A day at Clear Lake

On the dock at Clear Lake

I also identify trees in my spare time, hence
the day pack.

With the possibility of it being my last one ever, I decided to actually do things this year for spring break. Now, by things, I don’t mean a Caribbean cruise with hunky men serving me mimosas in the middle of the ocean. If only.  I mean, I went outside. That’s sort of a simplistic way of explaining it. I have this assignment in my creative writing class that I’ve been avoiding like the plague. Something about three book reviews that I just…bleeegh. But also, there’s a portfolio due in that class by the end of semester, which is coming up more quickly than I care to realize. Since I’m writing poems, I figured I ought to get out into nature and let myself just think. And wander. So, to Clear Lake I went.

I tend to get a little obsessive about things, such as yarn and nature. When I’m not mindlessly perusing the internet, my second favorite place to be is in nature. Fields and fjords and lakes and ponds all call to me. Okay, maybe not fjords where I live, but it was a nice alliteration. At any rate, I ended up sunburned, with a couple decent starts to poems, and a first-hand view of the racism that is still rampant in this part of the country.



I was a tad bit disappointed by the racism thing. So I was wandering around, searching for flowers to photograph, and a dark blue Lincoln pulled into my little sanctuary. Out climbed a tall, lean lady with skin as dark as the misnamed pond and smelling like gardenias after a rain shower. Her hair was braided into a frizzy crown and she smiled at me and complimented my car as she threw an empty bottle of Arbor Mist into the forest. I thanked her, and decided then and there to write a poem about her. Her old man carried a bucket of ice and beer to the dock where I had spent hours scribbling down ideas. I had left the dock after my husband sent me the sage advice to not get too sunburned.
Anyways, I was standing at the trunk of my car, sipping water and scolding myself for getting sunburnt, and a Chevy Silverado pulls up. I thought to myself that this place was getting a little crowded as a corgi/Chihuahua mix bounded out of the truck, followed by a whining eight year old and an elderly couple. They pulled fifty dollar lounge chairs out of the truck bed and proceeded to the dock. The woman side-eyed me, and then appeared to glare at the black couple’s backs. The white trio started stomping up the dock, where there was not much room for more than two people fishing. I sighed.
The black couple left the dock, and set up their five dollar camp chairs at the disused boat ramp. They didn’t spend but five minutes there, haphazardly tossing their lines into the shallows. The lady bowed her head as she passed me, her perfume distinctly  floral, and said, “You have a blessed day, baby.”

It’s entirely possible that I’m reading far too much into this little exchange. But I’m probably not. See, if it were my husband and me, we would have left the dock alone, seeing that someone else was using it. It’s simply a matter of manners. I’ll try very hard not to get too ranty about it, though.
I think I’ll still write the poem about the lady. 

Jonquils at Clear Lake