It’s that place that I can’t get to fast enough and never want to leave.
… and my compass always points me in that direction.
The soft smell of pine greets as soon as I turn down Lake Road. Whispers of welcome back … and the dog begins to whine.
Since before I was born, this place has been a part of me, woven deep into the spirit of my being … the lake knows me well.
It’s all of these things that add up together and make this place my home.
The aged paved road. There, the big old pine that was spared from the winds of the hurricane of ‘38. It has watched me, protected me, listened to my thoughts as I have walked by summer after summer. Hello old friend.
It’s all of the long sits at the end of the dock dipping my toes into the cool water; wishing, dreaming, thinking … daring to test it all out in my mind.
The wet, and the cool, it’s the water lapping at my feet.
A giant, running leap off the dock, splashing and swimming for hours. I am alive!
It’s a bullfrog chorus and the haunting call of the loons back and forth to each other as the dark evening sets in. It’s a great big world, yet I have always been protected here.
Everything goes away, everything gets forgotten … only one thing matters, just being.
It’s remembering the day that we hauled the Big One in … where was Dad when we needed him?
It’s the slam of the screen door, scurrying in through the back dripping wet, to grab a dry towel. Water pooled on the old brown linoleum of the kitchen floor. A happy memory, made every summer.
A lazy afternoon nap, that always falls heavy on my eyes as the breeze rustles through the trees outside my window.
Time stands still … everything goes away.
Showering is non-existent. A bar of camp soap sits on the cement block at the corner of the dock. It gets used somewhere around day three. The lake is the bathtub. Fingers are the hairbrush.
It’s the feeling of “wide open,” as you take the motor boat as fast as you can down to the other end of the lake; wind blowing in my face and a sense of freedom welling up from deep inside.
Does it get much better than this?
Marathons of Canasta, Sequence and Cribbage. Late nights of Texas Hold ‘em.
Early morning chill in the air, smoldering logs in the fieldstone fireplace, coffee in the mug. Quiet.
Hours of Trixie Belden, Nancy Drew, Judy Blume, just to name a few, voraciously devoured during lazy afternoons in the hammock.
It’s family, it’s friends, it’s the dog in Didda’s flower garden.
It’s meal planning, ice cream bars and a deep, restful night’s sleep.
The lake has seen days of searching deep for clarity, and peace. I have gone there to lick my wounds and heal, and to celebrate my small victories.
There have been hours and hours of fun playing king of the raft and catching frogs and salamanders.
It’s pine pitch and mosquitoes, campfires and s’mores.
At the end of the day, it’s solid, with deep roots. And it’s safe.
It’s the lake. It knew me well before I was born and will whisper my name long after I am gone.
And it’s my place..
With love and a Happy 4th of July week,