Vindictive Brutalities

By Solange DeVane

A compelling story of seven children who suffered immensely in the paternal home. From birth until they moved away, abuse leaped endlessly in their innocent lives. The girls endured even more painful experiences caused by their professed father. The story depicts vivid events endured over years of abusive behaviour that consequently left each child with perpetual scars. A poignant story, indeed!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Solange DeVane
• Release date: Nov 27, 2010
• ISBN: 9780986740619

Solange DeVane

Life

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Historians illustrated in its Canadian history of a North American, one of its settlements amid an earlier era, where it was at the mercy of the Aroostook War. The disagreement was over the boundary line dispute between United States of America (U.S.A.) and the British presence in North America. In 1839, President Morin VanBuren summonsed General Winfield Scott, including the New Brunswick Governor Harvey to the controversial area to ward off hostilities and plans for cease-fire amongst each other. In 1842, Britain agreed to a boundary commission through the Webster-Ashborton Treaty. Historians archived the sequence of the Treaty compromised by Daniel Webster and Alexander Baring, and first Baron Ashborton. Accordingly, the Treaty awarded 7,015 square miles to the U.S.A and 5,012 square miles to Great Britain. The Northern area of the British was assured unlimited overland access for military communiqué between Lower Canada by way of Halifax Nova Scotia’s roads. The dubious area on both sides of the region pertaining to the U.S.A. and Canada border was subsequently referred to as the Republic of Madawaska. The name Madawaska derived from the First Nation Madueskaks tribe who inhabited the entire Saint John River Valley initially from Grand Falls New Brunswick to Sept-Isles Québec. Nonetheless, the dispute of rights and ownership agreement was cordially drawn to a close. During the mid 1850, within a moderately colonized town of North America, originally known as Petit-Sault (Little Falls) emerged a settlement subsequently established and renamed Edmundston. Located northwest within the maritime province of New Brunswick was the town renamed after Sir Edmund Head, who was Lieutenant-Governor of New Brunswick from 1848 to 1854 and Governor-General of Canada from 1854 to 1861. Furthermore, the Canadian government began a precise statistical count of its citizens beginning in 1908, recording each birth, marriage, and death of each inhabitant. Subsequently, statistics record keeping were kept in an immaculate order, stating the populace and its diversity of citizens within all regions. The computation of such statistics continued to this day as it is of vital importance to maintain the economic growth throughout Canada and the world. Canada Statistics reported in 2001 the population of Edmundston as 17,373 citizens, and the area covering Edmundston was 106.90 Km 2 in which 7,725 private dwellings where families reside. Surrounding communities such as St. Basile 705 citizens (within was Iroquois 135,) and Grand Falls, 5,585 citizens were part of this poignant story. Edmundston was composed of ninety-eight percent French citizens adorned by their American English speaking neighbor sighting the State of Maine, only a couple of miles south of Edmundston. Sixteen kilometers (ten miles) west from Edmundston comes into sight the Québec border merging collectively an elegant shuffle creating a mosaic of a fascinating blend.

A story of diverse mosaic cultural families occupied the city of Edmundston that was developing into industrial attractions. One such magnetism was the Mesobi Iron Ore deposits, today known as The Minnesota Retention by the British of the Northern area of the earlier year’s controversial region.

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LIFE AND TIME

In mid nineteen hundreds, amongst secular nuclear family units, unfolds the depiction of two families’ befuddled providence within a Canadian regional city. The problematic ghosts were set in motion, with an overtone portrayal of mystifying detection that captured indisputable connotation later in its liberation. In the city of Edmundston’s adjoining municipality within Saint Basile, New Brunswick where the two biological roots were to convene into their ominous awaiting destiny.

In due course, the history of my family emerges mainly from Saint Rose du Dégelé Québec, Edmundston and Saint Basile (Iroquois,) New Brunswick, and its surroundings municipalities. Initially, the legend chronicled two families who appeared enthralled in a typical domestic setting. On the surface, all seemed normal, although the look on the children’s faces told a dreadfully tale of events embedded in their vacant existence.

Seven years prior to their matrimonial union—one winter day, in 1941, barely into her teens, the young girl suffered an accident that rendered her into shocking perpetual tragedy. In a small rural countryside, near Saint Basile, New Brunswick, originated a subdivision, named Iroquois, which subsequently was renamed, in the colloquial speech of Raquoise, where the Bouchard’s family resided. In a big white house on a hill where a family of four living children inhabited with both parents who were in excellent health and what appeared to be a common family environment. Henri Bouchard employed as a woodsmen and his wife Gertrude Lagacé, a house wife. Gertrude Lagacé was thirteen years his senior, birthed six children during their marriage, of which two of their children did not survive due to ill health. The eldest of four living children were as follow: Alderic (a.k.a. Blanc), followed by Christine, Patrick (a.k.a. Tinoir,) and Florence, the youngest. The family lived reasonably comfortable in rural division of Iroquois. Within Iroquois was the family homestead, in which the house was located on a hillside, overlooking beautiful tree-lined view across the road from the Saint John River. The main Industry that supported many families was the famous Fraser Pulp Mill, which half of the population in the surrounding area were employed at different levels within the Company. Inhabitants from the surrounding area such as Saint Basile, Iroquois, and Edmundston from which became the chosen candidates who worked at the Mill for many years to come. Patrick Donat Bouchard, only fifteen years old, son of Henri and Gertrude Bouchard was such an employee at Fraser Mill in Edmundston.

During the same era, develop the chronicle of yet another family, Émile Moreau who was the third son of five siblings; he had two brothers; Aldélard was the eldest and a shoemaker in Sainte-Rose Du Dégelé. Two sisters were part of the family, Angéline and Ugénie. In another homestead within Ville Sainte Rose du Dégelé, resided Sémelda Dumont, daughter of Damase and Derilda Dumont and their eleven children. The eldest was Joseph who resided in Connecticut U.S.A. and Ludger who died in the war as a soldier, then their sister Sémelda, followed by Robert who all resided in Sainte Rose du Dégelé after they were married. Thomas and his wife resided in LeJeunne, Québec, and Léon in (dubbed) Brise Culotte Québec, Timoté in LeJeunne, and Albert in (dubbed) chemin neux, and Felix resided in les Étrois, and Noëlla in Edmundston New Brunswick, and the last child Isabelle who resided in Montreal after she married. Later in life, Melinna died, and Aldélard Moreau became a widower residing in Lévis Québec. The last Moreau sibling was Isabelle who married an Italian man late in life and they adopted a boy to complement their life with a child they could not biologically have. Isabelle was still living and in reasonable health at ripe age of one hundred years old as I write this book today.

In due course, Émile, already twenty-eight years old, met Sémelda who was twenty-four years old and after a lengthy romantic accustomed courtship, Émile and Sémelda married May 9, 1916 in the church of Ville Sainte Rose du Dégelé Québec. They settled within the area where they were born and started a family. Émile was employed as a woodsman to support his new family. Their three eldest, Imelda, Jeanette and Ludger were born in Ville Sainte Rose du Dégelé. Émile and Sémelda subsequently moved to Edmundston New Brunswick in light of better employment with less labor-intensive work. Émile was employed at the Fraser Pulp Mill in Madawaska Maine as a laborer for the famous Pulp Fraser Mill. Their home was located on the Canadian side of the border, just across the bridge in the neighborhood of the Fraser Pulp Mill in Edmundston. Both Fraser Paper Mills were incorporated under the same umbrella of business and were linked together for the production of paper. Émile and Sémelda continued with their family in Edmundston and added five more children; Cécile (died two months after she was born,) Hervé, Armand (died at the age of three,) Thérèse and Gertrude, who were all born in the city of Edmundston.

In the small house across from the bridge on left side of Victoria Street in Edmundston New Brunswick, resided the typical family of Émile and Sémelda Moreau who raised their six living children in a unique and sane environment. Sémelda took charge of the family while Émile worked and the Fraser Mill. Eventually, Émile left the Mill to find employment within the City of Edmundston. He was employed as a horse-keeper managing the welfare of the horses that were working within the city of Edmundston. During that era, horses were the power-driven force in front of any mobilized carriages and transportation of sorts. The city had such horses within the fire brigade. Horses were in-charge of pulling the immense water tanks to the fires. Archived photographs depict workhorses who pulled the water tanks to fires within the communities in 1923. One day, the designated driver of the horse-pulled water tanker, became eerily ill and never came back to work. Subsequently, Émile Moreau was asked to become the next driver of the horse team who pulled water tanks to fires. Émile eagerly accepted the position. With his new post came a higher income, therefore, it permitted the entire family to move in a bigger rented white house next to the then known, Alphonse Motorcycle shop on Victoria Street. This big white house with a large verandah was the Moreau’s home until all the children married and left home. Émile wanted to purchase that house, but it was not for sale. Thérèse was the seventh child of the family, a young woman barely into her adolescent tender years and found employment at a taxi stand as a telephone dispatcher. Afterward, she was employed as a hostess in a movie theater, earning an honest living. As fate would have it, on a sunny afternoon, Thérèse was leisurely walking outside when she saw this young black-haired man, who was not watching where he was going while biking. He nearly broke every bone, per se, in his body while biking along, as he noticed this young pretty woman Thérèse walking by. The young man, Patrick, while biking, locked his eyes onto the young woman’s nicely shaped legs, and then came into abrupt contact with a parked car along side of the street. Patrick flew over the car while looking to land somewhere safe, but to no avail. He was badly bruised, but did not suffer serious injuries. The meeting of the two destined individuals, Thérèse and Patrick were both marked by a fall of their own twist of fate. Thérèse and Patrick eventually united into marriage, June 7 1948. Thérèse Moreau, twenty-one years old married Patrick Bouchard who was twenty-three years old. Ultimately, the two families, the Bouchard and Moreau, fused together by the matrimonial union of their children. Thérèse and Patrick, and their parents, Émile and Sémelda Moreau and Henri and Gertrude Bouchard became a family unit.

