After visiting my father's grave, we had lunch near Turtle Lake.
The sights and sounds of that place brought back faint memories from my childhood. Families fishing from the docks reminded me of similar days spent with my father many years ago. I learned to cast a line at Turtle Lake, as well as I could at age four. Most often, the line tangled on itself and my father would have to rescue me.
On warm summer days, we rowed across the lake in a boat, and in the winter, we picked a hole in the ice. Those were happy, simple days. What ever happened to make me forget those times?