I do breakfast

Have you ever noticed how the never-ending cycle of daily life keeps us from thinking about our own death? I will be celebrating my 77th birthday on May 27, and because the number 7 has always been my favourite number, I’d like to enjoy one or two more if I can. To celebrate my 77, 87 and 97 years on this planet would fill me with happiness! After that, God willing, I’ll fly away. Rest assured, I firmly intend on living my final days to the fullest! Dressed all in pink this morning, I feel like my heart is still 20. My fingers type away on the keyboard and make up little tales of love about passing moments. There is so much that captivates me: a handsome man’s smile, a compliment about my clothes, cookies from a thoughtful neighbour. Aging happily may be the key to longevity. With that in mind, dear readers, lately I’ve been scouring self-help magazines for articles on the end of life, noting all the helpful ways we can positively impact our future over the long term. Without wanting to seem like I have all the answers, I’d like to share what I’ve gathered. Don’t be afraid of getting old, love your age and celebrate your birthdays. Throw the slow loss of independence, the dip in vitality and daily boredom straight out the window. Transform daily monotony into a celebration of life. A long life is Heaven’s gift – grab the opportunity by the horns. It’s now or never. Add up the good days that go by because they’re the most precious thing we have. Transfer your wisdom to loved ones so they can learn from your example in advance. Give yourself the opportunity to experience each day at least one thing that is meaningful to you. Learn a new word, visit a friend or show yourself kindness. Dare to be optimistic! Approaching change with a sense of wonder instead of apprehension allows us to remain curious and enthusiastic about the future. Write down five new things you’d like to accomplish this year. Don’t be afraid. Our abilities multiply with age. Remind yourself of the five or six most important things you have learned to do in your long life. The older we get, the closer we are to unknown territories. We’ve earned the right to freely explore the rest of our lives, without limits or hesitation. There’s always time for us to change the way we live. Open up to others, consider our best friends as members of the family. Name three or four who can become your safety net and make them a priority. Learn something new and share your knowledge with them. Give them the right to teach us something in return. Exercise without thinking about it; pedal while you’re watching TV. Get out of the house for no reason in particular. Wander in nature and admire the landscape. Let your smartwatch calculate your number of daily steps. Eat slowly and, if possible, in good company. Paying attention to what we’re swallowing allows us to eat less and savour more. Simplify your life. Clean out your closet and give away what you no longer want. Lighten your load! Birds fly because they have no baggage. Stop hesitating, and let your emotions speak. Éric Simard, a biologist, believes it’s a decisive factor in enjoying a long life. He also says that regularly seeing friends and family increases our life expectancy. Before we fly away, we should heal our souls of all the wounds that have made us miserable. Rejection, abandonment, betrayal, injustice, humiliation. They’ve all inflicted their wounds on me to some extent. At one point, I read the excellent book Heal Your Wounds & Find Your True Self by Lise Bourbeau to help restore my spirit. It’s never too late to make up for our mistakes or to learn how to live better. Old yet still spry, I’m the worst for inventing a thousand detours on the road to love! Dear readers, I dillydally, I have fun. In the end, I’m simply trying to delight you with millions of loving words. Cora ❤

Dear readers, it’s the end of March and my journalist friend reached out to me, suggesting I answer a few of her weighty questions to remove the dust from my mind. I’m happy to play along. — What are the three things that give your life meaning? My children give my life meaning. They give me the assurance that I belong somewhere, that I’m part of a family and an important link that ties the siblings together. Also, the business I created and which has shaped me into a successful entrepreneur. I truly don’t know how I acquired my business acumen. Maybe it’s because of my creativity, hard work and remarkable knack for grasping the franchising concept and doing business in Canada. Last but not least, although it only came to me later, writing is part of my everyday life now and, like a big ocean liner, it allows me to be a tourist in my own life and revisit each port before the final getaway. — What are your three greatest qualities? Courage, creativity and perseverance. All my efforts have been wrapped in courage. A bit of creativity drops from the sky every time I need it, and I constantly work on improving myself and my writing. I try to grow flowers in the desert. For hours on end, I can refine my words to make them white Bengal tigers, mandarinfish or fabulous birds of