There’s Quiet… and Then There’s Lake Quiet

The town where our city house sits is… small.

Not one-red-light small…

But everybody-knows-your-business-if-you-leave-the-trash-can-out-too-long small.

Most people wouldn’t call it a city house.

It’s a quiet little town.
A sleepy town.
A town where sirens are the exception…
not the rule.

On warm summer nights,
you can hear the crickets.

When I say it’s quiet here—
can you picture it?

Because I can.

It’s the kind of quiet that settles in around you.
Predictable.
Comfortable.
The kind of quiet that knows your name.

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But at the lake…

it’s a different quiet.

We live at the end of the road.
And I mean the end.

If you don’t stop,
you’ll be in the lake.

There’s no passing traffic.
No headlights sweeping the windows.
No late-night somebody-driving-home noise.

Just water.
Wind.
And whatever decides to speak up in the dark.

You can hear things here.

The soft plop of a fish jumping
from somewhere across the lake.

The low, steady buzz of mosquitoes
that always seem closer than they are.

The sudden flap of wings
as a blue heron lifts off and disappears into the trees.

And sometimes…
voices.

Just whispers of conversation
carrying across the water,
drifting farther than they should.

At the lake, the quiet isn’t tucked in.

It’s wide open quiet.

It stretches out across the water…
and comes right back at you.

Sometimes it’s so still
it feels like the whole world is holding its breath.

And sometimes…

it’s not quiet at all.

Even when it feels completely still…

it isn’t. 

And somewhere out there, between the crickets and the water,
I’m starting to understand the difference.

If you know wide open quiet, you’ll fit right in…

come back and stay awhile.

Pull up a chair on the deck. We’ll raise a glass – or two.

–Pattie

The water’s sparkling, the dog has opinions… and this Third Act is just getting started.