I'd like to say I was gentle, wise, beatific even. But I wasn't. I wandered the woods and lakes of Maine this past week, a wraith in a snit.
I sat by the lake Saturday afternoon, book in my lap to ward off passing conversationalists. Kids ran back and forth into the water, out of the water, kicking up sand, back into the water. I basked, grumpily.
Mrs. V came by. At first she thought I was my sister Gloria, of course. Once we straightened that out, she asked how I was doing. I told her I was up in Maine for the weekend, dropping off my oldest at college. On her face I saw my own thoughts mirrored: "She was just a little kid last time I looked, and besides, didn't she just go away to college herself? How could she have a son old enough for college? How could that many years have gone by already?" For Mrs. V has known me since I started going to that lake when I was nine years old. She saw me change from year to year, every August, from sunburned long-legged long-haired kid to surly teenager carrying a towel and shampoo around everywhere. She cooed over Daniel the first year I brought him to the lake. He ate sand, eagerly. She exclaimed over my children, how fast they were growing. I didn't notice them growing so fast, of course. I saw them every day.
In the "big" cabin, Gloria's cabin, in the center of the living room there is a supporting post with lines and words etched into the wood. Jeff, 1986. Patty, 1991. Some are three feet from the floor. Some are above my head. Names I don't recognize. Names of my siblings, my children. Daniel 1987, I have to crouch to see. Now I'd have to stand on a chair to mark his height.
There are new people, of course. John and Becky, with their two sturdy blond daughters, splashing in the lake with their chocolate lab. They say they're coming back next year for sure. There are people I've known forever. Vern and Judy. Their oldest son used to play with my baby sister, toddlers screeching and throwing sand and eating peanut butter sandwiches. Their son died recently, tragically. Vern and Judy were there, though, at the lake. Looking the same and utterly different. I hugged them very hard. They told me to tell Daniel that they're only about 20 minutes away from his college, that he can call on them any time.
I sat by the lake Saturday afternoon, book in my lap to ward off passing conversationalists. Kids ran back and forth into the water, out of the water, kicking up sand, back into the water. I basked, grumpily.
Mrs. V came by. At first she thought I was my sister Gloria, of course. Once we straightened that out, she asked how I was doing. I told her I was up in Maine for the weekend, dropping off my oldest at college. On her face I saw my own thoughts mirrored: "She was just a little kid last time I looked, and besides, didn't she just go away to college herself? How could she have a son old enough for college? How could that many years have gone by already?" For Mrs. V has known me since I started going to that lake when I was nine years old. She saw me change from year to year, every August, from sunburned long-legged long-haired kid to surly teenager carrying a towel and shampoo around everywhere. She cooed over Daniel the first year I brought him to the lake. He ate sand, eagerly. She exclaimed over my children, how fast they were growing. I didn't notice them growing so fast, of course. I saw them every day.
In the "big" cabin, Gloria's cabin, in the center of the living room there is a supporting post with lines and words etched into the wood. Jeff, 1986. Patty, 1991. Some are three feet from the floor. Some are above my head. Names I don't recognize. Names of my siblings, my children. Daniel 1987, I have to crouch to see. Now I'd have to stand on a chair to mark his height.
There are new people, of course. John and Becky, with their two sturdy blond daughters, splashing in the lake with their chocolate lab. They say they're coming back next year for sure. There are people I've known forever. Vern and Judy. Their oldest son used to play with my baby sister, toddlers screeching and throwing sand and eating peanut butter sandwiches. Their son died recently, tragically. Vern and Judy were there, though, at the lake. Looking the same and utterly different. I hugged them very hard. They told me to tell Daniel that they're only about 20 minutes away from his college, that he can call on them any time.
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