Moose Factory Journal

Time to sign off for two weeks. The train leaves this morning. Gwendolyn and I journey south to the States for the wedding and the second load of stuff.

More about Akimiski Island…. It’s an island about 10 miles off the western coast of James’ Bay, very close to Attawapiskat. However, all islands in Hudson’s and James’ Bays are part of the Northwest Territories. This was decided years ago, probably in Ottawa and probably by people who had no understanding of how these islands in the southern part of the Bays relate to the Cree. Akimiski Island has been a hunting ground for generations of Cree, living at Attawapiskat, which is on the coast and therefore part of Ontario. For years none of this made any difference. Now, however, two things have happened. One is that the Ministry of Environment – or whatever it is called – has set a nature reserve somewhere on the island, where the best hunting is, so that when the men hunt where they always used to hunt, they are breaking the law. Also, a mining company (not DeBeers) has staked claims on the island – for what, no one knows. All of these decisions – made or impending – have been without any consultation with the people who live there. The families haven’t a clue as to how to deal with this.

Monica’s sister, Theresa, is Chief at Attawapiskat. I hope to meet her one of these days. Evidently she comes down to Moose Factory fairly often for tribal business.

My first Vestry Meeting was tonight. We met for an hour and a half. But we got people working on the records. There’s hope now that they will get brought up to date.

In the morning Bobby Chilton came by for a couple of hours. I showed him the drafts I had concocted for two ‘brochures’. One was about Weddings; the other was for Funerals. They laid out all the sorts of things that are helpful to know before making decisions. In each were some of the parameters I was concerned about. Over the past two or three years the Pentecostals – who do not give Pentecostalism a good name – have tried, often successfully, to hijack the service. I wanted to get really clear about that really soon. So I gave the drafts to Bobby, asked him to share them with whom ever, so that, if possible, we could come up with some policies – in writing. The trick is to come up with the right norms and stick to them without offending too many people.

Bobby explained why the mosquitoes suddenly showed up. It’s the North Wind. When the wind is strong, it simply blows them in from the swamps that lie to the north of the Island. Gwendolyn does not like mosquitoes. They fly up her nose, into her eyes, and find all kinds of tender places where no mortal dared tread before. Our little walks around the yard have become perfunctory.

I spent entire afternoon with Monica Okimaw. She came over with a term paper. Her professor had asked her to floss it up so that it could be published in a Social Work journal. She’s gunning for a BA in Sociology. And the slant of the course is on Native Studies. The Journal specializes in First Nation issues and authors. Monica wants me to do the editing. By now my punctuation and general style of writing is so bizarre, I don’t know what I can do. Would that everybody just settled for Strunk & White. Not that I do. But at least I understand what they are saying. And sometimes I try.

Monica works at the Hospital – in the dental clinic. She’s 50 and will keep plugging along for another ten years. Then she will qualify for a pension without penalty. In the mean time, she is picking up credits towards a degree. She also has thought, evidently, for some time about aspiring to ordination. She has been put off, however, by the thought of a three-year hitch in Ottawa or Toronto and seminary. I told her that those days were over and that any training would go on locally, in-house. It’s possible that she might now get interested again. We’ll see.

She did her paper on the new DeBeers mine going in on the Attawapiskat just up river from the settlement at the end of the River. The mine is what will bring in the road. And the road, obviously, will go all the way to the mine. It may not kill the River. But it will increase the canoe traffic, and that brings mixed feelings. The mine is still in the developmental stages. The present Chief at Attawapiskat is holding out for a decent deal, because road and mine will kill off the last vestiges of the traditional way of life: hunting and gathering. The locals in that area are far less acclimated to urban ways than those here at Moose Factory – which, along with Moosonee, is the New York City of James Bay. Already there are serious addiction problems – far worse than here at Moose Factory.

She was born at Attawapiskat. Her family roamed around, in the traditional way, with the seasons. They would go up river. (And she remembers being terrified by the rapids.) And in the summer they would go out to Akimiski Island – where she goes still for some of her vacation. The Polar Bears now visit the Island and the various camps there on the Island. She takes her 13-year-old son with her, so that he will have some acquaintance with his heritage.

She left home young. Like all the others she was sent off to Residential School. While she would return for the summer during her school years and while she did go home for a year after school, she never learned the traditional way of life. And she became skilled in the profession that now supports her and her son.

