There’s an old haunted school (it’s not, but that’s another story) looming over my home. My father attended classes there when he was a boy. He’s dead now. The old school faces over a lake to the east. A friend from Maine called it a puddle when she saw it once. It’s not a lake. It has a dam. But damn it, it is my lake. I’ll even capitalize it. Lake. Some summer nights I’ll squirm through the barbed-wire fence, dodge the rabbitbrush, and sit on the porch of the old school and look out over the Lake and listen. The trumpet of a few bullfrogs will rise up and reach my ears. Life out there. Cold old school here. Haunted or not. I am.