I wrote this back in 2002 for an assignment. I believe it was to establish a sense of place by using all the senses. It couldn't be more than 500 words, although my first draft was over 2000 words since the memories just started flooding once I got going. I had to pare it down to the bones to fit into the allowed word count. I had to leave out most of the family interaction and the little traditions we've built up around the place, like the pop can races in the tiny canal and pools on the hill, and the frisbee games and Uncle Dee's awesome cookies. I also left out the humorous parts about the ride there in our sometimes working station wagon and Dad singing "The Hole In The Bottom Of The Sea", making up extra verses to make it last longer.
Salem Pond
Dad's Family had picnicked and canoed at Salem Pond at every Memorial Day since he was a baby. By the time I came along, Thirty two years later, the tradition was as set in stone as the worn epitaphs of the nearby cemeteries that we visited before the park.
Salem Park's main attraction was a sprawling tree-lined pond roughly shaped like a question mark. Bulging fresh mown hills and towering elms raining their seeds along the curving shores obscured three fourths of the view, making the pond look deceptively small from my seat in my uncle's rented tomato red canoe. Breezes rippled the water's surface in patches, disrupting the mirrored trees and snow-peaked mountains against the pale blue of the sky.
My bare feet tapped the half-inch of cold water at the canoe's bottom as I balanced the paddle across my bare knees and peered over the canoe's edge. Unable to see through the cloudy blue-green depths or even past the surface littered with feathery water plants ans floating algae. I caught my wavering reflection. My undulating smudged face grinned back at me as my long blond hair spilled over the thick padding of my of my glowing orange life jacket.
With Dad silently steering and paddling behind me, I straightened up, pushed my hair back behind my shoulders and gripped my paddle. Leaning up and dragging back, I pushed forward through the murky water with a rhythmic splush-slunk, splush-slunk. The acrid smell of pond scum rising to my nostrils and the occasional spray of bitter, stale water splashed my face and lips from my poorly aimed paddle.
The breeze blew strands of my hair into my mouth and my nose wrinkled in disgust as I caught the manure fragrance from a nearby farm. Dad and I paddled and splashed furiously forward and rounded the marsh grasses of the narrowing bend.
The canoe cut a shimmering waked behind us, crisscrossing endlessly with breeze ripples and waves from a line of eager ducklings following their mother.
Ahead was a high, bow-shaped footbridge with rust-splotched triangles of ironwork lacing its underside. Topside were fishermen, silently standing, their lines hanging down and swaying in the breeze with round half-red, half white floaters bobbing below.
Beyond the bridge the yellow-green weeping willows of the opposite shore hung their drooping limbs to the surface. I rested my now aching shoulders and again leaned over the side of the canoe. the sun glittered off the quivering waves. The depths were clearer here and through our surface shadow I could see our second long, twisted shadow on the uneven bottom, and the bubbling, boiling sand of natural springs.
We turned around, the heat waves danced up the air, wobbling the view. Sunshine beat down causing sweat and sunscreen to trickle down my forehead and sting my eyes. I blinked repeatedly and wiped my dripping face with my shirtsleeve. Sweat ran down the back of my neck. I lifted my hot, heavy hair for a cooling breath of wind. It was time to head back.
