i think i might stay
I love it here...
I love the sounds of the Ojicree language -- my two favouriter words right now being shmaganish (police) and bookadiyan (underwear). I love all the little dark-eyed babies who stumble around in front of the store with that drunken walk of a toddler, grabbing onto the fur of passing dogs and the legs of passing adults. I love the kids who ride around in the back of their parents truck, leaning with their bellies pressed against the rear windshield, black hair tangling and blowing in the wind behind them. When they see me walking along the road, they twist around suddenly yelling "Meghan!" and raising an arm. I love having everyone know my name and me knowing their's. I love being shown plants that are good for when you're sick, for when you have a cut. I even love that inherent distrust of tap water, nurses and any dependence on technology -- because "it's all going to fail one day, there's going to be a big disaster and we're going to have to look after ourselves again." I love the superstition, the sea snake that lives in the lake, the mermaids, who, once seen, doom the seer to die within the year. I love the fishing derbies where I get called on to read the scale, which is heavy with the weight of nuhmaykoos (lake trout). I love hearing bingo on the radio and a local woman singing a song in Ojicree to the tune of Amazing Grace. I love the guilt-free way that people relax. Once they're done work, adults go fishing, or take a nap, or go visiting, without worrying about what they have to do or what they are putting off. I love the smell inside the homes, a mixture of firesmoke, yeast and fabric softener. I love the use of lard for everything -- from bannock to paint removal. I love the powdery taste of bannock and the steely taste of tea that is made in a silver pot on the stove top. Most of all, I love watching a seven year old run up to an old gookum (grandmother) and help her up the stairs in front of the store, while a man in his thirties holds the door for both of them. This is a community.
I love the sounds of the Ojicree language -- my two favouriter words right now being shmaganish (police) and bookadiyan (underwear). I love all the little dark-eyed babies who stumble around in front of the store with that drunken walk of a toddler, grabbing onto the fur of passing dogs and the legs of passing adults. I love the kids who ride around in the back of their parents truck, leaning with their bellies pressed against the rear windshield, black hair tangling and blowing in the wind behind them. When they see me walking along the road, they twist around suddenly yelling "Meghan!" and raising an arm. I love having everyone know my name and me knowing their's. I love being shown plants that are good for when you're sick, for when you have a cut. I even love that inherent distrust of tap water, nurses and any dependence on technology -- because "it's all going to fail one day, there's going to be a big disaster and we're going to have to look after ourselves again." I love the superstition, the sea snake that lives in the lake, the mermaids, who, once seen, doom the seer to die within the year. I love the fishing derbies where I get called on to read the scale, which is heavy with the weight of nuhmaykoos (lake trout). I love hearing bingo on the radio and a local woman singing a song in Ojicree to the tune of Amazing Grace. I love the guilt-free way that people relax. Once they're done work, adults go fishing, or take a nap, or go visiting, without worrying about what they have to do or what they are putting off. I love the smell inside the homes, a mixture of firesmoke, yeast and fabric softener. I love the use of lard for everything -- from bannock to paint removal. I love the powdery taste of bannock and the steely taste of tea that is made in a silver pot on the stove top. Most of all, I love watching a seven year old run up to an old gookum (grandmother) and help her up the stairs in front of the store, while a man in his thirties holds the door for both of them. This is a community.