Postscards from the Lake: The End of Summer Walk

I love how Garrison Keillor used to begin his monologue on "A Prairie Home Companion." "It's a quiet week here in Lake Woebegon..." he would say. More often than not, I feel that way about the lake, especially as the days shorten and summer draws near its end, the skies change and there is a definite nip in the air.

I've been trying to walk while I'm up here. Sometimes my foot isn't up to the longer walks I did last summer, even if the rest of me is. My "bare minimum" circle is exactly a mile, walking along the road behind many of the lakeside cottages until I turn the corner and find myself in front of those who live in the woods.

So, I leave the vigilant Lizzie, on the hunt for (presumably) a mouse as she stares relentlessly at the area by the kitchen sink. (I have seen no signs yet, by the way). And I head off on my jaunt.

It's changing. You can tell. It's early evening, about seven, as I start out, but already the sun is sinking lower in the sky and the hustle and bustle one might find midday has quieted. I smell a campfire. Or perhaps a barbecue. Probably the latter, as it's a bit early in the evening for a beach fire. It smells good and is a sweet reminder of the times when I could be at a campfire for hours without breathing problems.

I pass by a cottage with a vegetable garden growing atop its septic field in the road across from the house. I hope the septic is doing its job because it is in pretty much full shade most of the day and those things I see from the road like they may be tomatoes that are quite a tad short.

As I walk I am more conscious of sound than when otherwise engaged. From the road I can hear a few boats cruising along the lake -- not too many, as probably most people are still eating dinner. My footsteps make a steady rhythm on the asphalt and a slight breeze (a blessed respite from the heavy winds of the past few days) rustles the leaves of the birch trees. There's little highway noise -- I keep hoping to hear the train but its schedule is far too erratic to plan anything by it.

On occasion, a car passes and we always wave. I have no idea who those people are nor do they know me. But the "wave" is just what we do. To be honest, if someone doesn't wave, I feel a bit slighted. There are many kinds of waves at the lake -- all of which I wrote about HERE. No matter what kind, it always makes me smile.

The wildflowers are still at hand but fading. Jewel weed grows in clumps, there are occasional daisies. The Queen Anne's lace is in the half-and-half stage. Half still boasts large, lacy blooms.

The other half has shriveled into a seedy ball and soon will drop those seeds for more blooms next summer.

Most prevalent is the goldenrod. A few weeks ago there was just the occasional bloom. Now they line up, like Follies girls in a row, all with their colorful headdresses.

And now and then we see an early turner -- generally a clump of maple leaves going red or elms going yellow. Fall is coming.

A flock of geese flies north (why north?) -- seven of them, squalking along the way. A few minutes later I see another flock headed west. (Why west?) There are eight in this group. Perhaps they are directionally challenged. I can relate to that at times.

After spotting Bunny Number Twelve, scampering off into the woods, I have completed my circle, landing back at the cottage. Inside, two fresh bouquets of sunflowers bought at the morning market greet me, along with a chatty cat, stretching and flirting, hoping for a treat.

I settle in to the porch, the first day in four that I have been able to sit out here, for it has been too cold and far too windy. The sun is low in the sky, casting golden shadows on the lake and a small group of ducks float by, in no seeming hurry. A small bird is at the shoreline. I can't see him well, as he is backlit but he appears to have rather long legs and moves quickly, eating his way down the shore.

Next door (the good neighbors), a young boy, maybe five, is dashing around in a black tuxedo, complete with bow tie and shirt tails hanging. "I'm James Bond," he tells me. How a five year old knows about James Bond I find a bit disturbing but as heroes go, he could emulate worse. (His uncle tells me that earlier in the day he was a ring bearer and he has been wearing the tux ever since.)

The lake is calm. The sounds of Frank Sinatra (or maybe Michael Buble) are coming from next door, quiet, just enough to get the melody. I'm inclined to ask them to turn it up a bit. But maybe not. A pontoon boat goes by slowly, the sun is about to burst out from under cloud cover for what I suspect might be a very nice sunset.

"James Bond," whose real name is Dylan, has returned in a life jacket, headed for the dock to go for a boat ride with his uncle. I hope nothing blows up. You never know with James Bond.

It has been a good day. The market, painting (three new watercolors), a good walk, a car wash (well, good until the vacuum broke before I got the second side of the car cleaned out but at least the outside is good!) and a good book.

Rick has arrived at the lake after 400 miles on the bike. Cooking out. Baking bread. grabbing on to the last of summer. Life is good.

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