This is one of those places with a lot of fractured memories. We would go there mid-summer for many years, starting when I was in grade school and into my early teens. I know my parents and sisters would periodically visit after that but by the time I was in college, my family had switched their vacations to Wildwood, New Jersey as the summer get-away. I do remember Geneva-on-the-Lake as being fun. We would play in the sand and enjoying the little cottages with a kitchen, living room, two bedrooms and bathroom for a week’s vacation.

My sisters and I were all born about four to five years apart from each other. Bonnie and me, five years. Me and Denise – four years. Denise and Carol – four years. Carol and Maureen – five years. We used to joke that Mom would have another child when the youngest was off to kindergarten. After Maureen went to school, Mom got a dog, Spider, instead of having another baby, or so the story goes. Because of this large spacing from youngest to oldest, rarely were all five of us children on a vacation at the same time. However, Mom and Dad would include either Grandma Duncan or my Aunt Alice, my father’s youngest sister. During those times, we would rent a larger cottage.

I remember all of us crossing the main two lane road and walking down to the beach. The last time I was there, for what reason I can’t remember, the beach had eroded and it was a climb down. But back then, in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s, it was a simple hike, with blankets, sun screen, buckets, sand sifters, paperback books and a jug of Kool-Aid in tow. The beach wasn’t the smooth sands of the Gulf Coast but covered with little shells and stones. Sometimes there were a few dead fish, which the morning clean-up plows hadn’t gotten, adding to the distinct lake aroma. But the days were warm and Mom and Dad relaxed as we played in the water.

At night, we would walk to “downtown” Geneva-on-the-Lake. There wasn’t much there, just a couple blocks long with the typical tourist stores. Many of these were open front buildings, with games of chance, such as the Duck Pond. Little yellow plastic ducks would “swim” by in the revolving water, each duck with a number on its bottom. You would hook one with a small fishing pole and then get the prize which matched the number of the duck’s butt. I liked that as I could always win something. I wasn’t too skilled at the other games of chance, which, of course, were meant to have more losers than winners. I did love to try my luck at the balloons and darts, usually managing to break again at least one balloon. The prizes were cheap toys but to a child, they were a hard earned trophy.

For several years, there was an auction which took place one or two nights a week. I swear every tourist would be there, bidding crazily for jewelry, scarves, winter gloves (during the heat of the summer), women’s hats, and home decor. I wonder how many of those gaudy decorations actually were put on displayed once the people returned home or maybe were given away to a “deserving” relative or friend. The ultimate fun was when the fast talking auctioneer would launch into a quick tirade, selling off a large group of unopened boxes for a fixed price of $1 to $5. People rushed to buy one, just for the ability to get what surprise lie inside. After the auction house, we would walk back to the cottage, getting ice cream cones along the way and maybe having one last look into the gift shops with all of the cedar wood doodahs – ashtrays, carved outhouses and miniature toilets, pencil holders and little trinket boxes. There was one activity which was not a family event. In the middle of the town was a theater, which my father said, starred “Busty Rusty.” Of course, I had to take my father’s word for that, being a child and not even allowed to peek inside the dark and dusty doorway.

I don’t remember much else about these times, except for walking to the little convenience store and buying some books for reading and a tablet for writing and drawing. After a week of sunshine at the beach, we would head home, stopping at Pymatuning State Park to feed the carp.