Patterns of footprints layered under pine rich loam, left as a collective trace of shared repast. how many meals were share in this one spot? - Exuberant voices captured by the limb awning above, stored like ancestral linen in a hope chest unfolded and spread out in remember whens.......
- How many have sat at that worn old picnic table surrounded by the sturdiness of the white pine and gazed out at the lake on a perfect summer day?
- how many have sat up late into the hot night drinking a beer with a friend, listening to the loon in the distance.....
- how many kids knelt on the benches, their fingers covered in white gooey glue and paint as they whiled away an afternoon creating popsicle stick cabins with wonky roofs and broken stick picket fences?
- a solitary early morning riser, hot coffee in hand......journal and pen. she watches another person paddle close along the shoreline lost inside a quiet reverence.....
- two in love, tucked in beside one another on the same side watching the sun go down as they shared their tentative confessions.....hoping time sleeps
- carved hearts and intials whittled into the repainted wood lasting traces connecting to the memory of scented pine
- silly songs, card games, laughter............lots of laughter echos and bounces back off the old branches of the giving trees.
Seasons come and go stretching over generations of footprints in the pine rich loam.....layers of traces mixed into the clay connections. It makes me want to sit down quietly to add my own to the memories left behind, and to listen to the joy nestled under the canopy.
no trace camping? there's no such thing.
come sit with me
lets slow down the day
lets escape the outside world rush
can you hear the loon? Ah, the lonely call beckons
9 comments:
What a lovely place! And through your beautiful writing you can hear the voices of those others who have sat there. I can feel the softness of the pine needles beneath my feet, their scent blows across me. And in the background, the lake shimmers.
Just beautiful!
Gilly....it was a lovely camping spot we visited on Saturday morning to help clean up and get ready for the summer. Camp Macadavic (the name of the lake) is only 45 minutes from here and is used by groups all summer long. It's equipped with cabins and a great big dining lodge with a wrap around porch that over looks the lake. The bugs were horrendous, so i stayed close to the waters edge cleaning it up rather than around the cabins.
As soon as we stepped out of the car, I was swept away by the familiarity of the pine scents and scenery which was so similar to the camp I attended years ago as a child and teen.
Beautifully written in every way Dana....I felt I was there, seeing it and taking it all in, with you.
You painted a great picture, my dear.
hoping time sleeps...how beautiful; what a nice sentiment this writing
I love how you took this one spot and saw so much that has happened and will happen here! We all breathe the same air, play in the same dirt, wade in the same water that humans from the beginning of time have.
Very nice You got me dreaming away to wonderful times at picnic tables
We have spent lots of times in the past at such tables and they are very popular with kiwies. A picnic is a national hobby here
A beautiful piece and a beautiful place, despite the bugs.
How many people have memories of being there or of similar places? How many people does that place 'contain'within its layers of time?
Naomi...thank you. Was inspired to write about the traces from a comment I received from another blogger. Its a good theme and will write more on it.
Kay....I liked the line too when it found me! I love it when that happens. thanks. :)
Mark...its true...makes me hope someone puts chlorine in the water from time to time! lol!
Marja....as it is in Canada. We're going to one tonight in fact...rain or shine.
Moments...the BUGS were horrendous when I took this photo!
This particular site is nestled amongst a handful of cabins. It is a summer camp for kids and is used by many groups young and old throughout the season. There have been countless people who have sat under those trees, who have left their traces there.
I often close my eyes when come across a scene like this and try to imagine who has come here before me, what they did, what it must have looked, sounded and felt like.
I often squeeze my eyes shut and try to imagine it, and I always fear I simply can't do the scene justice.
You've given me the incentive to keep trying, for there's always a story needing to be told.
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