Voici une histoire que j\u2019ai apprise entre les branches caboss\u00e9es de notre arbre g\u00e9n\u00e9alogique. Venus de la lointaine Belgique, les anc\u00eatres Charles-Louis et Philomena\u00a0Van\u00a0Zandweghe ont travers\u00e9 l\u2019oc\u00e9an vers une nouvelle vie. Accompagn\u00e9s de leur demi-douzaine d\u2019enfants, de deux des fr\u00e8res de Charles-Louis et de quelques amis, dont deux religieux, un boulanger, un charpentier, un boucher, un notaire et des experts en filature du lin, ils ont fait le voyage pour s\u2019\u00e9tablir dans l\u2019arri\u00e8re-pays gasp\u00e9sien \u00e0 la hauteur du village de Caplan. L\u2019appel de l\u2019aventure, la possibilit\u00e9 de poss\u00e9der des terres agricoles bien \u00e0 eux et la qu\u00eate d\u2019une vie meilleure encourag\u00e8rent le groupe de Belges \u00e0 s\u2019installer. Ils nomm\u00e8rent vite l\u2019endroit \u00ab\u00a0Petite Belgique\u00a0\u00bb et ensuite \u00ab\u00a0Saint-Alphonse-de-Caplan\u00a0\u00bb.<\/p>\n
C\u2019est \u00e0 cet endroit que naquit l\u2019h\u00e9ro\u00efne de mon histoire le 1er<\/sup>\u00a0octobre\u00a01884, quelque quinze ans avant l\u2019arriv\u00e9e des Belges en sol qu\u00e9b\u00e9cois. J\u2019imagine difficilement la psych\u00e9 de cette petite fille condamn\u00e9e \u00e0 vivre tr\u00e8s pauvrement sur une terre aride que les d\u00e9fricheurs de l\u2019\u00e9poque avaient baptis\u00e9e le Calvaire. Ses id\u00e9es, ses croyances et sa programmation mentale furent form\u00e9es dans un village dont l\u2019exploitation foresti\u00e8re constituait l\u2019activit\u00e9 principale. Elle c\u00f4toyait des b\u00fbcherons, des cultivateurs, quelques enfants dans une \u00e9cole de rang, une ma\u00eetresse d\u2019\u00e9cole et tr\u00e8s probablement un cur\u00e9.<\/p>\n Je donnerais toute ma sagesse au Bonhomme Sept Heures pour comprendre comment elle a fait pour devenir une jeune femme aussi admirable. Je d\u00e9tiens malheureusement trop peu d\u2019information sur sa vie de l\u2019\u00e9poque pour en discourir \u00e0 loisir. Ce n\u2019est que lorsque les Belges arriv\u00e8rent que sa vie se transforma. Pour le mieux ou pour le pire, \u00e0 vous, chers lecteurs, d\u2019en d\u00e9cider!<\/p>\n Un dimanche sur le perron de l\u2019\u00e9glise, un homme tir\u00e9 \u00e0 quatre \u00e9pingles attira le regard de mon h\u00e9ro\u00efne. \u00c7a se voyait \u00e0 l\u2019\u0153il nu que l\u2019\u00e9tranger venait d\u2019ailleurs. La jeune femme se renseigna et apprit du bedeau qu\u2019un paquebot venait tout juste de s\u2019amarrer au grand quai de Bonaventure. \u00ab\u00a0Encore une cargaison de Belges!\u00a0\u00bb, s\u2019exclama-t-elle au bedeau.<\/p>\n Comme elle voulait se montrer \u00e0 son meilleur pour revoir l\u2019\u00e9tranger, elle se confectionna une belle jupe pliss\u00e9e et un petit bol\u00e9ro \u00e0 partir de la robe d\u2019une grand-tante d\u00e9c\u00e9d\u00e9e. La femme avait h\u00e2te au dimanche suivant pour le revoir. Et patati et patata, quelques semaines plus tard, le mariage fut c\u00e9l\u00e9br\u00e9 le lundi\u00a08\u00a0septembre\u00a01913! La jolie mari\u00e9e avait vingt-neuf\u00a0ans et son beau George une ann\u00e9e de moins.<\/p>\n Pour les besoins de l\u2019histoire, appelons le mari, celui qui ne se salissait jamais les doigts, \u00ab\u00a0Gros George\u00a0\u00bb. Mon h\u00e9ro\u00efne comprit rapidement que son homme pr\u00e9f\u00e9rait exhiber ses fringues dispendieuses plut\u00f4t que d\u2019arracher \u00e0 la main les mauvaises herbes du jardin. Gros George d\u00e9testait le travail manuel. Cultiver la terre, charrier le bois de chauffage, nourrir les animaux; l\u2019homme avait toujours une bonne raison pour se d\u00e9filer. Il aimait aller au village, boire un gin chez l\u2019\u00e9picier, mettre une lettre \u00e0 la poste ou prendre deux heures pour choisir une belle morue\u2026 avec qui s\u2019offrir du bon temps.<\/p>\n Tout ce que Gros George fit de bon fut de peupler rapidement la bourgade d\u2019immigrants qui avaient de bons bras pour travailler. Convaincu qu\u2019il faisait sa juste part d\u2019efforts, l\u2019homme engrossa son \u00e9pouse huit fois en douze ans. Quatre gar\u00e7ons et quatre filles \u00e0 nourrir. Il fallut donc agrandir la table de cuisine, quadrupler l\u2019\u00e9tendue du jardin, saigner trois cochons par \u00e9t\u00e9, saler sept \u00e0 huit barils de morues, acheter un second cheval, deux nouvelles vaches, des poules couveuses, quelques chiens, une baignoire en m\u00e9tal et des tissus \u00e0 bon prix pour v\u00eatir la marmaille.