Dances With Mosquitos...
When we are at the lake I spend many hours at the beach watching my daughters play in the sand. It is a task that requires minimal concentration and the occasional "Mmmmm! Chocolate cake! My favorite! More please!".
With my children occupied and my mind left free to wander, I have often stared across the lake at "Indian Beach". Directly across from our beach, on the other side of the lake, there is no development. The trees, sand and shoreline remain the same as they have been for the last thousand years, give or take. The beach has been a site where conservation has collected arrow heads, pottery from cookware, and jewellery from the aboriginal people who once made Lake Nutimuk their home.
This knowledge coupled with my otherwise unoccupied mind have proven fodder for a vivid imagination.
Countless times I have daydreamed about little brown children in leather apparel splashing in the water along the beach. Women with long, shiny black hair laugh as they boil rabbit meat for the afternoon meal. The young women gather the wild strawberries that grow amongst the foliage on the shoreline. They are careful with their hands, making sure to pick only the strawberries and not touch the poison ivy that grows along side the berries. They will take their chances with the poison ivy, happy to be free of the rice harvesting for an afternoon. What is a little itchy skin compared to the aching back after a day of gathering and preparing the rice.
A little boy with lovely dark skin ties back his thick, black hair with a leather string. He is preparing for the task at hand which requires full concentration, not even the wind blowing his hair must distract him. It had been a week now that he had been hunting down the black crow that woke him in the wee hours of every morning. He looked at his weapon, a birch branch arched perfectly and strung taught with a long piece of dried deer sinew. His father had given him this gift before he left on the hunt with these instructions, "If you don't want to wake before dawn, make your crow friend find another place to live." He handed the boy the bow with a smile and a gentle tap on the head.
The arrows he had made himself with shafts that had he spent hours chosing, they had to be perfectly straight or his aim would miss the mark. He crept down low in the brush near the crow's favorite perch. Every day he had patiently waited for his enemy, everyday the crow arrived with loud volleys of cawing that reminded him of the crow's sunrise ritual. The boy gritted his teeth, pulled back on the bow and let the arrow fly. The arrow zinged off in the direction of the bird but missed by several inches. The crow squawked loudly and flew up the spruce tree to a safer distance where it could continue its indignant crowing at the boy.
The boy lifted his head at the sound of girlish laughter from down the beach. Two young girls had taken a break from their berry picking and had watched the whole scene unfold. They now stood doubled over, laughing at another victory for the crow. The shorter girl shouted, "He'll live another day to say good morning to you once again." Her taunt was followed by more laughter. The boy tried to muster his dignity as he shot back something about the wind blowing the arrow and stalked off into the woods to escape the laughter of the girls and the crow.
I sit and imagine life before time was measured in anything less than an afternoon. I imagine lives that revolved around nature, food, good stories and laughter. I imagine what it would be like to live with people to whom you are connected by the need for survival in a harsh land. I imagine families, feasts and bonfires.
I can only stay in my imaginary land for awhile there, because even there my reverie is broken by the buzzing of a mosquito flying around my ear. I remind myself that there is no time but there is also no deet. If I were to live in that time, I would be known as "Crazy, Scratching White Woman". Perhaps if I had one of my pattented freak-outs where I growl and slap at the bugs around me, they might call me "Slap Happy Bug Killer". If I were fortunate enough to have earned any respect among the tribe, they might give me a more dignified name like, "Dances with Mosquitos".
When we are at the lake I spend many hours at the beach watching my daughters play in the sand. It is a task that requires minimal concentration and the occasional "Mmmmm! Chocolate cake! My favorite! More please!".
With my children occupied and my mind left free to wander, I have often stared across the lake at "Indian Beach". Directly across from our beach, on the other side of the lake, there is no development. The trees, sand and shoreline remain the same as they have been for the last thousand years, give or take. The beach has been a site where conservation has collected arrow heads, pottery from cookware, and jewellery from the aboriginal people who once made Lake Nutimuk their home.
This knowledge coupled with my otherwise unoccupied mind have proven fodder for a vivid imagination.
Countless times I have daydreamed about little brown children in leather apparel splashing in the water along the beach. Women with long, shiny black hair laugh as they boil rabbit meat for the afternoon meal. The young women gather the wild strawberries that grow amongst the foliage on the shoreline. They are careful with their hands, making sure to pick only the strawberries and not touch the poison ivy that grows along side the berries. They will take their chances with the poison ivy, happy to be free of the rice harvesting for an afternoon. What is a little itchy skin compared to the aching back after a day of gathering and preparing the rice.
A little boy with lovely dark skin ties back his thick, black hair with a leather string. He is preparing for the task at hand which requires full concentration, not even the wind blowing his hair must distract him. It had been a week now that he had been hunting down the black crow that woke him in the wee hours of every morning. He looked at his weapon, a birch branch arched perfectly and strung taught with a long piece of dried deer sinew. His father had given him this gift before he left on the hunt with these instructions, "If you don't want to wake before dawn, make your crow friend find another place to live." He handed the boy the bow with a smile and a gentle tap on the head.
The arrows he had made himself with shafts that had he spent hours chosing, they had to be perfectly straight or his aim would miss the mark. He crept down low in the brush near the crow's favorite perch. Every day he had patiently waited for his enemy, everyday the crow arrived with loud volleys of cawing that reminded him of the crow's sunrise ritual. The boy gritted his teeth, pulled back on the bow and let the arrow fly. The arrow zinged off in the direction of the bird but missed by several inches. The crow squawked loudly and flew up the spruce tree to a safer distance where it could continue its indignant crowing at the boy.
The boy lifted his head at the sound of girlish laughter from down the beach. Two young girls had taken a break from their berry picking and had watched the whole scene unfold. They now stood doubled over, laughing at another victory for the crow. The shorter girl shouted, "He'll live another day to say good morning to you once again." Her taunt was followed by more laughter. The boy tried to muster his dignity as he shot back something about the wind blowing the arrow and stalked off into the woods to escape the laughter of the girls and the crow.
I sit and imagine life before time was measured in anything less than an afternoon. I imagine lives that revolved around nature, food, good stories and laughter. I imagine what it would be like to live with people to whom you are connected by the need for survival in a harsh land. I imagine families, feasts and bonfires.
I can only stay in my imaginary land for awhile there, because even there my reverie is broken by the buzzing of a mosquito flying around my ear. I remind myself that there is no time but there is also no deet. If I were to live in that time, I would be known as "Crazy, Scratching White Woman". Perhaps if I had one of my pattented freak-outs where I growl and slap at the bugs around me, they might call me "Slap Happy Bug Killer". If I were fortunate enough to have earned any respect among the tribe, they might give me a more dignified name like, "Dances with Mosquitos".
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