, and England, although some found their way to places as remote as South Africa (which has a Huguenot Museum in Franschhoek–French Hook). Considerable numbers of Huguenots migrated to British North America, especially to the Carolinas, Virginia, Pennsylvania, and New York. Their character and talents in the arts, sciences, and industry were such that they were a substantial loss to the French society from which they had been forced to withdraw, and a corresponding gain to the communities and nations in which they settled.

The exact origin of the word Huguenot is unknown, but many consider it to be a combination of Flemish and German. Protestants who met to study the Bible in secret were called Huis Genooten, meaning “house fellows.” They were also referred to as Eid Genossen, or “oath fellows” meaning persons bound by an oath. Two possible but different derivations incorporating this concept can be found in the Encyclopedia Britannica:

1. Huguenot, according to Frank Puaux, one-time President of the Société Française de l’Histoire du Protestantisme Français and author of the article about Huguenots in the 11th edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica: “is the name given from about the middle of the sixteenth century to the Protestants of France. It was formerly explained as coming from the German Eldgenosen, the designation of the people of Geneva at the time when they were admitted to the Swiss Confederation. This explanation is now abandoned. Huguenot(s) is old French common in 14th to 15th-century charters. As the Protestants called the Catholics papistes (papists), so the Catholics called the protestants huguenots. The Protestants at Tours used to assemble by night near the gate of King Hugo, whom the people regarded as a spirit. A monk’s sermon declared that the Lutherans ought to be called Huguenots, as kinsmen of King Hugo, inasmuch as they would only go out at night as he did. This nickname became popular from 1560 on.”

  1. The Encyclopedia Britannica offers a different explanation: “The origin of the name is uncertain, but it appears to have come from the word aignos, derived from the German Eldgenosen (confederates bound together by oath), which used to describe, between 1520 and 1524, the patriots of Geneva hostile to the Duke of Savoy. The spelling Huguenot may have been influenced by the personal name Hugues (“Hugh”); a leader of the Geneva movement was one Bésançon Hugues (d. 1532).”

220px-Huguenot_cross.svgThe Languedoc version of the Huguenot Cross, discovered by the Reverend Andrew Maihlet in the Province of Languedoc reveals insignia of the Society, consisting of an open four-petal Lily of France (fleur-de-lis)–reminiscent of the Mother Country–in which each petal radiates outward in the shape of a “V” to form a Maltese Cross. The four petals signify the Four Gospels. Each petal, or arm, has at its outside periphery two rounded points at the corners. These rounded points are regarded as signifying the Eight Beatitudes. The four petals are joined together by four fleur-de-lis, also reminiscent of the Mother Country of France. Each fleur-de-lis has three petals. The twelve petals of the four fleur-de-lis signify the Twelve Apostles. An open space in the shape of a heart is formed between each fleur-de-lis and the arms of the two petals with which it is joined. This shape–a symbol of loyalty–suggests the seal of the great French Reformer, John Calvin. A descending dove pendant representing the Saint Esprit or “Sainted Spirit”– the guide and counselor of the Church–is suspended from a ring of gold attached to the lower central petal. In times of Persecution, a tear-drop (usually made of pearl) supplanted the Dove.

Important Dates in Huguenot History

1533 John Calvin flees Paris

29 Jan 1536 General Edict urges extermination of heretics (Huguenots)

1536 John Calvin becomes pastor in Geneva, Switzerland

1550s Calvinism comes to France with thousands of converts

25 May 1559 First Synod of the French Reformed Church held in Paris, followed by persecutions and issuance of Edict prohibiting “heretical” worship

1559 Attempt to replace Catholic Guises with Huguenot Conde as regent

1560 Huguenots petition the King and threaten revolt if persecution persists

1 March 1562 Massacre at Vassay begins French religious wars; Conde assassinated

1562 Huguenots sign manifesto saying they were forced to take arms

1 May 1562 Arrival at St. John’s River, Florida, of the 1st pilgrimage by Huguenots to America

1564 Death of John Calvin

1565 Huguenot colony massacred at St. John, FL by Spaniards

24 August 1572 St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre–10s of 1000s of Huguenots are killed

1585 Huguenots/Protestants are expelled from France

13 April 1598 Edict of Nantes by Henry of Navarre grants limited religious and civil liberties to the Huguenots

18 October 1685 Revocation of the Edict of Nantes by Louis XIV results in persecution of the Huguenots; 400,000 flee France to other countries

28 November 1787 Edict of Toleration (100 years after the diaspora)

Virginia/Huguenot Origins in France

french provincesThe following places of origin (in the modern French regions) of many of our Huguenot ancestors have been cited in Baird’s Huguenot Emigration to America and The Huguenot, vol. 25. (The Huguenot Society). Bold indicates the region and names follow. Those in red are my family’s ancestors.


Jean Le Vilain

Tessy sur Vire

Magdalene Lefevre


Abraham Saye /Sées


Marie Erssen

Moise Verrüeil

James Marye


Pierre le Grand

Bohain [? may be Holland]


Thomas, Jean, & Louis duPré


Barthélemy Dupuy

Susanne Rochette

Abraham Soblett

Abraham Michaux (the Michaux family is prominent in Manakintown, VA records)


Jean Jacques Flournoy


Daniel Guerin

Saint Nazaire

Pays de la Loire

Olivier de la Muce

Paul Micou

Daniel DuVal

Mathieu Agee


Gabriel Maupin


Pierre Chastain


Jacob Ammonet


Paul Bernard

Abraham Sallé (a prominent member of VA)

Nicolas Martiau (another prominent member of Manakintown, VA)

Island of Ré

Jean L’Orange

Pierre David

Daniel Foure

La Rochelle

Pierre Guerri


Jean La Chaumette (Shumate)


Jacques Bilbaud


Jerome Dumas

St. Fort de Conac

Jacques Fontaine


Charles Perrault

Richard Beauford

Thomas Lanier

Louis Latané


Mathieu Maury


James LeCaze

Stephen Renno


Antoine Trabue

Stephen Mallet


Jean Cairon


Pierre Massot

Vallon en Vivarais

Benjam De Joux


Jean-Pierre Bondurant


Jean Martin

St. Martin de Courconas

Adam LaVigne


Jean Imbert

Estienne Chenault


Anthony Gévaudan

Gévaudan, near Digne


Pierre Dutoit


Jean-Jacques Flournoy

If this information is helpful to you, please let me know. Sources around the web include The Huguenot Society, wikipedia, Encyclopedia Britannica,,, and others.

Getting Old and Other Complaints

My bitmoji pics for the week, starring–you guessed it!–me:


©2015 Linda L Labin, PhD


And, finally, some silly pics I found online: