the cottage

i remember taking out my child-size suitcase and sitting it on my bed, then pulling open dresser drawers to pick out my own shorts and T-shirts for the week ahead. it made me feel grown-up.

i remember my parents packing the cavernous trunk of the red plymouth early on a saturday morning. mom always took a large cardboard box filled with grocery staples and canned goods and toilet paper and tin foil.

i remember sitting in the backseat with trixie, windows rolled down, trying not to think about the seemingly endless drive north and staring out at what seemed to be the same trees, the same rocks, the same farms, the same country roads for hours.

i remember pit stops at middle-of-nowhere gas stations, where the “restrooms” were often little more than a closet with an ancient toilet and even more ancient spiders tucked in corners, weaving webs and watching.

i remember my own quickened heartbeat when we’d finally begin driving along the winding, heavily wooded gravel road towards the property. dust kicked up in our wake and the sun poked through the dense leaves to welcome us.

i remember the old, rickety wooden staircase leading to the cottage door, and the year we discovered a giant hornets’ nest under the porch.

i remember the bristly feel of the brown and green woolen blankets on the twin beds where trix and i slept. the mattresses were like giant marshmallows and it always took a few nights before the uninterrupted, peaceful sleep of two pooped little girls arrived for either of us.

i remember the tidy furniture, already a couple of decades old at the time. the patterned vinyl chairs around the chrome-trimmed dining-room table, on which our bare, sun-kissed legs always stuck; the firm edges of the long sofa, where many a nap was enjoyed; the writing desk hidden behind the tall cabinet doors on the built-in shelves... its annual revelation always feeling like the discovery of someone else’s summer secrets.

i remember the smells. bacon and eggs. toast. wet leaves after the rain. skunk. sun-tan lotion. insect repellent. fresh cookies. my skin after a day spent outdoors. baby shampoo. adventure. childhood.

i remember walking barefoot, very slowly and stepping carefully, along the dirt road to the beach, trying to avoid the pine needles and small rocks and sharp chunks of gravel.

i remember the gorgeous, shallow, crystal-clear lake water, so unspoiled that you could stand waist-deep and still see your own toes resting on the soft, sandy lake bottom.

i remember crayfish... and fleeing when i saw one.

i remember collecting snail shells and mussel shells along the tiny shoreline and thinking they were evidence of exciting, exotic marine life.

i remember being afraid of dragonflies. and horseflies. and wasps. and diving under the water when i spotted any of them... only to remember my fear of boat-loving leeches.

i remember swimming for hours and hours on end. floating on rafts. rowing inflatable dinghies. climbing onto docks and jumping off, over and over and over again. running as fast as i could from the beach into the water until the water became too deep in which to run and then just flinging myself into its waiting embrace.

i remember countless transient friendships with the children of other cottagers, and the excitement of making a new summer friend... even if we’d only know each other a week.

i remember spanky, the resident dog, who was some kind of border collie/corgi cross. black, with stumpy little legs and long, delicate hair. tail always wagging. nose growing more white with each subsequent summer.

i remember looking for toads.

i remember playing card games and board games, and always wanting to play one more whenever we were done.

i remember the creak of the door to the general store, with its wood frame, hook latch and screened windows that led to a tiny space packed to the ceiling with the most eclectic mix of things. cans of beans. sunscreen. milk. eggs. chocolate bars. antacid. soup. bug killer. soap. T-shirts. postcards. and the most delicious homemade pastries from the on-premises restaurant next door.

i remember ghoulash night.

i remember playing shuffleboard and ping-pong, and the thrill of checking out the equipment like a big kid would.

i remember the rec hall, nestled in the woods and almost always empty, save for its dozens of card tables and chairs, and a decrepit, out-of-tune, upright piano on which we spent many hours plinking out wonky music and pretending to perform shows.

i remember wanting to be kissed on that piano bench.

i remember the sounds of motorboats and speedboats on the lake, the sounds of waves in their wake lapping against the shore, the sounds of small children splashing, the sounds of dogs barking, the sounds of a rogue mosquito circling the bed menacingly in the pitch dark of night, the sounds of beer cans being opened, the sounds of hellos and goodbyes.

i remember the one cold day that always happened, no matter when we visited, that meant we could wear our autumn clothes – long pants, socks, sweatshirts – and play outside... but we couldn’t go swimming.

i remember the tennis courts and the feeble tennis “matches” we’d play, where no one would ever keep score and the sole purpose was simply to volley the ball back and forth over the net until we grew bored or until some adults with zippered racquet bags showed up to shoo us away.

i remember my mother contentedly reading by the lake, and my father always taking photos of us all.

i remember big, hearty meals consumed at breakneck speed so as to maximize outdoor fun before sunset.

i remember beachside campfires and burnt marshmallows and the lingering smell of smoke in my hair.

i remember violent thunderstorms that made it feel like the entire cottage would be lifted off its foundation and flung into the forests nearby.

i remember stillness.

i remember green.

i remember sunlight sparkling on water.

i remember blissful exhaustion.

i remember beauty.

i remember joy.

i remember the cottage.