Initially, both families merged relatives from places such as Edmundston and Iroquois, and Saint Joseph, New Brunswick, and Sainte Rose du Dégelé, Rivière du Loup, Sept Isle and Sainte Anne de Beau Pré Québec, and Madawaska Waterville, and Portland Maine. There were also relatives by marriage in the Irish ethnic group, as well as predominant Iroquois Aboriginals within our family. In my family, on the maternal side of the French-speaking people in Edmundston of Madawaska County merge descendants originating from Normandie France, who in 1665 established roots in the province of Québec (dubbed little France.) Various French-speaking citizens within Edmundston were part of a blended minority composed of a number of Acadians.

The further easterly the French citizens within the province of New Brunswick, the more Acadian they originated.

Furthermore, Edmundston was a renowned area for skiers for locals and abroad enthusiasts. Sportive skiers’ demonstrated eagerness to tackle the daring and nicely sculptured ski-hills, sited west of Edmundston, just at the edge of the city limit. The name of this charming nineteen-trail mountain reveals an idiomatic derived from its original name. English speaking tourists knew its name to be Mount Far Line, which French-speaking citizens massacred its pronunciation by saying with a thick accent Mont Farlagne. Ironically, the slang and its reshaped words of the resort were to stay. Another popular industry employing many citizens was the legendary Fraser Pulp & Paper Mill paired with the Fraser Mill in Madawaska Maine across the Saint John River adjacent to Edmundston. The Pulp Mills joined its application in paper production from inception and process from the very wood gathered mainly from the province and its neighbor’s land. Over time, Fraser Mill engineered a pipeline to carry the liquefied raw pulp to the neighboring Madawaska Fraser Mill. The Edmundston-Madawaska Maine Mills were the only facilities in the world with this installation of such ecologically friendly transportation along the Canada and United States border. Fraser Pulp & Paper Mill grew to three thousand seven hundred employees in North America.

Over time, Edmundston evolved into many discoveries and development of social activities. One such popular activity was a francophone festival named La Foire (vernacular for Party) Brayonne for the dynamic cultural diversity of Edmundston and neighboring area. La Foire Brayonne was created from inception in 1979 and still is a popular Foire to this day. The five-day celebrations are divided in a three-tiered activity among concerts of signers. It as well included artistic cultural revealing of their unique talents, as well as competitive sportive events brought to the celebration. Members of the audience enjoyed a variety of dances, theatrical presentations, classical and jazz music entertainment. The well-known Foire attracted over 140, 0000 visitors taking part of the festival. Artisans welcomed an array of performers to the festively decorated thirty kiosks of artful articles. The festival takes place August 1st of each year. It is not reserved solely for locals, as many American neighbors from Maine enjoyed the celebrations amongst Canadians festivities. Ironically, I have never attended one single day of the Edmundston’s Foire Brayonne to this day.

A delicacy enjoyed by most locals are the famous ploye a pancake made with buckwheat flour that while being cooked resembles a close-up view of a cartooned moon, yellow in color and riddled with puffed-up little holes, collectively created by an ingredient baking powder within the mix. Anyone who was born within the city of Edmundston had eaten many ployes while growing up. I remember making those ployes by the dozen on top of a wood-stove for the family. Some people argued that the name Brayonne derives from the famous ploye eaters, while historians are not certain of its true origin. It is not something one would see on any menu in a restaurant, as the ploye was created during the war, where sugar and flour were strictly rationed. One other staple difficult to make was cake that needing the same wartime rationed ingredients. My paternal grandmother Mémère Gertrude created a really tasty cake made out of tomato soup as a substitute for the missing wartime rationed items.

