Yesterday's summer solstice/day of rain synchronicity got me thinking about rainy summer days on Lake Champlain in the late1960's. A complete day of rain seems so rare now (indeed, some parts of our country would give anything for such an event), but my memory is that it was not uncommon to experience three or four days of rain in a row. In our little summer community, rambunctious young children would go from camp (cabin) to camp, getting under parents' feet, playing endless games of cards and Monopoly in front of the fireplace, snacking, and eventually moving on to the next dry home. On day two of rain, my mom would put my brothers and me into the station wagon along with loads of laundry, and we'd go to Keeseville, Elizabethtown, or Westport to go to the laundromat. Ugh. Boring. This was usually coupled with a foray into an IGA supermarket, which was marginally more interesting, and I am sure we tortured my Mom with requests for candy bars or potato chips, even though selections of junk food were much more limited in those days.
If we awoke to a third day of rain on the roof of the camp, then a real treat was in store. We'd leave the wilderness of upstate New York and head, by ferry or bridge, across the lake to more civilized Vermont. In Burlington, we might get an ice cream cone at the original site of Ben and Jerry's, or walk up and down Church Street, not yet a pedestrian mall. If we headed to Middlebury, we'd shop in their wonderful five and dime store, and then perhaps have lunch at the hamburger place where your food was brought out to the car. Either way, Mom would buy herself a treat -- something small for the kitchen, or some clothing for herself. I think she needed to reward herself for putting up with three small children, camp or car, rain or shine.
After a stretch of hot, sunny weather, afternoon thunderstorms were common, which inevitably seemed to come from the north. We would be swimming down at the dock, when ominous black clouds would advance down the lake from Quebec. Mothers started to flutter as thunder started to rumble, and they gathered up children, picnic baskets and beach towels, trying to shepherd everyone up the long flight of cement stairs before the storm struck. But inevitably some of us would stay on the dock, playing chicken with the breathtaking storm. When we finally raced up and away from the water, and huddled in the covered deck near the road, we were protected from the storm's fury, which inevitably lasted only a few minutes. Peeks of sun would start to show in the northwest, and we'd run back down the stairs and into the water as soon as thunder was no longer audible.
In those days, the wind (and thus the waves) seemed to come only from the north or the south, down the lake or up it. Sailboat race courses were set up based on whether it was a north wind or a south wind. In recent years, however, when I have visited and crewed on a boat, winds could come from north, south, east, or west, or all of them at the same time, a small but noticeable indication of climate change.
What a privilege to experience such summers! In 1973, the bottom fell out of our family's financial situation, and my parents would eventually live year-round in the camp, lending a rather hard and desperate edge to the place and the lake experience. And as an adult, there has been no "normal" in my life. Summers have seen me in places as varied as DC and Manhattan, the outer fringes of London and the outer fringes of the Rockies. Yes, both Lake Superior and Lake Champlain have figured prominently. There is no doubt that in 1990, I was drawn to Duluth for a reason. The early, positive, imprint of "summers on the lake" is still with me; yesterday's daylong rain brought back sounds, smells, and memories.
