Jean-Guy Pierre Joseph Robillard

Funeral April 15th, 2013

The Garden Growing Within Us

A famous poet once said, April is the cruelest month. Indeed April has been cruel this year, with freakish storms and wacky weather. It has also claimed one of our very own, the beloved Jean-Guy Robillard, loving father, grand-father and husband. His valiant battle with cancer ended on April 11th at the age of 73.

But Jean-Guy was much more than those simple words. As I frame this brief eulogy I want you all to remember him on several levels-- a farmer, friend, fierce and loyal husband and a Faithful believer. He was indeed, a filial and congenial companion to one and all. And it was the combination of those traits and talents which made him singular and unique.

Jean Guy was born on the family homestead on June 22, 1940 and grew up on that section near Ramore Ontario with 11 siblings. As a kid I remember him recounting tales of having to walk two or three miles to school every day along a dusty road, fraught with bears in late spring and the inclement weather in the fall and winter. Those bucolic surroundings would shape his destiny and return like a seasonal motif in his life.

Every spring for as long as I could remember my parents planted a garden.Big small, flowers, fruits, vegetables or trees. Second to none, there would be seeds in the ground every spring. And from their loving, tender hands plants would grow.

Dad earned his farming degree at L’Ecole Moffette in Ville Marie Quebec. He was a shy young man of 18 just before leaving his parental home to meet his soon to be wife, Lucille in 1960. They would go on to spend over 53 wonderful and productive years together raising a family of 4. Still a mere sapling himself, Jean Guy worked various stints as a logger, a jobber on the Transcanada Pipeline and at the John Mansville Mine where he learned various skills.

Eventually in the oak of his manhood, he wasn’t afraid to try anything. Buying the family farm at the age of 24, he made a quiet go of it for three years. In time, potatoes, tomatoes, corn, green beans, zuchinis, squash, rhubarb and lettuce popped up everywhere. Everything grew lush and vibrant when he put his mind and back into it.

And from these tubers and roots and tiny seeds came magic food baskets every fall for as long as us children could remember. Whether it was in Ramore, Desbarats, St. Joseph Island or Sault Ste. Marie, farming and harvesting and being stewards of the land was the typical activity of my parents, and especially of course with Jean-Guy.

Wherever he hung his shingle, he became the consummate farmer and outdoorsman. And if the soil wasn’t quite right or wasn’t ready to yield its moist treasures, dad found a way to coax it and tease it and prod it with all manner of chemical and organic compounds like goose poop, sheep manure, cow dung, limestone and chalk. You would need to be a scientific genius to understand what these homegrown farmers could do with their bare hands.

And when it came time for the harvest, indeed it was plentiful. While all of that was quietly going on in the background, we were bathed, clothed and schooled and loved. Despite a few early rough patches, there was always enough food, enough love and enough encouragement to keep the garden within us growing too.

This is all a testament to the will and determination of Jean Guy. You see folks it’s about laying down roots and giving the right amount of topsoil. And if that analogy can serve as a point of reference, the roots of his religion go deep too. Dad’s ancestor was also a farmer and a butcher who worked for the lay sisters at Montreal. Claude Robillard even had the lucky fortune of selling a cow to some famous explorer named des Groseiller. And of course on Mom’s side what better way to lay down religious vines then from a saintly example like Ste. Margaret D’Youville. Yes folks we do have saints in the bloodline!

In 1984 mom and dad bought their first ever color TV. But it was not for frivolous reasons. It wasn’t meant for Saturday wrestling programs or for hockey games (although it did eventually serve that purpose). It was indeed to watch Pope John the second during his historic trip to North America. It was all they talked about that summer: The Pope and the color TV. And more recently, when dad got sick after Christmas he asked his son-in-law to set up a remote and extra channels so he could see the historical inauguration of our newest Pope, Francis.

For Jean Guy, his heart and his head was always set on the Lord. This started with our Sunday church services, then with Cursio and Marriage Encounter. Readings at mass and participating as an usher were all part of his duty and ecumenical service. Early on he was a proud member of the Chevalier de Colombe. Through his long life he always found ways and time to serve the Lord. There are countless examples of this.

And we the children also garnered the sparks of his religious fervor and spiritual connections. We participated in religious services, youth groups, summer camps, and retreats throughout our lives. When I was young my dad passed on the tradition of going to the nearby creek during Holy Sunday to fetch a bucket of cold pure water. This would be blessed as Holy water. Aunt Pauline told me recently that this was also passed on from his own father, Isidore, who would dip a metal bucket into the Black Creek. Now from father to son that tradition continues. What better way to commune with nature.

It is evident that nature’s breath was felt in dad. He was a part of it in the most serene and peaceful way. Whether it was while trapping at Wolf lake, fishing or hunting at Searchmont or the Obenadong, his commune with nature was pure and contemplative.

I remember when I was about 12, on those long winter evenings dad worked on the living room floor with his taxidermy equipment bringing animal forms into primordial shape. He once created this wolf body with a papier mache skull. Like a carcass surgeon he would mould the body back into form with the subtle manipulation of its mud flap ears. I remember hollow glass eyes, yellow and glinting at far off places. Among his other talents, he was a master carver of animal form in the forest of my imagination. And for all of us his interests and hobbies found a way to speak to us all, and flourished within us. We can all attest to the tiny seed that was planted from these examples.

Time and time again we remember the great fishing stories like Horton Lake and Nakina or the blueberry contests up in Wawa or the trials and tribulations of owning a hobby farm at St. Joe’s. It all became a part of us. There were tall tales about elusive pike, rascally rainbows or the pickerel that got away. But when we caught them they flew right into the pan flour- fresh, smothered in special spices and mouth-watering butter.

By 1980, Suzanne the eldest daughter was on the doorstep of marriage and soon the first of 9 grandchildren would come. Another wedding bloomed in 1985 with Ginette and Denis Breton. Dad and mom were still busy with trapping and gardening projects. Around this time, a new landscape and country home would beckon them, situated a short 30 minutes from town. Looking east, to historic St. Joseph island, The Robillards made a sort of home base on the I Line farm, expanding their operations to include apple harvesting, tree extraction, landscaping and market gardening. They also had a famous astronaut as a neighbor. New landscaping methods and varieties of fruits and vegetables followed suite. Many fond memories still linger about the MacDonald farm, and the family affair of supplying corn for the popular corn fest in late August. Like clockwork those days came and went. Throughout, St. Joseph’s bustling 50 acre plot would remain a vital link in Jean-Guy’s farming g plans for over a decade, pausing only briefly for his retirement from Algoma Steel in 1995.

