There comes a moment each summer when I feel connected to all who came before me and those who are no longer. The moment came last weekend when I sat with Samy on the bench called "Marvin's Gardens," while she read me a story. The book, "Morris the Moose Goes to School," is one of those beloved books we leave in our bungalow over the winter, and re-discover with delight the next summer. As Samy gleefully recalled her favorite parts, a breeze ruffled her hair and fluttered the pages. The peaceful, bucolic setting sent a comforting wash of contentment over me. "Marvin would really be pleased about this spot," I thought, recalling the long, dapper mand with the ready smile for whom the bench was named. As I looked across the lake, my gaze swept the trees, tall and magestic, that have born witness to so many generations. I felt them looking back at me, and saw the grassy spot where I sat transform into the beach it once was. I heard the kind, warm voice of my grandfather, telling me, as he did each summer, "once upon a time, the beach was right here, in front of the Social Hall." I saw him as a young man, nuzzling my grandmother as they sat in their circle of friends. I felt their joy and pleasure at all that Pine Lake has been and continues to be for eeveryone who summers here. I felt their happiness that I sat there, reading stories with my daughter, as my parents once did with me. She is a child of Pine Lake, as am I. No matter where we go, and what we do, our roots are here, like the tall trees that bear witness, and always will.
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