Each
summer my parents would take my brother and me to 'the lake' for our
two-week vacation. 'The lake' was different from year to year, one of
many lakes in the Whiteshell region of Eastern Manitoba, a couple of
hours from where we lived in Winnipeg, or a little further East on the
Ontario border at Lake of the Woods.
In 1965 I had just turned
fourteen, and my parents' choice that year was Green Bay Cabins on
Caddy Lake. It had not been a good year for me, and like a lot of
fourteen-year-olds I was pretty sullen. Two years earlier our cat
Blackie had disappeared a few days before we left for 'the lake' and I
had been distraught that my parents refused to cancel their vacation to
look for him. Now going to 'the lake' had become an annual reminder of
that trauma. That same year I had gotten my first glasses, and in the
past year my acne had worsened (this was before retinoin and even
tetracycline was prescribed for this condition). I hated myself, my
genes, and my dependence on my parents and their stupid traditions.
This
year two couples, best friends of my parents, had agreed to rendezvous
with us at Green Bay, and they had just arrived, their four children,
all younger than me, in tow. The cabin was full and noisy and
smoke-filled, and I took my transistor radio and fled, wandering down
by the rocks and along the tiny beach of the resort. My interest in
fishing with my father had disappeared, since I had concluded that the
barbed lures hurt the fish, but I still collected the lures, dozens of
them, displayed in my own tackle box.
As long as I could
remember I had collected things: Matchbox toys, bottle caps (if you
timed it right the pop vendors would give you full bags of them when
they emptied the machines), comic books (which I used to read and
re-read, and then re-sort in the order I like them, writing down the
lists with last week's and this week's ranking, just like the hit
parade charts). And of course '45' records, which we kept in
specially-designed boxes with handles so we could lug them to friends'
parties.
That year I'd bought Help Me Rhonda (Beach Boys, a
disappointment), My Girl (The Temptations), Mrs. Brown You've Got a
Lovely Daughter (Herman's Hermits), and my current favourite Tell Her
No (The Zombies). Because everyone else was buying Satisfaction and
every other Rolling Stones song, I refused to, just to be different. I
was still thinking about getting What the World Needs Now, which seemed
kind of wimpy to me, but I liked the message. The newest hit, one that
I couldn't get out of my head and which got airplay everywhere, even in
cottage country, was I Got You Babe, by Sonny & Cher. I was walking
along the rocks singing along with it (another insult in my life was
that my voice had changed the previous year, and my celebrated boy
soprano voice had given way to a warble that was missing half an
octave) and wishing it was dark so the more faraway radio stations
would start coming in, like WLS Chicago with its R&B songs, that I
listened to every night, the transistor playing through my pillow until
I fell asleep.
After I Got You Babe the cottage country radio
station played the inevitable campfire song, Michael Row the Boat
Ashore. I turned the radio around, trying to reduce the static, and
sang: "Like a rose upon the shore, alleluia". Suddenly a girl's voice
interrupted:
"It's not 'Like a rose upon the shore', silly, it's 'Michael row the boat ashore.'"
I spun around. She was about my age, maybe a year older, wearing jeans and an off-white fisherman's sweater. She was beautiful. She had breasts. And she was talking to me! I smiled, embarrassed, stunned.
"No it isn't.", I replied. "That doesn't make any sense. Who's 'Michael' and why would he be rowing ashore?"
She
giggled, delightfully. My heart was racing and I was dizzy. She
replied: "I don't know, but at camp we had all the words, and that's
what they were. It's religious or something." Then, after a pause, "I
liked you singing 'I Got You Babe' better."
I blushed. She'd been listening to me. "It's a better song. But it's kind of confusing because their voices are so similar it's hard to tell them apart".
We
introduced ourselves -- her name was Barbara -- and wandered across the
large rocks along the lakeshore. I was nervous, not knowing what to
talk about, so I went faster and faster, sometimes slipping in the
pools of water that had collected in the ridges of the rocks. It was
like a tacit dare to see if she would try to keep up with me, but she
did. At one point, I climbed onto a rock that was a couple of feet
higher than the one before it, and I offered my hand to help her up.
