REFLECTIONS ON CHRISTMAS

Jean-Paul

It started early every year for me.  While I recovered from the shock of the end of summer freedom, that long-awaited event arrived: the coming-in-the-mail of the Eatons and Simpsons-Sears Christmas catalogues! 

Even before I stopped ‘believing’, Mom let me choose one gift from the catalogue and fill out the order before sending it off.  When the precious parcel finally arrived, I’d unwrap it, just to make sure they’d sent the right thing.  Then look adoringly at the unopened package every day, barely able to contain myself.

Cousin Aubrey exploded the Santa myth for me when I was nine.  One day, he casually told me: “Santa Claus isn’t real, you know!”  Because he was four years older, and seemed to know everything about anything, it was enough to sow doubt in my mind.  When he showed me his presents from Santa Claus in Cliff and Tina’s attic, well, the jig was up!

In this blog, I’ll explore my own reflections on childhood Christmases, adding wonderful vignettes from Elva’s early years.  As adults, we’re all marked by childhood experiences, whether we want to admit it or not.  And so it is with Christmas memories.

My maternal grandmother died when I was six.  After that, Mom and I spent Christmas alone.  As the manager of the Wellington Coop, she worked long hours in the weeks leading up to the Holiday Season.  By the time it came, she was usually exhausted.  While she kept on a brave face, I could always tell it was a hard time of year for her.  Especially on Christmas Day, when we sat at the dinner table, just the two of us.  I could tell she was missing loved ones who weren’t there.

Now, I had my own theory on why she was so tired: too much damn church!  Yes sir, the Catholic Season of Advent was the price a little boy like me had to pay before enjoying the rewards of Christmas.  There was just no getting around it.  As if Sundays, first-Fridays and Holy Days of Obligation weren’t enough, it seemed like we were parked in a pew every day for the whole month of December, listening to Father MacDonald drone on about prayer and penance!

December also brings back fonder memories of recipes made on the kitchen table and of things baking in the oven.  Mom was a good cook and especially liked to get things ready for Christmas: pâtés, gum drop cake, fruit cake and, my favourite, shortbread (she called them ‘Scotch cookies’).  I can still smell them, and I’ve never tasted better!

When Christmas Eve finally came, the wait was worth it.  After supper, Wilfred Arsenault, my godmother Fedora’s husband, brought me one of my favourite gifts.  Our tradition had us opening gifts before Midnight Mass.  As soon as the dishes were done, to the parlour we went, the two of us, and dug in to the pile under the tree.

Mom always got me something special, “from Santa Claus”, she’d say.  There were always presents from my aunts and uncles - clothes, mostly - and a book from Aunt Josie.  “Why couldn’t she get me something I like,” I’d think as I tore the paper off the tell-tale package.  And, every year, the box of Moirs Pot of Gold chocolates from Linus MacDonald.  Seems my father, when he’d been in politics, had helped Linus land the job of postmaster in Richmond.  Whatever!  Chocolates never tasted so good!

Then it was off to Midnight Mass, where Mom and the Gaudet Girls, sisters Bernice and Tina, sang in the ladies’ choir.  I hated getting there early.  It meant I’d miss seeing the ‘heathens’ who occupied the back row - “Christmas and Easter Catholics”, a saintly neighbour called them.  If I was lucky, some would make their way up to Communion, and I’d be able to guess who’d “Had a few.”

Then came Mom’s turn to sing her solo, O Holy Night.  Aunt Tina played the organ and Aunt Bernice directed the choir.  Yvonne had a beautiful voice.  With Communion over, everyone sat quietly while she sang the verses in English and French while the full choir repeated the chorus.  The memory of it still gives me goose bumps.  That, to me, was the best part of Christmas!

Elva grew up in a very different environment,with loving parents, making those childhood Christmas memories with brothers and sisters, two grandmothers and a great-aunt.

Elva

I have such wonderful childhood memories of the Holiday Season; engraved in my mind’s eye, as if from yesterday.  I’d like to share with you my collection of images of Christmases past, from the years before my youngest brothers and sisters - Carmen, Lionel, Lucille, and Alice - were born.  (The photo below shows Marie-Rose à Félicien, Mémé Lalie, Maman Aline, Rose, me, Mémé Mélanie, Albin, Félicien, Alfred, and Papa Joseph.)

