The Lakehouse - Final Coming of Age Story

I felt someone nudging my shoulder and the calm, familiar sound of my grandpa’s voice, “We’re almost there, wake up.” The car ride felt like an eternity, but sight of trees completely surrounding us awakened a sense of giddy anticipation within me. I began to fidget like any twelve year old that had been buckled into my grandpa’s Buick for the past three hours. The tan interior of the car became insignificant as the East Texas flora and fauna engulfed my attention. The sunlight played through gaps in the forest canopy as we drove ever further from civilization.

I felt the car slow and leisurely turn left into the long driveway I had grown so familiar with over the years. It was summer and my parents thought it would be a good idea for me to spend a couple days with my grandparents at their lake house near Lake Quitman. I wasn’t as thrilled about it as they thought I should’ve been, but I eventually gave in to their demands. We rolled past giant pine trees that seemed to scrape the clouds. The fruit on the apple and peach trees my grandparents had taken care of over the past twenty years had just begun to ripen. I stretched my arm out the window reaching for an apple, only to miss grasping the green orb by a mere couple of inches. Squirrels dashed back up their trees and birds flew from their nests as we passed the time worn tool shed, and came to a stop in front of the garage.

The lake house was a small, one story home that was built almost fifty years ago. The side paneling was a burnt orange wood, and the blackened roof was always covered with leaves and branches from the overhanging pine trees. The garage was overflowing with fishing rods, lawn chairs, and an assorted collection of outdoor toys my grandparents had bought for my sister and me throughout our childhood. My grandma asked me to help carry in some of the groceries for the weekend as my grandpa walked around the back of the house to turn the water on. The humongous watermelon I was carrying almost slipped from my grasp as I stumbled into the den. Every corner of the room possessed a unique piece of furniture, and a worn, burgundy rug adorned the entryway.  The center of the den was occupied by an old faded, blue couch and an antiquated television that we rarely ever used. I could hardly tear my eyes away from the pair of giant windows and sliding glass doors that always made me feel as if I was walking around in a large fishbowl.

I lugged the giant melon past the cast iron fireplace and up two short steps to the kitchen. My body heaved it up onto the counter for my grandma to deal with and collapsed onto the couch. I leaned my head back and was momentarily mesmerized by a fan that never seemed like it was turning fast enough to do its job. My eyes closed and I listened to the sound of the lake washing against the bank only a short distance from the front door. The lazy sounds of summer melted any desire to move.

Birds chirping in the distance broke my trance and drew me through the sliding glass doors. Sunlight danced off the lake as I walked towards the old wooden bench at the end of the dock. I sat down on the gray, weatherworn cushion as a fish jumped from the water only a few feet from the dock. I listened to the cadenced knocking of my grandpa’s boat against the side of the dock, as the waves effortlessly pushed it aside on their journey towards the shore. A rhythmic creaking behind me averted my gaze to the sight of my grandpa carrying a pair of fishing poles and a bucket of freshly dug earth. He deftly climbed down into the boat and threw me a life jacket.

We sped off across the lake, cutting through the water as if it were a large clear mirror of soft glass. The fiery light from the setting sun skipped across the waves as the revving of the boat’s motor and the wind rushing past us deafened all other sounds. The boat slowed as my grandpa cut the motor. We drifted into a cove hidden to the naked eye by a maze of oddly placed trees and reeds. The roots of nearby oaks grew out of the water and snaked along the riverbank creating a perfect habitat for unsuspecting fish. I untangled the mess of rope sitting at my feet and dropped a rusty anchor into the murky depths.  Gramps smiled at me and asked, “Want a worm? “ I nodded as he reached into the bucket and pulled out a squirming night crawler. I skewered the unfortunate bait and cast out next to the bank. My grandpa did the same, and initiated an affable conversation concerning school, sports, and life in general. 

