WELL, WELL, WELL!

Say these three words to anyone over 40 in Egmont Bay, or indeed to anyone who got to know the man, and they’ll answer: “Ça, c’est Jos à Denis!”  It was the trademark expression by which we came to know and love the man.  My beloved father-in-law, Joseph D. Arsenault, left us far too soon, six years ago today.

I knew Jos before I knew Elva.  I first met him at our house where Mom would have introduced him as a member of the Board of Directors of the Wellington Co-op.  We’d welcome the Directors as they arrived, and chat before the meeting began in our kitchen.  Rather than go to bed or watch TV, I’d sit at the foot of the stairs and listen to what was being said.  I learned that Jos was a brother of Edward, our next-door neighbour.

From the first time I walked into Jos’ house to pick up Elva, I felt welcome.  I saw this incredible man do what came so naturally to him.  And I saw him welcome many others into his home over the years.  He was a kind and generous man who had a simple philosophy about life.

Jos and Aline raised eight children, losing five in early childhood.  Like all men of his generation, Jos worked hard to feed and provide for his family.  At various times, he was farmer, fisherman, lumberjack, truck driver, roadmaster and dump attendant.  When something needed building, he built it.  When something needed fixing, he fixed it.  When a neighbour needed help, he was the first one there.

Jos never got past elementary school but he became an avid reader: every newspaper he could get his hands on, French or English, and books, mostly about politics.  It would be fair to say that politics was almost as important in Jos’ life as religion.  And that he held Pierre-Elliott Trudeau in higher esteem than any of the saints in the Catholic pantheon.

Jos and Aline travelled with us to Ontario in 1986.  On a stopover in Ottawa, I’d arranged for he and I to attend Question Period on Parliament Hill.  We sat together in the visitors’ gallery as Liberal Opposition members badgered Brian Mulroney’s ruling Tories.  Jean Chrétien fired a pointed question at the Prime Minister in his trademark flourish of Québécois rhetoric.  Caught up in the moment, Jos sprang from his seat and exclaimed, loud enough for everyone to hear: “Oué!”  Not five seconds later, a security guard had his hand on Jos’ shoulder, whispering in his ear that if he wanted to watch the rest of Question Period, he’d better keep quiet!

Jos and I discussed politics every time I saw him.  But it was always the second topic of our regular conversations, the first being my answer to: “Comment ça va sur la job?”  He took great interest in my career and, although he may not have understood why I changed jobs so often, he never tried to dissuade me.  In fact, I seldom heard him criticize anyone’s life decisions.  He believed that every one of us would find the right path eventually, on our own: “Y fera son chemin!” (“He’ll find his way!”)

I asked him once why he and all the members of his family were such staunch Liberals. He told me that it hadn’t always been so.  One day, shortly after the Tories had won the provincial election, Pierre Gallant (Gros Pete), came up to the road crew and told Jos’ father, the foreman, that they were all fired!  “Allez-vous en!”  The government had changed, they were on the wrong side, and a crew of Tories would take their place later that day.  “Damn de Torés.  Depuis ce temps-là, mon père a toujours voter Libéral!  Pis moi aussi!”

Jos was devoted to his family and his community.  He served as marguillier (church warden), school board trustee, long-time poll chairman, and director of La Société Saint-Thomas-d'Aquin and the Wellington Coop.  He “took the pledge” as a member of the Mouvement Lacordaire to set an example for his young family.  Together with his new wife, he saw to the wellbeing of Aline’s mother, Melanie, and her Aunt Obéline, both of whom lived out their lives in the family home. 

He loved Christmas!

He was a loving and devoted Pépé to our three children and loved their visits.  Sometimes, we left them with he and Aline while Elva and me went off on one of our adventures.  He taught Clément to drive the tractor lawnmower and encouraged him to go faster: “Donnes-y d’la gas!”  He and Aline loved to listen to Jacques sing and play.  Sylvie remembers the time Pépé met her at the door when she stayed out too late one night.  She never forgot the stern lecture he delivered.

Though he never weighed more than 145 pounds soaking wet, Jos was a powerful man, with Popeye forearms and a tireless work ethic.  He smoked for the better part of sixty years and mostly rolled his own Export ‘A’s.  He quit at 75.  I asked him why one day.  His typically understated answer: “Je commençais à avoir le vent court” (“I was getting a bit short of breath”).  He enjoyed a social drink and he loved to dance.  No one  I’ve ever seen could duplicate his “step”.  It was like his many sayings: unique to Jos.

Aline told us once that Jos didn’t venture from his native village of Saint-Chrysostôme to Wellington, only 12 kilometres away, until around the time he got married.  That floored me!  Jos was born into a culture, time and place where one’s life was essentially pre-ordained.  A man knew what he’d likely do for a living, he knew where his wife was likely to come from, and he knew where he’d live.  He knew that, if God willed, he’d have a large family, that he’d be expected to look after aged relatives, and that he’d be looked after by his children in his old age.  He knew where he’d go to church, and where he’d be buried when the time came.

In Jos’ case, as for most men of his generation, there’s much to be said for the pre-ordained life.  He lived it well and he was happy and content with his lot.  Because of his great faith, that his life didn’t end the way he would have liked would not have concerned him.  He believed things turn out the way God means them to.  He never asked for much, and never wanted for much.

I went to see Jos one last time on Sunday, August 9, 2009.  When Elva and I arrived in his room, he was sitting in a chair in the corner by the window.  He smiled at us and gave his standard greeting: “Bein, Hallo!”  First impressions that he knew us were quickly dispelled however as we tried to make him understand things and to engage in basic conversation.  Elva had seen him several times over the previous two weeks and knew what to expect.  The dementia that would take him from us less than a week later was too far advanced.

We had brought him a donut and a Tim Hortons coffee and we watched him struggle with the basic tasks of eating and drinking.  At one point, he picked up the hospital menu and turned it right-side-up, mouthing a couple of the written words but unable to focus for any length of time.  He seemed to enjoy looking out the window but was preoccupied with any noise in the corridor outside his room.  He could no longer speak.

After an hour, we told him it was time for us to go.  He rose from his chair, hugged Elva and gave her a kiss on the cheek.  Then he took my hand in his, gave it the usual firm shake, looked me in the eye and sat down.

My last image of him is from the door of the hospital room.  It will stay with me as long as I’m conscious.  He’s sitting in the corner chair by the window with the sun shining at him from behind.  His beautiful smile and bright blue eyes are fixed on me and he’s waving his right hand.  Because of the angle of the sun, I can see he’s missing the first joint of the middle finger.  He says: “Bye, OK, Bye!”

If there’s an afterlife, he’s watching over us and enjoying his reward.  I hope he’s managed to impart some of his good humour, profound wisdom and common sense to those around him and that they too have come to know him by his trademark: “Well, Well, Well!”