Let me get this out of the way right off the bat - I'm sorry. To residents, past and present, I apologize profusely for what I am about to say about life in the Village of Angola. Actually, "life in Angola" is a contradiction. There was no life, as others knew it, in Angola. 

There were only two positives I can remember about growing up there. One was the realization that eventually you would be able to move out, somewhere with a deeper connection to a more "with-it" world that for most Angolians existed only through the media. 

The other was the privilege of being close to that wonderful place near and dear to every teenager's heart: the Lake. The Lake - the bars, the revelry, the bonfires, the sorority and fraternity parties at stylishly seedy cottages, cruising Old Lake Shore Road, 2 a.m. hot dogs at Connor's. And the one element even more exciting than any of that - meeting people not from Angola. Nothing, not even graduating from high school, was as exciting as turning 18 and being able to be part of the Lake crowd. 

There was a mystique about the Lake that kept us spellbound. We spent our early teen years feasting on Lake stories from older friends, brothers and sisters. These stories filled our adolescent days with faith to persevere, knowing our rewards of a social heaven were but a few years away. The days between your 17th and 18th birthday dragged mercilessly (remember, the legal drinking age in New York then was 18). And woe to the poor soul whose 18th birthday was in the fall. This unfortunate lack of parental planning meant that someone had to suffer through another Angola fall, winter and spring before nirvana arrived. 

For those unfamiliar with my quaint little hometown in southern Erie County, let me just say that there was very little in the way of cultural or social stimulation. Angola was, and still is, lost in the midst of a vast social and cultural desert. And those who think I am the only one who feels that way are deluding themselves. Life was like living in a stagnant pond. New kids were unheard of. Every class picture I have from grades one to eight had the same faces. Only the nuns changed. I was fond of telling my parents that the beauty of raising children in Angola, and other places like North Collins, Farnham and Brant, is that when Irv came on at 11 o'clock and said "Do you know where your children are?" a resounding "YES!" boomed through town. 

But we had something that brought hope and excitement to our pitiful lives. We had the Lake. Our Lake. The Lake that put Angola on the map four months of the year. The Lake that meant it was spring break all summer long. The Lake that transformed our village into a summer resort. 

The Lake was way too cool to be in Angola. Cottages were booked seasons in advance, and fraternities and sororities made sure there was no shortage of juvenile-rental mayhem. (In 1962, the Angola/Point Breeze area was among the top three places to vacation in New York State Did you know that?). 

Lerczak's (later the Western Michigan University or the WMU Club), the South Shore Inn., Bill Miller's Riviera, Castaways, Point Breeze Hotel, Lake Lodge, King's Inn, the DuDrop Inn and the Big Ten Club. Mention these establishments to Western New York baby boomers; immediately a wistful smile appears. 

We all have a favorite Lake story, some better left locked in the recesses of our minds. I am not particularly proud of this one, and a large dose of social responsibility must be included. Unfortunately, every lake story normally begins, "One night, we were so drunk that ..." So here goes. This is one I don't care if my mother reads. 

One night, my best friend, Patty, was so drunk, she left me stranded at the WMU Club. I was so drunk I started hitchhiking at 3 a.m. down Old Lake Shore Road trying to get home. I had my thumb in the air for about three seconds when a car with six guys stopped. 

I get in. Now here's the part that typifies the beauty of the Lake. They were so drunk, they drove me home with no hanky panky. (Sorry, Mom. Thirty years later and I finally have the nerve to tell you how I really got home that night.) At my age I can never remember where I put my glasses (which are usually on my face) or my car keys (usually in my hand). But I remember the car I got into that evening was a beat-up turquoise Corvair. 

If my daughter did that today, she would spend the rest of her life under house arrest. The words "designated" and "driver" were never spoken in the same sentence in my youth. Now as a parent, I utter them together each time my children walk out the door, a kind of middle name they received at Confirmation. 

I won't say those days were my most stellar, but they certainly were among the most fun. Patty and I still laugh about how lucky we both were to survive it relatively unscathed. Patty ended up with a gargantuan hickey on her neck the night she left me stranded. She spent two weeks in the dead of summer trying to hide it by wearing turtlenecks. To this day, neither of us has a clue how it got there. The Immaculate Hickey. 

Not to make excuses, but our lives back then seemed so much safer and simpler. We were lucky no one got seriously hurt. Being older and wiser, I shudder at the chances we took. I'm sure there are horror stories out there, but the horrors didn't run as rampant as today. Maybe we were blinded by naivete, but it seemed people weren't so out of control. No one was out to hurt anyone. We were out to have fun and unwind. That's all, folks. 

