I think sometimes what you write is interpreted differently from what you were trying to convey by some people, they see from their eyes, not wanting to see from the writer’s point of view, it can be disturbing and goes against everything you were raised to believe, they want to see, but what they were taught does not allow them to explore further what the storyteller is saying, in other words, they don’t listen to what you hear.
I’ve been thinking about a photograph of me when I was based at 8 mile channel in ’71–’72. I don’t have any pictures of me at the other work camps I stayed in before 8 mile channel. Those camps were in Minago River and Williams Lake, both north of Misipawistik (Grand Rapids) and I was working for the highways department at the time. After the completion of Highway 6 connecting to Highway 391 (now Hwy. 6) and three months off, I was sent to Soab Lake, southwest of Thompson, and when that contract was finished, I was transferred to Thompson. After two months I left and moved back to Winnipeg, thinking my bush camp days were done with and I looked for work closer to home. Nothing materialized, a young Cree/Métis man was way down on the list as a potential employee of most companies in Winnipeg at that time. An old world man, a finishing carpenter, took a chance and hired me, it was mostly part time work but I liked it. Then hydro called and at the time the job looked promising and off to 8 mile channel I went, with two to three months on site and six days off, except at Christmas, that was two weeks off. Come June, I decided that after five years of living out of a trailer and a backpack, it was time to look for something else.
All those years, I only worked with white men with one exception, 8 mile channel, where there was one other Indigenous man from Norway House, he left shortly after Christmas. You spend a lot of time alone in those camps, small as they were, most of the men stayed to themselves, even with two-man rooms, very little was shared in way of conversations, bits and pieces of small talk, nothing personal between you and your roommate. Quiet meals, most conversations were spoken in hushed voices, I learned very quickly to sit by myself, eat fast and leave, either to get to work or back to my room.
Isolation within isolation, you learned to adapt to the silence. I became an observer, always “in the shadows,” listening, watching, staying silent unless a comment was made belittling people like me, then I would respond and that is why the cook shack would become silent when I came in to eat. I carried that silence home and it almost ended my relationship.
I always knew who I was, I just didn’t know where I belonged. I was a stranger to those I worked with and I became a stranger to those I grew up with. That photograph with that slight smile is the only one I have from that time that actually shows me with that little smile. I think I had already made up my mind then, I was leaving the camp once summer came.
In all that time I worked at these camps and from the time my daughter was born until she was able to talk, I was Duncan to her, this strange quiet man who made her laugh when he would suddenly appear for a few days, then disappear again for months. She was four before she called me “dad.”
After five years I didn’t want to end up like all those men who only viewed life from what they learned in the bush camps and spoke in whispers, if they spoke at all. I worked night shift most of the time, just me and another man in the wheelhouse of the dredge, 8 hours of silence, 7 days a week, 2 months or more, the only words we spoke were, “see you tonight.”
I never said good-bye to anyone when I left the 8 mile camp, except to my roommate, I left without looking back.
I don’t know why we searched out the darkness when we first moved to the city. My wife Freida had already been here for two years before me. She was raising our daughter with help from her mother while I worked up north in the bush camps, some with Manitoba hydro, other times it was with the department of highways. My visits were sporadic, never really knowing when the contractor would shut the construction down to allow his crews some downtime, especially the companies that were working on highways. Camps changed as contracts were completed, moving from one site to another, and time off was dictated by where a new camp would be located and then how long it would take to set up. If it was a week, it meant a week off, if it was three days, three days off, not much time to get down to the city when the trip was a six- to eight-hour drive. Working for hydro was different, it was two months in camp then six days off. It was always a scramble to get to Winnipeg, get reacquainted with Freida and my daughter, do some shopping, but always, always the need to see and do everything one could do with the time I had to visit, go to movies, and of course, the strip. It was night after night of bar hopping, not caring, just going.
Back in Misipawistik we used to walk the old portage that the old ones used to skirt the rapids. We didn’t know how old the trail was but it was easy to find. It was well-worn, nothing grew on that trail, wide enough to see that one could carry a canoe loaded down with furs and not brush against the trees and bush that grew beside it. We’d run down that path, not loaded down with furs or canoes, just what we needed to spend the day on that trail. We didn’t carry any lunches, what we needed, we hunted, fish were easy to catch and there were always grouse, ruff tailed, sharp tail, spruce hens, easily available and so easy to bring down. We went from end to end on that portage, right from across kanaschack (the point) to the head of the rapids.
