This is not like one of my typical entries as I hand wrote it on July 6th and am only getting it online today. I thought it was worth sharing though as the week prior we shared our memories of Lois Barnes Hubbell Reed in a flotilla on the Lake during a lull in the rain. I've struggled to put my thoughts on her passing last October into writing but her memory remains with me so I thought I'd share.
July 6, 2013
Everyone except for me have left the Lake and as the sun
once again struggles to burn through the gray, cloudy, sky I sit, wondering
whether to try to get in a hike before the evening fireworks and the less
pleasant task of buttoning things up for my departure to the heat of
Maryland. For now, I listen to the birds
surprisingly loud songs and the waves breaking on the rocky shoreline.
The last few days have been mostly sunny, though it has
rained consistently an in great quantity this spring and early summer. The lake is closer to Memorial Day weekend
levels and is only slowly receding down the steps. The walk to the house has become a game of
mud avoidance with success unlikely.
I cannot help but wonder if the rain is a tearful goodbye to
Lois, a woman whose love for this place, not matter the weather, has become so deeply ingrained
in her children and so many others who have had the opportunity to know her and
know this place. I realize that it is
foolish to think that the old brown house, the birches, balsam, and hemlocks,
the lean-to, the Lake, and even the mountains with their ever-changing hues
cannot miss her as they are cannot create, but only remind us of her in the stories
to which they were participants. Just a few that come to mind are the bear on the shack, winter ski trips with Evan, Lois and Ed in the bunkhouse, the time Evan and I got in trouble for building a hot dog fire too big, the springform pan that had a mind of its own and had no intention of holding in a cake, canoe-turned swimming trips when the wind decided to act up, watching the rain come down the lake from the front porch, and of course countless stories shared in the uncomfortable seats of the lean-to. Those
same stories live on in our hearts and, we hope, will continue in the hearts of
our children when our journey is no longer earth-bound.
We have Lois no longer in person but the experiences shared
with her in this place are written on the pages of our lives forming a
foundation that may someday impact others as she impacted our own. Perhaps those who never knew Lois can still
know her through us. Music, poetry, art,
horticulture, travel, the outdoors, cooking, and of course moving rocks, were
things she loved and we will continue to love, though admittedly I think the
Adirondacks are better at growing rocks than we are at moving them! I will think of Lois whenever I write poetry,
whether it be good or slant. The
shifting blues, greens, and grays of the mountains and the innumerable colors
of the lake at sunrise or sunset and the delicate, yet courageous flowers along
the trail and roadside will bring me back to the times we enjoyed them
together. My career is, at least in part, the result of her encouraging the curiosity of a young boy who wanted to know the name of every plant along the trail. (A young boy who always wanted to lead the hike too, much to the chagrin and general annoyance of Grandpa Ed, who also liked to be first!) I like to think that the way I am learning to see light as a photographer is something she helped me to see when she pointed out the colors in the Adirondack landscape or captured them in her watercolors.
Lois left behind a legacy of independent (often stubborn), creative, thinkers. I hope that we can rise to the challenge she set with her life of loving people for who they are and taking others' shortcomings as personal affronts. Perhaps we can help others see beauty in life that she continued to see, even as her eyes were no longer as sharp as they once were. She would not, I think, say that we owe that too her as she wasn't one to make a fuss about herself. I do think that we honor her by living our lives to do the things she encouraged us to do and to at least try to be as selfless as she. All I know is that if I am remembered as fondly upon my passing, hopefully many years from now, I think I will have lived a life in Lois' example.
