This blog is all about a special place for me as a child...
You may not know the exact lake that I speak of, but you know the lake. It doesn't even have to be a lake, it could be a pool, a park, a tree house. It doesn't even have to be a place at all, it is just a favorite memory.
Set in the Berkshire Hills of Massachusetts lies a lake. Not just any lake - because there are quite a few, but a particular lake, a SPECIAL lake. The lake is nestled in the trees and is an astounding sight in the autumn. It has lake houses on one side, a public beach on another, a campground and a YMCA camp on the other. An overwhelming majority of the locals call it "Fish Pond" but I do not. I was taught as a very young child to call it by it's proper given name. "Windsor Lake". Now, any of you that DO know of this special little man-made lake is likely to say "Robin, seriously...Windsor Lake Fish Pond is just a hole in the ground - and the water isn't even that great, there is no beach, they took our docks away and there aren't life guards much anymore, plus the "lake police" are nazi's!" But this lake is much more than that to me. It is that one place I can go - either in person or in spirit - look around and get tears in my eyes.
I remember as a child, my gram, two cousins and I would get into our swim suits and head out on our daily adventure. We would pack our lunches in the lunch basket, get the blankets, towels, beach toys, chairs and hats and gather into my gram's grey oldsmobile - the one with dark green velvet seats that were worn from wet - lake soaked bathing suit bottoms. Of course one of us would forget something so we only made it as far as East School (yes it was still called EAST back then) before we turned around. We would be off again, driving up Kemp Ave and crest the plateau to head back down Kemp Ave and there it was. A break in the trees would reveal to us our salvation - our summer joy...the lake. We would drive down the road - each inch agonizing in the summer blaze. My gram, the always careful driver, put on her directional well before the turn - always leaving the people behind us irritated that we didn't turn left when they thought we were going to turn left. Finally we turned into the entrance of the lake - later to be named "George Fairs Way" in honor of my grandfather - and pull up towards the check in hut. There sat this old man, I can still see him today, his family used to run the Mohawk Theater on Main Street which is now in disarray with a local valiant effort to have it restored (ask me about my trip to the Mohawk when I was in 5th grade to see the Goonies and won a game of Monopoly - ok that was about the entire story). My gram would always pull up to the booth and wave with one finger to let him know we were coming through. We had a season pass on the back passenger window - gram always made me roll up my window so that the gentleman in the booth could see we were paid up. I always complained. It was hot! The man knew who we were - not only did we go to the lake every day - as I had said, the road was named after my grandfather, everyone there knew who George was, who his wife was, his kids and grand kids (us). We would always remind them who WE were too. Self inflated sense of pride. If it was a particularly hot day we would have to wait in line and I always remember looking off to my right to a clearing in the trees and there was a path that led to the Sunshine Camp area - it was were the mentally handicap kids had camp.
We would pull around to the parking lot, never up the hill, always around the loop and NEVER down towards the campground. I don't know how my gram used to corral us long enough to unload the car before we jetted off across the lawn, past the playground, past the wood shed, down the hill, jumping over hundreds of people to find the best spot. We dropped all of our stuff on the ground, our over clothes half off before we heard "Kids, wait for me". What words could a hot, excited child like to hear less? Probably "it's time to go", but waiting for my gram to approve our spot was wrenching. I think she just wanted to view where we were so she could keep an eye on us. I don't think she ever fully trusted the life guards.
