A Visit to my Ancestral Homeland

 

                                  Here I am, age three with my French-Canadian Grandmama

Here on La Belle Farm we grow strawberries. Lots of strawberries. Well, Farmer Bill grows them. I pick them. And we both enjoy them--with yogurt, in strawberry shortcake, strawberry jam, and all by themselves in their original and purest state.

That's what we do every summer here on La Belle Farm. I didn't think of it as something that’s part of my ancestral roots until our recent trip to Quebec where I learned that strawberries are actually in my DNA. My French Canadian roots.

A few years ago my husband began researching my French Canadian ancestry--my maternal grandmother's family. It began with a few generations and some interesting revelations--I'm a cousin to Farmer Bill's first wife and to my stepchildren. Small world!

Oh, and I have a mysterious great-grandfather who left for the West Coast in the 1890's in search of gold, but then never came back. Seemingly disappearing into the wilds of Los Angeles. I do recall a family story of him getting work as an extra on a silent film involving riding horses in the hills of San Fernando Valley.

No matter, because this bit of family lore has been upstaged since Farmer Bill made another discovery--I am descended from sixty-percent of the filles du roi (King's Daughters) sent by Louis XIVth from France between 1663 and 1678 to marry the French settlers and help populate New France (Quebec). Oh, and I am a direct descendent of Marie Sylvestre 8chista8ichk8e dite Olivier----the first indigenous woman (an Abenaki) to marry a French settler. In this case, Martin Prévost. We actually visited the plaque in Old Quebec dedicated to her. As I touched her name, I felt chills. Honestly, her story alone deserves its own book.

By the time we arrived at Île d'Orléans--the tiny island where my French ancestors hail from--my head was spinning. We drove around and around the island. It felt as if everyone there looked familiar. My ancestor's names were everywhere. It seemed that everyone we met was in some way related to me. Finally, we came upon strawberry fields of Ferme Maurice et Philippe Vaillancourt.

Yes, Vaillancourt. My French family name. And so, we stopped at the farm and met Philippe, along with his wife Josianne Girard. Josianne told me that they have been growing strawberries on their farm for hundreds of years.

I had this distinct feeling of coming to the end of a long and circuitous journey-the wayward daughter finally returning home.

Creative Friends--There is an entire history of people who launched themselves into dangerous journeys, crossed borders, survived tragedy and faced unimaginable challenges. Know this--whether you can see them or not--they are standing beside you, supporting you.

Open your arms and accept their guidance.

Love,

Jamie