Today, on the 150th anniversary of the confederation of Canada, I reflected on my heritage. I knew of course, like most Canadians, many of my ascendants were not born in Canada. But where and when were they born? And when did they or their descendants come to Canada? My great grandfather on my mother's side was actually born in 1867 - in Holland. But the story that appeals to me most is this one, taken from my mother's book "Back to the Coteau Hills". I am so grateful that she took the time to document this history, the details extracted from her father and grandmother. My grandfather, her father, moved to Canada in 1897 on Canada's thirtieth anniversary. Here is that story, an excerpt from Mom's book:
Louis Napoleon Giauque descended
from French Acadians who fled persecution in Acadia, not the Maritime
provinces of Canada,
to relocate in the southern part of the United States. But later, with his
parents, he migrated back north, finally settling in the state of Michigan. He married a
young Irish-Welsh girl named Rachel Jones and together they started a family.
They were both small of bone and short in stature but they were hardy people
from strong, courageous stock, sprung from families who knew what adversity was
and who knew how to survive in spite of it. Louis, black haired and blue-eyed,
was quick and high spirited; Rachel, more quiet and deliberate but with a
certain look in her grey eyes that boded no good for those opposed her. She
walked with a decided limp, since her right leg was an inch or so shorter than
her left. On the way to a dance on her sixteenth birthday a runaway team had
upset the sleigh throwing everyone onto the ice-packed snow and pinning
Rachel's leg beneath the overturned sleigh.
Louis was a violinist, an
accomplished ventriloquist, a natural entertainer, also, perhaps a gypsy at
heart. He was never really satisfied in Michigan,
so after a disastrous fire took their home and all their possessions, he
decided to leave that state. In the spring of 1897 he outfitted two wagons and,
with Rachel and their six children, some horses, cattle, a pig which was to
farrow along the way, two geese and a few chickens, they started north and west
to the Canadian border beyond which, they had heard, was good land free for the
taking. Behind them lay the charred remains of their first home; before them
lay their hope for a brighter dawn.
Louis drove the lead wagon loaded
with tools, the pig and the chickens. He had his rifle and his shotgun in handy
reach and there was seldom lack of fresh meat for the supper meal. Tied to the
tailboard of his wagon was a team of horses, spares in case any of the
harnessed ones became footsore or trail-weary. Rachel followed with a covered
wagon. Hers was loaded with the necessities of life – bedding, a stove, a few
dishes and pots and pans, the barest of food staples and clothing. Four of the
six children rode with their mother or, except for the baby, took turns riding up
front with their father. Nellie, the oldest of the family and Leslie, a year
younger, were on horseback. Their job was to herd the loose horses and cattle
along the trail. One cow was led – "Bossy", their milk cow and the
only one to lead. She was supposed to serve as leader for the others, most of them
not at all anxious to leave the green fields of Michigan. So Bossy plodded placidly behind
Rachel's covered wagon, providing a meager supply of milk each morning and
night, not really enough for the family of eight but better than none at all.
Leslie (my grandfather) was only
twelve years old but already showed signs of becoming a fine horseman. His
father mounted him on a little brown mare, pretty to look at but unbroken. The
first day on the trail she bucked the boy off repeatedly until, finally, bruised
and shaken, Leslie asked for another horse to ride. His father's answer was
matter-of-fact.
"Jest keep getting' back up
there. She'll geet tired of buckin' after a while."
