I have a friend whose name is Dav Langstroth.
Dav is a towering mass of a man, standing six-foot-seven. But his stature belies his gentle nature, for Dav is the classic gentle giant.
My friend has been living in a long-term care facility in Orillia since December 2022. During those long, arduous months Dav has been confined to his bed, unable to freely walk about this fair city (due to his illness) the way he had in the recent past.
Dav liked to talk, meet new people, and tell stories. He would reciprocate with those who would lend an ear by sitting quietly and listening as they shared their hopes, dreams, and visions. The loquacious Dav could walk into a room full of strangers and seemingly without fear, mingle and conjure up new friends with intuitive ease.
I first met Dav many years ago when, as a mature student at Georgian College, he walked into my classroom (ducking under the doorway, of course) and began his study of the Ojibwe language.
We became fast friends when I learned that he was also a military veteran. We could speak the same language. The language of military slang and ism’s. It doesn’t matter what part of the military you served in, most veterans can recognize their brethren and understand that the bond of shared experience runs deep.
Over the years, our paths would cross many more times when I would see him at various Pow Wows or protests. He stood tall among us. So much so that the Anishinaabeg would bestow upon him a nickname; he came to be known as Saabe (Saw-beh) which translates as Bigfoot or Sasquatch.
The name was not to shame or belittle him, it was to honour him. Saabe, the Bigfoot is a mystical person in our culture (yes, I said person). Saabe is held in high regard and is the bridge between our physical world and other earthly dimensions. For Dav to be named Saabe is quite suitable. He could place himself comfortably in any circle.
Recently my friend Dav was featured in an OrilliaMatters story when he bravely pointed out how his level of care in the long-term care facility where he is a patient was sub-par, and how he wanted that situation remedied by the powers that be.
When I visited him last week, he told me that things got better for a time but since the story is no longer front and centre, things have degraded somewhat. He was careful to say that he does not blame the staff. There are not enough of them and it would not be fair to blame them.
He wanted people to know that he spoke out to help everyone in the facility. Maybe by highlighting his plight he may somehow cause change for everyone there.
I asked Dav what he wished for the most. He said, “That I could get up out of here and free myself to walk about, breathe in the fresh air, and talk to people once again.”
I want that for him as well. I miss Dav. He is a fixture in our urban Indigenous community and his presence is vital. His strength of spirit and his bravery in the service of others is greatly missed.
I feel I would not be as brave as Dav in his willingness to challenge the institutional structures that place he and his fellow long-term care patients in positions of unnecessary angst around their daily needs.
I’m not even sure I would ever want to enter such a facility. I am unsure as to whether I could trust that the current governance of these facilities would look after my needs properly.
I am old-fashioned, and I believe what my elders had drilled into my being: that one should treat others as they themselves would want to be treated.
This is what I wish, for my kind friend Dav. That he would be given the same comfort that he gave others for so long. His is a life of service. A model for those who care for such things.
Jeff Monague is a former chief of the Beausoleil First Nation on Christian Island, former treaty research director with the Anishnabek (Union of Ontario Indians), and veteran of the Canadian Forces. Monague, who taught the Ojibwe language with the Simcoe County District School Board and Georgian College, is currently the manager of Springwater Provincial Park.
