The Lake
Summer 1970
It's morning. I venture out into the misty dawn, the sun still getting her beauty sleep and the trees looking like an etching in charcoal. I walk down to the edge of the lake and look at my reflection in the glassy water. “Is this you?” it seems to be saying. I honestly don’t know. Is it? The last lazy, fragrant wisps of smoke are wafting from what is left of our beach fire; I can imagine all of us sitting beside it: Beckie, Brian, Bill, Mike with his guitar, Billy, and you. And me. That is all I ever needed. I can still hear that beautiful, beautiful music, and the sound of our laughing. I pick up a stone and try to skip it, just the way you showed me to. As the stone skips smoothly over my picture in the water, I wonder, “What are you doing now? Are you all curled up and comfy?” I know that everyone in our camp is sleeping; I saw Mike, Brian and Bill flopped all over the living room, dead to the world and peacefully snoring now and then. And Beckie, all rolled up in my share of the covers. I just had to smile, as I tiptoed past Bill’s nose and winced at the squeaky door. How could a world be any sweeter?
Pretty soon, the sun is going to come up, to turn the charcoal etching into a pastel. Mike, Brian and Bill will wake up, and Beck will untangle herself from our covers, and the day will begin. I sit down and look out at the Lake; in a few hours we’ll all be out in the boat, water skiing and goofing off. But somehow, this spell of early morning is never lost, through thick or thin. The morning is there, in every quiet time.
Seeing that the sun is wiping the sleep out of her eyes at last, I stand up, ready to skip back up to the cottage and bounce the crew out of bed, when I hear a faint rattle down the beach. Somehow, I know that it’s you. I turn and the morning is there in your eyes. The lovely, pastel morning and, as I take your hand, I know that it’s all ok. It’s just all ok.
Laurie
Summer 1970
Indian Cove
Indian Cove 1969
We’re going down the Indian Cove Road in the back of a yellow, 1968 Chevy Bel-Air convertible. The urge to perch on the folded-up roof deck like a couple of 13-year-old prom queens is hard to resist, but the sight of the 50-foot ravine dropping off to our right stops us cold. That and the more ominous fact that the driver, Beckie’s mother Gay, would ground us for sure. It’s mid-July, and the narrow, twisting road goes in and out of dappled darkness caused by the arch of trees overhead. The farmer’s field to the left is grassy and warm, prime for picking black-eyed susans and baking in the sun. As we wind down, another car is coming up the hill and we face off with it, both pulling slightly to the side and waving as we pass. The wave is part of the ritual, an acknowledgement that we all belong here on this private lane and are therefore entitled to claim the prize that waits at the bottom.
I reach out and grab a length of the tall grass as we pass by and, breaking it in half, give a piece to Beckie. Immediately we become a kazoo band of two, blowing on the blades of grass held tightly between two thumbs. It’s hard to stay upright with no-hands and we slide across the back seat as the car negotiates the final hairpin turn, horn blowing to warn others that we are coming through. The exposed seats are burning from the sun, and we screech as our bare legs come into contact with the hot, black vinyl. We’re at the bottom of the hill now, and the swing set comes into view. We’ll be there tonight, hanging out in the cool July darkness before our 11:00 pm curfew, but for now we’re looking at the lake peeking back at us through the trees. The small, multi-colored summer camps march down the shoreline as we pass and the sounds of boat motors and small kids playing drifts to us on the slightly humid breeze. Someone is barbequing burgers and dogs, and the charcoal smell reminds us that lunch should be next on our list of things to do.
We’ve been gone for about 45 minutes, shopping for groceries at the Modern Market. What possible intrigues have we missed while we were gone? The convertible passes slowly through the creek bed, past the footbridge and straight up the incline on the other side. The grocery bags are banging around in the trunk and we hang onto each other as we sing along with the radio station coming in from Syracuse…..”My cherie amour, lovely as a summer day….my cherie amour, distant as the milky way….”
Beckie’s mom stops the car, thunks it into park and turns off the motor. The sound of birds chirping picks up where the radio left off. With the turn of a key the trunk pops open, and we gather brown paper bags up into our arms. Race you to the bottom! Down 20 winding steps, sneakers banging on the wooden stair treads and over the hanging bridge to the back door. “Put the groceries away first,” Gay yells from behind, knowing that we are already halfway to the beachfront and the boat waiting patiently in its hoist. The twang of our now-bare feet sounds on the aluminum dock. Boats towing water skiers crisscross the expanse of shining blue water, and we shade our eyes as we try to identify who’s doing what. We know most of the boats by sight, and a few by sound alone.
