By Johnny Hawke
(Loosely based on stories I've heard growing up in my community)
A warm willowy whiff of fermenting hay with the burnt chocolate leathery aroma of Cigar smoke married with the pungent scent of manure and Old Spice aftershave. This was the fragrance that let me know it was Christmas Morning. This was the fragrance of my Grandfather and his Team of Horses. The magical sounds of harnessed brass bells jingling in rhythm to soft gentle galloping trot you could tell they were near. My excitement grew and grew with every jingle of those bells as they got closer. It was time for our Christmas Morning ride with my Grandfather around our Village.
I was just a very young child but Christmas and those Horses and my Grandfather are some of the earliest cherished memories I have before I was taken away to become civilized and a Christian. On Christmas Eve, my Mother would prepare pies for the coming day and sing these lyrics to song “Jesus is Coming. A Saviour is Born.” At that very young age Christianity was not known to me and the meaning behind why were celebrating we not known to me. So every year my Mother would prepare those pies and sing that same song on Christmas Eve and like clock work the next morning my Grandfather would show up to take us for a ride around the village with his Team of Horses.
My Grandfather wasn’t always around and was always working throughout the year up the lakes and in the orchards and in the fields. Up until then at that young age I remember only seeing him at Christmas and because of that song my Mother would sing “Jesus is coming, A Saviour is Born,” I actually thought my Grandfather’s name was Jesus and that it was him she was singing about.
I was 10 years old when I was taken away. These Zhagonosh People I’ve never seen before were gathering us children on our island. I remember this day very clearly because it was the day my Grandfather passed away. He died that morning. I think it was from this trauma. In some sort of way it felt that his spirit came with me. These People who came to take us away said they were taking us to Boarding School so we can learn about Jesus and become Civilized and Canadian. I thought I was going to where my Grandfather worked at this place called heaven. Up until then I still thought he was this Jesus my Mom sang about on Christmas Eve.
This story is not about the awful things of what happened to me at this place but is about my escape. While at this place we were forbidden to speak our language and talk of where we came from. In order to keep my spirits up I would sing the song my Mother would sing on Christmas Eve. “Jesus is coming, Jesus our Saviour is born.” This was my trick to fool those Nuns and Priests. Singing this song would take me in my mind back home. It would help me think of my Grandfather where I would call upon him to help me as I sang this song.
When I turned 12 during the fall one year, when I was feeling extra lonely for home I started singing the song and that night I had a dream. My Grandfather came to visit me in my dream. In this dream my Grandfather spoke, “ My Boy, when you finish your supper tomorrow, I will give you a sign. You will know what it is. Follow it, every time you recognize this sign keep following it” He said. I woke up the next day and thought all morning about that dream.
The time came, we just finished our supper and the Nun’s gave us time to get fresh air while they set up for a presentation from a theatre group that came to put on a play for us. As we were playing outside, something very familiar was in the air. It was a warm willowy whiff of fermenting hay and a burnt chocolate leathery aroma of cigar smoke married with the pungent scent of manure and Old Spice aftershave. The smell of My Grandfather and his team of Work Horses but how could it be? And where were they? I followed the scent and it led me to a truck and trailer at the entrance of the school. I had a plan, I would try to escape.
There was a compartment for tools in the trailer that was empty and I managed to fit my way in there and kept quiet for the longest time. I felt movement. I was on the road and I was outta there, I was gone!. It must have been a few hours I was stowed away. I was out of that Hell we called the “Mushhole.” There were a few stops and it kept continuing on a journey but I didn’t hop out until I felt the coast was clear. The truck kept going. I woke in the morning and peaked around and we were parked but nobody was in the truck. I hoped out and I found myself in this big city called Toronto and was only 12 years old.
As I walked the streets of this city I became disoriented, there was so much noise and too much people. Out of all that noise I heard a very familiar sound it was the magical sounds of harnessed brass bells jingling in rhythm of a soft galloping trot. My excitement grew and grew with every jingle of those bells as they got closer. I followed it. It was not my Grandfathers Team of Horses but I knew it was a sign. It was a Trolly and I hoped on it without being seen. I rode this Trolly for a while until I recognized a bunch of trains in a train yard. Trains is how all of us children were taken away and so I crawled and stalked and like my Grandfathers before me out on a hunt in the vast wilderness, I crept slowly and made my move.
Again I heard the magical sounds of harnessed brass bells jingling in rhythm of a soft galloping trot. It came from one paticular train. I took it as a sign to hop on that one and wouldn’t you know it, it was a train heading north. I found a cargo car carrying blankets of canvas that were stacked like pancakes. I snuggled in between some like a mouse and hid. I was on my way closer to home. It was mid December and got off the train and things were a lot colder. I took one of the smaller folded canvases to use for a coat and blanket for my travels. It took me a while to figure out where I was and how to get home. I went to the nearest town and found out my location and managed to get a map. I stuck to the back roads and kept out of sight as I didn’t want to get caught if those Nuns, Priests and Cops had the whole country looking for me. I was a fugitive from God.
I walked for days on the side of roads, the snow was coming heavy. I slept in barns. This escape started to build me into a man at 12 years old. I couldn’t give up or I would die somewhere on the side of the road. Every now and again I would get a sign that pointed me in the right direction for safety or a safe friendly ride further home. I made it! I was at the landing where a wooden passenger boat usually brings people back and forth to the island, my home. But there was no wooden boat. The Bay had froze over early it seemed. I couldn’t wait so I started walking on the ice to get home to see my Mom and Dad.
It was late afternoon during the day and snow was still coming down and no-one was coming or going so I just started walking on the ice. I got a quarter of the way until I heard snips and snaps and then finally creaks and cracks and then splash. I was in the water and fell through. I was dead. The last thing I remember was feeling someones arm pulling me out of the ice. Somehow by someone put in the back off a sleigh and covered me in a blanket. I was in shock and I must have fainted because I didn’t remember much only the warm willowy whiff of fermenting hay and a burnt chocolate leathery aroma of cigar smoke married with the pungent scent of manure and Old Spice aftershave. The magical sounds of harnessed brass bells jingling in rhythm to soft galloping trot.
I woke up underneath an avalanche of blankets near a wood-stove. I was home. I made it. Next to me was my Mother and Father. I only seen my Father cry once in his whole life and it was that morning. And that morning happened to be Christmas morning. I asked my Mother, “Who brought me home, who had the team of horses that brought me home and rescued me from the ice.?” With a look that both my parents gave me which I’ve never, ever Forgot with these words they said to me. “Horses? What Horses? How did you get home? Who brought you back from that place? The boat has not been crossing the bay and nobody has been going across. We found you curled up outside the door this morning.”
That place I was taken must have not missed me because they never came to look for me or get word to my parents I was missing. I never returned there. Many children at the Residential Schools tried to escape, some were caught and some died along the way and some never returned from those Schools.
When I grew older I became a solider for Canada to go and civilize other Peoples. I was in Korea. When I was in combat my Grandfather was still with me and every time I smelt a warm willowy whiff of fermenting hay and a burnt chocolate leathery aroma of cigar smoke married with the pungent scent of manure and Old Spice aftershave and heard the magical sounds of harnessed brass bells jingling in rhythm to a soft galloping trot I would be magically led to safety where again I made it back home.
I never got to know Jesus and for our people it has always been our ancestors who has helped us so that we can be here and who watch over and help us when we call upon them, just as the Spirit of my Grandfather had. I will never forget this one Christmas where my life was saved and I made it home for Christmas morning and for me this is why I celebrate Christmas. A Miracle.
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