Every Wednesday after class, I got on the 88 and rode 45 minutes to Noohkoom’s house. She lived in a small beat-down community situated between the train tracks and the city. The bus didn’t go through the area, only circled around it; so I would walk another 15 down the main gravel road that was barely wide enough for one vehicle. When I would arrive at the crumbling bungalow, I was always in an awful mood and so was Noohkoom.. Mom used to say we were like storm clouds racing to see who could block out the sun first.. I marched in with a huff and plopped my school bag on the floor, and Noohkoom hollered “AEN SAC!” Which I knew meant to hang up my bag on the moose antlers nearby. I had picked up a bit of Michif from her over the months I had been visiting. Mom told me Noohkoom would really appreciate it if I learnt to speak our language but I never got around to it.
When I reached the living room, she was sitting in her ancient armchair that had moulded to her small frail body. Resting beside her on a wooden stool was one of Moushoum’s old tackle boxes which she had repurposed as a bead kit. The house was littered with Moushoums’s old hunting and fishing gear. I told her that if she sold it, she could get a lot of money from it. I didn’t understand why she held onto all this stuff at the time, but I know now Noohkoom didn’t want to part with Moushoum any more than she already had.
The tacklebox was filled with an endless supply of colourful tiny seed beads that somehow never dwindled despite her beading something new each week. I started on my regular chores around the house and fed the dogs that hung around the community, which she instructed me to do the first time I visited, only after calling them dirty mutts sael en bawnd di shyaen. Most times Nookhoom kept up her grumpy old woman act, but sometimes it would slip. I think that’s why I kept showing up every week. She was mean, but every time I saw a crack in her demeanour, I drifted closer to the Nookhoom that Mom knew and the woman that Moushoum used to know.
Once I finished her infinite list of demands, I sat with her for a while before heading back to campus. Very few words were ever exchanged during this time. I watched whatever channel she had on the television and she remained absorbed in whatever beading project she had going on. Periodically, she would get frustrated with the small beads and thick deer hide, muttering under her breath in Michif. One time as I got up to leave, she demanded, “gee-ouchaenmik.” She did this every week, and although I knew to kiss her cheek before leaving, it was her way of saying goodbye and I love you without actually having to say it. As I was leaning over, I noticed she had one white bead amongst the other purple beads.
“Noohkoom, you used the wrong colour.” I pointed at the bead.
“I did not,” she said.
Her response confused me but I ultimately chalked up the mistake to her bad eyes. The next week the same thing happened. A red bead amongst a sea of white.
“Nookhoom, you used the wrong colour again.” I said to her,
“I did not.”
I became a bit aggravated- could she really not see it? I pointed at it.
“See?”
“That is the spirit bead.” She looked up at me as if reading my thoughts. “This bead is a mistake I make on purpose. It is to remind me that only the Creator can make something perfect.”
Each week after that, she taught me more and more. She showed me how to prep the hide, what stitch to use, she let me pick out the colours, but she always picked out the spirit bead herself.
“I pick the bead as a thank you to the Creator, ” she said.
On the last Wednesday I visited before she passed, she handed me a small green tackle box without a word. I sat beside her and opened it up to reveal thousands of seed beads, a small bag of needles and a ball of tangled thread. I smiled at her and she returned the smile, before returning to the half-beaded flower stencil in front of her. It was the first time I had seen her smile since Moushoum passed. I finally saw her as he did. My Noohkoom was the crankiest woman with the kindest spirit. Each time I stitch the spirit bead into my work, I think of her smile that day.
Spirit Bead is a short story written by Katrina Pascall. Katrina is an undergraduate student at Carleton university in her second year. She is planning to complete a Bachelor of Arts degree in English with a concentration in Creative Writing. She does not have previous publication experience but is hoping to publish in the future. Katrina grew up in Northern Ontario and identifies as a Metis woman. Her short story Spirit Bead is a reflection on the sometimes difficult relationship between a Grandmother and her Granddaughter who connect emotionally and spiritually through their culture and language.
