#quebec
Le Pont de Noël or The Christmas Bridge
In the far north of Quebec, where the conifers crowd the hills like patient sentries and the winters arrive early with the certainty of old friends, there stands a covered bridge older than any memory. Its spruce timbers are darkened with age, its roof bowed gently under decades of snowfall, and its red paint—once bright—has faded into the colour of cranberries caught in deep shadow.
The people of the region call it Le pont de Noël—The Christmas Bridge.
They say it was built in 1819, long before any proper highway was carved through the Laurentian wilderness. Back then, it was only a humble crossing over the Rivière Blanche, built by settlers who needed a way to bring sleighs to market and children to the stone schoolhouse. But from the very beginning, stories gathered around it like snowdrifts in a fierce winter storm.
Folks whispered that the bridge “chose” what the traveler saw on the other side. There was magic in the timbers used to build the bridge they say.
Now, most people hurrying along the modern route with trucks full of lumber or groceries see only the highway continuing on, the long strip of asphalt stretching into the pines. They pass beneath its beams, glance at the weathered wood, and think nothing more of it. To them, Le pont de Noël is simply an old relic the province never got around to replacing.
But others…The true believers of the magic...know better.
True believers don’t always look like believers. Some wear snowmobile suits and haul ice-fishing gear. Some drive rusty pickups or shiny new Subarus. Some are nine years old, carrying gingerbread dreams . Some are ninety, carrying the memories of Christmases past, of better times and family.
But they all cross the bridge with the same quiet faith: a belief in wonder, in generosity, in the strange and gentle magic of this northern land.
And when they cross, whether at Christmas or in the heat of August, sometimes the world changes.
The hum of the highway fades away into silence.
The air grows crisp and sparkling, as though touched by frost even in midsummer.
And, under the warm glow of lanterns, they find themselves entering a village that should not exist anymore.
A village from the early 19th century, dressed forever for Christmas.
There it stands, as though painted from a Currier & Ives print: cottages of hand-hewn logs, roofs deep with snow, smoke curling from stone chimneys. Oil lamps flicker in windows trimmed with balsam garlands. Fires crackle at the blacksmith shop. The church bell, small, bright, and silver rings every half hour.
Children in woolen mittens skate on the frozen millpond, laughing like wind chimes. Even in the middle of the summer, this is the scene in this magical town.
Women in shawls carry pies cooling in tin plates.
Men with frosted beards haul cords of birch on wooden sleds.
And the smell, oh, the smell! Spruce pitch, woodsmoke, and maple taffy lingers everywhere.
Visitors don’t question how they got there. In that village, time settles softly, like a blanket folded with care.
The villagers greet strangers as though they’ve been expecting them.
“Bienvenue, voyageur,” the blacksmith says, shaking hands with a grip like warm iron.
“Come warm yourself,” offers the baker, pressing a thick slice of bread, still steaming, into their palms.
Children tug at sleeves. “Do you want to see the Christmas tree?” they ask, eyes wide. And what a tree it is: a towering balsam fir in the square, lit with candles that never seem to burn down, decorated with pinecones, ribbons, and hand-carved wooden toys.
Sometimes a fiddler plays old French carols on the steps of the church. Sometimes the whole village gathers for a feast: venison stew, maple cakes, roasted apples, and mulled cider that warms from the inside out.
Travelers swear they have spent hours, sometimes whole evenings. in the village. Yet when they finally cross the bridge again, returning to the modern world, only minutes have passed. Their coffee is still warm in the cupholder. Their radio hasn’t finished the song they were listening to earlier.
But something in them has changed. They drive away lighter, as though a long-closed window has been opened.
Of course, not everyone sees it. That’s the way of magic; it belongs only to the hopeful.
Some cross the bridge talking about bill payments, deadlines, or the foolishness of northern myths. They see only old timber beams and the asphalt stretching beyond. The bridge gives them what they expect: the world as it is, unadorned.
They drive on, none the wiser.
But sometimes—just sometimes—they catch the faint scent of pine and warm bread. Or they hear a child’s laugh carried by a wind that should be far too cold. And they wonder.
That is how believers are born.
There is one more part to this tale, spoken only in hushed tones at the general store in Saint-Laurent-du-Nord.
They say the bridge has a keeper.
A figure seen only at dusk or dawn.
An old man in a fur-lined coat, carrying a lantern that glows with a steady gold light.
Some swear he was the bridge’s original builder.
Others say he’s a spirit of Christmas itself.
Children insist he winks at them when they pass, even if their parents see no one there at all.
Whoever he is, he stands watch, ensuring the right people see the right world.
And so, on Christmas Eve, the believers come.
Not in crowds, but quietly, one or two at a time, each hoping to catch a glimpse of that timeless village. Many have crossed before and hope that the magic still remains. They cross the bridge slowly, breath fogging the air, hearts open wide to wonder.
