Today, I invite you to walk in the footsteps of your ancestors, right where they once lived.

Join me in a medieval village—mostly silent now, its stone walls weathered by time—but once humming with life, laughter, and stories.

Even if your European ancestors didn’t call this exact village home, they lived in one very much like it.

Stone by stone, their hands built the houses, barns, and walls that still stand.

They hauled water from the well, baked bread in wood-fired ovens, and gathered by candlelight after a long day’s work.

Children chased chickens through cobblestone streets while elders spoke of saints and sinners, betrothals and births, seasons, harvests, and of course, hardship.

These places weren’t just settlements—they were ancient communities, shaped by shared survival and sacred ritual.

Church bells marked the hours and the holy days.

Bells also tolled for imminent death, a plea to pray for a happy death for whom the bell tolled, and then when they passed, one toll of the bell for each year of their life. The third and final tolling was a summons to the funeral.

Footpaths led to neighbors’ doors and fields tilled for centuries.

The bones of your ancestors now lie beneath the local chapel, in the churchyard or in an unmarked meadow nearby, but their spirit lingers—in the whisper of the wind between crumbling stones, in the lichen-covered gateposts with rusty hinges, in the silence of twilight.

As you wander these ancient lanes—physically or in your mind’s eye—you’re not just visiting a village.

You’re returning home.

The Visit

Let me set the stage a bit, then I’ll let their spirits do the talking.

I’ve always had an unexplainedly strong attraction to abandoned villages. Like the people who once lived there are calling me.

In a way, these villages are living cemeteries, ghostly apparitions in silent streets still echoing with children’s laughter, joyful wedding processions, and the church bells calling the faithful to worship or announcing that someone had died.

That someone was always a family member, because everyone was related here.

Later that day, or the next, the muffled sounds of leather shoes on cobblestones, and the creak of a wagon wheel – if a wagon was available – ushered the dearly departed to the church, then to the cemetery where they rest forever. Even now.

The sounds and stories of their lives saturate the stones, soaking in to whisper in our ears as we pass by – if we can hear them.

Their eyes and mine share the same vistas.

Their spirits can reach us yet today.

They can ease our suffering, because they suffered too.

Years ago, when my daughter died, I was drowning in immeasurable grief. I know I certainly wasn’t the first mother to lose a baby, but the crushing grief of the moment overwhelmed everything.

I could barely breathe, and I wanted to die along with her. I could see no light.

Dad, a man of very few words, arrived alone, wearing his overalls from the farm, to sit by my bedside.

I looked up at him as he entered the room, tears blurring my view. I had cried so much that my skin burned.

He sat down, reached over, and his weathered, calloused hand patted mine. It felt so good. I held on to his hand, clutching it for dear life, hoping, in some way, for a lifeline – or just a sliver of comfort.

I didn’t realize I needed his visit, or his hand, but once he was there, I was incredibly grateful.

More tears.

“Dad, I don’t know what to say.”

He replied, “Sometimes you don’t need to say anything. I just came to sit with you. To share your grief.”

We sat in blessed silence for a while, then he offered such simple, profound words of wisdom.

“Honey, you’ve already survived the worst – utter Hell. Now you need to heal.”

God love that man.

He sat for a while longer, wordlessly, in bonding silence, beside me.

Just sitting.

His mere presence expressed a love that doesn’t need language. Such immense comfort to me. I knew he understood. He, too, had lost a daughter.

At the end of an hour or so, he stood up, leaned over and kissed my forehead, and as his tears mingled with mine, told me he loved me. He turned, looked back and smiled reassuringly through his own silent tears, and left.

Sometimes we need to sit with grief.

Sometimes we need to sit with our ancestors, those who came before us who suffered their own immeasurable loss.

Each birth brought joy.

Each death summoned the entire village to say a final goodbye.

Great grief equal to great love. It’s the universal human condition.

In the days and years in-between, they laughed here, loved here, herded goats here, walked to church here, played here, prayed here, and grieved here. They sought solace here. They held hands to say, “I’m here.”

They sat with each other..

Today, and perhaps on other days when you seek solitude or are watering the earth with your tears, come walk with your ancestors in this medieval village. They are here to welcome you, sit with you, and comfort you.

They will eventually meet you.

They bring light and hope. Gifts from those who came before and experienced what you are feeling now. Human emotions transcend space and time. In both directions.

They offer a sacred call to ancestral connection and healing.

Walk with them, reach out, take their hand.

Look at these photos slowly. Meander through them – just like you were walking in the village. Click on each one – enlarge it. Focus on the details. What is the story being told?

Let your imagination run wild.

Who has come to join you in Perouges?

Perouges

Par Daniel CULSAN — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=88963661

Welcome to the medieval village of Perouges, a walled, fortified village strategically placed on top of a mountain.

Rocky mountaintops were easiest to defend.

Perouges, a mostly abandoned medieval village high in the French Alps lies between Italy and Switzerland and was probably founded by a Gallic colony.

Humans have lived here, or near here, for at least the past 4000 years, and probably longer. Country lines were political and fluid. People moved from place to place as settlement advanced or land disputes were “settled”, and not necessarily amicably.

The fortress around the city was built in the 1100s. When the town, then Italian, was attacked by the French in 1568, they managed to repel the invaders. Ironically, in 1601, Perouges became French, but of course, the people remained the same.

Everything is uphill approaching Perouges.

Perouges was challenging to get to, and as modern conveniences and the industrial revolution intruded into village life, it was difficult to earn a living, and most people left, especially the younger generations. Eventually, the town was all but abandoned, but retaining its beautiful medieval flavor, frozen in time.

Walking Perouges is a literal stroll through history – in the footsteps of those who lived there. Our ancestors, or those like our ancestors who lived in similar medieval villages scattered across the continent.

The residents may have been “simple” tradesmen and craftsmen, but the architecture and Perouges’ resilience tells a different story.

The back side of the fortified church along with one of the city gates. The church serves as one portion of the city wall.

Imagine the stonemasons constructing this nearly impenetrable structure, all without scaffolding, one stone at a time.

Roses always sooth the soul. Now as then.

A secret cave.

Arrow slots carved in the walls to defend the village

The church steps, at left, along with a gated tower.

Who’s that I see?

Welcome, my child. Come, walk with me.

Let me tell you about our life here.

We are your ancestors, you know.

We built this village with our own hands. Well, ours and those of our ancestors, too, and our descendants as well.

We’ve lived here since time immemorial – and our spirits remain.

We laid these cobblestones, all of them, one by one. Over the centuries, the feet of your ancestors have worn them smooth.

Cobblestones prevented the earth from washing away, and people and animals from falling. Sometimes goats and livestock roam the streets as well. Everyone knows whose cow is whose.

Watch your footing, though, because wet cobblestones are slippery and you wouldn’t be the first to trip or slip and fall here.

If you break something, one of our farmers can probably patch you up. Or, the cemetery is right over there, by our beautiful church. You wouldn’t be the first to die of “death by cobblestone” either.

