Let’s try this again, shall we. There is a story behind this picture,
just as there are stories behind the others that I posted a few days ago.
Know that when I talk about the hill by the lake or the cottage on the hill, that this is the place. Generations ago, my great grandfather helped move a house. As I remember the story, it was a house in a nearby town, and the owners wanted to live on the lake. Now, moving a house back then must have been a very big deal, and I must tell you that the house they moved was a very big house. It must have been a tremendous effort. Afterward, for years and years, that house sat atop the highest point on this side of the lake with a spectacular view of the western sunsets on the other side.
As payment for their help, my great grand parents were offered any plot of land they wanted. The owners of the house must have been wealthy. As I internalized the story, they owned all the land on this side of the lake (although strictly speaking that might not have been true). In any event, they offered land as thanks.
It being the Depression (do I have that right?), my great grandparents were reluctant to assume too much of a tax burden, so they chose a tiny plot. Were they sure they didn’t want more? Yes, they were sure.
I must say, that although it was a postage stamp sized lot, their choice was a fine one. Indeed, it was on the second highest point on this side of the lake, and it also had a spectacular view of the western sunsets on the other side.
In the generations that passed, our family has returned to this place like clockwork, gathering together, sitting on this hill, marveling at those sunsets, glorying in the cool breezes off the water on hot summer days and (as you learned yesterday) careening down the stairs to the sandy beach and the wooden dock and the water.
On that very hilltop spot we’ve sat, year after year. In those very chairs, although they used to be silver and then red, and then they were green and then a few years ago in an orgy of paint-letting all the chairs were painted a slightly-off shade of yellow. For generations, I tell you. My great grandmother sat on that swinging bench and in that very chair. My grand parents sat in those very spots, although they never sat still for long. And my mother and her sisters. And my cousins and my brother and me. And our spouses. And our kids. And our friends.
On this very spot on this hill by that lake.