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This was orated by John Powers at the funeral services for
Emmett. It was a
very touching experience by all that were in presence.
John b-G-Father
Taken From:
http://www.historicaltrekking.com/forums/viewtopic.php?p=6295&sid=92ea48c88d5b3a7e43f78137b6752e03
By John Powers (fellow Trekker)
Mes amis -
What
follows are the words I gave, on behalf of the re-enactors who
knew and loved Emmett and know and love Dave and Tracy and
August, at Emmett's funeral yesterday. If I had a fraction of
the composure of the young lady who followed me, the delivery of
the words would have matched their intent.
LaFrenierre
* * * *
* * *
Words
for Emmett
We
should be in the forest, not far, about a mile or so in. Deep
winter. Snow enough for good snowshoeing. Cold. Not
bone-rattling, wish we were back in the warm cabin cold. But the
winter cold that hones life down to the keen, black and white
crispness of the north woods. That draws you out into the wild
with its stark simplicity. That makes you glad you are alive,
here and now, and nowhere else.
“We’ll
camp here. Emmett, you and Zach and Colton, gather up boughs for
bedding.” And you watch as the young men set to their work. This
is Emmett’s first winter camp and he takes to it as though born
to it. And perhaps he was.
Born
here at the headwaters of the mighty Wisconsin River—Emmett was
from and a part of this special place.
He was
a hunter. A fisher. A trapper. A feller of trees. A builder of
camps. He was a son, a brother, a grandson, a nephew, and a
friend. He was a scholar, an athlete, and probably a reluctant
and awkward dancer. And so much, much more. But I do not know of
all those things.
We who
knew Emmett through our shared love of history and the outdoors,
we knew him as someone…
Who
could skin a bloody muskrat at one moment, and then in the next
carefully make fine silver jewelry.
Who
would hold brother August and care for him, and then go out and
bruise bodies playing lacrosse.
Who’d
proudly share the venison he had killed. Ah, don’t you just
think the critters here about have issued forth a great communal
sigh of relief? They are so much safer now that Emmett is gone.
But, somewhere, in a quiet woodland glade, you know they have
gathered, to pay their respects, to an honored and noble foe.
We knew
Emmett as a teacher, sharing his knowledge of skills he had
already fine-tuned at his young age.
We knew
him as someone who mended his own breeches in a scrunched-up,
man’s ham-fisted sort of way, and when kidded about his lack of
sewing skills, replied, in that soft, understated way of his,
“Well, the hole is closed.”
We knew
him as someone who probably didn’t sing much with his friends
back here in Eagle River, but joined in around the fire when
Chris and Berit would lead us in a fine tune.
We knew
him as the son who shared the path his father walked, but, when
the chance came, opted not to portray an independent fur trader,
but, instead, a scalawag voyageur. Asked why, he said with an
eager grin, ”It’s more fun.”
We knew
him as someone who would willingly do any chore around camp. If
he grumbled, it was in a language that only Dave and Tracy
understood.
My god,
they raised such a splendid young man.
And
that winter campsite? In summer it is a canoe portage. Rich in
history. Connecting two great watersheds. Through the centuries
it has been crossed by the Dakota, the Ojibwe, the voyageurs and
traders. We are honored to be there. We are doubly honored, for
we are there in the company of good friends. And there, close
among the bright and weary faces around the blaze, his face
sketched by the flickering firelight, is Emmett. Notre cher ami.
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