Par Daniel CULSAN — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=88963976

I swear, half of our life is lived in this church. We are probably in here once every day, crossing ourselves with Holy Water as we enter and leave.

We have no medicine, as you know it, so prayer is our only defense against suffering of any kind, and death. So, yes, we pray a lot and seek comfort in the silence here.

Let’s visit the church, through the door under the statue of the Mother Mary and child.

You can hear the Benedictine monks chanting, here, to help set the mood.

Our baptismal font. Ahh, all of our babies are baptized as soon as they are born to protect their souls.

One man and one woman stand with the parents, that is, if the mother can make her way to church. They swear before God and the village to raise the child in the way of the Church and of God if their parents should, God-forbid, perish.

Many a baby was baptized after their mother had already transitioned to the other side – but we, here, in the village, are masters of grief.

Navigating life after grief, actually.

There is life after grief, you know.

Listen! Can you hear the babies cry when the cool sacred water touches their skin?

A font for Holy water. Your ancestors touched the water and blessed themselves. And the Priests, well, they blessed everybody.

A basin with a hole in the bottom is a Piscina, into which left over holy water or consecrated wine was poured so that it drained directly into consecrated ground.

Just touching these sacred relics made your ancestors feel better, so reach out and touch them too.

The church walls, along with the city walls, were thick to protect the villagers.

Although our town of craftsmen and tradespeople was located high above the river plain, we were attacked from time to time.

The women and children took shelter here.

No one would ever get through these walls. Our strongest men guarded the gates.

If they should die in the service of our town, or of the Lord, they were venerated as heroes.

The collective community grief was assuaged by pride and love.

We touched this statue of Mary Magdalene thousands of times. She was our protector, giver of comfort, God’s mother.

Listen!

Can you hear the songs echoing in this vaulted ceiling through time?

The priest, perhaps, speaking in Latin, his voice resonating?

Can you imagine the tradesmen who built this roof, these vaults and gables?

The thick walls kept the church cool even in the summer, and it was always cold in the winter.

Only the outer chapels were bathed in sunlight through beautiful stained-glass windows.

The interior was subdued, cool and somber where we hear echoes of the past.

We lit candles and prayed to the Blessed Virgin and a variety of Saints in chapels dedicated to them.

So did travelers who came our way and stopped in our village for the night.

Saint Anne is venerated as the mother of the Virgin Mary and the grandmother of Jesus.

Our beautiful carved statue of St. Anne in her chapel.

St. Georges, our Patron Saint, was a Roman soldier.

He is said to have slain a dragon, and of course, our lives were full of dragons to slay.

Saint George helps and protects us, and since you are our blood and part of us lives in and through you – he will protect you too.

Come sit, rest, on the hard-carved benches in the chapels.

Leave your sorrows here.

We sit with you.

The Virgin and the cloak. She gathers us all for protection and salves our souls.

After the service, or for whatever reason we visited the church, we enter the heart of the village through the gated tower.

Stones were used for building everything.

Houses abutted one another, forming another circle of protection.

Par Jlpigache — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21389839

Many weavers and winemakers lived in town.

The streets dipped slightly in the center for drainage.

Par Chabe01 — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=52602871

Many homes were two or three stories high. Spreading out was a luxury we didn’t have.

Gardens inside the village were rare, but not unheard of.

Go ahead, open the gate.

Here is my garden. Can you smell the lavender and ginger?

The lavender smells a LOT better than the streets where chamberpots, livestock, baked goods and the varioius wares of craftsmen all blend together in a unpredictable melody.

Indeed, we share everything here.

News, smells, food, and sometimes, the plague brings grief.

The salt granary.

The Dukes of Savoie lived here beginning in the 1300s when Perouges was Italian. We don’t know for sure who the first residents were, but we think they may have come from the Italian city of Perugia in central Italy.

Whoever they were, we’re still all related to them today, so it doesn’t matter. Just like it doesn’t matter where you live today, or under what flag. You are still ours, and we are yours.

Par BUFO88 — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=35135471

The Savoie Princes were good neighbors, bringing money, craftsmen and tradesmen with them. 

Houses didn’t stand alone, so fire was an ever-present risk.

We knew grief. Lost homes. Lost family. Lost dreams.

We made it though.

Shops and shopkeepers plied their wares on the bottom floor. Families lived upstairs.

Craftsmen’s wares are displayed on the windowsills along the main street.

Well, we only have two streets, and they are both circular so pretty much all streets are main streets here.

Par Daniel CULSAN — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=88963881

Look good?? Galettes – a Perougian delight. A sweet, thin, round pastry made with a rich, buttery dough, topped with sugar and spices, and baked in our brick ovens.

Homes and shops were one and the same.

Our village is walled, for safety, so we use every available inch, and everyone works from before sunup to after sundown.

We grow grapes along vines that line the houses.

Our trades, homes, family and religion define us.

Every town has a market square for trade.

Bring what you have. Take what you need after some good-natured bartering.

Our village was a stop on a major trade route, so we often had overnight travelers.

They needed food, some ale of course, a good bed without bugs, and a place to rest their beasts.

Ay, just keep yer eyes off our daughters!

Villagers and travelers alike gathered in the center of town.

We discussed all sorts of things.

Women came to exchange produce and perhaps a wee bit of gossip.

Who is ill, who is expecting, whose husband drank a bit too much of our fine wine, and might need to go visit the priest and confess.

Par Hynek Moravec — Photographie personnelle, CC BY 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2419147

We didn’t have clocks, but there’s a sundial in the wall of a house on the market square so you can tell what time it is.

You don’t have to worry about forgetting to go to church, though, because the church bells ring to remind you.

Peasants didn’t know how to read. It wasn’t a problem, though, because the priest could read and told us everything we needed to know.

Our businesses and trades were known by our signs.

This fine establishment was the hostel or inn of the rooster.

Par Daniel CULSAN — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=88964015

You can’t get lost in Perouges. The walls are gated, and the streets all connect via alleyways between houses.

The same house was occupied by the same family for generations.

Fathers taught sons trades, and daughters married boys in the village.

Nothing is flat or level, not even the houses.

Massive timbers were meant to last for centuries. We don’t just build for ourselves, we build a foundation for the next generation, and the next. For others to follow.

Par Chabe01 — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=58041732

Par Aniacra — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=73171899

We used whatever size stones we had available. Sometimes we had to make repairs.

Unexpected curves and blind corners. Move slowly and hold my hand. I know the way.

Par Chabe01 — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=58039556

Every house tells the story of its inhabitants.

Let’s sit a spell. Smell the mountain air.

Drying corn. No space is wasted.

Come on in.

When it cold, we sit close to the fire. Beer, wine and soups are available, plus whatever is roasting on the spit. There’s always someone to sit with here.

Imagine if these floors could talk.

So many boots have trod these floors.

There weren’t a lot of houses in the village, but our families were large. We buried half of our children before they were of age to marry, and a quarter before their first birthday.

