Moose Factory Journal

Thursday and Friday happened without remarkable incident. The only note of the American Thanksgiving was on the financial news. The Americans weren’t doing anything, so nothing was happening in the markets, so many Canadian money people decided to follow suit after the Americans and just take a long weekend.

I haven’t been chumming much with the Elders in the past two weeks, mainly because I’ve grinded away at two projects.

One has been to construct ways and means to manage the finances of St. Thomas’. When the new Treasurer takes over, hopefully there will already be some norms and methodologies in place to make her task simpler and also to provide for the Vestry the information they need on a monthly basis to make decisions. We’ll know in a few months how fruitful this labor has been.

I remarked to Cliff, in one of our telephone conversations, how frustrated I was that the money business and its possible remedies all waited for me to get here, resulting in my own distraction as well as allowing the task to grow exponentially with each neglected month. Cliff remarked that neglect was the way, often, with Northern parishes. I inferred that he was referencing cultural issues.  Be that as it may, the same set of issues used to surface regularly in southern Rhode Island. There was an ancient Rectory used by St. Elizabeth’s, Canonchet for years. The Rectory was enormous, had charm, and guzzled fuel oil – to no effect; the place always froze. Periodically decisions had to be made, lest the building collapse. Eventually it was sold. However, when the decisions had to be made, there always was a fancy dance going on over who owned the Rectory and who, therefore, had a right to make those decisions. If the Rectory needed a new roof or new siding, the decision clearly was that of the Diocese, because the Diocese owned the structure, was responsible for it – and, of course, should pay. If, however, someone at the Diocese made noises about selling or renting or otherwise encumbering the Rectory, The Bishop’s Committee would remind one and all that this was THEIR Rectory. And they would decide what would be what. The Vestry here has to exercise their authority and responsibility if the Church is going to grow, and I have figure out a nice way to say that – and be heard.

The other project has been to get the Adobe software up and running – and figure out how it works. I have Sunday Bulletins now in the new format, and also, a generic bulletin for burials. When I can scan pictures into the Funeral Bulletins, we will have a product far superior to what the Band prints out now for bereaved families. Then we can repossess the business of making up funeral bulletins from the Band, which has been doing this work as service to everyone. When we make our own bulletins, we will have more control over the actual Funeral Service.

Both of these projects are going on mostly now with just me. At some point there will need to be someone in the Church who is willing to do the task and who has at his/her disposal the necessary equipment. That bridge is yet to be crossed.  I have a few years yet, hopefully. But it’s already a race against time.

Derek Okimaw (age 14) is working into a kind of chore boy job around the Rectory. He now brings in the wood – or brought in a week’s supply this last week. The wood now is somewhat dried out, and I fired up the wood stove this afternoon. So far, so good. It belts out the heat, doesn’t smoke, and I have yet to burn the place down. The wood is not so good; it’s mostly pine. But that’s what there is here, mostly. And any wood is better than no wood – particularly, God forbid, if the Hydro fails. A lot of people here heat with electricity – including St. Thomas’.

More transportation complexities…. We had gale winds last night (which is why I got the wood stove going today, finally.) The winds moved the water on The Bay so that three feet of water were on top of the ice. That closed down all the skidoo traffic to and from The Island. I don’t know if the choppers were flying in the early morning; they were in the afternoon. Also, Friday afternoon the northbound train derailed, arriving an hour late – and leaving the cafeteria car behind. If the cafeteria car was left, then, also, the baggage car was left. There were no packages waiting for me at the Post Office this morning, and that may be why. (I’ve been looking for a shipment of new altar candles.) Saturday’s southbound train ordinarily is scheduled to depart at 9:30 AM. Today it departed at 5:30 PM.

Tomorrow is a new day – and a new month.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day (States’ variety.) I won’t be traveling. I was invited to go down to Temagami. But time is short, money is scarce, and a wider window later (or door, if you’re a bear) will provide the better opportunity.

Frank Gower (priest at Holy Apostles, Moosonee) had left a message on the answering machine yesterday, although I didn’t retrieve it until last night. There’s another funeral scheduled in Moosonee; would I take it? I returned the call, spoke with Mrs. Gower (who was taking messages) and declined. The ‘Family Service’ could be taken by one of the lay readers at Moosonee. And the funeral itself was scheduled for 2 pm, which meant that there was no way I could get back to Moose Factory for the night. (Funerals predictably start at least an hour after the scheduled time; they can last well over one hour; and the last chopper leaves promptly at 4 PM.) Additionally, the family wanted the funeral to be held at the RC cathedral. The RC Bishop (appropriately) requires that the request to come from the Moosonee parish (Holy Apostles) and requires the specific identity of the responsible person representing that Anglican parish to the RC Cathedral (and Bishop.) I don’t want to be that person.

Non-church people reading this may dismiss the episode as yet another matter of the Church getting (or not getting) its act together. But there are at least three things going on. And they’re interesting, at least, to me. And some readers undoubtedly will want to straighten me out on one or a number of these following points.

