About the Author:
Conner McCoy is a marketing writer at Fact Water Co., using his love of the english language to craft web pages, blogs, emails, and anything else that needs written. In his free time, Conner enjoys hiking, reading, writing, gaming, playing most raquet sports, and relaxing with a big mug of fresh-brewed coffee.
The Lake House
I hate mornings.
I’ve been a night owl for as long as I can remember: always challenging my own circadian rhythm, seeing how far I could stretch the meaning of the word night before the word morning became more appropriate.
But some things in life are worth waking up early for. Some things in life are even worth waking up for at dawn. And a few things – some very, very few life-changing, earth-shaking, momentous occasions are worth waking up long before the sun even has the chance to curl its finger-like rays over the distant horizon.
I don’t remember waking up on that day. My head was in a cloud the whole time I was getting ready, as if I were still carrying a dream on my shoulders. I vaguely recall slinking into the kitchen, the smell of instant coffee, possibly a breakfast bar, but most of my memory begins with opening the door.
I remember because it was cold. Stepping out of my warm home meant stepping out of my half-sleep state and into the brisk reality of a November morning. My body’s autopilot shut off, and I quickly snapped into consciousness. I scurried to the car and leaped into the driver’s seat of my 2014 Subaru Crosstrek. I could see my breath as I fumbled the key into the ignition. I shivered as I clicked on the defrosters, waiting for the window frost to fade away.
Everything had been packed the day before, but I went over a mental checklist about a hundred times just to be safe. Clothes? Check. Suit, tie, and dress shoes? Check. Toothbrush? I could get one there.
Once I was satisfied that my inventory was accounted for, all that was left was the drive. A long stretch of highway stood between me and my destination, and that meant a lot of time to think.
It was strange to be driving so early. Roads that were built to accommodate peak hour traffic were silent and empty. Cones of orange light from street lamps flooded onto the asphalt in glowing pools. The shadowy silhouettes of leaves in the trees outside our neighborhood danced like ghosts against the inky sky.
I wondered what my life would be like when I came back home. Would it be different? Would I be different? It was the biggest weekend of my life, but when I made the drive back home, would it just feel like a normal Saturday?
I turned the radio on to drown out the silence.
Lake Lanier straddles the state line between the two small towns of Tryon, North Carolina, and Landrum, South Carolina.
It’s a man-made lake, originating in 1925. Two natural springs feed it a continuous supply of water, and a small dam at one end keeps the water level steady throughout the year. Prior to being a private body of water, the lake was farmland. There’s even a marker indicating the location of where a stone silo still stands a few feet under the water’s surface.
Around the lake is a whole lot of nature. Trees tower over the winding, curving roads, alongside which houses are rooted into the landscape, obscured by dense foliage. There are no straight lines there, only the inconsistent randomness of roots and vines, bushes and bramble.
At one point in its history, Lake Lanier was well known as an off-the-path gem of old-fashioned hospitality. A tea house built right on the waterfront was visited by no less than three United States presidents, and at least two famous authors, including F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Lake Lanier is a respite – an oasis where families and friends can come together in nature and let their worries melt away. The long-forgotten farmland deep under the water still grows something special in the form of tranquility. For the easy-going folks floating high above on the water’s surface, Lake Lanier is a moment of calm in a world full of storms. A place where mankind and the natural world intersect. A hidden paradise where mystery and magic still linger in the water.
I never appreciated my family’s lakehouse.
I was twelve when my parents signed the deed, and like most virulent adolescents I could not have cared less. I was more absorbed with the latest video games, TV shows, and middle-school ennui to care about someplace that didn’t even have Wi-Fi.
Who cared if there was a big water-logged hole in the ground nearby? How was the dirty water of a lake any better than the crystal-clear water of the local swimming pool?
But over the years, I began to appreciate the privilege that a vacation home represents.
Don’t get me wrong, the lake house isn’t fancy. There are some mansions overlooking the lake, but my family’s second home isn’t one of those. It’s a modest two-story single-family home that wouldn’t look out of place in any given Middle-American suburb. The key difference, of course, is the detached boathouse that gives our property a sliver of access to the water.
That slice of marine serenity is what it’s all about.
I had just arrived at the main house, with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, crouched on the front porch, looking for the hidden key under the “Better at the Lake!” welcome mat. My legs and back were sore after the long drive, but I ignored the aches. It was going to be a long day and I was happy to suck it up on this occasion.
Looking up at the big red front door, I thought, There she is, waiting for me like always. Patient and ready to receive a weary traveler with hospitality.
