Talking to lakes and cemeteries Am I nuts?

I was thrilled to get a summer job as a busboy at my favorite place in the world—Lake Tahoe—in June, 1960.

What a life, residing in a cabin amid pine trees beside an enormous lake surrounded by spectacular mountains.

But the beginning did not go well at Zephyr Cove Lodge. I broke so many glasses that the chef insisted I must be working for the glass manufacturer. My boss was horrified at my scruffy clothes and wrinkled shirts. Then a waiter hit me in the face with a a wet table-cleaning cloth. “Dirty!” He yelled.

How to cope? I got the good idea to go down to the beach at sunset and sit on a log and tell the lake about my troubles.

There was a bright moon, reflected on the blue waters. The mountains, still with some snow, were beautiful.

And I talked. I told the lake all my worries and asked what to do.

I was praying and didn’t even realize it.

I was tempted to return home in defeat, but good things happened. My parents mailed me some new white shirts. The same chef loaned me a couple of white “bus jackets.” I got better at the job. The experienced waiter, kind of apologetically, called me “the best busboy I have ever seen.” I worked there for two more summers as the head busboy and returned to ski for many years after.

Over time, I have been occasionally able to find a quiet place to reflect. When my mother, at age 65, had surgery for very serious colon cancer, I spent time at the chapel in the hospital at Placerville, Calif. Chapels are a quiet place in the midst of suffering, pain and death.

My mother made it to 98, and after she died, I visited the cemetery and talked to my deceased relatives. “Aunt Adele, remember those fun card games we used to play?”“Uncle Fred, I loved those letters you used to send me.” I think they liked me.

I thought of these experiences just a few weeks ago, when I was in the midst of a temporary health problem. Depressed, suddenly I decided to walk only a few steps to the graveyard of Pickett’s family members dating to theearly 1800s. Sometimes I have felt their presence when I have cleared weeds or mowed the lawn around them. 

I never met any of these people. But I talked to them anyway. They assured me that things would be all right, and they were.

They also liked me - most of them, anyway. Some day I will join them there. I felt welcomed. And loved.