This is a photograph of my mother, as a newborn, held by my great-grand-mother, Leiticia Marcotte. They are on the porch of their new home, in Barraute, more a settlement than a village, 300 miles north of Montreal, and only accessible by a less than reliable and most uncomfortable train route.

 I keep coming back to this photograph, time after time. Until recently, I think I took it for granted. Now, I realize how fortunate I am to have it. How rare is it, for someone my age, to have a photograph of her mom as a newborn. Even my own children don’t have that. It is precious. And I see, now, how important it is for me to pass it on to everyone who came after her. It is part of their history.

You need a particular kind of courage and a special kind of blind faith in life and in the clergy to uproot your life and that of your family from a well established farm near Quebec City to the wild and unforgiving north. My grand-mother, Ernestine, was 18 when she arrived in September 1916 with her fourteen siblings, a decision in which they most likely had very little say.

She did, have a say when she chose to marry Émile Darveau, in April 1919. He was handsome and always the life of the party, even though I never heard her say anything good about him. And then again, she did not choose whether or when she would get pregnant, or when her labour would start. When I look at this photograph of my mother as a newborn baby, I wonder what it was like for my grand-mother to be pregnant in such a harsh place. Giving birth was not for the faint of heart.

Grand-maman always liked to say, whenever I, or any of my siblings, would hurt ourselves and complain, that that was nothing compared to the pain of childbirth. “Just wait until you’re in labour!” she would say, emphatically. There was no comeback for that… which would really irritate me. Then, I went through childbirth, three times, and each time, I had the privilege of having an epidural. Even with that, it wasn’t a cake walk. So I can’t imagine what it must have been like for her, with nothing to mitigate the pain.

And so, this photograph has always called to me. It is so easy to skim over it. “This is my mom. She was born on June 28, 1920. What a cute baby!” But, what about her mother, who was, no doubt lying, still in pain, somewhere beyond that doorway, still bleeding.

What was it like, to be pregnant and to give birth in Barraute, in late June, in 1920?

Ernestine and Émile married at the end of April 1919 and she would have been pregnant by October. By December, she would have been sure she was expecting. The news that Ernestine attendait du nouveau would have been shared with family and perhaps close friends, but only in hushed voices. You didn’t talk about these things openly, for goodness sake!

Chances are that Mr. Le Curé Langlais, the parish priest who had married them, would have been made aware, in a subtle but clear enough way. That way, he, as well as Ernestine and Émile, would be spared the home visit that he was bound to make for all young couples who were not yet expecting within a few months following their nuptials. He wouldn’t have to make his kind-hearted and condescending speech about observing one’s marital duties, and about not committing the sin of spilling the sacred seed. He would no doubt have learned about coitus interruptus, a most reprehensible practice, in the Manuel du parfait confesseur, a surprisingly graphic text intended for priests and which was almost entirely dedicated to sins related to sex, with specific penance and counsel for a wide variety of sexual deviances. Sure, there were a few entries for other things, like theft, and murder, but mostly, it was about sex.

So, anyways, no problem here. Everything is in order! Emile and Ernestine were doing their bit to populate La Belle Province with good French-Canadian God-fearing Catholics.

Pregnancy was not planned, in a way we think about today. Before marriage, it was to be feared, it would be deeply shameful. After marriage, it was prayed for, expected, a kind of command performance. I suppose that for some young couples, having a baby on the way would be happy news. How did Ernestine and Emile feel about it? I can’t even guess at his response. I never knew him. But, knowing my grandmother the way I did, I cannot bring to mind an image of her being excited by this turn of events. She was more likely to take this as the unavoidable consequence of having had “relations”. I remember grand-maman as being particularly fond of the attention of men. Several times, I over heard her making oblique reference to sex in a way that suggests it was an activity that she enjoyed immensely, unlike, I think many women of her time.

As Ernestine and Émile headed into the Christmas and New Year’s celebrations with the Marcotte family, they might have felt a little more light hearted. They had a new baby on the way, Émile’s business was doing well and he had just expanded the bakery. 1919 must have felt like somewhat of a reprieve, after the devastating losses from the Spanish Flu in the fall of 1918. Émile had sang at every funeral that dreadful autumn.

