This morning, next to the front stoop, a handful of white snow drops rose again where snow had melted. I expected them this week, yet seeing their sweet beauty rise up is exalting somehow. It throws open the doors of a wintered soul. It made me break into a grin. Then I bolted next door to see my neighbor Henry, who had planted those flowers some 20 years ago one day just as a gift to a new neighbor. He was sitting in his garage, smoking his pipe. I smelled the scent of it as I rounded the corner. Henry! I said. I missed you! Guess what? The snow drops are rising! He pointed to his front gardens. Look, he said with a smile, “some crocuses too.” We stood admiring the little bulb flowers, always first to bloom. I said something like, It’s a promise spring is indeed around the bend.

Now the crocuses have stuck up their brave heads, and the red buds on all the silver maples in town are visible. Soon gallant jonquils and a flood of white and gold daffodils will dance in all the yards and fields, and finally, some real spring will be here. Life is about renewal, about hope.

All day I was lost in dreaming of summer, our wondrous summers here on the lake, and one particular summer memory came to mind: it was late June 2004, and the Robison family rented a cottage in Lakewood for a week on Front Street close to the old Camp YaWaCa. My son Brennan flew in with his new girlfriend, rented a speed boat and jetted around the lake. My older son Aryl fished from the dock every day, often accompanied by our yellow lab Cody at his side. Cody swam and swam and grinned and grinned as do most labs. Aryl’s wife Pati read in the sunshine. On the Fourth of July, my sister’s favorite holiday, we had a great party, some of whom stayed on to watch fireworks that night. Aryl was our grill master, and the food and drinks were fantastic.

But it’s not just that. Something sweet and magical mingled with life that particular week. The images of light and water, the sound of little waves on the rocks, the moon over an indigo lake at night, the sun glinting on the tall orange tiger lilies at the shoreline at dawn … these images stick with me. My son’s hair shimmering as he cast off the dock; he turns to grin at me. My daughter in law smiling from her lawn chair. These images are photographs in my mind.

Vicky and I invited friends and family to join us. My sister loves the 4th because of its tradition and memories of watching the flares and fireworks. She likes to start the day with breakfast at the Lenhart in Bemus. Vicky said, she “especially enjoyed the camaraderie of gathering with family and friends around the bonfire, talking, enjoying good food and drink, and watching the fireworks.” We both felt the connection with the Johnson family home so close by, right up Front Street lakeside where our great grandfather J. Alfred Johnson had built a summer home in 1915. That’s the place where my grandfather Ben met his darling Finnish bride Martha too. So that spot has resonance for us.

My sister stopped by often that week as did my mother and her husband Fred. Though only half our days were sunny and warm that week, it was a family celebration nonetheless. It was a homecoming for so many of us — I from Ocala, Florida, Pati and Aryl from Hallandale, Florida, Brennan from northwest Arkansas where his new job had taken him, and all the Jamestown family we missed so much.

Of course, that week brought back images of the lake from years past, the golden weeks of life on Chautauqua where summer is a sanctuary and a vacation for all. How many times have I written about the idyllic summers I spent in Fluvanna with my Forsberg grandparents and my cousin Barb Sherwin? How many glorious days did I spent on the lake in various boats from Rob’s sleek Chris Craft when I was 16 to Grandpa Carl’s old fishing boat with its 18 horsepower Evinrude to cousin Larry Nelson’s various boats? I recall a summer day in the late 80s when my father was visiting from Florida. He and my sister Vicky and I took Brooke and her friends to Midway. Dad wore a straw hat. Though ill, he still walked tall and straight. Another summer in the late 90s, dad rented a little cottage in Bemus Point for two weeks. Vicky recalls an hour with him at the park next to the Lenhart and lunches at the See Zurh House where they sat together in the sunshine. I recall an image of turning to look at him, riding in the passenger seat, as I drove him to Barcelona. His face was eager and joyful as a child’s though he was almost 80.

That week in June 2004, all those kinds of memories flooded back. Being on or near the lake here in Chautauqua County, New York, is a marvel to me. It’s a pristine corner of New York state, and a special corner of the universe in my mind. All my life, this lake has been a haven for me and the thousands of residents who love it like I do.

That summer at the cottage, our dog Cody, a fool for water of any kind, swam herself silly off that dock in Lakewood. She chased balls and sticks thrown into the lake until she dropped with joy and exhaustion. That week, my mother was still strong and well, Fred was still strong and well and sported a little Van Dyke beard. He held my dog Molly on his lap as he stared out over the lake. Mom, Vicky, Brooke, and I took a picture I will treasure always — the family women. My sons glistened with youth and possibility. On Saturday, the last weekend in June, friends gathered to share with us a feast and to toast the summer.

There will come sweet rains, as Teasdale says, and the earth and the smell of it will rise up to greet us. We have had losses and deaths, injuries, lean times. We plant them in the next gardens. If we are inclined to faith, it’s a celebration of the Son of Man’s rising, a rebirth that reminds us of heaven, of eternity. It’s a time of colored eggs and chocolate bunnies, of pots of tulips and fragrant lavender hyacinth, of pure white lilies tall and straight, and of the promise of new life and new dreams. It’s Easter. It’s April. We are all dreaming of summer, and the flowers rise like hope.