Halcyon Days 2020 - Issue 18.1

Halcyon Days—Issue 18
Founder, Monique Berry | Hamilton On Canada
CONTRIBUTORS
Bruce Levine
4 Harbingers of the Day
Duncan Hoag
17 Under the Overhang
Emory D. Jones
11 Water Lilies
14 Haiku Sequence
15 Forest Shadows
16 Sunset
Ingrid Bruck
8 In Praise of Grits
Milton Ehrlich
21 The Waves Within
Miriam Edelson
12 A Stand of Conifers
R. Gerry Fabian
9 Your Confection
23 The Floating Experiment
Robert Beveridge
5 One Smile
6 First Day of Summer
7 Home Opener
Sarah Fairbanks
25 The Closest Place to Home
Stella Mazur Preda
18 Poet’s Garden
19 A Gift
20 Silver Lake
Steven Tutino
22 Full Bloom
Yash Seyedbagheri
10 Ode to a Walk
Bruce Levine
Pg 4
Ingrid Bruck
Pg 8
Stella Mazur Preda
Pg 18, 19, 21
Duncan Hoag
Pg 17
Miriam Edelson
Pg 12
Steven Tutino
Pg 22
Emory D. Jones
Pg 11, 14, 15, 16
Sarah Fairbanks
Pg 25
Yash Seyedbagheri
Pg 10
Halcyon Days Magazine
ISSN: 2291-0255
Frequency: Quarterly
Publisher | Designer: Monique Berry
Contact Info
http://halcyondaysmagazine.blogspot.ca
Twitter: @1websurfer
monique.editor@gmail.com
Cover & inside | marinavorona—stock.adobe.com
Special Notices
Halcyon Days has one time rights.
See website for subscription details.
No photocopies allowed.

