Red and blue lights ring silently in the background. Sirens are unnecessary for the attention of an intimate crowd. Men and cars in uniform. The Universal sign of trouble. And a common misunderstanding. The red and blue are not the sign of; they are the consequence of.
In the BC interior, in the heat, the sun saturates all. It's dry, inescapably hot, and grassy. That straw-like grass you find in places with extended summers and limited rainfall. Sand in foliage form. Merritt in the 50s, and there was, as there still is, a lot of space, a lot of farmland. A lot of dry, rough yard, borderlessly blending into fields. There are no other houses nearby, no neighbours, no noise. But even a troublesome sight must compete with the summer sun. And viewing through the heat, the lights, the assumed crisis, seem surreal.
I have infiltrated someone else's memory. The child views the cop car and its lights through the yard, beyond the sand grass, with no barriers but a yellow slide between himself and the scene. Mostly space between him and this moment. The dust is still settling from the cars' movement as it is put into park. Lights still swirling. Unsure if the engine is still running. They are where they have intended to be, and that's all that seems to matter. Two cops get out. Slowly, calmly, and carefully. Mournfully. Heavily. They are not here to fight. They are not here to argue. They are here to get someone who knows it is coming.
A moment meant to be nothing more than a child and his sister's play, not meant to be a memory, is now one. Across the yard, everything has begun to change. Consequences are coming to fruition.
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Granddad passed away in 97'. There wasn't much to pick from of Ed's belongings; my Dad wouldn't have wanted a lot to choose from anyways. He kept a few pieces of furniture, a unique and well-working old lamp, and photos. Black and grey, framed - a portrait of his mother of whom I never met. Dorothy. They called her Dottie. My Dad looked like her, I thought. She also looked like my older sister. Darker skin, darker eyes. But not just that. The eye shape, the eyebrows, the cheekbones. Another photo. My favourite. Black and white as well. My Father and his sister as small children. They are standing on a wooden fence, their little arms and bodies clinging on, my Grandad beside and behind them, two more men further beside and behind. Shot from the kids' side, from slightly below, looking up at the clan. The small group appears to be watching the same scene, something to the right of the camera yielder. An almost entirely candid shot. Taken quickly enough that no one's movement but for some eyes, interrupted.
My Grandfather was white, with light hair, light eyes. He stood out in this photo. Not like he didn't belong, quite the opposite, really. But he stood out. The kids are much darker than him. The men in the background also have dark skin, dark eyes, and thick, untamed, unruly hair. One's looks comical almost, like how the hair on the top of a baby's head tends to whisk upwards towards the sky. It's a friendly scene. It was the first time I recall being face to face with many of these people, but it wasn't much of an introduction. "Uncle" was tossed around. They were wild. That whole side. Chaotic. Funny. Hurt. Often in flux, in movement. Granddad hung out with the wildings even after Dottie left.
This was the most I had ever seen my Dad interact with his family, despite it being a frozen interaction from 43 years previous. My Grandfather would soon take the kids from Merritt, and they would leave the McDougall name where they found it. The courts made the rare decision to award a father custody.
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This one's mine. 7 or 8 years old, sitting at lunch at a town over with my parents and three siblings. My Father exits out to the busy street and returns with a woman on his arm. You can just see a sliver of Kootenay Lake in the distance, down the hill.
"Ohhh you know this is your sister," My mom says from our booth.
I might have asked who that woman was; she may have interjected before we had a chance to comment, I do not recall. I was unfamiliar with this woman and what to do with this new knowledge. Inadequate explanations are a force of narration in this family.
My Father's Mother left her family for another man. Had another family. The same swift strategy is used to explain my Dad's previous life: Barely an adult, he had a child, made a young bride. She left him for another man. She had another family. This was the second woman in his life to cause him pain. I'd like to add: He started another family. That second family was sitting at lunch in Nelson, looking back up at the first.
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There's a cabin up in the hills. Up on a plateau, decades before the Merritt-Kelowna connector connected. In the 1930s and 40s when the runaway Mother of my Father was one of ten children. She's older, if not the eldest. The parents - Agnes and Joe, and sometimes some of the uncles, come and go, making appearances to drop off the newest little addition. It's hard to believe that their lives are not more difficult by such a transient life. They must have had their reasons. I see Dottie as always having a child in her arms. She lifts, carries, cradles, and holds. She's got them. There's been no other way.