We talked about the traditional religion – which almost got lost. It had been suppressed for years. Some say that what the younger generation is now revitalizing has many elements that are indigenous to native peoples, though not necessarily to the Cree. How can one really tell? Anyway, there is a 4-5 day session on the ‘old reserve’. That’s a few miles up the Moose River. I asked if that is the place where the original summer encampments were. I’ll bet that Moose Factory became a community only after HBC moved in. This would be as far as they could get with the ships. I can see that she and I will have many more talks. And somehow I must get myself to the encampment in June.

I woke up this morning exhausted. Didn’t sleep much last night at all. There was thunder all through the night. Gwendolyn hid in the bathtub. And I began to get the idea that on my trip south next Tuesday, I’d route the trip through Temagami. The old haunts still call.

Today I started getting things ready for Monday night’s Vestry Meeting. I have a list of things I want to get done: We need to write out lots of lists of groups in the parish. I need some folks to go through the Parish Records that I just got on to a database. And, finally, we need policies around Weddings and Burials. Today I drafted policies. We’ll see what the troops say.

Yesterday I tried to get copies of documents notarized. They’re all ID items. I need the stuff to apply for a health card. I had no luck. The lady at the Band Office didn’t even want to start until I got my Ontario Driver’s License. And I need to have some documentary proof that I actually live where I live. PO Box won’t do. The easy way, I found out, is to get an account with the local Cable Company, which I did today. They will provide Broadband service in a couple of weeks, they say. And that’s what I’ll probably use.

This morning, after dawn, was clear as a bell – and crisp. The cold didn’t perturb the mosquitoes, however. As soon as dog & I stepped outdoors, they smelt blood!

I cudgeled my brains in the morning about what I was going to do/say at the funeral. Shortly after noon the programs showed up. I had been trying to find out all morning what the family wanted for readings. I had to wait until I saw the program. Got Ray organized on the Gospel and Prayers. Hoped that what I was going to say would fit – somehow. Then, off to the funeral.

Custom has it that the casket is placed in the church some time considerably before the actual funeral. The family is there. The casket is open. I am sure there were prayers then – with the pastor of the other denomination. People had said that it was Baptist. The cleric I saw when I arrived was Pentecostal. We shook hands, and he disappeared.

Family members would cluster around the casket in twos and threes. Grand children and great grand children were there. Each, in turn, kissed Lillian. Eventually they were composed and sat down. Two grand children closed the casket, covered it with the pall and placed some flowers over that. We started the service – 25 minutes late.

St. Thomas’ Choir and Organist were there. There were several hymns, many in Cree. The Twenty-third Psalm was read – in Cree. A gospel kind of singer did a number. I preached. Took one and a half hours – one hour considering we started late.

Then we had a procession out into the cemetery. Deacon Ray carried the cross. Grandsons carried the coffin. The coffin was lowered into the hole before I read the Committal. After I had finished each of the guys in the family – of every generation – shoveled the dirt back into the hole. In twenty minutes it was full. All of the flowers were placed on top. A plain white wooden cross was planted at the head of the grave. There are several granite markers now in the graveyard. They all look new; I think this is a fashion just coming in. I suspect Lillian’s family will do the same for her grave. If the practice continues, the yard will fill up, and other arrangements will have to be made for subsequent generations. One by one family members left. I was told that there was a reception afterwards, but I didn’t think I was invited, and I didn’t push my luck.

Lillian Vincent had been born on Charlton Island on September 27, 1908.

Church at 11 yesterday morning. Choir had been hijacked by church in Moosonee. Even with choir and organist gone we had an a capella choir that did really very well. After the service a lady talked with me; she was representing the Vincent family. They DO want a funeral – on Tuesday. As the Bishop and I had suspected the family was balancing out their various denominational loyalties. They also had a wake yesterday afternoon – and, I think, evening – in the chapel at the hospital. They wanted me at the wake – at 3pm – precisely the hour I already was scheduled to see Ricky and Corrine about their wedding on October 5. I said I’d never get there before 4 pm. That was ok, I was told.

I saw Ricky and Corrine at 3. They actually were on time. They both found plenty of mistakes in my paper work. Ricky had found out that his Dad was born at a site at the mouth of the Broadback River – Noosekan. In all of this Corrine had braced herself for the wedding/religious instruction. When she realized that all we had to do next was to go over the service in late September, she seemed as though she had been short-changed. I asked her if she had any questions and/or wanted more ‘instruction’. She clearly did not. It’s just possible that one of these days they could warm up to me. She expects about 400 people at the wedding feast. I remarked that she must have already been cooking. She said no, she would buy up a ton of food. Then EVERYBODY cooks SOMETHING. I offered to roast a turkey. She thought that might be risky. I had finished the baptism records on the database; that is, I had entered the ones from the book we have here. The older of their kids had been baptized, so I checked that record with them. I showed how the machine can then cut a certificate from that filed data, gave them a certificate for the child baptized. Ricky refused to fold it. We put it into a large envelope. He said he was going to put it in a frame. (File Maker Pro would love to hear about that one!)

