Over My Shoulder

You might or might not like to think or talk about what your family’s personal traits were as you uncover your family history, but  there is no doubt that they affect you . My parents, Sheila Joy Richard Phillips  and Edmond Guillaume Daniel Beauchamp, were very lively characters, you can almost tell by their names. Both ran fairly close to the stereotype of their ancestors, Scots-Irish and  Canadien-Metis. Indeed, the way they grew up in very enclosed communities, propagated it.  There were few occurrences my mother did not have a saying for. Her favorite one was “you’ll meet yourself coming back”, her admonition about parenting.

It is strange, how one recalls things in spite of trying so desperately to be our own person. There is a corner in our town which has a beautiful grove of ancient poplar trees. When the wind blows the leaves turn to their underside and create a stunningly beautiful silver patch.  When this happens I hear my mother’s voice saying “Lan, it’s gonna rain”.  It inevitably does.

My father, raised by a strict Catholic mother,  was very intent on having me raised that way, absorbing all the rites and rituals of the church.  He had a huge picture of the Sacred Heart placed on a wall in our home and told me that ” a family who prayed together stayed together”. At night, he did not so much as tuck me in as terrify me of the evil that could befall when I was sleeping, to wit, he crossed my hands over my chest for protection. It puts me in mind of Don William’s song “Good Ole Boys Like Me“. Somehow, I grew into a very practical person but little things still happen that my daughters and I love to talk about, some might call it “feminine wisdom”.

Yesterday, I was in pursuit of  my voyageur ancestors and was trying to nail down the two brothers, Jacques and Pierre Beauchamp who were in Detroit in 1705, having gone on one of  Cadillac’s convoys.  (pg. 363   Le Detroit du Lac Erie 1701-1710 Vol. 1, Les Harnais and Sheppard 2016). In the Voyageurs Contracts Database of the St. Boniface Historical Society,  I came across a contract for  Francois Beauchamp which stated that he was the son of the deceased Jacques Beauchamp so I went off the see which Jacques it was. As it happens I scrolled down and saw the name Beauchamp highlighted again and beside it the name Edmond.  I thought “there was another Edmond back then? Then I noticed that it was not a voyageur record but a school record (keep in mind that my French is only intermediate). I made out 6e annee  and found that it was a school record for my father! I had only typed in the name Beauchamp in the search box to broaden my search and there he was, “mon pere” in his Grades 4,5 and 6 school photos! What are the odds? I do believe he is looking over my shoulder as I write this!

Happy Birthday to Me!

On this day, awhile ago shall we say, I was born in Winnipeg, Manitoba to my beautiful mother, Sheila Joy Richard Phillips and my father Edmond Guillaume Daniel Beauchamp. I was a bonny wee lass, here in the arms of my maternal grandmother, Jane Smith Phillips.

Babe in Arms

I was a bit fussed over, being the first child of a couple who were head over heels. Both had a rough childhood, my father being the victim of polio when he was young and losing the use of his right forearm. My mother was shipped off when she was 16 from the farm to the city.

Not many years ago, I came into some photos of my childhood through an aunt. The first I had seen. On the back of each was the scratchy handwriting of my father, who died at 45 from a heart attack. On this one, he had written “Yolande says ” Hey Dad! Look at me, I’m dancing.”

On the back of another photo, he had written, “This was a proud day for Mom too in her bright red taffeta dress”. It inspired me to create this picture of Mom and I. She just looks radiant. What they were celebrating I don’t know.

There were many hard times ahead of them but on this day I want to say thanks to Mom and Dad for making me the person I am today. You taught me hope and determination and love of family. Thank you.

The Eyes of a Little Girl

While I look for my ancestors, my mind often goes back to my childhood days. Those memories take on a dreamlike quality, parts as clear as a running stream and others hazy and filled with uncertainty. I spent very little time with my grandparents which makes the memories all the more poignant. My father’s parents lived in a little bungalow on Horace Street in Winnipeg, Manitoba. My grandfather carried in him all the talents and abilities of his French Canadian ancestors. He was a carpenter by trade and a “cultivateur” at heart. The long back yard of the little brown tiled house was beautifully green with  Caragana bushes around it. In the spring, they would be filled with robin’s nests and the delicate blue eggs inside.


