"The Beginning" by Laura Ferris

The Beginning
By Laura Ferris

The land was dark and cold. Ice covered everything and there were no living beings. But, slowly, it began to melt; just a small drip at a time, eventually becoming a torrent of water as the ice receded to the north. Valleys were dug where the ice lingered for awhile, and water filled the aquifers under the ground. In the deepest of the valleys, springs began to gurgle upward; gradually filling the depressions with cold clear water from the aquifers. The most beautiful of these spring- filled lakes came to be known as Diamond Lake. Its name is indicative of the nature of the lake. It sparkles likes diamonds in the sun and like diamonds, it is precious to those of us who have been fortunate enough to live there and raise children and grandchildren along its shores.
Even today the lake is continually replenished with the clear, cold water of the massive aquifer that lies below the surface. Nothing in this world is more refreshing than a deep dive into the depths of the lake on a hot day. Even when the water temperature has increased during the dog days of August, a swimmer is surprised and delighted to find cold spots where the spring is trickling upward.

"A Family Gathers" by Laura Ferris

It was early when I awoke. I listened for any sounds indicating another early riser but could detect only the hum of the very full refrigerator and the early chirpings of birds outside my window. Quickly and as softly as possible, I got dressed by the light of early dawn and went to the kitchen. Making a fast pot of coffee, I slipped outside to enjoy the quiet and peaceful dawn of a new day on the lake. The sun was beginning to rise and the sky was awash with the pinks, and pale blues and soft purples of early morning. It wasn’t just any day however; the family was gathering and this could be the last peaceful moment for a few days. One family had arrived the evening before; our daughter and son-in-law and their four young children, the oldest of who was now almost 14. Today the other two families would arrive; four more adults and four more children, all under 14 as well. How many other long weekends had the family gathered in just this place?
I remembered the early years when there were no children and the adult children came less often but enough that the lake house was established as the place to be for the major summer holidays. Each summer we had generously “given” the house to each adult couple for one weekend and those were likely the best memories the adult children had of those years. Weekends without parents and with lots of college friends, sleeping everywhere and having midnight forays on the lake, drinking and playing cards and generally carousing with abandon all day and most of the night!
Then the children started to arrive; three in three months that first year and then one a year for the next five years! I was usually one of the baby watchers in the early mornings; going for walks, pushing a variety of strollers, looking for baby ducks and geese at the shore and of course, imagining the dinosaurs and lions who must be in the woods. In reality we were trying to keep the house reasonably quiet for the later sleepers. The children remember those walks and the requisite afternoon pontoon boat rides, particularly to the “jungle cruise” area of the lake. During those rides, the fathers on the boat subtly made all kinds of jungle noises while the children looked for the monkeys, tigers and elephants they heard. They only saw turtles and fish, but oh, what they imagined they could possibly see!
Now they were all older and so far, still gathering on these long, lazy weekends. The cousins had each other to be with and did not seem to miss friends on these weekends. Each year I wondered how long this could possibly last. I smiled to myself thinking of the summer I had introduced “skinny dipping”. The oldest of the cousins were 9 and had been having fun for hours covering each other up with sand. When it was dusk they wanted to get the sand off and started for the house, thinking they’d take showers. I suggested (strongly because I didn’t want that sand in the house or going down the drains) they go out to the end of the dock, slip in the water and take their suits off. They looked at me as if I was crazy, but being bold and willing to take risks as long as they were together, they all ran out the dock. I will never forget them laughing and yelling out there, one of them calling out “This feels wonderful!” It’s become a rite of passage now as they turn 9 or so and on hot summer evenings, I can sit on the deck, hearing them laughing and splashing but being very careful to stay modestly under water.
Other rituals have been established over the years that show no sign of getting old. Having bonfires and making some’mors as the sun sets is a major expectation of each visit. Of course the Dads enjoy that as much as the kids. Another is holding a big game of “Capture the Flag”. Everyone plays in the early evening, including grandparents and moms. Of course, nowadays I am totally relegated to being a “Jailor”. I remember how shocked but secretly pleased the dads were the first year the cousins beat them at this game. And, we still take those long lazy pontoon rides, but only after each of the cousins has had their turn on water skis or the tube being pulled fast and furiously around the lake. Unlike the early years when the jungle cruise was required, their favorite pontoon ride now is when the water is calm and we stop in the middle of the lake where it’s deep and cold. They take turns then jumping off the sundeck on the top of the boat, displaying their talents for dives and cannonballs. This year the youngest cousin is 7 and I wonder if he’ll be brave enough to jump or will it be another year before he tries? It’s been heart-warming to watch the cousins encourage each other over the years to try new water skills. They seem to have known instinctually which cousin needed calm and quiet encouragement and which one would respond to dares with loud laughter.
The appreciation for nature that has been instilled in each child has been such a pleasure to watch. I had written a small story years earlier about a feral farm goose who I called ”Gus”. The cousins watched out for Gus whenever they were at the lake, wanting to be the first to spot him each spring. And, they still eagerly await the arrival of the baby ducklings and laughingly watch the mother duck’s efforts to keep her babies corralled. There’s always one or two of the ducklings who bravely attempt to swim beyond the boundaries established by the mother. As the brave little duck gets close to the boundary, the mother squawks loudly, eventually at times having to swim over toward the ducking to get him or her in line. I recalled with joy when one of the cousins recognized herself in the brave little duck, saying “that duckling is just like me, always wanting to go further and faster than my mom wants me to go”.
Another “must do” each visit for many of the children with their Granddad and fathers is wetting a line at the end of the dock. This is such great quiet time for each of them. Lots of childhood concerns (and occasionally adult concerns) have been pondered, discussed and solved while patiently waiting for a fish to nibble on their bait. And, how excited they still are when they get a bite, even if it’s a 4 inch small mouth. All fish must be saved in the “live box” for at least a day and each of the children take turns going down the dock, checking on the fish and congratulation the one who caught it. They are always ready to release the fish at the end of the day and the fisherman who caught the fish gets the honor of putting them back into the lake to swim away and be caught again; a never ending cycle of life and lessons at the lake.
Noises now began to invade my recollections that suggested the household was stirring. Time to go in, begin breakfast and think about lunch and dinner. These are the times when the dishwasher runs endlessly and someone is always cooking something for the next meal. Ribs were in the refrigerator; another of those rituals that started when the cousins were younger and refused most meats until they tasted the sweet, tangy barbeque ribs that were so easy for little teeth to sink into and chew. Now a weekend is not complete without several racks of ribs for them all. Suddenly I heard loud calls of welcome and joy; another family had arrived out front; the gathering is beginning.