In the household of Henri Bouchard was lurking a peculiar sinister emotion that would later on reveal its mystifying restlessness. Mémère (Grandmother) Gertrude Bouchard was a tall woman, with beautiful dominant features within her genes. Her features resembled that of the First Nations Iroquois’s tribe. These combined features came out softly elegant of her face, hence, a very attractive woman illuminated through her dark Indian-like complexion. Aside from her inherited physical features, Mémère carried a truly motherly role within her family. The kitchen was immense, with what seems like endless cupboards and tons of dishes. The walls were painted white, but with shinny paint, the lower parts of the walls were painted with the same shinny paint, but yellow. At the other end of the kitchen was a humongous wood-stove that Mémère used for cooking, and there were two rocking chairs in the far end of the kitchen. One rocking chair was in line with the stairs across from it, and in the same corner was a giant cactus long-leaf tree that seemed so tall to a young girl knee-high to a grasshopper, as it was memorizing to look at as a child. The front of the house was surrounded with a veranda covering the entire length of the house extending into an L shape that reached the other outside door at the end of the kitchen to the living room door facing the road. In the back of the house was a pantry where Mémère Gertrude would have homemade pies ready for us kids when we came to visit. There was also a variety of cookies placed in a porcelain barrel filled up to the wooden cover. I was always fascinated at the cannery equipment and items of foods all over the pantry. One day while standing on the wooden cover of the barrel, I became mesmerized by the appealing sight in the back of the house. Outside in the back yard, I could hear chirpings of some sort of group of birds and the occasional grumping of some large animal. To my discovery, they were chickens stomping all over as if they were angry at one another. Later on, I saw this monstrous animal disgorging funny sounds; in bewilderment, I was told it was a horse, and all white! Pépère grandfather Henri) Bouchard occasionally made wine with freshly picked cherries from the trees in the back of the property. One day Pépère wanted to make us laugh and he deliberately gave the chickens the seeds from the bottom of an already fermented wine barrel. The chickens ate the seeds, and soon after, they began waltzing around like drunken fools, chirping, hiccupping, tripping over their own shadow and falling over each other. I was a small child of three years old, and I did not know that the chickens were inebriated, but the laughter was completely uncontrollable to see the chickens act as such. I was afraid of the white horse at first, as he seems so tall compared to little me, but his color fascinated me more than anything. I thought that he could have been part of angels because they were all white and so were rabbits, so where did this white horse come from? My fear of the horse’s height quickly disappeared after I fed it carrots and the horse wanted more, and I felt immediate closeness as my nature represents the categorical love of animals. Mémère loved to see us visit. The kitchen was always accessible for us children when we wanted to scatter curiously around for what seemed endless surprises. It was also a time and place where we would see our Uncle Blanc, Aunt Christine, and Aunt Florence. Uncle Blanc was always somewhat distant, but he loved children to be around to play children’s games. Aunt Christine was nice too, but we saw her mostly in her home with her husband, my Uncle Rino, and my cousins. I liked visiting there too. Aunt Florence, we did not see much of her in Pépère and Mémère’s house, but I knew that we had such an Aunt and later Uncle Harry. We were also happy to see Mémère’s father, Charles Lagacé, our great grandfather, they all played hide-and-seek with us. My most favorite Aunt was Florence whom I have known later in my life as we formed closer relationship when she babysat us from time to time. As for Pépère, I was always afraid of him.

Many times Mémère Bouchard took us berry picking of the season, in a field, and I was amazed at the gathering of such little things that tasted so good, but Mémère wanted to save some for a pie. She would never take it from us though; she just let us be. We did not go the grandparents’ house too many times, but when we did, we really like to stay longer so that we could play without mother’s constant yelling. However, after a time, all of the visits suddenly stopped. I never knew why then, but it stayed etched in my mind.

