that untranslatable well-being the Germans call
Gemütlichkeit
, making it a place that is not a place at all: home.
For supper, the McCarthys have driven five miles north to the town of Exeter for burgers and shakes. Exeter is neat and prosperous, butif you hope to find an A&W you have to drive in the other direction, toward London. There is a good family restaurant, however, and the four of them slid into a booth.
The people in the restaurant knew right away that the McCarthys were from the air force station. When it comes time for dessert, they move from their booth to the counter, and Jack and Mimi chat with the owners. They always make a point of meeting local people, whether they are in Alberta or Alsace. People are people, let’s make the most of life. And they usually get a warm reception, even from those locals who are suspicious of the stream of temporary neighbours who reliably enrich the local community chest, but can otherwise unnerve the stable population. It never takes Jack and Mimi long to belong. But it is not meant to last and it usually doesn’t, beyond a Christmas card or two after the next posting.
“How’s the pie?” Jack asks.
“Homemade,” replies a woman of few words behind the counter.
“Say no more,” says Jack, and orders a slice with cheese.
Madeleine watches the man at the grill flipping burgers. Is he the woman’s husband? He is thin and she is fat.
Jack Sprat…
.
“What’ll it be, Madeleine?” her father asks.
She looks up into the pasty face of the woman. “Um. Do you have Neapolitan please?”
“With a cherry on top?” asks the woman, without cracking a smile.
“S’il vous plaît
,” says Madeleine without planning it.
The woman smiles and says, “Come-on-tally-voo?” then pinches Madeleine’s cheek, but not painfully. Ladies behind counters are similar the world over. They like to give you things, they like to feel a hunk of your face between thumb and forefinger.
Belonging and not belonging. Being on the outside and the inside at the same time. For Madeleine it is as natural, as negligible, as breathing. And the idea of growing up in the midst of your own past—among people who have known you all your life and believe they know what you are made of, what you are capable of—that is a suffocating thought.
“What about your IGA here?” asks Mimi. “They have a good butcher?” A rich vein of conversation opens. Butchers from here to London are discussed. This leads to children’s shoes, the schoolboard, Prime Minister Diefenbaker, whether we’re in for a cold winter, and the space race.
“Well, Kennedy says he’s going to do it and I wouldn’t be surprised if he did,” says Jack.
“What do we want to go to the moon for, anyhow?” asks the man at the grill.
Jack replies, “’Cause if we don’t get there first, the Russkies will.”
“Well, that’s my point, eh?” says the man, wiping his hands on his white apron. “Gettin’ crowded up there.”
“Dad,” says Mike. “Not we, the Americans.”
“That’s right, Mike, and don’t you forget it.”
“Vive la différence,”
says Mimi.
The woman puts a parfait glass in front of Madeleine, Neapolitan topped with chocolate sauce, whipped cream and a cherry. “Wow, thanks,” Madeleine says. The woman winks at her.
Madeleine picks up her spoon. Though she is at home everywhere and nowhere, there is the occasional sense of having misplaced something, someone. Sometimes, when the family sits down to dinner, she has the feeling that someone is missing. Who?
Jack asks where the best swimming and picnicking is to be found. Nearby on Lake Huron. He already knows this, but people like to be asked about where they live. And Mimi loves meeting people. They love her French accent and she loves that they can never guess where she is from. France? Québec? They pronounce it “Kweebec.” No, and no. Where, then? Acadia.
L’Acadie
. Site of
le grand dérangement
—the great disruption of
Gemütlichkeit
, making it a place that is not a place at all: home.
For supper, the McCarthys have driven five miles north to the town of Exeter for burgers and shakes. Exeter is neat and prosperous, butif you hope to find an A&W you have to drive in the other direction, toward London. There is a good family restaurant, however, and the four of them slid into a booth.
The people in the restaurant knew right away that the McCarthys were from the air force station. When it comes time for dessert, they move from their booth to the counter, and Jack and Mimi chat with the owners. They always make a point of meeting local people, whether they are in Alberta or Alsace. People are people, let’s make the most of life. And they usually get a warm reception, even from those locals who are suspicious of the stream of temporary neighbours who reliably enrich the local community chest, but can otherwise unnerve the stable population. It never takes Jack and Mimi long to belong. But it is not meant to last and it usually doesn’t, beyond a Christmas card or two after the next posting.
“How’s the pie?” Jack asks.
“Homemade,” replies a woman of few words behind the counter.
“Say no more,” says Jack, and orders a slice with cheese.
Madeleine watches the man at the grill flipping burgers. Is he the woman’s husband? He is thin and she is fat.
Jack Sprat…
.
“What’ll it be, Madeleine?” her father asks.
She looks up into the pasty face of the woman. “Um. Do you have Neapolitan please?”
“With a cherry on top?” asks the woman, without cracking a smile.
“S’il vous plaît
,” says Madeleine without planning it.
The woman smiles and says, “Come-on-tally-voo?” then pinches Madeleine’s cheek, but not painfully. Ladies behind counters are similar the world over. They like to give you things, they like to feel a hunk of your face between thumb and forefinger.
Belonging and not belonging. Being on the outside and the inside at the same time. For Madeleine it is as natural, as negligible, as breathing. And the idea of growing up in the midst of your own past—among people who have known you all your life and believe they know what you are made of, what you are capable of—that is a suffocating thought.
“What about your IGA here?” asks Mimi. “They have a good butcher?” A rich vein of conversation opens. Butchers from here to London are discussed. This leads to children’s shoes, the schoolboard, Prime Minister Diefenbaker, whether we’re in for a cold winter, and the space race.
“Well, Kennedy says he’s going to do it and I wouldn’t be surprised if he did,” says Jack.
“What do we want to go to the moon for, anyhow?” asks the man at the grill.
Jack replies, “’Cause if we don’t get there first, the Russkies will.”
“Well, that’s my point, eh?” says the man, wiping his hands on his white apron. “Gettin’ crowded up there.”
“Dad,” says Mike. “Not we, the Americans.”
“That’s right, Mike, and don’t you forget it.”
“Vive la différence,”
says Mimi.
The woman puts a parfait glass in front of Madeleine, Neapolitan topped with chocolate sauce, whipped cream and a cherry. “Wow, thanks,” Madeleine says. The woman winks at her.
Madeleine picks up her spoon. Though she is at home everywhere and nowhere, there is the occasional sense of having misplaced something, someone. Sometimes, when the family sits down to dinner, she has the feeling that someone is missing. Who?
Jack asks where the best swimming and picnicking is to be found. Nearby on Lake Huron. He already knows this, but people like to be asked about where they live. And Mimi loves meeting people. They love her French accent and she loves that they can never guess where she is from. France? Québec? They pronounce it “Kweebec.” No, and no. Where, then? Acadia.
L’Acadie
. Site of
le grand dérangement
—the great disruption of
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