Snow on Lake Boon - Words2Evolve

Hudson, Massachusetts

I arrived late in the morning. Following my hostess’s instructions, I wound down the back stairs only to find that the rental apartment, just below the wooden deck, had small dark windows. My heart sank – I need large amounts of light and a vista to thrive -and I wondered if I should stay.

The Airbnb pictures were full of sun and summer games, promising leisure and fun. But the winter scene that greeted me was much less inviting. I opened the front door and paused, surprised to find a wooden trim of white pegs framing the doorway.

This nod to another era gladdened me, bringing to mind the Victorian Painted Ladies, grand homes and flamboyant architectural gems built by the industry barons of San Francisco and state capitals across the country.

Far from the Golden Gate, on this winter day, a modest dwelling welcomed me with an old-fashioned, fanciful oval window, and that detail changed everything. I decided to stay. Decisively, I stepped over the threshold and entered my home for the month.

A humble version of the Painted Ladies was the Queen Anne style house popular in the 1900’s.

I shared married life in such a house; we enjoyed living in our Queen Anne. Our home was both a source of comfort and regular marital quarrels. I wanted to fully restore its beauty while Wolfe was happy with a coat of paint. We compromised on the level of detail and agreed on the colors: soft pink shingles with an ivory-white flourish around the veranda and under the roof line, underlined by black wrought iron accents and dark grey roof slates. Our Queen Anne proudly stood on its hill; a terrace opening to the harbor below where we gathered for sunsets, wine and conversations.

Today, I am alone on a self-directed writer’s retreat.

The cottage, surprisingly warm and cozy, becomes my refuge. A forgotten string of Christmas lights adds a cheerful tone, and I settle into a routine. Solitude and water views are a always good bet for getting me to write.

Lake Boon, just beyond the front door, is a cold blue-grey. The small beach leading to the water is covered in fresh snow, and the narrow space to the opposite shore ripples with a continuous tremor. I have been here for a week and have not seen the lake’s surface placid or tranquil; I wonder how deep the lake is, where the waterfowls are sheltering and if a current runs through. The homes are well established with mature trees, terrace gardens, pontoons, and gazebos. I imagine families on long summer holidays, laughter and children swimming, neighbors visiting, and teenagers falling in love.

I wake up to a chilly New England winter morning. The light is low, and ice covers the lake. Two people have already set up a hockey goalpost and are skating, driving the puck towards each other. After a strong cup of coffee, I bundle up in a hat, mittens, and boots for my morning walk to see who else is out and about.