DEPLOYMENT
There are three potential resources so far as a priest is concerned: Moose Factory (me), Kashechewan (Cliff Dee), Timmins or South Porcupine (Frank Gower). (In fact, there are more priests besides Frank in the Timmins area.) Some of us (like Frank) are part-time. Some (like Cliff and me) are full time.  Because Frank is associated with Holy Apostles on a part-time basis, he is there only for a fraction of any given week. He ordinarily travels north and south, to and from, Moosonee on the train. He can arrive in Moosonee on Monday, Wednesday, or Friday. He can depart on Tuesday, Thursday, or Saturday. To get a daily schedule, he has to fly, and at considerably greater expense. He can even charter a plane, at much greater expense. Your options increase as you (or the family) spend more money. Moose Factory is the only place served by choppers alone; and, as we know, they can be extremely erratic. In fact, if one is prepared to spend money in adverse conditions – problems with daylight, weather, or machines — one may get from Moosonee to Toronto much faster than one will ever get from Moosonee to Moose Factory. I have dismissed skidoo travel across the ice as an option as unsafe and unreliable, until EVERYBODY tells me it’s safe. On Sunday Bobby was not too sure.

If Frank is not ordinarily scheduled to be in Moosonee when a funeral like this comes up, he may be able to revise his schedule. Or he may request the help of another priest to stand in his stead for the intervention. That’s what happened this time around. And I am setting limits on my own availability. My reasons, obviously, are that I have enough to do here without taking an entire day out for the funeral itself, time in addition to that in preparation, and time after the whole thing getting my head back together. Also, I can’t really honestly represent myself to the RC Bishop as having any real control over the conduct of the service, if I have not been intimate to the planning process as it goes forward. And I will not knowingly risk being stuck off The Island.

So, I drew the line – not something a priest does comfortably; we’re bred to be there then. But when things get stretched really thin, it’s best to draw the line, if you are to preserve any hope of maintaining your own level of functionality. And there are other issues.

MINISTRY LEADERSHIP
By now someone might have thought of a question I have been asking myself and (anyone else) for quite some time: Isn’t there some individual in Moosonee right now who could stand behind a lectern and read some prayers and scripture passages from the written page of a book? Well, there probably are several people who could do just that – and, in fact, do it far better and more sensitively than I ever could. (I am not always seen as being highly sensitive.) So why isn’t that person – or those people – ready to go?  Death is an unpleasant fact of life. We all have to deal with it. Every community knows about it. What’s the problem at Moosonee? The problem is that you could always pick up the phone and dial 1-800-PRIEST. And up would pop an Anglican priest.

Those days are over – but not always in the public mind. Here at Moose Factory, Raymond, Bobby, and Ronnie have all read the Burial Service. They did so when there were no other options. Moosonee does not have that kind of leadership. Why? Well, they never thought they needed it; they could always call in a priest. As always, the priest would do everything, would want to do everything. Since that would take care of the matter, there was nothing that needed fixing. I have learned that there also were lay readers who would also serve in situations like this; but they have all moved away; and they have not been replaced. Evidently it’s only when there’s a vacuum of this kind of leadership that folks will start asking questions and doing things. My posturing an easy availability  (however dishonestly) simply occludes the vacuum that’s been there for some time. If the vacuum is going to be remedied, it will be addressed – looked at, understood. The people who address the vacuum will be the people who care about the parish and who are committed to its healthiness. If those people exist and mobilize, things will happen very quickly. If those people do not exist or do not mobilize, there is nothing anyone else can do for the parish, anyway. The parish has to find its own internal strength in order to build.

Hate to play hardball. But that’s where the land lies.

CULTURAL ISSUES
The following is my own material, though I’ve quizzed a number of people on the subject. They do not all agree with each other. And none of them would, I suspect, agree with all of what follows. They all have minds of their own and are perfectly candid when they think I really have gone off the road and into the ditch. For what’s worth, however, at this moment in time, this is how I organize a number of inter-related issues.

The scenario goes something like this. This is a cultural thing. People have always counted on the priest being there. And the priest has always been there. So, in the case of a wedding or a funeral, the family makes the arrangements; and the priest is there. The priest then represents The Church (whatever that means) and serves the family’s interests, as the consensus of the family defines those interests. The priest is not acting like a priest, or the priest isn’t a real priest, if the priest isn’t there doing that. It’s the priest’s business to make everything expected happen. That’s why there are priests. Also, the priest doesn’t just DO the Funeral Service. For the duration of the immediate crisis, the priest becomes part of the family and is included in the family structure and dynamic. One would conclude from this that the priest would be intimate with the family in the day(s) before the funeral, would preside at the funeral, and would be present to the family at least until the gathering disbands.

Of course, all of that probably is true universally. We’re talking about humanity. The difference here is the extent of the difference, the shape of the role of the priest, and the peculiar nature of changes over the last generation or so.

This just isn’t how you deal with virtually anyone else when you want that person to come into your life and make an intervention. Why? Because it doesn’t work. And people know that. It doesn’t work, because if you want someone to do something, not only do you have to explain what needs to be done, but you also have to understand what the intervener is willing or able to do. That dialogue may extend over several conversations before an understanding or agreement is achieved. That certainly happens – in most cases, though not all – prior to a wedding or before you get your car fixed. Often it does not happen prior to a funeral, because the time between death and funeral is so short, and there is neither time nor opportunity for that dialogue.

In many of the situations I have encountered here the deceased was an Anglican; the next generation clearly is not; and there are no shared presuppositions about what we are doing, or why, or how. So, the family approaches the funeral in crisis and with assumptions that have roots running deep into the past, perhaps, but not always into the present reality. Again, that probably is universally true. How do you get intimate with a stranger quickly about these precious and vulnerable sensibilities?  The difference here again is in the extent of that difference — as well as in the specific nature of some of those assumptions. There are two important sets of assumptions.