The sun continued to dip below the trees, and soon the metric chirping of cicadas and crickets was all that permeated the still air of night. The faded yellow moon shone dimly through the trees, and our discussion had long since faded into meditative thought. I looked up to find his head resting on his chest, quietly snoring the night away. My conscience briefly considered waking him, but decided against it and instead soaked in the sounds of silence. I smiled in silent laughter as my mind drifted towards memories of our past.  The relationship my grandpa and I shared was unique within my family. We were both quiet. We never needed to be the center of attention, and often preferred to sit in the background as opposed to commanding the focus of an entire room. Talking with him was always a pleasant respite from the chaos that resulted from living with two teenage sisters and troubled parents.  He loved talking about “the olden days”. It always seemed that every conversation we shared eventually digressed to a story about his life during the Great Depression, the time he spent in the army reserves, or some rant about how technology was going to be the end of civilization. We talked a lot about how life is different and all that has changed in the past seventy years. Common topics included the evolution of technology, the growth of television, cellular phones, fast food, music, and women. He was always convinced that, while the world looks incredibly different, the same basic motifs of life hold true: “Hard work is the only path to success. The key to happiness is to find something you are truly passionate about, and pursuing whatever that is with everything you are.  Treat people right and, generally, they will return the favor.” I smiled to myself thinking of all the corny phrases and jokes he constantly made and insisted were hilarious.

A particularly loud snore broke the silence and my grandpa rocked the boat as he coughed himself awake. He was startled by the darkness and realized he had lost track of time.

“Holy cow, we need to get back! Your grandma is probably worried sick about us.” He carefully navigated the boat out of the natural cage of low hanging trees and reeds, and then sped off into the darkness towards home.

Eight years later, I was sitting alone in my typical college dorm room when I received the phone call from my dad informing me of my grandpa’s passing. I knew my life had changed, but I could not for the life of me tell how. I vividly remember hanging up on him, throwing my phone across the room, and then staring at a blank TV screen for the better part of the next two hours. It was one of those surreal moments when life begins to feel all too real. Death was not a concept I had dealt with thus far in my life, and for a long time I was stuck in between emotions, unsure of how to react. I knew I would never talk with him again, but at the same time I was never overcome with grief. I’ve decided that this is because of the all memories we shared while he was alive. Sure, he isn’t physically with us anymore, but nothing can take away all the times we spent fishing at the lake house or those not-so-pointless conversations. Grieving at an appropriate time was healthy, but it is useless to spend time missing someone when they’ve been with you all along and will continue to be ever-present in your mind.

       This realization was a significant “coming of age” moment in my life through which I experienced a large amount of personal growth. I believe that we are products of our environments and ultimately made up of our memories. Often times we ignore them, and these memories are not profound until we take the time to reflect on them. My grandpa’s death taught me to celebrate life, and not to dwell on the parts that are out of our control. Death is inevitable and uncontrollable, and wasting time worrying about it is the antithesis of life. Our focus should never be on what we have lost or regret, but rather on celebrating the moments we have, or had, with those around us and those we care about.

More Right

I was sick of folding napkins. My fingers were sore from attempting to construct the artistic creation my mom had found online. I could not wrap my head around the concept of making something aesthetically pleasing only for people to wipe their dirty hands with. Despite this, it was the day of my little sister’s senior recital and I knew asking my mom pointless questions just to challenge her judgment was not a good life decision.

This day was the culmination of years of piano and vocal lessons, and my parents wanted the recital to progress flawlessly. My sister had wanted to play a duet with me as the final number; a rendition of Amazing Grace we had played together at my grandpa’s funeral the previous fall. I was a pretty decent cellist throughout high school, but my main goal for today was to, as my sister frankly put it, “not make her look bad”. In order to set up a small reception and make sure the sanctuary was set up correctly, my family had arrived at the church almost two hours before the recital was scheduled to begin. The sanctuary was a familiar place. My parents had brought us to this church our entire lives and it had always felt like a home away from home. The old pews and stained glass windows behind the pulpit were comfortable images of our childhood.