We knew grief upclose and personal.

We sat with each other, and we know how to sit with you.

Par Chabe01 — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=58039570

Par Chabe01 — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=58041135

Just to be safe, sometimes we named our houses after saints, too, for extra protection. This is known as Little St. George’s house. It sounds much better in French though – Maison de Petit St. Georges.

Par Chabe01 — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=58038432

Par Chabe01 — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=58042824

Here we are, full circle and back to the home of the Princes of Savoy’s, or where they lived off and on at one time.

You don’t need to stand outside the gate. Come sit with us.

Our light still shines for you.

The love in our hearts for you is as warm as the southern French Sun.

As eternal as the moon and the rain.

Walking down the street we walked up when we arrived.

Par Zairon — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=98375232

The lower city gate in the wall, but this gate holds a message on top.

Hmmm…who is it for? What does it say?

This Latin inscription translates into French as: “Perouges of the Pérougians, an impregnable city, the rascals of Dauphiné wanted to take it but they could not. However, they took the doors, the hinges and the fittings and fell down with them. May the devil take them.”

Who says the French don’t have a sense of humor. Rascals of Dauphiné!

Par Oogstweg — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=42648512

We villagers go about our trades, but the watch towers remind us that someone is always watching.

It’s always someone’s turn.

Someone always has our back.

We have yours.

Par Chabe01 — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=58051770

The path behind the rampart tower is indeed difficult terrain and belies the tranquil beauty of village life inside the protective walls.

Sometimes our lives escape into untamed land from inside our walls, too.

No worry, we got you!

Par Chabe01 — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=58038357

The Barbican high gate, incorporated into the church wall, was designed as a chokepoint, trapping would-be attackers before they reached the actual city gate.

Outside the city gates, we have a wonderful stream. Lifegiver of the community.

Par CHABERT Louis — Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=104958603

Outside the city walls, the vistas of the Ain valley open wide, beckoning.

Many of our young people left over time, seeking their fortunes in places they cannot see. Across those mountains.

Our hearts ache for them, with longing to hear their voices.

Yet, we know they went on to become you – and we would not, could not wish them back from across those mountains.

Au revoir, my child!

Not goodbye, never goodbye. We will meet again.

All you have to do is reach out your hand…

Our language of love is you.

Sometimes we’re drawn to places without knowing why—maybe because part of us remembers something we can’t name.

Our ancestors walk with us.

We do not walk alone.

Those who came before also wept, hoped…and healed.

And now they reach out to us, just as their ancestors did for them. Whether the extended hand is on this side, or the other.

Reach out.

Clasp a hand.

_____________________________________________________________

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Francoise Bourgeois was born about 1659 in Port Royal, Acadia, to Jacques Bourgeois and Jeanne Trahan.

Francoise is first found on the Acadian census of 1671, 12 years old, with her family, the 7^th of 10 living children. Port Royal was small, with only 391 people in 68 households recorded in the census, which included the farms both up and downriver.

Given that Francoise was 12, that means she was born about 1659, during the English occupation of Port Royal. Acadia was returned to French control in 1667, and functionally in 1670 when the new French Governor arrived.

To a child of 8 or even 10, that probably didn’t matter. She would never have known the difference. The rhythm of daily living and life along the river was probably much more relevant.

Francoise’s father, Jacques Bourgeois, was a well-to-do military surgeon. As Acadians go, their family was wealthy with 33 cattle, 24 sheep, and about 20 arpents of land in two locations. They were the most prosperous family in Port Royal.

One of the locations they owned was Hogg Island, separated from Port Royal only by a small stream. It was here that the family lived.

In the 1671 census, Francoise’s brother, Charles Bourgeois was married to Anne Dugast.

Not long after, Francois married Anne’s brother, Claude Dugas, the son of Abraham Dugas, a near neighbor in Port Royal, and the fort’s armorer.

Francoise married very young, about 14, in 1673. In Acadia where life was sometimes short, females often married early and started their family right away. Plus, it was a “good” marriage for both families in that Claude’s father was the armorer for the fort – so another well-respected, prosperous Acadian family.

The Catholic Church in Port Royal had been destroyed in 1654 when Port Royal fell to the English, and the church hadn’t yet been rebuilt. In fact, in June of 1672, Francoise’s father-in-law, or soon-to-be father-in-law, Abraham Dugas, the church trustee of the St. Jean Baptiste Parish, organized a committee to raise funding to construct a new church. Mass was being held in a “borrowed room,” probably in the home of the parish priest.

We don’t know exactly where the priest lived in 1673 when Francoise married, but the 1686 map gives us a good idea of what Port Royal looked like.

By 1686, the church and probably the rectory beside the church had been rebuilt, but in 1671, the priest was probably living in one of the buildings along the main street in town.

Maps from a few years later suggest that the rectory was near this Promenade Walk along the river, today.

Regardless, it was in this borrowed room, probably located in the priest’s home that overlooked the river, that young Francoise became the blushing bride of Claude Dugas, 10 years her elder. While 14 was young for her to marry, 24 was on the young side for an Acadian man to marry too – although he probably had no problem illustrating that he could support a family.

A wild sunflower marked the spot when I visited, begging to be noticed.

Or maybe she wed in her parents’ home on Hogg Island.

Francoise and Claude settled into the typical Acadian life, guided by the seasons, farming, food production, and their Catholic faith and rituals.

They may have been a young couple with big dreams! And those dreams may have been at least part of why they married so young.

Opportunity was calling!

Beaubassin is Established

In 1672, Francoise’s father, Jacques Bourgeois traveled to the northern portion of the Bay of Fundy and established a settlement there called Mesagoueche, later named Beaubassin.

Jacques apparently intended to establish a new Acadian village where all of his family could settle with more land and less interference. He probably felt they were less susceptible to English incursions. All of his children, except the youngest daughter, followed him, settling there, but three, Francoise, Germain and Guillaume Bourgeois returned to Port Royal.

The tidal salt marshes were the same, so the drainage and dyking skills from Port Royal applied in Beaubassin, too.

Jacques kept his land in Port Royal, however, and apparently traveled back and forth. In the 1678 census, Jacques is living in Port Royal, but Claude Dugas and Francoise Bourgeois are missing. There is no census from Beaubassin, but it’s easy to surmise where they were living.

Now this is where things get really interesting.

High Drama in Beaubassin!

in 1679, in Beaubassin, Claude Dugas was a witness to his sister, Anne’s second marriage to Jean-Aubin Mignolt (Mignoix, Migneaux) on April 26^th. Anne’s first husband was Francoise’s brother, Charles Bourgeois, the son of Jacques Bourgeois.

So, Dugas siblings had married Bourgeois siblings. The Dugas and Bourgeois families were heavily allied.

On March 19, 1681, Claude Dugas and Françoise Bourgeois’s daughter, Marguerite, was baptized at Beaubassin. The date of her birth was not mentioned in the register, but she was likely born that day or the day before. Her godparents were “sieur Alexandre LeNeuf sr du Beaubasssin and Marguerite Bourgeois, who named her Marguerite.”

