When I first heard of grandfathers in syrup, which are so popular in the spring, an aftertaste of Quebec language cannibalism invaded my mind.
Posted yesterday at 9:00 a.m.
I began to imagine how the victim did not see a fatal trap closing in on her when she was invited for supper! It’s disgusting, trapping a grandfather like that.
— Hello, Grandpa, is it François?
– Phew! Glad it’s you, Francois. I thought it was another solicitation from this prince from Nigeria, he keeps asking me to help him get his fortune back to Canada.
“I want to ask you too, Grandpa. Do you have anything planned for Saturday night?
– Aside from watching Live from March with France Beaudoin, I have nothing planned.
“Would you like to come and have supper with us at the sugar shack?”
– Sure ! What am I bringing?
– Bring nothing. Come along, that’s all. Everything is swimming in oil, grandfather!
“And what are we eating, François?”
– Croque-monsieur! It’s almost no joke!
– In this case, I will bring a bouquet of flowers to Madame.
“No, Grandpa! If you really want to please us, bring a bouquet garni instead.
If you really love your grandfathers, I have a tip for you: stop soaking them in maple syrup. They have other riches to share with us. In Quebec, if we took the time to listen to our grandparents, they might teach us that by cutting and sweetening our mouths, if we are not careful, in a few years, our francophone culture will run out of sap and maybe even run on post syrup. The ball is in the court of Simon Jolin-Barrette with his law 96 supposed to protect the linguistic barrier which leaks from everywhere.
But let’s go back to our grandparents, because we have to admit that these last two years have been very hard times for the elderly. The seclusion away from the family, the anxiety caused by the viral threat and the drastic sanitary measures, the virtual visits, all that, hopefully, will be a distant memory from the spring.
For how long ? Nobody knows. But we will have to take advantage of the drop in the level of stress hormones in the population to remember, as my late mother said, that it is the foot and not the mouth that traces the path of kinship and friendship. When the turbulence is far behind the tunnel, it will be time to extend a benevolent hand to the elders to resume intergenerational contact.
When you love someone, it is better to “walk” to visit him than to call him. I must specify here that the verb “pieter” is a lexical particularity of the African Francophonie and which means to walk. In Gabon, walking with someone means going a long way in their company. Others would talk about kicking up the dust. Whoever wants to improve his life, said the sage, must raise the dust instead of letting it stick to his behind. It is when you walk that the pants last; if you sit all the time, blubbering about your fate, it wears itself out, he added. This is perhaps also why, everywhere on the planet, when things don’t work out to our liking, we organize marches in the streets in the hope that change is fast approaching.
It is therefore necessary to walk to see the elders, to take the time to listen to the gift of their words, to receive the present of their memories which go back light years.
To prolong the meeting with the grandparents, why not ask for directions before weighing anchor? In a certain Malian tradition, it is customary to ask three times for the road before leaving, a way to continue the meeting and make the pleasure last. The first time, we are told to stay to celebrate this evening, which is still young. The stranger then sits down for a few minutes and continues to talk until his second request for a route, which will also be refused. Dozens of minutes may pass before he says his third and last route request. This is where his host decides to release him, explaining to him that the road is his before wishing him a good return. This slow and gradual way of leaving is an excuse to enjoy the time spent with the people who are precious to us.
Moreover, a Malian friend named Mamadou tried to use it in one of the Bas-Saint-Laurent village where we were visiting. It was our first foray into a sugar shack with an older gentleman in the area and all was well. The condensed tree trunk honey landed on the snow to the delight of sweet tooths, and the flow of beer made forget that of the maple trees. Of course, there were also grandfathers in the syrup. Then, as everything has an end, came the time to leave the cabin to return to Rimouski. This is where my friend Mamadou, who still thought he was in Mali, asked for the road for the first time, without getting an answer. He repeated his request. Same. On his third request, the host replied, “You can always try, young man! We have been asking the government for the road for 20 years and we are still driving on a garnotte path. »
The moral of my story is this: don’t wonder three times if you should hit the road to see an elderly person. The first is always the right one. Walk towards the elders, and you will never go wrong!