You Want Adventure? I'll Give You Adventure

I'm pretty certain that Grandpa Jim is looking down from heaven, laughing at me the way he laughed the day I showed him my toe shoes. This past Monday, July 9, I embarked on a three day road trip with my five year old daughter and two-and-a-half year old son, and it was a comedy of errors. Laugh on, Grandpa!

As a teenager, I had zero desire to explore my heritage. I'm not sure why, but it never seemed important to me. It's not that my parents didn't try; I recall trips to Lamure Beach in Deep River, where my parents would share fond (and not so fond) memories about growing up; I recall sitting around the table at 13 Summit listening to my paternal grandmother Nanoo tell stories, like the time my dad stole a bird house from a priest, and the time she found a bag of weed in one of the heating vents. It never occurred to me that my parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and so on lived rich lives that led to my very existence. That's one of my biggest regrets now: not getting to know my grandparents better as actual people with rich histories, not just beloved Bumpa, Nanny, Dodie, and Nanoo. They've all moved on to be with Jesus, and I've been curious about figuring more out about each of them. Now that I have my own children, I'm hoping to instill in them a curiosity about the lives which paved their own paths.

All packed up. My son's book couldn't have been more accurate. 

Grandpa Jim, my husband's paternal grandfather, was raised as a young boy in Ponteix, Saskatchewan, a part of the middle prairie province to which I'd never travelled before. I loved his Franglais and his accent. He was an amazing man and I'm sad I didn't get to spend more time with him before he passed away. Because I like to do crazy things sometimes, I bought an eight-person tent (way too big for one adult and two children, FYI) along with a few other camping supplies and packed up for Ponteix to dig a bit deeper into Grandpa Jim's life. School was out, I was on vacation, and I was going to adventure with my kids.

I wanted adventure, and adventure I got.

Clem and Vicki

The car ride from Brooks to Ponteix in itself was relatively uneventful. We stopped in Medicine Hat to visit Great Auntie Clem (Jim's sister, so my husband's great aunt) and Sister Vicki, two beautiful women who have devoted their lives to God as nuns. As we chatted in their backyard, jets zoomed overhead, enthralling the kids with their deafening engine roars. After a quick lunch and visit, we jumped back into my Torrent and made our way to Ponteix, only stopping once on the side of the road for a pee break. My car seemed a bit shaky, but I figured it was the roads. Leave it to Google Maps to take me on the "fastest route", also known as the route with the worst roads. Although that might be any given route in Saskatchewan (*ducks as Saskatchewanians throw watermelon at me*)

"Mo" (cause he ain't no mo)

When the kiddos and I finally rolled into Ponteix around 4:00 pm, having listened to the same CD featuring 25 "favourite kid songs" multiple times (I probably sang along to "Old Grey Mare" at least four times), we spent some time with Mo, the gigantic plaster dinosaur that welcomes visitors with its presence on the hill that overlooks the small town. Ponteix is nestled in a valley surrounded by rolling green hills. Whoever said Saskatchewan is flat needs to visit southern Saskatchewan; it's beautiful. It reminds me so much of Prince Edward Island. All it's missing is the ocean.

We pulled into Notekeu park on the north end of Ponteix, which features a small campsite, a golf course, a swimming pool, and a splash park. We were shown to our site (joy of joys, beside a playground!) and while the kids played happily, I began setting up the way-too-big tent.

I was just about to pound in the first stake when the gentleman who runs the campsite informed me that I'd need to switch sites; apparently the spot he'd given me had already been booked for the week by another party ("I wish the pool staff would keep me informed," he complained.) Not about the let this little hiccup interrupt the fun we were having so far, I joyfully dragged my tent to the next site, marveling proudly to myself at how well I handled things; how flexible I could be. The kids excitedly helped me put up the tent (as much as kids can actually help), and I promised the we'd go swimming as soon as everything was set up.

M's new friend locked him in the spray park.

With the tent up, the air mattress full, sleeping bags rolled out, and my pride fully intact and possibly quite inflated, I was ready to begin cooking supper. I began dragging the picnic table to a location a bit closer to my vehicle. All of the sudden, my phone started screaming a tone with which I wasn't familiar. I pulled my phone out of my pocket. Staring back at me was an EMERGENCY ALERT. A tornado warning for the area. Seriously? I thought the myself. A tornado? The sky looked great. It was a little windy and the air was so warm, but I didn't see any threatening weather approaching so I decided to just ask the pool staff where to hide out if things escalated. "Well, there's the bathrooms... there's no basement, but they're made out of cinder blocks..." the teenager manning the pool informed me. Another pool employee told me to try the old folks' home if I needed shelter. I figured the tornado thing wasn't really a big deal and decided to just follow the crowds if I received another emergency alert. Of course, I also screenshotted the emergency alert and posted it to Instagram, cause, you know, pride. Look at me! Look at how well I'm handling the fact that I'm four hours away from home! With my two kids! Surrounded by tornadoes!

