Indigenous

Indigenous Copyright Doug Blair, Waterloo, ON, 2019

Stately

He was, perhaps the most handsome man I had ever met. Closing in on sixty. Straight, direct brown eyes. Long braid. Aboriginal. He reminded me of a younger version of Chief Dan George of movie fame. The lines in his tanned face spoke of character; the eyes, of years of gentle assessment of his fellow men.

I was a young lawyer on duty counsel at Provincial Criminal Court giving people "off-the-hip" advice on their first court appearance. This gentleman 1

was accompanied by his grand-daughter who had had an unfortunate encounter with the Wallaceburg police. He had arranged her bail. A Saturday night of drinking had led to public disturbance and abusive language to the attending constables.

I learned that the young woman had been roughly handled in custody, cuffed and made to fall down a flight of stairs en route to the lock-up. Now she just hung her head in embarrassment while grandfather told the story.

He paused and looked directly at me with incredulous, pained eyes as if to say, "Is this the Law? I cannot excuse the child's behaviour. It only goes to add fuel to the sad stereotype. But do decent folk do this in response?"

I cannot remember how the short hearing went thereafter. I can only remember the handsome, questioning face.

Months later a young enterprising aboriginal farmer from Walpole Island named Bruce came into my office with a problem. His grandmother had died. He could not find a funeral parlour to arrange the final tribute. He and his father presented me with particulars of a lucrative wetlands maize operation in the hope that I could help make the pitch to a mortician. My phone calls and a visit left me with the impression that Wallaceburg

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business folk were totally disinclined to engage with "those people from the Island". "After all, I must have known what they were like".

Well, I didn't...It was probably the following summer that Hilary and little Lauren and I went to a small white clapboard church on the Island (formerly Anglican) where revival was underway. A husband and wife evangelistic team were there from Detroit with a couple of spirited musicians. There in a small gathering of red, white and black we experienced one of the richest times of worship and ministry which we can remember, with the peeper frogs joining in from the marsh out back.

New friends were made. The Body was edified. Jesus was honoured. Tribes and tongues were represented in unity. The only place where multiculturalism will ever work. Around His throne. (Revelation 5)

Brine Depot

Daddy Winebucks had built the small store back of his cabin on the River. A sheet metal trailer mounted on log foundation. These days only a part-time venture, and largely to serve the village upriver.

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Stocks of hardware, rope, tools, saws, canned or bagged groceries and bottles without labels. The great love remained the fishing and the woodcarving and the seemingly aimless journeys of the forest. The smell of it all perhaps the greatest joy. Wife Lily taken with the measles. Daughter Jolene helped by funds from Indian Affairs to go to Vancouver and study for teaching.

Folks came to the outlet whatever the weather. Either to build or to cook or to purchase liquid forgetfulness. Lose those memories of evacuated youth, idleness, white eyes’ disdain, corrupt or foolish decisions of Band Council, merciless rains, foamy garbage at the mouth of their inlet, dwindling fish stocks.

The wanderings often arrived at the totems in the tall trees. Figures reverently carved. Ages ago. Man upon bird upon animal upon fish upon spirit. Stories of heritage that read like biographies in the great and dusty libraries of the City.

That City scandalised by the broken hopes of their discarded peoples.

Homeless and mumbling and filthy with hand always out. Feeling like strangers from another planet. Who had simply stopped trying or caring.

Ancient and worn well before their time.

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Not going to get Daddy. Nope…too busy. Responding often to what the tides brought in.

That included recently the new young itinerant Anglican rector. On that beaten up old launch. Tales from the Middle East of a kindly wandering carpenter with anecdotes and healing hands and a bunch of star-struck buddies. Former ministers had been full of rules and guilt and strange language. Their imprint gone like wave washed footprints in the sand.

Nothing put into the spirit of a man …like the trees or storm or salmon or totem or ghostly owl or mountain cat.

But perhaps young Mark would be different. Hardening hands and face in the elements. Newfound joys and skills of the nautical sort. Apparently a listening ear. And that laugh and those eyes…

John 17: 19-23

(Note: These thoughts put into mind by the re-reading of a 1973 novel entitled I​ Heard the Owl Call My Name by Margaret Craven.

