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  Our summers were spent in this way until I was thirteen and those trips to town always became more unbearable, because little by little the women started to drink as well.

  Chapter 5

  THERE WAS AN ANNUAL TRAPPERS Convention in northern Saskatchewan every summer which Daddy attended faithfully. He would come home and be up half the night telling us what had happened. I remember crying each year because I wanted to go with him, for no particular reason except it was usually held in Prince Albert, and a city meant all sorts of exciting things to a little girl.

  One day he came home and said that we could all go with him. I was getting ready for bed after the excitement of packing when Daddy told me to be sure and take all our fishing gear. Pack fishing gear to go to a city? I couldn’t sleep, so finally I had to ask him where we were going to fish. He answered, “Montreal Lake, that’s where we’re going this year.” I felt terribly let down. Who wanted to go to Montreal Lake where there was nothing but dogs and Indians?

  However, next morning the prospects of such a long trip by car were just too exciting for an eight-year-old to waste time in pouting. Daddy had hired the storekeeper’s son, Laroque, to drive us there. The car was a Model T convertible without a top, but I couldn’t imagine going to the Convention in grander or more dashing style. The trip was to take us three days so we were really loaded down. Daddy, the driver and Jamie sat in front, Mom, Cheechum and I in the back with the tent, grub box, camping equipment and some traps. The traps were to be left in a cache somewhere by the road so that Daddy would not have to pack them in when he went trapping that fall.

  We must have looked hilarious in that old red and green car with me perched on top of the load. The sun shone and what could be seen of the countryside was beautiful. The first thirty miles were so dusty that soon Mom put a handkerchief over her nose and mouth. The wind whipped at Cheechum’s hair and she choked from the dust. She covered herself with a shawl and blasted Dad for wanting to travel like a white man.

  We spent the first night with friends at Waskesiu, which was filled with tourists at that time of the year. Daddy said that some of them were “Long Knives” (Americans). We stopped at a restaurant for Mom to buy some ice cream. She got as far as the door and came back, looking as if she had seen something awful. Dad went in and came out with the ice cream, grinning from ear to ear. He wanted Grannie to see something special, so we waited a few minutes while Mom spoke angrily to him in Cree. I was nearly falling off my perch with curiosity to see what was inside when two white-haired ladies came out. They were both wearing two-piece bathing suits. One was quite fat and the other was well-built and falling out all over.

  Cheechum covered her face saying, “Ayee ee. Tan-sa ay se yat chich o- kik.” (“What’s wrong with these women?”) Mom looked straight ahead. One of the women came over and asked if she could take a picture of us. They wanted a picture of Cheechum too, but she would not uncover her head, so they left, laughing and talking. Cheechum hit Laroque hard on the back with her cane to get him going, and as the car lurched forward I lost my ice cream. Normally I would have complained until my ice cream was replaced, but I was too astounded by the sight of those almost naked women who dared to walk among people and not be shy. That was my first impression of American women.

  The road from Waskesiu was very bad, more like a wagon trail through muskeg and sand. There were rough stretches of corduroy—poles laid side by side across the road to keep travellers from sinking into the muskeg. It started to rain when we were halfway there and we got stuck so many times that we lost count. We arrived late, soaked to the bone and dirty.

  I will never forget my first sight of Montreal Lake. It was the biggest lake I had ever seen, dark and stormy-looking even though the sun was shining. It was dotted with islands and the shore had stretches of sandy and rocky beaches with miles of dense pine, tamarack and spruce. I had heard many stories of this lake from old trappers and Indians who had visited our home. I knew it had a monster fish that the Indians had seen many times over the years, and that many people had been drowned in storms and never found. Also, in the middle of this lake my Grandpa Campbell had seen lightning strike dead a man who had robbed the Sundance tree. There is nothing unusual about being struck by lightning except that in this case it happened in the middle of January.

