Normandy, France in 1944 and in 2009.
My grandfather was one of the many boys that landed on Normandy beach on June 6th, 1944. He never talked about the experience, at least not with me. Instead, he’d rattle on the beauty of France. On the tiny towns he made his way across. The food of the villages. The quaintness, laid thick in rubble, but still an essence he missed.
When he returned home, he named his new family after the towns he loved.
And so I spent a childhood explaining that “Norman D.” was my mother, a woman, and her name was actually just one word.