Matins And Lauds

By Yves Patrick Beaulieu

----- CHEVEUX AU VENT DANS L'AUBE a biography of Colette Perron, my late mother. Born from her many little notes written over the years, the book tells about her childhood and her life in Nédélec, in Témiscamingue. From the beginning of colonization, in 1900, until her marriage in 1952, she said what she saw, in all simplicity

Note: I have provided, as a watercolorist, the work shown on the cover page and my brother Yves Patrick meanwhile, gathered mother's notes and wrote her story, now titled Matins & Lauds. May you enjoy this reading! Christine Beaulieu Germain 

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Jan 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667424996

Book preview

Matins And Lauds

Yves Patrick Beaulieu

––––––––

Translated by Saleem Rustom 

Matins And Lauds

Written By Yves Patrick Beaulieu

Copyright © 2022 Yves Patrick Beaulieu

All rights reserved

Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.

www.babelcube.com

Translated by Saleem Rustom

Babelcube Books and Babelcube are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.

MATINS

AND LAUDS

A story of

COLETTE PERRON BEAULIEU

YVES PATRICK BEAULIEU

CHRISTINE BEAULIEU GERMAIN

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

...................................................8

FIRST PART .......................................13

SECOND PART.....................................62

PART THREE.....................................142

PART FOUR......................................177

1.   

  FOREWORD

« She is small, she loves small things... she did great things. She is a Grande Dame... this woman is my mother.

Colette Perron Beaulieu was born on December 31, 1927, in the village of Nédélec.

Twenty-eight years later, she gave me life and by her example teaches me this life, the will to live and the energy to live. She is one of those who have rarely been intimidated by the prejudices and myths surrounding the role of women in society then and today. This lady has been a teacher, nurse, executive secretary; she's a mother, educator, musician... and I remember she was competent.

A woman and a mother in turn, I can better understand how much she had to work hard to ensure that her personal identity was respected despite her many obligations as a professional of course, but also as Lucien's wife and mother of her six children.

At 60, she finally allows herself to let all that there is artist and creativity come into her. She fills up with her music, gives free rein to her thoughts which she translates into words and shares with us when she feels inspired and everything is to her satisfaction. "

"This message of love to my mother, I dedicated it to her as part of a Témiscamingue Collective entitled Vie et histoire des femmes au Témiscamingue. It was in this collective, in 1988, that she gave us some texts that were to be part of her novel Matines et Laudes.

This novel, she wanted so much to write it, share it with us and publish it, possibly to tell us - I am quoting her - a little of her feelings until now kept a little secret. She devoted a lot of hours to it.

At the end of her life, she had in hand a manuscript which she renamed Hair in the Wind at Dawn and which she knew she could not finish. This is how she asked Yves-Patrick and I, her children, to complete her work when she was no longer in this world.

Colette passed away on March 19, 2014, at the age of 87.

Mum has a much more gift for words than I do. If I inherited from her a small fraction of the artist she was, it was Yves-Patrick, the second child in the household, who inherited the gift of writing. This gift he has shared with us in the poems, novels, short stories and essays he has written and published over the years.

It was on him that fell the mission of assembling manuscripts, notes and notebooks of our mother and it is thanks to his talent and his hard work that this version is presented to you in which is described a part of life of our mother Colette Perron Beaulieu.

Yves Patrick extended his research to let us know, at the end of this novel, the place of birth and the place where our mother lived, this Témiscaming land that she has always told us about with love and passion.

By reading the texts of this book you will surely realize her qualities as a storyteller and writer. You will understand why we wanted to pay her this tribute and share with you a little of her feelings, so far kept a little secret.

Christine Beaulieu Germain,

Ville-Marie, Témiscamingue. Québec.

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 

FIRST PART

––––––––

o  DAWN

I am not going to list everything that has been said and written in certain official documents such as extracts from the minutes of the assemblies held at the Council of the Fabrique at the beginning of the century, the documents contained in the Saint-Louis-de-Nédélec county archives. May I be allowed, however, through these lines traversed by the breath of a salutary humor, to share the radiant hours of a happy childhood and adolescence, stemming from certain events and influences which largely contributed to make me what I am and many others of my age who lived through them at the same time as me.

That of my grandparents is a bygone era which gave way to other styles of life which can, of course, elicit equally remarkable beings, but the mold has changed, and the product is different, which I have seen in my generation and the next.

The parish priest and the Sisters of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin were, along with some somewhat cultivated parishioners, our pillars, advisers, emeritus leaders who aroused in us the best feelings of admiration, respect and even veneration. The general culture that we have received from these eminent figures could certainly compete with that of any city dweller from the surrounding small towns. What follows will only be a pale reflection of all the elements of culture that were transmitted to us by these multi-talented educators who gave themselves body and soul to instil in us, with unequalled skill and grace, all the basic rudiments necessary to a great discipline of body and mind with a consummate art in all its forms. It was contagious with us; and when many of us had to leave elementary school for major studies at boarding school, whether it was a normal school, a family institute or an academy, we were ready to face anyone who dared to look down on us because from a supposedly remote village.

Whatever one thinks now, the religious or secular education we had received there might have been a bit of an exaggeration according to some people, but the foundations were firmly established enough to enable us to face life without weakening, as adolescents and as adults. Several of our parents would have paid dearly to sit down on the school benches. That is why they made immense sacrifices in order to let us receive such a legacy. It is about a time in black and white: the only street of the village, the school, the general store, the post office, the presbytery, the cassock of the priest, the costume of the sisters and schoolgirls... my white apron, covering my black and white convent dress, our Sunday costumes, people's faces, it all made up my universe. We were a long way from heart-shaped pools. But how happy we were!

