Author’s Note: This story is a work of fiction, containing many fictional and imaginary elements, but it is inspired by the story of Our Lady of Carmel church at Lille, Maine. The church was closed in 1978, after which Don Cyr, a historian at the University of Maine Presque Isle made it his mission to restore the church. The church is now the Musee cultural du Mont Carmel, a museum celebrating Acadian culture in the St. John Valley.
To anyone else it looked like something that had been dragged out of a dusty closet after it had been long forgotten. The crumpled cardboard box was filled with coloured strips of fabric ripped from old dresses, coats and shirts. Despite their worn appearance, seventy-year-old Paulette Boudreau knew old things very often had more useful life in them.
She fished through the coloured strips in what seemed a random fashion, pulling first this one out of the box, then another, until she began braiding them together. Then it became apparent that she had chosen with great precision, matching the strips together in a harmonious riot of colour that emerged from the chaos.
Once braided, the strips would be worked and sewn into oval shapes of various sizes, depending on whether the rug was for a kitchen, parlour, hallway or entryway. There was scarcely a home in St. Agathe in which some portion of floor wasn’t covered with one of Paulette’s rugs.
Paulette’s family had lived in the St. John Valley, on Maine’s northern border, for generations. They were steeped in French Acadian Catholicism. A well-worn rosary, a Confirmation present from her parents, Joseph and Marie, draped its silver-plated, tarnished crucifix over the arm of the overstuffed chair in Paulette’s living room.
On Sundays, Paulette’s daughter, Yvette, would take her to Lille, on the St. John River, and the grand old church of Notre Dame du Mont Carmel, built in 1910, to attend Mass. She loved the old church at Lille. Her grandparents had watched the walls go up. They were there when the two trumpeting angels were raised atop its twin towers. Her grandfather, Benoit, had contributed many hours of labour toward building the church. Paulette’s parents were married there. For years she had loved the elaborately decorated interior arches defining its naves, its wide centre aisle and its ornate, baroque altar built in tiers that narrowed as they rose and reached toward the heavens.
The church was now showing its years. Nearing the twenty-first century, the church’s paint was peeling, both inside and outside. The painted decorations on the pillars supporting the arches inside the church were now dimmed by almost a century of candle smoke. Colours, now faded, no longer shone vibrantly when the sun streamed through the windows. When the snow melted, the roof leaked, but the diocese could not afford to replace it. Father Dupuis begged the diocese for funds to repair the church, but was repeatedly rebuffed. There were so many other churches in more populous areas that needed attention, he was told.
One day, in the spring, Father Dupuis received a letter informing him the diocese would no longer maintain the church. It would not happen immediately, but the administrative process would begin and within the next two years, Our Lady of Mt. Carmel would be closed, and the building sold. He stood in the pulpit the following Sunday and read the letter to his parishioners, who responded with shock. From one of the pews toward the front of the church came a deep-voiced cry of “Non!” The cry came from a burly, barrel-chested man who was known throughout the valley for his painting and carpentry skills. “Non!” cried Augustin Doucette again as the congregation turned to see who spoke.
“I will not let this church be abandoned!” he vowed, in a blend of English and Acadian French.
“I’m afraid that decision has been made for us,” said Father Dupuis, trying to calm the headstrong carpenter.
“Je ne le permettrai pas!” Augustin shouted back. “I will not allow it.”
Not wanting to escalate the matter, Father Dupuis began his sermon, focusing on the story of the loaves and fishes, completed the Mass, and dismissed his parishioners.
The following Wednesday, Father Dupuis found Augustin outside the church on a ladder, inspecting a window sill. He was just reaching for a wire brush and scraper to clear some peeling paint as Father Dupuis approached.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“If I have to scrape the paint off this church inch by inch, I will,” answered a determined Augustin.
“But that will take you forever,” objected Father Dupuis.
“I will take as long as the Lord will give me,” Augustin said, continuing to scrape the window sill.
“But where will you get the paint to cover the whole building?”
“I will find it,” answered Augustin, exchanging the wire brush for the scraping tool.
A few weeks later, Father Dupuis arrived one morning to see the siding on a large section of the east side of the church freshly painted. Astounded, Father Dupuis looked down at the empty paint cans and asked Augustin, “Where did the paint come from?”
“Pelletier’s lumberyard donated some surplus cans, but that’s all there is for now.”
The following Sunday, after Mass, Paulette Boudreau stood with Augustin, admiring the fresh paint.
“I’m too old to get up on a ladder,” she groused, remembering her grandfather’s stories about building the church, “or I’d get up there and help you. J’aimerais pouvoir faire quelque chose,” she sighed. “I wish there was something I could do.”
“Maybe you’ll think of something,” answered Augustin. “For now, I can’t do anything more out here until the good Lord provides more paint. I can fix some things on the inside for now.”
