Yesterday, as I walked across the bridge at Croton Dam, I stopped and smiled at a fisherman. “My Dad caught a lot of fish here,” I said casually, not sure the fisherman would understand or want to engage. He responded with a huge smile. “I have been fishing here for 30 years!” he shared. He called himself Charlie and wanted to know my dad’s name. When I told him, Charlie scrunched up his face, thinking. “Maybe. I think I might know him,” he responded. Charlie wanted to know my dad. I wanted them to know one another. My dad said it was absolutely possible. It was a long time ago.
Doesn’t everyone want to be seen, known or understood by another? Connections matter—especially the ones from long ago.
Today, I hiked part of the North Country Trail around Bill’s Lake, a 204-acre lake in Newago. My paternal grandparents had a cottage on Bill’s Lake in the 1940s. I have heard snippets about my dad’s family spending summers there, but today, I paid more attention to those stories. I dug them up like gold. I looked at them closely because I had something tangible to connect them. As I hiked along the lake’s southern edge, I imagined my dad and his sibling playing in the woods and swimming in the water. I wondered if they had BB guns or slingshots. I saw an apple tree with fat red apples high in the branches. SNACKS! I thought.
An 83-year-old Bill’s Lake resident spoke to me, approaching from the opposite direction. “I’m not afraid,” she said. “Pepper spray will take care of the dogs. God will take care of everyone else.” I remembered it was Sunday as we chatted and smiled. She didn’t recognize the Miner name even though she had lived on the lake for a long time. Talking about the old cottage was fun, and as a solo hiker, I appreciated her faith.
I hiked another mile along the western part of the lake. As I moved away from it, I was surprised to feel loss. I couldn’t imagine visiting again. I was glad I got to hike there and felt responsible for keeping the precious little I learned about Bill’s Lake alive. It brought joy to have been there and sadness to walk away.
There was a Baptist Church along the trail. It wasn’t old, but I’m sure my grandparents attended church in the area. This was a stand-in. I wandered into the parking lot that held a dozen cars. I hoped to hear music. I didn’t. For some reason, the disappointment brought tears to my eyes; then, a song rose in my throat. A song I learned from cousins at a different cottage on a different lake. The words of Kumbaya moved from my heart to my lungs and passed my lips. It continued for a long time while tears streamed down my face. Tears of sorrow for cousins, uncles and aunts, and grandparents lost. Tears of joy for the ability to learn from my father about this place and to tread on the earth above our roots. Tears from the pain of loving. Tears of gratitude.