The Bright Red Canoe

The last time I saw Grandma’s canoe, it was tucked away in the rafters of their garage. In the time since her passing, kayaks became a lighter and easier way to enjoy the lake. But I’ll always treasure our canoe trips together.

I was probably ten when Grandma bought herself that bright red canoe. Grandpa liked his motorboats, but Grandma liked the quiet of the canoe—the gentle gliding across the water. I’d sit in front and she’d paddle us around the shoreline near her cabin at Priest Lake. 

She perfected the art of stealth canoeing—not a sound was made. I asked her to teach me to paddle like she did. So, she had me sit toward her and watch. “See how I don’t move the paddle from side to side?” I watched her hands maneuver the angle of the paddle. “I can turn us completely around without even taking my paddle out of the water.” And she did.

I had a few more lessons and then Grandma let me take her canoe on many solo canoeing adventures. She warned me to keep an eye out for storms, and watch out for the strong afternoon waves. I promised to be careful.

Over the years of my summertime visits, I’d paddle to visit friends across the lake, other times I’d load the canoe with provisions and camp out for a few days. That red canoe became my travel companion. But I always kept an eye out for storms.

Grandma loved to hear where I’d gone and what wildlife I’d seen as I paddled the remote parts of the lake. 

When I was in my twenties—married and bringing my little girl to the lake, Grandma still insisted that I take the red canoe across the pristine waters. It was something we shared—a love of stealth canoeing. Grandma would say, “It’s so quiet that you can hear yourself think.” I agreed.

Then a storm hit that I wasn’t prepared for at the lake—Grandma’s illness. When I arrived for my summer visit I could tell her smile wasn’t the same. I held her hand and we talked about the earlier days—then she said, “Take the canoe out—it’s a beautiful day.”

I pushed off from the shore—and I went out far enough that I could see the cabin and the line-up of the neighbor’s cabins—they looked much the same as they always had. I’d gotten so much older—but in that time so had Grandma.

It’s the passage of time that gives us so much, but also takes away precious people we love.

I turned back, not making a sound with my paddle—just like Grandma taught me. She’d given me a heart full of memories—and those are the most treasured gifts our loved ones leave behind. 

Now it’s our turn to carry on—or perhaps, to paddle quietly and leave our love along the way.