Ode to a Bygone Era
Growing up, we didn’t have a lot of extra money for vacations, so we would visit state parks, which were free. Our favorite was Lake Barkley in Cadiz, Kentucky. About four times a year we would rent a cabin for a long weekend and spend it hiking, fishing, swimming, and eating in the lodge for supper.
After supper, my dad would dig into his jeans pocket for a handful of quarters, which my older brother and I would feed into the arcade games downstairs, which were vintage even by ’90s standards.
I remember, as an adolescent, swimming on my back at night in the glowing blue pool and looking up at the massive beams holding up the lodge. I was more than grateful in that moment; I felt rich.
But now that I am older, I realize that that feeling of richness was actually contentment.
This weekend, our family met my parents at a state park about an hour from where we live. We ate supper in the lodge and then walked the grounds. Weeds sprouted where flowers had once bloomed; yellow sandstone buildings were weathered amber with age, and a rusty swing set was devoid of swings.
Granted, the park had two new playground sets for those who wanted to use them, and the land and water exhibited the kind of natural beauty that made one realize why the government had chosen the acreage in the first place, and yet beneath it all was the sense that an era was ending.
I felt melancholy on the way home. My parents had talked about having their 50th wedding anniversary on the flagstone patio that overlooked the lake. I could picture it all: the family and friends gathered from hither and yon; the music drifting in the mountain air; the hors d’oeuvres set up on tall cast iron round tables at the patio’s edge.
And then I remembered that we have lost three friends in the past month.
All a few years younger than my parents.
Eight years is a long time, but it also passes in a blink.
I don’t want my parents to grow older. I don’t want to grow older as well. I told my husband, “I remember when Lake Barkley got the fitness center. It had a sauna and an indoor pool that smelled of chlorine.” I did the math in my head and realized that that fitness center was now twenty years old.
If I visited again, I would see time’s passage.
It saddens me to see the state park buildings crumbling beneath the weight of a bygone era.
Will my children and my children’s children still get to pick a state park off the map and spend a long weekend hiking, fishing, swimming, and eating in the lodge?
Will my daughters be able to swim in a blue pool at night, with their hair streaming around them, and have their young hearts swell up with contentment?
I do not know what future the world holds for my children, but I do know that I would never begrudge my children the chance to live their seasons just so mine will never end.
Time passes. Mountains and buildings crumble. Trees fall in the forest and from their prone foliage another tree is born. Life continues is all its impenetrable, tangible beauty.
I want to hold on to the seasons with my family while knowing it’s through the seasons of time that new lives are born. I want to hold on to the season of time while knowing time, in eternity, will not end.
How do you stay present in your season? Where is your favorite place to bond as a family?