4th of July

Fourth of July at the lake

I sit alone on the swing, down at the water's edge.

This morning I rode past miles and miles of pine forest, broken by the occasional open ground where once a lake was and glimpses of blue where one still is. I pushed myself hard. A young woman, a strong rider, appeared well in front of me on a straightaway. My dark side kicked in; I geared down and accelerated. It took more than a mile but I passed her. “On the left,” I said loudly then, as I drew ahead added, “Good morning!” in the cheeriest, calmest voice I could manage. She answered, “Perfect day!” and stood on her pedals to try to match my pace. I did not let up until I could no longer see her in my rear-view mirror.

If you want to know what makes me tick, this would be an excellent incident to ponder.

Once back at our lake house I ate sliced turkey and fruit salad while pounding down glass after glass of water. I took a nap. Then I headed down to the lake with my book.

The occasional firecracker pops along the shore but the crowds have dwindled. Two young ducks paddle by, the one behind softly calling, “chup chup chup chup chup.” Cotton ball clouds roll by in the hazy summer blue. A great blue heron glides down into the shallows and stands mortionless, fishing. The wind and waves roll in over the water. The smell of lilies and lake grass washes over me. Time erodes.

My wife and her father sit on the dock directly in front of me. They talk but I cannot make out their words. They sit in the same posture, stooped forward with legs splayed open. They have much in common. Both feel the water is too cold for swimming yet. Both love to name and to understand the various birds' behaviors. Both work at any job with relentless intensity until external forces make them stop. Both have finely-tuned senses of justice. Both will love the people they love come what may, forever.

It hits me. My daughter and I have a few important personality differences. But we are every bit as much alike as my wife and her father. Maybe thirty years hence my daughter and I might sit together on that dock. Maybe her husband will observe us with fond tolerance. Maybe her children, though grown, will be here with us, even as mine now are.

May God grant it.