Cecile Beaulieu's Blog, page 4

Brother BrokenMitch bought a Harley... meet Mitch....A f...

 

Brother Broken

Mitch bought a Harley... meet Mitch....

A familiar rumble rises above the din of our festivities. The beefy rhythm grows closer, coming from the other side of the field. Within moments, machine and man emerge just beyond the perimeter of our clan circle. All eyes focus on the wondrous pair of them, bike and biker. Like a scene out of Easy Rider, Mitch rides in on wicked Harley.

Mitch has a star quality that everyone notices, but he doesn’t see it in himself. He can’t exactly pull off badassbecause of his benevolent nature. He manages to play tough for a short while, until he cracks a smile with eyes that radiate compassion.

Mitch props the bike on its kickstand, leans back against the seat, and folds his arms. He’s taking in the family with a big grin, and is obviously having a good day. We widen our circle to include him. The kids approach to admire his bike.

“I forgot to bring this last night.” I hand him an envelope. He pulls out the contents and laughs. Inside is a Christmas card stuffed with a gift card. He’s amused by the cartoon of Santa riding a reindeer.

“It’s not an anniversary card, but the closest thing I had to one. I was in so much of a hurry to pack that I forgot to get a proper card. I thought you might appreciate the joke.”

He does.

“Merry Christmas, then.” He gives me a hug.

I am playing hostess for the afternoon, serving snacks and stocking coolers with ice and drinks. Our party keeps growing with the arrival of more family members. By this time, we are numbering almost thirty. It’s exactly how I imagined a reunion—one giant, warm embrace.

The wind starts to pick up. I’m concerned about the awning on the RV tearing, so I attempt to roll it back. Mitch recognizes my ineptitude at the task and takes over.

“First you disconnect the doodad at the thing-a-ma-bob and slip the flange over the gear socket . . .” He starts a ridiculous monologue to amuse us. He is in his element, performing bland gestures and voicing flat instructions. All the while, his smiley eyes expose his game.

“Line the spigot to the ball bearing and turn the wingnut counter-clockwise. Slide the shroud on the elbow side toward the bushing and remove the cotter pin. Once the metal rod is level with the hinge, spin the wingnut until the hex bolt drops into the harness.”

Somewhere in all the distraction, he rolls back the canopy into its protective cover. The crowd laughs and claps.

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Brother BrokenAll about Makwa Lake. You should check it ...

 

Brother Broken

All about Makwa Lake. You should check it out this summer.

On hot summer days, the beach beckoned. We each grabbed a towel and water toys, and put on a swimsuit. Mom packed the food, Dad drove the car, and we headed to Makwa Lake.

Dad barely had the car stopped, and we jumped out and made a beeline for the beach. We forgot our tire tubes in the trunk of the car and had to run back to get them.

My breath quickened when the first cool splash hit my body. I waded in, holding out my arms, trying to adjust to the cold chill of the northern lake water. I bobbed in the waves, working up the nerve to dunk my head. But then, John came up behind and pulled me backward into the drink. I caught a foothold and stood up, swinging my arms for balance and coughing up lake and sand. I pushed wet hair away from my eyes and went after him. He blocked me with splashing. I tried running away, but my legs were drunk and sluggish beneath the water’s surface. I hooked a floating tire tube in my arm and made like a motorboat, kicking distance between us. I laughed as he tried keeping up with me.

We could only stand the lake’s cold for so long, and then we had to get out. Coming out of the water, the shivers rattled us worse than a fast trip down a bumpy road. We wrapped ourselves in terrycloth towels and sat on the sand, trying to glean the sun’s warmth. We gazed across the lake’s wide expanse and pondered its personality.

The lake had a temperament you could read like a mood ring. Beneath cloudy skies, its swells rippled the color of cold steel. On those days, the lake was a surly hostess, inhospitable to its visitors. I preferred to sit at a distance and admire it rather than wade in its icebox shallows. Its disposition warmed on sunny days, though. The surface softened to lush satin, luring beachgoers into its watery playground. But beneath the sensual veneer, the lake concealed a frigid secret. My toes scarcely kissed the surface before budding goosebumps raced up my arms, looking like a reverse run of falling dominos. Regardless of hue, the water was too far north to hold heat.

Sand along the shore was mottled, the colour of oatmeal. It was coarse and felt prickly sharp on our feet, like walking on tiny shards of glass. The sand’s texture wasn’t great for building sandcastles. Kids grew frustrated at their failing efforts to form one.

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Brother BrokenFebruary 6th is one of my favorite days of...

