This morning I flew from San Francisco to Spokane Washington
to visit my mother and to have a little writing retreat at the family summer
house on Deer Lake. As I flew over San Francisco Bay, a web of dissipating
clouds cast amorfic shapes across the water, like echoes of mysterious
underwater continents, a map of an ever-changing world that lies just below the
surface.
A three hour plane ride, a half hour taxi and then a forty-five minute drive later, I stand on the shore of Deer Lake, which reflects the pine strewn hills that rise above it, but just below the surface lies a lexicon of memories collected from the time I was in my early twenties when my parents bought the tiny one room fishing cabin with an outhouse and slowly grew it over the years to a lovely two bedroom, two bath lake house.
First
they added an indoor bathroom, then a kitchen, later came the master bedroom, a
deck with a hot tub and then a guest room with a separate bath. Kind of like
growing a family. (Or a novel.) When they first signed the papers, money was
scarce and they knew it was a luxury they couldn’t afford but they stretched to
make the $100 a month payments so they would have a place for family to gather
in the future.
Standing here on the shore of the lake, I hear the exuberant
echo of multi-generational family reunions that spilled into every corner, the
happy laughter of summer birthday celebrations, the wiz and boom of
firecrackers on the Fourth of July, the sound of children splashing in the
water on a hot August day. I can still see the morning, 29 years ago, when my
soon-to-be husband and I took the little sailing boat out on the the lake
before breakfast and capsized it, losing our towels and flip-flops along with
our dignity.
From the time my own children were infants, we would come
from San Francisco every summer. Both girls took their first steps on the deck
overlooking the lake, almost as if they were walking on water. When one of my
daughters was three, she startled us all, shouting, “There’s a fire on the
shore! There’s a fire on the shore!” After much concern and searching for the
fire, the source of her panic turned out to be a spider on Daddy’s shorts. (She
remains terrified of spiders to this day)
We scattered my father’s ashes in the lake more than a
decade ago, but his presence is still palpable, throughout the house he built,
along the beach he lovingly tended and in the reflections on the water where he
pulled us all behind the ski boat from one end of the lake to the other.
My children grew up, my mother can no longer navigate the
stairs down and up to access the house and my sister and my life are too far
away to properly maintain the property anymore,
so we have decided to put the house up
for sale. But tonight, as the sun goes down, my heart is filled with a deep
gratitude to my parents for the courage to dream and stretch to make those $100
a month payments that enriched our lives with summers together and gave us all
memories that go well beyond the surface.
And as I use my retreat time to write, I will try to
remember that novels are built 100 words at a time and do grow from simple
one-room beginnings to complex structures that can house lives and memories.
Word by word, wall by wall, room by room.
Take Good Care,
Sharry
What a beautiful reflection, Sharry! Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDeleteThank you dear sister! Our lives are enriched by the hundreds of memories made in this place.
ReplyDelete