The Holy Man:
The first, believe it or not, relates to the shaman or medicine man. All my interlocutors have explained to me that the white missionary priest has never been confused, either in the imagination or in the language, with the indigenous shaman or medicine man. Granted. But, with the medicine man, assuming he was present, how might the family’s behavior be different? I don’t think it would be very different. Again, we are talking about a universal reflex that happens in time of bereavement and stress.  The Cree customarily had one or two religious figures for each extended family – who shared in the life of that family and who were part of that family. Prior to any crisis there was plenty of common ground: shared memories, relationships, a clear understanding of who we are and what we are about as a social unit.

When the first missionaries moved in, although they might not have fit that specific indigenous role of holiness, they could, and clearly did, fill the pastoral – or human relations – need. In any given village the missionary priest might be very busy, indeed. He would be busy in the village and busy in the bush, camping and traveling with families. But, if he kept at the job and managed his time and energy carefully, he generally could keep up with the families’ emotional and spiritual demands – at least to the point where the folk perceived that their needs were being addressed – not perfectly, perhaps, but, on the whole, not too badly, either. I imagine that the priest was the clearing house for many, many relationships, going from one family to the next, for a moment or two being part of each. He would have been the quintessential pastor.

The breakdown now occurs in two dimensions at the same time. First:  The families who have become inactive or otherwise isolated from an Anglican congregation, revert, under stress, to that model of holiness, compassion, and integrity — to which they had been introduced as children but no longer practice — as a way of getting through the crisis.  The family members, individually, might be highly ambivalent about approaching the Anglican Church for a funeral, having been so distant for so long and, perhaps, having been involved with other religious traditions. But, collectively the family grabs on to the memory and the myth that had sustained them in previous generations – however superficial that memory may now be. The memory has become so superficial for some that it doesn’t really work. But they can’t discern for themselves any other that will work, either – at least none other that will work by itself to the exclusion of others. THEN, when the family makes its overture to the Church, there’s no priest available. When that happens, they’re stuck. They don’t have another model to flip into. For them the fault lies with the Church and the priest who are not doing what they used to do and what they ought to be doing now. There has to be that one figure – or a clone of that figure – for the thing to work, even if that figure, personally, is utterly foreign and therefore artificial. There is no conception of Church, as a community to which I might belong personally or as a place where I might find the context in which I can grow. All of that happens in the context of the family, as defined and understood by the family. The Church’s only role in the matter is to provide the holy person – no matter how superficial or artificial that holiness has become.

There is this tectonic shift going on where one culture meets another, and the two are not necessarily compatible. It shows up here especially in the interface between marginalized families and Church communities (or a congregational understanding of The Church.) Although The Cree figured out how to employ The (White European) Church out of their own cultural reference, generations ago, that accommodation now is either breaking down or being reconfigured as they and The Anglican Church are faced with increasing secularization, multi denominationalism, and market place norms (all on The Cree side) and a growing understanding by The Church of holiness and ministry as common properties of the entire congregation, including the priest (but not just the priest.) In a sense, in this place, anyway, when the marginalized families are stressed and when they reach out for a model of The Church in their crisis, it seems to me that they revert to the model of years ago – a model that The Church already is working hard to grow out of.

Guilt:
There is a second assumption at work that muddies all of the above. That is the guilt – real or imagined – of The Church. This relates to the (again, real or imagined) perpetration and/or collusion by The Church not simply in the matter of the Residential Schools with their stories of abuse and barbarities resulting in contemporary litigation but also in a much more widespread cultural aggression against native peoples in general and against their culture in particular.  This aggression was pervasive, long-term, and powerful. Somehow The Cree survived. Presently they are recovering their culture – or what they remember of it. At the same time they are metamorphosing – as their culture mixes, however easily or uneasily, with the culture to the south. One might defend The Church with the point that its intentions were good, even if some of its people were not. And by any reasonable criteria The Church is working assertively to redress the wrong, do justice, pick up, and go on. But the point, here, relates to perceptions of The Church – particularly those perceptions of the profoundly marginalized. And it’s that mind I am trying to understand.

So, the First Part of the assumption: The Church is guilty, at least, by way of association.

For some of those who had left community with the Church some time ago and who now return only for a funeral, if you are an Anglican, you have dirt on your hands. If you didn’t have dirt on your hands, you wouldn’t be an Anglican; you wouldn’t want to be an Anglican. Put positively: a way of declaring your cleanliness or innocence of soul or freedom from the burden of the past would be to disassociate yourself from The Anglican Church. (Our Pentecostal brothers and sisters constantly remind each other of this; and they remind us as well – whenever they get the opportunity.) Even though I am from another country and from another culture, I am white and I am an Anglican (Episcopalianism notwithstanding) and I am perceived from this frame of reference. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. I CAN decline participate in the scenario when I think I discern it. And I can offer another model – of hope, acceptance if not agreement, transparency of commitment. But basically I have to endure it.

Then, the Second Part: You have no moral authority or charism.

