The sun sparkled across the ripples in the water as I stepped onto the dock. Across the cove our neighbors sat perched on their chairs, with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. The lake, early in the morning, was quiet except for the creaking sound of old docks bobbing in the water. I zipped up my jacket and made my way over to the canoe still dotted with dew speckles, my paddle and my latest book in hand. The canoe glided into the water with a slight push, and I climbed in for my morning excursion. My paddle strokes left twirling water behind as I waved at the familiar faces of our neighbors. For two months, this was my morning routine. Paddle, wave, read, and repeat. Mornings on the lake seemed the only time the world was quiet.

As I hiked up the four flights of stairs ascending to the house, I could hear the static sound of the antenna television in the living room. The lake house was secluded, surrounded by ten acres of woods in either direction, but even here the reality of the Corona Virus was apparent. Faintly, I heard the news reporter say, “Numbers continue to rise in Jackson County due to limited supply of vaccinations at local hospitals.” In the background, nurses held needles containing the vaccine to a virus sweeping the globe. When news of the virus first hit, we knew the lake would be the perfect safe place to hide. With a population of five hundred people, one grocery store, and a bait shop, Sunrise Beach was the perfect escape. So, we piled into the car for a twenty-hour road trip from Arizona to Missouri.

Many argue that learning history is not important or beneficial; however, history provides us with learning opportunities. Our family lake house, like history, has taught generations of kids. My grandparents bought the property thirty-eight years ago and before moving to Arizona my family would drive the two hours from the city to the lake every weekend. Many of my core memories and my family’s are connected to the house and the lake.

From the ancient clock positioned over the doorway in the kitchen that stopped ticking fifteen years ago to the ceiling fan I accidentally pulled, crashing, to the floor on a scorching summer day, the lake house holds artifacts of a sprawling history. Drilled and screwed tight into the once white tile backsplash of the kitchen sits the old rotary dial telephone, its creme plastic and black cord covered in years of black grime. For thirty-eight years, family, neighbors and unsolicited telemarketers have called the same ten-digit phone number. In the living room, fragments of the 80’s echo from the faded teal carpet and floral couches, each stained with years of life like the pages of a studious student's old history book.

In one spot, an oblong stain indicates where I once dropped my sippy-cup of chocolate milk while watching our nightly Scooby-Doo episode. The same sippy cup can be found in the back of the kitchen cupboard now, the chewed lid collecting dust next to the Corelle plates my grandparents received at their wedding. Corelle dishware is known for its durability and has ten times the strength of the twenty-year-old hardcover history textbook that’s passed from student to student. I can attest to their durability because the dishware has endured hundreds of spaghetti, steak, and even painting activities over the generations. Like the pages of a history book, each cupboard, curtain, or door of the house shows another piece of history.

Plastered on the walls like ancient artwork pictured in one's AP textbook, are generations of embarrassing photographs, deer fur blankets, antagonizing antlers, and Thomas Kinkade landscape paintings. The back of each photo is marked with names and dates, indicating the who, where, and when. In one picture, hanging in the main hallway of the house, my grandfather's boat sits on a calm lake just before sunset. Encased in the glass side tables are pheasants and foxes frozen in time, stuffed, and embalmed like the mummies of ancient Egypt.

The house, like history, reminds me to reflect on past experiences and learn new skills. My grandmother, like an all-knowing fishing guidebook, taught me how to tie the best knot on my fishing line, which bait to use depending on what I wanted to catch, and, most importantly, patience. Wearing my yellow lifebelt with my name scribbled in Sharpie across the side, I would sit for hours on the edge of the dock, a can of corn beside me and a fishing pole in my hands. Often, I would spend days staring blankly at the red-and-white striped bobber in the water, waiting for a fish to nibble and pull it below the surface. My grandmother's voice played in the back of my mind, “Patience, Kaylee girl. The fish will come.”

Like new editions of history books, with new covers for each edition, the house has featured dirt brown, dandelion yellow, and sky-blue paint, but the core pieces and interior have remained the same. The basketball goal in the driveway hangs the same way it did nearly forty years ago; the seven bedrooms and three bathrooms hold the same bedspreads and towels. Nevertheless, while we generally assume that history does not change, new information comes to light and history books are altered. For years, my grandmother refused to move into the twenty-first century and have the internet installed at the house. She feared we would lose an integral part of lake weekends, spending time with family and friends. However, like textbook editors who succumbed to the notion that bigger fonts are easier to read, my grandmother realized wifi would only increase our family time by allowing us to video call from anywhere in the world.

As I turn the page and enter a new event in my timeline, starting college, I reflect on the lake house. The alphabetical index of dates and artifacts replays in my mind as I come to the realization that the house my family lived in for thirty-eight years will soon be passed to a new family. Like the events of history, a select few will be primary observers and remember the lake house. The artifactual pictures will serve as representations of the past, enclosed by the hardcover of a photo album worn with age.