Please Don’t Pee on My Foot
At least he didn’t opt to pee on my foot. That’s all I’m saying.
Growing up, we had a fair selection of places to spend our summer days—standbys such as Meacham Lake or the Rec Park, Mountain View, Ausable River, Rainbow Lake, Fish Creek, High Falls Gorge, and any number of any assorted ponds, lakes, and rivers peppering the Adirondacks.
Being in and around (and at the bottom of) the mountains, said ponds, lakes, rivers, and/or streams were majestic in their own right. Now, at the time, the beauty and serenity of where I grew up were pretty freakin’ lost on me. I suppose I was blinded by the wanderlust of the region’s mosquitoes, black flies, horse/deer/moose/dragon/cow/dog/pig/chicken/lizard flies, an unhealthy obsession with my mistress otherwise known as “getting the hell out of this town.” As an old and withered woman with saggy boobs and rotting teeth, I now have an appreciation for from-whence-I-came, and often wonder what the hell I was thinking in my youth.
So, back in that late 1970s/early ’80s era when tanning with aluminum foil around your face was de rigueur and divorcees were still a tad on the taboo side, yet exotic enough to have new age sitcoms centered around their plight, my mother would oft take my brother and me to any one of those aforementioned ponds, lakes, rivers and/or streams — sometimes with other divorcee friends and…