While he got ready his traps in the fall, his two sons Micheal and Denis busily criss-crossed the country from east to west and north again in search of employment adventure and companionship. Meanwhile, dad’s elan vitale was always the tomato plants and potatoes that had to be started for another year. His dedication to the pursuits of land and stream were all consuming.

Denis married the beautiful Joyce Lanzuela in Windsor in 2005 and the couple now has two sons, Luc and Lance. All of his children and grandchildren gathered here today are the bountiful fruit of his loins. Kaden, Abigail, Ethan, Andy Jones, Mackenzie, Seth, and Haley and many more to come.

We are his lifeblood and we continue to grow our vines and flowers and plants as talents and ideas and inspirations from their fertile first source. Like plants we too seek the sun, we mimic and mirror his motions and mannerisms as they live through us and inspire us.

Through his children and his grand-children, we are the varied and colorful plants he has engendered with our speech patterns, and special leanings in the garden. All those odd eccentric things that name us and frame us and call us a ROBILLARD and make us stand our ground.

We are here now because of you. A cornucopia of love and caring. Standing proud as beautiful witnesses to your ever bountiful being, your verdant generosity and flourishing values. We are the testament to the life we have grown into. The plants of our true selves growing and growing still from your seed.

And as we reflect on the man Jean Guy was. We come to define his time with us in the marvelous quadrant called season. We go backwards and forewords with clocks and maps to find our way home. Dad was always masterful with the GPS.

We go to our own homes, never forgetting to plant some of our new seeds along the way. To keep our own flowers and plants blooming.

Although we climb slowly the spiral hours of this dark day like lonesome confused birds. Father’s soul has flown from us like a new white bird sparrowing its way into beautiful serene existence.

And isn’t it apt if we pause for just one moment to ponder: from earth we come and back to earth we must return. Flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone. As you reach the farthest fields Jean Guy, your blessed bountiful seasons will reverberate in our hearts. We will feel your presence in the mist, in calm valleys, in verdant forests and on cool lakes and frolicking rivers. Feel it everywhere as seasons change. We will continue to see your presence in the hawk perched on the fence line, in the cardinal leaning in the apple tree, in doves returning to their nests, in the last crystalline snowfall, and in our last but abundant harvests that we plant in a season like April and harvest in the fall of our lives. So long gentle farmer, so long.

AT VILLE MARIE

I remember what you told me when I was young.

The birds wont chirp before a storm.

The cows always stand up in the rain

Or they lay down to chew their cud

They feed heavy in the morning

Go for water and eat again before dark

Then they finally lay down for the night.

You took what you could get from the college

Walking across the iced in lake

in winter to go to the bar in Ontario

Or to play pick up hockey with the boys.

There are pictures of you

in your leather jacket standing on the steps

of the college with your proud father.

This must be 1957.

The classes started off

with 50 or 60 students.

There was a chicken coop and a learning barn

With 25 head of Holsteins, you said.

Where you’d figure out the milk formulas

Done in pencil then scribbled onto official charts

The cows would be weighed every day

They’d produce 100 pounds of milk per day

That comes out to 25,000 pounds of milk

per year per cow.

You said. Oh wow!

Then when you moved to Hearst to work

the dairy farm there

The cows had their names above the stalls

The one you remember

the most is “Pauline”

because it reminded you of your sister.

You had 50 cows there.

And then when they went into chaleur

These were dry cows after a 10 month lactation.

I think of all of this now with my own kids in tow.

My youngest son, addicted to tryptophane

Drowsed by his own milky drug.

His head discombobulated, fixing a point on the painting

Of the farm near the chair. He crawls into the painting

With his natural eyes

Pokes around in the barn and falls into his milky trance

Oblivious to grandpas journeys as a farmer.

The Axe incident

My father had purchased the Ramore Black River farm from his father in the spring of 1964. He was 24 years old. That October or maybe it was in 1965,my father had decided to go Moose hunting with a young friend by the name of Cyril Camirand. The two of them left after the morning cow milk and walked along a wooded area and down a concession road passed Dow Road in the township. MY father remembers that there was minimal leaf cover, that’s why he thought it was moose season. Some time during the day, after hunting the two had decided to make a fire and cook up some lunch. MY father had brought a small sharp hatchet to cut some wood. For some reason (it may have been wet out) while chopping the tree, the handle of the hatchet slipped and and the head of the blade struck directly at the top of the main artery on his foot. The gash severed the vein and blood came pouring out like crazy, my father said. There were mad spurts of blood everywhere. My father realized that they had to maintain pressure on the wound. He decided to check his bloody foot them slammed his boots back on to keep the pressure. Despite some trepidations and protestations from his friend who was growing faint at the sight of my father’s bloody foot, the two managed to slowly walk out of the bush and make it back to the farm. When they arrived late as the sun was going down, my father realized that he had missed the evening milking. There were 24 cows to tend to. Otherwise their udders would be in distress and overflowing. Something had to be done. My 70 year old grandpa trudged outside to tend to the cows while my mother with her tiny tots in tow brought my father in the Falcon/Rambler to the hospital in Matheson. Meanwhile my father told him that rain or shine, injury or not, my father had to get up early the next day to tend to the cows. It was a hard learned lesson early in their marriage.

