THE PRANKS

One weekday, one of the aunts wearing a strong perfume drove over and asked me the date of my birthday. I told her "Next Sunday". On that Sunday I received a mountain of gifts that included a bright red bicycle to use while I was there. My birthday was to be the next January with my family hundreds of miles to the west of where I was. Not a chance for greedy me to get a gift bonanza like what came on that Sunday. A week later I was stalled at the bottom of a hill I could not climb with that bicycle. Worse I was too tired to pedal 16 miles back to grandma's house. Uncle Victor picked me up at sunset on his way to the police station to report a missing kid. And then they found out about the birthday scam. I had a bad week and the laughter grew louder. My grandma never whistled with big people around her.

Commentaires

Enregistrer un commentaire

Posts les plus consultés de ce blog

THE FARMHOUSE

I entered the farmhouse late afternoon tired and hungry, something grandma Clementine took care of for dessert with a fresh batch of “sucre à la crème”, something I would tentatively translate to "creamy sugar treats". My bedroom was on top of the kitchen, a see-through floor register allowing hot air and hot gossip to rise to my attention. I fell asleep hearing a lot of laughter downstairs, not realizing that I was probably the butt of some jokes, a skinny city nerd imported to use big farm machines and care for farm animals, helping out a supremely self-sufficient woman, their own mother. I woke up early with a ray of light and soft whistling coming from downstairs, seemingly blowing through the register the aroma of toasts and bacon. I soon found out that country bread was toasted right on top of the stove, and, more importantly, that my grandma was the best whistler ever. She spoke little, smiled a lot and whistled when she worked, which was pretty much all ...
Lire la suite

THE SUNDAY VISIT

That large white clapboard house on the hill had all kinds of secrets for me to explore, with distinctive smells in different parts according to content, cedar from grandma's bedroom wedding chest, apple and berries in the corner where preserves were made, lavender in bathrooms, powerful sea odors in the sunroom if cod was drying, not to forget that powerful creamy smell in the milk and butter room near the kitchen. The woodshed was a clear winner in long-lasting olfactive memories, but the barn and chicken coop not far behind. And then the house smelled wonderful on Sundays when her long table was set and big chunks of salmon, gleaming in assorted white bowls set next to other bowls containing steaming string beans and potatoes from her garden, flowers that she arranged while I spread a lot of fresh parsley and dill in little bunches in saucers. Before the guests even arrived, I always had a taste of that bread still hot with farm fresh butter on it. My mouth still w...
Lire la suite

UNCLE VICTOR'S FAMILY

The entire batch of uncle Victor's children now operates an engineering company that designs and build sewer and water treatment plants for several small towns across New Brunswick. However, first thing Monday morning, my grandma Clementine would start to whistle again. She would make a stew with the leftovers, often ordering me to 'le caveau' to get a cabbage or a turnip. A trap in the floor concealed by a small carpet was the access to that crawl space with bins on each side. I never heard her complain, but this was the only job she did not care to do, climbing down to that dark and dank earth floor where she also stored potatoes all year. I was mighty proud to be of help to her as I adored my grandma and could not do a lot of really useful work around the house. Just now I was thinking of one song I learned from her. My grand-nephews and grand-nieces have a pretty mighty ancestor. And I wrote this story mostly for them, Strider, Stella, Thomas, Alexander, a...
Lire la suite