Summers when I was young, beginning in my memory at four
years old, were magical. My favorite
aunt and uncle owned a cottage on Pine Island Lake in western Massachusetts,
about ten miles from our home. Shirley,
my older sister and I, sat in the back seat of our old Chevrolet, Dad and Mom
in the front. “I see it!” one of us
would shout, vying for being the
first-one-to-see-water contest. Since we
already had our bathing suits on, we raced to the lake as soon as we jumped
from the car. Shirley, five years older
than I, was already a strong swimmer, so I waded around in the shallows, as she took off for the small island not far
from shore. How I longed to join her,
but that was not yet possible. The adults spread a blanket and sat on the
grass, watching over us, but were mostly involved with family conversation,
eating snacks, and enjoying some liquid refreshment. With no one to play with, I soon decided to sit on the dock which
stretched twenty feet or so out into the lake.
As I sat, legs dangling over the edge,
I began to feel a slow but steady rise in the water, little by little
covering first my feet, then my legs, and finally up to my waist. I was not afraid, only surprised and curious
as to what was happening. The
underpinnings had collapsed, and the dock was sinking! It never occurred to me
to call out to my parents, but instead instinct took over, and I began to do a
slow but steady dog paddle. Happily, I
realized I actually could swim and headed out to follow Shirley. Then I heard the loud panic in my mother’s
voice, while my Dad jumped fully dressed into the lake to save me. After he carried me to shore, I was most
indignant that no one saw how well I was swimming. After this episode, my sister took over and
instructed me in the finer points of the sport,
and at this early age I learned the crawl, side and breast stroke. From then on, Pine Island Lake had even more
allure for me. This was my very first
love affair -- with water and swimming.
At fifteen I began to “date” Dale, a fellow student in
our high school. My parents were
friends, especially our Dads, who loved to hunt and fish together. So this relationship was allowed and maybe
even encouraged. We attended the same
church, and went to the Youth Fellowship where we continued our innocent
teen-age love affairs with each other and water. Dale’s family had a cottage on a lake,
too, along with other relatives who also
owned summer homes there. I was often
invited to join the family, so our days were filled with all the pleasures the
clean, clear, cool lake could offer.
There was nothing fancy about life there, canoes, and row boats being
the only water transportation. Diving
from the floats, bobbing about in inner tubes, swimming across the lake, and
of course, working on our tans were the
main forms of entertainment. When low
bush blueberries, tiny but delicious, were in season, we hopped into a boat and
paddled to the far end of the lake where there was no development. We drifted along the shoreline which had thick
blueberry bushes, picking and picking until our baskets were full. These berries were scheduled for two
important uses -- Dale’s mother’s fabulous blueberry pies, and Dale’s source of
spending money -- selling them in town to residents too lazy or busy to pick
their own. The price? In the 1950’s, fifteen cents a heaping
quart! A few sales gave Dale enough
money to take me to a movie and buy a bag of popcorn.
The major event of the season was the Fourth of July. The
family descended in full force, each bringing the then legal fireworks to be
set off along with all the others
around the lake. The morning hours were filled with water
games and races for all
the kids with prizes of tee
shirts or “gold” medals , for the winners to the also-rans. Most cottages hosted barbecues or hamburger
cook-outs, so the lake shore was filled with the sounds and smells of happy
people. Late afternoon meant the parade
of boats, and we sat on our dock to await this spectacle. No motor boats were allowed, so the scene
was row boat after canoe, each draped
with balloons, banners, flags, lights, or other home-made decorations. Of course the Wyola committee had judges, so
various categories were given first prize --but again, no one “lost.” When darkness descended, the fireworks show
began. It was totally disorganized, with
each group shooting off its best display, rather willy-nilly. The exploding star bursts, zipping rockets, loud pop-pops thrilled
everyone, and while the occasional small fire occurred, these were easily
extinguished with the water buckets everyone kept handy. Now, some 65 years later, the family still
gathers at the lake for this event. It
has changed, of course, and a steak roast with wine tasting added for more
up-dated sophistication. But in general, generations enjoy the same down-home
revelry, sharing with friends, pride in
country, and thrills of the day. Our
now-adult children still return when they can to these roots, remembering as we
do the warmth and joy of togetherness.
This summer we, the now greatly expanded Humphriss
families, will gather for an event acknowledging the natural cycle of
life. We will celebrate the life of one
of our beloved own who departed last February.
Her wish was to have a memorial service at the lake, and her ashes
spread in the very old cemetery high on the hill overlooking Wyola. This is a Civil War burial place, and now
difficult to access since the dirt road is bumpy and not well maintained. It is
very secluded and private, so the service will be held there. While we will
recognize our grief and loss, we also will allow our joy to be with us, too,
since we still have our great memories, great funny stories, and wonderful
times to remember. After the ceremony
and informal reception ends, I will don my bathing suit and swim, letting the
cool, velvety water wash over me,
covering me with its soothing powers.
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