O CANADA! OH. CANADA.

 

Bundled up tourists ride around Old Town Montreal

Don’t we Americans always start comparing countries when we go to Canada?  Without even thinking about it, subconsciously half the time.  The word that comes to mind, usually, is bland.  Canada’s backstory seems less turbulent, less violent, and hence ultimately less interesting than ours.  North of Montana in a small town in the Canadian far west (that would be Alberta Province—I’m not even sure, I had to look it up) some years ago we went into the equivalent of a western-movie-style saloon––it was the kind of town that would have had exactly that that, had it been in Montana––but when we entered the place looked about as interesting as the local coffee shop complete with fake wood walls, formica tables, fluorescent lighting, and no menace whatsoever. 

Borderland, Canada

As you approach the border from almost anywhere in the northeast the land changes, the mountains dwindle and the earth flattens out, suggesting you really are in a borderland, a place that feels different.  Crossing is a bigger deal than it once was, pre 9/11.  Lineups to return to the USA can be traffic jams on weekends on the major routes to Quebec Province. 

Along the icy St. Lawrence, Montreal

Place Jacques Cartier in the old town

 

In the heart of Montreal

In the early 1990’s Ken and I were driving through northern New Hampshire headed for Quebec City.  It was late in the evening but we weren’t inclined to find a place to stay overnight on the New Hampshire side of the border so we decided to keep driving, see what turned up.  I forget quite how this came about, but we found ourselves on a narrow road without a route number that after a few miles turned into a dirt road.  We didn’t feel like turning around so we kept going.  Further on a small sign appeared by the side of the road quietly announcing “Canada.”  Nothing else was in view and nothing barred the road.  It was nearly eleven.  We drove on.  The road remained unpaved.  It was nearly midnight when at last it ended in a very small town that had only a handful of buildings.  One large old wooden building was brightly lit and had a sign that we were grateful to see reading, unmistakably, “Hotel.”  Given the lateness of the hour it was surprisingly lively, rollicking in fact, but we were too tired to look in on the partying, wanting only to sleep.  Yes, said the person behind the desk, there was a room we could have.  Not until later did we wonder what he might have been thinking:  Where the hell are you guys from?  Our room was on one of the upper floors.  It had a sagging bed, the décor of an era long past, unusually dim lighting, and the whole room was colored red by cloths placed over the only two low wattage lamps.  Huh.  Guess the light's not meant for reading.   A huge transom above the door was fixed wide open so we could hear everything.  Anyone passing in the hall would also hear us.  We left first thing in the morning.

Thanks to 9/11, GPS and mobile phones this would not happen today.

In Montreal's archeological museum below present street level one finds the old stone walls of 17th and 18th century Montreal settlements

Of course there wasn’t always a border at all.  The Western Abenaki, an Algonquin people, spread from Vermont, New Hampshire, western portions of Massachusetts up to the area that is now Montreal and further northeast. Settlement in New England  forced many Abenaki north into Quebec eventually forming two large communities at St. Francois and Becancour that still exist today.  New England names we know well are Abenaki:  Androscoggin, Kennebec, Ossipee, Nashua, Penobscot, Pemigewasset, Winnepesaukee, and more.  The language today almost disappeared.  A few years ago there were only six people in the world who could still speak Abenaki.  Now, as a result of years of teaching, Jeanne Brink, an Abenaki who spoke here recently thanks to the Vermont Humanities Council about her years of efforts to preserve the tribe’s culture, there are some ten to fifteen.  (It is a language that contains no “r’s” she said, and even now she has trouble pronouncing that letter.)  Until the Jesuits appeared at the reservation in Canada there was no written language.  Jeanne’s first language was French.  Her grandmother spoke Abenaki as her first language, French as her second. 

Jeanne Brink, holding an Abenaki "pouch"

She recounted how her great great (three greats perhaps?) grandfather was killed in a raid on the Abenaki in 1759, the aim of that raid, like many others, having been simply to wipe them out. This is the story below via Wikipedia, and the tale as recounted by Jeanne Brink at www.vermontfolklifecenter.org ”Malian’s Song.” 

            The St. Francis Raid was an attack in the French and Indian War by Robert Rogers on St. Francis, near the southern shore of the Saint Lawrence River in what was then the French province of Canada, on October 4, 1759. Rogers and about 140 men entered the village, which was reportedly occupied primarily by women, children, and the elderly, early that morning, slaughtered many of the inhabitants where they lay, shot down many who attempted to flee, and then burned the village. Rogers reported killing as many as 300 people, while French reports placed the number closer to thirty, mainly women and children. One of Rogers' men was killed, and seven were wounded.

            Rogers and his men endured significant hardships to reach the village from the British base at Fort Crown Point* in present-day New York, and even more hardship afterwards. Chased by the French and vengeful Indians, and short on rations, Rogers and his men returned to Crown Point via the Connecticut River valley. Missteps in caching food stores for the expedition's use led to starvation, and some of Rogers' men were reportedly driven to cannibalism in order to survive. However, Abenaki historians have a different story than this one. About one third of the raid's participants did not return.

British colonial reports of the raid were unapologetic, as St. Francis had long been a place from which the natives raided colonial settlements as far south as Massachusetts, and Rogers reported a large number of English scalps decorating the main village buildings.

Before there were white settlements Abenakis used drums for tribal occasions, as did other Indian tribes.  As white population around them increased they adopted fiddling.  The sound of drums, Jeanne explained, made whites feel threatened.  Fiddles were more acceptable.

Abenaki artifacts made recently by Abenaki craftspeople.  Jeanne Brink is herself a master traditional sweetgrass basketmaker 

On the way to Montreal, less than three hours from here by car, the Abenaki don’t come to mind.  It’s a straight shot on a superhighway, then you cross a bridge over the St. Lawrence and you’re there.  In winter it seemed no colder in this northerly city than it did at home, both places this particular winter being on the low end of cold.  Only the sight of nearly everyone wearing fur-lined hoods gives away the usual reality.  It doesn’t seem bland here, either.  As in Quebec City, there is history, beautiful buildings, a hot restaurant scene and a lively atmosphere.  

Not bad, we think, for Canada.  Not bad at all.

 

A view of Rue Saint Paul from our room

*The ruins of Fort Crown Point are preserved across the Lake Champlain bridge several miles from here, seen here on a day in late fall: