The Woods
Behind the lake were woods where the four of us would build forts that took entire afternoons. We scraped up fallen pine needles into outlines of walls and doors that would become a sort of blueprint on the forest floor for a house, and usually we would create a few. We harvested leaves and sticks to create crooked lean-to’s, determined to make one of the structures last the whole summer.
The woods were full of paths and narrow trails that we could drive our golf cart through, but many more times we chose to walk and explore on foot. The pine trees rose with long ladder-like branches begging us to climb, and mushrooms and berries were sprinkled around, each one a quiet question about whether it might be edible.
One particular visit close to the start of school, David arrived with a brand-new pair of white sneakers. While we were exploring deeper in the woods than usual, he stepped into a swampy patch and lost one shoe completely, sucked straight into the quicksand-like mud. It took all four of us and a long stick to get it out. We dragged it back to my house and tried washing it with a hose, but the damage was done.
When he returned home, his grandmother was furious. But even then, David had a way of explaining himself, of softening the edges of trouble until it no longer seemed quite so sharp.
Houdini
One of our favorite games we invented was something we jokingly called Houdini.
It could be a sort of escape game on its own, but we usually combined it with hide-and-seek. Generally it was David or I (because Marie and Kara were younger and would get frustrated) that would tie one or the other to the flagpole in his grandparents front yard while the others ran off to hide. The goal was to escape as fast as possible to give everyone else less time to hide, and then find everyone. David always escaped faster than I did, and when it was his turn, he would ridiculously chant “Houdini, Houdini” over and over while untying himself. And it was hysterical.
I remember how hard I laughed, and how effortlessly he always escaped. At the time, I just thought he was funny. Later in life, he would tell me that even then, he lived to make me laugh. Only much later would I realize it wasn’t just the jokes or the raps or the tricks, it was him, and the way being with him made the world feel lighter, like something fragile and perfect had been quietly placed just for us.
Tin Boats
And then there was the lake itself.
The lake was endless in summer, endless in possibility. We spent hours swimming, perfecting cannonballs that made the biggest splash, floating on rafts until our arms ached and our lungs burned with laughter. But the tin boat, that was our real escape. Hours drifted by as we rowed to quiet coves, explored hidden inlets, or simply let the current carry us, the oars dipping and rising in rhythm. The sound of waves lapping against the side of the tin boat is etched deeply into my memory as one of my favorite, and most relaxing sounds. Sometimes the younger siblings joined, more often it was just the two of us. The lake became ours.
David almost never rowed. He never tugged at the ropes or steered. Those tasks always fell to me, and in fairness partly because I was so much more capable at it actually having lived on the lake. He would stretch out, relaxed, tossing in a fishing line, watching the sun glint across the water, as if the movement of the boat didn’t touch him at all. And I rowed. I rowed for us, through the sun and the quiet, through the coves and shallow edges of the lake, carrying both our weight and our laughter. At the time, it was a running joke, something we laughed about endlessly. Later in life, he would bring it back, saying, “I need you to keep rowing for us,” and I would realize that the rhythm we created as kids, the trust, the ease, the unspoken understanding, had been the first shape of our connection.
It was a running joke between us. At the time, it felt harmless. It became a familiar rhythm, simple and effortless, like the lake itself. I didn’t question it then. I only knew the ease of being together, the small perfection of those summer afternoons. But even now, I can see how the oars in my hands were never just for rowing the boat, they were a quiet blueprint of the way our hearts would lean on each other for decades.
Fireworks
But the best of all was the Fourth of July. It was my favorite holiday, and David and Kara were usually there for it. This is when the lake would really come alive, transforming itself into a giant stage for one giant Fourth of July party. Every house on the street had its own celebration, boats anchored in the middle of the water, people watching fireworks light up the shoreline in bursts of every color. The smell of barbecue drifted across the lake, mingling with the scent of sunscreen and bonfires. Laughter echoed from docks and boats, punctuated by pops and crackles of fireworks throughout the day and well into the night.
We collected snap pops, sparklers, Roman candles, and the pinwheel firework you nailed to the underside of a tree branch that would spin wildly when lit, flinging sparks in all directions. Bonfires burned along the shoreline, sending flickering reflections across the water. There were smores with toasted marshmallows, and fire roasted hot dogs. It was chaotic perfection.
And yet, even in all the chaos, there was still a private world between us. Time slowed on those nights. David and I would lie on the dock during the fireworks, staring up at the stars. The lake shimmered in the moonlight, still warm from the day, and the easy comfort of just being together made the world feel like it belonged entirely to us, if only for a little while.
As we grew older, we did that more often, just lying there, quiet, shoulder to shoulder. We didn’t need to talk. Being together was easy. Natural.
It felt like peace.
Someone I Used to Know 