My mother fills the wicker picnic basket: sandwiches, drinks, desserts, table towels, cardboard plates, thermos. My father folds the old woolen blanket on which we will sit. The family goes out at night!
We go to Mount Royal. At the opening show of Saint-Jean festivals. Yes, the opening show, because this year, Saint-Jean is not just 23 or 24, it’s a whole festival of dates. We’re just on June 20, and it’s already starting.
Usually, Saint-Jean, we watch this on TV. Like everything else, moreover. My father is the king of the helpers. He never wants to leave his casa. Here he is, suddenly ready to climb the mountain. Something happens in Quebec.
My parents are not the greatest nationalists. They never tell us who they vote for, but let’s say that when Trudeau wins, they don’t look angry. However, they feel the flowered momentum. The momentum to be where it will happen. The momentum to be together. All together. Not to look at Quebec on a screen. To be.
Saint-Jean in 1975 is more than political, it is popular. Everyone is one of them. As we are part of a country. Because we are there. Because we live there. Simply.
Saint-Jean in 1975 is not the business of Prime Minister Robert Bourassa, or even René Lévesque. It is the business of popular artists. They are them, our leaders. They are the ones we want to follow. They are the ones we want to hear. We had enough promises. Give us love. Not later. Right away.
My father is looking for a place to park. Not easy. There is a crowd as in full. Had to expect it. If even dad is there, there must be no one at home. Well, we’re going to get there, it’s still far away. We must be closer to the house than to the mountains, but we have a fact.
We start the ascent. With thousands of people, so packed, it looks like millions. It looks like Jesus of Nazarethwhen the disciples flock to listen to the sermon on the mountain:
“You will love your neighbor as yourself. »»
It was not bad as a teaching. With that, empathy is more than a series. We get lost a little. Although a mountain is always conducive to words that cross time. It must be an echo.
My father extends the blanket to the lawn. We are neither very close to the scene nor very far. We are in the middle. In the middle of all this. And all that is a happy tide. The weather is nice. Both in heaven as on earth. Than on the grass.
While waiting for it to start, we eat and we drink. We are at orange and cranberry juice. This is not the case for all picnickers: “We are 6 million, you have to lead another. »»
The sun begins to go to bed, but very slowly, it looks like he wants to stay for the show. Now Louise Forestier, Gilles Vigneault and Yvon Deschamps make their entry. For Quebec to be celebrated, Deschamps tries to make us sing Happy Birthday. It conspires. That’s what he wanted. He replies to hoots that Happy holidayit’s not better, it’s just Happy Birthday disguised as French. He makes us realize that we do not have a way for us to wish ourselves the best to us. It was then that Vigneault said he composed it, a song to replace the Happy Birthday. To sing Happy birthday in Quebecois. And the three artists sing:
“Dear Quebecers, it’s your turn
To let you talk about love
Dear Quebecers, it’s your turn
To let you talk about love … “
From now on, Vigneault, Deschamps and Forestier tell us that this is what you have to hum, not just at Saint-Jean, but also to our birthday, that of our partner, our children, the brother-in-law.
“My dear brother-in-law is your turn
To let you talk about love … “
Our three influencers of party are swollen. They think that in ten minutes of show, they will erase a hundred years of Happy Birthday. Well do you know what? They succeeded. The mountain is the best megaphone.
The show on Mont Royal ended, the party continued. Then we ended up returning. It was already tomorrow. We got home with the wicker basket, the cover and something more. Often, when you come back from a show, you have your arms loaded with derivative products that we bought: t-shirt, cap, padded cotton. This time, we have the heart in charge of a gift that we received: a hymn to love. To the love of ours.
On the first birthday celebrated, in our house, according to this evening, that of my aunt Laure, on September 25, we sang her People of the country. Even my father knew the words.
Since June 20, 1975, there is not a cake candle, in Quebec, which does not go out to the sound of the refrain of the Chansonnier de Natashquan.
Thanks to you, Mr. Vigneault. And thank you to your two accomplices, Yvon and Louise, who helped you propel this poem in the sky, to make it always revolve around us.
In this uniform world, which establishes, it feels good to have this chorus to remember that we are unique.
Dear Quebecers, Dear Quebecers, Happy National Day!
