Donald Johanson is a 'normal boy' living on a farm in Saskatchewan during the Dirty Thirties. The tragic loss of his father changes the direction of his life when his mother, Anna, decides to marry Frank, the hired hand. Frank hates children and gives Anna an ultimatum. He will marry her and help save her farm if she agrees to get rid of her children. This leads Anna to take Donald to the mental asylum in Weyburn where he is abandoned for many years. After being raped, abused and traumatized, Donald and his friend, Martha, attempt an escape. Finally, in his manhood, he is discharged and must learn to fend for himself in a world that is very new to him. With the help of his wife, he begins to face his demons and looks for his mother after over 20 years of no contact. He struggles with the abandonment and forgiveness of his mother. He seeks retribution from the mental institution. For whatever reasons, there were children who were not mentally affected who ended up in mental institutions during this time. Their existence was a well-kept dark secret. This story breaks that secret open for the first time.
Donald Johanson is a 'normal boy' living on a farm in Saskatchewan during the Dirty Thirties. The tragic loss of his father changes the direction of his life when his mother, Anna, decides to marry Frank, the hired hand. Frank hates children and gives Anna an ultimatum. He will marry her and help save her farm if she agrees to get rid of her children. This leads Anna to take Donald to the mental asylum in Weyburn where he is abandoned for many years. After being raped, abused and traumatized, Donald and his friend, Martha, attempt an escape. Finally, in his manhood, he is discharged and must learn to fend for himself in a world that is very new to him. With the help of his wife, he begins to face his demons and looks for his mother after over 20 years of no contact. He struggles with the abandonment and forgiveness of his mother. He seeks retribution from the mental institution. For whatever reasons, there were children who were not mentally affected who ended up in mental institutions during this time. Their existence was a well-kept dark secret. This story breaks that secret open for the first time.
The wind howled and dirt swirled like a dark cloud over the lifeless, ashen-like prairie. Wooden shingles lifted from the outbuildings and flew across the yard like blades cutting anything in their path. Tumble weeds rolled and danced their way like bouncing beach balls across the fields to far-away places. Mother had gone into labour and was about to give birth to her fourth childâme, Donald Johanson. It was July 1, 1931.
Under normal circumstances, when a child is born it is supposed to be a time of celebration. In my parentsâ generation, it was particularly a time for celebration when you were blessed with the first son. I came into a loving family with two nurturing parents, three doting, older sisters and grandparents to boot. So, it would seem I had the ideal recipe for a happy childhood. I had no way of knowing that life was going to interrupt my blissful childhood and take me into the bowels of hell. I was going to be uprooted by the Devil himself and he was going to have his way with my soul.
A popular quotation used today regarding the upbringing of children is: âIt takes a village to raise a child.â Well, I walked along a very long and lonely path and there was no village there to rescue me from the depths of hell on earth. It amazes me that over time Iâve seen people protesting and crusading for womenâs rights, gay rights, abortion, racism, and every other thing imaginable. Good causes? Perhaps, but where in Godâs name were the village and the protesters when innocent, normal children were placed in mental asylums?
Shame on those who knew yet did nothing about it. They saw me and they saw many just like me. They chose to remain silent and look the other way. Many law-abiding, church-going citizens who worked in the mental health system knew there were children like myselfâchildren with no known or proven mental illness or mental disabilityâincarcerated in an asylum that was ill equipped, to say the least, to keep such children imprisoned, and yet, none of them raised issue about this. In fact, they cooperated to help keep us children hidden from the public.
People at the top certainly weren't doing anything to investigate or rescue such children from this situation and people at the bottom would shrug shoulders and say, âWhat can we do? We have no authority.â It strikes me odd that those unionized people have authority and great strength in numbers and the backing of their unions when they want to vie for higher wages or better working conditions or benefits. They aren't shy about speaking up if it benefits them.
No one combined their efforts or united with the use of their power in their union to raise questions or concerns about keeping normal children locked up with mentally ill adults. Come along into my world and let me tell you what itâs like to be a boy abandoned and forgotten, living in an asylum.
ÂÂ
Â
My parents, Charles and Anna Johanson, lived on a homestead farm near the agricultural city of Weyburn, Saskatchewan, Canada. I was the youngest of four children and was the only son. I guess you could say I was the âafter thoughtâ of the familyâthe âunplannedâ one. It seemed, however, that my parents were very pleased to have a son, at last, after having three daughters. The plan had been to have the baby delivered in the hospital but the dirt was blowing into deep drifts and you couldnât see across the yard let alone see the road. So my sister, Ethel, assisted mother. It was too risky to go into town and our neighbour, Irma McDougal, could not come through the storm to our farm to help. It was the Dirty Thirties.