* *

I have in front of me a blank page and the wedding photograph of my dear parents. They are there behind a curved glass in an oval frame worked by hand. Yes, a charming couple that unfortunately too late, I learned to appreciate and adore like that! My father almost turned everything upside down by marrying an Ontarian whom everyone called the Englishwoman because she mixed a few words of English in her conversations.

Papa had known her one fine summer day when she was staying with her neighbor aunt Caroline. It was love at first sight. I knew that papa had been captivated by her nightingale voice, her unusual physical appearance, her face radiant with kindness, therefore with beauty.

Their wedding had taken place on a beautiful day in June 1923.

I can imagine one bright morning when they met in front of the altar in Earlton Church where my maternal grandparents were staying. She, Fleur-Ange (what a pretty name!), with this pearl gray Georgette crepe dress that she has often described to me; with this Marcelle hairstyle held by a delicate net, carrying on her left arm a bouquet of roses and lilies of the valley, her deep gaze fixing the future, it seems.

Him, Alphonse, in this sober steel gray suit. He was a handsome young man with gray-blue eyes, sporting a smile at the corner of his lips. Their photograph is in profile. I really notice myself, as people always point out to me when they say: The mother in painting! That I physically resemble mum with a few traits of her character and I am flattered .

The newly-weds continued to live with my grandparents for a few more months. Later, when grandfather had finished building his new home in the middle of the village, the pretty square house with a sloping tin roof became my parents' house. This is where I was born, in my parents' bed.

I have often been told about this unique event for me and my dear mom. It was a cold, clear December night, the old New Year's Eve, 1928. The sky was largely pierced with stars. Was it to celebrate the arrival of this fourth baby who had come in a certain way to shake up the spirit of the Holidays which were usually well organized, planned, set like a grandfather clock, always there. Still, it took courage and for mom and for Doctor Beauséjour, this legendary character who arrived just in time in a sleigh, warmly dressed in a beaver coat, shod in Indian boots, even with the arrowed belt as in the prints by Edmond Massicotte. The kitchen stove purred. The kettle was whistling, surrounded by all the containers of hot water that my aunt Josephine, one of the midwives in the place, had prepared as usual. Everything was all set.

First, a little hot gin for the doctor who did an elaborate hand washing, the shirt arms rolled up to the shoulders or almost. This easygoing country doctor then proceeded to give birth with a rare attitude of humanity. After the baby's first cry, the usual congratulations were addressed to the parents. Then followed a period of rest for mom who had once again succeeded in stifling her complaint during her painful labor. She slipped into a restful sleep with a smile of happiness on her lips until dawn when the doctor, after having recovered, resumed the road to Notre-Dame-du-Nord, at nine miles from Nédélec.

The next morning, several more faces leaned over the newborn. My brother Marcel, the first, my brother Clovis, the second and my sister Laurette, the first marvelled at their new little sister who was called Colette. That day, I had my time as a queen. I will not recount all the births that took place in our household. After me there were eight more ... and what a family!

* * *

My parents celebrated their golden wedding anniversary in June 1973. They went to the other side of the sky, one in December 1975 and the other in the same month, in 1977. I saw them leave us each their own. turn, because I was working at the hospital where they died. Dear papa who, until the last moment, stared at the phone to call mom to come and dress him and bring him back. Then mum, curled up in the fetal position, clutching her rosary made of sunflower seeds and whispering to me this one word that said a lot: Happy .... She nodded with a smile when I asked her, Because you're going to join daddy?. The most beautiful photographs that I keep of them are in a special drawer in my memory and in the indelible envelope of my heart. They are there, both of them, so tall, so worthy, so full of tenderness. Their image is planted in me like a luminous cross since their final departure. The last time I saw Mom at home... still independent, was in November before her death. My husband and I took her to our home when she was discharged from the hospital where she had stayed for a few weeks. As she left us, she trembled around our Beauchastel property, wrapped in her beige and brown coat that suited her so well. She gazed at the lake for a long time, the approaches to the house and, with a finally decided step, whispered as she got into my brother's car:

I don't think I will be able to come back here anymore. She had told the truth. How I liked both faces! Those brave hearts, those gnarled hands that had worked so hard and rendered a multitude of services. They, who at the end of their life still cried out their need to be useful and who no longer had the strength. As for mom, who usually always sang, I think she still heard music at the end of the day. When I speak of her, it's as if I was touching a sacrament ...

*

Dad must have left school when he was young. At thirteen, he was already earning his salt. He had limited education but over the years, with experience, he mastered his vocabulary and numbers well enough to come to be a successful trader later. He spent his teenage years, until his marriage, helping grandfather on the farm, because his two younger brothers were already going to college, which required - as nowadays - sufficient financial means to support them. needs. Yet many times I have seen Dad handle our class books like a monk the Gospels. He often gave us, word for word, the questions and answers of the little catechism. Such a man could only consider a good education for his children.

Mom was not very educated either, but she knew how to keep her house well despite her numerous offspring. Later, when I did my academic studies, she wrote me letters filled with practicality, interspersed here and there with tender and joyful words. She often