Living by Stories. Harry Robinson
or grizzly or wolf or coyote or deer—
any animal can talk to ’em.
To illustrate this connection between the shoo-MISH and humans, Harry told another long series of stories. He began with the story of his wife, Matilda, who encountered a dead cow that gave her a song and told her, “You going to be a power women.” He then told the story of another woman, Lala, who encountered a dead deer with a similar message and accompanying song.
Harry’s story of Shash-AP-kin typified the stories in this cycle. Left alone at the age of ten or eleven by his father and a group of hunters, Shash-AP-kin began to play with a chipmunk. In an instant the chipmunk turned into a boy, who told him, “This stump … you think it’s a stump but it’s my grandfather. He’s very very old man…. He can talk to you [and] tell you what you going to be when you get to be middle-aged or more.” At that moment the boy turned into an old man who told him that he would give him power to withstand bullets. He then sang a song and the boy joined him in the singing. The boy then fell asleep. When he awoke, “he knows already what he’s going to be when he get to be a man.” Harry says that when the white people arrived, “they all bad, you know. They mean. They tough.” They shot Shash-AP-kin. But the latter was able to withstand their bullets by using this power he had received from the smooth stump. He lived to be an old man, Harry explained. “They never get him. They never kill him.”
This last set of stories marked the end of our relaxed and easygoing visits. During the spring, Harry’s health took a sharp downturn when a nagging leg ulcer required his hospitalization for six weeks in Penticton. It was a miserable time for Harry who had little faith in white doctors and their medicines at the best of times. Convinced that his ulcer had been caused by plak, a form of witchcraft, he believed that white doctors could not cure it. His view was that because a member of his community had triggered this ulcer problem in the first place, it would require an Indian doctor to heal it.
He found the hospital culture cold and alienating. Everything about it was antithetical to his ways—bedpans left standing in the washroom, windows locked in a closed position, enforced bedtimes, and so on. After six weeks, when he could stand it no longer, he checked himself out of the hospital on the grounds that it was “too dirty … [and] no good for an Indian like me” (letter, 12 September 1982).
At home, he grew worse by the day. As he wrote on 27 September 1982, “Im really in Bad shape.” As I was by then based in Vancouver, I urged him to consider a Vancouver-based Chinese herbalist. He was keen on this idea: “If I can only see that Chinese Doctor it don’t mather much about the cost. Is to get Better. That’s the mean thing” (letter, 27 September 1982). When the herbalist died partway through his treatments, Harry became thoroughly discouraged and depressed.
Throughout the next two years, he remained at home in Hedley where he tried to manage his ulcer on his own, supplemented by the occasional treatments by Indian doctors. He was happy to find a local Keremeos physician, a woman who was willing to work with his beliefs about the cultural source of his problems. I visited often, but our daily drill was very different from what it had been in earlier years. He now slept through most of the day and evening. Then he was awake and up all night, often moaning in pain. I made meals and drove him to his medical appointments. We resumed our storytelling sessions whenever he felt in the mood for them.
During a visit in mid-April 1984, Harry became so ill that he worried that his death was imminent: “Now I’m sure I’m not going to live any longer … I could have died last night … or maybe tonight. Never know.” Nevertheless, he propped himself up, cleared his throat, and told a cycle of four stories. Each one was about an individual who could predict his/her own death. Although telling these stories sapped his energy, he seemed determined to get through them. I perceived that he had a larger motive in mind.
At the end of this cycle Harry sank back into his pillow and announced that “you can still hear that when I dead.… And that way in all these stories. You can hear that again on this (points to the tape recorder) once or twice or more.” He continued,
And think and look
and try and look ahead and look around at the stories.
Then you can see the difference between the white and the Indian.
But if I tell you, you may not understand.
I try to tell you many times
But I know you didn’t got ’em.…
So hear these stories of the old times.
And think about it.
See what you can find something from that story.…
He stressed again that he feared that he was approaching the end of his storytelling, “I’m not going to last very long.”
So, take a listen to this (points to my recorder)
a few times and think about it—to these stories
and to what I tell you now.
Compare them.
See if you can see something more about it.
Kind of plain,
But it’s pretty hard to tell you for you to know right now.
Takes time.
Then you will see.
He then stated, “That’s all. No more stories. Do you understand?” Shocked and saddened, I replied, “Sort of.”
It was a relief to hear that Harry had expected me to listen to his stories many times before drawing any conclusions. He stressed that they contained hidden messages and connections that would take time to decipher. I reflected on how passionately he had told his stories about whites and how quickly I had dismissed these as anomalies. Harry’s comments suggested that he may have had more of a prior plan than I realized.
At this stage, however, there were more pressing concerns for all of us than analyzing the deeper meanings of his stories. Harry was growing weaker by the day. In desperation, he finally asked his neighbour, Carrie Allison, to call an ambulance. He was quickly admitted to the Princeton Hospital. After several months of treatment, he had improved enough to be discharged. But it was now clear to everyone that he was not well enough to live at home by himself. As he and Matilda had had no children, he was unable to draw on immediate family members for assistance. So he moved to Pine Acres Home, a seniors’ residence operated by the Westbank Indian Band.
Institutionalized living, however, did not agree with him. Many of the residents were suffering from dementia so he could not carry on conversations with them. And he missed the familiarity of the Similkameen Valley. After a year, he transferred to Mountainview Manor, a seniors’ complex located in the heart of Keremeos. He was happier there in a self-contained, ground-floor unit which felt more like home. His band also provided twenty-four hour home care which gave him a continuous sense of companionship and support. As with his earlier routine, he slept during most of the daytime hours and sat up all night. Worried about his digestive system, he ate almost nothing. I visited regularly and he continued to tell stories. But the old vigour and enthusiasm were diminishing.
There was one project during this period that kept his spirits high, however. In 1984 while he was living at Pine Acres Home, we began discussing the possibility of turning his stories into a book. He felt that the book should be widely disseminated throughout “all Province in Canada and United States, that is when it comes to be a Book” (letter, 27 January 1986). The project kept his mind occupied. And it also gave him a set of daily goals as he struggled to think of gaps. The best part was that it inspired him to tell more stories.
Many of these new stories focussed on his life history. He was very proud of his ranching experiences and wanted some of these to be included in the book: “I get to started feed stock from 2nd Jan. 1917 till 1972,” he wrote on 15 May 1985. “50 years I feed cattle without missed a day in feeding season rain or shine. snowing or Blazirt. Sunday’s. holirdays. funeral day. any other time … 50 winter’s that should worth to be on Book if is not too late.”
Harry