A Cantic Christmas

7/27/2019 A Cantic Christmas

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A Cantic

Christmas

by Pierre Bdard

based on a short story

Citizenshipby John Bdard

Copyright 2013 by Pierre Bdard.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may

not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoeverwithout the express written permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or

scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2013

ISBN 0-9650269-2-2


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Canadian Immigration Inspection Station,

Cantic, PQ (present day Lacolle, PQ)

25December1953 -0330hThe border crossing at what is now

Rouses Point and Lacolle was a popular place

for southbound traffic during the Prohibition,

from 1919 through 1933, as alcohol found its

way south. By 1953, the border was much

tamer, but cold and desolate, especially on this

early Christmas morning.

A situation often encountered on the

Canada / U.S. border: a wandering laborer

who hardly knows where he is, much less his

citizenship status. A helpful inspector is always

on guard at the border to help.

I was working the 12 to 8 shift with my

good friend Jules, both of us fairly fresh

members of the enforcement division of the

Royal Canadian Department of Citizenship and

Immigration. Our job and our lives at the timewere metered in 8-hour shifts of 8 to 4, 4 to 12,

and 12 to 8, but mostly 12 to 8, because of our

junior status in the service. We are in middle

our third 12 to 8 rotation in a row. Just as well,

it being Christmas. No one sane is out there

tonight.

The Cantic Canadian border station is two

miles due north of the U.S. Customs house, our


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opposite New York State inspection point at

Rouses Point, manned by our friends, the

Americans.

Since Jules and I are new, fresh anddesperate for work after playing in Korea

together too close to the front lines and sailing

around on merchant ships during the War, we

gladly take any shift given us, especially if we

can stay warm, well fed, and relatively safe.

I consider myself fortunate to have made it

to work in one piece tonight. The wind was

either blowing up Lake Champlain or sucking

down the Richelieu River, depending on your

perspective.1Either way, making my way down

from the village to the station for my shifttonight was not a trivial exercise. It is now

winter and winter reigns in upstate New York /

down province Qubec.

Getting to the station so I can get on

station is the first step. Many nights its the

only step - getting here takes more effort than

what my partner Jules and I will put in during

our shift.

I want to make it clear to the reader that

nobody has slept, sleeps, or will sleep while we

1 Lake Champlain, which pours into the Richelieu

River and then empties out into the great Saint Lawrence

River on its way to the Atlantic.2 Crotons is a Quebecois pork pat. Think French


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are on station in Cantic. We work by the book,

and the book says no sleep.

If, at some time during our shift, as we sit

in the lunchroom with our lunch buckets openin front of us, in front of our little stove

radiating so much heat that you think your toes

are burning in your steel-toed boots, and our

heads slip down into our crotons sandwiches,

we might rest our eyes for a few seconds,

maybe even a minute or two, but hardly evermore than fifteen minutes, ever, that I can

recall.2

With regulations in mind, we always take

turns eating to ensure that neither of us sleeps

on station. Never, ever.The graveyard shift is the graveyard shift.

Tonight I stand watch at the station desk while

Jules eats with his eyes closed in the back

room. The windowless room serves as the

infirmary, our indoor secondary inspection for

pat downs and strip downs, and of course, the

lunchroom. Theres next to no draft unless the

door is open, and this helps cool things off in

the summer and keeps it toasty in the winter. Of

course, in the summer, you can theoretically go

2 Crotons is a Quebecois pork pat. Think French

rillettes except the pork is ground, not pulled. Puts poutine

to shame when on toast with coffee. I am getting hungry

thinking about it.


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jump in Lake Champlain to cool off. In the

winter, you cant leap into a bonfire to get

warm. For long.

If by chance our supervisor decides tobrave the weather and icy roads to show up in

Cantic, or if either of us thinks we need help

with a potentially difficult or dangerous

inspection, the signal is to throw our heavy

glass Labatts 50 ashtray, usually full of

smoldering rolled Players and Export As, fastagainst the inside wall.

That usually wakes Jules up. It only took

three months and an AWOL U.S. Marine who

was out of his mind to establish our ashtray

into wall signal. Nothing says I need you likethe loud thud of a full ashtray bouncing off the

thin faux wall separating the lunchroom from

reception.

Nobody gets curbside service tonight its

just too damn cold, -20 F topped with a little

wind. Any of our potential clientele making

their way to Canada will have to come inside

for a talk, unless Jules agrees to go out there.

After a careful interrogation, we will likely

determine, quickly and efficiently, that a

secondary inspection, especially if it must beperformed outside, is not necessary. Again, its

just too damn cold.


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While Jules sits in the lunchroom on the

first of his graveyard shift lunches, my feet sit

propped up on the desk and I look south

towards the Etats Unis, while reading a

forgettable dime novel sporting a cover much

racier than its writing.

