" We are French Canuk Canuk"
I.
DOING WHAT I SAID I WOULD DO.
© 1999Don Bacigalupo
For years I had teased my mother about being Indian. Mom would always declare that we were French Canuk-Canuk and that she loved Maurice Chevalier and how he talked. Her brother Leo also used to tease her and the rest of the family about an Indian in the wood pile. Uncle Leo had a wicked sounding whiskey laugh and I liked him because his laugh came so easily. My mother said she had learned from another brother, Rich, that someone had written a Durand family history that would prove that her family came from France by way of Canada and that there were no Indians in the family.
Six months later, mom came book in hand and gave it to me as proof that we were from France. Instead we found that Jean Durand from Doeuil, France had married Catherine Annenontak a full blood Huron in Quebec in 1662. The book further showed that generation after generation had married within the mixed blood Native/French/Canadian community that developed in New France,(Canada). The result was that we became more Native than French by blood and more French/Canadian than Native by custom. Since that discovery our discussion became less teasing and more searching. So we had planned this trip to search for relatives in Turtle Lake Wisconsin.
In the year previous to this planned trip we had traveled together going to her parent's home town of Faribault and traveling in the area of Minnesota where the Sioux Uprising of 1862 had occurred. This trip to Faribault, St.Peter, Montevideo, New Ulm and Fort Ridgely was my first experience traveling alone with my mother as an adult. Most of the time we talked of the family. Mom trying to recall who married who and when someone was born. With me asking her tell me stories and to remember events and attach dates as best she could.
As we traveled she relaxed with me and I think she felt respected. We became closer and she became more trusting of me with her family history. I think during that trip she still wanted the truth to be, that her family was in someway directly descendent from France with no connection to Native people. I am certain also that during that trip she was still not sure that I would treat information about her family with respect. Given my history I couldn't blame her.
At Fort Ridgely we found the name of a related family, Alfred Dufresne, on a monument marker dedicated to a group of mixed blood French/Native men called the "Renville Raiders" who had helped relieve those at the fort during a prolonged attack by Sioux Warriors during the 1862 Sioux Uprising. Mom didn't say so but this effected her. She became open to the idea that this wonderful family of her's had some connection to the history of this land beyond just coming from Canada.
After the Faribault trip and more discussions I agreed to go on this Turtle Lake trip, because she said that family had come from there. I didn't believe it, but in line with being the best son I could be, I had made a promise to make the trip to see if we could find evidence of the family. I had discussed this with my brothers and their intentions to come along helped to motivate me. Then after my brothers couldn't go and postponing the trip one time, I didn't want to go. I thought it would be a wasted effort and frustrating for me and uncomfortable for mom.
One time at a family gathering Mom had said that she had learned that it was her job to wait, now that her sons were grown, her husband of 50 years had died and she lived alone. So if I postponed the trip again, she would be gracious, she would understand and she would wait.
Then there was my job to think about. My work involved helping families and children under the direction of court. The work load demand was murderously high at the time of this trip. In that type of work the demands fluctuated between high and murderously high. At the times of murderous demand there was no way to do all that needed to be done, so that I had to decide who gets help and who had to wait. Many times I found myself just reacting to emergencies. Often the top priority was assuring that kids I was responsible for, were safe and no more.
Marriage, grown children, step children, brothers, a variety of in-laws, friends, teaching, and a belated attempt at spiritual way of living cascaded through my time day by day. These life choices were attractive to me. I liked the idea of me doing all that the choices involved, but I had no idea of how to live them in a balanced way. It seemed to me that taking this trip would only make my imbalance greater. Who knew what it would take when I got back to regain some sense of "control," in my life. But for some reason I did what I said I would do, when I said I would do it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ II.
WHAT THE HELL!
Mom would be pleasantly surprised that I was actually doing what I promised and she would be glad to get out of the house. I lived 140 miles from her and I was lucky to see her once a month. I was not guilty about how much I saw her, I accepted that, as part of the consequences of our life choices. In recent times I had missed her and wished that we could be together more often, it felt to me that this would be a good time for her and I.
When I got home to pack after work, my wife, told me that my youngest brother, (David) and mom had called. They both wanted to know if I was really coming.
I got angry.
Hadn't I said that I was coming!
Wasn't I packing to come!
What was going on?
Had they visited my thinking?
Or... did they just know me from the other times I had not done what I said I would do?
I felt naked in front of them and decided not to call as a way to regain some "control" over the territory of my feelings.
My wife, Sandra and I rode to the Cities with good grace and some relaxed conversation. She has been a joy in my life a real honest to goodness partner in my life. I felt relieved and calmer as we rode.
The night sky seemed empty. We drove through intermittent drizzle and I waited for early snowflakes. The next day, October 9th, promised gray skies and cold, not a good day to travel especially with my 81 year old mother.
We got to Mom's and I 'crashed' as soon as I could. I could see that Mom wanted to talk but I wanted to escape. Sandra was going with her sister on the next day so it would be just Mom and I. In order to escape, I promised to leave with Mom at first light, then I went to bed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ III TRAVEL AND MEMORIES On the road, the land was familiar territory for both of us. Mom had a degree of comfort in this part of Minnesota that went beyond the psychological sense of home and community. She talked about the roads we were traveling and the countryside we passed through as though it belonged to her. She talked also about her sadness that all had changed so much on the land and in the towns.