  The log houses were small, mostly one-roomed, and they seemed to blend in with their surroundings. There was a little whitewashed R.C. church and a Hudson’s Bay store and various other buildings. There were children everywhere, and with the children were packs of grey and black dogs, big, husky animals, some of which were tied up, looking vicious and hungry. Daddy said that these people never used horses, they used dogs for everything. The smell was unbelievable. Every single thing smelled of fish, even the people. Their sole diet was fish, smoked or boiled, bannock and tea. The dogs, too, ate fish. The yards were littered with fish bones and heads. Everywhere there were little fires with racks over them where fish were spread to dry and smoke. These fires were tended by grannies like Cheechum with failing sight and no teeth. Working with them were little girls of my age who carried the wood and kept the dogs away.

  Cheechum and Jamie and I went for a walk while camp was being set up and it was not long before Cheechum had made herself comfortable in front of one of the fires and had started visiting with an old lady. Jamie and I sat down on a log to listen and to eat a piece of smoked fish. When Cheechum finished her tea the old lady offered her a snuff box. She declined, but the little girl who was tending the firewood took a pinch and offered us some. We were too surprised to say anything so Cheechum said, “No they don’t chew.” That little girl could spit snuff dead on wherever she aimed, so I tried to copy her; but it was impossible for me to develop a taste for it.

  The old ladies and little girls did all the work in the village. They did the cleaning and cooking, looked after the babies and mended the fish nets. The other women seemed to do nothing but sit around and talk or gamble. The little boys raced and played while the older boys and the men sat in groups and talked, or gambled, or slept.

  We walked past one group seated on blankets, playing poker. Another group were playing the “hand game.” This is a form of gambling with many variations, accompanied by Indian singing and drums. The players sit in two rows, facing each other, with a blanket between them. They have little bones under the blanket and the opposing sides have to guess which hand they are in.

  Cheechum told me that we used to live in much the same way before the white people came. She said it was the job of the old women and little girls to tend to the housework and the fires. The older women were good trappers and hunters, better in some cases than the men. They went out on the traplines and helped their men in all the work. Boys never did much until they were older.

  The women really impressed me for they were so free, although Mom with her convent background felt that they were quite shameless. They wore long bright skirts and blouses of satin in reds, blues and purples. Their long hair was oiled and braided with many barrettes, gay pins and ribbons, and the jewellery on their necks and arms jangled as they walked. I thought they were gorgeous, and the fact that many of them were blue-eyed made me feel that I had finally found my kin.

  Blue eyes were unusual where I came from and we were teased by our brown- and black-eyed relatives. Cheechum said that these people were descendants of the first Hudson’s Bay Scots to come to our North, and that despite the fact that they were treaty Indian they were more Halfbreed than we were—probably spawns of the Campbells, Simpsons and McLaughlins. As a child I believed that any Indian unfortunate enough to have blue eyes must have the devil Scot in him or her, and I would think, “There goes another spawn of Satan.” I was very disappointed when the first Scot I met was brown-eyed, short and meek-looking instead of the legendary figure I envisioned—a bearded giant with wild hair and blazing blue eyes.

  When we arrived back at our camp to change
and clean up, Cheechum made me hurry as we had been invited out for supper. She oiled her hair with bear grease and braided it, then oiled and neatly braided mine as well. She put on her best purple blouse, black skirt and shawl, and away we went. We must have reeked of bear fat, but I guess we were in style for when we reached the house everyone crowded around to kiss us and shake our hands. The home was very small with a packed dirt floor and a fireplace made of clay or mud and willow sticks. There was a table but we all ate outside. I loved fish and ate until I burst. An old man sitting across from me was eating so quickly that it was hard to keep up with him, and as fast as he ate the bones flew out of the side of his mouth. We visited there until late at night, then watched the people powwow until almost morning.

