of war against popular Western culture. Television was the Enemy.
The bonsai turned out to be an insufficient argument, so, without even reading the riot act, my mother ousted us from the Bunker, right in the middle of a James Bond festival. We would have to catch Moonraker some other time.
Brutally forced to go cold turkey, we wandered the streets looking for a substitute—any screen would do. The Princess Theatre was closed for the week (due to “flooding,” according to the sign taped to the door, but we assumed this meant the plumbing). Hope looked over the fall program of the Great Explorers and appeared mildly interested in the visit of Katia Krafft, scheduled for late November. But could we survive until then in the absence of televised stimulation?
The sun was setting, and Hope suggested we go to the drive-in theatre. Unfortunately, the only drive-in in the area had closed down years ago, and since then the screen had been used for target practice by men at loose ends who, on Friday nights, would come down to empty their .22s and drink lukewarm Black Label beer. It was a destination best avoided.
Hope sighed and kicked at a steel bolt, which in turn put a star-shaped ding in the door of a big, brand-new Ford. She asked me if I thought my mother’s TV embargo would be maintained for much longer.
“Until I go to university, I guess. When she’s made her mind up about something, she sticks to her guns.”
(Which, come to think of it, reminded me of someone else I knew.)
In our boredom, we watched the mercury arc street-lamps light up one by one along Lafontaine Street. The notice in the window of the funeral co-op announced a wake for Mrs. Louis-Robert Gendron-Lavallée, who had passed away on the night of July 13. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the Canadian Cancer Society.
At times the apocalypse seemed very near. At other times, it seemed far, far away.
41. THE OPHIR III
Having squeezed the tent, sleeping bags and cooler into the trunk of the Honda, we fled the city like a couple of neo-hippies, with the windows down and our hair blowing in the wind.
We headed randomly eastward. At Cacouna, we tried our luck on a tractor road that snaked through black spruce until it reached a rocky cove. The place was deserted, sunny and reeked of kelp. Adopted unanimously.
We spent a languid afternoon reading in the sun. The wind drove away the occasional mosquito, and the beer waited in the cooler for nightfall. Suntan lotion and hot dogs cooked over hot coals—the camping trip was a veritable anthology of the maudlin clichés that make life bearable. Yes, with the city far behind and the Cold War receding to a distant horizon, life all at once seemed oh so bearable.
While she stirred the embers with a twig, Hope brought me up to date on her mother, who had succeeded (believe it or not) in getting hired at a bar without so much as an interview. Hope asked me if I knew the place. It was called the Ophir.
“You mean the Ophir III ,” I specified. Of course I knew it. It was legendary in Rivière-du-Loup.
The very first Ophir was a hotel built during the boom generated by the Grand Trunk. It looked like a gold-rush brothel: a white four-storey building, all wood and banisters, set on the side of a hill. However, this historic building burned down in sketchy circumstances at the end of the 1960s and was immediately replaced by the Ophir II, Serving Canadian and Polynesian Food. This second avatar also went up in smoke as a result of an unfortunate deep-fryer mishap. Since then, the renowned street corner has been occupied by the Ophir III. Bar Salon Fireproof— Bienvenue aux Dames .
Of course, the surrounding neighbourhood had not retained very much of its heritage charm. The Grand Trunk trains, hauled by locomotives spewing fire and steam, had given way to liquid nitrogen tank cars and to containers—Maersk, Hanjin, Hapag-Lloyd and China Shipping.
“Interesting story,” Hope said.
She pulled
The bonsai turned out to be an insufficient argument, so, without even reading the riot act, my mother ousted us from the Bunker, right in the middle of a James Bond festival. We would have to catch Moonraker some other time.
Brutally forced to go cold turkey, we wandered the streets looking for a substitute—any screen would do. The Princess Theatre was closed for the week (due to “flooding,” according to the sign taped to the door, but we assumed this meant the plumbing). Hope looked over the fall program of the Great Explorers and appeared mildly interested in the visit of Katia Krafft, scheduled for late November. But could we survive until then in the absence of televised stimulation?
The sun was setting, and Hope suggested we go to the drive-in theatre. Unfortunately, the only drive-in in the area had closed down years ago, and since then the screen had been used for target practice by men at loose ends who, on Friday nights, would come down to empty their .22s and drink lukewarm Black Label beer. It was a destination best avoided.
Hope sighed and kicked at a steel bolt, which in turn put a star-shaped ding in the door of a big, brand-new Ford. She asked me if I thought my mother’s TV embargo would be maintained for much longer.
“Until I go to university, I guess. When she’s made her mind up about something, she sticks to her guns.”
(Which, come to think of it, reminded me of someone else I knew.)
In our boredom, we watched the mercury arc street-lamps light up one by one along Lafontaine Street. The notice in the window of the funeral co-op announced a wake for Mrs. Louis-Robert Gendron-Lavallée, who had passed away on the night of July 13. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the Canadian Cancer Society.
At times the apocalypse seemed very near. At other times, it seemed far, far away.
41. THE OPHIR III
Having squeezed the tent, sleeping bags and cooler into the trunk of the Honda, we fled the city like a couple of neo-hippies, with the windows down and our hair blowing in the wind.
We headed randomly eastward. At Cacouna, we tried our luck on a tractor road that snaked through black spruce until it reached a rocky cove. The place was deserted, sunny and reeked of kelp. Adopted unanimously.
We spent a languid afternoon reading in the sun. The wind drove away the occasional mosquito, and the beer waited in the cooler for nightfall. Suntan lotion and hot dogs cooked over hot coals—the camping trip was a veritable anthology of the maudlin clichés that make life bearable. Yes, with the city far behind and the Cold War receding to a distant horizon, life all at once seemed oh so bearable.
While she stirred the embers with a twig, Hope brought me up to date on her mother, who had succeeded (believe it or not) in getting hired at a bar without so much as an interview. Hope asked me if I knew the place. It was called the Ophir.
“You mean the Ophir III ,” I specified. Of course I knew it. It was legendary in Rivière-du-Loup.
The very first Ophir was a hotel built during the boom generated by the Grand Trunk. It looked like a gold-rush brothel: a white four-storey building, all wood and banisters, set on the side of a hill. However, this historic building burned down in sketchy circumstances at the end of the 1960s and was immediately replaced by the Ophir II, Serving Canadian and Polynesian Food. This second avatar also went up in smoke as a result of an unfortunate deep-fryer mishap. Since then, the renowned street corner has been occupied by the Ophir III. Bar Salon Fireproof— Bienvenue aux Dames .
Of course, the surrounding neighbourhood had not retained very much of its heritage charm. The Grand Trunk trains, hauled by locomotives spewing fire and steam, had given way to liquid nitrogen tank cars and to containers—Maersk, Hanjin, Hapag-Lloyd and China Shipping.
“Interesting story,” Hope said.
She pulled
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