Phobias: Baths -or- The Reason I Shower

Daddy and Me.
My parents should have produced
fatter children.
Then all of this could have been
avoided . . .

I loved baths.

Loved them.

In fact, once Mom got me into the tub, it was a major chore to get me out.

I would swim and play like a little fish, till the water cooled to the point that it was tepid.

And I was shivering.

I know. I know.

Makes no sense to me, either.

But I was four.

Little that one does, makes sense when you're four.

Moving on . . .

One day, Mom discovered a technique that shot me out of the tub quicker than a wet, slippery little bar of soap.

She pulled the plug.

While I was still in the tub.

Eeeeek!

What were we saying about making sense?

The water started down the drain.

Gurgle.

Gurgle.

Gurgle.

And suddenly, I knew that I was going to go down with it.

Oops. There goes Diane.

I knew what my parents would say . . .

“Darn! Lost another one! Guess we'll have to get us another little girl!”

Okay, so even at four I had a lot of imagination.

After that, all Mom had to do was reach for the plug.

It was like she put a current of electricity through the water.

Zip!

I would be standing, shivering on the bathmat.

Clean.

But whole.

Of Cabins and Summers on the Lake

Squirrels on the deck of the Stringam cabin.

We loved staying at our friends' cabin in Waterton Lakes Park.

So much so that my Dad finally felt we should have our own.

Cabin, I mean.

And the rest of us, picturing days happily spent on the lake, were very easily convinced.

He scouted around for a nice piece of property.

And found one.

On St. Mary Lake, just outside of Glacier National Park, Montana – across the border from the ranch.

It was truly beautiful.

Clear, icy-cold, blue water.

And I do mean icy. Brrr.

Pure air.

Lots of trees.

We fell in love.

The only thing missing was the . . . cabin.

No problem.

Dad would build it.

He chose a design and ordered materials.

They were duly delivered.

And immediately stolen.

Our cabin plans were almost abandoned before they even got off the ground.

So to speak.

But, finally, Dad took a deep breath and ordered some more.

They came.

And this time, they stayed.

He moved in a small travel trailer and we took up residence.

Then began to prepare the land.

It was hot, hard work - cutting down a few of the trees and tearing out brush.

Sweat ran freely.

I know.

Because I was watching carefully, can of black cherry pop in one hand and hot dog in the other.

But before you begin to think I was entirely useless, I must point out that I helped carry some of the rocks over to the lake to help construct our boat dock.

Small rocks.

Really small rocks.

Okay, I was useless.

Before too long, Dad and my brothers had cleared a spot large enough for our cabin.

I don't remember much of the building apart from the sounds of hammering and sawing and the wonderful smell of fresh-cut lumber.

Mom kept me near her.

Across the road from the action.

My reputation for getting in the way was obviously well known.

Moving on . . .

The cabin went up magically.

In no time, we had a master bedroom where my oldest sister could sit and tell us scary stories.

Two smaller bedrooms with bunk beds for the smaller kids to fall out of.

Which they did.

And a wonderful kitchen/dining/living room where Mom could make the food magic happen.

Mmm. Food.

Oh, and there was also a big, open fireplace . . . thing.

I think that, technically, it was a wood stove.

But it was screened on all sides.

Wonderful for gathering around on a cool summer evening.

For visiting.

Something my family excelled at.

The cabin had huge windows facing the lake.

And a large deck.

Another favourite place.

Where we could sit and watch the water.

And dream.

Something else I excelled at.

We spent several summers at the lake.

I remember evenings on the deck, looking out over the water and just breathing in the glorious air.

Boating.

Splashing around in the frigid water.

Icy cold cans of pop out of the lake.

Games played beside a snapping fire.

Wiener/marshmallow roasts.

Hide and seek in the trees.

Ghost stories.

Visit with the neighbours. (Once, a for-real professional sheepherder drove his flock right past the cabin and we got to see the inside of his wagon.)

It was wonderful.

But it ended.

Several times, when we weren't in residence, the cabin was broken into and vandalized.

The last time, someone smashed the large picture window, leaving blood everywhere.

Dad replaced the window and promptly sold the cabin.

Too bad.

Because it was wonderful way to spend the summer.

There is a codicil.

