Once More to the Lake
Summertime, oh summertime, pattern of life indelible,
the fade proof lake, the woods unshatterable,
the pasture with the sweet fern
and the juniper forever and ever,
summer without end;
this was the background,
and the life along the shore was the design,
the cottages with their innocent and tranquil design,
their tiny docks with the flagpole
and the American flag floating
against the white clouds in the blue sky,
the little paths over the roots of the trees
leading from camp to camp
and the paths leading back to the outhouses
and the can of lime for sprinkling,
and at the souvenir counters at the store
the miniature birch-bark canoes and the post cards
that showed things looking a little better than they looked.
This was the American family at play, escaping the city heat,
wondering whether the newcomers
at the camp at the head of the cove
were "common" or "nice,"
wondering whether it was true
that the people who drove up for Sunday dinner at the farmhouse
were turned away because there wasn't enough chicken.
It seemed to me, as I kept remembering all this,
that those times and those summers
had been infinitely precious and worth saving.
There had been jollity and peace and goodness.
The arriving (at the beginning of August)
had been so big a business in itself,
at the railway station the farm wagon drawn up,
the first smell of the pine-laden air,
the first glimpse of the smiling farmer,
and the great importance of the trunks
and your father's enormous authority in such matters,
and the feel of the wagon under you for the long ten-mile haul,
and at the top of the last long hill
catching the first view of the lake
after eleven months of not seeing this cherished body of water.
The shouts and cries of the other campers when they saw you,
and the trunks to be unpacked, to give up their rich burden.