My Lake
My lake. It’s been my lake since I was ten years old. Then it was a wild place with three tents for the seven wild children and the two parents brave enough to take them to a place with no road and no people.
I vividly remember the first time we made the trip to the side of the lake we had only viewed from the other shore. A Mom two months away from birthing number seven. A Dad unafraid to take six small children and a pregnant wife into uncharted territory. A hot walk around the shore and through a brook when the family got lost trying to find a dry way around. Dad at one point sat us all down under a tree while he went on without us to see if we were anywhere near our own three hundred feet of shoreline on our lake. I didn’t mind taking my turn carrying a younger brother. It was an exciting adventure.
Then, we were at the shore. All of us stripping off what clothes we didn’t need and walking into that water. The coldest, clearest water I have ever felt or seen. The sun shining down through the water to the rocks. I didn’t know it was not normal to be able to see through twenty feet of water to the rocks below.
The adventure just got better as the summer went on. We came back later with supplies brought over by boat. We put up the three tents. One for the boys, one for the girls and one for the parents. My Dad built a road that was semi-assessable if you had a four wheel drive. When that last baby girl was born before the summer was over, they made a hammock out of a clothes basket covered in cheese cloth to keep the mosquitoes from carrying her away and hung it in a tree. I’m happy to say she did get to go in a tent at night, but I wonder now what Child Protective Services would have thought of the whole deal. That summer we helped Dad build the camp on the weekends. We passed boards and pounded nails. During that summer and for many summers after we owned that shoreline. There were no other camps near us until years later. We made pathways up and down the shoreline with our little bare feet. We found where the big high bush blueberries were. An especially big pine tree became my special place. I would sit for hours with a book, my back to my tree, the lake stretching out in front of me. One summer I buried a bag of lemon drops under the tree roots so I had my little stash of sustenance while I read. We swam with the loons. One of the most magical memories of my life was swimming underwater with a loon streaking underwater beside me. At night I would lie on my back on the mossy bank and watch the stars. I could picture how it must have looked when it was populated with the Native Americans. (The Indians to me then.) How their campfires would reflect off this very water. How they might have picked blueberries off these same bushes.
Gradually other lots sold and we had to narrow down our ownership. That was alright. We were older and made many friends as others built their camps.
I now own my own one hundred feet of shoreline. There is a cute little bridge over the brook. The four-wheel drive road in now just a path. The lake is still the clearest lake I’ve ever seen. It’s still the coldest, spring fed water that the hottest days of August can‘t warm up. Like sitting in a hot fudge sundae.
It wasn’t bad when I had to share my shoreline with other camps every one hundred feet, but now the houses are going up. Big view-changing houses. With street lights in the front and in the back drowning out the stars. Street lights shining down on the aluminum docks. They’ve cut down trees on the little camp road to widen the way for the v-plow so people can live there all winter.
Oh, I do hate change. I’ll hang onto my little brown camp while houses go up around me for as long as I can. I’ll fight for my old, heavy, wooden dock beyond the point where it’s too heavy for my husband to deal with. I fought with people about the bug zappers that killed good bugs and made that annoying zt,zt,zt noise. My new crusade might have to be those damned streets lights.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Theme week 5 Narrative, action
LOOK OUT!
Looking back on this day, the first thing that surprises me is that friends were letting me drive. Evidently these friends hadn’t yet talked to other friends that had learned their lesson. I have to admit I’m a bit of a flake when it comes to driving. Too much to pay attention to. Which lane? What right turn? Where’d that car come from? Plus, I was driving a Chevy Celebrity, a shit box of a car with eroding brakes.
We had a wonderful day planned. My friend MaryLynn is a great planner. Newly moved to Maine from New York, she could not believe we had never visited the Roosevelt summer home on Campobello Island. My friend Barbara had found an article in Down East magazine. There was a golf course nearby and we were good to go.
We golfed an interesting little course in Roque’s Bluff. It’s interesting because the water hazards change with the tides. MaryLynn is the most consistent player I play with. One hundred and twenty yards straight ahead. Over water, sand, rocks, one hundred and twenty yards. Barbara is a long straight ball striker. As long as most men and straighter. We call her “Easy Trail” because she’s not into working too hard. She doesn’t like to sweat. We think that’s why she hits so long and straight. It’s just easier. I don’t think I need to talk about how she falls apart around the greens. It’s what keeps her playing with us mortals. My ball is apt to be most anywhere. There is consistency only in my inconsistency. We had our usual great time at the little course and moved on the cottage where we all wanted to live.
