13 Lives

by Michael Pawlowski

  He was there within twenty minutes. His guests outnumbered the muskies they had hoped to catch. Actually there were three guests and no fish. First impressions always count. He appeared a happy person. His attire was not that of a person one would usually call ‘chief’. His brown corduroy pants were partially hidden by a long sleeve tunic that was secured by a red cloth belt. The colours of the TPTs decorated his cap. The Toronto-Peterborough-Transit company was an ardent supporter of minor league sports in the Peterborough area.

  Inside the cabin we were introduced to the three gentlemen from Texas. Their drawl made the evening fascinating. I truly wondered how these three and the chief understood each other. Clifford spoke in a harsh voice, somewhat unexpected for a person his age. The conversation quickly became lively. Initially it concentrated on fishing which is the reason they were visiting and why they had hired the chief. Clifford showed us an old wooden lure that he had used to catch a muskie that he claimed exceeded fifty pounds. It was absolutely amazing to see: the handmade wooden wedge about eight inches long pierced with wire hooks sticking out of all sides. The original ocher colour was barely discernible. He held it proudly smiling at his accomplishment.

  Normally he would take his guests out early in the morning or about five in the afternoon. Their late arrival delayed the events on the initial day. There were plans to be there by six the next morning. However, they seemed very much prepared to take as much time as necessary to listen to his tales.

  It was our questions that prompted his information. Responding to the initial series, Clifford extrapolated on his past. This was a tale of tragedy.

  Clifford grew up on the reserve, and attended a Residential School. Even though he was abused, he dismissed it at the time as his punishment was far less than that inflicted upon others.

  In World War One he fought at the Somme. Because of his race, he was not sent to the front line or even to the trenches initially. Whether they could not be trusted, he could only surmise. Vividly he commented on the corporals and sergeants and their inability to adequately lead. Whatever he and his compatriots suggested was dismissed, which might have been the reason they were initially kept away from the battle. Clifford survived the typhus that devastated Europe after the war. However, he confessed he must have been a carrier of the disease as his wife died within weeks after his return.

  In the 1920s he was actively involved in building roads and digging wells. Ottawa then promised assistance maintaining the roads but didn’t have a snow plow available. Disappointments were directly proportional to his disputes with the government. It was all the federal government’s task at that time, which made it easy for provincial politicians and municipal councillors to just refer him elsewhere.

  He deplored the lack of adequate education and training, suggesting that it was definitely, “the government’s means to make sure we stayed put.” Clifford struggled with the entire program of Residential Schools. Proudly he declared that eventually he was able to have input regarding the teachers in the regional school.

  Throughout, the tourists from Texas were attentive. Assuredly they were wondering how all this could happen. Clifford never asked them about the Sioux, Anasazi, Pawnee, Comanche and other tribes.

  The Texans landed their Muskellunge the next morning. Depending on whom you talked to determined its size and weight. It was caught just to the north of the second most prodigious patch of weeds. Such a spot was usually the home for ­smaller fish and ducklings.

  That second night I returned to Clifford’s cabin with my father. My mom had had enough fish stories. The whole context of the discussion was the chief’s childhood, especially the poverty, lack of proper schooling, and nutrition that didn’t meet third world standards.

  After I asked, “What is it like in winter?” we received a detailed description of life with limited food supplies, roads buried in snow, and the only means of survival to cross the lake—all of its one kilometer width—amid ice flows for the convenience store. The vendor was there to assist the natives but was clearly positioned on white-man’s land to be accessible to white-men if they ever chose not to buy from their preferred outlets.

  When the chief handed me a small wooden tomahawk the conversation turned to arts and crafts. Clifford was skilled in whittling. His wife had majored in weaving blankets. Others within the Curve Lake First Nation were adept in a full range of souvenirs including pottery, handbags, clothing, purses, rugs, sweaters, and carvings.