paradise. — What are the three most courageous acts you’ve accomplished? The first was to keep my baby although the father wanted me to have an abortion. Then it was to flee with my three children in tow after 13 years of conjugal misery. Finally, without a penny to my name, I opened the first small breakfast restaurant, which miraculously became a major restaurant chain. — What are three memories that remain with you to this day? I will never forget my mother’s mummified hand, incessantly plagued my eczema. Her broken face when I had to identify her body at the morgue after she had a head-on collision while she was driving with my three children. The extremely difficult delivery of my firstborn, who had to be taken out of my belly with forceps. — Name three regrets you’ll never be able to forget. When I was young, it was easy to regret something: a bad grade in school, a bad tennis game. As I grew older, I learned that everything was necessary. Like salt and pepper, the better and worse are also part of a life’s recipe. To quote the famous Édith Piaf, whom I still like a lot, I would also say Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien. (“No, nothing at all. No, I have no regrets.”) — What are the three most difficult things you’ve had to accept? Many difficult things have come my way in life, it’s true, but I refuse to count them. You’re more or less familiar with my life story by now. With time, a big obstacle turns into a small flood, which eventually dries up. I try to avoid the extremes: very high/very low, yes/no, the good/the bad, white/black. I prefer thinking of myself as squarely in the middle. — Name three things that still torment you. I am terrified of snakes, even the small ones that lived in the fields behind Grandpa Frédéric’s house. I’m also inexplicably afraid of mice. My old country house is right up against a forest. I love the deers, wild turkeys, groundhogs and big crows I come across, but I’m frightened by a mouse’s small black tail in a cupboard! I’m also a bit wary of the police when I’m driving through the towns of our beautiful country. Distracted by the beauty of the surroundings, I sometimes forget to stop at intersections. — Who are three good friends that are still in your life today? Generally, you can count your best friends on your fingers. As I get older, however, I’m working less and writing more. For the past three years now, I’ve been typing away at the local coffee shop. As a result, I have more and more good friends around me, and I’m glad for it! I introduced them to you, dear readers, in my letter Thirteen for dinner, published on January 21. — Tell me about three desires you still haven’t fulfilled. What a huge hill that word is, desire! A small thing happens to me, like a compliment, a look, a smile, and my heart hits the “desire” switch. Haven’t I passed the age to take my desires for reality? I’m not so sure! I still snatch at the crumbs of affection that fly up when I shake the tablecloth. — What are the three compliments you receive the most often? Since I read all the comments my loyal readers write, I honestly think that my letters are my greatest object of praise. My colourful glasses and clothes come in second. I stand out, I have fun, but I firmly believe this originality does me good. Dressing up in bright colours, choosing matching accessories and lipstick, styling my hair – these are all small creative moments that bring me joy each day. Lastly, it’s true that I get a lot of compliments on my culinary skills! They once helped build the business, but I continue to use them to delight those close to me, especially my grandkids. A thousand thank-you’s, dear Isabel. Cora ❤

This is a story I learned through the crooked branches of our genealogical tree. Ancestors Charles-Louis and Philomena Van Zandweghe crossed the ocean from Belgium to begin a new life at the turn of the 20th century. With their half-dozen children, two of Charles-Louis’ brothers and a group of friends made up of priests, a baker, a carpenter, a butcher, a notary and linen weavers, they settled in the village of Caplan, in the Gaspé wilds. The call of adventure, the chance to own farmland and the quest for a better life were enough for the Belgians to venture to this foreign land. The place became known unofficially as “Little Belgium” and later took on its present-day name, Saint-Alphonse-de-Caplan. That is where the heroine of my story was born, on October 1, 1884, some 15 years before the Belgians set foot in the province of Quebec. I can hardly imagine the psyche of this young girl, condemned to live a dirt poor life on an arid earth that the settlers at that time had nicknamed “The Ordeal.” Her thoughts, her beliefs and her outlook were forged in a village where logging was the main activity. She hung around lumbermen, farmers, children who attended a one-room schoolhouse, a teacher and probably a priest. During her formative teenage years, I suppose the young girl developed her own identity, ideas and feelings. I would trade in all my wisdom to the devil to discover how she became such an admirable young woman. Unfortunately I have