“Girls, groceries please,” Gay calls from the screened porch above. The familiar smell of her unfiltered Camel cigarette wafts down to us as we carefully pick our way back across the rock-strewn beach. Our feet are still a little tender, but by the end of August we’ll be able to walk right across the hot, jagged slate without a flinch.
The screen door whaps shut behind us as our eyes adjust to the dimmer light inside the small camp. Nane, Beckie’s grandmother, is just coming in the back door, arriving for the weekend. Behind her is Cindi, Beckie’s sister, carrying baby Jennifer. This is a woman’s enclave; the men who spend time here are generally welcome, but subject to unyielding matriarchal rule. Ice cubes rattle in glasses, as the round-topped refrigerator gives up sodas and receives the just-purchased bounty from town. The decibel level rises rapidly as news from home is exchanged for the week’s goings-on in the Cove. Chores completed, Beckie and I squeeze through the narrow kitchen and into the bedroom we share. Clothes, books and record albums are everywhere, but the double bed is neatly made, or else. The old iron springs scream as we belly-flop onto the lumpy mattress and look out the open window to the lake. The sight and sound of a certain robin’s egg blue boat that is rapidly approaching the dock creates immediate havoc. We both bounce up, automatically checking our faces then butts in the vanity mirror, and tear through the living room like fiends.
“Lauurriee, it’s Ronniie,” Gay teases from the vantage point of her favorite chair near the porch door, book in hand and can of Planters salted peanuts at the ready on the side table.
“Be still my beating heart,” I croon, secretly pleased but fluttering my eyelashes and clutching my size 32B chest for the laugh.
“SO gross,” Beckie gags, pushing me from behind.
Thwap! goes the screen door as we head out into the warm afternoon. The blue aluminum boat gently bumps the dock, and the scent of fresh lake water mingled with gasoline hangs in the air. It’s our favorite smell – better than perfume and even chocolate chip cookies in the oven. Plans for skiing now and a beach fire later are discussed at length. It’s a Friday afternoon in July, and the unspent days until September stretch before us like a prayer; world without end. Amen.
This piece appeared in Issue Four of Bluff and Vine, a literary review, published in Fall 2020 by Keuka Writes
The New Boat
Beckie and I are sitting side-by-side on the swing set that’s in the flats, right at the bottom of Indian Cove Road. She is swinging as high as she possibly can, pulling hard on the ancient, interlocking chains that precariously link the seat of the swing to the metal bar above. I’m rhythmically rocking back and forth, dragging the toes of my sneakers into the dirt and silently ticking off the minutes until “It’s Time.” They said they would be here at about 2:00 pm, and it’s nearly 1:45 pm now. The wooden, unfinished swing seat pinches me under the leg of my shorts as I continue to sway, but I barely notice. This is a BIG DAY, a day that will alter the course of daily life at the Lake forever. No longer will we be at the mercy of those much more fortunate than ourselves, “have-nots” susceptible to the whims of the “haves.” We, this very day, yea this very hour, are getting a boat. A boat! With a motor, and a windshield, and fold-down seats, and a perky white, vinyl leather removable top and snap-in windows! Beckie strains at the swing chains, shooting herself up and out in a trajectory as high and clear as our mood – out above the treetops, trying to get the first glimpse of the vehicle that will set us free.
“They’re here! I can see them!” Beckie shouts, as the car and trailer carefully negotiate the final hairpin turn into the straight-away.
“Oh, my god, look!” I shriek, as our feet hit the hard-packed ground with a slap and we set off running to greet the answer to all our summertime dreams. We wave madly and Richie, Beckie’s father, beams broadly from the car window. The boat bounces merrily along behind, its fiberglass, avocado sheen gleaming in the early July sunshine.
“Hi girls, isn’t she a beauty?” Beckie’s dad boasts with pride as he slows to a stop, car motor idling. His friend Joe, seated in the passenger seat and smoking a cigarette, gives us the thumbs-up and smiles. Beckie, spying the new water skis and tow rope nestled at the bottom of the hull, jumps up and down in unrestrained glee. I am stunned, nearly speechless at the sight.
“Come on Dad, hurry up, we need to go for a ride Right Now,” Beckie proclaims.
“Yes, please?” I chime in.
“When are you going to launch it? Can we help?” Beckie asks.
“Yes, let us help,” I exclaim.