380 Miles

380 Miles
By Laura Ferris

Three hundred and eighty miles. That’s how far it was, the trip my dad made each way every single summer weekend between the time school let out and Labor Day that first year we owned the cabin. He’d try to get away from work on Friday by 4; arriving at the lake around eleven. Usually my oldest sister was with him; she was going to college in the fall and needed to work a summer job to save some money. I don’t recall ever hearing him complain about the trip unless there was a traffic jam or road construction that slowed him down. My mom waited up for him, usually to tell him what trouble my younger sister and I had been during the week. Despite being left each week, she was one of the luckier moms in the lake region. We had two cars so she wasn’t totally abandoned up there. She spent her days gardening, walking and touring the local countryside for interesting shops or markets. This was fine with my younger sister and I; we had plenty to do that didn’t involve her.
Our cabin was on a channel, actually a river, that connected one lake to 9 others. It was a beautiful chain of lakes filled with small resorts, cabins in which other families lived the life we lived and two or three larger resorts. Fishing was the main lure to the region but for the kids who lived there, water skiing was everything.
The weekends were very different than the weekdays. Dad made everything fun. We boated through the lakes, went fishing, water skied, played croquet on the lawn and barbequed. Saturday night was usually a time for Dad and Mom to join their friends at a local bar and sometimes, if there was a good show, they went to one of the larger resorts and caught whatever stage show was being produced. Sunday mornings were for the family. We had big breakfasts on the screened porch and talked about the chores that needed to be done during the week while Dad was gone. Then Dad and Mom would normally play a round of golf and off he’d go, leaving by five in order to be home and get at least some sleep before work again on Monday morning.
At fourteen, the weekday chores of mowing and weeding outside fell mostly to me. With lots of reminders from Mom, I’d usually complete them by Friday. But most days during the week were spent off with my friends; we couldn’t drive cars yet, but we all had boats we could take since none of our moms would operate them. We had a big tank of gas for the boat in the boathouse and no one thought about the cost of oil or the fact that we kids were using so much gas just to play. I look back on those days and wonder why my mother allowed me the freedom I had. It was not uncommon for me to be gone from right after breakfast to dinner time. And then, after dinner, I’d be off again. My friends and I skied 8 hours a day, practicing our tricks and egging each other on to try something even more difficult. We learned how to barefoot ski, how to jump, how to ski doubles; we even skied what we laughingly called ballet. It was really the guys skiing with great bravado while the girls squealed on our shoulders.
My little sister spent her days at the horse stable. In order to get there, she rowed her way across the lake in the morning and then she would cut through the fields to the shore opposite our house. On really warm days she would pack her jeans and boots in a water-proof bag and swim across the river and then dress at the stables. At twelve, she led trail rides, cleaned up the stalls and got to feed the horses. She’d do anything to be just to be able to be with those horses that year. It wasn’t until she was a little older that skiing held a charm for her.

