My Barlow, Lake Barlow
I don’t remember wearing underwear at all.
Wet bathing suits, like birthday suits dried on the lines of our bodies.
Drink in those long summer days … on the house... plenty to go around.
Soap at the end of the dock, one bar…
dropped so many times, the sand dried into layers of scratchy permanence.
We exfoliated before any of us knew what it was.
Raft tag and races, belly flops, and nose fulls,
Sailboat, rowboat, motorboat and skis.
Swim.
Barefoot at waters' edge, high step through snake grass.
Snap perforated pieces apart for hollow, makeshift smokes,
"gotta let it hang like this," from the corner of moist lips.
Embrace the hunt for turtles, frogs, crayfish, and bluegills who loved mother’s pancakes and somehow knew the barbs had been filed down by a woman who was tired and smart.
Hunt.
Race up the hill, in flip flops called thongs, held on tight with your toes.
Lose yourself in mirrored rows of towering pines.
let the smell capture every breath in wonder,
look up and listen to their songs. Sway with them… for a while.
("Grandpa and mom planted those you know, each one… 80 acres.")
Decades of history shed as cushions, softly crunching beneath every step.
Look.
“Run, crawl under the cottage, find a 2 by 4,”
nail it to a tree and scrawl “Welcome to Tiny Town”…
(it should have read “welcome to your sisters’ imaginations”)
“Run, go get the blankets!” Throw them over jackknife cut clotheslines tied between trees, stretched out and held down by heavy rocks hauled from the lake.
"We need more rocks!"
Skip along paths raked clear of pine needles to visit ‘neighbors’ 5 or 6 trees away.
A forest neighborhood of tents and girls.
Strap fallen branches to trees that corral stick horses with paper bag heads.
Listen to the stampede ride down the path to the hootenanny circle of empty coffee cans tipped upside down for drums. Sit on a rock and beat them with sticks.
"Jump down turn around, pick a bale of cotton."
Create. Sing. Dance.
Race through the forest to Grammie's house, dodging horseflies,
slamming screen doors and calling "Yoo Hoo!"
Stir the sweet iced tea in her chipped, white pail and steal a sip while corn fritters fry in crisco and butter... as saliva pools in anticipation.
Faces glisten from the buttery drippings of corn cobs,
washed clean by watermelon juice and a forearm.
Taste. Smell.
Skinny dip in the moonlight while waiting, waiting patiently for the fudge to harden… ohhh… the fudge made by the smart, tired woman who was never too tired to make fudge.
Run from the lake, hold the towel wrapped tight, dripping, ... up the stairs...
sand covered feet dipped in the metal pail of water at the back door.
Carefree as the mice who scurried over rafters to make their nests as warm as ours
in the stained plywood walls beside our beds.
‘Til mother’s trap would snap in the middle of the night,
and there’d be one less playmate in the morning.
Lay on your little bed and listen to the symphony of cricket air.
Peek silently out the bedroom window, waiting in the dark for momma raccoon to come,
then watch breathlessly as her babies slip quietly from the forest to feast on corn cobs we had licked and other scraps of raccoon delight.
Sleep. Dream. Remember.
"Show me the way to go home."
Patricia Spreng
