Sorry about the hiccup in

June 27, 2002

Sorry about the hiccup in transmissions but campgrounds don't have modems. Bugs they have. We've made it to the Atlantic. 12,000kilometres on the odometer so far and its off to Newfoundland in the morning. This is waht I wrote the last time I had a chance. It was a few days back in Quebec. Seen the tides of Fundy and have wound our way up Cape Breton since. Let's go back in time...

Bonfires. Bonfires sound like applause. More people, more fuel. St. Etienne Quebec in a twenty acre field, in a campground, as the sun goes down. The night before Saint Jean Baptiste day. La Fete Nationale de Quebec. The master of the property rides around regally on a well worn red quad ATV pointing new arrivals to their appointed campsites...shirtless, full beer gut, canvas shorts, over tanned, silver hair and moustache over a broad smile. Families file in past the regulars, with their well equipped and firmly entrenched 5th wheel camper trailers, to this open field. Around the field’s perimeter are the few tents. Ours is the slightly bent blue number with the wary tarp stretched overhead between the quintet of bug rich birches. An almost full moon, waiting only for it’s last quarter, is already visible and having some effect on the lighting. In the centre of the the ring is a massive pile of everything that could possibly be burned. It looks like a year’s worth of wood pile rummaging by every farmer in the surrounds has contributed to this ominous heap. Half dismantled picnic tables, garden ties, broad branches, planks, boards, broken siding, planter boxes and hockey sticks. Its at least fifteen feet high and thirty feet in diameter. A potential energy that breeds anticipation. My broken but well intended french has certainly yielded no answers as to the origins of St. Jean Baptiste day save for the fact that it was a religious holiday that has been adopted by Quebec as a “national” celebration. New France was never lost. Time to drink and celebrate family and community. The little long blonde haired boy called St. Jean Baptiste presides over the revelry.

We have spent the day and the night before exploring Quebec City -- before tourist season and without the icy winds and snow. Perfect. Its more than a history lesson. Its a touchstone for all who lack a through line to ground them. Its more french than France. Want to hang out the window of three hundred year old cafe with your glass of wine to the strains of accordion and fiddle but haven’t got a valid passport? There are two places to wander. Space and time. Here you get the added dimension of time in two directions.
Our two eldest are bilingual by nurture not nature. We are part of the “created” Canadian culture. Without this trip we are almost hypocrites. We can describe a reality where their school lives come full circle but unless we connect the ends we are just wasting their time. Math would be so much easier in english. There is no way for us to know whether our intentions will germinate into poetry. We’re taking a 20,000 kilometre chance on this. Can we prove that language is not the issue that separates anyone from anyone else?

Back to the campground. We arrive back to our Coleman and boil and fry some things to shove in our faces as we watch the rabble set up their folding chairs in points on the circle around the wooden mound. The little girls in the family next door are selling beaded necklaces that they’ve made and our kids are curious.

Then it all happens. The circle is completed. My kids walk up to the picnic table where they’ve set up shop and begin to speak. French. Within three minutes they are running with the pack. Off they go with those gangs of kids you see running in campsites as if on a very conspicuous spy mission. A few on bicycles. “Doubling” in that very vintage...possibly rural...way. One pedaling, one on the handlebars, one on the seat. Giggling. Chased by the new puppy who bites sometimes. The surrounding parents follow quickly over to our campsite to say the franglais hellos they’ve been waiting to say for two days. It took the kids to make it easier for us all. We all fold slowly into one big smiling, sickening sweet poster and move toward the front of the circle as the twilight turns to moonlight. One anglo family of great cultural privilege and a community getting together for a big toast.
Something that sounds suspiciously like vintage Santana played by a hack bar band bursts from the 70’s era PA system packed into the mini van on the far side of the field. Sidebar: franco rock does include some horrific clichés and a lot of Kris Kristofferson “Star is Born” type singers but I am enjoying it now. The king of the campsite, still shirtless in the cooler air, pours a shiteload of gas on the far side of the mound and then finishes with a fifteen foot trail of fuel leading away. Someone lights the end of the trail and the line of fire moves quickly toward the pile. Fooom. A third of the pile lights instantly and the clapping and music blend with the rumble and crackle of high flame.
As the evening matures the fire grows to epic proportions. The point of the flame seems to lick at the belly of the moon. Never seen a bonfire like that. If you think your fireplace has a soothing effect ...this is positively mesmerizing. The power of the fire keeps the drinkers in check. I’ve been told only a few have ever dived in. Dancing is everywhere. I’ve never heard the songs but I know they’re striking a sentimental chord. The revelers are singing all the words and this is what I think is making them glassy eyed and tactile. After spending my day with the more tragic stories and evidence of the “seven years war” I feel the suffering could be over soon.
My youngest son’s newest friend announces “le buffet arrive” and pulls on the hem of my shirt. I look over to the far side of the field and notice the folding tables and the barbecues. Tradition says that hot dogs and toast shall be provided for all. A drinker’s nirvana. I wouldn’t have expected the toast but I can see how all these food groups combine in a wonderful way.
As the bonfire begins to suck down to its glowing embers the circle grows tighter for warmth. The community grows tighter. Metaphor for everything. The musical selections grow increasingly more traditional and rootsy as the night edges on. Our kids get tired and finally come back to us. We sit and stare into the smokey liquid orange. As we give into fatigue we decide to walk across the moonlit gray- green grass to the tent. Looking up at the stars I notice strange jet trails across the night sky. Instead of across from horizon to horizon they arc upward into oblivion and cross themselves way up in the stratosphere. I can’t figure them out until I see that one of the trails begins at our bonfire and stretches up in a massive column as far as perspective will allow. Tonight’s good moonlight is giving away their secret. All the bonfires from the surrounding farms and villages are meeting quietly in the sky. An anonymous confederation of afterglow.
Our country is true. It actually works. We think the best parts only exist in our imaginations, intentions, and in brochures. Thinkers and city folk have wrecked it all. This can be laughed off. Hard feelings aren’t hard enough. All the lines connect. Just start a big bonfire.

Now we’re in P.E.I after braving that Confederation Bridge in high winds..at night. Take a look at the specs of that bridge on the internet. Maybe even a picture. Imagine it at night with a 60 kph wind and rain. Terrifying. Mortality must be explored. Value added life. Last night was spent in the town of Sayabec Quebec with our new kin the Jean family. Natalie was part of our family for many months and we actually got to be with her folks in her ancestral home. Yet another raising of the bar as we were welcomed so warmly into another haven. A peak experience of the most organic kind. Hopefully I can constantly write such “feel good” issues of the journal.