On New Year’s Day, after everyone attended mass in the main room of Hotel Marcotte, the family enterprise, the traditional visits would have begun. Families and friends would have made the rounds, going from one household to another, for a never ending feast of rôti de lard, tourtière, ragoût de pattes de cochons, patates jaunes, and the spreads of tartes au sucre, pets de soeur (nun’s farts), and sucre à la crême, all with plenty of beer, home-made wine, or gin to wash it down. Did Ernestine have morning sickness? Was she nauseous? Did she get to revel in the festivities? Émile would have brought out his violin to play a few jigs, accompanied on the spoons by some other party goers. He would also have led many jolly sing-along. Games of canasta would have gone late into the night. The traditional exchange of étrennes du Jour de l’An, gifts of good omen, would have been a welcome way to leave behind the Great War, and the Spanish Flu, and a promising sign for a new decade, and bright new beginnings. Things, it seemed, were looking up!

The winter was harsh. December had been the coldest in fifty years, and January was shaping up to be just as bad, with the temperature dropping to -52F (-47C). The dead of winter was a time to deal with indoor work. Still no one could escape the weather, if even just to get firewood, fetch provisions from Charles Harvey’s store, or even just go to the outhouse. What fun for grand-ma, who probably had to pee every half hour… Days were shortest at this time of year, the kerosene lamps would be lit early and the evenings would be long.

But no matter what, these were hardy people, and life just carried on. On January 16, the men eligible to vote got to elect a new mayor, Edouard Lainesse, of Lainesse Brothers Co. Shortly after, everyone gathered for a ‘Euchre’, a fund raising event, most likely held in the brand new chapel that now doubled as a parish hall on the second story of the new presbytery.

It is easy to imagine the evening. The night was cold and clear, with stars in the sky and the crunch of snow under your feet. The sound of boots being banged on the porch, to shake off the snow, and the cold air rushing in with each new group arriving. Everyone would pile up their coat in a stack of twill and fur in the corner and stop to rub their hands over the wood stove which is burning at full capacity. In the buzz of greetings we can hear the friendly smack of men’s hands slapping each other on the back, laughing. Everyone is ready for an evening of fun and entertainment.

Ernestine is there, of course, with Émile, his violin, and the rest of the Marcotte family. Blanche, the new mayor’s young wife, is busy getting the euchre tables going, and the bazaar tables, with the hand-made and hand-baked donations ready for sale. Her baby is due very soon. Marie-Rose, her sister-in-law and wife to Gilbert, the other half of Lainesse Brothers Co, is helping to coordinate the event. She too, is pregnant.

The two young Mrs Lainesse’s are not the only ones expecting. There is also Olésie Gagnon, Bertha Grondines, Marie Gagnon,  Albertine Chalifour, and Alice Hardy… Ernestine is in good company. The baby harvest is going to be plentiful for the parish in 1920. They exchange congratulations, perhaps compare notes about their “condition” but only in the most polite of ways. They cheer the recent arrival of the little Alvina, who arrived on December 18, and was baptized on the 22nd, just in time for Christmas. “How lovely for Odélie and Gédéon!”, each one smiling at the thought of this sweet cherub.

They probably did not mention Cécile and Albéric Roch, whose baby had come the day before little Alvina, and for who a single, quiet ceremony had marked both her baptism and her funeral on the 20th. A little girl, who was without a god-mother and without a name. Anonymous Roch. She had been ‘ondoyée’ by Joseph Hardy, a practice that was often used for babies, when they were deemed to be at risk. A child that had been ‘ondoyée’ in this way would be guaranteed heaven, and was also entitled to a funeral in church, and to be buried in the Catholic cemetery. It is said that the practice was even used when a child was stillborn, leaving this latter detail out of the records and thereby giving the parents at least some modicum of relief, that their child would not be condemned to dwell in limbo for eternity.

No, none of them would have mentioned Cécile and her little Anonymous, or if they did, it was in hushed tones. Blanche would not have wanted to even hear about it, as it would have re-opened the wound, that cruel loss she and Edouard had endured, just a few years ago. Her first child was taken from her, from them, so abruptly. He had lived for barely one day. Would this baby, who was due to come within the next few weeks, survive? She would pray daily to be blessed with a good outcome.