<\/p>\n Mon h\u00e9ro\u00efne pleurait en silence trop souvent, surtout lorsque Gros George picolait et voulait tremper sa bite l\u00e0 o\u00f9 il ne fallait plus. Qu\u2019il pleuve ou qu\u2019il vente \u00e0 \u00e9corner les b\u0153ufs, la femme le fuyait. Elle cuisinait, cousait, lavait, nettoyait et sortait apr\u00e8s souper pour sarcler son jardin. J\u2019imagine son corps fatigu\u00e9, d\u00e9form\u00e9, son dos courb\u00e9, ses mains gerc\u00e9es, ses doigts fendill\u00e9s d\u00e9racinant les mauvaises herbes en priant le Bon Dieu pour que la terre puisse nourrir sa ribambelle d\u2019enfants. Bien souvent seule dans le jardin \u00e0 la brunante, elle confiait ses \u00e9tats d\u2019\u00e2me \u00e0 l\u2019\u00e9pouvantail \u00e0 moineaux. Tout ce qu\u2019elle aura sem\u00e9, se dit-elle, les enfants le mangeront avec app\u00e9tit et il en restera pour faire des conserves.<\/p>\n Fin septembre, la pauvre m\u00e8re \u00e9puis\u00e9e dut \u00eatre conduite chez l\u2019apothicaire du village voisin. Elle avait chut\u00e9 en transportant un immense seau d\u2019eau bouillante pour le bain de Gros George. Ses bras, son ventre et ses jambes \u00e9bouillant\u00e9es et br\u00fblantes la faisaient souffrir. Elle avait besoin d\u2019un onguent. On lui offrit un tabouret et elle patienta. Elle entendit surtout quelques m\u00e2les parler des mines d\u2019or de Timmins, en Ontario. Beaucoup d\u2019hommes, jeunes ou vieux, mais en sant\u00e9, s\u2019y rendaient pour gagner du bon argent. La conversation n\u2019\u00e9tait pas tomb\u00e9e dans l\u2019oreille d\u2019une sourde. Elle qui travaillait si fort! Ses quatre gar\u00e7ons deviendraient des mineurs, se dit-elle, et ses quatre filles l\u2019aideraient \u00e0 ouvrir un restaurant pour les travailleurs de la mine.<\/p>\n Quelques jours plus tard, la femme se confia au cur\u00e9 de la paroisse. Elle avait un plan en t\u00eate. Elle partirait pour l\u2019Ontario avec ses gar\u00e7ons en \u00e2ge de travailler dans les mines. Elle et ses filles ouvriraient un restaurant pour nourrir les mineurs. \u00ab\u00a0Faites-en des p\u00eacheurs, des cultivateurs ou des cur\u00e9s!, r\u00e9torqua l\u2019homme en soutane noire bien press\u00e9e. Dieu a besoin d\u2019interm\u00e9diaires ici-bas pour sauver les \u00e2mes.\u00a0\u00bb La m\u00e8re de famille n\u2019ajouta mot. Elle remercia le cur\u00e9 pour ses bonbons forts et lui dit adieu.<\/p>\n Quant \u00e0 Gros George et ses nouvelles fringues de prince consort, plus il vieillissait, plus il d\u00e9testait Saint-Alphonse-de-Caplan. Lorsque son \u00e9pouse lui sugg\u00e9ra d\u2019aller visiter ses cousins cur\u00e9s au Rhode Island, il sauta sur l\u2019occasion pour s\u2019\u00e9vader. Il devait \u00eatre loin de se douter de ce que son \u00e9pouse manigan\u00e7ait.<\/p>\n Peu de personnes remarqu\u00e8rent le d\u00e9part incognito de la femme et de ses huit enfants. Ils se rendirent d\u2019abord \u00e0 Montr\u00e9al et embarqu\u00e8rent dans un train qui les mena jusqu\u2019\u00e0 Timmins. En arrivant \u00e0 destination, mon h\u00e9ro\u00efne bouillait d\u2019enthousiasme. Le surlendemain de leur arriv\u00e9e, elle zieuta une grande maison abandonn\u00e9e \u00e0 courte distance du complexe minier. Devant le notaire, la m\u00e8re pr\u00e9voyante t\u00e2ta son bas de laine et offrit la moiti\u00e9 du montant demand\u00e9. Les gar\u00e7ons entr\u00e8rent \u00e0 la mine et les filles aid\u00e8rent leur m\u00e8re en cuisine et au service.<\/p>\n Rapidement, le commerce devint tr\u00e8s florissant gr\u00e2ce aux talents culinaires de la m\u00e8re et aux faveurs particuli\u00e8res que les serveuses conciliantes accordaient aux meilleurs clients, moyennant une r\u00e9tribution, dans les chambres \u00e0 l\u2019\u00e9tage.