April 27, 2009
Today… at 2:45 this morning…
the youngest of my two sons
turned 30.
He was born in the old house you see below, in a place I like to call (out of revenge) “Poche d’Air,” Comté de Lotbinière. Of course, you won’t get the humour if you don’t understand French; you’ll have to wait for something else to laugh at.
This picture was taken the year before Vincent’s birth. In June 1978, my then-husband and I left the city and moved to the country — back to our roots — to live the peace & love life in a red & white house that had both a wood stove AND a Franklin fireplace, but no bath and no hot water. See, that’s my then-husband taking down the “For Sale” sign, and my then-only-son Sébastien posing for posterity.
Sitting on the front porch of Our House Is A Very Very Fine House, we had a great view of the fields and — at the end of the fields, a mile away — beautiful Downtown Poche d’Air where the church stood high and empty, except on Sundays and special occasions.
When the sun was out, it made for bucolic settings.
When it rained, it made for pitiful puddles of mud.
And so it is that Vincent was born on a cold and rainy Friday, in the little room at the top of the stairs.
It all took place on this very bed; we had stripped it down to the mattress and covered it with a plastic sheet for when the waters broke. And boy, did they brake: Huguette, the midwife, got splashed all over and had to endure her wet look throughout the remainder of the event.
With all the action going on — no screaming, just a lot of pushing and laughing — Sébastien woke up but was too stunned to step out of his room. He waited silently till Vincent was shot out of the cannon, and then approached the scene of the miracle where he stood — astounded — watching his brand new baby brother stretched out on his barenaked mom’s belly.
My mother had also decided to skip the delivery part. She kept herself busy downstairs, in the kitchen, whistling madly in an effort to stay calm: birthing at home, a mile from the middle of nowhere, wasn’t her idea of life in the 20th Century. But once it was over and nobody had died, she put The Four Seasons by Vivaldi on the record player (as per my instructions) and proceeded to bring us plates stacked with thick slices of toasted bread garnished with her famous homemade cretons.
Huguette went out to her car to fetch the bottle of sparkling wine she had brought for the occasion; with the lights down low and everyone gathered in the master bedroom around the antique iron bed, we lifted our glasses, in quiet bliss, to the arrival of a new player in this game called life.
So the picture you see up there was taken two days after Vincent’s birth; the bed was back to its normal state, my mom was back at her house in the next town, and I had lost 17 of the 19 pounds gained during pregnancy.
I would soon lose the other 2 pounds going up and down the stairs to breastfeed my hungry little ogre.
Here we are the following year, on MY 30th birthday. That’s my mom with half her head chopped off, holding onto Vincent; as you can see, breastfeeding payed off big time!
Finally, here’s what 30 years did to my kid…
6’2″ and getting more handsome every day.
Je t’aime
xoxo
EPILOGUE
In February 1981, we escaped back to the city.
By then, I was a single mom, eager to move on.
Because though having Vincent had been heaven…
the rest of my rural episode had been hell!
April 21, 2009
Got a postcard from my brother Robert, today.
Yup, he’s in Venice.
Make that was — by now, he must be
back home in Belgium.
I told you about him last year — he had sent me a postcard from Camargue, in France.
And I bet this short escapade to Italy won’t be his only trip, this year; I’m sure he’ll be on the road again for his summer vacation. Because that’s how great it is to live in Europe: you’re only a hop, skip, and a jump away from a myriad of fascinating places.
Here’s what he wrote (in case you’re confused, “Mudd Lavoie”
is my real name — “Oza Meilleur” is my alter ego):
Hi Mudd,
France and I decided to take a 4-day break in Venice.
It’s a place to see, but only once. I’ll tell you about it.
Big kisses
If he hasn’t phoned by tomorrow 3:00 pm — which is 9:00 pm in Belgium — I’m going to call him. I can’t wait to hear what he thought of Venice and why he recommends going there only once. Hmmm…
You can’t imagine how happy it makes me to receive a postcard from my brother; I haven’t seen him since February 2004 when he came to Montreal and a whole bunch of us got together to celebrate his 50th birthday.
Yeah, I miss him a lot — he’s such a CRRRRazy guy. I have his photo up on the wall, in my office; when I’m at the computer, I often stop to look at him…
He’s sitting on a terrace, in Portugal,
drinking a nice cold Carlsberg.
