Syracuse does have a legendary reputation for awful weather, but occasionally even Syracuse gets a break. The sky clears, the weather turns warm, and residents skip therapy that week. And, according to our friends who actually live there, they go sailing on the lake.
The phrase "going sailing on the lake" has a different meaning to the residents of Syracuse and upstate New York than it did to me growing up in rural South Carolina. To upstate New York residents,. "Lake" means, Lake Ontario, Huron, Erie, or maybe Superior - more appropriately named oceans in point of fact. These vast, white-capped expanses of water offer sandy beaches and limitless horizons. They also accommodate oil tankers and cargo ships larger than the town I grew up in.
In South Carolina, the term "lake" more accurately meant an engineered body of water constructed to serve as a watershed, or to drive turbines for power, or maybe even to run a cotton mill (called a Mill Pond in the local vernacular). This frame of reference is completely inadequate to understand anything as vast as Lake Ontario where, it turns out, my friends invited us all to go sailing during a recent visit to see my daughter.
The picture pasted here of Olivia (far left), me (center), and Camille (right, my 16-year-old daughter) was taken during my first sailing cruise on Lake Ontario. It was likely taken before we had left the relative calm of the harbor and before our 32-foot boat began bouncing around like a cork and someone (other than me) finally admitted to feeling a "bit queasy."The sailing trip was really wonderful and we appreciated the time and energy it took to arrange the day, but it was more lake than I expected. I kept thinking of my own Southern context and what "going to the lake" meant to anyone growing up in Greer, South Carolina. It made me think of a summer when Billy Johnson took me and a few other friends "to the lake."
Going to the Lake with Billy Johnson
It was the summer of my junior year in high school when Billy Johnson pulled his 1969 red Pontiac GTO convertible into the First Baptist Church parking lot in downtown Greer and shoved the gleaming chrome gear shifter into neutral without setting the parking break.
Before the car stopped moving, I watched with admiration and a bit of jealously from the back seat as Billy slid out from under the steering wheel and stood up while steadying himself with one hand on the top of the front windshield frame and the other on his custom rolled leather seat back. Then with the grace, agility and confidence of a well-trained gymnast he vaulted his muscular frame over his girlfriend's outstretched legs and over the passenger door.
The second his feet hit the hot blacktop pavement of the parking lot, Billy began selling a brilliant notion to us all - Jennie Faye Smith (Billy's girlfriend) in the front seat and Barry Johnson (no relation) and his girlfriend Mary Lee Bruce, and me, all sitting in the back seat.
"Hey, I got it," Billy yelled, competing with the deep-throated rumble of an 8-cylinder, fuel-injected engine tricked out with stock exhaust manifolds," Let's run up to the lake house and go skiing." Billy Ray didn't wait for an answer although I yelled "hell, yes" just to affirm the group's certain decision.
I immediately felt bad about using profanity in the church parking lot. After all, it was a known article of faith that the use of profanity carried with it the possibility of serious retribution if not outright and immediate punishment - like a car crash or horrible disease.
Billy Ray didn't waste any time getting out of the church parking lot. He opened Jennie Faye's door, hesitating only a moment to admire her legs and hiked up short skirt. Then he stepped across his girlfriend's seat, the gearbox console, and using the top of the steering wheel and shifter handle for support, he dropped into the driver's seat like a NASCAR professional. I felt another tinge of jealousy.
At the time it was convenient to connect my envy to Billy's athletic prowess and his sheer "coolness," but in retrospect I suspect the unobstructed view of Jenny Faye's legs barely covered by an impossibly short skirt was the real culprit.
As we rolled toward the parking lot exit, Billy Ray looked back over his shoulder and fixed his gaze directly at me. "Hey, Morrow," he yelled, adhering to his trademark habit of never calling anyone by their first name, "watch this!" With that, he turned his head, slammed the shifter into first gear, and engaged the awesome power resident in a fuel-injected 400-cubic inch engine.
The car jerked forward with such force that it undoubtedly left the ground. A high-pitch wail began reverberating off the brick walls of the church, filling the air with frightful sound. As we spun and fishtailed around the parking lot, smoking tires spitting out bits of rubber and gravel, the awful screaming and screeching grew louder in direct proportion to the engine's increasing RPM. I was sure the car would either flip over or catch on fire, or the over-torqued motor might simply blow up and flying piston rods and and assorted engine parts kill us all.
