I stared at the letter I was writing on my computer screen and bit into a chocolate croissant.
The flaky, buttery pastry melted in my mouth. C’était delicieux! How could I put into words what these croissants—and the French bakery they came from—meant to our tiny New England town? And what good would my letter do anyway?
I’d heard it that morning. The bakery was closing. Fini. I set the croissant on a plate and looked out the window. The sky was dark and gloomy, winter still not relinquishing its grip.
April in Colebrook, New Hampshire. Not exactly a place songs are written about. Or anyone cares much about.
I resumed my typing. Senator Jeanne Shaheen: There are many of us in the Great North Woods that want to help bring Verlaine Daeron back home…
That morning, when I’d stopped by Le Rendez-Vous, the Main Street bakery run by Verlaine and her partner, Marc Ounis, had been abuzz. Marc told us the U.S. embassy in Paris refused to renew Verlaine’s visa as a business investor, saying the bakery’s economic impact was “marginal.”
No visa, and Verlaine couldn’t return from her trip to France. No Verlaine, no bakery.
Devastated, I’d come home and told my husband, Jack. We’ve owned a timber cutting operation here for years. “There must be something we can do,” he said. “Why don’t you write our senator?”
Easier said than done. Who’d believe that a town had been transformed by baguettes and some yellow paint...read more