This tells us that Francoise’s sister, Marguerite Bourgeois, who had married Jean Boudrot, was living in Beaubassin as well.

In March 1682, the recently appointed seigneur of Beaubassin Michel Le Neuf de La Vallière sent a summons to eleven inhabitants to appear before the Sovereign Council of Quebec for having refused to accept concession contracts. These inhabitants are presumed to be heads of household, but we know they weren’t the only settlers there, because two of Jacques children who were settled there are missing from the list.

• Pierre Morin (wife Francoise Chiasson, daughter of Guyon)
• Guyon Chiasson (wife Jeanne Bernard)
• Michel Poirier (wife Marie Chiasson, daughter of Guyon)
• Roger Kessy (wife Marie Francoise Poirier)
• Claude Dugas (wife Francoise Bourgeois, daughter of Jacques)
• Germain Bourgeois (son of Jacques, wife Madeleine Belliveau)
• Guillaume Bourgeois (son of Jacques, wife Marie Anne d’Aprendestiguy)
• Germain Girouard (wife Marie Bourgeois)
• Jean-Aubin Migneaux (wife Anne Dugas)
• Jacques Belou (wife Marie Girouard, sister of Germain)
• Thomas Cormier (wife Marie Madeleine Girouard, sister of Germain)

Le Neuf was attempting to impose typical seigneurial dues such as the corvée (obligatory labor), activities like building mills or bake ovens, but was contested by the settlers, who eventually won their case in court.

This fledgling settlement, comprised of three groups: Frenchmen, Acadians who had arrived from Port Royal with Jacques Bourgeois, and a few people imported by Le Neuf, might have been small, but there was still plenty of drama, stoked by…just let me tell you the story.

One man, Acadian Francois Pellerin, experienced a long and miserable death in 1678. Jean Campagnard was his farmhand, both in Port Royal and Beaubassin. On his deathbed, Pellerin accused Campagnard of being a witch, blowing some mysterious substance into his eyes while they were working in the field as part of a diabolical plot to usurp his place as head of the household. Translated – Pellerin meant that Campagnard wanted to marry his widow. That didn’t work. She married Pierre Mercier in 1679.

That accusation spurred more accusations, though, launching a “witchcraft hysteria” of sorts. Campagnard was eventually brought to trial in 1684, in which it was revealed that there was a plague in Beaubassin in 1678 that took the lives of several settlers. I can’t help but wonder if our Francoise lost a two-year-old child during the plague, but I digress.

Coincidentally, 1678 is when accusations towards Campagnard peaked.

Jean-Aubin Mignaux, Claude Dugas’s brother-in-law, accused Campagnard of casting an incantation on his crops to cause a poor harvest. Campagnard said that if his crops failed, it was Mignaux’s fault for having farmed poorly.

The Port Royal Bourgeois group apparently tried to avoid this drama. Of the entire Acadian settlement from Port Royal, Germain Bourgeois was the only one to give a deposition in which he said, as a witness to Pellerin’s death, “The man was obviously delirious with fever. I did not take the accusation seriously.”

Somehow, the Pellerins and Bourgeois were connected, too. Eventually, Jacques Bourgeois sold Hogg Island to Etienne Pellerin, who seemed to be a contemporary of Francois Pellerin – although their relationship, if any, is unknown. Suffice it to say there is probably far more going on here than meets the eye.

The trial in Quebec, which took place after Campagnard had been held in jail for 9 months, revealed a dark secret. Many, if not most of the men who had accused Campagnard of sorcery owed him money and/or viewed him as a competitor, in the case of several suitors.

Campagnard was eventually cleared of the accusations and found not guilty, but he was also forbidden from returning to Beaubassin – a “punishment” he probably welcomed and was more than glad to honor.

I told you this was juicy.

Back to Port Royal

We know for sure that Claude Dugas and Françoise Bourgeois were in Beaubassin in 1679, 1681 and 1682.

By 1686, Claude and Francoise had returned to Port Royal with their children. Maybe there was just too much drama in Beaubassin, especially the Campagnard affair. I’d love to have been a fly on that wall. I’m guessing some “thing” happened to tip the scales, but of course, we’ll never know.

Claude’s parents were aging. His father was 70 and his mother was about 60, so they could probably use help with the farm.

In the 1686 census in Port Royal, Claude Dugas is 38 and Francoise Bourgeois is 25. Their eight children range in age from one to 12, and they have 1 gun, 25 cattle, 9 sheep, 11 hogs and are farming 8 arpents of land.

That gun might turn out to be very important.

It’s unclear, though, whether Claude and Francoise planned to stay in Port Royal permanently, because Claude Dugas is one of three people who live at Port Royal but also own land at Beaubassin. Claude has 30 arpents of land and 8 cattle there, so someone is probably looking after it and farming it for him. Beaubassin is still quite small, with only 17 families and 127 people.

This map shows the layout of Port Royal in 1686.

Based on other maps, we know that four of the five homes to the left of Port Royal along the river are probably those of Abraham Dugas, Michel Boudrot, Bonaventure Theriot, and Claude Dugas. We don’t know who the fifth was.

Based on a 1707 map, Claude and Francoise probably lived in the home to the furthest west, or left.

Port Royal would have changed little, if at all, between 1686 and 1690.

1690 – Terror at Port Royal

Acadia had been returned to French governance in 1667, followed by a rocky transition, with the new governor arriving in 1670. Things were fairly quiet in Port Royal for several years, with intermittent and sometimes clandestine trading in the New England colonies. Unfortunately, the fort had been allowed to deteriorate.

Port Royal was the capital of Acadia during King William’s War, which began in 1688, and served as a safe harbour for French ships. Acadia wasn’t restricted only to what is today Nova Scotia – it extended into Maine. Raids on the English in New England were coordinated from Maine and other locations.

France was negligent in supplying and supporting Acadia. Governor Meneval had begged for resources and soldiers, but was left instead with an unfinished, dilapidated fort whose 18 cannons were not mounted into position. He had only 70 soldiers, and in 1690, 42 Acadian men were absent. This situation was essentially an open invitation to England. They might just as well have hung out a sign.

1690 was a terrible fork in the road for the Acadians in Port Royal.

In 1690, Françoise was 30 or 31 years old, and her husband was 42. She had 10 living children and had probably borne more. She had already set up housekeeping twice – that we know of.

Francoise and Claude lived along the Riviere Dauphin, now the Annapolis River, just west of Port Royal. Any ships approaching Port Royal would have had to sail right past the Dugas land.

Their farm is clearly marked on this English 1710 map too.

A view beautiful of the Dugas land from across the river, which is what one would see sailing into Port Royal from the mouth of the bay. This is also the view that Francoise and Claude would have seen as they moved their family back from Beaubassin.

I wonder if it’s a decision they lived to regret.