FAMILY CREED

When my parents first started out in Desbarats, we lived in alower income home with no running water. My parents were and still are God-fearing, hard working and pious people. They were married in 1960 and are still happily married now for 50 years. And along the way they learned many things from each other like patience and perseverence and probably a good sense of humour. But this well spring goes deep and has set roots in our ever growing family tree. We were raised to be Christians with prayers and special blessings at mealtimes and during high holy days. In our youth I remember the regular church attendance and Bible readings. We were a lose knit family then and despite our distances and the various cities my borther and I have lived in over the years we always managed to find HOME on our GPS of the heart. The emotional and psycholifgical bonds are firm and everlasting. For most of his career after 1969 my father was a steelworker while my mom elected to staty home and raise the kids. It wasnt until after we were all out of the house that she decided to take on extra jobs cleaning homes, arts and crafts, selling various products or working in a flower shop for a spell. So back to desbarats for a minute. These were evidently rough snd tumble times. An economic hardship for my parents to say the least. Only about 10 years married, we all lived in a tiny house with nmo running water trying desperately to make ends meet. Somehow they were able to keep their heads above the watermark and in turn to feed our tiny mouths in the process. To make it that far my parents must have had a tremendous amount of faith and the belief in ABUNDANCE. Somehow when things appeared to be the darkest and bleakest, our gray patches of cloud would be lifted and some munifiscient guidance from Above would be there to provide. it was exactrly that kind of innate strentgth and stubborness that was passed along to me and my siblings as we were growing up. All in all we were all raised with a basic sense of fairness and equality--the sense of right from wrong. Is is this Creedo and belief that my parents have instilled in us all of these 50 years of their marriage.

Memories of Desbarats

From my earliest recollections there used to be an old fashioned white fridge with a silver handle and a fancy cursive name on the front. A white plastic transistor radio with a large dial used to sit on top of the fridge. We probably listened to that long before we got the first TV. I remember hearing Sonny and Cher songs, Neal Young , Three Dog Night, The Beatles, Ian Tyson, Murray McLaucklin and others from that radio. It was one of those stylish Backolite radios with large tuner nobs. I remember mom later telling us about a strike at Algoma Steel. Dad had just started there a few months earlier. My dad made extra money that spring by trapping nuisance beaver with a guy named Mike. I remember my mom’s large brown dresser in the bedroom. There was a large porcelain statue of Jesus or Joseph in there. Before we moved into our new home in Desbarats we stayed in a set of cottages at Gordon lake.

There would be blood suckers in the shallow water when we would go swimming. I remember the convenience store on the way to Gordon Lake. There was bait and tackle on the walls and a deer head trophy-the first one I had ever seen. There was an old fashioned coke machine at the front of the store. There’s a photo of me sitting on the front steps hammering a board in the steps (my early attempts at carpentry--). Our first dog was named Patches and he lived with us in the new house. He never came with us when we moved to the Sault in 1972.

The Animal Carver

I remember those long winter evenings

dad working on the living room floor

With his taxidermy equipment

A Dr. Frankenstein bringing animal forms

into primordial shape.

He once created this wolf body

with a papier mache skull.

Like a carcass surgeon

he would mould the body

back into form

with the subtle manipulation of its ears,

its wild, erect and round mud flap ears.

I remember hollow glass eyes

a yellow glint hinting at far off places

taking everyone back to a forest

of primitivism

He was the master carver of animal form

in the forest of my imagination.

Dream Trips to Timmins

I remember long trips to Timmins in the dead of winter

in an overcrowded Volkswagen.

Four bleary eyed passengers crammed in like human luggage.

The road then a series of snakes & cat guts, camel humps

and Gravol stops along # 129.

In winter, the car heater sizzling in desperation.

The hissing coil wrapping us in drowsy sleep.

Now I do the same-- a 12 hour trip back

up north from bottom of industrial boot.

One child asleep with a book in his hands.

Sawing into a heavy log of sighs..

The other, makes small circles with his breathing,

ensconced in toddler dreams along a babbling brook

impervious to sound, wind, the rustle of leaves,

Government treaties or steel production figures at Algoma.

Oblivious to it all, the kids sleep off the trip.

The only remnants upon arrival:

zipper marks scarring face temporarily.

Remnants of train rides taken in dreams.

Farming Memory

Our farm up at the island was not much at the beginning. My parents once told me the Indian name for it was--Anapich-- or place of the hardwoods. A very fitting description for an island the size of Montreal, our ancestral cradle- to this fertile tract of sloping, sweeping, sleeping land with soil as rich as blood.

No matter what people said then or continued to say after, that farm was like a magnet for us, a family spot with many memories attached to it. That homestead will always evoke a strong feeling of family togetherness and pride. Forever. My last memory of it was in 1995 the year my father retired from Algoma Steel and my first year of teaching.

I also recall the spring of 1989 when Pepere Robillard and Matante Lucille Cyr and company payed the farm a visit. That was the last spring I would ever see Pepere alive. The old war horse was pushing 94 by then. He was gray and gnarled and curbed like a sinking sunset, but the fiesty frenchman had no equal when it came to cribbage and could still wallop any serious opponent set before him. I fondly recall him getting drunk on the two shots of Apricot brandy Matante Lucille Cyr and the rest of the them had given pepere up at the house. After a few lively games of crib they had a hell of a time trying to lay him down onto the sofa to sleep off the groggy effects of the homemade brew.

Imagine a 94 year old getting stinko drunk. Pepere eventually sobbered up and everyone had their chuckles at his expense.

A few days later he was none the worse for wear, smiling and joly and ready to head home. I still recall the photos of grandpa when he waded into the shallow waters of the channel during another summer visit to the island. Up into his 80's he didnt mind going for a cool dip.

Many souvenirs revolved around farming and preserving and hunting on the farm. Not to mention trying to keep away from our nosy astonaut neighbour.

Approaching the property, th first thing one would see was the tremedously long and narrow gravel driveway. The house was difficult to see from the I line because of the the 1/4 mile stretch of driveway. Beyond a clump of growing birch trees sat the old wooden house a weather beaten brown patch in the middle of a vast field. The road was bordered by a marshy bog with the water colored like rusted steel. In the fields could be found the occasional clumps of multicolored stones. These puddingstone as they are called are a rare occurence found only on St. Joseph Island and he upper portions of Lake Huron. There like slain prehistoric beasts the rocks sit silent and still. It was while on my own solitary walks on the property I could feel a special life force--like a primitive earth magic flowing from the ground and into my lifeblood.

I remmember one partcular summer before I went into teaching. I was happy to live with them at the farm and help out with the organic gardeneing and pulling out cedar yearlings to sell for ornaments and borders to the city folk. I remember one evening, with shovel in hand walking behind dad's FORD tractor and hauling the 50 or so trees onto the wagon.

