The Lake House. It was our weekend and holiday get away place. It allowed Shan to escape the task of managing one of the largest residence halls on campus and her own graduate program classes. It allowed me to escape the rigors of my Ph.D. program and teaching classes. Her parents had purchased the house a few years ago and it was a little more than an hour drive from campus. As you walked through the front doors, you stepped down into the extremely large and sunken living room covered with a shag carpet. The carpet was dated but I loved it and fell asleep on it way too many times. The entire back wall of the house consisted of windows which gave you a panoramic view of the wooded backyard, the small fishing dock which I had rebuilt the previous summer, the lake which reflected the blue north Texas sky, and the backyards of the houses across the lake. It was where we had held our wedding reception with our high school and college friends who had traveled so far to be with us and where all the neighbors brought food, friendship, love, and wishes for a happy life. It was where our first born child would celebrate his first birthday and feel the unconditional love of his grandmother and grandfather.
It was Thanksgiving and we were on our way to the lake house. A couple of Shan’s staff members were coming with us because they were unable to be with their families. As we had done so many times, we drove the two-lane country backroads of north Texas to get to the lake house. We drove past the farms and the small towns that somehow existed in the middle of nowhere. We drove past the place in the road where we had pulled over one afternoon when we saw a tornado that was much too close. We drove past the small bbq restaurant where we had our first dinner as newlyweds. Even though it was the day before Thanksgiving, I could see that the line for lunch stretched into the gravel parking lot.
I always loved getting to know Shan’s staff members. They were always talented and unique. Ruby was from Montana and was a gifted musician. She was one of those incredible people who was able to hear a song and immediately play it on the piano or guitar. She made herself right at home on the piano in the living room, took song requests, and serenaded us throughout the long weekend. She reminded me of my friend Sammy from high school (see my short story The Campout). Trish was originally from California and later that weekend I would find out that she was an exceptional artist. She had brought with her a large sketch pad with pens, colored pencils, and watercolor paint. Drawing and painting was her escape.
After getting our luggage into the house, I grabbed a Shiner Bock beer from the refrigerator, walked out to the fishing dock, and sat down. Ruby heard my extended sigh as she came out to the dock.
“I understand the sigh, this place is beautiful and so quiet. It’s home and home is with people you really know.” A minute or so later she asked, “You guys grew up in West Virginia didn’t you?
“Yes, different towns but we met in college. Her Dad grew up in West Virginia. He met Shan’s Mom while he was stationed in Texarkana with the army. They moved out here a few years ago and opened a furniture store. He had been the CEO of a local bank in a coal mining community and simply wanted a less stressful life. So they headed to Texas where Shan’s Mom had grown up. And here they are.”
“Do you miss West Virginia?”
“We still have relatives and many friends there and in many ways it will always be home but we both wanted to get out, see the world, and try to make our mark. So here we are.”
“I feel the same about Montana.”
We both heard Trish setting up her easel on the back porch. She was so excited to be able to spend the entire weekend drawing and painting. “Do you need some help?”
“No thanks, I got it. I now know why you and Shan sneak up here as much as possible.”
What was amazing is that we watched very little football that weekend. Most of it was spent talking and getting to know Ruby and Trish as they got to know us. We were either walking along the lake, fishing from the dock, eating, giving Ruby song requests, or constantly trying to see the drawing/painting that Trish kept hidden from our prying eyes.
On Saturday night Ruby continued with her remarkable ability to play any song we named. Country, rock-n-roll, the blues, it didn’t matter. She finally turned to all of us, “Well, thank you for making me feel a part of your family and for learning your personal stories. I hope you’ve gotten to know me a little better. You never know someone until you learn their story. So this song is for you.”
She started playing “Country Roads, Take me Home.” By the second time around we were all singing along and there wasn’t a dry eye in the lake house. Trish then unveiled her pen and ink, water color painting. It was her interpretation of the view from the living room of the backyard and the lake. It was beautiful. Shan’s Mom teared up when Trish said that it was a gift for her.
Over the years we lost touch with Ruby and Trish. I have no doubt Trish is still drawing or painting when she finds some spare time and Ruby is probably playing with some band on the weekends taking requests from the audience. Trish’s painting was framed and hung in the living room of the lake house until Shan’s parents were no longer with us. And when I hear John Denver on the radio singing “Country Roads, Take me Home” I still think of growing up in West Virginia but I first think of that Thanksgiving in the lake house.
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