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So Few on Earth. Josie Penny
Читать онлайн.Название So Few on Earth
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781770705654
Автор произведения Josie Penny
Жанр Биографии и Мемуары
Издательство Ingram
The long winter dragged on, and even though we were trapped inside the tiny cabin for weeks, we found ways to entertain ourselves. There was no electricity, radio, or television, no colouring book or crayons, no storybooks or board games. And there was no space for activities. So Daddy made us little toys — a spin top out of an empty cotton spool, a crossbow made from wood. When we found a piece of string, we played cat’s cradle and other simple games such as button-to-button or gossip. Cat’s cradle is simply a piece of string tied together. Using our fingers, we made different designs with it. Daddy also whittled little dolls from wood. We always managed to find something to do but certainly weren’t allowed to fight with one another. A crack on the head with Mommy’s knuckle taught us that early on.
Life in Roaches Brook was harsh and very primitive. The daily trip into the woods to cut enough firewood for both summer and winter was daunting. All the wood for Spotted Island had to be cut and hauled out to the landing point. Then we took it by boat to Spotted Island once the ice broke up in the spring.
Monday was washday, and with temperatures at minus 30 degrees, the clothes would freeze before Mommy even got them pinned on the line. Mommy had two bedwetters, so trying to keep Sammy’s and my beds clean of pee was a never-ending chore for her. She just couldn’t keep up. Consequently, night after night, I went to bed in my pee-soaked feather bed on the wooden floor of the loft. It was hard, cold, and wet.
The constant struggle for food was always foremost in my parents’ minds. Once food was provided and prepared, Mommy was busy sewing and re-sewing our clothing, fashioning mittens, socks, and caps, and darning everything we wore. Her tasks kept her working until she practically fell off her chair. They were such devoted parents and worked diligently to keep us alive.
We weren’t without fun, however. The few families in Roaches Brook whiled away the long winter nights by playing cards, making their own music, and dancing whenever they got the opportunity. And so the long winter passed.
Eventually, spring arrived and it was warm enough to snow. And snow it did! In spring we could go outdoors and play, and play we did! We climbed onto the mounds of snow and slid down on our small komatiks. We built houses of snow and snowmen and had snowball fights. It was so much fun! We’d go into the cabin with our clothes soaking wet, and Mommy would grumble at us for staying out too long. We were a happy family then.
“Yer gonna catch yer death,” Mommy would say, and we’d just grin.
Fierce spring storms buried our little cabin, plunging us into complete darkness. Daddy would have to dig us out. I didn’t know we were always on the brink of starvation. I didn’t know there was any other place in the world.
At night as I lay in my small bed in the half-loft, wishing I wouldn’t pee that night, I heard my parents talking softly to each other. In the flicker of the oil lamp I saw the pictures on the catalogue-covered rafters. They seemed to move, dance, and clutch at me. Daddy was probably nodding off downstairs and then they would bank the stove and retreat to their feather bed. Such was the life of a hunter and trapper.
Such was our life in Roaches Brook — place of my birth.
“Whass fer supper, Mommy?” we’d all ask as we bounded inside after playing.
“Oh, havin a bit a fish tonight, maids,” she’d say. Or sometimes she’d say, “Never ya mind whass fer supper. Ya’ll fin out soon nough. An stay away from dat pot!”
The rules were very strict in our house as to what went on around the stove, and we dared not disobey Mommy. Food was all-important. The stove was dangerous, and everything had to be shared to keep the entire family alive. My mother’s work was all-consuming, not only in the physical sense but mentally and emotionally, as well.
My mother, or Aunt Flossie as she was affectionately known to the community, was a short woman about five feet two inches in height. She looked quite frail at first glance but was actually very strong, both in physical strength and in character. Her strength showed in the way she ruled her household.
Mommy’s pale blue eyes stood out against dark olive skin, revealing her Inuit, Innu, and European heritages. Her dark brown hair, fine as silk, was worn in a neat bun at the back. I seldom saw it worn any other way. When she let her hair down, it fell to her waist. Before she went to bed, she sat and combed it out. It was pleasing to see that softer side of her.
My mother was orphaned young and suffered a terrible childhood. Her mother died when she was only 11. Her father passed away a year later, leaving four orphans; my mother was the eldest. But even those early years weren’t happy. I heard her say of her mother many times: “She was a cruel, evil woman.”
The mission wanted to separate the children, but Mommy refused to go to the boarding school in Mary’s Harbour down the coast. Instead she decided to take a job with a family. It was a job done solely for her keep; she was never paid a salary. The family was very harsh, and two years later they left my mother alone in a cold, unheated cabin to die. Thankfully, someone went to the pond for water, heard banging from a distant cabin, and rescued her.
Mommy’s rescuer brought her to a kind and caring family where she stayed until she met Daddy when she was 17. Even though my mother had had a baby already, my father, Thomas Curl, wanted to marry her and adopt her infant son, Sammy. They married in 1938. For the first several years they lived with my grandparents, John and Susan Curl, until Daddy built his own tiny cabin in Roaches Brook. On Spotted Island he inherited his father’s big house, and we lived in it until we moved to Cartwright in 1953.
Thomas Curl was a quiet, gentle man. When he married my mother, he gave her a sewing machine and a .22-calibre rifle as a wedding present. When Daddy went away to his traplines or out on a hunting trip, Mommy had to find her own way to keep us alive. She’d put on all the warm clothes she could find, strap on the snowshoes Daddy had made for her, tuck her gun under her arm or over her shoulder, and head into the woods, leaving us in the care of neighbours. Being a sure shot with her little .22, she always came back with a few partridges or a porcupine. Mommy also had her own line of rabbit snares set up around the cabin, and we had many delicious meals of rabbit. When Daddy was away on an extended hunting trip, before Sammy was big enough to help, Mommy also had to saw and chop firewood, fetch water, and nurse us when we were hurt or sick. My mother knew many home remedies for everything, from small cuts and scrapes to major cuts and life-threatening illnesses.
During the spring snows when we were outside all day and came in with our clothes soaking wet, Mommy was the one to dry them out. She hung everything, including our saturated mukluks, around the stove to dry. In the morning our mukluks would be so stiff we couldn’t get them on. To make them more pliable, she got out the special softening stick Daddy had made for her. It had a wooden base attached to another piece of wood about three or four inches wide, and stood about three feet high. At the top it was shaped like an axe blade. Mommy took the boots by the toe and heel and ran them over the board, making them supple again. It wasn’t an easy job as I found out one day when I tried to do it.
Mommy worked from pre-dawn until well into the night. She was busy knitting, sewing, making new clothing, mending old clothing, creating bedding from bleached flour sacks, fashioning new dickies (parkas), hooking floor mats, and producing soap. One of the most challenging jobs was crafting sealskin boots or mukluks. When I was little, I couldn’t understand how she could make them waterproof just by her skill in sewing.
Spring was seal-hunting time. When Daddy was due to return from the hunt, Mommy searched the horizon for the safe return of her man. Usually, he came back with a seal or two strapped onto the komatik.
“Whass dat, Mom?” I asked, eyeing the huge bulk strapped to the komatik.
“Dat’s a harp seal,” she explained, not that I would know the difference.
Already exhausted from the hunt, Daddy had to skin the