It’s because you are guilty that you have no moral authority. Therefore, when I approach you regarding a rite or service, you have no authority to decline my request; and you have no MORAL option but to cooperate. My authority comes from the (however uneasy) consensus of the family; and you are our means by which we will accomplish what we have to do. Of course, you may exercise the brute power that still resides in your office to refuse my request(s), but we who are now free of the Anglican (or white man’s) burden are where power will soon reside. The shell that is presently the Anglican Church will cease to exist when the last Anglican Elder is buried. And the rest of us will go on with what is authentic – whether that is another denomination, church, or whatever. (It’s to this mind that the funeral home industry would be a commodious response. That is, a family could use the funeral home as a shell in which to accomplish the observances it desires without getting entangled with any faith community. The family would be free to do anything it wanted to do regarding any formal observance. The family would then be free of any association with the funeral home, once they paid the bill. I predict that when there is enough money in these communities, there will be funeral homes — and for precisely this reason.)

There are two roots here: One is a parallel to the original White European dismissal of the aborigine’s traditional charism. I understand that the first missionaries simply dismissed the charism of aboriginal religion as invalid. Now the process occurs – in the other direction.      The other root is relates to the aborigine’s pragmatic appropriation of The Church’s pastoral care– only this time it is far more tenuous because the pastoral care isn’t there. (Remember what started this discussion? I just can’t get there.)

So, maybe I exaggerate — but not by much, with some. In any case, my purpose here is to identify and describe the issue; and the issue abides, I suspect, however vaguely, in some quarters of the public mind.

It’s a bitter pill for me to swallow. But whatever amount of anger there is towards white people and white institutions (even when those institutions are mostly non-white) it’s fully understandable, however tragic. It resonates to the rage expressed by oppressed people everywhere, including those in The States. (In fact, in The States, the journey of The Episcopal Church with or without the Black Community is much more pronounced. Prior to the Civil War Anglican (or Episcopalian) clergy pastored large numbers of Black parishioners with remarkable care and affection. With Emancipation those Black congregants evaporated virtually over-night and formed their own distinctive churches and denominations. The fault lay not in the pastors – some of whom were broken by the event – but by the contamination of The Church by the slave-holding establishment.) To me it makes sense; there’s nothing crazy about this. And while I may like to say that I, as a minority person, am free of the chips on my own shoulder, I know I am lying when I do that. We are products of our history. Some wounds heal; some do not. There are many deep wounds here, and if they are to heal at all, they will heal slowly.

So, bits and pieces of this undifferentiated guilt are part of the cloud we Anglicans operate under these days, and that cloud keeps us humble (maybe.) In a way, this attitude could be the best thing that ever happened to The Anglicans. It might just make Christians out of us. It will separate those who wish to exercise their commitments in a tangible way from those who don’t care.  And gone are the days when Father knows best – or when The Church is simply ‘Father.’ Hopefully, it will keep the pressure on those of us who ARE committed to a life in this kind of a congregation to find our own authenticity and to act from that authenticity. Our identity will simply have to come from within our own Body. We may well become a tiny minority Church, as indeed we were and are in the States, albeit for different reasons. That doesn’t bother me at all. These notes are written on a MAC. I like small churches more than big churches, anyway. There’s just a tiny bit of the Amish in me. ‘Be ye separate!’

Well, now that I’ve been here four months, that’s my take on the matter – for now. If I haven’t already slid off the road, I’ve sniffed out at least part of the resistance to change – resistance although change has already occurred and is presently accelerating. I’ll probably come back to this thread later, anyway.

The Canadian Bible Society had a display in the Parish Hall last night – along with the gourmet-ham-and-scalloped-potato dinner. I bought a New Testament in Moose Factory Cree – with the approval of The Gathered. The nice lady from The Society will send me The Society’s Cree Primers that have been prepared especially for first grade students. She thinks that might help.

Cliff Dee called and wanted to know all about the funeral and me – straight from the old horse’s mouth. I gave him an earful. Bottom line: about the same investment of time, whether from Moose Factory or Timmins. Difference in Fares: about $40. Forty additional dollars (Canadian) also buys security; trains run when choppers don’t.

Late in the evening Monica and Theresa showed up for a cup of tea. Theresa is on The Island only for tonight. Tomorrow she flies to Attawapiskat. She seems very happy. We chatted for an hour or so. Somehow we got talking about my trips down the Attawapiskat River in the 70′s. And somehow that got her asking about mosquitoes. With a glint in her eye she asked if there were any – up River, back in the bush. I, of course, couldn’t remember but nary a one.

Theresa may have pulled off a breakthrough in the matter of Attawapiskat Village and DeBeers Mining Company.

The Mushkegowuck Council is the consortium of Bands – of which Attawapiskat is one. The Council has achieved a common understanding that they will negotiate as a whole on behalf of each of the constituent Bands. There is a formula for profit sharing. That means that the entire Council will represent Attawapiskat and will use the Council’s entire resources in the negotiations on Attawapiskat’s behalf. In return, while Attawapiskat will keep a hefty part of the profits from a settlement with DeBeers , it will not keep all. A major part of the profit is to be shared evenly by the other constituent Bands. Likewise, presumably, if there is a major deal in the air at another Village, again the Council will negotiate as one unit; that Village, then, will reap a hefty part of the windfall; but always a major part of the proceeds will go to the other constituent Bands. The West Side Cree are now in this thing together. That is, I think their Chiefs are behind the concept. They may yet have to sell it to their own individual Bands. I hope it sells.