No tornadoes within our immediate vicinity, we supped, swam, and took a walk downtown for some ice cream. Finally, the kids and I settled in for the night. With only a handful of surprises, the first day of our trip had been a success... because my kids were tired and happy. I couldn't stop thinking about the possibility of a midnight tornado, though, so I kept my phone close by just in case we received another emergency alert.

St. Radagonde in Lafleche.

Eight-thirty am, Tuesday, July 10: I wake up to the sweet sound of giggling and farts. If you've never heard my kids' giggles, they are the best. Soon, the giggles were interspersed with a far away rumble of thunder. Over the next twenty minutes, the thunder grew louder and louder until it was right above our heads, prompting my daughter to spend about ten minutes covering her ears with her hands. I kept my eye on Saskatchewan weather alerts, and of course the entire range of southern Saskatchewan was

Exploring St. Radagonde' museum.

Curioser and curioser

highlighted red. After a solid hour of rain and thunder passed east, the storm abated. We decided to take a road trip to a bird sanctuary near Mossbank, about an hour and a half drive from Ponteix. A few small towns dotted the path along the way, and we checked out an amazing church in Lafleche and a cathedral in Gravelbourg. The church in Lafleche, St.
Radagonde, was unlocked and even had a little museum in the basement. My daughter was enthralled by all the artifacts. My son managed to find a cigarette tin among all the religious relics. Go figure.

During our one-and-a-half-hour roadtrip, my car got shakier and shakier, to the point where I knew I had to do something. The passenger seat was vibrating; even my kids were wondering why the trip was so bumpy. My first thought: call husband. My second thought: no, don't call husband. Third thought: call husband? Fourth thought: No, I can handle this myself. Besides, what is he going to do from five hours away? Plus, I handle things sooo well myself. I was halfway between Gravelbourg and Mossbank when I googled 'Mechanics in Mossbank'. Thankfully, there was a shop open - Hammer Head Hot Rods - and the gentlemen there (one of whom was actually born and raised in Brooks) helped me out right away. It turns out the tires on the Torrent we'd bought a few weeks ago needed immediate replacing and were totally warped (hence the shaking.) I laughed that last week when I asked my husband whether I should get new tires before leaving, he figured they'd be okay for the trip even though we knew they needed replacing. The mechanic was quick to jump to Lance's defense, exclaiming, "hey, not even I get everything right." I'll give him that.

This picture sums up Mossbank pretty well. 

Bird sanctuary north of Mossbank.

Finding stuff to do while waiting on tires.

The guys at Hammer Head had to drive to Assiniboia (half an hour away) to pick up tires for me. As the kids and I waited, I drove very carefully out to the bird sanctuary (thanks, Google Maps, for again taking me down a questionable road. A road made of SAND. With PUDDLES. And here I was freaking out that my tire was going to explode. I'm very good at freaking out internally, all the while singing "Old Grey Mare" for the 234th time while my kids squeal along with glee. Oh, and of course reminding myself that I'm soooo good when it comes to unexpected surprises. Yes, I encourage eye rolling.) The bird sanctuary was nothing to write home about, although we did see quite a few birds, but as the thunder and lightning rolled in and big fat rain drops began pelting us, I cut our sightseeing short and headed back into Mossbank, where blissfully, the kids fell asleep and I sat in our car, reading A History of Saskatchewan I'd purchased at a sketchy store in Gravelbourg.

The Mossbank Public Library was a great place to wait. 

When the kids woke up and Hammer Head was ready to install the new tires, we checked out the bustling metropolis of Mossbank... and by bustling, I mean absolutely dead. The café I'd hoped to check out was "closed due to the storm", so I took my son and daughter to the Mossbank library where they played with trains and read books (...and tried to steal trains and books when we left. My son is very good at hiding things he wants for himself.)

Once the tires were ready, we hit the road, ready to head back to our tent and enjoy a quiet evening, roasting marshmallows and singing songs. I did so well today, I applauded myself. I can totally handle crazy situations.

Then. A minute out of Mossbank. My Bluetooth started freaking out with the Alert Tone that makes a peron's heart seize up. You think it's scary coming from a phone? Try amplifying the emergency alert tone on a car stereo, blasted for the kids to sing along to - you guessed it - "Old Grey Mare." Tornado, the alert informed me. Seek shelter if threatening weather approaches, I was told. White-knuckling the steering wheel and singing "Old Grey Mare" the 322nd time, I watched enormous lightning strikes in front of me, to my left, and to my right. I kept hearing my husband's voice in my head, saying, "just drive, you'll be fine." But my anxiety began to rise, and I couldn't bear the thought of getting swept into a tornado with my children in the vehicle with me. My limit had been met. As if the day wasn't crazy enough already. I turned around and headed north towards Moose Jaw, determined to book a hotel for the night. While grateful for the smooth ride provided by my brand new Michelins, my throat began to seize and my breathing grew shallow as lightning struck closer to me than I'd ever experienced.