But Cécile and her little Anonymous had, without a doubt, settled in the back of each of their mind, haunting and whispering what-if’s and oh-dear-god-no’s. Each one of them would have pushed back, as hard as they could, with strings of je-vous-salue-Marie’s and notre-père-qui-etes-aux-cieux’s in the hope of chasing Cécile and Anonymous away, but they wouldn’t leave their thoughts so readily.

The Euchre evening was declared a great success, much to Blanche’s credit. A good sum had been collected and was to be used for the construction of the church. She had devoted herself so generously, at such a late stage of her pregnancy. I remember my grandmother would have said that Blanche “avait gagné son ciel” - she had earned her heaven. She had also caught a bad cold, or a flu.

Things change so quickly! It had been just one month since that euchre evening, and Ernestine and Émile found themselves walking home from Blanche’s funeral. It had been a beautiful ceremony, with everyone in attendance. Émile once again was part of the choir, and the solo hymn he sang before the libera[1] was said to be deeply moving.

What was Ernestine thinking, or trying not to think about, as she stepped through the snow, trying to keep it from getting into her boots. I can only imagine both of them in silence, each working hard at avoiding any thought or words that would hint at the dread that had haunted them since Blanche and Edouard Lainesse’s lives began to unravel.

Blanche’s cold had quickly deteriorated into a bronchitis, and then into pneumonia. She was so unwell that her father and Edouard’s parents had come up by train. Gilbert, Edouard’s brother, and his wife, Marie-Rose, who was, herself, expecting for some time in May, would have been with her.

Her labour had come on February 9, barely three weeks after the euchre success. Labour on its own is painful and difficult. Add in pneumonia, and it must have been hell, and then, for an even deeper level of hell, her little baby girl, Thérèse, had lived for barely one day. Émile had been at the chapel, the next day, to sing for her little soul. Did he suspect he would have to sing again for her mother, so soon?

Blanche did not recover. It is said that she had been greatly affected by the tragic death of one of her cousins. I think she just could not bear the loss of a second child. She had no strength or will left to fight and to recover. She followed her babies seven days later. She was said to have had an edifying death. She was 26 years and 7 months old.

What were Ernestine and Émile thinking, as they lay in bed, in the dark of the night, both stunned by how suddenly these two lives had been snuffed. Did they even know about Edouard and Blanche’s first child? Did they hold each other? Or did they just each pretend they were asleep, as their imagination played with their prayers, their fears, and their hopes. How long was that night? How afraid was Ernestine, as she felt her own baby move about in her belly?

Another week, and another baby was gone. With a lot less pomp and circumstance, and with no newspaper write up, the parish registers the burial of Anonymous Joly, another little girl, born on the 27th of February and gone on the same day to join Thérèse and Blanche, and Anonymous Roch.

How terrified would Ernestine have been then?

And still, she moved forward. They all did. They powered through the flu that had reappeared in February. Everyone was still reeling from the three deadly waves of the Spanish flu. Schools were closed for weeks. They would all have held their breath when Joseph Hall succumbed to it, mid-month. He was just a young man, in good health, and he had just come from St-Isidore in the hope of starting his own farm.

There were fewer deaths in the villages that year, although many were reported in the surrounding aboriginal communities, several cases where even the husband and the wife would die within hours of each other.

It would have been one day at a time. The daily work would have taken over and they just carried on… There was no other choice, really. The weather had already been more spring like. In March, there had been several days with the temperature above freezing, and the snowbanks were starting to melt. There was even a couple of days in mid-March when it was so warm that they could go out wearing just a sweater. It felt wonderful.[2]

And soon, it was Easter Sunday! Finally! That was a big deal. Everyone would have been looking forward to the end of Lent, and the promise of spring, warmer weather, and a new cycle of farming. Ernestine was in the sixth month of her pregnancy by then. She would have gone to mass, that morning, still wearing her much too snug winter coat. It had gotten cold again. Everyone that could would be at mass this day. What did Ernestine think of, when she saw Edouard Lainesse standing alone, next to his brother Gilbert and his wife, Marie-Rose, whose belly was getting so big already. Or did she avert her eyes, looking around the chapel. So many faces that had not been there through the winter. The lumber camps had closed and the men had returned. Even those who skipped a mass here and there, or who were too far, they would make the trek today, to fulfill their Easter duty.