After we had uprooted about another 50 or more trees, we called it a day and shifted the old tractor towards the house. From there we would transfer all the trees from the wagon to dad's waiting half ton. Dad had a particular way of placing the trees in the truck, from the tallest in the back to the shortest in the front, like they do with young children in grade school. It was an interesting form of triage. It was getting late and darkness was descending as the truck trudged along the dusty laneway of Anapich, weighed down with all of those happy cedar trees swaying in the back and not minding their bumpy ride. As we got onto the main concession road we talked about the day's events, joked and listened to some country music all the way back to the city. Clountry music was like a balm for my parents. They listened to Ann Murray, Roger Whitaker or Kenny Rogers. Crossing the huge ark of concrete and bridge works from the island to the mainland I glanced momentarily at the soft pink dusk of sky blending into the water and trees. I thought of me, I thought of us as a family. Sunrise, sunset, nothing stays still and nothing endurs but change.

On Father Turning 70

I want to write these words

now burning while I still can

Since you can feel, still see,

hear in the heart the echo of its meaning.

Catch these words still on the page

Unadorned and raw to capture a fleeting moment.

Like the birds,

the trees, bees,

ephemera, shadows pacing over

Wolf lake, the breeze in the pines

before rainfall.

I want to find the words to stop the turning

To freeze a moment in time

To find the syllables

that will hold sway over history

Decades unfolding, you getting older,

each year a wink in time

While the world’s wide discerning eye turns

and blinks

Don’t want to think of an end point

Or Your mind going stiff

When the bear trap of memory

fails to release

To slow time, too slow time

I don’t want your old age to be in vain

To become an unbeautiful summary

A parenthesis of cursory notes.

But a life with meaning, beautiful meaning.

40 years

You pull your energy 40 years from me

A hallowed out grieving window where I see myself.

I pick at the rag bone of my heart.

40 years from me. Reseeding still.

You move into the light

Inventing names. New words for comfort.

We are assailed by water and wind.

We move in the groove track left by others.

We move like the slow dance

a candle makes climbing stairs into the dark.

Alone, alone we traverse the dark.

He is walking into the sun. He is the son.

Never wavers, never flounders, breaking new ground.

Abandoned in weathers.

Mercurial stains on your cheeks.

You pray for your sister. Pray for the dead.

Pull yourself from the wreck

Enveloped in the Phenomenology of anger.

We all climb these stairs alone.

Aperire

I think of my father often. It is difficult to accept he is now gone from our touch

I think of the time we plowed the field in Goulais with a 4-wheeler and an old horse-plow

I think of that shed we built together

The trips to Fall Fairs to see the horses

And that last trapping season when we got so many martins

I think of my father often

I re-live the moments the best I can remember them

Sometimes I try to hold onto them

I embrace all the value of them, all the love and joy of them

But sometimes

The memories slip through my hands

Like spilled water

That is when I thirst for my father’s laugh and his wisdom

The colour of his eyes

I miss him and all our talks

I miss him

And I know deep inside

He still guides me

When I am open

I can hear his laugh and receive his wisdom

For he is now forever a part of me and I

Will always be part of him

Michael Robillard

The Heavy Grief of Driving

The heavy grief of driving with your memories

in an empty chair

Driving through bedrock, finding places along the lake.

Radiation haunts and still cancer like a darkness grows.

This is the last time groundhog will ever see his shadow.

There’s something wrong in the cage of his head

Where birds are supposed to sing.

We are always looking to ruin beautiful things.

Every word on the radio is a love song.

Every word I hear reminds me of you.

In this white wedding veil of cursed snow

There is nothing harder than this-

To navigate your way through the ordinary world

Think a way through a storm

The circuitry of loss, God’s patina on the windshield,

Ice patterns coagulating on glass

All speak to me in patterns of intelligent design.

Near Estaire, workers hold back the traffic

To blast at rock.

Driving home through bedrock

finding lost places along the lake

Trying to unhitch the trailer of words

For these dark cells I can’t name-

The brain’s pulsing exclamations

When the body fails and goes deep south.

And when things go

We place our faith on the shoulders of giants.

From this stance I search for Grace.

Your soul Lithium light,

airy like a thin wafer of dreams.

I know you got tired of holding up the weight

Of the world like Sisyphus and Atlas

–I did too.

I am still lugging my bag of sorrows now.

Somewhere near Orillia

In a fog bound haze

My nerves hanging by a ledge

With no useful music left on the radio

I think of you on a bed of crisp white sheets

In a forever fog of morphine

Two white angels whiter than this fog

escorting you home.

Time triumphs over the human fabric

We begin again this upward toilsome

Journey to the mountain top of the Ages.

Red, Green and Blue

This love my love out of the blue.

My love in a blood red country, still green

Still growing.

My green anger out of the blue

Pondering the cruel tricks of infinity

Like Erinyes. My vengeance growing

Inside like a blood flower dying.

Still green you take these words with you

Out of the blue,

Take these words branched and antlered

Altered bifurcated in my forked tongue’s woe.

These words still green, red, bleeding on the page.

Must be the age. Eternal rest be your cage.

How does my rage rest here still caught blue?

In my life I have seen white cells

devoured by the sun

My father’s head and hands

swallowed by the moon too soon.

These tales they tell still hurt, still red, still blue.

I can never forget these colors of you,

never faded, always new.

Forever red, forever green, always blue.

The Gift of a Father

What are the gifts of a father?

That of Strength to carry you through the journey of life.

That of Love to fill your heart with warmth.

That of Discipline to guide you on the right path.

That of Teacher to instruct the mind and give you wings to soar.

That of Leader to help the soul sing and be joyful.

That of Story teller to pass down a heritage and traditions.

That of Friend, to hold your hand and listen when storms sway.

That of an Angel, always by your side with a smile and open arms.

Love Ginette

Gift of Guitar

By D. Robillard

I was 10 or 11 that Christmas

I threw away the gift of guitar

down the back stairs

neck and body shattered splintered like kindling

from awkward string guts

as abandoned notes bled blue

down the wooden steps

Now, something in the throat wells up a note of regret

Of course, there are no ways to fix strings of the past.

What’s done is done.

Sour notes drift off still.

