Over for Tea, part II

The brisk walk over is already numbing. An occasional ELAN ski-doo is working its way across the snow, guided by a bundled up faceless person. I can hear it in the distance, as my new winterboots sing a different tune, along the tire-tracked snow. It’s a little softer now, but the fresh squeak coming from my winterboots continue to tread through the REZ landscape.
REZ homes are stacked like scattered cards thrown about, laying any which way, but yet strangely uniformed. As a child, you knew who was related by the grouping of houses; the tradition is still there, but slightly larger now. As an adult, and a welcomed visitor to his home, I can piece newly-built homes but don’t know who lives in them fresh walls.
The chimneys billow out a white stream of smoke, and then just hang at a certain level. The rising smoke from the chimneys do not continue onward and upward into the cold January (or is it December?) morning sky on the REZ. It all lingers together, conferencing with one another; perhaps the early morning frost in the REZ air only allows the escaping chimney smoke so far. I can imagine inside them houses as warm and full of family, with the REZ radio playing away some Christian acoustic music, strumming away with an Anishinabe singer.
“Jo-zhee-gunk” is close, and I can still see the familiar sites from my childhood. A square wash basin hangs on the side of the building. Probably a useful tool to place fish or a fishnet in the summer; perhaps even serves a place to wash dirty clothes or socks in. I can picture a scrub board, and recall its rhythmic sounds as it scrubbed socks rigorously.
The outside wall’s paint hangs in pieces outside in the cold temperatures, easily to flake out if I were to slide my mitt across its exterior. But I’m not gonna; I’m gonna let the fragments of paint continue to serve a purpose.
There’s a stack of dried wood outside and in the close vicinity of “Jo-zhee-gunk.” I’m sure it was brought and dropped off by the distant ELAN ski-doo and its driver, dutifully. They’re already cut and ready for use; covered with a thin cellophane plastic, protecting them from the cold(?) more likely from falling snow. My Aunty was always keen to having a good fire burning, especially during the winter months.
The crisp air, my new winterboots, and cold wooden staircase to the house is clash of a combination. The cold stairs cry in a creak as my weight (and new winterboots) take a closer step to my visit with my Aunty. First one, then two, then three, then I reach for the door and turn the knob. No knocking necessary; they’re expecting me, and I’m not holding up a pamphlet like a city door-to-door messenger.
The heat from the house greets me in; some escape in steam, tempting to rise to the billowing and lingering chimney smoke. I enter my Aunty’s house and I can see that I’ve made myself an entrance. A good one. You can tell from the eyes that she remembers you. I often wonder does she remember me from my childhood or as an adult.
It starts quiet. The REZ radio plays slowly in the background and the television is turned off. The walls are decorated with pictures of smiling faces and posed people that I am not too familiar with. Perhaps from the next REZ over. (I’m referring to Pikangikum First Nation, by the way.)
She sits there by the livingroom window, continuing on with the silence for a minute or two. I think she studies me each time that I visit. I think she wants to know if I’m eating well; am I getting fat, or lean, or have the stress of a family guy in my eyes yet. I don’t think she’s disappointed either way.
She implies that the tea is fresh; so, I don’t hesitate to help myself to it. The dark stream pours out and fills the plastic cup that I found in the cupboards. I see a few metal ones hanging on the wall, but don’t think I’d be able to drink that much. A huge plastic cup works just as well.
As I walk back into the livingroom, my feet are warmed by the stove’s heat as well as my hand that clasps to the plastic cup of warm Red Rose Tea. My Aunty points out where I could find the Carnation Milk and the “shu-gaw”, but I like my tea black.
I make myself comfortable, watching my Aunty, as she studies her nephew again. She smiles a bit. I wonder if she sees me as an adult, or as a child still. I take a sip of my long-awaited REZ drink: REZ tea.