Courtesy Them Days magazine and the artist Gerald W. Mitchell.
Hauling home firewood in horn junks in Labrador.
At dusk until well after dark each day Daddy and Sammy had to feed the dogs, top up the water barrel, saw the firewood, and chop up two armloads of splits (dry wood cut into kindling), which were brought in and neatly stacked near the stove to dry out. In our house dry wood was like gold and was always kept away from the regular wood. Some of it was used to make wood shavings, and no one was allowed to touch it. The trick was not to let the fire get so low that we would have to use the dry wood.
To cut the wood shavings, Daddy used a drawknife, a tool ideally suited for the task. It had a large steel blade about a foot long, with wooden handles bent toward the sharp edge of the blade, designed to be pulled toward you. Daddy sat on the floor, facing the stove, and squeezed the kindling between his knees for stability. He then placed the drawknife three-quarters of the way up the wood. I always watched intensely as he pulled the drawknife toward himself, afraid he would cut right into his belly. But with great precision he never failed to stop an inch from his body. I can still hear the sound of the wood curls being separated from the junk as the sharp blade forced its way through the wood. Daddy cut into it with just enough pressure and speed to make a neatly curled shaving. He then put the next one behind the first, and so on, until there were several neat curls still attached to the wood. After that he started another junk until there was enough to start a fire. Daddy made it look so easy.
“I wanna do dat, Daddy,” I said. “Can I try?”
“No, Jimmy, ya can’t do dis. Tis too hard fer ya.”
“I can do it, Daddy,” I insisted, tugging at his arm. “Lemme try.”
“Awright den.”
Handing me the drawknife, he showed me where to place it on the wood. With great tenderness and patience he let me pull and struggle for a while. I couldn’t get the blade to move. “Tis stuck, Daddy!”
“I tol ya twas too hard fer ya,” he said. “Ya can try again when yer a little bigger.”
Every evening, after the dishes were cleared away, Mommy sat in her favourite chair with her sewing machine or knitting needles. Daddy, with all his outdoor work done and the shavings cut, lay back on his settle and had a little rest. If his day hunting in the woods was successful, we had roasted partridges for supper. After a short nap, he played a few songs on his accordion and Mommy danced around the room. We danced around the cabin, too, happy and secure with a belly full of food and a nice warm fire.
The husky dogs were our lifeline and had to be well cared for. Daddy made the dogs’ harnesses and traces and the bridle used to pull the komatik. The dogs’ harnesses were created from rope that had to be taken apart and braided back together to make it more pliable and softer around the animals’ bodies. The rope was then spliced at the end with a loop where the traces were attached. The traces were made of bank line, which was the size of a pencil and had a distinct tar smell. The bank line was tightly woven and quite rigid. The traces were then attached to a bridle, which was fashioned out of a larger rope braided together from three pieces of rope with a loop at one end for the traces. The other end was forked into two separate ropes, with each side attached to the first rung of the komatik.
Feeding 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