She had lived on these lands all her life. The area of Minnesota and Wisconsin we were traveling in had been home to our family since the early 1800's. My brother, Tom had recently learned that Basile Durand had been stationed at the Northwest Fur Trading Outpost near Pine City in 1804. The only Durand family that Mom knew or remembered had lived in the Stillwater area, the Twin Cities or Faribault. Today we are going to Turtle Lake to look for more family and to take another step back to learn more about who we are.
I spent the first twenty one years of my life in the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St.Paul. I had my history in this territory but little or no sense of connection.
We decided to stay off the freeway and rode the old roads, the ones we used to take on family trips. We found that those roads were mostly gone. There were only pieces of the old roads and old landscapes on the edges of the new. The roadway was like a series of scrambled neighborhoods: some new, some old and much disordered. The corn rows, wheat fields and woodlands had become metal pole buildings, trailor parks, parking lots or dreary home development estates, ("You too!! Can have your piece of the country").
However, every now and then some feature of the land or some building stirred a silent memory, a story or both. In Forrest Lake I saw a couple of rusting gas tanks with pealing paint and part of a billboard standing nearby. I remembered the gas station that I stopped at to get the 19 cents worth (almost a gallon) to get home to St.Paul from my, "search for truth," a trip into the woods in 1962.
Then I found my self thinking of an earlier summer when I went with my older brothers(Tom and Joe) and cousin(Lou) to watch Lou play ball in Forrest Lake near that station. I remembered feeling out of place in a car with my cousin driving and the radio tuned to, "A White Sport Coat and a Pink Carnation". At that time, being anywhere without an, "adult," felt wrong and exciting to me, like stealing apples from the tree at the city dump near my childhood home.
That home was on Huron Street in St.Paul, what a, "coincidence," that Catherine Annenontak was a full blooded Huron. (Some times I think that God and our ancestors love to play tricks and tease with the truth.)
My mind came back to traveling on the road and I said to Mom, "how is your family ?" Whenever we got together we reviewed the lives of her brothers and sisters and their families. Mom then told me the current happenings. As brothers and sisters they have grown old together and they have continued to be at the core of each other's lives.
The beautiful and powerful connection between these brothers and sisters was forged when my grandmother, Sarah Begin died. At that time they were living on farm west of Stillwater Minnesota about thirty five miles South and East from where we were traveling on this day. Three days after moving to the farm with thier ailing mother, Sarah died and they had to learn about farm life, grief, love, trust and survival. Mom was twelve years old.
Mom still describes with powerful clarity how my grandfather, Joseph Durand, knelt with his nine living children at the farm and prayed that they could stay together as a family. She tells about how he asked the children to help him keep the family together. Mom remembers her father telling them they would have to learn to help each other so that they would not be seperated and sent to live amongst the relatives. It was not suprising that sixty nine years later(1996) these brothers and sisters have such a deep connection with each other. In a sense they are still carrying out Joseph's request to "keep the family together."
After Sarah died Mom quit school and became chief housekeeper and main mom for the five younger children . In April of 1995 at her eightieth birthday party the deference and respect shown towards Mom by those brothers and sisters was a reminder of the journey of thier lives together. Mom later told me that this party was her first birthday party.
At times I have been jealous of the loyalty and connection between Mom and her childhood family but more than the jealousy I was afraid that her connection with them was stronger than her connection with me. There were so many years that I had been lost in my relationship with her.
As she talked about her family on that day in the car leaving Forrest Lake , Mom was not only telling me the details of her view of brothers and sisters lives but she was also trusting me with her truth. I used to debate with her about her truth and offer, "suggestions," this time I listened. It was a wise choice.
It was like this always with mom, her feelings about family were always with her. Yet any idea of direct dealing around those feelings with her brothers or sisters had to be carefully considered and avoided if possible.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ IV AN EAGLE'S FLIGHT We left Forrest Lake, there were some older farm homesteads but the spread of modern bedroom neighborhoods clash with my memories of farms and cows and corn. I have memories of corn right up to the road and of Mom telling Dad to stop so we could steal some corn from the field.
The sky was lightening the colors were rising in the tree's, bushes and grasses. It was as though they absorbed the color from the new daylight. Even though I knew how and why leaves change color in the Fall on that day the explination did not seem adequate. At first all was shades of gray and black; then the leaves of the birch, the maples and the poplars begin to glow with the yellows of dawn light. As leaves absorbed the sunlight the oaken brown and maple red became glowing embers in the half light of daybreak.
We began to be attracted by them. At first the colors were on the edge of our conversation and then Mom said "Oh! How Beautiful. Look over there!" We relaxed and drove into the rising sun and the rising colors.
Then the deep red of the sumacs' and pink/rose of newly turning Maples were inflamed to play their part of the celebration of this fall day. For me Fall has always been the season of the moment, because I know that a northern wind or ice filled rain can strip the colors and reveal the rattling bones of winter. I have had to learn to live a day or a moment at a time to deal with my alcoholism and on this day I was learning to live in the moment and appreciate what ever that moment was.
Then! It was my mother 'oohing' and 'aahing' next to me.
Then out of that morning's sun an eagle soared low over the brush land in front of us. I felt a chill pass through me. I felt connected to the spirit of that bird and to the feeling of it's flight. The road curved and I had to follow my path and I could no longer see the bird but I was flying.
