NOKOMIS TELLS A TALE

 

     NOKOMIS TELLS A TALE

 

 On the April day we met Verna, our seventy-five year old landlady, the smell of rain-soaked cedars was in the air.  Verna was wearing a bulky white cardigan, slacks and rubber boots, as she walked around her property to examine the raspberry canes and see how much underbrushing would be needed.  Short, gray curls stuck out from under a round, fur-trimmed wool hat.  Beaver-like eyes set among freckles and tiers of wrinkles surveyed us, and a violin-scroll smile slowly curled across her face as she welcomed us with a handshake.

            “Welcome to the Cape.”

          No ordinary landlady, she was Verna Patronella Johnston, named Indian Woman of the Year in 1976 by the Native Women’s Association of Canada, author, poet, and subject of a biography, I Am Nokomis, Too by R. M. Vanderburgh. Verna had just moved back to the Cape after having run a boarding house for native students in Toronto.  The boarding house had filled a huge need for native young people suddenly removed from their own culture and thrust into a white city environment.

             We were to rent Verna’s dream home: a furnished two-bedroom bungalow with a stone fireplace in the living room, and beautiful bevelled glass cabinetry dividing the cooking and dining areas of the kitchen.  There were exquisite objects such as traditional hand-woven Cape Croker baskets and a standing sculpture made of diamond willow, resembling a cat, created by Verna’s brother Wilmer, a successful artist.  People would have paid a lot of money to rent such a charming house right on the Georgian Bay, with Lake Huron only a short drive away and miles of beautiful forest and park land all around.  Verna lived next door in her original family home, an old, square stone house – a house less rentable, but filled with memories of the foster children she had raised.

          Verna came to visit later that week.  The muse flowed as she recited her own poetry and a famous Ojibwa prayer. She talked of social and political concerns, on and off the reserve, and of her passion to pass on the ancient crafts of her people to the younger generation.  She told of the legends so dear to her, told to her by her grandmother, and of her own book Tales of Nokomis(Grandmother), in which she had preserved these legends.

          “Won’t you tell us one of the legends?” we asked.

          Verna’s wise eyes danced, and the violin-scroll smile spread across her face, dislodging rows of wrinkles.

          “Certainly!  I’ll tell you The Legend of the Birch Tree:

 

          A long time ago, long before there were people living in this land, the trees could talk to each other.  When they rustled, that was quiet conversation.  But when they bent from side to side in the strong wind, their words were stronger and more important.

          There were many different kinds of trees in the forest.

          The lovely Maple tree had sweet sap to give to the birds when they grew thirsty.  Many birds made nests in her limbs, including the robin, with her pale blue eggs.  Maple kept them safe from wind and rain.  Maple was kind, helpful and highly respected by the other trees.

          The Elm was a tall, graceful tree who spread her branches out evenly all around.  The orioles made their long nests in her boughs, feeling safe so far above the ground.

          Then there was the beautiful Cedar who folded her thick branches around the birds to keep them warm in the winter.

          The lovely Birch tree also grew here. She was slim and graceful, with pure white, soft skin. Her branches were pretty and supple, as she swayed gently in the wind.  In the spring, she had beautiful light green leaves kissed by the sun.  When our people came to this land, they used the beautiful, fair Birch to make their canoes, wigwams and cooking vessels.

          But alas!  Although Birch was fair, she was also proud, and she was soon to learn her lesson.

The handsome evergreen Pine was the king of the forest. To him every tree would bow her head.  He was tall and straight and kingly in his stately dark green attire..

          One sunny summer day, pink, blue and yellow flowers were blooming, and colourful  birds were merrily singing .  The trees were rustling lightly, laughing and chatting amongst themselves.

          Maple suddenly noticed that Birch was not joining in the fun.

          “Are you all right, dear Birch?” asked kindly Maple.

          “I’m fine!” snapped Birch, waving her pale white branches impatiently .  “I never felt better in my life.  But why should anyone as fair as I am bother with the rest of you?  You are all so plain and ordinary-looking.”

          Maple tree was sad, because she knew that Pine would be very angry if he heard.  Not only did he set a good example himself, but he made the other trees behave as well.

          “Hush, Birch.  Do you want Pine to hear you?”