I got to the wake, as expected, at 4. There was another minister present – possibly Baptist or Pentecostal – softly singing hymns. It really was quite lovely – all in Cree. I asked if it would be helpful to read from the Prayer Book. There was assent – from some anyway. I read from the pew – didn’t presume to upstage the other cleric. Around 5 pm he left. About 5:30 I left.

Throughout most of the time various family members would go up to the body and say good by. Lillian was covered with a simple blanket on a hospital gurney. It was all very simple. About fifty people were there – in a relatively small space. Deafening silence – except when the minister had been singing. Virtually no visiting between family members – some of whom, reportedly, had traveled far to get here. When an Elder (such as Lillian) dies on this Island, all flags fly at half-mast.

Dawn this Monday morning at about 45 degrees Fahrenheit. I have located some of the thermostats for the electric heat.

For professional church workers: St. Thomas’, Moose Factory, seems to be operating as a ‘Family Parish’, in organizational terms. St. Thomas’, Alton (in RI) is a family parish – or was. It would max out at 50-65 at Easter and/or Christmas. St. Thomas’, Moose Factory, was at about 150 this last Easter. On ‘low’ Sundays it runs from between 80 to 90. By the standards of the American North East, anyway, there are too many people relative to the current mode of organization. As I told the bishop, there’s nothing worse than an old priest in a hurry…. But I think life would be easier for the leaders here if they had more tools. Files and databases should help. Most conversations I have had in the States about parish growth assume that the organizational structure changes BEFORE there is significant growth – that, in other words, organization predetermines size. Here it is different. Until ten years ago, I gather the Anglicans were the only denomination on the island – of any size, anyway. Now there are other churches; I don’t know their size. Some parishioners refer to the members of those other parishes as Anglicans (basically as Anglicans who are acting out in some obnoxious way.) There still is the sense that St. Thomas’ is THE church. But I doubt this can continue into the next generation. The Bishop had remarked on a lack of focus at St. Thomas’, and I wonder if this is a function of the parish’s changing role in the community, because, if there is change as I suspect, it has not been noted, described, or addressed. The priest – while he may be called rector – is in fact chaplain to the entire island, including hospital. There is no list of supporting members. Although the Bishop has addressed the issue with previous clergy, there do not seem to be any boundaries around what lack of participation disqualifies a couple, for instance, from holding their wedding at the Church.

At noon Bobby showed up with the Church van. Now I have wheels. I went to the Mall, checked the mail (there was none) and bought Brussels sprouts. Feast tonight!

I got lucky break with the truck. I finally found out that, if I don’t try to sell it in Canada, I would not have to ‘import’ it — and pay excise tax. Next Monday, maybe, I’ll get a driver’s license in Moosonee. Tuesday, next week on my way south, hopefully I’ll register it with Ontario plates. It will all be cheaper – or no more expensive – than keeping it in the States. In setting up the paper work for the insurance broker up here I had to call the insurance people in Westerly, Rhode Island. They had a very difficult time conceptualizing James’ and Hudson’s Bays. When I told the lady in the office in Westerly that day broke this morning in the low forties, she was greatly stressed. Westerly was hitting over 90 degrees.

Bobby and I had an interesting conversation about the road into Moosonee (that does not yet exist.) It’s being talked about now. Evidently there is a service road – not a highway – that comes relatively close. I don’t know how close that is. People assume that one of these days a real highway will be built. But there had been opposition to it years ago – by some of the Chiefs – on the grounds that the kind of development it would foster would interfere with the way of life of the locals. Of particular concern was what tourist traffic and such would do to the hunting: bumblers would scare the game, get lost and bring in the militia and so forth.

Carousers were out last night. Could have been fall-out from the wedding. In the early evening there was much honking of horns – even up here – a definite sign.

At four AM the northern lights were out – and the stars. Dawn was antiseptically clear and crisp. I should be out in the bush somewhere.

Early morning: I got info off the web about registering the truck – an intricate process. The rest of the morning I tried to figure out what to talk about on Sunday – no luck, yet.

