DOMINIQUE

by Rita Demers Carozza

August, 2004

On August 4, 2005, he would be celebrating his 100^th birthday, but he survived only half that many years. On December 5, 1955, his life ended in a horrible accident, doing what he had done thousands of times in his young life—cutting down a tree.

My father, Joseph Dominique Demers, was born in Ste. Emmélie, a small Québec farming community on the St. Lawrence River, on a very poor farm, the fourth of twelve children. As in all good Catholic families, most of the children were named after the saint on whose day they were born (his was the feast of St. Dominique); and their given name was usually preceded by Joseph if a boy or Marie if a girl. What was somewhat unusual about his name was that it had no other middle name; usually there were one or two.

He grew up in a family of fun-loving, joking, carefree, daring, risk-taking, hard-working, competitive, music-loving people. Most of them, including Dominique, had no more then three years of schooling, enough to learn to read, write and calculate; they were needed on the farm and education was not a priority. Their measure of success was having a steady job, and since manual labor or farming was all they could do, their source of pride was in how hard-working and productive they were. Of the seven boys, most went into farming; one was a mariner on the St. Lawrence, another a salesman for

veterinary products and my father a lumberjack. In the same way, most of the girls married farmers; one married a mariner; another, a lumberjack. These twelve produced sixty-eight living children, three of these families with ten each. The Catholic Church had an overwhelming influence on French Canadians; therefore, God decided how many

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children one had. Then again, the more children, the more help on the farm and the Province of Québec helped by subsidizing families for each child born.

They played as hard as they worked, making the most of every church holiday, attending maple-sugaring parties in the spring when the sap was running, gathering at different homes on weekends to dance, sing and court. The family hosting the party moved the furniture back against the walls in the large kitchen area, the parlors being too small and too formal. All were encouraged to bring along their instruments to accompany the dance caller. My father went with his harmonica, his brothers with an accordion and the spoons, joining others with fiddles and banjos while everyone tapped a little jig as they sat around the room or danced to the rhythm of a French Canadian reel. The men and women, and occasionally the kids, came prepared to sing their song, songs that always had a refrain where everyone joined in. One of Dominique’s favorites was “Si vous voulez avoir du “spring”, buvez donc la bière Carling. (If you want to have some spring, have a drink of Carling beer.)”

One never dared to sing someone else’s song! As new songs were learned from different parties in different towns, their repertoire would change and grow. All the Demers’ had good strong voices, with songs that got the crowd titillating or laughing out

loud, causing everyone to sing that refrain with gusto. Once the party was going strong, the men would sneak out of the house for a cigarette and a beer or a shot of whiskey, and

by the time the veillée (party) came to an end, there was always someone who couldn’t drive the horse & buggy home unless the horse knew the way.

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When Dominique was 14 or 15, he decided that farm work was not for him and he left home to find odd jobs. At 17, he decided to try his luck in New York City, where he and one of his younger brothers worked as custodians for a hospital. They learned a bit of English, but found it lonely and unprofitable, so they returned to Ste. Emmélie. Eventually, he heard about an American company doing some logging in their region of Québec Province. Finch Pruyn hired him. So began his career as a lumberjack, for a few years in Québec, and when Finch Pruyn shut down their Canadian operation, in the Adirondacks as a bonded logger for them.

For many years with Finch Pruyn, he lived in the lumber camps all week, sleeping, eating, and working, coming out on weekends, and during his married years also on Wednesdays. His arrival home on Wednesdays and Fridays was always a time of excitement and anticipation when my sisters, brother and I were young. The house was in perfect order and dinner was ready. He came in through the back door usually dressed in a wool shirt and pants, leather boots tied up to his calf, his wool jacket and Adirondack backpack slung over his shoulders, a big grin on his face. He set the backpack down and we all rushed to be the first to offer to take his jacket and hat. My mother stood back with a huge smile, waiting her turn for a hug and kiss. I remember noticing on some weekends that my parents disappeared into their bedroom during the day and asking why.

My mother’s reply was, “Papa est très fatigué et il a besoin de se reposer. (Papa is very tired and he needs to rest.)” I never asked why she had to go along too.

I remember my father as a small man, about 5’ 8” with a slender, strong build. He had thinnish brown hair, brown eyes that were rather close together, a prominent nose

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and thin lips. He carried himself proudly and with determination. His eyebrows puckered together when he was concentrating and his face opened up and spread out when he broke into laughter. He loved to compete, play tricks on people, show off, tease and make others laugh. More than anything else though, he was a hard worker who made the most of every cent he earned.

“You never buy unless you can pay cash.” That included our house and car.

“Never park in a pay lot; it’s a waste of money.” Much to the chagrin of us kids, he would drive around until a spot opened up or take a chance on parking illegally.

“Prepare picnic lunches for long trips.” We never ate in a restaurant on all those long annual or biannual treks to visit relatives in Canada.

“Don’t do what the Millington’s do; they buy things they don’t need and they’re always in debt.” We didn’t buy a TV until 1955, the year he was killed in a work accident. Up until then, we often visited our friends, the LaFond’s in Lake George on Saturday nights to watch wrestling.

“Save half of what you earn.” When he died, he left my 42-year-old mother and five children with enough to get by. She never had to go to work.