Banging her pipe against the leg of the table beside her, Annie let the ashes fall into her spittoon. It was at this time that her words grew stern. “The late animal-human twins’ parents reached their hundredth year. Just as they at one time had identical dreams, their deaths came to them at the same hour to each other. Their father was buried under the shade of the spruce trees beside Gentle Turtle. Their aged mother was buried down by the river bank alongside her human Deer Girl and animal fawn. There. Na.”
So ends a puzzling and mysterious story.
Aboriginal Mi’kmaq story tellers in the past often told tales about their people turning into animals or things like stones. My people enjoyed the wide open spaces of their creativity-conscience. They said that creativity never ends in the world of mythology. And I believe it to be true. Mythology story-space is a special place where anyone can reach for the stars. It is where anything can happen. And any types of emotions can appear whether they be of laughter, fear, or sadness.
This delightful drama told years ago will be passed-down for years to come because it helps one to learn and to appreciate how life was lived in a harsh and untamed environment.
Writing and repeating words of story tellers like my parents and Annie gave me an uplifting feeling. It was as though I was, at a moment’s notice, walking in their moccasins. In reality I guess I was. At times I envisioned them in their position where they had the spotlight shining on them. Within that spotlight they all delivered so eloquently.
The knowledge and the skills that our elders held was learned just by doing. The fact is that the stories that they told were passed down to them by their parents. But the stages were not set up by their knowing. They just automatically came into being, and dismantled themselves in their own way.
Conclusion
Past memories come stealing by me. Some memories are about the yesterday’s everyday living. I do not pass them by without first examining them as to where, what and why they came. I know what is true and what is fantasy. But as days come and go, the repetitious circulations of invisible pictures on envisioned television sets need to be studied, memorized and paused. The next step is to speak about them in stories, or to write about them, because my past memories of stories told by my elders when I was a child need to be shared with other interested story fans like myself.
Making facts coincide with fantasy helps to better understand how the Hunter-Gatherer’s world mixed the two together and survived. Some questions could be asked: How can humans change into animals? Or, how can a cloud form a perfect eight-pointed star? It is like questioning the human mind’s computer in the human brain. The question can be: What does a memory computer look like that is capable of storing up a human’s lifetime senses and lifetime experiences? Hunter-Gatherer’s world was a world of wonder, mystery and mysticism, where foresight and wisdom were used to mix fact with fantasy to come up with solutions, solutions to problems of simple everyday setbacks. And no doubt there were many of them. That is to say, questions asked then had to be answered as they have to be answered today in problem-solving.
Visions or dreams were once expected and accepted to be caught as they sped by with time, space and with a moment’s notice. Lessons had to be learned by their meaning and their interpretations. A way of life depended upon dreams or visions. These were the assets that were used perhaps for present and future purposes. Whenever the useful possessions haunted the human psyche, either in reality or in the dream world, they were expected to be considered as messages, messages that not only warned its dreamers, but also guided them in everyday living. Some of the messages held with them medicines of herbs or roots to cure specific ills, so ignoring dreams or visions a long time ago was like discarding a vitally important and useful property.
Whispers can be as loud as the blasting thunder. Many angry words were spoken with a whisper. Many kind words were spoken with soft-spoken words, but the whispers that are not spoken aloud are the whispers of human sensory perceptions. Whispers that are not followed by a sound could be recorded in the mind silently. Conversations with an owl in the middle of the night required no words. It was then that whispers not followed by a sound interpreted the owl’s messages. So words and visions aid to interpret. To intertwine visions, whispers and interpretations, can be seen as three skeins of a braided sweetgrass.
In my Mi’kmaq culture, there is pride that shines in the eyes of my people. It is plainly seen on the faces of the drummers as they so proudly sing their chants. It is seen in the dances of the dancers, in the pipe carriers, in the conducting of prayers, and in the cooperation of the partakers that keep the Mawiomis well organized. Anyone can take part in the sweat lodges, the fire keeping, the drumming, and the dances, and the many other activities that take place.
All in all, to be Mi’kmaq is to be proud and to be honoured.
Harold Gloade
High Water
If you look at a map of Digby, Yarmouth and Shelburne Counties, you will see they are dotted by many lakes and rivers that flow to the sea. Prior to 1925, men from Hantsport, Bear River, Annapolis, Yarmouth, Bridgetown, Milton, Gold River and Middleton areas had been to just about every one. In those days, the technology of modern man had not had time to inundate the earth with pollutants. Every body of water in these three counties teemed with the finest trout, and in some rivers, salmon, but these men never took the time to wet a fly, or drown a worm. My father was one of several who in early spring set out to brave the rushing waters of the annual river drive.
Winter operations were usually completed just ahead of the thaw. These men, most of whom had spent the winter cutting logs, would make their way up river to the headwaters, to find great brows of these logs perched precariously along the banks, waiting to be released into the first flood waters of the spring break-up. On most river drives, there were usually three crews: the head crew, the middle crew, whose boss was overseer of the entire drive, and the rear crew. When these hardy souls were assembled on the river bank where the drive began, the main boss would select a brow and knock out the holding pin under the key log that held back the rest of the brow. With a menacing rumble, they hurtled down the bank into the rising water below. With pick poles and pole axes, the men of the head crew mounted the logs to guide them down the long journey to some mill pond, to be sawn into lumber for foreign markets.
