Saint-Basile, Edmundston, NB E7C
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Going north
The summer after my father died, I took my mother up to Northern Maine, where he was born, so that we could scatter his ashes there. Oddly enough, we had had plans that year to up there anyway, before my father became ill. Strange, how the reasons for trips can change so drastically... Growing up, he had family on both sides of the Maine/New Brunswick border. The St.-John River valley is a bilingual region--French is as common as English, even on the U.S. side...Roots run deep along the shores. On the banks of the river on the Canadian side, we visited an old cemetery that also had some reconstructions of cabins built when the first Acadian refugees landed there in 1785. Those French Catholic settlers chose their names carefully, and they re-used them over the generations; it's a sobering thing to see your own name and your father's name repeated over and over again in a graveyard... Men with my name and my father's, over a period of over 200 years--my mother, from the other side of the world, seeing them for the first time now, as a widow...
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