Emile Moreau eventually became a firefighter, beginning in 1935 until 1956 for the Edmundston Fire Brigade using horses to pull the water tanks to the fire. My grandfather drove those first trucks with pride. I remember seeing a photograph with Pépère Moreau on the driver’s side with his elbow showing through a hole in the sleeve of the sweater. Together, Émile and Sémelda raised their six living children in a normal loving atmosphere. Two more of their children were deceased due to illnesses during the times of rampant diseases and lack of appropriate hospital. Émile was a quiet stern man, conservative and to the point. He never caused any grief to his family other than an occasional once-per-year gin day bash. His health deteriorated over the years, as he was a man with a tall frame and weighing well over three hundred pounds. His wife’s good cooking did add on to the predisposed genes over time. Sémelda, a devoted wife and mother who was a soft-spoken woman, raised the children in a Catholic environment, as they both had known from their own parents. Tradition was very much family oriented during those times. As children were growing up, they were attending school, and during that period, there were no transportation from and to school.

When I was a child of perhaps five or six years old, Mémère Moreau often told me small pieces of events of her daughter’s persona, saying that when Thérèse was in her early teens, her character used to be so soft, kind, and considerate and even-tempered. Mémère said that Thérèse had an accident when she was fourteen years old and that it changed her character forever. Nevertheless, Mémère never elaborated any further, and I never understood why she was saying such kind things about her daughter without elaborating further into the story telling. During researching for information with reference to my family, I stumbled upon information that awakened an old subdued memory that resurfaced immediately. I finally put together what Mémère was saying; it finally explained the disposition of Thérèse before and after the age of fourteen years old.

A well kept secret that nobody told us; Thérèse, then fourteen years of age and at the beginning of a long winter, suffered an unforeseen accident that rendered her totally incapacitated. While walking home from school one day, she was chased by a classmate and Thérèse fell and hit her head on the corner of a cement block that held a stop-sign. Her life at is was, changed forever from that point on. She was suffering brain trauma that would cause her to have convulsions twenty-four hours a day for the entire winter season. She was in excruciating pain, all-day, all-night, all-winter long, while her head and body were convulsing in agonizing tremors and kept her trapped in bed. The head tremors were so severe that her siblings had to take turns to care for her so that she would not fall out of bed as the tremors were so violent that she could have spun her out of bed and exacerbate her injury. Doctors were unable to treat her injury beyond trying to numb the pain in some way until it subsided. Thérèse was forced to stay in her bed until such time should she get better. No one was aware of the serious harm that had occurred within her head, and consequently what was to follow, was indeed shocking. Thérèse had injured the frontal lobe cerebral cortex of her head during the fall. The painful episodes of the accidental fall included violent shaking the brains from one side to another with wild electrical impulses rendering her incapacitated. The frontal lobe was the section of the brain matter that contains motor functions of all human emotions that were subsequently altered under such pressure as Thérèse was subjected to endure through the illness that she suffered. Nevertheless, the agonizing twenty-four unrelenting violent body shaking during the unbearable months of that winter of 1941 rendered Thérèse’s eventual shaking beyond consciousness. There was a French term used to describe this incident, they called it dance de sangay. Massive electrical activities of brain neurons malfunctions caused the infirmity to develop into irreparable perpetual repercussion from that point on in her life. The other siblings went to school at the Academy Conway in Edmundston that was located directly on the other side of the bridge from their homestead. Thérèse was doomed to stay home convalescing in the care of her mother. Thérèse never returned to school as she was still experiencing periodical remnants of the illness. Sémelda and Émile did not know what to do to help her, and the doctors were unable to administer any medicine to cure Thérèse’s unrelenting illness. Her mother tried all avenues to try to alleviate the pain that her daughter suffered. My aunt Gertrude told me that their Mother Sémelda subsequently found this man whom they like to call the seventh of the family, meaning that Thérèse was the seventh child, therefore, she was a candidate for spiritual healing-like man to administer his inner depth of healing and to restore the health of a person with his magic ceremonious curatives phenomenon. Sadly, the unconvincing attempt failed to help Thérèse! Medical doctors were skeptical that she might not survive the illness in the long run. Toward the end of the long winter, Thérèse was eventually rendered comatose from the numerous violent shaking within her brain. Later during the end of a specific week, the youngest sister (my aunt Gertrude) went to the convent to get the mail, and a nun approached her to talk to her. She gave Gertrude a Catholic medallion that represented help to heal Thérèse so that she would come out of the coma. The nun instructed Gertrude to place the medallion on Thérèse’s body to protect her from further harm. Ultimately, one specific day, toward the end of the winter, all siblings were called from school to come and see Thérèse before she left this earth as she was convulsing erratically more than usual. Lo and behold, by no other means of a miracle, Thérèse suddenly came out of the comatose state as if the continuous violent shaking and head injury never existed. One of her sister said that she was really upset at that, because they were sent back to school to finish the day; it was said in good humor. That was exactly what Mémère was telling me when I was a child; it all came together after finding out many other bits and pieces of the puzzle that pieced together that unforeseen day of the accident that Thérèse suffered. Thérèse never was the same person since the illness of winter in 1941. The next series of events were to follow her for the remainder of her life with the most devastating results, unbeknown to all people that would cross her path thereafter. Thérèse grew deeper into aggressive behavior and mean treatment of her siblings, bad-tempered, not to mention complete alteration of her personality that has changed her forever. She had always experienced outbursts of uncontrollable temper, and frequent migraine headaches, and various ghostly-associated facts due to this head injury. Thérèse’s perpetual ruthless injury has left her erratically emotion-altered and deprived of normal function for a lifetime. Consequently, her parents became overprotective of their daughter Thérèse and excused every eruption of her permanent behavioral changes. During her up-bringing and after the incidental accident, Thérèse was always excused by her parents should she become extremely angry. Her mother would say to the irritated sibling, She is sick, very sick; we should not agitate her too much. Her siblings were irate at always hearing the same excuses while they were reprimanded should they misbehave. Thérèse had evidently become a spoiled child and got away with every outburst until she moved out of the family home to marry. All that Sémelda wanted was for all of us to have a normal family, and hoped that with time the injury would eventually rectify itself. There was more than that issue brewing, which plagued our family. Yet another culprit was adding to our already wretched family as it unfolded into further mayhem.

Without a doubt, Thérèse and all of her siblings came from a good family, with instilled proper values and perceptions of life as a whole during their upbringing. Evidently, both parents were loving and attentive to their children. Furthermore, no violence or abuse of any kind ever existed within the family. Émile and Sémelda began their lives, poor, like so many other Canadian families, and did the best they could with what they had. Émile Moreau, a mild man with a big laugh who cared greatly for his wife and children, and was a devoted man to his family as he had learned outstanding importance of family unification from his own parents.

Grandfather had a flair with wood building and in 1947, he single handedly built a log cottage with wood that he had harvested and subsequently let dry in just the right time to shed the bark off the trees as if it were a banana peels. The cupboards inside the cottage were made out of branches with the bark peeled off, and he also built chairs with the same style using smaller twigs. Mémère made the cushions for the chairs that were painted blue with the same paint used on the outside of the cottage. There was a big tall stove placed in the middle of the cottage to heat the entire cottage and subsequently used to cook meals. The entrance to the cottage was not directly from the main highway within Sainte Rose Du Dégelé; therefore, Pépère created the driveway through the trees on the property and was just wide enough for the car to come close into the property. The driveway looked as if we took a drive through the forest; I always liked that particular part of the property. The famous log-cottage still stands today in Ville Sainte Rose Du Dégelé Québec still looking as if was yesterday’s memory. The owners kept painting the cottage with the same original color that Pépère had in 1947. I hold fond memories of the time spent at the cottage with my Pépère and Mémère. This was where I had learnt the love of fishing, as Pépère would take me fishing in the green canoe on the river next to the cottage, while Mémère would subsequently prepare food from our catch of the day. I was only two years old when I was taken to the cottage with Pépère and Mémère.

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NARATED BACK FROM TWO YEARS OLD