She accepted without hesitation. We were both breathless, and we
stopped and sat on this, the tallest rock. I stared at the lake, and
Barbara started telling me about lichens and other stuff she'd learned
from reading about biology.
For half an hour we sat cross-legged
facing each other and talking about different things, mostly subjects
she introduced. I hated myself for not knowing about anything
interesting, for not knowing how to tell jokes, for not putting my
Phisohex and my Acne cover-up cream on that morning. I tried not to
stare, but at the same time I tried to memorize everything about her,
not ever wanting to forget this moment or a single detail of her
features, especially her waist-length sun-bleached brown hair. I was
shaking, and it was not from the cool breeze coming in from the lake.
Then
Barbara said she had to go. They were packing -- this was the last day
of their week here, and I cursed my luck and my parents for not coming
a week earlier. But at the same time I was in a way relieved -- what
would I have found to talk to her about for a whole week?
She would have become bored and then I'd be even more miserable. She
touched my hand as she rose to go, and said: "Maybe I'll see you here
next year or something. Bye."
I rose and watched her go, taking in every nuance of the movement of her body, and smiled as she turned back and waved.
I
raced back to the cottage, elated, making a mental note of the date and
to ensure we returned to Green Bay a week earlier next year. I stood
looking out the window at the rock we'd been sitting on as my mother
offered me a Coke and some cheese and crackers.
"Who was your friend?", she asked. "You two seemed to be getting along very well together."
I
told my mother her name was Barbara and that she was just packing to
leave, and I moved away from the window to get some more cheese from
the tray, left over from the lunch that I'd missed.
"I can't
remember seeing you sit still for that long at one time. Is she from
Winnipeg, too?" my mother asked. "Did you get her address and telephone
number?"
"Mom, we just met", I replied. I was spinning around, pacing, sitting on the table kicking up my legs, singing:
Then put your little hand in mine
There ain't no hill or mountain we can't climb, Babe.
I got you babe, I got you babe.
I got you to hold my hand,
I got you to understand.
I got you to walk with me,
I got you to talk with me.
I got you to kiss goodnight...
"Well it wouldn't have done any harm to at least ask for her address. You don't know if you'll ever see her again."
She was right, of course, and this just made me feel worse. My mother was looking out the window.
"There she goes, I think", she said. "She's carrying her suitcase to the parking lot. Last chance to ask her."
Of
course I did not move. I stood there leaning against the table, staring
at the cheese, and trying to figure out what I could do, what I could
say, that would have any chance of ending up any better than our
already memorable parting. I came up empty. I was paralyzed, already
nostalgic. Pathetic.
For the next year I imagined what could
have been, what might be the next summer. I sang a hit from the
previous year "Wonderful Summer" in my head, and bought the '45' at a
used record sale:
I want to thank you for giving me
The most wonderful summer of my life
It was so heavenly
You meant the world to me
And anyone could see that I was so in love
I want to thank you for giving me
The most wonderful summer of my life
I never will forget
That summer day we met
You were so shy and yet you stole my heart away
We strolled along the sand
Walking hand in hand
Then you kissed me and I knew
That I would love you my whole life through
I want to thank you for giving me
The most wonderful summer of my life
And though it broke my heart
That day we had to part
I'll always thank you for giving me
The most wonderful summer of my life
At
my insistence, we took holidays the next year a week earlier, and
returned to Green Bay, but of course Barbara was not there. So I sang
all the bitter, cynical songs instead: "It Ain't Me Babe" by the
Turtles and "Like a Rolling Stone" by Bob Dylan.
Go lightly from the ledge, babe,
Go lightly on the ground.
I'm not the one you want, babe,
I will only let you down.
You say you're looking for someone
Who will promise never to part,
Someone to close his eyes for you,
Someone to close his heart,
Someone who will die for you and more,
But it ain't me, babe,
It ain't me you're looking for, babe.
(photo off the Internet by Chris Chin)
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MADE IN CANADA
trust your
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