Open Water

It was a small lake with crystal clear water and a beige sandy bottom, surrounded by clean shoreline and thick trees.
It was rarely crowded and we went often during the summer - to swim, fish, row slowly to the middle and then drift lazily in the sun. Ruby would have packed us a picnic lunch with fried chicken and fresh greens, homemade cookies, and bottles of icy cold water. The adults read or sunbathed, the children swam to exhaustion, and Uncle Ernie would sit in the shade on the far bank for hours, a slouch hat pulled over his eyes and a fishing pole propped between his knees. He had, it seemed to me, an endless reservoir of patience even on the days he caught nothing.

Our dog, Fritz, an aging and overweight dachshund, severly grey around his muzzle but still full of mischief and spirit, had his first swimming lesson there. My daddy carried him out and set him in the water and he swam furiously for shore, emerging indignant and humorlessly to his laughing owners. He found a sunny spot at the edge of the trees and curled up to nap, wanting nothing further to do with his tormentors. Uncle Dave would arrive with his truckful of children and containers of blueberries, fresh picked from his own fields and my cousins raced madly for the open water like city children who had found a gushing fire hydrant.

My mother sat slightly apart and away from us, wearing sunglasses and propped on a chaise lounge. She did not join in and except for a half hearted effort my daddy made, no one tried to persuade her. She was restless, she hated the sun, she had nothing to say to her family and she clearly would've preferred to be somewhere else. When Aunt Norma attempted to talk to her, she feigned sleep and the plate of food she brought was ignored. Fritz awoke from his nap long enough to make quick work of the untouched plate then waddled back to the shade. Later, someone organized a lively game of dominoes and my mother woke long enough to reach for her aspirin then lay back, one arm thrown over her eyes in great weariness. She spoke only to complain of one of her all purpose migraines and when my daddy offered to drive her back to the farm, she sighed deeply and allowed as how she'd suffer through. Her game of mock sacrifice and guilt worked and reluctantly he gathered up his protesting children and old dog and we left the peaceful lake with the sun just beginning its descent to the horizon.

My daddy favored the path of least resistance in most things. He detested confrontation in all its forms and would almost always submit to whatever course of action he felt was likeliest to keep the peace. Like swimming in open water, he kept to the surface, not wanting to know what might lurk in the water below.