After I got the gas Mom decided that she needed to go to the bathroom. She tried the bathroom door on the side of the building and discovered that she had to go into the station to get the key. All at once she seemed so old to me. She walked with the stiffness of the broken bones and broken promises of her past and yet with the determination of her plan to travel with me on that day. (--- Who was living in the Now!, anyway? ---) I felt like getting out of the car and going into the station to get the key to save her a few steps, instead I waited.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ V. THE RUSTIC ROAD We were on the road again following or being led by the colors. We descended into the St.Croix River valley as though we were sliding into the heart of autumn. The tree's seemed to gather at and above the roadside to welcome and guide us through to the river.
We were quiet then absorbed in the color and the curving road.
At a bend I saw a low flagstone fence that borders a scenic overlook. I remembered the Indian and a family trip in the secondhand 1942 Studebaker. We had the new engine and couldn't go over 30 MPH for fear of not breaking-in the engine properly.
I was six or seven and we stopped at another overlook, near Duluth. Mom and Dad and the brothers. When we got out of the car I saw him right away. I was scared. I knew about cowboys and indians. The indian man had a feathered head band. He sold toy tomahawks. The family wanted me to go up to him so they could take a picture but I couldn't do it. I froze in fear. I felt embarrassed and angry. I remembered them laughing about it.
And now!
My Mom, -- who would have sworn on a bible that we were French-Canuk-Canuk and not Indian, and I, -- who had been afraid of the old Indian man and later worked hard to get Native people to give up their heritage; were on this trip to find our relatives and to learn about our Native heritage.
We finished the descent to Taylors Falls and crossed a beautiful stone bridge. Later I learned that this was the same bridge that served as the likely crossing place for the many trips of the Durand family between Turtle Lake - Webster area and the Faribault-St.Paul area in the late 1800's. The bridge was built in the 1890's as part of Minnesota's first state park system.
In 1986, when Sandra and I took Mom and Dad on a 50th anniversary trip to Niagra Falls by way of Canada as we crossed the border Mom said, "you know the grass is greener here." We laughed to ourselves then. But this day, by God! it did seem different in Wisconsin. It felt as though we were slipping into something beyond us and our normal world.
As I sped along I remembered summers at Deer Lake when I was pursuing my first wife, Beverly. Dealing with the ritual of their family's summer and being used as a flash point for an unknown boyfriend's jealousy. Later we, "Broke Up" when I was dismissed for the college guy and still later we "Got back together," married, conceived, birth'd and raised four lovely human beings.
I knew nothing then of my connection to this place, I can't recall feeling any particular affiliation with the land or surroundings. On this day, however my past is blending with this place and time. I felt like I was observing my youthful striving and I began to appreciate how the spirits of Native ancestors must have smiled at my determined wanderings amongst them.
As we drove I saw a sign for Balsam Lake, and I reminded Mom of the story of my incarceration in the Balsam Lake jail on the weekend of my senior Prom and my oldest brother's wedding. We both laughed as we recalled her and Dad's reaction to me when I came home with my perfect excuse for being late. I recalled them jumping out of bed when I told them my perfect excuse, of "being in jail for a loud muffler." Mom laughed, and remembered, as I recalled how Dad made me breathe in his face to prove I had not been drinking. Later I in life it became important for me to share with him that I had stopped drinking and was trying to learn a new way of living.
Sometimes I missed my Dad. He and I had connected in a private way. In later years we were able to share completely with each other without judgement while at the same time ignoring each other's opinions and advice. On this day however I didn't miss him, I was glad for the time with Mom, as a matter of fact Mom and I probably would never have done this if he was with us on the physical plain of things. He was of course a presence in all of this. His essence is the part of me that was outside of this trip, watching and fearful. The part of me that couldn't understand or accept the Native in me.
As we drove I saw a sign saying, "Rustic Road". I passed it, going on to Turtle Lake thinking, some time I will come back to it and explore it when I am alone. The next thing I knew I was applying the brakes, scaring myself and Mom. I told Mom about the sign. I asked her to explore it with me. Her eyes lit-up and she said, "Great."
A gas truck and several cars raced past as we backed-up on the side of the highway to the turn onto "Rustic Road". After we were on the road we both began talking about her family and the trips they made to Turtle Lake and how her brother remembers traveling in a Red River Cart with his Grandfather to Turtle Lake in the summer time. The road seemed to slow time down, we were not racing and I became aware that this could be a journey to meet my Native. I wondered about the length of their summer trip. I imagined traveling from Faribault to Turtle Lake to see family before the turn of the century. I imagined it taking days or more to travel through a countryside still alive with game, new growth forrests and a few people, (mostly immigrants and "half-breeds").
The "Rustic Road," curved over small hills and turned to accommodate a stream. Then an old stone bridge appeared as a gift to cross the stream. An unnamed little public park sat by the side of the bridge and I pulled in to see if I could find a plaque which would undoubtedly say that this was the site of the old Red River Cart highway from Faribault to Turtle Lake which was traveled by the Durand family before the turn of the century. There was however no plaque only the vestiges of another older road and a parking lot with the usual beer cans and other residues of "fun".
We turned back onto the "Rustic Road," heading toward Turtle Lake though no sign had said this was where the road lead. As we got closer to a town some older boxlike abandoned homes brought me back to 'now'. The road ended at a " T " as though to cut off our Journey. On the left, just before the " T " there appeared the first of three cemeteries we encountered on this day.