The Christmas concert at Saint-Chrysostôme School in 1958

Scene 1    Beautiful drawings of Christmas scenes, in coloured chalk, decorate the blackboard in the ‘big school’, la classe des grands.

Scene 2    Grade 1 pupils chant enthusiastically: C’est Noël, c’est Noël, la fête la plus belle…  From left to right are my classmates: Maurice à Frank à Xavier, Marcel à José à Philimon, Peter à Théodore à Pierre, Albina à Alphonse à Pierre, Yvonne à Alyre à Théophile, Barbara à Elzie à Gil, and me, Elva à Jos Denis.

Scene 3    Near the front door, Santa Claus, surrounded by children, hands out small brown paper bags filled with candy.  Mémé Lalie, Mémé Mélanie and our neighbour, Eufrida à Victorin, also appear in this scene.

Picking the Christmas tree in 1959

Scene 1    Hitched to the two bob-sleighs, our horse, Prince, stands quietly on the trail in our woodlot.

Scene 2    My father, Joseph, cuts the balsam fir; the one I like the best.

Scene 3    The bob-sleighs are piled with logs and we sit atop them.  Sitting in front, my father holds the reins, while Alfred and me hold the tree.

Scene 4    My mother, Aline, and my grandmother, Mélanie, who lives with us, greet us at the door.

Presents from Santa Claus in the early ‘60s

Scene 1    Alfred, Rose, Albin and me lie on our stomachs on our toy sleighs as we speed down the snowbank in front of our house.  The full moon lights the way on this Christmas night.

Scene 2    From left to right, Albin, Rose, me, and Alfred, sit impatiently on the ice of the little brook near our neighbour’s, Étienne à Jack.  My father helps us lace up our brand new Christmas skates.

Scene 3    Alfred carries his little hammer, his saw, and the newspaper rack he’s made.  The pattern includes scrolls that were hard to cut out.  Alfred is very proud of his accomplishment and happy to show it to us.

Scene 4    Rose and me, wearing high heels and cradling our dolls, attend mass in Albin’s bedroom.  He wears his little chasuble and prayer shawl, both gifts from Santa Claus.

The lesson: Appearances can be deceiving!

Scene 1    My father arrives home from the Post Office in Richmond, carrying the big box sent by Honoré.  Honoré is my mother’s adopted brother.  An orphan, he was raised by my grandparents.

Scene 2    On either side of the big box, my mother places many other presents under the tree on this Christmas Eve.

Scene 3    Albin, Rose and me examine and shake them, trying to guess what’s inside.

Scene 4    Rose and me are crying.  We’re sad because we’re getting a very small present from our parents.  Albin and Alfred, them, have a big present from Maman and Papa.

Scene 5    After supper, we open several gifts, including those that made us cry.  What a surprise!  Rose and me proudly hold our new embroidery kit.  As for Alfred and Albin, we can read the disappointment on their faces.  On my grandmother’s too.  She didn’t know what my brothers would get as their joint present.  It’s a piss pot!

Scene 6    Standing in the doorway of the living room, my mother explains: “I just wanted to make sure there were lots of presents to open this Christmas!”

Scene 7    Christmas morning, we discover that Santa Claus brought us more presents.  Everyone is happy!

I don’t remember all the presents we got from Santa Claus that Christmas.  But I do remember the lesson: Appearances can be deceiving!

At Saint-Philippe-et-Saint-Jacques Church in the early ‘60s

Scene 1    It’s New Years Day!  Even Prince has his best bridle on for the drive to church.  “Did you put on his bells?”, my mother asks.  “Of course!  We have to start off the year right”, answers my father.  Mémé Mélanie climbs into our red sleigh first.  Next, the children, then Maman and Papa, all snug under the ‘buffaloes’.  Serenaded by the sound of the bells, we enjoy this wonderful sleigh ride.  Just before we get to Gus à Clovis’, the majestic and beautiful Egmont-Bay Church comes into view.

Scene 2    Upstairs in the choir loft, Jos Manuel, Cyrus à Jos Manuel, Eddy and Amand à Arcade, and Alyre à Philippe Marc, sing Christmas carols.

Scene 3    I place pennies in the angel bank that stands at the front of the crèche that Christmas morning.  I’m fascinated because he thanks me by nodding his head.  The figures in the crèche rest comfortably on what look like big boulders.

