Interstices
“Who lived here? Was it a family with kids? What was their life like in this place? What were their names? Whatever happened to them?”
Standing, pensively, alongside my bike, questions eddied about as I looked over the abandoned farmhouse and yard. Leaving our house on Eastport Drive, I had gone in search of quiet bike trails around Orléans … a place with a path wandering through trees would be perfect. With no clear location in mind, desultory meandering ended in a new subdivision filled with identical plastic homes, seemingly extruded on-site with the latest in 3D printing technology; I laughed at the image of a homeowner arriving after a late-night party, stumbling about for hours trying to identify his own house in this clonal colony.
A short distance away, through mounds of gravel and building materials, at the end of Laporte Lane, an apple tree, its boughs pendulous with the season’s burden of fruit, an abundance of which had escaped its arms and lay on the ground, fermenting in the warm autumn sun, drew me forward, the air heavy with their cloying, heady scent. Just yesterday, I had purchased a basket of apples, proudly marked “Product of Ontario”, and now bushels of them hung ripe for the picking.
A sharp crunch, the sweet, tangy taste of apple, the core tossed on the ground … it all begged for another and then another. Even when they’re free, there’s a limit to how many apples one can eat and so, satiated and with unknown destinations in mind, I turned to go.
A branch, caught my sweater, tugged my arm; a house glimpsed intermittently through the interstices of dusty leaves. The wind, sibilant in the swaying, desiccated grass, pressed me to stay.
Drawn forward into the quiet, enclosed yard of the deserted house, I again mused on those those who had lived here. Where did they come from? Was it a single family or was it a home for generations of children and grandchildren? There were no answers, but they undoubtedly did as all people do: they laughed, cried, argued, made plans, felt the sting of failure and celebrated success. Whoever they were, whatever they were like, they had dreams that grew into a solid, brick house and faith enough in the future to plant trees from which one day they counted on harvesting fruit. Did they ever imagine this place of life and dreams, abandoned and left to the maundering questions of a stranger?
Several weeks earlier, I had been through the Museum of Canadian History in Gatineau, QC. It’s an impressive, multistory building instantly recognizable, with its sinuous lines, as a Douglas Cardinal creation. The museum website describes the complex as hosting over 1.2 million visitors a year in its 25,000 square metres of display space with a mandate to “To enhance Canadians’ knowledge, understanding and appreciation of events, experiences, people and objects that reflect and have shaped Canada’s history and identity, and also to enhance their awareness of world history and cultures.” (Canadian Museum of History Act) A noble purpose indeed! The day I was there, the building was bustling, filled with visitors of every possible ethnicity – adults, in a multiplicity of languages, conversing with quiet mummers, stopping to contemplate each display; boisterous young people, phone in hand, chittered excitedly – an argot of multiple “… and like…” followed by incomprehensible syllables – wove their way amongst their stodgy seniors.
“25,0002 meters of display space” is easier said than walked! Tortuous pathways led from one era of Canadian history to another, highlighting significant contributions made by various groups to the tapestry of Canadian culture – everything from thousands of years of pre-contact Native culture on through the baneful effects of colonization, Quebec’s unique place in Confederation, European settlement of the West, effects of the world wars and, in latter years, the strides made in recognizing the rights and contributions of a wide variety of formerly marginalized groups. For out-of-country visitors and the newly immigrated, this may have been their first introduction to Canadian history. At the end, however, I was left wondering, “So where were the Oblates in all that?”
In 1841, Missionary Oblates arrived in Canada, made their way to St. Boniface, MB in 1844, northern Saskatchewan a year later and thence to the Arctic coast within ten years. They learned Indigenous tongues, developed written languages, translated works, and gave their hearts and lives to the people with whom they lived … admittedly a chequered relationship, peopled by both saints and sinners. The University of Ottawa, St. Paul University, School of Social Work (Carlton University), Faculté St. Jean (Edmonton), St. Patrick’s College, St. Thomas College … a string of facilities sprang up in the Oblate’s wake, each meeting the educational needs of various populations – each a concretized expression of the Oblate mission to serve the poor and a commitment to the people to whom they had been sent. Leduc, Lacombe, Grouard, Vegreville, Father Gamache, Hector Thiboutot, Father Megret … towns and schools were named in honour of Oblates who ministered to people. Particularly in western and northern Canada, Canadian history – extending far beyond that of the Catholic Church – is inextricably interwoven with the Missionary Oblates.
Now, however, looking at the greying, weathered edifice we have become, I’m left wondering … will others – besides historians – know we were here? Are we fated to be glimpses caught through the interstices of time and fading memories? Will wandering travellers muse on the origin of village names or the ineradicable crosses and Oblate coat of arms on our former institutions, now become public buildings? Will they wonder who we were, what our lives were like, and what happened to us?
Perhaps we are destined to become detritus left behind by history; perhaps our future is to be an ever-dwindling number of grey hairs reminiscing about faded glory. If we are, that will be an unfortunate choice – and only one amongst many possibilities. Sr. Joan Chittister’s 1995 “The Fire in These Ashes”, encouraged religious men and women to look past the faded glory, to look past gray ash covering tepid coals to the embers still burning within. Doing so is something that comes naturally to Missionary Oblates of OMI Lacombe Canada. At our last Convocation, it was heartening to hear the desire to reach out to the most abandoned that still flames within the hearts of even the oldest Province members. Like retired war horses stamping their feet and lifting their heads at hearing the trumpet’s call to battle, even the eldest were ready to volunteer for the missions as they heard stories shared by confreres working amongst the poorest of the poor in Kenya, Vancouver’s East Hasting Street, Edmonton’s Sacred Heart parish, St. Patrick’s, Hamilton…
For the 194th anniversary of the approval of our Rules and Constitutions, Fr. Louis Lougen, Superior General, writes in his letter to Missionary Oblates ministering around the world:
This vision [of our founder, St. Eugene de Mazenod] drives Oblate missionaries today. Like de Mazenod, we burn with the desire to bring the Good News of the Reign of God to those who are poor, forgotten, tossed away and rejected. We know well the faces of the poor of our societies, the immigrants and refugees; the women, children and men who are commodities to be trafficked for exploitation of various kinds. In missions around the world, we work to combat the continued destruction of the environment, caused by economic exploitation.
The Museum of Canadian History notwithstanding, the Oblate farmyard isn’t abandoned; we aren’t history’s rubble. While much reduced from what we once were, the mission remains and the charism of de Mazenod is still relevant to a wounded world. Are we ready to leave what has been behind and respond with unreasonable hope to the directive “let down your nets”?
By Harley Mapes, OMI