Alfred and Adelina (Rose Daigneault) Beauchamp 1950’s

At the back of the house was a coal shed and at the top of the house in a little attic was his room. It smelled like tobacco because he ground his own through a grinder. The grinder sat on a little table which was beside the small, square window that looked down over the yard. A huge sunflower swayed in the breeze beneath the window, just within arms length. At times a head of it would be sitting on the table and grandpa would show me how to get the seeds out. The tart smell of tomato came from the seedlings he had planted in cans which also sat on the table. There was a simple dresser beside his bed , the drawer of which was filled with beer caps.

Downstairs, in my grandmother’s cozy kitchen, there was always a pot of soup in the soup burner at the back of the stove. It was a special spot where the pot could be sunk in and kept warm. I remember him telling me to always have a pot of soup going, barley was the best. He would show me one day how to make it. He did not talk much when I was around. He had that old habit of dropping by at the corner pub after work to meet the men and would often come home when I had been put to bed on the couch. There I had been crouched in fear of the pot-bellied stove , it’s embers casting strange shadows on the dark walls.

I would wait for a while and then slowly walk to the kitchen doorway. I would find him sitting like a statue at the table in the dim light, sometimes drinking tea, sometimes not. He had the old habit of pouring it into his saucer first. On such a night, I summoned up the courage to talk to him. I asked him if he would put the hair back onto the much coveted china doll my cousin and I always fought over. To this he smiled and made an examination of the doll’s head and put her on the table. In minutes, my grandmother was out of her room, tired and cross. She shooed me back onto the couch. The next day the brown-haired doll was sitting on the table waiting for me, that was until my cousin came over and the fight started again.

The house in St. Boniface was very close to the Seine River which froze over in the winter. On some visits my brother and I would trudge through the deep snow down to the river and just start walking. The trees hung with ice along the snow crusted banks. Eventually, we came upon the framework of a teepee up the side of the left bank and scrambled up it. We wondered about it, wondered what it would have been like to live in one, having no idea that that is exactly what many of our ancestors did.

One day, after I had just started school down the road from my grandparent’s, I came upon a man walking slowly in front of me. He looked different. His hair was in long, black braids and he had a colored sash around his middle. He wore a buckskin jacket and his skin was dark coppery brown. Being precocious, I asked where he was going and he pointed to my grandparent’s house. I asked him his name and he said “Daniel”. I was mystified. I do not remember interacting with him in the house but the next day when I came home he was up on the roof mending shingles. I suspect that he was my grandmother’s brother, Louis Daniel Daigneault. It remains to be seen.

My grandmother, Rose Daigneault was born in St.Boniface in 1889. In the 1901 Census of Canada her father, William lists the family as Red under the Color column. For the main part, they lived their lives as French Catholics. Her mother, Virginie Cyr’s family extends back to the Lagimodiere family and thence to Riel. She was much loved by the family but I did not feel that from her. I think she did not appreciate being saddled with her half Irish grandchildren when she was older. She was very strict with me and did not talk much. I remember my hair being scraped back from my head into tight braids and being sent out to find my way to school in freezing weather when I was just 6. My mother had to work you see.

I do remember her giving a lovely tea party for my birthday one year where we had a turtle race. All the boys who had turtles brought them. I was dressed very prettily in the flouncy nylon confections of the 50’s but for the main part I felt abandoned. My first communion was a terror for me. St.Boniface Cathedral was a looming castle. My father was a wreck. I begged him to not make me go into the confessional box but there was nothing he could do. My grandmother sat with the cousins and made no move to help. Somehow I survived as we all did. It was surely a preparation for life.


Sibs and cousins. Me 3rd from the right 1960

In Flanders Field

My mother told me many times of how it took my grandmother Jane Gartshore Smith years to get over the loss of her brother Robert who was born the same year as her. He was killed in action at Flanders in 1915. His name is on the memorial at Calais; Lance Corporal Robert G Smith, Black Watch Royal Highlanders.She left for Canada that year. It was one of the many things she couldn’t talk about. Robert is on the left in this picture with his brothers, James and Samuel.

Robert, James and Sam Smith. Glasgow 1914

Robert, James and Sam Smith. Glasgow 1914

To the many people who served in my family including two of my aunts, peace and gratefulness for your bravery. To all people who fight for what they believe in.

In Flanders Field

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

John McCrae