What was I to do? I just had enough money to get us to Connecticut. Not enough to pay duty. We needed the car’s contents, our dishes, our bedding. Isaac was at work, unable to contact. What to do?
I discovered that a train would be passing through on its way to Boston around 4:30 that afternoon. If I hurried, I might be able to get my children and belongings on that train. First, though, I had to find a storage place for the car. That accomplished, I went to a nearby furniture store where a kind Samaritan gave me a large carton, into which I literally threw the bedding, a few pots and pans. He helped me securely tie and tape the carton closed and got it to the railroad station in time for the train’s arrival.
My dear little boys had been trying to take care of their sister who had insisted on playing in the soot covered yard. She had peed herself and her pretty pink overalls were black. Her whole little self desperately needed a bath. The train was coming down the track. We barely had time to purchase our tickets.
We must have been the most bedraggled looking family ever to get on a train. Luckily, the end seat was vacant. It could be made into a bed for the children. First though, I had to find clean clothes for my little girl and soap and water. She had been such a good little traveller. They all had. We still had adventure in our hearts.
In spite of all that went wrong that day, there was still a measure of light-hearted amusement in my soul.
I had noticed lots of open luggage, well, lets say, household items stashed in an alcove between the outside door and the seating area. Aha! Someone else was moving too. A small measure of comfort for the moment.
“All aboard,” the train whistled, and we were on our way one more time.
The burly-looking conductor entered the passenger car near our seats, looked rather disgruntingly at us, took our tickets and went on down the aisle.
The gentleman who owned the household items, which included a large galvanized wash tub and scrub board was seated about three seats diagonally across from us. When he entered the train I noticed that he had something alive under his coat. With the conductor now directly in from of him, his hidden treasure thoroughly resenting the restrained accommodation, began to adamantly declare its resistance by meowing in as loud a voice as a little kitten could. The conductor immediately made the traveller aware that animals were not allowed on the train unless in a carrier and also asked, “Do you own that pile of household stuff back there?”
The gentleman, who appeared to be Maliseet or Passamoquoddy, was on his way to Machias, a few stops down the road. With firm admonitions about using the train as a moving-van and a place for a kitten’s toilet training, the conductor moved on. It wasn’t long before the gentleman fell asleep. The kitten had a whole big train to explore. The conductor would make a few loud expletive remarks which would waken the man who would rescue the kitten and again it would snuggle inside his coat. As soon as he dozed off, however, the kitten would repeat its meandering. The conductor would get excited and again the kitten would be rescued. This went on until we got to Machias where the young man left the train with — as the saying goes — “his whole kit and keeboodle.”
My tired little family was soon fast asleep. It had been a long, trying day. Some thirty-six hours since we had left Shubie. They were perfect travellers, totally unaware of the struggles and frustrations we had faced at Immigration. Many years later, this episode became the subject of testimonial required to establish “one country” relationship between Micmac/Maliseet nations and the United States. So, my frustrations that October day in 1951 became valuable information submitted to a policy review hearing in the 1970s.
Hilda! Where was Hilda? She, too, had bought a ticket to Boston and was somewhere on the train. I had long since given up on her being of assistance. Wilfred, at seven, was big brother, an assistant care-giver and much more helpful than she.
We rode all night, rather peacefully. I had no idea where we were. Maybe some day, I’ll take a leisurely train trip from Calais, Maine to Boston, Massachusetts. That night in October 1951 will always be the most memorable.
Daylight came and with it the children awoke. Before long we were at the end of our route. We were at Boston’s South Station. A telephone call to my sister’s home brought my nephew to the rescue.
I had not seen my sister and her family in thirteen years. They had never met my family. The excitement was overwhelming.
Late that night, Isaac arrived. The children and I were excited all over again.
The next day, we all boarded a bus and late that afternoon we arrived at our home away from home in Willimantic, Connecticut. We were together and happy. Ready to start a new life in a new country.
Joe’s Canoe
“Mabel! Mabel! Come and see what Joe has brought. Look at what he has made!”
What Joe had brought was a fifteen foot canoe. And Mabel was Colonel Frank Day’s wife. We were at their summer cottage in Lake Annis.
Canoe making had been Papa’s way of earning an extra dollar during the summer months and I was usually there to help out. Papa strived to make the finished product as much a masterpiece as possible. He wanted something symmetrical that would glide easily through the waters. Over the years, he had worked to improve his pattern until now he felt that he had reached his goal. Colonel Day’s exuberant calls to Mabel confirmed Papa’s convictions. He had finally made a perfect canoe. He would use this mold, this pattern, for the rest of his life.
Papa made his canoes from cedar and ash. Cedar, a lightweight wood, was used for planking, and ash made up the ribs, gunwales and seats.
The only property that Papa owned was the small plot of land around our house. Before he could build a canoe, he would go tramping through the woods, looking for a cedar tree that was tall, straight and hopefully without knots. At the same time he would be keeping an eye out for an ash tree. That, too, had to be a certain size and shape. Once he found them, Papa would then go to the property owner and ask him to sell the cedar and ash trees. Papa was always told he could have both. Never was any money exchanged.
