We spent the weekend at the lake house where it was quiet and still. Aside from the alarming caws of an occasional black bird, or sometimes a flock of black birds, the woods were silent.
The park hosted its annual fall festival a mile or two down the shoreline, but noise from the festivities only made it as far as our house once in a while. If we were outside, we could hear the bands at night and the cannon fired by the Revolutionary War encampment at noon.
I made prosciutto and Gruyere pizzas, knitted, read a bit of a memoir written by a local woman, napped, and watched movies.
This part of Ohio was inundated with a devastating flood in 1913 which lead to the creation of a conservancy district and the construction of a series of dams. Our house sits on the shore of a lake created by one of these dams, an oddly shaped lake with about 28 miles of shoreline, boat ramps, two marinas, a yacht club, a park, and a campground. Our house is at the end of the north shore right by the dam, so we don't see most of what goes on on a busy summer weekend.
There was quite a bit of debris scattered around from the big wind storm a couple of weeks ago, so husband built a fire in the fire pit and burned some of it. I turned my camera so as to get a nice vertical shot, and now I can't figure out how to rotate the image. Try this—sometime today when you need a break, lay your head on your desk and watch a few seconds of camp fire. Enjoy.