Nunani: Honey Bucket

RACHEL ATTITUQ QITSUALIK

Youth and speed are no match for old age and treachery.

– Old Saying

“C’mon little creatures, time to clean up. C’mon pet slaves.”

A call to clean up at our house in Gjoa Haven was like a potential call to mutiny on a pirate ship. Especially for my brothers in the summer. Perhaps even more so with me supervising them.

On this day like any other, my call was immediately met with various versions of, “Awww, can’t I just finish this?” or, “Wait, I’m not done yet.” None of my little brothers even bothered to look up at me from their respective activities.

“Up and at em!” I cried. “Who’s turn is it to anit the qurvik?”

It was always someone’s turn to attend to this most dreaded of jobs, in the days before indoor plumbing. One didn’t even want to think about the qurvik, euphemistically called the “honey bucket.”

Let me tell you, there was nothing reminiscent of honey about it. But even from the youngest age, we had been into borrowing English metaphors, mixing them into our Inuktitut.

I’m still not sure who invented the honey bucket thing. I do remember, however, how Abe Oopik used to call nouveau riche Inuit who had lost touch with tradition, “honey-bucket kids.”

“Okay,” I said, making up a new rule (one had to keep younger siblings off balance), “this week, we’ll start taking double turns at anit-ing the qurvik. Whoever did it last week does it this week.”

“So how come it’s never your turn?” piped a smartass. But he was drowned out by, “It’s not fair…” and other futile whinings of dissent.

“I’m telling Mom.”

“Go ahead,” I dared. “Just don’t come to me next time you need money.” The monetary threat was always a good tool.

“Tell you what,” I said, having a sudden change of heart, “I’ll pay you five bucks to empty it. Think of all the candy you can buy with that.”

Someone quickly piped up with, “Okay, but only if I don’t have to do the dishes.”

“Deal.”

But then I noticed that my other, less gullible brothers had taken off, knowing somewhere in their male brains that there wasn’t a bloody thing I could do if they just flew the coop. Yelling wouldn’t help, and too many complaints from the boys would eventually reach some higher authority’s ears.

As it was, I was pretty much left to bustle around in an indignant huff, throwing and complaining as I picked up clothes, toys, and boy treasures that had been dragged in from lord knew where.

“I’m never having brothers again,” I muttered past dripping venom.

My bribe of five dollars had worked only to a limited extent, and even my “hired” help soon abandoned ship under the pretext of “going to help my dad.” The dishes only got partially done.

“How did those guys get so slippery?” I wondered. Where did they learn this avoidance of chores? Was it a brother thing, or a general kid thing? Did other kids in other families do that?

I had yelled, “Don’t come back to me when you need more money!” at my departing brother. I was barely rational now. Their natures just didn’t make sense to me. Maybe, I reasoned, they knew that if they peed me off in just the right way, I might actually be grateful for their departure.

When I was done cleaning, I found my father fixing his nets at the shore. My report was that I’d had to do all the work myself, as no one would help me. By the way… could I go for a spin on the speed boat? The answer was yes.

I was reversing the engine, pulling away from shore, when I spotted my rotten brothers running towards me. They were waving their arms for me to wait. I waved back, as I sped off. It was my turn.

You know, it’s funny to look back on all of this, and then think of what terrific guys my brothers ended up becoming. After we all did a lot of growing up, I guess.

Sorry, guys. As you had suspected, it had actually been my turn to anit the qurvik. It was just one of those things so gross that only a boy should touch it. Hee, hee.

Pijariiqpunga.