A year or so after my Dad sold the cabin, a good friend of his stopped him on the street, shook a finger in his face and told him what a bad boy he was.

Bewildered, my Dad frowned at his friend. “What are you talking about?”

The man grinned. “We were boating on the [St. Mary's] lake and decided to drop in and visit with you and Enes. Once we got there, we realized that you weren't home, but I remembered where you hid the key, so I opened the door and we went in to see if you had left any pop in the fridge.” The man shook his head. “I can't tell you how surprised I was to find it full of beer!”

My parents were well known for their tee-totalling habits.

Dad laughed. “I guess you didn't hear that I sold that cabin.”

The man's mouth dropped open.

“Yeah. A year or so ago.”

“So . . . it's not your cabin?”

“Right.”

“So . . . breaking and entering.”

“Right.”

Even when it no longer belonged to us, the cabin continued to entertain.

I miss it.

You Can Go Back

Prince of Wales Hotel at Waterton Lakes Provincial Park. Paradise.

I have always lived in the shadows of the Rockies.

And by doing so, have been in close proximity to one of many national parks.

Nowadays (real word, I looked it up), that means either the Banff or Jasper National Parks.

In my early years, it was Waterton Lakes.

How our family loved Waterton!

Every summer we spent at least a week there, staying in one of the tiny, rustic cabins perched on the very shore of Upper Waterton Lake or in the beautiful old log cabin which belonged to some good friends.

We would swim in the gi-normous (my word) outdoor community swimming pool. Spend endless hours riding around the town on rented tandem bikes or surreys. Visit Cameron Falls or hike to Cameron Lake. Climb Bear's Hump. Explore Prince of Wales Hotel. Shop.

Then there were the lakes. One could fish (or in my case, soak lures) there. Or boat or 'swim'. (I use this last term lightly because this was a mountain lake, and only a couple of degrees above freezing . . .)

The activities were many and varied.

Paradise for a little girl.

Especially since it was the fifties and crime hadn't been invented yet.

Mom could feed us breakfast and send us out the door, secure in the knowledge that we could play safely throughout the townsite.

Except that we had strict instructions not to go near any wildlife.

And Waterton certainly had that.

It wasn't unusual to open the front door and see a herd of deer lying around the front yard, placidly chewing their cud.

Or to have to retreat into a store because a bear was making its way slowly down main street.

That was especially okay, because ice cream was easily obtained and one could enjoy a treat and a show while one waited for the rangers, or for the bear to move on.

Whichever happened first.

It was no wonder that our annual pilgrimage to Waterton was our most anticipated tradition.

My family went back for a reunion.

I was amazed at what had changed in the years since my last trip.

Oh, there were some fondly remembered places still in existence.

Many of the stores and shops were the same, or at least similar.

The topographical sites were still there. Bear's Hump. Cameron Falls. The hiking paths I had enjoyed as a child.

And the Prince of Wales Hotel still majestically dominated the townsite.

But all else had changed.

We tried renting a tandem bike, but the only one left had a towel for a seat and was so rusted and stiff that riding it was more torture than pleasure.

The swimming pool had disappeared.

In its place stood a great hotel complex.

Our friends' cabin was gone, burned to the ground in a massive and heart-wrenching fire. It, too had been replaced by newer and more modern.

Our little cabins were also gone. The campground had been expanded to include the lot where they had stood.

We wandered around for most of a day, reminiscing.

It was still Waterton.

There was still a lot to see and do.

Watch the deer and other animals wander freely throughout the townsite.

Hike. Explore the great Hotel. Fish. Shop.

'Wade' in the lake. (We now called it for what it was . . .)

Boat.

Swim in the new hotel's grand indoor pool.

Just not the things we most fondly remembered as children.

Who was it who said, 'You can never go back'?

They were wrong.

You can.

Just be prepared for some changes.

Waterton Lakes National Park is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, an International Peace Park, and a Biosphere Reserve. The only park in the world that has these three designations.

Visit it!

Little Sister

L'il Sis

I have a little sister.

She looks just like me.

Except that she has red hair.

And big blue eyes.

And a cute little chin.

And long eyelashes.

Okay, she doesn't look like me at all.

I love her anyways.

We grew up together, as often happens in families.

And had experiences.

Which also often happens in families.