Its a spy novel about a guy who spends

his days having sex and killing people. Very

realistic. Written by an American. I could use a

personal introduction to the blonde in the blackdress on the cover, but Cantic is a long way

from wherever that cover is supposed to be.

The writing is alliteratively sluggish

tonight, much like the visibility outside. You

can hear the snow gusting against the siding ofthe station. I have to stand up and take a walk

around the office every fifteen minutes to keep

from falling asleep. I jump up and down; roll

three cigarettes and smoke two, anything to stay

awake.

I spot a shadow coming my way from the

American side. Hard to say from here, but it

looks like a pedestrian carrying a bag on his

back. Hes bouncing up and down. Boots, light

greatcoat, maybe a toque on his head. We will

see, we will see.What a night to be on foot. Probably a

local farm worker coming home for Christmas


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day dinner. His frozen breath makes him six

inches taller.

I decide to go into the lunchroom to get

him a cup of coffee. He deserves it just forbeing out there.

Got one coming in, Jules. I said headed

into the back to grab a refill for me and a tin

cup for my soon-to-be-newfound friend.

No response from Jules, he may be eatinganother fifteen-minute meal.

Coming back up front into reception, I

look out the window but cant see anyone

coming. Ive lost him! Where could he have

gone? I grab my coat and rush out the door.My heart rate crests as I catch him thirty

yards down the road, footing it north at a good

clip. Hes got a huge gut and his greatcoat is

dull red with white lining. I stop to catch my

breath.

Hey! You! Where are you going?

I pause for effect as we stare at each other.

His breath is wet and strong, but hes not

winded.

Where do you think you are going? Youare now entering Canada, sir. Cant you read

the sign?


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What do you mean read the sign? I wasnt

speeding, I swear! Besides, all I wanted was not

to bother you. Its too cold out here.

It is damn cold. Get in here.

I motion to the door. I got coffee for

you.

The two of us ambled into reception,

taking care to step hard on the doorjamb to rid

ourselves of the sticky snow on our boots. Wegrabbed two notched oak office chairs that

might have been part of the room since the last

station remodel at the end of Prohibition in

1933.

Now tell me all about it. Lets start at thetop. Whats your name, sir?

Nicolas, you dont pronounce the s,

Nicolas Leblanc, sir.

Citizenship? Place of birth?

What do you mean, seasonship?

Where were you born?

Oh that? In Stratton. I think. Not sure

though. Might have been Lac Megantic out

east.

Well, lets say its Stratton? Which one is

it?


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What do you mean, which one? The one

closest I guess?

What is this you think business?

Stratton is in Maine, isnt it? Or Vermont?Dont think they moved it, did they? Try again.

Born in Vermont or Maine; neither makes you

Canadian, Mr. Leblanc.

Beg your pardon, Officer. No disrespect.

Not sure. I just think I was born in Stratton. I

was born real young, so I dont remember it

much.

Lets assume you were born in Vermont,

over there cross that border. Then what? Do

you have paper telling me who you are?

Then what what? I got no paper on me

but rolling papers. Lets say, lately I worked for

Old Man Barnes down the road here. Until

Bessie, his conjoint I think, went to Albany to

see her sister and never come back.

Barnes started drinking more cidre after

that. Not that I blame Bessie for not coming

back, because living with Old Man Barnes is

not always easy for Bessie, specially when Old

Man Barnes decides to drink lecidre.

Im not sure things are any better forBarnes either, when Bessie gets going. She

listens to the Texas radio preachers, tub-

thumpers raising all kinds of hell, at all hours,


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about damnation and bad spirits. She also likes

to order the pills, by the bushel, that the

ministers pitch, for diseases she does not have

or knows nothing about.

Just in case pills she calls them. As you

can imagine this just in case business gets

Barnes pissed off, and I am not even going to

try to tell you what it does for his blood

pressure.

Once Bessie gets busy doing these things,

her cooking goes all to hell. No salt in the soup,

no salt in the stew, hell, no salt shaker in the

house. The more trips Barnes makes to the

village to buy salt, the more salt Bessie throws

out the door behind his back. Things got so bad,I have to go to a neighbors barn and hammer

me a piece from the cows salt lick.

Not that bad that salt, by the way. Carry

some with me all the time. Probably the way

they get it from the mine. Care to sample?

Nicolas reached into his pocket and took

out a small muslin satchel that I assumed had

some of the salt lick salt. I waved my hand at

him and shook my head I didnt want to see.

Not tonight. It was Christmas morning.

I was saying, he began.

As you were telling me. I interrupted.


