Cold water, warm memories, and the place that will always feel like summer.
Many of us have a place from childhood that lives a little differently in our memories. For me, one of those places was the lake where my grandparents bought a cottage when I was young.
It was a couple of hours from home, and to me it was the most special place in the world.
There was a three-bedroom cottage by the water, as well as sleeping quarters over the boathouse. Sometimes I slept in the cottage, but other times I got to sleep over the boathouse with my sisters, Nancy and Barbara, who were five and seven years older than me.
Nancy recently reminded me of something I'd completely forgotten.
We used to get enormous thunderstorms at night. Being right over the water made the thunder seem especially loud, and when the rain was heavy enough, the windows would leak and water would come pouring in.
At about nine years old, I was terrified of those storms. I would cry hysterically, leaving my older sisters to deal with me.
Nancy, by then a teenager, didn't have much patience for it. She would tell me to go back to sleep.
Barbara was different. She would lift her covers and let me climb into bed and snuggle with her until I felt safe.
By morning, the storm would be gone and so would the terror.
Weekends at the cottage also meant we each got a quarter to spend on penny candy at the local convenience store. Twenty-five cents could buy an astonishing amount of candy back then, and I would stand there forever trying to decide how to spend my fortune. Mojos, licorice strings and all the other choices had to be carefully considered.
Our purchases went into a little paper bag, and off we went.
There were no rules about when we could eat it. There was only one rule that really mattered: when it was gone, it was gone.
But my favourite memories of the lake are of swimming.
The lake was formed by a meteorite, so it was incredibly deep and very cold. Neither of those things ever stopped us from wanting to get into the water.
We spent hours swimming and playing with an old inner tube and a toy we called the "wiener." I remember the sense of accomplishment when I finally figured out how to wedge the wiener between my legs just right so I could balance on it with part of my body sticking out of the water. There aren't many photographs of me from when I was young, but one of them is of me proudly sitting on that wiener.
Not every adventure in the water was quite so carefree.
One day my parents had been painting the boathouse, and there was a plank stretched out over the water. Someone spotted a snapping turtle and called everyone over to see it.
We all stood on the plank and leaned over, searching the water.
I leaned a little too far.
In I went.
The terror was instantaneous. I was convinced that snapping turtle was going to bite my toes off.
Barbara reached down and held out her arm. I grabbed onto her and practically climbed up her body to get myself out of that water.
I've never gotten over my fear of snapping turtles.
There were quieter adventures too. I remember a neighbour taking me sailing and the surprise of sliding right into the lake when the sailboat took a sharp turn.
And then there were the boat rides with my family.
One particular ride has stayed with me all these years. Barbara and I were sitting at the front of the boat with Mom and Dad. Dad decided he was going to give us a thrill, so he opened up the motor and went fast.
Barbara and I sat at the front with the wind and spray hitting our faces, screaming with absolute delight.
I can still see it.
Of all the memories I have of the cottage, that one somehow feels as though it happened only yesterday.
Eventually, childhood ended and the cottage stopped being part of my everyday life. But the lake never stopped being special to me.
About twenty-five years ago, I had a chance to see the cottage again.
One of my daughters was going to Girl Guide camp at a lake nearby. I decided to take my other daughter with me and see if we could find the cottage while we were there.
We found it.
And, completely unexpectedly, I discovered that the owner was my boss from work.
When he realized why I was there, he invited us to have a look around.
I hadn't been inside for years, and what struck me was how little had changed. The rooms were familiar. I could still recognize the place where so many of those childhood memories had happened.
But there was one thing I wasn't expecting to find.
In the utility room, there was a door beside the hot water tank. When we were children, my grandfather used that door to keep track of how much we were growing. He would measure us and mark our heights right there on the door.
The markings were still there.
All those years later, I could still see them.
And there I was, standing in the cottage where I'd spent so much of my childhood, looking at those marks my grandfather had made, with my own daughter beside me.
It made my heart full.
Every couple of years, I still like to go back and swim at the public beach. The cottage isn't mine and I'm certainly not that little girl anymore, but when I look out across that water, all those memories are still there—the thunderstorms, the penny candy, the freezing water, the snapping turtle, the boat rides, my sisters and my parents.
For a little while, I'm back at the lake.
My happy place.
A thought to take with you
Is there a place from your past that can take you back the moment you think about it?
What is it about that place you still carry with you?
Something come to mind?
If you'd like to share it, I'd love to hear what this story made you think about.