Many new
immigrants to Canada in the late sixties will remember some embarrassing
moments in their lives in their new found land.
We can attest to the fact that we had many of these experiences and were
almost convinced that “Canadian Experience”(frowned on even by the Human Rights
Commission) might have averted many of these experiences that have now become
part of our folklore.
Of all the
places in Ontario, we landed in Northern Ontario in a place called
Bigwood. This hamlet was in the heart of
the French River District and boasted of one public school that serviced the
English speaking students in the area.
I could perhaps write at least a couple of books on my experiences as
Principal of this school, but this will have to wait for another time. The only purpose behind mentioning this
School was because it also serviced the first nation students from the Dokis
Reservation.
One of the
“Indian” (“first nation” to be politically correct) students kindly invited me to spend some time at the
reservation on a weekend, and assured me that the “first nation” students would
be there to help me pitch my newly-acquired tent. As an added incentive, he assured me that he
would allow me the use of an aluminium boat which he would launch in a very
small lake that was over populated with monster Northern Pike waiting to get
caught and to provide me with a fishing experience that I was not likely to
forget. I needed no further encouragement.
Now I had to
bring the good news to my wife knowing full well that sleeping in a tent
particularly over night, which was alien to her experiences and mine, would be
like asking an elephant to climb a tree.
However, it was worth a try and though the request was made at a time
when she was labouring under no stress, I got the immediate response.......NO!.....catagorically
NO!!!
I coaxed my
enthusiastic son and daughter to have a talk with their mother and put her on a
guilt trip by pleading to her that it was what they wanted to do.
“Tell your
father that he could take you two and sleep in a tent but that I would like to
sleep in a hotel close by,” declared my wife with finality.
“But Mum, we
need you to be with us or we will not be able to sleep,” declared my 9-year old
son making sure that he held her tightly
around the waist to demonstrate his total dependence on her, after all he was
only nine years old. (These kids start
young don’t they?)
After much persuasion,
my wife conceded but very reluctantly and so we packed up our gear in readiness
for the trip to the Dokis Reservation.
It took us an
interesting but exhausting hour to drive up to the Reservation on roads that
perhaps were not attended to since pre-historic times or so it seemed. However, we managed to get there with the
wheels still intact but the car suspension making some obscene noises. On arrival we were met by at least ten
enthusiastic students who assembled the tent in less than fifteen minutes. It might have taken me a greater part of the
morning to follow the assembling instructions that came with the gear. Giving us assurances that we had the freedom
to move around the Reservation the students vanished after pointing out to me
where the lake was and wishing me a great holiday.
My wife
continued to be apprehensive until now and was quick to remind me that I had
better find a place which could be used as a toilet. I promptly walked about fifty yards away from
the tent and as though the Gods were on my side, I discovered a rock formation
that almost resembled a toilet. It was
made up of flat rocks that one could sit on without much effort and a hole in
the right place too. My wife approved of
this nature’s wonder for her.
I led my kids to
the lake where, as promised, there was an aluminum boat tied up to a poplar
tree. We were there scarcely ten minutes
when we heard a desperate cry for help.
It was coming from the direction of nature’s toilet. I ran
up towards the desperate and repeated shouts for help. When I got there, I saw my wife several yards
away from the toilet, her panties right down at her ankles, and she was shaking
like a leaf in a storm.
“S..n..a...k....e!!!!!,” she stammered out aloud shaking all over.
I took a double
take towards the toilet and there at the foot of it was a two-foot snake. Holding my wife’s hand I led her away from
the scene which will forever be etched in her consciousness.
Still shaking
like a leaf in a tornado, she explained that while she was sitting on the
toilet, the snake crawled out through a hole just below her.
It took us
exactly twenty minutes to dismantle the tent and make our way home.
The tent became
a permanent feature in the backyard of our house where the kids would spend the
weekends pretending that they were out in the country.
I never did find
out whether the snake was poisonous or not.
My wife would like to think that it was. It makes the relating of the
story that more dramatic.
By the way, the snake has now grown to five feet. I dare not correct her for who wants to sleep on the chesterfield at night over a little embellishment like that!!!
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