When the Last Ship Sails

Under the sun of legacies..

Mar 04, 2023

It's all there in the gospels, the Magdalene girl
Comes to pay her respects, but her mind is awhirl.
When she finds the tomb empty, the stone had been rolled,
Not a sign of a corpse in the dark and the cold.
When she reaches the door, sees an unholy sight,
There's this solitary figure in a halo of light.
He just carries on floating past Calvary Hill,
In an almighty hurry, aye but she might catch him still.

"Tell me where are ye going Lord, and why in such haste?"
"Now don't hinder me woman, I've no time to waste!
For they're launching a boat on the morrow at noon,
And I have to be there before daybreak.
Oh I canna be missing, the lads'll expect me,
Why else would the good Lord himself resurrect me?
For nothing will stop me, I have to prevail,
Through the teeth of this tempest, in the mouth of a gale,
May the angels protect me if all else should fail,
When the last ship sails."

Oh the roar of the chains and the cracking of timbers,
The noise at the end of the world in your ears,
As a mountain of steel makes its way to the sea,
And the last ship sails.

It's a strange kind of beauty,
It's cold and austere,
And whatever it was that ye've done to be here,
It's the sum of yr hopes yr despairs and yr fears,
When the last ship sails.

The Last Ship - Sting

Part of the lyrics written for the ship builders who were the figurative ghosts of the old England, watching their world end with the last ship sailing out of the yard. The pride and grit.

Max Gustave Vaucher’ (pron. “Vo Chey”) was born in Los Verrieres, Switzerland on February 2nd, 1904. His wife, Yvonne Marie Guadenzio Sala was born in the same town 4 years later on February 3rd, 1908. By the time they were ten and six years old respectively, WW1 had broken out. Switzerland remained neutral although the war had a major impact on the political, social and economic life of the country.

My husband’s grandfather, our firstborn’s namesake, would make his way by train, with his young bride, through Marseille and into the ship port of Le Havre’, France.

They would marry on August 16th, 1928 in their home-town of Neuchatel, Switzerland, known for it’s watch making and vineyards. Within days the young French teacher and his wife would set sail on the largest ship ever built in France. Max and Yvonne Vaucher’ would enter the port of New York City, through Ellis Island on the “SS Paris” August 28th 1928, just one day short of the ideological Kellogg-Briand Pact, drawing in over 60 countries to sign an agreement “outlawing war.”

Calvin Coolidge was the United States President, Alexander Fleming would discover penicillin, two professors at Harvard University invented the Iron Lung and the first Home Pregnancy Test was introduced. Charles Kingsford “Smithy” Smith and Charles Ulm, along with two US crewmen, became the first people to cross the Pacific Ocean by air and Amelia Earhart became the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic! Charles Lindbergh made the first nonstop flight from New York City to Paris the year before and would receive the Congressional Medal of Honor in 1928. The Brooklyn Dodgers had a record of 77 wins and 76 losses! Mickey Mouse also made his first appearance in Steamboat Willie and Pedro Flores, a Filipino immigrant, would open The Yo-Yo Manufacturing Company in Santa Barbara, California.

Exploding with inventions, technology and dreams America was the great land of opportunity.

Leaving everything behind and many mysteries about their families, papers in hand and a sponsor waiting, Max, 24 and Yvonne, 20 would make their way to California, moving often, in search of work to support Max’s desire to become a prominent artist. He would support his dream by teaching French. Highlights included a few years spent living in Cathedral Heights, commuting to Palm Springs to teach “the Hollywood type’s” children the French language. As they began to settle Max would teach at The Webb School in Claremont, California, where he and Yvonne, became lifelong friends with Raymond and Pearl Alf, both teachers at the school and of whom the “Raymond M. Alf Museum of Paleontology” is named after. Ray left a lifetime legacy of over 70,000 collected fossils in the first high-school acredited museum. Max, or Mr. Vaucher’ would finish his longest teaching employment at Chaffey High School in Ontario, Ca., where he was adored for nearly 30 years by many students, before passing away in 1979 at the age of 75.

Void of the richness in sharing her family stories, I discovered through my mother-in-law, many years after my own son would run high school track, that Mr. Vaucher’ would also coach CIF track meets as he loved to run. I thought to myself, if only I could have told him this story, maybe our Max would have carried it in his heart as he ran..

Spanning the late roaring 20’s, with it’s art deco influences and up through the modern and linear designs of the mid-century, Max and Yvonne would socialize and make a close-knit art community with other influential artists, painters, potters, sketchers, furniture craftsmen, all making their indelible mark in California. Max Vaucher’ had made his mark too. He dabbled in many forms, but the ones that stand out to us are of his childlike mediums in pastel and charcoal that whimsically depict flowers in pots, local landmark buildings, fruits and nudes. Most special to my husband John, is a calligraphy of the alphabet hanging in our home. He was 14 years old visiting his grandparents, discussing the whys of learning cursive in school when Max grabbed a sheet of paper and in seconds showed him how it was done. John loves to talk about that story. The art of handwriting on display.

Max and Yvonne had a genuine love of art in all forms and had a special collection of pottery from artist friends. We are so thankful all of it remained with the family. To me there is nothing like a handmade vase or bowl from that era. Whenever in an antique store I am still on the lookout.

