The Little Lake Girl

By Patricia Ann Sevean

The Little Lake Girl was two years old the first time she was admitted to hospital with a severe ear infection. Her lived experience carved out a 45-year career as a nurse. Her ancestral roots grounded her and she grew stronger over seven decades. Her lifelong passion for learning became the shawl that protected her from the winds of change. Over time she realized our bodies are in a certain place and time, but our minds can be anywhere at any time. In her memoir she likens life to making and eating a pie. The first one-third of the pie is the early years of selfdiscovery, living in your mind's eye, in the womb, and the school years, and before you know it, you're finished school, getting a job, starting relationships. It seems like there is still a lot of pie left. The second one-third is the middle years of making a commitment, working your way through career transitions, having and raising children. You're very busy and you tell yourself, "Don't worry, there is still lots of pie left." The last one-third is all about creating a legacy, retirement is looming, your children are having children. It is important to acknowledge that soon there will be no more pie. You realize the need to savour those last bites and share the recipe with your family, friends and anyone who cares to take a journey through the heart and mind to capture the essence of their soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Feb 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228868910

Patricia Ann Sevean

Pat Sevean is a wife, sister, mother, aunt, grandmother and great-aunt with 45 years experience working as a registered nurse, nurse educator, healthcare administrator and health researcher in Northern Ontario. Dr. Patricia Sevean, Professor Emerita, Lakehead University, received two Excellence in Teaching Awards (2008, 2014) from the Council of Ontario University Programs in Nursing. Her most significant accomplishment is being a forever "Nana" for her two beautiful grandchildren, Zoey and Wesley.

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Copyright © 2022 by Patricia Ann Sevean

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-6890-3 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-6891-0 (eBook)

In Memory

Doris and Glen, my loving parents.

Cherish the journey, the destination comes all too soon…

Special Dedication

Jennet Bass

(1873-1961)

This account of the life of Patricia Ann Sevean (née Lake) is from my perspective on being, becoming and belonging. It is dedicated to those past and present, and is an open book for all.

It is a story of the unvarnished truth of the ordinary life of The Little Lake Girl from Nipigon, Ontario. This memoir is dedicated to my great-grandmother Jennet Begg, who was born on September 10, 1873. She was short in stature (four feet, ten inches), but she stood tall in the field picking raspberries and in her kitchen as she baked mouth-watering pies and puff pastries.

My first memories of Little Grandma are at four years of age when she was the only adult I could come eye to eye with. I remember her face was small and wrinkled, and her eyes very watery. Many years later when I saw Star Wars for the first time, I said, Oh! My Little Grandma looked just like Yoda; wise, strong, powerful, wrinkled and childlike.

I remember asking her to go out and play with me, and she said, You pick raspberries and we will make a pie. She lived with my grandmother and grandfather on the second floor of their home in Gypsumville, Manitoba (population 285). She had one large room with a daybed that was covered with a handmade quilt. There was also a small dressing table where I would sit trying on her jewellery, dresses and hats while she was sleeping.

She was an excellent seamstress, drafted her own patterns and made all her garments by hand. My grandmother, my mother, my aunt, my niece and my daughters, Kelly and Robin, were all blessed with that sewing talent.

I had more success in the cooking and pastry department and learned from watching Grandma Ethel and Little Grandma make pies. To signal there was something in the oven they always threw a tea towel on the floor in front of the stove.

It was Little Grandma and her simple, pragmatic approach to living that set an example of a life worth emulating. Her granddaughter, my mother, Doris, followed suit, and, as the famous old saying goes:

The acorn doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

Little Grandma passed away quietly one night in December 1961, reminding us that all of life is inextricably linked strands of energy woven into an evolutionary tapestry; meaning if one life vanishes others feel the loss.

Table of Contents

In Memory

Special Dedication

Author’s Note

PART ONE

SELF DISCOVERY - being

I - What’s in Your Genes?

II - When I First Remember Being Me

III - The Little Lake Girl

IV - No Longer The Little Lake Girl

PART TWO

THE COMMITMENT - becoming

V - Becoming a Student Nurse

VI - Becoming One with the Other

VII - Being and Becoming a Nurse

VIII - Being and Becoming a Family

IX - Being a Nurse Educator

X - Being in Cancer Land

XI - Being and Becoming a Nurse Scholar

PART THREE

THE LEGACY - belonging

XII - Two Weddings & Two Nephrectomies

XIII - Cancer Land Revisited

XIV - My Broken Heart

XV - Being and Becoming Nana

XVI - Living on the Edge

XVII - On the Road Again

XVIII - COVID-19 (Five Alive Plus Three)

XIX - New Normal(s)?

