It was many years ago. 1981 to be exact, when Katherine Hepburn and Henry Fonda made a movie called, “On Golden Pond.” I was intrigued by the movie for a couple of reasons. Number one was Norman Thayer, alias Henry Fonda who played a part I loved so much. That of a cantankerous old man, living with a conciliatory wife on a small lake in the wilderness. For some reason I wanted to be that way when I got old and maybe I have. I always got a kick out of grumpy old men like Walter Mattheu or maybe a Red Foreman or Archie Bunker. Maybe it was because my father was often that way. He was the king of the one-liners and those one-word answers, which when it involved me was often just a “no.” He wasn’t that mean but he would threaten a little whoop ass if things came to that. At least you knew where you stood with him and I never challenged him. My step Mother was that conciliatory woman who rarely let her feathers get ruffled. Yeah, those two, they played those parts to a tee.
But what intrigued me the most in that movie was that old log cabin and that little lake they called their ‘Golden Pond.’ Three years later, after the movie came out, my wife and I found such a place and it wasn’t a log cabin it was a trailer house and it wasn’t a pond but a small lake. Never the less, the idea had been hatched and I made a sign that said “Our Golden Pond” and hung it right outside the back door. Today there is a modern home in its place but sometimes I wish for that old trailer back. It was just a simpler life then I have now. As I look around me tonight, I can feel her presence in the house she designed and from the mailbox out by the road, to the lakeshore out front, it seems to me like I’m on almost hallowed ground.
My neighbor lady, likes to sit out on top of her boat house at night with her camera and wait for the exact moment the sun has set just enough to be gone, but still shining enough to be at the right angle to color those clouds in crimson and yellow hues that enhance their beauty. They in turn seem to reflect that picture right back off the surface of the water like some eerie oil painting that only a Michelangelo could do justice too. Along with all this comes the mirrored images of the bluffs across the lake, also reflecting off the water in the waning light. This is for me so indicative of my own diminishing life cycle, that I can’t help but take it personally sometimes. Throw in the cry of a loon and the soft kiss of the water on the sandy shore line and you have peacefulness personified, right here on my own Golden Pond.
I have through the generosity of my friend and his luxurious pontoon, spent hours on the chain of lakes just drifting by the homes that ring them. I often wondered what it would be like if we could stop at the ends of their docks and meet people and say tell me about your life here. Your kids, your grandkids and great grandkids and maybe your parents or grandparents that settled here, back when the shorelines were dotted with simple cabins and not that many mansions. It was a time when the evening silence was not punctuated with the roar of wave runners and speed boats but just flickering campfires, reflected in the bright wet eyes of children roasting the perfect smores. The old people sitting with their coffee cups, trapped in their Adirondack chairs holding hands and feeling like I do tonight. Here on my Golden Pond.
No comments:
Post a Comment