The next morning, after daily Mass, Augustin went to his truck and retrieved his tool box. Returning to the church, he took some photos of the painted decorations on the columns supporting the arches. Then he took a small razor blade from a package. When Father Dupuis returned from the sacristy, he found him painstakingly scraping damaged paint from the exquisitely decorated columns, a centimetre at a time.
Paulette and a group of her friends gathered weekly for coffee at the café in St. Agathe. This week she sat thinking about what Augustin had told her: Maybe you’ll think of something, he’d said.
“I could organise some of the other women to help me make and sell more rugs,” she told her friends.
Evangeline rested her elbows on the table, folded her hands, and rested her chin on them while she thought for a moment. “We’d need to make a big drive for old clothes to rip up into strips,” said Evangeline.
“The thrift shops always have stuff they can’t sell,” said Elise.
“Mamère’s old loom is still in the spare room,” Ada offered. “She made catalognes at home, back before the war.” A few heads nodded and encouraged. Ada went on. “I remember them weaving the blankets from thin strips of fabric. And sometimes I’d help Mamère, threading the warp and working the shuttle.” She smiled at the memory.
Paulette had been listening carefully, her spoon poised above her coffee cup. Abruptly, she set it down. “Do you think you still remember how?”
“Of course I do. And I still have one of the blankets Mamère made. It’s on my bed.”
“What about those looms,” Paulette went on. “Are many still around?”
“Tante Margot had one. I think it’s in her basement. I still have mine,” Lucie said. She was the youngest of the group, black-eyed and lively, and she glanced around from face to face. “Back then, half the valley used to make catalognes to sell.”
“But are the looms usable?” Ada sat forward in her chair. “They’d be pretty old. Some of them have been taken apart.”
Elise tapped her spoon on her cup, then dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Mitch’s son is still around. He used to come help his papa when one of the looms needed to be fixed. He would know how to put them back together.”
“I can start teaching some of the younger women to braid rugs,” Paulette said. “We can make a weekly session at my home. My fingers are getting slower, but theirs will be faster. While I get started showing them how to braid the rugs, you can start teaching some of the younger women and girls how to work the looms and make catalognes.”
“What else could we do?” asked Lucie, looking out the window.
“Well, I haven’t done it in a long time, but I think even if they’re slow, my hands are still steady enough. I could cut hair,” said Paulette.
All the ladies laughed at what was a long-standing joke. “When you did that before, you got into trouble,” reminded Ada. “You don’t have a licence.”
“Who’s going to tell?” scoffed Paulette. “Je suis une vieille femme. I’m an old woman. What are they gonna do? Throw an old woman in jail? They won’t be lookin’ forward to that. I won’t be makin’ any money. If I cut someone’s hair, and they make a donation, who’s gonna fuss about that?”
All through the valley, looms were dragged up from basements and out from sheds. Paulette sent her scissors for sharpening. Calls went out for old clothes, any kind of textiles. Paulette started with a group of five young women, teaching them to braid rugs, beginning by showing them how to cut them into strips. They learned quickly and in a few months they were turning out rugs on their own. Others joined them until they filled Paulette’s living room and kitchen. Looms were reassembled, re-warped and the rhythmic clatter of their shuttles began to rattle throughout the valley again.
Once the women began to turn out the rugs and blankets, Paulette and Yvette took a load of them in Yvette’s car to Father Dupuis. He was astounded at what the women had done.
“I know a shop in Bar Harbor where these can be sold,” he said. “The tourists will pay good prices for them. I can give you an introduction to Bob Ellis, the owner, an old friend of mine.”
“We could use the money to buy the paint and materials needed to fix the church,” added Paulette.
Then Father Dupuis’ face fell. “But the diocese wants to sell the building,” he lamented. “This could all be for nothing.”
“No, we’ll bring the church back. They wouldn’t dare sell it then.”
The next week, Father Dupuis made the seven-hour drive to Portland, meeting with diocesan officials, as well as the bishop. He showed them the rugs and catalognes the women made and outlined their plan to sell them to tourists, but the bishop remained sceptical.
“You may be able to raise some money selling these to fix some things,” said the bishop, “but that building needs hundreds of thousands of dollars in repairs. It would take years to raise that much money. It’s just not feasible.” “Apud Deum omnia possibilia sunt,” smiled Father Dupuis. “With God all things are possible.”
Nevertheless, when he returned to the valley, Father Dupuis told Augustin and Paulette prospects for persuading the bishop were dim, but they refused to be beaten.
“On verra ça,” said Paulette. “We’ll see about that.”
After Father Dupuis arranged for them to stay overnight in a parish rectory, Paulette and Augustin gathered some of the best rugs and blankets and they drove to Bar Harbor to visit Bob Ellis’s shop. Paulette laid the textiles out on Mr Ellis’s counter and Ellis ran his hand over them admiringly, remarking on their colourful patterns.
“Yes, I can sell these without any trouble,” he said. “These are hand-woven. Can you bring me more? I can sell them on consignment.”
They shook on the deal and Augustin and Paulette returned to the valley. A month later a rather large cheque arrived in Father Dupuis’ mailbox, with a note from Mr Ellis, asking for more blankets and rugs.
