The Lake

Every June it would happen. School was out and the sun began to hint at summer. The great caravans of mothers and children would wind their way down the sidewalks pulling red wagons,pushing baby coaches beneath the canopy of our beloved trees. Older kids herding the youngest stragglers along as our mothers gossiped among themselves. Wagons loaded down with towels and lunches and beach toys. The smallest kids rode in style in their coaches as if royalty in sedan chairs. Kids old enough to be on their own in packs of bicycles soaring through the streets and the luckiest kids of all were chauffeured by mothers who had learned to drive a car. We were all headed to the one place that would give us refuge from the sweltering heat of a glorious summer day: The Lake.
Its official name is Glen Lake, but to everyone it's The Lake. Our own resort just down the street. A quick walk and an even shorter bike ride away. I passed the lake every day on my way to school, never missing a chance to skip stones or to just stand and look, anticipating the summer to come.
In late May or early June Mom would get our beach tags, thick little plastic colored squares with your own private number that you'd fasten to your suit with the thickest safety pin you could find.
The first really hot day would come, and Mom and Mrs. Avis would load up the wagons and the baby coach and off we'd all trek, bumping down the sidewalk prepared for our day in the sun.
Whee-Zee couldn't come, but she didn't mind because she would be free to sneak in the living room and sleep on the couch, her favorite guilty pleasure when we weren't around.
You arrived at the lake and descended the steps to stake your claim on the small sandy beach. The best spots were close to the green concrete block retaining wall which provided cooling shade from the rays of the afternoon sun.
The beach would be a mass of children and mothers, a patchwork quilt of towels and blankets, buckets and shovels, and teenagers in the throes of adolescent love.
Little kids and moms would be in the roped off area, the shallow part, so the life guard could really keep his eye on you,and your mom was close at hand.

Woodbury Heights Lake 1960. Photo courtesy of Mrs. Tice

There was a giant sliding board, the first thrill ride in your youth.
The pier with its diving board was for the older kids and adults. When you could prove to the lifeguard that you were able to swim, you could break free from the shallows and go under the rope into the deeper waters and out to THE RAFT. The raft was a wooden square floating on barrels. Older kids and adults would swim out to it, climb up out of the water and lie in the sun. Teenagers would steal kisses behind the barrels down below. When you could swim out to the raft you had passed another rite of passage, another badge of honor.
You would stay in the water till your lips would turn blue and your teeth began to chatter, and then your mother would ban you from the water for at least an hour. We would warm ourselves sitting on top of the wall or swinging on the swings,or building castles in the sand at the water's edge.
We'd have our lunch at the picnic table under the trees near the back of the lake, where the stream that fed it emerged from the woods. Of course you had to wait an hour before going back in the water, or else your body would contort itself in a massive attack of cramps.
After several hours of this your mother would speak the words you didn't want to hear; "Pack up, it's time to go home." Despite all our pleas,we'd gather everything and everybody and begin the march home.
We'd stop at Trackie's store for a soda or a popsicle, jealously gazing at the ones still there having fun.
When we got home we'd take long lazy naps, exhausted from the swimming and the sliding and the swinging.
We learned at the lake.We learned fun. We learned community. We found friends. We found love.
One summer I would learn one of the most valuable and lasting lessons I'd ever need.