We got to know that trail like the backs of our hands, a place we explored all summer long and well into the fall. But there was one spot we always stopped at, the highest point of the trail, a site where one could find remains of old campfires, scattered pieces of bones, discarded pails used as cooking pots. We’d stop there to eat, just like others had stopped generations before us.
But that’s not the only reason we stopped there, we had another reason. It was a place we tested ourselves, our resolve, our fear. It was the place where the rapids curved from east-southeast to northwesterly and a place where the rapids were the swiftest and the loudest, a place where we had to shout to talk to each other, a place we both feared and that gave us exhilaration, a place where we knew the old ones watched as we played our most dangerous game.
About ten paces from where we ate was the edge of the bank, from the edge was a trail that wound its way down the bank, about 150 feet down to the edge of the water, at that place was a small area where the rapids didn’t reach, about ten feet of calmness, and at the very end of the trail was a little spruce tree, bent, remains of branches still visible on one side. We would all stand next to that trail, looking down, then our oldest cousin would take off down that trail, running straight down, slipping and sliding, never slowing down and at the very last moment, just before slipping into the water, he would grab at the spruce tree to stop himself, watching it bend, but never breaking. Holding him there at the edge. We all took turns, from oldest to youngest, eyes glued to the edge as it rushed towards you, everything beside you a blur, eyes focused on that small tree, slipping, sliding, trying to maintain balance as you hurtled down that trail, then reaching, reaching for that small tree, fingers just brushing those last remains of a branch, feeling the coldness of the water, that cold dark rushing water filling your shoes, unable to hang on, and a hand reaching out, grabbing your shirt, pulling you back, just before the rapids took hold of you. Hearing the laughter, and a voice, kaygatch (that was close), climbing back up the trail to continue on our way. Then taking off my pants but keeping the shoes on.
On the way back, we’d play the game again.
Memories of others long since passed, appear from time to time, depending on the song and the season
The chill of an early winter as evening falls brings you to mind
And our breaths would mingle beneath the evening star while a solitary note from a solitary harp would echo across the sky
And the song would disappear into the cedar and spruce while the softness of the muskeg would cushion our passion and muffle our sighs of want and need but the song would end before we crossed that threshold until the echo of another song would reverberate through the night dancing with the northern lights and once again our passion would rise and fall with each string strummed
Caressing and coaxing a reluctant voice to sing a song of joy in the key of blue
Voice of the street drifting in and out with each opening and closing of the door a cue ball a silent nod corner pocket by the back door smelling of after midnight and the blues man the blues always on the street rumbling dancing to the music of low riders hogs filling the bar with wind-burned faces and hair combed by the wind, bar smelling of after midnight full of bikers, smokers, night off hookers, wannabees, can’t bes, VLTers, across the street drop ins, cross dressers and suburbanites, old friends, new friends all smiling that good to see you smile but the blues man the blues all nod fridays smelling of after midnight at the corner of St. Mary and Garry.
A blue collar guy in a white collar world living in a tie-dyed neighborhood writing in broken english dreaming in cree in a concrete forest my skin a chameleon of colors from a whiter shade of red in spring to the dark brown of summer to the earth tones of fall and then the darker shade of white in winter and you ask me why are you confused
I had another reason I walked as far as the forks this morning, I was seeking an answer from the old ones, I know, I know, I’m not the most spiritual or traditional person and I am a skeptic on our beliefs, but there are times I have to toss out all those “I don’t believe it” ideas, today was one of those days, I want to tell you about my mother, now I am more like my mother than my father, although I’ve been told I look more like the Mercredi side of the family rather than the Thomas side, but I watched my mother a lot when I was a child, the way she talked, her silent moments, the way she would drift away, even in a room full of people, she always said to me, on those late nights after too many drinks, “I have no place I can call home, I live here (meaning Grand Rapids), I was born there, (meaning Nelson House) but these places are not ‘home,’ I don’t know what a home feels like.” My mother, auntie and uncle left Nelson House to go to residential school (Brandon), she was 8, auntie was 5, uncle was 9, uncle stayed less than 2 years, he contracted tb when he was there, our grandfather went and got him, not wanting him to die in a strange place but also determined to cure him, he did, took him home to his trapline and fought that disease that took so many, he won and he never sent uncle back to that school, my mother and auntie stayed, for years before coming home for the summer, mother told me once, made me swear to never tell this to anyone, but she’s gone now, so I can, she said, “when I got to our house, my mom was hanging sheets on the clothesline, when I saw her I was so angry at her I couldn’t hug her, all those years she never came down to visit, never once, it took me years to understand why she didn’t.”
