For some reason, I was thinking about Memphis Lake today, which a writer from "NebraskaLand Magazine" aptly described as "one of Nebraska's best secrets." He's right; it is, and that's exactly why I hesitated writing about it.
Frankly, I'd rather not too many people knew about Memphis Lake. I'm sure there are a lot of people who have spent a weekend or two there that feel the same way. On the other hand, that lake is too much of a gem not to share. Maybe it's because Memphis seemingly sits out in the middle of nowhere that makes it special. Maybe it's because as you drive through the itty bitty town that it is, it looks and feels like time has no influence there. It's calm and unassuming. It's tranquil and still. There's no pace. There's no buzz. There's nothing to distract your motivation to just decompress and breath deeply. Just thinking about about the water bumping up against the lake's edge ever so softly makes me want to get in my car and immediately head in that direction.
I camped at Memphis Lake as a kid with my parents, and I've spent weekends there camping with my own kids. In fact, I've told many people over recent years that arguably the most peaceful, relaxing, and renewing four days I've ever spent on this planet was camping at Memphis lake about five years ago with my daughter, 10 at the time. Time stood still that weekend. Honestly, time and life in general has never felt as slow and so wonderfully unimportant and inconsequential as they did over that stretch of the days.
Some days, I believe I'd do just about anything to get that time back, to turn the clock in reverse and feel the sun shining as comfortably warm as it was, to watch that same sun dipping below the water line and turn the world into a million shades of pink and red and purple, to hop on that peddle boat with my little girl and zoom our way around the lake chasing the bullfrogs jumping all around us. I do believe some days I'd give everything away for a few more minutes of staring at those endless stars populating the black sky as we sat in our lawn chairs, our bellies gorged on chili and hot dogs and smores and more, listening to the coyotes sing, watching the fire fight on.
Decades ago as a kid, my dad would take my sister and I there to fish on Sunday mornings. Most people from my hometown took the highway to get to Memphis, passing by the cattle yard that stretched for acres along the road and that emitted a smell worthy of a cattle yard for sure. Not my dad, though. He never seemed to take the path most traveled. Instead of the highway, we took the dirt roads, winding our way the six or so miles from Ashland at a slower but much more satisfying pace.
I loved those rides, seeing the corn fields spanning out, watching the birds fly up among the dust the car kicked up, and feeling my hair blow wild and mad with the window rolled all the way down. Our path brought us into Memphis over the old steel bridge just outside town until we hit the back edge of town, moving past Don's Bar and what passed for downtown Memphis. On most visits, we go back out the same way, stopping at Don's to get a soda for the ride home. Years later, after college was several years in the rear view mirror, I'd eat supper there with my mom and dad, with my mom invariable catching three numbers in Keno to pay for our meal with some cash left over.
On those Sunday mornings with dad, with our fishing poles over our shoulders, we'd walk our way around the east end of the lake, find a place to sit on that old cement structure, and throw our lines in. Afterward, we stop at the playground and climb all over those old railroad ties, getting slivers by the handful. I never was ready to go home, and I was always ready to go back.
Some weekends, my extended family of uncles and aunts and cousins would all camp there. I was the youngest boy among all my cousins, and my sister was the youngest girl. We'd follow our older cousins around the hills and roads and pathways down to the lake like they were royalty, listening to every word they spoke about their lives, which we couldn't begin to understand but were enamored with nonetheless. We tried to keep up during their massive games of hide and seek, and though we were rarely successful, God we tried.
In high school, Memphis Lake was the place you drove to late at night with your friends and girlfriends, stealing time and stealing freedom. The lake at night was a different lake than the one we saw during the day, and the lake at night with a girlfriend sitting next to you in the care was an even stranger, more exciting one. Overly quiet. Overly dark. Overly full of possibilities.
During the summer months, the little cafe that doubled as a bait shop was where I'd eat my lunches when we stopped bailing hay long enough to refuel. I can still feel that air conditioning sitting in that little booth wishing the day was over and those hay fields were a distant memory. I can also still taste that hamburger that down so good and so tasty it still makes me smile. And those ice cream cones? Enchanting.
I still feel virtually the same feelings every time I drive into Memphis, even at the age I am today. What is that power or magic at work? I don't have a clue really. I guess it's not even important. I'm just happy it found me and hasn't left. Maybe the best aspect of Memphis Lake is I still have one daughter who has yet to experience that magic. I can't wait until we put the tent up, start a fire, and dig in for the night. I can't wait for her older sister to walk her down to the lake, find some rocks, and teaching her to skip them across like I taught her.
