Lord clearly remembers the day his father died. He’d made his way upstairs and found his mother dressing his father’s corpse. She’d dressed him in his Sunday best: a three-piece beige suit and his favourite striped tie. “What are you doing, Mother?” the boy asked as his mom propped up the dead body in a rust-coloured wingback next to the window.
“My love is gone,” she sobbed, and she gently ran her fingers over the whiskered jaw of Lord’s father. “We need to take a photo of this moment,” she insisted, reaching for an old camera tucked away in a dresser drawer.
“A photo?” he asked. “Why?”
“Because that is what our family has always done,” she said, explaining that taking photos of the dead began in Victorian England in the era when photography was first invented. “Memento mori. Remember, you must die,” Lord’s mother quoted. “Our family believes it will capture a part of the soul so that he’s with us forever. A photo to remember those we love.”
To Lord, it sounded like lunacy. The grieving woman asked her son to point the camera as she settled in beside the body of her husband. She had combed her hair and put on a frilly dress. She wore the pearl necklace Lord’s father gave her on their wedding day. She set a kiss on the cheek of her husband as the young boy snapped a photo.
* * *
Moving to Saskatchewan was an easy decision—nothing was holding him to the Maritimes. His mother had died the year before, and any other family that he was aware of lived abroad. After his mother’s death, that big home became a lonely place for him. Lured to the prairies by a fat salary and an opportunity to start something new, he happily left. The architecture firm that hired him in Regina wanted new ideas with a twist of heritage, and his specialty was incorporating works of stone into new designs. His love of design led him to a new home, a new life and now, a new love.
The Kiln
“It is almost ready, my love,” Lord announces as he enters the farmhouse, just as Wren is getting ready to take her pie out of the oven. Lord has been working on a new project, creating an outdoor kiln for Wren when she works on her pottery during the summer months. The structure resembles a spacious igloo, with an electric kiln tucked inside.
Several months earlier, Lord had converted the garage into a pottery studio, including an area for display. He didn’t like the idea of Wren driving to town to fire her work at the art centre, especially during the winter months when road conditions were often miserable. The renovation was a first anniversary gift. He had held Wren’s hand and put a bandana over her eyes as he guided her to the new kiln. He’d made sure to install an oversized picture window in the studio with a view of the creek and the meadow protected by surrounding hills.
“Everything all set for Raven’s visit?” Lord asks.
“Almost, though when you’re done out there I wouldn’t mind taking a walk. We need to find some proper sticks we can carve for a wiener roast. Raven and I have been roasting meat on a stick ever since I can remember.” Wren has been smiling non-stop the past few days.
“Happy to,” he replies.
Lord goes to the kitchen sink to wash his dirt-caked hands, a result of the physical work he’s been doing outside. As always, he uses the nail brush to scrub the grime that’s collected under his fingernails. Wren has always been struck by her husband’s fervent hygiene habits. After wiping his hands dry on a tea towel, Lord hugs his wife and tells her he loves her. “Kisakihitin, you beautiful woman.” He’s learning words in Cree and uses them whenever the moment presents itself. He returns to discussion about Wren’s new kiln, explaining the cement has almost dried—he’s now just waiting for a delivery of wood.
Wren sees the new outdoor kiln as a herald of new beginnings, new traditions and new stories in the rich history of the farmhouse. She’s always felt like the farmhouse was like a warm and comfortable quilt, rich in colour and memory. As she unpacks a new clump of clay, her mind wanders to places of the past.
The farmhouse is an old Eaton’s catalogue design. It’s been in the family since the 1920s, nestled in among a range of buttes and coulees that minimize the persistent Saskatchewan wind. The land is well-treed and a creek runs through the property. The creek empties into the big lake, which is close enough to walk to and enjoy a short, scenic hike. The lake is even closer if you ride a bike. On any given day, a family of deer wander by the property, usually gathering around the apple and pear trees Wren’s grandfather planted years ago.
It’s the perfect place to dream and raise a family, where Wren and Raven spent so much of their childhood. It’s where their mother was raised. Wren remembers the stories she told them. Some of these memories are vague, because their mother left the family when the twins were so young. But so precious for the same reason.
“Your grandfather was a section worker for the rail line,” Wren can still hear her mom’s voice say. “The train used to run alongside the lake in the valley back then.” Today, the rail line is a scenic bike path. “But because your granddad worked for cp, he was given a discount on shipping fees. Piece by piece, materials arrived on that train, and this home is what he built.”
Wren remembers another story her mother told of how her grandparents met.
“She was just a young girl, out picking berries in Kinookimaw.”
Kinookimaw is the Cree word for long lake. It’s a place where so many love stories begin. An area where generations of First Nations peoples gathered and set up teepees. A combination of hills, valley and meadow. The landscape is stunning. Everything anyone might need grows in Kinookimaw: wild mushrooms and berries for harvest, roots and barks for medicines. No need for a drugstore here; the land provides.
