Writings

My father came here every summer of his life, and my mother, every summer of their marriage. It was the place where we marked the progress of our childhoods—where we swam and rowed, learned Liar’s Dice and Scrabble, climbed mountains and played prisoner’s base. Other than playing tennis on the dilapidated court, my mother didn’t like being there much—too isolated; she looked awkward on hikes, but right at home lying on this porch reading. Once in a while though, she’d initiate “a new phase”—as when she conspired with my most mechanically minded cousin to purchase a motor boat (long forbidden by Gramps, now dead). The purpose was not to replace the old guide boats and canoes, but to institute water-skiing: Really, what’s the point of the lake? She took up waterskiing with a competitor’s panache, skimming the sparkling surface, one of my brothers steering the boat in fast, wide loops until she wiped out amid cheers to begin again.