The Roosevelt cottage is amazing. The grounds so well designed, the architecture of the cottage so beautiful. The large oval captain’s window frames the gardens and lawn stretching down to the harbor. The cottage inside is stuffed full of comfortable looking period furniture in big colorful patterns of the time. Cabbage roses all over the place. The wallpaper has big sprays of lilacs, Eleanor’s favorite. We were surprised to see steps throughout the house, down into the living room, up into the hallway. It could not have been easy for a man in a wheelchair. Everything was so comfortable and old-elegance until you get up the back stairs to the servant’s rooms with their little iron beds and one dresser.
We moved on from there although we hated to go. MaryLynn wanted to visit the Sunsweep Trail friendship plaque. I believe the sign said it was a .25 mile walk to the plaque, but old Easy Trail was starting to whine. She was hot and tired and mumbling something about shopping in air conditioning. We insisted that she put her hand on the friendship plaque and smile damn it for the picture. We laugh every time we see that picture.
We are ready to call it a day. However, fate intervened on the way through Columbia Falls. What is that big deer doing in the middle of the day, almost in the middle of town, running on a collision course with the shit box Celebrity? I frantically check for an exit. Too much traffic, no where to go. I start saying SHIT every time the deer bounds which was about six times. I pull back on the steering wheel of the shit box thinking that will help the eroding brakes do their job. Nobody can tell me animals don’t know mortality. I can see the face of that deer change as we both realize there is no avoidance. The terrible thump, the tinkling glass, the deer rolling over my fender, into the windshield and off the side of the car into the ditch. I pull over, look at Barbara beside me and we both burst into tears. As I keep repeating unnecessarily, “We hit a deer!”, MaryLynn, the practical one in the back seat keeps asking, “Is anyone hurt?” Finally she says, with love, “Stop that blatting you morons. Is anyone hurt?” That changes the tears to laughter.
We decide the car is o.k. to drive down the hill to a store to make a call to the powers that handle these things. The nice lady tells me that an officer is on his way. By the time we drive back up the hill, pick up trucks are stopped and men with missing teeth and hammers in their hands are offering to take that deer off my hands and take care of it. Scanners? Radar? Or just driving around looking for road kill? I’m sure there are hack saws in the back of the trucks. I tell them an officer is on his way. They stand back a little.
The police officer is, of course, a cute young thing. We are at that age where doctors and officers look like boy scouts earning merit badges. He is very nice, asking me, after the paper work, if I want the deer. The pick up men are very interested in my answer. I say, “How would I get it home, strap it on the hood of the car? The trunk is full of golf clubs.”
He said, “You could put it in the back seat with Mary.” She hates being called Mary, but didn’t seem to mind when he said it. Mary and the pick up boys are happy with the deer disposal decision.
The car is drivable, but with only one headlight. That would have been fine except that by Ellsworth and dark we realize the remaining headlight goes out with every bump. MaryLynn has taken back some measure of control of the day, not by driving, but by sitting in the front seat with a flashlight and shining it out the windshield every time we hit a bump. At one point, from the back we hear from Easy Trail, “Why aren’t we stopping to shop?”
Looking back on this day, the first thing that surprises me is that friends were letting me drive. Evidently these friends hadn’t yet talked to other friends that had learned their lesson. I have to admit I’m a bit of a flake when it comes to driving. Too much to pay attention to. Which lane? What right turn? Where’d that car come from? Plus, I was driving a Chevy Celebrity, a shit box of a car with eroding brakes.
We had a wonderful day planned. My friend MaryLynn is a great planner. Newly moved to Maine from New York, she could not believe we had never visited the Roosevelt summer home on Campobello Island. My friend Barbara had found an article in Down East magazine. There was a golf course nearby and we were good to go.
We golfed an interesting little course in Roque’s Bluff. It’s interesting because the water hazards change with the tides. MaryLynn is the most consistent player I play with. One hundred and twenty yards straight ahead. Over water, sand, rocks, one hundred and twenty yards. Barbara is a long straight ball striker. As long as most men and straighter. We call her “Easy Trail” because she’s not into working too hard. She doesn’t like to sweat. We think that’s why she hits so long and straight. It’s just easier. I don’t think I need to talk about how she falls apart around the greens. It’s what keeps her playing with us mortals. My ball is apt to be most anywhere. There is consistency only in my inconsistency. We had our usual great time at the little course and moved on the cottage where we all wanted to live.
