The breeze was cool for July, even though the sun poured thickly down
into St. Valier on the banks at the St. Lawrence seaway. The little town boasted a huge church whose bell sent gongs bouncing off houses and rattling ears a few times daily. I’d walk the river edge alone and barefoot, stubbing my foot on a stone here and there.
Back at my mother-in-laws house, there was Francophone spoken.
It focused on the price of gas, American politics, and barbs back and forth between
mother and son. Arguments always put me off. So, I would retreat. Born the middle
child and only girl in a family with three boys, I adopted a peacekeeping system. As the invisible girl,
I watched the boys compete, and when I tried to speak they always pushed over me.
I learned to stand in shadows and catch the truth about everything.
In a way, I had all the weaponry and yet none at the same time. But here, in the motherland of my
Quebec husband, I was fussed over. His mother, Marie served me soft boiled eggs, perfectly buttered toast and blueberries so large they looked like marbles for breakfast.
I married a handyman in Florida where I had moved to perform on cruise ships and do little roles in small films and teach drama. So much for life plans. Real Estate grabbed hold of me, and so did Magic.
That was his legal added American name at naturalization. Magic brought me to his birthplace of Quebec where I revived the French language of my middle school classes.
The towns and routes in Quebec are named for Saints. Poutine melts in your mouth and
the townies dress their houses as if they were ready to receive a Queen.
My French would not be perfect during my first visits to Quebec, and sometimes,
I would have to retreat from the with a headache from my inadequacy to string together proper Francophone phrases. Our room had an old TV, where I’d watch reruns of Second City shows,
subtitled in English. It was good to have that TV also, since the bed was so hard and it took hours to fall asleep.
My married life was young, and I had a new country to drink in. The air felt good,
with countryside and cows, the bustle of workers, factories and
farms. Life felt both old world and abundantly modern. I nestled into the
bottom of Quebec, working my way through soft ice cream, cretonne (pate)
and Viande de la maison (house meatloaf) so delicious. I was sure never to diet over the border.
Was this the life I was missing? A taste of Little Paris to inspire me, perhaps; taking the edge off
my pressured American life. Maybe. I was soon to find out….
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