Reflections on the Tenth Week of Fall – Trees of Light

Trees of Light from Moving Boat

As long as I can remember, I’ve oohed and aahed over winter holiday lights.

Last December, my quilt guild held their Christmas party at Silver Shores Restaurant in the Borough of Conneaut Lake. I ate mediocre salmon and gazed. Ropes of white lights entwined in evergreen boughs, colored lights flashed on Christmas trees, and flickering candles reflected in window panes. Movement outside the window drew my eyes to a line of people walking past in the dark. Their huddled bodies made me shiver. “What are those people doing outside?”

The quilter across from me turned to look then waved a forkful of roast beef at me. “They’re coming off the Barbara J. They rode around the lake looking at Christmas lights.” She scrunched her nose. “You wouldn’t catch me on a boat this time of year. Too cold!”

So, mid November, when my husband settled on the sofa with a glass of wine and a dish of cheese cubes, I propositioned him. “Would you go for an hour and a half boat ride on Conneaut Lake so I can gawk at Christmas lights?”

“My only goal in life is to make you happy.” Spence swirled the wine in his stemmed glass then took a sip. “That and ending lead poisoning.”

Interpreting his answer as a yes, I researched Trees of Light Boat Tours, studied weather forecasts for the three weekends after Thanksgiving, then ordered two tickets for Sunday, November 25^th.

That day, before bundling as warm as a kid in a snowsuit, I packed picnic boat suppers then fetched the camera and tickets. Anxious not to miss the boat―boarding promptly at 5:15 with no reserved seats―I called Spence off his tractor so we’d have an extra half hour for getting lost.

We didn’t get lost.

I had my choice of all but three parking spaces in the lot by the dock, and I had plenty of light for a photo of the Barbara J. While I paced the dock for the best angle, another couple parked, walked down the gangplank, and boarded the boat.

So, forty minutes before the 5:30 departure, we walked up the plank and met Captain Clare standing in the bow and holding his hand palm up. “Welcome aboard! I’ll take your tickets.”

He glanced at my computer printed tickets, folded them, and stuffed them into the pocket of his winter jacket. “You picked the best weather of the season for the ride.”

While the engine rumbled and the floor vibrated under my boots, I debated. The open air deck for better photographs or the enclosed lower deck for a modicum of warmth?

Clutching the railing on both sides of the steps, I led Spence to the upper deck then past plastic chairs and tables to the stern and peered down at the still paddle wheel.

A gray and pink sunset decorated the western sky. Strings of lights angled from the top of a flag pole to a circle on the ground to form a conical tree. Each tree glowed a single faint color. I gawked at trees of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, and white. A lone coot swam past the Barbara J. And bundled passengers, carrying pillows, blankets, and thermoses, flowed up the stairs. Ten minutes before the listed boarding time, squeeze-in, standing-room-only space remained.

I angled around people for photos of trees along the shore.

Spence stuffed his gloved hands in his pockets. “I might need to wuss out on you.”

“Do you want to go below now?”

His torso shivered, but he shook his head.

Finally, the first mate untied the lines, the Barbara J backed away from the dock, and adrenaline surged through my veins to the rhythm of the swishing paddle wheel. I clutched my camera to my chest and suppressed a giggle. All heads turned starboard to the shore. I’d picked port. So when I flicked the mitten covers off my gloves and peered through the view finder, I saw stocking knit caps in front of the tall orange tree. Sheesh.

Barbara J ready for Trees of Light Tour

The sky darkened, tree lights brightened, and their reflections shimmered on black ripples. I silently oohed and aimed my camera over the paddle wheel.

Twenty minutes into the ride, a holiday insight flashed between my chilling ears. The boat ride wasn’t like riding in the back seat of my father’s car in the fifties. Back then I’d gawked at a nativity scene in one yard, Frosty the Snowman in another, and Santa with his reindeer in a third. Trees of Light meant just that. A hundred trees decorated the lake shore. No snowmen. No nativities. No reindeer. Only a few houses had lights strung along gutters or stairways.

My fingertips numbed in the 37ºF (3ºC) night air. No need to stress them for more pictures of the same trees. “I’ve got enough photos, Spence. Let’s go downstairs and warm up.”

He bent forward and swung his arm for me to lead the way.

“No. I want you to be my battering ram and plow through the crowd. I’ll follow.”

With an “excuse me” here and an “excuse me” there, he parted the crowd, and we made our way to the stairs.

At the bottom, I opened the door to the enclosed lower deck, and we walked into pitch black, stuffy air. Spence inched down the aisle. I followed and bumped into a post supporting the ceiling. Before I bumped into another, my eyes distinguished shadowy people sitting at tables on either side of us. No empty spaces.

We inched back toward the door where I spotted a lone chair next to the cabinet storing life preservers.

A male voice from the dark said, “There’s a chair over there.”

Spence grabbed the over-there chair and sat beside me―this time on the starboard side.

The engine rumbled, and a breeze chilled my fanny every time someone opened the door. But I didn’t need my mitten gloves. I pulled them off, stuffed them in my coat pocket, and rubbed Spence’s thigh.

He patted my hand and stared out the window.

I unpacked supper.

Spence ate a handful of peanuts. “Put the rest of mine away. I don’t feel like eating now.”

Sipping warm tea, I gobbled a turkey sandwich, carrot and celery sticks, and trail mix.

Between residential sections lit by trees, we passed dark shores with bare branched tree silhouettes. The captain aimed the spot light at a flock of coots, an American flag on a pole surrounded by water, and dark islands he had to steer around.

Returning to the south end of the lake, the trees of light grouped together again. The door to a house with a green tree opened. A man stepped outside and waved to the boat.

The captain blew the boat horn.

I patted Spence’s thigh again. “What are you thinking?”

“About what the lake looked like before it was build up.” He pointed to three islands big enough to support one or two maple trees. “I imagine this lake is like Otsego Lake in Cooper’s Deerslayer.”

The horn blew again when we reached the dock.

After the nine mile ride, I shivered down the gangplank and huddled next to Spence like the people I’d observed departing the Barbara J a year earlier. In the car, I turned the heater on full blast and eased out of the parking space. “I’m glad we went,” I said turning onto Route 322, “but once was enough. I don’t need to ride the boat to ooh and aah at Trees of Light again.”

Trees of Light from Docked Boat