Over for (red rose) tea

There’s nothing like having a nice big cup of freshly-brewed Red Rose Tea in a good-size kettle, especially on the REZ. If there is one thing we could market on the REZ, we’d probably be able to erect a REZ-style Tim Horton’s that brewed some genuine kettle tea. Red Rose, that is; can’t be anything else other than.
Living in the robustness of the city life, it can be hard to just simmer down. I mean, try halting public from its scheduled route; it’s a little harder than you think. The genuine “hello, how are you” can be regimentally followed by a “I’m well, thanks, and you?” The brief encounter often follows the little laugh, and congratulating Tommy on his first-ever score that invitation was unable to make. It’s like a REZ dog greeting; the look, the tail goes upward, the sniff, then the parting. At least, most of the time.
On occasion, I do sometimes find the time to get myself back to the REZ. My hometown REZ of Poplar Hill, that is (Fact though, I was born on the REZ of New Osnburgh; hence, the Wassaykeesic surname). Flying home, since we are a fly-in REZ, always gives me some time to think about how my plans will unfold; who will I meet? Who will I visit first? Who’s gonna be at the airport to report who’s landed?
There is, rarely, the chance that I would drive back to the REZ also, but only when the winterroad is open; and, of course, should a more rugged and sturdier vehicle makes its trek, battling the rough bumps and slides, and the occasional 18-wheeler. My city vehicle, I’m sorry to report, was not meant for the rough terrain; perhaps one day, I’ll win a huge pot at bingo, big enough to afford my weapon of choice: a nice Tundra, extended car with big, big winter tires.
Always first is my destination to my Aunty’s place. It kinda takes me back to when me and my siblings were youngsters; we’d never refer to Poplar Hill as such, but had our own name for it: Jo-zhee-gunk. Ecstatic to be first to hear the news from my mother, the reporter’s eyes would brighten up and scream in excitement that we were heading to “Jo-zhee-gunk” for a visit!
After a couple of days, in the formal meeting of my family and my parents, I would reminisce back into my childhood, remembering “Jo-zhee-gunk” as a town, not a particular person’s house. Then I would find myself walking down the REZ road, heading over to my Aunty’s place, “Jo-zhee-gunk”, for a quick visit, and of course a spot of Red Rose Tea.
In the winter, the treading on the fresh snowy REZ road, I could hear the uniformity and the difference of my left and my right foot. One step is slightly elevated, while the other plays bass. It’s musical; it’s a walk; it’s like a fantasy land when you do walk down the REZ road and are able to listen.
There is no public transit; just a truck, filled with children, radio blaring some Christian music with the abrupt stop to make a quick announcement on who’s selling what and where they can be reached at. Their truck window opens up, and heat escapes. It’s all inviting and warm. A friend may stop and want to say hello, and ask when I arrived. They may already know; it’s always reported around at the initial arrival; so, it’s small talk, but a friendly one. One that says hello, and I missed you, or it’s great seeing you here. Children gawk and wonder who the stranger is, but will know later on.
The truck’s back window is steamed up with the print of a small hand stamped in the back, or the writing of some sort. It’s a friendly stop, and a mission of the family to drive around the REZ and to visit.
I continue walking down the REZ road, and smile at oncoming vehicles, seeing familiar faces within. They’re a little older (and sometimes a little more rounder, or browner), but then again so am I, I suppose. And, sometimes there are a few faces that are new, and are behind the wheel keeping a steady eye focused on the road. Sure they see me, but there is a slight interest on the walking dude.
I’m all bundled up on my walk, on a mission, so to speak. My heavy winter boots (bought in the city for the occasion) continue the marching waltz; my scarf covers my neck, afraid of hickeys, but mostly of a cold.
Coming around a bend, a few band houses and dead vehicles, I can see my destination in eye-sight: “Jo-zhee-gunk”.
Mario Wassaykeesic’s ‘Over for tea’ will continue in next week’s Wawatay News.