It is tradition that the Trudeau men get together every year, sit down in a corner of the yard under the green Vermont foliage, and speak in French. Once a team of eleven, only six of the Trudeau siblings remain: Bob, Norman, Larry, Jill, Gaye, and Sue. Only three of them still try to come to the family reunion. No one even expected Bob to make an appearance this year; at 93, he surprised the entire family with his shaky entrance. Norm, 88, cried.
There are a few pictures of the three men sitting in folding chairs, under shadows cast by the giant maples. They didn’t stop talking to smile for the photos, but they did pose. I suppose that people don’t have time to stop for pictures at that age. The first generation Trudeau men meant business – they had life to talk about – and there were only a few hours to do it. The meeting lasted from the afternoon blues to the evening purples. Bob’s hugs to his little brothers lasted longer than usual before he left. Norm’s daughter held his hand as he sat to watch Bob go.
Larry was pulled away from the present. His great-grandniece had requested that he share stories from his past, so he composed himself in front of a fire that held the summer heat long after hours. He looked expectantly at her, waiting for a question. What stories did she want to hear? She hadn’t expected to get this far. The first step was to press record, so that these memories could be captured.
The Death of a Patriarch
Larry sat back in his chair to set the scene for his story. “The people at home at the time were Aunt Jill, Carmen, because my dad had invited her to come and stay, and let’s see – Bert wasn’t there. Anyhow, so Norman hitchhikes. We’re all hitchhiking.” The Trudeau children had been summoned back to their childhood home in Canada to spend as much time as possible with their father before he passed.
“Now you have to understand, this wasn’t an ordinary situation. There was a storm, a terrible snowstorm.” Nevertheless, Norm hitchhiked up Route 7 from Maine. Jack and Al (Jill’s husband) drove to Burlington to grab Flore. Along the way, they happened to come across Bob and Norm separately, who were both hitchhiking through the storm. By the time they arrived home, their father was barely alive, and mostly unconscious.
Seventeen-year-old Larry took this final opportunity to connect with his father. “I was scared of my father. He was unapproachable.” This did not surprise Larry’s audience, who had heard many stories of the Trudeau patriarch’s stoic and severe nature. “I remember holding his hand. And the thing I remember – I don’t know what this means – but he would continually pinch himself. And I often thought if he was wondering whether he was still alive.” Larry sat with his father until 3:04 in the morning, at which point he was told to go to bed. Larry obeyed, and the morning sun rose with news that his father was dead.
Larry’s storytelling was fluid. As the Vermont sky darkened, the young women of the Trudeau family continued to press him for more history. Perhaps Uncle Bob unconsciously inspired this interaction; perhaps the determination to hold onto the Trudeau history was renewed in the wake of what seemed like final goodbyes. Larry may have sensed this urgency, and thus he acknowledged his own attempts to document the Trudeaus. Despite the family’s secretive nature, he had successfully interviewed his brother, Bert, before he died. His great-grandniece wanted to see this recording of her late grandfather.
“Do you have [the recording] still?
“What?”
“Do you have [the recording] still?”
“Course I do.”
“Can we see it?”
“Got money?”
Larry’s great-grandniece wasn’t fazed by his deflection. She shared an understanding with her cousins that they would only learn what Larry was willing to share, and Larry preferred to share older memories.
Pursuing Acknowledgement
“Another time I remember – and I think this involved Norman – that there was this tree. This big tree next to the house where we used to have swings. And one year, we got this big log. So the whole deal was that there was a two-man saw – Norman cut before me – and he knew how to do it. You never push.” Larry was recalling times where he looked for connection and approval from his dad when he was a young boy. He mused about his inexperienced and eager nature, which sometimes caused him to lose focus and falter.
“And I remember so distinctly, that he signaled for me to get on the other side…I don’t know why…maybe, you know, he was trying to give Norm a break – anyhow I got on the other end of the two-man saw, and I pulled maybe two times. And I was so proud of myself…I started to smile to myself, and I pushed. And when I did, the saw did a bit of a wiggle. And he never said a thing, but I looked at his eyes, and I was so humiliated. I thought, you know, you blew it. The first chance I had to show my father that I was…you know I was maybe 12 or 13…I thought that was a big deal.” The younger family members nodded thoughtfully. Seeing Larry in such a vulnerable light was an uncommon experience, and they were grateful to share this moment with him.
Larry spent the rest of his evening at the Trudeau reunion humoring the younger generation. The temperature quickly dropped as the evening progressed, but the mood remained the same: energetic, yet pensive. While most stories reflected on the past, one exchange seemed to reflect how Larry looked to the future:
“When did your mother pass away?”
“She didn’t pass away. She died.”
“Same thing…Is there a difference?”
“No, that’s not the same thing. When you die, you die. Everybody’s always saying pass away…
No, no. I want to die. Not pass away.”
His great-grandniece looked at him thoughtfully, agreeing with the sentiment. Die certainly mirrors the finality of death better than pass away. The heavy moment didn’t last long. Larry eventually finished his stories and said his goodbyes, nighttime swallowed the shadows of Vermont foliage, and the younger Trudeaus turned to their yearly activity of smores. Larry’s great-grandniece stared at the fire, musing over her day’s observations.
Every year it becomes a little more painfully obvious that I’m not aging in a vacuum. As I get older, so does everyone else. It gets harder to leave each time.
Anya Trudeau Writing 