There was a narthex, or small entryway, right outside the sanctuary  where my parents and I were setting up a small reception for the guests who attended. I was scarring my hands with napkins while my parents were arranging a fruit tray when a man threw open the doors and stumbled inside. His black shirt and jeans were torn, and it seemed like the weight of the world was relieved from his shoulder as he placed his backpack on the ground. The mood in the room had immediately changed. My mom was openly apprehensive and asked my dad to talk to him. The man removed his beanie and scratched his head as my dad approached.

“I’m sick. Can I talk to the pastor?”, the man asked. My dad responded by informing him that the pastor was not in at the time and that the Salvation Army was right down the street.

“They don’t do nothin’”, he responded.

“Look”, said my dad, “there are about to be  a lot of teenage girls here for my daughter’s senior recital. I think you should leave.” The ensuing argument lasted the better part of ten minutes. The man yelled at my dad that his daughter had been killed in Afghanistan fighting for my family’s life. My father just continued to tell him that he needed to leave. The man picked up his bag and as he stormed out the door, yelled out, “My daughter died fighting to save yours!”.

It was one of those mentally scarring moments that I don’t think I will ever forget. I was furious with my dad. The man was obviously homeless and he had come to a church for respite, only to be thrown back outside. My faith isn’t in a great place, but throwing a homeless man from a church just did not sit right with me. My sister was practicing inside the sanctuary and never even knew the confrontation took place. Her recital was amazing, and our finale was perfect. But whenever I think back to that day, I always remember the homeless man’s frustration more than my sister’s recital.

My dad and I talked about this experience a lot in the next couple of days. It was obvious I disagreed with how he handled the situation, and I let him know it. He expressed that there was nothing the church could have done for him since the pastor wasn’t there, and that he just wanted to eliminate the potential for the man to harm anyone or take away from the recital. My dad was convinced that the homeless man’s daughter was a fictitious character constructed to create sympathy in those who had food or money. I told my dad that he may be right, but I didn’t feel like either of us should have to be the one’s who make that judgment. That decision is for someone who is much more omnipotent than us. I could see where my dad was coming from. He wanted a memory with his daughter before she left for college, and, for the people there to witness it, a comfortable experience. However, that doesn’t make the way these events played out any more right.

ME?

I had spent the majority of the drive trying to play it cool, but truth be told I was nervous. My hands were shaking and my mouth was dry. My little sister was sitting shotgun and attempting to give me her version of a motivational speech, while I mentally walked through how the next twenty minutes were supposed to play out. I made a slow right turn into our high school football stadium’s parking lot, parked by the fence near the ticket booth, and waited for my friends to show up.

A couple minutes later, a pair of cars pulled into the parking lot and drove up to the fence. Their occupants jumped out and jogged over to join my sister and me. I had facebook messaged a couple of my friends the night before asking if they could help me out. Most of them willingly obliged and promised to show up around seven the next morning at the stadium.

“Did you bring it?”, they asked.

“Yeah, I’ve got it. It’s in my trunk, took me all night to make.” My sister laughed at the reference to the night before as my phone buzzed. I answered, “Hey, what’s up?”

“I’ve got her”, Kaysie’s voice replied.

“Awesome, how far are you from the stadium?”

“About five minutes.” This was perfect. Class didn’t start until seven-thirty, so we had a little extra time.

“Alright, I’ll set it up. See you in a sec.” I hung up the phone – it was time. I hopped the fence and my accomplices followed suit. My friends were carrying the posters and jumped over the short gate to take their places in the bleachers. I surreptitiously walked around the side of the bleachers towards the field. The plan was unfolding flawlessly, everything was going as planned – until: “Boy, come here! What are you doing?”

I froze. I forgot about the groundskeeper. My mind raced as I tried to come up with a somewhat believable excuse. He had obviously been at work for a while. His knees were chartreuse with grass stains and his brow dripped with sweat and disapproval. I was drawing blanks and decided to level with him. “Look sir”, I replied, “I’m trying to ask a girl to prom. Is it cool if my friends and I use the field for the next ten minutes? I promise it will be like we weren’t even here.” I waited anxiously for his response. His stoic expression melted into reminiscence. He smiled and started laughing, “Do what you gotta do, son.”

