I Was In Canada For The First Time

In a church, to be exact. My brother and his girlfriend were also there, kneeling at the altar rail, starting a trip I would never know. They were about to commit matrimony.

His new wife’s first significant words on that, her 21st birthday, were the French equivalent of “I do.” My brother, who knew as much French as the King of Tibet, said something legal enough to make it work for 49 years on this day. The story of their lives together will be published in the Land Beyond when we sit and tell stories.

Mom once told me, “I want to be a good mother-in-law, as well as a good mother. I may not agree with everything they do or with everything that happens, but I’m going to keep my mouth shut. I will never interfere with their marriage.” You make yourself always welcome with that attitude; welcome and never feared.

There’s been a lot of water down the St. Lawrence River since that day near Quebec City. Nobody knew what was ahead; I saw two people separated by nationality, culture, language and upbringing, willing to take a chance. It was as if they decided to take a jump off the Montmorency Falls and hope someone down below would catch them.

So there we sat, on the beach in the eye of a hurricane, 14 and 10 years old. Would we laugh at the suggestion of what was to come in our lives? 1952 was so safe, even in the very eye of a hurricane; now it’s 2010, unimaginable years later, with two lives spun off in vastly different directions. You just never know.