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As an Adjunct Professor in the Department of English and Film Studies, I write nonfiction books with the James Bay Cree of Northern Québec. Currently we’re working on a book series of (IRS) recovery stories. I am not Cree, but the Elders requested an outsider to write this project because most of the stories are trauma stories and “our own [Cree] writers have enough to carry.” This posting, a requirement of my adjunct appointment, has been approved by the both Elder and the supervisor overseeing the project.

Previous posts about this project are here, here, here, and here. And more information about our most recent book, E nâtamukw miyeyimuwin: Residential School Recovery Stories of the James Bay Cree, Vol One, including purchase details, is .

About twice a year, I travel to the remote James Bay Cree territory of Eeyou Istchee and visit approximately three (of nine) . Sometimes I stay in the temporarily vacated houses of medical personnel, sometimes I stay in lodgings assigned to travelling workers, and sometimes I stay in the local lodge or inn.

One winter afternoon, I arrived at the local lodge only to find it locked up. On the door was a note, with a phone number, to call Kevin. (Not his real name.)

The Oujé-Bougoumou Capissisit lodge in winter.

I called Kevin. His number had been discontinued.

The friend who drove me there and I both pulled out our phones. We each called seven or eight people and those people called others. Eventually we figured out who Kevin was and called his neighbour. She slipped on her boots and ran over to knock on Kevin’s door and tell him that someone was at the lodge.

Ten minutes later, a truck pulled into the parking lot. It was Kevin’s mom, dropping him off. Kevin was a teenager – who hadn’t paid his cell bill.

He unlocked the door and let me in to the lodge.

“My phone still has texting function!” he said. And he immediately took a Sharpie from the desk and walked around to the various “Call Kevin” signs, writing “Text only” beneath the phone number.

He gave me two key cards then, told me I was alone in the lodge, wished me a good night, and left. He said he had homework to do.

I moved into my room. It was a beautiful day, so I decided to go for a run. I had just left my room when I realized that I had forgotten my earmuffs and turned around to get them.

And couldn’t get back into the room.

Kevin had given me two cards, but had swiped only one, and I had the wrong one in hand. I had been too busy running my fingers through the lush caribou hide covering the front desk to notice what he was doing.

The caribou hide desk.

I reasoned that I had solved harder problems than this.

I returned to the beautiful hide-covered front desk and quickly found the card-keying machine. I typed in my room number. It asked for a PIN. And then I thought: Kevin is a teenager. The manager would not likely trust his teenage memory with a PIN. Surely it’s written down somewhere.

On the ledge around the desk were about 25 post-its (including one with an intriguing list of names of people permanently denied entry). One post-it had a four-digit number. I keyed it in, it asked for my room number, and I swiped the card. All was well!

And now I had access to the key machine and potentially to the entire lodge. But it’s a lodge with a reputation of strange things happening owing to burial grounds nearby. I determined not to abuse this new power in any way.

Later, after my run, I heated some soup in the microwave in my room and reached for the plastic cutlery that had always been beside the coffeemaker. And saw that the cutlery had been replaced with stir sticks.

I had not packed cutlery.

Back to the front desk. Perhaps an employee had left some lying about.

The desk was tidy and cutlery-free. I didn’t want to open any drawers. But behind the desk was a door I’d never noticed before.

It opened into a short hallway and to a stairwell.

Ever cautious now, I propped open the door with my shoe and went upstairs. There were two rooms. One was the locked office and the other a locked conference room – whose lock had seen better days. A conference room was promising.

I jiggled the door a bit – and the lock gave immediately.

Sure enough, beside the sink sat a small box of individually packaged plastic cutlery. I grabbed a few packs – they even had pepper in them which could only improve my soup – and returned to my room to eat dinner.

Now I pay attention when they swipe my keycards. And always pack cutlery.