On Lake Buel

 

The dull green house on Lake Buel was worn and old. Its ‘50s wood style paneled interior, the sagging colonial sofas and crocheted afghans did not bring Ralph Lauren thoughts to mind. The first floor was unexceptional: a kitchen, living room and an enclosed wooden porch. What it lacked in Architectural Digest detail, it made up for in the view of the lake. Walk in through the cracked front door and look across the long linoleum kitchen floor to the wall of windows. There it was: the sparkling lake framed in a canopy of trees, with an opposite shoreline defined by the blue-green of the Berkshire Hills. An intake of breath, followed by a slight release behind my shoulder blades. Here was my restorative elixir. The fresh country air, the light lapping of the lake, floated up and caressed me. The promise of a few days, full with culture, nature and friendship, cleared the city-induced busyness inside my brain. The most onerous obligation would be to trudge up the steep stairs with my pack of clothes and place fresh linens on my assigned bed.

 

There were eight of us each weekend. We began as strangers, “interviewed” at a small New York City apartment in the spring. During the summer, we became Berkshire buddies and robust friends. In the fall, most of the friendships faded, some lingered through the winter, and still others developed into decades-long bonds. No marriages were born in the house, although some members did get married, just not to each other. Most of us, already in our 30’s and 40’s were consummate singles. 

 

We enjoyed picnic concerts on the lawn at Tanglewood, with melodies and chords dancing on the evening breezes and constellations twinkling above our outstretched bodies. An occasional bird would accompany the maestros and their interpretations of Bach or Bernstein, Saint-Saens or Stravinsky. No matter how wonderful the performance, the evening would unfortunately always end with the group of us burdened with the weight of chairs, blankets, and picnic detritus, on a trek down the huge parking lots’ dark, dew-slick hills to find our cars, and the sometime hour long bottleneck to exit the property.

 

Some of us attended the small-stage ballets at Jacob’s Pillow, watched the dancers’ bodies up close, sweat seeping through their leotards, legs thrusting upwards and outward, toes en pointe, jumps landing with an exact thud.  The original air-cooled, barn-like structure was roughhewn and intimate. I missed it when an air conditioned, faux barn-like structure replaced it.

 

We visited numerous small museums, my favorite the Francis and Sterling Clark Institute. It was my home-away-from-home museum, where I could commune with world-class art in a building in the middle of a cow field, in a small college town, far away from the big city museums. Remington’s and Homer’s, Sargent’s and Whistler’s, Renoir’s and Degas’ were lovingly placed and hidden up here in the safety of the Berkshire Hills, to protect them from destruction should New York City have been attacked in WWII.  The museum building and grounds have been gracefully updated, but they are only a beautiful setting for a jewel of a collection. You will be as astonished, as I was, to see Monet’s little geese paddling around, Renoir’s view of Venice, Degas’ Little Dancer posing in her tutu at the end of a hall, the multitude of Impressionist paintings hung in a center gallery, like the main event in a Tiffany ring.  The Clarke is a bucket list treasure not to be missed.

 

Yes, there were other cultural events like indoor and outdoor theater, jazz spots, craft fairs, small concerts, and good chow and cuisine. But the Berkshires is most famous for the physical loveliness of its hills and streams, trees and waterfalls. My housemates and I swam on muddy-bottomed Lake Buel, canoed down to the beaver dam, played sweaty games of tennis, and hiked through the shadowy pine forests. The Audubon Trail, the Appalachian Trail, Monument Mountain, Greylock called to the sturdier hikers among us. Some of us just lounged on the wooden deck, in the company of a good book, crossword puzzle and our other housemates.

 

From the old wooden deck, we could drink in the beauty of the lake-- the misty still mornings when nothing on the lake seemed to move, the lapping waters of the day with bright, hard reflections of sunlight, the soft rustle of the leaves, the peep of the birds. No concrete and steel cathedrals of commerce lorded over us from the workplaces we escaped. Instead, the trees bent close and hovered near, providing us with dappled shade. The ground was littered with pine cones and the movement of squirrels and little chipmunks. An occasional egret would land across the lake. Sometimes the neighborhood Labrador would pad over, and not so subtly eye one of our sandwiches.

 

As the sun set, silhouettes of birds swooped gracefully from the treetops across the sky in pure poetry. It was several summer seasons before one of my housemates suggested to me that they were bats.  I prefer to think they were chimney swifts. In the Berkshires all things were objects of beauty for me.

 

Saturday nights were often spent at the Triplex movie theater in town. Occasionally we’d play a round of miniature golf behind the bowling alley where they had the only two-story miniature golf course I had ever seen. On rainy nights, we wrapped ourselves up in afghans and cozy conversations, the thrum of the rain accompanying the music on the stereo with the DooWops, or Debussy, or Duke Ellington. There were chatty games of Scrabble at the kitchen table and quiet long reads in front of the fireplace. On warm evenings just reclining on the deck next to the dark water, under the shining constellations was enough, so long as it was enjoyed before the mosquitoes and no-see-ums reasserted their territory. The lake’s ducks had gone to sleep, but the frogs were up and conducting their own symphony. At the end of the summer the crickets chirped, announcing the approach of the next season. It was easy for a human to breathe and be sustained.

 

Speaking of sustenance, a major component in the life of the share house was food. Each weekend, two people shopped and cooked for the rest of us. Often the shopping trip required a trip to The Price Chopper, Guido’s, Taft Farm, and some specialty shop in town. It could get complicated. As the years progressed, more and more special dietary and preferential concerns were considered, to comical results. “Who bought those bananas?” “They’re so green!” “They’re too yellow!” They’re bruised.” “Who’s going to eat such big bananas? Have to cut them in half.” “What are those tiny things? Bananas?” There were at least three varieties of cold cereal. One weekend we realized we had 7 different kinds of dairy products in the fridge: whipping cream for Steve’s cake, half-and- half for Barry’s coffee, whole milk, 2%, 1%, skim and Lactaid. We lined them up for a picture that reflected a portrait of us more than any group picture would have. No wonder we weren't married.

 

The highlight of the weekend was often the communal Saturday night dinner. The two shoppers cooked, and the rest of us pitched in to prepare the salad, set the table, and uncork the wine.  The weekend chefs gifted us with elaborate Chinese banquets, Italian specialties, lobster spreads, and beloved family dishes. Every meal was served up with sides of laughter, bumped elbows, and shared stories. The dinners were always balanced, lo-fat, healthy and delicious, but followed by a cholesterol-busting crusted fruit pie baked fresh from Taft Farms, topped with a generous dollop of creamy Häagen-Dazs ice cream. The meal was completed with a perfectly percolated, thickly brewed coffee (caf and decaf, but never flavored) courtesy of our resident coffee aficionado and brew-meister.

 

All weekend we ate together, we played together, we communed together. At the end of the weekend we stowed our belongings in the trunks of our cars, said our companionable good-byes, to drive home in the traffic and return to the demands and deadlines, politics and pressures of our jobs. We knew that somewhere in the Bronx we would be hit with a brick wall of heat and humidity.

 

Just before heading to my car, I always snuck a private walk around to the back of the familiar green house, took a long look at the lake and a deep breath of air. . . an ampule to bolster me during the work week ahead. Then, I tramped back to the car, drove down the gravelly dirt road and onto Route 57, the trees, the lake and the green house in the rear-view mirror.

Marsha

August 2020