Michael P. AmramTREADING ON OPTIMISMWhen I was seven years old, my father began taking me for long walks in the woods near our summer cabin on Bay Lake in northern Minnesota. I was rehabilitating after sustaining a traumatic head injury in an auto accident in the winter of 1971. As soon as I had the strength to stand, my father started taking me on walks. **** Our cabin was a refuge, a retreat from the pressures of the cities. Our cabin's environment nestled snuggly between Bay and Tame fish Lakes provided a perfect training camp. I was enamored with the great Muhammad Ali. My father and I would always watch his fights together. I'd see him dance in the ring, bringing boxing as close as I've seen it to an art. He'd "float like a butterfly and sting like a bee," effortlessly dispensing a salvo of jabs and uppercuts when his opponent, as was I, was sufficiently mesmerized by his patter. His constant claims that he was the greatest really were not hyperbole. The smaller lake, Tame Fish, as the name might subtly suggest, was more suitable for fishing to us. We did have a small row boat on this lake which a twelve horse power motor propelled. As a compromise, a consolation perhaps, for my inability to water ski, my parents bought me a blue, plastic, hollow sled. It came with a double stranded rope attached to the top. These ropes extended three feet or so and were joined with a wooden handle for the rider to hold. My parent's accessory for me though was a handle placed lower between the two ropes. This one was for lying down or kneeling on the sled. For the first two summers, the original handle at the end of the rope dangled there, taunting me to stand one day. I would begin lying, prostrate, on the sled as it began to break a small wake, splashing my head. Eventually I would rise to a kneeling position, thereby eluding the splashes. My father would watch me from the boat as the bow rose into my field of vision. It was a summer or two before I had the balance to stand on that sled though. The larger lake, Bay Lake, was really not a fishing lake. The lake did not have any significant depth until at least fifty yards from shore. On this lake we docked a speed boat with a thirty-five horse power outboard motor. Water skiing was the main activity on this lake. **** The expanded vistas of my world those summers, the smell of pines, the sounds of woodpeckers toiling in desolate woods, all conspired to create that allure of northern Minnesota. When we reached our cabin the sun was setting and my head would echo the plaintive cry of a loon. July winds enticed me with a welcomed tenderness as I swung my metal based canes out of our maroon station wagon At times a late water-skier would be on the last run. I'd emerge to hear an outboard idling as the skier reclined in the water, perfectly ejecting their ski tips from the water in as if God had given them skis for feet. "Hit it" would echo through my new summer world at that moment, and that motor would be brought instantly to speed. Gems of sun glimmered off the water, gently assessing my progress as we slowly made our way down that long, winding, pot-holed country road. The general store, White Hawk, was almost always our goal. It stood, ripe with the local fishing tales of the Bay Lake Township. The screen door of the store would wait for me as I made the half-mile trek. The sun bounced off my small-based metal canes in a rhythmical pattern that increased with the increasing stability and speed of my gait. As we walked I would hear the distant clank of an old pickup truck jostling down the traffic-eroded road or the ever-present whir of speedboat motors followed by the blissful cry of the water skier spraying water in all directions. Kicking up dust, tired, legs aching as I neared the store, I was coaxed on by the promise of a treat. The purchase of boxes of night crawlers was what I saw mostly. My father, never nurturing dependence, left the door for me to open. I entered, invariably to the hum of the minnow tanks. The steady flow of anglers buying the week's bait comprised most of the business. Adjacent to the bait and tackle section sprawled candy, ice cream bars, and various grocery items as far as a nine year old would see. The sweet smells of bubble gum and ice cream cones would tempt me. Feeling I had earned it, I would try, usually successfully, to charm myself a treat. "You walked all this way? What could I get you dear?" A middle-age woman, attractive, with that weather-worn wrinkled look of an iron ranger would flirt. I would bat my blue eyes, shuffle my cane like Ali, and usually emerge from that store with a treat. For those moments in that general store, I was the greatest.
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