Why did Yellow Bear burn his medicine

The following picture gives an interesting scene at the Pas Mountain Missions--it shows "Old Yellow Bear" burning his idols, etc., outside the little school chapel at Shoal Lake, and while this was being done, the congregation (only a small part of which is shown in the picture) stood and sang the well-known hymn by W. O. Gushing, "Ring the bells of Heaven" in the Cree language.
Here is an account of the event given at the time through the C.M.S. Gleaner, December 1st, 1899:
"The place of which I now write is Shoal Lake, one of the many out-stations belonging to Devon, and is situated about ninety miles from Devon, at the foot of Pas Mountain.
"In one of the photographs you will notice an old Indian in the act of stooping.
"The old man is named Oosawusk (Yellow Bear). He is about eighty years of age, and was baptised fifty years ago by Mr. Hunter, the first ordained missionary who resided in this district.
"Although admitted into the visible Church by baptism, he seems never to have led a Christian life, but practised all the rites and ceremonies of the heathen. When the majority of the Indians of this band had embraced Christianity, he travelled about visiting other bands, where his services would be more appreciated. He was, until quite lately, known as the leading medicine-man and greatest sorcerer for many miles round.
"During the past two years I have had several earnest conversations with him, and he promised time after time to give up his heathen ways, and return with full purpose of heart to the Lord, but, alas! he failed to carry out his good intentions.
"Last autumn his wife died, a sincere Christian woman, and this made a very great impression upon him, which resulted in his making another promise of reform.
"On my way to the mountain in the spring I met him paddling his canoe alone, about twelve miles from the Mission. He was going to hunt rats, 'musquash.' As soon as he recognised me he paddled to the shore, and we did the same.
"After the usual greetings, he said, 'My grandchild, I have been longing to see you ever since we last parted. I must return with you to the Mission, as I must spend Sunday with you there, that the people may bear testimony to my constancy during the past winter.'
"I spent three days at the mountain, and heard from many, the catechist being one of those who said that the old man was thoroughly changed, that he never went near the heathen now, but associated only with the Christians, and was most regular and devout in church on Sundays.
"He wished very much to be received back again into the Church, and to partake of the Lord's Supper. I told him that nothing would give me more pleasure than to do as he requested, if I were sure he was seeking help from God to be faithful to his profession in the future. I reminded him of his former promises and the great hopes he had given me of his thorough reform, and how these had all been so many times dashed to the ground. I further asked him if he were really giving up everything that pertained to heathenism, because I had my doubts about it, and I felt sure that this was one of the causes of his former weakness.
"He admitted that he had still in his possession the rattle charm, some bad 'medicine,' and one or two other things.
"I then informed him that these must be given up, and I gave him the choice of either burning them or burying them.
"The poor old man's decision, and the remarks he made, convinced me more than all I heard before that he was determined, God helping him, to have done with Satan and his devices.
"'Noosesim' (my grandchild), he said, 'I am prepared to sacrifice all I have, and I am thankful (Ke&he ke-se-kowe ko tawe-now). Our heavenly Father has given me another opportunity of returning to Him; but knowing as I do my own weakness, and the power of the bad spirit, I dare not bury them, lest in an unguarded moment I might be tempted to recover them. No, Noosesim, I will not bury them; I will kindle a fire with my own hands, and cast the relics of my heathen days into it myself, and so once and for ever put the temptation out of the way.'
"Near the church door in the picture you see the old man in the act of burning what once he prized.
"The old man standing just behind him is handing the relics to him to be cast in the fire one at a time.
"In a similar picture all are engaged in singing 'Ring the bells of Heaven,' whilst the fire is consuming the old man's charms.
"The poor old fellow joined in singing the hymn as best he could, but his emotions would get the better of him, and he lost control of his voice. We finished the hymn with the old man leaning upon my shoulder weeping, and catching at a word or two of the hymn when he could control his feelings. The day when this took place was May 2ist, Whit-Sunday.
"After what had taken place, I received him back again into the Church, and admitted him to Communion. At the first 'rail' the old man knelt with his daughter, three married sons, and two grandsons, to feast at the Lord's table.
"The services of the day being over, we met in the evening for a talk on spiritual things, old Oosawusk being the chief speaker. He took up his parable and said:
"'You have all seen a little bird's nest; how nicely it is made, and how clean it is inside. Thus the care of the mother is shown for her young. Then you have seen the eggs, and finally the little birds. These little birds, when first hatched, lie motionless in the nest; they seem almost lifeless, as well as almost bare. By and by they gather strength, and their feathers take shape, and they are able to stand up in their nest and flap their wings. Then in due course their little wings are covered with beautiful feathers, some silver coloured and some gold, and they look very pretty. But why are these beautiful wings given to the little birds? Is it that they may lie still in their nest and adorn their own little home? No; they are given to them for a purpose, and that purpose is to enable them to fly about, and become useful in many ways. This is my parable.
"'Now to-day I am like those little helpless birds lying bare and motionless in their nest. My soul is like the nest. My heavenly Father made it for me, and it is therefore very good, and in His sight very valuable, otherwise He would have cast me away as unprofitable long ago (Che kd-ma mistake ne pamu-chatisin), because I have been very bad. Now He has given me His Holy Spirit to dwell in my soul; at present it is only weak in me like the very little birds I have spoken about, but by and by, perhaps soon, it will grow strong in me, and I shall be able to go about and be of use. I desire to bear witness to the truth in those places where I have in days gone by joined in heathen ceremonies, and let my new life shine like the beautiful feathers on the little birds' wings.' (Yellow Bear has since died--a faithful Christian.)
"The little Church shown in the picture is one of six I have built since my return to the Mission three years ago. The one at Shoal Lake is one of the smallest, as it is only a small station in the heart of a pine forest."
The picture of Yellow Bear was taken by my daughter at the Pas, where he had come on a visit shortly after his baptism.
The next picture shows the Bishop of Calgary (who at that time was Bishop of Saskatchewan) in the act of speaking a few kind and sympathetic words to some heathen Indians, who, after having joined us in the service of dedicating the Christian burial ground, had returned to their own, to think and weep over the graves of their departed. I always found Bishop Pinkham most interested in our Indian work, and most sympathetic and kindly disposed towards the Indians. At our diocesan synods, he seemed never so happy as when he had our Indian chiefs around him.