  It was during my fourth visit, during the day, after our Texan friends had left, that Clifford talked about his time as Chief. He was proud of how much he had done because it equalled all that he could possibly have achieved with the limited resources available and the federal government’s unfulfilled promises. He then spent more than two hours telling various creation stories, and recounting aboriginal lore.

  We parted company after that. Here was a gentleman committed to every aspect that made this world a wonderful place. He was serious, and yet hopeful. The Chief was appreciative of a good listener, and had an incredible ability to keep his audience attentive. He obviously cared about his First Nation with such concern that would never fade with the sunset.

  To get to the pow-wow the following Tuesday, we had to steer our boat across Chemong Lake, and then through the channel to Buckhorn Lake. The setting for the festivities on the Curve Lake First Nation was their main meeting grounds on the eastern shore of Buckhorn Lake. Clifford would be able to attend on foot if he just followed the paths through the forest. However he had no plans to be there that day.

  The activities matched our expectations: tribal dancing, chanting, drums and decorative headdresses. The arts and crafts attracted significant attention. One woman in particular knitted winter jackets in which the interior was also stitched, securing between the two layers a piece of animal skin for thorough protection. Her items sold fast. Wooden carvings too were in much demand. Decorative clay pots were similarly selling for reasonable prices. The major attraction was the raffle for a 1950 Chev. The residents could not believe their good fortune when one of them won the car. After two hours we were ready to leave. It was then that we discovered that someone had cut the rope and stole our anchor. How could they? Why would they? It was just a tin can filled with cement.

  After my parents passed away, forty-two years following my only visit to that lake, I attended the Paudash Community. In the course of my visit, I met several elders and natives at a café. We talked for hours. They initially expressed their disappointment with recurring “False Promises.” Their explanation provided ample reason for them to feel such betrayal.

  An elderly native, with a rough beard, the one who appeared to be most respected in the group, started his narrative referring to the “White Paper by that Frenchman.” He was specifically referring to the Trudeau government in 1969 and the recommendation of Jean Chrétien who, as the Minister of Indian Affairs, wished to abolish the Indian Act. That in effect put an end to the federal government’s domain over native matters. Those ­responsibilities were being distributed mainly to the provincial governments who in turn could assign many departments to do the same task or delegate the authority to regional or municipal authorities or even to a First Nation community. All of those changes muddled the care and education available to the aboriginal communities.

  Another aboriginal gentleman, who was far less vocal than the first, mentioned Elsie Knott. His explanation enlightened me, or at least gave me basic opinionated information. She had been elected Chief of the Curve Lake First Nation in 1954, the first woman in Canada to hold that position. The views on her leadership were varied. Most agreed some good was accomplished. Two persons who did not belong to the Curve Lake tribe questioned the idea of a woman being Chief. The elder gentleman with the rough beard silenced his tribal brothers, reminding them that she was beneficial to her tribe in her efforts and achievements.

  Other comments about another wom
an followed. They identified her as Ellen Fairclough. I listened intently as once again the opinions significantly differed. She was the first woman cabinet minister, an appointment by Mr. Diefenbaker in May of 1958. Her portfolio was Citizenship and Immigration. That alone caused many in the café to challenge the real intent of the federal government. Aboriginal issues were in her domain solely because they had been included under the concept of Citizenship. Instead of seriously addressing the dire poverty and travesty on the reserves, Ms. Fairclough proposed and advocated the concept of women’s rights, particularly equal pay. This was a woman who had belonged to the United Empire Loyalists and the Zonta Club, whose groups rarely addressed the conditions in the First Nations. She could have done more if she was adequately prepared. That was the consensus in the café that day.