When settlers came, they felt entitled to their newfound bounty and claimed the land that had sustained Kohkum’s family. Abundant stock from the lake was overfished and their numbers dwindled. The animals that were hunted disappeared. Slowly, their way of life disappeared too, replaced by heavy steel ties that later became the rail line, changing the pace of what once was a quiet valley.
But those ties are how the family came to be—how Wren’s kohkum met her granddad and how two cultures came together. Theirs was a legacy that began with creosote, sweat, hard work and saskatoon berries. As the story goes, Kohkum was completely focused on picking the plump fruit at the top of a bush. That’s why she was startled when she heard a male voice ask, “What are you doing?” She hadn’t heard the man’s footsteps approaching and was immediately struck by the handsome features of his white face, blue eyes and welcoming smile. Kohkum replied that she was gathering saskatoon berries to prepare for a feast.
Wren squishes the hard clay through her fingers and once again hears her mother’s voice in her mind. “Your granddad admired Kohkum’s devotion to the land. He fell in love with the sparkle in her eyes. The same sparkle you have,” Wren’s mother would remark. “It didn’t take long before the spot where they first met became their usual meeting place—the point where land meets water, across the shore from where the little arm of land meets the lake. That’s where your granddad and your kohkum fell in love.”
Interracial relationships were not common back then, and often not condoned. Maybe that’s the reason Wren’s granddad decided to build the family farmhouse just outside of town, though still close enough for a determined walk or a short car ride.
As Wren looks out at the land from her studio’s picture window, she feels happiness and gratitude that her childhood memories here will be shared by another generation. She pats her belly and vows to go out and make a tobacco offering to the land. She will do her best to say it in Cree—Kohkum always told her that the trees want to be addressed in the old language.
Wren also vows that she won’t tell Lord about the baby, not until the first trimester has passed. Babies go away sometimes, she knows this.
Raven Arrives
Before loading up her bright pink carry-on luggage into the hatch of her car,
Raven makes sure to include her pair of cowboy boots. They’ve been worn only once. She bought them when last year’s Calgary Stampede was in full swing. While stylish, the boots pinch her feet, so she’s giving them up. Wren can use them to decorate the fence post, along with that pair of granny boots Wren wore at their high school graduation.
Decorating the fence with footwear is a quirky tradition started by the girls’ mooshum. Their granddad was the first to hang up a pair of old boots on the fence post the year he retired. He believed the gesture was symbolic of new beginnings. He believed that displaying his trusty old footwear, the very boots that helped him make a living and raise his family, displayed his gratitude for everyone to see. “The spirits will know,” she remembers him saying. “It will make them happy and they will continue to bring good fortune.” Sure, the boots got the neighbours talking, but before long, some of those neighbours hung up old boots as well, wanting to participate in something that added character to the landscape, and maybe delivered good fortune, too.
Raven looks forward to returning to that familiar land, to take off her shoes and let her toes sink into the soft mud of the creek bed just as she and her sister did as girls. Maybe they could even look for frogs, and at night sit on the veranda and listen to crickets. As Raven reaches for her cooled tea from the cup holder of her Chrysler, she realizes she needs this return to simpler times. Life in the big city just moves too quickly, even though studying law was her choice.
“Education is the new buffalo,” their grandmother would say. Raven can hear her grandmother uttering the phrase as clearly as if she was sitting in the car with her. It’s a saying her kohkum would often repeat, especially during high school when Raven toyed with the idea of dropping out. Her grandmother would remind her that before settlers arrived, everyone in the community had a role. Each held a purpose.
It’s why she taught the girls how to harvest the land, why she passed on traditional ways of thinking: like women forming the backbone of community and family, and the a matriarchal rite of including the perspective of women in major decisions. Kohkum would talk about how white-man ways shifted this notion and caused imbalance. “That is why you need to learn,” she’d remind Raven. “Don’t let other people decide your path. We need to take care of each other, our children and our communities.”
Raven decided pursuing a career in law would become her way of doing this, but it hasn’t been easy. Lately, she’s witnessed heartbreak and testimony about how families and communities are trying to cope with losing a daughter, granddaughter or other female relative. There are harsh stories about indifference. It still bothers her that an rcmp officer once commented that, “The problem with missing and murdered Indigenous women is drunk and angry Native men.” Raven swears she would have clawed him in the face if he hadn’t promptly left the premises in his police cruiser.
Raven is taking an active part in trying to change the status quo of indifference. She remembers the name of Helen Betty Osborne so often, and it breaks her heart. Helen was a Cree teenager who was found raped and murdered in northern Manitoba in the early seventies. Everyone in The Pas, Manitoba, knows the story. The community knew what happened but no one came forward for decades. Their silence condoned the murder and protected those who caused harm. Even sitting here, driving toward a much-needed visit with her sister, Raven feels uneasy remembering what happened to Helen. She sips back the last of her tea, frustrated that almost five decades later, not much has changed.
