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Back to the Lake
In this beautifully crafted collection, columnist Margot Russell returns to the place that shaped her — and the stories that stayed with her. Back to the Lake gathers her most beloved newspaper columns, capturing life in Chautauqua County with warmth, wit, and deep affection. From quiet mornings on the dock to the rhythms of small-village life, Russell’s essays invite readers to slow down, look around, and rediscover the beauty in the everyday. Whether you’re a local, a lake lover, or simply someone who cherishes good storytelling, this book is a gentle reminder that home isn’t just a place — it’s a feeling. |
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Beside The Lake
I've sat beside this lake in the summertime many days of my life, and it feels like a friend I'm getting old with. We've both seen better days. We're both struggling to stay healthy and vibrant, knowing time will get the better of us one day.
Old lakes die because they begin to fill with weeds. Centuries of sediment has gathered in my friend's lakebed. Its life cycle is this: lake to pond, pond to marsh, marsh to meadow, meadow to dry land. I'll be gone long before the lake becomes a meadow, but still, when I sit here, we both seem to sense our best years are behind us.
I'm certain this lake has a soul. I sense its moods--restless in the afternoon, serene in the morning, playful other times. It doesn't have a lot of choice in its life, vulnerable to the reality nature subjects it to--frozen, cold, warm, windswept. But even without a free will, it has a personality that is as familiar to me as my family.
In early summer, it takes an afternoon perched on the green hill at the village park to rid myself of winter. Eventually, I find myself capitulating into the Chautauqua Lake mood, looking for a porch to rock on, a good book to read, maybe a ride around the lake I try to rid myself of anything modern and live like my grandparents once did for an afternoon--just sitting and thinking.
I will grow very old here by my lake. One day, you'll have to drive me to the shore for a glimpse of it, as I did for my grandmother and then my mother when they could no longer visit on their own. The lake had been a friend to them, too, their whole lives, the backdrop for childhood adventures, family gatherings, and long boat rides. Their relatives painted beside it, married near it, and now their own grandchildren approach it with happiness, tumbling down its docks with fishing poles.
The lake is simply part of who we are.
The poet Robert Frost says the heart of man considers it a treason to "bow and accept the end of a love or a season." Summer will wind down. My years are winding now, too. But my generational memories have shown me that in some way, the season never really ends.
I've sat beside this lake in the summertime many days of my life, and it feels like a friend I'm getting old with. We've both seen better days. We're both struggling to stay healthy and vibrant, knowing time will get the better of us one day.
Old lakes die because they begin to fill with weeds. Centuries of sediment has gathered in my friend's lakebed. Its life cycle is this: lake to pond, pond to marsh, marsh to meadow, meadow to dry land. I'll be gone long before the lake becomes a meadow, but still, when I sit here, we both seem to sense our best years are behind us.
I'm certain this lake has a soul. I sense its moods--restless in the afternoon, serene in the morning, playful other times. It doesn't have a lot of choice in its life, vulnerable to the reality nature subjects it to--frozen, cold, warm, windswept. But even without a free will, it has a personality that is as familiar to me as my family.
In early summer, it takes an afternoon perched on the green hill at the village park to rid myself of winter. Eventually, I find myself capitulating into the Chautauqua Lake mood, looking for a porch to rock on, a good book to read, maybe a ride around the lake I try to rid myself of anything modern and live like my grandparents once did for an afternoon--just sitting and thinking.
I will grow very old here by my lake. One day, you'll have to drive me to the shore for a glimpse of it, as I did for my grandmother and then my mother when they could no longer visit on their own. The lake had been a friend to them, too, their whole lives, the backdrop for childhood adventures, family gatherings, and long boat rides. Their relatives painted beside it, married near it, and now their own grandchildren approach it with happiness, tumbling down its docks with fishing poles.
The lake is simply part of who we are.
The poet Robert Frost says the heart of man considers it a treason to "bow and accept the end of a love or a season." Summer will wind down. My years are winding now, too. But my generational memories have shown me that in some way, the season never really ends.