Salmon Season, 1985

Prince Rupert is well known for rain and fishing. I’ve never known anything but. Like rain, salmon has always been a part of my life—in the ocean, on the stove, in the refrigerator or in my belly.

Most people say they like summer for the sun, but for coastal Natives, summer means one thing—salmon. The sockeye salmon season. It’s an important time of year because that is how most Native people earn their living. It’s also when we preserve our food for the winter.

Our small town begins stirring with excitement as Native people from surrounding villages arrive. Third Avenue bustles with cars and people. The adults seem happier when they are busy and there’s work to do. The men go out commercial fishing, and the women (my mom and aunties included) put in long, hard hours at the fish cannery, which runs shifts around the clock.

It’s the middle of summer. I go to visit my mom at the cannery on her lunch break, and even though we are outside, the smell of raw fish is everywhere. I wrinkle my nose. Ewww, it smells.

My mom corrects me. That’s the smell of money.

And there is money to be made, all right.

Last payday, half the cannery workers got paid for overtime work, and there was a closure for fishing after an exceptionally good run, which meant fishermen received advances as well—the banks in Prince Rupert ran out of money. All of them. Everyone in town was talking about it.

When my mom and I were walking down Third Avenue that day, we bumped into someone she knew.

Did you hear about the banks? they asked. Were you able to cash your check?

Thankfully, she had cashed it.

I notice adults often carry fifty- or hundred-dollar bills during the summer months, and you can tell it makes them feel good. Those rich brown and vibrant red bills are commonplace.

We preserve our salmon in the summer. Food fish, the adults call it. It’s a staple item that sustains us throughout the long winter months. Grandma always prepares ahead, well before she even gets fish. She gathers jars together to clean and then counts how many empty cases she has. If she happens to be short, she goes searching in our basement for more jars.

This is an adventure in itself, as you have to go outside, and the stairs leading down to our unfinished basement are overgrown with grass and a buildup of slippery moss.

Grandma is older and a bit heavier, and it shows in her movements. None of that deters her. Housedress and slippers on, she makes her way down there.

I follow along, as I know she needs the help. This time, the trek is worth it. Ooh, Grandma says, as her eyes shimmer at all the jars she finds. That’s mostly how she communicates—through her eyes.

Several of my cousins are at our house at any given time in the summer, while their parents are at work at the cannery. They’ve followed us to the basement and have gathered at the door. This pleases Grandma, as extra hands are always welcome. She starts to pass the Mason jars over to us grandkids one by one, and like an assembly line of little ants, we make our way back upstairs.

When someone from our reserve drops off a catch of sockeye salmon, Grandma is ready. She turns the kitchen table into a makeshift workstation by covering it with a flattened cardboard box.

Grandma is strong and has big arms and hands, but I can see removing the fish heads, then gutting and cleaning the fish isn’t an easy job.

I stand quietly observing, being sure not to get in the way.

The fish heads go to one pile, and if there are eggs inside, they go to another. Then she cuts the fish into even smaller sections, holding up a slab of salmon against a pint or quart jar, making sure the cut is the right size.

This time she lets me measure and pour the salt into jars. This is an important job, as the amounts have to be exact.

Then she wipes down the mouth of the jars, fastens the lids, and into the boiler they go.

Grandma keeps the fish heads for baking—she never throws them out. Don’t waste seafood, she often says to me.

I’m used to her saying things like that. There are so many rules around not misusing or wasting our traditional foods.

The two of us eat the fish heads as an afternoon snack. My cousins would sooner play outside than eat fish heads. We don’t mind, more for us!

I sit at the kitchen table watching closely as Grandma pulls the baking pan out of the oven and carefully places it on the table. There are almost a dozen salmon heads on the thin pan. I stare at them curiously. Their eyes slightly bulged from the heat, their tiny little sharp teeth still intact. I reach out to try and touch one of them.

Grandma reprimands me. Don’t play with the fish.