Lately I’ve noticed that my stepson is a virtuoso

on my wife’s guitar.

Deftly decoding A sharps B flats, C’s and F’s

Into tiny fingered sound

beautiful notes trailing off, shaping melodies that

could have found space in my universe. But didn’t.

My awkward hands could never master such bravado

such vibrato-neither then nor now.

Childhood sound rituals beam forward imperceptibly

like Music of the spheres

and in a heartbeat my own caged regret

becomes its own tragic music montage

and notes which have stayed stuck there for aeons,

forged within the skins own memory-

are released in a torrent of discordant thoughts-

And piano music fills the air

while in my brain

snippets from a lone blue guitar

strumming the strings of regret

unravels like smoke in a small corner

of my childhood room

© 2006 Robillard

Unusual Pets

Growing up we had some unusual pets. Most people have cats or dogs we had a pet beaver. Dad decided to bring him home in the trunk of his Volkswagen. This pet beaver loved to chew. He would climb the basement stairs and chew the top of the stairs. We even had a name for him Half Pint" He even had his own plastic swimming pool.

My parents have owned two Volkswagen and we pack the family of 6 into the car and go visit the relatives in Timmins. Their was no seat belts then and my brother Michel would sit on my moms lap for a 7 hr trip.

Thank-you mom and dad for some of the fun and unique experiences growing up. It has made me a stronger person today.

BJ The Pigeon

In about 1981 or 1982 my father found a baby pigeon while walking his rounds along the train tracks at the Algoma Steel. It was in the late spring and he had found a bird hobbling along the tracks. It was a hatchling pigeon. He put the pigeon in his lunch box and secreted it away and brought it home after his shift. He presented it to the family and it hobbled out of the lunchbox onto the table. Over the next few days we nursed it with an eye dropper and fed it with different foods found in the cupboard. It grew healthy and we decided to keep it for a pet. It had the habit of making a sorrowful cooing sound when ever it strutted and primed its feathers on the table or the counter. At will it would fly around the house and perch itself on any available protrusion. From counter top to door knob to kitchen sink. Anywhere seemed a convenient perch for it. He later drank from a bird feeder and slept in al little make shift box house we fabricated. Whenever you held your arm out it would come to you. It took delight in pecking at your eyes and nostrils and making a cat-like cooing sound. It has at demise later that summer when the neighbours cat caught it and made an early lunch.

My younger brother Mike was so sensitive and crest fallen about the demise of the bird that my father decided he should preserve the body and so he placed it into an unused bread bag and slipped it into the freezer. It lay there in cryogenic state awaiting to be stuffed. It was a few years and my father did nt have the heart to mount the bird. So he eventually threw it out.

Half Pint the Beaver

In the fall of 1979 I had been taken out of school on a few occasions so that I could experience trapping with my parents. That fall they had managed to obtain a trapline behind Searchmont and the Whitman Dam Road on a place called the Icewater River. MY father had set some beaver traps that fall and we did the rounds a few days later to check them. Low and behold on this one particular set up we found a baby beaver still struggling and thrashing about with its back paws stuck in the connabaer trap. It has not drowned as the trap was supposed to do, perhaps since my father had set it too shallow. He slipped his hand into the water and extracted the beaver from the trap. My mother and I waited on the beaver dam as the crisp air swirled around us. He motioned to my mother to grab the green packsack. She handed it over to him and he slipped the hairy form into the sack. We had lunch and then walked out to the car along the train tracks and Waboose. Once we got home my father made a makeshift home for the beaver which we baptized Half Pint since he fit so snuggly into the packsack. It was placed down near the water pump. We laid out a bed of sawdust and placed the beaver in a shallow baby wading pool. We fed it apples and watched it eat, marveling at how it worked its tiny paws in dexterity to eat way the apple skin. It did not take long for the beaver to manipulate the materials in its surroundings. With no more poplar to be found the beaver began to munch on the PVP pipe and gnawed holes into the pipe. This flooded the basement almost instantly. He was never happier. It crawled around to pick up discarded fire wood and planks in the basement and chewed it to the quick to make himself a bed of sawdust, On a few occasions it would climb upstairs as far as the living room or the kitchen limping on its legs. Sometimes it would hiss when we approached it or tried to carry it. We must have kept that beaver for at least 3-4 months down there. The last straw occurred when it had managed to gnaw a good size chunk of the staircase. Half Pint also saw his demise and my father had to skin the beaver. He sold his pelt at the fur auction that spring.

A Barber’s Bay Mouse Funeral

Mom remembers those girl guide outings when she was young.

One time in July during a camp out at barber’s bay the girls in her troop

Had inadvertently set up their canvas tents atop an unsuspecting

Mouse nest. When they woke up the next morning to fix their blankets

The girls noticed that they had crushed 5 or 6 tiny mouse kits.

Their small strawberry colored bodies lying motionless in a little rodent ball,

Mom and the four other girls felt remorseful for their actions so they decided to put on a tiny funeral. The managed to find a couple of match boxes on the site and stuff the mice into them. They them planned an elaborate mouse funeral with solemn prayers and observances. The mice were buried in a quiet plot somewhere near the lake.

Blueberry Picking

It was hard work in the sun.

But my parents would make it fun,

My dad would load up the bike,

Mom and I would go for a hike.

We would head for the mountains and pick, pick, pick,

until our baskets were full,

Then the four wheeler bike would pull,

all our fresh picked blueberries.

At the camp we would clean, clean, clean,

all of our berries,

then load them up as a team,

off to the market they would go for sell.

Together we would meet every July and August

to pick in the hot sun

Thank-you Mom and Dad for the experience.

Suzanne Benoit

The Love of camping

The love of camping and of the outdoors I get from my parents. Some of my favourite times that I spent with Mom and Dad was blueberry picking. I was really excited when my parents would show me their secret berry patch for the first time. It was hard work in the hot sun, but my parents would make it fun.

There was always some friendly competition between Nicole and her grandpa... but her grandpa would out-pick anyone. Through the years all of my kids got to spend time with grandma and grandpa. Gerald , Sylvie and also their spouses Tara and Steve. Over the years my brother and his family, and other family members, aunts and uncles, and cousins and friends would come to the secret patch. But the best part of the day was having a cold beer and going for a swim. after picking for a few hours.

