That’s what it will take to change things. As a newsman for thirty years, I know how powerful a force public knowledge can be. When all Canadians understand how much their neighbours are suffering, I think they’ll find the ways and means to address it. Governments will find the political will necessary to change these conditions. Our national Native organizations must lead the charge. Change, rightfully, will begin with them.
The Emergency
THE WEATHER WAS a phenomenon in the summer of 2009. Every morning broke on a clear sky, and it seemed as if the air hadn’t moved since spring busted up the winter clouds. The grass was brown and tinder dry. We never got a break from the heat. Even the birds were too hot to sing by mid-afternoon, and the stillness was eerie.
Summer has changed even in the four years we’ve lived in the mountains. The change is visible in the forests ravaged by the mountain pine beetle, the tussock moth and the spruce beetle, as well as the depleted population of shore birds. Our well runs lower because of the lack of rain. The level of the lake has dropped so severely that we have to paddle the boat out beyond the reeds to find sufficient depth to drop the motor. The undergrowth in the woods is stunted and dry. There’s less moss than there used to be, and it’s harder to find wild mushrooms.
It’s worrisome, this global warming. When I looked at the forest that summer of 2009, I couldn’t help but see fuel for fires. As the temperature rose into the high 30s, we all became wary. We were glued to our radios and TVs, fearing the lightning strike or the careless camper that would turn things into an inferno. People a short drive away were being evacuated. We could see the smoke from those fires drifting above the lakes.
People tried not to show how nervous they were. We grinned and waved at each other and fanned away at the clouds of dust from the gravel road. But you could tell the threat of a blaze rested heavy one veryone’s minds. There wasn’t a community anywhere in British Columbia that wasn’t edgy and anxious.
When a fire broke out on a nearby mountain, our own community went on high alert. It was only six years since horrendous fires had swept through this part of the Interior, and nobody had forgotten that. When lightning struck our mountain and tell-tale spirals of smoke began to curl up, people drove down to the lakefront and planted themselves on their docks to keep an eye on the situation. We watched the choppers fill up their huge dangling buckets. We prayed silently as the spumes of water washed down over the stricken forest. A plane dumped retardant, and a chopper set down a small fire-fighting crew. We waited.
There were reports of other blazes on nearby hills. Cars and pickup trucks rumbled down the road to investigate, and people exchanged the bits of news that came back. The tension in the air crackled like the lick of flames. But no one spoke their worst fears aloud. Instead, we all got down to the business of being prepared to evacuate.
For Deb and I, those were difficult hours. The idea of losing the house we love so much to fire was hard. We’d painted the cabin a vibrant shade of red that spring, adding blue shutters and attractive tan accents. Viewed from out on the lake, our house seemed to shine on its slope between the trees. But we had to be practical, so we decided to pack emergency bags and leave them by the door in case the call came. We went through the house to gather the things we would absolutely need to survive or to start over somewhere else. We moved quietly, silenced by the gravity of the situation. I spent a lot of time just touching objects, as though I could commit them to memory through my skin.
First, we stashed the title deed, our marriage certificate, bank papers, tax stuff and working papers we could not do without. Then we saved our computer files to disk. We packed photographs and the little notes and letters we’d sent to each other. Deb put in the poems I’d written her, and I remembered the photo of her I keep in front of my computer monitor when I write. Then I took some photos of the house for insurance purposes. Debra packed a suitcase with clothes and toiletries.
Our house is filled with stuff: furniture, a stereo, the music collection that is my pride and joy, a television, artwork, books, a guitar, a keyboard and the other usual accoutrements of life. But the number of things we deemed elemental to our survival was small. They all fit into a backpack. That said something important to us.
Luckily, the fire never caught in our neck of the woods. Heavy rain arrived as if in answer to our prayers. We woke the next morning to a fresh, beautiful and familiar world. But when I noticed the bags beside the door, I offered thanks for the lesson. The world around us may alter in a thousand worrisome ways, it may threaten us with the loss of everything we own, but the elements that truly sustain us cannot be taken away. A how.
