I always loved the lake. My family came here every year. The wooden dock that my great great great grandfather “built with his bare hands”. The walls painted hand painted by great great aunt. The rose bushes out back planted by my great grandmother. The stories of this generational hamydown of a home where boundless and long. Each story added new legend to the cabin by the lake.

But the logs used to build the foundation, were decorative. The "hand painted" walls were peeling wallpaper. The rosebushes, plastic. My family wanted a history, one that was made of hardwork and love that ended in a home. But...

My great great great grandfather filled his pockets with rocks and walked of the end of the dock. My great great aunt drank lead based paint. My great grandmother slit her wrists on her rose's thorns.

I always loved the lake.