Hot Soup on a Snowy Day

I was born in the Cree community of Moose Factory, Ontario, a tiny island nestled in the mouth of the Moose River which streams into James Bay.

We were nine people (my parents, grandmother, and five siblings) living in a tiny house with no indoor plumbing. At that time, more than 40 years ago, we relied on walking, boating or ski-doo to get around.

In the spring during break-up, the expanse of ice that separated Moose Factory from the mainland, Moosonee, would creak and groan for weeks before the ice floes finally broke apart and slowly drifted out to James Bay. It was a dangerous time of the year because if you were caught on the ice when it decided to shift, you would certainly be crushed.

It was also a much-welcomed season because it meant that we kids could soon resume playing along the shore, collecting fossils and swimming amongst the reeds in the murky water. If we were lucky, someone would load us onto a boat and take us out to the soft, white sandbanks in the middle of the river exposed during low tide.

Sometimes when I smell the acrid scent of a crackling fire, I can remember sitting on a fragrant bed of freshly cut spruce boughs in the teepees, watching elderly Cree women baking homemade bannock over an open fire

My sparse but nostalgic memories of Moose Factory are probably much different from those of my grandmother (or Kokum in her native Cree language), Lydia Corston, who spent much of her adolescence in a residential school.

In a historic moment in 2008, Prime Minister Stephen Harper apologized to the native community for the government’s treatment of Canadian aboriginals. In addition to being separated from their families, stripped of their culture and language, they were physically, psychologically and oftentimes sexually abused.

Although the official apology has been met with mixed reaction from the native community, the mere statement of accountability means that the healing of a nation can finally begin for people like my grandmother.

The effects of the residential school were deep and far-reaching. Her memories and experiences of that time were locked away deeply in her psyche only to emerge in times of distress and anxiety. The Cree culture and language have disappeared as well as the time-honored tradition of creating beautiful moose hide crafts such as moccasins and mukluks.

When I was young, I would take the bus with my overnight bag to the hotel where she worked in the laundry. She washed and folded sheets that came out the huge machine nicknamed the “mangler” for obvious reasons.

When she finished her shift, we would walk down to the S.S. Kresge store to wait for the bus and she would buy me a soft drink served in those little cone cups at the dining counter. I looked forward to those sleepovers because it was an opportunity to escape my large family and spend one-on-one time with someone who listened to me and told me stories. She taught me how to play card games like Gin Rummy while we listened to the radio, or if I was lucky, she let me help her make her necklaces by threading beads.

My grandmother recently passed away at the age of 89 years old. Her passing is still so new and it weighs heavy on me. I know there will come a day when the feeling of aching sorrow will fade and thinking of her won’t bring tears to my eyes.

She wasn’t famous or noteworthy, at least not to those outside of our community, but to me she was a constant in an ever-changing world. She represented everything that was warm and comforting, like hot soup on a snowy day.

Written by Marla Newhook
Edited by Lucinda Atwood