She forgot her fear of falling and the uncertainty of standing alone, as she lunged forward to grasp in her own little hands an enchanting treasure. Stimulated by the desire to have for herself that precious thing her sister had already experimented with and found worthwhile, she made a remarkable discovery. She could walk alone.That treasure was only a toy china teapot, and the child was only one year old. Yet that incident laid down a pattern that repeated itself many times throughout the lives of these two sisters.
On the day their mother had brought the second child home from the hospital and had set the basket down, Clara, eighteen months old, viewed the wee red-faced bundle with obvious satisfaction. "Dere now," she exclaimed, "dat my baby! I gonna look after dis baby!" The fond mother laughed at the cute saying of her little one. Yet, in retrospect, these words seem like a prophetic declaration.
Clara loved her little sister and felt a responsibility toward her from the start. She showed no jealousy of the little intruder with whom she, the first-born, now had to share her mother's love and attention, which until now, had been lavished on her alone.
I was that sister. Throughout our lives Clara and I remained special to each other.
Mother gave Clara her first year of schooling at home. We lived too far out into the country for a little girl to go off into the winter alone. The next year Clara and I went off to school together.
When the deep Northern Alberta snows came, well bundled up against the cold, crisp mornings, we would trudge off together. As soon as we would reach the edge of the yard, Clara, taking the lead, would break a trail in the snow. Following close behind, I would try, with my shorter legs, to place my feet in my sister's tracks.
One day as we were on our way home from school, danger threatened--or at least we thought it did. A big dog appeared on the pathway, breathing heavily, his whiskers and snout all white. Clara, having heard of mad dogs frothing at the mouth, thought this must be one for sure. What she did not realize was that the froth she thought she saw was just frost on his mouth, from his warm breath. Grasping my hand and veering off to the right to avoid the frightening creature, Clara headed on up the only alternate route—camel hill, so-called because of its abrupt ups and down. Leaping through the snow like a deer being pursued, she never released her grip on her little sister's hand until together we burst breathless through the door, into the safety of Mama's warm kitchen. Never could I have run like that alone. Yet with Clara in the lead, holding securely onto my hand, it became easy, in fact, fun.
Lily was our Holstein cow that gave plenty of milk, but very little cream. When other food was scarce, Lily never seemed to fail. Clara and I both became very fond of Lily. We always went together to the pasture to fetch her for milking time. Dad was very often away, clearing brush for someone. Work being scarce in those days, this was the only way he had of earning money, to feed his growing family. If work was good, he might bring in a dollar a day. With several younger children in the family, keeping her busy in the house, Mother dared not leave to go out to milk. At the age of seven, Clara learned to milk. Although I never learned the art of milking, I was always there, summer or winter, to tie Lily and to feed her chop so she would stand still for Clara.
Occasionally Lily would take to wandering. We girls then would go in search of her. That was always considered an adventure for us in the lovely summer weather. We enjoyed treading in our bare feet over the spongy moss of the muskeg. We loved the grassy lanes between the bush and the fields. We would pick bluebells, buttercups and columbines, or search for little wild strawberries. They were so sweet!
Our dad befriended a disturbed young man, Howard West, in an endeavor to help him, often giving him refuge in our log cabin home. One day while he was enjoying our hospitality, Howard accompanied us on one of our searches for gallivanting Lily. We had been running, when suddenly Howard fell to the ground, rolling, snorting, frothing, and making loud, strange noises. Of course, as little children, we had never seen an epileptic fit. Clara was terribly frightened. Although I was afraid too, nothing seemed so bad as long as Clara was present. She always seemed to know what to do. We prayed to Jesus for help. By and by Howard got up off the ground and was able to walk home.