Contributor Bios
Halcyon Days—Issue 18
Bruce Levine, a 2019 Pushcart Prize Poetry Nominee, has spent his life
as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional.
Over three hundred of his works are published in over twenty-five online
journals including Ariel Chart, Friday Flash Fiction, Literary Yard;
over thirty print books including Poetry Quarterly, Haiku Journal, Dual
Coast Magazine, Tipton Poetry Journal, and his shows have been
produced in New York and around the country. Six eBooks are available
from Amazon.com. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his
late wife, Lydia Franklin. A native Manhattanite, Bruce lives in New
York with his dog, Gabi. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com
R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor. He has been publishing
poetry since 1972 in various poetry magazines. His web page is https://
rgerryfabian.wordpress.com. He is the editor of Raw Dog Press https://
rawdogpress.wordpress.com He has published two books of his published
poems, Parallels and Coming Out Of The Atlantic. His novels, Memphis
Masquerade, Getting Lucky (The Story) and Seventh Sense are available
at all ebook publishers including Amazon, Apple Books and Barnes and
Noble. He is currently working on his fourth novel, Ghost Girl.
Duncan Hoag is a writer from Virginia. He grew up among words and
fresh air.
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes
poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Collective Unrest,
Cough Syrup, and Blood & Bourbon, among others.
Dr. Emory D. Jones is a retired English teacher who has taught in high
schools and various community colleges. He has four hundred and eight
credits including publication in such journals as Voices International,
The White Rock Review, Free Xpressions Magazine, The Storyteller,
Modern Poetry Quarterly Review, Gravel, Pasques Petals, The Pink
Chameleon, and Encore: Journal of the NFSPS. He is retired and lives in
Iuka, Mississippi, with his wife, Glenda. He has two daughters and four
grandchildren.
Ingrid Bruck writes poetry, grows wildflowers and makes jam. Finding
Stella Maris, her debut chapbook, was released this winter. She was a
2018 featured writer of Between These Shores Literary & Arts Annual
and has since joined their editorial team. Current work appears in Otata,
Failed Haiku, Naturewritng, Halcyon Days and Founders
Favorites. Poetry website: www.ingridbruck.com
Sarah Fairbanks is a bookkeeper by day and a writer by night. While her
left brain enjoys maintaining accurate books, her right brain finds it
imperative to create and think outside the box.
She has been writing since she was a child. Her father was in the military
and she has lived in numerous places, including England and Germany.
Her sense of wanderlust continued into adulthood and she has explored
Spain, parts of South America, and Serbia. In addition, she has
traveled all over the United States.
Sarah now lives in Western Massachusetts where she enjoys hiking and
boating. She also continues another lifelong passion and creative outlet –
dance.
Milton P. Ehrlich Ph.D. is an 88-year-old psychologist and a veteran of
the Korean War. He has published poems in, The Antigonish Review,
London Grip, Arc Poetry Magazine, Descant Literary Magazine,
Wisconsin Review, Red Wheelbarrow, Christian Science Monitor, and
the New York Times.
Miriam Edelson is a social activist, writer and mother living in Toronto,
Canada. Her literary non-fiction, personal essays and commentaries have
appeared in The Globe and Mail, Toronto Star, The Wascana Review,
Collective Unrest, Writing Disorder, Wilderness House Literary Review
and on CBC Radio. Her first book, “My Journey with Jake: A Memoir of
Parenting and Disability” was published in April 2000. “Battle Cries:
Justice for Kids with Special Needs” appeared in late 2005. She has
completed a doctorate at University of Toronto focused upon Mental
Health in the Workplace and is currently at work on a collection of
essays. She lives with and manages the mental health challenges related
to bipolar disorder.
Stella Mazur Preda is a resident of Waterdown, Ontario, Canada.
Having retired from elementary teaching in Toronto, she is owner and
publisher of Serengeti Press, a small press publishing company, located in
the Hamilton area. Since its opening in 2003, Serengeti Press has
published 43 Canadian books. Serengeti Press is now temporarily on
hiatus. Stella Mazur Preda has been published in numerous Canadian
anthologies and some US, most notably the purchase of her poem My
Mother’s Kitchen by Penguin Books, New York. Stella has released four
previous books, Butterfly Dreams (Serengeti Press, 2003); Witness,
Anthology of Poetry (Serengeti Press, 2004), edited by John B. Lee; From
Rainbow Bridge to Catnip Fields (Serengeti Press, 2007) The Fourth
Dimension, (Serengeti Press, 2012). She is a current member of Tower
Poetry Society in Hamilton, Ontario and The Ontario Poetry Society.
Stella is currently working on her fifth book, Tapestry, based on the life
of her aunt and written completely in poetic form. Tapestry will hopefully
be released in the Fall of 2019.
Steven Tutino was born in Montréal, Canada, and is a writer, poet, painter and personal trainer. He is currently a graduate student at
Concordia University in the process of completing an M.A. in Theological Studies. His poetry has appeared in Concordia
University’s Journal of Interdisciplinary Studies in Sexuality, The Paragon Journal, Halcyon Days, Perspectives Magazine, Founder’s
Favourites and Anapest: A Journal of Poetry Excellence. His artwork has appeared in numerous journals and magazines
including TreeHouse Arts, Montréal Writes, Spadina Literary Review, The Montréal Gazette, From Whispers to Roars, The Indianapolis
Review, After Happy Hour, Apricity Magazine and Apricity Press.
Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in
WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, and Ariel Chart, among others.

Harbingers of the Day
By Bruce Levine
Reveling in the morning
Cool, crisp, crystal clear sky
The brightness of the early light
Against the new leaves on May trees
Harbingers of the day
Life abounding
Woodpecker tattoos
Conversations understood only by birds
Dogs chasing squirrels chasing acorns
Harbingers of the day
photomic—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days 2020 Issue 18 Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 18 | 4

One Smile
By Robert Beveridge
It was outside
in the park
she wanted
to take my picture
so I hung
upside down
from a tree branch
and sang
college fight songs
until her face
folded into a smile
a genuine look
of pleasure
of surprise that
in this world
some happiness
can still exist
4KQUALITY — stock. Adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 18 | 5

First Day of Summer
By Robert Beveridge
first day of summer:
Ephemeroptera
in bloom
saccobent—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 18 | 6

Home Opener
By Robert Beveridge
Crickets stare confused
at giants in uniforms
who fling planets, wave
impossible tree trunks.
They prepare for sleep
with a skid through dirt
before head touches pillow.
No one ever gets a six
and fastballs may
fracture extremities.
Erin Cadigan—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 18 | 6

