Life on the lake

To the editor:
    An article in the Pioneer and an incident here at home prompted me to write. ”Threats to our lakes,“ about the water quality of Nickerson Lake, referred to BMPs, meaning best management practices. I was once the only BMP at that lake. I used the initials on my writings through high school and some classmates still use them. I must share, however, since this current use helps the lake I still call mine.
    The incident involved using a big piece of masonite to move a rubbish container and recycling boxes to the curb. Pushing and turning, I dubbed it a toboggan, which reminded me of others.
    We had two toboggans at the lake, for transporting us kids, food and stuff up to our Ford V-8 parked at the end of the dirt road. Porter said the distance was three-tenths of a mile. We added on a bit by leaving the road half way up to avoid drifts, making a semicircle through the field.
    Leonard and I rode on a toboggan until we could wear snowshoes, essential to walk on top of the snow. So, my first pair was for an 8-year-old. In the sixth grade I got my second pair, which would be my last, as Porter said, “I’ll get the road plowed out through the field, where we walk.”
    While young and bundled in snowsuits, Leonard and I dug a cave into one of those drifts and discovered how warm and cozy it could be. We sat, snug in our hideout and agreed that no one could find us. We must have been right, as no one ever did.
    A few years later we went out into the woods and decided to follow animal tracks in the snow. Excited by the possibilities, we anticipated seeing a rabbit, maybe a woodchuck. A fox? Not likely. What a letdown when we finally spotted our “prey” — Pal, the family dog.
    One hill in the field was perfect for sliding or skiing. We took our wooden sleds with steering bars and tried to pass each other going down. It was a rare treat when Ina came along, wearing the navy wool snowsuit Porter had bought her years before. For skiing we put our boots inside simple straps and used ski poles.
    One morning Porter was sick, so Ina had to drive us the five miles into Houlton. Turning onto the lake road, she slewed, but briefly, coming to a stop near a telephone pole. “Were you scared?” she asked us. “No,” I replied, “Nothing exciting ever happens when you drive.”
    Before that, when I was 3, standing on the front seat of our car as it reached the top of a hill on the lake road, it skidded, then spun around twice before stopping. I turned to Porter, clapped my hands, and said, “Do it again!” Now, that was exciting.
Byrna Porter Weir
Rochester, N.Y.