look.
âPPCLIâ Elsie responded.
The look deepened.
âPrincess Patricia Canadian Light Infantry, defending Toronto.â
âYouâre a widow.â Benji didnât know what else to say. He felt a tinge of guilt. The man died defending his city, died defending him, defending the school where they had gathered and waited, cringed at the shriek of sirens.
âI never think of myself that way. Bert never even got to see his daughter.â Elsie read his guilt. Offered a gentle explanation to ease what she thought was concern. âHe was home on leave, we got together, I got pregnant, then the Americans came. I hardly knew him. But I am thankful to him. He left me a bit of himself, a gift.â
The food served at the Elderâs table ran over the paper plate in front of Ben, deer meat stewed in its own juices until it fell apart, pan fried pickerel, baked bannock, fried bannock, a little scoop of dry pounded meat placed carefully on the edge of the plate where it wouldnât get soaked by the juices from the deer meat; it should be dry, eaten with fingers and dipped in butter, and of course, every wake needs potato salad, lots of potato salad.
âBet you didnât eat like this at that university, eh Ben?â Roderick nodded toward Benâs plate as Ben tried to keep the blueberries thickened with cornstarch from running off, with a flimsy plastic fork.
âCanât say I did.â Ben decided to just eat what was there instead of trying to dam the flow that was defeating him.
The talk during the meal was general, âWho shot the deer?â
âIt was Red who shot the deer, of course.â
âThat Jemima sure can cook.â
âYou bet, taught by her mother, still knows how to make pounded meat, donât see much of this anymore.â
Then when the plates were nearly empty, a few bits of bannock remaining, too much for old men to eat who didnât work hard all day anymore, a young woman served hot tea from an overlarge black enamel tea pot, black tea that smelled of the handful of muskeg leaves thrown in âjust for the Eldersâ, poured into white Styrofoam cups.
Leroy stirred a second plastic spoonful of sugar into the tea. âSo, Ben,â he leaned back into the hard chair, stretched old muscles, âWhat you make of this Treaty process thatâs goinâ on?â
âHavenât followed it too close, Iâm a bit out of the loop.â Ben talked around the bit of baked bannock dipped in the blueberries he had saved for the last.
Roderick said something that he had repeated all his life, something his father had repeated to him: âCanât change the treaties; doesnât matter what, we canât change the Treaties.â
âTreaties were with Canada. There is no more Canada.â Leroy set the agenda for the coming discussion.
Roderick remained adamant. âTreaties were with the Queen. Queen is white. I take it Treaties were with white people, Canadian or American shouldnât matter.â
âAFN donât seem to think so. Theyâre negotiating as we speak,â Leroy invited.
âWho said AFN could speak for us.â
Ben joined, âThatâs the thing, isnât it. Who negotiates for us? If we are a Nation, if we really are Moccasin Lake Cree Nation, then we should be the ones who are at the table.â
Roderick stood firm, âThere shouldnât be a table. Weâve been saying now for as long as I can remember, Treaties are sacred. If that really means something, then we have to act like it and not run to suck up to whoever has the power right now.â
Leroy moved the discussion forward, âThereâs talk of moving all the Cree onto one reserve, a big reserve like they got down in the States, instead of all these little ones.â
âCan you imagine, eh, living beside Plains Cree and Swampy Cree â and where would everybody hunt? Wonât
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