The " T " sliced off most of the Cemetery leaving only a corner with a few head stones and a couple of ornamental Cedars. We drove up a little hill to look at the names on the Tombstones. They seemed to be mostly German and the place seemed forgotten. I felt discouraged, it seemed that these people preferred a road to their past, and our past. We headed into the town, and found that it was not Turtle Lake but a town next to Turtle Lake. A newer town settled by European immigrants in the teen years of the 20th century.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ VI. THE RICHARDSON STONES We arrived in the Turtle Lake and began to drive around the streets. At first Mom was excited and we talked of the houses and the stores. We would imagine that this one was built by some French family or that one of the shops might have been a Tea Shop. The town, however, was atrophied like many small towns. There were vestiges of old homes and old life but most of the old homes had been "modernized," often covering the initial design and beauty for the sake of heat efficiency. Plywood, plastic window covers, and the always insipid chip wood board trivialized the past of the town. The overall effect was depressing. There was no sense of connection there, Mom seemed to have expected to see something that would tell her Turtle Lake was a family place.
When Mom goes to Faribault it was like going home. "This was my family's hometown," she says. And she will speculate that a certain church was, "their," church. Look, she seems to say, I am connected here. We always looked for Grandpa Begin's home. Being 'home,' was something she felt and it lightened her spirit when we drove around Faribault. When she was there she seemed to be demonstrating her respect for those who came before.
With a hardened voice Mom said, "Don, there is nothing here, let's go, this is a dead town." I felt like going too but I wanted to find the Catholic church and at least look through the cemetery. Then I began to wonder if there was a Catholic church. In many of these dying towns the churches are empty and unused, with congregations consolidated into large multi-community churches.
I was being stubborn. I didn't want to go without finding something. Maybe I should have been more sensitive to Mom. She was not comfortable in strange places and this was becoming a strange place for her.
We rounded a corner and there was the Catholic church. It was on the top of small hill that looked like an older part of town. It faced on a wide street which seemed to have been a thoroughfare running north and south. The church was called St.Anne's.
It wasn't until I was later, talking with my older brother, Tom, that I really recognized the church. It was the same church I have seen in St.Paul Minnesota, in Loretto Manitoba, in Faribault Minnesota and Little Canada Minnesota. It was the same church built over and over again by French Canadian peoples in honor of their faith in God and in consideration their relationship with the church that needed them. These churches were strongly built churches characterized by the artistic uses of wood in both the basic construction and in ornamentation. Later I imagined this church sitting on its hill in the community, dominating the landscape. On this day, though it was clearly one of the largest buildings in the community it was as though it was receding into the hill on which it stood.
The church was closed. A sign stated when mass was held during the week. I decided to drive around the church and other buildings. There was a parish house but it also appeared closed up. There was an old school next to the church but a sign proclaimed that it was now a day care center.
I decided to drive around to the back of the church and school and see if I could see another building that might lead me to where I might find information about a cemetery or get information about church records.
Mom was getting frustrated.
I could not find any thing that looked like an alley except for a grassy pathway. I decided to follow it. The road/path went to the top of the hill behind the church and school.
Mom was getting mad. She said, "DON!" - that maternal exclamation that says if you keep this up I will disown you.
At the top of the hill there was a bit of a view to a lake (maybe Turtle Lake) and some of the surrounding countryside. The old rail line/new snowmobile trail cut across the landscape like an old wound irritated by a new abuse.
Then I noticed a tombstone and then another and then under a nearby Lilac bush three more. One of the tombstones was clearly for an infant. In older cemeteries there are so many children's stones. As I have looked into our family history I have been impressed with the number of deaths of children. In some families there were more babies who died than survived. I have a hard time imagining how these French/Native relatives of mine lived with those deaths.
I got out of the car to look at the tombstones. The name on all the tombstones was the same, "Richardson,". I concluded that this had to be an early family plot and look around to see of there was a home nearby that could have been a homestead. None of the homes seemed a suitable candidate. Maybe this was an aborted Catholic Cemetery, but I doubted it.
Mom seemed to have gone past her anger and was simply disillusioned. I began to think maybe we should go back. I began to think about what I could do at the history museum in St.Paul in an afternoon. I had forgotten the thoughts of the journey, I was back in my time and under my pressure.
I got back in the car and suggested that I stop at the day care center to ask about the cemetery and the parish records. I was not sure why I decided to do that. Maybe it was because I was feeling guilty about my plan to take my mom home and make the trip ?worthwhile,? by going to the museum.
In the day care center I found a parish office and I talked with a busy lady who politely said the parish office manager was at a meeting and that I could ask her later about looking at the parish records. The lady did give me one ray of hope by saying that she knew that others had come to look at the records.
I left the office and went to the car with the idea of driving to the cemetery and then I realized that I had forgotten to ask directions. I of course thought I could just, "find it!" Mom seemed re-enthused and told me to go back and ask directions. I obeyed.
It turned out that the cemetery was not far from the church. As we drove out to the cemetery on this cold fall day a light rain had been falling and every thing was cold and wet with autumn.
As with most rural communities the cemetery was surrounded by planted fields. The job of growing living things shared this land with honoring of the dead. We could see the cemetery surrounded by the unharvested corn fields, (still tall and green). Inside the surrounding corn a row of poplar trees marked the boundary of the grave yard.
When we turned in we could see that most of the cemetery was not yet being used. That was immediately disappointing . All the graves looked too new and to well maintained. The cemetery didn't feel like it had anything for us. In the center there was a large marble statue with ornamental shrubs around it. All the graves were on the east side of the grave yard. The grass was wet, long, still summer lush, and green deep.