Some return with stories of sleigh rides under lanterns and midnight carols sung beneath falling snow. Others return with nothing but a lingering warmth and a certainty that magic brushed against them.
And still, the non-believers cross, seeing only the highway.
But somewhere, deep inside, something small stirs.
And that, perhaps, is the greatest magic of Le pont de Noël,
that even those who do not believe may one day find themselves glancing back in the rearview mirror, wondering if they missed something… and feeling, with sudden tenderness, that they’d like to believe after all.
Dec 10, 2025
Dec 10, 2025 at 1:49 PM UTC
There lies the raccoon, so still, so grim,
On the median strip where the light grows dim.
Cars swerve around it, their tires hum fast,
It’s sprawled on the asphalt, its life in the past.
No twitch, no stir, for its heart’s gone dead,
A lifeless form where the pavement’s spread.
Flat as a mat, squashed neat on the street,
His paws outstretched like a child in defeat.
No breath, just death in the sun's cruel light,
A bandit of night felled by day's cruel might.
It crossed the road in a reckless dash,
Not for the first time, ignoring the clash.
No glance to the left, nor right did it peek,
Lost in its thoughts, so weary, so bleak.
“How tough,” it mused, “to be a raccoon,
Scrounging for scraps ‘neath the sun and the moon.”
Then out of the blue, with a screech and a blast,
A Honda Jazz roared, and its fate was cast.
It struck the poor creature and sped ‘round the bend,
Leaving the raccoon to meet its sad end,
Leaving him smashed and bashed so flat,
His little face left where it sat.
The car’s cruel wheel smashed it flat to the ground,
Crushed its sweet face, not making a sound.
Its nose, once so twitchy, now broken, forlorn,
It lies like a log where the asphalt’s been worn.
Only a breeze, so soft and so slight,
Stirs its fine whiskers in the fading light.
It never foresaw such a sorrowful lot,
No hint of the grief that its death would allot.
Since dawn’s early glow, it had schemed and planned,
To crawl from its hollow with a goal so grand.
To the town it would scamper, through brambles and thorns,
To fetch juicy sausages for its little ones.
At home, its young kits, with their bellies all tight,
Clutched tiny paws in their hunger’s sad plight.
For days they had whimpered, so feeble and sweet,
“Daddy, dear Daddy, we’re dying to eat!
Daddy , dear Daddy, the cupboard's bare!
When's dinner?
It's not fair!"
It snapped in reply, with a huff and a frown,
“Who tossed out a banana when no one was around?
That fruit was ripe, not a speck of decay!”
Its wife growled low in a grumbling way,
“Get to work, you loaf, don’t laze in the shade!
Our kids need fresh veggies and meats ready-made!”
But no, that’s too harsh—she loved him, it’s true,
Her heart was as warm as the morning’s soft dew.
Whatever she scavenged from forest and glade,
She cooked with such care, and his plate was well-laid.
This morn she embraced him, so tender, so kind,
Kissed his soft cheek with her worries behind.
She licked his damp nose and whispered with care,
“I know you’re worn out; life feels unfair.
This parenting grind—it gets me down too.
This parenting is rough,
times are tough,
But love's enough,
my scruffy fluff.
Stay home, my love, take a break, just do you.
No cell, no computer, just rest for a spell,
Things will work out, and all will be well.”
The raccoon clutched its head
with a wail and a moan,
“My family loves me,
and I’ve been so prone
To act like a fool, ungrateful, unwise!
Let me hug you all tight
‘neath these morning skies!
For you, my clan, I'll be the man!”
Then off through the woods, with a bound and a leap,
He raced to the town where the streets climb steep,
To hunt for some food, for his heart was set right,
To feed his dear kits and bring joy by tonight.
But what happened next, oh, the tale turns grim,
For fate had a plan that was cruel and dim.
Crossing the road with no glance left or right,
He was struck by a car in the harsh morning light.
Now dead on the median, his body lies still,
A victim of haste and a moment’s ill will.
The cops soon arrived on their mopeds’ loud drone,
Cordoned the street, left no car to roam.
Yellow tape fluttered, their hands swift and sure,
Three paramedics rushed in to explore.
They prodded the raccoon, its fur cold and slack,
One raised a finger, his voice sharp as a tack:
“Raccoon’s dead on the scene!” he proclaimed to the air,
As onlookers gaped in a sorrowful stare.
Then Justin Trudeau swooped down from the sky,
On a parachute bold, with a tear in his eye.
He gazed at the raccoon and cried, “What a shame!
Whose wheel could have dealt such a terrible maim?
Oh, horror, oh, grief!” he wailed to the crowd,
His voice ringing clear, both anguished and loud.
