by Bruce Fogle
We took short steps, both of us with our bodies bent over, scanning the mosses and twigs and fallen leaves we were walking through.
‘Brucie, it’s how your mind works. You train it. When you walk somewhere you think your mind takes in everything, but really, it doesn’t. It only takes in part of it. It sees the big picture, the sky, the trees, the shrubs, the vegetation, the rocks. But when you’re berry picking your mind sees none of that. Your mind’s eye only sees blueberries until your real eyes see them.’
In the sun-dappled rocky landscape, my eyes were the first to see there was a carpet of blueberries under my feet. They were everywhere, thousands of them, tens of thousands, millions, all waiting to be individually picked. It took less than an hour for my family to fill all our four-pint apple baskets.
Mum had come prepared. Back at the boat she set out our picnic on a lock-side table – cheese, lettuce and sweet dill pickle sandwiches, Kool-Aid from the thermos and, for dessert, cream she had brought along especially to pour on the fresh berries. Each time any other boaters looked at my new boat I worried whether they would come over and say, ‘I had a boat just like that but I lost it.’ We enjoyed our picnic so much we almost missed the powwow.
THE POWWOW
On visits to Mud Lake Mrs Whetung had told us that where we were, on the tip of the peninsula between Chemong and Buckhorn, was the only land anywhere around that still belonged to the Indians. I enjoyed my visits. The men didn’t say much, which made them mysterious. The women were different. To me, Mrs Knott and Mrs Muskratt and Mrs Whetung and Mrs Jacobs, they all seemed warm and motherly and talkative.
Grace’s mother told us it was the Whetung family’s idea to start an annual powwow as a way to get the locals and the summer people to visit. Mrs Whetung had a gift shop in her living room. There was no hydro at Mud Lake, no telephones either, so news about the powwow was spread up and down the lake by word of mouth. I had seen a notice in the Bridgenorth general store.
By the time my family and I got back to Mud Lake we could hear the powwow taking place. Dad docked our new boat beside Grace’s father’s sleek inboard and we ran to the Reserve’s baseball diamond where the men on the Reserve had set up a totem pole on the pitcher’s mound. Mr Muskratt, Mr Whetung, Mr Boudreault and Mr Taylor, all wearing big feather headdresses and buckskin shirts and trousers, were dancing around it while Mr Coppaway and his sons beat tom-toms. I thought they looked slightly embarrassed. The women also wore beaded buckskin and had feathers in their hair and they looked a whole lot happier than their menfolk. They were all rhythmically stamping their feet on the baseball diamond’s dry earth, beckoning everyone to join in.
I moved over to stand beside Grace, whose mother had put a feather in her hair and was stamping her feet and using her hand on her mouth to make whooping sounds. I thought she looked breathtakingly beautiful and ridiculous both at the same time. Using a megaphone Mr Whetung, who was Master of Ceremonies, invited everyone to join hands, make a circle and participate in their last dance. Uncle Reub had been sitting cross-legged on the ground near second base but he got up and joined the circle, holding hands with Mrs Muskratt and Dr Sweeting’s wife. I joined hands with Grace and her mother. The drummers began their metric beating and most of the people in the circle started stamping their feet, but I didn’t. It didn’t feel right to me.
‘Dance!’ Grace commanded, and because she told me to I did, and I continued to stamp my feet even after the drums stopped.
After that everyone politely applauded and we broke up into small groups. Reg Muskratt, Mr Coppaway and his two sons went off with my father and me to inspect the boat. I wished I had my dad’s movie camera when all five men, four Indians in feathered headdresses and my dad in a red-checked shirt and work trousers, all got in the boat and examined the improvements. Mum joined Mrs Whetung and Mrs Boudreault who were going to explain how they use local plants and tell of their tribe’s history. Uncle Reub talked with Mrs Muskratt. When he returned to the boat he had a brown paper bag of roots he had bought from her.
‘Mrs Muskratt collected these sweet flag roots right over there,’ he told me, pointing to the black, mucky ground beside the dock where sweet flag almost as tall as he was, was growing. ‘We can get more if we need to from frog bog.’