The smile on Rich’s lips begins to twitch ever so slightly and, at this point, the beginnings of a well-known and long-established dynamic are set into motion. It’s an inkling of the sea change that takes place whenever a testosterone wind comes blowing into the Cove, and it’s seldom a positive sign. They Are Men, they are in charge and dammit, they will not be pushed. In fact, despite the momentous nature of the situation, we are now on shaky ground. Richie has just driven 75 nerve wracking, Friday-afternoon-in-July miles, towing a brand-new boat that he can ill afford, to a Lake whose charms quite frankly continue to elude him. He has wrestled said boat to the bottom of an unpaved road with curves that very closely resemble his knotted intestinal tract, and he is getting cranky. He’s hot, he’s tired and he REALLY wants a cold beer. At home. In his air-conditioned family room. We know this; it’s not an unfamiliar development. We know we are pushing it and yet, as usual, we just can’t stop ourselves.
“When are we gonna ride in it, Dad? Now? Can I drive?”
“Yeah, Mr. Seymour, when can we go skiing? We’ve been waiting all afternoon!”
A moment of intense quiet follows our outburst, and our slowly-widening eyes meet in sudden understanding that, in our enthusiasm, we have gone too far. Reflexively, we bow our heads in participation for the barrage that is now eminent. Let us pray….
“Jeee-sus Christ! Gimme a break here girls, willya? We still have to get this goddam tub in the water! Beckie! Go get your sister, and bring me a beer. Touch hole!”
This situation is now officially serious. The dreaded “touch hole” has been invoked and, although we have no idea what it means, it’s clear that this word makes “f*ck” look like a piker. We need to go to Plan B and fast, or we could be seniors in high school before we ever get a ride in our beautiful new, shiny, goddam tub.
“Ok Dad, you guys stay here, and we’ll be right back with that beer,” Beckie calls over her shoulder as we light out for the camp on a dead run. “I’m sure Goodsells won’t mind if we launch the boat at their dock. Mom can call them right now.”
“Shit, that was a close call,” I whisper as we pound across the footbridge that spans the creek and head for the shortcut that leads up the beach.
“I know, but he’ll be ok,” Beckie says with bravado. “He always feels better after a good “touch hole” and a cold one.”
We explode into gales of laughter, panting and holding our sides that are now aching from running. We are propelled by sheer excitement; that, and the shared vision of ourselves sprinting down the Lake in our sleek new outboard, lustrous hair flying behind us in the wind.
**Look it up, it’s really not as bad as it sounds.
“Mom! Cindi! Dad’s here with the boat, he’s pissed, and he wants a beer,” Beckie announces as we burst into the camp where Gay is presiding over the afternoon from her favorite chair by the porch door.
“Is that right? Gay says, bemused. “Let me guess…Miller time is approaching, and it’s already half-past-touch hole, right?”
Beckie’s older sister Cindi comes out of the large, communal front bedroom and cracks.
“Oh my god, this sounds like a job for Daughter Number One. You girls grab two beers and leave everything to me. Mom, call Goodsells down in the Cove and let them know we’re on the way.”
The refrigerator door slams as Beckie throws me two cold, golden cans of Miller, which hit my unsuspecting hands, bounce to the linoleum floor and come to rest under the 200-pound iron woodstove standing by the window. I scramble after them, barking my shin on the small pile of cut wood that is stacked under the windowsill.
“Great, now they’re gonna explode all over Dad, and we’ll NEVER get a ride in the damn boat!” Beckie moans, as Gay heads for the phone. “Laurie! Don’t bleed on the beers!”
“Make sure you drive that boat directly to our dock, or you’re all grounded,” Gay yells to our retreating backs. We three run out the back door and start up the 40-plus stairs to the top of the road where the cars are parked. We are on a launch mission more crucial than any Cape Canaveral has ever hosted, and the countdown has begun. I am still entrusted with the beer, our offering meant to appease the riled-up Father Gods, and I concentrate on trying not to shake it up any further as we troop back across the footbridge to the flats where our chariot awaits. Richie and Joe have managed to turn the car and boat around, so they are headed back toward the fork in the road that leads to the Goodsell’s camp. The shiny Miller cans glint in the sun as we approach, and the two men smile when they see us coming. Cindi grabs the beers, thrusts one into her father’s waiting hand, and plants a big smooch on his cheek.
“Dad! It’s beautiful! You guys must be exhausted! Did you have any trouble getting here?” she asks sweetly, sneaking a look at Beckie & me out of the corner of her eye to be sure we are taking note of her technique. We are paying absolutely no attention to her performance, of course, as we are now involved in a very emotional discussion regarding suitable names for our proud, new vessel.
“No matter what we name it, this boat is definitely a girl,” Beckie says adamantly. “Boats are always named after women, aren’t they?”
“I think so, but even if they aren’t, we will absolutely NOT be driving around in a boat named after some guy,” I reply. “How about “Juliet?” That’s a nice name for a boat, and she was a really strong woman, who sacrificed everything for love.”
