Photo: Three-year-old Wally Goossen with his ten-year-old sister Lori.

Children during World War II had to grow up fast-no time for childhood. My sister Lorie and brother Alfred were two examples.

One night in August 1941, our father was taken away at midnight by the Russian Secret Police. He was a pacifist, a Christian, and his family's 200 years in Russia didn't count. That night, my seven-year-old sister became my mother, and my brother became our provider. My mother was bedridden-by fear and a heart condition-so Lorie and Alfred had to look after her as well.

Child care was a daily routine for Lorie. It wasn't cute; it was courageous. It started with changing diapers and providing a breakfast of homemade cereal. Mother watched from her bed as her young daughter assumed adult responsibilities without objection.

Each morning Lorie had to draw water from our nearby well to wash diapers. The six we had were hardly enough. More water was needed for cereal and Mom's tea. Making a fire required foraging for straw and wood outside our dirt-floor house. Nothing was prepackaged.

The home front was now ready for the day but there was still another problem-me. Mother wept on her bed in the corner, or gave Alfred instructions for the day. Lorie bundled me up and trundled me off to the local government nursery where I was expected to be cute all day.

We sometimes took a short-cut through a small woods, which got us to the nursery early enough to allow Lorie time to get to school. (I know all this because my sister told me so in recent years.) Occasionally we met a cow on the other side of the woods. She would loom large and sullen at the end of the foot path and suddenly blast "moo."

Lorie didn't want a confrontation, so with me under her arm and her school backpack jumping up and down on her back, she turned and headed for the Polish border 2000 kilometres away. But she always changed her mind quickly and headed back to the nursery.

One day Lorie was late for school and the teacher questioned her about it. She was generally a reliable and eager student. When the teacher heard that this seven-year-old was keeping house and looking after little Pushkin (as they called me), she reported it at once. The occupation army hired a German woman to care for our family.

We left our town, Halbstadt, in the Ukraine on September 15, 1943, carrying many memories with us. Lorie's responsibilities for me continued on our flight to Poland, Germany and Canada.

I have heard many versions of this story over the years. This year, I sent my little mother (big sister) a Mother's Day card. I had sent my brother a similar card on his retirement a few years ago to acknowledge his role as our adolescent provider. They were both tickled pink.

Fifty years after the event, while I prepared this article, I asked Lorie if she remembers any humorous stories.

A bit surprised, she answered, "No, at that time we didn't laugh much."

Thanks, Lorie, for your love and many, many prayers.

-Walfried Goossen

Crokinole board maker not Mennonite

The back page of the May 20 issue was most interesting. The Eckhardt Wettlaufer mentioned was my great-grandfather's brother who lived in Sebastopol.

Eckhardt Wettlaufer was a member of the Trinity Lutheran Church. Even though the churches in the Tavistock community are closely connected, I don't think we can claim him as a Mennonite businessman. According to all the information I have researched, there was no Mennonite connection to Eckhardt or any of his siblings.

Incidently, the World Crokinole Championship is held yearly in Tavistock on the first Saturday in June.

-Mary Nicklas, Tavistock, Ont.

Conference is Fun City

Conference is a blast for those who revel in the social interaction, exult in structural-change discussions, and go into ecstatic orbit over long-term "visioning" that allows one to plot the church's future even as one creates exciting new buzz words.

But what about those folks who have yet to catch the vision? For them, I submit the following "Making conference more funner and better guide." (Some of you died-in-the-wool conference types should already feel a grammatical amendment coming on.)

The 10-step funner conference guide:

10. Propose an amendment to the most carefully crafted proposal at the gathering. Make it creative, controversial and convoluted enough to get everyone both genuinely intrigued and thoroughly riled. Then, just before the crucial vote, step to the mike and say, "Hey, folks, just kidding!"

9. Switch name tags and family histories with another delegate. See how many folks you can get to call you by your new name by week's end.

8. Start a "Speaking from the floor mike" pool. Set up categories: "Most frequent," "Most funny," "Most meandering." Donate all monies raised to your favourite Mennonite acronym.

7. Choose 10 wayward people and chart the time each spends in the bookstore. Hand out prizes at the end of the conference for commitment to staying "current" with Mennonite theology.

6. Pose as a famous Mennonite author and volunteer to autograph books as people leave the literature display. Count how many folks politely say, "I really enjoy your stuff."

5. Encourage everyone who speaks from the floor to use the term "Conference of Mennonites in Canada" instead of the more recent "Mennonite Church Canada." See which conference official cracks first!

4. Collect the Mennonite jokes that make the rounds and make a collection to give to people who seem to be dozing off during the business sessions.

3. Start a writing group for folks who have always wanted to send a letter to Canadian Mennonite but haven't found an issue to inspire them.

2. Volunteer your church to up its conference giving without consulting your pastor. Analyze her/his response.

1. Read your Bible faithfully, attend morning devotionals diligently, sing your heart out every chance you get, and when you render #118 from the blue hymnal at the end of the final session, be sure to ask, with a twinkle in your eye, "I wonder what happened to old 606?"