Duvernay Road

In the northern area of Sherbrooke, QC., you will find high priced mini mansions and expensive cars. Likely built for doctors, lawyers, and business professionals. But in my childhood days, it was fields and forest.

My grandparents house was a very welcoming place. Every time I stayed there, whether I was staying for the day, or staying for a few nights, we always had something to do. Helping my grandfather with the lawn care, tending to the garden with my grandmother, or simply just relaxing and enjoying the quietness away from the bustling city noise.

The forest and fields surrounding their property was owned by local farmers for the most part. One of them was my great uncle. We would go explore along the deer paths and the man made trails. One of things that my cousins and I did quite often was put stick boats in the brook running through a section of the forest. We would spend hours a day following these stick boats, nudging them around any obstacles that may block their way. During the winter months, we were still able to track the stock boats under the thin ice. We had our special spots where we set up stick cabins and forts. One Halloween, while stopping at my grandparents house for our Halloween treats, I heard hootin’ and chanting coming from the forest across the street. A couple of years had passed before I found out that there had been a cult of some sort that had chosen that forest for their rituals. One day, while on a walk with my cousins, we had come across a skull of some sort of animal and what looked like a shrine. Freaked us right out! The neighbor on the left side of their property was a kind man. He always had a bag of assorted candies that he would give to each of us kids. When I had gotten old enough to ride his larger than regular lawn tractor, he asked me if I wanted to make a few dollars doing chores for him. I didn’t mind that at all because I got to ride that lawn tractor for a good hour or so! Sometimes he would give us rides in the trailer that had a matching paint job. I was quite sad when he had passed away.

When raspberries were at their best, we would be in charge of collecting all of the finest berries we could find. There was a good sized patch on their property but, there were plenty of wild raspberries across the dirt road ripe for picking as well. While picking in the wild bushes one day, I had lost track of my grandmother. Wondering where she had gone, I said, “Gram…”.. No answer. “Gram?”… still no answer… so I yelled “GRAM!?”. She had popped her head up out of the bushes a little ways away and answered, “Yes?”. Only curious as to where she had been, I responded with “Nothing…”. The cousins thought that was the most hilarious thing that I hadn’t actually had anything to say. It’s still joked about to this day.

When my grandparents started to get into the higher age bracket, they had sold the house to someone who was only interested in modernizing it. Years have passed since they’ve left this earth, but I still smell the smell of the dirt from their garden, and the smell of the grass reminds me of mowing their lawn. Every time I taste a fresh raspberry, I go back to standing in their raspberry patch, tasting the first berries of the season. Those are things that won’t ever leave me. I hope that my children will be able to memories of my parents homes that stick with them like that.