When traveling in rattle snake country it’s a good
idea to walk in single file with the heaviest person
out front. Snakes are very sensitive to earthly
vibrations and knowing something is near allows them
to slither away or rattle a warning. Our guide and
leader is a big teenage girl who alternately complains
and giggles about her role in introducing us to the
old man. It’s a short walk up the hillside to his
shack and she must have done her job well because no
snakes are sighted, no rattles heard.
The old man is sitting in the shade, his home too hot
to sit long. We greet him and shake his hand. He tells
us, “Just this morning a big ol’ diamondback was
curled up right where you standing.” He adds it’s too
hot for the snakes just now and we’d likely find them
in a hole under the house or curled up in the shade of
a sage brush somewhere if that’s what we came looking
for. Our caution around rattlers betrays us. Were
strangers in this country yet we are close to the
people living here. His hefty teenage granddaughter
makes us tea and we tell him we’ve come from Canada
looking for some relatives of ours.
During the 1870’s the plains Indians including the
Metis gathered in the Judith Basin of central Montana
to hunt the last of the great buffalo herds. One
historian put it well when he wrote, “Like fish in a
dwindling pond the last of the free roaming plains
Indians came together in large numbers to hunt the
last of the buffalo.” It was the sunset effect, a
brief brightening before the darkness fell.
Following the collapse of the buffalo not all Indians
went to reservation life. The landless people
continued to wander, eking out an existence as best
they could. Cree and Metis refugees from Canada
crossed into Montana and some families did not return.
Chief Stone Child’s Chippewa Band were away hunting
when the government agents took a census of the Turtle
Mountain Reservation in North Dakota. They were not
included. Their share of the reservation was lost and
Stone Child’s people were set adrift without land nor
welcome.
I read accounts of the landless peoples sufferings.
One band of Cree wintered on a diet of poisoned coyote
carcasses found in a coulee. They camped by garbage
dumps. One especially hard winter Stone Child’s people
were camped at the Helena dump destitute and starving
in the freezing cold. Some of the citizens of Helena
came to their aid bringing food and blankets. Stone
Child cried. He said the God of all people would bless
the people of Helena for their kind act. Then there
was the Havre newspaper editorial attacking the Cree
Indians as a public nuisance stating the Crees could
“feast on barb wire and thrive on the diet.”
The Little Shell Band of landless Indians have lived
for over a century in a coulee just north of Great
Falls Montana. A “Heinz 57” sauce advertising sign
made in the 1940’s gave the community its name. They
are Metis, Cree and Chippewa (Saulteaux) people. They
are the last people without rights or reservation.
Among them are Cree and Metis relatives from
Saskatchewan.
The old man talked about his people living by Lizard
Lake near Battleford. Their camp was broken up by the
RCMP and the people then moved south to be with their
Montana relatives. Hill 57 is poverty. The people
wear old tattered cloths. They look sick. Some have
running sores and their shacks are firetraps. The
stories I have learned about a troubled time live on
in this destitute place. I leave with mixed feelings.
I feel angry that such poverty could exist in the
richest country in the world. I feel a deep kinship
with these brethren under another flag. I tell a
relative I feel sorry for these people. She snaps at
me, “Do not feel sorry for these people! These are the
ones who refused to give up the land and for that
alone they deserve to be respected!”
Monday, January 22, 2007
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
The search for Chief Lucky Man's grave Part 1
The story goes there were two Cree hunters camped in the Cypress Hills a long time ago. They heard crying carried on the wind. The crying became louder and then they saw an elderly Knotted Hair medicine man approaching. It was he who was crying. " Be kind to the buffalo, my grandsons, for the day is coming when they will be no more", he said and then left crying as he went. The hunters laughed and believed the old man to be feeble minded, for they both knew the land was full of buffalo in every direction as it had always been.
In 1885 the last lonely wild plains buffalo was sighted near Havre Montana. It was promptly shot and eaten by the townspeople. The Knotted Hair had been right.