The Roosevelt cottage is amazing. The grounds so well designed, the architecture of the cottage so beautiful. The large oval captain’s window frames the gardens and lawn stretching down to the harbor. The cottage inside is stuffed full of comfortable looking period furniture in big colorful patterns of the time. Cabbage roses all over the place. The wallpaper has big sprays of lilacs, Eleanor’s favorite. We were surprised to see steps throughout the house, down into the living room, up into the hallway. It could not have been easy for a man in a wheelchair. Everything was so comfortable and old-elegance until you get up the back stairs to the servant’s rooms with their little iron beds and one dresser.
We moved on from there although we hated to go. MaryLynn wanted to visit the Sunsweep Trail friendship plaque. I believe the sign said it was a .25 mile walk to the plaque, but old Easy Trail was starting to whine. She was hot and tired and mumbling something about shopping in air conditioning. We insisted that she put her hand on the friendship plaque and smile damn it for the picture. We laugh every time we see that picture.
We are ready to call it a day. However, fate intervened on the way through Columbia Falls. What is that big deer doing in the middle of the day, almost in the middle of town, running on a collision course with the shit box Celebrity? I frantically check for an exit. Too much traffic, no where to go. I start saying SHIT every time the deer bounds which was about six times. I pull back on the steering wheel of the shit box thinking that will help the eroding brakes do their job. Nobody can tell me animals don’t know mortality. I can see the face of that deer change as we both realize there is no avoidance. The terrible thump, the tinkling glass, the deer rolling over my fender, into the windshield and off the side of the car into the ditch. I pull over, look at Barbara beside me and we both burst into tears. As I keep repeating unnecessarily, “We hit a deer!”, MaryLynn, the practical one in the back seat keeps asking, “Is anyone hurt?” Finally she says, with love, “Stop that blatting you morons. Is anyone hurt?” That changes the tears to laughter.
We decide the car is o.k. to drive down the hill to a store to make a call to the powers that handle these things. The nice lady tells me that an officer is on his way. By the time we drive back up the hill, pick up trucks are stopped and men with missing teeth and hammers in their hands are offering to take that deer off my hands and take care of it. Scanners? Radar? Or just driving around looking for road kill? I’m sure there are hack saws in the back of the trucks. I tell them an officer is on his way. They stand back a little.
The police officer is, of course, a cute young thing. We are at that age where doctors and officers look like boy scouts earning merit badges. He is very nice, asking me, after the paper work, if I want the deer. The pick up men are very interested in my answer. I say, “How would I get it home, strap it on the hood of the car? The trunk is full of golf clubs.”
He said, “You could put it in the back seat with Mary.” She hates being called Mary, but didn’t seem to mind when he said it. Mary and the pick up boys are happy with the deer disposal decision.
The car is drivable, but with only one headlight. That would have been fine except that by Ellsworth and dark we realize the remaining headlight goes out with every bump. MaryLynn has taken back some measure of control of the day, not by driving, but by sitting in the front seat with a flashlight and shining it out the windshield every time we hit a bump. At one point, from the back we hear from Easy Trail, “Why aren’t we stopping to shop?”
Monday, February 2, 2009
Theme week 4
The Mama Mitten
She is skiing alone on a familiar trail. She is looking at animal tracks as she pushes the skis ahead of her. She hears a blue jay. She has skied further than usual. She is too warm so she takes off the first layer of mittens. She thinks of the mom who had made the mittens before she passed away. It is getting dark and she is almost back to car. She stops because the sun is going down and she is cooling. She reaches in her pocket for the mittens and realizes one has fallen out of her pocket. She turns back, retracing her ski trail. She is about to give up, when she sees the mitten half buried in the snow. She is so glad to have found it, but knows she is going to really tired by the time she gets back to the car.