The Battle of Port Royal

The Battle of Port Royal occurred on May 19, 1690. The British attacked, and Port Royal was entirely unprepared.

The night before, one soldier and two inhabitants were standing guard at the entrance of the river and saw the English ships enter and sail for Port Royal. They immediately fired off a small mortar, which was the appointed signal to apprise the Governor of danger, and they then embarked in a canoe. They arrived at the fort about eleven o’clock that night, and upon hearing their report Governor De Meneval at once ordered a cannon to be discharged to notify the inhabitants that they were to come in to the fort to his aid. Unfortunately, he later reported that only three Acadian men had come to assist at his signal. He must have been furious.

Frankly, I find that simply incredulous, because the Acadian men very clearly knew the state of the fort and what could and would happen if the fort, and Port Royal, were left undefended.

Sir William Phipps, the English commander, sailed into the harbor with 736 men on seven English warships. There was absolutely no question about the eventual outcome, although Governor Meneval fought for two days before capitulating.

Francoise and her children would have seen it all from their perch above the river.

Seeing 7 English warships must have struck terror in her heart.

She would have heard the sentry’s mortar warning too, plus the cannon fire from the fort. She very clearly knew exactly what that meant. You can see the Dugas land behind this cannon at the fort.

Their fields were next to the river, but they lived above the marsh.

They were close enough to the Fort to hear the warfare – and Francoise had a houseful of children and her two elderly in-laws to worry about. Claude was assuredly at the fort, trying to prevent a total catastrophe, unless he was one of the 42 missing men. I doubt that was the case, because he signed a loyalty oath a few days later – so he was clearly in the region.

The Dugas home was on a hill above the marsh, and they may have taken shelter in the low mountains behind their home. We will never know, but I bet the Acadian women were crack shots. The guns may have been in service at the fort, but if the Acadian men didn’t show up, their guns were with them in their homes.

The former Governor, who had remained in Acadia as a trader, tells us more. He narrowly escaped being captured, as he was absent, trading along the southern coast and returned while the English were still in Port Royal

Noting the absence of the sentinel usually posted at the entrance of the strait he “felt doubts if all were right”. He abandoned his boat and climbed into a canoe with a Canadian and Indian companion to see what was afoot. After going three leagues upriver, he saw an English ship anchored “in the river on which the town is built, and heard the firing of a cannon and musketry. Presuming fighting going on, he concealed the canoe in the woods and went by land to the nearest house, and found it abandoned.” He clearly knew something was very wrong. Withdrawing promptly, he retreated, returned to his ship, escaped the basin, set his sails for Minas, and reached it safely.

The most interesting part to me is that this is before the capitulation, because he heard gunfire, and the Acadian homes were abandoned, signaling that they had taken shelter someplace safe. The closest home to him on the south side would have been Claude Dugas. On the other side, it would have been Melanson, but he was a Huguenot so he may not have been entirely trusted.

The best place for him to abandon his ship would have been either near Digby, or the Bear River – both of which would have offered some concealment for his ship. Proceeding by canoe along the shore would have been soundless, and he wouldn’t have to risk crossing open water and being spotted by the English.

This map shows the region. The entrance to the river from the Atlantic is relatively small and would have been easy to guard. The sentry would have been positioned someplace there.

The original habitation is shown as Port Royal on this map. It was the original fortified settlement before Fort Anne was built at what is now Annapolis Royal, but was at one time Port Royal after the habitation was abandoned.

The Melanson settlement was right above it along the river.

Francoise and Claude’s home was the closest to the Bay on the south side, and his father’s original land was just across Allain River from the Fort, on the same side as Claude’s.

My guess is that it was Claude and Francoise’s home that he found abandoned. Francoise had probably gathered everybody up and taken shelter when the first inkling of the problem occurred.

Negotiations for surrender began after the short battle ceased.

After the priest negotiated the best terms he could, under the circumstances, Meneval surrendered to the English even though Phipps refused to sign an agreement. Phipps was reportedly unhappy with how little he had gotten in the deal after seeing the condition of the fort. Contravening his agreement, the soldiers at Port Royal were imprisoned in the church and the Governor was confined to his house.

Homes and Acadian property were supposed to be preserved and unharmed, but that’s not what happened either.

The soldiers leveled the fort and burned 28 homes in and around Port Royal, along with pillaging the church. They reportedly spared the “upriver farms” and mills. It’s unclear what exactly was meant by upriver at that time. The 1686 census of Port Royal enumerated 95 families that we know were spread from “beneath” Port Royal to today’s Bridgewater. This means that 30% of the homes were burned during the next 12 days as the English ransacked and destroyed Port Royal.

Looking at the 1686 map, 28 homes could have included all the homes on both sides of the river between the Bay and Port Royal, and all the homes in the town part of Port Royal. Or, conversely, it could have included all of the homes in the town part of Port Royal, plus the homes going south into the hills.

My bet is that the homes they could easily see were their targets, so all the homes in the town part of Port Royal on the waterfront, and probably all the homes along the river within view – which would have included Francoise’s.

Even if the upriver homes were spared, Claude and Francoise’s home was clearly not upriver.

While the Acadians had been somewhat used to episodic skirmishes and incursions by the English, this was an exceedingly cruel act of warfare bent on devastation and destruction, not on “taking” Acadia so that life as normal could continue, just under English rule. Instead, the English soldiers tore the dikes down, ruined the fields and farms, killed livestock, and torched everything in sight.

As if this devastation wasn’t enough, English pirates followed shortly thereafter, burning, pillaging, and looting even more – including torching the Catholic church. They reportedly hung two people and burned a woman and her children to death in their home. That gives me the creeps and sends shivers up my spine. While we know it’s not Francoise, it was assuredly someone she knew, and may well have been related to. I wonder who is present in the 1686 census, but the wife and children are absent in 1693.

Phipps didn’t want to simply control and occupy Port Royal. He wanted to conquer and destroy it, taking anything of value. He succeeded. He kidnapped and loaded the local priests, the Governor, 38 soldiers, and three others onboard his ship and returned with them to Boston as captives.

Adding insult to injury, before leaving, Phipps rounded up the Acadian men, forced them into the church and required the men to sign a loyalty oath. The priest took the petition with its signatures with him, and it eventually wound up in the Massachusetts Archives, where I found it in 2008. I transcribed it, here.

Along with his fellow countrymen, “Claude Dugats” signed with his mark. Most Acadians could neither read nor write. Abraham Dugas, Francoise’s father-in-law’s signature is absent, but he was still living. Jacques Bourgeois, Francoise’s father’s signature is absent too, and also remains unexplained. Maybe they were deemed too old and infirm to be rounded up and taken to the church, or Jacques may have been in Beaubassin at the time.

A total of 61 men signed. Of those, 45%, or nearly half, had their homes burned and their farms destroyed by pulling down the dikes that kept the seawater out.