A wave of relief washed over me and I ran to my spot on the fifty yard line. The sun painted the sky over the bleachers a fiery reddish, orange as I noticed Kaysie’s car pull into the parking lot and watched her quickly blindfold the passenger. This was going to be perfect. I signaled my friends in the bleachers to hold up their signs. A giant “PROM WITH” suddenly appeared as Kaysie led my blindfolded soon-to-be prom date to the middle of the field facing the bleachers. I stood behind her and removed her blindfold. She gasped in surprise and turned as a held up a sign that read “ME?”. 

The Lakehouse

I felt someone nudging my shoulder and heard the calm, familiar sound of my grandpa’s voice, “We’re almost there, wake up.” The car ride had felt like an eternity, but sight of trees completely surrounding us awakened a sense giddy anticipation within me. I began to fidget like any eight year old that had been buckled into my grandpa’s Buick for the past two hours. The tan interior of the car became insignificant as the East Texas flora and fauna engulfed my attention. The sun light played through gaps in the forest canopy as our we drove ever further from civilization.

I felt the car slow and take a leisurely left turn into the long drive way I grown so familiar with over the years. It was summer and my parents thought it would be a good idea for me to spend a couple days with my grandparents at their lake house near Lake Quitman. I wasn’t as thrilled about it as they thought I should’ve been, but I eventually gave in to their demands. We rolled past giant pine trees that seemed to scrape the clouds. The world seemed so big back then. The fruit on the apple and peach trees my grandparents had taken care of over the past twenty years had just begun to ripen. My arm stretched out the window for an apple only to miss grasping the green orb by a mere couple of inches. Squirrels dashed back up their trees and birds flew from their nest as we passed the time worn tool shed, and came to a stop in front of the garage.

The lake house was a small, one story house that was built almost fifty years ago. My grandparents had bought it after my mom had left for college and made a couple renovations, but for the most part it maintained most of its original characteristics. The side paneling was still a burnt orange wood, and the roof was always covered with leaves and branches from the overhanging pine trees. I helped my grandma carry in some of the groceries to the kitchen. The garage was overflowing with fishing rods, lawn chairs, and an assorted collection of outdoor toys my grandparents had bought for my sister and me over the years. The watermelon I was carrying almost slipped from my grasp as I stumbled into the den. Every corner of the room had a different, unbelievably comfortable chair.  The center of the den was occupied by an old blue couch and an antiquated television that I had never seen turned on. I lugged the giant melon past the cast iron fireplace and up two short steps to the kitchen. I set it on the counter for my grandma to deal with and collapsed onto the couch. I leaned my head back and was momentarily mesmerized by the fan that never seemed like it was turning fast enough to do its job. The den was surrounded by giant windows and two sets of sliding glass doors, so that no matter where you were you could always look outside. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of the lake washing against the bank only short distance from the front door. The lazy sounds of summer melted any desire to move.

Birds chirping in the distance broke my trance and drew me through the sliding glass doors. The sunlight danced off the lake as I walked towards the old wooden bench at the end of the dock. I sat down on the gray, weather worn cushion as a fish jumped from the water only a few feet from the dock. I heard the rhythmic sound of boards creaking behind me and turned to see my grandpa carrying a pair of fishing poles and a bucket of worms. He smiled at me and asked if I wanted a worm. I nodded as he sat down next to me, and we relived a familiar memory that will never get old.

Centered

All of a sudden, a white hot knife of pain went stabbing through my leg and I crumpled to the ground. My teammate fell on top of me and my face was shoved against the rancid mat room floor. I could vaguely hear people around me – asking, “Did you hear a pop?” I felt like I was underwater. My world moved in slow motion and seemed to lag behind reality. My vision blurred and I remember someone calling my name from what seemed like a long ways away.

