On the Water

Spend summers on a lake, and you get wet.
You slip off Phymouth Rock while switching dates
-- well not exactly dating, just four kids on a lark
after our supper duties done.
Jack and I, Dorie and Robin.
But I didn't really enjoy Jack, he smoked
and was gosh-awful homely,
not that that mattered, but still he was.
He'd been pursuing a reluctant me
and with guys in short supply I'd said OK.
But not that eve, that time was different.
We all knew each one was solo.
At this point the shore path skirted the lake and was
hemmed in by a towering bank, root encrusted,
camouflaged with trees and undergrowth.
In impromptu tag or hide-and-seek
Robin grabbed my hand, jerked his head upward.
We scrambled high behind a spreading shrub.
"C'mon, let's ditch Œem." and we did.
We hopped from tree to tree, always up
as sky darkened and night set in.
We laughed and walked and talked.
And that was it -- that summer and the next.
He was darn cute and maybe that mattered too.
Well -- tall, handsome, his dark hair waved,
a year and a half older, just right -- 16 and 18.
But that was early forties when war loomed dark,
and like the rest he too went off to battle.
Goodbye -- he lived his life and I lived mine.
And then the other year, surprise, he emailed.
He'd heard I'd written up my summer years
for a gath'ring of that long ago Camp Family
and would I send him one -- just for old times
-- perhaps wond'ring how he might make out!
I sent a raft of pages, he wrote back,
questioning some details he said he'd not recalled.
I returned specifics of dates and times and names.
Capitulating to my surer memory, he asked
"By the way, in those young days, perchance
did I promise ought, but fail delivery?"
Oh my! Imagine that! My retort was quick,
"What an opportunity! I'll think of something."

Eight summers at Conference Point --.
Work was the reason we got to be there
but pleasure was why I went.
It filled the days -- friends, satisfying work --
cottage girl, table waitress, salad girl --
swimming, tennis, softball, hiking, crafts,
walk and cycle all around the lake
band concerts, rollerskating parties,
fold dance, vespers, ice cream jaunts,
campfires, sneaking food, the Point Palaver
inspiration challenges, growing up.
boyfriends, girlfriends, mentors,
learning jobs and skills and life to make
the larger part of the who I did become.

The life was good and warm and fun
and sometimes funny too.
One year ten seated close at table mess,
announced a kinship loudly.
We were a family -- Gunn by name.
The eldest Gerry (teacher, oh so old)
was Pistol Packing Mama (a song, you know?)
with hillbilly offspring round about --
Tommy, Ack-Ack, Squirt, BB, and Ray,
and Sub-machine and Shot and Spray,
I was Gunn Moll, the married daughter. Ha,
We thought we were so clever.

Another time I walked with Cyn
along the Shore Path quite a ways.
A rowboat plied by friendly gals
showed up and offered us a ride
They tossed the mooring line. I caught
and pulled them close and stepped aboard.
Cyn, young, awkward, long and lanky,
tossed back the line and grabbed the boat
which then was moving back to sea.
Our novice oarsmen, girls, that is,
were inexperienced, ill prepared.
They watched Cyn¹s tootsies grip the pier
and likewise fingers claw the prow
and in between her body stretched
out parallel above the undulating ripples.
We laughed, we couldn't help ourselves.
We pointed, tittered, held our sides,
the tears rolled down, We roared as
Cyn cried helplessly, "HELP. HELP.
Hey guys, this isn't funny!".
But oh it was just that -- kersplash!

Herbie Naumann 6/16/08