Gus

Gus
By Laura Ferris
August 2010

Gus looked up excitedly. He had heard something in the distance and suddenly he was able to see hundreds of little black specks flying from the south toward the lake. The wild geese were coming home! Gus was certain that this summer they would accept him into their flock.
Gus knew he wasn’t like the wild geese, but maybe, now that he was older, it wouldn’t matter so much. He was hopeful that this year would be better even though he still looked different and honked differently.
Gus waddled hurriedly over to the lake. He had spent his winter alone in the marsh area. And, even though it was a cold winter, Gus had found plenty of corn kernels left by the farmer in his field and there was always a little open water by the dam. But, he had been lonely.
When Gus arrived at the lake, sure enough, the wild geese were landing. Gus swam up to them, honking his strange honk and welcoming them home. The wild geese turned to Gus and honked angrily at him. He stopped just outside their circle on the lake and looked sadly at them. Nothing had changed! They still didn’t want to be his friend just because he was different.
For the next several weeks, Gus hung out around the wild geese, still hoping they would accept him. It did seem like they were tolerating him a little better, but he wasn’t allowed to fly in formation with them or swim too close to them. Whenever he tried to get a little closer to them, one of them would start honking with an angry tone and Gus would back away.
Early one morning a few weeks after the geese had returned, Gus noticed that the baby geese had been born. One of the newborn geese was injured! Something had happened to the baby goose’s wing.
As Gus watched over the next few weeks, he was amazed to see that the wild geese were trying to take care of the injured goose, even though it too was different. This made him wonder again, why wouldn’t they accept him into the flock? But, as the babies grew larger and were more able to take care of themselves, the flock seemed less interested in helping the injured goose. In time, the flock began to treat the injured goose the same as they treated Gus. They didn’t want it to fly near them or swim in their circle. It was too different.
Gus was sad for the young goose. He knew how hard it was to be on the outside with no friends. He was positive he could help the little goose if only he could just beable to get close. He spent the first few days getting to know the little goose. He followed the goose as it swam across the lake, trying to keep up with the flock. He waddled after the little goose as it went up on land and tried to peck at the grasses for food. The little goose seemed to be getting weaker and weaker as it tried and failed to take care of itself.
Finally one day, while Gus and the little goose were on the shore looking for food among the grasses, Gus took action! He honked at the goose and encouraged it to peck deeper and longer. After awhile the goose seemed to understand that Gus was trying to help. The little goose tried harder and was able to find enough grass to satisfy its hunger. This was the break through Gus had been waiting for! Over the next few weeks the little goose, with Gus encouraging him all the way, learned to forage for food and swim with strong legs. The goose grew stronger every day and began to grow into a full grown goose. But it never was able to learn to fly and was never accepted by the flock of wild geese.
The little goose and Gus became inseparable. They swam together across the lake and foraged for food together. At night they found shelter together in a safe place. And, as the summer slowly came to an end, they found themselves more and more alone. Strangely they were content. They were truly friends; helping each other when they needed help, encouraging each other when they needed support and standing together against the crowd.
Gus realized it was okay to be different; he didn’t need to be one of the crowd. As long as he had one true friend, he would never feel lonely again.

Gone But Not Forgotten by Orv Allison

Out here at the lake, we didn’t get electricity until I was seven years old. It was one of many things we didn’t have much of. City folks had faucets and toilets and lights and cars that ran and lots of good stuff…maybe more than they needed.

We lit the kerosene lamps and woodstoves and the old rusty pump that always needed a prime. Ours was the smelly, bone chilling two-seater outhouse with a pail of corn cobs and a Sears Roebuck catalogue that never got read. What we had was old Nelly and Fred, the laziest boney team in the township that hated the plow, couldn’t pull a straight furrow and always looked for a shade tree.

All’s there was out here was mostly plain everyday lake folks with their backs to the wall who wouldn’t give in to grunt or grit. Great-grandpa Filley was born during the Civil War, sweated his skinny ass off and died in the cornfield at 42 from a busted appendix. He left great-granny Emma, with 10 kids, 2 hogs and a coop half-empty of hungry chickens. For eats, she had a big bushel of bank payments on a farm that couldn’t grow rocks.

But what she did have was acres and acres of “worthless” undeveloped lakefront property that she gave to her 10 kids. After 107 years and six generations later, we’re still paying the taxes so our grandpups can dangle their feet and swim off the piers. What a timeless blessing for everyone along the way.

Today, there’s over 300 houses squashed in around the lake, but back then, besides the farmhouse and barn, there were only two deserted shacks. Before the family lumbered off part of the west woods to build the oak barn, they had logs and old tree branches lay over the top of a big, deep gully that was covered with cornstalks and sod to shelter the livestock through the winters. Thinking back on that old barn…to leap off the high hand-hewn beams, to land on your back in the deep, soft haymow was the simple summer thrill. Just laying there staring up at the pigeons in the loft and sniffing the fragrant new mown hay and watching Tabby, the old mouser, doing her job…I could close my eyes and be back there right now.

