My granddaughter Julie before she fell into this backyard pond.
When I was young we lived very close to Catfish Creek. The creek was a river about 25 feet across and, according to my mother, a threat to our lives. One day when I was about four, I remember being with my big brother standing on the metal bridge high over Catfish Creek swinging my leg under the side rail. My new red boot slipped off into the river below. My six-year-old brother won’t think about going to get it.
When my daughter Elizabeth was two years old she fell into our backyard pool and had to be rushed to the hospital. It took a miracle, but she survived. (The story is on page 193 of Blooming.)
My daughter Angela’s worst fears had to do with the fishless fish pond in her backyard in rural Saskatchewan. A few weeks ago while I was visiting Angela and Steve and the grandkids, little J. flipped off the decorative bridge face-first into the dreaded pond. From the deck where we were sitting, Angela and I heard the splash. Within seconds Angela scooped Julie from the dirty brown water.
I spent the afternoon draining that pond.