Artist’s Conk We carry platters out of the kitchen and begin setting them along the length of the gray ledge on the porch overlooking the northern side of the lake. Two eastern white pine trees frame the scene; their long skinny limbs, sparsely clothed and far from one another, stretch out towards the light blue water. I furnish warm tortillas on my indestructible plate with meats, vegetables, and sauce, taking my fill and racing, but not racing my brother to secure the coveted rocking chair. I vie for this chair because this year, it has become difficult to maneuver between the bench and ledge where in the past I would voluntarily sit. I have grown while the island has waited. The week of living barefoot has blackened my feet, and with each push against the deck to rock my chair, I stamp dull gray splotches on the wooden planks. I fall into a rhythm, and a pepper slice from my fajita drops to the ground; I throw it over the ledge into the plump shrubs lining the space between the two trees. These green hedges are small enough not to hinder the landscape ahead yet are too small to guard the porch from the fisherman’s gaze as they float in their rowboat in the island’s cove, casting until we tell them off for interrupting this rare and constant view. Through the magnetic bug door, my mom parades out of the kitchen coddling a large semicircle in both hands whose half-moon figure is immediately recognizable as the artist’s conk - a name reporting on the fungi’s properties. The conk, scientifically known as
Ganoderma Applanatum, is a rarity of the island, a hidden treasure whose natural perfection evades our hopeful and desperate pursuit nearly every year. But this year, my Mom obtained one thanks to her experience from fifty years of mushroom hunting. She takes her seat next to my rocking chair e at the bench of the picnic table with her body open towards the lake, resting the conk on the glossy table cloth. Mom begins to outline the scene before our eyes, working first on the shrubs near the mushroom’s corklike base. I watch her intensity as she conducts each stroke of her twig upon the faultless, pillowy material of the truffle’s skin. It is far too delicate to use a knife, and she is cautious as she wields the wooden blade, making each engraving purposefully and with care as if she were operating on a patient with a scalpel. She traces the slim shore that hugs the front of the brush from where the waving limbs emerge. It’s currently encumbered with kayaks, paddleboards, driftwood, and the shadow of darkness cast from the framing trees. From my periphery develops forested mountains, sloping down towards the head of Long Lake, where they converge to a point at the bow of the canoe-shaped lake. To the right of the island, the earth resembles a woman lying on her side with a distinct outline of pointed toes, wide hips, broad shoulders, and a resting head facing those on the sundeck on the far side of the island, who, upon meeting her gaze, obey her command of relaxation. In a final display, the 25