How quietly beautiful and simple it was. Just waves and wind and lots of no people. Just pheasants in the cornshalks, mallards and loons and maybe a blue heron fishing off the pier. Loads of muskrat houses down by the creek and lots of mink in the cattails. The lake was as clear as a blue diamond and even a boy at sundown could catch a mess of fish with a pin at the end of a string. They’d bite on anything. Even the sagging old pier was loaded with good eating turtles. A time before motor boats, jet skis and boom boxes.

But big rattlesnakes were a problem. Everyone was poor and none of the kids wore shoes over the summer. There were no lawns or lawnmowers back then and the shoreline was mostly low and wet overgrown marshland, crawling with fanged critters that darn near killed my dad. When he was just a little shaver, about 5, he dug some worms from the manure pile for fishing with his stick and hook. Barefooted at the bottom of the hill, he didn’t see the big one basking in the sun, but sure felt the fans and ran screaming for granny. Back then, big shots of whiskey and a pat on the back were supposed to cure about anything. Although reputed to kill all kinds of bad germs, it darn near killed this little kid before the galloping buckboard hauled him off to Old Doc Lewis in Vandalia. After that misadventure, they decided to cordon off the marsh with a split rail fence along the top of the ridge and let the hogs loose to clean out the rattlers. It took about a year for them to solve the problem.
Winters were long and miserable. No one could afford coal, so by morning the woodstove’s were cold and the dog dish froze solid. As the livestock got watered, the cows were milked and it was up to the kids to light the lanterns, bring in the wood and kindle the stoves. Chores from get-up, to go-to-bed, were a grim reality of survival. Nobody complained and things just got done.

As the woodpile shrunk down to nothing, snow melted, the lake ice finally broke loose and spring mud was up to the hubs. Many a day, for a dollar, they’d harness the team to pull an overheated, skinny tired Model T Ford out of the gumbo. “Get a horse”, we chided as we fed it water and he cranked it back to life.

It was a straight simple time when there was “right from wrong” and everybody knew it. City lawyers were an expensive nuisance with big words and paper and nobody needed ‘em. Your fence line, a handshake, your straight-in-the-eyeball family word of honor and a shotgun was all you needed.

This morning, many decades and vintages later, while watching the wind and the waves, we sat there together, little Noah and me, on the old swing in front of the farmhouse. Puzzled, he looked up and asked why my old grandpa hands were so boney, wrinkled and tired looking. I thought about that for a minute, leaned down, smiled and quietly whispered, “Grandpup…yep, they earned their scars and are tired now, and ready to be put to bed.” He just nodded and went to sleep.

The Last of His Tribe by Orv Allison

Now in my eighties, every once in a while on a sunny day I’ll drive back on an old dirt road east of the lake to stop and gaze out in a field, at a couple of large scraggy white pines with a small grassy lump under them.  Both the trees and the lump have seen better days.

          Long ago before he died my dad took me back into the woods to show me this rundown abandoned one room hovel with no windows, a low sod roof and a dirt floor.  There was a small rusty stovepipe out the back earthen wall with what was left of an old weathered door drooping off one hinge that swung in the wind.  It looked like critters had been living in it for some time.

          He told me that one day as a little kid he was walking back in the south woods and met the last living member of Chief Shavehead’s Potawatomi tribe.  He didn’t have a last name.  They just called him Ole Injun Joe.  Ancient, indigent and bent over with a widow’s hump, he spoke slow broken English and didn’t smell too good. 

          There he lived alone with his old bony cow and a few hungry chickens that had about outlived their time and place.  Without a friend or family he was just a worthless smelly, begging pain in the neck who was no longer welcome anywhere.  The white settlers who had moved in and bought out the land got tired of this wandering, old nuisance hanging around.   So one late autumn day, with a loaded shotgun, they invited him out to live anywhere on the planet except around them on the sandy sunny shores of Shavehead Lake.  Cold and alone he was weak as water and the winter was coming on.

          My dad, as a little kid at the time, never really understood what Ole Injun Joe meant when he quietly said, “Little boy, don’t be the last of your tribe to die.”  Long gone, and forgotten he lays buried somewhere in an unmarked grave along with his time and his tribe.

The Lake and Beyond - Dave's Story by Sue Dunlap

Diamond Lake was the wonderful place that we packed up and moved to every summer from the time I was six months old.  Once we got there, however, my world expanded way beyond those shimmering waves in the front yard.  Perhaps because I am an only child I was always on the lookout for my own entertainment.  As a result I was fascinated by the whole north shore of this special place, spending a lot of my time on both sides of our country road.

Looking back at my 10^th summer at the cottage, my mornings did start with a fundamental lake activity – patrolling the shore for treasures.  With my red rubber boots pulled up to my knees I was out and about at the crack of dawn, slogging through the clear shallow waters, hopping up and over the docks that I crossed like hurdles.  Collecting mostly fishing lures and broken bobbers I did occasionally catch a wayward beach toy floating by.

