The other day I went back to Lake Hall, a place that was my home away from home when I was a kid. I brought my camera and walked around and took pictures and thought about old times. Lake Hall is a small freshwater lake at Maclay Gardens State Park in Tallahassee, and, in the seventies, Mom would take my sister Kris and me there to swim nearly every morning in the summer.

Lake Hall lies at the bottom of a gentle hill shaded by venerable old trees—tremendous live oaks, pines, and sweetgums. Sheltered picnic tables dot the hill, and along the edge of the lake’s swimming area gleams a white sandy beach. There’s a parking lot at the top of the hill, and, back in the seventies, as soon as Mom parked, Kris and I would jump out of the car, run down the hill, and plunge into the water.

We’d get to the lake early, before any other people had arrived. At that quiet hour, the lake and its surroundings seemed very peaceful, like an empty church, and sometimes in the sand we’d see tracks left behind by raccoons and other nocturnal animals. Once a park ranger showed us alligator tracks—the marks left by the gator’s broad tail and funny little feet. I don’t remember feeling scared or worried by this revelation, but I do remember feeling a sort of wonder. The morning sky was still gray, and silver mist was rising from the lake’s calm surface. The ranger told us he was monitoring the alligator and knew that it had left the area and so, he said, it was safe to swim.

The water was cool in the mornings and had a sweet, special smell and taste. Yellow waterlilies floated at the edges of the swimming area, near thick beds of reeds where herons and egrets stalked. The lake was ringed by lush woods, and back then, when I was a child, no McMansions marred the view.

Kris and I usually stayed close to the shore, in the shallow water, which was a lovely chartreuse color and where, as the day progressed, the sun lit the ripples and made glowing, honeycomb-like patterns on the lake’s sandy bottom. We shared the water with little gold and silver fish that would sometimes like to nibble your toes in a delicate, tickling fashion.

Mom couldn’t swim, so she rarely got wet. Instead, she’d sit on the shore, under the giant, moss-draped live oaks, and watch us swim, enjoying, as she always said, “that nice cool breeze” that came off the lake. Mom thought the lake was so beautiful. I think it was her favorite place in all the world. Once Joanie, my aunt, my father’s sister, promised to paint a picture of the lake for Mom, and Mom dreamed about the painting for a long time until, I guess, she accepted that it wasn’t ever really going to materialize.

Kris and I would swim and play in the lake for the entire morning, until Mom called us to go home. What did we do exactly? Well, nothing—and everything. Most of my memories of Lake Hall are sensory impressions—the sound of a hawk crying, the sight of a swimming turtle, the feeling of the clean white sand underfoot. . . . Often Kris and I were just hanging out, observing, soaking in the details. We’d go underwater with our masks on and watch the eelgrass sway, or we’d float on our backs and look up at the clouds. It was so nice to have time to simply experience nature, to rejoice in its beauty and ponder its mysteries.