The Mama Mitten
She is skiing alone on a familiar trail. She doesn’t mind the aloneness. She is looking at animal tracks as she pushes the skis ahead of her. Today there are only coyote tracks and tracks of small animals, maybe rabbits. There is a foot of fresh snow and the deer and moose must be still bedded up, not moving around much this afternoon. She often imagines they have just stepped off the trail ahead of her and are watching her ski by. She hears a blue jay. “EEE-AY, EEE-Ay.” calls the raspy, raucous voice. She has skied further than usual and is sweating in the seven degrees. She stops to take off the brown and white double knit mittens that her mom had made before she passed away. She watches the steam rise off her hands as she thinks of her mom. She is still taking care of her Cindy Lou, keeping her hands warm. She remembers when she was a child and had so much trouble getting to sleep. Her mom would come into the room, rub her back and say, “Turn your face to the wall Cindy Lou and shut your eyes. You have nothing to worry about. I’m here. Go to sleep.” She remembers that she used to have a gold locket with her mom’s picture in it. It was lost somewhere in the childhood. She would love to have it around her neck instead of in her memories. It is getting dark and she is almost back to her car. She is glad to be back because the sun is going down and she is cooling rapidly. She reaches in her pocket for the mittens and realizes one has fallen out of her pocket. She is so tired that the snow begins to look like her white down comforter on her bed, but she turns back, retracing her ski trail. She imagines that if she doesn’t find it the little night animals will make a home in it like in a Jan Brett book. But there, half buried in the snow, looking like a snow covered pine cone, is the mitten. She turns toward home, the Mama mitten keeping her warm once again.
The Mama Mitten
She is skiing alone on a familiar trail. She doesn’t mind the aloneness. She is looking at animal tracks as she pushes the skis ahead of her. Today there are only coyote tracks and tracks of small animals, maybe rabbits. There is a foot of fresh snow and the deer and moose must be still bedded up, not moving around much this afternoon. She often imagines they have just stepped off the trail ahead of her and are watching her ski by. She hears a blue jay. “EEE-AY, EEE-Ay.” calls the raspy, raucous voice. She has skied further than usual and is sweating in the seven degrees. She stops to take off the brown and white double knit mittens that her mom had made before she passed away. She watches the steam rise off her hands as she thinks of her mom. She is still taking care of her Cindy Lou, keeping her hands warm. She remembers when she was a child and had so much trouble getting to sleep. Her mom would come into the room, rub her back and say, “Turn your face to the wall Cindy Lou and shut your eyes. You have nothing to worry about. I’m here. Go to sleep.” She remembers that she used to have a gold locket with her mom’s picture in it. It was lost somewhere in the childhood. She would love to have it around her neck instead of in her memories. It is getting dark and she is almost back to her car. She is glad to be back because the sun is going down and she is cooling rapidly. She reaches in her pocket for the mittens and realizes one has fallen out of her pocket. She is tired, but she turns back, retracing her ski trail. She is close to the end of the trail, still not finding the mitten. The snow looks so soft, so much like the white down comforter on her bed and she is tired, so tired. She will just lie down for a minute. She hears the blue jay again. This time he is saying, “This way, this way.” in his raspy voice. She starts to ski. It is like nothing she has ever done before. There is no friction under her skis. It is as close to flying as she has ever felt. She uses her poles just to steer as she flies across the snow. Coyotes run out onto the trail beside her. She is not afraid. They are like friendly dogs. Tongues rolling, eyes dancing. Rabbits appear and join the coyotes. A small family of deer step out to watch the group, nodding their heads, their big brown eyes enjoying the sight. Suddenly there is no earth under her. She has skied out into the air. A white hole opens in front of her. She feels herself falling. She is on the white comforter again, warm and sleepy. She feels something brush her cheek. She opens one eye. The blue jay is here again, so close she can smell the fresh, wild, feathery scent of it. It has something in it’s mouth. It looks like a snow covered pine cone. No, it is the mitten. She slips her frozen hand inside and feels warm metal against her fingers. The down comforter turns cold and wet as snow as she takes the locket out and opens it to see her mother’s miniature face. The face turns to her and starts to speak. “Turn your face to the sky, Cindy Lou. Open your eyes. It’s not time for you. Don’t worry. I’m here.”
She is skiing alone on a familiar trail. She is looking at animal tracks as she pushes the skis ahead of her. She hears a blue jay. She has skied further than usual. She is too warm so she takes off the first layer of mittens. She thinks of the mom who had made the mittens before she passed away. It is getting dark and she is almost back to car. She stops because the sun is going down and she is cooling. She reaches in her pocket for the mittens and realizes one has fallen out of her pocket. She turns back, retracing her ski trail. She is about to give up, when she sees the mitten half buried in the snow. She is so glad to have found it, but knows she is going to really tired by the time she gets back to the car.