In this same year, fighting happened in the north. Riel's Metis and Indian allies surrendered at Batoche. Poundmaker's Cree and Assiniboine followers surrendered at Battleford and only Big Bear's band remained. In spite of three Canadian armies converging on them, a large group including women and children escaped down the spine of the Thickwood Hills, crossed the North Saskatchewan River, then moved west, hiding by day and traveling by night until they reached the north shore of Tramping Lake. They followed it along the western shore then moved southwesterly through sparsely inhabited prairie and plain. They by passed Medicine Hat and crossed the Cypress Hills to the safety of Montana. These people were led by Big Bear's son, Iamses or as he is better known in Montana, Chief Little Bear.
Among these Cree refugees was Lucky Man, father in law to Little Bear and a Chief in his own right. It is said Chief Lucky Man held a grandchild's hand and sang as they crossed the hills within sight of safety. Chief Lucky Man had been a councillor under Chief Big Bear and he had entered Treaty as a Chief only at the insistence of Big Bear who asked him, in a time of unending hardship to take the old, the women and children to the provisions and relative safety of a reserve. The rest held out as best as they could while demanding better Treaty terms. Lucky Man's band stayed among relatives on Little Pine's Reserve awaiting a reserve. Fighting broke out before they chose their reserve and it would be at the end of the next centaury before they finally gained their new reserve.
My grandfather, the original Cuthand, was among those scattered Cree refugees who gathered in Montana. In1896 Queen Victoria granted amnesty and many Cree including my grandfather returned to Canada.
In the early 1980's I travelled to Rocky Boy Reservation in search of my grandfather's American history. I was greatly assisted by Geneva and Bill Stump, Art Rainingbird and Four Souls, who I met only months before his death. Four Souls was the grandson of Little Bear and spiritual leader of the Rocky Boy Cree. He successor was Raining Bird.
I found to my great sadness that I may have literally driven over some long ago relatives. In the early 1960's the main street of Havre was paved using gravel taken from an area near old Fort Assiniboine. Among the gravel were many Indian graves. These were simply mixed in with asphalt and made into a pavement The practice was finally stopped but not before considerable damage was done. These bones remain to this day a part of main street Havre.
I was shown the site of renowned warrior Little Poplar's death and his burial site nearby. This place must be of interest to his descendants on the Sweetgrass Reserve. I was told the site of Lucky Man and one of his daughter's graves was known to the Windy Boy family whose ancestor was buried nearby. Lucky Man and his daughter died of small pox in 1901 while attending a sun dance near the Milk River. Her name is unknown. It is believed she was about nineteen years old at the time of her death.
The Rocky Boy Reservation is located south east of Havre near Box Elder. It is sheltered by high hills and the Bear Paw Mountains. The land remains largely untouched prairie. At sunset, as shadows move across the face of the westernmost mountain what appears to be the claw marks of an enormous bear are seen in sharp relief and then mysteriously disappear. The experience can be quite eerie. This is how the Bear Paw Mountains got their name.
During my visits I found Geneva Stump and I were related by blood. Her ancestor Kitewepay or "the fur coat" was my grandfather's maternal uncle. I told her that from what I was told, our ancestor was a kind and generous man. She looked at me hard and replied, "Frog feathers! He had ten wives and he beat every one of them!" A once cherished family myth burst like a bubble and I had to laugh at the irony of it. In my next column I will write on the return to Rocky Boy with a direct descendant of Lucky Man and our search and discovery of not only Lucky Man's grave but our finding the first known photograph of him
In 1885 the last lonely wild plains buffalo was sighted near Havre Montana. It was promptly shot and eaten by the townspeople. The Knotted Hair had been right.
In this same year, fighting happened in the north. Riel's Metis and Indian allies surrendered at Batoche. Poundmaker's Cree and Assiniboine followers surrendered at Battleford and only Big Bear's band remained. In spite of three Canadian armies converging on them, a large group including women and children escaped down the spine of the Thickwood Hills, crossed the North Saskatchewan River, then moved west, hiding by day and traveling by night until they reached the north shore of Tramping Lake. They followed it along the western shore then moved southwesterly through sparsely inhabited prairie and plain. They by passed Medicine Hat and crossed the Cypress Hills to the safety of Montana. These people were led by Big Bear's son, Iamses or as he is better known in Montana, Chief Little Bear.
