If My Life Were A Novel: Lake Days, Part 2

Remember how we used to sit on the edge of the rocking boat, screeching as our feet got dipped into the icy water? On the blue, calm days we would rock the boat ourselves. And on the misty, stormy days we would eagerly eye the oncoming waves, judging which were the biggest and the fiercest. And as the little boat pitched up and down, our stomachs pitched, too.

Sometimes, remember, we used to sing that little tune? “I don’t know what I’m gonna do when I get home to Susie Lou.” I don’t quite remember where it came from. It’s as if it floated to us from over the glassy lake, and somehow it rhymed, and the rhythm fit nicely with the sloshing of the waves. It felt right the same way the last puzzle piece fits perfectly with the rest, finally putting together the picture, that, while you almost understood it before, only now makes total sense.

So we would sit and sing, giggling as our jeans, rolled up to the knees, got soaked. We knew that when dinner was ready, or the rain started, we would be called inside. And since we knew, too, that the boat would still be there and the waves would never stop, we would scramble down from our perch on the boat edge and walk up to the house, golden sand grains clinging to our still wet feet. Yet, no matter how many times we re-entered that house, we never got used to pulling open the door and shivering as the cold air-conditioned air wooshed over us, and suddenly noticing exactly how much we had been splashed by the lake water. Inside the dry cold house being wet seemed strange and uncomfortable. Nor did we wish to risk the wrath of our parents if we soaked the furniture, so before we sat at the dinner table, we would go change into the crisp dry clothes waiting for us.

Our crisp dry clothes stayed dry, for after dinner we changed into swimsuits. We would float in the water like the boats, staring up at the bright sky. Or we would splash each other, laughing away our anger at the other making us wet. We would paddle back and forth picking up shells and trying to skip rocks.

After making many a wish, after getting tired of paddling in the water, we would climb back up onto our boat edge. Towels wrapped around our shoulders, we would sit, huddled together to stop our shivering. The boat would rock gently, and together we would hum our little tune until our sleepy eyes reminded us that it was late. And after such a long day of rocking in the boat on our lake, bed seemed a wonderful comfort.

We would sing ourselves to sleep with that little lullaby, the soft drumming of the boats into the water drifting up through the dark night. And these days, I sometimes sing a second verse, a little variation on our old theme. I don’t know what I’m gonna do, what I’m gonna do without you. 

If My Life Were A Novel: Lake Days, Part One

The gravel crunched and popped underneath the tires, gradually settling down as the car parked. Suddenly devoid of constant forward motion, my world imperceptibly shifted, settling, too, back into normalcy as I took off my seatbelt, swung open the door, and set my feet on the gravel driveway.

Too much driving. The feeling permeated my bones and muscles. Despite knowing that I would remain in a partially detached state of mind that inevitably comes with a four-hour road trip, I stretched, trying to shake the sedentary out of my body.

Although I greatly enjoy road trips, I was more than pumped for the end of this one. Arrival meant the official beginning of one of the highlights of my summer. Of course, it wouldn’t really begin until everybody else arrived and until we had all congregated at the local Bar and Grill for the night. But still. It was close.

While moseying to the trunk, I swept a lazy glance at my surroundings, checking out which families had already arrived. I recognized the  two cars parked on the other side of the drive, and a third car was being unloaded near the front door of the cabin.

The weather was beautiful, hinting that the upcoming week would be a great one. The Lake House looked just the same as ever. The massive lawn, feeble screen doors, peeling paint and the ancient air were familiar to me, as I had spent a portion of my fourteen summers living in this lodge.

I dragged my blue suitcase through the door and down the short hallway to the suite that the girls had managed to finagle this year. Suite was too grand a word to describe the room. Boasting two twin beds pushed together, its own bathroom and a door to the screened-in-porch, it seemed to us girls at the time very luxurious. Aged eleven to fifteen, the six of us appreciated our privacy and enjoyed being secluded from the rest of the members of the Lake Gang.

This gang consisted of seven families, totaling about thirty-five people. The parents all met through work, and the kids all grew up together. Essentially we had grown into a sort of extended family, complete with its feuds, memories, quirks, and traditions. One of these hallowed traditions was renting the Lake House for a week in August every summer.

Which is why I found myself back there again, blearily surveying the suite before turning around, exiting the building, and reentering the car to drive to the Grill, our traditional meeting spot.

Two hours later, with the smells of pizza, popcorn, and beer that wafted from Angler’s mingling with the smells of boats, fuel, and a lake, I stood with H and G on the beech of the lake that taught me to love water.

The sun was setting.

Muted conversation hummed underneath the sound of the waves, sweeping onto the shore, and the gentle bump of boats against the dock.

We were holding a quiet conversation.

“So, it’s for real then,” I sighed.

“Yeah,” H responded.

There weren’t many words to say. We had all received the news months previously, but the distance between normal life and the Lake had always, to me, made it difficult to make the inevitable in one setting, realistic in the second.

“What is it? The owners are sick? Right? And don’t want to keep renting it out?”

“Something like that.” G swept the beach sand around with her feet. “The wife always handled the renting, and now she’s sick, and her husband…well, he doesn’t want to deal with it.”

“Got it.” I sighed again, and looked up, surveying the lake before me, watching the occasional boat and admiring the undeniable green of the opposite shore. “And no word on another place to rent?”

“Not yet.”

“Right.”

There was another long pause.

“How likely do you think it is that this will…be our last year here?”

“Don’t know.”

And now, there really were no words. So we stayed there for a while longer, letting the lapping water try to soothe us. And eventually we turned back, back to the pizza and the popcorn and the family waiting for us.

Every year, we had arrived feeling as if the week stretched on infinitely before us, opening its arms to adventure and memories unbounded. This year, though, this day, we had come to the lake knowing that our time here was limited. But it was not finished. And so we continued on, forward to make those hazy golden memories so cherished in later years, dreaming that this week would last forever while knowing that it could not.