As is my wont I awoke early this morning. Where do these words come from?? They just pop into my head, then I look them up and they are perfect. The dictionary meaning of the word wont is: someone’s customary behavior in a particular situation: (Constance, as was her wont, had paid her little attention.) My customary behavior is to wake up early but it sounds so much better to say: Alexis, as was her wont, awoke at dawn. It certainly makes me sound more important and that I rather like because if you are not important to yourself, you will never be important to anyone. Women need to learn that. However, I am digressing.
So, as my wont, I awoke early and looked at my emails. dutifully responding to Jennifer W.. She sent an email with beautiful pictures of rainbows, two of which will be attached so their beauty may be shared. Then I perused the rest of my Inbox. Oops, here I go again! I do love that word peruse: “study, read, scrutinize, inspect, examine, wade through, look through; browse through, leaf through, scan, run one’s eye over, glance through, flick through, skim through, thumb through, dip into” Wading through my emails I opened one from the Faculty of Arts of my alma mater, the University of Alberta. I became fascinated with the story of a fellow graduate. I read the article, then mesmerized by the tale, googled to find more information and became enraptured by the unfolding story, it beguiled and transported me.
This is the story, “ A Métis archeologist at the University of Alberta working with the Muskowekwan First Nation in Saskatchewan may have discovered graves of missing children from the nearby residential school that closed in 1997.
“In the records there were 35 children who were unaccounted for, that disappear off the records, and nobody quite knows what happened,” said Kisha Supernant.
The Muskowekwan Residential School operated from 1889 to 1997 and stands on the land of the Muskowekwan First Nation, which is trying to save the deteriorating building—one of the last standing residential school buildings in Western Canada—to turn it into a museum.
As part of the preservation, the community wants to locate the children who went missing while attending the school.”
I was filled with curiosity: Where was this place? Was it near to anywhere I had lived in Saskatchewan? How could such places exist and these atrocities exist? Why am I finding out about them now? What other horrible and unspeakable things are associated with the Roman Catholic Church? How could the Government of Canada be so cold and unfeeling in their treatment of the Indigenous people? How does one survive such abuse as these children were subjected to? What purpose does it serve anyone to treat others with such inhumanity?
Then, even more logical questions emerged. Even if they build the museum who will visit? It is apparently 140 km. northeast of Regina, Saskatchewan, the place of my birth. I am convinced that people will be taking their kids to Disneyland and not the Muskowekwan Residential School Museum. Did the nuns and priests who inflicted such horrors on these children go to heaven or hell or just spin around in purgatory for years and years? Where do I find answers to these questions? What can I do about it all?
The last question is particularly relevant since soon I shall leave the country of my birth, not to return as a resident. Perhaps I shall come and visit from time to time but it is not practical or practicable for residency, that this, the country where I was born shall not be the country where I die. It is neither feasible nor workable because of the lack of medical care and the onerous taxation system. According to CPI (and she is smart and I quote her) “Taxation will only get worse under this government.”
I am cognizant of the fact that people read me on a daily (recently every other day) basis to cheer themselves up. I guess you got let down this morning. I actually do have a cheery story about Indian Residential Schools, believe that, or not. My father-in-law was the principal of a resdienral school in Edmonton and he did an incredible job. He took over, fired the abusive staff, put the kids in regular schools rather than having them taught by inferior teachers.. He even promoted a student rock band, called The Chieftains, if I remember correctly. Husband Number One does not want the story told, but it is not his story and if I did what he told me to do I would still be married to him. Instead, I am single and I have proposed to Prince Charles twice through this blog which has 12,00 visitors a year. I mentioned twice that he should divorce Camilla and marry me and then I would be Queen of England, eventually. Perhaps, to make it less messy, Camilla could die. There has been some precedent for that. You do recall the fate of several of King the VIII’s wives, do you not? Prince Charles’ first wife died as well, you recall?
My plans for the day remain rather amorphous. The plans are shapeless,, indeterminate; vague, nebulous, indefinite; except for my blow dry with Vicky at six and perhaps pick up my cleaning Perhaps egg bites at Starbucks. But first I must get this off to Chris.