The Lake

The cottage sat on the edge of a high ledge that had it not been covered in tall pines and poplars would have been called a cliff. The yard was level with the main floor of the house in back and a story and a half below in the front. I always got these two confused as a kid. The back of the house faced the road, but it was where the big gravel circular drive approached the house. There were two rustic archways constructed of perpetually oily railroad ties at both sides of the circle. No formal fence connected the arches. It was completely possible to get from the driveway to the house without going through either arch, but there they stood. The dogs were the only alarm system and they worked every time.
The front yard was littered with small pine trees that my grandfather had transplanted from the woods, but they generally refused to thrive under the outpouring of dog piss that any of the 13 free roaming pack habitually and continuously doused them with.
What I always thought of as the back of the house, but that was really the front was so much nicer. Shady and cool instead of arid and dusty. The lower lawn (across the deck and down a wide promenade of red-stained stairs) was always cool when your bare feet touched it and smelled like moss, pine resin, spider webs and leaves. It was a great secret place that stood right out in the open - hiding in plain sight. Under the porch that circled the house on two sides was the sliding glass door that led in to the walk-out basement. The steps down to the lake started here.
Each step was made from a unique piece of railroad tie. Doused in creosote and sand, no step was the same size. The land truly dictated how the steps were formed and where they meandered as they made their way to the dock and the end of the shore. There were 17 steps in all - tall, narrow risers near the top - shorter and wider as you drew closer to the water. Just before the bottom step a foot path crossed the steps. To the right was a boat launch where the pontoon boat was typically parked. My grandfather loved to fish or be the man of the house taking guests on a boat tour - I'm not sure which. To the left, was freedom.
We never swam off our own dock, we walked down the path, through the Birch and Black-Eyed Susans to the Birrups. They had sand instead of seaweed - and a dock long enough that you could run off the end if you got a head start on the lawn.
It was a short walk, but it was almost my favorite part of swimming. Or maybe, just seeing those brilliant yellow flowers with their sullen brown middles was tangible evidence that soon I'd be swimming. Another world unto itself that belonged only to me and my siblings. Parents very rarely ventured here. Never grandparents. This was our world - confiscated in a stranger's front yard.