I had just found the hidden key when the door opened of its own accord.
“I thought I heard your car pull up,” Allison said as she helped me to my feet. We hugged and she led the way inside.
The Lake house was in chaos.
Boxes of party supplies were spilling into several rooms. Half-constructed decorations and accoutrement were covering the floor. Ribbon and lace and plates and cups were slapdash over every inch of counter space. Allison already had tape and glue on all her fingers.
“How’s it going?” I asked, careful not to couch anything, as if I might contaminate the crime scene.
Allison smiled sarcastically. “Oh, it’s going. It might be going off the rails, but at least it’s going.” She sat down in the one free chair and sighed.
“We’ll get there. Only one more day.” We exchanged a smile and I got to work helping.
The rest of the day was a blur. I did more in that twenty-four hours than I had ever done in a day before. I felt like a pinball, bouncing from one place to the next, completing tasks, picking up necessities, meeting and greeting relatives and out-of-town friends. As soon as I finished one thing, I’d get a call to go help with another, sometimes pulled in two or three directions at once.
At one point I managed to slip away and find Allison again, miraculously when she was also free. She was by herself looking through a spreadsheet she’d made on her laptop. I could tell at a glance that she was overwhelmed. I knew she had memorized that spreadsheet already, that her perfectionist personality would have kept a never-ending checklist in her head. She was only typing to distract herself and ease her nerves.
Allison and I are both good at catastrophizing – jumping to the worst-case scenario in our heads with little to no provocation. I wondered what apocalyptic plot was playing out in her mind. What unseen slight could she see snowballing into the utter destruction of all she held dear?
She wouldn’t say. Not because she didn’t want to vent, but because she didn’t want to upset anyone else or somehow mar the sentiment of the day.
“Do you want to go for a walk?” I asked.
She agreed and a few minutes later we were walking down Butter Street, neither of us speaking. I think we were too worn out to form coherent sentences.
I could see from the way she was looking at her feet that something was still on her mind. The gears in her head were turning too fast for too long. Mine were too. We’re both quiet people; both overthinkers. I could feel a tension in my brain like it was stretched too thin – a muscle attempting to lift too heavy a load. Her’s must have been even worse.
We reached a spot where an old house had been torn down a few months prior. I almost let us pass by without stopping. But I realized just in time and grabbed Allison’s hand.
We didn’t have to say it, but both us were thinking the same thing: “Wow.”
It was the prettiest time of year at the lake. The leaves were changing, and patches of vibrant yellows, fiery reds and mellow oranges spread out all around the surrounding cliffs and hills. In the distance, the silhouette of Hogback Mountain cradled the setting sun in the dip between its two round peaks. The lake stretched out before us, as still as glass, like it had never known a moment of disquiet.
We stood there for a while, just looking out over the water, and started chatting about little stuff, laughing at the mistakes we thought were catastrophic, but turned out to be nothing. When the sun started getting too low, we began the trek back so as not to lose the light completely.
The rest of the night was much easier. Allison went to the cabin at Songhill, and I went back to the Lakehouse. We both slept surprisingly well.
It was finally here; the big day.
I woke up early, but Allison has been up for some time before I even poured my first cup of coffee.
Thankfully, everything has been laid out for us. It had been a whirlwind getting it all ready, but that was so we wouldn’t have to worry about a thing on the day itself.
I dressed and went to the venue for pictures.
It felt so close now, but every minute stretched out to its fullest length so that time strolled by in slow motion. Every time I checked my watch, it felt like the second hand was stuck in place. It took hours for even just a few minutes to tick by.
When it was finally, finally time, my friends led me to the ceremony site.
The coordinator was already there, waving me into position.
My friends lined up on one side of me, the bridesmaids across the aisle.
The officiant asked me if I was ready, but I could barely speak to answer.
Songhill Resort, our venue, had a beautiful outdoor ceremony site in the mountains that angles slightly down towards the lake. The shimmering water far below formed the backdrop behind the altar.
A pair of free-standing wooden double doors stood symbolically at the entrance to the aisle. The crowd of our loved ones was silenced as “Here Comes the Bride” began.
I took a deep breath, and the doors opened wide. Behind them, Allison, my bride.
To us, it was the most important day of our lives. Nestled deep in the wooded mountains, overlooking a century-old lake, we found paradise. A day of unbridled bliss together. Our first memory of matrimonial elation.
To the lake, it was just another Saturday. Another seed, sunk to the bottom, waiting to bloom.