One more time to the lake

It chronicles his pilgrimage back to a lakefront resort, Belgrade Lakes, Mainethat he visited as a child. As he buckled the swollen belt suddenly my groin felt the chill of death. But there was a way of reversing them, if you learned the trick, by cutting the switch and putting it on again exactly on the final dying revolution of the flywheel, so that it would kick back against compression and begin reversing.

Peace and goodness and jollity. The whole thing was so familiar, the first feeling of oppression and heat and a general air around camp of not wanting to go very far away. In mid-afternoon it was all the same a curious darkening of the sky, and a lull in everything that had made life tick; and then the way the boats suddenly swung the other way at their moorings with the coming of a breeze out of the new quarter, and the premonitory rumble.

Inhe brought his son Joelthe experience of which is recorded in "Once More to One more time to the lake Lake". There had been jollity and peace and goodness. Languidly, and with no thought of going in, I watched him, his hard little body, skinny and bare, saw him wince slightly as he pulled up around his vitals the small, soggy, icy garment.

Unsourced material may be challenged and removed. He suddenly realizes how death is so close, because he is now the father and not the son. When the others went swimming my son said he was going in too. Please help improve this article by adding citations to reliable sources.

I kept remembering everything, lying in bed in the mornings--the small steamboat that had a long rounded stern like the lip of a Ubangiand how quietly she ran on the moonlight sails, when the older boys played their mandolins and the girls sang and we ate doughnuts dipped in sugar, and how sweet the music was on the water in the shining night, and what it had felt like to think about girls then.

White references this in One more time to the lake final lines: But now the campers all had outboards. Background[ edit ] White wrote a short pamphlet about the lake inat the age of Although White sees the lake as having remained nearly identical to the lake of his boyhood, technology mars his experience and the new, noisier boats disturb the serene atmosphere at the lake.

The only thing that was wrong now, really, was the sound of the place, an unfamiliar nervous sound of the outboard motors.

Golden Pond in Belgrade Lakes. In spite of the increasing amounts of technology, his son still has the same experiences that he had when he was a boy — sneaking out in the morning, being amused by the dragonflies.

This was the note that jarred, the one thing that would sometimes break the illusion and set the years moving. This could suggest that technology is impure or damaging, except that the same paragraph contains a lengthy reminiscence in which White rhapsodizes about his boyhood affection for an old one-cylinder engine.

It took a cool nerve, because if you threw the switch a twentieth of a second too soon you would catch the flywheel when it still had speed enough to go up past center, and the boat would leap ahead, charging bull-fashion at the dock.

Watching him I would remember the things you could do with the old one-cylinder engine with the heavy flywheel, how you could have it eating out of your hand if you got really close to it spiritually.

Afterward the calm, the rain steadily rustling in the calm lake, the return of light and hope and spirits, and the campers running out in joy and relief to go swimming in the rain, their bright cries perpetuating the deathless One more time to the lake about how they were getting simply drenched, and the children screaming with delight at the new sensation of bathing in the rain, and the joke about getting drenched linking the generations in a strong indestructible chain.

Then the kettle drum, then the snare, then the bass drum and cymbals, then crackling light against the dark, and the gods grinning and licking their chops in the hills. It was like the revival of an old melodrama that I had seen long ago with childish awe.

The shouts and cries of the other campers when they saw you, and the trunks to be unpacked, to give up their rich burden. And the comedian who waded in carrying an umbrella.

Summertime, oh summertime, pattern of life indelible, the fade proof lake, the woods unshatterable, the pasture with the sweet fern and the juniper forever and ever, summer without end; this was the background, and the life along the shore was the design, the cottages with their innocent and tranquil design, their tiny docks with the flagpole and the American flag floating against the white clouds in the blue sky, the little paths over the roots of the trees leading from camp to camp and the paths leading back to the outhouses and the can of lime for sprinkling, and at the souvenir counters at the store the miniature birch-bark canoes and the post cards that showed things looking a little better than they looked.

It seemed to me, as I kept remembering all this, that those times and those summers had been infinitely precious and worth saving. Image via Maine Travel Maven. They were one-cylinder and two-cylinder engines, and some were make-and-break and some were jump-spark, but they all made a sleepy sound across the lake.

White realizes that although human lives are by themselves transient and insignificant, experiences are immortal. The bass were biting well and the sun shone endlessly, day after day. Outside, the road was tarred and cars stood in front of the store. As he buckled the swollen belt suddenly my groin felt the chill of death.

The one-lungers throbbed and fluttered, and the twin-cylinder ones purred and purred, and that was a quiet sound too. Sleep would come easily and in the morning the red squirrel would be on the roof, tapping out his gay routine.

In those other summertimes, all motors were inboard; and when they were at a little distance, the noise they made was a sedative, an ingredient of summer sleep. While he initially finds great joy in his visit, the nostalgia causes him to struggle to remember that he is now a man, as he grapples with his own mortality.Once More to the Lake EB - Google Docs.

"Once More to the Lake" is an essay first published in Harper's Magazine in by author E. B. White. It chronicles his pilgrimage back to a lakefront resort, Belgrade Lakes, Maine, that he visited as a child. In "Once More to the Lake," White revisits his ideal boyhood vacation E.

B. White. The New One More Time is a Grand Lodge, accommodating 15 guests within 6 bedrooms and baths. A large Great Room blends rich and colorful wood stains with rustic woods and mountain rock.

Just off the Great Room is the adjoining gourmet kitchen with a. 'Once More to the Lake,' an essay written by E.B.

White, explores the age-old relationship between a father and his growing son. This. Just One More Sports Bar And Grille, in Avon Lake, OH, is the area's leading restaurant serving Avon Lake and surrounding areas. We offer a full menu and bar with 11 flat screen TV's available!

For your next night out, visit Just One More Sports Bar And Grille in Avon Lake.3/5(15). Jul 14,  · Daft Punk - One More Time [HQ] Daft Punk - One More Time [HQ] Skip navigation Sign in.

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One more time to the lake
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