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I’m no scholar, sociologist, politician or anthropologist. I’m just a guy who let silence speak. Who listens when things creak, because good stories are in books, but the best ones are in the walls. The walls of a guy who’s too much. Too American to be French, too Canadian to be American, and too French to be Canadian. Neither one nor the host. Someone carved from Manitoba stone, painted and portrayed in Alberta oil, framed by Canada, reframed by England, polished for 262 years and just as long unpolished. Someone who chopped wood to make a living and burns himself to ease his audience’s cold. And from his flame was born the French North American.