I’m driving my ATV on left-over ice and snow, crossing a creek and heading to the blind that I’ve frequented for the last few decades. The going is good with beautiful weather and one small mallard I managed to kill while waiting for the first geese to arrive. Facebook posts show plenty of harvesting just south of us and we are waiting for our turn up north.
Blockade season, also known as summer, is at our doorstep. First to set up camp may be the Mohawks protesting the Quebec government’s Bill 96, which they say will impose onerous French-language requirements.
I was getting prepared for the Goose Break hunt. Watching primer videos and photos of hunts down south put an itch in my twitchy trigger finger. I figured it was time to clean the gunk from last year’s hunt off my trusty shotgun and scrounge for loose shells from pockets and drawers so I could say that at least I had enough ammo.
This month has been a sad period for my family and friends as several Elders have passed on. It is sad to lose someone we love and so difficult to imagine all the stories, history and knowledge lost when these special people pass.
Ever since the existence of hidden gravesites at some former residential schools were discovered, other First Nations have expressed a desire to check for unmarked graves at residential schools their members attended. Using ground-penetrating radar, more sites have been located but there are concerns about the costs.
After taking numerous tests that all came out negative, I was allowed to leave town. Now that I’ve left, it’s just a matter of figuring out what to do with my spare time. Turns out I don’t have spare time because there’s nothing to do. No direct contact with anything other than your own belongings and your closest family. Since I don’t have too many things that I’m attached to, that only leaves close family members to cling onto.
I’ve grown to be quite protective of the dignity of residential school survivors in my family. I knew the Vatican visit would be harmful to some extent, even if I respect that it was important for some survivors. I don’t want to make trivial comments, because it’s a complex situation that stems from colonial violence that made our interpersonal relationships, well, complex.
Culture and the arts define a people and can influence the direction of their society. Music is one of the ways this is done. Woodstock still conjures up images of the 1960s and the changes that accompanied that era to this day. Anyone who has gone to a concert knows the energy the event has for the audience.
What if you found out that your life was at an end and tomorrow you would die? What would that mean to you? How would that change your perception of your life? What would be important to you, now that you knew your time was up?
The last time I wrote about anything earth shaking concerned the long, drawn-out affair with the pandemic, the woes and lows of living faceless and remote, the cough our greatest fear, the needle our only salvation.
