Friday, November 17, 2017

The Lansdowne Letters: Waiting for the Ice to Go Out


As April 1961 wound down, everyone was on edge anticipating the arrival of break-up,
that anxious interval when Lansdowne House would be cut-off from the Outside.
The only communication possible would be via short wave radio or telegraph.

Break-up was the spring period when bush planes
couldn't fly into isolated northern communities.
In order to fly, a bush plane had to be able to land on ice or water.
As spring advanced in the North, the ice weakened
and could no longer support the weight of a plane landing on skis.
However, thinning ice still covered the lakes,
so bush planes could not land on pontoons either.


Spring Draws Close in Northern Ontario
Flickr:  James Vincent Wardhaugh  License


Planes servicing Lansdowne House and other remote villages 
often flew out of Nakina or Armstrong, towns further south.
Break-up started when bush planes could no longer
take off on the ice in Nakina or Armstrong, 
even if the northern communities had good ice.
Break-up ended in each northern village when planes could land
on a stretch of open water in the individual communities.
No one could predict exactly when break-up would begin or end.

Everyone thought break-up had started on April 25th
when a plane made it into Lansdowne House out of Nakina
with the news that the ice was getting pretty bad down south.
We all hunkered down for the duration.


But Friday, April 28th brought a surprise,
as my father wrote in a quick note dashed off to his mother:

Dear Mother:
An unexpected plane just landed with this week's mail.
I imagine this is almost a record for a plane on the ice.
Surely this will be the last plane!
I guess with a plane this late in the season,
the break-up won't be too long,
not over three weeks at the very outside.

Everyone up here is in good shape.
Sara is feeling well, and the children are happy as larks.
They seem to love going to school to their old man.

Sara knows now what it is like to have twins.
She has been taking care of Duncan Junior all day,
while Dunc and Maureen are painting their living room and hall.
She is just about frantic.
She will be very glad when six o'clock comes,
and Duncan comes to pick him up.




The "Twins"
Duncan Junior and Bertie
Photo of Duncan by Don MacBeath
Photo of Bertie courtesy of Dawn White
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved



Barbie is sick with a tummy ache, but it isn't too serious.
I am rushing this, so I will be able to get it out on the plane.
Hope you can make it out.

I am glad the plane came in with the mail, 
for now I'll be able to figure out what you mean
when you wired that the house is selling well.

Well, I must sign off now and get this down to the plane.
I won't wire you, because this is the last last plane before break-up.
Bye now,
Love, Don
Happy Mother's Day


A Norseman on Skis
"Taildragger" at the Back
Flickr ~ NOAA:  Rear Admiral Harley D. Nygren   License 



That was the last last plane before break-up 1961.
While the novelty of break-up fascinated Roy and me
and we fancied ourselves the Robinson Crusoes of the North,
our parents worried about having enough food and supplies
or unexpected medical and dental emergencies.

My parents weren't the only ones who worried.
Mike O'Flaherty, the nurse at the nursing station,
carried the weight of the medical and dental health
of the Ojibwa and white people on his shoulders,
especially during break-up and freeze-up.

While he could radio a doctor for an emergency consultation,
Mike had to handle whatever happened on his own
with the supplies and equipment in the nursing station.

The North awakened as break-up arrived, 
the skies loud with the honking of Canada geese
and the bush ringing with the songs of courting birds.

The snow retreated leaving a chorus of trickling, gurgling water in its wake.
Color blushed in the scrubby bushes, and a riot of red, black, gold, grey, and rust
emerged from the melting snow, the detritus of last summer's growth.


A Pair of Gray Jays Feeding Their Nestlings
Algonquin Park, Ontario, Canada


The hard-packed snow of the paths in the village
lingered for several days after the general melt.
It stood up in network of low dykes,
and we all tottered about on balance beams of snow.
Then the slushing dykes succumbed
and sank into thick, black, pungent mud. 

We school children awoke too, engineering the muddy school grounds
into fantastic canaled cities destined for razing by giants.

As the land quickened, so did the worries of Mike and the other adults.
Our Ojibwa classmates were no more immune to spring fever than we MacBeath kids.

