Another Summer at Lake Wallenpaupack, PA
Blood orange streaks across the 5AM sky, penetrating the glass sliding doors of the lake house deck, all the way to the crack under my bedroom door. I sit up, noticing the glow. My vision is blurry and my feet are clumsy but I stumble out of bed and wipe the barnacles from my eyes, forcing them to focus on the glorious sunrise that announces a new day at Lake Wallenpaupack.
While the rest of my family sleeps on into the morning, I grab a mug of coffee, throw on a hoodie and some flip flops, and make my way down the gravel path to the docks, where the water stands like crystal, undisturbed by the wake of pontoon party boats and jet ski showoffs.
A great blue heron glides just inches from the water’s reflective surface, searching for a fish to catch—as I do. I gasp as a bass leaps into the air just feet away from me, and cast a line in its direction. The clever fish does not take my bait.
Giving up, I set aside my fishing pole and retrieve a journal. I pray and reflect while sipping my coffee, delightfully hot in contrast to the crisp morning air. As the sun makes a blinding appearance, it illuminates a layer of white fog that evaporates in ghostly wisps between rows of sleeping vessels. They rock back and forth in the arms of their liquid mother, metal pinging against metal as the boats brush against the sides of the docks.
I spend some time stretching, closing my eyes to awaken my senses of smell, touch, and sound. Moisture, pine. The gentle movement of the dock beneath my feet. The echoing quack of a duck. Quiet.
When I return from the shore, my family is awake. Dad and Teresa, my kid sister, sit in the living room silently with one another, both writing. I join them, and work on my novel before hunger lures me into the kitchen.
After breakfast, someone suggests we take a walk to a nearby cemetery. Our feet crunch on the gravel path of the drive, chipmunks darting to and fro in the nearby bushes. The smell of blue, billowing smoke reaches me before the sight. It rises from a grill and catches in the sun rays that pierce through pine tree limbs in long, holy beams. High above us, America’s symbol of freedom flies past, his majestic white head blinding in the sky.
We climb on gray stones like wily billy goats and get covered in moss before arriving at the graveyard, which is wide and wooded with bright green grass, interrupted by little flags of red, white, and blue. A sense of peace washes over me. My siblings, friends and I scout the ancient tombstones, looking for the oldest ones. Some go as far back as the 1700s. I visit my favorite: Oscar Williams—a man of 24 years, buried beneath a hand-carved rock. I wonder what his story was, and who loved him so, to toil at the task of commemorating him for me, some 120 years later.
When we return, we busy ourselves with blissful nonsense, such as poker and video games on TVs so old they turn black with static until you smack them to life again. I win, of course. Lunch time arrives before we realize we’ve digested our breakfast, and we stuff ourselves ritualistically with deli sandwiches, Cheetos, root beer, and chocolate TastyCakes—specialities reserved for (and justified by) lake house visits. My stomach bulges as I squeeze into my swimsuit, and I question my dietary choices.
Flip flops smack the heels of my feet as I frolic down the steep slope to the beach, gazing up at the spindly evergreens that tower some 60 feet above me. My siblings occupy the little blue speed boat parked at our dock, and I join them on the stern. Splashing my toes in the water, I admire the bright white sails that sparkle against sun-kissed islands in the distance.
Mom and Dad take us for a ride on the tube, whiplashing in vain attempts to bounce us off the floaty that’s attached by a string to the end of the vessel. My muscles ache for days after. We swim in the green water—delightfully cool but disturbingly murky—and I try not to imagine what might be swimming nearby. Something slimy and definitely out to get me brushes past my leg, indicating that it is high time I return to land, where humans belong. I ignore the moans of disappointment from my kin.
Wrapped in warm, damp towels, we gather around the picnic table and play more cards as the sun sinks lower in the sky. None of us know what time it is, and none of us care. I do some handstands and backbends, feeling like a monkey set free.
As the sky dims, Mom hollers from the deck that it is time for dinner. We chow on meat cooked to perfection by the grill master, Dad, and talk about all the things that are wrong in the world, exactly what should be done about them, and how if people in general weren’t so dumb, everything would be just fine. Then we laugh at our own pessimistic pride, and move on to dessert.
With my cone-shaped bowl of mocha cookie dough ice cream cupped in my hands, I stand on the deck and listen to the peepers that have begun to chirp. When I’ve finished gaining weight, I return once again to the water, ever calling me to its never-ending joys.
My kayak scrapes upon the sand and stones as I drag it into the shallows, and climb in with impeccable poise. When I’ve regained my balance and made sure no one was watching, I dip my paddle into the water and push away, gliding into the grace I lacked on land.
Fishermen emerge like silent assassins, invisible until suddenly they’re right there in our bay, casting hissing lines from their poles. I nod in greeting and continue on my way, around the curve of the cove until I can see the sinking sun. It slowly melts in pastel rays bursting from peach-crested clouds.
Baby fish begin leaping to catch a net of bugs that hover just above the water’s surface, and when they fall it looks like rain. Their silver bellies catch the light in paparazzi flashes about me. They do this at the same time every year—just like the baby toads that hop across the beach, and the tiger swallowtail butterflies, punctually filling the lake bushes with their delicate yellow wings each summer.
I return home and drag my kayak inland, flipping it upside down, knowing it will be filled with new spiders in the morning. There are always spiders at the lake house, reliably respawning daily to appear uninvited in every place a spider should not be.
Night falls, and katydids scratch like an old vinyl record, back and forth between tall pines. Stars peek out at us from the patches of sky beyond them as my tribe and I make our own sun: a crackling fire, which paints our marshmallows golden-brown. We gather around its orange light, listening to the crackle of the wood as it burns.
Something rustles in the woods, and someone suggests that it’s a bear. We laugh and disregard the possibility—then secretly pick up a stone or hefty stick, just in case. It wouldn’t be the first time we saw a big black bear waddling like a drunkard along the water’s edge: cute, until you see his claws.
No bears come tonight, but a bat or two dive like kamikaze planes plummeting towards the earth, only to pull up at the last second and disappear into the trees. Distantly, metal rods creak within the docks that sway in the gentle waves as they lap upon the shore.
My best friend and I go to them, lying on our backs to see the cosmos glow and twinkle, while the lake gently rocks us. We talk of life, lovers, and loss, letting the vast navy sky abduct us into a reality where there are no phones, politics, or Internet trolls. A weight lifts from my chest and shoulders. I am reminded of how good life is, how delightful it is to be human, and how grateful I am for the people who have cherished this day with me.
Then, a shriek erupts in the night, startling us into a seated position. A pop and a crash follow, pulling the corners of my mouth back in a childish grin. Fireworks. Bright red, green, blue and gold firecrackers burst just above us, shot off from the neighbor’s beach, dripping debris on our colorfully-lit faces. The ripples of the water are painted in rainbows, and a thrill rushes through me with every display, until all is quiet once more.
I never want to leave. But, as time goes on, the cold on the backs of our goosebump-coated arms, pinching mosquito bites, and heavy fatigue tempts us back up the hill to the little red lake house we’ve called a second home for the past fifteen years. I look back into the twinkling night one last time before I enter the house, as if saying goodbye for the last time.
My navy blue covers wrap me in a hug as I curl into the bed that’s just barely long enough for my lanky frame, the same one I’ve been in since I was a kid, adorned with the same wooden fish sign “Big Mouth Lives Here” dangling from the footer post.
I sleep soundly with a depth I seldom do elsewhere, knowing that if tomorrow were the exactly the same as today, for as many years as we return, I would be completely content to relive it over and over and over again.