The one dollar dunk pool operated as follows: every man, who was dry and warm before the first log hit the water, pledged a dollar to the last man who fell in. Roars of laughter would usually follow any splash, especially when there was an angry gasp for breath when someone came to the surface after his first ice-water dunk. From then on, falling into the drink became a matter of course for even the sure-footed when riding logs that still had winter ice encrusted in their bark.
For at least a month, these hardy men would live under the severest conditions, in makeshift huts that had been hastily built along these rivers several years before, and never maintained. Each crew usually had its own cook, who had to be a genius to turn out even mediocre food, because they had to move their operations to the next camp after every meal in order to keep up with the drive. The cook’s helper was called a cookee, or bull of the woods. His job consisted of gathering wood for the open fires for cooking, and keeping warming fires at regular intervals along the river so the men could come ashore to rid themselves of chills and chattering teeth.
From the first glimmer of light to the last grey shadow, every day, in rain, shine, or snow, until it was over, these men drove logs down the Clyde River, or Bloody Creek, or the Tusket, or the Sissiboo Rivers, until they reached the mill. They literally ate on the run, from tin plates filled with some sort of hot food, and hot strong tea from tin cups. They slept huddled around fires in makeshift huts, often in their wet clothes, because there was no other way.
With clever footwork, they avoided most of the hazards associated with a drive; however, the greatest danger came when one or two logs stuck against a bank of the river,
and other logs propelled by the rushing water became wedged against them in a huge rolling pile of wood called a log jam. Usually, if this happened during daylight hours, it was cleared before it got out of hand. The real problem was, if it happened at night, the men would be faced with a task of almost insurmountable proportions at first light.
Speed was of the essence since the river drive had to be conducted during the spring runoff. A jam had to be cleared to make way for other logs. This was the job of the crew boss and one or two select men who would determine whether to clear it from the top, or find the key log at the bottom and cut it loose. Expediency determined that the latter was the choice; however, the danger of being crushed under a huge pile of logs also determined the boss’s selection of fleet-footed men to help him. The rest of the crew silently waited on shore anxiously watching the rising water caused by so many logs blocking its path, putting ever increasing pressure against the jam.
Once the jamming log or logs were found, the crew boss would point to the source of the trouble, talking to his mates and gesturing, the sound of his voice muffled by the river. One man would chop, while the boss and the men on shore waited. There was usually a loud crack, and the log would snap in two like a dry matchstick, leaving two ends with long jagged splinters. The whole jam would groan loudly as it broke free and started down river. The man who had been chopping would run up over the rolling pile of logs, scampering to shore while the others shouted him on to safety.
When the stream emptied into a lake, the logs had to be ferried across to the next stream. Another crew was ready for the task, and the river men went back up some other branch for more logs to be released into the stream. The crew on the lake herded logs into a wide enclosure made up of logs that had been chained and roped together through large holes bored at the ends. When it was filled to capacity and closed off, the result was a large platform of logs closely nested, and this was called a boom.
Most of the time, it took a lot of hard work to move these booms across a lake, especially if there was a headwind; therefore, logs had to be linked end to end, reaching the foot of the lake where it was securely anchored. A gismo that looked like a cross between a raft and a railroad pump trolley, called a headworks, was moored on this string of logs and used to winch the booms across in several moves, the distance of which depended on the length of rope.
The task was done in shifts of two men per shift, who had to laboriously turn the winch by hand in a slow and steady manner. They rested when the headworks was being towed with a rowboat to the next step, paying out the rope in the process. At the foot of the lake, the boom was undone and the logs directed into the stream that flowed to the next lake or mill pond. The headworks was then towed up the lake to the next waiting boom.
When the river drivers were finished with the first step, they were taken down the lake by rowboat to begin the next leg of the drive. This meant transporting the cook with all his paraphernalia, the axes, pick-pols, and the men’s knapsacks with any dry clothing. These men of the river would talk and laugh and sing rowdy songs while they enjoyed the rest, because their work was waiting for them on the other side. They promised each other that the water would be warmer on the next leg, even though they were sure it was just as wet. Finally, when the last log was safely floating in the mill pond, the men would give a cheer and shake hands all ’round and boast how they had collectively brought down another river drive. Then they would head for home, wherever that was, to a hot bath, some dry clothing and a nice warm bed for a much needed rest.
Why did they do this? Because it was an opportunity to make as much as three dollars a day in two dollar times. Today, there are large machines that go into our forests and cut, limb and chunk up trees, placing them on huge trucks and taking them to a mill that may be many miles away, almost in one motion. The romance of the hardy rivermen is a thing of the past. The ring of their axes against frozen trees and their echoing laughter against the spring breeze when approaching the climax of a job well done have been replaced by the whine of a power saw and the thundering roar of the tree machine. Where the logs were floated down to the nearest mill on high water in days of old, a massive truck lumbers along a bulldozed road to a mill that may be many miles from the forest. Make no mistake — in the early days of this century, these hardy and dedicated timbermen played a very important role in Canada’s growth and heritage.