The cedar would then be chopped down and taken to the mill to be sawed into three-sixteenths inch planks, long, thin, lath-like strips. The ash would be brought home, stripped of its bark, sawed into the desired lengths to be shaped into what would become the ribs and gunwales of the canoe.
Papa worked with very crude tools: a shaving horse, a draw knife, a crooked knife, a hammer and a piece of railroad track rail. Sometimes a flat rock when we worked together.
The shaving horse was a home-made contraption, usually made from tree parts, that stood on four legs, two short legs in front and two longer in the rear. A piece of log, about five feet long, half-hewn, so that one side was flat, was fastened to these legs. Two holes had been made through which a leather thong was drawn. A rock was tied to the end of the thong. A piece of ash would be placed on this hewn log, held into place by the leather thong and the weight of the rock. The ash would then be shaped as desired with a draw knife.
A draw knife had a ten-inch blade. Handles on both sides of the blade allowed one to shave the wood as the knife was drawn towards one’s self. When Papa sat at the end of the shaving horse with a draw knife, he could shape the ash as desired.
A crooked knife is used by all Micmac people, and has many diverse qualities. It is used to make baskets (the splints, the hoops, the handles). It is used to make axe handles, hammer handles, or any wood product produced by the Micmac, even canoes.
Papa made his own crooked knife. The blade was usually an old file which would be placed in hot embers until it was red-hot. Then it would be taken out and pounded into the shape desired. It would then be heated one more time, doused into a bucket of cold water; this tempered the blade. The handle was made from bird’s eye maple. It would then be oiled so that the eyes would show more prominently. A hammer was the only modern, store-bought tool he used.
The piece of rail found along the train tracks was most useful. The brass tacks used to hold the plan
k to the ribs had to be clinched on the inside of the canoe. This small piece of rail fit properly into one’s hand and it served the purpose well.
By using a draw knife and crooked knife, Papa shaped the ash into ribs of various sizes. His health was such that sometimes it took several days to make the entire set. Soaking the ribs in water gave them the flexibility needed to allow him to bend them (over his knee) into the exact shape he desired. These would then be fastened to the mold or pattern, giving the canoe its skeletal shape. Brass tacks were used to nail the planks to the ribs.
When the planking was completed, the gunwales nailed into place, a mixture of varnish and plaster of paris was brushed over the entire outside of the canoe and left to dry. The surface would then be smoothed with sandpaper.
Covering the canoe with canvas was always done on a sunny day. The canoe would be placed upside down on two sawhorses, with the loose canvas draped over the top. The heat from the sun’s rays gave the canvas more resiliency. Pliers would be used to get a firm grip on the canvas to be pulled as taut as possible and nailed to the gunwale.
After the canvas was fastened into place, the top gunwale would be attached, as would the two seats, the middle crossbar and the triangular pieces that fit exactly between the gunwales, fore and aft of the canoe.
The inside of the canoe was varnished. Inch-wide pieces of ash covered the canvas seams fore and aft. The final chore would be to paint the canoe green. Papa always chose green.
Paddles were made from ash or poplar. These too would be varnished.
After all this work, the canoe and paddles sold for forty dollars. In the 1930s, this was a large amount of money.
Colonel Day’s exuberant exclamations that day so long ago gave Papa a sense of great joy, which he talked about until the end of his days.
Bridget’s Legacy
The tree-tops in the east glistened in the early morning sun as Bridget Anne rolled back the homemade quilts and struggled out of bed. Another arduous day was about to begin.
She knew that her husband, Simon, and older son, Max, were already in the barn taking care of the livestock and that they would soon be coming in with pails of fresh milk, hungry and anticipating a hot breakfast. Bridget Anne always had hot loosekanigan and fresh home-made butter for her men-folk.
Simon knew that Bridget Anne could sell all the fresh homemade butter she could make and goodness knows in these difficult times, they needed every penny they could get. So when he came through the door, the smell of hot loosekanigan filled the air, and he knew and Bridget Anne knew it was going to be a good day.
She called to her younger son, Isaac, on her way to the kitchen. She had let him sleep a few minutes longer than usual. Yesterday he had gathered enough black spruce roots to make several quill boxes. After all, he was only nine years old and doing a man’s work was not easy for such a frail little fellow. But Isaac hadn’t regarded it as work. He knew his mother needed the roots to bind the sweetgrass to the birch bark.
In spite of his tender years he knew that the best place to look was in damp, mossy ground. He had spent the day along the brook and the meadow watching the fish jump at surface flies, listening to the “ger-junk” of the bullfrogs and the incessant chirp of the birds which became overwrought by Isaac’s proximity to a nest of eggs. Besides, it was easy to see the exposed root. He always thought it fun to grab this seemingly short root, which with a little tug, yards and yards of very flexible rope-like material would appear. Gathering what seemed like miles of root, Isaac was certain that there would be enough to last through the long winter months when his mother would be busy making her nests of quill boxes.
