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Illustration by Catherine Chan
In a world of grand spaces, I’ll take the small hall. Specifically, the venue closest to my heart – the Lions Hall in Bryson, Western Quebec. That hall is the backdrop to countless memories, from family reunions, euchre tournaments and communal suppers, to baby showers, birthday parties and funeral receptions. It’s where we say hello again, congratulations and goodbye. One step inside and I’m home.
Actually, one step inside and I’m hightailing it to the kitchen to drop off my potluck dishes, deking out family members left and right along the way. I’m easily sidelined by a new baby, travel update or secret to flaky biscuits, so my husband herds me to the kitchen until my dish is delivered.
The Lions Hall kitchen is huge. It has large fridges, acres of countertop and a long island on which buffet meals are served. When I was young, I was intimidated by the happy but loud clatter and bustle in the kitchen. Dishes being passed back and forth (“No, not the big bowl, the BIG big bowl!”), utensils clanging, water running in the deep metal sink. To avoid being underfoot, I stayed out of the fray until it was time to line up and fill our plates.
It was at the Lions Hall that I learned how to introduce myself by my relationship to my mother: “I’m Lorie, Diana’s daughter. Diana Stewart.” She grew up in the area and is my passport to the place, and I proudly trot out her name at every opportunity. If by some impossibility someone doesn’t know who she is, I mention her famous date squares and there it is, the flash of recognition: “Oh, Diana! Yes, of course.”
It was at the Lions Hall that I developed my love of party sandwiches, especially flaked ham with relish, and cream cheese pinwheels with maraschino cherries. Egg salad, tuna and bologna with mustard also hold space in my heart. If there’s a better way to celebrate a new baby or a life well lived than with a little sandwich, I don’t know what it is.
It was at the Lions Hall that I first enjoyed a $5 glass of wine filled to the brim, an infinity pool of Chardonnay. If you’ve never had to drink some of your wine before you can safely walk it back to your table, you’ve missed out.
If the Lions Hall had a musical score, it would be country music. The low, raised stage has seen a long roster of fiddlers, step dancers, piano players, square-dance callers, singers and other musicians. Even the young, tattooed priest who presided over my aunt’s funeral mass took the stage with his guitar. Any DJ who has played that hall has quickly learned that the way to the crowd’s heart is less Top 40 and more Thank God I’m a Country Boy.
With music comes dancing. The square-dancing portion of my Grade 9 gym class did not prepare me for the advanced choreography of the Bryson squares. I love watching the older people effortlessly do-si-do-ing and promenading, but my pride keeps me to the sidelines.
There is always the two-step, though, which my husband and I have interpreted as a type of coupled running in a fast-moving circle. We’ve been regularly humbled by 80-year-old couples rounding the dance floor at speeds we can only aspire to. “They’re after us!” my husband shouts every time we’re brave enough to join in and an older couple barrels in our direction, which never fails to make me laugh so hard I lose whatever co-ordination I’ve mustered.
Dancing at the Lions Hall is not without other dangers. One night, my cousin Shawn drove a nail through his foot when he did a jig in a makeshift pig trough at his younger sister’s wedding reception. You may not be familiar with this questionable but highly entertaining Québécois tradition to shame older, unmarried siblings by having them dance in a pig trough, but it’s still very much alive. It’s just not a memory you can make at the National Arts Centre!
Until recently, the Lions Hall was our go-to location for larger family gatherings. But when my uncle died a few years ago, the home we’d had as our central spot for smaller family visits was sold. We needed a new place that could hold us all and keep us close.
The Lions Hall was there for us.
For our extended family dinner, we booked the space and went about our usual preparations. My mom made her date squares, I made my lemon loaves and we all headed to the hall. This time I gave myself a tour of the well-stocked kitchen cabinets and drawers, marvelling at the 3,000 ladles ready to serve 3,000 soups. I passed the BIG big bowls to my cousins, clanged the utensils and ran the tap in the sink. The kids peered in from the main room, staying out of the fray. I now belonged among the happy and loud clatter of adults in the kitchen.
Thank you, Lions Hall, for holding the stories of our lives and keeping us connected. I know there are many such halls throughout the country. May they remain the spaces in which we make memories together.
Lorie Boucher lives in Ottawa.
