Montreal, Saturday morning, mid-November, in a middle-class home, around a basket of various cucurbits, which always sits on the dining room table.
— Mom, can we take out the Christmas decorations?
— No, Joséphine, you know, not before the 1ster December, we just celebrated Halloween.
My 10-year-old daughter returns to the living room with a disappointed look, the kind that only young children have the secret to. I head back towards the kitchen, with the firm intention of cleaning the refrigerator without letting myself be moved by the big sad eyes of the youngest in the family. I turn on my old analog radio. Yes, I had to bring the anachronistic device up from the basement since my OK Google thingy pretended not to recognize the Radio-Canada news channel. So, I tune to 95.1 FM, and I come across the news bulletin.
I am suddenly overcome by an emotional dizziness where sadness, incomprehension and a strong dose of indignation mix.
While the families of Israeli hostages, grieving and at the end of their nerves, march towards Jerusalem to get answers, around thirty premature babies are evacuated from a hospital in Gaza. I imagine the tiny bodies with translucent skin in incubators facing the dust of a deadly conflict. All this is inconceivable to me, whose family is safe and who was lucky enough to give birth to three post-mature babies of nine, ten and eleven pounds in cozy birthing centers where calm and serenity reign.
I helplessly let a tear fall down my cheek.
Then there is the impending public sector strike. The 420,000 Common Front workers, whose working conditions have been deteriorating for years, are forced to go on strike to demand their dues. We remind you that this will be quite a headache for families with school-age children. Obviously this walkout will cause all kinds of inconvenience, but it is the nature of pressure tactics to harm the proper functioning of society. This highlights the crucial role of these state employees, the importance of their function and, consequently, the need to remunerate them at their fair value and offer them adequate and efficient work environments.
I clench my fist in solidarity.
Then, we return to the announcement of the 5 to 7 million dollars that the Legault government will offer to finance the holding of two preparatory matches for the Los Angeles Kings in the national capital. I cannot help but think that this is an affront, a slap in the face, nay, a knowingly slap in the face of the people of Quebec. Offering an already multibillion-dollar National Hockey League (NHL) team millions in public funds, hoping to attract the attention of Gary Bettman, who has repeatedly said that Quebec was not included in the expansion plans of the league, it is consummate indecency.
I hear the Prime Minister justifying himself by saying: “It’s also important to invest in leisure. » If I completely agree with this sentence, I profoundly disagree with the means chosen to get there. I know of sports and leisure centers, all over Quebec, which offer free or very affordable activities to the population and which would dream of sharing this envelope in order to renovate their premises, increase their offer or simply to ensure their survival.
I let out a very long sigh of exasperation.
To conclude the bulletin, Karl Tremblay’s voice vibrates in the distance. The tributes are pouring in. Thousands of Quebecers felt the need to come together to honor this giant of Quebec song. I did not personally know this magnificent monument of our culture. We had only met once in “real life”, on the terrace of a snack bar in his native region. Marie-Annick, he and I greeted each other from afar. This is a common practice in the great world of show business, we politely bow our heads and smile, as if to say: “I recognized you, but I don’t know you well enough to come and bother you while you’re eating poutine with your daughters. »
He was exactly my age. He sang about my generation. His voice and the words of Jean-François Pauzé made my demands, my fears, my anger, my hopes resonate. As for millions of fans in the French-speaking world, Karl was part of my life. My 27 year old son gave an oral presentation on the song The Queen when he was in 6e year. My 12 year old son sings America cries at the top of our lungs during our car trips. Imagining the world without his voice saddens me without common sense. Thinking of his friends, his girlfriend and his daughters who will have to continue without his sweet reassuring gaze upsets me deeply.
This time I let out a sob.
I turn off the radio. Enough is enough. November and its grayness assault my insides. If it is a nice assonance, the sensation remains very unpleasant.
So much for the fridge. I grab a giant butternut squash from the basket. I slice it lengthwise and put it in a dressing gown with garlic. On the round, I heat up some homemade broth. It perfumes the kitchen.
— OK, Joséphine, go get the box of Christmas lights, we’re going to decorate the balcony.
Sometimes we have to admit that the world around us pushes us a little too much, and in those moments, we need the sweetness of pumpkin soup and the twinkle of little multicolored lights. You have to know how to be silent and savor the chance you have.
Salomé Corbo is an actress, improviser, author and citizen as best she can.