Among these Cree refugees was Lucky Man, father in law to Little Bear and a Chief in his own right. It is said Chief Lucky Man held a grandchild's hand and sang as they crossed the hills within sight of safety. Chief Lucky Man had been a councillor under Chief Big Bear and he had entered Treaty as a Chief only at the insistence of Big Bear who asked him, in a time of unending hardship to take the old, the women and children to the provisions and relative safety of a reserve. The rest held out as best as they could while demanding better Treaty terms. Lucky Man's band stayed among relatives on Little Pine's Reserve awaiting a reserve. Fighting broke out before they chose their reserve and it would be at the end of the next centaury before they finally gained their new reserve.
My grandfather, the original Cuthand, was among those scattered Cree refugees who gathered in Montana. In1896 Queen Victoria granted amnesty and many Cree including my grandfather returned to Canada.
In the early 1980's I travelled to Rocky Boy Reservation in search of my grandfather's American history. I was greatly assisted by Geneva and Bill Stump, Art Rainingbird and Four Souls, who I met only months before his death. Four Souls was the grandson of Little Bear and spiritual leader of the Rocky Boy Cree. He successor was Raining Bird.
I found to my great sadness that I may have literally driven over some long ago relatives. In the early 1960's the main street of Havre was paved using gravel taken from an area near old Fort Assiniboine. Among the gravel were many Indian graves. These were simply mixed in with asphalt and made into a pavement The practice was finally stopped but not before considerable damage was done. These bones remain to this day a part of main street Havre.
I was shown the site of renowned warrior Little Poplar's death and his burial site nearby. This place must be of interest to his descendants on the Sweetgrass Reserve. I was told the site of Lucky Man and one of his daughter's graves was known to the Windy Boy family whose ancestor was buried nearby. Lucky Man and his daughter died of small pox in 1901 while attending a sun dance near the Milk River. Her name is unknown. It is believed she was about nineteen years old at the time of her death.
The Rocky Boy Reservation is located south east of Havre near Box Elder. It is sheltered by high hills and the Bear Paw Mountains. The land remains largely untouched prairie. At sunset, as shadows move across the face of the westernmost mountain what appears to be the claw marks of an enormous bear are seen in sharp relief and then mysteriously disappear. The experience can be quite eerie. This is how the Bear Paw Mountains got their name.
During my visits I found Geneva Stump and I were related by blood. Her ancestor Kitewepay or "the fur coat" was my grandfather's maternal uncle. I told her that from what I was told, our ancestor was a kind and generous man. She looked at me hard and replied, "Frog feathers! He had ten wives and he beat every one of them!" A once cherished family myth burst like a bubble and I had to laugh at the irony of it. In my next column I will write on the return to Rocky Boy with a direct descendant of Lucky Man and our search and discovery of not only Lucky Man's grave but our finding the first known photograph of him
The search for Chief Lucky Man's grave Part 2
In 1901 near the Milk River in northern Montana there were deaths from small pox among Cree refugees attending a sun dance. Among these people were Chief Lucky Man and a daughter, her name unknown. They were buried side by side in an old tradition still followed by their descendants, with head to the north and feet to the south. A black stone marked his grave and a small circle of stones marked her grave. They were in a cluster of seven graves. Mrs Windy Boy, a descendant of those buried here, would tell us ninety years later where to find the subtle signs of those we sought.
Several years earlier I had come to Rocky Boy Reservation in Montana seeking my Grandfather's history. I was raised with my family history and like my father shared a life long interest in oral history and archival research. I have found those who know their kinship also know their history. It was through my Montana relatives that I was welcomed and stories shared.
There is a spirit that goes with gifting. Gifting should be non-exploitive and beneficial to both the giver and receiver. Everyone should be happy in the end. I believe this happened during those memorable days.
I returned from my initial trip carrying information for those whose ancestor's graves were known to the Rocky Boy Cree. I approached the late Chief Roderick King of the Lucky Man First Nation. He was a direct descendant of Lucky Man and the Chief who eventually gained the land promised his ancestor over one hundred years before. He was very interested and requested the help of the late Eli Bear from Little Pine First Nation and an oscapeous ( assistant) to the late Jim Kahneepahtehtehow, a head Elder from Onion Lake First Nation.
