The mothers

Sun 5.14.23

On this Mother’s Day let me introduce you to the women in my family. My mother died when I was a year and a half so there is not much to tell about her except that from the photos, I can tell you that she was beautiful in her features and her manner, a natural. Her name was Rose Alice Saint Pierre.  Then there was grandmaman.  Her name was Marianne Groleau.  Groleau translates to much water.    We should start with my arrière-grandmère.  I have a picture of this great-grandmaman whose name was Marie.  In it, is an old woman, her pure white hair cut a bit above the ears and styled close to the head.  There is not one ounce of fat on her slim body.  The dress is black, a two piece affair with a jacket, simple.  She wears a pair of round, wire rimmed glasses, and the eyes, I must tell you about the eyes.  They look out at the world with equanimity, strength and compassion, and seem almost asiatic.  It is with those eyes that she spoke.  I have inherited this eye power, this ability to communicate through vision.  Her lips are thin and at rest.  She does not smile.  No makeup, no plucked eyebrows, but possessing great beauty.  The only ornamentation she wears is a chain with a jewelled heart pendant the size of a half dollar hanging from it. Who this woman is I have no idea.  A Canadian who came to America to seek her fortune, to seek adventure.  From the formal portrait, her jewelled pendant, and her coiffed hair, I'd say she did well for herself.  Her own grandmother undoubtedly came to this hemisphere in a ship from a small canton in France.  

Her daughter Marianne, my grandmaman, was a more complex person and made a very deep impression on me.  She was the true matriach of our extended family.  I'll describe her formal portrait.  A bigger woman than Marie, I'd say 5' 4" weighing about 130 pounds.  She wears a black dress with thin straps at the shoulders, looks like a slip, covered with a see through overdress.  A bit of demure décolletage at the neck trimmed in lace.  Her greying hair is short, waved and curly, and combed back loosely.  There is no jewelry save small pearl earrings, also no makeup, no lipstick.  The fancy dress belies the stern expression on her face.  Her lips are pursed tight and down-turned slightly at the corners.  She wears rectangular wireless glasses out of which she peers out at the world with firm, even severe eyes, a drill sargeant.  If one looks closer at those eyes one sees vulnerability, even terror.  Her stance is austere, dignified.  

She had 11 children three of which died at a young age.  Afterward she told my grandpapa Ulric, that henceforth she would sleep alone.  A courageous and unheard of move.  As a staunch Catholic, she had to get her parish pastor’s permission for such an action.  Ulric left her for it.  When I knew her the children had left the large well furnished city apartment which she now shared with her eldest daughter Lucienne.  There was also a summer property at Sabattus Lake.  Her children had supported Marianne throughout her life.  She had never worked outside her home.  It was a matter of honor.  Values we no longer possess.  What is even more curious, is that it was Lucienne's responsibility as the eldest daughter to remain by her mother's side, which she did without complaint.  And when her mother died she quickly married at the age of 45 to a man amed Gazoo Berubé and took off for California.  Such a thing is inconceivable to us, we might even say cruel.  These were people of faith with a strong code of ethics about family responsibility.

Marianne was very stylish, an attractive woman.  The veiled hat, the white gloves, beautiful silk dresses, the works.  Her apartment was immaculate.  We would all gather there at holidays to celebrate, the table with all its leaves added loaded with traditional French pastries, pies, pork roast, sauces, etc.  I also remember great summer caravans, à la Citizen Kane, with car after car loaded with aunts, uncles, cousins heading for the seashore where we would lay our blankets down in a mosaic of colors and spend the day sunning, swimming and gossiping.  The men would dig a deep pit in the ground to cook the steamers, lobster and corn we would later feast on.  It had been her desire that her children become responsible, prosperous adults and she succeeded in implanting the necessary values in them to bring that about.  

One incident with Grandmère is seared in my memory.  I was 6 years old at the time and had, four weeks previously, been placed in a convent because my father had been hospitalized for a prolonged stay.  She had summoned me to spend the day at her apartment in the city.  I was still in shock from the loss of my family, especially my brothers who had been sent to live with their godmother.   Father had remarried after maman died and the woman Simone filed for divorce when he was hospitalized.  I sat at a kitchen chair across the room from Grandmère wearing my convent uniform and I realized as she spoke to me that a drastic change had occurred.  There was now a wall between me and others, a protective cocoon surrounding me from the world I inhabited.  

Shortly she sent me out to play.  Once outdoors I ran, ran, ran, all the way back to the apartment my family had occupied.  Simone still lived there with her father and sister.  Everyone was polite and friendly and I understood that I could never return, that door was shut forever.  When Grandmère found out where I had been she was upset and kept me inside the rest of the day.  She told me that she had not invited me sooner because she wanted me to get used to the convent.  I thought she was a cold woman.  

In the past several years a rather curious thing happens when I go to bed at night.  The moment I close my eyes I see Grandmère, but she is different.  No longer carrying the weight of responsibilities, she laughs and is easy in a girlish sort of way, or she is out in society speaking her mind.  It is as if she is developing, changing, trying new things.  I, the child of rock and roll, am reaching out to this woman with old world values and am attempting a conversation.  I am the seed of Marie and Marianne.  

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Eight o'clock Sunday morning, the police arrive at her apartment in Greenwich Village, "How long have you been living here?" The roommate Elizabeth, after having accepted her half of the deposit money and rent for their new apartment, has called the police. 

New York City doesn’t open its arms to welcome her, but she’s arrived and the adventure of her life is about to unfold.  She’s come from Maine with an invitation from Sarah Lawrence College to participate in the graduate writing program.

How one becomes a seeress is what this memoir explores. Stories have been specifically selected to illustrate, from the sublime to the practical, a spiritual journey introduced in each chapter by an atout, the Tarot’s major archetypes.   From the Fool, to The World, our human journey with its risk and folly unfolds. There is also an artist here alive to her new world seeking inspiration among artists on the Lower East side, learning the ways and foods of her Chinese neighbors, falling in love.