Hey Bobby Baby… I love you.
COME SEE YOUR SISTA!
September 15, 2008
There are days so full of happiness,
days so serene and marvelous, that
they leave behind them a trail of
*magic* dust.
And this dust lingers on throughout the following days — caressing, bewitching — and the happiness becomes so intense that it feels as though we are constantly unwrapping a gift…a gift that just keeps on getting better and better.
For me, the magic happened on August 26, a hot and sunny Tuesday, by far one of the hottest and sunniest days of what had been, up to that date, a rather wet and dreary summer.
The Wait
It all started with a rendez-vous scheduled for 1:00 pm at the corner of Saint-Denis and Mont-Royal, where I ended up waiting a good 40 minutes for my Twitter friend F. to show up.
I say a “good” 40 minutes, because even though I had to stand on the sidewalk all this time, I was having lots of fun singing songs in my head and soaking up the sun while comfortably leaning against the hot concrete wall of a busy café. Reggae baby!
As the wait slowly stretched, I felt like a hooker who was protecting her turf; entertained by this new game, I began greeting the passers-by with a big engaging smile. I was an old hooker — a retired hooker — not about to settle for any ol’ schmuck.
Mizz F. finally appeared, honking her horn. She swung open the car door and proceeded to apologize and enumerate her reasons for being late which all had to do with traffic, road repairs and detours. Don’t worry, I told her as I jumped in, let’s pick a restaurant, quick! By then it was almost 2:00 and the hooker was hungry.
The Lunch
We chose to eat on the shady side of Saint-Denis. Seated on the terrace of the Chuch (vege Thaï cuisine), we were happy to get acquainted face to face after months of e-mails and tweets.
The food was mmm exquisite. So was the conversation. We talked about our lives, our worries, our dreams, and we shared our plans to become rich and famous via the Internet. We were gettin’ high!
After the meal, we crossed over to the sunny side for a caffe latte, then we walked a bit and stopped for a cappuccino, and eventually we landed on the stairs that led to a bunch of stores. Pumped with caffeine, there we sat blabbing away, cracking ourselves up, trying not to forget the car and the soon-to-be-expired meter.
At 7:00 pm, F. was forced to leave — her cats and dogs were waiting for her at home. But no one was waiting for me, neither cats nor dogs, and I didn’t want the magic to end. I wanted to keep on enjoying the return of the summer; wanted to walk non-stop; wanted to squeeze every bit of happiness I could squeeze out of that day without missing a single drop. I had become a glutton!
The Stroll
I walked on Saint-Denis straight down to Sainte-Catherine where I turned west, and then I skillfully slalomed on the Cat between all the slow-pokes till I got to Sainte-Elisabeth Street and what is — at last! — the point of this story: The Door I mentioned in my September 8 post.
The Door
Yes folks, the door is here, on Sainte-Elisabeth Street.
The building with the cool graffiti holds an Asian restau- rant. (I happen to love graffiti; the artsy kind, not the crappy tags.)
For as far back as I can remem- ber, that place has always been an Asian restaurant; not the same one, of course, but always Asian. If you peek through the windows at the entrance on Sainte-Catherine, you can see that its glory days are over.
The brightly lit building at the end of the street is a pub, Le Sainte-Elisabeth.
MontrealPlus.ca has only good things to say about it:
One of The Best Bars in Montreal
Le Sainte-Elisabeth emulates the warmth and hospitality of age-old European pubs. Located in a building built in the 1930s, this pub still holds the charm of yesteryear, with heavy damask curtains lining the windows, a fireplace, polished oak bar tops and stained-glass lamps that lend a warm glow to the setting. This pub has been voted in the top ten of Montreal bars several times.
The Secret Garden
Walking into this pub, you wouldn’t know right away that Le Sainte-Elisabeth has a courtyard which is enclosed within 45 metre- high vine-covered walls. Walk to the back and you’ll see a courtyard terrace blooming with flowers and greenery during the warm months. The second floor of the pub also has a lovely glassed-in terrace that overlooks the enchanting courtyard.
Warmth,
hospitality,
charm of yesteryear,
secret garden…okay.
But for me,
it will always be
“la shop.”
