Wending Her Way

Though our wooded lot is by no means lakeside property, if I wander up our road far enough and don’t stop, eventually I’ll get soaking wet. This road, same as every north-south running road in our area, ends abruptly at Lake Ontario. Here, to go north is to head for a sprawling body of water. I like that certainty, how it orients me. It gives me a sense of direction.

I drive to Hamlin Beach and visit the lake pretty regularly. But I wouldn’t walk to the lake from my house. It’s got to be ten miles away. My sixteen year old, however, for over a year now, has made it her goal to walk all the way to Lake Ontario. She tries pretty often, walking, walking, walking. Usually, especially now with the shortening days, it grows dark before she even reaches the halfway point. Then my husband or I get the call: “Please pick me up?” Afterward, she reports on what she noticed as she walked, the doe with her fawn, the fox, the feral cat. “They finally cut down all the corn,” she’ll tell us. “What did that empty building covered in vines used to be?” she’ll ask.

I like to think she gets her penchant for long walks from me. When I was her age, living in the city of Jamestown, NY, I walked to school, my friends’ houses, the Prendergast Library, Taco Hut, Eats Café, Bigelow’s Department Store, Lakeview Cemetery, the bookshop, The Common Mall, the candy store—everywhere. Now that I live in the country, the purpose of my plodding has changed, but I’m still out there traipsing around, walking my dog Mocha, checking on the empty hunting shack, finding the ditch full of May-blooming snowflakes, lingering by the gurgling stream, and picking pears on the old tree by the woods.

But unlike my daughter, I don’t set out for a place I won’t reach—almost certainly can’t reach. Because it’s too far away. Because night falls fast. Because I’m tired, so tired. Still, I love that she does. I love that she tries. I love that the unlikelihood of success doesn’t deter her. I love the nature of her goal. The nobility and beauty of her quest. I love her.

Does she picture herself arriving and facing the vast blue? Does she anticipate the cold wind that rolls off the waves? Does she see herself scanning the rocky shore for beach glass? Does she imagine what it would feel like—what it will feel like—to peel off her sneakers and socks and toe the lapping water that stretches all the way to Canada?

I’ve heard, on a very clear day, at a certain hour, it’s possible to spy Toronto from this side of the lake. My daughter knows this. I’ve told her. I imagine her squinting, searching for a sign of the city. I picture her succeeding, finding it. There, right there: a gleam, a glimmer. I see her seeing. I see her. This daughter of mine, this dreamer, here, right here: shining bright.