Dear Lake,
I am an old lady now, but you gave me so many happy memories as a child growing up on your shores. – And as an adolescent, in troubled times, you were always there.
I wish I had written that book “Letter to the Lake” – but I didn’t - so here I am, late but here - 65 years from those old days – looking back.
I would have remembered an evening fishing with “Teo” (my father), the new moon shown above his shoulder and a flock of white egrets, like torn paper, tumbled from the sky.
And the early morning walks, seeing an Indigo Bunting sitting on a wild yellow Cone Flower, in a shaft of light by the water.
And the little green heron that bobbed like an old brown bottle behind the pumphouse - And the sound of beavers’ tails slapping the water in the early evening.
And the alderbushes hanging thick with cones all around your edge – with little green snakes hanging there –
And the sassafras trees along the dam with their mitten leaves and sweet fragrance.
And the Catalpa trees, bright yellow in the fall – And the trumpeting of wild geese flying overhead – going south and summer gone.
And the rosy mists rising above the water early every morning.
Remember me, remember me – a little girl in pigtails, and her father in baggy pants?
And then later my boys there? And then their boys and girls – remember, remember? I do!
Your friend,
Barbara
P.S. And remember a little boy and his “Nanny” fishing from their spot on the edge of the water – under the tree.
I am an old lady now, but you gave me so many happy memories as a child growing up on your shores. – And as an adolescent, in troubled times, you were always there.
I wish I had written that book “Letter to the Lake” – but I didn’t - so here I am, late but here - 65 years from those old days – looking back.
I would have remembered an evening fishing with “Teo” (my father), the new moon shown above his shoulder and a flock of white egrets, like torn paper, tumbled from the sky.
And the early morning walks, seeing an Indigo Bunting sitting on a wild yellow Cone Flower, in a shaft of light by the water.
And the little green heron that bobbed like an old brown bottle behind the pumphouse - And the sound of beavers’ tails slapping the water in the early evening.
And the alderbushes hanging thick with cones all around your edge – with little green snakes hanging there –
And the sassafras trees along the dam with their mitten leaves and sweet fragrance.
And the Catalpa trees, bright yellow in the fall – And the trumpeting of wild geese flying overhead – going south and summer gone.
And the rosy mists rising above the water early every morning.
Remember me, remember me – a little girl in pigtails, and her father in baggy pants?
And then later my boys there? And then their boys and girls – remember, remember? I do!
Your friend,
Barbara
P.S. And remember a little boy and his “Nanny” fishing from their spot on the edge of the water – under the tree.