Lake of Remembrance

Another end of May rolls around, the bellhop to Summer. (Right this way, Madam Heat.)

These last few days of May are a brief spot on the calendar that remind me of a small rural lake each year as they cycle through. Lewis Lake is in Northeastern PA, and it’s where my mom and her siblings grew up during the summers, and then their kids and grandkids.

There are periods in our lives, or situations or people, that have an anchoring effect on the whole of our lives. For me, Lewis Lake was an anchor, as I'm sure it was for others. For such a modest body of gray water, it sent generations of people into the flight of life both ardent and grounded.

Ferns

There were ferns. Ferns and dragonflies. There were bass, perch, crappies roaming around in the deeper parts of the lake. There were the ubiquitous sunfish moms who allowed their children to swim among us human kids near the end of the dock. It was a co-habitation among the fish and humans--that is, until the boat and the fishers moved quietly around the lake at dusk. If there weren’t sacrificial fish at the close of the day, there were fish stories.

There were so many people. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. But also, my grandparents’ siblings with their kids and grandkids. The kinship spanned wide. There were old couches, chairs, and porch gliders. Old twin beds and second-hand linens. Dishes and pots that had lived in at least one home before.

There was the freshwater spring which sat about 400 yards from our cottage, where we’d carry empty gallon jugs on orders from Grandma, though we had indoor plumbing. There, we’d tip up the ancient piece of slate that protected the spring, dip the jug’s opening into the water flow, squat there while filling, then carefully set the slate back down. Then we’d lug the filled gallons back up the hill to my grandmother who received them with a friendly nod like we were FedEx.

It was a chore, but an event, and a curiosity. It seemed archaic to me at the time, but also connected to nature. Privately, it fed my lifelong fantasy to live in some small way like Laura Ingalls Wilder in my own version of a Little House on the Prairie.

The Rock

And there was The Rock, but I don’t mean that hulky wrestler. The Rock was a roughly six by eight-foot sloped wedge boulder which sat at the shoreline and inclined down into the lake. To board the Rock, you’d climb up onto the tall edge that abutted the grass. Then you’d squat down almost onto your butt, and carefully inch your way downward to the edge of the water with your toes. You were precarious but skillful. You got good at it, but it didn’t matter if you didn’t. The great risk was falling into a shallow spot in the water that had such a mucky bottom your feet got nauseous.

Then you’d carefully smooth out a beach towel onto the huge backbone of the rock and slowly adjust your own bones onto the harsh stone. A small sunbather, fanning yourself from the gnats, small plastic sunglasses propped on your tiny nose, you’d rest on your tattered Batman towel and smell the pine trees and cut grass swirling around in the breeze.

Then there was a very tall Uncle Jack. He would slowly creep through the water on his knees, snorkel strapped in place, and circle around to the Rock to spook you in your tranquility. It was as startling as it was silly.

“Oh, Uncle Jack! You don’t scare me.”

And then Uncle Jack would chuckle into the snorkel and knee his way back on the rocky bottom of the lake to shore. A lake monster receding, rejected.

Worms

There were worms. These were as gross for me as they would be for you, but I got better at it. This was a point of pride since not everybody who wasn’t a legit fisher was able to do it. You were handed down the worm duty from your dad or Grandpa as you aged, or once you became a parent, too. You took the creature out of its can of dirt and impaled it onto the fishhook, first one end, then the other. Then you cast your hope into the water and stood there, part of the ceremony that is fishing off the dock. You’d look back at the folks in folding chairs on the grassy beach front.

“Any bites yet?” they’d call over.

“No.”

Then you’d wait, wait, wait.

If there was a bite among any of the kids’ poles cast out in unison from the end of the dock, commotion ensued like fireworks. You’d have thought someone was reeling in a largemouth bass, or the Loch Ness Monster, or the Endurance. A stampede thundered down the dock to the end and folks stood around watching the excitement as one of the kids reeled in a 4” bluegill, which frankly was darn exciting. Only an experienced fisher negotiated the fish off the hook, then dropped it into the bucket of success. Eventually, some in that bucket would be flayed and cooked so the young fishers and their family could taste the fruits of their labor.

Evolution

There was an evolution in the water. A baby in the family started in the water with toes, then shins, then by being carried around in the arms of the parent near shore to feel the cool water on their torsos. Then a child moved from this to independence near the dock up to their shoulders in colorful inner tubes and floaties. They’d lay with eyes closed on their backs on some inflatable structure in revery as if the world had never seen famine, war, or calamity.

Then the pre-teens and teens would goof off together, diving off the dock in a race, or cannonballing from the raft offshore. They’d waterski or swim across the lake. Sometimes they’d float on their backs too, on big inner tubes, amongst themselves or among the middle-aged kin who were wont to float for the sole purpose of chatting.

There were the lily pads. These were a mysterious botanical mecca at the side of the lake to which you rowed in the old blue boat to observe regularly. If you were young, you’d trail your fingers in the water as the boat moved through the lake. If you were older, you’d do the rowing and squint up at the errant bird in the sky to check for a hawk or eagle. Once at the lily pads, you’d look around to see what you could see, which wasn’t ever more than simply the lily pads. If there were blossoms sitting atop the leaves, the trip was a huge success. Then you’d row back.

Games

There were games. Lots of them. Shelves of them. Drawers of them. Stacks. Bags. At night when the beachfront shut down, the tables—both permanent and temporary—came alive with bowls of nuts, drinks, trash talk, and regretful bidding. There were howls, cackling, whimpers, and a light swatting on the table near my grandfather by my grandmother, “Oh, Larry!” and then chuckles from Grandpa. That meant he’d won again.

So much development came from playing games. Fine motor skills were got from manipulating the tweezers of Operation and positioning the tiny homes of Monopoly. Risk assessment came from bidding on card tricks, as well as self-control. Reasoning came from Clue. Deduction came from Battleship. And trust me, high-level social skills were built summer by summer as you moved from Go Fish to Gin Rummy to Canasta.

And it was the most fun. We’d get a craving in our gut once dinner time rolled around, but it wasn’t for the food. It was for the game playing that would surely happen after.

Fire

There was fire. Some nights we’d move outside to the firepit to roast marshmallows and listen to each other’s stories. The kids mostly listened because being privy to the older family’s accounts of life is a major training ground for adulthood, whether you ended up believing those versions in the long run or not.

My aunt Ann became a campfire talent agent, too. She mentored my sister Sue and I to sing United Airline’s commercial tune that played on TV because Uncle Jack was a pilot there. “Fly the friendly skies,” we sang. I have an old photo of it. We had scarves around our heads, tied under the chin, I suppose our costumes. I recall singing for my relatives and feeling nervous but happy afterwards when everyone clapped like the enormous thunder that boomed over the lake sometimes. You won’t get that kind of applause any other place.

I won’t be at Lewis Lake this Memorial Day. I barely go up there anymore, as many in my family don’t either. But there’s still a contingent that drives there, loaded with groceries, swimsuits, novels for the porch glider, the newest games, and at least one bag of marshmallows. I was there last summer though. It was the highlight of last year for me. Not because it was fancy or unique. It wasn’t luxurious or fascinating. It’s because it had the most heart gathered in one place that I could find. This was true long ago and true still.

May you find heart this coming holiday weekend, and good memories of the times and people who have passed on. Be well, friends.