When I was about twelve years old, I awoke one morning to find a middle aged man, at the side of my bed, dressed in deerskin and feathered headdress, holding a staff in his left hand. I immediately knew he was a ghost. He eyes stared at mine, but he did not speak, nor did he move. I watched him and he watched me, and then I lost my eyesight for a few minutes until it came back.
That visit has haunted me my entire life. I often wondered why he chose to visit me and why my eyesight was taken and then returned.
I have now concluded well into my fifties that he wanted to make sure I remembered him when it came time to tell his story. I have remembered him, and I have tried to honour him with the book, The Ancestors Are Arranging Things...a journey on the Algonkin Trail.