Raven is on a mission to help families and draft recommendations, suggesting ways to prompt authorities to reopen files, re-investigate and re-examine what changes need to be made to ensure the system protects Indigenous women. There have been too many stories about women going missing or being murdered, and a system that just seems to close the case file without seeing justice. More importantly, Raven is working towards something that will reawaken a collective consciousness. Our women are sacred. Those are Kohkum’s words, and they’ve become Raven’s purpose. It’s why she looks forward to revisiting the land in the valley. She needs to spend some time in a good place and wash away negative energy with the healing waters of Last Mountain Lake. Raven was taught that natural water heals, even if it’s just a puddle after a big rainfall.
Clusters of yarrow root come to mind. Kohkum used to pick them when the twins were teenagers. Kohkum would dry the root and grind it into powder to make a tea. With the careful instruction of her grandmother, Raven learned that the delicate wildflower holds the remedy to curing menstrual cramps, easing a woman’s Moon Time, reconnecting with the gifts of Mother Earth. Raven guesses that work stress is causing her pain and a heavy flow this month. She could use some yarrow now and will suggest that the sisters take a walk on the land to look for some. She hopes Wren remembers how to gather and prepare the root because Kohkum didn’t write any of this down on paper.
In the Scrapbooks of Memory
Food. Home-cooked and prepared with love. Always a part of the scene when the Strongeagle women get together. Raven loves the smoked turkey that her sister prepares. It reminds her of the dry meat Kohkum used to make.
“I stopped using a barbeque ages ago,” Wren explains while spooning some saskatoon berry pie onto a clay plate.
“Why don’t you barbeque anymore? Seems odd. It’s the closest thing to cooking over a fire, like our food when we were girls.”
“Honestly, I am scared of propane. I had a dream one night about an explosion. Haven’t used one since.” Wren retrieves a bowl of sweetened cream from the fridge. The twins have always enjoyed their saskatoon berries this way, regardless of whether they were baked, served from frozen, or served fresh.
“You and your dreams,” Raven giggles, taking the cloth napkin from her lap and attaching it like a bib, getting ready for dessert. “So, what’s the difference with a smoker? It runs on propane, too, doesn’t it?”
“Some do,” Wren says, “but ours is electric. Just makes me feel so much safer. Besides, it’s so easy. Turn it on, put in the meat and leave it. A few hours later, dinner is served.” She places the bowl of whipped cream in front of her sister who immediately scoops on several large spoonfuls, her pie starting to look like a baked Alaska.
“So, what’s up now, my lovely sis?” asks Raven.
“We put on our runners and hike up to the top of the hill so we can watch the sunset,” Wren replies. “I’ve done it hundreds of times since you moved, but it’s never the same without hearing your bad jokes.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll bring my Nikon.”
“Last one is a rotten egg,” Wren says, as the sisters lace up their runners and head out the door toward the prairie.
As they walk, Raven notices new invasive species of weeds lining the familiar pathway that snakes its way up the bluff to the top of a hill. She recognizes the common tansy, a brilliant yellow flower that looks pretty, but even cows avoid eating it, instinctually knowing it causes abortions during calving season. She notices an abundance of yellow star thistle, which is toxic to horses if eaten, and thick stands of purple loosestrife, which can overtake a natural habitat, choking out food and nesting areas for birds. Kind of like people do, Raven thinks. After sitting through talks with her clients this past week, Raven can’t help but think that the most dangerous of any invasive species is likely people. She’s still not relaxed from weeks of hearing tragic stories, but this visit is the exact medicine she needs.
“You know, Wren?” Raven begins. “The only thing that would make this moment even better would be if Kohkum was still with us. Bless her soul.”
The sisters talk about their grandmother’s guidance and how it has led them to where they are in life.
“She’d be proud for sure,” Wren agrees, and then laughs out loud at a childhood memory. “Remember when we were little, and Kohkum first taught us how to use the stove?”
“I remember like it was yesterday,” says Raven. “And even t
hough we burned our first bannock, Kohkum ate it anyway, slathering it with jam and saying that the more we practise, the better we’ll become as bannock bakers.”
Giggling ensues as the girls remember wanting to be tv stars hosting their own cooking show with a focus on preparing picnic food from the tailgate of a truck. They would dress up in aprons and straw hats and pretend to talk into a camera, all the while preparing peanut butter and jam sandwiches with a side of homemade dill pickles. Their kohkum took a photo of them doing this one time. Wren makes a mental note to go through a box of old photos in her studio to see if she can find that picture.
The women reach their destination atop the hill, with a clear view of the lake and the land, just in time for sunset. During summer, the sunset is poetic, and the slow changing of light brings calm to both women. Raven announces there may be other changes coming in her life as well.
“I’m thinking that I might relocate back to Saskatchewan,” she says.
“Oh my god, that is such great news!” Wren squeals with delight.
Wren has missed Raven’s company and the quiet moments they’ve always shared, like watching the sunset together. Raven goes on to explain that the firm where she works has been talking about expansion. Setting up a new office in Regina is part of the plan.
“When will you know?” Wren asks, excited at the idea of having her sister close by again.
“Everything is just in the planning stages right now,” Raven says, “and while I do like Calgary, honestly, it’s just too big. Everything moves too fast. There’s no room to just sit and feel at peace like we are doing now. Like we have always done together, right here on this spot.”
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