  The Convention officially started that day, but I have only one memory of it. Two men were trying to out-shout Daddy who was very angry about the trapline boundaries. They were almost ready to fight when the meeting was brought to order. The man who had the most to say against Daddy was sitting in front of Cheechum. When the meeting started again, Dad brought up his point once more and again the man jumped up and started yelling. Cheechum took a safety pin from her blouse, stretched it open and when the man sat down she pushed it into his backside. The poor man jumped to his feet and started to say something, but with one look at Cheechum he sat down and never said another word for the rest of the afternoon.

  There was one thing that was special about Montreal Lake and that was the medicine. I had often heard the old people talk about Montreal Lake and the strength of the people there. I listened to these stories and asked Cheechum to explain what I did not understand. Many Native people practised medicine, but Montreal Lake was renowned for its bad medicine. The men used it on their traplines so they would have good hauls. They would also go onto other people’s lines and take their fur. No one dared to fight back. They could cast spells and even kill with it. They used it on each other sometimes, after fights, and they could catch any man or woman they wanted with special love spells.

  When we arrived at Montreal Lake I knew about the medicine, but was too young to care about it. However, little as I was, I felt it as soon as we got there. It is hard to describe or explain as it is something you cannot see or hear, only feel and smell. It is so frightening at first that your hair almost stands up on end, then the effect levels out and while you remain aware of it all the time, it is not so intense.

  The smell is unlike anything else: heavy and musky and almost human. Sometimes it’s almost overpowering, and then suddenly it’s gone like it was not even there. The night of the powwow I saw a woman under a love spell. She was about Mom’s age and very pretty. She was with an older man and followed him everywhere, never taking her eyes off him. She had a husband and children but acted as if she didn’t know them or see them. There was one woman whose face looked as though someone had grabbed her and twisted the skin and eyes. She had taken someone’s husband and the wife had put a spell on her. One man was unable to walk because someone had used bad medicine on his trapline and caused him to lose the use of his legs. He almost froze to death but managed to crawl back to his camp.

  I became curious and wanted to talk to different people, but Cheechum warned me severely against it. Cheechum and Dad always impressed upon us this one thing: never ever fool around with anyone who uses medicine. If someone used medicine on you, you had to find a more powerful medicine man or woman to either remove or return the spell.

  Whenever Grannie Dubuque planned to visit us we became excited as we anticipated the boxes of goodies, clothing, bedding and toys that we knew would come with her. But we seldom saw her as she lived in Prince Albert. She cleaned for well-to-do families in Prince Albert and the things she brought were all cast-offs given to her by employers.

  Momma would tell us to mind our manners and to take care not to ruin our good clothes, which we always wore while Grannie was there. Daddy never said much during these visits. He would become quiet, and he and Cheechum would often leave for a few days. Grannie always arrived in style, usually in an old Model T Ford that she hired in town. She wore nice silk dresses trimmed with white lace and a white lacy handkerchief tucked into her belt. She also wore a small hat with a veil, gloves, and shoes with heels while carrying a real handbag. She was the only woman I remember in my childhood who used face powder and perfume. She would hug and kiss Momma and the children, inspecting us carefully. Once settled in the house she watched while we tore through the boxes and tried on the wonderful assortment of clothes. Then came our presents, usually dolls, china dishes, trucks and trains. Momma would receive a special gift, maybe a new dress or shoes. But most of all I remember the pretzels. Being the oldest and her favourite, she would give a huge box of them to me which I shared with the others.

  Grannie generally stayed for a week and in that time our lives changed. We used a tablecloth and ate bread instead of bannock. Momma took special pains in cooking the game and somehow we managed to have cakes with our wild fruit preserves. Cheechum, who grudgingly came back after the excitement died down, looked on disapprovingly but said nothing. I would be really spoiled by the time Grannie left and, as Daddy said, impossible to live with until straightened out with the help of a willow switch.

  The year I was seven Grannie Dubuque brought a different kind of gift for her special granddaughter. At dinner, after her arrival, she announced a surprise. She had made arrangements for me to go to a residential school in Beauval. It sounded exciting, but looking at Dad’s shocked face, Mom’s happy one, and Cheechum’s stony expression—a sure sign of anger—I was confused. Dad went out after dinner and did not return until the next day. Meanwhile Momma and Grannie planned my wardrobe. I remember only the ugly black stockings, woolly and very itchy, and the little red tam I had to wear and how much I hated it.

