13 Lives
13 Lives
Stories of Others
Michael Pawlowski
Copyright © 2018 by Michael Pawlowski
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
Publisher’s note: This book is a recollection of events and the author’s conversations involving various individuals. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s memory, coupled with the appropriate use of literary licence. Names of individuals, where necessary, have been altered to protect their identity.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Pawlowski, Michael, 1949–
[Short stories. Selections]
13 lives : stories of others / Michael Pawlowski.
ISBN 9781988098555 (EPUB)
ISBN 9781988098562 (mobi)
I. Title. II. Title: Thirteen lives.
PS8631.A925A6 2018 C813’.6 C2018–900457–6
Printed and bound in Canada on 100% recycled paper.
eBook: tikaebooks.com
Now Or Never Publishing
901, 163 Street
Surrey, British Columbia
Canada V4A 9T8
nonpublishing.com
Fighting Words.
We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for our publishing program.
To
Alicia Verdi
for her support and inspiration
and to
All
who have a respect
for the infinite grandeur of God’s creation
13 LIVES
1. Clifford
2. Amelia
3. Emily
4. Brent
5. Karen
6. Gerald
7. Adonio
8. Rev. James Toppings
9. Kevin
10. Bishop Sabatini
11. Gwen
12. Lorien
13. Pascal
PROLOGUE
“Become the person you want your neighbour to be.” Chief Clifford’s instruction in 1961 was my introduction to native culture with all of its tribulations, dreams and achievements.
13 LIVES recounts events in the lives of thirteen individuals from the respectfully proud chief to the poor soul alone in his hour of his need. More than forty years in public service has provided opportunities to meet and befriend these persons. They are not all celebrated. They are not all impoverished. In recording ‘the rest of the story’ a sincere attempt is made to dispel preconceived notions that have generated stereotypical views of indigenous persons. No one benefits from predetermined opinions.
13 LIVES records actual events with real persons. Some names have been amended to protect the identity of the person, family or community. This is necessary as some of the narratives include minors or suggestions of less than appropriate actions within a native community. There are no fabricated stories, although some are endowed with literary liberties.
The author appreciates the efforts of those assisting the First Nations. This group includes a lawyer and two clerics.
The stories of indigenous persons include the abused, the homeless, the suicidal, those seeking a world away from the reserve, and those returning to the native community to perfect themselves. In all of these narratives, nature is so very much an intricate aspect of their lives.
We commemorate their struggles and celebrate their success knowing that they now or in the future will rejoice in timeless Wisdom, Truth, Honesty, Respect and Love within the Eternal Realm of the Great Spirit.
1
CLIFFORD
Moccasins gripped the logs, his toes recognizing every node. Slowly he eased across the makeshift shoreline, that had become permanent with time, to eventually stop at the southern expanse. There he looked up with ardent appreciation, his gaze absorbing the cresting waters as they rapidly followed the wind towards the northern basin. Beyond the lake there were trees: tall pines, birch and maple. Even the mist could not obscure their grandeur on that August morning. Curve Lake, he called the expanse of fresh water, being ever so thankful for the sustenance it shared. Others, especially seasonal visitors, called it Chemong Lake. Other lakes all had their own identity but truly remained part of the same aquatic environs his people called ‘home’.
Clifford’s gaze remained fixed to the southeast. How many times had he paddled those waters? Fourteen kilometers was the distance south to Fowler’s Corners. Before that he would occasionally stop at Bridgenorth. Shaking his head, he again smiled, grateful for every moment in such creative opulence.
His trek returning more than a kilometer along the shore to his cabin was slow and meditative. Each step was deliberate as if declaring his praise to the many who had walked that path for centuries. “Each native person shares a universal spirit in the goodness and grandeur of creation.” Clifford had recited that phrase often as if declaring the foundation of his spiritual practice. He always felt close to God, and his ancestral heritage ensured that relationship.
Being fluent in English with some ability in French provided him with additional opportunities to espouse his philosophy. He never had the opportunity to complete grade school. On his own he acquired the understanding of other languages and dialects: Ojibwa, various phrases in Mohawk, and all of the tongues and expressions common to the proximate First Nations. These were an assembly born out of treaties, the resolution of land claims, and more importantly a similar celebration of life. The First Nations of Curve Lake, the Hiawatha, Alderville and the Mississaugas of Scugog pursued harmony while remaining distinct. They shared similar creation stories and conveyed sincere interest in the other narratives of native lore.
These communities were all part of an ancestral domain called Anishinaabe that included portions of present-day Quebec, Ontario, New York, Michigan, Ohio and Wisconsin. The tribes included the Odawa, Potawatomi, Algonquin, Delaware, Mississauga, and the Ojibwa. Together they shared their belief in the Great Spirit.
