I stood at the end of the shore, watching the sun fade from an orange fireball into a reddish pink before it slipped behind the mountains. I looked around my feet until I could find a flat rock. I found one, picked it up, and inspected it. "This is perfect," I said to myself. I flicked my wrist and with a swift release, the rock skidded across the calm water six times before softly dropping beneath the water's surface. Today I said goodbye to a piece of my childhood and a piece of my heart. No, I didn't throw away a teddy bear and no, I didn't finally part with a blanket I affectionately termed blankey. Today, I stepped foot, for the last time ever, in my grandparents' lake house on Lake Wallenpaupack in Pike County, Pennsylvania.
My grandparents bought a tiny cottage shortly after my parents were married in the 1980's. My grandpa, also known as "Mr. Fix-It," built and remodeled the one bedroom cottage into a two-level, four-bedroom, and a 1.5-bath home complete with a wraparound deck and two-car garage. The lake house was his pride and joy, as he built it from the ground up, quite literally, by hand. It was a safe haven for my grandparents. They spent half of the year at their house in Scranton and half of the year by the lake.
I've stayed there every summer since I was born. It was there that I learned how to swim, how to cook, how to fish, and how to skip rocks. It was also the place where I drove a car for the very first time.
I could barely stay seated in my car seat as my mom drove my little brother, Brett, and me over to the lake in the blue Explorer. I packed my little Mickey and Minnie suitcase and was more than ready to spend the night with Grandma and Grandpa. I would shriek with excitement as we passed Saint Veronica's. This meant we were getting close! My arms and legs would be flapping with excitement in the backseat. We pulled up to the big blue house and my mom backed into the driveway. Like a bat out of hell, I would bolt out of the car and onto the deck. There, at the end of the deck with a newspaper in hand was my grandma, waiting for me to attack her with hugs. "There she is!" my grandpa would exclaim with a huge smile as I leaped onto him next.
My days started with watching "The Today Show" with my grandma as she sipped her coffee and read the newspaper. We would eat Life cereal together and my grandpa would come downstairs and join us. After breakfast, my adventures with my grandpa would begin. We would go down to the lake in the golf cart and he would teach me how to skip rocks. "Look for the nice flat ones," he would tell me. "Make sure to flick your wrist!" My rocks would skip once before they made a loud plunk into the dark water. We went fishing together and he taught me how to hook my bait and cast a perfect line. It was with my grandpa that I caught "blue gill". I was convinced I was going to keep him. Unfortunately, my grandma was not having any of that. We piled back onto the golf cart and he would sit me on top of his lap. I steered up the hills as he controlled the gas pedals. My grandma would have lunch waiting for us. After lunch, I would lay with my head in my grandma's lap so she could play with my hair as she rocked back and forth, lulling me to sleep. I would pack my bag for one night and I would end up staying ten.
As I grew older, I began helping my grandma in the kitchen more and more. She was a world-class cook and you cannot convince me that your grandma's mac-and-cheese is better than my grandma's. I simply won't believe you. She taught me how to make countless dishes but my favorite, by far, were the potato packets for the grill. I loved putting the butter and onions in between the slices of potatoes, sprinkling pepper and salt over top like magical cooking fairy-dust.
My brother (Brett) and I are swimming fanatics. My mom always jokes that my brother has gills behind his ears. We would swim for hours upon hours at the lake. We couldn't get enough of jumping off the wooden dock, competing and arguing with each other over whose jumps were better. When the weather was nice enough, we would pile into my grandpa's boat and ride around the lake. My mom and my aunt would glide over the water on water skis, and I would sit in the boat begging to learn. Brett and I spent several blissful summers at the lake, spending time with our grandparents and taking in all the lake had to offer.
My grandpa became very sick the summer between my sophomore and junior years of high school. He passed away that fall. I remember running out of the house the first time we returned back to the lake after his passing. His Topsiders were still by his chair waiting for him to slide his feet into them, his lotto tickets and pens at the ready on the coffee table for the evening drawing. There weren't any boat rides after that. Brett and I never went fishing again.
Although my grandpa was gone, the lake house remained to be summer hangout. My grandma would be sitting at the end of the deck, newspaper in hand, ready to spend time with us. I would lay on the glider under the warm summer sun, falling asleep without a care in the world.
My grandma became sick during my senior year of high school right before I left for college. She became very sick during the summer before my sophomore year of college. She passed away that fall.
The next time I visited the lake house, it had changed. My mom and my aunts were readying it for a future buyer, fixing the things my grandpa never got around to. I sat in my grandpa's chair half expecting him to come down the stairs and grab the golf-cart keys. I heard footsteps behind me and I perked up. Instead, my brother, now 17, clomped down the new staircase with his big feet.
My parents and I turned down Ansley Road for my last time. We pulled up to the big blue house and we piled out. My aunt and my uncle were there, helping fix up the house for the soon-to-be new owners. After dinner, I wandered down to the lake for the millionth time. I hopped over the bank to the other side and walked down to the stony shore. The sun was making its final appearance before it disappeared behind the mountains. I took out my phone to take a picture and snapped the beautiful scene before the sun faded out of sight. I picked up a rock and skipped it. I looked over my shoulder and saw my childhood play out before my eyes. There, on the rocks, was my grandpa sitting watching me skip rocks. There, on the dock was 5-year-old Brett taking a running start into the water. I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to see my mom, tears streaming down her face. We stood there together, watching the sunset with warm tears brimming off our eyes. Sure, the lake wasn't going anywhere, but it would never be the same for me.
As we drove back to Temple, my dad and I talked, reminisced, and cried about all the good times we had at the lake. "It was a vital part of your childhood," he said to me. "But, this is also a part of growing up." He pulled a Peanuts comic out of his visor overhead. He handed it to me to read. 
I thought about all the times I had fallen asleep in the back of my grandpa's pickup truck. I did it so often, he eventually left a pillow in the backseat for me. After visiting the lake house, I reread the comic again. I realized that over the course of the past few years, I have transitioned from being in the backseat to riding in the front seat. I long desperately to be in the backseat again, to not have to worry about anything except whether I want Life Cereal or chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. But, as Charlie Brown says, you can never go back.
I skipped one final rock and I turned to walk back up the hill with my mom. As we pulled onto the road, I looked back at the big blue house one more time. I imagined Grandpa and Grandma standing on the deck, waving goodbye as we drove out of the driveway and out of sight.
