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What We Leave Behind
Whispers from the Past
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Shawnee Lake sits just south of Schellsburg, surrounded by reed canary grass that beckons my family to come closer. The reeds whisper to us, indicating they’ve reserved the perfect spot. We reach the lush banks where an aged picnic table awaits, looking forlorn and weathered by the years.
Dad leads the way, carrying four fishing poles, red-and-white bobbers bouncing with each step he takes, and two aluminum lawn chairs with webbing that’s frayed but still holding up.
Behind him, Mom in her ball cap lugs a cooler and two more folded chairs, proudly adorned in her fishing vest which declares she’s serious about catching supper.
Following their trail is my little brother, ten years old, socks pulled halfway up his calves as he totes a tackle box and can of yellow corn.
Bringing up the rear, I plod along in flip-flops, a blanket in one arm and a boom box in the other. I never come here to fish, only to watch. My ultimate plan is to soak up sun and provide music. I like being the deejay.
With sunglasses perched on my nose, I stop behind them as everyone takes up residence around the picnic table. They’re unfolding chairs and sticking spikes in the ground to hold…