DeBeers (and others) now have the entire Council to deal with – not just one isolated village that can easily fracture under the pressure of expert and persistent negotiation and maneuvering.  An array of experts and consultants has been lined up to help the Mushkegowuck Council on their side of the negotiations. Negotiations fall into two areas: Short-term and Long-term. So far, only Short-term negotiations have taken place – with the Attawapiskat Band alone and only for the Exploratory Phase of the Project. Theresa had stopped the Exploratory Phase this fall, by refusing to renew The Band’s permission or license to continue that exploratory work, until or unless certain issues were resolved regarding the Long-term or major phase of the Project. DeBeers had stated this fall, when they ceased operations, that that was impossible. Some may have concluded, then, from that posture, that the entire deal was in jeopardy. DeBeers, reportedly, just wasn’t ready to negotiate a deal relative to the entire Project at this time. If the exploration were not completed, then, there would be no foundation on which to design the entire project. Phase Two (The Long-term Phase) could be discussed only after Phase One (The Short-term Phase) had been completed and the reports analyzed.

Now, those Long-term negotiations are scheduled to start up in January; and the entire Council is on board with those negotiations. All travel costs of the Cree negotiating team are to be paid by DeBeers. (If DeBeers wants a meeting in Toronto, fine, they pay.) Theresa already dreams of an adequately staffed medical clinic for the Village of Attawapiskat, itself. She worries about finding trained people who would work in such a remote place. I told her I have a young cousin, a medic, who just can’t wait.

If, years from now, these activities are seen as a quantum leap for The Cree, several names may be remembered then. But there always will be one name in particular: Theresa Hull, Chief of the Attawapiskat Band and Justice of The Peace. Theresa, alone, met DeBeers on the bridge, whilst summoning help. (Monica tells me – all in one breath: you’re exaggerating, again; it will be ten years before people fully realize what Theresa just did; it would have happened anyway. My response: you have the mind of a Cree; Theresa acted outside the norms of her culture to save the integrity of her culture.)

On the mail run this afternoon I noticed that the saga of the sunken car ranks high – at least when I’m around. The conversation usually begins between two guys, just when I enter a room or a space. Pretending they don’t notice me, they discuss the matter in very loud voices – all for my benefit.

David has served as Treasurer for two years – filling in when there was a real need. But he just doesn’t have time. We’ll have a new Treasurer starting up by the First of the Year. To make it all easier, I concocted a database. That is, I’ve come up with a format – no numbers, yet.

The database should be good for tracking cash flow, balancing the checkbook, paying bills, recording/acknowledging donations, and monitoring the budget. That’s the concept, anyway. It may or may not sell. People here, actually, are really quite computer literate, although that doesn’t mean anyone else on The Island has FileMaker Pro. We’ll probably have to buy a copy for The Church – in the Windows version, horror of horrors; I may be the only MAC freak on The Island.

I have the nagging feeling that St. Thomas’ never had a budget – at least not one that anyone ever looked at. They could be seriously in the hole this year; and no one knows what’s going on. My pleas for old budgets, old paper, old anything, have gone largely unnoticed. I really don’t want to end up as Treasurer by myself (and we have a young volunteer, anyway.) Somehow, the Vestry has to learn to how to own the management of The Church – and not just forget about the money, the minute they think someone else is watching it.

I saw the Doctor today and refilled prescriptions. My weight has dropped to the 170′s (lbs). A very good sign that MFI agrees with me (and that the cholesterol will start easing down.) While I was in the Pharmacy I requested vitamins. Of course they had some, and the lady there had to ask who was on my case now: Elsie or Nellie or both? Elsie, of course.

The van got fixed: two new liters of oil for the engine and four fewer holes in the tire. How I did what I did I don’t know. The Vestry meets tonight. By the time I’m done preparing their materials I will have consumed a ream of paper. They are getting plenty to read.

On the mail run late this afternoon we were having a ‘snow shower.’ In Moose-Factory-speak that means total whiteout. As I turned into the Community Complex Center (‘The Mall’) I discovered yet another of Moose Factory’s drainage ditches. Ditches on The Island can run ten feet deep. This one was a good six feet deep. The car was creeping, so it crept into the ditch. When car was safely parked down under, the roof was level with the surface of the parking lot – to the fascination and delight of the spectators (and there were many; evidently this kind of thing had been going on all afternoon.) Skidoos buzzed out of nowhere. Everybody had to look. There was much to contemplate and discuss.

And there were comments.  “Now, WHY would someone ever want to do that?” “Jeeze, and I thought you Yanks knew how to drive.” “Now, THAT’S a strange place to park a car.” “Hey Preacher, sure hope you saved some of the wine for Sunday.” I found a phone and called Bobby with my tale of woe and distress, in hope of rescue.  He just laughed. He already had received six other calls on the same topic. I don’t think anyone will let me forget that one for a while. While I waited for Bobby to show, a taxi driver pointed out other busy ditches. The major entertainment of the afternoon had been watching the cars slide.

Ronnie just called. She will preach this morning. She was very apologetic about the late hour of her request. She’s had a busy week. She noted that her homilies are not as ‘deep’ as mine. Little does she know that I’m in agony until the show is all over – every single time. Next week the Canadian Bible Society presents a dog & pony show. I’m in heaven! Guaranteed, though, that I’ll not be ready or any less anxious on I Advent.

