“There it is. I can hear it,” my brother cried as we stood on the steps of the shanty.

I could hear it too. We peered out across the calm water of the Minnesota slough. With the last light of day still shimmering on the calming water, we listened and watched as the sound of the old launch grew louder.

Daddy is a wizard, we thought. He always knew just when that last ray of light would illuminate his final pass across the slough. There he was. In the distance we could see the big fishing launch, heavy with fish boxes and nets, as it made its way in the shadows of night fall. The low hum of the launch’s motor and the soft ripple of its wake were ever so familiar to our ears. As soon as our searching eyes spotted Daddy, we scampered down the bank and stood on the dock, waves struggling to splash over the old wooden planks. He cut the motor and coasted to a squishing halt. The boat’s bulk abruptly stopped the launch, its weight making a sudden impact between wood and mud.

Following him up the path, Daddy listened to the stories of our day. The soft lights of the shanty grew brighter and we heard sounds from the kitchen. Mama had supper ready. “Wash your hands,” she said, as she set bowls of steaming mashed potatoes and creamed peas on the old drop leaf table. A platter of hamburger patties with brown gravy would also be part of supper along with cabbage salad or maybe Jell-O. If it were springtime, sometimes a rhubarb pie was served for dessert. Mama made the best “finger rolls.” And I cannot forget homemade strawberry jam. These were our staple foods. But, sometimes we had baked fish. Daddy would bring home a big old buffalo—sort of the king of the carp family. Mama stuffed it with sage dressing and then slid the roaster deep into the oven. Nothing is better than that tender white meat falling off the bones of that giant fish.

One of us kids was picked to say the blessing. If it was my turn, I whispered “Bless this food which now we take and make us good for Jesus’ sake, Amen.” I peeked at Mama for her smile of approval. She always smiled and then we enjoyed our supper. A kerosene lamp’s glow and the setting sun illuminated our tiny kitchen as we ate.

After helping with the supper dishes, we settled in for the remainder of the evening, my brothers and I sinking deep into the feather tic mattress. Daddy sat just inside the door with his needle and twine, working at the now lost craft of knitting fishing nets. He softly counted the knots using a handmade wooden needle, his lips moving in time with his nimble fingers.

We had no running water, so Daddy kept buckets of fresh water out on the porch. There was an old artesian well not far from the shanty; we could reach it only by boat. We all went along to visit the ancient pipe that barely extended above the water. After following a narrow passage off the Minnesota Slough, we entered Duck Lake. Before we could even see the old well, we could hear the rush of its cool crystal water beating down into the muddy pool. Daddy sometimes held us, one at a time, over the never ending flow. With Mama hanging n to our shirt tails, we slurped the cool water as it splashed over our faces.

We were safe and warm in our little shanty on the banks of the slough. An occasional mosquito found its way inside and Daddy chased it around until its buzzing was silenced. Sleepy eyes grew heavy, as we listened to Mama reading. Her gentle voice paused when we heard the hoot of a distant owl. Another would answer. A gust of wind sent waves crashing to the shore, as a storm threatened beyond the bluffs. I imagined great ships fighting massive squalls, ladies trembling in terror. The story would drift away, and we fell sound asleep. Mama sat watching us, her rocking chair softly creaking. Fritzels (frogs) welcomed the night singing from the small pond behind the shanty.

Outside, the leaves rustled in the wind. The screen door strained to be free from its hinges. I curled up deep within the heavy quilts that were piled on top of me. I squeezed my doll; a faint squeak woke my brother. A blast of thunder and a flash of lightening sent me running through the kitchen and into Mama’s arms. “Shhh,” she purred and I was comforted. She held me close until the storm’s rage passed.

I woke up to bright sunshine. Crows were busy cawing their good mornings. In the distance I heard the flat tail of a beaver hit the water with a loud slap. Something had disturbed him and he immediately warned his brothers. The heavy cast iron fry pan made a thump as Mama placed it on the stove. Soon the sizzle of freshly cracked eggs hitting the hot grease broke the silence in the little shanty. I bounced out of bed to begin another day on the banks of the Minnesota slough.