She would have heard already about Marie Gagnon who had given birth to a baby girl, just that Saturday, as the first rainfall of the year melted the snow and turned the roads to mud. Mother and child were doing well. There was hope for a good spring and summer. Hope for her and her baby.

And then, just one week later, on the Tuesday, Albertine Chalifour went into labour. She gave birth to a baby boy, and then she died. She had been so ill. She had so little strength. Raoul Naud, her husband, would have been devastated. They had just married that past October, had just one Christmas, one New Year, together. Just two weeks before, they had celebrated her 21st birthday. Now, she was gone and he was a new father, alone.

And so, he did what needed to be done and took his newborn son to church to be baptized. He chose the name Jean-Paul. Delia, Albertine’s mother, would be his godmother. Curé L’Anglais, the parish priest, was more than willing to be his godfather. Perhaps he could bring some blessing on this new child, in the midst of such tragedy.

On the Friday, Raoul was back in that same church. They would have had the traditional visitation, at home, and that morning, Albertine’s body would have been raised and laid, gently, into the wooden casket, her belly still swollen, wearing her best dress. Her brothers, all of them carpenters by trade, they were used to working with wood. But securing the cover on their sister’s coffin, that would haunt them for the rest of their lives.

Ernestine would have been there, for Albertine’s funeral. They were all friends. They worked together, supported each other, had fun together. Their families had come together to this god forsaken wilderness. She had to be angry. Perhaps if they hadn’t come, perhaps she would still be here. Life is just too hard, here!

Just! Too! Hard!

Albertine was sent off with all the pomp possible, in such limited circumstances. It was mild that day. The church windows had been draped in black. Her brothers carried her coffin in the chapel. Raoul’s brother, Orance, led the way carrying the cross.  Many friends joined the choir and filled the chapel with hymns, along with the melody from the organ.

The only thing anyone could hope for was to bring some measure of solace to Raoul, his little Jean-Paul, and Albertine’s family.

For any of the women who were pregnant, this only added to their terror. It wasn’t just Ernestine. There was also Émilia Garneau, Marie-Rose Lainesse, and Virginia Lambert, who were due within the month, Marie-Blanche, Albertine’s own sister, was now five months into her pregnancy, Marie-Louise, and Juliana, Ernestine’s sister-in-law, were both in their fourth month.

The following Tuesday, exactly one week after Albertine was taken from him, Raoul lost his newborn son, Jean-Paul. And so, he found himself, once again, in the same chapel, this time, it was his and Albertine’s family and fewer friends who were there with him. Jean-Paul would be buried with his mother in the new parish cemetery.

Now, Ernestine and the other women had to be petrified.

Did they reach out to each other and talk about their fears? Or did they all try to pretend they were fine? How long did those nights become? How many rosaries, how many novenas did they try to trow at this darkness? I don’t know. I can only imagine.

Émilia was next. She gave birth to a baby girl who was immediately ‘ondoyée’ by the midwife. Fortunately both mother and child appeared to be well. But this meager reassurance was short-lived.

Mid-May, Marie-Rose Lainesse, Blanche’s sister-in-law, gave birth to twins. A boy: Anonymous Lainesse, died at birth. The girl, who was baptized Marie-Claire on the day of her birth, followed her brother to the grave seven days later.

The month of June must have felt like an eternity for Ernestine. The weather had turned hot. The spring had been so dry. They had gotten not a single drop of rain through the whole month of May, and then just a couple of days in June. There was a drought and forest fires were starting east and west of Barraute, some lit by carelessness, others by train engines, as they were driving through the forest. Who knew life could get even more difficult - with the mosquitoes, biting midges and horseflies teaming up and making even the horses and cows so crazy they had to be kept in the barns.

Ernestine would have contemplated her labour, which was imminent, and she would also have run through each one of the babies who had been born, and each one of the babies that had died, within a day.