Kids are in Church this morning. Ronnie can handle them fine. She’s the Principal of the local elementary school.

Last night was ‘PIZZA NIGHT’ at the Parish Hall. All the pizzas were prepared at home by different chefs around The Island. Some were already baked and hot. Others were ready to be baked. Most had been sold before they ever got to The Hall. The cooks got orders as soon as word got out. The pizzas sold for $15 apiece and sold fast. I got one – which Gwendolyn shared with me (with reluctant generosity.)

Pizzas are popular on The Island. One of the ladies at the Parish Hall remarked that The Island may be becoming ever more fond of Italian Cuisine. (Can Federal Hill really be coming to Moose Factory?) Of course, nothing stands up to Chinese. There is a recipe in the Anglican Church Women Cookbook for fried rice done in the oven – for fifty people. My informant tells me, however, that when the Cree are involved, that same recipe will not serve more than ten. “I don’t know what it is about us Indians and Chinese. We get crazy.”

The man who had meningitis (mentioned 5 November) is now back home and doing much better. He had caught bacterial meningitis – not a good pick, if you have options. He had been feeling badly all that weekend but thought he just had the COLD. Everybody has the COLD. I’ve had it – off and on — since September. On Monday he collapsed. His family brought him to the Hospital immediately. Although the Doctor here couldn’t do the necessary tests (for lack of facilities) he suspected serious infection, began medication immediately; and he ordered emergency transportation. The transport – a ‘Medi-Vac’ or special plane — showed up about eight hours later. The patient then went by chopper to Moosonee and by Medi-Vac to Kingston late Monday night. At Kingston tests were done, confirming the original preliminary hunch about infection. Bacterial meningitis was identified. Medication continued. The family also traveled south, hoping for the best but fearing the worst. The patient pulled through.

Early assessment at Moose Factory Hospital, prompt and competent treatment, and expeditious transportation, saved this man. I have no estimate of the cost of maintaining a hospital and emergency services here. By health industry standards, even, that cost must be high. Like all hospitals this one runs day and night. Also, of course, air is the only mode of transportation; and it runs day and night. All of this consumes some of Ontario’s Health budget. But it saves lives.

Tomorrow Bobby takes the van for a while. Another of the tires wants air now every day. The weather has warmed up to about 20 degrees Fahrenheit. This is a good time to mend things.

Our original cold snap has moderated somewhat. But The River continues to freeze. In the early morning, before dawn, it makes all kinds of mysterious noises: snapping, popping, groaning, whining, and sighing. Gwendolyn and I are fascinated. We fully expect a Polar Bear to come lumbering out of the darkness at any moment. At Church this morning we heard that skidoos – operated by the younger set – are crossing to the mainland. Elders disapprove. But kids must take their chances.

Today I have the funeral for Albert Morrison over in Moosonee. I’ll leave on the 10 AM chopper and return on the 4 PM flight – if all goes well. Monica volunteered to be a back up, if something goes wrong. Gwendolyn will be home alone from nine to five.

The helicopter was working yesterday. The company that operates it was flying people on a stand-by basis, and they were charging only half of the usual fare. I doubt the fares will be so low today, and I HOPE the machine works.

Yet another update on the computer: the printer never really worked quite right; envelopes just didn’t get formatted correctly. An update from Hewlitt-Packard solved the problem. That means, now, that EVERYTHING has required an update – each from a different source. For me it was no problem – just time-consuming. If I were new to this, however, I’d be helpless. This ‘plug and play’ publicity is misleading. However, when I got everything right, it was very, very nice.

Later, Wednesday evening…. It was long day. Morning started crisp but absolutely clear. It is snowing now. While I was away, someone plowed out the Rectory – and just in time. The old van was barely making it through the snowdrifts. I even feared I’d get stranded this morning in the driveway.

Morning choppers leave Moose Factory Island at 8, 10, and 12 noon. I could have made it to the funeral (at 1 PM) with the noon shuttle with time to spare. But I opted for the more conservative approach and took the 10 o’clock flight. That way, if something went wrong, there would be yet one more flight before I got really stuck. I kidded the guys at Moose Factory’s chopper plaza about whether they thought their machines would start. They were fulsomely apologetic and most embarrassed, but there was no suggestion of any fare-reduction.

The flight takes less than five minutes. We simply cross the river – in a direct line to the airport. In the summer the canoes must snake around islands and shoals. The main channel of The River still has open water. Everything else is white.

Albert’s sister, Sandra, picked me up at the airport in Moosonee. As we were pulling out, the OPP (Ontario Provincial Police) were pulling in. We thought nothing of it. When we got to her house, however, we learned that there had been a bomb scare. The Moosonee airport was already closed. Flights from Timmins were canceled. Effectively, then, all air traffic to and from The Bay was down. (And air traffic during freeze-up is the ONLY traffic.) The earliest that flights would resume was going to be late this afternoon. And there were no promises about that. There even was talk that the train, which is northbound on Wednesdays, would be cancelled or delayed.

At the house, there were several of Albert’s nephews. Also, there was Levi, age 17 months, who was very much the center of attention both at the house and also, for a few minutes, at the Church. Levi’s father lives south of here, studies voice, and sings opera and lieder – all the good stuff.  He has sung from Don Giovanni, Faust, The Pearl Fishers, La Boheme, Amahl & The Night Visitors. His lieder repertoire is from Brahms, Schumann, and (I think) Schubert. I immediately wanted his CD, but he doesn’t have one yet. There was absolutely nothing in his affect, which might suggest that Grand Opera had come to Moosonee. At home he was at home. There is one culture in Moosonee, another out there in the outside world, and the two don’t really mix.