The help of "Old Jim" proved invaluable. His father had been a ceremonialist in Big Bear's Band and Elder Kahneepahtehtehow knew his history and culture very well. He told us the time we lived in had been predicted a long time ago. In the prophecies a time would come for old things to return from the earth. The rediscovery of long ago ancestors was a part of this. We were instructed on the proper protocol for approaching the Elders of the Rocky Boy Cree and how to address the ancestors when we found their resting places. It was to be a gathering of families once scattered so long ago but now coming together with common purpose. It was a time to shed healing tears.
Chief King, Eli and I left Saskatoon in late May. We stayed in Swift Current overnight. During the night Chief King had an astonishing experience. He was visited by a ghost. He awoke in the middle of the night and saw a long ago Indian, tall with braided hair smiling at him. The apparition disappeared and Chief King slept peacefully through the rest of the night.
We gathered at Geneva and Bill Stump's place on Rocky Boy Reservation. I was saddened to learn, Four Souls, son of Little Bear and the head Elder of the Rocky Boy Cree had passed away. They said he met a beautiful death. He had gone with some people to the high mountain meadows to round up horses. Four Souls said he was tired and stayed behind. When the people returned he was missing. The eventually found him lying peacefully in a meadow filled with wildflowers. The people said this was a good way for a Cree man to die and there was no tragedy in a life well lived.
We presented our pipes and spiritual offerings to their Elders. Art Rainingbird was their spiritual leader and Chief King spoke on our behalf. Chief King's address was brief and emotional. He repeated the information I had provided him and requested their help in locating the grave of his ancestor. They accepted our pipes and offerings. We prayed and smoked together. They then agreed to help us, with concern the grave sites should remain undisturbed.
I noticed the women Elders spoke through Geneva Stump. She had been provided with a photograph they identified as Lucky Man. I had been told in order to find Lucky Man, I must first find his famous son in law Little Bear. The photograph they presented contained both. There was no photograph known to us of Chief Lucky Man until this moment. The tall man standing to the left of the photograph was the same long ago Indian who appeared in a vision to Chief King the night before. Perhaps one of the women is his daughter. We had found Lucky Man. Chief King cried.
We were taken to a place outside Havre Montana. I was shown the site of the 1901 sun dance. It was a good place. Nearby we were taken to a field of low rolling short grass prairie. The crocus were in bloom, the meadow larks were singing and the sky was a brilliant blue. Everything felt right.
Mrs. Windy Boy came here since she was a child. Her family tended ancestors graves in the spring of every year. They had shown her the site of Chief Lucky Man and his daughter's graves. She had always remembered and it was she who helped us. It was strange we never met her but her presence was definitely felt and appreciated through the intercession of Geneva Stump. She had told Geneva to look for a dip between two hills and then follow the dip down until we found a circle of stones. This was the grave of Lucky Man's daughter and next to it we would find a black stone, the grave of Lucky Man.
Chief King and Eli went off in separate directions looking for the two hills and the dip in between. I was about to search myself when Geneva told me to stay put. She had never been here herself but she clearly sensed something I didn't. She told me we should have a cigarette and talk about nothing in particular. Looking back now, I can see she was teaching me something. We smoked and engaged in idle conversation then she said, "Do you see it." I looked around but could not see the two hills and I told her so. "Look there" she said and pointed with her head. I looked again and then I saw it. The two hills were barely a ripple on the crest of a gradual grassy slope leading to the banks of the Milk River. Between them was a slight dip. I could have spent all day looking for it and never found it. It was a subtle mystery, barely discernable, yet there.
We followed the dip about ten feet and then found the circle of stones, pebbles of white shale in a rough circle barely eight inches across. This was Lucky Man's daughter's grave and next to it, barely four feet toward the river, a small black rock of shale barely the size of a man's palm, the grave of Lucky Man. My heart was beating fast and my skin felt prickly. We were on hallowed ground.
There wasn't much said and there wasn't any need to say very much at all. We made a sweet grass smudge and prayers were given as old Jim had instructed. We were to speak to the ancestors gently and lovingly. Again everything felt right. I shared a sweat with the Stumps that evening and left the next morning refreshed and at peace.
