scribblechic

This week my husband slipped out of his work routine and into an old summer tradition; we piled our children and a few haphazardly organized necessities into our car for a quick weekday getaway to his family’s lake house.

My husband spent his childhood summers in this space. In the earliest days of our relationship we played house on quiet weekends in its empty rooms. Our own children splashed naked in the murky lake water as infants and toddlers. We no longer spend endless days playing frivolously on the beach; still each visit brings old memories, the past and present intersecting beneath the summer sun.

Mornings began with a family breakfast.  My husband prepared Eierkuchen, a German pancake made of eggs, milk, and flour topped with applesauce and a sprinkling of sugar. It is a meal my mother-in-law made my husband as a child, a piece of her heritage that we share with our children. A little thing, a simple meal, that feeds our bodies. The act of making a sentimental breakfast, a gesture of love.

On this trip, we explored the trails that encircle the lake. Riding along dusty paths beneath a brilliant blue sky we encountered wild turkeys and deer. My husband filled the quiet by recounting childhood adventures beneath the same trees, noting small changes along the way; the space between stories infused with questions and laughter. This new sharing immediately familiar in the company of old memories.

Navigating the lake water our children reveled in their sense of authority as the captains of our boat. We paused along the way for my husband and son to dive from a familiar rock. Watching my son I remembered similar moments from summers past; fierce declarations of bravery as well as reserved moments of uncertainty as my son gauged the cool depths below. I have never jumped, but I love the sight of my  husband and son climbing and diving side by side. For a moment they were more friends than father and son.

Similarly I watched my husband and daughter swim, their playful personalities and easy confidence in the water make them unquestionably modern merpeople. It is as if they speak a language all their own punctuated with noisy, exuberant splashing. I often forget myself, lost to watching them play.

At the end of each day, after the sun had set, my husband and children curled into one of my husband’s childhood chapter books. In this moment, when the people I love most were gathered under the spell of a story,  I sent up a silent note of gratitude for the simple blessings of family togetherness with a full heart and a sleepy head.

Tagged: Family, Musings, Summer