The second annual Truth and Reconciliation Day arrives September 30. While the new event is a statutory holiday for all federal workers and most First Nations, not all provinces are willing to deal with having to reflect on the atrocities Canada committed against its Indigenous population.
Our home is oddly empty… the school bus came by and took those happy children to their first day of school. It’s sunny today and the clouds whisk by on a warm south wind, as if a tropical storm had passed and kept everything green. Though September is upon us, the hint of fall seems distant.
Covid-19 is still a prominent part of our lives. As much as we would like to think that this pandemic is coming to an end, it is still a very dangerous period for many people.
Every four years politicians must bend the knee and pretend they are servants to the communities they represent. Of course, when the voting is over a newly elected party usually enjoys a honeymoon period when they are not judged too harshly… in most cases.
Against all odds, I celebrated four years of sobriety at the end of July.
Finally, the skies clear and an early Indian summer sets in. I use the term because that’s what it’s commonly referred to, but I would suggest harvesting season is nearing. Hungry geese are impacting the berry crop on the offshore islands, but it’s been an early season for berries and a bountiful one at that. No use letting all that good fruit go to waste unless you like very juicy berries that are a bit sour – the kind to make wine with.
It was a last-minute decision to take a needed vacation. My brother Donny called to say he was heading back to Mistissini for the week. Would my son Declan and I want to come?
My people have a long history of dealing with new dangerous and deadly diseases that we had no protection against. During the First World War, I lost my great-grandfather to the 1918 influenza pandemic when he left his homeland on James Bay to volunteer for the war overseas. He never returned and he now lies in a burial plot just outside the city of London.
I arise from my bed, the acid reflux taking its toll on my weary abdomen as the continuous burping turns into a torrential spewing session. I recover, weakened by this second assault to my body, and slowly recover my senses. It must be that gastro that’s going around, I say to myself. And sure enough, gastro is the main suspect as many others are complaining about this new-yet-old medical problem on social media.
I spent most of July in the Arctic, away from the heatwaves. I’ve been waking up to foggy mornings along the Hudson Bay coast and falling asleep to gloaming midnight skies.
