Amy Feldman

There are boats below and boats up top, old life jackets, the odd tennis racket, and a fair bit of dust. There are old water skis and an aquaplane with great stories to tell. There’s the way the windows open, the way the screen doors always get stuck, and the way it sounds and smells perfect inside when it rains.

 

Many family members have cared for and used this place as a boat house for decades. I am not one of them, but I have gathered an assortment of memories that I would like to share.

 

The first were made when I was very little. A visit to the boat house felt just a bit scary in all the best ways: walking the lower path from the dock with bare feet, a gauntlet of rocks, and the possibility of poison ivy; the slippery stairs; the smell of gasoline; and the boat that bucked and strained against its ropes on windy days. And of course, the door that clattered shut behind me at the same moment my sister always seemed to remind me how many spiders and bats lived there.

 

Perhaps my favorite memories were made the summer I was sixteen. A group of us spent many nighttime hours upstairs…often until Aunt Joan had to remind us that we were being much too loud. (Sorry, Aunt Joan!). We listened to mixtapes, ate snacks from the General Store, played (and cheated) at Trivial Pursuit, camped out with sleeping bags, and felt that certain kind of teenage magic. I even did the bravest/dumbest thing and dove off the small balcony in the dark on a dare.

 

There was also the summer that the boathouse became a study space for Keith, who was preparing for his comprehensive exams. A desk, a single lamp, and the perfect hiding spot when he needed to focus. I recall walking over to disturb that peace and seeing him hard at work at the old desk with the moonlight sparkling on the lake just outside the window.

 

And then, those wet and cold days when my sister and I were trying to entertain a seemingly endless supply of young kids indoors. My mom reminded us of the power of a rainy-day adventure. It became a tradition: a stop to say hello to the old farm equipment, a peek to see if there were any ripe raspberries, a wave to Uncle Blackie in his garage, and then exploring all the treasures to be found at the boat house.

 

Finally, as the kids got just a bit older, each one of them in turn discovered the grand feeling of independence when they were brave enough to make the walk from dock to boat house for themselves. I can still see their proud faces and eager waves when they made it, their tales of adventure when they returned to the appreciative audience at the dock.

 

So, to those family members who have been the stewards of this special place, I say thank you most sincerely.

 

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