My late father-in-law grew up in the rich, rolling farming country of far northern New York, just west of Lake Champlain along the Saint Lawrence River. It was a largely French population that had moved south from Quebec, where village names like Chateaugay dotted the map. Alfred was one of ten children, second youngest in a large farming family whose name, Dore, with an accent over the “e”, evolved from “dor-EH” to the anglicized “DOR-ah”, the “e” switched to “a”.
Alfred was a wonderful man, and a colorful storyteller. His many tales of growing up on the farm, where he and his brothers stretched the limits of human endurance by going out and living large into the wee hours, then having to get up at dawn to milk the cows, provided hours of family entertainment and treasured memories. Our daughter was able to share many of these in his later years, when she’d take him donuts once a week and they’d sit and chat. One such was the story of the Daigneault family. He pronounced it “DASH-un-augh”. This was a quirky family of rather self-indulgent parents. They lived not far from my in-laws, but unlike them, they were not farmers. The father worked in a local factory. Each Friday, he’d collect his pay and go grocery shopping on the way home, spending most of his weekly wages there. And here’s where the story gets interesting, in a sadly amusing way.
His purchases included a rich variety of luxuries – steaks, roasts, game birds, and other foods that the family couldn’t really afford. His wife would feed the children something simple and basic – and no doubt reflecting their reduced economic status, as factories weren’t noted for overpaying their workers. This was during the Great Depression, and upstate New York wasn’t known for its wealth and prosperity anyway. After the children were in bed and asleep, Mrs. Daigneault would take out Father Daigneault’s purchases and cook up a feast – for the two of them. They would literally stuff and gorge themselves until they could eat no more. Sadly, that was almost everything to feed the family through the week, so the children would pretty much survive on a few scraps, as was told to us, bread and milk. As the story goes, this Friday night binge was pretty much a routine in the Daigneault household. It was the stuff of local legend, and in our families became a metaphor for self-indulgence.
During his later years, and after my mother-in-law had passed, Alfred would divide his time between a home in Florida and his summer cottage on Granite Lake, just north of Keene, New Hampshire. He’d come back in mid-April, staying with my wife’s sister until the end of May, when it was warm enough to open the cottage and take up residence. He typically arose early, and went to bed early, after which, my in-laws would watch television and make popcorn. One evening, they’d made and were ensconced with a bowl of popcorn, watching no doubt something on PBS or a movie, when down the stairs came a booming voice, “just like the damned Daigneaults.”
Yes, the expression lives on. One evening, when the Princess was little, we’d had dinner, and she’d had dessert – a bowl of ice cream if memory serves, and toddled off to bed. Sometime later, we were watching television in our den, also having ice cream, when we heard the pitter-patter of little feet on the stairs. A small face appeared at the doorway, and a voice declared accusingly, “Aha! This is what you do after I’ve gone to bed.” In a tone worthy of Hercule Poirot. All that was missing was the pointed finger. I calmly reminder her that she too had had a bowl of ice cream before she went to bed. “After all, we’re not the Daigneaults.”
Surnames have meanings typically associated with the behaviors of those that carried them. Some are real, while others are works of fiction. The name “Moriarty”, Sherlock Holmes’ nemesis, is sinister and evil. Some that were truly bad actors, intent on causing harm. Unfortunate, perhaps, for someone born with that last name. The names, “Borgia” and “Frankenstein” will more than likely not propel anyone sporting them to elected office or success. The name, Lucrezia Borgia, ironically the daughter of Pope Alexander VI, is synonymous with political intrigue and poisons. As I’m a big fan of Mel Brooks, I’m always amused when Gene Wilder announces to his medical students, “It’s pronounced, ‘FRAHK-in-steen.” Other names will, unfortunately, be associated with epic failure. I can wonder, for example, if Edsel Ford tried to change his name. Or Adolf Hitler’s sister, Paula. She changed her name to Wolf at her brother’s urging in the 1930’s, after losing her job by name association.
Names, particularly surnames, take on a significance, if only for a few. In a collection of family stories. For better or for worse. My mother used to tell stories of my grandfather, many from his youth, which often started with “myself and Una Flahaven . . . .”. The stories didn’t get much farther, because the children would burst into uproarious laughter at the name. They were sure he’d made it up. It wasn’t until many years later, as mother was visiting elderly cousins of his and going through old photos, that they came across one with my grandfather as a young man, and a mysterious young girl. When asked who she was, one of the cousins responded, “oh, that’s Una Flahaven.” Mother called her siblings to report that Una wasn’t a work of fiction.
Stories and names do have a way of becoming part of our personal history and culture. Any time there is an example of self-indulgence, of treating one’s self at the expense of others, the name “Daigneault” resurfaces. Coming home with a Dunkin Donuts or Starbucks coffee for one, there it is. Getting yourself a snack without asking others if they’d like something, up pops the “D” name. Just the other day, I was dropping the Princess off at the bus station fairly early for her weekly trip into Boston. She asked what her mother and I were going to do for breakfast. I mentioned that I was stopping at a local bagel place to get something. “Typical,” she responded. “When I’m away. Just like the Daigneaults.” A family legend, it lives on.
I'm Thinking...No! 