By Carolyna Saint Germain (Ruthie)
Washington State
Prologue
Where do I go
when the image is gone….when the “cake in the window”
disappears and all that’s left is what’s inside and what’s
inside is dark, silent, no mercy, no thing. Nothing…
Once when I was a child, a child of God, the stars
themselves were my spotlight, shining on me alone, turning
me into a star like them, shining, glimmering, twinkling,
in my dark black nights. I prayed to the Blessed Virgin,
the Holy Mother, to be so full of grace that I could link
up with her in her benevolence and be benevolent in my
life. Give my mamma the crown: Queen for a Day! A new
refrigerator, a washer, a dryer, some new shoes,
forgiveness from God, reinstated to Grace. Hail Mary full
of grace…Mary, holy mother; Mary, my mother, ma mamma;
reserved, elegant, quiet, martyred grace.
The incense fills my nose, my head is engorged ready to
burst, an over-filled balloon of Benedictum Deus, the
holiest sacrament radiated from above, from the unseen.
Don’t look. Don’t lift your head. God-light streams down
the dust escalators, enters into my heart unbidden but not
unwelcome. I am the innocent waiting for a miracle, daring
grace its benevolent dance. Spin with me; weave the golden
light of goodness into a miracle that looks like freedom
from poverty, prejudice, repetition, ignorance, martyrdom.
I am, on this first communion day, a child of god, and as a
good father with an obedient child, I should get at least
one wish.
Mamma burst her brain. She bled to death without showing
any blood, such was her way. She was quiet, and she died
quiet, but inside she was a volcano: molten, hot, bubbling
red angry liquid. She waited all her life to erupt and she
finally did, but she kept it to herself like she always
did. I want to tell you about her. Her parents were tough,
farmers in the French North Country, potatoes, dairy,
livelihood at the mercy of nature and God. Middle daughter,
seventeen children, fell in love at her womanly awakening,
got pregnant, sent away to the nuns to have the child, out
of wedlock. Her mamma-matriarch raised her first-born and
only son. And mamma was sent away to the city to be a maid,
a governess, a nanny, but not to her own. The grief, the
pain the agony…the guilt, the shame, all shaped her as she
grew into her adolescence. She only wanted to be with her
lover, father of her son. But he, he was protestant, Scott,
maybe. Not French, not catholic, not acceptable. Forever
after, not acceptable. And she became that. Not acceptable,
not even in the eyes of God. Excommunicated, interdicted,
and still went to pray to God every day. Mea Culpa, mea
Culpa…where is the benevolent mother of god to intercede,
and give her mercy?
When I was born, she nearly died. Probably wishes she had.
Fifth child, fourth girl. I lived with my god-parents from
the moment I left the nursery. My mamma stayed in the ward.
She didn’t hold me for months. I didn’t get to smell her
mothering. I drifted from arm to arm, whoever had the time
to feed me the bottle. Survival becomes needier than love
and I learned to be still and not raise a raucous. As soon
as I could walk, I became the edge that my cousins
followed. I was neglected no more. I was the star, shining,
streaming, come follow me. Come.
I escaped into nature: trees, sun, rain, snow, ice. Mamma
fell into work: bleach, ammonia, soap, starch, steam. We
skirted each other, barely. She didn’t know me but I knew
her. I knew that at 38 she looked old, really old. Her eyes
were hollow, deep sadness hidden and sunken, like a coffin
in the earth. I would catch her sometimes before she
disappeared into her uniform of work and survival. Her
mouth soft, her eyes warm, her look inviting. I edge closer
to bathe in that moment of loving grace, melting in the
delicate touch of her hard-working hand on my head,
threading her fingers through my hair. Tears escape from my
eyes, diamonds sliding under my lashes, not daring to hug
her waist for fear of losing the preciousness of the
moment. It is a second, or two and then gone. Get wood for
the fire, get your older sisters, go eat your oatmeal, go,
just go. The diamonds fall uncultured.
Chapter One
To be French, one must have the faith
I’m graduating from 8th grade today and we’re moving next
week. On Tuesday we had awards assembly. As we paraded into
the gym, I saw mamma in the bleachers. She never comes to
my school activities during the day. She always has to work
at the hospital, 6AM-6PM, in the kitchen and laundry. I
turn around to look again in case I made a mistake. There
she is, adjusting her glasses. What is she doing here?
“Hey, you’re mom’s here.” Pat elbows me.
I nod, squinting my eyes so that I can clearly see her
face.
“Are you getting an award?”
I make a face and shake my head. We all know who’s getting
the awards. I mean that’s a given. The French catholic
girls have to be brilliant to even get mentioned. Mrs.
Barstow is calling for attention. The gym quiets down.
“Please rise.” Sharon bends her head to the microphone and
begins “I pledge allegiance to the flag…”
My voice automatically recites the daily pledge. I don’t
hear the words anymore.
