Fifty-two years ago, I found myself in a beautiful corner of central France as a camp counselor to twelve 8- and 9-year-old boys. Four were Algerian, and eight were French. I can still remember some of their names and faces: Kamal, Mohammed, Mustapha, Pierre, Michel, Nicholas, and Jean-Paul. It was a learning experience as well as a memorable one.
The camp lasted a month. I worked six days a week with one day off. On my day off, I would trek many kilometers to a small village called Le Chambon-sur-Lignon.
There, I enjoyed the peace and quiet of life away from twelve very active garçons (“boys”). I especially enjoyed several cups of robust café au lait, drunk leisurely with a croissant or a croque monsieur sandwich. While walking through the village or sitting at the café, I enjoyed observing the villagers. People-watching is one of my favorite pastimes. At the time, I was unaware that I was among a very special group of heroes and heroines.
from www.americanthinker.com