Rita Joe
The Honour Song of the Micmac An Autobiography
I was born in Whycocomagh, Cape Breton, on March 15, 1932. My parents, Josie Gould Bernard and Annie (Googoo) Bernard had six children. Sonwel, a boy, had died earlier, the seventh would die with my mother. The three boys, Soln, Roddie and Matt were twenty-one, eighteen and fourteen in that order when Dad died in 1942. Annabel was fifteen and I was ten years old at the time. Susie was a much older sister from an earlier marriage of my father’s, and William was thirty-five years old when I was born. So you can imagine how romantic my dad was, outliving three wives and still looking around in 1942 when I was ten. My dad was a commanding figure, tall in stature with a ruddy complexion and white hair. My mother as I remember her was a loving person, the loving arms not easily forgotten; the times I spend trying to visualize and I remember are like hazy pictures in motion of film of passing years gone by.
I can see her laughing with her very white teeth, her bosom my cushion as I lay my head there. Soln used to tell me he would pick spruce gum for Mother because she liked chewing it and it made her teeth white — the polishing was done with white ashes of burnt wood. Her attitude was that of a young person too, although she was only thirty when she died. The memory of her passing is like something precious being taken from you when you are happiest.
The words as I heard them that day are like an echo: “You must take Rita to kijinaq (grandmother).” I wondered why I had to go there so early in the morning. My brother, Soln (Charlie) pulled the little wagon along, with me in the box. When we arrived at grandma’s house, she looked so cross that morning! “Annabel, take your sister to school with you,” she said. I was happy to go to school. I had never been there before. It must have been hard on her, worrying about Mother and having a five-year old underfoot. In school, I was happy being part of a class. ‘This is a dog, this is a cat,” I recited along with the other children. There came a ring: a pause. Another ring; pause. We all looked at each other knowing what it meant; somebody had died in the community. Our teacher, Mr. MacDonald, knowing the meaning of the church bell angelus, let out an early recess. I saw my dad hanging onto a fence post, not moving, just standing there. “What is wrong, Dad?” Annabel and I both asked at the same time. He had the saddest eyes I ever saw, the look is still with me today. We ran over to grandmother’s house which was near the school. Grandma appeared agitated, not knowing, but sensing something bad. Finally the chief, Gabriel Sylliboy, came by. “What is going on Gabriel?” I heard her say. “Annie is dead.” I wondered who was Annie.
Grandma fell backwards onto the floor. Annabel put a wet cloth on her face. They held each other, crying, while I looked on, wondering what was happening. Finally, grandma got up and pointed a finger at me and said “Ki’l Ktla Taqn! (It is your fault!)” I did not want to be the cause of my mother’s death, and throughout my life grandma’s words haunted me. I kept thinking that maybe when I slept with her I may have kicked her on the stomach; once I had my own children I knew that a small child does not kick that hard, and I did not feel so bad anymore. I do not know what else I could have done to cause her death. I kept on asking questions about my mother’s death. When I asked the midwife, Mrs. Jessie Jeddore, who attended my mother at the time of her death, she said “I think your mother died with the child inside her as a result of the cold from fishing for smelts.” My nine-months pregnant mother used to go on the ice and sit on a box with fir branches under her feet and fish for smelts. The cold setting inside her may have prevented the child from being born.
When we arrived at our house there were a lot o
f people. I looked around and saw a lot of food, cakes, pies and a lot of goodies. I was led to a table and given food. Then my father took me by the hand and lifted me up to see Mother in a long box. “She’s cold, Dad,” I told my father. He turned to the wall.
After the funeral we went to my grandmother’s house; she seemed very angry and yelling at my father. Finally Dad took me and Annabel away to Membertou Reservation near Sydney; Annabel was twelve at the time. This was the place my stepsister, Mrs. Susie Marshall, lived. She was glad to see me and promised to take good care of me. The following week I was given a lot of pretty dresses, patent leather shoes, and I took a bath everyday in a washtub. Susie would dress me in the morning and then go to work. I do not remember who took care of me while she was gone. (A reserve is a closely knit family and all the children are looked after by all the mothers.) I spent a lot of time across the road from her house playing with my cousin Wallace Bernard; he was about a year younger that I. Wallace and I got into a lot of mischief and by the end of the day I would be a mess. I remember one incident when his uncle A’wi (Louis) told us with a bag of candy in his hand; ‘The one mejukat (who defecates) the fastest will get the candy.” The candy looked good but I knew Susie had a strong back hand; I do not remember if Wallace did it. Today I think A’wi may just have teased us to see what we would do.
I liked being Susie’s wkwejij (sister), but her other half was mean. I remember that when he hit me I would land across the room. One time when my dad came to visit he brought me a little bag of candy; that little bag of candy was a treasure which I never ate but carried around with me after he left. My brother-in-law noticed the little bag and took it away from me. I can still see the lifted stove-cover and the little bag dropped into the fire. The tears that fell that time summed up the rejection I felt since Mom died. I cried for her to return, but she never came.
The Mi'kmaq Anthology Page 22