There are times I reflect on those moments, for something important and mysterious happened for us all. I often think of the daughter and how sad it is, the women are largely forgotten in the histories, yet it was the women who enabled us to find the hallowed ground. I wonder was it she, who at age six held the hand of her father as he sang crossing the Cypress Hills to safety? I also see them crossing safely hand in hand from this world to the bountiful Green Grass World, where there is no winter, no want and no suffering. I believe Chief King has joined them and all the others who were with us but have since passed on. The only ones alive today who worked together during that time are Geneva Stump and myself. There are many stories which are subtle and mysterious like the changing face of the Bear Paw mountains and I believe they are important because they tell us something of who we really are.
Several years earlier I had come to Rocky Boy Reservation in Montana seeking my Grandfather's history. I was raised with my family history and like my father shared a life long interest in oral history and archival research. I have found those who know their kinship also know their history. It was through my Montana relatives that I was welcomed and stories shared.
There is a spirit that goes with gifting. Gifting should be non-exploitive and beneficial to both the giver and receiver. Everyone should be happy in the end. I believe this happened during those memorable days.
I returned from my initial trip carrying information for those whose ancestor's graves were known to the Rocky Boy Cree. I approached the late Chief Roderick King of the Lucky Man First Nation. He was a direct descendant of Lucky Man and the Chief who eventually gained the land promised his ancestor over one hundred years before. He was very interested and requested the help of the late Eli Bear from Little Pine First Nation and an oscapeous ( assistant) to the late Jim Kahneepahtehtehow, a head Elder from Onion Lake First Nation.
The help of "Old Jim" proved invaluable. His father had been a ceremonialist in Big Bear's Band and Elder Kahneepahtehtehow knew his history and culture very well. He told us the time we lived in had been predicted a long time ago. In the prophecies a time would come for old things to return from the earth. The rediscovery of long ago ancestors was a part of this. We were instructed on the proper protocol for approaching the Elders of the Rocky Boy Cree and how to address the ancestors when we found their resting places. It was to be a gathering of families once scattered so long ago but now coming together with common purpose. It was a time to shed healing tears.
Chief King, Eli and I left Saskatoon in late May. We stayed in Swift Current overnight. During the night Chief King had an astonishing experience. He was visited by a ghost. He awoke in the middle of the night and saw a long ago Indian, tall with braided hair smiling at him. The apparition disappeared and Chief King slept peacefully through the rest of the night.
We gathered at Geneva and Bill Stump's place on Rocky Boy Reservation. I was saddened to learn, Four Souls, son of Little Bear and the head Elder of the Rocky Boy Cree had passed away. They said he met a beautiful death. He had gone with some people to the high mountain meadows to round up horses. Four Souls said he was tired and stayed behind. When the people returned he was missing. The eventually found him lying peacefully in a meadow filled with wildflowers. The people said this was a good way for a Cree man to die and there was no tragedy in a life well lived.
We presented our pipes and spiritual offerings to their Elders. Art Rainingbird was their spiritual leader and Chief King spoke on our behalf. Chief King's address was brief and emotional. He repeated the information I had provided him and requested their help in locating the grave of his ancestor. They accepted our pipes and offerings. We prayed and smoked together. They then agreed to help us, with concern the grave sites should remain undisturbed.
I noticed the women Elders spoke through Geneva Stump. She had been provided with a photograph they identified as Lucky Man. I had been told in order to find Lucky Man, I must first find his famous son in law Little Bear. The photograph they presented contained both. There was no photograph known to us of Chief Lucky Man until this moment. The tall man standing to the left of the photograph was the same long ago Indian who appeared in a vision to Chief King the night before. Perhaps one of the women is his daughter. We had found Lucky Man. Chief King cried.
We were taken to a place outside Havre Montana. I was shown the site of the 1901 sun dance. It was a good place. Nearby we were taken to a field of low rolling short grass prairie. The crocus were in bloom, the meadow larks were singing and the sky was a brilliant blue. Everything felt right.
Mrs. Windy Boy came here since she was a child. Her family tended ancestors graves in the spring of every year. They had shown her the site of Chief Lucky Man and his daughter's graves. She had always remembered and it was she who helped us. It was strange we never met her but her presence was definitely felt and appreciated through the intercession of Geneva Stump. She had told Geneva to look for a dip between two hills and then follow the dip down until we found a circle of stones. This was the grave of Lucky Man's daughter and next to it we would find a black stone, the grave of Lucky Man.
