By Lynda Archer
Published in: The Senior Paper  
April, 2025  

           What did we do in those long, lazy summer days of the early 1960’s? Those days when the grasshoppers buzzed and the skies, the prairie skies, were boundless with rarely a cloud to be seen. My fondest memories come from days at the lake, Atton’s Lake, an hour’s drive from Cut Knife, Saskatchewan.
            Grandma, Mabel and Grandpa, Walter owned a small cottage at the lake, not much larger than a hundred square feet, ten by ten. With no electricity or running water, the cottage was only used in the summer months. An outhouse with one hole cut in a plank of wood served as the bathroom. We pumped water from a well, shoving the long metal handle up and down, up and down, until water finally spurted from its spout. In the evenings we got light from the blue and red kerosene lantern. The blue base was filled with smelly kerosene; the kerosene soaked wick was turned up about a half inch and lit. This was the same lantern into which Grandpa dropped the moths that fluttered about at night. I don’t continue to do that. 
            Those times at the lake were some of my happiest times in childhood, if the detail of the memories I retain at 77 years of age can be taken as an indicator of degree of happiness. First there was the swimming. The lake being small and shallow, the waters were warm. The beach was sandy and the water dropped off gradually so it was ideal for young children who were learning to swim. Grandpa loved to swim and he was happy to spend time in the water with me and my sister. I was twelve, my sister seven years old. Grandpa was a superb floater. He would lie on his back in the water and have me push him about. I have a vague recollection of Grandpa telling me that he learned to swim in the river Clyde in Leeds, England where he was born. His sister dropped him in the river and told him to swim! Leeds in those days was a factory town, and dyes from a local wool factory were dumped into the river. Grandpa supposedly emerged from the water with purple hair and skin.
            We always went fishing. And we always caught fish. I’ve never since fished as we did in those days. We fished from the old green wooden rowboat that had more than a few coats of paint on it. Grandpa rowed the boat for about ten minutes, past the bullrush filled marshy area, to the edge of a ‘hole’, that place where the depth of the water increased a lot. We baited our lines and dropped them into the water. Then we watched, yes watched– that was how clear the waters were– the yellow and white perch, about five or six inches in length, swim toward the bait and take a bite. Soon we were pulling a fish from the water.
            While my memory for many things has faded, I retain detailed memories of the bait that we used. At first the bait was bits of uncooked bacon, but once the first fish was caught, the fish eyes were used as bait. Thinking of that now I am sickened, but I don’t think I was then. If grandpa thought it was okay, then it was okay.
            We usually caught five or six perch. Grandpa scaled and filleted the fish. Grandma fried them up in flour and butter, a little salt and pepper. Delicious.
              In the evenings we’d sit around the fire that was built in a large rusted metal truck rim. When the bugs got too troublesome we’d go inside and play cribbage in the glow of the lantern. Cribbage that I still play. Fifteen two, fifteen four and the rest don’t score. Move your pegs along the board until there is a winner. I taught my sons how to play cribbage. They are both in their ‘40s now. We still play. My eldest son’s middle name is Walter.