The lake. There are so many memories for me here as a child – learning to water ski, tubing, fishing, canoeing, and wondering about nature with my grandpa. Taking the tour of his garden, yard, roses, glads, and dahlias. We would feed the deer acorns or watch the new birds he had in a pen – my favorite being the peacock.
My kids were young when my parents moved to the same lake. They grew up with some of the same experiences of small lake living – a neighborhood formed in a circle all looking out at the blue ripples. I would wrestle them all in the van and we would spend hours by the lakeshore – digging, splashing, floating in blow up animals. I taught them sand castle construction and how to splash up minnows for the moat like my brother and I spent hours tending as kids.
Today, my mom sits near me in the adirondack chair kissed by lake ripples. We dip our toes in and have the occasional Sunfish nibble.
The kids rest their sore arms today after bouncing with glee the day before, my dad pulling them through waves with the Sea-Doo. I forget that most people don’t grow up with lake activities being a normal part of childhood.
I take a walk, feeling free barefoot in the grass. I had to give up my barefoot ways as campground sites are commonly sprayed for weeds, ants, or spiders. I walk by my mom’s garden hosting visitors of hummingbirds and butterflies. The eagle flies overhead making imaginary circles in the sky.
I am so grateful for this beauty. So grateful for the surprise camping spot my dad created for us with his excavating skills. My mom already beautified our rug with a potted arrangement of floral goodness, her gift of gardening overflowing out of the yard.
This lake is where I fell in love with water. Coming back brings a swirl of memories. The lake is a place that I hold dear to my heart, and where my grandpa Lyle‘s spirit soars and reminds me to stay curious.