Wilson Lake a Descriptive Essay

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KMJ March 22, 2004 EC1 Descriptive Essay “The Lake” A psychiatric joke, “go to your happy place,” and my weary mind always retreats down the same worn path that once led to the two-room cabin that my grandfather built at Wilson Lake. Hundreds of acres of old, tall trees, standing sentry and guarding the secret beauty of the deep and serene cedar water lake. Where, once the last flag had been lowered at sundown on Memorial Day, families in their station wagons would begin to bounce along the dirt roads of the old camp ground, settling in for the summer in this beautiful mossy place. The moist ground beneath the beds of fallen leaves awakens with rusty metal rakes, pulling back the heavy blankets of mother nature’s bounty. Thick black smoke from metal cans and fire pits fills the air, and yet while your nose becomes stuffy, the smell of the burning leaves is more than oddly comforting. When the leaves are gone, there will be room to play, and room to run. When there are no more leaves to burn, the fire-pit will be free, and surely there will be a marshmallow to be found somewhere, and an old friend with whom to roast one over the smoldering embers. Cleanup on the outside walks hand in hand with setup on the inside. Our little cabin, from the front, glass paned door to the very back, was about 24 feet long, and no more than 12 adult paces wide. It was separated evenly into cozy little rooms by faded, full-length celery green curtains that could be pulled across at nighttime to lend a sense of privacy. On the white painted beam, above the kitchen hung a wrought iron trivet that read…” come in, sit down, relax, converse, our house doesn’t always look like this, sometimes it even looks worse.” My Nanny’s house at the lake, her little cabin, was always perfect, always warm and welcoming. Fresh, crisp yellow gingham curtains hung over the cupboards with

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