Living in a land locked part of the world and seeing large bodies of water bigger than the bathtub was a cause for awe and wonder for this prairie child of the fifties and sixties. The first of this type of wonderment was Katepwa Lake located in the Qu'Appelle Valley on the northern portion of the Great North American Plains.
Water on most prairie farms was considered a treasured commodity in those years. Eavestroughs draining into basement cisterns and precious water wells were monitored particulary during any hot dry period in the summer and consequently any frivolous water activity such as playing with the garden hose in the sandpile was not even within the realm of this child's imagination.
Keeping that in mind you can understand the thrill and anticipation that one felt when Mom would call out to the yard on a sultry hot July afternoon and ask, " Do you want to go to the lake?"
While not being aware of time --being a child and all, I suspect that we were packed up with towels, bathing suits, some sort of lunch of sandwiches, coloured beverage of Kool Aid in a jar, and maybe some cake within a mere, but seemingly as an eternity to a child, matter of twenty minutes. More likely than not Mom had made arrangements with another mom in the neighbourhood to come along or meet at the lake.
The adventure would begin starting out on familiar gravel country roads and then proceeding to a ten mile black ribbon of powdered dust that just begged to be thrown in a swirling cloud by a car driven by a woman with a picnic in a cardboard box and three children neither belted or 'chaired' and more than likely climbing from front to back jostling for the best seat and another one staring down a dreaded grasshopper that had 'flown' through an open window (as no farmer's car had air conditioning in those days).
Suddenly the car would slow down and the road would become windy and narrow as we descended into the valley. As the car turned the final curve we would see this huge body of water which stretched seeming endlessly nestled amongest the valkey hills.
We had arrived!
The car would be parked as close to the gate as possible. Everyone got out with something in hand be it towels, sand toys, bathing suits or beach blanket. Next stop was the change house and out again as fast as possible hopefully not leaving anything important behind. Then the mad run with bare feet burning on the sand as we ran towards shore.
The beach area often was full of people with their own bags of towels, blankets, sun hats, radios, and umbrellas. Mom would look for a shady spot even if it was only under a a shrub and all the belongings would be dumped into a dishelveled pile and off we'd run to the water to cool our sizzling feet. No precautionary suntan block was worn but maybe we would get some baby oil rubbed on to avoid sun burns and to envourage tanning.
There would to be water slides, diving boards, as well as docks in the swimming area. Along with squeals and giggles from those already playing in waves and splashes. Actually getting wet took a few minutes. We would delve into the cool liquid past our ankles gingerly, slowly tippy toeing into the water while examining the stones at the bottom, watching for snails or bugs, testing the temperature, trying to dodge splashes from other swimmers. That stage lasted 10 minutes-- tops and then suddenly you found yourself wet, running and jumping off the dock into water that was just deep enough that you could manoeuvre on tippy toes and safe enough that when Mom came to the watr's edge to make sure you weren't out 'too deep' you could truthfully say , "I am touching bottom." and wave with both hands.
Flipping and flopping, splashing and squealing, and racing up and down the slide, jumping off the dock, messing around on the shore being alligators or lake monsters and burying companions in the sand all made mayonnaise and tomatoe sandwiches with a slice of velveeta cheese taste mighty fine when it was time to have the picnic lunch.
The false rule that one had to wait an hour after eating was strictly enforced in those days so that's when laying on the blanket or looking for snails on shore occurred until the magic 60 minutes had passed. This time there wouldn't be any hesitation when getting back in the water with an already damp bathing suit.
The drive home in the dark would be quiet. Grasshopper forgotten, water glurking in one's ears, with sand in hair, between toes and under bathing suits, wrapped in a beach blanket that still held the sun's afternoon warmth , along with that floaty feeling of still being in the water whenever you closed your eyes, the car smoothly gliding over that soft dirt road towards home and bed would lull you to sleep in spite of the odd annoying mosquito makes for a great memory of a day I'd love to relive just one more time.
Water on most prairie farms was considered a treasured commodity in those years. Eavestroughs draining into basement cisterns and precious water wells were monitored particulary during any hot dry period in the summer and consequently any frivolous water activity such as playing with the garden hose in the sandpile was not even within the realm of this child's imagination.
Keeping that in mind you can understand the thrill and anticipation that one felt when Mom would call out to the yard on a sultry hot July afternoon and ask, " Do you want to go to the lake?"
While not being aware of time --being a child and all, I suspect that we were packed up with towels, bathing suits, some sort of lunch of sandwiches, coloured beverage of Kool Aid in a jar, and maybe some cake within a mere, but seemingly as an eternity to a child, matter of twenty minutes. More likely than not Mom had made arrangements with another mom in the neighbourhood to come along or meet at the lake.
The adventure would begin starting out on familiar gravel country roads and then proceeding to a ten mile black ribbon of powdered dust that just begged to be thrown in a swirling cloud by a car driven by a woman with a picnic in a cardboard box and three children neither belted or 'chaired' and more than likely climbing from front to back jostling for the best seat and another one staring down a dreaded grasshopper that had 'flown' through an open window (as no farmer's car had air conditioning in those days).
Suddenly the car would slow down and the road would become windy and narrow as we descended into the valley. As the car turned the final curve we would see this huge body of water which stretched seeming endlessly nestled amongest the valkey hills.
We had arrived!
The car would be parked as close to the gate as possible. Everyone got out with something in hand be it towels, sand toys, bathing suits or beach blanket. Next stop was the change house and out again as fast as possible hopefully not leaving anything important behind. Then the mad run with bare feet burning on the sand as we ran towards shore.
The beach area often was full of people with their own bags of towels, blankets, sun hats, radios, and umbrellas. Mom would look for a shady spot even if it was only under a a shrub and all the belongings would be dumped into a dishelveled pile and off we'd run to the water to cool our sizzling feet. No precautionary suntan block was worn but maybe we would get some baby oil rubbed on to avoid sun burns and to envourage tanning.
There would to be water slides, diving boards, as well as docks in the swimming area. Along with squeals and giggles from those already playing in waves and splashes. Actually getting wet took a few minutes. We would delve into the cool liquid past our ankles gingerly, slowly tippy toeing into the water while examining the stones at the bottom, watching for snails or bugs, testing the temperature, trying to dodge splashes from other swimmers. That stage lasted 10 minutes-- tops and then suddenly you found yourself wet, running and jumping off the dock into water that was just deep enough that you could manoeuvre on tippy toes and safe enough that when Mom came to the watr's edge to make sure you weren't out 'too deep' you could truthfully say , "I am touching bottom." and wave with both hands.
Flipping and flopping, splashing and squealing, and racing up and down the slide, jumping off the dock, messing around on the shore being alligators or lake monsters and burying companions in the sand all made mayonnaise and tomatoe sandwiches with a slice of velveeta cheese taste mighty fine when it was time to have the picnic lunch.
The false rule that one had to wait an hour after eating was strictly enforced in those days so that's when laying on the blanket or looking for snails on shore occurred until the magic 60 minutes had passed. This time there wouldn't be any hesitation when getting back in the water with an already damp bathing suit.
The drive home in the dark would be quiet. Grasshopper forgotten, water glurking in one's ears, with sand in hair, between toes and under bathing suits, wrapped in a beach blanket that still held the sun's afternoon warmth , along with that floaty feeling of still being in the water whenever you closed your eyes, the car smoothly gliding over that soft dirt road towards home and bed would lull you to sleep in spite of the odd annoying mosquito makes for a great memory of a day I'd love to relive just one more time.