But Birch tossed her branches even more disdainfully and stubbornly.

          “Who cares about Pine?” she said.  “I am fairer than any tree in the forest, and I will no longer bow down to Pine.”

          Pine, who had been taking a nap, awoke with a start on hearing his name.  He shook his sharp needles to arrange them in place, and stretched up to his tallest, most stately height..

          “Tell me, Birch, what were you saying just now?”

All the trees trembled with fear, for they knew their king could become very angry.

          But Birch had no fear.  She calmly swept her graceful limbs from side to side, and answered haughtily:

          “I am no longer going to bow down to you, Pine.  I am the most beautiful tree in the whole forest, more lovely than all the other trees, even you.  All the trees should bow down to me.”

          Pine was very angry, and his branches began to shake.  His heavy blue boughs swayed from side to side.  All the other trees trembled in silence.

          “Birch,” he roared, ”You have become too vain. I shall have to teach you a lesson that you will never forget.”

          He bent way over Birch and switched her fair skin very hard with his sharp needles.

          “May all who see you learn from your example,” he said more quietly.

          If you look closely at the fair white bark of the Birch, you will see fine, brown scars – the price she paid for vanity so long ago.

 

“The heavens declare the glory of God,

 the skies proclaim the work of his hands. 

  Day after day they pour forth speech;

night after night they display knowledge.(Psalm 19:1-2,NIV)

 

…The statutes of the Lord are trustworthy,

making wise the simple,(Psalm 19,7b)

 

Many of us learned wisdom from Aesop’s Fables, which also has a story about pride.  Both Aesop and the Ojibwa, in this story, are reflecting Biblical wisdom:

 

Pride goes before destruction,

A haughty spirit before a fall.(Proverbs 16:18 NIV)

 

God has given the native people much insight into nature, and a unique ability to turn this into a teaching tool for their children.

 

                          WHEN GOD ANSWERED –A TRUE STORY OF RESCUE                               

     I am about to recount a true story which has been passed down orally by the Chippewas of Nawash at the then Cape Croker Indian Reserve.  I heard it most often from my late husband Rien, who heard it from the locals, and who would be able to tell me important details which I may have forgotten, if he were still alive.  Almost thirty years have passed since we left the reserve, and this story still fills my heart with wonder.  Details may vary, and names have been changed, but the essence of the story remains the same.

 Shish  -- shish – shish.  The rhythm of the paddles slipping through the dark November waters north of the Cape Croker Indian Reserve was almost hypnotic.  Snow and ice were already closing in, but there was still a large expanse of open water in this transition time between fall and winter.  The two younger men in the bow and middle of the long canoe shivered in their jackets and hunched over their paddles, pulling harder to get to their destination: a remote island where  deer were plentiful.  The old man, the Wise One, his inscrutable eyes peering intently from a starburst of wrinkles, silently commanded the stern.

Joe, in front, spoke over his shoulder:

“Hey, String Bean, we gonna catch some game here, or what?”

String Bean, his lanky frame justifying the nickname he had had for so long that no one but his mother remembered his real name, replied with a flourish of his paddle:

              “Yeah, me, I’m gonna aim my trusty bow and ping dem off like at the carnival.  You jus’ wait and see.  Bes’ friend, my bow.  Never lets me down.”

              “Good ‘ting we brought dat dummy canoe we’re towin’ den, you’s gonna catch so much game.”

              The wind whipped their faces, pelting them with stinging snowflakes.

Joe looked around nervously.

              “Hey, I sure didn’t expect dis kinda mean weather.  We better keep ploughin’ pretty darn fast.  Sure is gettin’ colder.  Campfire sounds pretty good right now.”

              “Yeah, I’m ploughin’.”

There was only a grunt from the stern.  The Wise One kept his counsel.           

Finally, tired and sweating, they landed the canoes and set up camp.  Soon, a fire crackled brightly and the smell of woodsmoke filled the air.  Munching on thick fried-baloney-and-bannock sandwiches, and gulping scalding black coffee,  the men recovered their strength and began to think of hunting.  Warmed now, they filled a thermos with coffee and set out.

