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Winter is Coming

Surviving the winter.

By Sheila L. ChingwaPublished 3 years ago 11 min read
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Winter is Coming
Photo by James Wheeler on Unsplash

Over 21 years have passed since dad, Howard (Stan/Stanley) Chingwa, has passed away. Crazy how time passes through one’s life so easy. Yet, everyone goes through everyday life and every day events not even thinking about the impact their actions have on others. Parents, of all people have the biggest impact on the family. My dad, well he was a provider. He worked hard to provide and sustain his large family. The best thing of all, he was resourceful. Not only did he work in a factory, he used the egifts from the earth to support his huge family. Here it is spring and Father’s Day is just around the corner. Such nostalgic moments bring me thoughts of my dad. About this time, while checking my email from work, I noticed they were asking for a story of my father and the gift he had given me. So, I thought I would share these thoughts with all who would read.

Spring, summer and fall was a busy time for the family. Spring was the time that dad would put in our family garden. Mid May he would break ground and start prepping the soil for planting by the end of May. Through the summer, I would watch my dad work many weekends on the garden with sheer determination. Often as I played, I would watch him and wondered when he would rest. He was always working. I suppose he had to have such a work ethic to feed his eleven children. Seasonal hunting and fishing would arrive and new meats would be added to the freezer. Looking back on this time, I have to sit marvel at the work the man did to provide. With his knowledge, he knew how to work with the earth to provide what we needed. Whatever the season, he taught us that there was something to harvest from the earth.

By Markus Winkler on Unsplash

If my dad could have a phrase to use today, I am willing to bet it would be, “Winter is Coming”. Most of my memories of dad are based around food cultivation and food preservation for the winter. During the spring, summer and fall, Dad was always doing something in the garden, or he would take us out for gathering and hunting food. Winter was the time he could rest. On hot days of the summer, I would watch him reach into his pocket, take out a red handkerchief and wipe his brow. I imagine him saying to himself, “Winter is coming, I can rest then.” Or, “Winter is coming, I have to provide to survive.” I believe that both phrases would be fitting depending on the moment.

Ah spring, a time when everyone is so happy that winter is over and we can emerge from our houses with happiness. We all smile a silent cheer as the warm sun hits our face and we silently acknowledge that we survived another winter. My dad would begin to make plans for all the activity to come. Spring would bring fish from the river. The boys would all gather together and make dozens of fish egg sacks to use as bait then head off to mouth of the river to harvest our yearly lake trout haul. Cold brisk spring mornings I can still hear him waking up the boys and scurrying them out the door. I am not sure if the boys felt happy getting up and out the doors but they had to help bring in food. Winter will come again and fish will help us survive the next winter so off they went to brave the cold spring morning to fish.

Being the youngest in the family, I didn’t get to go fishing with my dad down at the riverfront. I am not sure my father would have let me go. He was rather old school in some ways. However, I talked myself into trying the sport myself. As I began this adventure of fishing with the boys, I used my memories to assist me in the process. I remember how to tie egg sacs by watching my dad. My seat at the table was positioned right next to my dad’s chair so I got to watch him with his craft. I watched him cut apart mom's old nylons and make his bait. Snip of nylon, a spoon of eggs, twisted thread resulted in a nice little pouch with eggs bundled neatly together. I think I was about five years old and I had the tough job of placing the stinky sacks in the jar for him. A small contribution, I know, but I still had a job to do. Yet, at that moment as a budding fisherwoman, I used his technique and tied myself up some bate. I would like to think that dad was there, reminding me of the proper steps to do. Even loading good line on the reel was learned by watching him. Young I was, but I learned how to the very thing that brings me happiness. Thank you Dad, I learned well.

By Sylvie Mazerolle on Unsplash

Spring rains, Dad would go to ice cold streams to get our smelt for the winter. Often, I would be awakened to help clean his haul from the night's harvest. After a breakfast, Dad would set up a table made of ply wood for us kids to work at. All, of us would sit at the table and clean thousands of fishes and remove their guts so they could go into the freezer. One by one, my fingers would chop off the heads, slice the belly, take out the guts, remove the spine and put them in a big pan. I loathed the job and wished I was at school, but the job couldn’t wait and had to be done. So, there would be no school that day.

Mother’s Day couldn’t have been a good day for my mother. I remember her fixing potato salad, beans with molasses and brown sugar and a selection of meat to go with us to the forest for mushroom hunting. With a car piled with kids, Dad would drive us to the woods. I do not know how that station wagon was able to make it down some wild two tracks, but it did. In excitement, we all piled out of the car and dove into exploration. Yells from siblings alerted others that treasure was found. Each cry was assurance that winter wouldn’t claim us this year. The smell of meat on the grill was a sign that break time was soon to come. Mom was busy cooking while we scoured the land for our tasty winter treats. I can still remember picking Dutchman’s britches, a small flower, and giving them to mom for Mother’s Day. That was just a small amount of happiness she would get from that day.