My first breakfast of the day varied a lot in location and menu.  Some mornings Matt would call out to invite me next door for coffee cake.  Still working long past retirement age as research director for O’Brien Paint, he was a great story teller and had an even greater scientific mind.  Building a huge telescope to accommodate the 10” lens he’d ordered from Mt Polamor he poured a concrete pad in the back field where he was able to make several observations, contributing articles to Sky and Telescope Magazine.  The best nights for me were when Matt would tap on my downstairs bedroom window to wake me up to look at his latest discovery along with him. 

There were other mornings, though, when I would keep my red boots on after my beach walk and hike up to the farm to watch Gus feed his pigs.  Although the farmhouse was directly across the road from our driveway the pigs were raised in a pen down a little lane from there. After that chore was done we always went back for a farmer’s breakfast of bacon and eggs, hash brown potatoes, juice and milk – all cooked by his wife Laura in an ugly looking cast iron skillet on a wood fired cook stove.  Toward the end of the summer Gus would let me ride to town with him to sell his crops.  I was always fascinated to watch him roll a cigarette with one hand while he steered his old pick up with the other.

I really didn’t question these close relationships with the adults on our shore – getting to call them by their first names, even as a kid.  It was always just Matt and Lois or Laura and Gus when we were among these special people at the lake.  Unconsciously I just naturally switched over to calling my fifth grade teacher, Mr. Nelson and my scout master, Mr. Benson when we made the move back home in the fall.

My second breakfast each morning was a bowl of cereal at my house, to prepare me for nine o’clock swimming lessons at the yacht club dock.  This activity did not appeal to me as a break in the action so I sometimes pleaded a stomach ache to get a pass.  My mother’s reply was always the same, “Drink some hot water and get going.”  That might have prompted a sigh but no other complaint on my part.

With my dad working in Grand Rapids, except for his weekend commutes and two weeks of vacation in July, our one car stayed with him.  And I was always a little worried about him from the time he waved goodbye from the top of the drive until he arrived back at the lake at the end of the week.  

But my mother and I still managed to play our weekly round of golf together on Wednesdays, my one day off from swimming lessons. We loaded up our clubs in the small outboard motorboat and headed over to a family friend’s house which backed up to the course.  Leaving our boat tied there, we carried our clubs up the hill to duck in the back way to the first tee.   Playing with a starter set I sent the money I’d saved from cutting lawns back with my dad each Sunday night to buy the next club.  I’m not sure who I was more excited to see that next Friday night – my dad or my new iron.

Swimming off the raft and building endless seawalls with rocks dredged up from the lake with the other neighborhood kids was great, but there was always the lure of the farm late in the afternoon.  Leaving everyone else behind, I remember my futile attempts to shoot the pigeons off the rafters in the big barn with my BB gun. They were tough old birds.  The pellets just bounced off.  Then there was the hayloft ladder to climb, up through the slanting rays of dusty sunshine, then the big jump into the soft, threshed wheat.  It is all the smells and the sounds that come back to me now; the ping of the cow’s milk hitting the bucket at the end of the day and the squeak and the rattle of the windmill as it pumped cold well water into the trough that kept the milk cold in big metal canisters.  And then there was the one legged milking stool which I still think is pretty cool.  With your own two legs added to make a triangular base it was comfortable and efficient and one size fit all.

The really special family activity of the summer each year was going to the Cass County Fair with my folks.  That summer I was particularly fascinated with one of the games of chance.  Tossing nickels through a chicken wire screen, and successfully landing a coin in three separate saucers, would win you a baby duck.  Getting tired of hearing my urgent pleas, my mother bought a double handful of nickels at the booth and told my dad, “Win him a duck!”  We promptly left him to his task as we toured the livestock barn.  I smugly navigated the rest of the fair that evening, carrying my new duckling around in a plastic bag, half filled with water and half poked with holes for breathing.  That duck, soon named Lulu, did take to water but she only wanted to go in the lake when we went for a swim.  Otherwise she lived happily in a pen under the deck.  It was at the end of the summer that Lulu supposedly went to live with Gus at the farm, in exchange for a chicken for our Sunday dinner.

Those chickens also provided our family with another lake tradition.  About three times each summer our dog Tippy got away and high tailed it up to the hen house.  On the following Friday my father was greeted with the news that Tippy had gotten another chicken at the farm.  After dinner my dad knew what he had to do – drive to town and buy Gus a fifth of whiskey as an apology.  It was always graciously accepted and immediately shared with a toast to summer.

