From what I can remember 2
My memories are few, and those that linger are often weighed down by heaviness.
The forest was my sanctuary in those lonely times. After the cannery and fishing seasons wrapped up, Cassiar felt deserted. Families would gather their belongings and head to Prince Rupert or return to the reserves.
I would find solace among the trees, sometimes for hours on end. Occasionally, I’d glance back at our house, hoping to see someone return.
There were moments of luck when I’d spot a familiar face, either a neighbor or a family member. But too often, my parents would stumble back home, intoxicated and embroiled in arguments. My father's rage would erupt, and my mother would bear the brunt of his violence.
I remember one instance when my mom returned sober, perhaps delayed from work. We visited a neighbor’s house, where she had a beer. My heart sank when I heard footsteps signaling my dad's arrival. Mom instructed me to tell him we were next door. I entered to find him inebriated, and fear clutched at my throat. “Hi, Dad,” I managed, but he erupted, demanding to know where my mom was. I felt helpless, terrified he might hurt her. I stammered, “I don’t know,” and as his fury escalated, he seized a knife and pressed it against my neck. I repeated, “I don’t know,” until I finally blurted, “I’ll see if she’s next door!” He released me.
I dashed back next door, bursting in without a word, and shouted, “Dad's home!” before crawling under the bunk beds in the hallway. I ignored the spiders and clutter, remaining there until morning when they coaxed me out.
This is what I think of when someone reminisces about ‘the good old days.’
Yet, amidst the turmoil, there were moments of joy with the other kids. My fondest recollections from Cassiar include my dad bringing home buckets of crab or abalone, teaching me to box, and swinging on the monkey bars with friends.