At first we were only allowed to swim in the kiddie section, this little roped off designated area that really was no bigger than 8 ft by 10 ft, if we were lucky. My cousins Kerry, Jimmy, and I were all one year apart so our abilities to leave the confines of the kiddie area were spaced out just that far. The days that we longed to play Marco Polo with the rest of the group, do hand stands under water, and play "Find the rock" were agonizing. My grandfather had to give us his OWN swimming test to see if we were able to leave the kiddie puddle. Kerry got to leave it first. Then Jim, and then me. Always last. Since I had swimming lessons at such a young age I got to move out of the kiddie section just 3 weeks after Jim and he left it one YEAR after Kerry. (That is the middle grandchild coming out in me....the constant need for validation and kudos! I'm over that now.) Of course, now that we were out of the hell pool we were still bound by strict guidelines - now we could only go out as far as our shoulders. Oh the horror - the diving board was even further out! Sometimes we would try to cheat and go a little further out but we would hear "JIM! I see you!" or "KERRY, Back in now" All I got was "ROBIN" and that was enough. We had to wait for another "George-approved" test before we could make our way to the docks. And once THERE - then we weren't allowed to swim underneath the dock or behind it like all the cool kids, there were rumors of snapping turtles under there. Rules. Not Lake rules - Helen & George rules. But no matter, it was the lake, it was summer, it was the days of being able to run out of a lake, stand over your grandmother while she is reading her book while you are dripping wet and probably ruining her book to beg her for your allowance to run to the concession for some fried dough or those large pixie styx, sometimes an ice cream treat if you budget wisely. She would always say no, of course, and that we had to wait for our lunches. I think we ate at 10:30 every day so we could make the afternoon come quicker - quicker we could have our ice cream treats. Gram prepared our plates of sandwiches and chips, carrots and whatever else she packed away...usually a pickle I would always refuse. I remember we would have bologna (wunderbar bologna) & cheese, or ham and cheese or a fluffernutter. We gobbled it up and then were obligated to wait that - what seemed to be an eternity - half hour wait. Of course that is an old wives tale giving parents enough time to clear up after the kids eat. We would run up to the play ground - the same one we ignored on the way in and if we were lucky - find a swing. If no swing then we would hop on the thing that went around (sometimes we were even luckier - someone's older brother or sister or dad was there to make it go around really fast!) or down the slide. No one liked the slide because it was metal and it was hot (who thought it would be a good idea to have a slide at a lake - metal, sun, wet bare asses...good combo!). We'd watch people on the teeter tatter going up and down. I was always scared of it so I sat out. If Kerry and I felt like talking we would sit on the special rock - this really large rock that had a half moon chunked out so it looked and felt like a chair.
Finally the half hour was over. We knew this because we had our eyes glued to the arch of the hill where we could see our gram stand up and wave to us. Again, we dashed madly across the green grass and ran right back into the water without even a hello to my gram. Once a week the drama major's from the local college treated us to a kiddie show - Something Different. There was a LARGE blue board with two box openings at the top. They all had on different colored shirts with the "something different" logo on it with their names on the back. They would come out singing "Hello we're something different, hello we're something new, we're here to entertain you and have some fun with you" - they would go on and sing their names and something else and holy hell - it has been over 20 years and I still remember the words as if it were yesterday. There was one woman I remembered fondly - her name was Susan and occasionally I will see her around North Adams and I have to fight the overwhelming urge to run up to her and hug her like she is a long lost relative. Anyway, these something different actors would have costumes and put on skits, sometimes with puppets and ALWAYS with whipped cream pies to the face! Nothing was funnier than the pies to the face. They had different sized colored boxes - red, green, yellow, and blue boxes that they would use to create scenes with - scenes that only our imaginations could see. We would sing along and laugh and have the best time. At the end they sang a slowed down version of the same song ending with "we'll be back this time next week to have more fun with you...".
Even now as I recall these memories I am filled with a sense of youthful enthusiasm, a feeling of joy, warmth, happy tears, sadness for days gone by. As we started to grow up the trips to the lake took a back seat to bike riding, baseball, having friends over for the day. I did spend time at the campground as a young teen, I gained many memories of friends I still have - of New Kids on the Block birthday parties (NOT my own) and baby-sitting for a young girl that has since died in a tragic car accident. I remember taking a canoe ride with Jim and our friend Shane and the dang thing flipped over all on it's own - at least that is what Jim and Shane expected me to believe! Our 8th grade class trip was a cook out at the lake and as a teen my best friend and I would go daily to socialize and swim a little - but it just wasn't the same without Helen, our lunches, allowances, and rules.
On the day before I moved away from Massachusetts I went up to the lake. I followed the same familiar path I had taken many times in my youth. I crested Kemp Ave, descended towards the lake peeking through the trees. I pulled up George Fairs Way, taking a photo as I drove past. It was a warm but windy July day and there were surprisingly few cars in the parking lot. I got out of the car, walked passed the play ground - the round wooden thing gone, so were the teeter tatters. They were said to be dangerous. The slide was still there. I walked past the wood shed that was now locked up so people could pay for their wood. I glanced to my right where the Something Different crew would set up - "Hello we're something different..." - I topped the hill and stood under the tree where my gram would always sit. They added a nice bench, got rid of the docks in the middle of the lake. I watched as my nephew - just 9 months old - go into the lake for the first time. I hoped for him the same summer fun I had as a kid, no, I prayed for it. They were carefree times, energy filled, and life lasting memories. No, even though I am a local I will never call this place "Fish Pond" it deserves it's proper name. I will always come back to Windsor Lake to reminisce about life, my grandparents (who are still very much alive), or childhood - whether it's in person or in my heart. I don't have a childhood house to go home to - we moved around a lot as a kid, but I have something better - I have a lake. I turned around and made my way back to the car glanced back to my left and smiled - "we'll be back this time next week to have more fun with you...".