The farthest memories that I can clearly remember the history of our family began when I was two years old with scattered details of my siblings’ horrific experiences. Our family began living on the Thirty-Ninth Avenue until I was four years old. Afterward, we all moved to a new residence on eighteen Cyr Street—Roland was five years old, Murielle was three, and I was four years old. I recollect a few bits and pieces of memories resurfacing from that era. One such anecdote; I remember mother sitting on the verandah one sunny afternoon, when she decided to go for a walk, as she passed by the last house on that street. Just before crossing the street, this man yelled to her what nice legs you have with those shorts on, you should wear them more often. Startled, she stopped for a moment, and realized that this man was blind, and they both began laughing. Mother’s attention-seeking way from men was important to her as feeling respected and teased for her complementing physical features. Mother did not have friends, per se, after she married. Mother finally befriended the people at the other end of Cyr Street. Her name was Mrs. Gabouri, a widow who lived alone in her house. The inside of her house was in shambles with endless knickknacks. It seemed that the kitchen did not have one single space to put a glass as it was occupied with some sort of memorable ornaments. The walls were the same; you could hardly see that paint on the wall as it was covered with some picture or ornaments of sort. However, no one cared; mother had a friend to converse with, for a change. Mother also had the neighbor next door to Mrs. Gabouri to baby-sit us while they ran errands. Mrs. Gabouri was a kind woman, with a soft heart and a soothing low voice. Mrs. Gabouri’s neighbor children were pleasant and kind and played with us. We did not feel the stress for being a child around them, as we were not yelled at to quiet down or struck for no reason. I remember that Mrs. Gabouri’s property was sitting at the very edge of a steep downward hill, overlooking the train tracks, and in plain view north of the tracts was the Fraser Mill that we could see in amazement. Inquisitive me had to explore the surroundings more closely. Without a thought of reprisal I began to descend the steep hill when I heard one loud howling from mother ordering me to come up or else. The or else was sufficient enough to stop me from my insatiable curiosity from advancing any further. I was not allowed to go down because it was too dangerous, but in my stupefied curious mind, I wanted to see how far this train track went. I was adamant to attempt to find out later after mother was not in view of my plans to feed my unrelenting inquisitiveness. Mother’s strong hold did not deter me to abandon prying my curiosity of the train tracks. I had to see, and one day I succeeded to go down to the tracks and I could see the tracks disappearing into what seamed to no end in sight. Boy, was that ever an amazing sight, I thought. My insatiable inquisitiveness of knowing everything was only to tip of the iceberg that would get me in hot water all through my life. Climbing down that hill was yet another inspiration that I had to concoct to plan so to achieve my insatiable curiosity to know, how and why it was there in order to get back home before mother would notice that I had gone down the hill. Nevertheless, the dirt all over my hands and knees from climbing earned me one hell of a beating for the unrelenting disobedient behavior that I had dared, regardless. I had absolutely no interest in dressing up a doll, or finding a best friend to play with, or just play with friends or my siblings. Unquenchable curiosity earned me many beatings, but I could not help it, my nature was strong to find out everything. As much as mother stifled every part of me, I could not refrain from being curious and acting upon it. However, if an animal required my attention, I dropped everything to attend. Creativity and innovative paths were instinctive from the day I was born as I flew out of there to take my place in this world, eager to learn and invent. My brother Roland and I had very similar ideas when it came to deciphering something or inventing a solution into spontaneous results of just about anything, we saw. It caused problems at times for having simultaneous twined minded curiosity. However, we either, concluded the project together, or we invented our own technique differently, with the same results. Poor Murielle just tagged along trying to participate as she watched eagerly! As an unspoken rule these fascinating projects were never tackled in mother’s presence, we always waited until she was either sleeping or out for the day. We were always aware of mother’s domineering character, and we did not want to fuel her temper to flare for any reasons, thus, we kept our inventions to ourselves.

We lived on Cyr Street until I was six years old. Our maternal grandparents purchased the residence at fourteen Ouellette Street. All of the Moreau’s other children were married and they all had their own house. However, the Bouchard’s did not own just yet. It was questioned as to why we not had a house; Patrick was working at Fraser Mill, made a reasonable salary, and was not an alcohol dependant. However, we were not dirt poor. Nonetheless, our grandparents Moreau bought the house, and they moved in the upstairs of the house, and we moved in the downstairs of that house. We, the Bouchard family paid rent to our grandparents, for the sum of thirty-two dollars per month, which most times it was given back to mother so that she could purchase items for the children. Our parents did not have many friends to visit, nor did the Aunts and Uncles visit much after a while. It was difficult to have a descent conversation with mother at most times. I do not blame Thérèse siblings to have stayed away from their sister who had caused them so much grief during their childhood years. Although, it was apparent that Aunt Jeanette and Aunt Gertrude seemed to be closest to Thérèse, regardless of the difficulties encountered over the years. I remember seeing my cousins very sporadically, but no one ever played with us in our house because they never stayed long enough nor did they visit enough to get know them. The house was always empty of visitors, and all we had was each other.

I hold the dearest and warmhearted memories of Mémère Moreau who was exceptionally soft in her every demeanor. Grandparents Moreau were my godparents, thus forming a special bond from the day of my birth. Pépère and Mémère were equally exceptional grandparents to all of us children. One such time, I was outside with Roland and Murielle while living on Ouellette street, and Pépère just finished washing the 1939 Cadillac and told us not to touch it because is was freshly shined. Of course, us being children and not fearing Pépère, as he was kind to us always, Roland dared to go touch the car, and Pépère yelled at him to get away from the car. Little me thought that I would be daring, and test my status by touching the car, not only once but several times with my index finger, and Pépère said very softly while laughing, do not touch the car dear. I snickered, and my nose went way up in the air as if to say, See I can touch it and you can’t. Roland did not like that very much.

