When I think of my father I think of Sunday mornings at Newman Lake and all the private miracles the sun performed: by simply rising sent nocturnal things into hiding, commanded water lilies to open, churned up winds, turned the black depths into a blaze of diamonds. When I think of my father I think of water wings and diving boards and people swimming heroically in wool bathing suits; I picture the simple cabins we stayed in, cherishing their names (Hill Top House, Dreamwood, Evergreen, Rest-a-While, Betty Ann) wondering if the people who live there now are as vulnerable to tranquil nights, as dazzled by stars; if music still drifts across the water from a dance hall all lantern-lit on Hampton's Bay. Most of all I think of swallows stirring under the eaves of Pioneer Lodge at dawn and Mother making pancakes with fresh cow's milk from Taylor's farm; I hear a small outboard motor's endless singing, remember waves lapping perilously at the gunnels of the Kant-Sink-Em boats that were my pirate ships for seven summers long. When I think of my father I think of laughter, of storms quickly spent and a rainbow that lasts and lasts. When I think of my father I think of the morning.