  Then they responded to my queries regarding Clifford. It was obvious that he was respected beyond the realm of the Curve Lake First Nation. They recounted his efforts while he was that nation’s Chief in the 1940s. It was also noted that no one ever heard Chief Clifford speak ill of any woman. They praised his efforts regarding roads and transportation, health and fresh water, care for the seniors and access to the local hospital. It was also mentioned that decisions and conditions affecting natives elsewhere did not control events at Curve Lake. The litany was incredible. They described a tough negotiator, a fierce competitor, and a man who would never jump before considering all of the consequences. They talked again of his leadership and his attempts to enhance the perception of the native. Then a younger native gladly mentioned the plans at Trent University to offer courses in native studies. He had little information, but was very proud of the impetus to record their ancestral heritage.

  Another mentioned their own cemetery. That seemed so basic.

  The elderly gentleman then talked about the Whetung Ojibwa Centre and its influence as a venue for tourism and information.

  They conveyed their pride, some enthusiasm and many dreams. Life would go on and they pledged to do what they could to make it better not just for themselves but for generations to come. As I left the Paudash Community that Saturday afternoon, I was very mindful of the overall impact Clifford had had on his Curve Lake Community.

  Perhaps the impact of Chief Clifford and his native community were never truly recognized until June, 2016 when the current Chief of the Curve Lake First Nation was called upon to represent all aboriginal nations in declaring respect for Muhammad Ali in front of tens of millions of viewers at the prize fighter’s funeral.

  2

  AMELIA

  Backstage the adulation resounded. The thirteen-year-old still attired in her white cassock extinguished her flickering candle while the audience continued its enthusiastic applause. Fellow classmates and friends had all expected as much. An aura of grateful satisfaction emanated from the corridors. She had nailed the talent show’s penultimate performance, “Let There Be Peace on Earth”. The composer, Jill Jackson Miller, would have been most impressed.

  For the finale, Amelia joined the entire junior choir singing the inspirational song, “I Believe”. Ardently the audience shared their voices with the meaningful lyrics. Her expression continued to capture the hearts of several thousand parishioners.

  Each year, that Catholic parish in North End Toronto staged a production entertaining the interests of seniors while delighting the youth. Impromptu comedy, skits, and musicals generated applause in the prior four years. The “Mikado” had been a thorough success blending the props with appealing melodies. “My Fair Lady” had been endearing. Each year was a challenge to improve upon the past. In 1962, the director chose to highlight the abilities of the parishioners themselves in performances ­destined to display their talents. The entire show was discussed within parish groups for months thereafter.

  Amelia left with her parents immediately after the final encore. It was almost midnight. She adored family life in all of its components. Her parents were the best. However, every child thought that in the age before the commonality of divorce. She was never one to boast or assert superiority. Appreciation for everything was never expressed publicly, but in her prayers ­gratitude was always first to be mentioned. Her perception of her God embraced every aspect of nature. It seemed to simplify everything: each decision, the difficulties in life, and those moments of unexpected joy. Her God was the Supreme Being, the Catholic Deity with the Trinity. She adored Christ’s love and the Blessed Virgin Mary’s desire to be an intercessor in her life. Yet, she also found her God in the joy of friendship, the companionship of adoring pets, the kind expressions of neighbours, and the efforts of many whose names she never knew. Her God could be found in the nature trails, athletic ventures, or quiet moments in the park. Amelia was truly the epitome of being ‘a good Christian girl’.

  Her appearance certainly generated that impression. At five feet four inches, she carried herself resolutely among friends and acquaintances. Her ash-blonde hair she always kept short. Only on one occasion did it ever touch her shoulders. Her expression seemed to penetrate anyone with whom she would converse, as if reading the heart as well as the mind. Words were an ­expression of the soul, a means of conveying purity, effort and determination. She had trouble at times finding just the right expression. Being bilingual was an asset, even though academic studies were solely in English. French was her heritage. She was well aware of the benefit, yet also how distinct she was.