To the news crews he turned, with a vow firm and grand,
“His memory will live through the heart of our land!
To his family bereft, with no breadwinner near,
Ten million dollars I pledge—let’s be clear!”
But Andrew Scheer roared up, his bike’s engine shrill,
“Trudeau, you’re mad!” he barked with a thrill.
“Ten million for a raccoon? That’s a crime!
He’s a trash-raiding rogue, not worth a dime!
Ten mil? Absurd! That's quite a sum
For vermin who eat garbage ****
Ten million’s a wound to our budget’s core,
I say nine’s enough—or six, maybe four.
No, five’s the limit! No, scratch that, none!
No cash for this trash when all’s said and done.
Raccoons overrun us, they breed without end,
They’re bandits, they’re thieves, not a soul’s faithful friend.
They crowd out the critters we ought to hold dear,
The more that get squashed, the more RHINOS cheer!”
The raccoon’s poor soul, floating high o’er the fray,
Could bear it no more and had something to say:
“What gibberish nonsense you’re shouting below!
I’m no Ontario crook—let the truth freely flow.
I’m Ratun Lavoir, from Quebec’s proud land,
Write that in your papers, make the world understand.
I died by mistake, but no drama’s required,
Live kindly, love deeply, let peace be inspired.
Cherish your children, hold your spouse ever near,
Walk with your God, let no quarrels appear.
And when crossing the road, oh, please take due care,
Look left, look right, lest death catch you unaware,
Moral more bright than a stop-sign so red:
Mind where you tread or you'll wind up dead!
I messed up and died, but I’m not one to rue,
I was a good dad, and my heart was true.
My wife, my sweet spark, held me close to her core,
Though death split us briefly, it can’t break love’s lore.
For love's never gone when it's true from the start,
It burns past the grave, soul to soul, spark to spark.
So wave to my babes, send them kisses so grand,
Spin tales of their dad with a sausage in hand.
I'll watch from the stars, where the trash cans gleam gold,
And paradise tastes like the junk food of old!"
May 10, 2025
May 10, 2025 at 4:26 AM UTC
There once was a gal from Quebec
Whose boss was a pain in the neck:
She told him, "I quit
'Cuz I'm sicka yer ****
And her boss, he "misplaced" her last check.
Mar 20, 2025
Mar 20, 2025 at 2:35 AM UTC
I live in a land where French is King
And English is not stable
We’re supposed to know our oui from non
Our table from our table
We can’t say hi, bonjour together
Or wear a pretty hijab
English schools are closing up their doors
High taxes are on our tab
I don’t find speaking French a problem
Even though I wasn’t taught
I picked up words on streets, when young
Marde, colisse, and tabarnak
My children are bilingual, my grandchildren are so too
I try to speak and others laugh
My French is like a stew
I’m glad I’m getting older
And getting shorter on my days
For watching hatred and prejudice
Is just never going to be my way
Dec 26, 2019
Dec 26, 2019 at 5:48 PM UTC
You’re
so
cute.
Whether you’re that kid trying his first playboat
That woman working the cash at Timmies
Laughing with me as I light up over the word ‘bacon’
That girl smiling at me as I fumble with my passports
Or that lonely soul who holds deep eye contact
Because it’s the only form of connection that comes completely naturally
To you.
The look in your eyes
Your spirit for life
You make me happy
Because you’re so dang cute.
I have a crush on you.
On your Joy de Vivre.
A deep affection,
Like that which my father held for me
That one morning
When I was skipping around the house
Crazy eyes and wide smile:
C’est ton joy de vivre.
C’est fou comme la vie est belle;
et c’est fou comme vous vous êtes beaux.
La joy de vivre;
c’est la définition de l’amour pour l’autre.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 11:42 AM UTC
In summer;
A fever for the world.
A billion scarred shoes,
carry me over the sapphire waters.
Whisper through my hair, tell me I’m home.
Tell me through and through i belong to you.
Like a needle, I am thread;
Latching to you, your direction, your ways.
Write to me in different languages,
Beckon me to the cobblestone tower,
Up the verdant hills,
Among the gritty powdered paths.
As i overlook the cerulean waters,
I’ll spot the trifling sailboats,
Like ripples in a cup of tea.
Too vast for a photograph,
Too surreal for words.
A wayward, willowy girl.
An anomalous, alluring world.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
I am from toaster
From toaster strudel and bagels
I am from the small space with too many bodies
Cold, old, musty
I am from the acorn
The maple tree
Whose long limbs I remember
As if they were my own.
I’m from movie nights and slender fingers
From Hélène and Luc
I’m from thinking of the worst outcomes and crackling knees
And from moving forward
I am from finish your plate and don’t draw on the car
And twinkle, twinkle little star
I am from Canada
I am from Quebec
I am from being locked out of the house
And desperation
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC