The Magic is In You

This summer, my family visited the small lake town in Wisconsin where my grandparents are from (sorry for ending a sentence in a preposition, but this is the Midwest). On my way out of town, I drove on a narrow, winding road down to the far side of the small lake, where my grandparents lived. My grandfather and his father built a 2-bedroom house and several cottages here in the 1940s. The place looms large in my memory. They sold it when I was 12, and the best memories of my childhood took place here. Maybe because I was 12 it seems even more poignant, as that age signals the end of an era in so many ways. Driving by, I have to say, the magic is gone from the place. The house has been remodeled in cheap siding and is not attractive in the least. My grandfather's old wood garage with swinging doors and its own gas pump are made into some pre-fab garage. One cottage is still intact. I think of how many times my grandmother had to clean that cottage between renters and how much she hated it.

If I could have walked down the sloping hill to the lake, and dangled my feet in its waters, perhaps I could have felt the magic again. But I couldn't. I had an unfriendly feeling. Now I see: The magic is gone from the place, but not from the child. Every sled run down that hill, every visit from the adorable family of ducks that would tap on my grandmother's patio door to ask for corn, ever daffodil cake that was lit with candles for my birthday, still live. The magic lives inside me.