The family held the funeral at the local Roman Catholic Church or Cathedral.  The local Anglican Church is much too small for a crowd of two hundred people. And Bishop Cadieux is extremely gracious about making the Cathedral available – at least to Anglicans.  Like all Cree funerals this one started late. Customarily the coffin is open in the Church at least an hour before the service begins. Each person pays his or her respects. Most kiss the deceased on the forehead. When the LAST person is so accommodated, the Service begins.

By Cree standards this Service really was an orderly procedure. There was only one interruption – in the middle of everything – when a lady stood up and announced to everybody that she had known the deceased and really missed him. She didn’t preach or try to hijack the Service in any way. She just stood up and said what she said and then sat down. Moosonee may be more uptown than Moose Factory. (AND we were in the Roman Catholic Cathedral, where law and order are priorities.) At St. Thomas’ in Moose Factory anything can happen.

Burial was at a cemetery at the southern edge of town. There are no undertakers or funeral directors. The family does everything. The coffin is closed when the family closes the coffin. The Band supplies the coffin and has helpful people. In this case the family (i.e. Sandra and volunteers) retrieved the body from the Hospital here in Moose Factory — during the chopper shutdown. Figuring they were stymied, they postponed the funeral to today. Luckily the Hospital had an empty chopper; and they moved the body on that chopper, even though many others of the family were stranded on The Island until regular chopper service resumed. Sandra managed all of that confusion.

There are no hearses here. Our conveyance was a 2002 GMC Sierra pickup, color: storm gray metallic – an excellent choice of vehicle and color. Two or three guys stayed on the back of the truck with the coffin, while we made the slow trek to the grave. All traffic in every direction stopped and stayed put.  People knew exactly what that line of vehicles was all about. One or two School Buses carried those without cars.

At the cemetery it was clear, even to me, who was in charge. The director of affairs wore a hard hat. And he wasn’t at all shy about telling people exactly what to do next. Lowering a coffin into the grave is tricky.  The guys in the family always do it, and some are doing it for the first time. Strength, here, is an asset. And that means youth – along with inexperience. Hopefully, the task is accomplished efficiently and safely. Our foreman made very sure of that.

After the coffin is lowered to its final resting place, the prayers are read. Then the guys fill the grave from the nearby pile of earth, each taking turns; everyone participates. There were 12-18 shovels. While this is going on some of the women weep.

By this time it was time for me to think about heading home. I couldn’t tarry for the feast. We had learned that the chopper for The Island would start up at around 4 or maybe later. There would be flights, so I would not be stranded for the night. Since there were cars and drivers at the cemetery, I decided to leave directly for the airport.

There is only one road to the airport. Near the airport is a narrow bridge. At the bridge were emergency vehicles and volunteer firemen. Traffic was officially closed. However, Moose Factory people could get through, because their flights were about to recommence.

All day I was trying to figure out who would want to bomb something in or around James Bay, what they would bomb, why, and how they ever thought they were going to succeed. I always thought that James Bay, Air Creebec, and the rest were completely bombproof. The Cree just aren’t the sort of people your average full-blooded terrorist will want to hassle. Locals, however, gave me some food for thought. DeBeers would make an excellent target for some. The Quebec Hydro project is reputedly on Osama bin Laden’s hit list. Be any of that as it might be, the primary victims would be Cree.

Since some of the family is from the East Side of The Bay I asked what they knew or thought about the vulnerability of some of the villages on The East Side. They told me that at Chisasibi, if the dam up-river ever collapses, there would be only twenty minutes before the village is inundated. That’s just not enough time for people to get to high ground. Until this morning no one really took the terrorist angle seriously. I was told the dam is engineered to take an earthquake up to 6.4 on the Richter scale.

When we got to the airport we got the story. It was all about sky-rage. Evidently a gentleman at the airport in Moosonee wanted to go to Moose Factory. He couldn’t get a ride right then and there from ‘Expedition Helicopters’ – which has the business in Moose Factory — when they are expeditious enough to fly. He then asked one of the Hospital people if he could ride on a Hospital chopper. He was refused. He got angry and made threatening noises. The staff decided to play it safe, and they called in the troops. The troops came – with dogs (more dogs!) The canines sniffed at every single plane up and down The Bay. When we crossed the bridge on our way to the airport, it appeared that a functionary was writing down our registration plate number. The authorities were playing it very safe.

…It is late. Gwendolyn has forgiven me and is sleeping off her supper. This afternoon’s snow has awakened the skidoos. They are everywhere. The Island squirms with them as they criss-cross in every direction. Roads and stop signs mean nothing. Either the skidoos are invisible or they are upon you at full throttle. Dogs bark, yelp, howl, give chase, and get out of the way. No longer is this car and dog country. Skidoos rule. When there is enough ice on The River they will fly off in all directions – as far as Cochrane, to the South, and nobody knows where, to the North. Then, streams and islands will mean nothing. The whole wide world will succumb to the skidoo.

