Poem: Twin Willows

Twin Willows

The choice was always between
the Jersey Shore and the Poconos
that time of seeming innocence
when the other big decisions were new or used,
six cylinder or eight, Ford or Chevy,
those days when any reason to get off the block
during the dog days was good enough.

In the summer of ’60 it was the Poconos
or at least that was the outcome.
Our two car caravan –
mom, dad, brother and me in one,
old family friends in the other –
first wandered north across the Pennsylvania border
to New York and the Finger Lakes,
hours of leafy back roads, the summer heat
blowing through the rolled down windows
the only air conditioning we knew,
looking for an enticing place to stay
up and down the lakes with no satisfaction.
Back seat lethargy set in, my brother jumped cars
to escape our father’s moods, and finally, defeated,
like exiles returning to their homeland,
we re-crossed the border to familiar territory.

Near dusk on the third or fourth day,
losing hope and seeking shelter,
we nosed into the parking lot
of the Twin Willows Resort
somewhere on Route 6
near Honesdale, Bethany and Beach Lake,
a collection of small cabins, a small swimming pool,
a shed with a couple of pinball machines
and an old barn for square dancing.
Mercifully, cabins were available.
We checked in, we stayed,
we went back the next two summers.

Just down the two-lane, a classic roadside tavern
with the no irony name, The Big Apple,
watering hole for the adults as twilight eased into night
and the kids were secure in their bunks.
Just up the road, an eleven-year-old’s paradise,
on one side an ice cream parlor,
product from the local dairy,
hot fudge sundaes from heaven.
On the other side a go-cart track,
low slung, wide based 5hp screamershay bales to protect the fearful and reckless.

Farther down the road
the Cricket Hill Golf Course,
primitive yet eager,
still transitioning from cow pies to fairways.
Went there in the late afternoon
as the heat receded
and the shadows started to lengthen,
first lessons in a game I still play.

Finally, Beach Lake, a short drive
to boat, fish and swim,
a quiet melancholy expanse
where six inch waves slapped
against the shore, meek and harmless.
In the ancient photo, black and white,
I stand holding a stringer of small perch,
thirteen as I recall, Charles on my left,
my little brother wedged in between,
on our faces modest smiles like the ripple of fish
on the surface of still water.

Memories and pictures haunt me.
Words whispered around their edges
by the ghosts of those who are gone,
like shreds of high clouds
that break off and vanish
on warm summer days
when the sky is deep blue
and a light breeze stirs
the heat beneath the twin willows.