The women worked through the summer and autumn, weaving and braiding. Other shops in Portland, Camden, Boothbay Harbor and Bangor began selling their work. By Thanksgiving they had raised an extraordinary amount of money, but Father Dupuis told them, “It won’t be enough. The diocese is already looking for a buyer. But maybe I can stall them.” He and Augustin went to see the bishop again and explained how much had been done, how Augustin had been working to restore the church, and the women had been working to raise money. They showed him the account of how much had been raised, but the bishop was unmoved as Father Dupuis begged, “Just one more year. If we can raise this much in a few months, we can get the rest.”
The bishop waved his hand and told them the diocese needed to find a buyer soon. “We can’t afford to keep the church. We’ve made plans to close it next month.” He informed Father Dupuis he would be reassigned to St. Louis parish at Ft. Kent, where the parishioners from the area around Lille could attend Mass. “The pastor at Ft. Kent is nearing retirement and will need a replacement soon. We have to sell the building.”
Augustin sat silently for a few moments, looking as if he was about to burst. His face reddened and finally the volcano inside him erupted.
“Alors, vendez-le-nous!”
The bishop sat back in his chair, quickly, as if blown back by the sheer force of Augustin’s voice. He did not speak French, so he could only stare wide-eyed, imagining what Augustin might have said.
“Then sell it to us!” Augustin repeated in English. “In its current state, how much do you think you can get from another buyer?” he demanded. “What would it cost you to knock it down? If we double the money we’ve already raised, it would easily exceed what you would get for the building now.”
The bishop sat silently for a few moments, and thought about how much administrative trouble he would save if he could simply wash his hands of the building quickly. Then finally he spoke again, slowly.
“All right, let’s say the money in that account is a down payment. Raise another equal amount of money, and we will transfer the building to you.”
Father Dupuis and Augustin returned to the valley and called a meeting to report the bishop’s proposal. Their report caused a great deal of excitement, and the valley responded with renewed energy. They sought out wealthy donors on both sides of the St. John River, from Van Buren and Edmondston to Ft. Kent, then south to Presque Isle, Houlton and Caribou. It took them only a few months to establish a non-profit board and triple the account they had shown the bishop. The building was signed over to them, with some money left to begin repairs.
“Now we have control of the building,” said Augustin. “We can save it.”
“That’s the really hard part,” Father Dupuis reminded him.
Augustin took the key to the church and stood at the door, almost afraid to unlock it, wondering if he had bitten off too much. He opened the door and walked down the centre aisle, surveying the work that needed to be done. He sat down in one of the pews, considering the enormous task ahead. After a few moments, he smiled. Yes. Je peux le faire. I can do this.
But the repairs would require money—a lot of money. The women redoubled their efforts. They made calls and sent emissaries to thrift shops as far away as Edmondston, Caribou, Presque Isle and Houlton in search of fabric to weave into rugs and catalognes.
At the same time they sent women acting as agents to more coastal towns to place their wares in the tourist shops. Augustin convinced the state historic preservation commission to fund some of the materials for the work and pay for someone to work on the roof and plumbing. He organised work days on weekends. A high-school shop teacher from Madawaska used the project as a teaching opportunity for his students, turning them into apprentices as he supervised them. Men, boys and older schoolchildren brought hammers, saws, paintbrushes and whatever tools were useful to refinish pews, and repair walls and plumbing.
For three years, week after week, month after month, the community laboured at the church. Augustin made his way slowly among the pillars at the back of the church to the front, meticulously cleaning and removing old paint inch by inch, then repainting the decorations as they once had been.
One day in the spring, five years from the day Father Dupuis read the bishop’s letter from the pulpit, Augustin finished painting the decoration on the last column at the front of the church and laid his brush and paint can down. “C’est fait,” he said to himself. “It’s done.” He said it just loud enough for Paulette, walking up behind him, to hear. “Et maintenant?” she said. “Now what?”
“Now we go to Ft. Kent and get Father Dupuis. He must say Mass here again.”
“But he’s been assigned to St. Louis Parish. He will say Mass there.”
“No matter. The bishop will not dare interfere, and the bishop will allow Father Dupuis to say an extra Mass on Easter. Father Dupuis will want to be here to see this.”
Two weeks later, on Easter Sunday, Father Dupuis stood at the altar. Behind him, hanging from the ceiling, was a large crucifix Augustin had carved and painted himself. Draped over the altar was a catalogne. It was chosen from among the finest the women had made. On the floor in front of the altar lay a brilliantly coloured braided rug Paulette had made with her own hands. In the front pew sat Paulette, Yvette, Augustin, Ada, Elise, Lucie and the others who had led the effort to save the church. There were no stained-glass windows in the church, just as there had been none when it was first built, but the Easter morning light streamed through the windows and lit the vibrantly coloured catalogne, rug and crucifix, and the decorated columns as brilliantly as any stained-glass window.
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