The Power in Silence
I’VE BEEN FORTUNATE in my time to meet some genuine traditional teachers. I’ve been further blessed to sit with them and talk, to walk with them out onto the land. Our times together were always punctuated with silences. Our talk was a sharing of the sacred breath of Creation, and silence was an act of reverence.
I never realized before then that silence is a spiritual thing. Most of my life I’d felt awkward with silence, seeking to fill gaps in talk with a quip, a rejoinder, an observation. The silence I experienced with traditional teachers were intentional breaks in thought, left there as bridges to emotion.
Like many people, I came to Native spirituality hoping to get things clarified and resolved, preferably instantaneously. I was looking for the sweat lodge, the pipe, and the traditional medicines to heal my old wounds and salve the raw spots that living had left on the surface of my being. Initially, I believed that my presence at ceremony would be enough in itself, that a morning smudge of sage or sweetgrass would elevate me easily beyond old pain and fresh hurts. I had a lot to learn.
A sweat lodge is not a band-aid. A pipe ceremony is not an aspirin. The real work of healing comes in how we apply the principles from those ceremonies in our daily lives. Nothing ever happens instantly. Most of the time we struggle to achieve our goals. It’s in that struggle that warriors are born.
Silence allows you to pause and reflect. Like most people, I was hooked on doing. What those tribal teachers were telling me was the opposite: Be. Then become. It sounds so simple, but it flies directly in the face of everything we’ve been taught. If I can make more money, then I will be content. If I get a good job, then I will be secure. Once I have a solid love relationship, I will be satisfied. And on and on. Getting comfortable with silence helped me to turn all that around. Being spiritual, in the Indian way, means simply getting in touch with whatever moves your spirit. Silence is one tool I employ. A painting, a photograph, a good book, the words of a song, a blues riff, the touch of a hand, quiet talk, a walk with my dog: all of these things also move my spirit. When you learn to carry that feeling into everything you do, your life becomes a ceremony—and that’s the whole intention.
Close your eyes and feel the silence. There will be lots of time for talk beyond that.
A Day of Protest
WHEN THE FIRST National Aboriginal Day was announced in 1996, I thought it was a wonderful idea. One day each year set aside for Native people to strut their stuff and be recognized for their contributions to the development of the larger nation. The day was set to coincide with the summer solstice, a time when Sun Dances are traditionally held. Those elaborate, powerful ceremonies are meant to align people’s energy with the life-affirming energy of the sun. The whole thing seemed perfect. But time passed, and the political aspirations of my people continued to go unheeded by a series of governments. The horrendous social conditions on most reserves and the correlative urban issues persisted. It became apparent to Native people that a day devoted to song and dance and finery wasn’t cutting it. So the National Day of Protest was born.
The first protest day was held in 2007. Except for a couple of train blockades and a few thousand disgruntled motorists, it was a non-event. When the government still failed to act on Native issues, the country’s Aboriginal leaders called us out for a more sustained assau
lt. They wanted Native people to become more vocal, more strident, more disruptive— and, in the end, more divisive. It didn’t sound much like nation-building to me. To my way of thinking, our energies ought to be directed towards that. Certainly action is desperately needed to bring First Nations people into equal partnership in Canada, but we’re all neighbours here. A day devoted to disruption doesn’t make sense.
Here in the mountains, our community is peaceful. A protest action on my part wouldn’t achieve much. There’s only the one road leading to town. It’s a beautiful drive, and everyone needs that road for access to groceries, water, work and entertainment. Laying my body across it as a barricade would be counterproductive. Besides, for the rednecks who are a significant part of the demographic up here, an Indian on the highway would be nothing more than a speed bump.