Quietly they walked, enraptured by the stillness and beauty of the woods.  The only sounds were the snapping of twigs as they walked and the scolding of a fat bluejay from a nearby tree.  The expanse of snowy ground was undisturbed except by a maze of fox and deer tracks.  Ah, this was what they were born for, and what their ancestors had enjoyed.  This was what they had paddled all that way to do.

 Oblivious to the cold, the trio tramped around for hours.  It was only when they returned to the camp towards evening that they noticed the terrible thing, the really terrible thing:  the ice had closed in all around them.  They could not return home – they were stranded, perhaps to die in this forsaken, lonely place.  Winter had set in early, with malice.

              Tears sprang to Joe’s eyes as he realized that, instead of triumphantly bringing food home to Winona and the kids for the winter, providing as a good

husband should, he might never see them again at all.  String Bean was uncharacteristically quiet, nervously pacing back and forth, around and around.  Oh, why had they come here?  Both men looked at the Wise One, the elder, expectantly, as their last hope.

              The Wise One raised his hand like a traffic guard, as if to say,

“Stop!  I’ll handle this!”  Yet he still did not speak. Moving slowly yet purposefully, his greying ponytail grazing his weathered deerskin jacket, he cleared an area overlooking the canoes.  Taking an arrow, he laid it on the ground, pointing towards home.  Then he knelt on the ground to commune with the Great Spirit.  He remained there a long time.  The others grew restless, yet were afraid to disturb him.  How was this going to help them anyway?

              At last, the Wise One stood up and signalled to the two men to come to him.  After a dramatic pause which heightened the suspense, he spoke:

              “Chi Manitou has told me what to do.  We must pack everything tonight and have it all ready.  At exactly six o’clock tomorrow morning, the ice will open to make a crack just wide enough for the canoes to pass through, just wide enough, mind, and for just long enough for us to get home.  Then it will close up again, so we can’t be late starting.”  The Wise One indicated a canoe’s width with his hands.

              Doubtful, yet respectful, the two younger men complied.  All three men slept only fitfully, and stood at the shore well ahead of time.  No change. Two were wondering: would the promised miracle really happen?

              At exactly six o’clock, the ice began to crack, with a loud creak, like that of a long-rusted gate opening.  As the crack opened to a canoe’s width, the three men placed the canoes in the narrow channel and got into their positions.  The narrow channel kept opening before them all the way home.  Joyfully, gratefully, they clambered onto their home dock and pulled the canoes up.

              Curious, Joe came by an hour later.  The ice had completely closed in again, exactly as Chi Manitou had told the Wise One it would.

              Joe took off his hat and bowed his head.

              “Megwetch, Chi Manitou, Megwetch.” (“Thank You, Great Spirit, thank You.”)

Sing to the Lord a new song…

Declare His glory among the nations,

His marvellous deeds among all peoples. (Psalm 96 1,3 NIV)

Please note:  Much as I would like to let this story speak for itself, I feel I must answer the questions of Christian believers who have come to know that Jesus Christ is the only way to God and Heaven.  (Jesus speaking: I am the way, and the truth and the life.  No one comes to the Father except through Me.  (John 14:6))You will be wondering why God responded to prayers offered without faith in his Son.  I, too, wrestled with this issue.  I felt the Lord saying to me,

“I will have mercy on whom I have mercy.” (Romans 9:15, NIV)

That should be answer enough.  I am glad that we serve a God Who understands all the people He has made, and stoops to their understanding of Him.  I am glad He is merciful and much, much greater than any of us knows. In the beautiful passages of Job, 38-41, God describes His majesty:

Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?...Who shut up the sea behind doors…?,Have you ever given orders to the morning, or shown the dawn its place..?...Do you know when the mountain goats give birth?...Does the eagle soar at your command and build his nest on high?

If we could figure Him out, catalogue Him and file Him neatly under “G” , He wouldn’t be God, would He?

 

THE SHOWER WITH NO FOOD

 

                                        THE SHOWER WITH NO FOOD

My friend Georgina had invited me to a bridal shower for her older daughter Elaine, engaged to the brother of one of the garden trainees.

