Reflections on Deception Lake

Sitting on the dock in the early morning, watching the mist rise and swirl in ghostly dance. The gentle rhythm of the canoe, as it creases the surface with the water gurgling its reply to a paddle raised. The mournful call of a loon and splash of a leaping fish while water spiders dance to the chaotic rhythm of a silent beat. A beaver draws a line on the glassy surface, slapping of his tail as he dives to warn others of the intrusion into their world. A crackling fire with a faint whiff of wood smoke. The subtle “plink” of kindling being split for the day ahead. A morning ritual of cribbage, coffee and conversation in the kitchen, cozy and warm behind cloth covered doorways. The breakfast smell of pickerel and eggs frying on the wood stove with toast, instantly created from bread placed on the hot surface. The riot of family around the kitchen table, talking at once, devouring the meal and planning the events of the day. Diving off the dock on a hot summer’s afternoon. The cool caress of the water flowing from head to toe. Gliding weightless, effortless and free of earthly bonds. The sandy mud with tufts of grass oozing through your toes. An armada of swimmers surging across to the island and back, each person trying to break the record for their chosen stroke. Mother in the auto boat, ever watchful, circling like a goose protecting her goslings as they cross the watery expanse. Walking along the tracks, balancing on shimmering steel, or matching stride to the uneven spacing of railway ties. Waving to the engineer and conductor of a passing train. Scaling rocky terrain, seeing evidence of a bear’s banquet. The satisfaction of discovering blueberries, thick as grapes, but moving on in the endless search for a better patch. Thinking of blueberry pie baked fresh from the wood stove, with ice cream purchased at the landing for the occasion. Bobber fishing for perch and pickerel, putting on worms and removing fish for squeamish girls, no time to wet your line. Leaning against a life-preserver and reading a book in the sun, as you drift with the wind along a channel, pretending to fish. Serious fishing when supper is done, trolling for 10 cent pickerel. Tugging the line of a bored little fisherman, restoring his interest. Returning with the catch and watching fish being filleted with Copy turning somersaults and purring for his scraps. Friends dropping by in the evening with popcorn. Playing charades, cards and that “aggravating” board game. Laughing and singing to music from a neighbourly guitar along with Dad’s “Oh Susannah” harmonica recital. Toasting marshmallows in the verandah fireplace, staring deep into the kaleidoscope of dancing flames. Crawling into bed, listening to the hum of one last mosquito, then submitting to a deep dreamless sleep ending the day. (c) Jim    July/1997I wrote this poem for my parent's 50th wedding anniversary. It pretty well summarizes life at a remote cottage in North West Ontario, Canada. (BTW, the reference to 10 cent pickeral... that is how much we got paid by our parents for catching the best tasting freshwater fish anywhere...pickeral is really a Walleye...but we called them pickeral.) Written July 1st, 1997 © on Dec 04 2001 03:23 PM PST   personal • other