As well the blueberry money helped Nicole’s University Fund, so Mom and Dad you had a part in your granddaughter‘s education.

You have both showed me not to be afraid of work hard and to be resourceful.

Suzanne Benoit

Summer camping

Me at 14 a whole lifetime ago

The sound of blackbirds

(nameless)

Twittering somewhere on a branch

(unseen)

Me, sister and brother

Nestled comfortably

In musty old sleeping bags

With the sound of morning breakfast

Campfire crackling

Sound of father axe chopping wood

We enveloped like mummies

High on bug dope

Hear the distant sounds and mumblings

At the picnic table

The smell of Coleman fuel

And kerosene

More whisperings chat and nature language

As we continue to doze warmly in bags

Until baconeggstoast ready.

Nicole’s Poem:

Grandpa your beautiful blue eyes with serenity of the sea,

Reflection of the sky’s on a bright and sunny day,

My little hand in yours, my protector and my guide,

You've always been my hero.

You've always been my pride.

You've always given so much love,

And shown what’s deep inside.

I think of your jokes, laughs and smiles,

And how we used to drive for miles (scouting for blueberries)

I wish I was there to hold your hand, and that you could carry on,

Because when times get tough I don't know what I will do when you’re gone.

All I want is for you to suffer no more pain.

And when you are in heaven, I pray you will be the angel that watches over me,

After all there is no one else in the world I would rather it be.

Nicole Benoit

From Johnny,

I will always remember you for your bright warm smile and welcoming heart.

You remind me a lot of my grandfather, an outdoorsy guy. I always looked forwards to seeing you and grandma and enjoyed your good sense of humour. I always wanted to tell you this, and I wish I had the chance to tell you this in person now, but I consider you my grandpa as well and I love you.

God bless,

xox

In Loving memory of grandpa

A gardener, a trapper, a true outdoor wild blueberry picker

A man of faith, a man of worship, a man well -loved with God given grace

Blue eyes like the ocean, strong like a bull, hands that could move a mountain

And a heart so big that it could shape any soul.

A role model , an educator, and well known achiever

has left us on Thursday April 11, 2013.

And is now looking down on us protecting and guiding us.

Many lives have been transformed and touched by him

and all by one single man the world grew to love so much.

S.B. M

Memories...

Ever since I was a little girl, I always looked forwards to visiting you and grandma on the farm. I will always remember the wonderful memories we had on Saint Joe's Island, and especially your retirement party, it was such a blast! You did such an amazing treasure hunt for all the grandchildren. Your farm brings back so many great childhood memories, you had the most delicious corn and I could spend days in your raspberry patches.

But the summer of 1998 will forever change me. It was the first summer I spent with you in Wawa blueberry picking. I always looked up to you, you were soooo amazing at picking blueberries. You showed me everything I ought to know. and for this I am grateful. Whenever I will see the Chicot or go scouting for berries you will forever be in my thoughts.

You are so ingenious, every summer you would find creative ways to improve the quality of picking. I always looked forwards to seeing your latest inventions. Like your modern leaf blowing machines, your tappets, or the updated wagons for carrying them.

You are my inspiration for loving nature and taught me a great deal about hard work. You have always been a hard worker, and a wonderful mentor. My best memories were spent with you and the family camping, trapping, farming, and of course blueberry picking.

I remember the summers we had sooooo many blueberries we would dream blue, the time we got stuck on a mountain with lightning and rain pouring down, and the another summer were we tipped our wagon, oops! lol

Now it's time to say goodbye. I'm so upset my mouth has gone dry. But I know there will be a day we will see each other again and it'll be everlasting in heaven :)

Je t'aime beaucoup,

xox

The Raspberry Twig

When I learned that pepere had passed away I went outside and cried as to not wake my daughter who was sleeping carelessly upstairs. When I walked outside the first thing that caught my eye was the lifeless raspberry plants in the garden. Pepere had given me those plants to start my own garden. The plants had come from the old family farm on St. Joseph Island where so many memories were made and good times spent. I removed a dead branch from the plant and held it tight. At this moment it was the only thing close to me that he left behind.

Pepere I give this branch to you. To me this branch reminds me of the family tree. This little twig is symbolic to me although it is now lifeless it leaves behind a legacy. The base of this sturdy plant will continue to grow with each passing season. Just as the legacy of the family tree.

Pepere I love you, in myself I know you will not be far from my mind as we shared many of the same interests. Whether it’s gardening, exploring new terrain, fishing or hunting, I know I will think of you and all that you have taught me.

Love your grandson, Daniel

The Garden Growing Within Us - A poem

Every spring for as long as I could remember

my parents planted a garden in the backyard.

Big small, flowers, fruit or trees.

There would be seeds in the ground every spring.

And from their loving, tender hands plants would grow.

Potatoes, tomatoes, green beans

yellow beans,

winter peas,

zuchinnis, squash, rapini

arugalla, rutabaga, rhubarb

lettuce of every hue

and one or two

rows

of the three sisters-

and of course corn.

Yellow Vee, Early Vee, Spring Vee

Any Vee you could think of, they tried it.

And from these tubers and roots

and tiny seeds came magic food baskets

every fall

And if the soil wasn’t quite right

or wasn’t quite ready to yield

its moist treasures they would coax it

and tease it

and prod it

with all manner of chemical

and organic compounds

chicken shit

goose poop

doggy doo

sheep manure

cow dung

limestone, chalk and phosphorus.

You'd need to be a scientific genius

to understand what these homegrown farmers

could do with simply their bare hands.

And the yield

what yield

could they steal from any field.

And all of that quietly going

with their care and concern

there was always enough food

enough love

enough encouragement to keep

the garden within us growing.

For everything God has created is good,

and nothing is to be thrown away or refused if it is received with thanksgiving. 1 Timothy 4: 4

Dear Uncle Jean-Guy,

For the past few months I have thought of you and Aunt Lucille because my heart was opened up to God and Jesus; the Saviour of the soul! My mother had mentioned how you had grown as a man of faith over the years and this made a lot of sense to me. It’s funny how your mind races through the moments you’ve been with a person and can notice little details again. I remember when you showed me how to pick blueberries like a professional! You were calm and at peace but were always in on the action. You knew how to have a good time and I think you value the right stuff!