 

Brother Broken

February 6th is one of my favorite days of the year.It marks the exact half-way point between winter Solstice and spring Equinox. My least favorite time of the year is the three month period starting November 6th and ending February 6th. I don't like dark and cold, especially in Canada.
This is what Saskatchewan nights are like (From 'Brother Broken'):
Saskatchewan amazes with big sky. The expanse dominates, and on a clear, still night, it provides remarkable serenity.
During the worst of winter’s dark, nights aren’t so accommodating, and that’s when cold delivers a bite through to the bone. Stargazing isn’t tolerable for extended periods. It's best to stay inside, guarded against the cold, and safe, until winter’s sting loses its punch.
During summer, the sun’s glow doesn’t sink completely below the skyline. A band of teal and turquoise glimmer on the horizon, and the sky features a picture show of perpetual sunset or sunrise. Spring and autumn give everything between the two extremes, but few nights make a body want to stay and keep its companionship—unless one has fortitude to endure it or nowhere else to go.
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I took this picture part-way up Snake Hill looking down on Sundre, Alberta. It was taken January 1, 2021, my first New Year in Sundre.

See you next time.

Brother BrokenAbout Denis and John:I inherited a black-a...

 

Brother Broken

About Denis and John:I inherited a black-and-white photo of Denis and John together. The image was captured one summer, probably just before my family moved to town. Denis was about five years old, which means John would have been around a year and a half. A scar like a blister belt ringed the side of John’s little potbelly, a remnant from the surgery he’d had the year before.
They looked playful in the photo, grinning, with twinkle eyes. Behind them a clothesline was laden with wet laundry. It hung like a curtain between them and the bush line surrounding the farmyard. They were carefree and shirtless, and the sun was shining bright. They looked to be having an outdoor bath and it didn’t matter if water splashed over the side of the washtub.
The camera lens focused on their fun. The shutter blinked and captured two lively youngsters at play. The snapshot held them inside a quiver of time, and if I fix hard enough on Denis’s stare-back eyes, I can bring the moment back to life.

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Brother BrokenDon't miss the hockey game:Out-of-town gam...

 

Brother Broken

Don't miss the hockey game:

Out-of-town games were rare, so most of the hockey action happened during practice or while playing shinny. Road hockey was common—especially when ice at the rink was junk.

Between siblings and cousins, we fired up a game of shinny on the street in front of our home. The road had gravel mixed in with packed snow, so the surface was coarse. We didn’t have protective gear like pads, helmets, or gloves. Winter boots encased our feet instead of skates. The goalposts were gunny sacks partially filled with straw, and it didn’t matter if a car drove over top of them. I was the only girl player, and they let me drop the puck at center ice to start the game.

“You stand close to the goal and wait for me to pass you the puck.” My teammate was lining me up to score goals. Nobody played goalie, because no one was worried about players whose long shots were mostly off target. I felt like the Rocket, waiting to earn a hat trick.

I stood near the goal watching the players pass the rubber disk between them and then lose it to the opposite team. Someone yelled, “Car!”

We scattered to one side of the street as a Buick approached and passed. The driver waved to us, and we showed him our hockey sticks.

Again I dropped the puck for the game to resume. The boys chased after it and converged like cats in a frenzied skirmish. The mob drifted to and fro across the playing field, moving as one to the rhythm of puck. With heads down and eyes on the ice, the boys waggled hockey blades and elbows, like duelling chopsticks.

The puck flew out of the din toward me and I froze in the excitement. I couldn’t respond fast enough to score a goal before the players closed in on me. I was caught in the center of the hockey storm without a hope of regaining control of the puck. The butt end of someone’s stick met my face. I spit out a fragment that looked like a Chicklet. My tongue found the gap where my upper front tooth used to be. If I couldn’t play like a hockey great, then I was surely going to look like one.

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Brother BrokenGood morning. Meet Uncle Emil:Uncle Emil w...

 

Brother Broken

Good morning. Meet Uncle Emil:

Uncle Emil was a large man with the mind and innocence of a child. As a baby, he had suffered brain damage due to a severe fever. The injury marred his intellect and comprehension. He could never be self-reliant.

To us, Emil was like another fun kid to play with, though much bigger. His size, we thought, we could exploit. It couldn’t hurt to have a perceived bodyguard on our side. In reality, Emil was the one who needed protection, and no one understood this better than our grandmother. Even though Emil looked like he could take care of himself, it didn’t take much prodding to reveal his childlike vulnerability. We weren’t allowed to tease him, which was something we could hardly resist. It took but one encounter with my grandmother’s wrath to eradicate the temptation.

Uncle Emil had many qualities of a child’s favourite playmate. His body was plump, like a cherished teddy bear. His big hands could have been fashioned after the Friendly Giant’s own hams. He borrowed Santa Claus’s cheeks and nose, and his eyes had a puppy quality. Uncle Emil was hardly ever irritable, and hanging out with him had huge advantages.