‘What’s it for?’ I asked, and my uncle explained that Mrs Muskratt told him that sweet flag tea, made from those roots, was good for a sore throat and that some of the singers at the powwow kept pieces in their mouths to keep their voices clear.
‘That was most interesting,’ Mum said when she returned to the dock.
‘They think braided sweetgrass is the hair of mother earth and it protects you from evil spirits. It gets that vanilla smell only after it’s hung and dried. The tobacco they grow by the baseball diamond – they say it’s a purifier and represents the south. Sweetgrass represents the north. Do you know they didn’t have a lawyer when they signed the treaty for this reserve?’
‘That was long ago,’ Dad said.
‘No it wasn’t. It’s not much more than twenty-five years ago.’
She bent down and untied the bowline.
‘Reub, you know Indian history. Sit with me in the boat,’ she said.
As she got in she turned to her brother, and said, ‘I don’t think we treated these people well.’
They got in the boat and even at full speed it seemed to take longer to get home than it did to go all the way to Buckhorn that morning. Rob fell asleep. Mum and Uncle Reub talked.
After we docked, my father turned the boat around so that the bow faced the lake. The air was freshening and he didn’t want waves to wash over the flat transom.
‘Brucie, let’s go in the tent,’ Uncle suggested, and while the rest of the family went in the cottage the two of us crawled into our hideaway.
‘Your mother was upset today when she learned how we took the Indians’ land. Mrs Whetung told her the government had three lawyers at the treaty meeting but none of them kept minutes so there’s no way of knowing what was said. On the other hand, I had a very interesting day. Mr Muskratt’s wife, Mrs Muskratt, she’s a wise woman.’
‘Grace’s mother says she wears the pants in their family,’ I replied and my uncle smiled at that.
‘She means she’s as perceptive as your mother is. Mrs Muskratt told me that wapato tubers were good to eat if they were baked over an open fire, and that yellow pond-lily rootstocks could be ground into flour and so could water lily seeds.
‘She asked me what I did for a living and I explained I was an eye, ear, nose and throat doctor but I was also what Edgar Ten Fingers called a “right man”. She asked me where I used my knowledge and I told her I wasn’t using it. You know what she said? She told me I was a fool.’
As he spoke, Uncle Reub took a crooked sweet flag root from the brown paper bag, cut off a piece with his pocket knife, put it in his mouth and started chewing it.
‘The Oglala Sioux crush sweet flag roots and make tea from it and they give the tea to their puppies so they grow up to be brave watchdogs.’
Uncle continued chewing the piece of root until it turned to paste, then he dribbled it from his mouth into his cupped left hand, something that I thought a grown-up shouldn’t do.
‘Sioux braves use it too,’ he continued. ‘They chew the roots to make a paste then they rub their faces with it. It prevents fear or excitement when they face an enemy.
‘Brucie, Mrs Muskratt isn’t the first person to call me a fool. Your mother’s also called me a fool and I paid no attention to her. Have you heard her say, “If one person calls you a jackass, pay no attention. If two people call you a jackass, it’s time to get a saddle”? Well it’s time I got a saddle.’
I watched, perplexed. I didn’t know what my uncle meant by saying it was time to get a saddle but I was more astonished by what he was doing, smearing his soft, round cheeks with chewed sweet flag root. He looked like a baby that was sloppy with his cereal.
‘Uncle Reub, who�
�s your enemy?’ I eventually asked.
‘Bruce, you’re younger than your brother but you’re a wise boy and if you don’t understand now, you will when you grow up. Most people think that others are their enemies but they’re wrong. Your biggest enemy can be yourself. It’s time I faced that.’
‘Are you going to wash that off before we go inside?’ I asked.
‘Yes, of course I will,’ Uncle replied. ‘We don’t want them to think I’m off my rocker.’
He continued, ‘Do you know where I left that skunk tail? I can tie it to my foot then I’ll be like a skunk and not run away.’
As we walked from the tent to the cottage I asked my uncle one more question.