I can only imagine the rage and animosity that permeated Acadia as they penned their names or made their marks through gritted teeth. Clearly, they only signed under duress and threat of great harm. I was going to say under threat of death, but I’m fully convinced there are fates worse than death – and that’s what they were facing.

They must have truly hated the English.

Claude surely was thinking about his terrified wife and children and wondring if they were safe. The English clearly knew that and took advantage of it. To make matters worse, Francoise may have been pregnant in 1690, as the next census shows a child born about 1689 and 1691. If not pregnant, then she had a nursing child.

Claude and Francoise, and their elderly parents, all living within sight of the fort, were assuredly burned out. They may have escaped into the hills behind their homes. Surely every Acadian family had a contingency plan – just in case.

1693

After Acadia was lost again to the English in 1690, many of the Acadians in Port Royal teamed up with a French pirate, or privateer, Pierre Maissonnat dit Baptiste. He fought with the men at Port Royal in 1690, “married” an Acadian woman, which is a whole other story, employed Acadian men as his crew, and exacted revenge upon the English by plaguing their ships and shipping lanes.

He took many English prizes, as ships were known, and scattered the rest of their fleet.

The English were furious and attacked Port Royal again in 1693, burning a dozen homes and three barns full of grain.

Francoise surely wondered if this was 1690 all over again. By this time, she had another baby, born around 1692, and may have again been pregnant. Of course, the state of most Acadian women of childbearing age was either nursing or pregnant.

By the 1693 census, Claude and Francoise had combined households with his parents, another indication that their homes had burned, and the household is listed under his father’s name. Abraham Dugas is recorded as 74, and Marguerite Doucet, his wife, is 66. If both homes were burned, there was no point in rebuilding two, given that Abraham and Marguerite had no children at home anymore. Many families lived in nuclear families for both convenience and safety.

We also don’t know whether the 1693 census was taken before or after the English raid. Their home could have been burned twice – once in 1690 and a second time in 1693.

In the census, Claude Dugas is 44 and Francoise Bourgeois is now 34. A lot had changed in 1690, and I can’t help but wonder if Claude is now farming all the land, and Francoise is caring for his parents in addition to her own family. She now has 11 children, and they are farming 26 arpents of land, have 4 guns, 20 cattle, 30 sheep, and 15 hogs.

In 1671 and 1678, Abraham Dugas had 12 arpents of land. In 1686, Claude Dugas and Francoise had 8 arpents. In 1693, combined, they have 26 arpents, so perhaps they had cleared more, and Claude was farming his father’s plus his own.

Claude is no longer listed under the inhabitants of Beaubassin, although it’s difficult to know if he would have been listed if he owned land in absentee.

Francoise’s parents, Jacques Bourgeois, listed as Jacob, now 74, and her mother, Jeanne, 64 are living at Port Royal with a three-year-old granddaughter on their 40 arpents of land on Hogg Island.

Francoise’s Death

We don’t know exactly when Francoise died, but we can bracket a range.

Francoise’s last child, Cecile or Marie Dugas, depending on which census you view, was born about 1692 when Francoise would have been about 33 and appeared in the 1693 census. In the 1693 census, Marie is missing, but she is later shown to have been born about 1691, between Magdeleine and Cecile.

The 1693 census shows Francoise’s children as:

• Marie 17
• Claude 16
• Francoise 14 (missing in 1698)
• Joseph 13
• Marguerite 11
• Anne 10
• Jeanne 9
• Agnes 7
• Francois 5
• Magdeleine 4
• Cecile 1

In the 1698 census, after Claude remarried, Cecile is 8 and another child, a younger Marie (not the one who is 17 above), is listed at 7 years old, which suggests she was born after Cecile, maybe in 1693 or 1694. This Marie is gone by 1700 but reappears later.

Based on this evidence, Francoise probably died between the census in 1693 and 1697, the latest date that Claude would have remarried. Francoise could have died when Marie was born, after the 1693 census, or 1694/1695 when the next child would have been expected. It’s possible, of course, that Francoise had another child, or maybe even two, and Francoise and that child or children both perished before the 1698 census.

Regardless, we know Francoise was gone by 1697 when Claude Dugas remarried, and his first child with his second wife, Marguerite Bourg, arrived and was listed as 3 months old in 1698, the first of their 10 children.

Marguerite would be the stepmother to Francoise’s children, raising a total of 22 children spanning 41 years. Marguerite and Francoise would have known each other, would have attended mass together, although Marguerite was only three years older than Francoise’s oldest child. Still, her younger children, in particular, needed care and a mother figure. Obviously, Francoise’s older children would have had clear memories of their mother, but her babies probably had no memories of her, save stories they would have been told.

Ironically, several children by both of Claude’s wives had the same name. Add to that same-name grandchildren – and family gatherings must have been interesting!

As a mother, if Francoise knew she was dying, she would have been painfully aware that another woman would raise her children. Perhaps she would have been very discreetly “preselecting” her husband, Claude’s next wife – and in doing so, of course, her children’s second mother.

I would have been doing exactly that!

Who’s available? Are they kind? Do my children like them? Marguerite was about 20ish when Francoise left this earth, so she would certainly have been eligible. And it’s not like there was a vast candidate pool to select from.

I’m sure Francoise just wanted her children to be loved.

Of course, depending on what took Francoise, she may have had no warning. I hope she went quickly and didn’t suffer.

Francoise would have been buried, here, in the Acadian cemetery at Port Royal, beside the garrison and the fort that her family had defended. Nearby, the shadow of the burned-out hulk of the Catholic church stood silent sentry to the devastation she had witnessed.

Still, it was consecrated ground, where a faithful Catholic mother would have been buried.

Graves would have been marked by simple wooden crosses, probably assembled by the same family member who lovingly made the coffin.

The crosses marking each grave would have deteriorated with time, but the Acadians might have refreshed them from time to time. However, in 1755, when the English deported the Acadians, anything left in the cemetery was destroyed. By then, Francoise would have been gone for at least 60 years.

The English settlers that followed began using the same cemetery, respectfully avoiding the Acadian graves. Today, the Acadian graves are marked only by grass, memories, and areshrouded in the mists of time.

Francoise’s Children

While Francoise did not get to raise her own children, the good news is that their father, Claude Dugas lived to be 86 years old. In October of 1732, he died at Port Royal. Their stepmother, Marguerite, knew and loved Francoise’s children longer than Francoise was able. After all, they were her “children” too, for 50 years. Marguerite died at about 73 in May 1747, at Port Royal and would be buried in the Garrison Cemetery too.

