Naked

Written May 7, 2006




The auto court at Kathleen Lake was old even in the 50s. By then there were modern motels, long two-storey rectangles with marked parking on the pavement outside. Pink trim, or turquoise, on white stucco walls, wall to wall carpeting inside, often a kitchenette, a modern bathroom with shower curtains, something new to me as a kid. But Kathleen Lake wasn’t like that. We had our own cabin there, with a staircase up to it, and a porch. The outside walls were asbestos shingles, I think, mottled grey and scratchy to the touch. The parking area, the central court, was gravel, or mud or dust, lumpy. We had a kitchen as big as the one at home, open to a sitting area, at the front of the cabin, a yellow formica table with chrome legs, matching chairs in shiny padded plastic. My legs would stick to those chairs on warm days when I only wore my bathing suit all day. There were two bedrooms, one for my parents, one for me, and a bathroom between. No shower, just a bath. One morning, before the heat of the day, I wandered out onto the porch after my bath and stretched my arms over my head, felt the brisk touch of air on my skin, looking forward to the day of swimming and fishing and communing with toads, when the sharp voice of my mother said, “Anne, get in here!” “Why?” I asked. “You shouldn’t go outside naked.” First I’d heard of such a thing, and I asked why not. She said people didn’t like to see naked little girls, it wasn’t polite. That made no sense to me, who’d always run around comfortably in my own skin and never felt judgment for it.