Our New Addition!

We have a new addition to our family!

Technically he's not 'new' per say.  This new addition was acquired about three years ago, but we weren't able to make him an official member of our family until Christmas, and he traveled back to Tuk with us all snug in his box, surrounded with woolly socks and clean underwear (as opposed to dirty, which would just have been unfair to the poor guy). Last summer, when we moved from London to Parry Sound, he came along and spent a brief span of time with us there, but shortly before we moved to Tuk, we thought it would be better for him to spend some time in Orillia, rather than take him with us right away.  He really needed that time to become more socially acceptable.  We had a family meeting over Christmas to discuss his name, and we decided on "Francis".  I think he really likes it and seems to be answering to it, too, in his own bizarre way.

I am sure by now that you are intensely curious as to the identity of our new family member, and we are very excited to introduce him to all of you.  After all we are pleased as punch that we have adopted Francis into our home.  Francis is pleased too.  You can tell by the expression on his face.  You know the expression "If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it probably is a duck?"  Well, Francis doesn't walk or talk like a duck any longer, but in his earlier days he most certainly did!

 Francis is a drake (thus his first name) from Walpole Island, Ontario, which is just south of Sarnia.  More specifically, he is a Green-Winged Teal.  The First Nations Organization for which Greg worked in London prior to our move up here, promoted regular cultural training with all non-native staff members.  One day three years ago, Greg found himself crouched in a blind early in the morning with his First Nations boss, Bruce, and a few other co-workers, in the middle of the bush with a view of the lake close by.  Greg had gone along on this cultural training expedition rather reluctantly as a member of a film crew recording the event for educational purposes.

It was early - stupid early; the kind of early where only those who have to make it to the airport or those who go hunting are actually awake.  Greg had spent the night at his boss's house along with the other members of the hunting party and those who would be filming it.  The organization for which Greg worked believed in filming cultural events to show the students in the band-run private schools all about the traditional ways of life for their respective Nation.  Since hunting with guns in blinds around dawn is considered to be an important means of survival and carrying on tradition, there was Greg, the token White Guy without a hunting license, amongst a gaggle of First Nations colleagues all dressed in camouflage and fluorescent orange, about to go hunting for the first time in his life to film his colleagues while doing so.

So there he was, out in the marshy wilderness surrounded by reeds, crouched down in the blind, filming the events of the morning.  Like any traditional hunting event would shake down, somebody brought Tim Horton's donuts and coffee so Greg munched on an apple fritter, and sipped on a coffee he didn't enjoy but drank to be polite, all the while holding the video camera in his hand.

It was a still and quiet morning in early November on the southern end of Walpole Island, where the St. Clair River empties into Lake St. Clair.  Since it's a small river delta with many feeding opportunities, it is a favourite stop for a wide variety of migratory animals, ducks included, and where there are ducks, there are hunters.  There was not a breeze nor a cloud in the sky and no snow on the ground. It wasn't an especially cold morning, which Greg considered a blessing.  Since there was no wind, the water was still so the decoys were not moving like regular ducks flapping their wings and diving in the water, which made the other ducks suspicious I guess.  Regardless, the ducks were not flying, and this made for some mighty slim pickings in terms of actually shooting one.  They had been there for about two hours, and Greg had been sitting there quietly, shooting film, munching on donuts and listening to the quiet banter in the blind.

Finally, they realized after a few failed shots that they were not going to be successful that day, and Greg's boss turned the shot gun over to Greg and said, "Have a go.".  Greg waited.  He watched two ducks land on the lake and begin paddling toward the decoys. He lined one up and squeezed the trigger.  Sure enough, the token White Guy was the only one to have shot a duck the entire morning!  The prize was retrieved, and that was the first time Greg laid eyes on Francis the Green-Winged Teal.

Later on that day when Greg returned home from his hunting expedition, he handed me a plastic bag and said, "Look inside."  I opened the bag, took one look at the webbed feet and feathery mass I held in my hand, shrieked and dropped it, my body practically convulsing with shivers. Greg pulled Francis out of the bag and proudly shared the tale of poor Francis' demise, which was actually Greg's glory story.  After the kids had had a good look and were appropriately impressed, Greg placed the bird in the freezer, where he said it would be preserved until he could take it to a taxidermist, which is what he was being encouraged to do; after which it would sit as a trophy and important part of the First Nations decor in the office.