  I can recall little from that part of my life besides feeling lonely and frightened when I was left with the sister at the school. The place smelled unpleasantly of soap and old women, and I could hear my footsteps echoing through the building. We prayed endlessly, but I cannot recall ever doing much reading or school-work as Momma had said I would—just the prayers and my job, which was cleaning the dorms and hallways. I do recall most vividly a punishment I once received. We weren’t allowed to speak Cree, only French and English, and for disobeying this, I was pushed into a small closet with no windows or light, and locked in for what seemed like hours. I was almost paralyzed with fright when they came to let me out. I remember the last day of school, and the sense of freedom I felt when Dad came for me. He promised that I would never have to go back, as a school was being built at home.

  Chapter 6

  THE SCHOOL WAS BUILT IN Spring River when I was nine. It was three miles away, and on opening all the parents had to bring their children for registration. Because it was a mixed school, whites and Halfbreeds were gathered together officially for the first time, but the whites sat down on one side of the room while the Halfbreeds sat on the other. We were also to be inoculated. We didn’t know this of course because the teacher felt that if she told our parents we might not come. So there we were, all scrubbed and shining, our fathers and mothers looking proudly on.

  The teacher called the roll and parents were to stand in front of her and answer questions. Alex Vandal, the village joker, was at his best that day. He had told Daddy that he was going to act retarded because the whites thought we were anyway, so when his son’s name was called he shuffled over. The teacher asked for the first name. Alex replied, “Boy.” Then he looked dumbly around and finally yelled at his wife in French and Cree. “Oh, the name is Paul.” The teacher then asked whether Paul knew his ABC’S. “No.” “Does he count?” “No.” “Does he know his prayers?” “No.” “Does your son believe in Jesus Christ?” “No.” “Don’t you believe in Jesus?” “I don’t know, I never saw the god.” Our people looked straight ahead trying not to laugh and the whites were tittering. Alex and Paul returned to their
seats all smiles.

  When registration was finished, the nurse came in and told the parents what she had to do. She began on our side first, but we didn’t realize what was happening until we saw her stick a needle in my brother’s arm. Then we started screaming and crying. The parents became excited as well. Dad had to hold me while I kicked and fought with all my might. Then the needle went in and Daddy fainted dead away. We arrived home late in the afternoon, a bedraggled bunch, everyone sniffling and red-eyed with sore arms—our parents completely exhausted. They laughed about it later and Daddy was teased for a long time.

  School wasn’t too bad—Heaven compared to the residential school. We had a lot of fights with the white kids, but finally, after beating them soundly, we were left alone. There were many remarks made but we learned to ignore or accept them as time went on. Daddy was concerned with the distance we had to go to school, so one day he came home with a mule. What a horrible, ugly animal, especially when we had our hearts set on a good saddle horse! Dad made a saddle for us and in spite of my pleas we had to climb on one morning and start for school. We went a few yards and the mule stopped. Dad hit it and petted it, but nothing worked, so finally we got off and walked, happy that we did not have to disgrace ourselves by riding that old thing. Our happiness was short-lived however. When we came home, my aunt Ellen, Daddy’s youngest sister, was riding Mule around the yard at a good clip. She was leaning over, dangling a pole with grass tied to it in front of his nose. Naturally he was never able to catch it, but he certainly tried. And that’s how we went to school during that fall and part of the winter. In January it got too cold for us to hold the pole, and Mule, getting smart, started to balk again. Dad finally sold him and we got our horse, not the beautiful, graceful animal of our dreams, but an old quiet Clydesdale mare. Each day we stopped for three cousins, and all five of us rode Nelly to school. We had her until she was unable to move without discomfort from old age, and Dad put her out of her misery.