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Thats right, and as Bessie, the wife, got

more and more religion, she had less and less

time for the cooking and the washing. The old

man got fed up with having to buy salt twice a

week. We werent to figure out what was going

on until last month.

At three in the morning, hearing some

weird noises and strange singing outdoors, I

came downstairs, and looking out the window,

spotted Bessie throwing something around thesides of the house. Later that day, once I had

told the old man about it, he faced her with the

facts. She told him the bad spirits had taken

over the house and that she was trying to chase

them away, with blessed salts.

What blessed salts? he asks.

The blessed salts that I got the priest to

bless, she says.

Bull, he says, damn priest Murphy

would never do it.

Oh yes he did! says Bessie. When I get

him to bless a medal I hold in one hand, I got a

bag of salt in the other.

Barnes got angry. He declared on the

spot that it was probably too late, she wasprobably infested with bad spirits already and

salt, blessed or not, was not going to help and

that her moving out immediately for a good


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while would be in the best interest of all

concerned.

So she moved out.

Enough about Bessie and the old man.

Your parents, what can you tell me about your

mum and dad?

My mother was French. My father? No

idea, not sure - just told he was lost in war. I am

sure of that because on every 11th of Novemberat 11am, rain or shine, some years it is mostly

snow or shine, we stop whatever we are doing,

take off our coverings and bow our heads for a

minute.

You wear a poppy?Yes, sir. Every year.

The conversation stopped. He started

looking into the wood floor, vacantly.

Did I tell you about Old Man Barnes

being mean when he took to le cidre? I did.Good.

Now I want you to know that I am the

type of person that can overlook getting my

thirty bucks a month late or even not getting it

at all, when things get tight on the farm, but Iwant my share of the juice when there is some

to be had. On that, I have to insist. We ran out

of cidre and the old man cant cook. Gotta


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move on. Here I am. No pay, no cidre, no

decent food. I leave.

Blowing snow announced itself against the

windows in reception. I was enjoying the heatand having someone or something to get me

through my shift awake, no matter how inane

the story or misadventures.

Now, Mr. Leblanc, what can you tell me

about your citizenship status?

Seasonship? Citizenship? Oh yes. Well I

had a long talk on that with an officer in Alburg

last year. I explained everything to him and he

let me through and he promised me, better . . .

he swore he would have an answer for me in his

hands the next time I went by his place. I justwant to be like everyone else, who cross every

day.

I want to be able to answer the next time

someone says: What is your seasonship? I

want to say, Yes sir; I am one of them, I am.

I want it to be like it was in the army. I

want to snap to it and salute when hearing that

music. Can you help me sir? Do you think you

could fix me up?

This citizenship business is screwed up. Igot no paper. I got no memory but whats here

around the Lake Champlain.


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He said Champlain without pronouncing

the m or the n.

Let me refill your cup, and then we talk.

Stay there, please.

I excused myself and went into the

bathroom and stared in the mirror for a sec

before doing what I had to do. Took my time to

wash hands. Slapped my face a couple of times

to stay awake and walked back out to reception.

Now back to that citizenship bit. Where

were you born?

In or around Stratton, I think. I know for

sure that the doctor came in from Sainte Anne

and that I was baptized in Sainte Anne. SainteAnne is in Qubec, you know.

I know. What about school?

In Sainte Anne, too. That I know for

certain. Actually there was not much of that

because it happened at the time my father wasreported missing, and as we lived a long way

from the village, I did not go for long. That I

know.

Work, social security, unemployment

benefits?

Away from home, since I was thirteen.

Farm and bush work, here and there. Potatoes

in Maine and lumber camps all over - Qubec,


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Vermont and New York upstate. I have a U.S.

Social Security Number somewhere and I

collect unemployment money in Qubec when I

can.

What about the army? Did the draft get

you? What about voting?

You bet they did. Shipped me to Alaska,

too. Cold mother up there I tell you, but not as

bad for me as for some of the others. We had

this captain from Florida I believe, or was it

Alabama? Anyway he got up one morning

Mr. Leblanc, stop, please. We want to be

done here before the ice breakup on the

Richelieu.

Right. Now what else do you want to

know? You asked me about voting. Correct?

Yes, I vote in Qubec when I am there, but I

vote over there, too.

I remember one very well-organized

election in Albany a few years back when,

matter of fact, we voted a few times. But why

all this now? Jimmy, the officer in Alburg, told

me that he would send everything to

Washington and let me know when the results

came back. They should have decided by now.

We are not in Alburg and Jimmy works

for my counterparts on the American side

protecting his border, not the Canadian one.


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You guys must talk! Check with him!

Pick up the phone! Use the hotline! Sorry

officer. Just trying to be helpful. Now, as I said

before, if you check with Jimmy, I bet he will

give you the results of his enquiries to

Washington.

