Out at the lake
On a fine summer day at Lake Sutherland - the little lake on the peninsula surrounded by little private docks and split level miniature mansions sold for scenic windows - the canary yellow float plane took a circle before running down the length of the water for lift off. The sun came down through filtering fir trees to tan the bikinied girls laying out in pairs where the boys on jet skis rode around a little closer, sending three or four wakes rolling against the pillars of the docks.
On a fine summer day at Lake Sutherland, a family of four raced a speed boat towing an inner tube of kids and a boomer couple kayaking by the bank paused their paddling to stare at me. I was coming down the bluff of trees hand over hand along a rigging rope in a half-repel. I came down the steep slope, then I took off my shoes and socks and rolled up my sap-splattered blue jeans and waded out into the water carrying a six-foot pole saw and a pair of red pruning shears. I waded in above my knees, bare-headed and long-haired, and took to cutting out and tearing up the suckers growing out of lake’s edge.
How’s it going? my foreman yelled down over the sound of a jumping jet ski and some screaming kids. Fine, I said, but I’d rather be at the lake.