In Praise of Grits
By Ingrid Bruck
I love corn in all varieties, shapes and textures.
Fresh on the cob, slathered with butter and salt.
Corn, knife sliced off blanched cobs.
Yellow or white grains, served whole or creamed.
An unpeeled ear, charcoal roasted, rubbed with lime.
Ripe corn from the garden, frozen or canned.
Shucked and dried kernels off the cob.
Ground into flour, made into corn muffins.
Pounded into masa, patted, slapped, baked into tortillas.
Boiled rough cracked corn in salt water for grits.
I love grits, they travel me back to Texas
where our boys were born and raised.
Good old-fashioned grits (never instant),
I boil stone cut grits in salty water.
We eat grits for breakfast with butter and cracked pepper.
Or a traditional southern dish of grits and fried
smothered in creamed gravy, with greens on the side.
Grits open up miles of clear blue Texas skies
where the sun shines so bright, you have to wear shades,
where you can’t gage far from near on rolling prairie grass,
where long horn steer and antelope roam on ranches,
where the legend of Bigfoot Wallace, Texas Ranger,
lives on in the hill country along the Llano River
and bluebonnets grow bigger than his feet or appetite,
where Big Tex stands at the entrance of the State Fair in Dallas
(even though he burned in a fire in October 2012
and they rebuilt his fifty foot frame, boots, hat and clothes),
and where old-fashioned grits, the only real kind,
boil in a pot of water for exactly twenty minutes
as every lover of the movie My Cousin Vinny knows.
5ph—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2020 | Issue 18 | 8

Your Confection
by Gerry Fabian
Elegant puff blush—
Chocolate large lips
Lick pastry sweetness
Across airy cream.
I
Regale the flavor.
marcin jucha—stock.adobe.com
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Ode To A Walk
By Yash Seyedbagheri
feet meander through warm dirt
around curved hillsides
up, down
up again
down, down
pines rise, row after row
a cathedral
without end
on I climb
mist falling over the hills across the valley
silver shrouds hanging,
as if frozen in time
and I climb a little slower
absorbing the verdancy
as it mingles with dirt
the distant roads
where a lone truck ambles
home, to the bar
a speck moving along
a vast valley smiles
homes popping out from pines
my feet slow
am I walking?
Steven—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 18 | 10

Water Lilies
By Emory D. Jones
In this mode, Monet was the master—
his Bridge over a Pond of Water Lilies
is a perfect piece of suffused light.
Background foliage drooping, weeping,
dipping leaf tips in the warm water
centered on a graceful arch of bridge;
blue-green water shimmering
with gold flecks
splashed with black-green pads
and delicate white flowers—
we feel the warm sun,
the caress of gentle breeze.
Thank you, Claude.
Massimo Santi—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 18 | 11

A Stand of Conifers
By Miriam Edelson
I
magine my surprise! I arrived at the lake to find
a brand new road crosscut against our property,
running practically straight up to the new
structure above. A strip laid bare, right on the
property line next to our building. Razed earth. It was
ugly but, moreover, it occurred to me that there could
be noise coming from the cottage above, that the new
road would ferry in comings and goings of untold
proportion. And so, I looked for a solution.
I found one in the forest itself. By planting tiny
evergreen seedlings alongside the old gravel road, I
could eventually block sound and view. Today, more
than seventeen years later, the pine and spruce
seedlings are thirty-foot trees. They form a rustling
canopy, sheltering the cottage from any noise that
might escape the occasional passing vehicle.
It wasn’t a matter of conflict with the neighbours – we
get along well. No, it was a practical matter. Of noise.
Of privacy. The modest stand of conifers has
graciously played its role well in the intervening years.
Inside the cottage we are cozy, poised for rest and
work. Taking meals with the view of lake and forest
we feast on local ingredients, enjoying nature’s
bounty. The rustic pine table is big enough to sit eight
comfortably. It sprawls in the area once a screened-in
porch, now rebuilt into a room with windows that open
onto the lake and forest. The table is covered with blue
and green woven placemats that set off its honeygolden
hue. Sometimes it’s just me, while often we’re
two or three and, on occasion, several more gathering
around. There is something in its sturdiness that
encourages the sharing of pleasure, of friendship. The
cast of characters changes with each passing week; the
table, in its constancy, endures as witness.
In these Covidian times, I am reminded how special
those shared meals were. Easy melding of friends,
family, enjoying good food and fellowship. I wonder
what this cottage season will bring? I recall that as a
young woman, many years before a shelter graced the
property, I sat and watched by the sunlit rock, astride a
still-watered lake. Covered with soft green moss, the
rock anchors cedar trees with their majestic crowns. A
fresh, almost citrus odor wafts from the cedar fronds,
reaching me below.
Sitting on the rock, in the indented space I claim as my
own, I am sunbaked and naked. I chase away the odd
fisherman in my brazen nudity. As I feel the mossy
texture beneath me, the water now churns amid the
fishing boat’s wake. In the distance, a small island
beckons. It sports one lone, spindly pine. The island is
always named for the youngest visitor to the lake. To
give the power of place to the children and gather hope
in their outstretched hands.
As always, this place offers up the quiet for reflective
practice, for writing. Two decades ago, I charged my
laptop on a marine battery, red and black cables
spilling akimbo, to create a memoir about my son’s
short and difficult life. Now, having harnessed solar
energy, I am able to write night and day. Power and
light now accompany even the most blustery, sodden
days of late autumn.
It’s a treasured existence. Quiet yet connected. My
writing thrives in this stillness, it nurtures my soul. I
don’t want to lose these days of contemplation.
Surrounded by the towering stand of conifers, I am
grateful for peace it brings.
Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 18 | 12

Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 18 | 13
rruntsch—stock.adobe.com

Haiku Sequence
By Emory D. Jones
Yellow butterflies
Flitting across green meadows
Like dancing sunshine
The insect monarchs
Skimming with orange and black wings
Holding court in spring.
Butterflies resting
In the shade of the oak trees
Like forest jewels.
Spring sunshine warms
The cocoon on the tree branch
Butterfly will hatch.
vuliachupina—stock.adobe.com
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FOREST SHADOWS
By Emory D. Jones
(An Ae freslighe poem)
Mingled sunlight’s shivering
On forest’s lush, greening floor
It’s almost like quivering
As the sunlight’s preening more
Leafy shadows covering
Speckled grass in shadow
Like butterflies hovering
In the sunlight’s golden glow.
The scene is so rewarding
To any who love the drift
It’s like the Lord awarding
A big forest shadows gift.
nirutft—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 18| 15

SUNSET
By Emory D. Jones
Fiery orange ball
Approaching western horizon
Flickering among the cumulus
Sending sunshafts
In glorious haloes
And seeming to touch
The earth
Sending up reds
And oranges
And deep purples
Against the clouds
Fading into night.
onzon—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 17 | 16

Under the Overhang
Duncan Hoag
The rain was unexpected as it flew down
in fat drops between the buildings
A brief scramble, as if heeding an air raid siren
and then we’re stuck under the overhang of a subway station
Mothers with strollers huddle beside old men out for a stroll
Men with briefcases stand, hoping the downpour will be brief
Their faces are impatient or calm or pensive
The rain stops and this brief union of strangers dissipates
never to be seen together again
There might have been a beauty there, the kind you must imagine
not obvious, like a whirling thunderstorm or a serene vista
or a rosy-fingered dawn
Sometimes the goodness you project
is the best of what you can find
Carlos Caetano—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days -- 2020 Issue 18 17 | | 17 17

Poet’s Garden
By Stella Mazur Preda
dig for thoughts
plant words prune phrases
weed out redundancy
cultivate creativity
revisions nurture growth
we listen — voices spark the mind
imagery and metaphors thrive
produce early buds
blossoms open
blend together
colours of language …
the poems within revealed
Geraldine Dukes | Pixabay.com
Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 18 | 18

A Gift
by Stella Mazur Preda
The butterfly lingered
clinging to a blade of grass
opalescent velvet wings
statuesque in the gentle breeze
tenderly I caressed
Nature’s fragile mystery, then
pirouetting, she choreographed
a dance across the sky.
Laura Pashkevich—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 18 | 19

Silver Lake
by Stella Mazur Preda
Stillness laps ragged shores
washes over sleek boulders
burrows deep in fossil rocks
Tethered to a dock long since the feast
of voracious termite colonies
a lipstick-red canoe kisses shallow waters
Red-gold leaves ornament maple branches
as sunbeams ricochet off the lazy lake
My camera clicks rhythmically
surreptitiously ogling nature’s bedroom
Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 17 | 20
Daniel Thornberg—stock. adobe.com

The Waves Within
By Milton Ehrlich
I listen to roaring waves
of whitecaps in the sea
churning inside of me
especially as they crash
on my old white bones—
yet at many other times
grow as silent as a pond
covered in a sheet of glass
without a hint of any wind
like a smiling sated infant
who basks in a state of bliss.
Andrew—stock. adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2020 || Issue 18 | 21

Full Bloom
By Steven Tutino
My two magnificent prune trees are in full bloom. There is a purity and innocence in the
striking combination of green and white against the backdrop of a clear baby blue sky. Angelic,
calming and soothing. In the past, I’ve probably never thought twice about it, but this year, of
course, with the current pandemic, things are different and I find myself appreciating the simple
things, the small things, the things which are in front of us everyday which we so often take for
granted – in my case, the wonders of nature. A message of HOPE.
Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 18 | 22
c Steven Tutino

