August 18,2024
Taking the Quyon ferry from Ontario to Quebec by car and then driving along Highway 128 to Norway Bay brought up fond memories. We used to visit our friend Zane, who had a cottage there. Zane passed away many years ago, and his wife sold the house after the family moved to Vancouver, so keeping the cottage was impractical. This time, we visited his wife, who rented two cottages to host the family and remind them of their good times there.
The surroundings along the road were familiar; I recognized the area’s city hall and fire station. Norway Bay was still a small village of cottages that seemed to camp in a pine forest. There was a feeling of friendliness and informality about this community. No fences existed, and people walked on the streets and along the beach for exercise. Many children rode bicycles. I almost wished we had a cottage there; there are always people around, which is kind of reassuring socially.
In contrast, our cottage is on an island with boat access only. We see boats and water life, but we rarely see people to talk to casually, as you can in Norway Bay.
Meeting Zane’s family, some of whom I have not seen in decades, brought back memories of when I met him. At a time, we both were undergoing French language training the government provided for all its managers. Government policy was that employees should be able to speak their native language at work, so all managers should speak French and English.
We all spoke some French; this was not a beginner’s class. As an introduction, the teacher asked us to describe what we do in our jobs. When it came to Zane, he talked about “emballage.” Wow! It sounded like “embalming,” and I scratched my head trying to figure out which government department embalms what and why.
But my confusion lasted briefly until I could ask him who or what was embalmed. It turned out that “emballage” is the French word for labeling. You know, the labels on the products for sale in stores, like cereals and chocolate bars. Zane explained that the government develops rules for the type of information that must appear on product boxes for sale (like the size of the letters) and enforces the legislation on labeling.
I found his work fascinating, and we became fast friends in a short time. His patrician demeanor attracted me. When listening to someone, he jutted his head forward to focus on the speaker and responded thoughtfully with a gravelly voice. But he enjoyed jokes and was fast at cracking a smile.
In subsequent conversations, he described how he came from Johannesburg to attend university in Winnipeg with a windbreaker on his back when the typical temperature was way below zero degrees in January. But he had help to adjust quickly to local conditions, and early in his university life, he met a local girl who became his wife.
We soon met Zane’s family of two boys and an adopted Canadian indigenous girl in Ottawa, and our families socialized. We also met his parents when Zane invited them to visit his family. It was interesting to notice cultural differences between South African and Canadian mores.
Zane had become Canadianized to such an extent that when his mother read the newspaper and his father just took it out of her hands because he wanted to read it at the same time, Zane told his dad off, saying that his mother had the paper first and was reading it and do not take it from her. Back home, the father rules the household, and the woman obeys him. In Canada, we have more gender equality.
Another time, the family was going on a car trip to Toronto, and Zane’s mother started fixing sandwiches. Zane asked why she was doing it; in Canada, everyone, regardless of color, can stop at any food facility to eat. That was an exciting episode for Zane’s parents, as traveling back home was challenging for colored people.
Zane’s mother would have liked to stay in Canada, especially when she was cured, freely, of TB, recognized by an X-ray. But his father decided to return to South Africa, not only because he had his friends there but also because he missed his culture.
All these memories returned to me when we drove into Norway Bay and met with Zane’s wife, one of his sons, and the son’s family. For me, it was an emotional moment. Although we talked with his wife over the years, it had been decades since I had seen his son and his family. Eric is a muscle-bound, heavy-set RCMP officer with over twenty years of service. He has had a varied career with the Mounties in British Columbia, serving on a swat team for a while. Although he was the easiest person to talk with, nobody would mess with him, just looking at his build.
It was also satisfying to remember that Eric had wanted to be a Mountie since high school. We wrote a letter of recommendation for him when he applied to join the RCMP, and I was glad to see that he has made a successful career with the force.
While having coffee, some of Eric’s children decided to visit “Grandpa.” Somewhat confused, I asked Zane’s wife which Grandpa they would see. She explained that they would visit the cemetery where Zane is buried.
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