When he got home, he helped her wash the roots and then sat in awe as she split the quarter-inch rope right down the middle. She always used her crooked knife to make a tiny slit, then somehow she would hold one end between her teeth and the other end in one hand while with the other hand she guided the tear until she had expertly split the miles of root without a mishap. Isaac then helped her wind the split roots into skein-like bundles to store away. In the months ahead, whenever Bridget Anne would need these roots, she would soak them in water for a few hours until their flexibility was restored.
Now, another day was dawning and somewhere in the deep recesses of the house where he slept, Isaac could hear his mother’s voice calling him to breakfast. Remembering that today they were to gather birch bark, he became wide awake immediately and hastened to join the family at breakfast.
Birch bark was once plentiful on the reservation but now white birch was very scarce. It was necessary to leave the reservation to find the quality that Bridget Anne needed for her quill work. The bark would peel only during the warm summer months. It was now time to replenish and build a supply that would last all winter.
Max and Isaac harnessed Old Bess, the horse, to the much-used wagon. They loaded oats for Bess, a couple of blankets for themselves, a little food, an axe, their crooked knives and a tin kettle to boil tea in.
They headed toward Nine Mile River and Gore, Old Bess winding her way along familiar, narrow dirt roads. It was mid-afternoon before they found an area where white birch grew in abundance.
Even though they were no longer on the reservation, the land owners for miles around knew Bridget Anne. She knew they would let her have all the birch bark she could use. Bridget Anne’s trained eye scrutinized the white birch until she found several that would yield enough to keep her busy for many months. With only one axe between them, she and Max took turns chopping the trees down. Using a crooked knife, a deep cut was made around the tree at two- or three-foot intervals. Finally, another deep cut down the center and the bark would easily peel off.
Bridget Anne was happy. She knew that she would now be able to complete the nest of six quill boxes for the exhibition. No prize money was ever awarded but she always felt a deep satisfaction and pride in knowing that her art was appreciated. Besides, more than likely, someone at the exhibition would buy her quillwork. All she ever received was fifteen dollars, but fifteen dollars was enough to buy warm clothing for Max and Isaac. Maybe even something extra for Simon and herself.
Later that night, as the embers from the campfire glowed and flickered their last, Isaac and Max bedded down on fir boughs under the stars. Peering into the clear, dark sky, they found the Milky Way, the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper and the North Star. Bridget Anne listened to her sons, smiling to herself, when an owl hooted from a nearby tree, causing the two boys to huddle under their blanket. She admired their knowledge of the woods, the universe and prayed that life would be much easier for them when they became grown men.
Early next morning, they set out for home with their supply of birch bark. Old Bess seemed to know they were going home and readily trotted along the narrow dirt road, scaring an occasional rabbit, squirrel or racoon along the way. A porcupine lumbered across the road. Max quickly grabbed his sling shot and hit the animal in back of the ear. Bridget Anne would save the quills. Only those from the nape of its neck to half way down its back would be used. These were the finer textured quills, thin and tapered, not the coarse ones from the back and tail. She was always meticulous about the size, structure and texture of the quills she used. This porcupine was fully grown so only a few would be of use. Later on she would use commercial dyes to obtain the exact colors she wanted. (The porcupine would be their supper when they got home.)
A few days later Old Bess would be harnessed to the old wagon again. This time Bridget Anne and Isaac would drive past Shubenacadie village towards Stewiacke where sweetgrass grew in abundance near the highway. One always knew where it grew, for the sweet aroma permeated the air like honeysuckle. Strands and strands of sweetgrass, some of it in four-foot lengths would be picked and baled and taken home to be used later on.
Bridget Anne now had all the materials she needed. The birch bark would be cut into various shapes and sizes and tied into place. She used an awl to make a hole in the bark and each quill was set exactly into place. Her
designs were unique: a maple leaf, a beaver, stars and various geometric shapes. Her craftsmanship has never been surpassed. Her ingenuity is outstanding. Others have made quill boxes. Bridget Anne’s trademark is her exquisite workmanship, a skill so perfect that her sons could identify her work anywhere.
Bridget Anne passed away in 1938. She was only fifty. She had endured arthritis pain for years. In spite of her crippled fingers, she made quill boxes until the very end. Bridget Anne had lived a humble life. A truly talented woman. To her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren she left a legacy so rich it can never be duplicated. Samples of her work can be found in the museum in Halifax.
Shirley Kiju Kawi
When
When has the teaching stopped was it when
I learned how to walk,
As you know I had fallen many times since.
For your arms I searched for support,
but found only emptiness.
When has the listening stopped was it when
I began to talk,
As you know I had many questions since.
From your voice I waited for answers,
but heard only silence.
When has the caring stopped was it when
I was able to go out on my own,
But I had been lost a few times since.
As you can see I searched for your guidance,
but saw only darkness.
When will the teachings stop is it now
that I am fully grown.
When someday a family I’ll have of my own,
Will I too grow deaf and blind, or will
I give them most of my time.
I Cry For You
The dawn of light had brought the Wise One to the mountain,
dressed in garments of long ago.
Tied to his now white hair are feathers he had gained
throughout his life.
A buffalo robe draped across his shoulders made by the
The Mi'kmaq Anthology Page 8