When Pépère came home from work one day, I happened to be upstairs to their home at the time and I thought I would hide behind, what looked to me to be this giant green leather chest. I had his fireman’s uniformed hat on my head, trying to hide, so that he could look for me. But I did not realized that I was so small, and that this green chest was a normal size and his hat was so big on my head that each time I moved he could see this hat bopping around all over the place. Still, he would pretend to look for me and as if he could not find me, and that made me laughed even more by trying to keep quiet. However, when he caught me, he would tickle me until I would cry of laughter. Pépère was a big man, he suffered his first stroke a few years back, and as result, his left arm became partially paralyzed. Mémère would have to shave him, and take care of him in that manner. However, Pépère was not immobile; he could work and build things with wood as he did with the cottage. Their house had a nice back yard; the property was quite a size, and was the last street on Victoria Street with the golf course in every ones back yard on Ouellette Street. Pépère decided to build a large verandah encased with windows all around, and he added a clothesline from the verandah that stretch for well over fifty feet long for Mémère to hang the freshly washed clothes. One time, I was upstairs having breakfast with Mémère while Pépère was working on the verandah hammering away, and he came in for a drink of water. He spoke to me for a short time, and he then said to Mémère where is my hammer? Well…I busted laughing, and he wondered why it was so funny to ask such a question. Mémère said, Émile, it is in your left hand, and he began to laugh too, because I could see the hammer in his hand, but he could not feel it due to paralysis he suffered a while back when he had a stroke. One other specific time, I was sick with a cold, and mother was in one of her long-winded enraged episode where no one came near the house and we were as quiet as a mouse. Still, my cold was not getting any better. I had not seen my grandparents for weeks. Mémère would never mingle in the downstairs marriage ever, so if she wanted to visit she always called first. Mémère ask mother to let me visit because she had not seen me for a while and mother agreed. I did not wait another second and went upstairs. I was missing their unconditional love and serenity of their unconditional love. I was savoring every moment until it was time for them to take with me back downstairs. Mother was still in her frenzy and I did not want to push my luck, so I stayed quiet. Lo and behold, the next day, my cold was gone as if it never were. Unconditional love was a strong magnetism that behaved through emotional and physical force of life as a whole. Grandparents Moreau, without a doubt also treated Roland and Murielle kindly, but it was apparent that I was being selected more times than the other two siblings to spend time with my grandparents.

At the age of sixty-eight, my Pépère died of a massive stroke. His departure abruptly ended my fatherly figure that had demonstrated unconditional love. When Pépère Moreau died, I was six years old. They have been in the new house at fourteen Ouellette Street for only a few months. Up to the day of his departure, we had an exceptional relationship and I missed him so much. Even though I was told of his death, I did not know the real meaning. To this very day, I can still vividly remember when Pépère Moreau was laid out in his casket at my Aunt Imelda and Uncle Alcide’s house, in a dark room which was their family room. As a child, I saw Pépère in a room and it was so dark, with only a few lit candles around. He was in this big brown box and I could only see him when I was standing on a chair in the kitchen across from where he was, but I could not touch him either. Mother picked me up for me to touch him as thought that he was sleeping. He was all dressed up in his Sunday best, and as I touched him and to my dismay, he felt cold, that really startled me. As per usual, I had to know how he got in there and why was he so cold and why was he sleeping so much. Mother put me back down. People were coming in that house all the time, as if this was a big party with the cousins, aunts and uncles all over the place, but I did not want to play with them. I wanted to find a way to make Pépère warm, and to wake him up somehow and get him out of this fancy brown box and put him in his bed if he was so tired. When no one was looking, I began to crawl around underneath the wooden box and looked all over the sides of this brown box, and those stupid flowers at the end of the box made no sense at all. Pépère never moved, and that irritated me, he could at least wink or something, like he always had. Every time that I was back in the room where Pépère was, there was always someone taking me out of there to let the other people come in because the room was small. I kept sneaking back in and mother got mad at me for being adamant in going back into that room. However, I had to know why my idiotic plans were not working. I never had enough time to put them to a test. Perhaps he needed a blanket, no I was told he was fine the way he was. Maybe he was stuck in that box and his feet were too big to turn around. As I was trying to solve this dilemma, Mémère picked me up soothingly, and said ever so gently, how people die and that he was