My family has long had a yearly tradition of writing notes to each other for Christmas morning. Sometimes funny, sometimes mushy, these letters summarize the previous year’s accomplishments and provide hopes for the coming one.

Partially because of the down economy and partially because we are all grown up now, we’re doing something new this year. My grandmother is writing all of us kids and grandkids memories from her life, and we’re writing her one from ours.

Here’s my memory, written to her…

sailors

There was a very brief period of time in which a couple of small miracles occurred that allowed me to walk to your house.

First, you were living within walking distance of the place that I lived at. Or at least spent the nights at. I’m of course referring to the time you spent living on lake Tahkenitch. What was surely tiresome isolation for you was wonderful for Gina and me. As a child I didn’t care that the nearest grocery was a boat ride and long drive away, or that clean water was tough to come by. Grandma was in the house down the lake, and that was simply the way it should be.

The second small miracle was the lake being extraordinarily dry that year. I don’t recall it being that dry on any summer since. Tahkenitch’s steep hillsides and thick foliage generally prevented a couple of kids from walking around the lake. On this particular year the lake had dried out enough that it was barely possible for a couple of school kids to walk along the shore.

What an adventure it was going to grandmother’s house. Every step of the way had to be taken with great care. The mud was thick enough to lose a shoe in, which probably happened at least once that summer. Scattered around the side of the lake like children’s Lincoln Logs were myriad floating or half-sunk trees, houses, boards, and boats.

Gina and I would jump from log to board to boat to the muddy shore. Each trip presenting a unique challenge as the lake re-arranged itself in our absence. Some paths would abruptly end, forcing us to retrace our steps and attempt a different direction. Others were comprised of floating logs that were so thin that they would sink within seconds of our standing on them. We’d skip from one large log across several smaller and far less stable logs only to barely make it to the relative safety of a second large log. I’m sure if I were to attempt it weighing what I do now, I would finish wetter than I began.

This is a journey that would always end with mud up to the ankles, card games with grandma, and a piece or two of hard candy. Eventually the sun would begin drooping and our parents would rescue us by boat.

Fond memories of a summer gone by. A childhood that seemed it would never end but most certainly has. Thanks for being a big part of a wonderful summer.

3 Comments »