Somehow I have come to see the Lake as representing old places. Her coasts, with the sagging tobacco barns and the re-purposed fishing ports and the old American rust belt cities, fill me with a deep apprehension. Everywhere there are tired monuments to the stories our fathers used to tell – that summer they worked for sixteen dollars an hour in the tobacco fields or the cautionary tales about the toxic air inside the old sintering plant. The stories seem to live here. A constant presence on the shores and in waters to remind us of what was lost, and what will be lost.