Weeping Willows
Silent sentinels whispering slightly with every breeze. Those rough-trunked weeping willows offered a display of timeless grandeur. That is how I want to remember White Meadow Lake. A place we summered in rented cottages. A retreat where I was free to roam through the woods with only mom’s soon-ignored warning: “Marvin, if you walk too far into the woods there are deep pits into which you will likely fall and disappear forever.” Those words would not dissuade a curious ten-year-old free from a school’s regimen. That’s where I discovered deposits of mica to peel and savor; bottoms of clay to fashion into bowls that would harden in the summer sun, and endless shorelines from which frogs, turtles, and garter snakes might be caught by quick hands.
Best of all was the old wooden boat that I rowed about the lake stopping now and then to daydream of nautical piracy or to simply stare at cloud formations until the ache of hunger or an impending storm drove me home.
Faithful guardians are how I want to remember the majesty of those weeping willows standing guard before woodland treasures.
[Postscript: After several years of renting, my parents had a vacation house built to their specifications. One week before we were to occupy it, the darn place caught fire. Seems the Rockaway Borough Fire Department was too late in deployment. By the time the volunteers arrived, the place was a goner. We never vacationed again at White Meadow Lake because the ruin of their holiday home held too much disappointment. So, now only memories remain.]