Clifford was born about ten years after the first recitation of Chief Yellow Hawk’s universal prayer for peace in the 1880s. He recited it daily, being more devoted to that practice than any Christian’s commitment to say the Our Father.
O Great Spirit, whose voice I hear in the winds and whose breath gives life to all the world, hear me.
I come before you, one of your children. I am small and
weak. I need your strength and wisdom. Let me walk in beauty and make my eyes ever behold the red and purple sunset. Make my hands respect the things you have made, my ears sharp to hear your voice. Make me wise, so that I may know the things you have taught my people,the lessons you have hidden in every leaf and rock.
I seek strength, not to be superior to my brothers, but to be able to fight my greatest enemy: myself. Make me ever ready to come to you with clean hands and straight eyes, so that when life fades as a fading sunset, my spirit may come to you without shame.
To the white man the seventh decade was anticipated as a time of peace and prosperity. Their war was over. Jobs were plentiful. Technology seemed to have no limits. Their President had even pledged to put a man on the moon, a task that seemed so improbable. Yet it was an age of fear. Prior generations had never heard the term ‘nuclear’. Diplomacy had become a display of threat. Though many concluded this was a wonderful time to be alive, Clifford had reasons to be cautious.
As he eased along the path appr
eciating the call of various birds and the scurrying of adventurous chipmunks into the brush, Clifford smiled to himself. Still, it was a wry expression reflecting dual personalities: one thankful and the other dismayed. He was learned in spite of his limited education. More than most, he considered the past when assessing potential consequences. That day he knew was special to some and for others it was a guilty verdict. August 3, 1961 was the 90TH anniversary of the treaty declaring:
Your Great Mother, therefore, will lay aside for you land to be used by you and your children forever. She will not allow the white man to intrude upon these lots. She will make rules to keep them for you, so that as long as the sun shall shine, there shall be no Indian who has not a place that he can call his home, where he can go and pitch his camp or if he chooses to build his house and till his land.
A moment of silence stopped him just before a patch of raspberry bushes void of their berries. A deep sign followed with recollection of mistreatment and tribulation bordering on the criminal.
“We’re so prone in Canada to condemn the States,” he thought to himself when once again pondering the mistreatment north of the border. In the Canadian provinces the treachery had become a prolonged systematic approach to demeaning people who were proud of their native ancestral heritage.
In 1874, three years after a seemingly magnanimous accord granting entitlement to ownership of land, the federal government guaranteed the inferior status of tribal members by confining them to reserves and making them wards of the state. To Clifford it had always been abhorrent for the Canadian government to refer to itself as “She” as if Ottawa had adopted these many tribes as their mother.
The Residential Schools began in 1884. They were state-funded and operated by religious denominations. Within twenty-one years there were more than one hundred such schools in the country.
Those English and French speaking citizens, relaxing comfortably on their estates, knew that conditions were pathetic for the native people. In 1907 Dr. Bryce, who was an inspector with the Department of Indian Affairs, reported on the wretched health conditions on the reserves. He even called the lack of care “criminal.” Three years were spent dismissing his report.
“The final solution to the Indian Problem” was the government’s legislation in 1910 in which contractual obligations were established with those religions operating the Residential Schools.
In 1919, the death rate from tuberculosis in the Residential Schools was approximately seventy-five percent. In spite of this, the government abolished the post of Medical Inspector for Indian Residential Schools.
As if totally disregarding these deaths, during the next year the federal government decreed that upon reaching age seven, every native child had to attend a Residential School. Children were sent to their death. In spite of this, to this day Canada enshrines the image of that Prime Minister on its $100 bill.
The province of Alberta in 1928 instituted the forced sterilization program. More than three thousand native women were sterilized in that province. The plan was also considered in other regions.
Throughout the 1930s there were reports across the country that herds were being hunted to extinction. Residents on some reserves starved to death.
During the height of the Great Depression, the principals of Residential Schools were made the legal guardians of all native students. The native parents were forced to surrender their children to the custody of the school’s principal.
In the 1940s studies confirmed that malnutrition was a major issue on the reserves. Yet nothing positive happened. Meanwhile the Prime Minister in Ottawa was fascinated with his ability to see ghosts and hear strange voices.
Immediately following World War Two, the Canadian government allowed the American CIA to conduct medical, biological and psychological tests on native children. As abhorrent as that was, the CIA was employing the services of ex-Nazi researchers to complete the tests. The Gulags of the Soviet Union had come to Canada.
In 1951 an Amendment to the Indian Act allowed for the consumption of alcohol on the reserves. The stereotypical image of the native was preserved.
It wasn’t until 1960 that natives were given the right to vote.
Then, in 1961, an entity called the National Indian Council was established to represent the treaty and status natives, a group called ‘non-status Indians’, and the Métis aboriginals. The Council refused to represent the Inuit. Perhaps the government felt it was advantageous to divide aboriginal interests.