XX - Coming Full Circle

Acknowledgements

Bibliography

Author’s Note

This is a work of non-fiction. It is a memoir of stories reflecting the author’s recollections of her life. Any person(s) directly named are deceased or immediate family members, and my memories are not necessarily their recollections. Other persons not directly named include: my extended family members, colleagues and friends; but the memories are mine and mine alone. I have done my best to tell My Truth.

PART ONE

SELF DISCOVERY - being

How does it happen that the deeper we go into ourselves as particular and unique, seeking our individual identity, the more we find the whole human species?

(Carl Rogers 1969, 1902-1987)

Chapter I

What’s in Your Genes?

Everyone alive could use a poem.

Whether they want one is a different matter.

(Ronna Bloom)

Why am I writing down my history? Who is going to read it anyway? I estimate it will take me a few years to faithfully research and document this narcissistic journey. I was about to abandon the whole idea and then one night I woke up from a dream feeling very satisfied. I had just attended my granddaughter’s wedding. She (Zoey Blue) was all grown up and looking very beautiful in a long, flowing gown while she walked down into a valley of flowers. It was one of those dreams that is so lifelike, I had to shake myself just to get back to reality. It was in that moment I began to ask the question that I had blocked in my mind: How old would she be? Well, let’s do the math! When she is twenty, I will be eighty-five years old. At thirty, I will be ninety-five years old. And then it hit me: I am not likely to be alive.

When I was twenty-one, during a midnight shift the older nurse I was working with who had several grandchildren asked me, When are you going to have children?

Oh! I just got married no rush for now, I replied.

I remember her warning, Don’t leave it too long. Life is for living, not for waiting to live. Just think about the woman down in room 4312. She was here last night and all her family was present—her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren—and tonight she is gone! She paused and then said, Remember when we went to turn her for the last time? She told us how fortunate she was to have such a wonderful family and a full life with no regrets.

Upon reflection I really get what she was saying! I blinked and I am a grandmother. Take another blink and I will be gone too! My first instinct is to feel sorry for myself because I will probably never see my grandchildren get married or have children of their own. I realize it is not about my selfish need to be loved, but my grandchildren will also be sad that their nana is not there to love them. Not only will they miss me, but their children won’t know who I am except for a few old black and white photos in a box and some stories their mother and father tell them about their family. It was then and there that I became committed to writing down the story so my descendants would know who we are and where we came from. I owe it to my mother, grandmother and my Little Grandma to pass on their stories about their time spent with me.

It is my duty to record as much of the family history as I possibly can. I always wanted to know more about my family, but whenever I asked questions, I would get brief answers. I wish I had asked more questions, listened more intently and wrote down the answers. Yes, that older, wiser nurse was right: It is all over within the blink of an eye. We must live each day as if it is the first day and the last day of the rest of our lives.

So, where does one begin to unravel the mystery of their life? One day I was watching an advertisement on television for a DNA testing kit, so I decided to get it done! Life is all in your genes, and I don’t mean your blue jeans; it is written in code. On September 6, 2017, I ordered the DNA (deoxyribonucleic acid) kit. I tracked its path from California through border security in Vancouver and on to Sudbury. It arrived on my granddaughter Zoey’s first birthday, September 18, 2017.

To unravel the mystery of a life do you begin with a few drops of saliva and send it away to be decoded? It is as good a place as any to start, and it ends the torment of the never-ending nagging questions: Where do I start? Who cares about my life? Will it make any difference? Will I regret unravelling the ball of twine, or is it best left untouched?

I sent my sample in on October 3, 2017, and the rest is history! I felt very strange going into the post office and handing in a box with something so personal inside. I had given blood and urine samples many times before, but this was different. It wasn’t about the present or the future, it was all about my past and whether or not I really know my true identity. I felt a moment of panic on my way home, and I almost wanted to turn the car around and go back to the post office so I could retrieve my sample. I shook off the feeling, but later in my dreams I returned to a childhood fantasy that I was adopted and no one ever told me. I am sure I am not alone in those thoughts because as a child it was a common bullying tactic for kids to taunt other kids about being adopted. Then there are the stories your parents and grandparents told you about your family heritage. You think maybe there are family secrets along the way—an unwanted pregnancy or an undisclosed adoption that puts into question your familial linage.

