While our post-war house was being built in Winnipeg, my husband, Ed, our baby son, Bobby, and I were living in a well-insulated trailer on the property. The somewhat crude method of heating was a make-shift coal burning stove with a pipe sticking out of a large hole, the better to ensure proper ventilation and the risk of carbon monoxide fumes poisoning our space.
Because of crowded quarters, baby Bobby’s bed consisted of a box-like crib, elevated at the foot of our bed. Bobby was not yet two, could not yet walk but could talk very well for one so young.
One night surfacing from a restless sleep, I heard Bobby state in a clear voice, “God doesn’t want me to die”. I had been teaching Sunday school but had not yet taught our son anything religious so I presumed I was dreaming. Startled awake, I crawled to the end of the bed and picked him up. I fairly shook him when he did not respond.
Beginning to panic, I shook Ed awake with my hysterical cry, “Bobby won’t wake up. Wake up, something’s wrong with Bobby!” In a daze, Ed crawled out of bed, only to collapse on a nearby couch. With my continued screaming of, “Wake up, Ed, something’s wrong with Bobby. I can’t waken him.” Finally, Ed stumbled from the couch, lurched against the trailer door and tumbled into a Winnipeg winter snow bank. Though barely able, Ed, had unknowingly allowed a rush of fresh air into the trailer, rushed back into the trailer just in time to save the lives of his family.
I have shared this story with very few over the years, fearing that it would appear just too bizarre for belief. Imagine expecting anyone to believe that an infant not yet able to walk was able, in a life and death situation, to exclaim, “God doesn’t want me to die.”
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Christmas Tourtiére
Christmas in the village of Rosemére, Quebec, was a time of snow banks and the warmth of family gatherings. My Christmas of 1951 was to be one of desperate loneliness, far removed from family and friends in Western Canada. Even though I spoke French, I was looked upon as “l’englaise” and felt very much the outsider.
Our three year old daughter always looked forward to the arrival of an eleven year old neighbour girl, Lucie, from school so that she would have someone with whom to play.
I, with my two toddlers, too often, perhaps, found myself entering Lucies’s parents house next door as Mme. Picard’s large warm kitchen matched the warmth of the woman herself.
We often visited on Saturday, there to find Mme. Picard baking, in preparation for the arrival of her fourteen children for their Sunday visit. The huge refectory-size table was laden with baked delights of all shapes and sizes, some of which we were invited to taste.
Pre-Christmas baking took on an air of special urgency. One of Mme. Picard’s creations was that of tourtiéres consisting ground pork and spices within a pie crust. It was new to me and looked especially appealing.
Christmas approached, with little or no expectation on our part. Christmas Eve was dreary indeed. So, when Lucie arrived holding a tourtiére, it seemed a miracle and we gave appropriate thanks.
Many, many years later I still, each Christmas, think of the goodness of Mme. Picard who, with her family of fourteen, still found time to think of her lonely neighbour from the West and to include her little family in the spirit of Christmas giving.
Our three year old daughter always looked forward to the arrival of an eleven year old neighbour girl, Lucie, from school so that she would have someone with whom to play.
I, with my two toddlers, too often, perhaps, found myself entering Lucies’s parents house next door as Mme. Picard’s large warm kitchen matched the warmth of the woman herself.
We often visited on Saturday, there to find Mme. Picard baking, in preparation for the arrival of her fourteen children for their Sunday visit. The huge refectory-size table was laden with baked delights of all shapes and sizes, some of which we were invited to taste.
Pre-Christmas baking took on an air of special urgency. One of Mme. Picard’s creations was that of tourtiéres consisting ground pork and spices within a pie crust. It was new to me and looked especially appealing.
Christmas approached, with little or no expectation on our part. Christmas Eve was dreary indeed. So, when Lucie arrived holding a tourtiére, it seemed a miracle and we gave appropriate thanks.
Many, many years later I still, each Christmas, think of the goodness of Mme. Picard who, with her family of fourteen, still found time to think of her lonely neighbour from the West and to include her little family in the spirit of Christmas giving.
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