I Remember

To give one the opposite of what they want is not a thing of trust. It's a derelict of doubt. A giving up, so here. In spite of that or for in sake of that, here is a story.

There is a place called Bright's Grove and once upon a time I lived there. It was magical. Nature's abundance, a hamlet to the east of Sarnia, Ontario, Canada. A place that is rich in history and richer still in love, in memory. It's only a half-hour away now but it seems like a lifetime. If I close my eyes I can almost touch it. Sweet summers.

I used to dream when I was very young and there was always a home on the beach and I would see myself there, happy in the sun and sand. Fast forward to my mid-twenties and there I found it, or rather we did. Without even looking for exactly such a place there it was. My lover, my life, we shared our modest home for 12 years.

The beach was a minute from home. The first and only I ever owned at 26 years old. We were so proud. The world was our oyster. Bohemian threads beat hearts faster and there are so many wonderful stories I could tell.

We owned the street so to speak. It was still unpaved, gravel roads when we moved there. The cottage areas spanned a short distance within towering heights of newer homes surrounding us. We had the best of both worlds, the better views without the big mortgages. We got to know people quickly and never was there a cooler group of people, the "Grovites." There were at least 30 of us in a few block radius in cottages winterized, that were built in circa 1920's. We were all in our 20's and everyone was beautiful. Youth and vigor, most with hair down our backs, men and women. The street of hippies someone once told me and we laughed. We lived in bare feet, cut-off jeans, and bathing suits. Everyone got along. We enjoyed each other's company, we valued each other. Pizza and beer were the diets of the day. At one time Kenwick on the Lake, like a pavilion, drew in the big bands, jazz, and blues from Detroit but that was long before our day. The place had grown over time. One didn't even need to go into town except to work. Everything was there, one post office, one grocery store, a pharmacy, two pizza places, two convenience stores, a wine store, all in one little plaza and a pub. What more could one want?

Moving from the city we could never understand the ones who were born and grew up there who were unimpressed by much of it. Some never even ventured to the beach. Once I set foot on it, it was like I never left it. One of the first to sunbathe there in the late spring and the last to sunbathe there in the early autumn. I walked that path along the lake almost every day for 13 years. Sometimes I would walk as far as Huronview Park and met even more people. Visitors from all over would dock their boats next to the groins. I meditated, I picnicked, I played with the dogs, I read books, I gazed forever at the water in complete stillness. It was my personal space, this huge, massive air-dwelling, visually stunning beach was my space. I grew up there. I matured into a woman. I knew love there and he was my everything.

There is something about a place surrounded by water. There is a lull that is unexplainable. Once you turned the intersection into the Grove there is a simple quiet that cannot be found anywhere. No street noise, no train whistles in the distance, no sounds of the highway, no sirens. Just peace.

The feeling of a late sunset when the sky is a mysterious blend of purple and gold is indescribable, intoxicating. I remember drawing pictures in the sand at the water's edge with my feet. Great, long murals of spontaneous design that would be washed away like a gift to Lake Huron. Then looking up and seeing a small crowd of strangers watching me and I smiled and bowed. They smiled back. That was Bright's Grove.

He is gone now, my love. His ashes scattered in the winds at Hawk's Cliff. Who knew that one day he would be at 37. That's another story. In a year's time, my life changed and all that is left is memories. Until when I rebuild.

A mental conduit, a time to unwind. I remember I would wake in the middle of the summer night because of the heat and would walk down to the lake alone. You could do that there then, it was tranquil and safe. I didn't have a care in the world anyway. To the beach at the end of the street. The pub stood alone under a streetlight. It faced, of course, the view of the lake but if you stepped outside the street light's aura no one could see you climb down the rocks to the sand. Then I would take my shorts and shirt off and skinny dip. It was awesome to float there in a world of indigo. Floating with the sky over you like a twinkling blanket. There is nothing between you and the sky except those stars. You know what? There were always others down there doing the same thing and never a word was spoken. I miss the lake and the quiet, nighttime swimmers.

Poems I, by Lisa A Lachapelle, Indie Published:

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In USA/Int'l

By Lisa Lachapelle, Writer, Author. More of her work here and here.