Posted on December 2, 2021 under Thursday Tidbits with 3 comments

Couldn’t find the baptism picture. This will have to do.

 

With apologies to my Catholic friends. I have been threatening to write a light hearted book about growing up Catholic in Antigonish A.K.A. “The Little Vatican”. Here is the first installment.

I was born into a large Catholic family in rural Nova Scotia. It seems that just about every family was big and most in our community wore the Catholic label. In fact, such was the preponderance of Catholics in our community that we became affectionately known as “The Little Vatican”. This sobriquet remains to this day despite the fact that Antigonish has changed vastly over the years. Many faith communities exist and families are much smaller.

All Catholics have a start and finish line. We are born to die. This is not the most appetizing thing on the Catholic menu. But there are promises of greater things when our mortal remains are cast into the wind or set adrift on the ocean at Mahoney’s Beach.

I wake up from a long nap. I squint as the morning light streams through my bedroom window. I attempt to rub away sleep from my eyes. I catch something out of the corner of my eye. My eyesight is not as good as it will be. I see something above me going around in circles. I haven’t quite figured this out. I later learn that this is a mobile. Truthfully, everything is a giant mystery at this point in my life.

I recognize my mother as she gently lifts me out of my crib. She bathes me in warm water and scrubs me to within an inch of my life with bar of Sunlight soap. I sparkle like the sun. She finishes things off with a slathering of Johnson’s baby oil.

She takes me over to a change table. “Hey. What’s with the white dress?” I’m thinking as she places a well-traveled gown over my tiny frame. I distinctly remember dad doing cartwheels outside the delivery room when he heard that he had another son. So, if I am truly a future standard bearer for the MacDonald clan, then why the dress?

My mother cradles me in her arms as we get into dad’s car. It might have been a Studebaker. We drive a short distance to a large stone building with a cross on top. It is my first trip to St.Ninian’s Cathedral but it wouldn’t be my last. This cavernous building is quite scary to one so small. I remain placid amid the wails from several of my peers. I can’t quite figure out what is going on.

I soon discover the reason for the trauma as I am about to be subjected to similar treatment. Every newborn in the church will become part of an important fraternity on this day.

The priest blesses me with the sign of the cross. There are prayers and more prayers. A large candle is lit and I can smell the residue of the smoke from the extinguished match. I am lifted up and positioned over a large receptacle filled with water.

Drip. Drip. Drip. It starts with a trickle and then becomes a torrent. It sounds like a waterfall. Later in my life I will visit Niagara Falls, causing vivid flashbacks. A large man, wearing strange robes is looming over me speaking in a foreign tongue which I later learned to be Latin. He is pouring water on my head but it runs into my eyes causing extreme agitation. I am tempted to ask for a bathing cap and goggles. The situation worsens as I start to whimper and now the water enters my throat, prompting me to gag. I soon realize that being a Catholic involves pain and suffering and possibly suffocation.

Years later, I will come to understand that the events described in previous paragraphs were my baptism. I was born Roman Catholic and as such am expected to take part in several sacraments.

So, why is baptism the first step on the long journey of a Catholic? Good question and one that still puzzles me from time to time. Baptism is the sacrament that frees us from original sin. This is a bit of a head scratcher. How many times did I commit original sin (or worse) in the womb? And at the tender age of 7 days, one wouldn’t think that a wholesale cleansing would have been necessary.

And so, the first roots of guilt were planted in my subconscious.

I would learn that we are all born sinners and only a thorough dousing in a baptismal font would keep me in God’s good graces. It was explained to me that wearing something white (like a Stanfield T-shirt?) was a symbol of purity. I also discovered that christening dresses are handed down from generation to generation.

There’s a party at our home after the ceremony and I am handed around the room like the Stanley Cup. Everyone, it seems, needs to pinch my cheek which is quite annoying and also coo sweet nothings into my tiny ears. It must be an important occasion as mom is serving lobster sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

I am now a full blown member of the fraternity.

The train of life is leaving the station.

Welcome aboard.

Have a great weekend.

P.S. Later in life I was introduced to the kilt, a much more dignified and manly dress!

 

Posted on November 29, 2021 under Monday Morning Musings with no comments yet

Covid Crazy

 

“Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you,

If you’re young at heart,

For it’s hard, you will find, to be narrow of mind,

If you’re young at heart.”

Young at Heart (as sung by Frank Sinatra)

Oldies for oldies.

