Stories From Another Era By Margaret G. Hanna
On the map it’s called a lake – Montague Lake to be exact – but it wasn’t the cleanest or nicest place to swim. My maternal grandparents, Caleb and Mary Higham, took their six kids there every now and then, even though it meant a 20-mile trip one way. Once there, they had to squelch through the muddy shore and navigate the weeds before they got to water deep enough for swimming.
I can see it all now, in my imagination.
The girls would curl their lips and squeal “Ee-yuw! Ick! Yuck!” The boys would pull weeds and chase the girls who would start screaming.
They forbade Maisie, my mother, to swim on account of her dicky heart – she’d had rheumatic fever when six years old – even though she had the confidence to head into deep water. I can hear Grandma Higham shouting, “Stay close to shore,” whenever she wandered too far away.
Betty, the youngest girl, would whine, “This wool swim suit is heavy!” Grandpa, always the tease, would call back, “Well, then, take it off.” The boys – Bob was the ring-leader – would start to chant, “Take it off! Take it off!” Betty would start crying, tears streaming down her face, “Mom, they’re teasing me!” Grandma would shake her head, “Just ignore them!”
Marjorie took whining to a whole new level. “It’s cold.” “There’s mud between my toes.” “There’re too many weeds!” “The boys are splashing me.” “I’m hungry.” “I want to go home.” “I hate this place.” Grandma and Grandpa had long ago learned to ignore her. So had everyone else.
To give Bob his due, he looked after his younger brother John and cousin Roy. He showed them how to do the dead man’s float and then to dog paddle. When they swallowed half the lake, he would clap them on their backs. “You’re doing just fine,” he’d say, “now try again.”
On the way back home, all eight of them crowded into the ’27 Chev, smelling of mud and algae and wet towels and wet hair and wet swim suits. They would talk and laugh and tease each other about how much fun they had had that afternoon. They’d pester their parents as to when they could go to Montague Lake again.
I bet my grandparents looked at each other, shook their heads, and rolled their eyes. Children!
Margaret G. Hanna grew up on the farm her paternal grandfather homesteaded in 1908 in southwestern Saskatchewan. After 12 years of university, she worked as a professional archaeologist, first on several short-term contracts in Saskatchewan, Manitoba and Alberta, and finally as Curator of Aboriginal History at the Royal Saskatchewan Museum, Regina. She retired in 2007 and moved to Airdrie AB where she lives with her husband and no pets.
She now uses her research skills to explore family and prairie history. For Margaret, writing is a portal to another dimension of reality. When she isn’t struggling to write, she gardens, reads, sews, and quilts. Her dream is one day to master the 5-string banjo, claw-hammer style.
Margaret’s books can be found through her website, A Prairie Perspective, and on Amazon.
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Lovely story. Thank you.
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