I stopped the car and told mom that she should wait in the car because it was wet and cold and she was recovering from a bout with chest congestion and some kind of non-cancerous growth on her chest. The wind was light but I could feel it come up my sleeves and down my neck. She agreed and I began walking amongst the stones. I looked back and saw how old she was. Her eyes were tired and yet she was smiling. I did not acknowledge her look or smile. The grave stones seemed unfriendly and strange. I tried to think about how to look. They all seemed to be facing toward road on which we were parked. If I walked down one row, my trip back would be wasted unless I walked backward, in which case I was sure I would trip and break my neck on a tombstone. I am dangerous when I try to think things through. I had binoculars and tried to use them to see distant stones but it was no good. I gave up and began looking for names. There were a few French names but more German names.
I returned to the car and tried to be reassuring, so did Mom. She said, "come on Don, .. let's go you don't have to look anymore, .. it's too cold." I moved the car forward to the next set of stones and walked back looking at names. There were some particularly beautiful stones, ornately carved with thoughtful messages. I became sad reading these stones especially those of children. I was beginning to loose myself in the names and I stopped trying to be logical. I was just walking and letting the names pass over and through me. My feet were getting wet and I still had several sets of stone/names check.
I saw a beautiful white obelisk with a name I couldn't read at a distant. As I walked up to it and read the name, I saw an older dark grey obelisk just behind the white one and in clear letters the name, "DURAND." I have seen this name in many other cemeteries and usually I have no idea how they are connected to me, but this tombstone is that of Pierre Durand and Marie Boucher. The letters on the stone were beginning to fade and yet they were still easily readable. Pierre's stone letters said that he died on December 12, 1897. Marie's letters said that she died on April 23,1896. My record research had shown that they had been married on January 09, 1855 in Ile-Dupas in Quebec Province.
They are my great, great grandparents. They died before my mother was born, but they are part of the connection that brought my family to Turtle Lake. My mother knows of these people, her grandmother, Dehlia and her father, Joseph would talk of them.
As I walked back to the car, I felt like I did when as a kid and I would do something just to please my Mom. I used to dust her dinning room table legs when she wasn't around and wait for her to be surprised. If she noticed she would make a big deal of it and I would feel like I had done a good thing and I suppose that, at least for awhile, I would feel like a, "good," boy.
When I told her, Mom became excited and wanted to go to the stone marker. The grass so wet I offered my winter Pack Boots from the car trunk. Then the 81 year old lady danced a klunky dance through the wet long grass to be close to Pierre and Marie. I saw a certain kind of peace in her face. Her eyes were alive again and the sadness was gone. It was proof to her that her family had been here. She noticed another name on the stone. It was Julia Durand. She was Pierre and Marie's daughter. She had married a Eugene Ludger Charpentier, which was the name on the beautiful white obelisk that had first caught my eye.
We stayed for awhile, talked and felt the presence of family. Pierre and Marie had come to Turtle Lake from Rhode Island late in their lives. The whole family, children included, had been there working in Rhode Island shoe factories. It seems likely that they came to Turtle Lake to live with their adult children. Their last child Leon was born in Providence in 1878, sometime thereafter they came to Turtle Lake. Because of finding Julia's name on the grave marker we guessed that Pierre and Marie had lived with Julia and her husband, Eugene Charpentier. It could be that Pierre and Marie helped Eugene care for their grandson Joseph after his mother, Julia?s death in December of 1890, just eight monhts after his birth. As we talked they became real to us and the connection became stronger.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ VII THE RECORDS After we were finished at the Cemetery we had to wait for the records office at the church to be opened and so we decided to go a cafe on the old main street of the town. There was no clear identity to the store front that served the cafe. I couldn't see a name but it was clear that it was well attended. As we entered I felt the strangeness of being in, "the private-public cafe," of Turtle Lake. The cafe was not near the or the Casino or the new, "Little Store," or the highway of the trucker and the tourist. This was the cafe used by the people who still lived in the community.
The people in the cafe blended in with the well used atmosphere of the tables, chairs, booths, counters, doughnut case, cash register, hanging lights, photographs and framed magazine "art". We sat down and Mom had an old doughnut and a cup a coffee. A little girl came up to me an looked at me like I was a visitor in her home. I said Hi! ..... She just looked at me. She seemed to be waiting for someone to say it was OK for me to be there.
Mom and I talked about the find we had made in the grave yard, she was excited again. She talked again about being, "right." It was important that she had remembered correctly about the family coming here. It was as though she had made a connection. Mom had been on her own life journey that had made her question her own memory of things in the past. This grave stone was a confirmation. She was feeling at home in this Turtle Lake cafe, now, in a family town. Also, she had been right, she had shown again that she knew what was right about her family. She talked with more authority and she wanted to look for more connections.
We were both anxious to see the records, ... to see what was recorded. I always hoped that when we mentioned to some record keeper somewhere in our search that our name was Durand and that we were looking for information, the record keeper would shout for joy and say at last we have found you. Your Durand family was responsible for all that was good in this community, state and/or nation. That bit of fancy was with me in that cafe .... hoping.
We went back to the church office and the woman in charge of the office. She really worked for the Day Care Center that was housed in the building which held the Parish office and the School Office. Now the building had fallen to less important uses. Now it's main value was ability to raise money to support the church's school building itself. It was like so many "use to be's" that make up the buildings in these older farm towns. It's current use did not require the energy or commitment of it's previous uses. The building was like the inside of, "the cafe," well used.