For example, my father, Glendon Ernest Lake, went to live with his uncle at eight years of age. When my sister Cathy and I were growing up we never met any members of the Lake family from Toronto. We only had an oral account from my great uncle about the family. In 2013, I found the Lake family tree on the ancestry website. Much to my surprise he was not named on the family tree! I searched the 1921 census records and found his name listed as Glendon Ernest, one year old, living at 232 Fairview Road, Toronto, with his parents and siblings, Fred (fourteen years old) and Edith (nineteen years old).

When I entered his name onto the family tree and attached the census document, to my surprise I was contacted by a distant relative who had created the original family tree. I received an email from her stating, We always heard there was another baby boy, but we weren’t able to find any evidence of his existence. I will never forget that day and the excitement I felt discovering such an important connection with my father’s long-lost roots. I was able to add a piece to the puzzle that made the picture of my family tree more complete, and a hole was filled in my heart!

That very special day reshaped my image of the Little Lake Girl from Nipigon. From that day forward I was hooked, and that is why the DNA test was such an important next step. I needed the validation that I was part of a much larger ancestral tapestry. When the results were finally posted, there were no real surprises in my overall ethnicity assessment. My DNA sample revealed that 42 percent of my heritage was from England and northwestern Europe, 40 percent was from Scotland, 9 percent from France, 3 percent from Wales, and 1 percent from Cameroon, Congo and the western Bantu peoples. Additional communities of interest included southwestern Quebec French settlers and southern Ontario settlers. The latter was well supported by the fact that both my maternal and paternal grandparents were born in southern Ontario. There were 34,567 matches that were a fourth cousin or closer. My two closest family contacts were both on my mother’s side of the family: my mother Doris’s cousin, Merle (8 percent of her DNA), and her son, Lloyd (4 percent of his DNA).

I met with my cousin Lloyd and obtained dates of births and deaths that were not previously recorded in my family records. I also spoke with Merle a few times on the phone, and we shared family stories and photographs. It made me feel connected to my grandmother Ethel because when I was younger, she would often speak fondly about her sister Pearl (Merle’s mother) and her family.

My mother and Merle both served during World War II. Merle taught airmen Morse code, which was essential for communication during the war and my mother was a nursing aide in the airforce. My mother would also talk about all the letters and Christmas cards they exchanged over the years. My mother would tell her about her two daughters and her life in Nipigon, Ontario. In turn, Merle would share stories about her five sons and their farm in Antigonish, Nova Scotia, picking strawberries and blueberries, and planting trees.

In 2019, Merle sent me a copy of her own memoir about her love of family entitled, Until the Cows Come Home (2015), which inspired me to keep on writing my memoir.

Of course, the story of our lives is more than a genealogy chart or a set of historical facts. Paying attention to the place where one begins their life helps them understand the meaning of their life. The exploration of my life story begins with a description of the people and places where my ancestors began their journey into the world. There is one thing I know for certain: There is a marriage between where-we-come from and who-we-become. Our birth is not accidental! We are meant to be! Being, becoming and belonging in this world is our eternal footprint in the sands of time.

On the maternal side of my family, the story begins with the marriage of my great-grandparents John Bass (1872-1943) and Jennet Begg (1873-1961).

THE BASS FAMILY

Back Row L-R: John Charles Bass, Jennet Bass Front Row L-R: Ellen Irene Bass, Ethel May Bass

John was the son of a farmer, and Jennet was hired as a servant girl on their family farm. That is how they met. They were married in 1891, lived and worked on farms in the village of Washington in the county of St. George, Ontario. They had three daughters, Ethel May (my grandmother), Ellen Irene, Rene, who died at thirteen years of age, and Agnes Pearl (my mother’s aunt).

In 1904, the Bass family moved to Manitou, Manitoba, and rented various farms. By that time, Ethel had learned to sew and hired herself out to families as a seamstress to make their summer and winter wardrobes. It was how she met the famous Canadian author and suffragette Nellie McClung, who definitely influenced her future political views on Canadian women’s rights and the right to vote.

In 1913, John Bass obtained a quarter section of land four miles north of Gypsumville, Manitoba. He built a new homestead and moved his family there. The Bass family had house parties in the winter and picnics in the summer which attracted the eligible bachelors in the area. This is how Ethel met Frank Haywood!

