Article 1 – Blueberries and White Skin

Darlene Wilson

I was born and raised in a small, northern community built on a rock called “The Sunless City,” which originated from a strange, fictional character, Josiah Flintabbatey Flonatin. The book was said to have been recovered in the boreal forest of Flin Flon, where the land is beaded with coniferous trees, and lakes that house pike, walleye, burbot, and trout, and bejeweled with long-sought wildflowers. There is a winding road that leads to my childhood home, a village called Channing, where the blueberries grow thick, hidden to be found, a special link offered by Creator to bring families together, especially my family.

One Sunday morning, I roll on my side and swing, lifting my arm eastward toward the bedside table. My hand taps repeatedly in search of the rectangular device that tells all. My eyes first catch the time, even though the abundance of the sunlight is brilliantly blinding me, “Oh, it’s 8 o’clock already.” I have to make it to the grocery store before it is congested and unpleasant.
Temperatures outdoors during mid-August can change on a whim here, but today, I will focus on my backyard. The evenings are already cooling and I can be more productive: wash up, let my dog out to do his business, and enjoy spruce needle tea! The spruce tea is made from the needles of a young tree, and it has a light, lemony flavour. I scoop a handful of raspberries from the bushes that grow at the end of my yard, adding a little sweetness.
I arrive within minutes, and the parking lot is perfect with only three other vehicles. A quick stride gets me inside, and I grip a handbasket for my short list I carry in my head. I know better to store it elsewhere, but I rarely do, usually forgetting the one thing I go for the most. I seem to hear a conversation between an elder and a small child.
“Grandpa, can we get these today? Please?”
“Let me look.”
I notice a young girl, maybe five or six years old. A small, plastic green basket tightly squeezed with both her hands. So small. Her hair is the colour of ravens, parted down the middle with three tight, interlacing strands on each side. She looks up and waits, almost patiently. Her grandfather takes the deep purple berries, inspecting them, turning them around as he peers through the stretched saran that prevents anyone from sampling with hungry hands. He nods and gives it back. I reach over wanting one for myself. There is an idea planted in my mind from this. I gather the rest of my goods, pay, and leave.
I turn left instead of right as I exit the lot. I know where I need to go to find good things, to find medicine. The grandfather and granddaughter take me down that winding road. I signal to make another left entering a graveyard, which was once the property of my grandparents’ home. The house is no longer there, but memories bring me down a little further on the site. I drive right to it, a far distance, away from the sleeping souls.
I get out with my sack of berries in one hand and a pouch of tobacco in the other. I walk. I hear many whispers of welcome, and I feel it in every part of me. Coming to an empty lot where my grandparents’ home used to be, I sit down, cross-legged and then move to lay flat, looking up. I always look up.
I close my eyes, imagining the direction in which Grandpa and I used to walk to find the wild berries. The breeze fans my hair and caresses my face with a scent that can never be emulated. In my mind, I follow my grandparents’ shadow in uncountable footsteps, unnoticed, where loam and lush greenery once lived. My eyes remain closed until I feel an open field of blue gold, the blueberry treasure. Simba and Chinook, my grandparents’ dogs, chase the spirits, blending in with the tall, dancing, tan-coloured field. Everything comes to life as if I am back to my childhood.