I think the fish heads are the best part of the salmon, very different from the rest. The meat inside is oily, and the texture silky-smooth. The only thing they need is a bit of salt. Grandma and I sit in our small kitchen not saying a word, eating our tasty fish heads until the meat of every last one of them is gone.

Grandma sets fish steaks aside to cook for dinner as well. I often hear adults say, Fried fish is best when it’s fresh! She coats the fish in flour and then fries the steaks in a cast-iron pan and serves it with white rice and store-bought sweet pickles on the side.

When my mom and aunties walk in the door, they can tell by the smell that they’re in for a delicious meal. Work uniform and kerchief still on, my mom digs in. Luk’wil ts’imaatk, she says.

It is very tasty. I don’t like the skin, though. I peel mine off with my fork, hold it up and ask, Who wants my skin?

My mom holds her plate toward me. I drop the piece of skin on it and she says, That’s the best part.

Grandma often shares fish with our non-Native neighbors as well. It’s probably her way of saying thank you to them for mowing our lawn. They don’t offer or ask to mow it—they just do it. After dinner, she asks me to go see if our neighbor could meet her at the fence between our houses.

My grandma mostly speaks in our Sm’algyax language, so when the father of the family next door reaches what’s remaining of our fence, they don’t say much. Grandma smiles with her eyes, he smiles and nods in return, and reaches over the fence to accept the big silvery sockeye from her.

Words aren’t necessary. The language of sharing salmon is simple.

Pepto-Bismol

My name is Amelia Douglas. But everyone calls me Mia. My younger cousin Carmen couldn’t pronounce my name when she was little; that’s where Mia came in. I’m mostly called Amelia when I’m trouble. Grandma will say, You’re a bad girl, Amelia.

My mom and I live with my grandmother in her home. My grandfather bought the house before he passed away from cancer. I was only two when he died, so I have no memory of him. My mom’s younger brother, Dan, and a foster girl named Mary live here as well.

Mary is five years older than I am and mostly thinks I’m a brat. I guess most of the time I am. Uncle Dan isn’t that friendly, but we don’t see him much. He’s always in his room drinking beer and listening to music.

Our home is a hub for our large extended family. Different family members are always coming and going—aunts, uncles and cousins—like a continually revolving door. At least, that’s how my mom refers to it. They move in if they happen to fall on hard times, then move out once they’re able to get back on their feet.

Our door is never locked to anyone—literally. We don’t have a key. We’ve never had one that I’ve known of. No one seems too concerned about it, though, or is in a hurry to get a new one.

I don’t have a dad. No one talks about that, not ever. My mom has never said a word about him, and I don’t ask.

Once, in a teasing way, Grandma asked me who my dad was. It hurt my feelings that she asked that. Like she was making fun of me.

I know she didn’t mean anything by it, because she never upsets me like that. If something makes me sad, my tummy will start to ache. I don’t know why this happens, but Grandma’s the one who usually makes me feel better. I go and sit on her lap or lean into her and it goes away.

When she isn’t around, I usually reach for the Pepto-Bismol. Well, that was until my cousin Tonya laughed at me when I asked for some the other day. She said she’d never heard a kid ask for Pepto-Bismol before.

Summer Fish and Chips

It’s Saturday, and the sun is out. My best friend and I make the most of the day by playing on the street in front of my home.

Lara is Mexican Hungarian. I’m mostly Native Indian. I say mostly because my skin is lighter brown. Some people think that we look alike. I guess we have similarities, like dark brown hair. But I’m a slimmer build and a bit darker-skinned than she is.

We’ve both recently turned ten years old and have lived on the same cul-de-sac, four houses apart, to be exact, for as long as we can remember. Lara lives in a large white house at the end of the street. They have a view of the mountains and the ocean and they overlook town. Her family has two cars in the driveway, two living rooms, two fireplaces, two bathrooms and a laundry room. It’s one of the nicest houses on our street, and the kind of home people like me can only dream about. Our home is an old wartime house, our view is a retaining wall, and there is no car parked out front. It has original everything, at a time when original has no value. Our bathroom has an old