Old oak

This older writer is as sturdy as an old oak tree ... or maybe an old oaken bucket since I seem to be full of many things.

To get back to oak tree analogy, in my front yard when I was little there stood a very old oak tree. It was an easy tree to climb. It was a wonderful place to play games. Make believe ones, or making towns in the soft, sandy soil it sheltered. Many of its roots were on top of the ground. 

I lived in a small town in Southwestern Louisiana that sat only thirty miles from the Gulf of Mexico. The lake my town was named after, Lake Arthur, could take you all the 30 miles between us and the Gulf.

Salty Gulf breezes blew, sometimes in a lazy fashion, sometimes gusty and strong when a storm was brewing.
My family was in love with the water. Sailing, bigger boats, and daily swims filled my days on the lake. Except for Sunday when we could not head for the lake but must instead attend church.