The month of May was full of flurry. Dad kept two gardens to feed us. One was in the back yard and another was at the home of Nelson Clouse. May brought the familiar sound of the rototiller yelling in the back yard. The complaint of the machine alerted us kids that it was time to weed the garden and get it ready for planting. As dad chopped up the soil, we worked to remove all the weeds so dad could begin planting. Corn, radishes, carrots and dill grew happy in the soil. Dad would work the soil with his hoe until all was happily growing in the sun. The large field was maintained by large farming machines and crops such as potatoes, pumpkin, squash, pickles and tomatoes were grown here. They had plenty of space to grow in this field. At home, they wouldn’t have been able to do so. With dad keeping two gardens, there wasn’t much time for anything else.

School was out and hot summer days ensued. Dad was a worker and he raised kids to work. Hard as it was, those gardens needed attention. With a station wagon loaded, we would head out to the fields. On hands and knees, we would manually pull out the undesirable weeds. Row after row, we would hunt and destroy those plants who threatened our survival. No naps were given and there was little time to cool one’s self in the shade. No rest was given to the weary when dad had a goal to achieve. With excitement at the gardens’ growth, we knew another winter will pass.

By Scott Goodwill on Unsplash

Some of our harvest did not come from a farmed field. Wild fruits were picked to help us to another year. Raspberry, strawberries, blueberries and cherries were sought after. This harvest called for camping. With the station wagon loaded with camping gear and kids, we would head to places up to the upper peninsula. I remember picking and eating when I was young, but as I grew older dad’s tolerance for that behavior was discouraged. The harvest must come in and I was the threat to survival for eating the plunder instead. Some of my happiest moments of my childhood happened at the campsite. My fondest memory was of my mom’s blueberry syrup drizzled over a blueberry pancake, muffin, or sponge cake. A day’s labor ending in a good memory is always a good thing to have as a childhood memory. Berries picked in the wild are wonderfully sustaining even to the soul.

With the closing of summer facing us, the harvesting began in the big garden. Dad loaded us unto the car and we headed to the fields. Bushels and bushels of food was collected. Most of it came to the house for canning while some of the harvest was traded for meats for the freezer. Squash and potatoes were stored in a dark cold space to help them from rotting too quickly. Mom worked on canning until all hours of the night preserving the food. In the morning, we would haul jars and jars to the basement for their winters rest and so mom could start on the next round of work canning the harvest.

Once, while everyone else was being taken to the fields, I was told to stay behind to help mother. I was being sassy and demanded to go. I remember my dad saying, “you have small hands, you need to wash the jars for your mother while we're gone". Well, my response was not appropriate and I ended up crying and cleaning jars. I would be more helpful in the kitchen for the work was light. In the fields, the work would have been too difficult. The field was hard work and the crops that were being harvested would have been too hard for me to handle. There was Hubbard squash in that field that weighed more than I. On that day, working at home was the best option for me, but I did love the garden. I just wanted to see how well the garden grew since the last time again. When they brought the veggies home, I saw exhausted siblings walking in with huge squash from the field, I was thankful that I had to wash jars.

By Johannes Hofmann on Unsplash

August and September were all about harvesting. The potatoes, tomatoes and squash were harvested. I remember dad or Nelson driving the tractor that upset the potatoes from the ground. Us kids would scurry to gather them and place them into the bushel baskets. I remember scouring the ground and turning over the soil looking for hidden potatoes. I was covered with dirt by the end of the day. Exhausted and dirty was the reality of living off the land. I truly was a dirty little Indian but for a good reason. Harvesting and working hard was a good reason for my physical state.

By Julian Hanslmaier on Unsplash

September and October came and once again dad would prepare for hunting and fishing. Bait was tied for fishing, guns were cleaned and ammo was checked. Soon, there would be salmon, rabbit and venison in the freezer. I was too little to do either harvest but Dad never wavered. I am no fool to think he hunted out of responsibility. I could see his excitement of the hunt in his face. I get that same excitement when I am getting ready to pull fish at the Bear River. I love to fish. Too bad I was never old enough to fish with him at the Bear River. I wonder though if he would let his daughter fish with him. I can assure you that I have often wondered about that as I waited for a fish to strike. I have listened to my brother’s fish tales they use to tell over the dinner table and think about them for mental entertainment as if they were there with me. I love those crisp Autumn days by the river and I am sure he did too. I am sure he visits me while I stand there in thought. At least, I would like to think that.

By Jasmin Sessler on Unsplash

The year 2020 was a year when all that dad’s lessons came back to me. Food for six adults and one baby kicked me into gear on food storage. I didn’t put in a garden but I did store up canned foods, picked strawberries, harvested from the tribal gardens, canned some tomatoes and stashed fish and other meats in the freezer. This year, 2021, I am proud to say that I have a small garden plot in the community garden club down the street. I will be put to the task of tending the garden to provide fresh veggies for the house. Winter is coming but Dad taught us not to fear it if we work hard during the times when earth is providing its fruits, we can make it another year. The earth provides for us but we have to work with her in her seasons and rest when she rests. Yes, “Winter is Coming,” but this is only June so rest will not be soon. Dad’s lessons are not resting, they are essential tool for me to use to secure the well-being of my family this winter. Thank you, dad, for teaching me how to survive through the hard winters and in this day and time, through the hard economic times. Winter is coming

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About the Creator

Sheila L. Chingwa

Welcome to my world.

Welcome to my thoughts.

I am proud to be a Native American Elder born and raised in Northern Michigan. Thanks to my hard work I have a B.A. in Education and a Masters in Administration and Supervision in Education.

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