Picked it up at the annual April used book sale in Uptown Waterloo at First United Church.)

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George of Spain

I often talk with my acquaintance George around the Sobey's plaza where I have a part-time job. He left Spain unlawfully during the Franco regime, and together with teenage friends was rescued by French peasants from recapture by the Spanish border police.

Eventually he found his way to Northern Ontario and purchased a general store in one of the towns. Shortly thereafter some legislation prohibited public facilities from withholding services from aboriginals. George had no problem with this. All of his encounters with Indian people had been acceptable. He heard that the Provincial Police were bringing an extra

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contingent to town. This caused some alarm in the community, and was yet another slap in the face to the First Nations people.

On the Thursday before the effective weekend, the Band Chief came into George's store asking him for a moment. He regretted to advise that foul play was expected over the weekend from some of his people in light of this new liberty. He asked George if at all possible not to involve the police, but rather after the fact to let him know of any losses.

George hardly knew what to expect. On the Saturday the store was over-run with native visitors, many handling and mixing up the merchandise, appearing drunk in public and hastening out the front door without payment. George found people in unauthorized areas of the store trying out the products. He tried his best to be calm and cordial, remembering the promise of the Chief. He suspected that the loss would be overwhelming.

On Monday morning he attended the store and started the monumental task of clean-up. In came the Chief inquiring as to developments. He could see that George had gone through a real storm. He asked for the money figure on damage; promised to consult with the elders and return with the cash. Truly a noble leader in a difficult time.

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One might ask the question whether the people of the land had even planned the outburst, until first suspected and insulted by "white-eyes".

And so it still goes with racial tension more than fifty years later.

George is in his eighties and is a cordial, dedicated, aware, self-sustaining citizen in his country of choice. It pained him to give me this account.

"God keep our land, glorious and free…”

Gunwale Rocking

The cedar​-strip canoe

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Feels comfortable As I push away from our dock Facing gentle Bay wind.

Busy day​ today With the kids.

This session of camp Seems spunkier.

Good evening​ program.

Young boys actually sang.

Read a little Service Some north-wood rhyme.

Sunset o​ut there

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Beyond the point.

One of a kind With fire.

Cabin line ​has settled Rattlings subside.

Mosquitoes and peeper frogs Bring night's music.

Gentle​ J-stroke Makes relaxed progress With tickling resistance Of evening's waves.

Rounding​ the point,

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Marsh grass and lilies Welcome.

Last vestiges of light.

There. Enough.

Paddle placed Cross gunwales behind.

Stretching out and back.

Legs ​extended Five and seven o'clock.

Feeling the rock Of the craft.

Night-lights​, lazy,

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Arrive above.

Wink, shimmer, shoot.

Special August friends.

From shore​line Raven's croak echoes.

And bullfrog's tympanic Tryst.

Rocking​, rocking, Turning.

North star dances 'Round.

Seldom ​have I

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Relished.

Such freedom from The ground.

Brainerd’s Interpreter Enlightened, 1744

One of the most notable books on missionary endeavour among First Nations peoples was the Journal of David Brainerd, missionary to aboriginals.

He tells of the soul travail of the man who volunteered to be his interpreter.

Frequently inebriated. Months passed with no signs of grace. In the various villages stories of Jesus were pouring through this man’s interpretive effort.

But they had remained just stories. Then the inner struggle of conviction began to show. The man Moses would relate that he had discovered that ‘throughout his life he had not done one good thing.’ He understood that there were others within his sphere who had engaged in much more overtly wicked deeds; that he had even extended some charities and helps.

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But he understood now that there had been no undivided purity of motive to please and honour the great God and Creator in any of this. He also saw that in himself he was incapable of coming to this point. He became miserable and fearful for his condition. Brainerd from time to time would be allowed sketchy reports of this struggle from the man. He was encouraged that this was in fact real awakening, real conviction and not just the workings of imagination in a soulish remorse. Clearly the Spirit of God was at work.