Hunger Maddened Malamutes

A man sits alone at a kitchen table. A bottle of Molson 50 in front of him. He takes a big drink and bangs it down. Laurence Golden always thinks about The Death of Jim Loney when he’s drinking alone. He thinks about suicide and he almost always comes back to the rope.

He can see the beam above his head without looking and shrugs slightly but uncontrollably.

“Shut up, shut the fuck up.”

He takes a deep final drink like a man coming up for air after a too deep dive. He puts the empty bottle on the table with two others. “Three dead soldiers”.

Uncle Frank’s voice echoes round . Laurence smiles to himself. Uncle Frank was the most beloved man he had ever known. He was a rascal and rounder and a raconteur. He had two ex-wives and three girlfriends comforting one another at his funeral.

But what did Laurence have. Not one girlfriend who would “cross the street to piss on him if he was on fire.” What the hell did that even mean? If someone was on fire, pissing on them would just make it worse for that person.

“He was licking his lips like a bulldog eating shit off a hot plate”.

Laurence picks up a beat up copy of Songs of the Sourdough by Robert Service, the brown paper cover is brittle from decades in wood heated air. He opens up the book and it falls as it almost always does to The Parson’s Son.

The story of a true believer whom bitter northern cold and lust for gold drained away all the faith bestowed by blood and book. One whose only value in the end is food for his starving huskies.

He reads the poem again and confirms again his view that Service wrote as journalist - poet. Not a word on the page was false.

He first read the book in grade 5 and was terrified of the images. He began having dreams of living this hell on earth where “the men who do not fit in” come to sell their souls for gold. A world of men slowly freezing to death in starvation, alcoholic madness and an insatiable hunger. Where men loathe Heaven "based on the Parsons I've seen."

He asked Uncle Frank if had ever heard of a man being eaten by his dogs.Uncle had run the Trappers Festival since he was a teen and had checked his trapline with his best three long after men half his age were using snow machines. He knew dogs. He knew dog stories.

Never, not once, he said. It was unnatural. The animals would run. Free of their burden of loyalty. Though some dogs could not break the bond of servitude and would be found dead beside their master. He had heard that story.

But Uncle Frank knew the kind of men that Laurence read about in the book. He told Laurence when he had a few too many OV's about the kind of men that had come to the community to build the big project. The kinds of things that went on among the kind of men with “Nowheres to go and nothings to lose”. Uncle Frank knew the violence that was inflicted and the twisted legacy that was left behind.

Laurence recalled Little Stevie Williams. He had to be flown out. He had been raped anally. The police reported that the boy had been using the outdoor toilets and had been attacked by a dog.

A dog.

Laurence intoned in his deepest voice like he had done years ago to scare the girls when they would be walking across the bridge at night.