It had been a cloudy, typical winter day in Texas. The intermittent rain gave the impression that someone in the clouds had been wringing out a giant washrag for the past couple of hours. My friends and I were enjoying the refreshing natural showers on our walk over to the field house for football practice. Our season had ended uneventfully about a month earlier and we were in the middle of off season. Afternoon workouts consisted of yelling, running, and puking in no particular order. We had grossly underperformed within our district and the coaches were taking every opportunity remind us of our 3-7 record.

Practice began sharply at one and my existence soon became an indistinguishable combination of sprinting, sweating, and not being good enough. Our coaches had decided to make that Friday a competition day, and had different sets of relays or challenges at each station. After the team stretched and listened to our head coach for announcements, chaos ensued as each group dashed off toward our first station. I was feeling good through the first three challenges, even winning one of the speed shuttles. At the time, I possessed no upper body strength, but twelve years of soccer had given me the agility that allowed me to always be competitive. 

One of the coaches had wanted to talk to me after the previous drill, and I was in an all out sprint to catch up with the rest of my group. I threw open the mat room door to the sound of the linebacker coach screaming at everyone to find a partner. The room smelt of twenty years of sweaty, adolescent male and had a torn up black mat covering the majority of the floor. I frantically searched for someone who hadn’t already paired up and discovered the only kid left was our two hundred fifty pound center. I took a deep breath and prepared for what I knew was going to be a miserable experience. We were actually a pretty good team for the first couple of races. Sure, I was slow when it came to trying to support his weight since the kid was twice my size. But the fact that he could throw me over his shoulder, and carry me around like an empty backpack tended to even things out. Everyone knew Coach Cheeks was always obsessed with having us physically carry our teammates, and we were all dreading what we could tell was going to be the final race. He had one of those voices that sounded kind of like someone revving their car engine. You could never really understand what he was saying, but if he started yelling louder you had better figure it out. He started crescendo-ing , “Piggy back! Piggy back!”, and we all knew what to do. I hopped on the center’s shoulders and he took off across the room and back. We were in good shape since he had practically looked like Usain Bolt compared to some of our more equally paired competition. I fell off his back and braced myself to carry a small car. My body strained with effort. Slow and steady wins the race isn’t a mantra that football coaches understand. Coach Cheeks was almost physically inside my ear, bellowing at me to run faster. I quickened my pace as the pair next to me began to catch up. The end of the mat was in sight. I tried to slow down in preparation to turn around and run back to the other side of the room. My desire to win planned a quick pivot and a gut-check sprint back to the other side. Then the mat became slippery with sweat from previously fallen competitors and my left foot shot out from under me. The weight of the world came crashing down on my right knee.

The Rest Stop

I was bored, hot, tired, and starving. My little sister was in even worse shape, and had decided to occupy her time by incessantly trying to touch my kidney with her elbow. My older sister was on my other side and reeked of an unnamed lotion her body seemed to depend on second only to oxygen. Whoever decided to shove the three children in the backseat of my mom’s black Ford Windstar for an eight hour car ride had made an extremely poor decision. We had been on the road since before the sun was up. Luckily for the other passengers, us kids didn’t even remember waking up  at the hotel and being placed in the van. Unfortunately, lunchtime was nearing and everyone’s patience was beginning to run thin. My mom had spent the last half hour feigning sleep in a attempt to try to keep us quiet, but our chanting and projectile pretzels had forced a flinch that gave her away. Grandpa and grandma had long since turned off their hearing aids and were having a wonderful time enjoying the coastline from their second row seats.

It had been a week since we started our journey through the Northwest United States. The previous day, we had met up with my grandparents in San Francisco and began a two day long drive up the coast of California. My dad soon understood that we could only be placated with a chance to stretch our legs and put something in our bellies. He pulled into the next rest stop and into an empty parking space. My mom had barely unlocked the van before an all-out battle royale had begun to see which sibling would be the first to jump into the ocean. I stiff armed my older sister as I flipped over the backseat and out of the trunk while my younger sister tried to scrambled past my grandparents.  We threw our shoes off in the general direction of our mother and sprinted off against a warm, salty breeze. I kicked up sand in every direction and began to pull away from my sisters as the clear winner. With each and every stride my anticipation ballooned until finally I dove headfirst into the glistening Pacific Ocean. For a second, everything was quiet. My eyes burned. The blue-green world surrounding me seemed undisturbed by my victory. Then a blinding light reappeared and my sisters’ laughter brought my world back into focus. We spent the next hour racing down the coastline, always trying to run faster than the incoming waves. By the time my parents had caught up to us with their leisurely stroll, we were soaked, exhausted, and incapable of removing the smiles cemented on our faces.