When Anita was two, my mother asked us older kids to take her swimming with us.

Brave woman, my mother.

But I guess she thought that Chris, at 16, was responsible.

And she was.

Really, really responsible.

When she was awake.

A bit older. Just a bit

On this particular occasion, she had her radio. And her dreams of her current boyfriend.

And the warm sun. And the hot sand.

You're right. It wasn't her fault.

She dozed off.

The rest of us played happily for some time.

I was standing knee deep in the milky water, trying to catch a fish that insisted on swimming tantalizingly close.

Closer. Closer.

Then a strange sound intruded.

A sort of . . . gasping.

I looked up.

Five feet from me, little Anita had toddled off the sandy shelf where she had been sitting, playing, and fell into the river.

She was just coming up for the second time.

Nonchalantly (I like that word), I reached out and grabbed her swimsuit, pulled her out and plopped her onto the sand once more.

She gasped and coughed a couple of times, then went back to her toys.

I turned back to my hunting.

It wasn't until years later that I remembered the incident.

And shivered with 'what might have happened'.

*  *  *

When I was ten, my oldest sister, Chris, moved out.

I suddenly had that hitherto (real word) unheard of treat - my own bedroom.

It was wonderful.

During the day.

But, being alone at night for the first time, I made a discovery.

At night, things looked vastly different.

The darkness held many suspicious creaks and shadows.

And, unfortunately, my imagination was always awake.

I needed a companion.

Someone who would protect me from . . . whatever lay in wait in the dark.

My sister's room was right next door.

Okay, she was three, and who knew what she would be able to do if we truly were confronted with . . . whatever lay in wait . . . you understand.

But she was warm.

And breathing.

She was all I had.

Carefully, I would creep into her room, lift the sleeping little girl from her bed, and tuck her into Chris' side of the bed.

Then I would happily snuggle into my side and fall immediately asleep.

If Mom asked in the morning, I simply told her that Anita had crawled in with me in the night.

Everyone was happy.

And no one knew that Diane was afraid of the dark.

Until now.

Oops.

*  *  *

A few years later, we were in the river.

Again.

And Anita was with me.

Again.

This time, it was my turn to be in charge.

And think about boyfriends.

Because my boyfriend was with us.

He and I were sitting in the sand at the edge of the water, visiting, when a sound intruded.

Again.

Only this time, it had just a bit more volume behind it.

"Diane!" someone shrieked.

I looked up.

Anita, who had been floating quite happily close to the shore in an old inner tube, had strayed too far out into the river.

She was now in the grip of the current.

Nonchalantly (that word again), I waded out. Then swam that last few feet towards her.

This time, however, when I grabbed her, she grabbed back.

And nearly drowned me.

Finally, I managed to turn her and her inner tube away from me, then kicked the both of us to the shore.

Then really shivered with 'what might have happened'.

Why do so many of our near-misses happen in water?

*  *  *

Who wouldn't trust that little face!

Today, Anita is a wife and mother. She runs a million-dollar business that she created. She is a flight attendant and cub leader and community organizer.

And still has time to run and keep fit.

But when I think of her, I still see the little girl who broke the lamp for which Blair took the blame.

Who was bright and cute and smart.

And who gave Mom the last of her grey hairs.

The little girl who loved to organize.

And wrap packages.

And get into my things.

And who's middle name, though she would claim it's Faye, is really Trouble (notice the capital 'T').

Today. Or at least not many days ago . . .

Huh. In some ways, she hasn't changed.

But now, she lives most of a continent away.

I miss her.

I love her.

My First Lesson

Front to back: George, Me, Chris, Jerry, Dad and Blair.
Look closely. Can you pick out the intrepid swimmer?

I had never taken swimming lessons.

We simply lived too far from the city for it to be a priority. Or even possible.

But I loved to swim.

And, with the river is such close proximity, did it a lot.

In the summer.

In winter, for obvious reasons, we were pretty much shut out.

Then, someone of great intelligence came up with a fantastic idea.

Why not hire a schoolbus and cart a load of kids to Lethbridge once a week?

It was genius!

Why hadn't anyone though of it before?

Now I could take lessons and my parents would only be responsible for getting me to and from Milk River.

Okay, it still meant a twenty-mile hike into town to drop me off and another twenty miles to pick me up, but why haggle over details?

