Searching for the Perfect Name

I’m trying to sell my family on the idea of naming our summer retreat. Before you go thinking I’m getting too big for my britches or putting on airs, give me a minute to explain.

Naming a seasonal cottage is not only for the Margaret Posts and their Topridges. I’ve done extensive research (which is to say I paddled up close to many of my neighbors’ shorelines and zoomed in on their camp signs) and discovered that a lot of less imposing structures in my neighborhood have names.

In WATER OVER THE DAM, by Floy S. Hyde, her timeless tome about the Mountain View community lists our little cottage as being constructed in 1900 by a contractor named John Duffin. Since its purchase by my beloved carpenter in 2010, our camp is constantly undergoing work—not only as improvements, but also to keep it from falling in on itself after enduring 126 seasons. Maybe its moniker should be tool related, like “Hammer Time” or “Camp Joint Venture.” No takers? Okay, that idea won’t be put in the running.

The book also lists our camp as “the Clark Cottage,” and tells stories of the fun-loving owners launching a barge topped with an organ, boating their way up and down the lake while “playing and singing for the delight of the campers along the shore.” So perhaps something musical in the name would be apropos: “Serenades on Sunset Ridge,” a nod to the private drive our little community uses. That doesn’t work either, does it?

Preserving history matters. I thought finding an old oar in the shed with a hand painted “Camp ONY” might lead me to a suitable designation. My neighbor suggests the NY might be our state, but we can’t figure out what the O is for. Another idea was the letters were the owner’s initials, or a combination of names abbreviated O.N.Y. My ensuing rabbit hole of research did not lead to anything helpful, and I’m not interested in doing a full-blown title search. Besides, I want a name that has meaning for my family, so let’s abandon that idea.

What about celebrating the charming dragonflies of every shape, size, and color who greet us on our paddles? I think that might work and begin to look for campy dragonfly art to decorate with. I try calling it “Dragonfly Cottage” to my family, but I am met with eye rolls, or blank stares.

I am alone in my need to name this place; therefore, I alone shall name this place!

Coming up with a suitable appellation occupies my thoughts more than it aught—I plead guilty of not filling my mind with loftier pursuits, like ending world hunger or sharing the love of Jesus. I have indeed perseverated on this far too long.

As I continue to contemplate possibilities, the lake is glass. I pull my kayak out as quietly as I can, slipping in lightly so not to disturb the mirrored ribbon of silver before me. Everywhere my eye falls there is peace. Beauty. Tranquility. Serentiy.

The spirit of music bubbles inside me and I hum a bar from an ancient hymn; a psalm once practiced on a hillside dotted with sheep by a boy holding a handful of strings that produced accompanying cords.

Still Waters . . . as in, “He leadeth me beside the . . .”

My search is over. I can rest on this one.