            Later that same season my family upgraded from their five horsepower outboard motor to a seven and a half.  Keeping the same 14 foot long aluminum boat that I’d learned to drive when I was eight years old, the increased speed with that new motor was amazing.  Until then I could only drive our boat by myself from Taggart’s dock next door down to Wolfe’s dock before turning around to come back – about 200 yards each way.  Still required to wear a life jacket I was now allowed to go anywhere on the lake as long as I told my folks when I would be back.  That was when I got my first wrist watch too, specifically for that purpose.  It never occurred to me to violate this rule, probably in part because I could only take the boat out by myself.  My mission became the exploration of the hidden channels of the lake and timing how long it took to circle the island in various wind and weather conditions.

            Standing in the yard of our lake house now I can still look around and see almost every place where I roamed that summer.  It was a big world then for a ten year old boy and still plenty big enough to be almost my whole world today.

The Rendezvous by Sue Dunlap

By 1960 I am sure that many people in the Midwest had been on some kind of boat – at least a row boat for fishing, a paddle boat at a lakeside park, or a sightseeing vessel making the rounds in a protected harbor.  Lots of kids had certainly taken a ride by then in a little boat at the county fair or a city amusement park, clanging its bell as it sloshed its way around and around in a circle for a five minute ride.  But at ten years old the world of boats was about to be rewritten for me as I was introduced to a boat powered only by the wind.

The fact is that a truly life altering event came about in my life that year – all due to a particular sailboat named The Rendezvous.  Stored in my grandmother’s garage this boat was purchased by my dad, mostly as a scientific experiment along with a slim volume called The A-B-C’s of Boat Sailing as his only guide.  First moored in Jackson Harbor in Chicago, it broke loose from its mooring and was rescued just before crashing on the breakwater. 

Next, he tried hauling the 18 foot sloop over endless city streets from the south side to launch it for an occasional Saturday sail – sometimes spending more time in the car than on the boat.  It hadn’t been near the water in years when my dad finally convinced my mother that buying a summer cottage on an inland lake was his only hope of ever really getting to sail this boat.

After weekends spent looking at quaint little summer homes, prodding the bottom of the lake at the end of each pier with a long bamboo pole, which sometimes sank an extra three feet in muck, my folks agreed on a cottage with a sandy beach at Diamond Lake.  Closing the deal in the fall, we only got to work on winterizing our new place in Michigan – our first taste of cottage ownership.  It was the following spring that brought the place to life.

Although the tiny house came stuffed with oversized furniture we still brought an extra boatload of

belongings to the lake from Chicago, packing what didn’t fit in the station wagon into The Rendezvous

that rolled proudly along behind us.

Staying for the entire summer with my mom and my brother and sister was the most unbelievable part of that June exodus from the city for me.  The weekend commute for my dad became his pattern, just like every other dad on our shore.   

Marveling at the sparkling lake in our front yard I did hear some big city chuckles about our new ten party phone line and the long walk up the hill to the 20 mailboxes at our Rural Route 3 address.  But I knew this was heaven on earth.

Turning on the well’s water pump, airing out the bedding and applying Lysol to every flat surface that my mother could find came first, before the big project waiting in the garage – getting the wooden sailboat ready for weekend sailing adventures with my dad.

I clearly remember the scrubbing and scraping and sanding that seemed endless as my brother and I worked to finish the dreaded weekly list left by my dad, before he arrived each Friday night.  Once he took over there were exotic smelly solvents used for the clean up after painting and the intriguing bubbling reaction of paint and varnish remover as it ate up old finishes down to the bare wood.  At last my brother was assigned to paint the bottom of the boat while my dad applied the final coat of varnish. 

All of these tedious steps postponed the launching of The Rendezvous until well after the Fourth of July, which my new lake friends informed me was way too late in the season to bother putting in a boat.   

Even at this early age I was ready to devote myself to whatever work was needed on this project.  I knew that keeping The Rendezvous afloat was my best guarantee of being back at the lake for every summer to come.

And you know, I still feel that a wooden sailboat really is superior to the modern day fiberglass variety in spite of all the extra work involved, because once it was finally launched, The Rendezvous seemed to take you right back to the olden days of sailing.  First it had to reside in a sling to let the wood soak up with water, to swell its dusty cracks shut to be seaworthy again.  Then its old bones would creak as the wind bent her mast and pulled at her fittings in a sudden puff of wind.   And the soft cotton sails made those luxurious flapping sounds until they were secured after the boat changed direction.

The first really magical ride that I can still recall vividly on The Rendezvous happened one night that August.  By then  I know I had been on board many times - watching it being rigged, hiding out in the musty storage space under the bow as we drifted in a dead calm,  or bracing one hand in the water to make a wake of my own as we dipped toward the waves on a gusty day.   But that one night, when the moon was full and the stiff breeze was warm, I had the sailing experience of a lifetime. 

There were five grownups and me on board when we started out, with just a flashlight to shine on the sails to announce our presence if another boat came too close.  Then our ghost ship sailed silently in and out of the shadows, back and forth along the east end of the lake – landing periodically to pick up and drop off neighbors who were taking their turns on this adventure. 

