Where Owasco remembers us: A reflection on family, water and stewardship

Some memories are tied to places, and for me, those places are the shores of Owasco Lake. The memories that first come to mind are fireworks at Emerson Park and standing at the water’s edge near Fire Lane 23. My great-uncle David Bellnier built a house there in the 1970s with my great-grandfather’s help, and though the house has since changed hands, the lake still remembers us. Our memories live in the stones, the trees, and the streams that feed its heart.

I remember geese calling across the water at dawn, the caw of crows from the treetops, and the constant rush of distant waterfalls. I remember the smell of lake water mingling with smoke from bonfires, the clear water slipping between my fingers, and faint voices carried across the open surface. I remember playing in a nearby stream once full of smelt, and getting in trouble hotwiring an old jet ski that used to be stored there. My great-uncle taught me how to skip rocks on the shores of Owasco, an art that took many summers to master. If there were ever a tournament for rock skipping, he would have won it. These became lessons, too: patience, observation, precision, and respect for how water touches stone.

Long before I was born, water shaped my family. My great-grandfather grew up on Cayuga Lake, where time was measured by seasons and shoreline rather than clocks. In the 1950s and '60s, when he and my great-grandmother lived in Melone Village, housing originally built for returning World War II veterans and their families, my great-grandmother noticed something missing. There were many children, but few opportunities. So, my great-grandfather started Boy Scout Troop 23. Every summer, he took those boys camping along the eastern shore of Owasco to Camp Rotary. On Sundays, my family would gather at Emerson Park and have picnics by the water all day. The lake was not just a backdrop; it was the glue that held community and my family together.

My great-grandfather carried that same care and creativity onto the water itself. A jack-of-all-trades, he once built a houseboat from welded 55-gallon barrels, fashioning a floating home with railings, walls, and a small motor at the back. For a time, it drifted along the lake, equal parts ingenuity and affection. It was not grand or polished, but it was deeply intentional, a reminder that the lake was not something to conquer, but something to live alongside.

My great-uncle David lived simply on Owasco for a time before the lake house I remember was built, in a small building near the shore. Nights were spent smelting, where my family waded into cold water under the stars, pockets heavy with fish and laughter. The lake gave generously then, offering food, gathering, and a sense of being.

As the years passed, we all observed the lake change. The smelt dwindled. Zebra mussels crept into the shallows, turning familiar barefoot paths into something to avoid. What I felt was sorrow, but also something else: a calling to protect a place that had given us so much.

For much of my life, I’ve studied the community, the science, and the challenges now facing lakes across the world, always searching for the keys to positive change. That path led me to work as Owasco Lake’s watershed inspector for a time. Walking the shoreline, speaking with residents, and partnering with organizations that serve as the lake’s voice were not just duties, but acts of love for the place that raised me. I saw how small choices — such as what we allow into storm drains and how we treat the land at the water’s edge — can slowly change a lake. But I also saw hope: neighbors coming together to learn and grow as land stewards, and a new generation still mesmerized by the lake’s reflection of Fourth of July fireworks at Emerson Park.

Owasco Lake is not just water and land. It is a living memory, a teacher, a mirror of who we have been and who we hope to be. It holds the stories of generations, the thrill of first swims, the calm of late summer sunsets, the quiet moments when water teaches us how to listen and reflect.

When I walk its shores now, I hear both the echoes of our childhoods and the call of what is at stake. Owasco’s future depends on whether we choose to remember that loving a lake means caring for it, as those before us did, so that those who come after may know its magic too.

Ally Berry is a member of the board of directors of the Owasco Watershed Lake Association.