  Her parents were devout Catholics and seemed perpetually happy. There were only a few instances of frustration in front of the children. They had met and married in Saint-Jerome, about thirty miles north-west of Montreal. Her father in his youth had worked with a logging company. Amelia understood that that was somewhere closer to Hudson’s Bay. Somehow, just after his twentieth birthday, he was able to secure a position with the provincial tourism agency working within a lodge. That was definitely good fortune. In 1944, Hydro-Quebec, having just been formed that year, created thousands of jobs affecting prosperity in related and divergent industries. Tourism was one. His position never directly involved attending the visitors’ needs. Rather, his job was multifaceted, being general maintenance for every ­possible situation within the complex. In that venue, he met the young lady who would be Amelia’s mom.

  They worked together there, and then moved to Montreal. Amelia was born there in early February, just days after the province adopted its new flag in 1948.

  In spite of industrial expansion, the politics of Quebec following the war created an unstable situation. Maurice Duplessis returned to power with The Union Nationale in 1944 and then repeated his victory in 1948. That economic situation basically forced her parents to move to Toronto. In Ontario, he found work as a machinist using his acquired skills. Amelia’s mother, after a long search, obtained employment with a French Canadian life insurance company on Bay Street.

  Amelia was the eldest of three children. Her sister was born just more than a year later. They had, at the time, already settled in southern Ontario. Their brother came into the world three years later. The family had a pet dog. She called it a ‘Heinz 57 terrier’. Amelia loved its affection, but ultimately when her brother started being more active and independent, the family pet latched onto him for the attention and activity it instinctively desired.

  Nothing much was ever said during her early years about her grandparents. She never knew them. Names were mentioned only on special occasions in the company of friends. She had an uncle, her mother’s brother, in Quebec who had more information about the rest of family. Amelia figured that her parents were not from that same region of Quebec. Like her mother, Amelia and her sister were blonde. Meanwhile her father and brother had dark wiry hair. Her father’s rough complexion hid his private thoughts. She knew there was much more to her family than the limited stories. Yet, like all other youth who were enthusiastic with all of the innovations and prospects offered in the 1960s, Amelia tended to think of the future rather than contemplate t
he past.

  Unknown to Amelia and her siblings at the time, their grandfather—their father’s father—lay buried in a makeshift graveyard near the Cree Community of Île de Fort George on Hudson’s Bay. Maybe Amelia’s father concealed their Cree heritage on purpose. The appearance of his daughters clearly did not suggest such ancestry. Maybe he just did not want their lives to be compromised in any way.

  The one aspect of her physique that was a benefit was her broad shoulders. Sports were a natural ability: pitching the baseball, hitting home runs, swinging a tennis racket. Balance, too, was an attribute for winter sports, especially skating. That the parish church had a massive acreage behind the hall provided access to field sports during the summer. The priests arranged for a rink to be flooded for hockey and pleasure-skating in winter. Long before it was ever considered an issue, these priests had already instituted a protocol that no cleric or adult could be alone with any young person. Volunteers were numerous, and the children’s smiles more so.

  Amelia’s heart remained broader than her shoulders. So much of her spare time was devoted to others. She helped with the food baskets in the spring and winter. Parish calendars were delivered by her and several friends. Her acquaintances were many, and some were equally enthusiastic. It was a wonderful time to be young.

  Her leadership was noted when she was still quite young. In the Brownies she assisted many of the girls in obtaining their badges. In the Girl Guides she was a patrol leader. The parish Junior Choir endeared her most of all. She had a vibrant range for Gregorian chant, Latin hymns, and Eucharistic Devotion. With her sister she sang at the early Mass on Sunday ­mornings.

  The news shook the parish while Amelia was still in grade school. The parents of one of their classmates were killed in a motor vehicle accident. The responsible vehicle sped away remaining unidentified. At that time before the insurance industry offered Uninsured Motorist Coverage, the six children of the deceased were abruptly destitute. Amelia’s family were one of so many offering to do whatever was necessary. Immediately those children had supportive care. Amelia attended to the emotional needs of her classmate, a young lady whose life had basically ended. Each day she’d be with her till nightfall. Amelia had no concept of fatigue.