It’s an inspiration to know that your life is a spiritual one and it helps me want to walk on that same path.

Love,

Michael Morris

ROBILLARD, Jean-Guy Pierre Joseph – Peacefully surrounded by family and friends at the Algoma Residential Community Hospice on Thursday, April 11, 2013 in his 73rd year. Beloved husband of Lucille (né3e Chaylt) for 53 years. Loving father of Suzanne Benoit (Alain), Ginette Breton (Denis), Denis (Joyce) and Michael. Cherished pepère of Gérald (Tara), Sylvie (Steve) and Nicole (Johnny), Daniel (Nicole) and Chantal (Alex), Luc, Lance, Lilith and Lyndon. Great grandpa of Kaden, Abigail, Ethan, Andy-Jones, Haylea, Seth, Mackenzie (and one soon to arrive). Dear brother of Laurentia, Anita, Conrad, Gérald, Pauline and Claude. Predeceased by his sisters Marguerite, Thérèse, Lucille and his brothers Léopold and Jacques. Brother-in-law of Louise, Lillian and Roger. Jean-Guy was born and raised on the farm in Ramore, ON. He graduated from Agricultural School. He enjoyed farming and gardening. He was a trapper for over 60 years. In 1969 he moved his family to Sault Ste. Marie and worked at the Algoma Steel. Friends may call at the Arthur Funeral Home & Cremation Centre on Sunday, April 14, 2013 from 6 – 9 pm. Funeral mass from Our Lady of Good Counsel on Monday, April 15, 2013 at 10 am. Rev. Pat Woods officiating. Interment Greenwood Cemetery. Memorial contributions to the ARCH or SAH Cancer Care Fund would be appreciated. Expressions of sympathy may be offered at www.arthurfuneralhome.com

Scripture reading from the Parish of Our Lady of Good Council

Read by Michael Robillard on April 15th, 2013.

Lamentations 3:17-26

New Century Version (NCV)

17 I have no more peace.

I have forgotten what happiness is.

18 I said, “My strength is gone,

and I have no hope in the LORD.”

19 LORD, remember my suffering and my misery,

my sorrow and trouble.

20 Please remember me

and think about me.

21 But I have hope

when I think of this:

22 The LORD’s love never ends;

his mercies never stop.

23 They are new every morning;

LORD, your loyalty is great.

24 I say to myself, “The LORD is mine,

so I hope in him.”

25 The LORD is good to those who hope in him,

to those who seek him.

26 It is good to wait quietly

for the LORD to save.

DAD AS TEACHER AND SPIRITUAL LEADER

Scriptures from last Bible Study lead by Jean-Guy Robillard

1) Narrow gate (Matthew 7:13)

2) Born Again (John 3:3-7) (Ist Corinthians :17)

3) Redeemed (Ephesians 1:7-9)

4) Sanctification (Continual process) (John 17:17)

5) Transformed by the Renewal of our mind (Romans 12:2)

6) Justification (Romans 3:24)

7) Righteousness (Romans 3:20)

8) Name written in the Book of Life (Rev 20:15), (Rev 3:5); 20:12), (Phillipians 4:3) (Rev 13:8 and 21:27)

For God so loved the World that He gave His only begotten son, that whosoever believeth on Him (son) should not perish but have everlasting life. (eternal).

John 3:16

Jean-Guy Robillard

Jean-Guy est un passionne. Dans le champ de bleuets, sur sa ligne de trappe, en train de faire du sirop d’erable, dans son jardin, entoure de ses enfants et petits-enfants, a l’eglise ou avec Lucille, ou qu’il soit, Jean-Guy agit avec amour et passion.

Dans ses gestes, ses paroles, ses actions, on peut sentir l’amour. D’abord l’amour de ce qu’il fait, l’amour de la nature, l’amour de son prochain et enfin, l’amour de Dieu. Sa bible tumours a la portee de la main, il medite souvent seul en tete a tete avec son Createur. Avant chaque repas il penche la tete et rend grace a Dieu pour toutes ses bontes. Jean-Guy n’a pas peur d’afficher sa foi.

J’ai eu la chance de cotoyer Jean-Guy en peu dans le champ de bleuets et de l’assister sur la ligne de trappe, et qu’il fait depuis l’age de douze ans. Ses connaissances de G.P.S., ses connaissances dans tous les domaines, son respect de la vie et de la nature m’etonnent tumours. Il ne faut pas passer sous silence ses jardins et ses essays avec des graines de tomates en voie de disparition.

Vous vous demandez sans doute pour quoi je parle de lui au present comme si Jean-guy n’etait pas mort? Eh bien oui, son corps est mort, il a du se plier devant la realite du cancer mas son esprit reste vivant parmi nous. Ce qu’il nous a laisse, son souvenir, son example, sa foi, resteront a jamais aupres de Lucille, de ses enfants et de ses amis pour des generations a venir.

Il n’est jamais facile de dire adieu a un etre cher mais comptons-nous choyes de l’avoir connu, de l’avoir cotoye. Bon courage a Lucille et toute la famille.

Merci pour ton bon example Chrétien, merci pour tout ce que tu nous laisses. Bon voyage et bonnes saisons de trap page dans l’au-dela!

Merci Jean-Guy!

Merci mon ami!

Clement Germain

Blessings given to Suzanne and Alain in 2001

If they obey and serve Him, they shall spend their days in prosperity, and their years in pleasure.

John 36:11

Dear Suzanne, Alain and Family:

I pray to Jesus that He will bless your family with a blessing that will bless you in health, in prosperity for this coming year and the years to come. For the name of Jesus is above all, Amen.

Happy New Year!

Jean Guy

TRANSFORMATION

From: JESUS LIVES - SEEING HIS LOVE IN YOUR LIFE - A devotional BY Sarah Young

You are a CHILD OF GOD, AND YOUR ARE MINE FOREVER. Someday you will see Me as I am - face to Face in Glory. You have been a member of My royal family since the moment you trusted Me as Savior. I am training you in the ways of My Kingdom: to be made new in the attitude of your mind; to put on the new self, created to be like Me. Although your new self is being conformed to My image, this process does not erase the essence of who you are. On the contrary, the more you become like Me, the more you develop into the unique person I designed you to be.

