A Long Way

Summer, once again, brings the tourists from the city to my parish. Not that they come to mass or anything, I have put a cross over that since the sixties and the seventies, but they have changed over the years. We have become some kind of a curiosity to them, almost as if this whole peninsula had been designated as a living museum. They come in their automobiles and take photos of my pretty church, sometimes of me planting flowers. Sometimes they talk, asking tourist questions like how old is the church (fifty-six), did I see the day the first train came by (I did not)? I wonder if one day they will replace us by actors, as in those Walt Disney parks in the States?

I open the doors of my little wooden church every morning at 7:00, as I have for the past forty years. I never missed a single day. Forty years ago I sang mass in Latin, knowing very well that none of my parishioners understood the language. Now that everybody understands everything we say, they have grown tired of it. Even my sermons have lost their passion, as I seem to be repeating the same every time. Monsieur Couture the fisherman, son of the fisherman by the same name, died yesterday; he leaves his wife and three grown children. The same children who have gone away to the cities and who never came back. Someone else baptized their children, out there. When I left for the seminary, in 1949, I expected to be back in this village and never need to leave it. I never needed to. But I’ve been thinking. Yes, this old mind of mine can still think.

Every day when the bus passes by, I wonder what is at the end of the line. In the summer when the tourists come I think I could ask them for a ride, not too far, just wherever they’re going. I would be like those beatniks who hitch rides from one unknown place to another! But I don’t look half as bad as the beatniks, and I could entertain the tourists with local stories. Here is the milkman’s house, which burned ten years ago. We let houses burn here, as there are no fire engines anywhere close. Then everyone from the village pitches in to rebuild the houses, more or less the same as they were. Someone unlucky could have his house burned twice, yes that did happen despite the fact that I have blessed every one of them.

Where did Jacques Cartier land and plant his cross in 1534? Nobody knows. Every butte on this peninsula has a cross on it, some as old as a hundred years! The big parishes even went to the effort of running electrical power up their hill to illuminate their cross! As far as I am concerned, Jacques Cartier landed in the harbor of Ste Thérèse, my very own parish, and planted his cross right where the road is now. That is why we have nothing left of the cross: nobody thought an old rotten cross had any value when they built the road there. It must still be there, six feet under, like the people in my cemetery.

Jacques Cartier… I wonder if he saw the sharks in the water, as I have seen them from my window. They swim left and right, agitated in the sunshine, looking for swimmers (I say that for the tourists, because they like to hear scary stories). I wonder if he found the wild strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries that grow all over the place. Some wild strawberry preserves would have made the perfect souvenir to bring back to the king of France, but instead he brought back the chief of the Hurons! Imagine the king’s face when Monsieur Cartier entered his chambers with a half-naked man! Euh, bonjour monsieur l’indien, avez-vous fait bon voyage?

Are you driving north? No? All the same, would you take me along? I would like to visit some old people’s house in Chandler. No? Oh, yes, I understand these modern cars are small, aren’t they? Thanks anyway.

Shall I go north, or south? The morning bus goes north and returns in the afternoon. “South” is really west, because if you take that bus, it will bring you as far as Rimouski, and from there you can connect with many other buses. From there you could even take the train, that train which no longer bothers to come here. The train we would all come to meet at the station, checking whose children were leaving, and what tourists were venturing to these parts. Back then, you could travel all the way to Vancouver with a single train ticket bought in this little station! Imagine! Father Vaillancourt from Ste-Thérèse-de-Gaspé on a train to Montreal, Winnipeg, and all the way across the Rocky mountains to Vancouver! Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow I will phone the Bishop and ask if he could refer me to the diocese there, so they could put me up for a night or two. Maybe the Bishop could tell them they could send one of their old priests here, to replace me while I’m away. I could send them a picture of my pretty church, overlooking the ocean, perhaps also a picture of the harbor and the fishing boats! I could tell them about wild strawberry preserves, and how you can take a walk around here to gather raspberries and blueberries! Yes, tomorrow I will call the Bishop, long distance but three minutes should be enough to make this humble request. Should I call at night, when it costs less? Should I send him a letter instead, using nice language to suggest that maybe I could leave, please, please, for once in fifty years? I have never asked him for anything, not even retirement for which I would be entitled, if only His Eminence could find a replacement for me. Perhaps my good parishioner Angela Marcotte could lead prayers in the church: my people have attended every one of my masses and funerals, and they could do without me for a week, or a month. Or longer?

It is quiet now, as the sun sets on my part of the country. My tourists and my sharks are retiring for the night. It’s time to close these doors.

October 23, 2002