That’s not quite how it’s advertised on Sirius XM radio, but I will claim copyrights on the title. One of the great joys of spending this year in a colleague’s home while she’s away on sabbatical is having access to satellite radio. I miss having cable TV, but it is a small price to pay when I get to listen to wonderful music on demand, across many genres. I start every day listening to Symphony Hall. I believe it is an important component of my own self-care, to start each day in a calm state… before all hell breaks loose at school!

When I get home from school, my music tastes can go all the way from rock and roll, to folk, to gospel and everything in between. Lately, I stumbled upon a channel devoted almost exclusively to the music of Frank Sinatra. Now there are some who might question his sketchy dealings with some nefarious folks, but the man could sing. The Frank Sinatra channel also features other singers from that era. Two of my absolute favourites were, and still are, Perry Como and Johnny Mathis. Their voices were woven in silk. I chuckled to myself the other day when one of these artists was performing the old Fats Waller tune “Ain’t Misbehaving”. It’s rather hard to misbehave in the north when all you want to do after a day at school is sleep!

But, back to young at heart. I’m guessing that if you polled 1,000 senior citizens, 999 of them would say the same thing. “I don’t feel my age”. Of course, when they say this, they are talking about their mental outlook. Those same 999 would also be quick to point out that physically they feel closer to 100 on many days. What is it about our brains that makes us feel “young at heart” even when reality tells us differently?

In some ways, I think I am doing a version of Benjamin Buttons, in regards to my work career. Most of us eased into the workforce in our early teens doing easy work like delivering newspapers, babysitting, cutting lawns, pumping gas, or shovelling people’s driveways in the winter. In our 20s, we began our work careers in earnest and from 30-60, we were going full throttle. Entering our 60s, we started gearing down and then finally retired. Then why in the hell am I working harder than I could ever have imagined at the age of 70? Part of it is fate and part of it is that I feel young at heart.

Covid crazies.

I have all but stopped consuming Covid news. The only thing I look at daily are the Covid numbers in Nunavik. At the present time, we have no Covid cases in our village which is rather remarkable when the vaccination rate is still hovering around 35%. I still find it a bit bizarre watching 6-year-old students getting off the bus every morning fully masked. Everyone in the school with the exception of kindergarten children must wear masks all day except when they’re eating or drinking. Speaking of the youngsters, I have been asked to set up a Covid vaccination room in the school as the health authority rolls out vaccine to the 5-11 year old cohort.

I left school last Friday and ripped off my mask. It must be akin to a woman tearing off her bra. My relief was short lived as a few minutes later, I stopped at one of our two grocery stores to pick up some snacks. The mask went back on. I rarely buy junk food. As I have mentioned before, much of the healthy food is subsidized by the government making it possible to eat fresh fruit and vegetables at prices very similar to the south. I planned on visiting friends after supper and didn’t want to go empty handed, so I picked up two, 235g bags of potato chips and a jar of peanuts. The total came to $28.90. Luckily my CPP cheque paid for this larceny. Honestly, I have stopped caring about the price of things in the grocery store. The things I consume most of the time are very reasonably priced so that when I treat myself, I don’t blink when I see the price. An EKG might show otherwise.

I left the store fully masked and drove home. Yes, drove. Shocking at this may sound to those of you who know me as an avid walker, but after an exhausting week at school, taking one of the school trucks home is more dignified than crawling. I kicked off my boots, threw my backpack on the floor, turned up the thermostat… and exhaled. After about 10 minutes, something didn’t feel quite right. It was 4:10 and pitch dark but that wasn’t it. I flicked on the radio. Johnny Mathis was singing “Chances Are”, one of my favorites. https://youtu.be/NEH3uqbpsm8 Slap on some headphones and give it a listen. It might bring back memories of falling in love. “Shit, Len. Keep your focus”.

It was only when I went into my bedroom to get out of my work clothes that I realized I had been wearing my mask around the house. Oh dear, it has come to this.

“Chances are…” I’ve gone Covid crazy!

Have a great week.

December lurks in the shadows.

P.S. I’ll be back in Nova Scotia in 18 days and three hours but who’s counting!

Posted on November 25, 2021 under Thursday Tidbits with no comments yet

Country Food

 

“Food, glorious food,

Don’t care what it looks like.”

Food, Glorious Food – From “Oliver”

I love Sundays.

