the dogs was a daily chore for Daddy. He took the salted fish products down from the scaffold and soaked them in the brook for a day. Then he cooked food scraps and cornmeal in a big five-gallon bucket on the stove. Outside the dogs sniffed their food cooking and began howling and yelping. Once the cornmeal was cooked and poured into the feeding tub, Daddy added the frozen food to make a nourishing meal for the dogs. I enjoyed watching them crowd around the circular tub, gobbling their food in a feeding frenzy.
Courtesy Them Days magazine and the artist Gerald W. Mitchell.
Feeding sled dogs in Labrador.
By the time the dogs were fed, it was dark and suppertime. Mommy was busy cooking seal meat, rabbits, or some other game for supper. Daddy came in, washed his hands in the basin, and proceeded to his settle to wait for supper. After we ate, he cleaned his traps and guns.
“Whass ya doin now, Daddy?” I asked, leaning on his knee.
“Gettin ready ta set me traps, Jimmy,” he said, his gentle voice filtering through the tiny cabin.
“Where’s ya goin dis time?” I prodded, wanting to know his every move.
“Oh, jus in de woods lookin fer partridges, an I’ll set a few rabbit snares an a few traps.”
“Can I go?”
“No, Jimmy, yer too small yet. Maybe when ya gets a little bigger ya can go.”
I knew that would have to do, so I just sat and watched him. To clean the barrel of his gun, he took a long rod with a little piece of cloth like a bow attached to it. Once the barrel was cleaned, he poured gunpowder into it. It was a charcoal-grey substance and smelled strange. He then dropped in a wad, gently padded it down, and dropped in a piece of lead, then another wad. The gun was now ready, and he carefully stood it against the wall beside him.
“Dat’s not fer ya ta touch,” he warned.
“Why?”
“Cuz ya could blow yer head off, dat’s why.” Daddy never yelled at us. However, when he used a certain tone of voice, there was no questioning his authority.
In the dead of winter the temperature could dip to minus 50 degrees Fahrenheit. The frost got so thick on the windowpanes that it formed mounds of ice, making it impossible to see outside. When our mittens got wet, they stuck fast to the icicles. If we tried to pull our mittens free, they ripped.
“Don’t stick yer tongue on dem ol tings or ya’ll be sorry,” Mommy warned.
“Okay, Mom,” I piped up as I ran out the door to play. I admired the icicles hanging from the cabin. They glistened like glass as the brilliant sunshine shone through them. Holding a broken piece of icicle in my hand, I glanced at my sister. “What’ll happen I wonder?”
“Yer tongue’ll stick ta it,” she answered. “Dat’s what’ll happen, an ya’ll never git off.”
“Oh, yeh? Can I try?”
“No, Jos,” Marcie said. “Ya’ll be sorry.”
Always the defiant one, I touched the icicle with the tip of my tongue. It stuck. Solid! I couldn’t get it off at all. It hurt so much, and I was terrified of what my mother would do to me if she found out. I tried and tried, but my tongue wouldn’t come unstuck. I started to cry and now had no choice.
“Aw, Mommy, it hurts!” I cried, racing back inside the cabin.
“Good nough fer ya, ya bloody little fool. I tol ya not ta do it.”
“Aw, Mommy! Tis some sore an tis bleedin, too.”
“Serves ya right,” she said as she melted the huge icicle off my tongue. “Cuz ya won listen, will ya?”
Mommy didn’t remember a terrible incident that happened during the winter I turned seven. She might have been somewhere having a baby at the time. I’d peed in my bed again as I did every night. With my teeth chattering from the cold, I crawled across the floor, clambered down the ladder, and pushed aside the curtain Mommy used as a door to separate the bedroom from the kitchen. Daddy was putting wood in the stove.
“I’m cold, Daddy,” I murmured as I wrapped my arms around his legs.
“Awright, Jimmy, de stove’s getting hot now. Ya’ll be warm soon.” He put me on a wooden crate in front of the curtain to warm up. At that moment Marcie came out of the room, pushed the curtain aside, and accidentally shoved me onto the stove. I screamed. Daddy pulled me off so quickly that I didn’t burn too badly. I’m thankful that the stove wasn’t fully hot, but it was hot enough to give me nasty burns on both of my arms. I carry the scars to this day.
The long winter dragged on, and even though we were trapped inside the tiny cabin for weeks, we found ways to entertain ourselves. There was no electricity, radio, or television, no colouring book or crayons, no storybooks or board games. And there was no space for activities. So Daddy made us little toys — a spin top out of an empty cotton spool, a crossbow made from wood. When we found a piece of string, we played cat’s cradle and other simple games such as button-to-button or gossip. Cat’s cradle is simply a piece of string tied together. Using our fingers, we made different designs with it. Daddy also whittled little dolls from wood. We always managed to find something to do but certainly weren’t allowed to fight with one another. A crack on the head with Mommy’s knuckle taught us that early on.
Life in Roaches Brook was harsh and very primitive. The daily trip into the woods to cut enough firewood for both summer and winter was daunting. All the wood for Spotted Island had to be cut and hauled out to the landing point. Then we took it by boat to Spotted Island once the ice broke up in the spring.
Monday was washday, and with temperatures at minus 30 degrees, the clothes would freeze before Mommy even got them pinned on the line. Mommy had two bedwetters, so trying to keep Sammy’s and my beds clean of pee was a never-ending chore for her. She just couldn’t keep up. Consequently, night after night, I went to bed in my pee-soaked feather bed on the wooden floor of the loft. It was hard, cold, and wet.
The constant struggle for food was always foremost in my parents’ minds. Once food was provided and prepared, Mommy was busy sewing and re-sewing our clothing, fashioning mittens, socks, and caps, and darning everything we wore. Her tasks kept her working until she practically fell off her chair. They were such devoted parents and worked diligently to keep us alive.
We weren’t without fun, however. The few families in Roaches Brook whiled away the long winter nights by playing cards, making their own music, and dancing whenever they got the opportunity. And so the long winter passed.
Eventually, spring arrived and it was warm enough to snow. And snow it did! In spring we could go outdoors and play, and play we did! We climbed onto the mounds of snow and slid down on our small komatiks. We built houses of snow and snowmen and had snowball fights. It was so much fun! We’d go into the cabin with our clothes soaking wet, and Mommy would grumble at us for staying out too long. We were a happy family then.
“Yer gonna catch yer death,” Mommy would say, and we’d just grin.
Fierce spring storms buried our little cabin, plunging us into complete darkness. Daddy