Francoise’s children were:

• Marie Dugas was born about 1674 in either Port Royal or Beaubassin, married Philippe Melanson about 1695, and settled in Grand Pre. She had 11 children and died in 1733 in Grand Pre.
• Unknown child born about 1676 based on the spacing between known children, and died before the 1686 census.
• Claude Dugas was born about 1677 in either Port Royal or Beaubassin, married Jeanne Bourg about 1702 in Grand Pre, was in Cobequid by 1703. He had five known children, and died between 1708 when his last child would have been conceived, and before November of 1723 when his daughter was married and he and his wife are both noted as deceased.
• Francoise Dugas was born about 1679 in Beaubassin, married Rene Forest about 1695 in Port Royal, had 14 children, and died sometime after 1751 when her husband died in Port Royal.
• Joseph Dugas was born about 1680 in Beaubassin, married Claire Bourg about 1699, had 12 children, and died in July 1765 in St. Martinville, Louisiana. He lived in Cobequid and appears to have been incarcerated at Halifax during the expulsion. At the end of the war, in 1763, when all Acadians were released, he apparently traveled with the Beausoleil party from Halifax in 1764 to Haiti and then on to Louisiana.
• Marguerite Dugas was born in 1681 in Beaubassin, married Jean Melanson in 1701 in Port Royal, was in Les Mines by 1708, and had 12 children. She died in Grand Pre after 1724 when her son was born and before 1729 when another son was married.
• Anne Dugas was born about 1683 in either Beaubassin or Port Royal, married Abraham Bourg about 1704 in Cobequid, and had three children. She died after 1709 when her last child was born and before her husband remarried in 1711.
• Jeanne Dugas was born about 1684 in either Beaubassin or Port Royal, married Pierre Part in 1707 in Port Royal, had six children, and was in Louisbourg by 1713. She died after 1726 where she last appeared in the census. In 1761 in Cherbourg, her son’s marriage dispensation confirms this death date, along with her husband’s a year later.
• Agnes Dugas was born about 1686, probably in Port Royal, married Michel Thibodeau in 1704 in Port Royal, had 15 children, and died sometime after 1734 when she was a witness in Michel’s death record in Port Royal.
• Francois Dugas was born about 1688 in Port Royal, married Claire Bourg in 1713 in Port Royal, had 11 children, and died sometime after February 1751 when his daughter married in Port Royal.
• Madeleine Dugas was born about 1689 in Port Royal, married Jean Hebert in 1704 in Port Royal, and had 14 children. She was in the northern settlements by 1722, and died in 1766 in Bécancour, Quebec.
• Cecile Dugas was born about 1692 in Port Royal, married Claude Brun in 1709 in Port Royal where they had 13 children. She probably died before Claude, who died in 1760 in Riviere-Ouelle, Quebec, where she is not mentioned.
• Marie Dugas was probably born about 1694, but between 1691 and 1695 in Port Royal where she married Abraham Bourg in 1709 and had 11 children. She was deported during the expulsion, and was found in 1763 in Upper Marlboro, Maryland. She died before 1772 when she is noted as deceased on her son, Pierre’s, marriage record in St-Antoine-sur-Richelieu, Quebec. Pierre was exiled to Connecticut, so we don’t know how he knew his mother was deceased, or if they both wound up in Quebec.

Based on what we know about when Francoise was living in Beaubassin, three of her children would have been born there, and another 5 might have been. We don’t know exactly when they moved to Beaubassin, other than it was between their marriage and the 1678 census, where they are missing in Port Royal. We don’t know when they moved back to Port Royal either, other than it was before the 1686 census. I do wonder why they returned.

Francoise’s child, born in 1686, could have been born in either location, but her youngest four children would have been born in Port Royal. Most of her children settled in the northern Acadian settlements along the Bay of Fundy.

Five of Francoise’s children married and lived in Port Royal – although we don’t know what happened to four of them. They could have died in Port Royal or during or after the deportation.

Three of Francoise’s children were caught up in the 1755 expulsion. One was held in Halifax and eventually made his way, via Haiti, to Louisiana. Another was eventually found in Becancoeur in Quebec, and a third in Maryland.

Three migrated to Grand Pre, where they lived their lives and died.

One child died in Louisbourg and another in Cobequid.

Francoise never knew any of her 127 grandchildren. It’s possible that her first grandchild, Joseph Melanson, born to daughter Marie, about 1696, could have been born before Francoise’s death – but given that it appears that he was born in Saint Charles des Mines, it’s very unlikely that Francoise would have met him, if she even knew he had been born.

Francoise died quite young, spending only 33 or 34 short years on this earth. Illness, injury, childbirth – something took her before her time.

Her family would have stood, hand in hand, youngest to oldest with Claude or perhaps Francoise’s mother holding the baby. Both of her parents, as well as his would have been standing there too, assuming her parents weren’t in Beaubassin at the time.

Maybe her children stood silently, perhaps crying, beside her open grave as the priest said his final words and prayers over her mortal body.

The hardest part is walking away. You tell yourself that the “person” isn’t really there, but the part of them that you desperately want to hug once again is in that box in the ground.

The church was gone from the graveyard, but the spirit remained. In time, trees grew to shelter the graves. Decades later, Claude would join her in the cemetery at Fort Anne.

The church was eventually rebuilt, only to burn again, but before and after services, her children, even into adulthood, probably picked Nova Scotia’s beautiful natural flowers on their way to visit their mother.

Maybe they found a few wild roses and placed a bouquet on her grave from time to time. Maybe on the way to church, after other funerals, or on special occasions like baptisms. Perhaps especially on the two days that her namesake grandchildren were baptized.

Jeanne Francoise Part was born on December 13, 1707 and baptized the same day, and Marie Francoise Dugas was born in 1714. Francoise, I’m sure that your daughter and son brought those grandbabies to see you!

The descendants of those Acadian roses remain in the Annapolis Royal Historic Gardens today, just as Francoise remains in her descendants.

Perhaps her children sat by her grave and talked with her about their journeys and decisions, who to marry, how to handle the death of a child, and whether to stay or go to the new settlements.

And maybe, just maybe, they somehow stopped by one last time as they shepherded their children onto the waiting English ships that fateful day in December of 1755. The cemetery was within sight, beside the garrison.

If nothing else, they turned around from here, on the wharf, as they were forced to leave the few things they had brought with them, and waved a silent, final goodbye. To Francoise, and to Acadia.

As the sun set for the final time, and Francoise’s children and grandchildren stood on the decks of deportation ships before being forced below, they would have looked upon the Dugas land one last time. Longing for that home they had just left along the shore, just past the island in the distance.

I hope they felt Francoise’s spirit with them, bringing them some modicum of comfort, wrapping them in her love, even as her heart was broken.

_____________________________________________________________

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I’ve been thinking a lot about my Dad lately.

I’m talking about my stepfather, who “inherited” me when he married my mother. I was a “challenging” teen, to put it mildly, and Dad accepted and loved me anyway. His own daughter, Linda, would have been my stepsister, had she lived. But she didn’t. She died two days after Christmas, the year after she was born, a loss he never recovered from.

Walking slowly through the kitchen on a hot summer day on the farm in Indiana, he stopped briefly, looked at me, and said, “You know, I got my daughter back when I married your mother,” then just kept walking like he hadn’t dropped a bombshell in my lap.

I was too stunned to say anything, and I don’t think I would have known what to say anyway.

