The Lake

The warmth of the fire tingled skin that had spent too long in the sun. A gentle pain easily ignored as we all consumed roasted marshmallows and listened to the stories being told in the warm New Hampshire evening. The mountain to our backs and the lake shimmering in the darkness, silent except where water met land. The sound gentle and relentless, a heartbeat. Or an echo. Perhaps the lake spoke to us of our future. It for sure told each of us individual truths; whether we understood it or not was of no consequence to the lake.

It holds memories both idyllic and imperfect. We would load up the station wagon and head north, most often my mother driving and my aunt riding shotgun. Piles of kids jostling for position in the back seat and what was affectionately referred to as the way back. Kids today just can’t understand the exhilaration of riding untethered in a speeding station wagon waiting to hit a bump to see how high you could be thrown. Just a shifting mass of kids all excited to be on the road to “Up Country” and days spent swimming, and playing with siblings, cousins, and who-all-else happened to roll up to Nana’s camp.

Like many childhood memories, days, months, entire years morph together into events that cannot be constrained by linear time. Being at the lake is that type of memory, the years and events run together and, if pressed, it would be difficult to untangle into any form that resembles coherency or precision of thought. I do remember sunshine and rain storms. I remember the smell of road tar, hot and sticky, and cloyingly sweet. I remember the phone booth that just stood at the side of the road, waiting. I always hoped to see Superman in there but that dream remained elusive. I remember trips to the dairy to get fresh milk and cream, cold glass bottles slick with condensation that we had to shake carefully before we poured it. I still shake milk. Mostly though, I remember freedom.

The camp sat across the street from the lake and up a set of stairs fashioned from sand and tree trunks. The uncles would repair them every summer. On the far end of the camp sat the sand pile, where one of my cousins threw a handful of sand in my face. An uncle spent the better part of forever gently removing all the sand and grit from my eyes. The cabin was one step above a tent – four walls that enclosed a raised platform covered in faded linoleum that served as the floor. Curtains divided the sleeping areas from the living area. A tarp roof lashed to the exterior walls and held aloft by a central pole. A roof where after a rainstorm, rain would pool in the front left corner. Every so often, Nana (or another grown up), would grab a broom and gently prod the recalcitrant water. The resulting rush of rainwater over the front window never failed to amuse me. A win for man against the constant onslaught of nature.

Camp had no electricity and no interior plumbing. Some nights we played cards by candlelight – a repurposed Chianti bottle covered in layers of colored wax, vestiges of candles long burned – kept the darkness at bay. The community outhouse was behind the camp and just a hop down the dirt road. We didn’t like to go at night so there was a rush to use it before full dark. If you did wake up and had to use the bathroom, it was the chamber pot. A real one. An actual porcelain pot with a lid. I’m assuming the grownups took care of the contents in the morning as it was always clean and ready. Waiting for those not brave enough to walk the woods in the dark.

To get clean drinking water, pairs of us (at least I was always paired with my sister, Tracey) were dispatched to the well! Now if my recollection holds, we walked for literal miles! But probably not. We would gather plastic gallon jugs and set off down the dirt road to the valley just behind the general store. Climbing slowly down the embankment, we clung to saplings and plants to keep our footing on the slick leaves and pine needles that carpeted the ground. Sound took on a muted and soft quality. Even the insects sang in awed and hushed tones. The small footbridge was covered in lichen and moss and always heralded the end of our long quest for potable water. Placing the empty jugs under the spout, we took turns priming the pump. Two small girls barely tall enough the raise the well handle high enough to get the water flowing. I’m pretty sure we lost more water to the ground than we gathered into our jugs. The walk home was appreciably more difficult than the walk to the well. As like all stories from the olden days, the walk home was uphill. Luckily for us it didn’t also snow.

It was a good place to be a child.