Today we ARE cut off from the rest of the world. There is one chopper that serves the Island. It runs at 8 & 10 AM, Noon, 2 & 4 PM. It does not fly after dark. It does not fly today. Today is a perfectly fine day, though we got about 5 inches of snow last night. The chopper’s problem is more basic. It won’t start. I am happier that it won’t start, while it is on the ground, than I might be, if it simply refused to work, while it was in the air. Richard tells me that you have nothing to worry about while the machine is in the air. It’s only when it hits the ground that you have a problem. In keeping with the northern tradition of horrific business habits, the helicopter company hasn’t thought of maybe getting in a second helicopter that DOES work.

The funeral I had been scheduled to conduct tomorrow at noon has now been postponed until Wednesday noon. The family is banking on the recovery of the chopper, though they are not about to depend on its good health tomorrow morning. Several people from the family live on The Island, and they are simply stuck until the chopper decides to start. The Hospital has its own helicopter service, and that is always working. The service also runs a mega-helicopter ambulance that flies anytime – day and night.

Today is Remembrance Day. It’s like our Memorial Day. Veterans are honored, and lost soldiers are remembered. I was with an assembly at the local elementary school at 9:30 this morning. Some of the kids were restless at times during the 45-minute observance. When the prayers were read, however, there was absolute silence. Then, at 10:30, we held a service at St. Thomas’. Very simple, very brief. The names of the fallen were recited.  Prayers were read. Then, a minute of silence. We went outside, and guns were fired in salute. Elder veterans laid a wreath at the foot of the great stone monument standing close by the Church door. I learned from Chief Hardisty that James Bay has fielded the highest per capita ratio of volunteers in Canada. The locals tell me that virtually all of those people have come from Moose Factory. The people remembered were all First Nation people.

One of the differences between Canada’s Remembrance Day and the American Memorial Day is that while the Day is a federal holiday, federal means something a bit different in Canada – or at least in Ontario. Federal, notwithstanding, Ontario does not declare a holiday. The bank and Post Office are closed today. But all the schools are up and running. Northern Store was open, but empty.

Temp is just below freezing. It’s been sleeting all day. The roads – and everything else – are spectacular. The slick has intimidated even Gwendolyn.  Bobby was in church today – but in a pew. He had been meaning to go to his camp today by helicopter. But the choppers stopped flying because of the weather. We really were cut off from the world this morning. When he knew he had no flight, he hurried to Church and got there just after the Service started. Bobby will try again tomorrow. A bear had been doing some interior decoration at his camp, and Bobby wants to inspect the handiwork. (Nov 23: I found out that the bear had decided to go inside to have a look around. Bobby, thoughtfully, always leaves the front door propped wide open, so that curious bears may enter and exit conveniently and gracefully. However, that concept was unacceptable to THIS bear, which entered through a WALL of the cabin. Discovering himself to be inside, this bear then desired to be outside, and exited through the OPPOSITE wall of the cabin. The door remained untouched. The bear, at this very moment, is dozing off, perhaps, and may not understand that, at this very moment, Bobby is clearing space in his freezer for his next kill.)

On Tuesday I go to Moosonee by chopper (weather permitting) to conduct the funeral for Mr. Morrison. Funeral will be at the RC cathedral. Burial will be in Moosonee. I had begged off on a family service scheduled for tomorrow evening. There are people in Moosonee that can handle that, and the choppers don’t fly after dark; I would be stuck in Moosonee for the night. And Gwendolyn would never forgive.

The new Sunday Bulletin made its debut today – replete with my countless mistakes – every one of which was identified many times over, especially by the senior set, which has gloried in the opportunity to roast. With one edition now out, announcements are lining up. I think the concept sold. I have a deal: a candy bar for every mistake found; so far the younger crowd hasn’t caught on to that. They will.

The new MAC has made deskwork easier. And now it works very well, indeed. I reinstalled EVERYTHING – from Operating System all the way up. THIS time, I followed the proper installation procedures for the additional software. And the baby works like a charm. I even have most of my tunes loaded up in a separate hard disk – 120 gigabytes so far, and counting; I’m half way through the project. I think, in retrospect, that there was nothing wrong with the software the first time around. But Norton THOUGHT there was something wrong and then ‘FIXED’ it. After that, nothing worked. This time around Norton also is telling me something is ‘wrong’. The machine hasn’t been on long enough for something to go wrong. This time, I’m not letting Norton ‘fix’ it. And everything works just fine. In all likelihood, Norton is not updated, itself, to this present (and brand new) version of the Operating System.

Marg Lewis called from Temagami. She told me that the Lake had open water often through December. Here The River is steadily icing up even though we have tides and current. No bets yet on when the highway goes through, however.

Up early this morning, or late last night. About 11:45 Raymond called. John Wesley had died. The family was gathered and gathering at the hospital. I was there by midnight.  Prayers and silence for an hour or so. We started in the lounge upstairs, went to John’s room, and all of us – with John – ended up in the Chapel. There must have been about 25 of us by then.

John – and many of the family – was/are from Kashechewan. I had been visiting with him earlier in the day – unaware of how fragile he was.  I think we liked each other. He was a soft-spoken soul. As happens so often, we were ships passing in the night.

Then, at around 5:30 this morning, another call: Albert Morrison, from Moosonee. About 6-8 of the family was there. Prayers. I imagine I’ll be called for the funeral – in Moosonee – sometime early next week. If the family tries for Monday for the funeral, all of us will be stepping lively around the already scheduled events for Remembrance Day.