I have fond memories of Lake George. Our former neighbors, Paul and Lori Moore — the best neighbors one could ever hope to have — introduced us to the lake.
They made an annual camping trip to one of the islands on the lake, and they began inviting us up to spend the day. They would retrieve us from the marina and transport us to their island campsite. Our kids would play together.
My husband might take a kayak ride around the island with Paul, and later on there would be a boat excursion where we would have the opportunity to go tubing and stop for an ice cream cone at a lakeside stand. On one occasion, my husband Scott was tubing, and Paul was doing a decent job of trying to make sure that Scott ended up in the water and off the tube.
His tube did indeed flip, but in an instant, Scott reappeared on the top of the tube on the water, still clinging tight to the tube’s handles. The grin on his face was the broadest I have ever seen as the realization came that he had just done a perfect 360 turn on that tube.
After dinner, we might roast marshmallows on the campfire. Paul had stumbled onto a genius marshmallow-roasting method, using a tent pole. The marshmallow would get heated from the inside out, producing a huge, spectacular, gooey white mess perfect for a s’more.
One year, we spent the fourth of July at the lake with the Moore family. I can remember Paul positioning his boat perfectly underneath where the display would be. As I sat watching the sky, waves gently lapping against the hull, gently rocking me in the boat, small, ashy remnants of fireworks drifted down onto the water and into the vessel. I remember thinking, “Life doesn’t get much better than this.”