Apple picking

Yesterday we went apple picking. Little now-taller-than-me Philou came too, but none of his older brothers did. We filled our bucket with cortland, spartan and redcort, plump and juicy and crisp, my son reaching higher and higher for the best apples.  On the other side of the orchard a crowd of families sought the immediate sweetness of honeycrisp, but those trees had already been picked almost bare. The sun angled across the rows of trees, surprising us with its post-equinox strength, reddening the pale Irish skin of Philou and me.

Saturday at Verger Labonté

Today I made an apple pie, cooling it in the fresh breeze passing through the house. It tasted of late season, of another summer passing, of children who will soon no longer be children. It was comforting and sweet with a hint of tartness.

Sunday on Côte-Saint-Antoine

Tomorrow and the day after I'll remember the Saturday in autumn when we went apple picking.

 

Kukum by Michel Jean (en français)

Kukum is the story of a white francophone woman in late 19th-century Québec, who marries an Innu and takes on the life of the First Nations people. She embraces the life of a hunter, moving with the seasons from summer lakeside idylls to harsh winter camps. But over her life of ninety-seven years the natives' lands are taken for logging, their children are taken for forced re-education, and they end up living bleak sedentary lives on a reservation plagued by alcoholism and deprivation (the reservation now known as Mashteuiatsh.)

    You might think you've heard this story before, the tragedy of the First Nations that's sparks much hand-wringing but little action. But what you haven't heard before is the story told in first-person, in the rich and compelling voice of this woman whose passion leaps off the page to inhabit you completely. The voice belongs to Almanda, the eponymous Kukum (grandmother in Innu-aimun). The author has lightly fictionalised the story of his own great-grandmother to create this unforgettable character. The story is not at all bleak. The strongest feelings are her love for her husband and children, and her passionate engagement in their life amongst the lakes, rivers and forests. Her narrative places the Innu at the centre of the history of this part of Québec, along the North Shore of the St. Lawrence (called Nitassinan in Innu-aimun), and weaves in strands such as Francophone politics, Anglophone logging companies, and Irish immigrants. 

    The book is organized into 48 short chapters, bite-sized chunks which worked well for me as I read more slowly in French, helped by the online dictionary of my Kindle. I've been enthusing about the book in dinner conversations with my family, so I've bought a paper copy today to leave in the kitchen where I hope one of them will pick it up.  It's a book that deserves to be read, a compelling novel in its own right but also one that can help to build greater empathy and understanding of the difficulties faced by the First Nations peoples today, and our shared history that brought us to this point.