Gods of Summer
Maybe I was high that day. No, I definitely was. A joint rolled tight, hanging between my fingers. July 14, 1971. It was too warm, and I drove with the windows down on my emerald green Gremlin. Sleeves rolled up, long blonde hair clinging to my face. I can’t remember why I drove down that driveway past the “No Trespassing” sign scrawled in sloppy red paint. There were legends about what was at the end of that driveway. Stories of ghosts and goblins. No one ever saw him, but he sold the best Christmas trees west of town.
My engine got louder as I drove further from the main road. I wasn’t in a hurry. Turning my face to the sun, I breathed deep of the heavy perfume of wildflowers swaying on the edges of the dirt two-track. A white sign caught my eye, the same red paint, the words reading “Make Love. Not War.” Decorated with a hand drawn peace sign. I looked down the driveway, the entire path hedged with posters, “It’s Clear, War is not the answer.” “Flower Power.” “Peace and Freedom Now!” Oh my God, I smiled to myself.
Slowly I rolled up in front of a cinder block structure, the door painted red. I pushed my aviator glasses onto my head and squinted at the scribbled sign on the door that read “Trespassers WILL be shot.” Pickerel Lake sparkled through pine trees. I creaked my car door open, kicking at the charred ground. I stood on the doorstep trying to see through the peephole. The door slowly creaked open. Frantically, I squinted, trying to see into the dark room.
“Can I help you?” his voice was almost a growl. “No, I think I’m good,” I scratched my nose with the joint. “Well, come in,” he pulled the door wider. He seemed so familiar. I looked back at my car then tiptoed inside. “You want anything to drink?” bending over to look in his refrigerator. Prisms above the sink spun in the breeze, circling rainbows across the ceiling. I took a deep breath of rosemary and sage, dried bunches hanging from the window. “Huh?” I think he said something. “Can I get you anything to drink?” he held out a glass of water. Long black hair hung past his shoulders, matching a thick beard. Piercing hazel-green eyes bore through me. “Oh. Yeah. Thanks,” I took a tiny sip and watched him sit down at the kitchen table. “Sit down. Nothin’ to be afraid of,” I smiled sheepishly and took the two steps from the door to the table. I focused on drinking, staring at the table through the clear water. A single light bulb dangled from the ceiling on a thin red wire. “Would you like to go out on my boat? It’s beautiful this time of day,” he stretched out, his hairy legs almost touching mine. What would be the damage? “Sure,” I gulped the last of the water. “Do you have 50 cents?” he smiled, and I stared at his ragged teeth. “Huh?” the light swings in the breeze. “It’s what I charge to fish on the lake.” I dig two dimes and a nickel from my pocket. “Now it’s a transaction.”
If I hadn’t been so high, I would have been thinking, What are you doing Sourel? But I wasn’t thinking as I lazily danced through the door and down the hill. The black haired stranger flipped over a small fishing boat, red paint chipping onto the ground. I swayed in the wind, watching him pull two fishing poles from a shed. “The name’s Joe by the way,” he shouted from where he knelt, pulling worms from a pile of dirt and compost. “Mm hmm,” I was far too distracted chasing the dragonfly that kept floating from plant to plant. “What’s yours?” I startled. He stood above me, watching me bury my face in the daisies. “Sourel,” the daisy behind my ear tickled.
“Get in, my lady,” he held out his hand to me. I clambered over the side, almost losing my balance. No one told me lakes are so peaceful. Trailing my finger in the water, I watched the ripples scatter around me, swimming across my face, “Do you own all of this?” Joe cast just above my head, “All 232 acres. Developers have been trying to get me to sell, but who’d give up this?” With a flick of his wrist, a bass flopped on the bottom of the boat. He deftly unhooked and strung the fish onto a line, plopping him back into the water to trail behind us. “Where are you from?” My line sunk, and I tugged back. “Is it that noticeable?” he laughed, “Lithuania. Came before I was ten.” I started to reel the fish in slowly.
“You’re the guy I’ve seen hitchhiking,” squinting at the sun didn’t make it any better. “That’s me. Too many cars on the road. Too much money in pockets. I wish the world could all live like this,” he let his hair dangle in the water. I pull in the fish, staring at the flopping body. “Just string it on here. You need a drink?” I grabbed the fish, unhooking it in one motion. “Sure,” he passed me the flask and turned on a miniature radio hooked to his belt. Static crackled from the speaker, then the beat of “Here Comes the Sun” twisted around us. I closed my eyes.
Driftwood half sunk at the lake edge stretched tortured branches, contorting into a work of art. We drifted into lily pads, and I plucked a petal thinking of Monet painting them every day in Paris. In the wind, the reeds bowed to us, bobbing in rhythm. “We are the gods of summer!” I shouted to the rustling forest that surrounded us. He smiled, leaning over the edge of the boat. I screamed. With calloused fingers, he snapped off a wild rose, and handed it to me. I buried my nose in the soft petals, my middle namesake.
“Stay for dinner?” he asked, pulling the boat onto the daisy drenched shore. “Will I owe you another nickel?” I stuck a Black-Eyed Susan behind my ear. “This one’s on the house.” He led me down a sandy path. White pines sentineled the way. A Blue Jay flew in front of us, our personal guide to the forest. Leaning over, I picked up one of the leaves that forgot it was only summer and had already turned brilliant colors, as if they wanted to give us a red carpet entrance. “Wait here a minute,” he strode down the path. Along the edges of the forest, pines twisted and doubled back on themselves, two trees growing into one. He ran back, grabbing my hand, “Welcome!” he made a wide gesture and grinned at me. My eyes widened. In a small clearing beneath the pines, a table had been set. Covered in a green table cloth and laid with a bottle of wine, a candle flickered in the center, throwing giant shadows across the clearing. “My lady,” he held out a hand, and I took it, lowering myself onto a purple cushion, “Welcome to my palace."
"I’ve spent six years taking care of this land,” his voice a river between the trees. “That one over there almost died,” he pointed out a pine twisted into a door to another world. I stared up through the whispering needles, their voices calling me to stay.