It is not perfect, most certainly flawed, and yet has a certain undeniable charm about it. The walls don't quite meet in the corners, and the showerhead is at mid-chest level. The floors slant just enough so that the baby teeters and occasionally falls when walking. I try not to notice the bottoms of our feet, which are now covered in a dense grey dust, that I will find later takes more than three showers to remove. At night, the tiny black flies worm their way through the holes in the screens, and I fear that a raccoon or an errant chipmunk will discover that the rear door doesn't close completely, and will have their way with our meager camp food supply.
But the view...the view is amazing. At night, the moon sends its brilliant shadow across the water and it truly looks like the lake is glowing from within, which at one time in history may have helped tired sailors to hear the Siren nymphs singing before they drowned. My sister and I stand, one night at midnight, to watch as intense July lightning strobes its way across Indian Lake, and for each tiny brief second, we see the cliffs and islands across the water illuminated in all its mystery. During the day, the white caps reflect the rising sun and Lucas remarks that the lake is full of crystals, and I cannot correct him, for I am sure he must be right.
Family members come to the door at all hours with requests for blankets, bowls or can openers. They want to play with the babies, they want the children to go on the boat or dive from cliffs. Modesty is not an option, so private things must be done quickly, for I never know when I will be caught dressing or breastfeeding.
Lucas is aglow with his new-found independence. He wakes in the morning, ready to visit grandpa, whose cabin is a mere hundred yards from our own. He spends hours tossing rocks into the water and fishing with his dad, though he is hesitant to touch the worms. Rhiannon and Morgan are seldomly seen, as they are entertained by cousins who all live much too far from here.
One family is visiting from Brazil, traveling for more hours than I care to count, to reside in a lopsided cabin on the hill with no real ammenities of which to speak, but are content in their vacation to be with family. Two cousins are military, on leave, spending what little time they have roasting marshmallows and appeasing the little ones who desire constant attention.
Each day, I watch these family members, who at times seem like strangers, for how well could one know people living on a different continent, but at other times, so alarmingly familiar. Each child there has grown lovelier, and succeeded in so many different ways. Children I once diapered have now graduated college, children I teased mercilessly in our youth are now teachers and soldiers. Children with whom I baked countless cupcakes are soccer phenoms and lifeguards. Their parents make sometimes disparaging remarks about the aging matriarch, and reminisce about childhood summers spent at this very camp. They playfully tease each other about their shared genes and apparently ingrained traits. They bicker about politics over barbecue and speak over top of each other when discussing plans for tomorrow. I cook them dinner, and am awed when half a dozen,without speaking, begin an assembly line for dishwashing. I shake my head ruefully when the matriarch makes demands and people rush to obey.
I have a couple of drinks with the cousins in the bar one night, and I see them in such duality. Once again, they are strangers, who like odd music and have stories I think I should already know. But they are also instant friends, obligated to love and protect by mere familial bonds.
When it comes time to leave the lake and the leaky, creaky cabin on the shore, I feel a terrible sense of loss and sadness. Like christmas, it has come and gone too quickly. I sit in the chair on the deck and listen to the sounds of promises being made- keep in touch, will visit soon, should do this again next year and I think of this family...It is not perfect, most certainly flawed, and yet has a certain undeniable charm about it.
But the view...the view is amazing. At night, the moon sends its brilliant shadow across the water and it truly looks like the lake is glowing from within, which at one time in history may have helped tired sailors to hear the Siren nymphs singing before they drowned. My sister and I stand, one night at midnight, to watch as intense July lightning strobes its way across Indian Lake, and for each tiny brief second, we see the cliffs and islands across the water illuminated in all its mystery. During the day, the white caps reflect the rising sun and Lucas remarks that the lake is full of crystals, and I cannot correct him, for I am sure he must be right.
Family members come to the door at all hours with requests for blankets, bowls or can openers. They want to play with the babies, they want the children to go on the boat or dive from cliffs. Modesty is not an option, so private things must be done quickly, for I never know when I will be caught dressing or breastfeeding.
Lucas is aglow with his new-found independence. He wakes in the morning, ready to visit grandpa, whose cabin is a mere hundred yards from our own. He spends hours tossing rocks into the water and fishing with his dad, though he is hesitant to touch the worms. Rhiannon and Morgan are seldomly seen, as they are entertained by cousins who all live much too far from here.
One family is visiting from Brazil, traveling for more hours than I care to count, to reside in a lopsided cabin on the hill with no real ammenities of which to speak, but are content in their vacation to be with family. Two cousins are military, on leave, spending what little time they have roasting marshmallows and appeasing the little ones who desire constant attention.
Each day, I watch these family members, who at times seem like strangers, for how well could one know people living on a different continent, but at other times, so alarmingly familiar. Each child there has grown lovelier, and succeeded in so many different ways. Children I once diapered have now graduated college, children I teased mercilessly in our youth are now teachers and soldiers. Children with whom I baked countless cupcakes are soccer phenoms and lifeguards. Their parents make sometimes disparaging remarks about the aging matriarch, and reminisce about childhood summers spent at this very camp. They playfully tease each other about their shared genes and apparently ingrained traits. They bicker about politics over barbecue and speak over top of each other when discussing plans for tomorrow. I cook them dinner, and am awed when half a dozen,without speaking, begin an assembly line for dishwashing. I shake my head ruefully when the matriarch makes demands and people rush to obey.
I have a couple of drinks with the cousins in the bar one night, and I see them in such duality. Once again, they are strangers, who like odd music and have stories I think I should already know. But they are also instant friends, obligated to love and protect by mere familial bonds.
When it comes time to leave the lake and the leaky, creaky cabin on the shore, I feel a terrible sense of loss and sadness. Like christmas, it has come and gone too quickly. I sit in the chair on the deck and listen to the sounds of promises being made- keep in touch, will visit soon, should do this again next year and I think of this family...It is not perfect, most certainly flawed, and yet has a certain undeniable charm about it.
This is beautiful! Our family is incredibly wonderful!
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