<\/p>\n Oui, oui! C\u2019est donc ainsi qu\u2019apr\u00e8s mille mis\u00e8res, mon h\u00e9ro\u00efne tenanci\u00e8re de bordel, et restauratrice, s\u2019\u00e9tait enrichie. J\u2019ai souvent voulu raconter son histoire, mais chaque fois, j\u2019h\u00e9sitais. J\u2019avais honte qu\u2019une vieille femme de ma lign\u00e9e ait eu recours \u00e0 des \u00ab\u00a0faveurs\u00a0particuli\u00e8res\u00a0\u00bb pour gagner sa cro\u00fbte. Cette femme est morte \u00e0 Kapuskasing en Ontario le 5\u00a0juillet 1967, alors que je venais tout juste d\u2019avoir vingt\u00a0ans.<\/p>\n Elle aussi s\u2019appelait Cora. Cora Voici une histoire que j\u2019ai apprise entre les branches caboss\u00e9es de notre […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":77167,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-77166","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"This is a story I learned through the crooked branches of our genealogical tree. Ancestors Charles-Louis and Philomena Van\u00a0Zandweghe crossed the ocean from Belgium to begin a new life at the turn of the 20th<\/sup> century. With their half-dozen children, two of Charles-Louis\u2019 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 Gasp\u00e9 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 \u201cLittle Belgium\u201d and later took on its present-day name, Saint-Alphonse-de-Caplan.\r\n\r\nThat is where the heroine of my story was born, on October\u00a01, 1884, some 15\u00a0years 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 \u201cThe Ordeal.\u201d 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.\r\n\r\nDuring 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\u2019s up to you to decide.\r\n\r\nOne 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\u2019t a local. The young woman inquired and learned from the church official that a liner had just docked in Bonaventure. \u201cAnother shipload of Belgians!\u201d she exclaimed.\r\n\r\nWanting 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\u2019d 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.\r\n\r\nFor the sake of this story, let\u2019s call the husband \u201cBig George,\u201d 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.\r\n\r\nAll 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\u00a0times in 12 years: four\u00a0boys and four\u00a0girls 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.\r\n\r\nMy 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\u2019d confide her feelings to the scarecrow. With everything she had sown, she\u2019d tell herself, the kids would at least eat well and there\u2019d be enough left over for canning.\r\n\r\nAt the end of September, the poor exhausted mother had to be taken to the apothecary in the neighbouring village. She\u2019d fallen while carrying a huge bucket of boiling water for Big George\u2019s 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\u2019t 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\u2019 workers.\r\n\r\nA few days later, the woman confided her plan to the parish priest. She\u2019d 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. \u201cMake fishermen, farmers or priests of them instead!\u201d replied the man in the neatly ironed black cloak. \u201cGod needs middlemen down here to save our souls.\u201d The wife and mother didn\u2019t reply. She thanked the priest for his sound advice and said goodbye.\r\n\r\nAs 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 \u201cThe Ordeal.\u201d\r\n\r\nVery 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\u2019s, she shrewdly weighed her purse\u2019s 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.\r\n\r\nThe business immediately flourished thanks to the mother\u2019s culinary talents and the \u201cspecial favours\u201d that some of the accommodating waitresses provided to the best male customers in the rooms above the restaurant.\r\n\r\nAnd so, after so much misery, that\u2019s how my heroine improved her circumstances. I\u2019ve often wanted to tell this story before, but hesitated each time. I was ashamed that a woman in my family had relied upon \u201cspecial favours\u201d to earn her bread. She died in Kapuskasing, Ontario, on July 5, 1967, shortly after I turned 20.\r\n\r\nHer name was also Cora.\r\nShe was my father\u2019s mother.\r\nAnd my enterprising grandmother.\r\n\r\nCora\r\n\u2764"},"yoast_head":"\n
\nElle \u00e9tait la m\u00e8re de mon p\u00e8re.
\nEt mon audacieuse grand-m\u00e8re.<\/p>\n
\n\u2764<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"