Holiday Season, from December 24 to January 6, Feast of the Kings

Scene 1    A card party.  From left to right, Albin, Aunt Madeleine, Benoît Cormier, Zélica à Étienne, Alfred, Délina à Benoît, Étienne à Jack, and Uncle Gus.  We don’t have electricity.  A big lantern lights the kitchen.

Scene 2    Uncle Franky, Uncle Léo, Uncle Albert and my father play crokinole in the kitchen this New Year’s Eve.  (In the photo, Uncle Franky is second from the left in the back row, and Uncle Léo is next to my father in the middle row.  Others in the back row are Uncle Willie, Aunt Hélène, Mémé Lucianne and Pépé José, and Uncle Levi.  In the front, Uncle Peter, Uncle Albert, and Uncle Edward.)

Scene 3    The table overflows with food for the evening’s ‘lunch’.  There are different kinds of sweets: doughnuts, date squares, cranberry squares, sugar cookies with icing on top, a fruit cake.  Delicious pâté is also on the menu for this special occasion.

Scene 4    Our neighbour, Corinne à Alyre à Théophile, and her three daughters, Yvonne, Edna, and Bella, admire our Christmas tree and our presents on this beautiful winter afternoon.

In our home, when I was a little girl, the days leading up to Christmas and all during the Holidays were filled with joy.  My parents, Joseph and Aline, loved this time of year.  It was the same for my grandmother, Mélanie.  Since they loved company, we always had a houseful.  Neighbours, friends and relatives came to visit during the Holidays, and we did the same.

From a young age, we children were involved in all of the family’s daily activities.  Our contributions to household and farm chores were much appreciated.  Come Christmas, presents from Santa Claus were our parents’ way of thanking us.

The Holiday Season is a time for enjoyment.  And, yes, Santa Claus always brings a surprise for child and adult alike.  Even if Christmas is more commercialized these days, this time of the year continues to amaze me!

I SOLD MY CAR!

Last month, I sold my 2014 Mercedes CLA250 to a nice woman from Stratford.  I’d advertised it on Kijiji and Autotrader to get the word out.  There followed a virtual flood of inquiries from an assortment of lowballers, scammers, and just plain dickheads, the likes of which I’d never encountered!

I’ve never been a ‘car guy’.  The nicest car I’d ever owned before the Mercedes was a 1969 Buick Skylark two-door hardtop, robin’s-egg blue with a white interior and a 350 four-barrel.  I bought it from the late Lowell Barlow in 1974 while I was still in university.  He always had the nicest car in Wellington, and she was a beauty.  And could she burn rubber!  This old photo hardly does her justice.

Elva and I dated in that car.  One Friday evening, we watched the sun set over Barlow’s Pond, minding our own business.  Along comes a cop car.  Oh, shit!  He strides over and asks me to roll the window down.  “Could I see your license and registration, please?”, he says, a big grin on his face.  “Sure, Officer,” I reply.  “They’re in the back seat, in my pants pocket.”

We got the last laugh though.  As we drove gingerly out the laneway, we passed by the cop car, stuck to the axles in a notorious Wellington mudhole.

After the Buick came a succession of practical cars: Volkswagen Rabbits, Nissan Sentras, Dodge Caravans, Mazda 3s.  All of them economical and rather bland.  Heck, I even drove my late mother’s old jalopy for eight years.  Until the driver’s side door fell off!

To throw in a little excitement, we owned a Harley-Davidson for a while, but I traded it in for a bicycle.

I saw cars as a necessity, not a luxury; nothing more than a depreciable asset.  One of the worst investments one could make, I thought.  Then came retirement, and the urge to buy a nice car hit me.  In Saint John one weekend, I drove into the Mercedes dealer and was smitten.  There she sat, the car of my dreams!  Un vrai coup de cœur!  Not normally given to impulse purchases, I was helpless.

I explained to friends that I’d changed my mind.  Yes, she was a depreciable asset.  No, it wasn’t a good investment.  I reasoned that I’d become the depreciable asset, and it was time for me to enjoy a little comfort in my dotage.

My Mercedes took me everywhere, from four-lane highways to dead-end dirt roads.  During fishing season, the trunk was a jumble of rods, chest waders, mosquito repellent, and trout flies.  But I took good care of her, and she always looked her best for the weekend.

Fate intervened however.  While away from home last February, we got an email telling us that Elva’s beloved convertible had been lost in a storage barn fire.  Long story short, she decided to buy something more practical: a Mazda 3 hatchback.