Clifford had lived through all this. Though he was proud, he also felt shamed that he survived and to that day was looked upon with some respect in the Curve Lake First Nation. He returned to the water’s edge looking beyond the expanse of white caps and then venturing his gaze towards the basin. For those moments he stared intently recognizing every stump as it interrupted the flow of waves, and each patch of weeds that supported his income. There was peace in that lake, where all of the tribulations of the world were washed away with the excitement of that large catch.
The drizzle started once again and with it the fog started to sweep across the lake. This was not uncommon. Moments later it could be bright and sunny once again. Moving from the shore, his feet guided him instinctively along the path as quickly as they could go in the direction of his cabin. He didn’t run, nor was it a pace. His right foot caused him to limp occasionally, but at the same time it became a fulcrum to thrust his left leg in the intended direction.
Normally he would have stopped to inspect the dock. He did that daily mainly for something to do. The complex was securely imbedded deep into the clay base to prevent shifting and winter damage. The three flags blew proudly above the terrain displaying his allegiance: the Canadian Ensign, the Stars and Stripes and the Ojibwa Insignia.
The fire he had lit before leaving the cabin, thus the three-room convenient structure was already warm. The afternoon would naturally be warm, but mornings were always a trifle cool. Removing his tunic, he pondered the generic term ‘weather’. He deplored its use when others would curse various forms of precipitation or the wind. Clifford firmly believed no one could ever ascribe just one word to the many facets of the Creator’s fascinating gift. Other terms regarding inclement conditions also puzzled him. “What do they expect in winter?”
Then, rising, he prepared himself a cup of herbal tea using the old kettle on the potbelly stove. He had electricity but that was a luxury reserved for company. If he wanted to be one with the creator he had to use what the creator gave him. “Actually,” he thought, “the kettle’s probably just as old.”
Across the lake the twelve-year-old rowed his wooden boat back to shore. The vessel was indeed an antique. They had stopped making these boats that size, out of wood, about five years before. Of course a local company was still making wooden motor boats, but the smaller ones had been replaced by metal versions. The youth preferred the wooden structure because fish didn’t make so much noise when flopping around. Actually there weren’t many fish caught that morning. The first day in the rented cottage gave him ample time to fish. He caught more then. But this, the second day, maybe the fish went elsewhere, especially the pickerel.
The lake was so peaceful even with the choppy water. It was solitude. He never understood why but grade six had been so stressful. Was he just growing up? Was he feeling alone being an only child? Or, was it just having nothing to do? He’s wasn’t good at hockey because of his weak ankles. He was never selected for the soccer team. He could run, but that didn’t get him anywhere.
Fortunately he could play baseball and always made the school team. Third base was his role—the position where errors were forever remembered. However that season was so short. More recently in terms of baseball, he was still excited by the two All Star Games. There were two that year: one in San Francisco and the other in Boston. The last was just four days ago on the 31ST of July. Don’t bother to ask him about his favourite player
. The answer would always involve many possibilities: Musial, Mays, Mantle, Yastrzemski, Gibson, Ford, Maris, Aaron, Robinson or Cepeda.
Fishing, as simple and mundane as any sport could be, gave him that extra sense of importance. After reaching his limit that he always set at four, he mastered catch-and-return. Yes, there were perpetually annoying moments when the same sunfish would be on the hook seconds later.
It was hard to distinguish aspects of the distant shore. It was generally a dark mass with the sun highlighting the tree tops. The mist and drizzle of course didn’t help perception of anything that far away. His parents had arranged, with the impetus of the resort owner, to visit a native chief that evening. The information was not always consistent or thorough as to what to expect on the other side of the lake. There were festivities scheduled for the second week of their stay, and they had already arranged to visit the reserve on Buckhorn Lake on that occasion.
The youth that was in that boat is the author. This narrative is the recollection of four visits with the native chief, the visit to the reserve and a subsequent visit to the Paudash area. Opportunities presented themselves to visit historical settings and converse with many who were acquainted with the persons and circumstances involved. For these nameless many, sincere gratitude is expressed.
We arrived at Clifford’s cottage just before 8PM that evening. With the sun setting in approximately forty minutes’ time we had at least crossed the lake in daylight. Taking the motor boat home across the lake in the dark would present a greater peril. However we left enough lights on in our cabin to provide sufficient direction. When we arrived, “the Chief” was still out on the lake. That was the respectful title we were to call him, much like university students perpetually calling an ex-coach by the title he once bore. The dock was easily accessible with enough bolts to fasten the ropes. The property was well-landscaped. His cottage within the trees was still aglow with some sunlight highlighting the cedar stain. His cats greeted us with a series of expectant meows. We waited for his arrival.
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