Naples, N.Y. 1978. (Pt.5)

We we're up in Naples for a couple of weeks. We spent our time messing around the house and going down to the lake to swim. Of course, all along the way, we had our never-ending conversation about any and every thing.
I remember walking down that long sloping road to the lake. It was harder walking down than coming back up. It's so odd - I have photographic memory of my shorts. They were white denim cut-offs. I had repaired a rip in them with a scrap of crazily colored synthetic fabric. I still remember the orange and golds of it. Such a strange detail to recall.
One day, on our way to the lake, we grabbed a huge inner tube from someone's yard and rolled it down the hill into the water. Something to float on.
Back at the house, at some point, Tommy came across someone's rifle. His grandmother said we could take it into the back yard and fire it. We shot into the vineyard. She stood on the porch and watched us, laughing and telling us to be careful.
Even though it's been almost 33 years, I can see everything about that old house in my mind: The walls, the floors, the upstairs bedroom - where I would lay in bed at night listening to my tiny cassette recorder (I had brought along a couple of tapes: "Relayer" by Yes and "Equinox" by Styx) - the dining room table, the fireplace, the kitchen, the bathroom with almost no water pressure, the yard, the barn, the vineyard, the lake and the hills beyond. I can see the house itself. I heard, years later, that his grandmother had died and the house had burned down. It seemed like a valuable piece of property. I'm sure there's a big McMansion on it now.
Tommy's step-grandmother told us once that she had always wanted to see the ocean. In all of her 85 years, she had never traveled more than 100 miles or so from home.
We never saw where Tommy's dad was buried. It seems like someone would have offered to take us there. I guess he just needed to connect with his family, somewhat. I think we kinda managed to do that, at least.
I've already described the trip home, in a previous posting from my journal (entitled: "Tuesday, August 22, 1978 [approximately 10:30 pm] Binghamton, N.Y."). I remember that, when I got home, I called a soda - or "drink," as they say in the south - a "pop," in front of my mom. She gave me a look as if to say, "You were only up there for 2 weeks..."