MONSIEUR GASTON'S SOUVENIRS

"THE GRAPE BASKET"

The grocery store was located on a street corner. Every morning, rain or shine, Monsieur Bergeron* was putting his fruit and vegetable outside, in front of his store. Carrots, potatoes in one hundred pound bags, turnips, beets, onions, tomatoes from Saint-Pierre-Les-Becquets, red, full of juice, fruit, apples from Québec, peaches, but also grapes that were offered in baskets of four liters, coming directly from Ontario. Red ones, green ones and blue ones . . . On the bitter side, but almost a taste of sin. Our mouth was watering only looking at it . . . But even by putting all our resources together, that day, we did not have enough money to buy one of the baskets.

But they were so tempting, so inviting.

Particularly, the "Blue."

 

But, what to do? No money, no grapes.

I think that Jean got the idea.

To swipe a basket....

No, it was not stealing...

Monsieur Bergeron should not tempt us with these marvels.

Jean Asks:

«Who has a knife?»

Paul always had one in his pocket.

«Come with me, guys.» he says.

And, here we are in the alley that ran behind each three story housing, where at each level, were strung rows of clothes lines that were displaying, through the variety of clothes, the social rank of each family. In winter, the clothes were swinging on the clothes line, as if their owners were still inside,specially the "long Jon's," as we used to call them, that in fact were only underwear frozen hard and stiff, that were really giving the impression that somebody invisible was inside them.

It was easy for us to find an unused clothes rope, and with a couple of knife cuts, we have in our hands a piece of rope thirty feet long.

And says Jean:

«We need a hook.»

-What do you want to do with a hook?

-O.K. I know where to find one. Let's go to our house.»

The house, was that of the Turgeon's* family. Jean and Paul's father was a civil servant at the Ministry of Education and he often had to travel out of town. And that day, he was on a trip.

Thérèse, their mother was a dressmaker of rare ability and was specializing in balloons holders. Women in those days were not yet liberated and were still wearing bras, the specialty of Thérèse.

(I can hear some of you treating me of OLD MACHO)..

We had baptized these bras:

"balloons holders."

Once in a while, we could see Thérèse's clients coming for a try out and we were doing all we could to see a piece of skin, even if madame Turgeon was throwing us out when she had clients visiting. But I think we could have drill a hole in the wall to see a balloon.

That day, she could not throw us out. She simply wasn't home. She was at one of her never ending bridge game, with other women from her club. The house was ours.

A clothes hanger is fast removed from the wardrobe and here we are with our first robber tool.

On the first floor, over Monsieur Bergeron's store, there was a balcony, right over his vegetable and fruit display.

And here I am, keeping watch outside, while Paul is inside, being a relay between Jean on the balcony and I outside, in front of the store.

He is supposed to signal me, when Monsieur Bergeron is busy.

He is now serving a client.

This is the moment..

Paul signals me and I signal Jean that the way is free.

Jean has fabricated a hook with the clothes hanger, and has attached it to the borrowed clothesline.

He lowers it over the fruit display.

A miraculous fishing.

A basket of grapes, blue ones is attached to his bait.

Walking along the balcony, he puts the basket out of the sight of Monsieur Bergeron comes running down the stairway, grabs the basket, puts the rope and the hook in his pocket, and we start running, sweating, from fear of being caught.

Behind each house there was a shed, shed that had the height of the three stories of the building, hanging one on the other, as if they had to support each another. In winter, the Turgeon's shed was full of hardwood, cut in length of twelve inches, as wood and charcoal were the only heating source available, heating oil only starting to appear here and there and with the kind of winters that we had in those days, even if nobody was rich, nobody was poor enough not to fill his shed with wood, and from floor to ceiling. It was reassuring.

A warm winter inside in perspective.

But at this time of the year, the shed was empty, wood storing was still a month away.

As apprentice robbers that we were, we go to that shed, under the scrutiny of some women, busy, putting clothes on the line to dry.

In a few minutes, we are inside the shed and we need only two seconds to take the cover off the basket and start eating like pigs.

Ten minutes later, the grapes are inside our stomachs and, this, right after eating a meal as they were serving them in those days, large, nourishing and fattening.

It was supposed to make us grow big.

As soon as we are finished, we start toward the school that was managed by the Brothers of the Sacred-Heart.

Suddenly, Jean stops.

«Guys, I am sick. My belly. I think I am going to be sick,

damn it, I am shiting in my pants.»

Pants were then long pants, inherited from father or uncles, redone at our size and legs cut just a little over the knees.

Jean was green, blue, red

and... brown.

The brown, was the one running along his legs. He was shaken by spasms and the more he was shaking, the more it was running...

«Damn it, I have diarrhea.»

The grapes eaten, had fermented as wine in his stomach and freed his intestines in a nauseous and disgusting diarrhea.

Damn it, Jean, you smell like shit. Go back home, wash and clean yourself.

Paul and I almost did not make it to the school to almost die in the rest room, saving us the ultimate shame:

"Also shiting in our pants..."

 

*Names have been changed.

Hope you enjoyed...