St-Jean-Baptiste 1976

St-Jean-Baptiste here in Québec is like the 4th of July in the US or the 14th in France. Except that only us in the province celebrate it, the rest of the country has the 1st of July. Anyways, long story, boring, bottom line is St-Jean-Baptiste is huge.

1976 was the year my parents separated. I was 5. Don’t remember the exact date but school hadn’t started yet, so it must’ve been in August. And that night of June 24th 1976 probably had a bit to do with it.

It was going to be a huge party at the mountain, with great bands, tens of thousands of people… We got there my mom, dad and I by car, met up with their friends and started up the mountain to get to the park. Party’s on the way, sun is setting down. I remember topless girls, hairy guys with leather hats and indian sandals. I remember the usual smell of pot, hash and beedees (indian cigarettes). I could tell the difference already then. I vaguely remember music, but I can’t recall if it was from the show or just guys around us with guitars and tam tams.

It’s getting late, I need to pee. Badly. My mom is already stoned, but my dad insists she goes with me (he’s gone as well anyway). So we set out, with another girl (16 y.o. babysitter/mom’s friend who died of an heroin overdose at 19) to the restrooms (port-a-potty yessssss). We get there, get in line. I get in, do my thing, get out. L. goes in then out and heads back to the gang. My mom goes in, then out, then we head back.

Back to where? We can’t find them! There are thousands of people sprawled on the grass. I guess my mother didn’t look at where we were sitting before leaving, you know, to mark a spot or something… We’re lost! In an ocean of hippies, looking for a bunch of hippies, a hippy mom and her kid. She was getting frantic, I was trailing behind, looking everywhere for a familiar face. No luck.

So the only thing she could come up with was to head down the mountain, get a cab to her parents’ apartment and wait for my dad to come and get us (we lived up north at least 100 miles from there). We get down, a good 30 minutes walk I’m guessing. My mom looks into her purse… No cash! Not a fucking penny. We need money to get to my grand-parents, so my mom asks me to fucking sing! Sing for the strangers, I’ll ask for money… Ah shit, even at 5 I knew what embarrassment felt like. I don’t know how long it lasted, I burned that from my brain. We finally got some money, flagged a cab. We arrived at her parents, middle of the night… They took us in, no questions, as usual.

It’s very early in the morning, door bell rings… Dad is here! So pissed he can’t even talk. (to this day I haven’t asked him where he spent the night that time…) It turns out, my mom had the car keys in her purse… Could’ve, should’ve, shouts and screams. The ride home was another nightmare.

I never really got over that one. It still bothers me, still hurts me, I still see myself singing on the sidewalk. I can’t really see my mother’s face, I don’t think I looked at her much that night.

The only picture I have of June 24th 1976… She had half the party on her lap.