Saturday morning, after wishing well to the Bearded Companion who motorcycled out of the driveway, I set off into the great green world with my weekend bags and cup of coffee, and proceeded to undertake the dreamy, familiar drive to White Haven on I-80.
Long, gently twisting highway, muddy rain skies giving way to technicolor fields, endless sky, billowing clouds over generous, blinding green. Lost in my thoughts and tea, munching on a sourdough roll, throwing orange peels out the window.
I had the immense pleasure of spending the weekend with some good ones, admiring the mirror lake, dappled sunshine through the leaves, the sand and sky of water of our lake, where I was lucky enough to spend many of my days growing up.
Going Down To The Lake was something we did often when this address was my address, and that place is lined with memories from many stages of my life.
Those gauzy, endless days of summer which so slowly blended into fall saw us at The Lake almost daily, plastic bowls full of cut-up fruit, colorful beach towels, now threadbare, the faraway sound of trucks rumbling from the Turnpike. Paper bag instruments in the pavilion, exploring the backwater nooks and crannies for turtles and frogs, rough skin saw grass, leeches on our ankles below the dam. Long streams of smoke into the evening and grill food upon grill food, and our friends, to whom I was The Pickle Girl long before our families would become acquainted.
All the tenets of this life now carry over into the one I am living, and it pleases me so to revisit the source.
While I was away, Jake and Olive got in some good alone time.