My great grandparents immigrated from Sweden in the late 1800’s. They worked building the railroad from Nova Scotia, across Ontario, and finally stopped at Tyndall Manitoba, which they knew held other families from Sweden.

My great grandparents had five sons and five daughters. Their son Gunnar, born in 1882, was the first off the train after the tracks made it to Tyndall in 1887. My great grandfather had earned enough to buy a small farm north of Tyndall. In fact or maybe fiction, I was told a man hung himself from an oak tree on the property. My great grandfather Karl Wickander had him cut down and buried right there. This property was then donated by Karl to become Tyndall Cemetery. In the family plot now lies Karl and Erica(nee Bergland) Wickander and their children Albert, Gunnar, Ernest, Arvid, Emil, Anna Lindblad, Hilda Lungstrom, Nana Wickander. Granddaughter Millie Hunter (nee Lindblad), my Mom, and great grandson Brent Hunter (my oldest brother), and Sean Hunter great great grandson.

Just like immigrants of today the Swedish families hung out together, spoke the comfortable Swedish they grew up with. My young grandmother got a job at the Swedish Club in Winnipeg. There she met my grandfather. They married and bought a large home in the north end of Winnipeg that they earned extra income as a boarding house. My grandfather was a professional carpenter and specialized in building grain elevators across Manitoba and Saskatchewan. They had three children, Millie, Alice, and Maurice. Alice never married and died young. Uncle Moe and Aunty Abby Lindblad had two daughters Cheryl and Carlyle.

My mom was married twice. Once to Lewis Vollans, my brother Brent Hunter was about 5 when they divorced and Mom moved back to Tyndall. At Louie and Sally Erickson’s my mom met my dad Albert Hunter. My brother Elliott was born and three years later I arrived.

My childhood was filled with Nelsons, Lungrens, Holmbergs, Ostholmes, and Lungstroms. Kazinas, Armstrongs, Huskos, Hurrells, Wawryshans, and Warrens. Every family knew every family in our little village. Three stores, three restaurants, hardware store, three garages, a two story dance hall, and a blacksmith shop.

On my street lived the Dolynuiks, Faryons, Sargents, Habars, Mordens, Wenzoskis,McKays, Downies, Winklers, Holmbergs, and Carlsons.

There were the bootleggers, Kisiloski, Chorneys, and Shumiluks. Women could not go into the men’s only beer parlour, so the bootleggers provided somewhere the whole family could go. Picnics, horseshoes, and bonfires. A guitar and a fiddle. Live entertainment.

At the end of this long history of my family is one fact. There is only one other person left that has known me my whole life. All my other relatives have passed on. Only Elliott may remember all those childhood characters we knew. Haywire, Weasel, Butch, Blake, Crippled Nickie, and Blind Nickie.

The little I struggle to remember is from stories my Mom told me. Some stories are from my great uncles who spoiled me when I was the only blonde blue eyed little girl they got to see every weekend. What I learned most was to share your stories with your children and grandchildren. Because sadly the information is lost and gone.

One day there will only be Elliott or I left. The last to remember getting to buy a comic book, bag of chips, and a drink on a Saturday night as we sat in the car, under the big street light while Mom and Dad were in Garson Hotel. Memories.

May I be safe. May I be healthy. May I be happy. May I live with ease.