Years passed.  We filled and emptied the freezer in our apartment numerous times, and often I would reach into it to grab what I thought was a package of frozen vegetables and instead pull out that plastic grocery bag which contained Francis.  Of course, every time I did this I got the heebie-jeebies, and stuffed (excuse the pun) the darn duck back into the freezer.  From time to time, Greg had to pull Francis out of the freezer in order to play the Freezer Strategy Game, which involves the planning and organization of several items that in no possible way, shape or form will fit into your freezer yet somehow do, and Francis was always carefully considered into the equation.  Really, it was only the right thing to do.

More time slipped by, and, as one thing led to another, the funding for the organization for which Greg had spent five years disappeared, and since they couldn't pay him, he was laid off.  We realized that there were some major events and adventures looming on the horizon for us, so we gave notice on our apartment and began the preparations for our move.

On the day we moved out, we were busy packing, giving directions to the movers, and cleaning like crazy. Everything had been removed from the freezer but Francis, who, three years later, was still wrapped in his grocery bag and frozen solid.  Greg had saved a cooler, the size of which would fit a six pack, and one of the last things he did before we vacated our apartment was grab Francis and put him into his new carrying case.

Francis rode with us in our van in his case on the floor of the passenger seat between my feet all the way from London to Parry Sound.  When we arrived, the still frozen solid Francis was gently removed from his carrier and placed in Gramma Wilson's freezer.  A few days later, Greg took Francis out of the freezer and proudly displayed him to our niece and nephew, who were also appropriately impressed.  He was placed back into his carrying case, and the five of us took him for a drive to Orillia to the taxidermist, which would be his temporary home until we could come back for him.

Greg had looked into having Francis stuffed before, but he required a hunting licence in which to do so, and that was never on his mind or in the scope of his radar, seeing as he does not make a regular habit of shooting guns or hunting, so he forgot.  Every now and then he'd be reminded by me, when he heard my shriek of disgust and horror when I realized the bag which I held in my hand did not contain the aforementioned frozen vegetables.  Nevertheless, the day came when Greg proudly handed the still frozen solid Francis over to Brain the taxidermist. No, that is not a typo.  The taxidermist's name is Brain, and, incidentally, this is the coolest name for a taxidermist ever.

Brain got very excited!  Apparently, our Francis the Green-Winged Teal drake is a very difficult duck in which to shoot because it feeds from the surface of the lake, rather than diving or tipping under the water.  They are indigenous to most parts of Canada, and, like typical snowbirds, winter in the southern parts of the United States and Mexico.  Brain said he was really looking forward to working with Francis since it was such a treat to do so and after Greg paid the $300, part of which included the hunting license fee, Greg left the taxidermist promising to return at Christmastime to collect him.

Again, more time went on.  We moved to Tuk and our adventure in the north began.  Before we knew it, we were on a plane headed south and east to spend Christmas in the bosom of our family, and during that time, Greg and Francis were reunited, this time not be separated again.  When the time came to leave, Francis was packed up in his very own box, there being no need for a cooler now as Francis had been thawed and um, well-preserved in other ways.  Greg lovingly placed thermal socks and the aforementioned clean underwear around him to prevent his shifting during the long flight he would be making with us, although his poor wings would no longer get him anywhere, seeing as they are now permanently arranged in a manner which most aptly displays his plumage.

Now that we have arrived back in Tuk, Greg has proudly displayed Francis the Green-Winged Teal on the wall above the computer on which I type to you now, mounted on a small piece of wood, his neck and head positioned so that he is looking toward the front door.  Every time I enter the house now I see Francis checking me out with his dull eyes, reminding me of the times I shrieked in horror, rejecting him and his poor frozen body.  I admit that I am still creeped out by Francis, but Greg is proud of his prize, and thinks he is quite ingenious for displaying him in what he calls "a place of honour".

From his humble beginnings in a nest in the marsh of the St. Clair, to his fateful demise at the hand of Greg, to his long distance travel that did not involve the use of his own wings, and finally to his eternal resting spot on what I am sure will be one of many walls along our family's journey, Francis has found his way into our family.  It has been suggested by my immediate family that I make amends with Francis, and perhaps this blog entry is my own way of 'stuffing' my feelings deep inside me, 'plucking' up my courage, and 'mounting' them online for all posterity.

Welcome to the family, Francis!