Chief King and Eli went off in separate directions looking for the two hills and the dip in between. I was about to search myself when Geneva told me to stay put. She had never been here herself but she clearly sensed something I didn't. She told me we should have a cigarette and talk about nothing in particular. Looking back now, I can see she was teaching me something. We smoked and engaged in idle conversation then she said, "Do you see it." I looked around but could not see the two hills and I told her so. "Look there" she said and pointed with her head. I looked again and then I saw it. The two hills were barely a ripple on the crest of a gradual grassy slope leading to the banks of the Milk River. Between them was a slight dip. I could have spent all day looking for it and never found it. It was a subtle mystery, barely discernable, yet there.
We followed the dip about ten feet and then found the circle of stones, pebbles of white shale in a rough circle barely eight inches across. This was Lucky Man's daughter's grave and next to it, barely four feet toward the river, a small black rock of shale barely the size of a man's palm, the grave of Lucky Man. My heart was beating fast and my skin felt prickly. We were on hallowed ground.
There wasn't much said and there wasn't any need to say very much at all. We made a sweet grass smudge and prayers were given as old Jim had instructed. We were to speak to the ancestors gently and lovingly. Again everything felt right. I shared a sweat with the Stumps that evening and left the next morning refreshed and at peace.
There are times I reflect on those moments, for something important and mysterious happened for us all. I often think of the daughter and how sad it is, the women are largely forgotten in the histories, yet it was the women who enabled us to find the hallowed ground. I wonder was it she, who at age six held the hand of her father as he sang crossing the Cypress Hills to safety? I also see them crossing safely hand in hand from this world to the bountiful Green Grass World, where there is no winter, no want and no suffering. I believe Chief King has joined them and all the others who were with us but have since passed on. The only ones alive today who worked together during that time are Geneva Stump and myself. There are many stories which are subtle and mysterious like the changing face of the Bear Paw mountains and I believe they are important because they tell us something of who we really are.
Climbing on the wagon much more than transportation to the next drunk
There's nothing anonymous about Alcoholics Anonymous
(AA) on a reserve. About noon the next day everybody
pretty much knows what was said and who said it.
Gossip is relished and if the truth gets stretched
somewhat in the retelling then it just makes a good
story even better.
Despite the large ears and long tongues, it must be
recognized that the AA fellowship has helped a lot of
people over a lot of years. There was a time when
alcoholism was regarded as incurable. Alcoholics
simply died without hope. It took two remarkable
individuals to support one another in their sobriety.
Together they managed through the common bond of
alcoholism and the desire to maintain sobriety to
create a path leading to a life of sobriety and
ongoing recovery. This path became the fellowship of
Alcoholics Anonymous.
I remember attending my first AA meeting. I was like
a whipped dog with my tail between my legs. I was in
misery and here were all these people laughing and
joking. I was shocked and annoyed. Life was so unfair
and here were my fellow drunks having a good time when
they should be sharing my misery.
A cynic may say climbing on the wagon is just
transportation to the next drunk. I found, however, AA
works if I made it work. Deceased Senator David Knight
used to come up to me, touch my coat and ask me if I
was still dry. My sponsor would tell me life was hard
drunk or sober so I'd better get on with living the
way it is rather than mourning it for what it should
be. People would say "One day at a time", "Easy Does
It" and my favorite "The more you say poor me the
sooner you'll say pour me another one." It was like
there was this ball bearing rolling around in my
alcoholic pickled mind that would make contact every
once in a while and form an insightful thought. It
took a year before my mind cleared.
I remember many years ago in Thompson Manitoba, my
boss offered me full pay if I would go into treatment
for twenty-eight days. I refused to even consider I
had an Alcohol problem so I quit on the spot.
Alcoholism made me a liar. I could even lie to myself
and believe it. People knew I was an Alcoholic long
before I could admit it to myself. Two very definite
signs of acute alcoholism are drinking alone and
blackouts. I did both.
Twenty-six years of sobriety later I still can't
dance sober but I can enjoy life.