I managed to stay on board the entire time.  Trusting the black and inky lake as it swirled by, I went searching for a place that none of the newcomers would want as a seat, just to make sure I would not be displaced when we docked.  

I climbed fearlessly out onto the bow and flattened myself to the deck to allow the jib sail to cross over and back above me when we tacked.  Clutching the short brass mooring post, centered in my triangular space, I lay spread eagle so that my toes could brace against the wire stays on either side that held the mast in place.

I watched for each of the little living room windows, softly lit on the shore, between the drenching waves as they sometimes washed over me. The grownups on board were all just too absorbed in their own wonderment to notice the precariously balanced young girl leading the way.

Optional (additional) last paragraph -

Looking back I am grateful that the beginning of my love affair with sailing started when I was too young to be concerned that anything so wonderful might not last a lifetime.  That would have been a wasted concern indeed, because it has.  Lasted, that is.

Word count: 1183

Home Invasion: The Choice by Kathy Price

“We’ll report this as a Home Invasion” Hans, the taller County Trooper said. “Now let’s review a checklist of the steps you should take to prevent another break-in. “

“What you did tonight was actually quite good” said Kevin, the young Police Deputy from the Village.

He HAS to be older than 15”, I thought. How could the two troopers have dispatched him to search the periphery?  If anyone were lurking, Kevin would be toast.

 “Mrs. Price, let’s get back to this list” interjected Roger, the balding, older County Trooper.

I listened dazedly as my mind tried to grasp the reality that a few minutes earlier someone had penetrated my home.

          Our home at Diamond Lake was our refuge while we were living in Chicago: getting on and off airplanes, nourishing a son and daughter, and managing two high-powered careers. 26 years ago, when we bought it, we thought it was a palace. But it was really pretty bad. True, it had been a model home for the Howell Point Development. That was in 1935 when the brochure boasted:”It has all the modern conveniences: electricity and running water.”  The living room and dining room soaked up 10 gallons of paint before they were white. The kitchen had an ancient mobile home refrigerator mounted precariously on the counter. We ate in a booth with torn green plastic cushions and an ersatz wood tabletop. The bathroom cubicle was a night mare of iridescent brown tile and dark brown velvet wallpaper. We relished this home’s funky contrast to the famous Chicago lakefront towers in which we lived and worked.

When it became our retirement home we restored and renovated it into our “House on the Hill”. Our favorite room was the living room. We called this high-ceilinged aerie, all white and bright with its many skylights and glass walls overlooking the lake, “The Meditation Room.” The matching slim white recliners facing the lake were our “Serenity Chairs”. After cackling cancer wrested Don away,   I always looked to the lake for solace. I soared with dancing diamonds of sunlight and savored a full moon rising bright orange over the island. Fluttering Sea Gulls sailed past and carried me far from the pangs of a root canal. The thrill of an early March “Ice Out” eased the ache of laying off 15 souls. The soft “lap, lap” of the waves soothed me to sleep. It was serendipity. Until tonight.

I stepped out of the office sleepily, content that the report on the Yacht Club Harvest Moon Hayride was complete. I’d printed it on bright orange paper. A nice touch I thought.

PING.

“What was that?” I mused.

PING.

“What…”

Ping

Suddenly I knew exactly what it was! The ADT Alarm was counting down 45 seconds before screeching break-in. Some-one had gotten through the garage and was in my house NOW!

“Be careful. Don’t fall. Move!” I told myself.

 I hurtled down the hall to the master bedroom and locked the door behind me. One down! Diving through the bathroom, I secured the second lock. Two down! I slipped in to the walk-in closet. No lock, but a tricky pocket door to open.

PING!...PING!...PING! How many had there been? I did a quick calculation. It would take another 30 seconds before the Alarm went off. 

“Press your Lifeline button.  Now, get 911 on the cell phone. Where’s the cell phone? In your pocket where it should be? Yes! Here we go. 9-1-1.”

“This is 911.”

“Operator, someone is breaking into my home!”

“What’s your name?

“Virginia Trowbridge”

“Where do you live?”

“22369 Forest Hall Drive”

“Do you live alone?”

                  

“Yes. I’m a widow.”

“What’s your phone number?”

“Operator! Hurry! They’re in the house NOW!”

“Mrs. Trowbridge, I’m REQUIRED to ask these questions. What’s your       phone number?”

“269-445-2468. Please, call the police!”

“The Police are on the way”.

“Thank God! Let me give you the codes to get into the garage and the house.”

“We’re not ready for that. I’m busy talking to your alarm company.”

“But they can’t get in without them!” I cry in frustration. Why was this taking so long!

