It was cold on that tenth day of November, 1933. Winter’s snow hadn’t arrived but the last of the geese had already left for the warm South. Alberta’s Whitefish Lake Reserve #128, all seventeen square miles of it, was fine for the twenty or so Cree families who stayed there all year. The migratory birds had other ideas about where to spend the snowbound months.

        From within the wooden two-roomed dwelling which housed the Thomas Jackson family, the sound of muted groans filtered clearly through the cold air. Irene, Thomas’s wife, was near her time. Mother of four children, she was used to having her husband Thomas away on the trapline or fishing to obtain food for the family. He wasn’t far away, she knew. In fact, she’d hoped he would be home in time to welcome the new baby’s arrival But it wasn’t to be that way. Her labor pains made it clear that the baby wasn’t about to wait.

        Quickly putting on her coat, the mother-to-be made her way to the door, glancing briefly at the woodstove to check that all was safe. Walking as quickly as she could between contractions, she covered the hundred yards of grass tufts and scraggly bush which lay between the house and the road. Her own mother-in­law, Jean, who served as the local midwife, lived about two miles away. Well, more than that by road. But Irene knew the shortcut well. Better to get to her mother-in-law’s house as soon as possible. The baby was ready to be born.

        Fortunately for Irene, her mother-in-law was a woman who took her role seriously. Sitting at home, she knew Irene should be due any day now. She decided to go to Irene’s and check out her condition. Fortunately, Jean also knew the shortcut.

        It would be hard to say who was most surprised when Irene and Jean met about halfway. But there was no time for small talk. The midwife could tell at a glance that she’d better get Irene home or the baby would enter the world right there on the bush trail. Leaning on Jean’s arm all the way home, Irene hardly had time to take off her coat before the time came. It was a fast, trouble free delivery. Comforted by the quiet competence of Jean’s long experience, supported by the memory of four previous births. Irene pressed into the valley of pain, labored her way through, and emerged into the sunny plains of a mother’s birthing joy.

“It’s a boy!” Exchanging her role of midwife for that of proud grandmother, Jean looked into the flushed happy face of her daughter-in-law. “A beautiful baby boy.” Too weary to talk just yet, Irene smiled weakly in response. Another boy. Victoria had come first, then Alex, and Annie, and Adeline. A boy. Thomas would be pleased. Not that he didn’t love his daughters. But an­other boy was nice.   “His name is Billy.” When Thomas came home and met his son for the first time, there was no doubt or question in his statement. “No middle name. Billy. Billy Jackson.” Duly registered, the name stayed with the boy until early adulthood when the Billy quietly gave way to Bill, the name by which he became known to most people. Bill Jackson was second of two sons and fifth of a family of ten. After him came Rena, Sylvia, Clara, Edith and Lorraine. But of all the ten Jackson children, Bill is the one who came closest to being born in the bush, under the dome of God’s great outdoor cathedral.

Thomas Jackson family, 1966.