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.