La course au mariage

Georges-Étienne Giroux and Idéa Vallée, ma paternal grandparents

Je cours (I run, I race, I run away from misery, I run for freedom), I am also reading A Course in Miracles, and this month was the 85th anniversary of a historic event that took place in Québec and that my paternal grandparents were part of: La Course au Mariage (The Marriage Race). It was a La Bastille Day like no one for Georges-Étienne Giroux and Idéa Vallée. Men had until July 15th that year to leave singlehood and thereby avoiding the risk of being deployed to war.

My grandparents, then aged 25 and 22, were planning to marry the following month. But because of WWII, they had to switch gears on a short notice. No splurging wedding ceremony with all the guests, as they were allowed to have only one witness in the church, along with many other couples like them. A serial, factory-like type of wedding. Probably not what my grandmother, who had a romantic, ''blue flower'' side apparently, had envisioned...

In this picture above, top left, my great-grandparents, my paternal grandmother's parents, are standing: Ovilda Vallée and Marie-Anne Gosselin. And to the right, sitting in front of a boy, is my great-great-grandmother ! My aunt Marielle shared this picture, which I am seeing for the first time, today. It is moving to make my ancestors' acquaintance. I like looking at their serious faces, searching for clues about the past, about our life, about my destiny... and my children's, and their children's, if they choose to have some one day.

So I am writing this blog for my sons, to help them make sense of their own path. I hope to guide them by sharing the white pebbles of my ancestral past. I dedicate these lines to them, who carry the dreams and struggles and resilience of my ancestors, and also as a homage to my grandparents, the builders of life in my personal tale and the tale for the ones who came and those will continue to appear after me. It was created using a template (''I Am From'' poem) that Sandy, a resident I worked with during a narrative psychiatry track once shared with me, and that I have been using ever since as a writing prompt during some storytelling activities:

I am from the secret hiding space behind a door at the back of my closet where I played with dolls and where I had a chalkboard and taught my sister how to write, 

in my pink bedroom with a canopy bed, and its matching lampshade my parents had custom-made at Jacques Décorateur's,

from the Dairy Queen's dipped cones and the Cheez Whizz on celery branches.

I am from the beige-brick house with fake brown shutters overlooking the whole city that has an Algonquin name, 

with Alcan chimneys and the Christ-Roy church making me think it was Disney's castle

And from La Rocaille, my parents' multi-level landscaping pride next to our playground with a swing and gym set surrounded by a white fence.

I am from the épinette bleue taller than my godparents' house, whose majesty was as eternal as the love at the Grenier's.

I am from my grandmother's golden vinaigrette and my favorite banana seat bicycle my grand-papa  painted red just for me,

from Matteau and Vallée.

I am from hospitality and courage,

and from loud dignity and swear words like ''dried mustard'', 

from dancing at wedding receptions until dawn.

I am from Je vous salue Marie pleine de grâce and the Christmas choir at church,

I am from Clara and Glorianna,

from Idéa's dominos and Fleurette's wedding cakes,

from uncle Jean-Pierre who died as an infant, from my grandmother's miscarriages,

and from my grand-father trying to extinguish fire with his bare hands!

I am from a Kewpie doll that belonged to my sister who didn't even like dolls as much as I did and yet looked just like her.

I am from those moments, sorrows and joys and daydreams included, 

captured by the crabapple tree in front of my bay window on rue La Vérendrye, 

the weeping willow standing between our beige house and my grandparents' grey house, 

the giant blue spruce on rue de La Réserve, 

the cabbages and lettuces in my grand-maman's garden, 

and the gooseberries that I enjoyed tasting even when not ripe, 

maybe it was the green, green like my father's mother's wedding race dress, and now the green in your eyes, my dear son...

My paternal grandparents' home, where I spent countless hours
as a child, teenager and young adult
(Artist unknown)