~ Fiona Steele ~

If you have not experienced the wonders of Fiona Steele, well, you simply have not lived.

You can't read her, you can't Google her, you can't ask your friends about her. She's not famous, she doesn't own any property, she has the clothes on her back and the little bit of sanity that she carries in her backpack.

I met Fiona Steele one dark Saturday evening while making a late night stop at my office.

Work was crazy, the kids were dropped off after a weekend of basketball and fudge-ee-os, and I had stopped to grab some paperwork. My intentions were simple, get a head start on the work week by taking work home. Seems simple enough.

Upon exiting my office building, which you'll remember is located on the Tsuu T'ina Nation, I...and my companions, came upon a small woman, sitting alone in the snow. She was not there when we arrived, but she was certainly there now. I wouldn't have noticed her at all, she was so petite. Now, a small side note, Ms. Fiona Steele has exceptionally punctuated language. And when I say punctuated, I mean course, and when I say course...I mean she has one of the foulest mouths I've heard in a long time.

"My ribs are messed up"

Let's pretend those are the words she used, it is what she was trying to say...though she made it far more flowery.

Our progress of loading paperwork and a scammed printer into the truck halted. Sitting cross legged on the ground, holding a backpack in her lap, touque with those braided hangy things on her head...sat Fiona Steele.

Where she had come from, we never found out. She was specific on where she wanted to go. Not to the emergency room, definitely not to the police, but home. Sounds easy enough. Where is home? Wrong question...

Thus began 45 minutes of trying to read through the lines of a alcoholic, high, and possibly schizophrenic Fiona Steele.

I felt bad leaving her there. She was small, obviously in pain, alone on the reserve. I did not fear her hurting us, as she maybe weighed 90 pounds, and my companions have a leg that weighs more than that. So the three of us looked at her, looked at each other....and let her get in the truck.

There are a few things we learned very quickly about Fiona Steele. First....there is an "e" at the end of her name, and she'd appreciate if we'd not forget to spell it that way. Next, she's Scottish. We could have concluded this by her accent, however it was also made obvious by the fact that she would randomly and loudly pronounce that she was Scottish. I found after a few times that it was the start of her reel. See, she'd get going on a tangent, on many tangents actually...but it seemed to be when she directly exclaimed..."I'm SCOTTISH"...that she was starting the reel over again.

She had a goal, I'll give her that. She believed that her "home"...or place of residence was next to the gravel pit. Excellent. Only problem, it's nearly midnight, we're not supposed to be on the Reserve, since we are not First Nations...and we're not at all sure where the gravel pit is. She seems to know. Or, at least there were times during the endless confusing conversation where she seemed to know.

Those that know me are aware that I'm not afraid to talk to strangers. I quite often talk to strangers...in surprisingly direct ways. Talking to this small stranger was not permitted. If I asked too many questions, she would yell at me..."Would you let me speak please!"

Okay...(hands in the air in resignation)

There came a time when we sat on a gravel road, not moving...wondering how on earth we had got ourselves in the presence of Fiona Steele. Not at all sure how we were going to rid ourselves of her...and wondered if J was going to have to open her door and boot her out.

Her chatter gave us a world wide view of history, religion, love and sacrifice. Culture, nature and relationships. She let us know her preferences, her dislikes and just who had eaten her porridge.

We finally came to a dark spot, in the middle of nowhere, and Fiona felt that we had reached our destination. We were all relieved. I felt guilty letting her leave on a cold, snowy Saturday night. I wasn't sure what else I could do to help her. She was clean enough, smelled only of the drug of choice, and was as happy as the mice that she painted their toe nails.

I gave her some food, which she informed me the dogs would love. She hugged me and exclaimed that I was beautiful. I didn't take it literally.

I've wondered about Fiona Steele in the last few weeks. Wondered if she made it through that cold night. If there really is a home somewhere on the Reserve.

Could we have helped more? Taken her to the drop in centre? Taken her anywhere? I doubt it. As long as we were driving the direction she felt was right, she was calm. When we altered her direction in life, she was agitated and confused.

Good Luck Fiona Steele, in where life takes you...and may no one steal your porridge.