            A shower!  Bubbling with joy at being included in any private social occasion on the reserve, and thus accepted more and more into the native community, I imagined the scene:  there would be a throne for the bride-to-be, crepe-paper bells and streamers, dainty napkins, party favours, games with prizes, a roomful of dressed-up people and lots of food.  In our culture, the party with its sandwiches, punch, chips and dip, home baking, decorated cake, and prizes was a kind of trade-off for the gifts the guests were expected to bring.

            Whoa there!  People don’t dress up here.  And things will probably be much simpler-perhaps just a cake.  That’s not the point anyway…

            On the evening of the shower, I carefully placed my wrapped gift, the best I could afford on a voluntary worker’s allowance, in a plastic bag and grabbed my car keys for the long, muddy drive to Elaine’s house, where the shower was being held.

 I wonder if I should bring those brownies I have in the freezer…oh well, maybe not.  I wasn’t asked to bring anything, and my family will enjoy them.

Nothing could have prepared me for the sight of eight glum people sitting around a dimly-lit room.  Georgina and Elaine were sitting on an aging orange flowered sofa.  The others were seated on various run-down chairs in an otherwise bare room.  No decorations were in sight.  The atmosphere was anything but partyish.

My gift was duly opened, along with the others.  For over two hours, we made polite conversation.  When no food appeared for the few guests, I began to really wish I had brought the brownies in my freezer.  My heart went out to Georgina:  Georgina whose money ran out before the end of the month, who generously made pies for fundraisers when she could, and did sewing work when she could get it, who was just trying to help her daughter, like any mom. Georgina, who looked upon our family as rich, when the rest of the world considered us poor.  Georgina, who did what she could.

I made the mistake of mentioning the brownies.

            “Mmmm! What kind of brownies are they?”

She just wouldn’t let it go, but, at intervals, kept referring to the brownies, in her childlike way:

“Yup, those brownies would sure taste good right now!”

By then, it was too late and dark, and the trip too long, to go to get the brownies.

Oh, Lord, help me to be more sensitive to needs around me.  You provided food for this shower –through me –but I missed it through selfishness and insensitivity.  In the same way, You have provided abundant food, water and natural resources for every tribe and nation on earth –but the selfishness of mankind has interfered with that provision.  You seek those who would bring water, food, clothing, medical aid, education, justice and the good news of Your glorious Gospel to the poor.

Blessed (Happy, fortunate, to be envied) is he who considers the weak and the poor; the Lord will deliver him in the time of evil and trouble. (Psalm 41:1, Amplified)

TRUE COLOURS

TRUE COLOURS

           

            Loons are black and white.  Everybody knows that.  Yet, come with me on a camping trip which we took with our children many years ago and see what we discovered:

 

          The two paddles dipped as one, quietly, without splashing: mine from the bow, my husband’s from the stern of the canoe. Our two life-jacketed children sat in the middle, enthralled:  how close would we be able to come to the family of loons in the middle of the lake before they did their characteristic shy dives and popped up in another place, farther away?

          On a camping holiday in Northern Ontario, we had portaged to a quiet, hidden lake where no raucous motorboats were allowed.

          Closer and closer we came, scarcely breathing. Paddling gently, slowly, we approached to within ten feet of the loons, then four. Soon we were close enough to touch the parents and their two fuzzy babies. We saw, instead of black silhouettes, the checkered weaving of black with white, sun-splashes of green, pink and blue on sleek black feathers, striking patterns and textures.

          We had only one brief glimpse, and then they were gone. We have since tried many times to see the colours of the loon, but the gift has never been given again.

          In the same way, we were given the gift of living and working for over four years among the Chippewas of Nawash at the then Cape Croker Indian Reserve. We were given our first, very special glimpse, like no other, of the beauty and warmth of the native people and their culture. It is a gift from God, one which we will carry in our hearts forever.

          People often see God in black and white too.  Like the native peoples He created, He has been greatly misunderstood.  During our four years at Cape Croker, we saw some of His tender, previously hidden colours as He worked in our lives and in the lives of those whom we had come to serve.

           Every tribe and every individual is important to God and has been given wisdom from which we can benefit.  Each one displays God’s splendor in a unique way.

          And God saw everything that He had made and behold, it was very good (suitable, pleasant) and He approved it completely. Genesis 1:31(Amplified Bible)