LIVING BY STORIES
A Journey of Landscape and Memory
Harry Robinson
Compiled & Edited by Wendy Wickwire
CONTENTS
A Spatla Was Killed by Rabbit and Chipmunk
You Going to Get Married to Coyote’s Son
Coyote Makes a Deal with the King of England
They Tell ’Em All about What the White People Hiding from the Indians
That One You Fellas Killed, He Come Alive!
You Going to Take Our Land Away from Us
I’ll Show Him Who’s a Better Man, Him or Me
I Kill Him Because He’s Trying to Force Me
The White People Make Money Out of Him
They Say That Hired Man Must Be the Devil
They Confessed All about What the Cat Told Him
These Cattle, They Come Out from the Lake
The Cat Told Him, “You Not Going to Last Long!”
The Big Fish Swallow That Horse
That Cat Was Trying to Help Him from Going to Hell
Maybe That Lake Might Be Tunnel
Why Nowadays the Dog Can Chase the Cat
They Find That Man by His Power
Stealing Horses from the Blackfoot
I am grateful to Michael M’Gonigle, Alan Twigg, Karl Siegler, and Davinia Yip for their helpful comments on earlier drafts of the introduction. I would also like to thank Julie Cruikshank and Blanca Schorcht for their constant feedback and assistance on all things pertaining to Harry Robinson. My deep appreciation goes to my longtime friend and colleague, Lynne Jorgesen, Research Coordinator of the Upper Nicola Band Aboriginal Interest Project, Douglas Lake, BC. Although Lynne never met Harry, she devoured his stories while transcribing them for me fifteen years ago. She has many links to Harry’s world, the most notable of which is her Okanagan Upper Nicola Band heritage. But another important one is her great grandmother, Nellie Guitterrez, who was one of the most beloved and respected elders in the southern Interior. A gifted writer and perfectionist with an insatiable passion for the history of her people, Lynne has always made time to attend to my nagging questions and concerns. There are no words that can adequately express my gratitude for the special assistance and support she gave me throughout the writing of the introduction.
Finally, this book is also dedicated to Karl and Christy Siegler for their continuing support.
Harry Robinson lured me into Coyote’s world. It happened on a baking hot day in mid-August 1977, during the initial leg of a week-long road trip through southern British Columbia. I was with three friends.1 Our first stop was Harry’s place just east of Hedley. As we pulled into his driveway, a series of stark contrasts came into view: in the distance, the mellow Similkameen River flowing through the dry valley dotted with sagebrush and ancient sunscorched formations of volcanic rock; in the foreground, the frantic Highway 3, lined with heavy transport trucks and cars winging their way to points east and west. These contrasts became more apparent in Harry’s front room where a large floor-to-ceiling picture window framed the details in glass.
Except for the hum of traffic, it was a tranquil scene. Harry’s tiny, 1950s bungalow was one of only two houses for quite a distance. And, other than a few cats, his “boys,” he was on his own. He was surprisingly agile, energetic, and independent for a man of seventy-seven. And he clearly enjoyed having visitors: he had prepared extra beds, anticipating that we would spend the night at his place.
When we had gathered around the Arborite table in his front room, one of us asked why there were no salmon in the local section of the Similkameen River. “That’s a long long story,” Harry explained. “It’s all Coyote’s fault.” Suddenly it was as if Coyote was right there. Harry’s easygoing demeanour changed. He stiffened, cleared his throat, and began telling us about Coyote’s antics along the local rivers, peddling salmon in exchange for wives. All went well, Harry explained, until he encountered the Similkameen people who rejected his offers. Miffed, Coyote drove the salmon permanently out of the lower reaches of the river by creating an impassable barrier.
Except for the occasional cigarette break, Harry told this story without interruption or props beyond a continuous series of striking hand gestures that were choreographed to the narrative. As the blazing sky cooled into dusk while the earth continued to radiate the day’s heat, the story consumed the evening. We sat transfixed, enjoying the travel back in time—who knows how far—to when the world was young and the landscape was first being formed and peopled.