Bishop called late morning. Had just returned from holidays; checked in to see if I was up and running. Concerning records: When he started as Bishop, there were parishes without any kind of records. About Vincents… He smelt the same thing I did – competition in the family of various denominational loyalties. (In Rhode Island we call it the South County crawl.) He had some suggestions about who in the parish might be good at filling in the parish file just created.

Lillian Vincent must have died this morning. The family called Ray. He called me later in the morning. When the call came in to him, he was in the midst of a crisis in the clinic. He had told them to call me. They didn’t. And I don’t know how to catch up to them. It’s going to be a long weekend.

Baptismal database is done. Now that I can chase through it, I’m already plugging kids into family units in the other database.

Someone from Lillian’s family called this afternoon, late. Wanted some information about the church address. I sensed hostility – definitely shortness. No word from anyone about a funeral.

I’m about two weeks behind the curve in establishing relationships in the hospital. That starts next week, hopefully, when I get wheels. Folks will cling to Ray until the bitter end, and I can understand why.

No entries made yesterday. I was beavering away at the database for baptisms. I may be done by the coming weekend. I work until my back aches. Then do something else. Then back to work.

The Inuit memorial service – for the folks from Puvirnituq — happened on schedule on Sunday afternoon – 2 pm. It was sort of their version of what had been done a week earlier. Hymns, prayers, and scripture in the big church. They asked me to preach – which I did for five minutes. They had an interpreter who translated both ways. Everything got repeated in the alternate tongue – English or Inuit. The lady who translated (everything) was an impressive person. She was young – and obviously on her way to arguing some case before the Supreme Court.

The people were all impressive. There were, in all, about 35 Inuit – from Sanikiliwak as well as from Puvirnituq. And, another 35 Cree also were at the service.

After the service in the church, which ran about an hour and a half, they had another service – of about the same length — in the cemetery. One of the ladies, in particular, basically designed and ran the show. Again, there were prayers and hymns. They stopped at about two-dozen graves – the oldest they could find. They did not know where their dead were actually buried. So, they picked the oldest marked graves in the old (smaller) part of the cemetery.

Many natives have the concept that the grave of a dead person is holy ground and that you must not step on it. St Thomas’ cemetery is, of course, one mass grave. So walking around – even between the markings – is unnerving for some of these folks. But they will erect a monument somewhere in the cemetery commemorating their ancestors. And the dead will be remembered back home.

Some of the Inuit visiting had been patients at the hospital – some 20 to 40 years ago. They shared their thanks for the fact that their lives had been saved. Some were still remembered by the local staff that had worked with them then – and who also were at the service.

These visitors are intelligent, very friendly, joyful, and consummately able to get things done. There was an anthropologist on the radio last night talking about the Inuit. He was pondering the influence of the basic elements on their culture. They have an enormous capacity to prevent things from getting between them. They have to. If there is a family group of ten to eleven people with three of them hunters, nothing must come up that will impair the capacity of those guys to hunt. Hopefully one of them will get the next seal. If he fails, all will perish.

This morning I went over to the hospital to try to get my prescription renewed. The hospital has everything: Dr for exam, X-ray unit, blood lab, and pharmacy. Truly one-stop shopping. And no waiting lines.

The Dr. was a parishioner. So we had to chat. He is from Saskatchewan. Evidently everyone back home was perplexed as to why he would ever spend his time up here. He’s been here five years.

The treasurer delivered some mail to me. Lots of letters. Some bills – now late. Hopefully my creditors have not all given up with me. He had the idea the cable company was about to start Internet access. I’m desperate. I’ll try anything.

We talked a lot about drugs. There is a problem here. That got me going about Newport. I told him that if misery loves company, there is a lot of misery out there. We also talked about the other religious groupings that had sprung up on the island. Their congregants are all (former or lapsed) Anglicans. I opined that the other churches could be the best things ever for St Thomas’. I had to show off my databases.

The weather for the last 10-14 days has been alternating between hot muggy days – sometimes getting as high as 70 degrees. Then thunderstorms move in, and we get a gully washer. Then it chills down. The night sky has been doing meteors or shooting stars along with the Northern Lights.

Tomorrow the truck gets back on the train for Cochrane. Andy’s will retrieve it and store it until I need it for Paul’s wedding.

Gwendolyn goes out now by herself in the early morning – before dawn. If it’s dark she won’t leave the property. During the day she has to be on the leash.