Frankly, I'd rather not too many people knew about Memphis Lake. I'm sure there are a lot of people who have spent a weekend or two there that feel the same way. On the other hand, that lake is too much of a gem not to share. Maybe it's because Memphis seemingly sits out in the middle of nowhere that makes it special. Maybe it's because as you drive through the itty bitty town that it is, it looks and feels like time has no influence there. It's calm and unassuming. It's tranquil and still. There's no pace. There's no buzz. There's nothing to distract your motivation to just decompress and breath deeply. Just thinking about about the water bumping up against the lake's edge ever so softly makes me want to get in my car and immediately head in that direction.
I camped at Memphis Lake as a kid with my parents, and I've spent weekends there camping with my own kids. In fact, I've told many people over recent years that arguably the most peaceful, relaxing, and renewing four days I've ever spent on this planet was camping at Memphis lake about five years ago with my daughter, 10 at the time. Time stood still that weekend. Honestly, time and life in general has never felt as slow and so wonderfully unimportant and inconsequential as they did over that stretch of the days.
Some days, I believe I'd do just about anything to get that time back, to turn the clock in reverse and feel the sun shining as comfortably warm as it was, to watch that same sun dipping below the water line and turn the world into a million shades of pink and red and purple, to hop on that peddle boat with my little girl and zoom our way around the lake chasing the bullfrogs jumping all around us. I do believe some days I'd give everything away for a few more minutes of staring at those endless stars populating the black sky as we sat in our lawn chairs, our bellies gorged on chili and hot dogs and smores and more, listening to the coyotes sing, watching the fire fight on.
Decades ago as a kid, my dad would take my sister and I there to fish on Sunday mornings. Most people from my hometown took the highway to get to Memphis, passing by the cattle yard that stretched for acres along the road and that emitted a smell worthy of a cattle yard for sure. Not my dad, though. He never seemed to take the path most traveled. Instead of the highway, we took the dirt roads, winding our way the six or so miles from Ashland at a slower but much more satisfying pace.
I loved those rides, seeing the corn fields spanning out, watching the birds fly up among the dust the car kicked up, and feeling my hair blow wild and mad with the window rolled all the way down. Our path brought us into Memphis over the old steel bridge just outside town until we hit the back edge of town, moving past Don's Bar and what passed for downtown Memphis. On most visits, we go back out the same way, stopping at Don's to get a soda for the ride home. Years later, after college was several years in the rear view mirror, I'd eat supper there with my mom and dad, with my mom invariable catching three numbers in Keno to pay for our meal with some cash left over.
On those Sunday mornings with dad, with our fishing poles over our shoulders, we'd walk our way around the east end of the lake, find a place to sit on that old cement structure, and throw our lines in. Afterward, we stop at the playground and climb all over those old railroad ties, getting slivers by the handful. I never was ready to go home, and I was always ready to go back.
Some weekends, my extended family of uncles and aunts and cousins would all camp there. I was the youngest boy among all my cousins, and my sister was the youngest girl. We'd follow our older cousins around the hills and roads and pathways down to the lake like they were royalty, listening to every word they spoke about their lives, which we couldn't begin to understand but were enamored with nonetheless. We tried to keep up during their massive games of hide and seek, and though we were rarely successful, God we tried.
In high school, Memphis Lake was the place you drove to late at night with your friends and girlfriends, stealing time and stealing freedom. The lake at night was a different lake than the one we saw during the day, and the lake at night with a girlfriend sitting next to you in the care was an even stranger, more exciting one. Overly quiet. Overly dark. Overly full of possibilities.
During the summer months, the little cafe that doubled as a bait shop was where I'd eat my lunches when we stopped bailing hay long enough to refuel. I can still feel that air conditioning sitting in that little booth wishing the day was over and those hay fields were a distant memory. I can also still taste that hamburger that down so good and so tasty it still makes me smile. And those ice cream cones? Enchanting.
I still feel virtually the same feelings every time I drive into Memphis, even at the age I am today. What is that power or magic at work? I don't have a clue really. I guess it's not even important. I'm just happy it found me and hasn't left. Maybe the best aspect of Memphis Lake is I still have one daughter who has yet to experience that magic. I can't wait until we put the tent up, start a fire, and dig in for the night. I can't wait for her older sister to walk her down to the lake, find some rocks, and teaching her to skip them across like I taught her.
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