The record keeper was out of her meeting and on the way to somewhere else and was not eager to spend time with us looking at the records. We talked about her computer and how wonderful it was. Mom talked about my computer and how wonderful it was and the record keeper seemed a little more interested. She asked for the family name. When I said, DU RAND, there was no reaction, not slightest sign of recognition. Clearly Durands were not currently seen as important church/community figures. She gave us a book like a ledger and said these were the oldest church records. The book was falling apart many of the pages were loose though still in order.
Then she wanted to leave and said that she would let us look at the book in the back office/conference/coffee room. She steered us to a table and left saying she would be back in a while and that she would have to close the office at that time because she was only part time.
I began to look and was dismayed. The oldest records were in French and Latin. They were written in a formal scrolling style that added to my deciphering difficulty. Almost immediately we saw the name "Durand". Mom became excited as I tried to decode records we were looking at. I became agitated and was fumbling with my computer. It had been so long since I had used the genealogy software I had that I couldn't remember how to search and add new information or new people. I gave up and took up a form I had with me and began making notes on it's blank back side.
From my four years of High School Latin and one quarter of college Latin, I started to remember the language. I even recognized some French words and I began to understand how the priest had formed his script letters.
Then as I saw meaning in the words I began to imagine I could see French/Canadians with their babies being baptized, others acting as Godparents. There were brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law and new babies. I showed mom an entry in which her paternal grandparents Eugene Ludger, (Looojer) and Dehlia Durand, came to Turtle Lake in April of 1890 to be Godparents for Joseph Napoleon Charpentier. Joseph was the son of Julia Durand who was buried with Pierre and Marie. Mom remembered that her father, Joseph Peter Durand's birthday was April 15th close to the time of this baptism. Maybe Joseph Charpentier was named after Joseph Durand the oldest son of his Godfather. If you were about to be 6 that would be like a birthday present. Sitting at that table with Mom it was like a link had been forged to past family. We belonged in this place. We found other Durands some were new to us and some more familiar. Our family had roots in these pages and in this land.
The record keeper returned, as they always do, and made it clear that our time was over on this day. Mom tried to tell the record keeper of the excitement in finding the records of her grandparents . She stated that my brother and I were writing a book about our family. This did not impress the record keeper, she had to leave and lock the office. We left with the searching mostly done but not finished with wanting to be with those pages, to look again and again to see those people and imagine their lives and appreciate our connection.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ VIII THE COMMUNITY LIBRARY We wanted more. We had become greedy to know of our family to know this community. We drove around the town looking for some place to connect. I suggested maybe there was a newspaper. We drove down the main drag and saw a building with an old il-used sign that seemed to imply something about a printing office and a paper. I went into the office. It had been the newspaper according to the shop owner/worker but not any more. They were printers trying stay alive in the times of desktop publishing. He had not ever printed a newspaper but he said there was some old junk around from the paper laying around the shop. He said they had no old copies the Turtle Lake newspaper. He thought that they had copies at the University of Wisconsin in Madison.
I left the print shop discouraged and we drove around the town some more. There was enough of the old town around to demonstrate how railroad had dominated the town. There were vestiges of a town park next to the train track. An old creamery sat with rusting docks, roofs and doors next to a trackless railroad bed. The brick town depot was reconstructed. It's new menial uses masking its character. A row of the oldest buildings are left facing the forgotten park. One of them had become a video rental store.
Then mom saw a sign that identified a building as the, Turtle Lake Community Library. It looked like 50's post office. A low yellow brick box with big plate glass windows . All of them alike and ugly and I was always dissappointed when I saw one.
Mom and I were nevertheless excited because surely they would have old newspapers and maybe some pictures and even a history. We drove to the door and saw that it would be 5-10 minutes before it was to open. Hours were "MWF," from, "12noon to 4 pm." Requests for money, time and book donations affixed to the windows and door testified to a community revival effort and a staff of volunteers. We were in luck this was a day that the library was open for a half a day, in the afternoon.
As we entered the library quickly filled up with townspeople anxious to get the books they had ordered from the "main" library. They watched us as an audience might watch the new act just "on stage." I didn't realize it at the time but in awhile we would perform for them.
I asked if they had any past publications of the town newspaper. The librarian said that the only place to get those was at the state historical society in Madison. I began to realize that this would mean another trip maybe with my brother, Tom. Mom did not want to go on such a trip because it was to far from home and her daily routine.
Then I asked about whether they had some kind of community history or books about early inhabitants. She said they had a town scrapbook and showed it to mother and I with pride. The book itself was larger than a newspaper page bound between two pieces of shellacked 1/4 inch plywood. It was titled, "Turtle Lake from 1916 to 1966." It was disappointing to see this, 'scrapbook' titled in this way and immediately I was angry. Again I was seeing the familiar Northern European-ized version of the history of this land. It was as though the history of Wisconsin and Minnesota began with arrival of northern European emigrants in the early twentieth century. I quickly looked through the scrap book to see pictures of farmers, a creamery, a train station, a general store and people in overhauls and sun bonnets.
When my mother was a child, in the early Twentieth Century, her mother Sarah would make her and her sisters wear sun bonnets so that they wouldn't darken up in the summer sun. I have always imagined Sarah was protecting her daughters from their native heritage and the social discrimination that went with that connection.