The Mama Mitten
She is skiing alone on a familiar trail. She doesn’t mind the aloneness. She is looking at animal tracks as she pushes the skis ahead of her. Today there are only coyote tracks and tracks of small animals, maybe rabbits. There is a foot of fresh snow and the deer and moose must be still bedded up, not moving around much this afternoon. She often imagines they have just stepped off the trail ahead of her and are watching her ski by. She hears a blue jay. “EEE-AY, EEE-Ay.” calls the raspy, raucous voice. She has skied further than usual and is sweating in the seven degrees. She stops to take off the brown and white double knit mittens that her mom had made before she passed away. She watches the steam rise off her hands as she thinks of her mom. She is still taking care of her Cindy Lou, keeping her hands warm. She remembers when she was a child and had so much trouble getting to sleep. Her mom would come into the room, rub her back and say, “Turn your face to the wall Cindy Lou and shut your eyes. You have nothing to worry about. I’m here. Go to sleep.” She remembers that she used to have a gold locket with her mom’s picture in it. It was lost somewhere in the childhood. She would love to have it around her neck instead of in her memories. It is getting dark and she is almost back to her car. She is glad to be back because the sun is going down and she is cooling rapidly. She reaches in her pocket for the mittens and realizes one has fallen out of her pocket. She is so tired that the snow begins to look like her white down comforter on her bed, but she turns back, retracing her ski trail. She imagines that if she doesn’t find it the little night animals will make a home in it like in a Jan Brett book. But there, half buried in the snow, looking like a snow covered pine cone, is the mitten. She turns toward home, the Mama mitten keeping her warm once again.
The Mama Mitten
She is skiing alone on a familiar trail. She doesn’t mind the aloneness. She is looking at animal tracks as she pushes the skis ahead of her. Today there are only coyote tracks and tracks of small animals, maybe rabbits. There is a foot of fresh snow and the deer and moose must be still bedded up, not moving around much this afternoon. She often imagines they have just stepped off the trail ahead of her and are watching her ski by. She hears a blue jay. “EEE-AY, EEE-Ay.” calls the raspy, raucous voice. She has skied further than usual and is sweating in the seven degrees. She stops to take off the brown and white double knit mittens that her mom had made before she passed away. She watches the steam rise off her hands as she thinks of her mom. She is still taking care of her Cindy Lou, keeping her hands warm. She remembers when she was a child and had so much trouble getting to sleep. Her mom would come into the room, rub her back and say, “Turn your face to the wall Cindy Lou and shut your eyes. You have nothing to worry about. I’m here. Go to sleep.” She remembers that she used to have a gold locket with her mom’s picture in it. It was lost somewhere in the childhood. She would love to have it around her neck instead of in her memories. It is getting dark and she is almost back to her car. She is glad to be back because the sun is going down and she is cooling rapidly. She reaches in her pocket for the mittens and realizes one has fallen out of her pocket. She is tired, but she turns back, retracing her ski trail. She is close to the end of the trail, still not finding the mitten. The snow looks so soft, so much like the white down comforter on her bed and she is tired, so tired. She will just lie down for a minute. She hears the blue jay again. This time he is saying, “This way, this way.” in his raspy voice. She starts to ski. It is like nothing she has ever done before. There is no friction under her skis. It is as close to flying as she has ever felt. She uses her poles just to steer as she flies across the snow. Coyotes run out onto the trail beside her. She is not afraid. They are like friendly dogs. Tongues rolling, eyes dancing. Rabbits appear and join the coyotes. A small family of deer step out to watch the group, nodding their heads, their big brown eyes enjoying the sight. Suddenly there is no earth under her. She has skied out into the air. A white hole opens in front of her. She feels herself falling. She is on the white comforter again, warm and sleepy. She feels something brush her cheek. She opens one eye. The blue jay is here again, so close she can smell the fresh, wild, feathery scent of it. It has something in it’s mouth. It looks like a snow covered pine cone. No, it is the mitten. She slips her frozen hand inside and feels warm metal against her fingers. The down comforter turns cold and wet as snow as she takes the locket out and opens it to see her mother’s miniature face. The face turns to her and starts to speak. “Turn your face to the sky, Cindy Lou. Open your eyes. It’s not time for you. Don’t worry. I’m here.”
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