To all those who loved the old Lake Simcoe

Remembering Lake Simcoe, I cry.

Myra, my mother, and her little sister Barbara, board the train, in Toronto, with their grand parents set towards happiness and freedom on the sandy cove of Lake Simcoe. The air fresh, the water pure.

Their parents meet them and all their summer baggage at the Craigevale Station. They had taken the longer journey by horse and buggy. They stayed overnight in Aurora.

All embrace each other, embracing summer.

Grandfather had bought the land, almost a concession, for the timber in the 1880's. The trees provided the British Navy, with mighty, tall, straight masts for ships, that ruled the Empire. Other trees provided the sounding boards for Heintzman pianos.

It turned out, that what he was really purchasing was fresh air, fresh food for his loved grandchildren away from the hot, dirty city.

In the simple cottages along the shore, his grandchildren and their grandchildren were able to breathe deeply, think deeply, create and be. This was an imaginative life beyond imagining.

Swimming,  exploring, hiding, hoping, being. Summer.

My children met this world, that belonged to my cousins and me.

Bonfires on the beach, stargazing with the generations, oldies and newbies frolicking in the big waves, rowboats, canoes, card games, boardgames, corn roasts, popcorn among so many loved and loving.

I cry. The city eventually swallowed the magic of the place. Fairy circles were covered with interlocking brick. We were unable to protect this place from the power of money.

May other places escape this brutality of time. I continue to cry.