Grandpa removes his cap to brush the beads above his brow. He takes hold of the strap, sliding it off to set his rifle down within reach. He brings it to keep us safe. His arm stretches out and I can see that he carries water for me to fend off my aching head and to help my tongue stay inside my mouth. Grandpa digs deep inside his leather pack setting out a small pouch, a paper bag, and buckets with metal handles, one for me and one for him.
“Grandpa, I can smell pancakes.”
“That’s from the sweetgrass. It will keep mosquitoes away.”
I wear long pants that protect my legs from bites and plants that make me itch. My feet are wet and sticky inside of my knee-high socks, and my shoes have strings tied in bows that grandma makes for me. He twists them in an extraordinary way so I don’t trip over them. Grandpa calls them rabbit ears. Rabbit ears! He makes me laugh.
I am happy for the stump that holds me. Grandpa says that it was made for me, so I can eat my lunch. We need energy from our food, so we can stay longer to gather berries for our pies and our jams. I know he is only teasing me about the wooden chair. I know that he made it special after beaver used most for his home. Grandpa takes a handsaw and finds broken trees on the ground. He cuts it up to use it in their wood-stove for cooking and making fires to keep his and Grandma’s house warm for the winter.
I fly upward as he lifts me.
“Wow, you are a heavy girl!”
“Grandpa, I am getting big.”
Grandpa places me gently upon the seat. My dangling legs are tingling now, but I don’t care because my belly is growling to eat. Grandpa takes the bag and unwraps our lunch. The meat is left-over from dinner the night before, it’s salty with mustard between the bread that grandma bakes, and just enough butter squishes out to lick off each finger. Days before, Grandpa boiled the meat after grandma plucked the feathers to make pillows. My mom often says to me, “When I was young, I was always asked to help with the meat preparation. I hated that. It isn’t fun to watch how the bird becomes a delicious dish! If you see bugs in the feathers, there is no fun at all.”
“Eww!”
While grandma plucked the feathers, I observed the bird, trying to watch for bugs. “No bugs in this bird.”
Grandpa gives me Freshie now, to wash down the rest of my lunch. My skin is changing from white to red. Grandpa uses some cream that Grandma made from beeswax, raspberry seed oil, and flowers she finds among the trees. She tells me that we can go looking for them when I am bigger, and I can help her to make the salve for our skin.
Grandma’s skin is not like mine. She doesn’t tell me why, and I don’t ask.

“Love is not a colour,” Grandpa whispers. “Grandma is like Sun Woman: she heals us whenever we have wounds. She is warm, but Grandma and Sun Woman are different, too.”
Mom told me that Grandma had a hard life when she was a young girl like me. Some people took her away from her family, and she didn’t get to see them for many, many days, and it made Grandma sad. She was in a school far away. I asked my mom who the people were and she said that she couldn’t tell me because Grandma never talked about it. Grandpa told me much later that Grandma stopped loving who she was, that those people did that to her, and she didn’t like her skin.
Grandma likes telling Grandpa how to do a lot of things, but Grandpa already knows a lot. “He is smart,” Grandma says, “because he is a good listener.”

Grandpa and Grandma make me good food and they take care of me when my mom is at work. They also teach me about Mother Earth and how we need to go to her and visit her, and love her like she loves all of us. Grandpa shows me how to talk to the trees and to the water, and the wind, too, because they are all alive just like we are, like Simba and Chinook and all the other animals. And when I listen, they talk back.
My lunch is in my belly now and Grandpa tells me that it is time for us to pick our medicine. I push with my hands and I leap like a frog. I take my pail and I walk slowly inside the patch. I am bear, and I am hungry. I do not want to hurt the bushes. I want them to give us berries every year. Grandpa smiles at me. He likes when I pretend to be different animals.
Sometimes, I spill my berries when I am putting two handfuls in my mouth and not filling my metal cup instead. Grandpa gives me some out of his when he sees mine are on the ground. My eyes look downward and I frown for not being careful. I set down my pail and I am aware not to get leaves or sticks inside.
“Make sure you pick just the berries, and you are not squishing them.”
“I know, Grandpa, I remember.”
Grandpa blinks his eye and the corners of his mouth turn upward. I know Grandpa takes me to help because I am a good listener like he is.
Grandma is making dough for the pie when we get back. I get to help with that, too. And, I always sneak some, but I get a sore tummy. Grandma makes me drink something that squeezes my eyes shut and shakes my whole insides; it almost comes back out.
I can see the boys rush back to Grandpa. Simba has a stick, and Chinook is stinky and covered in mud. I squeal when they rush toward me. Somehow, they know we are going back home soon. I look inside my pail and I see leaves and sticks, even a little black creature trying to climb over to get back out, just like Grandma’s medicine when I feel sick; they are both afraid of going down, I think. I reach in my pail to take out the leaves and the sticks, and I rescue Edwyn, my new friend that I found escaping from my pail. Grandpa opens his cloth and uses his tobacco to sprinkle the ground.
“When we take berries, we say thank-you with tobacco. We never take more than half. We must leave some for the bears and other animals. They want to fill their bellies, too!”
We laugh because laughing is more medicine.
Heavy breathing follows me; Grandpa is still in front. We all walk slow, the four of us. I want to be back home. I am tired and I know Grandma has something good for us there. She always uses lilacs and lavender in the tub to wash me with the soap she makes. My hair feels like silk, and her arms cradle me while she rocks in her willow chair. Grandma gives me some special tea to help me relax and tells me that she makes it with love. She uses licorice root, wild red raspberry leaves, and wild mint, and I taste Grandma’s words.