And... Bearbear.

While my kids oohed and aahed at the stormy weather, I kept thinking to myself, "Bearbear. Is. In. The. Tent. What if a tornado hits Ponteix and sweeps him away? HOW IS MY SON GOING TO FALL ASLEEP WITHOUT HIS BELOVED BEAR?" He hadn't missed a night without Bearbear since he received him his very first Christmas. Not having brought Bearbear along with us was the real emergency.

I literally had to do the whole 5-4-3-2-1 strategy for tackling anxiety attacks, but I forgot how to do it and just started counting my breaths. It was a scary experience, and there was a part of me that wanted to cry, but the tears never came. And through it all, I was amazed at how awesome my kids were. They never complained that we hadn't stuck to a schedule. They never complained when the weather got bad. They never complained when I fed them Fruit by the Foot for lunch (well, my two-and-a-half year old son cried, but that's only because he doesn't understand how FBTF works. Yet.)

Finally, I admitted to myself that maybe I don't actually handle things so well. Maybe I shouldn't try to take credit for when I make it through some kind of obstacle. Maybe God allows things to work when I submit myself to His will and choose gratitude for whatever gift, in whatever form, is offered. I'm actually pretty certain that's what it is, but you know, pride does get in the pretty often. I'm reminded of Sister Vicki during our short visit, sharing with me the beauty of reconciliation: here's a nun, having lived a long and beautiful life, telling me how much she loves going to confession. It always amazes me to listen to people who just seem so in touch with God describe the beauty of reconciliation. According to Vicki, reconciliation offers us an opportunity to really face the things that are tearing us away from God. And she's right. As much as I hate going to confession, I have to admit that the freedom I feel afterwards is worth it. Being washed in mercy is a pretty indescribable experience. One that I should probably attend to more regularly. Because, you know, pride.

The highlight of the camping trip for L: hoteling. 

Once in Moose Jaw, I found a Best Western, whipped through a McDonald's kitty-corner and provided my kids with even more nutrition, checked into said hotel, lost my daughter when the elevator door closed before she'd had a chance to get out, found my daughter, turned on the TV and vegged with some french fries before totally crashing. Thankfully, my daughter was grateful that we got to stay in a hotel room. We discussed whether we thought a tornado would really hit Ponteix (no tornado, although one touched down about an hour north and another about an hour south of the small town), and I nearly reached my limit as a parent when the kids would just not fall asleep. Blissfully, they finally did. And my son never cried about Bearbear.

Wednesday, July 11. Our last day in Saskatchewan, and we were five hours away from home. We ate breakfast, swam in the pool (seriously, the highlight of the trip for my daughter. Thank goodness I'd packed our swimming gear for our 'day' trip), and began working our way back to

...noticed that my kids are in their PJs the entire time?

Ponteix to pack up the tent. Before leaving Moose Jaw, I stopped in at The Liquor Board Store, an incredible liquor store in an old train station, and Prairie Bee Meadery. I spent roughly 20% of what I spent on tires on beer. I'll let you figure that one out for yourself. Let me just say that my husband's beer fridge is bursting at the seams with Saskatchewan brew.

Back in Ponteix, I stopped in to visit a Liboiron family that I'd managed to track down a few days earlier by asking around at the local bakery/coffee shop. The Liboirons invited us into their home, and shared their memories of the Liboiron reunions with me. They had met my in-laws before, and gave me a bit of history of the Liboirons in Ponteix. They're the

Trying to balamce salt shakers (part of our Gallant heritage). 

only two left now. It was so touching to be invited into their home and to hear them share their own histories, and they aren't even from the same line of Liboirons as my own family. Still, it felt like being around family, and I'm so grateful to have had the opportunity to learn a little bit more about Grandpa Jim and his hometown.

We finally made it back to the campsite to pack up. A few tornadoes had touched down near Ponteix the night before, but thankfully, our campsite was intact, albeit soaking wet. I definitely don't enjoy packing up to leave as I enjoy setting up a tent, so I ended up rolling up our wet tent and smushing it into the back seat of my car. The kids and I hit the road, and were back in Brooks at 10:30 p.m.

It wasn't the trip I'd planned; it wasn't the trip I'd hoped for. But I'd kept my expectations low to begin with, and I was given the grace to accept whatever came my way as best I could. I have no doubt that a great force of love, greater than anything I could ever name or imagine myself, was behind every twist and turn of this trip.

By the grace of God, I did it. We did it. And I can just picture Grandpa Jim listening to this story, rocking back in his chair, tears rolling down his cheeks, laughter rippling through his chest. Love you, Grandpa.

Two happy kids after a crazy three days.