The suburban landscape of my
hometown quickly transforms into an open road surrounded by wooden areas and
mountains in the distance. It’s a road I’ve traveled countless times since I
was born. I can still remember being strapped into a car seat in the back of my
grandparent’s Buick, trying to count the passing trees, as we drove north to
their cottage for the weekend.
Twenty
years later, I was alone. It was almost exactly ten years since my grandfather
passed away and I was on my way to the cottage to celebrate my grandmothers 80th
birthday. The White Mountains come
into view as I make my way down route 104 just before the immensity of Lake
Winnipesaukee appears through my windshield. I can still hear his voice raving
about what we are looking at. “Beautiful water in a high place” is what he
would always say. I would eventually learn that’s what the Indian name Winnipesaukee
actually meant.
I
pulled down the dead end road and up onto the overgrown grass of the field at
the end of the road, as my father instructed me where to park. My whole
extended family, close to thirty of us, was there to celebrate. There were cars
everywhere. I walked around a small wiffle ball game and up to the white house
with shutters the sun has faded to gray. The familiar musty smell of the
hundred-year-old house, cluttered with pictures from before I was even born,
hit me as I entered. On my way into the bedroom to drop my bag I had no choice
but to walk over the heating vent located in the center of the living room.
“Don’t step on the grate,” my uncle screamed. The spot on impression of his
father brought the sounds of my childhood back in a second.
I
changed into my bathing suit, packed the cooler and grabbed the boat keys- cut
through the woods, down the hill, across the tracks and to the beach. I stop to
say hello and throw them around in the water before I swam over to my cousins
waiting on the boat.
Growing
up together on the lake we all knew exactly where we were going. I swung the
boat around the point in into a small cove, the secret spot, surrounded by white
birch trees. It is the first time
we are all together on the lake in ten years. We were last there together for
another birthday, Bubba’s 70th, a month before he died. For a few
hours we drift aimlessly about the cove drinking beers and reminiscing about
all the times we’ve spent at the lake. “Last time we were in this sport, this was a Capri Sun,” Matt
said before cracking open another can.
The sun starts to hide behind the trees at six, our signal to head back for dinner. We could smell
the burgers and dogs cooking from the bottom of the hill. At the top, the
entire neighborhood converged to sing Happy Birthday.
My
grandmother passed away three years later. Since then I have made a point to go
to the lake as much as I can. Each time I see that view, grateful for the
opportunity I that night. When I kissed her and thanked my grandmother for the
small oasis, two hours north of home, to a beautiful water in a high place.