It was the older boys who came up with the brilliant idea of barreling,
which had us shooting across the tops of oil drums rolling down a hill.
When Mike spied us out the nursing station window, he raced out and stopped us cold,
delivering his first of several lectures on medical emergencies during break-up.

We MacBeath children were naive about the dangers of the bush,
and the Ojibwa adults kept a watchful eye on us.
One mid-morning my mother opened the kitchen door after hearing a knock
to discover a wet and muddy Bertie riding on the shoulders of an Ojibwa neighbor.
He'd found her on a path in the bush singing and washing her dolly in a large puddle.
With the arrival of spring, Bertie had become skilled at slipping out the door.


© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved



On another warm day,
my brother Roy and I decided
to climb a tall wooden tower behind
the Hudson's Bay Company post.







We were having great fun running around on the flat top
and peering over the sides
until Mike came roaring out of the nursing station:
"Get down!  Get down right now!
What do you expect me to do if one of you falls and busts yourself up? 
I haven't got enough morphine to stop your pain,  
let alone a plane to fly you out if I can't handle your injuries."

Chastened, we scrambled down.
Not satisfied that we grasped the gravity of the situation,
Mike horrified us with a story or two about nurses 
having to operate on patients on kitchen tables
while following directions from a radio doctor.  
We slunk away.

Many Ojibwa were returning from the winter traplines.
It was a thrilling sight to see them skimming across the still frozen lake,
six or seven dogs straining to pull a loaded sled.
And what a load, for the Ojibwa lashed a canoe on top of their sleds
and squeezed inside it amid food, supplies, and pelts.

I remarked on this strange mode of travel to my father,
and he explained it simply:
If the sled went through the ice, the Ojibwa hauled the dogs on board
and paddled to the next supportive stretch of ice.
I wouldn't have wanted the job of dragging the dogs aboard!
  



Waiting for the ice to go out
was proving to be an exciting time
for we kids experiencing break-up
in the North for the first time.

Melting Ice
Flickr:  Paul Tichonczuk ~ License














Till next time ~
Fundy Blue



Boars Head Lighthouse
Tiverton, Long Island, Bay of Fundy
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved





For Map Lovers Like Me:
Map of Canada
Highlighting Ontario




Locations of Armstrong, Nakina, and Lansdowne House
Map Data:  Google 2017





Bush Plane with Pontoons for Landing on Water



Friday, November 10, 2017

The Lansdowne Letters: The Inexplicable


My father arrived in Lansdowne House curious and filled with anticipation;
but, as he later reflected, "abysmally ignorant and unprepared"
as he ventured into the domain of his aboriginal brethren.


My Father's Luggage
Off-Loaded on the Father's Island
Lansdowne House, Northern Ontario, Canada 
September 1960
Photo by Don MacBeath
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved


Nothing in my father's Maritimes background
had prepared him to work among the Ojibwa,
and his one-day orientation by the Indian Affairs Branch
did not help or inform him about his new post in the north.

Today we are accustomed to having knowledge and information
literally at our fingertips, an internet search away.
A half century ago nothing about the obscure Ojibwa
was easily or quickly available to someone living in rural Nova Scotia.

With packing on short notice and traveling to the distant North,
there was no time for my father to research
the Indigenous people he would be living among. 
He plunged into his northern adventure uninformed
about the Ojibwa whose children he would be teaching.
Some of the things he encountered he could never explain.


My Father as an Undergraduate
Unprepared for the North
Acadia University
Wolfville, Nova Scotia, Canada
Circa 1946
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved



As a result of his experiences, my father later recommended:
The prospective Indian teacher would do well to acquaint himself
with some of the more commonly held attitudes and beliefs of the Indians.

You may not believe these attitudes and beliefs;
but nevertheless, just because they seem strange,
and even ridiculous to the white man,
they still play a large part in the everyday life of the Indians.
I do not advocate that you believe in or subscribe to
the various beliefs, attitudes, and customs of the Indians,
just don't mock them, especially publicly or in a derisive manner.

