Listen to this
When you attend a conference the keynotes and workshops inform, entertain and perhaps leave one with a nugget of knowledge or affirmation. The closing keynote of the 2022 Canadian National Child and Youth Care Conference, Mackenzie Brown, through drum song, singing, dialogue, illustrations like the one above and sheer effervescence bought me back to the unique aspect of my childhood, experiencing two families and two cultures while occupying the safe space between the western and indigenous worldview as presented above. My best friend roughly from the age of 3 or 4 lived next door and was a constant life presence until different high schools and life separated us. I’ll call them the X family and the experience of knowing them had lingered deep in my memory, impacting my lifestyle unconsciously through their Cree Metis lifestyle. At a time when reconciliation and polarisation for indigenous peoples is complex with the discovery of the indigenous graves of infants and children who attended residential schools without any record on one hand and the rollout of indigenous investment in everything from a beaded zipper pull to urban reserves, an interprovincial pipeline, artwork, fashion, tourism and hospitality on the other; impacting the Canadian experience. This column explores aspects of the memories bubbling up in me of this remarkable family as inspired by Mackenzie.
The X family had a Kokum, who had come north from the Manitoba Interlake to live with them as a widow. She did not speak much yet was always a presence, fine grey hair braided into an elaborate round woven circle and always a simple day dress in printed cotton. I thought they were so lucky to have her as my grandmother, who had raised me for almost two years remained a day distant to the south. Respect for seniors was more of a given then as they remained a vital part of the family.
Our parents chose well establishing a fine suburb poking into the wilds literally two blocks or less. To the east ran a range of high stone bluffs which included a rock fall we called the caves, a massive sandpit with walls of fine sand miles above our heads and a lake. High Rock gave one something to climb to take in the view of our town. To the south was our school with its three modes of approach: sidewalk, when you really had to get there, road, for when the sidewalk was blocked in winter and a park which was just natural forest with trails. Westward was a polluted stream with rapids and miles of barren rock, its wild growth burnt by deadly smelter smoke. Finally, to the north, our water reservoir was a pristine lake, guarded lake, sheltered for our exclusive use. As we aged, we roamed deeper into the far reaches in each direction. Walking, swimming, fishing, hunting, fort building and constant exploration. I often wonder where the kids are in my city. I see them in the school yards but rarely on our street as folks have built ten-to-twelve-foot stockades on rail runners to fortress their yards. Most have experienced being a victim of crime be it simple trespass to break and enter to home invasions. Boundaries, which were once second nature, have broken down over my lifetime. Proper parenting must include explicit instruction in boundary respect.
Mr. X valued the young and created age appropriate yet instructive and healthy activity. He had a friend with a frontend loader create a mountain of snow in the backyard to climb at first but dig out a fort in once it was hard packed. An ice rink followed which meandered around the trees allowing for free skating and net minding. As we aged the activity changed ending in an intense three lake over canoe trip with an overnight stay in a trapper’s cabin. Everything had to be carried in and out again with swarms of blackflies bleeding your exposed bits near every lakeshore. Your eyes hurt; you literally swallowed these things but there was no complaining just getting the job done. Once back in the canoe and perhaps ten feet out from shore the swarms ended in a swell of true freedom. One of the lakes had a chalk bottom so looking across it appeared turquoise like a mountain lake while looking down was totally clear to the bottom with ghost like fish coursing along. Fish camouflage altering their colour to match their surroundings. I hooked a massive pickerel who jumped high above us at one point before drilling down straight under the canoe to break the line. As one with a helicopter parent who saw danger in each step in the wild this immersion was exhilarating.
This pattern of enjoying life was ultimately repeated in the building of the X family cottage. My parents viewed cottage life as too much work. They entertained the notion folks would pour in on them every weekend. For many fortunate folks cottaging is a Canadian lifestyle like that of the Nordic countries. Mr. X decided upon blond or clear logs requiring cutting Poplar logs in a distant forest, boating them over to the site, debarking them and building with them. Everyone had a job or role in this from the Kokum on down to us kids. Our job was to use a laundry pail perched on a baby carriage chassis to haul sand and build the trails over the dark muskeg of the site. We were only to do this fetching and spreading until noon at which time we had the afternoon off and in time all the toys to use. Ultimately, we were left at the lake for the work week for an incredible few seasons I’ve never forgotten for the immersion into the wild it allowed. You learned to tell time by shadows and/or position of the sun relative to a tree, literally sniff out weather and see its signs in the colour of sunsets and dawns. Along the way we had an orphaned moose, a bald eagle and for a few years, a raccoon come into our lives to tend to.
Mr. X also coached junior hockey setting a few lads up for impressive Stanley Cup careers. Once he hosted Gordy Howe to a day at the cottage sponsored by a beer company. They were more than generous with their product setting the place up with a few summers’ worth of the stubby bottles of the day just as we entered the teen years. A neighbour hosted his American clients one weekend. We wandered in, put on a southern drawl and were given a beer for out troubles refreshing our card playing. Things suddenly blew up when a lake friend’s mother caught on raiding the cabin and finding case after case of beer tucked away in the bedroom. End of the party although she never learned the true source.
This was a welcome revelation of nostalgia far beyond the warm memories and the contrasts with my family to an appreciation of living that closely with the land and its weather. It gave me an appreciation for indigenous life, culture, the sweat lodge, drum and regalia making. My friend grew up as a professional administrator tasked with grooming an Inuit for his position. Dogs and horses were a constant in his family life. His brothers became wildlife rangers tasked with protecting our polar bears and cougars in the wild. The grieving and trauma of residential schools skipped them, and their good humor and positive outlook meant much for me. A recent google search suggested the cottage is gone now as is the pine forest and muskeg ground it sat upon. New builds and cut back berms for fire safety and lawns have replaced the string of humble cabins of my youth. In some ways this is the story of one of the opportunities of Canadian life, that your home and lifestyle can involve sharing with diverse cultures enriching that aspect of community living. Still, you must take that opportunity breeching the physical walls and your own tribal heritage. Where I live the lawns are so small, I cut my neighbours when I do mine and they also cut mine in turn. This leads to conversations, sharing and positive moments.
