Our Magical Oakland Lake
For many years, Peter and I would rise early in the morning, get dressed, and go for a walk by our little magical lake. We would stop on the way to buy coffee and a pastry. We would then drive to the lake. If it was winter, we would sit in the car having our little breakfast. If it was not, we sat on a bench looking out at the lake. Around us, tiny little birds would wait in the hope that we would share some of our goodies, which we did. We would also, on occasion, bring stale bread or bird seeds to scatter for them. Then we would get a flock of the various birds that lived by the lake. Their chatter would rise to a crescendo as they rushed to catch a morsel. Some of the birds were aggressive and caught almost everything we tossed. Peter and I would try to aim the food towards the shy and slow ones.
I remember sitting under the shade of the weeping willow on a weekend, thinking how utterly blissful it all was. The breeze through the trees, the chirping of the birds, the frogs singing their discordant tunes, the sound of the children laughing in delight at each new discovery they made. It was all so idyllic.
At that period of time, we had our dog Maximillian von Clearview. We called him Max for short. Someone had thrown him onto the highway. He managed to get down to the underpass where Peter found him one beautiful May evening as he went cycling after work. Peter wanted to call him Auschwitz because he was so skinny. I thought he was a noble dog and deserving of a noble name. Maximillian was a substantial name for him, ‘von’ hinted at his nobility, and Clearview was the highway where he lived until Peter found him. Thus, he became Maximillian von Clearview. At any rate, Max was our companion and the sharer of our little morning meal. As I was saying, if the weather was warm, we would sit at a bench looking out at the lake. To us, the lake was magical. There were all kinds of fowl living there. There was a family of swans gliding majestically across the lake. They allowed you to admire them from a distance. There were ducks waddling about the pedestrian pathways as they conversed excitedly amongst themselves. There were turtles during the summer months, sunning themselves on the rocks alongside the lake. There were squirrels that made their home in a hollow tree that lay on its side at one end of the lake where they played tag with one another. They scampered up and down the woods that surrounded the lake. There were the Canadian geese that announced their arrival and departure at the beginning and end of each migratory season. With their cheerful honks, they would announce their arrival. ‘Hello! Hello! It is so nice to be back,’ they called as they made their landing. Oakland Lake Park was always alive with happy greetings from the different groups that lived there. There even was a big fat carp rumored to be the inhabitant of the lake for the last fifty years. He stuck his head out of the lake occasionally to see what was going on land. I only observed him once or twice, swimming lazily just beneath the surface of the water.
For many years, we walked around the lake each morning. We formed friendships and acquaintances. There was the lady who walked two or three times a week with her dachshund and her pet duck. The dog had found the duck in the corner of their garden. The two became inseparable; they even slept next to each other. There was a group of cheerful old men who were Holocaust survivors. I admired their upbeat attitude. They were forever laughing and joking. I guess they were grateful to have survived WWII. By contrast, there was another man who walked around the lake. He was always alone and wore a scowl on his face. Peter, being the good-humored, happy man that he was, insisted on bidding him a cheery good morning. He always hoped to get a smile from him. The man, without fail, growled at us instead. I nicknamed him Mr. Uncongeniality. These were basically the regulars.
In spring and autumn, volunteers would get together and plant and clean up. We all felt as if the park and lake belonged to us and we belonged to it.
One spring, we noticed the female swan was nesting. Every day we eagerly peered into the rushes in the corner of the lake to see if the cygnets had arrived. Every morning we were disappointed. The male swan would stand guarding Mama Swan and providing her with sustenance. Finally, one Sunday morning, when we got out of the car, we noticed a big group of people clustered around the lake. Max seemed to know of the exciting event as soon as we parked, for he almost dragged us to the edge of the lake through the banks of glorious daffodils. He finally stopped, with wagging tail, to admire the new additions to the Swan Family. Mama Swan proudly led the procession. She was followed by the three little cygnets and then Papa Swan. How proud they looked! How high they held their heads! How they puffed up their chests with pride! How admired they were! I think they felt the love that we all have for them.
Unfortunately, their story did not end happily. A few weeks later, when the park keeper arrived in the morning, he discovered Papa Swan murdered! Some sick and evil person had shot him with a bow and arrow in the neck. He lay there, on the side of the lake, with his head flung back and an arrow piercing through his neck, with his blood pooling on the grass. I don’t know whether Mama Swan flew away with her babies in horror because she no longer felt safe there, or if the parks department moved them elsewhere. After that, our Oakland Lake did not feel happy anymore. An evil ogre had tainted it; he took away all the joy and innocence that existed there. He took away the magic. The serene and happy atmosphere was marred. A gray sadness enveloped everything. We began to go there less and less often.
We hadn’t gone there in many years when Peter took us there that last time. It was the last day of May 2015, a Sunday. It was the day before my Peter passed away. We sat in the car talking because Oakland Lake Park was closed for renovations. I did not realize it then, but we were declaring our love for each other for the last time and saying our final farewells. I have not gone back there since.