As the fishing season drew to a close, I got to thinking: “Why two cars?  Couldn’t we get along with just the one?  We walk almost everywhere anyway.”  I discussed it with Elva, and she agreed.  It was time to part with my beloved.

I’m not a salesman, and I’d never sold a car before.  I consulted with a car dealer acquaintance and did some research of my own before listing the car.  I had two prices in mind: the one I wanted, and the one I’d take rather than let the car sit for the winter, and depreciate even more.

My first call came from a company in Spruce Grove, Alberta.  The guy said they’d sell my car for $500 more than I was asking.  Great!  All I had to do was send them $500, up front, for their services.  “That’s $500 I’d never see again,” I thought.

Next, I got a call from a dealer in Rancho Cucamonga, California.  Swear to God!  The sales pitch?  Because the Canadian dollar was so low, they were buying high-end cars up here to ship to the US.  All I had to do was drive the car to Moncton, put it on a railcar, and they’d wire the money to my account.  My banker explained that a fool and his money are soon parted.  “If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is,” she told me. 

Over the four weeks or so that my beloved was advertised, I must have gotten fifty emails, phone calls, and texts.  Guys from Montreal and Toronto, most of them with heavy accents, wondering where Charlottetown was, and if we had an airport.  Guys offering me $5,000-$10,000 less than the asking price, hoping I needed to sell the car for some quick cash.

But the one who took the cake was this young guy from Halifax, a Hong Kong student taking English courses before enrolling in university.  He just had to have the car.  Daddy would send him the money in two weeks, he told me. 

Then, the texts started.  At least five a day.  Did the car have navigation?  Did it have a back-up camera?  Were there any scratches or dents on it?  Could I send more photos?  Did it have leather seats?  Could I drop the price a bit?  On and on it went…

Then, out of the blue, he texts me that he doesn’t have a driver’s license and would have to wait a month before taking the test!  I wanted to tell him where to go, but he happened to be one of my best leads at the time.  Finally, late one evening, I got one last email from him.  “Your car too expensive,” it read.  “I can get better car for same money.”  “Good riddance,” I muttered to myself.

One day, while I enjoyed a coffee at Starbucks, the phone rang.  It was a local number.  The guy said he’d seen the ad on Kijiji.  Was the car still for sale?  We agreed to meet later that day.  He drove up in a nice car, and right away I had a good feeling.  Here, finally, was a ‘car guy’.  I gave him the keys.  “It’s for my  wife,” he said.  “I think she’ll like the car.”

Before the sun set that day, she and I shook hands, and the deal was done.

I told the story of my experience as a car salesman to a friend, telling her that, although I’d enjoyed the car, I had no regrets.  “Well,” she said.  “You’ll always be able to say you owned a Mercedes.  Lots of people wish they had, but were just too cheap!”

At the end of the day, my Mercedes didn’t make me any happier.  It may be a status symbol for some but, for me, it just didn’t feel that way.  Yes, it was nice to experience German engineering.  And, yes, buying on impulse felt good for a change.

But it was just a car.  The dictionary defines ‘vehicle’ as “a machine used to carry people or goods from one place to another.”  Clever advertising makes them appear to be something far more important, far more useful, and far more necessary.

The lesson learned for me is that experiences matter more than material things.  I now have two life lists: a bucket list, and a fucket list.  On the first are things I want to do before I kick the bucket.  On the second are those I won’t ever do.  Like being a car salesman…

LA GESTION SCOLAIRE

This week’s edition of La Voix acadienne features an article celebrating an important 25^th anniversary.  On July 1, 1990, the Commission scolaire de langue française was granted the right to administer the French-language school system on Prince Edward Island.  The article rightly mentions the significant contributions of several individuals who were instrumental in bringing about this significant victory.  Though not among them, I was deeply involved in language politics at the time.  I’d like to share my recollections of three related events.

The first event goes back to the early 1980s when I was a member of the Board of La Société Saint-Thomas-d’Aquin.  We became quite interested in the debates around the Canadian Constitution.  Pierre Elliott Trudeau and the Premiers were hammering out an agreement to bring home the Constitution from London and to implement the new Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms.  Prince Edward Island initially opposed patriation and the new Charter.