ÂÂ
Â
Ethel was the eldest child. She had naturally-curly, red hair, big blue eyes and freckles across her rosy cheeks and nose. She laughed like a screech owl. She was nearly always cheerful. When she laughed she got the hiccups. You could hear her hiccupping all through the house. It seemed there was only one level of sound for Ethel and that was âfull volumeâ.
Clara was blond andâas curly as Ethelâs hair wasâClaraâs was poker straight. She had soft blonde hair to her shoulders and it always reminded me of corn silk. Clara, or Cev, as she was affectionately referred to, was dainty and had the face of an angel. The other sisters sometimes called her, âQueenieâ and she didnât seem to care. She just flipped her blonde hair with the back of her hand and stuck her nose in the air and then flashed her big beautiful smile as if to say, âYou two are jealous and I love it!â She had the same big blue eyes as Ethel and she knew just how to use them to get her way. She would lower her chin and tilt her head to one side and look up through those long eyelashes and my father was putty in her hands!
Doris was the youngest of the three girls. She had thick, wavy, chocolate-brown hair and dark eyebrows to match. She had a few freckles like Ethel and the same big saucer-shaped, blue eyes that the other two had but she was somehow a little less feminine than her older sisters. Doris was a bit of a Tom-boy. She was quiet and more serious than the other sisters. That is not to say she didnât have a sense of humour because she did. Sheâd throw her head back and hold her stomach and have a good laugh along with anyone who told a joke but it didnât happen too often.
She was less interested in fussing about stylish clothes and never put that nail varnish on her fingernails that Clara loved to use. No frills for Doris; just comfortable and practical clothing that suited farm life. She would be more apt to be found helping Father to build something out of wood or help him in the barn if she could get out of household duties. She also loved to help Mother in the garden and I think Mother enjoyed the time to have one daughter all to herself.
My father, Charles Johanson, came to Canada from Sweden with his immigrant parents in the early 1900s. My grandparents staked a claim for land and began their farm life with a sod hut until they had enough saved to erect a proper wooden structure for a house. They raised seven children, including my father. They were proud to be Canadians and Grandfather insisted they would speak English at home as much as possible to learn the language and assimilate to their new country and customs.
Grandmother learned new recipes for the prairie farm life she now lived. She found wild Saskatoon berries, wild raspberries and choke cherries, for instance. These were a good source of vitamin C and Grandmother heard that they helped prevent scurvy. She soon learned to make jams, jellies or pies from these berries. Dandelions were also picked and the greens were used in salads and there was a dandelion wine that she learned to make as well. Nothing that grew wild or that was planted went to waste if it was edible at all. She still did her best to keep some traditional Swedish recipes for special holidays.
Life for my ancestors was not always easy. There were droughts and insect infestations and crop failures along with diseases affecting the livestock but somehow they always survived. When one thing failed, it seemed that another came through. Grandmother always said that when God closes a door, He opens a window somewhere. She was an eternal optimist or maybe it was her strong faith in God that made her have that optimism.
In 1928, they had a bumper crop and things had improved greatly. My father told me that the family always prayed and went to church on Sundays. He said his parents insisted on the children learning to put God first. They kept the Sabbath holy, meaning it was considered âa day of restâ. The only chores done on Sundays were things that were necessaryâsuch as feeding the livestock. However, if it was harvest time, they would be expected to be in the field day and night even on a Sunday.
During harvest, Grandpa figured the Lord would expect them to get a good crop off the land since the Lord was good enough to provide a bountiful crop. He said only a fool would waste valuable harvest time. The Lord would not smile upon such a fool.
My grandfather and his sons were hard-working farmers. They raised cattle, pigs, chickens and geese. There were a couple of horses but they were just work horses. My father and his siblings would often hitch up a horse and take a wagon to school. Sometimes, they walked and sometimes they might ride the horses bare back to school but most times they walked as Grandfather may have the need of the horses himself.
My grandmother planted a large garden which produced vegetables that were carefully preserved and stored in the cool basement for the long prairie winters. She also had a root cellar dug into the earth where many preserves and root vegetables were kept cool all summer, thanks to Grandpa and his sons hauling large blocks of ice which they cut from the dugout and layered with sawdust to keep them from melting.