You see, from the 1940s right up to his death in 1975, the building belonged to my father’s older brother Raymond who was a General Contractor.
When I was a kid, the first floor was home to one of my uncle’s employees who lived there with his wife and two children. The upper floors were divided into rooms, and these were occupied by a rather strange bunch of people, ranging from the dazed World War One vet who had lost his right ear, to the scary old drunk who zonked out on the stairs, to any one of a dozen or so prostitutes who were just passing by.
The basement — the dark, humid, foul-smelling basement — was where my uncle held his business, commonly referred to as “la shop.” Back then, the door that led to the rat-infested hole was painted grey and secured with a huge padlock. 
My father worked for his brother. He was The Foreman.
As soon as my mom had her second child in 1954 — my brother Robert — Dad started taking me to la shop, on Saturdays or Sundays, in order to give my mom a break.
I was 3 and a half years old when Robert was born; I was a big girl now. I amused myself as best I could with what was available, looking at — not touching! — all the tools and equipment, but mostly I drew figures in the dirt and the sawdust.
During that period, my father would occasionally leave la shop for what I later came to understand were visits to whichever prostitute was on duty.
He did this when his friend was around and offered to keep an eye on me while he sat drinking beer in my uncle’s office.
But his friend didn’t just keep an eye on me. He sexually abused me.
So much for the warmth, hospitality,
and charm of my yesteryears!
On August 26, I walked up to that door as I had walked up to it so many times before. And that day, instead of feeling crushed by the weight of the pain, the sadness, the ugliness and the solitude, I felt at peace.
It happened in a flash — as if the heavy black soot that poisoned my soul all these years was instantly sucked out of every orifice in my body and replaced with a light so gentle, so warm, so genuinely good, that I almost lost my balance.
I was drunk with happiness…giddy…gaga.
Skipping and waltzing from one side of the street to the other, I took a whole bunch of pictures; I didn’t want to leave this energy.
But then I noticed the workers at the corner of Sainte-Catherine. Had they been there when I went by earlier on? I couldn’t remember.
I sashayed over to meet them, lured by the smell of freshly sawed wood, a smell so reminiscent of my childhood, my youth. I told the guy who was up in the ladder how much I loved that smell, how it reminded me of my dad who had been a carpenter.
And as soon as I said these words, I realized the grudge I held against my father for abandoning me behind that damn door had lifted. Gone. Evaporated. Blackbird, bye bye.
I was about to continue on my journey when I heard the song that was playing on the workers’ radio — The Times They Are A-Changing, by Bob Dylan. I couldn’t believe it! One of these days, I’ll tell you the story of my brother André (1957-1994), and you’ll understand why.
Dylan is my brother André.
And on August 26, he was
with me to celebrate.
August 12, 2008
Received a postcard
from my brother.
Oh Happy Day!
Robert moved to Belgium in 1981 to be with the love of his life — who shall remain nameless — and they now have two grown sons who will also remain nameless for the obvious discretionary reasons.
As for my brother…well…if you’re reading this, Robert, I was going to change your name to Léonard — Leo, for short — but I’ll never be comfortable calling you anything else but Robert or Bob or Bobby, so kill me. 
Every summer, my brother and his family travel to a new place, and for the last few years, they’ve been visiting different regions of France. This time around, they went to Camargue.
For those of you who can’t read French, Robert says it’s real hot, that there are a lot of mosquitoes (BILLIONS!!!), but that apart from the heat and the bugs, it’s cool. He mentions how nice and friendly the people are, and he finishes off by saying he’ll call me as soon as he gets home.
Helloooo?
I guess he’s waiting to call me on Saturday
for my BIRTHDAY, right?
I didn’t know flamingos were so popular in that part of the world. If you check out Camargue on Wikipedia, you’ll see a photo with almost exactly the same flamingo set-up as you see here on my postcard, except there’s no house in the far distance and there are very high weeds. But the flamingos — same choreography.
All this to say that I’m always happy when I get a postcard from my darling brother. I’ll have to show you the stacks of postcards and letters he sent me throughout his traveling life. That will be part of my Paper Purge — reading his stuff, putting everything in chronological order, and making him a nice big scrapbook: BOB ON THE GO.
And now for the question du jour:
Do you keep old postcards and letters?
