By Carol J. Wechsler Blatter
Seven decades have passed since I first visited Lake George; I still remember its beauty. Stretching more than 32 miles long, it has continued to be gifted with clear, fresh water. This amazing lake feels like it never ends; it only has beginnings. Water ripples, so gentle, its softness, the feel of a child’s pink-edged white baby blanket. Rhythmically it flows, like a song barely sung, just hummed. My parents and I, and my aunt, uncle, and our cousins went on a trip to Lake George, a rare event in our family as we didn’t have extra money for travel. Never have I seen such beauty; nature has made its home here. To me, it was Shangri-La. A refuge. An oasis never possible in the city. Here, everything was open. Here, everything was seeable. Here, there were no obstacles, nothing was in the way, not like at home in Brooklyn, with constant construction, destruction, distractions, and detours, and the noise of buses and trains squealing all day and most of the nights. Here it was quiet. Everything was magical, like the faint outlines of faux figures at sunrise, like sprinkles of diamond look-alikes floating on the lake at sunset.
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I remember spending some summer days in my childhood in the 1940s and 1950s at the beach when the borough of Brooklyn turned into an oven during July and August. Someone turned on the pilot light. A free source of recreation, the city of New York paid for its upkeep. No wonder why it attracted hundreds on any given day. I can still see a sea of Brooklynites rushing to reserve their tiny places on the sand and not encroach on others. Not an easy feat. They put down their towels, spread them out, towels of all colors imaginable, some with designs, others with stripes, some plain, and some rented umbrellas, especially those who wanted extra protection from an unforgiving sun.
Here the huge Atlantic Ocean offered relief. Mom swam. I waded in the shallow part, the part that went up to my ankles, then up to my waist, and gave me a little cooling. When I learned to float on my back, I swam a little further out. That was a big accomplishment for me, who was phobic about water and feared drowning. But—nothing here compared to Lake George. No beautiful mountains here like the Adirondack Mountains in NY state, which surrounded it. No trees here. Just a burning hot sandy beach, and a mega stretch of water, the Atlantic Ocean of 33 million square miles, impossible to imagine in its vastness; it is the second largest ocean on earth.
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I remember the slow boat ride on the lake with our family. It was a smooth, soothing ride, perfect for a relaxing day with our family. I remember seeing birds flying above us, and lots of them. Likely there were loons and herons in the Lake George area at that time. I was curious to learn more about these birds. Loons need long spaces to take off, only from water, not on land. Not so for the herons, who use their long legs and can push off right from land or water; no need for a runway.
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What made this trip so memorable? Dad was with us. This was a rare event because, during the years he co-owned an ice cream parlor and luncheonette, he only took time off every other Sunday. By the time we went to Lake George, he had sold the store and worked in sales, which gave us some time together, but it was always limited. Somehow Dad was the invisible parent; we saw so little of him. Maybe that was for the best; he had so little of himself to give. He was emotionally stunted. It was painful for him to show his feelings since he had been robbed of loving feelings in all his growing-up years. He lacked a childhood, assuming the role of parent at the age of fourteen after his mom locked his dad out for being abusive, and his dad never came back. Dad tried to be loving; I remember his hugs; I remember his glistening eyes; that was the signal he was proud of me. He was always proud of me. But—he lacked the words to express it.
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I wondered about fish in Lake George. I’ve read that fish have inhabited this lake for centuries. Around the time we were here, many fish resided in the lake, like different varieties of trout, salmon, and whitefish. I wondered if we disturb the fish when people swim in the lake. No, I learned; fish reside in very deep water, well beyond where humans swim. And they don’t hurt humans.
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Being together with our Brooklyn extended family was a rare event I looked forward to. We shared holidays with my aunt, my uncle, and cousins. My aunt was a great cook; I loved going to her house and having dinner there. My aunt and uncle died several years ago. My aunt was always there for me. She came with my mother to my sixth-grade play where I had the lead part of Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. And I have a photo of myself outside our apartment building before we went to my Junior High School graduation, proudly wearing my aunt’s beautifully designed dress; it was so pretty, off the shoulder, flared, pale green, and knee-length. It’s not that we couldn’t afford to buy me a dress; it’s that her dress was perfect and flattering. I owe my aunt a debt of gratitude for these acts of kindness. May her memory be for a blessing.
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Seventy years have slipped by. I was 14 years old when we visited Lake George. I don’t remember any other family trips. Since my marriage, my husband and I have traveled to many places, including Canada, Portugal, France, Spain, and Hungary. And to several cities in the United States. Each place was memorable. But— Lake George remains the most meaningful and beautiful place.
© 2026 Carol J. Wechsler Blatter
Carol J. Wechsler Blatter has contributed writings to The Gift of Long Life: Personal Stories on the Aging Experience 2024 Birren Center Collection, Chaleur Press, Story Circle Network Journal, Story Circle Network Anthologies, Writing it Real anthologies, Jewish Literary Journal, Jewish Writing Project, New Millennium Writings, 101words.org, and poems to Story Circle Network’s Real Women Write and Covenant of the Generations by Women of Reform Judaism. She is a wife, mother, and a very proud grandmother, and a recently retired psychotherapist in private practice.