Since you are a part of My royal family, you're a fellow heir with Me - sharing My inheritance. However, you must share My suffering if you are to share My Glory. You don't need to search for ways to suffer. Living in this broken world provides ample opportunity to experience pain of many kinds. When adversity comes your way, search for Me in the midst of your struggles. Ask Me to help you suffer well, in a manner worthy of royalty. Everything you endure can help you become more like Me. Remember the ultimate goal: You will see My Face in righteousness - and be satisfied!

Beloved, now we are children of God; and it has not yet been revealed what we shall be, but we know that when He is revealed, we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is.

1 John 3:2 NKJV

You were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self, ... to be made new in the attitude of your minds; and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness.

Ephesians 4:22 -24

And if we are (HIS) children, then we are (HIS) heirs also: heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ (sharing His inheritance with HIM); only we must share HIS suffering if we are to share HIS glory.

Romans 8:17 AMP

As for me, I will see Your face in righteousness; I shall be satisfied when I awake in Your likeness.

Psalm 17:15 KKJV

TRANSFORMATION-II

From: JESUS LIVES - SEEING HIS LOVE IN YOUR LIFE - A devotional BY Sarah Young

Come to Me Just as you are. I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you. I am aware of the many little stones that mar the beauty of your heart. Trust Me to do what you are unable to do: remove the stony bits one by one. Do not expect this work in you to be painless. Heart surgery is serious, and it always involves pain. Many of the hard things you have experienced were, unknown to you, My skillful operations on your heart. When you are going through tough times, look up to Me with a wry smile and thank Me for the renewal I am working within you. This act of faith does not instantly stop your suffering, but it does lend meaning to your pain.

Marvel at the wonder of being a new creation, grafted in Me - the Messiah. You are forever set free from the condemning law of sin and death. You can rejoice in this glorious truth even while you are in the throes of suffering. Since I am the Creator of all that is, and you are made in My image, you have a wealth of creative powers within you. Strive to look at your circumstances from a fresh perspective: eager to collaborate with as I create newness within you - and through you. Though I am Lord of the universe, I desire to work in partnership with you. As you say yes to this sacred adventure, you become more fully the one I designed you to be.

"I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; I will take the heart of stone out of your flesh and give you a heart flesh."

Ezekiel 36:26 NKJV

"Therefore if any person is (ingrafted) in Christ (Messiah) he is a new creation (a new creature altogether); the old (previous moral and spiritual condition) has passed away.

2 Corinthians 5:17 AMP

"Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit of life set me free from the law of sin and death.

Romans 8:1-2

In these last days he has spoken to us by his Son, whom he appointed heir of all things, and through whom he made the universe.

Hebrews 1:2

And if we are (HIS) children, then we are (HIS) heirs also: heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ (sharing His inheritance with HIM); only we must share HIS suffering if we are to share HIS glory.

Romans 8:17 AMP

As for me, I will see Your face in righteousness; I shall be satisfied when I awake in Your likeness.

Psalm 17:15 KKJV

Elegy

A 2 am star strewn sky

Deer grunting by the roadside

Cosmic crickets clicking

Wayward dog barks

And one long breath of

Loneliness.

Obfuscated clouds

Moving in a long Escher abstraction

Withdraw their

Wounded shadows across a field.

There are 88 dark keys

To Boccherini

37 Buddhas to shine you on the Path

And 14 names for despair.

Alone

Among a colonnade of cedars

And a skirling wind

You practice the grand design

Of being Alone.

You are Present Still

You are present still in our hearts, in our minds, in our souls.

We will remember you forever, as we see the sun rays peeking and shining from the white clouds above.

A guiding light to still show the path and the warmth of your love.

A gentle breeze on the cheek to remember you spirit.

A drop of rain to quench our gardens growing within.

The leaves of the trees dancing in the wind to remind us of our roots in nature, and our family tree.

A deer appearing from the woods to amaze us,

A blueberry patch to bring nourishment to our bodies,

And beautiful flowers to bring joy and beauty to our lives.

You are in nature now... with your Creator.

You are present still...

Love Ginette

Places in Our Hearts

There are places in our hearts that we will forever treasure as a husband,

and as Jean-Guy's fatherly love, and strength for family.

There are places in our memory that we will forever remember -

his stories and traditions - and

his humour and generosity.

The love we shared will keep him close to us forever.

Memory is a garden where yesterday continues to blossom,

and Love continues to grow.

Memories ...

May they fill our minds ...

Warm our hearts ...

and lead us through ....

Love your wife Lucille

* * * * * * * * * *

ROBILLARD, Jean-Guy Pierre Joseph – Peacefully surrounded by family and friends at the Algoma Residential Community Hospice on Thursday, April 11, 2013 in his 73rd year. Beloved husband of Lucille (né3e Chaylt) for 53 years. Loving father of Suzanne Benoit (Alain), Ginette Breton (Denis), Denis (Joyce) and Michael. Cherished pepère of Gérald (Tara), Sylvie (Steve) and Nicole (Johnny), Daniel (Nicole) and Chantal (Alex), Luc, Lance, Lilith and Lyndon. Great grandpa of Kaden, Abigail, Ethan, Andy-Jones, Haylea, Seth, Mackenzie (and one soon to arrive). Dear brother of Laurentia, Anita, Conrad, Gérald, Pauline and Claude. Predeceased by his sisters Marguerite, Thérèse, Lucille and his brothers Léopold and Jacques. Brother-in-law of Louise, Lillian and Roger. Jean-Guy was born and raised on the farm in Ramore, ON. He graduated from Agricultural School. He enjoyed farming and gardening. He was a trapper for over 60 years. In 1969 he moved his family to Sault Ste. Marie and worked at the Algoma Steel. Friends may call at the Arthur Funeral Home & Cremation Centre on Sunday, April 14, 2013 from 6 – 9 pm. Funeral mass from Our Lady of Good Counsel on Monday, April 15, 2013 at 10 am. Rev. Pat Woods officiating. Interment Greenwood Cemetery. Memorial contributions to the ARCH or SAH Cancer Care Fund would be appreciated. Expressions of sympathy may be offered at www.arthurfuneralhome.com