And did I mention boys? City boys. City boys wearing their Beta Phi jackets during the dog days of summer would soon be arriving in droves. City boys coming to us. Go figure. It was enough to make us local girls giddy with excitement. In all fairness, there was nothing wrong with Angola guys, it's just that we felt somehow related to all of them. How else would an Angola girl have had the chance to raise a little hell with a current State Supreme Court Justice, a former Erie County legislator - who was quite the party boy - and two rising star concert promoters from the '70s? When we weren't watching guys watching us, we saw future big-name acts before they found fame: bands like Bob Seger, Strawberry Alarm Clock, Willie Nelson, the Tweeds, and Wilmer Alexander & the Dukes for free, or a $2 cover charge that usually included a drink coupon. 

The scene was pretty much the same every night - an endless procession of cars filled to the max, overflowing parking lots, streets thronged with kids, patrons spilling out of crowded bars, lines waiting to get in. Things started kicking into gear by 10 p.m. If you werelate, you risked not even getting near the action. Or having to settle for one of the "old man" places mixed in with the hot spots - places like Eddie Stroh's or Stan's where you would most likely stick to something if you sat down. 

Each Lake bar was unique. The South Shore was definitely for the "older crowd" - the over 25 (remember, we were legal at 18). Entering the South Shore was like entering the bat cave (dank and musty). Lerczak's (later the WMU Club, later Mickey Rats Beach Club) had an old log cabin look and feel, and was usually filled with Lake scene neophytes like myself getting their first taste of night life beyond a school dance or sporting event. Bill Miller's was a dark bar with a ceiling barely able to accommodate anyone over 6 feet tall. It was at Miller's that a well-known local rebel and his friends rode their motorcycles right into the bar and proceeded to help themselves to whatever they wanted to drink. Drinks were definitely on the house that evening. 

No Lake story would be complete without mentioning the Albertses. Richard Alberts and his family have been the anchors of the Lake culture since the late '60s. It was Richi's older brother, Donnie, who in 1969 changed Lerczak's into WMU Club, named after Donnie's alma mater. In 1970, Donnie opened the Big Ten Club, formerly the Grandview, a reference to the football conference. Shortly after opening the Big Ten Club Donnie was shot and killed there. The shooting was never solved. 

Richi always said that incident made him more determined to succeed. And succeed he has; the list of establishments Richi has been involved with is long and impressive - McNally's, Kings Inn, Mickey Rats City Lounge, Stooges, Mickey Rats Beach Club (in existence for over 27 years), Captain Kidd's, Danny Gare's Country Inn, Mickey Callahan's, etc., etc. Almost 30 years later, Richi holds the distinction of being successful in a market where the average lifespan of other such local establishments is 18 to 23 months, according to local experts whose business is to know these things. 

Did Richi have a vision about the bar business and the Lake? Absolutely not. He "thought it would be fun," he says. Now there's an understatement. He said he and his brother brought new ideas into a town that had not taken the opportunity to market its greatest asset - the Lake. Mickey Rats Beach Club had the first licensed patio bar in Western New York in 1974 - a legitimately brilliant, ahead-of-its-time idea. 

Richi agrees that the Lake has changed since the days of old. But that's not necessarily a bad thing, he says. 

Richi's Lake culture catered to the young. Now, still running Mickey Rats/Captain Kidd's complex, he books country-western bands, polka parties, theme parties (such as swimsuit and tanning contests, not to mention roasts) diverse dinner menus and something totally unheard of in my day - an atmosphere where you would be comfortable hanging out with your family (Yikes!). Richi deservedly earned his cool status by booking 10,000 Maniacs and the Goo Goo Dolls before they became untouchable on the club market. 

"I had a riot in this business," he says. 

How would he explain his continued success? 

"Running a tight ship," Richi says. "The ability to adapt. Family support. And being lucky enough to pick a superb staff." 

All this from a high school wrestler whose father wanted him to be a barber. 

Former Angolians now living out of state are at a loss trying to describe just what made the Lake so special, especially to those who have never been there. My friend, Patty, (you remember Patty) has lived in Tampa, Fla., for more than 7 years. Florida has countless waterfront bars and restaurants; none can hold a candle to the Lake. 

Not Angola. The Lake. And only the Lake. It was the time, the people and the effortlessness of it all; that's what made it fun. 

Today the Lake is still the place to be, if you're under 25. Especially if you're part of the lycra, spandex, tanned-and-toned crowd. Especially on weekend afternoons. Bars, bands and big crowds. Take a drive down there. You'll see what I mean. 

In all honesty (and I've done nothing if not be honest so far), I can count the times I've been to the Lake since our glory days on one hand. I'm afraid I'd see kids doing what I did, and want to grab them by their necks and shake some sense into them. 

Thirty years ago, I thought nothing of going to cottage parties where you knew no one but the guy you met five minutes earlier, and taking an intimate late-night dip in the lake to get rid of the stench of cigarette smoke, spilled beer and sweat - with 30 "close friends" you met at the party. Then hitchhiking home wearing your clothes inside out, or worse yet, wearing something that wasn't yours. 

Not that that ever happened to me. My friend, Patty, maybe. But never me. 

Sandra Luedke's FIRST SUNDAY credits include the magazine's most recent Gift Guide.