The main goal of Indian education is to change the Indian
as much as possible for the better and to prepare him
for eventual integration with the white population.  Naturally,
a lot of these old beliefs and superstitions will have to be eradicated,
but this will never be accomplished by ridicule.

One of the surest ways of antagonizing any race and uniting them
against you is to ridicule anything which they believe in strongly.
The Indians are intelligent and quite capable of learning
by example; and good examples are, I think,
some of the most effective teaching aids which you have at your disposal.


A New Indian Teacher
Departing for the First Day of School
Lansdowne House, Northern Ontario, Canada, September 1960
Photo by Uno Manilla
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved


I have had some experiences up north which just are not explainable
by white standards, experiences, or knowledge.

While I was at Lansdowne House, I had as one of my pupils,
the grandson of the local sachem or medicine man.
He was a mischievous and troublesome child,
and on several occasions I was forced to reprimand him,
and once or twice I had to chastise him.

The medicine man took great exception to this treatment of his grandson.
He came up to the school with an interpreter and put  a curse on me.
He said I would become sick in three weeks.

Of course, I didn't believe any of his claims,
and I told him so and laughed at him.
I continued to laugh at him, right up to the twenty-first day,
when I was as sick as a dog.

The medicine man also put a curse on the male nurse
and told him that he also would get sick in three weeks.
He was one day out with Mike,
for Mike did not get sick till the twenty-second day.

I am glad that the medicine man did not get too angry at me,
for he evidently had quite powerful medicine.
He cursed one of the Indians, telling him that he would die in three months.
In spite of all medicinal and spiritual assistance, the Indian died on schedule
three months to the day after the curse was pronounced upon him.


My Father's Students
Celebrating Halloween
Lansdowne House, Northern Ontario, Canada 
October 1960
Photo by Don MacBeath
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved


Conditions are improving among our native population,
and have come a long way, even since the 1940s;
but, such conditions and improvements are relative,
because the Indian was so dreadfully backward,
superstitious, and ignorant, even as recently as 1940.

There is a reasonably well-authenticated case of the indescribably
cruel and primitive treatment received by an insane woman
at Lansdowne House during the early years of the last war.
Sarah, wife of John (last name omitted), 
became insane or otherwise deranged.

John cut a hole in the floor of his shack,
two and a half or three feet square
and dug a hole of these dimensions to sufficient depth
that when Sarah was placed in the hole,
her chin was just level with the floor.
Here she spent the last four years of her life.

She was allowed out only to answer the calls of nature.
Apparently the calls she answered were many and varied,
for during this period she gave birth to two children.

The whole event, including the birth of the two children
is recorded in detail at the nursing station at Lansdowne House
and was confirmed to me by the resident priest.

What has never been explained to my satisfaction though is this:
If there was a nurse and if there was a priest at Lansdowne House,
why was this allowed to persist?


Father Ouimet and My Father
Father Ouimet was likely a young priest in Lansdowne House
during Sarah's mistreatment.
Photo by Uno Manilla
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved



I experienced a few inexplicable things too, but mostly later in Lac Seul.
I don't know the source of what I heard in Lansdowne House
that bothered me more than any other.

Likely I heard it from my mother or from Maureen McRae.
To an independent, precocious girl it was unimaginable:
Indian women sometimes killed their newborn girls
to spare them a life of hardship and misery.


A Few of Dad's Girls
Celebrating Halloween
Lansdowne House, Northern Ontario, Canada 
October 1960
Photo by Don MacBeath
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved



A Challenging Land
 James Bay Area







Till next time ~
Fundy Blue


Bay of Fundy out of Westport, Brier Island
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved











Notes:
1.  Unpublished Handbook:
     Recorded in Dad's unpublished The Northern School Teacher:  A Hand Book To Be Issued To All
     New Entrants To The Teaching Profession In The Indian Schools In The Sioux Lookout Indian
     Agency, 1966, Introduction, page 1 and Pages 22-23.