Provincial Attorney General Horace Carver spoke to us one evening in Summerside.  The gist of his argument was that our interests would be better served by elected members of Parliament in Ottawa and our own Legislative Assembly than by the courts.  I had no doubt that Mr. Carver was well-intentioned, but we knew where Trudeau stood on the issue of minority language education rights and we trusted him.  Naïve as I was then, I knew in my gut that our rights would be protected by the courts, and that we had no chance if our fate was left in the hands of politicians.  My instincts were correct, as it turned out.

Section 23 of the Charter of Rights and Freedoms is the section of the Constitution of Canada that guarantees minority language educational rights to French-speaking communities outside Québec.  Some scholars argue that Trudeau considered it one of the most important parts of the Charter.  The picture below is my favourite of Trudeau, taken April 17, 1982, the day he and Queen Elizabeth II signed the Proclamation of the new Constitution Act.

Our three children graduated from École François-Buote in Charlottetown.  Two of my grandchildren attend École Samuel-de-Champlain in Saint John, New Brunswick.  The youngest, barely three years old, attends a French daycare next door to École Gabrielle-Roy in Edmonton, Alberta.

None of this would have been possible without successive favourable decisions by the courts, including the Supreme Court of Canada.

The second event occurred during my brief term as president of La Société Saint-Thomas-d’Aquin.  In 1988, the French school board, Unité scolaire no. 5, administered only one school, École Évangéline.  The second French school, École François-Buote in Charlottetown came under the control of the Unit 3 School Board.

Believing the political climate would be favourable, with Joe Ghiz as Premier and Léonce Bernard as our representative in Cabinet, I met with Minister of Education, Betty Jean Brown, and Bernard, at the old Centre culturel Port-LaJoie on Dorchester Street.  Our purpose was to propose the formation of a province-wide French-language school board, in other words, La gestion scolaire provinciale.

I was struck by their evident surprise at the suggestion, and their apparent view that it made no sense.  I can still see the look on Léonce’s face; like he thought it was the craziest idea he’d ever heard!  Fortunately, reason prevailed.  In February 1990, the provincial government adopted new regulations, granting the Commission scolaire de langue française province-wide jurisdiction.  It became official that July 1.

I put language politics aside for awhile (two years in an MBA program at Université Laval) but continued to follow developments closely on the local and national scenes.  The two years I spent in Québec taught me a lot about being a member of a linguistic minority.  Most importantly, it taught me that it’s up to us to preserve the French language and culture.  We have very few allies, and Québec is not among them.

The third event occurred in April 1998 when I was the Chair of the Comité acadien, a group that advised the provincial government on matters relating to French-language services.  The Minister responsible, Mitch Murphy, a man for whom I had the greatest respect, walked up to me during a reception marking French Awareness Week.  He said: “I have very bad news.  The decision on the Arsenault-Cameron case just came down from the Court of Appeal.  It overturns Judge DesRoches’ decision and the lawyers tell us there’s no way it can be taken any further.”

I’d read the Armand DesRoches decision and I knew it was sound.  He was one of us and understood the Charter.  It was inconceivable to me that supposedly learned judges could have overturned it.  I nodded to the Minister, without saying anything.  As we say in French: “Je riais dans ma barbe.”  I knew that the next stop was the Supreme Court of Canada, and that there, our poor provincial government would get whacked.

I read the decision written for the Prince Edward Island Court of Appeal by Hon. Justice McQuaid.  In it, he laid out the Court’s finding that the Minister of Education had done the right thing by refusing to build a French school in Summerside, thus overturning the decision of the Commission scolaire de langue française.  Speaking of Section 23, he wrote: “…language rights are fundamentally different than other rights protected by the Charter in that they are founded on political compromise.”  I chuckled to myself, astounded at the ignorance displayed by the Court, remembering what we’d been told before the Charter came into force.

In November 2000, the Supreme Court of Canada disagreed with the Appeal Court, upholding Judge Armand DesRoches’ 1997 decision.  The Court wrote that: “…a school is the single most important institution for the survival of the official language minority.”  Regarding the decision of the Minister of Education, the Court stated: “The Minister’s discretion was limited to verifying whether the [School] Board had met provincial requirements. …he had no power to substitute his own criteria or decision.”  Amen!

And so the Summerside school was built, École-sur-Mer, yet another symbol of the determination of the Acadian people and the strength of the Charter.

