What I hate most at funerals is the tone used by the officiant (almost wrote: the presiding officer). No matter what the religious faith may be, the person in front of the congregation speaks as if he knew. Knew what happened to Gaëtan; knew where his mind was at when it happened; knew all his good deeds had been accounted for and his bad ones discounted; and knew – just as true as I’m sitting here typing these words – knew Gaëtan was with his loved ones, old pals and new buddies, getting the feel for his new status as one of the Immortals. I hate that part of funerals so much, I’ll have to make a huge effort this afternoon not to walk out of the church in Briatexte. Last time I was there (also for a funeral), I walked out (quietly) and took pictures, instead of standing up and giving the officiant a piece of my mind, as I felt inclined to do.

I think it’s the tone of voice that does me in. As if the officiant had a direct line into whatever deity resides in that particular structure. I’d rather hang around with the person’s old buddies, whoever they may be. In this particular instance, we could drink some of Gaëtan’s godawful home wine before moving on to something more decent. We could talk about his knowledge of the town, of the fish in the lake, and the mushrooms around it. Somebody could tell a story from his army days as a truck driver in the convoys and segue with his own funny stories from that same time; someone else might remember an incident from his years working the dye vats in one of the local tanneries. We’d drink to his peace of mind and ours, then we’d start working his absence into the  fabric of things.

The photo above makes more sense to me as a memento than being told Gaëtan is now sitting on God’s right-hand side (must be one hell of a crowd on that side of God – no pushing or shoving allowed, I hope.) I have no idea what species of fish is laying that trail in the water; Gaëtan could have told you immediately. He could have told you if some kids had come around to smash the duck eggs again this year (and, if he trusted you,  to what hideaway the ducks had repaired to give it another try). He’d spot the first cases of phyloxera in the wild rabbits. Those kinds of things. You never got any theories or generalizations out of him. It was all specific: this fish, this clump of earth, that nest, that boy, this one.

What does any of this have to do with the writer’s notebook? A lot. For one, I now have a clear picture of one of the character’s companions on the fishing trip to Anticosti Island. For another, I have the basic structure for one of the characters in the French story. Neither one of those stories will talk about Gaëtan; none of the events will be replays from his life. Both in both cases, who Gaëtan was for me is key to the writing. I don’t handle church ceremonies well. Let’s just say this is my way of weaving Gaëtan into the fabric of things.