For Moses the breakthrough finally came with glorious revelation. The job was Christ’s and He had been waiting patiently to be allowed without interference to remove all the struggles and doubts and sin for the man.

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This particular conversion gave great encouragement to the missionary in his wanderings through the forests and villages of New Jersey and thereabouts.

Marshlands

BY ​EMILY PAULINE JOHNSON (1861-1913) A thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim,

And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh’s brim.

The pools low lying, dank with moss and mould,

Glint through their mildews like large cups of gold.

Among the wild rice in the still lagoon,

In monotone the lizard shrills his tune.

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The wild goose, homing, seeks a sheltering,

Where rushes grow, and oozing lichens cling.

Late cranes with heavy wing, and lazy flight,

Sail up the silence with the nearing night.

And like a spirit, swathed in some soft veil,

Steals twilight and its shadows o’er the swale.

Hushed lie the sedges, and the vapours creep,

Thick, grey and humid, while the marshes sleep.

Into the Cedars

I enter the cedar stand With muffled footfall.

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The Bay wind Traveling at my side Did not make it into the canopy.

Decomposition of years beneath.

Carpeted mosaic, Dead-fall, granite, root-fingers, lichens.

Gnarled, ruddy sentries In light-green camouflage, Note my arrival.

Guarding the Past.

Guarding the Present.

Guarding the Peace.

Guarding the Plan.

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A barking raven-my herald.

Doubtless, chipmunks and White-tail freeze in their fashion, Wondering if I mean harm.

Temperature drops a few degrees.

Shades are drawn.

Hospitable host, though shy.

Quietly checking out my manners.

I sense I must stand still, Waiting.

Honouring timeless laws Of territory.

As if to be waved in.

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Frozen moment.

(Excepting only the Carpenter ant dragging Moth five-times-his-size Along a fallen trunk.)

Some Conductor flips his baton.

Green-noise musical score resumes.

I am in.

Perhaps given the tour.

Nuthatch sidles around a trunk To give me a peek.

Above, though hidden, That clarion white-throated

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Summer sound: “Chee-chee-chee-CanadaCanada-Canada.�

All around me traces, Evidences Of the continuing symphony.

Rabbit pellets.

Fox-fur snagged on a branch.

Tree-trunk porcupine lacerations.

Persistent flies Around remnants of a red squirrel Mishap.

Somewhere out there

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The bright relentless sun, Open Bay, lapping.

Sparkles in the marsh grass At the sandy shore.

My Evinrude.

In here, community, concord, calm.

Occasionally, a burst of brilliance Overhead.

As if Sun-God Attempts invasion through the roof.

But the assault diffuses Through lacy green And settles disarmed,

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Muted member of the carpet-floor.

How much more, noble red-man Would have studied, Sensed, smelled, heard: He, in suit of two-year doeskin.

He, in feather, clam-shell breastplate.

He, the sum of many travels.

He, apprised of cedar-house rules.

He, the watcher of its ways.

This is his, and theirs.

I love it.

And seek adoption.

If only for the weekend.

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In the large forest I become surprisingly small. Perhaps one or two colours on an oddly shaped jigsaw piece. Prayer and meditation most suitable at these times. The sound of my breathing just a player in the orchestra of bird song, wind whisper and yielded rattlings of the treetops. Alone but really not alone...and loving it. https://justhappeneduponthis.wordpress.com/2014/02/23/small-2/

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Small

Strange it may sound In a world full of striving “Yes, look at me. I have gained and will be Noticed of men At the top of the ladder. Do what it takes And admirers will see.” Yet there’s a place To discard all pretension Breathe ever freely Released from sin’s thrall. Mountain or forest Or sea coast all glorious Showing God’s grandeur For there, I am small.

Small, and so thankful That He knows my journey. Small, and in wonder That He has my back. Small, there’s a comfort In trusting and leaning Safe from the arrows Of Evil’s attack. But does He fathom My daily dilemmas?

But does He know The hurts people will bring? That’s when my eyes turn To Christ ‘neath the Olives Begging for rescue; Of Him will I sing.

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