The October 28 edition of La Voix acadienne contains another very important article, the one announcing the refurbishment of the former Rollo Bay Consolidated School, soon to be reborn as École La Belle-cloche.  The announcement by the Commission scolaire de langue française states that $6.1 million will be spent to construct new spaces for K-12, as well as a community centre to serve the Acadian and Francophone community of Eastern Kings.

What a contrast to the earlier fiasco surrounding the construction of the Rustico facility, École Saint-Augustin, when residents were pitted against one another because of the poor judgement of politicians.  This time, not only do we have competent elected trustees at the helm, we have a provincial government led by people who understand their obligations under the law.  It makes all the difference.

The other day, I stood in line at my bank and watched as a teller served an Asian customer in Mandarin.  My Charlottetown is being transformed by the arrival of new Canadians.  I welcome them.  We need their talent, their work ethic, and their tax dollars. 

There were no signs at the bank telling me that I could be served in French.  RBC is a business.  Its choice to hire and train a Mandarin-speaking teller is a business decision.  This example reminded me, yet again, that fundamental rights, like language, need and deserve the protection of the highest law of the land.  They cannot be subjected to the vagaries of political and business decisions.

When I started Grade 8 at École régionale Évangéline in the fall of 1965, it was the only French school recognized as such by the provincial government.  Now, there are six.  Each has its own unique story.  None was built without a struggle.  A solid 5% of Island students attend the six French schools.  Enrollment is steady.

I can’t imagine what the state of French-speaking minorities would be were it not for Trudeau’s vision and the presence of Section 23 in the Charter of Rights and Freedoms.  It granted us the right to control our most important institution, our schools.  And it reinforced what we always knew: the people know best!

I rest easy now, knowing that my grandchildren can be schooled in French almost anywhere in our great country.  I hope they will recognize the importance of preserving our mother tongue when their turn comes.

FREDERICTON GRAN FONDO

“Pain brings me closer to God…”  That thought ran through my mind as I cranked over the pedals in the lowest gear I’ve got, listening to the sound of my own laboured breathing, hoping my legs would carry me to the top of ‘The Wall’.  Every organized ride worth its salt has a tough climb or two, and the 2.5 km. wall features a vicious 17% section that starts steep and doesn’t let up.

The first 50 km. to that point had been a breeze: beautiful weather, good roads, and an experienced group of riders, most of whom took a turn at the front.  But the Wall tested our climbing legs and separated the men from the boys.

The Over the Hill Gang (OTHG) opted for the Fredericton Gran Fondo several months ago.  We trained for the flat course originally promised by event organizers.  Due to road construction however, the route had to be modified to include a couple of tough climbs and lots of rolling terrain.

Five of us - Russ Melanson, Richard Birt, John MacQuarrie, Kent Wood and me - shoe-horned bikes, luggage, carcasses, and home-made cookies and muffins into a Dodge Grand Caravan and hit the road for Fredericton.  We’d hoped to have all the gang with us, including Ira Birt, Ian MacIntyre and Mark Grimmett, but they were unable to come for a variety of reasons.

Arriving at the Crowne Plaza mid-afternoon, we checked in and strolled to the local cycle shop, Radical Edge, where we drooled over the bikes and other gear on display.  Then it was on to McGinnis Landing for the mandatory evening-before pasta meal. 

Back in our hotel rooms, we groused like a bunch of old women: “It’s gonna be cold in the morning.  What are you gonna wear?”  Too old to party (except for Kent, who’s too serious to party), we hit the sack early, each one hoping his roommate wouldn’t snore.

I couldn’t see the Saint John River, barely 50 metres from my room, when I looked out the window on Sunday morning.  Fog so thick you could cut it with a knife.  The temperature had dropped to near freezing overnight, promising to rise to a balmy 6 degrees by the time we were to leave at 10:00.  After filling our faces with a nice buffet breakfast at the hotel, we made our way to the start line, hoping they’d hurry up and get the thing going.

The group started slowly, following a City Police cruiser across the Westmoreland Street Bridge toward Marysville.  We followed the Nashwaak River upstream for 10 km. or so before crossing it a second time, then headed west on Route 105 through Nashwaaksis toward Douglas.  Kent took a long pull, pacing the group at a leisurely rhythm.  I even had a chance to glance at the Saint John River off to my left, when I wasn’t watching the backside in front of me.  It brought back memories of my years at UNB.