2.  Mike O'Flaherty:
     Mike was the nurse at the nursing station and had to handle whatever came up,
     especially when the planes could not fly.  My father was helping Mike type medical
     records when he came across the story of John and Sarah.

3.  Father Ouimet:
     He was a member of the Missionary Oblates of Mary Immaculate,
     a missionary religious congregation in the Roman Catholic Church.

4.  Maureen McRae:
     Maureen was married to Duncan, one of the two Department of Transport employees
     in the community.  They were good friends of my parents, and Maureen took me under
     her wing when I arrived in Lansdowne House.  She taught me to sew.

Maureen McRae
Hauling Groceries, 1960
Photo by Don MacBeath
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved





For Map Lovers Like Me:




Location of Lansdowne House
Known Today as Neskantaga
Hudson Bay Lowlands (green)



Lansdowne House Lies in the Wilderness
West of James Bay


Tuesday, October 31, 2017

IWSG: Wednesday, November 1, 2017 ~ A Flight and a Fight





It's the first Wednesday of the month:
the day when members of the
Insecure Writer's Support Group
share their writing struggles
and writing successes
and offer their encouragement
and support to fellow writers.





To visit the IWSG website, click here.

To become a member of the IWSG, click here.

Our wonderful co-hosts who are volunteering today,
along with IWSG founder Alex Cavanaugh are:
Tonja Drecker,  Diane Burton,  F. J. Fifield, and Rebecca Douglass.

I hope you have a chance to visit today's hosts and thank them for co-hosting.
I'm sure they would appreciate a visit and an encouraging comment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Every month the IWSG poses a question
that members can answer with advice, insight,
a personal experience, or a story in their IWSG posts.

Or, the question can inspire members
if they aren't sure what to write about on IWSG Day.

Remember the question is optional.
This month's featured question is:

Win or not, do you usually finish your NaNo project?
Have any of them gone on to be published?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, this is an easy question!  
I have never participated in NaNo,
and I am not going to do so this year.

I've heard about it from many IWSG members, 
and I've watched them tackling the challenge each year.

I thought maybe this year; but no,
November is already jam-packed for me,
and I'll have to look forward to next year.

I'll visit as many IWSG members as I can today,
but early tomorrow morning I'm flying to Calgary.
I'm off to a big party to celebrate my sister Barb's retirement;
and typically, I just found out about the party late last week.


First Photograph of All Five MacBeath Siblings
Donnie, Barb (the Retiree), Louise (Me), Bertie, Gretchen (Our Dog), and Roy
Margaretsville, Nova Scotia, Canada
Early April, 1959
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved






In January I set a goal of reading five books
written by IWSG authors in 2017.

When I recently traveled to Victoria, British Columbia,
book number five hitched a ride in my suitcase:
Delivered by Patrick Hatt.






Pat's latest novel had me reading late into the night
curled up on the sofa in our tiny hotel suite.
For several nights I raced through its 300+ pages
until my eyes blurred and I was forced to go to bed.

This is my favorite of the four Pat Hatt novels I have read.
I was anticipating a wild, phantasmagorical novel,
but I was in for a big surprise.

Pat Hatt wrote a realistic, contemporary novel with no hint
of the supernatural, beings popping in and out from other dimensions,
or mythical characters wreaking havoc ~
Just a heartwarming story of a small abused boy
who is rescued and welcomed into a close family
which fights to protect him and itself from growing danger.

Of course, given that Pat wrote the book,
it is not your average family!

Martin and Emma Hirtle are a young couple
with four children and a fifth on the way.
They deliberately forego a life of financial security
to devote as much time as possible to raising their children.
When Martin finds a frightened boy abandoned in a snowstorm,
he rescues him and takes him to the Hirtle home.

Martin and Emma soon discover bits of the child's past
and must figure out a sordid secret that haunts him
before the people hunting the boy find him and kill him.

Martin and Emma are quickly pulled into unexpected dangers
that threaten them, their children, and the abandoned child.
Can they solve the mystery of the boy's past in time,
or will they pay with their lives and the lives of their children?
These questions kept me flying through the book into the wee hours.