On our way back to the car, I slowed my pace and tried to absorb my surroundings. My childhood ignorance itched to run back to the van, but I was mesmerized by the pattern in which the light played off the waves. I wanted it. I wanted the warm sun, the incessant laughter, the refreshing water. I was too young to see how much these recollections and the ephemeral ocean breeze had in common. My family’s voices beckoned me back to earth. I took one last glance at a memory and shoved a huge handful of sand into my pocket. “Don’t leave me!”

Blinded Freedom

The afternoon heat of a particularly lazy Sunday afternoon warmed my right arm as I rested it against the window of my dad’s old company car. The only reason I continued to fight the inevitable Sunday afternoon coma was the anticipation of a new form of independence. A novel source of freedom that I had been dreaming about for months. Reality snapped back into place as my head bumped against the warm Plexiglas, and the soon to be familiar sound of gravel being compacted by tires permeated my lethargy.

The owner of the used car lot practically opened my door for me as I fell out of my seat and into a sea of cars that all seemed to say, “I will never be this clean again – buy me!”. The recently shined collection of automobiles reflected the summer sunlight in a way that made me want to look away, but blindly run toward it at the same time. The thought humored me as a man with dark, greasy hair and a gregarious nature that I knew would last only as long as my dad was around sprinted towards us. He shook my hand and asked, “What are you here for son?”, in a seemingly prepubescent tone. I told him we were just looking around and he immediately went off on some tangent he thought was relevant and my dad seemed interested in. He talked extremely fast and walked even faster. We were racing past a row of used trucks when I saw it and immediately knew that destiny was colored red for that afternoon.

Time slowed to a crawl as I quickened my pace towards the scarlet 2003 Pontiac Grand Am that had caught my eye. Being a teenage guy, I knew I either wanted a pick up truck or some type of sports car going into this experience. My dad refused to help pay for gas if I decided on a truck and was fervently opposed to sports cars, so this hybrid between a sedan and my dream gave me hope. We looked it over and spent the next half hour test driving my physical manifestation of freedom throughout the nearby neighborhoods. The AC was ice cold, the radio was loud, and my heart was sold. I loved the way that the dashboard felt like it was having a seizure every time I pumped the brakes. In hindsight, that probably should have worried me a little more, but the mechanic was convinced it was natural and my ignorance was bliss.

The salesman virtually carried my dad through the door to talk finances while I got some alone time with my future ride. I had the realization that this was my first true adult decision. Apart from the obvious safety and economical requirements, my parents left the ultimate choice completely up to me. It was the first time in my life where I felt myself growing out of adolescence and into the realm of adulthood. I knew that this car was more than just a couple thousand pounds of metal and four rubber tires. The vehicle represented freedom, independence, space – everything that a rebellious teenager wanted.  I noticed my dad ambling towards me and remembered thinking to myself that he looked both relieved and worried at the same time. He tossed me the keys and uttered a tired, “See you at home.” I jumped into the drivers seat shaking with anticipation as I thrust the key into the ignition and heard nothing but the beautiful sound of a new door opening. I checked my mirrors, buckled my seatbelt, and pulled out of my car's old home. My mind raced with the dreams soon to be realized and the endless possibilities now available. I was torn between which of my friends and family I wanted to surprise first as my dashboard started beeping and the decision was made for me. The car slowed and I felt my catharsis regressing to a grinding disappointment. This was my first of many flirtations with what would soon be an endless love-hate relationship with that bright red dream.