Holidays with my mom’s side of the family have changed a bit over the years. When I was a kid, I have vivid memories of wearing uncomfortable dresses, then changing into regular clothes after a few short minutes. The whole generation of cousins, ranging ten years, would run around the house and yard or eat up the appetizers in seconds, in comfortable in the companionship even though we only saw each other a few times a year. Then we’d skooch up to folding or scuffed kitchen table, the perpetual “kids” table, in a completely different room than the formal dining room where all the adults sat, sipping wine. After the buffet and clean-up, decks of pinochle cards and boards appeared and we hopped between games and television for the rest of the afternoon.
But as I grew into an awkward pre-teen, I became too cool to change out of the fancy outfit and became uncomfortable with talking to my older, male cousins. I’d either sit on the couch and watch the sports games or hover around my mother and her two sister’s conversations in the dining room. They’d tell story after story of an older generation lost to me; tales of old family in old French Canada or funny things my grandfather used to say, such as “shit or get off the pot.”
We’d all began to covet a seat at the big people’s table, because the butter was on the table and it equaled a small piece of proof that we were growing up. High school and college got even a bit more awkward, with less and less interaction with the advent of cable.
Ah but the glorious day when I became old enough to drink…and so did some of my younger cousins. The whole dynamic of Gagne family parties was flipped on its end. Who knows if age just loosened my parents, aunts, and uncles tongues, or it was the large bottles of wine I had never noticed before, but suddenly holidays were fun again. I might not be chasing cousins around, but we were all laughing at Uncle Joe who became fascinated with the words “condiment” and “Long Trail” beer. Gone was the formal tables by age, replaced by open living rooms and revolving tables of funny jokes and stories told at increasing volume. The stories too got more and more polished, to the point where my brother and I could pinpoint when certain stories would be told and mouth the intonations behind unsuspecting heads.
My brother too became a new ally. As kids we fought over even the little things, with him following me around and me trying to avoid him. Yet as soon as I moved out of the house for college, he and I became fast friends, to the point where my mother would complain that we regressed too often when together. In our new roles in the family holiday dynamic, we became the storytellers. Our stories usually were in jest of our parents or our own silly exploits, trying to make human size donuts or continuously committing traffic violations.
And so the stories have become a mix of old and new, told by everyone. But this past Easter, a shocking event took place – a new old story was revealed. You might think it would be of family scandal (divorce, homosexuality, or buying a Japanese car) but it was actually a fact said so blasé as if we had heard it before.
It started with an old familiar story of the farming ancestors, large families by the St. Lawrence River. Christian names flew back and forth, all said with quick, but unfamiliar French accents. But somebody mentioned the unfortunate circumstance that big Catholic families sometimes tend to end up crossing marriage lines. “Close relations” could be a loose concept. We all knew this. But then my aunt casually mentions the spot where all the inbred cousins, with their pointed heads and walking on all fours, were sent:
St. Louis du Ha! Ha!
I guffawed instantaneously. She had to have made it up. I said so. Every head of the older generation turned with surprise.
“Oh you know about St. Louis du Ha! Ha!…we’ve talked about it before.”
“Of course it’s a real place…no I did not make up that name.”
None of them even acknowledged that the name of the place was completely ridiculous.
I kept saying it over and over to myself. St. Louis du Ha! Ha! St. Louis du Ha! Ha! hehehe St. Louis du Ha! Ha! This has to be a joke. My crafty grandfather must have fibbed and made them believe this place was real.
And the wine on ran like water that day, so St. Louis du Ha! Ha! became just a stone that the conversation kept skipping over, making a smaller and smaller splash each time.
First thing when I got home, I emailed my traveling brother with the St. Louis du Ha! Ha! legend and elicited the expected laughter filled response.
But then I forgot about St. Louis du Ha! Ha! in the lull between family holidays.
Then today, a fellow student stopped by and conversation wound its way around to French Canadian origins. I made an off-hand remark about my supposed pointy headed relatives in St. Louis du Ha! Ha!, and he insisted that I google it.
Oh dear. It’s real. Read French? Help me out then…Or just add to the Wikipedia article.
In any case, never will I question story told at a family party again, no matter how pointed the heads.
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