Dad grew up in Mellen, a small town in northern Wisconsin. His parents ran a grocery store, more of a small, general store where one could find flour, and sugar, coffee and tea in bulk. Those purchases were carefully weighed or measured out in accordance to one’s anticipated need, or the state of one’s credit with the proprietor. There was a pickle barrel, a display of work gloves, buttons, needles and thread, onions, potatoes and apples grown locally, spices and a limited selection of canned goods. After school, Dad drove an oxcart to deliver groceries to shut-ins, elderly and rural customers. He stopped regularly at the candy counter, necessitating frequent visits to the dentist who rented an office above the store (often meeting his rent with professional attention to the teeth of my dad, his brother and sister.)

Loon Lake was just outside of town, where the more intrepid swimmers of the area exercised and cooled themselves with vigorous swims during the hottest days of summer. The water seldom warmed to a comfortable temperature as did some of the shallower lakes in the area, and the young men of the community considered it a test of endurance and manliness to swim long distances in the chilly lake. Dad was no exception and boasted of being one of the few who had managed to swim completely around the entire lake in one uninterrupted attempt.

To my girlish mind, hearing of that accomplishment made my dad the equivalent of an Olympic champion and an expert swimmer, although in reality, he swam mostly a relaxed sidestroke inter spaced with periods of restful floating and treading water. I had learned to swim the sidestroke at such an early age that I have no memory of a time when I could not swim. Consequently, I assumed it had something to do with being the daughter of an imagined Olympian. (Either that or some magical connection to the fact that my mother’s maiden name was Fish.) I was determined to someday imitate that performance – in one of our Iowa lakes if not the famed lake of Dad’s notable accomplishment.

I have mentioned, in the past, that we girls took swimming lessons every summer until we were teenagers. That was less to make us expert swimmers than to keep us busy and under supervision while Mother was busy with other things, and to help my younger sister Betty overcome her timidity and mild fear of being in the water. I was more or less fearless in the swimming pool, diving and jumping recklessly from poolside or diving board with abandon, able to float like a cork, relaxed to the point that the lifeguards sometimes checked to make sure I was okay. But I was never truly interested in learning the Australian crawl or proper breathing techniques required to become an expert swimmer.

Because he was accustomed to swimming in lakes and rivers in his youth, my dad refused to swim in regular swimming pools. “Too much chlorine and too many kids peeing in the water,” he insisted. We went often to either of the two man-made lakes nearby: Ahquabi south of Indianola and Keomah just east of Oskaloosa. Both were fairly small, elongated as are most lakes created by damming up rivers. Swimming around them was impractical and swimming across them seemed no great challenge. So, on one Sunday afternoon, Dad, my older sister Dorothy and I set out to break the rules and swim across Lake Keomah from the designated beach and back again.

Dorothy, at sixteen with a curvy figure and brilliant green satin bathing suit, resembled the movie starlet Terry Moore and appeared more mature than her actual years. Dad and I were a couple yards ahead of her when two lifeguards in a rowboat came bearing down on our expedition.

“You have to return to the beach area,” one of them told us, “It is against the rules to swim outside the designated area.” Dad asked if we could continue to the near shore to rest before going back but was refused. “I’m too tired,” Dorothy said. “I can’t make it all the way back without a rest.”

The lifeguards pulled Dorothy into their boat and, never looking back, rowed back to the beach, leaving Dad and me to continue our intended swim across the lake and back.