The piano begins the introduction and my heart swells, and
eyes sting,
“Oh-oh say can you see, by the dawns early light, what so
proudly we hail, to the twilight last gleaming, and the
rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof to
the night that our flag was still there, Oh say does that
star-spangled banner yet wave, over the land of the free
and the home of the brave.”
I am filled with emotion, holding, holding; don’t let the
diamonds spill over. I just love that song. I always feel
like crying when we sing it.
The litany of awards begins with the kindergarteners. I
think they’re so cute! They remind me of my nieces and
nephews. The grades are almost finished: excellent readers,
attendance, FFA fair winners, 4-H Club, chalkboard washers,
ice and snow sculptures, all the regular stuff. Each class
receives one award from each category. When it’s the whole
class the class president walks up to get the award. Those
kinds of awards go in the big glass cupboards in the halls.
When it’s a person, she or he gets to keep it. I clap with
enthusiasm for everyone except Ricky. He’s mean. We had a
fist-a-cuffs fight when I was in 5th grade. I think I beat
him because he had a bloody nose and I just had a sore
belly. We don’t talk much. Mrs. Bingsley, my teacher, and
the only teacher of all of us sixteen 8th graders, is going
to the microphone now. She’s so nice. She begins her speech
by thanking everyone, and all the parents that could, for
coming. I sneak a look at mamma who is sitting in the
bleachers. She looks like she does in church. I’m kind of
sad that I didn’t make her proud like the other parents. I
look back at Mrs. Bingsley who is telling us that there is
a special 8th grade award this year.
“I have enjoyed my 8th grade class very much this year. In
particular, I have one student who stands out, not because
of this student’s academic excellence, nor perfect
attendance, but because of excellence in citizenship. What
is a good citizen? It is someone who cares for his or her
classmates, teachers, friends and family alike. It is
someone who is polite, doesn’t gossip, or tell stories,
watches out for little students, works hard and is
diligent, and is consistent in that behavior every day. We
have such a good citizen in our graduating class this year.
It is with great pleasure that we present the 1958 Good
Citizenship Award to …”
I am holding my breath because I’m so excited to see who it
could be. Elizabeth, Sharon, Keith… I’m on the edge of my
seat.
“Ruth Saint Germain.”
My heart flips! My stomach fills with butterflies! No, I
didn’t hear that right. Everyone is clapping.
Pat pokes me with his elbow again. “Go on up. Go on.”
I stand up and feel my burning face and burning tears. It’s
such a long walk to the microphone and everyone is still
clapping and my girl friends are cheering. I finally reach
Mrs. Bingsley. She hands me a framed certificate, and a
statue. I try to shake her hand like we’ve been taught but
now my hands are full. Her smile warms me. I smile back. As
I start to go back to my seat Mrs. Barstow takes my elbow
and steers me back to stand with the teachers. The piano
directs everyone to stand as we sing “God Bless America,
land that I love”. My heart is full of love. I open my
mouth and sing. The assembly is over. Where is mamma?
There, coming towards me, smiling. I give her my awards.
She kisses my cheek.
“I m going back to work, now,” she says it so softly, a
whisper escaping the lump in her throat.
I nod. She turns and walks out of the gym. She walks the
mile or so back to the hospital, back to work. We’re going
to recess. I don’t know how to act. My friends crowd around
me. I can’t wait for the bell to ring. Sharon holds my
hand. School’s almost over. We’re moving! Oh my dear God!
We’re heading south.
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Dear Rhea,
I say dear, with intention, for your work about us, our
culture, is dear, to me, and to many.
I want to say so many things...I have been working on a
book for many years...a novel: I say it is historical
fiction. It comes to me from spirit, the muse, desire and
need to express, and mostly from love. This morning I felt
moved to see if there was anything on the web about my
heritage, and lo and behold, I found you and the whole
Franco-American movement in Maine. I wasn't aware of any of
it, and I am so moved. Many tears have flowed in the past
5-6 hours, and many smiles, and much gratitude and pride. I
have finally stopped reading. The poignant thing is that
without "knowing" these studies and understandings, I have
inherently written about them. Truth cannot be stopped when
it comes. I am grateful, also, to the undying desire and
strength of my spirit to speak through me about our
culture: mammas, memeres, and our sisters.
We have never met. I am the youngest of Mary Jane's girls.
I left Maine and never returned...but I'm wanting to come
home, to my rich French culture, intelligent, creative, and
not what my upbringing may have led me to believe. In the
writing of this novel, I continue to discover who I am, and
the reasons and understandings of the paths I have walked.
Life is such a circle, is it not?
Thank you for you, and because of you the French roses are
blooming.
With sweet love and affection,
Carolyna Saint Germain (Ruthie)
P.S. I spell out Saint rather than use the abbreviation
because I am not a street, I am a Franco-American woman,
and even in 35 years of marriage, I have always been a
Saint Germain.