When I was very young

and the world sparkled brightly,

into war we were flung,

so our vacation we greatly treasured.

We packed our lake related things

into our LaSalle (robin-egg blue!)

…and our ration cards we did bring.

Games we did play on the way.

We traveled at 45 miles per hour

and took the plate numbers of those who passed.

(this game was our task from Civil Defense)

They traveled much too fast.

We counted cows too, my sister and I,

passing stump fences…

until to Lake Cowden with a sigh

to rent a rowboat from Buchcanons’

for two weeks.

Old Man Buchcanon had his store,

a dock, and a icehouse with cold wet sawdust.

The ice, cut from the frozen lake, a winter chore,

would keep our milk and eggs fresh.

There were only two cabins on the lake.

The grove in summer, was full of campers.

Several rowboats were out by daybreak.

All came home with long strings of fish.

It was a lazy, quiet, fearful time,

with outhouse smells and bees.

A wood stove and hand pump

in the kitchen gave us glee.

And then…the end of fun.

Our summer then was done.

Home again, and then to school.

Some discomfort, but minuscule.