‘When do I have to grow up?’ I asked, and Uncle Reub smiled and put his arm around my shoulder. ‘Robert and the other boys would probably ask, “When can I be a grown-up?” Your question is better and it’s for you to decide. When I feel good, and I do feel good right now, I hope I never have to.’
THE
AGRICULTURAL
FAIR
I was eating raspberries in the vegetable patch when I heard a car coming down the point. I knew it wasn’t the milkman or the bread man or Mr Everett collecting garbage. It didn’t sound like any of their trucks. Fathers didn’t arrive until Friday so it wasn’t any of them. When I saw a taxicab I stopped eating raspberries and stared at it. Taxicabs shouldn’t visit cottages. It was wrong. They were for city people. In cities.
The dusty brown taxicab slowly rumbled past the other cottages and stopped at mine. As the driver opened the car door Uncle Reub stepped out of the bunkhouse.
‘Good morning. You found us. We’ll be ready in five minutes.’
‘Morning, sir. Fine day. Your instructions were right on the trigger.’
With a smile on his face that made him look like the man in the moon, Uncle Reub turned to me and said, ‘You and I are going to the Peterborough Ex. Just you and me. Go in and put on a shirt and some shoes. I’ll meet you here.’
‘Uncle must have gone to Mrs Nichols to use her phone,’ I thought as I laced up my shoes. I put on my favourite cowboy shirt, and as I left Mum kissed me and said, ‘Look after each other.’
Uncle Reub, wearing the shirt he bought at the Bridgenorth General Store, stood beside the taxicab and opened the side door as I approached then followed me in. ‘Everyone on the point is going on Saturday. It will be better today. Just farmers.’
I felt extra special, riding in the back of the taxicab. I never went anywhere in a taxicab, even in the city. It was either buses or the new subway or my mother drove. Both of us silently looked out of our windows as we drove towards town. I knew every bit of the road from the cottage to Bridgenorth but once past that hamlet, even though I visited the town almost every week, I still felt like I was travelling in a foreign land.
‘Mr Gilchrist will have his best stock at the fair,’ Uncle said, as we passed a barn on which was written in large white letters ‘GILCHRIST FARM’.
‘Brucie, do you know there’s a red ribbon to be won for the cow with the best udder? From what you told me about Mrs Blewett, I think her husband might enter her in the competition?’
We giggled ourselves silly at that thought.
The taxicab driver drove us straight down George Street, past the new City Hall, Eaton’s, Woolworths, Mr Yudin’s theatre, Fosters’ Restaurant and Canadian Tire, then past the municipal wharf on Little Lake and on to the fairgrounds at the southern end of town where he let us off at the main gate. I was surprised to see that Mrs Nichols was in the ticket booth.
‘Well, it’s so very good to see you here today, young man,’ she said as we reached the booth. ‘I do this for the Agricultural Society,’ she continued, addressing my uncle who bought two tickets from her.
‘Don’t forget to visit the home-baking tent,’ she called as we left.
‘In Mandan we have cow wrestling and bucking broncos at the agricultural show,’ Uncle said.
‘What’s that got to do with the Ex?’ I asked.
‘Nothing. I just thought you might be interested in what happens at other fairs. Tell you what. We don’t have pig races in Mandan but they do here. Shall we see?’ Uncle asked.
‘Yes please,’ I replied, and we started towards the racetrack but stopped to join the crowd listening to the music coming from the bandstand.
The Peterborough Civic Concert Band – all men in red blazers – was playing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’.
‘They play it like a marching song,’ Uncle confided to me. ‘That’s because during the war they were a regiment band, a marching band. It’s really a love song.’
‘Mum and Grace’s mother sing love songs but they don’t sound like this,’ I replied.
‘Makes you want to dance, eh?’ Uncle replied and he raised his hands in the air and lightly turned in a tight circle on the toes of his feet.
‘The love is in the words, Brucie. Paddy’s gone to London. Molly loves him but if he only thinks about himself, about going off to chase his dreams, she’ll marry Mike. Remember that, Brucie.’
When the song ended and the clapping stopped, Uncle Reub said, ‘Let’s find the pig races.’
