Born Under the Sign Of Water

We are in the heart of summer. We choose our week at the lake to coincide with the Fourth of July, not so much because of the fireworks but because of the other heat. As much as you can count on weather in Vermont (20% max)- that particular week can usually be counted on to have warm temperatures and sunshine. If you are going to be in water, this is the week to take vacation. We are still running our wood stove in early June. August…mid month brings long shadows, cold dew on the morning grass and it takes until noon for the sun to warm the day. July it is.

Our family members wedged themselves into their cars around their belongings and headed home last week. The morning they left was nothing but a watershed. Our son walked down to the island and sat, looking out at the water one last time. I left him to his thoughts but watched from the window. All week we had been [watching] enjoying two loons and their fuzzy youngster on the pond. We would take an evening paddle in our red canoe and watch the baby, just off its mother’s back, learning to dive, and copying its mother by lifting its body out of the water and flapping its little wings. As the week progressed the babe became braver about venturing further from its parents. However, if we got a bit too close with our boat, one of the parents would quickly let out a guttural warning. It seemed to emanate from the center of its being as it echoed off surrounding mountains. As I stood in the camp watching my oldest son struggle with the complexity of his feelings, I too felt the need to release a guttural cry.

Anticipation is the best part of most things for me. Christmas eve is always better than Christmas day. We waited months for our family to arrive for their summer visit: in February Paul and I sat at the bar in the kitchen, surrounded by the warmth of our wood stove, making lists of “things to do” on scraps of paper and formulating menus for summer dinners. While we shoveled snow we dreamed of shoveling sand, ballgame hot dogs and creemees.

The third week of their stay, all of us were at the lake together. Many years Paul and I have rambled around the big old farmhouse by ourselves enjoying the solitude; hours of reading, cribbage and throwing balls for dogs. Two turkey burgers on the charcoal grill and two maple creemees at the Bragg Farm. However, it is the years when the house is stuffed full that we enjoy it the most. On our arrival the week seems to stretch out endlessly seemingly timeless, but we are all aware of the need to wring life out of each day: because once you blink, it is mid week.

It takes time to find your vacation rhythm; to stop folding and unfolding. I know that I am relaxed when I begin to read my vacation book, it quickly rests on my chest while I nap in the late morning sunshine. One afternoon I was playing cribbage with Josh, Paul was engrossed in Watergate reading, Michael was fishing off the island, Kate’s head was bobbing with sleep and Emerson was drawing us doing it all in her journal. There was a stillness that was almost a hum.

Like cave dwellers, we gathered around fire each night. Slapping mosquitoes and our knees in laughter as we re-told shared stories from our past. Oldest son chiding the youngest as the “baby”- and Josh smiling in happy agreement. We quickly assimilate being back together, pretending that one week will be forever. I try not to bug my kids by letting my gaze linger too long on them or holding my hugs for those extra seconds saying more than any words can. The days and nights full of a busyness that keep us from remembering that it is finite.

A great truth is that all things are balanced; happy is always weighted by sorrow.

When I am busy preparing for pretty much any trip I often ask myself if the difficulty is worth it. I’m not great at change and I like my own bed. On the last day of vacation when I have my granddaughter’s arms around my neck and she asks me “why does time go by so fast?” I ask myself, sincerely, if the pain is worth the joy.

Questions that speak to life itself have to be, “did I make the most of it?” and “was it worth it?”

I’ve found that happiness comes in moments rather than rivers. Like with good ice cream – we need to mine the chunks and savor them.

And yes. Yes. It is always worth it.