The Buzz of Miche Bee: Canada Lake: The Introduction

When I was growing up, my grandparents had a camp on Canada Lake* in the southern Adirondacks. Every summer we would pack up the station wagon and head “up to the mountains” for a couple of months. Most years my grandmother’s sister, my Aunt Dorothy and her husband, Uncle Ed, would come with us. There were other relatives or friends who would come and stay for a few days here and there, and when I got older, I always brought a cousin or friend with me.

Our camp was on the channel. It had a dock, motor boat, canoe and sailboat. It did not have a telephone, television, mail delivery or hot running water. This is where I learned to swim, sail, waterski, paddle a canoe, explore, fish, catch salamanders, build forts, gamble, find beaver dams, love water lilies . . . and kiss. It was a magical place and a magical time of my life.

When I close my eyes I can see the sun shining on the lake, looking out over London Bridge. I can picture the local hermit, “Old Geoff,” who would walk down from some cabin hidden on Keane Mountain swinging his kettle as he went on his way to collect wild blueberries. I can hear my Uncle Ed whistling as he walked down to the water, collected some in his tiny bucket and washed his car. And then later, he would fall asleep and and we would all giggle as we looked out the window to see and hear him snoring.

I can hear Wanda and Walt’s bassett hounds howling at noon when the siren would go off at the volunteer fire department. And at the end of the day, the sound of Chink Arnst’s garbage truck coming over the bridge—which meant the fun would really start!

To say Chink was a character would be a vast understatement. He was my grandfather’s very best friend and a very big part of my childhood. I would imagine today I would find Chink a little scary. He was a heavy drinker, lifelong bachelor, had a horrible, loud smoker’s hack and drove a garbage truck. He was over six feet tall, and weighed about 110 pounds. I heard stories through the years that I was afraid of Chink until his mother’s funeral, at which I broke away from my grandmother, ran up to the front, stood next to Chink, and held his hand as tears poured down his cheeks. I was three. And I wouldn’t leave his side for the rest of the day. From then on, Chink was my pal.

I’ve also heard stories that he would calm me when I was teething by rubbing whiskey on my gums. My grandmother said she would cringe as she watched him, not because of the whiskey, but because she wasn’t sure how long it had been since he washed his hands. Which goes to show you two things. First, a little dirt didn’t kill me. Second, what a deep respect my grandmother had for people. She knew if she scolded this seventy-year-old man who was holding a baby in his arms for probably the first time in his life, she would humiliate him, and he would likely never try to care for or hold me again. I learned a great deal from my grandmother, my Oma.

to be continued . . .

*If you go to the Canada Lake website, the lower photo is of the channel and shows London Bridge. The boat with the red canvas cover is parked at "our" dock.