Then there’s economic disruption. I could refuse to add my hard-earned dollars to the local white economy. I could stockpile the goods I need and remove myself from active participation in commerce. That would be fine until the buzz wore off. Contemporary Indians like me have grown too used to conveniences, and I’d have to spring for pizza and a movie at some point. Besides, taking my cash out of the mix would be like sneaking a penny out of a lard pail full of change.
I could always march. I even have a hand drum. There are warrior flags for sale almost anywhere these days, and I could walk a few yards out from my house and hew a stout sapling to hang one from. The avenues are wide in town, so I could stride the length of the main street with my drum, singing, denouncing injustice and aggravating shop owners. But there’s always that dang Indian speed-bump thing.
My safest bet would be to occupy a plot of land. Surely, at some time in the primordial past, a Native person must have performed a ritual in the trees beyond our home. That would make it sacred land. I wouldn’t need to prove that; Canadians, being a trusting lot, would take my word for it. I could head out there and construct a barricade from beetle-kill trees, light a sacred fire, schedule a press conference, make a big statement, wave my warrior flag and beat my hand drum. There must be an Ojibway word for photo op. I just haven’t learned it yet.
I wouldn’t be bored. While out there waiting for the military ouster, I could pass the time listening to jazz tunes downloaded onto my iPod. I could stay in touch with other protest actions by surfing the Internet on my BlackBerry, send messages to other warrior factions through my Facebook account and Twitter details to everyone in cyberspace. During slow periods, I could shoot a cell-phone video of me, all stoic and resentful, to upload onto YouTube.
My protest would call for some preparation, of course. If you’re going to occupy land, you need the appropriate wardrobe. For Native protests these days, camouflage is the new Hilfiger. I’d also need my eyebrows done: they need to display cleanly above the camouflage bandana and the mirrored Oakley shades.
In the end, it sounds too stressful. I’d lose a few days of work. My neighbours would complain about the smoke from the sacred fire and my throat would be sore from singing late into the night. Besides, there have been so many marches, protests and barricades that they’ve become passé to most people. An indignant Indian is as much as a Canadian motif now as the beaver on the nickel.
No, for me the idea of protest lacks vision. My neighbours and I co-exist marvellously. We’ve learned to live together in a degree of harmony. There’s always someone around to lend a hand. We keep an eye on each other’s property. We’ve created a community without the need for labels and divisiveness. Everybody wants security, belonging and fellowship when they step beyond their yards.
We don’t need a national day of protest. What we need is a national day of communication. We need to foster human understanding. Native people need to be good neighbours, and we need our own leaders to point us in this direction. Let’s lean over the back fence and talk to each other about our lives. Let’s get beyond differences, beyond rednecks, beyond stereotypes and hear each other’s stories. It’s not hard. As Canadians, we were raised with that small-town, do-a-favour mentality, and all we need to do is remember.
Simple, everyday acts bring people together. I don’t feel much like an Indian when I walk around my community. I feel included. I feel a part of things. What it took to accomplish that was an earnest desire on my part to create a sustained front with my neighbours—and it works. That’s lucky, because camouflage makes me look fat.
Now and Then
COWS HAVE WANDERED in off the rangeland. In the stillness of dawn, they are bawling from beyond the trees, and their voices are harsh against the call of loons and ducks from the water. From where I sit on the deck with my first morning coffee, the contrast between the domesticated sounds and the wild ones is captivating. The wild calls are much less fretful. No one needs to come and find those ducks in the bush.
Deb and I live in a small community of refugees from the city. Our house sprawls around the northern edge of Paul Lake, with wide expanses of fir, aspen, wild rose and lawns between them. It’s urban here, almost, except that mountain and the bush loom close by. The brightness of the stars is unimpeded by the harsh glare of streetlights. Deb and I love the charm of this setting, but like everyone else we have our share of conveniences. The rooflines of our neighbours feature satellite dishes. Driveways are filled with SUVs, pickups, ATVs, dirt bikes and boats on trailers. We have high-speed Internet now out here in the sticks, and high-definition TVs for watching the big games and pay-per-view movies.