“What’s that? Is  some-one rattling the bedroom door?” I grab my cane, ripping the rubber stabilizer off the bottom. I want these invaders to feel the full force of its Titanium shaft! I get into batting position.”You’re only going to get one blow. Decide: eyes or crotch?”

          “Virginia Trowbridge! The troopers are at the garage door.

Give me the codes now!” the 911 operator demands.

Suddenly, it is SHOCK AND AWE ON Forest Hall Drive! The alarm explodes in non-stop, ear-shattering sound. The land line starts ringing off the hook in five rooms.  The Lifeline operator bellows forth on the separate enhanced speaker phone:

“Mrs. Trowbridge, are you all right? Mrs. Trowbridge, do you need help. Mrs. Trowbridge, are you all right? Mrs. Trowbridge, do you need help?”

Someone starts banging on the bedroom door.

“Virginia Trowbridge, please unlock this door!”

“Identify yourself first”.

“Mrs. Trowbridge, I am Roger and my team mate is Hans. We are Cass County Troopers. Come out NOW. “

I comply. As I enter the living room, I’m stunned by the fact that every single exterior security light is on full blast and there’s a police officer in a blue uniform on my front doorstep. The two troopers in front of me are in tan uniforms. The land line is still ringing off and LIFELINE is still begging to know if I need help. One of the troopers opens the door. A very young police officer steps in.

“Hi Kevin” the trooper says.

“Hi Hans” Kevin replies, marching directly to the Lifeline phone. “Lifeline, this is Deputy Police Officer Kevin Maloney from the Village of Cassopolis. Mrs. Trowbridge is okay. Intercept the ambulance. Return it to base. Thank you. Goodnight.

“911, kill that ADT phone response.” Roger is on his cell phone.

          “Yes Sir”.

I can’t wait any longer. “Officers, how did they get in?”

          “They used one of the new digital scanners. They try hundreds of codes on your garage door until they find a fit.  It takes only a few minutes. Why don’t you sit down and collect yourself while we check the basement and the attic” replies Roger.

I collapse into the recliner and try to soothe myself with the keepsakes of marriage and family. The picture of Courtney and Evan flames out above the creamy marble of the fireplace. My artist friend Tiby painted it when the children were two and four.It had been my Christmas surprise for Don that year. He had thrilled me with his gift of a much coveted Maxi Coat. Forty three years ago! Across the room is the framed black and white photograph of Don and his team mates when he played for legendary Basketball Coach Hank Iba. Oklahoma was number one in the nation that year. There are our six  family portraits. The latest one includes all three little granddaughters. Only Don is missing. Here’s a June Cary watercolor of the Hobie Regatta with  our boat, “The Island Cat”, right in the center.

“Mrs. Trowbridge, please stay with us now”. Roger’s voice startles me. I realize that we’ve been talking about the safety checklist for several minutes now.

          “Yes, of course. I’m sorry Officer. It’s just that it’s been a pretty tough night”.

            “I understand. This is the last point and the most important.    You probably could have stopped them tonight.”

“How?” I ask, stunned.

“The door from your garage into your mudroom was unlocked. It’s a big, heavy door that can be double bolted. It would take a battering ram to knock it down. Most intruders won’t waste time with an obstacle like that. As it is, your alarm monitor shows they penetrated the mudroom, great room, and living room. The master bedroom would have been next. It’s always the goal. That’s where the jewelry and the money are”.

“You should have chosen another hiding place” interjects Kevin.

“It’s the only room inside the house with a keyed lock”, I protest.

“Well, we scared them off this time. But remember, keep that garage door locked and bolted”, Roger concludes.

“Yes Sir.”

I show them out. Trance-like, I start through the safety checklist. I secure the garage door. I change the ADT alarm code and reset it.  I call ADT service and leave a message that I want a technician out in the morning to test their equipment. I decide to change the outside garage code in the morning. There is NO WAY I’m leaving this house tonight. I go through the house and turn the outside security lights to always on.   I switch on the porch lights. Done! The house is now lit up like a maximum security prision. Exhausted, I sink into the white recliner. Will it ever be a serenity chair again?

“What almost happened tonight?” I ask myself. Would it have been robbery, assault, rape, murder?” I shudder.

“What if I’d been asleep in the master Bedroom? I would never have heard those first PINGS.”

“I could have dozed off in the great room with the TV blasting away. They would have stepped right in on me from the mud room!”

          “Thank God I double-bolted that garage door”, I think wearily. I jolt upright out of my stupor. “”How could I forget? I leave that door open so the EMTs won’t have to break it down!”

          “Stay calm. Think rationally”, I counsel myself. “Would a delay have mattered when you fell and broke your hip?  BUT, THIS INVADER IS TRULY DEADLY. He comes and goes at will. Each time he steals more. What if next time it’s a heart attack?

          I get up. I unbolt the door. I go back to my chair. Trembling, I look to the lake for comfort. It is dark and silent.