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.