My Year, Made.

I have something that probably doesn’t mean much to most of you but means the WORLD to me.

Christie and I had a strange realization about a year ago when we discovered that we both spent a large amount of our childhood summers in Amery, visiting our grandparents (hers, who still live there and mine, who moved away five years or so ago) and that it was very likely that we were in Amery at the same time at one point before we knew each other. We’re both pretty sure we would not have been friends, though.  I was too awesome and she was too nerdy.

The place where my grandparents used to live is the setting for a vast majority of my most warm, fuzzy, squishy, lovely, awesome childhood memories. And that’s probably the reason I still secretly, painfully yearn for the days back at The Lake Home,  with the paddle boat and the hammock and the fresh caught fish and the sunny mornings waking up in the guest cottage and thumping down the big wooden steps and through the cold, dewy lawn to eat pancakes shaped like whatever you could possibly come up with to ask Grandpa to make. I could make that run-on sentence even run-on-ier with memories from baby duck chasing to the feeling of the carpet in the guest cottage. I’ll stop here, though.

[Me, a child, being too cute for words.]

Anyway, last weekend Christie and I spent our Sunday in Amery visiting her grandma. At a break in the day, I begged Christie to drive with me to go see if we can find The Lake Home where my grandparents used to live. She granted this to me, and we went out searching around the lake. Five minutes into our trip, things started looking quite familiar. Three minutes later, we pulled into the driveway. My heart was seriously beating through my chest.

I called up my grandparents to tell them where we were. “We’re pretty good friends with the owners,” they said, “go ahead and knock on the door.” The really didn’t have to tell me that; I was fully ready to knock on the door, introduce myself, and demand a tour so I could see everything from my childhood, tell every story I can possibly remember and probably cry a little bit, but no one was home.

“Well, whatever,” I said, “I’m looking around anyway.”

(The three kids—now adults—who spent their childhood along side of me would do the exact same.)

Almost everything was as I remember it. Even down to the stepping stones and the smell of the lake, to the feeling of the ground. If I had taken my camera, every one of those nostalgic tidbits would be captured and posted, but since Christie and I only had our cell phones, our only option were those, which I desperately want you to see. So desperately, in fact, that I’m willing to share some pictures with me in them, which I have never done on this blog before.

[Happy. As. A. Clam.]

I can’t tell you, I can’t tell you, how happy this made me. This may have been big enough that it actually made my entire year.

Now watch as the owners stumble upon this blog and say, “Hey! That’s our house! This guy was taking pictures on our property!”

I don’t care, owners. This is my place too.