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The Memory of Running The Memory of Running The Memory of Running The Memory of Running 1 My parents Ford wagon hit a concrete divider on U.S. 95 outside Biddeford, Maine, in August 1990. Theyd driven that stretch of highway for maybe thirty years, on the way to Long Lake. Some guy who used to play baseball with Pop had these cabins by the lake and had named them for his children. Jenny. Al. Tyler. Craig. Bugs. Alice and Sam. We always got Alice for two weeks in August, because it had the best waterfront, with a shallow, sandy beach, and Mom and Pop could watch us while they sat in the green Adirondack chairs. We came up even after Bethany had gone, and after I had become a man with a job. Id go up and be a son, and then wed all go back to our places and be regular people. Long Lake has bass and pickerel and really beautiful yellow perch. You cant convince some people about yellow perch, because perch have a thick, hard lip and are coarse to touch, but they are pretty fishI think the prettiestand they taste like red snapper. There are shallow coves all over the lake, where huge turtles live, and at the swampy end, with its high reeds and grass, the bird population is ex- traordinary. There are two pairs of loons, and one pair always seems to have a baby paddling after it; ducks, too, and Canada geese, and a single heron that stands on one leg and lets people get very close to photograph it. The water is wonderful for swimming, especially in the mornings, when the lake is like a mirror. I used to take all my
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