As I paged backwards to the front of the scrapbook I noticed some mimeographed pages glued to the inside front cover. It was titled, "Turtle Lake before 1916." As though all that was important about Turtle Lake before 1916 could be recorded on a few mimeographed pages. But in this case the pages revealed a clear and complete statement that told mom and I all we needed to know to be able to understand our connection with this/our land.
I read, "The only inhabitants in the area before 1916 was the Richardson family, who ran a saw mill and some half-breeds who worked at the mill."
When I read this to mom and she laughed and I laughed. She said, " That would be us!" and we both laughed again. Mom's laugh was that same whiskey laugh of her brother, Leo. By this time the library audience was fully attentive to our performance. We exited to the outside laughing and talking about our 'find'. As we left it occurred to me that the Richardson's of the mimeo'd pages were the same as the Richardson's of the burial stones behind St.Anne's Church.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ IX LUNCH We decided to have lunch in the town. As we drove around I took notice for the first time of the large new gambling casino. A more contemporary testament to the Native nature of the community. We found a restaurant across from the entrance to the casino. It was crowded and we waited briefly for a table. Finally we accepted a table near the restaurant entrance and watched the people who entered the Casino across the highway and the people who came into the restaurant.
I said to mom, "we belong here, don't we ?"
She smiled and said, "yes!"
Buses were unloading people into the casino. Mom said, " Look at those old people, don't they have any thing else to do.
The idea of gambling at a casino is not in mom's world view, though she is famous for buying and winning at the state lottery. She is also famous for her skills at winning in penny-ante poker, especially in our family poker games on Friday nights before we had a T.V. or at our family cabin at Lake Minnewawa.
As we finish our lunch a distinguished looking Native man wearing a brilliant blue jacket which proclaimed his membership in the Turtle Lake Band of Ojibwa Nation passed our table. I noticed mom's eyes follow him. After several minutes of quiet mom asked, "just what tribe are we suppose to be from ?"
I couldn't resist the opportunity to tease her so I said, without hesitation, "the Turtle Lake Band of Ojibwa Nation just like that distinguished looking man in the blue jacket over there."
"DON !" she said.
My mother has always been a keen observer of people and particularly an appreciator of men. I can only imagine what she would have been like before she was engaged to my father. The stories she tells let's me know that she had no trouble in attracting men and breaking their hearts. After her engagement she remained completely loyal to my father through out their fifty year marriage. His mindless jealously was wonderfully wasted over all those years. My father was still getting sore at neighborhood men the year he died at 84, when he decided that they were showing inappropriate interest in her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ X AN ELDER ARRIVAL After lunch we decided to drive to Balsam Lake to check out the court house records. We were out in the color again the sun was lower and the colors were softening in the afternoon sky. The crystal blue sky, provided a stark and uniform backdrop to highlight the colors of the leaves. The roadway was curving and hilly and each turn and hilltop presented a new arena of color.
Mom was excited she wanted to find more about her family. She talked of going to Webster because she remembered family being there. We said that we would make another trip and stay overnight there to check out about family. About two years later I would be in the Webster area and learn that it was at the center of an old Ojibwa community.
At Balsam Lake the county offices were closed and the local newspaper had no archive of old issues. It was suggested that we might find information about her family at the local historical society, which was also closed.
We had apparently reached the end of our journey for that day and it was time to go back ......
Back not only to The Twin Cities,
Back not only to current time
But also back to who we were on that day.
However something had changed. It felt that we each had connected with the another layer of our past and with this place in our past.
Some time before I had given up the need to convince Mom of our Native ancestry. On this day, I had learned about ancestors, who were part of Mom and me. These people were now connected to me and had become connected to mom in a new way.
This had been a profound change for mom. She had moved from a deep sense of loyalty to her immediate family and she was reaching back to gather in other generations of strong, loyal, French Canuk - Canuks' who were Native and French and proud of both heritages. This change of loyalty could be heard when later she told:
- the tale of our day together;
- the story of her family which included the story of Native heritage in her family;
- the stories of fur traders, their native wives, the Native, "princess" who began it all;
- about the Native man, Medore Muloin, who married her father's sister, Auri;
- about the wooden harvest tool that came from the Huron culture;
- about her appreciation of the distinguished looking native man at the cafe.
All these spoke to her expanded loyalty. She had become an Elder of her people. Her view of who she was had gone beyond her family to that group of French Canuk-Canuks, ?half breeds? who lived in Turtle Lake before the, "history," of Turtle Lake began.
As we turned onto the main highway back to Taylors Falls and Minnesota we were driving on a long downhill decent into the St.Croix River Valley. This river is one of the original highways for our family into this land. It was a highway for battles, trade, vision quests, conversions and cultural conquest. People from our past had traveled this river with news of great changes, great dangers and spiritual teachings. Whether it was a native family moving to a seasonal harvest, a French Canuk-Canuk seeking to trade in pelts, a French family from Montreal seeking work or a mother and son visiting a cemetery, this river had always been part of the journey.
As we drove down the hill into the valley I turned on the radio to a classical music station. The announcer introduced a processional from the Elizabethan period titled something like, "The Return of the Queen." It was grand and appropriate. I imagined a bunch of French Canuk-Canuks parading down this hill for a rendezvous with their Native friends and relatives prancing in time to the music and laughing at the presumption of the English/Northern Europeans to claim any right of ascendancy in this land. I imagined my mother amongst the women a powerful and respected elder letting the men act like they were in charge. I imagined me joining them in their walk in the beauty of the colors, the sky and the river.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ EPILOGUE A BATTLE FOR LIFE
(Two Years Later) Saturday, December 19, 1998,12:48am
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Now I am sitting here next to an intensive care unit. Mom is fighting for her life. Heart by - pass surgery was compromised by a weakened heart.
