Although a good distance from other homes and a couple of miles from anywhere, all I had to do was sit back and listen to the sounds of life happening all around: the Northwestern train keeping to its schedule, the Cliff Swallows swooping to their nests, the harbor’s baritone foghorn warning boats buried in the mist.
Even the sailors at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center to the north chimed in, daily drilling up and down the parade grounds, grunting, rhyming, singing, marching.
Their cadence hovering in the air like ancient tribal chants.
Some summer days, I’d lay on the lawn overlooking the lake, close my eyes and take great comfort in the familiar sounds of the sailors’ strong, low voices and the marching band practicing its spirited battle hymns; miles away, but strong and clear, carried to my ears by the lake winds cutting through the thick air that smelled of fresh cut lawn and freshwater fish.
Such lazy, summer days, watching thunderstorms roll across the lake, exploding like silver-white fireworks and fireflies lighting the night with their flashy mating calls, assuring one of life within the pitch-black woods.
Long days invading nights and late nights of Ghost in the Graveyard and Sardines, leading to a world of different hiding places where we squatted, whispering above the crickets and cicadas charging the nights with their own measured songs.
Each Fourth of July, after we tired of fighting the local crowds, we’d stand at the edge of the bluff, with the comforts of home just steps away and watch the fireworks from Chicago to Waukegan, “Ooohing" and “Ahhing", mimicking the crowds miles away and slapping at mosquitoes determined to disturb our private celebration.
Mom would unfreeze boxes of brats and burgers to feed a small army, which would eventually arrive with empty stomachs and pockets full of bottle rockets, sparklers and Roman candles ample enough to light the skies and disturb our quiet neighbors long after the distant celebrations had ended.
These school-free, care-free days lingered.
But never long enough.
Days when we’d climb up and down the bluff where the path used to be, before the lake rose and stole chunks of land, leaving little but sand and swallow’s nests and killer ledges for daring leaps by reckless kids who took to the skies, then aimed for the beach.
Planting our feet (and our asses) in the soft, thick sand - hot on the surface, damp and cool just below. Wriggling toes further into the moist earth before bounding forward again, all the way down the bare-walled bluff, to a rugged line of boulders Dad had dropped on the beach in his failed fight against this inland sea.
Warm, still nights with a moon so bright we could see our way down the bluff to the beach and wade into the glassy water up to our chests. Swimming further from shore, feeling strange patches of warm in the perpetually cold lake, I’d scan the sparsely lit shoreline for signs of life, then turn to the dark of the calm, quiet water and wonder what lurked just below my feet.
Then I’d look to a sibling to put me at ease and swim closer until I could see their smile in the moonlit night and feel the motion of their strokes in the water.
Endless days spent layered in sand and chlorine. Brown and blissful.
Sleeping until noon, or the smell of breakfast cooking made it to your room.
Or your class schedule arrived in the mail.
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