Fork in the Road—Turn Right

Irene Tapert

The photo’s of me and my dad walking to the beach. A golden arch of light climbs over the curve in the road and is spattered with green. The road is loose, chalky gravel covered with long tire tracks. My Dad, in his usual black denim, carries me on his shoulders. The birches, a tall white scaffolding, shadow the path, grow out of their grass green base, and turn copper as they rise up. Except at the curve in the road, daylight hides. The brief patch of sky is a preview of the brilliant blue beach. In the photo I’m only two, and completely unaware of the importance this road will come to have for me.

I grew up on this road; it’s the only one that circles through the lake house community where my grandma has her cabin. It folds into a loop with my grandma’s cabin at the top, and our neighbors in between. The photo was taken at a fork where you either continue the loop up a hill, or turn and walk to the beach.

Right now, hours away, I can describe it perfectly. The long stretch of neighbors houses along the road begins with Uncle Eddie’s house, next the Martuccis, then the Coppolas, then the scary man who yelled at us once, and the abandoned house—around the corner is the old lady I’ve never seen, a stretch of woods, the wooden bear holding an American flag, another abandoned house, and the two guys with a black lab, and a son who was an Olympic diver. I could walk it blindfolded.

I grew up on this road; it wasn’t just my means to get somewhere. My earliest memories of the cabin are gravel under my feet. The walk to the beach used to feel like it was miles long even though it’s likely only two minutes. As kids we’d walk back in swimsuits, soaking wet and barefoot, determined not to get sand on our flip flops. Towels dragging, we’d cautiously let the sharp rocks sting our toes. Shivering in the shade and breeze, with lake water running down our backs and legs, we’d endure the pinching of the rocks and inevitable scrapes. Sometimes one of us would choose to be real daring and start off running. Our towels flew out behind us like capes, and we became superheroes braving harsh terrain. It hurt more when we ran, but the short torture was worth reaching my grandma’s soft grass, and a warm bath sooner.

I grew up on this road; the two minute walk was my first bite of freedom at age seven. At the cabin my family is always at the beach. In the morning us kids dallied leaving the house to play hide and seek, or follow my Dad around as he did yard work. Eventually our parents would get fed up and send us to the beach. We were young, but they knew someone related to us would be there when we arrived. I loved the independence that walk without parents gave me. I’d pack a bag with my beach essentials: lemonade, Ritz Crackers, sunscreen, and the chapter book I was reading. I loved that because I was the oldest, I could insist that my sister carry my towel and hold my hand. When a car came by we’d let it get super close to us, then shriek when it honked, and sing,

Car, car, C-A-R,

stick your head in a jelly jar,

if you’re hit you won’t go far,

car, car, C-A-R!

I grew up on this road; I carved my name in the bark of it’s trees. There’s the shortcut we took when we felt adventurous—we’d cross a marshy lot, occasionally full of leeches, behind my uncle’s cabin, on which sat only his ice fishing shed. Then we’d jump over a stream, and cut through his yard into ours. In the winter the shortcut was the perfect place to crawl through the snow pretending to be Indiana Jones. Across from the shortcut is the log my uncle found me sitting on, crying, after I fell off my bike and got road rash up my stomach.

At sixteen, it was the road I stumbled down giggling the first time I was drunk with my cousins. I remember scolding them in a harsh whisper for being so loud we’d get caught. Later that year, a few feet from where the photo was taken, is the bush I ran my aunt’s car into when she taught me to drive.  

I grew up on this road; I know every inch of it. Many times in middle school, before cell phone flashlights, if we stayed too long at the beach, we’d walk that road in darkness. The air in front of us was completely black. Only our skittish voices and cricket chirps reminded us we were somewhere we knew. We braved the night, terrified.

I grew up on that road, but none of this has happened yet to the little girl riding on her dad’s shoulders in the photo. She doesn’t know this road will shape her. She only marvels at its gold light.    

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