As the boys and girls on Whitefish Lake Reserve reached the age of seven, they left home to go to school. Some went to the Blue Quills Roman Catholic School near St. Paul. For many others, all but two months of each year were spent at the United Church Residential School near Edmonton. Ed­monton was a world away from the sheltered haven of Whitefish Lake. For many children, it was their first venture into the great unknown which lay beyond the boundaries of the reserve. 

        The end of June brought excitement to the students at the school as well as the whole community of Whitefish Lake. That’s when the kids came home from school. Bill remembers it well. “Horses were hitched to the wagon and family members piled aboard. Many families had children coming home from school. The much looked forward to meeting took place at the railroad station at Spedden, fourteen miles south. It was like a convoy of happy people. Those of us who were preschool kids played together on the way. Even the dogs running after the wagon barked and wagged their tails as if they shared the happiness. Often, the large group camped for the night. Meeting the train was a very happy time for everybody, especially for the kids who got off the train.” 

        Of course, two months later when the kids had to go back to Spedden to get on that train for the ten month separation, the mood was the very opposite. Bill recalls the solemn at­mosphere of the parting. It wasn’t that school was so terrible. Actually, students didn’t complain very much about being mistreated at school. In fact, In comparison to the later grim revelations of alleged atrocities and abuses associated with some residential schools, this one seems to have been one of the belier ones. It wasn’t perfect. There was the odd grouchy teacher, and a few staff members who could be nasty at times. But to Bill’s knowledge, the majority of the two hundred or so students did not feel illtreated and certainly not abused by the staff. A few students suffered on the rare occasions when a teacher’s frustration boiled over momentarily. By the time Bill reached adulthood, terrible accusations would  be leveled against other church-run  residential schools. To his knowledge, however, Edmonton Indian Residential School presented a pretty good record of care and respect during the years he spent there. Today, of course, the insistence that the students speak only English may be seen as oppressive. Bill doesn’t remember any threats of

         Billy’s birthday came in November, two months after school started. When the time came for him to leave homed Thomas and Irene went along. They wanted to visit their other children who had left for school in September. They wanted to be sure, too, that little Billy got there safely and got settled in all right. 

       Billy was not a boy who cried readily. Whatever he felt on the inside was usually hidden under a mischievous grin. Like Thomas his father, the boy accepted what life brought without fuss. And though Irene made her feelings known when she was displeased, personal sadness or anxiety was usually kept private. To anybody looking on, the trio was Just another family traveling on the train. But the three Jacksons knew this day marked the beginning of a new life for Billy. Thomas and Irene knew that from this day on the government, through the school staff, would act as Billy’s parents for ten months of each of the next eight years. Billy didn’t understand that. He only knew that from now on, every time he shared the pleasure of getting off  the train in June, he would also be part of the sadness of September. 

  At home, the family usually ate a meal together but not necessarily at the same time each day. At school, Billy learned to eat three times a day. It didn’t matter if his inner biological clock told him it wasn’t time to eat yet. If the big clock on the wall said it was time to eat, Billy ate. 

        Other children who had been at school for some time helped Billy by translating things into Cree. “That’s porridge! We have it every morning.” When Billy’s face screwed up at the first mouthful, the other kids told him. “Spread your sugar over. You’ll get to like it.” Billy did get to like porridge. It was just as well he did. He had porridge for more than 2,400 breakfasts— porridge every morning for the entire eight years he went to school. 

        Then there were the desserts. Billy had never known that such things existed. Now, each lunch time, he was obliged to spoil the taste of his meal by finishing off with dessert. Billy didn’t like the bread pudding, the rice pudding, the chocolate pudding. Especially the chocolate pudding. One day, tired of the boy’s unwillingness to try the dish, the Native supervisor, Joshua Jackson, poured some milk on top and stirred it into the pudding. “Now try it,” he commanded Billy and some other passively resistant students. Uncertainly, the boy spooned as little as he thought he could get off with and slowly raised it to his mouth. “M-m-m.” It wasn’t really so bad. Another mouthful. Yes, this awful-looking chocolate pudding was clearly not poisonous. Yet another mouthful—and the supervisor moved away, knowing the battle was won. That day, Billy learned that this new food tasted quite good. One just needed a little encouragement to try it 

        In class, Billy proved to be a good student. He learned English by leaps and bounds, soon gaining top marks in his class work. In fact, by the middle of Grade II, he had advanced so much the teacher promoted him to Grade III in the middle of the year. 

        This promotion meant much more than moving to another row in the classroom. It involved a trip across the hall to the room which housed Grades III, IV, and V. 

        “Everybody stared at me as I came into the class and walked across the front of the room,” Bill remembered. “I didn’t like that.” However, the high-average student continued to do well in his school work.