The Lakehouse: Following the Instructions to a Dream

When my husband and I celebrated our 25th anniversary, I impetuously scribbled across the bottom of the card, "I promise you another 25 years and a lakehouse to enjoy them in!"

We had never discussed a house at a lake, I did not grow up around a lake, and we had never even rented a house near a lake. We did own a funky old waterski boat for occasional day trips to a nearby delta. I confess I hated these trips and used any excuse I could to get out of going.

Now my wise father has always said, "there is something magic about writing something down. It's a written command you give your brain. Your thoughts take over to make it happen."

Although we never discussed that random anniversary card scribble, clues began to surface that my mind was diligently working towards making the dream a reality.

Oh, but it was subtle at first. Like the time I brought home a framed print entitled "Game Fish Identification Chart". My children howled with laughter since this went with NOTHING in my house, I am a vegetarian, and could NEVER catch a fish on a hook. Even I wondered what I was thinking as I stuffed it into a back corner of the garage.

A month later, during a casual conversation with a client, she mentioned her boating vacation. I asked if one of the lakes in the area had houses actually ON THE LAKE (In California this is extremely RARE). One small lake did, according to her.

Don't ask me how, but I knew this was THE PLACE and THE LAKE. A five minute Google search later, I had an appointment with a real estate agent in a place NO ONE had ever heard of, including me. It was 2 hours away in a rural county that is an obscure part of "The Gold Country". This area was mostly abandoned after the Gold Rush, and I think the population of cows is still greater than that of people. The entire county did not even have a traffic light at the time. Yes, these places still exist in California, as remarkable as it may seem.

Still being driven by an unseen force, I was able to describe in exact detail to the real estate agent, the house I never knew I wanted: a big, old, well-loved A-frame, nestled in oak trees, and looking out over the lake. Below would be a sandy beach and a boat dock. Although he showed me dozens of houses, he never showed me the one I described.

No, the unseen force led me there one morning when I took a walk from the rental where I was staying.

The street was fairly hidden, and I'll never know what caused me to turn that way. There, just beyond a crooked and forlorn "For Sale" sign, was a gigantic old abandoned A-frame sitting high enough for an expansive, unobstructed and glorious view of lake and mountains. Yet it was still close enough to the water to have a trail leading down to a small beach. The flyer NEVER EVEN MENTIONED THE VIEW, and simply stated "Needs TLC".

Windows were broken, the carpeting was orange shag, and the master bedroom furnishings consisted of a blow up mattress and a mirror on the ceiling above it, much to the Realtor's embarassment. There was no place for a dining room table because a huge antique pot belly stove had been placed there on a round cement platform. The kitchen was frozen in a 1972 time warp, and in the main entrance hall were the washer and dryer. Realtor, shaking his head in apology, told me THESE were all the reasons he had chosen NOT to show me the house.

None of it mattered because the vision of this house, of summers on the lake, barbecues on the deck, sleeping in a big pine 4 poster bed in the loft, of celebrations, laughter and fun, were already in my mind, waiting to become a reality.

After all, I had written the instructions for this dream on the anniversary card, and my mind had followed it to the letter.

And the fish poster? It still hangs in a prominent place in the Lakehouse, and still makes me smile.