So it’s heartening to hear the sound of cattle. Closing my eyes in the morning air, I imagine the Canada of yesteryear: dust thrown up from the hoofs of horses, the slap of leather and the yip of cow dogs mixed in with the hoot and holler of cowboys. The pioneer feel of a burgeoning country isn’t far away. And some actual cowboys will come for these cattle soon. It’s a common enough sight out here, wranglers herding cows back to safety. Sitting loose and limber in the saddle against the backdrop of a stunning blue sky.
Native people are big on tradition. We feel pride in our tribal origins. We’re big on history as the backbone of today. When we speak about the conditions of our contemporary lives, we do so in reference to earlier times. We’re rightfully proud of our legends and our lore. Who we are today rests on the bedrock of our past.
It’s the same with my neighbours. Ukrainian, Scots, French or English, they all have stories of their people in days gone by: winters that were harder, snows that were deeper, droughts that were more dire. They all have tales of times when things seemed simpler, when traditions were steadfastly observed and values were shared.
We’re also alike in our need for reassurance. We all bear the same measure of fear and uncertainty about the enormous sweep of changes around us and its effect on our families. We just don’t talk about those times much. Often it takes something big to remind us that we share the same history, feel the same attachment to our beginnings.
But the bawl of cattle from the edge of the yard can show you that, if you let it. It’s the rustic heart of an older Canada, the foundation of our modern life.
Our country is a great aggregate of races and cultures. Recognizing that is what will help us to heal and to move closer together. A how.
Writing Space
EVER SINCE I began to write professionally, I’ve wanted a writing space. I did my work in any number of cubicles, offices and odd corners over the years. Some of my novels were written at kitchen tables. One memoir was finished in the health office on my mother’s reserve. A section of my novel Ragged Company was written on the beach beside a mountain lake. But I never had a private place to write until now.
When we bought our cabin, Deb and I knew there were a lot of things that needed fixing. The old bachelor who had built the place had let it run down over time. Bit by bit, we got to work. The thing that seemed hardest to tackle was the old garage, so we left it to last.
The garage was large and musty, badly lit with a pocked concrete floor, no heating or insulation, and a weird little ad
dition tacked on. The walls had been fashioned from assorted pieces of castoff plywood. The picture window looking out at the lake was a single pane of glass with a few years of dust built up on it. There also was a hinged window, ten centimetres high by 1.5 metres wide. We wondered about that until a neighbour told us old Walter would push wood through that window, then cut it on his table saw. The garage was jammed with junky cabinets and a huge pile of the sawn barn timbers the old man had used for firewood.
Mice, pack rats and other critters had used the huge gaps in the garage’s foundation to gain entry. The sliding garage door was dented, and a quirky little handmade door was just wide enough for one person to get through.
It looked like the project from hell. But Deb wanted a studio where she could do her fused glass designs. She’d trundled the kiln, glass and the assorted tools around for years, without an appropriate place to put them, and she saw potential in that garage. As we attended to the cabin’s more glaring needs, and burned off that huge pile of wood in the garage, our ideas for changing the space blossomed. As soon as we could afford the materials, we set out to tackle the renovation.
We replaced the old garage door with oak French doors. We managed to get the walls properly framed and got rid of that quirky little door. We framed the narrow window that ran the length of the roof. We insulated the place and stapled in a vapour barrier. But winter was coming, and after covering the new plywood walls with plastic we decided to wait it out.
We noticed over the winter that the insulation we’d installed had little or no effect. When spring came, we discovered that the ceiling had never been insulated, either. Once it was spray-foamed to the right height, we got to work again. We replaced the old single-pane window with a modern casement. I filled the gaps in the foundation. We brought in baseboard heaters and hired a local tradesman to hang the drywall. We put in a 220-amp circuit for Deb’s kiln along with proper ventilation for it. Ceiling fans regulated the heat, and we built elaborate drywall drops to cover the array of wires the old bachelor had run willy-nilly through the garage.
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