Sorry but I cannot check with him

because I work for the Canadian, not the U.S.

Government. Look, what are you planning to do

in Canada?

Well, I was thinking about going to

Monsieur Latours place, down the road here,

for a while. Spring will be here shortly and he

will need help setting up his eel traps on the

Richelieu. We get along good and he has cidre.Officer, I am not lying and dont know

more than that. I know that I was born here,

baptized there, went to school here, worked

there, registered for the draft here but went into

the army there.

I dont have the money to get papers and

it is always trouble, trouble and more trouble,

every time I turn around trying to cross your

line. What harm have I ever done to anyone?

There I have been all those years, pulling my

own way, minding my own business, alwaystrying to do my best.


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I am with you, Nic. This is a mess and I

would not want to be in your shoes.

Dont get me wrong. Im as straight as

they come, but we all have our limits. For me, itmight have been in Korea, the North Atlantic,

or any other thing Id been through since 1939.

Here I was on Christmas morning, early

Christmas morning, trying not to freeze, and

Im dealing with an undocumented transient

named Nicolas, who is trying to come to

Canada to access a steady source of work and

cider.

Here, I told Nicolas as I handed him a

comb out of the vending machine in the

bathroom, I think I have a deal for you. Takethis, go into the bathroom, do your thing, comb

your hair and Ill get you on your way, but we

have to do a ceremony.

Yes, sir! I mean, no sir! On my way, sir!

Be right back. Right back.

Nicolas Leblanc rushed into the bathroom

with the expectancy of a new groom getting

ready for the service, without quite knowing

why he was getting ready. In my mind, Nicolas

Leblanc looked ready to become Canadian.

Are you ready?

Yes sir, I am.


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You stand up now, raise your right hand,

and repeat after me. I, Nicolas Leblanc.

I, Nicolas Leblanc.

Swear that I will be faithful and bear true

allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the

Second, the Queen of Canada.

She be the Queen of Qubec, too?

Nicolas, come on.

I swear I will be faithful to her Majesty,

Queen Elizabeth.

Queen of Canada.

Queen of Canada.

Her Heirs and Successors.

Heirs, successors.

And I will faithfully observe.

Faithful observe.

The laws of Canada and fulfill my duties

as a Canadian citizen.

Laws of Canada and duties as Canada

citizen.

Excellent! Now do the sign of the cross toseal the oath and allow me to shake your hand.

Merry Christmas, Nicolas, you are the newest

Canadian citizen in Cantic!


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Thanks, Officer! Would you say that this

calls for a drink, now?

I have a few more hours on shift so I will

decline the offer of caribou.

I decided to take a more serious tone with

my newly minted Canadian.

Listen, Nicolas, let me remind you of

something. You must always keep secret the

ceremony we had here this morning. Because ifyou dont, the American authorities, hearing

that you became a citizen of Canada, may get

peeved at you and bar you from traveling and

working in their country. You understand that?

Nicolas bobbed his head.You can always mention my name, but it

will be better if we keep what happened here

strictly between ourselves. Lets say it is just a

dream, a beautiful dream. You got that straight?

Goodbye and good luck now. On your way

now.

It is a dream, and you best keep the name

of Nicolas Leblanc to yourself, John. Now let

me get back to the sleigh, the reindeer are

getting restless. I dont have all night.

Right. I thought. As he crossed the

threshold of the door his greatcoat turned as red

as fresh felt, as if the moonlight caught him


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stepping out. And his beard, I really hadnt seen

it, or noticed it. I heard the bells and maybe

snow against the windows again, in a gust.

I woke up on the floor of reception, in acold sweat but not uncomfortable. My cheek

was half-stuck to the dusty floor with drool. My

coffee sat on the table, lukewarm.

What the hell, John! Get your ass up

before someone sees you.

It took a few seconds before the blue blob

I knew to be Jules came into focus.

John, you are scaring me. Whats going

on with you?

Its Nicolas Leblanc, Jules, he camethrough again.

Joyeux Nol, John.

Joyeux Nol, Jules.

It was my last Christmas in Cantic.


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About John Bdard

Jean (aka John) Bdard served in the

Royal Canadian Merchant Navy from 1942 to1950 and the Royal Canadian Armed Forces

from 1950 to 1953. He for with Canadian

Immigration for ten years before immigrating to

the US in 1964. From 1964 to 1969 he worked

as a janitor in a juice factory, a women's shoe

salesman, and a grocery store security guard.

As soon as he became an American citizen (and

eligible to carry a gun) he was accepted into the

US Customs Service, where he retired as a

Senior Inspector after 20 years of service,

including a 2.5 year tour in Laos as an advisorstarting in 1972.

A Cantic Christmas

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