The oak is old; it could be older than any of the oldest camps that line the eastern edge of the lake. Its expansive branches provide shade to the deck and much of the northern part of the cottage.
In the spring, just as its leaves are in bud, the area surrounding it is full of early life. Ramps run wild to be joined in high summer by wild onions, wood sorrel, plantains and such, each absorbing what sun peeks through the leaves of this ancient tree. A wild patch of lilies of the valley that has grown without plan perfumes the side of the deck with a marvelous scent that brings me back to the days when I danced the night away in crinolines and cotton sundresses where the music was saxophone forward and all things were possible.
I see that bottle of Muguet des bois on my long ago dresser – an adolescent vision of life, so honest yet full of that romance that comes with youth. All this conjured by the shade of an oak?
One of the oak’s branches hangs, shading the redwood picnic table which we inherited with the camp. Then it only had one bench. It still only has the one bench, but it has, in the sweet shade of the oak, been the place on hot summer days and nights where we could fix large jars of iced tea or Kool Aid to be dispensed into colorful plastic cups that were premiums from a gas station. It was the board on which we could lay out a picnic of my Mom’s potato salad, sweet corn, pickles and whatever we cooked on the grill. It’s a sturdy table that requires only a once-in-a-while restaining. The oak carries on without our attention.
You can divide the cottage surroundings in two. The one held in the embrace of the oak and the other offering the possibility of sunlight. I worked so hard to turn that possibility into a garden that would do the little cottage proud and come close to my mother’s garden. Some things grew and some didn’t. There were roses that climbed a trellis with an almost reluctance since they were on the edge of the oak’s shadow. Their blooms were hesitant, without scent and short lived. But the day lilies bloomed with gusto, while the echinacea and marigolds didn’t fare well. You could watch the transplanted marigolds get smaller every day, finally disappearing in a green mush.
From time to time, we found the beginnings of wild black raspberry vines, but they never expanded to what we hoped for. The hostas did exceptionally well as did the vinca minor. And the wild sweet peas were an annual invasion. We had flowers in that garden, but only according to the mysterious whim of mother nature.
I accepted the ebb and flow of the gardens. It was then, and continues to be, a learning opportunity. As I learned, and sometimes watched plants wither away for some unknown reason, I always had my redemption – my impatiens. Each spring under the newly leafed oak, I would plant flats of impatiens in 10 window boxes, six along the front of the deck, one under the kitchen window and three below the bedroom windows that are always in the shade of the roof overhang. They would start as the tiny plants, slowly growing and filling in as the days lengthened until the calendar says that it is August, when they reach their peak of glory. Neither deep shade or bright sun or whatever else mediates what grows interferes with these. They make me smile even as I acknowledge that, with the beginning of August, the summer song at our cottage changes. There will still be iced tea and grilled food, wet towels and lazy afternoons, but along with these things comes the knowledge that nature brings an ending to them.
It’s been eons since I danced in summer frocks on lantern-lit floors, years flying by as my children have grown and given us grandsons, who in their times will dance in their own ways in their summers to come. Still, the years all connect as the summer wanes the way it always does.
And, as always, the venerable oak has something to contribute, showering us with memory prompts in the form of acorns, the delight of my youngest grandsons and the reminder to those of us who know, summer will soon be over.