"Jesus Christ, Billy Ray," I screamed (immediately regretting it) when he finally eased his foot off the accelerator. "What are you doing? You want to get us killed or arrested?"
Billy, of course, could not hear me over his own uncontrollable laughter. When he got control of himself he answered with tears running down his face.
"What's the matter, Morrow... Scare you?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, you scared me shitless. Thank you very much."
"Mark's right," Jennie Faye joined in. "You are a Jerk Billy Ray Johnson!"
"That's true," Billy said, pulling the GTO slowly out onto Main Street. "But I know you love it."
"You think so," Jimmy Faye said in a huff.
Of course we knew Jennie Faye did in fact love it. That's exactly why she put up with Billy Ray - and likely why we all tolerated him as well. He was a show off and surely dangerous. It was also true that, after a while, he wore thin on most people. But Billy guaranteed entertainment and provided diversion from what I considered the predictable, often smothering day-to-day life offered by a conservative small town in the deep South.
A few days later I noticed a city crew trying to remove the 20-foot long, thick black sacrilege Billy had left in the church parking lot. I was sure that Billy's father who owned the largest peach farm in the county had arranged the clean up. As one of the richest kids in town, it was somewhat of a birthright that anything short of murder his father would "make right." I figured this was just the latest example.
We did get to the lake that day and except for Billy's unholy penchant for dragging his skiers excessively close to the shore and other known underwater hazards such as old submerged trees and stumps, we had a great time.
Barry and Mary Lee seemed to have only a passing interest in skiing that afternoon. I was happy to have more time to ski and attributed their lack of interest to the understandable fear of being in a motorboat with Billy, much less skiing behind a boat with him at the helm. It only occurred to me a few years later why Barry and Mary Lee wanted to stay behind in an empty, parentless house while Billy, Jimmie Faye, and I had fun out on the lake. When I did finally "get it," I was a bit embarrassed about my naivette. But in retrospect I was relieved to be spared the burden of that knowledge .
A few months later, Billy crashed his beautiful car into a tree out near the public golf course. He wasn't hurt, but the impact bent the frame and Billy Ray had to watch his awesome red GTO being towed off to the junk yard. Surprisingly, Billy's father did not replace the car as we all expected. Instead, he put Billy to work on the peach farm and made him buy his own car without parental help.
The next summer when we went "up to the lake" Billy drove us in a 1962 Chevrolet Impala. It wasn't even a convertible. Jennie Faye still occupied the front seat and Barry, Mary Lee, and me sat in the back seat. I was grateful that Billy had "settled down" from the previous summer - most of us said that he would likely be dead by our senior year had he not faced some "come to Jesus" moment.
For my part, I was just grateful that "cutting doughnuts" in the First Baptist Church parking lot was no longer an option. Nothing terrible had happened since the previous summer's unfortunate incident. I had clearly taken the lord's name in vain not 50 yards from the church entrance and considered that blind, dumb luck had saved me. I was pretty certain that God had just been preoccupied with some other sinner or blasphemer and had simply missed it. Whatever the reason, I was just grateful for the oversight and thought to myself at the time that sometimes it's best to just let sleeping dogs lie.
A few months later, Billy crashed his beautiful car into a tree out near the public golf course. He wasn't hurt, but the impact bent the frame and Billy Ray had to watch his awesome red GTO being towed off to the junk yard. Surprisingly, Billy's father did not replace the car as we all expected. Instead, he put Billy to work on the peach farm and made him buy his own car without parental help.
The next summer when we went "up to the lake" Billy drove us in a 1962 Chevrolet Impala. It wasn't even a convertible. Jennie Faye still occupied the front seat and Barry, Mary Lee, and me sat in the back seat. I was grateful that Billy had "settled down" from the previous summer - most of us said that he would likely be dead by our senior year had he not faced some "come to Jesus" moment.
For my part, I was just grateful that "cutting doughnuts" in the First Baptist Church parking lot was no longer an option. Nothing terrible had happened since the previous summer's unfortunate incident. I had clearly taken the lord's name in vain not 50 yards from the church entrance and considered that blind, dumb luck had saved me. I was pretty certain that God had just been preoccupied with some other sinner or blasphemer and had simply missed it. Whatever the reason, I was just grateful for the oversight and thought to myself at the time that sometimes it's best to just let sleeping dogs lie.
