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By 1966 Lucie was thoroughly taken in by the community. She
made up her mind that Cape Croker was heaven, where she and our
children, Miriam, Tibby, and Geoffrey, would spend their weekends
and summers. We bought a slice of land in Little Port Elgin Bay from
Wellington Elliott in 1966, signed the papers, and delivered them to
the Indian Affairs Branch in Chippewa Hill, Ontario, for registration.
Silas Proulx, my brother-in-law, finished the log cabin that Charles
Nadjiwon had started. This was in 1967. We waited, waited, and
waited, called and called for our deed of possession. Sixteen years we
waited for our deed, and when we received it, the slice of land that
we had purchased was severed.
One morning two or three years after our log cabin had been built
I was sitting outside on a picnic table on the beach drinking coffee
and watching the sunrise. Norman Jones, otherwise known as
“Josh,” came along, sat down, and accepted my offer of coffee. After
some chitchat we both lapsed into silence. I studied the horizon and
the woods that capped the land. Behind us robins, sparrows, wrens,
and warblers piped and whistled.
“Have you ever seen anything more beautiful or heard anything
more cheerful?” Josh finally asked.
“No,” I answered. I had, but could not recall that I had. I had
indeed seen, heard, breathed in, tasted, felt, and sensed the beautiful
every day, but I had paid little attention or didn’t recognize it as such,
otherwise I might have derived greater benefit for my soul and spirit.
Since that morning I have often thought about Josh’s question and
have tried, insofar as I am capable, to admire the beauties and won-
ders of the earth.
When Josh asked the question about thirty years ago there were
several hundred people who still spoke the ancestral language, soft,
rhythmical, and expressive, and the people who spoke it could do so
with humor and gravity. They saw and valued the world and life from
a native perspective. Grasses, flowers, and shrubs graced the roadside
and scented the air. Beavers, bears, ravens, geese, ants, and bees still
meant something, as creatures that gave their lives so our ancestors
could survive.
An hour or two after sunset the whippoorwills piped up from
behind our houses, and when they had finished their singing they
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made up her mind that Cape Croker was heaven, where she and our
children, Miriam, Tibby, and Geoffrey, would spend their weekends
and summers. We bought a slice of land in Little Port Elgin Bay from
Wellington Elliott in 1966, signed the papers, and delivered them to
the Indian Affairs Branch in Chippewa Hill, Ontario, for registration.
Silas Proulx, my brother-in-law, finished the log cabin that Charles
Nadjiwon had started. This was in 1967. We waited, waited, and
waited, called and called for our deed of possession. Sixteen years we
waited for our deed, and when we received it, the slice of land that
we had purchased was severed.
One morning two or three years after our log cabin had been built
I was sitting outside on a picnic table on the beach drinking coffee
and watching the sunrise. Norman Jones, otherwise known as
“Josh,” came along, sat down, and accepted my offer of coffee. After
some chitchat we both lapsed into silence. I studied the horizon and
the woods that capped the land. Behind us robins, sparrows, wrens,
and warblers piped and whistled.
“Have you ever seen anything more beautiful or heard anything
more cheerful?” Josh finally asked.
“No,” I answered. I had, but could not recall that I had. I had
indeed seen, heard, breathed in, tasted, felt, and sensed the beautiful
every day, but I had paid little attention or didn’t recognize it as such,
otherwise I might have derived greater benefit for my soul and spirit.
Since that morning I have often thought about Josh’s question and
have tried, insofar as I am capable, to admire the beauties and won-
ders of the earth.
When Josh asked the question about thirty years ago there were
several hundred people who still spoke the ancestral language, soft,
rhythmical, and expressive, and the people who spoke it could do so
with humor and gravity. They saw and valued the world and life from
a native perspective. Grasses, flowers, and shrubs graced the roadside
and scented the air. Beavers, bears, ravens, geese, ants, and bees still
meant something, as creatures that gave their lives so our ancestors
could survive.
An hour or two after sunset the whippoorwills piped up from
behind our houses, and when they had finished their singing they
333
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