I am an anglophone by birth, a francophone by renaissance. I am sure that I felt the presence of God at both events, but the renaissance, ten years ago, is easier for me to remember. It happened so unexpectedly, as the night was overtaking the blue dusk of winter in Québec . The French have a better word.
is throbbing with potential, like a corpuscle, as though there is a circulatory system of sunlight, as though in that violet half-light magic is possible.
The ride there, on the bus, with the children's soft conversations dulled by the white noise of engine, of wipers. Rivière des loups, said the sign. Outside, the snow was glowing and almost phosphorescent, the bare branches black, the evergreens a dusky fringe. I remember our guide teasing me about seeing a moose beside the road. Then, a bit later, we were lost. He got out to make a call from the tiny store. Tring Jonction?
When we were finally welcomed inside, I recognized the interior in the same mysterious way that we see strangers who are somehow very familiar. I had told a story about a cabin in Québec to teach my students in Virginia the basic spelling of masculine and feminine adjectives in French. I had made up this cabin, a man named Jean and a woman named Jeanne; I had described their traditional clothing, the ceinture fléchée, the jupe. It was after a seminar on Using Story to Introduce Concepts. I remember the snow was halfway up the windows of the huge cabin and I had never been in snow that deep, where half the window is white, the top half black. It was a sort of northern version of the yin and yang symbol. And now, here was the female character I'd told my students a pretend story about, offering me an appératif. She introduced herself as Jeanne, and I felt reality melt away!
In the center of the space was a huge, square, open fireplace of stone, with a sort of chimney hood. A large fire was crackling, beckoning us to warm our hands, as our tables were being prepared. To the left was a small performance area for musicians, with a bench across the front where one could sit to listen up close. The walls were decorated with hunting trophies, not at all my style, but perfect for this place. Why was it so surprising to hear French with the scents of maple syrup and woodsmoke?
Then, the music began. How can one remember music one has never before heard? My entire body thrilled to the sound of the violin. I felt lifted up, happy, with the urge to tap my feet. It was uncontainable--I went up front with some of my students and danced, jigged, can-canned, duck-danced for joy! They invited us to sit on the bench and mark the rhythm with special wooden spoons joined at one end. My kids were loving it!
We took a pause to enjoy our supper of pancakes, maple syrup, omelette, bacon, apple sauce, tourtière, cider, oreilles de 'Chris, home fry style potatoes, with coffee and maple tart for dessert. Throughout the meal, Gilles Perrault played slightly softer, gentler folk songs. I had never felt so totally at home anywhere. I could feel the blush of happiness on my face. I told a chaperone that I couldn't explain it: this music was in my veins. I truly felt that it was an internal dance that finally, at age 43, had been called to life by resonance with the fiddle, guitar and accordeon music played in that cedar cabin. Here I was, in a place I'd never been before, in the middle of Québec, hearing music I'd never heard before, but I KNEW it, I recognized it, I loved it.
What was it? The French joie-de-vivre, the combination of Normandy and Maine and winter that would be my own version of Maria's "Favorite Things" in the Sound of Music? After dinner, the group dancing began. There were reels. At first, I watched the children try it, then, I couldn't resist. The light in the room seemed rosy and soft. The guide and I were partners in a reel where we faced one another. He was wearing a light blue, pale denim sort of shirt and dark pants. I was in a black turtleneck and pants, wearing my hiking boots from earlier in the day. The only "dressy" thing I'd brought was a pale yellow kerchief-type scarf that I'd tied around my neck. We'd just about finished a four-day trip, very successfully, me flying with my young 4th-6th graders from Virginia, busing from Montréal to Québec city, dog-sledding, skiing, visiting museums, and all of us were in one piece. It could have been that flush of success, that relief--a kind of bonding with the man who'd been so instrumental in making it happen well. Or, perhaps, it was a true "naissance" of the gosling type, where, there in the midst of my new world, I imprinted on this wonderful man. I don't know. And now, ten years later, writing these words, I get a certain sad feeling in my throat. I blush. I feel shaky and still confused.
This is what I recall: The dance had simple steps, a "heel-toe, heel-toe, slide, slide, slide" with the caller keeping everyone laughing and enthused. I felt sure that I had done this before, long ago. It seemed so natural. We were asked to greet our partners; I remember saluting him, and laughing. And then I looked at his face--our eyes met. He saw me. And it was the real me. The me that I was at age two, at eight, nine, thirteen, 30, and now, 43. The one me.
There was a spark at that moment. I knew I would never be exactly the way I was before, even if all things remained outwardly the same. I would forever after be trying to get back to this country.
I want to ask him, "Does it always happen this way?" Does every tourist/teacher you work with, then dedicate the rest of her life to her love for French Canada? Do they move north, get an advanced degree in French? Do they go to Montréal every chance they get, read the entire Chroniques du Plateau Mont-Royal in one summer? Do they spend six hours when they get back home, writing a letter to try to explain, to thank, to connect with you in your own language (checking for agreement, for tense, for proper conjugation, for content--I love you, but I can't be in love with you? I'm married, he's amazing; here are my three beautiful children. Come visit sometime, we're only 800 miles away--but it would be so fantastic to see you again!)
It came to an end, after making la tire, the maple syrup poured on fresh snow, transformed into a luscious taffy candy, so sweet, so brown-sugary, the laughing, sticky-smiled group, pulling on mittens, retrieving the coats. Pierre Fauché himself, the creator of the Cabane that bears his name, helped us to board the bus. He had an impressive grey-white beard, and a little Norwegian elkhound that matched it. I remember they both actually got on the bus to wish us farewell. He told me that he would never forget me. It was March 1st, the year two thousand. In Québec we were in deep winter.
The next day, we returned to our beautiful rural corner of northern Virginia. It was 70 degrees. I felt as light as a kite, confident, filled with a new awareness of everything around me, a new determination to perfect my French, and for the first time, I hated daffodils.