In the 1960’s Max flew to New York City to take a sabbatical and sit with Jesuit Priests. During this time he also carried with him a film camera and documented life in black and white. When my husband’s mom, Claude’ (au as “o”), told us this story, late in her life, I could see the imaginative Suiss-French artiste’ seeing God in all things.

As soon as their journey began in America, Max and Yvonne started a family. They had three daughters. Each, special and unique, they created lives in different places. Although there was love, the daughters lived distant lives from each other.

After we buried Claude in August of 2019, we discovered family pictures and albums we had never seen, boxes of beautifully penned letters and hand painted cards, every single image and letter exuded an endless love for a daughter and her letters to them spoke of the same love. It brought me to tears. I sat and stared at one image of an inquisitive little face with her adoring parents and wondered why she seemed so angry at her mother over the years and rarely spoke of her father until the end. She had narrowed herself into such a small and lonely little corner. It was as if she bared witness to a life in search of artistic dreams and successes, perhaps like the child of a movie star, dragged around, lost in the middle of creative endeavors, constantly searching for herself, never quite realizing it was all within her reach.

I recount the time the family discovered the majority of Max’s artwork, all of his film, and boxes of love letters, between he and Yvonne, had been given over to one of his former students. There is a sketch, during sabbatical, of the original twin towers in New York City that I’d give the world to see. I could feel the exhilaration of getting that film to a lab. Mostly it’s the sighs of my husband’s heart that he and his family can’t touch, enjoy or feel their grandfather’s work, in it’s entirety. The purpose? for helping with an overwhelming amount of archiving. The story of how all was lost legitimately to a hand written contract is mixed-up with the loss of a husband, grief, intentional and unintentional emotions, trust, an obvious lack of unity, understanding and much regret.

This is not an uncommon story. There is a world of lost art and legacies locked away in rooms, vaults or buried beneath the earth. Stifled.

As a family, we collectively share in a few of Max’s treasured pieces, that were chosen by the grandchildren, my husband and his three brothers, after Max passed away. Thankfully, Yvonne, asked them to come over and choose what they loved. John, the youngest at 17, took his treasures straight to a framer. He had only just lost his dad at 15, and now his grandfather.

I often look at the original pieces of art my husband picked out in his grandparent’s home, in their frames and marvel at how a teenager wasted no time putting his grandfather’s legacy on the wall of the room he rented. He also played his upright bass at Max’s funeral. A young man, from a single mom, left to fend for himself right after high school, honoring his grandfather, with his own passion for music. To this day John is still playing music wherever he can and working with his hands in the electrical trade, as his own father and brother did, leaving his own legacy.

It was a blessing to help Yvonne in her older years and we loved knowing that she enjoyed yoga, in some form up until the end, although she suffered with pain. She had devoted her entire life to her husband’s ambitions, yet she had many friends and was an avid golfer. That commitment is a legacy. A once social butterfly, “Mommer” as she was referred to had declined in her last years to a state of reclusiveness and depression. There had been a brutal life changing moment a few years after Max’s death and she was never the same. A few days after seeing some family on her 80th birthday in 1988, one she had long shared with her husband, I made a random decision to go visit her in a different way. I loaded seven month old Max into a bike seat (with helmet!) and rode a few miles over to her nursing home in Upland, California. She had a sliding door window view of the front circular driveway and I rode back and forth, waving, until she saw us. Bolting from her bed, waving with two hands, Mommer met us at the front entryway. No one there had seen her this confident with so much energy. She held baby Max and introduced him to anyone she saw, telling them it was her husband’s namesake. By the following Monday she was gone.

Living in the valley there was bound to be someone to come along that knew Max Vaucher’. It was always with a sense of joy that we would encounter a story from a former French student, or just a student that remembered this artsy French teacher, including the funny names he gave his students, spoken in his exaggerated accent.

When I met my best friend in a photography class over 20 years ago, of course we shared our love of art. Hearing how “Shelly” had grown up in Ontario, California, I mentioned John’s grandfather. With that same joy she told the comical story of her mom, Sandra, who attended Chaffey High and was taking French class. One day Mr. Vaucher’ caught her putting on lipstick. He looked at her and with that overstated French accent said, “Sonnndrra zis is not a boudoir.” Classic Max. Shelly and I began our friendship in a random class over the fact that we both knew all about Roads End, Oregon, a rather unknown place, at the time, where my parent’s lived. She also shared my mom’s maiden name. No relation. But there we were eventually laughing over Max Vaucher’ as well. Amazing.

What is a legacy? Is it wrapped up in the plans and patents laid down by the great inventors? or is it handed over by the laborers who bore their dreams? Is a legacy sealed in boxes of love letters, ornaments, poems or adorned on walls? Is it unseen and missed, leaving some wondering why they saw God in everything, craved creativity, stared at tall buildings, loved the idea of flight, felt a fearlessness in the ocean, a longing for the outdoors, a need to perform, serve, fix, teach, document or run? Do we preach for the good, risk for the thrill of winning, and love loudly or quietly because someone passed that down? Or are we forging our own path? leaving a new legacy?

We might never want to know how the sun chases us, but we can continue to help it shine.

It’s all there in the Gospels.

whatever we keep.

It’s a strange kind of beauty

and one that is deep.

When the last ship sails...