Letters to a Daughter and Sons

Recollecting
the past is an anointing. It offers you an opportunity to reveal your life’s path and to compare it to the wishes you once had with dreams and grasping opportunity for success. These words I direct to my daughter and sons are to provide a little more information about their dad. In the hurly-burly of life, we can easily forget how a child’s personality was being developed, based on incidents in the past. This collection of seven, ten year periods in my life is dedicated to my wife, and my four children. You are all precious to me and I continue to need each of you in my life, to complete me.

1942-1952:
As I begin this journey, I am reminded how swiftly life can swish by. Like a log rolling in the river, unaware of what awaits around the bend. I was born in Rouyn, Quebec, a city of 30,000 on September 10th, 1942. It was later amalgamated with the adjacent town of Noranda, and now officially the city of Rouyn-Noranda, with a combined population of 40,000 Northerners, and situated 350 Kms. North-West of Montreal. We were surrounded by rock, hills and sparsely settled trees. Blueberries were in abundance. Any personal gardening only provided rocks. This is mining country.

Noranda Copper Mines held onto the Noranda landscape with its twin smoke stacks, and fronted by Osisko Lake, straddled by both municipalities. In those days wooden walks were predominant and it was fun thumping across its boards. Later we searched for coins hoping passer’s by had dropped some between the boards. I can’t remember finding anything beyond pencils. It was fun though being wheeled across the bumpy walk as I basked in my carriage, curly white hair fluffing in the wind. Yes, life is like a circle as I have since returned to my grey roots in my 71st year of life.

My dad---Adelard Donat Provencher, had signed up with the Royal Canadian Air Force, and he served two years in Longueil, Quebec, as well as seconded to work with RAF Bomber Command for two years in the Battle of Britain. He returned, mom said, a changed man with terrible memories. Mom took me and my oldest sister to live in bits of time with her parents in Hamilton, Ontario. It was my first outing from an isolated city to a much larger one---with paved roads, so many cars, escalators in stores, and the danger of crossing a street with mom almost crunching my tiny fingers.

Mom said I was a wandering child and lucky to have survived my early years. As an example; my tendency to explore brought me to the shore of Osisko Lake. I was enthralled by the sounds of aircraft – float planes at the landing dock. I loved the sound of Beavers and Otters, their propellers as music to my ears. I distinctly remember the back hairs on my head tingling, turned around and saw dad coming with a willow switch. To this day I am sure my bottom received a smack, but do not remember for sure. At the time we lived on Taschereau Avenue in Rouyn, a small apartment in the back of an apartment building and my fourth birthday is remembered. My first contact was with a stray and I remember to this day I was not kind to it. I dropped the cat off my balcony to see if it would land on its feet. It did, and I feel remorse to this day for my poor actions. Perhaps this is the reason I began to like cats so much.

Our back yard play area consisted of small, wood-slat privacy fences. On the west side of our home, was a tiny plot of land with a small creek cutting it in half. My best friends were the Hardy boys, whom I never saw again after my family moved to the other side of town. I was almost six at the time.

A friend Owen Connelly lived in his own home at the east end of the street. His brother Wayne became a hockey star in a professional league. I remember their family tradition of eating eggs. The most eaten at Easter was a feat to be proud of. Our budget was not so good, and I thought they were rich since they had so many eggs in their fridge. Eggs were a rare treat for us, besides our ice box was not very large.

After moving to the new Veteran’s Townsite in Rouyn, I was enrolled in Grade one in a nearby French school. Mom was English and Dad, French. But we only spoke English in the home. In fact we were one of forty French speaking WW 11 Veteran-father-families who married English speaking mothers. These ten four apartment homes were exclusively for returning veterans.

We were raised English in this enclave in a French speaking community. Myself and several friends were asked to leave the French Grade One school after about a week since we could not catch on quick enough to the French language. So we were enrolled in a French school which offered English classes, and I attended there for Grades one to three.

Moose Bay Beach was the place to go for a summer day. I still have that picture of our family back then. I was eight. Susan was not yet born. My very special dog Prince made his mark by getting into our lunch for the day, and ate most of the baloney before we tussled it away from him.. We lost the battle and there was no lunch that day. But the sun was bright, sand warm and beach wonderful, even though our tummies were almost empty. Good thing Prince hid in the bushes. He almost became a roast-doggie for our lunch.

Fishing with dad was one rare occasion I cherish. I was about seven, and without any rods, dad taught me how to fish. To tie the end of a line to a rock, then swing the carefully laid out monofilament around and around until our tied on spoon flew across the water. My knot untied and my spoon went kerplunk. Dad thought it was funny. Later, I laughed too.

I was nine at the cub camp, and introduced me to the world of the outdoors. Later in life, dad said, “You spend so much time in the woods, you’re going to turn into a tree.” My same-age, best friend at the time was Kenny Beauchamp, who died a horrible hit-and-run accident while visiting his parents in Florida, many years later. My favourite game at Cub camp was King of the Hill, and the larger boys tried throwing us in the direction of a hornet’s nest at the bottom.

When I was ten we visited Grandma and Grandpa Norris, 500 miles south in Hamilton, Ontario. It was a great trip, and I have a picture of dad and I holding hands on the veranda. A rare picture indeed, because in those days, men rarely showed public affection for their sons.

© 2013 Richard L. Provencher