I was fully retired for nearly five years before I became unretired. Is that even a real word? It is now. Like most retirees, the weekends had just become other day of the week. Time kind of lost its meaning. No longer did hump day (Wednesday) cause my heart to quicken or was Friday as eagerly as anticipated as Christmas. When I was a working stiff, Saturday and Sunday just felt different. Saturday usually meant running around doing chores, going to the Farmer’s Market, going for an outing with the family and finishing of the day (in winter) catching a hockey game. Sunday was a day to gear down. Go to mass. Go for a walk. Watch some sports and begin dreading that Monday was but a few hours away.

In the fall of 2019, I resumed my working career and my mind easily slid back into its usual patterns. The weekends became cherished again.

This past Sunday, I was in serious chill mode. No. It wasn’t -40. I eased into the day sitting in my lounge chair with a coffee listening to Symphony Hall on Sirius radio. I did a load of laundry and watched an excellent movie called The Necessities of Life. (For rent or purchase on Youtube): https://youtu.be/lam3rtJ4UiY) . It is about TB back in the 50s, the story of an Inuit man forced to leave his home in the arctic to go to a sanitarium in Quebec City.

It was late morning and I was starting to think about a Sunday walk. There’s a group of teachers who routinely go walking, hiking, snowshoeing or cross country skiing on Sunday. My phone pinged and it was a message from my good friend Mary Arngak. “I’m inviting you for lunch at my house. We are going to have ammiruq – beluga tail and blubber that my husband and son harvested. For you to watch and learn. It is a tradition for the women to take part in the amirruq. For men there will be other food too.”

Never one to pass up a free meal and learn at the same time, I quickly agreed.

I was given a warm welcome by Mary and several members of her extended family. The youngest attendee was 11 months old and a few of us north of 70. Everyone was sitting on the floor as is the custom. There were two exceptions. I assured Mary that if I got down on the floor, I might not be able to get back up (Bad back, bruised ribs, weak mind…). The other was Mary’s husband, Lucasi who opted for a chair. On a long piece of cardboard, a large array of country food was laid out. Very often, fish and meat are frozen. The Inuit use an ulu, a very sharp, curved tool to cut up the food. I was told the reason for sitting on the floor had to do with physics. It is much easier cutting up frozen food when one is able to exert the full force of their body in the cutting action.

As we ate, the air was filled with conversation, much of which I didn’t understand but Mary (my teacher!) translated as we went along. I learned that two of the elders were brought up on the land. One was a summer baby, born in a tent while the other was born in the middle of winter in an igloo. I heard stories of forced relocation. Lucasi regaled me with hunting stories. I was fascinated to hear the process required to hunt the massive bowhead whale. All the while, we ate. I tried a bit of everything including small bites of frozen arctic char, inaluaq (sausage stuffed with beluga), and nikkuk (dried beluga meat). I think they made an exception and let me try the beluga tail and fin! As the meal was winding down, I made the fatal mistake of asking Mary if she ate the eyes of the char (like the eyes of the ptarmagin I had consumed last spring). Before I had a chance to reconsider my question, Mary presented me with iji, the eye of the char. Lucasi chirped in that the Inuit also love to eat raw seal liver just after it has been shot. The meal was finished off with coffee and Bannock.

There weren’t a lot of scraps leftover. I have discovered that nothing is wasted when it comes to the harvesting of animals and fish in the north. It seems that every part of the animal has a purpose and even the bones are kept to use for games. The few remaining pieces of the beluga were shared with the ravens.

Everything is shared. Nothing is wasted. The family already shared some of the beluga with community members as is the custom and they plan to send some to relatives in other communities.

We retired to the living room. Mary produced a guitar and a ukulele. Mary and the women sang some traditional songs. I sang a few of my own and we collaborated on a few spiritual songs. I would sing in English, and they would follow up in Inuktitut. It was the perfect ending to a lovely afternoon.

Later that day, I posted a few photos. Some people in the south often cringe when I tell them that I have eaten raw fish and meat and other body parts that seem to make people feel very squeamish, but the Inuit have been living and eating off the land and sea for centuries. I like to try new things and I have found, without fail, that there is nothing offensive or gross about eating animal parts not normally found in a southern grocery store, neatly packaged and processed to the hilt. I think if most people went to a hot dog or sausage factory, they would quickly change their tune.

I was very honoured to be invited to Mary and Lucasi’s home.

My education continues.

Have a great weekend.

 

Cutting the beluga fin with an ulu