I used to walk with my mother to go visit the Garricks, they lived across the bay from kanaschack, we’d have to cross a few creeks to get to their house, this old house, hidden by trees and willows, it looked enormous to me, I’d sit and stare at their china cabinet, filled with her cups and plates and other treasures, I was allowed to look at them but not touch, I’d sit there and listen to them talk, never taking my eyes from that display, she loved visiting the Garricks, the walk home would be silent, but then all our walks would be, we’d stop at kanaschak and pick what fruit was in season.
My mother was happiest when she was singing or dancing, she lived for the dances in the village, then later after the dance, when she thought everyone was asleep, she’d sit at the table, drinking tea, I’d sneak down the stairs, stay in the shadows, watch her, this lonely woman who believed she had no place to call home, watch her as she wiped the tears from her eyes. That’s why I walked to the forks, to ask the old ones if I could share this little story of my mother, they didn’t say no and they didn’t say yes.
I was going to wear orange, then I thought I don’t need orange to remind me or to never forget, one doesn’t forget when one lived with those memories, from somewhere deep down inside those memory banks they would emerge, it took a lot of drinks to drag those nightmares to the surface, one doesn’t forget that heartache told to you late at night, long after last call, quietly, not to wake the young ones. Now, the settlers, they should wear orange, to remind them, it happened, it didn’t go away, it’s not something “to let go, it’s in the past,” the old ones they know, until all their stories are told, they will never let us forget.
I love my walks, that breeze carries many stories.
Heading north again tomorrow, time of departure, unknown, time of arrival, before dark, traveling companion, undecided, reason, visit old sites, reconnect, what once lived there, like this one, “we lived here, Kookum’s house, Uncle George close by, we could see Uncle Isadore’s place just past the graveyard, from our yard, we shared what we planted in Kookum’s garden, next to the river was Yourba’s little house, next to church,” now I walk on it, nothing is the same, their history bulldozed over, they did not erase my memories, that D9 did not touch those.
Kind words were spoken, funny memories were shared, others stayed silent, tears were shed, others, I’m sure, wondered why, family crowded a small space to pay their respects, food was gifted to those who came and laughter was given in return, as for me, there was a sadness, not that she left when she did, because for me, she left years ago, visiting her, I was a stranger, I’d watch her, quietly, while she searched her memory, trying to put a name to that face that said, “hi Clara, it’s me,” but rarely would recognition register in her eyes, occasionally a little bit of light would appear, not often though, and I would wonder if it was the voice she connected with or maybe the scent he or she carried, and my mind would wander back as Freida would sit beside her, sometimes holding her hand, adjusting her blanket on her shoulders, trying to make this body as comfortable as she could, my thoughts drifting back to when my mother was younger, those nights she’d come home after a dance from someone’s house, she’d sit with my father, sharing a cup of tea, whispering, he’d go to bed, she would stay up a bit longer, washing the few dishes that had been left out, I always stayed up until she would join my father in their bed, hiding in the shadows of the stairs, she always looked lonely at those times, I remember those nights, watching her dance, laughing and chatting with everyone, then that loneliness that seemed to descend on her when the house got quiet as it drifted off into sleep, I always wondered why, then there were those other times, upstairs, where we kept the old turntable, remember those, the old crank them up turntables, played the old 78s, the faster you cranked the faster they played, those ones, we’d be up there, upstairs, brother Jack, little sister Adele, father would ask us to put a record on, their favorite, “mom and dad waltz,” Lefty Frizzell, and they’d waltz, father and mother, not once but over and over until brother Jack would get tired of it and crank that handle to speed up that old 78 until they would stop, laughing as they did, real laughter, from the heart, another memory, watching her iron the clothes she had brought back after burying her daughter, not at home but to her, far from home, that iron, sliding back and forth, back and forth, her tears, drifting down, the quiet ssss as the iron slid over that spot where her tears fell, those memories of her come and go.
I think we look for ways to destroy ourselves, and if we can’t do it to ourselves, we find someone we know who will gladly do it, for one reason, they believe we behave in such a way that you are better than they are, we are our own worst enemies.
—Duncan Mercredi