We walked over to the track, but as we approached Uncle knew something was wrong. The track was empty. Pig racing was on weekends.
‘Nerts!’ he shouted to himself then after a few seconds he turned to me. ‘I thought you’d love pig races. They’re so much like dogs. I’m sorry I got the dates wrong.’
‘That’s OK,’ I replied and my uncle suggested we go over to the midway.
The home-baking tent was on the way and we stopped there hoping there might be something to eat but there wasn’t. The baking was for show only and the two of us walked around all the baking on the periphery of the tent then around the large table in the middle.
‘Mrs Nichols is too modest,’ Uncle said, pointing to a gold ribbon. ‘She’s won the top prize for her butter tarts. Now that she’s won, she won’t mind if we take one.’
‘You can’t do that,’ I said. ‘They’re for show, not for us to eat.’
We walked on to the midway, where my uncle bought me a large cone of pink candy floss. On one side of the midway there were sideshow tents with a fire eater, a sword swallower, a knife thrower and a man in a turban who lay on a bed of nails.
‘They use secret tricks don’t they?’ I said confidently to my uncle.
‘The real secret is there’s no secret to what they do. Each one has learned to do what he does. It’s dangerous if you or I try it but not for them. Shall we watch?’
‘No. Not if it’s not dangerous. Let’s go see the animals. They’re more interesting,’ I replied, and we continued down to the cattle barn. I loved watching Mr Everett’s cattle eating clover in the fields. I thought it was beautiful how their bodies swayed as they walked along the highway back to their barn. That summer I knew I wanted to spend as much time as I could just watching animals, and in the show barn I might have a chance to actually touch some.
‘Howdy, doc,’ I heard someone say as we neared the black painted barn and it was the vet who treated Angus.
‘Dr Smith! I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here today,’ my uncle replied.
‘Work and pleasure. Work and pleasure,’ he said.
Today he looked neat as a pin, in freshly ironed, light brown bibbed overalls, a dark green shirt and a brown wool tie. His black rubber boots had manure on them.
‘Working for the Agricultural Society today. Can’t be too safe about infectious diseases.’
‘Are you, as it were, the gatekeeper?’ Uncle asked and the vet explained that at the crack of dawn he was inspecting the livestock in every single truck and trailer arriving at the fairgrounds.
‘Rabies is on the up too. Any critter that looks dumber than it should doesn’t leave its trailer. Wish you could do the same for polio. At this time of year I worry about taking my kids on the train.’
‘There’s a promising pol
io vaccine being tested in Pittsburgh,’ Uncle told the vet. ‘In this fresh air I’m not worried about my nephew. Are you going to the judging?’
‘Nope. My hard work’s done. I’m the fireman now,’ he replied, ‘here if I’m needed. Good to see you. Say, doc, as you’re an eye specialist, I wouldn’t mind your checking my left eye some time. I’m seeing a different colour with it.’
‘Is there any difference at night?’ Uncle asked.
‘Yeah, if I close my right eye I see haloes round the lights. If I squint they’re still there.’
‘You might have a cataract,’ Uncle said. ‘I’ve got my ophthalmoscope at my sister’s. If you can get out to Lake Chemong I can take a look.’
‘I’ll see if I can do that,’ the vet replied and we continued into the barn.
Cattle judging had been taking place all morning and the Peewee class – for boys under ten years old showing their senior, intermediate and junior calves – was under way. I thought the calves were the most beautiful I had ever seen. There wasn’t a speck of manure on a single one and their coats shined fresh and clean like Angus when he was wet. Each boy walked his calf through an entrance to the ring at the left and out an exit to the right. Most of the boys walked with their heads down. I thought that’s exactly what I would do. Grace wouldn’t. She’d strut right into the ring and look at everyone in the eye. One boy had a particularly pretty red calf. Most of the calves were Herefords or shorthorns or Angus but this one was different. She had the most enormous brown eyes and bleated with a surprisingly high voice when she was walked through the ring.
My uncle and I stayed for almost an hour then left and visited the food tent where we both had hamburgers, French fries and Vernors ginger ale. I saw Mr Everett come in, order food and leave.