Every woman who got pregnant was afraid of losing her baby, and every one of them was afraid of dying in childbirth. It was a risk they all knew about, even though they probably didn’t talk about it.

In the province of Quebec, for every one hundred babies born, fifteen would die within the first year. And for every thousand births, 5 women would die. In Barraute, so far, the odds were so, so much worse. Of the nine babies that were born, six of them were dead. And of the eight women who gave birth, two were dead.

On the 26th, the last Saturday of June, the temperature rose to 82F (28C). Ernestine would have been miserable, with the heat, the drought, the bugs, and the dark thoughts that were sure to catch up with her, most of the time. Her time was coming, and she had no idea how it would go.

Did she try, like other women did, to bring about some reassurance by way of invocations to Saint Marguerite, the patron saint of women in labour, or to Saint Anne, who was venerated in Quebec and credited with bringing about miracles. I never knew grand-maman to be particularly pious, but I can see her doing whatever she could to get through it.

How did she feel, what did she think, when the first contractions finally started, that Monday? Leiticia, her mother, would have been with her from the beginning. She, herself, had been through it fifteen times, so she knew the drill. Ernestine might have been given a tea, made from a variety of seeds and grains, meant to hurry the whole process along. One of the midwives, there were a few in the village, might have made paper crosses for her to chew and swallow. And rosary after rosary would be said by all the women in attendance. Juliette and Marie-Berthe, Ernestine’s sisters, were probably nearby.

As for the men, they were sent away, and they were probably drinking the time and their own worries away.

I imagine Ernestine’s labour went on through the day and the evening, and that her baby, my mother, was born before midnight. You see, a baby born during the day would have been baptized the same day. My mother was born on the 28, but baptized on the 29.

Plausible. Probable, even.

You have guessed, of course, that it all turned out well, for my grand-mother and my mother, given that I am here to tell you about it. For the remainder of that year, all the new babies and their mothers were safe.

Thank you, God! The tide had finally turned.

And now, as I look at that photograph of my mother, I think I am beginning to understand why it kept calling me back.

It is that thread that binds all of us, women. I see now, that line that connects every one of us to the others. The line that made and continues to make humanity possible. Every human who has ever lived, or who is yet to be born, will have issued from the body of a woman.

And, it is nice, that today, we say that ‘they’ are pregnant. It is nice and right that we include the prospective father into the idea of pregnancy. It is as it should be. Men should feel as close as possible to it.

But.

It is still the woman who gets morning sickness, whose belly grows and stretches, and who knows the growing child will have to come out of her body, one way or another, neither of which will be pain or risk free. And it is the woman who must manage the anxiety, the fear, and the hope for a successful outcome. Of course, the man, or the partner is not spared, and there are, no doubt, a corresponding set of emotions, fears and hopes.

And so, you see, the weight, the responsibility, the risk of ensuring the human race continues, it all falls to women. It is women, and only women who can do this. Today, we have more choices, at least we still do. We can choose if we want children, and even when we choose to have them. And still, that adds to the weight of choice. There is no getting away from it, whether women choose to have children or not. Women are encouraged, applauded, discouraged, judged, congratulated, shamed, egged on, frowned at, all in response to what and how they choose.

Things have greatly improved since Ernestine gave birth. Fortunately, there are fewer Blanches and Albertines, and fewer Anonymous. There are still sad stories, but there are fewer. We know much more today. Risks can be greatly mitigated, maternal and infant care has evolved in ways that could not have even been imagined, back in 1920.

I understand, finally, what it was that drew me to look behind that door, beyond the amazing sight of my mother as a baby, what compelled me to see things from my grand-mother’s point of view. It is the thread of womanhood. We are all women, and we alone have the capacity to carry the race forward. We, alone, either can or cannot, choose to, or not to, bear children.

But also, my mom was a pretty cute baby! And this photograph, it is truly precious. I really ought to treasure it and to share it.

November 2022

[1] Libera is a Roman Catholic responsory that is sung usually at funerals after the Mass and prior to the final prayers for the deceased.

[2] On March 23 and 24, the temperature had gone up to 14 and 15 degree C.