As the family grew and moved to other parts of Canada and United States, my father was the only one left to take over the farm. When Grandma passed away and Grandpa retired from farming and moved into town, Charles found the farm a lonely place and began looking for a wife. Thatâs when he met Anna, a beautiful slender, blonde girl (of Norwegian background) who worked as a domestic at a neighbouring farm.
Anna and Charles married and began their family. Life continued much the same as the generation before. My father thought it was time to build an even larger house more suitable for his growing family so they built the two-story house where I was born. It was a beautiful homeâwell built and with all the modern conveniences of the time.
The ground floor consisted of a roomy back porch, large kitchen, living room, dining room, music/library room and built-in veranda across the front of the living room. The second floor had four bedrooms and a large bathroom. In the wide upstairs hallway, there was a staircase that led to the attic. That was where I had my room. The girls and my parents had the bedrooms on the second floor.
I loved my bedroom with the dormer window. I could lie in bed and see the stars twinkling in the night sky. I particularly loved hearing the rain falling on the roof when we got a good prairie down pour. My father would say that it was like âpennies from Heavenâ. I didn't realize it then but he meant that the rain was good for the crops; which, in turn was financially good for us. Not only was it good for the crops and Motherâs garden but we collected rain water in a reservoir that was stored in the basement and could be pumped up to the kitchen or wash room.
The kitchen was one of my favorite rooms of the house. It was a large open room with the table in the very center. Mother liked to display a bright gingham or floral tablecloth that she had embroidered herself. She liked things to look presentable because you never knew when a neighbour or the minister might drop by. There was a large bow-window facing southwest that let a lot of warm sunlight in which added a bright warm glow to the room. Mother used an old wood-burning cook stove and every Saturday she baked bread that would fill the house with the most wonderful aroma. I loved the way she brushed the buns with a sugar and egg glaze that turned the buns shiny on top. She was always baking or cooking something to feed our family. The kitchen was the busiest room of the house because everyone passed through it to get to any other room. One door led from the kitchen to the dining room and another door led to the hallway that led to the stairway and also connected to the front parlor.
The walls had 9-foot ceilings with wooden beams running across the width of the room. The doorways and windows were cased with dark oak wood trim to match the beams. The dining room had a built-in china cabinet where Mother kept her special set of dishes brought over from the old country. There was a large oak dining room table and chair set that sat proudly in the middle of the dining room. On this table, mother placed a large lace tablecloth that she had crocheted. A fireplace flanked one wall in the living room. Mother and my sisters kept everything spotless. The rooms smelled of lemon furniture oil and Johnsonâs paste floor wax.
I thought my mother was the most beautiful person in the world. I remember sitting on her bed and watching her brush her golden auburn hair. She was always well groomed and smelled clean and fresh. She was a quiet reserved woman who always seemed to look as though she was holding some thoughts back from those around her. She was not stern or unkindâjust busy with her daily chores and perhaps a little tired of raising children by the time I came along.
I tended to follow my father around and leave the house to my mother and sisters. My favorite times were when Father was working on a piece of farm machinery. He would explain things to me as he was taking a machine apart and greasing parts up and restoring things. He believed in doing repairs after harvest and would check things out again way before spring seeding. He wanted things âoiled up and working smoothly when neededâ, as he would say. I took a keen interest in this type of activity on the farm. I was always eager to help but Iâm sure that most of the time, I was more of a hindrance with continually asking questions. However, Father never made me feel that way. He was always so positive about how pleased he was to have my company. He talked to me like I was an adult rather than like I was a child. He seemed to expect that I had the intelligence to comprehend what he was teaching me. He would let me sit on his lap while he made the rounds in the field with the tractor or combine. He would allow me to do the steering sometimes. I actually believed I was driving the machine.
Farm life required that certain tasks be done daily and some more than once a day, like the milking of the cows. Father usually did the early morning and evening milking and sometimes I went along. I was not good at milking but I would fetch pails for him and help to load them onto my wagon and take them to the house. Mother and my sisters would operate the cream separator which we kept in the back porch. The cream was separated from the milk. The cream was saved and sold to the Co-Op Creamery in town. Clabber was what resulted when the thickened raw milk turned sour. This was very much like buttermilk and Mother would use this clabber in her baking to help to make things âfluffyâ, as she put it. The cleaning of this machine was serious business. My mother insisted that it be cleaned after every use and all the parts had to be washed and then rinsed in boiling water and then set on a wire rack to be steamed.