I have noticed it is from the margins that new
streams of emotional healing appear. Two alcoholics
helped one another and in their doing so laid the
foundation of a fellowship that would help countless
others world wide. There are other examples
The treatment of post traumatic stress disorder owes
a big debt to veterans returning from the Vietnam. The
American military did not want to recognize or treat
the mental wounds experienced by veterans. Emotional
pain leading to suicide, addictions and violence was
seen as a moral flaw distant from the intense
battlefield experience. The military accepted physical
wounds but could not accept emotional wounds. Again
the hopeful healing response came from within. The
veterans themselves developed their own group therapy
to meet their own needs. Only when the administration
saw the success of these groups did the military
accept and adopt the veteran's own therapy.
Colonization has had an impact on every Indian
family. In the same manner as the origin of AA and the
Vietnam veteran's search for healing, the Aboriginal
people are finding new hope from within. Sharing
Circles, ceremonies and renewal from within each
person and each community are` creating hope. People
love to gossip but in the sharing, people are also
talking about those remarkable individuals who are
walking a healing journey. One leads and others will
follow.
When the snow falls and the trail calls
My beloved white top has returned. My trusty Arctic
Cat Panther snowmobile has been pulled out of storage
and prepped for a winter of fun. Yes it’s snowmobile
season again and the smell of two stroke wafts
delightfully in the crisp December air. I’m raring to
ride and an Alberta Clipper has dropped seven
centimeters, enough to glide around the pasture.
I don’t set a blistering pace nor do I terrorize the
local wildlife. I love riding cross country. One time
I rode on a rally from my front porch to Duck Lake
return. What fun that was. I have a two up so my wife
or kids can ride with me if they so choose. I pull a
big old plastic sleigh I can fill with wood or
giggling kids. Our entourage includes the family dog
loping along side.
My first experience snowmobiling was riding a 1965
Ski-Doo Olympic when I was fifteen years old living in
Punnichy Saskatchewan. This rickety sled exerted a
meagre 10.5 hp with a top speed of twenty miles an
hour on hard pack. The boogie wheel suspension and the
skimpy seat had all the give of a prison mattress. It
was a bone jarring experience. Still it was a hoot to
bump around on. I kept a small trap line made up of
rabbit snares and overgrown mouse traps I baited with
sardines to catch weasels. I was never any good at
trapping muskrats but I shot the occasional grouse
with my single shot 22. The Touchwood Hills were pure
magic in winter and I have many a pleasant memory of
gliding over hill and dale as they say.
Like all small towns in Saskatchewan, Punnichy had
its rumours and gossip, its characters and a certain
dark racism lurking in the background. I was not aware
of nor could I understand the devastating and hidden
impact of sexual abuse happening at the neighbouring
Gordon’s Residential School.
My winter wanderings would take me cross country to
places like Quinton or the Gordon’s school where I
could warm up and if I was lucky get a coffee or a hot
chocolate. It was the winter of 1968/1969 that I met
and sledded around with Bill Starr, the administrator
of the Gordon’s residential school. He owned a brand
new Ski-Doo 340 T’NT and I was thrilled horn to tail
when he let me drive it. I had no idea at the time I
was sledding with a sexual predator. While my brush
with Starr was no more than an exchange of sleds for
an afternoon of riding, I was dumbfounded when I found
out this same kind man was a monster. He was later
imprisoned for sexually assaulting young people in the
residential school and as a Sea Scout leader in New
Brunswick.
I now see and work with the intergenerational impact
of people suffering from the effects of abuse
including colonialism. The residential schools after
all, were abusive by design. My own self care includes
snowmobiling. I find my burden is lifted. The trail
calls. I spin track and I’m gone in a world that’s
wondrous and exhilarating. I call it my freedom.
Sometimes I need to escape and nothing else including
quading and boating has brought me such good feelings.