My own father had died too, when I was a child, so I was all too familiar with grief.

It was this man, my Dad, who inspired me, encouraged me, and taught me perhaps the greatest lessons of all – about love, selflessness, and incredible bravery in the face of adversity.

Sometimes all of those are wrapped into one.

Bravery

Especially when things are difficult, I ask myself what Dad would do, or say, in a given circumstance.

Then, I think about what he did and said, privately, quietly, and without regard for his own safety.

I made a very poor spousal choice when I was young and extremely naive. “He who shall remain nameless” was beyond abusive. He tried to kill me and my children multiple times, in multiple ways, including beating me, shooting at us, burning my car, running us off the road, and more.

He meant business, and the local police regarded this all as “a domestic matter.” “Call your lawyer,” they would say. “Nothing we can do.”

Like my Dad said, “Yea, right up until someone is dead.” By then of course, it would have been too late.

Dad was a man of very few words, but with love as deep as a bottomless well.

A few things happened. Some I knew about then, and some I only discovered years later.

Dad bought me a firearm and taught me how to use it effectively and safely.

We practiced, a lot, shooting cans off of fence posts. He said he wanted to make sure I was a crack shot. We made it fun, but, all things considered, it was deadly serious and we both knew it.

He also made sure I knew other defensive, protective maneuvers.

One day, Dad came in from the barn, wearing his signature overalls. He usually took them off in the mud room, wearing cleaner clothes into the house. I saw him remove something from the bib pocket of his overalls and asked what that was.

He rather sheepishly told me it was a gun.

I asked why he was carrying a gun in his overall pocket. He paused, took a deep breath, and told me.

“I will die before I will let anyone harm you or the kids.”

What? He was carrying it to defend ME?

Mom later told me he carried it everyplace during that time, just in case.

Startled, I replied, “But Dad, you’ll go to prison.”

He said, “It doesn’t matter, Bobbi, I’ve lived a long life, and you’ll be alive. Perhaps I was born to make sure you live. Maybe this is the moment I was born for.”

I stood in utter, shocked silence.

Dad was a jokester. I scanned his face to see if there was any hint of humor, an upturn to the corners of his lips perhaps, or twinkle in his eye, but there was none.

I can still see his face, and the deadly earnest of the moment.

Then he added, “Sometimes, it’s not about us. It’s about something bigger,” and walked past me into the house, like nothing had happened.

But everything had happened.

This man, who so lovingly bottle-fed orphan kittens, holding those tiny babies in his gnarled hands, would lay his life down for me, and literally die fighting – protecting us.

The man who didn’t hunt, and often had to call another farmer to put an animal out of its misery, had no qualms whatsoever about doing whatever was necessary to protect me. The “child” who was not “his,” but who had become his more than he would ever know.

I understood in that minute about undying love, about commitment beyond this lifetime. About honor and bravery.

Kidnapped

Not long thereafter, “he who shall remain nameless” did not return my child from a court-mandated weekend parental visit. By the time we realized, he was two days gone. The police said to contact the court – not their issue.

That was long before the days of Amber alerts – and we weren’t even sure when he left or where he went. He could have been anyplace by then.

I had suspicions, and sure enough, with the help of friends in another state, we were able to verify his location. But that state did not have a reciprocal agreement with the state I was living in.

I literally could do nothing, according to the police and court, because there was no jurisdiction there.

I was beyond distraught, paniced and frantic. My child had been kidnapped and no one would do anything about it. How was that even possible?

Dad had other ideas. He told me we were not helpless. The local sheriff was his friend and came to visit. Sitting at the kitchen table, we discussed the situation, options, what was legal, and what was not.

We constructed a plan. It was our only hope. Dad asked me if I wanted him to go with me, or I wanted him to remain at home so he could either post bail or “rescue” me, or us, if needed.

God, I loved that man so much.

Departure

I was on the road almost immediately with instructions from both Dad and the sheriff, in a personal capacity, of course, and Mother’s prayers.

Before I left, standing in the gravel driveway, Dad hugged me as I got into the car, alone.

I was a mess and shaking.

I told Dad I was scared, extremely frightened, and cried.

Scared of the unknown.

Scared of what might happen.

Scared that I would not be able to find my child.

Scared that I would not be able to retrieve my child.

And yes, scared that we might die in the process – or that my child would be horrifically injured.

Or maybe my worst fear – that I would be killed and my child would spend the rest of her life with an abusive parent.

I had never faced a more terrifying situation.

Dad hugged me once again, and as he took a small step backward to look into my face, silent tears were streaming down the creases in his face too.

In hindsight, he was probably horribly afraid of all of those things too, plus losing his daughter again.

Holding my shoulders with both hands, as if to steel me, he said, “Bobbi, we don’t choose bravery – it chooses us.”

Indeed, Dad, indeed.

When push came to shove, it was just him and me. Two reluctant warriors.

I smiled at him, got in the car, and backed out of the driveway.

Sometimes we don’t choose love either. It, too, chooses us.

Happy Ending

I did exactly as I had been instructed.

Adrenaline, bravery’s fuel, carried the day. Two days later, I was back, with no sleep.

I had retrieved my baby and wasn’t stopping until I was safely back in my parents’ home, safe with my Dad. That particular crisis was over, and the ones that followed paled by comparison.

The child, until they were older, never knew what happened, and Dad and I never spoke much about it.

However, it set and sealed an insoluble bond between us.

Not only had Dad demonstrated bravery in the most effective way possible, by example, he also taught me determination, resilience, persistence, and traits that would be interpreted by some as being, let’s say, “difficult.”

Dad illustrated how to work beyond fear in the face of anything.

I had survived the worst hell possible – my worst nightmare. My child being kidnapped and the authorities entirely unconcerned or unable to act. I had stared Satan in the face.

My child was safe and would remain so – thanks to my Dad.

But I was forever changed.

Epilogue

Dad went on to be just a normal grandpa. That’s all he had ever wanted. He wasn’t a macho man. His bravery was worn inside, invisibly, in his soul, where it really mattered.

Thanks to him, we had the opportunity to celebrate Halloween, birthdays, Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, and other holidays together as a family for many years.

That child tagged along with him, his shadow in the barn. They too had a forever bond.

We enjoyed life on the farm, with the normal ebb and flow of the seasons, planting and harvesting.

Many joyful years followed, until Dad left us.

Love Knows No Bounds

Several years after “the incident”, as the adults would say, looking knowingly at each other, Dad stood up with me at my wedding.

Now, mind you, at the back of the church, before walking down the aisle, he whispered that it still wasn’t too late to run out the doors behind us! He made me laugh on what was supposed to be a somber occasion.

Dad also consented to purchase a new suit, one of only two in his life, I think. I have pieces of his tie in a quilt I made after his passing.

This is my all-time favorite picture of us together, taken that day.

You can see love shining through.

I surely miss that man. I have no words to express the depth of my gratitude to have had him in my life. I sure hope he knew. Knows.

I had the very best Dad ever!