Withered Roots

The thing about this job is that you can't really throw down roots. Every Five years or so you move, more often at first. I have lived in at least seven different communities in 24 years, in Alberta, the Yukon and the NWT. Sometimes it was time for a move but it is always hard leaving. The worst part is leaving the Elders and the children. They always make the deepest impression on you. You can only look forward to the new community, a new set of Elders a new flock of children. There were a few moments that stand out over the years, a few nuggets in the gravel road of working life.

I remember when I first joined the company. My first posting was in Wabasca, a Cree community in north central Alberta. It was my first time living in another culture, the first time I experienced life as a minority. I was nervous at first, but I found the Cree to be very understanding and very accepting of the mistahi moniyaw, or "Big white man" as they called me. Things were different in those days, we didn't have a computer in the building. Everything we did was done by hand. The customer accounts were on paper and were stored in a special cabinet called a "Sort-O-Graph" you looked up the account and made up a paper slip which the customer would give to the cashier to allow them to charge on their MCA (Monthly Charge Account). Some of the Elders, those who lived close, would come shopping two or three times a day, you soon learned their names as you manually looked up their accounts each time. "Bear with me." I would plead, "I have a thousand new names to learn, you only have to learn one!" I needn't have bothered they loved the extra attention my naivete brought and they teased me and we both would laugh. The Elders dressed very traditionally, then. The ladies in kerchiefs and home made dresses. Often brightly colored. I would show them bolts of cloth and they explained to me that it was better to make a small cut and rip the cloth as it tore straighter than you could ever cut it. They were training me as they must have done to dozens of other "Bay Clerks" before me. They were patient and their quick laughter always made it easier. I struggled to communicate in my pidgin Cree often their English was not that good. Often they would bring along a Grandchild to translate for Mosom and Kokom (Grandma & Grandpa) the problem was that the Grandchildren often spoke less Cree than I did.

I remember one time when I was working the office and an elderly couple approached and wanted to cash their Old Age Pension checks. I called to Alex who worked for us as I knew these were his Grandparents. "Ask them how much they want to pay on their account." I instructed Alex. He turned to them and bellowed "GRANDMA HOW MUCH DO YOU WANT TO PUT ON YOUR BILL?". I shooed him away as Mosom and Kokom slapped their knees and howled with laughter. I determined to at least learn enough Cree to run the office. I struggled, I made a fool of myself. I mispronounced words and I did a lot of blushing. But through it all there was a sense that I had broken down a wall. I was trying and that was worth something even if I did once ask an eighty year old man if he wanted to pay for his red dress. He was probably telling that story for years. He laughed long and hard but he paid his bill and he thanked me, when it was done, I did understand that much. I think it is about respect and they knew even if I did it badly that I did it for them.

I had some favorites of course. One was an elderly couple both of whom suffered from osteoporosis then known commonly as dowager's stoop. They were both bent like question marks. They each walked with two willow root canes. I loved to watch them when they shopped on pension day. They proceeded through the store like a gaggle of geese the old couple in the lead with a flock of three or four, what I suspect were Great-Grandchildren. They had the same problem as most elders, with the children speaking mostly English. It didn't slow these two down, though. They merely walked the aisles and raised their canes and tapped the shelf in front of the items they wanted. One tap for each can of beans or pound of butter. It worked well and the children were well rewarded with chocolate or a Popsicle after the shopping was done. Hugs and kisses too. The old man winked at me as I packed his bags to his son's truck.

After my annual holidays I noticed he was alone on pension day. I went over to ask him what was wrong. He turned, looking smaller, older and more fragile tan I had ever seen him. The sparkle was gone from his eyes as our eyes met. I stopped in mid stride. I didn't need to ask. I got a huge lump in my throat and turned away. He had some children with him but they too were subdued. I looked at my boss and he said "She passed away while you were gone, it was peaceful." Not for him I'll bet. He looked like an empty vessel. I was not surprised when he joined her shortly after.

Another couple that touched me were well into their nineties. He was a raconteur and loved to tell stories. I was cashing his Old Age Pension check one day when he tugged my sleeve. "I get the single rate you know!" I looked at the cheque. As most of you would know you get more money if you are single than you do if you are married. "Me and her we never married!" He said with unbridled glee. "We moved in together ten years ago. We're living in sin!" He was doing a jig and laughing uncontrollably. She waved her hand and walked away. I couldn't help but laugh.When they had left I turned to Nigel, my boss and said, "They're both in the their nineties, I can only imagine how much sin is going on!"

I came home one day in my first autumn with the company to find an elderly gentleman sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and eating a cookie. He was alone, my roommates were nowhere to be seen. He seemed completely at home. I sat down across from him and introduced myself. He was tall and thin, so thin his clothes hung from him. He was dressed simply, he wore wool work pants and a check work shirt both of which were several sizes too large. He wore heavy shoes ties up with string. He was, he informed me a pensioner. I knew that this meant a company pensioner not an old age pensioner. I asked if he had been a store manager. He laughed. "No, I was an outside man." He said it matter-of-factly like I should know what that was. I didn't. My Dad told me once "You don't have to apologize for being ignorant, only apologize if you are stupid." So I asked him "What is an outside man?" He smiled. Partly, I suspect at my ignorance and partly at the opportunity to tell his story. What a story it was. He had hopped a west bound freight train during the depression and made his way to the prairies. He found work with the HBC cutting firewood, cutting ice for the ice cellars, hauling drinking water, feeding horses, laying in feed and many other jobs. It was full time work. Then the horses were replaced. The stoves were replaced by furnaces and he found himself "pensioned off". He was retired but he still mowed the lawns and shoveled snow for extra cash. He smoked rollies, his fingers were orange from the nicotine. Sometime during that winter he caught his last train, I missed him walking in to our house whenever he was ready to mow or shovel. He would always start with a pot of coffee, we never locked the house in those days. I missed the stories more. He knew virtually all the company big wigs when they were "Snot nosed trainees" which I was then.

One of the perks of being the grocery manager is that you get to order things that you like. I pride myself in ordering new things, exotic things and trying to offer a wide variety of good foods. I enjoy parsnips. Having spent several summers on a farm I came to love them. I guess no other grocery managers before me had ordered them in that town. One day a sweet little old lady approached me with a package of parsnips in her hand. I thought she was going to thank me for ordering them. Instead she held it out with some disdain. I took the package from her. She leaned in close so as to be heard without being overheard. She said ever so kindly "Your carrots have withered dear, they have turned white!" Withered roots, just like me. I have changed communities many times. I have learned something everywhere I went. It is tough when I meet my peers who are still working where I have been, inevitably they have tales of some favorite elder who has left us. On the other hand I occasionally run into some young adult, like the six foot two firefighter who was at a course I attended recently. When I saw his last he was eight and was sitting on my knee when I played Santa. Roots are good but they may be overrated.