The Floating Experiment
By R. Gerry Fabian
Take me slowly and carefully to your lilacs
So I may watch them bloom at this the peak
Of what we have so cautiously planted.
From the door yard, I smell the fragrance
That has become the union of our natural love.
You own the spring and ignite each separate bloom
While I have tended every bud into blossom.
It is a southern breeze that sets us in motion
Until we become the very essence of the air.
Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 18 | 22
alexaphotoua—stock.adobe.com

The Closest Place to Home
By Sarah Fairbanks
A
s the sun rises, light spreads through the
camp, eventually reaching the back room
where I lay in peaceful slumber. Opening
my eyes, I deeply inhale the earthiness of
the uninsulated wooden walls, which keep me closely
connected to the natural world. I allow the sun to pull
me upright and through the front wall of windows the
lake spreads out before me and my heart begins to
sing.
"Ping," an acorn bombs the roof; "Pitter patter,"
sound the chipmunk's scampering feet. Now fully
alert, I swing out of bed, excited to start another day at
the lake. As I cross the front room, the worn wooden
floor gently receives each footfall. Reaching the door,
I step outside and as I start down the stairs, the
slickness of the dew-laden steps alerts my body to take
them slowly. I move towards the outhouse, each step
placed carefully to navigate the minefield of acorns
safely.
Upon returning to the camp unharmed, I open the
drawer that houses the coffee mugs, causing them to
clank symphonically against one another. “Snap,”
goes the cap on the plastic water bottle. “Glug glug,”
sounds the water as I pour it into the back of the
machine. “Pop,” the pod is in place.
I step out onto the small landing atop the stairs to
brush my teeth while gazing at the lake and waiting
for my coffee to brew. I scan the neighbor’s yard,
hoping they have not arrived in the night, never
knowing when they will be there. Some visits are
quiet while others are not. Lake life forces me to
adapt.
Moments later, the freshly brewed coffee beckons
me inside as it permeates my wooden retreat. Pouring
a cup, I grab a book and return outside. Heading to the
peninsula on the right side of the property, I pass the
hammock and kayaks, stepping through the circle of
tall pine trees that surround the fire pit, arriving at the
edge of the lake. I plop down on a lounge chair and
gaze out at the water, the view unobstructed. Other
than the occasional bark, the lake remains quiet, it
being too early for speed boats and loud child’s play.
The water moves gently, occasionally lapping the
shores, rocking me into a meditative state which
triggers a trip down memory lane.
This lake has been a part of my life since
inception. My mom, aunt and uncle grew up on
Stodge Meadow. My uncle now lives in my
grandparent’s old house which is two doors down
from the camp. Days began by clamoring into bed
with Nana and Grandpa and ended with Grandpa
serenading us with his harmonica. My mouth goes dry
as I recall the Swedish hardtack bread that Nana often
served for a snack. Scenes from “Star Wars” and
“Anne of Green Gables” rush before my eyes as I
recite lines from the only movies they owned. I see my
younger self standing on the lower lawn, the silky
American flag in my hand. Grandpa nods, our nightly
ritual begins. We fold the flag in half simultaneously,
twice. Next, I fold one of my corners down and
carefully make my way to him, fold by fold.
As an adult I have spent numerous summers here
filled with gales of laughter echoing off the lake
brought on by outlandish charading. Puzzled looks
and silence abounded as Alex Trebek reads an answer
from nana and grandpa’s 1950’s version of Jeopardy.
Cousinpoolozas born years after Nana and Grandpa
passed, entailing drinking and playing games around
the fire. Full-blown dance parties came into existence
in my uncle’s living room or my aunt’s side porch,
running the gamut from square dancing to 80s rock. I
can’t be sure that Nana would approve of this garish
behavior, but I know she would be happy we are all
together.
"Plunk.” “Splash." The resident ducks launch
themselves into the water causing me to jump,
depositing me back in the present. Grabbing my stuff,
I follow them, walking thru the grove of blueberry
bushes. Reaching the left peninsula, I walk out onto
the dock, water now almost completely surrounding
me, morphing into Lakshmi, floating upon a lily pad,
emanating peace.
One foot still in the past, I smile recalling hours of
blissful fun spent in the water as a child. A particular
summer tugs at me – the year an old piece of
Styrofoam floated into the cove. Every day my uncle,
brother and I attempted to balance on it
simultaneously. Hours passed in harmony, forever
reminding me that fun can be found with the simplest
things. Nowadays I am more likely to be caught
floating on a tube, beer in hand but similarities remain,
I am still in the water and I still get sunburned.
Subconsciously I place my hands on my shoulders.
While the sun is not yet at its full strength, it has
warmed me and I’m ready to cool off. Climbing down
the rungs of the ladder, I slowly enter the water.
Pushing away from the dock, I fully submerge myself.
Immediately my thoughts are silenced. The world
above is hidden. Peace and calm surround me and I
am cleansed, safe and happy.
As I begin to run out of breath, I say a silent prayer
and push towards the surface. My head exits the water
as I arch towards the sky. Water runs off my head and
my face, falling back into the lake. After repeating my
(Continued on page 26)
Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 17 | 24

Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 18 | 25
AC Photography—stock.adobe.com

(Continued from page 24)
ritual several times, I lazily swim to the dock.
Pulling myself up the ladder, I lay down on my
towel to dry off.
It dawns on me that it would have been
challenging to fight the hold the lake has on me as
lakes are a big part of Finnish life. Not only is the
lake chocked full of memories, but the love of
water is in my DNA: Finland filled with numerous
lakes and most households possessing a sauna.
Here in the New World, especially in central
Massachusetts, you often find groups of Finns who
relocated to a lake, building saunas and continuing
to run from its heat to the cold lake and then back
again.
As I am dozing off, the dock subtly vibrates as
footsteps land upon it. I raise my head, and hear,
“Hey Cuz, sorry to wake you. Can we borrow your
kayaks?”
“You bet,” I reply sitting up. “Wanna hike Mt
Hunger when you return?”
“Absolutely,” he replies as I head inside the
camp to retrieve the oars.
After watching my cousin and his friend push
off, I scan the yard, noticing a few games that
weren’t put away and a couple of bottle caps that
didn’t get picked up. Bending to retrieve them, I
laugh as I recall yesterday’s intense gaming
session. "Woosh," the birdy whizzes past me,
almost clipping my ear. “Boom,” the frisbee slams
into the side of the plastic tub before flopping onto
the ground. “Bam,” a stub of birch sings as it is
flattened, followed by cheers because another
game of Molki has been won.
My task complete, I happily retrieve my book
and move to the circular nook that sits between the
camp and the dock. Blueberry bushes provide
privacy and the overhanging boughs, a bit of
shade. As I sit, once again I am drawn to the water
because though my permanent address is
elsewhere, sitting lakeside in Ashburnham feels
like a Homecoming. The lake as close as I have
gotten to having a home town because it is the one
place, in all my traveling as a military child, that
we always returned to.
Eventually opening my book, over an hour
passes reading. The only interruption occurs when
my stomach grumbles and I get up in search of
food. Another hour later, my cousin returns,
having gathered a few more cousins along the
way. We head off to hike, following the same trail
our grandparents took when leading our parents on
Sunday afternoon excursions.
An hour later, having conquered Mt Hunger
once again, I return to the camp while my cousins
head to their respective homes. I immediately
jump into the lake, the cool water soothing and
relieving the aches and pains obtained on the hike.
The light begins to fade as I extract myself from
the water, reluctantly accepting that another day is
at a close. I head inside to change and then walk
over to my Uncle’s for dinner.
Buffet style or more formal, inside or out, we
gather and eat in comfort and unabashed abandon.
Each of us having thoroughly enjoyed another day
at the lake. As the last dessert plate is emptied, the
Elders attempt to stifle their yawns, but the
Youngins have caught them. We say good night to
the Elders and move to the fire pit after loading up
on beers. The electronic hot potato is passed from
person to person as we holler out answers.
Someone plays DJ and turns up the tunes.
Requests are made and Phil Collins always stops
by. One by one, people begin to fade. The group
diminishes until it is just me and the sky.
Making sure the embers are out, I walk to the
dock and look up at the sky. The stars shine
brighter here than at home, they are vivid and
vibrant. I sit down on the dock, regretting all the
food I ate but overflowing with peace, as tranquil
as the calm lake, now devoid of swimmers and
speed boats. Eventually the cooler air or mosquitos
chase me indoors. Before they do, I take one more
look at the lake and the stars, taking a deep breath,
filling my lungs with their grace. Grateful that my
parents bought this camp and with it, access to the
lake and a foothold to my heritage. Grateful there
is no internet, no cable, no cell phone access here.
It is back to basics, just me and the water and the
stars.
Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 18 | 26

Halcyon Days - 2020 Issue 18 | 27