THE HAYWOOD FAMILY

Haywood Dairy, 369 Abbeydale Road, Sheffield, England

My maternal grandfather (Frank Cecil Haywood) was born to Charles and Kate Haywood (née Croysdale) on November 12, 1889, in the city of Leeds, England. He was the third child of five (there were four boys and one girl). Doris was my great aunt and the reason my mother was named Doris. His family moved from their farm to Sheffield, England, opened a dairy and delivered milk and butter from a small shop. There was not enough work for all of them, so Frank got a job at a gentleman’s club and saved enough money to come to Canada in 1913 at twenty-four years of age. Frank worked on a farm in Belmont, Manitoba, until he joined the army in 1915.

He was trained by The Winnipeg Grenadiers 78th Battalion (formerly the 100th Winnipeg Grenadiers) and embarked on the SS Olympic on September 18, 1916. The RMS Olympic, the older sister ship of the ill-fated RMS Titanic, was hailed by Canadian troops who sailed her abroad as Old Reliable. She was able to accommodate close to six thousand troops at a time. The Olympic made ten round trips from Halifax to Liverpool, England, between March and December 1916 (Gray 2002). Frank disembarked in Liverpool on September 25, 1916. He was back again on home soil and ready to go to the battlefields in France.

I am reading from an online copy of the original attestation paper that was filled out and signed by my grandfather and witnessed by the magistrate when he enlisted in the Canadian Expeditionary Force (CEF June 2020).

Pte. Frank Cecil Haywood (1889-1970)

With tears in my eyes, I couldn’t help but notice that his handwriting was similar to my mother’s. The following information was filled out in pen and ink:

Frank Cecil Haywood, born on November 12, 1889, in Sheffield, England. Next of kin, his father, Charles Haywood, of 369 Abbeydale Road, Sheffield, England. Frank, who is twenty-six years and three months, enlisted in the 100th Winnipeg Grenadiers on March 18, 1916, on this day of our Lord he has declared his allegiance to his Majesty King George Fifth. His medical examination revealed he is in excellent health, height five feet, 10 1/2 inches, eyes dark brown, hair dark brown, one small scar on the left shoulder from infancy. Religion: Church of England (Library and Archives Canada 1997-2020).

During the next three years, Frank experienced long, cold nights on the battlefields, in the trenches up to his waist in water, sleeping on flea-infested sandbags (Moose-Gypsumville History Book Committee 1991, p.446-451). One time, he woke up with a rat sitting on his chest with its tail swishing across his face (Frank’s words as he laughed). He caught pneumonia and was hospitalized several times in England with pleurisy. He was admitted to Ravenscroft Military Hospital in Seaford seriously ill with pleurisy on May 25, 1917, and discharged on July 7, 1917. In July 1918, he survived mustard gas poisoning but was blinded and had conjunctivitis and photophobia for several months. He was admitted to Southwark Military Hospital until his burns healed and his eyesight improved (Canadian Over-Seas Expeditionary Force 2020).

After spending eight months on active duty on the battlefields in France and Belgium and the remainder of his time recuperating from his injuries, Frank finally returned to Halifax on January 24, 1919, on the RMS Aquitania a Cunard ocean liner (Ship Beautiful), which became a popular passenger liner post WWI (Munger 2016). According to his military records, Frank was discharged on February 28, 1919. He obtained land through the Veterans’ Land Act and returned to Belmont, Manitoba (The Royal Canadian Legion 2014, p.95).

When I was 9 years old, I asked my grandfather, Grandpa, can you tell me about the battle during World War I when you were poisoned with mustard gas?

In Frank’s words:

It all happened such a long time ago, but I can remember that day as if it was yesterday … we were sent out from the trenches to the battlefield … we barely made it over the hill and the men in front of me were falling to the ground. Before I knew it I was gasping for air … my eyes were burning … I dropped to the ground. I don’t remember much after that. I think I passed out for a while, and when I woke up later and opened my eyes, all I could see were bodies all around me. It was very quiet, and no one was moving. Off in the distance I could hear voices calling, and as I opened my eyes again, I could see someone approaching, a nurse, her white apron flapping in the breeze, the red cross symbol on her chest. She was waving her arms in the air and calling out, Is anyone alive? I think I tried to raise my arm as I heard her footsteps coming closer. I must have passed out again because I woke up later—apparently days later in an army outpost hospital. I tried to open my eyes, but they were swollen shut and my entire body was on fire with blisters. I don’t remember much as I drifted in and out for days on end.