In the morning before the operation she and I had talked. She wanted this surgery to have more strength in living. She said that she was not afraid that she had faith. We had drawn up a living will and she had requested no extraordinary measures.
Now nurses and orderlies surround her bed and she bristles with tubes to breathe, to pump blood, to give adrenalin, to drain blood and generally to control the wild effects of this body tearing surgery. It is a terrible and wonderful thing. The nurses and doctors talk in calm voices that she is stable and doing well and yet when I see her eyes they terrified. I called her name but she can not hear me. The nurse in charge asks me politely to leave while they deal with her choking. "Mom I am here," I say.
We sons,daughter-in-laws, grandchildrens, nieces and sisters weep; discuss; joke; play computer games; say we are "all-right" and sit in various stupors while Mom fights her battle to stay alive. I love the battle to live. It is the only battle worth fighting and it happens from our bodies and spirits first and last. Our mind is but a tool to force the life to stay with us. Mom at 83 fights as though she was 20. Those terrified eyes seem to seek the enemy for this terrible struggle. During the struggle the body looses its connection with the edges and spaces in of the world of things and the Spirit looses human vision.
So mother I applaud your fight and encourage your terror. I honor your living to the last desperate gasp and the last awe full vision. I feel right sitting here trying to understand. Whether we see each other in our bodies again makes no real difference because we have touched our spirits and I have told you that I love you.
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Sunday, December 20, 1998,10:50am
We were just told that Mom is going in to complete the surgery. They have done all the technical things that they can do, the pump will be removed, some of the tubes will be with drawn out and her chest will be closed. In a way she will have her body back to finish her battle.
At the same time my brother and I hook up our own electric reality. Coping with the moment by moment fear we use our lap tops and the modems to somehow speak to the fates about keeping our mom alive. It is hard to say who is more wired and in what ways.
Pulling the pump, removing the shunt closing up the hole over her heart is happening as I write my reality. At 83 she should be having walks with her great grandchildren and drives with her sons and lunches with her family. The way of doing this seems powerful but not in harmony with the ways that we feel most comfortable. At this time however I have no choice but to trust this way.
All my experience in recent times with my mom have shown another way holds our most important truth. A way that shows itself in coincidence and laughter and miracles. I have learned that this other way is going on all the time but at this time I cannot find it. Writing helps to unlock the coincidence, laughter and miracles and as I write I feel more whole and less afraid.
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Wednesday, December 23, 1998,08:54am
I awoke in plenty of time to go. I didn't want to go again. I wanted to sleep and I could have just slept. It is really a minor operation and should go easily, but I have watched her breathe and I know it is a struggle for her to breathe. She is game to do whatever will get her out of this place but I am never-the-less afraid. So sleeping is more appealing than going to the hospital and being with mom.
So I take my time and tell myself that they will be late with her as usual. I had planned to be there at 7:30 and we don't arrive until 8:20. I am concerned about her teeth. I know that she wants me to take care of them and if she is gone some one may have already taken them.
We arrived at the room and she is gone. The nurse suggests the, 'Quiet Room' and I ask for her teeth. There is a blink of the nurses eyes she is put off by my mundane concern, yet she gets the teeth and directs us to the Quiet Room.
Once again at the mercy of uncertainty, fear, and the gods of time. Mom is here for another surgery. It is her fourth in less than a week. Tough times for a tough old women. This morning she threatened to get our of her bed in the, "Quiet Room," hospital jargon for the waiting pen for surgery.
To get to the 'Quiet Room' you have to walk
- past doors that say 'Restricted, Clean Area, Prohibited, Etc.'
- past doctors lining the corridor waiting for their turn in the surgery pit
- past a white note board with green ink letters describing who is to get what, in what order
- past nurses dressed for Christmas
- and past decorations for the season.
All of it seeming to attempt to humanize the intuitively inhuman.
My older brother, Joe (in a bright orange parka, tattered ten gallon cowboy hat, well oiled cowboy boots, brown pin stripe suit and flannel shirt) and me (in my green coat/maroon vest combo, Buffalo skin peasant cap, colombian striped shirt, jeans, hiking boots, beard and pony tail) arrive just as she is saying, "Oh! they will be here.". What mother in a 'Quiet Room' would not be overjoyed to see us. Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the nature of a mother's love.
Mom is, however, is truly happy to see us and gives us a loving smile. She says to her nurse, " I knew they would be here." The nurse, dressed in a uniform with Christmas decorations including mistletoe socks(?) smirks at us. I can tell from the nurses expression that she feels that Mom has drawn a, "real," pair to a winning hand. Little does she realize that mom with two other sons has four of a kind.
~~~~~~~~~~ Now I am waiting in the, "Surgery Waiting Room," and I am watching as families come and go with pain, fear, hope and love. Not a bad place to be just before Christmas.
Saturday, January 2, 1999,07:47pm
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Mom survived it all only loosing her lower dentures. Thankfully the loss did not happen on my watch. I also survived the season and her battle. I am glad that she made it, for you see, I enjoy the time I have with her.
© Copyright Don Bacigalupo, 7/8/1999