At the 35-km. mark, we turned north onto Route 104, feeling none the worse for wear.  One of the locals was on the front and doing all the work as we rode through Burtt’s Corner, a group of a dozen or so riders following close behind.  We got to the first refreshment point, made the hairpin turn and started the climb up Keswick Ridge.  The first part was just a teaser.  Too soon, after a short downhill section, the monster loomed directly in front.

Our rule on a group ride is that everyone sticks together, except on a steep hill, when it’s “Every man for himself.”  If anyone were to ask me: “How fast do you go up a hill like that?”, I’d answer: “Somewhere between falling over, like the old guy in Laugh-In, and burning out!”

We all climb at different rates, depending on the day and how we’re feeling.  Except for Kent who, many years younger, is by far the strongest.  He crested The Wall long before the rest of us and it was the last we’d see of him until we got to Fredericton.  (More on that later.)

Two guys, Greg Masiuk from Oromocto and Elwyn DeMerchant from Saint John, joined us for the grunt up The Wall.  OTHG reassembled at the top and white-knuckled it down the long, treacherous descent, trying to distinguish holes and cracks in the pavement from the shadows that danced across the road.

After a steady climb on the shoulder of Route 105, we stopped for the first time at the Mactaquac Dam refreshment point where, as John says, “We did like the Quebecers” in answering calls of nature.  (I hope none of the cars that drove past was coming home from church!)

Across the dam, our group of six turned onto the old Trans-Canada Highway, going west toward the Mazerolle Settlement turnoff on a gradual 2.5-km. climb.  The next stretch was over a series of ‘rollers’, short climbs and descents that kill your legs if you’re getting tired.  Greg fell off the back, and we didn’t see him again until the finish line.

The three km. we rode along the Hanwell Road were heaven: easy grades, good pavement, and a wide shoulder.  Too soon, at the 100-kilometre mark, we turned onto the rougher chip-seal surface of Deerwood Drive.  Elwyn jumped us on one of the hills and was gone.  Nine kilometres later, we hit the scary-steep Carriage Hill descent, hoping like hell our brakes would stop us before we went through the stop sign and out onto the highway.

From there, I knew the road back to the finish line was flat, so we got the big train rolling and made good time on the old Trans-Canada Highway, reeling in Elwyn and catching him just before we turned onto the Woodstock Road.  I was on the front, not realizing we were supposed to turn onto the riverside trail, until someone said: “We missed a turn!”

Eventually, we picked up the trail after riding through the Delta Hotel parking lot.  We pedaled on the gravel track a short distance until we reached a sign that directed us to take a 300-degree turn, through another parking lot and up to King Street.  What the hell?

That’s where we found poor Kent, totally lost after riding around for ages and being told by course marshals to go here, there and everywhere.  Confused, we decided to take the most direct route back to the Crowne Plaza and across the finish line.  Poor Greg, as lost as we were, rode past the hotel and all the way to the Princess Margaret Bridge before turning around.

We completed the 120-km. ride in four hours, not a bad average speed for us considering the hilly terrain (over 1,000 metres of climbing).  Event organizers recognized the confusion caused to all riders by the poor course marking.  They gave Kent a more accurate time, making him, by far, the fastest rider on the 120 km. course.

After well-deserved showers and a refreshment break, we joined other riders and event volunteers for a nice meal at the hotel.  We left Fredericton around 6:30, aiming for a 10:00 pm arrival in Charlottetown.  Alas, it was not to be.  Near Havelock, in the middle of nowhere, we came upon an accident scene and had to wait two hours or so before being allowed to pass.  Oh well, we got to see the lunar eclipse along the way, and the moon still showed traces of rusty brown when I stood on my doorstep at 12:30.

I’ll be 62 in two weeks and trail Russ by 6 years!  As a group, the four of us finished second to Kent in the 120-km. ride.  We dropped many younger riders who couldn’t hack our pace.  Several of them asked us afterwards how old we were.  The looks on their faces were priceless!

The annual road trip is an occasion for us to get away together, suffer a little, and have a few laughs.  We experience new courses and meet new people.  We get a chance to promote our Island as a cycling destination and to invite others to come see for themselves.

I burned over 4,000 calories in four hours in the saddle, and so got to eat my face off for a couple of days.  I conquered The Wall and got to spend quality time with my best buddies.  What could be better?