His eyes filled with tears as he reached into his shirt pocket to grab a handkerchief. Then he continued.

When I was feeling a bit better, I asked about the Red Cross nurse because I wanted to thank her. Everyone I asked told me that it wasn’t possible because nurses didn’t leave the field hospital and go to the battlefield to retrieve wounded soldiers. Finally, I gave up asking, and to this day I still wonder if she was just a figment of my imagination or if she was real. I just wanted to thank her for saving my life since almost everyone on the battlefield that day died, and there were only a small handful of soldiers who survived. Once I got a little better, they shipped me back to England to recover in a rest home, and I was there for several months.

When the war was over, Frank returned to Belmont, Manitoba, and worked on farms. Ethel met Frank at a house party. In her own words, she said, Frank had come back from the war [WWI]. He walked through the house—it seemed like he came in one door and went out the other—and I said, ‘That’s the young man I am going to marry.’ Frank and Ethel were married on December 6, 1922, in Winnipeg, Manitoba. Even though Ethel Bass was twenty-nine years old, as per tradition, Frank asked her parents for their consent, which apparently was readily given by her father but not by her mother. The young couple moved to Belmont, Manitoba, for a few years while Frank worked for the Canadian National Railway (CNR). They built their first home, and Ethel took in teachers as boarders. They had two daughters, Doris May (1925, my mother) and Frances Mabel (1930, my aunt).

During the summer of 2004, my youngest daughter, Robin, had a summer job in Belmont, Manitoba, on an archeology dig. When I took her to Belmont to start her position, we visited the old homestead. The owner told us that he did some renovations and found boards in the walls that had been marked with the CNR logo, which made sense since my grandfather probably used wood from old box cars to build his house. We also visited the local museum, which had a display of WWI uniforms, helmets and canteens donated by local returning soldiers from WWI. We wondered if some of those items had once belonged to Frank.

During the Great Depression, Frank and Ethel decided to sell their house in Belmont and purchase a farm two miles north of Gypsumville. Ethel and the girls lived with their grandparents (John and Jennet) while Frank built a frame house and a log barn. Money was always scarce, but they didn’t lack for food. They milked six to eight cows and made butter to sell door to door in town for fifteen cents a pound. They raised chickens and sold eggs for ten cents a dozen. Butter and eggs were also traded at the grocery store for all the essentials that couldn’t be raised or grown on the farm such as sugar, tea and flour.

In May 1939, Frank enlisted in the army as a Veterans Guard. When King George VI and Queen Elizabeth came to Winnipeg, Frank was one of the honour guards that cordoned off the grounds of the Manitoba Legislative Building during the royal visit. In 1942, Frank again enlisted in the army as a Veterans Guard and spent the war years guarding prisoners at prisoner of war camps in Lethbridge and Medicine Hat, Alberta, Vernon, Sea Island, Scriber and Ignace (Neys Provincial Park).

During the war, John and Jennet moved in with their daughter Ethel to help look after the farm animals. Unfortunately, John Bass passed away in 1943, the same year that Doris joined the air force. She took basic training as a Nurse’s Aide at Rockcliffe, Ontario and spent the war posted as a nursing aide at the military hospital in Brandon, Manitoba. When Frank returned to the farm in 1945 after the war ended, he moved the family to town for health reasons in 1948. He worked for the school board and became active in the scout movement. He received the Canadian Volunteer Service Medal Ribbon and the War Medal 1939-1945 (The Royal Canadian Legion 2014, p.95).

I also asked my grandfather the following question: Grandpa, why did you serve in WWII?

Well, I signed up, but I was told I was too old (forty-seven) to go overseas and fight, but they said they needed soldiers like me to serve at home and work in the prisoner of war camps; so I ended up close to where you live now (Neys Provincial Park was the site of a large prisoner of war camp in Northern Ontario) guarding German prisoners. We all lived together in one camp, the prisoners and us guards. After a long, hard winter and a mosquito-infested and hot summer, we were all thankful to have survived. Everyone was happy when D-Day came and we could go home. Some of those prisoners didn’t want to go back to Germany, and I believe some stayed and started a new life in Canada.

On the paternal side of my family, the story begins with the marriage of my grandparents, Sperry Lake (1861-1924)