“The wire went out and the cold crept in and his blue lips ceased to moan 

and the hunger-maddened malamutes had torn him flesh to bone.”

***

It was the coldest day of a bitter winter. The wind howled angrily from the north and Ryan was scared. His brother was reading poetry from Robert Service. Laurence found the book in the Anglican Church’s White Elephant Sale and he would read the darkest passages with growing passion as the longest winter dragged on.

Men are going insane and freezing to death and being eaten by dogs. Men fear heaven and believe they are living in hell. Women are whores and Indian girls are being pimped for bottles of whiskey. The single solitary goal of the bush and the winter was to kill human beings and steal their souls.

It was a terrifying fate. The wind roared outside his bedroom window and he could feel the pounding of the million billion hooves pulling the roof skyward. The ceiling moaned and shifted as the house strained to hold together.

In Church, Father preached about when the missionaries had come to this country and the land was covered with hairy cloven hoofed beasts that filled the prairies like a pestilent flock. He said it was the power of Christ that cleansed this land of that filth. He said this land was hell on earth and Jesus was saving us one at a time.

And the million billion hooves pounded down from the sky and tore at the roof, ripping up shingles and tossing them into the blackened sky.

He woke up crying out. All was bright white. He whimpered and kicked his quilt off. He heard soft warm footsteps and then Grandpa’s voice.

“You OK?” the old man asked kindly.

“Mmmhmm”, Ryan replied.

He could smell his way into the good world. Grandma’s bannock and white fish soup wafting with a hint of pepper and onions. It was afternoon. He had fallen asleep after school. He couldn’t sleep at Hyboard, the housing for Hydro employees that looked like an exclusive Winnipeg suburb compared to the black tentest fibreboard homes on the reserve side.

He would go to his grandparents after school each day and fall asleep on their daybed in the back room. He couldn’t stand the sound of the turbines at the generating station humming all night long. He had seen the famous movie clips of Charlie Chaplin being eaten and digested by a giant machine. He began recurring dreams of giant cogs pressing down and gobbling him up from his legs and his thighs and his stomach and his chest and he would wake up gasping for air and covered in sweat.

Grandpa Francis took young Ryan by the hand and they walked into the front room and to the picture window looking out onto the snow crusted yard and down to the frozen river. The wind continued to howl. Ryan could feel the cold's unrelenting grasp through the window and into his blood and bones. He hated that feeling of cold-death taking hold. Death is cold.

Grandpa squeezed his shoulder and pointed to the cedar trees near the house. Ryan squinted. There was nothing to see, everything was covered in snow. He moved his weight from one foot to the other and then back again and again.

There it was.

A flash in a puff of white powder. He could see an imprint where the flakes settled and it was momentarily distinct from its frozen brethren. Just above it - a hint of black. His eyes focused.

The next white puff was clear to him as a cloud on a blue horizon. He strained to see. He knew it was there. He could feel his Grandpa behind him trying to help along. And there it was. Black mask and hood and a black kerchief upon her neck.

He caught his breath. Just slightly.

Grandpa said, “If the Creator can take care of the smallest bird, he can take care of you.”

And the chickadee fluffed its wings.

-30- 

Taped Bingo Balls

Pleasure Berries

I take the berry between my finger and thumb

I roll it firmly and gently with a twisting pulling motion and it releases to me

I repeat this with similar intent and focus a thousand times

I taste the jam in my mouth and I moan with deeper pleasure 

My mind races back to delicate deliberate fingers and the juice upon them

I use my tongue to push your seed up to the roof of my mouth 

I know that you love me

Never Love a Rez Dog

TIPPY

She chases the squirrel

when she has no chance

when there is too much far

between her

and the closest branch

who is the smarter of the two

hard to tell at a glance

The squirrel

goes only part way up

turns ands laughs

Tippy is barking

up the tree that is right

but it's just barking to bark

barking to spite

She's enjoying

herself

So what can I say

This is life

it is just that way

Smiling through your misses

and mistakes can be hard

But some days

I find a half eaten

squirrel in the yard


***

We can Dream better

Is there anything left

of the work of Jules Verne

that we haven't achieved

And how far along

on Philip K Dick

We create the world with our minds

we act with the power of one

we create the future

with pop culture

vision

What we conceive

we create

and we create

nightmares

and horrors

and murder

and War

and Apocalypse

and the End

No one dreams

of finding

Peace

in the garden

again

Even though

for the dreamers

that's the way

it will end

So they visualize a nightmare

for their grandchildren

and placed the stones

to mark their graves

with a smiley face

Never Love a Rez Dog (Part 5)