Lotus Lake

“Excuse me,” I said.

The woman, who was attired in summer work clothes, gardening gloves, rolled-up sleeves, shorts, baseball cap and rubber boots and hosing-down her garage door turned to face me, the stranger in her driveway.

“What can I do for you?” she replied as she shut off the hose.

Her home, like the others we’d passed in the Chanhassen, Minnesota lakefront development Alan and I had randomly chosen to drive through, could grace any page in House Beautiful Magazine.  The manicured lawn, weed-free flower beds, and neatly trimmed bushes growing in freshly mulched beds reminded me of the hard work that many caring hands contributed to make my own Vermont yard and home look near perfect.

“I’m chasing memories,” I said and extended my hand toward hers.

After brief introductions, I explained that my grandparents had a house on Lotus Lake that I’d frequently visited as a youngster in the early 1950’s. While my college buddy and I were in Minneapolis to attend a couple of Twins games we’d decided to explore the region in hopes of finding the property that was the source of fond memories for me.

This wasn’t the undeveloped Y-shaped Lotus Lake of my early childhood, it was the same Lotus Lake, the one where hidden homes were connected by one party telephone lines, dense forests touched the waterline, and herds of goats and cattle roamed the upper pastures—an enchanting, rustic place for a little kid from suburban Westchester County, New York. The one where Lynngerlong, my mother’s parent’s home, sat atop one of those forested hills, a short run and tumble down a steep slope through fir and buckthorn trees and dense shrubbery to the water’s edge, was now a landscape of beautiful lakefront homes.

Nancy, almost on cue, recounted her own family’s story, a history with the lake that began in the late ‘50’s during summer outings but became permanent in 1979 when her parents built the house that she and her husband currently lived in, the home where they’d raised their family.

“The lakefront has changed since my earliest memories,” she said, “and certainly has since yours. Invite your friend over, park your car in our driveway while I go inside to get my husband, Marve, and then we’ll take a tour of the lake in our pontoon boat. Perhaps you’ll recognize the site where your grandparents house was located.”

Her offer caught me by surprise, and responding to my nonplussed expression, she continued, “We love any excuse to be on the lake, and Marve will regale you two with the lake’s history, and besides, we’re Minnesotans!”

As I walked to where Alan was waiting in the car, I recalled Eugene Peterson writing that “stories are verbal acts of hospitality.” 

Nancy disappeared into the house, Alan parked the car, and when she and Marve joined us another round of introductions occurred before they enthusiastically asked us to follow them to the boathouse. The canopy covering the slip accounted for some of the cleanliness of the floating dock, but the glistening cleats, polished pontoons, and shiny leather seats were the result of loving care and a boatman’s pride. Our hosts unhitched the lines, and then Marve assisted Nancy into the stern. Before boarding Marve suggested we sit in the bow where I’d have the best view of the lakefront, and after raising the Bimini Top he sat at the console and started the engine.

“Lotus Lake is considered a ‘deep lake’ because its maximum depth of twenty-six feet exceeds the fifteen foot standard,” Marve began as we cruised along the eastern shore, “and though it’s a small lake, bluegill, perch and walleye are plentiful but so too are invasive species like carp and Eurasian watermilfoil—the latter perhaps not present when your family resided on the lake.”

His recitation of the lake’s history was informative and captivating. During the tour around the perimeter his appropriate narration was always accompanied by variations of: “Roger, if you see anything that looks familiar please say so, and we’ll go in for a closer look.”

My curiosity, as we traversed the clear and smooth waters, matched the sense of comfort and community instilled by their hospitality.

We were strangers, and they readily took us in, I thought.

“Those hillsides remind me of my grandparents’ property,” I said pointing to the southwestern corner of the lake. “Just as it is now, I remember their lakefront networked with lotus lilies.”

Marve eased up on the throttle and headed closer to shore.

“When I was one year old,” I continued, “my mother’s younger brother Hollis, then twenty-six, drowned while swimming in the lake.” He was an adventurous child and young man who hiked, rode his bike like other kids his age, later became a Scout leader, ran a gift shop, and was much loved and respected. Though never seeing himself as a victim, he suffered the physical agony of being afflicted with Cerebral Palsy. The tragedy occurred on a Sunday afternoon during a smorgasbord picnic he’d organized for his father, mother, and the congregation of the Methodist church my grandfather pastored. I’ve seen black and white pictures of the celebratory event that turned tragic, and that lily-filled lagoon looks like the area they depict—the one in which I was forbidden to swim.

 On the hill’s crest a two-story stone house looked out over the lake from the top of a steep, manicured slope that I recalled being covered with shrubs and trees. “That property may be the one,” I volunteered, “and off to the right of the current house was an opening in the forest my grandparents called the Gehenna—a place my grandfather and I went to compost and pound used tin cans flat for more efficient garbage disposal.” I paused, momentarily caught off guard by the tightness in my throat, then continued. “On the other side of my grandparent’s house,” I pointed to an area now occupied by a stone out building, “was Hollis’ wishing well, a vine and flower decked hallowed place that grandma Ofstie went to every morning. The first time I joined her she gave me a penny and suggested I make a silent wish, say a prayer, then pitch the penny into the well. This became a daily practice whenever I visited.”

Though this was now developed I could still feel the excitement and magic of those summer visits with my grandparents when the area was wooded and mysterious. I told Nancy and Marve how seeing this place rekindled my child’s imagination to weave narratives about lake monsters taking my uncle’s life and trolls hiding among the fir trees waiting to snatch little boys. But it was also the home where my grandfather and I sat for hours on their screened-in porch playing Chinese Checkers, a game he’d taught Hollis too. And he frequently mentioned, with a loving wink, that I was as good if not better than both he and my uncle, praise I relished whether it was true or not. Those times, the warm and happy moments at that time on this lake, helped shape the boy I was.

Nancy and Marve nodded and smiled. He shut off the engine, reached out to hold Nancy’s hand, looked at her and said, “I hope our children and grandkids feel the same.”

“You know they do,” she replied.

We lingered awhile on the still waters outside the small lagoon, and then resumed our tour of the lake. As I looked back over the stern of the pontoon boat toward the stone house on the hill I could visualize the memories of a long time passed, but now burnished anew by the warmth and friendliness I felt in the presence of this couple, two people I’d probably never see again but whose kindness would not be forgotten.

The four of us parted ways shortly thereafter and did so expressing our shared enjoyment and gratitude for the chance meeting.

Later, driving back to Minneapolis with Alan at the wheel, my thoughts in wonderful kaleidoscopic disarray, Maya Angelou’s words occurred to me: “People will forget what you said, people [may] forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

She was and continues to be right.

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