Another Lake

The Last Vacation

In the summer of 1968, Mom, Dad, and I headed off on one last vacation together, a two-hour ride to far-off Lake Waramaug in Litchfield County, Connecticut. I was 12 years old, innocence was fading, the world was on fire, and I was about to be introduced to a place I would one day come to call home.

***

I’m creeping along the absurdly narrow West Shore Road beside the flat, calm waters of Lake Waramaug in the perfect, clear, cool of early twilight on a Saturday morning in late July. The air feels more like spring than summer with maybe even a touch of autumn for good measure, and is weighted with memories of this place that have faded very little over the last 58 years. It will be a while before the sun lifts over the sharp rise of hills across the lake, so there is some time to wander and recollect.

Rolling along through the crook of the first cove, I’m still mildly surprised at the absence of the gaming arcade and ice cream stand that once overlooked the small beach here. That place would come alive at night, lit by strings of yellow bug lights and neon, the juke box blaring. In the same footprint now is an expanse of manicured lawn bordering a driveway that winds up to a mansion wedged into the rocky hillside above the cove. Must be a lovely view from there. Quiet too.

This is what it has come to at Waramaug, and to a lesser extent, at Bantam Lake where I live, about six miles east. Gentrification occurred during the 80s and 90s, obliterating the family resorts and modest summer homes that once dotted the waterfront here. The predominant signage on this exclusive road makes statements about private property and no parking on artfully crafted placards with distinctive fonts that blend more gracefully into the elegant surroundings. I suppose it was inevitable. It seems to be a law of the world that by whatever means, everything must change. It is the essence of nostalgia.

***

I pause at the site of the resort where my parents and I vacationed, easily recalling the original appearance of the property despite its lack of any resemblance to the present day look. There was once a motel building at the water’s edge where we stayed, and though it was torn down, the original foundation was repurposed to support the contemporary home that was built in its place about 40 years ago. Across the road from the waterfront, the parking lot was regraded into a front lawn for the luxurious home that replaced the restaurant and reception area. Cabins were scattered behind there, but they’ve been taken down, replaced with well-spaced homes.

The resort was operated by a family who lived on the property. The father, a local attorney, along with his wife and teenaged daughter, oversaw the day-to-day operations, and their son, who was my age, had his chores as well. He and I bonded straight away, and I suspected this was a matter of routine for him. He introduced me to his friends and the joys of water skiing, boating, and surreptitious cigarette smoking.

I recall how the view across the lake from the resort had mesmerized me then. There was an expansive, sloping meadow bordered by trees, magical and dreamlike — so inviting that I’d had the urge to go there and run through its grass, to be in the midst of it. Now, the woods have encroached, rendering it but a fraction of its original size. But it was that particular vision that defined Litchfield County for me until travels here in my late teens with a girlfriend expanded my awareness beyond Lake Waramaug. I think it was then when I began to dream of maybe one day living around here, and how wonderful that would be.

Although my relationship with the folks was showing early signs of unraveling, we were doing okay during our time together in this place. At least it was not painful. The surroundings were idyllic, the days, care free. It had been four years since the loss of the last of three children at birth and a failed attempt at adoption, but we all seemed to be hitting our stride in the high art of denial. One can never underestimate the power of denial. Entire lives have been built upon it. Ours were.

***

I continue up the shore road to another cove and the east-facing property belonging to the present-day country club and former nudist colony —deserted at this early hour. Mist is rising from the lake into the unusually chilly air, and peace is palpable. The sun lifts unadorned by clouds, and in an instant it becomes golden hour, adding to that touch of fall I’ve been feeling.

I have been here many times through the decades that have passed since my visit with Mom and Dad. And I know with absolute certainty that each time, the first time has come to mind — how even this morning, some early elements of my human formation continue to be revealed when here. It’s true to say that these thin places can be benevolently dismissive of time.

***

I’ve been thinking quite a bit about my parents lately — probably a phenomenon of aging. They were young children during the Great Depression, and those gray and grainy energies of sadness and disappointment and worry carried through to them unabated. It became their lived reality. My inheritance has been a hybrid — one where I know well of these things, but ironically, in the midst of my own misfortunes, was given a way through to something more beautiful.

I dedicated my first book to them, and though I’d suspect they would have mixed feelings about its content, I would hope they’d have found at least a few good sentences.

For Joan and Fred,

Two who did their best

What more could one ask of any of us?

Peace,

Stephen