I was going!

The bus ride was a treat. For one thing, I was suddenly riding with a different group of kids than I ever saw from the fourth seat back.

And for another, Kathy had a portable record-player, which she kept going the entire 50 miles.

I can't tell you how many times we heard 'Wipe-Out', but it was . . . umm . . . a few.

The bus deposited us safely in front of the Civic Center.

I should mention here that I've often wondered about bus drivers. What they do in their off hours, when they aren't closely closeted with a rowdy group of young people.

It's a wonder that more of them don't drink.

Can't you just picture a group of them around a table with shaking heads and “Let me tell you . . .!” stories?

But I digress . . .

We scrambled madly for the door and the change rooms, then poured out into the main pool room.

We were ready.

The teachers began to sort us into groups, using a highly accurate scheme.

How old are you? Are you afraid of the water? Have you ever taken swimming lessons before? What colour is your swimsuit.

Do you like boys?

Finally, they had us, more or less, categorized.

I had never taken swimming lessons, so I was inserted into the beginners class.

That was a treat.

“Okay, see if you can put your face into the water.”

Compliance.

“Okay. You! Little girl in the blue swimsuit!” Sigh. “Would someone please fish her out?”

Have I mentioned that I like water?

“Are you sure you've never had lessons?”

Head shake.

“Well, I'm moving you up to the next level.”

Okay.

And so it went.

By the time we were finished our one-hour lesson, I had been . . . promoted . . . seven times.

It must have been some sort of record, to go from the beginner level to the 'Junior Lifeguard' level.

In one lesson.

Who could have known that all my flailing and thrashing around like a demented fish had actually been getting me somewhere.

Or that, in the still water of a pool, with no current to fight, I could actually make headway.

Really fast headway.

Jerry (the only member of my family who could actually fight the river's current and win), eat your heart out.

Because miracles do happen.

I was suddenly the soggy and triumphant queen of my little, watery world.

It didn't happen often.

But it was a very good feeling.

My River

Our River - almost ready for swimming . . .

Our playground flowed right around the main Stringam Ranch buildings.

To the adult residents of the ranch, it was the South Fork of the Milk River.
To us, it was a muddy, murky paradise. Our entertainment. Our recreation. Our playmate.
It provided a solid skating surface in the winter and a wonderful swimming pool in summer.
In spring through fall, it was an endless source of educational fun as we hunted snakes and frogs. Tried to trap unwary fish. And generally made life miserable for any denizen so unfortunate as to capture our attention.
I learned to skate there. What is that little dictum that states that the hardest part about learning to skate is the ice?
That would apply to me.
Or at least to my backside.
But I digress . . .
I learned to swim there.
And I wish I could swim there, still.
On a hot summer afternoon, my siblings and I would invariably be found in the milky depths of our river.
I can remember exactly how the water looked - billions of grains of fine sand hanging suspended as the rays of sunlight shone through it.
I can remember how it smelled. Wet mud and fresh water and things growing.
And I can remember how it felt. Cool and soft as it slid across one's nearly naked little body.
The current was slow and sluggish, but still strong enough prove a challenge when swimming against it. In fact, only my eldest brother, Jerry could make any headway. The rest of us tried manfully, or girlfully (is that a word?) as the case may be, to keep up.
We couldn't.
But we did flail with purpose and, finally, I was able to at least hold my position.
It was a time of peace. When one's siblings were truly one's best friends. We watched over each other, fishing the smaller siblings out if they got in over their heads and keeping our St. Bernard, Mike from drowning anyone as he tried desperately to save them.
From time to time, the chief lifeguard, my Mom, would appear at the top of the cliff beside the house and survey the area, counting heads and noting the general state of her six offspring. Then she would wave and disappear.
And we would go back to whatever she had interrupted.
It was a blissful way to spend the summer.
Sure, there were chores that had to be done. Acres of garden to hoe. Cattle to drive. Calves to brand. Feeding. Milking. Haying. Fencing. Mowing. Harvesting.
But for those few hours every afternoon, we had no duties. No pressures.
Just Chris' radio blaring out whatever was considered the day's top hits. The soft sand. The sunlight on the milky water.
And each other.
We were right.
It was paradise.