Nanetah

Now, you live your days in flannelette,

and “real” wool undershirts and socks,

and slippers from the discount store.

You drink your cold tea, from a root beer mug- extra large.

In your little house, green of the forest, you pass the time.

It’s window, installed as an afterthought, too high to see out of.

But standing, the view is across the road, beside the lake, across muskeg,

to the Northern Store.

The view, when seated, daylight, sunshine,

as clouds cross the sky, stars and moon, and the black of night.

Grandma, I have seen you with fingers rummaging in a shoe box,

for money, that your grandchild can run an errand.

There is pride in buying tea or cigarettes, for Grandma.

Grandmother- Nanetah

You remember much, quick and precise,

names of northern pilots, old indian trappers,

dates and days gone by.

Travelers and friends, a way of life.

Chip, and Cree and French and English,

you have stories to tell, tales to weave,

and sometimes no visitor to listen.

The nurse, who comes when she can,

listens with respect; with concern.

She sees the value, the pride you carry inside.

You can see a lie a mile away, not harsh judgement- just knowing.

You can see through masks to the soul within.

You can sense pregnancy, and love, sadness or joy,

even before they become apparent.

How hard you have worked, how industriously,

a young widow in the north, five children to raise.

You embraced your task with enthusiasm and love.

Grandmother,

chopping wood, drying meat, tanning hides,

smoking fish, picking berries,

hauling water from the lake.

A bath in the tin bathtub, by lantern light.

Big feather ticks and pink dishes from South.

No phone?

        “Run child, tell Auntie there are visitors.”

        “Why did God make flies Grandma?”

        “To keep silly humans busy I guess.”

Quick wit, humor.  Your wisdom is showing.

You don’t see so well now.

You kill wild cranberries with the fly swatter,

no one dares tell you.

In the little house, wood stove now gone, you are cold.

        “Damn furnace, contraption!  Damn thing makes wind.

         Shouldn’t have wind inside the house.”

You turn it all the way up.

Then hot, very hot.

You turn it off- all the way.

        “No, Grandma, leave it in the middle.”

       “Aw, shit.  Don’t tell me how to warm my house!”

They say you are going back to the old ways.

By the bed, the rosary beads hang, by the door, the dreamcatcher,

above the deepfreeze, an angel.

Grandma,

You are respected, strong, a good woman, a wise woman.

Even before white doctors and nurses, you help, you heal…

You tend to birth, and illness and death, with strength and calm,

with alchemy of a deeper spirituality.

A tradition denied by modernization, by missions,

by residential schools for children.

          “Get them out of the north. 

Nothing food can come of anything in the north,” comes the decree,

from somewhere far away.

Ah, but the lessons of the north,

have weathered you, refined you.

Though wrinkled and aged, your inner glory shines like silver.

Your eyes still light up at the sight of a child,

the feel of an infant’s soft cheek,

and squirmy, lively puppies.

Grandma,

-likes warm blankets brought by a salesman,

-likes warm socks, and sweaters with buttons,

-likes looses Blue Ribbon tea,

-likes fish with the bones in,

-likes moose meat, and deer meat and caribou,

and fresh warm bannock with jam.

Grandma likes sitting up to the table cross legged,

no utensils required-  Thank you.

Grandma liked to read, when she could see,

newspapers, books, magazines.

No school days, only time spent, on her grandfather’s knee.

Grandma,

Your beads are in the shed?

Hudson Bay bread bags and ice cream pails, everything once used, saved.

      “Can’t see no more.  No use.”

The beads are beautiful.  They are reminders of your creations,

your fingers swift and sure,

you eyesight, keen and bright.

Your youth, your generosity, mukluks for grandchildren,

beadwork for white women.

         “Not worth nothing now.”

        “Oh Grandma, you are so wrong,”

In the shed, shadowy, musty, cluttered,

Grandma makes a gift of the beads.

      “Have them if you want them.”

      “Oh, thank you Grandma!”

My heart sings! A part of Grandma is mine!

I sort them.  I remember.  I love.

Blues, of sky and water,

Yellow, of sun and golden leaves,

Brown, of braids and dark eyes,

White, of snow and flashing smiles of Indian children.

Reds and oranges, campfires and sunsets.

Green of trees, forests, shrubs, grasses, so many greens.

Purple, of clouds that race across a fall sky, pushed by the wind.

Black- robes of the priest who came with his special book

and his own magic beads,

talking of a white God…

Buttons and sequins, needles and pins, and stones.

“Take them child.  They are nothing to me.”

“Oh, Grandma, Thank You.  They are everything to me.”

They are treasure to me.

I remember Grandma’s town,

wooden board walks, muskeg bogs, and frogs,

docks and fishing skiffs, and reeds, float planes and freight planes,

clay roads and gravel, pot holes and puddles,

cracked paint and clotheslines and stray dogs.

And Grandma’s land,

trembling aspen, spruce, jackpine and willow,

traplines and mink ranches, portages and sand beaches,

bays and channels,

once a ferry, now a bridge,

sand dunes,

wind off the lake,

and land unseen across a sunset soaked horizon.

Fall freeze up, spring break up,

ice floes, dog teams and wolves,

and pet deer.

Grandma’s heart,

true and brave,

hard, yet soft,

no nonsense, yet full of fun,

alive with wonder,

though 86 years have passed.

Grandma is my heritage.

I love from a distance.

“Oh, how is that one in Rocky Mountain?  That Bev?”

I make a journey to see her.

A visit to see Grandma.

                    “You came all this way?”

                   “Yes, I love you Grandma.”

                   ”Sure, sure,” with a smile, a far off look, warmth and a hug. 

                   “Have some tea.”

Grandma has been sick.

                  “I have a battery now, right here.”

(It is a pace maker.)

                  “Imagine a battery to keep me going.”

No self pity here.  We chuckle.

                  “They put me in the hospital.  I went on the plane.  That nurse was so nice. 

That young doctor, so smart.  He fix me.  I wasn’t too good, but I’m OK now.

I’m strong, STRONG…I fight!”

Fists clenched in determination.

                  “I’m OK now, only sometimes, this hard breathing…”

                 “Grandchild, you have to leave now?”

                 “Yes Grandma.  I have a long drive home.”

                 “I’m glad you came to see your old Grandma.   Remember me child.”

                 “Oh Grandma,  I remember.”

 I’ll always remember. 

 A part of you stays with me.

A part of you IS me.

When I lose Grandma, I will grieve,

for I will never hear again her stories.

I will never see a lake, or sky, a campfire, or a little dog,

without a thought of her.

I will burn sweetgrass for her, and hold a rock I carry with me,

from her land.

I will pray. 

I will hold my beads and see her hands.

How could I forget?

tse tsu nah, Nanetah.*

I love you Grandma.

* chip dialect, phonetic spelling, as my granmother taught me at age six.

by Bev Weber

First North American Serial Rights

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