little information about her life to recount. What I do know is that her life took a turn when the Belgians arrived. For better or worse, dear readers, it’s up to you to decide. One beautiful Sunday morning, a smartly dressed man caught the attention of my heroine standing on the church steps. It was obvious that this stranger wasn’t a local. The young woman inquired and learned from the church official that a liner had just docked in Bonaventure. “Another shipload of Belgians!” she exclaimed. Wanting to make a good impression the next time she saw the stranger, she made herself a pretty pleated skirt with a bolero from the dress of a great aunt who’d passed. She waited anxiously for Sunday to arrive. A short while later, they were married on September 8, 1913. The beautiful bride was 29 and her handsome George, a year younger. For the sake of this story, let’s call the husband “Big George,” the one who never got his hands dirty. My leading lady quickly understood that her man preferred to show off his expensive clothes rather than weed the garden by hand. Big George hated manual labour. He always had a good excuse to get out of tilling the land, hauling firewood, feeding the animals, etc. He enjoyed going to the village, drinking gin at the general store, mailing a letter or taking over two hours to find himself a prettier, younger fish to fry and play with. All Big George was good for was helping to increase the population of the immigrant town, which was in desperate need of strong, able arms. Convinced he was doing his fair share of efforts, he got his wife pregnant eight times in 12 years: four boys and four girls to feed. It became necessary to extend the kitchen table, quadruple the size of the garden, bleed three pigs a summer, salt seven to eight barrels of cod and purchase a second horse, two new cows, brood hens, a few dogs, a metal bathtub and sensibly priced fabric to dress the kids. My heroine often cried in silence, especially when Big George had been drinking and made sexual advances that were no longer welcome. Rain or shine, she would avoid him at all costs. She cooked, sewed, did the laundry, cleaned the house and went out after dinner to weed her garden. I can picture her tired body, deformed, her arched back, her chapped hands, her cracked fingers uprooting the weeds while praying to God that the earth would feed her flock of children. Alone in her garden at dusk, she’d confide her feelings to the scarecrow. With everything she had sown, she’d tell herself, the kids would at least eat well and there’d be enough left over for canning. At the end of September, the poor exhausted mother had to be taken to the apothecary in the neighbouring village. She’d fallen while carrying a huge bucket of boiling water for Big George’s bath. Her arms, abdomen and legs were scalded, causing her great pain. She needed ointment. While she sat on a stool waiting, she overheard a few men talking about the gold mines in Timmins, Ontario. Many able-bodied men, both young and old, were headed there to make good money. The conversation didn’t fall on deaf ears. This hard-working woman decided her four sons would become miners and her four daughters would help her open a restaurant for the mines’ workers. A few days later, the woman confided her plan to the parish priest. She’d leave for Ontario with her sons who were old enough to work at the mines. She and her daughters would open and run a restaurant to feed the miners. “Make fishermen, farmers or priests of them instead!” replied the man in the neatly ironed black cloak. “God needs middlemen down here to save our souls.” The wife and mother didn’t reply. She thanked the priest for his sound advice and said goodbye. As for Big George and his new prince consort attire, the older he got, the more he hated Saint-Alphonse-de-Caplan. When his wife suggested he visit his clergymen cousins who lived in Rhode Island, he quickly seized the opportunity to jump ship and escape “The Ordeal.” Very few people noticed the quiet departure of the woman and her eight children. They made their way to Montreal first, and then boarded a train bound for Timmins. When she reached her destination, my heroine was buzzing with enthusiasm. Two days after their arrival, she laid eyes on a large, abandoned house, not far from the mining facilities. At the notary’s, she shrewdly weighed her purse’s contents and offered half the requested amount. The boys started at the mine and the girls helped their mother in the kitchen and waited tables. The business immediately flourished thanks to the mother’s culinary talents and the “special favours” that some of the accommodating waitresses provided to the best male customers in the rooms above the restaurant. And so, after so much misery, that’s how my heroine improved her circumstances. I’ve often wanted to tell this story before, but hesitated each time. I was ashamed that a woman in my family had relied upon “special favours” to earn her bread. She died in Kapuskasing, Ontario, on July 5, 1967, shortly after I turned 20. Her name was also Cora. She was my father’s mother. And my enterprising grandmother. Cora ❤