Eagle circles above Grandpa and me, and my feet stop moving.
“Grandpa!”
“I know. Look at its beauty and its grace. It is the messenger of Creator.”
Grandpa bends down and I see him take something off the ground. His face is flushed and I wait for him to show it to me.
“Look, it gave us a feather. This is an honour. This is medicine too.”
I see Grandpa, and he blinks away his tears. He says thank-you to Eagle, speaking words I do not understand. It is a song from his heart, a memorable time long ago.
I open my eyes and I see the blue sky with white clouds moving. Grandma and Grandpa are with me still in Spirit today. I always recognize when they come to me. I feel their presence when I visit with Mother Earth. I hear Grandpa when the wind whistles. The leaves fool me, pretending they are rain. I laugh with him when he tricks me like that. Grandma walks with me through the trees, guiding me to find flowers and plants. I will prepare liquid medicine from the mushroom that I pick from the Birch. It is hard to find, so I smile in my heart when I do, and I give thanks; I know she is there with me. I use the dried sweetgrass in my prayer to say thank-you, and I build a small fire near the water’s edge. I dig deep into my pack, taking out a metal pot with a lid to make Labrador tea. Next time, I will use the mushroom to make Chaga tea.
I go high up on a hilltop and close my eyes, once again, listening: I am an eagle, giving my feathers in honour of Grandpa and Grandma. I am a messenger, too. I will teach my children and my grandchildren all of the things I have learned from my grandparents. Love will be their first gift when they come to the world.

Author’s Bio: Darlene Wilson was born and raised in Flin Flon, Manitoba, and raised her three children there as well. Her motto is “Family comes first,” and she closely follows her own principle of “love for the earth and all its wonders.” She believes, “there is something amazing about living in the north.” Darlene is a Métis student currently completing her third year in the Bachelor of Arts program at University College of the North, on The Pas Campus. In the fall, she will further her studies in the Bachelor of Education program to fulfill her dreams of becoming a school teacher. Darlene was an Educational Assistant in both English and French at the schools in her community for ten years prior to entering UCN. She was also a substitute teacher and she knew in her heart she wanted to have a classroom of her own someday. Following the graduation of her youngest child, she decided that it was the perfect time to begin her new journey.

Instructor’s Remarks: Darlene loves reading and creating writings of her own. A ‘Creative Writing’ course was offered at the university this year, and she was beyond being thrilled to be a part of it. Her future hope is to write her own novel and to have it published as a bestseller.
Darlene has shown great commitment throughout the creative writing course. The course requires students to be involved in intensive writing exercises and build on free writing techniques to create characters, dialogues, and imagery. The course also encourages the students to find their voice, tell their stories, understand various perspectives, and discover theirs and others’ humanity with greater insight and sensitivity. Darlene would always come up with ideas that could be developed into interesting narratives, and she always submitted impressive works. I sincerely hope that she lives up to the promise that she has shown in the course. This piece is Darlene’s response to the assignment about exploration of character as a literary device. Her work evolved into narrating the relationship between a young girl and her grandfather, told from the girl’s perspective. (Dr. Zulfquar Hyder)