I understand there will be marathon AA meetings in
both Regina and Saskatoon Christmas Eve through Boxing
Day. Imagine that non-stop AA meetings. No wonder they
need a Big Book. I may need to stop in and brush up on
a few steps myself. My brother claims being on the
wagon is only transportation to the next drunk but I
can safely say 25 five years on the wagon has been
good for me. Booze flows like water during the Xmas
season and it’s all a poor addict can do to hang in
there. On News Eve there should be the annual AA Round
Up in Saskatoon. When I was younger I thought an AA
Round Up was when the cops went around to the bars
with the Paddy Wagon and pulled out all the drunks. In
twenty five years of sobriety, by the way, I still
have yet to learn the art of dancing sober. During
Christmas time I do find comfort in generous slices of
turkey and the occasional jumbo Toberlone bar. This
indulgence does not bode well for my type 2 diabetes,
however. My only answer is to fire up the Panther and
scoot into the woods with a chilled diet Coke or two.
In such times snowmobiling is the only answer.
Grizzled old badger mourns passing of years
I’m in the October of my years. I complain about the cold, whimper about what a dollar doesn’t buy any more, gripe about gas prices and mourn the passing of my good looks. I’m not the man I used to think I was. I knew I was going to seed when my waist size moved past my leg length. I used to buy shampoo for oily hair, now I need all the moisturizing conditioner I can get. My hair has faded between black and grey and I look for all the world like some grizzled old badger. With the advent of crow’s feet and eye bags I almost miss pimples.
This month I turned fifty-two. One advantage of passing fifty is all my favourite music is dirt cheap. I’m no longer a slave to fashion and I’m settled enough to accept, if not be content with, my lot in life. I saw a bumper sticker once that said, “It used to be wine, women and song. Now it’s beer, the old lady and television.” Aside from the beer part I can pretty much identify with it. Like an aging dog I’m content to lie around the yard rather than thrill to chasing cars by the road.
It’s been awhile since I heard Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs sing “Woolly Bully” or Question Mark and the Mysterians immortal hit, “Shaking all Over“. They were later known as the Guess Who. They sold out to Coca Cola with a jingle based on the song, “Shaking All over for a Coca Cola”. Sounds like crack cocaine withdrawal doesn’t it? In order to hear this vintage rock I have to dial into Tisdale Saskatchewan to 750 on the AM dial. Late at night there’s CKXL, if I’m not mistaken, out of Calgary Alberta on 660 AM . Such desperate measures are not required, however, if one hit’s the CD bins at Wal-Mart. I picked up the greatest hits of Grand Funk Railroad (all two of them) for five dollars. The greatest hits packages of Brenda Lee, Nat King Cole, Patty Page, Johnny Horton (no relation to Tim), Herman’s Hermits, and The Dave Clark Five are all there cheap, cheap, cheap. One can only wonder why.
I’m drawn toward the Arnold Palmer collection of men’s clothing at Sears. Pastels now appeal to me and bargains jump out at me when I cruise the aisles in Value Village. I actually enjoy shopping at Peavy Mart. I wonder what it would be like to take a Carnival Cruise and I even thought about owning a Winnebago RV but I’ll settle for a tent trailer instead. Me, the world’s oldest teenager, is now getting old despite myself. I may soon need a fire permit to light up my birthday cake.
Life’s road has actually been pretty good to me, aside from some potholes like the 70’s and the 80’s. I still have my own teeth, my appendix and most of my hair. I don’t need a hearing aid but I do wear bifocals. My wife still finds me lovable and huggable. I have a warm place to sleep and food in the fridge. That’s a lot more than some people.
January is a difficult time to muse about one’s birthday. As I write this the temperature has dropped to minus thirty plus with some kind of horrible wind chill factor thrown on top. Not a good time to stick your tongue on a stop sign. The daylight is still short. The vehicle is plugged in and the dog is spending the night in the almost warm porch. It’s colder and darker than an Indian agents heart. A few years ago it hit minus fifty two on Keeseekoose Reserve. Those people lucky enough to keep their vehicle running found their tires low and if they tried to fill them up the valves froze open and the tires lost all pressure. The ones that kept moving clumped around on low tires. Now that’s cold.
My old dad says the long ago Crees believed the sun made fires to keep himself warm during cold weather, which explains the origin of sundogs. In any case I can’t help but feel the misery of the coldest days of winter coupled with my advancing years has brought about this deep funk. In such times there is one sure fire cure to lift my spirits. I’m headed for Wal-Mart in order to raid the CD bargain bin. If I’m lucky I may find Tommy James and the Shondells singing “Crystal Blue Persuasion” or some other escapist music best heard on a good Sony Walkman.
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