“Mist on the Lake”
| Mist on the Lake by S.V. Farnsworth Hugging the curves of the scenic route through King Jack Park in my red Chrysler car, I hurried to convey my two girls to elementary school. They needed to be on time. I needed to see the lake. Late Autumn gray cloaked the overcast landscape in early morning precipitation. Through the trees, the Praying Hands Memorial came into view. The lake beside it peeked between the trees and I stopped the car. Mist on the lake. What shall I bake? A smile curved my lips to see the wisps of moisture sweep the limestone cliffs to cross the flat gray surface of the water. Blueberry muffins. I put the car in gear and drove the girls to school. The afternoon held the delights of baking. I inhaled with satisfaction the aroma of muffins fresh from the oven. I normally wasn’t the kind of mom to do such things. However, the cozy feelings invoked by the morning drive had me inspired. Picking the girls up from school through the hustle and hubbub of Webb City traffic at that particular hour of the day wasn’t something I looked forward to. Stressed to the max by the drivers on cellphones, I avoided mayhem with my mad driving skills. With both girls buckled in the back, we were off to the park. At least the sun was up. Zoom, zoom, whoosh! I cut the engine and tossed muffins into the back seat. Silence…mostly. In my spot by the lake, I drank in the depths of nature’s draught. Aquamarine waters winked at me in the sunshine, waving with the breeze. The tall trunks of trees held firm as their branches creaked with each gust. Their last leaves glided to the surface of my joy. How could I comprehend then that anyone could take away a lake? Who would want it anyway? It wasn’t even a lake really. It was an enormous mineshaft, and less than worthless to anyone but those who clung to it for renewal. At first, there were rumors. The EPA. The EPA. Town meeting today. City Council. What will they say? They’re cleaning up the chat. Hooray! Who cares? The winter farmers market on a fine Saturday morning in the park held many wonders. Music. Friends. Giant checkers. “Girls sit on Santa’s lap. I need a picture.” Click! Click! “Thank you, Mrs. Claus. I love your hugs.” “Have you heard?” she asked. I shook my head as I tracked my children. They sat at a picnic table to glue Styrofoam ornaments together. Active kids. Crafty. “The EPA plans to fill the lake with chat.” Mrs. Claus said. Leveled, I turned to her agape. Mind stalled, it seemed like time stood still. And then a gear in my brain caught and my teeth ground. “They want us all to drink that stuff?” I asked. Mrs. Claus’s cherub face scrunched in confusion. “What do you mean?” I pointed through the plastic windows of the vinyl pavilion covers. “The water tower is only a couple hundred yards from the lake. Half the city’s runoff collects here, there’s no outlet, yet the lake stays fresh year-round.” She still looked at me in question. “It feeds the aquafer,” I said. “Thousands of people drink it. Where did you think the water went?” Mrs. Claus, the picture of alarm. “Oh! That won’t do. I’ll tell my sister.” “We’d better tell everyone.” I shook my head, hoping someone else had thought of this. The edge of fear tainted my every drive through the park. Around the area, enormous equipment loaded chat onto railway cars. Whew! Vast swaths of barren piles were cleared by black smoke bellowing beasts. It began to look like earth again. And then it happened. Load by load, the lake dried up. Tree by tree, the bulldozers had their day. Until the lake had gone away. Now. My girls are in High School. We’ve moved from there. A bit of heaven on this green planet is where we stay. Trees and grass. A pond. It’s not the same. It’s better. But on farmer’s market day. We go to town. Beside the Praying Hands is a wide field. There are no footprints in the sparse grass. A suspicious dip in the boggy middle is the only clue to those who don’t know that something isn’t right. The EPA had their day. No people have two heads. Hooray! But I pity the man who mows it. I hope they give him hazard pay. Though, perhaps that would give away the thing I’ve failed to mention. Because at least one of us has hopes the field will wash away. The chat will flush! And from the sinkhole will form a lake with trees growing up to conceal from the world nature’s gift to those who care. |
Recent Comments