Pat writes with a distinctive Nova Scotian voice,
filled with the words and idioms of a native Bluenoser.
His characters in Delivered are as compelling as they are unique.
The Hirtles are unconventional, but they are a tight-knit family
with a distinct vision of who they are and why.
I quickly fell in love with them and their idiosyncrasies. 
As in his other novels, good and evil are clearly defined.
With each book he writes, Pat grows as a novelist.

Stephen King, in his excellent book On Writing,
says to become a writer "... you must do two things
above all others, read a lot and write a lot."

Pat lives both, which is why
his list of published books keeps expanding.

Happy writing in November,
and good luck to anyone participating in NaNo.

A Young Barbie,
Long Before Her Distinguished Career in Calgary's Oil Patch
Smith's Cove, Nova Scotia, Canada
Circa 1960
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved


Notes:
1.  Quote:
     King, Stephen.  On Writing:  A Memoir of the Craft.  New York:  Scribner, 2000.
     Print.  pp. 145.

2.  Personal Note:  I'm traveling and dealing with multiple appointments before cataract
      surgery in the near future.  My Northern Posts will have to resume on November 10th.
  

Barb and I
Westport, Brier Island, Nova Scotia, Canada
Summer 2015
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved



Friday, October 13, 2017

A Posting Break


Hi, Everyone!
I need to take a short break from posting on my blog.
Everything is okay, I just have too much on my plate;
and I am so behind in everything!

My next post will be on November 1 on IWSG Wednesday,
followed by my next Northern post on Friday, November 3rd.

Meanwhile I plan to catch up on recent posts by my wonderful blogging buddies!

And for anyone who needs a little breathing space in his or her life right now,
here's a picture of my go to place for some stolen moments of serenity.


A Favorite Spot Along Piney Creek
Aurora, Colorado, USA
October 8, 2017
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved



Friday, October 6, 2017

The Lansdowne Letters: A Question of Identity


I remember the first time I saw a person who wasn't the same color as me.
It's one of my earliest memories and only a flash.
My mother remembered it too well, only able to laugh about it years later.  

I was three, possibly just four, and we had gotten on a bus in Charlottetown.
We started down the aisle to take a seat,
and suddenly I came to a full stop at an amazing sight.


Three (Roy) and Four (Me)
Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island Canada
late 1953 or early 1954
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved



"Why are you brown?" I blurted out to an older man sitting by the aisle.

The flash I remember is of him in dark brown work pants, jacket, and a flat cap.
His white undershirt peeked out from the unbuttoned gap
at the neck of his shirt, so striking against his dark skin.
He was a big man, with warm brown eyes and a touch of gray in his dark curly hair.

My mother, brought up short behind me, was mortified and apologized,
"I'm so sorry, sir!  You mustn't ever say something like that, Louise!"

"It's okay," he said, smiling broadly and leaning closer to me.
"When God made us, he took most of us out of the oven on time,
but sometimes he forgot and some of us turned out browner."

"Like rolls?"

"Like rolls,"  he winked.

"Thank you," my mother said softly.  
"She's very young, and she's never seen a negro before."

She hustled me into a seat before he could hear the inevitable,
"God baked us in an oven?"


Hot Out of the Oven!
Flickr:  Yutaka Seki   License



How we identify, think, and speak of ourselves and others
are difficult currents to navigate at times.
It's easy to wound with a word, deliberately or unintentionally.

In my posts I have tried to walk delicately between the "Indian" of a half century ago
and the "First Nations, Aboriginal, Indigenous, and  M├ętis" of today,
balancing my father's language of the past with mine of the present.
I know I've failed at times, but I'm learning. 


Some of My Father's Students
Lansdowne House, Northern Ontario, Fall 1960
Photo by Don MacBeath
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved



The language of identity is complicated.
Today Indigenous and Northern Affairs Canada recognizes
617 First Nations, 126 of which are in Ontario. INAC

At the time my father lived in Lansdowne House
many of the Ojibwa belonged to the Fort Hope Band,
an original signatory to the James Bay Treaty, but now
they are recognized as the separate Neskantaga First Nation.