“For god’s sake, will you get off the love crap already? I like the name “Cleopatra.” She was Queen of the Nile, and got all the guys to hang out with her on her barge. She kicked asp!”
“I refuse to acknowledge such a desperate attempt at humor,” I say primly. “You are an asphole.”
Meanwhile, Cindi has hopped into the back seat of Richie’s car, and the boat has begun to move slowly down the gravel road toward the south end of the cove where the Goodsell’s dock waits. Seeing the retreating back end of the caravan, we realize that we are being left behind.
“Hey, wait for us!” we yell, coming up beside the driver’s side window. Cindi sticks her tongue out at us for effect and, chortling with beer in hand, Richie guns it. As the dust flies, we kick it into overdrive. We will not be denied our place in this monumental moment in history. We’ve got a boat. A bona fide, g.d. boat. And we are NOT gonna miss it when that prow hits the Lake for the first time. This summer is going to be one for the books. Cleopatra never had it so good.
This piece appeared in Issue Seven of Bluff and Vine, a literary review, published in Fall 2023 by Keuka Writes.
The Importance of Place
I do not like to fly. I firmly believe that the phenomenon of mechanical flight exists on the fringe of what the universe will comfortably allow. In spite of numerous explanations of thrust, drag, weight and lift, I cannot board even the shortest flight without an underlying fear of unkind retribution. I’ve seen what can happen when God’s creatures try to fool Mother Nature, so I avoid airplanes whenever I can get away with it.
I don’t like to fly, but it was Valentine’s Day. Snow was in the forecast and avoidance was not an option; I had to catch the earliest plane north. I got to the airport ahead of time, hoping to go standby to Ottawa, where my husband was waiting. He was on assignment there, and I was way down in Northern Virginia. It’s a ten-hour drive from there to the Canadian border, up through the mountains of Pennsylvania and the center of my native, beloved New York state. In February, the choice as to mode of transportation was clear, and I was resigned; I would fly to be with my love.
After conferring with the staff at the gate, I parked myself in the waiting area and attempted to distract myself by thinking about the writing assignment I’d been given earlier in the week. I was taking a course entitled The Importance of Place, and our task was to “tell a nature story.” Now, I am about as far from being a child of nature as one can possibly get, and I was feeling a bit stymied. My version of a hike involves walking from the front door to my parked car, and I’ve been known to kill a cactus. Not on purpose, of course; actually, I think it might have voluntarily checked out rather than face a dubious future with me. Perhaps I could write about that – POV the cactus.
Before long, I heard the news that I had scored a seat on a 4:45 pm flight. Trudging across the tarmac to the diminutive, waiting jet, I told myself that I’d be in Canada in a scant one hour and 15 minutes. “I can endure just about anything for an hour,” I thought as I teetered up the narrow stairs and found my way to my window seat. Armed with a bag of M&Ms and a good book, I was strapped and trapped in a metal tube with 50 total strangers, hurtling down the runway and headed toward the sky. “Only an hour, only an hour,” I chanted in my head as we ascended through the clouds. The window shade was open, so I covered the left side of my face with my hand, trying to pretend I was on the couch in my living room. Rays of pink-tinged light filtered through my fingers, touching my cheek and tempting me to take a look outside. I took a gulp of the Diet Coke provided by the stewardess, wishing it was fortified with Bacardi, and ventured a glance through the window.
The sky was clear and clean, the horizon etched by the slowly setting sun. The snow-covered ground below was anonymous, crisscrossed by nameless roads and fences, and I didn’t know where in the world I was. Suspended in mid-air, held aloft by forces that I did not understand or trust, the landscape floated along under me. “Almost there, almost there,” said my mind. And then, in a moment of sheer serendipity, my eye caught the shape of something familiar. Almost before I understood what I was seeing, I gasped. Out loud. Below, looking up at me with the face of a familiar old friend, was the y-shaped outline of Keuka Lake. Next to it was the long, narrow slate-gray form of Seneca and, though I could not see it from my seat on the opposite side of the plane, I knew that my cherished Owasco was peacefully shining in the soft, diminishing light. “Oh, man,” I breathed. Nose firmly pressed to the window, I tried to hold onto the sight for as long as I could; couch or no couch, I was home. In the glow of twilight, twinkling lights were flickering on in all the living rooms below me, and I beheld my nature story. Right there, beneath my soaring feet, was the never-ending gift of place, of nature and nurture combined. It had never felt more important and, just for a moment, I forgot that I don’t like to fly.
This piece appeared in Issue Five of Bluff and Vine, a literary review, published in Fall 2021 by Keuka Writes.