BREATHING DEEP IN QUEBEC
Driving through the Quebec farmlands’ fresh-cut hay scent, that deliciously sweet perfume that elicits a childhood memory – the wafting scent of Fig Newtons – I laugh aloud. Here I am in an idyllic plowland, visiting long-remembered moments a half-century away. The hayfields dotted with bright white bales, vast, jam-packed corn rows, multi-acre potato patches, cow, goat, and sheep dairies, fromage creameries, and artisan distilleries along St. Laurence from Montreal to Quebec simply overwhelm me. I’m twenty-four again and seeing it all again for the first time.
Perfect... hard work and scrupulous dedication to raising nourishment from the soil.
Looming above the treeline ahead, I’m delighted to see the usual marker of most towns; a towering church spire, usually denoting the center of the settlement. Religion was central to building all this and these chapels have not been transformed into second-hand stores, restaurants, or trendy hipster digs. Faith strengthened these people, guided them, and brought comfort, sense, and meaning.
At a farmstand, I met a man who noticed my damaged ankle limp and struck up a conversation. “Ankle brace?” he asked. “Do you have?” I was a bit taken aback, but when thrown into conversation, I always land on my feet. “No. Surgery. Soon.” He nodded and looked for the right word, “Ah! Andy Murray? The Tennis Andy Murray? You know? Ankle brace, both ankles.”
If this encounter had occurred in Trenton or Greensboro or San Diego, I would have found it notably forward, unprompted. But as we spoke, I learned he is an ER doctor and a politically active Quebecois. Seeing the disabled veteran license plate on my car, he grew somber and said, “Thank you for serving.” That was a first for me… has this salutation crossed the border? As I acknowledged him, he looked troubled. “And where?” I said, “Vietnam. Two tours.”
I swear, he reacted as though gut-punched, as if he had received some terrible news, and shook his head pitifully. “Thank you.” He repeated. I just nodded, embarrassed that he was visibly upset. I had no idea what this man’s life has been, what his ties to that sorry time were, so I held a silent moment. Then it all came back to me… during Nam, Canada supplied materiel to the U.S., but barred Canadians from joining the conflict. Despite this law, some 30-40,000 Canadians deployed to Nam and fought alongside American troops. Meanwhile, around 30,000 American men fled to Canada to avoid military service.
I was based at one of the Michelin Rubber Plantations in Dong Nai. There is shared pain.
We stood there. A Quebecois proud of his province and an American proud of his country. I looked at Quebec as a first-rate example of what America once was and hoped my new friend didn’t see the burgeoning dystopia in American cities as a prognosis of his province’s future.
The road called. We shook hands. I bid him, “Be well…”
(c) 2023 Martin Higgins
all rights reserved
Perfect... hard work and scrupulous dedication to raising nourishment from the soil.
Looming above the treeline ahead, I’m delighted to see the usual marker of most towns; a towering church spire, usually denoting the center of the settlement. Religion was central to building all this and these chapels have not been transformed into second-hand stores, restaurants, or trendy hipster digs. Faith strengthened these people, guided them, and brought comfort, sense, and meaning.
At a farmstand, I met a man who noticed my damaged ankle limp and struck up a conversation. “Ankle brace?” he asked. “Do you have?” I was a bit taken aback, but when thrown into conversation, I always land on my feet. “No. Surgery. Soon.” He nodded and looked for the right word, “Ah! Andy Murray? The Tennis Andy Murray? You know? Ankle brace, both ankles.”
If this encounter had occurred in Trenton or Greensboro or San Diego, I would have found it notably forward, unprompted. But as we spoke, I learned he is an ER doctor and a politically active Quebecois. Seeing the disabled veteran license plate on my car, he grew somber and said, “Thank you for serving.” That was a first for me… has this salutation crossed the border? As I acknowledged him, he looked troubled. “And where?” I said, “Vietnam. Two tours.”
I swear, he reacted as though gut-punched, as if he had received some terrible news, and shook his head pitifully. “Thank you.” He repeated. I just nodded, embarrassed that he was visibly upset. I had no idea what this man’s life has been, what his ties to that sorry time were, so I held a silent moment. Then it all came back to me… during Nam, Canada supplied materiel to the U.S., but barred Canadians from joining the conflict. Despite this law, some 30-40,000 Canadians deployed to Nam and fought alongside American troops. Meanwhile, around 30,000 American men fled to Canada to avoid military service.
I was based at one of the Michelin Rubber Plantations in Dong Nai. There is shared pain.
We stood there. A Quebecois proud of his province and an American proud of his country. I looked at Quebec as a first-rate example of what America once was and hoped my new friend didn’t see the burgeoning dystopia in American cities as a prognosis of his province’s future.
The road called. We shook hands. I bid him, “Be well…”
(c) 2023 Martin Higgins
all rights reserved