Everyone understood very early in life, without having it even explained, that jobs needed to be done for us to eat and survive the winters. Food was a constant effort to grow and eventually reap or butcher and preserve. I helped Mother every day to gather eggs. My sisters looked after the geese. I was always thankful that I didn't have too much to do with the geese because they could be mean at times. They would run after me in the farm yard at times honking and flapping their wings and they scared the daylights out of me. More than once they managed to take a nip at me.
When Father and I came in from the field during seeding or harvest, I would do my best to imitate all my fatherâs actions. We had a pump and washstand in the back entry porch and Father always washed up here before entering the house. He would take off his overalls and hang them on a wooden peg. He had put a peg on the wall down low for me so I could reach to hang up my overalls too. Mother insisted on no barn clothes to be worn in the house.
Father would roll up his sleeves and work up a lather of soap all the way up to his elbows. He would scrub his fingernails and knuckles with a brush and so I would copy him. I remember how the brush used to make my skin feel rather sore and tingly and how pink my arms would look when I was finished but I insisted on following this procedure to the letter. To me, anything my father did or said was perfect and that is exactly how I wanted to be.
Father was more outgoing than Mother. He loved to tease her and he could make her smile and blush even after all those years of marriage. Whatever her inner thoughts were, she could let loose and have a laugh when Father cajoled her. There were some tender moments when he would come up behind her at the kitchen sink and put his hands on her hips and kiss the back of her neck. Then heâd whisper something in her ear and she would blush and say, âCharlie! The boy is watching!â as she slapped his hands and pushed him away.
I didnât mind. I was happy to see my mother smiling. I would giggle as Father gave me a wink and a smile and tickled me as he passed by. Then, Iâd follow him into the living room and weâd wrestle until my face was red and I was all hot and sweaty. Finally, Father would say in a good natured tone, âOK Donnie! Thatâs enough,. Itâs time to settle down.â
I loved that physical interaction between us. He told me he would teach me to box one day. I knew he was going to make me strong like him.
Donald Johnson lives on a farm in Weyburn, Saskatchewan, Canada with his 'Normal Family', comprising of his parents and 3 older sisters, he is the youngest boy. Donald loves his family especially his father, he looks up to him. He loves his family history of farming and watches with great interest when his father tends the farm. He simultaneously learns the importance of hard work watching his father. Everything seems to be going fine for this family but suddenly they are struck with a tragedy. Tragedy struck suddenly when Donald's father is hit by a bull. The sudden demise of the father breaks the family, everyone is numb with the pain.
Donald's mother goes into depression and his sisters do all the household chores, he wants to contribute but he is very young to be in his father's shoes. They still managed to go by with the help of their hired hand 'Frank'. Frank is strong and he is german.
Frank is the exact opposite of his father. He is cold, distant, and a lazy worker. But he is needed for the heavy farm work. Donald despises him, and his presence on his farm and soon Frank makes his way into their lives. With his sudden closeness to their mother, he starts drinking from their father's cabinet. He orders them around the house to clean up. Soon the sibling realizes that their mother has feelings for Frank and that it could materialize to something serious.
Soon Frank proposes to his mother, and she accepts, but Frank hates children. Surprisingly the mother chooses Love over children, and with that everything changes for Donald and his siblings. Soon, the siblings were separated, his sisters were sent away and Donald was alone and lonely.
Donald is told that he will be going to a summer camp, he gets all excited and his mother packs his favorite cookie and they leave Weyburn for their destination. He gets all his favorite food and suddenly he finds himself in a place he doesn't understand and belong to.
Slowly he realizes that he has been sent to hell, under the pretense of a summer camp he now is at a mental facility admitted by his mother and Frank. The things he faces in this mental hospital areas beyond hell, but he still manages to live by with the help of a few kind nurses and Friends.
The story is of Donald's survival, how we fight through the worst of the worst circumstances and finds happiness and closure in the end. He lives his life to the fullest and towards the end gets his closure.
The writing is simple, the character of Donald is written beautifully, him being the main protagonist. Towards the end, I a little bored, and it got predictable. It was a page-turner as I was invested in his journey ahead.
I'll recommend it, the book talks about mental health and doesn't shy from giving the details. It's an honest book with a happy ending.
Happy Reading!