The cabin. I only see it in the dark. It's not large, has wooden steps up to the front as the main floor is raised. It's worn and weather-beaten; you get more storms up in those hills. It is somewhat grimy but sturdy thanks to its solid and thick logs. Two square windows on either side of the door. A shack does not have glass windows and a front porch to sit on. A shack does not have strong walls. There is nothing but shared space in a shack, however. It stays warm in the winter with the woodstove. Supplies for anything and everything are always scarce. It is barely manageable, somewhat survivable, bleak. Their world is small. They hold feelings of injustice in their hearts and bodies without knowing the words to describe it.
Headlights are unwelcome. They always come in the dark. In the dark you know kids are confined to the house. These lights have no competition. The clan does not wait for the greeting of strangers. The youngest are trained at first glimpse of headlights to flee into the woods behind the cabin. Cars never come up here but for one reason.
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The ancestors and descendants are settled all over the Okanagan. Descended from the Red River area, Quebec, and beyond. History forgets to mention the partnerships of many Hudson Bay Company fur traders. The men’s resourcefulness cannot be overlooked but it was their marriages with indigenous women that guaranteed their survival and success. This continued as these pioneers moved into BC. Some pure - new to the land blood - sometimes married in. But there was safety in familiar kin. A formidable marriage often occurred when the indigenous blood was getting watered down. That is no longer the truth. I am Metis. My children likely will not be considered such.
Some of the involved characters in this story include one of the first settlers in Merritt, Joseph Garcia. And one of the first settlers in Kelowna, John McDougall. Great-Great-Great-Grandfather. And Great-Great-Great-Grandfather.
John McDougall's first homesteads’ cabin is re-created, propped up in the Kelowna Museum. One of his later cabins sits fully intact in Kelowna, the "Third John McDougall House." But, of course, it should be called "The Third John and Amelia McDougall House." She was there for the first and second, after all. History likes to forget about the women. Rumour has it John had two daughters by another woman during their marriage. Amelia would periodically leave to return to her tribe. Colonizers, the McDougalls and the Garcias. Mutts they also were. Some moved between “city” life and the reservations, at home in either. Innovators. Hustlers. Builders. Hunters. These families were part of a juxtaposition of society. Creators for the state but also dark-skinned immigrants, and worse, Indians.
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My sister chose to get Married in Merritt of all places. Right in the middle of the 2021 heatwave. As Carsons, we returned temporarily to where we left the McDougall name behind. The dry air smells of sun-baked grasses and heat bleached soil. The sun in this valley is haunting. It offers no rest.
We rented the Quilchena Hotel, a quintessential Victorian turn-of-the-century hotel for the festivities. Old-timey portrait of a ghostly original owner and everything. Our room on the third floor was an arduous journey as you climbed upwards with the rising air that left you wanting. The hotel was a ten-minute drive from town, along the old highway. Situated with a lake in front and old farmland behind, above, and below.
Down this old highway is where a Garcia daughter married a McDougall son. They married out of the heat on a boxing day 100 years ago. One of their daughters would marry a white man 20 years her senior. With her marriage, Dottie left that cabin in the hills behind. But she could not escape futility. As a family that weekend, we moved through time.
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It's a vision like a memory again. The same grasses in the Nicola Valley also decorate the Okanagan Lake valley and its hillsides. I see past the grass through the heat when Kelowna was nothing more than a few fresh homesteads. Lots and lots of dry land. Lots of open space. A small cabin in the background. Sunbaked on the outside and, despite being dark, the cabin is cooked on the inside, warm and musty. The lot lacks trees. The kinds of trees that protect and decorate the home. The types of trees that you plan to see grow. He knows this home is temporary. A starter home of the 1860s. I can smell it. Musty and dry, slightly like animals, but more of a tobacco and stove cooked burn. Unlike the connector cabin of his descendant's future – this dwelling does not hold weight. This one is at the beginning of its story, not at its end. The family is young. John, his wife Amelia, and his wildling children are not yet the community staple that they will become.
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The Merritt River. 1968. Agnes. I always thought this moment belonged to the Uncles' wife. Someone a bit more out of reach, someone less knowable. She's right here though. I thought it was because of an Uncle. Perhaps. But, it was her husband. Someone close. Someone knowable.
There is a still a glimmer of light low from the recently set sun. By the temperate of the river, it must be early summer. It is quiet here. The water is cold enough to stimulate but not alert the senses. The river is not treacherous. The currents are tranquil and immersive. Not endlessly deep, but deep enough to submerge yourself. And deep enough to not come back up. She chose not to carry the weight any longer.
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We are still here. While we hold the weight, we know it is not ours forever. The story is changing.
Kayla Carson