I am almost as confused today as my father was
during his first weeks in Lansdowne House.

When my father arrived in there in mid-September 1960,
he didn't just find an empty school.
He found a school with no student records.

My father handled the challenge of scrounging desks, chairs, and tables for his students from around the community with a combination of innovation, persuasion, and grit,
but identifying his students was harder. 

My father wrote of this
(I changed the names and numbers.):
"The difficulties faced by the Indian teacher are many and varied.
One of the foremost of these, aside from shyness
which I have already mentioned, is the identification of students.  

Indian families are quite large by white standards,
and it is very hard to keep records with any degree of accuracy.
This difficulty was further complicated in my first school
by the fact that the old school had burned down the year before,
and all the school records had been destroyed.


The New Church of England Indian Day School
Lansdowne House, Northern Ontario, Fall 1960
Photo by Don MacBeath
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved


About half of my children had the same surname of Mink,
and at least two of the fathers were named Elias Mink.
All the mothers of my children seemed to be named
either Sophie, or Minnie, or Katie.

The solution to the whole problem,
and it took me a week of utter confusion
before I accidentally tumbled upon it,
is the band numbers.

All the Indians are organized into bands, 
and all the adults over 21 years of age have band numbers.
The children have the same band number as their father,
and when a woman marries, she loses her own band number
and takes the number of her husband.

At Lansdowne House, most of the Indians were of the Fort Hope Band,
although there were a few from the Ogoki Band,
and one or two from the Marten Falls Band.

A few of the other bands with which I came into contact later
as supervising principal included the Trout Lake Band,
the Caribou Lake Band, the Deer Lake band, the Pikanjikum Lake Band,
the Fort Severn Band, the White Sands Band, and the Poplar Lake Band.





As soon as I found out about band numbers,
most of my difficulties were over.

Ivy Mink became #528 Fort Hope Band,
and I knew which Elias and which Sophie
were responsible for her presence.



Off to School the First Day
Photo by Uno Manilla
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved




However this didn’t clear up all my difficulties,
as I found out to my acute embarrassment one day
when Nettie Marten came to school
to enroll her young son Samuel Marten.  

I took down Nettie’s name and number
and the name and number of her husband Joe.
Naturally the numbers were the same,
but when I started to put the number down for Samuel,
Nettie said, “No, no, Samuel has a different number.”  
I kept insisting that he couldn’t have,
and she kept insisting that he most certainly did have.  

The whole conversation was being carried on through an interpreter who, 
to further complicate the proceedings, was a French Canadian Oblate brother
who was not too proficient in Ojibway and equally unproficient in English.

All of a sudden it hit me what was the matter,
and I put down Samuel’s number with no further argument.
Samuel was illegitimate, the result of some premarital dalliance." 


My Father and His Interpreter, Brother Bernier
September 13, 1960
Photo by Donald MacBeath
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved



As I said, the language of identity is complicated,
and its currents can be difficult to navigate.





Till next time ~
Fundy Blue



Boars Head Lighthouse
Tiverton, Long Island, Bay of Fundy
© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue
All Rights Reserved



Notes:
1.  James Bay Treaty or Treaty 9:
     "Treaty 9 was an agreement established in July 1905, between the Government of Canada
    in the name of King Edward VII and various First Nation band governments in northern Ontario
    One First Nation community in the bordering Abitibi region of northwestern Quebec is included
    in this treaty. It was also known as the "James Bay Treaty," since the eastern end of the affected
    treaty territory was at the shore of James Bay."   Quote:  Wikipedia

2.  Unpublished Handbook:
     Recorded in Dad's unpublished The Northern School Teacher:  A Hand Book To Be Issued To All
     New Entrants To The Teaching Profession In The Indian Schools In The Sioux Lookout Indian
     Agency, 1966, pages 6-8.


For Map Lovers Like Me:
Map of Canada
Highlighting Ontario
Wikimedia  edited





Location of Lansdowne House (Neskantaga)
Wikimedia   edited





Location of Charlottetown, P. E. I.
Wikimedia edited