If we had a notion to climb a tree, and the bottom limb was too high to reach, Emil offered a boost. Then, when we were done climbing, he’d give us a hand down again. If we wanted to know the time, we’d ask him, “Tsee Mil, what time is it?”

Uncle would look at his watch, wind it, and check the time. He’d tell us it was “four cluck.” According to Uncle, it was always “four cluck.”

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Brother BrokenMeet the protagonists:Denis, John and Mitc...

 

Brother Broken

Meet the protagonists:Denis, John and Mitch. Their stories begin in the 1950s and 60s, in a village, in Saskatchewan, somewhere north of normal. It's not one that's dark or depressing, it's a story of hope and gratitude, with a touch of ridiculous. Some parts are complicated, because there is nothing straightforward pertaining to broken.

I remember my brothers with words, I share the story of their lives. l tell of what decent boys they were, what they meant to me, how their lives were ordinary and sound before all the trouble started happening. I write, so people will learn the goodness of my parents, the wholesomeness of my extended family, that my kin weren't lowbrow hicks, who screwed-up raising kids.

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Brother BrokenHow are you today? Are you up to a lesson ...

 

Brother Broken

How are you today? Are you up to a lesson in languages?

Most people that I knew spoke Saskatchewanese, which is particularly handy for anyone living in Saskatchewan. We used words like gibbled, Vi-Co, and chesterfield, and didn’t think the lingo caused confusion for anyone. I didn’t even know our dialect was distinct from the rest of the world.

My family was also well versed in Saskatchewanese en français. Apparently, the word we used to refer to the toilet was actually borrowed from the Queen’s English. We called it the bécosse (bā∙kuss). The English referred to it as the “backhouse.” French people adopted the English word, added their own distinct flair, and it came out sounding like bécosse. In much the same way “cut the grass” became mowdelawn, and tro-up translated to vomit.

The trick is to speak rapidly and merge the words using a French accent.

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Brother BrokenGood morning, waky, waky.Here's a condense...

 

Brother Broken

Good morning, waky, waky.Here's a condensed description of our home...

Ma famillelived on a farm until 1958, which was slightly before my time. Dad decided to move off the farm and into town for his kids to have more advantages. He kept on farming, though he had to commute an extra eight miles every day.

The modified granary that served as my parents’ first home had become inadequate to meet the needs of a growing family. There were limitations on how much Dad could adapt a single-room dwelling to accommodate six individuals. It was a constant effort for Mom to keep babies and toddlers away from the woodstove used for heating and cooking.

Our new home had been used as a rooming house. It was built during the first decade of the twentieth century. By the time my family acquired it, the house was run down—but still a marked improvement from the granary. The main floor had a lobby, an eating area, a kitchen, and living quarters. Guest rooms and primitive bathroom facilities were on the top floor.

The lobby served as a telephone office. Before my parents bought the place, it had provided phone service to the entire village. By obtaining the home, my family also acquired a home business. Mom became the new telephone operator for the village. Actually, we all became telephone operators as soon as we were mature enough to reach the switchboard, operate the hand-crank, and follow simple instructions.

Mom put us through the training and showed us how to facilitate a call. We started with a clear, concise inquiry: “Number, please?” Meaning, to whom do you wish to place the call? When the caller provided the info, we jammed a phone plug into the proper jack and rang up the number. We had to spin the hand crank to trigger the buzzer on the receiver’s end and wait for a response. When someone answered, we flicked a switch and freed the call so they could have their little chat. By the age of five, John and I were old hacks at the job.

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Brother BrokenGood morning Sunshine.I think it's time f...

 

 Brother Broken

Good morning Sunshine.I think it's time for you to meet the family.

Dad was a WWII vet. He had served in the Royal Canadian Navy. After the war, he pedalled a bicycle four hundred miles north of his parents’ home in Gravelbourg, Saskatchewan. He bought land and started a farm.

Dad caught the eye of my mom with his drop-dead good looks. She was the cute little farm girl whose family lived nearby. She stole his heart, and they married in 1949.

Marguerite and Jean were their names, but most people called them Margaret and John, the Anglicized version of their French names. They were French-Canadian Catholics, expected to populate with more French Catholics, so they started une famille.

Their first-born was my sister, Pauly. After Pauly came Rod, Denis, John, me, Mitch, and Gus. Two parents, seven kids. My family calls me “Céc,” which sounds like “pace,” not “peace.”

Photo taken at John's funeral May 1990: Front row l to r, Pauline (Pauly), Mom, Dad, me (Céc) , with John's photo between Mom and Dad.Back row l to r, Mitch, Gerard (Gus), Roger (Rod), Denis
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